Chapter 3
Sometimes, James wonders when exactly it happened.
What was the moment that Sirius became more of a brother than a stranger?
The platform at King's Cross is buzzing with life, alive with the rush of voices and the clatter of luggage, the warmth of September sun spilling through the clouds in golden streaks.
There’s energy in the air, the kind that hums just beneath the surface, like the whole world is holding its breath. It always feels like that, just before they leave for Hogwarts—like something big is about to begin, and they’re standing on the edge of it, about to dive in.
But this year, it feels different. They’re different.
James stands there, next to Sirius, their trunks piled high on the trolley, and watches as his parents say goodbye. Euphemia is already fussing over his hair, pushing it back like it’ll ever stay down, and Fleamont’s pretending not to get misty-eyed. They’re always like this, bursting with love, like they can’t help themselves. And he’s glad for it, really. It’s what makes home home—that warmth, that light, the kind of love that wraps around you without asking for anything in return.
Sirius watches them, too, a soft, crooked smile on his face, like he’s trying to hold back whatever’s swirling inside him. James knows what he’s feeling, even though he doesn’t say it. He’s been with them for a few months now, but every time he sees Euphemia and Fleamont together, James can see the flicker of something in his eyes—like he’s still getting used to it, like part of him doesn’t quite believe it’s real.
James thinks about it sometimes—about the moment when Sirius stopped being just his best mate and became something more, something deeper.
It’s strange, really. He can’t pinpoint exactly when it happened.
Maybe it wasn’t a moment at all. Maybe it was a hundred little moments strung together, like stars in the sky, slowly forming a constellation that he didn’t see until it was already there.
When did he become my brother?
It’s a question he keeps turning over in his head, even now, as his mum pulls Sirius into a hug, her arms tight around him like she never wants to let go. And Sirius, he melts into it, the way you do when you’ve been starved for something your whole life and didn’t know it until you had it.
James thinks back to when he first showed up on their doorstep—fuming, his hair wild, his eyes flashing with something fierce and broken all at once. James didn’t ask why he left. He didn’t need to. The Black family had always been a storm at his back, and he knew, deep down, that he’d run because it was the only way he could breathe.
But he remembers the way Sirius looked at his parents that first night, the way he sat at their table, his shoulders hunched, like he was waiting for something to go wrong. And he remembers his mum just laughing, bright and open, like there was nothing strange about him being there, like he had always belonged.
And maybe that’s when it started. Maybe it was that first night, watching him with them, realizing that he fit with the family—like a puzzle piece he didn’t know they’d been missing.
Sirius is laughing now, grinning wide as Euphemia tells him to please, for Merlin’s sake, behave, and Fleamont claps him on the back, pretending to be stern. And there it is again, that warmth, that easy, natural love that flows from them without effort.
James sees it in the way they touch his arm, the way they look at him—not like he’s a guest, not like he’s temporary, but like he’s theirs. Like he’s always been theirs.
James thinks that’s what love is, in the end. It’s not something you see all at once. It’s something you grow into, something that fills the spaces you didn’t know were empty. And that’s what Sirius did. He filled the spaces in his life, in his heart, until he couldn’t imagine it without him.
Until calling him his brother felt like the most natural thing in the world.
He glances at him now, standing next to him, the light catching in his dark hair, the grin still playing on his lips, and James realizes it’s not a question of when he started seeing him as his brother.
It’s that he’s always been that. It just took him a while to notice.
They’ve been through too much together to be anything less. All the late-night talks in the common room, the pranks, the Quidditch games, the times they’ve stood shoulder to shoulder, ready to take on whatever came their way.
Sirius was always there, at the centre of it, his fire feeding James’, his laughter keeping them going even when things were dark.
He thinks about the nights when they were younger, lying in their beds at school, the room filled with the quiet of everyone else’s breathing. Sirius would say something ridiculous, and James would laugh too loud, and somehow the night wouldn’t feel so long, the darkness wouldn’t feel so heavy. That’s what Sirius does. He’s the fire that keeps the cold at bay. He’s the one who makes everything feel brighter.
And James loves him for it. He doesn’t know how not to.
The whistle of the train pierces the air, and Euphemia is hugging James now, pulling him close. He feels her warmth, the way her love pours out of her without hesitation, without condition.
She pulls Sirius in again, too, and this time he doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t flinch. He leans into it, lets himself be held. And James sees the way his eyes soften, just for a second, the way his smile falters like he’s letting himself believe—really believe—that he’s safe here, that he’s home.
They say their goodbyes, the kind that are full of promises and warmth, the kind that make you feel like no matter where you go, you’ll always have a place to come back to.
As they step onto the train, he can feel it—the lightness in his chest, the way his heart feels like it’s carrying too much, but in the best way. He glances at Sirius, and they catch eyes, raising an eyebrow like he knows exactly what James is thinking.
And maybe he does. Maybe he’s always known.
They find their seats, and the train lurches forward, pulling away from the platform. He watches the station shrink, his parents waving from the distance, and something settles in him, something warm and steady, like sunlight spilling through the cracks.
Sirius nudges him with his shoulder, his grin wide, and James can’t help but laugh.
When did I start seeing him as my brother?
Maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe love doesn’t need a moment. Maybe it’s just there, filling the spaces between us, lighting the way forward. Because that’s what love does, right? It grows without asking, without forcing itself into the light. It just is.
And James knows, as he sits there, the train rumbling beneath them, that wherever they go—whatever happens next—Sirius will always be his brother.
Always.
Sometimes, Regulus wonders when exactly it happened.
What was the moment that Sirius became more of a stranger than a brother?
It wasn’t the day he ran away. It was much earlier than that.
No, he thinks it might have been the day Sirius left to go to Hogwarts for the first time.
They were never the same after that.
Regulus spent years watching his brother slip out of his fingers.
Perhaps Sirius leaving for Hogwarts might have been the first crack in the structure of their relationship, but it most certainly wasn’t the last.
The second crack might have been Regulus getting sorted into Slytherin. He still thinks about the disappointment on his brother’s face when he closes his eyes. He had never felt so ashamed of himself.
After that, it must have been the occasional checking up on each other in the hallways. The subtle nods, the silent questions with no real intentions behind them.
It was a pride thing.
Sirius? He always swallowed his. The ever-cocky Sirius Black was always the first one to speak. The first one to initiate the conversation.
Regulus? He drowned in his. Drowned in his one-word answers and the disgust painted on his face.
How are you?
Fine.
But Sirius didn’t ask because he cared. They were following a dance, steps they both knew the choreography to. In following their usual strides, they both ignored the reality of their situation.
They were not who they once were. They will never be that version again.
At some point, Sirius stopped asking altogether.
The more Regulus thinks about it, the more he realises it wasn’t one singular moment that Sirius stopped being his brother. It was a process.
A tragic realisation that he had been holding onto a childhood that Sirius had long forgotten.
Once brothers, now memories.
Gone. Ghosts. Regret.
Regret because if Sirius asked Regulus now, he would answer.
He’s not sure he’ll have that opportunity ever again.
The train hums beneath him, the steady rhythm of the rails like a heartbeat he can’t quite find in himself. Outside the window, the world blurs into shades of grey and green—fields stretching into a sky too dull to be hopeful, too soft to be threatening.
The clouds hang low, heavy, like they’re holding back something inevitable. He leans his forehead against the cool glass, the condensation fogging under his breath, and lets the familiar weight settle into his chest. The weight of what’s expected. The weight of what’s coming.
He hasn’t seen them yet—Evan and Barty. They always come to find him on the train, slipping into his compartment like shadows, always sure of their place. And for a moment, he thinks about what it would be like to sit there alone. To let the silence wrap itself around him like it does at Grimmauld Place, the quiet too thick, too cold. But he knows they’ll come. They always do.
Evan is his best friend—if he can even call it that. He doesn’t know if he believes in friendship the way others do. There’s a part of him that’s always holding something back, like a piece of himself he can’t give away, no matter how much he wants to.
But Evan… he’s different. He’s always been there, always been something solid in a world that feels like it’s constantly shifting beneath his feet. Regulus trusts him. More than he trusts anyone else, even if he could never say it.
Maybe that’s why he’s buried the way he feels about him.
The door slides open, and they walk in, just like Regulus knew they would. Evan first, his smile crooked, his hair tousled in that effortless way that always makes him seem like he’s just stepped out of something better. And behind him, Barty, with his sharp grin and sharper eyes, already laughing at some joke that only he and Evan seem to understand. They’re together, the way they always are, and there’s something in that closeness that stirs something deep in Regulus. Something dark and quiet.
“Regulus,” Evan says, dropping into the seat across from him, stretching his arms out like he’s claiming the whole compartment. He always does that, taking up space in a way Regulus never can. “You look like you’ve been contemplating the meaning of life.”
Barty snickers as he slides in beside Evan, his hand brushing Evan’s in that way they think no one notices. They’re subtle, careful, but Regulus can see it. He always sees it.
“Or death,” Barty adds, his eyes gleaming with something playful, something dangerous. “Knowing you, Black, you’ve probably got some great existential crisis brewing already.”
He shrugs, forcing a smile he doesn’t really feel. “Maybe. Or maybe I’m just tired of listening to the train.”
Evan laughs, that easy sound that makes everything feel lighter, even if only for a moment. “Same old Regulus,” he says, but there’s warmth in his voice, a warmth the boy clings to even though he knows it’s not meant for him alone.
They settle in, the conversation flowing between them like water, pulling Regulus along with it. But he feels distant from them, like he’s watching from behind glass, unable to reach through. They talk about the summer, about the parties they went to, the people they saw.
Barty is animated, his hands moving as he speaks, his grin wide and sharp. Evan leans into him, laughing at something Regulus doesn’t catch, and he can’t help but notice the way their shoulders touch, the way their fingers brush together, even in the smallest of movements.
He looks away, his eyes drifting back to the window. The landscape is darker now, the clouds growing heavier, like they’re about to break open and spill everything they’ve been holding back.
When did I start feeling like this?
It’s a question he never lets himself ask. Not really. Because admitting it—admitting that he feels anything at all—is a weakness he can’t afford. Not now. Not ever. But it’s there, buried deep, just beneath the surface, like something waiting to be drowned.
He’s been taught to bury things like this. Feelings. Love. Anything that makes you vulnerable. His mother’s voice echoes in the back of his mind, sharp and cold: You are a Black. We do not show our weaknesses. We do not let the world see what we are afraid to lose.
And so, he buries it. He buries the way he looks at the two when they aren't watching. He buries the way his heart twists when he sees them, so close, so comfortable. He buries the way he feels too much and not enough all at once, like there’s something broken in him, something that doesn’t know how to love the way other people do.
They’re still talking, laughing, but Regulus feels like he’s somewhere else entirely, sinking into that familiar darkness that always waits for him. It’s always there, just beneath the surface.
Evan’s voice cuts through his thoughts, sharp and clear. “You’re quiet today, Regulus. More than usual.”
He glances at him, trying to hide the heaviness in his chest, the way it pulls him under. “Just thinking,” he says, his voice steady, even though everything inside of him feels like it’s slipping away.
Barty raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “About what?”
Boys, Regulus thinks. But he doesn’t say it. He never says it.
“Nothing important,” He replies instead, his voice hollow even to his own ears.
Barty rolls his eyes, grinning. “Nothing important. Right. This is Regulus Black we’re talking about—he’s always thinking about something important. Probably planning his next move in the grand scheme of things.”
They laugh, but Regulus doesn’t. My mind drifts, pulled down into that familiar place where everything is quiet, where everything is dark and heavy. Like water. Like the weight of the Black name. Like the fate that waits for him.
I wonder if I’ll ever learn to love like they do.
Evan and Barty—they love so easily, so openly, even if they don’t show it in front of everyone. He sees it, though. He sees the way Barty’s fingers linger on Evan’s arm, the way Evan looks at him when he thinks no one is watching. There’s something warm in it, something alive. And Regulus wonders if that’s what he’s missing. If he’ll ever feel that way. If he’s even capable of it.
The train speeds on, the world outside growing darker, the clouds thicker. He feels the pull of it—the way the darkness calls to him, the way it always does. He knows what’s waiting for him at the end of this year.
The Dark Mark.
The future he’s been promised. And he wonders if, by the time it’s done, there will be anything left of him at all.
Maybe that’s why he can’t love. Because he knows where this is headed. He knows what’s waiting. And maybe he’s already buried too much of himself to ever be whole again.
He glances at Barty, his face lit up by a smile that feels too bright for the world they’re stepping into. He says something to Evan, his voice soft, his hand resting on Evan’s knee in a way that’s so casual, so natural. And Regulus wonders if he’ll ever know how much he’s buried.
How much he’s still burying.
The train keeps moving, and the weight in his chest grows heavier. He closes his eyes, letting the rhythm of the rails pull him down, deeper into the dark water where no one can see him drowning.
Stepping off the train is always like stepping into something new. There’s that rush—the way the air feels sharper, crisper, like the whole world is waiting for them. The platform at Hogsmeade Station is alive with movement and sound, students spilling out from every compartment, their laughter and voices blending together into one loud hum of excitement.
James’ heart is already beating too fast, the energy of the moment pulsing through him, filling him up.
Sirius is beside him, dragging his trunk with one hand, the other running through his hair like he’s trying to shake off whatever weight he’s carrying. But James sees it—the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes flicker over the crowd, searching for something. Someone.
It’s been months since Regulus last saw Sirius, since he ran from Grimmauld Place and never looked back. But there he is, walking off the train, the light catching in his hair, his shoulders still set in that same familiar way—like he’s ready to take on the whole world, like nothing can touch him. But there’s something different, too. Something Regulus can’t quite name.
He sees him. Their eyes lock, and for a moment, everything else fades—the voices, the movement, the train. It’s just them, and he feels the weight of all the things they never said pressing down on him, like the pull of water he’s spent his whole life trying not to drown in.
He’s standing a little way off, near the edge of the platform, flanked by Evan and Barty, both looking as sharp and polished as always. But it’s Regulus who holds the moment still. He’s not looking at anyone else, not even his friends. His eyes are locked on Sirius, and there’s something in them—something heavy, dark, like the shadows that linger just before dusk, when the light is fading but not gone.
Sirius and Regulus have always been caught between something dark and something they couldn’t quite reach. He was always the fire, burning too bright for the house, for the family. And Regulus was the one left in the shadows, too quiet, too cold, too much of everything their parents wanted.
But looking at him now, he doesn’t feel cold. He feels the warmth of something he’s buried so deep, it barely feels real anymore. Brother. The word echoes in his mind, soft and heavy, like an anchor he can’t lift.
James glances at Sirius, and he can see the flicker of something in his eyes, too. It’s not quite anger. Not quite sadness, either. Maybe it’s both. Maybe it’s something deeper, something Sirius doesn’t know how to say.
For a second, everything goes quiet. The platform fades, and it’s just them—the two of them—Sirius and Regulus, caught in a moment that’s too thick with everything unsaid.
James has never really understood their relationship. Not fully. He’s known Sirius since they were eleven, and he’s heard the stories, seen the way he talks about his family—like they’re a curse he’s finally managed to outrun. But Regulus… Regulus is different. He’s never heard Sirius talk about him the way he talks about his parents, or the rest of the Black family. He talks about Regulus like he’s not sure whether to hate him or miss him, like there’s a piece of him still caught in that house, still caught in the space between being brothers and being strangers.
Regulus thinks about the last time they spoke—really spoke. It was late, the house dark around them, their voices low. He told Regulus he was leaving, that he couldn’t stay in a house that felt more like a tomb than a home. The younger brother didn’t say anything. He didn’t know how to. How do you stop someone from running when you’re the one who’s too afraid to leave?
Regulus stayed. He always stays.
And now he’s there, standing just a few steps away, the light from the platform spilling around him like he’s still on fire, still burning with everything Regulus can’t be. And he wonders, for just a moment, if he looks at Regulus and sees the shadows he’s sunk into. If he knows how much he’s buried, how deep the water has pulled him under.
They’re looking at each other now, and there’s so much weight in it, so much unsaid. James wants to say something, crack a joke, lighten the air. That’s what he does. That’s who he is. He loves hard and fast and openly, because why wouldn’t you? Why wouldn’t you tell the people you love that you love them, that you need them, before it’s too late?
But he doesn’t say anything. Because this is theirs. This moment belongs to Sirius and Regulus, and James can’t touch it, can’t shift the weight of it.
Regulus wants to say something. He wants to tell him that he’s missed him, that the house is colder without him, that he still sees the space where he used to be. But the words are heavy, too heavy, and they stay lodged in his chest, sinking deeper with every second that passes.
Sirius doesn’t speak either. He just looks at Regulus, and there’s something in his eyes that he can’t quite name—something like sadness, but not quite. Maybe it’s regret. Maybe it’s hope. Or maybe it’s just too late for either of those things.
But James can feel the shadow of something—of everything Sirius has left behind. Of what it means to love someone you can’t save.
Regulus can sense the question that paints his older brother’s face.
How are you?
He’s scared. He’s so scared, Sirius. He doesn’t think there’s a way out. Not for him.
But Sirius doesn’t ask.
And Regulus doesn’t either.