𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄: “𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐚 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭” (Or, the night Hogwarts went completely and irreversibly feral)
——
The Great Hall was glowing.
Gold and silver danced across the enchanted ceiling like spilled stardust, bewitched snow drifting gently down through the rafters before vanishing a few inches from the long house tables. Candles bobbed like gossiping spirits overhead. Tinsel clung to every archway and banister, bewitched pine boughs curling down the walls like serpents. And at the front, where the professors’ table usually stood, a raised stage had been conjured from stone and spellwork—glittering with frost and warm light and whatever chaos was about to step foot on it.
Welcome to the first (and likely final) annual Hogwarts Talent Showcase, Dumbledore's latest attempt at “community engagement.”
It was going about as well as one might expect.
“WHY is he still letting first-years juggle swords?” Sirius groaned, flinching as a flying dagger narrowly missed a Hufflepuff in the front row.
“Because he’s seventy percent whimsy and thirty percent danger,” Remus replied dryly, leaning back on his elbows and taking another sip of pumpkin fizz. “And also because Minerva lost a bet.”
James snorted. “Ten galleons says Slughorn tries to sing next.”
“He did last year at the staff party,” Lily piped up from across the table, cheeks pink from laughing at the last act—a Slytherin boy doing interpretive dance to Wand-ering Free. “Dressed as a Christmas ham.”
“Oh, we’re definitely getting kicked out tonight,” Alice whispered gleefully.
“We were never in,” Mary replied, mouth full of treacle tart.
They were loud. All of them. The Gryffindor table had devolved into a constant stream of heckling, cackling, and throwing bread rolls at the performers they didn’t like (with Sirius charming one into a paper swan mid-flight that smacked the flute girl in the face and then bowed).
The show was halfway through now. One or two acts had been genuinely good—a Beauxbatons exchange student doing aerial ribbon spellwork and a Ravenclaw who sang like a Veela—but the rest had been... interesting.
“Why are they moaning into a lute?” Gideon asked with horror, watching a sixth-year girl from Durmstrang doing something unspeakable with her voice and a tambourine.
“She said it’s ‘avant-garde,’” Fabian muttered. “And I hate it.”
Then—
“Alright, alright, hush now—” Professor Flitwick’s voice cracked over the Sonorus charm, silencing the crowd. “Up next… representing Slytherin House, we have a musical performance by—”
“Oh, Merlin, no.”
“Please be anyone else.”
“Please be literally anyone else—”
“REGULUS BLACK!”
Barty let out an ungodly whistle. Evan catcalled. Pandora stood on the Slytherin bench and screamed “THAT’S MY BLOODY WIFE.” Dorcas slapped the table like she was at a rugby match.
The Gryffindors all groaned.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” James said, burying his face in his hands.
Sirius looked like he’d just seen a banshee. “Tell me he’s not gonna try to sing. Tell me this isn’t his coming out moment with a ballad.”
“Maybe he’s gonna do slam poetry about your childhood,” Peter snorted.
“Maybe he’s going to faint before he even gets to the stage,” Remus offered.
“Maybe he’ll trip on his own foot and explode,” Fabian said hopefully.
James threw back his butterbeer like it was firewhisky. “I swear to God, if this is some Black family power grab performance art—”
Then he saw him.
Regulus Black stepped out from the wings of the stage.
He wasn’t in uniform. Not in anything formal either. Just soft, dark jumper sleeves pushed to his elbows, loose-fitting black trousers with drawstrings, and warm socks that padded silently across the stone floor. His curls were half-tied, still a bit messy from the wind. No wand. No smirk. No smug expression.
He looked like someone about to settle in by the fire—not perform for a school full of jackals.
Cradled in his hands was a violin.
James paused. “Wait. Wait, he actually—?”
Reg didn’t speak. Didn’t look at the crowd. Just walked to the centre of the stage, gently adjusted the mic stand aside, and turned his face toward the ceiling. Eyes closed. Chin tilted upward. Breath fogging faintly in the air.
Then he lifted the violin.
The bow touched string.
And he began to play.
——
“Carol of the Bells” — Arranged by Madness. Interpreted by Magic. (Think: Matt Ebenezer’s “Epic Carol of the Bells” with the brutality of Lindsey Stirling’s technique)
The first note hit like a lightning bolt.
Sharp. Staccato. Crisp like the bite of snow on skin.
He played fast—furious—and the spellwork reacted before he could stop it. The enchanted instruments behind him, perched on floating runes, began to tremble and shimmer. A phantom cello struck its first low, growling note. A harp shuddered into motion. A second violin answered the first. Then violas. Flutes. A timpani rumble.
Regulus’s hands moved like lightning, bow slicing cleanly over the strings as he launched into the piece—no warm-up, no hesitation, just raw, blistering force. The notes came in driving bursts, the signature rhythm of Carol of the Bells immediately clear, but warped, bent, built. Where most versions flutter and chime like bells in the distance, this one roared like a winter storm.
It was symphonic war.
Four measures in, he added vibrato—tight, pulsing wavers at the end of each phrase, giving the piece breath, tremble, heart. And then it climbed.
The harmony split—violins dividing into thirds, echoing and overlapping, the castle’s magic syncing perfectly to Reg’s energy. No spell. No wand. Just intent. Just the crackling focus of a seventeen-year-old boy who never liked to be seen but was now tearing the sky in half.
The rhythm shifted again. Reg pushed into arpeggios—three-note bursts arcing upward in sickening speed—then threw his whole weight into a dramatic crescendo. The orchestra behind him followed like a beast on a leash.
A burst of trills. A high E string so sharp it made half the crowd flinch. A sudden dip into minor harmony, chilling and unexpected.
By the second verse, his foot tapped for tempo. His head tilted with the phrasing. His curls slipped loose from the tie. And he still hadn’t opened his eyes.
He was glowing.
Sweat at his temple. Pale light catching on his cheekbone. The bow skipped with vicious grace—every flick of his wrist a promise, a knife, a confession.
The final passage swelled—multi-stringed harmony rising in waves, dissonance resolving at the last possible second, orchestra magic screaming in tandem—and ended on a tremolo: rapid, trembling notes played with almost violent force before—
Silence.
The note held. Then fell away.
And without missing a beat—
He launched into Tchaikovsky.
——
The Nutcracker, Op. 71a, Act II, No. 12: “Trepak (Russian Dance)” (Yes. That one. The one that sounds like an angry ballet chase scene)
The transition was seamless. Bone-snapping.
Trepak attacks. It’s not a piece for gentle players. It's speed and stamina and pure chaotic momentum. A thunderstorm of sixteenth notes.
The castle responded accordingly.
Percussion burst to life—cymbals crashing, tambourines rattling mid-air. The flutes trilled like birds on amphetamines. The violins shrieked in joyous harmony. And Reg—
Reg leaned into it.
He was no longer a student. Not a Slytherin. Not a Black. Not a boy with fifteen people waiting to mock him.
He was the storm.
He grinned.
His bow blurred. His left hand flew across the fingerboard so fast it was a blur, shifting positions like a spellcaster flipping through languages. Spiccato strokes—short, bouncing bowwork—made the strings dance, giving the music that wild, leaping energy it’s famous for. The rhythm stomped. Accelerated. Spun into madness.
The violin became part of him—tucked into his jaw like a second mouth, a second voice. His heart beat in rhythm with the beat of the Trepak. Downbow. Upbow. Cross-string skips. Double stops. It was brutal, flawless, beautiful.
And he still hadn’t opened his eyes.
The ending came in a blur of motion—triplet passages spiraling up the scale, sudden dips and pivots, then one final, savage burst of chords—DA DA DA!
He pulled the bow away.
The echo rang.
And the room went dead silent.
——
It lasted all of three seconds.
Then—
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA—”
Barty flipped the Slytherin bench over.
Pandora screamed so loud two enchanted candles blew out.
Evan was on the floor sobbing. Dorcas grabbed the collar of a seventh-year and yelled “DID YOU SEE THAT, THAT’S MY FRIEND, BITCH.”
At the Gryffindor table, Sirius looked like he’d been clubbed over the head with his own wand.
James was standing. Just standing. Mouth slightly open. Butterbeer forgotten in one hand.
“He’s—” he croaked. “He’s—what the fuck.”
“Did he—? Was that—?” Lily gasped, fanning herself.
“Did we just get emotionally violated by a Black?” Fabian demanded, gripping the table.
Peter fainted.
Remus just stared at the stage, breath gone. “I’m gonna be sick.”
And Reg?
Regulus Black stood there, eyes finally opening—just barely. Half-lidded. Glinting. He didn’t bow. Didn’t speak. Just looked out at the chaos he’d created, expression unreadable.
Then he turned, stepped off stage, and vanished backstage.
And Hogwarts erupted.
——
The screaming was deafening.
Not polite applause. Not genteel claps and murmured praise. This was full-volume, off-the-rails, mental asylum-grade bedlam.
It started with Barty.
“THAT’S MY HUSBAND!” he shrieked, voice cracking gloriously.
He was standing on the Slytherin bench like a possessed prophet, fists in the air, eyes wild. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! I’M GOING TO BITE SOMEBODY!”
Evan was howling. Literal howling. Like a wolf at the moon, only more dramatic and probably drunk on sheer emotion. “YOU ABSOLUTE ORCHESTRAL SEX DEMON!”
Pandora kicked a cup across the table. “HIS ARSE IS BLESSED BY THE MUSIC GODS,” she screamed, hands cupped around her mouth like a megaphone. “TINY AND VIOLENTLY PERFECT, WHO GAVE HIM THE RIGHT.”
“HE PLAYS LIKE THAT AND LOOKS LIKE THAT—?” Dorcas was pacing, manic. “HE’S WEAPONISED. HE’S A WEAPON. WE HAVE TO REGISTER HIM WITH THE MINISTRY.”
From the Gryffindor table, chaos bloomed.
Mary was shrieking into her hands.
Lily looked like she’d just seen the face of an angel and was reconsidering her entire identity.
Alice clutched Frank’s arm so tightly he winced. “We have to… we have to tell someone. That’s not normal. He should be in a museum. Or behind glass. What the fuck.”
Fabian and Gideon were locked in a two-man meltdown, repeating “What the fuck?” back and forth like a tennis match of confusion and awe.
Remus was blinking very slowly, as if rebooting.
Peter was still unconscious.
And Sirius—Sirius Black—sat frozen. Paler than death. Eyes wide. Mouth open. A piece of treacle tart halfway to his face and long since forgotten.
“What the fuck,” he whispered. “That’s not Regulus. That’s not my Regulus. That’s—That’s someone else. That’s a siren wearing my brother’s bones.”
James had his fists clenched and a look of absolute betrayal. “He never said a word. He plays like a god and didn’t say a single fucking word. Who the fuck just whips out Carol of the Bells x Nutcracker Remix and casually burns down the school?!”
“He didn’t even open his eyes,” Sirius hissed. “He had his EYES CLOSED the whole time. Do you know how hot that is? DO YOU?!”
Lily looked at them both. “You two are insane. He’s seventeen.”
“He’s seventeen and playing my heartstrings like that fucking violin,” James said bitterly.
——
Meanwhile—
Regulus Black was walking down the centre aisle.
Violin case hugged to his chest. Shoulders slightly drawn in. Hair slipping free in soft, dark curls. He didn’t look like a triumphant showman. He didn’t even look smug.
Mostly, he looked... blank. Eyes steady. Chin high. Calm in the middle of the storm. But if you looked—if you really looked—there was the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth. A quick swallow. A breath too sharp.
A flicker of nerves.
He wasn’t expecting the crowd to explode.
He wasn’t expecting the applause to keep going. Or the screams. Or the standing ovation that started with the Ravenclaw table and quickly infected the rest.
He definitely wasn’t expecting the small girl from Hufflepuff—tiny, maybe second year—to dart out into the aisle like a lightning bolt and plant herself in his path.
He halted fast, startled.
So did the crowd.
The girl stood there, eyes huge, clinging to a little travel-sized violin in a plain brown case.
“I—sorry—I—I play too!” she blurted, cheeks flaming. “Well, not really, I mean—! I’m learning! My parents just started getting lessons for me. But—but I can’t—I can’t do that, I mean, I don’t even know what you just played. That was—that was so pretty, I thought it was gonna be boring but it wasn’t boring, it was like—you fought the music, and it won but also you won? And I—can—can you—can you teach me?”
Silence.
Like actual pin-drop silence.
Reg just blinked at her.
His fingers flexed on the violin case. The crowd held its breath.
Then—so small you might miss it—
His eyes softened.
And the corner of his mouth pulled upward.
“…Sure,” he said, voice quiet but clear. “I could do that.”
The girl screamed.
Like, actually screamed. A tiny, joyous, delighted wail that sent the front three rows flinching.
“THANK YOU!!” she shouted, and hugged him. Full-body, arms-around-his-middle, crushed-herself-into-his-ribs hug.
Regulus Black did not move.
But he let it happen.
Even patted her head once, very awkwardly.
Then she peeled off and ran back to her table where she and her friends exploded like confetti.
He blinked after her. The smallest huff of laughter escaped his nose.
Then he kept walking.
——
By the time he made it back to the Slytherin table, his friends were in ruins.
Pandora was sobbing into Evan’s sleeve.
Barty had already conjured a crown of musical notes and tried to put it on his head.
Dorcas grabbed his shoulders as soon as he sat and shook him. “You evil, sneaky, musically-possessed little son of a bitch. You didn’t tell us—you didn’t tell us!”
“You’re grounded,” Evan declared. “No more secrets. Not from us. Not from your husbands.”
“I want to braid your hair and tell you you’re the most beautiful person in the world,” Pandora whimpered.
Reg sat down. Gently. Placed the violin case on the bench beside him. Shrugged off Barty’s crown attempt. Sipped from someone else’s pumpkin fizz like nothing had happened.
And smiled.
Tiny. Crooked. Tucked into one corner of his mouth.
It was criminal.
It was adorable.
The entire room screamed again.
Sirius faceplanted into the table.
James made a strangled noise.
“I’m in hell,” he whispered.
Regulus Black tilted his head. Let his curls fall over one eye.
And fucking smirked.