The Quiet Unraveling
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Regulus Black escapes her arranged marriage in a stolen wedding dress, crashes into the lives (and living room) of the Gryffindors she hasn't seen since Hogwarts, and ends up holding their baby like she was born for it. Her unhinged getaway driver won't stop flirting, Sirius is ready to murder him, and baby Harry has imprinted on her like a duckling. Chaos, healing, found family, and maybe a little enemies-to-lovers if the driver doesn't get punched first.
⚠️ Content Warnings:
Emotional distress / panic
Parental neglect & arranged marriage
Physical manhandling (non-sexual, brief injury scene)
Sibling conflict
Canon-typical war mentions / background character death
Mild injury (hip slammed into door)
Unreliable adult figures
Hinted PTSD / trauma responses
Loud arguments / yelling
Extremely chaotic driver (mentally unwell-coded, comedic tone)
Swearing / strong language
Flirting with implied power imbalance (older OC x younger Regulus, played for comedy)
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Regulus stared at her reflection and didn’t recognize the girl in the mirror.
The room was too quiet. Quieter than a wedding morning had any right to be. Quieter than a house that grand, that ancient, that full of legacy and rotting pride could possibly be. Outside the heavy windows of 12 Grimmauld Place, the grey morning did nothing to soften the mood. London dripped with a reluctant drizzle, light as mist, but no one would dare call it romantic.
Regulus sat stiff in the velvet-backed chair, corset laced tight around a ribcage that hadn’t had the air to breathe in years. Her dress—silk and bone-colored lace, stitched with pearls that hadn’t belonged to her—clung to her narrow frame like a shroud.
Her hands trembled in her lap.
She was twenty-one, apparently. The age sat on her shoulders like someone else’s coat. She didn’t feel twenty-one. She hadn’t felt anything but hollow since she was fourteen and Sirius had walked out the front door without looking back.
"Well?" came the voice behind her.
Regulus didn’t look away from the mirror. Her own eyes stared back—too pale, too tired, rimmed red from crying in private because no one in this house had ever tolerated tears. She’d stopped letting them see. She’d stopped letting anyone see.
Walburga Black swept into the room like a winter storm—cold, loud, dressed in white.
Not ivory. Not cream. White.
The same shade as Regulus’ dress.
It was deliberate.
"Are you just going to sit there?" Walburga snapped, heels clicking against the floor like gunfire. She waved her hand through the air as if swatting away smoke. “You're a disgrace. Do you want to be late to your own wedding? Merlin help me, you look like a drowned rat."
Regulus said nothing.
Her jaw locked tight, eyes still fixed on the mirror. The woman standing there looked like she was being buried alive in chiffon.
Walburga scowled deeper. “And what’s that expression supposed to mean? Don’t you dare sulk. We worked too hard to make this happen.”
We. As if Regulus had been involved in any of the planning beyond being paraded like a prize. As if she hadn’t found out her groom’s name three months ago at dinner, between a sneer about the state of her hair and a lecture about posture.
“Is the dress too tight?” Walburga continued, circling her daughter like a vulture. “You look bloated. I told you not to eat so much at supper last night. You’ll look pregnant walking down the aisle like that. If that’s the impression you want to give—”
“Mother,” Regulus said. Her voice was flat. Hollow. She didn’t even know why she spoke. There was nothing to say. No plea to make.
But Walburga turned sharply anyway. “What.”
Regulus met her gaze in the mirror. “Why are you wearing white.”
Walburga blinked once. Smiled. A poisonous little curl of the lip. “Because I can. Because I’m not going to be shoved in some back row looking like an old crone while you pretend to be the family’s jewel.”
Regulus didn’t flinch. She’d been immune to venom since birth.
“You’re not the center of this,” she murmured.
“Oh, darling.” Walburga leaned in, her breath ghosting her daughter’s cheek, perfume thick as rot. “I’m the only reason you’re here at all.”
The door creaked.
Orion stepped into the room like a man ten years older than he was. His robes were crisp. His expression wasn’t.
“Enough,” he said quietly, voice low and final. “Leave her be.”
Walburga scoffed. “If I leave her be, she’ll sit here and sulk until the guests start whispering.”
“She is sitting right here,” Regulus said.
Walburga ignored her. She always had.
But Orion stepped further in and stood between them, gaze fixed on his daughter. “It’s time.”
Regulus stood slowly.
The silence stretched.
Orion’s eyes flicked over her, and for a moment, she thought he might say something kind. Something fatherly. Something real.
He didn’t.
He just offered his arm, like this was some kind of dream or parade or theatre piece they were both forced to star in. Like he hadn’t ignored her for most of her life unless she was being punished or dressed up to show off to pureblood guests.
Regulus took his arm anyway. There was nothing else to hold on to.
Downstairs, the house was humming. Music. Movement. Laughter. All of it distant and dulled like it came from underwater.
The hall was packed with purebloods in polished robes, faces she didn’t know and names she’d learned only through overheard conversations. Her husband-to-be’s family stood near the altar, chattering politely with their noses raised.
And her family—well.
Narcissa sat like a porcelain doll, legs crossed neatly, smiling like she was fulfilling a role. Lucius Malfoy at her side, pale and cold.
Bellatrix was further off, arms folded, eyes glinting like glass knives. She hadn’t even looked at Regulus yet.
Andromeda was gone. Had been for years. Married a Muggleborn. Banished.
She should’ve been here. She would’ve made a face about the dress. She would’ve made Regulus laugh.
Regulus had no one.
Not Sirius. Not Dorcas. Not Evan—Evan was dead.
Not Pandora—Pandora was gone.
Barty? Barty was probably off killing someone. Or being groomed for some position at Voldemort’s side.
None of her people were here. None of her real ones.
Just ghosts.
Just eyes.
She stepped onto the carpet.
The crowd turned.
She kept her chin up.
She remembered, for just one moment, being ten years old and hiding behind the thick velvet curtains in the drawing room while Sirius screamed at their mother. She remembered the way he’d clenched his fists. The way he fought. And the way he’d looked at her—just once—before storming out and slamming the door.
He’d never looked back.
And she had never screamed. Not once. Not even when it hurt. Not even now.
The man at the altar was tall. Handsome, in a lifeless way. He smiled at her like someone greeting a co-worker at a Ministry event.
She didn’t smile back.
The music faded. Someone cleared their throat.
And then the ceremony began.
Words were spoken. Ancient words. Binding words. Promises of alliance and obedience and wealth. Nothing about love. Nothing about choice.
Regulus’ voice was calm when she recited the vows. She didn’t shake.
Not until the ring slid onto her finger.
Not until she heard the words: You may now kiss the bride.
The man leaned in.
She turned her face. He kissed her cheek.
There was polite applause.
It sounded like nails on a coffin lid.
After, the reception was full of shallow toasts and spinning wine glasses. The ballroom rang with old music. The air was heavy with perfume and pride and legacy.
Regulus stood by herself at the edge of it all, half-sipping a drink she hadn’t asked for, watching her new husband talk to a cousin she didn’t know.
Her dress itched. Her bones ached. Her throat was raw from the inside out.
She stepped away quietly, up the stairs, back to the room where she’d started.
She sat down again in front of the mirror.
The girl looked the same.
She didn’t.
And from the window behind her, beyond the wrought-iron railing, thunder rolled faintly in the distance.
It sounded like something was coming.
The sky outside was smudged lilac now, streaks of ash-coloured clouds curling like smoke over the rooftops.
Regulus sat in front of the open window, elbows on the sill, her chin propped on the back of one gloved hand. The chill bit at her collarbone and tangled in her lashes, but she didn’t move.
She didn’t want to.
The ballroom buzzed like a hive below her. Champagne flutes. Laughter. Music. A thousand pureblood smiles pinned in place like beetles on a board. Her husband was likely toasting with her name on his lips, a name she hadn’t given him permission to use.
Regulus felt carved out.
She’d done everything right. Every class. Every dance. Every silence. Every compromise. She’d let herself be painted and moulded and written into someone else’s script. Sat through dinners. Swallowed words. Worn dresses like cages and shoes that blistered and hurt.
They thought she didn’t mind. They thought she liked it.
People had always mistaken her silence for agreement.
That was the thing about being quiet—everyone thought you were content.
Sirius thought that, too, when he left.
Dorcas thought that when she joined the Order and never looked back.
Evan—dead, and he’d never even said goodbye.
Barty, too busy. Pandora, gone. Just gone.
And Regulus had stayed. Of course she had. Because she was the good child. Because she had no right to want something else. Because wanting something was selfish.
She stared out the window, wondering what kind of life could’ve been built in the space between "yes Mother" and "I do."
What would happen now? What would be expected? When would the next script be handed to her?
The door creaked behind her.
Her heart leapt into her throat, heels scraping against the floor as she turned, startled, dress rustling like leaves in the wind. For a wild moment, she thought it would be Walburga again, back to shriek or scold or adjust her posture—
But it was Orion.
He stood in the doorway, still as stone. His expression unreadable.
Regulus stood too fast.
“I—I’m sorry,” she said quickly, instinctive. “I didn’t mean to—I'll go—”
He raised a hand gently. “Stay.”
She hesitated.
“…Is something wrong?”
“No.”
He stepped inside slowly, quietly, like the hallway might be listening. Then, without saying another word, he came up behind her—his only daughter in her too-white dress—and turned her gently back toward the mirror.
Her reflection blinked back at her, confused.
Orion reached up and began undoing the intricate pins in her hair.
Regulus stiffened. “What—?”
But he didn’t answer. His hands were slow. Careful. Unclipping each silver fasten, letting the heavy, shining waves tumble down her back one by one. Her scalp ached with the release.
"I remember the day you were born,” he said softly, as if to himself. “Your mother had insisted on a boy. Had all the names prepared. But when they handed you to me...”
His voice faltered.
“I’d never seen anything so small. So loud. You were screaming like the world had wronged you personally.” He chuckled under his breath. “And maybe it had.”
Regulus didn’t speak.
“I thought then,” he continued, hands brushing through her hair, “that I’d do everything I could to make sure you never had to scream like that again.”
Her throat tightened.
“You were supposed to be safe. This house, this name—it was meant to protect you. I thought that if we kept you close, if we kept you quiet, if we taught you how to behave, how to please, how to smile—” He stopped. “I thought we could keep you.”
“…Why are you telling me this now?”
Orion didn’t answer. His eyes met hers through the mirror.
“The contract,” he said simply. “It hasn’t been signed yet.”
She blinked. “What?”
“You haven’t signed it. They have. Not you.”
Regulus turned in the chair, alarm rising like a tide.
“What do you mean? I—I thought the binding was done. At the ceremony—”
“It wasn’t final. Not until you seal it.”
“But—”
“There’s a car,” he said, quiet and calm. “Out back. Just down the kitchen stairs. It’ll be waiting.”
She stared at him.
He was serious.
“You’re telling me to run?”
Orion nodded, expression steady. “And don’t look back.”
Regulus’s voice cracked. “I don’t—why—why are you saying this? Why now?”
He held her gaze in the glass. “Because I love you.”
It hit her like a brick through a stained-glass window.
She turned sharply to face him, rising to her feet.
He looked older than she remembered. Greyer. And there was something behind his eyes—soft and shaking and terrified—that she hadn’t seen since she was a child and scraped her knees on the front steps.
“I got to walk you down the aisle,” he said quietly, voice almost breaking. “Maybe someday, when you choose it yourself... we’ll have that father-daughter dance after all.”
She stared at him. “You can’t mean this.”
“I do.”
He stepped forward and pulled her into a brief, breathless hug. Then he pushed her gently toward the door.
“Go.”
Regulus hesitated.
And then—like the breath before a plunge—
She ran.
She didn’t stop to change her shoes. Didn’t bother to lift the hem of the dress as she thundered down the back stairwell, heels clicking furiously against the old stone. Her heart pounded like a war drum in her chest. She burst into the kitchen, flew through the servants’ corridor, shouldered open the back door.
Rain hit her skin like absolution.
The alley was slick and silent. A black convertible sat at the far end, engine running, headlights low.
She sprinted.
The voices were already beginning to rise inside. Someone had noticed. Chairs scraping. Shouts. Screams. Walburga, no doubt, shrieking like a banshee with her pride bleeding in the marble hall.
Regulus didn’t wait. She didn’t open the car door. She jumped.
Dove into the passenger seat like it was her only lifeline.
The driver—wide-eyed, young, half a cigarette dangling from his lip—blinked at her. “Bloody hell—”
“Drive!” she yelled. “Please, just drive!”
He didn’t ask questions.
He grinned.
“Alright, then.”
He slammed his foot on the pedal and the car launched into motion, tires shrieking against the pavement. Rain splattered across the windshield. Her veil tore free into the wind, vanished into the dark.
Regulus clutched the seat with both hands, chest heaving.
She didn’t look back.
Not once.
The wind roared like something alive, clawing at her hair, her veil long gone, whipped into the night like a final surrender. The convertible barreled down the motorway far too fast—tyres kissing death with every swerve, engine screaming like it wanted to outrun time itself.
Regulus gripped the side of the door, white knuckles against ivory lace. “YOU’RE GOING TO GET US KILLED!”
The driver just laughed.
A bright, barking cackle, like this was the funniest thing to happen to him all year. “Yeah, maybe! But you’re not dead yet, sweetheart, so loosen up!”
She shrieked again as he veered around a bend without slowing, the whole car lifting slightly on one side.
“SLOW DOWN!”
“Nah,” he yelled over the engine and the wind, that cigarette still clinging to the corner of his grin, impossibly. “When I got bribed into doing a second ride today, I wasn’t expecting a fuckin’ runaway bride. You are killing me, princess!”
Regulus stared at him, horrified. "What?"
“What?” he repeated mockingly, tossing his head toward her with a wild grin. “You thought this was a random rescue? Like I was just sitting outside in a car, engine running, waiting for the drama to unfold like a telly soap?”
“I—I don’t know—I thought—what do you mean someone bribed you?!”
“Relax!” he shouted over the wind. “Some guy slipped me a fat pouch of Galleons and told me there’d be a girl in white coming out the back door, and that if I got her to the address, there’d be more where that came from.”
She gaped. “A man?”
“Tall, fancy, looked like he wanted to cry but would rather eat glass than do it in public,” he said with a shrug. “Said to drive like hell and not stop. Good thing I’m good at both.”
Regulus fell silent, heart climbing up her throat and settling there like a stone.
Her father.
He’d planned this. Not just in the moment. Not just because he saw her crack. He had arranged this. Paid the driver. Memorised a route. Had the address ready.
He knew. He knew she'd run.
And he helped her anyway.
The driver glanced at her again, noticing her face shift. “Oh, damn. Was that your old man?”
She didn’t answer.
“Damn. That’s some cinematic shit.”
Regulus blinked, then looked up sharply. “Wait. Where are we going?”
He shrugged one shoulder, still smirking. “Some old flat in the north end. Quiet part of town. Told me to drive the long way, take the back roads off the M1 to avoid attention.”
“That doesn’t tell me where.”
He licked his thumb and flicked it toward the glove compartment. “It’s in the envelope.”
She wrenched it open, finding a thick, folded parchment tucked inside. Her name was written on it in her father’s hand—neat, sharp ink, like he’d pressed every letter in with intention.
Her chest tightened as she opened it.
For Regulus.
Take her here. Don’t stop for anything. Don’t let her look back.
—Orion Black
And below, a street name.
Godric’s Hollow.
She blinked.
“Where?”
“Godric’s Hollow,” she repeated aloud. It felt foreign in her mouth. Like a name she’d once heard in a story, or maybe in a history book and forgotten.
The driver gave a low whistle. “Weird spot. Not exactly the place you'd expect a runaway to be hiding out. Quiet, but full of...I dunno. Meaning, y’know?”
She didn’t know. She’d never heard of it.
It wasn’t on her map of the world.
"What's in Godric’s Hollow?" she asked, clutching the paper.
He grinned. “Apparently, you.”
And the car howled onward, lights blurring through the rain-soaked dark as Regulus stared down at her own name on the parchment. She traced it once, her finger shaking. The dress itched at her shoulders. Her skin was slick with sweat, or fear, or maybe finally, just release.
She didn’t know what waited at the end of the road.
But for the first time in her life—
She wanted to find out.
“YOU’RE GOING TOO FUCKING FAST—!”
“Babe, we’re not even breaking a hundred anymore! I’ve slowed down! This is what compromise looks like!”
Regulus had both hands braced against the dashboard, hair whipping into her mouth, eyes wide with terror. The veil had long been swallowed by the wind, her heels were kicked off in the footwell, and the hem of her dress was bunched around her legs in a tangled mess of lace and fury.
“WE NEARLY DIED BACK THERE!”
“We nearly merged, calm down—”
“You drifted into a lorry!”
“I flirted with the lorry! Big difference!”
“ARE YOU MENTALLY UNWELL—?!”
“I prefer emotionally nuanced, thanks!”
“You’re going to get me killed!”
“Better than being married, right?”
“YOU’RE NOT FUNNY!”
“I’m fucking hilarious!”
She screamed, he laughed, and the wind did its best to drown them both out.
By the time they reached the sleepy little neighborhood, the stars had begun to break through the low cloud cover—quiet and unassuming above the haze of country air. Lanterns flickered on porches. A dog barked somewhere in the distance.
They were going too fast for any of it to matter.
“Turn left! LEFT—”
The driver jerked the wheel hard.
The convertible screeched onto the cobbled path, jumped the curb with a violent bounce, and skidded across gravel with all the grace of a roller skate on ice.
“SHITSHITSHIT—”
There was a crash. A thud. Something ceramic exploded against the tyre with a shattering crack, and the car slammed to a stop.
Regulus jolted forward—but the driver threw an arm out across her chest, pinning her back just in time to avoid smashing into the dash.
They froze, panting.
A little plaster gnome pinwheeled into the hedges.
The two of them sat there in silence.
Then—
“WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?!” Regulus shrieked, whirling on him, eyes wide. “ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL ME?!”
“YOU said left!”
“Not into the fucking YARD!”
The driver doubled over laughing, slapping the steering wheel. “I nailed that gnome! Did you see that?! That little bastard never stood a chance!”
“You’re a psychopath!” she howled, grabbing a fistful of his jacket. “You just obliterated someone’s ugly little wizard garden!”
He grinned, nose-to-nose with her, voice low and smug: “If I were mentally deficient, darling, I would’ve missed it.”
“YOU’RE INSANE!”
“YOU’RE UNGRATEFUL!”
They were full-on screaming at each other, face to face, tangled in silk and denim and breathless adrenaline.
She had him by the collar now, and he was grinning so wide it looked like it hurt. “Are we gonna kiss right now?”
Regulus screamed in raw frustration and shook him.
Behind them, the house lights flared on.
The door flung open.
People rushed out.
Three figures and a baby.
A tall man in glasses, wrapped in a cardigan, held the baby protectively and lingered near the porch steps, wide-eyed.
Two others sprinted forward, moving without hesitation—one with dark, shoulder-length hair, wand already drawn; the other in a red dressing robe with hair curling loose from her braid.
But halfway down the path—they froze.
All three of them stopped cold.
Regulus didn’t notice. She was still wrestling her unhinged chauffeur with both hands and no decorum. “I swear on Morgana’s tits, if you EVER—”
“Wait for it,” the driver grinned.
The dark-haired man took a sharp step forward.
“…Regulus?”
Her whole body froze.
It was the voice. That voice.
She whipped around, fingers still clenched in the driver's jacket.
Her eyes locked on the man standing in the garden.
Breath caught in her throat. The whole world stilled. For one suspended moment, even the wind held its breath.
“…Sirius.”
He stared at her.
She stared back.
Neither of them moved.
Not a word. Not a sound.
Just the weight of a thousand unspoken things and all the years between them hanging in the air like smoke.
Behind them, the driver threw up his hands.
“Delivery complete!” he chirped cheerfully. “One runaway bride, in premium condition—though the gnome is fucked. Do I need someone to sign for her, or do we just call it a happy ending?”
The night should’ve stayed quiet.
But Sirius Black never did anything quietly.
The moment Regulus whispered his name—barely a breath, barely a sound—Sirius moved. He stormed forward like a storm given legs, boots crunching the ruined garden gnome into powder.
“Are you INSANE?!” he roared, reaching the car in seconds.
Regulus blinked—too slow, too tired, too raw—and Sirius grabbed her arm so hard it yanked her half out of the seat.
She screamed.
Her hip slammed into the door frame with a sick, metal clack, pain shooting up her ribs. Her breath stuttered. She folded in on herself instinctively—
“What the fuck, man—!” the driver lunged forward, but Sirius barked a warning over his shoulder that sent him stumbling back.
“Don’t you touch her!” Sirius snarled, shaking her by the arm again. “What the hell were you THINKING?! Running off in a bloody wedding dress?! What are you doing here—are you—ARE YOU IN THE WAR OR WHAT—?!”
Regulus trembled, silent. It wasn’t fear of Sirius. It was the shock of being handled like that again. A childhood reflex. A memory buried so deep it had bones.
Sirius didn’t notice. Not yet.
He grabbed her wrist, hauling her arm up to the moonlight as if he were lifting a cursed artifact. His fingers dug into her skin, pulling the sleeve back, hunting—
For the Mark.
For evidence.
For the thing he was sure she’d become.
But her arm was bare.
Sirius froze.
His grip loosened.
“…What?” His voice cracked with confusion. “You… you don’t…”
He looked again. Then again. Then at her. Then at her dress. Her hair undone. Her shoes missing. Her veil gone. Her cheeks blotched red from crying, windburned from escaping, bruised already from hitting the door.
“Reg…?” he whispered.
His voice had changed. Softer. Younger. Almost scared.
Behind them, James and Lily hovered on the garden path like stunned ghosts, James holding a baby to his chest as if shielding it from this whirlwind of Black-family trauma exploding in their lawn.
“…Mate?” James said cautiously. “What’s… happening?”
The driver raised both hands like this was some kind of audience-participation theatre show. “Oh! Right! So basically I got bribed, right? And then Princess here—” he gestured wildly at Regulus “—came sprinting down the stairs like a bat out of Hell and JUMPED into my car, and then we went full Fast & Furious—”
Regulus shot him a look that could’ve curdled milk.
He winked.
“—and she’s totally into me—”
“SHE IS NOT,” Regulus snapped.
Sirius blinked. “You’re—into—he’s—WHAT—?!”
“I AM NOT INTO HIM.”
“Kind of sounded like you were,” the driver muttered.
“SHUT UP!”
Sirius ran a hand through his hair like he was trying to stop his brain from leaking out.
Finally, he crouched down to her eye level and asked, voice shaking:
“Regulus… what’s going on?”
Regulus swallowed.
Her throat felt like sandpaper dipped in grief.
She looked down at the ring still on her finger—glittering like a chain. She twisted it. Twisted harder. Her fingers shook.
“It was my wedding day,” she said quietly.
Lily gasped. James’s eyes blew wide. The baby hiccuped.
Sirius looked like someone had kicked him in the ribs.
“…Wedding,” he echoed.
Regulus ripped the ring off, her breath shaking, and shoved it at the driver without looking.
“Hold that.”
He stared at it. “Uh—do I pawn this, or—?”
“SHUT UP.”
Sirius reached for her—hesitant this time. “Regulus… who—?”
“Does it matter?” she whispered. “I barely know him. It was arranged. Like everything else.”
The garden was silent now.
Even the wind seemed to hold still.
She looked down at her lap, fists curling. “Father… he… he told me to run.” Her voice shook. “He bribed this idiot and told me to go. So I did. And I didn’t know you lived here. I swear I didn’t know. I didn’t mean to show up. I can go. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”
She looked away.
She always looked away.
Sirius stared at her for a long, painful second.
And then—
He moved.
He didn’t grab her this time. He didn’t yank. He didn’t interrogate or accuse.
He just pulled her into him, so tight she almost lost her breath.
Regulus gasped as he wrapped his arms around her, half lifting her out of the car over the door, crushing her against his chest like he was holding on for dear life.
She froze for a split second.
Then she broke.
Her hands clutched the front of his shirt. Her forehead hit his shoulder. A sound escaped her—small, cracking, raw.
Sirius squeezed tighter.
“Reg… I’ve been looking for you,” he whispered, voice splintering. “I’ve been trying for years.”
The driver leaned out of the car window.
“…Sooo is now a bad time to ask if I’m still getting paid?”
Regulus stayed curled in Sirius’s arms, face hidden in his neck, breath stuttering like she didn’t trust the air around her. His arms didn’t loosen. Not once. Like if he let go, she’d vanish again.
And maybe she would.
His hand cradled the back of her head. Hers fisted in the fabric of his shirt.
The silence around them was suffocating.
James stood frozen halfway down the garden path, baby still clutched to his chest. Lily lingered beside him with wide eyes, one hand hovering over her mouth. Even the driver—still leaning against the ruined car like he hadn’t just launched into the most unhinged mission of his life—stayed quiet. For once.
It was Sirius who finally breathed.
“…It’s really you.”
Regulus didn’t answer. Just nodded into his shoulder.
They clung to each other like lifelines.
It was James, brave enough to break the moment, who cleared his throat loudly. “Uh… right. This is. Um. Emotional and dramatic and all that, but…” He glanced down at the baby. “Do we wanna… move this inside?”
Lily nodded, soft. “Come in, love. You’re safe now, alright?”
Sirius pulled back slightly, just enough to brush Regulus’s hair back from her face. “Come on, Reg. Come in.”
She nodded, numb.
Sirius kept his arm around her like a shield as they moved toward the house. James held the door. Lily gestured them all in gently.
The driver, of course, swaggered after them like he belonged there.
“What—No,” Regulus said, turning sharply. “Why are you coming inside?”
“Why wouldn’t I come inside?” he grinned. “I risked life, limb, and driving license for you, darling. Least you could do is offer me a biscuit.”
“You don’t deserve a biscuit!”
“I carried your heels.”
“You threw my body into the door!”
“I protected you with my arm, actually—heroically—”
“You aimed for that fucking gnome—!”
“I obliterated that fucking gnome. Precision. Talent. I should be knighted.”
Sirius looked over his shoulder at James and Lily like: I will deal with that later.
“Who is he?” James asked quietly.
“I don’t know,” Regulus snapped. “He’s a driver. I met him today. And he’s either deeply annoying or mentally unwell.”
“Little from column A, little from column B,” the driver said cheerfully, still carrying her heels like they were royal relics.
“Why is he still here?” Lily whispered.
“I don’t know!”
“Are they gonna—” James murmured.
“They’re definitely gonna,” Lily said.
Inside the Potter cottage, the air was warm and filled with the scent of tea, woodsmoke, and something slightly burnt. Regulus stood awkwardly in the entryway, lace train dragging behind her. She didn’t know what to do with her hands.
The driver shrugged off his coat and—before she could protest—draped it over her shoulders. It was several sizes too big and smelled like cigarette smoke and stolen petrol, but she didn’t take it off.
“Don’t,” she warned him. “Don’t say something smug.”
He waggled his eyebrows.
“I swear to Merlin—”
“Okay,” Sirius said, loudly, before either of them got handsy again. “Everyone. Sit down.”
They all shuffled into the living room.
Regulus took the farthest seat from everyone, legs curled beneath her, jacket drowning her whole frame. The driver flopped beside her like he owned the place, kicking his feet up and tossing her heels onto the table.
James looked mildly horrified.
“So,” Sirius started, arms crossed, eyes darting between her and the ticking timebomb next to her. “What the fuck is going on.”
Regulus blinked.
Then, like it was the most normal thing in the world, she said: “I’m not in the war.”
Silence.
James blinked. “Sorry, what?”
Regulus shrugged. “I’m not a Death Eater. Never have been.”
“But you’re a Black.”
“Congratulations,” she said dryly. “You can read a family tree.”
Lily stepped forward, cautious. “But you’re—you’re not—?”
“No,” Regulus said. “Mother said I was too valuable to waste on bloodshed. Marriage was always the goal. I was supposed to look good and shut up. And today was the result of that. A man I don’t know, a contract I didn’t sign, a future I didn’t choose.”
She twisted her hands together. “But Father… he helped me run. He knew I couldn’t do it. He let me go.”
The room was so quiet you could hear the baby snoring in James’s arms.
Then Sirius sat down hard beside her.
He reached out, taking her hand carefully. She didn’t pull away.
“Then it ends here,” he said firmly. “You’re not going back. You’re staying here. With me.”
Regulus blinked at him.
“You mean live here?”
“Yes. In my flat. You’ll be safe. No contracts. No expectations. Just… healing. Okay?”
“…You still live with James and Lily?”
“I have a flat in London now,” Sirius said. “But I’m here all the time. So you’ll come. You’ll stay. You’ll finally be where you belong.”
She didn’t answer.
But she didn’t say no.
And that, for Regulus, was a lot.
The driver, meanwhile, leaned dramatically across the couch and said, “What about me? Do I get to live with you guys too?”
“Absolutely not,” Regulus said.
“You love me.”
“I want you dead.”
“Same thing,” he said, smirking.
Regulus shoved him. He laughed. She shoved harder.
He shoved back.
They were practically wrestling now, knocking into each other, grinning, yelling.
James leaned over to Lily. “They’re definitely gonna get together.”
“Oh, absolutely,” Lily whispered. “Give it a week.”
It took a while—maybe a full pot of tea and three stress-pacing laps around the living room—but eventually, the chaos settled. Mostly. The Potter cottage had a way of absorbing emotion like a sponge. Warm walls. Squashy furniture. The lingering scent of cinnamon biscuits and old parchment.
Sirius and Regulus sat on the couch, curled toward each other like matching bookends, a thousand unsaid things tucked between their knees. Across from them, James and Lily sipped their tea with the kind of frazzled serenity only two exhausted parents could manage.
The driver had taken it upon himself to sprawl on the rug, legs crossed like they were at a sleepover, casually flipping through a Witch Weekly someone had left on the coffee table.
“You know,” he said lazily, “I’ve just realized something.”
Regulus didn’t look up from her tea. “Gods help us all.”
He grinned. “We’ve been screaming at each other for, like, two hours. And I don’t even know your name.”
She blinked.
The room blinked.
“You never introduced yourself either,” she said flatly.
He slapped a hand over his chest in mock offense. “Scandalous. And here I thought we were soulmates.”
“We are not,” Regulus snarled.
“You flirt like a Dementor.”
“I hate you.”
He beamed. “You keep saying that, and yet—”
“Spit it out,” she growled. “What’s your name?”
“Callum,” he said, cheerfully. “Callum Wren.”
She made a face like she’d tasted soap. “You look like a Callum.”
“Is that your way of saying I’m handsome?”
“It’s my way of saying your parents set you up for failure.”
James snorted into his cup. Lily choked on hers.
“I like her,” Callum said dreamily, nudging Sirius with his foot. “Is she single? Wait. Don’t answer. I already know the answer. She wants to kill me. That’s basically engagement in pureblood language, right?”
Regulus opened her mouth to eviscerate him, but James cut in quickly, eyebrows raised. “Wait—how old are you?”
“Twenty-four,” Callum replied. “Graduated Hogwarts three years before the war went properly sideways. You lot were what—fifth years when I left?”
Sirius narrowed his eyes. “I don’t remember you.”
“That’s cause I was forgettable,” Callum said with a wink. “I didn’t cause drama. Didn’t blow anything up. Just hung out with my mates, failed Divination, and fell asleep in History of Magic.”
“You and every other Hufflepuff,” James muttered.
“Hey! Ravenclaw, actually. We specialised in sleeping with dignity.”
Regulus tilted her head. “Wait, you’re a Ravenclaw?”
“Surprised?” he grinned. “I know. I scream Gryffindor, but my trauma’s more bookish.”
She rolled her eyes. “You’re barely literate.”
“I drove you to freedom,” he said dramatically. “Show some respect.”
“I hope you drive into a river.”
“You’re so mean to me,” he sighed, clasping his hands together. “Don’t stop.”
Regulus made a guttural sound of disgust and launched a cushion at his face. He caught it midair like a smug Quidditch Keeper and tucked it behind his head.
While they bickered, Sirius rubbed his temples.
“…Are you two twelve?”
“Emotionally?” Callum offered.
“Yes,” Regulus replied at the same time.
James and Lily exchanged looks behind their mugs—something quietly smug and conspiratorial.
But before anyone could comment further—
A soft tug.
Regulus stilled.
She looked down.
At the hem of her skirt, a tiny fist had latched onto the fabric.
Little Harry Potter, barely crawling age, stared up at her with enormous green eyes. He wobbled once—dangerously—and attempted to haul himself upright using her dress as leverage.
“Oh—wait, wait—” she said, panic flashing across her face.
He lost balance.
She caught him.
Her arms moved on instinct, cradling him as if she’d done it a thousand times. The baby hiccupped, blinked—
Then melted against her like he belonged there.
She froze.
Harry snuggled in closer, cheek against her collarbone, tiny fingers tangled in her hair. He cooed softly, gently babbling nonsense in baby-ese, and began gently petting her like she was a favorite stuffed animal.
Regulus looked around, utterly confused.
“…What do I do?”
“Just hold him,” Lily said slowly, eyes wide. “I’ve… never seen him do that.”
“Do what?” Regulus asked nervously.
“Not scream when someone other than me or James holds him,” Lily said, voice faint.
“I—he’s fine,” James said, setting his cup down. “He’s cuddling. He never cuddles.”
Regulus blinked down at the little boy nestled in her arms like a sleepy cat.
Callum whispered, “Mother material.”
She kicked him in the leg.
“You’re gonna break the baby!” he yelped.
“He’s fine!” she hissed.
But Harry was clearly more than fine.
Every time Lily reached to take him back, he whined. When James tried, he full-on growled. When Sirius leaned close, Harry glared.
“I think he’s claimed her,” James whispered.
“He’s never done this,” Lily murmured, sitting slowly beside them.
Regulus rocked slightly, letting the baby curl closer, her fingers carding through his tufts of black hair. Her voice was soft. Barely audible. She was murmuring little things—useless little nothings that only babies understood—and it sounded like lullabies stitched into velvet.
Callum stared.
Softly. Not his usual smug sideways glance. Not his usual tease.
Just…stared.
Like he was seeing something that cracked him open a little.
Lily noticed first.
Then James.
Sirius was last.
His face twisted slowly from confusion, to realization—
—to rage.
“Absolutely not,” he muttered.
“What?” James grinned.
“Nope.”
“Why not?”
“I see that face. I see that look.” Sirius pointed accusingly at Callum, who was still gazing like he’d just found religion in the shape of a pissed-off runaway bride with a baby on her chest.
Lily smiled. “They’re definitely going to get together.”
“Not if I kill him first,” Sirius muttered.
Callum glanced up.
Grinned.
Sirius bared his teeth.
Harry sighed in Regulus’s arms and drooled on her shoulder lovingly.
And no one dared try to move him again.
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