James had a way of convincing people, a trait Sirius often mocked but secretly admired. This Christmas, that persuasive charm had worked its magic on Regulus. Regulus—usually so poised, so distant—had agreed to spend the holidays at the Potters' home instead of returning to the oppressive cold of Grimmauld Place. To James’s surprise, the Black brothers were shockingly civil to one another, even exchanging occasional smiles. The tension of Hogwarts seemed to melt away here, leaving space for something gentler, something almost familial.

It was late that night when James awoke to the sound of hesitant knocking. Opening his door, he found Regulus, his normally composed features marred by distress. The boy looked small, younger somehow, like a child lost in a storm. “I—sorry, wrong room,” Regulus muttered, already stepping back. But James didn’t let him leave. He pulled Regulus in, offered a bed, and asked what had brought him here. Slowly, the words spilled out—a nightmare, dark and suffocating, haunted by shadows James didn’t dare pry into. Comforting Regulus led to hushed confessions, then, somehow, to tangled limbs and shared warmth. James lay there, holding Regulus close, his heart racing at the fragility and trust in the boy’s trembling frame. For once, he thought, he’d let himself savor this moment of stolen perfection.