Houses of the Holy

Edward Scissorhands

TW: Swearing, mentions of scars, mentions of past abuse? not bad at all, knives (in a potions sense) Barty with pruning shears (especially a warning if you're Evan's hair) this is mostly just soft stuff that amused me, enjoy?

All the times that I've cried

Keeping all the things I knew inside

It's hard, but it's harder to ignore it

If they were right I'd agree

But it's them they know, not me - Cat Stevens, Father And Son

Regulus

Regulus sighs, sitting down at one of the tables near the back of the library, waiting for James. They're supposed to have a tutoring session today, the first one. If James remembers that is, the other boy is already 10 minutes late. Regulus hates tardiness, something drilled into him by his mother, the innate terror that if he is to be even a minute late, he would be subjected to that terrible touch again. Though, today, it doesn't worry his as much. The scar on his neck doesn't burn like it usually does when he thinks of his mother, in fact, the only thing he can think of now is the feel of James's fingers against it yesterday, when he held Regulus.

Regulus hates how safe he felt in James's embrace, the other boy held him like he could protect him from anything. It makes Regulus's stomach do something strange. He hisses out a breath, fingers rubbing the scar absently. His fingers are softer than James's, the other boy's are calloused from years of Quidditch, but buttery smooth still.

He jolts a little, when said Gryffindor sits down beside him with a flourish, dropping his books on the table, and his bag to the ground with a clatter. His hair is out of place and his cheeks are flushed slightly.

"Sorry I'm late, I had Quidditch practise." He says, leaning on his arms and looking at Regulus.

Something in his throat catches slightly, and he feels sick. "Right, well, don't let it happen again." He brushes it off.

James's face falls a little, and he looks away, reaching into his bag to get his parchment and a quill. Regulus recognises the writing on the side 'S.O. Potter.'

"Is that Sirius's quill?" He says, bemused.

"What? Oh, er," James looks down, flushing out of nervousness, "Yeah, suppose it is."

Regulus hums, "Shall we begin?"

James nods, smoothing out the page.

"Today I thought we could work on finding things you struggle with, and working from there."

James bites his lip, thinking, "Well.... I mean, I can't really do any of it." He admits, his voice small, very unlike him.

Regulus smirks, a bit cruel, but rightly so he feels. "Oh? A bit of a failure are you Potter?"

James stills, his face shuttering, then going blank. Too far. Regulus doesn't exactly feel like apologising but- "Sorry." He mutters, looking away.

James shrugs, "Suppose you're not wrong."

Oh.

Fuck.

Somehow, that comment cut James, and Regulus doesn't know how, but he sure as heck feels bad now. He shifts uncomfortably, not enjoying this feeling. He's supposed to enjoy cracking James, not feel bad for him. Pathetic. That voice sounds suspiciously like his mother, and he shakes it off.

"Have you ever succeeded at making a draught of living death?"

James shakes his head, his shoulders slumped, the defeat in his posture making Regulus feel sick all over again.