Written for:

Hogwarts —

Assignment 4, Health & Fitness, Task 5: Wrist Tendonitis - Write an Author!AU

…

Trigger warnings for PTSD, war-typical violence (guns, blood, fighting, etc.), heavy grief/angst

Most days, James wishes he'd been the one struck by the fatal bullet. As it is, he dreams about it in slow motion, and his feet are rooted to the ground, unable to do anything except for screaming his throat raw. Even in his dreams, he can't stop it.

Fuck. Fresh from the throes of a nightmare, James drags a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. His heart is throbbing in his chest — it too remembers what he had witnessed with stark clarity.

There is no way he's sleeping now. Sleeping means returning to that memory, and he doesn't think he can handle reliving it twice in one night. Once is bad enough.

Sighing, he puts on his glasses and makes his way over to his writing desk in the dark, trusting muscle memory to guide him — this is not his first time — and feels around for his laptop with his fingers, sliding his fingers against the notch and opening the lid. The screen flares to life and James blinks until his eyes adjust.

The document is still open, the way he'd left it a few hours ago. He'd left a sentence unfinished. The cursor blinks at him, waiting patiently. He shuts his eyes, concentrating, and…

"James, are you sure you're reading the instructions right? Because these two pieces aren't fitting right…"

James inhales sharply as his eyes fly open, dissolving the voice. His hands clench into fists as he struggles to control his breathing. "Reg, I'm sorry, I read the instructions, I promise," he says, the words coming out in a rush. "I should've been clearer, I should've helped you more, I should've…"

He trails off out of astonishment, because there is no way Regulus is kneeling next to him, holding a screwdriver, gazing intently at the desk. One instant he's there, and James is dazedly reaching for him, desperate for a piece of this — this spectral, glowing mirage, and the next instant he's not, and James is groping around in the semi-darkness. There is no Regulus, just James and the light emanating from his laptop screen.

Emotion wells up in his chest, grabbing him by the throat, and James lets out a choked sob, but his hands return to the keyboard. His fingers hover over the keys. He has to do this for Regulus. Regulus had specifically wanted James to tell his story in case of his death.

Your words are beautiful, my darling, Reg had penned in one of his last letters, in elegant, swooping script. If nothing else, I want my story to be written by your hand.

James knows the minute Regulus' heart ceases beating, because his soulmate mark burns. It feels as though a thousand scorching needles are pressing into his skin at once, as though a thousand cuts have split him open. He can hear the gunshots, and has to agonizingly stifle the howl threatening to rip free. As he runs, his soulmate mark seems to scream at him, turn back!

And James would have in a heartbeat, had Regulus not commanded him to leave in his final moments. He'd taken one look into Regulus' eyes, seen a glossy sheen, and had felt Regulus' fingers weakly detaching from his own. "Go," he'd whispered, chest heaving, as blood steadily poured from it . And that's all he'd been able to muster and James had heard more gunshots sound throughout the trees.

So he'd torn himself from Regulus and bolted for the trees, adrenaline pumping in his veins even as his heart roared, compelling him to turn around.

Almost.

The grief doesn't strike him until he's far, far away, and his soulmate mark has finally stopped burning. It feels like a bond had been unmistakably severed, and that same knife is burying itself deeper into his chest.

James stands at a podium in front of an audience of roughly twenty people and what seems like just as many cameras. All eyes are on him, on the book he's displaying next to him. He can feel his palms sweating and has an innate urge to run his hand through his hair.

James… A stray tendril of Reg's admonishing voice drifts about in his mind. Right. No messing with his hair. No messing with Regulus' night.

James straightens up as the cameras start rolling. A low hum rises from the assembled reporters and behind them, a small roped off area full of fans. All of them stare at him expectantly and James' stomach curdles, but he tamps down his nausea and smiles genially.

"Thank you all for being here today," he says, the practiced words rolling smoothly off of his tongue. "This book…I cannot put into words — ironically, I should say — how much of me I put into this book. I want to thank you all for your endless patience and support as I toiled away at this book. I wanted to do this book justice, as it is extremely personal for me…"

James' voice hitches here and he pauses, angling his head slightly to the left. Just out of sight of the cameras, waiting in the wings, is Sirius, looking uncharacteristically solemn. He flashes James a thumbs-up and James turns back to the crowd, regaining a measure of his confidence.

"As you all know, this book is based on something real. Something that has deeply affected my life, as well as someone else's, who is very dear to me. This book was our way of working through our grief, and I hope I was able to adequately capture the emotional depth of the experiences written into this book.

"For the person this is dedicated to…I know you can't hear what I'm saying, and I know you will never read this book, but I wanted to thank you for — for everything. Thank you for your faith, for always standing by my side, for catching me when I fell." He draws in a breath, making a massive effort to control his voice. He dips his head to the reporters. "Thank you. I will not be taking questions at this time."

A gentle touch on his arm has James turning to face Sirius. Sirius steers him off of the stage, and they don't speak as they get into the car idling at the curb outside of the building. Only when they are alone, and the partition is up does Sirius pull James into a hug, and a dam breaks in James' chest.

"I think he would be proud of you," Sirius whispers in his ear. James can feel him trembling, hear his shuddering breaths; he needs this embrace just as much. He lets Sirius hold on to him for as long as he needs, drawing just as much strength and comfort from Sirius as Sirius is drawing from him.

After a few minutes, Sirius' arms loosen around him and James pulls away. They sit in silence until the car pulls up to James' place. James meets Sirius' eyes, something unspoken passing between them, before James steps out and the car speeds away.

His flat is just as quiet as always. No greeting as he enters, no rushing footsteps; instead, he's welcomed by a flickering lightbulb and the stuffing sticking out of the couch cushions. Some time ago, the silence would have driven him mad. And it still does, but in a distinctly different way.

But when James walks into his bedroom, he spies his laptop sitting shut on the desk, and Regulus' voice wreaths around him, rough and teasing, uttering the oddest words.

Who said you wouldn't be okay, James?

And James runs his fingers over the laptop lid, wistfulness causing a smile to tug at the corner of his mouth.

No one.

1283 words