When the Sun and Stars Unite (Jegulus Oneshots)

If You Die, So Do I

Regulus Black will not live without James Potter. End of story. Full stop.

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There was only one reason for the coach's owl, and Regulus was at the floo before he could even think about what he was doing. He had a handful of floo powder before he realised he could apparate, and then turned on the spot with a loud crack.

He landed in the middle of the lobby, and scrambled to the stadium's welcome witch who was answering a few owls of her own. His slender, long fingers splayed on the top of the desk. "Potter, James."

Of course she knew who he was. Regulus was there in the off-season during training often enough, and she likely recognised the sheer and utter panic on his face. "St Mungo's. Magical transport."

He didn't wait for further information, just turning again. The apparition so close together made him woozy, but he rushed to the Welcome Witch who was busy writing something onto a parchment. "Potter, James," he gasped at her.

She raised an eyebrow, then flicked her wand at a stack of parchment. One flew out, and she sighed. "Quidditch injuries, sixth floor. Room six-seven-two."

"Is he...conscious?"

"Healers will give you an updated status. Oh..." She stopped him before handing his visitor badge over. "It says due to the nature of the injury, only immediate family."

His hand immediately flew to his left hand. "I'm his husband."

She handed the badge over. "Thank you for visiting St Mungo's."

Her voice was so cheerful he wanted to reach across the desk and shake her until the pleasant smile faded. Instead he busied himself with rushing to the lifts, elbowing several small witches in pointed hats out of the way, and jabbing the number six button with a bit too much force.

The lift was moving so slow, he wanted to remove his wand and hex the blasted thing to go faster. But after stopping three times making his jaw clench tighter and tighter, it finally came to a stop with a pleasant voice wishing him to have a nice day.

It was by sheer, practised restraint he kept his calm. He was a Black, after all. No matter how estranged he'd become from his family, or the betrayal. Or any of it. He took a breath, squared his shoulders, the followed the signs toward James' room.

Stopping by the Healer's desk, he knocked on the top to get the attention of several who were standing nearby. "Potter, James," he said again.

One of the healers looked a bit grim. "Ah. Yes. You are..."

"His husband."

She nodded. "He's unconscious presently, spelled, until the potions take full effect. He lost a lot of blood, and we're waiting to see if there's any brain injury." When Regulus felt the blood drain from his face, she gave him a sympathetic look. "Bludger to the side of the head."

"Bloody fucking Quidditch," he hissed under his breath, and cursed every second he had ever spent playing that ruddy game. And he cursed every second James had ever spent on the pitch because this wasn't his first injury, but it was by far his worst.

And Regulus knew damn well he could not—would not—live without James Potter in his life.

He crossed the corridor and found the room, and slipped inside. James was there, looking pallid, his normally dark cheeks a strange sort of grey from the blood loss. His eyes were sunken, and if it weren't for the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, Regulus might have actually thought him dead.