Chapter 1
Regulus Black did not hate James Potter.
That would imply he cared.
And he absolutely did not care about James Potter—his ridiculous hair, his insufferable smirk, or his grating tendency to exist loudly in any space he occupied. Regulus had spent five and a half years successfully ignoring him, despite Potter’s best efforts to be unavoidable.
It was unfortunate, then, that Regulus now found himself sitting next to that very menace in detention, scrubbing desks with a filthy old rag.
Regulus should not have been here. He should have been in the Slytherin common room, enjoying his evening in Potter-free peace. But no—Professor McGonagall had caught them mid-argument, surrounded by a sea of enchanted purple feathers (which was entirely Potter’s fault) and had promptly sentenced them both to an evening of manual labor.
He scrubbed furiously at a particularly stubborn ink stain, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible. Beside him, Potter hummed under his breath, annoyingly pleased with himself despite their current predicament.
Regulus grit his teeth. “Must you do that?”
“Do what?” Potter asked, clearly amused.
“Breathe so loudly. Exist so obnoxiously.”
Potter clutched his chest as if wounded. “Regulus! That hurts.”
“Not nearly as much as I wish it did.”
Potter grinned. “Merlin, you’re mean. No wonder Sirius talks about you all the time.”
Regulus stiffened. He kept his gaze fixed on the desk in front of him, his fingers tightening around the rag. “Oh, how tragic for you, Potter. Not being the center of his attention for once.”
Potter snorted. “Trust me, I get plenty of attention.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Regulus muttered. “You’re a walking disaster.”
“A charming walking disaster.”
He turned to glare at James. “That’s one word for it.”
Potter flashed a dazzling grin before flicking his wand lazily at a particularly grimy desk. The ink stain vanished. “You’re better at this than I thought.”
Regulus narrowed his eyes. “At what?”
“Sniping at me. I assumed you were the broody, silent type.”
He huffed, scrubbing harder. “Unlike some, I don’t need an audience.”
“And yet, here you are,” Potter said, voice rich with amusement. “Putting on quite the show.”
Regulus rolled his eyes and turned back to his work. Silence settled between them, but it wasn’t as comfortable as he would have liked. It wasn’t the absence of sound—Potter had an annoying way of filling the space around him, even when he wasn’t speaking. His presence was loud, as if the very air bent around him, as if Hogwarts itself gave him more room than necessary.
Regulus hated that he noticed.
And he hated even more that he was now hyperaware of the way Potter’s sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, how he scrubbed at a desk with barely any effort while Regulus was stuck using brute force.
“Using your hands, Black?” Potter teased. “How quaint.”
Regulus scowled. “Unlike some, I wasn’t given a wand that does all the work for me.”
Potter gasped dramatically. “McGonagall gave you a rag?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, that’s just cruel.”
He glanced at James sharply. “If you pity me, I will hex you.”
Potter smirked, twirling his wand between his fingers effortlessly. "Wouldn’t dream of it, Black.”
Regulus narrowed his eyes. “Good.”
And then, without warning, Potter flicked his wand—and the rag flew out of Regulus’s hands. It soared through the air before smacking Potter square in the face.
Regulus stared. For a moment he didn't knew what just happened. He thought James was an idiot. Always has been. But he never knew he'd be this type of idiot.
Potter peeled the rag off, blinking. Then he laughed—loud, unapologetic, full and delighted, and Regulus was horrified to find that something in his chest stuttered at the sound.
“You—” Regulus shook his head, reaching for the rag. “Give that back.”
Potter held it just out of reach. “Make me.”
Regulus gritted his teeth. He is infuriating. Absolutely, entirely, insufferably infuriating.
He lunged.
Potter dodged, stepping around the desk, holding the rag above his head like a trophy. “Come on, Black. Work for it.”
Regulus glared. “I hate you.”
“I know,” Potter said cheerfully.
Regulus lunged again. This time, Potter let him get close enough to grab his wrist—and suddenly, they were very close.
Too close.
His breath hitched. Potter was warm, his pulse steady beneath Regulus’s fingers. His smile had softened—just a fraction, but it was enough to be noticeable.
Something in Regulus’s stomach twisted.
He yanked his hand back as if burned. “You’re an idiot.”
Potter grinned. “And yet, you’re still here.”
Regulus turned away sharply, snatching the rag from where it had fallen on the desk. He scrubbed furiously, willing the heat in his face to disappear.
Potter, thankfully, did not comment on it.
For the next several minutes, they worked in relative silence. Regulus focused on the desk in front of him, determined not to acknowledge the fact that his heart was beating slightly too fast.
He did not care about James Potter.
He did not.
But Potter—damn him—kept looking at him as if he knew something Regulus wasn’t ready to admit.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the classroom door creaked open, and Professor McGonagall stepped inside. She surveyed their work with a critical eye, nodded once, and said, “You may go.”
Regulus wasted no time escaping. He grabbed his bag, made for the door, and—
“Hey, Black.”
He paused. Regulus turned just enough to see Potter leaning casually against a desk, smirking.
“You lasted an entire detention without hexing me,” Potter said. “I’m impressed.”
Regulus rolled his eyes. “Don’t get used to it, Potter.”
Potter grinned. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”
It toom him control not to run as he turned on his heel and strode out the door, ignoring the way his chest felt uncomfortably warm.
And if he thought about James Potter for just a second longer than necessary, well—
That was nobody’s business but his own.