Chapter Text
The November air bit through James’s Quidditch robes as he tightened his gloves. Wind howled through the pitch, tossing golden and scarlet banners like waves of fire. Across the field, the Slytherins hovered in a tight, dark cluster, emerald robes gleaming even in the dull gray light.
And at their center—Regulus Black.
James tried not to look at him too long, but it was impossible not to. Regulus looked like he’d been carved from frost and marble, his expression sharp beneath his helmet, hair whipping out behind him as he mounted his broom. The contrast between them was almost laughable: James, all wind-tossed curls and sunshine grins; Regulus, cold elegance and unspoken defiance.
“Oi, Prongs,” Sirius called, grinning from the stands, already wrapped in a scarlet-and-gold scarf. “Try not to hex my brother off his broom this time, yeah?”
James rolled his eyes, pretending not to hear him. “Right,” he muttered, swinging his leg over his broom. “Let’s make this clean.”
The whistle blew.
The match exploded into motion—scarlet and emerald streaks slicing through the gray sky. James darted upward, his broom vibrating beneath him as he swerved past a Bludger, eyes scanning for the Quaffle. Slytherin’s Chasers were fast, ruthless, and Regulus—though Seeker—moved with a quiet precision that made James’s chest tighten every time he crossed paths with him.
They weren’t supposed to notice each other. Not really. Different teams, different worlds. But James did. Every time Regulus banked into a dive, every time the wind whipped his hair just so—James noticed.
The score climbed fast: 50–40, Gryffindor.
Then came the moment.
James had the Quaffle, streaking toward the Slytherin hoops, when he saw movement out of the corner of his eye—a silver flash, Regulus diving straight down. The Snitch.
“Watch it!” someone shouted, but James didn’t hear. His heart lurched. Regulus was too low. The ground rushed up, faster and faster, and before James could think, he dropped the Quaffle and pulled into a sharp dive, shouting—
“Regulus!”
It was too late.
The crack echoed across the pitch, horrible and final. Regulus’s broom snapped clean against the turf, his body twisting as he hit the ground.
The stands went silent.
James landed hard, nearly tripping over his broom as he sprinted toward him. Regulus lay pale against the grass, leg bent at an angle no leg should ever bend. His eyes were open—glassy, confused—but he was breathing, raggedly.
“Don’t move,” James said, breathless. “Don’t—Merlin, don’t move.”
Madam Pomfrey was already running down the field, wand drawn. James stumbled back, chest heaving, watching her murmur spells that glowed blue and green against Regulus’s skin. The Slytherin team crowded close, shouting, accusing.
“You hit him!” one of them snarled. “Potter, you—”
“I didn’t!” James’s voice cracked. “He was—he just—”
But the words died in his throat. Because even if he hadn’t touched Regulus, he had distracted him. Shouted his name.
He watched as Madam Pomfrey levitated Regulus onto a stretcher, his leg bound in shimmering light. James’s stomach turned over. Regulus’s fingers twitched once, faintly, before going still.
The hospital wing smelled like potions and clean linens.
James wasn’t supposed to be there. It was past curfew, and he’d already been told off twice by McGonagall for hovering in the corridor outside. But he couldn’t leave. He couldn’t sleep.
He sat in a chair by the far window, staring at the closed curtain around one of the beds. He could hear Pomfrey’s low voice from behind it, the rustle of fabric, the clink of glass. And then—
“This is… beyond simple repair,” she said softly. “The bone is shattered, nearly to powder in one place. Even with Skele-Gro, he’ll need months. He’ll walk, yes—but flying again… unlikely.”
James’s chest constricted. His stomach dropped so hard he thought he might be sick.
It was his fault. He knew it. He shouldn’t have shouted. Should’ve let Regulus focus. Should’ve stayed out of it.
The curtain rustled, and Pomfrey stepped out, startled to see him. “Mr. Potter,” she said sternly. “You shouldn’t—”
“How is he?”
Her expression softened. “He’ll recover. But I meant what I said. Quidditch is… unlikely.”
James swallowed hard. “Can I—can I see him?”
A long pause. Then, a sigh. “Five minutes.”
She left him alone with the curtain.
James hesitated before pulling it aside.
Regulus lay pale against the sheets, face turned toward the window, eyes half-open. He looked smaller somehow without his robes, like all that sharpness had been carved away, leaving something fragile underneath.
James cleared his throat. “Hey.”
Regulus didn’t move. Then, slowly, his gaze flicked toward him. “Potter,” he murmured, voice thin and dry. “Come to finish me off?”
James winced. “I didn’t mean to—”
“I know,” Regulus interrupted, eyes closing again. “You never mean to.”
The words hit harder than they should have.
“I’m sorry,” James said quietly. “I didn’t think you’d—”
“Fall?” Regulus gave a humorless laugh. “Neither did I.”
Silence stretched between them. Outside, the rain started to fall, tapping softly against the window.
James looked down at his hands. “I’ll… I’ll help you. Whatever you need. Notes, food, anything. I mean it.”
Regulus turned his head, eyes glinting in the low light. “You feel guilty.”
James met his gaze. “Maybe I do.”
Regulus studied him for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his expression. Then he said, quietly, “Then prove it.”