Chapter 8
The fire in the Slytherin common room crackles softly, its light casting long, flickering shadows on the stone walls. It’s late—too late for either of them to be awake—but Regulus and Dorcas sit in silence, side by side on the worn green couch, neither speaking. The room is empty, the rest of their housemates long gone to bed, and there’s a kind of stillness in the air, a weight that settles over them, thick and unspoken.
Neither of them can sleep.
Regulus doesn’t ask why. He never does, and Dorcas doesn’t ask him either. They exist in the same space, both of them carrying secrets they’re too afraid to say aloud. The quiet between them isn’t uncomfortable—it never has been—but tonight, it feels different. Heavier.
He can sense something is wrong with Dorcas, the way her fingers twitch restlessly, the way she stares into the fire as if she’s seeing something far away, something beyond the flames. There’s a tension in her, something that hums just beneath the surface, but Regulus doesn’t ask. He’s selfish like that. He holds onto the silence because it’s safer than whatever truth might spill out if either of them speak.
The common room feels colder tonight, the dark green hangings that usually make the space feel safe and enclosed now seem to press in around him, like the weight of the lake above. Regulus leans back, feeling the cool leather of the couch beneath his fingers, and tries to focus on the warmth of the fire, but his mind drifts, always circling the same thoughts. The Mark. The choices waiting for him. The future already closing in.
And Dorcas.
She doesn’t know, of course. How could she? She sits beside him, her presence familiar, steady, and for a moment, Regulus lets himself believe that things can stay like this. That he can hold onto her for just a little while longer, before it all falls apart. Before she finds out the truth, and the inevitable rift yawns between them.
But then, she speaks, her voice soft and low, cutting through the silence like the edge of a knife.
"Do you ever think about them?" she asks, her gaze still fixed on the fire. "The Death Eaters?"
The question sends a shiver down his spine, though Regulus doesn’t move. He keeps his face carefully still, his hands resting in his lap, but inside, he feels the familiar tightening in his chest. Does he think about them? It’s all he’s been thinking about for months now, the fate waiting for him like a cold hand wrapped around his throat.
"Sometimes," he replies, his voice quiet, controlled. He doesn’t look at her. Can’t look at her.
Dorcas sighs, running a hand through her dark curls, her shoulders tense. There’s something heavy in the way she moves tonight, something fragile, like she’s carrying a weight that’s too much for her. Regulus can see it, feel it, but he doesn’t ask. He knows what it’s like to carry a burden you don’t want to share.
"I’m glad you’re not like them," she says suddenly, and the words hang in the air between them, heavy and sharp. "You’re not like the rest of them, Reg. You’re not going to join them." She says it like she’s sure, like it’s a truth she’s already written for him, and Regulus feels his stomach turn.
He’s not like them.
But he will be. He knows that. It’s just a matter of time now. A matter of when, not if.
And the thought of it—the inevitability of it—makes him feel sick. Like he’s already drowning in the weight of a decision he never really had a choice in.
He wants to say something, to tell her that she’s wrong, that she doesn’t know what’s coming for him. But the words stick in his throat, heavy and thick, like stones sinking into the depths of the lake. He can’t say it. He can’t bear to say it.
Because if he does, if he tells her the truth, then everything will change. She’ll look at him the way Sirius does, with that cold disappointment, that betrayal in her eyes. And Regulus isn’t ready for that. Not yet.
So he stays silent, letting her believe the lie. Letting her believe that he’s still good, still someone worth holding onto.
Dorcas leans forward, her elbows resting on her knees, and glances at him. There’s a softness in her eyes, something warm and real, and Regulus feels it, like a faint flicker of light in the darkness that’s been swallowing him whole.
"I don’t want to lose you, Reg," she says quietly. "Not to them. Not to that."
Her words hit him like a blow, and he feels the breath leave his lungs, sharp and fast. She doesn’t know—she can’t know—but somehow, it feels like she sees right through him, like she’s peering into the cracks he’s been so careful to hide.
Regulus closes his eyes for a moment, trying to steady himself, trying to push down the guilt, the shame that rises up like a tide inside him. He’s already lost. She just doesn’t know it yet.
He wants to tell her. He wants to say it, to lay everything bare and let her hate him now, get it over with, before it festers into something worse. But he’s selfish. He’s always been selfish. He wants to hold onto this—to her—for just a little while longer. Just a few more moments of silence, of comfort, before it all falls apart.
So he says nothing.
He watches the fire flicker, the flames dancing in the hearth, casting shadows that seem to grow longer with every passing second. The warmth of the room feels distant now, like something he can’t quite reach, like something slipping away from him.
"I’m not going anywhere," Regulus lies softly, the words almost catching in his throat. He doesn’t even know if she believes him, but she doesn’t call him out on it. She doesn’t push.
She just nods, her eyes still on the fire, and the silence stretches between them again, thick with all the things they aren’t saying.
The common room feels colder now, the firelight casting strange, flickering shadows on the walls, and Regulus feels the weight of it—the weight of his choices, the weight of the truth he’s too afraid to speak.
He wants to be brave. He wants to be like Dorcas, like Sirius—unafraid, unburdened by the past. But he isn’t. He’s tied to the Black name, to the Dark Mark that’s waiting for him like a grave already dug.
And he can’t escape it.
Dorcas shifts beside him, her shoulder brushing against his, and for a moment, he lets himself lean into the warmth of it, lets himself pretend that things can stay like this. That they can stay in this moment, in the quiet, before everything shatters.
But the truth is coming for him. The darkness is already here. And he knows that when it finally catches up to him, he’ll lose her.
He’ll lose everything.
The hospital wing is quiet, the soft rustle of curtains and the faint scent of antiseptic hanging in the air. James sits on the edge of the bed, hands resting in his lap, his head bowed just slightly. It’s late—too late for anyone to notice he’s here, and that’s how he likes it. No one else knows about this. Not Peter, not Remus, not even Sirius. Just him and Madam Pomfrey.
She’s sitting in the chair beside him now, her presence steady, familiar. They’ve had these conversations before, in the quiet of the hospital wing, when everything feels just a little bit too heavy for James to carry on his own. He’s always carried it alone—the laughter, the light, the easy charm that everyone expects of him. The problem is, sometimes it’s too much.
James leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, his hair falling messily into his eyes. His heart feels too big for his chest, too full, like it’s overflowing with something he can’t quite control. He loves—he loves everyone. His friends, his parents, even people who barely notice him. He has so much love to give, it spills over, but sometimes, it feels like there’s no one to catch it.
No one to give it back.
"James, dear." Madam Pomfrey’s voice is soft, gentle, the kind of voice that feels like a balm on a wound you didn’t know was there. "You’ve been quiet tonight."
James lifts his head slightly, his eyes tired, the usual brightness in them dimmed. "I just… I don’t get it," he says, his voice low, but not broken. "I’ve got all this—this love, you know? I’d do anything for them. For Sirius, for Remus, for Lily. But it feels like… like nobody wants it."
He can feel it in his chest, the aching weight of it, pressing down, crushing something soft and tender inside him. His first love—Lily—and she doesn’t love him back. He’s tried everything. The jokes, the pranks, the show-off Quidditch moves. He’s poured everything he has into her, hoping, waiting for that moment when she might turn around and see him.
But she never does.
And he doesn’t understand why.
"What is it about me, Madam Pomfrey?" James asks, his voice cracking slightly, something raw bleeding through. "Why won’t she love me back? What is it about me that’s so… unlovable?"
The words hang in the air, fragile, vulnerable, like they’re teetering on the edge of something James can’t pull back from. He doesn’t understand it. He’s good, isn’t he? He’s loyal, funny, he’d do anything for his friends, for the people he cares about. But that love—it’s never enough.
Madam Pomfrey sits forward, her eyes kind but firm, like she’s done this a thousand times before. Maybe she has. Maybe she’s seen other boys like him, other boys who love too much and get nothing in return.
"James," she begins, her voice gentle but steady. "You have so much love to give. That’s not a bad thing. It’s never a bad thing. But you can’t rush love. And sometimes… sometimes the people we care for aren’t ready to love us back."
James listens, but he can feel the frustration building again, that same knot of confusion and hurt that’s been tangled up inside him for months now. It doesn’t make sense. He just wants to be loved. He’s always had so much love to give, ever since he was a kid. His parents—they’ve always loved him. Sirius, Remus, Peter—they’re like brothers to him, and he knows they love him too, in their own way. But Lily…
She’s different. And he can’t figure out why.
"I’m not asking for the world," James says, his voice softer now, almost pleading. "I just… I want someone to see me. To really see me, and love me the way I love them. Why is that so hard?"
Madam Pomfrey places a hand on his shoulder, and there’s something comforting in the weight of it, in the quiet presence she brings to the room. "It’s not about being unlovable, James," she says gently. "It’s about timing. About people needing time to understand their own hearts."
James runs a hand through his hair, his mind swirling with all the things he doesn’t know how to say. Timing. What if it’s never the right time? What if he spends his whole life like this, loving people who never look back at him the way he wants them to?
He thinks about Sirius, Remus, Peter. His brothers, the people who fill his days with laughter and pranks and the kind of reckless energy that keeps him moving forward. He loves them more than anything, would give his life for them without a second thought. But it’s not the same. It’s not the kind of love that keeps you warm in the quiet moments, in the spaces between the noise.
It’s not the kind of love he’s waiting for.
"I don’t know if I can keep doing this," James admits quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. "Loving people who don’t love me back."
There’s a long pause, the firelight flickering against the stone walls, casting warm, golden shadows. Madam Pomfrey doesn’t rush him, doesn’t try to fill the silence with empty words. She just waits, lets him feel the weight of his own heart.
"You have so much love ahead of you, James," she says softly, after a long moment. "I promise you that. You might not see it now, but there are people in this world who will love you just as fiercely as you love them. You just have to give it time."
James hears the words, but he isn’t sure. He’s never been good at waiting. He’s always been the type to leap first, to throw his heart into things without thinking about the consequences. He doesn’t know how to hold back. He doesn’t want to.
"I don’t know," he says, shaking his head slightly. "What if I’m just not enough?"
Madam Pomfrey’s hand tightens slightly on his shoulder, her voice firm now. "You are enough, James. Don’t ever doubt that. But you can’t force someone to love you before they’re ready."
James looks down at his hands, at the familiar calluses from years of Quidditch, at the lines and marks that remind him of all the things he’s fought for, all the things he’s given his heart to. He wants to believe her. He wants to believe that there’s love waiting for him, somewhere down the line, that this ache in his chest will ease with time.
But right now, it feels like too much. It feels like he’s carrying the weight of all the love he’s given and not getting anything back in return. Like his heart is overflowing, but there’s no one there to catch it.
"I hope you’re right," he says finally, his voice soft, resigned.
Madam Pomfrey gives him a small, reassuring smile. "I’m always right, dear. You’ll see."
James forces a smile, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He knows she’s trying to help, trying to ease the burden he’s been carrying, but it still feels heavy. Too heavy for him to manage on his own.
But as he stands up, ready to leave the hospital wing, he can’t help but feel a flicker of hope. Maybe she’s right. Maybe there’s love waiting for him, somewhere, if he just gives it time.
And maybe he’ll be enough.
The trophies gleam under the dim light of the room, each one reflecting the flicker of candlelight in polished curves of gold and silver. Detention, again. With James Potter, again.
Regulus moves his cloth over the surface of the cup in front of him, his movements mechanical, his mind elsewhere. It’s become routine now—the scraping of metal, the quiet scuffle of footsteps, the faint ticking of a distant clock. This is how it goes. Him and James, side by side, cleaning trophies in silence, neither of them acknowledging the other beyond what’s necessary.
But tonight is different. James is different.
Regulus notices it almost immediately, the shift in the air between them. James, who usually fills the room with too much—too much laughter, too much energy, too much light—is quiet. Too quiet.
It’s strange, unsettling even, because James Potter is never quiet.
Regulus glances at him from the corner of his eye, pretending to focus on the task in front of him. James is hunched over his own trophy, his hands moving slowly, deliberately, but there’s something off about the way he moves tonight. Like he’s weighed down by something invisible, something heavy. His usual cocky grin is nowhere to be seen, and the easy warmth that usually radiates from him has dimmed, like a fire that’s been smothered.
For a moment, Regulus feels a strange flicker of something—curiosity, maybe. Or something deeper. He feels it like a pulse in his chest, a fleeting desire to ask, to find out why James, the boy made of sunlight, looks like a storm cloud tonight.
But he doesn’t ask.
He won’t ask.
He tells himself it’s because he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care about James Potter or his moods, doesn’t care about why the golden boy of Gryffindor seems so… diminished. He can’t care.
The room feels smaller than usual, the silence between them thick and heavy, pressing in from all sides. Regulus moves the cloth over the nameplate again, though it’s already polished to a shine, just to keep his hands busy, just to keep his mind from wandering too far into places it doesn’t belong.
He can hear James breathing beside him, slow and measured, like he’s trying to keep himself calm. And that’s when Regulus knows—something is wrong. This isn’t just the normal quiet of detention. This is something else.
He feels it in the air, in the way James’ movements are slower than usual, less sure. In the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, like he’s trying to fold in on himself, to take up less space.
James Potter, who usually commands a room without trying, who laughs too loud, smiles too bright—is shrinking.
Regulus tells himself to ignore it. He doesn’t care. He should be glad that James isn’t filling the room with his usual obnoxious energy. It should make this detention easier, quieter. Less annoying.
But it doesn’t. It just makes everything feel… wrong.
He tightens his grip on the cloth, focusing on the cool metal beneath his fingers, on the steady rhythm of his movements. He doesn’t need to get involved. He doesn’t need to know what’s bothering James. It’s none of his concern.
And yet, his mind won’t stop circling back to it. Won’t stop wondering why.
Why the boy who’s always so full of light looks like he’s been swallowed by shadow.
James shifts beside him, letting out a soft sigh, and for a moment, Regulus thinks he’s going to say something. But he doesn’t. He just keeps polishing the trophy, his movements slow, almost absent.
It grates at Regulus, this silence between them. He’s used to hating James for being too much—too loud, too bright, too alive. But this version of James, this quieter, darker version, feels like a different person altogether. And Regulus doesn’t know what to do with that.
He doesn’t know how to hate this version.
And that unsettles him more than he’d like to admit.
Don’t ask. Don’t care. You don’t care.
The words repeat themselves in his mind, like a mantra, like a wall he’s trying to build between himself and the strange pull of curiosity that’s gnawing at him. He’s not supposed to care about James Potter. He’s supposed to hate him. He’s supposed to be glad when the golden boy falls from grace.
But there’s no satisfaction in it tonight. Only this uneasy quiet, this tension that coils in his chest, tight and suffocating.
He thinks, for a moment, of asking anyway. Just to break the silence. Just to get it over with.
But he doesn’t.
The minutes drag on, the quiet stretching longer and longer, until it feels like it’s filling every corner of the room, pressing down on them both. Regulus keeps his eyes on the trophy, keeps his hands moving, but his mind is elsewhere, circling back to the same question over and over again.
What’s wrong with you, Potter?
He won’t ask. He can’t ask. Because if he does, then he’ll have to admit that he’s noticed. That he’s paying attention. That, for some reason, he cares.
And Regulus can’t allow himself to care about James Potter. Not when there’s so much else weighing him down, so much darkness already sinking into his bones, pulling him under.
So he stays quiet. He keeps his distance.
And he tells himself, over and over again, that it doesn’t matter.
But the truth is, James isn’t the only one who’s different tonight. Regulus feels it too. This quiet, this heaviness, this unspoken thing between them. It’s not just James who’s quieter, darker.
It’s Regulus too.
And maybe, that’s why he doesn’t ask.
Because if he does, if he opens the door even just a crack, he might find that they’re more alike than he’s ever wanted to admit.
And that’s a truth Regulus isn’t ready to face.
The room is quiet, too quiet, save for the soft, rhythmic motion of James’ hand moving over the same trophy he’s been polishing for what feels like hours. He doesn’t even notice that he’s still working on the same one, his mind lost in a fog, the repetitive action more of a distraction than a task. It’s easier this way, easier to focus on something mindless than on the ache that’s settled in his chest, the weight of his thoughts pressing down like a stone.
Why doesn’t she love me? The thought keeps looping through his mind, over and over, a relentless whisper he can’t shake. Lily. Always Lily. He’s given her everything—his attention, his charm, every bit of himself—and still, it’s not enough. He’s not enough. It’s a truth he doesn’t want to admit, but it’s sitting heavy inside him tonight, gnawing at the edges of his heart.
James sighs, dragging the cloth over the curve of the trophy once more, the motion almost mechanical now. He’s stuck, both in this moment and in the feeling that no matter what he does, no matter how much he gives, it will never be enough.
Suddenly, the quiet is broken—shattered, really—by an angry voice, sharp and unexpected.
"What the hell is wrong with you, Potter?"
James blinks, startled out of his trance, his hand freezing mid-polish. He looks up, taken aback, and meets Regulus’ eyes—cold, furious.
James stares at him for a moment, completely thrown. Regulus asked him what was wrong. Regulus Black, the boy who’s always so closed off, so controlled, just demanded to know why James was polishing a trophy like a man possessed.
For a second, James doesn’t know what to say. His mind is still foggy, still tangled in the thoughts of Lily, of unrequited love, of the feeling of not being enough.
His first instinct is to laugh it off, to make a joke, to act like it’s nothing. But he doesn’t. Instead, the words slip out before he can stop them.
"Have you ever loved someone who doesn’t love you back?"
As soon as the words are out, James regrets them. They sound pathetic, like a plea he didn’t mean to make. And then, almost immediately, he feels foolish.
Of course Regulus hasn’t. Regulus Black doesn’t love anyone but himself.
James can almost hear Sirius’ voice in his head, the way he talks about his brother with disdain, the way he brushes off Regulus like he’s nothing more than a cold, calculating shadow of the family name. Regulus doesn’t care about love. Regulus doesn’t care about anyone.
But still… he asked. He noticed.
James watches Regulus for a moment, expecting a snide remark, expecting him to sneer or dismiss the question entirely. But Regulus says nothing. He just stands there, jaw tight, eyes dark with something James can’t quite place. And then, without another word, Regulus turns back to his own trophy, his movements sharp, his face blank again.
James sits there for a second longer, feeling like the ground has shifted under his feet. He should be angry. He should brush it off, pretend it never happened. But instead, he’s just… confused. And more than that—he’s surprised by how much Regulus noticing matters.
Later that night, long after detention has ended and the castle has fallen into its usual hush, James lies in his bed, staring up at the canopy above him. The Gryffindor dormitory is quiet, the soft snores of his friends filling the room, but James can’t sleep. His mind is still buzzing, still replaying the moment in the trophy room over and over.
Regulus asked him what was wrong.
It shouldn’t matter. It’s such a small thing, really—an angry, frustrated question spat out in a moment of impatience. But it sticks with James, the way Regulus looked at him, the way he noticed that something was off. Why would Regulus care?
He doesn’t, James tells himself. He doesn’t care at all.
But the truth is, James is happier about it than he should be. Far happier.
It feels like a crack in the wall, a tiny fracture in the mask Regulus always wears. And maybe it means that there’s something more to him. Maybe it means that Regulus isn’t as cold as he seems, that there’s a person behind the carefully constructed façade.
James rolls over, staring at the dark shapes of the curtains around his bed, and lets out a quiet sigh. It shouldn’t make a difference, but it does. Because for the first time, someone noticed that James wasn’t okay, and it wasn’t one of his friends. It was Regulus Black.
And the strangest part? James cares.
He cares that Regulus saw him. He cares that, in that moment of frustration, Regulus actually looked at him—really looked—and saw something was wrong. It’s unsettling, but there’s a small part of James that feels warmed by it, a small spark of something that wasn’t there before.
Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just an accident, a fleeting moment of connection that means nothing at all.
But lying there in the dark, James can’t shake the feeling that it mattered. That, for the first time, he saw a side of Regulus that wasn’t just cold, calculated indifference.
And he shouldn’t be as happy about that as he is.