Chapter 5
Regulus feels like he was born with something rotten inside of him.
It’s the early hours of the morning, and the castle is silent, wrapped in darkness. The kind of darkness that clings to your skin, seeps into your bones. The kind that makes the world feel smaller, like the walls are closing in, like there’s no space to breathe.
Regulus lies awake in his bed, staring at the ceiling, his mind heavy with the weight of everything he can’t escape. He hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in months. Maybe more like years. He doesn’t really remember the last time he slept without dreaming, without feeling like he’s sinking into something he can’t pull himself out of.
The dormitory is quiet, his friends lost in the kind of sleep that seems so far from him now. Evan’s soft breathing from the bed next to him is steady, soothing, but it does nothing to calm the storm raging in Regulus’ chest. Barty, on the other side, is restless even in sleep, turning over every now and then, mumbling words Regulus can’t make out. He wonders if he’s having nightmares, too. He wonders if they feel it—the weight of what’s coming, the darkness waiting just beyond the horizon.
But Regulus knows it’s different for him. It’s always been different.
He closes his eyes, but sleep doesn’t come. It never does, not when his mind is like this, spinning with thoughts he can’t silence. He feels it—the pull of something heavy, dragging him down into the cold, dark water he’s always been afraid of. The Black name. The Dark Mark. The choices that were never really his to make.
He thinks about his mother’s voice, sharp and cold, echoing in the back of his mind. You are a Black. You are not allowed to fail. And for as long as he can remember, he’s tried to live up to that. To be the son they wanted, the one who stayed when Sirius ran, the one who carried the weight of the family name like a shield. But it’s breaking him, slowly, piece by piece, and he knows it. He knows it, but he doesn’t know how to stop it.
Maybe he doesn’t deserve to stop it. Maybe this is what he deserves.
Regulus turns onto his side, staring out the window into the lake. He can feel the morning creeping closer. He’s dreading the day. He’s dreading the Quidditch captain meeting. He didn’t even want to be captain. It’s just another responsibility, another weight pressing down on him, another thing he has to be perfect at.
And then there’s James Potter.
Just thinking about him makes Regulus feel sick, his stomach twisting into knots. He doesn’t want to see him. He doesn’t want to sit in the same room, doesn’t want to be around the easy confidence, the light that seems to spill from James like it costs him nothing.
James Potter is everything Regulus isn’t. Bright, free, loved. It feels like the world opens up for people like him, while Regulus drowns beneath the surface. He hates James for it.
But more than that, Regulus hates himself. He hates the way he feels like he’s falling apart, even as he tries so hard to hold everything together. He hates that he’s so tired all the time, that no matter how hard he tries, it never feels like enough. He hates that he’s afraid—afraid of what’s coming, of the Mark waiting for him, of the darkness swallowing him whole.
He wonders if he’s ever been a good person. He wonders if it even matters anymore.
The water outside is turning lighter now, the deep black of nighttime fading into a grey that feels just as heavy. There’s no light coming for him, not really. Just another day, another set of expectations, another round of pretending he’s someone he’s not sure he’s capable of being.
He doesn’t want to be Quidditch captain. He doesn’t want the responsibility, doesn’t want the eyes on him, waiting for him to succeed, waiting for him to fail. He doesn’t want to be anything. He just wants to stop feeling like he’s sinking. But he doesn’t know how to do that, either.
He can hear Evan shifting in his bed now, a soft sigh escaping from under the covers. Barty turns over again, mumbling something incoherent, his brow furrowed even in sleep. They’re all playing the same game, pretending they aren’t afraid, pretending that the Mark is something they want. But Regulus knows the truth. He knows they’re all scared. He can see it in the way Evan avoids looking at him when they talk about it, in the way Barty’s hands shake just a little too much whenever the subject comes up.
They’re all drowning. But Regulus is the only one who can’t seem to keep his head above water. He’s the one who’s already too deep.
The grey light outside softens, and Regulus pulls the blankets tighter around himself, though it does nothing to ward off the cold he feels deep in his bones. The cold of knowing what’s waiting for him. The fate he’s been walking toward his whole life.
Regulus begins to think that maybe Sirius was the brave one after all.
Regulus isn’t brave. He never has been. He’s too afraid to leave, too afraid to break away from what’s expected of him. He’s too afraid to be anything other than what they want him to be, even if it means losing himself in the process.
The sky is turning pink now, the faintest hint of dawn creeping over the horizon, but it doesn’t bring any hope. It just means another day. Another day of pretending. Another day of wearing the mask, of being the perfect son, the perfect student, the perfect captain.
But Regulus knows that no matter how perfect he tries to be, it’ll never be enough. Not for his family, not for the Dark Lord, not for himself.
And maybe that’s why he can’t sleep. Maybe that’s why the darkness feels so heavy—because it’s not just outside of him, pressing in. It’s inside him, too. Always has been. And no amount of dawn light will change that.
He turns onto his back, staring up at the ceiling again, and wonders if he’ll ever feel like he’s not drowning.
The day begins, but Regulus knows it’s just another day closer to the inevitable. Closer to the Mark. Closer to the dark water that’s always been waiting for him.
And no matter how much he fights it, no matter how much he wishes for something else—he knows there’s no escaping it.
He’s going to drown.
James bursts into the hallway outside of Madame Hooch’s office, breathless, hair even more of a mess than usual. He’s late—of course he’s late. It’s Sirius’ fault, naturally. They were mucking around in the common room, Sirius egging him on with some ridiculous bet about who could levitate a plate of biscuits the highest, and time got away from him. Now he’s sprinting across the castle, hoping he hasn’t missed too much of the meeting.
He pauses for a second outside the door, taking a deep breath, trying to calm the racing thud in his chest. Quidditch captain. He still loves the way that sounds, even a year later, still feels the warmth of it spreading through him, even when he’s late and Madame Hooch is likely already fuming. It’s in his blood, in his bones—the thrill of the game, the rush of wind on his face, the laughter of his teammates when they’ve outwitted Slytherin yet again.
Except…
His smile fades as he remembers who else will be in that room. Regulus.
He pushes the door open and strides in, flashing a sheepish grin. "Sorry, I’m late," he says, dropping into the only empty chair—the one right next to Regulus, of course.
Madame Hooch gives him a stern look, her hawk-like eyes narrowing, but she waves him off. "Don’t let it happen again, Potter."
James leans back in his chair, trying not to fidget, trying not to glance at Regulus, who sits beside him, straight-backed and silent, like he’s carved out of stone. The Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw captains are already settled, exchanging polite smiles, but there’s a tension in the air, one that feels like it’s coming from the chair beside him.
James can feel it—the weight of what he’s about to do. He sneaks a glance at Regulus, who doesn’t even blink, his eyes fixed on Madame Hooch as if he’s trying to disappear into the seat. Regulus looks paler than usual, the shadows under his eyes darker, like he hasn’t slept in days.
You’ve got to save him, James reminds himself. For Sirius.
He clears his throat, forcing himself to focus on the meeting, on the light in the room, on the chance he’s been given.
"Now," Madame Hooch begins, her voice sharp as she surveys them all, "last year there were too many fouls. I’m talking about blatant fouls. Unnecessary roughness. You know which teams I’m talking about."
James risks another glance at Regulus. The Slytherin captain’s face remains blank, unreadable, but James knows—they both know—who Hooch means. It’s always Slytherin, known for pushing the limits, playing dirty when the game gets heated. The fire of competition, the tension of old rivalries, they bring out the worst in them.
"That won’t be tolerated this year," Madame Hooch continues, crossing her arms over her chest. "You captains are responsible for your teams. I expect fair play. Nicer play. Are we clear?"
James feels the familiar warmth rising in his chest. Quidditch is a game of strategy, of skill, but it’s also about joy. The joy of flying, of playing with your mates, of winning, yes, but not at any cost. He lives for that feeling, the rush of it, and he wants everyone to feel it, even if they’re on the opposite team.
He sneaks another glance at Regulus. His jaw is tight, his lips pressed into a thin line. Slytherins don’t play nice, everyone knows that. But still, there’s something in Regulus’ expression that catches James off guard. It’s not defiance. It’s not pride, either. It’s… dread?
James feels it again—that flicker of hope, that need to get through to him. To break down whatever walls Regulus has built up around himself, to pull him out of the dark place he’s in. He’s not sure how he’ll do it, but this—Quidditch, of all things—feels like a start. A way to reach him.
"And one more thing," Madame Hooch says, her tone shifting, softer now, but still stern. "Dumbledore has requested that we reduce practice hours this year."
James blinks, confused, but Hooch holds up a hand to stop him from interrupting.
"Too many players are failing their classes because they spend all their time on the pitch," she explains, her eyes sweeping over the captains. "So, we’ll be sharing practice times. Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw will practice together."
James feels his stomach drop. No.
"And Gryffindor and Slytherin will share the pitch."
There’s a moment of silence, the words hanging in the air like a weight pressing down on all of them. James glances over at Regulus again, expecting to see annoyance, irritation, anything, but there’s nothing. Just that same blank mask. He doesn’t know what to make of it, but he knows this is an opportunity. A chance to get close.
He can already feel Sirius’ reaction—furious, livid at the idea of James spending any more time with Regulus than necessary.
The warmth James feels, the love that pushes him forward, it’s for all of them. For Sirius, because as much as he talks about hating Regulus, James knows there’s still love there. And for Regulus, too—because he’s sinking, and he doesn’t even see it. Or worse, he sees it and thinks there’s no way out.
But James won’t let that happen.
"Understood?" Madame Hooch’s voice breaks through his thoughts.
James nods, snapping back to attention. "Right. Got it. Gryffindor and Slytherin, sharing the pitch. We’ll make it work."
He glances at Regulus again, hoping to catch his eye, but Regulus doesn’t look back. He’s already gathering his things, already retreating into himself, into whatever dark thoughts are consuming him.
James watches him stand, his movements slow, careful, like he’s carrying something too heavy for anyone to see. And James knows, without a doubt, that this is his moment. This is the opening he’s been waiting for.
You’re not going to drown, Reg, he thinks, feeling the warmth in his chest again, the fierce, protective love that drives him forward. Not if I can help it.
Regulus stumbles into the bathroom, his breath coming too fast, his hands shaking as he grips the edge of the sink. The cold stone beneath his fingers feels real, solid, something to ground him, but it isn’t enough. Nothing is enough anymore. The door swings shut behind him with a hollow thud, and suddenly the silence is unbearable—thick, suffocating, pressing in from all sides like the weight of the lake when you sink too deep, too far under to swim back up.
He stares into the mirror, but the boy staring back at him is a stranger. A mask. Perfectly blank, perfectly still. It’s the mask he’s been wearing for so long that he’s almost forgotten what it feels like to let it fall. But here, in the empty bathroom, with no one watching, no one expecting anything from him, it cracks.
His vision blurs, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes, and his chest tightens, like he’s drowning in the very air he’s trying to breathe. He bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, tasting blood, trying to hold it in. But he can’t.
The first sob escapes before he can stop it, and then the tears come, spilling down his face in hot, silent streams. He hates this. He hates feeling like this. He hates that he can’t control it.
He grips the edge of the sink tighter, staring down at the water that drips from the faucet. The droplets fall in steady rhythms, one after the other, disappearing into the drain, and Regulus watches them, thinking about how easy it would be to disappear like that. To let the water take him. To sink into it, to let the darkness pull him under, and never come back up.
Because that’s what it feels like, isn’t it? Like he’s sinking, slowly, deeper and deeper, into something cold and unforgiving. The weight of his choices, the weight of his name, it’s all dragging him down. And there’s no way out. No one to pull him back up.
He swipes angrily at his eyes, hating the tears, hating himself for crying at all. And most of all, he hates James Potter.
He hates him with a fury that burns hotter than anything he’s ever felt. It sits like a poison in his chest, something sharp and acidic, eating away at him from the inside out. He hates that he’s going to have to share Quidditch practices with him. He hates that James is always there, always happy, always whole in a way Regulus will never be.
He presses his palms against his eyes, squeezing them shut, but all he sees is James’ stupid face, that stupid grin. His stupid messy hair and those stupid glasses, crooked on his nose. He hates it. He hates how easy it is for James to laugh, how carefree he is, how much he doesn’t understand. How much he’ll never understand.
James Potter doesn’t know what it’s like to feel this way. To feel like you’re rotting from the inside, like you’re drowning in expectations, in fate, in all the things that are too heavy to carry. James doesn’t know what it’s like to be trapped, to be bound by a family name that feels more like a curse than a gift.
He hates that James has parents who love him. Good people who smile and hug him and tell him they’re proud. He hates that James has friends who laugh with him, friends who stick by him no matter what, who aren’t afraid to be real with him.
But more than anything, he hates that James is happy.
The tears come harder now, and Regulus doubles over, pressing his forehead to the cool stone of the sink, letting the sobs wrack through him. He feels rotten, like there’s something festering inside him, something dark and twisted that’s eating him alive, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. He feels like he’s already too far gone, too deep in the water to ever find his way back to the surface.
And it’s James’ fault.
It’s James’ fault for taking Sirius away from him. For being everything Sirius needed, everything Regulus couldn’t be. Sirius chose James—chose his friends, his new family, over Regulus. He left him behind, left him to carry the weight of the Black name alone. It should have been Sirius. Sirius should be the one sinking, the one drowning. But instead, Sirius is free, laughing with James and the others, like none of this ever mattered.
And Regulus is the one left to drown.
He chokes on another sob, clutching the sink like it’s the only thing holding him together. He hates himself for feeling this way. For feeling so weak, so helpless. He hates that no matter how hard he tries, no matter how perfect he is, it’s never enough. It’s never going to be enough to fill the hollow ache inside him.
He lifts his head, staring at his reflection through tear-blurred eyes. He looks terrible—pale, drawn, the dark circles under his eyes standing out like bruises. Like something dead.
And maybe that’s what he is. Maybe he’s already dead inside. Maybe he’s been dead for a long time, and no one noticed. He certainly didn’t.
He stares at himself for a long time, breathing heavily, his chest still tight, still aching. The tears keep coming, but they feel like they’re falling from someone else. It’s like he’s watching himself from a distance, watching this broken version of himself unravel in front of the mirror.
"I hate you," he whispers to his reflection, the words soft and full of venom. "I hate you."
He says it again, over and over, until the words blur together, until they stop making sense. He’s not sure who he’s talking to anymore. Is it himself? James? Sirius?
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know anything anymore. All he knows is that he hates what he’s become. He hates the weight he’s carrying, the darkness pressing down on him, the inevitable future he’s too afraid to face. The Dark Mark, waiting for him at the end of all this, waiting to pull him down for good.
And there’s nothing he can do to stop it.
The bathroom feels colder now, like all the warmth has been sucked out of the room, leaving only the empty echo of his own sobs. He wipes his face with the back of his sleeve, trying to steady his breathing, trying to pull himself back together.
But the mask… it doesn’t fit the way it used to. It feels cracked, fragile, like it could shatter at any moment.
And Regulus isn’t sure what’s left underneath.
James bounds into the Great Hall, a wide grin already pulling at his face. The hall is alive with the buzz of conversation, laughter spilling over the long tables, and it feels like home—this place, this moment. He spots his friends instantly, gathered at the end of the Gryffindor table, the familiar glow of them drawing him in like a magnet.
There’s Sirius, of course, leaning back in his chair, that smirk always ready, as if he’s in on some joke the rest of the world hasn’t heard yet. Remus sits beside him, eyes scanning over a book, but the soft smile tugging at his lips tells James he’s only half paying attention to it. Peter’s already working on his second sandwich, oblivious to the chaos around him.
James weaves through the tables, the warmth of the room washing over him, wrapping him in the kind of comfort he always feels when he’s with them. His people. His family. It’s always felt this way, like light and laughter follow him wherever they are.
As he drops into the empty seat beside Sirius, he claps a hand on his shoulder, shaking his head in exaggerated frustration. "You will not believe what happened at the captain’s meeting."
Sirius snorts, raising an eyebrow. "Late, were you?"
James nudges him playfully, his grin widening. "Yeah, thanks to you, mate. I’m lucky Hooch didn’t toss me out on my arse."
Sirius barks a laugh, and it echoes through the table, spreading like wildfire. James feels that familiar warmth—that connection—and he lets it fill him, lets it brighten the rest of the room, as if they’re all sharing a secret only they know.
He pauses for a second, leaning in like he’s about to share some great revelation. "But that’s not the best part," he says, lowering his voice just enough to build suspense. He waits, his heart beating with that same eager energy he always carries, always burning bright.
Remus looks up from his book, amused. "Go on then. What’s so terrible it actually got you to show up on time?"
James rolls his eyes dramatically. "So, it’s not just us Gryffindors hogging the pitch this year. Apparently, Dumbledore thinks we’re all too thick to handle Quidditch and classes, so—get this—we’ve got to share practice times."
Sirius looks up at him, narrowing his eyes. "With who?"
James leans back in his chair, letting the moment hang in the air, his grin practically splitting his face now. He knows what’s coming, knows exactly how Sirius is going to react. "Slytherin," he says, finally, the word landing between them like a stone tossed into water.
And then the ripple.
Sirius’ face darkens, his jaw clenched tight. "You’ve got to be kidding me."
"Nope." James shrugs, still grinning, though he softens it a little. "We’re stuck with them, mate. Me and Regulus, sharing the pitch. Best part of my week, right?"
Sirius slams his hand down on the table, but there’s a frustration in his eyes that goes beyond the joke. James can feel it, that tension that always rises whenever Regulus’ name comes up, the undercurrent of something Sirius won’t let himself say. "Bloody hell, Prongs. I can’t believe you’re going to have to deal with that."
But James just laughs it off, his heart still beating fast with something bigger than the game. "Oh, don’t worry about it, Pads," he says, clapping Sirius on the back again, more gentle this time. "It’s just Quidditch. I’ll survive."
But underneath it, there’s more. So much more.
Because to James, it isn’t just about surviving. It isn’t just about dealing with Regulus on the pitch, or pretending not to notice the tension that coils between them every time they lock eyes. It’s about something deeper. Something warmer. Something that makes his heart swell with that familiar rush of love that he can never quite explain, but it’s always there, pushing him forward.
It’s about Sirius, and the love he carries for him, even when Sirius pretends not to care. Because James knows better. He knows that every time Sirius talks about Regulus, there’s pain woven into his words, like a shadow clinging to the edges of the light. And James can’t stand that. He can’t stand the thought of Sirius being hurt, even if Sirius won’t say it out loud.
So James smiles brighter, louder, because that’s what he does. He loves openly, with his heart wide open, and he’ll do it for Regulus too, even if it kills him. Even if Regulus never lets him in.
"Besides," James says, voice full of that familiar warmth, "maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe I’ll be able to keep an eye on him. Who knows? Maybe we’ll even learn to get along."
Sirius lets out a bark of laughter at that, but there’s something sharp in his voice, something bitter. "Right. You and Regulus, best mates. I’ll believe it when I see it."
James laughs too, but there’s something else stirring inside him, something quiet and hopeful. Because he’s never believed in giving up on people. He’s never believed that anyone is too far gone. There’s light in everyone, even in someone like Regulus Black. James knows that. He’s always known it.
And maybe this is his chance to prove it.
The lunch table is loud again, full of laughter and easy banter, but James feels that familiar spark of something bigger inside him, something brighter. The world is full of shadows, full of people who are slipping through the cracks, but James isn’t going to let that happen. Not to Regulus. Not to Sirius’ brother.
He glances at his friends, the warmth of them filling the space around him, and he smiles again, wide and bright, because that’s what he does. He’ll carry that light with him, even when the shadows grow long. He’ll carry it, and he’ll share it with the people who need it most.
Because that’s what love is. It’s the light that keeps you going.
And James Potter has never run out of love to give.