Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Regulus Black received a letter from James Potter only a couple of weeks before the start of term. He was surprised, to say the least, to see the Potter’s family owl fly through the window into his sitting room; he knew what it looked like from James and his brother’s constant correspondence over the last six years. Sirius wasn’t here anymore, though, and James knew that. Surely...it couldn’t be for him?

Regulus caught the parcel as the owl dropped it, and with sudden trembling fingers, he pulled the string, unfurled the parchment, and read through its heading eagerly, glad his mother wasn't home to intercept it.

Dear Regulus, it said. His heart sped up. Even if he didn’t know the owl, he would’ve recognized James’ spindly cursive anywhere after seeing it on every Quidditch form since his third year. He read on.

I hope this letter finds you well. I know I'm probably the last person you’d expect to hear from, and, no, this isn’t some sort of joke. I’ll cut to the chase. I need your help with something.

What? James needed his help? Regulus Black’s? He could be held at wand point and still not know what James could possibly want from him. A bit more hesitantly, he continued.

As I’m sure you’re aware, your brother’s birthday is coming up. I know you two don’t have the best relationship….

Regulus felt a sharp pang in his chest that he hadn't felt in a long while.

...but Sirius once told me he’d had a portrait done a couple of years ago and that it was relegated to the attic after he left. I need that portrait to complete his gift (the details of which I’m afraid are classified). I know this is a strange favor to ask, but if you could somehow bring the portrait back to Hogwarts unseen, I will repay you anything you'd like.

He wanted Sirius’ portrait? Regulus had forgotten it was even taken. It was years ago, and it wasn’t even hung up before it was stuffed into the attic with the rest of his brother’s things. It would be difficult to retrieve it unseen, and he had no idea how to bring it to school...but James would give him anything he’d like?

Immediate images of tender kisses and picnic dates on the grounds sprung to mind, and Regulus had to stamp them down like he always did. Surely, that's not what James had meant. He probably meant he'd help him train for the Quidditch Cup or something, a visual that Regulus always seemed to fixate on when he was alone at night.

It always started innocently, with him and James flying about the pitch, tossing the quaffle through the hoops, smiling at each other like mates did. When he’d land, James would touch down next to him and he’d smell like sweat and grass and broom polish. He’d wrap his arms around Regulus’ waist and nuzzle his hair with his nose; Regulus could just feel the warm breath tickling his ear, feel the weight of James’ strong arms holding him. And then James would tilt his head and his lips would be sucking on Regulus’ neck, and—wow, then his shirt would disappear!—and that’s when the vision dipped into much different territory.

Regulus was more than likely touching himself at this point, desperately tugging as he pictured that beautiful face and those beautiful hands, calloused from years of passing a quaffle…He could never get far past James taking his trousers off before he came, sometimes breathing his name like a gasp of fresh air. With his chest heaving, it was times like these that Regulus knew he had it bad for his brother’s best mate.

He didn't know quite when it started, but he figured it was around his third year, when he joined the Slytherin Quidditch team. Regulus had been used to hating James Potter, entirely because of his brother. Regulus loved Sirius, and James took Sirius away from him. He could never forgive him for that.

But then he saw James make a perfect goal with the sharp twist of his wrist, and he was intrigued, and then he saw him hex Severus Snape, and, well, it was hard to hate him after that.

When Regulus actually got to know him—as much as he could from playing against him or watching him chat with his friends in the Great Hall—he wasn't bad at all. He was…nice, and friendly, and almost painfully optimistic.

Basically the exact opposite of him.

So it was only natural that he fell for James, fated to love him from afar, and he wasn’t alone. It seemed like all the girls fawned over him, though he only had eyes for one.

It was really Lily Evans he hated—for being the object of James’ unreciprocated and unappreciated affections. He would give anything for James to look at him the way he looked at Evans, to be so desperate for his attention that he vied for it for six years.

He was shaken back to the present then, back to the sitting room of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, and he had to remind himself to get a grip. Regulus would never be anything to James. The reality of it broke his heart.

He looked down to the letter still in his hand, re-reading the first couple of lines. It was there, though. Undoubtedly. James needed him. Not Sirius. Not Evans. Not any of his other stupid Gryffindor friends. He needed something from him. Regulus knew it was delusional to see something that wasn’t there, but it gave his heart a pleasurable squeeze nonetheless.

He’d do it. Of course he would, because it was James.

He’d do it for Sirius, too, he supposed. He did miss him. The house was much colder without him.

But mostly, he’d do it for James, and for the impossible dream of James being grateful for him.

It was much harder to smuggle Sirius’ portrait than Regulus thought it would be. First, he had to sneak into the attic without his mother or Kreacher noticing. He chose to do it right before he left for the train, when she was too busy barking instructions at the house elf to pay attention to any peculiar noises. Then, he had to actually find the thing. It took a solid five minutes of searching amongst ancient—and probably cursed—Black family relics for him to find the large dark frame, partially covered in a dusty sheet. He wasn’t adequately prepared for what he saw when he peeled it back. There was Sirius, frozen and grim-faced. The light was uncharacteristically absent from his eyes, and to Regulus’ horror, he saw himself in them. He quickly covered it back up and cast a hasty shrinking charm before he could think further on it. It wouldn’t speak, or even move—his mother had partially stripped it of its magic, enough that it would need a new incantation to roar back to life—and Regulus was grateful. He didn't think he could handle hearing his brother’s voice, two years younger and gleefully unaware of what was in store for him.

He took a deep breath and stored the portrait in his school bag, pushing down all the complicated feelings he harbored for Sirius and replacing them with the pleasantly distracting feelings he harbored for James. He imagined the smile he would get when he gave him the portrait—so warm and open, always—it gave him the energy he needed to bid farewell to his mother and leave the house with Kreacher for the train station.

There was a certain skip in Regulus’ step as he boarded the train, despite the baggage—both physical and emotional— he was currently carrying with him. He quickly found the prefect carriage, taking his seat beside the mousy girl he sometimes did rounds with, though her name was escaping him at the moment.

“Hiya,” she said, fingers tapping her thighs. “Good summer?”

“It was fine,” Regulus said, though that’s what he always said. It was lonely, but uneventful, which, given the current extracurriculars of his parents, was a welcome reprieve.

“Mine was good, too,” she went on. “My parents took me to Paris—I have family there.”

“I see,” he replied dryly. He didn’t really know why she was telling him this.

“We usually can’t afford to go every year, but this time—”

But Regulus didn’t hear the tail end of that sentence because the compartment door opened then, and James Potter appeared, shiny Head Boy badge on his lapel, looking as effortlessly debauched as usual.

It was actual work for Regulus not to gasp.

Then Evans saddled up right beside him, and Regulus had to hide his scowl.

“Alright, shove up, make room for the higher-ups,” James said, sliding in between two Gryffindor prefects who cleared a space for him eagerly. Evans rolled her eyes and sat across from him, though Regulus thought he caught the ghost of a smile. His stomach turned.

Regulus spent the remainder of the train ride watching the Scottish countryside fly by, only sneaking glances at James when he was sure the other boy wasn’t looking. He really looked better every time he saw him, tall and lean and strong from years of playing Quidditch. His oversized glasses and messy black hair only accentuated his sharp features. He didn’t know how he did it—on anyone else, it would look ridiculous, but on James, it was unbelievably charming. Regulus was used to this—watching James from afar—so being this close to him in unsuspecting circumstances was a delightful treat.

He groaned inwardly when the train pulled into Hogsmeade Station, not yet ready to face reality. He slowly gathered himself, hoping to be the last one out of the compartment so he could watch James go, but the other boy wasn’t moving. A whole minute passed; people were leaving, and he stayed stock-still, cool as a cucumber.

“You coming, Potter?” Evans finally asked, hand on her hip in a truly irritating fashion.

“I’ll catch up. Gotta speak with Black for a second.”

Regulus’ blood ran cold. James was going to talk to him here? In retrospect, he supposed he should’ve expected it—it wasn’t like James was going to take a stroll down to the dungeons anytime soon—but it still took him completely off-guard.

Evans looked confusedly between James and himself. She tilted her head and sighed, her long, red hair cascading further down her back, and leveled a look at her Housemate.

“Alright, whatever. Just don’t be late for the Sorting.”

James nodded. “I’ll be there, Lilyflower.”

Evans sighed again, though Regulus swore her cheeks tinted ever-so-pink.

And then she left, and James turned to him. “Hi, Reg,” he said, and Regulus very nearly blushed.

The only people who called him Reg were Evan, Barty, and, well, Sirius—though now he referred to him exclusively as “little brother” in the rare times they spoke. But James calling him Reg…he was partly ashamed to admit that he liked it.

“Potter,” Regulus replied, tone flat and, hopefully, even.

“I assume you got my Owl.”

“I did.”

“You didn't write me back,” he said, and Regulus had to stop from making an “o” of realization.

Had he really been so dense as to not even think of penning an answer back? James had probably assumed Regulus had written him off completely. That would've been understandable—he made a request and heard nothing back. Regulus mentally kicked himself for this idiotic oversight, though he also acknowledged that he very well wouldn't've had the courage to write back, even if he did think of it.

“Couldn't,” he lied, and he figured James wouldn't have needed any more explanation; he would probably attribute it to the risk involved, on Regulus’ part, in corresponding with the enemy, which wasn’t altogether false, either.

His assumption was correct. James just nodded, disappointed. Regulus hated the way that particular emotion screwed up his face.

And then, before he could stop himself, he said, “But I’ve got it.”

James’ face lit up in surprise, and Regulus had to fight back a smile.

“You do?” He asked hopefully.

But Regulus didn't trust himself enough to speak without giving himself away, so he nodded, patting the inside of his robes where he’d stashed it.

“That's brilliant,” James said, beaming. “I knew I could count on you.”

Regulus’ stomach actually lurched at that, the words bypassing his heart and going straight to his cock. If he was being honest, it hadn't been truly soft since before James boarded the train.

“You did?” he heard himself ask, voice much meeker than he ever let it sound.

“‘Course.” James said it like his question wasn't the least bit out of the ordinary. “I know your secret,” he finished deviously.

Regulus thought his heart stopped for a moment. James knew? James knew and he still wanted to be alone in a compartment with him? A horrible mix of terror and desperate hope took over his whole body until James spoke again.

“You still care for your brother.”

Regulus felt the relief wash over him like one of Pomfrey’s stronger pain potions. Yes, he thought. Yes, I still love my brother. Let’s go with that. Because of course James wouldn't think he fancied him, not in a million years. Despite that, he still couldn't deny the smallest spark of disappointment that plundered his stomach at the realization that that possibility—along with the minutest chance that he could feel the same—had never and would never cross James’ mind.

Regulus felt it wise to keep his mouth shut, remaining stone-faced and level enough to avoid perjury on either side, which, really, was his natural disposition.

James smiled anyway, holding out his hand expectantly.

Regulus slowly reached into the pocket of his robes and took out the portrait, no bigger than his palm. He handed it to James, hoping their fingers might brush like in all those romantic muggle novels Andromeda would read to him when he was younger. Alas, they didn’t; James simply snatched the portrait and turned it in his hand.

“Wicked,” he breathed. “This one’s really going to be my Magnum Opus.”

Then he looked at Regulus, as if he forgot he was there.

“His present, that is,” he rushed to add.

James must’ve thought Regulus thick if he really thought it wasn’t completely obvious that it was for a prank. What the prank was, Regulus could admit he had no idea, but the request, and James’ subsequent excitement, had mischief written all over it. He just hoped he wouldn’t somehow end up in the crossfire.

“Thank you, really,” James added, with a sincerity that was never reserved for people like Regulus. The earnest look in his eyes did all but squeeze his heart to pulp.

“Yeah,” was all he could manage.

James cleared his throat, hiding the portrait in his own pocket and putting both hands on his knees. “I suppose you’re wondering about the subject of payment.”

To be honest, Regulus had completely forgotten about that part of the deal.

“Yes,” he said. “I have.”

“How does private practice time for the Slytherin Quidditch team sound?”

Regulus tilted his head. “As opposed to public practice time?”

“I mean after hours,” he continued. “You know, late night flying. I do have a little sway with Madam Hooch, being Captain and all. How does twice a week sound?”

“Three,” Regulus replied. “And immunity from whatever you’re planning.”

James’ smile dropped. “What—what are you talking about?” he spluttered.

He really thought he’d been subtle. It was adorable.

“Just say yes,” Regulus plowed on.

“Er, sure,” James said, scratching his head. Then, he started so fast his glasses nearly fell off his face. “Don't tell Sirius!”

Regulus actually lifted an eyebrow. James’ uncharacteristic bumbling brought out something in him—something witty and sarcastic and teasing.

“When I have my next non-existent conversation with my brother, I’ll be sure not to mention it,” he said.

James huffed out a laugh. “Right. Sorry.”

Sorry? Did James just apologize to him? Why?

What was he playing at? Was he playing at anything? Regulus knew Lupin despised him, and Pettigrew shook with fear every time they were in proximity, but James…he’d been sure he hated Regulus the most, maybe less so than his brother, but still…and then the letter came, which challenged his assumptions enough…and now he was apologizing for the dumbest little thing. The entire situation befuddled him, and Regulus didn't like being befuddled—it made him feel weak. He couldn't plan his next move, and then that made him vulnerable, which was probably the worst feeling of all.

James brought him out of his head when he stood with a groan, clearly preparing to leave. And then he did something Regulus really wasn't expecting—if anything in this whole situation was expected—he held out his hand. Regulus looked at it for a couple seconds, and then shook it tentatively, ignoring the way his skin lit up when it made contact with James’.

“Pleasure doing business with you, Black,” he said.

“You as well, Potter,” Regulus replied civilly, swallowing the lump in his throat with great difficulty.

James retracted his hand, and Regulus missed the touch instantly. He hoped desperately that it didn't show on his face.

“I'll talk to Madam Hooch about that practice time,” he said.

Regulus nodded.

“And I'm sure you know this never happened,” James said, feigning seriousness. “We never talked, never exchanged services, never even saw each other, really.”

“Obviously,” Regulus drawled, though his heart was pounding at the idea of the two of them having a secret—however minute.

“Then I’ll be out,” James said, making for the door. But before he left, he looked at Regulus, and world above worlds, winked at him.

And it finally happened. His whole face shot up red, and it was obvious that James saw. He just smiled smugly.

“I love making people blush,” he said innocently, like Regulus’ reaction, again, wasn't anything out of the ordinary. “It shows that they’re people.”

And then James ducked out of the compartment and strolled down the length of the train, whistling as he did. Regulus was left sitting stock-still, still processing his words.

It shows that they’re people.

He didn’t know what to think of that, didn’t know what to do with the fluttering in his chest at those words. So, in the silent isolation of the compartment, he let himself feel everything he’d been tamping down for the past hour.

And he smiled.

Regulus didn’t know what mischievous plans James had in store, but he found that he didn’t much care, even if it would end up being his arse that got burned.

He was just plainly, stupidly—and perhaps childishly—happy that he was able to do something that brought a genuine smile to James Potter’s face.

There was a lot of chatter—mostly indignant shouts of frustration but even some fruitless curses—as Regulus approached the Slytherin common room on the night of November 3rd. He’d been expecting something to happen, as James had nearly begged for his wand that morning, it being the only one that could charm the portrait besides Sirius', apparently. He should've figured it was tied to their family magic. He gave it up begrudgingly, though the sight of James all frantic and desperate for it—and by extension, him—did wonders for his ego (and later, his wanking material). The point was, however, that he still hadn’t the foggiest what James ended up doing.

It was only when he got closer and saw the crowd around the space usually occupied by the portrait of the Silver Knight, that he understood.

Well, that and the undeniable screech of his brother piercing through it all:

“I told you, you’re not getting through! I gave you very specific instructions. NOW SING ME HAPPY BIRTHDAY YOU SNIVELING SORE TOADS!”

And then all the pieces fell into place, and despite himself, Regulus laughed.

James you bloody genius, he thought, and he only stood there for another few seconds before he turned tail to head to the library. There was no way in Hell he was singing to Sirius’ animated portrait. He’d just wait until after midnight, when whatever sticking charm James had used inevitably wore off, and the Silver Knight came back, undoubtedly fuming. He couldn’t wait to see the sight.

But until then, he’d study, or at least pretend to—he’d really be thinking back to James, and trying to figure out how he’d managed such a feat.

Happy Birthday, Sirius, Regulus thought with a grin, and truthfully, he hoped it was.