The night was suffocating, a heavy blanket of darkness pressing down on the halls of Grimmauld Place. Shadows clung to every corner, twisting and creeping like the very secrets that haunted the ancient Black family home. Regulus Black sat in the grand library, his eyes fixated on the flickering candle before him, its light trembling under the weight of the stillness.
He hadn’t slept in days. The sharp lines of exhaustion were etched into his pale face, his usually neat hair disheveled, as though even that had succumbed to the chaos spiraling in his mind. His hands shook as he reached for a worn piece of parchment on the desk, the edges frayed from constant handling.
The note. The one he’d never send.
Every word he had written was seared into his memory, the ink blending with the weight of his sins. He knew he couldn’t send it. Not now. Not ever. Not after what he’d done.
But that didn’t stop him from obsessing over it.
The note wasn’t meant for him—James Potter. His brother’s best friend. The boy who was everything Regulus could never be: brave, loyal, free. It was a desperate confession of a truth that Regulus had kept buried for years. A truth that had poisoned him, twisted his heart into knots.
The truth that he couldn’t stop thinking about James. That every step he took toward Voldemort, every Dark spell he mastered, was tainted by his inability to let go of the boy who had never even looked his way.
You should hate him, Regulus told himself, gripping the edges of the parchment until his knuckles turned white. James was everything he despised. Everything his family had taught him to loathe. A blood traitor. A Gryffindor. A symbol of the light Regulus had abandoned.
But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t stop wanting him.
It was an obsession that clung to his soul like a curse. Every thought, every action, circled back to James. He hated it. Hated how James had become the center of his universe, even as Regulus spiraled deeper into the darkness. He hated how every time he cast the Cruciatus Curse or pledged his loyalty to Voldemort, James’s face would flash in his mind, as if the boy were the one judging him instead of his master.
He hadn’t spoken to James in years. Hadn’t seen him since Sirius had run away from home. But the distance hadn’t dulled the fire. It had only made it worse. Made it sharper, more painful.
And now, the final piece of the puzzle was in place.
Regulus had found the Horcrux.
His hand hovered over the note again, the one he’d written before his mission to the cave. He had planned to destroy the Horcrux, to leave the note for Sirius, but in the quiet hours of the night, Regulus’s mind betrayed him, twisting the name at the top of the letter.
He didn’t want to write to his brother. Not really. The one person he had truly wanted to confess to was James.
James.
It was always James.
The flickering light cast long shadows across the room, and as the silence pressed in on him, Regulus could no longer bear the weight of it. He crushed the note in his hand, his breath coming in ragged gasps. The walls seemed to close in, suffocating him, until all he could see was James’s face. The boy who never knew, who never saw him. The boy who had always been just out of reach.
You’re drowning in this, Regulus, he thought bitterly. And he’ll never even know.
There was no going back. His path was set, and it led to only one place—death. Regulus had accepted that. He had accepted that he would never be free of the Dark Lord’s grasp, that he would die for his mistakes. But the part of him that still ached for James, the part that wanted to be seen, to be understood, couldn’t let go.
A soft knock on the door startled him, pulling him from the suffocating depths of his mind.
“Reg?”
The voice was tentative, familiar in a way that made Regulus’s heart stutter in his chest. He knew that voice. He had heard it a thousand times in his dreams, in his nightmares.
The door creaked open, and there, standing in the dim light of the hallway, was James Potter.
Regulus froze, his breath caught in his throat. It didn’t make sense. James shouldn’t be here. Not in Grimmauld Place. Not in his house. But there he was, tall and gangly, his messy black hair falling into his eyes as he peered into the room with a hesitant frown.
“James?” Regulus whispered, his voice barely audible, as if saying the name would shatter the fragile reality.
James stepped into the room, his gaze locking onto Regulus. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air was thick with tension, the unspoken words hanging between them like a barrier neither could cross.
“I… I don’t know why I came,” James said finally, his voice low, uncertain. “I just… I needed to see you.”
Regulus swallowed hard, his pulse racing. This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. James was just a figment of his imagination, a product of his obsession, his mind cracking under the pressure of the choices he’d made. But it felt real. The weight of James’s presence, the way his eyes softened as they met Regulus’s, felt too real to be a dream.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Regulus whispered, his voice trembling. “You can’t be here.”
James didn’t move. “I know,” he said softly. “But I am.”
Regulus’s heart twisted in his chest. This was a hallucination. It had to be. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care if this was just another cruel trick of his mind. He needed this. He needed James, even if it wasn’t real.
“I’m sorry,” Regulus choked out, the words spilling from him before he could stop them. “I’m so sorry, James. I—”
James took a step forward, his expression unreadable. “For what?”
“For everything,” Regulus whispered, his voice breaking. “For what I’ve done. For who I am.”
James’s brow furrowed, and for a brief moment, Regulus thought he saw a flicker of something—understanding, maybe, or forgiveness.
But it didn’t matter.
Because this wasn’t real.
James wasn’t really here.
Regulus clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms. He wanted to believe, desperately wanted to believe that James had come for him, that he wasn’t alone in this nightmare. But the truth was inescapable.
James Potter would never come for him. Not in the way Regulus needed him to.
The candle flickered, casting James’s face in soft, warm light. Regulus stared at him, drinking in every detail—the curve of his jaw, the way his lips parted slightly as he breathed, the intensity in his gaze. He wanted to reach out, to touch him, to make him real.
But he didn’t.
He couldn’t.
Instead, he whispered, “I’m going to die.”
James’s expression faltered, a shadow of pain crossing his features. “No, Reg,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re not.”
Regulus shook his head, tears blurring his vision. “Yes, I am,” he whispered. “I’ve made my choice.”
For a long, agonizing moment, James didn’t speak. He just stood there, his eyes locked on Regulus’s, as though he were searching for something. And then, in a voice so quiet it was almost lost in the stillness of the room, James said, “I don’t want to lose you.”
The words hit Regulus like a curse, sharp and painful, cutting deep into his soul. It was everything he had ever wanted to hear. Everything he had ever longed for. But it was too late.
Too late for them. Too late for him.
The obsession that had driven Regulus to this point—the all-consuming need for James’s attention, for his approval, for something—had destroyed him. It had hollowed him out, leaving nothing but a shell of the boy he had once been.
And now, at the end of everything, when James finally stood before him, it was too late to save him.
“I’m already gone,” Regulus whispered, his voice cracking under the weight of his confession.
James took another step forward, his hand reaching out, as though he could somehow pull Regulus back from the brink.
But Regulus didn’t move. He couldn’t. All he could do was watch as the one thing he had obsessed over for so long slipped through his fingers like smoke.
The candle flickered again, and in the dim light, James Potter faded into the shadows, leaving Regulus alone once more.
Just as he always had been.
Just as he always would be.
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