Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I made a Playlist <3

"Come home. Just come home,"

Regulus groans into the phone, seriously debating tapping the red ‘end call’ button. "I am home, Sirius." 

“Grimmauld Place is not a home , Reggie, it’s a house. ”

“Well, if that’s true, then I don’t even know where home is- ”

“Don't you get it? It's anywhere I am, Reg." 

Regulus pauses his pacing in his bedroom and sucks in a sharp breath. “...No.”

Sirius’ voice is laced with unresolved anger, but there is also an undeniable hint of desperation. “Come on, Reg, you don’t seriously think-”

“Yes, I do think , Sirius! Why do you think that calling me after you vanished in the middle of the night could change anything?”

Regulus can hear his brother sigh deeply over the phone. “Please, just come visit. Please . I don’t want to beg, mainly for my own ego, but I will if it means you will come, even if just so we can patch up any cuts. The Potter’s even said you could stay forever-“

“Sirius, you know I can’t. 

Over the phone, Sirius’ voice is rising, and Regulus can practically picture his older brother pacing the floors, one hand tangled in his shoulder-length hair while the other holds the phone to his ear. “Why are you refusing to leave? It’s like you want to be Mamans little puppet. ” He spits out the last word, pure disgust dripping from his tone as if the very thought tasted horrendous. “You know what, I don’t know why I even tried. You've always chosen them over me, and I’m sick of it.” 

Regulus knows all of this already.

He knows that he is a puppet for his parents' schemes, he knows that he will always have a soft spot, even when his skin is barely recognizable under the bruises. 

Yet, foolishly so, he still has a flicker of hope that his Star will change his mind. Will choose him. “They’re our family, Sirius. I’m your family-”

His voice is low, brimming with barely-restrained anger as he spits into the other side of the phone. “Our definitions of ‘family’ are very, very different, Regulus. I’ve found my real family now. You stay with yours, I’ll stay with mine. Now, I need to go, my brother is waiting. ”

The line cuts out.

Foolishly, in a haze of desperation, Regulus drops to his knees on the cold, unforgiving floor of Grimmauld Place, his breaths shallow as he dials his brother's number. With trembling hands, he presses the ‘speaker’ button and waits.

Prays to a god he never believed in.

The soft ringing reverberates off the suffocating walls, waiting waiting waiting, until a cold, robotic voice cuts through the air; ‘The number you have dialled is no longer in service. Please try again later.’

He hangs up. Perhaps he typed the number wrong. He types it again, his hands trembling so violently that his phone clatters out of his hands and falls to the floor.

‘The number you have dialled is no longer in service. Please try again-‘

Regulus claws at his chest, begging for air as his breathing comes in heaving gasps. He feels like his chest is caving in, constricting his lungs and suffocating his throat as the soft, almost teasing sound from his phone plays, every new ring a reminder of the empty room across the hall.

‘The number you have-‘

This time, he lets the message play out, feeling each syllable as it pierces through him like a knife, tearing open the wound he’d tried so hard to close. 

‘-please try again later.’

The light on his phone slowly darkens, almost as if offering him one last shot at calling the number again, before it shuts off completely, leaving a black surface in front of him.

The screen before him feels like a mirror, showing him everything he’s tried to ignore for years. A reflection of failure, of abandonment, of being a boy unworthy of love. Of a brother who no longer exists. 

Regulus slumps forward, his face in his hands. His chest tightens with the weight of it all. The loneliness. The aching absence. His tears fall quietly, as silent as the house around him

Deep down, buried beneath the countless layers of lies, regret, and pain, Regulus realizes that he had known the minute that the first call had been rejected.

Because Regulus can recite his brother's Sirius’ phone number in his sleep. 

Sirius had promised that no matter what, no matter how frustrated or upset he was, that if his baby brother called him in need of help, for anything, he would answer.

Regulus had never used it in need of desperation until now.

But for some strange, twisted reason, all Regulus wants is his brother to hold him, even if it means that every touch burns his skin, that a single hug is just a chance to be stabbed in his back.

But the thing is,

Regulus will always choose Sirius in a crowded room full of every single person he knows. He will hug him, even if it means that he gets stabbed in the process.

It kind of reminds him of a made-up curse he had read about named Hanahaki. 

The curse causes plants to invade one's body, roots dig into the person's soul, flowers entwine their leaves in one’s throat and petals exit the body through coughs.

In the story he had read, the curse is based on unrequited love. Romantic, unrequited love.

If the person never truly believes that their love is reciprocated, then they slowly die, inside out, from their own love.

Regulus had never once wondered if the curse could be taken in a literal sense, as well as in a familial love.

The curse is not real, and the love he feels is in no way romantic, but the gnawing ache in his heart is most definitely related to this tragic story of two brothers. 

One loved.

One undeserving.

He never called again.

***

Ten Years Later (Present)

Ten years later, Regulus still remembers the haunting tone of the automated message.

***

Regulus sighs heavily, dragging his legs and swinging them off his bed. His eyelids feel as if there are weights pulling them down as he blinks the sleep away slowly, attempting to gather his scrambled mind before he is forced to face the world. 

The dark wooden stairs creak quietly under his socked feet as he enters the large bottom floor, which is already brimming with activity.

Pandora, one of his closest friends since he got too nervous to present his project in front of the class in the fifth grade. Luna, Pandora’s five-year-old daughter and Regulus’ goddaughter, is a force to be reckoned with—-her fiery personality and sweet, soft-spoken ways of caring for the world never fails to amaze him. Even at the crack of dawn, Luna seems to be bouncing off the walls, inevitably waking the rest of the house along with her.

Barty and Evan, the most chaotic duo around yet some of the most loving and caring people he knows, often start the day by thumping down the two sets of stairs, grumbling about how time is simply an ‘illusion.’

Dorcas, his go-to fashion expert with the funniest jokes and kindest heart, is somehow always awake first, something about ‘the best inspiration rises with the sun.’ Even in the most chaotic, loudest and stressful moments, Cas is an anchor.

And Regulus? He’s still figuring out who he is.

According to the articles and journalists, specifically a woman named Rita Skeeter—-who genuinely seems to have an uncanny ability for twisting words, Regulus is ‘a closed-off, stoic young man who channels his trauma through his studies—-his eyes glisten with the ghosts of his past as he presents.’

Well, maybe that’s because the sole reason he does what he does is because of his past?

Shocker, truly.

To his friends, Regulus is trustworthy, dependent, and intelligent. 

He really tries, especially for Luna.

But Is that really enough?

A light, airy voice breaks Regulus out of his thoughts, and before he knows it, a small body crashes into him, causing him to nearly stumble back from the force. “Uncle Star!”

Regulus can’t fight the small smile that slowly makes its way on his lips. Every single morning, without fail, Luna barrels and jumps onto him with full force, trusting him to catch her in his outstretched arms.

And every single morning, without fail, she is caught.

“G’morning, My Moon. You excited for today?”

Luna pulls her head away from the crook of his shoulder and nods excitedly. “I’m so excited! I’m gonna ask Aunt Cassie to get more of those butterfly clips for my hair again,” She gestures wildly to her hair, which is currently tied into two French braids that reach her waist, the mismatched neon pink and purple elastics standing out in sharp contrast to her nearly-white blonde hair. “And after we get them, will you put them in again, please? Like you did before?”

Regulus schools his expression, furrowing his eyebrows in mock-seriousness to match her stern ( yet utterly adorable , he notes) expression. “Ah, yes, of course, the butterfly clips. I guess if you were already going to ask Cas, then you won’t want these ones…” He hoists her higher in his hip so he can have one hand free, slowly dipping it into his trouser’s pocket and flaunting a plastic container, filled to the brim with various coloured hair clips.

She squeals happily, lunging forward and attempting to snatch them out of his hand. With a laugh, Regulus sets her down and leads her hand-in-hand to the kitchen, where he knows Pandora and Dorcas will already be awake. 

Upon entering, the sweet smell of fresh fruit and light, happy voices flow through the room. Dorcas shoots him a toothy grin from where she is perched on the counter with her legs swinging lazily beside Pandora, who is standing at the counter and spreading some sort of icing on a fresh batch of her newest cinnamon buns. In Dorcas’ hands is a large bowl of various fruits.

“Hey, Starlight,”

Regulus sends her a small smile before turning and gesturing for Luna to come sit in the seat in front of him. 

As he gently braids the butterflies into her hair, he can’t help but smile at the love he feels for the girl—-something so unlike his own childhood, and his heart aches as the dull fear of him turning out like his own upbringing rings and echoes through his head. 

Regulus braids in the last clip and gives one of her braids a playful tug, signaling that he’s finished with her hair. Luna turns around, beaming, and wraps her small arms around his neck. “Thank you, Star! I love you!”

I. Love.You

The words echo in his ears long after Luna skips off toward Dorcas and the fruit bowl.

I love you.

How strange, how simple. How dangerously real.

Regulus lingers in the kitchen for a few seconds longer, hands resting on the back of the chair she’d been sitting in. The scent of cinnamon and sugar sticks to the air, warmth curling in his chest in a way that feels unfamiliar—like it doesn’t quite belong to him.
He can hear Barty shouting something from upstairs, Evan laughing in response, Pandora humming along to whatever record is playing softly in the background.

This is the kind of chaos that feels safe.

And yet, there’s a nervous current running under his skin like static. The conference is tomorrow. The people, the expectations, the judgment. The eyes that will dissect everything he says, and everything he doesn’t. 

His biggest fear is that he will become his parents.

He worries that the blood that stains his mothers hands seeped into his, mixed while it drowned out the hard wooden floor. That the echo of her voice—cutting, sharp, dressed in silk though laced with poison—still lives in the back of his throat, waiting to surface, to strike.

But in some twisted way, deep down in the darkest corners of his mind, Regulus almost feels the desire to thank the man and woman he once called his parents.

If it hadn’t been for their abuse, their cruelty, Regulus wonders if he would have ever had the drive to pursue his research. 

The thought sickens him. 

He doesn’t want to admit it, doesn’t want to give them credit for shaping who he’s become. And yet, a bitter truth claws at him: their influence will always be a part of him, lingering in the corners of his mind, in the way he sees the world. No matter how far he goes, or how much good he does, he’ll always carry a piece of them with him. And that’s something he’ll never escape.

If he hadn’t been abandoned by the person he loved most—the only person who made him feel capable of receiving and giving love at the time—then he wouldn’t have been capable of the gentle love he showers his Luna with. 

He doesn’t want to thank him, even if he is one of the main reasons he knows how to love.

There is a certain level of trust that grows between two people that have been through unimaginable things. A trust that is bonding, that ties a golden thread around each of their wrists, drawing them together.

Regulus once had a bond like that—-and oh, it shimmered golden, catching the light in even the darkest corners.

And still to this day, it shocks him, it shakes him to his core, that there are scissors capable of snipping such a string.

He had been fourteen when his brother left, cutting all ties with him and his family.

Fourteen and left with a dangling, withering thread that lost its shine.

The first three years after his brother's departure were nothing but dark. 

It had taken a lot to bring himself to the light again—-the main problem being that he didn’t want to see it.

The darkened corners of his mind whispered that if he stayed in the dark, basked in the shadows until he became one himself, that he wouldn’t miss the return of his brother.

He had so deeply believed that by him staying in the dark, his brother could shine.

But that’s the thing—before he had been dragged into the light himself, he hadn’t believed that shadows like him could exist in the same way. 

Sometimes, he still has these lingering traces of doubt that gnaws in the back of his mind. 

He used to ignore them.

But at seventeen, he got accepted into Oxford,

and ever since March thirteenth—five years ago—he had met her.

Luna.

Her arrival had been like the first flower pushing through the thick, stubborn snow of winter. So fragile, yet so bold in its defiance of the harshness around it. Regulus had looked at her, and something had stirred inside of him—a warmth, a shift in the landscape of his soul. Her small, trusting hands reached for him, and for the first time in a long while, he found himself reaching back.

There was something about the way her laughter rang like a bell in the dead of winter that made him believe again. That made him realize that perhaps the shadows weren’t the end of him—that maybe, just maybe, he could still learn how to shine. The softness of her hand in his was like spring unfreezing the earth, thawing out all the places he thought had died within him.

Every time he looked at Luna, it felt like the season was changing. He had never understood how one tiny person could hold such power—the ability to make the dead things inside him stir, the cold places inside him feel warmth. She was spring in its purest form, the first flower breaking through snow, her very presence proof that light could return, even after the darkest winters.

Because in a world that shadows him in darkness, he is grateful that he has finally found the light.

Chapter Text

I made a Playlist <3

Four Years Earlier

Regulus’ heart thrums a steady beat inside the walls of his chest as he starts down the long hallway, his black platform oxfords clicking against the polished hospital floor, echoing off the walls.

He’s known Charlie for just over two months now, but Regulus thinks that no matter how long they’ve known each other, anxiety will still flutter in his stomach as he slowly pushes open the door.

Charlie’s room has as much personality as you can get in a hospital, even for long-term patients. When Regulus had first entered the room, upon his first meeting of Charlie, it felt like stepping into a place that hadn’t been lived in, just endured.

The walls, a dull shade of beige, were bare, offering no trace of the child who was supposed to occupy it. A single window, partially covered with a heavy blind, let in a sliver of muted light, barely reaching the cold, bare furniture.

A chair sat by a desk, unoccupied, as though no one ever bothered to sit there. The room was quiet in a way that wasn’t peaceful, but suffocating, as if it was holding its breath.

The air had the scent of antiseptic, with no hint of something personal or lived in.

No toys, no posters, no stuffed animals—just the faint hum of machines and the steady beeping of monitors. It felt as though the room was designed to be nothing more than a place to sleep and recover, not a space for a child to grow or thrive.

The only personal touch was a small stack of books on the bedside table, their spines facing inward, as though even their titles were a secret.

But what struck Regulus the most was how Charlie seemed to exist in the room, not as a part of it. His presence was a faint echo, not yet imprinted on the space. It was a room waiting for someone to make it their own.

As Regulus became a more frequent visitor, the nine-year old boy’s personality slowly bled through. It felt like a victory when Charlie had spoken for the first time—and the thing is, in every way, it was.

The first few weeks had been nothing but silent support. Every time Regulus entered the room and sat down on the chair beside the bed—-not too close, should it make him feel trapped, but not too far, in case he needed the warmth. Unspoken words weighted the air, leaving it feeling heavy, but not in an uncomfortable sense, somehow.

The first time Charlie spoke, it had been a simple; ‘hello.’

In that one word, in those five letters, was a foundation of trust that meant everything. 

It has been three months since that first word, and now, it has become routine.

Regulus lifts one hand in greeting in the direction of Charlie’s nurse, Lily Evans, shooting her a knowing smile as he leans against the wall. “Lovely morning, Evans?”

Lily slowly turns from her desk, her lips pulled into a smirk, though her eyes are full of adoration. “ Hell yeah it was. Where have you kept her hidden all this time, Black? I swear, she is just the sweetest–”

“--person you know, and seeing her with Luna makes you want to cry?”

With a roll of her eyes, Lily swats his arm playfully. “Whatever. Now go draw dragons—oh wait, you need a nine-year old to teach you how!” 

Regulus grins, pushing himself off the wall and entering Charlie’s room. Calling over his shoulder as he slips inside, “Dora loved it too!” shaking his head as he hears the delighted squeal behind him.

After hanging his messenger bag on the hook behind the door, Regulus shakes off his jacket and smiles at the small boy on the bed. “Hello, Char, how are you?”

Charlie immediately folds up his legs, giving Regulus room to sit on the edge of his bed. “Hello, I had an idea for today!”

Regulus pauses, startled. The pure enthusiasm and excitement is practically radiating off the boy in waves, warming his heart. “Oh, care to tell me about it?”

Charlie shifts, tucking his legs under him and leaning over to grab a plastic box off of his nightstand.

Settling back into his original position, he cracks open the lid and shoves the box into Regulus’ lap. “We can make bracelets! Lily was wearing one yesterday and I asked her about it, and she came back with this box full of colours and instructions—she taught me how to make them, and I was thinking you and I could do it, too?”

As they begin to braid the first few strings, Regulus carefully considers his next words.

He has gotten used to the quiet between them, a comfortable silence that doesn't  require words. But now, in the middle of making a bracelet, he feels a sudden urge to share. It’s strange, opening up in this way, but Charlie’s easy enthusiasm is making it feel safer, like it is okay to talk.

“You know,” Regulus begins slowly, his fingers pausing for a moment as he selects a golden thread, “I used to make things like this with someone when I was younger. Not bracelets, but something like it... a different kind of thread, though.”

He looks at the bracelet he is starting to make, his fingers stilling on the thread. “Sometimes it feels like the threads get cut too soon, and everything gets tangled.”

Charlie glances up at him, his little face a picture of concentration. “You mean like when someone leaves? Like when you have to say goodbye?”

Regulus’ heart clenches. He looks down, swallowing hard before continuing. “Yeah, something like that.”

Charlie tilts his head as he ties the last knot on his bracelet, the golden thread a little crooked but no less meaningful. “This one’s for you,” he says, handing it to Regulus. “I picked gold ‘cause you helped me.”

Regulus smiles softly, a flicker of warmth engulfing his chest. “Thank you, Char.” He gently slips the bracelet onto his wrist, the thread of gold shimmering softly under the dim hospital light. “It’s perfect.”

When it is his turn, Regulus carefully chooses his own colors, placing each one thoughtfully.

Gold for Charlie, for the trust they had built over time.

Soft pink for Pandora, who has helped him in ways he can never repay.

Light blue for Luna, because she is a human embodiment of hope.

A soft rose for Evan, his friend who is always there.

Dark purple for Dorcas, who has always been the calm in the storm, the glue to his pieces, and green for Barty, someone who, though far from perfect, has stayed by his side through thick and thin.

He hands the finished bracelet to Charlie with a soft smile. “This is for you, Char. It’s a little bit of everyone.”

For a moment, Charlie’s hands still, his small fingers lightly brushing the bracelet Regulus has made for him. The bright gleam in his eyes dims for just a second, replaced by something more fragile, more uncertain.

Regulus notices, his heart thudding in his chest as he reaches out, gently resting his hand over Charlie’s. “What’s wrong, Char?”

Charlie’s voice is barely above a whisper, laced with vulnerability. “What if you don’t come back?”

The simple words pierce Regulus’s heart, and he finds himself at a loss for a moment. He wants to reassure Charlie, to promise that he will never leave. But the words are caught in his throat. He isn’t sure he can make such a promise—not when everything around him is so unpredictable.

Instead, he squeezes Charlie’s hand gently. “I’m not going anywhere,” Regulus says softly. “And if I ever do, you’ll always have this,” he adds, holding up the bracelet. “It’s not just string—it’s me, too. Right here.”

Charlie looks up at him, his face lighting up once again as he nods. “Okay,” he whispers, tilting his head slightly so his honey brown curls dangle to the side. “I’ll remember.”

Chapter Text

Regulus rubs his wrist over the cuffs of his navy button-up, feeling the faint outline of the bracelet against his skin. The edges of the bracelet have frayed a bit since he had first slid it on, almost five years ago, now. The once-vibrant colours have faded, worn down by the many years of it not being taken off, but the love it holds is still the same. 

The conference auditorium is similar to almost every single one he’s been to, especially in the past year—-high, imposing ceilings, bright, artificial spotlights directed toward him as he stands at the podium, countless rows of velvet chairs that stretch into the farther, darkest corners.

There’s a low hum of conversation as the attendees take their seats, slowly filling up the auditorium. The lights are low, darkening anything past the first four rows, the only sources of light are the spotlights directed towards the stage and the darker, coloured lights lining the back.

Regulus shifts, stacking his cue cards and adjusting his reading glasses on the bridge of his nose, triple checking that the hook of his mic won’t get caught. Clearing his throat, he raises his gaze to the first row, keeping his voice steady as he addresses the room. “Good afternoon, everyone. I’m Dr. Regulus Black,” he pauses briefly, taking a step back from the podium and to the side.

He shoots the audience a small smile. “There is something about saying that— I am Dr. Regulus Black —-that always makes me stop. Makes me think. It took me seventeen years to be able to claim who I am and actually know what I mean. I remember reciting my name, in an almost robotic tone, at countless fancy balls, dinners, tea parties—but it never really had meaning.

As a child, I was routinely told that I need to be someone else. Whether that ‘someone’ was a young man who had perfect manners and could waltz for as long as the guest wishes, or a man who is interesting and proper enough to listen about politics for hours, but not enough to let the other person to feel as if they are in charge of the conversation, or maybe a young boy who could stay silent and would never argue when getting kicked out of the room—I could go on and on about who I was supposed to be.”

Regulus sighs, letting the audience digest his words before carrying on. “It took me a lot to realize that by me being told who I am and supposed to be, having it forced upon me like a second skin, it stripped me of who I truly was. It took away my identity, my personality, and most importantly, my voice. It became a house where silence was survival, and the bruises and scars that litter my skin became something I was ashamed of.” 

“What I am trying to get across here, is that I know what it is like to be terrified, small and voiceless. That’s not an abstract empathy. That’s lived experience. And it’s one of the reasons I do the work I do—especially with children who don’t speak, not because they can’t, but because the world has taught them that speaking is unsafe.

“Today I want to speak about how Cognitive Behavioral Therapy—when adapted to meet a child where they are—can become not just a treatment, but a lifeline. Especially for children who’ve experienced complex trauma and no longer communicate in traditional ways.”

He clicks to the first slide, simply titled: ‘ Why CBT ? ’ “One child I worked with—he was eight at the time—hadn’t spoken in almost a year. Not because he didn’t know how, but because silence had become his safest option. We didn’t begin with words. We began with presence. With drawing in silence. With breathing in sync. With trust, built slowly and deliberately.”

He glances briefly down at his notes, then up again. “CBT, in those early sessions, wasn’t a worksheet or a thought journal. It was the space we created. It was the choice he was given—to name feelings without fear of consequence. It was me sitting next to him, mirroring, reflecting, and waiting.

Cognitive Behavioral Therapy—CBT—is often misunderstood as a purely verbal intervention. But at its heart, CBT is about patterns. Thought patterns, behavior patterns, emotional responses. And patterns can be observed, even when words are absent.”

A few heads in the crowd nod—some scribble in notebooks, others tap open tablets.

“With children, especially those who’ve experienced prolonged trauma or suffer from selective mutism, we cannot rely on the standard approach. We must translate these patterns into their language.”

Another click. A new slide appears: a child’s worksheet, filled with smiley faces, drawings of storm clouds, and simple phrases in blocky handwriting.

“This is an adapted ‘thought record.’ Instead of writing down their thoughts, we use drawings, emotion cards, and storytelling. The goal is the same: to help the child notice what they feel, when they feel it, and what it leads them to do.”

He taps a point on the slide where a sun peeks out of a scribbled raincloud.

“This was a breakthrough moment for one child. After three weeks of silence, he drew this and signed, ‘Better.’ That was all. But in clinical terms? That was a reframed core belief .”

A quiet chuckle ripples through the audience—soft, respectful.

“We also introduce gentle exposure techniques—small, carefully scaffolded experiences that give the child control while building resilience.”

The slide shifts again: photos of a soft therapy room, a tray of sensory toys, and a whiteboard with a color-coded ‘bravery ladder.’

“One of my clients was terrified of leaving their room. So we built a ladder. Step one: sitting by the door. Step two: cracking it open. Step three: peeking outside. No step happened without the child’s lead. They called it the ‘Level Up Game.’”

He smiles faintly.

“CBT teaches us that change doesn’t require intensity. It requires consistency. We don’t ask children to leap. We ask them to stretch.”

He steps from the podium briefly, motioning to a brief, silent video playing on the screen: Regulus and a small, dark-haired boy sitting side-by-side on the floor. They’re signing something—slowly, deliberately. Regulus signs “safe.” The boy mirrors him. Then signs it back. “Safe.”

Regulus returns to the mic.

“That was the first time he initiated contact. We’d been working together for months. He couldn’t speak—not because he lacked the ability, but because his body had learned silence as a survival tactic. We didn’t rush that. We honoured it.”

His tone softens, nearly intimate now.

“Sometimes, the most powerful therapeutic tool is your presence. Not your words, not your advice. Just the quiet message: You are not alone in this. ”

He returns to the clicker, showing a slide titled:

‘CBT Tools for Nonverbal or Minimally Verbal Children

• Visual thought maps
• Symbol-based emotion cards
• Sign language (basic, trauma-informed)
• Co-regulation exercises
• Play-based behavioral experiments
• Parent/caregiver modeling sessions’

“These are tools I’ve refined over the years. But I didn’t invent them. The children did—through trial, resistance, and small acts of courage. I just gave structure to what they already knew: healing starts when someone meets you where you are.”

He looks out at the crowd, at the quiet therapists, social workers and researchers gathered from across the world.

“If there’s one takeaway from today, let it be this; behavior is a message. And silence is not the absence of language. It is a form of it. One we have to learn how to listen to.”

He steps back slightly, resting both hands on the podium and meeting the eyes of the room.

“Thank you for your time.”

***

Regulus Black will never cease to amaze Lily.

The way he commands the room is incredible—he speaks the things that are left unsaid, holds space for grief and healing, and leads people toward safer places they never thought they’d reach.

But he hasn’t always been like this.

She remembers the very first time they met, four years ago at the hospital, when he had only just begun working with her and Charlie. Regulus had been shy then, almost ghost-like in his quiet movements, as if terrified of taking up space. He sat gently on the edge of rooms, never at the center, always watching before speaking. His voice, when it came, was soft and cautious—carrying weight, but only when he knew it would land gently.

Lily had been like that too—closed off, folded small. But for her, it wasn’t just in voice or demeanor. She was too aware of her body, of the space she took up in a world that had told her, subtly and not-so-subtly, that softness was something to be ashamed of. Every bite of food, every outfit, every mirrored reflection was weighed and second-guessed. She tried to disappear in plain sight.

Something had changed though, the night she met Pandora Rosier.

It had been raining—fat, insistent drops that soaked her hair and made her jumper cling to her skin. She’d been whining to Marlene just hours earlier about how dull the town was, how nothing ever happened. She wasn’t even sure what drew her down the side street that evening, but something pulled her there. That’s when she saw it—an eccentric, ivy-covered little bookshop with golden lights glowing through the foggy windows. She could’ve sworn it hadn’t been there the day before.

She stepped inside, mostly to get out of the rain, but she paused when she spotted the girl standing in the poetry section. Tall, ethereal, and barefoot for some reason, as if the store belonged more to her than the floor did. She was holding a weather-worn copy of a brown leather-bound book, smiling softly as if she had found the last piece to her puzzle.

Lily had barely taken two steps inside when the girl looked up, tilted her head, and said, “There you are.”

Confused, Lily had blinked. “Sorry, do I—?”

But the girl just smiled. “No, not yet, that is. But I believe that I have something that is yours,” stepping forward, Pandora carefully opened the book with her pale hands, swivelling around so that Lily could read over her shoulder.

She flipped to the very back, where detailed sketches of lily-flowers adorn the edges, framing a single line that she had not read in eleven years;

To my Lily, happy 10th birthday!!  — Love, always, Gran 

Lily had turned to face the girl, shocked, though warmth was flooding her chest. “How?”

With a tilt of her head, she answered, her voice like music as it flows through the shop. “We have a thread that connects us, Miss Lily, and I believe that it is no longer tangled.”

And that was Pandora.

And somehow, from that moment on, everything had shifted.

Chapter Text

The morning after the conference is slow and lazy.

Regulus sits on the couch, directly under the warm, golden morning sunlight, flipping through his favourite worn copy of Pride and Prejudice to the sweet tune of the melody Luna is humming while Barty coats her nails in a shimmering silver polish.

Mornings like these—-soft, warm—that Regulus lives for. Like most others, Pandora and Evan are in the kitchen, Dorcas is sipping her coffee in the sun room, and Barty—-well, Barty is honestly unpredictable.

For a moment, everything feels perfect. There’s no conference buzz, no looming deadlines, just the steady comfort of this quiet, familiar moment.

Regulus turns another page, tuning out the quiet chatter around him, but then—

Ding.

The sound cuts through the room like a small thunderclap. Regulus doesn’t even glance up, too absorbed in the novel. But then it comes again.

Ding.

This time, Evan, who had been leaning over the counter sorting through some papers, looks up from his phone. His eyebrows knit together, and he mutters something under his breath. Regulus, distracted by the nagging sense that something’s off, finally looks up at his friend.

“Evan?” Regulus asks, his voice laced with a quiet question, the last few notes of Luna’s humming still lingering in the air.

Evan hesitates, glancing at his phone again. "Reg," he says slowly, a bemused expression crossing his face, "I think you should see this."

Regulus quirks an eyebrow, leaning forward, but not fully understanding the tone of Evan’s voice. “See what?”

Without a word, Evan holds out his phone, and Regulus glances at the screen. His eyes flick to the video that’s playing—a clip from his IDEAspace speech.

The video opens with the audience’s rapt attention on him, presenting his research and engaging with the crowd.

Regulus’s breath catches in his throat.

“Evan,” he starts, his voice holding a hint of confusion, “this is... this is from yesterday. What—”

“Yeah, I know,” Evan interrupts, grinning, “but it’s not just from yesterday. This video’s everywhere.”

Regulus blinks, confusion giving way to disbelief. He watches as the view count on the video climbs steadily, the number now in the hundreds of thousands, then a million. His mind spins, but it’s only when Evan scrolls to the comment section that he truly begins to grasp the magnitude of it all.

"Regulus," Evan grins, his eyes lighting up in amusement. "You’ve gone viral."

“Oh, fuck no. This is not happening—” He cuts himself immediately, his eyes catching on the comments, not sure whether to be mortified or amused;

The Psychology of Silence — Regulus Black on the Lingering Effects of Childhood Trauma
posted by @IDEAspace, 7.2M subscribers
(Views: 1.2M views | Likes: 157K | Comments: 4,283 )

⬇ Top Comments:

“This is some of the most insightful work I’ve seen in this field. Regulus Black is truly changing the landscape of childhood trauma research. If only there were more like him in the field.”

— @ProfFionaT, University of Edinburgh

Likes: 2,211 | Replies: 80

“This talk alone could shift how we approach trauma-informed practices in educational settings. Black’s delivery is compelling, but it's his ability to humanize complex theories that sets him apart.”
— @ResearcherRenee, Yale University

Likes: 8,427 | Replies: 95

“Dr. Regulus Black speaks with authority and heart. He’s changing the way we think about child development. As an academic, I’m in awe. As a human being? I’m equally impressed by his capacity for compassion and understanding. I’m incredibly proud to have worked with him during his time at Oxford.”

— @DrSimonReed, Oxford University

Likes: 1,312 | Replies: 921

"Regulus Black is, without a doubt, the smartest student I ever taught at Oxford—by a long shot. His grasp of child development was unparalleled, and even then, we knew he was destined to revolutionize the field. Watching his success now isn’t a surprise. I’m so excited to see how you continue to grow and change the game, Regulus.”

— @ProfessorMcGonagall, Oxford University
Likes : 11,487 | Replies: 276

Regulus can’t help the giddy, almost childlike joy that bubbles inside of him as he scrolls through the comments, specifically, the ones left by prestigious universities, doctors and professors——the people who he looks up to, who he is inspired by.

Pointedly ignoring the other comments, the ones focused on their views of his 'awkward yet hot' persona, he picks up his own phone and responds to the one from Professor McGonagall, one of his favourites from his time at Oxford.

Responding slowly to make sure he doesn’t have a typo, he replies to the comment.

“Thank you, Professor. I wouldn’t be where I am without your guidance and support. I always appreciate your belief in me.”

He hits send, his smile small but genuine.

***

The next few days pass in a blur of hanging out with Luna, drowning in and attempting to ignore his sudden popularity, late nights spent pouring over academic journals, and occasional moments of quiet solitude where Regulus revisits the latest papers on child trauma. 

There’s the constant back-and-forth exchange of emails with universities and old professors congratulating him on his success, and, until this morning, he hadn’t put it into much thought. 

Slowly, over the course of the past two days or so, the emails began to shift from kind words and congratulations to intimidating invitations to present further.

And that is how he got here—sitting at his office desk at Oxford, with loose papers strewn along basically every visible surface, a long-gone-cold cup of tea, ink-stained hands, and his laptop wide open on his desk, the email blinking back at him intimidatingly;

Subject: Invitation to Confidential Archive Review

From: Dr. Filius Flitwick

Rookwood Institute of Historical Studies

Dear Dr. Black,

I trust this message finds you well.

At the Rookwood Institute of Historical Studies, we are in the process of revisiting a series of sensitive child welfare reports from 1872–1985. These files, which were recently declassified under new transparency legislation, contain complex and deeply troubling cases of institutional neglect, many involving high-profile families that were once shielded by influence.

Our research team is currently seeking a trauma-informed expert to lead the qualitative review of these documents. Your work has been highly recommended by colleagues, and we believe your expertise could provide invaluable insight into this extensive collection.

Please note that many of these files are incomplete, heavily redacted, or, in some cases, misfiled. A number of the individuals documented have since disappeared from public records, and the investigation is ongoing.

While the project is entirely confidential, we anticipate the findings may eventually lead to a publication or further academic discourse, depending on the direction of the research.

Access to the archives will be granted through a secure server, and you would have full discretion to proceed at your own pace. There is no formal deadline—only the work itself, should you decide to take it on.

Please let me know if you are interested in discussing this opportunity further.

Sincerely,
Dr. Filius Flitwick
Rookwood Institute of Historical Studies

[Contact Information]

He’s been sitting in his chair, staring at the words so intensely that he would be surprised if they weren’t engraved in his mind, for over an hour now. 

The golden rays that had casted the room in a warm, almost ethereal glow, have long faded into the night, leaving Regulus with no source of light except the flickering candle and the old, dim floor-lamp in the corner. 

His office is one of his favourite spaces. It’s a not too large—a simple 9 x 11, but the tall, dark wooden shelves that line the walls, overflowing with books filled with old sticky notes and pencil markings, his vintage desk that sits between two narrow windows that allow that light to cast around the room, and the two leather chairs that face it---give the room a more enclosed, and at times a tad claustrophobic, feel to it.

It’s been a few years now, give or take, that the office had been officially bestowed upon him, mainly for having a calm research space where he can indulge himself fully, especially once he had started getting offers to present his work. 

And not unlike the other times, the first thing Regulus does upon new opportunities to share his thesis is pack his laptop, notebooks, and pens in his worn, brown leather satchel, and start down the stairs.

Oxford University is undeniably beautiful—the dark walls that soar impossibly high, etched with centuries of delicate engraving never fail to catch Regulus’ breath.

Professor McGonagall’s office isn’t too far from his own, though even if it was, he wouldn’t mind. 

After a swift knock on the door, he’s called into the office. Regulus immediately sinks into the black leather couch with a soft groan, earning a small chuckle from his professor. 

“Well, good evening to you as well,”

Regulus can hear the smile in her voice, fighting his own as he sits upright to face her. Minerva McGonagall is one of the few people in his life, other than his closest friends, that he feels not just comfortable with, but safe. 

The first time Regulus had opened up on his reason for how extraordinarily passionate he was on his studies, he had been running on little over three hours of sleep, extra caffeinated drinks, and pure spite.

Minerva, or as he and Barty call her on the rare times they pass in the halls, ‘Minnie’, had simply asked Regulus if he was alright. 

She had been the first adult to do so with pure kindness and concern, opposed to his mothers harsh, cutting way of demanding.

It had stuck with him—how his body betrayed him—perhaps catching on before his mind had about how it was a safe space—by letting a few tears escape past his waterline, and how the professor he hadn’t spoken with beyond the bare minimum academic questions, immediately stood from her spot behind the desk, sat beside him on the couch, and offered her silent support while he sobbed. 

From that day forward, he began visiting her office, trusting her whole-heartedly with his thoughts, his worries, and with questions that, if she can’t answer, they will search for answers together.

And, much like right now, he also goes to her for advice;

“So I got this email that I need your divine, extraordinary, wonderful and life changing advice on,” He’s laying it on thick, an innocent smile playing on his lips as McGonagall gives him a pointed look. He pauses, pulls out his laptop and opens the email, and flips the screen toward her, observing her concentrating, evaluating expressions as she reads it over. 

After a few moments of silence, she meets his gaze again. “There is no doubt in my mind that you will excel extraordinarily if you decide to accept. Though, I strongly assume that having confidence in your skills is not something you need advice on, Mr. Black.”

Regulus nods, taking his bottom lip between his teeth. “I don’t know if I should take it, I really, really want to, but I worry that my own problems will get in the way.”

“If this opportunity calls to you, then trust yourself enough to answer it. You’re capable of far more than you give yourself credit for. You’ve been through more than many others could bear. Don’t be afraid to take on the work you’re meant to do.” 

Regulus takes a long breath, feeling a surge of warmth at the words. He gives her a small smile of gratitude, then stands up slowly, pulling his satchel over his shoulder.

“You’re right,” he mutters, more to himself than to her, “But it’s hard, you know?”

McGonagall gives him a knowing look, the corners of her lips twitching into a soft smile. “If it were easy, Mr. Black, then it wouldn’t be worth doing.”

Regulus pauses in the doorway, his hand on the knob, and he hesitates just a moment longer before walking out into the hall. As the door clicks softly behind him, he feels a strange sense of calm settle in. The weight of his decision still hangs in the air, but it no longer feels as heavy.

He doesn’t know yet what he’ll decide, but for the first time in a while, he knows he’s not alone in this. And that makes all the difference.

Chapter Text

Regulus pushes the front door to their house open, the familiar creak of the hinges a soft reminder that this place, for all its chaos and noise, is his sanctuary. 

His mind is still buzzing from his meeting with McGonagall, excitement and nerves fluttering through his stomach and beating against his chest.

Upon entering, he toes off his shoes and sets them neatly onto the shoe-rack, directly in between his scuffed-up black converse and his black matte doc martens boots. In one fluid movement, he pulls the strap of his leather satchel over his head and hooks it on the wall. 

He slowly moves through the hallway, raking his eyes over the mismatched picture frames on the walls and the tacked-up papers of colourful scribbles, created proudly by none other than Luna—and possibly Barty, considering some of those lines look suspiciously shaped in a way no young toddler could accomplish.

The living room, specifically after the daylight has long succumbed to the inky black, star-strewn sky, is an incredible sight to behold.

Since the ceiling lights are turned off, the room is left only with the warm-lit lamps and flickering candles to provide light. Across the walls—lined with dark wooden bookshelves that stretch from the ground to the ceiling—soft, long shadows are dancing around the room, courtesy of a project created by a very inspired Pandora and Evan after only spending a week in their new home.

The idea had stemmed from a group rewatch of ‘The Greatest Showman’—the candlelit cutout scene with the song ‘A Million Dreams ’ sent Pandora and Evan spiraling into DIY madness. They’d spent a week engineering tiny paper galaxies for the walls.

Pandora looks up from where she was sitting on the couch, a warm mug of tea cradled in one of her hands, while the other gently cards through Luna’s hair. In her lap, the sleeping body of her daughter is snuggled close, head resting on her lap and hands curled in the pale pink sweatpants Pandora sports. She smiles softly, tilting her head in invitation to sit with them.

Regulus lingers in the doorway for a beat longer than usual, rubbing the back of his neck. Finally, he sighs, the weight of the day settling into his bones. “I’m not sure what I’m doing anymore,” he mutters, his voice softer than he had intended. “This offer from the Rookwood Institute—it’s huge, and I can’t stop thinking about it. But I don’t know if I’m ready. If I can handle it.”

Pandora places her mug down carefully, her expression unbothered yet concerned. "It's okay to be uncertain. It’s a big opportunity, but you’re allowed to feel unsure. That doesn’t mean you're not capable. It just means you’re being honest with yourself."

He smiles at her, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes as he settles beside her, gently lifting Luna’s legs and torso so he can settle his body beneath her. "It’s hard, Dora. What if I’m not enough? What if this is more than I can handle?"

Pandora tilts her head slightly, her eyes soft with understanding. "The only way to know is to try, Starlight. And even if it’s hard, you don’t have to do it alone. I’m here, Evan’s here, and Dorcas, Lily, and Barty—we’re all behind you. Don’t forget that." 

After Pandora’s words land and the room quiets once more, Regulus quietly excuses himself.

He walks past the hall, he grabs his satchel from off the hook and continues into his bedroom—pausing at the door, his hand lingering on the frame like he’s bracing himself.

He moves to sit at his desk and pulls open a drawer. Inside are his black fountain pens, stacked neatly, the barrels smudged with ink and moonlight. He carefully pulls one out and sets it in front of him, beside his leather-bound journal that, ever since the day he received it from Dorcas and Pandora as a shared gift, is his prized possession. 

On initial glance, the book seems like just an average journal, coloured a deep navy, so dark that it can almost be black, spine cracked and well-worn with age, pages dog-eared and wilting—but to Regulus, it’s his only way of thinking without expectations weighing down on him.

It’s stitched together with old ghosts and half-healed thoughts, and in Regulus’ perspective, he finds it marvellous that the spine is holding with the weight of his words and thoughts. In the back pocket of the journal is a folded photograph—creased from constant handling and edges yellowing—of him and Sirius at thirteen and twelve, laughing at something that most likely has little to no meaning—like most of their childhood, Regulus presumes. Meaningful in a way that defies memory. The single thread that began a tapestry. 

And there it is again—that nagging, gnawing and never-ending thought in the back of his mind.

I want to find Sirius.

I miss Sirius.

Sirius Sirius Sirius SiriusSiriusSiriusSiriusSirius—

Before his own mind betrays him, like it has so many times in the past, he cracks open his journal and writes the date at the top of the next blank page.

He hesitates, watching as excess ink holds desperately onto the nib of his pen as it hovers. But before it can drip onto the page, Regulus begins to write, frantically, desperately, in his looping cursive and in random, hazed mixes of French, English, Italian, Latin—he tells himself that he writes in this way, without a particular pattern and unpredictable, is because he doesn’t want the inner workings of his mind to be exposed to the world, and it’s very uncommon for one to be acquainted with his assortment of languages. That’s what he tells himself. What he begs his mind to believe.

But really, it is because, much like the pages, some lines scribbled and thick, like he had pressed the nib to the paper angrily, and some in his beautiful, trained cursive. His mind is like that—scribbled, unpredictable, angry and knowing yet still beautiful and still kind. Everybody expects him to be this organized, sophisticated and proper academic, and he doesn’t dare wonder what could happen if they knew.

He writes and he writes and he writes until his heart feels raw, his mind strung, words stolen. 

Glancing down at his page, he reads it over, genuinely curious, because when he writes like how he thinks, messy, disorganized and true, he barely has time to think, let alone register, the words that are seeping from his mind through his fingertips, bleeding onto the page.

I know my name is Regulus Arcturus Black, but those words lost their meaning and depth long, long ago

Il mio nome non lo sento più mio, ma piuttosto un marchio argentato per il guscio che mi crea. (My name doesn’t feel like mine anymore, more so a silver-lined branding for the shell that creates me.)

Though, it is helpful that I am quite fluent in pretending.

I pretend that my kindness doesn’t feel forbidden,

that my words are not spoken through my razor-edged teeth—some words are too sharp for daylight.

Fingo di non piangere una vita che non è stata presa. (I pretend that I do not mourn a life that has not been taken.)

I keep looking for him in places he’s never been, instinctively calling for him when our parents plague my nightmares,

I used to cry,

the tears that roll down my cheeks heavy with memories.

He used to call me his ‘little star’

But I think I burned out trying to stay bright for him.

Et ça me tue. (and it kills me)

God, how I miss you.

God, how I hate you.

- R

Though he guards his words fiercely, there is a part of him, quiet and impossible and forbidden, that dreams of someone finding it one day. 

That someone would memorize the promises that he has made for himself, the words that rip him apart and leave him raw and naked, nothing to protect him, because his words and his mind is his armour.

He wants somebody to look at him and see every single forbidden thought, to be able to read him by the scrunch of his nose or the light in his eyes.

He wants somebody to see him, all of him, and not leave.

Regulus slams his journal shut, the soft smack reverberating off his walls.

Last time somebody knew him to his bones, they left.

It’s foolish for Regulus to think that it won’t happen again.

Because the ache never leaves, it simply changes shape.

Chapter Text

INTERLUDES PT 1

REMUS LUPIN

The classroom hums with overlapping conversations and the rustling of papers and pens being shoved into backpacks.

The bell had barely rung thirty seconds ago, but already, a blend of sophomores and the few sharp-eyed freshmen in his English class rose as one—eager, exhausted, and already halfway out the door.

Remus hasn’t been teaching long, but long enough to recognize most of Hogwarts High’s student body—at least, those who bother showing up regularly, and those who make words dance.

The last few students file out of his classroom, and, like most other days, one young man remains. 

Charlie Longbottom.

Remus is aware that he, as a teacher, isn’t supposed to have favourites, though in his opinion, that simply translates to ‘just don’t make it obvious to the others.’

Charlie, one of the three freshmen granted access to his advanced English class, is undeniably intelligent—perhaps one of the brightest students to ever be taught by Remus, if not in the whole school.

Most of the staff at Hogwarts High only have the surface-level, barely scratched-at-the-surface knowledge regarding the boy—they know that he has spent most of his life in hospitals, that he has extreme social and general anxiety, and prefers and works better alone in class. 

Not Remus, though. He knows the story—or at least the main gist of it.

He also knows not to push him—let him progress through his work and conversations at his own time, his own pace. 

At his desk, Charlie moves with a deliberate slowness—methodical, maybe even stalling. He drops the last pen into his bag, then glances toward Remus with hesitation etched across his face.

Sensing Charlie’s need to say something, Remus straightens his papers on his desk before clasping his hands and smiling at him. “So, you settling into the new term alright?”

Charlie nods, still quiet, and they fall into comfortable silence. Remus casually mentions the most recent writing assignment, hoping to engage more in the conversation. “Your piece was powerful, Charlie. That line— ‘Some people don’t vanish; they just fold themselves into silence and call it survival.’ —it stayed with me.”

Charlie nods—once, then again—before answering, his voice touched with quiet pride. “Oh, yeah. Regulus would always say things like that. He’s really good with words, y’know?”

Regulus?

The shock and confusion must have been evident on his face, judging by the way Charlie quickly adds; “Regulus Black. He used to work with me,” he drops his gaze to his shoes shyly. “With talking, mostly. He taught me how to speak,”

Later that evening, well past when Charlie left his classroom to go home, Remus drives back to his shared flat, pondering over every thing that could have been a sign of the younger Black’s involvement with his student. 

Regulus Black, a name that leaves just about everybody’s lips—at least, those working with psychology, children and teens, and trauma—the whole academic world knows his name. 

His groundbreaking and record-shaking research is cited by Remus himself more times than he can admit, and he can’t even imagine how much recognition he is getting. 

Ever since that video went viral, the already unspoken topic regarding Sirius’ brother, ( I guess he’s much more than just “Sirius’ brother”, now. Remus notes), became practically forbidden. 

That’s what makes this even harder—Remus knows that this is something he should mention to his husband, and most likely James and Peter as well, but by doing so he could be jeopardizing the moment, possibly being the last hit that makes Sirius’ glass walls shatter.

As he pulls into his parking spot, Remus sighs, already dreading the next few hours to come.

***

Remus steps into the kitchen from the front hall, cane tucked beneath one arm, his shoes already kicked off by the door. He lingers for a second, watching them — Sirius’s head tilted back in a smile, James bumping his hip into Peter’s—he could live a thousand lives and never want to miss this moment.

“Charlie stayed after class today,” Remus mentions casually, stepping in.

Peter looks up immediately, lighthearted sarcasm dripping from his tone. “Really? That’s rare.”

James sets the spoon down, eyeing him curiously. “Everything alright?”

“Yeah,” Remus nods. “He just wanted to talk. Ended up mentioning Regulus.”

The reaction is immediate. 

James’s hand stills mid-reach, Peter shifts uncomfortably, glancing between them.

Sirius’s back stiffens as he sets his glass down, slow and precise. “What?”

Remus doesn’t blink. “Apparently Regulus used to help him. Worked with him. Taught him how to talk again.”

There’s a long, stretching silence—-the kind that feels like a pulled taut thread, seconds from snapping.

Then Sirius lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Of course he did.”

Remus frowns slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Don’t act surprised,” Sirius says, voice rising like a tide. “It’s all part of the image, isn’t it? Perfect Regulus Black — trauma savant, soft-spoken genius, patron saint of broken kids.”

James shoots him a warning look. “Pads…”

“No. No, don’t,” Sirius spits, already pacing. “He’s always been like this. Always knew how to say the right thing, be what people needed him to be.”

Remus crosses his arms, watching carefully. “You think it’s fake?”

“I know it’s fake,” Sirius bites. “He’s doing it for the applause. For the credit. You think he cares about Charlie? Please. He wants people to see him and say, ‘Wow, what a good person he’s become.’ ”

“Sirius,” Peter says carefully, “what if he has become one?”

“He hasn’t.” Sirius’s voice is sharper now. “People like him, like the Black’s, don’t change. They just get better at hiding who they are. Besides, I grew up with him, I would know better than anyone. ”

Remus doesn’t say anything.

Neither does James.

Not for a while.

Finally, James clears his throat, stirring the pot again as if it could distract from the tension thick in the room. “You cut him off, mate. Not the other way around.”

That’s when Sirius’s jaw clenches and a spark lights behind his steely gray eyes.

It’s subtle—blink and you’d miss it. But Remus sees.

He watches as something dangerous glints behind Sirius’s eyes, something coiled too tightly for comfort.

“I left,” Sirius says quietly, “because I knew what he was. What they all are. Because I wasn’t going to wait around for him to prove me right again. They weren’t and never will be enough for somebody who doesn’t play by their rules—they only know how to cater to their own .”

No one responds.

And after a few seconds, Sirius shakes his head like he’s done with the whole conversation entirely. He grabs his drink, doesn’t even look at the others as he mutters, “It’s all for show,” again—softer this time, but laced with venom.

He walks out without another word.

***

THIRTEEN YEARS AGO

SIRIUS BLACK

Grimmauld Place.

Grim. 

Old. 

Place.

It’s fitting, Sirius thinks—a perfect name to represent the dark walls of the house for a ‘perfect’ family. But in reality? It’s all for show.

Not a home, though.

A house.

Sirius had been ten years old when he figured out that his parents aren’t normal. That arriving at school, worrying with the edges of his cufflinks in case a single thread is out of place of his pristine uniform, double and triple checking that the faded blood stains and yellowing bruises aren’t visible, isn’t normal. 

Though, nothing about his family is normal, even if the repeated bruises, jagged scars, and screaming matches that echo through the streets, aren’t accounted for. 

No, the Black family is special. 

The Black’s are of high importance, superior in the society. 

Sirius doesn’t actually believe that, though. 

For as long as Sirius can remember, his mother and father have hosted large gatherings that begin in the late hours of night and seep into the early mornings. 

The meetings consisted of a large sum of men and women, dressed in their best robes and best-fitted dresses, ushered into his fathers, Orion Black’s, private annex—a section of the manor that Sirius, and his younger brother, Regulus, have been forbidden to enter. Until they reach ‘respectable ages’, at least.

The meetings have never really bothered him, though, unlike Regulus, who constantly questions and reads into every word, every breath, down to the number of seconds between two sentences by the people entering and exiting. 

He has a small, pocket-sized, leather-bound journal that he keeps under a loose floorboard beneath his bed, the pages filled with his swooping cursive, the potential secrets of the family hidden between the lines. 

It’s always puzzled Sirius, though, because if Regulus collects all of this information, what does he do with it? He certainly hasn’t revealed the journal's inner workings, the whispers and secrets between the yellowing pages, to anybody, much less tell anyone of its existence in the first place. 

Sirius doesn’t know who his brother would share it with, anyway. Since the day Regulus has been born, the two of them have been glued to each other’s sides, leaving no room for others. At least, until mother and father had separated them, splitting them off to different schools. Sirius found his best friends—James Potter, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew, and Marlene McKinnon. Regulus hasn’t found anyone to call his best friend, not yet, at least. 

In a way, Sirius feels bad. 

Almost. 

His brother is one of, if not the only, most important person in his life, but he still needs to find his own friends, his own life, just like Sirius has, or, more like, is trying to.

When they were younger, around the ages of five and six, Sirius and Regulus could not go a single day in public without hearing something along the lines of “Oh, you two look so similar! Are you twins?”

It has always bothered Sirius much more than his brother, even if they practically are twins, being just under a year apart. 

Those words have him feeling like he is stripped of what truly makes Sirius who he is. He feels locked in a cage that is designed to make you feel like you belong inside, cushioned with pillows that are soft at a glance but rock solid to the touch, lined with mirrors that reflect your appearance, but certainly not before twisting and morphing it into something, some one, else entirely. 

He doesn’t want to be grouped with anybody, and much less his baby brother.

He will never mention his thoughts, though, because Regulus’ smile after being chained with Sirius can warm the coldest hearts, and Regulus is the best brother Sirius could ever ask for, so it confuses and irks him when his anger flares and his hands ball into tight fists.

He loves his brother more than anything.

But.

Why is he not content with what he has?

But why is that love, the familiar, warm love, not enough for Sirius? 

Why does he feel like he needs to escape it, when all it has ever done is help him?

Why? 

W  h  y?

W    h     y?

***

REMUS LUPIN

Back in his flat, Remus sits with the silence. He opens an old paper—one of Regulus Black’s first publications, the one he’s quoted in his own lectures more times than he can count. 

But now, the words feel different. He reads the margins like a map, like the scrawl of a boy trying not to burn up from the inside out. "Some people don’t vanish..." he whispers aloud. 

No. They don’t. Some people become stars, folding silence into light.

Chapter Text

INTERLUDES PT 2

JAMES POTTER

James prides himself in his laid-back, go-with-the-flow demeanor. He’s always been the kind of man who knows what to say in high-pressure moments—the right quip, the steady reassurance. Hell, he can even pivot from chaotic-friend James to toned-down, definitely-more-professional high school gym teacher James without missing a beat.

And with all that in mind, he’d have expected himself to handle a simple question. Especially a question from a fourteen-year-old boy.

Charlie Longbottom.

Ever since Remus had mentioned Charlie’s connection with the infamous Regulus Black two nights ago, James had found himself watching the boy more closely.

Not that he hadn’t noticed him before—it’s just that Charlie had a way of flying under the radar. He was the typical introverted, slightly awkward teenager. Average height, maybe a little tall; light brown curls; a sprinkle of acne across his forehead; his nose perpetually buried in a book. No wonder he is Remus’ favorite.

In James’ gym class, though, Charlie surprises him. There is an unexpected energy to him—sporadic, cautious, like he only lets it loose when the coast is clear. Fewer classmates meant fewer eyes.

Today, the class is half its usual size—the last class of the day, the last class of the week.

Maybe that’s why Charlie chose today.

When the final whistle blows and the others filter out, Charlie lingers behind, twisting his backpack strap like he is winding up courage.

“Mr. Potter?” he asks, hesitant but firm. “Do you know if… if Mr. Pettigrew could help me contact someone?”

James blinks, startled. “Peter?”

Charlie bites his lip. “It’s someone I used to… talk to. A few years ago. He worked with me. At the hospital.”

There is a pause, heavy and brimming. James can feel his stomach twist, realization unfurling like a slow bloom.

“What kind of work?” James asks gently, careful not to step too hard on fragile ground.

Charlie shrugs, clearly embarrassed. “He wasn’t a doctor or anything. He used to help me talk about stuff. He was really young. He didn’t act like the other grown-ups.”

A name surfaces, inevitable and unwelcome.

“Regulus Black?” James asks, quiet but certain.

Charlie’s head snaps up, startled. “You know him?”

James doesn’t answer immediately. “We went to school together,” he says at last, tone deliberately neutral. He doesn’t mention the way Regulus’s name had come up between him and Remus just nights ago; that feels like too tangled a truth for Charlie.

Charlie exhales, like he’s been holding that hope in his chest for too long. “I didn’t know he was famous until later. I just…” He hesitates, fumbling with a fraying edge of his sleeves. “I just wanted to ask if he’s okay. I haven’t talked to him in years. I don’t know if he even remembers me.” He looks up, tentative. “But if Mr. Pettigrew could… maybe get a message to him? I dunno. I just wondered if that’s allowed.”

James feels a pang—a deep protectiveness, and under it, a flicker of resentment for making Charlie feel this way. But the longing on Charlie’s face silences the latter.

“I’ll talk to Mr. Pettigrew,” James answers quietly. “We’ll see what we can do.”

A pause stretches between them. Then James asks, unable to stop himself: “If you don’t mind me asking—how come you two stopped talking?”

The flicker of sadness in Charlie’s eyes makes James immediately regret it. God, why did he push? Of course it’d be complicated—

“Well, when I got…” Charlie pauses, choosing his words with care. “Better… Regulus wasn’t allowed to work with me anymore. For a while after, we kept in touch. But then… we drifted.” He stares down at his scuffed shoes. “I know he wouldn’t mind if I reached out. But—”

James cuts him off gently. “We’ll figure something out, Charlie.” He smiles, warm but serious. “And for the record, I bet Dr. Black would love to hear from you.”

Charlie tilts his head, clearly unconvinced. “You don’t even know him, Mr. Potter.”

James ignores the voice in the back of his mind screaming there’s a reason for that!

“I know enough,” he sighs softly. “And even if I didn’t—no sane person would ever be disappointed to hear from someone they miss.”

Charlie holds his gaze, hope glimmering cautious and fragile. Then he nods. “Thanks, Mr. Potter.”

James watches him go, his chest tight with something between ache and wonder. He wonders what, exactly, Regulus had left behind when he disappeared—and whether Regulus even knows how many people still feel his absence.

That night, after he and Peter debriefed and agreed to try contacting Regulus, James lies in bed, rereading the email from the Hogwarts Board, over and over, searching for some hidden message between the lines.

Subject: Upcoming Workshop: Trauma-Informed Care and Student Support, Led by Dr. Regulus Black

From: Hogwarts Unified School District Board

We are writing to inform you of an upcoming professional development workshop that all staff are required to attend, hosted in collaboration with the education department at Cambridge University.

The workshop, titled “Trauma-Informed Care and Educational Support for Students with Complex Needs”, will be led by Dr. Regulus Black, PhD, a distinguished child psychologist, trauma researcher, and consultant. Dr. Black’s research has been widely recognized for its innovative integration of clinical practice and educational settings, particularly in supporting students who have experienced trauma or adversity.

Workshop details:

Location: Cambridge University, Faculty of Education Auditorium

Time: Full-day event (schedule to be provided closer to the date)

Attendance: Mandatory for all staff at Hogwarts High School, Hogsmeade Middle School, and Godric’s Hollow Elementary, including teachers, aides, counselors, and administrators

Topics will include:

• The impact of trauma on cognitive, emotional, and behavioral development
  
  

• Classroom strategies for fostering resilience and safety
  
  

• Collaboration between educators and mental health professionals
  
  

• Case studies and interactive discussions
  
  

Please confirm your attendance with Albus Dumbledore.

We are honored to provide this opportunity to learn directly from one of the leading experts in the field. We encourage everyone to approach the workshop with openness, curiosity, and a willingness to reflect on how we can better serve our students.

Further details, including an agenda and preparatory materials, will follow.

Thank you for your commitment to professional growth and to fostering a supportive learning environment for all students.

Warmly,
The Hogwarts Unified School District Board

[Contact Information]

Chapter Text

It’s been a few days since Regulus accepted the offer to host his own workshop, and every second since has been a slow descent into regret.

Not just the preparations—though the endless slide of tasks piling like papers on his desk certainly hasn’t helped.

No. It’s the waiting. The knowing that soon, everybody will see him. The way his brain loops the same reel: his name on the flyer, his voice over the microphone, the auditorium filled with smart strangers who will be watching, dissecting, tearing apart every word and glueing them back together.

It’s terrifying. 

It’s exhilarating. 

For the past week or so, Regulus feels as if he has been running in a haze-like trance, barely present in the moment and in tune to nothing but the own thrum of his heartbeat and his scrambling thoughts.

Pandora calls it dissociating. Barty, with his signature eye-roll and his almost-playful sharp look, calls it ‘ for fuck’s sake, sleep, Regulus.’

And, in complete honesty, both of them check out. 

His sleep schedule is, admittedly, catastrophic. At first, a year ago, he stayed up just because his mind was too full.

Though after about two months of this routine, sleeping around four hours, if even that, his body began to adapt to the night. His mind began recognizing his bed as a place where his ideas flow and the moonlight as the fuel to the flame.

It can be helpful at times, especially considering that Regulus now has projects stacking up, due dates and deadlines.

The night gives him more time. More time to think, to take a breath without weight, a moment unmeasured, time to live, without expectations. With only the stars to bear witness and the moon as it mourns in silence, casting silvery echoes of its loneliness in long shadows across his floorboards.

The first few printed case files from Rookwood Institute remain untouched on his desk, their folders shining like unopened doors. There’s a strange irony in it—how the project he’s been aching for now feels like a finish line he’ll never quite reach. 

All of it waiting, waiting like a sealed envelope he’s too afraid to open. 

And in a way, they are.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow is the workshop. 

His plan is meticulous, foolproof—each note color-coded, each slide rehearsed in his mind until the words feel tattooed. His clothes are folded with surgical precision. His shoes gleam, polished until they catch the light.

And yet. 

And.

Yet.

Despite it all, he feels irrevocably unprepared. Like he’s building a house of cards and waiting for the first careless breath to collapse it.

Some part of him is already bracing for failure, preparing the soft landing for his fall. The crash mat for his inescapable, unchangeable descent into darkness.

The weight of his own self-inflicted doubt is suffocating.

And now, as he lies awake at night, his eyes fixed on the shadowed ceiling, he can’t help but think; I am preparing for my own undoing.

And beneath it all, a cruel voice whispering in his mother’s cadence: don’t embarrass us, Regulus.

***

The car thrums with Luna’s child-like excitement as they pull into the school parking lot.

“D’you think there will be a class pet? I hope there’s a class pet!” She begins to rattle off a list of increasingly bizarre potential class pets, each one accompanied by a wider smile and a light giggle. “Maybe it’s a ferret. Or an owl. Or a tiny dragon —do you think they’d let us have a tiny dragon?”

Regulus exchanges a secret smile with Barty, who is sitting in the passenger seat, once again claiming his ‘passenger princess’ throne, or whatever he likes to call it, watching with exaggerated disdain as Barty flicks a paper straw wrapper at his knee, already halfway through his second iced latte.

Regulus turns his head back, breaking his gaze from the road for a short moment and fixing Luna with a deadpan expression. “If they have a tiny dragon in your class, we’re transferring you immediately.”

Luna giggles, her infectious joy brightening up the car.

As soon as their car, Regulus’ black Audi A4, is pulled into the parking space and the child lock is undone, Luna jumps out of the car with a squeal, grabbing her blue backpack, decorated with carefully painted strokes of constellations, the moon, flowers and other symbols of significance.  

“Do you think my teacher will like me? My new friends?” A flash of worry paints her features. “I’ll make friends, right?”

Affection warms Regulus’ chest. He exchanges a brief glance with Barty, who wears the same gentle expression. Pandora isn’t Luna’s teacher anymore—since Luna has now moved on from preschool to kindergarten—which had once been a buffer, a layer of protection that’s now, softly, slipped away.

Regulus then crouches down to be eye level with her, adjusts the straps of her backpack so they sit comfortably on her shoulders, and takes both of her small hands in his, squeezing them three times, which, in their own secret language, means ‘I love you’ . 

“Ma Lune,” he says softly, brushing a white-blonde curl behind her ear, “I can’t promise everyone will understand you. But the ones who do? They’ll love you fiercely. And that’s worth waiting for.” 

For a second, he wonders if he’s lying—but her face glows like she already knows it’s true. She throws her arms around his neck, squeezing tight, and for a moment Regulus holds her there, letting her small heartbeat thrum against his own.

“I’ll be brave,” she whispers into his collar. “Like you.”

And oh, how that quiet declaration nearly undoes him. 

He swallows the ache in his throat, smoothing a hand over her back. “You already are,” he murmurs.

Barty swoops in, dropping to one knee beside Regulus with a mock-grave look. “And tell me, Miss Moon—what do we do if someone doesn’t listen when you say no?”

Luna whirls toward him, arms crossed, chin lifted, a defiant fire blazing in her wide blue eyes. She narrows them in an attempted glare, but it only makes her look more like an angry kitten. “Kick them in the balls!” she declares triumphantly.

Barty meets Regulus’ gaze across her head, his grin slow and wicked. He throws an exaggerated wink, the kind that practically sparkles. ‘I’m so proud’, it seems to say, ‘our little chaos demon!’

Then he stands, ignoring Regulus’ amused, and honestly proud, eye roll. “Okay, little moon, go conquer the universe. We’ll be right here if you need to radio home.”

Luna grins, wiping her nose with her sleeve, and steps back. She lifts her chin once more, draws a breath, and squares her tiny shoulders like a soldier going into battle.

“Okay,” she says, mostly to herself. “Okay.”

And then she’s off—darting across the parking lot in a flurry of curls and dreams, weaving through a sea of backpacks and chatter, swallowed up by the tide of new beginnings and things to explore.

Regulus watches until she disappears inside. Only then does he stand, brushing invisible dust from his knees. His chest feels simultaneously light and impossibly heavy.

“She’s gonna be fine,” Barty says quietly beside him. “You did good.”

Regulus exhales a slow breath, half a laugh. “We’ll see.” A pause. Then, in a drier tone, “You’re buying me a coffee.”

“Always. Come on,” Barty grins, hooking an arm through his and tugging him forward. “You’re not brooding on an empty stomach.”

And as they walk back to the car, Regulus feels the lingering warmth of her hands in his, and can only pray that what he told her is true. 

Chapter Text

Ten minutes into the thirty-minute drive, somebody finally speaks, filling the tension-charged silence that had blanketed the car. 

“We need a game plan,” 

Remus takes one scarred hand from the wheel and turns down the music, Snap Out Of It by the Arctic Monkeys, before humming in agreement. “You think we can just wing it and hope for the best?”

James snorts, though an idea strikes in his mind. “Is there any point in even introducing ourselves as Sirius’ mates? It’s not like Regulus would know us?”

The song fades out, giving them a moment of silence to think.

Regulus Black. 

Well, now Dr. Regulus Black.

The brother Sirius had never mentioned, at least in detail and who he is, not what, until just two years ago, and only after Peter had mentioned the name after reading an article. The brother who, as it turns out, had a major influence on Sirius' life, even if he never talks about him much. 

Sirius hadn’t even spoken of his family life with any emotion except dismissal, as if he barely knew who they were until then, especially in any other way than the brief overview regarding why he left. 

James knows that it’s a touchy subject—hell, everybody in Sirius’ life does, but that doesn’t mean that it can’t, or more like, shouldn’t , be spoken about. 

He can’t quite wrap his head around it. The person Sirius has described as difficult, full of hate, bigoted, and an absolute nightmare to deal with. How has he turned into this Regulus? The one who is the face of not only child psychology, but trauma research, therapy, speaking out on stage, researching and enlightening like it is his second nature?

His thoughts come to an abrupt halt as Remus huffs, grumbling under his breath and making a crude gesture at the driver on his left. “Fucking—” he rolls down the window, leans out, and scowls. “Go fuck yourself with a twelve-inch cactus, you little shit!”

He rolls the window back down and swivels his head around, turning to look at James, who has no doubt that his amusement is stated very clearly on his face. “So we just pretend we have no idea who he is? Just like that?”

Peter shrugs non-committedly, his face split into a wide grin. “It makes sense—unless he has been deliberately figuring us out, he has no way of knowing. We never visited their house as kids, anyway.”

Peter’s right—from the first time the four of them had met in the first grade, their little group clicked immediately, and soon enough, Marlene and Mary joined the group. They soon became an infamous clan of trouble-makers throughout the rest of their school years, even up until university, where they split up academically but still keep in close contact, almost like they are still together every weekday. 

In all twelve years of attending Hogwarts and friendship with Sirius, they have never once hung out at Grimmauld. They had numerous slumber parties at James’, shared birthdays at Marlene’s, but every time it was suggested to be hosted by Sirius, the plans were shut down in a blink of an eye.

Before he or Remus can answer Peter, Remus’ phone dings, coming from Google Maps alerting them that they’ve arrived.

Remus pulls into a packed parking lot, mumbling something under his breath as they search for a spot. When they finally find one, they exit the truck and begin their walk toward the entrance of Cambridge University, where the workshop takes place. 

Upon entering the library, James can’t help but be in awe. Cambridge is truly beautiful, and the architecture is incredible. 

They make their way into the lecture hall, where the workshop is located, and sit at one of the small tables in the back, furthest from the front of the room, where Regulus, along with some guest speaker whose name they don’t recognize, will stand. 

The room is packed with people—professors that James can vaguely recognize from passing, school counselors that Peter excitedly points out, and many more that simply work with kids and teens.

A few people come and say hello and catch up, mainly people that James simply pretends like he remembers, using the trick he has mastered taught to him by Marlene, who works in the modelling industry and is expected to know the names and practically every single of their accomplishments of every single model in passing; ‘introduce your friends to them so they will introduce themselves with their name’. 

About ten minutes later, after the conversations die down to a soft hush of whispers, the doors open once more, and–

Regulus Black steps in.

It isn’t dramatic—there is no slow motion, no sweeping music—but there may as well have been.

He wears a black, long-sleeved and fitted turtleneck tucked into tailored charcoal trousers, a long dark coat folded over one arm, his other hand holding up a small notebook to his face. He doesn’t look up as he enters, just walks with this quiet, focused kind of grace.

James blinks.

He hadn’t known what to expect of Regulus, or, well, Dr. Black, but this certainly wasn’t it. The man, who has now reached the front and is adjusting a pair of thin-wired black glasses while seemingly reading over his notes, looks nothing like how Sirius had described him. Sure, the inky black curls and pale skin match his words, but he very evidently hadn’t mentioned his sharp, almost startling, jawline and cheekbones, or the way the slope of his nose is so similar to Sirius’ own, making James wonder if he has matching freckles to his brother as well.

James' mind churns. How can Regulus be both this poised, intelligent figure and the nightmare Sirius spoke of? Is it possible for one person to be so many things? Or had time and distance distorted the man Sirius once knew, making him into someone else entirely? And if that’s true… what does that mean for their friendship? For Sirius?

Being so focused on the man at the front, James almost didn’t notice the unfamiliar face that belongs to the woman who has now seated herself at their table.

“Hello,” her voice is soft and dreamlike, in the sense that it practically floats through the air. “Do you mind if I sit here? I would sit in the front, but there are too many tangled aura’s up there. Poor things. Must have not gotten much sleep, I’m assuming,”

James' brow furrows. 'Tangled auras'? Is this a joke, maybe a metaphor? 

James does not have a slightest clue, and judging by Peter and Remus’ matching confused expressions, they share the same thought—- ‘What?’

The woman continues, gently twirling a long lock of white-blonde hair around one pale finger. “My name is Pandora,” she finishes, turning to face the front once more, her lips pulled into a sweet smile.

James exchanges a look with his friends, all of them clearly not knowing what to make of her.

Before anything more can happen, though, the once-conversational crowd falls into silence, almost like a flame being huffed out. 

Everybody’s eyes are drawn to the front of the room, where Regulus Black is standing, hands at his sides in an almost endearingly awkward manner. “Hello, everybody, thank you for coming out this evening. My name is Dr. Regulus Black . . .”

He continues on, introducing himself, the plan for the next couple hours, and some ground information, voice soft yet firm as he commands the room. 

***

Two hours in, and the break is finally called.

It’s not like it’s been boring—quite the opposite, actually. James just has an overwhelming fog in his brain, almost as if there is a door inside, blocking out all new information because it’s too full of it already, causing his mind and body to fall into a sleepy haze.

His fresh notebook in front of him is already filled with countless pages of information, thoughts, perspectives, everything . 

It’s not even that he needs to have all of these—he is the gym teacher and sports teams coach at Hogwarts, specifically the middle school department—but just knowing that if he does ever come across cases like the ones spoken about today, he feels like he can take it in with a sense of calm and reassurance that he hadn’t felt before.

James is the only one at the table, currently, as Remus and Peter have gone to get a cup of coffee from the table in the back, and the odd woman, Pandora, had hopped off her seat immediately, mentioning something along the lines of ‘seeing if the ideas have settled yet.’

Most of the other attendees are chatting calmly, and if not seated at the many round tables in the room, then by the coffee and pastries bar in the back. 

Just as James is about to stand, perhaps to find Remus or Peter, or maybe just to simply move to shake the sudden sleepiness away, he feels a gentle hand on the back of his shoulder, startling him.

Whirling his head around, James is greeted with the face of Regulus Black, who has now retracted his hand and is simply staring at him, his storm-gray eyes curious. 

James decides to ignore the way his body is itching to feel the warmth of his touch again.

“You look like you’re about to pass out.”

"I—what?” James stammers, too caught off guard to be smooth. The initial shock of Regulus’ touch rattles him more than he wants to admit. His mind scrambles for something witty, something deflective, to avoid acknowledging the fact that someone—Regulus Black, of all people—was speaking to him so directly. It definitely doesn’t help him that instead of the default settings; ‘fight or flight’, his are more like ‘fright, fight, sarcasm.’  

“Sorry, what I meant to say is; ‘fancy seeing you here, Dr. Black, looking as exquisite as ever.’" he finishes, forcing the words out with a smile that is just a little too wide.

Dr. Black, Regulus, quirks an eyebrow, and if James hadn’t noticed the way the corners of his lips flick up, even if it’s the smallest, most barely noticeable and over quickly, he would have thought that he was about to get shot down by a lightning bolt or something, simply from that scowl.  

“Hm. Not sure if I can say the same for you,” Regulus’ eyebrow quirks, and James could have sworn he saw the faintest twitch at the corner of his lips. “Now, what I was going to say, before you decide to voice your rather interesting inner workings, is that I suggest you snag some caffeine before it’s gone. Especially since Dora is sitting with you, and the moment she notices you’re half-awake, she will mix you a concoction that I do not wish upon anyone to experience. Now go, she’s coming.” 

With that final note, the man turns on his heel and walks back to his spot at the front, chin held high, leaving James even more confused than he had been before.

First of all,

‘Dora’?

James’ mind stumbles over the name. Something that doesn’t quite fit into the current of his thoughts. It was said so casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world. 

Why would Regulus know her so familiarly? James wonders, confusion pulling at him. And then, there’s the fact that the two couldn't be more different, could they? Pandora with her soft, dreamlike voice and endless silences, her aura of quiet intensity, and Regulus, who stands in sharp contrast—graceful but sharp-eyed, commanding in his own reserved way. His presence is cool, polished—Pandora, in contrast, is more like a warm haze, light and kind.

It’s almost like he’s missing a crucial piece to a puzzle that’s sitting right in front of him. 

A strange thought begins to unfurl in his mind, one that makes his heart thrum just a little faster, like a drumbeat in his chest. Does he know who I am?

It’s a possibility, isn’t it? It would make sense if he could twist the details in just the right way. After all, if Regulus is at all familiar with Sirius—and James, being Sirius’ friend, might be a part of that—then maybe Regulus has made the connection. Maybe he recognizes him.

But the more he thinks about it, the less it makes sense. There are no obvious signs of recognition, nothing that screams ‘I know you from somewhere.’  

James can’t shake the sense that there’s no reason for Regulus to approach him.

They’ve never met before, at least not that he’s aware of. And if they did, there certainly weren’t any clues that would explain the sudden attention, but before he can dive deeper into the rabbit hole of swirling thoughts and confusion, the sounds of Peter and Remus rejoining him at the table bring him back to the present, though not without a more wary tone.

Chapter Text

Regulus likes to tell himself he has complete control in any, and every, situation that he finds himself in.

But, in a moment of utter weakness, he had just simply strolled up to the man at the furthest table at the back and practically insulted him.

The workshop is over now, and most of the guests have filled out, save for the few stragglers who stay to chat, ask questions more intimately, or just simply hang out.

The portion with Lily had been a hit—she spoke about her experiences in pediatrics, her experiences with specific types problems that come to the surface, and the ones that stay below, barely noticeable.

Almost immediately after the workshop came to a close, Pandora hopped from her seat and made her way to the front of the room, where she is now, conversing lightly with Lily and two other women. 

He’s packing up the last of the workshop materials—stacking papers into impossibly neat piles, slipping his glasses off and tucking them into his coat pocket, deliberately ignoring the lingering gazes scattered around the room. He can feel their eyes; the curiosity, the quiet admiration, the subtle curiosity that hums in the air like static.

He lets them look. He’s done his part. The performance is over.

With the last folder clicked shut, Regulus steps down from the stage, keeping his gaze straight and child held high, despite the constant nagging in his mind that is urging him to simply curl into himself, as well as avoid human conversation for the next seventy-two hours.

The doors to the conference room click shut behind him, and Regulus starts down the hall, intent on a swift, unseen escape through the back—until fate, which decides to make his life its own personal comedy show, throws a very solid obstacle in his path.

The man from before.

Standing directly in front of him, hands shoved into his pockets, lips curled into an infuriatingly charming grin.

“Fancy running into you again, Dr. Black,” He says, hazel eyes gleaming beneath gold-rimmed glasses with a reckless kind of warmth, like he’s been waiting right here, like he knew Regulus would come this way.

Regulus freezes for half a heartbeat. Then his lips quirk—barely, but undeniably. “Don’t tell me you were waiting.”

James lifts a shoulder. “Maybe I was. Maybe I wasn’t.” He leans in conspiratorially, almost as if whispering a secret. “You make a very mysterious exit, you know. Felt like I’d stepped into an action film.”

Regulus shifts his shoulder strap, which had been digging into his shoulder, and rolls his eyes, preparing to step aside and continue his journey to his car, praying that his very clear message of; I don’t want to fucking talk to you, conveys properly.

Evidently, it didn’t.

The man steps to the side, allowing Regulus to get past, but instead of continuing the direction he had been going, he swivels his body around and walks side-by-side with Regulus. “Not much of a talker, are you? Well, that’s fine, I can talk enough for the both of us. My name is James, and I—”

Regulus pauses walking and turns to face the man, James, directly. “Why are you telling me this? I don’t know you, and I plan to keep it that way,” Regulus moves to continue his way to the parking lot, but before he can get any farther than about three strides, James stops him and gently turns Regulus to face him. 

Regulus hadn’t noticed the man's height until now—-James is only a few inches taller—five, maybe—and the top of Regulus’ head reaches his nose. 

He’s too close. Far too close. He can smell him now—clean laundry and something warm, like a forest—- cedar, or home he never had. 

Fuck the fates, honestly.

“Yet.”

Regulus blinks, momentarily frozen and no doubt looking as confused as he feels. “I– what?”

James smiles cheerfully, his eyes sparkling behind his gold-rimmed glasses that rest perched on his tanned nose. “You don’t know me yet, ” He gestures to himself vaguely, keeping his eyes on Regulus’. “So, as I said, my name is James, I work as a middle school gym teacher and I coach a tier two, U15 men's soccer team on the side. . .”

***

Thirty minutes into the drive back home, and Regulus is still going over the previous conversation in his mind, replaying it over and over again like it’s a movie tape and he keeps missing his favourite scene.

As he pulls into a long line of traffic, he glances over to the passenger seat, where Lily is sprawled comfortably, curled into a large blanket with her heels thrown into the back seat, where Pandora is.

Lily lifts a pale hand from where it had been curled into the blanket and lowers the music—- ’I Wanna be Yours’ by the Arctic Monkeys—and shoots Regulus a mischievous smile. “So, when are you gonna tell us about that absolute Greek god you walked out of the building with?”

Regulus groans, taking a hand off the wheel and sliding it down his face. 

It’s not like it should bother him, but even so, the familiar pulse of annoyance flows through his body. Before he became as close with Lily and Pandora as he is now, Regulus had been a very closed-off person. He still finds it odd—the uncomfortable and unfamiliar layer of utter vulnerability that settles over his body, over his mind , when people truly see him and understand him. Even now, after years of embracing this close knit friendship, sharing anything beyond a vague recollection of his day feels odd, though he can’t ignore the faint sense of pride that overcomes him.

“I’d rather not,” He settles upon, selecting his next words carefully. “Just some guy walking out at the same time. Nothing more. Besides,” Regulus reaches upwards and pops open the small compartment above him, pulling out his glasses and setting them on his face before continuing. “I’m not interested.”

Pandora peaks her head over the middle console and makes a thoughtful hum. “So if I asked you what his name is, you wouldn’t know?”

Regulus doesn’t blink. “James.”

Lily bursts into tired laughter from her seat. “Aha!”

“I guessed,” he lies instantly, grimacing slightly as he does so.

“You never guess.” Pandora grins, swinging her legs off the backseat and sitting up fully. “You assess. You observe. You dissect. You guessed the entire plot twist of that mystery film from the first scene.”

“I’m not interested,” Regulus repeats, this time firmer, pushing his glasses up on his nose and shifting in his seat uncomfortably.

He can feel the heavy weight of Lily’s eyes on him, her voice softer now as she leans closer. “It wouldn’t be a crime if you were , you know.”

Regulus exhales sharply through his nose, keeping his gaze on the road ahead of him.

Pandora reaches forward and gently tugs on one of his black curls, causing him to instinctively lean into her touch. “You’re allowed to want things, Reg. Even if they’re strange and glittery, and taller, and , very likely to be more emotional than you.”

Regulus hums noncommittally, muttering under his breath “That’s a low bar,” 

Lily cocks her head playfully. “And neither are your standards.”

They all chuckle lightly but the mood has shifted to something more serious, almost as if it is more knowing.

Lily’s voice drops into a softer tone. “We’re just saying… You deserve something that’s yours. ”

“Something lovely,” Pandora murmurs, her voice laced with the quiet understanding that Regulus has learnt to adore. “Not out of duty. Not survival. Just… lovely.”

Regulus continues to stare ahead, jaw tight. “Yeah. Whatever.”

The car falls quiet, the weight of the previous conversation settling over them like a blanket. 

Pandora doesn’t push, knowing that trying to get him to open up more will likely result in failure, and Lily turns the music up just slightly, not enough to drown the silence, but just to wrap around it.

Though he stays silent on the outside, Regulus’ mind could not be louder in its constant screaming and whistling, clouding his judgement with its hundreds upon hundreds of doubts, of worries, of forbidden fear that he doesn’t dare show, especially after last time.

But despite the constant whirlwind of thoughts, one holds steady in the storm;

‘I don’t deserve to have something nice.’

Not when everything nice he’s ever touched has crumbled like dust in his hands.

Not when Sirius left— ran —and didn’t even look back.

He’s not stupid. He knows how that story is supposed to go—the hero escapes the weight holding them down and conquers the world, while the villain stays behind. And when the world collapses around them, everyone calls it brave for one, and pitiful for the other.

He would tell himself he stayed out of choice, but despite his capabilities to lie without flinching, courtesy of living with Walburga Black, he is unable to lie to himself. 

He stayed because someone had to absorb the damage.
Because someone had to be the one who broke, and why would the hero, who has so many more possibilities to live, have such a setback as shattering?

And break he did.

God , he did. 

But despite what it may seem, Regulus broke quietly, politely, elegantly. His shattered glass was, and is, concealed by his long, fancy words (that nobody truly understands but pretends they do), his bloodied hands hidden beneath pristine silk gloves—the hands in which are incapable of turning shiny jewellery into rust and drying out the glue that holds things together before it even reaches the broken pieces.

So no, 

he doesn’t get lovely things.

He doesn’t get flirtations.

He doesn’t get coincidences or brown-eyed boys who happen to walk out at the same time.

He gets cold coffee and obnoxious reminders from his therapist that healing isn’t linear. He gets responsibility and unread texts and walls built too high for anyone to climb. 

He gets the nagging, relentless ache in his chest that constantly reminds him that he can never be good enough.

And yet,

and 

yet.

There was something about the way that boy had smiled at him, like he could see past every curtain closed and break through every brick wall Regulus built.

He should've known better than to look back.

Yet he does. 

Every .

Damn .

Time .

Regulus swallows hard, refocusing his gaze on the dark road ahead, urging his mind to think of other things.

Lily glances at him again, a question in her eyes. But she doesn't ask. 

Pandora squeezes his shoulder once, gentle and wordless, and lets go just as quickly.

They don’t say anything else, and Regulus doesn’t tell them that sometimes, in the dead haze between midnight and morning, he rewrites history in his head—not to change the outcome, but just to see what it might have felt like to be wanted first, to deserve .

He doesn’t say that every time something good almost happens, it’s not grief he feels, its the gnawing, never ending doubt in the back of his mind.

It’s suspicion .

Because what if this is the moment the universe finally bites back? What if it’s not the nice thing that breaks—but him , again? What if this is the moment that the universe snuffs out the light? 

So, instead of filling the car with his thoughts and shifting the weight of his baggage off of his own shoulders and onto theirs, he lets the silence linger. 

And as he pulls into their neighbourhood, he repeats to himself;

Maybe next life. Maybe next time. Maybe never.

Chapter Text

The morning starts with a specific brand of humming excitement and anticipation that is only capable for the small flurry of white-blonde hair and bright smiles to achieve.

Throughout the entirety of the weekend, Luna has been rambling constantly about her school field trip to a butterfly garden, which is happening today. 

As Regulus gains his bearings, wiping the sleep from his eyes and stretching, he can’t help but notice the quiet hush that is blanketing the usually loud and boisterous household. His back straightens immediately as he stands, the crisp white sheets clinging to his body like a second skin until he shrugs them off.

Regulus freezes, breath caught in his throat, stilling his movements in an attempt to attract as little noise as possible, waiting for the familiar laughter to echo through the hallway.

Yet still, it doesn’t come.

They’re gone, they finally got sick of you, they hate you, you never deserved them youneverdeservedthem youneverdeservedmthem, you—

“Reg!” 

Regulus whips his head around to face the door just as a small body comes hurdling inside, wrapping her arms and legs around Regulus’ own and clinging to him like a koala. “Reg, we need to get up, up, up!” Luna’s small face peeks out from where it was buried in his pajama pants, her comically, (and adorably), large blue eyes blinking up at him with expectation. “You do know what day it is, right?”

Regulus smiles, the cold fear that had frozen his insides melting away with the warmth of her smile. It’s not that Regulus doesn’t acknowledge the thoughts gnawing in the back of his mind, the worries and, in all honesty, logically unreasonable doubts, that sink their claws into his mind—he more simply embraces them.

“Of course I know what day it is, Luna-Bug.” Regulus winces at the sandpaper rasp of his voice and clears his throat. “which is why I asked Cas to help you with your outfit, Evan with breakfast, and Barty for emotional support.”

Luna snorts like it’s the funniest thing she’s ever heard, already twisting out of his grip and onto the bed like a cat. She flops onto her back, her limbs spread out like a starfish. “I dreamed I was a bee,” she says, her voice serious. “But I also wasn’t a bee. I commanded them.”

Regulus fights the large smile threatening to play on his lips as he sits on the edge of the bed and starts brushing his fingers through her hair, attempting to detangle the white-blonde strands that stick up in strange directions, still mussed from sleep.

“Sounds like a good hierarchy. Very democratic,” he smiles, tugging gently at a knot. “Any bee drama?”

“Yeah,” she whispers like it’s a secret, her eyebrows furrowing in concentration. “There was a crazy wasp named Barry and he ate all the pollen snacks!”

Regulus blinks, filing away the uncanny resemblance between ‘Barry’ the pollen thief and a certain grumbling biochemist across the hall.

“Classic Barry,” Regulus settles on, murmuring. Luna gasps slightly before she descends into giggles so hard she hiccups.

Before either of them can get another word in, a loud voice echoes through the house from the kitchen. “BREAKFAST!”

Regulus smirks, turning his head to make eye contact with Luna, who is clumsily raising one brow in a manner that is way too sassy for a six year old. 

As if waiting for a single moment of silence, another voice adds on, and Regulus groans quietly.

“Oh my GOD,” Barty grunts. “Why is school this early? It wasn’t like this when we were in school,” He stumbles past Regulus’ doorframe, wrapped in a comforter like a cape. 

“It was, but you and Evan just refused to acknowledge it,” Regulus calls out.

“Because I believe in freedom ,” Barty grumbles, vanishing from Regulus’ view as he goes down the stairs.

Regulus turns to Luna, exasperated and amused. “Let’s go eat breakfast, yeah?”

When they finally make it downstairs, Regulus immediately sighs—half relief that Evan hadn’t made Mac and Cheese and called it protein, half battling his urges to scoop Luna up in his arms and never let her experience the world, for all its harshness. 

Dorcas appears from the hallway, braids piled on her head like a modern art sculpture, wearing an oversized T-shirt that had once belonged to Evan that reads; I PUT THE “SEXY” IS DYSLEXIA . 

She crouches down in front of Luna, presenting a folded outfit in her hands, which had been laid out the night before by Dora, who had rightfully guessed that, now that she leaves before anyone wakes up to ready her classroom, they would need assistance. “Overalls with striped t-shirt, butterfly hair clips, and bracelets at your service,” she smiles, warm and inviting that Regulus has grown to adore.

Luna doesn't hesitate. “Thanks! You think the butterflies will like my matching clips?”

Barty chimes in from the kitchen table, poking his head out so Luna can see him from where she stands. “Of course they will, Loons! You’re practically a butterfly whisperer in the making!

Luna shoots him a toothy grin. “Like a butterfly specialist?” She whips her head around to Regulus. “Can I be a butterfly expert, Reg?”

Warmth floods his insides as his goddaughter smiles up at him, hopeful and with gleaming eyes. Regulus drops to one knee, adjusting one of her overall straps. “You can be anything you want to be, Luna-bug.”

Luna straightens up, puffing out her chest proudly and turning around to make eye contact with Dorcas. “I will be a butterfly scientist, and I’ll learn their language and help the world understand them!”

Dorcas salutes. “A woman of science.”

***

The house is quiet once the others leave—Pandora already at the school readying her classroom, Barty to the lab, Evan who had gone with Dorcas to drop Luna off before going to the fashion studio to have a shoot for a new line.

And Regulus is here. Sitting at his bedroom desk, tens of case files scattered in front of him in a hasty pile, pens and pencils and dull-shaded highlighters strewn across the surface. 

He lost his glasses case sometime during his journey from setting it down in the kitchen while putting his glasses on and now, but he cannot really find himself to care.

It’s a common misconception that Regulus has come to notice over the last few years—-people always believe that Regulus is neat and tidy. That he’s put together, not only on the physical, surface level, but on the inside too. They expect him to be able to tell his thoughts apart, to wave away the clouds. 

They’re wrong. At least, now they are wrong.

When Regulus was younger, when he had still been trapped in the claws of his parents, he had been all those things. He never spoke out of line, the time between his breaths always exact, controlled. He had been controlled. 

And even now, years later of time to heal and new beginnings, he still feels their voices in the back of his mind, whispering and hissing in his ears.

He guesses that’s why he even agreed to take part in this exclusive research—the case files, that is. 

Maybe he wants to feel like he is controlling some twisted fate. 

It’s a forbidden thought that, over the last few months, has been reappearing more often than not. It haunts his mind, leaves dirt under his fingernails.

I’m only doing this because it’s easier to dissect someone else’s suffering than admit I miss being hurt.

Because part of me wants to see just how far people can be pushed before they snap.

Because.

Becausebecausebecause

because if I can pick apart someone else's trauma, maybe no one will look close enough to see mine bleeding through the cracks.

It’s easier this way, isn’t it? 

He’s not sure when the line blurred between care and something darker, but there are moments—long, silent moments—when he stares at someone’s trembling hands or tear-drenched story and wonders, How close can I get before I fall in, too?  

It’s not empathy that keeps him coming back, not entirely. It's the hunger to understand pain from a distance, to dissect it like a corpse on a table. To prove, perhaps, that someone else’s suffering can be managed, measured, solved—while his own remains this shapeless, unnameable thing crouching just behind his ribs. Maybe it’s to prove something to himself.

He exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate, as if the act itself might drown out the static in his brain. 

The first case file sits unopened on the desk like a dare. The name on the tab means nothing to him—yet—but his fingers itch as he reaches for it, careful, reverent. He slowly cracks it open, almost as if one wrong movement could make it shatter, and lets his gaze fall upon it.

Red sticker on the tab. Sharpie scrawl that reads: CASE 03 .

Chapter Text

Google Classroom — Advanced English

Assignment : What Freedom Means to Me 

Posted : Tuesday · 9:14 AM  Due : Wednesday · 11:59 PM

Turn In Assignment: “What Freedom Means to Me” ?

Charlie hesitates, his mouse pointer hovering over the Turn In button, waiting for something, anything, to tell him not to click it.

It’s not like he is worried about the quality of his work—-he’s not like some of his other classmates who don’t give two shits whether they do well. 

Charlie grimaces to himself, cringing at even the idea of not caring about due dates and falling behind. Besides, he likes Mr. Lupin far too much to even think about not handing in his best work, especially since he allowed Charlie to do the majority of his essay assignments at home rather than in class.

So no , Charlie is not worried about if his essay is good enough or not.

It’s the reality of what he has written that scares him far more than a grade on a piece of paper. 

Charlie thinks back to what Mr. Lupin had said earlier today, when he had introduced the assignment to the class;

“Some people believe that freedom is a choice, while others believe that freedom is of circumstance. Write an experience from your life regarding freedom and how you interpret it. There are no right or wrong answers, as long as you mean them.”

Freedom is a puzzle with missing pieces. 

What Freedom Means To Me - Charlie Longbottom

I used to think freedom was a place. Like a meadow, or a field, or the inside of a storybook. Somewhere far from the hospital walls and people who only called me "the quiet one."

There was a time where I didn’t speak. Not because I didn’t want to, but because my voice felt like it belonged to someone else. Like it had been packed away in a box I wasn't allowed to open.

Someone once told me that silence wasn't weakness. That it was the bravest thing in the world to wait for your voice to come back on your own terms. That person sat with me, every day, even when I had nothing to say. They waited. That’s how I learned freedom could look like patience.

To me, freedom isn’t loud. It’s not shouting or running or even laughing all the time. Sometimes, freedom is raising your hand in class, even if your chest feels like it's going to explode. It’s ordering your own food. It's saying your own name and feeling like it fits.

There are still days where I’m afraid my voice might leave again. But I think freedom is knowing that even if it does, I’ll find it. I did once. I can do it again. Freedom, to me, is my voice. Not because it makes me loud, but because it means I exist.

Charlie blinks at the screen, the cursor still hovering over Turn In. He inhales, then — clicks.

Done. Sent. Out into the universe.

His soul, apparently, is now a Google Doc.

Buzz.

His phone rattles next to his keyboard, screen lighting up with a message from Teddy:

not sold seperately 😌

[ teddy wolfboy, frankenstein, charlie🌱 ]

teddy wolfboy [11:12 PM]:

if a worm had anxiety do you think it would spiral in circles or just dig deeper 

He huffs a laugh, heart still pounding, fingers already typing back:

charlie🌱 [11:13 PM] :  

go to bed u weirdo

teddy wolfboy [11:13 PM]:

i cant

i drank a monster at 10

my organs are vibrating

i think i just saw god and he was wearing crocs

charlie 🌱 [11:14 PM] :  

frankie contain your brother i think he is going rabid

frankenstein [11:16 PM] :  

bold of u to assume i am not the one supplying monster

oh shit teddy i think just like ascended into another dimension

hes jumping on the bed

i cant tell if hes summoning or being possessed by a demon

charlie 🌱 [11:17 PM] :  

what.

guys

GUYS.

this is why mr.lupin sighs dramatically when he sees our names on the attendance sheet

Charlie shuts his phone off, leaning back in his desk chair. In the reflection of his mirror, he catches himself smiling widely.

When Charlie had first joined the advanced English class, he had sat by himself in the back—closest to the door in case of panic, the last desk in the row so he wasn't trapped between two other students.

He can so vividly recall the moment that the twins—Teddy and Frankie, had walked in, announcing their presence loudly and confidently. Charlie had been startled, perhaps a little annoyed and admittedly judgemental, at the time.

But then, before Charlie could even register what had happened, Frankie had plopped herself into the seat beside him with Teddy on her other side. She smiled—the friendly kind, that is warm and welcoming—and extended her hand out towards him. 

“Hey! I’m Frankie, and this is my brother Teddy.” She gestured beside her, where Teddy was currently raising a single brow, seemingly assessing Charlie. He felt hot under his stare, shifting in his seat in fear of the boy finding something wrong. 

Or worse, to see through him.

There had been a moment of heavy silence between them before Teddy apparently approved of Charlie, sticking out his hand in a way that mirrored his sisters perfectly, his tight-lipped smile melting into a relaxed, lopsided one. “Teddy Lupin, nice to meet you.”

Buzz

Buzz

Buzzzzzzz

Charlie snaps himself out of his thoughts, instinctively grabbing his phone and opening the group chat, scrolling to the top of the array of notifications.

teddy wolfboy [11:24 PM]:

Mr. lupin is our uncle and im literally his favourite

he told me i’m “an experience”

Charlie lets out a startled snort.

charlie 🌱 [11:25 PM] :  

pretty sure he meant that in the same way one might describe a root canal

frankenstein [11:25 PM] :  

CACKLING

so fr tho

oop i gtg teddy is threatening to steal my eyeliner and i am NOT having that

GOODNIGHTTT WE LOVE YOUUU <3333

charlie 🌱 [11:25 PM] :  

NIGHTTT

Sleep well and good luck 🤞

***

“Charlie? Quick word.”

Charlie shoulders his backpack, pocketing his practically dried-out pen and shuffling forward to Mr. Lupin’s desk, picking at a loose thread on his sleeve.

He doesn’t say much — just hands Charlie a book, a dog-eared paperback titled ‘ The Book Thief’ .

“Thought you might like this one. It’s about words. And how they save people.”

Charlie takes the book like it’s sacred, cradling it like a secret. A story about words, handed to a boy who once lost his.

“Thank you, Mr. Lupin.”

Chapter Text

ARCHIVAL CASE FILE: #03-VANCE-1902

Subject: Emmeline Vance (Age 9)
Status: Escalated, Closed (No Follow-Up)
File Type: Confidential / Restricted

Initial Incident Report:

• Reported by: Private School Nurse
  
  
• Symptoms: Fainting spells, severe bruising (ribs and wrists), failure to respond verbally during school examination.
  
  
• Diagnosis (Preliminary): Psychological disturbance, possible fainting disorder.
  
  
• Physical Examination: Notable scarring on the left hand, burn marks resembling the base of a candlestick.
  
  

Six days.

It’s been six days since Regulus opened the file, and the world hasn’t stopped rearranging itself since.

Coffee goes cold beside untouched toast. The kettle screams unanswered. His desk becomes an altar of frayed pages and circling thoughts.

It feels odd for the world outside the confinement of his room to continue to move at the same speed as it always has—-it’s like those old, coming-of-age films that Barty forces him to watch—the type of films that have the main character sitting by a window, watching the world move in fast motion while they are still lost in their own mind.

So, yes, Regulus is feeling a bit off lately.

Though, despite his mind screaming at him for rest, he exhales as his eyes settle on the file, 03, lying open in front of him.

He has gone through it countless times, but after each attempt to find something, anything, he remains fruitless. 

It’s an unsettling case—like most of these are. 

And yet, he can’t put it down.

He flips again to the attachments—a scattering of paper clipped at the back of the file. Most are mundane: a permission slip, a photocopy of a school newsletter, a progress report with tidy A’s circled in red. But it’s the math assessment that’s been eating at him like a grain of sand under skin.

It’s meant to be harmless. A grade five worksheet, the kind teachers laminate and reuse with dry-erase markers. Basic arithmetic, multiplication tables. But the moment he noticed the answers weren’t just incorrect—they were wrong with intention —something deep in his chest began to hum.

Regulus turns the page over again. The child’s pencil work is messy in places, as though written quickly, under pressure. She got the majority of the questions wrong, and though that should be normal and not worrying, the young girl had never gotten anything below an ‘A’.

Regulus sighs loudly into the heavy silence in his bedroom, blinking harshly in an attempt to have the haziness fade. It works, but only for a moment, then the thick, sticky stillness washes over him once more.

Stretching over the back of his chair, hands raised above his head, Regulus allows his mind to scream, just for a moment, before he shuts it down once more;

It’s just an assignment. It doesn’t mean anything.  

It doesn’t mean anything.

***

Regulus hates clubs.

He hates the music—how it pulses through his spine like a heartbeat he doesn’t want. He hates the crowd, a sea of faceless bodies pressed too close together, all perfume and sweat and desperation. And don’t even get him started on the drinks. Sticky glasses. Sticky fingers. Sticky smiles. 

Everything about clubs is loud and warm and alive.

Regulus doesn’t feel alive. He feels like a body still pretending.

But tonight, he’s here anyway.

Because his brain won’t shut off. Because Emmeline Vance’s file is still humming under his skin like a second heartbeat. Because he hasn’t slept in two days and when he closes his eyes he swears he can still see the math test. The pencil scratches. The answers that weren’t really answers at all.

So. He drinks.

And maybe he lets Pandora choose his outfit—dark blue silk shirt with the top buttons undone, sleeves rolled to the elbow to show the black snake curling up his arm. Silver rings on nearly every finger. Black trousers that make people stare when they think he’s not looking.

He tells himself he doesn’t care that they look.

Pandora is radiant tonight, all long earrings and navy skirts and black lace that flutters when she moves. Lily glows in a tight, forest green set that makes her fiery hair and pale skin shine. Evan and Barty are already on the dance floor, tangled together in green-and-black matching outfits and more eyeliner than strictly necessary.

Regulus leans against the bar, one hand wrapped around a half-empty glass of Firewhiskey, the other draped casually in his pocket. He stares out across the dance floor, lets the pounding bass try and drown out the screaming in his head.

“Live a little, Reg,” Barty had said earlier, licking a salt rim off his thumb like it was a threat. “You’re allowed to have fun. You know. For once.”

He doesn’t know if this counts as fun. He thinks it might just be escape.

He doesn’t remember when it happens exactly—when the feeling of being watched shifts into something heavier. He feels it before he sees it: that prickle at the back of his neck, the weight of eyes lingering too long. And when he glances up—there.

Some guy at the far end of the bar. Tall, sharp-featured, stubble along his jaw, shirt open just enough to suggest motive. He’s not beautiful in the traditional sense, but he looks like someone who wouldn’t ask questions. Regulus decides that’s close enough.

Their eyes meet. The guy raises a brow. Regulus raises his glass.

It doesn’t take long after that.

The guy doesn’t ask his name. Regulus doesn’t offer it. They talk just enough to make it seem casual, not enough to make it personal. A drink is offered. A drink is accepted. There’s a brush of fingers against his wrist when he reaches for the glass, and something in Regulus’ chest clicks.

He doesn’t know if it’s curiosity or self-destruction.

The third drink doesn’t leave him happy, but his inner world does quiet down.

He thinks, briefly, of the case file back home. Of the words psychological disturbance stamped in red. Of Emmeline Vance, who never got less than an A but filled in every answer wrong like it was the only language she had left.

He downs the rest of his drink and follows the guy out anyway.

***

The next morning is brutal.

Regulus wakes in a room he doesn’t recognize, wrapped in bedsheets that smell like cologne and cigarettes. His shirt is halfway off. One sock is missing. The stranger—whoever he was—is already gone.

Of course he is.

Regulus stares up at the ceiling and counts the cracks in the paint. He breathes through the ache in his chest and the pounding in his skull.

He tells himself it didn’t mean anything. 

It was just a night. Just a body. Just an escape hatch he didn’t even need a name for.

Still—his fingers twitch like they’re searching for something to hold onto. Something real.

He doesn’t find it.

Chapter Text

[ UNKNOWN ]

Today marks my something-hundredth day of darkness—the exact number remains unknown, as the tallied marks somebody scratched into the dark gray walls have long faded with time.

I daresay, it might have been me. Who had scratched the walls, that is.

Were they ever even tally marks? Could they have been courtesy of my old self trying to contact me now?

I would not know. The Dark Lord might, though.

But maybe Dobby will. I will have to ask him later, when he decides to visit again. It is one of the downsides of being blessed to experience Dobby’s presence—since nobody else can see him, I have no way to keep track of his whereabouts.

But I stray from the matter at hand.

As of last night, there have been two new children to join us. Their names are Constance and Henry. They are almost identical, with their olive skin and brown, beady eyes. Constance has dark hair that falls just above her jawline, where Henry’s is closely cropped to his head. 

They appear pleasant, or at the very least, well-mannered—that is what Dorothy said. Perhaps we will befriend them.

- Emmeline Vance

***

The telltale clang of the morning bell sounds through the dark hallways. Ten exact seconds pass until the doors (lined along the wall, barely over twenty-four inches of space between them) swing open. There are always one or two doors that open just one beat too fast or slow.

Misfortune befalls to those who are incapable of following routine.

Emmeline, though, has never once messed up. Neither has Dorothy, though she has gotten close. 

Constance and Henry emerge from their door together. Emmeline catches their eyes darting nervously, though their feet follow the line—single file—-toward the east courtyard where the washing basins wait. Emmeline can feel their questions in the air, but nobody spoke. Not yet, at least. Not until the washing bell.

No one explains the rules here. You learn by watching, by mimicking, by failing and facing the consequences. It is better to say nothing than say the wrong thing.

Outside, the dawn air is sharp and cold. In Emmeline's opinion, the sight is quite beautiful—-the sky changing colours as night fades to day. 

From in front of her, a boy named Arthur sighs quietly. “No soap today.”

According to the Dark Lord, soap is a luxury that can only be embraced on a ‘Holy Day’. It has not been one since the night that the Dark Lord took over for Dumbledore after his passing.

The washing court has no roof, instead molding corners and the smell of wet stone. The basins, twelve in total, are carved straight into the outer wall, squat and square, and far too low for comfort. Their surfaces are slick with moss. A single iron pump stands in the center.

Phillip is already here, pumping water into a basin with stiff, mechanical precision. His sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, and his thin frame is jerking with each pull of the lever. His eyes don’t stray from the handle. He has been doing this every morning for the past four years, so it is almost as though his limbs recall the task without his mind.

Emmeline steps into her place before her basin, next to Dorothy, Who offers no salutation. There exists no need—certain friendships speak not in language but in quiet understanding. They are built in glances, in tasks completed side by side, in braids fixed before anyone could see and late night conversations that could cost them their lives.

She cups her hands beneath the flow, gathering what little water she can and splashes it over herself, washing her hands, face, behind the ears, and the back of her neck. 

Emmeline doesn’t look into the water. She never does. Not anymore, at least, not since her reflection changed into something that is no longer human. Her pale skin had turned sickly long ago, her once soft looking appearance has morphed into all sharp edges and bones. Her eyes had lost the light in them long ago, and it had almost seemed as if even her white-blonde hair had paled into a gray tone.

Behind her, she feels the new children hesitate.

From the corner of Emmeline's eyes, she can see Constance leaning towards Henry, whispering something small and urgent. 

Their first mistake.

Miss Crowe spots it instantly from where she stands beneath the lintel. Her posture is rigid and her mouth a tight line. She does not speak, but her eyes locked on the twins like pins.

Dorothy’s hand twitches. Emmeline notices, and in return, tilts her shoulder half an inch to block Miss Crowe’s view. It is subtle. It will not be noticed. But it is enough to save her friend from something far more sinister.

As Emmeline finishes washing, she steps back from the basin, folding her hands and fixing her eyes forward. The sky is now pale and indifferent above them. 

Soon, they will march into the dining hall. They will recite the verses. They will sit, eat in silence, and be dismissed.

And then the day will begin.

***

“Do you think you will be able to attempt french braiding tonight?” 

Emmeline turns around and gazes at the sliver of pale moonlight on the floor—most nights, the light from the tiny window is enough. But there must be clouds tonight, as the light is even more dimmed than usual. “Not tonight, Dora. Perhaps tomorrow, though?”

Dorothy shakes her head and joins Emmeline on her bed, reclining gently on her back and positioning her head so it is directly beside hers. “No good. I overheard Miss Crowe conversing with the Seraph. There should be a storm hitting us for the next few days or so,” She tilts her head to the side slightly, giving Emmeline a small smile. “But, if past experiences have taught us anything, a storm means we have the library to ourselves.” 

Emmeline grins, the type of smile that is reserved only for her best friend.Ever since Dorothy was brought in to the Manor—courtesy of her parents—she has been the one exception to Emmeline’s solitude, the only proof that something gentle could grow in rot. 

They lie in silence for a long while, the sort that presses heavily on their shoulders, weighing them down with the warmth of being there for each other.

Dorothy hums under her breath, some melody from Before, or perhaps a hymn twisted into something kinder. It’s hard to tell these days—memories bleed into dreamscapes and wishes. 

Emmeline closes her eyes and listens, imagining they’re somewhere else—anywhere else. A field, perhaps. Or the beaches she has heard so much about.

“You don’t think they’ll take the library away, do you?” Dorothy whispers suddenly.

Emmeline opens her eyes. “Not unless they find out about the margin notes in the Psalms.”

A small giggle escapes Dorothy’s throat before she muffles it behind a hand. “You are wicked,” she hisses, though her voice is fond. There’s a pause. “...Do you ever wonder if we were meant to be here?”

Emmeline rolls onto her side. “No,” she sighs softly. “But I wonder if there’s a reason we have survived this long.”

Dorothy doesn’t answer, at least not at first. Her eyes are wide and solemn in the dark. “Maybe the Seraphs were right,” she murmurs. “Maybe only the pure are chosen to endure.”

Emmeline feels her chest tighten, and her voice sharpens the same way it does every time this topic bubbles up. “Or maybe the Seraphs are wrong. Maybe we have a chance to live.”

Heavy silence falls over them, leaving the two of them in comfortable stillness.

Now that it has gone quiet, the soft patter of rain beginning on the glass is more noticeable than before. A storm, indeed.

Dorothy shifts closer. “You’ll wake me if Dobby visits, won’t you?”

Emmeline doesn’t answer, though it is not needed. 

Outside, the wind howls loudly, beating against the outside walls, though on the inside, two girls fall asleep with dreams of freedom and flashes of hope between them.

Chapter Text

The wind is colder today than Regulus would have preferred.

But don’t get him wrong—-he adores the way grey clouds infiltrate the sky, the way heavy sheets of rain drums against the wet sidewalks, the shiver that passes through his body every moment or so. But he also likes staying dry in the safety of his home, hidden away from the angry weather.

The transition from Fall to Winter has always been Regulus’ favourite month, despite the constant hatred toward the month of November from Barty and Evan, who claim that ‘November is just so unnecessary, it’s like, getting dressed in the morning for something that is in the evening!’

Regulus still has absolutely no idea what that analogy means, but he accepted it anyway, mainly just to move on from the conversation.

Anyways.

Another thing Regulus loves about November is that his favourite coffee + book shop, Potters , has a special drink menu for the cold months. Despite the shop being almost half an hour away, Regulus makes the drive up almost daily.

The little café sits pressed between a florist and an antique store, ivy curling along its windows and around the door, giving it the feel of a place otherworldly. When Regulus first stumbled in months ago—half-drenched, exhausted, and definitely needing a quiet place to spread out files—he hadn’t expected to find a place that is as warm and welcoming as it is. 

And now, Regulus sits at his favourite table in the far back, papers spread out in front of him and the sides of his hands stained from the ink of his pen. He can feel how tight his posture is, the way his shoulders curl inward awkwardly. 

The case file he’s reviewing is brutal in its simplicity: typed reports, teacher notes, thin evaluations in neat columns. He has uncovered not as much as he had hoped by this time in the project, but he is proud that he has decoded the majority of the notes. He sweeps his gaze over his notebook once more, rereading what he has been documenting for the past month.

Gr.5 Assessment answers - a pattern?

breakthrough —- spells HELP

6x2+1 = her answer is 12, 12th letter is L

2+3-1 = her answer is 5, 5th letter is E

20-13 = her answer is 18, 18th letter is H

17-2 = her answer is 16, 16th letter is P

Before he can scribble any more,  the bell above the front door rings, followed by the familiar creak of hinges. Euphemia Potter breezes in from the backroom, her auburn curls pinned messily at the nape of her neck, sleeves rolled up and maroon-coloured apron dusted with flour. 

Regulus glances up briefly and offers the smallest nod before ducking his head back down. His pen scratches another note across the page.

Mrs. Potter doesn’t take offense, she never does when it comes to Regulus. Instead, she sets about making his drink without asking—she knows his order by heart now, a dark roast with a little honey when he’s working, peppermint tea on evenings when the storm outside is particularly ugly. Today, she slides the mug onto his table without a word, steam curling upward into the air between them.

Regulus can only manage a faint “Thank you,” because who the hell just memorizes her customers' drinks, serves them unprompted, and not expecting anything in return?

This routine has been going on since his third time visiting the cafe, so he should be used to it by now, should be able to manage a little more than a lousy ‘Thanks’, but even still his words get caught in his throat. He wants to ask why she is doing these things for him, but he knows that it will come across as rude, and he would rather hit himself on the ankles with Luna’s Razor Scooter than act anything but polite toward the woman.

“Of course, dear,” the corners of her eyes crinkle as a soft smile sets on her lips. “I need to make sure my favourite customer is eating enough, after all.”

Regulus blinks. Favourite customer? 

A boisterous yet warm laugh interrupts Regulus’ thoughts and a man, Mr. Potter, or as he insists on being called, Monty, comes into view behind his wife, wrapping his brown arms around her waist and tucking his bearded chin over her shoulder. 

“Don’t scare him away yet, darling,” Monty teases, his deep voice light with humour. “He hasn’t even seen the pies we’re bringing out today.”

Effie swats at him with her free hand, though her smile doesn’t waver. “Oh, hush, you old fool. He’s here for work, not everybody has your sweet tooth.”

Monty grins at Regulus, eyes crinkling, and for a moment Regulus feels like he’s being let in on a secret joke. He also ignores the slight fluttering in his stomach because, well, Regulus isn’t that strong. “Work, play—what’s the difference when there’s good coffee and amazing company?”

Regulus lowers his eyes to the papers scattered across his table, trying to mask the way his mouth twitches with the beginnings of a smile. 

He isn’t used to having people welcome him right away, except his friends, of course, and he fights the internal battle in his mind telling him that this is all for show. 

He instinctively straightens one of the reports in front of him, searching for a reason to hide, though he feels the warmth of their presence hovering, a layer of gentle domesticity that makes the little café feel more like someone’s kitchen than a business.

Mrs. Potter taps the table softly, as though sealing a pact. “I’ll bring you a slice of apple crumble in a bit. On the house. No arguments.”

Regulus’ head jerks up, completely unable to mask his surely-startled expression. “I—oh, that isn’t necessary—”

Her stern yet warm look cuts through his protest, and just for a moment, Regulus pretends that he is able to recognize this look as a mothers—-he pretends he knows the kindness in stern voices and care beneath heavy eyes. “It’s never necessary, dear. But just because it is unnecessary doesn’t mean I don’t want to do it.”

Though she doesn’t directly say it, she got the ‘you deserve nice things’ message across quite smoothly.

Mrs. Potter and Pandora would get along perfectly, Regulus realizes.

She turns around, nudging Mr. Potter off from where he is clinging onto her with a small laugh, and walks towards the back where the kitchen is.

Maybe what Regulus does next is from an act of desperation for kindness from a motherly-seeming figure, or maybe it is because he craves her company, he doesn’t know, because before his mind can catch up to what he is doing, he blurts out; “You remind me a lot of my friend. Pandora.”

Mrs. Potter pauses for a moment, only noticeable to those who have been trained to catch the smallest of shifts, before she turns around, smile kind and inviting but eyes betraying her calm demeanor with a twinkle of excitement. Regulus suspects it’s because he is finally opening up, starting a conversation, after such a long time of mechanical silence.

Mr. Potter smiles again, this time softer, before nodding at her and heading towards the kitchen.

Oh lord, what have I done? Regulus thinks as Mrs. Potter approaches slowly, almost as if she were trying not to scare a cat away, before sitting at the chair across from him and folding her hands in her lap. “I hope I am not wrong as I take that as a compliment,”

Regulus’ eyes widen. “Definitely not. She is one of my best friends,”

Mrs. Potter smiles like she already knew that would be his answer. “How long have you two been friends?” she asks.

“Almost ten years, I guess,” The answer comes easily to Regulus, and before he can stop himself, he continues. “I met her when—”

He stops himself, as there is absolutely no way he is going to fucking trauma dump on this poor woman. Mrs. Potter nods encouragingly, and he gathers his thoughts.

“I met her through her twin brother, another one of my best friends, Evan. He and I graduated secondary school together, and she attended the ceremony,” 

The following month from that day had been life changing. He somehow found himself entwined into this small community that welcomed him for all he is.

“I went to Oxford for university,” She nods. Of course she knows that, almost everybody who knows his name knows that.

“And I met my other best friend, Barty, through class. And he knows Dorcas, who happened to go to secondary with Pandora, and—-” He’s rambling, he knows he is, but when somebody kind enough and willing enough to listen is sitting across from him, he can’t help himself but want them to know more.

“And then there is Lily, who I met through the hospital, who met Pandora. And yeah, that’s our group.”

There’s a moment of silence before Mrs. Potter speaks once more. Regulus glances up from where he has been staring at the hem of his sweater and is greeted with one of the kindest smiles he has ever seen. Only second to Pandora and Lily, obviously, and surprisingly Barty, who has a soft side that is only reserved for their group.

“What are they like?”

Regulus ponders for a moment, thinking over his next words. He wants to tell this woman everything. 

He wants to tell her his secrets and his confession that he doesn’t even know why he is in the child trauma field, how he and Barty had actually hated each other when they first met, how he is secretly sensitive to other people's responses to him and how he can’t stop thinking about that brown-eyed boy, and—

well, Regulus wants to tell this woman everything he knows because he so desperately wants to feel known.

And obviously he has Pandora and Lily, Dorcas and Barty and Evan and Luna, heck, he bets that if he went onto social media, thousands of people would be desperate to know him, yet his walls are stripped away from one motherly-feeling figure.

And so he tells her. 

He leaves out the bad parts, the confessions and the secrets, but he finds the words on how he actually set Lily and Pandora up to meet each other, Dorcas is a force to be reckoned with and a mastermind and creating, how Barty smiles when he explains a new breakthrough with his biochemistry projects, how he smiles even brighter when Evan is around, and he tells her about Luna, one of the reasons that light is in his eyes, how the bundle of chaos she manages to be makes everybody laugh.

He tells her about how his favourite moments are his late-night conversations with Pandora and seeing the beautiful chaos of creativity in his friends eyes as they create their magic, whether it is elite clothing design that expresses personality and emotion like no other, the shutter and flash of Evan’s camera as he takes beautifully crafted photographs, the devilish smirk and awe of the world that paints Barty’s face whenever he makes something explode purposefully or learns something new. He tells her how Pandora is truly one of a kind, with her whimsical ways and her somehow always correct predictions, her bookstore that she named after Luna and Regulus himself. 

And when he finally finds his words falling away and his breath gulping in the air that he lost while speaking, he notices that the daylight has melted into night and that the lingering customers have all cleared out. The only people in the cafe is himself, Mrs. Potter who is smiling widely across from him, and Mr. Potter who is leaning across the counter as he listens to Regulus, switching from gazing adoringly at Euphemia and smiling at Regulus.

Regulus doesn’t really know what to do now that the sound has melted away. 

But before he tries to make a fool of himself in attempting to speak, Mr. Potter smiles warmly at him and nods. “Thank you, Regulus.”

“For what?” Regulus manages to breath out.

Mr. Potter’s eyes impossibly soften more. “For letting us know you. Can we look forward to seeing you tomorrow?”

Regulus blinks harshly, confused and admittedly a little bit dazed. “I mean, yeah—if that’s alright?” he flips over his wrist, glancing at his watch before gasping. “Oh my god, it’s almost ten-thirty, I am so sorry for taking up your time, I—”

A gentle hand rests against his shoulder. “Regulus, it’s alright. You’re alright, and I would love to hear more about your friends and your life, if you are comfortable?”

Mrs. Potter looks so incredibly sincere that it makes Regulus pause. “Okay. I could also bring them sometime? I’m sure Pandora especially would love to meet you, but also I understand that that might be a bit strange.”

“Regulus, I would absolutely love to meet them.”

“Okay, perfect. I will see next time I’m free to come, and maybe they can tag along.”

And as Regulus leaves the cafe, the bell jingling behind him as the door closes, he finds himself smiling to himself.