Chapter 4
Hogwarts and Sirius are two of the things Regulus hates most in the world. Because while Sirius got red, Regulus got green. Sirius got a family and Regulus got associates.
Regulus wants to kill him sometimes.
The Great Hall is alive with light, too bright, too loud. Candles flicker above, casting a warm glow over the long tables, but all he can feel is the cold. It clings to him, crawling up his spine, sinking into his bones, no matter how much noise or laughter fills the room.
He sits at the Slytherin table, watching as the first year’s line-up for the Sorting, their faces pale and expectant. They have no idea what they’re walking into. No idea how heavy the weight of a name can be, how it can sink you so deep you forget what it feels like to breathe.
He should be focused. He should be watching, taking note of who comes into his house, who will be shaped by the same legacy that shapes him. But his mind is elsewhere, drifting in the quiet space between his chest and the ceiling, heavy with thoughts he can’t escape.
Dark forces are at work in this school, Dumbledore’s voice echoes from the front of the Hall, his gaze sweeping over the students like he knows. Like he sees through every secret, every lie, every buried truth. Regulus feels his eyes linger on the Slytherin table, and it makes his skin crawl. There are those who would try to recruit you, who would use you for their own purposes.
It’s almost as if he’s speaking directly to Regulus, the words pressing into him like cold hands, gripping tight. He looks down at his hands, resting on the table in front of him, and they don’t feel like his. They feel like someone else’s—someone trapped, someone caught in a current they can’t swim against.
Because it’s already too late for him, isn’t it?
He glances up, eyes drifting over the sea of faces, the hum of conversation growing louder as more students are sorted. It’s strange, how normal everything seems. How easily they laugh, how freely they talk, like none of this matters. Like the world isn’t hanging in the balance, waiting for something dark to swallow it whole.
And then he sees him.
Sirius.
He’s at the Gryffindor table, grinning wide, his head thrown back in laughter, like he’s got nothing to worry about. James is beside him, his hair just as wild, his eyes just as bright. They’re surrounded by their friends—Remus and Peter—all of them caught up in some joke, some story, their voices rising above the noise like a flame in the dark.
Regulus feels the bitterness rise in his throat, hot and choking. He hates him. He hates that he can sit there and laugh, that he can pretend none of this touches him. He hates that he got out. That he’s free.
He won.
Sirius always wins, doesn’t he? He left, he escaped, and now he sits there, laughing with his friends, while Regulus is here—sinking deeper into the dark, pulled down by the weight of everything he can’t escape. The name. The legacy. The fate that’s already been decided for him.
He clenches his hands into fists, the nails digging into his palms, but it doesn’t help. It never does. There’s this tightness in his chest, like he’s drowning in air, like no matter how many breaths he takes, he’ll never fill his lungs again. He glances back at the Slytherin table—at Evan and Barty—but even they feel distant. Even they don’t understand.
They don’t know what it feels like to be trapped in a house that feels like a grave. To walk through the halls of Grimmauld Place and hear the walls whisper your future like a sentence, like a curse you can never break.
You are a Black. You don’t run. You don’t rebel. You stay.
But Sirius didn’t stay. Sirius broke free, and Regulus hates him for it. He hates him for leaving him behind, for leaving him to carry the weight of everything alone. But more than that, he hates that he’s jealous.
Jealous that Sirius had the courage to leave, that he’s strong enough to laugh while Regulus is sinking deeper, while he’s trapped in the dark, sinking so fast he doesn’t know if he’ll ever find his way back to the surface.
He can feel Dumbledore’s words circling in his head, sinking in like stones. Dark forces. He doesn’t have to say it. They all know what he means. They all know who he means. And Regulus can feel it—the mark waiting for him, just beneath his skin, like a shadow that’s already carved into his soul.
He closes his eyes, just for a moment, letting the darkness behind his eyelids take over. It’s easier to breathe when he doesn’t have to see it. When he doesn’t have to watch Sirius laughing while he drowns.
But he can’t escape it. He can’t escape any of it.
Because he’s trapped, isn’t he? Trapped by the name, by the expectations, by the choices he didn’t make but has to live with anyway. There’s no getting out. Not for him. He’s already in too deep, already swallowed by the dark, by the waters of the Black legacy that pull him down, down, down.
He opens his eyes again, and Sirius is still there, still laughing, still free.
And Regulus realizes something—something cold and sharp that cuts through, sharper than hate, sharper than jealousy.
He’ll never be trapped the way I am.
He got out, and Regulus will never escape. He’ll never break free from the weight of this, the darkness that holds him under, the fate that waits for him at the end of it all.
Sirius has the light, the warmth, the laughter.
And Regulus? He has the dark. The cold, quiet dark, that wraps around like the water in that lake behind Grimmauld Place. Deep and still, waiting for him to sink.
The Sorting ends, the Great Hall bursts into applause, but Regulus doesn’t clap. Doesn’t move. He just sits there, staring at the empty plate in front of him, feeling the weight of it all pressing down harder, pulling him deeper, until he can’t see the surface anymore.
And he wonders, for just a moment, if there’s anything left of him to save.
The Great Hall is buzzing, full of life, and James’ chest is already full of laughter, spilling out before he can even think. The Sorting Hat is perched on another first year’s head—some kid with wide eyes and trembling hands—and he nudges Sirius, smirking.
"Gryffindor, easy," He says, grinning as the hat’s brim barely touches the kid’s hair before shouting, "RAVENCLAW!"
"Nice try, Prongs," Sirius laughs, shoving him in the shoulder, and James rolls his eyes, pretending to look offended.
Remus smirks from across the table. "You’re on a terrible losing streak, you know that? I’m starting to think you’ve lost your touch."
Peter snickers beside him, and James laughs too, but it feels distant—like it’s coming from someone else, from the part of him that’s always quick to joke, quick to keep the mood light. But there’s a weight sitting in his chest tonight, something he can’t shake. It’s been there since Dumbledore spoke earlier—since his words hung over the hall, as sharp and cold as ice.
Dark forces.
It’s nothing he hasn’t heard before, nothing they haven’t all talked about in quiet whispers and stolen moments, but tonight, it feels closer. Too close. Like a shadow lurking just behind the laughter, behind the light of this room. He glances up at the floating candles, their soft glow flickering above them, and he wants to hold onto that light, hold onto this moment, keep the shadows from creeping in.
But they always do, don’t they?
Another first year steps forward, and Sirius makes a ridiculous face at James, clearly trying to pull him back into the game. He’s laughing, James, c’mon, focus. But his eyes drift. They drift to the other side of the room, past the sea of red and gold, to the Slytherin table.
And there he is.
Regulus.
He’s sitting there, his face pale and still, his eyes dark, too dark for someone his age. There’s something in the way he holds himself tonight, something almost fragile, like he’s carrying too much weight for one person. James saw it earlier—when Dumbledore spoke. He saw the way Regulus flinched, just barely, the way his jaw tightened, like those words hit him harder than they should have.
Sirius catches him looking, and for a moment, his grin falters, just for a second, before he shakes it off, pretending not to notice. He’s good at that, his best mate. He’s good at pretending it doesn’t hurt, pretending he doesn’t care. But James knows him. He knows the way his shoulders stiffen whenever Regulus’ name comes up, the way his voice hardens whenever someone mentions his family. The Blacks.
But he also knows that Sirius hasn’t really let go of his brother. Not fully.
James keeps staring at Regulus, watching the way he sits so still, like he’s trying to disappear. And he wonders if he’s already too far gone. If those dark forces Dumbledore warned them about are already pulling him under, already tightening their grip around him. He knows he hasn’t got the Mark yet—I’d know if he had—but it feels close. He can see it in the way he carries himself, in the way the shadows seem to cling to him more than anyone else.
And suddenly, James can’t stand it. He can’t stand the thought of him slipping away. Not for Sirius’ sake.
Because as much as Sirius talks about hating Regulus, about how he’s just another Black, another piece of that family he’s desperate to leave behind, James knows it’s not that simple. He knows that there’s a part of him—a part he doesn’t talk about, not even with him—that’s still tied to his brother. Still wants to save him. And as much as he might say otherwise, James knows Sirius would never forgive himself if Regulus became a Death Eater.
If Regulus became the thing Sirius ran away from.
The thought twists in his gut, and he can feel the weight of it settling in, mixing with Dumbledore’s words, with the flicker of fear that’s been sitting in the back of his mind since the moment he saw the look on Regulus’ face.
There has to be a way out for him. There has to be.
He looks over at Sirius, who’s laughing again, throwing his head back, the light catching in his eyes, and he knows—he has to try. He can’t let this happen. Not to Regulus. Not to Sirius.
Because that’s the thing about James. He loves hard. He loves fiercely. And maybe it’s reckless, maybe it’s dangerous, but he believes in it. He believes in love like a light that can pull someone back from the edge, like a fire that can burn away the darkness, if you let it.
And Sirius… as much as he pretends not to, James knows he still loves his brother. Somewhere in there, beneath all the anger, all the hurt, there’s still that love. And maybe, just maybe, that love is enough to pull Regulus back.
But it’s more than that. It’s more than just Sirius. It’s James, too. He doesn’t know Regulus well, not like he knows Sirius, but he can’t help but feel something for him. He can’t help but want to reach out, to stop him from drowning in the dark, the way he knows he’s about to. Because no one should be lost like that. No one should be pulled under without someone there to drag them back to the light.
He's already forming a plan, the pieces clicking into place in the back of his mind, even as he laughs at another joke, even as he throws his arm around Sirius’ shoulders, pulling him into a mock headlock. He can’t stop himself from thinking it, from planning it.
How do I save Regulus?
How do I get him out before it’s too late?
Because it’s not too late yet. It’s not.
And he’ll do it. He’ll find a way. For Sirius. For Regulus. For all of them.
Because that’s what you do when you love someone, isn’t it? You fight for them. And he loves Sirius.
The Sorting Hat calls another name, but James barely hears it. His eyes drift back to Regulus, to the way he sits there, quiet and still, like he’s already halfway gone.
But James is not letting him go. Not yet.
The Slytherin dorm is quiet tonight, but not in the comforting way it sometimes is. This quiet is thick, heavy, like the air is holding its breath, waiting for something no one wants to name. The curtains around Regulus’ bed are pulled halfway shut, the faint flicker of the fire casting soft shadows on the stone walls. Barty is stretched out across his bed, feet dangling over the edge, while Evan sits cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the post of Regulus’ four-poster. They talk in low voices, their words drifting through the air like smoke, curling around the room, impossible to ignore.
"Avery and Mulciber got the Mark over the summer," Barty says, his voice too casual, too sharp at the edges. It sounds like he’s trying to convince himself more than anyone else. "Finally joined the ranks. Proper Death Eaters now."
Evan raises an eyebrow, smirking, but it’s a hollow expression, something he’s worn too many times to be real. "About time, isn’t it? They’ve been talking about it for ages. Surprised it didn’t happen sooner."
Regulus doesn’t respond, doesn’t lift his eyes from where his hands rest in his lap. The weight of their words presses against him, sinking into his skin like the cold of deep water. He knows they don’t mean what they say. He can tell. The fear is there, hidden beneath their bravado, in the slight tremor in Evan’s voice, the way Barty won’t quite meet his eyes.
They’re scared.
He knows they’re scared because he is too.
The Mark. It’s something they’ve all talked about, whispered about in the dark, as if saying it out loud might make it more real. The Dark Mark. A symbol of power, of loyalty to something more powerful than any of them can fully understand. But there’s something else, too, something darker, pulling them toward it like the undertow of the sea, dragging them under before they realize they’re sinking.
Regulus has felt that pull for years. It’s been there, just beneath the surface of everything—beneath his name, beneath his family’s expectations. It feels like a weight pressing on his chest, like the cold, still water of the Black Lake, where you can never see the bottom. He knows what’s waiting for him at the end of this year. He knows what’s expected.
The Mark. The fate.
And yet, sitting here, listening to his friends talk about it like it’s inevitable, like it’s just another step in a long line of steps they have to take, he feels that familiar sickness rising in his throat. He doesn’t want it. He never has. But he’s never been able to say that. Not to them. Not to himself.
Because what choice does he have?
Evan leans his head back against the bedpost, staring up at the ceiling, his eyes distant, like he’s trying to picture something better, something brighter. "Do you think it’ll hurt?" he asks suddenly, his voice barely a whisper, like he’s afraid the room will hear.
Barty snorts, but the sound is forced, brittle. "What, getting the Mark? Don’t be stupid, of course it’ll hurt. It’s meant to. That’s how you know it’s real."
But there’s something in his voice that betrays him, a crack in the armour, a sliver of the fear Regulus knows they all feel. Barty doesn’t want it either. He’s pretending, the way they all are, pretending it’s a choice, pretending it’s power when all it is… is submission.
Regulus’ hands tighten in his lap, his nails pressing into his palms. The fear is there, cold and sharp, lurking just beneath his skin, just beneath the surface of every word they don’t say. He wants to speak, wants to tell them that it’s okay, that they don’t have to pretend with him. But the words never come. They stay buried, like everything else inside him.
They don’t have to be scared, he wants to say, because I’m scared enough for all of us.
The fire crackles softly, casting long shadows across the room, and Regulus can feel the weight of the darkness pressing in around them. It’s always there, this quiet, suffocating thing, filling the spaces between them, filling the spaces inside him where light should be. He thinks of Sirius, thinks of the way his brother used to laugh, the way he used to talk about freedom like it was something real, something tangible.
But Sirius is gone, and Regulus is still here. Trapped. Trapped by his name, by his blood, by the future he’s never had any real say in. And soon—too soon—he’ll be trapped by the Mark, too. The weight of it already hangs over him, like a shadow he can’t shake, no matter how much he wants to.
He glances at Evan, who has gone quiet, his eyes closed, as if trying to shut out the world. Barty has rolled over on his bed, staring at the ceiling, his arms crossed behind his head, but there’s a tension in his body that he can’t hide. They’re both afraid, but they’ll never admit it. Not to each other, not to him.
And Regulus? Regulus is terrified.
He closes his eyes, letting the darkness behind his eyelids take over, letting it wash over him like the tide he can’t escape. It feels like sinking, like slipping beneath the surface of a lake, the cold water closing in around him, pulling him down, down, down, until he’s too deep to breathe. That’s what the Mark is. That’s what this life is. Drowning, slowly, quietly, until there’s nothing left of who you were.
Regulus opens his eyes, staring into the fire, watching the flames flicker and twist, and for a moment, he feels a sharp pang of jealousy. Sirius got out. Sirius broke free, burning too bright to be held by the darkness that holds Regulus now.
But he knows he’ll never get out. He’s already too far under, too deep in the waters of his fate.
Evan shifts beside him, his voice breaking the silence. "Do you think…" He hesitates, his words hanging in the air like they’re too heavy to say. "Do you think we’ll be different after? When we get it?"
Barty scoffs, but Regulus can hear the fear in his voice, the uncertainty that trembles beneath his words. "Different how? We’ll be stronger. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it?"
Regulus doesn’t answer. He knows the truth. They’ll be different, yes. But not in the way Barty means. They’ll be marked. Owned. Bound to something darker than any of them can fully understand. They’ll be drowning, all of them, and there will be no one to pull them back to the surface.
And as much as he wants to fight it, as much as he wants to believe there’s another way, he knows it’s already too late. For all of them.
The fire crackles again, the flames flickering low, and the darkness presses closer. Regulus feels the weight of it—the future pressing in on him, the Mark waiting for him at the end of this road. It’s coming, as inevitable as the tide, and no matter how hard he tries to fight it, he knows he can’t.
He’s already too far under.
The Gryffindor dormitory hums with the kind of easy warmth that only the Marauders can create. It’s late, but time never really matters here, not when they’re all together. The fire in the hearth flickers low, casting a soft glow over the room, and the laughter comes in waves—loud, uncontainable, like it’s got nowhere else to go but out. Sirius is sprawled across the floor, laughing too hard at something Remus said, while Peter tosses Chocolate Frog cards into the air, trying and failing to catch them in his mouth.
James leans back on his bed, his hair even messier than usual, a grin stretching wide across his face. There’s something about nights like this, something about this moment, that makes his heart feel too big for his chest. It’s almost overwhelming, this kind of love, this kind of life—bright and full and full of all the people he cares about most.
He looks at Sirius, still laughing, still catching his breath, and his heart swells again. Sirius, who he’d do anything for. Sirius, who left his whole world behind and still hasn’t quite healed from it. James would move mountains for him if he could. And he knows, deep down, that there’s one thing left he can still try. One thing left to save.
But he doesn’t think about that now. Now is for laughter, for the light that fills the room and warms everything it touches.
"Oi, you lot," James calls, breaking through the noise, his voice full of energy, even at this hour. "I’ve got that bloody Quidditch captain meeting with Hooch tomorrow."
Sirius makes a face, sitting up and pretending to mock him. "You? Responsible? That’ll be the day."
James grins, tossing a pillow at him. "I’m plenty responsible, Pads. You’re just jealous because I get to boss people around on a broom."
Remus, sitting at the foot of his bed with a book open on his lap, looks up, his expression thoughtful, always one step ahead of everyone else. "Pandora told me something interesting during our patrol," he says, his voice calm but laced with meaning. "Apparently, Regulus is the new Slytherin captain."
The room shifts, just for a moment. The easy laughter still lingers in the air, but something more serious, more real, slips between them. James sees it immediately—the way Sirius’ grin falters, the way the light in his eyes dims, just a little. There’s a shadow there now, the same one that always shows up when Regulus’ name is mentioned.
Sirius tries to shake it off, but he’s never been good at hiding how he feels. "Great," he mutters, his voice tight. "So you have to deal with him. That’s just… perfect."
There’s something hard in Sirius’ voice, something brittle that James knows all too well. It’s anger, sure, but it’s more than that. It’s anger wrapped around hurt, tied up in all the things Sirius doesn’t say out loud. The complicated mess of love and hate that comes with being brothers.
James sits up, pulling the pillow back from where it landed. He pretends to be annoyed, rolling his eyes like dealing with Regulus is going to be the worst thing that’s ever happened to him. "Yeah, fantastic," he says, shaking his head. "Just what I needed—another Black to get in my way on the pitch."
But underneath the teasing, underneath the bravado, James feels a flicker of something hopeful. Because as much as he’s pretending to be annoyed, this is exactly what he’s been waiting for. A chance.
A chance to get close to Regulus. To start the plan that’s been forming in the back of his mind. A chance to save him.
He glances at Sirius, who’s scowling now, and his heart aches. Sirius acts like he doesn’t care, like Regulus is just another Slytherin, another cog in the Black family’s dark machine. But James knows better. He sees the way Sirius tenses whenever Regulus’ name comes up, the way his eyes harden but don’t quite lose their softness. There’s love there, buried deep under the anger. There’s always been love.
And that’s why James is going to do this. Not for Regulus, who’s standing at the edge of something dark and dangerous, but for Sirius. Because as much as Sirius wants to run from his family, as much as he says he’s done with all of them, James knows he won’t ever forgive himself if Regulus falls too far. If Regulus becomes one of them.
He knows that Sirius still loves him, whether he admits it or not.
James stands, stretching his arms above his head, still playing at being indifferent. "Well, at least I’ll get to show him how a proper captain runs things," he jokes, but the look in his eyes is sharp, focused. He’s already planning, already thinking of ways to get Regulus out. To pull him back from the edge before it’s too late.
Because that’s the thing about James Potter. He’s never learned how to love halfway, never learned how to hold back.
He glances over at Sirius again, who’s still frowning, still upset, and he feels the warmth in his chest rise up again—this need to fix it, to make things right, to save the people he cares about. He knows he can’t fix everything. He knows he can’t undo all the damage that’s been done between Sirius and Regulus. But he can try. He can do this.
And maybe he can save both of them in the process.
"Don’t worry, Pads," James says, his voice light but full of something real, something that pulses with the weight of everything he’s feeling. "I’ll take care of it. Won’t let your little brother mess things up too much."
Sirius raises an eyebrow, a grin twitching at the corner of his mouth despite the anger. "You better not, Prongs. Otherwise, I’ll have to disown you too."
James laughs, loud and open, full of that reckless warmth he carries everywhere. "Like you could ever get rid of me."
But underneath the laughter, his heart is set. He’s not going to let Regulus slip away. He’s going to pull him back to the light, where he belongs. For Sirius.
Because that’s what James does. He fights for the people he loves, even if they don’t know they need saving.
Yet.