When they returned to school in January, the frost had settled deep into the grounds. Ice veined the edges of the lake. The stone corridors seemed colder, more hollow. Everything felt still—too still. Like the castle was holding its breath.
And then somehow—impossibly, inexplicably—it happened.
It started with a look.
At first James told himself he was looking out of concern. Was only watching because he wanted to make sure Regulus was all right—checking on him for Sirius’s sake. But that wasn’t the whole truth.
The truth was, James liked looking at him.
What he hadn’t expected was for Regulus to look back.
Not by accident. Not in passing. But deliberately. Meeting James’s gaze across the Great Hall, in the library, after matches—and holding it. Calm. Steady. Unflinching. Waiting for James to be the one to look away first.
The first time Regulus spoke to him was in the library.
James had dropped his ink bottle—clumsy, distracted, by the way Regulus’s grey eyes met his from a few tables over. The ink bottle rolled beneath one of the reading tables in the back corner. He bent down to retrieve it, and when he straightened up, Regulus had moved from the table he’d been sitting at and was standing there, leaning against the shelf, looking down at James. James froze, ink-stained fingers curled around the bottle.
“You always sit where I can see you,” Regulus said, studying him carefully. “In the Great Hall. In the stands. Here.”
James met his eyes, and grinned. It took all his Gryffindor courage to say the next part, but he managed. “Or maybe you sit where you can see me.”
A pause. Regulus’s eyes didn’t waver, but the corners of his mouth lifted. The ghost of a smile. “Yes, I think that’s true too.”
He turned then, just as quietly, and walked away.
James didn’t move for a long moment. Just stood there, bottle still in his hand, heart thudding like it had been dropped down several staircases.
Regulus was sharp lines and still water. Controlled. Self-contained. Always just out of reach.
And then—suddenly—he wasn’t.
An arm brushed his in the corridor. A pause too long by the greenhouses. A glance held across the Great Hall, like something suspended between silence and intent.
James found himself looking for Regulus wherever he went.
And more often than not, when he did see him, Regulus was already watching—calm, unblinking, as though he’d been waiting. Then, one night, James spotted Regulus’s name on the Marauder’s Map—alone on the Astronomy Tower—long after curfew, long after anyone else had gone to bed.
And he took a chance.
A decision made in silence, in the kind of suspended breath that comes before the sky breaks open.
And it changed everything.
They met in hidden corners—at the very back of the library, in the forgotten sections where no one ever went. In unused classrooms. On the Astronomy Tower after curfew. Regulus didn’t smile often, but when he did—soft, private, just for James—it felt like a secret too delicate to touch.
James had never felt anything like it.
At first, he didn’t question it. He just let himself fall.
Later came the guilt—sharp, bitter, lodged in the back of his throat. Mostly about Sirius. About the lie that stretched longer every day. About knowing what Regulus meant to Sirius, and choosing not to care—because Regulus had started to mean something to James too.
There were other feelings too—confusion. About the fact that Regulus was a boy. About how much James liked him. How right it felt—more right than anything ever had. But that didn’t last—at least not long— in fact the confusion vanished the moment Regulus kissed him for the first time behind the green houses.
Lily faded.
The way daylight fades when the moon rises—softly, steadily, without resistance.
James barely noticed when he stopped trying to impress her. When he stopped thinking about her at all.
Only that, at some point, he had. Regulus had taken up residence inside his mind—and somewhere quieter, deeper, in his heart—and there simply wasn’t any room left for her.
Sirius started dating Mary in April.
No warning. No real explanation. He just turned up to breakfast one morning with his arm slung casually around her shoulders and a look on his face like he dared anyone to comment.
James was relieved.
It made everything easier. Sirius had somewhere else to be now. Someone else to distract him. Which meant James didn’t have to lie quite so often. Didn’t have to dodge questions with quite as much effort. When he slipped away at night, there was one less person watching.
Regulus showed him the Room of Requirement. A secret James and the other Marauders had never found. Their secret. A space that shifted itself to suit them, quiet and hidden. A place for just the two of them. Time moved differently when they were together. The Room shaped itself into quiet sanctuaries—low couches, floating candles, scattered blankets, and shelves that shifted to match Regulus’s mood. It was always warm there. Always safe. Like the rest of the world had been gently folded away. A place where Regulus touched him—with a kind of cautious reverence that never quite faded. A place where James let himself fall, completely and without reservation.
It wasn’t just the physical, though that was brilliant—honestly, it was better than James had known anything could be. But it wasn’t just that.
It was Regulus.
Sharp, funny, gentle, when he let himself be.
Impossible to ignore.
James loved the way Regulus spoke. With quiet intensity. Didn’t even matter what he was talking about: whether it was Quidditch strategy or a composition of star clusters, whether he was railing against a book he hated or describing the ones that he loved. Sharp—thoughtful, quietly passionate, utterly captivating. It didn’t matter that James hadn’t read half of what he referenced. It didn’t matter that Regulus’s views were sometimes contradictory and confusing. James would’ve listened to him for hours. He liked facts. Would quote them with no preamble, like, “You know swans form monogamous pairs,” or “In Ancient Rome purple dye came from crushed sea snails.” And then he’d look over, waiting—not smug, just curious—to see if James would laugh or question or roll his eyes.
James never rolled his eyes.
Regulus could be wickedly sharp when he wanted to be—his humour blink-and-you-miss-it, sarcastic and so subtle that James sometimes only caught the joke minutes later. He could also be kind in small, precise ways: James’s favourite sweats ordered from Hogsmead without asking, a spell cast silently to ease his bruised shoulder, the hand slipping into his at the exact moment James thought, I could stay here with you forever.
And James loved him.
The way his voice softened when he said James’s name. The curve of his mouth when he was trying not to smile. The way he frowned when he read. The way James's jumpers hung loose on his slender frame, the way he looked in them, soft, like something James wanted to wrap himself around and never let go of.
James didn’t notice how much he pulled away from everything else. How often Remus sat reading alone now. How often Peter didn’t bother to come looking when James disappeared for hours.
He didn’t see it.
He was too busy seeing only Regulus.
And wishing—aching—that he could show everyone else, too. But he couldn’t. No one could know. Especially not Sirius. Regulus had made that very clear.
So James surrendered himself to secrecy. To loving Regulus quietly. To pressing down on all the instincts that wanted to shout it from the highest tower in Hogwarts. To boast, to beam, to be seen. Told himself that just having him was enough, that he didn't need anyone else to know. That just the two of them was all he needed. That the secrecy and the lying didn't bother him. That he didn't need to talk about it with anyone. Told himself so frequently that he almost believed it.
Which was why it caught him off guard when, one evening in late May, he realised someone else did know about him and Regulus.
He and Sirius were making their way back from dinner and someone called out from behind them.
“Oi, Potter.”
James turned, eyebrows lifting. Evan Rosier was walking towards them.
Sirius bristled the instant he saw him.
“What the fuck do you want?” he snapped, sharp as flint.
Rosier ignored Sirius. Attention focused on James. “Vance sent me, wants to know if you’ll swap a couple of practice sessions next week. You got a minute?”
James nodded, already stepping to the side. “Yeah, sure—hang on.” He turned to Sirius. “Go on. I’ll catch you up.”
Sirius’s gaze bounced between them, narrowing. “Watch your fingers, mate. That snake bites.”
Rosier gave Sirius a dirty look as he walked away. James shoved his hands into his pockets, and waited, curiosity prickling. Vance usually tracked him down herself when she wanted to bicker about pitch time or trade practice slots.
Rosier jerked his head towards an empty classroom, and James followed: curiosity growing. Rosier closed the door behind him and then leaned back against it, arms folded across his chest—the picture of lazy disinterest.
“Reg can’t do tonight,” he said, like he was commenting on what was for dinner—not giving voice to the most carefully guarded secret of James’s life. “Prefect duty, apparently.” He shrugged. “Said to tell you—same time, same place but tomorrow. And that he’s sorry.” A beat. Then a smirk. “And that he’ll make it up to you.”
James blinked. Surprise washing over him. Here was Rosier—who clearly knew, who knew everything—smirking at him like it was it was normal. And somehow, that made it feel more real than anything else had. James smiled—small, involuntary. “Got it.” He hesitated. Then added, “Tell him—‘same stars, different sky.’”
Rosier snorted. “Yeah, I’m not saying that you sappy fuck.”
James let out a quiet, slightly sheepish laugh, the tension in his chest easing. “Fine. Just tell him—”
Rosier cut in, eyebrow arched. “Do I look like an owl?”
James grinned. “A bit, yeah. Stick a few feathers on and I reckon you could pass.”
“Prick.”
“Probably got a treat in my pocket, if you want.”
Rosier rolled his eyes. “Right. That’s it. Message rights revoked. You can both pine in suspense, for all I care.”
He shoved off the door, yanked it open and headed down the corridor without looking back.
“Hey, Rosier,” James called, sticking his head out the door and grinning. “Fly safe.”
Rosier didn’t turn around. Just flipped him off over his shoulder and kept walking.
James snorted. Then paused. For a moment, he just stood there—alone in the doorway to the empty classroom, grinning. It was the first time it had ever been acknowledged out loud.
Him and Regulus.
Them.
It made it feel solid. Like it had weight in the world.
And that made him feel—strangely, stupidly—giddy. He practically skipped back to Gryffindor Tower and floated through the next day.
End-of-year exams approached too quickly. Long hours spent revising with Remus, weekends buried in the library, mountains of homework—and James felt like he only really existed in the spaces between. Glances as they passed. Quick kisses in alcoves. Stolen nights in the Room of Requirement, wrapped in the quiet, private world they’d built—just them, just now.
James told Regulus he loved him. And Regulus told him back, not with words, never with words, but in the way Regulus touched his face. In the way he looked at him—like he was memorising him. Like James might disappear. Gryffindor crushed Hufflepuff in their semifinal. They played Slytherin in the final, and it looked like a sure victory—until Regulus caught the Snitch just in time to force a draw and end the match before Gryffindor could take the win.
James should have been furious.
But Regulus had looked so damn good doing it—all precision and poise, hair windblown, eyes sharp—that all James could think about was how badly he wanted to snog him under the stands.
The weather turned warm. The lake sparkled. Exam pressure mounted.
Remus was stressed. Peter was quiet. Sirius was nonchalant in the way he only got when he was avoiding something.
And James—James was stupid. Careless. And in love.
Which is exactly how he ended up with detention on the very last Saturday of the school year. And destined to spend his evening organising the small chamber at the base of the Astronomy Tower. Technically a storage room—though “abandoned crypt full of odd unwashed brass instruments, star atlases and telescopes,” would’ve been a more accurate description.
James pushed the door open, expecting silence—and stopped short in a burst of déjà vu.
Evan Rosier sat perched atop an overturned mop bucket, long legs stretched out in front of him, boots propped on a stack of star atlases. Just above his palm, a small flame hovered in midair—no brighter than a candle, but shifting shape constantly. Coiling, flaring, folding in on itself. He was watching it with half-lidded focus as it danced through his fingers.
James stepped inside, letting the door fall shut behind him. “We really must stop meeting like this. People might start thinking we’re up to no good.”
Rosier looked up and smirked. He tipped his head back against the wall, closed his fingers around the flame, shutting it off. “Wouldn’t want that Tosspot now, would we?”
James grinned at him, he didn’t mind that it was Rosier. Not at all. In fact, if he was being honest—he’d take this over being alone. James wasn’t going to begrudge the company; there were much worse people to end up in detention with on a Saturday night. James looked around him. The room itself looked suspiciously… pristine. Suspiciously finished. Every piece of brass gleamed. Every telescope case had been stacked with unnerving precision. The orreries were polished to within an inch of their enchanted lives.
James picked up a telescope and gave it a token swipe with a cloth. The lens caught the lamplight and winked at him. Spotless.
He glanced over his shoulder.
Rosier was watching him.
“How long have you been up here?” James asked. “Doesn’t look like there’s anything left to do.”
Rosier shrugged. “How many Saturdays have there been since September?”
James was about to ask what he meant by that when Rosier stood.
“You smoke?”
James shrugged. He didn’t. Not really. But Regulus did. And James had always thought it looked cool.
“Fancy it?” Rosier tipped his head upward—toward the tower above them. “We’ve got time. She does a pass-by at half eleven, then doesn’t come back until it’s time to finish.”
James hesitated. Then nodded. “Alright.”
Rosier stretched like a cat—unhurried, fluid—and then crossed to the door. James followed him into the narrow stairwell that twisted up toward the tower.
At the top, Rosier offered him a blue packet. James took one—only to realise, too late, he didn’t have his wand. Rosier slipped a silver Zippo from his pocket and flicked it open, offering James the flame.
James leaned into the flame, lit up, then stepped back, exhaling. “Thanks.”
Rosier lit his own cigarette, took a long drag, and let the smoke curl from his nose in a slow, practiced stream. “So. In for murder again?”
James huffed a laugh—surprised, almost choked on it.
A memory surfaced—twelve years old, saying something similar to Rosier in a trophy room. It felt like a different lifetime.
“Not this time. Curfew violation,” James admitted. And then—because he could, because there was no one else he could say it to—he added, “Regulus left his book up here the other night. I went back for it. Sinistra caught me on the stairs.”
Rosier snorted. “Trust Reg to bring a book along when he sneaks off to snog his boyfriend.”
James bit back a grin. Boyfriend. The word fizzed in his chest like champagne. Not because Evan said it, but because he said it like it was normal. Like it didn’t need explaining. Like it wasn’t a secret.
“We were studying.”
Rosier shot him a look. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
James grinned. “Piss off.”
Rosier chuckled.
James tilted his head. “What about you? What’d you do this time?”
Rosier took another drag. Exhaled. Let the silence sit for a beat.
“Lost my temper.” He flicked ash into the wind. “Put someone in St Mungo’s.”
He said it like he was talking about the weather.
James winced. “You’ve been in detention all year for Mulciber?”
Rosier shot him a sideways look. “You heard about that did you?”
“Caught the end of it, actually. Some duel.”
“Nearly got expelled for it.”
James blinked. “Shit.”
Rosier shrugged. “Not surprising really. Used Dark magic in front of a fuck tone of witnesses. Not the smartest thing I've ever done.”
If anyone else had said it, James would’ve heard posturing. But Rosier wasn’t boasting. He didn’t sound proud, or guilty either. Just matter of fact.
James studied him—his profile. Almost as tall as James. An inch or so shorter, maybe. Broad shoulders. Hair that looked silver rather than gold under the moonlight. A strong jaw, full mouth, straight nose. He looked relaxed. Leant back against the rail of the tower, hair moving slightly in the light breeze.
“Do you…” James hesitated. “Do you regret it?”
Rosier looked at him, cigarette burning low between his fingers. His expression didn’t change.
“No.”
James wasn’t sure if he’d have preferred it if Rosier had said yes—he regretted it. Or what it meant that he didn’t regret it.
So he didn’t say anything.
Instead, his mind drifted—backwards.
To a night in a broom shed, years ago. Evan Rosier, twelve years old, perched on a bucket like it was a throne. Snarky and unbothered. The conversation came back to him now, oddly clear, like smoke curling through the dark.
What? Think you could do better?
No. I’m rubbish at Charms.
Anything you are good at? Apart from lurking in broom sheds?
"Yeah. Duelling."
At the time, James had thought it was typical Slytherin bravado. The sort of thing you said to sound impressive.
But now—
He’d seen him duel.
He was good at duelling. Really good.
And there was something else.
Another memory surfaced from that same night: Rosier claiming he’d make the Slytherin team the following year. Not bragging—just stating it like a certainty.
And he had made the team.
James shot another look at him. His face was half-lit by the torch mounted on the tower wall—shadow and glow. Like something only half-revealed.
“You’re not what I expected.” James hadn’t really meant to say it. It had just… slipped out. A thought spoken aloud.
Rosier didn’t seem bothered. He just shrugged, stubbed out his cigarette, and turned to face James.
“What’d you expect?”
James studied him for a moment. “Honestly?”
Rosier lifted an eyebrow. “Sure. Why not. Knowing this place, no doubt it’ll be highly complimentary to my character.”
There were a lot of things James could’ve said. That Rosier wasn’t what he’d expected from a Slytherin—although, to be fair, neither was Regulus, so that was clearly a flawed metric. He could’ve reeled off the rumours: the ones about the blood magic, the old curses that flowed through their bloodline. He’d heard worse, too—dark, half-whispered things. That his sister wasn’t quite right in the head. That there had been a third sibling once—not twins, but triplets—and that something had happened to her. Rumours about his father, that he'd killed his brother, his wife, is own child. But Rosier probably knew the kinds of things people said about him and his family. Besides, James didn’t really believe any of that stuff, and there was something else he was more curious about than the dark rumour people whispered about the Rosiers. James wanted to know about Sirius, and why he hated Evan Rosier so much, and so he said, “I was led to believe you were a violent, psychotic, pyromaniac git who hits people with broomsticks, steals their biscuits, and sets fire to their beds.”
The response seemed to catch Rosier off guard. He stared at James for a beat—then threw back his head and laughed.
Really laughed.
It was a good laugh—low, unguarded, the kind that curled at the edges and made you want to laugh too. Rosier shook his head, eyes gleaming with amusement. “Technically? Yeah. That’s all true. But there’s context.” He ducked his head slightly. And then looked up, still smiling. “The bed thing wasn’t on purpose. I had... issues with accidental magic as a kid. Most of it involved fire. Set half my nursery alight before I could talk properly. I grew out of it… well the accidental bit anyway," he, paused and then added. "Still like fire.”
There was something weirdly disarming about how casually Rosier said it—bashful, unapologetic, but still like he was revealing something private.
“And the broomstick stuff?" he continued, "Sirius would never let Dora—my sister—play Quidditch with us. Said girls were crap at flying, use to make her cry: so I'd hit him with his broom until he changed his mind.” He shrugged, “I was eight. Felt like the honourable thing to do at the time.”
“Very,” James grinned. “And the biscuit thieving?” he asked, tilting his head. “Was there a noble cause behind that too?”
Rosier’s eyes glinted in the moonlight. He grinned—wide and shameless, a flash of perfect white teeth—and James noticed, absently, dimples. Rosier had dimples. He looked utterly angelic when he smiled like that. The expression at odds with the words that followed.
"Nah. He's right about me being evil on that account. Their mum use to give us biscuits if we finished our dinner, cake too—I'd take Sirius's when she wasn't looking. She never believed him either, always thought he was trying to get seconds." He paused, and then added with no sign penance, "honestly? I didn't even want them. Just liked how much it pissed him off. ”
James shook his head, smiling. Bloody hell, he thought. I think I actually like him.
Not in the way he liked Regulus, of course. But still. He liked talking to Evan Rosier. Liked his candour. It was... refreshing. And he was funny, in a sardonic and dry sort of way. They wandered back down to the equipment chamber. James dragged a crate over and Rosier shifted a chest between them to serve as a makeshift table and pulled a deck of playing cards from his pocket.
They started with Snap.
Turned out Rosier was irritatingly quick. James kept losing—“this is rigged,” James muttered after the fourth consecutive loss.
“Your reflexes are just shit,” Rosier shot back.
James scowled. Rosier grinned.
“Know how to play blackjack?” he asked, already dealing.
“No.”
“Alright—here’s how it works.”
He explained it slowly. Patiently. More patiently than James would’ve expected. The game wasn’t hard, not really, once James got the hang of it. Draw or stay. Count to twenty-one. Rosier insisted on betting with imaginary galleons. Then took it a step further—assigning ridiculous stakes to each hand. One round determined who would get the top bunk in an imaginary cell at Azkaban. Another involved theoretical ownership of Professor Binns’s ghost. Eventually, they moved on to something else—some game that was technically solitaire, but played with two. Rosier called it Chinese Solitaire.
“What’s Chinese about it?” James asked.
Rosier just shrugged. “Fuck if I know.”
It was nice.
Fun, even.
James barely noticed the time slipping past. Which was why he looked up, surprised, when Sinistra appeared in the doorway, wrapped in a long green dressing gown and yawning into her sleeve. She returned their wands with minimal commentary. Then, to James’s further surprise, she reached out and patted Rosier on the shoulder fondly.
“Do try not to set anything else on fire, dear.”
Rosier gave her a smirk. “I make no promises.”
She smiled and shook her head. "Well do it at home if you must. I've run out of things for you to clean."
They stepped out into the corridor together.
Down from the tenth floor in comfortable silence and parted ways at the foot of the stairwell with a nod.
There was less than a week left of term.
Just five days between now and the train home. Six long weeks of summer holidays waiting on the other side. Five days of final exams, last-minute revision, farewell feasts, and sunburnt afternoons by the lake.
The castle always felt strange at the end of the year—restless, like it wanted to exhale all at once.
James barely noticed it passing.
He sat the last of his exams. Snuck off to see Regulus whenever he could spare a moment. Spent nights curled in The Room of Requirement and early mornings slipping back through quiet corridors and into the dorm before anyone could notice he was missing. Sirius and Mary had taken to vanishing for hours at a time as well, so it was easier than it should have been.
James met Regulus for the last time the night before the train.
The Room of Requirement shaped itself into something soft—low light, books scattered on cushions, a window that overlooked nothing but showed stars anyway. Regulus had been there first. He always was. He didn’t say anything when James walked in. Just looked up from the book in his lap, expression unreadable, and held out a hand. James crossed the room without thinking. It was quiet. Regulus’s fingers found the back of James’s neck, and James leaning into him, exhaling slowly like he’d been holding his breath all day. Later, Regulus talked—about a constellation he’d been studying, about the cooling systems used in broom models from the 1930s, about a passage from The Anatomy of Melancholy that he didn’t entirely agree with but kept rereading anyway.
James didn’t understand half of it. He didn’t care.
At some point, James lay down with his head in Regulus’s lap. Regulus’s fingers moved through his hair, slow and absent. And when they parted in the early hours of the morning, Regulus with James's jacket wrapped around his shoulders, because he never remembered to bring one, James wondered just how he was going to survive six whole weeks without him.
Without this.