Sleep
James can’t sleep.
It’s not unusual, especially lately. The tired presses behind his eyes, making his head hurt and body ache with exhaustion. Still he lays there, silent and awake, for most of the night.
He got another letter yesterday, from his Dad. It was nothing bad- but nothing good, either. He said the potions had little effect, but they’ve made him less tired. Other than that he’s been laying in bed all day, muscles still too weak to move and walk. He didn’t say it, but James knows he’s lonely. With his mother working or talking to healers, his father’s often home alone. He'd ended the letter, I miss you , and James’s heart had cracked a little.
He wonders about going home earlier than winter break, maybe just by a week or two, to have a little more time with his father. Keep him company for a little while longer. Maybe when he asks he’ll bring McGonagall flowers this time.
But then he’d be missing a full moon- and he can’t do that. Not when they’ve decided to study Remus’s reaction and change time. His friends need him here, and his father needs him home.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
Maybe when he opens them, his chest won't hurt anymore.
Maybe Remus will be fine.
Maybe his father won't be sick.
Maybe he’ll know how to help.
Maybe everything will be ok.
He opens his eyes.
The dark stares back at him.
Nothing changes.
---
Regulus,
We’ve noticed your marks in potions have been slipping. Get this under control before you return for winter break. We expect you to uphold the House of Blacks image. This includes maintaining good grades. You are more than competent in Potions, and there is no excuse for your laziness.
Do not forget a successful progress report is expected by the end of the year. We will not protect you if you fail, regardless of your reasons. Do not expect any forgiveness from either your father or I.
Regards,
Walburga
Regulus crumples the letter in his fist. It’s true- his marks have been slipping. He’s too busy, too focused on literally everything else to care about his grades. His parents don’t have the same issue, evidently. He takes a shuddering breath.
He rounds a corner in the hallway, and nearly runs headlong into Snape. He grits his teeth and side steps, but Snape blocks his path.
“Watch where you’re going, Black.”
Regulus looks him over lazily, anger vibrating beneath his skin. Not directed at Snape, per se, but he makes an acceptable target. “Oh, I’m sorry. I normally notice the smell sooner. Did you shower?”
Snape glowers at him. “Watch your tongue, Black.”
“Or what? You’ll run to Slughorn?”
He could leave it alone. He could walk away. But his Mothers words are still pounding through his head, and suddenly Regulus wants to hurt something. Snape’s eyes flick to the letter crumpled in Regulus’s fist. “What’s that? Letter from Mummy?”
Something in him starts to burn. “Don’t be jealous, Severus. It’s not my fault your pathetic mother never writes.”
“Let's see, then.” Snape has his wand out in second. “Accio letter.”
The letter is ripped from his grasp and Regulus growls, instantly flinging a stinging jinx at Snape. He drops it and hisses in pain, raising his wand at the same time as Regulus. “Stupefy.”
“Locomotor Mortis.” The two spells collide between them, shoving them both backward with a flash of white and blue light.
Regulus flicks his wand, blood humming in his veins. This is what he needed. “Expulso.”
Snape’s thrown backwards, hitting the wall hard. Regulus rolls up his sleeves, standing over him. “Stay the fuck out of my business, Snivillus.”
Snape scrambles to his feet, furious. “ Sectumsemp-”
“Expelliarmus.”
Snape's wand flies out of his hand and down the hall. He cries out in anger, and lunges at Regulus.
To Snape’s credit, Regulus wasn’t expecting to be punched. In hindsight he should’ve seen it coming. But for some reason, the fist meeting his face catches him off guard. He stumbles back as blood starts to drip from his nose. He raises his wand again. He wants Snape to bleed.
Suddenly, a hand grabs Snape, ripping him away. Regulus turns and groans inwardly. Filch.
“You lads care to explain what’s going on here?” he leers, and Regulus hates him.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Sir.” Regulus straightens, brushing off his robes, wiping his nose. “Snape here decided to attack me on my way to Charms. I was just defending myself.” He ignores Snape’s snort next to him.
“Do you have any way to prove that, Black?”
“Of course, Sir.” Regulus concentrates, reorganizing the events of the last five minutes in his mind. He’s only done this once before, but it worked well enough. He summons a small glass vile, and carefully begins to draw the memories out of his head. It takes effort, pulling apart the order of time and memory, rearranging them into something useful. But this is the one Occlumency trick he’s been able to manage, and so when he hands the silver vial to Filch, he trusts its contents. “Here you go, Sir. If these aren't to your satisfaction, I’d be more than happy to serve my punishment.”
Snape makes a disgruntled sound. “Sir, that’s obviously not-”
“Shut up. I’ll review these later. Mr. Snape, I expect I’ll see you in detention fairly soon.” Filch pockets the vile, looking slightly disappointed to only punish one student. He turns away, muttering to himself. “First the weather on the seventh floor, now students fighting in the corridors… school’s going to shite if you ask me… but of course, no one ever does…”
Regulus gracefully collects his letter off the floor, ignoring Snape, who’s glaring daggers at him. He steps past him, careful not to brush shoulders.
“Watch your fucking back, Black,” Snape hisses as he passes.
Regulus keeps walking.
---
He hit you?
Regulus shrugs, laying back against Slytherin’s pillows. I technically didn’t try to de-escalate the situation.
The Basilisk hisses softly. You smell of anger.
Regulus sighs, presses the heels of his palms into his eyes. I know.
Who are you angry at?
It doesn’t matter. Himself, really, but the Basilisk doesn’t need to know that bit.
My master was angry. Angry all the time. And sad.
Regulus stares at the ceiling. He doesn’t know how to respond to that. “I have to do better,” He mutters to himself in english.
What are you saying?
I need to… to get my grades up. And… everything.
The Basilisk shifts. Is this your mother’s request again?
She’s right. I’m being too reckless.
Hm. It’s almost as if Regulus can hear the Basilisk’s frown.
What does she want?
Regulus rolls over and stares at the Basilisk, at the scars on its face. How was he supposed to… how could he even consider…
It doesn’t matter. He sighs.
It does to you.
Regulus considers. It… I guess. I don’t want to disappoint her.
The Basilisk stays quiet for a moment. Will you play?
I didn’t bring my violin.
The piano?
Regulus shakes his head. It was- it’s my brother who plays the piano. Not me.
You don’t know how?
I know a little.
Play a little, then.
He sits up, swings his legs over the bed, crosses to the piano and takes a seat. It’s probably out of tune , he says as he sets his hands on the keys.
It is, badly so. The first note he plays makes both of them cringe back a bit. He mutters an apology and tries again, softer this time.
He’s not very good. He’s not Sirius. He makes an effort though, and soon muscle memory kicks in. He plays through all the songs he knows, which doesn’t take long. When he’s done he sits back and sends the Basilisk a look she can’t see. Was that what you wanted?
I haven’t heard that played in so long.
Regulus nods. I’d imagine not. Tom Riddle, he didn’t play?
The Basilisk lets her head rest back on the floor. No. He didn’t have time for music.
Regulus frowns slightly. Oh.
Slowly, he stands up, stepping away from the bench. He moves closer, tentatively, to the Basilisk. He crouches in front of her face. It’s the closest he's ever gotten, and he can feel her breath in puffs on his skin.
It’s warm.
He doesn’t know what makes him so bold, but he’s sure, absolutely positive, that she won’t hurt him. He can feel it in his bones.
He trusts her.
He studies the Basilisk’s skin, dark and green. The way he can see her eyeballs moving under her swollen eyelids, like a dog deep in a dream. She’s beautiful, he realizes, and it’s like a dagger in his gut.
Slowly he puts out a hand, and she ducks her head, just slightly. He takes a breath, tries to calm himself, and places his palm on her nose between her nostrils. A thrill runs through him at the contact. The Basilisk’s skin is cold, reptilian.
He’s shaking, he realizes. Because this is what he wanted. This is what he was working for. He’s gained her trust. He’s touching her, for Merlin’s sake. He feels his wand burning in his pocket like a hot stone. Heavy and demanding, begging to be used.
And he could do it, so easily. He could complete his mission. He could make his Mother, if not proud, at least accepting of his accomplishments. He could earn the Dark Lord’s approval. He could reach into his pocket, pull out his wand. He could aim where the Basilisk was most vulnerable, whisper a spell, knock her out. Use his wand, or take out a knife, prop open her jaw and- and-
And.
A tear slips down his cheek, lands on the floor. Regulus doesn’t take his hand off the Basilisk. Tries not to be sick.
He can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t do this.
He shoves himself to his feet, gasping for breath. His nose starts to bleed again, and he can feel the blood on his lips. Takes a few stumbling steps back from the Basilisk. He hates this, hates his mother, hates the Dark Lord, hates himself.
He digs his nails into his palm until the scars reopen, crescent moons of blood turning his skin dark red. I’m sorry , he chokes out, words stumbling and catching in his throat.
Regulus grabs his bag from the bed, steps past the Basilisk, and starts to run, faster and faster, out of the hallway, into the chamber, through the door, and into the shaft. He can’t breathe until he’s shoving himself out of the tunnel and onto the bathroom floor. Even then it’s not enough, he has to go farther, and so he starts to run again. Through the halls, down the stairs. Into the dungeons. Into the common room. He has to go, has to put as much space between himself and the Basilisk. Has to keep her safe.
When he makes it to his dorm, he works to calm himself down. Pacing the floor, staring at his feet. This was weak. Pathetic. What would Walburga do? He knows. His mother would hit him in the side of the head, tell him to do better. She’d make him do better.
So he composes himself. Takes a deep breath, shoves the lump in his throat back down where it belongs. Straightens his robes. Finds his way to the bathroom, to the sink, to the mirror. He takes a hand towel and wets it, wiping away the fresh blood dripping from his nose.
Fucking Snape.
He splashes water on his face, drys it off. Practices his Glamour in the mirror, perfecting it until the circles under his eyes disappear and the cut on his face vanishes. He runs his fingers through his hair, curls bouncing gently.
He can handle this.
When he makes it out to the common room. Dorcas is curled up on an armchair and Barty is on the couch. They both stare at him with wide eyes.
“What?” Did he miss something? Was his nose bleeding again?
“What do you mean, what ?” Barty hisses. “You just ran through here looking slightly insane like two seconds ago.”
Oh. Right. He hadn’t realized they were here. Oh well. “I’m fine.”
Barty looks him up and down. “Evidently.”
Dorcas frowns. “Reg-”
“Where’s Evan?”
Something in Barty’s face flickers. “He’s got private lessons with Flitwick.”
Dorcas spares him a glance. “How do you know that? I don’t even know that, and I know everyone’s schedules. I memorized them back at the beginning of the year.”
Barty shrugs, not looking at either of them. “Who cares.”
Dorcas rolls her eyes and directs her attention back to Regulus. “Where were you?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Right.” She studies him carefully. “Ok.”
“Did you hear what happened?” Barty whispers, leaning closer, grinning.
“What?”
“Another batch of muggles dead. In the hospital this time.”
“How?”
Barty leans back, shrugging. “I don’t know. He probably just let Yaxley and Dolohov loose with a few Avadas . Either way, pretty good numbers for a Saturday night.”
Dorcas stays quiet. Regulus lets out a breath. “That’s going to end badly, I think.”
“What do you mean?”
“Dumbledore’s already suspicious. A hospital full of witnesses that wern’t properly obliviated… the Order’s going to be all over that.”
Barty huffs. “How do you know they wern’t properly obliviated?”
“It’s Yaxely and Dolohov.”
“Fair enough.” Barty sighs. “God, you’re so lucky Reg. I fucking wish the Dark Lord gave me a mission. Jesus.”
Lucky.
Lucky.
Lucky, lucky lucky lucky lucky lucky lucky-
“-Reg?” Dorcas pats the couch. “Come sit down. I wanted to go over some Transfiguration homework before dinner.”
He nods quietly, taking a seat.
He can do that much.
---
When Regulus arrives at his Astronomy classroom, there’s a note on the door.
Meet in astronomy tower. Working with telescopes today. - Prof. S
Almost everyone is already crouched around a telescope when he gets there, and he has no choice but to drop his bag next to Lupin who nods at him in greeting.
“Welcome, everyone.” Professor Sinistra glides past them. “You may use this time to locate all stars on the provided list.”
Silently, Lupin hands Regulus the list, who scans it quickly. “I’m assuming you don’t need or want my help.”
“Correct.”
“Lovely.”
They work in near silence for the rest of class, only speaking when Regulus locates a constellation and Lupin crosses it off the list.
By the end of the hour, Regulus decides Remus Lupin isn’t so bad.
---
James lets his head fall back against the couch, closing his eyes. He nearly doesn’t hear Regulus come in. He’s so quiet sometimes, a ghost with dark curls. James blinks at him from the couch. “Hi.”
“Hi.” Regulus looks him over, brows pinched. “You look awful.”
“It’s nice to see you too.”
“No, that's not- whatever.” Regulus flushes, and looks away.
James smiles. He knows what he looks like, the eye bags that refuse to smooth over, no matter how much tea he drinks. He looks how he feels; utterly exhausted. “Don’t worry about it. It’s nothing.”
Regulus gives him a look. “Right.”
“I got a letter from my dad.”
Regulus’s head snaps up. “And? What happened?”
James swallows. “It didn’t work. Or it hasn’t yet. Or something.”
A flicker of disappointment runs across Regulus’s face. “Oh.”
“Yeah.”
“You’re not- you’re not giving up?”
“No.” James’s eyes flash. “Never.”
Regulus nods to himself. “Good.” He crosses to the table, starts to pull out ingredients. “I thought this might happen- we need a catalyst.”
“Er- what?”
“The potion is supposed to cut the disease off before it can get to the muscles, right? But all we made was a shield, waiting to be activated. In essence, we need an on switch. We need to turn it on, somehow. As I said- a catalyst.”
“Oh,” James breathes out, and in his chest hope flutters its wings again. Thank God for Regulus Black. “Ok. Yeah, ok. Can we do that?”
“I think so. I need to tweak the original potion, but we should be able to manage it.” Regulus mixes something into the cauldron.
James walks up behind him, looking over his shoulder with a yawn. “Is that what you’re working on?”
Regulus takes a small breath, shuddering slightly for some un-discernible reason. “No,” he says, adding something that smells like lavender to the pot. “Do you think you can mail a package to your father?”
James moves to the side, leaning up against the table. “Maybe. Probably. I’ll tell the owl to be careful with it.”
“Will your father take it? The potion, I mean?”
James considers. “I’d imagine. Probably. I don’t see why not.” He remembers something. “Wait- I brought you some food.” He crosses to his bag and pulls out the bread pudding he has wrapped in a hankerchief. “Here.” He hands it to Regulus, who takes it as he stirs.
“Thank you,” He says quietly, and something under James’s ribs burns.
James moves back to the couch and sinks onto it with a sigh. He’s so tired. Blearily, he focuses on Regulus at the table. “What happened to your nose?” It’s slightly red, a small dot of dried blood crusted just above his upper lip. Regulus looks up, wiping it carefully.
“Snape punched me.”
James sits up, suddenly alert. “ What ?”
“It’s ok, I deserved it.”
“I highly doubt that.”
Regulus just shrugs. “I did blast him against the wall.”
“Reg.” James has never been more proud. He can’t help but grin. “Oh, I wish I could’ve seen that.”
The corners of Regulus’s mouth twitch, and he turns back to the cauldron. “It was fairly satisfying.”
“Of course it was, it’s Snape.”
They ease into a comfortable silence, James watching Reg work through half-lidded eyes, Regulus putters around, from the table to the bookshelf and back again. He puts a book in James’s bag, muttering something about extra research for later. James is content to just watch. He doesn’t bring up what happened in the closet. He doesn’t bring up Sirius. He just lets himself sink into the warmth of the couch below him and the comfort of Regulus occasionally whispering a note about potions or jotting something down.
When it’s time to go, he leaves first. The potion (or catalyst, as Reg has been calling it) will be done by the end of the week. James intends to ship it out as soon as possible.
He makes it all the way to the Great Hall before he notices the slight clinks coming from his bag. He sinks onto the bench next to Sirius, then unzips it carefully. His breath catches in his throat when he sees them, gently wrapped in James's handkerchief. James looks up, staring at Reg from across the hall. He’s lost in conversation, oblivious. James looks back at his bag, at the small vials Regulus must’ve brewed during their meeting and slipped into his bag along with the book. At the unmistakable swirling purple color.
Sleeping draughts.