the star, judgement, death

The hands do not caress Regulus. Their touch is infinitely softer, still, than any he’s ever felt.

His hands flail about on impulse. His arm is a ghastly sight, marred by a mark that’s all too familiar.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾༓･*˚⁺‧͙

“It’s the same, every night without fail.”

Dumbledore stares at Regulus. His expression betrays nothing. It’s a cold comfort.

“Do you remember it solidly? Enough for a pensieve, that is,” Dumbledore asks.

Regulus slowly turns to watch a peculiarly shaped cabinet unfurl, revealing the shallow basin within. He stares at it, and at the flickering glow that reflects onto the walls surrounding it. In it, he feels the light that shines between his outstretched fingers every night, illuminating the mark etched neatly into his arm and beneath his very eyelids.

“No,” Regulus lies. “It fades when I wake. I am quite certain it’s always the same one, though, and that I’m drowning somewhere.”

The headmaster hums, leaning back into his chair. The pensieve is engulfed once again, hidden from sight. Regulus pulls his eyes away.

“Anything else?” Dumbledore questions. His eyes are trained firmly upwards, as if looking into his own mind for answers. Regulus suspects he’s only affording him the comfort of false privacy, of being unobserved and uninspected.

“It's my death,” he answers honestly. “I do not wake until I’ve passed in the dream. Never a moment before.”

Dumbledore hums again. “Do you ever see anything else? It does not have to be in a dream.”

“Yes,” Regulus says simply. 

“Go on,” Dumbledore urges.

“Insignificant things, mostly, but they always come to pass. It’s not too dissimilar to a thought I can’t ignore; I reckoned I was just really good at guessing things would happen for a while. A hunch that my mother would be upset that day, or that our house elf would break a plate at dinner. That sort of thing.”

“But never anything in your dreams…”

“Correct,” Regulus confirms.

Dumbledore nods, then promptly rummages around the contents of his desk drawers. “Divination is a fickle form of magic. Witches and wizards with the gift are few and far inbetween, and fewer still are powerful enough to be considered seers.”

He brandishes the parchment like a prize, muttering a quiet ‘aha!’ as he does. Regulus watches him use his wand as a quill, fascinated. “That’s part of why it’s so difficult to discern the true talent. Paranoia–and other diseases of the mind–can induce visions and hunches in people that feel so real , and are impossible to ignore. Others simply benefit from being frauds; that particular practice is common among muggles now, too.”

“All that is to say, though literature on the topic is available, there is not one verified account of how things ought to be. I personally find that can be as much of a comfort as it is a frustration,” he adds with a smile, handing over what Regulus now recognizes as a permission slip for the restricted section of the library. He takes it after a moment, staring at the neat cursive of his name in the headmaster’s script.

“Do not dwell on answerless questions, Regulus,” Dumbledore says, grabbing his attention. “It may be a vision, or just a manifestation of a certain fear. Do some research, if only to ease your mind, but remember that obsessing over visions–real or otherwise–is not a bright idea. Some have gone mad trying, and so I ask that you refrain from following in their footsteps.”

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾༓･*˚⁺‧͙

“He’s pretty.”

Regulus remembers his first day at Hogwarts. He remembers telling Dorcas Meadowes, who he’d just met while waiting for the train, those exact words when he’d noticed James Potter for the first time.

He remembers the immediate indifference he’d felt when Sirius introduced them to each other. He remembers James’ easy, unaffected smile — equally indifferent and polite.

“Hey,” James says, joining Regulus for lunch. Sirius is not far behind. “You were with the Headmaster for quite a while today. Everything okay?”

Regulus would love to lie and say he’s unsure when or why he’d started seeking this particular company. He’s good at lying, he thinks.

“Hello. Yes, everything’s alright,” he responds, eyes trained on his food.

James just smiles lightly, starting to eat as well. “Last time I was in there for that long, it was because I’d gotten in a horrible row with Professor Pirrucio, our third year defence teacher. He just would not shut up about the status of werewolves as dark creatures, so I let him have it,” he recounts with a shrug. Regulus tries to seem unaffected by this. He figures he admires those who stand up for what's right, even when in the weaker position, because he instinctively admires Sirius. Unfortunately, when it’s James Potter doing it, it’s rather attractive.

“Do not follow his example,” Sirius adds sarcastically. “Not that you need the warning, mind you.”

Regulus lets the insult go. He refuses to waste any more time on fighting.

“You got away with it, though,” Regulus points out, speaking directly to James. He times himself, tries to look only an appropriate amount, then turns back to his food.

James snorts. “I wouldn’t be so sure. I got lucky, but it’s not so smart to do what I did. I’m trying to control my temper better,” he says somberly, like he truly regrets it. Regulus thinks he looks uncomfortable.

“May not have been smart, but it’s admirable, at least,” Regulus tries. It comes out stilted and awkward. James barely smiles at him in response.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Regulus’ enchanted parchment can only take him so far within the restricted section before he hits the tiresome invisible ward usually blocking the whole area off.

The books surrounding him are quite fascinating. It’s quite a shame he won’t be able to read them all, he thinks. He’d always planned to return to Hogwarts much later in life, perhaps as a professor of potions or charms, and get through the entire collection then.

In a way, he’s quite grateful to have had the chance to mourn that future, and reconcile with its loss. Unlike most, his death would be timely. It’s quite the gift. 

Which is why Regulus’ eyes scan the many titles, in the hopes that the corresponding tomes may hold some hint or key to the nature of his death. He’s not got much to go off of, but he figures thehands would be as good a start as any. 

A Compendium of Dark Waters and Their Denizens seems a bit too on the nose, but Regulus grabs it anyways, along with The Oneiric Lexicon and Rackham’s Secrets of Sight and Seers.  

Satisfied with his little collection, Regulus begins to work his way back to the little secluded corner of the library he’d claimed for himself.

Except, the deep tug in his stomach is a feeling he’s grown quite familiar with throughout the years. He relents to it — observes himself being almost wrenched into a particular aisle, his neat stack hovering diligently behind. His eyes fly over the many volumes unseeingly, knowing that whatever he needs will stand out to him.

Mortem Arcana . 

Subtle.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾༓･*˚⁺‧͙

“‘Dark Waters and Their Denizens'. Defence assignment?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Regulus replies automatically, still taking notes. His attention is rapidly dwindling, as it so often does in James’ presence, but he doesn’t mind much. Regulus is content to just be around him, really, and he’s quite sure that has nothing to do with his silly little crush. It’s genuinely just James .

“I would, actually,” James answers just as quickly, seating himself across from Regulus and settling in . Cheek resting on his hand and everything.

Regulus sighs. “Not really, just some research.” 

“What on? And for what purpose?”

On dark creatures that hunt in packs. He’s managed to narrow the list down to Merpeople, Moirai Sirens, or Vodník. It’s surprising that these in fact are separate creatures, and quite real with defining differences. Unluckily for him, they all share webbed fingers. The hands in his dreams are never webbed, leaving him at a truly excruciating loss.

Regulus just shrugs in response. He immediately regrets the overt cruelty to be found in his silence, and adds sarcastically, “On the dark denizens of waters.”

James huffs a laugh, but accepts the dry response nonetheless. He doesn’t push; never does. “Well, as head boy, I unfortunately must send you off to your dorm room, since it’s a quarter to curfew,” he says after a while, reaching over to close Regulus’ book himself. “You’ll want to sign those out with Madam Pince right now, if there’s any chance of you keeping them.”

“I can’t sign them out. They’re from the restricted section,” Regulus replies. He sends the books back to their respective shelves with a flick of his wand, hoping to gather them again the next day. He spares a thought to his growing pile of assignments, then dismisses it just as quickly.

“How’d you get in there?” James asks, throwing his thumb in the general direction of the restricted section even as he goes to follow Regulus out of the library.

“Permission slip.”

“Is that why you were with the Headmaster the other day?”

Regulus shrugs. He shrugs a lot when he’s with James. Distantly, he’s aware he’s not quite like this with anyone else.

“It’s like pulling teeth with you sometimes, you know?” 

Regulus knows it’s rhetorical. He’s smiling as he says it, so it can’t be all that bad, can it?

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾༓･*˚⁺‧͙

Regulus deposits himself into one of the chairs surrounding James’ workbench. James throws a casual wave at Regulus, but stays focused on the bubbling cauldron currently causing his apparent ire. Regulus makes an active effort not to ogle his forearms as they stir, counterclockwise, in precisely-timed circles.

He’s very aware that he should probably feel a modicum of shame, seeking James out like this during his class , but he knows that it doesn’t bother the other boy and so allows himself some grace.

He’s allowed himself many graces, recently.

Something about James is simply comforting to Regulus. He may miss Sirius like a phantom limb, but James is an entirely different experience. Regulus thinks there’s something within him, perhaps a small piece of his very soul, that was originally meant to be part of James. Something that only calms in his proximity.

Regulus thinks he’s a wishful thinker. And maybe has a bit more of the family madness than he thought.

He also can’t deny that a part of him hopes that at least someone will remember that he was not all bad. That he’d been good, once.

“Tell me what you’re working on– teach it to me. You might find out what went wrong, and I’ll benefit too,” Regulus says.

James starts talking.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾༓･*˚⁺‧͙

While Regulus is adamant about not starting new fights with his brother, he’s also quite careful not to grow too friendly with him.

Sirius is simply too important to Regulus, loathe as he is to admit it, and he wants nothing less than to break his heart again with what he knows he’ll eventually do. Luckily, Sirius finds it difficult to simply put aside their existing disagreements, even if Regulus is around more often. At the end of the day, they’re both masters at coexisting with people they despise.

The Lexicon has no direct translation for his dream– the drowning aspect is apparently a sign of his ‘descent into a life ripe with sin’. Would be apt, given the death eater’s mark, but Regulus is quite sure his dream is a bit more literal. A flick of his wand sends the book whoosh -ing back to its rightful spot.

Rackham’s personal accounts of his abilities seemed quite similar to Regulus’ own, though he’d mentioned nothing of futures dreamt. At least the self-doubt was relatable, he thinks, and sends the useless guide away to its own shelf.

Just as he’s about to dive back into Dark Waters , Regulus’ hands settle on Mortem Arcana of their own accord. He starts reading.

The contents are horrific, but Regulus finds he’s unable to stop.

It settles again in the pit of his stomach; that certainty that he must keep reading, and that he’ll know he’s reached an important bit whenever he’s interrupted. Regulus finds it odd that there’s ever a ‘getting to the good bit’ with this horrifying book, but he soldiers on.

Offerings… Rituals… 

Soul-splitting… Horcruxes… 

A bird pecks at the window pane, but Regulus just shoos it away, enthralled.

Communing with the dead… Resurrection Stone… 

Necromancy… Creatures… Infe—

James settles down next to Regulus. He doesn’t speak this time. Instead, he lounges casually, chewing on a snack he managed to sneak past Madam Pince.

Regulus cannot focus long enough to read a single word. Still, he sits in silence and pretends to flip through a few pages just to see how long James’ patience will last.

Regulus lasts a truly commendable twenty minutes before slamming the book shut, making sure to dog ear the page. He cringes while he does it, but desperate times and all that.

“Hey.”

“Hello,” James replies with a smile. Always with a smile.

“Let’s go for a walk?” Regulus suggests. “I could use some coffee, if I’m honest.”

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾༓･*˚⁺‧͙

With the snow thawing over and giving way to spring, Regulus recognizes with a dawning panic that his time with James is coming to an end.

They hadn’t progressed in any way, not really. It’s pretty much the same as it’s always been, right from the start: in every crowded space, Regulus’ eyes seek James out every few minutes, only to find him staring right back. They alternate in this cycle, till they inevitably drift closer.

Regulus kicks at the tips of James’ shoes, lightly, as they talk, and James kicks back. Regulus smiles at his feet because looking at James is far too much, and the movement in tandem makes him happy, fully aware that the most he’s ever gotten before James was the simple allowance to fidget. That was Sirius.

Some days, and those are the very hardest, James will ignore him. Regulus knows it’s irrational to be upset; they’re students, and they’re supposed to be busy. James even has NEWTs to worry about. 

He refuses to address the glaringly obvious: Regulus is just another person in James’ life. A new friend, at the most, and a charity case that so happens to be Sirius’ younger brother at worst. 

The thought makes him sick.

Is it quite so irrational to hope that the world has taken pity on him, close as he is to parting with it? That it deemed it fit for him to be wanted by someone he wants too, if only to experience what it is to live, for once?

Regulus will not dwell on unanswerable questions.

Instead, he dwells on James Potter.

He finds they’re one and the same.

The horrendous party the seniors are throwing to welcome the cold’s departure is so… well, horrendous , it almost quiets his mind. He doesn’t drink, since his remaining conscious moments are rather dwindling in quantity, but he’s content to observe others from the makeshift bar they have set up. It has the added benefit of keeping him far from the moshpit of dancers and their flyaway hands. Regulus does not like to be touched, now more than ever before.

James, who’s barely spoken to, or even looked at Regulus all day, is at the centre of a circle formed by a few of his Gryffindor friends. He moves awkwardly, but it’s okay because it’s him. Everyone cheers him on and Regulus smiles. He spies the bracelet he’d given James a few weeks ago hanging off his right wrist, matched to the clothes he chose to wear.

Minutes go by, and Regulus contemplates leaving. Pandora, who he’d come here with, is right next to him, ordering one drink or the other in a stroke of luck. He’s about to announce his departure when a dark-skinned Hufflepuff sidles up to him. 

“This is your group right here?”

“Sorry?” Regulus asks, wincing to emphasise how difficult it is to hear anything over this infernal music.

The man smiles lightly. “Are you here with them?” he asks again, louder, tossing his head towards Pandora and some other girl she’d picked up at some point throughout the evening. They’re in some kind of enthralling discussion, it seems.

“Yes,” Regulus confirms, settling back against the bar. The man turns to Pandora and company, over-enthusiastically exchanging names and, subsequently, cultural backgrounds with them. Pandora’s friend is Armenian, apparently.

Very suddenly, a gaggle of yellow-clad boys hurry past, urgently dragging the man away with a loud, “We have to go, now!” He laughs slightly, pauses for a second to wave and mouth the word sorry , then runs off with his group.

Regulus would usually share a look with Pandora at this, but a sudden warmth pushes into his left side. He startles at the sight of James Potter, elbows folded onto the bar as he looks out at the makeshift dance floor.

“Hi?”

“Hey.”

Regulus takes in James’ expression for a few moments. “You seem a bit down. Are you okay?”

“Yes,” James replies evenly, “just a bit too sober all of a sudden.”

Regulus wonders how that’s true when he has it on good authority (himself) that James downed almost a full bottle of whiskey less than an hour ago. 

He doesn’t dwell on unanswerable questions. James presses himself more firmly into Regulus’ side. He’s quite damp with sweat, and smells really nice. Like a strong tea.

He looks at Regulus, tilting down the short distance required to speak directly into his ear. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Not really,” Regulus admits into James’ ear, trying very hard not to blush when he puts a hand on James’ shoulder and pulls him closer.

“I’m surprised you came. You mentioned you wouldn’t.”

He surprised himself, too, if he’s honest. But here he is, and there’s nowhere he’d rather be in the world. It bolsters him. It’s a special kind of mercy, not having to live long with the consequences of one's own actions.

"I came for you."

Faces inches apart, James just gives him one of his small smiles, staring directly into Regulus’ eyes. “Thank you,” he says.

He takes the tassels of James’ borrowed bracelet, twirling it in his fingers. “You actually wore this?”

“You gave it to me.”

Regulus smiles back.

Then slowly loses it as they keep looking , almost daring the other to turn away. Regulus’ stomach finds its home in his knees, and his mouth feels very, very dry. It’s not fair that James is looking at him like that — like Regulus is the one making things hard for him.

He breaks away to ask Pandora to bring him a glass of water along with her next drink.

“I wanted some water, is all,” he needlessly tells James once he’s facing him again. James only nods once, face further away now, but no less intense.

“Get back out there, enjoy your night,” Regulus tells James after his water break, leaning in close again.

James lifts an eyebrow. “Will you ?”

“Not really my thing,” Regulus breathes. The energy picks up right where they left off — Regulus can hardly stand it. He wants to kiss him, so, so bad.

Regulus refuses to be that guy , hitting on a person who only thinks of him as a friend, so he will not be kissing James. 

He wants James to try to kiss him. He wants to tell James no, because he’s sober and James isn’t, and to come find him again in the morning.

The moment shatters: Regulus’ gaze locks onto Filch, who’s on the prowl for any reason to shut down this perfectly permitted party. He just so happens to be one of those reasons, given that he very much is not a seventh year, and should be back in his dorm.

He’s always been very careful not to touch James; he’ll even politely refuse James’ offers for a handshake in group settings. He’s aware it’s a bit excessive, but his crush on James, who for all intents and purposes thinks they’re just friends, would taint any innocent touch with a pleasure James does not reciprocate or intend to provide. Regulus would never take advantage like that. 

In a fit of panic, Regulus grabs James’ hand for the first time, pulling him through the sea of people and to the curving staircase leading to the exit. Regulus becomes hyper aware of their intertwined hands when they don’t let go on stairs, even if it twists their arms at a weird angle.

The lights fall so gently around James’ sweaty hair. Regulus thinks its so fucking beautiful. His heart aches .

James smiles down at him. Always smiling. “You’ll make it there safe? I can come with you,” he suggests in that stupid, gentle tone of voice he seems to have reserved only for Regulus.

Regulus wants to die. For just a moment, he’s glad he will. It’s disgustingly fitting that James can give him even that. He gives into his twitching fingers, running them through James’ hair. It’ll have to be enough.

“I’ll be fine. You’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be alright,” James confirms with a small nod. 

Going against every single instinct in his body, Regulus runs without looking back.

‧͙⁺˚*･༓☾༓･*˚⁺‧͙

“Cockblocked by Filch… now that’s a story.”

“Shut up , Dorcas,” Regulus whines pathetically. “I don’t know , okay? I’m so sure we almost kissed– I mean, we were this close to each other,” he rants, holding his palms about an inch apart. “And nothing would’ve happened anyways, because he was drunk and I wasn’t. And he probably didn’t even want to, and I’m just delusional. Or maybe he did, but he was drunk and I was available. It’s been a while since he’s been in a relationship.”

Dorcas pretends to consider this. “No,” she refutes immediately, “most people would be ‘available’ for a guy like him, so that’s not it. And if he didn’t want to, then why has he been ignoring you this whole week?”

Regulus shuts his eyes so forcefully he sees stars. “He does that sometimes. He’s headboy, Quidditch captain, and he has NEWTs coming up.”

“A likely explanation. But since he’s so busy, why’d he have no trouble making time for you before?”

“I sort of forced myself onto him, really.”

Dorcas flicks her quill at him, sending ink right onto his face. He wipes it away with a quick wandless spell, looking at the offender incredulously. “Say ridiculous things, suffer ridiculous consequences. You put in the effort to make a friend , Regulus. Besides, if he didn’t want you around, he’d make it obvious, no? He doesn’t seem like the type to do subtle.”

“I know , Dorcas, okay? I’m well aware, and it’s upsetting me, and I do not want to talk about James Potter anymore because at this current moment, I am not feeling particularly fond .”

In the corner of his vision, Regulus sees Bartemious “Barty” Crouch Jr. and Evan Rosier — his dorm mates — whispering to one another. The pair of them have gotten horribly serious this year. Regulus figured it was the same reason as everyone else; the increased security on school grounds, the innumerable deaths… signs of a brewing war that’s touched every person in its own way.

Regulus suspects he was wrong. At least partly, anyways. Regulus had woken up much earlier than usual that morning, plagued by eyes the colour of honeyed chocolate even in his dreams. He figured a cold shower would help rid him of these ridiculous withdrawals. 

He instead found an undressed Barty hurrying to redress. Right there, actively being covered by a shirt’s sleeve, Regulus was almost sure he could make out the very same mark he will soon don.

 He did not bring it up when he casually strolled past the boy to take his own shower, Barty none the wiser to his accidental snooping. His gut dinged with the recognition that the moment was pivotal, though it’s hard to place whether it was prophetic or simply intuition.