Way Enough

3 weeks later

Chapter 2 Regulus 

The alarm blared at exactly 4:30 AM, but Regulus was already awake. He always was. His body had long since adjusted to the ungodly schedule that came with being a rower, and now he barely needed the reminder. He silenced it with a practiced tap, then swung his legs out of bed, feet landing on the cold floor of his apartment.

By 4:35, he was in the kitchen, methodically preparing the same breakfast he had every morning—half a cup of oats, measured precisely, cooked just long enough to be soft but not mushy. A splash of almond milk, a drizzle of honey, and exactly ten almonds on top. His green juice—blended the night before—waited for him in the fridge. He drank it in three gulps, wincing slightly at the taste. It wasn’t good, but it was necessary.

By 4:50, he was pulling on his uni, rolling the top half down so it bunched around his waist like every other rower did. Technically, it was a uniform, but everyone treated it more like an identity—spandex and pride, even at this hour. But unlike most of the guys, Regulus grabbed a long-sleeve athletic shirt and pulled it over his head before slipping on his slides. If anyone asked, he’d say it was because the river was freezing at dawn, and that wouldn’t be a lie. But the real reason sat heavier in his chest.

The open-weight guys rarely wore shirts once they got on the water. They thrived on it, the chance to show off their sculpted backs, their cut abs, their effortless strength. Regulus, though—he had to be different. As a lightweight, his job wasn’t to be big, it was to be lean, efficient, just muscular enough but never too much. And even though he knew he looked good in his own way, standing next to them, he always felt… less. Less powerful, less impressive, less like them.

At 5:05, he was out the door, the brisk morning air waking him up more than the green juice ever could. The boathouse wasn’t far, a short walk across campus, the sound of his footsteps the only thing breaking the silence. Another morning. Another practice. Another day of proving, to himself and to everyone else, that he belonged.

The boathouse loomed ahead, dark against the early morning sky, its presence as familiar to Regulus as his own reflection. The Snake Pit.

That’s what it had been called for generations, ever since Hogwarts University had first fielded a rowing team. Before the school rebranded in the 1980s, before they had traded their old serpent emblem for the golden lion that now adorned every jersey, before they had tried to rewrite history in favor of a more palatable image. But rowing was the oldest and most prestigious sport at the university, and the alumni—the real power behind the program—had made it clear: the boathouse would remain the Snake Pit, or their funding would disappear overnight.

The administration had caved, of course. Money spoke louder than mascots.

Regulus didn’t mind. He liked being a snake.

His father had been one too, back in his day. It was one of the few things Regulus had inherited from him—not a fond memory, not warmth, but a connection all the same. Something shared. His father rarely made an effort to be close with him or with Sirius. The Black parents had never been the affectionate sort, preferring discipline over devotion, expectation over encouragement. But still, when Regulus had been accepted to Hogwarts University and walked into the Snake Pit for the first time, he had felt it—that fleeting, invisible tether pulling him closer to the father who had once stood in the same place, breathed the same river air, trained under the same roof.

He pulled open the heavy wooden doors, the scent of damp wood, metal rigging, and old lake water filling his nose. Inside, a few of his teammates were already there, stretching, taping up their hands, or sipping on pre-workout. The low murmur of morning conversations drifted through the space, punctuated by the occasional clatter of oars being moved.

Regulus set his bag down on the nearest bench and began his own warm-up on the spin bike, methodical, controlled. No wasted movement. No excess energy. That was what it meant to be a lightweight. Precise. Efficient. Disciplined.

Even if no one else saw it, he belonged here.

Regulus kept his pace steady on the bike, his legs moving in a controlled rhythm as he stared across the boathouse at the openweights doing pull-ups. Their muscles flexed and tensed under the dim fluorescent lighting, their laughter echoing through the space as they cheered each other on. He wasn’t jealous exactly. But there was a part of him that wished he could be like them—big, strong, undeniable. No need to constantly prove himself, no need to hit an exact number on the scale just to have a seat in the boat.

A voice beside him pulled him from his thoughts.

"Looks like some walk-ons are trying out today," Severus muttered, his tone flat as he pedaled on the bike next to Regulus. His dark eyes flickered toward the far end of the boathouse, where a small group of nervous-looking guys were talking to one of the assistant coaches.

Regulus raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? And?"

Severus snorted. "There’s always some big idiot who pulls a nasty 2K and gets unwarranted coach favoritism, even though they have the boat technique of a donkey. Meanwhile, you and I have to be absolutely perfect and we’re still overlooked." His voice carried that signature edge of bitterness, a quiet resentment built up over years of knowing exactly where he stood in the team hierarchy.

Regulus hated that about Severus—his cynicism, the way he always assumed the worst. But he also couldn’t entirely disagree.

Lightweights had to be flawless. Openweights just had to be fast.

Still, he wasn’t about to let Severus drag him down with his pessimism.

"Lighten up, Sev," Regulus said, keeping his tone casual as he increased his resistance on the bike. "Last year, not a single walk-on made the team. You're being paranoid."

Severus huffed but didn’t argue, just kept pedaling in silence.

Regulus let his eyes drift back toward the openweights, then to the group of hopeful walk-ons. He told himself it didn’t matter. That no one was going to take his seat. That talent and technique would always win out in the end.

But deep down, he knew better.

As the warm-up wrapped up, the rhythmic hum of ergs and bikes quieted as their head coach, McGonagall, clapped her hands sharply to get everyone's attention. The team shuffled toward the whiteboard, sweat glistening on their foreheads, breaths still evening out from the steady effort of their pre-practice routines. Regulus wiped a bead of sweat from his temple as he scanned the board, his sharp eyes flicking over the neatly divided columns.

Openweights on one side. Lightweights on the other.

And there it was.

4+ – Black (S), Snape (3), Crouch (2), Rosier (B), MacDonald (Cox).

A quiet rush of satisfaction surged through Regulus. He was stroking. Again.

Sev, Barty, and Evan were the best lightweights on the team, and he knew it. This was their boat, their lineup. And he loved stroking—loved the control, the way he set the rhythm and felt the boat respond to his every movement. When he was in stroke seat, he was always right. That was rowing law:your stroke can do no wrong. The boat moved to his rhythm, his decisions. The others had to trust him, follow him.

It was the opposite of how he had grown up.

For so much of his life, he had followed Sirius. His older brother had always been the leader, the reckless, magnetic one who everyone gravitated toward, who made decisions without hesitation and expected Regulus to fall in line. And for years, Regulus had.

But rowing had given him something different.

Here, he decided the rhythm.

If he made the boat move faster, smoother, lighter—if he found the perfect stroke rate, the perfect balance—then he controlled what happened next. He determined the outcome. He wasn’t just following someone else’s lead; he was shaping his own future, one powerful, measured stroke at a time.

His fingers curled slightly, itching to feel the oar in his hands.

"Happy with your lineup, Black?" McGonagall’s sharp voice cut through his thoughts.

Regulus schooled his expression into something neutral. “Yes, Coach.”

She gave a short nod before moving on.

Beside him, Sev muttered, “Enjoy it while it lasts, mate. You know they’ll be switching everything around before regatta season.”

Regulus just smirked. “Not if we make this boat go fast enough.”

Sev huffed but didn’t argue. Barty cracked his knuckles, already looking eager to get on the water. Evan just rolled his shoulders, calm as ever.

Regulus took one last glance at the board before heading toward the dock.

Seeing the sun rise on the water was the best part. 

Luckily, today’s workout was just steady state—nothing brutal, just solid strokes and steady cardio. They kept a standard pace, no sprints, just miles upon miles of rhythm and precision. It was the kind of practice that wasn’t meant to break them down but to reinforce everything they already knew: control, consistency, connection. They followed Mary’s commands to the letter, practicing rate changes, executing balance drills, and fine-tuning their efficiency with every stroke.

Mary was, as always, in full control. Their coxswain had a voice that could command an army—sharp, unwavering, and just the right amount of pushy. She knew how to keep them locked in, how to drive them to be better without making it feel suffocating.

"Alright, boys, this is feeling good—legs, legs, legs. Don’t let me see those arms getting greedy. Black, keep that rhythm exactly where it is. Sev, sit up, don’t collapse. Evan, Barty, stay locked in with stroke."

She was good at this—more than just giving orders, she knew when to push and when to lighten the mood.

"If I see one more sloppy feather, I’m throwing you all in the river. And, Reggie, don’t tempt me, I know you can’t swim."

A snort of laughter from Evan, a smirk from Barty. Regulus didn’t react, but he felt the tension in his shoulders ease just a little. Mary knew how to keep them dialed in and how to keep them from overthinking.

It was a good practice.

The boat felt fast, sharp, together. The river was beautiful today—glassy water reflecting the pale morning sky, oars cutting through it like synchronized clockwork. When the boat moved this well, it felt effortless, almost like flying.

By the time they rowed back to the dock, their bodies were warm, their minds clear. Regulus stepped out of the boat onto the dock, rolling his shoulders as he caught his breath. He was satisfied. Not drained, not frustrated—just satisfied.

Tomorrow would be harder. It always was. But today had been good.

When he finally got off the water, still riding the high of the practice, Regulus stilled at the sight on the dock—James Potter, admiring the water and sporting a brand-new Snake uni, which rode low, showing off his tan abs. Regulus’ smile dropped, more out of shock and confusion than the annoyance of seeing James in his place.

"What the fuck."

James turned at the sound of Regulus’ voice, his easy grin widening like he’d been expecting this reaction. Like he had planned for it. His hands rested casually on his hips, posture loose and confident, and Regulus hated how natural he looked standing there in his uniform, on his dock, like he belonged.

"Reg," James greeted, voice as infuriatingly familiar as ever.

Regulus stared, heart still hammering from practice but now for an entirely different reason. His mind scrambled to process the sight in front of him—James Potter, James fucking Potter, standing on the dock like he had every right to be there, like he hadn’t just barged into a world that wasn’t his.

"What the fuck," Regulus repeated, because he truly had nothing else to say.

James’ grin only grew. "Not the warmest welcome, but I’ll take it."

Regulus' jaw tightened. He knew James. He knew that look—mischief, confidence, amusement. He could already tell James was loving this.

"Why are you here?" Regulus demanded, stepping closer, still too stunned to be properly angry.

"Ah, well," James stretched, his muscles flexing as he rolled his shoulders like he was getting comfortable. "Got injured. No hockey this season."

Regulus' stomach sank. No.

"And Sirius," James continued, voice infuriatingly casual, "had this brilliant idea—thought I should try rowing. Turns out, he was right."

Regulus inhaled sharply through his nose. Of course this was Sirius’ fault. Of course his brother couldn't just leave one thing alone. It wasn’t enough that James and Sirius had ruled the ice together for years—no, Sirius just had to plant him here, in the one space that was still Regulus’ own.

"You’re joking."

James shrugged. "Nope. Coach thinks I’ve got potential. Apparently, I pull a decent number." His smirk turned sharp. "You should’ve seen my erg test—"

"Shut up," Regulus snapped before James could finish that sentence. His entire body burned with irritation. He didn’t need to hear about James’ erg score. He already knew. James was an athlete—powerful, explosive, the kind of guy who could muscle through anything. Of course his numbers were good. And in a sport like this, numbers mattered.

James only grinned wider, rocking back on his heels. "Relax, Black. We’re gonna have fun."

Regulus exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. This isn’t happening.

"Stay out of my way, Potter," he said finally, voice low.

James' eyes gleamed. "Wouldn’t dream of it."