Chapter Text
Regulus Black learned early how to be quiet.
It was not the same as being invisible - invisibility was careless, accidental.
Quiet was deliberate.
Quiet was survival.
Quiet meant observing without being observed, absorbing without reacting, existing without provoking the kind of attention that turned sharp and punishing without warning.
It was a skill he had perfected long before he reached Hogwarts
Across the Great Hall, Sirius was laughing.
Regulus did not look at first. He knew the sound too well - knew the way Sirius’s laughter cut cleanly through the clatter of the hall, warm and careless and utterly unafraid. It was louder than it had ever been at home, freer. It curled around Regulus’s spine like a familiar ache. Still, his eyes betrayed him, lifting despite himself.
Sirius sat at the Gryffindor table, sprawled in a way Regulus had not seen since childhood, one arm thrown over his best friend's shoulder, dark hair falling into his eyes without care. He looked older than thirteen somehow - broader, sharper, more secure of himself. James Potter was mid-story beside him, hands flying, clearly building towards something ridiculous, while Remus Lupin listened with that quiet, knowing patience of his. Peter Pettigrew nodded along eagerly, laughter always half a second too late.
Sirius laughed again.
It was different now, Regulus thought dimly. Not the laughter itself - that was the same - but the way it landed. The way it belonged to other people.
There was a time - not so long ago - when Regulus had been the one sitting beside him. When Sirius had laughed like that in their shared bedroom, breathless and shining, recounting some narrow escape from trouble or another argument with their parents. Back when Sirius still barged into Regulus’s space without knocking, still ruffled his hair, still called him Reggie with something like affection.
That had been before Hogwarts had sorted them.
That had been before Sirius had decided that everything Regulus did - everything Regulus was - looked too much like the people Sirius was trying to escape.
Regulus looked away.
He was twelve now. Second year. Old enough to know better than to hope for things that had already been taken away.
The Slytherin table was composed, as always. Elegant. Reserved. Conversation flowed in smooth, deliberate murmurs. Regulus sat straight-backed, robes pristine, expression unreadable. He had perfected that expression over the years - calm, cool, unbothered.
Mother approved of it.
Father expected it.
Professors praised it.
Sirius hated it.
But it meant survival.
Regulus’s fingers tightened briefly in his lap before he forced them still.
Sirius hadn’t stopped speaking to him altogether. Not yet. But something had changed since last summer - since Sirius returned from his first year with stories of Gryffindor glory and a fire in his eyes Regulus didn’t recognise. Sirius still acknowledged him in the corridors. Still nodded. Sometimes, occasionally, even smiled.
But he didn’t sit with him anymore.
Didn’t seek him out.
Didn’t look back.
Regulus told himself it was fine. Sirius was thirteen now - third year, loud and brilliant and impossible to ignore. He had found people who laughed with him instead of flinching, who admired him instead of correcting him. Gryffindor had given Sirius something Regulus never could.
Freedom.
The thought settled heavy and cold in Regulus’s chest.
He had survived by being quiet.
By doing what he was told. By not pushing back, when pushing back only made things worse.
Sirius had survived by fighting.
Of course, Sirius couldn’t understand why Regulus obeyed.
Of course, Sirius thought obeying meant agreeing.
Regulus swallowed and turned his attention back to the table, forcing himself to focus on the low hum of conversation around him. He did not speak. He did not need to. Listening has always been enough.
The magic hit without warning.
Regulus felt it before he saw it - the subtle prickle along his skin that meant someone nearby had cast something deliberately reckless. His head snapped up just as the air above the Slytherin table shimmered.
It rolled over them like a wave, sudden and unmistakably intentional.
Plates rattled violently. Goblets trembled, liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. Then, with a sharp metallic clatter, every piece of cutlery snapped upright at once, handles slamming against the table in perfect, infuriating unison.
Someone gasped.
A heartbeat later, the enchantment escalated.
Green and silver banners unfurled above the table, shimmering into existence - and then twisting, warping, reshaping themselves. The serpent emblazoned across them contorted grotesquely, its body looping clumsily, its tongue lolling in a caricature so exaggerated it bordered on obscene.
Bold letters burned across the fabric.
SNAKES ARE COWARDS
Laughter erupted from the Gryffindor table.
Not scattered. Not accidental.
Targeted.
Regulus froze.
Heat flared sharp and sudden in his chest, so fast it stole his breath.
Around him, Slytherins stiffened - some in outrage, others in tight, furious silence. A girl near the end of the table shoved her chair back, wand already half raised, her face flushed with anger.
Regulus did not move.
Then, one by one, the goblets along the table tipped over.
Pumpkin juice spilled in an almost mocking cascade, soaking into robes, pooling on the table, splashing onto the stone floor. Cold liquid spread across Regulus’s lap, seeping through fabric with deliberate slowness.
The laughter grew louder.
“Enough!” Professor Slughorn boomed, already on his feet, his voice carrying effortlessly over the chaos.
The banners vanished in a shower of sparks. The cutlery clattered back to the table. The spell retreated, its work complete.
The damage, however, was done.
Regulus lifted his eyes.
Sirius was standing now, one foot braced on the bench, laughing openly. One arm slung around James Potter’s shoulders as James bowed theatrically to the Gryffindor table, soaking in the attention like sunlight. Sirius wasn’t sneering. He wasn’t cruel.
He just looked… pleased.
Proud.
Like this - this - was proof of something.
Their eyes did not meet.
Regulus looked back down at the soaked front of his robes.
The humiliation burned colder than anger. He raised his wand with steady precision and murmured a charm so soft it barely disturbed the air. The juice vanished instantly, leaving the fabric spotless.
Immaculate.
Unmarked.
As if it had never happened.
Around him, the Slytherin table buzzed - muttered threats, promises of retaliation, sharp whispers of they’ll regret it. Someone swore vengeance. Someone else sneered that Gryffindor would get theirs soon enough.
Regulus barely heard them.
His attention had narrowed, sharpened to a single, piercing point.
He replayed the prank in his mind, piece by piece.
Crude illusion magic. Overblown spectacle. Reliant on ridicule rather than ingenuity. Loud enough to ensure the professors noticed - but not loud enough to warrant real punishment.
Safe chaos.
The kind that drew laughter instead of consequence.
Regulus’s fingers curled faintly against the table.
Across the hall, Sirius was still laughing.
Something in Regulus Shifted.
Not sadness.
Not longing.
Calculation.
If Gryffindor thought chaos was theirs - if they believed noise and attention made them untouchable - then Regulus would show them what real disruption looked like.
Quiet.
Surgical.
Inescapable.
He smoothed his cuffs, adjusted his posture, and lifted his goblet again, expression settling back into its usual mask of composure. Anyone watching would have seen only a Slytherin unfazed by the insult, already moving on.
No one noticed the spark in his eyes.
No one noticed the way his gaze flicked, once, to the Gryffindor table - to Sirius, laughing in borrowed light, convinced he had already won.
Regulus did not want applause.
He wanted control.
He wanted precision.
And he would do it better.