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Chapter Text

Canis Major is a constellation in the southern celestial hemisphere. In the second century, it was included in Ptolemy’s forty-eight constellations, and is counted among the eighty-eight modern constellations. Its name is Latin for “greater dog” in contrast to Canis Minor, the “lesser dog”; both figures are commonly represented as following the constellation of Orion the hunter through the sky. The Milky Way passes through Canis Major and several open clusters lie within its borders.

Sirius is colloquially known as the “Dog Star”, reflecting its prominence in its constellation, Canis Major. It is considered to be the brightest star in the sky. Sometimes not even Vega can outshine him.

Orion on the other hand is located on the celestial equator and can be seen throughout the world. The constellation is named after the hunter in Greek mythology is one of the most obvious and recognizable constellations in the sky.

Two of the ten brightest stars in the sky are located in Orion — Rigel (Beta Orionis) and Betelgeuse (Alpha Orionis).

Because Orion had two sons, two very bright stars.

Sirius often wondered if the moon was watching him. Ironic, perhaps, considering his fascination with it had begun long before he even went to school. There was something about it — something that stole his breath, that unravelled his composure.

And now, sitting in a prison cell, teetering on the edge of losing himself entirely, all he had left were the stars he’d spent his life running from, the moon, and Barty Crouch Jr., confined in the same space beside him.

Barty was a star, too — not by blood, but by nature. And though he wasn’t the star Sirius wanted, in that moment, he was the closest thing.

“I miss Reggie,” Sirius admitted, the words almost foreign on his tongue. It felt good to say them aloud. Years had passed since he’d been allowed to.

“Do you reckon he woke from the coma?” Barty asked.

Who knew? No one here told them anything. Sirius wasn’t even sure why he was still locked away, why no one had tried to free him. Maybe they had all realised the truth — he wasn’t worth the effort.

Sirius Black, the burden of the wizarding world.

Barty scooted closer. “While you were asleep, I heard one of the guards talking. Walburga tried to see us — or maybe just you.” He shuddered. “Apparently, she threw a fit.”

Sirius almost laughed. They must have misunderstood. She hadn’t come for him. She had probably come to berate him or to coddle Barty, as she always had. Sirius and Regulus had never been enough. But Bartemius and Evan? They had been perfect. The sons she wished she had.

“She tried to bribe them,” Barty continued.

Of course she did. Sirius said nothing.

Barty, undeterred, tried again. “I miss Reggie too. And I miss my mum.” He inched even closer, their shoulders now touching. “I know you don’t like yours, but she came here. Whatever her reasons, she still came. Sometimes, fighting is just another form of caring.”

Sirius only stared at the sky.

“She still has a picture of you in her study. Next to Regulus’.” Barty hesitated, then added, “And another one — a framed photo of all of you lot. You two, the Black sisters, the Rosiers. I think she’s a fine enough woman. Just a bad mother. But she still cared enough to try.”

Sirius exhaled, long and slow. “Crouch?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad it’s you I’m here with.”

For the longest time, Sirius Black thought he was different. Special.

Unlike the rest of his family — untainted, untouched by the rot that consumed the House of Black. Good, in a way none of them had ever been.

Because surely, if James bloody Potter had chosen him — out of everyone —as his best friend, his brother, then that had to mean something. Right?

He was a Gryffindor. Girls liked him. People adored him. Everyone under the sun knew that Sirius Black was great. He was a star.

He was not like them.

He deserved good in his life. Not like his brother.

Right?

So very wrong.

Because if there was one thing Sirius Black knew how to do, it was be stupidly, catastrophically wrong.

And now, here he was. In fucking Azkaban.

Trapped in a cell with the most demented man alive, and he didn’t even know if his brother was breathing.

The worst part? The guards — those bastards — kept taunting them. Kept waving letters they’d never get to read.

“Oi!” Sirius lunged forward, gripping the bars, trying to shake them loose. “You fucking slag! Give me those!”

The guard only laughed. Smug. Amused. “Stay put, Black,” he sneered. “Or I’ll bring the Dementors.”

Sirius spat in his face.

He was so fucking done.

Across the cell, Crouch was losing his mind — had been for weeks, maybe longer. Somehow, he’d found a way to make himself a knife, carving runes into his own skin in some twisted, desperate act of magic. He’d pass out from the blood loss, wake up, mumble something about how much he missed sex, and do it all over again.

Sirius was going to kill somebody.

And it was going to happen very soon.

“How long was I out this time?” Barty asked.

“Two days, I think.” Sirius had long since lost track of time. “They took Bella in for interrogation. Malfoy actually tried to bribe them into letting him out for a smoke — the fool. I think they brought in more Death Eaters last night, but if they did, they’re keeping them on a different floor. Pretty sure I heard Rodolphus.”

“Salazar, I miss shagging,” Barty muttered before launching into another familiar tirade. “Shit, I need someone to suck my dick like I need clean water.”

Sirius glanced at him through his lashes. “You know, you keep saying you miss Reggie. My mother. Your mum. Dorcas. Pandora. Sex. Even James.” He watched as Barty idly picked up his knife again. “But not once have I heard you say Evan’s name.”

The knife slipped from Barty’s fingers. The sound it made as it hit the floor was sharp — almost like something breaking.

Rolling his eyes, he finally spoke. “‘Course I miss Evan.” He pressed himself harder against the wall, voice quieter now. “That’s what I’m trying to do. Send a message.”

“Huh?”

“I’m trying to replicate a ritual, but I don’t have everything I need, so…” Barty bent to retrieve the knife. “I just hope at some point, it’ll work anyway, you know? I — I told you, I’m trying to send a message.”

Sirius frowned. “So you’re mutilating yourself to what… tell your boyfriend you need your dick sucked?”

Barty tilted his head. “No?” His expression turned oddly thoughtful. “I’m trying to create a connection. So I can speak with him. Tell him they’re torturing us. That they’re interrogating everyone about things that have nothing to do with the war.”

“State your name,” the Auror ordered.

“Sirius Orion Black.”

The man gave a curt nod, taking a slow drag of his cigarette. Smoke curled through the air, and Sirius’ fingers twitched. Fuck, he wanted a smoke.

“Can you tell me anything about Marlene McKinnon?”

Sirius frowned. “Not really… I mean, she’s dead, isn’t she? Her whole family was killed… fuck, last summer? Somewhere around then.”

He hoped to Merlin, Morgana, Godric — even Salazar — that whatever morphine Regulus had smuggled into his system was still working.

The Auror stood, raising his wand. His other hand came down, pressing against Sirius’ head.

“Legilimency.”

The intrusion was immediate. The man sifted through his mind, flipping through memories like pages in a book.

Marlene at Hogwarts. Marlene after school, at the start of the war. Her sister giving Sirius a leather jacket. Marlene and Dorcas kissing in the Potters’ kitchen late at night while Sirius and Mary baked a cake for Dorcas’ birthday.

Then, something shifted. The memories warped, twisting into things that had never happened.

What the fuck? Was this Reggie’s medicine?

Images flickered, half-formed and disjointed. But they weren’t real. They were something else — something Sirius fed him. Things that would help them all in the long run. Lies, wrapped in truth.

Sirius and Regulus fighting about James. Never happened.

Lily Evans claiming her child had no father. Never happened.

Remus Lupin condemning werewolves. Not entirely true.

Evan Rosier trying to kill Peter Pettigrew. Half happened.

The Auror pulled back abruptly. “We’re done,” he said, tone flat. He exhaled another lungful of smoke. “You’re useless.”

Just as Sirius reached for the door, the Auror stopped him.

“I heard your brother’s a queer.” The way he said it was meant to be an insult. “The Daily Prophet claims he and that Potter boy are together. Apparently, he’s running for Minister of Magic.”

Sirius blinked. “Regulus is doing politics?”

“Not him.” The Auror sneered. “His half-breed plaything.”

Sirius’ voice was quiet, but sharp as a knife. “James is half-Egyptian.”

“Exactly,” the man said with a smirk. “Ruining our good society with that dirt.”

Back in the cell, Sirius told Barty everything. He wasn’t sure what kind of reaction he was expecting, but silence — and another rune, this one etched somewhere under his clothes, close to his ribs — wasn’t it.

Barty Crouch Jr. had always been odd. Then again, Sirius had never liked most of Regulus’ friends. They were all so… lame. Nothing like him and James — cool, popular, untouchable.

What the hell did James even see in his brother again?

Yeah, anyway. Regulus’ little gang? Not exactly the height of charisma. Dorcas was fine, Sirius supposed. He and Evan actually got along these days. Rabastan at least knew his drinks. But the rest? Absolutely mental.

Pandora was just… creepy. Unsettling in a way he couldn’t quite place. Why Regulus liked her so much, Sirius would never understand. She was a fucking lunatic. Completely unhinged.

Snape was — well, Snape. Useless. A miserable little fairy. So bloody delicate it made Sirius itch.

And Crouch? Crouch was just… deranged.

Sirius exhaled sharply, fingers twitching for a cigarette he didn’t have.

“Ah, yes, that should be it,” Barty muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Sirius glanced at him, brow furrowed.

And what the hell had Evan ever seen in this one?

He was also… kind of unattractive. Sure, Sirius had snogged the bloke once — but that was for experimentation, nothing more. And, honestly? He was too big.

Should Sirius be worried about how Crouch handled Evan? At least with James and Reggie, he knew James was a gentleman. Wouldn’t do anything inappropriate.

Sirius tilted his head, watching Barty.

“Say, Crouch,” he started casually. “What do you miss most about sex?”

Yes. Let’s play with his mind. See just how weird he really is. And when he snaps, they’ll have an excuse to beat the shit out of him — for touching their delicate little cousin.

Evan and Reggie were the same, really. Soft. Fragile. Children. Someone had to protect them from men with appetites.

To Sirius’ surprise, Barty actually blushed. “Erm… what?”

“You’re always on about shagging,” Sirius said, leaning in. “So? What do you miss about it?”

Barty fell silent, brow furrowing. He seemed genuinely lost in thought. Then, after a long pause, he hummed.

“Philosophy.”

Sirius blinked. “Philosophy?”

Barty nodded, completely serious. “Philosophy.”

“You’re losing your mind, mate,” Sirius informed him.

But he had to push further. Because one day, they would get out of here, and when that happened, Barty Crouch would go right back to doing unforgivable things to Sirius’ pure, delicate little cousin. Merlin only knew what they’d already been up to.

“No, but I mean really,” Sirius pressed, keeping his tone casual, like they were just two blokes having a chat. He smirked. “Fucking. Getting your dick sucked. Or, I dunno, shit like choking or spanking.”

Barty waved a dismissive hand. “Yeah, Ev’s not really into spanking, I guess.” His gaze flicked toward the tiny, grimy window. “He does choke me sometimes, though — but, you know. I run my mouth too damn much.”

Sirius froze.

“Excuse me?”

What the fuck was Crouch talking about?

“And yeah,” Barty added absently, already returning to his knife. “I’d fancy being shagged right now, but like, maybe after a shower and a smoke, right?”

Sirius just stared at him, blinking into the abyss.

The weekly spectacle never changed. Like some grotesque, low-budget Muggle film playing on repeat. Every week, the guards tried to violate Bellatrix. Every week, she turned it into a bloodbath.

Last week, she bit a man’s hand so hard he lost three fingers. The week before that, she buried her nails in another’s cock and twisted until he screamed himself hoarse.

They kept moving her from cage to cage, unsure what to do with her — until Malfoy, ever the strategist, suggested putting her with him. He’d never touch her. And she was too afraid of Cissa to kill him.

This week, though, one of the guards got cocky. Raunchy enough to try and take her in front of everyone.

Barty edged closer to Sirius, voice barely above a whisper. “Watch this.”

He flicked a finger, casual as anything. A simple hex — jelly legs.

The guard staggered, knees buckling as if the ground had suddenly given way beneath him.

Sirius turned his head slowly. Did Barty just do wandless, wordless magic?

Before he could ask, Barty murmured, “I remembered a rune for it.”

Sirius let out a quiet breath, then draped an arm around Barty’s shoulders. They did that a lot these days — huddled close, chasing whatever warmth they could find in this cold, damp hellhole.

A pause. Then, low enough that no one else could hear—

“Do me as well,” Sirius whispered.

“What?”

“Get me some runes. Whatever you think we might need.”

Barty nodded slowly.

The guard barely had time to react before Bellatrix lunged at him. No magic. No wands. Just fists, nails, and teeth.

It started with a scream — his, not hers. She went straight for the eyes, nails digging into soft flesh, yanking like she meant to rip them clean from his skull. He bellowed, stumbling back, but Bella followed, relentless.

The others in the cages stirred, some laughing, some jeering. Malfoy turned away with a grimace, arms crossed as if he could pretend he wasn’t hearing this — it was clear the poor sod just wanted some scotch and a smoke with Regulus and Rabastan.

But Sirius and Barty? They watched.

The guard swung at her, wild, desperate. He caught her jaw, snapping her head to the side. Sirius thought she might stagger, might reel back, but no. Bella only grinned, blood smeared across her teeth.

“Oh, you’re fun,” she purred.

Then she moved.

A knee between his legs — vicious, precise. The guard wheezed, doubling over, and Bella was on him in a second. She hooked her fingers into his nostrils and pulled.

“Merlin,” Sirius muttered, half in awe, half in horror.

The man shrieked, arms flailing. His knee jerked up, catching Bella’s ribs, but she only cackled, using his own momentum to drag him down. The stone floor met his face with a sickening crack.

Barty whistled low. “She’s an artist. I’m getting hard just watching this.”

Sirius hummed, watching as Bellatrix straddled the guard and pounded her fists into his skull. Over and over. Again and again and again. Blood splattered across her pale skin, her ragged clothes.

“Ten Galleons says she kills him,” Barty mused, tilting his head.

“She won’t.”

“She might.”

They both watched as Bella sat back, panting, hair wild. The guard twitched beneath her, moaning weakly.

And then, just as Sirius was about to admit Barty might be right—

Bellatrix climbed off him, spat onto his broken, bloodied face, and stood.

“Shame,” Barty said. “Would’ve been entertaining.”

Sirius snorted, tightening his arm around Barty’s shoulders. “We’ll get a better show next week.”

It took twenty six guards to get her back in her cage.

“You know what’s next, right?” Barty asks.

Right. Fuck. Because each time, after the fuckers try to do that to Bella and fail, they move to Sirius. They almost got to him last week.

He was apparently the next best thing after her.

Sirius exhaled slowly, pressing his fingers into the sharp ridges of his knees. He could already hear them — boots scuffing against damp stone, the faint rustle of robes, the sick anticipation rolling off them like heat from a dying fire.

The aftermath of Bellatrix’s latest carnage still lingered in the air — metallic and raw, thick with the scent of blood and sweat. The guard lay where she’d left him, a ruined thing, his breath rattling wetly through what remained of his nose. No one had moved to help him. The others knew better than to intervene.

“They’re coming,” Barty murmured, voice low, almost melodic.

Sirius didn’t answer. He already knew. He could feel them like a storm on the horizon, rolling in heavy, inevitable.

They always came after her. Always. They wanted the woman but could do with the bloke as well.

A boot scraped too close. Someone clearing their throat.

“Get up, Black.”

He lifted his head.

Three of them this time. No — four. One of them, he realised, was the warden himself.

Well. That was new.

“I said, get up.”

Sirius wet his lips. “And if I don’t?”

No one answered. They didn’t have to.

Barty’s fingers brushed against his wrist. “Runes,” he murmured, just loud enough for Sirius to hear.

Sirius shifted slightly, fingers curling in response.

“Hope you fuckers are ready to bleed,” Barty added, louder now, all sharp teeth and sharper delight.

Bellatrix, still catching her breath across the way, only laughed.

And then, just like every week, the real fight began.

Sirius rolled his shoulders, drawing himself up with the kind of lazy arrogance that had once made girls swoon and McGonagall grind her teeth. Even here, even now, half-starved and caged like a dog, he knew how to play a room. How to spin power from nothing.

His lips curled as he let his gaze drag over the guards, slow, appraising. He took his time, the way a predator did when deciding whether to pounce or play.

The warden — Rochefort, that cunt — stood at the centre, arms crossed, expression carved from stone. The others flanked him like obedient sheep, still shifting, still unsure.

“Alright, alright,” Sirius murmured, sighing dramatically as he unfolded himself to his feet. He tilted his head, dark hair spilling over his face as he swayed a little, purposefully careless. “No need to be so rough, gents. If you wanted me on my knees, you could’ve just asked nicely.”

One of them twitched.

Sirius noticed.

He wet his lips, flicking his gaze up through his lashes. “Come on, Rochefort. You really think this is necessary?” His voice dipped, velvet-smooth, persuasive. “You know I don’t mind a bit of attention.”

Rochefort’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t quite buying it yet, but the others?

Oh, they were looking.

Good.

Sirius took another step, loose-limbed, like he wasn’t bothered at all by the way they surrounded him. He let his lips quirk at the corner, dipping his chin just enough to seem coy.

“Must be dull, working here,” he mused, letting his voice turn conversational, like they weren’t standing in a prison full of murderers and monsters. “Cold, miserable. Can’t be much fun.”

Another step.

One of them — Dawlish, maybe? — shifted, mouth parting slightly.

Sirius hummed. “I bet you all could use a bit of fun.”

And then—

The first man screamed.

It was subtle, the way Barty moved. Just the barest tilt of his head, the flicker of something dark in his eyes. But Sirius felt it, the pulse of raw, coiling magic that slithered through the air like smoke.

Dawlish collapsed first, muscles seizing, lips peeling back in a silent shriek before his knees gave out entirely.

No wand. No incantation.

Barty hadn’t so much as lifted a finger.

Sirius kept his face neutral, resisting the urge to grin.

Rochefort whipped his head around. “What—”

Another one dropped.

Barty barely blinked.

Sirius watched, carefully schooling his expression into something appropriately startled. “Oh, fuck,” he whispered, voice breathy, wide-eyed. He turned to Rochefort, playing frantic. “What’s happening? Did you—”

Another.

It was almost too easy.

One of the guards was shaking now, eyes darting around wildly, gripping his own wrist as if he could fight off whatever was clawing through his nerves.

Sirius took advantage of the chaos, shifting closer to Rochefort, pitching his voice lower, more intimate. “Listen,” he whispered. “Whatever’s happening — whatever this is — it’s not me.” He leaned in just slightly, enough that Rochefort could smell the sweat and blood on his skin, enough to make him hesitate. “But I can make it stop.”

Rochefort’s jaw was clenched so tight Sirius thought he might crack a tooth.

Barty struck again.

The last man fell with a strangled, gurgling noise.

Silence.

Only Sirius and Rochefort remained standing.

Sirius smiled, all teeth.

“Now,” he purred, reaching up to lightly trace a finger down the warden’s chest. “How about you be a good boy and run along, hm?”

Rochefort didn’t move. His breathing was shallow, ragged.

Barty tilted his head, watching. Waiting.

And then, just as Sirius thought he might have to push harder—

Rochefort stepped back.

A single, slow step. Then another. Then he turned. And ran.

Eight guards were already shoving Sirius back to his cage.

The clang of the gates slamming shut behind him rang loud through the cell block.

Sirius let out a long breath, rolling his shoulders. Then he turned to Barty, eyebrows raised.

“Enjoy yourself?”

Barty grinned, stretching out leisurely. “Mmmm. Thoroughly.”

Sirius huffed, shaking his head. Then, after a pause—

“You’ll have to teach me that.”

Barty’s grin widened. “Oh, I intend to.”

Funnily enough, maybe no one knew, but Sirius had almost made a Gryffindor out of Regulus that first summer break. He could swear he’d gotten through Reggie’s thick skull about the difference between good and evil, about how there was more to life than pure blood nonsense.

But in the last year, Sirius had come to a different conclusion — Regulus had just been already crushing on James.

What a lovely couple. Sirius was nothing but supportive, of course. He had trained James well. Maybe two or three years after they got married, he’d even allow them to start having sex.

Anyway.

Sirius had almost done it, almost dragged Regulus into the light. But the little shit had looked him dead in the eye, solemn as anything, and promised to beg the Sorting Hat for Gryffindor. Then — betrayal. Humiliation. Shame. Regulus had gotten into Slytherin without so much as a backward glance.

In hindsight, though, maybe it was for the best. It gave people an easy way to tell them apart.

Not that Sirius understood why Regulus wanted to look like him so badly in the first place. The constant comparisons were exhausting. Sirius was clearly the more handsome brother — everyone said so. So why the hell was Reggie trying so hard, anyway?

A guard — Babette? Maybe? — came again to taunt them with a letter. This time, Sirius didn’t even look at her. He was so tired of this shit.

“Crouch,” she murmured, lowering her voice. “Come here. I got some good Galleons to bring this to you.”

Barty — who was losing more blood every day from the endless cuts and looked skinnier than ever — dragged himself forward to take the letter. He scooted back, settling next to Sirius, half-laying his legs across Sirius’ lap as he started opening it.

“‘Dear Bee,’” he read aloud. Then he blinked, eyes going glassy. “Oh. This is from Evan.”

Sirius groaned. “Yeah, please don’t read out load whatever fuckery you and my baby cousin get up to.”

Barty ignored him, reading mostly in silence, sniffing. He moaned at one point. Sirius so did not want to know.

Then — snap. Fingers in front of his face.

Barty leaned in, voice low. “Reggie is awake. And kinda well.” A deep breath. “But—”

Then, louder: “Oi! Babette, I’ll eat your cunt if you give us two smokes.”

The woman sighed, looking thoroughly done with Barty. But she lit one cigarette, then another, and handed them both through the bars.

Sirius took his, inhaling deeply. Finally.

Barty exhaled, then continued, voice quieter now. “So. Reggie’s awake. Physically fine, mostly. But… he lost his memories of the past three years. Evan says he thinks he’s sixteen again.”

“So?” Sirius blinked. “James will just… make him nice again. Like the first time.”

Barty smacked him over the shoulder, then burst into laughter. “If you think Potter sucking his dick is what got Reggie to change sides, we are in deep shit, mate.” He rolled his eyes. “We were already moving by the time Potter got to him. Reggie’s been reset to the worst year of his life. And James Potter living in his house? That’s only going to make it worse.”

“James and Regulus do not have sex!” Sirius snapped.

Barty snorted. “No… they just suck dick, cum in their pants, and rut against each other over the dinner table.” He arched a brow. “You are so stupid sometimes.”

Then, quieter, his voice losing its teasing edge, Barty murmured, “Regulus is going to be bad, Sirius. And he won’t be able to do anything about us. He’s —fuck, that was such a bad year. And I just know James is going to make everything worse.”

But that wasn’t true… right?

James had to be the one who changed Regulus. Just like he changed Sirius.

Because James — his brother, his heart, his home — was so very good, so warm and full of love that he could make people better just by caring. That was James’ greatest talent: to love.

And James had made Sirius better. Had taught him how to love right. And Sirius had become that. He knew he had.

Take Barty, for instance. As much as Sirius loved to make fun of the kid, he actually liked him. Hell, he loved him. Loved him for Reggie, for Evan, for the fragile, broken thing he was beneath all that arrogance and cruelty. If Sirius didn’t love him, he wouldn’t be in this cage.

The guards had wanted to put Sirius with Malfoy and Barty with Carrow. But Barty had looked so afraid, so small, so much like a lost child that Sirius had thrown a fit — raged, threatened, torn into them until they relented.

Sirius loved Barty enough to choose to live with him.

Because James taught him that.

Surely, he must have taught Regulus love as well.

Right?

Because if he didn’t — if Regulus had already been full of love before James, before any of this — then what did that mean for Sirius?

Did that make him the monster?

He swallowed hard, forcing the thought away. Focus. Focus on something else.

“Does Evan say if they’re moving something to get us out?” Sirius asked, voice rough. “I want out. Fuck. If you say this was Regulus’ worst year, at least this time I should be there, right?”

Barty sighed and rested his head against Sirius’ chest. “He just said they’re moving things. What things? I don’t know. Maybe he’ll find a way to write again.”

Sirius hummed, staring at the ceiling. Then, after a beat—

“Barty?”

“Yes, Sirius?”

“I’m glad Evan found you.” Slowly, hesitantly, Sirius reached up and rested a hand on Barty’s head, the way a big brother should. “I think… I think you’re what he needs. I even told him as much.”

Chapter Text

Regulus wants to die. He even tried. And Evan stopped him. Who the fuck does he think he is?

Merlin, but this is bad. Just yesterday — just yesterday — he was losing his virginity to Barty after taking the Mark, and now? Now, strangers in his house are telling him he’s been in a coma for two months and has lost three whole years of his life.

And he looks like shit.

Deep white and red scars carve across his skin, proof of battles he can’t even remember. Like it wasn’t bad enough that he was already uglier than Sirius. Shorter hair. Bigger nose. Fuck.

And apparently, he’s mates with Severus Snape and Lily Evans? What. The. Fuck.

And his mother is… nice? Or whatever? She hugged him.

This has to be a prank. It has to be. And obviously, it’s Sirius’ fault.

And then—

Potter.

Which—

No.

Regulus is not even thinking about that.

Because Potter — who is living in his house, apparently — called him love. Love. Asked to kiss him. In front of Lily Evans. With whom Potter has a child with apparently.

And he — he looks at Regulus like — like—

No.

Not thinking about it.

Not at all.

“Hey, love, I got you some coffee,” Potter said as he strolled into the hospital room — his hospital room. Or, as Evans had put it, the one Regulus had apparently made.

That bloody word again.

Regulus scowled. “You don’t even know how I take my coffee, Potter. Disappear.” He waved a dismissive hand.

Potter just tilted his head, smiling like he found Regulus endearing. “You’re so lovely,” he murmured. “And for your information, Little Prince, I know exactly how you take your coffee. Or anything, for that matter.”

He stepped closer, voice warm, casual.

“Half a cup of milk and honey — not sugar. One and a half tablespoons, precisely. Sometimes a pinch of nutmeg, but only if you have to work late. Green or mint tea, always with too much lemon. Whiskey and bourbon over anything else. Tiramisu and strawberry pie for dessert. And you eat soups — preferably carrot.”

Regulus’ breath hitched.

What.

His fingers twitched against the sheets, nails pressing into the fabric. “So what?” he managed, voice sharper than he intended. “You moved into my house to stalk me?”

“Kind of,” Potter giggled.

Oh. That sound.

“I’m so happy you’re finally awake, you have no idea!”

Regulus’ head snapped up. “Please don’t tell me I’m bloody friends with you too.”

Potter blinked, looking — hurt. Like something inside him had just cracked.

“Yeah, ahm… something like that, I guess.” His voice was quieter now, subdued. Carefully, he placed the mug into Regulus’ hands. “Here. It’s cold already. I know you don’t like warm drinks. And, uh — Kreacher made you some stew. I know you don’t fancy it, but you always said it was good for the sick. So technically, we’re just following your orders, love.”

“Stop calling me that shit!”

“Oh.” Potter frowned. “Yeah. Okay.” He swallowed, hard. “How… how should I call you?”

“Black is fine.”

Potter didn’t respond at first. His eyes were wet. Too wet. “…Sure,” he murmured. “I… I can do that. Anything you need. Or want.”

He sat down in the chair by the door, fingers twisting together. Then, softer — hesitant, like he was bracing for another rejection—

“I kept reading to you. When you were sleeping. Do you want me to continue?”

Regulus stared at him.

He did what?

“What book?”

“Frankenstein,” Potter said, smiling tentatively.

Regulus frowned. “Never heard of it.” His voice was clinical, detached.

“It’s Muggle.” Another smile. Softer, like he was remembering something. “It’s your favourite.” He lifted the book, showing it to him. The pages were dog-eared, margins filled with careful, slanted script. “This is yours. You even have annotations on it.”

Potter’s fingers brushed over the worn cover. His smile turned private, almost wistful. “This book… it’s the first real thing you ever told me about yourself.”

Regulus wanted to test something.

“Favourite smell.”

Potter blushed, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t think it was the same back then, but… mint and grass.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes. “Favourite poet?”

“That’s a trick question.” James smiled. “You have two. Always two. Lately, it’s Sappho and Dickinson — because of Marlene. But before that, it was Rumi and Browning. You never pick just one. You say no one should have to.”

Regulus swallowed. “Music.”

James folded the book in his lap. “It won’t be the same now, since Lily’s been giving you and Barty Muggle music. But before that — Piano Man, Billy Joel. I’ll play it for you later. You said it reminds you of Felix.”

Regulus felt the world tilt slightly. His stomach curled in on itself. “Felix Rosier is dead.”

A slow nod.

“Who?”

“Gideon Prewett.” A pause. “Ordered by Alastor Moody.” Another pause. “Bellatrix and Barty nearly killed his brother for it.”

Regulus’ hands clenched in the sheets. “Who else is dead?”

“Lots,” James admitted, voice careful. “But the only one that mattered this much was Felix.” He hesitated, not quite meeting Regulus’ eyes. “Your father is dead, too. That’s why… well. That’s why your mother is the way she is now.”

Regulus stared.

“You used to say she changed the day he died,” James continued, softer now. “Like she regained something she’d lost a long time ago. She’s… helpful, most days. Very nice with the girls. Pandora and Marlene are her favourites, but she and Lily read a lot together.”

Regulus exhaled sharply.

“So this is real?”

“I’m sorry,” James murmured. “But, ahm… for me — for everyone — what matters most is that you’re alive. And well.”

A beat.

“The person you—” He stopped himself, then tried again. “What I mean to say is — well, who we’ve known for the past year and a half, who that man was — it’s still you. Just… some years back.”

Regulus’ pulse pounded in his ears.

James wet his lips, suddenly looking uncertain. “I spoke too much, didn’t I?”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Don’t apologise for rambling. It’s annoying.”

James blinked, and — fuck. There they were. The moony eyes.

What?

Oh. Such beautiful eyes.

No. No, stop. He has a child. He’s not into men. Stop.

James smiled. “As I said — the same person.”

“You’re telling me I’m sleeping in the study?” Regulus stared at Evan, incredulous. He must have lost his mind. “I don’t even like that place, it’s—”

Evan said nothing, just opened the door to Orion’s study.

Except… it didn’t look like his father’s study anymore.

The desk was the same — elegant, imposing — but everything else had changed. The walls were now a warm, light green, something like fresh spring grass. A large orange leather sofa sat in the centre of the room, flanked by a dark coffee table and two deep-green armchairs. The library had doubled, books spilling from every corner, stacked high and orderly.

By the desk, a tray with whiskey and tea. Fresh fruit, too.

New paintings adorned the walls — art Regulus had never seen before. Blueprints and plans were scattered across the room. Lilies and narcissus stood in vases, the only flowers present.

It looked… Well. It looked like the room Regulus had never had the chance to have. Warm, but still dramatic. Practical, yet distinctly Victorian. Stylish, with a quiet French sort of elegance.

“You actually redid most of the house after Orion died,” Evan explained. “Barty has Sirius’ old room — it’s nearly the same, but the walls are a deep blue now, with a new purple carpet and a bigger library. Sirius took your old room — almost all red now, with soft beige accents, a bigger wardrobe, and a little sofa by the door.”

Evan sat down on the orange sofa, retrieving a cigar from his pocket. He lit it with an easy flick, the flame briefly illuminating his face. Since when did Evan smoke?

“You gave me Orion’s room,” he continued, exhaling a slow stream of smoke. “It’s all pastel green now, with white and gold details. Walburga doubled her study — again. You’ve seen the hospital wing. You have a lab in the dungeons.” He took another drag, watching Regulus carefully.

“The sitting room,” he added with a smirk, “is exquisite. All in purple and pink, with some orange accents — very Italian. Narcissa and Dorcas still compliment it to this day.”

“You smoke, by the way,” Evan said, picking up the conversation as if there had been no pause. “A torrid smoker and an avid drinker. You read more than you ever have in your life.”

From under the table, he pulled out a pack of white-and-green cigarettes and set them down. “You still like to pester me and Barty. Most days, you and Sirius have a… wonderful relationship. He’s been very good to me and Pandora as well.”

Evan stood, retrieving the drinks tray and bringing it closer. “Lily is your partner in crime. And Severus is your most trusted—” He hesitated. “I want to say servant, but it’s not like that. We all care about him very much.”

Regulus finally found the courage to sit beside his oldest friend on the sofa.

Evan continued, almost offhandedly, “I’m married, by the way. And you and I kissed once.”

Regulus blinked. “You’re married?”

“Yes.” Evan smiled, pouring them both a drink. “And it was your idea.” He swirled the liquid in his glass before adding, “Marlene McKinnon. Though, as far as the world outside this house knows, she’s dead. She’s pretending to be one of the Abbotts.”

Regulus barely had time to process that before Evan went on.

“Barty’s engaged. Very lovely girl. I’m terrified of her. You, on the other hand, like her very much. She’ll be seventeen in July — Romanian, brilliant, a bit of a menace —”

Evan stopped abruptly.

Instead of finishing his sentence, he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to Regulus’ hair before taking his hand in his own.

His voice was quieter now. “Georgiana Crouch died, Reggie.”

Another kiss, this time against Regulus’ temple.

“Barty was… mostly okay with it. You — you arranged for her to go to Romania. Lady Gia passed very peacefully. She wrote us all letters before she went.” Evan exhaled, squeezing Regulus’ hand gently.

“The last time we saw her, she called herself our mother, too.”

Regulus finally speaks. “Who have I become?”

Evan lets out a low chuckle — one that doesn’t quite match the laugh Regulus remembers. The last time he heard Evan laugh, it had been lighter, more boyish.

“I guess…” Evan exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “Look, it’s not what you think. You’re the exact same person.” His voice is steady, sure. “But we did things, things that changed us forever. And once Orion died, you… you let yourself live.”

Regulus frowns.

“It wasn’t anything dramatic,” Evan continues. “You just — took what you always wanted. Stopped holding yourself back.” His lips curl slightly, something like fondness in his expression. “And look — I loved you at sixteen. And I still love you now. You haven’t changed one bit.” A smirk. “You’re just free now.”

Regulus doesn’t know what to say to that.

And then—

“By the way, everyone knows you’re into men.”

Regulus jerks. “What?!”

Evan grins. “Yeah. And you act all high and mighty about it, too—”

“Evan,” Regulus interrupts, voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “I have a question.” A pause. “Or maybe it’s not a question.” He swallows, shifting slightly. “You’re my oldest friend, and I have no one else to talk to about this, so—”

A breath. Then, barely above a whisper “I think Potter is flirting with me.”

Evan howls with laughter.

“Oh, he is,” he confirms, still breathless. “Look — we all agreed there are things we can’t tell you. Lily says it’ll make it harder for you to regain your memories.” Then, a wicked grin that Evan never wore before. “But Potter? Oh, he’s one hundred percent flirting with you.”

Regulus stares, processing.

“But why? He and Evans—”

Another laugh. “Lily and James aren’t like that. They had a one-night stand, that’s all.” Evan leans in, amusement glittering in his eyes. “And Potter… let’s just say he’s into you.”

His smirk widens. “But that’s all you’re getting out of me, mister amnesia.”

Apparently they all eat together as a family. It’s mandatory everyone said. Barty has installed it. But Barty was in Azkaban. Severus even insists that for some dinners Walburga joins these days.

Evan explains that everyone has their sit at the table. And Regulus can see that. Can also see that there are two empty seats. One for Barty next Regulus. One for Sirius next to Potter.

Potter sits in front of him.

Potter gives him his morning coffee. Potter pours him water. Potter cuts Evan’s food in tiny pieces like Barty did in school. Potter signs. Potter knows sign language and can understand when Evan is not speaking.

But that’s not all.

Lily Evans speaks perfect French. Potter understands some words. Marlene and Evan actually act like a married couple. Didn’t Evan had a crush on Barty? Severus tells dry jokes and everyone laughs at them. Lupin and Rabastan both agree Snape is spectacular. Dorcas and Mary McDonald fight over some biscuits like they are siblings.

Potter stands up and brings Regulus’ second coffee of the morning the same moment Regulus takes his last sip. Potter helps Lily feed their baby. Potter calls Kreacher his best friend. Kreacher blushes and vows to make him his favourite soup that evening.

Potter calls Evan ‘Evie’ like only the Blacks and the Rosiers do. He is very attentive with Snape and asks him about some medication he actually takes. He informs everyone about some Alice — Fortescue maybe? — that she and her son will come to dinner. He jokes with Evan like they are brothers and calls Lily his favourite flower.

Potter continues to make moony eyes at Regulus and asks him if he liked the new book he got for him when he was in the coma.

“Where’s Mother?” Regulus asked.

“With Poppy,” Marlene McKinnon replied. “That’s my niece. Evan and I adopted her — we’re raising her.” She leaned against the desk, casually flicking her wrist as she spoke. “Walburga tutors her in history in the mornings. They’re both early risers, so they take their tea around five or six, then start lessons.”

She gave Regulus a pointed look. “Poppy adores you, by the way, so be nice. You’re kind of her hero. You and Barty — she’s obsessed with you both.”

Regulus turned his gaze to Evan. “You have a child.”

“Oui,” Evan said with a shrug. “Sweet and mean little thing. Just like my dear wife.” He smirked. “Lily’s been teaching her to read — in both English and French.”

Dorcas entered then, rolling her eyes. “I keep thinking I should teach her some Spanish, but Barty’s already got her hyped up on Russian, and I’m not sure she can handle four languages.”

Regulus blinked. “Well, if she can handle history with my mother, she’s smart enough to handle four languages, no?”

Before anyone could answer, Lily suddenly started sobbing.

“I’m sorry,” she gasped between hiccups. “Don’t mind me.” Another sob. “I just — I really missed you. And I was so afraid you wouldn’t be the same — but you are.”

Regulus hesitated, eyeing her warily. Then, with what he hoped passed for politeness, he offered, “Would you like some ginger tea, Miss Evans?”

That only made her cry harder.

Severus spoke over Lily’s cries, utterly unfazed. “You should come to the lab today with Lily and Pandora so we can—”

“Where is Pandora?” Regulus interrupted, only now realising he hadn’t seen her since waking up in this nightmare.

“Helping Cissa,” Evan explained. “With Bella and Lucius in Azkaban, we moved her to Malfoy Manor to take care of her and the baby—”

Potter cut him off. “You’re a godfather, by the way. With Sev.”

Regulus barely had time to process that before Potter — of all people — smiled at him and called Snape ‘Sev’.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” he continued. “He has your eyes.”

Then, as if he hadn’t just shattered Regulus’ already fragile grip on reality, Potter took a casual bite of toast and added, “Very lovely eyes, by the way. Did you know yours are just a bit more metallic than Sirius’?”

What?

Potter said what?

Did Potter just insinuate that Regulus had something… nicer than Sirius?

“Also, most days, you have one hundred fifty-four lashes,” Potter said casually, still munching on his toast.

Regulus felt his face heat up. Fuck this.

Potter continued, unfazed. “But I think you lost a few in the cave because when you were in the coma, I counted again, and you only had one hundred forty-eight.” Another bite. “I still think they’re rather beautiful, of course, but I mourn the lost ones, you know.”

“I think that’s enough, James,” Evan interjected, his voice measured.

The room was silent. Everyone was watching Regulus — worried.

“Can someone fucking tell me what’s going on?”

A beat. Silence.

Then, Potter spoke again — softer this time, almost resigned. “I’m sorry, Lord Black. I… it won’t happen again. I’ll leave now and let you have your time in peace.” A small smile, barely there. Shy. Just for Regulus.

Lord Black? Oh. Oh, this was bad. Regulus was getting hot. Feeling… things. Fuck.

And he was leaving? No. Please, come back. Look at me more. Why do you never fucking look at me? Why are you so — and then you don’t look at me? Am I that ugly?

Regulus said nothing.

Potter hesitated, then turned back, trying again. “If you don’t mind… later, I — I have to make a speech, and usually, you, Evan, and Barty… help me with the political side of things, so if you don’t mind and—”

“Come to the study after dinner,” Regulus said.

Regulus hated how he looked. He always had, but this — this was something new.

People had wanted him before. He wasn’t blind. He knew that much. But it never felt deserved. Because those same people had always insisted that Sirius was the attractive one.

Sirius himself had said it many times throughout their lives.

But now… now, Regulus looked the worst he ever had. Who had let him cut his hair this short? What had he been thinking? And why had his nose grown even more while his lips stayed the same?

And the scars — fuck. He couldn’t even look at himself.

He was going to die with exactly one sexual experience in his life — a terrible one, at that. Because no one would ever want to touch him like this. Maybe, once Barty got out of Azkaban, he could try again. He’d have to ask Evan if he still fancied him first.

And apparently, this new, supposedly more mature version of himself had decided to wear the most dubious robes imaginable — some didn’t even look like robes and—

The door opened. Someone stepped inside.

Regulus was standing there in nothing but his boxers.

He wanted to die.

“Oh, I like that one,” Potter said.

Regulus stood frozen, his back still to him. He would not turn around. If Potter saw him — really saw him — he’d mock him.

“Do you want me to leave?” Potter asked, his voice unreadable. “I know how you breathe when you’re uncomfortable, and I don’t want to panic you.”

Regulus didn’t respond.

Potter tried again. “I’m turning my back now, all right? But I’m still in the room. You’re not alone, okay?”

Regulus swallowed hard. Fuck.

“…Thank you, James,” he said softly.

Potter let out a long breath.

Regulus started dressing. So what if he chose the one Potter said he liked?

“It will get better,” Potter murmured. His voice was gentle, hesitant. “The — ahm — the potion will work. In time. You’ll remember. You made the potion, so we know it’ll work.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re a healer,” Potter admitted simply. “You have this mantra — you heal, you don’t kill. You’re one of the few people I know in this war who’s never taken a life. But you’ve healed everyone who’s ever turned up at your door. It’s… overwhelming, to be honest.” A pause. Then, quieter, “Your way of caring for people is very precious to me.”

Regulus hummed.

Potter continued, softer now. “You are… you are very precious to me. So, I guess… take your time coming back. No one is rushing you.”

Regulus exhaled slowly.

“You can turn around now,” he said.

Potter turned carefully, his movements deliberate — then blushed.

“I chose those,” he said, stepping closer. “The robes, I mean. They’re Egyptian.” A fond smile tugged at his lips. “I — I don’t know if you knew at sixteen, so… I’m half Egyptian.”

What? Then why—

Regulus was smart. Too smart. He always knew when something was happening.

Regroup.

Potter and Evans weren’t together.

Potter called him love, flirted with him at every opportunity, was so bloody patient it was unnerving.

Potter looked at him like he wanted him.

Potter had just told him he’d chosen these robes — robes from his culture.

Regulus exhaled sharply.

“We were in a relationship,” he stated, not asked. “Back then. We were together.”

Potter gave a small smile. “I’d like to think we still are.” He studied Regulus’ face carefully. “If that’s okay with you. I — ahm — there’s a lot, and like Lily says, you have to start remembering on your own. But I’m still in this relationship and… and even if you don’t remember, I — well I even have a plan of gaining you back if you… if you’ll never remember and I—”

He stopped himself abruptly, his expression turning hesitant, almost pained.

“I’m sorry. I’m always too much.”

Regulus hesitated, then said quietly, “I don’t mind too much.”

Potter — James? — looked at him like he’d just handed him the sun.

“Yeah, I know, love.” His voice was warm, unbearably tender. “Thank you.”

Regulus wanted to cry. But that was for later. Or another day.

“Can we not talk about that now?” he asked, tilting his head.

Then, without waiting for an answer, he moved to the sofa and sat down.

“Evan said you want to be Minister of Magic?” His voice wavered slightly, uncertain.

James followed him. “Can I sit next to you?”

Regulus nodded.

James took the seat beside him, then exhaled. “Yeah, so… it’s kind of your fault. All of you. The Slytherins who stole my heart.” He smiled, a little self-deprecating. “But yes. Minister of Magic. Evan as my right hand. I want Mary for education. And when he’s back, Barty for foreign affairs.”

Regulus frowned. “You want my best friends in your political team?” He hesitated. “I mean, McDonald I understand — she’s your mate, but—”

“They’re also my friends,” James interrupted gently, offering him a cigarette — the brand Evan had told him he smoked.

Reluctantly, Regulus took one.

James continued, “Evan should be Minister, if I’m honest. But your mother insists people would like me more.” A pause. “And of course I want Barty on my side, too. I love Barty. He’s one of the closest people in my life. He’s crazy smart, very loyal, very soft—”

“Barty Crouch Jr. is not soft.”

James smirked. “We both know he is.”

He poured Regulus a cup of tea, then handed him half an apple.

“I know Barty the way you know him. I love him dearly, and you love Lily.” He cut Regulus a piece of pie, sliding it toward him. “And before you ask or assume — I know about Barty.”

He hesitated, then added, “And Lily… she’s not into men, by the way. You were the first person she ever told. I was the second. Only we and Evan know that.”

“Does…” Regulus choked on the smoke, coughing. “Does Miss Evans actually like me? I mean, she… she keeps saying we’re soulmates, which — Merlin, it sounds bonkers!”

James’ face lit up, radiant. “She adores you. You, her, and Sev — you’re like this mind-blowing medical team. I’m in awe every time I watch you three work together. Barty helps sometimes too, since he’s rather good with potions.”

Regulus hesitated. “And she doesn’t mind…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it.

But, apparently, James bloody Potter knew him too well — knew exactly what he was thinking.

“I guess you don’t remember that either,” James said, smiling. “Everyone in this house is here for you, Little Prince. You created a third faction in the war, and we’re this close to killing the Dark Lord. You… you were — are — brilliant.” He exhaled. “Are, because it all started after you took the Mark. So, in your memory, right about now.”

James scooted closer.

“And I know you. Lily knows you.” He let out a small, shaky laugh. “And now I’m just realising — I must have been the first person you told that to. And I kind of want to cry.”

A pause.

“I know how you feel about blood,” James continued, softer now. “It’s… lovely, I think. The way you believe magical blood should always be protected, at all costs. And how — the rarer the blood, the more worth protecting it is.”

He met Regulus’ gaze, unwavering.

“I know you,” he said, voice steady.

“I know you here.” He pressed a finger to Regulus’ chest.

“And here.” The same finger touched his forehead.

Regulus swallowed hard. “Thank you, James.”

Potter didn’t say anything — just took his hand and pressed a gentle kiss to his palm before speaking again.

“Right, so… Walburga said we should start steering the campaign toward the educational system. Evan has some great ideas. Tomorrow, I have yet another conference, and I’m kind of struggling with the speech.”

“What are Evan’s ideas?” Regulus asked.

“First order of business — werewolf integration,” James said, trying to recall his notes. “Then, making history classes include at least four hours per semester on racial studies. Magical care as a required subject. Oh, and adding Muggle arts — like music and literature — to Muggle Studies.”

“But you’re having trouble because the pure-bloods won’t agree,” Regulus guessed, lighting another cigarette. Evan was right. He did like smoking.

James nodded.

“Make history mandatory under your proposal,” Regulus said, exhaling smoke. “Reduce racial studies to three hours per semester and replace the extra hour with Sacred Twenty-Eight Lineage — from Merlin to the present day.” He took a slow drag. “Add wandless magic to Charms. And introduce an advanced Potions class specifically for students who excel in the Dark Arts.”

James was looking at him like he was deeply in love.

Had he always looked at him like that?

“Merlin, Reg, I don’t care what your memory says — you are… nothing has changed. Not for me.” He grabbed a sheet of parchment and started writing down Regulus’ ideas. Then, without looking up, he added, “I told you once — I’d fall in love with you in every lifetime, at any age, in any universe. I think you just proved me right.”

Regulus felt lost. “So you, ahm… I mean…”

But James — of course James — already knew what he was trying to say.

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “I’m like… really into your brain. And you talking. In general.”

He blushed.

Merlin. He looked marvellous like that. Blushing. Excited. Soft. So very young.

“Anything else?” James asked.

Regulus hesitated, then nodded. “Intensive orientation for Muggle-born students in their first three years. A proper introduction to the wizarding world — manners, etiquette, everything.” He exhaled. “I think… someone like your friend Marlene would be perfect to teach it.”

James just sat there, looking at him for far longer than necessary. A full minute passed — maybe more — before he finally spoke.

“Would you like to play a game?”

Regulus raised an eyebrow. “What game?”

“We take turns asking questions. Usually, if we don’t want to answer, we drink, but…” James hesitated, blushing. “I don’t think you should drink that much — since, well, your mind is sixteen right now. But we could, I don’t know, take a bite of pie instead or something.” He cleared his throat. “The only rule is honesty. That’s… that’s how we got to know each other before. And I’d like to know this version of you, too.”

Regulus’ throat felt tight. “Fine,” he said, voice strained. “Ask.”

The way Potter was looking at him just then made his stomach twist. His neck felt too hot.

“Favourite book now? Since I know it’s not Frankenstein yet.”

“Snake of the Garden by Eurydice Noel.”

James tilted his head. “So — before this, you only read wizarding books?”

Regulus narrowed his eyes. “Is it still your turn to ask questions?” His voice was sharp, edged.

James sighed, shaking his head, looking resigned.

“My turn,” Regulus said flatly. He took a long drag of his cigarette. “Why did I accept to be with you?”

James blinked. “What?” His brow furrowed, eyes suddenly glassy.

“It’s a logical question, isn’t it?” Regulus continued, tone detached. “I never liked being second best. So why did I accept that position after Evans rejected you?” He exhaled smoke, slow and deliberate. “I simply don’t understand what you had to offer that made me willing to be a second choice.”

“It… it wasn’t like that,” James said, voice tight. Then something shifted — his tone dropped lower, steadier.

“I understand your sixteenth year was hard on you. I understand you feel lost right now. I even understand that you have insecurities. But don’t call yourself that.”

Regulus’ eyes flashed. “Excuse me?”

“For your information,” James said, voice quieter now, “we fell in love over letters. Over war. Over the battlefield. It’s complicated, and yet, somehow, it’s not.” He swallowed. “But you were never second. And I’ll say it again—I understand your memory thinks it’s sixteen. But it’s not.”

Regulus clenched his jaw. His patience was fraying. “And on that matter, since when the fuck are you into blokes, huh?”

James stood up abruptly, fingers twitching at his sides.

“I’ll let you rest,” he said, voice carefully controlled. “I’m sorry for upsetting you.”

Then, just before leaving, he looked back at him. A long inhale. A longer exhale.

“And I… I’ve liked boys since I was eleven. If that helps.”

Then he was gone.

Chapter Text

Evan was used to problems. His life was practically built on them.

But now? Now, he was dealing with some of the worst ones yet.

Since they’d pulled Reggie from that damned cave, the dead had started following him more than ever. Arcturus the First had basically become his shadow. He couldn’t even wank in peace.

Then, of course, his boyfriend got hauled off to Azkaban. Bye-bye sex, shared showers, history talks, and — well — a lot of other things. Apparently, Barty had done more for Evan than he’d ever realised. Only now, with him gone, was he really starting to notice.

His best friend had lost his memory — three whole years gone.

And the boyfriend of said best friend? Cried every single time Evan found him. That was their future Minister of Magic, ladies and gentlemen.

To top it all off, Evan apparently couldn’t sleep without Barty anymore.

It was all so fucking shit, and he missed the real Regulus — the one who would have already fixed half this mess by now.

“He’s late,” Severus muttered. “We’ve had this meeting at seven every morning. It’s seven fourteen.”

Yes. Yet another problem.

“I’m sorry,” Lupin started hesitantly. “I still don’t — am I standing in for Sirius or Crouch?”

Evan let out a long, exhausted breath. “Neither. I just wanted to talk to you about werewolves.”

Fuck it. He pulled out a cigar and lit it.

“Where in the Merlin’s name is that little shit?”

Just then, Regulus entered — pale, far too pale, dressed in the kind of robes he would have worn back in school. Dark. Simple. None of the layered, elegant ones he usually wore now.

“You’ll have to excuse my late arrival,” he said, voice composed but brittle. “I… some memories came back, and frankly, I am disgusted by them.”

He wasn’t meeting Evan’s eyes.

Oh. Could it possibly be…?

“The week after you shagged Barty?” Evan asked.

Regulus stopped mid-step. His breath hitched, sharp and uneven.

Yeah. So. That week.

The week Regulus took the Mark. The week he and Barty had slept together. The week Evan — who had been just a teenager with a stupid, foolish, beautiful crush — had lost his goddamn mind over it.

Because his oldest friend had just had sex with the same person Evan had been pining after.

And Evan, in all his teenage idiocy, had said some very nasty things. Really, really bad things. He’d called Regulus worse than Sirius. Told him he’d killed Evan’s heart. Had made a whole dramatic scene about it.

Then he hadn’t spoken to him or anyone for a month.

And now, years later, Regulus was reliving it — while Evan had been over it for ages. It had taken him a month, sure, but after that, he’d understood. No jealousy, no lingering sadness. It was just… one of those things.

Besides, Evan had long since come to terms with the fact that he wanted to sleep with Barty and that was not happening. Plus, that had been back when he was still pretending to fancy girls.

“Reggie,” Evan said, tone steady. “I’m sorry for what I said. Now, if you’d please come sit next to me—” He gestured toward Potter. “Jamie boy, fetch him some coffee and his smokes, will you?”

Regulus obeyed without protest.

It should have been the other way around. This wasn’t right. Wasn’t fair. Fuck.

With Felix dead and Sirius locked away, Evan was the ‘mature one’ now. Mentally, at least.

Fuck.

“We really need to figure out how to get Lucius, Crouch, and Black out of Azkaban,” Severus said.

“No Rodolphus or Bellatrix?” Potter asked, tilting his head. He was holding Regulus’ coffee mug in his hands, absentmindedly trying to cool it down.

Silence.

Potter tried again. “I mean — I don’t want to, obviously. But I’ve been thinking… you know, for Rabastan and Narcissa’s sake. Maybe we could get them both into a mental facility instead. Before everything went to shit, I think Barty mentioned one in Germany once. And I’m sure Malfoy would be more than happy to foot the bill.”

Regulus snapped.

“Who the fuck are you?” His voice cut through the room like a knife.

James froze.

Regulus stood abruptly, glaring.

“You are not James Potter,” he hissed. “So tell me — who the fuck are you?”

Evan so did not have time for Regulus’ identity crisis.

So, instead of acknowledging it, he just turned back to James. “We could look into it.”

Then, because his list of shit to deal with just kept growing: “How’s your project going, Potter?”

“Ah, me and Remus are close to finishing it,” James said, then hesitated for a beat. “Y’know, I’ve been thinking — after I finish Sirius’ bike, maybe I could try making you a car, like the one you want. But, you know… a flying one.”

“Huh?” Regulus blinked.

“Potter and Lupin are making your brother a flying motorcycle,” Severus explained. “It’s like a Muggle bike, but it runs on gasoline.”

Evan pinched the bridge of his nose. Merlin, give him strength.

“Look,” he said, exhaling. “We’re trying to get them out the legal way. But if that doesn’t work, this is Plan B, okay?” He sighed. “Worst-case scenario, James takes the bike and breaks out Sirius and Barty.”

Regulus frowned. “Why are they in there, anyway?”

Evan hesitated.

“After you… well, it’s a lot,” he said eventually. “The technical part — only Sev and Lily know as much as you do. But after you almost died — or, better said, did die and was then resurrected — the Dark Lord went into hiding. Someone — we don’t know who — gave Crouch Senior a list of names. Death Eaters. So they started rounding people up. Still are.”

He lit another cigar.

“For some reason, Sirius was on that list. We weren’t.”

“They almost took Sev too,” James added. “Three weeks ago, I think?”

Regulus turned to Severus sharply. “What?”

“Alastor Moody stepped in,” Evan said, exhaling smoke. “For some insane reason, he decided to tell the Wizengamot that Severus was a spy for the Order. Like James.” His voice was dry. “Which is completely untrue, obviously. And—”

“You’re a spy?” Regulus cut in, turning to James now.

Before that argument could even start, Evan shut it down.

“For us,” he said firmly. “James has always been a spy for us. Not for the Order. Not for the Dark Lord. He and Dorcas have been playing a very long game. Both sides think he’s a spy for them. But he’s not. He’s ours.”

He took another slow drag of his cigar. “And now, because Moody is a dumb fuck, we get to do the same thing with Severus.”

Regulus exhaled slowly. “That’s very… Slytherin of you.”

Potter looked so fucking smug.

“Actually, the Hat almost put me there,” he said, tilting his head. “Since Mum was a Slytherin, you know.” A pause. “But I just asked it to put me where I’d find the best friends and then shouted Gryffindor before it could decide. I would’ve been fine with either.”

“I was almost put in Ravenclaw,” Regulus admitted. “Barty too.”

Evan, who had not been almost anything, was ready to eviscerate them.

“The Hat said it had never seen someone more Slytherin than me,” he said proudly.

Lupin squinted. “It said the same thing about me, but with Gryffindor.”

Regulus, unimpressed, turned back to Evan. “What do you need from me?”

“A plan,” Evan admitted. “We can’t win this war without you— it’s always been you. We need the next step.”

Regulus leaned back, thoughtful. “But… if I understand correctly, this is no longer a war.”

He glanced at the group, voice measured. “This is a revolution. And that works very differently.”

“Meaning?” Severus asked.

Regulus’ eyes darkened, his mind already calculating.

“We need people in the streets. Protests. We take down the Ministry from the inside.” His voice was calm, clinical — sharp in the way Evan had always loved. “We make everyone believe this is their war. Their revolution. That everyone is able to fight. And then, when they least expect it—”

A beat.

“We dismantle the political system entirely.”

Potter looked like he was about to faint. Instead, he leaned over, pressed a kiss to the crown of Regulus’ head.

Regulus turned bright red. Like a bloody schoolgirl.

Evan smirked. “Welcome back, old friend.”

Whispers. Always the damn whispers with the Blacks. People being erased from the tapestry. Schemes. Murder. Dragons.

Always two pairs of siblings.

And today — a lost child was coming home.

A soft crack of Apparition echoed through the drawing room.

“Hello,” a woman — elegant, poised, commanding — appeared by the fireplace. She glanced around, then gave a small, wry smile. “Apparently, the wards still allow me entry.”

Evan turned to her. Ravishing.

She was the kind of woman men wrote books about. A brunette Narcissa, almost eerily so — long, flowing hair, darkest green eyes, draped in an elaborate pastel pink dress, a striking yellow raincoat over her shoulders.

Evan would bet money that men had written poems and songs about her all her life. She was — well… she was exactly what an older Narcissa would look like.

Lucretia Prewett (née Black).

“Hello,” she tried again, a bit hesitant. “I’m, ah… I was hoping to see my cousin. If she’ll have me.”

She took a breath. “My name is—”

“Lucretia,” Evan said smoothly.

She blinked in surprise.

“I apologise for my rudeness,” he continued, inclining his head. “I am Lord Evan Rosier.” He took her hand, pressing a polite kiss to her knuckles. “I will take you to Aunt Walburga — she’s in her study with —” He hesitated. “With Euphemia Potter.”

Lucretia’s brows lifted. “Effy is here?”

“She comes sometimes, yeah. Started about two or three months ago. They fight most of the time. Or fuss over Harry.”

“Harry?”

“Their grandchild,” Evan explained as he escorted her up the stairs.

“Their?”

“Oh, it’s complicated,” he said with a smirk. “Their sons are in a relationship. Harry is James’ son biologically, but legally?” He tilted his head. “Regulus is his father.”

Lucretia Black.

The one who ran — but was never erased from the tapestry. Dragon tamer. Beauty queen. Orion’s older sister. Walburga and Euphemia’s oldest friend.

Marlene McKinnon — before there was ever a Marlene McKinnon.

Only when they reached the study did Evan realise what was happening — what he was seeing. Two generations, mirroring each other.

Lily was speaking rapid French with Walburga, discussing new potions from Japan as if her life depended on it. In return, Walburga was lamenting, once again, how unfortunate it was that Lily wasn’t at least half-blood.

Harry slept soundly in Marlene’s arms while she watched Dorcas and Euphemia engaged in a fierce debate about why the next Minister after James had to be a woman — because, as they saw it, men never got anything right.

Then, all at once, everyone stopped.

Because once upon a time, before Lily was brilliant and ambitious, before she knew more than anyone else in the room — there had been a Walburga Black.

Because long ago, before Dorcas became the Dragon Lady, the most feared magical force of their age — there had been Euphemia Shafiq, ruining men twice her size and wielding wandless, ancient magic as if it were her birthright.

And before Marlene became the Lion King — charming, sweet, yet unshakably strong — there had been Lucretia Black.

Who had just arrived home at last.

“I’ll leave you ladies to it,” Evan said, exiting the room and closing the door after him. He wasn’t going to ruin their moment.

So, Evan knew James Potter was a reckless, uncontrollable beast most days. But it was also very easy to forget that these days. He had matured — he was a spy, a war strategist, had begun learning politics. He used his charm for good, was incredibly soft, and far more attentive than anyone gave him credit for.

But once upon a time, James Potter had been nothing more than a daft hero who did things simply because he could.

Evan struggled to sleep without Barty. And, because he was always cursed with bad luck, the moment he was finally ready to drift off was precisely when Potter decided to barge into the room — wearing Muggle clothes, a Muggle rucksack slung over his shoulder.

“Come on, get up. Put on your best jumper. Come, come,” Potter instructed, far too awake for this time of night.

Evan wanted to ask him if he’d completely lost his mind. But Potter carried on, undeterred.

“I just finished the bike,” he said with a shrug. “You mope about the house too much. I’m taking you to see your boyfriend, and me to see Sirius. I got them smokes, some light healing stuff they can stash if they need it, a notebook and some pens, and I… well, I did something else. Dad helped me. The bag — it can be invisible. We cut a tiny piece of my cloak and used its magic for it.”

Evan blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.

“Are you mad? We could get caught! This is dangerous!”

“No?” Potter frowned, as if the thought had genuinely never crossed his mind. “It’s an adventure. Come on, it’ll be fun. And you know, I reckon the risk just makes it all the more… exciting.”

Evan was going to kill this absolute idiot. Maybe Regulus, too. Just to be sure.

“You know,” Potter tried again, smirking now, “Barty probably looks really fit all rugged up in there.”

And that did it.

Oh, fuck.

Fuck.

Yes, oh fuck.

Barty would look really fit like that.

Fuck.

So, they were off on a lovely little picnic to Azkaban. What could possibly go wrong?

They had the bike. The Invisibility Cloak. The sheer audacity.

And Evan had a sudden, urgent need to have sex. Preferably for about three months straight.

Barty would have longer hair by now. Oh. That was something Evan had never seen. Maybe even facial hair. Fuck. Oh, how he needed a shag.

The flight was rather nice, even if it was long — and even if Potter was a little shit who refused to let Evan smoke his cigars. So unbelievably annoying.

But after three hours and forty-one minutes — after Evan had made roughly two hundred plans on how to shag Barty in front of James and Sirius — they finally arrived.

The hardest part would be finding them. And if they managed that, praying they were in the same cell rather than on opposite sides of the prison. Hoping they weren’t dead. Or close to it. Hoping—

Oh.

Is that…?

Oh. Yes.

Evan could have come in his pants just looking at that — just looking at him.

Barty looked bad. But also good. Which was so him. And Evan had been right — longer hair, facial hair, and fuck—

Had he done more runes on himself? Was that blood? And, oh, was this getting him hot?

Potter was saying something — some shite about getting under the cloak, flying closer so they could enter through the window, breaking Merlin-knows-what security spell.

Who, in Morgana’s name, bloody cared?

Barty was fit.

Evan was ready to suck his dick.

That was all that mattered. Nothing else.

James tugged at Evan’s sleeve, yanking him back into reality. “Oi, get under the bloody cloak!” he hissed. “You can gawp at your boyfriend once we haven’t been caught and sentenced to life imprisonment, yeah?”

Evan gritted his teeth but ducked under the Invisibility Cloak anyway, pressing close to Potter as they flew towards one of the high, barred windows. The wind howled around them, the sea thrashing below like an eager beast waiting for them to fuck up.

James reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, jagged stone. He whispered something under his breath, and the air around the bars shimmered before the metal slowly, silently, melted away.

“Right. In you go,” James muttered, nodding towards the narrow opening.

Evan took a deep breath, ignoring the way his hands shook from anticipation rather than fear, and slipped inside. The cell was dark, damp, the scent of salt and decay thick in the air.

And there, sitting against the wall, wrists bruised from iron shackles and hair a tangled mess, was Barty. His lips curled up into the laziest, most infuriating smirk Evan had ever seen.

“Took you long enough,” Barty murmured, voice rough from disuse. “Thought I’d have to start shagging Sirius.”

Evan exhaled sharply. Fucking hell.

He was going to ruin this man.

“Are we getting out?” Sirius asked, voice low but urgent.

Potter, ever the dutiful idiot, launched into an explanation. Something about the legal route, about how they couldn’t just blast them free because it would make things worse. Sirius, naturally, had a fit, and Potter, naturally, calmed him down with the patience of someone who had long since accepted that his entire existence revolved around managing other people’s dramatics.

Boring. All of it.

Evan glanced towards the bars, ensuring they were alone before he turned back to Barty, moving swiftly, with purpose. He grabbed him by the collar, yanking him up and into a kiss that was nothing short of desperate. A possessive hand slid to Barty’s neck, holding him in place as Evan devoured him, first his lips, then his jaw, his cheekbones, his temple — every bit of him that had been denied for far too long.

Fuck, he had missed this absolute menace of a man.

Barty hummed against his lips, lazy and smug. “Easy, tiger,” he murmured, pressing his mouth close to Evan’s ear before whispering, “Let’s not make a scene if you’re not going to get me out, ‘cause I can’t wank in here with Sirius after you leave, and I’m already half-hard just from seeing you.”

Evan groaned, dropping his forehead against Barty’s shoulder for a brief moment before lifting his head to glare at him. “You are bloody insufferable.”

“You love it,” Barty countered, grinning, and oh, how Evan wanted to shove him against the wall and—

Potter cleared his throat, pointedly not looking at them. “As fun as this is for you, I’d like to get out of here in one piece.”

Evan sighed. Right. Priorities.

He took a step back, letting go of Barty with a lingering touch along his jaw. “We’ll be back,” he said, and it was a promise, heavy with meaning. “Soon.”

Barty arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Not soon enough.”

Evan smirked. “You’ll live.”

Potter grabbed his sleeve, yanking him back towards the window. “That depends on whether we get caught or not,” he muttered. “Now, get under the bloody cloak before someone notices we’re here.”

Evan cast one last look at Barty, drinking in the sight of him — tired but still infuriatingly sharp, a little rough around the edges but still devastatingly handsome. Then he turned, slipping under the Invisibility Cloak with Potter.

It was time to leave. For now.

James Potter must have been the smartest, most ingenious man alive, and people simply didn’t know it. Their fucking fault, really. Everyone should have seen him coming. He was a Potter, for Merlin’s sake! Of course, he could just go around inventing magical things like it was nothing.

And Reggie was a fucking idiot if he didn’t shag that man into next week soon — because Evan was very close to doing it himself. Potter deserved a good, thorough pounding after what he’d just pulled.

The motorbike? Nice. The invisible bag? Lovely.

But the notebook? Bloody hell. Shag me on a broomstick.

Fucking Potters and their special magic. That man was a legend.

James Fleamont Potter had just — casually, effortlessly — magically linked two journals together. One for Barty, rotting away in Azkaban, and one for Evan, who now had a direct line to him. And Evan, overwhelmed with something dangerously close to gratitude, had baked him a tray of biscuits.

Because James could have used it for himself — to talk to Sirius, his best friend, his brother, his boyfriend’s brother. But no. He’d seen Evan sad and had given it to them instead.

Evan had just ordered twenty-seven metres of red silk to make Reggie an absolutely fucking magnificent set of robes as thanks to Potter.

He and James were on a very fast track to becoming best friends.

And Barty, in the last two hours of communicating, had been so devastatingly — oh! Evan was falling in love with him all over again.

The man had found himself in a prison and immediately started carving runes into his own skin until he found the right one to forge a connection with Evan. Absolute lunatic. Barty, too, deserved a good, thorough shagging for that.

Evan had promised — both to Barty and to himself — that he’d look into the runes properly, find the right one so Barty wouldn’t bleed to death next time. And on that note, he’d made another promise. He wasn’t entirely sure how Barty would react to it, but he hoped he’d like it.

“And how exactly are you planning to do this?” Marlene asked, arching a sceptical brow.

“I picked up some books,” he replied.

She still looked unconvinced.

“Look,” he continued, exasperated, “Bee learned sign language at ten and then bloody French at eleven for me and Dora. Would it be that bad to try and learn a little Romanian? And since I’m corresponding with his fiancée, I can ask her to help me.”

Marlene’s lips quirked. “You’re very romantic.”

He smirked, leaning in to kiss her temple. “You want our daughter to speak Spanish, French, and Russian — I think we’re very similar, dear wife of mine.”

Oh, how he loved Marlene. His perfect menace of a wife.

“Tell me again what Barty said about the interrogations,” she prompted, returning to the matter at hand.

“Right, so the questions make no fucking sense, and they’re convinced there’s something bigger going on… I swear, if Reggie weren’t amnesic and Potter weren’t so bloody lost, I’d have told them everything and we’d have had it solved by yesterday noon,” he muttered. Then, lowering his voice, he added, “Remember when I told you some in the Black family can control minds?”

Marlene nodded slowly.

“I think Sirius is starting to show signs of it. If I’m right, it’s coming out from the stress.”

Her expression darkened. “Don’t tell Barty yet — Sirius might read the journal and freak. Best keep it between us until the moment comes. Magic like that has to be… felt before it can be understood.”

Evan let her read through the journal. He was a family man, after all — of course, he let his wife read how he flirted with his boyfriend.

Marlene frowned as she skimmed the pages, humming thoughtfully. “Why do I feel like… hmm. These questions. I almost feel like I’ve heard them before. Or read them. Like I know something, but it’s just out of reach.” She tapped the page, lips pursed. “I mean, what kind of Auror gets face-to-face with Sirius Black and asks him if his mother’s hiding old artefacts of Merlin in their house? Especially when — wait, aren’t they not even supposed to know Sirius has been living here?”

Evan felt a prickle of unease crawl up his spine. “We either have a spy or…?”

Marlene hesitated. “Or you’ll call me mad.”

“I won’t call you mad,” Evan reassured her, lips twitching at the sheer absurdity of the notion. “I am a very dutiful husband. I would never.”

She shot him a dry look before lowering her voice. “I’ve been thinking about this for a while… ever since what happened with Mary. We still don’t know if it’s true — if Dumbledore was the one who erased her memories, and those are the same ones we’re still trying to get back, right?” She exhaled sharply, fingers drumming against the table. “So, I keep wondering…” A pause. Then, even quieter: “Would you say there’s a chance he’s controlling all of this?”

Evan blinked. “Come again?”

“You know Pandora keeps having dreams and prophecies, but she also keeps saying only half of them reach her. Like they come in pieces, which never used to happen.”

“You’re losing me, Marls.”

Marlene leaned in, gaze sharp with something that bordered on real fear. “Is there any chance there’s another Seer? One that Dumbledore is controlling?”

Evan opened his mouth. Closed it.

She wasn’t done.

“Because think about it — even that thing that happened with Alice and Frank. Why would You-Know-Who want a baby dead?”

“What do you want to do?” Evan held his breath.

Marlene’s gaze was steady, unwavering. “I think it’s time we send Snape in as a spy. Let him play the weird nerd. Let him eat out of Dumbledore’s hand. Convince Moody we’re just a bunch of clueless teenagers who know nothing.”

Evan squinted at her. “You want to let Snape loose in the Order?”

“I heard Slughorn wants to retire,” she said, arching a perfectly unimpressed eyebrow. “Snape could teach.”

Evan exhaled sharply, shaking his head in something close to reluctant admiration.

Marlene fucking McKinnon.

The Lion King. The Legend.

Regulus had been up and about for exactly nine days — each one spent berating Potter, shouting at everyone, sulking in black, hiding from his mother, and ignoring Lily.

He had been exhausting at sixteen the first time, but the second time? Absolute shite.

And worst of all, he kept asking Evan about Barty in a way that was starting to make Evan suspicious. Almost like he had a crush on him.

If Regulus Black — after all this — had decided to develop a crush on Barty Crouch Jr., Evan was going to beat the ever-loving shit out of him. He had given them seven fucking years to get together. Seven years. They didn’t? Oh well. Not Evan’s problem. This was his time.

Potter, of course, was walking around like a kicked puppy.

“Let’s play Truth or Dare,” Evan announced, stepping into the sitting room with a tray of booze. Should he tell them he’d spiked the alcohol with Dora? Nah.

“What is that?” Regulus asked, eyes narrowing.

“Muggle game,” Evan said smoothly. “You answer questions or complete dares. If you refuse, you drink.”

“But he can’t drink,” Potter started protesting immediately. “He’s sixteen — I mean, in his memory, he’s sixteen. I don’t think it’s right. Maybe a glass, fine, but—”

“Give me that wretched bottle, Rosier,” Regulus snapped, already reaching for it.

Regulus downed a large gulp, some of it spilling down his throat and onto his clothes. Potter made a wounded noise, somewhere between scandalised and desperate, like he was ready to wrestle the bottle away from him.

“I’ll start,” Evan declared, setting his glass down with a lazy flick of his wrist. “Make it easier for Reggie. Someone give me a dare.”

Mary’s eyes gleamed with mischief. “Oh, I’ve been waiting for this one.” She leaned forward, all sharp smiles and wicked delight. “Always so composed, Lord Rosier. Always choosing truth. Let me play with you a little.”

Evan merely smirked.

“I dare you…” Mary drawled, taking her time, “…to snog Potter. Since your boyfriend and his already made out, I reckon it’s only fair.”

Regulus made a strangled noise. “You have a boyfriend?” His face twisted in sheer disbelief before his mind caught up to the rest of the sentence. “And I — I kissed him? Who is he?”

“Didn’t I tell you, love?” Evan’s voice was smooth, amused, downright cruel. “Me and Bartemius are going steady.”

He barely spared Regulus another glance before shifting towards Potter, leaning in close, voice lowering just for him.

“Listen here, this is my revenge on Regulus,” he murmured, lips brushing Potter’s ear. “So if you want a reaction out of him, you’d better snog the life out of me, Potter.”

Then he grabbed him by the front of his ridiculous jumper and kissed him.

It started off as a show, something exaggerated and mocking — but then, somehow, it wasn’t. Let’s give Reggie a show, no?

Because Potter was warm and solid under his hands, and his lips were soft but insistent, and oh, fuck, the bastard was good at this. His fingers curled around Evan’s waist, steady, sure, dragging him closer as he deepened the kiss. The way Potter kissed was intoxicating — urgent, playful, teasing, all at once.

Was this how he snogged Reggie, too? He kinda got it.

Evan had meant to keep this brief, had meant to pull back quickly just to see the look on Regulus’s face, but — oh.

Oh.

Potter’s fingers had slid into his hair, tilting his head just so, and suddenly Evan was opening his mouth with a soft, involuntary sound, letting Potter take.

It was hot and heady and completely, utterly unexpected.

And then Regulus made an indignant, scandalised noise from across the room, and Evan remembered himself.

He pulled away with a sharp inhale, blinking rapidly.

“Well,” he said, voice only a little breathless. “Wasn’t expecting that.”

Potter grinned, all smug and triumphant, as if he knew exactly what he’d done.

He turned to look at Regulus, who looked seconds away from either cursing them both or throwing himself out of the nearest window.

Regulus was going to kill them.

Perfect.

“I’m not playing this game. This is stupid,” Regulus announced, scrunching his nose like the very idea of fun personally offended him. Then, after a moment, his gaze sharpened, turning to Evan. “And since when are you and Barty together?” His voice was carefully measured, but his eyes betrayed his irritation.

And then he turned on Potter.

“And you,” he snapped, pointing an accusatory finger, “you keep going on about ‘Oh, Regulus, my love, we’ve been in a very loving relationship before you lost your mind,’ and now you’re kissing my best friend?”

Regulus stood, crossing the room with all the regal entitlement of a king approaching his subjects. He stopped just in front of Potter, looking down at him with barely disguised disdain.

“Do you know who I am?” he demanded, enunciating every syllable like Potter was particularly slow. “I am Lord Regulus Arcturus Black, the heir of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. You do not get to treat me this way. Am I an amusement to you?”

Evan was almost certain Potter just came in his pants.

The noise he made — somewhere between a choked gasp and a whimper — was embarrassing. His entire face, along with the exposed skin of his neck, had gone an impressive shade of red. He said absolutely nothing.

Regulus sniffed, unimpressed. “I expect a dozen flowers and new jewellery by tomorrow morning just for this.”

Then, finally, he turned back to Evan, his expression softening just a fraction. “I’m glad, by the way. It was bloody time you and Barty stopped that nonsense and got together.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then—

“Marry me,” Potter said, collapsing onto the sofa next to Evan in a dramatic swoon.

Chapter Text

No one has to know. No one.

They would think of him differently, surely.

He wasn’t tragic enough, not beautiful and wretched and devilish — not like Sirius, not like Regulus. He lacked that poetic ruin people seemed to crave, the kind that made destruction look like art.

Others — other addicts — could do it with meaning. Make it grand, perfect, a tragedy with appeal. But not him.

No, he was down bad, rotting from the inside out. His spine should have been made of dark smoke curling around his lungs, choking him from within. He wasn’t allowed to be more than this.

Fuck.

He should have run when he had the chance. Now James was watching him. Monitoring him. And worse — James was sure Remus would fucking snap.

And maybe he would. Maybe he should. Maybe he deserves it.

Because he was drunk. Not in the way that made him sexy. Just in the way that made him useless.

And he was drugged up. And no one could ever know. Not even Snape had noticed there was morphine missing. Stupid fucking cunt. Useless bitch.

Fuck. Shit.

His bones were too wrecked for this war. And he was in a house he had no business being in.

And why? Because Sirius had asked him, of fucking course. And then Sirius had gone and gotten himself fucking sent to Azkaban.

Fuck.

He needed more morphine.

Shit.

Maybe if he died, then he’d finally be beautiful — worthy of poetry, of whispered ballads soaked in blood and regret. Maybe Sirius would even mourn him.

Now that was a nice thought.

Sirius, broken. Sirius, unravelling, his perfect face twisted in agony, lips forming his name in gasps between sobs. He would blame himself, and yes, that would do. Let the bastard rot in his own grief. Let him claw at the dirt, scream at the sky, beg the stars to make Remus whole again.

Because Remus was done. Done begging. Done bleeding for the both of them.

So maybe… yes, more morphine. A brilliant idea. It felt so good, warm and floating, like slipping into the void with velvet hands cradling him. So easy. So…

Shit.

Is that Sirius’ face?

No. Something’s wrong. The hair is shorter, the eyes duller, like the light has gone out of them. The lips are thinner, lacking that infuriating, effortless smirk.

Not Sirius. The other one.

Regulus.

The ghost of a boy who should have died before Remus ever had the chance to touch him. And yet, Remus’ hand is moving, fingers grazing Regulus’ cheek, tracing the hollow beneath his sharp, starved eyes.

Dark.

Dark.

Dark.

Voices. Noise. Why is there always noise in this house?

His name, worn down by mouths that don’t matter, twisted on tongues he has no care for, dragged from lips that have no business speaking it.

He keeps his eyes shut. Lets himself drown in the way they talk, the way they fight, the way they never care. Because only the loud ones, the ones who burn brightest, are ever worth caring for. The moon is not a star, so it never burns.

“I’m reminding you, Miss Evans — I forgot the last three years,” a voice says, so close to Sirius’ but not enough. Too cold. Not deep enough. “I don’t know how to heal him.”

“You do know,” Lily — darling, brilliant, stupid Lily — replies, fierce and unyielding. “Don’t think about it. You’re a Master Potioneer. It comes naturally. I know you’ve forgotten things, but you love this — you must have started reading up on it long before—”

“We have to clean his stomach,” Regulus says, hesitant. Unsure. “Even if he wakes, that’s the most logical thing to do. I think I read… maybe last year — no, for you it’s four years ago. Something about a Muggle way of doing it. Right when I started looking into morphine, obviously.”

They are doing something to Remus. He can hear them. Still, he refuses to listen.

Someone leaves the room. The footsteps are soft, measured, but the scent of flowers lingers, then fades. Lily.

“I know you’re awake, Lupin,” Regulus says, matter-of-fact. “It’s evident from your breathing.”

Remus finally opens his eyes. “You look wrong,” he tells him.

Regulus arches an eyebrow. “I am aware, yes.”

And he does look wrong. Because Regulus died. And then he came back — wrong. Scarred. If Remus were a good man, he’d be the one looking after Sirius’ baby brother, not the other way around. He should be fussing over Regulus, helping with his fractured memories like Rosier and Lily, making sure he eats, reminding him of the books they used to read together.

Instead, Regulus is the one standing over him. Watching.

He’s thin. Alarmingly so. Mary had a name for it, didn’t she? An eating disorder.

Regulus Black was meant to be beautiful. And he was. And he was. People liked to say Sirius was more so, but Remus always disagreed. They were different kinds of beautiful. He’d never have dared to love Sirius the way he did without first acknowledging that Regulus was his own person.

So, yes — Regulus had been beautiful. And now, he wasn’t anymore.

Now, he looked like Remus.

Scarred. Too thin. Eyes too big for his face.

“I’m sorry,” Remus says. “It won’t happen again.”

Regulus shrugs. “It will probably happen again. Barty is an addict too, and from what Evan says… well, let’s just say I apparently have an alcohol problem.”

Of course. The three ugly ones of the group. The ones with the problems. Brilliant.

“I didn’t mean to give you more work,” Remus murmurs.

Regulus tilts his head, a flicker of something familiar — something from before the coma, before he forgot who he was. Something soft, understanding.

“I know, sweetie,” he says gently. “It’s all right. You’re all right. Miss Lily and I are looking after you. I’ll take care of you. And by the time Sirius is back, you’ll be just fine.”

Should he tell Regulus?

The thought gnawed at him, over and over. He wanted to. Kept wanting to. But no one else did. Lily insisted on not telling him too much. But he should know. He deserves to know. Sirius’ brother deserves to be happy, to be loved. He deserves to look at James and understand why he is so cherished.

“You saved us all,” Remus says, voice quiet but firm. “Do you know you saved you?”

Regulus shakes his head, slow and uncertain. So Remus was right.

“You called for your brothers.” Remus’ hand trembles as he takes Regulus’ own, fingers cold and thin. “Evan is a necromancer — he stopped the Inferi from tearing you apart. Sirius dove into the lake and pulled your body out. And Crouch…” He huffs a breath. “Shit, I don’t even know. But his magic is powerful — he turned himself into a phoenix just to bring you back to life.”

Regulus’ breath hitches. His lips part, his throat moves as he swallows hard. And then — a tear slips down his cheek.

The Black brothers should never cry. Remus cannot allow that.

Regulus’ voice wavers. “So it’s true? What they’re saying? Sirius likes me again?”

And oh — he looks so very small.

“You have no idea how much he adores you these days,” Remus murmurs, searching for his gaze, willing him to see the truth in his words. “He’s… he’s taken Barty under his wing, looking after Evan and Pandora. Playing nice with Snape. Making me play nice with him too — no, really, I sometimes play chess with the bloke.”

Regulus just blinks at him, as if that’s the most shocking part of all.

Remus huffs a laugh, though it barely feels real. “Right before they took him, he even tried making amends with your mother,” he smirks. “She sort of likes me, actually. Which is funny.”

Regulus hesitates. His fingers twitch in his lap. “Is he… oh, how do I ask this?” He looks lost, uncertain in a way that twists something sharp inside Remus. “Potter said we were in a romantic relationship before this happened. Is Sirius mad at me?”

Remus just laughs. “Oh, he’s bloody enthusiastic about it, actually. He’s already planning your wedding and everything. Mate, I’m telling you, he’s your number one fan.”

Regulus frowns. “Why?”

Remus exhales, shaking his head. “One of the reasons being that you and James aren’t shagging, because ah yes, ‘James Potter is such a gentleman’ and other nonsense.” He shifts, trying to get more comfortable. “I don’t know… I guess we all just like you two together. You let Prongs be smart, and he lets you be mean. Let’s be honest, not many people would allow that for the two of you.”

Regulus tilts his head, intrigued. “He lets me be mean?”

“Lets was the wrong word,” Remus flicks his wrist dismissively. “Reggie, be a dear and give me a smoke?”

Regulus does. Remus lights it, takes a slow drag. “Yeah, no, Prongs is down bad when you’re mean. In the beginning, he kept saying he’s his father’s son and likes his people a little rude and a lot more clever. But also… you’re a lot alike. You both care too much about people — even me.”

“You’re easy to care about,” Regulus says simply, dragging a chair beside Remus’ bed. He lights a cigarette, takes a slow drag.

“No, I’m not,” Remus chuckles, shaking his head. “I’ve never been easy to care for.”

Regulus looks at him, unwavering. “Nah, I don’t agree. And I dictate in this house, so… it’s decided. You’re easy. You’re nice. The rest can either fuck themselves or do what I tell them.”

Remus smirks. “You’re getting some of your memories back.”

Regulus blushes. “Some, indeed.”

“Tell me everything,” Remus says, voice almost giddy, like a schoolgirl with a secret.

Yes. He can do this. He can be here for Sirius’ brother. He can help. Be a friend. Be an older brother. Protect the little gremlin.

Regulus exhales smoke, tilting his head. “Evan would tease me.”

“I won’t.”

A pause. Then, hesitantly—“Did Potter and I… did we write letters to each other?”

Remus’ eyes widen dramatically. “Oh my Merlin! You remember way more than you’re letting on, don’t you?”

Clearly ashamed, Regulus just nods. “It’s not my fault. It happened the exact moment Evan decided to snog Potter.” He pauses, glancing away. “So we were corresponding… the last memory I have is after he and McKinnon saved Barty.”

Remus blinks. “So your memory isn’t stuck at sixteen anymore. It’s eighteen. Mate, that’s just a year ago!”

“Hush!” Regulus hisses, flustered.

Dear Sirius,

Sirius,

Oi, Padfoot,

Pads,

Evan Rosier said he’s pay someone to get this letter to you. I don’t know why he’s making me write this, but so be it.

Regulus is well, dandy almost. A little shit if I’m honest. I’d strangle him to death if I could. But I won’t. I’ll take care of him.

I talked to your star the other night. Big mistake, you see, it never answered me back. Such a posh star you have, dear. Has anyone ever told you that? Don’t let them.

You star shall only be mine.

Anyway, Prongs is not fine. But is he ever? He’s too much, and not enough and misses you like I miss my bones and Regulus misses his memories — so, as you can see, as a part of him is lost. But fear not, we must bring you back at last.

I miss you, too.

How is Crouch? Hope you are not snogging him again. Is he well? Did you killed him yet? Tell him I said hi.

His boyfriend is annoying me to no extend. Meaning you baby cousin is a bitch. Is that a family trait, dear?

Regulus is the only normal between you all lot.

Come back,

Moony.

“Your penmanship is atrocious,” Regulus remarks over his shoulder.

“Your boyfriend is atrocious at staying put,” Remus counters.

They look at each other. A long, knowing stare.

“You fancy my brother,” Regulus says.

“Yeah, so?” Remus pours himself some wine, unbothered. “You’re doing incest. Three months ago, your literal cousin had his mouth on your dick.”

Regulus freezes. His breath hitches. “I thought you said we weren’t shagging,” he says, voice going thin with panic.

“Still doing stuff.” Remus takes a slow sip of wine, savouring it. “Interesting how you’re not even trying to deny the incest part.”

Regulus huffs, waving a hand dismissively. “We’re, what, fifth cousins at most? It doesn’t count.” But he’s already pacing now, eyes darting as the weight of the revelation settles. “I didn’t know we… fuck.” His hands run through his hair, frustration seeping into every movement. “Absolute cunts, all of you, for not telling me.” He exhales sharply, shoulders tense. “And now he’ll… well, obviously he’ll expect things.”

“Good for you, mate,” Remus laughs.

“No!” Regulus is in full panic mode. “No! He can’t see me like this. Not a bloody chance. Even you said I look like shite. Fuck me!”

“I don’t think Prongs—”

“Yes, yes, James Potter is a very nice boy,” Regulus cuts in, rolling his eyes. “Whatever. This isn’t about him. It’s about me!”

Remus exhales, unimpressed. “You’ve got the exact same brand of dramatics as your brother.”

Regulus freezes.

His head tilts slightly, eyes narrowing at Remus in suspicion. A long pause. Then — “Roses.”

Remus blinks. “Excuse me?”

Regulus folds his arms. “Siri said you draw rather beautifully. You also play the pianoforte, no?” Remus nods, wary. “Right. Draw him some roses on the letter. He prefers purple roses. They’re rather rare, you see.”

Remus doesn’t answer, just stares at him, suspicious.

Regulus carries on, unfazed. “Draw the roses. Maman must have some watercolours in her study — use them to make the petals purple. And on the back, make him a list of songs that remind you of him.”

Remus frowns. “What are you doing?”

“I’m literally teaching you how to get my brother to date you, keep up,” Regulus snaps his fingers impatiently. “Yes, roses, painting, music. What else? Hmm… ah, yes. Find a way to get chocolate pudding to him. I don’t care how. Just figure it out!”

The idea of living with a disease, a mutilation of your body, for the rest of your life, something you can’t get rid of is more than just terrible. It bites your bones abnormally and destroys your muscles. And it happens every time, to the very last time, until you die.

And there’s nothing you can do about it. There’s no cure. Not only do you have a disability, but you are the person who represents a disability for those around you. You’re their missing leg, or the eyes that can’t see properly, the heart that doesn’t pump enough blood.

Most people wouldn’t know — or care — but James Potter is a guy with a lot of chronic problems. That’s why Remus prefers him for this sort of thing. James can’t see. He has asthma. Deviated septum. Terrible dermatitis whenever it’s a stressful situation.

He doesn’t fully understand, but it’s enough for Remus.

That’s how he knows, as it will be for other werewolves.

Most will never understand the idea of living with a chronic illness. Remus would prefer that no one ever understand that term.

Pain is one thing. Drug addiction can deal with it. They can solve this physical problem — or the feel of it, anyway.

But it’s more complicated than that. The meds in question come with low blood pressure, a bad heart, stomach pain, dizziness, nausea. Remus can’t keep more than a couple hundred grams of food in his system without vomiting.

And then you have to wake up every day with the same headache, right in the back of your head, on the right side. That’s your body’s signal that your blood pressure’s dropping. That’s how you know that even though your meds stop you from feeling broken bones, they’re destroying you in other ways.

There’s no end to being chronically ill. Some miracle cure. Or even some ritual that can stop it. Nothing.

“Hello,” James starts, waving a hand in front of the twenty-eight werewolves gathered before him.

Remus’ pack. Because Remus has a pack now, apparently. He’s an alpha now, apparently. Because Regulus Black wanted it. Because Barty Crouch Junior has the kind of old magick that could tear the world apart, but instead, he chooses to use it to tie people to nature.

James clears his throat. “Hi, I’m James.” He adjusts his glasses, offers a small, easy smile. “I know some of you have heard — or read — that I’m running for Minister.”

Nothing. Blank stares.

He exhales, undeterred. “I, ah… look, I’m not here to bribe you or anything. I’m not even here to ask you to tell your mates about it. We just…” He glances at Remus, then back at the pack. “Well, Remus mentioned you’ve been having trouble getting Wolfsbane.” A pause. A flinch. “And two friends of ours have finally finished making a year’s supply for you.”

Silence.

James shifts his weight, running a hand through his hair before pressing on. “I, ah… what I’m actually here for is to ask you some questions.” Another smile, this one more careful, measured. “Me and my Secretary, Lord Rosier, want to change some things. For everyone. Including you. But I don’t think it’s fair to make decisions without asking you what you actually need.”

“Free healthcare,” someone calls from the back.

Johnny. Fifteen. Remus notes it.

“Access to education,” Anne-Marie continues, voice steady. Mother of three.

“Jobs,” Vincent adds. Fifty-two. Widower.

James nods, scribbling furiously in his notebook. “What exactly about jobs?” he asks. “We were thinking of dismantling the pay gap. Lord Rosier is also working on an integration plan — he wants the Ministry to fund private firms that hire werewolves, vampires, and Veelas. Would that be something you’d be interested in?”

“I want to be an Auror!” Mick, nine years old, shouts.

James grins. “Brilliant! We’ll try to create a plan for civil service jobs as well.”

“Better healthcare for mothers,” Anne-Marie speaks again, firmer now. “Birthing rights. Fair treatment in hospitals.”

Remus exhales smoke through his nose before speaking. “Housing.”

James looks up. “Like social housing? Like Lily said the Muggles have?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry, but how exactly do you plan on pulling this off, kid?” Maverick asked, voice rough with exhaustion. Thirty-three years old, two dead kids, a wife in a coma. “All that shit needs money.”

“We already have the money,” James said easily, flashing a grin. “I just need to win and bring this in front of the Wizengamot.” He looked particularly smug, and that was never a good sign. “The funds have already been set aside, placed into an account specifically for this cause. By my partner — Regulus Black.”

Maverick stiffened. “You don’t mean…” But he didn’t finish.

James tilted his head. “The Malfoys have also shown… interest. They’re inclined to contribute to the fund — if I win. Lord Rosier has offered to personally pay for a new hospital wing dedicated to special magical blood cases. And my grandfather, Emperor Eman Shafiq — whose youngest sister had lycanthropy — is prepared to donate whatever sum Hogwarts requires to expand the curriculum.”

He leaned back, impossibly self-satisfied.

“So,” he added, ever so casually, “all I really need to do is win.”

When they were children Sirius used to help him with these chores. Sometimes even Peter. It was always strange for Remus to let James see him like this. James had a better life than the rest of them. So, Sirius and Peter had a right to see Remus in pain.

But Peter’s still in a coma. Evan will probably kill him the second he wakes up.

Sirius is in Azkaban. And, if Remus is anything to go by what James says, he looks bad and has paranoid behaviour.

So Remus has been left alone to bandage the areas where his muscles are tearing, ripping until all that’s left is living, rotting flesh, too much dirty blood and an odour that makes him want to vomit. The fabric of his skin has always been far too fragile for the life he had.

And, really now, how would he go to a new person and ask for their help in administering potion over his living flesh? Even Lily couldn’t tell Lily that.

“Ah, I found—” Regulus stopped, eyes narrowing. “…You.”

Remus didn’t even bother hiding what he was doing. Regulus was just as nosy as his brother.

“Severus is coming up,” Regulus informed him, stepping further into the room. “I wanted to speak with you both about something.” His gaze flickered over Remus, sharp, assessing. “You never asked for help. In a house with three Healers.”

Remus nodded, expression unreadable. “Sirius used to take care of this.”

Regulus hummed, unimpressed. “Unfortunately for you, that is not how I do things.”

A knock on the door.

At least Snape knew how to knock. Unlike the little gremlin.

“Enter,” Regulus commanded.

He was seeming more like himself each day.

Snape stepped in, expression carefully neutral, though his eyes flickered with something unreadable when they landed on Remus.

“Severus,” Regulus continued, already slipping into his full Little Prince persona, chin lifted, gaze cool. “From today, you will assist Remus Lupin with the side effects of his lycanthropy. It is a rather serious medical condition. His flesh is decaying. I must begin researching a way to counteract that.”

Snape, ever the obedient little dog, only nodded. “Indeed I will,” he murmured before dropping to his knees in front of Remus, slapping his hands together, and immediately setting to work.

Remus barely had a chance to process it before Regulus spoke again.

“Remus, sweetie,” he began.

Remus stilled.

He knew that voice. He knew that face. Sirius had that face whenever he wanted something.

Regulus smiled, all serene, before simply saying, “I wish for you to destroy the locket.”

Remus blinked.

“Pandora is too frail,” Regulus continued as if he were asking Remus to pass the sugar. “She’s having trouble with her visions. Evan’s necromancy is too dangerous to be tampered with alongside the potion in the locket. And Miss Lily agrees that my mind is not best suited for such things these days.”

His eyes darkened, his voice turning smooth, persuasive. “You have immunity. You shall do it.”

“Why?” Remus asked, frowning. “I’m sure Snape or Crouch — when he comes back — could create an immunity. They’re both strong enough.”

“Indeed they are,” Regulus agreed with an easy shrug. “But I realised something — you have a fondness for running from things.” His gaze sharpened, his voice quieter but no less commanding. “I won’t have that. I’m giving you something to do. Something I know you are capable of.”

A pause.

“We both know I’m not the lying type,” Regulus continued, voice low and deliberate. “That’s Dorcas and Sirius. I play differently. And I need you sane. So I’m giving you a task. That is all.”

Silence.

Remus studied him for a long moment, then finally asked, “Do you really intend to find out why my flesh is decaying?”

Regulus rolled his eyes. “Of course. Mother would kill me, then you, if you bled on her new sofa.” A pause. “We have a new sofa, by the way. In the drawing room. Cissa chose it.”

He smirked, tilting his head slightly. “And I might have mentioned you like playing the piano, so she’s looking into buying one of those as well.”

“There’s no need.”

“I beg to differ.”

Regulus leaned forward slightly, eyes keen, intent. “My memory is not intact. I may not remember being in a relationship with James Potter. But one day, I will. One day, I’ll remember I’m in love with your best friend. That matters to me.”

His expression softened just a fraction. “And you are also stupidly in love with my brother. That matters too. And you’re nice to Barty and Severus.” A faint smirk. “So, I’m making room in my home for you.”

“What colour?”

“Huh?”

“What colour is the new sofa?” Remus pressed, exasperated. “Since the walls are baby blue — very close to Sirius’ eyes — and—”

“Ember,” Regulus cut in smoothly. “Cissa said it was most fitting.” He handed Remus a cigarette with an air of calculated nonchalance. “She’d also like to ask how you’d prefer your room to be decorated. Or if you’d simply like my old room — which is now Sirius’ —to be extended.”

Remus was losing his mind.

“I don’t care about—”

“But I do,” Regulus interrupted, his voice simple, clinical. His dark eyes flicked up, assessing. “And you want me to like you, don’t you? It’s important that Sirius’ younger brother likes you, no?”

Remus swallowed.

Shit.

Slowly, he nodded.

Regulus smiled, something sharp and victorious. “Good. Then we’ll talk about the room.” He clapped his hands together, already moving on. “I’ve been thinking of oranges. Pandora says your aura is yellow — perhaps we can add that as well. She insists Potter is marigold and Sirius is a deep violet.” He tilted his head, considering. “I think we can do something very bright yet elegant.”

Remus closed his eyes briefly.

He was going to die in this house.

Mary had trouble sleeping most nights. So did Evan, ever since Barty had been taken. Remus had never been one for sleep, either.

So they simply sat — sometimes in silence, sometimes making small talk in the dim quiet of the sitting room, the world outside feeling distant, irrelevant.

Remus loved Mary very much. So much that, if he could, he would take her pain and bear it himself. He feared, deep down, that one day she would lose herself entirely.

Evan Rosier, on the other hand, was a bit of a dilemma. But Remus tried to understand him — because he could feel how deeply Evan loved Sirius.

“Miss McDonald,” Evan began, not looking up from his book, “would you mind if I did your hair one of these days? I must admit, I’m not as skilled as Barty — he’s been doing mine and Pandora’s for half our lives — but I know a trick or two.”

Mary blinked, looking vaguely amused.

“Is it really that difficult?” Remus asked, frowning slightly.

Evan regarded him carefully. “You’re Jewish.”

“I am,” Remus agreed. Then, after a pause, “Or, better said, my mother was.”

“Snape is Jewish,” Evan continued. Remus nodded.

“Would you say people regard you differently when they find that out?”

Remus hesitated. Then sighed. “I suppose, sometimes, yes.”

Evan nodded once, as if that confirmed something for him. “Me and Mary don’t get that — the feeling of people looking and not knowing the second they see us.” His voice was calm, measured. “For a Black person, hair is important. It’s cultural. It’s also an intimate practice. And for a woman of colour, it’s especially important to feel beautiful.”

Mary arched a brow, trying to make light of it. “Are you saying I’m not fit enough, Rosier?”

“No,” Evan said, shaking his head. “I’m saying you have a white mother who never cared to learn about your hair and skin. Which is why I want to help.” His voice was steady, but there was something softer underneath. “All women are beautiful. I just wish to help you feel as much.”

“What would you do to it?” Mary asked, her voice small, uncertain.

“Anything you want,” Evan replied easily. “But I remember in school you used to wear it in a ‘fro, and I rather think it suits your face nicely.”

Remus nodded in agreement. If a new hairstyle would make Mary smile more… hell, he’d even be down to try doing it himself.

“I always wanted highlights,” Mary admitted, almost shyly.

And oh.

Remus remembered.

The girls had a whole plan once — to match their hair in some way. A little rebellion, a little fun. Then Marlene, in true Marlene fashion, had gone ahead and dyed hers pink without waiting for Mary and Lily.

But Evan sensed something, his lips twitching into the barest hint of a smile. “Tell you what,” he said, tilting his head. “I think a bubble gum pink would match Marlene’s soft blush rather well. Maybe we can even get the rest of the girls to match you in some way.”

Mary beamed.

Remus hadn’t seen that smile on her in over a year.

“Bubble gum is exactly the colour I’ve been thinking of,” she said, eyes bright.

“Perfect,” Evan responded smoothly. “Lily can go soft violet, Dorcas a deep purple, and Dora — hot pink.”

Mary laughed, a sound lighter than Remus had heard in far too long.

Maybe it wasn’t so hard to understand why Sirius cared so much for his baby cousin. After all, Evan Rosier cared for everyone around them.

Chapter Text

Orion Black was fourteen when he wedded his cousin Walburga. She had been four and a half years his senior. Eight man had to keep her down, tied to the bed, for him to rape her on their wedding night.

She never told this story to Sirius. But he found out anyway.

Euphemia had once overheard him sobbing — muffled and desperate — about missing his mother, about loving her despite everything. And she had told him the truth.

Told him how Walburga Black’s soul had died on her eighteenth birthday.

Cygnus, her brother, had never violated his wife. Had never raised a hand against her. Not out of kindness, but out of fear — because she was a Seer, and he knew better than to provoke the wrath of someone who could see the future. He did however, kept hexing her and throwing poison in her food.

But he had violated his eldest daughter.

Bellatrix.

For all her life.

Both in body and in mind.

And now, three cells to the left of Sirius and Barty, Bellatrix flinched as one of the guards touched her neck. She was shaking, breath uneven, hands clenched so tightly they trembled. A panic attack.

Bellatrix had almost killed Sirius some months ago. She had forced Barty to torture people.

But she had also been his oldest cousin — the one who had taken every Cruciatus meant for him, for Regulus, for her sisters, for the Rosier children. The same woman who had once spat at Crouch Senior’s face after he had beaten Barty in front of her. The same woman who had locked Lestrange Senior in a dungeon and starved him to death — because he had punished his own sons by denying them food and water.

So, because all of those things were true, Sirius spoke to her.

“Bella, have you seen?” His voice was low, steady. “Reggie’s in the sky tonight. He’s so beautiful out there.”

She went still.

And then, slowly, she stopped crying.

“Oh, the Lion’s heart,” Bellatrix exclaims, voice breathless, almost reverent. “Vega, baby, you’re right. He’s very beautiful.”

Sirius nearly chokes on the rush of emotion that slams into him.

Vega.

She hadn’t called him that in years. He couldn’t even remember the last time. It had been so long ago, so sacred, so holy.

“How is he?” she asks, voice quiet, almost eerie in its softness.

Sirius swallows. “Reggie has a boyfriend, Bella.”

She tilts her head. “I think Rabastan mentioned it.” A pause. Then, in that same unsettlingly gentle tone, “Do you think she writes about me?”

She.

Oh.

That almost hurt.

She. Rita Skeeter. Bellatrix’s greatest love. Her biggest heartbreak. Her soulmate.

They had never been officially together. If Sirius remembered correctly from Andromeda’s whispered confessions, they had kissed four times — before Cygnus found out, tried to kill her, and married her off to Rodolphus.

Rita had never spoken to her again.

Bellatrix Black. The purest Slytherin who had once fallen in love with a Ravenclaw half-blood.

“I’m sure she is—” Sirius starts, but—

Barty cuts him off. “Evan said they got her to help out.”

And just like that, Bellatrix looked sixteen again.

“That’s nice,” Bellatrix murmurs absently, but then her features sharpen, a wicked glint in her eye. “I think Luce is losing his mind.” She sings it, almost delighted.

That’s Sirius’ cue that Bellatrix is slipping back into her head.

“Malfoy’s a strong bloke,” Barty tries, though he doesn’t sound convinced.

Bellatrix tilts her head, considering something only she can see. “Siri, do you know we have a nephew?”

Sirius hesitates.

She continues “I hope he’ll be just as beautiful as Cissa.”

“I rather think Draco is a good star,” he tells her carefully. “Very fitting for Narcissa’s son.”

Bellatrix huffs, scrunching up her little button nose in displeasure. “His second name should have been Regulus, not Lucius,” she sniffs. “I told her as much, but you know Cissa never listens.”

Sirius smiles faintly. “I met Nymphadora,” he confesses. “She looks like you at her age. She’s a Metamorphmagus — very strong magic.”

Bellatrix giggles. Giggles.

“Of course she has strong magic, you silly little King,” she teases, shaking her head. “She’s Andy’s kid. She’s a Black.”

Tic-Tac, Tic-Tac.

The brain is moving, left to right.

Tic-Tac, Tic-Tac.

Change the mind and make some light.

Tic-Tac, Tic-Tac.

A strange song, perhaps — Sirius knew it was. Remus had told him as much, many times. But it was also the only thing Walburga ever sang to him and Reggie when they were little. Not that he would ever admit to remembering all thirty-eight lines of it.

Tic-Tac, Tic-Tac.

Do the spin into the night.

Tic-Tac, Tic-Tac.

Don’t let them fool you through the fight.

Tic-Tac, Tic-Tac.

“Black. Interrogation room. Stand up.”

A guard’s voice, sharp and impatient. One of the new ones.

New. Because Bella killed four last night. No one knows how she did it.

Barty had a seizure. The guards laughed instead of helping him. Sirius had screamed at them. Some of the older Death Eaters had shouted too — because Barty was only eighteen.

Bella had told them what would happen. No one listened. Four dead. She never even moved.

And now Barty is in the infirmary.

“Move faster, Black.” The guard shoves him forward, grip firm, bruising.

Tic-Tac, Tic-Tac.

Switch the dreams out of spite.

Tic-Tac, Tic-Tac.

They don’t know how to act around the knight.

Tic-Tac, Tic-Tac.

Interrogations varied. Sometimes it was the Aurors. Sometimes the mind healers. And very rarely, it was them — the three wizards and a witch in identical blue robes, each with a different accent.

Both Sirius and Barty suspected they belonged to something else, something secret, something beyond the Ministry’s standard reach.

Aaron — one of those blokes in blue — was the one who questioned Sirius the most. Like now.

He was blond.

Not Malfoy blond, with that ethereal, fairy-tale quality, hair spun from sunlight itself. Not Rosier blond, cold and near-white, as if carved from ice. And certainly not Veela blond, glowing, golden, inhuman.

No. Aaron was just blond.

And that detail told Sirius everything he needed to know. It meant Aaron was nothing special. No ancient bloodline, no old magic coiling beneath his skin. He was just a man. Normal. Almost Muggle.

And that made him harmless.

“I’d like to talk about your brother today, Mister Black,” Aaron says, voice even.

Sirius stills. They had yet to mention Reggie. Or James. Or Remus. Or Harry.

And that — that, he cannot allow. He cannot let them see even the smallest crack. Not about those four. That would be far too dangerous.

Sirius smiled — just the upper teeth showing. A trick learned from Narcissa.

He twirled a lock of hair around his finger. That one was James, back when he had long hair in fifth year.

Then, he looked up through his lashes. That was his.

“Why don’t we talk about something else, Aaron?” His voice was honeyed, smooth. He reached out — just the barest brush of fingers against the other man’s hand, fleeting, almost accidental. Then, a slight pout. Soft, inviting. “I feel so very lonely in here.”

It always worked. He knew how to flirt, how to seduce. His charm had never failed him.

But something was wrong.

Aaron’s expression shifted, his blue eyes unfocused, almost dazed. His breathing slowed.

Trance-like.

“You need anything?” the blonde asked, voice too eager, too pliant.

Sirius tilted his head, feigning surprise. “My roommate is quite ill,” he sighed, a small huff. “They’ve sent him to the infirmary, of course, but he’s just a poor, young boy.” A pause. A careful, deliberate exhale. “He’s an orphan, you know.”

Aaron leaned forward, eyes wide. “Oh.” His voice was reverent. Eager. “How can we help you, Mister Black? Please — tell us what you need. Anything.”

He wet his lower lip with the tip of his tongue, then traced the same spot with two fingers.

Maintain eye contact, Narcissa always said.

Pretend you’re looking men in the eyes, but actually watch their eyelashes, Walburga always told him.

“I hear the second floor is more… lenient,” Sirius murmured, blinking softly. “Better suited for two Lords like me and Crouch.”

Raise the chin — just slightly — to make the nose appear smaller.

“It has beds. No bars. And perhaps you’d even be able to visit me more often.”

Touch your neck, never your face, Aunt Druella always insisted.

Sirius dragged his fingers lightly along the column of his throat. “I’d be rather… pleased to see your handsome face more often.”

Aaron’s pupils were blown wide. His breath came quick and shallow.

“I’ll—” He swallowed. “I’ll arrange for it immediately.”

Sirius lowered his voice, close to a purr. “By the way… Bartemius is addicted to a Muggle medication. It’s called morphine. That’s why he collapsed. Perhaps you should get in touch with that brother of mine — have him send some over.”

Aaron nodded fervently, already standing. “Immediately, will do!”

It had never happened like this before.

Sure, he knew he could bend women and men to his will. He knew how to wield a smile, a glance, a touch. But never like this.

It was almost like—

Oh.

Could it be?

He had spent so many years fearing it, and now he was mimicking her. Spent a lifetime dreading that he was exactly like Walburga, and now he was using her own seduction tactics to keep Barty alive.

She had been the best at them. Even Narcissa couldn’t compare — Cissa was softer, gentler, careful never to make it obvious that she was charming men. Pandora feigned madness, played the fool, something whimsical, something out of her depth — so it worked differently. Andromeda… Andromeda had been exactly like Walburga. Until one day, she simply refused to be anymore.

Their family had always been split in two.

The mad thinkers, the ones who fought from the shadows: Bellatrix, Felix, Evan, Regulus.

The charmers, the pretty ones: Andromeda, Narcissa, Sirius, Pandora.

But they all got it from her.

From his mother.

Is he becoming her?

Can he truly bend these men the way she bent politics since she was eighteen? What was happening?

Oh. The second floor. So Lucius had been right. The cells were indeed locked. Walls and everything. Beds. Fuck, beds. Soft, warm — his body almost wept at the feel of it.

No shouting in the halls, either. But it still smelled the same.

Should he try for more? See just how far he could go?

If his fate — his curse — was to become her, then why not use it?

“Aaron,” he purred, the name slipping from his lips like silk. “Lover, I have something to tell you.” His voice was a hush, a whisper laced with something sickly sweet, something that melted into the skin. “There’s an invisible bag in my old cell. Illegal, of course. Would you be a dear and fetch it for me? I can’t let my baby brother’s best friend go without his little journal now, can I?”

Aaron, eyes unfocused, still caught in that trance-like state, nodded obediently. “Anything you need, Lord Black. Would you also like some tea? Something better than the water they give you? I can fetch tea.”

Sirius smiled. Not too much. Just enough to make it look real. Sincere.

“I like lavender,” he said smoothly. “Bartemius prefers ginger.”

The blonde nodded again, turned, and left.

So… it works? He can do this?

They could live through this if he just—

If he became her.

And what did that mean?

Had she once made the same choice? Had Walburga Black become something else — something inhuman — just to survive?

When they were really young, before school, — before James and Remus and… the other one —, before anything else, Sirius once fought really bad with Andromeda. Ironically, back then, she was his biggest enemy.

She used to be very high demanding. Made them learn Italian not only French, told on the younger ones to their parents, forced Sirius and Felix to play piano. Very prim and proper that one.

Felix Rosier was never his enemy but he was his rival. Which mattered very much for Sirius. It gave him purpose. He knew what to be and not to be in comparison to the other boy.

Because Felix was the perfect child and Sirius wanted to be everything his cousin wasn’t. So he was the rebel. It was different for them — Regulus, Evan and Dora were inseparable. But Sirius and Felix had always fought tooth and nail, bitter inside their being, both being the oldest male heirs was only natural.

Sirius had been told all his life that he was handsome, that he could break hearts in the same way his little brother broke minds. And it mattered. Because Regulus and Evan were clever, like Narcissa and Bellatrix. Sirius and Felix had to find other paths in life. It was stupid to try to outsmart the younger siblings who outclassed them.

Felix chose Quidditch and politics. Because he was a Rosier. Because he looked like the wet dream of every good society mother who wanted to wed off her daughter. He chose blood, dynasty.

Sirius, on the other hand, chose beauty, rebellion. So he could be different from the rest of the family, he could be special. It was important for him to be the peculiar one, the reckless one. He chose bones, he denied nobility.

But Felix died. Sirius doesn’t know who he is since Felix died.

“How’s Evie?” Sirius asks Barty.

He does that every time he catches the other boy writing in the spelled journal. Because once upon a time, Sirius left his brother. And Felix had taken care of Regulus.

So now, Sirius had to take care of Evan and Pandora.

“Philosophy,” Barty mutters without looking up.

Sirius laughs. Properly laughs — something he only allows himself when no guards are watching. “You keep saying that, mate, but it’s so weird. I don’t even understand what it means.”

Barty blushes. He’s the kind to flush down his neck and across his shoulders. Never burns in the sun — Slavic skin, different from the British — but embarrassment? That stains him red every time.

“I like philosophy,” he mumbles. Shrugs. “Ev’ likes it when I tell him… stuff.”

Sirius laughs again, full and unrestrained. “Are you aware you flirt exactly like my brother?”

Barty fidgets with the quill, eyes flickering away. “Don’t really think so.”

“What are you even telling him?” Sirius frowns, pretending very hard not to be amused. “Come on, come on — tell me as well.”

“Kant,” Barty replies, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Then, as an afterthought—“Who is a cunt, by the way. I’m hating on him now. Such a tosser.”

“Huh?”

“Muggle philosophy,” Barty explains, still scribbling in the journal. “Ours is too old-school, I reckon.” Another flick of ink. “Sure, I guess I read sometimes on Lyra Black or even Dimitri Alexandrov, but it gets boring fast. They all just repeat the same ideas.”

Sirius hums. “I think Remus fancies that Kant bloke you’re on about.”

Barty brightens immediately, eyes sharp with interest. “I can teach you,” he offers, smirking now. “Y’know, if you want to impress him.”

Sirius doesn’t respond.

If Barty wants to talk more, he will. But Sirius isn’t touching that. No fucking way.

Barty chuckles, low and knowing. “He said to look closely, because ‘the beautiful may be small.’” A pause. Then, with a grin — sharp, teasing — “I think it fits you.”

His quill scratches against the parchment, casual, careless. “I think Lupin sits in his room, brooding, drinking himself into a coma, thinking — ‘ah, yes, Sirius is so beautiful, he must also be dumb.’”

Sirius blinked. “At least I’m fit, you just look like shite.”

Barty chuckled, low and deliberate. “I still get more dick than you do.”

Sirius rolled his eyes. “I told you to quit that shit, mate. Just because you and Reggie like cock doesn’t mean I want to choke on it too.”

Barty waved him off, entirely unbothered. “Nah, you just want Lupin to rearrange your guts. Or the other way around, maybe. Who knows.”

Sirius frowned. “I don’t fancy Moony. And even if I did like blokes, I’d go for more… elegant ones. Quiet. Gentle. Bookish. The kind who likes good music.”

Barty rolled his eyes. “Sure, buddy.” A pause. “You just described Lupin, by the way.”

“I’M NOT GAY.”

“Evan said the same,” Barty smirked. “Now he’s asking me about Kant so he can wank properly.”

What.

“You’re shagging my baby cousin in that journal? Bartemius! Do I have to slap you?”

Barty licked his lips, slow and mocking. “Please do, it gets me hard.”

“That’s disgusting,” Sirius scrunches his nose.

“You’re the fool anyway,” Barty regards him coolly. “I never… I don’t know, cared what someone’s got in their pants. Who the fuck cares anyway? I think — maybe this is just me — but I think if you fancy someone just because they have a cunt or a dick, that’s useless. Means you don’t fancy them at all. Not really.”

That sounded uncomfortably close to what James always said to him.

More crude, of course. But similar.

“And look, I like that Evan’s a bloke, but I also wouldn’t give a shite if he wasn’t,” Barty continues, voice even, thoughtful. “’Cause it’s about the person, I reckon.”

Sirius just listens. He doesn’t want to get into this conversation. Especially not with Crouch.

“But sure,” Barty goes on, undeterred. “Keep telling yourself whatever you want. Evan did the same, and it just fucked with both our heads.”

For the briefest moment, something worn flickers in Barty’s eyes.

“He ‘experimented’ —” Barty practically spits the word, like it leaves a bad taste. “Whatever the fuck that even meant — such a strange term, I keep saying it. And in the end? He’s with me now. So all that self-hating was for nothing, I’d say.”

Then, a shift. A sharper look.

“And you know,” Barty isn’t done. “For all you say about Regulus being a coward, he was never ashamed of fancying Potter.” He shrugs. “Afraid? Yeah. But ashamed? Never.”

He leans forward slightly, voice quieter now. “And Lupin… he’s too nice of a bloke to deserve someone being ashamed of wanting him.”

It always starts that way. And Sirius has had enough. He doesn’t even understand why he’s like this, why he’s reacting like this.

One moment he’s being sarcastic, making jokes at Barty’s expense, trying not to think about where he is, about the fact that his little brother doesn’t remember that Sirius came home for him, that they’re okay now. He’s trying not to think that Regulus is probably scared, and he’s shaking — because he always shakes when people don’t see him.

And in the next…

Something’s wrong with Sirius. Always has been. He doesn’t understand why he does that. And he doesn’t know how to calm down without James. Because only James can calm him down.

He’s suffocating. His chest is heavy. There’s too little air. Repeated, back and forth movements, swaying his torso, shoulders and head.

When he was little, some older kids said he was crazy, that’s what crazy people do. The madness — the Black curse.

He doesn’t understand.

And then….

Then there’s the other thing. Then there’s the ugly part of him. The part that nobody should see, know, feel. Because Sirius Black is beautiful. And if he’s not, then he’s nothing.

Back to face. Counting backwards in German from twenty to zero. Back to face.

Dry lips biting nails, biting and tearing the skin around them to blood.

And then the other — other, other, other — thing. The ugliest. Skin. Sirius Black peels the skin off his arms with his fingernails. Normally he can control it.

But now, here? Here it feels dirty. It’s dirty here. The skin is dirty. The skin must come off. That skin.

Sirius wants another skin.

“Siri?”

Is that — Barty’s voice?

“Siri, I won’t touch you, but I’ll sit next to you,” the voice says — steady, careful. Measured. “Not on the bed. Just the floor. Right here. Can you follow my voice?”

Sirius thinks he nods. But where is he? Where is he?

“Don’t close your eyes,” Barty says, firmer now. “Find a point on the wall. Look at it.”

A hum. Then—

“Reggie gets like this sometimes, too,” Barty murmurs. “He says Muggles have a term for it. Something… compulsive. Obsessive. Something like that.”

Should he try counting in French?

No. No. No.

French is dirty. French is Black. French is—

“Tell me your favourite prank,” Barty says, voice dipping lighter, coaxing. “I always liked your pranks.”

Sirius’ throat is dry, his mind still fraying at the edges. But somehow—

“Carpet.”

Barty’s tone shifts — brighter, almost excited. “Carpet? You have a prank with a carpet?” A beat. Then, softer— “Tell me more. Tell me everything, Siri.”

Sirius doesn’t respond.

He can’t respond.

Because if he speaks, Barty will know. He’ll see. He’ll realise how dirty Sirius is. How ugly.

“What’s your favourite constellation?” Barty asks instead, voice light, unbothered. “I obviously like Leo best. Such a sad story, too. Hercules should have never trapped the lion, you know.”

“Moon.”

Barty hums. “You like the moon, love?”

Something in his voice is softer now. “I like the moon too.”

A pause. Then, casually— “My mum is… was Romanian. Did you know that? Romanians like wolves.”

Sirius stills. Stops moving.

“They do?”

“Of course.” Barty’s voice is easy, steady, like this is all just an ordinary conversation. “Wolves are precious. Sacred. There was a god — before Romania was Romania, before the Romans colonised them… us.” A breath. “He took the form of a wolf to go into battle. I think wolves are exceptional.”

Sirius swallows. The words come without thinking. “I miss Moony.”

“And Prongs,” he adds, because that is easier.

A beat. Then, quiet—“Even Peter sometimes.”

Barty doesn’t mock him. Doesn’t tease. He just says, “Romanians used to take care of their wolves. There are lands out there where beasts are loved.” A pause. “Like you take care of Remus.”

Sirius frowns. “I do?”

Barty smiles. Sirius can hear it in his voice.

“Of course you do,” he murmurs. “That’s your talent, love. You take care. Reggie learned it from you. And I —” a small huff, almost fond, “— I learned it from him.”

Barty stands up.

Why?

Why?

Are you leaving?

Will you leave me too?

Regulus wouldn’t let you leave me.

He came back.

“I have some of my water left for the day,” Barty says softly. “Will you let me touch your face and hair? So I can clean it?”

But he’s dirty. And Barty — Barty has beautiful hands. Hands that shouldn’t touch something as disgraceful as him.

But — water. Water means clean. Water means he’ll be able to sleep.

“Please.” The word feels foreign, scraped raw from his throat. But he forces it out anyway.

Barty kneels. Starts cleaning him, fingers gentle, careful. He speaks as he works, voice a steady hum, painting stories into the air.

He tells Sirius about wolves. About witches who run naked through the Romanian forests, chanting under the moon.

He promises to ask Evan for a wandless spell for water. Soap too, if he can manage it. And then, because Barty always exaggerates, he insists — insists — that Evan will find the spells. That Evan, too, learned to care from Sirius.

Regulus, also known as Alpha Leonis, is the brightest star in the constellation Leo, the Lion.

While Regulus itself is not directly tied to a specific Greek myth, the constellation Leo is often associated with the Nemean Lion, one of the Twelve Labours of Heracles (Hercules). In this legend, Heracles is tasked with slaying the Nemean Lion, a beast with an impenetrable hide. After defeating the lion, he wears its pelt as a protective cloak, immortalising the creature in the night sky as the constellation Leo, with Regulus shining as its most brilliant star.

The name Regulus is derived from the Latin regulus, meaning “little king” or “prince,” reflecting its prominence as the alpha star of Leo and symbolising the heart of the celestial lion. The star is also known as Cor Leonis, meaning “Heart of the Lion.”

In spiritual traditions, Regulus is often linked to themes of leadership, courage, and nobility. Its name, meaning “little king,” carries connotations of royalty and divine authority. Spiritually, Regulus may be seen as a guiding light, inspiring individuals to embrace their innate leadership qualities and act with integrity. Some interpretations also connect Regulus with the concept of spiritual sovereignty, encouraging individuals to rule over their own destinies with wisdom and compassion.

Regulus has been observed since antiquity, holding significance in various civilisations, including the Babylonians, Egyptians, and Greeks. Its striking brightness and position within the Leo constellation have made it an important feature of the night sky, influencing cultural narratives, celestial navigation, and astrological traditions.

In ancient times, Regulus played a crucial role in navigation, serving as a reference point for sailors. Its historical importance extends to astronomy, where it has contributed to our understanding of stellar evolution and the mechanics of the cosmos. Regulus remains a source of fascination, inspiring poets, astronomers, and astrologers alike, and deepening humanity’s appreciation for the mysteries of the universe.

For the ancient Greeks, Regulus was often regarded as the heart of the celestial lion, a creature embodying strength and power. As the brightest star in Leo, Regulus was seen as the core of this mighty beast, symbolising its central role in the constellation. The Greeks admired the lion’s courage and viewed it as a symbol of royal authority and strength.

On the other hand, for the Egyptians, Regulus held deep religious significance. The star was associated with the goddess Sekhmet, a fierce and powerful deity depicted with the head of a lioness. Sekhmet, the goddess of war and healing, was known for her ferocious protection of her devotees. Regulus’ position in the heavens was believed to represent Sekhmet’s watchful eye, guarding and guiding her people.

James Potter, the Lion King, the Shafiq Egyptian Prince, had his own heart of the lion. And Sirius had always known it would come to this.

It’s all so deeply complicated, and it’s also entirely his fault. Which is exactly why he has to go along with their relationship now.

Because Regulus wrote to him all through their first year. And Sirius never responded. Didn’t want to respond. Which made James curious. Made James steal the letters, reading them, pestering Sirius to write back.

Which also led to an eleven-year-old James Potter becoming utterly infatuated with a ten-year-old Regulus Black — whom he had never even seen face to face at that point in time. That was how it all started. Sirius’ letters. The ones he hadn’t cared about. The ones James had loved.

So, because this is all so much his fault — because James fell in love with Regulus through those stolen words — Sirius has now felt a certain responsibility over their relationship.

And now, Regulus doesn’t even remember loving James. Doesn’t remember them.

Which means both of them are hurting. And even that is Sirius’ fault.

He has to fix this. He has to put it back together. Make it whole again. Make it matter again.

“Crouch,” he calls across the dormitory. “Tell Evan to tell James to try with letters.”

“Huh?”

Sirius rolls his eyes. “What? They got together once through letters — why not a second time?”

“You still haven’t responded to Lupin’s letter,” Barty informs him. “I’ll tell Evan right now — if you write the letter. I want to see you write it.”

They lock eyes. In the end, Crouch wins.

“Okay.”

“Fine.”

Dear—

Oi, Moony,

See? I always told you you’d make a writer one day. And now I get to be the first to read your words. Should I feel special? You almost made me blush.

Yeah, you’d better take care of Reggie, do you hear me? I can’t possibly leave him just with James, now can I? You know how he gets — too sentimental. Speaking of which, take care of Prongs as well. You’re the only one I trust with that. And kiss Effy and Monty for me — baby Harry too!

No, I did not snog Crouch again. But, if you must know, he’s almost pleasant most days. Almost.

And yes, annoying you is, as I reckon, a family trait.

How are you handling things? Please spend more of those Rosier Galleons and write to me again — soon. I need to hear from you.

I miss you.

Yours,

Padfoot

P.S. I really liked the roses.

Chapter Text

Regulus had problems. Which wasn’t exactly a new experience for him or anything, but still — he had problems.

And it was, apparently, rather normal for a boy — a man — his age to find himself drunk because of said problems. Almost… quaint, in a way. Maybe Evan was right, and he did have some sort of addiction in that regard. He’d have to look into it. Another time.

So, he had apparently founded a third faction in the war simply because, as Evan so delicately put it, he was a “little shit who detested choosing only one side.” Then he had gone off and died. Then his stupid, foolish brother and his dearest friends had decided to bring him back to life. All very dramatic of them, indeed.

And of course — because of course — he had lost his memories, as though he were some frail mistress from one of Narcissa’s Victorian erotic novels. And, because he was Regulus Black, and his life had always been absolute shite, he was now somehow more unattractive than he had ever been, his memories were returning out of order, and he had developed a drinking problem.

Which was brilliant, truly. He adored his new life. He really ought to kill himself again.

But honestly, did these memories really have to return in such a disorganised fashion? He was sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, and nineteen all at once. He couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t. And everyone expected him to be exactly as he had been before. They even insisted that he was. Terribly inconsiderate of them, really.

His house was full of people. Sirius and Barty were in Azkaban. Everyone seemed convinced he was some kind of hero, which he most certainly was not.

And, to make matters even worse, his older self — this other, missing part of his life — had apparently been in a romantic (and possibly sexual) relationship with James Potter. Who, in turn, acted as though they were long-lost lovers reunited at sea. And, to top it all off, knew exactly how he took his coffee.

Regulus kept remembering… things, which was deeply unnerving. Letters. An almost dying Barty on a kitchen table. Some… well, one intimate moment. But for the love of Merlin, he could not remember James Potter falling in love with him.

It was all Sirius’ fault.

No, but really — what was he supposed to do with the information that James Potter knew how to suck dick? Why did the universe hate him this much? He was well and truly fucked in the end.

Of course, he didn’t remember Potter fancying him. No, that would be far too kind. But obviously, he did remember the face James made when he moaned around Regulus’ cock. Brilliant. Fascinating information.

He’d have to commission someone to write his life story — just so he could bloody read it.

Lily Evans liked him. Absolutely disgusting. Utterly pathetic of him. She even wanted to take him on picnic dates.

Oh, and he was apparently the legal father of her child.

Which, to be fair, was the only logical part of this entire mess. Potter was far too reckless to be trusted with the paperwork for a goldfish, let alone a child.

“Should you be drinking? You know, since your memory is sixteen.”

Potter, of course, had never heard of knocking. Actually, no — he had heard of it. Just never in relation to Regulus’ study. Were they living together? Was this also his room? Were they acting like a… like a normal couple? Terrifying.

“Should you be breathing?” Regulus tilts his head.

Potter merely scrunches his nose in an annoyingly adorable way. Regulus wants to slap him. And snog him.

“I like it when you’re mean to me,” James says, stepping closer to Regulus’ desk.

“And I like it when you do not speak,” he retorts.

That, too, is a problem. Because Regulus is always mean. He’s been told — by everyone aside from Evan and Barty — time and time again that he’s too cold, that he doesn’t understand people.

But Potter likes it. Which is a problem in itself.

Fuck. He needs a drink. Possibly a wank as well.

He wanks too much these days… ever since that bloody memory came back. Why is Potter so fucking fit, anyway?

Yes. A drink and a wank. That would do him good.

“I remembered the book,” he says suddenly. “About reading it, I mean.” He glances at James. “You were right — it is my favourite. I started reading it again.”

Potter’s face splits into a wide grin, all teeth. He moves to sit on the chair next to Regulus’ — the one he’d placed there for Miss Lily or Evan — but stops short, grimacing as a pained sound escapes him.

Regulus frowns. “What is happening? Potter, are you dying?” He isn’t sure how he’s supposed to help.

“I… I have back problems,” James admits, shifting uncomfortably. “Been having them for a year or two now. Some days they’re just bad, I suppose.”

Regulus arches a brow. “And I was so in love with you, as you insist, that I never tried to heal it?”

Potter looks smug. Oh, no.

“I have a cream,” James continues, far too pleased with himself, “but obviously, since it’s my back, I can’t apply it myself.”

Regulus snorts. “You should have asked Miss Lily. Or Severus.”

“They’re both allergic to nuts,” James says simply. “It’s one of the main ingredients. Barty helped — until he and Sirius were taken.”

“Is this your way of hitting on me?” Regulus asks.

He doesn’t add that, if it is, it’s definitely working.

“No, love, don’t worry about me,” Potter says with a grin. “Tell me more about Frankenstein.” He attempts to sit again, wincing slightly.

Regulus frowns. This man claims they were — are — in a committed relationship. Regulus Black does not remember James Potter falling in love with him. He does, however, remember his fifteen-year-old self pining over Potter.

He remembers dreaming of becoming a Healer. Some days, he even remembers healing people in the war.

Just yesterday, he had remembered the exhaustion, the worry, and the relief of saving Mary Macdonald.

It’s almost like… well, he’s never been one to believe in fate. But maybe — just a tiny bit — he believes that his blood, his legacy, was always meant for this. He remembers wanting to heal. And his blood tells him that’s what he is meant to do.

Blood never lies — not to him.

“Where is the cream?”

Potter blinks. “I think you still have some left in the drawer under the coffee table.”

“Can you stand on your own?” But Regulus doesn’t wait for an answer — he simply starts dragging him up.

Oh. Potter is lighter than he’d imagined. Warmer too.

“Can you lie on your chest for me?” he asks once they’re at the sofa.

James doesn’t reply. He just does it. No answer, no nothing.

Potter can be quiet?

This is… rather pleasant. Regulus is fond of his constant talking, but there’s something nice about being the one who speaks for once.

James was sprawled across the couch, and the colour of it complemented his rich complexion rather nicely. Like this — his head resting against a plush yellow pillow — he looked soft. Young.

Which brought Regulus to his next problem.

Should he take Potter’s shirt off? Should he ask him to take it off? Should he—

“Ahm.” James cleared his throat. “This usually works better if I’m not wearing clothes… Not that I’m implying — no, what I mean to say — well, you see, when one applies cream to someone’s back—”

“Take off your shirt,” Regulus instructed, cutting off the rambling. “Or do you need help with it?”

Would you let me undress you even if I’m not the person you fell in love with?

James hesitated for only a second before asking, “Could you help? If it’s not too much of a burden?”

A burden.

Did he really think that? How very wrong and unfortunate.

Regulus moved carefully, his hands slow as he pulled the shirt over James’ head. Over the glasses.

“Would you like me to put your glasses on the table?”

James tilted his head just enough for their eyes to meet. He looked… sad. Had Regulus asked the wrong question? He reached up, took off his glasses.

He looked wrong without them.

“Put them back.” The words left Regulus’ mouth before he had time to process them.

James melted. Regulus felt the shift in the sofa, the way Potter seemed to unravel at that.

Fuck. What did he just do this time?

“With glasses, love?” James asked, voice laced with something unbearably hopeful.

Regulus licked his lips, swallowed. “Please and thank you, James.”

And that did it.

Glasses back on. Regulus’ hands on James’ back.

It wasn’t sexual. It didn’t need to be.

This was about healing. And healing was about caring — nothing more.

Healing was… well. Regulus would really like to know if he was truly as skilled as his memories insisted he had been. If he could trust that version of himself.

So his movements weren’t sensual. They shouldn’t be. This was about easing someone’s pain. About giving something, rather than taking.

In exchange, he told Potter about a potion he’d been reading about. Asked questions. They had a pleasant conversation — unexpectedly pleasant.

Regulus didn’t drink that evening anymore.

It happened early in the morning.

Why did bad things always happen to bad people in the morning? He couldn’t understand it.

Here’s the thing — Regulus was actually very scared that day. Would he ever admit it? No, of course not. Why would he?

They had been eating breakfast, for Merlin’s sake, when it happened. He hadn’t even had time to process it.

A loud sound. Everyone but Severus froze. Then — Kreacher, dragging a bloodied Rabastan into the room.

Rabastan Lestrange. One of Regulus’ oldest friends. They had shared a dormitory at school. Rabastan had followed him into this ridiculous third faction of the war that he had created. He hadn’t even wanted to — but he had done it anyway.

And, as everyone had told him, Rabastan was the one who tended to the wounded on the battlefield.

Rabastan Lestrange. His story was far more complicated than most knew.

As a child, he had been starved. That had been his and Rodolphus’ punishment growing up. Every holiday, they had gone days — weeks — without food. Days without water. That was torture. That was what shattered a mind.

Funny, really. Before all this, Rabastan had been quite the zealot when it came to pure-blood ideology. Regulus wasn’t sure what had changed — his own memories were too fragmented, too scattered — but something in Rabastan had shifted.

Which meant something important in the long run: acceptance could be taught, just as easily as hate.

Even funnier, if Miss Lily was to be believed, Rabastan had a crush on Mary Macdonald. A Muggle-born.

But none of that mattered right now. What mattered was this: Rab. Blood. On the floor. Such a nice floor, such a pity.

He had been attacked — bitten— by an unidentified werewolf. A pack had stormed Lestrange Manor, expecting to find people. There had been no one. His parents were long dead. Rodolphus and Bellatrix were in Azkaban. It had only been him.

Rabastan could have died. Or been turned.

Or — there was a very, very small chance — he could be saved.

Regulus had found notes. From his other self, his older self. Apparently, at some point, he had either been trying to cure lycanthropy or find a way to prevent it.

Was it even full moon? He’d only turn if it was full moon, right?

“It’s a full moon tonight,” Potter said. “That’s why Moony’s still not out of bed.”

Of fucking course it was a full moon.

“Potter, Evan, take him,” Regulus ordered. “Evans, Severus, follow me — we’re going to the hospital wing.”

And, strangely enough, they listened. Without a second word. Without a single question.

Did this happen often?

Were they always like this?

Was everyone actually listening to him?

How very strange.

Once inside the makeshift hospital room, he tested it again. Just to see what would happen.

“Don’t give him Wolfsbane, Evans.”

Lily dropped the potion, as if it had burned her.

That was all it took? His word?

“Explain to me what we’re doing,” Severus said.

Regulus flinched. Lit a cigarette. Exhaled. “I think we… I think there’s a chance to prevent lycanthropy.”

Silence.

Then—

“Tell me what you need,” Lily said.

“Blood from Lupin. About two vials. My research suggests Veela blood as well, which we don’t have, but—”

“But Seer blood should be close enough,” she finished his thought.

“Or better yet — necromancer blood. Let’s see if Lord Rosier is really the Grim.”

Severus was already preparing a vial. “Anything else?”

“If the notes I took before… well, before I lost my memories are correct,” Regulus allowed himself to glance at Rabastan’s body, still and pale on the cot, “then there’s a potion. Lowest drawer of the cabinet. It needs to mix with the blood — the other Regulus said the blood must be fresh.”

“There is no other Regulus,” Potter said.

“What?”

“It’s just you, without all your memories. There’s no other Regulus, nor will there ever be. You did this research.”

Regulus blinked.

Oh, fuck it.

He crossed the room in three strides, leaned down, and pressed the fastest, most chaste kiss in existence to James’ cheek — just near the corner of his mouth — then turned and yelled, “Evans, where’s my werewolf blood?”

“I’m running!” she shouted back.

By some miracle — and medicine — Rabastan Lestrange did not transform that full moon.

Nor did he ever.

Regulus Black found a prevention for lycanthropy.

More memories surfaced last night. Things that mattered. Things that were never meant to be forgotten. And, if he was right in thinking so, things he had never told a single soul.

He should start a journal. Take notes. Keep a record, just in case his memories disappeared again.

But that was a task for later in the day.

No — now he had things to do. People to destroy.

“Professor,” Regulus greeted as he was let into the office. “Or shall I say Headmaster? Although, I don’t believe I ever did.”

Dumbledore inclined his head. “Mister Black.”

“Lord,” Regulus corrected simply.

“Excuse me?”

“It’s Lord Black,” he said, tone mild but unwavering. “Of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black. Merlin’s descendants.”

He flicked his wrist lazily. “Can I smoke in here?”

“Please don’t,” Dumbledore said.

Regulus lit the cigarette anyway. “You informed Severus Snape that you couldn’t hire him due to lack of experience.” He exhaled slowly, smirking. “Why are you such a liar, Professor?”

“Mister Black—”

“Lord,” he corrected smoothly. “I only came to deliver these — documents proving Severus Snape does, in fact, have Potioneering experience.” He placed the papers on the desk with a deliberate flick of his fingers.

“You should not smoke in here,” Dumbledore said, voice calm.

“You should not erase your former students’ memories,” Regulus countered, tilting his head. “Mary Macdonald — ring any bells? Yes? Good. Then I expect Snape to be hired.”

“Mister—Lord Black!”

“Goodbye, Professor.”

And just like that, he was gone.

As he descended the stairs, he felt eyes on him. A girl was watching.

Had she been listening?

She looked… familiar. Did he know her? It felt like he did.

Her hair was a wild, light brown — not quite like Pandora’s, but close. Her eyes, though… bright blue, almost too sharp, like polished marble. She was dressed peculiarly, layers of flowing fabric in mismatched colours, giving her the air of someone who existed slightly out of sync with the world around her.

And then, suddenly, she was there — close enough to touch — grabbing his arm.

“Did she see it yet?” she asked, voice urgent.

Regulus tilted his head. “Do I know you?”

Her fingers tightened. “Did she see the prophecy?” Her eyes widened, unblinking, as though she could see something behind him, something beyond the present moment.

His breath caught.

She couldn’t be… could she?

Hadn’t she been expelled in fourth — no, fifth year? Hadn’t she disappeared after that? Could it possibly—

“Sybill Trelawney?” he asked, voice quieter than he intended.

She didn’t acknowledge the name. Only pressed further, fingers like iron around his wrist. “Did the girl see the full prophecy?”

Dumbledore had a Seer.

Fuck.

And he was keeping her hidden. Locked away.

Her grip tightened further, her nails digging into his scars. “The werewolf is dying. The Grim is not who you think it is. You must save them. You did before — died in that life as well. But now, in this one, you are back. Someone changed the timeline — so you must—”

Harder. Her fingers branding the skin beneath.

“—you must take care of the mother.”

She let go of his arm, her fingers slipping away as if the vision had drained the strength from them. A faint blush crept up her face, dusting her nose — almost schoolgirl-like, strangely out of place after the weight of her words.

“Tell the one who commands the dead to speak with Peter,” she murmured. “Rats see many things.”

And then — before Regulus could ask anything — she was gone.

Vanished. Just like that.

Regulus had many issues — particularly when it came to social norms.

Once, he and Pandora had trailed Barty for two whole days, their only goal being to catch him wanking. They’d wanted to make fun of him, to humiliate him just a little. No one had expected the bastard to be smug about it.

Then there was the time, when they were much, much younger — barely twelve — when he and Evan had spent an entire wedding holding hands. Let’s just say it had not ended well.

At fourteen, he’d caused a scene simply to get snogged by both Barty and Dorcas —an experiment, he had insisted, to “figure shit out.”

So, yes. Regulus was aware that his habits weren’t exactly what one would call socially acceptable. But this? This might just be the worst yet.

He tried to reason with himself. It was for research. He was attempting to… understand things. Maybe even trigger a memory or two.

But watching James Potter sleep soundly in the sitting room for the past two hours and twenty-one minutes?

That was decidedly not normal.

Potter, Regulus concluded, slept rather nicely. There was something strangely captivating about the way he did it — sprawled across the sofa, his chest rising and falling in an easy rhythm, a faint hum escaping him as he slept. His mouth was slightly open, likely due to that deviated septum.

Regulus found himself studying his face with far too much interest. Eight freckles. No — nine. Or perhaps the last one was a birthmark. Would he be allowed to touch it? That seemed like something one could do in a relationship, didn’t it?

He looked impossibly young like this. Not like a man who had spent the past two years fighting a war, but rather like a boy, exhausted and spent after a long Quidditch practice.

The most unnerving part? He smelled like Regulus’ shower gel.

Which raised several questions. Were they simply using the same one? Or — Merlin forbid — was James using his? If so, why? And if not, then was Regulus using James’?

And why was he sleeping in the sitting room in the first place?

Regulus was fairly certain his original hypothesis had been correct — he and James had been sleeping together in the study before all this. But why hadn’t Potter simply taken another room? Why hadn’t he said anything?

It should be his damn right to touch the boyfriend he didn’t even remember. He was Regulus Black, for Salazar’s sake. He had died in a cave, and then — by some stroke of madness or mercy — his favourite friend had decided to drag him back to life. If anyone deserved to touch that face, it was him.

So, he did.

His fingers ghosted over James’ skin, tracing the shape of his nose, the bumpy curve of it. James hummed in his sleep — a sound that was at once pleasant and insufferable.

“Can I kiss you?” Potter murmured.

The fool had been pretending to sleep all along. Brilliant.

Regulus’ life would be so much simpler if Potter were at least half as daft as he pretended to be.

Because that had always been the problem, hadn’t it? James Potter was clever — so clever that he intentionally made people believe otherwise. Very Slytherin of him, indeed. And realistically, Regulus knew he never would have fancied the boy if he weren’t his intellectual equal. He was a Black, after all. He deserved only the best.

And James Potter was the best.

A charmer. A Potter in every sense of the word, taking after his father’s ability to invent and manipulate magic, bending it in ways others wouldn’t even conceive. True intelligence wasn’t just being well-read; it was shaping magic itself, understanding it at its core. But James was also a Shafiq, like his mother — loyal to a fault, politically astute, prone to defying the norms that sought to confine him.

Every Black deserved the best. Blood was blood was blood. Powerful blood — no matter its origin — was always drawn to other magnificent magical beings.

That was why Sirius deserved nothing less than Remus Lupin. Why Narcissa and Lucius were so perfectly matched. Why Bellatrix’s marriage to Rodolphus had been a mistake — Rita Skeeter would have been a far more reasonable choice. And why Andromeda’s child possessed such staggering magical power.

So, of course, Regulus deserved the world.

The sun itself should have been his.

But James Potter was not a prize, not a victory to be claimed. He was something to be cherished, to be cared for. Someone who deserved love and respect in equal measure.

Because James was brilliant.

Just as brilliant as Regulus.

“Yes, we shall indeed conduct research on the snogging aspect,” Regulus declared. “If I don’t like it, you’ll have to buy me books. And persuade Miss McDonald to bake me her tiramisu again.”

James finally opened his eyes, laughter spilling from his lips. “That is the most you thing I’ve ever heard.”

Regulus tilted his head. “How did we kiss the first time?”

James stretched as he stood up. “We were playing that ridiculous questions game of mine. Both very drunk. You asked me if I’d like to kiss you, and… well, I sort of attacked you.”

“How very prim and proper,” Regulus mused, chuckling.

“I missed your smile,” James said. His voice was softer now. “I also missed you being nice to me. Don’t get me wrong — I have my own issues, and I know it’s not normal that I don’t entirely mind you being rude. But I like it when you’re nice too.”

Regulus inhaled deeply, steeling himself as he stepped closer. “So I do know how to be nice. How very quaint of me,” he murmured, lifting his hand once more to trace the curve of James’ nose. His fingertips barely brushed the skin. “I’m a bit tipsy now, if that helps.”

James smirked. “You’re always tipsy, love. At this point, I think it’s your natural state.” He leaned in, closing the space between them.

And because Regulus could not let Potter win — this time, for their second first kiss, he was the one to attack.

And it was slow.

Oh.

Was it always this slow? This nice? With Barty, it had been all teeth and claws, all sharp edges and reckless abandon. But this—this was different. Steady. Soft in a way that made his stomach twist. And James — Merlin, James — did this marvellous thing with his tongue, skimming over Regulus’ lower lip, teasing, coaxing. His hands settled on Regulus’ waist, just over his shirt, like some noble Lord touching his newly wedded bride for the first time.

Even his breathing did things to Regulus.

Regulus had never realised just how much one kiss could undo him. Or maybe he did, he just forgot it.

James Potter kissed as if he had all the time in the world, as if the sensation of lips pressed together deserved to be savoured, unrushed, explored with careful precision. There was no urgency, no desperation — only patience, a slow burn that spread through Regulus’ chest like a creeping fire.

The world had quietened, reduced to the soft press of James’ mouth, the warmth of his hands firm at Regulus’ waist. He was steady — always steady — even when Regulus felt as though he might tremble, as though something inside him might break apart from the sheer intensity of it all. James’ lips moved against his, teasing, coaxing, pulling Regulus into something deeper. His tongue barely brushed against the seam of Regulus’ lips, tentative and coaxing rather than demanding.

Regulus had been kissed before. By Dorcas once , by Barty more times than either of them could count, by Evan — yet he cannot remember that one. But none of those had felt quite like this. Those had been sharp, clumsy, edged with either performance or hunger. James kissed him like he mattered. As if the moment deserved reverence, deserved to be drawn out, indulged in.

Yes, James Potter was indeed made for Regulus Black. But was he made for James?

Regulus’ hands, usually so deliberate, hesitated before finally pressing against James’ chest. Not to push him away — no, never that — but to feel him. The solid warmth beneath his fingers, the steady rise and fall of breath. His pulse thrummed beneath Regulus’ touch, strong and unwavering, a reminder that James Potter was alive. That they both were.

He regarded that most young people should be snogged just like this. A very youthful feeling.

James hummed softly against his lips, the vibration sending a very nice shiver down Regulus’ spine. His fingers flexed where they rested on James’ waist, as if testing the reality of the moment. When James pulled back, just enough to let their noses brush, his breath was warm against Regulus’ skin.

“Well?” James murmured, voice laced with amusement. “Do you hate it?”

Regulus inhaled sharply, steadying himself. “It is… tolerable,” he said, voice lighter than he expected. “Kiss me more so I’ll know for sure.”

James laughs lightly, as if he possessed all the life in the universe.

“What would we normally do now?” Regulus asks. Because he wants to know. He has to know.

Potter looked like he was thinking about it. “You’ll have to let me touch you.”

Regulus only nodded.

James’ hands slid lower, gripping Regulus’ hips, pulling him closer until their bodies were flush against each other. The warmth of him, the solid press of muscle and form, sent a sharp thrill through Regulus. He barely had a moment to adjust before James shifted, rolling his hips forward, a slow, languid grind that sent heat pooling low in Regulus’ stomach.

He inhaled sharply, his fingers clutching at James’ shirt. The friction was maddening, a teasing pressure that built with each subtle movement. James did it again, this time slower, more deliberate, as if testing just how far Regulus would let him go.

Regulus let out a breathy exhale, something dangerously close to a moan, and James pressed a kiss just below his jaw. “Alright?” James murmured, his voice rich with restrained desire.

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His fingers flexed against James’ back, pressing him closer, wordlessly asking for more. And James, ever the charmer, obliged — grinding against him, building something between them that neither was willing to stop.

“Tell me what you want,” James spoke, kissing his jaw. “What do you need?”

Regulus blinked. Oh. “Oh,” he said, “You like being ordered around.”

The other boy gulped, his cheeks rosy yet warm. He almost looked ashamed, scared, as he nodded.

Regulus exhaled slowly, watching James beneath him, the way he shivered under his touch, the way his fingers dug into Regulus’ hips as if holding himself back. He tested the power shift, rolling his hips again, pressing down with a slow, deliberate force that had James sucking in a breath, his fingers tightening.

“Say it,” Regulus murmured, tilting his head as he traced his fingers up James’ arms, feeling the slight tremor there. “Tell me what you want.”

James’ lips parted, his breath coming shallow. “I — I want you to tell me what to do.”

Regulus smirked, leaning down so their lips were barely brushing. “Good boy,” a chaste kiss then “Touch my skin,” a pause, a dare “That if you don’t have problems with my scars.”

Potter didn’t wait to be asked twice, his hand moving under Regulus’ shirt. His fingertips skimmed over warm skin, mapping out every ridge, lingering over old wounds as if committing them to memory. James’ touch was careful, reverent, his breath hitching as he traced each scar with the same attention he would give an ancient text, something precious, something worth knowing.

Regulus swallowed hard, the vulnerability settling deep in his bones. He had expected hesitation, maybe even pity or sadness, but there was none — only quiet appreciation, acceptance in how James’ hands moved, how his thumbs smoothed over the scars like they were meant to be there

.

“So lovely,” James murmured, almost too softly to be heard.

Regulus tensed, not sure if he could handle that word, but James only pulled him closer, letting their bodies fit together like they belonged that way. The slow grind resumed, but now there was something deeper in the way they moved — less about pleasure, more about knowing, about feeling, about being.

Regulus, emboldened by the warmth between them, let his fingers drift lower, brushing against the waistband of James’ trousers. James let out a soft, shuddering breath, his hips twitching into the touch as if seeking more. Regulus hesitated for only a moment before pressing his palm against James, feeling the heat, the hardness straining beneath the fabric.

James made a noise — half a gasp, half a whimper — and his fingers dug into Regulus’ hips. “Reg—” he exhaled, his voice trembling.

Regulus smirked, emboldened by the reaction. He moved his hand in slow, deliberate strokes over the fabric, teasing, testing, watching James unravel beneath him. James’ breathing turned ragged, his grip tightening like he was grounding himself.

Regulus leaned in, his lips brushing against James’ ear. “Laissez-vous aller,” he whispered, voice laced with consideration.

James groaned, his head falling back, eyes squeezed shut. His body jerked, hips pressing into Regulus’ touch as if he couldn’t help himself. “I—I’m—” he gasped, dangerously close to the edge.

Regulus tightened his grip slightly, pressing down just enough to send James spiralling. James’ entire body tensed, a shuddering moan escaping him as he came, his breath catching, his fingers clenching at Regulus’ hips.

Regulus watched, fascinated, as James trembled in his arms, utterly undone. And then, smiling, he kissed him again, slow and deep, letting him feel exactly who had just unravelled him.

Maybe, just maybe, he too was what James Potter needed.

Chapter Text

Sirius had heard the rumours.

Well — not rumours, exactly. He’d spied on Reggie and his friends enough times to hear the stories straight from the source.

Bartemius Crouch Senior was a piece of shit. The worst kind. The kind Cygnus Black had been.

Barty Crouch Junior had been beaten, spat on, choked to the brink of death. His head kept shaven at all times. Bruises and cuts littering his body, never given the chance to fully heal. And it was all at the hands of his father.

And then — because that wasn’t enough — Crouch Senior had used the Imperius Curse. On his own son. On his wife. Controlling them, controlling Barty’s magic. Oppressing it. His son’s folk magick had been too powerful, too untamed for a man like him to stomach.

But it got worse.

Because Crouch Senior had been ‘raising a man, not a sissy’ — so he paid women, grown women, to bed his son. Tied his own child to the bed and let it happen. Watched.

No bloody wonder Barty was so utterly fucked in the head.

Sirius had just come back from another interrogation.

He’d tricked Aaron into getting them more smokes and a proper lighter. Even managed to charm one of the female guards into bringing them extra water. He was fucking ecstatic, ready to tell Barty. Ready to make Barty worship him like the god he was.

But Barty wasn’t in the cell.

Sirius could hear him, though. Yelling. Shouting. Fighting. But no crying, no sobs — because Barty was never the kind to break easily.

Sirius grabbed that damn magical journal, scrawled a message to Evan. Made sure someone knew something was happening. Then erased it. Barty could never know he’d done this.

It was three hours before they dragged him back.

Blood. Clothes torn.

Not the Dementors, then. Sirius had already suspected as much.

And now, a sickening thought lodged itself in his mind. Had this happened before? Had they taken Barty while Sirius had been sleeping? While he’d been trapped in the interrogation room, running his mouth and playing his games?

Had that been why, before their transfer, Barty had tried to protect Bellatrix from the same fate?

Because the truth was simple. Azkaban was not just a prison.

The Dementors were monstrous. The treatment was inhuman. The torture alone was enough to break even someone as arrogant as Lucius Malfoy.

But that wasn’t all.

Barty Crouch had been raped.

Sirius wondered what Regulus would do.

But that didn’t seem right.

Because Regulus would fret. He’d give orders, make plans, command that Barty would be whole again, must be whole again. He’d refuse to accept anything less.

That wasn’t what Barty needed.

So Sirius thought the other way around. He tried to think of the good people in his life. The ones who had shaped him and Regulus both. Because every Black needed a James Potter. And every Black needed an Evan Rosier. Everything good in them had come from those two.

He placed a cigarette between Barty’s lips. Barty was so lost in his mind that he didn’t even flinch. Sirius wet a rag, wiped the blood and dirt from his face, then lit the cigarette for him. He ran damp fingers through Barty’s hair, which — for the first time in his life — was beginning to grow out.

“I think Evie liked seeing you with longer hair,” he murmured.

No response. No nod, no hum.

Sirius tried again. “You can sign with me, you know? You and Regulus aren’t the only ones who learned sign language for the Rosier twins.”

Barty’s brow arched. A reaction. Good.

“Not that I know much, of course,” Sirius admitted. “I’m thick like that, never cared enough to properly learn. But I picked up a thing or two from watching.”

Barty finally hummed.

“You like war,” Sirius said. “This… this isn’t war, is it? War shouldn’t be like this.”

“Brutes,” Barty muttered.

Sirius dipped the rag in water again, started washing Barty’s arms. “Wasn’t that you? The brute, I mean?”

“At least Slavs know how to be brutes,” Barty murmured. “This? This isn’t even monstrosity. To be a monster, a man would have to have no choice.” He shrugged. “But all men choose what to do, what to be. That’s Sartre for you — inhumanity doesn’t exist. It’s redundant. Even war is man-made.”

“I prefer revolutions,” Sirius admitted, shifting to undress Barty so he could clean his torso.

“That’s very French of you, dear,” Barty almost joked. Then, quieter, “But if I am to be your philosophy teacher, you should know — I do regard French philosophy as the highest.”

“What is war, anyway?” Sirius muttered, exhaling smoke as he wiped over the runes etched into Barty’s ribs and chest.

“We are. Men are war,” Barty said. Then, his voice dipped into something older, something ancient: “Човек е създаден да се бие. Войната е създадена, за да бъде като хората.”

Sirius wanted to ask what it meant, but Barty was already speaking again.

“Bulgarians are known for ambushes. Surprise attacks. Romanians for deception — tricking the enemy, burning their own homes just to make them hesitate. Brutes. We — I — am the brute. The barbarian.” A pause. Then, almost absently, “Did you know that after defeating Emperor Nikephoros I, Khan Krum allegedly made a drinking cup from his skull to intimidate his enemies?”

“I’m not trying to argue with you,” Sirius said, ever pragmatic, “but you do fight like a barbarian.”

Barty smirked. “Bulgarians and Romanians are also good at building fortresses. You Brits wouldn’t know anything about that.”

“Oi! I’m French!”

“Do you know why they call my people barbarians?” Barty asked.

Sirius shook his head silently.

“It’s rather complicated, you see.” Barty flicked his fingers, gesturing for another cigarette. Sirius handed one over, lighting it for him without a word.

“The Romans only ever feared the Dacian Empire — that’s what was there before Romania. The Ottomans tried to subdue both Romania and Bulgaria. They never could. Not entirely. Proud people. Foolish people. Nothing runs deeper than corruption, and nothing is more corrupted than Eastern Europe.”

Sirius listened in silence, and Barty continued his history lesson.

“But it’s more than that,” he said, exhaling smoke. “The Slavs, the Balkans — they believed in magic. In wizards, in witches. Their Muggles never feared our world. That’s dangerous for the lesser men. We’re so uncivilised, you see, that we’re not afraid of the monsters under our beds.”

Sirius stilled. “That’s why you like Remus. Why you tried to help him.”

Barty let out a slow breath. “I’m not afraid of the wolves,” he murmured. “My fate has always been to go into battle alongside them. I don’t lead the beasts — I let them be free. I let myself be led by them.” He took a long drag of his cigarette, eyes flickering with something dark and unfathomable.

“I would die and resurrect myself a thousand times just to see someone like Dorcas — a dragon — or like Lupin, a werewolf, be free.” He exhaled. “That is real war. Not the game we’re playing now.”

It was in that moment that Sirius knew, Barty will never be completely broken, he will never die. His life existed before all this and will still be in the universe after all of them are gone.

Honestly, he’d expected it to happen.

A part of him had even wished for it. He’d also — just a little — wanted to see his brother in full action.

He supposed he could admit, in some quiet, unspoken part of himself, that he was afraid of Barty losing his mind. But that would mean acknowledging he cared about his brother’s loser friends. And that wouldn’t do.

So what if Sirius had made it very clear to Evan that if someone didn’t get them out of there right now, Barty would die?

Sirius liked being the hero. The protector. His whole life had been about that. He ached for it. Some would say he only wanted to be like James. Or to be James. But it was deeper than that. It had always been deeper than that.

Because it was never about James.

Never about Regulus.

And it was always — always, always, always — about Bellatrix Black. His older cousin, who once, not so long ago, had nearly died in his arms. The same cousin who, only months back, had tried to kill him.

Always.

Always.

Always.

It was always about Bellatrix.

That was why Sirius wanted to be the hero. No — not wanted to play the hero. Be the hero. Prove he was better. Prove he was kinder. That he was a good man. A man not like his father. Not like hers. A man who deserved the good he had been given.

Always.

Always.

Always.

Maybe one day he wouldn’t be there anymore. Maybe he had to raise Regulus the way Euphemia Potter had raised him. Maybe he had to give Regulus something to fight for beyond wars and Dark Lords.

Maybe he had to give him people to take care of.

Because that was what a real man was made of. Taking care. Trying and failing, over and over again, to be better — for the people who were worse.

James had always said Sirius was a good person who had done bad things. Who had had bad things done to him.

And it was always—

Always.

Always.

About Bellatrix.

He couldn’t be like that. He couldn’t be her. Or his mother. He couldn’t let Regulus become them. He had to be the older brother. The good one.

So he gave Regulus something more important than ambition.

He gave him Barty Crouch Jr.

If someone had told Sirius a few years ago that Regulus Black — alongside James Potter and Marlene McKinnon — would ride a fucking dragon — bloody Dorcas Meadowes! — to break a war criminal and a depressed rock star (himself, of course) out of prison…

Well, he’d have believed it.

Because who the fuck else?

Who else but Marlene bloody McKinnon would know how to ride a dragon? No one. Ever. Not even Crouch. Of course it had to be Marlene. Every animal kingdom needed its lion, and she did it in a dress and army boots. What a woman.

And who else but James Fleamont Potter would be reckless enough to pull it off? The boy who could command the Sun. Who had spent his whole life chasing, chasing, chasing. There was no one like James. Anywhere. In any life, in any universe. The bastard had stopped the actual fucking Sun from lighting for forty minutes while they got Sirius and Barty out of their cell.

Of course it had to be him.

And lastly — who else, if not the most noble little prince?

Because no one was more damaged, more loyal, more self-sacrificial than Regulus Black.

The lions had come to save.

But they had brought the lion’s heart with them as well.

Barty was half-unconscious in Regulus’ arms by the time they reached Grimmauld Place. It would have been comical if it weren’t so bloody tragic. Imagine it — a man over 190 centimetres sprawled across his lanky 178-centimetre best friend. Almost funny.

Inside, Reggie was already giving orders. Such a little posh prince. Sirius should ruffle his hair and tweak his nose just for that.

So he did.

Regulus turned scarlet and called him a lunatic. Adorable. Like a little house bunny.

“Me and Miss Lily will take care of Barty.” Instructions, instructions, instructions. “Severus will tend to you, Sirius.”

Sirius smirked. “Yes, sir, yes, sir,” he mocked, grinning at his little brother.

Regulus glared at him, the kind of glare that could have withered crops and cursed entire bloodlines.

Sirius, being the absolute menace that he was, grinned wider. “Go on, Reggie, say it,” he teased, nudging his brother’s side. “Tell me I’m your favourite patient. Come on, I know you wanna—”

Regulus slapped his hand away.

“You’re insufferable,” Regulus seethed, voice full of that posh little rage he’d perfected since birth. “And if you don’t sit your arse down, I’ll have Severus sedate you, and I won’t feel guilty about it.”

Sirius clutched his chest dramatically. “Ouch. That’s it. Betrayed by my own brother. What happened to ‘blood is blood is blood’?”

Regulus did not dignify that with a response. He was already halfway across the room, Barty’s half-dead body draped over him like a tragic Victorian princess.

Sirius pouted. Look at that. Look at his baby brother, giving all his attention to someone else. The audacity. The absolute betrayal.

He should spike Crouch’s ginger tea and lemon juice.

But before he could start pouting aggressively enough to actually get a reaction, another voice cut in.

“Sit down, Black,” Severus drawled, stepping forward like he had something better to do than deal with Sirius’ dramatics.

Oh, for Merlin’s sake.

“Great,” Sirius muttered. “A double betrayal. My own brother and my childhood nemesis conspiring against me. And here I thought tonight was going to be fun.”

Severus did not look amused. Not that he ever did. Severus Snape was born frowning, and he would die frowning.

“Your ribs are cracked, you absolute imbecile,” Severus said. “And unless you want to puncture a lung, you will sit down and shut up.”

Well. That was a little dramatic. How he liked when Snape bit back. Now that him and his brother are friends, Sirius was sure he could made Severus tolerable. Maybe give him some angsty music.

Sirius thought about arguing. About being difficult. About making some snide remark about Snape’s terribly long nose just for fun.

But then Barty groaned from across the room, and all the fight drained out of him.

Because this wasn’t a joke, was it?

They’d actually done it. They’d actually escaped. But Barty had paid for it. The moment he felt safe enough to faint — finally — he actually did it.

Sirius swallowed hard, dropping the act.

“Fix me up, Snivellus,” he muttered, flopping into a chair. “And don’t get any ideas—I still hate your guts.”

Severus rolled his eyes. “The feeling is mutual, Potter.”

Then, because the universe hated Sirius Black, Snape jabbed his fingers right into his ribs.

Sirius screamed.

Regulus, the traitor, did not even look over.

Walburga Black (née Black) had always been a beautiful woman — something that Sirius found downright infuriating. How dare she be as beautiful as he was? Who does that?!

Certainly not a good mother.

She had always been bloody strange, but these days? Utterly unhinged.

Orion had died — because, apparently, Regulus had the audacity to snog Evan Rosier. The incest in their family, really! So, Orion dies, Reggie turns into a little warlord, takes a lover, gets Evan a lover — and a wife, for Merlin’s sake! — and what does mad, bat-shit crazy, purity-obsessed Walburga Black do?

She wears bloody colours. Drinks brandy and smokes cigars. Cuts her hair. Accepts one of her sons and her favourite nephew being both very gay for very masculine men. Lets Muggle-borns, half-bloods, and even a werewolf live under her roof. Adds Harry to the sodding Black tapestry. Befriends Lily Evans and Marlene McKinnon.

And after all that — she still doesn’t bloody like Sirius!

“I should have named you only Orion,” she snapped, hurling her cigar at him. “Since you are exactly like your father!”

A beat.

“Now, fetch me back my cigar.”

Sirius’ voice rose. “Do I look like a dog to you?”

She tilted her head. “No. Dogs are loyal. And not nearly as stupid.” A pause. “You know, I only had a second child because the first one was such a disappointment.”

“You literally got pregnant with Reggie because you wanted a bloody study, and Father wouldn’t allow it!” He shoved her cigar back into her hand.

“Don’t talk back to your mother,” she said, clinical as ever.

She lit the cigar, took a slow drag, then passed it to Sirius, inviting him to do the same. “How’s the Crouch boy?”

“Still sleeping,” he admitted, his tone settling.

“Now he… he should have been my son.” They traded the cigar back and forth as she poured herself a brandy and, for Sirius, a glass of wine.

“I know you came to Azkaban in a fit, demanding to see us,” he threw at her.

Walburga tilted her head and — just like that — decided not to dignify his words with a response.

“Your clothes look cheap.” Her voice was flat, but laced with distaste. “People will see you on the street and assume you’re underfed, like the Lestranges’ house-elves. Or worse — that you have no personal style.”

“I like these clothes.”

“You look Muggle.” She nearly spat the word at him. “Such a disgrace. And that hair… do you even know how to wash it? Who does your hair? James Potter?”

She scrunched her nose as if offended by the very thought, but she wasn’t finished. “And you’re too thin.”

“I was in prison.”

She huffed. “This is all your father’s fault.”

Sirius plucked the cigar from her fingers and took a drag. “I know, right?” A beat of silence. Then, casually, “I hear we’re making James the next Minister for Magic.”

Walburga smirked. “You know… Cygnus is getting rather old. Rather grey.” She exhaled a slow stream of smoke. “There may be an open spot in the Wizengamot next autumn for the Black family.”

A sip of brandy, the deep red staining the glass. “Regulus would never do well in that place. He prefers his academic pursuits. Such a pity, really — he’s rather excelled in bantering. But I do suppose you enjoy yelling at men more than he does.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes. “Are you asking me to become a politician?”

“No.” She finally met his gaze. “I’m ordering you to do so.”

He studied her for a long moment. “Why?”

Walburga looked away. Just slightly. Just enough. “Because they wouldn’t allow me to be one.”

Sirius Black grew up in three houses.

First, there was the Black Manor, where he was always made to share a room with Felix. Where the garden was beautiful, but the blood had been spoiled long ago.

They liked the colour black — Cygnus more than Druella, who actually preferred blue. They had three pianos, one for each daughter: black, brown, and white. Andromeda took ballet. Narcissa played Quidditch. Bellatrix was sent to learn dragon taming. In that house, they spoke only French.

Then, there was Rosier Manor — which looked more like a castle. Everything was white. Marble. There, the boys each had their own rooms, but the girls had to share.

Only one piano, for Felix. Because only Felix ever mattered. And it wasn’t just because he was the eldest son. No. It was because his complexion was lighter than Evan’s. Than Pandora’s. He was a white child with a Black mother — a Shacklebolt, no less.

They spoke French, English, Italian, and sometimes even Arabic there. The Meadowes and Shacklebolts visited often.

And finally — Grimmauld Place.

Where every child had always had their own room. No garden. No piano. Only French and English.

The sitting room was the size of a ballroom. The lady of the house had her own study. They had two kitchens.

And, most importantly — what few people knew of, very few indeed — an astronomy room, hidden in the roof of the house.

“I see you finally found it, old friend.” A smirk. “The madness has got to you as well, innit?”

Remus only chuckled — low, like only he knew how. So low, it always took Sirius by surprise.

“I only aim to please the ones left to die for not believing in the sky.”

Sirius tilted his head. “Who said that?”

He lowered himself onto the wooden floor, settling in beside Remus to watch the stars.

“Genevieve Malfoy,” came the curt response. “The first witch ever to be published. She wedded a Black.”

“Of course she did.”

They both laughed.

“Who are we watching tonight?” Sirius asked.

Remus leaned in — closer than necessary, voice brushing against Sirius’ ear like there was anyone else in the room. “Everyone,” he whispered. “And everything.”

Sirius huffed, shaking his head. “You’re so petulant these days. What shall I do with you?”

Remus smirked. “Put me on a leash, dear, or I might even bark.” He offered Sirius a cigarette, then murmured, “Oh, no, that is you. I must have mistaken the moon for the burning star.”

“Oh, sweetheart, you and I both know how much I like being tied,” Sirius breathed out.

Remus tipped his head back, laughing — the movement slow, hypnotic, the rise and fall of his chest almost mesmerising.

“Only the reckless choose to be tied to the sea,” he murmured, eyes half-lidded with amusement. “The fools, on the other hand, prefer their hands clasped around the sun.”

Sirius huffed, sliding a hand onto Remus’ knee. “Too easy. Dorea Black. You’re getting predictable. Such a man you are.”

Remus smirked. “I’ll see to it that I procure myself some tits, then.”

“Perfect. Then we can finally shag,” Sirius said, tracing slow circles around Remus’ knee — flirty, teasing, but never too much.

Because he’d come back home a changed man.

What? He actually listened to Crouch now. Respected the little fucker.

He licked his lips, grinning. “We should play strip poker.”

“You need provocation to undress these days? How the blood has changed you, dear,” Remus bites his lip. Sirius wants to bite it as well.

He had officially snogged two blokes. Crouch — hot, thrilling, and Sirius would have gone further. And Evan — steady yet sensual, but Sirius wouldn’t have, because they grew up like siblings.

So maybe he wasn’t quite at ease with the fact that he was attracted to men. Some — an important detail, because no matter how fit James was, Sirius had never seen him that way. Nor Rabastan Lestrange. But Barty and Remus? Fuck, yes.

Maybe he had a type — purely intellectual and covered in scars. Was he chasing variants of his brother? Was this some facet of the Black curse as well? Who knew.

He wasn’t ready to fully acknowledge everything just yet. But he was ready to try.

“Maybe you should rip my clothes apart with your teeth,” Sirius murmured, his hand sliding from knee to thigh. “And crawl inside my ribs with your claws.”

Remus raised an eyebrow. “So very idealistic as always. Macbeth would be proud.”

Then, before Sirius could tease again, Remus moved.

It was fast — an abrupt grip on the collar of Sirius’ shirt, a tug forward that sent a thrill through his spine. Remus didn’t kiss him, not yet. Instead, he hovered close, his breath warm, his grip firm.

“Say please,” he whispered, and Sirius swore his heart stopped.

He swallowed. “Please,” then added just because “And fuck you!”

Remus kissed him, fierce and unrelenting. It wasn’t neat, wasn’t careful — it was a mess of teeth and heat, hands tangled in fabric, a scrape of nails against the nape of Sirius’ neck. He felt himself pulled forward, felt the table close to them press into his hip, but he didn’t care.

And Merlin, if Remus wasn’t biting.

By the time they pulled apart, Sirius was breathless, lips bruised, head spinning. Remus sat back, licking his lips, looking entirely too satisfied with himself.

“You are so Arthurian today, dear,” he said again, voice rougher now.

Sirius let out a ragged laugh, pressing his thumb against the sting of his lip where Remus had sunk his teeth.

“Fuck,” he murmured. “Do that again.”

“And where would the fun in that be,” Remus smirked.

Remus Lupin wanted to play the charmer? He wanted to play Sirius’ game? So be it.

Sirius leaned forward, plucking Remus’ untouched glass of wine with deliberate ease. He took a slow sip of the deep red, then let it spill — trailing down his lips, his jaw, pooling at the hollow of his throat before seeping into the crisp white of his button-up. The stain bloomed, dark and decadent.

With a smirk, Sirius dragged a finger through the wine at his neck, then slipped it between his lips, licking it clean.

“Arthurian indeed,” Remus chuckled, eyes fixed on the spectacle. “Be careful not to ruin your trousers as well.”

“Black never stains,” Sirius murmured, lazy, assured.

He tilted his head, smiling as he took his own glass. “It does — with white.”

Remus bit down on his own finger, thoughtful, then sighed theatrically. “Look at me. Poor me. Now I’m spent and thirsty, and you’ve gone and drowned yourself in your mother’s wine, leaving me with nothing.”

Sirius tilted his chin up, letting the candlelight catch on the red-stained line of his throat. “I never said you couldn’t drink it.”

Remus moved before Sirius could smirk, leaning in close — so close that his breath brushed over the damp fabric of Sirius’ shirt. He started at the collarbone, where the wine had pooled in the dip of his skin, and pressed his tongue there, slow and deliberate. The heat of it sent a shudder through Sirius’ chest.

Remus took his time, following the trail upward with an unbearable patience, licking along the sharp edge of Sirius’ jaw. His lips barely grazed skin, teasing, hovering, waiting.

Sirius’ fingers twitched against the floor. He would never beg — but fuck, if Remus wasn’t testing him.

“Not bad,” Remus murmured, his mouth ghosting over the curve of Sirius’ throat. He licked again, slower this time, letting his teeth scrape the skin just enough to make Sirius inhale sharply.

His lips parted just below Sirius’ ear, breath warm. “Though I’d rather taste it straight from the source.”

Sirius let out something between a laugh and a breath, though his voice had lost its usual ease. “Greedy.”

Remus hummed against his skin. “I call it resourceful.”

Should he do it?

Barty would. Regulus already had. Why not him?

There were barely two sips left in the glass. Sirius reached for it again, not even pretending this time, tilting it just enough to let the wine spill freely. It soaked through his already damp shirt, bleeding into the fabric, trickling lower until the heat of it seeped into the front of his trousers.

Remus’ gaze flickered downward, his lips parting slightly.

Sirius grinned. “I’m sorry, how imprudent of me. Did you say you wanted a drink?” His voice was all lazy drawl, teasing but edged with something sharper. He set the empty glass aside, tilting his head, exposing the darkened stain on his skin.

“Here,” he murmured, eyes locked on Remus. “Let me help you.”

And then, just as before, he dragged Remus in, but this time it was different — this time, it was messy. Sirius felt Remus inhale sharply before giving in, pressing forward, mouth parting against his throat.

Remus licked first, slow and testing, the faintest drag of tongue along Sirius’ collarbone. Then, as if something inside him unspoiled, he sank his teeth in — not enough to bruise, but enough to make Sirius gasp.

Sirius’ hands curled into the fabric of Remus’ jumper, holding him there, feeling the way Remus’ breath hitched as he worked his way down. Tongue and lips, teeth scraping when he found a pulse, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. The damp fabric clung to Sirius’ skin as Remus licked along the hollow of his throat, then lower, mouthing at the ridge of his collarbone.

He didn’t stop there.

Remus dragged his tongue down, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses through the wine-soaked linen, tasting the mix of salt and tannins. He lingered at Sirius’ sternum, his fingers twisting the fabric to pull it taut, his mouth working through it like he wanted to taste every last drop. The heat of it — through the thin, clinging shirt, through the dampness — sent a sharp pull of pleasure straight through Sirius’ gut.

Sirius’ breath came out shaky, fingers threading into Remus’ hair. “Such a dog on a leash,” he murmured, the word barely leaving him.

Remus hummed against his chest, dragging his teeth over a particularly soaked patch of fabric. “Arthurian, wasn’t it?”

Then he went lower.

Sirius’ stomach tensed as Remus’ mouth brushed over it, tongue tracing slow lines through damp linen. When he reached the waistband of Sirius’ trousers — where the wine had trickled and stained — he stilled, breathing against it, as if considering.

And then, with a smirk Sirius could feel more than see, Remus pressed his lips right there.

Sirius swore under his breath, his grip tightening in Remus’ hair.

“Careful,” Remus murmured against the fabric, the vibrations sinking into Sirius’ skin. “You might actually stain, dear.”

Sirius’ breath hitched, his pulse thrumming against his throat as Remus lingered, his lips ghosting over the damp patch at the front of his trousers. It was infuriating — the way he hovered, the way he breathed warmth over the wet fabric, the way Sirius could feel every tiny shift of his mouth without yet feeling the relief of contact.

“Go on, then,” Sirius murmured, his fingers tightening in Remus’ hair. “You were so eager before.”

Remus huffed a quiet chuckle, then — finally — dragged his tongue over the stain, slow and unhurried.

The wet heat of it seeped through the fabric, sinking into Sirius’ skin beneath. Remus licked again, pressing firmer this time, tracing the path the wine had taken, making sure no drop went untasted. His tongue flattened over the damp material, running a slow stripe from one side to the other, and Sirius had to fight the urge to arch into it.

“Merlin,” Sirius exhaled, his grip twitching against Remus’ scalp. “You’re ridiculous.”

Remus hummed, the sound sending a dull vibration through the cloth. Then he went lower, lips pressing a series of open-mouthed kisses over Sirius’ inner thigh, right where the fabric clung the tightest. His tongue followed, teasing at the crease between hip and thigh, mouthing at the fabric there as though he meant to pull the stain into himself.

The teasing was deliberate, torturous. He sucked lightly over the fabric, the pressure faint but maddening. Every slow drag of his tongue made Sirius more aware of how suffocatingly tight his trousers had become.

Sirius’ head tipped back, eyes fluttering shut for just a moment as he groaned. “You’re insufferable.”

Remus nosed against the soaked linen, utterly unbothered. “Yes dear, do tell me more,” he murmured, his lips brushing against Sirius in a way that sent heat curling in his stomach.

Then, as if to prove a point, he sucked again — harder this time, his tongue working against the fabric, the pressure impossibly teasing. Sirius’ hips twitched before he could stop them, and Remus pulled back just enough to look up at him, lips pink, eyes gleaming with something dangerous.

Sirius swallowed. His chest rose and fell rapidly, breath shallow, his own restraint hanging by a thread.

“Wouldn’t want you to go thirsty,” Sirius rasped, voice rougher than before, his fingers flexing against Remus’ scalp.

Remus smirked against him, then flattened his tongue over the thickest stain and licked him through his trousers again, slow and indulgent.

Sirius cursed under his breath, fingers tugging sharply at Remus’ hair.

“Fuck,” Remus whispered. “Take them off.”

Sirius barely registered his own hands moving, his fingers fumbling at his belt, yanking it loose with a sharp clink of metal. His trousers were unfastened in seconds, shoved down just far enough to free himself, fabric pooling around his thighs. The cool air hit his flushed skin, a sharp contrast to the heat pulsing through him.

Remus barely gave him a moment to breathe before he was on him again — mouth open, tongue dragging over his bare skin now, no fabric in the way. Sirius swore loudly, his hips jerking forward before he could stop himself.

Fuck. Fuck.

The first press of Remus’ lips — hot, wet, open — sent a shudder straight through Sirius’ spine. The friction was maddening, his whole body keyed up from the unbearable teasing before. Every nerve was raw, exposed, and Remus wasn’t being careful. His tongue was firm, his mouth eager, the way he sucked and licked as if he had all the time in the world, as if he was enjoying the way Sirius was already coming apart.

Sirius’ breath broke into uneven gasps, hands twitching, unsure whether to grip Remus’ hair or the edge of the table behind him. His stomach tensed, heat coiling dangerously fast. Too fast.

“Shit—” The word ripped out of him, half-moan, half-warning. He tried to hold on, to slow the inevitable, but Remus licked over the slit at the worst possible moment, and Sirius’ entire body snapped.

It wasn’t a build-up, not really — no slow climb to an edge, no time to even think. It hit him all at once, a blinding rush of heat exploding through him. His whole body seized up, breath catching, his vision tilting sideways as he came embarrassingly fast, spilling over Remus’ tongue with a ragged moan.

His knees nearly buckled. His hand slammed against the table behind him, the other tightening in Remus’ hair, needing something to ground himself as his body pulsed, wave after wave crashing through him, pulling him under.

Remus didn’t move away. He stayed there, taking everything, his tongue flicking lazily over sensitive skin, dragging the aftershocks out mercilessly. Sirius twitched, his entire body alight, every muscle tight with overstimulation, but Remus only hummed, smug and satisfied.

Sirius finally exhaled, wrecked and trembling, his head tipping back as he fought to catch his breath. His pulse pounded in his ears, sweat slicked his spine, and his legs felt utterly useless beneath him.

After a moment, Remus pulled back just enough to look up at him, mouth swollen, eyes glinting with wicked amusement.

“I told you Black can stain,” he murmured, licking the corner of his mouth.

Chapter Text

Shit. Fuck. Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

Shit. Fuck.

Fuck.

Why the fuck did he do that? Fucking fuck fuck fuck!

He sucked Sirius Black’s dick.

Fuck.

Like half the wizarding world probably had.

Shit.

He should go. Right now. Ask Mary to compare notes and then smash his head into a wall. Fucking hell.

Who the fuck does that? Why is he like this?

And — more importantly — why the fuck does Sirius Black have the most perfect dick in existence?

Remus Lupin will never in his life take advice from Regulus Black again.

Fuck.

He sucked his best friend’s dick.

Shit.

Remus blinked, trying to focus as he moved a chess piece. “Do you like sucking dick?” he asked, tilting his head.

James flushed, but didn’t waver. “I do, yes. Very lovely indeed,” he said, then paused. “Why do you ask?”

“Curiosity got to me.” Another move.

James hummed, taking a bite of pie, chewing thoughtfully. “Ah. The curse of being in love with a Black.”

Fuck. Shit. Fuck.

Remus wondered — just for a moment, no more, nothing longer — does the younger Black make the same face as Sirius when he comes? Scratch Mary. He should compare notes with James and Crouch. Just to see if it’s a family thing.

Hmm. Rosier would look good like that, wouldn’t he?

Fuck.

Why the fuck were the Black-Rosier bunch so—

Shit.

“If you two can stop comparing your sexual activities,” Severus drawled, tilting his head with a look of deep, exhausted disdain, “I would very much like, Potter, for you to hurry up and let Lupin win already. I’m waiting for my turn.”

“Oi, I don’t always lose,” James protested, attempting — desperately — to salvage some dignity.

“You do,” Remus and Snape said in unison.

Back to the spiralling. Yes. That was good for us. Nice, even.

Where were we? Ah, yes. The Black-Rosier madness-slash-curse-slash-probably-the-best-dick-in-Remus’-life.

Sirius? Would eat his dick like it was a hobby. Regulus? Could probably make Remus cum just by sneering at him. Evan Rosier? Where do we even begin? Narcissa Malfoy? Remus was not above begging. Andromeda? Now that… he’d so do that.

“Does Regulus scrunch his nose too?”

James didn’t even look up from his move. “Endearing, right?”

“I’m going to vomit,” Snape announced flatly.

Maybe if Remus were a more ambitious man, he’d make it his mission to take each member of the family — one by one.

…Maybe not Regulus.

He wouldn’t do that to James.

…Okay, he would. But only if James were dead or something.

Pandora, though — off limits. On principle. He’d once overheard her say she wasn’t into sex, and he could at least respect that. He was a nice lad, after all.

Bellatrix? Also a no. Not because he wouldn’t want to. Just that there was a very real chance she’d actually eat him — physically. Ripping-flesh-off-his-bones kind of eating. Plus, she was into chits.

“Rosier?” Remus asked, casually.

James didn’t even blink. “Evan?”

Remus nodded.

James exhaled, thoughtful. “I’d be a dead man. Not even sure if Reg or Barty would kill me first.”

“No, but like… hypothetically.”

James shrugged. “Possibly. I’ve only ever fancied two people, so I’m not the best to ask.”

“Oh, bloody hell, Lupin!” Severus snapped, thoroughly exasperated. “Yes, everyone would have relations with Evan — now move the fucking piece so the game can end!”

Man is a creature of contradictions, and the wizard no less so. He wields power yet fears it, covets dominion yet resents the chains that come with mastery. War is no mere clash of spells and steel; it is the inevitable reckoning of desire and will. And yet, in every war, both victors and vanquished are left diminished, as though magic itself recoils from the violence wrought in its name.

A Muggle wars for land, for coin, for the illusion of kingship. A wizard wars for something far more dangerous — truth. Every duel, every uprising, every Dark Lord who has risen from the shadows has done so not for gold, but for a vision of the world reshaped. Some seek order, others chaos, but all are driven by an unrelenting hunger to redefine reality itself. Is it any wonder that our history is a cycle of rebellion and restoration?

And yet, the paradox remains: power seeks stability, but its very nature is unrest. A wizard who does not act on his ambition is devoured by it. A wizard who does is consumed by what follows. Perhaps that is why the most powerful among us so often fall — not because they are evil, nor because they are misguided, but because they believe themselves above the law that binds all men: that power is a fire, and all who touch it will burn.

So long as wizards wield wands, so long as we shape the world by will alone, war will not be an aberration. It will be a certainty.

“Excerpt from The Wand and the Will: A Treatise on Power and Conflict,” Rosier read out load over Remus’ shoulder “Written by Cassius Greengrass, 1742. Barty hates this one.”

“Do you mind?” Remus asked.

Evan doesn’t even blink “Greengrass only uses the masculine pronoun, you know? Plus, he’d rather stupid, thinking that magic is only tied to wands.”

“Shouldn’t you be crying over the fact that Baby Black put your boy toy into an induced coma?” Remus reacts.

“Nah, I’m finding him something to read from when he wakes.”

Ah, so that’s why he was there. The Grimmauld Palace library was usually empty. Mostly only Regulus of Snape came in, took a book and left. Even Lily preferred to ask someone to bring her something specific. Remus liked the fact that he was the only one using it.

Now let’s get back to—

Rosier shoves a book in his face. Excerpt from Veil and Valour: The Hidden Truths of Wizarding Wars, written by Naila Shafiq, 1876.

“Read the seventh page,” and he was back to searching through books “Thank me later.”

The first spell ever cast was not one of conquest, but of protection. Long before wizards warred, long before wands channelled our will, magic was a shield against the unknown. Yet history would have us believe that war is inevitable, that division is natural, that some are born to wield power while others are fated to kneel. And among these falsehoods, there is one more insidious than all the rest: that the colour of one’s skin dictates the worth of their magic.

In every war, the victors write their own truths, and in doing so, they rewrite the faces of those who fought beside them. In the oldest tomes, the mightiest witches and wizards are pale as moonlight, as though the sun-kissed and the dark-skinned wielded lesser wands, spoke weaker incantations. Yet history, unburied and unburned, tells another tale. It speaks of the Nubian enchanters whose hexes could halt a thousand soldiers. Of the Berber spell-weavers who called storms with a whisper. Of the Indian alchemists whose elixirs mended bones with the gentlest touch. And yet, their names fade like ink washed from parchment, erased by those who saw power only in their own reflection.

Colorism [see page fifteen for definition] in our world is a war in itself, fought not with curses but with silence. The exclusion of dark-skinned witches and wizards from the annals of magical greatness is no accident — it is the oldest trick of conquest. To erase a people’s magic is to erase their right to shape the world. And so, battle after battle, history whispers the same question: Who is deemed worthy of remembrance?

But the truth is this — magic does not favor one skin over another, nor does the wand choose its master by the fairness of their hands. The earth itself, from which our ingredients are drawn, is dark. The night sky, in which magic stirs, is darker still. Power is not light or dark, but ever-changing, shifting between hands like water. The only ones who fear this truth are those who have built their rule upon the lie that only one kind of wizard should reign.

“Let me guess — Crouch eats this shit up,” Remus said, nonchalant.

Evan hummed, amused. “We both took white men,” he mused. “But mine is educated, you see.”

“I am white.”

Evan tilted his head slightly. “I am too. I’m also half Black.” A smirk. “And you — you’re half Jewish.”

He took a slow drag from his cigar, exhaling lazily. “I wonder how you felt in school, watching Sirius and Pettigrew mock Severus for his Jewish facial features.” His eyes flickered, sharp and knowing. “Potter teased him for being feminine — he knew better than the two white boys.”

Remus stiffened. “I am white.”

“Sure you are, mate.” Evan took another drag, voice smooth as smoke. “I told you — I’m white too.” A pause. A knowing look.

“No one said you have to choose.”

A beat.

“But you are choosing.”

Remus didn’t respond. Didn’t know how to.

“How did you feel,” Evan asked, voice smooth but sharp as a knife, “when McDonald had spit in her face courtesy of Avery, hm? I mean, Black women deserve to be treated like shit, don’t they?” He tilted his head. “Or when your friend Frank — Alice’s husband, no? — looked me and Pandora in the eye, right in front of you, and called us mutts?”

His gaze darkened.

“But you get to be white. That’s nice. Because you don’t have my skin. Or James’. Or Dorcas’.” He exhaled, cigarette smouldering between his fingers. “How does Barty put it? Ah — ‘the non-white white people.’”

Remus stiffened. “Don’t compare me to Crouch.”

“Why not?” Evan asked, too calm, too careful. “The Muggle Germans threw Jewish and Slavs into the same concentration camps.”

A pause.

“Did you know seventy-two percent of werewolves are Jewish?” His voice was measured, almost clinical. “Sixty-eight point nine percent of them were bitten, not born that way.”

He let the numbers hang in the air, then — so very softly — “So… what do you call that?”

“Why are you doing this?” Remus asks.

Evan doesn’t look at him anymore, moving towards the door “Ask your boyfriend why he felt the need to call Severus a fucking slur today. As I said, my mad dog is at least trained.”

His body ached in that way that wasn’t entirely unpleasant, muscles still humming from sleep, but the real problem lay lower. Between his legs. A sharp, pulsing awareness that had refused to die down since the moment he woke.

Fuck. Shit. Shit. Fuck. Fuck.

Not again.

Fuck.

He dragged a hand over his face, pressing the heel of his palm against his eyes, as if he could scrub the memory from his skull. But it lingered, taunting him, playing in vicious loops behind his eyelids. Sirius. His mouth. That nose scrunch when he came. The wine-stained taunt of his lips, the sharp edge of his teeth, the way he had yielded, just enough, just enough—

Remus let out a ragged breath and yanked the blankets up over his head. As if that could stop it. As if the dark would smother the heat curling in his gut, the sharp stab of want that had set its claws in and refused to let go.

“Shit,” he muttered, voice raw.

It had been nothing. A joke. A game. The same maddening dance they had always played, Sirius toeing the line, always pushing, always testing. Remus had thought himself immune by now, had trained himself in the art of apathy, had sworn he was better than this. But then Sirius had whispered please like a confession, like a surrender, and all of Remus’ carefully constructed walls had shattered in an instant.

His hips bucked against the sheets involuntarily, shame and arousal tangling thick and inescapable. His cock was painfully hard, heavy against his stomach, an undeniable reminder of the way Sirius had tasted against his tongue — wine and warmth and something distinctly Sirius. Remus squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed back a groan.

Why in Godric’s name did Sirius Black had to have suck a perfect fucking dick?

No. No, he wasn’t going to. He wouldn’t.

But he was already shifting onto his side, already curling his fingers around himself, already biting his lip to keep from making a sound. His skin was hot, hypersensitive, every touch too much already.

He gritted his teeth and tried to think of something else, anything else, but his traitorous mind only gave him Sirius. Sirius, pressing closer, Sirius’ breath at his face, Sirius dragging him in with a wicked smirk and a careless, dangerous glint in his eye.

The memory hit like a hex. The way Sirius had looked at him — half-daring, half-desperate. The way his voice had caught, just slightly, just for a second, before he said please. Remus’ breath stuttered, and his hand moved faster, chasing something inevitable.

Heat coiled low in his belly, tension twisting tight, tighter, until it snapped. He bit down hard on the inside of his cheek as he came, muffling the sharp exhale that wanted to escape. His body jerked with the force of it, pleasure slamming through him in waves so sharp they bordered on pain. His head spun, breath coming fast and uneven.

And then, silence.

The aftermath was brutal. The pleasure faded too quickly, leaving only guilt in its wake, a sharp, gnawing thing that curled its way into his ribs. Remus let out a shuddering sigh and scrubbed a hand through his hair.

He couldn’t do this.

Not again.

Not ever again.

Except — he already knew he would.

There comes a moment in every man’s life when he is caught wanking. This was not a first for Remus. He had been here before. His dad. James. Euphemia Potter — the terror. Mary — who was still laughing to this day.

But it was a first in a way. Because it was never Sirius to enter his room with bloody tea and biscuits. Fuck him.

Remus with his own dick in his hand. Fucking hell.

Sirius didn’t even blink. “Say bite and I bite.”

He almost sounded like he meant it. Should Remus try?

“Bite.”

Sirius dropped to his knees, setting the tea aside with infuriating nonchalance, the clink of porcelain a maddening contrast to the heat burning through Remus’ body. His hands, pretty and dainty — such a posh kid — pressed firm against Remus’ thighs, holding him there, grounding him in the moment.

Sirius was looking up at him, all wolfish grin and sharp-edged hunger, and Remus was frozen in place.

“Say please,” Sirius murmured, his voice low and rough, full of something dangerous.

Remus’ fingers curled against the sheets, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. He was going to hell for this.

“Fuck you.”

The thing about Sirius Black is that if he is told to do something, he’ll do the exact opposite. And that is how Remus Lupin found himself being sucked off by the biggest man-whore in Britain.

Look, Remus was a simple man. He saw pretty, puffy lips, and he knew he wanted them around his cock. Did that mean it would normally happen? No, of course not. Why would it? That’s not how life worked for him.

Except, apparently, it did.

And bloody hell, Sirius sucked cock like a man who had done it before — which he absolutely hadn’t. He was even using his teeth, just lightly, the scrape of them sending hot, electric pleasure through Remus’ spine.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Shit.

Fuck.

Remus could — should! — be a bastard about this. He really could. Especially since three nights ago, Sirius had left him hard after Remus had put his mouth on him. But Remus was nice. He was a romantic at heart. Truly. That was why he shifted, pressing his thigh between Sirius’ legs and moving it slowly, deliberately.

Sirius moaned around him, the vibration sending Remus’ head tilting back against the wall, his lips parting in a breathless, wrecked sound. That sound only encouraged Sirius further, his hands gripping Remus’ hips, keeping him steady as he took him deeper, as his tongue flattened, pressing just right, making Remus’ thighs tremble.

“Fucking hell, Si’,” Remus hissed, forcing his hips to stay still, his fingers tightening in Sirius’ thick hair. The bastard hummed, pleased with himself, and Remus swore he could feel Sirius grinning around him.

And then — oh, fuck, then — Sirius swallowed, taking him down all the way, his nose brushing against the hair at the base, his throat convulsing around him. Remus bit down on his own lip, hard, his breath coming out in ragged, desperate gasps. His free hand pressed against the rough stone of the dormitory wall, bracing himself because he was so close to just losing it, to bucking up into Sirius’ mouth and making the bastard choke on him.

Sirius’ fingers dug into his hips, his nails pressing in hard enough that Remus knew there would be marks. He wanted there to be marks.

And fuck, that was it, wasn’t it? Sirius was marking him. The cocky bastard was marking him in every way he could. Teeth dragging just enough to make Remus groan, fingers holding him tight, throat tightening as he swallowed him whole.

It was unfair, really. Remus had half a mind to yank him off and put him on his back, to return the favour in full force, to leave Sirius just as wrecked, just as undone.

Except Sirius doubled down. His fingers left Remus’ hips, one moving to wrap around the base of his cock, the other reaching lower, pressing between his thighs, teasing the place that made Remus curse so violently he was sure someone would hear.

“Oh, you fucking bastard,” Remus groaned, his legs shaking now, his entire body burning with the desperate need to finish, to let go, to come down Sirius’ throat and see if the cocky arsehole would take it like he fucking meant it.

Sirius looked up at him through dark lashes, his eyes gleaming, challenging. And that was it. Remus lost the battle, gave in completely, his body tensing as he came with a strangled moan, his fingers tugging hard on Sirius’ hair. Sirius swallowed everything, his lips soft, his movements languid as he worked Remus through it, only pulling back when the sensitivity became too much.

Remus let out a shaky breath, his head rolling back against the wall, the sweat cooling on his skin. Sirius, the bastard, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and smirked up at him, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“So,” Sirius said, voice hoarse, smug, “would you say I give the best blowjob?”

“Who even fucking asks that?” Remus let out a breathless, disbelieving laugh. Then, without warning, he pushed off the wall, grabbed Sirius’ collar, and flipped him in the bed, over, pressing him down onto the mattress.

“Oh, you’re in so much trouble, Black,” Remus murmured, leaning down to brush his lips against the corner of Sirius’ mouth, his hands already making quick work of the buttons on Sirius’ trousers.

Sirius grinned up at him, eyes dark, eager. “Yeah?” he murmured back, voice lilting, teasing. “What’re you going to do about it?”

Remus answered by sliding his hand down, fingers wrapping around Sirius’ cock, delighting in the sharp gasp it pulled from him.

He wasted no time. Remus shifted lower, dragging Sirius’ trousers down his thighs, his fingers teasing along the sensitive skin. Sirius squirmed beneath him, his smirk faltering just slightly when Remus’ lips brushed against his hip bone, his teeth nipping at the skin there.

“Fuck,” Sirius breathed, his voice cracking just a little, his bravado slipping as Remus took him in hand properly, stroking slow, purposeful.

Remus hummed against his skin, his breath warm as he moved lower, his tongue flicking out to taste, to tease, his fingers tightening their grip just enough to make Sirius whimper.

“Oh, I see,” Sirius managed, his voice wrecked already, his hips twitching upwards. “Revenge, is it?”

Remus grinned against his thigh, his hand squeezing just enough to pull another gasp from Sirius. “Something like that.”

And then he took Sirius into his mouth, slow and deep, swallowing around him, delighting in the way Sirius all but sobbed, his fingers flying to clutch at Remus’ curls, his body already trembling.

The most brilliant thing about Sirius Black? He could cum very fast. Like a bitch in heat. Or a thirteen year old.

“So,” Remus said, smug, trying to imitate Sirius “would you say I give the best blowjob?”

Look, Remus had many regrets in his life. Some of the worst? Severus Snape and Regulus Black. For very different reasons. But still.

He could have made Severus’ life easier. That was true. But realistically? Snape getting bullied by the popular kids while Remus was welcomed by them? Yeah, he needed that, all right? Could he have stopped it? Unclear. Could he have at least tried? That was the problem.

And then there was… that prank. Sirius’ mistake, but still. But Remus was so not talking about that, especially not after he’d had Sirius’ sperm in his mouth, down his throat, just two hours ago.

Regret number two? No — actually, this one came first. Especially after he found out the real reason Sirius left home. The biggest regret? Not getting Regulus Black out of Grimmauld Place while they were still at school.

And the thing was, Remus and James had been so bloody ready to do it. Who convinced them not to? Peter. Of fucking course.

So yes. Regrets. The reason why he was now following Severus Snape through the house, down the stairs to the lab.

“You’re drugging yourself,” Remus said, not even bothering to pretend Snape didn’t know he was being followed. “I know you are.”

Snape almost laughed at him. “No, you don’t. Black does and he sent you as his puppy to talk to me.”

Remus shrugs “Yeah, okay, Regulus noticed, spoke to me. But you are wrong, I was not sent, I offered. So why the fuck are you drugging yourself with an Euphoria Elixir?”

Severus dismissed him with a hand “You’ll have to excuse me, Lupin, I forgot only you and your bunch are allowed to have moments of… melancholy.”

“Are you depressed?”

“We are in a war, everyone is depressed, are you that slow?”

Remus chose to sit, fingers idly searching the tabletop for Regulus’ ashtray before lighting a cigarette. He exhaled slowly. “That’s not what I meant.”

“For your information, it’s anxiety, not depression,” Snape muttered as he sat down. “I take Muggle medication for it. There’s no cure for this in our world. They’re rubbish, by the way — make me numb. So, I’m conducting my own research.”

“Why didn’t you—”

“Because I want this one to be mine, not Regulus’,” Snape interrupted, fidgeting slightly. He nodded towards the cigarette pack. “Can I?”

Remus wordlessly handed him one along with the lighter. “You smoke?”

“Only when I work. Blame Regulus. And Bartemius.”

Remus narrowed his eyes. “You need more research subjects?”

Snape arched a brow. “Obviously.” He took a slow drag. “Are you offering?”

“Sure. James would too,” Remus said, because he knew it to be true. “Possibly Pandora as well.”

Snape scoffed. “James Potter does not have anxiety.”

“It’s not social — it’s chronic. He’s paranoid. Thinks we’ll all die very badly,” Remus admitted.

Snape fidgets with the cigarette “It won’t work on Pandora Rosier. Seers have different blood mutilation — it would only worsen her fears.”

“Isn’t that the case for werewolves as well then?” Remus asks, now vaguely interested on the topic.

“Seers are closer to Veelas, werewolves and vampires are closer to wizards. You were born a man, your mind and blood works like a man’s,” another slow drag.

So Severus Snape was a slow smoker.

“Seers are born seers, that’s why they show the gift so early in life. It’s very different.”

“You speak as if you looked into it,” Remus frowned “You did, didn’t you? You tried to find a way to help her anxiety.”

Who the fuck was this man? Was this the real Severus Snape?

“She says I have a weird aura, I supposes I’d like to change her opinion on the matter” another slow drag “I… I like working along side her. But I’m bored of getting chaperoned while doing so.”

“You don’t chew out loud when you eat,” Walburga seizes him.

Because you see, this fucking week, everyone was coming into Remus’ library for no apparent reason. And yes, it was his library. He got Sirius Black to suck his dick. Remus is the official non-official heir to the Black throne.

“Excuse me?”

She tilts her head “It’s pleasant to know some of my son’s… acquaintances have normal manners. Since both he and James Potter do not know how to chew like normal men. Seriously now, even the Crouch boy knows how to eat.”

He looks at her. Which okay… so it’s a bit weird. Because Remus knows he has a thing for the people in the Black family. And Walburga looks a fucking lot like Sirius. Like she just duplicated herself. Regulus also looks a lot like her. But is different in a way. Walburga and Sirius are alike even in gestures and the vocal tone.

Regulus acts more like Narcissa and speaks on a more nasal tone.

So by that logic, Remus is like, fairly aware, she is the closest thing he would get for now in seeing how Sirius would look at her age. And yeah… as said before, he has a thing for the Blacks.

“Was that a joke?” He asks.

“No, but my life has become one,” she huffs and takes a sip of her one “Not that — that was the joke.”

She began to speak, then stopped herself. A moment later, she tried again.

“Eid al-Adha is approaching. I do not know who to ask about what to get Mister Potter. And I refuse to ask my sons.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, how uncultured you are,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “It is an Egyptian celebration. Since he is… involved with one of my sons, I should get him something. Narcissa and I are both at a loss.”

“But James doesn’t practise it,” Remus said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

For a fleeting moment, she looked almost wounded by the remark. Because that was the thing about Walburga Black — she could fool anyone she wanted. But she couldn’t fool Remus Lupin. He had spent too many years dissecting Sirius’ expressions, peeling back the layers of what the Black family left unsaid.

“Regardless, I wish to do it,” she said firmly. “What would he prefer?”

Remus scratched the back of his head. “We usually just get him Quidditch stuff for his birthday and Christmas.”

“That is inappropriate. It is not good enough,” she said, her tone crisp, final.

“I—”

“You are of no help,” she waved a hand at him “I’ll ask Miss Evans. Far more competent than you lot.”

A beat.

“Such a pity of her lineage.”

There it was.

It was disgusting. Because it was. Everything about Remus was disgusting. Everything he did was awful.

And Merlin… how he loathed the feeling. It wasn’t just the vomiting itself — though that was bad enough. It was the way it scraped his throat raw, made him cough up blood, left ugly, broken veins blooming across his face from the strain.

To top it all his hands were shaking. Why the hell were his hands always shaking?

That was the thing about chronic pain medication. It wrecked the stomach. Worse, it stripped away any semblance of eating normally.

And because his life was utterly miserable, of course he was with Sirius when it happened.

Maybe he should go back to that idea of killing himself. Yes, Sirius would make a marvellous wounded widow. That would do.

“If you keep your head like that, you’ll get all the tension in your forehead,” Sirius murmured, tilting Remus’ chin up with careful fingers.

Which was… so fucking disgusting. He had literal vomit and spit on himself. Even Crouch managed to look vaguely sensual in his madness. But Remus? Not even close.

And, of course, that was the moment Sirius decided to wipe his jaw and neck with his bare hand.

Kill me now.

And here he goes again. Another round. Sirius keeping his jaw in place with one hand while he does it, while the other absentmindedly plays with the soft little hairs at his nape.

That, right there, was everything about Sirius Black. Because he was crude. A bully. A reckless, mindless fool. Brash in a way that people found both endearing and insufferable. He was one of the worst men Remus had ever known — and they were living in a house full of Death Eaters.

Yet Sirius was also the only fucking person in the entire damn world who would wipe Remus’ face clean of vomit with his bare hands, without blinking. The same person who had spent two months straight sleeping on the floor next to James’ bed when his asthma got bad in fourth year — because someone had to watch him sleep. The same person who had cleaned the blood off Barty Crouch Jr. in Azkaban. The same fucking person who had sat with Peter in third year when he convulsed after taking a hit to the head.

Few should know this. Few should ever know the contradiction that was Sirius Black. They wouldn’t know how to appreciate the reality of him, the rawness of it all. Few understood the Blacks.

Remus had a bloody PhD in understanding them.

“Oh, dear, you got blood on your pretty nose,” Sirius said, before wiping that away as well.

And another round. At this point, he was barely bringing up anything — just gastric acid and spit.

“You done, sweetheart?” Sirius tilted Remus’ head to look at him. “Let me clean you.”

Remus had often wondered where Sirius had learned to do this. He’d even asked him once.

Felix Rosier.

Of course. The golden child of the Rosier family had spent his life forcing down his food, obsessed with being fit, lean, sleek.

It was different, of course — Remus wasn’t trying to do this. He didn’t want to do this. But still, Sirius knew exactly how to care for someone while they spat their whole bloody intestines out.

The sad, sad truth of Remus’ life was that Sirius Black had been made to be the greatest love of his life. But not the other way around.

Sirius pressed a quick, soft kiss to Remus’ not-yet-clean cheek.

“Let’s get you a bath, yeah?”

Chapter Text

Regulus had always regarded Barty as beautiful. Not that he ever told him as much. Or that Barty would have believed him.

But he was. In that heart-stopping, gut-punching, brain-shattering kind of way.

Barty had once told him that Eastern Europeans weren’t allowed to be beautiful. That their faces and bodies held nothing soft or graceful. They weren’t even ugly — because that would require acknowledging them as human. They were just… nothing. Monsters. Barbarians. Their bodies too big, too rough, too much.

Regulus had always been strange like that. Because he never wanted pretty in the first place. Not in the conventional sense, anyway. He could never go after someone charming and smooth like Evan. Or even someone with big, dark eyes and rosy cheeks like Severus.

No.

Regulus Black wanted James Potter’s overbite, the way his upper lip was slightly too full. The curve of his nose and the way he filled too much space — both in body and in spirit. He wanted James’ bad eyesight and the way his eyes watered in the summer sun. His broken back and the bruises beneath his eyes when he hadn’t slept enough.

He liked Rabastan’s slightly crooked front teeth and the way they always left the cutest little marks on his food. The way his pinkies were too short for his other fingers, and how he always kept them raised when he drank. How he was toned in an almost unsettling way, his movements too precise, and how he had the strangest, smallest feet.

Regulus was quite fond of Lupin’s too-long, too-thin fingers and neck. The way the scar on his nose shifted with each flicker of expression. The way his eyes were formidable — one moment dark and brooding, the next, light and contemplative.

So of course he was entirely enamoured with Barty’s birthmarks, the way they mapped out constellations on his skin. Of course he adored his hands — the most beautiful hands he had ever seen — yet calloused and worn. Of course he loved the absurd length of his legs, the way his torso stretched endlessly. The way he was too big, just like his heart was. Of course he admired the sharp lines of his nose, the impossible width of his shoulders.

He was a Black. He only ever liked the best.

And so, even in an induced coma, with Evan resting his head on his legs, Barty was still one of the most beautiful creatures in the world.

“How’s my baby?” Sirius strolled into the hospital room, two mugs in hand — probably for Regulus and Evan.

“Your baby?” Regulus asked.

Sirius grinned. That particular kind of grin only older brothers knew how to wear — sarcastic and reassuring all at once.

“Me and Barty bonded in Azkaban. That’s my baby now,” he said, handing them their mugs. “That’s my baby brother.”

Regulus met his gaze, unimpressed. “He’s my brother, not yours.”

Sirius only placed a hand on Barty’s head, fingers sinking into the now very soft, very clean hair that Evan had painstakingly cared for.

“What’s yours is mine, Little Prince.”

A beat.

“Barty’s very soft.”

“He is not,” Regulus muttered.

Evan chuckled. “Oh, he so is. Don’t listen to Reggie, Siri, he gets the possessive streak from you.”

Sirius narrowed his eyes at Regulus, all mock suspicion.

“You lost your virginity to Barty Crouch Junior.”

Silence.

What was Regulus even supposed to say to that?

“That’s good,” Sirius continued, completely unbothered. “I’m glad it wasn’t some arsehole.”

…Was that a compliment?

“But,” — and here we go — “you should have saved yourself for Prongs!”

The nerve of that man.

“James Potter didn’t fancy me in school,” Regulus said, smug in his defence. “How was I supposed to know he’d ever fancy me?”

Sirius stopped.

He looked wounded. Heartbroken. As if Regulus had just shattered his entire world.

What the hell was happening?

He turned to Evan, aghast. “You lot didn’t tell him? How could you leave out the most important part?”

Sirius moved from Barty to Regulus, cupping his face in his hands — big brother hands, the kind that felt like they could hold the whole bloody world in them.

“Reg… Regulus, James has loved you since he was eleven.” His voice had gone soft. And then, just like when they were children, he pressed a kiss to Regulus’ nose.

“Potter didn’t even know me when he was eleven.”

Sirius looked devastated. “You remember those letters you sent me in my first year?”

Regulus nodded, wary.

Sirius exhaled. “James read them. Every single one. Lived through them. From the very first.” He hesitated, then pressed on. “You and Lily… it was a one-month technicality. Always was. Yeah, she punched him first, but he read your letters one month to the day. He and her — yeah, they slept together, but he wrote to you one month to the day.”

“So I was the second choice,” Regulus said flatly. “Good to know.”

Sirius groaned. “No, you’re not listening to me.” Another kiss to the nose, firmer this time. “James never had to see you to love you. Everyone has their first love. But that’s all it is — first love. Come on, Reggie, you cannot tell me this isn’t the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard. Someone falling in love with you when you were ten, just because they liked the way you wrote to your older brother?”

A small, incredulous laugh. “Tell me that isn’t the most James thing in the world.”

It was all Sirius’ fault. In the end, as always, he was the one to ruin every fucking thing.

How was Regulus supposed to live with the knowledge of how James had fallen for him? How was he meant to accept that it wasn’t war that had brought them together — but words?

Alright, regroup.

Regulus was smart. Smarter than most. Probably the smartest in the house after Miss Lily and Barty — maybe Severus too, though he’d never, ever admit that. So yes, smart. Eloquent, even.

James Potter had fallen in love with him over the letters he’d sent Sirius when he was ten. Astronomy, French, Potions, the Muggle books Andromeda used to give him.

And the excruciating fact that Regulus had stolen a photograph of Sirius and James that Christmas. Just because James was very pretty.

James Potter had some sort of intellectual kink — that much wasn’t new. So what exactly—

The door to the study banged open.

Potter strode in, flushed, his expression slightly irritated.

“I need your help,” he announced, already making his way to the sofa.

“Proceed.”

James inhaled sharply — Regulus was fairly certain he was trying to take in all the air in the world.

“I had a really fucked-up day,” he said. “I know you don’t remember me properly, but I remember you. So I’m sorry for imposing, but please, please — please — let me pretend. I swear I’ll never ask for anything ever again.”

Regulus frowned. “What do you need?”

“Read to me. Talk to me. Anything, really. I’d be fine just looking at you.” James was fidgeting with his hands now, restless. “I need to dissociate, and you’re the only thing — no, the only person — I think about more than war and politics.”

“That’s all?”

“Please,” James murmured, nearly begging now.

Regulus bit the inside of his cheek, hesitant. But this man had loved him then. And teenage Regulus had loved him so much that he’d carved out a third faction in the war just for him and Sirius. No — that wasn’t even true. Regulus still loved him. Had always loved him. He just didn’t remember how to love him properly anymore.

Evan had recently said… that he was Odysseus, lost at sea, always scheming. And James, his Penelope, had been left behind, surviving with charm and wit. But now, here they were again, pulled back into each other’s orbit, different people than before.

Regulus exhaled, then patted his right knee. “Why don’t you lay on me?” He sought James’ gaze. “I’m reading Orlando — Barty’s obsessed with it. Would you like me to tell you about it?”

He hesitated for only a moment before giving in with a quiet sigh, as though he’d been waiting for permission all along. He shifted forward, lowering himself onto the sofa, and settled his head in Regulus’ lap with an ease that made Regulus’ breath catch. It was too familiar. Too natural. As though they had done this a thousand times before — probably they did.

James smelled like mint, wet grass in the spring, and something distinctly warm — like spice and sunlit Quidditch fields. His body was tense, his shoulders coiled tight with exhaustion, but the moment his head touched Regulus’ thigh, some of the rigidity bled away. He exhaled, long and slow, eyes fluttering shut.

Regulus’ hand hovered above James’ hair, uncertain. Touch him, something in him whispered. If he lets you.

Tentatively, he let his fingers card through the unruly mess of curls, pushing them back from James’ forehead. The other man made a small noise — something between a hum and a sigh, the sound of someone allowing themselves to rest.

Regulus swallowed. His throat felt tight.

“Orlando,” he began, his voice softer than he expected, “is about a young nobleman in Elizabethan England. He starts as a poet, a dreamer. A boy who falls in love too easily, perhaps — kinda like you and Sirius.” His fingers ghosted through James’s hair again, more deliberate this time. “And one day, he wakes up and finds himself changed.”

James cracked an eye open, watching him with quiet curiosity. “Changed how?”

Regulus gave him a wry look. “Orlando becomes a woman.”

That startled a breath of laughter out of James, brief but very light. His lips twitched, but the mirth faded as quickly as it had come. He exhaled again, settling deeper into Regulus’ lap, tilting his face toward him. “Go on,” he murmured.

Regulus hesitated only a second before continuing, his voice a steady rhythm in the stillness of the room. His hand remained in James’ hair, and James didn’t protest.

And if Regulus’s heart ached just a little at the way James had said please — like it was the only word left in his vocabulary — well. That was no one’s business but his own.

“What was your first Muggle book?” James asked, reaching for Regulus’ arm.

That arm. The Marked one. His fingers brushed over the Dark Mark, deliberate, unafraid.

Had James touched it before? Had he seen it?

Regulus’ breath caught, but James didn’t waver. His touch remained gentle, absent-minded even, like he wasn’t tracing over a history carved into Regulus’ skin.

“You’ll laugh at me,” Regulus murmured, feeling warmth creep up his neck. A smile tugged at his lips despite himself. “The Little Prince.”

James’s fingers stilled for half a second before resuming their slow path beneath the hem of Regulus’ sleeve. “I knew that, actually,” he admitted, voice quiet, almost fond. “It was my first too.”

Regulus blinked. “How—?”

“Your letters to Sirius — you mentioned it,” James answered simply. “Actually, now that I think of it he told me once that he found it unbearably poetic that you of all people read a book about a boy who never really belonged anywhere.”

Regulus huffed, rolling his eyes. “Typical.”

James hummed in agreement, then arched a brow. “Did you like it?”

Regulus hesitated. “Not particularly.”

James laughed, warm and easy, but Regulus wasn’t done.

“I did, however, like Nobody’s Boy by Hector Malot.”

James’ fingers stilled again. This time, when he looked up, something in his expression had shifted. Softer. More knowing.

“You would,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

Regulus frowned. “And what exactly does that mean?”

James smiled, slow and small, his thumb brushing over the inside of Regulus’s wrist. “Just that you’ve always had an affinity for lost things.”

Regulus’ breath hitched. You have no idea, he almost said. Instead, he swallowed, willing himself to remain composed.

James let the moment stretch, then, with a sigh, relaxed further into Regulus’ lap, his grip on his arm loosening but not falling away entirely.

“Keep talking,” he murmured, eyes slipping shut. “Tell me about Nobody’s Boy.”

Regulus exhaled, steadying himself. He let his free hand slip back into James’ hair and began to speak, weaving words through the silence like a thread stitching them back together.

He hadn’t seen it in a long time. Not since they were kids.

Regulus didn’t even bother wondering what had triggered it — he knew. It was Azkaban. It was himself dying and Barty dragging him back to life. It was Felix crushed beneath a piano, Bellatrix trying to kill him in a manic frenzy — it was the war.

So when Severus, of all people, informed him that Sirius was in the sitting room, rocking himself — that he’d hit Mary Macdonald, that he’d shouted at Lupin, that only Evan had managed to get him to sit down — Regulus understood immediately.

Because he had them too. Because he had looked into it after Sirius left home. The Muggles had a name for it. They didn’t.

Obsessive-compulsive disorder.

The moment Regulus stepped into the room and saw his brother, he didn’t hesitate. “No one touch him. Everyone out.” His voice was sharp, slicing through the tense air. “I won’t repeat myself — everyone but Lupin and Evan, out now, or I swear on Merlin’s grave I will burn this damn house to the ground.”

That did the trick.

Lupin flinched, glancing at Sirius, then at Regulus. “What is this? I’ve never seen him like this before.” His voice was frayed, too close to panic. He looked seconds away from bolting — or, worse, doing something reckless.

That wouldn’t do.

Remus Lupin was a brilliant, strong man. But he needed to be anchored, needed something to do — otherwise, he spiralled. That’s what insecurity did to a person.

“Remus.” Regulus wasn’t sure he’d ever called him by his first name before. “Ask Kreacher for a cloth, a wet one — cold, please. Some ice, too. Sirius likes to munch on them when he gets like this. And then,” he met Lupin’s gaze, steady, unwavering, “I’d appreciate it if you could fetch his favourite clothes for me.”

Lupin blinked. “Why?”

Regulus’ jaw tightened. “Because Sirius is a germophobe. Right now, he feels dirty.”

Lupin’s brows furrowed. “No, he’s not.”

Regulus tilted his head. “Are you sure?”

Something flickered in Lupin’s gaze — uncertainty, realisation. A memory surfacing. Then—

“He’s a germophobe,” Lupin murmured, as though only now allowing himself to believe it.

Regulus exhaled. “Good. Now, go.”

Evan was braiding Sirius’ hair, keeping it out of his face, his voice low and steady as he sang in French. Good. Evan always knew what to do. Evan was good like that.

Evan Rosier was Hera — and always would be.

“Siri, love.” Regulus approached carefully, always careful not to touch. Not yet.

“I left her there.” Sirius’s voice was hoarse, raw. A beat. Then—“Mary said she’s glad we left her there.”

She.

Oh. So that was what this was about.

Of course it was.

It was always, always, always about Bellatrix.

“I’m like them, aren’t I?” Sirius was still rocking, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Like Orion. Like Cygnus. Like Thomas.”

Regulus didn’t think. He yanked Sirius’ hand and pressed it firmly to his own chest, right over his heart, where Sirius could feel it. Beating. Alive.

“No. No. That’s me, love. Remember? Me and Felix.”

It hurt to say it. But he had to. Because Sirius had always insisted — he was different. Special. Not like Regulus. Not like Felix.

And he was.

There was no other star like him. There never would be.

Because Sirius wasn’t Sirius. He was Vega.

Regulus curled Sirius’ fingers against his chest, then brought them to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles. “Me and Felix, my dear noble knight,” he murmured. “But you — you’re like Mother, aren’t you? A little broken, maybe, but never intentionally. And you hate it. She hates it too — can’t even look at you.”

“No.”

Evan’s voice cut through the room, sharp.

Regulus frowned, looking up.

“Not even that is right,” Evan said, firm. “Stop it, Reggie.”

Regulus’ grip on Sirius’ hand tightened. “What?”

Evan’s eyes were dark, unyielding. “Don’t make yourself into a monster just so Sirius can feel better. And don’t make Felix into one either.”

Silence.

Regulus swallowed, throat tight. Sirius’ fingers twitched against his.

“I don’t want to be like her,” Sirius admitted, voice fragile. “And maybe I’m not.” He inhaled shakily. “She would have never left Bella in there.”

Regulus exhaled. “But you didn’t.”

He met Sirius’ gaze, steady, unwavering.

“I did.”

“It’s not right — right, right, right.” Sirius’s breath hitched, his voice unsteady. “I left her in there, and she would have never, never, never—”

His free hand moved suddenly, nails digging into his own skin, scratching, tearing — but Evan caught it in time, gripping his wrist tight.

Because Regulus knew.

Evan had already lost an older brother. Regulus had too. They had both lost Felix.

So they would not lose Sirius.

But Sirius — Sirius had always wanted to hang on to Bellatrix. Because once upon a time, so long ago that no one remembered anymore… Bellatrix had been the original rebel. The reason Sirius was the way he was. Before she — like every Black woman before her, like Walburga — got her great, sweeping, Greek tragedy.

Helen of Sparta, not Helen of Troy.

That distinction mattered.

“I left you, my little prince.” Sirius’s voice broke. “I left Evie and Dora. Left Felix too — just like Dromeda did.” A sharp inhale, a sob finally breaking free. “I always leave you.”

Regulus opened his mouth, but before he could speak—

“But you also come back to people.”

James bloody Potter, ladies and gentlemen.

He entered the room with Lupin at his side, arms full — cloth, ice, tea, clothes.

Because every Black needed a James Potter. And every Black needed an Evan Rosier.

James — because he was James, and no one else could be — sat beside Sirius on the sofa, seamlessly placing one hand on him, the other on Regulus. His gaze flicked to Evan, steady, assessing, waiting.

Because he was James Potter — who loved too much, too bright, too recklessly.

And Regulus had never loved him more than in that moment.

“You leave, and you come back,” James said again, gently. “Like Mum does. You take after her, don’t you?” He held Sirius’s gaze, unwavering. “Look at it this way — after all these years, Mum and Walburga are talking again. Mum ran too. But she came back.”

And, as it seemed—

Every Black needed a Euphemia Potter (née Shafiq).

The original dragon tamer. The original holder of the sun and stars and all things burning.

Then—

“I have a plan to get them out.” Lupin. Quiet, wise, and so brilliant it hurt.

His voice broke through the room, soft but sure.

“Bellatrix. Lucius. Rodolphus.” A pause. A beat. “Rabastan’s already made arrangements for that medical clinic in Germany — for Bella and Lestrange. We’ll give them fake names, like Regulus did for Marlene.”

Silence stretched.

Regulus turned to look at Sirius, his brother’s red-rimmed eyes shining with something fragile, something dangerously close to hope.

“We can save Bella?” Sirius asked.

Regulus kissed his hand “We are going back — after her.”

“You called for me?”

Walburga rarely called for him. If she wanted something, she would be the one searching, finding. That was the difference between him and Sirius.

When she looked at Sirius, she saw herself.

When she looked at Regulus, she saw her brother — Alphard.

And though it was an unkind thing to admit — even to himself — Regulus knew she had loved him more. Not in a way that was better, necessarily. He knew she didn’t like him. But she loved him.

It was a complicated thing.

“This will be an uncomfortable discussion for both of us,” she announced, gesturing for him to sit.

Then, she placed a box in front of him. Deep red velvet.

“I meant to give it to you before you died,” she said plainly, pouring herself a glass of wine. “I never got the chance. And now your mind is not intact.” A sip. A pause. “I wish not to make that mistake a second time.”

She pursed her lips in thought — that particular way she always did. Narcissa did it too.

“I do not think it is fit for a man to give another man a ring as a wedding proposal,” she continued, tilting her head, fingers restless against her glass. “It is not moral.”

Regulus said nothing.

She exhaled sharply. “I knew you were bent when you were fourteen.” A pause. “I had hoped I would never have to make you bed a woman, to take one as a wife. Since you refused to marry Pandora Rosier — which, yes, I do approve of the match you arranged for her with the younger Malfoy. They suit.”

“You are rambling, Mother.”

She was drunk.

“As I was saying,” she pressed on, “I cannot find a wife for you. There simply is no one perfect enough. Perhaps Miss Evans, but—” she sighed, lips curling in distaste, “the blood, Regulus. A shame, truly, for such an exquisite girl to have been made to be born into a Muggle family.”

She swirled her wine.

“In any case, no witch is fit for you. So I will not give you a ring.” She tapped the box once, deliberate. “I am giving you a bracelet. Custom made.”

Regulus blinked. He did not open the box. Not yet.

“Is this your way of saying you approve of James?”

She dismissed him with a flick of her hand. “Don’t be foolish. Of course I don’t.” A pause. “And of course I do.”

“Because he has pure blood. Royal lineage.” Regulus said; it was not a question.

She took another sip. “Because he stood by your bed for two months. Because he agreed to my plan to make him Minister for Magic. Because he took Sirius in. Because I trust his mother.” A rare hesitation. “Because I trust his father. And so — I trust him.”

Regulus frowned.

“I believe,” she went on, gaze sharp, “that what he did — declaring your… relationship publicly — was both brave and cunning. Perhaps that is what we needed all along.”

He lit a cigarette and opened a draw to search for her cigars.

“Why custom made?”

“It was crafted in Britain by a French bijouterie, using gold imported from Egypt,” she said simply. “It bears all three family crests on the inside.” A smirk. “And it does something rather… interesting.”

Regulus arched a brow.

Without waiting for him to open it, his mother lifted the lid of the box herself.

The bracelet inside was understated yet distinct — like James was. Not ostentatious, yet far from common. Elegant. Purposeful.

She picked it up, turning it between her fingers, the movement slow, almost hypnotic.

Then—

It shifted.

Gold twisted, reshaping itself with effortless precision, metal elongating and curling into a slender form.

A quill.

A Whispering Quill.

Regulus inhaled sharply. “Merlin.”

It was so logical, so practical. So utterly right. Because everything about him and James had always been about letters. This — this was her way of acknowledging it.

Of celebrating it.

Regulus remembered Lily Evans startlingly fast.

While his memories of others came in fragments — James and Severus most of all, sometimes even Marlene — he had no such difficulty recalling her or Sirius (for the most part). The past three years with them remained sharp, almost untouched by the haze that clouded his other memories.

Still, he felt uneasy around her.

Because the moment he had woken, disoriented and lost, he had yelled at her.

And now, remembering the fullness of their friendship, he felt deeply, achingly ashamed.

It was strange, really. He had never expected to be friends with her, never dared to hope for it.

She had been his tutor at school. Everything he knew about healing, he had learned from her — well, the foundation of it, at least. He had studied more on his own, of course, but she had given him the start.

And then — she had helped him save Barty. Had wept over Mary Macdonald, barely clinging to life. Had called him, Regulus Black, brilliant and a good man.

Then — oh. But it had been so easy, hadn’t it?

No wonder James Potter had fancied them both at some point. They were alike in so many ways. Even ordered the same bloody tea.

And yet — they weren’t alike. Not entirely. Which was even better. They read different books and could banter about it for hours — both of them loved to argue. Where Lily was warm, Regulus was cold. Where he was soft, she was tough.

A formidable friendship.

And Harry — Harry liked him too. Regulus could see it. Harry cried often, even around his parents. But never around him or Sirius. Never around Pandora.

And Lily… oh, such a kind and loving girl — woman — always insisting that Regulus was, in some way, Harry’s parent too. Legally, he was. But not by blood.

Blood had always mattered to Regulus. It didn’t to Lily. They argued about that too.

And oh, it was lovely.

“You’re crying,” Regulus observed, his voice quiet. “Very silently, if I may add. Flowers should never cry — I always tell Narcissa the same thing.”

Lily wasn’t the type to cry silently. She sobbed, made a spectacle of it. Marlene McKinnon and Sirius were the same.

So this — this quiet, restrained grief — meant something was deeply wrong.

“Is she your favourite cousin?” Lily asked after a moment. “Narcissa, I mean?”

Regulus considered it. “I regard Evan and Pandora as my siblings, so… yes, I suppose Narcissa is my favourite cousin.”

Lily exhaled shakily. “My sister has a son.” Her voice was thick with something — hurt, regret. “Just two months younger than Harry.” She let out a small, humourless laugh. “I only found out now. She never… never wrote to tell me. I wrote to her about my son, but she never did.”

Regulus frowned. “Younger or older?”

“Older. By almost two years.” She laughed again, this time softer. “Actually, we have the exact same age gap as you and Sirius.”

Regulus nodded, rising from his seat and making his way to the tray to pour her tea.

“That’s why you never chose a godmother,” he said as he returned, handing her the mug. “Because you were waiting for her. Sirius — because he’s James’ brother in every way that matters — was always going to be the godfather. But you wanted your own sister.”

Lily closed her eyes, another silent tear slipping down her cheek.

“You have sisters,” Regulus continued, “Marlene, Alice — these days, I could even say Narcissa and Molly Weasley. But you were waiting for your own blood to claim you.”

Lily swallowed hard, gripping the tea with both hands. “I’d like for the boys to meet,” she admitted. “But I know it would be dangerous.”

Regulus sat beside her on the sofa, his tone unwavering. “I’ll arrange it. No, actually — I’ll come with you. Potter as well. We’ll make a… family trip out of it.”

Lily frowned. “I’m your family?”

He smirked. “We’re practically married at this point.”

She let out a startled laugh.

“We shagged the same man,” he pointed out, “and since you’re actually attracted to women, I’ll never have to worry about you.”

He was nothing if not practical.

Then, more seriously, Regulus added, “You are the mother of my child — not just James’. You came to me first, not to him. That mattered to me, Miss Lily. And as I told you then, I will always help you in anything you need.”

Lily smiled, warm and genuine this time.

So he tried again, teasing, “I think… if I didn’t find tits so utterly revolting, we’d have been wedded a long time ago. Don’t I always tell you our offspring would be brilliant?”

Lily snorted, shaking her head, but her eyes were brighter now. And that, Regulus supposed, was all that mattered.

The worst thing Evan Rosier ever did was pretend.

Pretend that he could fall in love with women that way.

And it wasn’t even about the girls he had dated at school — not entirely, anyway. Because Evan had treated his girlfriends better than any other man possibly could. He had worshipped the ground they walked on, showered them with gifts and compliments, and — most importantly — had never, ever lied to them.

He never told them he might come to love them like that one day.

And yet, the worst part? From what Regulus had gathered over the years, the girls had been… pleased with him. Sexually, even.

Evan had tried — really, truly tried — to love women. To be in love with them. And Regulus had known it all. He had never once cheated. Never once made false promises.

On paper, Evan Rosier had been the perfect partner.

He was also incredibly gay.

And in love with Barty Crouch Jr., the most masculine man in Britain. Who, in return, had loved him back. And for some insufferable reason, Evan had refused to see it.

That — that w+-as the worst thing Evan Rosier had ever done.

And some days — very few, but some — Regulus felt a little petty about the whole situation. Sure, his two best friends were together now. Evan loved Barty the way he deserved to be loved — properly. And Barty, in turn, gave Evan what he needed most: validation, attention, understanding.

But Regulus suffered from the fact that they had both spent so long hurting before it ever happened.

“You will never guess who’s back in the country and wants to meet with me,” Evan smirked, leaning back like he had all the time in the world. “Aurora Sinistra.”

Oh, fuck no.

Regulus was going to kill Evan. Right this moment.

Evan had many girlfriends at school. Many. But after every bloody breakup, he always found himself tangled up with Miss Sinistra.

They had never officially been together — she had been engaged to some Lord since she was fifteen — but they had shagged. A lot.

And that? That had fucked with Barty’s head. So much. For so many reasons.

Regulus narrowed his eyes. “I will literally kill myself in front of you — again — if you intend to see her.”

Evan frowned. “It would be very good for us politically. Her husband is the Prime Minister of Magical Italy, after all.”

Regulus’s glare sharpened. “Are you actually going to cheat on Barty? I thought you were done pretending to want to bed women.”

“What? No. What?”

“Evan,” Regulus said slowly, deliberately, “be serious. You shagged the life out of that woman.”

Evan rolled his eyes, then bit the inside of his cheek, suddenly looking far less smug. “… Look, you can’t tell Barty this because it’ll get to his head, all right?”

Regulus folded his arms. “Go on.”

Evan sighed, looking deeply reluctant. “We only ever did anal,” he admitted, his face actually turning pink. “She, ahm… kind of looks like Barty, I suppose? Especially since, you know, her mother’s Bulgarian. And… well, y’know, she always had short hair and smaller breasts, so—”

“I am actually disgusted by you right now.”

Evan scowled. “First off — you shagged Barty because you said, and I quote, ‘he was close enough to Potter’s body type.’”

Regulus winced. Fair point.

“Secondly,” Evan continued, “Rory knew. We had a deal, all right? She wanted some sexual experience before marriage. We had a deal.”

Regulus huffed “You’ll meet with her only after Barty wakes, and with him — tied to your bloody hand.”

“Obviously.”

Chapter Text

He knew there had once been hands on him. Hands that shouldn’t have been.

Regulus had erased that memory from him. And Barty was glad. Because apparently — Evan had asked for it.

Barty had fainted the moment he felt safe enough to do so — on Dorcas’ back, her in her dragon form, in Regulus’ hands. And because his body had been ruined in Azkaban, Regulus had placed him in an induced coma until they could heal him.

And Evan — Evan had made a choice. He had asked Regulus to erase Barty’s memories of the sixteen guards who had raped him.

Barty had already been in the coma when it happened. He hadn’t been able to decide for himself. So Evan had done it for him. The kind of decision a partner makes. The kind of decision a husband makes. The exact decision Barty would have made for Evan, if their places had been reversed. The same one he’d have asked for himself the moment he’d have woken.

That was the thing — Evan knew him so well that he knew what Barty would have wanted.

But not everyone saw it that way. Sirius — of all fucking people — had been furious. Had told Barty that Evan had violated his mind. That he had taken away a decision that should have been Barty’s.

But he didn’t see it that way.

And no one — not Sirius, not Regulus, not anyone — would ever understand what existed between him and Evan. Barty liked that Evan had been able to decide for him. To control for him.

Yes — maybe that had something to do with his father. But it also didn’t. Because Barty had spent his entire life being decided for. But this — this was the one choice he had ever been allowed to make. And he had chosen Evan. He had chosen to let Evan be the only man who would ever do that for him. From now on.

So yes, he was glad he didn’t remember.

He loved Evan even more for it.

But—

There was also another problem.

Because even though Barty couldn’t remember it, couldn’t feel it — he still knew it had happened. And he wasn’t sure if he would ever be able to be intimate that way again. Not even with Evan.

For the past four hours, he had been thinking — knowing — that he would most likely never be able to take a dick up his arse ever again.

Which was… yeah.

Shit.

Because Evan would never allow himself to be fucked.

“Sirius is still furious,” Evan muttered as he stepped into their room — their room. Have you seen that?

“He won’t talk to me or Reggie. Even yelled at Potter.”

Barty huffed, running a hand through his hair. “I’ll talk to him. He got rather… protective over me in there. Me over him, too. Trauma bonding and all that.”

Evan climbed onto the bed, settling against Barty, resting his head on his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“Don’t be,” Barty said, his fingers automatically drifting to the nape of Evan’s neck. “You and Reggie did what I wanted. I asked for it before, didn’t I? Told you that if it ever happened again, I wanted my memories erased.” His touch was firm, grounding. “Even in there, I told you through the journal — if it ever happened, I didn’t want to have that image in my head.”

Evan exhaled slowly, tangling their fingers together. “Still. You were unconscious. Maybe we should have waited until you woke.”

Barty turned his head, pressing a kiss to Evan’s jaw.

“I asked for this,” he murmured against his skin. “I let you be the one to choose for me, angel.”

Evan kissed his hand, holding it close to his lips — like all he had ever wanted was to have Barty’s hand in his and kiss it. His heart had ached for this kind of love his entire life.

“When you were still out, Siri called you his baby brother,” Evan murmured, pressing another kiss to Barty’s knuckles. “I think… him being in there with you might have been the best thing for you.”

Barty shifted just enough to press his lips to the nape of Evan’s neck, smiling against his skin. “I hear you like my hair this long, love.”

Evan huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I can drag you better by it this way.”

Another kiss to his hand.

Barty swallowed hard. His fingers curled slightly around Evan’s.

“Ev’…” Shit. He exhaled slowly. “I — ahm — I don’t know if I… how to put it—” He hated fumbling over his words, hated how raw it made him feel. “I don’t think I’ll be able to, maybe not forever, but for now, to… to be, ahm, under you. If you get what I’m saying.”

Evan didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate.

He only hummed, pressing a soft kiss to the inside of Barty’s wrist, right over his pulse. “That’s fine, Bee,” he said simply. “We don’t have to shag. Not even ever again, if that’s what you need.”

Oh, how he loved this boy. Barty almost forgot how young he felt around him.

“Sex is important to me,” Barty admitted, voice quiet but firm. “I need sex.”

Evan stilled. “Is this your way of breaking up with me?”

Barty tugged him closer, arms tightening around him like he wanted to pull him inside his chest, keep him safe there. “No,” he murmured. “I’m hoping you won’t.” He buried his face in the curve of Evan’s neck. “I, ahm… you said you’d be willing to try it once, so if — if you don’t mind it that much, and you’re still okay with it… and — you see, what I mean to say—”

“Okay.”

Evan hadn’t moved. Hadn’t flinched.

He repeated, just as steady. “Okay.”

Barty exhaled shakily. “You like control.”

“I do.” Evan finally shifted, bending just enough to press a kiss to Barty’s temple. “But I like you more.”

He pulled back just enough to meet Barty’s eyes.

“We’ll do it that way,” he said, voice sure, unwavering. “And if I can’t… well, no one said we have to have penetrative sex. Look at Reggie and James — it’s worked for them so far.” He ran his fingers through Barty’s hair, soothing. “I’m all right with this, Bee.”

Barty hummed, running his nose up and down Evan’s neck, inhaling him. “Would you like to try? Like… now?”

Evan didn’t respond immediately — which Barty found very endearing. It meant he was thinking about it. That it mattered.

Then, a nod. “I’m not aroused right now,” Evan admitted. “But give me about three minutes to look at your face, and I think I can get there.”

Barty chuckled. “I was thinking,” he murmured, “we start slow, hm, angel?” And to prove his point, he rolled his hips upward — just enough to meet Evan’s.

Neither of them were hard yet.

But that wasn’t the point.

Barty needed this. Needed Evan to be the last person who touched him. Every single day. His memories had been erased, but his body — his body still needed to be reclaimed.

He knew it was a trauma response. That was why he was trying not to rush.

“You know,” Barty mused, his left hand sliding to Evan’s waist, voice lilting with amusement, “Voltaire once said that those who can make you believe absurdities can make you commit atrocities.”

Then, just because he could, he bit Evan’s neck. Just a little.

Evan exhaled sharply — then ground back into him.

There it is.

Barty smirked. “But I think it’s almost petulant, isn’t it? First off, nothing taught by man is an absurdity, and—”

“Are you really trying to get me hard by being rude to my favourite philosopher? Bit rude.” But Evan still ground back against him as he said it.

Barty grinned. “It’s working, don’t even lie, Monsieur Rosier.”

“Oh,” Evan said, then — stopped.

Oh? Oh?!

Fucking hell.

Barty arched his hips higher, smirking against Evan’s throat. “Such a pristine lord you are,” he drawled. “You get hard from being called Mister in French.”

Evan gulped.

Oh.

Oh. Shit.

It was… kind of hot.

Barty could work with this.

He could definitely work with this.

And this — this was good. Talking was good. Talking in bed had always worked for them. Because Evan was selective about when and with whom he spoke. And yet — he always let Barty pull the most words from him.

So yes. Very good.

This was safe. This was home.

“You know, my Lord,” Barty purred, lifting his hips higher, pressing sharp bones to sharp bones, “since I am but a mere peasant, and you my noble duty to fulfil — why don’t you tell me what Voltaire really meant?”

Evan whimpered, back arching, pressing fully against Barty now.

Fuck.

Shit.

Oh, this was so good.

Barty had almost forgotten how good it felt to be the one in control.

“Well, first,” Evan finally spoke, voice steady despite the heat simmering beneath it, “that quote was about religion — Muggle religion, to be precise. But I can’t possibly expect someone as unrefined as you, Krouchev, to understand it.”

He rolled his hips — slow, deliberate, a lazy rotation that sent a shiver down Barty’s spine.

Krouchev.

Fucking hell.

Evan had never used that before. Had never called him by his real name — the Bulgarian one.

Barty bit his ear, just enough to make him twitch. “Aren’t you a snob?” he murmured, voice all dark amusement. “Do the other snobs know that Lord Rosier likes to be overstimulated with philosophy by a mad dog?”

And — oh.

Evan moaned, his head tipping back onto Barty’s shoulder.

Barty grinned, pressing his advantage. “What would the country say, hm?” he purred. “That the next Secretary in the Order is about to come in his very expensive, Italian-tailored trousers — within the next twenty minutes?”

Evan bucked back onto him so hard that Barty swore he saw stars.

“Hands on me,” Evan gasped. “Hips.” A command. “Bruise me.” A plea.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Barty’s fingers dug into Evan’s hips before he could think to soften them. “Want me to mark you, love?” he murmured, his grip already answering the question, pulling Evan back against him with unrelenting force. “Want the British nobility to know you’ve been bedded by the brute?”

Evan shivered beneath him, his body tightening at the sound of Barty’s voice. “Bee…”

Barty leaned in, lips brushing the shell of Evan’s ear, his voice a whisper of dark amusement. “Or would you rather be composed around them all, keep your dignity — then come home to me, so I can leave my claim on you?”

And that — that — had Evan reaching for himself, even through his trousers, lost to the moment, to Barty’s words.

Barty smirked, watching Evan come undone on top of him. He hadn’t even properly touched him yet, but the way Evan was already rutting into his own palm, desperate and unashamed, made something dark coil in Barty’s gut.

He pulled Evan back against him with a bruising grip, rolling his hips just enough to make him gasp. “Look at you,” he murmured, his voice low, deliberate. “Didn’t even hesitate. Touching yourself like you’ve got no shame, Monsieur Rosier.” His fingers tightened, pressing into the ridges of Evan’s hips. “Or maybe you like that I do this to you.”

Evan whimpered, hips stuttering as he chased friction against Barty’s body and his own hand.

“That’s it, angel,” Barty praised, voice honey-thick with love. He slid a hand up, fingers tracing the trembling line of Evan’s spine before curling into his hair, tugging his head back just enough to expose the arch of his throat. “You want to be corrupted, don’t you? Want to walk out of here with bruises no one else can see but you can feel every time you sit, every time you move? Want to be sore?”

Evan’s breath hitched. His fingers clenched where they were wrapped around himself, his whole body taut with tension.

Barty grinned against the curve of Evan’s neck, letting his teeth scrape against flushed skin before whispering, “Then let me.”

He didn’t wait for permission — Evan had already given it in the way he trembled, in the way his breath caught, in the way his fingers tightened around himself as though he could chase the feeling faster, harder, if only he had the strength.

But that was the thing, wasn’t it? He didn’t.

Barty wrenched Evan’s hand away from himself, ignoring the desperate noise that spilled from his lips. He pinned Evan’s wrists with the other hand, above their head, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his fingers, the slight tremor of his arm. “That’s not how this works,” he murmured, low and rough, letting his teeth scrape the shell of Evan’s ear. “I didn’t say you could touch, did I?”

“Fucking Slavs!”Evan whined, body taut, caught somewhere between frustration and want.

Barty rolled his hips, slow and deliberate, pressing every inch of himself against the curve of Evan’s spine, making sure he felt it, making sure he knew. “You don’t need your hands, love,” he murmured, voice dark with satisfaction. “Not when I’m the one who’s taking care of you.”

Evan shuddered, breath coming in short, desperate gasps. Barty dragged his hand down, mapping out the ridges of Evan’s ribs, the dip of his stomach, the sharp jut of his hip bone.

Claimed, he thought.

He bit down on the crook of Evan’s neck, hard enough that he felt the sharp jolt of the boy’s breath beneath him, and then he moved, hips snapping forward with a force that made Evan keen.

Barty grinned against his skin. That was what he wanted. That helpless, ruined sound.

“You’ll remember this in the morning,” he promised, voice thick with amusement. His fingers flexed, digging bruises into Evan’s skin. “You’ll feel me in every step, every breath, every time you so much as think about sitting down. You won’t be able. Lord Rosier wants to be fucked — and no one will ever know but me.”

Evan made a noise so wrecked, so desperate, that Barty barely held onto his restraint.

His hand traced lower, teasing, lingering, a breath away from where he knew Evan needed it most. “But let’s see how long you last before you start begging.”

Barty’s hips snapped forward harder, his rhythm unravelling, wild and desperate. He was too close — it was too good, too safe, too much of home. His breath hitched as he growled against Evan’s ear, voice wrecked and unfiltered.

“And when I finally get to fuck you, I will live in you.” His grip on Evan’s hips tightened, pulling him back into each thrust, forcing him to feel it. “In your muscles, in your nerves, in your skin. You won’t be able to sit without thinking of me ever again.”

Fuck — shit — too close. He needed to take Evan with him, needed to ruin him completely.

“Won’t be able to walk without feeling me inside you,” he rasped, his voice breaking on the weight of his own pleasure. “Every step you take, I’ll still be there. I am the weight in your bones, the ache in your body, the shadow in your fucking mind.”

A beat.

“And no one will have to know you can get like this, but me.”

Evan let out a strangled, helpless moan — wrecked, overwhelmed — and that did it.

Barty barely had time to curse before he came hard in his trousers, his whole body trembling with the force of it. His grip on Evan never faltered, holding him tight, keeping him pressed against him, making sure Evan felt everything.

And then Evan shook — his body going tense before breaking apart, rolling his eyes back as he trembled in Barty’s arms, coming undone with a breathless gasp.

A moment of silence. Barty released Evan’s wrists and brought them to his lips, kissing the delicate skin over his pulse points.

Evan exhaled a shaky laugh. “I think I just had the most intense orgasm of my life,” he admitted, voice still breathless. “Thank you for… ahm… you know.”

Barty chuckled, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to Evan’s shoulder. “I love you,” he murmured against his shirt. “Thank you.”

Barty and Sirius had bonded.

A lot.

And not in any normal way.

Azkaban had changed their relationship irreversibly. It would never be what it was before. Barty would never again be just Regulus’ annoying friend. Because now — he was Sirius’ younger brother, too.

Which, of course, meant he got the exact same treatment Reggie had always gotten from him.

The three-year age gap between them only made the new dynamic more pronounced. Sure, Barty was nearly nineteen, but Sirius was almost twenty-two.

And even now, back at home, free — but still hiding from the Ministry and Aurors — it had taken only three days after Barty woke up for them to slip into a rhythm. A routine.

It was trauma bonding. Barty knew that. But they had chosen to keep it.

Like playing cards in the sitting room and debating the worst-looking blokes from their school days.

“Avery was the worst,” Barty declared, frowning at his hand of cards. And yes, he still had problems with a dead man just because Evan had once had a crush on him. “And such a tiny dick. Mine’s bigger.”

Sirius scoffed, waving a dismissive hand — two cards slipping from the other. “How can you say that when you literally had Mulciber there?”

“And Gideon Prewett,” Barty added.

Sirius hummed, nodding thoughtfully, in perfect sync with him.

The doors burst open, and the warriors entered. They had gone back — for the last three. Bellatrix. Lucius. Rodolphus.

Potter looked wrecked, dragging a battered Malfoy with his whole body, barely holding him up. “Where’s Regulus? Snape?” he demanded, out of breath. “Need one of them to patch him up.”

Then he disappeared to find them.

Marlene and Dorcas were nowhere in sight. Which meant, Barty figured, that they had gone ahead — to Lestrange Castle.

Evan, meanwhile, was smirking. Smirking in his crisp, baby-blue robes, now spattered with blood. He trotted through the room like he owned the place, weaving past bodies and wreckage — until he reached Barty.

And then, without hesitation, he cupped Barty’s face between two warm, bloodied hands. “You should kiss me,” Evan informed him, so smug it was infuriating. “Right about now.”

“Evie, what did we talk about?” Sirius called from somewhere across the room. “No ordering Barty around!”

Evan ignored him completely, leaning in, close enough that his lips brushed Barty’s ear, his voice a low, thrilling whisper — meant only for him.

“Me and Bella,” he murmured, “had a bit of cousin-bonding time before we left.”

Barty hummed.

Evan smirked against his skin. “You know us,” he continued, his tone all slow amusement. “She fancies torture. I prefer body mutilation.”

A kiss — just beneath Barty’s ear. Then lower, onto his neck. “I left those sixteen guards without dicks or hands.”

And Barty? Barty was a fool in love.

He dragged Evan down by the robes, hauled him over himself, and kissed him silly. Evan laughed into his mouth, delight bubbling through his body, and somewhere in the background Sirius was protesting.

Barty kept dragging him down, lower and lower, until their chests were flush, until their hearts melted into one. And Evan — Evan just looked pleased to let it happen.

“Please don’t make out in front of me,” Sirius blurted. “This is starting to feel like incest.”

Which was rich, considering he had snogged both of them at some point. Barty half-considered asking Evan for a threesome.

Evan leaned back slightly, meeting Barty’s gaze. Then, silently, he signed — So you’re okay with this, right?

Barty nodded. Kissed him again. Dismissed Sirius entirely.

And just—

Let himself breathe.

For all his pretentious talk of not wanting to be seen as a mad dog, sometimes Barty leaned into it intentionally. Especially when Regulus asked him to.

Not many understood their dynamic — but did they even need to? Reggie operated from the shadows, scheming and manipulating. He let Evan ask all the wrong questions, play the political game, toy with emotions, and make people crave his attention. And Barty? He was their buffer, Evan’s translator, and Regulus’ best secret-slash-not-so-secret weapon.

That, right there, was why people couldn’t grasp their relationship. Everyone assumed Regulus was the middle ground. He wasn’t. Barty was. Because those two were so obsessed with control and public perception that it fell to Barty to remind them, from time to time, that it was fine to lose their cool.

To remind them that, well… at the end of the day, they were snakes.

And what do snakes eat? Rats, of course.

Pettigrew woke up after months. Regulus gave him exactly two hours — on the clock, mind you — to be checked over and fed by Lily (such a saint!) before cornering him. They even locked the hospital room. With a bloody key.

You know who else eats rodents? Ravens.

So, really, it was like a little party. Some kind of team-building exercise. Pandora was perched on the empty bed, kicking her little feet and humming some song she made up on the spot about frogs — she was quite taken with frogs these days.

Rabastan tied Pettigrew to the bed, then took a seat next to Dora, casually asking her questions about the frog song. Such a nice, gentle boy.

They kept Dorcas out of it, knowing full well she’d kill the bastard on the spot. Hence the locked door with the magical key.

Regulus looked almost bored, like he was watching a play he’d seen too many times and never liked, sitting by the window, not even bothering to glance their way.

Barty was the only one on his feet — he preferred it that way. Energy always seemed to erupt from him.

Evan? Now, he… he was the star of the show. And Barty was seconds away from dragging him into another room and fucking him raw.

Lord Rosier had just been sitting there for the past forty minutes, across from Peter, smoking his cigars, refusing to say a word while the other man shouted and sobbed. Occasionally, he tilted his head, using sign language to tell Barty what to relay to Pettigrew.

The singing stopped.

Pandora tilted her head, her light blue eyes shifting to an unsettling white. They had that, the Rosiers. When they had a vision — or something close to it — their eyes turned to ice. Even Evan had it, as a necromancer.

Dora raised her hand as if she were in class. Regulus, without even looking, simply sensing it, told her to speak.

“Oh, he is such a bad mouse, little bunny,” she said, addressing Regulus.

She had nicknames for all of them. Bunny was Regulus — mostly because Sirius had called him that when they were younger. Rab was the puppy, Barty was her cat, Evan the dove, and Dorcas the squirrel. And, of course, she only liked small animals.

“I’ve seen him being naughty.”

That was another thing some of the Rosiers could do. It was why Pandora was considered more powerful than Evan and even their aunt Druella. Because Pandora could, on very rare occasions, if she focused hard enough, step into someone’s memories. It came at a cost — she would be ill for days, stop speaking for weeks, refuse to eat, and need help sleeping. That was why they never asked this of her. They only allowed her to offer it.

“Such a bad mouse,” she murmured, tilting her head the other way. “He tried to kill Marlene himself. Lucky the Lion knew how to jump into water, no?”

Dora shifted her shoulders, and then — just like that — her voice changed. Gone was the odd, whimsical girl the world saw. In her place was the girl they had grown up with, their collective sister.

“Remember when Sev had both his hands and arms broken at school? Said someone tied his eyes and made him not see? Remember how we thought it was Sirius and James? No, no. The rat played dirty, and the wolf got mad at him afterwards.”

“Accio scissors,” Evan spoke for the first time that day, summoning them with wandless magic, sheer frustration fuelling the spell.

The next thing everyone saw was Evan Rosier, meticulously cutting each finger from Peter’s right hand, while the other man sobbed and convulsed.

Regulus yawned and stood. “I’m bored.” He spared a single glance at Peter. “We’ll be back.”

Then, with casual indifference: “Rabastan, please ensure Miss Lily comes to tend to our… guest. After that, he can be moved to a smaller room and tied to the bed.” A smirk. “Let Lupin decide when he’s allowed to eat.”

And just as he opened the door, he threw one last remark over his shoulder.

“Oh, and by the way, Pettigrew — Marlene McKinnon is alive. She’s Lady Rosier now.”

Was Barty Crouch Junior a petty man? Yes, very much so. Did he learn it from Reggie? Of course he did. Does he want to suck Evan’s dick in front of Aurora Sinistra? More than anything else in the world.

Look, he had nothing against her or her little friend Charity — whom he had fucked, numerous times, in the bed next to Evan’s at school. But the thing was… Sinistra always enjoyed rubbing it in his face that she and Evan were shagging. And since everyone and their grandmother knew Barty was in love with the fool — everyone except Evan himself — it stung.

Did Barty tell Evan he wouldn’t be attending the meeting with his ex fuck-mate? Yes. Is he going anyway, half an hour late, just to make a show of it? Obviously. Did he learn that from Reggie too? Naturally.

“Barty Crouch, is that you?!” Sinistra called out, her voice cutting through the room. She was wearing that terrible purple rouge again.

Charity Burbage, on the other hand, merely rolled her pretty eyes. “Really, Rosier? You and Black are hiding a fugitive from Azkaban.”

“Two, actually,” Marlene — Polyjuiced as Anabeth Rosier (née Abbott) — corrected smoothly. “Sirius Black is in the house as well.” She poured them more tea. “Which is why I’ve already poisoned the tea you just drank — you’ll vomit the moment you try to tell anyone. Courtesy of Baby Black, of course.”

Barty laughed and stepped closer, pressing a kiss to Marlene’s cheek. Ah, how he adored his boyfriend’s wife. Then, without hesitation, he leaned in and licked Evan’s lips.

“So you finally got dicked down?” Sinistra laughed. And as much as it pained Barty to admit, she had one of the best laughs — loud, crisp, the kind that filled a room. A laugh like his mum’s. A lot like his mum was, too. “Good for you, Rosier.”

Barty met Evan’s gaze. Evan forced a tight smile.

He turned to Aurora. “Nah, love, no one told you? I’m the one getting pounded.”

A beat.

“Had eighteen blokes in me so far.”

But it should have only been two. Which he doesn’t say. Because only two people had ever mattered to Barty like that. And it still… yeah, he wasn’t ready to think about the guards yet.

“Wait, really?” Charity rested her chin in her hand, intrigued. “I always thought… well, excuse me for saying this, but Evan, dear, you always seemed into men. And I assumed if you ever were to… you know, it would be the other way around. Since you’re so flamboyant.”

Barty threw her a lazy smirk. “What can I say? I’m the one who likes dick up his arse.”

And then — finally — he met Evan’s gaze again.

Evan was looking at him like he’d just put all the stars in the sky just for him.

Barty didn’t care what anyone else thought. Evan did. And maybe that was for the best. Only he would ever know that Lord Rosier could get submissive.

Sure, at some point, Reggie would sense the shift in their dynamic. But that was Regulus. He was the only one allowed to know.

Sinistra laughed again. “Glad you two finally worked your shit out. Now, Crouch, why don’t you come and give me a smooch like you gave Marlene McKinnon earlier?”

The room went still.

She smirked. “Oh, come on, you lot. She may be Polyjuiced, but who else calls Reggie Baby Black except her and that Evans girl?”

Maybe, someday, Barty would find a way to actually like her — just for that. So, yes, he went and kissed her. And Charity too, for good measure.

Then, before he could process it, Evan was dragging him into his lap. And Barty let it happen. Let Evan’s hand rest — possessively, deliberately — on his thigh. Let Evan speak over his shoulder. Let Evan guide his hand to take a slow drag of his cigar.

If reckless lioness Marlene McKinnon could play the perfect and pristine Rosier wife, then Barty Crouch Jr. could play the perfect mistress.

Pestering kisses along Evan’s neck. Whispering filthy things he’d do to him into his ear. Eating biscuits straight from Evan’s hand. All while Evan spoke politics like it was his first language — because it was.

Did Barty know just as much about the subject? Of course. Did he have opinions? Obviously. Was he going to voice them here? No.

Evan needed to feel like he commanded the room. And Barty wasn’t about to emasculate him in front of the wives of two international Lords who could make or break their political standing.

He had already got what he wanted — Evan acknowledging him in front of his ex, claiming him, not her.

The rest? Just a pity party.

Chapter Text

The three ladies had left the drawing room about half an hour ago. Still, Barty didn’t seem inclined to move from Evan’s lap, and Evan wasn’t about to make him.

Barty lay sprawled across him, talking — and talking, and talking — about all the points Aurora and Charity had missed regarding international laws, filling the space with his voice while letting Evan stay silent for a bloody second. He was so fucking tired of talking.

And yeah, he liked having Barty like that. Because it had taken time to get him used to the idea that, yes, he was strong — but Evan could still hold him.

Here’s the thing — Evan knew he had a problem with control. But would you blame him? He was a second son, hunted and haunted by his dead ancestors at all times — even when he bloody pissed —, expected to be the political mastermind of his generation by every single decrepit old fucker he met these days.

He was Black. And yes, it was always about that. How could it not be?

Three-quarters of his identity — his very blood — was tied to the fact that he was Black. So he didn’t get to lose control. Especially not around women. Especially not around other gay men like Regulus. Especially not next to his manly, ‘I’ll kill you while I ride a dragon’ mad Slavic partner. That simply wasn’t an option.

But fuck, he was tired.

Reggie’s mind was everywhere and nowhere all at once, so Evan had to lead their little clique most days. James’ political image had to be managed. Marlene and Dorcas were constantly at each other’s throats — lesbians! Poppy was showing signs of regression. Sirius was fucking livid with him — and Merlin, Evan could really use an older brother right about now.

And Barty — Barty was at his lowest, drowning in trauma neither of them had the tools to fix.

So, of course, everything about his life had to be controlled.

Because if it wasn’t, then what the fuck was?

But here — being allowed not to talk, tracing small circles with his hand on Barty’s thigh, near his crotch, resting his head against his partner’s broad back — he felt more composed than he had in the last week altogether.

The problem was, Evan was also pent up. A lot. Because of the stress. Because Barty had decided that yes, he’d let his hair grow — which, fuck. Because… well, you see, he had never had sex with a man before Barty. Then his boyfriend got locked up for months, then came home covered in fucking runes and with hair long enough to nearly brush his chin. Plus they had only one — one! — sexual experience since.

With all that — Barty had suffered something Evan tried, most days, not to think about. He was also furious about it, but that was an entirely different thing he was trying not to show.

And well… look, Barty had been sitting in his lap for more than three hours, playing the dutiful, sensual lover in front of their guests, and now… now he was just being himself, rambling about the history of fucking China, scraping at Evan’s hip from under him. And Evan was hard. And Barty could one hundred percent feel it. And Barty was hard. And Evan could see it over his shoulder.

But Evan had sworn to himself he wouldn’t make a move on Barty. Because just… no. Barty needed to feel some fucking autonomy.

Fuck, he was so very tired of everything.

Barty pushed deeper into him, fucking sighing, all while explaining how the Parkinsons were somehow bloody tied to a long-extinct Japanese dynasty. Evan gritted his teeth.

Control yourself.

Control yourself.

Control yourself.

“I love when you get all silent,” Barty said out of nowhere. “I don’t know… hmm, I suppose I like that I can understand you even when most wouldn’t.”

Silence.

“Bit possessive of me, innit, love?” Barty asked and pushed even harder.

Then, because he was a fucking sadist, he stood up, extended a hand to Evan, and smirked. “Wanna shag on Reggie’s ‘for guests only’ table?”

Evan raised a brow and took Barty’s hand, letting himself be led to the table in front of them.

Barty spoke again. “You still okay with like… you know, trying the other way? Me doing you?”

And was he? Not really, actually. But Barty needed this, and he needed Barty. And for what it was worth, last time, Barty had found a rather exciting way to flip the dynamic.

So, he nodded.

“Good.” Barty kissed him lightly on the lips. “Thanks, love. Now, could you please bend over the table?”

Evan finally spoke. “Excuse me?”

Barty giggled — oh. “I have ideas, okay? You keep forgetting I fucked, like… half of Britain, you reckon? And I’m quite good at it — fucking people.”

“You will not bend me over a table, Bartemius.” This was ridiculous. Who was he? Some mistress? No fucking way.

“I have this whole script in my head.” Barty dragged Evan closer, pressing their pelvises together. Then, leaning in so his breath ghosted against Evan’s ear, he whispered, “You see, you made me sit here, all pretty and nice, in front of your old shag mate, at this very table, drinking tea I don’t even like, eating biscuits made by Potter and not you. And now, I’m going to bend you over it and make you think about it in agony.”

Barty pressed his lips to Evan’s jaw. “I won’t fuck you. Not yet. But you’ll wish I did. You’ll wish I was balls deep in you. You’ll bloody want it — crave it. You’ll wish I came in you — bred you. That’s what you Rosiers are, no? Decorative little things made to be bred.”

Evan blinked. Did Barty… Did he just discover a new kink?

“I almost forgot you could be smooth,” Evan teased. “Yeah, okay. But you’ve got to talk to me. And I’m not putting my head on the table.”

“I love you,” Barty murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Thank you. I want to cry.”

“And there goes the smoothness,” Evan laughed. “See, that’s why it works better when I make love to you and you sob like a baby.”

Barty stilled. “Say that again.”

“Huh?”

Another kiss, this time to his brow. “You make love to me?”

“Bee,” shit. Of course Barty needed to be fucking told. Evan raised a hand to his hair. “I only ever made love to you.”

Evan tried again. “Bee, love, you cry every time we do something. What did you think this was, hmm?”

And Barty just… hugged him. Smiling with all his teeth, looking so unbearably young — reminding Evan that he was only eighteen and had already suffered so much.

“I’m changing the script,” Barty announced.

“We can do that another time if you really want it,” Evan reassured him, cupping his face. “What’s the new script?”

And Barty just… oh, he looked so beautiful. “We’re going upstairs and taking a bath. Wank together or something. No one over powers anyone.” He pressed a kiss to Evan’s lips. “After that, you’ll make me biscuits, because Potter is a shit baker.”

Then, because only Barty could be this phenomenal, he added, “You don’t even have to talk. I picked one of the books you got for me, so I have plenty to talk about anyway.”

People often didn’t understand politics, nor why Evan was so drawn to it. And yes, this was about Felix — about Sirius too — of course it was. Everything in his bloody life was about them.

Barty liked history, war — what happened before, what got rewritten. He liked to ponder on ideas, call it existentialism, and brag about knowing more than anyone at any time (which, infuriatingly, he did).

Regulus liked healing, medicine. He was so very soft, still a child in a way, seeing the world as something to be cradled in his long, beautiful fingers — cared for, healed, cherished. That’s why he and James were the same person, even though no one ever saw it that way.

Dorcas believed in fighting simply because it was the fucking right thing to do. Always fighting — until one day, it would destroy her. Fighting the Death Eaters. The Order. The system. Regulus. Marlene.

Pandora believed in the future. But also in death.

Evan was different from them. His language was politics. History could go fuck himself — yes, history was a man. History never changed without politics. That was how the world worked.

But these days… his chest felt so tight. He had to think of plans, of reforms he neither cared about nor ever would. He wasn’t a progressivist like Potter, nor an idealist like Sirius. He was a radical sitting in a traditionalist’s chair.

Politics was dangerous, especially if one didn’t know it. For example, politics couldn’t exist without the press. They ruled over each other, like two brothers who had ended up kings in faraway kingdoms.

And he wondered, briefly — just a tiny bit, enough to matter to himself — would it even change anything in the long run? Would people even know it was him? When they were old and grey, when they had been pardoned for the crimes they committed in the war… would anyone know who Evan Rosier really was? Or would Barty be right? Just another Death Eater. A footnote. Maybe they’d even make him white, just to make him seem more cruel.

He wanted people to know. Evan wanted the next generations to know he was more than a forgotten picture in a history book. More than the bad guy — because he hadn’t always been that.

Because he used to be called the nice one. The kind one.

Then Alastor Moody happened.

Would Evan Rosier ever be more than just the man who once took out an Auror’s eye?

Anyway… politics. That was how he found himself having tea with Aurora for the fifth time in three days. And because Barty couldn’t let a thing fucking go, he kept coming to check on them every half hour or so — each time with a good excuse.

Like bringing more tea. More sweets. Asking whether Lady Zabini — as her marriage title was — would be staying for dinner.

And what was Evan doing about this? Nothing. Thanking him for the snacks and drinks. Kissing his hand each time he left the room once more, like a good husband.

“I’m sorry, but I just can’t get over it,” Rory said, amused, after Barty had disappeared yet again. “I mean… you and Barty Crouch? Who would have thought?”

“I would have,” he responded curtly.

She squinted at him, dark eyes scrutinising. “So it wasn’t only on his part, you know, back in school? Everyone knew he was into you, but—”

“No,” Evan cut her off. “Now, can we go back to the Russian occupation of Latvia?”

She took a moment to recompose herself before continuing. “From what I’ve heard, the Muggles and the magical community are very… undivided these days. So now, we’re talking about the first magical land under Communist reign, so to speak. There are rumours their Muggles know — that they want to use wizards as weapons against the larger government.”

“Oh, silly me, I forgot to bring you more lemon,” Barty announced, stepping into the room yet again — this time not even fifteen minutes after his last visit. Evan almost wanted to laugh. Fuck, how he loved this boy.

“Oi, Crouch,” he called out, raising his voice. “If you’re going to keep pestering us, why the fuck don’t you sit put and help?”

Barty let out a low chuckle. “Ah, always tugging on my ponytails, I see.”

Evan could feel Aurora watching them, trying to puzzle something together. He ignored her, keeping his focus on Barty instead. “Why would Latvia not be afraid of the magical world? And not just that — why would they actually want to use it?”

Barty, rather than answering right away, simply came to sit beside him, resting a hand on Evan’s arm. Yeah, this felt more natural than whatever the fuck they’d been doing before. “Don’t I always tell you? Not everyone’s as afraid of magic as you Brits are. And if you ask me, they’re more afraid of the Soviets now. There’s a tonne of history in Muggles and wixen coming together. It’s like—”

He leaned over, plucked one of Evan’s cigars for himself, and lit it. “Kinda like the Kukeri in Bulgaria — masked beings who chase bad spirits away. Even Muggles believe in that. Because not everyone fears magic — some fear politics more. History. War. That matters more.”

“Like knocking on wood?” Aurora asked.

“Huh?” Evan frowned.

Barty, on the other hand, lit up. “Exactly.” He turned his gaze on Evan, exhaling smoke, making Evan feel dizzy. “Magical Bulgarians knock on wood after a dark spell — it ties them to the earth. Muggle Bulgarians knock on it after hearing or saying something bad. Like a ‘Merlin forbid’ sort of thing.”

Sometimes, Barty forgets how brilliant he is. But Evan never does.

“I’ll require a meeting with the British Prime Minister. For Potter,” Evan announced.

Aurora looked like he’d just murdered her two-headed cat.

Barty, on the other hand, only smirked. “Took you fucking long enough.” Then, lazily, he lifted his cigar to Evan’s lips, offering him a drag.

“Lady Zabini, please leave the room and find my wife,” Evan said, not even sparing her a glance. “She’s expecting you for brunch anyway.”

“What?”

“Right now,” he replied smoothly, “or you’ll have to watch me suck Barty off.” He didn’t give her a second longer before kissing him.

Rory fled faster than a child on Christmas morning being told they had presents.

“Rita, darling, don’t I have something wonderful to tell you?”

She was perched on her window stool, her tight pencil skirt creased just around the knees. Too much hair had escaped from the bun she usually wore. Ironically, she looked a lot like Bellatrix before she wedded. Or a blonde, more colourful version of her, anyway.

“You here to tell me about the war criminals who escaped Azkaban on an unidentified dragon?” She wasn’t even looking at Evan.

“I’m here to give you a Portkey to Germany.”

That got her attention. She turned to him, frowning.

Evan continued, unfazed. “Call it… second chances. There’s someone there I’d like you to visit.”

She blinked.

“But anyway, let’s talk about something else, yeah? The papers have just been signed, and I wanted you to be the first to know.” He moved a chair beside her, lit a cigar, then took one of her slim cigarettes, lighting it before placing it between her small fingers.

“I’m tired,” she announced. “Send me a letter, and I’ll see to it.”

She looked old. Older than she should have. She wasn’t even thirty yet but somehow looked over forty-five. Evan could see the fine lines around her eyes, the white strands creeping through her golden locks.

He rolled his eyes. “The Medical Institute of Magic for Mind Healing. Ask for Dominique Greengrass. Say you’re a cousin or something.”

She frowned again.

“For your information — since I expect you not to print this — I got Bellatrix Lestrange out. She’s glamoured, by the way, so Mrs. Dominique will look slightly different.”

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, taking two drags in quick succession.

He shrugged. “I’m a family man.”

Something in her face relaxed.

“Now,” he continued, “the papers. I just convinced the Wizengamot to sign a new bill under James Potter’s name. You’ll want to be the first to publish it.”

“How is she?” Rita dismissed him once more.

“Will you print what I tell you?”

She finally bent her body to look at him fully.

And that was the thing — the reason Evan tried to trust her. The reason why Rabastan had begged to find a Portkey on such short notice. Why even Sirius had insisted “It would be good for them.”

Because in another life, in another time, he would be Rita. And Barty would be Bella.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted. “My ambition is far more important than anything else. This could be the story of my life, you see. I could be seen… differently, better — not just the nerdy half-blood Ravenclaw girl anymore.”

“Bella almost got raped in there,” he said flatly.

Rita’s fingers twitched around her cigarette.

“Bartemius Crouch Junior… he, ahm—” shit. “He taunted the guards to come after him instead. And they did. Forty-two. He knocked most out. Sixteen found a way — drugged him. She lost her mind entirely after. It’s… it’s worse than before they were locked in Azkaban.”

Rita inhaled sharply, then exhaled smoke. “Is this your way of telling me you also know where Crouch is?”

She lit another cigarette — a chain smoker, like himself. Like Reggie.

“I’m asking what’s more important,” Evan said quietly. “Knowledge or ambition. Loyalty or…”

She coughed, then cut him off.

“I won’t print it.” A beat. Then, voice rasping slightly, “Tell Junior I’ll… Thank you.” She hesitated, then, softer — raw. “Anything he ever needs, he — ahm… That’s… He’s the real hero of this war in my eyes.”

In war, politics is secondary to memory. And Evan Rosier, master of narrative, just turned Rita Skeeter’s memories and only love into his greatest weapon.

“Does he need anything? Junior, I mean,” Rita pressed. “I vaguely remember from when you lot were kids — he liked ginger. Tea, sweets, whatnot. I have a girl who brings me different things from India. Maybe he’d like some ginger-flavoured fags.”

So this was the Rita Skeeter Bella had fancied in school. Oh. It made so much sense now. Still vicious and manipulative, ambitious to a fault. Yet, deeply childish. Deeply human.

Should he? Oh, fuck it.

“Yeah. Bring them to me, and I’ll pass them along to Bee.”

She narrowed her eyes. He knew she’d get it — see through him.

Then she laughed. Ah, there it was — the twenty-nine-year-old woman who had written an exposé on the Malfoys fucking Veelas at fourteen.

“You Blacks are all very, deeply queer — that’s how the Americans call it, by the way. I never liked the word bent, you know? Or dykes. Ugh.”

For a second, she looked fourteen again.

Then, leaning forward, voice sharp once more—“Tell me about the reform.”

“Muggle-born kids will be introduced and integrated into the wizarding world before the age of eleven,” he dropped the bomb. “Their families as well. Most studies show that children display magic for the first time between the ages of four and eight. They’ll be given the opportunity to be homeschooled by a witch or wizard before entering school — just like any other pure-blood or half-blood. But only in the summers, taught by sixth- and seventh-years — who will be graded accordingly for it. McGonagall has already agreed to mentor the project.”

Rita dropped her cigarette onto herself. “Shit.”

Evan plucked it off her, handing it back as he continued. “We are not erasing Muggle-borns or the pure-blood legacy — under Potter’s future administration, we’ll create a new, better world. That’s why he has to be elected as Minister.”

“My Gods — who on Earth—”

“I did,” he smirked. “After Barty started rambling about folk magic like the lunatic he is — very endearing, if you ask me.” He lit another cigar, exhaling slowly.

“Anyway… the way I see it? This way, no one’s ever going to be afraid of magic again.”

He was most definitely still not all right with it. But he’d come to the conclusion that he had to be.

Regulus had nearly smashed his head against the table when they discussed it. And, you know what? He kind of had a point.

They were in the bathtub — Evan and Barty. That was what they’d been doing these days, ever since Barty first proposed. Water seemed to help Barty’s body with its trauma. It relaxed him, softened him — made him more like he was before.

Evan would love him in any form he was. But Barty needed to love himself — and for him that only meant who he was before Azkaban

Barty was washing Evan’s hair, and fuck, how he’d missed not having to do it himself. It was such an annoyance. Barty always did it better, anyway.