The ballroom was tastefully decorated – the magically expanded space was drenched in warm candlelight, almost akin to fairy lights or fireflies. It reminded him of Hogwarts, of the dim candlelit feasts they hosted sporadically. Bits of tinsel, is what Sirius had called it, were strung up along the high walls, all leading towards the towering fir tree in the corner. Its sheer height and width were imposing and Regulus had felt small next to it. Sirius and James had gone on and on about the baubles they had charmed to slowly change colours or patterns and how the Potters always waited until they were back from Hogwarts before putting up the tree. And so there was enough of what he was familiar with, interspaced with the muggle decorations his brother adored so much.
After Sirius had gotten distracted by some other glittering thing, James had remained with Regulus, watching him watch the tree. Despite finally escaping the clutches of their parents, he couldn’t help but feel melancholic at missing this tradition, even if he had no clue he would find himself here. James placed a hand on his shoulder, murmuring “we’ll make sure you’re here next year,” and “you’ll be here, right?”
As if he had anywhere else to go at this point.
He gave James a small smile and that seemed to satisfy him momentarily. Then Euphemia – Effie, she’d asked him to call her – called out for some help with more decorating and James had dragged him along as if he had always been with them this time of year.
Yule. Or Christmas, as everyone in the Potter family called it. The Christmas story was quite perplexing – something about a man that many muggles revered who lived many centuries ago, who was born around this time of year, said to bring about the redemption of the people. His mother was a virgin and gave birth to him in a stable, as all the inns in the town were full. He vaguely remembers someone mentioning that he later rose from the dead after three days, and he was now beginning to doubt their words. When he’d inquired about what else this man had done, changing water to wine was not something he expected to be on the list. Curing the blind and healing the diseased. The son of God. And this man was supposedly a muggle. If that doesn’t sound like magic, then he doesn’t know what could be. He desperately wished to roll his eyes – whatever helped the muggles keep sane and happy, he supposed. Can’t be any weirder than some ancient wizarding traditions, he’s sure.
Regulus found himself outside, on one of the many secluded balconies adjacent to the main hall. Glass windows were fogged up, providing some semblance of privacy in the cold and dark evening outside. White tufts were softly falling outside, flakes drifting lethargically from the midnight sky, illuminated only by the light of lanterns. A fresh sheet of snow settled on the grounds of Potter Manor, adding to the snow from days past – trees and bushes were dusted with white, some intermixed with darker shades of green. There was something timeless and transcending about a snow covered landscape – perhaps it is the stillness juxtaposed with the gently drifting snow, how the world seemed to slow to a halt, draw down to a singular point – him, the snow, and the sky. The warmth of the hall had faded swiftly and the creeping tendrils of the cold were snaking themselves around his hands, wrists and face. A warming charm would easily solve his problem but he didn’t feel inclined to move, too entranced with breathing in the crisp, sharp air.
Several breaths, and he can feel the frigid hands of winter caress his nose, his cheeks, his forehead. He feels compelled to turn back towards the door and so he does.
He watches the blurs of colour move about beyond the glass. It was too familiar yet too foreign simultaneously; he knew that women and men weaved amongst each other in the centre of the room with intricate steps to beautiful orchestral music, had spent close to an hour simply watching them. And yet, there was an undertone of casualness, of joyousness that permeated the atmosphere, that was never present at any gathering he had attended. It truly felt like a celebration, of the year that had almost elapsed, of being able to gather and relax with friends and family, of slowing down and recollecting oneself. Reflecting. Reminiscing.
He didn’t particularly like engaging in activities such as reminiscing and reflecting , and wouldn't spare a thought for them if it wasn’t reflecting about his education, how he could learn more, learn faster, and perhaps do something great one day. But maybe that was something to work on; to move forward one must not ignore the past, lest they wish to be a fool.
And Regulus is no fool, not like his Father and certainly not like his Mother.
He inhaled another crisp lungful of the winter air then exhaled, and with that exhale his shoulders sagged and he hadn’t felt this light in years. Mother and Father can’t influence him here and now, can’t make him do anything.
Not anymore.
Over his dead body.
He shouldn’t let his thoughts wander to them. But it is difficult when they are interwoven into his biggest success to date. He’d escaped, left them and the Black family name behind him in that cold, dark house, to somewhere they cannot hurt him anymore. The licking flames of rage, despair and guilt danced to a tempo reminiscent of Stravinsky, irregular and rage-inducing in its syncopation. He itches for the touch of a piano, the only muggle activity he had ever been permitted to learn, elegant and befitting of a Black – perhaps it was because it was held in high esteem with their French ancestors. There was something therapeutic in music, different to the worlds he could escape to in fiction. Physically exerting yet emotionally stimulating.
It was just one of several things he missed about Grimmauld Place. He hadn’t spoken to the Potters about their lack of piano because, quite frankly, they’re doing enough of a service for him – housing, clothing, feeding him, amongst many other things. A soothing touch, warm smiles and company whenever he needed it. A proper family. It was everything he had dared to imagine and more and if there was anything to celebrate this year, it was the Potters.
He can understand more than ever why Sirius had left Grimmauld Place, left the family, left him in favour of the Potters. He’d have done the same in a heartbeat.
He was just beginning to tear free from the dancing tendrils of cold, their grip stronger now, that had snuck in the slivers of his robes, desperate to reach his skin. The door behind him opens. He turns his head, lips parted, ready to excuse himself before they shut again. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, ya know? You’re not the easiest person to find.” Potter, James, closes the door behind him, glasses fogging up before he takes them off and casts a warming charm on them. Regulus doesn’t understand why he hadn’t gotten the expensive eyesight healing procedure – the Potters are rich enough from their various businesses to afford it – but it would be weird. James Potter without the glasses. He’s always had glasses, since they first met briefly on the platform in Regulus’ first year. It was a rather vitriol public meeting, Walburga keeping Regulus in her grip until his older cousins had arrived, after which he was promptly whisked away to find a suitable group to sit with. He remembers turning his head towards Sirius and his friends as they ambled onto another carriage, staring mournfully at what he could’ve had if he wasn’t born a Black.
Maybe he should’ve expected this ending from the beginning, running away from Mother and Father’s influence when they insisted he should take the Dark Mark, should pledge his allegiance to a man already trudging determinedly down the path of insanity, obvious even to him at sixteen. The utter stupidity of his methods and the hypocritical nature of his message was too much. He would not follow a man blinded by his emotions, thirsting for revenge and fearful of the cold clutches of death.
Death was simply an inevitability.
First there is birth, then there is death. A simple fact of life. Sure, he can sympathise with the fear of dying young, but staving off death in its entirety? He was simply begging for the wrath of Nature and Magic. And it will come, he could sense it. An instability was beginning to form, and it was only a matter of time before Magical Britain would be plunged into civil war, if it wasn’t already. Self-preservation dictated that he align himself with the side most likely to emerge victorious, the side whose cause stood strong in the face of facts. The vitriolic insistence of pureblood supremacy had left an acrid taste on his tongue, fueled further by the wonderful case study of the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black. A healthy dose of fear, of what the muggles can do without the help of magic should have made it obvious that the presence of magic wasn’t some feature of superiority – it was simply an advantage they had been blessed with. That modern wizards were ignoring the advancements in the muggle world, digging their heads into the sand, instead of trying to learn and adapt their antiquated practices and lifestyles to better protect and ensure the survival of the wizarding world was simply absurd.
What a joke it had become.
Their denial of compromise, of accepting those with magical capabilities, regardless of their supposed blood status, was a glaring weakness when the population was so small to begin with, especially in comparison to the muggle population. It would lead to the extinction of British wizards and witches.
So, the choice was easy.
It helps that he was able to come to terms with the empirical evidence presented to him; if muggle-borns were inferior, then why did they perform just as well as purebloods, sometimes even exceeding them, in terms of magical abilities and intelligence? Claims of superiority should mean a statistically significant increase in performance consistently throughout Hogwarts and in adulthood. But that wasn’t the case. The lack of evidence had pushed him to contacting notable muggle-born students, academics and ministry personnel to try and access more evidence – whether that was anecdotal, statistical or otherwise. Surely his parents would change their minds if he could prove that their beliefs were factually incorrect. That they were simply believing in the propaganda released to ensure they remain in power.
But some part of him had remained steadfast in the belief that his parents wouldn’t change; wouldn’t care what the evidence showed, that the clear picture was right in front of their eyes, not if it meant admitting they were wrong. The Blacks were never wrong. And if they were? No one would dare come out and say it, not outright.
Sometimes he loathes the logical and systematic approach his mind insists upon, but it’s miles better than lacking the critical thought to find the glaring, fundamental flaws in the central message of a coup.
Pity be to the purebloods.
That still didn’t really explain why James Potter was looking for him amongst all the guests at the Potter’s Yule celebration. He should probably say something lest it get awkward. Again. For what must be the fiftieth time since he’d arrived at their front gate, cheek still stinging and cursed to hell and back, surprised to have even managed the apparition in the first place. “Hi?”
Stupid James just looks at him, neutrality juxtaposed to his usual peppy demeanour. “Hi Reggie,” and again with that stupid nickname that he insists on using, despite the demands that he not . “Could I convince you to come inside? It’s absolutely freezing out here.”
“I don’t know,” he muses, eyes drifting up and down the deep mahogany robes Effie had made James wear. “You look plenty warm to me.”
“Well, unlike myself, you’re starting to go a tad blue,” and then, with a boldness he could never find in himself, James reaches out and grabs his hands. He’s gentle, just like every other time he’s initiated contact. James’ hands cup his own, thumbs caressing the skin on the back of his hand briefly. “And you’re feeling more like a Fortescue sundae than a human, so…” He tilts his head to the door once, then once more, making the action even larger than before, when he doesn’t immediately move back to the hall. He huffs “Alright, I see how it’s going to be.”
He finds himself pulled – gently pulled but pulled nonetheless – straight into Potter’s solid chest, his arms winding round behind his shoulders, before being manhandled towards the door. “Sirius wants to know if you’re joining us for drinks in his room; yearly tradition.”
“Is there going to be anything other than birewhiskey and Butterbeer? I don’t think I can stomach firewhisky at the moment, not after the last time.” He pulls a face, very pointedly directed at James, who is determined to not look at him in some poor attempt at innocence. It doesn’t fool him for a second, not when he can see the large grin plastered across his face.
Sirius and James had thought it hilarious and a great idea to butter Regulus up with endless shots of Firewhisky about a week after he’d first arrived – that had ended with him emptying his guts all over Sirius’ bed. Nothing quite like spicy, fiery vomit to get back at his brother. He can say with certainty that firewhisky only tastes alright going down.
For all that he’d hated the after effects of the firewhiskey, it had felt… good, to be able to let loose and laugh about trivial and trifling matters. James had felt the need to regale him with all the reasons McGonagall had given Sirius detention – he can’t say he really needed to know about her catching Sirius and one of his many partners (if that was even the right word) in some dark corner. He pities her and contemplates sending her an anonymous gift with an apology about him – she’s bloody traumatised.
“Remus and Peter brought some muggle alcohol, I’m sure you’ll find something you’ll like,” and just because he’s an asshole, “Try not to throw up again. And if you do, please puke on Sirius, thanks.” He presses a kiss to the top of his head and Regulus glares up at him. If his cheeks are flushed, it’s because of the sudden change in temperature, nothing else.
“Ha, ha, no promises,” he drawls, turning away as he rolls his eyes. “I’ll make sure to sit next to the both of you, just in case.”
“That’s the spirit!”
They pass by Monty and Effie, as they insist he call them – a perplexing notion of familiarity that he couldn’t find the spirit or effort to argue against. Sirius did it, and had been doing it since before he’d left Grimmauld Place, so he’ll pretend it’s more for their sake than his own. But it is nice, to strip away the stiffness and distance that has plagued every relationship he’s had with an adult in the past. James stops to tell them that they were going to hang out with ‘the cool kids’ and they both just laughed before telling them not to get too drunk.
A part of him will always be shocked at the easy acceptance and the absolute acceptance of their various antics – his instinct is to hide the drinking, to avoid appearing hungover and, if that was the case, to always keep a hangover cure handy. It took the exhilaration out of the act, but they were also nearly adults.
Effie and Monty seemed to be concerned about their safety and wellbeing more than anything, and isn’t that a wild notion? Parental concern.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get over how easily your parents let you guys just- do things.”
He feels Potter shrug as he continues to guide him around as if he hasn’t been here for the better part of the break now. “They just want to know what we’re up to and that we’re safe.” And isn’t that just a kick in the gut with his parents.
He doesn’t want to think about his parents anymore.
“Drinking contest? First to get drunk has to buy the next time we go to Fortescue’s.” Regulus knows that he’ll probably lose but it’ll prove to be a long lasting distraction.
“You’re fucking on, I’m gonna make you eat your words.”
This should be a fun time.
It most definitely was not a fun time.
He stayed true to his words, planting himself between Sirius and James with a drink in his hand. Lupin had passed it to him soon after they had arrived, the liquid clear and bubbling – almost like a transparent butterbeer. “One gin and tonic for Reggie,” he says, offering him the glass. He raised an eyebrow at him, after peering down at the drink, to which Lupin replied “It’s a pretty standard muggle drink, they usually mix their own drinks with whatever they fancy,” before shrugging and turning back to the task of ‘mixing drinks’. Everyone else seemed to be drinking some drink or another that Lupin poured them so he does the same.
It’s not overly sweet like butterbeer and didn’t burn like a firewhiskey shot. It’s mild enough for his tastes – a little bit bitter but not overpowering. It’s a tolerable first drink, he decided. Maybe the muggles knew how to do alcohol better than their magical counterparts, if this was one of their ‘basic’ drinks. He slumped against the bed frame behind him, taking another sip of his drink before closing his eyes. Warmth continued to creep slowly back into his limbs, comforting yet lethargic all at once.
“Feeling alright?”
He hummed, eyes fluttering open again. Falling asleep around this lot was not something he should do – who knew what they’d do to him? Being related to one of them never granted him immunity. “Just a little tired.” James hummed back before getting up to do something. He had time to take several more long sips, back hunched and legs crossed in front of him, before a blanket was draped across his shoulders. He raised an eyebrow at James as he sat down again. James just smiled at him serenely.
“So, Reggie,” his brother chose that moment to flatter him with his attention, grin wide and eyes bright, leaning heavily against Lupin. Nothing good ever came about from that expression, at least in his experience – so, he wasn’t exactly enthused about this development. He elected to just stare blankly in response. “Dearest brother of mine,” Sirius sang, James snorting quietly next to him. “Will you please indulge us in any scandalous drama you are privy to?”
He made eye contact with Lupin, then at Pettigrew to Lupin’s right, then back to his brother. They all stared expectantly back at him, expressions a mixture of hope and amusement. He hummed, leaning back against James’ arm just a little bit. Sirius’ eyes flickered away from his for a second before refocusing on their little staring contest. Regulus turned away to messily down the rest of his drink. “Perhaps. What do I get out of this?”
“I’ll tell you one of my dirty, dirty secrets,” is punctuated with a wink and a finger in front of his grin. He can’t imagine Sirius being able to keep a secret but there are things he’s missed in the years they had co-existed in the same school, close enough to hurt when they catch glimpses of each other, yet far enough to numb the pain that constant exposure would bring. He’ll give Sirius all the gossip he wants if that is all it takes to learn about his brother again. To be his brother again.
“Where to begin,” he pondered. He took his time observing everyone in their little circle before he settled on Lupin, sending him a wink. “I think I need another drink before I can say anything, you see I’m awfully thirsty.” Groans echoed from around the circle, low vibrations rumbling through his back as James joined in with the crowd. He’s once again manhandled away and settled back against the bed frame as James got up to help Lupin with the drinks. Sirius just pouted at him – for putting off their gossip session just a little longer, or for taking away his pillow, he’s unsure. Either way, Sirius pouted at him, took a long sip, then went back to pouting. Peter just looked content to be there, drinking and relaxing against a pile of pillows and blankets against the wall.
It only took a couple minutes for everyone to have a second drink in hand, James handing him a cup with a different drink from before. He muttered his thanks, immediately taking a sip before scrunching his face up. “What the hell is this?”
“A margarita.” Lupin laughed when he just stared blankly back at him. “Tequila?” Another blank stare to which he continued to laugh, head bowing to lean against Sirius’. “Oh god, he really doesn’t know anything about alcohol,” then, “you should’ve told me! I would’ve kept it light.”
“I’ll have you know that I now think muggles have too much alcohol. I'm very sorry that I can’t keep up with it all.” Sirius just laughed along with Lupin, the asshole, and they continue to laugh harder every time they took a glance at him. James was looking at him in very obvious amusement, which reminded him- “James! I told you I knew nothing about alcohol, I thought you’d tell Lupin?” James freezed, eyes shifting between Regulus’ accusatory stare and whatever expression Lupin was wearing.
“I… may have forgotten to tell him.”
“Well, I can make you something else if you don’t like that drink, it’s not-”
“I am content with the drink, Lupin, just, why does it taste like that ?” Sirius was starting to sober up before he took a peek at his new expression and started laughing again. The urge to chuck the whole glass at him was strong, oh so strong. But then he noticed the arm Lupin tucked around his brother, the way they leaned against each other and it all clicked.
The perfect ammunition. So, he decided to throw physical violence out the window – he’ll just… tease them a bit. Tease Sirius a bit. Just a bit of revenge, nothing serious .
“Last I heard, Loretta Carmichael was planning on asking your good mate Lupin out to Hogsmeade.” That shut Sirius up rather quickly. He froze, face contorting hilariously before he settled for glaring at Regulus.
“Loretta Carmichael…?”
“You know the one , Ravenclaw, sixth-year, knows she’s good-looking but doesn’t tend to shove it in your face?” Lupin definitely knew who he was talking about, his blush absolutely flourishing as Regulus divided his attention between him and Sirius, who continued to stare blankly at him. “Don’t tell me you haven't heard about her?”
“Did she already ask him?” he sharply asked Regulus before pulling away from Lupin just to stare him dead in the eyes. Regulus doesn’t know how he hadn’t caught on earlier. Lupin had already visited the Manor a handful of times this break alone. “Did she ask you? What did you say?” and then, before poor Lupin could get a word in otherwise, “I don’t remember you talking about any Loretta or going to Hogsmeade with someone else.”
Lupin, caught in the crossfire of the Black brothers, does his best to not spontaneously combust, face completely rosy and glaring as best he can at Regulus, as if that will help him against the relentless interrogation he is being subjected to. Sirius continued to stare him down unwaveringly and Lupin had no choice but to turn away and answer him. “Yes, she did ask me.” Sirius’ face must’ve done something (not that he could tell, considering the angle) as he proceeded to blurt the rest of the answers out, arms poised to grab Sirius if he decides to do something idiotic like lunge at him. “I rejected her, of course. There’s nothing else to it.” There’s a tense little bit of silence, which Regulus savoured, using to get more comfortable. This was more like it. “Oh don’t be like that, Pads,” and then more softly “We’ll talk about this later, alright. Nothing happened, I swear it.”
“Do they always fight like this?” Regulus stage-whispered to James and Pettigrew as Lupin and Sirius did something far too mushy to look at, to which he nodded. “I feel for you and Pettigrew,” and that is all they said about it. Regulus wasn’t sure if James explicitly knew, suspected or was completely oblivious to the sort of relationship Lupin and Sirius have but that’s not his dirty laundry to air out.
Besides, Sirius’ attention was back on him now. “You’re a little fucking snake, you know that,” which was swiftly followed by an awkward and quite frankly soft kick to the shin. Practically a nudge. Regulus just smiled at him, crowing internally at his victory. He took a very large victory sip before getting to some actual decent gossip.
The conversation ebbed and flowed naturally from there, with the occasional break for more alcohol and teasing about his alcohol tolerance, which was “pitiful” according to Lupin and Pettigrew and “absolutely fucking terrible” according to James and Sirius. Before long, they began to drop like flies, falling to the temptation of sleep. He doesn’t remember falling asleep but when he next wakes, the lights have been dimmed and he’s surrounded by lumps of blankets that rise and fall steadily. He’s being shaken lightly, a whisper of “Reg, come on, let’s get you to bed,” entering one ear then promptly leaving the other. It was so hard to focus on words when the warmth of sleep was so near. “Reg,” the voice quietly stretched out and he groaned before attempting to focus on the source.
When he finally managed to keep his eyes open for more than a second, all he could see was James. He was so close to him, closer than he remembered them being before he- fell asleep. Ah. He really should move to his own room. “Wha,” he managed to grumble, “I’m awake, gimme a second.” James just patiently smoothed his hand up and down his back, helping him when he could. He doesn’t remember the details of their short trek back to his room but they eventually made it there intact. He still had the blanket wrapped around his shoulders, hands determinedly clutching at the corners to keep it on. James’ arm was slung around him when they stopped at the threshold of his bedroom, the door already ajar. He turned to James and stared at him, really stared at him and gave into the urges set free in his mind.
His arms are suddenly around James and he dopily smiled to himself when James put his arms around him. They stayed like that for an undetermined amount of time, eventually peeling away from each other. James bent down to collect the forgotten blanket that had fallen during their hug and wrapped it back around Regulus’ shoulders. James’ hand was suddenly cupping his cheek and oh , that was really quite nice, so he leaned into it, eyes fluttering shut ever so slightly, staring up at James with all the energy he had. Stared so he wouldn’t miss a single detail. Wouldn’t miss his small little smile, the way his eyes flitted about, the way his thumb brushed across his cheek, and almost missed the words he whispered, fixated on his lips moving. “We should both get to bed now.”
He hummed his agreement and dragged himself up to plant a soft, lingering kiss on his cheek before mumbling a goodnight. He remembered little else past flopping onto the bed, too tired to pull back the covers or brush his teeth or change out of the robes he wore to the party. He was tired, too tired, but never too tired for James Potter. What a lovely man he was.
Lovely. Oh so very, very lovely.
So maybe he lied. Maybe it was a little fun. But only a little.