Chapter 3
Regulus stared up at the clouds, a sea of them blotting out the sun. Of course it was overcast, the sun avoided him as if he had dragonpox. Hovering midair over the Quidditch pitch, he lay back on his broom. His first week of fifth year had, surprisingly, gone well. While students around him panicked over OWLs, the meticulous and strict study schedule he followed didn't make him worry about them. He might even have gone as far to say he had a good week. Between hanging out with his friends and getting back into his academics, he had managed, for a brief moment, to forget everything else on his mind.
But naturally, Walburga had to ruin it.
The letter had arrived at breakfast, as punctual and unwelcome as ever. She spoke of duty—a word so often thrown his way it had started to feel more like a curse. It was a stark reminder of everything he could never escape. Don’t talk to Sirius. Don’t associate with Mudbloods. Be the top of your class. Excel at Quidditch. And above all, uphold the Black family name. The suffocating expectations ran through his mind. They weren’t just lofty; they were painfully unrealistic. Yet, Regulus knew he’d break himself trying to achieve them. What choice did he have?
Despite the usual and unwelcome reminder of his family’s standards, there was something different about this letter, something more ominous. Something striking and concerning. When he has read it, the context settled over him like a cold, heavy blanket of dread. Buried among the usual demands was a chilling line, ‘The time will soon come when our lineage must show its worth. Be ready to demonstrate yours’. His stomach churned as he reread the phrasing. Regulus was no fool; he knew his family’s allegiance. He had an idea what this was alluding to. But until now, their support had felt distant, almost abstract. Fuck, he shouldn’t have to think about this type of stuff, he was a kid for Merlin’s sake!
He’d taken his broom out after classes, trying to untangle his thoughts, but they only grew more snarled. The letter wasn’t explicit, yet it said everything it needed to. Losing track of time, he barely noticed when the sky shifted from overcast gray to a dark blanket speckled with stars. Unwilling to face the world again, Regulus flew over to the astronomy tower, landing lightly. There, under the vast night sky, he drifted into an uneasy sleep.
Regulus' dreams often betray him. They are the karmic retribution of the night for the things he refuses to acknowledge and process during the day. This time is no different, only, he finds himself in a familiar setting. The gloomy corridors of Grimmauld place stretch around him, with their dark paneling, in various directions. Walking through the old mausoleum, a strange feeling settles over him. The old Black residence isn’t as it should be; the corridors intertwine together when they shouldn’t, each one changing and twisting in unnatural angles. ‘It all resembles a Labyrinth’, Regulus mutters to himself.
As he walks on, whispers start to reach his ears. At first it's soft like the soft whistling of the wind, but with each step he takes it grows louder and louder until it reaches the crescendo of a howling wind. Each muffled voice reaches him in fragments, like a storm is carrying them around. “Legacy”, whispers one, “Blood”, says another “Duty”. Each reaching Regulus like a whip, quick and sharp, leaving behind the strong sting of desperation.
He walks and he walks and he walks, turning around corners frantically looking for the correct path. The panic starts to set in slowly but surely, trapped in that home with no escape. He starts moving faster and faster, each corridor ending quicker than the previous. Suddenly, speckles of light are hovering in front of him. Slowly dancing in front of his face, moving in what seems to be slowed time. He takes another step and they start to cluster together, creating a pathway of golden flecks. Deciding there’s nothing to lose, Regulus sets on following the light.
The light leads him in circles, glowing brighter and brighter with each corridor that he seems to pass. With every hallway the voices grow more desperate, changing in tone, until they stop being unrecognisable and taking instead familiar resonances. The next line he hears is from none other than Walburga Black, voice shrouded in coldness and disdain. “A Black never falters, never fails.”
His surroundings blur and suddenly, he finds himself standing before the door to the drawing room. The hallway is decaying there; bleeding dark ink that pools at his feet, a dark force making its way down, shredding the walls and tapestries, splitting the wooden floors. Regulus grows frantic. He moves towards the door and tries to open it to no avail. “You are the son of the house of Black. You will do everything to ensure the family's success”, Orion's voice sounded distorted. No matter how much he tries, the door does not budge.
The glow keeps getting brighter, the whispers stronger and the cracks on the paneling keep getting bigger and bigger. At last, in the maelstrom of voices, light and splintering wood, the floor gives way and Regulus falls into eternal darkness.
Regulus woke with a start, his chest heaving and sweat clinging to his skin despite the chill of the morning air. The stars above were fading, the first light of dawn creeping across the horizon. He sat up, rubbing his face, the fragments of the dream clung to him like cobwebs. Casting a quick tempus, Regulus jumped to his feet. He barely had enough time to make his way to the dungeons and get changed, before classes started. Fuck. Grabbing his broom, Regulus began his descent into the castle.
James swung his arms across his body, shaking them out and rotating his shoulders as he walked up to the castle. A little post workout stretching. His sweat felt sticky and cool on his skin in the morning air. James had gotten a little distracted today, he had gone a little further than he intended on his morning run and knew he was cutting it close to make time for breakfast. Every morning, James would wake up early and head out for a run or to workout at the quidditch pitch. Normally, he would get back just as everyone else was coming awake. One of his favorite perks as head boy was the lack of curfew, because it means he no longer has to worry about dancing about the castle in his cloak with the map in the morning to make sure he doesn't get caught (not that he had ever been caught, who was awake that early?). This morning he had gotten lost in the rhythm of it all and was running behind schedule. If he was quick, he might manage a shower, but breakfast would definitely be off the table. Maybe he could swing by the kitchens between classes? Sometime before lunch?
Bloody hell, he felt incredible. It wasn’t the supposed ‘aesthetic benefits’ that Jame’s worked out for (not that it hurt), rather it was the high of it. The blood roared through his body, the tingling adrenaline and the flush in his face. The rush left him craving more, always chasing that fleeting moment of pure energy, where nothing but the beat of his pulse and the fire in his limbs mattered. Exercising had a way of making everything else fall away. Fears, pressure, stress, it would all fade into the background and he could just exist for a little while, doing something he loved. Whether it was his feet pounding into the ground or the wind rushing past his face as he flew down the Quidditch pitch, it didn't matter, it was addictive. It was almost dangerous how much he needed it. Just one more lap, one more rep, one more sprint, because stopping meant coming down from the high.
Walking through the courtyard and into the castle, the last thing James expected was a student to barrel into him, sending them both to the ground. A groan from the dark haired boy was the first thing to break the silence. James jumped up and offered him a hand.
“You alright mate? Not broken bon—…” he was quickly silenced by starking grey eyes. Same grey as thunderclouds dancing around the darker center of a storm. “Black,” James readdressed, his hand still held out to help him up.
“Are you ok?” He asked again.
“Fine, Potter.” Regulus said, swatting away James hand and collecting himself off the stone floor. James' eyes drifted to the broom at their feet, raising his eyes to Regulus and cocking his head, smirking.
“Interesting thing to be taking with you to breakfast Black. I didn’t think Slytherin had practice today. And I didn’t see you on the pitch this morning.”
“And what makes you think you know everything Potter?” Regulus snapped back.
While James could seize the opportunity to remind him that he is captain for the Gryffindor team and head boy, his thoughts drifted as he saw the shadows under Regulus' eyes and the state of his hair and clothes. He would have guessed that Regulus hadn’t slept and had been out flying, but that was so unlike the young Slytherin prince. Surely not? James made direct eye contact with Regulus, face losing the roguish grin and filling with concern.
“Are you sure you're okay Black?”
Why the fuck was perfect sodding Potter looking at him like that? Regulus could practically smell the pity dripping from his pores, pairing nicely with the residue sweat that gleamed on Potter's skin. He was aware he probably looked awful. Sleeping on the floor after flying around for hours would do that. Not that he did much sleeping anyway. Setting his expression and countering Potter's look with a cool stare, Regulus reached up and ran his fingers through his curls, a vain attempt at casually fixing his hair.
“I'm fine Potter. How about you take your leave and mind your business so I can get on with mine? I would hate for you, the Golden Gryffindor, to be seen associating with a Slytherin. What would the people think? My reputation would be in tatters.” The final part of his statement was accompanied with a judgmental assessment, running his gaze up and down the boy standing in front of him.
James was speechless. James Potter was never speechless. What in Merlin's name was going on? Regulus ran his hand through his dark hair, they seemed to spring back into place, stubbornly curling despite Regulus's attempt to smooth them. His fingers lingered a moment too long at the back of his neck and dragged his eyes up and down James with something unreadable, something that made James's stomach flip in a way it absolutely should not. He was well aware Regulus was saying something, probably snarky and mean, but James couldn't think. And he had no idea why.
After standing there for a beat too long, gaping like a fish, Regulus crossed his arms, broom in hand, and raised an elegant eyebrow. His brain, usually quick with a comeback, had completely short-circuited. When Regulus tilted his head ever so slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was about to smirk, James panicked. James did the only logical thing he could think of, he turned on his heels and walked away.