Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first thing Regulus Black noticed was the noise.

Not the kind that once made his shoulders lock tight or his pulse skitter with warning—no shouted orders, no explosions disguised as thunder. This noise was layered and careless, made of laughter and music and voices rising over one another simply because they could. It filled the room without threatening it.

It was loud in a way that felt earned.

The ceiling of the sitting room had been charmed to glow with drifting sparks of gold and silver, slow and soft like embers that had forgotten how to burn. Streamers twisted lazily overhead, brushing hair and shoulders when people spun too close beneath them. The air smelled of firewhisky and citrus and something warm baking in the kitchen, and every surface seemed to hold a drink, a plate, or the remnants of a story already being talked over.

The Order of the Phoenix was celebrating.

That alone felt surreal.

Regulus stood near the edge of the room, one hand wrapped around a glass he hadn’t quite finished, watching people who once lived on adrenaline and fear learn how to be loud without consequence. They celebrated like survivors of a storm who didn’t yet trust the clear sky—too brightly, too noisily, as if joy might vanish if they didn’t keep reminding themselves it existed.

It was strange to be here.

Stranger still, that no one was looking at him like he didn’t belong.

Someone bumped his shoulder, muttered an apology, and kept moving. Regulus blinked, nodded out of reflex, and exhaled once he was alone again. He took a sip of firewhisky—strong enough to burn, softened by warmth—and let it settle in his chest.

The war was over.

The words still didn’t quite fit. Voldemort was gone. The Mark on Regulus’s arm had faded to a pale shadow, no longer burning, no longer pulling at him like a hooked wire beneath the skin. The silence where that presence once lived was vast and unsettling.

Freedom, they called it.

Regulus didn’t know what to do with freedom yet.

“Oi—Reg!”

He startled. Marlene McKinnon waved him over from near the dance floor, soft curls framing her face, cheeks pink and rosy, radiant with laughter and relief.

“You hiding on purpose?” she called.

“Observing,” Regulus replied.

She laughed. “That’s a very Slytherin way of saying you’re avoiding fun.”

“I’m not avoiding—”

She was already being dragged away, laughter trailing behind her like ribbon. Regulus watched her disappear, then let his gaze drift again, unmoored.

That was when he saw James Potter.

Of course he was near the centre of everything. Sleeves rolled up, hair already wilder than usual, glasses slightly crooked. He was laughing at something Remus said, head tipped back, joy unguarded and easy in a way that once would have made Regulus bristle.

James Potter had always taken up space like the world was meant to hold him.

Regulus had hated him for it once.

Now, watching him, something twisted—not sharp enough to hurt, but persistent.

James turned and caught Regulus’s gaze. Surprise flickered, then melted into a grin so warm it felt almost personal.

“Reg!” James lifted his glass.

After a heartbeat’s hesitation, Regulus lifted his own.

The moment passed. The warmth lingered.

As the evening wore on, the room grew louder, closer. Dorcas refilled Regulus’s glass without asking, solemnly insisting that New Year’s should never be rung in empty-handed. He didn’t argue. The firewhisky loosened him, softened the edges of his thoughts. He felt lighter, as though the weight he’d carried for years had been set down and he was only just noticing the ache it left behind.

Ten minutes to midnight.

A countdown charm flickered above the mantel. Anticipation rippled through the room—people checked watches they didn’t need, pulled friends closer, shouted half-formed resolutions, and got promptly booed.

The music changed.

The opening notes of Happy New Year by ABBA burst through the room, far louder than necessary. Someone cheered. Someone else started singing, off-key and fearless.

Regulus smiled despite himself.

The crowd shifted, and suddenly James was only a few feet away, swaying as he talked animatedly to Sirius, who looked halfway to tipsy and entirely delighted with himself.

James turned at just the wrong moment, the chorus swelling, and shouted—

“I LOVE ABBA!”

The words distorted in the noise.

What Regulus heard was I love you.

His brain didn’t have time to correct itself. There was no careful pause, no weighing of consequences—just warmth and music and relief crashing together.

“Oh my god,” Regulus said, louder than he intended. “I love you too, James.”

James blinked.

The countdown began.

Ten.

Nine.

The room surged. Someone gripped Regulus’s shoulder, then let go.

Eight.

Seven.

James was still staring, confusion softening into something unreadable.

Six.

Five.

Regulus’s heart pounded in his throat. This was a mistake. This was—

Four.

Three.

Midnight hit.

The room erupted—cheers, laughter, harmless spells bursting into colour. And before Regulus could think better of it, before he could retreat into sense or caution, he leaned forward and kissed James Potter.

It was quick and imperfect. Their noses bumped. James’s glasses tilted further askew. The kiss tasted like firewhisky and sweetness and something electric.

James froze.

For half a second.

Then he kissed Regulus back.

It was instinctive, immediate, as if the choice had been waiting for him all along. His hand came up, warm and solid at Regulus’s side, anchoring him as the world roared.

When they pulled apart, the noise rushed back in.

James stared at him, breathless. “—Wow.”

Regulus laughed, thin and unsteady. “Yes. Well. That seemed—”

“What was that for?” James asked, not unkindly.

Regulus winced. “I thought you said you loved me.”

James blinked again. Then he laughed. “Merlin, no. I said I love ABBA.”

“Oh,” Regulus said faintly.

Heat flooded his face. “Right. Of course. That’s—awkward.”

James was still smiling, but something thoughtful lived there now. “You kissed me because you thought I’d just confessed my undying love?”

“Yes,” Regulus said. “Which, in hindsight, seemed bold.”

“A bit.”

Mortified, Regulus stepped back. “I should go. Sorry. Happy New Year.”

He turned, intent on vanishing, on tucking this moment away to replay later with equal parts horror and disbelief.

He got two steps.

“Hey.”

A hand closed around his wrist—gentle, firm.

“You can’t just do that and walk away,” James said, laughter still in his voice. “Not after kissing me like that.”

“It was a mistake,” Regulus said quickly. “I’d been drinking. And it was tonight, and—”

James stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Okay. But was it a mistake you’d want to make again? Because—”

Regulus didn’t let him finish.

He kissed James again.

This time it was slower. Deliberate. No misheard words. No confusion. Just choice.

James laughed softly into the kiss and returned it with certainty, his hand sliding from Regulus’s wrist to his waist.

When they parted, Sirius made an exaggerated gagging noise somewhere behind them.

“I leave you alone for one countdown,” Sirius announced, “and you start kissing my brother.”

Regulus stiffened. James just grinned. “Your brother kissed me.”

Sirius squinted. “Did he.”

“Yes,” Regulus said quietly. “Twice.”

A beat. Then Sirius grinned, sharp and pleased. “About time.”

He disappeared back into the party with a promise of questions later.

James nodded towards the balcony. “Fancy some air?”

Outside, the night was cold and clean. Snow dusted the railing, thin and untouched, and fireworks bloomed overhead in red, gold, and green—brief bursts of colour against the dark before fading back into silence. The sounds of the party behind them dulled to a distant thrum, laughter and music softened into something almost gentle.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

Regulus rested his hands on the railing, breathing in air that felt sharp and real in his lungs, as if it might anchor him. James stood beside him, close enough that their sleeves brushed when the wind shifted, but he didn’t crowd him. He never did.

“I didn’t think I’d be here,” Regulus said at last.

The words felt heavier out here, without the noise to soften them.

James didn’t answer right away. He waited, patient as the falling snow.

“I thought,” Regulus went on, voice low, “that I would die during the war.”

He said it plainly. Not bravely. Not as a confession meant to shock. Just as a truth he had lived with for so long it no longer felt dramatic—only tired.

“I planned everything around it,” he continued. “Every choice I made was temporary. Every risk was calculated on the assumption that there wouldn’t be consequences.” His fingers tightened on the railing. “I didn’t think in years. Or futures. Or after. I thought in days. Sometimes hours.”

He swallowed.

“I didn’t imagine surviving,” he said. “I imagined… ending.”

James’s breath left him slowly. One hand curled against the railing, knuckles pale, as though he were holding himself still—not from discomfort, but from the weight of listening properly.

“When it was over,” Regulus said, “everyone started talking about rebuilding. About what comes next.” He shook his head faintly. “I didn’t know how to stand in a world I hadn’t prepared to see. I don’t know who I am without something hunting me. Without knowing exactly how it all ends.”

The words lingered between them, fragile and exposed.

Regulus kept his eyes on the dark stretch of street below. He was suddenly afraid to look at James—afraid of pity, or horror, or the careful distance people put between themselves and things that were too broken to fix.

Instead, James stepped closer.

Not enough to trap him. Just enough that Regulus could feel the warmth at his side, steady and unmistakably alive, a quiet refusal of the cold pressing in around them.

“You didn’t imagine surviving,” James said gently. “But you did.”

Regulus closed his eyes.

“And you’re still here,” James went on, voice sure without being loud. “Not by accident. Not because you were overlooked. You’re here because you fought, and because you mattered enough to keep fighting for.”

He turned then, fully facing Regulus.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” he said. “I’m glad you lived.”

Something in Regulus’s chest cracked open, slow and aching.

“I didn’t think I’d want to be,” he admitted quietly. “Alive, I mean.” His voice wavered, just barely. “For a long time, it felt like… borrowed time. Like the world had made a mistake by letting me stay.”

James’s expression softened, eyes bright behind his crooked glasses.

“Well,” he said, almost smiling, “I’m selfish enough to be very grateful for that mistake.”

A breath escaped Regulus that might have been a laugh.

“Tonight,” he said, after a moment, “standing here—I think I do want it. I think I want… this.” He gestured vaguely at the night, the distant music, the warmth beside him. “I think I’m glad I’m here too.”

James looked at him like that mattered. Like it changed something fundamental.

He reached out slowly, giving Regulus every chance to pull away, and took his hand. Regulus’s fingers were cold; James’s were warm, solid, real.

“You don’t have to know who you are yet,” James said. “You don’t have to have it figured out. You don’t have to be anything other than here.” His thumb brushed lightly over Regulus’s knuckles. “And I’d like you to stay.”

Regulus’s breath caught.

He leaned in first, drawn by something quieter than urgency and stronger than fear.

The kiss was slow, unhurried. Gentle in a way that felt deliberate. James kissed him like he wasn’t going anywhere—like this wasn’t a moment to steal, but one to build on. Regulus melted into it, the cold forgotten, warmth blooming in places that had been numb for years.

Neither of them rushed to pull away.

When they finally did, it was only enough to breathe, foreheads resting together, hands still clasped, as though breaking contact entirely might undo something newly fragile and precious.

Inside, the music swelled again. Laughter rose. Life went on—loud, bright, unafraid.

For the first time, Regulus didn’t feel shut out from it.

“Happy New Year, James,” he said softly.

James smiled, bright and certain, like light that had learned how to stay.

“Happy New Year, Regulus.”