Chapter Text
it’s so hard to ignore,
you want so much
and then you want some more
somehow your appetite grows,
you’d just love what you can’t possess
- so much, The Sundays
Regulus is royally fucked, to say the least.
The only reason he’d even enrolled in Psychology 101 was because it was a compulsory module for his degree, offering a massive boost in credits. Still, he finds the entire subject completely pointless and difficult for the sake of it. To make matters worse, his attendance record’s looking absolutely horrendous. But, to be fair, that’s mainly due to the fact that his lecturer was dead-set on failing him — and Regulus actually has the proof to back it up.
The very first time he’d walked into that fuckass lecture theatre and taken a seat, Dr Slughorn had put him on the spot in front of about fifty-five people.
He’d been fishing around in his bag for a pen when he felt a sharp tap on his shoulder. He turned slightly, coming face-to-face with a ginger lad his own age who had the obnoxious, loud student-athlete look plastered all over him.
“Do you mind telling me what it says on the board, mate?” The bloke chuckled sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ve got terrible eyesight.”
Suppressing the urge to ask why the absolute git had chosen to sit at the bloody back of the room if his vision was that atrocious, Regulus just gave a tight nod. He leaned back slightly, reciting the scrawl on the whiteboard. “It says to turn to the word index in our textbooks.”
“Ah, brilliant. Cheers, mate.”
Regulus offered a polite, clipped nod and turned back around to actually try and focus.
About thirty seconds later, he was scribbling down some notes while Slughorn yapped on about the seven major perspectives of psychology, when there was yet another tap on his shoulder. It was the same daft bastard from before.
“Sorry, mate. Mind if I borrow a pencil?”
Regulus exhaled a quiet, sharp breath through his nose, nodded once, and fished a spare out of his pencil case to hand over.
The third time the fingers jabbed into his shoulder blade, Regulus turned around with a full-on scowl. The ginger lad actually winced at the sheer annoyance radiating off his face.
“Sorry,” the lad muttered, holding up the lead. “I don’t think this pencil’s working.”
“I — ”
“You!” Slughorn’s voice boomed through the lecture theatre, echoing off the tiered seating. He was glaring daggers straight in Regulus’s direction. “The one with the curls. Care to enlighten the rest of us on the difference between the cognitive and psychodynamic perspectives?”
Regulus blinked, looking to his left and right. “Sorry. Me?” he asked, pointing a finger incredulously at his own chest.
“Yes, you. What’s your name?”
“I — uh, Regulus. Regulus Black.”
Slughorn’s face contorted almost instantly, his mouth twisting into something sour. “Regulus… Black,” he repeated, spitting the name out as if it burned his tongue. His eyes narrowed, scanning Regulus’s face with a sudden, sharp clarity. “Any relation to a Sirius Black?”
Regulus felt his stomach drop. “He’s my brother, sir.”
“Ah.” The professor let out a short, humorless bark of a laugh, turning back to the lecture hall at large. “Splendid. Another Black. I can only hope you possess a modicum more discipline than your brother, Mr Black, though judging by your current inability to pay attention to a basic lecture, it seems the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Now, if you are quite finished disrupting my class with your social calendar, what is the difference between the cognitive and biodynamic perspectives?”
Regulus swallowed down the sudden surge of venom coating his throat. He forced his posture to remain rigid, refusing to give Slughorn the satisfaction of seeing him squirm. “The cognitive perspective focuses on mental processes like memory, perception, and problem-solving,” he said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. “While the biodynamic perspective, assuming you mean the psychodynamic perspective, sir, emphasizes unconscious drives and childhood experiences.”
A few quiet snickers rippled through the lecture theatre. Slughorn’s fat face flushed a dangerous shade of plum at the subtle correction. He cleared his throat loudly, shuffling his papers. “Quite. See that you remember it, Mr Black.”
When the lecture finally ended, Regulus packed his bag as quickly as humanly possible, desperate to escape. But as he swung his strap over his shoulder, he found his path blocked by a wall of freckles and bright ginger hair.
“Blimey, mate,” the bloke from before said, offering a grin that was far too bright for a Tuesday morning. “Didn't mean to get you into a spot of bother there. I'm Gideon, by the way. Gideon Prewett.”
Regulus stared at him, entirely unamused by the giant, enthusiastic ginger student-athlete towering over him. “Right. Well, try buying some glasses, Prewett.”
He pushed past him without another word.
The second crisis occurred exactly one week later, and it was the moment Regulus realized Slughorn was actively making his life a living hell.
Regulus had arrived early, purposely choosing a seat in the absolute dead-zone of the lecture theatre in the far right corner, tucked away against the cold brick wall. He had his noise-cancelling headphones on, staring straight ahead, determined to be invisible.
He didn't notice the room falling silent until a heavy shadow fell across his desk. He pulled his headphones down around his neck and looked up. Slughorn was standing there, holding a clipboard like a weapon.
“Moving around, are we, Mr Black?” Slughorn announced, his voice carrying effortlessly across the tiered seating. “I'm afraid that won't do. I’ve implemented a mandatory pedagogical seating arrangement for the remainder of the term. To foster... better focus.”
Regulus felt a muscle twitch in his jaw. “I can see the board perfectly fine from here, Dr Slughorn.”
“Be that as it may, I require you down there,” Slughorn said, pointing a stubby finger toward the middle row.
He looked down. Sitting right in the designated spot, waving enthusiastically with a giant carrot-topped grin, was Gideon Prewett.
“I have paired you with Mr Prewett,” Slughorn said, a nasty little glint in his eye. “Since you feel the need to chat during my lectures, you can do so where I can keep an eye on you. Move. Now.”
The entire walk down the steps felt like a walk to the gallows. For the next hour and a half, Regulus had to endure Gideon constantly leaning over to ask what a word meant, tapping his foot like a drum kit, and accidentally knocking Regulus’s water bottle off the desk twice. Every single time Regulus so much as sighed in frustration, Slughorn would pause the lecture, glare directly at him, and ask if Mr Black required a private interval to sort out his temperament.
The third and final nail in the coffin happened two weeks later, during the dreaded mid-term group presentations.
Slughorn had, predictably, forced Regulus and Gideon into a group, along with two other students who possessed the collective academic drive of a boiled potato. Regulus, entirely unwilling to let his GPA suffer because of his professor’s vendetta, had spent three consecutive all-nighters doing the entire project himself. He formatted the slides, wrote the script, and practically begged the others to just read their bullet points off the screen.
Naturally, it went completely tits up.
When their group stood at the front of the lecture theatre, Gideon immediately panicked. He completely forgot his lines, went entirely off-script, and started rambling about Sigmund Freud’s theories in a way that sounded like he’d hallucinated them five minutes prior. The other two group members just stood there like cardboard cutouts.
Regulus stepped in, smoothly taking over and delivering a flawless, academically rigorous conclusion to salvage the trainwreck.
When the presentation ended, Slughorn leaned back in his chair, tapping a pen against his chin. He ignored the rest of the group and looked straight at Regulus.
“An interesting attempt, Mr Black,” Slughorn said smoothly. “However, the lack of cohesion and the utterly shambolic nature of the theoretical application makes it impossible to award a passing mark for this presentation. The entire group receives a failing grade for the day.”
Regulus felt the blood rush to his ears. "Dr Slughorn, with respect, the core empirical data was entirely accurate and properly cited — ”
“ — I am the judge of what is accurate in this theatre, Mr Black," Slughorn cut him off, his voice dripping with condescension. He smiled warmly at the rest of the room. "Let this be a lesson to you all. Nepotism, family names, and arrogance will not write your papers here. You cannot coast on your brother's coat-tails, nor your family's reputation, to clear my module."
Gideon looked genuinely horrified, turning to Regulus. “Mate, I'm so sorry, I completely mucked it up — ”
But he wasn't listening. He calmly packed his laptop into his bag, zipped it shut, and walked out of the lecture theatre before Slughorn could even dismiss the class. He decided right then and there, walking across the rain-slicked campus, that he was never setting foot in that fuckass classroom ever again. Let his attendance record burn. Anything was better than that.
~
He’s now meeting with his advisor, Ms McGonagall, and it goes about as well as a terminal diagnosis. He sits in a tartan airchair across from her desk, staring at the rain lashing against the windowpane as she clicks through his student portal. The silence in the room is deafening, punctuated only by the rhythmic, annoying clack of her mouse.
Regulus actually really likes McGonagall, despite her stern exterior. She’s one of the few people on campus who didn't look at him and immediately see a walking, talking shadow of his brother's chaotic reputation. She treats him with a sharp, no-nonsense fairness that he deeply respects, making her office one of the very few places on campus where he didn't constantly feel on the defensive.
Her office is incredibly neat and smells of rich Earl Grey tea, old parchment, and the faint, comforting scent of peppermint creams. The walls were lined with towering oak bookshelves packed with leather-bound classic texts, organized with a terrifying, flawless precision that Regulus secretly admired.
“Mr Black,” she starts, lowering her spectacles to fix him with a look that makes him feel five years old. “Your attendance record for this isn’t just poor. It’s practically non-existent. You’ve missed two semesters and over six consecutive lectures.”
“Seven, actually,” he corrects quietly, his arms crossed over his chest. “I didn’t go yesterday either.”
McGonagall lets out a heavy, disappointed sigh, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “This isn’t a joke, Regulus. It’s a compulsory module for your degree. If you fail it, you cannot progress to the second-year prospectus. You’ll be held back.”
“I can’t go back there, Minnie,” he says, his voice dropping into a flat, stubborn register. “Slughorn’s actively targeting me. He failed my entire group because of a personal vendetta against Sirius. He practically told the class I was trying to coast on my family name.”
McGonagall’s expression softens slightly, a flicker of sympathy crossing her sharp features at the mention of Sirius, but she ultimately shakes her head. “Dr Slughorn has been a tenured professor at Myrddin U for over two decades. Without concrete, documented evidence of academic bias, the department cannot intervene based on a student grievance. As it stands on paper, you are simply a student who refuses to attend class.”
“So that’s it? I’m just fucked?”
“Watch your language, Mr Black," she snaps, though there’s no real heat behind it. She turns her monitor towards him and shows his current projected mark, which is a dismal, glowing red percentage. "There’s precisely one loophole. The university allows a retroactive attendance waiver if the module leader signs off on a academic recovery plan. But there is no hope of me doing that for you. You have to go to Slughorn.”
Regulus feels cold dread pool in his stomach, the comforting smell of her office suddenly doing nothing to soothe his nerves. “You're joking.”
“I am entirely serious,” McGonagall says, closing the laptop lid with a definitive, echoing snap. She reaches into her drawer, pulled out a single peppermint cream, and slides it across the mahogany desk toward him, her own silent version of an olive branch. "His office hours are Thursdays at four o'clock. You are going to walk down that corridor, you are going to sit in his office, and you are going to find a way to fix this. Because if you don't, your academic career at this institution ends before it's even properly begun."
~
Thursday at four o’clock arrives too fast and he stands outside Slughorn’s office, staring at the polished brass nameplate that feels like a personal mockery. He takes one deep, stabilizing breath and channels every ounce of patience and composure before knocking.
“Come in!”
Regulus pushes the door open and is immediately hit by the stifling, claustrophobic atmosphere. Compared to McGonagall’s office, Slughorn’s is a chaotic, velvet-draped cave. It smells heavily of expensive cigar smoke, damp tweed, and some sort of overly sweet, artificial sherry. Framed photographs of ‘distinguished’ former students clutter every available surface, practically screaming of the man's obsession with status.
The dipshit’s lounging behind a massive mahogany desk, pouring tea from a silver pot. When he looks up and sees Regulus, his fake, welcoming smile vanishes instantly, replaced by a cold, calculative squint. “Ah. Mr Black,” Slughorn says, setting the teapot down with a deliberate clink. “I must say, I’m rather surprised to see you. Given your spectacular absence from my curriculum, I assumed you’d dropped out entirely.”
Regulus closes the door behind him but doesn't sit in the plush leather chair offered. He stands rigid, his hands clasped behind his back. “I'm not dropping the module, Dr Slughorn. Dr McGonagall informed me that my only option to rectify my attendance record is an academic recovery plan signed by you.”
Slughorn lets out a soft, greasy chuckle, leaning back in his chair and weaving his thick fingers together over his stomach. “An academic recovery plan. Quite. Because the world owes a Black a second chance, doesn't it? Your brother certainly thought the rules didn't apply to him either.”
Regulus’s jaw clenches so hard it ached, but he keeps his voice perfectly level. “I am not my brother, sir. I am asking what’s required of me to pass this course.”
“Yes, your brother preferred grand gestures and rebellion. You, it seems, prefer simply slipping out the back door when things get difficult,” Slughorn says, his tone dripping with a patronizing warmth that makes Regulus want to punch through the plaster wall. “Well, Mr Black, I am a fair man. But I do not hand out passing marks to students who treat my lectures like an optional social club. If you want that attendance waiver, you will have to earn it.”
He reaches over to a stack of papers, pulling out a thick, stapled document and tossing it onto the desk. It lands with a heavy thud.
“You’ll conduct an independent, empirical field experiment,” Slughorn announces, a nasty, triumphant glint in his eyes. “A full behavioral observation study. You’ll draft the hypothesis, track the subjects, isolate the variables, and write a twenty-page breakdown. And because your attendance has been so thoroughly... lacking, you’ll present the data to me, in this office, every single Friday morning for the rest of the term.”
Regulus stares at the thick packet of guidelines. A twenty-page field experiment on top of his actual workload is borderline sadistic. “And the subject pool, sir? What exactly am I meant to be researching?”
Slughorn smiles warmly, though his eyes remain completely cold. “Oh, I think I’ve given you enough direction already, Mr Black. For the subject pool and the specific psychological focus, I am leaving that entirely up to you. I want to see if you possess even a fraction of the academic insight your family name suggests.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on the mahogany desk. “You have exactly forty-eight hours. Two days to submit a formal, comprehensive research proposal to my inbox. If the premise is weak, or if you fail to find a viable subject pool by Saturday afternoon, I simply won't sign the waiver, and you can repeat the module next year. Do we have an understanding?”
Regulus looks from the packet up to Slughorn’s smug, expectant face. The man knows exactly what he’s doing. He’s giving him virtually no time to coordinate a massive study, completely setting him up to fail. He’s expecting him to crack under the stress and give up like a little bitch. There’s absolutely zero fucking way Regulus is going to take this level of disrespect. “We have an understanding, Dr Slughorn,” he says softly, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. He reaches out, his fingers cold and steady as he picks up the packet from the desk, tucking it firmly under his arm. “I'll see you on Saturday.”
~
The rain’s absolutely pouring down the next afternoon as Regulus stands behind the neon-lit counter of the campus bowling alley, wiping down a pair of hideous rental shoes with disinfectant. The steady sound of pins crashing in the background usually coordinates perfectly with his headaches, but today his mind is completely consumed by Slughorn’s forty-eight-hour deadline.
Lily Evans is working the till next to him, her bright red hair tied back in a messy bun as she rings up a group of rowdy frosh. She and Regulus have been close since the first week of work, bonded entirely by a shared hatred of incompetent people and an appreciation for quiet sarcasm. They tell each other absolutely everything, which is why she already knows exactly how fucked he is with his psychology module. “I’m just saying, you could always fake the data,” she murmurs, sliding a size nine bowling shoe across the counter. “Slughorn’s too busy sucking up to the rugby team to actually cross-reference your subject pool.”
“I’m not risking academic suspension, Lily,” Regulus mutters back, tossing a rag into the bin. “He’d love an excuse to kick me off the course entirely.”
Before she can reply, the bell above the entrance chimes, and a delivery man steps into the lobby holding a ridiculous, aggressively large bouquet of red roses. They’re so bright they look offensive against the dingy carpet of the bowling alley. “Delivery for a Lily Evans?” the bloke calls out.
She freezes, her jaw dropping as she looks at the flowers. Regulus raises an eyebrow, leaning against the counter. “Don't tell me you have a secret admirer.”
She walks over, plucks the small card from the plastic wrapping, and reads it. Her expression immediately shifts from surprised to utterly exasperated. She lets out a loud, dramatic groan, tossing the card onto the counter. “It’s James,” she sighs, running a hand over her face. “It’s the third time this week he’s sent something. Yesterday it was a box of artisanal doughnuts. He’s trying to win me back, but he’s doing entirely too much. It’s suffocating.”
Regulus picks up the card. Written in messy, enthusiastic scrawl is: Thinking of you. Hope your shift goes fast! — J.
“This is more pathetic than endearing,” he says flatly, tossing the card back down. “The bloke has absolutely no concept of restraint. He wears his heart on his sleeve so hard it’s practically falling off.”
“Exactly!” Lily exclaims, leaning over the counter. “It’s like, the more he tries and the more attentive he is, the more I just want to run in the opposite direction. Why can't he just understand that sometimes less is more? If he just detached himself a bit and gave me some space, I might actually miss him.”
Regulus blinks, staring at the bright red roses. If he just detached himself a bit. A strange, cynical spark ignites in his brain, but before he can fully form the thought, his shift buzzer sounds, signaling the end of his hours.
~
The final piece of the puzzle falls into place the next morning, and it happens in the middle of a screaming match.
Regulus storms into Sirius’s flat without knocking, completely furious because his brother had borrowed his laptop the night before and left it with a fried motherboard. He needs that laptop to draft his proposal, and the sheer irresponsibility of it has pushed him over the edge.
“You’re a selfish, incompetent child, Sirius!” Regulus yells, slamming the flat door behind him.
Sirius is sitting on the sofa in his football shorts, holding a slice of toast and looking completely defensive. “It was an honest accident, Reggie. I didn't mean to spill the coffee on it. Why are you always so wound up?”
“Because some of us actually care about our futures!” Regulus snaps, his voice echoing in the small living room.
Sitting at the kitchen island, completely unfazed by the Black brothers' genetic predisposition for dramatic arguments, is Remus Lupin. He’s calmly drinking a mug of coffee, a book of his own open on the counter. He watches Regulus pace the room, then looks over at Sirius, who is now pouting heavily. “You know, it’s quite fascinating,” he says quietly, turning a page of his book.
Regulus stops pacing and glares at him. “What is?”
“The two of you,” Remus says, gesturing between Regulus and Sirius with his pen. “Your entire relationship dynamic is built on extreme emotional overcompensation. Sirius throws tantrums because he craves validation — ”
Sirius squawks, “ — I do not!”
“Do too. And you, Reg, completely distance yourself because you think emotional distance equals control. It’s a classic manifestation of attachment theory.”
At that, Regulus blinks slowly.
“In romantic relationships, it’s even worse,” Remus continues casually, taking a sip of his coffee. “People think that acting completely detached is a valid strategy to make themselves more desirable. They play hard to get because they think it proves power. There’s a whole book on it.”
Regulus’s mind goes entirely blank as everything clicks together. Lily’s complaint about James’s overwhelming attention. Slughorn’s demand for a behavioural observation study. James Potter’s complete inability to be subtle.
The validity of detachment in love and dating.
He slowly turns his head to look at Sirius, a dark, calculating smirk gradually spreading across his face. “Where’s James right now?” he asks, his voice suddenly dropping into a calm, terrifying register.
His brother blinks, looking thoroughly confused by the sudden shift in attitude. “Uh... he’s at the pitch? Why? What are you thinking? That’s your ‘I’m about to do something bat-shit crazy’ face.”
Regulus doesn't answer. He grabs his coat from the back of the chair, a sudden rush of pure, adrenaline-fueled genius washing over him. He has his hypothesis. He has his variable. And he’s just found his perfect, golden-retriever guinea pig. “Remus,” he says, pausing at the door. “You’re a genius.”
“Thanks. I know,” Remus replies smoothly, not even looking up from his book.
~
“I’m sorry. I don’t follow. You want to observe me for an experiment?”
James pulls the hem of his muddy crimson jersey to wipe some sweat from his forehead, completely oblivious to that he’s flashing a broad expanse of tanned, extremely toned abdomen to half the rugby pitch. His messy dark curls are plastered to his forehead and his glasses are slightly fogged up at the rims and, although Regulus wouldn’t dare to try anything, the fucker’s, objectively-speaking, pretty hot. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, and breathes out heavily into the chilly afternoon air. So, Regulus appreciates the brief eye candy without explicitly saying it out loud and stroking the man’s all-too-high ego.
Regulus stands on the touchline, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his pristine black overcoat, looking like a dark, unimpressed smudge against the vibrant green of the pitch. He watches James shift the rugby ball under his arm, looking bewildered. “It’s a simple proposition, Potter,” he says, his voice cutting cleanly through the distant sounds of the rest of the squad packing up their gear. “But we’re not discussing the logistics while you’re dripping mud onto my shoes. Change out of your kit. There’s a café down the road.”
Ten minutes later, Regulus is sitting in the corner booth of a cramped, steam-windowed university café that smells of burnt espresso and damp wool. James slides into the plastic booth across from him, smelling overwhelmingly of coconut shower gel and deodorant, wearing a ridiculously oversized hoodie that makes him look even broader than usual. He drops his massive sports bag onto the floor with a heavy thud and leans forward, propping his elbows on the sticky table.
“Right then,” James says, his eyes bright with a sort of frantic curiosity as he pushes his glasses up his nose. “Now explain to me why exactly I’m your perfect guinea pig.”
“Because your natural romantic instincts are catastrophic,” Regulus explains smoothly, unbuttoning his overcoat and pulling the stapled packet of Slughorn’s guidelines from his bag. “I need a human subject for a behavioural observation study. I’m testing the affective validity of strategic detachment in contemporary dating.”
James blinks, looking at Regulus like he’s speaking French.
“Lily thinks you’re suffocating because you possess the emotional restraint of a toddler on sugar. I am offering you a structured, scientific method to win her back, whilst simultaneously saving my degree from Slughorn's vendetta. It’s mutually beneficial.”
James’s ears perk up almost instantly at the mention of Lily. The slight defensiveness in his posture melts away entirely, replaced by a look of intense, desperate interest. “Right. And how exactly does this experiment work then?”
Regulus smirks, a cold, triumphant feeling settling into his chest. He has him hook, line, and sinker. “You’re going to go on two different dates,” he says, tapping his fingers against the thick packet on the table. “On the first date, you’ll act entirely like yourself. Attentive, overwhelming, and pathetic. On the second date, with a different person, you will follow my exact script. You’ll be more detached. No instant text backs, no unnecessary flowers, no desperate catering to their every whim. And I will be sitting three tables away, logging every single reaction.”
James stares at the packet, then back up at Regulus, his jaw slightly slack. “A script? Regulus, I don't need a script to talk to people. I’m brilliant at dates.”
“You sent a girl you’re no longer dating a bouquet bigger than a bush at her place of work, Potter,” Regulus points out, his voice completely deadpan. “You are barred from using your own instinct.”
James opens his mouth to argue, but the waitress arrives at their table, cutting him off. She slides a porcelain cup of black coffee in front of Regulus, and a massive, absurd glass of hot chocolate topped with an absolute mountain of whipped cream, marshmallows, and chocolate flakes in front of James.
Regulus stares at the monstrosity, then looks up at him with pure, unadulterated judgment. James doesn't even have the grace to look ashamed. He just digs a spoon right into the cream.
“Right, okay, so who are these two different people I’m supposed to be taking out?” he asks around a mouthful of whipped cream. “Have you got a list or something?”
“I am currently compiling one,” Regulus says, pulling a small notebook and a pen from his pocket. “I’m reviewing acquaintances who might be willing to participate in a psychology study without knowing the actual parameters. I need people who won't know you at all. Like complete strangers.”
“Oh, don't bother with your little notebook,” James says, waving a hand dismissively as a soft, genuinely fond smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He watches Regulus intensely for a second, his hazel eyes dropping to the way Regulus’s fingers are tightly wound around his coffee cup.
Without a word, he reaches across the sticky table. His massive, warm hand completely covers Regulus’s cold fingers, gently prying them away from the porcelain. He freezes, his entire body going rigid. “What the hell are you doing?” he demands, his voice a sharp, dangerous whisper.
“Your hands are shaking, Reg,” James says softly, his tone completely dropping the teasing, boisterous edge from before. It’s entirely gentle. He doesn't pull his hand away, instead using his thumb to lightly brush over Regulus’s knuckles, sending an unexpected, infuriating jolt of warmth straight up Regulus’s arm. “And you’re completely pale. When was the last time you actually ate something? And I don't mean black coffee.”
Regulus glares at the hand covering his own, his heart doing something incredibly stupid and erratic against his ribs. He yanks his hand back into his lap, his cheeks burning with a sudden, localized heat. “That is entirely irrelevant to the study,” he snaps, adjusting his collar to hide the flush creeping up his neck.
James just chuckles, completely unfazed by the icy rejection, and slides his giant glass of hot chocolate across the table until it rests right in front of Regulus. “Drink it. The sugar will stop you from passing out before Saturday morning. And leave the subject pool to me. I'll pick the two people.”
Regulus scoffs. “You? I need controlled variables, Potter, not whatever chaotic mess you drag in from the stands on the pitch.”
“Watch and learn, mate,” James grins, sliding out of the plastic booth with effortless grace.
Regulus watches, thoroughly annoyed, as James adjusts his oversized hoodie and turns his attention to the rest of the café. It takes him all of five seconds to spot a pretty brunette sitting by the window, staring stressfully at a laptop surrounded by textbooks.
He strolls over like he owns the bloody place. He leans against the edge of her table, completely disregarding personal space, and flashes that bright, crooked smile of his. Regulus can't hear the exact words over the low hum of the café chatter, but he watches the entire interaction unfold with a mixture of horror and fascination.
He points to the laptop, says something that makes the girl burst out laughing, and within two minutes, James is smoothly handing over his own phone. The girl types something into it, smiling warmly up at him through her long lashes.
He gives a cheerful nod, taps the table in farewell, and saunters back over to the corner booth, spinning his phone around his fingers. He slides back into the seat opposite Regulus, looking insufferably pleased with himself.
“Baseline data, sorted,” James announces proudly, flashing the screen at him. A new contact named Daisy - Library stares back at him. “Daisy’s free tomorrow night. I’m taking her out for drinks to help her destress from her biochemistry midterms. I’ll be my usual pathetic self, don't you worry.”
Regulus stares at the contact name, then up at James’s smug, expectant face. “You are an absolute show-off.”
“I’m resourceful,” James corrects, taking another spoonful of whipped cream. “Now, I just need to find someone tomorrow morning who’s willing to tolerate the 'detached' version of me. But you have your first subject. Happy?”
Regulus rolls his eyes, though he secretly crosses out his list in his notebook.
~
Saturday morning arrives far too quickly, and the atmosphere in Slughorn’s office is just as suffocating as it was two days ago. The rain is still drumming a relentless beat against the glass, matching the slight, anxious thrum in Regulus’s veins.
He sits back in his leather chair, a cup of tea balanced precariously on his round stomach. He looks thoroughly disappointed that Regulus has actually shown up. “Well, Mr Black,” he says, gesturing vaguely to the empty space in front of his desk. “Two days have passed. I assume you’re here to officially request a withdrawal from the module? There is no shame in admitting when a task is beyond your academic reach.”
“I’m not withdrawing, sir,” Regulus says smoothly, stepping forward and placing a neatly typed, two-page proposal directly onto the mahogany desk. “I have isolated my variables, formulated my hypothesis, and successfully secured a live subject pool for the behavioural observation study.”
Slughorn raises an eyebrow, putting his tea down with a small frown. He picks up the paper, adjusting his reading glasses as his eyes scan the title: The Affective Validity of Strategic Detachment in Modern Dating. “A comparative study on dating behaviors?” he murmurs, his eyes widening by the second. “Ambitious. And you claim to have found subjects willing to participate in this little social experiment within forty-eight hours?”
“I have, sir. The baseline data collection begins tomorrow night.”
Slughorn lets out a slow, humphing sound, tossing the paper back onto the desk. He leans forward, his eyes narrowing into a sharp, calculative squint as he prepares to trip Regulus up on the one thing most first-year students completely overlook. “Very well. The hypothesis is passable,” he says, his voice dropping into a patronizing, lecturing tone. “But let’s talk logistics, Mr Black. Myrddin U takes its institutional review board guidelines very seriously. You’re manipulating social scenarios and observing human interactions in real-time. Tell me, what precise ethical measures will you be taking to ensure this study doesn't breach university protocol?”
Regulus doesn't even blink. He’d spent three hours in the library last night specifically preparing for this exact trap. “All primary interactions are taking place in public, neutral environments, ensuring zero psychological risk or distress to the participants,” he answers immediately, his voice entirely steady. “Furthermore, in accordance with standard psychological ethics, both dating partners will sign a preliminary, generalized consent form. They’re fully aware that they’re participating in a behavioural study regarding social interactions, satisfying the requirement of informed consent without corrupting the natural variables of the data.”
Slughorn shifts in his chair, looking distinctly annoyed that Regulus has a textbook answer ready. “And the main subject?” he pushes, leaning his elbows on the desk. “The individual whose behaviour you are actively altering and scripting? How do you intend to protect their psychological well-being throughout this process of forced emotional detachment?”
Regulus thinks of James enthusiastically downing a mountain of whipped cream and confidently chatting up a stranger just to prove a point. The bloke’s psychological well-being was practically bulletproof.
“The primary subject has given full, explicit consent and is completely aware of the script parameters,” he says, keeping his face entirely expressionless. “A comprehensive debriefing session will be conducted with all involved parties immediately following the final data collection on Sunday night, during which the full scope of the hypothesis will be revealed. There will be no lasting deception, no breach of confidentiality, and all data will be entirely anonymized before it reaches your desk.”
Slughorn stares at him for a long, tense moment, searching for a single flaw in the defense. When he finds none, his mouth twists into a sour, tight line. He picks up his fountain pen, scribbles a harsh, messy signature at the bottom of the proposal, and slides it back across the desk. “Fine,” he spits out, the fake warmth entirely gone from his voice. “You have your approval, Mr Black. I shall see you next Friday morning for your first evaluation.”
Regulus picks up the signed paper, tucking it neatly into his bag. “Next Friday, sir. Have a good weekend.” As soon as he closes the door behind, he cheers and throws up the middle finger at the brass nameplate in front of him.
~
Regulus slams his dorm room door shut, the signed proposal in his hand feeling like a temporary passport out of academic execution. The room’s already packed, his friends having treated his impending failure as a spectator sport. The air smells faintly of cheap takeaway noodles and Pandora’s lavender incense.
“Well?” Barty asks, leaning so far back in Regulus’s desk chair the front legs are completely off the floor. His sharp, expressive features morph into a smirk, and his freshly dyed neon-pink hair’s currently a chaotic mess. He’s wearing a stolen Myrddin hoodie with the sleeves pushed up, idly spinning a lighter between his knuckles. “Did the old bastard castrate you, or do we need to start planning your funeral? Are you packing your bags to go to France, or what?”
“Fuck off, Barty,” Regulus mutters, tossing his bag onto his bed.
Dorcas lets out a low, smooth laugh from the corner of the room. She’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, her dark skin glowing under the fairy lights she’d insisted on stringing up, her hair styled in a flawless, intricate set of knotless braids that fall past her shoulders. She’s currently adjusting the rings on her fingers, looking entirely unbothered but deeply amused. “Leave him be. Look at his face. He’s got that specific 'I just legally outsmarted someone' look about him.”
Regulus briefly wonders if his face is truly that expressive. “He signed it,” he announces, sitting down heavily at the edge of his mattress.
Evan lets out a theatrical sigh of relief from where he’s sprawled across Barty’s bed, his long limbs tangled in a messy duvet. He runs a hand through his messy blond curls, a lazy grin spreading across his face. “Thank fuck for that. I really didn't fancy having to carry your memory on as the sole academic elite of this flat.”
“As if you’re the academic elite, Rosier,” Barty snorts, finally letting the desk chair slam back down onto all four legs.
“I knew he’d sign it,” Pandora says, her voice light and melodic as she turns her wide, dark eyes toward Regulus. Her platinum-blonde hair is woven into two loose plaits, contrasting beautifully against her soft features. She’s idly blowing a gentle stream of air over a fresh stick of lavender incense, watching the smoke curl into the air with an analytical, peaceful focus. “The stars were far too aligned for a failure today, Regulus. Though, I am curious. What did you actually have to promise him to get that signature?”
Regulus rubs his temples, the phantom taste of James’s ridiculous hot chocolate still lingering at the back of his throat. “I didn't promise him anything. I just had to present a flawless behavioral observation study that leaves absolutely zero room for Myrddin liability.”
“Right,” Dorcas says, leaning her head back against the wall, her braids shifting with a soft click of her hair cuffs. “And what's the study? Who’s the poor sod you’re tracking?”
Regulus takes a deep breath, mentally bracing himself for the absolute chaos that’s about to erupt in his dorm room. He looks directly at the four of them.
“James Potter.”
The silence that follows lasts for about three seconds before Barty completely loses his mind. He chokes on his own spit, the lighter slipping from his fingers and clattering onto the desk. “You’re taking the piss,” he wheezes, his pink hair shaking as he throws his head back in laughter. “Potter? The rugby captain? The bloke who looks like he’s permanently trying to rescue a cat from a tree? You’re studying him?”
“It’s a comparative study on attachment theory and strategic detachment in dating,” Regulus explains defensively, his cheeks warming slightly as he ignores Barty’s hysterics. “He’s going on two different dates. Tomorrow night is the baseline data. He’s taking out a girl named Daisy and acting like his usual, suffocatingly attentive self.”
“And the second date?” Evan asks, sitting up completely now, his hazel eyes gleaming with intense, unadulterated gossip. “Who’s the variable? Who has to endure a 'detached' James Potter?”
“He’s picking them himself,” Regulus mutters, crossing his arms over his chest. “He went up to a random stranger in the café today and got his number in under two minutes just to prove a point. I have to sit three tables away and log everything.”
Dorcas lets out a sharp, delighted whistle, a massive grin breaking across her face. “Oh, this is spectacular. You’re going to be a professional third wheel for James Potter’s dating life. Regulus, this is peak entertainment.”
“It’s scientific research,” Regulus corrects sharply, though his voice lacks any real conviction.
Pandora simply smiles, a knowing, entirely too-perceptive glint in her eyes as she watches him adjust his cuffs. “A study on detachment,” she muses softly, resting her chin in her hands. “How perfectly suited to you, Regulus. Let's just hope your subject doesn't end up changing your own hypothesis.”