Archive of Our Own

Peter stood before the mirror, blinking at a smudge on the glass that seemed to waver like a mirage in the dim light. The bathroom reeked of stale firewhisky, and the acrid scent pinched his nose. His head throbbed as if it had been used as target practice for a Bludger, and his stomach twisted like it was full of rogue Snitches. His eyes landed on his own reflection: a pale face, a rumpled collar, the faint imprint of last night's chaos still clinging to him like smoke in fabric.

Gryffindor had thrown a party after the Ravenclaw match, calling it a celebration like the result had ever been in doubt. It hadn’t been. Not after James’s first goal- bright, effortless, inevitable, like the whole castle had been waiting to clap.

James Potter was a headline on its own, even when he wasn’t trying. Head Boy. Captain. Golden boy. The sort of student professors remembered fondly before he’d even graduated, the one students whispered about like a legend. James was Peter’s best friend, which felt like something worth holding onto in a castle like this. Anyone in the castle would tell you that Sirius was James’s best friend if you asked- because Sirius was loud and took up space- but Peter had known James longer. Neighbors. Summer days in the sandbox and nights by the fire. Dirt under their nails, knees scraped from trees. That kind of history didn’t need an audience or a photograph to be real; it just was.

“Pete, are you ever going to get your big arse out of the bathroom?” came Sirius Black’s voice, loud and cheerful and grating to Peter’s ears the way only Sirius could manage before breakfast.

Peter swallowed the first reply that came to mind. They were ‘friends’ - at least, it benefited Peter to act like they were. Whatever history he and James shared, Peter couldn’t afford to dislike Sirius too openly. James was… good. He needed to be needed. And who was in bigger need than a Black?

It had become common knowledge between the four of them by first year that Sirius did not come from a place you could call a happy home. In swept savior James, all blazing loyalty, stubborn warmth, Gryffindor bravery, and suddenly they were thick as thieves. For a long time, it felt like it was always James and Sirius under the invisibility cloak- just the two of them, then the rest as an afterthought. Remus never seemed to mind, content to read while they disappeared and then listen, patient, as though their adventures were only stories from his favorite books.

They did pranks as a group- the Marauders, they called themselves- but when it came to pairing off, for the first five years it was always Sirius and James. Sixth year had been… different. With Sirius orbiting Remus more and more, Peter and James got time alone again. Peter had been ridiculously, embarrassingly happy about it.

Seventh year, though, had changed everything. The prank list had dried up. People vanished. Sirius and Remus got together doing things Peter would rather not picture, and James was always busy- Head Boy duties, Quidditch, and whatever mad plan he was currently executing to get Lily Evans to give him a chance before the year ended.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

“Seriously, Wormtail, I have to take a piss.”

The pounding yanked Peter back to the present. He dragged a hand through his hair, splashed cold water on his face, and tried to make himself look less like he’d lost a fight with a pillow. It didn’t help much. The mirror remained cruel. He settled for ‘awake’ and hoped everyone else looked half as wrecked as he felt.

They should, after last night. Most of the upper-year Gryffindors, at least- Peter remembered the drinking well enough. Ravenclaw might not have thrown a party, but they’d probably nursed their loss in their own way. And Slytherin… Slytherin might have celebrated too, not because they’d won anything yet, but because Gryffindor had. Because it meant a good fight for the finals.

The Slytherin team had secured their spot in the finals by beating Hufflepuff and were waiting to see who their competitors would be. While Slytherins wanted to win, they also liked to earn it. Ravenclaw in the finals would have been a quiet death; Gryffindor in the finals was a proper fight. That was mostly because of the captains.

James Potter for Gryffindor. Regulus Black for Slytherin.

Two of the best players in the school, and it wasn’t even close. James, a Chaser- goals, speed, showmanship, the kind of player who made the crowd feel like they were part of it. Regulus, a Seeker- sharp-eyed and patient, all control and inevitability. Catching the Snitch ended the game; usually, it decided the winner too, unless the other team’s Chasers managed to make those one hundred and fifty points mean nothing.

Peter finally cracked the bathroom door open and stepped out.

Sirius shoved past Peter without even glancing at him, heading straight for the bathroom as if he owned it.

Peter’s gaze lingered on Sirius’s back for half a second too long, then snapped back to James and Remus. They both looked like they went to a spa the previous night and not a rager. A familiar tightness bubbled in his stomach- something between jealousy and confusion, something he never quite knew what to do with. These were his friends- and yet he could never get over the confused whispers of why the other boys were friends with him, the small thread of jealousy compiled rolling into a big mass in his chest that tightened, compressed his airways in their vicinity. And yet he would keep coming back to them, trying to scrape up any recognition he could get by being close to them. Because even if people were whispering at least it was about him. They knew who he was and that was thanks to the other three Gryffindor boys. 

“Hiya, Pete,” James said, beaming as he stepped toward him. “You’re looking lively.” He clapped Peter on the back- hard enough it nearly sent him forward onto his face. Peter made a sound meant to be a laugh. It came out as a cough. “Don’t start.”

Remus’s hand caught his elbow automatically, steadying him before he could embarrass himself properly. James lifted both hands in surrender, all innocence, “I’m not starting anything.”

“He just means,” Remus said, tone maddeningly calm- like he was taking notes for an essay- “that you don’t appear particularly steady on your feet.”

James’s grin widened. He reached out and patted Peter’s head as if he were some sort of unfortunate, wobbling pet. “You’re swaying like a wee little sapling in a storm.”

Heat climbed Peter’s cheeks. He stood there with his mouth slightly open, mouthing, sapling, under his breath like it might start making sense if he said it enough times.

Sirius came bounding up behind them, catching the tail end like he always did. “Like a sapling?” he repeated, delighted and appalled in equal measure. “That’s oddly poetic, Prongs.” He brought a hand to James’s forehead with exaggerated concern. “Are you feeling all right? Are you still drunk?”

James swatted him away. “No, I’m not drunk. I’m inspirational.” He said the word like someone had called him that and he hadn’t let it go, repeating it over and over in his head, like a badge of honor. And then he turned and walked out of the dormitory as if that had settled the matter. It hadn’t.

Peter, Remus, and Sirius followed- because of course they did. Typical. Sirius raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow at James’s back while Remus trailed after him with a smirk that never quite reached his eyes, promising nothing good.

“You should hear him in prefect meetings,” Remus said, voice mild. “All those speeches. I swear I’ve heard him practicing in the mirror before Quidditch, too.”

James turned on the stairs, sheepish for exactly half a second- still smiling, like he knew they were teasing and knew he was safe anyway. He nudged Remus’s shoulder lightly as they descended toward the Great Hall. “You were listening.”

Remus gave the smallest nod.

James nudged him again, harder. “Creep.”

Remus’s mouth twitched. “Oh yes, I’m a creep.” His eyes slid to James with that quiet, surgical sharpness he saved for when he wanted to draw blood. “Not the one who’s been pestering poor Miss Evans for the past seven years.” His eyes glinted gold the way they do when the full moon is fast approaching.

Sirius made a pleased sound, reveling in the scene before him.

Remus continued, still maddeningly even. “And I saw you reading a poetry book the other day. Was that another attempt to get her attention, recreational activity, or material for your ‘inspirational’ speeches?”

For a moment, James’s face did something strange- pinched and blank, like the smile had slipped off and he hadn’t caught it in time. Then it flicked right back into place, easy and bright, just as they reached the doors of the Great Hall.

“Breakfast,” James announced, like that was the only important thing in the world, while opening the double doors.

Peter followed him in, still swaying a little, and tried not to notice how effortlessly James could switch masks.

They hit the Great Hall in a rush of warmth and noise. Peter’s headache throbbed in time with the clatter of plates. Gryffindor’s table was already awake in the way Gryffindor always was- loud, bright, convinced the world belonged to them even when half of them looked one sharp sound away from vomiting.

James slid into the chaos like it had been built for him.

Peter trailed after, careful with his steps, while Sirius and Remus fell in behind. Sirius was all easy limbs and careless grin; Remus was quiet steadiness. Together, they made it look like there was nothing in the world worth worrying about.

Peter envied them for it, a little. He tried not to. Didn’t work.

Marlene McKinnon was half-standing on the bench, stealing bacon off someone’s plate with the confidence of a war hero. Mary Macdonald was laughing into her tea. Lily Evans sat further down, posture perfect, expression sharp, like she could hold the whole table accountable with a glance.

James’s attention snagged on Lily, an automatic, almost reflexive movement at this point, Peter mused. Like checking something off his to-do list. His shoulders squared. The mask slid on so smoothly that Peter almost didn’t see it happen.

“Evans,” James called, voice pitched for an audience, like the name itself was a joke he expected the room to understand.

Lily didn’t even look up. “Potter.” Lily never gave James the time of day, which used to wreck him, but now he seemed to brush it off much more easily.

Sirius made a pleased, theatrical sound, like he’d just been given front-row seats. “Ah,” he said, settling onto the bench. “There it is. This morning's entertainment.”

Remus’s mouth twitched. “Don’t.”

“What?” Sirius said innocently. “It’s tradition at this point, just need to grab my popcorn.”

“Great idea,” Lily murmured. She looked up at them and saw Peter, and quietly, without hesitation, as if she knew, grabbed him a hangover cure potion from her bag. She passed it to him before continuing, “then I would have something to throw in Potter’s face next time he tries to speak to me.” Ah, this is why Peter loved Lily, as a friend, of course, he could never want anything more. But she always cared for everyone without ceremony, without an expectation of a thank you, and yet she was sharp enough to knock the Great James Potter off his broom once in a while.

James laughed- too easy, too loud. Peter watched him angle his body just right, like he’d done it a hundred times. Like he knew exactly how it read from across the room. Like the castle itself had come to expect this from him.

Peter made his way back to the castle from Care of Magical Creatures, boots damp from the grass and the forest air still clinging to his robes. He didn’t have this class with any of his friends. They were all in the more demanding courses.

James and Sirius were natural geniuses- or at least it seemed like they didn’t have to put much work into getting Outstandings. Remus was gifted, too, but he also worked at it. He had weekly study groups on Wednesdays and Saturdays, much to Sirius’s chagrin.

Peter always felt inadequate around them. Out of place in almost every way. He tried to ignore it- tried to laugh it off like it didn’t matter- but it never went away. It just sat there and festered, quiet and patient.

So when class ended, and they’d all just finished watching the pixies in the trees- bright little blurs darting through the branches- Peter found himself walking back alone, hands shoved in his pockets, head down. Usually, he made straight for the common room and hoped James would be there; they would get an hour to themselves before Sirius came barging in like an over-eager puppy interrupting their conversation or game of wizarding chess.

Which was why, as he passed Hagrid’s hut, Peter slowed.

Because down by the Quidditch pitch, something caught the sunlight- gold-rimmed glasses flashing like a signal.

James.

Peter frowned, feet slowing without meaning to. James didn’t have practice today. Peter knew the schedule. Yes, he knew. No, he wasn’t a stalker- he just liked to be prepared.

Still. What was James doing out there?

A knot tightened in Peter’s stomach. He told himself it was nothing. Captain stuff. Head Boy stuff. James being James. Doing extra practice. But he did that in the morning, and Peter knew he had already done his extra workout for the day. His confusion overtook him, and  his feet betrayed him, drifting away from the group heading back toward the castle.

They probably wouldn’t notice he was gone.

Peter tried not to think too hard about what that meant.

He told himself- best case- that he’d catch up to James and they could fly together. One-on-one. Like old times. And honestly, Peter couldn’t think of anything worse happening other than James being too busy for him again. It would hurt, but it wouldn’t be the first time.

He angled toward the broom shed first, because he needed this to look casual. Like he had already planned on flying. Not like he’d followed James like some pathetic puppy.

He stood there for a full three minutes, staring at the shed door and pretending to “think,” when really he was just trying to talk himself out of it.

Then he grabbed his broom anyway.

With it secure in his hand, Peter headed for the Gryffindor changing rooms. He reached for the handle- 

Locked.

Peter blinked. Tried again.

Still locked.

Curious.

And now that he was paying attention, he noticed it: a faint, muffled buzzing in the quiet, like insects trapped behind glass. It made the air feel wrong around the edges.

Muffliato.

Peter’s throat went dry.

What was James doing in there?

Maybe he wanted privacy while changing- 

The thought was so ridiculous that Peter almost laughed. James Potter wasn’t self-conscious like that. Peter had shared a dormitory with him long enough to know. James changed in front of half the house like he was doing them a favor.

So… not that.

Curiosity tugged harder.

Peter has heard Moony say a common muggle phrase something like curiosity killed the cat, so it was a good thing he's a rat.

He glanced over his shoulder- empty pitch, empty path, no one close enough to see- then slipped into Wormtail and scurried along the outside wall until he found what he was looking for: the small holes in the stone that had “popped up” sometime in third year.

No one knew how they got there.

It certainly wasn’t a group of boys who tried to modify a firework and ended up launching it straight through the wall.

Peter squeezed closer to the nearest hole, whiskers twitching. Up close, it smelled like old stone and damp wood and that sharp, clean bite of broom polish that always clung to the changing rooms no matter how many times they cleaned. The Muffliato buzzed thicker here- like haze pressed right up against the wall, like sound itself had been wrapped in cloth.

He paused.

Even in rat form, even with his heart thudding too fast in his tiny chest, Peter had a moment of something like sense. He could still back away. He could still turn around, scurry back toward the castle, pretend he’d never seen James’s glasses flashing in the sun.

Instead, he flattened himself and wriggled through the hole.

Stone scraped his belly. Dust caught in his whiskers. For a second, he got stuck- half in, half out- panic flaring hot and sudden. Then his head slipped through, and the world sharpened as if he’d breached a thin membrane. The buzzing didn’t disappear, but it shifted- less barrier, more veil.

Peter could hear the shower running somewhere deeper inside the room, water hammering against tile. He could hear movement- fabric dragging, a quick breath, the faint thump of someone pressed back against something solid.

And then, drawn out and muffled, a voice- too close, too familiar in the wrong way- “Jamie…”called out into the otherwise quiet room.

Peter froze. Did James have a girlfriend?

The thought came automatically, ridiculous and desperate, as if his mind could build a normal explanation fast enough to keep him safe. James didn’t do secrets. James gave speeches, and sunlight, and whole rooms watched him smile. Before Peter could move, he heard James’s low chuckle- warm and private, a sound Peter had never heard James give the world.

“Quiet, love,” James murmured, a little strained, voice dipped like a promise. “You’ll give yourself away.” A soft sound of agreement- a breath, not words- followed by a sharp little high pitched gasp that made Peter’s whiskers quiver.

Suddenly, Peter didn’t want to know what James was doing anymore. He pressed his paws to his ears the best he could. 

He tried to scurry backwards, claws scrabbling at gravel and cement, body already halfway committed to retreat.

James wouldn’t hide a girlfriend, would he? Peter would support him. They all would. If James just said it, they’d stop teasing him about Lily-  Wait. Was it Lily?

Peter hated himself for it, but he listened harder.

More movement. Another breath. A pause that felt too intimate to belong in a changing room. Then the other voice- strained, pleading- breathed, “Fu-fuck please.”

Peter went very still.

Oh.

Not a girl, then. He’d assumed at first because the voice had gone high, but now- now he could hear it beneath everything: the polished lilt of a pureblood boy. Controlled even when it wasn’t. Beautiful even when it cracked. Like someone who’d been taught, their whole life, that mess was a kind of failure.

Peter’s rat heart hammered.

Interesting.

For a beat, he didn’t move- couldn’t. He stayed perfectly still, half-dissociating, half-praying that if he didn’t move, he wouldn’t exist in this moment.

Then the realization hit him like a shove: the only way out was through.

Maybe once he was inside, he could sneak a quick glance- just enough to see who it was- and then hide, curl into himself in a corner, bury his paws in his ear till whatever this was over. Some small part of him, ugly and honest, whispered that this was private, that he shouldn’t go further, but he is currently stuck in the wall.

Plus Peter didn’t care. Not really. Not if this could bring him closer to James. He could prove he was trusted. Useful. The kind of person James kept, not the kind James forgot. He craved the validation that came from being needed, from being part of the inner circle. There was a certain power in being close to someone as revered as James, a power Peter desperately wanted to claim for himself. Deep down, he feared being sidelined, his worth diminished by the very people he admired most. It wasn't just about friendship; it was about proving he mattered in a world where he often felt invisible.

Bonus, he thought viciously, if he could hold it over Sirius’s head.

He wriggled again, claws scrabbling against cement, and finally broke through into the changing room.

He misjudged the landing. Momentum carried him too far, and he skidded across the floor, hitting the base of a locker with a sharp clang.

Silence- thick and immediate beneath the buzzing spell.

“What was that?” the boy’s voice snapped, suddenly alert.

Peter’s whole body went cold. He scrambled upright and darted toward the darkest corner he could find, pressing himself tight against the stone behind a bench where he hoped he wouldn’t be seen.

There was movement- footsteps, quick, cautious.

“You did lock the door when you came in, right, James?” the voice asked. It sounded steadier than before, but there was panic underneath it, carefully kept in a cage.

Peter held his breath.

A moment later, James stepped into the aisle- half-dressed, mid-redoing his trousers and shirt hanging off his shoulders, hair rumpled like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. He looked around, wand in hand, eyes scanning.

“Yes,” James said easily. “Of course I did, love.”

Then he smiled. Not the grin meant for an audience, but something more reserved, more private. Peter caught a glimpse of it out of the corner of his eye, feeling his stomach twist at the thought that this was a side of James he hadn't been invited to know.

“As much as you like to say I’m stupid or an idiot,” James went on, voice amused, “I do have enough brain capacity to remember a locking charm.” He paused, glancing down the aisle again. “There’s nothing here.”

“Are you sure?” the boy pressed.

Peter made himself as small as he could, as if smallness could erase sound.

“Yes, quite sure.” James’s tone softened- fond, coaxing, like he was talking someone down from a ledge. “Again, I know I’m blind, but I’m not that blind. Come see for yourself.”

There was rustling- fabric, footsteps- and then they appeared together at the mouth of the aisle. James Potter and Regulus Black, fully composed. Tie straightened. Hair perfect. The kind of boy who could put himself back together in seconds, like a mess, was something he could simply refuse. He moved to James’s side without hesitation, fitting there like it was practiced. Like there was an invisible outline in the air and Regulus had stepped neatly into it.

James shifted closer without thinking, shoulder brushing Regulus’s, wand lowering like the room was no longer a threat because Regulus was there.

Peter’s brain stuttered.

Regulus’s gaze swept the aisle- cold, sharp, assessing. He didn’t look panicked. He looked… calculating. Like he was already deciding what they’d do if someone had been there.

Then James tipped his head slightly toward Regulus, voice quiet and precise. “See?” he murmured, and Peter couldn’t tell if it was reassurance or instruction. James’s smile turned softer- dangerously soft. “Told you.”His fingers tilted the shorter boy's face that was still peering down the aisle to meet him instead, brushing his cheek with his thumb, bringing their foreheads together. “There's nothing there, you're ok,” another swipe on the cheek, “we're ok,” another, “take a breath for me, love.” And surprisingly, Regulus did, and that's when Peter noticed his shallow breaths till that point. When his breathing was back to normal, Regulus leaned further into James' hand, chasing the comfort.

Peter stared at them from the shadows, heart pounding against his ribs.

Because it wasn’t just that they were together. It was the way they moved, like they owned the space between them. Like the whole castle was a stage, and this- this narrow aisle of lockers and shadow- was the only place they ever stopped acting.

The fucking Black brothers, Peter thought, mean and helpless all at once. Was it some sort of competition for James’s attention? Or did James need to collect the whole set?

James Potter, unable to stop himself from helping someone in need, and Peter would say it again, who was in bigger need than a black? Peter wondered how this partnership could have developed. It was clear this wasn't new, based on their comfort level with each other; they moved around as if they already knew where the other was going next. The only time Peter has seen anything like it was with James’s parents. A kind of love they all aspired to have, especially James, who hoped to recreate it for himself.

Part of Peter was glad for his friend; it seemed he had found that love. He just wishes that James had told him and that the person was not another Black. Like, you have to be kidding.

Regulus’s fingers brushed James’s sleeve- barely there, like a correction. Bring his hands to James's chest and redo the buttons there reverently. “Cold,” James murmured, like an inside joke. Regulus didn’t look up. “Always,” he replied, and the word landed like a warning and a promise at the same time.

James leaned into the touch without thinking, shoulder turning just enough to make it easier- like his body knew the shape of Regulus’s hands and had already decided it belonged there.

“You worry too much,” James said softly.

Regulus’s fingers paused on the button. “I take the necessary steps to ensure success and work to avoid complications,” he corrected.

James huffed a quiet laugh. “You worry.”

“I worry about you being stupid,” Regulus said, perfectly calm.

“That’s worrying,” James pointed out, pleased.

Regulus finally lifted his gaze. His expression was composed, princely- the one people whispered about in the Great Hall. Untouchable. Unimpressed. But his eyes betrayed him, just slightly. They stayed on James’s mouth a beat too long.

“You’re smug,” Regulus said.

“And you like it,” James replied, and there was something almost playful in it- like he’d learned exactly which lines made Regulus’s control slip.

Regulus’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile. A decision. He reached up, straightened James’s tie with brisk precision, then tugged it just enough to pull James closer.

“Don’t,” Regulus murmured, close enough now that the word felt like it belonged to James’s skin.

James’s breath caught- tiny, human. “Don’t what?”

“Don’t act like you haven’t ruined me,” Regulus said, voice low and velvet-soft in a way Peter couldn’t reconcile with the boy who sat like a statue at the Slytherin table. Then, quieter, like he regretted the honesty the moment it slipped out: “You could ruin me.” His eyes flicked down to the floor.

James’s expression softened. It was clear even to Peter what he meant. If anyone found out about this little rendezvous, Regulus would be ostracized by his house and family. James lifted a hand and, with surprising gentleness, brushed his thumb along the edge of Regulus’s jaw- like he was checking that he was still there- before tipping his chin up, pulling Regulus’s gaze back to his.

“We could ruin each other. I won- ” James started, then stopped himself, smiling like he’d nearly said something too honest. “You’re doing that thing.”

Regulus’s brows knit. “What thing?”

“The thing where you pretend you don’t want me,” James said, quiet and teasing at once. “When you’re practically climbing into my robes.”

Regulus’s eyes narrowed, offended on principle, letting go of the tie. “Potter.”

The name should’ve been sharp. It came out soft at the edges, and Peter felt the wrongness of it like a bruise.

James’s smile widened. “There it is.”

Regulus made a small sound of irritation and shoved James backward a half-step- just enough to make him bump lightly into the lockers.

James let him. Allowed it like a gift.

Regulus closed the distance again immediately, as if he couldn’t stand the space he’d created. He leaned in on his tiptoes, forehead nearly touching James’s, and spoke so quietly that Peter barely caught it.

“You’re mine,” Regulus said.

James didn’t laugh. No hesitation. “Always.”

Something in Regulus’s shoulders eased at that- just a fraction, just enough to prove he needed to hear it.

Peter’s claws curled into the stone.

This wasn’t a fling. This wasn’t some reckless, hormonal mistake. They were… close. Comfortable in each other in a way that made Peter feel like he’d walked in on a language he didn’t speak. How much time did James trade away to learn it?

Regulus’s hand slid down James’s sleeve and caught his wrist, two fingers resting briefly over the pulse there. Possessive. Grounding.

“Now,” Regulus said, and the softness vanished as if he’d pocketed it. His voice cooled into something precise, strategic. “We should talk about Saturday.”

James straightened, smile still there but sharper now- like the same devotion had turned itself into a weapon. “Tell me.”

Regulus tipped his head, thinking. “After the match, you do your Evans routine.”

James made a faint, amused sound. “You love it when I do that.”

“I don’t love you flirting with her,” Regulus corrected, and for a heartbeat, his composure slipped into something almost… honest. Then the Slytherin prince returned, cunning and ruthless. “I love that they believe it. It gives them a story.” His fingers tightened once around James’s wrist. “And I love that no matter what they think, you come back to me.”

James’s grin went smaller. “Right.”

“You’ll make it obvious enough that they look,” Regulus continued, “but not so obvious that they follow. We need eyes on you, not feet behind you.”

James nodded once, serious now. “Ten minutes.”

“Ten,” Regulus agreed. “No more.”

“And you?” James asked, voice light as if he hadn’t just promised time like it was contraband.

Peter’s stomach turned. They sounded like they were planning a mission. In a way, they probably were- moving people like pieces on a chessboard to make sure the kings ended up in the same square.

“I leave with Evan,” Regulus said. “Or Barty.” James’s jaw tightened visibly. Regulus didn’t look away. “I won’t be seen alone.” Peter didn't recognize either name, Slytherins most likely.

James swallowed it down, regained composure, and leaned in again, voice dropping. “And after?”

Regulus’s eyes half-lidded, the prince slipping into something private. “After,” he murmured, “you come to me.”

James didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. Even Peter knew what he’d say.

They were sweet in the way dangerous things could be sweet- private, practiced, and absolutely certain the world would rearrange itself around them.

And Peter, in the corner of their stage, realized with a sick twist that he wasn’t just witnessing a secret.

He was witnessing a conspiracy.

“You’ll still want to see me if you lose,” Regulus asked, smug but… uncertain underneath it, like he hated needing reassurance.

“I want to see you always,” James replied immediately. Warm. Absolute.

Regulus took a step back, and for a second, he looked younger than his mask allowed. “I don’t know what I’m going to do next year,” he said- then corrected, as if strategy could save him from sentiment. “I mean- my Quidditch team will be unstoppable, but I…” A breath. “I’ll miss you.”

James’s expression softened into something Peter had never once meant to see. “Then I’ll come back,” he said simply. “Every night, if you want.”

Regulus stared at him like he was trying to decide if it was a promise or a threat. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

James’s smile sharpened. “Try me.” He leaned in just slightly, like he couldn’t help himself. “If you’re missing me, I’ll be missing you more.”

Regulus’s mouth twitched, and then- softly- he smiled. It wasn't a common expression Regulus wore. It made him look small, young, innocent. Peter wouldn't have used any of those words to describe him thirty minutes ago, but he looked his age. “Impossible,” Regulus murmured, but he didn’t sound like he meant it.

Then the prince returned, seamless. He stepped back, smoothing James’s collar one last time with brisk fingers as if sealing him shut. “Now shoo,” Regulus said, voice dry. “People will start wondering where their golden boy is.”

James gave a low laugh and turned toward the mirror. For a second, Peter watched him watch himself- glasses straight, hair fixed, expression rearranged into something effortless and bright. Put together. Regulus had made sure of that.

James leaned back in and kissed Regulus quickly- short and sweet, the kind of kiss married people shared when the world was waiting outside the door. Regulus let him. For half a second, he even leaned into it.

Then James was gone, slipping out like sunlight through a crack, the door swinging shut behind him. Peter’s pulse spiked. Opportunity. He launched himself from his hiding spot and sprinted for the door, tiny paws skittering on stone. He made it just in time, sliding through the narrowing gap before it closed completely.

Out in the corridor, the air felt colder. Realer. Too big.

Behind him, from inside the changing room, Peter heard a sound of disgust. Regulus. He must have seen him running through the door. Rude, Peter thought, he was a very well-groomed rat.

On the morning of the game, James was already in his jersey. He had the little connectors on his glasses to keep them from slipping off- something that should’ve looked ridiculous and somehow didn’t. On James, it looked… right. Like, even practicality knew better than to argue with him. His hair was just right, messed up, curling over the frames.

Peter sat on the edge of the bench and watched.

A few days earlier- after the changing-room gate, as Peter had started calling it in his head- he’d sprinted back across the castle to beat James to the dorm. He’d managed it, just barely, arriving red-faced and huffing.

When Peter asked where James had been, the answer had come too smoothly.

“Detention,” James had said, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t a lie. He’d stepped into the bathroom and ended the conversation before Peter could press.

But Peter had heard him humming softly through the door- something that sounded suspiciously like a love song.

Now, James and Sirius were talking Quidditch- strategies, new tricks, last-minute adjustments. Sirius was all sharp excitement, like a restless dog, while James countered him with calm confidence like he’d already won in his head.

Remus- Moony- ate in silence, half-listening, one hand idly running through Sirius’s hair where Sirius’s head rested on his shoulder. It was casual and domestic in a way that still made Peter’s stomach do something unpleasant if he looked at it too long.

Peter didn’t contribute the way he normally did when Quidditch came up. He was too inside his own head. He’d been out of it ever since he saw James and Regulus together. It didn’t make sense, and it did.

James was adored loudly. Regulus was adored quietly. One burned like sunlight; the other held the room like a held breath. They were both good at being seen- one made people laugh, one made people lower their voices. Either way, the castle behaved differently around them.

Everyone at Hogwarts had a version of James Potter in their head. Everyone had a version of Regulus Black, too. Peter wasn’t sure whether either boy belonged to the version people loved.

James: Head Boy. Gryffindor’s golden boy.

Regulus: the first sixth-year captain anyone could remember- Slytherin’s prince in a team jersey.

They had power over their houses, over the stands, over the way the castle seemed to tilt when they walked through it. And it seemed that when they were alone together, it was the only time they could lower their crowns, step off their pedestals and be… human.

Peter told himself he was happy for James. He did.

But the truth sat uglier underneath: Regulus felt like another barrier between Peter and the attention he used to get without asking.

Speaking of the devil- 

Regulus Black walked into the Great Hall, and the room shifted the way it always did when he appeared. The entire Slytherin Quidditch team trailed behind him like a procession. They wore that familiar expression Slytherin did so well- unbothered and displeased, as if they’d already decided they were above the day even while they were preparing to fight for it.

Regulus being captain at all was still something people whispered about. Sixth year, already handed the armband. It would’ve made most teams worse- power given too young always did- but Slytherin had… changed.

Not softer. Just cleaner.

Since Black took over, their games were still brutal, but brutal by the book. They played within the rules, as if the rules were a weapon. It was almost worse, in a way. At least with old Slytherin, you could see the foul coming. Before Peter respected it, how someone so young could whip his team into shape, now he couldn’t think about Regulus without his mind going back to the locker room.

Regulus and his team moved toward the Slytherin table like they owned the stone beneath their shoes. They didn’t look at anyone- not really- but the castle still made room for them. Even the noise changed, like the Great Hall remembered to behave.

Peter watched without meaning to.

And then- so fast Peter almost missed it- James’s eyes snagged.

Just a beat too long. A fraction of stillness, like something inside him had reached out and tightened. Then the warmth snapped back on, easy and bright, like nothing had happened.

But Peter had seen it.

Sirius, half turned on the bench, caught the direction of James’s gaze and followed it with the lazy attention of someone who assumed he already knew the answer.

“What are you staring at?” Sirius asked, squinting toward the Slytherin table. “Oh. Him.”

He said to him like it was a nuisance. Like Regulus Black was a stain on the day.

James didn’t answer immediately. He made himself look away, the way you did when you didn’t want anyone to catch you looking in the first place.

Sirius snorted. “You know, it’s embarrassing how much everyone pretends he’s terrifying. He’s just- ” Sirius gestured vaguely, as if Regulus was a concept he couldn’t be bothered to define. “Polished. Posh. A proud owner of the resting bitch face. He’d probably apologize before he hexed you.” He laughed, “You know he used to be afraid of the dark.” A beat then, “he probably still is.”

Remus made a small noise into his food, the closest thing to a laugh he’d offer the morning of a match. James nodded like he was confirming, but no one else seemed to notice.

Sirius leaned closer, warming to his own opinion. “And don’t get me started on that captain thing. Sixth year, like they’re handing out titles for having a good scowl.”

James’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t bite. He kept his face arranged the way it always was in public- calm, confident, faintly amused.

Peter watched him anyway. He watched the effort it took to not bite back.

Sirius kept going, because Sirius always kept going. “Honestly, I’d like to see him handle a real game. Not just slither around acting like the pitch belongs to him.”

“Your obsession is showing,” Remus said mildly, still eating.

“It’s not obsession,” Sirius scoffed. “It’s principle.”

Then Sirius’s grin returned, sudden and bright, and he slung an arm around James’s shoulders like the idea had always been there.

“Besides,” Sirius said, voice loud enough to be heard, “Prongs doesn’t care about ‘The Great Regulus Black’,” he said in air quotes, like the notion of Regulus being recognized for something Sirius doesn’t do better is ridiculous. Which makes sense, Peter thinks, he grew up as the older brother, the heir. Meant to be the blueprint that the younger sibling couldn’t quite manage to recreate. Where Regulus is the younger brother, the spare. Meant to constantly be falling just at the finish line, never able to match his older brother. 

But Regulus is the heir now, exactly what their parents wanted, at least that’s what Sirius said, but Peter knew better now. “Prongs cares about winning. He’s in love with Quidditch.”

James shoved him lightly. “I’m not in love with Quidditch.”

Sirius ignored him. “He is,” Sirius insisted, delighted. “He loves it more than he loves any of us.”

“Rubbish,” James said, but it came out a fraction too late.

Sirius elbowed him affectionately. “Please. If Quidditch could talk, you’d marry it.”

“And you’d be the best man,” Remus murmured. Peter protested on the inside. If Sirius were to know who James would probably actually marry, he wouldn’t approve, but Peter would be there for James so he could be the best m- Wait-

Sirius wouldn’t approve if he knew about James and Regulus. If Peter told him, then they would fight, and Peter could be the shoulder James could cry on. No, because James would be mad if Sirius found out from Peter, but if he implied it or hinted so that Sirius could figure it out on his own. That could work.

Sirius beamed at that as if it were praise. “Exactly. Because he’s my brother.”

James turned his head sharply. “I’m not your- ”

“You are,” Sirius cut in immediately, pleased with himself. “You’re practically my brother. Everyone knows it.”

Brother.

Brother.

Brother…

It wasn’t fair, was it? Sirius could say one word and take up all the space around James, like history belonged to whoever spoke loudest. Like Peter’s years and summers and scraped knees didn’t count because they weren’t dramatic enough.

Peter smiled anyway. He always did.

And then, before he could stop himself, the bitterness slipped out through his teeth like poison dressed as a joke.

“Huh,” Peter said, too casual. “Didn’t realize Regulus kept up with the black family traditions.”

Fuck- so much for casually hinting. They all liked to make digs at Sirius for his family tree resembling more like a wreath, it's one of the only times Peter could wound Sirius up without getting scolded by James because he did it too. So when Sirius started throwing the word brother around, Peter took his usual cheap shot. 

Except this time it didn't land like a joke. It sounded like an accusation. Worst of all, it was an accusation towards James not Sirius, with the context Peter wasn't supposed to know. 

For a second, the table didn’t react at all. Like the words didn’t compute. Maybe they didn’t hear Peter hoped.

Then Sirius’s head snapped around. “What?”

Remus’s eyes went sharp, his expression flattening into something wary. “Peter.” His eyes darted to James. Maybe Remus knew more than he was letting on.

Peter lifted a shoulder, forcing a laugh that sounded thin even to him. “Nothing. Just-  Black family jokes. You know.” He tried to play it off.

Sirius looked like he wanted to bite. “Explain.”

Peter’s cheeks burned. He hadn’t meant- he hadn’t-  he doesn’t-

James laughed.

It was the right sound. The easy sound. The sound that told everyone it was fine and funny and nothing at all. Except Peter saw the truth in the split second underneath it. The others chuckled along with James.

James’s head snapped toward him.

Fast. Sharp. Like a reflex.

His eyes met Peter’s- bright, dangerous, suddenly awake- and for one terrifying heartbeat, the warmth dropped out of his face completely.

There was no smile. No golden boy.

Just calculation.

Then James blinked, and the mask slid back into place like it had never moved.

“Wormtail,” James said lightly, like he was correcting a homework mistake. “Don’t be weird.”

But his gaze didn’t leave Peter’s.

Not really.

And Peter felt- sickly, thrillingly- like he’d just touched a live wire. He had his attention. He wanted more.

“- and that’s another goal for Gryffindor!”

The commentator’s voice boomed over the pitch, magically amplified until it rattled in Peter’s teeth. The stands erupted- red and gold surging to their feet, chanting James’s name like it was a hymn.

Peter didn’t cheer fast enough. He made himself do it anyway, hands coming together a beat late as if his body had to remember the script.

On the pitch, James Potter arced away from the hoops with that effortless grin, hair wind-tossed, jersey tugging at his shoulders as if the air itself wanted a piece of him. He lifted a hand- half wave, half salute- and the roar doubled. A performance so practiced it looked natural.

Across the field, Slytherin didn’t break formation. They didn’t shout at each other. They didn’t flail or panic the way most teams did when Gryffindor gained momentum.

They tightened.

Clean. Coordinated. Dangerous in their calm.

Regulus Black hovered high above it all, Seeker’s position, the green of his jersey a dark slash against the sky. He looked bored- faintly unimpressed by the noise, by the worship, by James being James.

But Peter watched his eyes.

Regulus didn’t watch the Quaffle the way everyone else did. He watched James. Watched the angles James chose, the feints, the momentary hesitations. Like he was studying a pattern he already knew.

Sirius whooped beside Peter, practically vibrating. “That’s my brother!”

Remus’s hand was in Sirius’s hair again, grounding him, but his eyes were tracking the pitch with quiet focus.

Peter’s mouth went dry. Regulus' eyes darkened, and he called a play Peter didn't recognize.

Brother.

He’d said it so easily. So proud. Like words were claims, and claims made things true.

Below, James shot through Slytherin’s defense again- two Bludgers snapping dangerously close- and still he smiled, still he made it look like play.

And then, for the first time since the match started, Slytherin broke the “by the book” brutality and made it personal.

A Bludger swerved- wrong angle, wrong timing, too intentional- and Peter felt it in his gut before it even reached James.

It slammed into James’s broom with a crack like splitting wood.

The crowd screamed.

James dipped hard, catching himself, and for a breathless second, his glasses flashed in the sun as he fought the wobble. His smile was gone- gone so fast it was like it had never existed.

Peter’s fingers clenched around the railing until his knuckles whitened.

And Regulus-  Regulus moved.

Not toward the Snitch. Not even toward the Bludger.

Toward James.

It was subtle, almost nothing: a shift in his hover, a change in angle, the slightest forward drift- as if his body had made a decision before his face did.

Then Regulus caught himself, corrected, and returned to his Seeker’s altitude like he had never moved at all. He steadied himself, then dropped down to his beaters and berated them in front of the entire school.

Marleene, on her broom, was shouting at Madam Hooch. Someone was yelling “FOUL!” Someone else was yelling “PLAY ON!”

Sirius leaned forward, eyes wild. “Did you see that? That was deliberate- ”

James rose back into formation, broom steady again, the grin snapping back onto his face like armor. He flashed a bright look toward the stands, a quick thumbs-up, and the crowd swallowed their panic whole.

Golden boy. Everything’s fine.

Except Peter’s heart was beating too fast, and his mind wouldn’t let go of that tiny, almost-invisible movement Regulus had made.

Across the pitch, Regulus’s expression changed back to the unbothered expression. Still composed. Still princely. Still bored.

But his hand- just for a second- tightened around his broom handle. And when he glanced at James again, it wasn’t rivalry in his eyes. It was concern.

A whistle shrieked. Play reset.

The Quaffle went up again.

James shot forward like nothing had happened- like pain and fear and vulnerability were things that belonged to other people.

Slytherin shifted to meet him, clean and lethal.

And above them all, the Snitch flashed gold for half a heartbeat before vanishing again.

Peter saw the exact moment Regulus spotted it.

It wasn’t obvious- Regulus didn’t shout, didn’t jerk his head like an amateur, didn’t even look excited. But his whole body went still for a fraction of a second, like a compass needle snapping north.

Then he moved.

He darted after it so fast the air seemed to split around him, green jersey slicing through the sky like a blade. The crowd’s roar warped into something jagged, confused- people gasping as they tried to find the tiny gold flash again, trying to see what Regulus had already spotted.

“If he catches it now, Slytherin wins,” the commentator shouted, voice cracking with excitement. “Black is after it- he’s got a clear line- ”

James reacted a beat later.

Peter watched him clock it- eyes narrowing, smile gone, something hard and focused taking its place. James veered sharply, not toward the Snitch- he wasn’t a Seeker- but toward the chaos that always followed a Snitch chase. Toward the places you could buy seconds.

“MOVE!” Sirius bellowed somewhere below, as if volume could physically shove Regulus off course.

Gryffindor’s Beater swung hard, sending a Bludger screaming upfield. Slytherin’s Beater met it immediately, bat cracking like thunder, redirecting it cleanly- by the book, brutal, perfect.

The Snitch flickered again- golden, taunting- cutting left near the stands.

Regulus followed without hesitation, a hairpin turn that should’ve thrown him off his broom and didn’t. He didn’t fly like someone chasing luck. He flew as if he already knew the outcome.

The other Seeker- Gryffindor’s- was behind him, straining, too far back. It wasn’t even close.

Peter’s stomach dropped.

He looked at Gryffindor players, at James shouting something to his team, hands slicing the air in sharp, decisive motions. He looked composed from a distance, captain-perfect, golden boy in control- 

But Peter could see the tension in his jaw.

He could see Sirius, wild-eyed and furious, yelling at everything that moved. He could see Remus’s hand clamp on Sirius’s shoulder- not gentle, not soft. An anchor.

The Snitch dove.

Straight down toward the pitch, fast enough that Peter lost it for a second in the glare of afternoon light.

Regulus dove after it, the broom angled nearly vertical. The stands screamed as one, a wave of noise cresting so high it felt like it might snap the sky in half.

Peter’s nails dug into the railing.

Regulus was so close to the ground now that his shadow skimmed the grass. He leveled out at the last possible second- clean, controlled- and the Snitch shot forward again, darting toward the Slytherin goalposts like it was leading him home.

For one impossible heartbeat, Regulus and the Snitch were the only things on the pitch that mattered.

Then- 

Regulus’s arm shot out.

His fingers closed.

The stadium went silent.

It wasn’t real silence- there were still people breathing, still distant shouts, still brooms cutting air- but it felt like the world had forgotten sound for a moment just to watch his fist.

Regulus lifted his hand.

Gold flashed between his fingers.

The whistle shrieked. The match ended.

And then the noise came back all at once, exploding out of Slytherin stands like a storm breaking. Green and silver surged to their feet, screaming, chanting, shaking the stadium.

“Slytherin wins!” the commentator roared. “REGULUS BLACK HAS CAUGHT THE SNITCH- Slytherin takes the Cup!”

On the pitch, Slytherin swarmed him- hands on his shoulders, pulling him down, slapping his back, lifting him like a prince on a pedestal.

Regulus let it happen like he’d been born for it. He raised the Snitch again, face calm, composed, almost bored- 

But Peter’s eyes were now fixed on James.

James hovered still in the air, a few meters away, frozen in place with his broom steady beneath him like sheer will. His teammates spiraled around him- some shouting, some stunned, some furious- but James didn’t move.

He just stared.

Regulus, half-crushed under his team’s celebration, turned his head slightly.

Their eyes met across the pitch.

Not long. Not obvious.

A beat.

And in that beat, Peter saw it- the crack beneath the crowns. The private thing. The vow.

Regulus’s mouth twitched, barely.

James’s hand tightened on his broom handle.

Then James smiled.

Bright, easy, practiced- golden boy to the last- like losing had never touched him at all.

Except Peter, watching, knew better.

Because that smile wasn’t for the crowd.

It was for Regulus Black.

“It had to be deliberate,” Sirius insisted. “Reggie called something out right before the Beaters hit.” He crossed his arms like a child denied a sweet, jaw set stubbornly.

“But did you see him after?” Remus protested as they came down the last few steps, voice low but firm. “He yelled at them, Sirius. I’ve never seen him lose composure like that.”

Peter’s eyes darted to Remus.

That detail mattered. Remus didn’t exaggerate. If he was saying Regulus lost control, then Regulus truly had.

Sirius didn’t answer. Not really. He just made a sound- half scoff, half growl- like the conversation was finished for now, not resolved.

And the second his foot hit the grass of the pitch, he was gone.

Sirius sprinted toward James, fast and reckless, hands already hovering as if he could check for bruises without even touching. As if he needed to prove James was still intact. Whole. Still his.

The pitch was chaotic in the way it always was after a final- shouting, laughter, furious complaints, broomsticks tossed onto grass like weapons surrendered. Slytherin’s side was a storm of green, their victory loud and gleeful, while Gryffindor’s was a tangle of red frustration and forced smiles.

Peter trailed behind Remus as they stepped off the last stair and onto the grass. Sirius was already halfway across the pitch, sprinting for James like he could outrun the loss itself.

“Prongs!” Sirius yelled, hands hovering the moment he reached him, as if he was afraid to touch and afraid not to. “You okay? That Bludger- ”

James caught his wrist and shoved him off gently, grinning too brightly. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, you’re- ” Sirius began, and then cut himself off when James’s smile didn’t change. “You’re… you’re infuriating.”

James laughed like it was a compliment. “Thanks.”

Remus slowed near them, steadying the moment without forcing himself into it. Peter hovered at the edge, half in, half out, pretending he belonged.

Across the pitch, a little pocket of normal formed: Marlene McKinnon, still flushed from flying, stomping toward Dorcas Meadows with the kind of determined stride that meant she’d decided to be gracious whether she liked it or not.

Dorcas met her halfway.

For a second, they just looked at each other- two girls who played like they had something to prove.

Then Dorcas offered her hand.

Marlene took it.

Their fingers clasped. Firm. Sportsmanlike.

And then- because Peter was watching, because Peter had gotten good at seeing too much- he saw it: the slight hitch in Marlene’s breath, Dorcas’s eyes dropping to their hands like she’d forgotten what she was doing. A faint pink blooming on both their cheeks, stubborn and undeniable.

Marlene smiled first, quick and sharp. “Good game.”

Dorcas’s answering smile was softer. “You nearly took my head off.”

“You would’ve deserved it,” Marlene said, and her voice was snarky, but her grip lingered a beat too long.

Dorcas’s cheeks went darker. “Right.”

Peter blinked hard and looked away before he could be caught staring. The sweetness of it made something in his chest pinch- not envy exactly. Just… wanting. Wanting things to be simple like that.

But nothing was simple anymore.

James’s gaze lifted, scanning.

Not the way you scanned for teammates or stray equipment. Not even the way he scanned for Sirius- Sirius was always loud enough to find on his own.

James was looking for someone specific.

Peter’s stomach tightened.

Lily, Peter thought automatically.

Except Lily Evans wasn’t on the grass. Not in the crowd spilling down from the stands, not in the ring of students edging closer to congratulate or gloat.

Peter followed James’s gaze to the Slytherin cluster- where Regulus Black was being lifted by his team like a prize.

Regulus looked flawless even in victory. Calm. Composed. Like it was expected.

Then Regulus’s eyes flicked sideways and landed on someone approaching him.

Barty.

Barty Crouch- he recently learned -  He knew the names in the way you knew Slytherins- by rumor, not introduction. Slytherin’s ever-smiling menace in perfectly neat robes, pushing through the celebrating bodies with the easy familiarity of someone who belonged anywhere he wanted to.

He clapped Regulus on the shoulder. Said something Peter couldn’t hear over the noise.

Regulus’s expression didn’t change- until it did.

Just for a blink.

Annoyance. Sharp and private. Gone before anyone else could see it.

Then Regulus nodded once and stepped out of the rush.

He left the pitch with Barty at his side, the two of them moving away from the celebration like it was choreographed- like this was the part of the day that mattered.

Peter’s mouth went dry.

James saw them.

Peter watched James see them.

Something tight snapped into place behind James’s eyes. He looked away immediately, forcing the grin back onto his face, saying something to Sirius that made Sirius laugh- too loud, too forced, like laughter could patch a rip.

Then James looked around again.

Searching.

For Lily.

For the cover.

For the story.

And Lily wasn’t there.

Peter’s jealousy, already raw, flared hot. He couldn’t stop it. The words came out before he’d decided they would.

“Looking for Evans?” Peter asked, too light. Too casual. “Bit awkward when your plan doesn’t work out, or even show up, yeah?”

James’s smile didn’t drop right away.

It twitched- a microscopic failure in the performance- before he caught it and smoothed it back into place.

Sirius didn’t notice. Sirius was still riding his own anger, still complaining about fouls and unfair calls. Remus’s gaze flicked between James and Peter once, sharp as a blade.

James turned to Peter. He’d promised himself he’d be patient, but he’d felt James’s eyes on him earlier, it felt like a rush, and now he wanted that focus again- no matter how he got it. And he was going to get it now. Peter felt like an addict just itching for his next hit.

He ditched his initial plan to turn Sirius and James against each other; he just wanted James' attention now, fully on him. Plus, for James to be able to talk to Peter about his relationship, he needed the other boy to know he knew. Yeah, that made sense, right? To be honest, Peter wasn't quite sure he already felt a floaty sensation with James looking at him like that.

“What did you say?” he asked, still smiling. Eyes scanning, realizing that Peter seemed to know too much.

But it wasn’t the Golden Boy smile.

Peter swallowed. He didn’t back down. Couldn’t. Not now. Not when he’d finally found the crack that made James look at him.

“I said,” Peter repeated, forcing a laugh, “that Lily’s not here. I thought she’d be-  I don’t know. Congratulating you? Consoling you? Isn’t that sort of the point, to be seen but not followed?”

James stared at him for a beat, and Peter felt the world narrow.

Remus shifted slightly, like he was preparing to step in. Sirius kept talking, oblivious, voice rising as he reenacted the Bludger hit with his hands.

James stepped closer to Peter- just close enough that it was unmistakably deliberate. Close enough that if anyone looked, they’d assume it was captain talk. Teammates talk. Nothing personal.

His voice dropped.

“Watch your mouth,” James said quietly.

Peter’s cheeks flushed, heat and humiliation mixing into something mean. “Why?” he hissed back. “I’m your friend, James. I’m allowed to ask about your relationships, right, or is there something you're hid-"James's eyes flashed, and Peter went quiet. He might be going too far by making this too public. But Remus seemed to be the only one paying attention anyway, so maybe it's fine.

For a second, Peter saw him- the real him- the one from the changing room. The one who didn’t need a crowd to be dangerous.

Then James’s gaze flicked over Peter’s shoulder, checking who might be watching, and his face rearranged again into something easy.

“Wormtail,” James said softly, almost fondly. “You’re tired. You’re worked up. And you’re about to embarrass yourself.” James said, cheerful enough that Sirius wouldn’t clock it as anything else. “I’ll meet you back at the castle.”

Peter stared at him.

“You’re not even going to- ?”

James cut him off with another bright grin aimed at the world. “Later, Wormtail.”

And then he turned and walked away.

Not toward the Gryffindor exit.

But toward the path that would take him around the pitch- around the stands- toward the place Slytherin had disappeared.

Peter stood there in the churned-up grass, furious and cold all at once.

Because James hadn’t just ended the conversation.

He’d dismissed him.

And Peter had never hated anything more than feeling… replaceable.

Worse- he could feel it in his skin, that restless, insistent itch. Like this wasn’t enough. Like he needed more. More attention. More proof. More control.

Peter turned and headed for the common room, planning the whole way back.

Remus and Sirius follow behind him since they had no business at the pitch after James left. They were discussing the plan for the night. After a loss, a party didn't seem right, but they needed something to help lick their wounds.

Peter was sitting next to Mary on the couch closest to the fire. The drink in his hand and the warmth emanating from the flames seem to be the only reprieve from the insistent tingling under his skin.

On his walk up from the castle, Peter had not come up with any good ideas to get James attention without risking a punch to the face. Sirius and Remus were more successful.

So here Peter sits on the couch, in a semi-full common room, with semi-drunk teenagers nursing their loss, warmed by the fire, small conversations, and big drinks.

“-this kid in Ravenclaw, he is so annoying, but god does he smell good.” Mary was explaining an interaction she had recently had. Peter's attention was piqued; he was looking for a new bottle of cologne. “But we were in potions, and so I needed to smell the mixture, but all I could smell was his cologne. When I complained, he made a joke about me smelling him in amortentia,” she rolled her eyes. “Mind you, we aren’t making amortentia, so I have no clue what he was on about. Also, we did that last year, and I had no clue who this guy was back then,” she rambled. “Again, when I pointed that out to him, he just said, and I quote, 'The heart wants what the heart wants’, like come on.” Lily, who was sitting on Mary’s other side, snorted, her usual pale cheeks pale where a faint pink.

Peter jumped into the conversation, “Mary, can you ask this guy what cologne he wears? Also, Lily, where were you earlier?” words tumbling out before he could stop them. He really needed to learn to slow down the drinking. Peter heard a muffled ‘ask him yourself’ from Mary, which he ignored, focusing on Lily’s answer, and noticed her face got redder. “Oh, well, Mary and I decided to ditch; neither of us likes the game much.” Peter made an affirming noise, and Mary continued. “So, you know, with the dorm empty, we had a girls' day.”

Mary started listing the activities like she needed to convince Peter, “our nails, face mask, I braided her hair…” Peter didn’t hear the rest of her sentence because James entered the common room. Finally, Peter thought it had been at least two hours and he was scared James would never return.

He stood up abruptly, following James, who was getting himself a drink.

James looked put together in that unfair way he always did, as if losing had never touched him. Hair mostly neat. Jersey swapped for a sweater. A smile arranged loosely on his face for anyone who wanted it.

Peter felt something in his chest tighten, nerves maybe. Peter hovered at his shoulder, forcing his voice to work.

“Hey,” he said, too casual. “Where’d you disappear to?”

James didn’t even turn fully. He reached for a bottle, poured into a cup with an easy hand, and pressed it into Peter’s palm.

“Here,” he said, and then poured himself another.

Peter waited for an answer. For anything other than a one-word dismissal.

It didn’t come.

The silence between them stretched, ugly and loud under the common room noise. Peter tried again because he always did.

“Have you seen the others yet?” Peter asked. “Sirius was- he was worried.”

James hummed like that was mildly interesting, then glanced past Peter toward someone across the room. “Oi, Marlene!” he called, grin brightening instantly. “Good flying out there today.”

Marlene, sprawled on the arm of a chair, lifted her drink in acknowledgement. “You too, Potter. Try not to throw yourself at any more Bludgers next time.”

The room laughed.

James laughed with them- full-bodied, warm laughter that made people want to laugh back.

Peter stood beside him, invisible.

He hated this. Hated the feeling of hovering, of waiting for scraps like a dog at the table. Hated that his body kept leaning toward James anyway, like some sick instinct.

James turned slightly, and Peter thought- finally- he was going to look at him.

Instead, James was already talking to someone else.

“Evans,” James said brightly, like they were old friends and not a boy and a girl who’d spent seven years orbiting each other with varying degrees of irritation. “You survived the match? Didn’t see you out there.”

Lily looked up from the couch, cheeks still pink, and managed something like a smile, eyes flicking to Mary.

“I missed having you glaring at me from the stands,” James went on, easy and smooth, like he’d never been shaken in his life.

Peter’s mouth went dry.

Lily’s eyes darted to James, then back to Mary. “We… didn’t watch,” she admitted.

“Oh?” James’s grin didn’t falter. “Shame. I was very heroic.”

Mary snorted. “You were very concussed, from the sounds of it.”

James bowed slightly, accepting it. “A fair critique- though one that could only be made by actually watching the game.”

More laughter.

“Next time,” Mary conceded, rolling her eyes.

Peter felt his nails dig into his palm. He couldn’t tell if it was anger or humiliation that burned hotter. Peter’s skin prickled.

James set his drink down and lifted his voice just enough for the nearest cluster to hear, the way he did when he wanted to control a room without making it obvious.

“Right,” James announced, stretching like he was casually bored. “I’ve just realized I missed dinner.”

A chorus of groans rose immediately.

“Nooo, Prongs, don’t go,” Sirius argued, already a little uncoordinated from the drinks.

“Bring me back chocolate,” Remus called.

Sirius tried to smack Remus on the chest in outrage and hit his face instead as he lurched to his feet. “No, don’t gooo. You just got here.”

James placed a hand over his chest, offended. “I have been here for ages,” he protested. Lie. “And I’ve been unfairly deprived. I’m going to find something before I perish.”

“You’re dramatic,” Marlene shouted.

James pointed at her like she’d proven his point. “And you’ll all regret it when I waste away into a tragic legend.”

The common room laughed again, indulging him the way it always did.

James’s smile flashed. “Snack. Two minutes. If I’m not back, tell McGonagall I died bravely.”

He turned toward the portrait hole like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t planned. Like it wasn’t an exit line he’d rehearsed.

Peter’s heart thudded.

James was leaving.

Peter moved without thinking, following him immediately- too fast, too obvious, like a puppy that couldn’t help itself. The realization made him feel sick even as his feet kept going.

James didn’t look back.

He stepped through the portrait hole and into the corridor beyond.

Peter slipped after him.

The painting swung shut behind them. The common room noise dulled. The corridor air was colder.

James walked a few paces ahead, unhurried, as if he already knew Peter would come. As if he’d expected it. As if he’d made room for it in his plan.

Peter’s anger rose sharp and sudden in his throat. “James- ”

James kept walking.

Peter sped up.

“James!” Peter hissed, louder. “Why are you- why are you ignoring me?”

James finally stopped.

He turned.

And for a heartbeat, in the thin light of the corridor, the mask slipped.

Peter opened his mouth- but he didn’t manage to get anything out before a bright light made its way towards him.

And everything went black.

Peter’s head was killing him.

Sound came first- muffled voices layered over the throb behind his eyes- then the sense of fabric beneath him, something hard like a chair, and the faint, sharp scent of broom polish clinging to someone nearby.

He tried to open his eyes.

His lids felt glued shut.

“- and did you see me catch it, Jamie?” a voice was saying, breathless. “It was probably one of my best games.” There was a gasp, like the speaker had forgotten to breathe between thoughts, and then the words spilled out faster. “Next year will be so boring. No team gives the same rush, and all your best players are leaving- you, McKinnon… Sirius is already off the team, and we’re only losing Dorcas, which is a huge loss, but losing you- hic- as competition means it’ll just be a bloodbath.”

A pause- brief, like he’d realized he was talking too much and failed to stop anyway.

“Sorry,” the voice rushed on. “I’m rambling. I just- Evan made me take shots, you know how I get, and I’m a little pissed. I can take a Sober-Up, and I don’t mean to rub it in your face, and I’m sorry you got hit- are you hurt? I yelled at them, did- hic- did you see? I did, I- ”

A low chuckle cut gently through it.

“Yes, sweetheart,” another voice said- warm, amused, unmistakably James. “I saw.”

The first voice- Regulus, Peter realized, stomach turning; he hadn’t expected the Slytherin to ramble like this. Evan must’ve poured him more than a couple shots- went quiet for half a heartbeat, as if he’d been waiting for that answer more than he wanted to admit.

“No need to be sorry,” James continued, softer. “And I’m not hurt.” A pause. Fondness threaded through it like it belonged there. “I’m proud of you.”

Another pause- smaller, closer.

“You’ve done enough for tonight,” James murmured. “Let yourself be taken care of. No need for a sober-up, I can handle this. You just sit there and look pretty for me.”

Regulus hummed- pleased, dizzy with it. There was the faint sound of fabric shifting, like he’d curled closer.

Peter finally managed to blink his eyes open. His vision swarmed but he wanted to see what situation he was dealing with. 

At first, all he could make out was firelight- soft gold flickering across stone- and the blurred outline of two figures too close together for the scene to make sense. Then his eyes focused enough for the details to land.

James was sitting back against something that looked like a sofa- one arm draped along the back, the other resting easily at Regulus’s waist, keeping the other boy from falling.

Regulus Black was on his lap. Just… close. Legs tucked sideways, shoulder leaned into James’s chest as it belonged there. One of Regulus’s hands was curled in James’s sweater, fingers absentmindedly twisting the fabric as if he needed the tether. 

Regulus was smiling. Looking up at James with wonder in his eyes.

James’s thumb traced a lazy line at Regulus’s hip, the kind of touch you didn’t think about when you’d done it a hundred times. The kind of touch you didn’t do unless you were sure.

Peter made a noise- half inhale, half choke.

Regulus’s head snapped up.

For a second, his eyes went wide, the softness caught exposed like a throat. Then the mask slammed down- cold, princely, composed- 

Except it didn’t fit properly.

Not with his cheeks faintly flushed. Not with the loosened tie. Not with the way his pupils were still too blown, the way his hand stayed fisted in James’s sweater like he’d forgotten to let go.

Regulus cleared his throat like that could fix everything. “Good morning,” he said, then started to giggle.

Peter pushed himself up, immediately regretting it as pain flared behind his eyes. “What- ” he rasped, voice rough. “What the hell- where am I?”

James didn’t move. He just watched Peter with an irritating calm, like Peter was an inconvenience he’d already accounted for.

“You’re awake,” James said, as if that was the only relevant information.

Peter blinked hard, trying to get the room to stop tilting. “No, I’m- James, why does my head feel like a Bludger- why are you- ” His gaze snapped back to Regulus’s face, to the shape of him on James’s lap, and his brain stuttered again. “What is this?”

Regulus’s mouth tightened. The mask tried to hold.

It cracked at the edges.

“This is none of your business,” Regulus said, voice clipped- but the words came out a fraction too breathless, the posh precision blunted by whatever Evan’s shots had done to him. Peter's eyes snapped to Regulus, to James, then to their position as if to say if it's not my business, then why am I here while you're like that.

Peter looked at James, desperate for the world to right itself. “James,” he said, voice rising. “Tell me what’s going on.”

James’s smile- small, sharp- appeared like a knife being slid from a sleeve. “I’m not telling you anything.”

Peter stared. “You-  you can’t just- ”

“I can,” James said, still maddeningly calm. His hand stayed at Regulus’s waist, steady and possessive, like it was the only anchor in the room. “And you’re going to lower your voice.”

Peter’s face burned. “Why? Because I might wake someone up? Because I might- might interrupt your little- ”

James’s eyes flashed. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a warning.”No, because it's annoying.”

Peter swallowed. His throat hurt. “You stunned me,” he accused, realization dawning, because it was easier to be angry than to be afraid. “You- you knocked me out.”

James didn’t deny it. That was worse.

Regulus shifted on James’s lap, and the movement was automatic- seeking comfort, seeking closeness- before he caught himself and went rigid again, like he’d remembered he was supposed to be made of ice.

“Seriously, what's going on? Where are we?” Peter demanded.

James stayed quiet. “Room of Requirement,” Regulus whispered, almost like he didn't know he was doing it, just proving to himself that he knew where they were. James huffed, but he looked fond, and he kissed the top of his curly hair.

Peter’s stomach dropped.

“The- ” he started, and then stopped, because his head throbbed and his thoughts were lagging behind the horror. “Why- why are we in the Room of Requirement?”

James’s gaze didn’t leave Peter. “Because it locks,” he said simply. “Because it’s private. Because you were following me like a shadow.”

Peter flinched.

Regulus’s eyes flicked to Peter, cool again, almost. “And because,” he added, voice smoothing into something practiced, “you have a talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Peter’s hands curled into fists on the cushion beneath him. “I don’t even-  I don’t remember- ”

“Lie,” James said, almost gently.

Regulus’s mouth twitched, like he was deciding whether to be cruel or clever. Tipsy made the choice for him.

“For now,” Regulus murmured.

Peter went cold. “For-  what does that mean?”

James’s hand tightened at Regulus’s waist- warning, anchor, both. “Reg,” he said quietly.

Regulus blinked at him, pupils still too wide, cheeks still faintly flushed. The mask wavered and then slipped into place again, crooked. “What?” he asked, too innocent.

James sighed through his nose like he was counting to ten. “Don’t.”

Regulus tilted his head, studying James like James was the only thing in the room worth studying. Then, to Peter, with maddening calm: “It means you remember enough to be inconvenient.”

Peter’s throat went dry. “I- I don’t remember anything. Not properly. I remember the corridor and then- then nothing.”

“Lie again,” James said, chastising. “I don't know how, but you were in the locker room, and if you weren't, then you have the misfortune of saying the worst things at the worst times.”

Peter's lip trembled, “I didn't mean to, I was just curious. I just saw you and followed.”

“You see, you seem to have a bad tendency to follow me when you shouldn't,” James said.

Peter swallowed. “Because you were ignoring me.”

James’s eyes flicked, sharp. But Peter didn't give him time to respond. His anger surged- hot, desperate. “Because you’re my best friend and you’re acting like- like I’m nothing.”

Something passed over James’s face. Not guilt. Not sympathy.

Calculation.

He leaned forward slightly, voice lowering even further, as if the walls might be listening.

“You’re not nothing,” James said, careful. “You’re my friend-” not best Peter noticed “-and you're currently a problem.”

Peter flinched like he’d been struck.

Regulus let out a little laugh- soft, delighted, horrible. Then he tucked himself closer into James’s chest again, as if this conversation bored him. As if Peter was background noise.

“You should’ve stayed in the common room,” Regulus said, and his voice went velvet-smooth, that pureblood polish returning like a blade being wiped clean. “You should’ve let him go.”

Peter stared at him. “Why?” The word cracked. “Why would I- ”

Regulus’s eyes flicked over Peter like he was assessing a piece on a board. “Because,” he said, as if it were obvious, “he always comes back.”

James’s jaw tightened. “Regulus.”

Regulus ignored him, gaze fixed on Peter. “You don’t even know what you walked in on,” he added, a little smug, a little slurred at the edges. “You don’t know what you almost ruined.”

Peter’s hands curled tighter into the cushion. “Then tell me,” he snapped. “Tell me what the hell is happening.”

James’s mouth quirked, sharp. “No.”

Peter laughed once, disbelieving. “You can’t just keep saying that!”

“I can,” James repeated, and this time it wasn’t playful. It was flat. Final.

Regulus sighed dramatically and turned his face into James’s shoulder like he was going to nap. “Jamie,” he mumbled, voice suddenly soft, petulant. “He’s loud.”

Instead, James’s expression shifted- softer at the edges, fond in a way that made Peter’s chest ache. He brushed his thumb once along Regulus’s hip, soothing. “I know,” he murmured. “I know, love.”

Regulus hummed, pleased, and then- because he couldn’t help himself, because tipsy loosened the latch- he added, almost to himself, “We were supposed to be careful.”

James went very still.

Peter’s pulse spiked. “Careful about what?”

Regulus blinked slowly, as if the words had floated out of him without permission. The mask tried to slam back down.

Regulus shifted again, and his fingers tightened in James’s sweater like a reflex. His eyes flicked up to James’s face, searching- asking a silent question.

James answered without words, just by tightening his arm around Regulus’s waist. A reassurance. A promise.

Then James looked back at Peter.

His voice stayed mild. “Here’s what’s going to happen,” tone breaking no disagreements, eyes locked on Peter, but talking mainly to Regulus. “Well, take care of this then, I'm going to get you to bed, can't have you tripping over yourself all the way down to the dungeons. And you -” talking to Peter again “-you’re going to stop chasing things that aren’t yours.”

Regulus’s mouth curved, small and satisfied, like he loved hearing it phrased that way. “Mine,” he whispered, almost inaudible, gripping James’s sweater tighter.

Peter’s stomach turned.

James didn’t correct him. He didn’t even look surprised- just… resigned, fond, like this was a truth they’d already decided was allowed.

Regulus shifted again, and the movement started soft- nestling closer- before it changed.

Decision.

He drew back just enough to reach into his robes.

A wand appeared in his hand.

Peter’s breath caught.

Regulus looked at the wand like it was the solution. Like it was mercy. The mask smoothed over his face with practiced ease, but his eyes stayed a little too glassy, a little too bright.

“I’m sorry,” Regulus said, and the words came out carefully, almost sincere. He lifted the wand toward Peter’s face. Mouth opening to speak, forming an ‘o’.

Peter went rigid.

“No,” James said quietly.

Regulus blinked. “Jamie- ”

James’s hand closed around Regulus’s wrist- gentle, firm. He stopped the wand midair like he’d done it before. Like this wasn’t the first time he’d had to pull Regulus back from doing something permanent.

Regulus frowned, affronted on principle. “It’s fine,” he insisted, the posh edge returning. “It’s simple. We can- ”

“Regulus.” James’s voice stayed soft, but it left no room to argue. “You’re drunk.”

Regulus’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not- ”

“You are,” James said, and there was something almost tender about the way he said it. Like it wasn’t an insult. It was a reason to be handled gently. “You’re too drunk right now, love.”

Peter exhaled shakily before he could stop himself.

Relief hit his body first- hot and sudden- followed immediately by fear for what came after.

Regulus’s gaze flicked to Peter, cold again. “He’s listening,” he said, like that was the only important detail.

“I know,” James murmured.

He eased the wand down, not taking it from Regulus- just guiding it away, like redirecting a knife without making the person holding it feel small. Then he tucked Regulus closer with his other arm, palm firm at his waist.

Regulus’s mouth tightened. He didn’t fight James. He just… simmered, still gripping the wand like he wanted the option.

James looked back at Peter.

The golden-boy warmth didn’t return.

His eyes were steady. Awake. Controlled.

"You wanted my attention", James said, voice mild. "Congratulations, you got it".

Silence filled the room, sharp and cold as it stretched out between them, carrying a barely restrained power.

James didn't give him another chance to explain; he simply raised his own wand, and glee took over Regulus' face. Peter sees a flash of white and “Obliv-”

Peter stood before the mirror like it might explain why his head felt full of Bludgers and his stomach full of Snitches. He swayed, blinking at his own reflection- the pale face, the rumpled collar, the faint imprint of last night still clinging to him like smoke caught in fabric. His hair was worse than usual.

Gryffindor had had a mini gathering after the loss to Slytherin yesterday. Clearly, he’d had too much to drink, because his head was killing him and he couldn't remember half the night. It throbbed in time with his pulse, a dull, insistent ache that made thinking feel like trying to grip water.

He splashed his face. Straightened his collar. Tried to make himself look like a person.

Then he opened the bathroom door and stepped out.

James, Remus, and Sirius were waiting by the dorm entrance.

“Hiya, Pete,” James said, stepping forward and slapping him on the back.

The force of it sent a spike of pain up Peter’s skull- bright and nauseating. He flinched before he could stop himself.

James didn’t react.

He just smiled- wide and easy, eyes twinkling like someone had bottled sunlight and poured it behind his glasses. “You’re looking lively.”

Remus let out a quiet laugh. Peter groaned.

“Not this again,” Peter muttered, rubbing at his temple. “But seriously- you lot need to stop me from drinking so much, I swear I blacked out.”

James raised his hands in surrender, innocent as anything, a hidden gleam in his eye like he won something. “Noted.”

Sirius yawned dramatically beside them, stretching like the world hadn’t ended yesterday. “Breakfast. Please. I’m starving.”

“Ready for breakfast?” James asked, cheerful as anything, like Sirius hadn’t even spoken.

Peter stared at him for a beat too long. James’s smile didn’t falter.

“Yeah,” Peter managed a smile. “Breakfast.” 

Peter loved having James's attention on him. He wanted more.