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Between Us

@echolovesjegulus

Summer sat heavy over Grimmauld Place.

It had made itself at home in the drawing room curtains, in the dim hallway mirrors, in the polished bannisters that never seemed to lose the chill of the house no matter how warm the day grew outside. It pressed against the tall windows in sheets of white-gold light, all bright and nosy, and it made the shadows look even darker by comparison.

Regulus Black stood alone in the quiet.

Properly alone, for once.

Not school-alone, which was never actually alone at all. Not the kind of alone that came with footsteps beyond a library shelf, whispers behind classroom doors, a table full of people close enough to reach but not close enough to touch. This was different. This was Grimmauld-alone.

This was Sirius and their eomma out shopping and doing whatever dramatic spa-day nonsense had required both of them to leave the house dressed like they were attending a funeral for someone extremely fashionable.

This was appa at work.

This was Kreacher somewhere near enough to appear within a breath if Regulus called.

This was the house finally, mercifully, holding its tongue.

Regulus stood in the middle of the room with a case open on the table.

Inside lay the kamancheh.

It looked delicate in a way that made him suspicious of it.

Regulus knew delicate things. Delicate things were usually either breakable or pretending not to be. He understood that very well. His violin had never looked delicate to him, not really. The violin was sharp and severe and exacting; it punished arrogance, rewarded obedience, and made his fingers ache in ways that felt like proof. It was familiar. It was his. It had been his for years.

The kamancheh was not his yet.

Not properly.

Not in the bones.

He stared at it.

Kreacher stared at him.

Kreacher had been standing by the door for several minutes with a cloth over one arm, watching Regulus with the pained patience of someone witnessing a disaster assemble itself politely.

“Master Regulus has been staring at the instrument for twelve minutes,” Kreacher said at last.

Regulus did not look up. “I’m thinking.”

“Kreacher sees.”

“I’m preparing.”

“Kreacher sees.”

“I’m developing a method.”

“Kreacher is certain Master Regulus is doing many important things.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes at the kamancheh. “That sounds like sarcasm.”

“Kreacher would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

“Kreacher has served this house too long to be accused of such things by a boy who is frightened of a wooden instrument.”

Regulus snapped his head up. “I am not frightened.”

Kreacher’s ears twitched.

Regulus pointed at him. “Don’t do that.”

“Kreacher did nothing.”

“You did that ear thing.”

“Kreacher has ears.”

“You did it judgmentally.”

“Kreacher’s ears are loyal to Master Regulus. If they judge, it is only because they love him.”

Regulus glared.

Kreacher looked serenely back.

The house creaked somewhere above them, one of those long, settling groans that made Grimmauld Place sound older than time and twice as bitter. Regulus looked back down at the kamancheh before his nerve could run away from him and hide in a cupboard.

“It’s not frightening,” he said, quieter now.

“No, Master Regulus.”

“It’s just different.”

“Yes, Master Regulus.”

“I can do different.”

“Of course, Master Regulus.”

Regulus lifted his chin. “I can.”

“Kreacher knows.”

And that, annoyingly, was worse than sarcasm. Kreacher did know. Kreacher had seen Regulus learn harder things than this. He had watched him as a child with a violin tucked awkwardly beneath his chin, too small for the instrument and too stubborn to admit it. He had watched lessons turn into concerts, concerts turn into competitions, competitions turn into people speaking of Regulus with that particular clipped admiration adults used when they wanted to say prodigy but didn’t want to sound impressed by a child.

Regulus was good at the violin.

No.

Not good.

Good was what people said when they were trying not to understand.

Regulus was precise. Regulus was disciplined. Regulus was the sort of player who could make a note feel like it had been measured with a blade. He could read sheet music until the notes stopped being instructions and became a language already living under his skin. He knew how to make strings obey. He knew how to build sound with the patience of architecture.

But the kamancheh sat in its case like it knew something he didn’t.

And that irritated him.

Regulus reached for the sheet music first.

The pages were new enough that the edges still felt crisp beneath his fingers. He had gone through them already, of course. Several times. He had examined every marking, every line, every fingering note he could find. He had compared what he already knew with what he did not know. He had read until his eyes stung and then read again because understanding a thing in theory was useless if his hands could not translate it.

His parents had bought the instrument when he asked.

That had been the easy part, somehow.

He had expected questions. Worse, he had expected interest.

But he had asked neatly, properly, with a prepared explanation about musical study and range and expanding technique, and he had made sure not to mention James Potter.

Not once.

Not even near the edges.

Because James Potter was the problem.

James Potter, who had been his hyung’s best friend for years.

James Potter, who could fill an entire room by walking into it as if the air had been waiting for permission to laugh.

James Potter, who never looked at Regulus properly.

No. That wasn’t fair.

James looked at him.

James smiled at him. James spoke to him sometimes. James was warm, because James seemed to be warm to everyone, as if he had been born with sunlight caught behind his ribs and had never learned to be careful with it. But he looked at Regulus the way he looked at Sirius’ younger brother.

Which Regulus was.

Unfortunately.

Legally.

Biologically.

Socially.

Catastrophically.

Regulus picked up the kamancheh with both hands.

It was lighter than he expected and stranger in his grip. He adjusted carefully, recalling what he had read, trying to place his body around it instead of forcing it to behave like a violin. That was the danger. He knew that. Similar enough to tempt arrogance, different enough to punish it.

Kreacher took one quiet step closer.

Regulus noticed without looking. “Don’t hover.”

“Kreacher is not hovering.”

“You’re hovering emotionally.”

“Kreacher is standing.”

“Loudly.”

Kreacher sniffed. “Master Regulus has asked for no help.”

“I don’t need help.”

“No, Master Regulus.”

“I need quiet.”

“Yes, Master Regulus.”

A pause.

“Kreacher is being quiet,” Kreacher announced.

Regulus shut his eyes. “Kreacher.”

“Yes, Master Regulus?”

“That was not quiet.”

“No, Master Regulus.”

Regulus breathed in.

He had to stop stalling.

That was what this was. Stalling, disguised as preparation, wrapped in irritation, wearing a tidy little coat of perfectionism so he could pretend it was strategy. He knew himself too well to be fooled by himself for long.

He wanted James to notice him.

There. The thought landed with the same cold, bright finality as a note struck perfectly in an empty room.

He wanted James to look at him and see someone.

Not Sirius’ brother.

Not the quiet Black.

Not the boy in the background with a sharp collar and sharper eyes.

Someone.

Regulus tightened his grip on the bow.

James had talked about being Persian.

Not constantly. Not as performance. But enough that Regulus had noticed, because Regulus noticed everything James said in the embarrassing, damning way of someone who had no intention of being caught caring. James had spoken about his mum. About culture. About food, music, celebrations, language, stories. About how strange Hogwarts could be, sometimes, pretending the world was only as wide as its own castle walls. About wishing the school did more cultural things. Not just the occasional shallow nod. Not just food on a table with no explanation. More.

Real things.

Living things.

James had said it once with a laugh that had not quite hidden the ache beneath it.

“Everyone knows I like Quidditch,” James had said. “Everyone knows I dance when Sirius plays music too loud. Everyone knows I’m impossible before breakfast. But half the school forgets I’m Persian unless I say it outright.”

Regulus had remembered that.

Of course he had.

It had lodged in him like a hook.

James liked dancing. James liked music. James liked being seen, not in the obvious way everyone assumed, but in the deep way. The way that said: I heard what mattered when you thought no one was listening.

So Regulus had read.

Books first. Always books. Books did not laugh when he mispronounced things in his head. Books did not notice his ears going red. Books did not ask why he suddenly cared. He had read what he could find, carefully and repeatedly, trying to learn without making it look like hunger.

Then he had found the kamancheh.

Similar enough, he had thought, with all the confidence of a boy who had been betrayed by similar enough many times before.

A bowed instrument. Strings. Technique. Music.

He could teach himself.

He would teach himself.

He would learn enough to play something recognisable, something beautiful, something that made James turn his head.

Not because Regulus was Sirius’ younger brother.

Because Regulus had reached, quietly and deliberately, toward something James had said mattered.

The first note he drew from the kamancheh was awful.

Regulus froze.

Kreacher froze.

The note hung in the room like a wounded bird and then died an undignified death against the wallpaper.

Regulus stared forward.

Kreacher stared at the floor.

Neither of them spoke.

The silence after the sound was somehow worse than the sound.

Regulus slowly lowered the bow.

Kreacher cleared his throat.

Regulus said, very calmly, “No.”

Kreacher’s ears twitched again.

“No,” Regulus repeated. “That didn’t happen.”

“Kreacher heard nothing.”

“Exactly.”

“The house heard nothing.”

“Good.”

“The ancestors heard nothing.”

Regulus looked toward the walls. “They’d better not have.”

“Kreacher can deny everything.”

“Excellent.”

Regulus lifted the bow again.

He adjusted his fingers. Adjusted his posture. Adjusted his grip. Made himself remember that the point of beginning was being terrible in private so one could later be impressive in public. He knew this. He believed this. He hated this.

The second note was less awful.

Not good.

But less like furniture being murdered.

Regulus exhaled slowly.

Kreacher nodded once as though Regulus had just negotiated a treaty.

“Better,” Regulus murmured.

“Kreacher agrees.”

“You don’t know what you’re hearing.”

“Kreacher knows pain. That was less pain.”

Regulus almost smiled. Almost.

He drew the bow again.

This time, the sound came out uneven but alive. It trembled, caught, thinned, then steadied for half a breath before slipping away. Regulus’ fingers tightened, instinct dragging him toward violin habits he had to consciously resist.

“No,” he muttered to himself. “Not like that.”

Kreacher remained quiet.

Regulus tried again.

The room narrowed.

That was always the first mercy of practice. At some point, humiliation stopped being useful and focus took over. The world became the instrument, the body, the page, the sound. Grimmauld Place faded at the edges. The dim room, the heavy summer air, the absence of Sirius and eomma and appa, all of it thinned until there was only the problem in front of him.

Regulus liked problems.

Problems did not require charm.

Problems did not ask him to smile.

Problems did not treat him as a footnote in someone else’s story.

A problem had rules, even when he did not understand them yet. A problem could be mapped. Broken down. Solved.

He played the phrase again.

Wrong.

Again.

Less wrong.

Again.

There.

His eyes flicked to the sheet music.

Again.

The note shook, then settled. His left hand was still too tense. His bow pressure wanted to become violin pressure. He corrected. Tried again. The kamancheh answered with something closer to music.

Regulus’ breath caught.

Kreacher whispered, “Oh.”

Regulus looked up sharply. “What?”

“Kreacher said nothing.”

“You said oh.”

“Kreacher breathed.”

“You don’t breathe like that.”

“Kreacher was moved.”

Regulus blinked.

Kreacher looked offended by his surprise. “Master Regulus does not need to look at Kreacher as if Kreacher has no appreciation.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Master Regulus thought it very loudly.”

Regulus looked back at the music, feeling heat creep beneath his collar. “It was one phrase.”

“It was better.”

“It was barely anything.”

“It was something.”

Regulus hated how much that pleased him.

He set the bow again and played the phrase from the beginning.

Still uneven. Still rough at the turns. Still carrying the ghost of another instrument in his hands. But yes. Something. Beneath the awkwardness, beneath the newness, beneath the stubborn resistance of unfamiliar technique, there was a thread.

He could follow a thread.

Regulus had spent most of his life following things no one else noticed.

A change in eomma’s voice.

A shift in appa’s silence.

The sound of Sirius coming down the stairs in one mood or another.

The difference between a room that was safe and a room that merely looked quiet.

The exact moment James Potter’s smile turned real.

He knew the real one. Most people didn’t. Most people saw the grin and assumed they had been given the whole thing. They hadn’t. James had layers of brightness. There was the loud one, the easy one, the performance one, the one he threw across rooms like confetti. Then there was the real one, slower and warmer, almost private. The kind that made his eyes soften first.

Regulus wanted that smile turned on him.

The thought was so unbearable he missed the next note entirely.

The kamancheh produced a shriek.

Regulus flinched.

Kreacher’s whole face tightened as if the sound had slapped him.

Regulus lowered the bow and stared at the instrument. “Traitor.”

“Kreacher could fetch Master Regulus’ violin.”

“No.”

“Only if Master Regulus wishes to remind himself that he is gifted.”

“I know I’m gifted.”

“Yes, Master Regulus.”

“I don’t need reminding.”

“No, Master Regulus.”

“I need this.”

Kreacher went still.

Regulus regretted saying it so plainly the moment the words left his mouth. There were some sentences one ought never allow into the open. They became too real once heard.

Kreacher’s voice softened. “Master Regulus needs the kamancheh?”

Regulus stared at the sheet music. “I need to learn it.”

“For the older boy.”

Regulus snapped his head toward him. “I did not say that.”

“Kreacher did.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Kreacher knows why Master Regulus asked for the instrument.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Kreacher knows why Master Regulus has been reading the books.”

Regulus’ mouth tightened.

“Kreacher knows why Master Regulus repeats the name when he thinks no one hears.”

Regulus went very still.

Kreacher bowed his head immediately, ears drooping. “Kreacher does not mean to upset Master Regulus.”

Regulus looked away.

The silence returned, not empty this time, but crowded with things Regulus did not know how to say. He hated being known when he had not chosen it. He hated the exposure of it, the softness of having his wanting held up to the light. But Kreacher was not laughing. Kreacher was not teasing. Kreacher was looking at him as if his want was something precious and frightening and worth guarding.

Regulus swallowed.

“I don’t repeat his name,” he said.

Kreacher wisely said nothing.

Regulus adjusted the sheet music though it did not need adjusting. “Not often.”

Kreacher remained silent.

Regulus’ voice thinned. “Not where people can hear.”

“Kreacher is not people,” Kreacher said gently.

That startled a laugh out of him. Small, breathy, almost unwilling.

“Kreacher, that’s not comforting.”

“Kreacher intended it to be.”

“I know.”

“Kreacher can try again.”

“Please don’t.”

“Yes, Master Regulus.”

Regulus looked down at the kamancheh in his hands.

For years.

That was the stupid part.

Not a week. Not a passing thing. Not some shallow, pretty-schoolboy fancy he could scrape out of himself with enough discipline. Years.

He could not remember the exact moment it had started, which annoyed him because he liked exactness. It had not happened dramatically. There had been no thunderclap, no single devastating smile, no one moment where the universe had reached down and shoved him into wanting.

It had been worse.

It had accumulated.

James laughing too loudly in the hallway.

James talking with his hands.

James dancing because music had started somewhere and apparently James Potter considered rhythm a personal invitation.

James speaking about his mum with a softness Regulus had not been prepared for.

James saying, “It’s not that I mind people asking. I just wish they remembered after.”

Regulus had remembered.

He had remembered so hard it had become action.

He lifted the bow again.

“From the top,” he said.

Kreacher straightened. “Yes, Master Regulus.”

“You do not need to say yes. I’m speaking to myself.”

“Yes, Master Regulus.”

Regulus sighed.

He began again.

The first phrase came cleaner this time. Not clean, but cleaner. He stopped. Repeated it. Slower. Then slower again. He listened to the sound instead of trying to command it. That was difficult. Regulus liked command. Command was safe. Listening required humility, and humility was deeply annoying.

The kamancheh did not care what he had mastered before.

It asked him to begin again.

So he did.

Again.

His fingers warmed. His shoulder loosened by degrees. The bow stopped fighting him quite so much once he stopped trying to make it prove a point. The notes remained strange beneath his hands, but not foreign in the same way. More like a language he had heard through a wall and was only now learning to speak aloud.

At some point, Kreacher disappeared and returned with tea.

Regulus did not notice until the cup sat steaming on the table beside the case.

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“No, Master Regulus.”

“You’re interrupting.”

“Kreacher is preventing Master Regulus from pretending his hands do not need rest.”

Regulus looked down.

His fingers ached.

He flexed them and felt the familiar pull of practice settling into his joints.

“I’m fine.”

“Master Regulus is always fine.”

“I am.”

“Yes, Master Regulus.”

“Don’t say it like that.”

“Kreacher said it normally.”

“You said it like I lie.”

“Master Regulus lies beautifully.”

Regulus stared at him.

Kreacher clasped his hands. “About being fine.”

Regulus looked away first.

The tea smelled exactly as it always did. Home, in the safest sense the house could manage. Regulus set the bow down carefully and reached for the cup, letting its heat press into his palms. He had not realised how tightly he had been holding himself until the warmth began to undo it.

Kreacher watched him drink.

Regulus pretended not to notice.

The sheet music lay open beside the instrument. Black notes on white paper. A path. Not the whole path, not yet, but enough to begin.

“He likes dancing,” Regulus said suddenly.

Kreacher tilted his head.

Regulus kept staring into his tea. “James. He likes dancing.”

“Kreacher has seen the older boy move around the house with Master Sirius.”

Regulus’ nose wrinkled. “That’s not dancing. That’s public disorder.”

“Kreacher does not know the difference.”

“There is one.”

“If Master Regulus says so.”

Regulus’ thumb traced the cup’s rim. “He talks about music like it’s… like it belongs to everyone, but also like it’s personal. Like it’s supposed to be shared, but only if people understand they’re being trusted with it.”

Kreacher did not answer immediately.

When he did, his voice was careful. “And Master Regulus wants to be trusted with it?”

Regulus’ throat tightened.

He hated how easily Kreacher could sometimes find the centre of things.

“I want him to know I listened,” he said.

There it was.

Small.

Plain.

Terrible.

Kreacher’s eyes shone faintly in the summer dimness.

Regulus looked at him and scowled. “Don’t be emotional.”

“Kreacher is not.”

“You are.”

“Kreacher is a loyal servant. Loyal servants are permitted emotion in moderation.”

“No, they aren’t.”

“Kreacher will be emotional quietly.”

Regulus pinched the bridge of his nose. “You are impossible.”

“Kreacher learned from the family.”

“That is unfortunately fair.”

The corner of Kreacher’s mouth moved, just slightly.

Regulus drank more tea.

Outside the room, the house remained quiet. No Sirius crashing through the door, no eomma calling for someone, no appa’s footsteps, no performance required. Just the room, the instrument, the sheet music, and Kreacher standing nearby like a guardian of all Regulus’ most humiliating secrets.

Regulus set the cup down.

“I should continue.”

“Master Regulus should rest another minute.”

“If I rest too long I’ll lose the shape of it.”

“Master Regulus has never lost the shape of anything in his life.”

“That’s not true.”

Kreacher looked at him.

Regulus looked back.

Regulus picked up the kamancheh again.

This time when he positioned himself, it felt fractionally less awkward. Fractionally was enough. Fractionally became slightly. Slightly became nearly. Nearly, with enough blood and repetition, could become mastery.

He had built himself out of less.

The bow touched the strings.

He played.

The phrase emerged.

Not perfect. Not polished. Not ready for anyone else’s ears. But music now, undeniably. The sound moved through the room in a thin, trembling line, and Regulus followed it with such fierce concentration that his whole face changed.

Kreacher saw it. He always did.

The severity softened. The guardedness shifted. Regulus did not become less himself when he played; he became more sharply himself, distilled down to intention. Every ugly, anxious, wanting thing in him found somewhere to go. His hands spoke what his mouth would rather die than confess.

He played the line again.

And again.

And again until the room seemed to understand it.

Then he stopped abruptly.

Kreacher blinked. “Master Regulus?”

Regulus lowered the bow. “I need to start over.”

“Kreacher thought Master Regulus was improving.”

“I am.”

“Then why start over?”

“Because improving isn’t enough.”

Kreacher sighed the sigh of someone who had known this answer before asking the question. “No, Master Regulus.”

“It has to be good.”

“It will be.”

“No. It has to be right.”

Kreacher’s gaze flicked to the sheet music, then to the instrument, then back to Regulus.

“For the older boy,” he said.

Regulus did not deny it this time.

He looked down, his fringe falling slightly forward, hiding the worst of his expression.

“For James,” he said.

The name sounded different in the room.

Not because it had never been spoken there before. Sirius spoke it constantly when he was home, throwing it around carelessly, loudly, easily. James this, James that, James said, James did, James would laugh, James would know. In Sirius’ mouth, the name was a firework.

In Regulus’ mouth, it was a secret placed on an altar.

Kreacher bowed his head.

Regulus hated that too.

Not because it was mocking.

Because it wasn’t.

“He won’t care,” Regulus said.

Kreacher looked up.

Regulus stared at the strings. “He probably won’t. He’ll think it’s impressive, maybe. Or strange. Or he won’t think about it at all. He’ll smile and say something kind because he’s James and he always says something kind, and then he’ll go back to seeing me exactly the way he always has.”

The words came too easily once they started.

Regulus’ jaw tightened, but he did not stop.

“He’ll still see Sirius first. Everyone does. Sirius enters a room and people understand him immediately. Or think they do, which is nearly as effective. He’s loud and impossible and dramatic enough to go shopping and have a spa day with eomma as if that’s a perfectly normal way to spend an afternoon, and James loves him for it.”

Kreacher’s ears lowered.

Regulus laughed once, sharp and humourless. “Not like that. I know. I’m not stupid. But he loves him. As a friend. As a brother. As whatever Sirius makes people become by sheer force of being Sirius.”

He swallowed.

“I don’t know how to do that.”

Kreacher stepped closer. “Master Regulus should not need to become Master Sirius.”

“I don’t want to become Sirius.”

“No.”

“I just want—”

He stopped.

Kreacher waited.

The summer light shifted slightly across the floorboards.

Regulus’ voice came quieter when he continued. “I want to be noticeable without having to be loud.”

Kreacher’s expression crumpled in a way Regulus immediately wished he had not seen.

“Oh, don’t,” Regulus muttered.

“Kreacher is not doing anything.”

“You look tragic.”

“Kreacher is old. His face has settled tragically.”

“That is not my fault.”

“Kreacher did not say it was.”

Regulus rubbed at his forehead with the hand not holding the bow. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Master Regulus may say anything to Kreacher.”

“That’s a dangerous offer.”

“Kreacher has survived this house.”

“Barely.”

“Barely is still survived.”

Regulus looked at him for a moment.

Then, despite himself, he smiled.

Tiny.

Reluctant.

There and gone.

Kreacher brightened as if rewarded with jewels.

Regulus quickly looked back at the kamancheh. “Don’t make that face.”

“Kreacher made no face.”

“You made a face.”

“Kreacher has a face.”

“Yes, and it’s becoming a problem.”

“Kreacher will turn around.”

“Don’t turn around. That’s worse.”

Kreacher stayed exactly where he was, looking pleased.

Regulus groaned under his breath and lifted the instrument again.

He needed the beginning cleaner.

That was all.

Enough sentiment. Sentiment had its uses, probably, for other people. Regulus preferred work. Work did not pity him. Work did not comfort him. Work simply waited to be done.

He set himself.

Breathed.

Played.

The first note landed too hard.

He stopped.

Again.

Too thin.

Again.

Too much pressure.

Again.

Better.

Again.

Better still.

The repetition became a kind of weather. Slow, steady, wearing down the stone of not-yet. Regulus moved through it with ruthless patience. He did not allow himself frustration beyond what could be converted into correction. Each mistake had to justify itself. Each improvement had to be earned.

Kreacher sat eventually.

Not loudly.

Not in the way that would distract. He settled near the wall and watched with his hands folded, his face quiet. He had seen many versions of Regulus in that house. The obedient son. The sharp-tongued brother. The pale child trying not to be afraid. The young musician bleeding effort into strings until applause became inevitable.

This version was something else.

This version wanted.

That made him more dangerous and more fragile at once.

Regulus played until his shoulders burned.

He stopped only when his fingers slipped on a transition he knew he could manage, which meant his body had become more tired than useful. He lowered the bow with visible reluctance.

Kreacher rose at once. “Master Regulus will rest now.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Master Regulus will rest now,” Kreacher repeated, with the iron firmness of a creature who would have fought the furniture if necessary.

Regulus gave him an unimpressed look. “You’re ordering me?”

“Kreacher is advising strongly.”

“Ordering.”

“Lovingly.”

“Still ordering.”

“Yes, Master Regulus.”

Regulus huffed, but he set the kamancheh down with exquisite care.

The room felt different once the music stopped. Larger, somehow. As if the sound had been holding the walls closer. Grimmauld Place returned by degrees: the old smell of polished wood, the dust hiding in corners no amount of cleaning ever conquered, the dim shine of inherited things, the oppressive dignity of the house.

Regulus flexed his hand.

Kreacher immediately noticed. “Kreacher will bring a warm cloth.”

“I’m fine.”

“Kreacher has heard that lie already today.”

“It’s not a lie every time.”

“Today it is.”

Regulus rolled his eyes, but he did not object when Kreacher vanished and returned with a warm cloth folded neatly over his hands.

Regulus accepted it.

The heat sank into his fingers. He closed his eyes for half a second.

Kreacher pretended not to see.

“Do you think it was terrible?” Regulus asked.

Kreacher’s eyes widened in offence. “No.”

“You paused.”

“Kreacher was offended.”

“That’s convenient.”

“Kreacher does not lie to Master Regulus.”

Regulus opened one eye. “You lie constantly.”

“Kreacher does not lie about music.”

That made Regulus pause.

Kreacher lifted his chin. “At first, it was terrible.”

Regulus’ mouth fell open. “Kreacher.”

“Master Regulus asked.”

“I asked if you thought it was terrible overall, not for you to provide a historical timeline of my humiliation.”

“Kreacher is being honest.”

“You could be less honest.”

“Master Regulus would hate that.”

Regulus closed his mouth because, annoyingly, that was true.

Kreacher continued, “At first, it sounded like the instrument was deeply unhappy.”

Regulus winced. “Thank you.”

“Then it sounded like Master Regulus was angry at the instrument.”

“I was.”

“Kreacher knows.”

“It deserved it.”

“Kreacher is certain.”

Regulus narrowed his eyes, but Kreacher carried on.

“Then Master Regulus began listening.”

The words settled differently.

Regulus looked down at the warm cloth over his fingers.

“And then?” he asked.

Kreacher smiled, small and careful. “Then it sounded like music.”

Regulus did not answer.

His throat did something inconvenient.

Kreacher, mercifully, looked at the instrument instead of at him.

“It is not Master Regulus’ violin,” Kreacher said. “But Master Regulus did not ask for another violin.”

“No,” Regulus said softly.

“He asked for this.”

“Yes.”

“Then this is what Master Regulus will learn.”

Regulus looked at the kamancheh.

It lay in the open case, no longer quite as accusing as before. Still unfamiliar. Still demanding. Still full of ways to embarrass him. But possible now. He had touched the edge of it, just enough to know there was a path forward.

James might never care.

That truth sat beside him, cold and honest.

James might smile kindly and forget. James might never hear him play at all. James might always look through him toward Sirius, because Sirius was easier to love and easier to understand and easier to stand beside. Regulus could learn every note perfectly and still not become visible in the way he wanted.

But the wanting had already changed him.

It had made him reach for something beyond pride.

It had made him listen.

That was dangerous.

It was also, he feared, the point.

Regulus removed the cloth from his hand and flexed his fingers once more.

Kreacher looked alarmed. “Master Regulus.”

“One more time.”

“No.”

Regulus blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Kreacher said no.”

“You can’t say no.”

“Kreacher can. Kreacher just did.”

Regulus stared at him, genuinely affronted. “I am your master.”

“And Kreacher is the only one here with sense.”

“I have sense.”

“Master Regulus has ambition.”

“That’s better than sense.”

“It is louder than sense.”

Regulus leaned back slightly. “You’re getting very bold today.”

“Kreacher is protecting Master Regulus’ hands.”

“My hands are fine.”

“Kreacher will hide the bow.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

Kreacher looked him dead in the eye.

Regulus slowly stood.

Kreacher slowly reached for the bow.

“Kreacher.”

“Master Regulus.”

“Do not.”

“Rest.”

“I need to practice.”

“Later.”

“I need to practice now.”

“Kreacher will call Mistress.”

Regulus froze.

The threat dropped into the room like a knife.

“You wouldn’t.”

“Kreacher would.”

“You would interrupt spa day?”

“For Master Regulus’ fingers, Kreacher would interrupt the sun.”

Regulus stared.

Kreacher stared back, ancient and immovable and absolutely willing to cause an international incident between Regulus and the most dramatic members of the household.

Regulus sat back down.

“This is betrayal,” he said.

“This is care.”

“It feels similar.”

“Kreacher understands.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Kreacher understands a great many unpleasant things.”

Regulus glanced at him.

Kreacher looked pointedly at the tea.

Regulus picked it up with a sigh and drank.

For a while, neither of them spoke.

The quiet returned, but it was not the same quiet as before. Before, it had been empty space waiting to be used. Now it was full of the aftershape of music. Notes lingered in Regulus’ mind, arranging and rearranging themselves. He could feel the corrections he needed to make. He could see the path his fingers had to learn.

By tomorrow, the opening would be cleaner.

By next week, perhaps recognisable.

By the end of summer—

He stopped himself.

Hope was a dangerous thing to leave unsupervised.

Kreacher watched him over the rim of the teapot. “Master Regulus is planning.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I’m drinking tea.”

“Master Regulus plans loudly.”

Regulus sighed. “I’m thinking.”

“About the older boy.”

“About music.”

“Because of the older boy.”

Regulus looked at him flatly. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Kreacher is devoted to Master Regulus’ happiness.”

“My suffering, you mean.”

“Sometimes they overlap.”

Regulus almost laughed again, which was becoming a worrying pattern.

He set the cup down.

“I’m not doing this to make him like me,” he said.

Kreacher wisely looked unconvinced in silence.

Regulus frowned. “Not only.”

Kreacher nodded once.

“I know that won’t work,” Regulus said, though the words tasted unpleasant. “Not like a spell. Not like if I learn the right notes, he’ll suddenly—”

He cut himself off.

Kreacher did not push.

Regulus stared at the sheet music until the lines blurred slightly.

“I just want him to know,” he said. “That someone remembered.”

Kreacher’s voice was very quiet. “Then Master Regulus should play like that.”

Regulus looked up.

“Not like Master Regulus is trying to be seen,” Kreacher said. “Like Master Regulus saw.”

The words struck him harder than expected.

Regulus looked back at the instrument.

Like he saw.

Not louder than Sirius. Not brighter. Not impossible before breakfast. Not dancing through a room until everyone turned. Just proof, in sound, that when James had spoken, Regulus had been listening.

It was unbearably simple.

It was nearly impossible.

Regulus reached out and touched the edge of the sheet music with one finger.

“I can do that,” he said.

Kreacher nodded. “Yes, Master Regulus.”

“I can.”

“Yes.”

The house creaked again, softer this time, as if even Grimmauld Place had grown tired of pretending not to listen.

Regulus did not pick up the bow.

He wanted to.

His fingers twitched with it. His mind kept pressing forward, restless and hungry, already correcting the next attempt. But Kreacher was right. The body had rules too. Ignore them, and they collected their debts with interest.

So Regulus sat beside the open case and studied the music in silence.

The kamancheh waited.

Patient.

Unimpressed.

Promising nothing.

Regulus found, to his irritation, that he liked it better that way.

Kreacher moved around the room quietly, restoring things that did not need restoring, dusting surfaces that had already been dusted, hovering in every sense except the one he would admit to. Regulus let him.

Outside, summer burned on.

Somewhere beyond the house, Sirius and eomma were likely turning shopping into theatre. Appa was at work. The world was continuing in its usual loud, careless way.

But inside Grimmauld Place, for one rare afternoon, Regulus had a secret that was not made of fear.

He had an instrument he could not yet master.

He had sheet music spread like a map.

He had aching fingers, cooling tea, and Kreacher guarding the bow as if it were contraband.

And he had James Potter’s voice in his memory, warm and easy and edged with something almost wistful.

“Half the school forgets I’m Persian unless I say it outright.”

Regulus looked down at the notes.

“I didn’t forget,” he whispered.

Kreacher did not pretend he had not heard.

He only said, very softly, “No, Master Regulus.”

Regulus touched the kamancheh again, not playing this time. Just resting his fingers against the wood, feeling the shape of what he had chosen.

Tomorrow, he would be better.

The day after that, better again.

By the end of summer, perhaps, he would be able to draw the bow across the strings and make something beautiful enough to carry what he could not say.

Not a confession.

Not yet.

Just a sound.

Just a thread.

Just one careful bridge between himself and the boy who had never looked long enough to see him waiting.

Regulus closed the case at last.

The latch clicked softly.

Kreacher looked relieved. “Master Regulus is done for today?”

Regulus stood, smoothing his shirt with as much dignity as a person could manage after being bullied into rest by a house-elf.

“For now,” he said.

Kreacher’s eyes narrowed. “For today.”

Regulus walked toward the door.

“For now.”

“Master Regulus.”

Regulus paused in the doorway and glanced back.

Kreacher stood by the table, one hand resting protectively near the instrument case, his expression stern with loyalty.

Regulus allowed himself the smallest smile.

“For today,” he conceded.

Kreacher bowed, satisfied. “Very good, Master Regulus.”

Regulus turned away before Kreacher could see the rest of the smile arrive.

The hallway beyond was dim and quiet, but not empty. Not anymore.

Behind him, in the room where summer light still pooled across the floor, the kamancheh waited for tomorrow.

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