Chapter 6
Regulus finds his own existence nauseating.
The pitch stretches out before him, wide and endless, the green grass rippling under the cold morning light. The sky is a flat grey, heavy and thick like the surface of the lake. He stands there, broom in hand, his Slytherin teammates behind him, and for a moment he wishes he could disappear. Sink beneath the earth, beneath the grass, bury himself so deep that no one would ever find him.
But he can’t. Not now. Not here.
He’s the captain now.
It should feel like something. Pride, maybe. Power. But all Regulus feels is the gnawing pit of insecurity that twists in his gut, the sense that he’s not ready for this. He’s never ready for anything. James Potter, across the pitch with his Gryffindors, has already done this for a year. James knows how to command a team, knows how to lead with the kind of ease that Regulus will never have. James always knows what he’s doing. And Regulus—he’s just pretending.
The Gryffindors are already laughing, already tossing the Quaffle around like they don’t have a care in the world. Like the sky isn’t about to break open and swallow them whole. Regulus watches them, watches James—that stupid messy hair, those stupid glasses, the easy grin stretched across his face as if everything comes naturally to him. As if life comes naturally to him.
Regulus grips his broom tighter, his knuckles white against the wood, and feels the familiar weight in his chest—the hatred that burns low and quiet, like embers smouldering beneath the surface. It’s easier to hate James than to face the truth. Easier to let the anger rise, let it fill the hollow spaces inside him that should be full of something else, something warmer, something brighter.
But there’s no room for light here. Not for him.
The two teams decided to run a practice game. He mounts his broom and kicks off the ground, feeling the wind rush against his face, sharp and cold. The Slytherins follow his lead, but there’s something uneasy about the way they move, something hesitant. They’re watching him, waiting for his command, and Regulus feels the weight of their eyes like stones dragging him under. He doesn’t know what he’s doing.
But he can’t show that. He can’t let them see the cracks beneath the surface, the fear that’s always there, just below the mask. You are a Black. You do not falter. You do not fail. He hears his mother’s voice in his head, a ghost that never leaves him. He’s never been able to escape her, not really.
He glances across the pitch again, toward James, and the sight of him makes something twist violently in Regulus’ chest. James, already giving instructions to his team, already commanding the space, like he was born for this, like he’s meant to be here.
Regulus hates him for it. Hates the way everything seems to come so easily to him. Hates the way James is always so full of life, full of light, while Regulus feels like he’s sinking deeper into something dark, something he’ll never climb out of.
The whistle blows, and the teams take off into the sky, the air filled with the rush of wind and the crack of brooms cutting through it. Regulus’ heart races, but it’s not the thrill of the game that makes his chest tighten—it’s the weight of all the things he can’t say, the pressure of being captain, of being someone who’s supposed to lead when all he wants is to disappear.
James is already shouting commands to his team, his voice bright and confident, and Regulus feels a surge of anger, hot and fast, rise up inside him. How does he do it? How does he make it all seem so easy?
He dives for the Snitch, cutting across the pitch with precision, his movements sharp and calculated, but it’s not enough to keep the thoughts from pressing in on him, the feeling that he’s failing. The Gryffindors are moving too easily, too fast, and Regulus knows it’s because of James. James, who is always ahead, always leading with that stupid grin on his face, like it’s all a game and nothing more.
Regulus grits his teeth and swerves hard to block one of the Gryffindor Chasers, his body tight with anger, his mind full of James’ voice, full of everything he hates about him. James, who has everything Regulus will never have. He cuts the Gryffindor off, a little too rough, a little too close, and he hears the sharp whistle of the referee.
A foul. Of course.
He hovers there in the air, breathing hard, his chest burning, and he can feel James’ eyes on him. Always watching. Always there.
And it’s too much. It’s all too much.
He doesn’t look at James, doesn’t meet his gaze, but he can feel the weight of it, the way James’ presence fills the pitch, fills the space around him, like light bleeding into the cracks of something dark. And Regulus hates him for it. He hates James for taking Sirius away from him, for being the one that Sirius chose. He hates James for his laughter, for his warmth, for the love that seems to follow him wherever he goes.
But most of all, Regulus hates him because he’s jealous.
Jealous that James has everything Regulus has never been able to reach—a future that isn’t already buried beneath the weight of a name, a fate that’s already been written in darkness.
James is everything Regulus will never be.
The practice game resumes, the teams whirling through the air, but Regulus can’t shake the feeling that he’s drowning. The wind whips past him, cold and sharp, but he barely feels it. All he can feel is the anger, the frustration, the hollow ache inside him that nothing seems to fill. He isn’t good enough. He’s never been good enough.
He watches James from across the pitch, his stupid messy hair catching the wind, his stupid glasses perched on his nose, and the sight of him makes Regulus feel sick. He’s everything. He’s too much. And Regulus—Regulus is nothing but shadows. Nothing but the dark weight of a future he can’t escape, the cold grip of a fate that’s dragging him under.
He hates James for being happy. For being alive. For being loved in a way Regulus will never be.
And he hates himself even more for not knowing how to stop feeling this way.
The game ends, but the weight doesn’t lift. Regulus lands on the pitch, his breath coming in shallow gasps, and he feels the eyes of his team on him, waiting for him to say something, to be captain. But all he feels is the crushing certainty that he’s failed. That he’s not enough.
He doesn’t look at James as he walks off the field, his heart heavy with all the things he can’t say, all the things he’ll never be able to fix. The sky above him is still grey, still heavy, and it feels like the darkness is pressing in from all sides, pulling him deeper, pulling him under.
And Regulus knows—he’s already too far gone to save.
The Quidditch changing room is quiet, the kind of quiet that settles in after the rush of practice, after the cheers and shouts have faded, leaving only the hum of water running from the showers. Most of the team has already left, their laughter and footsteps echoing down the stone corridor, but James lingers, taking his time, letting the warmth of the place soak into his skin.
He loves it here, the scent of leather and grass, the soft golden light filtering through the small, high windows. The room is filled with memories—moments of victory, of camaraderie, of shared joy. He leans back on the bench, his hair still damp, a grin playing on his lips. Life always feels alive here, pulsing with energy, with the fire of competition, with the light of friendship.
His thoughts are interrupted by a familiar voice, one that crashes into the stillness like a whirlwind.
"Oi, Prongs!" Sirius bursts into the room, his eyes alight with mischief, already moving fast, like the air around him can barely keep up with whatever idea is burning inside his head.
James perks up instantly, his heart beating faster, already on board for whatever Sirius has in mind. "Pads," he greets, eyes sparkling with the kind of excitement that always comes when Sirius has a plan.
Sirius grins, that reckless grin James knows all too well, and drops onto the bench beside him. "Detention tonight," Sirius says, not bothering with a preamble. "Filch caught me and Moony rigging the staircases. But I’ve got a plan. For the prank." He leans in, lowering his voice even though they’re the only ones here—almost.
There’s still one boy left in the showers, the sound of water rushing a soft hum in the background.
"You’re gonna have to sneak into the Restricted Section tonight, Prongs. I’ve got detention, but the book we need—it’s in there. Top shelf. Something about invisibility charms." Sirius’ grin widens. "You can manage that, can’t you?"
James feels the rush of excitement flare in his chest, but it’s quickly followed by confusion. "Hang on," he says, frowning slightly, "how am I supposed to sneak into the library at night? That place is locked tighter than Filch’s broom closet."
Sirius opens his mouth, but before he can answer, the water in the showers stops abruptly. The room seems to still, the air thickening for just a moment. And then, from the corner of his eye, James sees him.
Regulus.
Regulus steps out of the showers, towel draped around his waist, his hair still wet, water dripping down the side of his face. The light in the changing room shifts, cools, as if the warmth that filled the space just a second ago has pulled back, waiting.
James feels it instantly—the tension, the weight that always seems to settle between Sirius and Regulus whenever they’re in the same space. It’s something unspoken, heavy, like a shadow creeping into the light. And just like that, the easy grin slips from Sirius’ face, replaced by something harder, something sharp. Sirius doesn’t say a word. He just stiffens, his whole body closing off.
And then he’s gone.
Sirius stands up, doesn’t look at Regulus, and walks out the door, his footsteps echoing out without a backward glance.
James watches him go, a familiar ache tightening in his chest. He knows Sirius—he knows him. Knows that this silence between them isn’t anger, not really. It’s something deeper. It’s love twisted into hurt, knotted into something neither of them knows how to untangle. Sirius pretends not to care, but James knows the truth. Sirius does care. He cares too much, and that’s the problem.
For a moment, James just sits there, the air still buzzing with the absence of Sirius. He looks at Regulus now, standing there in the half-light, his face closed off, guarded, like he’s expecting something—a blow, a word, something.
James opens his mouth, ready to say something, but the words don’t come. What would he even say?
He feels that warmth rising in his chest, the need to fix it, to make things right, to pull Regulus into the light the way he’s always done with Sirius. Because, for all his sharp edges and cold silences, Regulus is still Sirius’ brother. And that means something to James. It means everything.
The silence stretches, thick like fog, until James breaks it, his voice light, easy, as if the tension never existed. "You alright there, Regulus?"
Regulus turns slightly, his dark eyes flicking to James, wary, like he’s waiting for something to drop. "I’m fine," he says, his voice low, clipped. But there’s something in it, something brittle, like he’s holding onto the mask just a little too tight.
James stands up, moving over to his locker, but he keeps his voice casual. He’s learned how to handle people like Regulus—people who keep their walls high, who hide behind cool words and sharp glares. You don’t push. You let the light in slowly, softly, until they don’t even realize it’s there.
"You know, Pads is a bit of a tosser," James says, shrugging as he pulls on his shirt. "But he means well."
Regulus doesn’t respond, just watches him, his face still unreadable. But James can feel something in the air between them, something shifting, like the tiniest crack in a wall that’s been standing too long.
James smiles, that wide, open grin that always feels too big for his face. "And as for me," he says, trying to lighten the mood, "I’ve got to figure out how to sneak into the library tonight. Got any brilliant ideas?"
There’s a flicker of something in Regulus’ expression—surprise, maybe. Or confusion. James can’t tell, but it’s something, and that’s all he needs. He doesn’t expect Regulus to help, doesn’t expect him to even respond, but just offering it, just opening the door, feels like enough for now.
Regulus stares at him for a moment longer, the silence hanging between them like the space between breaths. Then he turns away, grabbing his things, his movements sharp, precise.
"No," he says quietly, his voice cold but not as biting as James expects.
And with that, Regulus leaves, the door swinging shut behind him.
James stands there for a moment, alone now, the warmth of the room slowly returning as the tension fades. He sighs, running a hand through his hair, feeling the familiar ache of something he can’t quite fix.
But he won’t give up. He never does. There’s light in everyone, even in someone like Regulus Black, buried beneath the weight of everything he’s carrying, everything he refuses to let go of.
James feels it again—the warmth, the love that always fills him up, that drives him to keep trying, keep loving the people around him, no matter how hard they are to reach.
Because love is like that. It’s messy. It’s hard. But it’s worth it.
And James Potter? He’s always willing to fight for it.
The air in the Potions classroom is thick, almost heavy, with the scent of crushed roots and simmering liquids. The fumes curl lazily from cauldrons, winding through the dim light like whispers of something ancient, something buried. Regulus sits at his desk, the dull sound of Professor Slughorn’s voice droning in the background, but his mind is elsewhere, slipping beneath the surface, sinking into the quiet depths where his thoughts have been drifting for days now.
He’s on a table with Evan and Barty, as usual. Evan sits beside him, chopping ingredients with that careless grace he always has, his knife moving in easy, fluid strokes, like this is all a game. Barty is across from them, staring into the cauldron with a kind of manic intensity, muttering to himself about the right balance of ingredients, his hands twitching with energy.
But Regulus barely sees them. Barely hears the soft scrape of the knife on the cutting board, or the low bubbling of their potion. His focus is elsewhere, far away from the task in front of him, from the classroom, from all of it.
Darkness, always darkness—that’s what it feels like now, the weight of it pressing down on him from all sides. He’s been carrying it for so long, this cold shadow that wraps around him like water pulling him under, deeper and deeper into the quiet places where no light reaches. The Dark Mark hovers just out of sight, a promise written in the ink of his future, and he can feel it, always there, waiting to claim him.
His fate, as inevitable as the tide.
The potion in their cauldron begins to turn a deep, murky green, the vapours rising in slow curls, and Regulus watches it, his gaze unfocused, lost in the shifting colours. The liquid reminds him of the lake behind Grimmauld Place, the one he used to stare at for hours as a child, wondering what lay beneath the surface. He thinks of it now, the cold, still water that hid everything beneath, the weight of secrets submerged. It feels like that now, like he’s drowning in something cold and silent, sinking too deep to ever find his way back to the shore.
Evan says something beside him, something about the potion, about the right ratio of lacewing flies to essence of belladonna, but Regulus barely registers it. Evan’s voice is distant, a low hum that feels like it’s coming from somewhere far away, a place Regulus no longer has the strength to reach.
The potion bubbles again, a low, ominous sound, and Regulus feels his stomach twist. The smell of it—earthy and bitter—fills his lungs, but it isn’t the potion that makes him feel sick. It’s the thought of what’s coming, of the choices already made for him, the future that feels more like a grave being dug.
He closes his eyes for a moment, trying to steady his breath, but all he sees is the darkness waiting for him. The Mark. He hasn’t taken it yet, but it looms over him like a shadow he can’t outrun. It’s only a matter of time. A matter of days, weeks, months—but it’s coming for him, and there’s no escape.
It’s always been like this. He’s always known.
Slughorn moves between the tables, peering into cauldrons and offering lazy praise, but when he stops at their table, Regulus feels nothing. No sense of accomplishment, no satisfaction at the teacher’s half-hearted approval. It’s just another part of the mask he wears, another piece of the puzzle he has to keep in place. But inside—inside, there’s nothing but emptiness.
He thinks of Sirius then, and the thought burns, sharp and cold. Sirius, who got out. Sirius, who left him behind. Regulus used to feel anger when he thought of his brother—anger at the betrayal, at the abandonment. But now, all he feels is a hollow ache, a kind of quiet jealousy that settles deep in his bones.
Sirius escaped, and Regulus is still here, still sinking, still drowning in the life he was born into, the life he’s too afraid to walk away from. He’s not brave—not like Sirius. He never has been.
He glances at Evan again, at Barty, and wonders if they feel it too. He wonders if they’re as scared as he is.
The potion thickens, turning a deeper shade of green, and the room grows darker as the sun slips behind the clouds outside. The light in the room is dim now, barely enough to cut through the shadows gathering in the corners. Regulus feels the darkness pressing in again, closer this time, more tangible.
It feels like a burial—slow, quiet, inevitable.
He stirs the potion absently, the movement automatic, but his mind is far away, sinking beneath the surface of everything he’s tried to bury. His fear, his anger, his guilt—it’s all there, waiting for him beneath the cold waters of his fate. He doesn’t know how much longer he can keep it all down, how much longer he can pretend to be the perfect son, the perfect Slytherin.
He isn’t perfect. He never was.
The bell rings, signalling the end of class, and the room comes alive with the scrape of chairs, the clatter of glass vials being packed away. But Regulus doesn’t move. He just watches the potion in front of him, watches the slow ripple of the surface as it settles, like the lake, like the dark water that never reveals its secrets.
"Coming, Reg?" Evan’s voice breaks through the silence, but there’s an edge to it, a tension that’s always there now. Regulus nods, though his body feels heavy, like it’s taking more effort than usual to stand, to move, to breathe.
They leave the classroom together, but the weight doesn’t lift. It stays with him, settling deeper into his chest, a quiet reminder that no matter how much he pretends, he’s already sinking.
The darkness is already closing in, pulling him under, and there’s no way out.
There might have been, when Sirius left. If Regulus went with him. But there’s not anymore.
The castle is quiet tonight, the kind of stillness that wraps around you like mist, like the thick waters of the lake when everything is submerged. Regulus walks beside Pandora, their footsteps soft against the cold stone, the only sound in the empty corridors. They are partnered together for a prefect round. She’s talking, as usual—some whimsical story about magical creatures, her words light and warm, like they’re floating just above the ground. Regulus listens, not really paying attention, but enjoying the sound of her voice.
Pandora never asks too much of him. She doesn’t demand answers or pry into the shadows he keeps so carefully hidden. She talks, and he listens, and for a while, it feels almost… normal. She’s pleasant to be around, in her own strange way, and Regulus thinks that if he were the kind of person who had friends, Pandora might be one.
But he isn’t.
He walks in silence beside her, his thoughts always drifting somewhere darker, somewhere deeper. It’s easier that way. Easier to keep the darkness at bay when there’s someone like Pandora beside him, someone who never asks him to look too closely at the things he’s buried.
They turn the corner, and there’s a flicker of movement up ahead. The library. And someone’s inside, after hours.
Pandora stops talking, tilting her head curiously. "What do you think—?"
"I’ll handle it," Regulus says quickly, his voice soft but firm. "You go on ahead."
Pandora raises her eyebrows but smiles, that easy, breezy smile that makes it seem like nothing in the world could ever be a problem. She doesn’t question him—she never does. "Alright then. See you later."
Regulus watches her walk away, her hair bouncing lightly as she disappears around the corner. And then, when the hallway is empty again, he steps into the library.
The air inside is colder, darker, the faint scent of parchment and old books hanging in the air. Regulus moves quietly between the towering shelves, his footsteps soft, but there’s a tension in his chest, a weight that never seems to leave him these days. He doesn’t know what he expects to find—some reckless Gryffindor breaking curfew, no doubt—but when he turns the corner, he’s met with a surprise.
James Potter.
Of course. It’s always James.
Regulus stops in his tracks, his hand tightening on his wand, ready to reprimand him, ready to do what’s expected of him. But James doesn’t look panicked. He doesn’t even look worried. He looks relieved.
That stops Regulus cold. He should be upset—should be grovelling, or at the very least, irritated at being caught by a prefect. But no, there’s something in James’ eyes, something almost grateful, like this is exactly what he needed.
"Regulus," James says, a grin pulling at his lips, his voice hushed but bright. "Brilliant. You can help me."
Help him? What? Regulus frowns, his head spinning. He takes a step back, trying to put distance between himself and whatever madness James is about to suggest.
"You want me to help you?" Regulus asks, his voice low, incredulous. "Why would I do that?"
James steps closer, his eyes sparkling with that same reckless energy that always makes Regulus feel off-balance, like he’s being pulled into something he can’t control. "Because," James says, like it’s obvious. "I need to get into the Restricted Section, and you’re a prefect, so you can help me. Come on, it’ll be easy."
Regulus stares at him, trying to understand. He hates James. He hates him. Every time he looks at James, all he sees is everything he doesn’t have, everything that’s been taken from him. Sirius’ laughter, James’ parents, friends who don’t carry the weight of a name like his.
And yet, here James is, asking him for help. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
"I’m not helping you, Potter," Regulus says, his voice sharper now, trying to cut through the strange tension in the air. "Go back to your dorm before I report you."
But James doesn’t leave. He doesn’t even flinch. Instead, he takes another step closer, his eyes pleading now, and something about the way he looks at Regulus—with trust, with hope—makes Regulus’ insides twist.
"Please, Reg," James says, his voice softer now, almost coaxing. "I need this. It’s for a prank. Sirius—"
And there it is. Sirius. The name drops between them like a stone into deep water, rippling out in ways Regulus can’t control. His breath hitches, but he doesn’t let James see it. He can’t.
"Why do you think I care?" Regulus says coldly, his voice steady, though inside, something is unravelling.
But James doesn’t stop. He starts begging—James Potter, begging—and Regulus can’t understand why. Can’t understand why James looks at him like that, with trust in his eyes, when all Regulus has ever done is hate him.
And that’s when he realizes—he’s going to help him.
He doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know what’s driving him, doesn’t know why, when everything in him is screaming to turn around and walk away, he steps forward instead. Maybe it’s the look in James’ eyes. Maybe it’s the way James says "Sirius," like the word is fragile, something worth saving.
Or maybe it’s because, deep down, Regulus is tired of pretending he isn’t drowning. And James, somehow, feels like air.
"Fine," Regulus says, his voice barely above a whisper. "But don’t ask me for anything again."
James grins, wide and bright, like the sun breaking through the clouds, and Regulus feels something twist inside him. He turns away, pulling out his wand before James can say anything else.
He mutters the Disillusionment Charm, watching as James’ body shimmers and fades, blending into the dark of the library. It feels wrong—helping James, of all people. It feels like a betrayal, though of what, Regulus can’t quite say. Himself, perhaps. His name. His fate.
They slip through the aisles, shadows moving between shadows, the heavy silence of the library pressing in on them. And for a brief moment, Regulus forgets that he’s supposed to hate this. Supposed to hate James. Supposed to hate the way James’ presence fills the space with something warmer than Regulus has felt in months.
It doesn’t last long.
Just as they reach the Restricted Section, just as they reveal themselves again, just as James reaches for the book, there’s a creak from the other side of the room.
Filch.
"Well, well," Filch’s voice cuts through the dark like a blade, cold and sharp. "What do we have here? Potter and Black, eh?"
James stiffens beside him, and Regulus feels the blood drain from his face. They’re caught. Filch steps forward, eyes gleaming with the kind of cruel satisfaction that comes from years of chasing students through these halls.
"Months’ worth of detentions for this," Filch says, his voice low and dangerous. "Prefects and captains should know better."
Regulus stares at the floor, his heart pounding in his chest. He should feel angry. He should feel humiliated. But all he feels is numb.
Numb, and sinking.
The walk back out of the library is silent, Filch’s words still ringing in his ears. James doesn’t say anything. Neither does Regulus. But something lingers between them—something unspoken, heavy, like the darkness that’s always been there, pressing down on Regulus, pulling him deeper into something he can’t name.
And as they part ways, as James disappears down the corridor with a whispered "thanks," Regulus stands there for a moment, feeling the weight of it all—the choices he’s made, the choices he hasn’t made, and the darkness that’s waiting for him at the end of it all.
He can’t explain why he helped James. Maybe he never will.