You met Regulus Black by complete accident.

You were eleven, fresh into green-trimmed robes, a bit lost after dinner, and somehow he was the only other person in the common room who looked like he also hadn’t figured out how to exist yet. So you sat near him. You didn’t say much. But the next day, you ended up partners in Potions. And by the end of the week, someone had said “you two are always together.”

And they weren’t wrong.

You and Regulus… you just stuck.

You weren’t exactly alike. You were bolder, quicker to speak, quicker to laugh. Regulus had that careful, controlled stillness about him — all sharp eyes and pressed lips. But you balanced each other.

You made him try things he never would’ve dared — snuck out with him to the Astronomy Tower just to scream at the stars, dragged him into kitchens to flirt your way into free desserts, doodled hearts and owls all over his textbooks. He never smiled at anyone the way he smiled at you — like he was forgetting to guard himself.

And he was there for you. Always. Whether it was when you had a bad day, or when your hands were shaking after an argument with a prefect, or when you’d cry so hard you thought you might fall apart — he didn’t always know what to say, but he sat beside you until you came back together.

It wasn’t romantic. Not really. Not technically.

Except maybe it was. For him.

You never noticed how he watched you — not really. Never noticed the way his eyes always found you first in a crowd, the way his fists clenched when someone else made you laugh.

And then came James Potter. That bloody, cocky, infuriatingly charming Gryffindor.

He was everything Regulus wasn’t — loud and bright and noticed. The kind of boy who knew everyone’s name, who winked at you across the corridor and called you love without flinching.

At first, Regulus didn’t think anything of it. James flirted with everyone, didn’t he?

But then… you started blushing.

And suddenly, Regulus could feel it. The shift. The way your eyes lit up when James passed by. The way your fingers brushed the pink paper of that stupid Valentine’s Day letter like it was sacred. The way you giggled over his handwriting — “he drew a stag, Reg!” — and how your voice turned soft when you said James’ name.

Regulus didn’t say anything. Of course not. Salazar forbid he admit it. But he was unraveling.

He started flying harder in Quidditch — not to win, but to knock James bloody Potter straight off his broom. He’d narrow his eyes when he saw the two of you talking in the library. He snapped at you once when you came back from a walk with James, cheeks flushed and scarf crooked, and you’d blinked at him like he’d kicked a cat.

He apologized. He always did.

But every time he saw James’ fingers touch your waist in the hallway, Regulus swore something inside him cracked. He’d bury it, deep, act like nothing had changed — laugh when you teased him, roll his eyes when you ranted, pass you notes during History of Magic just like always.

But it wasn’t the same. Not for him.