Oh. My. God
The pulsating bass of the music filled every corner of the Gryffindor common room, vibrating through the floorboards as laughter, chatter, and the clinking of glasses swirled together in a chaotic symphony. A haze of smoke drifted lazily from the enchanted fireplace, and students filled every available space, dancing, drinking, and throwing caution to the wind. Hogwarts had never seen a party like this—nor would the professors approve if they knew how many contraband Firewhisky bottles were circulating through the crowd.
Regulus Black sat in the corner of the room, nursing a half-empty glass of something he was certain wasn’t pumpkin juice. His elegant features, usually so composed, were softened by the alcohol buzzing through his veins. He wasn’t even sure why he was there. He didn’t do Gryffindor parties. Hell, he didn’t do parties at all. But something—maybe a masochistic curiosity, maybe boredom—had drawn him in.
"Regulus Black, in Gryffindor territory?" a familiar voice teased.
Regulus looked up, bleary-eyed, to see James Potter swaying slightly with a grin that could only be described as infectious.
"Bugger off, Potter," Regulus muttered, though there was no heat in his voice. He tilted his glass back, finishing the contents in one gulp, feeling the warmth seep through him.
James didn’t leave, of course. Instead, he slid into the seat next to Regulus with surprising grace for someone so clearly inebriated.
“Where’s Sirius?” James asked, looking around.
Regulus shrugged. “and why the fuck would I know potter? probably off snogging lupin somewhere”
“oh. um okay.” James raised his eyebrows, as if that explained everything. “Well, you can’t just sit here all night being all broody and mysterious. You’re a Black—you’re supposed to be the life of the party.”
Regulus snorted. “I think you’re confusing me with my brother.”
James waved a hand. “Semantics. Anyway, drink up.” He handed Regulus another glass, filled to the brim with some kind of amber liquid. “It’s a celebration!”
“For what?” Regulus asked, suspicious but already sipping at the drink.
James grinned. “For being young and stupid.” and James walked away with a wink.
Regulus couldn’t argue with that logic. He was feeling younger and stupider by the second as the alcohol burned down his throat and spread warmth through his limbs.Regulus fucking hated not being in full control of his extremities. The room spun, and somewhere, the beat of the music seemed to sync with the pounding in his head.
And approximately 20 minutes later there was a shift. A presence, a magnetic pull that made Regulus sit up straighter, his eyes darting through the crowd.
There.
On the opposite side of the room singing his heart out to ABBA , slightly out of place amidst the revelry, stood none other than him—the bane of Regulus’ existence and the only person in this cursed castle who could make his stomach twist in ways he refused to acknowledge.
Remus Lupin’s best mate.
Sirius’ obnoxiously handsome dormmate.
The golden boy who always seemed to have a hair out of place, even when he clearly shouldnt have knowing his own father owns Sleakeazy.
Regulus’ eyes locked with those of none other than him.
Bloody hell, James Potter.
Potter was laughing at something Sirius said, his head thrown back, messy hair even messier than usual, but when he turned, his gaze met Regulus’, and for a moment, the noise of the party seemed to fade into the background.
Regulus swallowed. He should look away. He should stand up and leave. He should—
Potter was suddenly beside him again, this time close enough for Regulus to feel the heat radiating off him.
“You look like you could use another drink,” Potter said, leaning closer, his breath warm against Regulus’ ear.
“I think I’ve had enough,” Regulus mumbled, though he didn’t move away.
“Nonsense,” Potter slurred, pressing the drink into Regulus’ hand. “It’s a party, Reg.”
The nickname startled Regulus. Reg. Potter had never called him that before. Hell, nobody called him that except Sirius, and only when they were kids.
Before Regulus could protest, Potter clinked their glasses together and took a long, unsteady sip. Regulus, not wanting to back down, followed suit. The alcohol hit him harder this time, and he blinked, trying to steady himself.
Somewhere in the swirling chaos of the party, they found themselves standing too close. Regulus wasn’t sure when the transition had happened, but Potter’s arm was around his shoulders, and Regulus’ hand was somehow resting on Potter’s waist.
“You’re not so bad, you know,” Potter said, his voice low, almost thoughtful. “Sirius is always complaining about how much of a prick you are, but I think you’re just... misunderstood.”
Regulus snorted. “Misunderstood? I’m a prick, Potter. Don’t let the alcohol fool you.”
Potter chuckled, and his fingers brushed against Regulus’ neck, sending a shiver down his spine. “Yeah, maybe. But I’m kind of into that.” And oh. it hit him, hit him hard James potter might actually be into him after Regulus being irrecoverably in love with James Potter and his stupid face since the day he saw him on that train at 11 years old though he hates to admit it scratch that even think about it.
Regulus’ heart skipped a beat. He wasn’t sure if it was the alcohol talking or if Potter had just crossed some unspoken line, but the air between them was suddenly charged in a way that felt dangerous. Reckless.
And Regulus was nothing if not reckless when he drank.
Potter’s face was closer now, close enough that Regulus could see the way his hazel eyes gleamed in the low light. Close enough that he could smell the mix of Firewhisky and whatever cologne Potter always seemed to wear. It was intoxicating.
Before he knew what he was doing, Regulus leaned in, just slightly, just enough to brush his lips against Potter’s.
Potter froze for a moment, and Regulus’ stomach dropped in the split second it took for him to process what he’d done.
But then Potter kissed him back. Hard.
It was messy, frantic, a clash of teeth and tongues as Potter’s hands gripped Regulus’ shirt, pulling him closer. The party around them blurred into nothingness. It was just them, just this stupid, impulsive, reckless decision that neither of them seemed capable of stopping.
Regulus wasn’t even sure how they made it out of the common room, stumbling through corridors and nearly tripping over themselves in their haste. But then there was a door, a bed, and hands, so many hands, roaming and pulling and—
Everything was a blur. A hot, dizzying blur of lips and skin and breathless gasps.
It wasn’t until the early hours of the morning, when the haze of alcohol began to lift, that Regulus realized what had happened.
He was tangled in his sheets,wait- not HIS sheets JAMES BLOODY POTTERS SHEETS. his head pounding, his body sore, and Potter—James Potter—was lying next to him, still fast asleep, one arm draped lazily across Regulus’ chest.
Oh.My. God.
This was not how he’d expected the night to go.
Regulus stared at the ceiling, his heart pounding, a thousand thoughts racing through his mind. How the hell had this happened? More importantly, how the hell was he going to explain this to anyone?
His eyes flickered to Potter, whose face was soft and peaceful in sleep, and for a moment, Regulus let himself relax. Just for a moment.
But only a moment.
Because when Potter woke up, there would be no more pretending. No more heat of the moment, no more excuses. And Regulus wasn’t sure he was ready to deal with that.
With a sigh, he closed his eyes, hoping sleep would take him before the weight of reality came crashing down