Runaway love | Jegulus

Chapter 4

Thank you so much for everyone reading this. Isla

Regulus had expected James to mention something about that night to Mrs Potter, or Sirius, but he didn't. It wasn't brought up again. From that night on, James and Regulus barely spoke to each other. This is not to say that James didn't try, he had tried several times to speak to Regulus, but the other boy was quiet and avoided him mostly. James was usually off getting into trouble with Sirius and Regulus was constantly rejecting and ignoring the two boys pleas for him to join them, favouring a day in the library, alone.

When Regulus had realised that his wrist was completely fixed, it only took a day to heal after Mrs Potters work, he had broken down crying. He had spent two years in near-constant agony, not being able to heal his wrist himself or ask for help with it, he had been too afraid Madame Pomfrey would ask what had happened to get it fixed at Hogwarts. He wasn't crying because he was happy the pain was gone, although he was relieved, he was crying because it had only taken Mrs Potter twenty minutes to fix and no one had ever cared enough to do it before. His own parents, his flesh and blood, had known it was broken, he had been hexed many times at dinners for not being able to hide his pain, but they had never bothered to fix it.

Regulus had been almost completely silent during every meal he'd shared with the Potter's and Sirius so far. He would simply come when called, eat the meal, thank Mrs Potter, and then wash all of the dishes by hand, without being asked. Though he never had to do chores in Grimmauld Place, he felt obliged to do them now, desperate to repay the Potters in some form, by being as useful as he could be. Early one morning, during Regulus's first week with the Potter's, the five sat quietly at the table together for breakfast. He was stirring his tea absentmindedly, letting James and Sirius's conversation about quidditch wash over his head, when Fleamont spoke to him across the table. They had only spoken once at this point; Regulus had thanked him for letting him stay in the house and had offered to help with anything the man needed. Fleamont had not pushed Regulus for more conversations, sensing his distrust and fear of authoritative figures, so it had taken Regulus by surprise when he spoke to him during their breakfast.

"Regulus, I'm planning on re-organising the library over the next few weeks." He looked directly at the boy who was slightly twitchy and nervous, unable to hold eye contact. "I tried to enlist James and Sirius's help but they're useless when it comes to books and being helpful" There was a small gasp of protest from both boys before a gentle laugh from Fleamont. He spoke softly. "Would you like to help me? I can always use a second opinion."

Regulus looked up at the older man now, looking into his eyes. His expression was genuine and kind. His hair was silver, like his wife's, and pointed out at ridiculous angles, like James's. His face was wrinkled from years of smiling and laughing, a feature neither of the Black parents had. He knew how much Regulus loved reading and he was reaching out in the best way he could. Regulus nodded gently.

"I'd like that a lot." He spoke quietly. Euphemia exhaled, as though she'd been holding her breath and chuckled, leaning over and kissing her husband softly on the cheek. Regulus remained silent for the rest of breakfast, but he felt warm inside, almost hopeful, about the future. His future.

Fleamont and Regulus spent almost every day of the next two weeks together in the library. They worked, for the most part, in comfortable silence. Occasionally they would stop to discuss a book they particularly liked or disliked, offering their own critiques and opinions to each other. Regulus was beginning to trust the soft-hearted man, enjoying his presence and the way they had some similar interests. They sorted thousands of books into alphabetical order and then into sections, Muggle Books, Poetry, Spell Books, Magical Myths etc. Regulus enjoyed every minute he spent in the library. He revelled in seeing how old the books were, he spent hours looking at which pages had been marked by whoever had read it before, reading personalised inscriptions and with every book he gently brushed off any dust. He had always loved reading; admired the escape it allowed him to feel. In reality he might have been a child hiding under his bed from the 'monsters' but in his book, he was a man with the most powerful wand in the world, or flying a Hippogriff through the skies.