a recipe for disaster - regulus
a recipe for disaster
“Mr Black!” He heard Slughorn call out with a confused tone in his voice, his stumbling footsteps an echo against the dungeon floors. “Stop, for Merlin’s sake, Mr Black.”
Against all the warning bells ringing in his mind Regulus paused in his rush to leave. He turned around sullenly and his robe followed in a swish. He’d always been unwilling to directly disobey an order from a teacher, knowing just what good that got him back at home. Slughorn was a little bit red in the face. The man didn’t often ever have to hurry.
He put his hands on his hips and a disapproving frown fell onto his face.
“What on earth are you doing, boy?” He asked exasperatedly.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you can't make me tutor Potter,” the name felt thick on his tongue, as thick as black tar. As he spoke, Slughorn continued to walk towards him. He reached his arm out to wrap around Regulus’ shoulders and he had to contain his wince of discomfort. Slughorn began shuffling him back to the classroom with Regulus trying to keep them at a snail’s pace.
“What, because of your brother?” Slughorn let out a chuckle, applying more pressure to his shoulder, encouraging him to press on. With Regulus’ awkward silence, far more telling than he wanted it to be, he continued, “Merlin and Morgana, you’re not that petty, are you?”
He felt like he was being chastised and couldn’t find it in himself to push away the annoyance that rose in him, crawling up his throat like a spider. It lodged itself in his airway. He felt irritation spread across his skin. An uncomfortable indication that redness was spreading from his throat to his cheeks.
“I’m not being petty,” he sneered, refusing to look Slughorn in the eye. They halted in front of the door. It was only partially opened. Regulus could see a sliver of Potter through the gap. He had a sinking feeling that he was likely listening in. “I merely have no interest in tutoring a half-brain like Potter.”
Slughorn gaped, “My, you’ve always been respectful, boy, don’t take that tone now.” Regulus didn’t appreciate the sternness. There was nothing he resented more than being talked down to like he was a wayward child. He could never protest against it, either.
“I heard from McGonagall that your brother was… displaced… to the Potter’s this summer,” he began waving his hand around as if trying to conjure the right words, “but there’s no need for this to become personal. This is simply a matter of my best student helping another student in need!”
"I don't care."
Regulus kept his face set forward firmly, narrowing in on the torches lining the hallway, watching the flickering flames and their dancing shadows. It was six o’clock. He could’ve been tucked away in his dorm right now, curling up by the fireplace while his roommates were still eating dinner. He could’ve been getting stuck into the pages of Emma or De Profundis. Or getting a start on all the new homework he’s been assigned. Despite it only being the first week back the professors were already getting antsy about it being their OWL year. He had a translation journal for ancient runes due in two weeks. A star chart due next week. A diagram of a snargaluff that he needed to prepare for his next herbology class. The list went on for an almost painfully long amount. There were a thousand things that he could be doing right now that would be better than having to walk back into that classroom with James Potter. While potions was one of his favourite subjects he’d always been on the edge about Professor Slughorn. At times he could be incredibly warm and at others… Well, he felt a bit like a trophy that Slughorn wanted to collect for his photographs and his little parties, if he was being honest. He was grateful at least that the Slug Club wouldn’t start up until Christmas inched closer.
Displaced. He scoffed internally. Well that was certainly one way to phrase it.
“What about the extra credit, Mr Black, hmm?”
“It’ll work out,” he replied coolly. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.” He was not sure he would be fine. He worked his arse off to get outstandings in every single class, but doing so always made him feel a little bit like a ghoul by the time each weekend arrived. And he’d been part of the quidditch team as well back then. He’d been exhausted and dead on his feet at the end of each practice, but it had been exhilarating at the same time. A brief reprieve from the mundanity of his life. Up in the air, isolated from even the team, it had been so peaceful.
This year he didn’t have the team, though. They were getting more work than they ever had before, and it was only going to increase in volume. Besides that, Regulus already took more electives than most other fifth years did. (His mother had made sure of that, specifically getting in touch with the Headmaster to ensure that they bent the rules just for him. Black privilege at its finest.)
Regulus had been studying for as long as he could remember. This was just another year. Just a bit more pressure. Pressure that extra credit could help relieve.
“Well,” Slughorn sputtered when he didn't respond at all, “you’ve already agreed!”
“Technically –”
“No, no – you technically agreed, now come along!” Slughorn pushed open the door and practically dragged Regulus back into the room.
The potions classroom was only half-lit. The desks towards the back were blanketed in shadows. Only Slughorn’s desk area and the front half of the classroom were still lit with torches. The flames danced just like they did in the hallway. For some reason it felt colder in the classroom than it did out there, even with a few of the cauldrons still left simmering over on the side tables by the storage cupboards. The heat that normally exuded from them was simply absent. It must have been a Newt-level potion, they tended to brew ones that needed a much longer time over the flame. And of course, there he was. Tall and lean. His figure was slack as he rested against the professor’s desk. He had his arms folded and Regulus couldn’t help but notice that despite his deceiving figure he had clearly developed some muscles through all of his quidditch practice.
“Professor,” Potter started, a wicked grin rising on his face, his dark eyes glinting, “is Baby Black my tutor then?”
“Mr. Potter, please refrain from calling him that,” Slughorn said exasperatedly.
“Of course, Professor,” he drawled with a smirk, “Prefect’s promise. I will never call Baby Black Baby Black again.”
Slughorn stared at him stupidly for a few seconds, tiredness evident in his eyes. Potter tended to have that effect on most teachers. He pressed on anyway.
“Now I know this isn’t exactly desirable for either of you –”
“Oh I think I’m plenty desirable, Professor,” Potter quipped. Regulus turned his nose up at him, tutting and shuffling a few steps away from Slughorn so he would finally get his bear-like hand off his shoulder.
“Quiet, Mr. Potter,” He practically begged. “Now as I was saying –”
“You’re about as desirable as a wet rag, Potter, one that’s been dragged through pis–
“Oh, coming from you?”
“Honestly!” Slughorn exclaimed, his voice drowning the two of them out. “Both of you, be quiet.”
They both went silent but kept staring daggers at each other.
“Now please, just listen. Mr. Potter, you need a tutor. Mr. Black is my best student.” He swivelled on his feet and turned towards Regulus, “Mr. Black, you want the extra credit. Here’s your way to earn it.” He sighed, looking like he was a second away from hanging his head in his hands.
“I’m going to leave, and you two are going to get along.”
He heaved out an incredibly exhausted sigh, gathered up some papers that likely needed marking from his desk, and started out towards the hallway.
“Oh,” he stopped and shot Regulus a final look, “I’ll talk to you about this in tomorrow’s potion lesson. I expect to hear what you’ve done this lesson and what your goals will be for the semester.”
He kept talking even as he was halfway out the doorway, everything coming out in quick fragments, “tell him what you need help with Potter. Make a plan!” Slughorn evidently wasn’t willing to spend any longer with the two of them. Before Regulus could even bring up the protest resting on his tongue, Slughorn was completely gone, the wooden arched door swinging behind him.
The closing of the door felt ominous. They eyed each other a little bit awkwardly. Potter kept his casual position but there was a certain tenseness in his shoulders now. Regulus shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, unsure of what to do with them.
The boy adjusted his red tie, loosening it as he cleared his throat. A new, smug expression overtook his face.
“Done with your temper tantrum, then, little Reggie?”
Oh. That’s how he was gonna play this.
“Fuck off.”
Okay, that could have been more eloquent. And honestly, the audacity he had, Potter had engaged just as much in their stupid little quarrel.
“No, I don’t think I will,” Potter pushed himself off the desk, striding closer to Regulus. In an instant, he knew that Potter’s mood had changed into something darker.
Now, there have been many words used to describe James Potter. Girls and boys alike giggled as he passed, a dreamy expression taking over their face.
“Oh Amy, isn’t his hair so cute like that!”
“Nina he looks like he’s been caught in a hurricane, don’t be daft. He looks rather handsome in that quidditch uniform though…”
The girls shared in their moon-eyed fawning, faces going up in flames when he turned around to wink at them. Regulus remembers rolling his eyes from his corner of the courtyard, returning back to his books and his studies out in the bitter autumn air. He’d been trying to soak up some of the last days he’d be able to comfortably spend outside.
He heard the girls shrieking in embarrassment and delight. He could see them out of the corner of his eye, jumping and grabbing each other’s arms as they raced out from the courtyard and back inside the castle halls.
But his many admirers didn’t tend to see him very much when he was angry. Regulus unfortunately had to report that the boy looked rather (objectively, of course) handsome during these occasions too. His eyebrows furrowed. His mouth set into a thin line. His hair had this perpetual wind-swept look to it, falling in almost boy-ish curls. Not relevant, Regulus. Despite his looks, he would rather not be on the receiving end of the infamous Potter temper right now. Especially considering that he himself was already riled up and on edge. Their pairing was a recipe for disaster, honestly.
Sirius was their catalyst. Any friction was bound to send them up in flames.
Potter stood toe-to-toe with him. He was clearly trying to act as insolent as humanly possible, attempting to get on each and every one of his nerves as some sort of pseudo-revenge for what had happened to Sirius. They acted more like brothers than Regulus and Sirius had in years, something that pained him endlessly. They would go to war like brothers. They would fight like brothers. They would die like brothers.
Because this whole attitude had to be about Sirius. Potter had never really ever bothered him before. He’d certainly never even attempted to tease or quarrel with him. So this change had to be about Sirius. Everything was always about Sirius.
Regulus refused to indulge him and look up, knowing the older boy stood a good few inches taller than him. He refused to be looked down upon.
“Professor Slughorn said we have to get along,” Regulus mocked the professor’s earlier words, looking sideways to the front of the classroom to avoid having to look at the boy, “we wouldn’t want him to hear that perfect prefect Potter was bothering his star student –” he blinked innocently, “–would we?”
Potter looked at him incredulously, scoffing and mimicking star student in a high-pitched, overly nasally voice as he rolled his eyes.
“...Fine, fine, I’ll stop being a prick,” he grumbled as he stepped back. He felt the pressure on his chest level out a little bit with some more distance between them. Everybody had been so damn touchy recently. It was beginning to make Regulus twitchy and nervous, unsettling him all the more as he noticed the increasing lack of complete and utter control.
“Ha – sure. That’ll be the day, won’t it?” He questioned sarcastically.
Potter eyed him up and down, starting to wag his finger at him with that irritating, pompous prefect arrogance exuding from his entire body, “Only, and only if you don’t say shit about that blood purity bullshit your lot is so obsessed with. Civility for civility,” his eyes darkened for a moment, “I can still make your life hell while we’re here, Black, if you push me.”
“You won’t have to worry about that,” he replied dryly. “Fucking hell, alright, we have to fucking do this, then. D’you have your potions book at least?”
***
To Potter’s credit they managed to stay on topic for the first hour and a half, but Regulus could tell he was quickly losing focus. They’d already gone through what he had trouble with last year… and then the year before that… and well. Evidently, Potter and potions didn’t exactly get along. He didn’t seem overly fond of the theoretical state of things, given the way his eyes kept twitching over to the ingredients cupboard and potions equipment laying out on the desks.
“We could always jump into the weedosoros potion, just for, y’know, pract–”
“No.”
“C’mon, Reggie,” he complained, leaning back in his chair.
“Regulus. And still no.”
This was probably the weirdest experience he’d ever had. They kept switching between short and snappy quips and borderline empathetic and... normal conversations about the struggles of potions. It was clear both he and Potter weren’t entirely sure how they were supposed to talk without pushing each other’s buttons too far and moving past civility.
“There’s just so many damn ingredients.” Potter had his head in his hands, the picture of utter despair. He could easily be the poster boy of each and every miserable student that walked the halls of Hogwarts.
Regulus tutted. He was sitting cross-legged on top of Slughorn’s desk (a very petty form of revenge that he would never even know about) as he wrote down a list of everything he would have to cover with Potter. If he was going to have to do this damn thing, he was going to do it well. It would come in handy for his own revision as well. Two birds with one stone, as the saying goes. He had to fight to keep his lips from twitching into a quick smirk though, he knew exactly how Potter felt. The hardest thing about potions was easily all of the memorisation.
“I know… Do you find quizzes helpful?”
“What?” Potter looked puzzled for a moment. “Oh,” he scrunched up his face in thought, “yeah, yeah I think so. We don’t do quizzes in potions, though?”
“No, I know. But that’s how I study.” Regulus paused, “How exactly did you try to learn them before? Have you tried instant recall?”
Potter genuinely looked dumbfounded, scratching the back of his head. Regulus waited for an answer… and waited… and waited.
“Potter,” he started slowly, “how do you study for potions?”
“I, er… I write down the instructions a bunch of times, so I can remember it…”
“Um, no. No. We’ll work on changing that.”
If there’s one benefit he had from all of his senseless studying, it was effective rote memorisation. He’d written down some notes. ‘Learn the ingredients and their purpose. Quizzes for instant recall. Start with potions that share ingredients and demonstrate how their purpose is relevant in each one…’
He wouldn’t mind being a professor one day. He thought that perhaps he'd even be good at it. He just wished his first pupil didn’t have to be James Potter.
Two seconds later they’d gotten caught in a petty argument again. Regulus simply didn’t know how to interact with him. Nothing felt natural. Nothing felt right.
It was so much easier when they were just focusing on potions though. Regulus could talk about it for hours, even if it was to him. Call him a nerd, but he actually couldn’t wait until he reached Newt-level potions. He wanted to take the advanced class, where Slughorn only took a select few students each year, and they started combining ancient runes, transfiguration and arithmancy to study alchemy. He liked seeing things come together. He liked feeling in control of something. He like understanding it all.
“So, you’re Slughorn’s best student, huh?”
“Yeah, I suppose I am,” he murmured, stretching his back out and wincing with the cracks he heard coming from the stiffness of his bones. “There’s really only one other student that even comes close, Nora Bramble, a muggleborn.”
“Not important,” he spoke with a sing-song rhythm.
“...What?” Regulus raised his eyebrow.
Potter snorted at him, “you sound just like Sirius back in first year, did you know that?”
Regulus merely scowled and stayed quiet, unsure of the relevancy and not really wanting to talk about his brother, especially not with his best friend.
“You don’t need to announce everybody’s blood status when you talk about them,” he snorted. He kept his voice rather light and airy, but Regulus knew that he was drawing an invisible line between them, almost daring him to cross it.
He started fiddling with some of the things on Slughorn’s desk. Some old potions books. Some spare quills. A couple of half-empty inkwells. Oh, it looks like Slughorn left behind a paper as well, tucked halfway under a theory book.
“I’m not doing it to be mean,” he argued without looking at him, “it’s just a fact. We’re purebloods. I’m a Slytherin. You’re a Gryffindor. It’s just a simple statement.”
Potter bit the inside of his cheek, obviously contemplating his words. He ended up protesting, “it’s a fact, yeah, but it’s got weight behind it, y’know?”
Regulus knew. Of course he fucking knew. “Nora’s a brilliant witch, of course, especially if she can keep up with my pace, and we’re partners,” he waved his hand around carelessly, “but she’s a muggleborn. Nothing wrong with saying it, it doesn’t take away from her talent –”
“Exactly. It has nothing to do with her talent, why d’you have to say it then?” He twirled the quill around between his fingers. He was always fiddling with something in his hands, he was honestly surprised that Potter hadn’t brought his snitch along with him. Regulus didn’t even know why he was holding it, he didn’t have anything to write down. He didn’t even have any parchment out.
“I’m serious, Reggie –”
“Regulus.”
“Reggie. I swear I’ve had this exact same conversation with your brother in first year.”
“Well, isn’t that just brilliant for you,” he replied sarcastically. What exactly did Potter want him to do with this information.
“Honestly, listen –”
“This isn’t a bloody philosophy session, I’m tutoring you, not the other way around,” he snapped. He didn’t feel nearly ready enough to flesh out this conversation. The entire day, no, the entire week had already been completely off. He was twitchy and on edge. He hadn’t had another dream but sometimes images came to him in flashes, each one paired with a splitting throb in his skull. As stupid of a reason as it was, he just didn’t want to talk about this right now with Potter. Maybe another time, honestly he would probably welcome it, just not now.
“It’s basic human decency,” his voice began to rise. Not enough to be a yell. But definitely noticeable. Enough to put Regulus back on edge. It was a natural reaction for him by now. Yelling led to hurting. Yelling meant he had to hide.
“I don’t exactly think these little words are the marker of all bad and evil.”
“Well,” he laughed exasperatedly, “I dunno, there’s a bloody war on because of these little words, so maybe they can be a bit evil,” he stopped for a second before sighing and tagging on an extra thought – “depending on how you use them, I s’pose.”
Regulus wasn’t using them wrong. He didn’t use them like his parents. He didn't use them to be evil. He just stated them like facts.
“I’m sure Sirius has told you all about how evil I am,” he scoffed.
“He didn’t, actually,” Potter said and for the life of him Regulus couldn’t figure out why he had a smug tone as he said it. “He says you’re just an idiot following after your parents like a dog, so, slightly different.” He even chuckled at the end, like he made himself laugh. Merlin, and he called Regulus the idiot.
“Oh yes, because that’s… much… better,” he spoke breezily, ignoring the pang in his ribs, “I’m nothing but the shadow of my parents, and the best part is,” he lied, “I love it.”
“C’mon,” Potter’s voice grew a little bit softer, a conflicted expression taking over (oh god, not the empathy again, Regulus was going to get whiplash), “you grew up in the same house. I know it’s… a bit more complicated than that.”
It was true. They grew up in the same house. They haunted the house like ghosts together. They’d been haunted together. They’d shared a bedroom until Sirius was six and Regulus was five years old. Regulus had cried himself to sleep for days after that happened, scared of every shadow and creak in the night. He’d only settled when Sirius had snuck back into his room, gently shushing him and gathering him up in his arms. Don’t let mother hear you cry, he would whisper.
There’s a boggart! He’d cried while pointing his trembling hand towards the closet.
No there’s not, Reggie. It was a silly ghost story I said to scare you. There’s no boggart.
He’d sniffled and looked up to his big brother. They shared the same grey eyes, Sirius’ being just a touch bluer than his. Their hair had been a similar length back then, just brushing the nape of their necks. It was something he’d loved every time he looked into the mirror. Looking like Sirius, the bravest person he knew.
Are you sure?
Yeah Reggie, I’m sure.
That house was cursed. It ruined every good thing that existed in the world. It was wrought with ghosts both real and imagined. It stripped Regulus down to his bones and left his skeleton laying limp in the hallway. It had taken every ounce of safety that he had ever felt and thrown it out the window. Safety in Sirius. Safety in his bedroom.
And he was the one still left there.
“Oh, complicated, is that how you would go about describing it?” He asked delicately, trying not to let the venom seep into his voice.
“It still doesn’t give you a right to think you’re better than anyone else just because of your blood, though, Black.”
“I never said that,” he spoke through gritted teeth, “I said, it’s just a simple fact. It doesn’t hurt to say it.” He slipped off of Slughorn’s desk and folded his arms defensively.
“And I’m saying that it can hurt to say it, especially with the war going on. Your parents are literally in a murder cult. A murder cult!”
“They…” he sputtered and looked around helplessly. He couldn’t exactly refute what Potter had said. His parents were obsessed with the Dark Lord. They were obsessed with offering him up to the Dark Lord.
“You can’t even deny it. Sirius was brave enough to leave,” he contemplated his next words for a moment, “...if you need help though… we could get you out, too.” Potter looked stupidly earnest and a bitter part of him wished he could wipe the look off his face.
Regulus ignored the small flutter in his stomach, he refused to buy into senseless hope. He tapped into the misplaced anger he held towards his brother and released it at Potter with sharp words.
“Sirius is a coward. All he had to do was stay in his bedroom, he was barely fucking home, anyway!” He felt himself falling deeper into the lie with every word that fell from his lips. A little voice in the back of his mind really hoped that Potter wouldn’t tell Sirius what he’d yelled. Too much of him cared about what his brother still thought of him. No matter how unlikely it was, Regulus hoped Sirius had picked up on the unspoken reason behind all of his actions, unfair as it was for him to expect that. He hoped that their distance was partially because Sirius knew what their mother would do to his little brother if she knew they ever spoke again. Not that he'd just given up on him.
In his outburst he’d stepped forward without thinking and caught his hip on the edge of Slughorn’s desk. He hissed in pain, cusping the area gingerly. It was probably going to bruise. Just another thing he’d add to his glamour coverage.
“Thought you’d be more graceful for a ballerina, Baby Black,” Regulus whirled to face him directly. His words had been carefully laced together, Regulus could tell, just to piss him off. He couldn’t lie, he was a little bit unnerved that he hadn’t actually replied directly to the Sirius comment. That was a sure-fire way to infuriate him. But no, Potter was still just sitting pseudo-casually in that stupid way of his, leaned precariously to balance on the back two legs of his chair and resting his left foot on the desktop, with the other firmly on the floor to keep himself stable. Merlin, his manners. He’d given up sitting normally at least twenty minutes ago. The boy has to have an attention problem. If Regulus hadn’t been so shocked at his words he would have sneered at his etiquette.
“Who told you that,” he asked rather stupidly before he could stop himself. (A fruitless question. He already knew the answer, there was only one other person at this school that knew he had lessons, after all.)
“Who do you think?” Potter raised his eyebrow expectantly. Regulus tried his best to ignore the squirming in his stomach. Potter was an attractive boy. Something he’d always been aware of but had noticed in more detail as they’d spent the last two hours together. He was easily on the same level as Barty. He would rather gut himself with a dull blade before ever being likened to one of Potter’s fanclub members, however. Still, pretty boys fuelled by overconfidence (no matter who they were) had always sent flutters through him, to his utter annoyance. It was an inconvenience to feel your face blush when trying to argue. With him though… the butterflies were inextricably linked with Regulus’ feelings of utter rage and loathing. He hated feeling like an idiot, and Merlin, was Potter doing a good job at making him feel small.
He knew things about Regulus. Things that Regulus had never even told his friends. And here he was, dangling the information in front of him like bait. Just to see how he would react. He resented every conversation they’d had civilly before this.
“I’m not a ballerina, I just do ballet,” Regulus had no idea why the words escaped him. Why he let himself become undone as he rushed to snap them out. He had no idea why he was indulging with this teasing. This was nothing but a mockery. He guessed it was his payback for the Sirius comment, then. There was no doubt in his mind that James Potter had heard the story about the beginning of summer from his best friend, about the cowardly little brother who stayed hidden away in his room even as their mother nearly killed him. Who didn’t run downstairs to see if he’d fallen victim to the green light. Who didn’t even open the door to his begging brother.
James Potter didn’t take nicely to anyone crossing his friends. The whole school knew that. Regulus wouldn’t be surprised if it was a law written in the skies.
Do not hurt, or be the cause of hurt, for Mr. James Potter’s friends or family.
Even the universe wouldn’t be on your side if you ignored that particular rule. It was part of the reason he’d walked right back out the door when he first saw the Gryffindor in the potions classroom in the first place. He’d been a little bit uneasy to spend time alone with him.
Contrary to popular belief about the usual charming and cheerful boy, there were indeed occasions where his smile dropped. Potter had only grown sharper with age, having always been quite wickedly smart. Perhaps not book smart, based on their previous conversation about potions and how much he remembered hearing the boy mope in the hallways about another barely-passed essay, but certainly intelligent in his application of magic. As the years grew on so did his creativity and wit, particularly in times of vengeance. Pranks, hexes, elaborate plans. Regulus had many times seen the embarrassed flush of a recent prankee, either rushing back to their dorms or being rushed to the hospital wing to reverse a certain hex. Simple and childish as he thought pranks were, even he had to admit the genius behind some of them. He also had to begrudgingly acknowledge the fact that the group of boys always seemed to match their level of severity to the crime they had deemed in need of punishment.
(Part of him almost felt embarrassed about how much he actually knew about James Potter. Well, not exactly knew, more like… was aware of. The older boy was truly one of the loudest people he had ever met so it wasn’t exactly odd that Regulus had overheard an obnoxious amount of stories in the hallways. …He’d also attempted to follow his brother around to see what he’s up to, sometimes even just to see him, many more times than he’d care to admit. So perhaps it was a little bit of his fault that their paths tended to run parallel to each other, and yet so very separately still, a few too many times a week.)
“Go on then,” he smirked arrogantly, twisting his quill in his fingers, “do a twirl for me.”
Heat rushed to Regulus’ cheeks and he felt an awful twist of embarrassment in his chest.
“Ingredients for the weedosoros potion, quickly,” he snapped, scrambling for some form of upper ground. It was the potion Potter said they were reviewing in class at the moment, and Regulus knew he likely wouldn’t remember. He often armed himself with his intelligence, he only hoped it would work now.
He indulged in the quick grimace that had passed over Potter’s face.
“Er… dragon liver, hemlock and cowbane essence… lacewing flies… doxy eggs?” He scratched his chin and looked at Regulus almost hopefully, forgetting his previous annoyance.
He felt great pleasure in the fact that he was in a higher position at this moment. He kept his chin held high and turned around, shaking his head back and forth as he walked to the blackboard and picked up the chalk. He wrote each letter slowly and deliberately.
Dragon Liver. Hemlock Essence. Cowbane Essence. Tormentil tincture. Bundimun Ooze. Streeler shells.
He placed the chalk down and attempted a casual lean against the blackboard, but fumbled awkwardly as he realised it wasn’t natural in the slightest. He bit the inside of his cheek when he saw Potter’s lips almost twitch into another one of his stupid smirks. Anything… fuck, anything to piss him off. Anything to make him stumble. Anything to make him more powerful than the older boy.
Oh…
…He has an idea… A really fucking bad idea.
Merlin, he’s probably going to regret this.
He keeps his tone light and mocking.
“Fucking hell, Potter,” he gestured to the board with a tilt of his head, “even my mudblood partner could answer this –” He never even had a chance to finish his sentence before he was flinching. Potter slammed his hands on the desk as he stood up. The sound echoed through the classroom, the only other sound being the distant crackle of flames. His face went stony. His lips pressed into a very thin line.
“Wanna repeat that, Baby Black?” He walked slowly around his own desk, his eyes narrowed onto Regulus like he was prey.
He had to force himself not to back away, or god forbid flinch again, as Potter walked towards him with power and purpose in each stride. He had nowhere further to go, anyway, standing too close to the blackboard. With each step closer he felt a thick cloud closing in around him. Regulus had witnessed the infamous Potter temper on countless occasions. But he’d never been the direct object of it. Even the teasing from earlier paled in comparison to the expression on his face now. He’d never tempted fate as many times as he had before today. He’d always avoided confrontation. It was in his DNA. It was the only way he knew how to survive. Yet, something about him just… made Regulus want to act out. Made him want to fight bloody.
While he could never rival his mother or father, there was something uniquely terrifying about James Potter when you crossed him.
There was fury in his eyes. In every line of his statue-like face. Fury that Regulus resolutely stared back into, refusing to back down in this battle he’d begun.
“You just went on about how brilliant of a witch she was,” Potter exclaimed incredulously, still coming towards him, “and minutes later you call her –” he sputtered and looked around desperately as if in disbelief. Regulus could see him trying to pull the pieces together, but he had always been painted with blurred watercolours. It was pointless.
Potter got so close to him he had no choice but to start backing up as well. He had to try and keep his breathing even. He knew what happened when older boys stalked towards him. He knew what happened when they cornered him. He knew that wasn’t what Potter was doing, he knew – he knew – but his breathing was hitching and Potter was grabbing his robe –
“You call her that word –” Potter gripped his collar tighter, raising Regulus up on the balls of his feet, “– one more time, and I swear, I don’t give a damn that you’re Sirius’ baby brother, you say that again and I’ll make your life hell, Black. No more child’s play.”
Regulus scoffed bitterly, rolling his eyes and trying to get a hold of his breath. He tried to keep his chin up and hoped that he wasn’t actually as shaky as he felt he was.
“My dear brother would probably be cheering you on, right about now, Potter,” he barely spoke loud enough to be heard, just above a whisper. It was about all he could manage right now.
James Potter went silent, a rarity that Regulus took temporary pleasure in. His eyebrows furrowed. He had him there, and Potter had to know it. His next words were considered very carefully, built out of ice and strung together to form a weapon that would dig in between Regulus’ ribs and stay lodged there for weeks to come.
“Does it hurt, Black, that I know your brother better than you do?”
Regulus had no response. He simply stared.
And stared.
And stared.
And it felt like James Potter had ripped the lungs from his very chest.
He stayed there, a phantom keeping him pinned to the blackboard long after Potter left him there to wallow in his own thoughts and spiral with the consequences of what had been said to him. Because, fuck, he knew that. He already knew that. But to hear it?
Regulus couldn’t remember getting back to the common room that night. He couldn’t really remember the next morning either. His mind was clouded over with nothing but those words. Over and over and over again. (Not the closeness, not the being closed in. He wasn’t that weak. Just the words. Just the words.)
I know your brother better than you do.
Does it hurt?
The next time he was consciously aware of something happening was when Pandora, a rather oddly spoken but sweet Ravenclaw, asked to share his inkwell in what appeared to be a Charms lesson.
“Oh, yes, yeah of course, Pandora.”
She smiled sweetly and dipped her quill into the inkwell, returning to her notes. He looked down at the desk. He had his own parchment out. He was holding his own quill. He’d gotten lost to his mind again, he hadn’t done it for months. This happened to him more often than he cared to admit. Losing time. Gaps in his memory. Just going through the motions like a ghost. He wondered if Barty and Evan had even noticed. He looked around. They were on the other side of the classroom. Evan looked like he was about to fall asleep, his face squished against his hand. Barty had his gaze locked on the blackboard, his hand flying across his parchment in a flurry.
It was easy to keep Flitwick’s lecture tuned out and drift back into his thoughts again. Back into all of the craziness that Potter had spurred up in his mind.
Muggleborns. Half-bloods. Purebloods.
He didn’t understand his parent’s hatred. How they could so readily support the… murder cult, as Potter so eloquently put it. He wasn’t exactly wrong, he thought wryly.
They were just as capable, if not more in some cases, than purebloods. It was just… easier… for purebloods. They had a long traceable history of ancient magics. Generations and generations of bloodlines (that circled back around with one another far much more than he cared to admit). Their magical core had to be stronger, there was no other possibility. It didn’t mean they should be pitted against each other. There was not a single damned justification Regulus could think of for all of the horrors that were building up outside of Hogwarts. He’d begun to dread reading the Daily Prophet, knowing that he’d only see more news of muggles’ deaths. Then he’d feel so awfully guilty. He would hear some of the older Slytherins snickering as they read the same article. He would hear quiet crying from other tables as the fear rose steadily in each mudbl–muggleborn student. He knew that he had aligned himself on the wrong side. He knew that deep in his very soul. But there was simply no way to change now. No matter what Potter thought. He’d been boxed in. Any movement on his part and it would be Sirius who paid the price.
You got what you wanted, he reminded himself.
He didn’t want to think about the war outside of Hogwarts. He would bury himself in his privileged little bubble if it meant he didn’t have to think about it.
Because thinking about it meant he had to realise that he would be fighting against his fellow students out there. He’d be fighting against muggleborns. And he knew that he probably wouldn’t win. He’d never been a good dueller. All of his ancient familial magic wouldn’t fix that.
He knew it as sure as he knew that grass was green. Lily Evans, for one, would beat him in a duel. There was no question about it.
But he was a pureblood. A member of the Noble House of Black, his mother whispered in his ear. It had to mean something.
Was it really that mean to say it as it was? Lily Evans, just like Nora Bramble, was brilliant. She was also a mudbl– muggleborn. These were two undeniable facts. They didn’t contradict themselves, as much as his mother believed otherwise.
Regulus wasn’t like them. He wasn’t a damn thing like his parents, he told himself even as his hand shook.
He’d really only said it because he knew it would make James Potter lose control. But… it came naturally off his tongue. It slipped out like honey, even when he meant to use it as venom. That word probably wasn’t even in Potter’s vocabulary. It wouldn’t ever just slip out even if he was under somebody’s wand, being subjected to cruciatus. And Regulus had used it as a weapon, even when he struggled to wholeheartedly understand the belief behind it. He never claimed to be a good person. Sometimes… sometimes he really wanted to be one though.
He wanted somebody to tell him he was good.
His ink blotches on the parchment where his hand refused to continue writing. What had he even been writing? He squinted at the rough lettering, nothing like his typical calligraphy.
Hypocrite. Hypocrite. Hypocrite. Hypocri –
He looked to the side abruptly, where Pandora dipped her quill into the inkwell again – nudged so hesitantly to the middle of the table, resting at an even distance between them. Had he moved it, or had she? He didn’t want to look at those words anymore. He looked at Pandora's pale white hair, bordering on blonde, he’d never had much longer than a casual conversation with her. She’d often been mocked for her dreamy tone and off-topic tangents when answering questions in class, but Regulus had always thought she’d been nice. He’d shared his ink. She was a half-blood. He did a good thing. He wasn’t a good person. But he’d done a good thing.
It didn’t stop the shaking.
Flitwick droned on in the background, lecturing them on the proper hand movement for the packing charm.