Era - @black-brothers-microfic - wc: 559 - Starchaser
Regulus had a secret. A scandalous, earth-shattering secret.
It wasn’t the kind of thing he could tell Sirius—not that they talked anymore. It wasn’t the kind of thing he could tell Barty, who would mock him for days. It wasn’t even something he could tell his own reflection without feeling utterly ridiculous.
The secret?
He loved listening to James Potter talk about books.
It didn’t make sense. Nothing about James Potter should have been enjoyable. He was loud and brash, always surrounded by an entourage of equally boisterous Gryffindors. He was a Quidditch star, all wild hair and cocky grins, someone who should have been the epitome of an airheaded jock.
And yet, the first time Regulus had stumbled upon James in the library, hidden away in the very back where no one ever dared to go, he had been reading The Iliad in Greek. Greek.
Regulus had been so stunned he hadn’t even been able to scoff properly. He’d just stood there, eyes narrowing as he watched James scribble something in the margins with a ridiculous amount of enthusiasm.
That should have been the end of it. Regulus should have turned and left, gone back to pretending James Potter was nothing more than an annoying nuisance.
But then James had looked up, adjusted his glasses, and grinned at him.
"Regulus! Didn’t think I’d see you here."
Regulus had frowned, because where else would he be? "This is the library, Potter. You don’t own it."
James had laughed, and Regulus hated how warm it had made his chest feel. "Fair enough. But since you're here, you should tell me—do you think Achilles was actually in love with Patroclus, or is it just modern interpretation?"
Regulus had barely registered that James had invited him into a conversation before he was already answering. "Of course he was. It’s practically spelled out in the original text."
And that had been the start of everything.
From then on, James found every excuse to talk about books. At first, Regulus thought it was an act—a new way to annoy him—but then he realized it wasn’t. James genuinely loved literature, could spend hours dissecting different eras, going on tangents about medieval poetry or the narrative structure of Shakespearean tragedies.
And Regulus?
Regulus could sit there for hours, just listening.
He liked the way James’ hands moved when he got particularly passionate, gesturing wildly as if trying to physically drag Regulus into his world. He liked the way James’ glasses would slip down his nose, how he’d push them back up absently, too lost in his excitement to notice. He liked the way James would get distracted mid-sentence, flipping through pages because, no, wait, you have to read this part.
He liked James.
The realization hit him like a bludger to the chest.
He liked James Potter.
Not just his voice, or the way his eyes lit up when talking about stories. He liked him. The ridiculous, overconfident, book-loving jock.
And maybe, just maybe, James liked him too.
Because the next time they met in the library, James sat closer than usual, his knee brushing against Regulus’. And instead of launching into another analysis, he simply opened his book, tilted it toward Regulus, and said, “Wanna read together?”
And Regulus, who never let anyone in, who never let himself want—
