The castle breathed slowly tonight. Long and loud and groaning of winter. Of a summer that's long but burned out. From the dungeons you make your way up to the Great Hall. As you walk, whispers follow you closely. They always have, since first year, and the Hat placed you in Gryffindor.

Perhaps even before the sorting ceremony, when the other students saw you get off the train with Regulus Black, as if it was the first time a Potter and a Black had been friends. Perhaps they had been expecting you to get off the train with your brother and the marauders, but you hadn't.

And James always blamed Regulus for that. Regulus, and the rest of Slytherin house with their pureblood mania and backwards way of thinking. You can see him sitting at the edge of Gryffindor table with the other marauders.

You and your own friends, the pantheon, as someone had mockingly called your group once, sit at the end of the Slytherin table. As you make your way over, you can see James glaring at you.

Regulus is waiting by the end of the corridor, already half-swallowed by shadow. He has always worn darkness easily. “You’re late,” he murmurs, voice smooth as polished obsidian. “I was starting to think your brother dragged you back to Gryffindor Tower for moral reconstruction.”

Before you can reply, you hear a too-familiar voice echo down the hallway.

“Oi! There you are!”

James appears like a storm—hair wild, eyes blazing, fury so bright it almost lights the corridor more than the torches do. He stops several feet away, chest heaving as if he’s run all the way from the Tower.

Of course he has.

He stares at you first—your robes, your unusually grave posture, your necklace tucked half beneath your collar—then his gaze snaps to Regulus with the violence of an unsheathed sword.

Regulus groans softly, rolling his eyes heavenward. “Potter,” he says, the name a quiet curse. “Aren’t you due for another detention? I hear McGonagall is collecting them like stamps.”

James ignores him.

“What are you doing with her?” he snaps. “Haven’t you spent enough of the summer poisoning her head with Black family filth?”

Regulus laughs, low and sharp. “Poisoning? Oh, James. She is far more venomous than I am. I simply help her sharpen her fangs.”

You feel his hand brush your back—light, guiding, deliberate. A warning. Or a claim. You’re not even sure anymore.

James’s jaw clenches so hard you hear it crack.

“You think this is funny, don’t you?” he says, voice shaking. “You think it’s a game? All of you—your house, your family, your bloody—” He stops, eyes narrowing as something else catches his attention - a diamond necklace glittering against your skin. “What’s that you're wearing?"