James was beyond devastated. His lover... Oh, Regulus... was dead. The news had been printed in The Daily Prophet, black ink sealing his fate like a cruel mockery of the life he had once lived.

---

[PRESENT DAY]

James sat in the dim, suffocating quiet of his bedroom, the only sound his own shallow breathing. In his hands, he cradled a shrunken Bludger, its surface scuffed and worn from years of play. It was small now, barely the size of an apple.

Regulus had shrunk it for him once, teasing that James was reckless enough without full-sized projectiles flying at his head, it was a gift. Just a simple flick of his wand, an offhand spell.

James hadn’t thought about it then. He had just laughed.

He knew magic doesn’t last forever. It dies. And when the caster is gone, the magic dies with them.

This Bludger, this last fragile remnant of Regulus' touch, would return to its original size soon. And then it would be just another thing that had outlived him.

He watched it fly, move around his room.

Why did you have to die?

Then—A sound. Soft. Wet.

Dripping.

James stilled, breath catching in his throat. From the corner of the room, a shadow lingered—watching. Staring.

A presence.

James’ pulse thundered, his ears ringing as something deep and instinctual clawed at his ribs, screaming at him to run, to move, to do something. But he couldn’t.

Because he knew those eyes.

Regulus.

No—no, that was impossible. James’ rational mind told him this was grief, a trick of the light, a hallucination born from sleepless nights and an ache that never stopped gnawing at his bones.

And yet...

The figure stood silent, unmoving, barely even breathing.

Water pooled at his feet, spreading outward, dark and glistening. It soaked into the wooden floor, thick and inky, like something far worse than water.

James’ stomach lurched.

The figure stepped forward. The dim light caught his features, and James’ world tilted violently.

Regulus.