Chapter Text
Regulus ends up staying another night at St. Mungo's, if only to get out of staying any longer with Potter. Eventually, however, he'll have to leave, so he may as well get it over with.
Potter comes to the hospital room earlier that day, bringing Harry with him - for which Regulus is thankful for, seeing as he acts as a sort of buffer between them. When he's ready to leave, Healer Jones pops in to go over the different potions he'll have to take, but he drones most of it out. Instead, he absentmindedly cards his fingers through Harry's hair as the boy falls asleep on top of him.
The motion is calming enough to get through having to listen to Potter's voice, and the tedious rules of taking too much or too little of whatever he's being prescribed. Potter seems to have a handle on it, so Regulus lets himself fall into the comforting feeling.
He's disturbed, of course he is, by Potter's hand on his shoulder, bringing him out of his daze.
"Ready to go?" He asks, nodding to the door.
When Potter had said that he wasn't going to stop talking to Regulus, he truly hadn't been lying. What Regulus hadn't accounted for, however, was the fact that Potter was also not going to stop with that agitating voice. The one where he sounds like he's approaching a wild beast, wary that any movement may cause him to strike. Surely he wouldn't speak to Regulus like that normally?
However annoying it is to be spoken to so softly, perhaps it's warranted given that most of Regulus' reactions to Potter consist of a range of withering stares, glares, eye rolls and scowls. So, Regulus hums and collects his things. His wand gets shoved into his pocket, brought over to him by Potter that morning. Harry gets settled on his hip, and he tries to ignore how easy the motion is. Potter takes his other things, swinging the bag over one shoulder with ease, which Regulus also tries to ignore. He’s not going to let a few muscles distract him from his hatred.
"Do you want me to take H-"
"No."
Potter gives a resigned nod and leads the way out of the room. It's only when they get to the reception doors that Regulus thinks to ask, "Where are we going?"
It stops Potter short, and Regulus hates the look on the man's face. He furrows his brows, tilting his head in confusion. "...Home?"
Obviously, you imbecile. "No, I mean why aren't we taking the floo?" Regulus corrects blankly.
Realisation falls on Potter's face, and he thankfully explains it without making him feel stupid. "It got blocked off a while ago after the attack. There's apparition points at the edge of the wards."
Would that not cause problems for patients? What kind of foolish idea was that? Regulus realises he’ll have to simply endure the idiocy of the future, no matter how many questions pierce his brain as he follows Potter out the main doors.
They’re spat out into a sheltered area where mediwitches, healers and patients alike are rushing through. Hopefully, the apparition points aren’t too far. The idea of an assault course just to get to the house makes him wince.
Regulus is too busy glaring at the bustle of people to notice when Potter curses under his breath as he stares out at the sky ahead. Only when Regulus practically walks into him does he realise that Potter has stopped at all.
He clutches Harry close to his chest, the child snoring softly - none the wiser to the world around him. Regulus frowns, trying to follow Potter’s view. All he can see is the sky which, sure, doesn’t look most appealing given the stormy clouds and the everpresent drizzle of rain, but really isn’t terrible.
Potter seems to be considering something, brows tugging every now and then. Eventually, he settles on turning back to Regulus and Harry. “We can wait out the rain, b- Reg, it’s fine.” He reassures, though Regulus isn’t too sure he should be the one being reassured if the slight panic in Potter’s voice is anything to go by.
He briefly wonders if Potter has some sort of fear of rain, but dismisses it when he realises that he doesn’t really care either way. It is, however, getting in the way of Regulus escaping the waves of hurrying people. That, he naturally cannot stand for.
“It’s just rain, Potter. Don’t be an idiot.” Regulus replies, voice carrying his annoyance clearly. “Or is rain acidic in the future?” As he speaks, he reaches back into his pocket - a tricky task with a five-year-old in arms - and casts a quick shield charm to keep them dry. Them being Regulus and Harry. Potter can fend for himself, for all he cares.
He pushes past Potter, hoping that he’s going the right way. If Regulus had stopped he may have perhaps seen the look of absolute confusion on Potter’s face. Then again, Potter is always in some state of confusion or worry nowadays, it seems.
Potter lands them at the end of a residential street, in front of a gated house. Gated may be generous. The fence is rickety, and the open gate is rusting. Its white paint is peeling at the edges, washing away in the rain, which has somehow managed to go from drizzle to steady shower in a matter of minutes. British weather still hasn’t changed, Regulus almost smiles to himself at the familiarity.
Beyond the fence lays a path littered in leaves, which Potter - with wet hair sticking to his skin, and a somewhat relieved smile - gladly begins to traverse, kicking away a stray conker that must’ve fallen from the tree peeking over the neighbour’s fence.
Potter mutters some apology about the mess that Regulus largely ignores.
The rain drumming against his shield, which is getting harder to keep up by the minute, obscures some of his view with droplets, but Regulus can make out the path beneath him as well as the hedgerow beside him that borders the neighbouring house’s garden. Houses on this street all look quite similar, he finds. All of them are on a larger size, most of them either detached or semi-detached from the surrounding houses, and all with gardens in the front. The details are hard to manage, and Regulus would much prefer to get inside to finally let down his magic.
Potter is waiting patiently by the door, much like a dog rooted still to the stone steps. His eyes don’t leave Regulus for a moment as he makes his way up the last of the path, and Regulus finds himself squirming under the gaze.
Harry wriggles in his arms, almost sensing his discomfort, and manages to send Potter back into motion.
He unlocks the door quickly with a set of keys that Regulus hadn’t seen him produce.
“After you.” Potter gestures towards the door, the wood a bright red because of course it is. Moronic, conceited James Potter can’t keep from marking up his house in Gryffindor colours.
Regulus’ mind wanders back to Hogwarts. A scene in a Yule-decorated Great Hall, where a group of marauding oafs with about as much class as a mandrake watched the Slytherin table in anticipation.
There had been no proper reason for it. Well, except for the obvious deatheaters-to-be going on their usual taunt tours around the school. Even then, there had been no reason for the Gryffindors to have targeted all of Slytherin. Maybe they had simply gotten bored, as they often seemed to do, and decided that staining every Slytherin’s skin with Gryffindor colours was a great, absolutely hilarious thing to do. Perhaps it would’ve been if not for the immediate allergic reactions from almost half of the Slytherin population.
His brother’s band of bumbling halfwits hadn’t thought to test the ingredients used in their potion.
The door being the same shade gives Regulus no hope for Potter’s future self.
Harry stirs as soon as Regulus steps inside, lifting his head with a groan, as though the action takes all his effort. He yawns, rubbing at his bleary eyes. “Descends, s'il te plaît.” The boy murmurs, and Regulus complies before he even realises what he’s said, helping Harry down to his feet.
Harry speaks French. Did Regulus teach him that? He must’ve. Sirius swore off French years ago to spite their parents–he couldn’t have taught him. Unless Sirius had a change of heart in the past seven years. It’s a possibility, sure. Regulus wouldn’t know either way if he had.
Like his brother, Regulus doesn’t take much joy in speaking the language. It reminds him too much of those tedious family functions where his parents would dress him up to go schmooze with relatives and possible connections. They rarely speak it at Grimmauld- or, well, spoke it. His father, being from the English side of the family, tired of it easily - Mother had to follow with it. When Regulus was younger, however, he’d rarely go a day without speaking French. Whether it be that incessant murmuring out loud that he would do - Merlin knows why Sirius hadn’t discouraged that any younger - or a quick reply to his mother, it would always be in French.
Why would he speak it now, though? If this new Regulus supposedly did get out of Grimmauld - away from the family - what purpose would there be to speak it? Had he gotten over the discomfort of it?
His mind circles back to the hospital room. Mon cœr. He hadn’t noticed. It hadn’t felt wrong at all at the time, though perhaps he had been too distracted by the ease of the pet name than what it was.
“Regulus?”
Jolting from his thoughts, Regulus finally takes in the room around him. Potter is stood at the end of the hall, lingering in an open doorway. He looks worried. Again.
Ignoring the concern, he lets his focus stray. The room he’s stood in is a simple hallway, though it’s warmer than anything he’s been in. The walls are painted a soft yellow, though it’s almost invisible underneath the frames that line every wall. Every inch of space seems to be taken up in some sort of decoration. Pictures - just from a glance, Regulus can spot one of himself and Harry. A coat rack lined with more coats than Regulus would think necessary. A key rack next to the front door - each hook a different animal. Potter’s keys have been hung on a hook in the shape of a stag. There’s a cat hook next to it, and an owl next to that one. A strange array of animals, really.
The hallway is… messy. That’s all Regulus can think to describe the chaos.
There’s a bucket filled with shoes, and Regulus worries for the scuffs it’ll cause. Is he a savage in the future? Is that what this is? Or did he let Potter take everything over?
As if by magic, Potter appears at his side, gesturing down the hall. “You can put your shoes in the cupboard-” He ends it abruptly, cutting himself off. The sentence sounds oddly incomplete, but Regulus tries to pay it no mind. Potter points out a small door underneath the stairs that Regulus hadn’t noticed before.
Sure enough, when Regulus opens it he finds a neat rack, with what he can only guess is his own shoes lined on them. Thank Merlin; he hasn’t lost all sense.
He’s uncomfortably aware of Potter watching him as he removes his shoes, placing them in an empty spot. The door shuts with a small creak, no matter how gently Regulus shuts it.
Now what?
Back at Grimmauld, Regulus would be expected to head straight to his room or the library. There’s no dawdling. No loitering. Now, Regulus hesitates in the hall, feeling strangely exposed standing in his socks.
The buffer between them is gone; Harry had swept off as soon as he had been put down. Regulus can only hope Potter doesn’t make it too weird. Maybe it’s asking for a lot, given who he’s talking about.
Unfortunately, Potter looks about as awkward as Regulus feels. Who knew Potter could look awkward?
“Right,” Potter blurts, “Do you- uh- want a tour?” He winces. Regulus wonders what parallel universe he has to have ended up in for Potter to be this awkward. It’s unnerving, frankly. Regulus won’t stand for it - he doesn’t know how long he’ll last if this is what it’s going to be like. The least the man could do is keep his personality consistent seeing as literally everything else in Regulus’ life isn’t.
So, he narrows his eyes, and in his best impassive, most unimpressed voice, he says, “Potter.”
“Yes?” Potter replies hesitantly, expression still uncomfortable.
“Get a grip, would you?”
☆
James feels viscerally sick.
He had gone into Regulus’ hospital room that morning thinking that it’d be fine. That he could act normal.
Clearly, he overestimated himself.
He knows he’s freaking Regulus out. It’s clear as day on his face, despite that horrible, blank mask he keeps putting up. James feels horrible for how much worse he’s making it, but he can’t help it - nothing he says or does makes it any better. Every movement feels disjointed and awkward, like he’s personally wronging Regulus with every breath he takes.
It’s his own home, for God’s sake, he should be able to act normal. Right?
Wrong!
James has embarrassed himself more times than he can count, and they’re only a quarter way through the tour. He keeps expecting Regulus to say something or insult him, but he doesn’t even give him that to work with. Every time James looks over to his husband, Regulus’ face is as expressionless as the room before. But he keeps fidgeting with his ring, or blinking too slowly. Something is going on in that beautiful mind of his, and James knows Regulus is as nervous as he is.
At least, he thinks so. The last time James had to truly dig to figure out what Regulus was feeling was years ago. Nowadays, James can spot a mood from a mile away, or know exactly what Regulus is thinking from a glance. It’s been so long since it’s been this difficult, and it only makes James worry more.
Is he reading him wrong? Should he just shut up and leave Regulus to his own devices? Why the hell can’t James calm down?
Get a grip, would you?
Yeah, really helpful, baby. He would if he could!
Speaking of baby, James cannot stand the lack of it anymore. He keeps having to cut himself off before he accidentally calls Regulus by anything other than his name. It’s honest to Merlin painful at this point. More than five years of love and baby or sometimes a rogue mi vida, and suddenly he’s back to Regulus. He might as well be calling him Black with how detached it sounds.
If James is being stripped of his repertoire of nicknames, the least Regulus could do is call him by his name. James would do anything to hear Jamie, or even just James come from Regulus’ lips. The closest thing he’s gotten to an affectionate name is idiot, which seems to be a favourite of this new Regulus. Or, old Regulus, really. Though even back when they started dating, Regulus had delivered a range of far more colourful insults than just idiot, and it makes James wonder if perhaps something is stopping Regulus from truly insulting him.
Maybe it’s love. Please let it be love.
…Who is he kidding?
Having to show Regulus to their room might be a worse feeling than the lack of pet names. James half expects Regulus to just know where to go already, which leads to an awkward moment where they still at the top of the stairs, Regulus unsure where to go and James being no help. He keeps messing up.
After a moment’s consideration, James doesn’t include Regulus’ lab on the tour. It’s a decision made mostly for James’ benefit, seeing as he doesn’t want to relive that moment from a month ago. Strangely enough, finding Regulus incapacitated on various floors of their home isn’t that uncommon of an occurrence. Usually, it doesn’t end in a month long coma and forgetting… basically your whole life. That’s new.
Instead, he sweeps past the door and points out the bathroom, as well as Harry’s room where the boy in question is rummaging through his drawers. James notices Regulus linger a little longer in front of that door than the others.
“This is our room. Your room.” He says when he opens the next door. “I’m sleeping in the guest room, so you’ll have the room to yourself.”
It’s going to be torture.
His Regulus can’t sleep without someone next to him. This Regulus, however? Who knows?
James doesn’t know if he will be able to sleep without Regulus, actually. The past month has been horrible, to the point where he’d be spending nights over at his parents’ almost daily. Moving himself into the spare room had been a rushed job last night, knowing Regulus wouldn’t want to be in the same room as him for too long. Ouch.
He doesn’t think he’d be able to sleep in their room alone, though, so rather than give Regulus the spare room, he took it himself. James would find himself too lonely surrounded by the memories. Hopefully it may have the opposite effect on Regulus.
Flitting around the room, he gathers a few things he forgot to move over. It’s mostly just his clothes, though he leaves some of the shirts he knows Regulus likes to sleep in.
“There’s a bathroom through there, also.” James gestures towards another door, arms full of clothes. He struggles to add another jumper to his pile, huffing when it falls out of his grasp. He could swear he hears a small breath of laughter, but when he turns, Regulus is as stoic as ever.
“Thank you, Potter.” Regulus nods politely.
“Right. Well, I’ll leave you to it, I guess.” James says, backing up towards the door. “I was going to make dinner for six-ish, so…”
Regulus raises a brow, the first proper indication of any emotion since they got home. James takes it for what it is, a clear dismissal, and hastens his retreat. As soon as he’s out the room, he drops his head against the opposite wall, sighing deeply. “Shit.”
☆
Regulus lets the tension seep out of his frame as soon as the door shuts. The whole house reeks of domesticity, and Regulus can see himself suffocating in a very near future. He’d give Potter and his house the benefit of the doubt, but Regulus doesn’t trust Potter as far as he can throw him, which, despite years as Slytherin’s seeker, would be impossible given he doesn’t think he could pick Potter up if he tried. He certainly hasn’t disregarded those muscles yet. Stop it.
Stop. Right now.
He has better things to do than think about Potter. Better things, like looking around his room, which… just so happens to be filled with remnants of Potter. Great.
There’s a jersey on the back of a desk chair with Potter’s name on it, and the number 21. Now, Regulus hasn’t ever been one to keep up with Quidditch teams outside of Hogwarts, but the colours look familiar. Like… an actual Quidditch team, not just some random jersey picked up off the street.
Of course Potter is a Quidditch Player. It certainly fits his arrogance. It most definitely explains his arms. Merlin, those arms.
Stop it!
In an attempt to distract himself from the shameful thought, as well as the creeping panic that he can feel coming on at the sight of the lived-in room, he heads to the bathroom. His skin still feels gross from St Mungo’s, and the water should provide as good interference.
Running the water is easy enough. It’s everything else that proves difficult.
He avoids the mirror, for obvious reasons. Any time he catches a glance at his marred skin, a wave of nausea floods him. How bizarre; he’s never been and will never be able to look in the mirror without feeling sick. It seems only fitting that even with one issue gone, there will always be another. It’s almost comforting.
Being under the water only worsens the nausea for some reason. It’s a jarring feeling; one minute he’ll be fine, washing away the shampoo suds from his hair, the next there’s a tight coil in his chest accompanying the seemingly ever-present ache, and he has to take a moment to lean against the tiled wall, out of the spray of the shower.
Regulus chalks it up to the whole ordeal that got him here in the first place, thinking no more on the matter. He dries himself and dresses in a pair of black trousers he found in the dresser, as well as a navy jumper hung in the wardrobe.
Somehow he’s left utterly exhausted, limbs aching and hair still uncomfortably damp. He slumps down onto the end of the bed, pulling his knees up to lean on.
The room is quiet, save a gentle tick of a clock hung on the wall. He hadn’t bothered to turn any lights on, and his wand is too far to do it now, so he resigns himself to the dark.
The dark. The quiet. And the unsettling thought that this isn’t how it’s supposed to be.