Way Enough

Regulus 

Regulus was shocked as all hell when Remus Lupin—of all people—invited him to a party.

He was mid-cool down on the bikes with the rest of his 4+, legs moving automatically, mind still half-stuck on practice. They had just spent the last five minutes roasting him for being late, because in his absence, Lockhart had taken his spot in the boat.

It had apparently been a disaster.

“God, it was awful, Reg,” Barty groaned, throwing his head back. “That blond bimbo was rushing the slide like crazy and then kept blaming it on Evan! Like, dude, you’re the one setting that fuck-ass rhythm.”

Regulus snorted. “I’m sorry, guys. I’ll never leave you to Gilderoy again,” he said mockingly, shaking his head before turning to Evan. “Evan, I’m sure you were perfect. Fuck him.”

Evan preened, stretching his arms over his head. “Trust me, I was.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but then—

A shadow loomed over them.

Remus Lupin.

Regulus froze as the 1V bow seat himself came to a stop beside their bikes, hands in his pockets, looking far too casual for whatever was about to happen.

“Hey, Regulus,” Remus said smoothly.

Regulus stared.

The only times he had ever spoken to Remus Lupin had been about lineup orders, erg tests, or maybe the occasional passive-aggressive comment about seat racing. There was no reason for him to be standing here now.

And yet.

“A friend is throwing a party with some of the guys this weekend,” Remus continued. “Figured you should come.”

Regulus choked on absolutely nothing.

Barty, Evan, and Snape whipped their heads around so fast they nearly broke their necks.

Regulus, still malfunctioning, could barely string a thought together, let alone a sentence.

What about me made Remus Lupin think I look like I party???

But before he could even process the invitation, let alone respond, Barty cut in immediately.

“We’re in.”

Regulus snapped his head toward him, scandalized. “Barty!”

Barty grinned wickedly. “Oh, come on, Reg. Live a little.”

Snape, shockingly, looked surprisingly content. Regulus highly doubted he had ever been invited to a party before.

…Neither had he, to be fair.

At least, not officially.

He had, however, been present during the absolute ragers Sirius used to throw at their house whenever their parents were on business trips—or when their mother was off on one of her “wellness retreats”.

And if by present, he meant existing in the house, holed up in his room, pretending he couldn’t hear the music shaking the walls.

“Great,” Remus said easily. Then, after a pause, he glanced at the rest of them and added, “And the rest of you should come too. You seem like the few people on this team who actually know how to have a good time.”

Regulus’ brain short-circuited again.

What the fuck does that mean??

But before he could question it, Remus shot him a smirk and clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll text you the details.”

And with that, he was gone.

Regulus sat there, stunned, as Barty let out an obnoxious whoop and clapped his hands together. “Regulus Black. Man of mystery. Who knew you were in with the 1V?”

“I’m not,” Regulus muttered, still trying to piece together how the hell this had happened.

Snape gave him a side-eye. “Clearly, you are now.”

Regulus groaned, dropping his head back against the wall.

What the fuck did I just get myself into?

Regulus watched as Remus walked away, his stride easy and confident—straight toward who else but James fucking Potter.

He scowled as he saw them dap each other up, exchanging grins like they were old friends.

Of course James had something to do with this.

Of course James had somehow inserted himself into yet another corner of Regulus’ life, as if his presence wasn’t already suffocating enough.

But before Regulus could even begin to unravel that mystery, Barty was punching him in the arm with far too much enthusiasm.

“Look at you, Reg!” Barty teased, smirking. “Moving up in the world.”

Evan nudged him too, smirking. “Yeah, first the you party with the 1V, next thing you know, you’ll be stroking them.”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Shut the fuck up. Do you hear how horrible that sounds out of context?”

“Duh, thats why I said it.”

But as they continued buzzing with excitement, he found himself letting them believe it—believe that he was in with the 1V, believe that he was effortlessly cool, that he was somehow a part of something bigger than just his lightweight team.

And maybe, for a moment, he let himself believe it too.

That was until the next night, when reality hit him like a freight train.

Because here he was, in Barty and Evan’s apartment, staring at himself in the mirror, feeling like a complete fucking idiot.

What the fuck do normal college students wear to a party???

His usual wardrobe—fitted team gear, sleek athletic wear, perfectly tailored basics—felt all wrong.

Barty had already rifled through his closet, immediately discarding half his options. "Bro, you are not about to show up dressed like you’re heading to a pre-race team meeting. You gotta look fuckable, Reg."

Regulus had rolled his eyes at that, but... he wasn’t wrong.

So, after a deep breath, he settled on:

A loose button-down, worn open at the collar, the top few buttons undone—just enough to prove he could be casual. Even though casual people didnt have to wrack their brains to figure out how to be “casual”. And jeans that Barty had made far too many comments about. ("Reg, I’m telling you, these make your ass look phenomenal.")

And, at the last second, a touch of eyeliner—just enough to make his gray eyes stand out, to make him look a little more dangerous, scandalous even. Well for him at least.

Mary had experimented on him a few weeks ago, and to his absolute shock, he’d loved it. The way it transformed his face, making him look a little sharper, a little more like someone else—someone he wouldn’t mind being for the night.

It wasn’t what he was used to, but… maybe that was the point.

Regulus exhaled, stepping back from the mirror, cracking his neck like he was bracing himself at the starting line of a race, getting intense. 

He could do this.

Even if every instinct in his body was screaming that he was in way over his head.

Barty had the great (terrible) idea that Regulus should show up to the party already drunk.

“You overthink shit way too much,” Barty declared, shoving a cheap-ass bottle of red wine into his hands. “Solution? Get absolutely wasted before we even get there.”

Regulus raised an eyebrow, turning the bottle in his hands with clear disgust. “My parents—and their fancy-ass antique wine collection—would drop dead if they saw me drinking this shit.”

“Then drink extra for them,” Barty said with a grin.

Regulus rolled his eyes but—fuck it—he swallowed his pride and took a long swig. It tasted like fermented regret, but he kept drinking anyway.

“This is horrific,” he muttered.

Evan clinked his own can of beer against the bottle. “That’s the spirit.”

And honestly? They were right. Regulus had a much better chance of surviving this night if he showed up already drunk.

By the time they rolled up to the party, the five of them—Barty, Evan, Mary, Snape, and Regulus—were fashionably late at 11 PM for a party that technically started at 10:30.

Because that felt right to Regulus.

He was an overthinker, after all. But the second he stepped through the door, he realized his mistake.

This was a fucking hockey party.

Regulus stopped short, his buzz faltering just slightly as he took in the scene. Everywhere he looked, there were hockey players—playing pong, talking to girls, yelling over the music, tossing back drinks like they were in a competition.

His stomach twisted.

Remus had just sent an address—Regulus hadn’t even considered whose party it actually was.

And to his absolute dismay, there was no sign of Remus or the other rowers yet.

He silently cursed himself for not showing up even later, then immediately beelined for the kitchen to get another drink.

The kitchen was packed, so Regulus wasn’t too surprised to spot Sirius.

He was leaned up against the counter, flirting shamelessly with some girl—all easy smirks, slow sips of his drink, and that stupid, lazy charm that always worked for him.

Regulus hesitated, but Sirius caught sight of him almost instantly.

And to Regulus’ horror, Sirius whispered something low and sensual to the girl, touched her wrist lightly, then excused himself—heading straight for Regulus.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“Reg,” Sirius said, grinning, but there was clear confusion behind it. “What are you doing here?”

Regulus shrugged, already gulping down whatever the hell was in his cup. He wanted the alcohol to hit faster. “One of the guys on my team invited me.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “James?”

Regulus snorted, amused despite himself. “Ha. No. Definitely not James.”

Sirius smirked, nodding approvingly. “Well, I’m glad you’re here.” Then, with mock seriousness, he added, “But don’t party too hard, yeah?”

Regulus rolled his eyes as Sirius clapped him once on the shoulder before vanishing back into the crowd—presumably to go find that girl again.

Regulus sighed, swirling the drink in his cup. Maybe if he drank enough, he could forget this was a terrible fucking idea.

All of his drinks, consumed within an irresponsibly short period of time, eventually hit him.

And, finally, Regulus was drunk enough to enjoy himself.

He was in the living room, dancing with Mary, who had spent the last five minutes hyping him up and making him loosen the fuck up.

Mary was a legend on the dance floor—all supple curves and languid movements, moving like the music was just an extension of her body. Regulus, in his hazy, warm state, tried to be more like her, rolling his hips in time with the beat, letting himself feel the music instead of thinking about it.

And it was fun.

Until his phone buzzed in his pocket.

He ignored it at first, too caught up in the moment—until it buzzed again, more insistent this time. With an exasperated sigh, he pulled it out and squinted at the screen, his vision slightly fuzzy.

It was 11 minutes before midnight.

And staring back at him was an ominous message from none other than that fucking Duolingo owl:

"Don’t make Duo sad. It would be a shame to lose that 513-day learning streak."

Regulus’ stomach dropped.

FUCK.

Not his French streak. Not now.

His drunk, perfectionist ass immediately abandoned the dance floor, beelining toward the nearest wall so he could complete his goddamn lesson.

And in his current state, that shit was hard.

He squinted aggressively at his screen, trying to focus on the multiple-choice options, conjugating verbs with the determination of a man on death row.

He was so absorbed that he didn’t register someone standing next to him until—

“Are you seriously learning French right now?”

Regulus looked up, startled, and found himself face-to-face with James Potter.

James was staring at him with genuine disbelief, eyes wide, looking at him like he was the strangest, most fascinating thing he'd ever seen.

Regulus, still very much drunk and very much himself, lifted his chin. “What, have you never seen someone better themselves before?”

James cracked up, loud and bright, throwing his head back in laughter. “Not at a party. And especially not drunk.”

Regulus just rolled his eyes and went back to his phone, muttering, "Philippe n'a pas de chien," with great concentration.

James shook his head, still grinning. “How did I even find you?”

Regulus, still tapping at his screen, shrugged. “Dunno, you tell me.”

“I saw you dancing,” James admitted easily. “And then I saw you look at your phone in absolute horror and practically sprint to the wall. I was curious.”

Regulus’ lips curled into a grin before he even thought about it. “So you were watching me.”

James faltered for just a second.

And Regulus, feeling bold (or maybe just reckless from the alcohol), bit his bottom lip slightly, watching as James' gaze flickered downward, just for a fraction of a second—just long enough to notice.

James swallowed, shifting his weight slightly. “You might be one of a kind, Black.”

Regulus tilted his head, smirking now, because—yeah.

He fucking was.

James was still looking at him, still watching him like he was something unexpected, something curious, and Regulus was feeling reckless enough to push it further.

"Are you just being nice to me because you beat me in the game the other day?" Regulus asked, keeping his tone light, teasing, continuing on his confident streak.

James’ face shifted instantly—the easy amusement flickering out for just a second, replaced by something shocked and cold.

"You knew it was me?"

Regulus raised an eyebrow. "I'm not an idiot, James. You were playing as the Leafs—which was my first clue. And do you really think I haven’t played with Sirius long enough to know what he sounds like?"

James opened his mouth, then snapped it shut.

Regulus smirked. Gotcha.

"Then why did you keep playing with me?" James finally asked, voice quieter now, almost cautious.

Regulus shrugged, looking back at his phone like this was the most casual conversation in the world. "I don’t actually know."

Then, after a beat—

"’Cause I really don’t like you."

James inhaled sharply through his nose, and when Regulus finally glanced up again, the look on James’ face was different.

His usual cocky grin had faltered, his eyes softer, like that answer had actually—somehow—hurt.

"Why is that?" James asked, his voice quieter now. "I don’t think I’ve ever done anything to you."

Regulus rolled his eyes. "I see through you, James. All your charm, all your appeal—"

James’ lips curved upward, recovering fast. "So you think I’m charming and appealing?"

Regulus scowled, immediately regretting his word choice.

James laughed, looking at him like he was the most entertaining thing in the room.

And somehow, that was worse than losing the damn hockey game.

Regulus huffed, crossing his arms, fully prepared to dig his heels in and ignore James for the rest of the night.

But then James’ grin softened, and he tilted his head slightly, studying Regulus like he was figuring something out.

“Here,” James said, voice low, steady, confident in that way that made Regulus’ skin prickle. “How about I take you somewhere quiet where you can save your French streak in peace?”

Regulus’ lips parted slightly, thrown off by the unexpected offer.

James smirked, clearly enjoying catching him off guard. “And then maybe,” he continued, leaning in just a little, “you can tell me the real reason you don’t like me.”

Regulus swallowed, suddenly feeling far too hot despite the buzz of alcohol in his system.

James’ eyes gleamed with something unreadable, something dangerous, as he added, “I promise—I’m a good listener.” A pause. “And I learn from my mistakes.”

Regulus’ breath hitched.

Because fuck.

That almost sounded like an apology.

And Regulus had no idea what to do with that.