Chapter 2
The letter arrives like a whisper through the thick air of Grimmauld Place, soft but heavy, full of promises Regulus can’t quite understand.
He holds it in his hands, the Hogwarts crest gleaming in the dim light, and his name etched on the front in elegant script.
Regulus Arcturus Black. The perfect son. The one who stayed.
The house is quiet, save for the low ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall—counting down the minutes, the hours, the years.
Every second like a drop of water falling into the dark, rippling outward, deeper and deeper.
He traces the edge of the envelope, feeling the weight of it in his fingers, but it’s the weight in his chest that is heavier, thicker.
Something he can never shake.
He opens the letter, slowly, like peeling back the layers of something fragile.
The parchment rustles like old leaves as he pulls it out and reads the words in neat, looping handwriting.
Dear Mr. Black,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been appointed Prefect for Slytherin House for the upcoming school year…
He stops reading. There’s no need to go on.
The words hang in the air like shadows, like expectations he’s always known would come.
He is a Black. This is what is expected of him. Greatness.
It should feel like something—pride, perhaps, or satisfaction—but all he feels is the familiar sinking weight.
A slow descent.
He glances toward the window, where the curtains are drawn, sealing the world outside away from him. The room is dim, the light fading as dusk settles over the house, but he doesn’t move to open them. The darkness is comfortable. Familiar.
Beneath the letter for prefect, another piece of parchment slips free. Smaller. He unfolds it and reads:
Dear Regulus,
Congratulations on being appointed Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team. Your performance last year was outstanding, and we are confident you will lead the team to victory this season…
He stops again, staring at the words without really seeing them.
Quidditch Captain.
A title that should feel like something important, like something bright, but it feels distant. Hollow. Like an echo of someone he’s supposed to be but can’t find within himself.
He thinks of the pitch at Hogwarts—wide and open, the wind in his hair, the sky stretching endlessly above. And yet, even there, the weight doesn’t lift.
He’s always being pulled down, deeper into something he doesn’t understand, like a hand gripping his ankle, dragging him into the dark waters beneath.
He set the letters down on the desk, the crisp parchment curling slightly at the edges, and leans back in his chair.
The room is quiet, too quiet, and the silence presses in, thick like fog, like something suffocating.
This house is a tomb, and he wonders if he is already buried within it.
Sirius used to say the same thing, before he left.
But he left, and Regulus stayed. Because someone had to.
Someone had to carry the weight of the name, of the expectations. Someone had to be perfect.
But sometimes, when the darkness settles over the house like this, he wonders if staying was the greater cowardice.
If he is sinking, slowly, while Sirius burns bright somewhere else, untethered by the things that drag Regulus under.
Kreacher shuffles into the room, his small figure almost swallowed by the shadows that stretch across the floor. He bows low, his voice a raspy whisper. “Master Regulus. The Mistress wishes to speak with you.”
He nods but doesn’t move right away. Kreacher waits, his eyes wide and filled with that same strange loyalty Regulus has known his whole life.
Kreacher would die for Regulus, for his family.
And for a moment, the thought of that—the weight of it—feels like the final stone that will sink him entirely.
“I’ll be there soon,” He says softly, and Kreacher leaves without a word, his footsteps fading into the silence.
The room is darker now. The sun has set completely, and the only light comes from the faint glow of the lamps in the hallway.
But he doesn’t reach for the candle on his desk. He lets the darkness settle over him like a shroud, like the cold embrace of the lake at midnight.
He closes his eyes and sees water.
Always water, stretching endlessly beneath him, black and still.
It calls to him, whispers his name in the voice of his ancestors, in the cold, indifferent voice of a legacy he never chose.
The water is always there, waiting. Beneath the surface, something stirs. He feels it in his bones, in the marrow of who he is.
Something dark, deep, pulling him down, and he wonders when he will finally give in to it.
When he opens his eyes, the room is the same, but he is different.
Something inside him has shifted, like the turning of the tide.
Tomorrow, he will return to Hogwarts. He will wear the prefect badge and lead the Quidditch team, and he will be the Regulus Arcturus Black that everyone expects him to be.
Perfect.
Just as he has always been.
But the weight doesn’t lift. It never lifts.
He is drowning, slowly, quietly, beneath the surface of something no one else can see.
And no one will ever know.
Because he stayed. And staying means burying the parts of yourself that don’t fit, the parts that long for something else, something more.
He buries them deep, beneath the weight of the Black name, beneath the cold waters of duty, and he knows that one day—one day soon—there will be nothing left of him but the darkness.
He turns back to the letters on the desk, his fingers brushing the edges of the parchment, but they feel distant now, like they belong to someone else. Someone stronger. Someone brighter.
Tomorrow, he will go back to Hogwarts, and he will be perfect.
But tonight, he sits in the silence, in the darkness, letting the weight of his fate settle over him like water, until there is nothing left to bury.
The sun is spilling across the fields behind James’ house, turning everything gold.
The last day of summer, and it feels like the world is alive—buzzing, shimmering, full of this bright, endless light.
He stands on the back porch, his arms stretched wide, letting the warmth settle into his skin, like he’s soaking up every bit of it before tomorrow comes.
Hogwarts calls again. His sixth year.
He can already feel the excitement stirring in his chest, a pulse of energy just waiting to burst out.
He loves that place. Every inch of it.
The castle, the Quidditch pitch, the common room—his second home.
But there’s something about today, this last day at home, that feels a little different.
Like the air is sweeter, the light a little brighter. He breathes it in, deep, and holds it there.
His mum’s inside, calling him to finish packing, but there’s time. There’s always time to soak up a little more sunlight.
Sirius is inside, too, probably pretending he’s not anxious to leave. It’s his first full summer here, and James can tell he’s been restless, like part of him still doesn’t believe he’s allowed to stay.
But this house—the Potter house—welcomes everyone. They’ve got room. They’ve got love.
More than enough of both to fill every corner, and Sirius fits right in, like he was always supposed to be there.
James smiles at the thought of him, lounging in the kitchen, laughing at something his dad said. The warmth between them is easy now, like Sirius has been part of the family his whole life.
That’s what James loves about this house—how love is as natural as breathing, something they just do, without thinking.
There are no shadows there, no secrets. Everything’s light.
He walks down to the garden, letting his fingers trail through the tall grass.
The breeze is soft, carrying the scent of summer and something like freedom. He closes his eyes, face tilted to the sky, and for a moment, it feels like he could fly.
Like the world is free, and he could just step off the ground and disappear into the sun.
The day before Hogwarts always feels like this—brimming with something bigger than he can hold, something wild and free.
It’s the thrill of what’s to come, the promise of another year, full of all the things he loves: his friends, the rush of Quidditch, the sound of laughter echoing in the common room at night.
He can already see them, Sirius and himself, running through the castle, Marauder's Map in hand, causing mayhem with Remus and Peter, laughing so hard they can barely breathe.
That’s what Hogwarts is—laughter. Light. Life.
And love, too. The kind that sticks with you, that fills you up and makes you feel like you can take on the world.
Because James knows he’s lucky. He’s always known it.
To be raised in a home that never closed its doors, where love spills out from every room, catching you when you fall, holding you up when you feel like sinking.
He wishes he could give that to everyone.
Maybe that’s why he loves so hard, why he loves so openly.
Because if you’ve got love, why wouldn’t you share it?
He’s halfway across the field now, the wind in his hair, when he hears Sirius calling.
He turns to see him standing at the edge of the porch, hands in his pockets, pretending not to care that tomorrow’s so close he can taste it.
“Oi, Prongs!” he shouts, grinning like the devil. “You going to stand out there all day looking dreamy, or are you going to help me sort through these school robes?”
James laughs, a wide, open sound, and waves him off. “You’re the one who mixed all your stuff with mine. Don’t blame me if half your socks go missing by tomorrow!”
“Trust you to hide my socks,” he calls back, but there’s no bite in his words, just the easy banter that’s become second nature between them.
James jogs back toward the house, and Sirius claps him on the back as he passes him.
There’s something in his eyes—a softness, a quiet kind of gratitude—that he doesn’t say aloud, but James can feel it. He always feels it.
He drags him into the house, his arm slung over his shoulders, and it’s like the light follows them in.
Inside, the house smells of fresh bread and something sweet baking in the oven. Euphemia is humming in the kitchen, her apron dusted with flour, and James swears the sound of her voice fills the entire space with golden daylight. She looks up as they walk in, her eyes bright as she takes them both in.
“You boys finished with packing yet?” she asks, knowing full well they haven’t even started.
“Of course, Mrs. Potter,” Sirius answers smoothly, always quick with the charm. “James has been terribly diligent. I’ve done nothing but admire his work.”
Euphemia just laughs, a warm, easy sound, and shakes her head. “Well, there’s some pie in the oven for later, but if you two don’t get a move on, I’m not letting you have any.”
Sirius and James share a glance, and in that moment, everything feels right.
Light. Laughter. Love.
It’s all he’s ever known, all he needs, and it’s enough.
More than enough.
As the two head upstairs to finish packing, James pauses for a moment at the top of the stairs, looking down at the house below.
The sunlight is still spilling through the windows, casting long, golden shadows across the floor.
This house—this life—it’s like standing in the heart of a flame, warm and bright, burning with everything good and right in the world.
And it’s that warmth he wants to carry with him, back to Hogwarts, back to the people he loves.
Because that’s what makes the world turn, isn’t it? Love.
The kind that spills out without warning, like sunlight bursting through the clouds, bright and uncontainable.
He’s always believed that.
You give your heart freely, and the world gives something back. He wants to live that way, with his heart wide open, with light pouring out of every corner of who he is.
Tomorrow, he’ll be back at Hogwarts, and he’ll carry this light with him.
Into the castle, onto the Quidditch pitch, into every laugh and every reckless adventure they’ll have.
There’s a whole year waiting for him, full of life.
And he’ll live it loud.
The way he always does.
The darkness is thick tonight. It presses down on Regulus like the weight of water, filling the room, filling his lungs, until it feels like he’s sinking, deeper and deeper into something he can’t escape.
He lies in bed, staring up at the ceiling, watching the shadows stretch across the walls. It feels like a burial, though he’s not sure what’s being buried—his thoughts, perhaps. His fears.
Maybe it’s him.
He hasn’t slept. He doesn’t think he will.
There’s something about the night before the start of a new year at Hogwarts that makes everything sharper, more restless.
He used to feel excited for it—the chance to prove himself, to wear the Black name with pride—but now, lying there, with nothing but the sound of his own breath and the slow ticking of the clock, he feels something else.
Dread, maybe. Or something deeper.
The silence hums around him, and his thoughts are loud, too loud, like they’re rising to the surface all at once, crashing together, pulling him under. They circle the same thing, always the same question, one he’s tried to bury so many times but that always resurfaces when the night is this quiet.
Can he love at all?
It’s a strange thing to worry about, isn’t it? He’s never said it out loud, never dared to, but he feels it in his chest, this hollow space where love is supposed to be.
It’s like he’s always waiting for it to fill, waiting for that warmth everyone talks about—love like a fire, love like light.
But it never comes.
Sometimes he wonders if he’s too much like this house—cold, closed off, wrapped in shadows too thick to let any light in. Grimmauld Place feels like a tomb, and he wonders if, in staying, he’s let it bury him, too. If he’s let it smother whatever part of him was supposed to know how to love.
Sirius left. He ran, full of fire and rebellion, chasing something brighter, something warmer. He always knew how to love fiercely, loudly. Regulus used to envy that.
How easily he could laugh, how easily he could feel things. He never had to bury himself the way Regulus does. He never had to lock parts of himself away just to survive.
But Regulus? He stayed. He stayed, and in staying, he learnt how to close things off. How to bury what he couldn’t afford to feel.
Maybe that’s why love feels like something distant, something he can never quite touch. It’s like standing on the edge of a cliff, looking down into the deep black water below, and knowing—knowing—you’ll never reach the surface again if you jump.
He turns onto his side, staring out at the window. The curtains are drawn, but he can still see the faint outline of the moon, its cold light slipping through the cracks. It feels far away, too. Just another distant thing, too high to reach.
He wonders if that’s what love is for him—something he can see, something he can understand in theory, but never feel in his bones. Like the moonlight, beautiful and cold, but always out of reach.
The silence presses down harder now, and he lets his thoughts drift, pulled by the current of them, by the weight of this fear he never said aloud.
What if I’m not capable of love?
It’s a whisper in the back of his mind, quiet but persistent.
What if all the things they say about them—about the Blacks, about his family—are true?
What if he is nothing but shadows and cold blood? He wonders if love is something you’re supposed to be born with, something that runs through your veins the way it seems to for everyone else.
But when he thinks about his parents, about his mother’s sharp eyes and his father’s silence, he realizes he doesn’t know what love looks like. Not really. Not in this house.
He closes his eyes, trying to shake the thought, but it clings to him like a chill he can’t get rid of. He’s heard people talk about love—how it’s supposed to feel like warmth, like sunlight breaking through the clouds.
But for Regulus, love feels more like water.
Dark, deep, something to drown in. He thinks about it sometimes, when the night is this quiet. How it would feel to fall in, to let it swallow him whole.
Would I even fight it?
He’s heard them—the others at school, laughing in the corridors, talking about crushes, about love like it’s this easy, natural thing. And he’s watched, from a distance, trying to understand what it is that makes them feel so alive, so connected to each other.
But every time he reaches for it—reaches for that warmth—it slips through his fingers, and he’s left with nothing but the cold weight of expectation, of duty.
He knows what’s expected of him. He knows what it means to be a Black, and love has nothing to do with it.
He’s supposed to be perfect. A perfect son, a perfect Slytherin, a perfect heir.
Love doesn’t fit into that. Love, if it exists at all, is something you bury deep, something you keep hidden, because showing it is a weakness, and weakness is something he can never afford.
He lies there, the silence stretching, the darkness pulling at the edges of his mind, and wonders if that’s all he’ll ever be—someone who stays.
Someone who buries everything. Maybe he’s buried so much of himself already that there’s nothing left to give.
He thinks about Hogwarts tomorrow. About the faces he’ll see, the roles he’ll play. Prefect. Quidditch Captain. He’ll wear the mask they expect. He’ll be perfect, just like he’s supposed to be.
No one will know about the hollow space inside of him, the one where love should be.
But as he stares into the darkness, into the thick, quiet silence, he can’t help but wonder if this is how it will always be for him—sinking, slowly, quietly, into something cold, something deep, until one day he won’t be able to reach the surface at all.
He closes his eyes and lets the darkness settle over him.
Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe love isn’t something he’s supposed to have. Maybe it’s something he’ll never understand, something he’ll never feel.
And maybe that’s what it means to be a Black.
Because when most people fear love, they have this anxiety that they are incapable of being loved.
Regulus has the opposite.
He doesn’t think he is capable of loving.
James Potter wants to be loved more than he wants to be alive.
James has so much love to give. He is practically full of it. From his head to his feet.
The night is too quiet. It wraps around him like a thick, heavy blanket, pressing in from all sides, and the darkness in his room feels too big, too empty, for sleep to find him.
He lies on his back, staring up at the ceiling, but the only thing he can hear is the steady thud of his heart, beating too fast for this late hour.
Tomorrow, he’ll be on the train back to Hogwarts—his sixth year—but tonight, all he can think about is love.
Why does it feel so far away?
It’s strange. For as long as he can remember, he’s had this heart that loves too much, too easily. It’s like he’s made for it, like it’s the only thing that makes sense. He loves openly, the way his parents taught him, the way the light fills his house without needing permission.
He loves his friends like brothers, loves laughter like it’s a second language, loves the rush of life like it’s something too sweet to let slip by.
But…
Why does it feel like no one will ever love me back the same way?
He closes his eyes, trying to shake the thought, but it’s there, pulsing behind his eyelids like something he can’t bury. He’s never been able to bury things like that.
He’s always too open, too loud, too alive. And maybe that’s the problem. Maybe he loves too loudly, wants too much, needs too much. Maybe that’s why it feels like love is always just out of reach, like no matter how much he gives, there’s something holding it back from coming full circle.
He rolls over, staring out the window. The moon hangs low in the sky, its light soft and distant, just like everything else. It’s strange how something so far away can look so bright, so warm, and still feel cold when you reach for it.
He wonders if that’s what love is for him—something he’ll always reach for, always want, but never really hold.
He thinks about Lily.
He thinks about her more than he should, really. He thinks about the way she moves, the way her laughter is like sunlight breaking through a cloudy day. He thinks about how, when she walks into a room, it feels like the world shifts just a little, like everything is brighter for a moment, even if she’s not looking at him.
But she never does look at him. Not really. Not the way he wants her to.
He knows what people think. They think he’s cocky, that he’s got everything figured out. That love is something he takes for granted, something he doesn’t even have to think about.
But they don’t know. They don’t know that every time he sees her, his heart feels too big for his chest, that he’s so scared it’ll burst and no one will be there to catch it.
They don’t know that every joke, every stupid thing he does is just a way to keep the fear at bay. Because the truth is, he wants to be loved more than he wants to be anything.
What does that even mean?
It’s stupid, isn’t it? The way he’s lying there, staring out at the moon, wondering if there’s someone out there who’ll ever love him back the way he needs them to.
But it feels like his heart is too wide open, like it’s stretched out across the stars, waiting for someone to fill it. And every time he thinks he’s getting close, every time he thinks this will be the time someone really sees me, it slips away, like sand through his fingers.
He doesn’t know why he cares so much. He’s got everything, doesn’t he?
Friends who’d die for him, parents who love him with the kind of love that wraps around you like the sun on your face after a long winter. He’s captain of the Quidditch team, he’s doing well in school, he’s got his whole future ahead of him. But it’s not enough.
Why isn’t it enough?
There’s this ache inside of him, deep and gnawing, like no matter how much he’s given, there’s something missing.
He wants to be loved. Really loved. He wants someone to look at him and see all of him—not just the jokes, not just the Quidditch star or the boy who can’t stop messing up his hair, but him. All the parts of him. The parts that aren’t always sure, the parts that lie awake at night and wonder if anyone will ever really know him.
Because he’d give everything for it. All of him. He’d give every piece of his heart if he knew someone would hold it the way he needs them to. He doesn’t know how to do anything less.
He doesn’t know how to love halfway. It’s always been all or nothing with James, and he’s scared—scared that he’ll spend my whole life loving like this, with his heart wide open, and no one will ever catch it.
The thought gnaws at him, tugging at the edges of his mind, and he rolls over again, staring at the ceiling this time. The moonlight filters in, casting long shadows across the room, but it doesn’t feel cold tonight. It feels like a promise, maybe. Like there’s something waiting out there, something just beyond the reach of this moment.
He wants to believe it. He wants to believe that someday, someone will see him and think he’s worth the risk. Worth the mess.
Because that’s what love is, isn’t it? It’s messy and loud and alive. It’s the thing that makes your heart beat faster, the thing that makes you feel like you’re part of something bigger, like the world is brighter just because they’re in it.
He wants that.
Wants someone to look at him the way he looks at the world—with a smile that says I see you, and you’re enough. He wants to be loved like that. And he doesn’t think he can stop wanting it, even if it means he’ll keep lying here, sleepless and aching, until it finally comes.
He knows how lucky he is, how much he’s been given. But still, his heart beats fast, too fast, like it’s trying to tell him something he can’t quite understand. He doesn’t know how to quiet it. He doesn’t think he wants to.
One day, someone will look at him and see the light he’s trying so hard to give, and they’ll give it back. Just as bright. Just as full.
But for now, he lies awake, the night pressing in, and waits for the morning light to come.