Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

„What is a labyrinth, if not a mirror of the mind?”

James’s voice carries through the room. The September sun shines through big windows unto ancient texts on equally old, slightly dusty bookcases. His eyes scan the room. Twelve students, in perfectly tailored school uniforms sit in front of him, eyes glassy and unfocused. James is unperturbed by this. No matter where you are – a run-down school in a bad school district in the outskirts of London, or a prestigious boarding school in the Scottish Highlands that houses the children of politicians and CEO´s alike — a teacher needs to earn the attention of his pupils. And seeing as this is his first class at Hallowthorn Hall —and the first day of classes after summer holidays —the lack of appreciation for Greek Literature is not at all surprising.

"The myth of Theseus and the Minotaur begins, as so many do, with a sin. King Minos of Crete defies the gods and refuses to sacrifice a sacred bull. His punishment? A creature born of monstrosity and desire—of man and beast— imprisoned deep in a labyrinth so intricate that no one could escape it alive. But let us pause here. What is this labyrinth, truly?"

James lets his eyes wander across the room, pausing for dramatic effect.

"To the Greeks, the labyrinth was not merely a prison for the Minotaur — it was a symbol, representing the complexity of the human mind. Its passages mirror the choices we make, the paths we take — or don´t take— and the places we become lost in. And at its heart? The Minotaur, the beast we fear most. The shadow of ourselves."

His students become more alive as he talks. The myth of Theseus and the Minotaur is one of his personal favourites and it never fails to invoke a reaction in his audience.

"This story, though simple on its surface, weaves through some of the most important works of Greek literature. It is a myth that asks us to confront our ideas of heroism, morality, and the shadowed corners of the human soul."

He glances at his students. Around half of them are looking at him now, faces expectant, notebooks open and pens in their hands. James gives them a warm smile before turning around to pick up one of the books on his desk.

"Let us begin with its sources. One of the earliest references to King Minos, the ruler of Crete, comes from the Odyssey. Though Homer doesn’t delve into the labyrinth itself, he describes Minos as a figure of judgment in the underworld, a king whose moral authority extended beyond his life. But the labyrinth — that twisting, inescapable maze — emerges more vividly in later works, such as Apollodorus’s Bibliotheca, a systematic account of Greek mythology.” He picks up a second book and waves it before putting both tombs back on the desk. “It is here that we learn of Daedalus, the brilliant inventor who built the labyrinth to imprison the Minotaur, a creature born of lust, punishment, and divine will."

"The Minotaur itself is a creation of divine irony. In Hesiod’s Theogony, we hear of Pasiphaë, the wife of Minos, cursed by the gods to fall in love with a bull. The union of Pasiphaë and the bull produced the Minotaur — a hybrid of man and beast, a creature that embodies both our basest instincts and our greatest fears."

James watches dust motes flying around the classroom a second — lost in the corridors of his own mind — before refocusing on his class, giving his students time to digest the information he´s given.

"But what of Theseus, the so-called hero? Plutarch, in his Life of Theseus, gives us one of the most detailed accounts of the myth. Theseus volunteers to journey to Crete, offering himself as one of the tributes demanded by Minos. In the labyrinth, armed with nothing but his cunning and the thread given to him by Ariadne, he slays the Minotaur and escapes. Ariadne, of course, is key to his survival. Ovid, in his Metamorphoses, adds emotional depth to the story, describing how Ariadne falls in love with Theseus. Theseus accepts Ariadne´s love and her gift of the thread. He uses it to navigate through the labyrinth and find his way out. Yet what does he do when his quest is over? He abandons her. Casts her aside on the desolate island of Naxos."

"So I ask you—who, in this story, is the monster? The Minotaur, who acts only according to its nature? Or Theseus, who, under the guise of heroism, betrays the very person who saves him? What does this tell us about the dangers of certainty — of believing too easily in our own virtue?"

He pauses, letting the words settle before continuing.

"There is another way to interpret this story. What if the labyrinth is not merely a physical space but an allegory for Theseus’s mind? The corridors of his thoughts? The choices he makes — or avoids making? The Minotaur, then, is a shadow of his own self: the part of him capable of betrayal, of deception, of abandoning love in favour of ambition. And the thread Ariadne gives him? Perhaps it is not only a tool but a lifeline — a connection to love, morality, and humanity. And when he casts her aside, he cuts that connection. He is free of the labyrinth, yes — but at what cost? Does he leave he monster behind, or does he become it?"

James lets his eyes wander across the classroom. Every single pair of eyes is on him now. The air is thick with anticipation. He lets his tone soften for this next part, but his words grow heavier.

"This story teaches us that the line between hero and monster is thinner than we like to admit. Sometimes, in defeating the beast, we lose sight of who we are. And sometimes, the labyrinth is not a physical space, but it is within us. The question we must ask is this: when we emerge, are we still the person we believed ourselves to be? Or do we carry the monster out with us?"

The room is eerily silent, the students´ faces are thoughtful, some even uneasy. A few of them are clearly praying that it was a rhetorical question, that James is not about to ask them about the monster they carry within. And wouldn´t that be a fun discussion for their first class together? But no— they have a whole year to comb through the twisted braids that are Greek mythology and philosophy. There´s enough time for revelations and inner conflicts to find its way into his classroom. For now, he won’t ask that much of his new students. He lets his eyes wander across the room one last time, before finishing his lecture.

"And so, the labyrinth remains. A place where morality and love twist and turn. Where the monster waits — not to attack, but to remind us of what we fear most. Ourselves."

At this, the bell rings, signalling the end of class. The students hurriedly pick up their things and clear out the room. And James is left in his labyrinth.

_______________________________________________

Hallowthorn Hall looms over the surrounding Highland landscape, its silhouette stark against the misty sky. The sun, shining brightly only a few minutes ago, is now hidden behind grey, low hanging clouds. The foundations of the castle are ancient, built of weathered grey stone hewn from the nearby mountains. Towering walls, crenelated battlements and arrow slits speak of its martial origins, a reminder of centuries of clan feuds and raids. Yet, there’s a beauty to the castle, a sense of progress, as though the stone itself had softened under the influence of a new age.

At the heart of the castle stands a grand tower house, rising four storeys, its corners adorned with turrets, which adds a fairy-tale quality to the otherwise imposing structure. The windows are larger than one would expect of a medieval castle, framed with finely carved stonework.

The main entrance is set beneath a grand archway, flanked by pilasters, and topped with a heraldic crest – lions, unicorns and Gaelic motifs carved into the castles´ stone wall. The same crest adorns the uniforms of the school’s students, embroidered on their dark green jackets. Above the doorway, an inscription in Latin proclaims the castle´s motto, its letters weathered but still legible to those who take the time to decipher them.

Inside, the high, vaulted ceilings are adorned with painted beams, their wood darkened by centuries but still bearing faded descriptions of heraldic symbols and biblical scenes. Tapestries with intricate designs tell stories of folklore and history, adding warmth to the cold stone. Large fireplaces, already lit in early September, warm the place and offer an additional source of light, their hearths wide enough to roast an entire stag.

The spiral staircases are steep and narrow, but open into rooms of surprising lightness and charm. The castles east-wing houses the classrooms and the teachers’ offices. The great hall were the students and teachers alike take their meals, and the imposing library take residence in the castles north-wing. The west wing is where Hallowthorn Halls students find their residence. The teachers’ private quarters are in the south-wing of the castle, detached from the rest of the castle by doors with a keypad for access control — standing out against the medieval architecture— and inaccessible to students.

Outside, the castle is surrounded by formal gardens, laid out in geometric patterns that stand in stark contrast to the wild, untamed Highlands beyond the school’s grounds. Stone paths wound through beds of herbs, flowers and fruit trees. Tall box hedges border at the edge of the formal garden, transitioning into a vast maze. Beyond, a thick forest and rolling hills frame the castle, as though nature itself intends to keep this place isolated from civilization.

James stands outside on an overlook, with a view of the gardens. The day nears its end, but the dark grey clouds obstruct his view of the impending sunset. His first day of classes went better than he bargained for but finding his footing in a new school is a draining task, and James looked forward to the end of his workday. Now, leaning against the ancient castle walls, he lights his first cigarette of the night. He breathes in deeply, relishing in the feeling of smoke in his lungs, nicotine rushing to his bloodstream and calming his mind.

“You´ve got a lighter?”

A low voice to his right pulls him out of his thoughts. He turns his head to see a student standing only a few steps away —James did not hear him approaching. Black curls frame a pale aristocratic face. Grey eyes sit atop high, sculpted cheekbones and bore into James´s. His uniform —immaculate down to the tie, even though classes finished over an hour ago — frames a lean and angular frame.

“Are you old enough to smoke?” James asks the boy, turning his body toward him.

“I wouldn’t ask a teacher if I weren’t”, the boy smirks.

Fair enough. James pulls a zippo out of the pocket of his slacks and hands it to the boy, who takes a step toward him, taking the lighter in his hands, fingertips touching James´s for a second. The light of the fire illuminates the boy’s face, enhancing the features of his face. He closes his eyes, inhaling the smoke and visibly relaxing. His shoulders drop and the slight upward curl of his lips hint at a smile.

“You were in my class today”, James remarks, when the boy hands back the zippo. This time their fingers don’t graze.

“Labyrinths of the Mind: Morality in Ancient Greece. It was a good lecture. The interpretation of the maze was a little misguided, though.”

James can’t help but smile at that. “You don’t agree with the interpretation of the labyrinth as a cage of one’s mind?”

The boy takes a drag of his cigarette, contemplating James’s question for a moment. He exhales slowly, the smoke curling upward into the dusk air. He tilts his head, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as if considering James himself rather than the question at hand.

“I don’t think it’s a cage,” he says finally, his tone calm but deliberate, every word placed like a piece on a chessboard. “The labyrinth isn’t a prison—it’s a test. The Minotaur doesn’t just sit there waiting to be defeated. It is the labyrinth. The walls twist and turn because that’s how its mind works—chaotic and unpredictable. If someone gets lost in it, it’s not because the labyrinth trapped them. It’s because they weren’t strong enough to find their way out.”

James watches him, intrigued by the precision of his argument. The boy doesn’t fidget, doesn’t hesitate, speaking as though he’s walking a path he’s already memorized.

“So, it’s a test of strength, then?” James presses, curious. “Might makes right?”

The boy smiles faintly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Not strength. Clarity. The labyrinth only reveals what’s already inside you. Theseus wasn’t a hero because he killed the Minotaur. He was a hero because he knew where he was going. Everyone else… They wandered. Aimlessly.”

For a moment, James doesn’t respond. There’s something chilling in the boy’s words, something clinical in the way he speaks about failure—not with pity or sympathy, but with the detached certainty of someone who expects it from others.

“Interesting perspective,” James says finally, watching as the boy flicks ash from the tip of his cigarette, his movements precise and practiced.

“Is it?” the boy asks, turning his gaze toward James again. His grey eyes are unreadable now, flat and almost reflective in the dim light. “I thought it was obvious.”

James chuckles softly, the sound breaking the tension in the air. This boy is something else. “What’s your name?”

The boy doesn’t answer right away. He takes another drag of his cigarette, embers glowing briefly in the growing gloom.

“Regulus,” he says eventually, his tone light, but there’s an edge to it—a subtle note of challenge.

“Well, Regulus,” James replies, smiling faintly, “welcome to my class. I look forward to your thoughts.”

Regulus smirks, flicking the cigarette to the ground, grinding it beneath his polished shoe. “You should,” he says simply, turning on his heel and walking away, his posture unnervingly confident for someone so young.

James watches him go, a strange unease curling in his chest. He tells himself it’s nothing—just the exhaustion of a long day—but the image of Regulus’s sharp features and unwavering stare lingers as he turns his back to the castle walls once more, lighting another cigarette to clear his thoughts.

For the first time since arriving, the old stones feel less like a haven and more like a labyrinth of their own.

Chapter Text

James’s quarters in Hallowthorn Hall are larger than he expected, though they carry the same somber, timeworn air as the rest of the castle. The sitting room is dimly lit, the glow of the fireplace casting long shadows across the stone walls. A dark wooden table sits near the window, its surface already cluttered with open books, scattered papers, and his ever-present cup of tea. The bookshelves that line one side of the room are filled with a mix of classics, philosophy, and mythology, their spines worn and familiar, interspersed with the occasional relic—an old pocket watch, a rusted key, a single chess piece, a gilded statue of a stag, an old record player. The air is rich with the scent of parchment and candle wax, mingling faintly with the ever-present chill that seeps through the stone.

Against the far wall, a small kitchenette stands tucked away, old-fashioned yet functiional, with dark cabinets and a tiny, temperamental stovetop. Copper pots hang from a low rack, their surfaces dulled with age, and a single kettle rests on the counter, always within reach. The space is practical, more for necessity than comfort, though James has already stocked the shelves with tea tins and biscuits.

Beyond an arched wooden door, his bedroom is just as austere, though not at all unwelcoming. A heavy four-poster bed dominates the space, its deep green blankets rumpled from restless sleep. A worn leather armchair sits in the corner, a place for late-night reading, its surface softened by years of use. A narrow window lets in slivers of moonlight, illuminating the carved edges of the wooden dresser and the framed photographs resting atop it.

The entire space feels untouched by time, as though generations of professors before him have lived within these walls, leaving behind only faint echoes of their presence. It’s quiet, steeped in the past, and despite himself, James finds he doesn’t mind.

He sits on the threadbare maroon couch in his living room, a cup of tea cooling on a side table next to a neat stack of notebooks. The low notes of a Smiths song are filliing the otherwise quiet place. A low, melancholic melody drifts through the room, threading itself between the flickering firelight and the rustling of pages as James flips through his syllabus lying open on his lap, annotated with scribbled notes. He’s barely made progress. His mind drifts back to the students he met earlier—their faces, their whispered exchanges as he spoke. Some seemed genuinely curious, others looked ready to bolt at the first opportunity— Greek literature is not for everyone, James is utterly aware of this fact.

He leans back, dropping his head on the backrest, staring at the ceiling. The dim glow of the floor lamp barely cuts through the shadows pooling in the corners of the room. The silence is thick, broken only by the distant howl of wind outside the walls.

His phone vibrates next to him, breaking him from his thoughts. James grabs it, and a smile spreads across his face when Lily’s name appears on the screen. He answers immediately.

“Hello, Mrs. Potter,” he says, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet on the desk.

“Hello, professor,” Lily replies, her voice warm and teasing. “How’s your first day going? Are you buried under a mountain of work yet?”

“Not quite,” James says, glancing at the notebooks in front of him. “But give it time. I’m sure I’ll be drowning by the end of the week. How are things on your end?”

Lily laughs softly. “Quiet. Almost too calm if I’m being honest. You’ve been gone for less than a day, and I’m already starting to miss the chaos.”

James chuckles. “I wouldn’t call my presence chaotic. I prefer ‘dynamic.’”

“Call it whatever you want darling,” Lily says, her voice light. “The house feels empty without you. But I’m glad you’re settling in. It’s a big change.”

“It is,” James admits. “The place is massive, Lils. I keep getting lost. And the students... well, let’s just say they´re an interesting bunch.”

“You’ll win them over in no time,” Lily says, her tone firm. “You always do. Just be yourself.”

 “Thanks. That’s the plan,” James smiles. “How´s your story going? Any new leads?”

They talk for a while. About Lily´s work, James´ first impressions of the castle and his new co-workers, about their friends, the new vegetarian lasagne recipe Lily discovered—about nothing and everything. When they finally hang up, the room feels a little less empty.

_________________________________________________________

Later, as James is making himself a cup of tea in his kitchenette, his phone vibrates again. This time, it’s Sirius.

“Padfoot,” James says, smirking as he answers. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“To save you from yourself, obviously,” Sirius replies, his voice loud and unmistakably cocky. “How’s life with the aristocracy and high society? Boring yet?”

James laughs. “Not yet. But it’s only day one.”

“Plenty of time for regrets, then,” Sirius says. “So, how’s the castle? Full of ghosts and creepy paintings, I assume?”

“Not quite, but close,” James says, shaking his head. “This place is crazy, Sirius. Its massive and pompous. I keep getting lost. I still haven´t found my office yet, I´m doing paperwork on the couch, can you believe that?”

Sirius snorts. “Sure I do. You get lost walking in a straight line, mate. But don´t worry, you´ll have everyone wrapped around your finger in no time, and then you can let yourself be escorted everywhere. You’re James Potter, after all. The charismatic, brilliant, devastatingly handsome…”

“Shut up, Padfoot,” James says, laughing.

“Seriously, though,” Sirius says, his tone softening. “You’re a great teacher. Just don’t let the castle or the students convince you otherwise. It´s just a year, and then you´re back in London for good.”

For the last three years, James took temporary positions in schools all over the UK, never staying long enough to truly feel at home, never settling. Lily would come with him, her job as a freelancer giving her the opportunity to work form everywhere—save the trips around the world, following up on the newest tips and whispers on corruption and misgovernance. This time however, as teachers are expected to live on school premises, Lily decided to get a head start on their life in London. After his year at Hallowthorn Hall James will follow, to finally settle in London permanently.

“Thanks,” James says quietly.

“Anytime,” Sirius replies. “Now, go be a responsible adult or whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing. Just don’t forget to call me when you need a reminder of how to have fun.”

“Will do,” James says, grinning. “Night, Padfoot.”

“Night, Prongs.”

______________________________________________________________________

The castle is silent when James steps outside for a moment of peace. The sky is a deep, velvety black, the stars scattered like shards of glass, interrupted by dark sheets of clouds. The air smells faintly of stone and wet grass, a lingering dampness that clings to the back of his throat. He pulls a cigarette from his pocket and lights it, breathing in deeply.

The labyrinth looms in the distance, its hedges sharp and shadowy against the faint moonlight. James exhales smoke, his eyes fixed on the twisting paths.

“Enjoying the view, professor?”

The voice startles him. James turns to see Regulus standing a few steps away, his pale face illuminated by the moonlight.

“You’ve got to stop sneaking up on me,” James says, shaking his head.

Regulus smirks, unrepentant. “Maybe you should stop being so easy to sneak up on. That’s twice in one day.”

James rolls his eyes. “What are you doing out here? Its past curfew.”

It´s past midnight, the castle is quiet and James was sure he would be the only one out of bed, walking through deserted halls and into the crisp night air.

“Same as you,” Regulus replies, producing a cigarette of his own. “Trying to breathe.”

James hands him the lighter without a word, watching as Regulus lights the cigarette with practiced ease before handing it back.

“Are you always this philosophical?” James asks.

Regulus takes a drag, his grey eyes meeting James´s. “Only when the mood strikes me.”

They stand in silence for a moment, the night heavy around them.

“All these labyrinth metaphors, yet you don’t seem much of a maze fan,”

“I’m more of a straight-line kind of person,” James replies, stuffing his free hand into his coat pocket. “Didn’t take you for someone who’d be wandering around this late.”

“I’m not wandering,” Regulus says, smirking. “Are you?”

James chuckles. “Fair enough.”

They fall silent again, the sounds of the night filling the space between them, the cigarette smoke billowing between them. The faint rustle of wind in the trees, the distant hoot of an owl. James glances at Regulus, who’s staring at the maze with an expression James can’t quite place—thoughtful, maybe, or something heavier.

“So,” James ventures, never quite comfortable with silences, “is this where you tell me the labyrinth is haunted?”

Regulus lets out a huff. “No ghosts here. At least, none that walk the halls.”

“That’s comforting,” James says, though he doesn’t entirely believe him. “What is it, then? The maze. Just an old hedge garden?”

Regulus shrugs, but his gaze remains fixed on the darkened paths. “I suppose it depends on what you see when you look at it.”

James frowns slightly. “You’re not big on straight answers, are you?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Regulus counters, finally turning his sharp gaze on him. “I’ve found people usually get more out of a question if they have to think about it.”

James tilts his head, intrigued. “And what do you get out of it?”

Regulus’s smirk falters for a moment, replaced by something quieter, contemplative. “Maybe I like seeing how people think. If they are up for the challenge.”

It’s an unexpectedly candid response—though a little ominous— and James feels a flicker of curiosity. Regulus isn’t like the other students he’s met so far—he’s too guarded, too sharp-edged. There’s a precision to him, as if he’s built himself piece by piece and doesn’t trust anyone enough to show the seams. Deliberate in the way he moves, every action measured, weighing the value of each moment, each action.

“You’re a puzzle,” James murmurs, studying him.

Regulus raises an eyebrow, his voice cold, almost bored. “Puzzles tend to frustrate those who expect solutions.” He takes another drag of his cigarette. “Keep the metaphors coming though, it’s fun.”

James laughs, the sound echoing softly in the courtyard. “Don’t worry, I will.”

Regulus’s lips twitch. “A hobby of yours, then?”

James watches him for a moment before replying. “One of them,” he confirms, looking right at Regulus, a smirk of his own popping up.

Regulus lips twitch almost imperceptible, but he doesn’t respond, instead he takes a slow drag of his cigarette, his expression blank, unreadable. James mirrors the movement, taking a drag and watching the smoke dispel in the night air.

“Why are you out here?” James asks after a moment. “Really.”

Regulus exhales smoke, his gaze drifting back to the maze. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“I needed a break,” James says honestly. “Figured the stars were as good a distraction as any.”

Regulus hums in acknowledgment, his cigarette glowing faintly in the dark. “The stars are good company. They don’t talk back.”

James snorts. “Unless you count astrology.”

Regulus’s smirk returns. “I’ll stick to constellations, thanks.”

James leans against the stone wall, his eyes following Regulus’s gaze to the maze.

“You know, you’re not quite what I expected,” James says, glancing at him.

Regulus chuckles softly. “Careful, professor. Its only your first day. I don’t consider myself that easy to figure out. And it’s dangerous to make assumptions. Especially around here.”

James grins. There’s a precision to Regulus that draws James in, the boy being a perfectly crafted mystery. James knows he should let it go, but he can’t—puzzles like Regulus always demand to be solved.

“I will, you know. Figure you out. I never leave a puzzle unfinished.”

Regulus doesn’t reply immediately. He takes another drag from his cigarette before he stubs it out against the stone, turning his back to James. “Goodnight, professor,” he says, turning his head, almost as an afterthought. His voice is softer now.

“Goodnight, Regulus,” he replies, voice just as gentle.

James watches him walk away, the moonlight catching on his dark curls as he disappears into the shadows. There’s something about the boy that James can’t quite pin down, but he meant what he said. He will figure him out. Eventually.

As he turns back to the maze, James feels the faintest pull, like a whisper of a thought too tantalizing to ignore just beyond his hearing. He shakes it off, though a part of him knows it will be waiting, patient as the shadows.

Chapter Text

James walks into the Great Hall for dinner, his footsteps echoing on the ancient stone floor. The room is alive with chatter—the clink of silverware, boisterous laughter from students, and conversations bouncing off the vaulted ceiling.

As he settles into his seat at the teachers table, his gaze is drawn to a table at the far end of the Hall. In the midst of the animated crowd, Regulus. In stark contrast to the exuberance around him, sits as if in a different world. He’s slumped slightly at a corner of the table, his expression fixed in an unchanging mask of cold disinterest, his eyes unfocused, with an expression that suggests the rest of the world is nothing more than background noise. James has spoken with him only a few times, and each time, Regulus has been an enigma—a puzzle of sharp intellect and apathetic reserve.

Just then, as if stirred from his habitual detachment, Regulus lifts his head slowly. Their eyes meet across the bustling hall, and in that fleeting moment, a sudden glint ignites in Regulus’s storm-grey eyes—like a spark of fire bursting through a thick, oppressive fog. The intensity of that look catches James off guard, stirring a mix of curiosity and an almost magnetic pull. Regulus, usually so cold and unapproachable, has revealed a hidden depth that challenges the carefully constructed walls of his indifference.

For a heartbeat, the noise of the Great Hall fades into insignificance, and all James can think about is him. The brief previous conversations have only deepened his fascination: the clever riddles, the quiet defiance, the way Regulus’s words have hinted at complexities beneath his marble exterior. James finds himself wondering what secrets lie behind those eyes.

As the room buzzes around them, James leans back, a wry smile playing at his lips. In that instant, he decides that tonight he will unravel just a little more of the mystery that is Regulus Black.

When he steps out to the lookout after dinner, the cool September night wrapping around him like a familiar shroud, he finds him already waiting. There, against the ancient stone wall of Hallowthorn Hall, a lit cigarette dangling effortlessly from his fingers as he stares silently toward the dark forest that surrounds the schoolgrounds. James had hoped to find him here, in this quiet, secluded place away from the bustling chaos of the school. He lights his own cigarette and moves to stand beside Regulus.

For a long moment, they stay silence, punctuated only by the soft hiss of their breaths and the gentle rustle of night air. James, restless and eager to break the quiet, clears his throat. “You know,” he begins, his tone deliberately casual, “Aristotle once said that true wisdom comes from questioning everything. I wonder if that means we’re condemned to be perpetual doubters.”

Regulus takes a slow drag from his cigarette, his grey eyes fixed on the forest, and then responds in his characteristically measured tone. “Questioning is the burden of those who cannot rest in their certainties,” he says, his voice low, bone-deep exhaustion clinging to his every word. “For some, knowledge is a ladder to freedom; for others, it is a chain that binds them to endless disillusionment.”

James tilts his head, intrigued. “But isn’t that the very essence of Aristotle’s philosophy? That our purpose is to pursue knowledge even if it reveals the uncomfortable truths of our nature?” He exhales a cloud of smoke, watching it dissipate into the chill. “I mean, take his notion of practical wisdom—phronesis. It’s not merely about knowing the good; it’s about knowing how to act when all you see are conflicting truths.”

Regulus’s eyes narrow momentarily, and he offers a half-smile that barely touches the edges of his lips. “Practical wisdom,” he repeats, as if weighing the term. “Perhaps it is the art of maintaining one’s composure amid chaos. Or maybe it’s simply the recognition that the world is fundamentally indifferent to our struggles.”

James studies Regulus closely, trying to pierce the veil of indifference that shrouds him. There is a glint in his eyes—a spark of something raw and unsaid—but his mask remains impeccably in place. “But don’t you think,” James ventures, “that if we keep questioning, if we keep seeking, we might eventually uncover the truth behind our own apathy?”

Regulus exhales slowly, the cigarette’s smoke mingling with the crisp night air. “Perhaps,” he replies, “or perhaps some of us are born to bear the world’s indifference without ever truly being moved by it. To me, knowledge is less a liberation than a constant reminder of how little matters in the grand scheme of things.”

James’s inner turmoil churns at the statement. Every day, every conversation, he grows more determined to crack Regulus’s mask—to see the man behind the carefully constructed apathy. Yet, for now, all he gets is that fleeting glint of passion and pain in Regulus’s eyes.

“Still,” James persists softly, “I want to believe there’s more to you than this… calculated detachment.”

Regulus meets his gaze briefly, the silence heavy between them as if laden with unspoken promises. “Time will tell, Professor” he murmurs, his voice both challenge and reassurance. “Until then, we keep questioning.”

James nods slowly, the desire to understand mingling with the warmth of the cigarette in his hand. In that moment, beneath the vast, starlit sky and the quiet witness of ancient stone, he vows silently that one day he will unlock the secrets behind Regulus’s stoic facade. For now, though, these small conversations serve as a small bridge between their two worlds.

_____________________________

The classroom hums with quiet anticipation as the students settle into their seats. Anna, a quiet yet studious girl, smiles at James shyly as she walks past him and to her seat in the first row. James stands at the front, the worn text of Antigone in hand, its pages marked with his careful notes, ready to dive into the day’s lesson. He looks over his students: a mixture of eager faces, distracted ones, and those who are already mentally on lunchtime. This particular class is his favourite. Maybe it´s the students’ genuine interest in literature. Maybe it’s the lively debates, or the fact that he doesn’t have to resort to connecting myth to pop culture to get the students to engage. Or maybe, it’s the looming presence of Regulus Black, sitting near the front, arms crossed, his gaze cold and sharp as always.

“Good morning, everyone,” James says, his voice warm but steady as he leans against the front of his desk in a casual manner. “Today, we’re diving into Antigone by Sophocles. It’s a play about moral conflict—the tension between divine law and human law. I want us to really think about that conflict as we discuss.”

James watches as some students scribble notes, others idly twirl their pencils. Regulus does not have a pencil in hand. His posture is stiff, his expression unreadable, yet James feels the pull of the boy’s attention like a magnet.

He turns to the chalkboard and writes the words moral ambiguity. “The central conflict in the play comes from Antigone’s decision to defy Creon’s law to bury her brother, Polynices. This act goes against the king’s orders, but Antigone believes she has a higher moral obligation—a duty to her family and the gods.”

James looks up to meet the eyes of the class, making sure to catch each one. “So—what’s the difference between personal morals and state law? Can we always follow the laws of the land if they conflict with our own sense of what’s right?”

A hand shoots up from the back of the room—Marcus, one of his more vocal students. “I think Antigone was right to do what she did,” he says. “I mean, family is everything. How could you leave your brother unburied?”

James nods thoughtfully. “Interesting. But what about Creon’s side of things? His duty is to maintain order in Thebes. If he lets Antigone get away with breaking his laws, what does that mean for the kingdom?”

Before Marcus can respond, another student, Emily, chimes in from the corner of the room. “But isn’t that a bit much? I mean, what’s the point of law if it isn’t flexible sometimes? She was just doing what she thought was right.”

Regulus speaks up then, his voice cutting through the chatter with precision. “Creon’s law is made of pride, not wisdom. It’s a law built on control, not justice,” he states, his gaze unwavering.

Marcus frowns, clearly not expecting such a direct response. “But if Creon doesn’t enforce his laws, what kind of leader is he?”

Regulus shrugs, a small, almost imperceptible gesture. “A leader who understands that not all laws are worth enforcing. Creon was more interested in power than in truth. Laws should serve people, not control them.”

James watches as Marcus looks at Regulus with something like surprise. There’s no hostility in his tone, but a coldness that could freeze over any argument. James steps in before things can get too heated.

“Regulus makes a valid point,” James says, turning to the class. “The difference between moral right and law is complex. Laws are not always just, and sometimes, individuals are forced to make difficult choices. But remember, the story doesn’t end with Antigone’s defiance. Her decision costs her dearly—she loses her life. Can personal morals really justify sacrificing everything?”

Emily leans back in his seat, clearly lost in thought, while Marcus gives a small nod, acknowledging Regulus’s challenge. James glances around the room, letting the silence hang for a moment.

“We’ll pick this up next class,” he says, trying to bring the conversation to a close. “For now, I want you to think about the consequences of defying authority. Does it always come with a price? Write a short essay on this and have it on my desk by Monday.”

As the bell rings, the students begin to shuffle out, but Regulus doesn’t move. Instead, he stays in his seat, staring down at the desk. James is in the middle of gathering his papers when Regulus stands up slowly and approaches him.

“You think it’s easy, always being the smartest person in the room, Professor?” Regulus says, his voice quiet but pointed. “It’s not. It´s a lonely, tedious existence.”

James looks up from his papers, his movements slowing as he registers the words. Regulus stands before him, hands tucked into the pockets of his uniform, his expression impassive but his eyes sharp, expectant.

"A lonely, tedious existence," James repeats, tilting his head slightly. "Is that what this is? You’re bored?"

Regulus exhales, something like amusement flickering across his face. "You say that like it isn’t obvious."

James leans back against his desk, crossing his arms. "You don’t think anyone here challenges you?"

Regulus scoffs. "No one here even tries. They parrot the textbooks, they fumble their way through discussions. It’s all so—" He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "Mediocre."

James studies him, trying to find the crack in that cool facade. "And I don’t bore you?"

Regulus meets his gaze, unblinking. "Not yet."

James huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "High praise."

Regulus shrugs. "You asked."

James considers him for a moment before saying, "You know, this reminds me of Sisyphus."

Regulus raises an eyebrow. "Condemned to an eternity of pointless labor? Enlighten me, Professor—how exactly am I like him?"

James gestures vaguely. "He was clever. Thought himself above the gods, even. And what did that get him? Endless, soul-crushing repetition. You complain of boredom, of mediocrity—maybe that’s your boulder, Regulus. Doomed to roll it uphill, over and over, because nothing ever satisfies you."

Regulus stares at him, unreadable, then tilts his head slightly. "And what’s the alternative?"

James shrugs. "Find something—or someone—that does."

Regulus huffs a quiet breath through his nose. "And if no one is worthy?"

James smirks. "Sounds like a you problem."

Regulus shakes his head, but there’s a glint in his eyes, something intrigued, restless. He steps back, as if preparing to leave, but hesitates just a moment too long.

James watches him carefully, then, in a lighter tone, adds, "Maybe the real question is—are you Sisyphus? Or are you the boulder?"

Regulus lets out a soft, amused breath. "I suppose that depends on who’s pushing."

And with that, he turns and walks away, leaving James standing there, the weight of their conversation settling around him like something he can’t quite shake.

_____________________________

Sirius: [sends a picture of a poorly folded towel] LOOK WHAT HE DID

Remus: We’ve been over this. It’s a towel. It doesn’t need to be perfect.

Sirius: THIS ISNT A TOWEL THIS IS AN ABOMINATION

James: Please stop bringing me into your marital disputes.

Sirius: no you’re part of the group this is your cross to bear

Remus: You could just fold the towels yourself.

Sirius: you take that back

_____________________________

The days drag on, each blurring into the next. The rhythm of teaching at his new school settles in—a blend of lesson plans, grading papers, and trying to remember the names of the students in his classes. James tries to focus on his work, but every so often his thoughts slip back to Regulus. It’s strange how often he finds his mind drifting toward the boy, drawn to him in ways he can’t quite explain.

It’s late Thursday afternoon, and James steps outside, grateful for the cool evening air after a long day. He’s been pacing between his office and the staff room, skimming through student essays. He could use a break before he dives back into the work waiting for him at his desk.

He goes to the overlook he discovered on his first day in the castle— tucked behind a stone wall, away from the prying eyes yet still overlooking the gardens, enclosed by a stone railing. It’s a small oasis of peace, if only for a few minutes. As he rounds the corner, he catches sight of a familiar figure leaning against the parapet, cigarette in hand. Regulus.

He hasn’t seen him outside of class much, but there he is, exuding the same quiet confidence. His uniform looks immaculate, not at all disturbed from the day’s wear, his grey eyes are cold, as always, but there’s something that pulls at James’s attention in a way he can’t quite place. Regulus looks up as James approaches, his expression unreadable.

“Professor,” Regulus says, flicking the ash off his cigarette—watching it fall towards the gardens below— but he doesn’t offer a greeting beyond that.

James hesitates for a moment. “Regulus,” he finally says, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he leans against the railing beside him. “How’s the day treating you?”

Regulus shrugs, his lips curving into a half-smirk. “Same as always. You?”

“I’m surviving,” James responds with a small chuckle. “Not all the papers are as interesting as I’d like.”

Regulus’s gaze sharpens, and he takes another drag, the smoke curling up in the cold air. “I would have thought you’d enjoy that.”

James glances at him. “I do, but the tenth essay on Perseus’s heroism starts to feel repetitive.”

Regulus looks amused by this, and for a moment, it almost seems like he’s on the verge of saying something else—something personal. But then he just exhales a plume of smoke, his gaze flicking to the sky instead of meeting James’s eyes.

“Heroism is overrated,” he says casually, the words almost tossed out like an afterthought.

James raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Is that so?”

Regulus gives him a sidelong glance, a slight shift in his posture as he looks down at the cigarette in his fingers. “It’s a convenient narrative. But it’s always the ones who aren’t seeking it who end up making the real difference.”

James can’t help but smile. “You’ve got a way of looking at things.”

Regulus doesn’t smile back, but there’s a brief, almost imperceptible softness in his expression that James picks up on. For a second, it feels like they’re on the same wavelength, each of them playing the role of the observer in the world around them.

After a moment of quiet, Regulus flicks the cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot. The silence stretches, but it’s not uncomfortable. The world feels quieter here, almost intimate, as if the noise of the school and the responsibilities of their roles are far away.

“I think you’ve got it wrong,” Regulus says, his voice low. “You’re looking in the wrong places.”

There’s something in Regulus’s tone—something James doesn’t quite understand, but he senses the undercurrent of it. It’s the kind of statement that seems harmless enough, but James knows it’s more than that. It’s the sort of remark that lingers with meaning.

James exhales a slow breath, processing Regulus’s words. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he says finally, his voice a little softer than he intended.

Regulus glances at him one last time, grey eyes locking with hazel ones for a brief moment. There’s something about the way he looks at him—something that feels like a challenge, but also like an invitation.

Before James can say anything else, Regulus takes a step back, pulling the collar of his jacket up against the evening chill. “Good night, Professor,” he says, the words designed to sound casual, but there’s an edge to them, something that leaves James wondering what’s behind it.

“Good night, Regulus,” James replies, watching him disappear around the corner.

The quiet moment lingers with him, and James stands there for a moment longer, trying to shake the feeling that something—something—has just happened between them. There’s a curiosity inside him, growing by the day. But he can’t figure out exactly what it is about Regulus that draws him in.

_____________________________

The next day, James finds himself in the faculty lounge, chatting casually with a few colleagues. It´s a slow day—nothing pressing—but the conversation turns to the students in his Greek literature classes.

“Regulus Black, huh?” one of the professors comments, sipping her coffee. “You’ve got your hands full with that one. Smart kid, but he’s a bit… distant. Hard to reach.”

James nods, but the way she says it—like it´s some sort of obstacle to overcome—strikes him wrong. “He’s a bright student,” James replies, not wanting to delve too deeply into his own growing fascination. “Definitely a bit of a challenge, but isn’t that what we want in these kind of classes?”

Another professor chimes in, “Oh, he’s got the mind for it. But don’t expect him to play nice with everyone. He’s not the type to make friends easily. Too clever for that, I think.”

James can´t help but feel a flicker of empathy for Regulus. Clever. Isolated. He doesn’t even know if Regulus has any friends, he’s never seen him talk to anyone outside of classroom discussions. James feels the urge to rectify that.

“I’m sure he’ll warm up eventually,” James says lightly, but in the back of his mind, he wonders if that´s even possible.

_____________________________

It’s a late and quiet Tuesday night, the kind of silence that creeps into the corners of James’s office, as he sifts through stacks of papers. His desk is cluttered with student essays and lecture notes, but he’s barely looking at them. His thoughts keep drifting back to the brief moment with Regulus on the lookout a few days earlier. There’s something about the way he speaks—so deliberate, so calculated—that’s hard to ignore. James finds himself wanting to unravel the enigma that is Regulus Black, though he can’t quite explain why.

The phone on his desk buzzes, snapping him out of his reverie. He reaches for it, smiling as he sees Lily’s name on the screen.

"Hey, darling," he answers, his voice soft, almost relieved to hear her voice.

"James! How was your day?" Lily's voice crackles through the line, warm and familiar. The sound of her voice instantly brings him a sense of grounding, reminding him of his life before this strange new routine at the school.

"It’s been good. Exhausting, but good." James leans back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. "I think I´m really starting to connect with the students. They’re really great. Smart as hell. But somehow both incisive and ambiguous at the same time? I didn’t know that was possible, to be honest."

Lily laughs lightly on the other end. "Incisive? Who’s giving you trouble? Have you met your match? Not the smartest person in the room for once?"

James rubs his temples, trying to focus. He doesn’t want to go into too much detail about Regulus or his students, though he feels the pull to discuss it. "It’s not trouble, exactly. Just... some students are a little more... provocative, I guess? They think they know everything already."

"Sounds like you fit right in," Lily teases, and James chuckles softly.

"Yeah, well, I was less... intimidating when I was their age. And at the other schools, none of the students were so opinionated" he says, trying to keep his tone light.

The silence on the other end stretches just a bit longer than usual.

"I miss you," Lily says suddenly, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. "When are you coming home for the weekend?"

James feels a twinge of guilt, his heart tightening at the thought. He hadn’t really planned to go home for the weekend; the school had taken over his thoughts, and his weekends had become extensions of his workweek. But Lily’s voice—so full of warmth and expectation—makes him reconsider.

"Yeah, I was actually thinking about that," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. "I’ll try to make it back on Friday night, okay? It’s just... there’s so much to keep on top of here. The students, the papers... I haven’t even finished grading the latest essays yet."

"James, you can’t let the work swallow you whole," she chides gently. "You need to take care of yourself too. We don’t get to see each other as much as we used to, and I miss you. The school will still be there when you get back."

He feels a pang of guilt, and it sharpens the tension in his chest. He’s been putting his work before his personal life, too focused on the new challenges at the school, on keeping up with his responsibilities. And maybe... maybe it’s time to take a step back.

"You’re right," he says after a beat. "I’ll make sure to leave at a decent time. It’ll be good to get out of here for a bit."

"You promise?" Lily asks, the teasing edge to her voice making it clear she’s already in a playful mood.

"I promise," James replies with a smile.

There’s silence for a moment as he leans back, his thoughts briefly returning to Regulus and the odd conversations they keep having. But when Lily speaks again, her voice pulls him back.

"I’ve got something to look forward to now," she says softly. "But you need to remember why you’re there, James. The students will be fine. But you can’t keep letting them occupy all your time. You’re still my husband, and I want to see you."

James closes his eyes, feeling the weight of her words. He knows she’s right. He can feel the strain creeping in, a shift in his own heart he hasn’t fully acknowledged until now. Regulus and his enigmatic pull have started to take up more space in his thoughts, but Lily needs him too. She deserves more of his attention.

"I won’t forget," he says quietly. "I’ll be there. I promise."

Lily’s voice brightens. "Good. And James?"

"Yeah?"

"Don’t let the job get to you too much. It’s just a job. We’ll get through it together."

He smiles at her reassurance. "Thanks, dear. I’ll see you on Friday."

"See you, darling."

As the call ends, James places the phone back on the desk, his mind spinning again. The weight of Lily’s words settles in his chest. He’s balancing two worlds now—the one at home with her, and the one at the school with students like Regulus, who somehow feel like more than just students. He can’t afford to let one outweigh the other, but he doesn’t quite know how to manage it.

With a sigh, he rubs his eyes, and then returns to the pile of papers on his desk. He can’t afford to let his thoughts wander too far. Not yet. He’ll deal with everything else later—he hopes.

_____________________________

The class is alive with chatter as James walks into the room. The sunlight filters through the tall windows, casting a soft glow over the worn desks. He smiles, a comfortable, easy grin, and moves to the front of the room. There’s an apple sitting on his desk and James looks at it fondly, before turning to address the class.

“Good afternoon, everyone,” James greets them, setting his papers on the desk. “Today, we’ll continue our exploration of Homer’s The Iliad. We’re focusing on Achilles’s rage today—what drives it, and what does it reveal about his character. But first, I want to hear your thoughts. What motivates Achilles? Is it just his pride, or is there something deeper?”

He scans the room, his gaze briefly landing on Regulus, who sits near the front, always blasé, yet alert, calculating. But James doesn’t let himself linger there too long. He knows the way Regulus’s eyes seem to cut through him, sharper than anyone else’s.

Marcus, a rather bold student who often speaks up first, raises his hand. “Achilles’s anger comes from Agamemnon taking his prize. It’s all about respect. He’s a warrior. His honour is everything.” James can see Regulus rolling his eyes in his periphery and he has to suppress a laugh.

“Interesting,” James says, smiling charitably. “But is it just about honour, Marcus? Or is there something more?”

“I think it’s mostly about honour,” Marcus says, his voice more confident now. “I mean, what else does Achilles have if not his reputation?”

Regulus’s voice cuts in smoothly, almost too easily. James can tell that he´s discontented by his classmates’ contributions. “It’s not just about honour. It’s about control. Achilles cannot bear being disrespected because it undermines his sense of power. Honour is just a mask.”

James tilts his head, considering Regulus’s words. “That’s a compelling take. So, you think Achilles’s rage is about losing control, not just about being dishonoured?”

Regulus meets his eyes, his tone colder now, but still sharp. The glint in his eyes is back now. “Yes. He’s not angry about being disrespected. He’s angry because he can’t control how others view him. It’s not pride. It’s fear.”

A few students murmur, nodding at Regulus’s reasoning. Anna raises her hand hesitantly. “But… don’t you think Achilles also has a deeper fear? Like… a fear of being forgotten, or fading into nothing? Maybe his anger is tied to the idea of mortality.”

James smiles warmly at her, appreciating her contribution. “A good point, Anna. The fear of being forgotten is central to Achilles’s character. It’s why he chooses immortality in a sense—through his rage, through his name.”

Regulus’s gaze flickers to Anna and then back to James. His lips twist into a faint smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “The irony is that Achilles achieves immortality not through greatness, but through destruction. He ensures his name is remembered, but only by leaving devastation in his wake.”

“I think we should also consider,” James says, redirecting the class, “that Achilles’s rage is also a reflection of his relationship with Patroclus. It’s more than just friendship, isn’t it? There’s a bond there, one that transcends the typical warrior camaraderie. What do you all think of their relationship?”

The room falls silent, and James looks around. Some students avoid eye contact, others seem deep in thought. Regulus’s gaze doesn’t waver, but his lips twitch, as though he’s caught in a moment of hesitation.

A soft voice from the front breaks the silence. “I always thought Achilles and Patroclus were more than just friends,” says Amelia, a quieter student who doesn’t usually speak much but has been scribbling furiously in her notebook. “I mean, it’s not really spelled out, but there’s this closeness between them that doesn’t seem like just camaraderie. It’s… almost romantic, don’t you think?”

A murmur goes through the room, and some students glance nervously at each other. Marcus laughs a little too loudly, clearly uncomfortable with the suggestion. “Romantic? Really? You’re reading too much into it. They’re just close friends.”

Regulus’s expression is unreadable, but there’s something in the way his eyes flicker toward James—a brief, almost imperceptible shift in the tension between them.

“I disagree with Marcus,” Regulus says smoothly, his voice calm but pointed. “There’s a certain intimacy in their bond, something beyond mere friendship. Perhaps Achilles’s rage is fuelled not only by pride but by the loss of Patroclus. His relationship with Patroclus—however you interpret it—could be a reason why he chooses to stay in the fight. His emotions run deeper than what we first see.”

James feels the weight of Regulus’s words, the subtle challenge in them, and for a moment, he’s reminded of the times he and Regulus have sparred in their own quiet exchanges—how Regulus can make him see things in a different light. He feels something shift again, but this time, it’s not just in the words; it’s in the air between them.

James clears his throat, trying to steer the class back. “Very insightful, Regulus. I think we can all agree that Achilles’s relationship with Patroclus complicates his motivations. It’s not just about honour or revenge. There’s something far more human at the core of his rage.”

The bell rings, and the students gather their things, the buzz of their conversation filling the air as they shuffle out. James stands at the front of the room, collecting his notes, but his mind lingers on the discussion. Achilles’s rage. Patroclus. Regulus’s words. The way they both seem to push against each other in a quiet, unspoken way.

As the last student exits, Regulus pauses by the door, his grey eyes meeting James’s.

“Professor,” Regulus says, his voice softer now, “Do you believe Achilles could have lived without his rage? Could he have found peace in another way?”

James hesitates, the question hanging between them like a thread waiting to be pulled. He watches Regulus, thinking about the implications in his words, before making a decision.

“Walk with me?”, he offers, grabbing his briefcase and walking up to the door and to Regulus.

Regulus seems startled by this, but a second later his cold mask of superiority is back on again, and he shrugs, unperturbed, following James out of the classroom and into the maze of hallways.

Their footsteps echo off the ancient stone walls. Outside, the afternoon light slants through the tall, arched windows, catching dust motes in its golden glow.

James walks with his hands in his pockets, his briefcase tucked under one arm. “What do you know about the story of Heracles and the Shirt of Nessus.”

Regulus arches an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to James with something like amusement. “You’re comparing the greatest warrior of the Iliad to a poisoned shirt?”

James smirks. “I’m comparing him to a man who held onto something that destroyed him.” He pauses for a moment, glancing at Regulus. “Heracles couldn’t take it off. The more he struggled, the deeper it burned into him. In the end, it consumed him entirely.”

Regulus hums, as if turning the thought over in his mind like a coin. “And you think Achilles should have let go of his rage? That Heracles should have simply stepped out of the flames?”

“I think they should have realized when it was killing them,” James counters easily.

Regulus exhales a soft laugh, shaking his head and biting his lower lip. “And what would they have been without it? Achilles without his fury, Heracles without his suffering?” He tilts his head, his voice calm but laced with something deliberate. “You think they could have just—what? Stopped being themselves?”

James watches him carefully. “You tell me.”

Regulus shrugs. “I think some people were made to burn.”

James stops walking, turning fully toward him. “And you think that’s fate?”

Regulus meets his gaze, unblinking. “Don’t you?”

James exhales, shifting his briefcase under his arm. “No. I think we like to tell ourselves we’re trapped, because it’s easier than admitting we could be free.”

Regulus’s lips twitch, though whether it’s amusement or something else, James can’t tell. “That’s very hopeful of you.”

James smirks. “That’s very cynical of you.”

Regulus lifts his chin slightly. “Realistic.”

“Debatable.”

Regulus huffs, shaking his head. “You’d be exhausting in a war.”

James chuckles. “So I’ve been told.”

They walk in comfortable silence for a few steps before James glances at Regulus again. “So? Are you Achilles? Or Heracles?”

Regulus scoffs, but the sound is light, like he almost enjoys the game. “Neither. I don’t have a weakness.”

James raises an eyebrow. “Everyone has a weakness.”

Regulus’s lips curve into a smirk. “And what’s yours, Professor?”

James doesn’t answer. Instead, he keeps walking, letting Regulus follow.

“So you’re saying everything isn’t predetermined, but you still think people should be held accountable for their choices?” Regulus asks, his voice light but edged with curiosity.

“Of course,” James replies. “Otherwise, what’s the point of morality?”

Regulus arches a brow. “Morality is a construct. What’s considered right or wrong shifts depending on the time and place.”

James glances at him, smirking. “Now you sound like a Sophist.”

Regulus feigns offense. “How dare you.”

“Oh, come on,” James laughs. “Admit it. You’d have fit right in—arguing for the sake of arguing, twisting words until no one knew what they believed anymore.”

Regulus tilts his head, considering. “And yet, Socrates did the same, and they called him the father of philosophy.”

James shakes his head amicably. “Socrates argued to find truth. The Sophists argued to win.”

Regulus shrugs, unconcerned. “Same method, different motive.”

“Intent matters,” James counters.

Regulus side-eyes him. “Does it?”

“Yes.”

Regulus hums in amusement. “Then tell me this—if someone does the right thing for the wrong reasons, is it still right?”

James pauses for half a second, then says, “Yes.”

“So morality is about action, not intention?”

“Not entirely. Intention matters, but action is what shapes the world.”

Regulus nods slightly, as if filing that answer away. “And what about the soul? Is that shaped by action, or is it something inherent?”

James grins, recognizing the shift. “You’re trying to get me to pick between Plato and Aristotle, aren’t you?”

Regulus’s expression is all innocence. “Would I do that?”

“Yes.”

Regulus sighs, as if terribly put upon. “Fine. I’ll make it simple. Do you believe the soul is eternal and unchanging, as Plato claims, or do you believe, like Aristotle, that it is tied to the body and shaped by experience?”

“Aristotle,” James says without hesitation.

Regulus raises a brow. “Not even a moment of doubt?”

James grins. “I make my choices and stick with them.”

“How very Achilles of you.”

“And how very contrarian of you to take Plato’s side just to make me argue.”

Regulus smirks. “You make it too easy.”

They reach the corridor outside James’s office, but neither makes a move to end the conversation. James leans against the door, arms crossed. “So what do you think? Do we carry our souls from one life to the next, unchanged?”

Regulus watches him for a long moment, something unreadable in his gaze. When he finally answers, his voice is quieter. “No.”

James tilts his head. “No?”

Regulus shakes his head. “I think the soul erodes. Like stone under the tide. Every choice, every loss—pieces fall away until there’s nothing left.”

James studies him, something tightening in his chest. “And what happens then?”

Regulus shrugs, looking away. His expression is unreadable. “Maybe we disappear.”

James is quiet for a moment, then pushes open his office door. “Or maybe we rebuild.”

Regulus meets his gaze, something flickering behind his storm-grey eyes. “Optimistic.”

James grins, stepping inside. “Realistic. Now, do you want tea, or are you just going to stand there brooding in the doorway?”

Regulus rolls his eyes but follows him in. “That depends. Is it drinkable?”

James laughs as he heads to the kettle. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

James sets the kettle on, the soft hum of heating water filling the room. Regulus lingers by the bookshelves, fingers idly trailing along the spines of well-worn texts. The dim lamplight casts warm shadows, stretching the silence between them.

James leans against his desk, arms crossed. “So? Achilles or Heracles?”

Regulus exhales, turning around to face him. “We´ve been here before, Professor.”

“You didn’t answer.”

“Neither did you.”

The silence stretches between them before James finally says, “I´ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.”

Regulus exhales a laugh. “That sounds like a trap.”

James grins. “Maybe.”

Regulus shakes his head. “Fine. If you want a more academic answer—let´s call it what it really is. Not weakness. Hamartia.”

James raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Tragic flaw?”

Regulus nods, leaning against the bookshelf and considering James for a moment. “You believe in weakness, but I think its more than that. Hamartia isn´t just failure—it´s the thing that makes failure inevitable.” He glances at James, eyes gleaming in the dimly lit office. “It´s the fatal mistake. The thing you can´t escape.”

James considers this. “So you don’t have weaknesses, but you do have a fatal flaw?”

He moves back to the kettle, pouring the tea, watching Regulus´s reflection in the window.

Regulus smirks. “Perhaps.”

James shakes his head with a laugh. “And what would it be?”

Regulus picks a book at random, flipping it open. His voice is quiet but unwavering. “I think my flaw is that I see things too clearly.”

James hums. “That sounds less like a flaw and more like something you tell yourself to sleep at night.”

Regulus shuts the book with a soft thud and turns. “And what about you?”

James exhales, handing Regulus a mug. “Loyalty.”

Regulus’s brow furrows. “Loyalty is hardly a flaw.”

James takes a sip of his tea, watching him over the rim of his chipped mug. “It is when it’s given to the wrong people. When it keeps you tethered to things you should let go of. When it blinds you to what’s right in front of you.”

Regulus studies him, his expression unreadable. “So your flaw is devotion, even when it’s undeserved.”

James shrugs. “Something like that.”

Regulus is quiet for a beat, then smirks. “And yet, you still think you could’ve saved Achilles.”

James smiles, small and knowing. “Maybe.”

Regulus shakes his head, exasperated but—James thinks—maybe a little fond. “You really are ridiculous.”

James grins. “And you really don’t like answering questions.”

Regulus sips his tea, eyes dark with something James can’t quite place. “Maybe I don’t like what the answers would be.”

James doesn’t push. Instead, he raises his mug in mock salute. “To our fatal flaws, then.”

Regulus watches him for a long moment, then—surprisingly—clinks his mug against James’s. “To our fatal flaws.”

The room settles into quiet again, the kind that feels less like silence and more like understanding.

_____________________________

The next few days pass in a blur. James spends his time grading essays, preparing lectures, and keeping up with his administrative duties, to— hopefully— be free of them on the oncoming weekend. But there’s always something in the back of his mind, something pulling him back to Regulus. Every conversation, every lecture, feels incomplete without him there—without that biting intellect, that subtle challenge.

One afternoon, as he walks down the corridor, his phone buzzes again. It’s a message from Sirius.

Sirius: Ive got a question for you proefessor: what do you call a group of musical whales? an orchestra!

James snorts, shaking his head.

James: Not your worst yet, I’ll give you that. Seriously though, I’m busy. We should hang this weekend though.

Sirius: done I’ll bring the jokes you bring the booze

James smiles, feeling a moment of levity before slipping his phone back into his pocket. But as he walks into his office, the door closing behind him, his thoughts immediately return to Regulus.

He thinks about the boy’s cold demeanour, his cryptic words. And something in him stirs, something that both repels and draws him in. Regulus is a puzzle, one that James is dangerously close to becoming obsessed with solving. But even as he begins to acknowledge the pull, he tells himself it’s just intellectual curiosity, just a student—nothing more.

That evening, James sits alone at his desk, grading papers as the evening light fades outside the window. His thoughts wander, and he finds himself thinking about Regulus once more. There’s a distance to him. But beneath that, there’s something else—something that feels like a challenge.

For the first time, James wonders if he’s the one who’s being played.

_____________________________

James stands outside, the cool night air pressing against his skin, yet offering no true relief. The castle looms behind him, a dark silhouette against the vast sky, where constellations glint like distant eyes. The world feels stretched thin, like something unreal, like something waiting to break.

He turns towards the iron gates.

A figure steps forward, emerging from the darkness. Then another. And another.

James blinks.

Lily. Sirius. Remus.

They stand before him, their faces illuminated in the dim glow of the stars. They smile at him, but something is wrong—their features shift, blur, like reflections on the surface of disturbed water. Their eyes are bright, too bright, as though lit from within. They are here, but they are not.

James’ stomach twists.

Lily lifts her hand, reaching for him, fingers trembling slightly as though the act costs her something. James raises his own hand instinctively, desperate to grasp hers, to feel something solid, something real.

Before their hands can meet—

A sound behind him.

Soft, deliberate footsteps on the stone steps.

James turns.

Regulus stands at the entrance of the castle, bathed in shadows, watching him. His expression is unreadable, yet there’s something in the way he looks at James, something patient and knowing. It unsettles him more than it should.

James follows his gaze as it flickers past him, settling on the figures at the gate. The ghosts. Then, slowly, back to James.

Regulus opens his mouth.

Even though the distance between them should make it impossible, James hears his voice as if he’s whispering right against his ear.

"Choose your fate."

The words settle heavily in the air, thick with meaning James can’t yet grasp.

Then, the world shifts.

A low roar rumbles through the ground beneath his feet, deep and primal. The sky remains untouched, the constellations frozen in their celestial patterns, but the castle behind Regulus is no longer dark and silent.

It is burning.

Flames claw their way up the ancient stone walls, devouring everything in their path. The fire spreads with unnatural speed, hungry and insatiable, its glow throwing sharp, flickering shadows across the courtyard.

James stumbles back.

Regulus doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.

He only watches. A small, knowing smile barely touches his lips, an expression so fleeting James might have imagined it.

James turns back to his friends—his family. But they are changing.

Their edges waver, their smiles growing distant, stretched. Pieces of them begin to flicker, unravelling like fabric pulled apart thread by thread.

Sirius, who always seemed so solid, so alive, is fading first. His grin remains, but his features ripple like ink swirling in water, breaking apart with every passing second.

James’ breath catches.

"No."

He reaches for them, his heart hammering. But the fire is faster.

The flames surround them all. They reach for his friends, twisting around their vanishing forms, consuming what little remains.

James whirls around—

Regulus is suddenly right before him.

The fire encircles them both now, the heat pressing against James' skin, making it hard to breathe. The world outside the flames has melted into darkness, leaving only this—only the two of them, standing in the center of a burning ring.

Regulus looks at him, dark eyes steady. There is no urgency in his expression, no fear, only patience.

"Choose."

His voice cuts through the crackling flames.

James’ pulse pounds in his ears.

The fire grows higher. The last shreds of his friends dissolve into nothing.

Regulus takes a step closer, and for the first time, James notices something strange—despite the fire, despite the destruction, the space around Regulus remains cool, untouched by the heat.

James swallows.

The flames rage. The stars above do not move.

Regulus watches.

Waiting.

Chapter Text

James fumbles with the keys, the weight of a whisky bottle under his arm, a slightly crumpled bouquet clutched in one hand. He hasn’t been home in a month, and it feels like a lifetime. The flat smells faintly of peppermint tea, mixed with the familiar warmth of home.

“Lils?” he calls, stepping inside, his voice tinged with a nervous sort of excitement.

“Bedroom!” comes the response, and James grins, shutting the door behind him with his foot.

He bounds through the flat, the whisky almost slipping from his grasp as he turns the corner. Lily is sitting by the window, sunlight glinting off her hair as she flips through a magazine. When she looks up, her eyes light up, and James feels like the luckiest man alive.

“You’re back!” she says, and before he can reply, she crosses the room, and pulls him into a hug that’s half tackle.

“I missed you,” he mumbles into her hair.

“You should miss me,” she teases, pulling back just enough to look at him. “What’s that?”

“Whisky and flowers.” He grins sheepishly, holding up the slightly abused bouquet.

She glanced down, taking in the flowers with a raised brow.

“Did you crush those on accident or was it an artistic choice?” she asks grinning.

“Artistic, obviously,” James shoots back, handing them to her and leaning down for a kiss. “And I brought whisky. Be impressed.”

She inspects the label, smirking. “You overpaid for this. They saw you coming a mile away.”

He laughs, as they make their way to the living room, relaxing onto the couch together. Lily presses the flowers to her nose, her expression softening. “Thanks, though. They’re nice.”

For the next hour, they slip into an easy rhythm, James recounting the latest antics from his students while Lily teases him mercilessly. She flips the conversation to her latest assignment—a piece for The Londoner on corruption in the local council.

“You’d love it,” she says, playing with his hand in her lap. “The whole thing’s ridiculous. Half the board is linked to the same private club. They’re basically running their own secret society.”

James smirks. “You’re going to topple them all, aren’t you?”

“Obviously,” Lily says with mock seriousness, yet with an underlying truth to it. “What’s the point of having a job if you can’t dismantle the patriarchy?”

Her wit, her fire—it always left him in awe. As she talks about their friends Mary and Marlene planning a brunch for Sunday, James finds himself smiling. How he ever deserved someone as amazing as Lily, he would never know.

_______________

The café is loud, the kind of place where the buzz of conversation and clinking mugs form a constant hum. Sirius and Remus are already at the corner table, Sirius gesturing eagerly about something, Remus listening with a fond, indulgent smile.

“Finally!” Sirius cries as James and Lily slide into the booth. “What took you so long?”

“Blame me,” James says, Lily nudging him in the ribs as she sits beside him. “I haven´t seen my wife in a month. Got a little distracted this morning. And last night,” he adds with a wink.

“Priorities,” Lily says with mock seriousness, earning a laugh from Sirius.

“I did not need to know that. You´re getting a bit too comfortable in your old age.”

James gives Sirius a playful shove as he leans over the table. “Old age? I´m thirty, not fifty, mate. And you´re older than me! You’re lucky I missed you. Otherwise, I’d leave you waiting another hour just for fun.”

“Ha! You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried,” Sirius shoots back, undeterred. He gestures to the coffee on the table. “Coffees on me, Prongs. It’s practically a celebration that you’re back.”

James grins, leaning back in his seat. “A celebration, huh? We should really be celebrating that Moony here survived an entire month of having to take the brunt of your endless chaotic energy. You doing all right there, Remus? Still intact?”

Remus gives James a dry, knowing look, his lips twitching with amusement. “Barely. I’ve considered moving to the Arctic, but I hear it’s not far enough.”

“Rude,” Sirius says. “You married me, don´t even pretend you don´t love every second of it.”

Remus rolls his eyes, but his smile gives him away. “It’s good to see you, James. How’s the new school?”

James runs a hand through his hair. “You know how it is. Scotland’s cold, the students are insufferable, and it feels like every hour takes a year.”

Lily nudges his shoulder with hers, leaning in with a small, affectionate smile. “It’s good to have you back,” she says, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m glad you’re home.”

James turns to her, his eyes softening with the kind of affection that never quite seems to fade between them. “Me too,” he says quietly.

Sirius’s voice cuts in, always a little too loud for public spaces. “What I want to know, Prongs, is how you’ve spent the last month being so serious.” He winks at that. “Did you really keep it together, or have you just been pretending to be all grown-up while you are in hiding?”

“Preposterous! I´ll have you know, I´m an intellectual,” James snorts, leaning toward him with exaggerated indignation. “I can be serious when I need to be, you know.” He grins, enjoying the playful exchange. “You’d know that if you spent any time listening instead of plotting ways to jump off roofs for fun.”

“Hey!” Sirius exclaims, clearly thrilled by the idea. “You know I’d take you with me if you weren’t such a chicken.” He pauses, looking contemplative. “You’d be really good at free-falling.”

James chuckles. “Thanks? I’d rather not jump to my certain death, though.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow. “Boring,” he says, clearly unimpressed. “But if that’s your speed, who am I to judge?”

James leans back in his chair, his mind flickering for a moment. He thinks about the last month, the long stretches of silence between him and Regulus, the odd, almost comfortable tension that had grown between them. They’d spent time together, talking about everything from philosophy to some really bad poetry Regulus likes, but it wasn’t the same. There was something different now. Something that James couldn’t shake, no matter how much he tried to push it to the back of his mind.

He brings his attention back to the table, focusing on the conversation. “You’ll have to come back down to earth eventually, mate,” James says, his voice loud and bright. “I’m not going to let you talk me into any of your ridiculous stunts. Let’s just enjoy a nice quiet weekend before I have to get back to school, yeah?”

Lily chuckles softly, squeezing his hand again. “I think we can manage that,” she says. “For today, at least.”

Sirius grins with that usual energy that he can’t hide. “Quiet? You’re talking about quiet with me around?”

Remus’s laugh is soft but genuine. “Let’s see how long we can make it last,” he says, lovingly looking at Sirius and interlacing their fingers.

James chuckles, soaking in the warmth of the moment, his gaze flickering over to the window. For a split second, the world outside blurs. He remembers the talk he had with Regulus that week, the quiet evenings on the overlook, the tension in the air that he’d been too slow to name.

But right now, in this moment, with his friends around him and Lily close by, it feels like there’s no place he’d rather be.

_______________

Sunday evening, James finds himself back at the overlook by the gardens, cigarette in hand. The air is crisp and the scent of flowers lingers in the air. The orange glow of the tip flickers as he exhales, watching the smoke curl into the sky.

“You’re predictable, Professor,” comes a voice from behind. Regulus steps into view, as calm and composed as always, his own cigarette already lit.

“Says the guy who’s here just as often as I am,” James replies, smirking.

Regulus takes his place beside him, their shoulders almost touching. For a while, they sit in companionable silence, the distant hum of the school fading into the background.

But then, movement below catches James’ attention. In the gardens, two students are locked in a heated argument.

“That’s Mulciber,” Regulus mutters blithely, his gaze and expression cold. “He’s been on edge lately.”

Before James can respond, Mulciber shoves the smaller boy, sending him stumbling back into a low hedge.

James straightens, his grip on the railing tightening. “We should stop him.”

“Wait,” Regulus says, his voice low but firm.

James hesitates, but his attention snaps back to the scene below as the smaller boy suddenly retaliates, landing a solid punch to Mulciber’s face. Mulciber stumbles back, clutching his nose, while the other boy storms off.

Regulus exhales slowly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “See? He didn’t need saving.”

“That’s not the point,” James snaps, glaring at him.

Regulus glances at him, unbothered. “Not everything’s a battle worth fighting, Professor. Heroism doesn’t suit you.”

James doesn’t reply, the tension between them simmering beneath the surface.

_______________

Their meetings at the overlook become a quiet ritual.

This is their spot now. It wasn’t planned that way. The first time they crossed paths here, James thought it was a coincidence. Now, he’s less sure.

Regulus is already waiting when James arrives tonight, perched on the low stone wall that borders the overlook, cigarette balanced delicately between his fingers. He doesn’t look up as James approaches, his gaze fixed on the horizon as though he’s watching for something only he can see.

“Back again?” James remarks as form of greeting, pulling his pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He slides one between his lips and lights it with a practiced flick of his lighter.

Regulus glances at him, his expression as unreadable as ever. “I don’t have much else to do,” he replies simply, his voice cool and detached.

James exhales a soft laugh along with a stream of smoke. “Bit grim, that. You could try socializing, you know. Make some friends.”

Regulus raises an eyebrow, his lips curving into the faintest shadow of a smile, though it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I have friends. If I wanted any more, I wouldn´t be here. This isn´t exactly a social spot.”

“And yet here I am,” James counters, his tone light. He glances at Regulus, who’s now watching the tip of his cigarette burn with an almost obsessive focus.

“And yet here you are.”

The conversation lulls, as it often does, but it’s not uncomfortable. James has learned to stop filling the silences with needless chatter. Regulus doesn’t seem to mind them, and James is beginning to understand that the younger man chooses his words carefully, rarely saying more than he means to.

It’s on their third or fourth meeting here after his weekend back home—James has lost count—that the topic of stars comes up.

“That one,” Regulus says one night, pointing to a faint, angular constellation just visible against the inky black canvas of the October night sky. “Cassiopeia.”

James nods. “The vain queen,” he says, his voice thoughtful. “She boasted about being more beautiful than the sea nymphs and nearly got her daughter killed for it.”

Regulus hums, his gaze still fixed on the stars. “Do you ever stop teaching?”

“What, should I tell you about my life instead? I thought you didn´t need any more friends.”

“I don’t,” Regulus replies smoothly. “But you could stand to take your own advice. Open up a little.”

James snorts, shaking his head. “You’ve got some nerve saying that to me.”

Regulus doesn’t respond immediately, his gaze returning to the stars. When he speaks again, his voice is softer, almost contemplative. “Cassiopeia’s not my favourite, anyway.”

“Oh?” James glances at him. “What is?”

Regulus hesitates for a moment, as if debating whether to answer. “Lepus,” he says finally. “The hare, chased by Orion and his dogs.”

James smirks. “You strike me as more of the hunter than the prey.”

Regulus doesn’t rise to the bait, and the silence stretches again. James doesn’t push. He’s learned that with Regulus, some things are better left unsaid—for now, at least.

As the weeks pass, this ritual becomes their unspoken agreement. A cigarette here, a constellation or myth there, a conversation that is never quite as personal as it feels. James finds himself looking forward to these moments more than he’s willing to admit.

And sometimes, when the night is still and the stars are bright, he thinks about why Regulus keeps coming back here. About what it is that draws them to this spot, this quiet routine, time and time again.

Chapter Text

James finds him at their spot, leaning casually against the stone. A thin stream of smoke curls upward from Regulus’s cigarette as he stares out over the gardens, the maze a twisting shadow in the moonlight. He offers James a cigarette without hesitation, the gesture practiced by now. James takes it, and Regulus lights it with a flick of his silver lighter.

Tonight, Regulus seems lighter somehow—less guarded. Their conversation meanders easily, and this time, when James asks about Regulus’s friends, he gets more than cryptic remarks.

“Barty’s brilliant,” Regulus says, the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips. “And exhausting. He has this knack for pulling the most ridiculous stunts just to see how far he can push people.”

Regulus tilts his head thoughtfully, the ghost of a smirk on his face. “There was this one time… we were at a charity gala. My parents insisted I go, of course—purely for appearances. Barty showed up, uninvited naturally, claiming to be an Austrian art dealer.”

James’s eyebrows shoot up. “Did he pull it off?”

“Oh, brilliantly,” Regulus says, a faint laugh escaping him. “He carried around a pocket-sized notebook and goes on about ‘the emotional decay of contemporary sculptures.’ Speaking in an atrocious accent. By the end of the night, he somehow convinced the organizer to auction off a centrepiece—a hideous modern monstrosity, by the way—that wasn´t even part of the auction.”

James grins, intrigued. “What happened to the sculpture?”

“Barty bought it himself with fake bidding paddles he made out of napkins,” Regulus smiles, shaking his head. “Then he tried to donate it back to the gala, saying it’s too avant-garde for his collection.”

James bursts out laughing, nearly dropping his cigarette. “You’re joking.”

“I wish I were,” Regulus says dryly, though there’s a flicker of genuine amusement in his expression. “The gala organizers were furious. My mother nearly had an aneurysm.”

“And what did Barty do?”

“He disappeared before anyone could confront him,” Regulus says, flicking ash from his cigarette. “Left the piece in the middle of the ballroom and send everyone postcards about how art should challenge us, not comfort us.”

James clutches his stomach, laughing so hard he almost can’t breathe. “He sounds completely insane.”

“Completely,” Regulus agrees, though his tone carries a note of fondness.

“And your other friends?” James asks, encouraged by his openness.

Regulus takes another slow drag of his cigarette, exhaling a thin stream of smoke before speaking again. “Evan and Pandora.” His voice softens slightly, as though their names alone hold something sacred.

James watches him intrigued. “Twins, right?” He remembers seeing them before—passing him in the hallway, sitting next to Regulus during meals—but he doesn´t have any of Regulus´s friends in his class. He mentioned them before, but never with much detail.

Regulus nods. “Evan´s the steady one. Brilliiant mind, sharp instincts. He can be ruthless when he needs to be, but mostly he just… understands things.

James hums in interest. “And Pandora?”

“She´s… impossible to describe properly. Sees the world differently than anyone else. Evan calls her reckless, but I don’t think that’s quite right. She just refuses to be confined by reality as it´s presented to her.”

James tilts his head. “That sounds like a poet’s way of saying she’s completely mad.”

Regulus smirks, the softness not leaving his face. “Perhaps. She believes the universe leaves clues if you’re clever enough to see them. She once spent an entire summer mapping out the constellations, convinced she’d find proof that the stars shift based on emotion.”

James huffs a quiet laugh. “Did she?”

“If you ask her, yes.”

James watches him closely, while he tells him stories about his friends, about the time they slept inside the maze, because Pandora insisted the stars were lonely, how Evan put itching powder in Barty´s ex-boyfriend´s bed after they broke up, how Barty sneaks into the kitchen at night to bake cookies. These aren´t just people Regulus tolerates—they matter to him.

“You love them,” James observes.

“They’re my family,” Regulus answers.

They stay quiet for a few minutes, Regulus lost in his own thoughts, James content with the quiet camaraderie. Then, Regulus turns to look at him. “What about you, Professor? Any wild stories about your friends?”

James can’t help but laugh at that. He definitely has some stories. “My best friends are a married couple, one of them a stuntman—an absolute adrenaline junkie, that one— the other owns a bookshop. It sounds like they shouldn’t work but I’ve never seen two people so perfect for each other. They got married at eighteen, years before I met them. My other best friend moved to New York a couple of years ago, so we don’t really see him more than a few times a year.... We got these weird nicknames for each other— Moony, Padfoot, Wormtail and Prongs. I’m Prongs.”

Regulus laughs at the ridiculous names, but James refuses to explain the lore on them. it’s a long story—and highly inappropriate.

Instead, James tells him stories about friendship and mischief. And he tells him about Lily.

That night, they stay outside for a long time.

_____________

James: I think I’ve finally cracked the secret to grading essays efficiently.

Remus: Did you set them on fire and call it a fresh start?

Sirius: did you bribe a student?

James: I was looking for support here!

Remus: You texted the wrong group for that.

Sirius: we’re proud of you though… kind of

James: Kind of?

Remus: Well, you’re still grading essays, so…

_____________

James spots Mulciber in the corridor one afternoon, standing in front of a much smaller student, barely fifteen, pressing him against the wall. His posture is deceptively casual, but his shoulders are tight and his fingers are curled into the other students blazer. His tone is low but threatening, and the younger boy’s wide eyes dart toward James, silently pleading for rescue.

James steps forward, raising his voice. “Mulciber.”

Mulciber stiffens before turning, his expression hardening as he registers who’s speaking, but he drops his hands off the boys collar.

The younger student quickly flees, leaving the two in a tense standoff. James crosses his arms, leaning on a calm, authoritative tone. “I get it. Being here isn’t easy. But taking it out on someone smaller than you? That’s not going to help.”

Mulciber’s jaw tightens. “You don’t know anything about me.”

“You’re right,” James admits, surprising him. “But I’d like to. Why don’t you stop by my office later this week? We can talk about whatever’s going on.”

Mulciber’s response is noncommittal—a shrug and a muttered “whatever”—but James can sense the crack in his armour, small but present.

James doesn´t press. Instead, he just nods, puhsing himself off the wall. “Door’s always open.”

As he walks away, he doesn’t look back, but he doesn’t need to—he can feel Mulciber still standing there, unmoving, considering.

_____________

James: Tell me why Sirius just send a photo of a shoe…?

Remus: Don’t ask me, I’ve given up trying to understand him.

Sirius: ITS ART!

_____________

The first time Regulus shows up at James’s office on his own accord, it’s entirely professional—or at least, that’s how it begins.

James looks up at the soft knock on his door. When he sees who it is, his brows lift slightly in surprise.

“Professor,” Regulus says, standing in the doorway with his usual composed expression. His uniform is immaculate, tie in perfect place, but his grip on the stack of papers in his hands is a little too tight. “Do you have a moment?”

James gestures for the chair across from his desk. “Of course. What’s on your mind?”

Regulus steps forward with quiet precision, places a well-organized stack of papers on James’s desk, and taps the top page with a single, deliberate finger.

“There are some inconsistencies in the rubric for last week’s assignment,” he says, his voice smooth but firm. “The grading criteria suggests we should focus on thematic interpretation, but your feedback places greater emphasis on historical context. That’s contradiictory.”

James fights a smile. “Contradictory? Or an opportunity to develop a well-rounded analysis?”

Regulus narrows his eyes slightly. “If that were the intention, it should have been stated outright.”

James leans back in his chair, tapping his fingers against his desk. “You’re right. I should’ve made that clearer.” He tilts his head, watching Regulus closely. “Is that what’s really bothering you? Or did you just need an excuse to argue with me?”

Regulus doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he glances down at the paper, his lips pressing together in what looks like reluctant amusement. Then, after a beat, he says, “Can’t it be both?”

James chuckles. “Fair enough. What about the assignment, then? Were the themes not clear to you?”

“They were clear,” Regulus replies smoothly. “But your notes on my paper implied that I should have framed my argument differently.”

“I didn’t say should—I said could.”

“A distinction without a difference,” Regulus counters.

James raises an eyebrow. “There’s always a difference between obligation and possibility.”

Regulus watches him for a moment, then exhales, shaking his head slightly. “Fine. Perhaps my issue isn’t with the rubric but with the text itself.”

James grins. “Oh? Do tell.”

Regulus leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other, his fingers toying with the cuff of his sleeve. “I understand The Bacchae. I understand its appeal. But I find its central conflict… frustrating.”

James folds his arms, intrigued. “Frustrating how?”

Regulus’s tone grows measured and precise. “Pentheus was not merely a victim of fate; he made choices—even if, in his arrogance, he believed he could impose order on chaos. I argue that he had a choice, and his downfall was a direct result of his refusal to embrace the inherent uncertainty of life.”

James shakes his head slowly. “I’d say that in Pentheus’s case, his attempt at control only magnified his downfall. He believed he could defy destiny, that he could manage the chaos within him.”

Regulus tilts his head, his gaze steady and cool. “So you’re saying there was no choice? Pentheus’s downfall was fate? Irrevocable? What happened to Aristotle over Plato, Professor? You´re contradicting yourself.” He smirks at that, but doesn’t give James time to answer. “I believe that true freedom lies in recognizing that choice is power. Pentheus’s resistance was not a display of heroic defiance—it was a desperate clinging to a false sense of control. And it was not only him, who had to pay for it, but Agave too.”

James’s eyes narrow slightly. “So you believe that if he had acknowledged the chaos, if he’d truly embraced his inner nature, he might have survived his encounter with Dionysus?”

Regulus meets his gaze with a glint of clarity. “I do. The tragedy of The Bacchae isn’t that chaos is inevitable, but that denial is self-destructive. We all choose our paths—even when the path we choose leads us to ruin.”

A tense silence falls between them, heavy with unspoken meaning.

Regulus’s eyes flicker in the firelight, revealing a brief, almost dangerous spark. “Control is an illusion, Professor. Sometimes, the very act of choosing it only accelerates our downfall.”

A beat of silence lingers between them, charged with something James can’t quite name. He sees the sharp intelligence in Regulus’s eyes, the quiet intensity beneath his carefully measured words.

James finally exhales, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Alright,” he concedes. “I’ll revise the rubric.”

Regulus smirks, standing and adjusting his uniform. “Good. I’d hate to have to correct you again, Professor.”

James huffs a quiet laugh. “Noted.”

Regulus stands, fixing his uniform, but there’s the slightest hesitation before he speaks again. “This was… helpful.”

It isn’t long before Regulus starts appearing more often, each visit more casual than the last.

_____________

Sirius: [sends a blurry picture of a dog wearing a wizard hat] mood

James: That’s not a mood, that’s just a very confused dog.

Sirius: dont speak to me OR my wizard dog son ever again

Remus: I hate to agree with James, but that’s not a mood. That’s a cry for help.

Sirius: [sends another meme of a raccoon holding a tiny sword] BETTER?!

James: ...I’m reporting you to the Ministry of Memes.

Remus: There’s no Ministry of Memes.

Sirius: not with that attitude

_____________

“I can’t believe you’ve never read Pride and Prejudice,” Regulus teases. “You teach literature, that book is a classic!”

James laughs, shaking his head good-naturedly. “I teach Greek literature,” he interjects. “And I´ll have you know, I’ve seen the movie.”

“That is not the same,” Regulus retorts, his voice sharp, yet amused. He arches an eyebrow, daring James to defend his position further.

Before James can offer another quip, a bright voice rings out from across the hallway.

“Hi Professor, have a good weekend,” Anna calls, when they walk past her.

James replies to his student, sending her a warm smile, before turning his attention back to Regulus. His expression is stony, disdainful.

“She has a crush on you, you know?”

James raises an eyebrow and laughs softly. “Oh, don´t. She’s just being nice— I’m her teacher.”

_____________

It’s late when Regulus shows up at James’s office—office hours long over—looking paler than usual, dark circles shadowing his sharp eyes. He hesitates in the doorway, one hand gripping the frame like he isn’t sure if he wants to step inside or turn back the way he came.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he says flatly, though there’s something off about his voice—something strained.

“You’re not interrupting,” James replies easily, setting down his pen and motioning to the chair opposite his desk.

Regulus stands there a second longer before he moves, his steps measured, deliberate. He sinks into the chair, spine straight, arms resting on the armrests like he’s bracing himself. But he doesn’t speak. The silence stretches between them, stretching so thin it almost feels like it might snap.

James waits.

Then, finally—so quiet it’s almost lost beneath the crackling of the fireplace—Regulus murmurs, “Do you ever get tired of pretending everything’s fine?”

James frowns, caught off guard. “I don’t think anyone really has it all together, Regulus.”

“No,” Regulus snaps, his voice sharp enough to cut. He looks up, his eyes dark and burning. “I mean… pretending to care about people when you don’t. Or pretending to be someone they think you are, just because it’s easier.”

James studies him, tilting his head slightly. There’s an edge to Regulus tonight, something brittle, something dangerously close to cracking. He’s seen it before—just glimpses, just shadows beneath the cold exterior—but never like this. Never this raw.

“I don’t think you give yourself enough credit,” James says softly.

Regulus exhales sharply, like he’s about to argue, but James doesn’t let him. “From what I’ve seen, you care more than you let on.”

Something flickers across Regulus’s face—quick, unreadable. “You think that because I amuse myself with people, it means I care?” His voice is quiet but biting, laced with something almost bitter.

James doesn’t flinch. “I think the way you talk about your friends says more than you realize.”

Regulus looks away, his hands gripping the chair’s arms, fingers white against the worn wood. “It’s exhausting,” he mutters.

James hesitates, then—without thinking—leans forward slightly. “You don’t have to do it alone,” he says, his voice low, steady.

Regulus lets out a soft, mirthless laugh. “And what, exactly, do you think you can do, Professor?”.

“I don’t know,” James admits. “But maybe just listening is enough.”

Regulus shifts, something unreadable in his expression. Then—too quick, too brief—James reaches out. Just the barest movement, just the ghost of a touch. Their fingers brush, a fleeting moment of warmth, of connection, before Regulus pulls back like he’s been burned.

James lets his hand fall.

Regulus stares at him for a beat longer, something tight in his jaw, something unreadable in his eyes. Then he stands, movements precise, controlled. The mask is back in place.

“I should go,” he says, his voice smooth, indifferent.

James watches him, watches the way he straightens his cuffs, the way he slips so easily back into the cold, untouchable version of himself. He doesn’t try to stop him.

“Goodnight, Regulus,” he says instead, gentle but firm.

Regulus doesn’t reply. He just turns and walks out, disappearing into the dimly lit corridor, leaving James with the ghost of his presence and the lingering weight of all the things left unsaid.

_____________

“Mulciber?” Lily’s voice is slightly incredulous on the other end of the phone. “You’re trying to mentor Mulciber?”

“I know, I know,” James says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But he’s a kid, Lily. Someone’s got to help him.”

“You’ve always had a soft spot for lost causes,” Lily teases, though her tone softens. “And what about the other one? The student you mentioned before?”

“Still keeps to himself,” James lies.

Lily hums thoughtfully, and James can tell she doesn’t fully believe him. But she doesn’t press. “You’d tell me if something was bothering you, wouldn’t you?”

“Of course,” James says, and guilt curdles in his chest.

_____________

James: Do you ever think we’re just like... too old for this group chat chaos?

Sirius: speak for yourself old man potter I’m in my prime

Remus: Your ‘prime’ involves texting the group at 3 a.m. asking about what would happen if a werewolf got bitten by a vampire.

Sirius: Im still waiting for an answer on that one by the way

James: This was almost a touching moment.

Sirius: touching? IM the emotional glue of this group!

Remus: You’re the unhinged raccoon of this group.

Sirius: same thing moony my love

_____________

They stand close together at the lookout, the scent of smoke lingering between them. The moonlight dances along Regulus’s features, highlighting the sharp curve of his cheekbone and the faint freckles scattered across the bridge of his nose.

James hasn’t noticed them before—the freckles. There’s something intimate in the discovery, like unearthing a secret no one else has been trusted to see.

Regulus turns his head slightly, catching James’s gaze. For a moment, neither of them speaks. The air between them feels charged, and James can feel the warmth of Regulus’s shoulder almost brushing his own.

“You’re staring,” Regulus murmurs, the corners of his mouth quirking up in a half-smile.
“Am I?” James asks, voice lighter than he feels.

The silence stretches between them, heavy with unspoken words. Regulus’s gaze lingers on James, his expression unreadable. Then, just as the tension feels unbearable, he turns away, lighting another cigarette.

_____________

James had just finished his last class of the day when he turns the corner of one of Hallowthorn’s endless, maze-like hallways—and stops in his tracks.

Up ahead, two students stand toe to toe.

Mulciber vibrates with barely contained rage, his fingers curled tight around the collar of the other boy’s shirt. His voice comes out low and dangerous, but still loud enough to echo off the stone walls.

“You really don’t want me as your enemy.”

The other student—Marcus—whispers something in response. James can't make out the words, but whatever Marcus says, it is the wrong thing.

Mulciber’s face twists, eyes bulging for a split second before fury takes over. He pulls back his fist and swings.

James moves, shoving through the narrow space between them just as Mulciber lands the punch. Marcus staggers back, crumpling to the ground with a sharp exhale.

James grabs Mulciber by the arm before he can lunge again. “Hey—enough! Step back.” His voice is sharp, edged with authority.

Mulciber jerks away but doesn’t push forward again. His breathing is harsh, his whole body tense, as if holding himself back takes real effort.

James turns his attention to Marcus, who is half-sitting, half-sprawled on the cold stone floor, clutching his nose. Blood drips between his fingers, staining his shirt, and James can already tell he’ll have a nasty black eye by morning.

He crouches beside him. “You okay?”

Marcus removes his hand and blinks down at the red smeared across his palm. He nods once, still looking a bit dazed.

“Can you get yourself to the nurse’s office?”

Another nod. Without waiting for more, Marcus pushes himself to his feet and trudges down the hall, leaving a trail of faint red splatters in his wake.

James exhales, slow and measured, before turning to Mulciber. The boy stamds rigid, shifting his weight from foot to foot, his expression somewhere between embarrassment and defiance.

“You,” James says, pointing at him. “With me.”

Mulciber rolls his eyes but doesn’t argue. There’s something nervous in the way his fingers twitch at his sides, something restless in the way he walks as he follows James down the hall.

They don’t speak on the way to James’s office. James doesn’t have to look at him to know that the anger is bleeding out of him with each step. The tension in his shoulders eases slightly, but his head is still ducked down, his hands still fidgeting, pulling at his sleeves, rubbing at his knuckles.

By the time they reach the office, Mulciber looks less like a boy spoiling for a fight and more like a child bracing for punishment.

James sits down at his desk and regards him carefully before finally speaking. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Mulciber stares down at his hands. He isn’t smirking anymore. No biting sarcasm, no cocky tilt to his chin. Just quiet, uncomfortable fidgeting.

“’m sorry,” he mutters.

James lets the silence stretch between them, waiting. When Mulciber doesn’t say anything more, James sighs and pushes himself up from his chair.

“Would you like some tea?” he asks, voice calm. “Biscuits?”

Mulciber hesitates, then giives a small nod.

James nods back, already reaching for the kettle.

Chapter Text

The classroom is alive with a faint hum of conversation, the kind of low murmur that always precedes James’s classes. He stands at the front of the room, leaning casually against the desk, his hand absently flipping through the pages of his notes. It´s not like he needs them—James knows this particular story by heart—but there is something comforting about the ritual. A moment of stillness before stepping into the dynamic chaos of teaching.

The room gradually settles as students take their seats, the scrape of chairs against the floor echoing faintly. Among them, James’s eyes find Regulus, who, as always, claims a seat toward the front but slightly off-center—not hidden but not in the spotlight either. His posture is impeccable, shoulders square, head tilted slightly as he scans his own notebook. Even from a distance, James can see the faint flick of his pen, the way Regulus jots down what James assumes are thoughts or notes to himself.

James allows himself the briefest moment to observe him. There´s something hypnotic about the way Regulus moves—precise, deliberate. His dark hair is in neat curls, though a single strand rebelliously falls across his forehead. It catches the light just so, glinting like a thread of silver. James’s gaze lingers a second too long, and he forces himself to look away, clearing his throat and straightening as he addresses the class, smiling brightly.

“Good afternoon, everyone. Today, we’re diving into one of my favourites. Orpheus and Eurydice —a story that has persisted across centuries, reinvented and reinterpreted through countless lenses.”

A few students shift in their seats, pens poised. Regulus remains still, his attention is on him, sharp and unwavering. James leans forward slightly. "Who here has heard of it before? Show of hands."

A smattering of hands goes up. Regulus doesn’t raise his, but James catches the faintest flicker of amusement on his face, as though he thinks the question is beneath him. It´s barely there, but James has started to recognize his tells. The faintest movements in his brows, in the corners of his mouth. The glint in his eyes, when he is about to say something infuriatingly smart. The way he bites his bottom lip when the conversation is intellectually stimulating. James catalogues all these details, stores them in the forefront of his mind, desperately trying to solve the puzzle that is this man. The latter is an expression James has yet to see in a classroom discussion with his peers.

"Alright, good," James says. "For those of you unfamiliar—or for those who might need a refresher—let’s go over the basics.” James picks up a piece of chalk, sketching the names “Orpheus” and “Eurydice” on the board in large, looping letters. Beneath them, he adds a smaller phrase: “The tension between love and loss.”

“The myth of Orpheus and Eurydice comes to us primarily through Ovid’s Metamorphoses and Virgil’s Georgics. Both tell a similar story with slight variations. Orpheus, the greatest musician of his time, loses his wife, Eurydice. Consumed by grief, he descends into the Underworld, where he plays his lyre so beautifully that he moves even Hades and Persephone. They agree to let Eurydice return to the world of the living under one condition: Orpheus must lead her out of the Underworld without turning around to look back at her.”

James pauses, letting his words simmer. “But, as we know, Orpheus can’t resist. Just as they’re about to reach the surface, he turns. Eurydice slips away forever, lost to the shadows. Tragic, yes—but what makes it resonate with us so deeply, even thousands of years later?”

A hand shoots up in the front row. James nods at the student, a boy named Noah with glasses perched precariously on his nose. “Because it’s relatable,” he says. “The fear of loss, the temptation to break the rules. It’s... human.”

“Exactly,” James says, a note of approval in his voice. “At its heart, this myth is about the complexity of love and the human tendency to sabotage what we most want. Orpheus loves Eurydice so much that he can’t bear not to see her—even though he knows that looking back will destroy everything.”

His gaze flicks toward Regulus again. The younger man is sitting perfectly still, his pen resting against his notebook as he listens intently. James wonders what he must be thinking.

“As you read the texts, you’ll notice the repeated theme of risk,” James continues. “Orpheus takes an enormous risk descending into the Underworld—a place no living man is meant to go. But more than that, he risks everything by looking back. And for what? A fleeting moment of reassurance? A glimpse of the person he loves?”

The room is silent, the weight of the question hanging in the air. James sets down the chalk and leans against the desk again, crossing his arms.

“What do you think?” he asks, his eyes sweeping across the class. “Was it worth it? Was Orpheus’s decision to look back selfish? Or was it brave?”

A murmur of conversation breaks out as students begin discussing the question among themselves. Regulus remains quiet, his head tilted slightly as though he is analysing the discussion itself rather than its content.

“Selfish,” Emily answers. “He knew the rules and broke them anyway. If he’d trusted her to follow, they both could’ve been happy.”

“But isn’t that the point?” Anna counters, quiet but firm. “He’s… human. He made a mistake because he loved her so much. Isn’t that... beautiful in a way?”

“Orpheus just lacks impulse control,” Mira interjects.

“Go on,” James encourages them.

“Well...,” they say. “I understand the urge to turn around, to see the person you love, but— Orpheus knew the consequences. He knew what would happen if he turned around but he did it anyways. It’s like… like Schrödinger’s cat, but the moment you open the box, the cat dies. Isn’t it better to stay in limbo, where Eurydice is both there and not there, than turn around just to have certainty?”

James nods, letting the debate unfold. His eyes keep drifting back to Regulus, who has finally picked up his pen again, scribbling something in his notebook. His brows are slightly furrowed, lips pressed into a faint line.

“Regulus,” James says, his voice cutting through the chatter. “What’s your take?”

Regulus looks up, startled for a fraction of a second before his composure returns. His eyes meet James’s, and James feels that strange tightening in his chest again—the same one that always seemed to happen when Regulus looks at him like that, as if trying to see through him.

“I think,” Regulus begins solwly, his voice steady but quiet, “that Orpheus didn’t take the risk for Eurydice’s sake. He did it for himself. It wasn’t about love—it was about fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of losing control. He didn’t look back because he loved her; he looked back because he was afraid she wouldn’t be there.”

The room falls silent. James blinks, caught off guard by the sharpness of Regulus’s insight. He expected something thoughtful, yes, but this... this is cutting.

“And do you think fear is always a bad thing?” James follows up, unconsciously leaning towards him.

Regulus hesitates, his fingers tightening slightly around his pen. “Not always. Fear can drive you to act. But it can also... paralyze you. Or make you do things you regret.”

James nods, his gaze lingering on Regulus for a moment longer than necessary. There is something in his voice—a hint of something personal, unspoken. James wants to press, to ask what he meant, but he holds back.

Instead, he turns to the rest of the class. “Fear and risk are inseparable, aren’t they? Every decision we make carries a risk. The question is whether the risk is worth it. Whether it’s better to take the leap or to stay where it’s safe.”

His gaze flicks briefly to Regulus as he says it, and he doesn’t miss the way Regulus’s lips press into a thin line, his eyes darkening. The words land differently with him, James can tell. They weren’t meant as a message, not consciously, but now he wonders if maybe they were.

“Sometimes,” James says, his voice softer now, “the risk of staying stagnant is greater than the risk of failing.”

Regulus’s eyes flick up, meeting James’s. For a moment, the rest of the class seems to fade away. There is something in Regulus’s gaze—something sharp and vulnerable all at once and James feels the familiar pull in his chest.

As the discussion continues around them, James finds himself unable to fully focus. His thoughts keep drifting back to Regulus, to the way his hand moves across the page, the faint furrow of his brow, the way he seems to carry the weight of the world on his narrow shoulders.

When the lecture finally ends, James dismisses the class with a wave, watching as the students begin to file out. Regulus lingers, as he does so often now, gathering his things slowly.

As he passes by James’s desk, their eyes meet again.

“That was an... interesting lecture,” Regulus says, his voice quiet but steady, controlled.

James raises an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Interesting good or interesting bad?”

Regulus’s lips twitch, not quite forming a smile. “Interesting thought-provoking.”

And then he is gone, disappearing out the door before James could say anything else.

_____________

James’s office is cluttered but warm, papers scattered across his desk alongside a steaming mug of tea. He’s grading essays when Mulciber walks in through the open door, knocking on the doorframe, his shoulders hunched and eyes darting nervously.

"Professor Potter?" Mulciber asks, voice hesitant.

"Mulciber," James says, looking up. "Everything alright?"

Mulciber shifts on his feet. "Not really."

James motions for him to sit, and the boy sinks into the chair. "It’s… complicated," Mulciber begins. "I’ve been caught up in some things.”

James watches Mulciber fidget in his chair, a familiar restlessness in his movements. The usual bravado he wears like armour has melted away, replaced by something much more fragile. For a moment, James wonders if this is the real Mulciber—stripped of his sarcasm and hostility, of the front he’s been putting on for who knows how long.

"Mulciber," James says gently, trying to draw him out without pushing too hard, "You don’t have to say anything if you’re not ready. But I can’t help you if you don’t trust me."

There’s a long pause before Mulciber finally speaks, his voice quieter than James has ever heard it. "I don’t even know where to start." He presses his palms together, the tension in his fingers betraying his composure. "It’s… it’s a mess. I’ve gotten tangled up with some people, things I shouldn’t be a part of. I thought I was playing it smart, but now… now I’m stuck."

James leans forward, his eyes soft but serious. He knows this isn’t the first time Mulciber has been in trouble, but this time feels different. There’s a weight in the air, a sense of real fear in Mulciber´s words that James hasn’t heard before.

"You can’t always predict what’s going to happen," James says. He feels a pang of sympathy, but he keeps his voice steady. "People can make mistakes. But it’s how we get out of them that matters. You can still change course."

"I’m not asking for a rescue," Mulciber interrupts, his tone defensive but his hands trembling. "I just… I don’t know what to do anymore."

James thinks for a moment before speaking. "Aristotle said virtue lies in finding the middle ground. Courage isn’t recklessness, and caution isn’t cowardice. Maybe the answer isn’t running or fighting but finding a way to steer yourself out of this. Calmly, carefully."

Mulciber frowns, but something in James’s words seems to resonate. "You make it sound simple," he mutters.

"It’s not," James admits. "But you’re clever. You wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. Don’t let anyone else convince you otherwise."

Mulciber’s lips twitch in the ghost of a smile before he stands. "Thanks, Professor." There’s a pause as he moves toward the door. "You’re not like the others. I don’t know why, but you’re not. It’s strange. But I’m not going to ask why. Just… thanks."

James watches him go, feeling the quiet weight of their conversation hang in the air. It’s a small moment, but one that’s already shifted something—Mulciber has let him in, if only a little.

_____________

The next day, the dim light in the office is the only thing that breaks the quiet of the late afternoon, casting long shadows across the room. Regulus stands by the door, looking unsure, a sharp contrast to the usual self-assuredness that James has come to expect. But today, he seems different—more vulnerable. The usual arrogant and cold demeanour has softened, leaving something more raw and unguarded in its place.

James glances up from his papers, caught off guard by Regulus’s quiet presence. It’s late, later than usual, and he’d expected his office to remain empty. But now, here is Regulus, as if drawn by some invisible pull James can’t quite understand.

"Regulus," James says with a slight raise of his eyebrow, "Everything alright?" He can hear the warmth in his own voice, and it feels natural, even though he has no idea why Regulus is here.

Regulus hesitates before stepping into the room, his movements tentative. "Just needed to talk," he says, voice softer than usual. He glances around the office, taking in the mess of papers, books, and half-finished work that’s become James’s signature chaos.

James nods, shifting to make room on the desk. "Sure. Take a seat." He tries to keep the tone casual, but inside, something stirs—a nervous energy he can’t quite shake. He wonders why Regulus looks so... unsettled. This isn’t the Regulus he’s used to—so poised and collected, so quick with a sharp retort.

Regulus sits down slowly, eyeing the papers on his desk. He’s silent for a moment, his hands resting on his knees as if unsure what to do with himself.

James watches him for a moment, noting how different Regulus looks in the low light—his usually perfect hair is slightly tousled, a few strands falling into his eyes, like he´s been pulling his hands through them all day. There's something about the way the shadows catch his cheekbones, the curve of his jaw that feels too close, too intimate. His usual aloofness is gone, and James feels an unfamiliar tightness in his chest.

"What’s on your mind?" James asks gently, shifting slightly in his chair. The question feels a bit too much—like an invitation. For what, James isn’t sure, but it makes him uneasy. It hangs in the air anyway, pressing in on them both.

Regulus exhales, a shaky breath that he quickly tries to mask with a cool shrug. "It’s just… everything. People. Life. It’s harder than I thought it would be, I guess."

James watches him closely, his gaze lingering on Regulus’s face. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—vulnerability, confusion, maybe even a little fear—and it catches James off guard. It’s not that he hasn’t seen glimpses behind Regulus´s mask before, but this feels... different. Dangerous almost.

"I get it," James says after a moment. He leans forward, his elbows on the desk, his voice low and serious. "It’s easy to feel like things are out of your control. Like everyone else has it figured out, but you’re just trying to keep your head above water."

Regulus’s eyes flick to him, and there’s something searching in his gaze.

James notices something in the way Regulus holds himself, the way his fingers grip the edge of the chair—there’s tension there, a silent struggle that James feels instinctively, though he has no idea what it’s about.

"Sometimes, it feels like it’s all a game," Regulus says, his voice soft. "And I’m tired of playing it." His gaze drops to the floor, and for the first time, James notices the faintest quiver in his voice, like he’s fighting to keep it steady.

A sudden, strange impulse rises in James, one he’s quick to push away— an urge to reach out, to somehow steady Regulus, make him feel safe. Instead, he tilts his head, studying Regulus more closely.

For the first time, James notices the slight sharpness to Regulus’s collarbones, the way his shirt stretches over them—how it makes him seem even more fragile. His eyes travel down to Regulus’s hands, which are clenched tight now, his knuckles white from the tension. There’s something so... human about it—something raw that makes James feel like he’s seeing Regulus for the first time, not the person he’s built up in his head.

A laugh escapes James before he can stop it, though it’s not one of mockery. It’s soft, barely a sound, but it feels like a release. "You are the smartest person I have ever met, Regulus," James says. He’s not sure why he feels the need to say this out loud, but it feels right. The words are sincere, grounded in something he can’t quite name, but it’s there all the same.

Regulus looks up, his eyes meeting James’s with a sharp intensity. "I don’t feel very smart right now," he says quietly, his voice threading through the silence. “I feel like I´m losing.”

For a brief moment, James’s thoughts scatter. He catches himself staring a little too long at Regulus—at the way his curls frame his face, the soft fall of his eyelashes, the lines of his jaw that somehow seem even more defined in the low light. There’s an unfamiliar ache in his chest, a longing that he can’t explain.

His fingers twitch, the urge to touch—just to see if Regulus’s curls are as soft as they look—rises within him, but he shakes it off. He shifts in his seat, looking away as if to refocus. "Maybe you’re just too hard on yourself."

Regulus’s eyes narrow, though there’s still something almost sad in his expression. "Maybe."

There’s a silence between them that feels heavy. The air is thick, and for a moment, James could swear the room is warmer than it was a second ago, though the heater hasn’t kicked in and there’s no fire burning in the hearth.

"You said something earlier… about taking risks."

James watches him carefully. "Yes?"

Regulus leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. There’s a fire igniting in his eyes as he asks, "how do you know when it’s worth it? Taking the risk, I mean."

James exhales slowly, choosing his words with care. The turn of conversation makes him uneasy, buzzing with energy. Like they suddenly find themselves on a precipice. James just isn´t sure what he will find at the bottom. "You don’t always know. There´s only one way to find out."

Regulus looks at him for a long moment, his gaze intense. "That’s a dangerous philosophy," he murmurs, almost to himself.

"It can be," James says softly.

Regulus stands abruptly, breaking the moment. "I should get going." His voice is steady again, but the vulnerability that was there a moment ago hasn’t quite disappeared.

James stands too, instinctively moving around the desk to follow him. "If you ever need to talk, Regulus," he says, voice softer now, "I’m here. Don’t forget that."

Regulus pauses, glancing over his shoulder at James. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—something close to gratitude, maybe—but it’s quickly masked by the usual aloofness. "Yeah," he mutters. "I’ll remember that."

As he walks out, the door clicking shut behind him, James stands frozen for a moment, staring at the empty space where Regulus was just standing. The quiet in the room feels heavier now, filled with an unspoken understanding—or maybe just a need for understanding that they haven’t yet faced.

_____________

It’s late when James leans against the castle wall on the lookout the next day, lighting a cigarette and breathing in deeply. He just finished some last-minute work, eyes tired from hours of grading. Breathing out, he looks up to see Regulus standing there.

His face looks even more distant than usual. But there’s something about the way he stands, leaning slightly against the wall a few steps away fom him, that seems to soften the sharp lines of his expression. James instinctively moves towards him.

"Regulus?" James says, raising an eyebrow.

Regulus hesitates, his eyes flicking down, then up again. His voice is hesitant, but there’s a rawness to it that James hasn’t heard before. "I… there’s something I need to do."

James hands him his cigarette and he takes a long drag before handing it back. "Okay… Have you decided the risk is worth the outcome?"

Regulus steps closer. His gaze flickers around the lookout, the gardens below, his movements restless. James notices the slight tension in his jaw, like he’s holding something back.

“It was more complicated than that. It’s also a question of morality you see. And of honour. Achilles achieved immortality through destruction, not through greatness. But holding on to a sense of control can be just as destructive.” A small smile appears on the younger mans face, but it´s humourless, doesn’t reach his eyes. “My dilemma is, should I risk destruction for a chance of greatness, or do I choose the path that is honourable, virtuous… and stay stagnant and miserable.”

James stays silent, listening intently. Regulus hasn’t posed it as a question, he doesn´t need an answer. He has made up his mind. Instead, he takes another drag of his cigarette, waiting for Regulus to continue.

After a moment of silence, Regulus sighs. "You’ve been different, lately. In class… You said something yesterday that really… it got to me."

James raises an eyebrow, unsure where this is going.

Regulus looks down at the cobble stone, his expression unreadable. When he speaks again, his words come out almost in a whisper. "I’ve been thinking about that. About you. About everything."

James feels a tightening in his chest. He’s not sure where this is going, but the air round them has changed, become heavy with an unspoken tension.

"Regulus," James says softly, his voice barely above a murmur. "What are you trying to say?"

There’s a long pause. Regulus swallows, his breath shaky, before finally looking up and meeting James´s eyes. "I don’t know anymore," he admits, taking another step forward. His eyes never leave James’s, and for a moment, the space between them feels charged with something neither of them can quite name.

The world seems to slow as Regulus moves closer, his hand brushing against James’s as he tilts his head up. James’s heart races, unsure whether to pull away or lean in. But before he can decide, Regulus’s lips are on his, tentative and unsure, yet full of desperation, of raw emotion that he kept buried for far too long. Regulus’s lips are soft but trembling, and James is too stunned to react at first, his body frozen in place. The kiss is brief—flickering like a match in the dark—and then Regulus pulls away, his eyes wide with regret.

"I’m sorry," Regulus mutters quickly, his voice strained. "I shouldn’t have—"

Before James can say anything, Regulus is already turning away, rushing around a corner and out of view.

He stands frozen, mouth ajar, his mind racing as he processes the moment. The kiss lingers in his senses—the warmth, the electricity, the weight of it all. Regulus’s absence leaves the air colder, and James is left with nothing but his own stunned silence.

Does he… feel something? Is this what he’s been ignoring all this time? His thoughts race, spinning out of control— and James is left in the quiet, trying to make sense of the chaos inside his chest.

Chapter Text

James stands frozen in place, the sound of Regulus´s retreating footsteps echoing in his ears. His body feels detached, as if it belongs to someone else. He lifts a hand to his lips, where the ghost of Regulus’s kiss lingers, warm and unrelenting.

He kissed me.

The thought slams into him like a physical force, scattering everything else in his mind. His breath is shallow, his chest tight, as though he’s been plunged underwater. James feels like he´s drowning. He leans his forehead against the castle walls, pressing the palm of his hands against his eyes, until stars explode in his vision.

Breath in.

Breath out.

What the hell just happened?

His mind is a labyrinth, tangled and inescapable, like the winding corridors of Crete where the minotaur lurked. He can’t find the thread that leads him out, can’t think beyond the weight of Regulus’s lips against his own, the way seemed to collapse inward, crushing him beneath the enormity of it. James is Icarus, flying too close to something brilliant, something dangerous—something he has no right to touch. And yet, he already has, and the wax is melting fast.

He feels like he’s swimming through fog, his thoughts tangled and chaotic. The curve of Regulus’s lips, the quiet intensity in his stormy eyes, the way he looked at James like he was something sacred—these things are seared into him, refusing to fade. He doesn’t remember moving, doesn’t remember walking through the corridors, but somehow, he finds himself standing in the doorway of his private quarters.

The faint scent of cedarwood and old books lingers in the air—a comfort he barely registers. He shuts the door behind him and sinks into the armchair by the window, head in his hands. His mind replays the kiss over and over, dissecting every second, every movement. The warmth of Regulus’s breath. The light pressure of his lips. The quiet, reckless hunger in the way he’d leaned closer, as if he couldn’t stop himself. The way he pulled away, shocked and defeated. Scared almost.

James exhales shakily, his hand dragging through his hair. He feels raw, untethered. For the first time in years, he has no idea what to do.

The next morning dawns grey and overcast, light creeping through the edges of the heavy curtains. James sits at the edge of his bed, his head heavy in his hands. He’s slept little, his thoughts running in endless circles, trying to untangle the impossible knot of feelings Regulus has left behind.

The hot water of his shower scalds his skin, but James barely notices. His hands press against the tiled wall, water streaming down his back, his breathing uneven. He tells himself he just needs to clear his head. That’s why he’s here. But when he closes his eyes, dark curls and grey eyes are already waiting for him. The memory of Regulus’s lips, the way he had pressed against him—it all crashes over James like a tidal wave, dragging him under.

His hand moves before he can stop it, trailing lower, his breath coming faster. Hi bites his lip, mind supplying fantasies unbidden—Regulus beneath him, against him, touching him in return. James curses under his breath, but he doesn’t stop. He can’t stop. The tension coils tighter, white-hot and consuming, until finally, it snaps, leaving him breathless, the water washing away the evidence of something he shouldn’t have wanted in the first place.

James stares at his reflection in the mirror above the dresser. His face looks tired, shadows beneath his eyes, his mouth set in a hard line.

I need to talk to him.

The thought comes quietly, but it’s insistent, impossible to ignore.

By the time he’s teaching his class, James’s nerves are frayed. His lecture on Homeric epithets falters halfway through, his thoughts sliding unavertibly back to Regulus. He catches himself scanning the room for him, his chest tightening when their eyes meet for the briefest moment. Regulus’s expression is unreadable, but James feels the weight of his gaze long after he looks away.

At the end of the class, James hands out his students graded essays. He left a note on Regulus’s essay.

Tonight. My office.

As he approaches Regulus’s desk, there is a storm brewing inside him, and James is surprised at the steadiness of his hands as he places the papers on his desk.

"Regulus," he says, voice low.

Regulus looks up, his eyes sharp, unreadable—the mask firmly in place.

His gaze flicks to the note, then back to James. He doesn’t say a word, just inclines his head slightly before slipping the papers into his bag and leaving the classroom in measured movements.

The day crawls by, each minute stretching endlessly. James moves through it on autopilot, his mind fixed on the evening. By the time night falls, he’s pacing his office, unable to sit still. The space feels smaller than usual, the walls pressing in.

When the knock finally comes, James’s heart leaps into his throat. He swallows hard. “Come in.”

"Professor," Regulus says, his voice calm, steady.

"Regulus."

Regulus steps inside, closing the door behind him with quiet precision. His eyes lock onto James’s, and for a moment, neither of them speaks. The silence feels heavy, charged.

"James," Regulus whispers.

The sound of his name in Regulus’s voice sends a shiver down James’s spine. He says it like a prayer. Like worship. Like salvation.

They stand there, just looking at each other, the air between them electric.

"I didn’t know if you’d show up," James says finally, taking a small step forward.

"I already took the risk," Regulus replies. "Towards greatness, or destruction—I’m not sure yet. But it’s too late to back out now." It sounds rehearsed—like he is trying to shield himself from the inevitable pain of rejection.

James exhales slowly, his eyes searching Regulus’s face. "You’re not a bad person, Regulus. You haven’t destroyed anything. I don’t think you’re capable of destruction."

Regulus’s mouth twists into something between a smirk and a grimace. "Then you don’t know me very well."

"I think I do," James says, his voice quieter now.

They move closer, almost unconsciously, each step slow, deliberate. James notices everything—the way Regulus’s hair catches the faint light, dark curls brushing against his forehead. The tension in his jaw, the faint crease between his brows. The way his lips are slightly parted, as if he’s holding back words, he isn’t ready to say.

James is thinking clearly now—terrifyingly, brilliantly clear. He’s no longer renaming the thoughts in his head, no longer disguising the truth. Regulus is brilliant and beautiful. Devastatingly so. And James knows he’s been telling himself otherwise for far too long.

He reaches out, his hand trembling slightly as it brushes against the smaller man’s cheek. The skin there is warm, impossibly soft. Regulus flinches—for only a moment— before he leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering closed.

"You’re married," Regulus murmurs, his voice barely audible.

"I am," James replies, his hand still resting against Regulus’s cheek.

"You’re my teacher," Regulus continues, his eyes opening again, searching James’s face.

"I am."

"I shouldn’t have kissed you," Regulus says, even as he leans closer, his lips ghosting over James’s, his breath warm against his skin. His tongue darts out briefly, wetting his lower lip. “I’m—"

“Don’t apologize. You said— yesterday, you said you needed to do this. Don’t apologize for things you can’t control.”

“You make it sound like the very idea of impulse control is inane.”

Regulus’s voice is less shaky now. This is where he feels safe—arguing philosophy. But James doesn’t let him off the hook.

“But it wasn’t an impulse, was it? You made a choice.”

Regulus tries to avert his eyes again— a futile attempt, standing so close to each other—and James moves his hand from his cheek to his chin, holding it between his thumb and index finger, and tilting his head up until their eyes meet once again.

“Have you come here to tell me you’ll never do it again, to ask me to forget it?" James asks, his voice low, almost teasing.

"Is that what you want me to say?”

"What is it you want, Regulus?" James asks, his thump grazing over his lower lip, lightly dragging his nail across it.

“You,” he breathes

And then they’re kissing.

It starts tentative, almost hesitant, but it deepens quickly, a floodgate breaking open. Regulus’s lips are soft but insistent, his hands moving to grip James’s arms. James’s free hand tangles in Regulus’s hair, finally learning what he’s been wondering for days—it’s as soft as it looks, finer than he imagined. He tightens his grip slightly, and Regulus makes a sound low in his throat that sends heat coursing through James’s body.

A tongue brushes against his lip, and James gasps, his pulse thundering in his ears. The kiss grows hungrier, more desperate, their bodies leaning into each other. James feels the press of Regulus’s chest against his own, the warmth of him, the way his fingers dig into James’s shoulders.

They break apart at the sound of laughter out in the hall—other teachers leaving their offices for the evening—both of them breathing heavily, their foreheads almost touching.

Regulus steps back slightly, brushing his thump against his lips as he smirks. "Goodnight… Professor."

He walks backward to the door, his eyes never leaving James’s, a teasing glint in his expression.

"Goodnight," James murmurs, his voice hoarse.

The door closes softly behind Regulus, and James sinks into his chair, a grin spreading across his face.

Chapter Text

The week after the kiss feels like walking a tightrope stretched over a chasm. Every day is precarious, every moment with Regulus both electrifying and deeply unsettling. James doesn’t know where the line is anymore—he’s not even sure it exists. But if it does, he’s already crossed it, and the thrill of falling is equal parts intoxicating and terrifying.

Their first meeting after the kiss starts quiet. Regulus leans against the edge of the desk, arms folded across his chest, his expression as unreadable as ever. The faintest smirk tugs at the corner of his lips, but his eyes remain sharp, calculating. Every movement, every word is chosen with care, as though he’s several steps ahead of a game. But James spent enough time with Regulus to know the rules. He sees Regulus´s moves and knows how to counter.

“You’re trying to distract me with Plato again, Professor,” he says, his voice low and smooth, the words slipping out like silk.

James, seated across from him, tilts his head slightly, a brow arched in amusement. “Plato would argue that distraction is merely the soul yearning for its higher purpose.”

Regulus’s smirk deepens, but there’s something behind it—a flicker of intrigue, perhaps, or amusement at James’s quick response. Your move, James thinks. Regulus tilts his head just so, the gesture almost feline. “And would Plato also argue that kissing you was my pursuit of the Form of Good?”

James lets out a startled laugh, though the sound dies quickly as he watches Regulus take a slow, deliberate step forward. The air between them shifts, thickening with unspoken tension.

“Plato might say that the Form of Good is unattainable,” James counters, his tone quieter now, his eyes fixed on Regulus’s.

“Unattainable,” Regulus echoes, the word lingering on his tongue. His gaze doesn’t waver, but something flickers in his expression—a brief crack in the polished exterior, quickly smoothed over. “Perhaps that’s why it’s worth reaching for.”

James’s heart stumbles in his chest. He doesn’t break their gaze, doesn’t let himself shy away from the challenge in Regulus’s words. Instead, he lets them hang in the air, waiting, watching as Regulus closes the remaining distance between them with slow, measured steps.

When Regulus finally stops, he’s close enough that James can see the faint shadows beneath his eyes, the subtle quirk of his brow that betrays his otherwise composed expression. “What do you think, Professor?” Regulus asks, his voice a low murmur. “Should we stop reaching for what’s unattainable?”

The words feel like a test—another riddle for James to solve. He leans forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, fingers reaching, moving around slender thighs, palming their back, and studies Regulus’s face with the same care he might give a piece of ancient text.

“I think,” James begins, his voice steady, “that sometimes the things we think are unattainable are closer than we realize. Sometimes, we’re just afraid to reach.”

Something shifts in Regulus’s expression—a crack in the mask so fleeting that James might have missed it if he weren’t watching so closely. Regulus’s smirk falters, just for a moment, before returning with a softer edge. “Afraid,” he repeats, the word quiet, almost thoughtful.

Before James can respond, Regulus leans down, brushing his lips against James’s in a kiss so light it’s almost hesitant. For all his careful precision, all his calculated movements, there’s a fragility in the way he kisses—a hint of uncertainty that James recognizes immediately.

“Are you afraid, James?” he asks, pulling away just enough to ask the question.

James lifts a hand, his fingers threading through the dark, soft curls at the back of his head, tugging slightly. “Terrified.”

The kiss deepens, slow and deliberate, both exploring unfamiliar territory. Regulus’s hand comes to rest on James’s shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind. His movements, though still measured, are less guarded now, his usual precision giving way to something rawer, more genuine.

When they finally part, their foreheads rest together, their breaths mingling in the quiet space between them.

“You’re too good at this,” James murmurs, his voice tinged with humour but also something warmer, something unspoken.

Regulus chuckles softly, a sound that feels almost out of place coming from someone so composed. “I’m good at many things, Professor. You shouldn’t be surprised.”

James huffs a laugh, his thumb brushing against Regulus’s jawline in an unthinking, tender gesture. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“And yet you keep inviting me back,” Regulus counters, his voice as smooth as ever, though there’s a faint flush colouring his cheeks now, betraying the calm facade he’s trying so hard to maintain.

James studies him for a moment, the silence stretching between them like the pause in a poem, heavy with meaning. “Why me?” he asks finally, his tone quiet, almost hesitant. “You could have anyone, Regulus. Why me?”

Regulus straightens slightly, his mask slipping back into place, though James can see the cracks forming beneath the surface. “You ask too many questions,” he says, his tone light but evasive.

“And you never give straight answers,” James shoots back, his lips twitching into a small smile.

Regulus tilts his head, considering this for a moment. “Maybe I don’t need to,” he says finally, his voice softer now. “Maybe you already know the answers.”

James doesn’t reply—not with words, at least. Instead, he stands up, crowding Regulus against his desk and pulls him into another kiss, the kind that speaks volumes where language falls short.

Later, when they’re tangled together on the old leather sofa, their breaths slow and steady, James feels the weight of Regulus’s head resting against his shoulder. He knows this is dangerous, knows the consequences could be catastrophic. And yet, as he runs his fingers absently through Regulus’s hair, he can’t bring himself to care.

For the first time in a long time, everything feels… right.

_________

The next time is in the shadowed corner of the library. James is walking between the shelves, the scent of old parchment and worn leather wrapping around him like a familiar embrace. Dust motes drift lazily in the dim light filtering through high, narrow windows, the glow muted by the weight of the evening clouds. Tall, overburdened shelves loom around them like sentinels, their spines a chaotic symphony of faded gold and muted leather. The space is cloaked in a near-silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of a turning page or the faint creak of wood settling beneath centuries of history.

He’s only half-focused on his search for a text on philosophy, his thoughts tangled in a web of conflicting emotions—guilt, desire, exhilaration. The quiet of the library feels like a sanctuary, a place where the world can fade into the background for a while.

But then he feels it—a prickle at the nape of his neck, a shift in the air. He knows before he sees, the certainty settling in his chest like a whispered truth.

“Professor,” comes the voice, low and smooth, almost a purr.

James turns, and there he is, half-hidden in the shadows of the dimly lit aisle, leaning casually against a shelf. The faintest smirk plays at the corner of his lips, and his dark eyes gleam with something unreadable.

“Regulus,” James replies, his tone aiming for neutrality but landing somewhere closer to breathless. He’s hyperaware of everything in that moment—the way Regulus tilts his head, the soft rustle of his clothes as he shifts slightly, the faint smell of lavender and parchment clinging to him.

“I found your book,” Regulus says, holding up a well-worn copy of The Nicomachean Ethics. The light catches the curve of his wrist, the way his fingers curl over the cover. His words are innocuous, but there’s an undercurrent to them, a challenge laced beneath the surface. He steps forward, his movements deliberate, as though every centimetre closed is part of some intricate strategy.

James narrows his eyes, trying to keep his footing. “Ah. A fitting choice for this particular moment, wouldn’t you say? Ethics and all.”

Regulus’s smirk deepens, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Ethics,” he repeats, the word slipping from his lips like silk. “A convenient framework, isn’t it? A way to justify what we do—or don’t do. But tell me, Professor, how often do you follow Aristotle’s golden mean? How often do any of us?”

James exhales a soft laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “You have a way of twisting everything into riddles, Regulus. You make it sound so inevitable.”

“Perhaps it is,” Regulus murmurs, taking another step closer. He’s within an arm’s reach now, his presence magnetic, his gaze unrelenting. “After all, aren’t we all just following the threads he Fates have already spun?”

James’s chest tightens, and he forces himself to look away, to break the spell Regulus seems to cast so effortlessly. “You speak like a man who doesn’t believe in choice. And we both know, that’s not true. We`re here because of choices we made.”

“Oh, I believe in choice,” Regulus says, and there’s a flicker of something sharper in his tone. “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t fate.”

The words hang in the air between them, heavy and charged. James feels the pull again, that inexplicable force drawing him closer to this enigmatic, maddening young man. He knows he should step back, put distance between them, but his feet don’t move.

Regulus does. The book drops to the side, forgotten, as he closes the gap between them. James barely has time to register the movement before his back hits the bookshelf, the cool wood pressing against him. Regulus is there, impossibly close, his hand braced against the shelf beside James’s head, his other hand hesitating—just for a second—before finding its way to the nape of James’s neck.

It's that hesitation that undoes him. That single, fleeting crack in Regulus’s practised poise.

“Stop holding yourself back, James,” Regulus whispers, his breath warm against James’s cheek. “You can’t keep clinging to this false sense of control forever.”

And then his lips are on James’s, swift and urgent, like he’s trying to steal the very air from his lungs. The kiss is calculated but not cold—it’s as though Regulus has been planning this, every movement precise, yet there’s a rawness to it, a crack in the mask he wears so well. James can feel it in the way Regulus’s fingers tighten against his neck, in the barely restrained tremble that runs through him.

James doesn’t resist. He can’t. His hands find their way to Regulus’s waist, gripping him in a way he almost hopes will leave bruises. He pulls Regulus closer, deepening the kiss and relishing in the soft noise he makes. He runs his tongue over Regulus’s bottom lip, the younger man opening up for him with a soft gasp.

James’s hands roam over a slender waist and lean hips. His grip tightens once more, to pull Regulus impossibly closer. Regulus loses his balance, and James seizes the opportunity to turn them around, until Regulus’s back hits the bookshelf, his hands clinging to James’s shirt, knuckles turning white.

James presses his hips against Regulus’s and watches as he bites his lower lip to suppress a moan, the back of his head hitting the shelve. “Who’s the one clinging to control here?” James mumbles, before kissing him again.

When they finally pull apart, both of them are breathing hard, their foreheads touching. Regulus’s eyes bore into James’s, dark and intense, searching for something. There’s a flicker of vulnerability there, so brief that James might have missed it if he weren’t watching so closely.

A sound—just a whisper, the turning of a page in the distance—breaks the spell.

Reality slams back into James like a thunderclap.

He shouldn’t have done that. They’re in a public space. Anyone could have seen. The haze of want and exhilaration starts to thin, and guilt seeps in at the edges. I can’t think straight when he’s near me. This has to stop. I have to end this.

“This is a bad idea,” James murmurs, his voice hoarse.

“I know,” Regulus replies, his tone quiet but firm. His lips quirk into the ghost of a smirk, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yet you’re still holding on to me.”

James opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, Regulus pushes him away gently, and James feels the absence like a physical ache. Regulus bends to retrieve the book he’d discarded, his movements slow and deliberate, as though to give James time to compose himself.

“Goodnight, James,” Regulus says, his voice calm and measured once more. He meets James’s gaze for a fleeting moment, and there’s something in his expression—a hint of triumph, perhaps, or something deeper, something unspoken.

And then he’s gone, the soft sound of his footsteps fading into the quiet hum of the library.

James stands there for a long moment, his forehead pressed against the shelf, his heart pounding in his chest. His fingers are still tingling where they’d touched Regulus, and his lips feel bruised, as though marked by the kiss they’ve just shared.

A chair scrapes against the floor somewhere in the distance. A rustle of pages. Life continues around him.

But inside his mind, a truth unfurls like a sickness: he knows he should end this before things spiral further. Before they do and say things they can’t take back. Before he consequences catch up to them.

But the thing is—he doesn’t want to stop.

Not now. Not ever.

Their late-night meetings in James’s office grow more frequent, each one peeling back another layer of who they are—or perhaps who they’re pretending to be.

One evening, Regulus arrives with a bottle of red wine, and James raises an eyebrow.

“Should I be concerned about where you’re getting this?”

Regulus shrugs, a sly grin playing at his lips. “Let’s just say my friends are resourceful.”

A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. “That doesn’t inspire much confidence.”

Regulus only grins and places the bottle on James’s desk. “Do you have glasses, or are we being savages about this?”

“We’re being savages,” James replies, pulling two mismatched mugs from a shelf.

They settle onto the old leather sofa, the wine pooling in the mugs, the smell of cigarette smoke hanging in the air between them, mixing with the heady aroma of wine. Regulus lights one, the tiny flame from his silver lighter illuminating his face for a moment before he leans back, exhaling a curl of smoke. James takes one as well, leaning forward to light it from the embers of Regulus’s.

Their fingers brush in the exchange. A small thing. Nothing at all.

But James still feels it, a quiet thrill winding through him.

Their conversation is quiet, the world outside slipping further and further away. There’s something oddly domestic about it—two bodies draped in a haze of wine and smoke, their words slow and languid, settling between them like ghosts.

After a few moments of comfortable silence, James clears his throat. “I read your essay earlier today.”

Regulus hums, lazily flicking ash into a tray. “Oh?”

James hides his smile behind his mug, dragging the moment out.

Regulus frowns. “No.”

“No?”

“Don’t do that,” Regulus says, squinting at him disapprovingly. “Don’t just say you read my work and then give no feedback. I put a lot of effort into it, so you can’t just sit there and smile at me like that. It was an important topic to me. I’ll need at least ten minutes of discussion time.”

“Ten minutes, huh?”

“At minimum.”

James exhales a laugh, shaking his head before taking another drag of his cigarette. His free hand finds Regulus’s thigh, squeezing lightly—so lightly it could almost be nothing.

But it isn’t.

“You argued Medea was justified,” James finally says. “That her actioins weren’t just the wrath of a scorned woman, but the only logical rebellion against a world that had already written her ending for her.”

Regulus watches him, smoke slipping from between his lips. “Yes.”

James nods, tipping his head back against the couch. “I liked how you framed it. The way you wove her story into a larger pattern—women villainized for refusing to be cast aside. You made  few connections I wouldn’t have thought of.”

Regulus lips twitch like he’s fighting a smile. “Go on.”

James does. He agrees with Regulus’s broader points but picks apart at the finer details, challenging where he can, pressing where he knows it will make Regulus argue back.

“You make her sound almost noble,” James says. “Like she had no choice but to—”

“Kill her children?” Regulus interrupts smoothly. “Is that what you were going to say?”

James hesitates, watching the way Regulus fingers tap absently against his mug. “It’s not just about that.”

Regulus arches an eyebrow. “No?”

James exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “You framed her murder as something inevitable. As though it was the only logical conclusion.”

“And you disagree?”

“Yes.”

Regulus makes a quiet noise of amusement, tilting his head to study James. “So you believe it was choice, rather than fate?”

“I do.”

Regulus hums. “Interesting.”

James frowns. “What’s interesting about that?”

Regulus takes a sip of wine, licking a stray drop from his lips. “I just wonder how firmly you stand by that belief.”

James’s grip on his cigarette tightens. “What the hell does that mean?”

Regulus doesn’t answer immediately. He exhales smoke, gaze drifting somewhere over James’s shoulder. “Medea was betrayed by the man who promised to love her. By the man she gave up everything for.”

James says nothing.

Regulus taps ash into the tray, voice softer now. “She wasn’t just angry, James. She was… unmade. And when a person is left with nothing—when they’re forced to confront the ruin of what they once were—what else is left but revenge?”

James exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “That’s a very dramatic way of looking at it.”

Regulus smirks faintly. “And yet, you’re not disagreeing.”

James doesn’t reply.

Regulus watches him for a long moment. “You never talk about her.”

James stills.

Regulus takes another slow sip of wine, voice measured. “Your wife.”

James sets his cigarette down, staring at the red-stained rim of his mug. “I don’t see why I should.”

Regulus tilts his head. “She’s important to you.”

James forces a laugh, but it comes out wrong. “Obviously.”

Regulus doesn’t blink. “And yet, here you are.”

James grips his mug tighter. “You think this is a story already written?”

Regulus studies him. “Maybe.”

James forces a smirk, taking another sip of wine. It tastes bitter now. “I’m not so sure I believe in fate.”

Regulus hums, tipping his head to the side, considering. “But I think you believe in tragedy.”

James stills.

Regulus doesn’t elaborate. He just leans back against the couch, drinking his wine, watching James from beneath his lashes. And James doesn’t know how to respond.

He doesn’t like the way Regulus sees things he shouldn’t. Doesn’t like how easily he dissects James’s silences, as if picking through something fragile, something sacred.

And yet—James doesn’t move away.

He should, though. He should end this.

But instead, he lifts his cigarette back to his lips, watching the embers flicker between his fingers, and lets the night stretch on.

__________

By midweek, the guilt is an incessant hum in the back of James’s mind, a quiet reminder of the lines he’s crossed, the vows he’s betrayed. He feels it most when he’s alone staring at his reflection in his office window, searching his own tired eyes for answers he doesn’t have.

But guilt isn’t enough to stop him. It never has been, not since the first time Regulus touched him, not since the first time their lips met, sending sparks through every nerve in his body. Being with Regulus doesn’t feel wrong. It feels inevitable, like some ancient thread of fate pulling them together, no matter the consequences.

And James doesn’t believe in fate.

Not really.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself days ago, when Regulus first floated the idea—that they were just pieces on a board, playing out some long-written tragedy. James had scoffed at the notion, dismissing it outright. He believed in choice, in free will, in making something of your life despite whatever forces tried to pull you under.

But if that were true—if he really, truly believed in that—then why is he here?

Why, when he knows exactly where this road leads, does he keep walking it?

That night, when Regulus arrives, James isn’t ready to end it. He knows he should. He´s the adult in this relationship, he should do the right thing. But he can´t.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.

The soft knock on the door feels louder than it should, echoing in the quiet office. James opens it to find Regulus standing there, looking as composed as ever, his expression carefully blank. But James knows better now—knows how to see the subtle tension in his jaw, the flicker of something vulnerable in his dark eyes.

“Regulus,” James murmurs, stepping aside to let him in.

Regulus closes the door behind him, his movements deliberate, and leans against it for a moment. He doesn’t speak, just looks at James, as if waiting for him to break the silence.

James exhales, raking a hand through his hair. “This… this thing between us,” he begins, his voice low, almost hesitant.

Regulus tilts his head, watching him carefully. “What about it?”

James swallows hard. He feels like he’s standing at the edge of a precipice, the ground crumbling beneath his feet. “It’s dangerous,” he says finally. “It’s selfish. It’s reckless.”

Regulus takes a step forward, closing the distance between them. “And yet here we are,” he says softly.

James clenches his fists at his sides, fighting the urge to reach for him. “I don’t want to stop,” he admits, the words tumbling out before he can stop them. His voice cracks, betraying the turmoil beneath his calm façade. “I should want to stop, but I don’t. I don’t think I can.”

Regulus’s gaze softens, just slightly, and he steps closer still, his presence as steady as it is intoxicating. “Why should you?” he asks, his tone measured but laced with something deeper. “What we have… it’s real, James. You can’t deny that.”

“I’m married,” James says, though the words feel hollow even as he speaks them.

Regulus doesn’t flinch. “Do you love her?”

James hesitates, his chest tightening. “Yes,” he says, because it’s true. But it’s not the whole truth. “But this—” He gestures between them, his hand trembling slightly. “This is something I can’t explain. It’s like… like we were meant to find each other.”

Regulus watches him carefully, then says, “you said you don’t believe in fate.

“I don’t.”

Regulus hums, considering. “Then why do you keep choosing this?”

James`s chest tightens. “I—” He stops himself. His mind scrambles for a justification, an excuse, but none of them ring true.

Regulus watches him unravel, his dark eyes unflinching. “If you don’t believe in fate, then explain it to me.”

James exhales, closing his eyes. “I can’t.”

Regulus steps forward, so close now that James can see the flecks of silver in his irises. “Then maybe you do believe,” he murmurs.

James doesn’t want to. He wants to fight against it, to insist that this is his own foolishness, his own reckless heart leading him astray.

But if it’s just that—if its just a mistake—then why does it feel like this?

Why does it feel like something ancient and inevitable, like a story that was always going to be told, no matter how hard he fought it?

James lets out a shaky breath, his hands trembling at his sides. “Maybe I do,” he whispers. The words taste like surrender.

And Regulus—Regulus smiles.

Not in triumph, not in satisfaction, but something gentler. Something that looks a lot like relief.

James nods, his throat tight. “Maybe it is fate. Or madness. Maybe both.”

Regulus reaches for him then, his hand brushing against James’s, and it’s like a dam breaking. James closes the distance between them in a heartbeat, his hands finding Regulus’s waist as their lips crash together. It’s messy and desperate and real, and James feels like he can finally breathe again, even as the weight of everything else threatens to crush him.

When they pull apart, James cups the back of Regulus’s head, his breathing ragged. “This is going to destroy us,” he murmurs, his voice shaking.

Regulus caresses his cheek, his thumb brushing against James’s stubble. “No, it won’t,” he says firmly. “I won’t let it.”

James closes his eyes, leaning into the touch. He knows they’re playing with fire, but for the first time in a long time, he doesn’t care. Whatever this is—this pull, this connection—it feels too important to deny.

“You just made me say that this is fate, now you suddenly disagree?”

Regulus smiles something incredibly soft. It’s pure adoration and James’s fingers tremble where they’re buried in Regulus’s hair.

“The existence of one doesn’t take away from the other. We can still make our own choices.”

“Stay,” James whispers, the single word heavy with meaning.

Regulus doesn’t answer right away, but he doesn’t need to. The way he looks at James—steady, unflinching—says everything. He already made his choice.

And when he tilts his head up to kiss James again, slow and deliberate, it feels like the universe aligning. Like the world narrowing to this one moment, this one person.

Damn the consequences.

The kiss lingers, soft and slow, their breaths mingling as they part. For a moment, the world outside the four walls of James’s office ceases to exist. The heavy weight of guilt, the chaos of consequences—they’re still there, somewhere in the distance, but muffled, insignificant compared to the quiet joy thrumming between them.

James opens his eyes, looking at Regulus. His heart aches with how dazzling he is, how sharp his beauty is in the dim, flickering light of the desk lamp. His cheeks are faintly flushed, his lips slightly swollen from their kiss, and there’s a softness in his gaze that James doesn’t think he’s ever seen before.

“What?” Regulus asks, his voice light, almost teasing, though his expression remains vulnerable.

James shakes his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Nothing. Just… looking.”

“Looking at what?”

James lets out a quiet laugh. “At you. Trying to figure out how someone like you could even be real.”

Regulus rolls his eyes, but there’s a faint smirk curving his mouth. “You sound ridiculous, you know that?

“Probably,” James agrees, his grin widening. “But it’s true.”

Regulus shakes his head, but his smirk softens into something gentler, more genuine. He shifts then, walking over to the couch and relaxing onto it. James follows instinctively, sitting down next to him and pulling the younger man´s legs on his lap.

For a while, they sit there in silence, the only sounds the faint ticking of the clock on the wall and the occasional crackle of the fire in the small grate near James’s desk. Regulus stretches out, his head tilting back, his hair spilling over the armrest. James stares, transfixed by the way the strands catch the light, dark and gleaming like silk.

“Do you always stare this much?” Regulus asks, his eyes still closed, a trace of amusement in his voice.

James doesn’t bother denying it. “You’re distracting,” he says simply.

Regulus lets out a quiet laugh, low and rich, and it sends a warmth through James’s chest. He shifts, until he is crowding over Regulus, chest to chest, legs entangled. James is leaning on his forearms, bracketing Regulus´s head, and he brushes his fingers through black curls.

 “I thought about this a lot,” he murmurs.

“About what?” Regulus asks, looking up at him with stars in his eyes.

“About doing this. About what your hair would feel like in my fingers,” James replies, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. “It’s unfair, really. You’re already infuriatingly beautiful. Did the universe really need to give you this, too?”

Regulus groans, covering his face with one hand, but he’s smiling. “You’re insufferable.”

“Probably,” James says, laughing softly, but he doesn’t stop playing with Regulus’s hair. He gently untangles a few strands, watching the way they fall back into place, perfectly imperfect.

Regulus lets him, his body relaxing further into the sofa. After a while, he reaches out, tugging at James’s sweater, until he lets his body relax, resting his head in the crook of Regulus´s neck, breathing him in. He smells like lavender, smoke and something uniquely him, a smell James would never be able to put into words, but what comes to mind is sacred. His grip around James´s torso is firm, grounding, and James feels something tighten in his chest—a mix of tenderness and awe that he doesn’t quite know how to put into words.

“You’re warm,” Regulus murmurs into his hair, his voice softer now, more vulnerable. “I didn’t think you’d be this warm.”

James tilts his head to look at him, his smile fading into something quieter, more serious. “You say that like you’ve been thinking about it,” he says gently.

Regulus doesn’t look away, his dark eyes meeting James’s with a rare openness. “I have,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper. “More than I probably should.”

James swallows hard, his chest tightening again, but this time it’s not guilt—it’s something deeper, something he doesn’t have a name for yet. “Me too,” he says softly.

They stay like that for a long time, intertwined, breathing each other in. The world outside seems to shrink to the space between them, to the warmth of Regulus’s body under his, the quiet intimacy of the moment.

James doesn’t know how long they stay there, lost in the quiet comfort of each other’s presence. All he knows is that when Regulus eventually falls asleep, his breathing slow and steady, James feels something he hasn’t felt in a long time.

Peace.

And for the first time, he allows himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, this doesn’t have to end in ruin.

_________

James is grading papers late in his office when the phone rings. The sound is sharp, intrusive, and for a moment, he considers ignoring it. But then he picks up, and Lily’s voice floods the room.

“James,” she says warmly. “I miss you.”

James closes his eyes, the guilt crashing over him like a tidal wave. “I miss you too, Lil’s.”

“Are you coming home this weekend?” she asks. “Peter’s in town—he’s staying with us for a few days. We’re all meeting for dinner tomorrow. Sirius, Remus, Marlene, Mary… everyone’s excited to see you.”

James swallows hard, his grip tightening on the phone. “I don’t know, Lily. I’ve got a lot of work…”

There’s a pause on the other end, and when Lily speaks again, her voice is softer, tinged with concern. “James. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah,” he lies. “Everything’s fine.”

“Good,” she says, though she doesn’t sound convinced. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” James replies, the words tasting hollow and bitter.

When the call ends, he sits in the silence, his head in his hands. Regulus’s voice echoes in his mind: 

I won’t let it destroy us.

Chapter Text

The flat smells of spices and herbs, a medley of thyme, rosemary, and garlic swirling in the air. Lily stands at the stove, humming a soft tune as she stirs a pot of something that looks both hearty and suspiciously meatless. James leans in the doorway of the kitchen, arms crossed, watching her with a fond smile he knows he doesn’t deserve.

“What’s all this, then?” he asks, forcing a playful lilt into his voice.

Lily glances over her shoulder, a wooden spoon in one hand. “Vegetarian moussaka,” she says, smirking. “Don’t act so surprised. You’ve had it before, and you liked it.”

“Sure I did,” James says, wandering closer and peering into the pot. “I just didn’t realize we were trying to indoctrinate Peter into your vegetarian ideology.”

“Stop making it sound like a cult,” Lily replies with a mock glare, swatting at him with the spoon. “It’s a lifestyle. One you’d do well to embrace, Mr. ‘I’ll Have the Steak Rare.’”

James chuckles, but the sound feels hollow in his chest. He leans against the counter, watching her as she moves with effortless precision. She’s radiant in her domesticity, every gesture full of warmth and care, and for a moment, he feels like an intruder in his own home.

“I missed this,” he says softly.

Lily pauses, looking at him with those sharp green eyes. “What, my cooking?”

“No, you,” James replies. The words feel heavy in his mouth, and he realizes too late how they might sound.

Her expression softens. She steps closer, reaching up to brush her fingers against his cheek. “I’m always here, James.”

The guilt hits him like a freight train, but he swallows it down, plastering on another grin. “You’re too good for me, Lils. You know that, right?”

“Damn right I am,” she says, pulling away and returning to the stove. “Now go set the table before Sirius gets here and eats straight out of the pot.”

The dinner party is everything James wanted it to be—or at least, it looks that way from the outside. Laughter bounces off the walls of their London flat, the warm glow from several small lights—Lily refuses to use the overhead lights— casting a cosy ambiance across the room. Lily is in the kitchen, effortlessly commanding the space as she layers the final touches of her moussaka. The scent of eggplant, béchamel, and spices fills the air, making even Peter—who’d jokingly grumbled about the lack of meat—salivate.

Peter is lounging on the couch with a glass of wine in hand, looking as comfortable as if he’d never left London. He’s been staying in James´ and Lily´s place for the week, filling the flat with his boisterous energy. Even now, he’s regaling Sirius and Remus with some outrageous story about his life in New York.

“So there I am, standing in line for coffee,” Peter says, gesturing dramatically with his wine glass, “and who’s in front of me? Meryl Streep. Meryl. Streep.”

“No way,” Sirius says, laughing. He’s sprawled on the armchair, one arm draped lazily around Remus’s shoulders. “Did you say anything?”

Peter smirks. “Of course I said something. I leaned in and said, ‘You dropped this, ma’am,’ and handed her an invisible Oscar.”

The group bursts into laughter, and Peter grins smugly at the reaction. James chuckles along with them, but it feels like a reflex more than anything else. He watches the scene unfold as if from a distance, the laughter and chatter swirling around him while he struggles to stay present. He’s been like this all weekend, teetering on the edge of his own mind, trying to reconcile the man he thought he was with the choices he’s been making.

He catches Lily’s eye as she carries the moussaka to the table, and her smile is bright and full of warmth. It cuts him like a knife. He loves her—he knows he does—but the weight of his feelings for Regulus presses against his chest. How can he love two people at once? How can he betray her and still see himself as a good person?

Love.

Oh.

Do I… love him?

He shakes the thoughts away, forcing a grin as Lily sets the dish down.

“Dinner is served,” she announces, wiping her hands on her apron. “And yes, Peter, it’s vegetarian. Try not to cry about it.”

Peter raises his glass in mock surrender. “If it tastes half as good as it smells, I’ll forgive you.”

The meal is met with enthusiastic approval, the group diving in as conversation flows easily around the table. Marlene and Mary arrive just in time to join the feast. Marlene is quick to claim a seat next to Lily, already launching into a story about their recent misadventures.

“So we’re in Paris, right?” Marlene says, gesturing wildly with her fork. “And we’re walking through Montmartre, trying to find this tiny little gallery Mary swore was the best-kept secret in the city. Only problem? Her phone dies, and she’s forgotten the name of the gallery.”

Mary groans, rolling her eyes. “It wasn’t my fault. I told you it was near the bakery with the blue shutters.”

“Do you know how many bakeries in Montmartre have blue shutters?” Marlene shoots back, laughing. “We spent three hours wandering around, asking random strangers if they knew a place that ‘probably has paintings and might be near a bakery.’”

The group erupts into laughter, and even James finds himself genuinely smiling for the first time all evening. Marlene has always had a way of lighting up a room, her humour and charm effortless.

“Speaking of misadventures,” Lily says, turning to James with a teasing smile, “why don’t you tell them about the time you tried to teach your students Aristotle and ended up in a full-blown debate about superhero ethics?”

James groans, but there’s a spark of pride behind it. “Alright, alright,” he says, setting his glass down. “So, I’m trying to get my Year 9 students to engage with Aristotle’s idea of the golden mean, right? You know, the idea that virtue lies somewhere between deficiency and excess. I figure, why not make it relatable? So I ask them: is Batman virtuous?”

Peter snorts. “There’s no way that went well.”

“No kidding,” James says, grinning now. “Within five minutes, the entire class is split into factions. You’ve got one group arguing that Batman represents the golden mean because he balances justice and mercy. Another group’s convinced he’s a complete failure because he operates outside the law. And then there’s a third group who start ranting about how Superman’s the real paragon of virtue and Batman’s just a rich guy with trauma and a vendetta. Then one kid cries out that Captain America is the only virtuous superhero and suddenly there’s a heated debate between DC and Marvel fans.”

The table erupts into laughter, and James can’t help but join in, even as he feels the familiar twinge of disconnection beneath the surface. He knows how to perform—how to play the role of the charming, self-assured James Potter—but it feels just like that. A performance.

As the conversation goes on, James finds himself staring into his wine glass, his smile fading as the chatter around him continues. He glances at Lily, who’s leaning over the table as Sirius tells another story, her laugh lighting up the room. For a moment, he lets himself soak in the scene—the warmth, the love, the easy familiarity of it all.

But here, surrounded by the people who know him best, James feels like an impostor, a man caught between two lives.

After dinner, as the others move back to the living room, James finds himself in the kitchen, stacking plates and rinsing glasses. The laughter echoes faintly from the other room, but here, in the quiet, the weight of his thoughts crashes down.

He looks at his reflection in the window above the sink, distorted and ghostly. I’m a good person, he tells himself, gripping the edge of the counter. I’m a good husband. A good friend. A good man.

The words feel like a mantra, a shield against the truth he doesn’t want to face. Because if he’s such a good person, then why can’t he stop thinking about Regulus?

When James steps onto the balcony, the cool air bites at his skin. Sirius is already there, leaning on the railing with a cigarette in one hand and a glass of wine in the other. The city sprawls out before them, a glittering constellation of lights. James misses the stars.

“Thought you might’ve chickened out,” Sirius says without looking over, his voice teasing but subdued.

James snorts, pulling out a cigarette of his own and leaning beside him. “As if. You’re not the only one with a rebellious streak, you know.” He pulls out a silver lighter— Regulus´s, that he left in his office in one of their late-night meetings— and lights it.

Sirius laughs, quiet and genuine. The fall into an easy rhythm—puffs of smoke swirling into the night air, wine warming their hands.

“You ever think,” James starts, squinting at the skyline, “about how different life is now? Like, sometimes I miss being... I don’t know, twenty. Stupid, reckless, no real responsibilities.”

“Speak for yourself. I was born with responsibilities,” Sirius says, his tone dry but not entirely bitter. “Family legacy and all that nonsense.”

James hums, glancing over at his friend. Sirius’s jaw is tight, his gaze fixed on something far beyond the city.

“Remus makes it worth it, though,” Sirius adds, softening as he swirls the wine in his glass. “Never thought I’d have this kind of life. Not after how I grew up. A real home. Someone who doesn’t make me feel like I’m drowning every second.”

James smiles faintly. “You deserve it.”

Sirius nods, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. “Sometimes I wonder what he’s up to,” he murmurs, almost absently.

“Who?”

“My brother.” Sirius shrugs, as though the words mean nothing, though there’s a tightness in his posture that betrays him. “Haven’t seen him in years. Don’t even know where he is now. Could be dead for all I know.”

James blinks. Sirius has never mentioned a brother before.

“You’ve got a brother?” he asks, trying to keep his tone casual.

“Had,” Sirius says, flicking ash off the edge of the railing. “Not really in each other’s lives anymore. Haven´t been for a long time… Different paths, difficult family dynamics. You know how it is.”

There’s a note of finality in his voice, but James can’t help but press, just a little. “Older or younger?”

“Younger,” Sirius says, taking another drag of his cigarette. “By a lot, actually. Twelve years, I think? He’s... different. Always was.” He pauses, swirling the wine in his glass again. “Smart as hell, even as a little kid. But cold, calculating. Couldn’t trust him. Couldn’t trust anyone in that family, really.”

James frowns but doesn’t push further. Sirius has always been private about his family, and this feels like a rare glimpse behind the curtain. Still, there’s something about the way Sirius says it—a hint of regret, buried deep beneath the resentment.

They lapse into silence for a while, the only sounds the faint hum of the city below and the soft crackle of their cigarettes.

“Do you think about it?” James asks after a long pause.

“About what?”

“Reaching out.”

Sirius huffs a laugh, though there’s no humour in it. “No. Too much time has passed. Some things you can’t fix, Prongs.”

James nods, though something about the conversation lingers in his mind even after they head back inside. Sirius has always been the boldest, most unflinching person James knows, but there’s a vulnerability in him tonight—a crack in the armour that makes James wonder just how much he’s still carrying.

And then there’s the brother. A shadowy figure James can’t quite picture but feels like he should.

By the time James returns to the warmth of the flat, Sirius’s words echo in his mind. Smart as hell. But cold, calculating. James doesn’t know why, but they stick with him, like a line from a play he can’t quite place.

Later that night, after everyone’s gone or settled into bed, James sits alone in the living room, nursing the last dregs of his wine. Lily appears in the doorway, her hair loose around her shoulders, and crosses the room to sit beside him.

“Long day?” she asks, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he says softly.

She doesn’t press, just sits there with him in the quiet, her presence both comforting and unbearably heavy.

James leans his head back against the sofa, staring at the ceiling. He wants to be the man she believes he is—the man he used to be. But as her breathing evens out, her head growing heavier against his shoulder, all he can think about is Regulus’s voice, sharp and confident, echoing in his mind.

Chapter Text

James returns to school with a knot of unresolved emotions twisting in his chest. The snow-covered grounds of the campus stretch out before him as the winter sun glints weakly against the frosted landscape. The brisk Scottish air, biting and sharp, feels cleaner somehow, more honest than the haze of London’s smog and the fog of his own conflicted thoughts.

But when he sees Regulus for the first time again, stepping out of the shadows of a dim hallway, all the knots loosen. The guilt fades, like smoke dissipating in the cold air. The world shrinks, sharpens, and narrows to just this: Regulus’s steady gaze, his deliberate movements, and the way he tilts his head. The glint in his eyes promising glory and ruin.

_______

James sits at his desk, a blanket draped across his shoulders for warmth, grading a particularly dense batch of essays on ethics. A steaming cup of tea sits beside him, forgotten as he struggles through the sprawling, chaotic logic of a student’s attempt to explain Diogenes. He mutters under his breath, crossing out a line with an almost theatrical groan.

The knock is soft, but James immediately knows who it is. His heart picks up its pace before he can even stop himself.

“Come in,” he calls, setting his pen down.

Regulus enters, his coat dusted with melting snowflakes, the chill of December following him into the room. His tie is perfectly knotted, his posture precise as always, but there’s a faint flush on his cheeks and a glint in his eyes that James recognizes now—an eagerness he knows Regulus would never admit to.

“I hope you’re not busy,” Regulus says, his tone as smooth as ever.

“Only with deciphering student essays,” James quips, waving a hand over the scattered pages. “I could use a distraction.”

Regulus smirks, stepping further inside and pulling a slim book from his pocket. He holds it out, letting James glimpse the worn cover, as he sits down on the edge of James’s desk.

“Cavafy?” James asks, his interest piqued.

Regulus nods. He flips to a page marked with a scrap of ribbon and begins to read aloud, his voice low and deliberate. The poetry fills the room, winding through the air like the scent of aged paper and tea.

The days of the future stand in front of us

Like a line of candles all alight----

Golden and warm and lively little candles.

The days that are past are left behind,

A mournful row of candles that are out;

The nearer ones are still smoking,

Candles cold, and melted, candles bent.

James watches him, captivated—not by the words but by Regulus himself. The usual guise of cold calculation is still there, but it’s softer tonight, cracks showing through in the way his lips curve slightly as he reads, in the faint tremor when he turns the page.

I don’t want to see them; their shapes hurt me,

It hurts me to remember the light of them at first.

I look before me at my lighted candles,

I don’t want to turn around and see with horror

How quickly the dark line is lengthening,

How quickly the candles multiply that have been put out.

When Regulus finishes, there’s a beat of silence.

James glances at the book. “It’s a strange way to think about time. The future as candles, still burning. The past as—” he gestures vaguely, “—extinguished, unchangeable.”

Regulus tilts his head, considering. “I don’t agree with him.”

James huffs a laugh. “Of course you don’t.”

Regulus leans against the desk, arms crossed. “He makes it sound like the past is finished, like it’s set in stone. But it isn’t. People rewrite their pasts all the time.”

“You can’t change what’s already happened,” James counters.

“But you can change what it means,” Regulus says, voice measured. “You tell a different version of it. Reframe it. You justify it to yourself.”

James looks at him, something heavy settling in his chest. “That sounds dangerously close to self-deception.”

Regulus’s lips curl into something almost amused. “Isn’t that what you’re doing?”

James stiffens, and the air between them shifts. Neither of them says it, but it hangs there—Lily. The unspoken betrayal. The impossible contradiction of what James wants and what he already has.

“You think I’m lying to myself,” James says, and it isn’t quite a question.

Regulus holds his gaze, unflinching. “Aren’t you?”

James exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “And you? What are you doing?”

Regulus’s expression flickers, just for a second, before the cool confidence returns. “Making a choice.”

James laughs, but it’s humourless. “A choice.” He shakes his head. “Cavafy’s right about one thing—the past keeps growing behind us, and all we can do is walk forward.”

Regulus doesn’t answer. Instead, he puts down the book and reaches his hand out—patiently waiting.

The tension between them coils tight, and then James stands, taking Regulus’s hand. He leans in, their lips meeting in a slow, deliberate kiss.

For a moment, nothing else exists—not the papers on the desk, not the snow falling outside, not the shadow of London and everything James left behind. It’s just this: the warmth of Regulus’s lips, the softness of his touch, and the way he tilts his head slightly, letting James deepen the kiss.

_______

James leans back against his desk, arms crossed, watching his students with a patient sort of amusement. The topic of the day: Women in Greek Mythology.

Anna speaks up, her brows furrowed in thought and James smiles at her encouragingly. “Well, there are powerful women in Greek myths. Athena, for one.”

Marcus scoffs. “Athena doesn’t count. She’s not a real woman—she didn’t even have a mother. She just popped out of Zeus’s head, fully formed. She’s basically an extension of him, not an actual female figure.”

James lifts an eyebrow. “Interesting. So you’re saying she doesn’t have her own identity?” He can still see the remnants of a black eye—courtesy of Mulciber—on Marcus’s face.

Marcus hesitates, then shrugs. “I mean, she does, but—she doesn’t have the same struggles as mortal women. She’s a goddess.”

Mira leans forward. “Okay, but even the mortal women—they’re not really heroes. They’re… obstacles. Or plot points. They exist to create problems for the real heroes.”

James tilts his head. “That’s an interesting take. But what about figures like Penelope? She’s celebrated for her intelligence, isn’t she?”

Amelia nods. “Yeah, she’s clever—she stalls the suitors, keeps Ithaca together while Odysseus is off having affairs and fighting monsters.”

Marcus rolls his eyes. “She’s clever in a domestic way, though. It’s not like she does anything. Meanwhile, Odysseus is out there actually being a hero.”

Across the room, Regulus exhales quietly, staring at the snow falling outside the window as if he’s already bored of this conversation. James notices. He always notices.

He lets the others talk for a while—Mira, Emily and Amelia arguing, Marcus being mildly condescending, other students chiming in a few times, the usual classroom rhythm.

James watches them go back and forth, but his gaze keeps flicking to Regulus, who lounges in his seat, chin resting on one hand, gaze unfocused. His demeanour is different—off—today. He’s slumped in his seat, leg bouncing restlessly, knuckles turning white around the pen in his grip.

James tilts his head. “Regulus. You look like you have something to say.”

Regulus blinks lazily, as if he’s only just noticed they’re talking. Then he exhales, straightens, and finally speaks.

“They were never meant to be the hero.” His voice is soft, almost a whisper, yet razor-sharp, cutting through the noise. “That was never an option.”

Regulus taps a finger idly against the spine of his book, eyes a million miles away. On another planet. Or maybe in a different time. “Women in Greek mythology don’t just fail to be the hero. They are never allowed the chance. They’re the villain. Or worse, the reason for villainy. They exist to be blamed.”

Regulus’s voice remains even, almost detached, but there’s something underneath it—something knowing. “Medusa didn’t ask to become a monster. She was made into one. And even then, she didn’t attack people, didn’t seek revenge. She isolated herself. Removed herself from the world to keep others safe. But she was still the villain of the story.”

Marcus shifts uncomfortably. “Well—”

“And Helen,” Regulus continues in that same low tone, ignoring him. “She didn’t start the Trojan War. She was taken. But she’s blamed for it anyway, as if the war would never have happened without her. As if men weren’t already eager to fight. Cassandra sees the truth but is never to be believed, and for that, she is punished. Medea murders her children, and she’s a monster. But Herakles does the same, and he gets redemption. He is still seen as a hero.”

Silence.

Then, Regulus tilts his head slightly, a ghost of a smirk at the corner of his lips. “Men get second chances. Women become cautionary tales.”

Something about Regulus’s tone makes James’s stomach twist.

Emily shifts in her seat, frowning. “But—Medea did kill her children. That was a choice.”

Regulus hums, unimpressed. “Was it? She was left with nothing. Betrayed, abandoned. She did what she thought she had to.” He fidgets with the pen in his hands. “And she’ll be remembered for it forever. Because a woman’s sins are written in stone. A man’s? Washed away, given context. Given redemption.”

Marcus snorts under his breath. “Sounds dramatic.”

Regulus finally looks at him, and for a second, James almost pities Marcus.

“Is it?” Regulus asks. “Or is it just inevitable?”

He turns his gaze back to the window. The discussion continues.

Regulus doesn’t come to James’s office that night.

_______

The knock on James’s door a few days later is sharper, more insistent.

“Come in,” James calls, half-expecting Regulus again.

Instead, it’s Mulciber, his hunched shoulders and darting eyes giving him away before he even speaks.

“Mulciber,” James says, leaning back in his chair. “Twice in one term—this must be serious.”

Mulciber sits without waiting for an invitation, his movements restless. “I’ve been thinking about what you said last time,” he begins, his voice low and tense.

James nods, giving him space to continue.

“It’s not working,” Mulciber admits, his hands clenching into fists on his lap. “The people I told you about… they’re not backing off. If anything, they’re worse now.”

James studies him, noting the flicker of fear beneath Mulciber’s bravado. “Have they threatened you?”

Mulciber hesitates, then nods. “Not directly. But I’m not stupid. I can see what’s happening.”

James leans forward, his expression serious. “Mulciber, I think it’s time you tell me what’s going on. I can’t help you if I don’t have all the information.”

Mulciber fidgets with his hands in his lap, moving around uncomfortably for a second, before finally looking up and meeting James eyes. There’s a slight quiver in his jaw as he seems to search for something. Then, coming to a decision, he nods.

James smiles encouragingly. “Start from the beginning.”

_______

The December air bites against James’s skin. He stands at the edge of the outlook, overlooking the snow-covered landscape. The frost-tipped hedges are pristine, the snow untouched save for the occasional bird flitting across the expanse. A raven is perched atop a hedge at the edge of the maze, its head moving back and forth slowly from the castle to the forest past the grounds. The stone parapet beneath James’s hand is rough and cold, a stark contrast to the smoke-filled confines of his office.

Regulus arrives quietly but not unnoticed. James hears the crunch of his boots against the snow, and before he even looks up, he feels the familiar presence settle next to him. Regulus pulls his dark green scarf higher around his neck, his free hand brushing against James’s gloved one on the stone.

“Fancy meeting you here, Professor,” Regulus murmurs, voice low but teasing. He tugs a cigarette from his coat pocket and leans in close—so close James can feel the faint warmth of his breath as he cups his hands around the lighter James offers.

“Thought a change of scenery might do us good,” James replies with a grin, his gaze fixed on Regulus’s pale face, illuminated by the flicker of the lighter.

Regulus takes a drag and exhales slowly, the smoke curling between them in the frosty air. His shoulder nudges James’s in a way that feels both deliberate and casual. “You mean you didn’t want to deal with the other teachers complaining about the smell of smoke coming from your office?”

“Can you blame me?” James counters, his lips twitching into a smile. “One of these days someone’s going to come barging in. Not exactly keen on explaining why I’m sharing a cigarette with a student.”

Regulus hums in agreement but doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans in closer, their arms brushing as they rest against the parapet. “Is that what we’re doing? Sharing a cigarette?”

“At the moment.”

Regulus considers his answer, always reading between the lines. “No one comes down here. Not in this weather.”

James arches a brow, smiling. “And yet, here we are,” he mirrors the words Regulus had said to him right here at the lookout—only a few short months ago.

Regulus smirks, lifting the cigarette to his lips and taking a slow drag, before turning to James, eyes dark with something unreadable. Without a word, he tilts his hand, holding the cigarette just shy of James´s mouth—an invitation, deliberate and unhurried. James leans in, lips brushing the filter as he inhales, the taste of smoke and Regulus lingering on his tongue.

“As if you couldn´t talk yourself out of a situation like that. You could probably make them apologize for barging in on us.”

James chuckles softly, but the sound catches in his throat when Regulus tilts his head, his dark curls falling across his forehead. Without thinking, James reaches out to smooth them back, his gloved hand lingering.

Regulus looks up at James, his expression softer than usual, his dark eyes searching. “You’re like no one else I’ve ever met’” he murmurs.

James feels the shift in the air between them, the pull that always seems to be there whenever they’re alone. He moves without thinking, his hand slipping from Regulus’s hair to rest on the back of his neck, gloved fingers brushing against cool skin where the scarf doesn’t quite reach. Regulus leans into the touch, his cigarette forgotten as it dangles between his fingers.

“You’re cold,” James murmurs, his thumb brushing against the edge of Regulus’s scarf.

Regulus laughs softly, a sound that’s warmer than anything else in the icy night. “Says the human furnace.” He takes James’s free hand, lacing their fingers together and bringing them up between them, their breath mingling as they stand impossibly close. “Warm me up?”

“Always.”

Regulus’s gaze flicks between James’s eyes and his lips, and for a moment, neither of them moves. Then Regulus closes the distance between them, his lips pressing softly against James’s.

It always starts slow, tentative, but it doesn’t stay that way. James tightens his grip on Regulus’s hand, pulling him closer until there’s no space left between them. Regulus tilts his head, deepening the kiss with a quiet sigh that James feels more than hears.

When they finally pull apart, their breaths are visible in the cold air, mingling together like smoke. Regulus rests his forehead against James’s, his eyes half-lidded and his lips parted in the faintest of smiles.

“Didn’t Epicurus say something about moderation being the key to pleasure?” he murmurs, his voice light but laced with something far deeper.

James huffs a quiet laugh, his thumb brushing against Regulus’s cheek. “He did. But he also said the wise man knows when to break his own rules, so maybe we’re just following his lead.”

Regulus laughs softly, a rare, warm sound that lingers in the cold air. “Of course. Leave it to you to make breaking the rules sound academic.”

James grins, his hand still cupping the back of Regulus’s neck. “Well, I’ve got a talented student keeping me sharp.”

Regulus shakes his head, his dark curls brushing against James’s temple. “Flattery doesn’t suit you, Professor. But I’ll allow it… just this once.”

Their hands are still entwined, the forgotten cigarette burning low between Regulus´s fingers. The cold doesn’t seem to matter anymore, not when James can feel the warmth of Regulus pressed against him, the quiet steadiness of his breathing grounding him in the moment.

Later that night, the fire in James’s office casts a warm glow across the room as Regulus leans against the desk, his tie slightly askew and his hair mussed from James’s hands. The tension between them crackles, undeniable.

“You’re dangerous,” Regulus murmurs, his voice low and teasing as James steps closer.

“And you’re trouble,” James replies, his hand sliding to the back of Regulus’s neck as he pulls him into another kiss.

This time, there’s no hesitation, no restraint. Their movements are urgent, their breaths mingling as they lose themselves in each other. Regulus’s control slips entirely, and James sees it—that rare, raw vulnerability that makes his chest ache.

James grabs Regulus by the back of his thighs, picking him up and positioning him on the edge of the desk. His legs wrap around James´s waist, pulling him impossibly closer. One of James´s hands is caressing the exposed skin at the younger man´s lower back, the other hand finds his way to the back of his neck. James weaves his fingers through the soft curls and tucks. A low moan escapes Regulus, his head falling back, and James attaches himself to his throat, eager to elicit more sounds from him. For once, Regulus seems to agree completely.

After, sitting on the leather couch, legs tangled, James rests his forehead against Regulus’s, caressing his cheek with devoted fingers.

“What are you thinking about,” he whispers, his voice hoarse.

Regulus’s smile is warm, his eyes alight with something James can’t quite name but never wants to lose. “I think it’s worth it.”

Chapter Text

The snow piles thick against the window of James’s office, swirling in gusts that blur the view of the castle grounds. Inside, the room glows with cosy warmth, the crackle of the fireplace filling the space as the light flickers across cluttered bookshelves and papers strewn across his desk.

Regulus sits perched on the edge of James’s desk, cross-legged like he owns the place. His posture is impeccable, as always, with the spine of an ancient tome resting on his knee. His sharp eyes flick over the text, making notes with the sort of precision that always makes James feel both proud and mildly intimidated.

“You’re sure this is the edition you wanted?” Regulus asks, voice cool but not unkind. He flips through the pages with the same care he’d treat a rare artifact. “Because, honestly, it’s full of errors. Did you even check the translator?”

James grins, looking up from his own stack of essays. He stretches his fingers, and takes his glasses off to rub the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t buy it to be critiqued, Regulus. You’re supposed to read it, not slander it like it insulted your family.”

Regulus rolls his eyes. “I would critique it less, if it did.” He doesn’t stop examining the book though, like it’s something he can’t quite believe anyone would read. “I’m just saying,” he adds, “you’re going to ruin me with mediocrity.”

James laughs, leaning back in his chair and winking. “Only because you’re so easily ruinable.”

Regulus glances up from the book with a rare, almost imperceptible twitch of a smile, but he doesn’t bite. Instead, he plucks James’s glasses from his hands without warning, slipping them on and tilting his head as he looks through them. “You’re blind,” Regulus muttered as he squints at the room, his sharp features slightly distorted behind the lenses.

James bursts out laughing, the sound warm and bright against the quiet crackle of the fire. “You’re going to give yourself a headache squinting like that. And besides, they’re mine.” He reaches up, his hand brushing against Regulus’s wrist as he gently takes his glasses back.

“You’ve got a terrible bedside manner, you know,” James adds, poking his waist.

Regulus yelps and knocks away his hand. “I’m not a doctor,” Regulus shoots back, the faintest smirk curves his lips. He leans forward, bracing one hand against the desk as he kisses James, slow and deliberate.

James pulls his glasses back on, meeting Regulus’s eyes, his pulse quickening despite himself. "You really are a pain, you know that?"

“You love it,” Regulus replies smoothly, settling back into his position, his eyes lingering on James’s lips for a moment.

James can’t help but smile. “I really do,” he admits quietly, more to himself than to Regulus.

There’s a pause, and Regulus looks at him with that sharp, calculating gaze he always has, but this time it’s softened. After a beat, he shrugs, as though dismissing the vulnerability that’s slipped through. “I’m freezing.”

“Poor thing,” James murmured, his voice low and teasing, “I wonder what could possibly be done to help your ailment.”

Regulus tilted his head, his sharp eyes glinting with amusement. “you could light the fire properly. Honestly, Potter. Basic survival skills.”

James let out a soft laugh, his thumb brushing against Regulus’s hip. “Are you saying I’m incapable of keeping you warm?”

James chuckles, when Regulus shivers at his soft touch, leaning back in his chair as if to prove a point. “You’re welcome to fix it yourself.”

Regulus rolls his eyes but doesn’t move toward the fireplace. Instead, he jumps off the desk, steps forward, the corner of his mouth curving into a faint smirk as he surveys James for a moment. Then, without ceremony, he swings one leg over James’s lap and straddles him, arms draping lazily over James’s shoulders.

“There,” Regulus says, his tone smug. “This is more efficient.”

James blinks up at him, momentarily caught off guard before his grin widens. “How am I supposed to work like this?”

“Don’t care. You’re warm,” Regulus replies simply, settling himself more comfortably. His fingers trace idle patterns along the nape of James’s neck, his eyes half-lidded but watchful.

James wraps his arms loosely around Regulus’s waist, his thumbs brushing against the soft fabric of Regulus’s sweater.

The warm flickering of the firelight makes the shadows on the walls dance, casting an low glow over the room. The soft scent of burning wood mingles with the musty old books that fill James’s office, a place that has become both a sanctuary and a secret hideaway for the two of them.

Regulus shifts, his body still pressed against James’, and James feels the subtle tension in Regulus’s shoulders, the way he leans just a fraction closer as his fingers trace the curve of James’s neck. The contact sends a ripple of warmth straight to James’s chest, making his pulse race.

"You always find a way to make things harder, don't you?" James murmurs, voice low, a teasing edge to it. His fingers trace a path along Regulus’s spine.

Regulus’s lips curl into a smile, a flicker of mischief lighting up his eyes. "I don’t see why you’d complain. You're always so hot, Professor. It's hardly a hardship."

James lets out a small laugh. His hands slip around Regulus’s waist, pulling him even closer, feeling the heat of his body press against him in a way that makes everything else seem distant, unimportant.

Regulus’s eyes lock onto his, unreadable for a moment, before they soften.

James leans in, his breath mingling with Regulus’s as their lips meet in a kiss—slow and deliberate. Regulus’s hands move, brushing up James’s neck and into his hair, tugging him closer as if he couldn’t get enough. The kiss deepens, and James feels a quiet surge of heat spread through him, igniting something he knows he shouldn’t let himself feel this strongly. But it's Regulus. And it’s so hard to resist.

Their lips part for a moment, but Regulus doesn’t pull away. Instead, he presses his forehead against James’s, both of them breathing in unison. His fingers find the hem of James’s sweater, slipping beneath it and causing a shiver to ripple through James’s body. The contact feels electric, and James can’t help but suck in a breath as Regulus’s fingertips trace the skin just above his waistband.

“You really are dangerous,” James says breathlessly, but his hands are already pulling at the edge of Regulus´s sweater, eager to feel the warmth of his skin.

Regulus raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching upward. “Dangerous, huh?” He tugs James’s sweater over his head, tossing it aside before leaning down to press his lips to James’s neck. “I don´t hear you complaining.”

James lets out a low laugh, his hands now running over Regulus’s chest, feeling the hard lines of muscle beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. He wants more—needs more.

With a movement that feels so natural, so right, James helps Regulus peel off his shirt, feeling the warmth of his body inching closer, the heat from the fire nothing compared to the closeness between them now.

There’s no hesitation in the way Regulus presses closer, no doubt in the way James pulls him in. Their lips meet again, deep and slow, as if time has stretched out and nothing else matters but this—just the two of them, entwined and hidden from the world.

Regulus’s hands slide down James’s chest, pushing him back against the back of the chair with practiced ease. He follows, never breaking the kiss, as their bodies press together, the cold air outside forgotten. Regulus’s fingers find their way to James’s trousers, loosening them with a casual confidence that only heightens the growing urgency between them.

James shudders against him, one hand still gripping Regulus’s hip, the other threading through his dark hair. “Regulus…” The name comes out like a plea, but it’s not quite a question—it’s a request, a desperate need for more.

“I know,” Regulus murmurs against his lips, his voice rough with something James can’t quite decipher, but doesn’t need to. “Me too.”

They move together, every touch deliberate, yet frantic in a way, each second stretching out into something infinite. James doesn’t know when it happens, but they’re both completely bare before each other, skin to skin, the warmth of Regulus’s body so close it burns.

The world outside—everything they can’t say, the consequences they know are waiting—is nothing compared to this moment, this shared breath, this stolen time. They come together in a quiet crash of passion, their bodies moving in sync as they chase something neither of them can name, but both desperately need.

The fire crackles on, oblivious to the quiet, stolen moments between them, as James holds Regulus close, breathing him in as if he’s trying to keep him there forever.

_______

The castle grounds are breathtaking under the weight of freshly fallen snow, a winter-postcard come to life, the gardens transformed into a labyrinth of sparkling white. The maze’s hedges, towering even in winter, offer a private refuge, their branches heavy with frost. The world feels quieter here, muffled by the snowfall, as though the castle and all its secrets have been tucked away beneath a downy blanket.

James has long since stopped trying to button his coat properly, the frigid air biting at his cheeks as he trudges after Regulus. The younger man is a few paces ahead, his black wool coat stark against the snowy landscape, his hair slightly windswept and catching the occasional flurry.

“We´re doing this for your benefit,” Regulus calls over his shoulder, his voice crisp and matter-of-fact. “You need to leave your office once in a while. Breathe fresh air. Look at something other than The Metamorphosis.”

“You say that as if you don´t love that place,” James fires back, grinning despite the cold. His grin quickly falters as a well-aimed snowball smacks into his shoulder, the icy impact soaking through the fabric. “Hey!”

“Think of it as encouragement to diversify,” Regulus replies smoothly, his smirk barely visible before he ducks out of view behind a hedge.

“Oh, you’re going to regret that,” James mutters, crouching down to scoop up a handful of snow. He moulds it quickly, his breath fogging the air as he peeks around the corner oft he hedge. Regulus is already moving, his footsteps light as he moves like a predator sizing up its prey.

James’s first snowball goes wide, and he scrambles to dodge the retaliatory one that zips past his ear. The fight escalates in earnest, the labyrinth turning into their battleground. James dives behind another hedge, crouching low as Regulus closes the distance between.

The next snowball strikes James squarely on the back, a burst of icy powder exploding across his shoulders. He stumbles forward, laughing as he shakes the snow off.

“You’re dead for that,” James warns, his voice full of mock menace as he scoops up more snow.

Regulus doesn’t respond, at least not verbally. His smirk says everything as he stands his ground, daring James to try. And James does, lunging forward with a burst of energy that sends both of them tumbling into a nearby snowdrift. The impact knocks the breath out of them, their laughter mingling as they collapse in a tangle of limbs.

Regulus tries to wriggle free, his breathless protests melting into a half-hearted struggle as James pins him easily. The older man grins down at him, unrepentant, his weight pressing just enough to keep Regulus still.

“You’re fighting a losing battle here,” James teases, his tone full of mischief.

“Maybe I wanted to lose,” Regulus replies, his voice quieter now.

James’s grin fades into something gentler as he studies the face beneath him—flushed cheeks, dark eyes alight with both challenge and vulnerability. Slowly, James reaches out, brushing a stray lock of hair from Regulus’s forehead.

Leaning down, his lips meet Regulus’s in a kiss that is tender and unhurried, the kind of kiss that feels too big for words. Regulus responds immediately, his hands curling into the front of James’s coat to pull him closer.

When they part, their breaths linger in the icy air, mingling like smoke. Regulus’s lips curve into a faint smile, his eyes half-lidded as he looks up at James. “You’re terrible at staying professional.”

“And you’re terrible at pretending you care about rules,” James murmurs, leaning down to steal another kiss.

They stay like that for a while, hidden away in the maze, their touches growing bolder in the privacy of the snow-laden labyrinth. Hands wander beneath coats, seeking warmth and finding excuses to linger, their breaths coming quicker as the cold becomes an afterthought.

Eventually, Regulus pulls back slightly, his fingers tangled in James’s hair. “Do you remember your first lecture? About Theseus and the Minotaur.”

James smiles, his forehead resting against Regulus’s. “The labyrinth. I remember you being very contrarian. It’s not a cage, it’s a test?”

Regulus’s lips twitch into a small, knowing smile. “I had to make an impression.”

James presses a kiss to the corner of Regulus’s mouth, his voice quiet. “You did. I haven’t stopped thinking about you ever since.”

Regulus doesn’t respond right away, but the way he tilts his head to kiss James again is answer enough.

_______

“You mentioned Aeschylus’ Oresteia in class, but I was wondering about Euripides’s version… is that something I could pick up on?”

The hallway buzzes with the clamour of students—laughter echoing off the stone walls, the rhythmic thud of shoes on centuries-old flagstones, snippets of hurried conversations slipping past. Anna smiles at him timidly, her cheeks a faint pink. She clutches her worn copy of Sophocles’ Elektra to her chest—their current topic in class—fingers nervously picking at the edges of the cover.

. “Absolutely,” James says, offering her a reassuring smile. “If you’ve already read Euripides’ Elektra you can absolutely use it in your essay. It’s not required, but comparing it to Sophocles’ version could lead to some sharp insights. Just remember, if you do decide to do a comparison, that the connection between the two is unclear. You’d have to relate it back to the Oresteia.”

“Oh okay. Yes that—” she starts, nodding eagerly, “that makes sense. So I could, like…”

James’s gaze drifts down the corridor, past the blur of students and the swinging of bags and half-heard laughter. He doesn’t see him at first—he feels him. That familiar pull. Black hair, pale skin, grey eyes and an impeccable posture. And sure enough, there he is, walking towards him, engrossed in a conversation with his friend Barty.

And then, as if drawn by the weight of James’s attention, Regulus looks up.

Their eyes meet across the crowded hallway and everything else drops away.

The noise dies down in an instant as everything but him comes out of focus.  The press of bodies and voices and stone all fade to the edges. Regulus’s dark eyes glint, and James’ fingers twitch—wanting to reach out, wanting to touch.

“Reg? Regulus, are you even listening?” Barty’s voice snaps Regulus’s attention away.

“Yeah… Yes, sorry. How did Evan react?”

James watches as they walk on—shoulders brushing, voices low—until they disappear around the corner.

“What do you think, Professor?”

James blinks. Then, remembering where he is, turns his attention back to his student.

_______

The dark corner of the library is a sanctuary, hidden enough to feel utterly private. The faint hum of students’ chatter drifts faintly from the main hall, muted by the thick stone walls and the labyrinth of towering shelves. The dim glow of a single lamp spills across the floor, casting long shadows over ancient books and the worn wood of the table nearby.

Regulus sits cross-legged on the cold stone floor, his back pressed against the wall, the sharp line of his posture betraying a restless energy he rarely lets slip. A heavy book rests on his lap, its pages yellowed, its binding frayed in a way that seems to bother him. His fingers hover near the spine, trailing along it in slow, absent circles. James stands beside him, a notebook balanced loosely in his hand, pretending to help with a question from his class, though neither of them has glanced at it in at least ten minutes.

“I always liked this place,” Regulus says, his voice low but steady, almost as if he’s speaking to the shadows rather than to James. His eyes trace the spines of the books on the shelves across from them. “The library feels like... a reprieve. Especially these dark corners, where no one ever comes. It’s calm. Quiet.” He pauses, his fingers stilling on the book. “I come here to get away.”

James looks at him, his brow furrowing slightly. “It’s not easy,” he says softly, the words slipping out before he can stop them, “always being the smartest in the room.” He’s quoting something Regulus once said to him, what feels like an eternity ago.

Regulus huffs a short laugh, though it’s devoid of real humour. Still, the corner of his mouth twitches upward, just for a moment. “You’d think I’d enjoy boasting my intelligence,” he says dryly. “But it’s not much of an audience when they bore me to tears.”

James smiles warmly, shifting to sit beside him. He stretches out his legs, leaning his shoulder against the wall so it brushes lightly against Regulus’s. “Showing off in front of mediocrity isn’t your style,” he teases. Then his tone softens. “But seriously—a reprieve? You make it sound like you’re under siege.”

 “I am,” he says after a beat. “People are... exhausting.” Regulus closes the book in his lap with deliberate precision, his dark eyes flicking toward James, sharp and assessing. “And should you really be calling your students mediocre?”

James tilts his head, studying him. “Most people are,” he emphasizes. “It’s not a bad thing, necessarily. Most days, I think it would make life easier.”

Regulus considers this, his voice softening. “Most people, maybe. But not us. We´re made for great things. Extraordinary things” He shifts closer, his arm brushing against James’s.

“And we’ll get them,” James murmurs, his voice steady, full of conviction. His hand shifts, brushing lightly against Regulus’s knuckles before finally curling around his hand. “Together.”

Regulus glances down at their entwined hands, his thumb brushing against James’s. His voice, when he finally speaks, is softer than before. “Together,” he echoes, as though the word itself is a promise.

For a long moment, the only sound is the faint rustle of pages from somewhere in the library and the distant murmur of voices, the world beyond the little corner where they sit fading away. Neither of them moves to break the stillness.

It’s James who finally speaks again, his voice almost teasing. “You know, for someone who claims to be exhausted by people, you’re surprisingly good at convincing them to follow your lead.”

Regulus smiles at him softly, his cheeks tinged red, eyes glinting like stars in the night sky. “You’re the exception.”

_______

The tower at the centre of the castle rises like a ghostly silhouette against the night sky, its jagged turrets cutting into the horizon. It stands apart from the rest of the castle, the kind of place that rumours cling to like ivy. They say it’s haunted— whispers of ghostly figures and strange sounds in the dead of night. It’s precisely why no one dares to venture there, which makes it perfect.

James follows Regulus up the narrow, spiralling staircase, their footsteps echoing off the cold stone walls. The air grows colder the higher they climb, the draft slipping through the cracks in the ancient structure. Regulus doesn’t look back, his movements confident and fluid as though he’s been here a thousand times. When they reach the top, he pushes open the heavy wooden door, its hinges groaning in protest, and steps aside to let James enter.

The room is small but not cramped, its walls bare save for faint remnants of chalk drawings—swirling shapes and half-erased words in Latin that James can’t quite make out. Books are stacked in uneven piles along one wall, and a worn blanket is spread across the stone floor, accompanied by an array of mismatched pillows. A single lantern glows softly in the corner, its light flickering and casting long shadows that dance across the room.

“This is yours?” James asks, his voice hushed, as if speaking too loudly might shatter the fragile stillness.

Regulus shrugs, his sharp features illuminated by the lantern’s glow. “It’s no one’s. That’s the point.”

James sets down the bottle of wine Regulus handed him earlier and looks around again, taking in the details. The room feels untouched by time, a forgotten pocket of the castle that belongs only to them now. He wonders how many nights Regulus has spent here alone, hiding from a world that seems to demand so much of him.

Regulus sinks down onto the blanket, his movements deliberate as he sits cross-legged and pulls a second, slightly threadbare blanket around his shoulders. James joins him. There’s something about the way Regulus looks at him—steady, unguarded in a way that’s rare for him—that makes James feel warmer than he should.

“You really outdid yourself,” James says with a crooked grin, holding up the wine bottle. “Smuggling contraband into a haunted tower? Bold.”

Regulus rolls his eyes, though his lips quirk into a faint smirk. “If you’re going to drink cheap wine, you might as well do it somewhere no one can find you.”

“Cheap? I thought you had standards.”

“I do,” Regulus replies smoothly, his smirk widening, before leaning in to kiss him chastely on the lips.

James laughs, a soft, warm sound that fills the room. He uncorks the bottle and pours the wine into two mismatched cups that Regulus produces from a corner of the room. They drink slowly, the wine tart and sharp on James’s tongue. It’s not good, but he doesn’t care.

They talk for a while, their voices low as they sit shoulder to shoulder beneath the blanket. Regulus tells him about how he first stumbled across the tower, how he’d claimed it as his own when he realized no one else would dare set foot inside. James listens, captivated by Regulus’s voice. Regulus leans against James, his head resting lightly on his shoulder, and James feels the tension in his chest ease, the weight of the world momentarily lifted.

When their lips find each other, it deepens quickly, the kind of urgency that comes from being hidden away in a place that feels like it exists outside of reality. James’s hands find Regulus’s waist, his fingers brushing against the soft fabric of his sweater before slipping beneath it. Regulus sighs, shifting closer, his hands tangling in James’s hair as their breaths grow heavier.

The cold stone walls fade into the background as they undress each other, their touches a mixture of tenderness and desperation.

Regulus lies under him on the blanket, hair spilled out like a halo, eyes full of devotion. James takes a minute to just look at him. His pale skin and lithe figure. The constellations of freckles across his chest. Stormy eyes and kiss-bruised lips. His Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows, reaching out to pull James onto him, fingers digging into his back, leaving crescent moons in their wake.

And James goes willingly. There’s not a wish he would deny him.

Afterward, they lie tangled together beneath the blanket, the dim light of the lantern casting a soft glow over their skin. Regulus’s head rests on James’s chest, his dark hair spilling across James’s skin. James trails his fingers lazily along Regulus’s back, his other hand brushing against the sharp line of Regulus’s jaw.

For a long while, neither of them speaks. The only sounds are their breaths and the faint howl of the wind outside. It feels private, sacred, like this little corner of the world belongs only to them. James presses a soft kiss to the top of Regulus’s head, his heart full in a way he doesn’t quite have words for.

“I like it here,” James murmurs, his voice low. “It’s... quiet.”

Regulus doesn’t reply right away, his fingers tracing idle patterns along James’s chest. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer than before. “Quiet is easier.”

James tightens his arm around him, his voice steady. “We’ll come back. After the holidays. Together.”

Regulus nods against him, and for once, he doesn’t deflect or argue. “Together,” he echoes, the word heavy with meaning.

As James lights a cigarette, inhaling slowly, before holding it on front of Regulus´s lips for offering, a thought crosses his mind.

_______

"Let's begin with a story," he says, voice carrying across the room with intention. "A myth about trust, betrayal, and the consequences of a broken oath." He stops at the edge of his desk, leaning against it.

"Tantalus was favoured by the gods—invited to dine with them, granted their secrets, allowed to exist in both the divine and mortal realms. But he grew arrogant. He thought himself their equal. And so, he made a choice." James, leaning against his desk in a casual manner, lets the words settle before continuing.

"He invited the gods to a feast… and served them the flesh of his own son, Pelops, testing their omniscience. It was an unforgivable crime, a violation of divine law. And more than that—it was a betrayal of the sacred trust between guest and host, a trust so fundamental to Greek society that Zeus himself enforced it. And he was punished for it.”

James glances around the room, making sure they’re still with him. "Tantalus was condemned to eternal hunger and thirst, standing in a pool of water that receded when he tried to drink, beneath fruit that pulled away when he reached for it. A torment as endless as his crime."

He crosses his arms, letting the weight of the story settle before moving on. "The lesson? The gods do not take oaths and sacred bonds lightly. Tantalus broke an unspoken one, but what about the ones sworn aloud? What happens when even the gods must uphold their word?"

James pushes off the desk, stepping toward the blackboard. "That brings us to the sanctity of oaths in Greek mythology," he continues, chalk in hand. He writes in bold, deliberate strokes: Oaths Sworn on the Styx.

“An oath sworn on the River Styx was absolute,” James says, turning back to face the class. “To break it wasn’t just frowned upon—it was catastrophic. Even for the gods. One does not break an oath sworn on the Styx.”

He lets the words settle before continuing. "Take, for example, the story of Helios and Phaethon. Found in Ovid’s Metamorphoses and referenced in later Roman and Greek works, it begins with a promise." His gaze flickers briefly toward Regulus, who watches him with unreadable eyes. "Phaethon, desperate to prove his divine lineage, seeks out his father, Helios, the sun god. Helios, overjoyed to see him, swears on the River Styx to grant his son whatever he desires."

James steps forward. "And Phaethon’s wish? To drive his father’s chariot—the chariot that carries the sun across the sky."

A hand goes up near the middle of the room. “But didn’t Helios try to stop him?” Mira asks, brows furrowed.

James nods approvingly. “He did. He begged Phaethon to reconsider, tried to warn him of the dangers. But the oath had been made. The gods were bound by their word, even when they knew it would end in disaster.” His voice softens. “And it did. Phaethon couldn’t control the chariot. The horses panicked, veering too close to the earth, scorching the land—Ovid describes it as the creation of the deserts, of rivers boiling in their beds. In the end, Zeus had to intervene, striking Phaethon down with a thunderbolt before the entire world burned.”

James pauses, his hands clasping the edge of the desk, and looks out over the class. His gaze sweeps the room like it always does, but when it reaches Regulus, it lingers. His dark eyes are sharp, dissecting every word with an intensity that makes James forget how to breathe.

“The River Styx,” James continues, blinking a few times, forcing himself to focus, “represents absolute trust. Helios never meant for his promise to lead to tragedy, but intent doesn’t change the outcome. Just like Zeus with Semele, his words became a chain around his own throat. Even the gods, with all their power, weren’t immune to the weight of their oaths.”

Marcus, sitting in the backrow, raises a hand at this. “But Professor Potter, wasn’t it Phaethon’s fault for asking in the first place? Helios tried to warn him.”

James can see Regulus rolling his eyes in his peripheral vision. “An interesting perspective,” James says. “But let’s look at it differently—was Phaethon really at fault for believing in his father’s promise? Or was it Helios’s mistake for making it in the first place?”

He straightens, turning his attention back to the whole class. “This raises a question that isn’t just mythological but human. When we make promises, are we truly prepared for what they mean? For the vulnerability they require?” His gaze flickers to Regulus again, as though the question is meant only for him. “Promises aren’t just words. They’re weight. They’re risk. And sometimes… they’re dangerous.”

Regulus’s lips curve into the faintest smirk, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches James with quiet amusement.

“Consider a few other examples,” James presses on, his tone softening. “Heracles swore to rescue Alcestis from the underworld. Orpheus vowed not to look back at Eurydice. Achilles promised to stand by Patroclus in life and war. Time and again, we see mythology testing the limits of oaths, of trust, of human—or divine—resolve. And in nearly every case, failure doesn’t erase love or intent. It simply proves that promises, by nature, are flawed—because we are.”

The room falls silent, save for the hurried scribbling of notes. Regulus doesn’t write a single word. He just watches, his sharp eyes locked on James, a private conversation happening between them in the spaces no one else notices.

James’s voice lowers slightly, almost imperceptibly. “The point is this: The act of making a promise is an act of hope. Of trust. Even knowing it might fail, it’s worth making... because sometimes, that promise is what holds us together. And sometimes,” his gaze lingers on Regulus, “it’s what pulls us apart.”

The bell rings, breaking the quiet tension. Chairs scrape back as students shuffle out, their chatter rising in volume as they spill into the hall. James turns his back to the room, gathering his things. When he hears a pair of footsteps right behind him, he turns around smiling, expecting Regulus and his dry remarks. But it´s not Regulus—it´s Anna.

“Oh. Hi Anna, how can I help you? Do you need more help with your essay?”

She smiles up at him shily, her notebook pressed to her chest, an old, overflowing backpack swung haphazardly over her shoulder.

“Uhm… I just—” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, shifting on her feet. “I was thinking about the whole promise thing. About Achilles. If you break a promise, but you meant to keep it, does that mean it was never real in the first place?”

James softens, understanding the nervous energy beneath her question. “A promise is real the moment it’s made. Intentions matter. But we’re human. We fail, even when we don’t want to.”

Anna nods, twirling the strap of her backpack between her fingers. “Right. That makes sense.” Then, quickly, like she’s trying to make it sound offhanded, she adds, “Also, do you have any book recommendations? On mythology. Or… anything, really.”

James hides a smile. “I do. But if I start listing them, we’ll be here all day.”

Anna smiles, cheeks turning pink. “That’s fine. I don’t mind.”

James chuckles, reaching for a sheet of paper. He jots down a few titles, his handwriting quick but neat. When he hands it to her, she takes it carefully, as if it holds some quiet significance.

“Thanks, Professor Potter,” she says, twirling a strand of hair.

“Anytime,” he replies, amused. Then, with a gentle nod toward the door, “Off you go.”

She flushes, nodding and murmuring a “merry christmas, professor” before scurrying out, holding the list close to her chest.

James exhales, rubbing the back of his neck before turning back toward his desk. That’s when he sees him.

Regulus is still in the room. He stayed in his seat, leaning back casually, one arm draped over the back of his chair. James didn´t notice until now.

“You have a flair for the dramatic, Professor,” he says at last, his voice carrying just enough dryness to make James chuckle.

“What can I say, I’m a storyteller at heart.”

Regulus moves towards the door slowly, leaning against the doorframe with the same languid grace he always carries, though his eyes betray something deeper. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were speaking directly to me.”

James picks up his briefcase, moving towards him, and stops just a foot away, his expression softening. “Maybe I was.”

Regulus tilts his head slightly, his smirk deepening, but there is a dangerous glint in his eyes. “I told you she has a crush on you.”

James groans. “Oh, stop that right now. She just likes the subject.”

“Of course. So do I.”

For a moment, neither of them moves. The tension stretches, electric but unspoken, until James brushes past him, his hand grazing Regulus’s for just a second longer than necessary. It’s a fleeting, intimate touch that sends a shiver up James’s spine, though he keeps his composure.

He hesitates in the hallway, glancing back with a faint smile. “You coming?”

Regulus waits a beat, his smirk returning as he pushes off the doorframe and follows. “Always.”

_______

That night finds them back on the lookout, the castle grounds stretching below, blanketed in snow, the skeletal branches of trees swaying in the winter wind Snowflakes catch in Regulus´s hair, melting before they can settle. Bundled up in coats and scarves, pressed against each other, they lean against the grey stone walls of Hallowthorn Hall, cigarettes dangling from their gloved fingers, the smoke curling into the frigid air.

“I don’t believe you,” Regulus says his grey eyes flicking over James´s face, sharp and assessing.

James exhales a slow stream of smoke, amused by the accusation. “Why would I lie about that?”

“You played ice hockey.” Regulus sounds accusatory.

“I did, yeah. In uni.” James can’t help laughing. He doesn’t understand what the big deal is but getting a reaction out of Regulus—something other than his usual mask of boredom—is always a win in James´s book.

Regulus stares at him like he’s trying to solve an puzzle. Teeth digging into his bottom lip, his grey stormy eyes becoming glassy for a few seconds before he speaks again. “Is it as homoerotic as it looks?”

James chokes. Smoke catches his throat, and he doubles over coughing. “What?”, he wheezes.

“Oh please. You know exactly what I mean,” Regulus says, entirely unbothered. “Grown men with sticks in their hands, shoving each other against walls. All that’s missing is the part where they take the helmets off and kiss.”

James looks at him, half incredulous, half delighted. “Have you ever been to a hockey game?”

“No,” the younger man admits, grinning. “But I read enough hockey romances to know what I´m talking about.”

James gapes. “I´m sorry—hockey romances?”

Regulus nods, taking a casual drag of his cigarette. “Oh, you know… Its— well. It´s smut mostly.”

“Huh.”

“What?” Regulus is grinning now too.

James shakes his head, still processing. “I just… can’t believe you read smut.”

Regulus huffs a soft laugh. “Are you arguing that some genres are lesser than others? That´s very elitist of you. Professor.”

James straightens at that, suddenly animated. “Oh don´t even start. I hate how society arbitrarily assigns value to certain themes while dismissing others. There’s this ridiculous idea that literary fiction holds inherent worth, while anything commercially successful is automatically lesser, despite the emotional resonance it creates. We assign significance based on outdated hierarchies, pretending that prose has to be convoluted to be meaningful—”

He keeps going, lost in his own passion, his cigarette burning low between his fingers. Regulus listens, saying nothing, his expression unreadable. But there´s something softened in his gaze, something James can´t quite name.

James lives for these moments. The glimpses behind the mask. The real Regulus.

Regulus is grinning by the time James pauses for breath.

“What?” James asks, suspicious.

“I didn’t know that was a trigger,” Regulus muses

James just looks at him, wholly confused.

“Sorry for calling you elitist.” Regulus says, leaning in. The kiss is fleeting, effortless—like muscle memory, as if they’ve done this a thousand times before.

James barely has time to process the warmth of it before Regulus pulls back, smirking. “You never answered my question though.”

James blinks. “What question?”

Regulus leans closer, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Is it?”

“Is what?”

“Homoerotic.”

“I mean… I— I’ve never taken my helmet off to kiss an opponent,” James stammers.

“But you wanted to.” Regulus´s gaze is molten, sending shivers up his spine, burning through every layer of composure James has left.

James exhales a laugh. “Are you picturing it right now?” he teases.

The younger man visibly swallows.

James smirks, leaning closer. “Are you picturing me, in full gear, pressing you against a wall?”

And then, he does exactly that.

One moment, they’re standing side by side, leaning against the castle wall. The next, James moves— crowding Regulus back against the stone, pinning him there. He catches Regulus´s wrists, and in one swift movement, presses them against the wall above his head, his body flush against him.

A sound escapes Reguls’s throat—something dangerously close to a whimper.

James leans impossibly closer, is nose skimming along Regulus´s throat, tracing his sharp jaw, up to his ear. “Is this the outcome you were hoping for?” James purrs. A beat. “Always playing games.”

Regulus shudders, his hips pushing forward, searching for friction. A low moan escapes his lips.

James moves to his lips then, kissing him properly—no teasing, no hesitation. Its passionate and intense. All-consuming. A fire burning between them, and they are happy to feed the flames. Regulus kisses back just as desperately, as if he´s been waiting for this exact moment. As if he´s ready to burn for it.

_______

His office feels colder tonight, despite the fire flickering in the hearth. It’s the kind of cold that has nothing to do with the winter. It’s almost Christmas. It’s their last night together. Moonlight filters in through the window, illuminating the space in a pale, silvery glow.

Regulus lies on his back on the couch, his head resting on James’s lap, who caresses the younger man’s hair reverently. The wine they’d shared earlier sits forgottenon the table, its warmth now replaced by a quieter, heavier atmosphere.

“You’re going back to her tomorrow,” Regulus murmurs, breaking the silence.

James stiffens, just slightly, before letting out a soft sigh. “To my family, love,” he says, his tone gentle. The word slips out naturally, but it hangs in the air between them, unspoken yet impossible to ignore.

Regulus’s breath catches. He doesn’t move, but his fingers tighten ever so slightly where they rest against James’s hip. For a moment, it’s as if the world stops, and then he turns his head just enough to meet James’s gaze. His expression is unreadable, though his dark eyes burn with something heavy.

James’s lips twitch into a small, uncertain smile. “What?” he asks softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You’ve never called me that before,” Regulus says, his tone quiet but steady, a faint vulnerability threading through his words.

James brushes a thumb over Regulus’s cheek, his smile growing warmer. “It’s what you are. My love.”

Regulus closes his eyes for a moment, exhaling shakily as if the words are too much to hold all at once. When he looks at James again, there’s a softness in his gaze that rarely shows. “You’re insufferable,” he mutters, though the smile on his lips is undeniable.

“And you love it,” James replies, grinning.

Regulus huffs a soft laugh, resting his head back against James’s chest. They fall into a comfortable silence, their hands always moving, always touching, needing to feel each other’s skin. After a while, James speaks again, his voice quieter this time.

“Regulus?”

“Hmm.”

James looks down at him, his hand threading through Regulus’s dark hair. “How is your boulder?”

The younger man stays quiet for a while, his eyes glassy, before he returns James’s gaze, a small, soft smile on his lips. “We made it to the top.”

James can not put into words how he feels in this moment, so he goes back to caressing Regulus’ hair, smiling warmly at him, tears of joy prickling at his eyes.

Regulus doesn’t need a response, the way he shifts closer, and turns his head to kiss the exposed skin of James’s hip explains that this is answer enough.

Later, their kisses turn slow and languid, building to something deeper, something more. They shed their clothes in the moonlight, as their bodies come together in a way that feels as inevitable as the pull of the stars. Every touch, every kiss, is a vow they can’t quite put into words—a desperate attempt to make this moment stretch beyond time, and when James comes, it’s to a steady hum of Regulus, Regulus, Regulus.

Afterward, they lie tangled together beneath a blanket, their breaths still uneven, their skin warm where it presses against each other.

They fall asleep like that, their bodies pressed close, as the snow outside blankets the world in silence.

_______

James stands in the forest beyond the school grounds. It is night, the only light spilling from the full moon, casting the world in silver and shadow. The trees loom tall, their bare branches stretching toward the sky like skeletal fingers. The forest is thick, the air damp and unmoving. No snow has made it to the ground, yet the cold seeps into his bones.

His hands are filthy. Dirt cakes his fingers, clings beneath his nails, streaks his clothes. He doesn’t remember why. He doesn’t remember how. His breathing is uneven, his pulse loud in his ears. He listens. The wind doesn’t stir the branches. No animal scurries through the undergrowth. The silence is unnatural. And yet—

He is not alone.

The feeling is visceral, primal. Something watches from the darkness between the trees, unseen but present. His skin prickles. He turns sharply, searching—nothing. Just the whisper of wind brushing against dead leaves and haunting branches.

Then he sees it.

A crumpled piece of paper, half-buried in the cold earth. Torn edges, dirt smudging the ink. Slowly, he crouches, heart hammering in his chest as he reaches for it. The paper crackles as he unfolds it, his breath ghosting in the cold air.

James recognizes the handwriting immediately. It’s his own.

The ink is smeared in places, the words uneven, hurried. His eyes scan the page, taking in the words, but they don´t make sense. His stomach tightens. He doesn’t remember writing this.

A branch snaps behind him.

His head jerks up. The trees are unmoving, the shadows undisturbed. His pulse pounds in his ears.

Then—

A whisper, soft and cold, curling around him like breath against his skin.

"The monster—why did you let it escape."

The ground beneath him shifts. The dirt at his feet looks wrong—loose, unsettled. Like something has been buried there. And all aroud him: daisies—uprooted and dying.

His grip on the paper tightens. His breath comes faster now, sharp and uneven.

The whisper comes again, closer.

"You already know how this ends."

James wakes with a violent jolt, gasping. His body is tangled in the sheets, his skin damp with sweat, his heart a frantic hammer in his chest. He is back in his bed, in his room, the forest nothing but a dream.

But his hands—

His hands still feel dirty.

Chapter Text

James felt the cold bite of London air the moment he stepped off the train. The city was alive with the holiday spirit—festive lights strung across every street, the hum of Christmas music spilling out from every corner, and the promise of something magical lingering in the cold, crisp air. But James wasn’t feeling any magic. Instead, it felt like a weight had settled onto his chest, suffocating him with every breath.

Lily was by his side, beaming as always, excited to show him the Christmas markets, the decorations, and the cozy little cafés where they could sip hot cocoa and talk about their future. Their future. James didn’t know how to feel about that anymore. It used to be something he could picture, something he thought he wanted. But now, after everything that had happened with Regulus, it felt like a childhood-fantasy he has since outgrown.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” Lily said, her voice warm and hopeful. She slid her hand into his, squeezing it gently. “It’s going to be so nice when you’re finally done with that contract in Scotland. I missed you.”

James managed a tight smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He was still trying to figure out what to say. His mind was elsewhere, stuck on the sharp, aching feeling in his chest. He couldn’t help but think of Regulus—the way he felt when they were alone together, when the world outside seemed to disappear and they were free to be themselves. It had felt like a dream, like they were outside of time and space, untouchable. But now that he was back in London, reality was pressing in on him. It was all too real. And he wasn’t sure how to escape it.

He didn’t answer Lily immediately. She was too caught up in her own excitement, her words rushing over him, and he simply nodded, lost in thought. I love her. Why don’t I want this anymore?

The truth was, he didn’t know. Lily was everything he could have wanted, or at least, everything he thought he did. She was kind, beautiful, strong, and loving. She had always supported him, always been there for him. She stuck by him, when he decided to work at schools all over the country, moving every year and now even being gone for months at a time. This one was supposed to be the last. But now, every time she spoke about their future, the vision she painted felt more like a cage than a dream.

It´s not a prison––it’s a test

In his head, he saw the future she wanted. It was a safe and predictable life. Coming home to her every night, building a life in London. It was everything she had hoped for—and everything he had once hoped for too. But now, it felt suffocating. The more she talked about it, the more it became clear that it wasn’t what he wanted anymore. The life he had with Lily seemed impossible when he thought about what he had with Regulus.

It´s a test

The holidays passed in a blur. James did his best to stay present, to enjoy the festivities with Lily and their friends. He went through the motions—laughing at Sirius’s jokes, sharing memories with Mary and Marlene, teasing Remus about his Christmas sweater. Indulging Pete and his over-the-top stories about New York. But all the while, there was a nagging feeling in the back of his mind. Regulus. Regulus. Regulus.

Regulus.

It’s a test

He couldn’t stop thinking about him. The way Regulus’s stormy eyes had looked at him across the classroom, the way he’d whispered James’s name in the darkened corners of the school. The secret touches, the stolen kisses, the heated moments when it felt like nothing in the world mattered except the two of them. They had been dating for weeks now, and James couldn’t remember a time he felt more content. But the more time passed, the more James felt like he was living in two separate worlds, one that was real and one that was a fantasy. He wasn’t sure which one was which anymore.

Lily was talking about their plans for the next year, how she couldn’t wait to finally settle into their home together, how excited she was to spend more time together when he’s back in London full-time. She was radiant, her smile never fading. And James couldn’t look at her. Every word she spoke about their future twisted like a knife in his gut. He couldn’t reconcile the woman she is with the secret he’s keeping.

James’s stomach churned. I love her. I really do. So why does this future feel like it’s slipping away from me?

But the more he tried to focus on the life they were supposed to have, the more his mind kept drifting back to Regulus. God, what the hell is happening to me?

He was living in a constant state of tension, trying to keep up the mask of the happy husband and friend, while on the inside, everything was unraveling. It had been so easy to pretend back at the school. With Regulus, they had created a little world of their own, where nothing mattered past the castle grounds, where their connection was the only thing that existed. But now that he was back in London, reality hit him. Hard. His actions had consequences. He couldn’t keep pretending. What will happen when people find out?

The train back to Scotland came all too soon. Or maybe not soon enough. He’d managed to get through the holiday break, but now the time had come to go back to the school. To Regulus. To the life he had built there that seemed so far removed from everything in London. James couldn’t help but feel like he was being dragged back into the reality he had been avoiding. To the life he’d built in London, with Lily and their friennds. But all of that fell into the background, as he stepped onto the train.

Back to Scotland. Back to Regulus.

The train ride felt longer than it ever had before, and for the first time, James realized how deeply he was trapped in this double life. The time with Regulus had felt like something outside of time, like a dream he could almost believe in. But now, after being back in the real world, he was haunted by the consequences of that dream. There were no easy answers. No way out without hurting someone—without tearing his life apart.

Regulus was waiting for him at the school, and the weight of that reality pressed heavily on James’s chest. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep up the charade. But as the train hurtled toward Scotland, all he could do was wonder how much longer they could both survive in this world of secrets.

“You don’t agree with the interpretation of the labyrinth as a cage of one’s mind?”

The boy takes a drag of his cigarette, contemplating James’s question for a moment. He exhales slowly, the smoke curling upward into the dusk air. He tilts his head, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly as if considering James himself rather than the question at hand.

“I don’t think it’s a cage,” he says finally, his tone calm but deliberate, every word placed like a piece on a chessboard. “The labyrinth isn’t a prison—it’s a test. The Minotaur doesn’t just sit there waiting to be defeated. It is the labyrinth. The walls twist and turn because that’s how its mind works—chaotic, unpredictable. If someone gets lost in it, it’s not because the labyrinth trapped them. It’s because they weren’t strong enough to find their way out.”

James watches him, intrigued by the precision of his argument. The boy doesn’t fidget, doesn’t hesitate, speaking as though he’s walking a path he’s already memorized.

“So, it’s a test of strength, then?” James presses, curious despite himself. “Might makes right?”

The boy smiles faintly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Not strength. Clarity. The labyrinth only reveals what’s already inside you. Theseus wasn’t a hero because he killed the Minotaur. He was a hero because he knew where he was going. Everyone else… They wandered. Aimlessly.”

James arrives back at the castle and goes up to his private quarters to put his luggage away. In there, sitting cross-legged on his couch, he finds Regulus, casually browsing through The Odyssey. When he looks up, James can see that the casualness is nothing but a front. He is nervous. He saw this coming. It isn´t easy, always being the smartest person in the room.

Regulus is cold, closed off. As if he is just waiting for the people in his life to leave him. To fail him. To cast him aside.

“How did you get in here? You need a pin code to get into this part of the castle.”

“Oh please,” Regulus answers dispassionately. “I guessed the code on the first try.”

“I missed you,” James says stupidly, taking a step toward the man on his couch.

“But?”

“You always think the worst of people.”

“Am I right?”

James sighs, and grabs a chair, sitting across from Regulus. Having him so close to him and not being able to reach out and touch physically hurts.

“I´ve been thinking about something you said. On the day we met. You know, that night on the lookout?”

“I remember,” Regulus answers slowly, his voice devoid of any emotion.

A pause.

“What am I in your analogy then? The monster that needs to be defeated?” Regulus speaks without inflection. Cold. Clinical. Almost bored. “Was I the temptation? Your darkest desire that you need to resist? To overcome? Or am I Ariadne–– cast aside after you found your way out of the maze?”

“You´re the test of clarity,” James answers calmly, resolute. “And I know where I´m going now.”

“Enlighten me.” Regulus voice is icy cold.

James hesitates, staring out at the snow falling outside his window. For a moment, he’s back in the labyrinth, tangled in his own confusion. But this time, he's not searching for a way out. No, this time, it’s different. The maze he’s in isn’t something to be afraid of. It’s him. His desires. His truths. His choices. And Regulus—Regulus—is standing at the center of it all.

"You’re the test," James repeats, his voice quieter, as if saying the words aloud might make them real. "You force me to confront what I’ve been running from. The fact that... that I’m not who I thought I was anymore."

Regulus raises an eyebrow, leaning back in his chair, his gaze sharp. "Running from what exactly?"

James runs a hand through his hair, unsure of how to make it make sense. "Running from this. Running from us. From the part of me that wants you. That wants something more than what I thought I wanted. With Lily. With the life I thought I had planned. I used to think... I used to think that that was everything. But now, every time I look at you, I see... everything I’m not sure I want to walk away from. Ever."

Regulus doesn’t speak, but his eyes are intense, focused—waiting for James to continue, to untangle the mess he’s found himself in.

“I thought I could …. I thought I could keep it in the dark. But it’s not just this—it’s how I feel about everything now. About Lily. About myself." James swallows, his throat tight. "It’s like I’m stuck in the middle of this... this mess, and I can’t go back, but I don’t know how to move forward, either.”

Regulus tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable. "You think I’m your test of clarity? Maybe I’m just a distraction."

"No," James says, almost sharply. "No, it’s not like that. You’re not a distraction. You’re real. And I need to understand what that means. What it means for me, for everything I thought I was supposed to be."

There’s a silence between them, thick and heavy, as Regulus watches him with quiet intensity, almost as if he can see through James, deeper than he’s ever allowed anyone to look before.

“You’ve found your way out of the maze, then?” Regulus asks softly, his voice edged with something that feels like both challenge and curiosity.

James’s heart pounds in his chest. “I know where I’m going now,” he admits. The words feel both liberating and terrifying. He doesn't have a clear path in front of him, but for the first time, he’s not running from the question anymore. "I know I can’t keep pretending. Not to you. Not to myself."

Regulus leans forward, his gaze still unwavering. "Then tell me, James. Where are you going?"

James takes a deep breath. The truth hangs in the air between them, undeniable. The weight of the decision is heavy, but there’s no mistaking it anymore.

"I'm choosing you, Regulus," James says, his voice steady, the words feeling right as they leave his mouth. "I'm choosing us."

Regulus’s eyes widen slightly, but he doesn't move. The air between them crackles with tension, and for a long moment, it feels like time stands still.

James feels a rush of calmness, as though all the confusion that had gripped him for so long is suddenly gone. His future with Lily, the life he’d imagined—none of it feels like his path anymore. The only path that makes sense is the one in front of him, with Regulus. He´s found the string that will help him out of the maze.

“I don’t want to keep living in the shadows of what I should want,” James continues, his voice now more certain than he’s ever felt. “I want what’s real. And what’s real is you.”

Regulus stares at him for a long beat, his expression unreadable, before something shifts in his gaze—softening, just slightly.

"Are you sure about that?" Regulus whispers.

James nods, his heart pounding in his chest. "I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life."

“I need you to promise, James. Promise that you´ll choose me. That this is not just about feeling trapped in your old life. That I am not a lifeline to pull you out of the maze,” he says, voice cracking with emotion, tears forming in his eyes. “When it comes to it—whatever ‘it’ is—you’ll choose us. Life is easy with you. I can´t go back to the way it was before. I won´t survive that.”

James swallows hard, his throat tightening as the weight of the request settles over him. His hand finds Regulus’s, their fingers intertwining.

“I swear it,” James says, his voice steady and full of conviction. “I swear on the River Styx.”

Regulus’s breath hitches, and for a moment, his mask falters entirely. There’s something raw and almost fragile in his expression as he leans up to kiss James—slow and tender, as though trying to etch this moment into eternity.

For the first time in what feels like forever, James doesn’t feel trapped. He doesn’t feel like he’s walking away from anything; instead, he feels like he’s stepping into something new, something that feels right.

"You’re making a choice, then," Regulus says, his lips curling into a faint smile that James can’t quite read, but it makes his chest tighten all the same.

James nods again. "I’m making a choice. For us."

And in that moment, the maze is no longer a puzzle. It’s a path—a path that leads him to Regulus, to whatever comes next. There are no more questions, no more doubts. Just the clarity of knowing, finally, where he’s meant to go.

That night, they lie in bed together, skin touching, limbs tangled, breathing each other in. James can feel Regulus´s breathing evening out, as he slowly drifts into sleep.

“I love you,” he hears the younger man murmur. James is not sure if its real or a dream, but he knows that its true.

Chapter Text

James wakes to the quiet hush of early morning, the soft winter light filtering through the curtains, casting pale streaks across the room. The air is cool, crisp with the lingering bite of the season, but the warmth of the body beside him is enough to keep him tethered to the present, to this fragile, golden moment.

Regulus sleeps peacefully, his head resting against James’s chest, his breath soft and steady, the rise and fall of his ribs perfectly in sync with James’s own. There’s something intoxicating about the way he fits against him, the way their bodies mold together as if they were meant to be like this—skin against skin, heartbeats aligned. James is still, unwilling to disturb him, unwilling to risk losing even a second of this. He watches the younger man sleep peacefully with a smile on his face.

Dark curls spill over Regulus’s face, a few stray strands brushing against his cheek. James wants to touch him, to smooth back his hair, to trace the delicate lines of his features, but the moment is too perfect, too still, and he doesn’t dare disrupt it. Instead, he lets his fingers ghost along Regulus’s bare back, following the gentle curve of his spine, his touch featherlight as he maps out every ridge, every subtle shift of muscle beneath smooth skin. He memorizes him, commits every inch of him to memory—the sharp dip of his waist, the warmth pooled beneath the hollow of his shoulder blade, the slight twitch of his fingers where they rest against James’s side, even in sleep.

This feels right. This is where I belong.

The thought is immediate. Absolute. It settles into his bones like something eternal, something unshakable. Regulus, here in his arms, in his bed, in his life. In his heart.

How did I deserve him?

James exhales slowly, his gaze drinking in the sharp angles of Regulus’s face—the delicate cut of his jaw, the faintest crease between his brows, the curve of his lashes against his skin. The morning light turns his freckles to constellations, a scattering of stars across pale cheeks, and James wonders if he could map the universe on Regulus’s skin, if he could trace every mark, every imperfection, and find entire galaxies written into him.

He’s unreal. Ethereal. Too beautiful to be part of this world. Too brilliant, too sharp.

No one understands me like he does. No one ever will.

A quiet ache unfurls in James’s chest, something warm, something terrifying. The depth of it, the enormity of it, makes his breath catch.

I love him. I love him. I love him.

The words pulse in his head, louder with every beat of his heart.

And he is mine.

James tightens his grip ever so slightly, as if afraid Regulus might slip away like mist between his fingers. But he doesn’t. He stays. He breathes. And in this moment, James lets himself believe—however foolishly, however fleetingly—that they could have this forever.

_______

Their love is greedy. Devouring. A hunger that can’t be sated.

It’s in the way James finds himself constantly reaching for Regulus—brushing his knuckles against skin as they pass in the halls, lingering glances exchanged across rooms that should feel too public but don’t. It’s in the way Regulus pulls him into shadows between classes, pressing his body close, lips at his ear, whispering words that make James’s breath hitch and his knees weak. It’s in the way neither of them can ever seem to get enough, like they are starving for each other, like the mere existence of space between them is unbearable.

He no longer measures time in days or tasks but in moments stolen with Regulus—whispers in dark corridors, fingers threading through his hair when they should be elsewhere, hours lost tangled together in his bed, on the couch in his office, in Regulus’ tower.

And Regulus—Regulus hates being pulled away.

It starts subtly. A flicker of irritation when someone interrupts them, a tightness in his jaw when James is dragged into conversation with a colleague. But no one notices. Why would they?

Of course, Regulus Black lingers after lessons. What could be more natural than a brilliant student seeking extra guidance from his professor?

But it’s not academic discussions that keep Regulus waiting, not intellectual curiosity that makes him stay long after the others have left. It’s the way he stands too close, the way his dark eyes never stray far from James’s face. It’s the possessiveness in the way he looks at him, a silent claim etched into every touch, every glance, every unspoken demand.

James catches himself thinking, You’re the only one who understands me, and it’s terrifying how easily the thought slides into something deeper, something darker.

I only need you.

The realization should unnerve him, should make him step back, take a breath, reclaim the pieces of himself that seem to dissolve when Regulus is nearby. But he doesn’t. He won’t. He leans in instead, lets himself fall deeper, lets himself be consumed.

_______

The teachers’ lounge is warm, a stark contrast to the cold pressing against the castle walls outside. The scent of coffee lingers in the air, mixing with the faintest trace of cigarette smoke from someone’s coat—probably his. James leans against the counter, stirring sugar into his tea, only half-listening to the conversation around him—something about a faculty meeting being rescheduled, an argument about whether the copier is actually broken or if it’s just that no one knows how to use it properly.

It’s only when he sits down at the long wooden table, his tea cooling in front of him, that he catches a name he wasn’t expecting to hear.

“—Anna Carter, yes. Dropped out,” Flitwick is saying, flipping through a thick stack of papers.

James frowns. “Wait—what?” He glances up. “She wasn’t in my class since term stated, but I assumed she was sick.”

Professor Liang, seated in the corner, doesn’t even look up from his crossword. “Sent a letter to McGonagall. Completely out of the blue.”

James blinks. “She dropped out? Just like that? She only had a few months left before graduation.”

“Oh, well, that’s not the interesting part.” Aurora Sinistra, eyes alight with intrigue, leans forward slightly. “Apparently, she ran off with some boy. No one knows who though.”

James straightens, a strange prickle running up his spine. “Ran off?”

Aurora nods, lowering her voice just enough to suggest she knows she shouldn’t be gossiping but can’t resist. “Sent a letter to her parents, too. Told them she was leaving and that she wouldn’t be coming home. That they shouldn’t look for her.”

James exhales sharply, shaking his head. “That—” He stops, trying to make sense of it. “That doesn’t sound like Anna.”

“Oh, come on, James,” Aurora says, with a good-natured roll of her eyes. “You know how these things go. Teenage girl, older boy, some ridiculous, dramatic idea of love. They get it in their heads that they’re meant for each other, and suddenly, they’re sneaking off in the middle of the night, convinced the world doesn’t understand them.”

“She was doing well before the holidays,” James argues. “Engaged in class, working hard. If she had been planning something like this, wouldn’t someone have noticed?”

Flitwick sighs, finally looking up from his paperwork. “Teenagers are good at keeping secrets when they want to.”

“Not that good,” James mutters.

“Well, regardless,” Aurora continues, clearly pleased to be the source of the latest staff-room intrigue, “her parents are beside themselves, obviously. But she was very clear in her letter. She’s not coming home. She doesn’t want to be found.”

“She didn’t even say where she was going?” James asks.

“No,” Flitwick says. “Just that she was leaving with him. That they were in love. That she wanted a fresh start. It makes sense, honestly. Her family is practically royal, the pressure they put on that girl must have been suffocating… not that that doesn’t go for half the students here.”

James shakes his head again, staring down at his tea. Something about this isn’t sitting right with him. He knows what teenage recklessness looks like. He’s seen students make bad choices before. But Anna had never struck him as impulsive. She had always been thoughtful, quiet, deliberate. This—this felt rushed. Abrupt.

And maybe he was overthinking it. Maybe she really was just another lovestruck teenager who’d made a rash decision. But James has a bad feeling about this.

______

James doesn’t know when it started.

Maybe it was the way Regulus looked at him—sharp, dissecting, as if he was trying to unravel James piece by piece and put him back together in a way only he understood. Maybe it was the casual intimacy between them, the way Regulus let James touch him—his hand resting lightly at the nape of his neck, fingers brushing his wrist, their knees pressed together on the leather couch in James´s office.

Or maybe it was the way James found himself watching him, unable to look away even when he knew he should.

It’s late, and they’re in James’s quarters, the fire casting flickering shadows on the walls. A record—Hunky Dory— spins quietly in the background. Regulus is draped across James’s couch like he belongs there, a book open on his lap, but James can tell he’s not really reading. His eyes flick up every few seconds, catching James staring, and every time, his lips curl into the smallest smirk.

“You’re obsessed with me,” Regulus says, turning a page.

James scoffs, leaning against the table. “The feeling’s mutual.”

Regulus hums, pleased. He doesn’t deny it.

James watches the way the firelight catches in his dark hair, the way his long fingers tap idly against the book spine. The room is warm, hazy with the scent of old paper, of the tea James made an hour ago but forgot to drink. He wonders if Regulus can hear his heartbeat from here, if he knows what he does to him.

At some point, James moves. He ends up on the couch, half-pressed against Regulus, stretching out so their bodies align. He nuzzles into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. Regulus lets out a soft sigh, his hand slipping into James’s hair, absentmindedly playing with the strands.

They don’t speak for a while. They don’t need to.

When Regulus finally breaks the silence, his voice is quieter, softer. “I can feel you thinking,” he murmurs, fingers trailing lazily over James’s arm.

James exhales against his throat, pressing a slow kiss to the skin there. “Can’t help it.”

Regulus tilts his head, allowing the affection. “Maybe I should find ways to make you stop thinking.”

James grins. “I’d really like to see you try, love.”

Regulus rolls his eyes but shifts, pushing James onto his back and settling on top of him like it’s the most natural thing in the world. James laughs, hands finding his waist, grounding himself in the weight of him.

They don’t talk about the way they orbit each other, how their time together is starting to stretch into something dangerously consuming. But James can feel it. It’s in the way Regulus touches him, the way he lingers, the way he never seems satisfied until James is right there, close enough to touch. To claim.

And James—James is just as bad. Maybe even worse.

They stay like that for a long time, tangled up on the couch, fingers trailing over fabric and skin, exchanging lazy kisses that taste like heat and comfort.

Then, without thinking, he murmurs, “Did you hear about Anna Carter?”

Regulus doesn’t react at first. And then—

“Who?”

His voice is aloof, but James can see—he can feel—a change in Regulus´s demeanour. He knows who James is talking about.

James blinks, shifting slightly. “Anna,” he repeats carefully. “The one you thought had a crush on me.”

Regulus stills for a fraction of a second. Then he hums, tilting his head in mock recollection. “Ah. Her.” The word drips with disdain.

James should laugh. Should roll his eyes. But something about it makes his stomach twist. There’s a glint in Regulus’s eyes, something unreadable, something dangerous. But James has no reason to think twice about it. No reason to question him.

Regulus has always been dispassionate about the people around him. He barely spared them a glance unless they were speaking directly to him. Of course, he had no interest in Anna’s disappearance. Why would he? They had never spoken beyond the occasional class discussion, and even then, he had barely spared her a glance.

James swallows, pushing the feeling aside.

Anna is gone—probably halfway around the world by now, swept up in some reckless, romantic adventure with the boy she ran away with. It wasn’t his concern. It wasn’t their concern.

Regulus is here. Right in front of him.

James presses a kiss to his temple, pushing the unease from his mind.

“Well, it seems like you were wrong. Apparently, she ran away with some boy. She’s on some grand romantic adventure.”

Regulus is quiet for a moment. Then, void of any emotion he says, “good for her.”

This would be the last time he thought of Anna for a long time.

_______

“Aegialeus’ devotion,” Regulus says, “it’s clearly intended as an ideal. There’s a purity in that—eros overcoming even death.”

They’ve been talking for the better part of an hour.

No—arguing.

Regulus is in fine form today. Sharp, relentless, chewing through logic like a blade through silk.

James rests his chin in one hand, elbow propped on the back of the sofa, watching him.

James raises a brow. “Or eros contorting devotion into something grotesque. Aegialeus loves a corpse. Habrocomes imitates him. It’s not purity but mimicry.”

Regulus grins faintly. “You think it’s pathological, then.”

“I think Xenophon’s intention was to make us to feel uncomfortable.” James sits back. “There’s a moment were admiration tips into revulsion. Habrocomes doesn’t run because the story needs him to stay—to show what happens when love becomes obsession. He stops being the protagonist and becomes a cautionary tale.”

There’s a flicker in Regulus’s eyes. Something shifts. James knows that look—recognition. And frustration. The gears are turning behind his expression.

Regulus uncrosses his legs slowly, deliberately. The movement draws James’s gaze. His expression doesn’t change, but his body leans forward—just slightly—a hand now resting on James’s knee, mouth tugging into the ghost of a smirk.

“You’re relying on intent again,” Regulus says, voice silkier now, slower. “As if Xenophon wanted us to feel disturbed. But maybe he simply wanted to explore the edge of devotion—how far surrender can go before it unravels.” His fingers trace circles on the inside of James’s thigh.

James’s jaw flexes. “Eros demands a price.”

“Doesn’t everything worth having?” Regulus looks up at him from beneath thick lashes. “Isn’t the real fear in the surrender?”

James stares.

Something inside him tightens.

Regulus rises to his knees slowly, throwing a leg over James’s lap to straddle him. The argument is forgotten. Or maybe this is still the argument—only fought on a different battlefield now.

“You always want to win,” James murmurs, voice low.

“I’m just rarely in the wrong.”

He reaches out and unfastens the first button on James’s shirt, then the second.

“Are we still talking about Xenophon?” James asks, eyes dark.

 “I’m surrendering to eros,” Regulus hums, fingers trailing lower. “To make a point.”

James doesn’t answer. He pulls Regulus forward instead, mouth on his. Regulus presses into it, nimble fingers moving over his stomach, his chest, into the hair at the nape of his neck.

James pulls at him, never feeling like he is close enough, and Regulus gives into it, his back arching as James pushes up his shirt, mouths hot against ribs and skin,. Regulus gasps as teeth graze his nipple, head thrown back, dark hair illuminated by the fireplace like a halo.

There’s a moment when Regulus grips James’s shoulders hard, pulling him in, and breathes against his ear:

“Don’t stop. I want—” A pause. Then softer, urgent, “I’m yours.”

James doesn’t know when they stopped arguing, or who won, or if it even matters. All he knows is this: the man in his arms tastes like home. And as they come together in the sweaty heat of desperation and devotion, James knows he’s found his place in the world. It’s with Regulus. Always was, always will be.

It’s you and me

Afterward, they’re still tangled. James lies half-draped over him, breathing steady, heart slowing. Regulus is staring at the ceiling, expression unreadable.

But then James sees it.

That faint, satisfied smirk.

The bastard is smug.

“You think you won,” James mutters.

“I know I didn’t lose,” Regulus replies.

_______

James sits at the teachers table in the great hall for dinner, a half-finished plate of chicken and roast vegetables in front of him. Aurora is talking excitedly next to him, something about the latest school gossip, but James is barely listening.

All his attention is on the man at the other end of the hall. Surrounded by his friends, at first glance, he looks passive. But James can see the faint smile as his friend Pandora talks, gesturing wildly, while also trying to braid her brother’s hair, knocking his head back and forth in the process. Evan looks annoyed but he doesn’t tell her to stop. He endures the tugging with a long-suffering sigh, his head rocking with every aggressive twist.

Barty sits next to Regulus and laughs loudly at Pandoras tale, throwing his head back and clutching his stomach. Evan throws a napkin at him, which lands squarely on Barty’s head.

And Regulus smiles. James rarely sees him happy among his peers. Bored, yes. Tired. Annoyed. But Regulus never truly seems happy around anyone but James.

And his friends that is. James drinks it in like wine, the way Regulus’s face lights up around them. They’re his family. That’s what Regulus called them. James only heard him use that word once, but he hasn’t stopped thinking about it since.

And James can’t help but smile as he watches Regulus say something that makes Barty pout and leaves Evan and Pandora in stitches. James yearns to know what he said. To be there. To reach out and touch.

Barty fires back with some quip of his own, and Regulus reaches out to flick his forehead. But Barty is faster, he catches his wrist and tugs him in instead, planting a kiss on Regulus’s temple.

James’s smile dies on his lips, replaced by something dark and heavy in his chest. A monster, clawing at his stomach, trying to find his way out. James clutches his fork and knife, knuckles pale, jaw locked, willing himself to stay seated. He stares at Barty, at his arm draped over Regulus’ shoulders like it belongs there.

And Barty—

Barty looks up.

Their eyes meet. Across the expanse of the great Hall, Barty stares right at him. He doesn’t flinch or look away. Instead, tilts his head, as if considering James like a problem to be solved. Measuring. Waiting. Daring him to react.

Then, he turns back to Regulus, leaning in closely to murmur something into his ear. Regulus nudges him slightly, but he doesn’t look James’ way.

He must have imagined it. Regulus’ friends don’t know about them. No one knows.

James’ chair scrapes against the stone floor as he stands up abruptly, his food and conversation with Aurora long forgotten. Without a word, he walks out, the sound of laughter and conversation echoing behind him like a taunt.

_______

The afternoon sun slants through the window of his office, casting golden light over scattered papers and forgotten books. Dust motes hang suspended in the air, caught in the amber glow, undisturbed by the storm unfolding within these walls.

Regulus is beneath him, sprawled across the desk, his back arched against the polished wood. His thighs are locked around James’s waist, his breath uneven, his fingers digging into James’s shoulders as if he means to anchor himself—or pull James further under. To rip open his skin and make himself a home within.

His lips are parted, flushed and glistening, his dark hair falling messily over his face, grey eyes glassy as he looks up at James.

Regulus’s nails scrape against James’s back, sharp and claiming. His lips brush James’s ear, his voice breathless, but steady. “You’re mine.”

James’s breath catches. He presses his forehead against Regulus’s shoulder, eyes squeezing shut as he rasps, “Always.”

After James’s burst of jealousy in the Great Hall the night before, Regulus came to his office today with a glint in his eyes. Of course, he noticed. Regulus notices everything about James. Knows how to read him. He knows when to console him and when to rile him up. When to make him lose control. To make him come undone.

James thought Regulus would tell him he’s got nothing to worry about. Instead, when he closed the door of the office behind him—

“Jealousy suits you.”

James stared at the man from behind his desk, pen hovering over his lesson plan.

“What? I wasn’t—"

“Oh, so you weren’t fantasizing about beating Barty’s head in last night?”

“Come on love, I wasn’t—you know I would never… okay, so I was a little jealous.”

Regulus smirked, sauntering across the room with deliberate grace.

When he reached James, still sitting behind his desk, he leaned down, mouth hovering close to his ear. James’s senses filled with nothing but Regulus‑his smell, his heat, the ghost of his breath on his neck.

“You should get jealous more often,” he purred, making James shiver. “It’s hot.”

Regulus pulled back slightly, biting his lip as he looked James up and down. Then, he slowly dropped to his knees, hands roaming over James’s thighs before unfastening his belt.

James gripped the armrests, knuckles white, breath catching in his throat.

“Baby, I’m really busy right now,” James pressed out.

But he didn’t stop Regulus when the man reached for his zipper, eyes gleaming with mischief and want. No, he opened his legs wider, making space for Regulus between them.

“Go on, finish your work, Professor,” Regulus smirked, already pulling James’s trousers and pants down. “I’ll just stay down here until you’re done.”

James, of course, got no work done.

Lesson plans and student essays are forgotten, as James thrusts into Regulus twenty minutes later. Regulus keens under him, gripping the edge of the desk for purchase. He throws his head back and James takes the opportunity to kiss his throat, to breath him in, to nibble at his fluttering pulse point.

Regulus’s legs around his hips hold him close as he pulls James’s lips on his, the kiss slow and deep.

Their rhythm builds, bodies moving in tandem. Their kisses become shallower, lips grazing, gasps swallowed.

Outside, the snow falls peacefully over the castle grounds. James’s office is thick with the smell of sweat and sex, with the sounds of a crackling fire, laboured breathing and half-swallowed moans.

And just like that, in this exact moment in time, a life is irreversibly destroyed.

The door swings open.

“Professor, I—“

James barely has time to react before the sound of footsteps halting, the sharp intake of breath—before the presence at the threshold becomes an inescapable reality.

He stands frozen in the doorway, eyes wide with shock.

The blood drains from his face.

For a moment, no one moves. No one breathes. The world narrows to this terrible, inevitable moment.

Then, without a word, Mulciber turns on his heel and walks out, the door clicking shut behind him.

Shit.

James jolts, rushing to put his clothes on, instinct kicking in before reason. He has to stop him. He has to—

A hand clamps around his wrist, firm, unyielding.

James whips his head around. Regulus is still perched on the desk, naked and utterly composed. His grip tightens just slightly, and when he speaks, his voice is cool, detached, unaffected.

“I’ll handle it.”

James hesitates. There’s something dangerous in Regulus’s eyes. Cold. Calculating.

And against all reason, James nods.

He always says yes.

_______

James stands in the labyrinth.

The walls stretch endlessly in every direction, ancient hedges imposing high into the sky, pulsing as though the maze itself is alive. Shadows writhe in the corners of his vision, shifting when he tries to focus on them. The air is thick, cloying, carrying the scent of damp earth and something metallic, something wrong.

He moves forward. The path twists and narrows, the hedges pressing in close, forcing him to squeeze through jagged openings, clawing at his skin. His breath echoes back at him, hollow and distorted. The walls seem to close behind him as he moves, the labyrinth will not let him turn back.

He pushes onward.

When he emerges onto the castle grounds, the wind is a living thing, tearing through the night with a howling lament, rattling the iron gates, whistling through the bare branches of trees long dead. The castle looms before him, its turrets vanishing into the swirling darkness above, its windows gaping like empty eyes.

And Regulus is there, standing at the maze´s entrance. Waiting.

James takes a step forward, then stops.

Regulus’s hands are covered in blood.

Crimson stains drip from pale fingertips, soaking into the snow, painting a gruelling picture into the pristine white. The wind shifts, carrying the iron-sweet scent toward James, coating his tongue, filling his lungs.

James reaches for him without thinking. His fingers graze Regulus’s cheek, and when he pulls away, looking down at his own hands, they are stained red.

The blood smears across Regulus’s skin—his jaw, his throat, his collarbone. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move to wipe it away. His gaze is steady, dark, unreadable.

James wants to speak, but the words are thick in his throat, heavy as stone. He opens his mouth—to ask, to plead, to understand—but nothing comes.

Regulus tilts his head, eyes warm and full of love, voice barely above a whisper.

“I won’t let it destroy us.”

The wind howls. The castle looms behind them, dark and endless. The walls seem to breathe, the sky presses down, and the ground beneath James’s feet tilts, shifts—

The world bends, unravels—

And then—

Nothing.

James heart pounds in his chest when he wakes. The dream lingers, heavy and suffocating.

Regulus is curled against him, sleeping peacefully, untouched by whatever nightmare lingers in James’s bones.

James reaches out, tracing his fingers over Regulus’s bare skin, grounding himself. His heartbeat is even, he looks content. James moves closer to the sleeping man, snaking his arms around his waist and pulling him flush to his skin. Regulus makes a content noise in his sleep, smacking his lips. He buries his face in the nook of James´s neck, his breathing evening out once more.

Real. He is real. I´m okay.

But something about the dream unsettles him.

He exhales, trying to shake the unease, but it clings to him like a phantom. He watches Regulus, taking in the steady rise and fall of his chest. James traces the constellations on his back, tries to shake the nightmare. He should feel safe in this moment, but the image of bloodied hands won’t leave him.

Chapter Text

James wakes to warmth.

Despite the cold that lingers in the air, creeping through the old walls of his quarters, his bed is cocooned in heat. A body is pressed half against him, half on top of him—Regulus, all soft limbs and slow, sleepy breaths. James lets his eyes flutter closed again, sighing as he tightens his arms around him, pulling him impossibly closer.

Lavender. Smoke. Regulus.

He buries his nose in his hair, breathing him in, letting the weight of him settle against his chest. Regulus stirs at the movement, a quiet moan escaping him before he smacks his lips and blinks his eyes open. They find James immediately. A warm, lazy smile spreads across his face.

“Good morning, love.”

“G’morning, Jamie,” Regulus mumbles, voice rough with sleep as he buries his face back into the crook of James’s neck. He swears he feels his heart glow at the nickname.

James feels the curve of his lips against his skin.

“How’d you sleep?”

“Good.” His voice is drowsy, soft. “You?”

James hesitates. The memory of his nightmare—crimson snow—lingers in the back of his mind, but he pushes it away. It was just a dream.

“Fine,” he lies. He presses a kiss to the top of Regulus’s head. “I always sleep better with you around.”

Regulus hums in response, his breath warm against James’s skin. They lay there in quiet stillness, limbs tangled, time stretching between them. James could stay like this forever.

After a while, he murmurs, “Where do your dormmates think you are when you spend the night here?”

Regulus has been slipping into James’s place more nights than not since winter break ended, finding his way into his bed like it was second nature.

“Oh, you know,” Regulus mumbles, smirking against his collarbone. “I’m more of an outdoor cat. I come and go as I please.”

James huffs a laugh before jabbing a finger into his side in retaliation.

Regulus jerks, glaring. “Oi! Alright. No need to assault me.” He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow. “They know I’m seeing someone. Or they suspect at least. They just think I’m bunking up with some Year 12 student. I neither confirmed nor denied.”

James hums at that, lips quirking. “Should I be jealous?”

Regulus lifts his head fully at that, eyes dark with something playful, something teasing. “Oh, I don’t know,” he muses. “Should you?”

Slowly, he shifts, climbing on top of James completely, knees bracketing his hips, hands framing his head. James lets his hands skim down the backs of his thighs, appreciating the warmth of his skin beneath his touch.

Regulus leans down, his lips grazing over James’s jaw, slow and deliberate, before ghosting over his mouth. James meets him halfway, tilting his head up to capture his lips, biting lightly at his lower lip before sucking it into his mouth.

Regulus exhales sharply, his fingers twisting in the sheets.

James smirks against his lips, before turning sombre. “What about Mulciber?” he asks.

Something flickers through Regulus’s expression, too quick for James to read. But when he speaks, his voice is steady. Unbothered. Absolute.

“It’s going to be okay, James.”

James frowns slightly. “Are you sure?”

Regulus pulls back just enough to meet his gaze properly. His eyes are dark, unreadable, but his smirk is still there, barely-there and knowing.

“Do you trust me?”

“More than anything.”

“I’m sure, Jamie. You don’t have to worry about it,” Regulus says quietly. “I promise.”

And then, before James can think too much about it, Regulus is leaning in again, kissing him slow and deep, stealing the questions straight from his lips.

“Now,” he murmurs, voice a breath against James’s mouth, “do you want to keep talking, or…?”

James doesn’t.

Instead, he flips them over in one smooth motion, pressing Regulus into the mattress. A quiet oh escapes Regulus, followed by a low, pleased hum when James grinds down against him.

James swallows the sound with another kiss, deep and insistent, one hand threading through Regulus’s curls, the other bracing against the mattress beside his head.

Regulus links his ankles behind James’s back, pulling him closer. 

Closer, always closer.

James grips his wrists, pinning them above his head with one hand, holding him still. Regulus shudders beneath him, his breath coming faster.

James reaches for his chin with his free hand, tilting his face up until their eyes meet. His thumb ghosts over his bottom lip, pulling at it lightly.

“What do you want, love?”

Regulus’s pupils are blown wide, his lips pink and swollen.

“You,” he breathes. “Just you. Always you.”

James doesn’t need to be told twice.

_______

News travels fast at Hallowthorn Hall.

By the time James and Regulus leave his quarters—moving carefully through the dim corridors of the teachers’ wing, avoiding prying eyes—word has already spread. Students and faculty have begun to gather outside, drawn by the kind of whispered urgency that turns tragedy into spectacle.

James knows before he reaches the maze.

He feels it, an iron weight in his stomach, a cold certainty settling into his bones. His body moves forward, but his mind screams denial.

It was a dream. It was a dream.

It was just a dream.

Please.

Please let it be a dream.

He forces himself down the path, step by step, breath by breath, as if he can will reality to bend under the sheer force of his disbelief.

Then he sees it.

The snow, pristine and untouched just hours ago, is no longer white. It is stained deep crimson, the colour too stark, too vivid against the winter morning. The sun catches the frozen droplets, making them glisten like shattered rubies. There’s a trail of it—a broken path leading into the maze, darkened and disturbed, as if something heavy had been dragged through.

James sways where he stands.

I won’t let it destroy us.

The crowd murmurs around him, hushed voices threading together into a feverish hum.

"Someone found a body."

"A student—"

"Are they dead?"

"No one knows. There’s too much blood—"

"In this cold? You’d freeze to death out here—"

"Maybe it was an animal—"

"There are no animals in the forest that can do that—"

"What are you saying, then? Murder?"

James clenches his jaw, something sharp and desperate rising in his throat. “We don’t know what happened,” he says, his voice cutting through the speculation. “Don’t make assumptions.”

The words feel distant, automatic. He doesn’t even know if he believes them himself.

A commotion near the entrance of the maze makes the crowd shift. The paramedics emerge, their faces set in grim lines, guiding a gurney over the uneven ground. The figure on it is unmoving, a thin space blanket covering them, reflecting the pale light of the winter morning sun.

James’s heartbeat speeds up. Then stops.

The world tilts­—

                                   tilts

                                                                      t

                                                                           i

                                                                                 l

                                                                                                t

                                                                                                               s

The voices around him blur, swallowed by the deafening rush of blood in his ears. The ground beneath his feet sways, as if the very earth is trying to pull him under.

Mulciber.

Mulciber was attacked.

And James cannot breathe.

I won’t let it destroy us.

Chapter Text

It can’t be true.

There must be another explanation.

Regulus would never…

James stands at the mouth of the labyrinth, snow like crushed rubies beneath his feet—Mulcibers blood, now frozen into the earth like a curse— and stares at the gate where the ambulance rushed through. It swings crooked on its hinges, flapping with a metallic creak. The imposing hedge rustles in the wind. A raven circles above and releases a deep gurgling croak. All around him, silence has settled over the grounds like a judgement.

He doesn’t know how long he stands here, unmoving amidst the remnants of violence. Teachers and students alike scattered as the paramedics left with an unmoving Mulciber, fleeing the bitter February wind, but James can’t move, can’t breathe, can’t—

His dream

James saw this happening. The blood. The maze.

Regulus, soaked in red.

I won’t let it destroy us

His limbs are numb, his boots frozen into the slush. Snow has collected on his shoulders, in his curls, on his lashes. His bones ache. Somewhere between the stillness and the screaming in his mind, he realizes he is alone.

It was just a dream

James blinks—like waking from a trance—and exhales, watching the breath twist through the air. His fingers twitch. Slowly, he turns from the scene and begins the walk back to the castle. The wind claws at his face. His joints groan in protest. Each step is an effort. A protest. The cold follows him, clinging like guilt.

He can’t have been out there for more than an hour. Maybe two. Yet everything hurts. And Mulciber—Mulciber spent the whole night out there. In the snow. Bleeding. Alone and unable to move. Was he dying the whole time, trapped in there, calling out? Or maybe he was already dead, maybe he died when he was attacked by—

No

Regulus wouldn’t do this.

James isn’t naive. He knows how this looks. Mulciber finding out about them. Regulus going after him. And the next day… The scene writes itself. And sure, James is aware, that Regulus’ idea of morality doesn’t exactly align with his. But they were always talking in hypotheticals. It was about literature, not real life. He can be cold. Apathetic. But violent? No, never that. All those discussions about morality and justice and vengeance—they were academic. Metaphor. Literary theory over red wine and candles. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t this.

Regulus found himself in James’ bed last night, as he so often does. Surely, James would have noticed something this big, this horrible. Regulus would have been distraught. But he looked calm. Happy, even. There was no trace of violence in his eyes, on his hands. No blood, like there was in his dream. No flicker of guilt in his eyes.

Regulus wouldn’t.

He wouldn’t.

But then again, Regulus can be unpredictable.

And his dream —it hadn’t been just a dream. James felt it, the way you feel something real. The snow, the blood, the hedge clawing at his arms. The scream caught in his throat.

But how is that possible?

How could James dream about a bloodied maze, and the next morning, Mulciber’s bloody corpse is found within its walls. Thoughts of oracles invade his mind, of seers predicting a destiny of death and destruction

No.

It was just a coincidence.

It had to be.

He remembers other nightmare too. The castle engulfed in flame. A creature in the forest, ancient and monstrous. But they were just dreams. Stress. He teaches Greek tragedy for a living. Maybe his subconscious was just overindulging. Regulus was probably right, he should start reading other things as well, his obsession is clearly messing with his head.

But this still leaves one question…

Who killed Mulciber?

By the time James stumbles back into the castle, he’s shaking. He finds the nearest empty classroom, fumbles the door shut and collapses against it. His back slides down thewood until he’s on the floor, knees drawn up, chest heaving.

He can’t breathe.

The panic takes over. Arms tingling. Darkness creeping into the corners of his vision. A deep, clawing ache behind his ribs. A monster trying to rip him apart from the inside.

His chest heaves. He gasps. Trembles. Tears burn hot down his frozen cheeks.

Mulciber is dead.

The boy who was always angry, always loud—but trying. So desperately trying. James tried too. Tried to help, to guide, to pull him back from the ledge the boy found himself on at such a young age. But in the end, nothing of it mattered, because—

Wait

James jerks upright. The tears still streak his cheeks, but his breath finally returns to him. He wipes his face with trembling fingers and takes off, sprinting down the corridor.

He doesn’t stop to greet his colleagues. Doesn’t explain to the students who stare as he barrels past them, coat flapping behind him like wings, hair dripping with melted snow.

He climbs the stairs two at a time, bursts through the familiar oak door without knocking, heavy wood crashing against ancient stone.

The office smells of tea and cold stone and papers too long untouched.

Three heads turn. Minerva, poised behind her desk, composed as always, and two strangers—plain clothes, but the stern posture of professionals. Police.

“James,” Minerva says sharply, startled. “Can this wait—?”

“It can’t.” He pants, chest heaving, eyes darting between them.

“I have information about Mulciber.”

The officers exchange a glance. The woman’s eyes narrow slightly. Minerva slowly gestures toward a chair.

“Sit,” she says, genlter. “Start from the beginning.”

James doesn’t sit. He hovers, arms crossed tightly over his chest, fingers digging into skin, leaving crescent moons in their wake.

“He’s a good kid,” he says, voice cracking with grief. “You might not believe that, but he is—was—good. He just….”

The male officer opens his mouth to speak, but Minerva lifts her hand to stop him. “Let him talk”

James swallows hard, Trying to hold himself together.

“James,” Minerva says softly. “Take a deep breath. That’s it. Better?”

James nods.

“Now, can you tell us what kind of trouble Mulciber was in?”

He takes a stuttering breath. “He was scared. He got involved with something. With people. From the village.”

“What kind of people?” the policewoman asks, pen poised.

“The kind who pretend they care until they own you.”

James finally sinks iinto the chair, hunched forward, elbows on his knees, head hanging low.

“Its… I don’t know the whole story,” hecontinues.  “Mulciber, he– his homelife wasn’t very good. I don’t know details, he wouldn’t tell me, but— the way he would flinch at loud noises. The way he talked about his father—not that he did much. Something was wrong there. Deeply wrong.”

Minerva’s expression tightens. She folds her hands in front of her, saying nothing.

“I noticed the way he would act out. Get into fights. I once caught him hitting another student. But I knew there was more to the story. There always is.”

He rubs his hands together, then presses them between his knees, his knuckles turning white.

“So, instead of giving him detention, I invited him to my office. I thought I could reach him. I gave him tea and an open ear. I told him he could come to me when he needed help. In the beginning e was quiet. Defiant. But after some time he opened up to me. He came to my office whenever he needed advice. And I would give it to him”

“Mr. Potter,” the policeman says gruffly. “What about the men from the village?”

“Yeah, yeah I—I’m getting to that.”

 “Mulciber was desperate for a connection. For friendship, camaraderie. To belong somewhere—like he never had at home. So, he befriended some people from the village. And at first, everything was going fine, they seemed to really help him, made him feel like part of the group, like they really cared for him. But they were also involved in some illegal stuff, selling drugs and… They convinced Mulciber to sell for them. On school grounds.

“Mulciber agreed. They took advantage of him. He was clinging to this sense of community, and they knew it. But then—then someone stole the drugs from him. And suddenly he owed them a lot of money. That’s when the friendship turned sour.”

The policewoman’s pen scratches quietly across her notepad.

“Mulciber’s family has a lot of money, and those guys knew that. They also knew how afraid he was of his father. So, they started threatening him, telling him that they would tell his father about his illegal pastime.”

James looks up, eyes shining. “He was terrified. Not just scared—terrified. Like telling his father would be a death sentence.”

The room was deathly still.

“Mulciber became volatile. Desperate in his attempt  to get the drugs back, or find the money to pay them back.”

“I—” James’ voice breaks again. He takes a deep breath before continuing. “He trusted me. Asked for my help. And I tried. I tried so hard. But nothing we came up with was helping. So I… I told him to stand up to them. That was the last advice I gave him before—”

Hot tears stream down his face in rivulets.

“I’m the reason he’s dead. It’s my fault. He asked me for help, and I told them to stand up to them. I told them, that if he just gave in, they would never stop. The— last night, he came to my office again. He never actually said anything, but I could tell he was scared out of his mind. Then he left and— the next day he—”

James clenches his thighs with his hands, nails digging into flesh, like if he loosened his grip, he would fall apart.

“Mulciber is dead, and it’s my fault. I think those people from the village killed him when he wouldn’t pay them”

For a moment, the room stays eerily quiet. Like the whole world turned mute. No sounds of students in the halls, no fire crackling in the hearth. No sound of wind, or creaking wood or breathing.

“Mr. Potter,” the policewoman says slowly.

“Mulciber is alive.”

__________

Later that night, they sit in James’s bed, naked bodies wrapped in the heavy cocoon of blankets, the air between them thick with unspoken things. The room is dim, the only light coming from the dying embers in the fireplace, casting flickering shadows along the walls. A chessboard rests between them, pieces scattered in the midst of the game. Two cups of tea sit on the bedside table, steam curling lazily in the low light. The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars is playing in the other room, the sound barely making it over to them.

James rolls a pawn between his fingers, feeling the smoothness of the wood, the weight of it. It’s something solid, something grounding. But it does nothing to settle the unease creeping through his veins.

The conversation circles back, inevitably, to the attack.

Regulus is unbothered. Detached. If he cares, he does not show it. The mask is firmly in place tonight. His posture is relaxed, reclining against the pillows, one hand idly tracing patterns into the sheets that James can’t make out. He watches James with that quiet, knowing gaze, as if he’s already five steps ahead, and not only in the chess game.

Regulus moves his knight across the board without hesitation. His hands are steady, his expression unreadable.

James watches him carefully. “I tried to help him. He came into my office looking for help.”

Regulus hums, tilting his head slightly, as if weighing the words. “Some people are past saving. Violence is part of life. You should know that Professor.”

James exhales sharply, setting the pawn back down. “That doesn’t mean it should be embraced.”

Regulus’s lips curve into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Who is embracing violence, James?”

James doesn’t answer.

Regulus leans forward, reaching for his queen. “Odysseus built his kingdom on blood,” he muses, eyes locked on the board. “A man comes home after years at war, only to find his house filled with men who would take what’s his. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t falter. He slaughters them all. Leaves their bodies in the dust and doesn’t look back.” He moves the queen forward, tilting his head toward James. “Was he wrong?”

James frowns. “It wasn’t just revenge. It was necessity.”

Regulus raises a brow. “And that makes it right?”

“It makes it understandable.”

Regulus hums again, thoughtful. “You say that as if it’s different from what happened to Mulciber.”

James stills. A slow chill creeps down his spine.

“That’s not the same,” he says, but the words feel hollow. “Odysseus killed men who had wronged him.”

Regulus meets his gaze, unreadable. “And you think Mulciber never wronged anyone?”

James swallows. His mind flickers back to what Mulciiber confided in him, to the whispered rumours, the things people had said in hushed voices when they thought no one was listening.

Was it vengeance? Was it punishment? Or was it just another body left in the dust, another casualty of a story that had been set in motion long ago, a chain of fateful events that cannot be stopped nor rewritten?

His fingers hover over the chessboard, but his mind is elsewhere—on the crimson-stained snow, on the gurney wheeled through the courtyard, on Mulciber’s bloodied hands hanging off the side, lifeless.

On the way Regulus’s voice had echoed in his dream, barely more than a whisper.

I won’t let it destroy us.

A shiver runs down his spine.

Regulus moves his knight into position. “Check.”

________

The police have arrested a group of men from the town past the forest.

James sits at the long mahogany table in the teachers’ lounge, a cup of coffee cooling in his hands, listening as the details unravel around him. The staff lounge is never quiet, but today the air is thick with speculation, with shifting alliances of doubt and certainty.

"They found messages on his phone—threats, demands. More than enough for a conviction," Aurora says, always the first to share gossip. Where she gets all this information, James will never know.

"And drugs, all over their flat. It’s obvious what happened."

"People like that… it was only a matter of time, wasn’t it?" Septima chimes in.

James stares into his cup, watching the steam curl into nothing.

“And the poor boy… In a coma with brain damage. His face beaten to a pulp. And the the hypothermia on top of that. They say the doctors don’t know if he will ever wake up again. If he will be able to move, to talk. Say what you will about that boy, but he did not deserve that.”

He forces himself to keep his expression neutral, to nod along when someone declares, “At least we don’t have to worry about some lunatic running loose.” To act as though the weight pressing against his ribs isn’t growing heavier with each passing second.

Because it’s over.

The right people have been caught.

And Mulciber is alive.

James doesn’t have his student’s death on his conscience.

And yet—

At the edges of his mind, something lingers. A whisper, a shadow curling at the seams of his certainty. The same thought that has haunted him since that night.

Since the chess game.

Since Regulus, calm and unreadable, had spoken of violence with such measured detachment.

James clenches his jaw.

No.

It doesn’t matter.

He doesn’t let it take root.

________

Life moves forward. James falls back into routine.

Days filled with lectures and essays, students and questions. Nights spent in the quiet seclusion of his quarters, wrapped in the familiar presence of Regulus.

The fear, the doubt, the gnawing uncertainty—it all fades into something distant. Almost forgotten.

A few days after the incident, James stands at the front of the lecture hall, sleeves rolled to his elbows, chalk dust ghosting his fingertips as he sketches a delicate curve onto the blackboard. The name Cupid and Psyche sits in elegant script, framed by arrows pointing to the themes his students will no doubt spend the next hour debating: Trials. Devotion. Suffering. Love.

He turns, scanning the room. He lingers on Regulus for a second, always the first thing his eyes find.

James ignores the way his pulse quickens, the way his awareness sharpens whenever Regulus is nearby. He clears his throat.

“So,” he begins, stepping away from the board. “We have a mortal girl. A god in disguise. A mother’s wrath. Impossible trials. Love, lost and found again.” He gestures vaguely, as if to say you know the story.

Several students nod. They’ve read it. They know how Psyche, curious and desperate, defies the warning not to look upon her lover. How she loses him because of it. How she is forced to suffer, to complete impossible tasks set by an unforgiving goddess, all in the name of proving herself worthy.

“Let’s start with the obvious.” James folds his arms, leaning casually against the desk. “Who’s to blame?”

The room stirs.

“Well,” Marcus starts, “Psyche, obviously.”

James raises a brow. “Obviously?”

“She broke the rules,” he continues. “Cupid warned her not to look at him, and she did. It’s her own fault.”

“She was tricked,” another voice—Amelia´s—cuts in. “Her sisters planted the idea in her head.”

“But she still made the choice.”

James lets the discussion build, watching as it ripples across the room. Voices rise and overlap—some taking Psyche’s side, arguing that she was deceived, that love shouldn’t demand blindness. Others insist that she should have had faith, that her suffering was the price of her own doubt.

“She was powerless,” Regulus says, voice smooth “She had no knowledge, no control. Cupid made sure of that.”

James glances at him, caught between curiosity and something deeper, something uneasy.

Regulus tilts his head slightly, as if considering his own words. “It’s easy to blame Psyche for looking,” he continues, fingers still idly tapping against the desk. “But what about Cupid? He loved her, didn’t he? And yet, he let her stumble through the dark, knowing that the truth would break her. He set her up to fail.”

A few students shift in their seats.

James exhales, studying him. “So you’re saying it wasn’t a test of Psyche’s love—but of Cupid’s?”

Regulus hums, gaze flickering to James’s. “Something like that.”

James holds his gaze for a minute, trying to find a way behind that mask, to understand the true meaning of his words. Futile.

“Alright,” he says, turning back to the class. “Let’s take a step back. If Psyche had never looked, if she had trusted blindly and lived in ignorance, would their love have lasted?”

A hush.

Some students frown, contemplating. Others exchange glances, as if daring one another to answer first.

“Maybe,” Mira says slowly. “But it wouldn’t have been real.”

James nods. “Go on.”

“Love isn’t just about faith,” they continue, gaining confidence. “It’s about knowing the person you’re with. Cupid was hiding from her. If you have to stay in the dark to keep love alive, then is it love at all?”

A murmur of agreement sweeps through the class.

Regulus lets out a quiet, amused breath. “And yet,” he murmurs, just barely loud enough for James to hear, “sometimes, knowing ruins everything.”

James’s stomach twists.

He thinks of Mulciber, bleeding in the snow. Of whispered justifications. Of Regulus’s voice, cool and certain, speaking as if it were merely another inevitability.

James swallows hard. “So what does that say about suffering?” he asks, forcing hiss voice to stay even. “Psyche goes through hell—literally—for a love she thinks she’s lost forever. Does that make it more meaningful? More real?”

A student in the back sighs. “It makes it tragic.”

“But worth it?” James tilts his head. “Does love always demand suffering?”

Regulus’s gaze flickers with something unreadable.

More debate follows. Some argue that the trials make Psyche worthy, that love requires sacrifice. Others say that love shouldn’t have to be earned through suffering, that if it does, then it isn’t love at all.

James listens, letting their words settle over him.

Regulus watches him.

The silence between them is heavier than it should be.

James clears his throat. “Last question,” he says. “After everything, Psyche and Cupid are reunited. She becomes immortal. They live happily ever after.” He lets the words hang in the air for a moment. “Do you believe it?”

No one answers right away.

James glances at Regulus.

Regulus meets his gaze, lips curling just slightly. “No one really lives happily ever after.”

A quiet laugh ripples through the room.

James smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

_______

Sirius: anyone hungry for some hotdogs

James: Is that a euphemism?

James: please stop being gross in the group chat

Remus: We just ate?

James: Is that a euphemism??

James: I swear, I get violated at least once a day in here…

Sirius: im actually not hungry

James: ???

_______

The fire crackles, the glow casting Regulus’s sharp features in gold and shadow. James sits across from him, his brow furrowed, his fingers idly tapping against the arm of the couch as he glares down at the open book between them. The text—a well-worn philosophy volume filled with his own marginalia—rests between them like a battlefield.

Regulus, lounging with infuriating ease, regards him with a look of quiet amusement. “You’re being rigid,” he says, flipping a page with a languid sort of elegance. “You act as if morality is some immutable structure, when in reality, it’s entirely subjective.”

James scoffs. “Oh, don’t start. You’re not about to make the case that all morality is relative. Some things are simply wrong. You can’t just argue your way out of that.”

Regulus tilts his head, considering. “Define ‘wrong.’”

James exhales sharply. “Murder. Exploitation. Betrayal. You want me to keep going?”

Regulus hums. “And yet, in some societies, killing is not only justified but expected—ritual sacrifice, executions, even acts of war. So is morality truly objective, or is it merely a social construct?”

James leans forward. “There’s a difference between necessity and malice.”

“Is there?” Regulus challenges, eyes gleaming. “Odysseus slaughtered every last suitor who dared to touch what was his. Would you call that justice or butchery?”

James shakes his head. “That’s different. The suitors weren’t just thieves—they threatened his family, his home.”

Regulus lifts a brow. “So violence is acceptable when it’s in defence of something sacred?”

James sighs, dragging a hand through his hair. “You’re twisting my words.”

“I’m forcing you to examine them.”

James levels him with a look. “So what, you think morality is just an illusion? That there’s no such thing as good or evil?”

Regulus’s smirk softens, something more thoughtful lurking beneath his usual detachment. “I think morality is determined by the storyteller. Whoever controls the narrative decides who the hero is, who the villain is. In another version of the Odyssey, the suitors’ families tell a different story—one of a bloodthirsty king who returned and slaughtered their sons without mercy.” He pauses, watching James carefully. “We only call it justice because Odysseus survived to tell it.”

James exhales, staring at him. “That’s… bleak.”

Regulus shrugs. “It’s reality.”

Silence stretches between them, the fire crackling in the quiet of the night. James searches Regulus’s face, trying to read between the lines of what he’s saying—what he isn’t saying. There’s something in his eyes, something distant and knowing. As if this isn’t just a discussion for him. As if this is personal.

James leans back, running a hand over his face. “I hate arguing with you.”

Regulus smiles, small and smug. “No, you don’t.”

_______

They’re in James kitchenette, Regulus sitting on the counter, licking a spoonful of peanut butter. James, nestled between his open legs, bites into a peach. It is late on a Saturday night, the two of them have spent the last few hours in James’ bed. And his shower. Against his bookshelf in the living room— ancient tomes now in disarray in the shelves and on the ground. The moon casts its silvery light down on Regulus’ face, his collar bones, highlighting his sharp features, his pale freckled skin, accelerating his ethereal features.

Unreal.

James’ eyes roam over Regulus bare torso—littered with bruises and bite marks— his fingers absentmindedly tracing circles on his thighs, slipping higher and under his pants.

Regulus smirks at him and James can’t help but kiss it off his face.

Peaches and peanut butter.

How the fuck do these two things go so damn well together?

James can’t help but think of the pomegranate that tethered Persephone to the underworld. James would eat it gladly, to be tied to this wonder of a man.

Regulus opens his lips in invitation and James slips his tongue into his mouth, needing to taste more.

More. Always more.

They’re both smiling into the kiss, teeth clacking together, but James doesn’t care. He’s so happy. So lucky to have him. In his life. In his arms. In his bed. Or rather, his kitchen right now.

Regulus pulls back and grins at him, before putting the spoon back into his mouth, licking it obscenely. James’s eyes zero in on the movement of his tongue, his grip on his thigh tightening as he swallows hard. James did not think he could get hard again so soon, after the adventurous day they just had. Yet here he is, already halfway to filling out in his pants.

James throws the half eaten peach in the sink beside them. There’s only one thing he wants to taste now. Regulus takes his hand and lifts it up to his lips. The juice of the ripe fruit drips down his fingers, and Regulus licks it up, his tongue lapping over James’ wrist, the palm of his hand, the sweet liquid dancing on his tongue. Then, he sucks James’ fingers into his mouth, moaning softly.

“You’re insatiable, baby,” James rasps, his other hand slowly moving up from Regulus’ thighs, over his hips and to the small of his back, fingers tracing the waistband of his pants, one finger slipping under it. Teasing.

“Says you,” Regulus quips after pulling James’ fingers out of his mouth with a pop. “You lose your mind whenever you have to go for more than five minutes without touching me.”

James slips his hand into his pants fully now, and he doesn’t even try to suppress the groan that leaves his lips as he feels himself dripping out of Regulus, dropping his head on Regulus’ shoulder. Regulus shivers beneath him at the sensation, and James turns his head to nip at the younger man’s pulse point.

“I will never get enough of touching you like this love,” James murmurs into Regulus’ skin.

Regulus lets his head fall to the side in a silent offering, as he licks and kisses and bites like it’s his very own nectar and ambrosia.

Regulus hand finds his hair and he tries to pull him closer. As if he wants James to bury himself under his skin.

Closer. Always closer.

And James gives him just that, pressing in two fingers and basking in the sound of the broken gasp deep in Regulus throat. His whole body tenses, and Jamrs watches him fall apart from just two fingers, watches the bloom across his pale chest, the way his lips part in a soundless moan, how his lashes flutter and his head tips back against the cupboard door.

Gods, he’s unfair.

With beauty that rivals Aphrodite.

With charm and cunning Dionysus would bow to.

With the allure of a siren, pulling him in.

Like fate.

James trails kisses down Regulus’ throat, following the erratic pulse with his tongue. He wants to know if Regulus tastes different here than he did earlier today, panting over James’ desk, papers scattering to the floor. Regulus had said something clever about hubris with James’ cock in his mouth, and James had nearly laughed himself hoarse at the absurdity of it all. Now, there’s nothing funny about the way Regulus shudders under his touch.

James wants to quote something ancient. Wants to compare him to Ganymede, to Hyacinthus. But his brain is dissolving into syrup under the weight of sensation, of the soft, wet heat around his fingers, of the low, needy whine that slips out of Regulus’ throat like a siren song when James crooks them just right.

Regulus fists a hand in his curls, tugging until James groans, muffling it against his skin. He licks the curve of Regulus’ collarbone, teeth catching a freckle. It’s almost meditative, this act of worship. Of knowing every inch by touch. By mouth. By memory.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” James mutters into his skin.

“I do,” Regulus says, breathless. “You remind me constantly.”

“I don’t think I do it enough.”

Regulus’ laugh is shaky, strangled. “You spent the entire shower telling me I was a gift from Mount Olympus, I think you’re covered.”

“You are,” James murmurs, serious now. He pulls his hand out slowly, hearing Regulus’ sharp inhale. “You are. A gift. A curse. My fate. My life.

Regulus grins at him in a way that could bring Troy to fall, and James would gladly walk through the ashes for him. “I’m your life?”

James huffs a laugh, fingers tugging on his pants and pulling them down Regulus’ thighs. “You are everything.”

He guides Regulus forward, pulling him off the counter and turning him around until his chest is pressed to the cold wood. Regulus lets out a startled noise, but he melts into it, arching his back, cheek pressed against the countertop, looking over his shoulder with those devastating stormy eyes. Still smirking. Always challenging.

James runs his hands over the twin curves of Regulus’ hips, sculpting something holy. He presses against him, still slick from earlier, and groans low in his throat.

“You’re going to kill me,” he says.

Regulus breathes, “Then die gloriously.”

And James does.

Not just with his body—but with the way his heart splits open and pours itself into every inch of the younger man. It’s not just the physical—though that’s dizzying—it’s the way Regulus pushes back against him like he’s always meant to belong here, like he’s already carved James into his bones.

They move together in rhythm, in ritual, the sound of skin against skin blending with the clatter of a spoon falling to the floor. Regulus gasps his name like an invocation, and James grips his waist tighter, anchoring himself.

“Don’t let go,” Regulus says. It's not a request.

James presses his chest to his back, wrapping his arms around him as he slows. He presses kisses to the nape of his neck, to the curve of his ear. “I’m right here. I’ll always be right here.”

Earlier, Regulus had pulled him into the living room. To prove a point as he said—about how the spine of The Iliad creaked louder than James’ groan when Regulus rode him on the couch. Later, James will find a smear of lube across the cover of Antigone. He will not be mad.

He will be ruined.

As he is now—breath catching, mouth open against Regulus’ shoulder, both of them unraveling under moonlight and peanut butter breath, the taste of peaches still lingering on their tongues.

They don’t finish so much as collapse together—Regulus trembling against the counter, James curled around him like ivy, hands splayed across his chest like he’s trying to memorize the beat of his heart, to feel the shape of it against his palm.

Silence settles between them, slow and reverent.

James nuzzles the back of Regulus’ neck, voice rough. “What are you thinking?”

Regulus doesn’t answer immediately. He just reaches back, blindly, threading their fingers together over the smooth wooden counter.

“Something tragic,” he says at last.

_______

Lily: Still alive in case you were worried.

James: Barely. You haven’t texted in days. Thought you’d been recruited into some secret spy ring.

Lily: Wouldn’t be the worst career shift. It’s intense, though. The story’s bigger than I thought.

James: You’re still in Delhi?

Lily: For now. Might have to move again soon. You wouldn’t believe the kind of corruption I’m looking at. Government cover-ups, bribes, whole networks of people keeping the truth buried. It’s messy, James. But I love it.

Of course she does. Lily has always chased the truth with relentless determination, her sense of justice sharper than most people’s weapons. He can practically hear the excitement in her voice, the thrill of uncovering something bigger than herself.

Still, James can’t help the unease curling in his stomach.

James: Just be careful, yeah?

A pause. Then—

Lily: Don’t be boring, Potter.

James can’t keep the smile off his face.

James: When will you be back?

Lily: It´s going to be a while. I won’t make it home for Easter break.

James watches the dots appearing and disappearing again on the screen. Then—

Lily: I´m sorry. I miss you.

_______

The maroon couch is worn in all the right places, soft beneath them, the low hum of Rumours crackling from the turntable in the corner. The scent of smoke hangs in the air, curling lazily toward the ceiling. Regulus lies stretched out, his head pillowed on James’s lap, the rise and fall of his chest steady and unhurried. An ashtray rests on his stomach, balanced carefully between his ribs.

James’s fingers card through his hair, fingernails scratching gently at his scalp. Regulus exhales a slow stream of smoke, his lashes low, the orange glow of his cigarette panting shadows across his cheekbones.

James watches him. Studies the way the dim light catches the sharp lines of his face, the way his lips part slightly as he breathes.

“You said something in class last week,” James says, his voice quiet, lazy. “About knowing leading to ruin. Do you really believe that?”

Regulus hums, blinking up at him. “Depends.” He taps ash into the tray. “Where’s this coming from?”

James thinks about his nightmare. About the maze, the blood. About Mulciber.

He studies Regulus’s face—the slight arch of his brow, the unreadable calm in his expression.

James exhales through his nose, forces a slow smile. “Just curious.”

Regulus turns his gaze back to the ceiling, cigarette hovering near his lips. “Knowledge is power,” he says slowly. Measured. “But it’s also responsibility. It’s hard choices. And you have to carry the burden. Sharing it doesn’t always make it lighter, and earning it has consequences.” He pauses, taking a slow drag. “Look at Cassandra of Troy.”

James raises a brow. “Go on.”

“She was given knowledge,” Regulus continues, his voice smooth, almost detached. “Whether it was a curse or a gift from Apollo, it led to her ruin.”

James frowns slightly. “Wait. You think it was a gift?”

Regulus shifts, resting his cigarette in the ashtray before looking up at James again. “Apollo loved her,” he says. “As the story goes, she rejected him, and her sight was a curse—never to be believed. But she was his priestess. She worshipped him. What if it wasn’t a punishment? What if it was a gift of love? The princess of Troy and priestess of Apollo, seeing the future, leading her people to prosperity.” He breathes out, his fingers idly tracing the fabric of James’s sweater. “But she fell victim to men’s ambition. Her brother started a war. He didn’t want to hear about defeat. And why would anyone believe a woman over the best and strongest warriors of Troy?” He glances at the ceiling again, lashes dark against pale skin. “And in the end, she became a scapegoat. For speaking the truth. For trying to change the inevitable.”

His fingers still.

“So yes,” Regulus finishes, voice softer now. “I believe knowing can ruin everything.”

James doesn’t respond right away.

He thinks about the things he doesn’t ask. The things Regulus never offers.

Does it matter?

Would knowing change anything?

James looks down at him—at the way his dark curls spill over his lap, the way his lips are parted slightly, waiting for another pull of smoke. He lifts a hand and trails his fingers down the sharp line of his jaw, soft, reverent.

No.

It wouldn’t change a thing.

“I love you,” James murmurs, not even sure if he means to say it out loud.

Regulus shifts beneath him, tilting his head just slightly. His lips curl faintly, almost like he knows something James doesn’t.

“Good,” he murmurs, picking up his cigarette again. He takes another slow drag before exhaling, letting the smoke curl between them. “That’s the only thing worth knowing.”

_______

The fire in the hearth has burned low, embers pulsing like a heartbeat beneath the ash. Outside, the wind howls against the stone, but in here, the world is quiet. Small. Just the space between them, just the warmth of skin against skin, breath mingling in the dark.

Regulus is pressed close, his body half-draped over James’s, a lazy weight that speaks of trust more than words ever could. His fingers trace absentminded shapes along James’s ribs, a slow, idle motion that feels more like thought than touch.

James exhales, tilting his head so his lips brush against Regulus’s temple. “You’re thinking too much.”

Regulus hums, noncommittal. His hand stills for a moment, then resumes its path, fingertips ghosting down James’s sternum. “Am I?”

James smiles, barely there. “I can hear it.”

Regulus huffs a quiet laugh but doesn’t argue. He shifts, pressing himself closer, his nose nudging the hollow of James’s throat. “Tell me something,” he murmurs.

James’s hand moves up, threading lazily through Regulus’s hair. “Like what?”

Regulus doesn’t answer right away. His breathing is steady, measured, but James can feel the tension beneath it, the weight of something unspoken. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer than before. “Something that makes you happy.”

James blinks, caught off guard. He thinks for a moment, fingers still idly combing through Regulus’s hair. “The first snowfall of the year,” he says eventually. “When the world goes quiet, like it’s holding its breath.”

Regulus hums again, thoughtful. “I like that, too.”

James’s lips curve. “Your turn.”

A beat. Then, quieter: “Being here. Like this.”

James breath catches, just for a second, but Regulus is already shifting, tucking himself against James’s side as if he hasn’t just cracked his ribs open with so few words.

James tightens his hold, pressing a kiss to the top of Regulus’s head. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Me too.”

Outside, the wind rages on. But in here, wrapped in candlelight and each other, nothing else exists.

_______

Sirius: BEHOLD FOR THE BEAST AWAKENS

Sirius: [A blurry, cursed photo of Remus mid-yawn, his mouth open wide, eyes half-lidded, looking vaguely like a sleep-deprived cryptid.]

Remus: Delete that.

Sirius: never this is ART! this is HISTORY! future generations will thank me

Remus: Future generations will find your body in a ditch.

James: You do look a little… lycanthropic, mate.

Remus: Et tu, James?

Sirius: dont be mad just because I captured your TRUE FORM

Remus: My true form is a man who will strangle you in your sleep.

James: kinky

Sirius: jokes on you I dont sleep

James: This is why you look like a Victorian child who’s never seen the sun.

Sirius: EXCUSE ME?? I am a picture of health and vitality

Remus: You took a sip of my coffee yesterday and said, “Ah, breakfast.”

James: …

Sirius: anyway the point is remus is a beast and I am a genius photographer

Sirius: a beast in bed ;)

Remus: The point is, you will suffer.

James: I think this means you have to take an equally cursed pic of Sirius for revenge.

Remus: Oh, I already have several.

Sirius: wait

Remus: :)

James: Oh, this is going to be good.

_______

James and Regulus are nestled in the couch in his quarters, the low hum of the record player barely audible beneath their quiet conversation. A copy of Theogony lies open and abandoned on the coffee table, the margins annotated to death. Candles cast flickering shadows around them as they lie intertwined in a soft, almost sacred intimacy—two souls desperate for each other, never quite close enough. Their breaths mingle, their whispers a blend of adoration and confessions too heavy to speak aloud.

James’s fingers lazily card through his curls. He hums low in his throat.

“I’ve been thinking about Cronus,” Regulus says, voice quiet.

James looks down, eyebrows raised. “Eating his children again?”

Regulus gives a sharp smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “No. Before that. When Ouranos was still alive. When Gaia begged Cronus to overthrow him.”

“Ah,” James murmurs. “The beginning of the end.”

“He used a sickle to castrate his father.” Regulus’s tone is even, but his fingers tighten around the hem of James’s shirt. “His own father. Because he wouldn’t stop… devouring them. His siblings.”

James tilts his head, watching him. “That myth’s a thousand kinds of fucked.”

A ghost of a smirk flickers through Regulus’ features. “Is that your official observation as a scholar?”

“I’d say the same thing in class.”

Regulus doesn’t laugh. He’s staring into the distance now, his voice getting softer. “It was the only way out, though. He didn’t do it for power. Not really. Just— to survive. And he still ended up becoming exactly like him.”

James traces a slow circle on Regulus’s back. “That’s the curse of it, isn’t it? Even when you try to cut the monster out… you become the thing you had to be to escape it.”

A pause.

Regulus exhales through his nose, then speaks again, quieter.

“My parents were like that,” he says. “Ouranos and Gaia, both. He ruled with silence, she with guilt. And I— I tried so hard to be the son they needed. Perfect. Controlled. Neat. I thought if I was obedient enough, maybe they’d stop—”

He cuts himself off, jaw clenched.

James doesn’t move. Doesn’t interrupt.

“I learned early that love was conditional,” Regulus says finally, his voice hollow. “It came with strings. With expectations. And every time I slipped—even slightly—I paid for it. With silence. With punishment. With being… less.”

James feels something cold uncoil in his gut. He watches him carefully, tracing the flicker of firelight in his eyes. Regulus has never spoken of his family before. Not like this. His own pulse quickens, and for a moment, he feels exposed, vulnerable to the pain in Regulus’ confession.

“They didn’t hit us, not with hands,” Regulus continues, flat. “But they found other ways. My mother perfected the art of shame. My father…” He looks away. “He believed children were made for duty. Not softness.”

James thinks of Oedipus, cast out before he even understood who he was. Of Pentheus, torn apart by his own blood. The gods always asked too much of their sons.

“I tried so hard to be enough,” Regulus says. “To be someone they could love. To earn it. My brother understood that early on. That there was nothing we could do. That they would never look at us with anything but disdain. He left. Walked out. Left me behind to deal with the wreckage.”

James feels his heart constrict at the rawness in Regulus’s words. The tension in the room shifts palpably as Regulus’s eyes, usually so cold and calculating, flash with anger and hurt.

“You have a brother?” James asks softly, his voice laden with an emotion he can barely contain.

Regulus exhales, his gaze momentarily darting away as if to hide the storm inside them.

“Had,” he corrects, his voice thick with resentment

The word echoes in James’s skull, something sharp and foreboding curling in his stomach. A memory stirs, unbidden—

A conversation on the balcony of his flat, the night air cold against his skin, Sirius beside him, a cigarette slowly burning between his fingers.

"You have a brother?"
"Had."

No.

No, it couldn’t be.

James’s pulse hammers against his ribs. His mouth is dry. He swallows hard, steadying himself.

Regulus shakes his head slightly, eyes unfocused, lost in a memory of childhood he had to endure. “Older. Louder. Wilder. They couldn’t control him, and he wouldn’t bend. So he snapped instead. Broke off and ran.”

James’s stomach sinks. He knows where this is going, but hearing it is like watching a tragedy unfold in real time.

“He didn’t take me with him,” Regulus says, and something fractures in the words. “He just left. Like I didn’t matter. Like I was part of the problem. I was six.”

James blinks rapidly, feeling a dull roar in his ears.

“What was his name?” he asks, carefully.

Regulus turns to look at him fully now, his expression unreadable in the dim light, as if measuring the weight of the question.

Then, finally—

“Sirius,” he says, the name slipping from his lips like a ghost.

“Sirius Black.”

The world tilts.

James’s breath stutters. His hand freezes on Regulus’s back. He sees it all—Sirius on that freezing balcony, cigarette burning down to ash, laughter too sharp, voice too tired.

Regulus continues, oblivious to the implosion inside James’s chest.

“He was selfish. He left me to rot in that house. Didn’t even try to protect me. Didn’t look back. He got to be the rebel, the tragic runaway. And I was the one who had to stay. To play the role. To bare the cruelty they saved for him.”

James says nothing. Can’t. The grief in Regulus’s voice is too thick.

“I don’t even know if I hate him,” Regulus says finally. “I just… needed him. And he wasn’t there.”

James tightens his arms around him. “You shouldn’t have had to survive that alone.”

Regulus leans into him, curling closer like he’s spent his entire life longing to find a shape that fits.

And James—hopeless romantic, man split in two—holds the man whose brother never looked back, and says nothing about the name still burning like a brand behind his teeth.

He doesn’t say I know Sirius.

Doesn’t say He’s my best friend.

Doesn’t say He cried over you once, and I didn’t understand why.

“I was just a kid,” Regulus continues, voice quiet, almost resigned now. “I needed him. And he abandoned me.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. This is a man who is used to being left. Who expects it.

 I will never leave you.

“But I suppose that’s just who Sirius is. He does what he wants, and he never thinks about the damage he leaves behind. I was six, and he ran and never looked back.”

James stares at him, words failing him, something twisting uncomfortably in his chest. This isn’t the Sirius he knows. The Sirius he knows is loyal to the point of madness, protective, someone who would die for the people he loves.

And yet—

He had never once mentioned Regulus.

Never spoken of the brother he left behind.

James feels something fracture deep within him, some fundamental truth shifting under the weight of everything he didn’t know.

Regulus watches him, unreadable in the dim light, unaware of the wreckage unravelling inside James’s chest.

James stares back, his entire world splintering apart for the second time.

Regulus was right. Sometimes, knowing ruins everything.

Chapter Text

James holds onto Regulus like a lifeline, seeking solace in the warmth of his presence.

It’s irrational, how fiercely he wants to protect him, how deeply the need settles in his chest, threading through his ribs like ivy climbing stone. Every time he closes his eyes, he hears Regulus’s voice — flat, emotionless — recounting the cruelty of his childhood. The things he endured. The people who failed him.

Including Sirius.

He watches Regulus sleep, traces the curve of the shoulder in the dim light of the fireplace pooling in from the other room. Presses soft kisses to his temple, trying to ground himself.

The things Regulus had said about his brother gnaw at James, burrowing deep into his mind like a splinter that refuses to be removed. 

Selfish. Thoughtless. He left me there and never looked back. 

It echoes, reshaping his understanding of the man he’s called his best friend for the last decade.

His fingers wander to Regulus’s back, caressing his spine. He groans at that, moving to press himself impossibly closer to James, a hand moving up and waving through James’s hair, but not waking up.

James had always seen Sirius as reckless, wild, but full of love. Someone who had survived his past rather than escaped it. But what if that wasn’t true? What if Sirius had abandoned Regulus? What if he had been running not from monsters, but from a fire of his own making?

James hides his head in Regulus’s curls, breathing him in, lavender and smoke. home. “I’ll never leave you, love. I promise,” he whispers in the quiet of the night.

James doesn’t know what to do with this version of Sirius, this ghost of betrayal that Regulus has laid before him. So, he does nothing. He lets the questions fester, unresolved, and drowns himself in Regulus instead.

The fire crackles, Regulus sleeps peacefully, and James watches, the beast beneath his skin roaring for justice.

The days slip into a new rhythm.

Regulus spends more time in James’s quarters than in his own dorm room, stretched across James’s bed with a book in hand, his fingers idly skimming the pages. Most nights, they fall asleep tangled together — limbs twisted in sheets — the quiet sound of their breathing the only thing filling the space between them.

James doesn’t check his phone as much anymore.

He doesn’t mean to pull away. Not really. Not consciously.

It happens slowly, like an unravelling thread, a gradual shift he barely notices at first. One missed message turns into two. One ignored call turns into a dozen. And somewhere between candlelit discussions and muffled laughter beneath heavy blankets, the space between him and his friends widens.

One evening, Regulus is stretched out on the couch ,his head in James’ lap, a copy of Letters to Milena resting on his chest. He flips through the pages lazily, his fingers skimming the words like he’s committing them to memory.

James leans against the armrest, watching him. “Kafka?”

Regulus doesn’t even look up. “My interests are spread vast and wide, Professor.”

James hums. “I never really read any of his works. Bits and pieces, maybe.”

Regulus sighs dramatically. “Philistine,” he mutters.

James grins. “Enlighten me, then.”

Regulus turns a page, scanning the text before speaking.

“Here, this is what I wanted to say: your letter does contain one great truth (among other truths): “that you’re the one who doesn’t have any idea about…” That’s true word for word. It was all just filth, wretched abomination drowning in hell, and in respect I come to you as a child who has done something bad and is now standing before his mother and cries and cries and vows: I’ll never do it again. But this is precisely where the fear derives all its strength. “Exactly, exactly!” it says. “He doesn’t have any idea! Nothing has happened yet! So-he-can-still-be-saved!”

The words hang in the candlelight, strange and fevered. James studies him, the way Regulus’ lips linger on each word, the way his tongue moves around every vowel.

“Dramatic,” James says softly.

Regulus finally looks at him. His eyes glint, unreadable. “Kafka always knew how to dress damnation in silk.”

James shrugs, trying to shake the unease that prickles at the back of his neck. “Go on then. Impress me again.”

 Regulus holds his gaze and smirks. “Just how well, Milena, do you know human nature? I sometimes have my doubts.”

He turns the page and reads another paragraph, highlighted in red.

“And for nearly three days I was virtually unable to do a thing, not even write, due to (a not unpleasant) weariness. I just read, the letter, your essays, again and again, convinced that such prose does not exist merely for its own sake, but serves as a signpost on the road to a human being, a road one keeps following, happier and happier, until arriving at the realization some bright moment that one is not progressing, simply running around inside one’s own labyrinth, only more nervously, more confused than before.”

Regulus closes the book slowly, his fingers resting on the cover as tough to still it.

“I wonder if Kafka read about Daedalus’ labyrinth,” James says, his voice almost a whisper. “Spending your whole life tracing walls in a labyrinth. Thinking you’re moving forward, when really, you’re just circling the same stone corridors. Lost. Forever.”

James threads a hand through Regulus’ dark curls, lightly scratching, and Regulus’ eyes flutter shut for a second, leaning into it. “Until you see the truth of its nature. Once you see what is hiding in the depths, once you embrace it… the path becomes clear.”

James doesn’t answer. And Regulus doesn’t ask.

“Did Kafka have any happy thoughts?” James asks after a moment of quiet.

Regulus’ eyes light up as the corners of his mouth tick upwards slightly. James can’t help but trace his lips with his thumb, always so in awe about the man he gets to call his.

Regulus doesn’t need to pick up the book again. “I’m tired, can’t think of a thing, and my sole wish is to lay my head in your lap, feel your hand on my head, and stay that way through all eternity,” he whispers, grey eyes never leaving James’.

James ca feel it in his bones, in his blood, in the deepest cavernous passages of his mind-labyrinth.

“I love you.”

_______

Sirius: oi you alive?
Sirius: whats with the radio silence?
Sirius: did I finally say something so stupid that youve given up on me? be honest I need to know if I should start grovelling now
Sirius: James?

_______

James adjusts his glasses, perching on the edge of the desk at the front of the room, one hand loosely holding a piece of chalk he hadn’t used yet.

“Alright,” he says, voice warm but steady. “Today we’re diving into The Oresteia, Aeschylus’ trilogy about blood, justice, and the gods … rather dubious sense of justice.”

He paused, scanning the room. Regulus sits in his chair near the window, his back straight and his face impassive, but he keeps fidgeting with the pen in his hands.

“The story begins with Agamemnon,” James continues, “who sacrifices his own daughter Iphigenia to appease Artemis and set sail for Troy. When he comes home ten years later, his wife, Clytemnestra, kills him. And then, in turn, their son Orestes avenges his father by killing his mother. Family against family, one act of violence feeding another, until blood itself seems to demand repayment.”

He leans back, letting the words settle.

“But what’s truly fascinating is what comes after. Orestes doesn’t just get away with it. The Erinyes, better known under their Roman name — the Furies — hunt him down. They are ancient, primal goddesses, older than Zeus, embodiments of vengeance for blood crimes. Alecto, the ceaseless one in her hunt. Megaera, the envious wrath. Tisiphone, the retributionist, or the avenger of murder. They pursue Orestes. Not because of politics, or power. Because he violated the deepest bond of all: kinship. He spilled the blood of his own mother.”

James taps the chalk absently against his palm. “Eventually, Athena intervenes, establishing a jury trial — the first gesture toward justice that isn’t endless retribution. Civilization, in Aeschylus’ view, begins when vengeance gives way to law. When rage is given a court.”

Silence stretches for a moment, the students processing. James smiles faintly. “So. Thoughts? Was Orestes justified? Was Clytemnestra? Where does justice stop, and vengeance begin?”

Emily is the first to speak, as James knew she would be. “I think Clytemnestra was absolutely justified. Agamemnon killed their daughter. That’s not something you just forgive. And she had a long time to let the resentment and hate fester. You don’t get over the loss of a child, but the love for a husband fades easily when he’s off at war doing god knows what for ten years.”

Marcus scoffed from two rows back. “So you think stabbing your husband in the bath is justice?”

Emily glared at him. “I think holding him accountable is. If the gods demand you sacrifice your child just to get a favorable wind, maybe the problem is the gods, not Clytemnestra.”

“So blame the gods, not Agamemnon,” Marcus interjects. “He was just following orders.”

“Oh, so you’re free of sin, as long as you were just doing as you were told?” Mira jeers. “Compliancy makes you complicit, Marcus. But of course you’d want to think differently.”

“Okay, lets get back on topic” James interrupts them before his students can start to air out their personal fights in his classroom. “What about Orestes?”

Amelia, quiet until now, leans forward slightly. “He isn’t exactly innocent either. Killing your mother, no matter what she did, destabilizes everything. That’s why the Furies come after him. It’s not just about revenge. It’s about balance. Once you cross that line, you can’t undo it.”

James feels something tighten in his chest. Once you cross that line, you can’t undo it. His mind flickered to Mulciber lifeless form in the snow, to dreams of labyrinths and bloodied hands. To Regulus.

Marcus raises his hand lazily, throwing a cocky grin in Mira’s direction. “But come on. Orestes had no choice. It was his duty to avenge his father. Honor demanded it. The gods demanded it. If he didn’t act, he’d be a coward.”

“That’s convenient,” Mira says sharply, “how honor always seems to justify men killing people.”

The class laughs lightly, but James catches the way Regulus’s mouth curves, the faintest twitch of amusement — or maybe even pride— that he tries to hide.

James steps in again before Marcus can retort something offensive. “Intriguing point, Mira. The Furies, after all, aren’t interested in excuses. To them, blood cries out for blood. Orestes is guilty, no matter his reasons. The question is whether society should evolve past that cycle of retribution.”

Regulus finally looks up from the pen in his hands. “Or whether it can,” he says in a tone so low, for a moment James thinks he might have imagined it.

James’s gaze flicks to him involuntarily. Regulus’ grey eyes meet James’s with a steady, unflinching weight. There is no smirk now. Just quiet, coiled truth.

James swallows. “You don’t think it can?”

Regulus tilts his head, almost imperceptibly. “Cycles have a way of repeating. Blood debts never really disappear. They just… change shape.”

Something cold unspools in James’s gut. Cycles have a way of repeating.

You have a brother?

Had.

Grey eyes who have always known violence.

Empty rooms and bloodied hands.

Emily breaks the silence and James’ half-formed thoughts. “But that’s why Athena steps in, right? To show there’s a better way. That justice doesn’t have to mean blood for blood.”

Regulus doesn’t look away from James. “Maybe.” His voice is flat. “Or maybe she just built a prettier labyrinth for the same monster.”

James’s throat is dry. The other students scribble notes, oblivious, but James hears the words like an accusation. Like a truth pressed between them.

He forces himself to nod, to find his voice. “A question worth asking,” he says, the chalk in his hand snapping in two without him noticing. “Perhaps the greater tragedy of the Oresteia is that even when justice evolves, the wounds remain. The Erinyes may become the Eumenides, the Kindly Ones, but their nature doesn’t change. Blood remembers.”

_______

James hums low in his chest, not quite ready to open his eyes yet, but already aware of the warmth pressed against him. Warm breath ghosts over his skin, soft lips dragging across his collarbone. He stirs, head lolling back into the pillow.

“You’re late,” he murmurs, voice hoarse with sleep.

“I told you not to wait up,” Regulus answers, words carrying the faintest slur, softened by wine. He chuckles against James’s skin, the sound vibrating through his sternum.

James finally pries his eyes open, blinking through the haze. The sight waiting for him — Regulus, flushed and wicked, pupils wide — makes his chest ache. He reaches down, threading his fingers lazily into his dark hair, tugging until Regulus’s gaze lifts to meet his.

“You’ve been drinking,” James observes, not quite a question.

Regulus smirks. “A glass or three. Don’t worry, Professor, I’m perfectly capable of quoting Sappho even half-sloshed.” He presses another kiss, lower this time, just above James’s sternum. “‘You came, and I was mad for you, and you cooled my mind that burned with longing.’” His lips brush against James’s skin with each syllable.

James groans, both from the quote and from the heat curling low in his stomach. “You’re insufferable,” he mutters, tugging gently at his hair.

Regulus only grins wider, his mouth hovering just above the waistband of James’s sweatpants. His finger traces the hem, teasing, never quite slipping lower. “You love it.” His tone is sly, but his eyes are steady, gleaming.

James exhales, still not fully awake, still caught between dream and reality. “What time is it?”

“Almost one.” Regulus leans his cheek against James’s inner thigh, batting his lashes in exaggerated sweetness. “Did I wake you, Jamie?”

“Insufferable,” James says again, softer this time, half-laugh, half-groan. His body is already betraying him, stirring under the teasing touch.

“Tell me to stop, then.” Regulus tilts his head, lips brushing the fabric, his finger still resting on the waistband like a held breath. “Or don’t.”

James’s hand tightens in his hair. “Don’t you dare stop.”

That’s all it takes. Regulus’s smirk deepens, satisfied. He hooks a finger under the waistband and tugs it down slowly, savoring the anticipation. James hisses as the cool air hits him, the heat of arousal making him twitch against Regulus’s cheek.

Regulus hums, the sound low, dangerous, before dragging his lips along the inside of James’s thigh, leaving a trail of heat in his wake. “At least one part of you is wide awake.”

“For you?” James rasps, his voice raw. “Always”

Regulus doesn’t make him wait long. His mouth finally closes over him, hot and wet and relentless. James gasps, one hand flying to grip the sheets, the other still tangled in Regulus’s hair as he watches the younger man work him with languid precision. Regulus sets a slow pace at first. Teasing. Drawing it out. His tongue curling in maddening patterns. Then, when James groans his name, he takes him deeper, hollowing his cheeks, swallowing around him until James is trembling.

“Fuck baby,” James breathes, head falling back against the pillow. “God, that—” His words break off into a strangled moan when Regulus hums around him, knowingly, smugly, knowing exactly how utterly wrecked James is.

Every movement is a mixture of cruelty and worship: the scrape of teeth, the wet heat of his mouth, the obscene sound of it in the otherwise quiet room. James can barely think, can barely breathe. Only feel. Only surrender.

When he finally comes undone, it’s with a guttural moan, his whole body arching off the bed. Regulus swallows him down without hesitation, then pulls back slowly, lips wet and swollen, eyes sharp and glittering with triumph.

James is still catching his breath when Regulus crawls up to sprawl over him, smirking, lips brushing lazily against James’s jaw. “The best you’ve ever had,” he whispers against his skin, not asking but stating.

James laughs hoarsely, tugging him closer. 

_______

He runs.

But the forest around him is wrong. Too still, too quiet, until the silence is broken by a ragged, inhuman howl. His hands are slick, red to the wrist, and when he tries to wipe them clean, the blood smears darker, thicker. Dripping down and sinking into the soil.

Branches claw at his face. The air itself tastes metallic, copper sharp against his tongue. Somewhere in the stillness, a machine begins to beep. Faint at first, then louder, insistent.

Beep.

Beep.

Beep.

The trees thin. He stumbles into a clearing. The castle burns in the distance, flames tearing open the night sky. Shadows lurch against the inferno. And before him — an angel carved from marble, its wing streaked with crimson. The blood crawls, winding down the ridges like it has a will of its own. Pooling at the base — standing victorious in a pool of ichor.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Each drop that strikes the frozen ground reverberates with the sound of the machine — beep, beep, beep — until James can’t tell which is blood and which is pulse, which is dream and which is omen.

The ivy comes next, alive and merciless, snaking around his bare feet, binding his ankles, dragging him down into the frost. He thrashes but can’t tear free. The cold bites bone deep.

And then he sees them.

Lily.

Sirius.

Their faces hovering just out of reach. Their mouths move, but no sounds come out, their features twist grotesquely. Melting. Distorting.

Dirt cakes their hands, black under fingernails as if they’ve clawed their way up from graves. Sirens wail in the distance, swelling bit never arriving.

James opens his mouth — to talk, to plead, to wail — but all that spills out is iron, hot and bitter on his tongue.

The beeping crescendos. The howling rises. The marble cracks.

And then—

He wakes.

The room is quiet except for the low hum of the record player. His chest heaves, damp with sweat, his throat dry. Beside him, in the pool of candlelight, Regulus reclines against the headboard, a book open in his hands. Kafka, again.

James drags a hand over his face, then to his scalp, scratching at the crown until his breathing slows. Regulus doesn’t look up, but his arm shifts, offering space. James presses against him instinctively, nuzzling into the curve of his shoulder like it’s the only place left that’s real.

His gaze drifts downward, to the underlined passage on the page.

I committed a crime last night, for your sake: a wild dream, a horrible, horrible night.

_______

Regulus watches him.

One evening, they sit by the fireplace, books abandoned, a slow debate unfurling between them.

“I think,” Regulus says, “that it’s an objectively terrible play about two idiots who make bad decisions.”

James gasps in mock offense. “It’s a classic.”

“It’s a tragedy,” Regulus corrects. “And not even a good one. They knew each other for three days.”

James steps closer, leaning against the bookshelf. “So what? You don’t think love can be instant?”

Regulus scoffs. “I think dying for someone you met on a balcony once is idiotic.”

James tilts his head, grinning. “Oh, so you’re one of those people who think Romeo and Juliet isn’t romantic?”

Regulus shrugs, clearly enjoying himself. “It’s not. It’s about impulse control failure. And poor communication. And it’s not even original. Shakespeare just copied the story of Pyramus and Thisbe.”

James doesn’t respond, instead watching the fireplace, wood, slowly burning to ashes.

“You’re distracted,” Regulus observes.

James exhales, tilting his head back against the couch. “Not distracted. Just… thinking.”

Regulus hums, unimpressed. “About?”

James doesn’t answer.

Instead, he shifts on the couch, slowly moving towards Regulus, until he is towering over the younger man. He leans down, his lips brushing against Regulus´s jaw, trailing down to the juncture of his neck. A shudder runs through the younger man, barely perceptible, but James feels it—feels the way his pulse quickens beneath his mouth

His hands wander, fingers tracing along the hem of Regulus’s shirt, teasing over his ribs, then lower. A fingertip dips beneath his waistband, not quite pressing, just hovering—just asking.

Regulus exhales, but it’s not quite a sigh. His head tilts back against the couch, exposing more of his throat, inviting without words.

James kisses along his jaw, his neck, his collarbone, before finding his way to the shell of his ear.

“Sometimes I wonder how fast you snuck into my heart,” he whispers.

Regulus shivers beneath him, his fingers twitching against James’s back, as if caught between pulling him closer and pushing him away. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet, almost fragile in its honesty.

“I love you.”

James stills. For a moment, he forgets to breathe.

It’s the first time Regulus has said it. Or at least, the first time he said it while fully awake. But James has known it for a long time. He didn’t need the words. He could feel it in every touch, every glance held just a second too long, in the way Regulus softened around him in a way he never did with anyone else.

“I love you too,” he answers.

Regulus’s fingers trace slow, idle patterns against James’s arm. “Enough to leave her?”

The warmth of the room turns suffocating. James swallows, his mouth suddenly dry.

“I already told you,” he says, a quiet insistence in his voice. “I chose you.”

Regulus hums but isn’t a sound of satisfaction. If anything, it’s laced with something closer to doubt.

“You haven’t, though. Not really.” His voice is calm. Too calm. “She’s still your wife, isn’t she? Have you told her?”

James exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “It’s complicated, love.”

Regulus watches him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a slow, measured movement, he shifts onto his back, staring at the ceiling.

“It’s not, actually.” His voice is quiet but unyielding. “You’re just pretending it is, because it’s easier that way.”

James opens his mouth to argue, but the words die in his throat. Because Regulus is right.

He hasn’t done anything about it. He’s let himself exist in this space, in this bubble where Lily is distant, where she doesn’t feel real, where none of it does. He’s told himself he’s made his choice, but he hasn’t faced the consequences of it. He hasn’t torn his life apart yet. And maybe, just maybe, some small, cowardly part of him isn’t ready to.

Regulus doesn’t press him. He doesn’t need to. The silence stretches between them, and James hates it.

“Come spend easter with me,” he says instead. “At home. In London.” Regulus blinks, surprised, he doesn’t answer.

James hesitates. “Lily´s out of the country.”

Regulus studies him for a long moment, and then—softly, almost imperceptibly—he nods.

“Alright.”

James exhales, relief curling through his chest.

But later that night, as Regulus sleeps beside him peacefully, James reaches for his phone, scrolling through unread messages.

Sirius: james. talk to me.

His finger hovers over the screen.

Then, slowly, he sets the phone down and turns toward Regulus, tucking himself closer, pressing his lips to the curve of his shoulder.

Chapter Text

James pushes open the door to the flat, stepping aside to let Regulus in first. The air inside is stale, carrying faint scent of dust, cleaning supplies and books. It doesn’t feel lived in anymore. Lily has been in India for over a month now, and James hasn’t really lived here since last summer.

Regulus takes slow, graceful steps, his sharp gaze sweeping across the space. He doesn’t comment, but James knows him — he’s calculating everything. The bookshelf mostly filled with Lily’s things, the picture of James and Lily on their wedding day, the perfectly organized and displayed china. The coat rack by the door and the neatly stacked tea tins on the kitchen counter. Evidence of another life.

Of someone else’s life.

But Regulus doesn’t say her name. Neither of them has, not since Regulus asked James to leave her. The conversation still lingers between them, unfinished, inevitable. But not now. Not for these two weeks. This is a time for them, and neither is willing to taint it with uncomfortable conversations.

Lily can wait.

“This is nice,” Regulus finally says, tilting his head as he surveys the space.

“Not what you were expecting?” James asks, leaning against the door frame connecting the kitchen and living room.

Regulus meets his eyes, his expression guarded. “It doesn’t feel like you.”

James smiles sadly but decides not to answer. Instead, he nudges Regulus towards the sofa. “Make yourself at home. I’m going to put the kettle on.”

Regulus moves through the space, his movements less stiff than he had been at the door. He runs his fingers along the bookshelf, pausing to read the spines, then sits on the sofa, stretching out like he is willing himself to feel comfortable in the space.

James watches him for a beat before shaking himself and heading to the kitchen. The flat isn’t warm yet, not in the way a home should be—but as the kettle hums to life and Regulus flicks through the vinyls by the record player, something shifts. The anticipation in the air settles into something softer, something easier.

When James returns, two mugs in hand, Regulus has already made himself comfortable, sitting cross legged on the sofa, his posture relaxed, a record spinning lazily in the background. He accepts the tea with a murmured thanks, fingers brushing James’s briefly.

The don’t talk about Lily. They don’t talk about what happens after these two weeks are over.

For now, this is theirs.

_______

The next morning, James wakes to the steady rise and fall of Regulus’s breath, his body warm and relaxed beneath the duvet. The morning light filters through the curtains, soft and golden, catching in the tousled strands of Regulus’s dark hair. James loves watching him sleep. He looks different like this — unguarded, his usual sharp edges smoothed out. No biting remarks, no calculating stares. Just Regulus, warm and pliant against him, his face buried in James’s shoulder.

James doesn’t want to move, doesn’t want to disrupt this quiet moment. But then, Regulus shifts slightly, letting out a soft, contented sign, and James grins, pressing a kiss to his temple before slipping out of bed.

He pads into the kitchen, still in his boxers, stretching as he surveys the space. The flat still doesn’t feel entirely like his, he only lived here for the summer before moving to Hallowthorn Hall. But this — cooking breakfast for Regulus in the morning light —this makes it feel more lie home.

The eggs come out a little too firm, the sausages slightly overdone, as James piles them onto a plate, balancing two cups of tea alongside it. He carries the tray carefully back into the bedroom, nudging the door open with his hip.

Regulus is still tangled in the sheets, his bare back exposed, the blanket draped lazily over his hips. His eyes blink open as James sets the tray down on the nightstand.

“Breakfast in bed?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep, before yawning in a way so adorable, it makes James’s heart skip a beat.

He smiles fondly, climbing back onto the mattress. “Only the best for you, love.”

Regulus sits up slowly, rubbing a hand over his face before glancing down at the plate. He eyes the eggs, then James. “These are overcooked.”

James snorts. “Good morning to you, too.”

Regulus picks up a fork, spears a piece of sausage, and takes a bite without further complaint. After a moment, he swallows and hums in consideration. “I need hot sauce.”

James laughs, shaking his head as he reaches for the bottle on the nightstand. “Knew you were going to say that.”

Regulus quirks a sleepy smile, taking the bottle and shaking an outrageous amount onto his plate. He eats slowly, and James watches, utterly entranced, barely tasting the eggs on his own plate. Regulus, still caught in the hazy remnants of sleep, smiles easily, his features soft and his voice warm. He leans into James easily, pressing against his side, his bare skin warm where it brushes James’.

And James can’t resist. He sets his own plate aside and leans in, brushing his lips against Regulus’s jaw, just below his ear. “You’re cute like this, you know,” he murmurs into his skin.

Regulus huffs a laugh, tilting his head slightly, giving James more access. “Don’t ruin it:”

James grins against his skin. “Not ruining anything.”

They take their time, kissing leisurely, hands roaming lazily over bare skin. There’s no urgency, no rush — just warmth and hands touching, and mouths exploring. Soft gasps and low moans and whispered promises. Just the two of them. Surrounded by the ghost of Lily, her clothes in the drawer, her books in the shelves, her tea in the kitchen — and all he can see is Regulus.

At some point, the half-eaten breakfast is forgotten, plates pushed aside as they sink back into the sheets. The morning stretches into afternoon, and neither of them moves to leave.

James doesn’t want to. He wants this forever. Wants to wake up like this for the rest of his life.

_______

The flat is quiet except for the soft hum of music. Outside, the London rain taps gently against the windows, a rhythm steady enough to lull them into the warmth of their shared cocoon. The living room is dimly lit, the glow from a lamp casting long shadows over the furniture.

Regulus is curled up against James on the couch, legs tucked beneath him, a book resting against his knee. The Secret History. The spine is cracked, the pages soft from being turned too many times, margins filled with notes in sharp, precise handwriting. James has long since concluded that it’s his favourite book, though when he mentioned it, Regulus had only rolled his eyes.

“That’s an absurd comment,” he had said, nose slightly upturned. “One I refuse to even deign an answer.”

James, for once, had let it slide.

Instead, he had picked up Pride and Prejudice. It has been a matter of debate — if not right-out argument — over the past couple of weeks. Regulus had called it ridiculous that a literature professor had never read Jane Austen. James had pointed out— again —that he teaches Greek lit, not English, but Regulus had ignored that entirely, sliding a used copy onto James’s nightstand as if the decision had already been made. It’s Regulus’s copy and filled with notes in the margins as well.

So here they were, curled up under a shared blanket, books in hand, a comfortable silence stretching between them.

An hour passes this way.

Then, James shifts slightly, tapping a finger against his page.

“Do you dance, Mr. Darcy?”

Regulus doesn’t look up immediately, just turns the page slowly. You do realize that makes you Elizabeth, right?”

James grins. “Is that a bad thing?”

Regulus finally glances up, the corner of his mouth twitching in the way it does when he’s trying not to smile. He tilts his head, considering. “It’s not.”

James sets his book aside, stretching out an arm across the back of the couch. “Then dance with me, love.”

Regulus huffs, shaking his head, but he doesn’t resist when James tugs him up. They step into the open space of the living room, the music wrapping around them, something soft and slow and aching.

James takes Regulus`s hand in his own, placing the other at his waist. Regulus doesn’t protest, doesn’t make some snide remark about how absurd this is. Instead, he lets himself be guided, lets himself press close, his body warm and pliant againt James’s.

“You know that line isn’t in the book though, right?”, Regulus murmurs after a while, like he just couldn’t stop himself.

“I didn’t know that,” James answers, grinning at Regulus’s bewildered gaze.

They sway together, slow and unhurried, the whole world shrinking down to nothing more than the feel of Regulus against him, the steady rise and fall of his breath, the faint scent of old paper and expensive cologne, of lavender shampoo and cigarette smoke lingering on his skin. It’s a peaceful moment. And James thinks, after everything that happened, they deserve some peace.

They keep dancing long after the record stopped spinning.

_______

James leans over Regulus’s shoulder, his chin nearly resting against it as he peeks at the phone in Regulus’s hands. The video on screen shows two people shifting through impossibly fluid movements, balancing on each other like gravity is merely a suggestion. James watches with growing intrigue.

“That looks fun,” he says.

Regulus huffs a laugh, the kind that’s more air than sound. “That looks ridiculous.”

James grins, nudging his nose lightly against Regulus’s cheek. “You know, we could do that.”

Regulus doesn’t even look up. “No, we could not.”

“Oh, come on,” James teases, looping his arms loosely around Regulus’s waist from behind. “It could be fun.”

Regulus scoffs. “Please. You would break your neck.”

James gasps in exaggerated offense. “Are you calling me old?”

Regulus smirks, finally turning his head just enough to glance at him, unimpressed. “If the shoe fits.”

James tightens his arms around him, pulling him in just a little closer. “Only one way to find out.”

And that’s how they end up in a small studio in Camden the next day, standing barefoot on thin mats, facing an instructor who looks far too calm for what they’re about to attempt.

James was confident when he set this up, laughing as he booked the session, saying it would be easy. But now that they’re actually here, watching other couples stretch in ways that look neither comfortable nor possible for him to replicate, he feels a trickle of doubt.

Regulus notices. Of course, he does.

His smirk is subtle but smug, his sharp little side-glances filled with quiet amusement. James ignores him, rolling his shoulders back like that will somehow make him better at this.

Things start out easy enough. A few basic stretches, a bit of warm-up, nothing he can’t handle. But twenty minutes in, the movements become more complicated. Balancing on one foot, hoisting Regulus onto his thighs, trying to align their movements without tipping over — it’s a challenge.

James is struggling.

Which would be fine. Really.

Except Regulus isn’t struggling.

At all.

The little show-off moves effortlessly through each position, sharp and precise, barely even breaking a sweat. And the worst part? He’s enjoying this.

James can see it in the way he lifts his chin just slightly, in the way his lips twitch every time James stumbles. It’s infuriating. And because neither of them can back down from a challenge, they keep going.

James grits his teeth, determined. Regulus raises a brow, taunting.

It all comes to an abrupt end when James’s legs, burning from exertion, finally give out beneath him. He loses his balance, his footing slipping out from under him, and in a split second, Regulus tumbles forward, following him down.

The impact isn’t terrible, but it knocks the breath from James’s lungs as his back hits the mat.

Before he can even take a full breath, Regulus is grinning down at him, triumphant.

“I won,” he declares, smug as ever.

James groans, still trying to catch his breath, his hands settling on Regulus’s waist. “Great job, love,” James wheezes. “Winning couples’ yoga is a totally normal thing to want to achieve.”

Regulus ignores the jab, kissing his cheek, before standing, ready to try that pose again.

_______

James has Regulus beneath him, their bodies a tangled mess of limbs and sheets, lips finding each other in a slow, all-consuming rhythm. His hands roam greedily, charting the sharp curve of Regulus’s rips, the dip of his waist, the warmth pooling between them. He drinks in the sounds Regulus makes — soft exhales, sighs that turn into whines and moans when James rolls his hips just right.

Regulus’s hands aren’t idle either. Fingertips press firmly into James’s back, dragging down the ridges of his spine, nails grazing just enough to leave the lightest sting. His grip is tight, possessive, like he wants to hold James in place, wants to keep him here forever.

James mouths at his throat, open-mouthed kisses trailing from his jaw to the delicate hollow at the base of his neck. His teeth graze lightly, before he sucks at his skin, and Regulus shudders, his breath hitching.

“The darkness is well suited for devotion,” James murmurs against his skin, his voice low and reverent.

Regulus stills beneath him.

James feels it instantly — the shift in the air, the slight hesitation in Regulus’s touch. Then, Regulus leans back, just enough to search his face, his eyes flashing in the dim room.

“Did you just…” He exhales sharply, vioice edged with disbelief. “Quote Euripides?”

James grins, unrepentant, his fingers still tracing lazy circles against Regulus’s hip. “What can I say? The mood felt right.”

Regulus huffs out something between a laugh and a scoff, shaking his head. His hands press against James’s chest, as of to push him away, but his grip lingers, fingertips tracing a faint scar along James’s skin.

You are insufferable,” he mutters, but the words lack any real venom. His lips are parted, his cheeks flushed.

James smirks, rolling them over, so that Regulus is straddling him, their bodies slotting together in a way that feels like fate. “And yet, here you are,” he murmurs, his hands splaying over the sharp jut of Regulus’s hips, urging him down.

Regulus exhales slowly, something shifting in his expression — something unguarded, something devastating. His hands slide into James’s hair, threading through curls, and then he’s leaning in, just enough to whisper against his lips, voice hushed and teasing. “Just shut up and kiss me, Professor.”

James is more than happy to comply.

The kiss is deep and slow, their bodies moving in perfect sync, the heat between them a steady, building ache. James groans softly against Regulus’s mouth as he rolls his hips, pleasure sparking at every point of contact.

James twists a hand through Regulus’s curls at the back at the neck and pulls lightly, making the younger man gasp. He takes the opportunity to latch himself onto Regulus’s throat, kissing, and licking, and biting, leaving marks to admire.

When they finally fall asleep hours later, pressed together, limbs tangled under the duvet, Regulus murmurs something lowly, barely audible. “Devotion is the right word for it.”

James smiles into the crook of his neck, pressing himself impossibly closer, before falling into a deep peaceful sleep.

_______

The British Museum is crowded, as always, filled with murmuring voices an the steady shuffle of footsteps against polished floors, but James barely notices. His focus is on Regulus, who moves though the halls with quiet purpose, gaze sharp and intent as he takes in the marble sculptures before them. There’s something almost reverent about the way he looks at the artifacts, hands clasped behind his back, expression unreadable, but James knows him well enough to sense the undercurrent of thought behind his silence.

The Parthenon Galleries loom ahead, filled with the remnants of a once-glorious past — friezes, metopes, and pediments carved with scenes of gods and men, frozen in time. James watches as Regulus steps forward, eyes tracing the battle between Lapiths and Centaurs, the fluid motion of drapery carved into cold stone, the once-vivid stories now dulled by centuries. Gods and mortals battle and embrace in stone, drapery carved so finely it looks like it could ripple in the wind. The weight of history sits heavy in the air.

Regulus steps closer to the panels, his fingers twitching slightly at his sides, as if resisting the urge to trace the outline of a sculpted figure. His eyes settle in the depiction of Athena’s birth, her form emerging fully grown from Zeus’s head, regal and composed.

“These don’t belong here.” Regulus’s voice is quiet but firm. His arms are crossed, the crease between his brows deep with thought.

James hums, tilting his head. “No, they don’t.”

Regulus glances at him, his expression sharp with thought. “I cannot fathom the sheer audacity of someone steeling something this sacred, then pretending they have a claim to it.

James chuckles sadly, shoving his hands into his pockets. “The British Museum would rather pretend it’s doing Greece a favour by keeping them here.”

Regulus scoffs. “As if Greece needs Britain to safeguard its own history.” He tilts his head, eyes scanning the intricate carving of Athena’s birth. “They’re out of place here. Even without knowing the history, you can feel it. They’re displaced.”

James nods. “Like an unfinished sentence.”

Regulus hums in agreement. They stand in contemplative silence for a long moment, absorbing the weight of history around them. Then Regulus speaks again, his voice quieter. “It’s ironic, really. Athena, the goddess of wisdom, stolen away from her own city. You’d think they’d recognize the symbolism.”

James smirks. “That would require self-awareness.”

Regulus huffs out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. They stand there for a long moment, absorbing the weight of history before finally moving on, weaving through the museum, drawn to the artifacts of ancient Greece like a compass needle to the north. They linger over black-figure pottery depicting the trials of Heracles, over mosaics and statues of long-forgotten philosophers, over delicate gold wreaths once worn in victory.

Their conversation flows easily from myths to philosophy to petty British imperialism without pause. He wonders if this is how it always was — if they were always meant to exist in tandem like this.

They stay for hours, until the museum begins to feel too crowded, too stifling. And then, they step back into the sun.

The air outside is warm, the sky a soft, uninterrupted blue. The air is thick with the scent of roses and freshly cut grass. Regent’s Park is alive with colour, people lounging on the lawns, laughter and birdsong drifting through the air.

James laces their fingers together as they walk, and Regulus doesn’t pull away. If anything, he holds on tighter.

They stroll without urgency, winding through shaded pathways and past fountains, letting the city hum around them, steps in sync. James swings their joined hands slightly, a small, playful motion. Regulus sends him a side-eye but doesn’t protest.

“You know,” James says,, “I’m impressed you didn’t pick a fight with the museum staff.”

Regulus scoffs, though there’s a hint of amusement in his voice. “I considered it.”

James grins. “Oh, I know.”

For a while, they simply enjoy the day, the sun warming their skin, the easy rhythm of their conversation. They talk about everything and nothing — the museum, where to find the best street food in London (it’s a falafel-stand near the Notting Hill bookshop, according to Regulus), Athena’s stolen wisdom, the best way to make tea.

Eventually, James glances at Regulus with a lopsided smile. “Favourite thing you saw today?”

Regulus thinks for a moment. “The Dionysian procession vase.”

James snorts. “Of course it was.”

Regulus raises an eyebrow. “And yours?”

James hums, pretending to consider his answer, then says easily, “You.”

Regulus stops walking. Just for a second. He doesn’t look at James, but his grip tightens again, fingers curling slightly.

“You’re an idiot,” he says eventually, voice full of warmth and love.

James laughs, nudging Regulus’s shoulder with his own. “Sure, love. Whatever you wish me to say shall be said.”

“Stop quoting Pride and Prejudice. I’m starting to regret making you read it.” Regulus shakes his head, but James catches the faint smile threatening at the corner of his lips.

They keep walking, fingers intertwined, the city moving around them.

_______

The kitchen is warm, filled with the rich scent of garlic and spices, the faint clinking of utensils against pans, and the distant hum of music — David Bowie for tonight — floating in from the living room. A bottle of red wine sits open on the counter, two half-filled glasses within easy reach.

James leans against the counter, chopping vegetables, while Regulus stirs something fragrant on the stove, adding ungodly amounts of seasoning.

James pauses, watching as Regulus reaches for the jar of chili flakes again.

“Please, love,” James says, voice edged with amusement but undercut with real concern. “My palate can’t handle that much spice.”

Regulus huffs at the comment, turning slightly to fix James with a stern look. “It’s not that much.”

James gestures pointedly at the pan. “That’s a crime scene.”

Regulus pouts. Actually pouts. It’s the cutest thing James has ever seen, and he would have fallen in love right this moment if he wasn’t already utterly gone for him. He leans over to kiss him softly, until that adorable pout turns into a smile.

With a sigh that suggests great personal sacrifice, Regulus sets the jar back down. “Fine,” he concedes, though James knows him well enough to know he’ll add more to his own plate later.

James chuckles, as he returns to his chopping, finishing dicing up the last of the bell peppers. He reaches for his wine, taking a slow sip as he watches Regulus move around the kitchen effortlessly. He’s graceful, methodical—except for the fact that his definition of “seasoning to taste” seems to involve an amount of spices that borders on a public health hazard.

“You know,” James muses, “I think you secretly enjoy torturing me.”

Regulus lets out a quiet, amused hum. “Good food should be an experience.”

“Near death isn’t the experience I’m aiming for at dinner.”

Regulus smirks, tipping a little more cumin into the pan, then finally turns toward James, leaning against the counter beside him. He takes a sip from his own glass, watching with that familiar, knowing look — the one that makes James feel like he`s being studied, dissected, catalogued into some mental archive Regulus keeps locked away.

James tilts his head. “You always cook like this?”

Regulus lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I get bored easily when it comes to food.” His fingers skim lightly over the stem of his wine glass, absentminded. “If something isn’t strong enough to keep my attention, I lose interest after a few bites.”

“You mean, if you don’t get physically assaulted by your food?”

Regulus smirks, his eyes gleaming, but doesn’t answer.

The food is nearly done, the scent filling the kitchen, and James steps closer, pressing a fleeting kiss to Regulus’s temple. Regulus sighs, tilting his head just slightly into the touch.

James grabs a spoon to sneak a taste from the pan before Regulus can swat his hand away.

It’s spicy. His tongue burns instantly.

Regulus smirks again, while James coughs, eyes watering. “You’re evil,” he wheezes.

Regulus just takes another sip of wine, looking far too pleased with himself. “And you love it.”

James exhales, a little hoarse, a little helpless. “Yeah,” he admits, watching Regulus with nothing but love and admiration. “I really do.”

_______

Their holiday has fallen into a steady rhythm, a kind of blissful, self-contained world where nothing exists but them. Mornings are slow, stretching between cups of coffee and lazy kisses, followed by walks through the city, hands clasped together. Afternoons are spent cooking, drinking wine, bickering playfully over spice levels, sharing smirks across the kitchen. Evenings mean curling up together on the couch, books in hand or a movie flickering on the screen.

James has insisted on watching The Princess Bride. Regulus had rolled his eyes and called the movie ridiculous, but James had seen the tell-tale softness in his expression, the way he didn’t mock the more sentimental lines as much as he could have. James doesn’t call him out on it.

Nights are spent in bed, tangled together, lips seeking, hands roaming, and bodies pressed so close its impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. And afterward, they smoke on the balcony, a single cigarette passed back and forth between them, the city humming softly below. Then, they fall asleep just like that, skin to skin, warmth to warmth, every night.

Now though, their time is slipping through their fingers.

Tomorrow, they’ll have to board a train back to Scotland. James doesn’t want to think about it, so he doesn’t. He lives in the moment, in the present, where Regulus is here, where he can reach out and touch him whenever he wants, where they don’t have to hide.

They order pizza, because it’s easy, because the fridge is empty, because neither of them has the energy to cook after spending the entire day wrapped up in each other.

James hadn’t meant to spend the day in bed, but when Regulus had stretched beside him that morning, all warm skin and sleep-heavy limbs, James had barely lasted five minutes before rolling on top of him, pressing slow, reverent kisses down his throat, his chest, his stomach — worshipping him like a deity.

The day unravelled in touches, in mouths parted on sighs, in the way Regulus clung to him, nails dragging over his back, legs locking around his waist. It has been slow. Unhurried. Indulgent. They took their time, relearning each other’s bodies like it was the first time, like it would be the last. James wanted to burn it all into memory. The way Regulus looked beneath him, pupils blown wide, mouth pink and kiss-swollen, murmuring his name like it was something sacred. The way he moved, meeting James with every thrust, his fingers tangling in James’s sweat-damp curls. The way they fit together, the way it felt like they were made for this, for each other.

They’d barely made it out of bed long enough to call in the order before ending up in the shower.

That’s where they find themselves now.

The moment they step under the spray, James presses Regulus against the cool tiles, swallowing his gasp with a kiss. Their bodies are slick with water as their mouths move together, hungry and insistent. James kisses him like he needs it to breathe. And in a way, he does.

Regulus tilts his head back, exposing the elegant line of his throat, and James takes full advantage, pressing open-mouthed kisses against is skin. He licks the water droplets from his collarbone, then bites down, drawing a shuddering moan from Regulus. His fingers tighten in James’s curls, tugging just enough to send a sharp, electric thrill through him.

Their bodies move together without thought, without hesitation, slick skin sliding against slick skin, chests rising and falling in tandem. James runs his hands down Regulus’s sides, thumbs tracing over the curve of his waist before gripping his hips, pinning him in place. Regulus whines, shifting impatiently, wordlessly demanding more.

“Needy,” James murmurs against his lips, grinning as Regulus glares at him, sharp even with his eyes blown dark with want.

“You’re taking too long,” Regulus accuses, voice breathless.

James huffs a laugh, but there’s no teasing in the way he reaches down, lifting Regulus effortlessly, pressing him fully against the wet tiles. Regulus’s legs wrap around his waist, arms locking around his shoulders, his breath coming in short, uneven gasps.

James holds Regulus close, lips ghosting over his jaw, his temple, his parted mouth. It doesn’t take long for the heat to build, for the rhythm to shift. Soon, they’re chasing something more desperate, more frenzied.

James drinks in every sound Regulus makes, every shiver, every clawing grasp at his shoulders, the way he keens against his mouth when James hits just the right spot. Their breaths mix with the rush of water, with the soft, rhythmic sound of bodies meeting, of whispered curses and broken moans.

Regulus clings to him, nails dragging down his back, his body tightening around James, his head falling back against the tiles. He looks like sin itself, debauched and undone, and James thinks he could die happy in this moment.

When it finally happens, it crashes over them both im waves, stealing the breath from their lungs. James holds Regulus through it, keeping him close, pressing kisses into his hair, whispering his name like a prayer.

By the time they finally emerge, the flat smells of warm water and faint traces lavender shampoo, as well as the lingering smell of sex. Regulus leaves the bathroom first, towelling his hair dry before slipping into one of James’s shirts — it’s one that Lily got him for Christmas a few years back. It hangs off him, the fabric too big, slipping off one shoulder, baring smooth, pale skin. James watches him go, lingering for a moment in the humidity of the bathroom, running a hand over his face and taking a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

Fuck, he loves him.

James follows a few minutes later, still warm from the shower, his damp hair curling at the edges, wearing nothing but a pair of briefs. He rubs at his head with a towel as he steps into the hallway, calling out absentmindedly, “hey, love? Have you seen my glasses?”

No answer.

“Reg?”

James huffs, padding barefoot across the wooden floor. Regulus probably didn’t hear him. He steps into the living room, expecting to find him curled up on the couch, flipping through one of his books, maybe sipping lazily from a glass of wine, looking effortlessly beautiful, looking his.

Instead, James stops dead in his tracks.

There, standing in the middle of the living room—

“Sirius?”

Chapter Text

Sirius stands across from him, still as a statue, his hands clenched at his sides. His grey eyes, so much like Regulus’, flicker between James and his brother, sharp as a knife’s edge.

Up until this moment, James has hoped, wished, prayed to any deity he didn’t believe in, that he was wrong. That it was nothing but coincidence. That his Sirius was not the one who abandoned Regulus as a child. That he was just his Sirius, his best friend. That things wouldn’t have to end in ruin.

There’s no denying it now.

No one speaks.

James feels the air shift — thick, electric, heavy with something sacred and rotten. The silence is not stillness but the intake of breath before a scream. James feels it pressing against his ribs, an ancient dread rising from the marrow. He’s seen this before — in the tragedies he teaches, the moments before blood meets blood, when brothers forget they were ever children together.

He sees Sirius’s gaze drop, taking them both in — barely dressed, damp hair curling at their temples, the faint imprint of a bite mark blooming on Regulus’s collarbone just above James’ too-big shirt slipping off his shoulder. Then his throat moves once, like he’s swallowed a stone.

James swallows too. His throat burns. He can already hear the explosion coming, can feel it in the way Sirius’s shoulders go rigid, in the way his breath stutters, in the tremor of his fingers, trying to hold back something volcanic. In ancient Greece, people believed volcanoes where dragon lairs.

Regulus moves first, slowly, picking up James glasses from the coffee table and handing them to him, his eyes never leaving Sirius. James takes them, hesitantly, afraid that eve the sound of breath will ignite what’s waiting to burn.

“James…” Sirius’s voice is deadly quiet at first, but James hears the way it shakes, the sheer force of what he’s holding back. “You have ten seconds to explain what the fuck I’m looking at here.”

James opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at Regulus, searching for something — an answer, an escape, anything — but finds only that terrible stillness. The same stillness of marble gods, carved in defiance of feeling. The mask is firmly in place. Dangerous, James thinks fleetingly, he looks fucking dangerous like this. And maybe, just maybe, James shouldn’t be so turned by the sight at this particular moment.

Sirius follows his gaze and something inside him snaps.

His eyes darken, wild with fury.

The dragon opens his mouth, sharp teeth glistening with promise of violence.

The volcano erupts.

“You’re fucking my brother?” His voice rises, incredulous, disbelieving. Then, he nearly shouts, “He’s a child!”

Regulus moves, fast, sharp, like a dagger unsheathed. “Fuck you, I’m eighteen!” The words are clipped, defensive. “And what do you care? You’re not my brother anymore, you made that clear a long fucking time ago.”

Sirius flinches visibly. Something cracks through the anger.

“Don’t you dare,” Sirius spits, voice trembling. “You have no idea what I gave up. I had no other choice. I couldn’t live with them — I couldn’t live with you turning into them.”

Regulus’s jaw tightens. “Oh, don’t start with the martyr bullshit, Sirius. You left me. You left me with her. With him.” He spits the words like venom. “You saved yourself and called it bravery. You left because you needed someone to blame. Congratulations, you found me.”

Sirius laughs — harsh, unsteady. “You sound just like mother. Do you really think James sees you for what you are? You think he could love you? He doesn’t even know you.”

“That’s rich coming from you,” Regulus snaps, “does he know you? Or re you just feeding him the half-truths you tell everyone else?”

The room feels smaller now, the air thinning. James wants to step between them, wants to stop this from imploding, but his voice catches in his throat.

“Enough!” he tries to say, but it’s drowned in their overlapping fury.

Sirius turns on him. “You! You’re married, James. What about Lily? The vows you took? You’re a fucking cheater now?”

James flinches. “Don’t talk about her—”

“I told you last time, James. Get your fucking shit together. I won’t help you cover up your mess again” Sirius’s tone is sharp, cutting, and something about it lands wrong, heavy with implication.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” James demands.

That silences the room for a beat. Regulus’s head snaps toward Sirius, eyes narrowing. James’s stomach turns over, a faint tremor of recognition sparks in him.

Underneath the anger, there’s something akin to sorrow in Sirius’ eyes. His voice is suddenly quiet. “Oh, you really lost it this time, haven’t you?”

“Go to hell,” James mutters, barely audible.

Sirius exhales sharply, trembling. “Lying to your wife. Abandoning your friends. How do you justify it? The great James Potter — fallen from grace. Again.”

James flinches but doesn’t say a word.

“Stop it, Sirius,” Regulus cuts in, low and dangerous.

“Fucking answer me!” Sirius shouts, his voice raw now, fraying at the edges.

James closes his eyes for half a second. He knows there’s nothing he can say to make this better, no combination of words will undo the damage. So he gives the only answer he can.

“I’m sorry.”

Sirius’s laugh is harsh, humourless. “Sorry? That’s all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say?” James snaps, voice breaking slightly.

“How about, ‘You’re right, Sirius. I’m a horrible excuse of a human being. I’m going to stop sleeping with your baby brother immediately. I’m going to grovel at the feet of my incredible wife who deserves better than a piece of shit like me.’”

“Fucking stop it, Sirius,” Regulus cuts in, voice low and calm and promising danger. “This has nothing to do with you.”

“This has everything to do with me!” Sirius yells. “He was my best friend. My family. And now? He’s you.” He points at Regulus. “You infected him.”

“I didn’t infect anyone,” Regulus snarls, taking a step forward. “You’re the one leaving people behind, destroying everything I your path.”

Sirius laughs again, wild now, bitter and broken. “I left to survive, Reg. You were already gone — a ghost in their house, quoting Latin to get their approval.”

Regulus’s voice drops to a whisper that still cuts through the air. “At least I didn’t run.”

Sirius lunges. Regulus shoves him back. James moves instinctively, trying to separate them — shouting something that sounds like both their names — but Sirius’s fist finds him instead.

The punch hits hard. James stumbles, clutching his jaw. He looks up, dazed.

Sirius is breathing hard, chest heaving, eyes wet but furious. “You were my family,” he says, voice cracking. “You were supposed to be better than them.”

Hazel eyes meet steely grey. “So were you.”

Something in Sirius shifts — grief flickering across his face before the fury drowns it. His eyes flick back and forth between James ad Regulus, jaw trembling. “You really think you’re saving him, don’t you? You’re not. You’re just dragging him down with you.”

Regulus scoffs, but his voice wavers. “You don’t get to judge us.”

Silence.

Tight as a bowstring. Arrow quivering, its head pointed with dangerous precision.

And then, James says it.

“I love him.”

This time, the punch comes expected, and the next thing he knows, he’s lying on the ground, cradling his pulsing nose, blood running down in rivulets and dripping down his chin unto his bare chest.

Sirius exhales sharply, as if it was James that has just punched him. Then, he laughs again, but there’s something wrong about it. It does not sound like Sirius’. He doesn’t sound like his best friend. His brother. His biggest confidant.

Do I even know him?

Sirius steps back, shakes his head slightly in resignation, then turns toward the door. “Maybe you do deserve each other.”

James’s stomach plummets.

“What do you mean?” Regulus hisses, crouching next to James, slender hands cradling James’ bloodied face. There’s something like fear beneath his anger now.

Sirius doesn’t look back as he replies. “You might be too much of a coward to be honest to Lily, but I won’t stand by while you lie to her.”

James freezes. A slow, creeping terror curls around his lungs, squeezing tight.

“No.” His voice is barely a breath.

Then, before James can react, before he can move, Regulus lunges.

He grabs Sirius by the collar of his leather jacket and slams him against the wall — in an impressive showcase of physical prowess that makes James breathless for a whole different reason — forearm pressing hard against his throat. Sirius gasps, hands flying up to push him off, but Regulus holds firm, his eyes like shattered ice.

“You will do no such thing.” His voice is soft. Dangerously calm. A whisper laced with poison. “You will not say a word to anyone. Stay out of this. Stay away from us.”

Sirius laughs — or tries to. It comes out strangled, like he’s daring Regulus to go further. To push harder. “And why the fuck would I listen to you?”

Regulus leans in close, so close that James can barely hear what he says next.

“Because I know, Sirius.”

Sirius goes still. For a moment, time stops. A breath held — before Regulus delivers a different kind of punch.

Regulus’s lips barely move. “I know everything.”

A shadow crosses Sirius’s face. He goes rigid beneath Regulus’s grip, eyes darting between them, fear evident on his face.

“How?” His voice is quiet now, barely a whisper. “You wouldn’t.”

Regulus tilts his head, voice dripping with mockery. “You don’t know me, brother.” He spits the last word like its filth on his tongue. “trust me, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.”

The words linger, thick and suffocating, before Regulus finally lets go with one last push.

Sirius stumbles slightly, catching himself against the wall, breathing hard. For a moment he doesn’t move. Then, he looks at James, still on the ground, holding his bloodied nose.

His face is a battlefield.

Anger

Grief

Betrayal

Fear

“I know you. Both of you.” His voice is quieter now, but no less sharp. A gun to the head, finger on the trigger. “I will keep my mouth shut. I already know how this ends… You don’t need my help destroying your lives.” He shakes his head once.

And then, without another word, he’s gone.

The door slams shut behind him, the sound echoing through the flat like a gunshot. James flinches at the sound like it’s a physical wound. The flat feels different now, something vital has been sucked out of the air, leaving it thin and hard to breathe. He stands up, frozen in place, staring at the spot where Sirius had stood just moments ago, looking at him like he was something else entirely.

James exhales shakily. His heart is pounding. Sirius’s words are still ringing in his ears, each one another weight pressing down on his chest. He sways slightly, unsteady, his fingers curling into his palms, trying to ground himself through sheer force of will. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know what the right thing is anymore. Maybe there isn’t one. Maybe there never was.

He turns to Regulus, still standing there, still breathing hard, and something inside him twists painfully.

Regulus looks calm, unaffected. Eerily so. The only sign that anything just happened is the tension in his shoulders, the way his knuckles are white where his hands are curled into fists at his sides. His expression is unreadable, his mask perfectly in place, except for his eyes — too sharp, too knowing. He doesn’t look shaken. Doesn’t look regretful. Just watches James carefully. Waiting.

James swallows, his throat dry. “Regulus— “

Regulus steps closer, until he’s standing just in front of him. Too close. Not close enough. Never close enough. He reaches for James’s face, fingertips ghosting over his face, tilting his chin up ever so slightly. James lets him. He doesn’t know how to do anything else.

“Does it hurt?”

James shakes his head slightly, eyes fluttering closed at the touch for a second.

Regulus studies him. “We love each other.”

It’s not a question. It’s a statement, said with utter certainty. James’s breath stutters. The world is spinning too fast, crumbling at the edges, but this? This is the only solid thing left. He doesn’t hesitate.

“More than anything.” His voice is hoarse, wrecked.

Regulus nods, like he expected the answer, like it was inevitable. “Then stop trying to justify or defend yourself and your choices,” he says, voice soft but firm. “If something is right for you, move forward with confidence. It doesn’t matter what other people think. We are the only ones who matter.”

James exhales shakily, eyes searching Regulus’s face. There’s no doubt there. No hesitation. Only certainty.

And maybe that’s what finally breaks him.

He surges forward, crashing into Regulus with the force of everything clawing at his insides, desperation spilling over like floodwater, overwhelming, inescapable. Their mouths collide, teeth scraping, breath stolen, and James doesn’t care if too much, doesn’t care that his hands are shaking as they clutch at Regulus’s waist, dragging him in.

James kisses him like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered to the world, thinking if he stops, he’ll lose himself completely. Its desperate, bruising, all teeth and hunger. Regulus gasps against his mouth but doesn’t falter. He meets James’s desperation with something darker, something claiming.

James fists his hands in Regulus’s shirt, dragging him even closer, needing to feel him, needing to consume him. They stumble back, knocking into the coffee table, but James doesn’t care, doesn’t stop. He’s devouring Regulus, hands roaming wildly, gripping his waist, his spine, shoving the shirt up to feel hot, bare skin beneath his fingers.

Regulus yanks at James’s hair, pulling his head back just enough to drag his teeth down the column of his throat. James groans, knees going week, and then they’re sinking to the living room floor, tangled together, mouths never breaking apart for more than a breath.

James is dizzy. Wrecked. Torn between wanting to worship and wanting to ruin. He bites at Regulus’s jaw, his collarbone, his shoulder, sucking marks into his skin, anything to claim him, anything to mark him as his.

And Regulus retaliates. He hooks a leg around James’s waist, flipping them over so he’s straddling James’s hips, pressing him down into the hardwood floor. His hands drag over James’s chest, nails raking down his ribs, his stomach, sending shivers of pain and pleasure through him.

James gasps as Regulus grounds down against him, forcing him to feel everything. He’s hard, aching, and Regulus is oh so cruel, rolling his hips in a way that makes James choke on his own breath.

“You’re mine,” Regulus murmurs, voice low and rough, lips brushing against James’s jaw. “Say it.”

James lets out a shuddering exhale. His fingers dig into Regulus’s thighs, desperate and possessive. “I’m yours,” he rasps. “Always. Only yours.”

Regulus breath stutters, just for a second. Then he surges forward, kissing James deep, pressing their bodies together, rolling his hips again until James is gasping, trembling beneath him. It’s too much, not enough, and James is clawing at Regulus’ back, dragging nails over his spine, needing to feel more, more, more.

They don’t take their time. There’s no patience, no slow build-up, it’s frantic and raw and desperate. Clothes — what little they were wearing in the first place — are shoved aside, nails scrape, teeth sink into flesh.

Afterwards, Regulus collapses against James, warm and heavy, still buried inside him, and James shudders at the closeness. His arms come up instinctively, wrapping around Regulus’s back, holding him tight.

James closes his eyes, pressing his face into Regulus’s hair, breathing him in.

“You knew,” James whispers. “About Sirius.”

“I did,” Regulus answers, voice barely a breath. “Not in the beginning, but… when I told you about my brother, you— I saw the way you reacted to his name. And after… you were different after. Wouldn’t mention your friends anymore. The way you stared at your phone with both longing and anger… I put two and two together.”

“You’re not mad?” James’s voice breaks at the question.

“Why would I be mad? You chose me. It’s you and me, James.”

“You and me,” James echoes. “Forever.”

And not for a moment does he consider that forever, for them, will taste like blood and ash.