Chapter Text
“Harry Evans-Macdonald-Potter-Black you’d better be down here and dressed for school in the next ten seconds.”
Regulus chuckles as he turns the page of his morning paper, taking a sip of his tea as he does so. “I see you’re using all of his names today. Very authoritative, he’s bound to listen now.”
James walks over from where he was standing at the bottom of the stairs and bites into a piece of toast that Regulus had just buttered for himself. “You watch, he’ll appear any second now.”
There’s silence for about ten seconds and absolutely no sign of their son before Regulus looks up at his husband with a smirk. “Great work dear, I’m impressed.”
James sighs. “Violet, could you please see what’s keeping your brother? If we don’t leave soon, I’ll miss my strategy meeting.”
The 13 year old scoffs from where she’s putting her sports bag by the door. “I feel like that’s on you for arranging a morning meeting, Dad. When has Harry ever left the house on time?”
James leans in to Regulus and lowers his voice. “I feel like I should say something about the backchat here.”
“She’s far too smart for her own good,” Regulus replies. “Clearly she takes after me.”
James looks offended for a brief moment, “Then why is she such a good athlete, huh?”
“You’re right, a future United player, for sure.”
James gasps, clutching his chest like it’s a personal attack. “You take that back!”
Violet walks over. “You both do realize I’m adopted, right?”
James freezes mid-toast, crumbs threatening to escape. “Wait what? Adopted?! When was someone going to tell me?”
Violet smirks. “Yeah, so don’t blame me if I ended up faster, stronger, and more charming than both of you combined.”
“You already are, meri jaan,” James kisses the top of her head as she sits down to eat her brother’s untouched eggs.
“I will never be in Manchester United though,” she looks at him with a raised eyebrow, “I’m a hockey player.”
Regulus snorts softly into his tea, recognising instantly that she’s said it for no reason other than to provoke her father before eight in the morning.
James points at her with a piece of toast. “I support you in everything that you do.”
While Regulus knows James means this sincerely, he also says it through teeth that are very clearly gritted.
Violet beams. “That’s so brave of you, Dad.”
“Mm,” Regulus’ tone is lightly amused. “And yet somehow hockey still appears to frighten him.”
“It doesn’t frighten me,” James argues immediately. “I simply think any sport that encourages teenagers to charge at each other while armed should be monitored more closely.”
Violet grins around another mouthful of eggs. “You literally coach teenage boys to slide tackle each other for a living.”
“That’s different.”
“How?” Regulus asks.
James opens his mouth, pauses, then points vaguely between the two of them. “Because football is civilized.”
The silence that follows is immediate.
Then Violet bursts into laughter so hard she nearly drops her fork. Even Regulus has to lift his newspaper to hide the smile pulling at his mouth.
“Oh, he’s serious,” Violet manages between laughs. “That’s the worst part.”
James shakes his head with all the dignity of a man rapidly losing an argument. “You’re all very disrespectful this morning.”
“Maybe,” Regulus says lightly, “but at least we’re right.”
James’ phone buzzes before he gets a chance to respond with yet another affronted comment and he looks down, clear panic crossing his features. “Shit.”
Regulus feels a twinge of panic in his chest. “What?”
“Irving is coming to the meeting.”
“The CEO?”
James nods, eyes flicking back to his phone as it buzzes again. “He wants to talk to me.”
Violet looks between them, suddenly far more interested in the conversation than her stolen breakfast. “Is that bad?”
“No,” James answers immediately, though his voice is just a little too quick. “Not bad. Potentially bad. Or good. Possibly terrifying. Hard to say.”
“Very reassuring,” Regulus murmurs dryly.
James ignores him entirely, already pacing toward the kitchen counter. “Why would he be coming to a youth academy strategy meeting? That’s weird, right? That’s definitely weird.”
Regulus stands up now, his husband clearly needing some reassurance.
“James.”
“What if he wants to talk to me? I know that parent last week was angry when her son didn’t get to play midfield, but I thought I handled it well-“
“James.”
“Maybe it’s the fact I overspent last month? It was only by 10%, that’s not much right?”
“James.”
“Who am I kidding, I’m not qualified to run an elite academy. I’m a player, not a teacher, I-“
“Potter-Black.” Regulus reaches him in two strides and places both hands on either side of James’ face.
James stops talking immediately.
“You are catastrophising before eight in the morning for absolutely no reason,” Regulus says calmly.
James blinks at him. “I’m being realistic.”
“You won the Premier League three times, captained England, successfully transitioned into coaching, and convinced a group of fourteen-year-olds that tactical drills are ‘character building.’ You’ll survive one meeting.”
James exhales dramatically. “You always make me sound far more competent than I actually am.”
“That’s because you are competent,” Regulus replies simply. “You just panic far too much about football.”
Violet snorts into her drink.
James points at her without looking away from Regulus. “See? This is the disrespect I was talking about.”
“You raised her,” Regulus reminds him. “Personally, I think she’s delightful.”
“Traitor.”
Regulus smiles faintly and smooths down the collar of James’ shirt where it’s twisted itself during the pacing. “Irving is probably coming because your academy is performing well and he trusts you. Now breathe for five seconds before you accidentally resign from a job nobody is trying to fire you from.”
James takes a deep breath, leaning in to rest his forehead on his husband’s, eyes closed. Regulus watches some of the tension release from his shoulders. After about ten seconds he opens his eyes, moving back slightly so he can look at Regulus. “How do you always know what to say?”
Regulus smiles gently. “Far too many years of football dramas, both on and off the field.”
James is smiling too now, a welcome sight. “And there’s never been a single time you’ve panicked about an art show or threatened to throw every painting you’ve ever done in the bin?”
Regulus stands straight, tone defensive. “I haven’t done that in years.”
“You threatened to cancel your show two weeks ago, Papa.”
Regulus turns to look at his daughter sharply. “And I guess our agreement to never tell Dad I said that means nothing after all?”
Violet shrugs.
“You owe me an iced mocha,” Regulus says as she rolls her eyes at him.
“Hold up,” James’ eyebrow is raised, “did you bribe our daughter with an iced drink to lie to me?”
“Yes,” Violet says at the same time Regulus says “no.”
“It was a strategic omission of truth because I know how you worry about me when I get stressed about this stuff.”
James’ expression softens at this. “Because ‘this stuff’ is the stuff you love most in the world.”
It’s very sweet of James to say this. He’s always been Regulus’ biggest supporter. He knows Regulus better than Regulus knows himself.
He is wrong in this case though. Regulus doesn’t love art more than anything in the world.
He loves this.
He loves James arguing with their teenage daughter over the best spread to put on toast (it’s marmite and Regulus will hear nothing to the contrary), he loves the chaos of school mornings and how Harry’s hair is just as unruly as his father’s no matter what Regulus tries to do with it, he loves the sound of laughter carrying through the kitchen before eight in the morning and the way James always reaches for him absentmindedly, like contact is as necessary as breathing.
He loves hockey sticks abandoned by the front door and coffee cups left on top of newspapers. He loves hearing James loudly insist he’s “completely calm” while actively spiralling in the middle of the kitchen. He loves that Violet pretends to find them embarrassing but still leans into every kiss pressed to the top of her head.
And he loves Harry’s dramatic entrances. He’s far too much like his father.
Right on cue, the dishevelled form of their son comes crashing down the stairs and into the kitchen like he’s being actively pursued. His tie is hanging around his neck untied, his blazer is half-on, and one shoelace trails behind him dangerously as he skids across the wooden floor.
“I’m here!” Harry announces breathlessly, as though this is a great personal achievement.
“Will wonders never cease?” His sister comments in a monotone.
Harry ignores her entirely, making a beeline for the table and grabbing a piece of toast straight from Regulus’ plate.
Regulus stares at him in betrayal. “First your father, now you. Am I not allowed to eat in my own house anymore?”
James immediately brightens. “See? He does get things from me.”
“Yes,” Regulus says flatly, “the inability to respect boundaries, apparently.”
“This is cold,” Harry complains.
Regulus fixed him with the look. “It would have been warm if you were downstairs with enough time to get in a proper balanced meal before school.”
Harry shrugs, “I’ll probably grab something from the cafeteria with Ron anyway.”
Regulus sighs. “Well at least Violet ate my lovingly made eggs.”
“Best in the world,” James winks.
“Well except for Uncle Peter,” Violet comments.
“That…” Regulus starts to protest but it quickly turns to resignation, “is very true. Although he did teach me everything I know.”
“Don’t worry Papa, they’re still way better than Dad’s,” Harry chimes in.
“Yes, well that’s not very hard,” Regulus says, ignoring the offended look from his husband.
Violet snorts as she stands up, putting her laptop into her school bag and moving to the front door to pick up her sports gear. “Can we go now please? I need to go to the library before school to grab a book for history.”
“Swot,” Harry coughs.
“Fuck off.”
“Uh, language,” Regulus chastises. “James, tell your daughter to stop speaking like a trucker.”
“Listen to your dad, Vi.” James doesn’t look up from where he’s typing on his phone.
Regulus rolls his eyes, “thanks for the support, Potter.”
Harry stands up, “uh oh, you only get Potter if you’re in trouble, Dad.”
It’s true. Regulus often switches between calling his husband James or Potter-Black, but sometimes he decides James’ behaviour is something only a Potter would be capable of.
James looks up, having the good sense to look guilty now. “Yes okay, sorry. Let’s go kids, I have a totally unscary meeting to get to and your Papa needs some quiet to finish prepping for tonight.” He starts shooing Harry towards the door, grabbing his bag off the counter and shoving it into his son’s hands before turning to Regulus.
“I love you, you know that right?”
Regulus hums, a smile threatening at the corner of his lips, “I think I may have heard that before.”
James smiles, taking one of Regulus’ hands in his. “And you’ll hear it until the end of time.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Absolutely.”
Regulus leans in and pecks James on the lips. “I think I can handle that,” his tone becomes serious, “this meeting is nothing to worry about, James. I promise.”
James chews on his lip for a moment James chews on his lip for a moment, still visibly tense despite the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Then he reaches up and brushes his thumb gently across Regulus’ knuckles.
“You know,” he says quietly, “for someone who’s allegedly calm and reasonable, you panic about your art approximately ten times more than I panic about football.”
Regulus scoffs softly. “That is objectively untrue.”
“After your last exhibition you threatened to flee the country because one painting ‘felt emotionally dishonest.’”
“It was emotionally dishonest.”
James smiles fondly. “See? This is what I mean.” His voice softens further. “You always think people are about to realise you’re not as brilliant as they already know you are.”
Regulus looks away at that, suddenly very interested in straightening the sleeve of James’ coat.
The thing is, James has never fully understood it.
James walks into every room like he belongs there. Like success is something as natural as breathing. Even now, panicking over meetings and CEOs, there’s still this underlying certainty to him- a confidence Regulus has spent years admiring from a distance before finally being brave enough to stand beside it.
Regulus, meanwhile, still sometimes feels like a boy pretending to be someone worth looking at. Someone worthy of being James’ big painting.
“I will be fine, yes. I know that if for some reason I do get fired, we will be okay. We always are. But I also know you’re overthinking,” James says gently, clearly reading him far too easily again. “You always do this before a show.”
How does he always do this? For everyone but James he’s a closed book. But James truly does know him, and he knows that Regulus’ extensive breakfast spread this morning is the result of nervous procrastination.
There’s no point in trying to hide his feelings from James, even if he wanted to.
“Because people are going to see it.”
“Yes,” James replies patiently, “and then they’re going to adore it. Like they always do.”
Violet groans loudly from the doorway. “Oh my God, you two are disgusting.”
“Thank you, beti,” James says immediately.
Harry points between them accusingly. “No, because she’s right. This is genuinely unbearable before school.”
Regulus finally laughs quietly, shaking his head. “And yet none of you seem capable of leaving.”
“That’s because I can’t actually teleport and Harry definitely takes after Dad in that neither of them have any sense of time management.”
James grins at him then, bright and uncomplicated and certain in the way Regulus has never quite managed to be. “She gets that from you, by the way. The sass, I mean.”
Regulus snorts softly. “I’m actually more inclined to blame that on Remus’ influence.”
James chuckles, “Okay, that I can agree with.”
Regulus shakes his head with a smile. “Okay, go. Before McGonagall starts personally hunting us all for sport.”
“She’d enjoy that too much,” Harry says solemnly.
James points toward the door. “Out. Move. Shoo.”
Violet grabs her hockey stick and swings it over her shoulder with practiced ease. “You know, normal families probably don’t have to physically herd each other out the door every morning.”
“Normal families are boring, beti,” James replies easily before giving Regulus a quick kiss. “Bye love, I’ll see you tonight!”
“Yes you will. Let me know how the meeting goes, yes?”
“Of course.”
“Bonne journée, mes chéris,” Regulus calls as Violet physically shoves Harry through the door.
“Au revoir, Papa,” Violet shouts at the same time Harry yells out, “À bientôt!”
James blows a kiss. “Au revoir, mes amours,” he says softly, his French perfect but playful, like it’s become second nature over the years.
Regulus grins, he can’t help himself, and replies in Hindi: “Alvida, meri jaan.”
And then the door closes and everything is suddenly quiet.
Regulus allows himself to miss the chaos for a few moments. Allows himself to stand there in the middle of the kitchen with James’ coffee cup still sitting on the counter and Harry’s abandoned half-eaten toast not even slightly on a plate.
Then he exhales sharply through his nose and gets to work.
Firstly he does the dad things.
He scrapes Harry’s breakfast into the bin while mentally adding buy more bread to the list running permanently through his head.
Violet’s English book is still sitting on the kitchen island so he sends her a quick text informing her that he’ll drop it off before break time so she has it in time for her fourth period class.
There’s a hockey sock hanging over the back of one chair for reasons Regulus doesn’t even want explained, and James has somehow left both his coffee cup and academy notes spread across half the table.
Regulus gathers everything into neat piles with the efficiency of someone who has been doing this for many years. Fifteen to be exact. Well, seventeen if you count the two blissfully quiet married years before Harry was born.
The kind of blissful quiet that he would never wish for again.
Harry and Violet are the centre of his universe, and he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Only once the kitchen actually resembles a functional room again does he finally let himself sit down with his laptop.
Thirty-seven unread emails.
He stares at the number for a long moment before muttering, “Absolutely not,” under his breath.
Most are from the gallery. Two are from journalists asking for comments ahead of tonight’s exhibition. One is from Pandora with the subject line: PLEASE REMEMBER TO EAT THIS TIME.
He closes the laptop without answering a single one.
—
An hour later and Regulus is finally on the tail end of his last painting for the show that opens tonight. He’s in his home studio today, not willing to trudge across town to the far larger warehouse space where most of his work is kept because, quite frankly, he cannot currently be bothered dealing with people.
Usually, the studio is busy by this point in the morning. Assistants moving canvases, fellow artists wandering around pretending not to stare too obviously at unfinished work, interns desperately trying to look calm while speaking to him.
Regulus still hasn’t quite adjusted to the fact people are intimidated by him now.
It’s strange considering half the time he still feels seventeen and one minor inconvenience away from a complete breakdown.
The warehouse studio has six employees now. Eight if he counts the rotating interns who arrive every few months looking terrified and overprepared. Pandora says it’s because Regulus has accidentally become “art world royalty,” which is both dramatic and unfortunately not entirely inaccurate.
People want to work for him. Critics call him elusive and visionary in equal measure. Galleries compete for his exhibitions. One particularly intense journalist once described him as “the defining artistic voice of a generation,” which had nearly made Regulus choke on his coffee.
Meanwhile, this morning he’d spent ten minutes arguing with his thirteen-year-old daughter about hockey.
The contrast is still deeply unsettling.
Regulus steps back from the canvas, wiping paint from his fingers onto the already ruined black shirt he’s wearing. The painting is nearly done. It has been nearly done for three days now, which is usually how this part goes.
He stares at the corner of the canvas critically.
Emotionally dishonest.
The thought arrives instantly and without mercy.
Regulus narrows his eyes at the painting like it has personally offended him.
“You are absolutely not doing this to me today,” he mutters.
“Talking to the paintings again?” A familiar voice asks from the doorway.
Regulus doesn’t even flinch anymore at people appearing in his home unannounced. Years of Sirius have permanently destroyed his sense of privacy.
Remus is holding two coffees and a paper bag from the café down the street. He looks entirely too amused.
“It’s not talking,” Regulus replies. “It’s critical evaluation.”
“Mm. And calling a canvas emotionally dishonest counts as normal behaviour now?”
“Yes.”
Remus hands him a coffee. “You know, most internationally respected artists probably don’t spend exhibition day stress spiralling in an old paint-stained university hoodie.”
Regulus takes the coffee immediately. “Most internationally respected artists sound unbearable.”
“That’s because most of them are.”
That, at least, makes Regulus laugh.
“To what do I owe this pleasure then, Lupin-Black?”
“What, am I not allowed to come and see my best friend and wish him luck on his latest show?”
Regulus stares at him. “I thought we agreed to stop using terms like best friend on the account that we are now over forty and are both parents to teenagers who are also starting to find such terms ‘cringe’?”
Remus raises his eyebrows, “I agreed to no such thing. Even real adults need their mutually beneficial acquaintances-turned best friends, Reg. You can’t run from it.”
Regulus sighs. “I know you didn’t come here just to ‘support’ me, Lupin. Out with it.”
Remus takes an offensively calm sip of his coffee before answering. “Fine. I may have accidentally volunteered you for something.”
Regulus narrows his eyes immediately. “That sentence has literally never ended well for me.”
“It’s not that bad.”
“That is also something people only say before saying something bad.”
Remus ignores him and wanders further into the room, glancing around the canvases stacked against the walls. “Oxford is hosting an interdisciplinary lecture series next term. The English faculty wants artists speaking alongside writers and academics about visual storytelling and cultural influence.”
Regulus blinks once. “No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m asking yet.”
“I know enough.”
Remus sighs patiently, clearly slipping into Head of Department mode now. “Regulus, this is not me trying to trick you into public speaking for my own amusement.”
“That’s exactly what this feels like.”
“It’s one lecture.”
“It starts with one lecture. Then suddenly I’m trapped in some awful oak-paneled room debating symbolism with men named Christopher.”
Remus snorts loudly into his coffee. “Firstly, I have at least three colleagues called Christopher so that’s painfully accurate. Secondly, the faculty specifically asked for you.”
Regulus is genuinely baffled by that. “Why?”
“Because despite your ongoing commitment to pretending otherwise, you are one of the most respected contemporary artists in Europe.”
Regulus grimaces faintly. Compliments still sit strangely on him, even now.
Oxford itself doesn’t. That’s the ridiculous part.
Oxford had always been expected of him. Planned for him long before he’d been old enough to decide what he actually wanted. His parents had spoken about it with the same certainty people discussed weather forecasts- inevitable, unquestionable, prestigious.
Then Regulus had turned his back on his family legacy. On law and politics and every other carefully curated version of his future in favour of art school.
It was the best decision he ever made.
And yet, the idea of going to Oxford now- not as a law student or a future business CEO, but as the artist he’s become, as someone who is objectively an expert in the field he never thought he’d even get a chance to be in- well, it doesn’t sound completely terrible.
“Fine. I’ll do it.” The words leave his mouth before he can stop them.
“Good, because I already told the dean that you would.”
“Of course you did.”
“I also may have posted about it on the discussion boards. The lecture is almost booked up already.”
“Of course it is.”
Remus stands up now, “Anyway, I actually do have to get to work. I’ll see you tonight though, right?”
Regulus rolls his eyes. “Where else would I be?”
“Without me? Probably still pining over James Potter, honestly.”
Regulus scoffs, “I never pined.”
“Sure you didn’t.”
He chooses to change the subject to save his sanity. “I assume I’ll see Sirius tonight too?”
Remus scoffs now, “As if that’s a question. He’ll be there, Teddy too.”
“Oh good!” And Regulus actually means it. He adores his nephew, and they’ve also recently developed an interest in pottery, much to their grandfather’s absolute joy.
“They will probably chew Monty’s ear off all night. When they aren’t causing trouble with Harry, that is.”
Regulus nods. “Very true.”
“Will Ron be there too?”
“Probably. They seem joined at the hip at the moment.”
A beat. “You do have insurance on your paintings right?”
Regulus rolls his eyes. “They aren’t that bad.”
Remus laughs. “They’re basically James, Sirius, and Pete. On a good day.”
“That is a terrible thing to say about our children.”
“And yet not inaccurate.”
Regulus huffs out a reluctant laugh despite himself. “Harry at least has Lily’s common sense occasionally.”
“Occasionally,” Remus agrees solemnly.
“Usually right before he ignores it completely.”
“And Teddy?”
“Oh, Teddy is just chaos in a cardigan.”
“That tracks.”
Remus starts backing toward the door now, already halfway into whatever frantic academic schedule apparently came with being Head of English at one of the most pretentious universities in the country.
Regulus still isn’t entirely convinced Remus doesn’t thrive on the stress.
“I’m serious though,” Remus says, pausing with his hand on the frame. “You should be proud of yourself, Reg.”
Regulus immediately narrows his eyes. “That sounded dangerously sincere.”
“I went to Oxford. I’m contractually obligated to become insufferable about the arts every now and then.”
“You became insufferable years ago.”
“Rude. But this is different.” Remus gestures vaguely toward the studio around them. Toward the canvases stacked against walls, the half-finished portraits draped in cloth, the smell of oils and turpentine that have long since become part of Regulus himself. “You built all of this from absolutely nothing they gave you.”
Regulus looks away instinctively.
Because that isn’t entirely true.
He’d been given money. Status. Opportunity. A name that opened doors before he even touched them.
But none of them had wanted this version of him.
The artist. The man who painted too emotionally, too politically, too openly. The one who had traded a future of boardrooms for gallery floors and inherited expectations for charcoal permanently stained into his hands.
Walburga had once called his art a phase.
Orion had called it an abomination.
And yet now critics dissected his exhibitions in journals. Universities invited him to lecture. Students wrote dissertations on his work. Wealthy collectors fought each other over waiting lists just to maybe acquire one of his paintings.
Funny how success could rewrite history.
“You know,” Remus continues lightly, “I distinctly remember your mother telling my father that you’d come crawling back to corporate law within a year.”
Regulus snorts. “She also thought eyeliner was a sign of moral decay.”
“She wasn’t entirely wrong about Sirius, to be fair.”
“That ‘man’ still wears leather jackets.”
“He thinks being forty-three means he’s entered his silver fox era.”
“He’s entered something.”
Remus grins. “See you tonight, Black.”
Regulus waves him off without looking.
The studio falls quiet again once the door shuts.
For a moment, he just stands there.
Then his gaze drifts across the room toward the painting still sitting unfinished on the easel in the corner.
James, half-rendered in warm oils and impossible light.
Regulus stares at it for a long moment before muttering to himself, deeply offended, “I absolutely did not pine.”
***
The CEO does not want to fire James.
Not even a little bit.
In fact, he appears that he wants the exact opposite.
“I’m serious,” Irving says, leaning back in his chair with the calm confidence of a man who has probably never once had a stress-induced breakdown in a kitchen before eight in the morning. “The academy’s numbers are exceptional.”
James blinks at him. “Right.”
Irving waits.
James waits back.
“…That’s good?” James offers cautiously.
One of the other board members snorts into his coffee. Irving, unfortunately, remains completely serious. “Yes, Potter-Black. Generally speaking, exceptional is considered positive.”
James relaxes by approximately three percent. “Right. Good. Excellent. That’s- yeah.”
God. Regulus is never going to let him live this down.
The meeting room at the academy overlooks three of the training pitches below, currently occupied by coaches figuring out this afternoon’s drills for when the students arrive after school. Normally, seeing it calms James down. Football has always made sense to him.
Board meetings decidedly do not.
Irving slides a folder across the table. “We want to expand the scholarship program.”
James looks down at the paperwork automatically, his confusion only increasing. “Okay…?”
“And we want you heading it.”
James looks back up slowly. “Sorry, I think there’s been some kind of administrative error.”
“There hasn’t.”
“I think there has,” James insists. “You’re talking about budgets and outreach and long-term management. I coach fourteen-year-olds and occasionally threaten them with extra laps if they start calling each other bro unironically.”
Another laugh from somewhere further down the table.
Irving, infuriatingly, still looks completely composed. “You also increased academy retention rates by thirty percent in two years.”
“That sounds fake.”
“It isn’t.”
“You should probably double check the maths anyway.”
Irving sighs the sigh of a man who has clearly dealt with former professional athletes for most of his career. “James.”
James stills slightly at the use of his first name.
“We’re asking because the players trust you,” Irving says plainly. “Parents trust you. Staff trust you. You built something here people actually want to be part of.”
The thing is- James never quite knows what to do with praise when it’s sincere.
Compliments about football had always been easy. Goals. Wins. Statistics. Those were measurable things. Concrete things.
But this?
This feels different somehow. Bigger.
Irving continues before James can spiral himself into another identity crisis. “The expansion would mean more academy places for students from lower-income backgrounds. Better regional outreach. Better support systems.”
James glances back down at the proposal in front of him.
Scholarships. Mentorships. Community partnerships.
A chance for kids who otherwise wouldn’t get one.
Oh.
Oh, that actually matters.
“Well,” James says slowly, sitting back in his chair. “You really should’ve led with that before I spent the entire morning assuming I was about to be publicly executed.”
For the first time all meeting, Irving actually laughs.
“You panic too much, Potter-Black.”
James groans immediately. “My husband says that too. You’d get along terribly.”
Irving nods. “Any man who can put up with the ego of a professional football player for over twenty years deserves both my admiration and my condolences.”
The entire room laughs.
James points accusingly across the table. “See, this is targeted bullying from upper management.”
“It’s observational fact,” Irving replies smoothly. “Your husband, however, is terrifying in a way I deeply respect.”
James brightens instantly at the mention of Regulus, because of course he does. “Oh, he’d love hearing that. He pretends to hate intimidating people, but secretly it’s one of his favourite hobbies.”
“I don’t think he’s pretending,” one of the board members mutters. “I saw him at that gallery fundraiser last year. He looked at a journalist once and the man apologised immediately.”
James smiles. “That sounds about right.”
The thing is, James knows exactly how people see Regulus.
Elegant. Reserved. Brilliant. Intimidating, if they don’t know him.
The internationally respected artist with the sharp cheekbones and sharper tongue who somehow manages to make entire rooms fall silent when he walks into them.
But James also knows the version of Regulus who stress bakes at one in the morning before exhibitions. The version who still quietly doubts himself despite being objectively extraordinary. The version who had stood in their kitchen less than two hours ago smoothing down James’ collar while insisting he had nothing to worry about.
It still amazes James sometimes- that someone so remarkable chose him back.
Irving slides another document across the table. “So. Are you interested?”
James looks down at the proposal again.
Expanded scholarships. Outreach programs. Coaching opportunities for kids who’d never otherwise have access to this level of training.
Something meaningful. Something lasting.
And maybe, selfishly, something Harry and Violet would be proud of one day too.
James exhales slowly before looking back up. “Yeah,” he says finally, unable to stop the smile tugging at his mouth. “Yeah, I think I am.”
—
My Better Half
[11.04] So I wasn’t fired
[11.15] Shocking development.
[11.16] What was the meeting about then?
[11.16] I may have just been promoted.
[Incoming call: My Better Half]
“Hey love.”
“What do you mean, you’ve been promoted?”
James smiles into the phone from where he’s standing on the side of the field. He could be taking this call in his office, but he’s never quite felt comfortable in the stuffy corporate-feeling room. No, the pitches- the outdoors- those have always been his offices, and he feels like he can breathe better when he’s out here.
“What, not even a hello?”
He can hear the eye roll through the phone. “Yes fine, hello, I still love you despite not seeing you for two hours. You’re the light of my life, yadda yadda, how have you been promoted?”
James chuckles. He loves his husband so much. “So Irving said my academy is going really well. My numbers are good. The students are engaged.”
“All things I tell you all the time, yes.”
“Yeah… well… I guess he’s noticed. Noticed enough to want to expand the scholarship program and for me to run it.”
“James.”
Regulus says his name quietly this time.
Not teasing. Not impatient.
Just soft enough that James feels it somewhere behind his ribs.
“Yeah?”
“That’s huge.”
James looks out across the pitch.
“Yeah,” he says again, quieter this time. “I know.”
For a second, neither of them says anything.
Then Regulus exhales.
“Are you happy?”
James smiles.
“I think so.”
“You think so?”
“I am,” James says quickly. “I am happy. It’s just… a lot. More responsibility. More kids.
More pressure. Irving wants me involved in outreach, recruitment, fundraising, the whole thing.”
“And you’re surprised by this because?”
James huffs a laugh. “Because I thought I was about to be fired, Reg.”
“You’re never going to be fired, James. You’re far too good at… kicking balls at teenagers for that.”
James laughs properly now. “You have no idea what I do, do you?”
“Not even slightly,” Regulus admits easily. “I assume there’s cones involved? Whistles? Maybe an inspirational speech every now and then.”
“There are drills.”
“Ah yes. Sports.”
“There’s strategy.”
“Mhm.”
“Player development.”
“Sounds fake.”
James grins is wide now. He knows he looks like an idiot to anyone who happens to glance over. He doesn’t care“You are genuinely unbelievable.”
“And yet you married me anyway.”
“I’m so lucky.”
“Besides,” Regulus continues, voice warm now, “I do know one thing.”
“Yeah?”
“You care about those kids.”
James leans back against the fence bordering the pitch.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I do.”
“I know you do,” Regulus says. “That’s why they’re giving you more responsibility. People notice when someone actually gives a shit.”
James swallows around something unexpectedly tight in his throat.
Because that’s the thing.
The academy has never just been football to him.
Not really.
It’s fourteen-year-olds who’d never had anyone tell them they were good at something before. It’s kids getting scholarships they otherwise never would have access to. It’s giving difficult teenagers structure and routine and somewhere safe to put all their anger.
He takes a deep breath. “I’m still going to coach. I’ll do both.”
“I never thought otherwise.”
“I’m going to crush this, Reg.”
“Of course you are. You’re James Potter-Black.”
There’s movement further down the pitch as the groundskeepers start setting up training equipment, cones and portable goals slowly appearing across the grass.
James watches one of them struggle to carry far too many poles at once and winces sympathetically. “That’s going to end badly.”
“What is?”
“Mark’s trying to carry the entire equipment shed by himself again.”
Regulus hums. “And are you going to save him?”
“I’m considering it.”
“Very noble of you.”
James grins, adjusting his grip on the phone. “It’s leadership, actually. Very important now that I’m apparently a terrifying corporate success story.”
Regulus snorts softly down the line. “You had one meeting, mon chéri. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
“Wow. Unbelievable lack of support from my own husband.”
“I literally spent half this morning talking you out of a stress spiral.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
James opens his mouth, pauses, then laughs. “Okay, I don’t actually know.”
“That’s what I thought.”
A breeze cuts across the pitch, cool enough that James shoves his free hand deeper into the pocket of his jacket. He can practically picture Regulus in the studio while they talk- paint on his hands, sleeves pushed up, probably frowning at a canvas like it’s personally offended him.
“You finished the last painting yet?” James asks.
There’s a pause. Just long enough to be suspicious.
“…Possibly.”
“Regulus.”
“I’m working on it.”
“That didn’t answer the question.”
“It answered it emotionally.”
James smiles helplessly at the sound of him. God, he could do this forever. Just stand outside in the cold listening to Regulus talk nonsense while pretending not to panic about exhibitions.
He does, however, have to check in with the coaches and do his actual job.
“I have to go, mon étoile.”
“I suppose I can survive without you for a few hours. If I must.”
“You martyr. You’ll already be at the gallery by the time training finishes, so I’ll see you at the show.”
“Try to get our children there on time, won’t you? The gallery owner has only just forgiven me for last time.”
Ah yes, last time.
Otherwise known as the evening they arrived twenty minutes late because Harry had apparently forgotten his shoes at school, Violet had refused to wear the dress she’d picked out three weeks earlier because it suddenly looked ‘terrible’, and James had somehow ended up stuck in traffic after insisting they absolutely had plenty of time.
They had, in fact, not had plenty of time.
By the time they’d finally burst through the gallery doors, Regulus had already been cornered by three critics, two investors, and one increasingly stressed gallery owner asking where exactly his family was.
“The gallery owner is dramatic,” James says now. “We were barely late.”
“You missed my opening speech.”
“In fairness, nobody likes opening speeches.”
“James.”
“And Harry did apologise for knocking over that champagne tower.”
“That was after he tried to fix it himself.”
James winces slightly. “Okay, yes, that part admittedly made things worse.”
Regulus sighs down the line, though James can hear the fondness underneath it now.
“Please just get there on time tonight.”
“Cross my heart.”
James hangs up the phone feeling really good about his decision. One phone call with Regulus can do that to a man.
Smiling, he heads back inside to sign the paperwork.
—
Harry is quiet when he gets into James’ car that afternoon.
He is immediately suspicious.
“Do you want to talk about anything, Haz?” James’ tone is lightly concerned, but not pushy.
“I don’t have anything to talk about.”
“Since when?” Violet snorts without looking up from her phone.
“Vi-“ James warns. She huffs slightly but doesn’t push it. Harry is staring out the window.
James decides to push his luck. “You know you can talk to me about anything, right?”
“Dad. I’m fine.”
Harry is very clearly not fine. But James knows that he’ll talk when he’s ready and not a second sooner. He gets that from Lily.
He pulls into their driveway a few minutes and a silence bordering on uncomfortable later.
James kills the engine and unclips his seatbelt, already mentally calculating how much time they have before he has to somehow get both of his children to Regulus’ exhibition on time.
Which, frankly, feels optimistic.
“Right,” he says as the three of them climb out of the car. “You both need to eat something, get changed, and be ready to leave by five at the absolute latest.”
“Mm.” Violet is already halfway to the front door, still staring at her phone.
Harry gives a vague grunt of acknowledgement behind her.
James sighs toward the sky as he locks the car. “Teenagers.”
—
“Cutting it fine,” Sirius grins as he approaches James in the foyer of the large art gallery.
“Don’t get me started,” James says with all the gravitas of a war-wounded soldier.
“Drink?” Sirius offers instead.
“Oh absolutely.” He turns around to tell the kids he’ll be right back, but they’ve already disappeared. Violet is talking to Luna and Harry has immediately made a beeline for Teddy and Ron. “It’s good to see they care so much about the stress they caused me getting them into the car at a time that wouldn’t see Regulus immediately file for divorce.”
“Tell me about it,” Sirius says as he starts leading James to the makeshift bar, “Remus has been here with Reg for the last hour and so I had to actually make dinner for Teddy and me.”
James gasps, “Oh my god. Are you okay?”
“I don’t think so, Prongs,” he starts fanning his face like he’s trying not to cry, “I had to learn what fan-forced meant.”
“My condolences.”
“Thank you, it’s been hard.”
James laughs easily, the presence of his best friend settling something warm and familiar in his chest almost instantly.
The gallery is already packed. Low conversation hums through the massive open room alongside soft music, all warm lighting and polished concrete and people dressed in varying levels of artistic pretension.
His gaze drifts across the gallery automatically, searching for Harry without really meaning to.
He finds him quickly enough.
Still quieter than usual.
Not upset exactly. Just… off.
Sirius notices James looking almost immediately. “What’s wrong with him?”
James exhales softly. “Don’t know yet.”
“He talk to you?”
“Nope.”
“That’s annoying.”
“Extremely.”
Sirius hums thoughtfully. “Teenager weird or actual weird?”
James is quiet for a second. “Actual weird.”
“Want me to talk to him?”
James shakes his head. “He’ll come to us when he’s ready. He always does.”
“That’s true.”
“Hopefully Teddy and Ron can cheer him up a bit. I mean, without them destroying any priceless art.”
Sirius smirks. “Is Hermione coming tonight?”
James shakes his head. “She’s studying for an English assessment they have tomorrow. Clearly Harry and Ron are just as stressed about it.”
Sirius sucks in a breath. “No Hermione? Prongsy boy, you’d better get your cheque book ready.”
“Hey, it’s your child too!”
“We both know that Harry is the ringleader of these things. Teddy just enables him.”
“That is slander,” James says immediately.
“Reminds me of someone else I know,” Sirius’ tone is very teasing.
“Okay, you are not about to tell me that I was the one causing all the trouble in high school. You were just as much a culprit, if not more so.”
Sirius laughs. “We were legends though.”
“Still are.”
“I’ll drink to that!” Sirius holds out his glass and James clinks his own against it.
“Speaking of legends,” James says as they make their way back to the crowd to wait for Regulus to appear, “Pete offered to ditch his show tonight to be here.”
Sirius laughs. “Yeah, I’m sure a West End show would be super happy for their lead to disappear for a night.”
James takes a sip. “Especially since this is the night that reviewer is coming.”
“Fuck, how are we all so fabulously successful?”
James smiles. “Do you think all the sideways glances are because Sirius Lupin-Black, frontman for one of the biggest bands in the world, is standing in the middle of a gallery pretending he’s not famous?”
Sirius snorts. “No. It’s because James Potter-Black, best captain England has ever had is here.”
“Actually,” a voice cuts in smoothly from beside them, “it’s definitely because Barty Rosier is here.”
James turns, already grinning as Barty appears at Sirius’s shoulder with the kind of confidence that suggests he fully believes the sentence he just said.
“Former Everton royalty,” Barty continues solemnly. “Current beloved sports broadcaster. Voice of the people.”
Sirius groans loudly. “You’ve been here thirty seconds.”
“And yet I’m already the most charismatic person in the room.”
“That’s objectively false,” James says.
Barty points at him. “See, this is why you peaked in school sports and I peaked emotionally.”
“You did not peak emotionally.”
“I absolutely did. I’m delightful now.”
Sirius looks personally offended. “Now?”
“Growth is important, Black.”
James laughs as Barty steals the champagne flute directly out of Sirius’s hand, takes a sip, then hands it back.
“Where’s the husband, Rosier?” James asks as Sirius looks affronted.
“He’s over there,” Barty points through the crowd to where Evan is chatting with Pandora. “Ellie is at a sleepover tonight, so you bet we’re going to let loose.”
“Living the dream,” James says with a wink.
“You betcha. How are you anyway? It’s been a while.”
It has been a while since so many of them were in the same room. That’s what happens when everyone becomes successful and moves away- when real adults have adult lives.
For a while they’d all been scattered across different cities and countries, catching up through rushed phone calls and group chats and brief visits squeezed between impossible schedules.
But over the last few years, one by one, they’d all started finding their way back.
Remus and Sirius first.
Then James and Regulus.
Peter only part-time still, splitting himself between London and New York depending on whatever show he’s doing at the time.
Mary and Lily were always close by because of Harry.
Dorcas and Marlene eventually drifted back too, despite years of loudly insisting they never would.
Then somehow Evan and Barty had turned back up as well, all effortless chaos and football commentary contracts and half-finished renovation projects, dragging their daughter Ellie with them.
Ellie, who at eleven years old already spoke with the same terrifying confidence as both of her fathers combined.
Honestly, the kid never stood a chance.
They were all as messy and inconsistent and chaotic as ever.
But back home, in the strange patchwork way they’d built over the years.
Sure they may not be as close as they were when they saw each other every day, but two decades later and he still calls each of them a friend. That’s something right?
James starts to fill Barty in on the latest in teenage drama, when the lights dim slightly around the gallery.
A soft feedback hum crackles through the speakers near the centre of the room as conversation gradually quiets around them.
“Oh,” Sirius says, glancing toward the front of the gallery. “Showtime.”
People begin turning toward the small raised platform near the far wall, drinks lowering as the crowd settles.
And then Regulus steps up to the microphone.
James has seen him do this a hundred times now. Interviews. Panels. Openings. Entire rooms hanging onto every word that comes out of his mouth.
It still affects him embarrassingly every single time.
Regulus looks composed beneath the gallery lights, one hand loosely curled around the microphone as he scans the room.
For half a second his eyes catch James’.
And soften.
Only briefly.
But enough.
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Sirius mutters beside him.
James ignores him completely.
“Thank you all for coming tonight,” Regulus begins, his voice carrying easily through the gallery. “It’s genuinely lovely to see so many people here. Some of you for the art, some of you for the free alcohol, and some of you because you accidentally married artists and are now legally obligated to attend these things.”
A ripple of laughter moves through the room.
James grins immediately into his drink.
“I especially want to thank the people who have supported both me and this exhibition over the last year,” Regulus continues, a little softer now. “The artists featured tonight, the gallery staff, my friends, my family…”
His gaze flicks toward James again automatically.
“…and the people who have spent the last six months pretending not to notice that my entire dining table disappeared beneath exhibition plans.”
Several people laugh.
Regulus’ mouth twitches slightly.
“In any case, please enjoy the show.”
There’s applause then. A lot of it, admittedly, is because Regulus Potter-Black has just officially opened the exhibition.
Years ago James used to think it was unreal watching people react to Regulus like this. The whispers and double takes and articles and invitations and the way entire rooms seemed to subtly shift around him.
Now he’s mostly just used to it.
Mostly.
Because objectively speaking, Regulus is kind of impossible not to look at.
“He’s annoyingly good at that,” Sirius says as the applause dies off and the crowd moves into the room.
James hums smugly into his drink like he personally had something to do with it. “I know.”
At the front of the room, people are already beginning to approach Regulus again almost immediately. Gallery donors. Artists. People with far too much money and very serious opinions about texture and symbolism.
Regulus handles all of it effortlessly.
James has to tear his eyes away to look at the art around them. In his opinion, there’s only one thing in this room that’s beautiful enough to warrant staring, and he gets to take him home at the end of the night.
—
The exhibition is incredible of course. Even the paintings that he didn’t make are clearly influenced by Regulus.
Eventually Regulus finishes talking to his long line of admirers and he makes his way over to James, who immediately hands him a drink.
Regulus accepts it gratefully. “You’re my favourite person here.”
“Because I’m gorgeous and charming?”
“No,” Regulus says calmly, “it’s because you brought me alcohol.”
“Fair.”
Sirius makes a noise of disgust. “Right. I’m leaving before the two of you start flirting in public again.”
“It’s been twenty years, Pads, get over it.”
“Not a chance.”
Sirius leaves then, Barty following his lead laughing.
And then it’s just James and Regulus standing together near the edge of the gallery.
Regulus exhales slowly, some of the polished public-facing composure slipping from his shoulders now that he’s close again.
James nudges his arm gently. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
“You did good, baby.”
Regulus huffs a quiet laugh. “I would hope so.
It would be concerning if I accidentally opened a terrible exhibition.”
“No, I mean it.” James glances around the room again. “This is incredible, Reg.”
Something softer flickers briefly across Regulus’ face at that.
Before he can respond though, James’ expression shifts slightly.
Before he can answer though, James’ expression shifts slightly. “Harry’s acting weird.”
Regulus’ brows pull together immediately. “Really?”
“Mm.”
“He say anything?”
“Nope.” James sighs quietly. “I think something happened at school.”
Regulus hums softly, gaze flicking briefly across the gallery toward where Harry is standing with Teddy and Ron. “He’ll talk when he’s ready.”
“Yeah.”
A small silence settles between them before Regulus says, almost casually, “Remus made me an offer earlier.”
James looks back at him immediately. “What kind of offer?”
Regulus hesitates for half a second. “Oxford wants me to guest lecture next term. Art history department.”
James blinks. “What?”
“Apparently Remus may have already told the dean I’d be interested before asking me.”
James stares at him another second. “Regulus.”
“I haven’t said yes yet.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Regulus’ expression softens slightly.
“Because you had your own thing to be excited about today and I didn’t want to steal focus.”
James looks genuinely incredulous now.
“Reg,” he says helplessly, gesturing around the packed gallery, “this is your thing.”
Regulus huffs a quiet laugh.
“No, seriously.” James shakes his head, eyes bright with it. “Oxford? Guest lecturing? That’s huge.”
“It’s just a few lectures.”
“It’s Oxford.”
Regulus looks away slightly, suddenly looking far less like the composed gallery owner from five minutes ago and far more like the boy James met at nineteen who still occasionally struggles to understand just how brilliant he actually is.
James reaches for his hand automatically, squeezing once. “This is incredible, Reg.”
Across the room, a burst of laughter pulls both their attention briefly toward the kids.
Teddy appears to be dramatically reenacting something while Ron nearly spills his drink laughing. Violet is recording whatever chaos is unfolding on her phone. Harry, thankfully, looks a little more animated now than he had earlier.
Still quieter than normal.
But better.
Regulus notices James looking immediately. “You’re still worried.”
“Little bit.”
“We can talk to him later.”
James nods slowly.
Then, because he physically cannot help himself, he leans closer to Regulus with a grin. “So. Professor Potter-Black.”
Regulus groans immediately. “Don’t.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely calling you Professor now. It’s incredibly sexy.”
“I hate you.”
“No you don’t.”
Regulus looks at him for a long moment, soft and exasperated all at once.
“No,” he says quietly. “I really don’t.”