Chapter 7
The Great Hall hums with the low murmur of voices, the clink of silverware, the occasional laugh breaking through the early morning haze. But to Regulus, it all feels muted, distant—like he’s moving through water, sound and light bending strangely around him. The weight of the castle, of everything, presses down on his chest, making it harder to breathe, harder to pretend that this day is just another day.
He’s sitting at the Slytherin table, surrounded by his group. Evan, who’s lounging beside him, as casual as always, his smile sharp around the edges. Barty, across the table, already deep into some plan or scheme, his hands moving too fast as he speaks. Pandora, light and airy, humming softly to herself as she stirs her tea. And then there’s Dorcas, sitting to his left. Dorcas, with her level-headed calm, her fierce opinions, her quiet strength.
She’s laughing at something Evan said, but there’s always a distance in her eyes when they talk about blood, about the world. She sees through it all—the lies, the cruelty. She knows what’s coming, even if she doesn’t say it out loud. Regulus can feel it, this growing tension between them, like a crack in the foundation that he can’t stop from spreading.
And he’s terrified of it.
Terrified of what she’ll say when she finds out. When she knows what’s going to happen to him. What he’s going to become.
The food in front of him is untouched. He can feel the cold edge of his fork beneath his fingers, but his appetite is gone, replaced by the familiar weight of dread that has been creeping up on him since last night.
A letter sits on the table, unopened. The envelope bears the Black seal, dark wax stamped with the emblem of his family, and it stares at him like a silent accusation. His mother’s words, written in cold, perfect script, waiting to slip into his mind like poison. He hasn’t opened it yet. He’s afraid to.
He knows what it’s about. The detention. The disgrace. Filch catching him in the library with James Potter, of all people. His mother would never let something like that slide, never let him forget how he’s failed. Failed the family, failed himself.
The letter feels like another stone tied to his ankles, dragging him deeper into the dark water where no light can reach.
He glances at Dorcas from the corner of his eye, her dark curls falling over her shoulders as she talks to Barty, her voice low but firm. She’s always been like that—sure of herself, grounded in a way that makes Regulus feel like he’s floating, disconnected from everything. She doesn’t believe in blood purity. She doesn’t believe in any of it, and she makes no effort to hide it. It’s part of why he likes her.
But it’s also why he’s so afraid.
What will she think of me, he wonders, when she knows? When she sees the Mark branded on his arm, the stain that can never be washed away. She hates the Dark Lord, hates everything he stands for, and Regulus—Regulus is falling into that darkness, step by step. He’s already gone too far to turn back.
Pandora leans in, her soft voice pulling him from his thoughts. "Are you going to open it?" she asks, her eyes flicking to the letter on the table.
Regulus forces a smile, something tight and brittle. "In a minute," he says, though he doesn’t move. His hands stay perfectly still, resting on the edge of the table, as if touching the letter will set something in motion that he can’t stop.
He watches as Pandora returns to her conversation, the easy flow of her words washing over him, but he doesn’t hear them. The weight of the letter presses against his mind, a reminder of everything he’s hiding, everything he’s about to lose.
He knows what his mother’s words will say. Disappointment. Shame. They will cut, as they always do, slipping under his skin like the cold of the lake, sinking into his bones until he feels numb again. Numb, but still drowning.
Evan laughs suddenly, loud and careless, his voice breaking through the dull throb of Regulus’ thoughts. Barty grins at him, something sharp in his eyes, and for a moment, the two of them seem like a different species altogether—untouched by the weight that’s pulling Regulus under. They pretend well, but Regulus can see it. The same fear. The same darkness creeping up behind their eyes.
But Dorcas—Dorcas doesn’t pretend. And that’s what scares him the most. She’ll see him for what he really is.
He looks at her again, his gaze drifting over the line of her jaw, the calm certainty in her expression as she talks, unaware of the storm brewing inside him. She wouldn’t understand. She wouldn’t forgive him. He knows that.
And he can’t bear the thought of losing her. But he will. It’s only a matter of time. A matter of when she finds out the truth, when she sees the mark of the Dark Lord seared into his skin, binding him to a future that feels like a grave.
The letter sits there, like a quiet threat, waiting to be opened. He doesn’t want to touch it, doesn’t want to read the words inside, but he knows he has to. He always has to. There’s no escape from his mother’s expectations, no escape from the fate that’s already swallowing him whole.
He swallows hard, reaching out with trembling fingers, his hand hovering over the envelope. The room feels colder now, the warmth of the hall fading away, replaced by the icy grip of fear, of dread, of inevitability. His heart pounds in his chest, but he can’t bring himself to open it.
Because once he does, it’ll be real. All of it. The detention, the shame, the disappointment.
He wonders if Pandora can feel it too—the darkness settling in around them. He wonders if she’ll ever look at him the same way again when she knows what he’s done, what he’s going to become.
And for a moment, he thinks of letting the letter sit there, unopened, untouched. Pretending, just for a little while longer, that he’s still free.
But he isn’t. He never was.
The Great Hall is alive with the morning light, beams filtering through the high windows, casting golden patches across the long tables. The clatter of plates, the hum of conversation, the easy laughter of his friends—his family—it all blends into a kind of warmth that settles deep in James’ chest. He’s sitting with the Marauders, Sirius throwing a piece of toast at Peter while Remus pretends to read, his lips curling at the edges with amusement.
James stretches back in his seat, arms behind his head, letting the sounds wash over him. This is how it’s supposed to be—light, easy, full of love. His heart feels too big for his body sometimes, like it’s always searching for more space, more people to hold inside it.
And then she walks in.
Lily.
Marlene and Mary are with her, their voices carrying over the noise, but it’s Lily that pulls James’ attention, as she always does. She walks in like she belongs to the light, her red hair catching the sunlight in a way that makes James feel like the whole room has shifted, just for her. His heart stumbles, something warm and bright flooding his chest, and he sits up straighter, trying to catch her eye, trying to will her to see him the way he sees her.
He thinks he loves her. No, he knows he loves her. He’s good, isn’t he? He’s good enough. He’s funny and loyal and would do anything for her, anything to make her smile. But she doesn’t look at him the way he looks at her. She doesn’t see him—not really. And he doesn’t understand why.
What more does he need to do? What’s missing?
He’s lost in the thought, the warm rush of love and longing tangling together in his chest, when suddenly, the air in the room changes. It sharpens, goes cold, and then—a crack of sound, like fire ripping through the air.
A Howler.
James turns, his breath catching in his throat, as he spots the envelope in front of Regulus Black.
He knows what’s coming even before it happens. The hall goes still, the laughter fading as Walburga Black’s voice tears through the quiet, vicious and sharp.
"Regulus Arcturus Black!" Her voice is full of fury, of venom. "Detention? With him? Of all people—James Potter?" The words are spat with such disgust that the whole room seems to shudder with it. "You have disgraced this family, embarrassed yourself! How could you let this happen? How could you be so foolish? So weak?"
James watches as Regulus sits there, perfectly still, his face a mask of ice, but there’s something about the way his hands rest on the table, too tight, too controlled, that makes James’ stomach twist. He’s been on the receiving end of a Howler before—hell, he’s had his fair share—but this feels different. This feels like drowning.
Walburga’s voice cuts through the hall again, sharper, colder. "You are a Black, and I will not have my son dragging our name through the mud with that blood traitor!"
The words hang in the air, heavy, suffocating. James feels a hot surge of anger rise in his chest, but there’s something else there too, something softer, something that feels like pity. Why does Regulus stay? Why doesn’t he just walk away, like Sirius did? Why does he let her talk to him like that?
The Howler burns itself out, the charred edges crumbling into ash, and for a moment, the hall is completely silent, as if the weight of Walburga’s words has stolen the air from everyone’s lungs.
Regulus stays still. His face remains blank, his hands folded neatly in his lap. And then, without a word, he stands up, his movements smooth, controlled, like he’s pulling himself together with every step. He doesn’t look at anyone, doesn’t flinch, doesn’t react.
He just walks out of the hall, silent and alone.
Only Pandora follows him.
James watches them go, something twisting in his chest, something that feels too heavy to name. He doesn’t like Regulus—he’s never liked him. He’s cold, he’s distant, and he’s always been tangled up in the worst parts of the Black family. But seeing him like this, seeing him hold himself so still while the world crumbles around him, it feels… wrong. Empty.
He glances at Sirius, who’s staring down at his plate, his jaw clenched tight, eyes dark. Sirius won’t talk about it. He never does, not when it comes to Regulus. Not when it comes to the pieces of their family that still cut too deep. But James knows—he knows how much this hurts. How much Sirius pretends not to care, but really, it’s tearing him apart.
And James, with all his heart, with all the love he carries for his best friend, wants to fix it. But how can he do that when Regulus won’t let anyone in? When Regulus is buried so deep in shadows and expectations and the weight of his name?
James leans back, trying to shake the heaviness that’s settled over him, but it clings to his skin like fog. He looks across the hall again, where Pandora disappeared with Regulus, and for a moment, he wonders what it would feel like to carry that kind of weight. To live under that kind of shadow. He wonders how Regulus can still stand, still move, when the darkness is dragging him under, pulling him down like cold water.
It’s different from the way James feels about Lily, about the way he can’t seem to reach her no matter how hard he tries. His heart is full of light, full of warmth, and all he wants to do is share it with her, to let her see that love—his love—could be enough. But Regulus—Regulus is drowning in something darker, something colder. And James can’t understand that kind of emptiness.
"Prongs?" Sirius’ voice is quiet, but it pulls James back to the moment. His friend is watching him now, his expression tight, but his eyes are full of something close to pain.
James shakes his head, trying to smile. "Just thinking, Pads."
Sirius doesn’t press. He never does. But James knows this is more than just thinking. It’s about love—how it can save you, or how its absence can pull you under.
James glances at the door again, where Regulus disappeared, and something inside him tightens.
Sirius is still whole to me, he thinks, but what if Regulus is already lost?
Regulus has felt like a bad person since he was eleven years old.
The soft scrape of the polishing cloth against the cold brass of a trophy echoes in the empty room. It’s a quiet sound, almost comforting in its steadiness, but Regulus feels anything but comfort. He feels trapped. Trapped in this detention, trapped in this life, trapped in the endless cycle of mistakes he can’t seem to stop making.
Beside him, James Potter is polishing another trophy, his face glowing with that same stupid, easy grin he always wears, like the world is a place made of light and laughter, and all he has to do is exist in it. James Potter, who seems to be made of the sun itself—warm, blinding, untouchable.
And Regulus hates him for it.
He hates that he’s stuck here, polishing trophies with the one person who represents everything he despises, everything he wishes he could be. James Potter, Gryffindor’s golden boy, who moves through life with a kind of effortless freedom Regulus will never know. James, who shines so brightly, so carelessly, as if darkness has never once touched him.
Regulus runs the cloth over the nameplate of a Quidditch Cup, his hands moving automatically, his mind spiralling with thoughts he’s never been able to escape. Slytherin. He was sorted into Slytherin, and that’s where it all began, wasn’t it? The moment he sat on that stool and felt the hat touch his head, the moment it shouted that word—the word that sealed his fate, carved it into stone.
He remembers the look on Sirius’ face when it happened—sharp, cold, like betrayal, like disappointment. His brother had been so certain, so sure that Regulus would join him in Gryffindor. He was supposed to be brave, wasn’t he? Wasn’t that what brothers were supposed to be—alike?
But no. The Sorting Hat had seen something else in him. Not bravery. Not light. Something darker.
And since that day, Regulus has carried the weight of it. The weight of being a Black, of living up to his family’s name, of becoming something he isn’t sure he ever wanted to be. And Sirius—Sirius made sure he felt it. Every look, every cold word, every distance that grew between them—Sirius made sure he knew. He made sure Regulus felt like a failure, like a traitor, like less.
He glances over at James, who’s working in silence, his hands moving over a gleaming trophy with the same carelessness that marks everything he does. There’s a lightness to him, a kind of recklessness, but it’s not the kind that feels dangerous. It’s the kind that feels like freedom. James doesn’t carry the same weight, the same shadow that follows Regulus wherever he goes. James is sunlight—warm and bright and golden, and Regulus feels like a shadow beside him, something cold and dark and unwanted.
And that’s why he hates him.
He hates James for his easy laughter, for his friends who love him without condition. He hates that James can walk into a room and belong without even trying. He hates that James never has to prove himself, that he’s never had to fight to keep the people he loves. James, who is everything Regulus can’t be.
James, who stole Sirius away from him.
Regulus wipes at the same spot on the trophy, though it’s already shining. His movements are slow, methodical, but his mind is churning with thoughts he can’t stop. He hates James Potter. He’s always hated him, even before he really knew him, because James is everything that was supposed to be Regulus’. James is the one Sirius chose, the one who became Sirius’ real family, while Regulus was left behind in the shadows of Grimmauld Place, sinking deeper and deeper into the life that was chosen for him.
And now, here they are, side by side, in this silent detention, polishing trophies that feel as hollow as Regulus does.
James doesn’t say anything. He just works, his expression calm, relaxed, like this is just another part of his charmed life, another small inconvenience that he’ll brush off without a second thought. Regulus glances at him again, feeling the bitterness twist inside him, a familiar ache that’s been there for so long he doesn’t know how to separate it from himself anymore.
James doesn’t even know how lucky he is. He has everything—Sirius, his friends, his freedom. Regulus has… nothing.
He thinks of the Dark Mark, waiting for him like a shadow over his future, something inevitable and cold. He thinks of his mother’s voice, sharp and cutting, telling him what’s expected, what he has to become. He thinks of Sirius, laughing with James, far away from the darkness that Regulus can never escape.
James shifts beside him, and the light catches in his hair, glinting off the trophy he’s polishing, and Regulus feels a sudden wave of anger. It’s irrational, he knows that. But it’s there, burning hot and fast, and he hates that James can sit there so easily, so carelessly, while Regulus is drowning in expectations and choices that were never his to make.
"Why are you always so bloody happy?" Regulus mutters before he can stop himself, his voice low, sharp, cutting through the silence.
James looks up, surprised, blinking at him with those stupid glasses and that stupid messy hair. "What?"
Regulus clenches his jaw, turning back to the trophy, his hands shaking slightly. He doesn’t want to have this conversation. He doesn’t want to admit to any of it—the jealousy, the resentment, the endless ache that gnaws at him from the inside out. But the words are already there, spilling out before he can stop them.
"Why does everything come so easily to you?" he says, his voice harsher than he intended. "You walk through life like it’s some kind of game, like you don’t have to care about anything. Like nothing ever touches you."
James stares at him for a moment, his expression unreadable, and then he shrugs. "I don’t know, Reg. I guess… I just don’t see the point in making it harder than it has to be."
Lightness. Always lightness. That’s what Regulus hates the most, he realizes. James’ lightness, the way he can float through life without ever feeling the weight of it, without ever feeling like he’s drowning.
Because Regulus is drowning. He’s been drowning since the moment the Sorting Hat said Slytherin. Since the moment Sirius turned his back on him. Since the moment he realized that he will never be enough.
James turns back to his trophy, and the silence stretches between them again, thick and heavy. Regulus stares down at his hands, still trembling, and he feels the darkness rising up inside him again, cold and suffocating.
He wipes at the trophy again, though the brass is already gleaming, and wonders, not for the first time, if he’ll ever feel warm again.
The trophy gleams in his hands, polished to a shine, but James barely notices. His mind is spinning, caught in the web of Regulus’ words, sharp and cutting like shards of ice. He can still hear it—Why does everything come so easily to you? The bitterness in Regulus’ voice had startled him, cut through the usual quiet detachment Regulus carried like a shield.
James glances sideways at him, watching as Regulus wipes furiously at a trophy that’s already clean, his jaw tight, his eyes fixed on the task in front of him. There’s something cold about him, something controlled, like he’s holding back a storm that’s always on the verge of breaking.
Regulus and Sirius. Two brothers, and yet they couldn’t be more different.
Sirius is all fire—wild and brilliant, untamed and alive, a blaze of light that burns hot and fast, lighting up everything around him. Sirius moves through the world like he’s too much for it, like he’s always on the verge of exploding into something bigger, brighter, louder. He doesn’t hold back, never does, and that’s what James loves about him. Sirius is always himself, unapologetically.
But Regulus—Regulus is something else entirely. If Sirius is fire, Regulus is water. Cold, quiet, deep. He’s always contained, like he’s holding everything inside, beneath the surface, where no one can see it. Where no one can touch it.
James watches him now, watches the way Regulus moves, precise and controlled, and he wonders what it would take to break through that. To see what’s hidden beneath all that stillness. Because there’s something there, isn’t there? Something dark, yes, but something real. Something James can’t quite reach.
They’re so different, he thinks, feeling a strange twist in his chest. Sirius is light, bright and burning, a constant burst of energy that fills up every space. Where Sirius would speak, would shout, would laugh with that wild, reckless joy, Regulus is silence. Stillness. Darkness.
Where Sirius would fight, Regulus would drown.
James turns the thought over in his mind, feeling the weight of it settle in. He’d always thought of Sirius as unbreakable, as a force that nothing could stop. But Regulus—there’s a fragility to him, something cold and brittle, like the thin layer of ice that forms over the Black Lake in winter, hiding something deeper, something darker, beneath.
Sirius would never let himself be caged, never let himself be buried beneath the weight of his family’s expectations. But Regulus—Regulus carries that weight like a stone tied to his chest, pulling him under, inch by inch.
And James, for the first time, wonders what that feels like.
The silence stretches between them, thick and heavy, and James feels the warmth of the sunlight filtering through the windows, casting soft patches of gold on the stone floor. He’s always loved the light, always chased after it, been a part of it. The sun, the laughter, the open warmth of friendship, of love—it’s all so easy for him, isn’t it?
But for Regulus… it’s not like that. Regulus doesn’t know how to live in the light. He’s too deep in the dark.
James frowns, running a hand through his messy hair, thinking over the words again. Why does everything come so easily to you? He’s never thought about it like that. He’s always taken it for granted, the way he loves, the way he moves through the world with joy, with light. It’s always felt natural to him, like breathing.
But now, sitting here beside Regulus, he realizes how different it must feel to be trapped in the kind of darkness that Regulus carries.
James clears his throat, the sound breaking through the quiet. He wants to say something, wants to fix this, to somehow reach across the space between them and make Regulus understand. But he doesn’t know how. He’s never been good with silence. He’s always been better at filling the gaps with laughter, with jokes, with something bright and alive.
"Sirius never said much about you," James says finally, his voice quiet, but not accusing. "Not really."
He watches Regulus’ face, but there’s no reaction. No flicker of emotion, no sign that James’ words have made any impact. But James isn’t deterred. He’s always believed in pushing through, in finding the light no matter how dark it seems.
"Sirius… he’s a lot, you know?" James continues, a half-smile pulling at his lips. "He doesn’t hold back. He’s like—" He pauses, searching for the right words. "He’s like fire. Always burning. Always moving."
Regulus’ hands still for a moment on the trophy, but he doesn’t look up. His silence hangs in the air, cold and heavy, but James keeps going.
"And you… well, you’re different." It’s not an insult, not the way James says it. It’s just the truth, something he’s realizing as he speaks it. "Sirius is the kind of person who’ll set the whole world on fire just to see it burn, but you—you’re more like… water. Like the lake, you know? Cold. Still. But… deep."
Too deep, maybe.
James doesn’t say it, but the thought lingers in the space between them. Regulus is like the lake, like the dark waters that hide so much beneath the surface, and James wonders if anyone’s ever tried to dive deep enough to see what’s there.
He sighs, turning his gaze to the light pouring through the windows again, letting the warmth settle over him. He doesn’t understand Regulus. Not really. He’s never understood the way someone could carry so much darkness, could let it wrap around them like a shroud, like a weight that’s impossible to lift.
But sitting here, in the quiet, James feels something he didn’t expect. Pity. For Regulus, yes, but also something warmer. Something softer.
Hope.
Maybe Regulus doesn’t have to stay in the dark. Maybe there’s a way to pull him into the light, to show him that it doesn’t have to be like this. James doesn’t know how to do it yet, doesn’t know how to break through the walls Regulus has built, but if there’s one thing James Potter has always believed in, it’s love. Love, and light, and the power of friendship to change things.
He glances at Regulus one last time, the silence still thick between them, and something stirs in James’ chest—something determined. Maybe Sirius has given up, but James won’t. He can’t.
Because Regulus, for all his silence, for all his darkness, is still Sirius’ brother. He’s still a part of this world, a part of them, whether he knows it or not.
Anyway—James has never been afraid of the dark.