Chapter Text
Regulus Arcturus Black
Quidditch practice is made better by only two factors. The first is when Regulus catches the snitch in a scrimmage. He's a brilliant seeker, everyone says so, but with half his team playing against him it's much more difficult to focus on a tiny flying sphere.
The second factor is when they share the field. Every Slytherin hates those practices, when half the pitch goes to another house. It's in their nature after all, ambition to be the winner is best achieved without prying eyes.
Regulus, however, often finds he is the one watching the other team. Only when they play against Gryffindor, of course. Because unfortunately, their chaser has a tendency to skirt the edges of the pitch, where Regulus hovers to scan the sky for the Snitch.
And Merlin above, Potter looks far too fit when on a broom.
Regulus has always managed to play off his lack of focus as annoyance, anger even. Complaining to the captain that Potter keeps flying too close and entering their side of the pitch. The captain agrees to try and share with Ravenclaw instead.
Fortunately, the captain is Regulus’ close friend Evan Rosier. He knows the truth and plays along to help him. Evan knows how much Regulus’ reputation matters, if not to him than to his family. In return for allowing him to stare at Potter all practice, Regulus tutors him in Muggle Studies.
Best of all, Potter himself seems to buy the ‘hatred’ hook, line, and sinker. [That's a muggle phrase, something about fish, that Evans taught him.]
“Is there something on my face, Black?” Potter himself calls over, interrupting Regulus’ mindless admiration. He has a death grip on his broom, making his muscles more visible than usual. Regulus may or may not have flown higher than he normally does for this exact reason.
“Have you forgotten you have glasses, or did you finally figure out the definition of a rhetorical question?” Regulus responds with scoff, rolling his eyes. Potter's grin falters for a moment and Regulus is torn between thoughts.
Regulus Black, the Slytherin Prince, would count this as a win.
But Reg, the sixteen year old boy, doesn't want to hurt anyone, especially not the guy he has a [minor] crush on.
“I'm not stupid,” Potter insists, only half joking. Silently, Regulus wonders if he even believes himself.
“No, I suppose not. Quite frustrating, and incredibly obnoxious though.” Regulus says with a snort. Potter squints his eyes at him, as if trying to decipher a puzzle.
“Was that… some kind of backhanded compliment?” He asks, flying a bit closer to hear better. Regulus feels his heart pound in his ears. He finds his eyes trailing to the stands, where Potter's friends sometimes watch him practice.
Sirius isn't here today. And thank Merlin for that, Regulus hasn't spoken to his brother in two years and does not need him thinking that his estranged brother is shagging his best friend. Which he isn't.
“It was a simple fact, obviously.” Regulus replies evenly, forcing himself to look away. He scans the field for the snitch, knowing he might fall off his broom if he looks into those honey brown eyes too long. “Perhaps you are daft after all.”
“There it is,” James snorts, shaking his head. As if the thought of Regulus being kind was merely a fever dream. “Should have known you would never compliment a Gryffindor, eh Black?”
“Perhaps you should be worthy of a compliment then.” Regulus snaps, swallowing the words he wished to say.
‘I compliment my brother to my friends all the time, I just can't talk to him ever again.’
‘Gryffindor is full of bravery, and I'm a coward. Why wouldn't I admire you?’
‘Stop being so damn fit and let me focus!’
“Harsh,” Potter says, and Regulus wants to scream. Instead he rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. He sees Potter mirror the action mockingly, and feels his face heat up. Whether out of anger for the immature act or simply the sight of James Potter with tousled hair, he doesn't even know.
“Expect anything else?” Regulus raises an eyebrow sarcastically, but internally he is genuinely curious. Does Potter think he can change? Does he even want him to?
“I suppose not,” He replies, in a haughty, exaggerated imitation of Regulus. His knuckles tighten on his broom, but he doesn't dare look away from the Chaser taunting him. “Should I?” It's Potter's turn to sound curious, tilting his head.
“No.” Regulus says simply. Potter's eyes seem to be searching him, looking for something. Regulus doesn't know what he's looking for, or if he'll find it. He turns his broom more toward the stands, making eye contact more difficult in case there is something to find.
“You're a right puzzle, aren't you?” Potter lets out a sigh, shaking his head. Remus Lupin said something similar once, that Regulus is an ‘oddly intriguing git’. He almost tells that to Potter, then reminds himself that the study group he has with Lupin and Evans is meant to be a secret.
“I have my moments,” he says carefully, turning slightly to give Potter a bored look. He is far from bored however, in fact this may be the most they've ever spoken to one another in all their time at Hogwarts. “Why? What's the point in-”
“ROGUE BLUDGER, EVERYONE OFF THE PITCH NOW!” It was the Gryffindor captain that called out this warning, Marlene McKinnon, her voice amplified with magic. Regulus scanned the pitch, spotting an empty ball case on the ground on the Gryffindor side. Someone must have knocked it over, freeing the bludger.
“Damn it, Mary's bat broke too!” Potter exclaims, gesturing to the splintered wood falling to the ground. The girl in question was shooting into the stands to escape. Regulus turned his broom to dive, the fastest way to land on his model, but was stopped by Potter grabbing his arm. His heart started skipping beats erratically.
“Don't dive, the wind's behind you, you'll spiral!” Potter insisted, releasing his arm quickly once he realized he was still holding it. Regulus took a deep breath to steady himself, hating that the older boy was right.
“Then what do you suggest that I-” he tried to snark at him, but was cut off by someone shouting his name. Before he could process the shock of who called him, he was hit.
The bludger struck him right between the shoulder blades, sending sharp back through every limb of his body. He jolted, arms releasing his broom due to the force of the impact. He tried to grab hold again, but the bludger returned and struck the back of his head, sending him tumbling forward and off his broom.
He fell, head pounding painfully and vision blurred. Not a good sign, he thought. Possibly a concussion or contusion on my skull. That could put me out for the season.
He hardly had time to think anything else before he hit something, breaking his fall. Some kind of cloud, magically produced no doubt, had saved his life.
Unless I have died, then this would be the afterlife. His brain helpfully supplied. Then the cloud began to dissipate, dropping him the last few feet to the ground violently.
His head hit the grass of the pitch, and everything disappeared.