The Spell
That morning the Great Hall was in a state of jubilation.
It was one of those typical mornings before a Quidditch match, bustling and chaotic.
The enchanted ceiling stretched high in a brushstroke of sky blue, framed by thick, restless clouds. It painted
a swollen, tumultuous sky, the kind that shakes low rumbles and thunders like roars, which was dotted with small candles that hovered in the air.
It stagnated there, climbing the walls and reflecting the collective soul of the school.
The air remained suspended in mid-air, livid with a tension that could not be seen but could be felt in the flesh.
And lower down, in the jumble of students, a reverberation of voices spoiled the soft reflection of the lights. Some students were absentmindedly bumping into the Christmas decorations, interrupting the natural flow of spells. Others had huddled to one side, desperate for even the slightest bit of peace.
James Potter sat at the head of the Gryffindor table, his eyes a fickle gold and his features softened. His legs were stretched out under the table, his shoulders relaxed, enjoying the confusion.
Peter, who sat next to him, was buttering a slice of bread, his knife sliding back and forth in evanescent concentration. He was wearing a dove-colored sweater that hugged his full torso and pulled timidly along the top of his shoulders. He was leaning forward, his face sulky. Every now and then, a lock of his ash-blond hair would settle at the base of his forehead, pinching his eyelashes and Peter would brush it away in an absentminded gesture, never taking his eyes off the bread. And he was distant, Pettigrew, all tense in his arms and with his big eyes that did not dare rest on James. He was always like that, before one of their pranks took place.
Remus Lupin, on the other hand, was quiet. His sky-gray sweater was thrown over his thin shoulders, soft and gathered around his hips. Beyond the seam of his sweater, the collar of his shirt pinched the base of his chin in an indelicate caress that made him frown.
His long fingers gripped the handle of a jug of hot chocolate, and every movement had a slow, robust grace. Remus was calm, but his face still betrayed a rough, bristly weariness. Two dark circles traced the hollow curve under his eyes, where a glossy iris fluttered in the light. And his lips were dry, anemic.
Sirius, on the other hand, was energetic, violently handsome in those refined features of his and his insolent smile.
His tie hung awkwardly around his neck, and his shirt cuffs bulged out from the sleeves of his sweater. He had a cup of tea in front of him, to which he kept adding sugar, spoonful after spoonful, making it become a nauseating concoction even for those with a sweet tooth.
The teaspoon was perfectly polished and had precise hatchings on the rim, which reflected the light and hurt James's irises. Black's eyes, however, were hazy, pained, and he could not look into them.
Potter watched the two boys alarmed, his head tilted and his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose, as he expertly sliced the steaming tower of pancakes that resided on his plate. The maple syrup, viscous and glossy, cascaded from the spoon, enveloping the edges like a river of amber pouring onto the banks. For a moment, James was lost in the hypnotic movement of the gesture, but only for a moment.
It wasn't uncommon for Sirius and Remus to behave this way, to deliberately ignore the opportunity to express themselves and talk through their issues. It usually looked something like this: Lupin would reluctantly sit at the table, biting the inside of his cheek and scrutinizing with animalistic ferocity Sirius, who behaved as if nothing had happened.
He never said anything, though. He would sit there, his expression furrowed and his manner placid so as not to betray resentment. And Black would let him do it, his gaze flickering on him when Remus was too distracted to notice. After the revelation that had happened a few days before, however, the pain on Lupin's face made James' stomach turn.
Around them, the Great Hall continued to resonate with voices, but it was blurry, acting as a frame for their conversation. The banners of Gryffindor and Slytherin, hanging on opposite sides of the room, swelled and collapsed with air under the orders of a half-hearted spell. And the din had suddenly become an unbearable clangor.
Peter raised the buttered bread to his lips with a hesitant gesture, as if he were afraid to violate the chaos with the simplicity of his appetite. The butter glistened on the golden crust like a thin layer of wax, a soft, docile gleam under the flickering glow of the candles. And as his teeth sinked slowly into the fragrant surface, the boy seemed to withdraw even further into himself, as if the world around him were too big, too noisy, and the bread was the only refuge he could find.
Across the wooden table worn by time and endless Hogwarts mornings, the atmosphere between the four boys eased.
James sighed, letting his breath rise slightly in his chest, a calm but dense movement.
«But, really, how do you drink that stuff?» he began in the affectionate tone of someone about to launch a provocation, returning his eyes to Sirius. «You'll get a stomachache and you won't be able to play the match if you drink it all. Seriously, Pads.»
Sirius slumped against Peter, his spoon now abandoned in the sugary sludge of his tea. His face, however, lit up with his usual ardor: a restless, tireless glow. «You're right, I'm sorry mum, forgive me for being so reckless.»
Remus shook his head, a gesture halfway between cynicism and amusement. He took his time sipping his cocoa, the steam rising around his face like a fading veil. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, rough, a whisper that cut through the din. «Maybe-» he said, putting his elbow on the table and leaning slightly toward Sirius.
«Maybe he's trying to see if tea solidifies. A new invention to get Zonko's attention, maybe. You like that, don't you? Seeking attention.»
Sirius remained unruffled. With a smirk that lit up his grey eyes, he lifted the cup in his hands and tilted it theatrically, watching the white swirl of sugar melting at the bottom. «Oh, yes, you keep on laughing.» he replied, ignoring Lupin's comment. «But you don't understand the poetry behind it. This tea isn't just tea. It's a work of art. A philosophy. The manifest of absolute sweetness.»
Peter, who had been avoiding intervening until now, looked up from his buttered bread, his cheeks puffed out like a hamster's. «I wouldn't drink it even under the Imperius spell.» he said, his voice slightly muffled from the bite he just took.
«If you keep this up, you'll find yourself with no teeth by the time you're thirty.»
Black laughed, a clear, heartfelt sound. And his laughter was infectious.
«My teeth? Don't be ridiculous, Pete. My teeth wouldn't dare abandon me. They have too much of a sense of aesthetics for that.»
Remus shook his head, blowing on the rim of his cup before taking another sip. His normally placid eyes were filled with a wry glint as he looked at the boy, his smile stiff at the edges: «Really, Sirius, you're bloody impossible. You should be put on display as an interactive installation in a museum.»
Sirius moved slightly, cocking his head towards him like a dog hearing the squeak of its favorite toy.
A cheeky, insolent smile spread across his lips, but his eyes were cloudy, like a trembling surface of water.
«Is this your way of saying I'm one of a kind, Moony?»
The soft thud of the cup hitting the table was the only interruption before Remus's eyes widened, a flash of surprise tinged with embarrassment. His hot chocolate went out of control for a moment, the sweet heat of the liquid choking him, forcing him to cough.
James cut in. «Anyway, did you guys realize we have to be in the stands at least an hour before the match? If we don't get moving, we'll be late and—»
«Oh, James.» Sirius interrupted in a patronizing tone, finally setting his cup down on the table and folding his arms over his chest.
«So little faith you have. As if they could start without the two best players on the team. If you keep getting paranoid, though, then everything will go wrong.»
«Well that's just great.» said Remus, sarcasm creeping into his voice. «So you're telling me if anything goes wrong, it's James's fault for not having enough faith? Sounds like a foolproof strategy, really.»
Black nodded and James shook his head.
«Sure, Pads, I won't be the only one spending the evening getting yelled at by McGonagall anyway.»
«Me? Minnie would never yell at me, I'm her favorite.» Sirius retorted, his voice drawling and cheerful, but with a devious twinkle in his eye.
Lupin kept his gaze down. «Yes, her favorite to fill out disciplinary reports.»
«Oh, that's just so kind of you!» Sirius said smoothly, rising with excruciating slowness. «Reduce me to this. Is that how you see me, Moony? A yob?»
Peter squeaked out a laugh, too, covering his mouth with the palm of his hand.
James meanwhile finished his pancakes and thought over his prank strategy, drumming his fingers on the table in a slow, irregular rhythm. «Shall we go?»
As the boys left the Great Hall, the outside world greeted them with a chill. The fog was rolling in around them
to the pinnacles of the castle, thick and suffocating. The garden was a stretch of grass drowned in water, which held drops of dew that reflected the rays of a pale sun, unable to pierce the fog. The trees, now bare, stretched towards the milky sky like skeletons against the horizon, their thin branches barely stirring in a cold and inexorable wind.
The air was sharp, it stung James's cheeks and every breath condensed in little puffs at the back of his throat.
He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, seeking shelter from the bristly cold that stung his nose and flickered over his cheekbones. «It's freezing.»
Sirius walked beside him. His hair was let loose, curling slightly at the base of his neck, and his hands were in the pockets of his robes to warm them, his sweater pulled all the way down to cover his thin wrists. «The real problem is the hands, Prongs! Madam Pomfrey is going to have to cut off all my fingers after the game. I mean, what worse day could they have picked?» He snorted, wrinkling his nose.
Peter, who had been walking in silence for a long time, letting the shadows of his thoughts follow him every step of the way, looked around. «Yeah, great day for a game.» he said, his voice low but clear, as if simply observing the situation was more than enough to unravel the whole mess. «And maybe the fog will help us not to see a damn thing, too. Bloody perfect.»
«You don't have any gloves?» Remus, a couple of steps behind, rolled a cigarette between his fingers. The filter was worn out and the paper was rough, swollen from the humidity. James saw him squint his eyes from the simple act of inhaling, the cigarette sealed between his swollen lips. When he exhaled, pulling his hand away, the rings anchored to the base of his fingers shone a pale light into Potter's eyes, making his pupils itch. His eyes were tired on his face, pained, as he looked up at Sirius. And James had to press his lips together.
«No, I don't. I fear one of you will have to be so kind to sacrifice their body heat to save my fingers.» Black stopped, his smile already stretched across his full lips.
And it was insolent, the way he looked at Remus, his iris eaten wholly away by his pupil.
Lupin, a step behind them, brought his cigarette back to his lips, the ash piling up at his feet. He kept his eyes down.
Sirius looked at him, hot and burning and hungry.
«Moony, would you do me the honour of using you as my personal stove?» He bent his neck, letting out a laugh. And the sound came out clear, crystalline. Lazy but attractive.
The werewolf, however, did not laugh. And something in Sirius's gaze betrayed uneasiness.
For a moment, time stretched, dense, unbearable. Remus blew out his cigarette - now reduced to a tiny stub - in a gesture of reflection that did not seek to be understood, but simply existed. He tilted his head back and his voice was stiff when he spoke, his body all tense at the shoulders. It brought a gasp out of him.
«Oh, I'd love to.» he said. «But I think I have a better solution.»
Pulling his wand from his back pocket, he materialized a pair of gloves with a simple spell. He flung them unceremoniously into Sirius's hands, his nostrils flaring.
But then...
«Hey, Potter!»
Marlene called, her voice breaking the silence like a sudden thunderclap. She raised her free hand to her face in a knowing gesture, a cheeky smile stitched to her features. James turned, returning the greeting with a laugh. The tension eased.
The fog, thick and muffled, seemed to sigh as Marlene, Mary and Lily emerged like figures sculpted in the whiteness of the morning. Their steps were soft, muffled by the damp earth, and every detail of their appearance seemed stolen from the mind of a painter, a vibrant apparition that contrasted with the bare garden.
Marlene advanced with the confidence of someone who had never known hesitation. Her red tunic fell steeply to her ankles and her left hand gripped the broom as naturally as others would have gripped a sword. Her pale skin, almost transparent in the gray of the day, set off the polished wood of the broom, while her hands, adorned with an exaggeration of rings, shone like little worn suns at the base of her fingers, her nail polish chipped at the edges of her nails.
Next to Marlene, Mary walked confidently. She was wearing her uniform skirt, paired with a white sweater with lace trim that gave her figure a soft look. Her suede boots, cinched with meticulous double knots and the socks that hugged her calves spoke of meticulous attention to detail. When she turned to them, a wide, sparkling smile crossed her face, and James noticed the red lipstick that defined her lips and the gold eyeshadow that lit up her eyelids. She was showing Marlene something on her hand, a frivolous detail perhaps, but shared with an enthusiasm that sounded genuine and made James want to smile.
Then there was Lily. Oh, Lily. Potter felt his breath falter in his chest when his attention finally settled on her. Her hair was tied in a low, soft braid, which framed her delicate face and highlighted the shy spray of freckles that kissed her cheeks. Her uniform was - as usual - impeccable, with her skirt perfectly ironed and her sweater meticulously folded at her wrists. But the gold earrings and low combat boots she was wearing echoed her personality. The girl simply nodded to greet them, with a discretion that did not allow her to linger her gaze on any of them.
Because Lily was not shy, but reserved. And he decided to simply look away, taking a moment to compose himself.
Marlene was the first to approach. «Ready for the match?» she asked.
James laughed again, cocking his head to the side. «More than ready. How about you? I haven't seen you this excited about a Quidditch match in—well, months.»
«Well, that's because it's been months since we last competed against Slytherins. What about you? You're all worked up, you look like—» Answered McKinnon, but she got interrupted halfway through her sentence.
Sirius butted in, leaning on the boy's shoulder and grinning. «For Merlin's beard, Prongs! Don't tell me you're ashamed?»
«Ashamed of what?» Macdonald looked at the two boys with those large, searching eyes of hers, her lips curling in curiosity. Potter was looking at him questioningly too.
But the boy merely stretched his lips further, his eyes shining. «Well, James is a bit shy, but the thing is, he just can't help but fawn over Frank.»
Mary laughed softly, the sound fading into the howling wind. «You're such a prick, Black.» She said, tilting her face slightly to the side, showing them her sharp profile.
«I'm not fawning over Longbottom!» the boy shouted.
«Look, I'm sirius!» Black sneered.
«You saw how he was chasing him the other day at practice, didn't you, McKinnon? It was all 'yes, I'll put the brooms away. Can I help you? The grass needs trim. Do you want me to do that? Do you want me to polish your shoes with my spit?'»
James turned to the girl, poking out his lip and miming please.
But she had already reached into her blond hair, wrapping her finger around it as she performed one of the most tragic impersonations he had ever seen. «Of course I have, I'm sure we'll soon find them together in the changing room showers, him complimenting Frank on his brand of shampoo. 'Oh, Frankie! Your hair smells so good. Really, soo good.'»
Potter's eyes narrowed, letting out a sigh. «I swear I'll curse you all someday.»
He scratched the bridge of his nose, trying in vain to hide a smile. His fingers lingered for a moment on his glasses, pushing them higher up his nose, the glare of his amusement lighting up his eyes behind the lenses, a glint of liquid gold beyond the glass.
He cocked his head almost defensively. «I just want to make a good impression.» he explained.
«Frank's leaving at the end of this year, and I'd really like to be elected captain. If the current captain hates me, that seems impractical.»
Marlene laughed softly, a puff of air. She was constantly fidgeting on the ring on her finger, making it dance slowly on her slender hand. It was silver, and the light made it sparkle with liquid reflections, while the black stones in the center darkened even more under the pale glow of the sun filtering through the clouds. James, distracted, stared at the jewel, recognizing it instantly. It had been his Christmas present to her in their third year. His face softened.
«We both know he prefers me anyway.»
And the boy sighed, running a hand through his tousled curls. His movements were always a little too broad, always a little too heartfelt.
«See? That's why I need to be nice to him and you do not!» he whined.
At that point Sirius burst into laughter. He leaned forward slightly, his arm brushing James's and placed a hand on his shoulder with a gesture that was half affectionate, half mocking. His long, thin fingers closed on the thick fabric of the sweater, squeezing it with the nonchalance of someone who is at ease in any circumstance.
«Don't worry, Prongs.» he said with a smile so wide it was almost shameless. «We won't tell anyone. And besides, we won't be judging you for being a faggot.»
The sentence remained suspended for a moment too long, but no one had the time to even fully grasp it. Lily, who had been silent until then, curled her lips in annoyance, blurting out.
«You two are such idiots!»
James's smile faded. Concern crept across his face like a sudden shadow, and his hands moved awkwardly toward his glasses, adjusting them on his nose. But Remus, who had remained silent, did not look up. His eyes, fixed on some unspecified point on the floor, seemed to guard something too fragile to be shared.
The girls were quickly gone, leaving behind only the faint echo of their footsteps on the frosted ground. Sirius had also taken a few steps, and called James from a few feet away.
But he did not follow. Instead, he leaned toward Remus, with the caution of someone afraid of cracking something that already threatens to break. «Are you sure you're okay?» he asked softly, his voice soft, hesitant.
Remus took another cigarette from his sweater pocket. And his hands were stiff, their tight tendons betraying a latent tension. His fingers barely caressed the filter, before he brought it to his lips. He said nothing, and the silence that followed was heavy, oppressive.
The flame of the lighter danced for a moment in the still air, hot and brief, before it went out.
«Sure.» he murmured, and the word came out of his lips like a breath of wind.
Potter wanted to try one last time. «Well, maybe if you—»
But Remus strode past him in a long, purposeful stride, without even looking back. His posture was stiff, strained, as he passed him.
Grumbling, James went to the changing rooms.
He entered as Sirius was already changing. The red and gold tunic clung to his slender body, enhancing the magnetism that nested within him. Beside him, Potter was more hasty, practical in his gestures. He stretched his hands over his trousers, his fingers a little stiff from the cold. Then he went out.
The fog welcomed him in a veil that clung to the earth and to the sky, erasing the boundaries between what was near and what was lost in the distance. Each breath seemed to thicken in the air, warm and vaporous. Under their boots the damp earth of the field was collapsing, a dull and viscous sound that amplified the austerity of the silence around.
James felt the cold creep up his shoulders, insinuating itself under the fabric of his uniform. It buckled on his ligaments, cold and twisted.
And there was something else, a trepidation that nestled in the spaces between his shoulder blades.
Then, his eyes moved in front of him. And he saw him.
Regulus Black.
The green and silver Slytherin robes were slightly loose on his shoulders, giving the impression of a boy still teetering between adolescence and adulthood. His dark curls curled just a little at his temples, framing a pale but chiseled face, the hardened set of his jaw that spoke of underlying tensions.
And there were his eyes, too.
Two pupils, two slits of ice. There was no heat in his gaze, just two cold irises that peered at the world through the filter of clouded glass. They looked everywhere: through the fog, past bodies and things. But never at him. Never at James.
It was an intentional absence, a lack that the Gryffindor twisted into insult. And yet, James felt the existence of his gaze vibrating in the space between them.
The boy's chest tightened and his breath caught halfway. And he felt the anger unraveling in him, corroding the walls of his stomach.
It wasn't a new anger, but an old one, an emotion that had crusted over him in every rage Regulus Black had ever caused him, in every tear Sirius had flayed from his face at the mention of his name.
He felt it dilate in his veins, languid, clear. And James had never been good at controlling emotions, any of them. He consumed them with gasps. And when they returned, they returned with a force that would break him.
Sirius had always been similar to him in that. He did the same, but with feelings.
Potter didn't even realize he'd clenched his fists until his knuckles protested, stiff against the cold.
estranging himself from his own persona, he turned, following Sirius toward where the other players were gathering.
The match was about to begin and he knew he should have just left everything behind, concentrated only on what was truly important, but the feeling of the lack of a gaze that had never truly reached him remained there and he did not know how to scratch it away.
Sirius and James leaped from the ground, their brooms an extension of their bodies, and the world beneath them moved away in a breath. The sky was a grey ocean, the clouds thick as stagnant smoke, and the fog curled around the players, a blanket that separated them from every other reality. The air was cold, biting, but James no longer felt it. There was only the sensation of the broom beneath him, that perfect blend of magic, that made him feel both powerful and free, as if he could rule the sky itself.
And yet, the anger continued to haunt him.
James looked at Regulus again, from afar, as Slytherin took their places on the opposite side of the pitch.
Black stood there, stern and unruffled, his posture rigid and that damned air of superiority etched on his face like a seal. James couldn't stand him.
Regulus flew gracefully, his movements delicate and elegant. But he was also stiff, controlled, precise. He gripped his broomstick so tightly that his knuckles were colorless. The silhouette of his Slytherin robes was a stark contrast to the paleness of the morning.
And he was bewitching and terribly impeccable. It made James sick to his stomach.
The sound of the whistle shattered the air, shaking the silence and signaling the start of the match. Potter clutched the broom, biting his cheek, and for a second everything was still. For the time of a moment, everything froze.
Then, there was a sound. It was a reverberation so subtle it was almost untraceable; a delicate, ethereal melody.
The players looked around, confused, searching for the source of the symphony.
James and Sirius, however, did not move. They exchanged a quick glance, and in their eyes a knowing, sparkling light flickered.
The melody grew louder, more defined, more delineated. It was familiar, but at the same time out of place. And then came the moment James had been waiting for so long: Regulus, still firm on his broom, stiffened. His movements suddenly became ambiguous.
The prank had begun.
Regulus' broom was the first to move. He swung back and forth a few times, before settling into the bubbly rhythm of the Nutcracker.
He seemed to have gone haywire, and his usually stoic face twisted into one of pure dismay.
James couldn't help himself. A laugh erupted from the pit of his stomach, hot and uncontrollable, and for a moment he forgot everything else. There was only Regulus Black, twirling on a broomstick on a gloomy November morning.
Sirius followed close behind, his laughter a bark that joined James's. There was a brief a moment where the field was only filled with the echoes of their voices, a counterpoint to the chaos that was unfolding around them.
Slowly, the melody rose, at first as quiet as a whisper, then louder and louder, until it filled the air with its light, sinister notes. It was no longer just Regulus that was moving to the beat, but all the players belonging to Slytherin. An unlikely dance unfolded in the gray sky, their bodies moving ungainly in the blanket of fog, a grotesque and involuntary coordination.
From the front row of the stands, a murmur quickly turned into open, thunderous laughter. Students from all the houses, even some from Slytherin, were pointing to the sky with outstretched fingers, doubling over with laughter.
The teachers, on the other hand, were still. Standing, confused, some with wands already in hand, others with rigid faces, tense in disbelief. No one seemed to know exactly how to intervene. It was playful magic, yes, but it would have taken little for a wizard of that age to lose control of the spell.
James was so pleased. Not so much for the joke itself—as brilliant as it was—but for the look of pure disgust on Regulus's face. Finally, Regulus no longer looked at the world with that bold, unprejudiced look, as if everything was beneath him, as if nothing could truly touch him. Because he was dancing.
And for Potter, this was justice. Because Black no longer acted as if James hadn't found him, only a week ago, hiding in a corner of the tower, his face buried in his hands. He no longer acted as if Potter hadn't heard his muffled sobs, the sound of his tears flowing inexorably.
No. For the first time, Regulus didn't avoid James's gaze. He looked directly into his eyes. Maybe he was furious, James didn't know. But he didn't care. Finally, finally, Regulus looked at him. He held his gaze.
And he thought that was right. Maybe now Regulus would know how he felt, being ignored, having his time go to waste.
And then, it wasn't even that bad of a joke. Sure, it made the Slytherin team look ridiculous, but it was nothing irreparable. They would recover.
James felt like they were on equal terms.
At least until Regulus's broomstick began to move differently.
A sudden leap forward interrupted the elegant rhythm of the melody. Regulus faltered, and his hands gripped his broom tightly. The music continued, steady and lively, but something had changed.
The boy's broom no longer moved in rhythm. Instead, it began to sprint: scraggly, unpredictable, bumping the players beside him and forcing them to move sharply to avoid being hit.
James stopped laughing.
The smile on his face vanished so quickly that even Sirius turned to look at him, confused. James stiffened, the realization welling up in his chest. Because he had felt the magic flowing.
Not the magic of the curse they had devised. That had been calculated, precise, flawless. No, this was different.
It was his.
It was his fucking magic.
James could feel it flowing through his fingers, warm and comforting but also bristly. And he didn't know how to stop it.
«Fuck.» he breathed.
Regulus was struggling to maintain control of the stupid thing, he really was, but the broom was uncoordinated and exuberant.
It moved in fits and starts, rearing up suddenly and forcing him to bend forward, then sliding down with dangerous speed. Not even the teachers' spells were enough. The other players moved away, leaving the boy alone in the chaos, unable to help him.
James felt paralyzed. His eyes wide, his mind racing. He had to do something. He had to stop all of it.
He leaned forward, his hands shaking as he pulled his wand from his back pocket. Perhaps a counter-spell would work. But which one? There was no time to think.
James's heartbeat increased to a pounding pace, and it was the only sound he heard for several devastating moments.
Then it happened.
Regulus lost his grip.
His body tilted backwards, his feet slipping off the broom as his hands flayed in the void, desperate for a handhold that didn't exist. For a moment, the Slytherin seemed suspended in the air, frozen in the putrid wind.
And then he fell.
His body lashed the gray sky, closer and closer to the ground. James held his breath as panic flared in his chest, uncontrollable.
Regulus was falling, and James didn't know if he would’ve been able to stop him.