Nicholas wandered through the dusty shelves of old knick-knacks, most of which looked like garbage. The shop smelled like mildew and old wood, and the weak afternoon sunlight filtered through grimy windows, casting dim patterns on the floor.
“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” he muttered under his breath, the sarcasm in his voice hollow and bitter for a boy so young.
He kept walking, aimless, until something caught his eye. Through the smudged glass of an ancient jewelry box, he spotted a locket. It wasn’t flashy or grand—just a small, tarnished oval with a serpentine “S” etched into its surface, glittering faintly with green stones. The design reminded him of a coiled snake, waiting to strike.
He wasn’t sure how he noticed it at all. There was nothing special about the jewelry box, nothing particularly shiny about the locket itself. But something about it gripped him, pulling him closer.
His small fingers fumbled as he opened the box and lifted the locket out. The chain was delicate, almost fragile, yet cool and heavy against his palm. He traced the snake-like pattern with his thumb, and a strange ache bloomed in his chest—a hollow, unnameable sorrow.
Hours later, Nicholas would wonder why a simple trinket had left him feeling as though a piece of himself had been uncovered, something long buried and forgotten.
Mama’s voice jolted him out of his thoughts.
“Nicky? Did you find something you like?”
She stood behind him, her hands full of brightly painted stone elephants. Nicholas hesitated, clutching the locket tighter.
“This,” he said softly, holding it up.
Mama frowned, glancing between him and the locket. “A locket? Are you sure? Wouldn’t you rather pick a toy instead?” She gestured to a nearby shelf filled with colorful trucks and action figures, but Nicholas shook his head.
“I want this,” he said firmly.
Her brow furrowed, and she sighed. “Alright, if that’s what you want.”
At the counter, the shopkeeper barely glanced at the locket before naming a price that seemed far too low for something so intricate. Mama raised an eyebrow but didn’t argue.
On the way home, Nicholas held the locket tightly, feeling its weight in his hand. He slipped the chain over his neck, letting the pendant rest against his chest. The metal was cool, almost comforting, though the ache inside him hadn’t gone away.
The car pulled into the driveway, and Nicholas barely waited for it to stop before jumping out. He sprinted to the house, bursting through the door and racing to his room. He had no idea why he felt so desperate, so frantic, but he needed to write something down, anything.
Grabbing his notebook, he sat at his desk and opened it, only to freeze. His hand trembled as the locket glinted in the corner of his eye. He turned toward it just as the door flew open, and Alex appeared.
“Whatcha got, Nicky?” Alex teased, his gaze falling immediately on the locket. “What’s that? A necklace? Are you a little girl now?”
“Leave me alone!” Nicholas snapped, shoving the notebook aside as Alex grabbed the locket and yanked it off.
“Hey!”
Seb and Max appeared, drawn by the commotion. Before Nicholas could stop them, they joined in, laughing and passing the locket between them.
“Give it back!” Nicholas screamed, tears stinging his eyes as he lunged for it. His voice cracked, raw and desperate.
Suddenly, Seb yelped and dropped the locket as if it had burned him. It hit the floor with a sharp clink. Nicholas dove for it, but the moment his fingers closed around it, pain shot through his hand like lightning.
The chain seemed to slither, tightening around his wrist. Nicholas screamed, falling backward as a blinding light filled the room. His brothers’ laughter turned to shouts of alarm, their voices distant and distorted.
And then everything went silent.
When Nicholas opened his eyes, he was lying on the ground, coughing as heat pressed down on him like a living thing. Smoke burned his throat, and flames roared all around him, devouring the walls and ceiling.
He tried to move, but pain lanced through his leg. Tears streamed down his face as he cried out, struggling to crawl away from the fire.
“Tilly!” he screamed, the name bursting from his lips without thought. He didn’t know who Tilly was, but he shouted for her anyway, his voice breaking with terror and desperation.
A pair of small, clawed hands suddenly grabbed his arm, pulling him hard.
“I’s is here, little master. Tilly is being here.”
Nicholas blinked through the smoke and saw her—a creature small and strange, with long ears and eyes that glowed like amber. She tugged at him with surprising strength, dragging him away from the flames.
The world spun violently as they fell through the air, landing on soft grass. Nicholas gasped, clutching at his leg, which throbbed with unbearable pain.
“Tilly…” he whispered hoarsely, his vision fading. He reached for her, but she slumped forward, her arms limp and her glowing eyes dimming.
“Little master… safe now…”
A shadow fell over him, and larger hands lifted him gently. Nicholas tried to look up, but the pain and exhaustion were too much.
The last thing he heard before the darkness took him was the low murmur of a voice—a voice that felt both foreign and heartbreakingly familiar.
Outsider POV:
The events unfold in a quiet, clinical atmosphere, Nicholas still fragile from the trauma of the fire. His body ached, but it was the emptiness in his heart that consumed him. The distant hum of the hospital charms and spells and the soft murmur of voices felt surreal as he floated in and out of consciousness.
As Nicholas lay still in his bed, he heard the soft, steady voice of a man—probably the doctor—talking about him as though he weren’t there. “Nicholas Elias Perevell, we had a line test done on him after he was brought in to figure out who he is… the other five who perished in the fire,” the doctor said, voice gentle but laced with a somber undertone. “He’s the only survivor, the Potters are his only living relatives. We called to see if you might take him… Otherwise, he’ll be sent to a foster home or orphanage.”
The voice of the woman, soft yet strained, responded—Euphemia Potter, filled with worry. She gasped, her heart clearly aching at the news. Fleamont Potter, her husband, spoke next. “Is he… is he the same age as James?”
“He’s eight years old” the doctor responds
Nicholas wasn’t fully awake, but his small body shuddered at the thought of being alone. He had always been surrounded by his family—the warmth of his parents, the comfort of their laughter, and the love that bound them. Now, nothing but cold emptiness remained.
When Nicholas finally roused, it was the comforting voice of Euphemia that reached him first. Her hands were warm as she gently wiped away his tears, her embrace soft and motherly. Despite the tragedy that had brought them together, she was kind—like a second mother.
He cried for his mama and papa, his sobs wracking his small frame. Euphemia held him close, rocking him like a child, whispering sweet words meant to soothe him.
But when Nicholas woke again, he was different. Silent, withdrawn. He refused to speak, unable to form words through the cloud of grief and confusion that hung heavy in his mind. His new life, thrust upon him with no warning, felt impossible. How could he accept this new family, a family that wasn’t his own?
When they arrived at the Potter home, the house was grand, warm, and full of life—but to Nicholas, it all seemed foreign. He was barely aware of the young boy who approached him, a 10-year-old with messy dark hair and a glint of curiosity in his eyes.
James Potter.
James, so full of life, was instantly intrigued by Nicholas, despite the quiet sadness in his eyes. The young boy didn’t know how to help, but he knew one thing for certain: Nicholas wasn’t alone anymore. The Potters would take care of him, like family, even if it meant taking small steps toward healing, one at a time.
James approached Nicholas cautiously, his voice hesitant but kind. “Hey, I’m James! Since you are staying here now you can be my little brother!.” His voice becomes more excited, as he starts talking about all the things they would do together, the cool places to play around the house, and how they could play quidditch in the mini pitch in the yard when Nicholas got better
Nicholas’ POV:
James continues to talk, his voice a steady hum in the background, but I can’t focus on his words. My body feels heavy, and my eyelids are like weights. I try to stay awake, but it’s no use. Euphemia enters the room, her footsteps soft against the floor. She immediately notices my exhaustion, her gaze gentle as she approaches James.
“James, please,” she says, her voice calm but firm. “You need to let him rest.”
James looks surprised, but he doesn’t argue. Euphemia ushers him out of the room, and with a tender, almost motherly touch, she pulls the blankets back around me. The warmth of the blankets wraps me in comfort, and within moments, I feel my body surrendering to sleep once more.
Several days later, I wake again, disoriented for a moment as I blink against the light streaming in through the window. Euphemia is there, as always, her presence steady and calm. She helps me sit up, her hands strong but kind as they guide me to my feet. Slowly, she leads me by the hand to a small sitting area outside. The air feels fresh against my skin, and for a brief moment, I feel like I’m in a different world—one that doesn’t feel as heavy, as filled with the weight of everything that happened before.
She tries to give me something to eat, but I can’t bring myself to take more than a small bite of the toast she offers. My stomach feels hollow, the hunger just a faint ache. Euphemia’s face falls as she watches me, and I realize, with a sudden sharp clarity, how much she has sacrificed for me. They’ve taken me in, given me a roof over my head, and all I can do is sit here and feel numb. I want to say something, to thank her, but the words feel like they’re stuck in my throat.
Without saying anything, I take another small bite of the toast, not because I’m hungry, but because I know it’s what she wants. Her smile is faint, but she nods as if that’s enough.
A few days later, James returns, his energy always too much for me to handle. Euphemia had asked him to come get me, to take me for a walk outside. He holds out his hand, and I take it hesitantly, not sure if I want to follow, but not wanting to disappoint him either. He leads me slowly around the small pond in their yard, his voice offering bits of trivia and nonsense as we walk. I can’t help but notice how much he reminds me of my older brothers. Had he said I would be his little brother? Or was that just something I dreamed?
I try to shake the thought from my head, but it lingers. James doesn’t notice. He doesn’t see how I’ve started following him around like a lost puppy. Euphemia had noticed, though. I overheard her once, speaking to James in that same soft voice she always uses when she’s trying to comfort him.
“Don’t get frustrated, James,” she’d said. “He’s traumatized. He needs time. Be patient with him.”
I want to scream, to tell them all I’m not broken, that I don’t need their pity. But I don’t. I just walk beside James, silently. He’s trying, and maybe that’s enough.
That night, I wake from a nightmare. In the dream, fire licks my skin, and I scream. I can hear the screams of my parents and brothers, but I can’t reach them. I wake up screaming in terror and anguish as Euphemia rushes in to comfort me. Monty holds James as he cries in fear after hearing my screams.
Several months later, the day I had been dreading finally arrives: September 1st. The Hogwarts Express.
I try to be brave, but as I watch James board the train, I feel the world shift beneath me. I grab hold of Euphemia’s skirt, my fingers clenched tight around the fabric, and bury my face in it as the train starts to pull away. The sound of the train’s whistle echoes in my ears, and my heart feels like it’s being ripped out of my chest.
I barely manage to whisper one word, but it’s enough.
“…James…”
It’s so quiet, almost drowned by the sound of the train, but Euphemia and Monty hear me. They both look at me, their faces softening with understanding. I know they won’t say anything, but I feel their empathy, their silent support. I stay hidden, my face still buried in Euphemia’s skirt, as the train disappears from view, taking James with it.
Outsider’s POV:
They’ve been trying so hard to get Nicholas to talk more. He’s made progress, to be sure, but the quiet boy who arrived at their doorstep is still a mystery to them in many ways. By the time James comes home for Christmas, he’s shocked to see how much Nicholas has changed. He’s speaking more often now, though his voice is still soft, quieter than anyone else in the house. Euphemia and Monty have worked hard to help him settle in, and it’s clear he’s made strides.
But there’s something James hasn’t anticipated: a quiet jealousy, something small at first but growing each day. No one else notices, not Nicholas, not Euphemia, not Monty. But James feels it.
It comes to a head on Christmas Day. Nicholas receives a special gift—a form for blood adoption. The moment is both official and emotional, and as Nicholas looks at the form in his hands, James feels something shift inside him.
He had always dreamed of having a younger sibling, someone to care for, someone who would look up to him. He’d imagined the joy of showing them the ropes, of being the one to guide them. But as he watches Nicholas take the form with quiet reverence, James feels something else—a tightness, an uncomfortable sensation that grows in his chest. His family is growing, but so is the space between him and the parents he’s always had to himself. He knows they will love him the same, but now, there’s another son. Someone he has to share them with. It wasn’t something he’d anticipated. He had grown used to being the only child, the center of attention.
Still, he loves Nicholas. He does. But this change—it’s hard.
By the time Nicholas starts his first year at Hogwarts, the strain between him and James is palpable. James, now in his third year, had promised to let Nicholas ride with him and his friends on the train, but when the time comes, James’s actions betray his earlier promise. He introduces Nicholas to his friends but soon leaves him behind, pushing him into an empty compartment. Nicholas sits alone, feeling the sting of abandonment, until Sirius, one of James’s friends, opens the door again.
Nicholas’ POV:
I sit in the empty compartment, the silence around me almost deafening. I want to think of something, anything to distract me, but the stillness in the compartment presses in. The door slides open, and I look up, expecting to see James. But instead, it’s Sirius, and behind him is another boy—someone about my age.
Sirius pulls the boy from behind him and shoves him into the compartment with a quick, “Stay here till we get to Hogwarts.” Then, without another word, he’s gone, leaving the boy and me alone in the compartment.
The boy is thin but taller than me, with hair that’s a few shades darker and shorter than mine and a pale complexion. His grey eyes are sharp, like he’s already assessing everything about me. He’s dressed in dark robes, the kind that seem too expensive for someone my age.
“Hello,” he says, his voice calm and steady. “I’m Regulus Arcturus Black. What’s your name?”
For a moment, I just stare at him, unsure how to respond. It takes me a second, but I manage to say, “Nicholas Elias Perevell Potter.”
He blinks at me, a small smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t talk much, do you?”
I shake my head. “I prefer listening.”
He seems pleased by this, settling down on the seat across from me. “Good thing for you,” he says with a grin. “My brother taught me how to talk a lot. So I’ll do the talking, and you can listen. Sound good?”
As he starts talking, I can’t help but be a little overwhelmed. He tells me about his home, about his family, about the Slytherin house and what it’s supposed to represent. He talks about his brother, about his cousins—some he likes, others not so much. He speaks with ease, like he’s used to being the center of attention, and for once, I don’t mind. His words are comforting in their flow, like a river I don’t mind drifting in.
I listen to him, absorbing everything, and despite myself, a small smile creeps onto my face. Maybe this will be the start of a new friendship. Maybe Regulus and I will get along just fine after all.
I wait with the other first years near the entrance hall to the Great Hall, feeling the nervous energy radiating from the group. We can hear the older students talking inside, their voices a soft hum. Then, all at once, the chatter fades, and a muffled voice—a man’s—carries over the crowd. I try to listen but can’t make out his words. Instead, I turn my attention to Regulus, who’s standing beside me, speaking quietly about a book of poetry he’s been reading. His voice is calm and steady, a stark contrast to the nerves fluttering in my stomach. I find myself focusing on the cadence of his words rather than their meaning, grounding myself in the moment.
Someone bumps into me, jolting me out of my thoughts. I step closer to Regulus, seeking comfort in his familiar presence. The crowd of first years grows silent as the massive doors to the Great Hall swing open. Professor McGonagall appears, her stern expression commanding our attention. She ushers us forward, and we shuffle in, our footsteps echoing off the stone floors. My heart pounds in my chest.
We are led between the long middle tables. To my left and right sit students in robes of blue and yellow. What had McGonagall called their houses? Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff? The names blur together in my mind as my focus shifts to the front of the room, where the Sorting Hat rests on a stool. Its frayed brim looks almost alive, and a part of me wonders if it’s already watching us.
McGonagall begins calling names. One by one, students step forward to be sorted, their names forever tied to their new houses. I don’t pay much attention until I hear Regulus’ name. He walks up confidently, his back straight, and sits on the stool. Moments later, the Hat declares, “SLYTHERIN!” The Slytherin table erupts in cheers as he makes his way over to join them. I glance toward the Gryffindor table, searching for James. He’s already staring at me, his expression impossible to read. There’s something cold in his gaze that makes my chest tighten.
Then my name is called.
I take a deep breath and step forward, my legs trembling beneath me. The Hall feels impossibly large as I approach the stool, every eye in the room on me. I sit, and the Sorting Hat is placed on my head. Its voice echoes in my mind, soft but firm. It talks about ambition, cunning, and a desire for something more. Before I can argue, it shouts, “SLYTHERIN!”
The cheer from the Slytherin table feels distant, drowned out by the sinking feeling in my chest. I frown as I make my way over, sitting next to Regulus. My eyes drift back to James, but he’s no longer looking at me. His gaze is fixed firmly on the table, his jaw clenched. The expression on his face—betrayal—is like a dagger to my heart. I try to ignore the growing sense of dread curling in my stomach.
The night continues in a blur. I follow the prefects to the Slytherin common room, a space both luxurious and cold, much like the house itself. Slughorn gives a welcoming speech, but his words barely register. My thoughts are elsewhere—on James, on what he must be thinking, and on what this new house means for us.
Later, Regulus and I are shown to our dorm. To my surprise, we’re sharing it with no one else. The room is quiet and private, a small comfort in an otherwise overwhelming day.
The days that follow are some of the hardest I’ve ever endured. I try to talk to James, to explain, but he avoids me at every turn. Each time I catch his eye, he looks away, his expression colder than the last. It’s Regulus who explains the rivalry between Gryffindor and Slytherin, the deep-seated animosity that runs through both houses. I realize, with a sinking heart, that if James hates me now because I’m in Slytherin, there’s no fixing this.
So I stop trying. If James wants to ignore me, then I’ll treat him the same way. I pretend we’re strangers who just happen to share a last name. He does the same. But it hurts. It hurts more than I thought it would, like losing my family all over again—first to fire, now to this.
Even when we return home for the holidays and summer it stays the same, Euphemia tries to help but it doesn’t work, I stay in my room for the most part.
I push the pain down, burying it beneath layers of forced indifference. I spend more and more time with Regulus, who quickly becomes my anchor. He introduces me to poetry, something I grow to love. On my birthday, Euphemia sends me a collection of poetry books from the Potter library, and for a moment, I feel a flicker of warmth. James doesn’t acknowledge my birthday, but Lily does. She gives me a small notebook, encouraging me to write my own poems. Remus surprises me with a cupcake he stole from the kitchens, along with instructions on how to get in. “But don’t tell anyone,” he warns with a grin.
Regulus, too, remembers my birthday. He writes me a poem—a beautiful, heartfelt piece that I copy into the front of Lily’s notebook. Even if James hates me, I remind myself, there are still people who care. It doesn’t erase the pain, but it dulls it, if only slightly.
When I’m sixteen, James and Lily get married. The wedding is beautiful, and for the first time in years, I see James smiling. It’s bittersweet. He looks at me like he doesn’t hate me as much anymore, but there’s still a distance between us that wasn’t there before. I congratulate them both, and James thanks me, his voice softer than I expected. It’s the first time in years that I feel like I might have my brother back.
But trust doesn’t come easily. Not anymore.
I move out of the potter home, to an apartment I bought with some of the money my birth parents had left in the Perevell account, I find out I am quite wealthy.
Euphemia and Monty’s letters grow infrequent, then stop altogether. I try to convince myself they’re just busy, but deep down, I know the truth. When I see James again, it’s at their funeral. They had caught dragon pocks from a lady Euphemia liked to chat to in the local markets, The grief is overwhelming, a fresh wave of loss that leaves me gasping for air. I don’t stay to talk to James or Lily after the burial. The words won’t come.
A few months after we turn 17, Regulus and I make a choice that feels both terrifying and inevitable. We perform a bonding ritual—an ancient form of magical union used in marriage. There’s no one to give me away; my guardians are dead. Warburga would never sign the marriage contract, and even if she would, I wouldn’t ask. This was ours, and we didn’t need anyone’s approval. The ritual is quiet, solemn, and binding in ways no spoken vows could ever capture. It’s just the two of us, standing beneath the stars with our wands raised, the silver light of the moon casting long shadows across the forest clearing. The only other person who knows is Severus Snape, our witness. He doesn’t say much, but his presence is enough. He swears himself to magical secrecy, and I believe him.
When the ritual is done, we are no longer just Nicholas and Regulus. We are bonded in magic, in soul, in life. There is no ring exchanged, no grand celebration—only the quiet hum of magic settling into our bones, binding us together. I remember the way Regulus looked at me that night, his gray eyes softer than I’d ever seen them. “It’s just us now,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “But that’s all I need.” I nodded, my throat too tight to speak, and held him close as the world seemed to pause, just for us.
On July 31st, 1980, I receive a letter from James. His handwriting is as messy as ever, but the words are clear: You’re an uncle. My heart stops as I read it over and over again. A few days later, I visit. Lily is radiant, tired but glowing as she introduces me to her son: Harrison James Elias Potter. Harry. I cry as I hold him for the first time, his tiny fingers curling around mine. He looks so much like James, but there’s a gentleness in his features that’s all Lily.
“Elias? You gave him my middle name?” I say, my voice croaks and my eyes tear up more.
For a moment, the pain of the past feels distant. I smile and tell them how proud I am, how happy I am for them. James watches me, his expression unreadable, and I wonder if this is the start of something new, if maybe we can rebuild what we lost.
But happiness is fleeting.
A few months later, I wake to an empty apartment. The warmth of Regulus’s magic, the constant hum of our bond—a comfort I’ve grown so used to—feels distant, faint. Then, all at once, it yanks at me like a hook in my chest. The force of it steals my breath, dragging me to my knees as panic sets in. Something is wrong. Terribly wrong.
I don’t think. I can’t. I grab my wand and Apparate blindly, following the bond as it pulls me with a frantic urgency. The world bends and snaps back into focus, and I find myself standing in front of a cave. The air here is suffocating, heavy with dark magic that sends shivers crawling up my spine. My heart pounds in my ears, each beat a desperate cry of find him, save him, don’t let him go.
The bond burns hotter, and I force my way inside. The cave is cold, the stone walls damp and unwelcoming. My magic flares uncontrollably, crackling in the air around me like a storm. The deeper I go, the stronger the pull becomes until I round a corner and see—
Regulus.
He’s in the water, his body limp and pale as Inferi drag him under. The sight rips a scream from my throat, raw and unrelenting. My wand is in my hand before I know it, and magic bursts out of me in a wave of searing heat and light. The flames lick at the edges of the water, casting eerie shadows on the walls as the Inferi flinch and retreat. But they don’t stop. They never stop.
I don’t care. I dive into the freezing water, my heart hammering so hard it feels like it might burst. My wand moves on instinct, fire and curses erupting from its tip as I fight my way through the swarm of undead hands clawing at me. My focus narrows to one thing: Regulus.
I reach him, my hands trembling as I grab onto his lifeless body. His skin is cold, his face pale and unresponsive. A sob catches in my throat, but I can’t stop now. I won’t. I cling to him with everything I have, muttering a propulsion charm that explodes around us, throwing us out of the water and onto the cold stone floor.
My lungs burn as I cough and gasp for air, but I don’t stop. I can’t stop. I lay Regulus flat, my hands shaking uncontrollably as I press them to his chest, desperate to feel the reassuring thrum of his heartbeat. There’s nothing.
“No, no, no,” I whisper, my voice breaking as tears stream down my face. “Please, Regulus. Please.”
I start CPR, my movements frantic and uncoordinated. “Come on,” I plead, my voice cracking with every word. “Come on, Reg. Don’t leave me. Don’t you dare leave me!” My magic sparks wildly, surging out of me in desperate waves, but nothing happens. Minutes stretch into eternity, and the silence is deafening.
Then, finally—finally—he gasps. The sound is weak, ragged, but it’s enough. Salt water spills from his mouth as he chokes and coughs, his chest heaving with labored breaths. Relief crashes over me like a tidal wave, so overwhelming that I almost collapse. I let out a shaky sob, clutching him tightly as if he might slip away again.
I don’t waste another second. I Apparate us back to my apartment, holding him close as though my grip alone could keep him tethered to life. My bedroom is warm, familiar, but it feels like a distant memory as I lay him gently on the bed. My hands don’t stop moving—I strip away his soaked, torn clothes, cleaning his skin of salt and dirt with careful spells. He’s still shivering, so I dry his hair, dress him in my favorite oversized shirt and loose pants, and pull the blankets over him.
“Stay with me,” I whisper, my voice barely audible. “Please, Regulus. Just stay.”
I cast every healing spell I know, but he doesn’t wake. His breathing is steady, his pulse strong, but his eyes remain closed, and his body is still.
For weeks, I work tirelessly. Every waking moment is spent brewing potions, casting spells, scouring ancient texts for anything that might bring him back. My hands are blistered and raw from stirring cauldrons, my voice hoarse from chanting incantations. My magic flickers and sputters from overuse, but I push through the pain. I have to.
Regulus looks perfect, as though he’s simply sleeping, but no matter what I do, he doesn’t wake.
By the time September arrives, I’m a shadow of myself. I haven’t slept in weeks, and the wound on my side—the one I got in the cave—has festered. The infection spreads, the pain a constant reminder of my failure, but I don’t care. My body is falling apart, but none of it matters.
All that matters is Regulus.
Each day, I sit by his bedside, holding his hand and whispering to him, begging him to wake. “I can’t lose you,” I tell him, my voice breaking. “Not you. Not after everything.” But the room remains silent, and the weight of my grief grows heavier with every passing moment.
Some nights, I let myself cry. I sit on the floor, clutching my knees to my chest, and let the tears fall. It feels like I’m losing everything I’ve ever loved. My parents, my brothers, my home—and now, Regulus.
And yet, I keep going. Because if I stop, if I let myself break completely, I’m afraid I’ll never get back up again.
Then, on October 31st, everything changes.
It starts as a faint tug, a strange flutter in my chest that grows stronger by the second. Before I can make sense of it, the family magic that ties me to the Potters pulls violently, yanking the air from my lungs. It’s like a thread snapping inside me, leaving a hollow, gaping void in its wake. I stagger, clutching my chest as my knees hit the floor.
The connection is gone.
The realization comes in waves, each one sharper than the last, tearing me apart from the inside out. The bond—the magic that linked me to James, to Lily—has shattered. They’re gone.
Lily and James are dead.
I choke on the thought, my mind spiraling into chaos. My brother is gone. My best friend is gone. My family is gone. Regulus still hasn’t woken up. My parents—both sets of them—are dead. And now James is dead, too.
The grief explodes out of me, raw and violent. A scream tears from my throat, echoing through the empty apartment. My magic surges uncontrollably, crashing against the walls and shattering the glass of every window. I don’t care. Let it all break. Let the whole world fall apart.
I collapse on the floor, my body shaking as sobs wrack through me. I claw at my chest, desperate to ease the suffocating weight of the emptiness inside me. The pain is unbearable. It feels like my heart is being ripped from my chest, piece by piece, leaving me hollow and broken.
Why am I still here? Why do I keep losing everyone I love?
I don’t know how long I stay there, crumpled on the floor. Time loses meaning. The apartment is silent, save for the occasional crackle of unstable magic still radiating from me. Regulus lies motionless in the next room, and the sight of his closed door only deepens the ache. He’s still here, but he might as well be gone.
I’m so alone.
For a moment—a fleeting, terrifying moment—I think about giving up. About letting go. About finally ending this endless, unrelenting pain. What’s the point of fighting when there’s nothing left to fight for?
But then, on November 2nd, everything shifts again.
The family magic stirs. It’s faint, barely noticeable, but it’s there—a thread of light in the overwhelming darkness. I sit up, my body weak and trembling, and let the pull guide me. It’s different this time. Softer. More fragile.
James is gone, but Harry—Harry is still alive.
The realization hits me like a lightning bolt, jolting me to my feet. My legs are unsteady, my body protesting every movement, but I push through the pain. I have to. Harry needs me.
I glance at Regulus, still lying unconscious on the bed. My voice is hoarse, barely more than a whisper. “I’ll be back. I promise.”
With a deep breath, I Apparate.
The world spins, and when I land, I’m standing on a quiet street lined with identical houses. A sign nearby reads Privet Drive. The magic pulls at me again, guiding my steps until I hear it—a soft, pitiful cry carried on the cold night wind.
My heart lurches as I follow the sound, cutting across the neatly trimmed lawn of number four. There, on the doorstep, a small bundle of blankets lies abandoned. I kneel, my hands trembling as I pull the blanket back.
Harry.
His tiny face is pale, his green eyes red and puffy from crying. The lightning-shaped scar on his forehead stretches across his brow and nose, raw and angry, a cruel reminder of what he’s already endured. My breath catches as tears blur my vision.
“Oh, Harry,” I whisper, my voice breaking.
I gather him into my arms, casting a warming charm to protect him from the chill. His cries quiet as he stares up at me with wide, tear-filled eyes. My chest tightens, the weight of everything crashing down again, but this time, there’s something else. A spark of determination.
“I’ve got you,” I murmur, rocking him gently. “You’re safe now. I promise.”
I Apparate to the nearest 24-hour wizarding store, grabbing supplies—formula, nappies, a bottle. The clerk gives me a strange look, but I don’t have the energy to care. Back at my apartment, I feed Harry with shaky hands, my heart aching with every small sound he makes. When he’s finally asleep, I transfigure an old chair and some blankets into a makeshift cot.
For a moment, I just stand there, watching him sleep. He’s so small, so fragile. And so alone.
The realization hits me like a punch to the gut: Harry has lost everything, just like I have. His parents are gone. His world has been ripped apart. He’s just a baby, and he’s already endured so much pain.
I retreat to the bathroom, turning the shower on as hot as it will go. The water scalds my skin, but I barely feel it. I sink to the floor, my back against the cold tiles, and let the tears come. The grief, the exhaustion, the guilt—it all pours out of me in uncontrollable sobs.
For a moment, I think about letting go again. About giving in to the crushing weight of everything I’ve lost. But then I think of Harry, lying in the next room. He’s lost everything too. And he needs me.
He needs me.
I take a shaky breath, wiping my face with trembling hands. For Harry—for the only family I have left—I’ll keep going. I don’t know how, but I will.
Because if I give up, who will be there for him?
Looking after a baby is hard. I don’t know how James and Lily managed it. Then again, they probably weren’t injured, exhausted, and teetering on the brink of collapse every moment of the day.
After settling Harry into the makeshift cot I conjured next to my bed—the same bed where Regulus still lies unconscious—I force myself to go through the motions of my daily routine. My list of tasks has grown impossibly long, but I don’t have the luxury of stopping. Not now.
I spell food and water into Regulus’s still body, carefully monitoring his vitals and ensuring his skin is clean, his hair soft, and his body warm under the heavy blankets. Every time I look at him, I feel a fresh stab of pain. I whisper to him as I work, murmuring empty promises that he’ll wake up soon, that everything will be okay, even though I don’t believe it.
I place an alert charm over Harry’s cot before heading to the shower. It’s my only sanctuary, even if it’s the place where I break down the most. The hot water scalds my skin, but I don’t care. I press my forehead against the cold tiles, tears streaming down my face as I sob quietly. I cry for James and Lily, for Regulus, for Harry, and for myself.
When the water finally runs cold, I step out and dry off, my body shaking from the effort. The wound on my side—still refusing to fully heal—burns as I apply a fresh layer of healing paste. My hands tremble as I wrap it tightly with bandages. I know the infection is improving—thanks to the potion I forced myself to brew yesterday—but it doesn’t feel like enough.
If I’m going to take care of Harry, I need to survive. I can’t let myself fall apart—not completely.
I choke down a few bites of food, every swallow a battle against the nausea that grips me. My head pounds, my vision blurs, and my body screams for rest, but I push through. I change Harry’s diaper, my movements clumsy but careful. Then I cradle him to my chest, feeding him as his tiny hands clutch at my shirt.
He’s so small. So impossibly small.
I sit on the floor near his crib, holding him against me as he falls asleep. His breaths are soft and steady, his little chest rising and falling with the rhythm of life. I stare down at him, my eyes heavy and my mind foggy, lost in a spiral of thoughts.
He’s lost so much.
He doesn’t even realize it yet.
Tears blur my vision as I think about everything he’ll never have—his parents, the love and safety they would have given him. He doesn’t understand that his world has already been shattered, that the people who should have been there for him are gone.
I’m so lost in my grief that I don’t hear it at first—the faint rustle of movement. A soft creak of the bed.
I don’t notice anything until a pair of hands gently lift Harry from my arms.
I blink, startled, and look up to see Regulus standing before me. He’s pale and unsteady, his hair a tangled mess, but his eyes—those stormy gray eyes I know so well—are open. He’s awake.
“Regulus?” I whisper, my voice trembling.
He doesn’t say anything, just carefully places Harry in the crib, adjusting the blankets around him. Then he turns to me. Tears are streaming down my face, and I don’t even realize I’m crying until he reaches out, his hands steady as he pulls me to my feet.
The moment I feel his touch, something inside me breaks. I let out a raw, broken sob and collapse into his arms, clinging to him as if letting go would mean losing him all over again.
“You’re awake,” I manage to choke out, my voice thick with emotion. “You’re awake. You’re here.”
Regulus wraps his arms around me, holding me close as I shake with the force of my cries. “I’m here,” he murmurs, his voice soft but filled with guilt. “I’m here, love.”
But his words aren’t enough to stop the flood. The anger, the hurt, the grief—all of it comes pouring out.
“How could you do this to me?” I sob, my fists weakly pounding against his chest. “How could you go into that cave alone? Do you have any idea what you’ve done to me? I don’t care if you were trying to protect me—you broke me, Regulus! You broke me!”
His arms tighten around me, his voice trembling as he whispers apologies into my hair. But I’m too far gone to stop.
“I almost let go,” I admit, my voice cracking under the weight of my confession. “I was so close, Reg. I couldn’t take it anymore. You wouldn’t wake up, and James and Lily—” My breath hitches as fresh tears spill down my cheeks. “James and Lily were murdered, and I was so alone. I had nothing left. Nothing. And then I found Harry. He was on that doorstep, Reg. All alone. Crying. Cold. The blanket he was wrapped in was damp from the rain, and he was so small.”
Regulus pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes filled with anguish. He cups my face in his hands, his thumb brushing away the tears that won’t stop falling. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice breaking. “I’m so, so sorry.”
I bury my face in his chest, clutching at his shirt as if it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the world. “I thought I’d lost you,” I whisper. “I can’t do this without you, Regulus. I can’t.”
“You’re not alone,” he says, his voice firm despite the tears in his own eyes. “I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere.”
His words are a lifeline, pulling me back from the edge. For the first time in what feels like forever, I let myself believe them.
“You’re mine, Regulus,” I whisper, my voice cracking with the weight of my emotions. My hands clutch at his shirt, trembling as I try to keep myself from breaking completely. “You’re my husband. It might not be legal, but that ritual we did—it makes you my husband. And I’m yours. You can’t do that again… you can’t leave me like that.”
My voice shatters on the last word, and a sob wracks my body as I bury my face into the crook of his neck. My hands grip him like a lifeline, as if letting go would cause the world to collapse beneath me. His arms wrap around me tightly, holding me as though he’s afraid I’ll disappear, too.
He shifts us gently until we’re lying down on the bed, his chest pressed against mine, his warmth the only thing anchoring me. He whispers soft, soothing words into my ear, his breath warm against my skin. His fingers move instinctively, tracing up and down my sides and along my back, a motion I know so well. It’s what he always did before the cave—before everything fell apart—when we’d lay in bed together, safe in each other’s arms.
But then he pauses.
His hand, once so gentle and fluid, stops as it brushes over my ribs. I can feel the sharp intake of his breath, the way his body tenses beneath me. His fingers press lightly against my sides, and I know what he’s feeling. Each rib, each bone, sharp and prominent beneath my skin. The bandages around my waist are a cruel reminder of the still-healing wound on my side.
He pulls back slightly, enough to look at me, his gray eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears. When he sees my face, he almost breaks.
I can see it—the way his lips tremble, the way his shoulders hunch as though the weight of it all is too much to bear.
My cheeks are hollow, the once-soft fullness gone. Dark circles hang heavy under my eyes, bruises painted by weeks of sleepless nights. My curls, the ones I used to love so much, are tangled and frizzy, uncared for. I can’t remember the last time I did something as simple as run a comb through my hair.
“Love…” His voice cracks, and he swallows hard, his hand reaching up to brush a stray curl from my face. His touch is so soft, so careful, as if he’s afraid I’ll break under his fingers.
He takes my hand in his own, and I see his face crumple as he notices the burns and scars now littering my skin. My hands and wrists bear the evidence of my desperation—potions brewed in exhaustion, cauldrons stirred with trembling fingers. His thumb brushes over a particularly deep scar, and his eyes close as a tear slips down his cheek.
Without a word, he brings my hand to his lips and presses a kiss to each scar, each burn, as if he can heal them with the tenderness of his touch.
Then he leans forward and presses a kiss to my temple, his lips lingering there as his tears mix with my own. His arms wrap around me again, pulling me tightly against his chest. I can feel the steady beat of his heart, strong and sure, and for the first time in weeks, I let myself believe it’s real—that he’s here.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispers, his voice breaking with the weight of his guilt. “I’m so, so sorry, love. I never meant to hurt you. I thought I was protecting you, but I see now… I see what I did to you.”
I let out another sob, clutching at him as my body shakes with the force of my grief. “I was so alone, Reg. I thought I lost you. I thought I’d lost everything. James and Lily… they’re gone. They were murdered. And you—” My voice cracks, and I press my face into his chest, unable to continue.
“I know,” he murmurs, his hand stroking my back. “I know. But I’m here now. I’m awake, and I’m not leaving you. Not ever again.”
I shake my head, my fingers gripping his shirt tightly. “You don’t understand. I almost— I almost let go. I didn’t think I could do it anymore. You wouldn’t wake up, and they were all gone, and I was so… lost. So broken. And then… and then I found Harry.”
His arms tighten around me as I speak, his hand moving to cradle the back of my head.
“He was on that doorstep, Reg,” I continue, my voice a broken whisper. “All alone. Crying. Cold. The blanket he was wrapped in was damp from the rain, and he was so small. So helpless.”
I lift my head to look at him, my vision blurred with tears. “If it weren’t for him, I don’t think I’d still be here. I think… I think I would have let go.”
Regulus shakes his head, his own tears falling freely now. “Don’t say that,” he whispers. “Don’t even think that. I can’t lose you. I can’t… I won’t. You’re everything to me, Nicholas. You and Harry. I’ll protect you both. I swear it. I’ll take care of you, help you heal. I’ll make this right.”
I let out a shaky breath as I lean into his touch, the smallest flicker of hope igniting in the depths of my broken heart. For the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel completely alone.
Regulus is here. He’s awake. And maybe—just maybe—we can find a way to heal together.
Here’s a collage I made for this book, please click the Pinterest link or copy it idc⬇️⬇️⬇️