room of requirement
“Ow, Sirius, my heel!” you hiss, grimacing as his sneaker scrapes your skin and pulls the back of your shoe down. You scuff your shoe against the floor, attempting to wiggle it back into place.
“Sorry,” he replies in a much-too-loud volume directly beside your ear, his breath moving your hair. You quickly shush him, shooting him a look over your shoulder.
“Oh- sorry.” He drops down to a whisper- you almost wish he didn’t. His voice got breathier, huskier, and if your face wasn’t scarlet already, it is now. The lumos you conjured flickers with the distraction. You pray he doesn’t notice. He’s standing so close behind you that your back is flush to his chest, warm and steady with every step. You’d realized it was a mistake to join Sirius as soon as he wrapped the cloak around you.
“How much- farther?” your voice catches as he gently directs you to turn with a large hand on your hip; unfortunately, your pajama shirt is a little too short. Ringed fingers brush the exposed skin there- the cold contact of metal makes you gasp quietly. You grit your teeth in embarrassment and annoyance. Your hands are buzzing with nerves, clutching onto the cloak like a lifeline.
“Just around this corner,” Sirius replies, dangerously close to your ear.
A recognizable croaky meow echoes down the hall, and your stomach drops. You stop abruptly, Sirius’s body colliding with your own and freezing. You’re plunged into darkness as you hurriedly dismiss the lumos. Your eyes strain to search for the pursuer.
Ms Norris sits behind you, her glowing yellow eyes staring directly into yours when you turn to look over your shoulder. Her tail flicks in the orange light approaching from the intersecting corridor. You suck in a breath as Filch comes into view, lantern creaking with every limped step he takes. He’s wearing his usual tattered robes, his thinning hair pulled into a matted ponytail at the bottom of his neck. He smiles with brown teeth at the feline, face eerily lit from underneath by the lamp.
“Oh, my sweet, what do you see? Students out past curfew, hmm?” he croons, squinted eyes flicking over where you stand in the middle of the corridor. You hold your breath as he limps closer- he can’t be more than a meter away now. Sirius’s arm wraps around your waist fully, holding you close while guiding you to take slow, silent steps to the wall, his breath shaky in your ear. The cloak feels stifling, as if the cool, watery fabric was replaced with thick wool.
Filch is still walking too close for comfort- and the Room of Requirement is in the direction he’s prowling. You squint to look down the hallway behind him. A marble bust of a witch with a wicked smile is displayed on a stone pillar, her sharp eyes cutting down the hallway at you. You carefully flick your wrist, making the statue jump slightly, the clanking sound of stone on stone reverberating through the corridor.
Filch swings around, eyes bugging, muttering, “I’ll hang 'em from their thumbs ‘till Christmas, I will…”
He retreats back in the direction he came, Ms Norris’s high tail trailing behind his uneven, rapid footsteps. You don’t breathe until they’re out of sight and his creaking lantern can’t be heard in the dark.
“Salazar, fuck,” you exhale, relaxing against Sirius. He lets out a quiet laugh.
“Wish I had the foresight to bring a few dungbombs to plant on him- oh, well.”
“Hm. Maybe next time,” you find yourself letting out a relieved chuckle. He feels warm and inviting behind you. There's a pause, only a second, but it spans on for what feels like years- a silent battle of who will break first. You clear your throat, straightening up, his arm sliding off of you. You cast another lumos.
“Right, er- the room’s right over here,” he whispers.
After a few turns, you reach a long stretch of empty corridor capped with a dead end. “Here it is.” Looking both ways, he swings the cloak off- you immediately step away, your chest loosening with every inch of space between you. You slowly spin around, inspecting the corridor- aside from a looming tapestry of dancing trolls in tutus, the hall is startlingly barren; there’s no doors in sight. You inspect the tapestry closer, your ball of light brightening. The trolls are surprisingly elegant, twisting into pirouettes and leaping with ease. A nearby wizard claps at them and barks orders.
“How do you reach the room? Is there a password, or something?” you whisper. You’re met with silence. You turn back to see Sirius pacing up and down the hall, eyebrows furrowed with determination.
“Godric. He’s finally lost it,” you mutter, crossing your arms.
“Shh!”
You hold up your hands in mock defense, leaning against the wall next to the tapestry. You look down at your nails, picking at your cuticles idly, until you see Sirius come to a stop in your peripheral.
“What, did you finally give up, or-” you look up and cut yourself off, noticing a great wooden set of doors on the previously blank wall. “What the fuck?”
“I know, right?” Sirius says excitedly. You can’t stop the slow grin spreading over your face- you haven’t found any new secrets in the castle in forever. He’s beaming at you, practically glowing with pride and excitement, and you feel yourself do the same. “C’mon.”
Sirius opens the door slowly, wincing at the creaking hinge, and gestures for you to enter.
“Always the gentleman,” you murmur, stepping inside. “Oh, holy shit.”
There doesn’t seem to be any walls or a ceiling to the room you walk into, just infinite piles of stuff. It's all haphazardly stacked, maze-like rows of books, armor, cauldrons, cages, kitchen appliances, snapped wands- is that a skull?
“Told you so.” Sirius’s voice is finally back to his normal volume with the door closed behind him.
“How’d you even find this place?” you ask as you run your fingers over a huge, ancient-looking mirror, carefully wiping a layer of dust off the cloudy surface with your sleeve. Sirius’s face appears behind yours in its reflection. You turn around, grinning with excitement.
“I was, uh.” He blinks when your eyes meet his, suddenly lost for words. You look at him quizzically. He swallows before continuing, “I was looking for a place to think, and was walking around in that hall- I just kept thinking about how much I wanted to be somewhere else.”
Your chest feels tight and warm, your gaze turning soft. You knew the feeling all too well. You want to say, I understand, I feel like that too, all the time, but it doesn’t come out of your mouth.
“Well, thank Godric you were having a breakdown,” you joke instead, putting some distance between yourself and Sirius by walking over to a shelf of congealed potions. You squint at the labels. “This place is wicked. Where d’you think all of this came from, anyway?”
“I dunno,” Sirius picks up an old, ripped quaffle, tossing it in his hand experimentally. “It’s mostly junk.”
You hum in thought, eyebrows furrowing. “These look like illegally brewed potions.”
Sirius perks up, the quaffle hitting the floor. “Like drugs?”
“Some of them. But they’re all old and gooey now. I doubt they’d do anything fun.”
“A girl can dream, I guess,” Sirius sighs before leaning over your shoulder to inspect one of the vials. “Have you ever made anything like that before?”
You scoff. “Are you asking me if I’ve brewed drugs before?”
“I wouldn’t put it past you, with how often you surprise me.”
You roll your eyes, picking up a bottle full of something pink, sparkly, and separated into a congealed hunk floating in oil. “I mean, yeah, I did in fourth year, I guess. Remus and I brewed a recipe from the restricted section that I tweaked. It worked, but it’s just a lot of effort, so it’s not really worth it-”
“What? Why didn’t you let me in on this?” Sirius exclaims, eyes wide.
“It was like, two years ago.”
“So?”
“So, you were even more annoying then than you are now.”
“Ouch. Still, though, I’d have appreciated the recipe, at least.”
“Yeah, Sirius, I’d totally let the bloke that hates my guts in on the drugs I’m brewing in Myrtle’s bathroom,” you drawl sarcastically, turning the potion over, watching as it bubbles up like a lava lamp.
“I never hated your guts,” Sirius scoffs.
“Sure, yeah, and I never hated yours,” you drawl.
“Fine, maybe I hated your guts a little.”
“The truth comes out,” you tease, pulling the cork off of the potion. You’re not sure if it’s Amortentia, it’s the right color; but based on the luster and oil it could also be Heartbreak Bond, a potion discontinued in the forties due to some unfortunate side effects; or maybe it’s Flirty Flight, or Dragon’s Tongue-
“What are you doing?”
“The label’s worn off on this one, I’m trying to see what it is.”
“Whatever it is, it smells like the stuff you put in your hair,” Sirius shrugs, stepping away from you to look at a particularly rusty sword. You furrow your brow, sniffing the rim of the bottle- it doesn’t smell like anything.
“I don’t smell anything.”
“Animagus, remember? I’ve had a keen nose ever since.”
“Maybe you’re just smelling me, not the potion.” You’re not sure why, but the idea of Sirius knowing what you smell like feels incredibly intimate- it’s making your heart rate pick up, and you pray your face isn’t getting flushed.
Sirius takes the potion from you, eyeing it with curiosity before lifting it under his nose. “Nope, that’s definitely the potion, and it smells like your hair. And…” he smells it again, “cigarettes? Or grass, maybe?”
“You creep, how do you even know what my hair smells like?” you scoff, taking the potion back and giving it one last sniff.
“It’s hard not to, it smells bloody awful,” he teases, picking up the sword and holding it out in front of him, forearms flexing with the motion.
“Better than your cologne.”
“The ladies love it," he brags.
"Not this one," you lie.
"I said ladies. But what's the verdict then? What do you think the mystery brew is?” Sirius lifts the sword to point at the potion with a flourish.
“I’m still not sure. If it smelled like roses, it’d be Heartbreak Bond-”
“The rubbish that gave blokes like, permanant boners?” he asks, dropping the sword with a clang.
“Yeah,” you snort. “But it’s not, so maybe it’s Dragon’s Tongue-” your breath hitches, realization spreading over you all at once, “or- or something.”
It may be Amortentia, and he says it smells like you. Oh. Oh.
You quickly put the potion down and walk away, attempting to act natural, eyes flicking over the piles. It’s a spoiled potion, you have no way of knowing what it is for sure. Oh, what are you thinking- there’s no way it’s Amortentia. What a stupid thing to think- obviously he wouldn’t smell you in a love potion. It’s probably just a fluke, or Sirius’s nose isn’t as keen as he thinks.
“You know, I’ve always thought Divination was bollocks,” Sirius says, eyeing a pile of cracked crystal balls. He picks one up and polishes the surface with the hem of his shirt, holding it up to the light.
You shrug, “Yeah, I don't want to stick up my nose at it, but Madame Mysteria once told me I was ‘destined for greatness’ 'cause I sneezed while she was reading my tea leaves.”
Sirius laughs, “I only took it one year. She stopped liking me that much after I played tarot card Snap with James in class.”
“I remember that. I also,” you drawl, giving him a look, “remember you weren’t bad at reading crystals.”
Sirius scoffs, tossing the crystal ball from hand to hand. “Please. I was just making stuff up.”
“You’re lying. Come on, give it a shot, I’m bored,” you say, leafing through a pile of old The Prophet editions. You’re trying to distract yourself from the fact that Sirius might have smelled you in Amortentia; Godric, you need a smoke. You fish in your pocket for cigarettes.
“Fine,” he huffs. He squints at the ball, turning it over in his hands. Sirius blinks, pausing, eyebrows furrowed. “Wait… oh, wow.”
“What?” you ask, perking up.
“I see something just awful, it's some kind of troll, I think,” he gasps, holding the crystal up so you’re positioned right behind it. His grin is warped through the crystal from your perspective.
“Ha,” you deadpan, lighting your smoke with your finger and going back to the newspapers. You talk around the cigarette, “Come on, be serious, I’m on the edge of my seat here.”
“Fine, serious this time,” Sirius grins at you before directing his attention to the divination. “Well, I can’t really tell since it’s cracked, but there’s a cat, I think? Which could mean like, five different things. Mrs Norris is in your future, maybe?” He peeks up at you, raising an eyebrow.
“I sure hope not.” You find a cracked teacup to use as an ashtray, tapping your smoke on the rim. You sit on a rickety chair with four squeaking wheels on its legs, pushing yourself along the aisle.
“There’s also… huh. There’s a spiral, which usually means confusion. And a weird-shaped skull, which is self explanatory. Oh, and a canoe, maybe? Or is that a croissant?” He holds the crystal closer to his eye.
“So Mrs Norris and I are going to get confused and die in a canoe together,” you nod thoughtfully, spinning yourself in a circle.
“Obviously. I should be your tutor for divination.”
You snort. “I’m not that desperate.”
Sirius flashes in and out of your field of view as you spin, and you watch as he gets closer and closer with every turn.
“Y’know, Mother had a friend that swore up and down that she was a prophet.” He abruptly stops you by grabbing the armrests, looming over you. You blink up at him, his arms caging you in your seat. “Do you remember her? She was at a few gatherings with you, I think. Always wore those bright pink robes?”
You hate how casually he’s looking down at you, head tilted, eyes cool and calm, lips twitched slightly upward. His hair is falling over his cheek in just a way that makes your hand feel gravitationally pulled to tuck it behind his ear. Sirius’s fingers tap lightly on the wood beside your forearm, just barely brushing your skin. Your mouth feels dry. You take a drag.
“The one with the really tall hat?” Smoke spills out of your mouth as you speak. “She always stared at me for way too long, and you know her eyes-” you widen your eyes and stare at him blankly to demonstrate. He laughs, head falling forward. When he looks back up at you, his dimples are showing.
“That’s the one. She always said you were special. It was kinda creepy, honestly.”
“You’re just saying that to fuck with me.” You squint up at him, raising an eyebrow. He lifts his hands up in defense, and you kick off of his shin to roll away. You wish you didn't.
“No, seriously,” Sirius chuckles, letting his hands drop loosely. “I heard her and Mother talking about it once, when we were little. I was jealous.”
“Jealous?”
“Don’t look at me like that. You know I love attention,” he says, batting his eyelashes at you.
“Well, giving me the heebie-jeebies didn’t really convey that I was ‘special’.”
“Can’t blame her for staring, you’re easy on the eyes.”
You feel heat flush up your chest, to your neck, to your cheeks. You want to slap the smug look off of his face.
“You two should start a fan club,” you deadpan, balancing the cig on your lip and kicking your chair over to a deep velvet drop cloth. It's concealing something roughly your height- you squint at it before pulling it off, immediately coughing through the clouds of dust that overwhelm you.
“Oh, you just hit the bloody jackpot,” Sirius gasps, eyes alight.
It’s a rack of ridiculously outdated, gaudy robes- all frills and lace and clashing textiles slapped together in a way that supposedly used to look appealing. He pulls a deep mauve robe with bottle green lace detailing off the rack, holding it up to your body, squinting and nodding in thought. His warm hand is firmly pressed against your collarbone. You can feel the cold sting of one of his rings.
You scoff, looking down at the robes. “I’m not putting that on.”
Sirius raises his eyebrow, “Not now. But how many galleons for you to wear it to the Malfoy Christmas social?”
You let out a laugh, nudging his hand off and shuffling through the rack, hangers screeching. “Everything in Gringotts couldn’t make me do that. I haven’t been to the Malfoy Christmas party in years.”
“I know. Your parents are always there, though- how’d you get out of it?”
You hold a fuchsia set of robes up to his chest, tilting your head, “I stay at the castle for Christmas. I just tell them I’m sick, or studying, or whatever. It’s a win-win; I get to skip that awful party, and they save the embarrassment of showing up with me. But these do make your eyes pop.”
Sirius huffs, “You’re the least embarrassing person there. To me, at least.”
You blink at his sincerity and give him a small smile, re-racking the robes. “Why don’t you stay here for Christmas?”
“I spend almost all of it with the Potters. There’s some events that I literally have to attend, but other than that, I don’t see my family, really…” he trails off, shrugging.
“What do you mean, ‘have to attend’?” you question, running your fingers down the smooth purple velvet lining of an overcoat. You don’t know much about Sirius’s home life, other than it’s strained, and his relationship with his brother is distant and fiery. They used to be closer when you were younger; Sirius would always watch out for him, stand up for him- Regulus was a quiet, scrawny kid, and an easy target. He thrived on Sirius's praise despite their occasional hard-headed squabbles. When Sirius was sorted into Gryffindor, everything changed.
“It’s blood-bound. I have to go to certain pureblood events until I’m twenty-five or else everyone in the family drops dead, including me. They can’t really properly disown me ‘till then. Some old traditions about ‘unity and loyalty to the Black name’, or whatever,” he drawls coldly, cracking his neck.
You furrow your eyebrows, your hands stilling on the fabric. You’ve heard of blood-bound traditions before, but you didn’t realize families still participated. It’s ancient magic, dark and dangerous, even more so than the Unbreakable Vow- one wrong move and your whole bloodline is dead. You guess that’s the point- perfection or death. You meet his eyes. They’re heavy and distant, lost in his head. “That’s awful.”
Sirius stares at you unashamedly, drinking in your expression. “I don’t wish you went, obviously, since it’s torture, but…”
“But?”
“I do miss seeing you there.”
You scoff, face flushing, “You miss having someone to tease, you mean.”
He smiles, his voice soft and small, “Obviously.”
---
You and Sirius spend the next few hours wandering the aisles of the Room of Requirement, snarking back and forth, your makeshift ashtray slowly filling. You’re inspecting an unfortunate taxidermy Grindylow when Sirius glances down at his watch, tapping the face and flashing you a mischievous grin.
“Breakfast starts in an hour. Want to sneak down to the kitchens for the first pick?”
You want to, but all you can hear is Sirius’s voice: are you fucking stupid? Obviously, it’s a joke, it’s all a joke. It's been slowly creeping its way into your consciousness throughout the time you've spent with him. There’s a reason why you don’t do this; whatever this is.
“I should get back before Lily wakes up and freaks out,” you say through a tense jaw.
“Oh,” he lets out, his grin dropping for a moment before flashing back to his normal smug expression, “no danishes for you, then. Filch should be around the-”
“Hufflepuff common room, he hangs out there before meals. I’ll avoid him, don’t worry. You forget who you’re talking to,” you joke half-heartedly.
“Ah, right.” Sirius pauses, eyes slowly moving up and down your silhouette, inspecting you. When his eyes meet yours, you raise your eyebrow questioningly, crossing your arms over your chest. He shrugs, a smug grin growing and revealing his dimples. “Just wanted to look at you.”
You huff out a scoff, taken aback- “Godric, you’re laying it on thick.” He doesn’t mean it, he doesn’t mean it-
“Just being honest.”
His lips look nice. Soft. Well, they’re kinda chapped in a rugged way- a little more red at the seam. Like he bites at them. He hasn’t shaved in a day or two, a dark shadow is painted across his dimpled cheeks. Your head feels fuzzy, and Sirius’s eyes are bright, and everything feels surreal, like you’re dreaming- Merlin, you need sleep. You need to leave before you say something stupid, and mess up the semi-friendship you’ve made. (Friendship? No, not that- you should actually like your friends. Friends don’t stonewall like you do. Friends don’t look at you the way Sirius does.)
“I’m not falling for that,” you strain a laugh, shaking your head. You keep your eyes pointed away from him as you snuff out your cigarette in the half-empty teacup at the Grindylow’s feet, moving to the exit swiftly. “See you,” you say over your shoulder. He doesn’t respond.
You take the long way back to the Gryffindor common room, passing through the East side of the castle to catch the last strokes of sunrise. You need time to walk, to think. The corridor you haunt is drafty, and the windows are webbed with frost. Outside the arched glass, the grounds are painted yellow with dead grass, the trees barren and sharp against the hazy gold and grey skyline. It’s just barely starting to snow- the first of the season.
Wrapping your arms around yourself, you drag your feet, exhaustion spreading over you. Merlin, what are you doing, what’s gotten into you? Sneaking out with Sirius. You don’t need any more confusion in your life, you have enough going on. You were perfectly content before all of this mess.
Yet, your resolve is weathered- he’s worn it down, bit by bit, smile by smile. You know, in a small, unexplored corner of your mind, that you’d do anything he asked, even if he annoys you more than anyone else. You’d complain and bitch and moan, but you’d do it just to see his dimples and that crooked bottom tooth.
Oh, fuck.
You really are falling for him.
You tiptoe up to your dormitory in a daze, carefully sneaking past a still-snoring Lily to crawl into your four-poster. You curl up on top of the sheets, not bothering with the covers. It feels stiflingly hot, and you hear Lily turn and mumble in her sleep, half-awake. Your head spins with Remus’s words- “people care about you, even though you’re a stubborn prick. Sirius is one of them.”
Your eyes flutter shut, and you fall into a fitful sleep.
You sleep on and off through the morning, eyes only completely creaking open around midday. Dull light creeps through the cracks in your curtains. You’re still on top of the sheets, and you sit up to stretch. Your nightmares were a little more tame, more creepy than jarring; so you woke up slowly with a pit in your stomach, rather than all at once and gasping for air.
You immediately go to the boys’ dormitory in hopes of finding Remus. Your stomach is churning with anxiety, and the steady comfort of his presence typically quiets that feeling. Sure enough, he’s lounging on his bed, propped up and reading.
“You sleep well?” he teases, eyeing you up and down. You definitely look like a mess- you didn’t bother to glance at yourself in the mirror before going to see him. You roll your eyes, walking over to his bed.
“Like a baby,” you say, throwing yourself on the comforter. You curl up close to him to read over his shoulder. “Another shitty mystery?”
“Yeah, but- you’ve been really tired this week,” Remus notices, closing the book and turning to look at you with a raised brow.
You shrug, keeping your eyes on the cover, “Just a little stressed, is all.”
“Is it the internship?”
He’ll see right through you if you lie. “Yeah, kinda.”
Remus eyes at you curiously, tucking the book under his arm. “Want to go to the library?”
“Please.”
---
Once you’ve actually gotten ready for the day, you and Remus make the trek to the library, breathing in the familiar smell of old paper as soon as you walk through the doors. You give the librarian a small smile that she doesn’t reciprocate, continuing to stamp books with vigor. Remus stifles a laugh, and you reach up to smack the back of his head when you’re hidden behind the shelves.
“I don’t know why you still try,” Remus snickers, running his hand along the hodge-podge spines as you walk in the direction of the muggle novels.
“I don’t either, really. I just feel bad about leaving cat hair in the restricted section,” you sigh, which only makes Remus laugh more. “C’mon, you’re supposed to be telling me about… what was it, again?” you drawl.
“Shakespeare. Bloody Shakespeare-”
“Shakespeare! Yeah, I’ve been meaning to read more of his.”
“God, I can’t believe you’ve never had to read any of them,” Remus squints, searching the shelves, before directing his attention to a selection of thin spines. “They’re practically sacred to muggles.”
“I read Much Ado About Nothing.”
“That’s not surprising,” Remus mumbles. “Well, Romeo and Juliet is an alright place to start-”
Someone clears their throat tentatively behind you and you glance over your shoulder, eyes widening.
“Regulus,” you greet, turning around fully and offering him a small smile, “hi.”
You and Regulus don’t talk, but are cordial with each other- when he isn’t staring down at his feet in the corridors, he gives you a tight, closed-lipped smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. The most you interact is when he asks where a book is in the library, or if you remember something about a class he’s taking.
Regulus spends most of his time alone, from what you can tell. You’ve always been alike, despite your obvious contrast in beliefs. You’ve never clashed like you and Sirius do. With Regulus, it’s always been just a straightforward, silent understanding of solidarity despite your differences.
You can tell when he’s nervous, though. You grew up together, after all. He’s picking at a callous on his middle finger, his slender shoulders pulled inward; it's identical to how meek he looked as a kid when his parents were in the room. Regulus cuts his hair short, just long enough to curl over his ears and fall in his eyes. His eyes- their color startlingly similar to Sirius’s- are flicking between you and Remus from behind the dark curtain.
“Hey, uhm,” he says, rolling his shoulders back and clearing his throat, “I was wondering if you took NEWT Herbology last year?”
“Oh, yeah,” you say, leaning back against the shelf and crossing your arms, “what’s up?”
“I have my notes over there, if you…” Regulus trails off, obviously uncomfortable, staring at Remus out of the corner of his eye. You raise your eyebrow, giving Remus a give me a second look and pushing off of the shelf.
“Sure. Lead the way. I’ll be right back, Rem.”
Remus nods at you, looking at Regulus with curiosity. The younger boy wordlessly leads you to a dim corner of the library where no sunlight reaches- there’s a draft, and you shiver. He leans over a desk where his parchment has been scattered, elegantly curved handwriting overlapping with notes. You squint at them.
“Is it Hungarian Flytrap cross-pollination? That was rough,” you remember the hours you spent studying for that exam and shutter.
“Yeah, actually,” he sheepishly replies, “sorry to bother you, I just…” he shrugs.
“Don’t be. Here-” you start looking through his notes, asking him questions on what was confusing him. He seems to know everything well enough, he's just lacking confidence. You shuffle the pages, and a near-perfect anatomical sketch of the plant catches your attention.
“I didn’t know you still drew,” you smile gently, picking the picture up carefully to inspect it further. He’s always been talented at art, typically scribbling away in a sketchbook when he wasn’t sassing Sirius in your youth.
“Oh, not really,” he says, flushing, drumming his fingers on the desk. “Just for class.”
“You should pick it back up. You’re talented, seriously.”
“...Thanks.” He glances away and swallows, his adam's apple bobbing.
“No problem.”
He turns to look at you, brow furrowed, mouth slightly open as if he wanted to say something. He snaps it shut, turning away. You furrow your brow.
“Is something wrong?” you ask. Regulus has always been shy to you, but not like this. The more you look at him, you notice how exhausted he seems- his hair is greasy, his clothes are wrinkled, and his hands are grasping onto the edge of the table tight enough to turn his knuckles white.
“Just stressed.”
For a second, just a moment, you see a distorted reflection of yourself in Regulus’s grey eyes. You blink, brushing it off. If the situation was reversed, you wouldn’t want him to pry. So you don’t.
“You're doing well, you just need to give yourself some credit.”
“Thanks,” he nods at you, still looking unsure. He stares at his notes, his eyes unmoving. You take that as a dismissal and walk away, head spinning.
“What the hell was that?” Remus hisses when you reach him, straining his neck to look through the shelves for a glance at Regulus. You regard Remus with furrowed eyebrows, shaking your head.
“I don’t know, he was acting really weird.”
Remus gives up and sits on top of a nearby desk, rubbing his neck. "Like... more than normal?"
You scoff, "Yeah. It felt like he wanted to... I don't know. Tell me something, maybe?"
“Do you think it’s their parents?”
It crossed your mind that things may not be going as well as Sirius had hoped in his absence. Without Sirius in the house for their parents to belittle, Regulus is next in line.
“Maybe. Probably,” you ponder, sighing deeply.
“We shouldn’t mention it to Padfoot,” he states.
“Yeah, alright. Agreed.”
“Agreed.”
“...What the fuck is Romeo and Juliet?”
“Oh, you’re going to hate it.” Remus grins, his eyes wrinkling at the corners.