A Lost Claus
“Potter.”
James looked up from his book to see Regulus standing over him, frowning deeply.
“Black,” he returned, wondering what the hell this was about — the Slytherin never approached James, it was always the other way around.
“What are you doing?” The boy asked sharply.
James had always thought that Regulus’s voice had a clipped sort of quality to it. Like each word from his tongue was akin to the snip of scissors. It made everything he said sound harsh or biting, and it could hurt, like the slash of a knife. Yet, underlying, there was more… a rushed type of sound. Like he was racing to have his every word be heard, while ensuring they were as concise and clear as possible. In effect, it made his speech sound snooty and arrogant and teeth-gratingly posh. It also sounded highly judgemental, and oftentimes mean.
Like right now.
James idly wondered whether it was intentional or not.
“I’m… reading,” he answered slowly, though he’d thought that to be rather obvious, given that he was holding a book and sitting in a library.
The Slytherin’s demeanour did not change much, apart from an added little layer of annoyance. (Something in James’s stomach twitched delightedly at having caused a reaction out of the normally stoic boy.)
“About Pureblood etiquette,” he expanded, as if he had made a great point. James was unsure what exactly that was, however.
“Yes.” He nodded, hefting the book up momentarily to flash the title at Regulus in confirmation. A Gentleman’s Guide to Etiquette and Society. James had thought it was as good a place to start as any.
Regulus seemed impatient. “And why are you reading a book about etiquette?”
James was still lost. “… To learn about etiquette.” He wondered if the Slytherin was feeling well. “I thought that would be quite obvious.”
Something flashed in the boy’s grey eyes — anger, irritation — it flared up like a grey sea-storm swirling in his irises. As though darkened clouds, crackling with menacing thunder, resided in his gaze. James watched as Regulus seemed to forcibly calm himself.
“You are a Pureblood, Potter,” he spoke as though it was requiring extensive amounts of patience to explain. “You have been born and raised on etiquette. Why on earth are you reading that book?”
James felt himself retreat in an instant. It probably wasn’t noticeable on the outside, but his inner defences shot up while he plastered on an amused smile. “I wanna see how many rules I can get away with breaking in one night.”
Regulus remained unmoved. “And the real reason?”
James’s defences doubled. If he were a castle, he would be fortified up to his teeth right about now. Gates drawn shut, blades sharpened, archers with arrows poised in the battlements, ready to let fly on a moment’s notice.
“I’m a bit of a troublemaker. Haven’t you heard?” James pulled out his most dazzling smile — the one that made girls giggle and twitter to each other quietly but unsubtly. It was a lazy, lop-sided, roguish sort of grin, but over the years, James had discovered that people found it rather charming. “I might have agreed to do this bloody debut, but if I’m going down, I might as well go down swinging.”
Those grey eyes were scrutinising him like never before. Now like metal cogs from a muggle machine, whirring and creaking as they turned. Figuring him out.
“Surely Lord and Lady Potter had you tutored in etiquette?” Regulus asked, but his words didn’t sound like a question. They sounded like he’d already come to the opposite conclusion.
“Of course,” James lied through his pearly whites, inwardly cursing the boy’s immunity to his charms. “What sort of Heir would I be if I didn’t know basic etiquette?”
Regulus called his bluff immediately. “How have you not been tutored in etiquette?” He seemed stunned by the prospect.
James sighed and gave up his pretences. He glanced around to check that no-one was listening in before leaning closer to reply quietly. “I have been tutored… just not very thoroughly.” A nervous hand ran through his hair, probably messing it up even more than usual. “My parents set me up with lessons when I was thirteen. But they could tell my heart wasn’t in it and gave up pretty quickly. Haven’t really bothered since.”
Regulus blinked at him as if James had just told him he’d been raised in the muggle circus and only recently learned to walk on his feet rather than his hands.
“I know the basics!” James felt the need to defend himself. “I know about which fork to use and all that; I can do formal greetings and farewells; I know a few dances — enough, at least. I just… there are some… gaps. And I figure I should at least try to fill them.”
Regulus continued to stare in astonishment. “Are your parents aware of such… gaps?”
James drummed his fingers uncomfortably against the table. “Yes and no. They think I’ve been learning on my own time, but they also know me well enough to know I haven’t done a complete job.”
“And they just…” The boy struggled for words. “… They haven’t attempted to rectify the situation?”
The rhythmic pattern of his fingers against the wooden desk was soothing. He focused on it. “I think they were waiting for me to ask for help.”
Unfortunately, James was incapable of asking for help. At all. Ever. He would rather wither and die before bothering his loved ones with his own meagre troubles.
The Slytherin seemed utterly baffled and at a loss.
Silence stretched between them for a few long moments.
James was so uncomfortable from the quiet and Regulus’s unwavering staring, that he returned his attention to the book and fruitlessly attempted to read. His eyes ran over the same couple of sentences about six times, not comprehending them, before the Slytherin spoke again.
“Do you want help?” It was the same clipped tone as normal, but there was an awkward disjointedness to it now. A hesitance that didn’t suit Regulus, who was normally so sure in his steps, no matter how quiet they were.
“No,” James lied blatantly. He raised the book higher as if to dismiss the other boy.
A pause.
“Do you need help?”
James clenched his teeth. “No.”
Suddenly, the book was snatched out of his hands.
“Hey!” James protested, reaching for the tome, but Regulus held it out of reach. He’d have to grapple to retrieve it now.
“Potter.” The words were short and harsh and rushed and mean. “There are only weeks until the social season is upon us. Until you debut and have eyes on you for the whole season.”
James was well-aware. “Hence the book. Give it back.”
Regulus did not give it back. “Did you hand-make the goat?”
James blinked at the sudden topic change. “What?”
The Slytherin’s face was carefully blank. “The straw Yule Goat. Gus. Did you fashion Gus by hand?”
James blinked again. “Yeah? I mean— I know he’s a bit rough-looking, but he’s symbolic more than anything. I figured the thought was the bit that counted. We can get you a better Yule Goat if you want though—”
The sound of chair legs scraping against the floor cut him off. Regulus promptly plopped himself into the seat beside James. “I shall help you.”
“What?” James felt like he was getting whiplash. Did his brain melt out of his head at some point in this conversation? What was going on?
“I appreciated the sentiment,” Regulus told him, more clipped and colder than usual, as if the icy tone would balance out the sweet words. “In return, you will appreciate my etiquette lessons.” He opened the book and nonchalantly turned to the contents page, regarding it with intent.
“Oh, will I?” James shot back, despite himself. He felt like he’d let someone else drive his broom while he’d been forced to hold on tight as a passenger, trying to keep his stomach calm at the unpredictable loops and dips.
“You will. Your gratitude will be extensive.” He fixed James with a determined expression. “We shall start from the beginning and work our way down.”
James could’ve protested. He could’ve snatched the book back and stormed off. He could’ve rejected the boy’s help. That way he could have kept what was left of his dignity and gone back to pretending he was as infallible and confident as he tended to bluff that he was.
But Regulus truly had been born and bred for a life of Pureblood parties and politics. He knew exactly what he was talking about. And he seemed willing to help James without a condition in sight.
Tapping his fingers against the wooden surface of the desk once more, James tried to relax back in his seat. “Alright then. Hit me.”
The hint of a smirk graced the boy’s lips.
*
Regulus was not a patient teacher, but he was a thorough one.
He explained things as though James was an idiot, and berated him without restraint at any opportunity, but James left each of their sessions feeling far less worried about his debut season than he entered them. Regulus was strict, and slightly unfair, but James was strangely glad for it. He’d always worked well under pressure, and Regulus’s sharp tongue and harsh words seemed to be the perfect spark to ignite that fire inside of him — the boy pushed him to be better, to stand his ground, to never give up, no matter how hard he was failing. James doubted he would have learnt so much in such a short amount of time without Regulus figuratively beating the information into his skull.
Now, with the holiday only a week away, and the term slowly grinding to a halt, James found himself quietly confident in his ability to navigate Pureblood circles. His debut season would likely be far from perfect, but at least he didn’t feel as though he was stumbling around in the dark anymore.
“Thanks again for this.” James smiled, genuinely grateful — just as Regulus had asserted he would be.
“Yes, well, I shan’t have you embarrassing me,” the boy explained it away tightly.
“Or, you’re doing this out of the kindness of your heart,” James teased.
On cue, Regulus scowled. “I’m doing this because I am a sponsored ward of House Potter. I therefore cannot have you bringing shame upon House Potter.”
“Sure, that’s the only reason.” James grinned, not believing a word. “You’re not secretly kind and empathetic. Perish the thought.”
Regulus glared so harshly James could imagine spires of sharp grey rock shooting out from his eyeballs and piercing James right through. “Follow me.”
James did not receive any further explanation or elaboration as the Slytherin legitimately turned and walked out of the library, leaving the Gryffindor to scramble after him. Regulus continued to ignore his questions until they arrived at an old, abandoned classroom. He felt a little like he’d been led into a trap when Regulus locked the door behind him.
“… What are we doing in here?” James asked, a touch nervous. Regulus had been relatively nice to him recently (well, Regulus’s version of nice), but if someone told James that Regulus tutored kids until he gained their trust, only to shatter that trust and murder them in abandoned classrooms, James would honestly believe it. Regulus had the kind of quiet confidence, severity, and conviction to be a serial killer. And he was smart enough not to get caught.
“I want to be sure that you can actually dance,” Regulus replied, casual as anything. He started moving desks and chairs aside to make room in the classroom. James watched on as his jaw dropped.
“You’re going to dance with me?” James got a flash of Regulus pressed up close in his mind, their bodies flush, their hands clasped together. For some reason, this thought made his cheeks start to heat up. He wiped his suddenly sweaty palms against his trousers. “We’re going to dance together?”
“Yes, Potter.” He could practically hear the boy’s eye-roll despite not seeing his face. “I cannot recall ever having seen you dance formally, but it will be required of you in the upcoming season. Thus, I have need to ensure that you are adequate in this field.”
James’s heart rate was rapidly skyrocketing. “I know how to dance.”
“Wonderful. Then this shall be over shortly.”
“I-I appreciate all the help you’ve given me so far, but really— we don’t need to do this.”
Regulus turned to face him, expression dour. “Just shut up and ask me to dance as if I were a Lady.”
James stalled as he tried to think his way out of this. “How can I shut up and ask you to dance at the same time?”
The Slytherin didn’t dignify that with an answer, simply glaring James into submission.
“Really, you’re nothing like a Lady—”
“How astute.”
“—All the wrong parts! You’re too male! —”
“I’m surprised you even noticed.”
“— I can just ask one of my female friends instead! —”
“Potter.”
“— There’s no need for you to go to the trouble—”
“James.”
James’s mouth clicked shut.
The stare Regulus fixed him with was unyielding. “Bow and ask me to dance. Like a Gentleman.”
“I am a Gentleman,” James replied dumbly. “You know… technically speaking.”
“Then act like it,” the boy shot back, harsh and biting as ever. “Or have I been wasting my time on a hopeless case?”
James bowed.
He’d like to say it was all smooth and suave, but he’d never been particularly good at these. He was stiff with it. Awkward. James had long, gangly, noodly limbs that he’d never fully grown into. Put him on a broom, and everything felt easier, but on land? Where he could trip and fall and make a fool of himself? No amount of bravado seemed to save him from his own flailing limbs.
“May I have this dance?”
“No.”
“No?” James looked up, affronted. He pulled himself up to full height, glaring down at the Slytherin. “Why the fuck not?”
“There.” Regulus nodded, as though pleased with himself. “That’s better. You’re tall — use it to your advantage. And you’re perfectly capable of not standing like you’ve been nailed to the spot, or flapping your arms about like a fish on land.” He gestured towards James’s current posture. “Let’s try that again. But try to control your limbs this time.”
He stared expectantly at James.
Oh, this irritating little tosser.
James swept into another bow, still feeling too aware of his body, but it was smoother this time, after the Slytherin’s aggravating but apparently helpful intervention.
“May I have this dance?” James gritted out, annoyance giving each word a sharp little bite.
“Better,” Regulus observed. “We shall start with a waltz.”
“Oh, shall we?” How dare this prick just decide how things would go? He was like a pint-sized dictator.
“We shall.” Clipped, confident words. Sure, swift steps. James found himself in ballroom hold before he knew what was happening.
Regulus was shorter than James. (Obviously.) Sort of compact. The top of his head was somewhere around James’s eye-level, and he had to tip his head back for their gazes to meet.
He was no less intimidating despite this fact.
Both Regulus and Sirius — no matter how much he expected they would deny it if confronted — had this inbuilt level of assuredness that they might not even be aware of. It was curated from years of careful breeding and the constant unshakeable self-view of greatness that the Black family possessed. The two had been told over and over again since the moment of their births that they were Blacks. That they were noble. That they were superior. That they had greatness in their blood. Their confidence was forged on endless vaults of gold, a meticulously pruned family tree, and consistent, unrelenting indoctrination that told them they were special. It had infected their systems and spread itself into each and every pore of their beings, even despite the fact that they now rejected their upbringing.
Sirius wore it outwardly. He was loud, belligerent; there was an arrogance to him that had taken years to dull, mostly at the hands of Remus’s cutting tongue and James’s gentle pushes. Still, he maintained his swagger to this day, and generally speaking, Sirius was so steadily secure that it didn’t even occur to him to doubt himself.
Regulus, James was discovering, was much the same way. He was quieter than his brother, more reserved. He didn’t need volume to capture attention — didn’t often need the attention at all. But there was an undeniable power underlying. An unwavering confidence in himself and his own abilities that stood like a load-bearing pillar in the architecture of his personality. He may not show it often, but he was a Pureblood, and he was a Black. He stood tall and uncowed, even in the face of challenge.
Something about James seemed to constantly challenge him.
He wore his confidence like a second skin around the Gryffindor. Biting words, sure steps, his chin jutted up in defiance, flames dancing in his eyes. He seemed… not at ease, but… in control. Like he knew he was always twelve steps ahead of James at any given moment, like he was confident he was the smartest person in the room and James would soon be sprinting after him to keep up.
He never backed down with James. Never let up. It was like he wanted to see how much the Gryffindor could take.
But he still kept James at arms-length.
They didn’t talk about their days. Didn’t complain about homework or yammer on about their friends. On the Quidditch pitch they actively tried to destroy each other, and everywhere else they ignored each other’s presence… until recently. Until James resolved to shove his Yuletide spirit down the Slytherin’s throat. Until Regulus became James’s strictest and most heartless teacher yet, drilling etiquette and information about the current interpersonal relations between the Ton into James’s skull.
James’s mental picture of who Regulus Black was, was slowly expanding. He wasn’t just Sirius’s little brother anymore. He was a strong-willed, highly opinionated little dictator, who pushed at James’s buttons like it was his favourite pastime. Yes, he liked Potions and Quidditch and insulting people, but he also apparently liked fashion, and cake, and Gus the straw Yule goat. He was a touch sadistic, a little bit cruel. He liked games — sporting, political, psychological, any kind really. He was competitive and liked to win as much as he liked to see James lose.
It felt like he was getting to know Regulus, little by little. A puzzle of newfound pieces gradually forming a recognisable picture. It was an agonisingly slow slog, the act of chipping away at the Slytherin’s facades, but James found himself more desperate than ever to peel back those many, many, many layers. To know him. Really and truly.
“Focus, Potter,” Regulus snapped.
James would like to. But he was having great amounts of difficulty given that the boy was pressed close, their hands clasped, one of James’s hands on the Slytherin’s trim waist.
He had never noticed quite how small Regulus’s waist was before.
It was… nice. Yeah, ‘nice’ was a safe adjective.
“This is where you lead, idiot.” Harsh grey eyes stared up at him with equal parts annoyance and expectance. “We’re waltzing.”
“Waltzing,” James repeated faintly. “Yeah.”
They still weren’t moving.
Regulus raised an impatient brow. It was sort of stroppy. James guessed that he wasn’t used to not getting what he wanted with haste. “Do I have to do everything, Potter? I thought you said you could dance.”
Regulus’s hand was soft, and his nails were manicured. Delicate. This hand hadn’t seen a day’s work in its life. His fingers were long; a pianist’s fingers. The pale skin looked stark beside James’s deep brown skin-tone.
“James.”
He took a stumbling step forward without warning, leading them clumsily into a waltz.
“Merlin’s tits! Watch my feet!”
James couldn’t seem to tear his gaze away from those stormy grey eyes, thick, pretty lashes framing them nicely. Still, he relaxed a bit, and the dance began to flow better.
“Adequate,” was the Slytherin’s assessment. “Spin me.”
James was helpless but to obey.
He obediently spun the boy, who turned gracefully, but there was something off. Regulus must have spun a bit too fast, or James hadn’t left enough room, or a combination of both.
They ended up slamming together on the return in.
Their chests pressed against one another. Regulus’s arms were trapped between them, and they settled upon James’s collarbones as he steadied himself. James wrapped both arms around his waist instinctively to steady the smaller boy on his feet. Regulus’s head tilted up and James’s tipped down so they could give each other surprised looks at the sudden impact.
Regulus’s breath blew gently on his lips.
So. Very. Close.
“You’ll have to do better than that,” Regulus told him, almost absently. He seemed distracted.
James swallowed, nodding minutely. He was also distracted. His gaze flickered down to soft pink lips without his permission, but he yanked it back up to Regulus’s captivating eyes. That didn’t help much. He was suddenly consumed with the urge to stare into those eyes for the rest of time.
Where the fuck did that come from?
Regulus pulled away and resumed their previous position. “Try it again. Don’t fuck it up this time.”
“Encouraging,” James drawled, but his heart was pounding out of his chest.
Since when did he find his best friend’s little brother attractive?
*
James was something of a ladies’ man.
He could make girls giggle with nothing but a well-placed wink. He was well-known as a romantic who fully devoted himself to swoon-worthy gestures. And it had never taken much for him to get a date. There was only one lovely lady who had been immune to James’s charms, but as it turned out, Lily was a flaming homosexual.
“You’re quite lovely,” she told him once. “Confusingly so. It took me years to realise what exactly was holding me back from you — as it turns out, you may have the balls to date me, but that’s not what I’m looking for in a partner. I’m more of a boobs girl.”
James considered this to be an extenuating circumstance and no fault of his own. If he had the right equipment, he’d have a gorgeous redhead in his arms at present.
James was not, however, a mens’ man. A loverboy of loverboys. A teenage daydream of the homoerotic persuasion.
He did not moon after pretty boys. He did not make blokes giggle in the halls. He did not offer guys bouquets and whisk them away to elaborate and romantic dates.
He had never even considered it.
“Lily,” he began quietly.
She was distracted watching Mary dance, ogling her girlfriend with no shame whatsoever. It was the Gryffindor Yule/Christmas/Winter party that happened every year before the school break started and the students parted ways. James hadn’t quite been able to enjoy it this time around, his thoughts plagued by stormy grey eyes and pretty, tempting lips.
“Mhm?” She hummed absently, eyes on the dancefloor, her drink warming in her lap — not that she cared much.
“How did you realise you were gay?”
Lily’s eyes wrenched violently away to stare, startled, at James. They were large and pretty eyes, framed by the most delicate lashes, a green colour to the irises that James had always found fascinating. Sometimes deep like the forest. Sometimes bright like grassy pastures. Always precious like emeralds.
Mary was a very lucky woman.
“Why do you ask?” Lily shot back immediately. She seemed to have sensed something in his tone — damn perceptive and empathetic soul that she was — and her gaze was full of scrutiny.
“The other day, I had… an unexpected attraction?” He wasn’t sure how to phrase it, feeling hesitant as he stared down into his cup of cheap spirits. “At least, I think it was attraction. But I’m not sure.”
Lily’s eyes roamed his features, picking up on every little detail. “Go on.”
“There was this… person,” James elaborated cautiously. “I found myself staring at their lips like a creep. And then gazing into their eyes like an even bigger creep.”
“Was it a boy?” Lily guessed astutely.
James paused, reluctant. He didn’t understand what was going on with him. He wasn’t gay. There was no chance he was gay. He definitely liked women.
Still, the truth of the matter was that those lips and eyes he’d been so drawn to, had belonged to a boy. Someone male. He’d held a boy in his arms, and he’d felt the heat of attraction curl deep inside himself. He didn’t know what it meant.
“Yeah,” he confirmed eventually, feeling his stomach flutter nervously. He tapped his fingers against the plastic cup in his hands. “I wasn’t aware I could feel that way…”
“About a guy,” she easily filled in. A pause. “Do you think you’re gay?”
“No,” James answered surely. Then the doubt began to creep in. “Maybe? I don’t know.”
He slumped and Lily shuffled closer. “Do you think some part of you was just pretending to like girls?” She inquired gently. “Because it was easier? You were expected to like girls, so you played into it… and now, you’re realising that things can feel way better when you’re honest with yourself?”
James regarded his friend with interest. “Is that how you felt?”
She smiled, small and soft. “I did — do — genuinely love you as a person. But everyone always talked about that feeling of fireworks, of a puzzle piece clicking into place, of the whole world disappearing because you’re too focused on your partner.” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I feel that way about Mary, but with you… with other boys… Looking back, I was playing a part, simply because I didn’t know any better. I didn’t know it could feel better.”
James bit the inside of his lip, considering her words. “I felt that way about you. The fireworks.”
Lily was quiet a moment as she puzzled this out.
“Are you sure?”
James nodded. “Definitely. If you had felt the same way, I would have given you everything.”
Lily frowned, and James couldn’t help but smile. The furrow between her eyes had always been adorable to him.
“Do you feel that way about him?” She didn’t ask who he was, and James was grateful. He didn’t want to think about the implications just yet. Not before he’d figured himself out.
“I don’t know for sure,” he answered honestly. “I just like his eyes. I… I find them as pretty as I find yours.”
She didn’t comment on his use of tenses either. She’d accepted by now that James was always going to be a little bit in love with her. That didn’t mean he hadn’t moved on and it didn’t mean they couldn’t be friends. It was just a beautiful little remnant of a vast love that would never fully leave them.
“Perhaps you like both then?” Lily suggested, but her tone was conclusive. Decisive. “Women and men.”
James hadn’t known that was possible. He said as much to his friend.
“Me neither,” Lily admitted. “But why not? If people can like women or men, why can’t you like women and men?”
James considered it. The words struck a chord somewhere in the depths of his soul. He… he had absolutely no problem with people being queer, with people loving someone who was the same gender as themselves… he’d just never thought he would be one of those people. He knew he liked girls — he’d had a number of crushes on girls — but he’d never noticed himself crushing on a guy before.
Until now. Maybe he was a late bloomer in the gay-ish department? Or maybe Regulus Black was the exception?
“Your heart’s certainly big enough to love both genders,” Lily continued idly, just musing aloud.
He gave her a grateful look, touched by the sentiment. “Thank you.”
“Not a problem.” She waved off his gratitude easily. “Though the moment your internal crisis is over, I want all the details about this mysterious fellow with eyes as pretty as mine.”
He barked out a startled laugh. “You’ll be one of the first to know. But I still have some more soul-searching to do before that.”
“Urgh.” She feigned annoyance. “Hurry up, will you? I want the gossip!”
His laughter carried over the sound of the music, and he felt much lighter inside. Perhaps Lily was right? Perhaps he was capable of falling for pretty girls and pretty boys alike?
Perhaps he was crushing on Regulus Black?