Four Knights Game

by Epihonest

Summary:

Godric found peace eighteen years after the Fall of House Black and Dragons, along with them. Yet a simmering rise of power from the South threatens to unbalance it. Sons of two opposing families meet, with no clue of the other's history.

Regulus’ family has not ruled the Hallowed Throne since his birth.

James Potter stands where he once stood.

Notes:

Hello everyone!!
My name is epi, I really hope you like this story, it will be somewhat long maybe, and I will update it, hopefully quickly, or eventually hahahahah.

Knowlegde on GOT is unneeded, as everything is explained, and it is only loosely inspired with the geography and some storylines. For the first part the povs will stay the same, and then more will be added later. Right now its only sirius, regulus, james, narcissa, barty and lily

 

Let me know any thoughts!!

Warnings for: Mention of Killing

Chapter 1: Prologue

FIFTEEN YEARS AFTER THE FALL OF HOUSE BLACK

 

Fifteen years ago, the sky fell, and so did all the dragons with it. The clouds were stony that night, and some said that when the last black fell, the morning sun caught them and had cradled them there since. It was from the sun that the dragons had suckled their breath. From the sun, their lungs were nurtured and nursed. Only a lineage as great as House Black could cultivate such myths in a short decade.

 

People did not fear the return of coal-burned-breath, though, because, without dragons, the Blacks were merely mortal. It took the fall of their animals for people to realise that the family themselves could not breathe fire. Nor were they armoured in scaly bracts and adorned with royal wings. The remaining children scattered across Godric, like wingless wanderers from the South.

 

Godric was carved into three territories, some say, before the age of man. The Elder Mountains, a cold chill of ruins and demented ghosts; the Invisible Lands in the south of the country, uncharted and home to only Wolf-men; and the Resurrected Territories, the reformed home of the former rulers, place of the Hallowed Throne. The kingdom bestowed a seat on the throne to Ignotus Potter II, who had previously worked on the doomed King Phineas Black's court for five years before his inevitable fall. 

 

“The first culling of the new age,” Moody hissed in his gravelled voice, aged and tempered with dramatics. He recounted their kingdom's origin as one would a bedtime story: “Your uncle, young James, had a deep loyalty for the late King Black, Old Gods preserve my tongue, and sentenced all those he deemed traitors to death. The Pettigrew family was one; he orphaned their son and widowed lady Pettigrew.”

 

James and Sirius sat cross-legged, merely fourteen years of age, pups on their laps, before a prickling fire. Alastor Moody was leant on his knees, squatting on a skinned log in Griffin forest. “Loup Garou has found as much peace as the feral can, but in the old war, when they threatened invasion to the Western country, Lord Pettigrew fed information to the wolfmen that killed the king and sent them back into the dark ages. In some ways, he ended the war, eradicating both sides.”

 

“How many people are to die before James is king!” Sirius shouted with an immature glee. 

 

James shoved him with a shoulder, “Sirius!”

 

“The line is cursed, knights. Many great families can claim the Hallowed throne. There are many members of the Black family—”

 

“Old Gods, preserve thy tongue!” The gapped-toothed brothers shon. Their manic-furred animals barked and howled

 

Alastor smirked, “ There are many members still alive, hiding among the other sacred families. You'll meet some of those families one day, Princes; they govern the Grimmauld Bight Republic Court. Some say the Blacks descended from the Old Gods, and some say Angels. But I think they mistook an especially Pearly Dragon for something of scripture.”

 

Sirius scoffed, “Pft, When we join the court, James and I shall seek every last one and carry them to the magistrate.”

 

“They were said to have been too beautiful to kill, prince. I can recount Phineas was no unhandsome man. Though I guess that did not quite save him. It did induce the most noble-blooded culling of our age. Something about that family caused madness, often not just hereditary; sometimes others got caused in the crazed crossfire.” 

 

Sirius stood, pup bobbing and grunting in his lazily untrained grip. “I will not have to throw any blade; I’ll command someone to do that for me. As well as fetch my supper and wash my hair, like all brothers of the future King.”

 

“I think the kingdom will revolt with a second culling if you make anyone touch that oily mane.”

 

Sirius gasped and threw his animal—who leapt back up on his calves—to the side, pushing his brother into the mulch of the Griffin forest floor. The boys wrestled and giggled; Alastor tapped his porcelain eye with expectancy.

 

“James, what does your father always say to you.”

 

“Develop knights before bishops.” James recounted, panting and back moist and leaf-sheathed,  as though he were feeling the very quill imprint on parchment.  

 

“The loyalty of a man who will govern you is nothing to the loyalty of a man who will fight and die for you. You will never command the death of a man that is not completed at your own hands; that is why you two are to train. No ignorant, groomed king shall sit on that throne in my future. No coward. You must teach yourself that, James; you will learn of our past and prepare for our future.”

 

The fire cracked and spat like the lips of the thorny-mouthed beasts they were envisioning; it was charring and grounding; the sweat it precipitated heavied their heads and pulled the boys closer to the storyteller's words, barely recovering from their previous brawl. It would be years before they heard the shriek of actual battle. “The Age of Black may not yet be ceased. Though their dragons were slain, men— you'll find that, my boys—can be all that much harder to kill.”

 

 

♘

 

Notes:

Regulus an james do not actually meet until chapter 5 (including prologue) and I think you can skip to that honestly the first chapters just contain a lot of lore and explanation of how they ended up there. But they will have a million billion chapters together after no. 5 so bear with me!
btwww, this is a little code for who is in charge of each space

Griffin (capitol that rules the whole west country, the middle realm/Hallowed throne): King Ignotus Potter
Ministry: Lord Crouch
Monashire: Lord Lupin
Hill Rock: Lord and Lady Carrow
Grimmauld Bight (Post war formed Republic with a head of court): Longbottoms
Loup Garou, the south realm: Greyback
Woolsorphan: who knowsssss heheh

Chapter 2: James | Regulus

Summary:

The inciting incident

Notes:

Here is a key for times! The continent of Godric keeps track of years using SF and AF. (hahah af)

AF = Avant-Frere
Which is Old Gallo (House of Blacks language) for "Before Brothers" and is all the time before the brothers split the continent into three realms.

SF = Suivant-Frere
Which means "Next Brothers" and is the current time the characters are in.

The brothers split Godric in 0 SF and the story is now set in 918 SF

CW:
Mention of miscarriage, Prisoners of War, Implied forced marriage, Violence and Blood.

 

It is to note that every moment the promised King Potter sat on his dawned throne, he thought of the Black House’ assumed bastard, born in the advent of the first war. He did not care much for what that House had done, despite his uncle’s curt disposition to the entire family. To him, something good had come out of it, something better than this world. Better than the whole of Godric’s realm and the small corner of West Country he was raised in.

But to ask, if he knew from the very beginning how it would all end, would he do it again? Would either of them? 

 

I don’t believe they would. 

 

-  From ‘The Appendices: A Recount of the Fourth Realm’ by, Lily Evans.    

 

 

JAMES POTTER

 

Sixteen Years after the Fall of The House Blacks

 

916 SF

 

 

James knew that the man Moody was to kill had not come from Griffin.

 

He was born in a Westdon Village on the Merlin Beards Islands, and it was not the hill he was born to have blood dribbled on. So, when they set his head on the wooden execution block, Moody would poise his sword—a vast, scratched gladius that he anointed ‘mad-eye’ for the gaze-like glint it caught when raised to the sun— over a smouldering fire until it glowed enough to cauterise the man's neck as his blade plunged through flesh.

 

They moved on horseback, the two boys having just parted from their seventeenth winter with taller heights and less boyish faces and anchored minutes past dawn. A long, winding road, which was simply just parched and browning grass from the repeated hoof presses on the trail. 

 

James muttered with Sirius, giggling as though they were still twelve. Even their loose grip on the reins was the same as when they were boys. Prongs, James’ rich stallion, trotted beneath him, bumping the tumultuous ride. Their wolfhounds followed suit; brothers Harry and Padfoot were panting from the journey. Tonks and Lord Longbottom's son ran forth ahead of the three. The distanced chatter of their play was still loud and pronounced. James watched his mentor, stoney and focused ahead of him. In the years of his training, Moody had guided James to make himself kind, begging that it was the tallest form of courage a king would need. Of course, it wasn't written in stone that he would find the crown nor sit on the Hallowed Throne, but they readied nonetheless. It did not appeal to James horribly; the Potter blood did not fend him from the scalding touch of the throne’s dragon-stone matter. 

 

He recounted a chalice of water he had spilled upon the stairs to the seat, how it had gasped into a piercingly audible puff of smoke upon contact, how it heated the throne room, windows always open in an endeavour to chill the space. The denuded existence of the possibility, though, suspended James in constant pursuit of deep greatness, a greatness his father and Moody would be proud of.

 

Although he was a prince, James wasn’t the son of a king, nor was his father the son of a king. Still, he was solid and quick. He moved like a stag and wore his title as a stag wears grand antlers. When his step struck the ground, the wind seemed to part—At least, that was what Sirius murmured to him. 

 

“We won't spill any blood on land that isn't his; it is only respectful. He’ll be returned to his home and buried properly.” Moody called from the tip of the triangle the three had formed.

 

Sirius scoffed, “Why worry about respect when you are putting him to death?”

 

“Would you like to die away from your home? To be buried away from James?”

 

“No,” Sirius held up his chin smugly, “I am going to die on the battlefield, in the great King James’ honour, and then he is going to avenge me and leap from his chamber window out of respect. Then we will be buried side by side in Griffin Forest.”

 

“Ha!” James scoffed, “Certainly cannot wait for that day.”

 

“I think the kingdom cannot wait for the day they are rid of its two harshest nuisances”, Moody muttered. James glanced quickly at Frank and Tonks—older than them and, as a tandem, far more of a nuisance—as they scattered between gallops and playful trots. They had a cunning edge that came with age—an ability not to get caught in their antics. Something Sirius and James lacked. Sirius groaned, leaning back and accidentally pulling his horse astray. Scrope, a grey stallion, cooler than Prongs’ fawn-like brown, stumbled to the side, almost bumping into James. 

 

“The day can't come soon enough!” He moaned, oblivious to his horses' skewed trail, “It is horrifically boring here.”

 

“You can wallow when you are dead. You’d think you were the king in another life, Sirius, with how much luxury you need to stay happy.”

 

“Not even happy. Just content.” James snickered. He was just to be vain, with dark hair, soft like a lady’s, a skeletal, defined nose, and strikingly light eyes. As light as Scrope’s plaited mane. “Moody, just because I bathe more than once yearly does not mean I need luxury. I just enjoy it.”

 

“Maybe he is Lord Lupin's missing son.” James grinned, fixing the glasses that fell forward in his horse's assault. “Both him and the minister are as vain as they come.”

 

“Hush.” Sirius pursed his lips, fluffing his hair in the most pompous fashion, “I would never be born somewhere as low as Monashire.” James fell back laughing, his horse now causing havoc on the track with the sporadic rein pull.

 

The morning was filled with fewer folk stories than there would have been in their childhood. The signatory Potter bear fur bumped off their shoulders as they set forth to the ice-skin lake beside the forest. Moody had given James the House banner, a billowing crimson flag, the sun rising behind a galloping Stag, horns as grand as a crown. Their family's sigil and sacred animal. Deer hide was popular amongst West County due to its abundance, yet it was forbidden within the Hallowed Throne. 

 

The four boys dismounted soon after Moody did, almost giddy with anticipation. James and Sirius held tightly to Prongs and Scrope’s reign as their wolfhounds sat side by side at their feet. Witnessing one's first beheading seemed to be a right of passage to any budding knight. Yet, Moody bent down to the convict, adjusting the age-oiled and snow-soaked fur around him, warming the shivering body. The two men joined hands like old friends, exchanging nods and muted words. Sirius and James, though, just exchanged looks of speculation.

 

James had asked what the convict's crime was; he seemed innocent enough when they dismounted their horses and strode to the man. Flaming red hair, as vibrant as new wine, a sun-touched face. Despite the creases on his forehead and the folds by his eyes, he was boyish in a way that James recognised as if he were looking in the mirror above his chamber basin. 

 

Moody had simply said that he was a traitor to the king. There were no other reasons needed for a sentencing. 

 

“My father said he was found with letters detailing an intended usurpation.” Ted Tonks whispered to James, “There's been whispers of rivals in Merlin's Beard.”

 

James shook his head. “No, they are peaceful people. They have no court; it is just villages. My mother was from those islands.”

 

“You do not need a court to usurp.”

 

The Hallowed Throne was a sacred thing. This, James had always known. Only Blood heirs or blood spilled earned a place. Ignotus seemed to be an exception, stepping up to the place when the Black House had fleed. “They would have no blood claim. You need an heir of righteous blood, or people will not accept your reign.”

 

“How righteous is your blood, Prince?”

 

Longbottom interrupted, “Any usurper should be put to death. Weak as a babe.”

 

Tonks retaliated, “Was our king not one?” 

 

They spat as though they were wed. “Our king was loyal to the last. You know our history. Lord Pettigrew carved out Mad Black Blood. He may have been put to death, but I think he was right in his betrayal. Ignotus may not have had righteous blood, but he was worthier than the last.” James knew despite Longbottom's disgust for the Late King, he believed the throne to be a seat for only the rightful Houses.

 

Sirius hissed, “Do not use Lordly titles for banished men!”

 

“Banished?” Tonks whispered, “I’d say beheaded.”

 

“Hush, Orphan.” With a harsh force, Longbottom grabbed Sirius’ hair—who gave a squeal of retaliation—pushing his face towards Moody and the man on the dark wood block. “Watch. It would be good for your pompous ass to see what real men do.”

 

“You're the ass.” James heard Sirius mutter, so quietly his words were lost in the chilling wind as they returned their attention to the scene.

 

The convict kneeled behind the block; he lay a cheek against the wood and closed his eyes, lips mumbling prayers. Moody closed his eyes, a deep, stuttering breath before he raised Mad Eye into the sky, moving so fast James could hear the crisp slice of cold air, “I, Alastor Moody, Knight of the West Country, Servant of the Hallowed Throne, sentence you, Fabian Prewett, to death in the name of our king, Ignotus Potter II… rightful… ruler of the three realms…for acts of… treason,” 

 

Sirius quickly grasped James's hands, a quilt of nervousness on both shivering boys. The Hounds whimpered, and The Horses nickered. “Let the old Gods know your body will be returned home to join your ancestors. May Godric be with your brother.” He rushed the last line before slashing his glowing sword down onto the man's neck, cauterising him clean. Only a few stray drops of blood, like innocent ink spilled, splattered the snow, and with a crisp sizzle, his head rolled down towards James’ boots. Freshly passed, his cheeks were still blooming with life, and his pupils remained blown and preparing for the impending death. James’ eyes jerked up towards Moody, whose face was strained with a concealed disgust. He fought the urge to throw up. 

 

“It was the king who sentenced him, yes? Not you?” James would ask later, trotting on Prongs beside his mentor. 

 

He looked ahead, posture refined. Jaw hardened. “Yes. that is right, boy.”

 

“You said a righteous man would do his own sentencings. That…that a good king—”

 

“You should know that not all kings are good kings, James. Sometimes you have to serve a very cowardly man,” Moody glanced towards James, who was a wide-eyed fawn beside him, “until a better one comes of age.” 

 

Fabian Prewett's body was wrapped in soiled bark cloth and taken on the journey to Merlins Beard. James decided that his hands would never be the bringers of death. 

 

 

♘

 

 

At noon that day, he shared that secret, seated at the table with his father in the throne pavilion. “I’ll never have to look as Moody looked this morning.” He declared under the canopy of hanging grapes and sweet mulberries. Fruits that had found a comfort in the ice of the Griffin.

 

Fleamont sipped from his chalice, a light wine he indulged in daily. “It is not often a choice. But it is still nothing to take lightly. A man like Alastor remembers all the lives he takes; he looks them in the eye, lets them know they are equal.”

 

“So, does Uncle not think he is equal?”

 

His father hissed, a finger pulling from the cup and pointing at James. “Don’t speak ill of your uncle on such a special month. Your…” A beat, a simmering beat, “His wife…is to give birth within the next moon, after many years of infant misfortune. James, if you are lucky, she will be blessed with a boy, and you will be free to spend your life gallivanting with Sirius to your heart's content.”

 

The hinges of his protest were well-oiled. They had been churning for years. “It is my kingdom, too; I wish for the best. You cannot raise me in this house and expect me not to care for it. Why can you not be king after him?”

 

“You know our rule is illegitimate. It does not pass hereditarily in the same way The Hallowed Throne used to. To Heirs only. You are the closest son until another is born.” Fleamont sighed, rubbing the handle of his chalice, “My brother is good… He took the throne in a time of great fog and need and ruled it as fairly as any mortal man could. The kingdom will be fine in your absence.”

 

“Well,” James crossed his arms, mumbling, “Sirius wants me to be King, you know.”

 

“Ha!” Fleamont spilled a splash of his wine against his greying beard as he laughed. “Sirius wants the privilege of royal immunity. He is not punished for any mishaps you two cause anyway.”

 

James grinned, passing a cloth to his father. They finished their drinks and walked to the castle's temple, where its headmaster had placed a maze of candles around the Godric statue. He was young and chiselled from the marble laced under Griffin's hills. Godric held up an open palm of gestured peace or perhaps a gesture to halt. James wasn't sure. The father and son lit the candles and knelt on the tiles in payer. Good fortune and bravery. A safe return home and a successful year of journey. The temple was fragrant with cinnamon and smoke. Oils of oranges and pine. The dark walls always held a warm scent. Native Loup Garou wolf-wood was harvested in its summer prime. A rich reddish-brown, threads of gold, the stains of sap. It was as rare as pure dragon blood, not due to its abundance but to the inaccessibility of the realm.

 

James recited prayers, hands interlocked and knuckles to his forehead as his father spoke. 

 

“Bless my sons; grant them passage around my brother's realm. Have them succeed in their trials, and keep them safe by The Wall. Bring James home to his mother and father.” He spoke quieter into his hands, “Bring his mother home.”

 

James bathed a final time in his chambers before the months of roofless housing and lake-side washing. The servants filled a scolding tub with water and a dash of goat milk, lighting candles upon the walls, and he thanked them, as he always did, and closed the door to wash himself. He had an unusual disdain for being served. 

 

Sirius entered with a soft knock, never waiting for a reply, and James did not bother to shield himself; the milky water was a blanket enough. The two, bred as brothers, never cared much for modesty anyhow. He sat cross-legged on the floor, his cheek sleepily pressed against the tub's edge. He rubbed into the porcelain, yawning. “You know, once we are knighted, they will never be able to expel us from court, no matter what we do. We will have earned a place. And we will be bonded as brothers forever.” His face shrivelled into a nauseated scowl; the steam of the bath wetted his cheeks. “Longbottom said we must consummate it with a blood oath.”

 

James mirrored him, “Foul. Longbottom is trying to scare you; no one is consummating anything. You're a Potter anyway. We don't need to cut your palm to see that.”

 

James could feel the silence, the way Sirius’ jaw clenched, and he averted his gaze; a limp hand rippled the bath's surface. “I’d love it if that was in writing.”

 

“I am of Potter Blood,” He gestured to himself, then to Sirius, “you are of my blood. It doesn't need to be written to hail true.”

 

“It does. I think. I don't look like a Potter.” That much was true, of course. Sirius had cut his hair short for years in attempts to mirror James while fawning over the court ladies' locks. He only let himself stray from the comfort of a binding haircut when James pushed him to it. James thought it stupid how Sirius charaded himself, hemstitched his very image with all things gorgeous and beautiful when he had enough character to be loved a hundred times over by armies of thousands. 

 

“You,”  James stated pointedly, “look like my brother.”

 

“I am not so good to be a brother of yours.”

 

The sound of water deafened the slight crackle of a candle flame as James moved his body to face Sirius. “Sirius. Stop. Do not say such things about my brother. If you speak ill of him again, I’ll have you tried for treason.”

 

He was silent, still gazing down, cheek upon porcelain. His lashes were thick and dark; they awned his eyes with heavy shade. He looked hungry, face tense as though he were trying to ignore it. Sirius always had that look about him, a watering snout tied and trained. Almost as if he was not fully awake, permanently suspended in his own mind. He peeked through his lashes, a smirk curling up abruptly. “Oh, do you command it?” Sirius mocked with a sudden grin, “High Prince Potter.”

 

“Hush, you ass” James flicked the water’s surface at him, “Now leave me to bathe alone. Or the rumours Longbottom spreads about us might look true.”

 

Their journey would begin the following day, a month-long trip following trails down south to The Infamous Drop, a bottomless pit by the border of Loup Garou. It was dangerous, Invisible territory, but the years of peace within West Country and the loud silence of the Southdon Realm had groomed men to be unexpectant, their senses dulled, and their fear dimmed. Still, the Northdon wall that separated the middle kingdom from Woolsorphan remained vigilantly guarded by The Order. Some tales never dim. And the fear of what was hiding in the torrent winter of the Elder Territory was only fueled by people's naivety to it. Nothing born on that side had left—at least it had never been seen—and nothing that entered had returned. There were hearth tales. Death eaters. They were not quite like Wolf-Men, as there was nothing animalistic about them. They were said to have been a cold reflection of man. Demons. 

 

James was glad to travel away from there for at least a short while. South. James was glad of many things when he was young.

 

 

♘

 

 

They all drank that afternoon as Ignotus held a grand banquet in the great hall. The great fireplaces thawed the window frost and enchanted the building with a pinewood scent. Ladies serving in frocks of the Potter colours, red and gold. They carried silver platters adorned with cups of chilled butterbeer amber nectar so lordly golden the setting sun cast a refraction upon the table that boasted a spillage of galleons. The older men chugged dragon fire whisky, a humourous mockery of the past rulers.

 

There was a realm-wide superstition to take a pinch of the whisky in one's fingers before consumption and then to throw the drops over the right shoulder, a small offering to the earth to never let another dragon be born on the nest of West Country soil. It was a fragrant fusion of roasted vegetables and charred meats when dinner came. Mutton, beef, and the honey bee glazed breast of Hill Rock Native Chicken. Over-stuffed turkeys and Rum-soaked puddings. The court had still been buzzing with the hangover of December Yule, a festive month-long celebration that lay wed with the fete of Solstice, commemorating Ignotus’ coronation. Holly vines and mistletoe had not yet been plucked from the walls, nor had the verve been dimmed. 

 

The bragged generosity of Ignotus allowed all guests to feast as kings. He sat on his seat at the crown of the hollow, circular table, a meek replica of the known Hallowed Throne. An apple-knawing hog lay belly down before him, skin glazed and lacquered. The prime seat to watch the door was the first thing arrivers saw. Dancing performers and singers blessed the hall's centre with bells and songs, chuckled speeches and purple velvet-skinned jesters.

 

James tore the meat straight off its brittle bones, chewing with an inescapable boredness. Ignotus splurged on intimate indulgences. Bare skin that had made James’ skin crawl with eerie critters since he was a boy. Each feast was decorated with the company of these pleasures. Sirius had left to converse with a new dinner member, as he did most nights, being a creature of social inflection, while James sat with his father. He savoured his last night and nursed it like a growingly warm cup of butterbeer. 

 

“You are nervous.” He laughed, watching James’ youngest cousin sing in the hall's centre. A youthful, squeaky song of old wives tales accompanied with a child's harp. Fleamont had discarded his coat on the chair behind him; he was free in a light ivory blouse, and the leather twine of the collar was unbuttoned and relaxed.

 

“No… just wary.” The McKinnon child, Robert Mckinnon’s, the late stable keeper of the king’s daughter, caught his eye. Despite her tunic and binding leather vest, the riding-appropriate attire she wore in most formal settings, she still held onto a locket of lovely femininity. A blush of berry pigment upon her wolf-eared cupid bow, the slight smell of peaches and the sweet corn oil, the slick dropped in horse feed for a reflective coat. James knew she was to join their journey, one servant required in the presence of royalty. A stable hand and trained cartographer.

 

“When you return, you will have such a high honour; women will fall over each other to wed you.”

 

“I do not wish to subject any woman to the cinch of queenhood.”

 

“It doesn't have to be a punishment if you are a good and loyal husband. And I know you will be. Even without the journey you will embark on, you will be good. A good person. James, in your year away, there will be temptations and times of loneliness, even with Sirius by your side. But as a Potter, you are always watched, never alone. There is no isolation, of course, but the company you find is not always loyal. You can never let your guard down. Enjoy the youth of this trip; you will have your years as a man. Just not yet.” His father gestured to Ignotus, who was chugging a Dragon's Fire Whisky, “House of Black haunts us all still. Do not exclude certain people from the pain of the past just because of your personal vendettas.”

 

Fleamont firmly touched his son's thigh, “But you will find love along your journey. Not this journey but the journey of life. For now, focus on your friends, enjoyment, and the little things that bring you joy. Your boyhood is invaluable, son. Have your favourite foods, and indulge in your favourite people. Experience life first. Adulthood will be ever-kind to you, my son. When it comes.”

 

“I think I should stay with you. Mother would be better for it; a second person in her corner.”

 

“James, the court will run without you. She will be okay without you. I want you to enjoy your youth…. It's a great feat,” Fleamont said calmly, eyes dazed and drunk. James thought , as if any journey could measure up to your own , regrettably bitter. “A needed one, though. When I went, I travelled by boat to Merlins Beard and trained for months under Alastor Moody. You are lucky; I had no Sirius to join me. Just me and that Old Man.” He laughed to himself, “Although he was not so old then. We followed the archipelago of islands down to the very tip of Merlin's Beard where…” his head swayed. “Where I met your mother. Her village was on fire, a raid from rogue Rowena sailors. It was Phineus II Black who knighted me, the Madman.”

 

“Old Gods, preserve thy tongue”, he muttered. “I just…don’t know what I could possibly do.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I don’t know, father.” James leaned back in his chair, almost curling into the wood, saying, “I don't know. I’m just—”

 

“Flea! Nephew!” Both Potters, drinks in their hands, turned around to see Ignotus standing between them, hands proudly on their chair backs. “Perfect night for celebrations! Euphemia sends her regards. She seemed quite interested in joining me tonight.”

 

James watched his father inhale. A moment of peace before he responded. “I must say I’m disappointed. I’m sure James would have enjoyed her company tonight. Given the circumstances.”

 

Out of either brother, James was glad to take after his father's face. He had a certain fullness that coated his cheeks, which felt youthful compared to his older brother, who was as gaunt and hollow as a rotten willow. “Well, of course. But she carries something much more precious than a goodbye to a spare son. I had to insist she stay in bed. I did not wish to risk it.”

 

“Of course, brother.” Fleamonts grin shook. “So… a boy.”

 

“That's what the doctor believes.” The pleased king gave him a familiar pat on the back, causing his brother to lose a surprised grunt, and gripped James’ shoulder. “You’ll be a good knight out there? Obediant to that Hellish eye-sore?"

 

“Unhand me, uncle,” he spoke quietly.

 

“A few too many sips, Nephew? Find your way back to your chambers safely, hm? I think I’ll need assistance. Euphemia loathes it when I am late.” The king laughed as if they were familiar friends and strode back to his seat. The two were silent for a while; the thorny scales of years on their shoulders felt distressed and pushed against the growth as Ignotus left. The generational golden hearts of the men sat within the clamp of a blacksmith upon an open pyre.

 

“Sirius thinks you should behead him.”

 

Fleamont laughed a solemn laugh. “Sadly, that's not up to me. Brothers are crucial, though. You will learn that when your cousin is born.”

 

Huffing, “He is no brother to me.”

 

His father snapped his fingers, “Have respect, boy! You will know soon,” and James whined, “I do know! Sirius is my brother. He is my brother, and I know how brothers should treat each other.”

 

“And so will your cousin be. By Blood, too.”

 

“I wish Sirius was my true blood.”

 

“He is in ways the court doesn't understand. I know you know this, and you are whining for the sake of dramatics, but James, your cousin, will be in ways the court does.”

 

“Cousin…half brother.” James fell back into his slump, letting the cup rim rest on his lips, the spin of intoxication curdling inside him. “Repulsive.”

 

“You will be kind to him when he grows. It is not his fault.” 

 

Pouting, “I know.”

 

“You will nearly be a knight. After a year of work at the wall, your uncle will place the honour himself. Your cousin will be proud. So will your mother. Eat your roast potatoes; there will be none so delicious for the next year."

 

James sighed, knowing despite his turmoil and swellingly stuffed stomach, he would devour three sack fulls later. “Still. You would have never done that to him.”

 

His father excused himself, retreating to his chambers and leaving James to the company of Longbottom and Tonks, who, in Fleamont’s absence, sat on either side of him, identical cat-like smiles. Of course, they were barely twins. Both boys were tall, a head taller than most others their age, but where Tonks was thin and lean, Longbottom had a warrior build, strong and muscled. blond and freckled next to brown-haired and olive. Boyishly friendly to boyishly immature. With two years beyond James’s meek seventeen, they were more skilled than he was. In their youths, they would duel with wooden blades in the Yard, Moody watching and teaching. But they had always held an advantageous head above his growing height.

 

They, too, were drunkenly celebrating their last night before they’d take to horseback on the journey down to Grimmauld Bight, where Longbottom's family had run the council since its establishment. The pair were of age to be wed and had completed their knighthood training in Griffin. 

 

“Your father give you the big talk? When bedding a woman—”

 

“Shut it, Longbottom. Mind yourself.” James snapped, refusing to look either in their humoured eyes.

 

“I know you like the quiet, off-putting ones; I hear Mckinnon will be treating your horses on the way. She’s rather handsome for a—”

 

“Sh, Be kind, Frank. There are bad omens here. Do not add anything to that.”

 

James turned to him suddenly. “What do you mean by that?”

 

Longbottom and Tonks shared a cunning glint of eye contact. “Don't tell the king…but my father—”

 

Longbottom laughed, pointing his finger, his breath thick with sweet butterbeer, “ Your father will find his head on a spike for how he gossips of the King's business.”

 

“My father heard from his cousin that they found Eggs.” He paused, voice lowering. Candle flames jaundiced his skin, forming shadows and retrieving a sinister gaunt-ness from his story. “Dragon ones at that. In a cave beside a Dead Stag. Killed by a Snake, huge bites on its hind legs and bruises around its neck.”

 

James sat up straight, “Dragon?”

 

“I think Moody is taking you to the drop to rid us of them.”

 

“I think they are better smashed under a hammer.” Tonks retaliated. “They cannot be of any harm, though, I’m sure. Must have been petrified years ago.”

 

“Frozen things have a strange habit of melting under fire. They are invaluable and better traded. Imagine the riches.”

 

“Nothing invaluable should be traded! Either kept or destroyed. That is our way; that is how Potter has held the throne so long with such piece.” 

 

“Ha!” Longbottom mocked. “Peace. There is no such thing. You think there is peace, and then you find a dragon egg beside the King’s culled Sigil.” 

 

Tonks silenced; the liquor, along with his tight velvet high-collar, beaded sweat along his neck. He turned to James, who had not looked away from him once, enamoured by the mention of Dragons. “Be wary, James. Those are horrible, horrible omens. Keep yourself safe.”

 

“I'll watch Sirius.” He nodded and looked to the great red and golden banners that hung around the Halls wall. A Great Stag, front leg curled in step, head proud and pointed towards the heavens. 

 

“Fret for yourself, Prince. Sirius is no Potter. He is no Stag.”

 

 

♘

 

 

The new day broke at full dark, with the moon blooming full in the sky; James snuck to the King's Quarters, slipping through the cracked door and to the breathing rise under the sheets. He sat beside his sleeping mother, a hand trailing over the thick fur bedding, weaving it between his fingers. The room always held a sinister scent. There were the fresh florals his mother oiled her hair with, hidden under the heavy musk of Ignotus’ liquored breath and whorehouse baths. James sat there like a hound guarding its owner, staring at the door with a hand remaining where he could feel the proof of breathing. He could hear her breathing, the soft snores in the night's silence; he could feel it under his palm and see it on her lips. He counted the three repeatedly, as there was nothing else he could do. Before leaving, he placed a kiss on her temple and hoped it would never wash away. She didnt taste of Ambrosia or silk or gold or anything one would think a Queen to bathe her skin in. She was just the familiar feel of his mother.

 

Ted Tonk's warning hung with a heavy perfume upon his conscience.

 

He wrote his mother a letter and gave it to his father somewhere; he knew Ignotus would have no way to destroy it. Another way to isolate his Lady Wife. He addressed all his letters with Dear old mother, a hopeful way to insult her until she was forced to reply out of spite. He wrote with a Raven's feather in North Squid ink.

 

 

The South calls to me in the most literal way possible. Maybe the sun's heat, perhaps the thought of all the taverns Sirius and I will traverse when Moody sleeps. I shouldn’t tell you that. Do not worry, though. You know I will keep Sirius in line. Of course, I would love to stay. I always want to visit and keep watch over you, but duty requires something else from me. Something is calling for me at the Border. I know my fate lies on that trail. 

 

I apologise; I hope to see you as I write this. In the pages, the words. Pages of hope until I hold your cheeks in my palms.

 

When I return, I will have to share you with another son, which shall be challenging, but I will be a knight, so my ego won't wilter at the sight of competition. I can promise you that. I can also promise I will return home. No matter how long my training spans, I will see you again, Mother. My year upon the wall's guard will feel quick as the pass of summer as I think only of you. I’ll shake my fist at any wolf-men or spirits that try to halt my journey. I do not need to pray to Godric, for I will return, of my own will, if anything. Sometimes, I form a map in my mind late at night; I seek old books and look at family trees to see who could challenge the king. But the tree has roots so erratically thread between each other that it seems impossible. I sometimes would prefer a demon from House of Black, old gods preserve thy tongue, to rule than he. Let Ignotus know, fool me once, shame on me, fool my mother, and no title will prevent me from what I shall do. 

 

For now, I simmer like the yeast of a possible loaf. But I shall be significant one day. I shall be great. Great enough to protect you.

 

Your son.

 

 

In the coming morning, Sirius packed both their satchels, most likely inefficiently, and prepared their horses beside Marlene Mckinnon, scuffing, cleaning, and shoeing hooves with Griffin Steel. 

 

James wished the grand comforts of his home a bittersweet farewell. His father gifted him a longsword. James knew that it was the sword his father himself had been gifted after his knighthood. Iron mined from the cliffs of Merlin's Beard beneath his mother’s village. A stag, carved onto the Pommel, the grip whittled with Wart-Hog Ivory. A long hilt with a longer blade. Fleamont fastened the leather-bound Scabbarb onto his son's belt and pulled him close. “I called it Effy, for it saved me many times before. And so it shall you.” He whispered within the embrace before kissing both his cheeks and waving the group off. 

 

They would follow a trail close to the coast, passing through the Ministry and the River before Monashire. The Drop would be the final destination. And the sight of the large case, hanging from Moody's horse, almost confirmed the rumours Longbottom and Tonks had whispered in his ears. They wouldn't pass the border. Stupidity is not Bravery, Bravery is not stupidity, Moody had said.

 

They saw no threat from the Wolfmen, who, since the war ended, seemed to respect the barriers created by the three conquering brothers—another old tale that held much truth—only pushing into Grimmauld Bight as it lay on what used to be Invisible territory. People had asked why they never used their apparent riches or blunt force to retrieve boats, conquer the Merlins Beard Islands, or seek more land East in Salazar. James believed they decided on their land, the old territory marked, wanted that and no more. Or maybe it was because wolves couldn’t swim.

 

Marlene assisted the two young knights onto their rides, fastening their satchels and mounting her own. James waved the kingdom goodbye upon his horse. Harry ran behind him, wind billowing through his coat; the past scattered like a lost horseshoe he would never find again. 

 

As they walked, he recounted what he knew, in fear it would be forgotten with distance.

 

He was born a year before the war ended. His father did not give him a name until Ignotus claimed the throne. A superstition on his mother's side. They called him James as it meant Supplanter. Replacer. He took a position in court that had once housed someone else. He became an heir to the Hallowed Throne, a brother to Sirius. 

 

James was never raised to know who he had replaced.

 

 

♘

REGULUS NO-BLACK

To be a bastard of a father was ill-fated. It was the rich imprisonment, the edging off a tower ledge of a grand kingdom. But to be the bastard of a wife, already shunned for her simmering madness, was a beckoning from God that the child was being punished for an ill act in a past life. Still, all those born of illegitimate birth, like a brand, were referred to solely with a different name; Regulus wore No-Black. He didn’t have the chance to wear the ‘Black’ half proudly, like a rich satin sheath or bear skin shawl, not just due to the high risen sun over Grimmauld Bight, but more due to his barred home. Each of Regulus’ cousins shunned their name through wedlock, sewing over their maiden names as they would hem a gown. His own runtish birth and underwhelming demeanour left no desire for any advantageous marriages within the court. 

 

He was no dragon nor poet. He enjoyed baths as if they were the only thing that made him new and was as always peckish as a Garou Vulture. He found his own boyishness and lacking completion to be nothing particularly special in the world of man. There were no women unmarried there anyway. 

 

Sixteen summers before, 900 SF, Nine hundred years after the three realms were divided, when Regulus had barely opened his eyes to the world, still wincing with the press and oils of his birth, he was taken south upon horseback when the Black House fled. The trail had lasted a year in the cradle of his cousins, uncle and aunt; his Mother and Father disappeared in the very heart of the war. 

 

He knew nothing of his birth soil. Only that the sky drizzled and coughed with snow most months of the year, that in the age of his House, the castle held banquets of the finest foods, the finest of powers. They had dragons, after all. Long, long ago. In the days of old, Noble Black’s would be sheathed in scaly dragon hide as fire-proof as steel and as tough as stone. He knew the name of the man who sat upon the throne. He knew the Sigil. The dragon hide became an ornamental rug for stags to rest their bloodied hooves upon.

 

Regulus was raised on the stories. His cousin, Narcissa, only born four winters before his own year, told him of the once great power of their house. The cousins lay on the beach on days that lacked wind, as they often did. The three girls, older than Regulus, would play in the shallows while he, too young to not fear the ocean, sat crossed-legged upon the boulder stacks, a book in hand. Bellatrix, in her mischievous (or what Regulus would call tyrannical) nature, picked him up by the collar of his blouse and threw him into the icy water. He would cry as he always did until Narcissa sat him by the hearth of the solar room with fur around his shoulders and a cup of hot tea and told him stories.

 

In those days of old, she had said, when Westdon air was fogged, and coasts huffed with Haar, the only ones who could see through the mist were those with fire. It was impossible to doubt the Black Reign then. But, as humans do, they became competent enough to not need to nurse on the flame of their gods. They sullied the holiness of such fire and forged their own hearths.

 

His very favourite story, though, one he begged for each time, was the myth of The Hallowed Throne. The man to have it built was the Late king's namesake. Phineus I. It was said to have been at the very highest point of Godric, the closest sea to the gods. “When one sat at the throne,” Narcissa whispered, hair short in her youth, “they could see over the table of the God’s Court. Close enough to smell the Ambrosia on their plate and the wine on their breath. It was carved out of a volcanic rock. The roof of a Dragon's nesting cave.” Her hands moved, forming the shape with her fingers. He saw it in his head as a great hall. Double wooden doors and tiles that told a thousand pictured stories. 

 

The Throne faced the West, so in the dawn, the morning sun rose behind the king and blinded all who dared to look upon him. The Throne, a dark stone with rocky boulders piling beneath and beside it. True Black architecture.  “Griffin was built around that Dragon Hill; it rises from the very floor of the throne room. The Blacks had a Dragons head carved above the throne, but it was smashed by enemies in the war. Frank sent me a letter when he arrived, telling me how they mounted a dragon skull in its place. So Mawkish. Obsessed with symbols, the Potters are. But they do not sit there well, no matter how they flaunt their victory.” Narcissa spoke with wonder, “The stone was scalding , Regulus—it had to be, for a dragon to nest— and burnt anyone who was not of Old Black blood.”

 

Wide-eyed with a voice still young, “Why does it not burn them?”

 

“A trueborn Black can withstand fire; it is how they can ride dragons.”

 

But when Regulus, with elation, crawled on his hands and knees and reached towards the hearth. Narcissa grabbed his wrist with such force that he squealed with pain. It was then he first heard the name Bastard.  

 

 

♛

 

 

Narcissa was the last person he saw when he went to sleep in the first month of that year. He had been raised stuffed plump until then, full of decadent plates upon cotton tablecloths, royal sugars, teas, and open window breezes. All in one snug corner of the court. He saw her in his dream. Hair like the core of a white pear. Flaxen lashes and eyebrows. Flowy cotton nightwear. A coping Ale fresh from the buttery. A habit she had adopted soon after her marriage to Lucius Malfoy.

 

It was Lucius who had taken him from his bed in the morning. He ushered the boy from his chambers,  tearing him from his slumber, urging him to hurry with his dressings and ripped him from the very room he had grown up in before he could pack what wasn’t already in his pockets. In the midst of Regulus’ drowsy state, His long socks were bundled by foreign hands around his ankles, and his blouse was tied without care. Lucius threw the rest over the horse's hind, telling Regulus to dress himself. Like a limp doll, he was set upon his saddle and taken from the court. He had said that he was taking Regulus home. There was no explicit home that he could name, just the hopeful whisper of an origin.

 

It couldn’t be Griffin; he knew, despite his bastardised face, he was no more welcome in the West Country capital than his cousins. The morning was a crisp delight as January's starch and snowless Southdon winter ended and faded into a more fertile, youthful spring. Regulus picked at the leathery armour on his hands as the horse strode beneath him. Narcissa insisted he always cover his fingers in moleskin lest he catches a cold and bothers the court with sniffles and fits . His legs were wrapped in common sheep’s skin, and his hair was hooded in thin beaver. No fluff nor fuss. As the fashion, his forehead was chilled with a band-like iron ring (something Lucius, the royal-kissing man he was, had happened to remember over Regulus’ personal goods) dipped with a blunt rectangle between his eyes, a regular style within the Black family. 

 

There was little Regulus knew about Lucius. He pondered any known information, watching the man’s long, anemic hair billowing behind him like that of a second coat. He was well-faced, of course. Even Malfoy himself knew it. With the unsplit hair and pouty lips. But Regulus decided he was the type of person the gods intended for people to look at, not hear. He could confidently say that Lucius was the type of man to wear human hide with cowering pride. That was what he was, a coward. The son of a Nobleman with no actual power. Regulus didnt like him one bit. The man was raised in Hill Rock, a Westdon country state on the Eastdon coast whose castle sat on an almost deathly Crag. The wind there was haunted by what Regulus remembered in his short time there. It sang and skipped around the cliff's edge with all the songs of lost spirits and ghosts. Even Amycus and Alecto Carrow, the eldritch Twinned Lord and Lady of the state, barred their windows in the evenings.

 

“Lucius.” He spoke into the air, but it wilted when the words slipped from his lips; the long journey had them dry as corn husks. He subtly kicked the horse's hind, urging it beside Dobby, Lucius’ runt of a ride; as blond as he was. It was shaved to brisk white stubble, thin enough to see the pink of its pulsing skin, draped in compensating furs and a stitch-loose ebony saddle.

 

“Stupid animal,” Lucius muttered, pushing his body forward and flicking at the silent creature's folded ears. It did not move any faster. 

 

“Cousin.”

 

He cut in bitterly, “ Your lord , It is only the least you could refer to me by.” 

 

“There are no lords besides Longbottom at court. Only noblemen,”

 

Hissing, reigns tugged, “You shit, you are as snarky as your cousin Bella.” Regulus was quiet as Lucius composed himself, sighing and continuing his trot; his accent was shrillingly opulent. “She would do well to have a husband like me. Rodolphus is more rabbit than he is man. Do not take after her. I married a Black. I am more noble than you, Bastard.” He would have a jarringly pointed nose if it wasn’t always scrunched into a pompous scowl. His bridge and cheeks were usually porcelain and slippery but had become flush after a few hours of walking, even under the cool, half-formed sun. Not even the silk of his now sweat-slick hair had been immune to a short time outside the somewhat wealthy grooming of court. 

 

He felt the rising sun on his back, concluding they were headed west. And as towns became sparse, they grew closer to unclaimed territory. If Regulus knew anything about the world, which wasn’t much, he knew of the stories he was told and the maps he studied. The border of Grimmauld Bight used to curve far deeper into Loup Garou; the title of ‘Bight’ was only appended when it became a primarily coastal country. It was formed for lost souls in the war that tore House Black from the Hallowed Throne. The Wolfmen, Wanderers and Warriors of the South tripped past the border, reclaiming over half the newly formed country. The Invisible Territory, and they were true to that name. An almost uncharted space on the world map, second only to the North. 

 

This reclaimed half was deserted. Beastal territory. “We should not be here.” Regulus warned, “Not without others.”

 

“I have passage. There are ways to pay off even the richest of things. You are too young to know about that.”

 

“I am old enough to know we should not wander in Wolf-Man land. Even if they are dark aged still.”

 

“You believe those stories?” Lucius laughed so pompously that Regulus could not decide whether to shrivel in shame or scream. “Did the war send Loup into the dark ages? Perhaps. Their population was littled, but their riches were too abundant to ever set them far behind in the world. Don’t be confused about the stories of them lost in deserts and wandering on starved wolves. They don’t have titles or societies in the way we do, but they have a kingdom beyond the river veins. Rabastan told me himself.” He beamed, “Gold and rubies like you have never seen. Even that house crown you wear would be worthless to them.” Lucius swung Dobby around, who grunted in retaliation, stumbling to find its footing as they faced Regulus’. “Most importantly, They have armies to spare, they have land to spare. Land your cousins, the rich whores, could only dream of.”

 

His ears sprouted like a puppy, “Are they coming too? My cousins?”

 

“Stay behind me, No-Black. This is Evil Territory.” His horse trotted along. He put a hand above his gaze, with no sun to block, as if he were a warrior from the stories. 

 

“Ass.” Regulus could finally mutter once his own horse had stumbled many minutes back. 

It was midday when Lucius grew impatient, howled, and raged until an accidental kick pushed Dobby into a galloping sprint. They reached a stop barely an hour later. Regulus was parched; he lay, cheek pressed against his horse's stark white mane, clean and warm, huffing and readying himself for a snooze when his cousin tugged on his trouser leg with lengthy fingers. The two plaits made from the tufts of hair between his cheeks and ears dented his face as he rolled against the horse's neck. “I have a stomach ache.”

 

“No-Black, off the horse. No time to be sleeping.”

 

“I do not sleep.” He stretched his arms behind him, a slight yawn coughing out as he lowered himself, only to stand an inch below his cousin, “I rest… Lord.” Regulus looked away. 

 

Lucius took the distracted face in his unworked hands, soft as a babe, kneading at Regulus’ still-round cheeks. “Your value is wasted on people like you. Not a drop of real Black blood in you, and still…”

 

“I’m no Black.” The name was political in Lucius’ mouth. More sour than anything. Nothing Regulus wanted to be a part of. He fought against the fingernails that had begun curling into his temples. They were only on his face, but Regulus felt that familiar skin sneaking around his shoulders and arms. 

 

“Right. You are No-Black. But Wolf-men are not knowledgeable enough to know that. Wealthy, not knowledgable.” 

 

The Black horse behind him scuffed its hooves against the sandy plain. Puffing dirt like smoke into the air. He could easily climb back on; Lucius was no strong rider; he could not keep up with Regulus at a running pace. His hand found the reign, and he almost jumped back on and helped himself back home. Almost. Almost, Almost. But he let the leather go. And everything may have been different, but he’d never know, as he followed his cousin further into the shrubbery-spent land as though he were tied on a leash, wound tightly between Lucius’ knuckles. He was never one to exercise a clear throat. 

 

Wolf-men were no rumours nor myths. They were spoken of as stories but were real, alive, and sinisterly lurking. Most people never travelled into Loup Garou, nor did Wolf-men travel out, at least not since they had cornered Grimmauld into the coast a few years before. 

 

The first thing Regulus noticed was their shoulders and bare chests. He didn’t see the scars nor the muscles or tattoos. But the way they rose and fell with breaths. Deep breathes. Human breathes. They had human noses and human eyes and were wholly human in a way one could describe a human. They wound their torsos in leather bindings and hung loose red, brown, and dirtied tan cloth around their legs that cinched at the ankle. They were punctuated by wolves. Heavy, heaving wolves who slobbered and gagged from the dry run there. Regulus had never seen wolves quite like that, rabid and flea-crowned. Ladies at the court owned pups, tiny creatures they often did not keep once they grew too big to carry on one arm. Those were the only howling creatures he had ever met.

 

The largest one, circled in broad shoulders and a strong, wide jaw, strode towards Regulus, “Lucius, what did you do?”

 

“Greyback.” Lucius leant down and whispered into his ear, hands behind his back, “I’d wager money you have only heard of him in legend.” Fenrir Greyback had led the wolf-men after Silas Crump took a snapped jaw to the throat a decade before the age of Potter—at least according to the traveller's legends and books.

 

Greyback exhaled with a stunted, bull-like breath. His nostrils welcomed Regulus’ scent. “His Father? The Dead King?” He did not speak West Country's Language well.

 

“No—a grandchild of Phineus II. The direct lineage of his oldest son.”

 

He carefully studied Regulus. “I had only heard of a woman child.” 

 

“No—Orion Black. There is no one alive who is more eligible for the Harrowed throne. I can promise you that.” Still, the wolfish man's eyes did not stray from Regulus; he did not offer Lucius a slight glance. 

 

He reached up to the boy, tugging at the short plaits on either side of his face. “Except our Lord.” The wolfman's brows were furrowed, manic and crazed. It was only then that Regulus's breath hitched, and his throat tightened. Suddenly, he panicked. 

 

“A tradition with his family,” Lucius said proudly. “They’ll only stop cutting it once they are on the throne. A measure of how long their reign is.” Still, the man clenched his jaw and squinted his eyes as if the air had always been silent. His fingers brushed the iron band around Regulus’ head, but Lucius seemed too insecure to explain further, stepping from side to side and shooting arrow-sharp looks around him. Greyback gave the two plaits a final, hard tug before turning around back to the others. 

 

Regulus’ voice stuttered, “We—we should turn back. I smell of stables.”

 

“It does not matter. They do not care. You cannot clean blood.”

 

“They?” He understood the transaction all too suddenly. “Lucius—Lord. Can you take me home, please?” He whispered, looking forward, still with fear. His eyes stung. “Please.” 

 

“Regulus, Son, you are taking me home by doing this.” He grasped Regulus’ chin from behind, turning him so they faced. “You’ll survive the war.” His breath was low and sure.

 

“War?” Regulus sputtered out

 

“I won’t forget this favour.”

 

“Favour my ass.” He hissed, but his voice was more like a rattle than a cobra. Regulus turned fully and grasped Lucius’ coat in his clenching palms. “I’ll gut you. I’ll tell Narcissa. What is this speak of war?”

 

“Hush—“

 

“Please. My stomach hurts.” He croaked. Regulus was afraid that if he spoke too much, the clench in his face would loosen, and he would cry. “I survive nothing. I will survive nothing out here. I don’t know anything.”

 

“Do not make a scene, No-Black. You are not so unripe as you preach; I have seen your cunning plays.” Lucius grabbed the wrists that were tugging on his dressings.

 

“Narcissa will wonder where I am.”

 

“Your cousin is far too concerned with the baby to worry about you.” A wash of patronising sympathy swept over his face. The sympathy you would have for a small dog who could not walk yet. He felt the press of a first-trimester swell against his own belly. The memory of embracing Narcissa and feeling the mass that had come and gone from her womb consistently for the past five years. Only in the November before had a child been born alive. Lucius took Regulus' chin into a pinch. He pouted his bottom lip and spoke sweeter. “It may do her some good. To not have a replacement child to dote over when another dies in that useless womb of hers. You manipulate her no longer, Bastard. You will have some true use.” 

 

The face above him was blurry, and his eyes sagged with beet-red linings. Lucius was all snarl, and Regulus only whimper. “Why trade me? If I’m so crucial, why not just bring me back? Please. I’m tired.”

 

“What is a king without an army, son? No-Black, you are barely that. You are not that.” He looked to him as though Regulus were as meek as a humourous mouse and pulled his hair into a horsetail with twine from his vest pocket, airing out his skin with a relaxed demeanour. “Find it in yourself to thank the Old Gods for your title. You are worth something to people who have more gold than they do hairs on their head.”

 

“Do not jest to me, cousin, you know—” Regulus kissed his teeth, looking over his shoulder and whispering, “You know I have no claim in whatever war you are speaking of. I have no claim to any throne. My mother was a Crabbe. I have no Black blood.”

 

“Well.” Lucius snagged the plaits, much like Greyback had before; he threaded them between his fingers, concentrated as if he were recounting all the charades of hereditary features that let Regulus disguise himself as one of his family. The hair, the skeletal nose, although he seemed to lack the strikingly light eyes. As light as a rain cloud. Regulus recalled reading how Blacks bonded with dragons who reflected their iris shade. “You had better pray they don’t figure that out. Then again, the Gods were never very kind to you, were they, No-Black?”

 

♛

 

 

Regulus' life seemed rather thin from the outside. But a thin life can be easily warmed. And he had the hearths to warm him.

 

The heat of Loup Garou swelled him into a more complicated, muddled thing. A heat he had never felt. A warmth that he had no way to navigate.

 

There was no sighting of Lucius after Regulus was placed in a cushioned holding. He would have lingered, he must have, needing to make the transaction he had betted his very cousin on for. But it was nowhere near Regulus, who, for the better part of the afternoon, had been sheltered in a maroon tent beside a lake a few minutes ride from where they first dismounted their horses. His own Black Pony was tied up outside the tent. Every so often, the chatter of celebrations outside was muffled by the giant, breathy huff of his horse. Regulus lay on a pillowed bed, staring at the flicker of the candles beside him. His soles were bare, rubbing against the fleece below him. There wasn’t much to do, of course. Not much he could do in the face of his situation. The sun was sweltering; any rebellious ideas of a journey home were drowned by the thoughts of sweat-soaked clothes and parched throats. 

 

His bitterness began to taste like the face of Lucius Malfoy. But it was not yet sapid enough for him to do anything about it. Regulus was in that calm space after a sob, a space he was too familiar with. His cheeks were tight with dried salt, his head throbbed with a muscle-constricting migraine, and, as usual, his stomach ached. Somehow, that felt like the worst of his situation. 

 

Greyback had brought a small army, a thousand men moulded inside chainmail and Iron. They carried riches that appeared to have been plucked straight from the necks of nobles. He did not spare his own men, and Regulus was sure an army of Wolf-men was worth far more than any power his title could provide. Instead, Lucius was to gain land and thralls. Prisoners of war. And still, Regulus’s purpose was unknown to him. As he waited by the cornfield for the two men to propose each trade, Regulus watched as men, those who were not dressed as the wolf-men were, harvested the corn. They held the ear and twisted the cob, throwing the vegetables into baskets. Much to his dismay, he found himself wandering close, reaching his own arm up and tugging for the corn with them. 

 

“You are Phineus II’s Grandson?” A boy had said. He was blond-fringed and pink, cheeks crisp and flaking. His basket was swung over his side with a woven strap, and his face sheltered under a Liripipe hood. He spoke with a Griffins inflection. Regulus nodded warily. 

 

“I was born in Griffin!” He shuffled closer, a smile in his whispers, “My–My Father was on your court.”

 

“My court? It is not… my court anymore. No–It never was.”

 

He remained stirred, jolly with a pep that Regulus couldn't match. “My mother said it will be. She knew your mother; they grew up together.”

 

“My mother—she was not raised in the…How did you come here?” He almost hoped the boy had fled in the same circumstance that he did. That there would be someone there who understood him. Regulus knew it was selfish to his cousins, who were already growing into young girls when the war ended, and remembered it with a keen vision to say he understood the pain of those days. Even though he was born the very day they fled, the day Griffin celebrated the King’s coronation, he couldn’t himself.

 

“My mother and I were taken trying to move through Beastal territory three summers ago.”

 

“And they have had you since? That is horrible.”

 

“That is Loup. That is Earth. I would doubt anyone would do it differently, even beyond Godric.”

 

 

“I would hope they would,” Regulus said, and with courage, he lifted a finger to the boy's nose bridge, a ‘may I’ look at a nod; he brushed the pad of his thumb over it, cleaning the sunburnt flakes. Even with the hood, he was kissed.

 

“I doubt they would, Prince.” 

 

Regulus looked at the cob in his palm, husk brutalised where his hands had squeezed. He placed it right upon the boys' pile and began pulling more from their stems, filling his basket. “Why do they have me here? Do you know?”

 

“I do not speak wolf's tongue.” The boy shrugged, gladly resting, “But why else would they want a Black? This would be a play for the throne.”

 

“They can have it. I won’t challenge them.”

 

He narrowed his eyes, “Though you should.” Placing a hand on Regulus’ shoulder so the boy would look at him, he said, “I'll follow you if you do. Not just for your blood, but for your heart. Like my father would have.”

 

The boy (named Peter, Regulus had discovered later when a more petite girl with the same harvest basket called for him) was sent with a group of serf prisoners to accompany Lucius and his army of a thousand men. So Regulus did not have very long with him. All questions of his mother and court walked away in a useless Liripipe hood. 

 

He continued to listen to the drum of feet against sandstone as he lay in the tent they had temporarily built, Peter's silhouette still living in his mind, Imagining he was in his home’s larder, sitting on the floor, drinking the milk intended for that night's dinner. Lucius and Narcissa found him in that fantasy, laughing like parents. He wished to hold Lucius’ head in a wine barrel until he drowned. 

 

“Creature.”

 

Regulus sat up from the day bed, inhaling quickly as the curtains closed behind a man. Taller than the others, three healed gashed across his face, one pairing about halfway through his right eye. It still blinked with sit, but each close of the lid quivered like it was a struggle.

 

“Yes. My creature.” Regulus spoke stiffly, knowing there was no way to communicate. “You don’t… have those creatures? Wolves only?”

 

“They would never ride something with gaws made for grass.”

 

“Oh.” He retracted, “You speak Griffin's tongue.”

 

He was dressed just like the man from before, in cedar-colored pants with wild, mousy hair. He was walking towards Regulus in woven sandals. His voice was laced with the accent of Loup Garous language. “My mother was from West Country; she taught me before her death.”

 

“You are the second boy I have met who had a mother from the North.”

 

“Many sons here are of Northdon Mothers.”

 

“I have heard none speak the Tongue. Why do you?” Regulus said quietly.

 

“You sound far too surprised. The continent only has two common languages; it's not a great feat to know them.” 

 

“Common?”

 

He got onto his knees so that he was looking up to Regulus. And unthreatening kneel upon cushions. His eyes were as light as his hair, his skin sun-blessed and freckled. The tent from the exterior was draped in every fabric one could think of. Some soiled, some new and velvety. The inside was no different. All things collected from raised, lit with stout candles and cluttered with trinkets and findings. Pillows with tassels and animal skin. They were all filled with differed colours and breeds of feathers—Regulus had checked. He wondered how long they had been travelling and collecting before they stopped to trade him. 

 

“The languages all people of the Realm speak. You would know of others. Old Gallo? Language of your House?” Remus pursed his lips, “ Dragon-Fo ”

 

“Dragouno-Feu,”  Regulus retorted almost unintentionally; he pulled his knees up to his chest, forcing distance. “...No one speaks that anymore.”

 

“No one outside your family is allowed to, I always thought. As if one day they thought people would wake up and realise House Black were Gods, speaking a language too angelic to find sound in mortal throats.”

 

“You can be bitter all you want, Wolf, but I will not speak that tongue to you. None of you.”

 

He smiled; the scars across his cheeks were stretched and taut. They had whitened with age, deep in his face like canyons. “Would you like to keep your creature? You can have a wolf instead. Fenrir will have us travel soon.”

 

“It's a horse.” He whispered, noticing the inflection more prominently with each sentence. He shuffled back into the daybed, arms pressed with pillows.

 

“Horse.” The boy nodded, “And…where you are from, you worship your horses?”

 

“Do you worship your wolves?”

 

“Yes. They are everything to us. Feed us, move us, they connect us.” Regulus looked down his neck. The scars followed trails far beyond his face, curving across his collarbones and chest. He was hairless, still a boy, not far ahead of Regulus. He cocked his head, narrowing his eyes until his vision was vignette-framed.

 

“...You’re all more human than the stories.”

 

“Black. We are human . What did you expect?”

 

Regulus rubbed at his mouth before pinching his bottom lip in thought. “I’d like to keep my horse for now.”

 

“Does this horse have a name?”

 

“What did you name your animal?” He asked genuinely.

 

“Moony. After my mother.”

 

“Your mother's name was Moony?”

 

“Her name was Hope. There is no word for Hope in the Wolf-Mens language. The closest meaning is the Moon.” The boy traced the altered spelling onto the cloth around his thigh. 

 

“That is kind. Why don't you name mine, then?”

 

“...Creature, Kreacher.” He repeated the same finger movements on his thigh, “ Where my mother came from, they changed how our animals' names are spelled. A way to separate us from animals since we are so close to them in all other ways. Or maybe to separate them from us. She had a great affection for creatures. ”

 

“I did not know you read here. Much less spelled.”

 

“My mother brought many things in confidence to me alone.”

 

His cheeks haemorrhaged, blood filling them like viles. Regulus allowed him a breath, inhaling the fragrant flora on the boy's skin. Wolf fur, oil, the gamy wax of a prickly pear behind sweat. He held a sweet scent.

 

“Regulus.” He held his hand loosely, inviting a connection, allowing for touch.

 

“Remus.” He accepted the shake.

 

“Remus…?

 

“...Greyback.” A fragment of a wince stuttered on Remus’ face. The bag of his scarred eye twitched. 

 

Their hands had not departed from each other yet. “If you do not call me Black, I shan’t call you Greyback.”

 

“Just Regulus, then.”

 

“Just Remus.” 

 

 

♛

Notes:

Hello!! Im hoping to make all chapters like this split POV format. I will put their names in the title (I'm so scared it looks like a ship one shot plez it will be a bit too GOT when I get to sirius | regulus LLAMAOOO)

tumblr:

www.tumblr.com/epionest

Chapter 3: Sirius | Barty

Summary:

And I am no lord.

Notes:

10k words of dull roadtrips ;))).

cw: wounds, blood, homophobia in an odd medieval way....?

Many believe that this is the origin of the Black House, which is why their reign persisted so legitimately for almost a millennium. Because they are entwined in our very religion.  

-  From ‘The Appendices: A Recount of the Fourth Realm’ by Lily Evans.  

 

SIRIUS 

 

The four riders followed the Honeyduke Trail south. Sirius’ eyeline tracked the ocean horizon on their right, the perfume of salt water that he had never smelt so closely before. Something fresh, something alike the fish markets he and James had dashed through as boys. He patted his hair down as the bump of his horse ousted it; the icy sweat under the vest had him uneasy, and he decided he had gone far too long for comfort without a bath. Sirius hoped to disrobe his body of all the leather and fur it was swathed in, to run from the smell of stables below him and the perilous backdrop beyond the castle walls. If he was not handsome out there, then he was not safe.

 

Sirius decided he was beautiful from a very young age. He would have to be. There was no doubt of his elegant expression, the way ladies whispered and giggled in his wake. But in the presence of his brother, a prince, he decided he would have to be as exquisite as a lord, as good as a prince, and his soul would have to simmer with the same blazing heat as the sun to equal James. 

 

When James stepped into the world, at least when his uncle was crowned, he was recognised by his body alone. The hereditary features crowned him before he reached two winters on this earth. The name Potter was a good one. A good name to carry. One Sirius usurped with wavering confidence. It blossomed in him, that yearning. Whenever Moody called them ‘young princes’, when he was referred to as a brother of James. He recounted all the ways they were similar. But he seemed to find surplus in ways they were not. 

 

It was a paranoia he held, a maddening one. He would see it in the mirror while bathing his hands in the basin. A woman would whisper nurturing, gruelling words in his ear. But as he looked up, fear in his chest, no one was there. Despite being an orphan, Sirius always had an angry mother in the house of his mind. She lived only one door down, and he could hear her through the walls. He recalled an exchange between James and Fleamont, one he listened to through the wood of their chamber door. Always on the other side, never quite in the room. There was no doubt about his mother, a bond that Sirius could never glide himself in between and feel the heat off from all sides.

 

“You’ll learn of this when you love, James. No matter how far away you are from them. You can never escape them. Which would be a blessing if they were not next door.”

 

Where James held love with the sentiment, Sirius felt a chill. This angry mother that haunted him, made him doubt his mind, his sanity, sat right next door to him in his own house. Except, The mother lived in a House called Black. 

 

Sirius rode closer to Marlene Mckinnon, the ride growing dull with James and Moody far ahead, and she had caught his eye in the foreground of the horizontal view. She had been mute the whole first day, from dawn to dusk. Her pale yellow hair was into a riding horsetail as she sat with a robust and guarded posture. Hair had a vital skill for holding memories, Sirius always believed. A long lock of hair held something heavy. His eye trailed down the long, wavy strands that reached the small of her back.  “We can talk if you wish.”

 

“If it is what you wish.” She said simply. His nose was slopped high into the air, and her jaw locked tight. He could see the pulse on the bone at the angle of her jawline.

 

“Is it what you wish? You do not have to speak guardedly with me.” he chuckled, “You forget, I am no royal.”

 

“Ha,” Mckinnon snorted unexpectedly, “An insult to you is an insult to James.” She met his eyes, “Apologises sire.”

 

They rode for a second of silence before the lack of noise itched around Sirius’ ears. Silence invited more maternal voices. More madness. “What is it you do, Mckinnon? What are you here for?”

 

“Servance.”

 

“No, where do your skills lie? Where do you lay here?” He tugged the reigns further to the right, closing the space between them.

 

“I lay with horses.”

 

He pulled his reigns slowly to the left, “Oh… That's...” 

 

“No—I groom,” she clicked her tongue, the frozen wall around her trickling with thawed ice; her hands, still clutching her reigns, moved with her words. She carried long, delicate fingers with fine nail beds, not ones you would expect to see shovelling horse muck in stables. “I train, I raise all of them. I’m your animal doctor if that is what you wish to call it.” She paused for a beat, “I am the oldest of my sisterhood, and my brother is weak, so I was working with my father. In the stables, In the castle. Wherever he moved, I followed.” Sirius knew of Angus Mckinnon, this weak brother. He and James had seen him in the Tavern that cornered the alley brothel when they were seventeen, sneaking from the castle at night. As they grew and became more aware of the world's workings and Griffin’s hearsay, they came to know him as a regular drunk, lurching on roadsides and slouching across bar tables with a fire whisky chalice in hand. The sister, however, was unheard of.

 

“I did not know you had a sister.”

 

“None of you court men know anything of me.” She smiled, “Why would you, though? I barely remember a sister; I haven't seen her in many years. She was married. My father had her promused when she was thirteen, and she has stayed there since, as far as I know. A ward of sorts. He was wealthy, and we needed the money to start a life in Griffin. Angus made great use of the sacrifice, the fool.” 

 

“Oh.”

 

She bit her cheek. Her brother stunk up the air around her, pungently present. The drunk man's sister. Sirius watched it simmer in her mind. It seemed to parboil before she resumed.“Elspeth. Her name. My father thought it was worth the loss, though. People in West country idolise your court; they say your king saved all of us. At least some do.” The battle was not one like past wars. It was isolated between Loup and Griffin; no other courts sent armies, as neither wished to support House black, with their maddening king, nor the wolf men. It was an internal implosion. McKinnon shook her head. “Nevermind. Years ago, it was. Do not worry about that. Your knight's quest is far more important than my small tales. I am a horse doctor now. Or animal doctor.”

 

He was silent momentarily, focusing on the slope of her nose and the tightening of her lips as Scope careened below him, budging his whole body. Sirius glanced behind him to where Padfoot was heaving and slumped in his slow walk. “All animals?” he made an offer of humour that Marlene appeared to receive well, “dramatic bastard,” he continued with a cheeky smirk.

 

Marlene shrugged, “There cannot be too much difference between a horse and a hound.” 

 

Sirius howled in laughter, “Besides, a hundred thousand grains, give or take, Mckinnon. It is clear how had the court education.”

 

“Someone will have to tend to your pup when he passes from all the walking you have him do.” 

 

“Oh, He is just a performer, and so is Harry. I am just not as gullible as the prince.” She looked to James, who had Harry, the absolutely tremendous wolfhound, sitting like a newborn in his arms, paws draped over his shoulder and tongue out in delight. He was chortling, coughing a warmth into the air. Sirius had thought as they'd ventured further south, their fur hide would shed, and the sun would find more favour with them, but the Honey Dukes trail being so close to the Westdon coast only superseded the cold with a cooler wind. 

 

James warmed the scene, anyhow. There wasn’t envy there; it was something else. He did not just plot for James’ heirship and title, nor did he yearn for his bones, skin, or the tendons that held the prince so well. He did not just observe how he spoke and smiled, finding the methods to follow suit. What Sirius truly wanted was to hold James’ gaze unwaveringly. To have an indisputable place by his side. To have no doubt that Madness would not overtake him and harm James. 

 

Sirius hid his indiscretions, the faults he knew James did not have, a desire for male company, a lack of courage, a growing madness and suspicion of Black House heritage. Most may find an accusation of Sodomy the worst indictment there was. Castration, mutilation, or death seethed no fear in him like banishment from James did. He could live a life with no lovers as long as that life lay in the presence of Potters. 

 

“It is as if Harry is his son,” Sirius said with no humour nor wit in his voice despite an effort. “James tends to him far too much to build any survival characteristics.”

 

James laughed, his cheeks pushing into the underside of his glasses as he ran a free hand through his hair, shaking out the dull locks into the same blessed crown he always wore. Despite the stark blackness of his hair, the very tips of each dark strand seemed browner in the light, some fair. A golden nimbus around his head. Even without his title, he wore a royalty as undeniable as the sun.

 

“So, The dogs,” Marlene said, clearing her throat, and Sirius’ gaze snapped back to her suddenly.

 

“Yes? The dogs?”

 

“I've never seen ones so ample. Were they gifted?”

 

“Strays. Wolfhounds.” They were found as pups when they were boys, training near Griffin Hill. Sirius often said something in the wind had called him to Padfoot despite James being the one to rescue him. Something in himself.

 

“The Potters have a gift for strays, do they not?” She smirked, and Sirius raised his brows, tilting his head forward and gazing through his lashes.

 

“Stray.” Sirius mused, “Is that what the servants of court call me? The Potters stray?” Mckinnon was silent; her silence fell behind that same partition of class fear. “You can tell me. I won't have you beheaded.”

 

“Do not joke about things that have some possibility. Bad omens…” Sirius watched how she glimpsed down to rebutton her vest as if they were not already done. He waited. “Do not seek these people out. They call you No-Potter. Some, not all.”

 

Sirius gaped, sputtering. “Bastard Potter?”

 

“Yes. The ones who are not calling you the orphan.”

 

“Why?” He gagged in offence. “I am not a bastard. “ It was true, he wasn’t, at least it wasn’t assured. All Sirius had been told about his birth was that he was a village orphan, taken in by the kind graces of their king. His presence in court was a way of stroking the feathers on Ignotus Potter's back. Their insistence that he was of un-noble and unextraordinary birth had no comfort in the lingering suspicions that he was a child of the House Black. The Black left the day they were overthrown. Moody had told them, it was a vague fortress; they didn't know how many members there were, and they could not keep a record of who was killed and who escaped. All the court had was the body of Phineus II, head almost falling off his neck, sliced halfway through the column. They know the few who did escape found safety in Grimmauld . The battle of nine hundred SF did not push them very far. 

 

“You are practically Fleamonts Bastard; what else would you call that?”

 

“Adoption,” he corrected in strange yet familiarly rehearsed offence, “there is a perfect word for it.”

 

“Apologies.” She nodded and shuddered under her coat as if it were her own fur. “I have… spoken out of turn.”

 

“No—”  Sirius sighed, “No, Do not apologise to me.  You have offered no offence. This trip will drag on far too long if you are frightened of us. You’ll join us in all things.”

 

“Join?” Her ears perked up.

 

“Yes. What else shall we have you do, speak to the horses? I’ll warn you, Prongs is almost as in love with himself as James is.”

 

Mckinnon shunned his humour, leaning towards Sirius, “In your duels?” she said as if it were a secret.

 

He raised a brow. “You wish to wield a sword?”

 

“No.” She pulled back. “Of course not.”

 

“You may if you'd like.” Sirius pressed on; he knew better than to leave it. It was knowing better, in his opinion, despite what others said about his habit of personal intrusion. “I shall show you. I've trained beside the prince my whole life; I'm sure I can teach a stable maid to hold a stick.”

 

She shuffled in her saddle; the creak of leather against leather made Sirius wince. “I do not wish to be mocked, Ser.” 

 

“No. No mockery there.” Sirius smiled, “I am no knight yet; you must call me Ser. I'll show you to employ a sword, though. It's not just about skill. Moody says there is an honour and respect between participants.”

 

She sat proudly for a minute, the wind singing around her smirk; her hand stroked the neck of her tow-coloured filly, a clear reminiscent in her mind. “I'll have no respect for the people I duel.”

 

“Moody says that you must treat everyone as human when you challenge them, or you will lose, no matter the outcome.”

 

Marlene snapped suddenly, “‘ Moody says’ , No-Potter, you have not been outside the castle walls long enough to realise some men of this world are not humans.”

 

He hissed, “Do not call me that. Take it back.”

 

“A name given is a name kept. You must make it your own until you earn something else. Otherwise, you will always be sunken under the power that name holds over you.”

 

Sirius pursed his lips. The name of Black held heavy on his shoulders, even if it was just the ghost of suspicions. “That is easy for you to say. Who in the court is whispering your name. Questioning your place?

 

“The whole world whispers questions of women's place and legitimacy. I have ridden this road.”  

 

Sirius huffed, irritated at her truth. “Hush your words. Perhaps I'll earn it by having you beheaded on Griffin Hill.”

 

“Is it true you watched a beheading there? I overhead Tonks mention something of the sort.”

 

He nodded. “Yes. A man. Do not speak of it, though. James seemed upset.”

 

“You’ll be a fine hand to the king when they inevitably crown James.” Marlene smiled, and her horse began trotting, speeding up. 

 

“Did he tell you that!?” Sirius chased after her, Scobe huffing against the kicks, “Mckinnon! Marlene!”

 

 

♘

 

 

The morning fog stretched on until nightfall in their first few days. It was the centre of January, and they were halfway to Ministry when they stopped at a piece of fine, flat land. The ice was thinning, and the light dew upon the lush grass was the only slip of slickness. They’d passed ruins of rubbled stone blanketed in moss, the views of many villages and countless Southdon travellers. Many Ministry messengers’ guards, protecting words being sent to Griffin, had stopped Mckinnon on her horse, gifting path-side flowers and adorations of her looks. 

 

“You must be a handsome face down in Ministry.” Sirius had teased, only to be slapped on the arm. 

 

Swords clashed between Sirius and James, sounding like splashes of coins; the potent sweat pour was heavy on their foreheads, and the blooming sun slowed the dance. They knew to prepare for the sultry fevour of the south, having only trained in the cool climate of Griffin. Spring would soon wake in two months, and they fought to be readied. 

 

Marlene had been observing with a book in her hand, Sirius throwing random spurts of advice her way, which only welcomed a distraction for James to spack him on the back of his knees with his flat side of his sword. It hadn’t lasted long, though, as his defeats proved no interest to her, and she promptly fell asleep. 

 

Although they had only brought out swords in the duel, Their saddles hung heavy with smaller and more diverse weaponry. A bow for each boy, smaller knives and messers, and James’ own sword, collecting dust as he only handled the one his father endowed. The only equipment they had been trained in. That very morning, when the sun sagged for dawn, Sirius had pulled Marlene from her slumbered place under the Griff-stone pine that shaded the camp. The branches were thick and woven dense enough that, despite the leaves that winter and autumn had plucked, she remained dry from the night's light pour. They duelled messily by a lake far off the trail with large roots that they had carved from the ground with the small messers. She looked rabid with sweat and heaves, face flushed and legs trembling, yet her stamina pushed them through hours of spats.

 

“Old Gods, I wish I was a woman so I could do needlework all day instead of this!” Sirius stretched out on the grass, limbs aching and fingers loose around his sword's handle. Marlene scoffed from under the open book that had been placed on her face. He hissed at her charaded slumber.

 

“Needlework, you’ll find, is alot like swordsmanship.” He signalled James towards him, pointing ‘Mad-Eye’ forward. It grinned with a proud glint. Moody placed his feet in a strong position, “Precision,” The swift swipe of his sword against James’, “delicacy,” Mad Eye slipped carefully upwards, shrieking against the other blade, with a spine-shivering sound, “refined skill.” With a curl of his arm, he trapped the opposing weapon to the ground, “and Durability.”

 

“Durability ?” Sirius ridiculed,  “I need to be twice my size. I have the legs of a child.”

 

“Ha!” James snickered, and Padfoot growled, nosing at Sirius’ corpse.

 

“It does not matter how strong or tall your opponent is. If he is exhausted and you are not, you have already won. Sirius runs a lap around the lake.”

 

Sirius sat up. “What?!”

 

“Go on, run a lap and then duel with James. Who, will be sitting here resting until you get back.” James gladly found a habitable dwelling on a large stone beside their duelling ground.

 

He bit his cheek, duelling with Moody's deadpanned gaze. “You are an evil witch in an oaf body, Moody. I swear to the four gods, You better sleep with one eye open.”

 

Moody covered his only remaining eyes with a palm; his glass one was paralysed forward, “I always do, Sirius.”

 

So he ran and ran, not much like the wind, more a heavy root, snapped from a tree and awkwardly bumbling down a hill. When he returned, he was panting and on his knees, hair frazzled. He tried to shun the thought of his locks pointing to all four corners of the earth, knowing it would only cause him stress.

 

“Rise,” Moody commanded.

 

“Rise… my ass…old man.” Sirius wheezed before a sharp sole-facing kick sent his side to the ground. Whining and wailing, Moody commanded again.

 

“Rise.”

 

“Godric.” Sirius practically wept as he found his footing. “I will name my sword eye-catcher when I am knighted, Moody. For it will be the sword to finally take your other eye.” James snickered from his spot on the stone. Sirius’ gaze swept to him. He pointed his sword, his chest panicking with stuttered movement. “You're dead.”

 

James ran. His body was a large enough target for Sirius, with the boy's long sword and wide wingspan, to quickly get a hit. Yet as he raised his sword, it seemed far too heavy in his quivering arm, and upon descent, it fell in a rather pathetic slice, having not built up the needed momentum. His body was leaning on the ground-piercing sword, and Sirius huffed as the pommel pounded into him like a war hammer to the stomach.  

 

James slipped back, his sword clashing with Sirius’ as he swiped the weapon upwards, spinning his opponent to the left and, as if the blade were a columb, holding up a hall, he condemned Sirius’ weight to the ground in a thickly graceless stumble. Victorious, James snatched his friend's sword and placed a bragging foot on his chest. “Even if you had slept a hundred years, I know you too well for you to beat me!” James beamed, two swords jousting proudly from his hands.

 

Sirius huffed, “Well, I know you asked to kiss one of the serving girls when you were fourteen, and she denied your request.” James whined and kicked his friend.

 

“ Sirius !”

 

He gripped James's hand, pulling himself to his feet. “I think the denial just enticed you more.”

 

“Denial does not entice me.” 

 

“A challenge entices you.’ James handed the sword back to Sirius. 

 

“Ha, it's why dueling you is so dull. You are no challenge—”

 

“-I am challenge enough!” Sirius pointed his sword forward, “I am more of a challenge than any of the court boys.”

 

James laughed teasingly. They circled each other, grip steady and precise. “Oh, more than Longbottom?”

 

“I run circles around that oaf!”

 

“Lying in the presence of a prince is treason,” Marlene sang from her place under the tree.

 

“This prince will be lying face down in the mud very soon,” Sirius warned. “That is no lie.”

 

The camp sang a final song of swords, clashing against each other with shouts and laughs. Moody ran the boys into their early graves, stomping over the soil until they both lay on the floor, gagging and verging on chunder. 

 

The gods had hung a punctured coal blanket that night upon the sky. The stars shone brighter than they did in Griffin. They took another camp, readying a week of riding; Moody nurtured a hearth to roast the mutton they had been carrying and slowly feeding on for the past two days. The night was cold and pungent with smoky pine and hearty flesh, and the boys huddled under a fur sheet. A story! Sirius had begged, just like in old times!

 

Moody grunted as he sat, sighing. James was plaiting small strands of Sirius’ hair as Marlene found a place close to Moody, knees under her chin. Sirius could tell she had been slowly finding comfort in the three fellows presence. “Before the age of man, four Gods ruled our earth: The Mother, the Father, the Son and the Daughter.”

 

“I know this story,” James whispered with a grin. Sirius took a bite of the mutton; he knew it too, of course, as everyone did. He never worshipped the Gods as James did. The days he and his father would enter the temple to speak with the headmaster were for them only. Sirius watched from behind the columns. 

 

He pushed a hand under his coat into a vest pocket, hiding beneath the illusion of a cold hand when he was indeed thumbing at a silver locket. An oval thing engraved with stag antlers on a long chain. It was a piece of worth that hung upon James’ bedpost. Sirius, stomach empty and hollow, had taken in the night before they left when James was still drinking himself dizzy at the banquet. He wasn’t sure why he reached out and snatched it from its place upon the wooden frame. He reasoned with the excuse that it was easy and practically slipped into his hands, but truthfully, Sirius knelt on the bedsheets, kneeing the pillows and unwinding the chain from the bed frame's decorated tip. He’d find the courage soon to put it around his neck. James’ breath was on his cheek, and he quickly removed his hand, wiping it on his pants.

 

“The four faces of bloodline.” Moody began the familiar story below the stars. Constellations of the very beings he was singing of flickered above them, “Salazar, the father, a symbol of trickery, cunningness. Godric, the son, Bravery. Rowena, the mother, those who worship her value wit and intelligence. Helga, daughter. Kindness. Familiarity, loyalty. Some say there was a fifth face, a blank one as cold as snow. An evil demon, the type of creature that lurks in the north. But he has never been worshipped here.”

 

“Years ago, the four Gods created our world. They ruled command over each continent and the people in it. Soon, as people do, they begin to find their own command. Then, on zero Suivant-Frere, 0 SF, in Godric, three brothers; Ignotus—The man your uncle was named from, James—Antioch and Cadmus all found rule and divided the country into three realms. Ignotus claimed the South realm, Cadmus, the Middle, where the Hallowed throne lies, and Antioch, the North. The names and the shape of borders have changed over time. But the values still hold. The Resurrected, Invisible and Elder territory.” 

 

Marlene had shuffled closer to the hearth, her already yellow hair lit with the glowing yellows of flames. 

 

“People said that when the Gulf of Erised was created and the two continents split, salzar sent Angels to Godric to make the humans lose faith in their God and worship something else, sending Godric back to his father. They descended from the sun with a fire-breathing beauty.” 

 

Sirius felt the heat of flames on his face, the roasting of mutton on his own tongue. Moody stared at him, and everything around them flew away as embers. But it wasn't Moody whom Sirius was looking at; just behind him, a voice that had never before found a place in a body stood as a woman. Draped in black robes, fissured as though from battle. Her locks were dark, and her face pinched around a skeletal nose. He almost didn’t see it, but a child's small hand grasped her skirt; a petite inch of his face peeked out from behind her. He thought ghosts may bring a chill, an eerie wind, but all Sirius felt was the flaring fire before him.

 

“However, all that came from the havoc of these winged angels,” Sirius inhaled through his nose as the lady disappeared behind the smoke, “was the House of Black.” 

♘

 

 

BARTY CROUCH JNR

 

Barty acted when his father gave the command. As he always did. He never contested it either, so when his father ordered him onto a horse with a letter, a prisoner and one circled spot on a map, he began to pack that very night. 

 

Barty ambled down the hall towards the court's room. His shoes clicked against the stone with faultlessly timed beats, the windows were latched, and the curtains flawlessly dusted; the delicate logwood purple had never dulled. When the Deputy knocked on his door that morning, the simple words “the Minister is requesting your presence” had him coursing to his father. Barty took a bottomless breath in before opening the doors. Double, arched, and twice his height. The older Crouch was seated at the head of the table, surrounded by iron candelabra; he never attended affairs in private chanceries as the other members did. He was always in the temple-high hall where the Ministry court conducted their matters as if he were a king on a throne. Sometimes, it seemed to bother him how Ministry sat below Griffin on the Realms map. 

 

He was hunched over his papers, forearms on the table and quill in hand. The nib curled in large, controlled strokes. 

 

“Father—” His father raised a finger, eyes not departing the paper, before persisting to write, spectacles low on his humped nose, greying hair slicked back in an oiled style. Barty interlocked his fingers behind his back, revising his stance, straining his posture. 

 

When he finally looked up, he squinted over his glasses, crow's feet on either side of his eyes, mouth pursued in a downturned scowl. “Junior.” Almost scrutinising, he deepened back into the chair. “Take a seat.”

 

Barty flew to find a suitable seat; in the end, he chose the one near the door, far and opposite from his father.

 

“I have two packages to deliver, and they cannot be sent by raven, nor do I wish to send a guard I cannot trust.” Barty caught a grin maturing on his own face; he brought three fingers up to cover his mouth and regain himself, a challenge of proving worth looming. He had appetite enough to crawl across the tables and seize it. “I’ll have you take two horses and travel southeast.”

 

“Two horses for two packages?”

 

“Two horses for two men, Junior. I’ll have you take to the dungeons, where a prisoner is waiting; he will be bound to his horse, which shall be tied to yours.” He grasped a letter from the table, holding it up in two fingers. A large piece of folded parchment sealed in purple wax. The court's colours, a pressing of the court's sigil, a palace guard. His father often claimed the symbol for himself and the Crouchs. “You shall deliver this letter to Lord Lyall Lupin in Monashire. There is no one thing more crucial, Junior. You bring him both.”

 

He tautened in a breath at the mention of Monashire almost excitedly. “Of course-”

 

“ Both , Junior.” Barty wilted. His father inhaled after a short stare. “You understand the importance of this, boy? I’m trusting you with something detrimental.”

 

“Yes, Minister Crouch.”

 

His father harboured a trim look of satisfaction. A nod. “Good boy. Good. Ser Ludovic Bagman will have your things organised. Pack your own essentials tonight.” 

 

Barty retrieved the letter and bowed before he fled, the image of his father's approving nod beaming on all the sigil banners around him. He saw it in the suits of armours and the logwood purple curtains. The image of Ser Ludovic Bagman, however, only soiled his pride. He had always held a pungent disdain for the man. Still, Barty expelled any dull thoughts and marched with a jogging ego.  He looked teasingly smug to every passerby. He berated each knight, messenger and bird that flew past the window in his mind. Proudly puffing his chest out, the Minister—his father had chosen Barty for the task. The habit of denial was familiar in his life. Now, somehow the long-time-formed consistency had split.  

 

Barty strode towards the dungeons, where Ser Bagman was waiting for him by a stone wall, standing tall in a frilly doublet and cloak, a pale ivory colour with beading. He had no taste for style, Barty had always thought. Though that particular day, his attire made him appear as one long canine tooth. His legs were so skinny they seemed to cinch like a fang tip at the feet. The man was well into his fortieth decade. The temples of his head blew white whisps into his blond hair, and his clean-shaved face showed lines of age. Vapid coxcomb , Barty eyed him. Bagman may have been the realm's most overpaid Jester in history. 

 

The nuisance went forth into the dungeons, and with the smirk of his father's commands still on his face, Barty eagerly followed behind, watching his off-white cloak billow from behind the man. Off-white, Barty thought, the man cannot even wear white correctly. 

 

The dungeon was wintery and stunk of rot. The only warm light came from punctuating hung oil lanterns every few steps. Still, even if it were cold in the building, the hearth his father's faith nurtured in him warmed his bones enough to not notice it. The dwelling facing his father's eyes, even if it was in his shadow, was warm.

 

The echoed dins of grunts and iron chains quaked the ground and drove Barty to balk. Ser Bagman retrieved keys from his cloak pocket at the end of the first hall, unlocking a short wooden door. He pulled the handle, a rusted grey ring, and the creaks echoed through Barty as blood rushed through his veins. The floor was bestrewn with straw, damp and spongey under his feet. A light bead of water dripped from the ceiling with serial drops into a full barrel in the other corner of the room. Mildew, decay and elder leather. A bouquet of death. 

 

There was a boy, hair so oiled and dirtied Barty could not tell if it was brown or blond. He was hunched in his seat, relaxed into the wall, hair curled over his face and in a soiled tunic. He was panting slowly in laboured breaths. Feet bare.

 

“Rosier.” Ser Bagman proclaimed, “Evan Rosier.”

 

Barty continued to stare. “Evan.” He whispered. It was as if the boy were dead; he did not move nor speak. The only sign of his life was the sound of his ragged breaths. Barty's stomach weighed down with stones, and his legs prickled with nerves. Bagman yelled for a guard, who came in with a wooden tray; a modest bowl of Gruel bubbled upon it in chunks.

 

“He gets no water?” Barty asked quietly.

 

“He drinks what drips.” He pointed towards the barrel. Barty winced at the thought. “And washes too, although clearly the Cavy has chosen to neglect that.”

 

“Cavy?” 

 

“Beggars cannot be choosy. Still, he certainly decided he would be.” The guard shuffled past them, sliding the tray onto the prisoner's bench. He stood patiently before throwing his open palm against the prisoner's head. He pulled forward even more, shielding his head.

 

Barty threw his right hand towards the guard, his left protectively clenching the letter. “Was that necessary?”  

 

Ser Bagman snorted, a stench in his voice, “Hush before your father hears! The boy is a criminal; you should pity him no more than you’d pity a dog.” Barty bit his cheek, reminding himself that the prisoner was a convict and that holding his tongue was fire wiser than telling Bagman he was more of a hag than any witch from the tales. The dungeon was filled to the brim with crypts of offenders. Ministry being the lawmaking court, their dungeons found more visitors than most. Traitors, thieves and poachers. Bastards that noblemen would rather have in iron than in their homes. “I’ll be sure he is cleaned before you are condemned to a month's travel with his stench. With such a noble birth, you would think he’d be disgusted with this state, but not enough to sink low enough to barrel lapping.”

 

“He was noble?” Barty asked curiously.

 

“Young Crouch, you will benefit from knowing that no matter how high in the castle you were born, there is still a long drop just outside the window. Some may say the more noble you are, the further the possible fall.” Ser Bagsman crossed his arms, and the leather squeaked, “he seemed to have taken it hard.”

 

“Would his father have not retrieved him?”

 

The boy groaned, still refusing to meet anyone's eyes as the guard knocked his head a few more times. He looked small. Perhaps how he curled in on himself made him look so innocent and young, but Barty reminded himself that it was all trickery. The scrapes on his arms and the rips on his tunic tunic were deserved. His father, elected minister by the king and head of West country's law court and bank, had rang the words ``criminals deserve no justice” like a sequenced twelve o'clock bell his whole life. “Obedience is sinew, Junior.” It orbited him in his father's baritone voice. 

 

“It was his father who requested this. A fine sword-swallowers punishment.” 

 

“His family did this?” Barty narrowed his gaze.

 

“A criminal has no family. The boy gave it up when he decided to commit acts of sin.” Ser Bagman turned his chin down to Barty, lowering his tone. “I know if my children were to violate my name as he has, I would not hesitate to turn him in myself.”

 

Barty wondered what travesties his children had committed in a past life to be condemned to an existence as Bagman's child. What a trick from demons to have to see his face each day. “You be careful with the Cavy, Young Crouch,” Bagman whispered, “Temptations, trickery, guiles. Things such as him were gambits from Salazar.”

 

Barty exhaled, watching the guard's hands soar against the prisoner's body. “I thought that Dragons were gambits from Salazar?”

 

His shoulder was grasped, kneaded into, and Barty grimaced. A hot breath upon the shell of his ear. “Come, I’ll have the guards bind him and ready him for tomorrow. The kitchens will prepare your saddlebag by the gate.”

 

As Ser Bagman ushered him from the room, Barty couldn't help but look back at the prisoner, the letter growing warm under his fingers. 

 

 

He fell into slumber facing his father's portrait and woke the same way. In the earliest of dawns, Barty lingered by the gatehouse; his own horse readied and waited. The servants had dressed him in a quilted gambeson, a weatherproof cloak that sagged on his shoulders and slowed his walk. He opened the saddlebag. A leather flask, sacks of vegetable rations, dried meat that curled into small bark strips, flint for hearths, a yard of cloth and garments.

 

He sheathed his sword onto his belt and tucked the game string into his pocket. He’d taken a small bag with four galleons to spend in any villages they’d passed. To restock supplies and rest for nights.  

 

Barty stroked the mane of his horse, a nameless beast that he rarely rode, having spent most of his youth within the court walls. She was blanketed in corner-tasselled eiderdown and mail. An assignment like that one had never fallen on him before. Always messengers and knights or even ravens. Everyone seemed to be more competent in his father's eyes. 

 

Ser Bagman arrived with two guards behind him; one held the reins of a white-furred pony, and the other held the prisoner's manacles. He’d been cleaned, or at least he had cleaned himself. Perhaps the thought of a journey unto feverish and sweat-persuading lands had urged him. The prisoner was blond, he confirmed. Hair of a yellowing daisy petal, a soft, callow face. Standing tall, he still looked as innocent as he did hunched in a cell. He was presented as nobility; all the wounds and scratches Barty had seen the previous night were hidden under wool stockings and a leather doublet-cinched blouse. 

 

The prisoner stumbled as The guard shoved him forward. He took leather bindings and wrapped them around his torso and chest, strapping his arms to his body. They lifted him upon the horse and slipped his feet into the stirrup. His restraints were tightened and swathed until he was wholly swaddled with the horse. Still, he sat upright and tight-lipped, barely making an attempt to pull his wrists from where they were tied to the saddle behind him. 

 

“You will not have him untied for any moment.” Ser Bagman announced as the guards tied a rope between the filly and pony; Barty almost fell to slumber as he spoke. Perhaps it was the early time or because Bagman was so incredibly dull. “There is a risk in bringing a horse for him, but the journey is too long to walk, and he must be presentable for the arrangement. So he will never take hold of those reigns, do you understand, Crouch?”

 

“Yes.” When I am Minister like my father, I will pass a law that makes it a crime to not have you beheaded. Barty grinned at the thought that the journey he was tasked with may be the first step in his father entrusting him with the role.

 

“The prisoner's hands will never be unbound; I need you to promise me. Promise your father. It will be a grave disappointment to him.”

 

Barty glanced to the boy upon his pony, the fresh clothes hidden under bundles of binding and rope. He despised how freely Bagman could speak for his father. And how it forced Barty to listen with care. How he actually cared. “The prisoner's hands will never be unbound.” He affirmed. 

 

Grabbing the horn and cantle, Barty mounted the horse with one step and a swing. Bagsman ambled to the horse, placing a large hand on its neck. “Is my father coming? To see me off.”

 

“He has business with the court this morning. He wanted you to know how important this is, Bartemius Junior.”

 

Behead yourself . Barty nodded and glanced behind him. The window of his father's chamber is in the centre of the tower behind the courtyard gate. It was closed, and a thick purple curtain draped across the arched hole. “Of course.”

 

“I do not jest. Not about this. I expect you have the letter?” He nodded. I do not jest either . Barty placed a hand on the chest of his gambeson, where the letter had been tucked safely beneath the clothing. So close to his skin he could feel the press of the knight-embossed wax seal. “Okay.” Bagsman nodded his head once. Do it harder , Barty willed him in his mind; you may snap your head clean off with enough force . It would be the greatest service to the realm he ever did as a member of the Law Court. Perhaps he’d been given a medal for such a public service, draped over his corpse, maybe hung on the crypt. Barty grinned at the thought once again. “Off with you. Is the Cavy prepared?’ Bagman called, and the guards confirmed. 

 

 He smacked the hind of Barty’s filly, and they trotted past the gates of Ministry court. 

 

 

♗

 

 

The prisoner was silent. Barty only looked behind him only a few times. The first time was to confirm that he hadn’t slipped through the straps. The second time was to ensure the eyes he had seen minutes before. Round and icey blue. Then again, just to be sure, they were as icey as his mind had previously recounted, and they were. Icey as a frozen lake. It wasn’t that type of blue that one may see on a summer's day, nor painted on Rowena Ravenclaw's robes in oil portraits. He had a seaward-facing window in his bed chambers that overlooked a lake. One that village children fashioned their shoes into skates of sorts and danced upon in the colder winters. Small frames blanketed in wool and sheep fleece. A round lake circled like an iris. It was that same glacial shade that stared back from his window that stared forward on the horse behind his.

 

Barty spiralled into that sequence for the first hour. The silence implored him to nurture his mind somehow. His life felt incredibly dull without movement and noise. He began to feel far too conscious of everything, how thick and bristled his tongue was, how, despite hating the feeling of hair on his neck, there was a hair curling around the nape of his neck. He formed a dialogue of opinions, mostly curated with insults, to run like a water mill inside his skull. 

 

An internal conversation to echo all the moments he spent in silence. Barty did not have friends to sustain the conversations, nor had he wanted any. The last person he had bonded with in a way that he dared to consider a friendship was young Lady Meadowes, the daughter of a court member who was given to Lord Lyall Lupin as a ward during their peace alliance many years before. She was small and always in the courtyard with a play-sword twice her size, yelling profanities at the other boys who trained with mentors. At suppers, though, Barty found her with a book hidden on her lap under the table, parchment sticky with meat oils and wine. 

 

Since their departure, the assortment of vapid conversations had simply grown in size, and he found himself talking to her in his head instead. The mention of Monashire, the manor Lord Lupin ran, and the home of his old friend only simmered more excitement.

 

The prisoner was not a flawed-looking man. It was challenging to seek insults when he never spoke. There was no strange inflection in his tone nor idiotic topic of conversation Barty could latch onto and wring like a soaked cloth until every possible critique was pooled by his pointed leather shoes. His lips held tightly together, concealing all of Barty’s needed entertainment.

 

As the day continued, Barty threw his coat off, hanging it from his saddle and feeling the wind on his throat. It would probably make him sick and give his windpipe a scratchy, hoarse feeling, but what other use did his voice have when clearly he would be silent for the journey. Still, the prisoner was a criminal, a Cavy, as Bagman had described him—although Barty was not sure what that meant— and an enemy of the law was an enemy to his father. That made him an enemy to Barty.

 

They descended into a woodland, following the trail roofed in branches and leaves. A rich scent of soil, moss and soft woods vastly different to the burning kindlings and stone in his own chambers. Immortal trees, ones that, if you took an axe to, would reveal a hundred ages worth of rings. The army of verdure whistled with bustle, but it was not enough to distract Barty from the rumble within his stomach. He pulled his reins towards the trunks, and his horse grunted, drawing them into the forest. Deep enough that the only light was the star-like leaks in the leaves above. He dismounted his horse and tied her to a broken trunk, no doubt struck by lightning or severed in a storm, with agitated wood spikes sticking from its core and a massive accompanying log lodged between the other trees. 

 

Barty walked cautiously to the prisoner, who sat well-postured upon the saddle. He reached for buckles of the straps that bound him to the seat, undoing them and separating the boy from his pony imprisonment. Once free, Barty balanced on the balls of his feet, slipping his hands under the prisoner's armpits and lifting him over the horse. The weight was not inimical, and he managed to carry the prisoner towards an opposing tree and sit him in a nook of roots. Barty looked back at his eyes as he forced him to the ground. Those icey eyes moved quickly towards the sword hanging from Barty’s belt, and he stepped back, a hand protectively over his weapon. His hands were behind his back, and his arms were practically glaired to his sides; there was no way for him to fight, yet Barty remembered Bagman's words. 

 

“You be careful with the Cavy. Temptations, trickery, guiles. Things such as him were gambits from Salazar.”

 

He was an idiot, but Barty knew it would be even more idiotic to ignore words of warning for personal vendettas, no matter how righteous he was in them.

 

He crossed the distance to his saddlebag as the prisoner pulled his knees up to his chest and slumped against the bark. Barty reached into the stock of rations packed for him; he retrieved the leather flash and was searching for the dried meat when a noisy press of wet mulch alerted him that the prisoner had stood up. He spun around, and the flash of blond whisked itself into the woodland depths. The leather fell from his grip. 

 

“Stop!” Barty panicked, chasing the boy; at first, it was a rush of fright, dread of what his father would say. Would he come home, the etter limp in his hand and head bowed. Would Ser Bagman grin and gloat? This fright curdled into rage faster than his feet could carry him. 

 

The bound torso made his run awkward and slow, but the headstart and awkward leafy floor pushed Barty far behind in the chase. Heat built in his face and fingers, an inflamed type of heat that could only be attended to with the grip of his sword. So Barty, as he hastened, seized his sword, unsheathing the weapon with a loud metallic swipe. The sound faltered the prisoner's run.

 

They curled around trees and rocks for barely a league before Barty got close and, upon approach, lifted his sword with one hand and grabbed the boy's collar with the other. He viciously pulled back with all the strength his left arm could offer. The prisoner fell to the soil with a pained grunt. Lips parted and panting. Barty kneeled on him, pressing the sharp edge of the sword to just below the boy's jaw. He would trim the head clean off as a settlement for discourtesy.

 

“You run!? You run!?” He roared at the boy, the blade pressing further into the skin, threatening to slice. “Run! Get up!”

 

He cried out, a boyish yowl, and Barty pulled back suddenly. The first sound he had made. He glanced down at his own blade, which was marred wine-red. A long drip of blood trickled from the laceration down to the collar of his doublet. He stared for a moment; the anger perished as his panting slowed.

 

“Hush.” Barty pushed his sword back into its Scabbard, pulling the prisoner up by his bindings instead of leading him with the tug of his manacles. He placed one hand on the back of his skull, buried in his hair, clenching and holding his head back; the other was patched upon the wound by his throat, pressing and halting the blood. The two hiked in that position until they sought the patch where the horses stood, grazing through the shrubbery. He took the rope strewn over the pony and tied his prisoner to the previous tree, returning to his saddlebag with confidence. Instead of collecting just the leather flask and the dried meat from the floor, he pulled out his yard of rolled cloth and returned to the boy.

 

Kneeling, he tore a strip from the cloth and reached his hands out to the bloodied neck. The boy flinched. “Stop.” Barty hissed, pushing onto his forehead and acquiring access to the wound. He poured a small rush of water onto the gulping throat, bathing the skin and expelling the blood before he began coiling the cloth around his neck like bandages. He worked meticulously. His father's deep voice commanded the letter and the boy to be delivered safely. They would both be as pristine as each other. 

 

“You are okay,” he whispered. “No worse than a paper cut.”

 

“Feels worse.” He choked out, and Barty looked up, hands still working at the bandages. He tied the ends in a knot, pulling his fingers away and onto his lap. The two boys breathed into the silent air.

 

“Do not do that again. Do not even attempt that.” His nostrils snarled, face curling into a grimace, and Barty huffed, “Please.”

 

He retrieved the dry meat and held it to the boy, who, after a long, challenging look, parted his lips ever so slightly, just enough for Barty to feed him. His delicate knaws were useless against the rugged bark of the food, and Barty agitated, spoke through his teeth. “You have to bite. With your back teeth .”

 

The prisoner glared yet opened his mouth wider until Barty paced the meat onto his molars, and he snapped it shut, ripping the food and chewing. He continued to eat, a very maddening and pesky meal time. “I’m…” Barty sighed, gazing at the bandages and blood spottings appearing; he moved the blond hair from his face and wiped the soil from the back of his head. “I’m. Sorry, Prisoner.”

 

He stared as if contemplating. Softly, “My name is Evan.”

 

He knew. Evan rosier. Cavy, as Ser Bagman had said ceaselessly. “I do not address criminals,” Barty repeated. Certainly a parrot holler of someone. He wasn’t sure who. He was eyed up and down. The prisoner shrugged.

 

“Then I shant address you.”

 

“You have no name to address me by!” Barty pulled back, offended.

 

“I have many names for you.”  The prisoner assured him, “Ass. Coxcomb.”

 

He gasped, “I’m no Coxcomb! Take it back, I order you!”

 

“Dickless .”

 

“Barty!”

 

“ Evan. ” He challenged. 

 

Barty sat back, looking at the prisoner and Evan. His brows were raised, expectant. His eyes were wide enough to see his whole iris, just as Barty used to gaze down at the round lake. Rimmed in thick wheat. He conceded.“Gods, okay.” 

 

Evan relaxed into his victory, watching as Barty took a bite of the dried meat. Analysing him. “Barty. Like the minister.”

 

“My father.”

 

“Ha! Barty Crouch.” Evan chortled. “Stupid name for a stupid man.”

 

That same anger from before inflamed in him. Barty shoved him against the trunk, although the rope already had him pressed down. “You Cavy! Do not speak of him! You have no right!”

 

Evan spat, fighting against the ropes at the name's first mention, and Barty retracted. “Hold your tongue; you have no right to say that word!”

 

“What? Cavy?”

 

He hissed again, “Hush!”

 

“What is it?” Barty threw his hands up, confused, “What does that mean?”

 

“Nothing you will have to concern yourself with. Nothing that will disturb your life.” Evan said with a bitter resentment. His bandages curled into themselves.

 

Barty kept his hands raised in surrender, softening the aggression that they had held before. The way Evans's jaws clenched and he sucked his breath in aggressive breaths, hollowing his cheeks, only stressed his high cheekbone. His face held the softness of a lady. An elegant, noble face. With a nose tip that blushed red in the cold. His whole body was accented with red like blood on snow. His lip was split, and his waterline rimmed crimson. Undoubtedly, under the tunic, he would be as etched as a clay pot. The dungeons held no bed for soft things.

 

“No insults. I understand.” Barty nodded. He plucked the cloth under his chin and adjusted it back into place. “Do not be so agitated. You will move your bandages.” He saw that same innocence from the dungeon. He hadn’t expected to see that again. It was weaved in a tapestry of bared teeth and mockery, but it was there. It was human. No—Barty shook it off and pulled his hands away. Something cunning and sewn with threads of trickery. A trick. 

 

Barty sighed. “I… do not wish to fight the entire journey. It is a long one, and I grow impatient quickly... Something suggests you will be on my nerves continuously.”

 

“You could release me.”

 

Still, just as quietly as before, “Why would I release a criminal?”

 

“Do you even know of my crime, my lord? ”

 

Barty bit his lip, looking down; he was no Lord. Not yet. The way Evan taunted the name held no righteousness on his tongue. It was mocking. He recalled a purging sentence his father had said to him in passing. A time when his mother frequented the halls and was not confined to her chambers from supper to dinner.  “The Court is just. Any punishment they proclaim is the right punishment for the crime.”

 

“Do you know where we travel?”

 

“Monashire. I know nothing past that, so do not ask me.”

 

Barty untied Evan from the trunk, pulling him to his feet and guiding him to his pony. He helped the boy mount the animal and then tied him down. “They haven't told you of my crime?” Evan asked, looking down at Barty

 

“No.” He tightened the rope with a grunt, “and it does not matter.”

 

“My crime does not matter to you, Barty Crouch Junior?”

 

“No. You are still a criminal,” Barty packed his saddlebag and mounted his own beast, “so you must be punished. You will be punished.” Barty clucked, kicking the horse into motion. They continued their journey onto the trail. 

 

“And I am no lord.”

 

 

♗

Notes:

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@ epihonest

Chapter 4: Narcissa | James

Summary:

“I am hurt enough.” Narcissa laughed to herself.

Notes:

Jegulus will meet next chapter i promise oml...

One year after my promise to James Potter, the greatest political stride in almost seventeen years was made—A boy, Half House of Black, Half House of Malfoy, was sworn to the throne by marriage at only a year of age. It was just that, though—political. I suspected they would orchestrate something to keep a boy born of dragon blood off the throne. A culling, perhaps. An assassination, most likely. It was just an appeasement to destroy the republic that Grimmauld had formed and to earn a pass to the land (formerly known as the Beastal Territory) that Lucius Malfoy had gained in his human trade with the Lupos (Wolf-Men).

 

-  From ‘The Appendices: A Recount of the Fourth Realm’ by Lily Evans. 

 

NARCISSA MALFOY

“Where is he!?” She wailed, a deep and desperate whine in her voice. “ Where is he, please! ” 

 

Narcissa paced from the east to the west wall, fingers in her hair, oiled with sweat. She rushed back to the cradle where her baby writhed, sobbing and gagging. “Sh, please,” and with the choke of the little body she curled into her arms, she too shrieked with cries. “Stop, please!” 

 

Her lips shakily sought his forehead; the blood that gushed from where she dropped him crept between her lips and down her chin. “I don't know what to do, please, Draco.” 

 

“Draco,” she begged into his skin. “Draco, Draco, please. Your mother. It's me. Please, please, please.”

 

When Draco was born, it didn’t feel any foreign to the months that he had evolved, just out of reach inside her. It was as if a blacksmith had wielded something inside them together, just not their bodies. Perhaps the cruellest thing about motherhood. The moment they are born, there is nothing physical about the attachment.

 

It was nothing like how the storybooks illustrated it. It was good and beautiful, but she had never been so sad. She didn’t feel new, nor did she feel whole. She was sad for a long time. November became a month of laments. A barren stomach and an armful of child. She’d read of splendid loves. How a wedding—a child was the closing page. But, ironically, the child she and Lucius bore together was not something done together. When Draco was born, Lucius was still asleep after a night of debauching with Lestrange; he met his son still drunk. She did not feel wiser. Or like her own mother. She felt like a girl in the way she had before. And perhaps that was the problem. A crying girl with a crying child. A girl with a child.

 

It wasn't for another few minutes of stumbling when her child's nurse coursed into the nursery, cloth and rippling basin in hand; her own choppy hair looked greased and manic, but her face held no stress; rather, she laboured with priority and focus. She placed the basin upon the table, plucked Draco straight from Narcissa, and laid him in the bowl, dipping the cloth, wringing it, and swabbing the bloody forehead. 

 

“It is only warm, my lady; do not fret.” Narcissa hadn’t, though; she seized the bed frame for aid and sunk to the floor, her heartbeat not yet quieted. She would have laughed if she were not weeping, a descendant of Black in threat under heat. She watched her nurse bathe her child through a blurry eye until he was calming in a fit of hiccups and sniffles. Draco was in no harm under Alices’ fingers. Warm and thick. She cared for him like he was her own. Sometimes, Narcissa berated herself because she swore she could see Draco’s eyes foraging for another mother when she nestled him, combing through all the eyes around him. His cries eased. She was almost angry they had eased in someone else's palms. Almost.

 

Alice wrapped the babe in a fresh cloth, his head patched. Warm and silky, she lay him to rest in his cradle. 

 

“Narcissa.” She kneeled in front of her.

 

Whining, “I dropped him. I dropped him, Alice.” Her shoulders heaved in sobs, and her syllables broke in bounces. “I dropped him.”

 

“I know, he is alright. You are alright.” She lay one hand on her shoulder, not kneading or pressing, simply laying. Her fingers coiled around the muscle, a light mould. Narcissa took her open hand to her chest, gripping her heart as her stomach pounded against the corset. She grimaced, letting the panic pass. She believed it would rush away quicker if the stout fabric of her dress were not in between her shoulder and her nurse's hand. 

 

As she calmed, she felt for the pearls along her neckline, tracing their satiny curves as her chest heaved.

 

“Sorry, my Lady.”

 

“You have saved my baby's life far too many times to just call me Lady, Alice.” Narcissa panted, falling to her side and leafing her body like a page; her back struck the bed frame just in time, and her head fell back. 

 

Alice hurried to retrieve a soaked cloth, wringing it and holding it to Narcissas’s face. She polished, collecting all the blood that she had kissed from her son. Alice was careful and meticulous. She toiled slowly; her face was intimate and close, bathing with all the care her fingers allowed her.

 

“How do you do that?”

 

“You are just panicked at the moment. Your cousin is lost. It is fair to be uneasy.” Narcissa shut her eyes at the mention of Regulus. The boy's disappearance was nearly a week ago. She saw him one night, and the very morning, he had left as smoke left the window. She feared for him. Just as she feared for Draco. But she feared for Regulus in a different way. He was a target in ways others weren't. So she ensured he wouldn't be.

 

You would never guess Regulus was a Black, so it was not too difficult. He disguised himself well enough for the suggestion to turn your head for a prolonged glance. But it was his eyes that gave him away. Where Blacks had grey eyes, upturned and feline-like, his were round like a doe’s. As if he had never grown out of those wide-eyed stares you have as a child. They were so dark they appeared like ink and shook as he stared. He had the same eyes as Draco. 

 

It was shameful to admit, but she was glad for him not to inherit Lucius’s face. He had been born with the stark blondness they both shared, of course, not quite sallow, but an anaemic white. His face, though, was as Regulus’. Round but ready to hollow, just as Regulus had started to lose his childness in recent months. Narcissa feared he would be gone too long, and when they eventually found him, the cheeks of his youth would have fallen away, and he would be a tall ghost of who he was. And Narcissa would have missed it. 

 

Since Regulus had left, too many things had occurred for Narcissa’s liking. Her own husband had taken to mount. Travelling to northdon lands. The carrow court. Tonks and Longbottom—the son of Lord and Lady Longbottom, had sent ravens announcing their return. Bella had mentioned the idea of leaving the court. life unravelled as they would a thread on a loose tapestry. Narcissa hadn’t realised that was possible.

 

The more things that happened, the more different each day felt, and the more Narcissa worried that Regulus' return would feel like years since he had left. If he returned.

 

It had always felt like she and Regulus were experiencing life at the same time. She always had felt leagues behind her sisters, and there was a salt-pinch of things she could teach Regulus. Everything else, they just learned together. 

 

“I am not panicked. I just want to know where my husband is.” Narcissa gritted her teeth. “He left a letter about visiting his parents and has not returned.”

 

Alice soothed her hair down, tucking blonde strands behind her reddened ears, “Malfoy is no raven; he cannot fly for very long. He will return.” 

 

“I will have his head.” She toned Brittly, wiping the wetness from her cheeks “He leaves at a time such as this? This ?”

 

“I'm sure he did not know of Black's departure,” Alice whispered. She had never adopted the title of No-Black. She had never seen a need. She cared for him nonetheless. When NArcissa had turned sixteen five years before and was wed to Lucius, they had brought a nurse to ready her for a child. Yet the child had not come for five years. Alice cared for Regulus, who, with no parents and still at a tenderly young age, sought the comfort. “What did his letter say?”

 

“I have gone to Hill Rock, my sweet lady wife.” Narcissa laughed as she recounted. “ My sweet lady wife . He is awful.”

 

“Well, What business is up north?”

 

“Clearly business too far for me to follow—that is what he intended, is it not?” She spoke, Orotund, “I am a fool every time. He makes me a fool.”

 

“You must have faith—”

 

“I know you have no faith in him either. You do not have to pretend for my sake. I’m aware of the type of man I married. He said that he would travel to Hill Rock to meet with his parents. He could not send a raven— for my sake, at least. There are no boats either; the cliffs on that coast are far too long for a boat to fasten the journey. You would have to depart in the middle of the realm. So the journey will be long and tiresome.” It sounded partially as though she were trying to convince herself. But she knew it was not certain; there would be no comfort like having her child’s father by her side. 

 

“Did he say why he is to meet?”

 

“Why else does Lucius ever make a stand? I’m sure he believes he has a position of power that his parents simply must invest in. 

 

“Even in his absence, you have me, my lady. You know I go nowhere.” 

 

“Longbottom and his friend are to arrive soon. They may need your assistance, too. We do not have many servants in thsi court. It is a castle of the cast out. There is not an abundance of people who wish to serve.

 

“My lady, you know where my priorities lie. With you and your child. I am your nurse.”

 

“You will let me know if you hear anything from my husband? Or Regulus? Even the slightest whisper or false gossip, i wish to hear it all. No matter how fictitious.”

 

“I already do.”

 

Alice helped Narcissa to her feet, hand finding the small of her back and guiding her towards the chamber bath. She sat on a stool beside the tub, slowly shedding her garments as Alice collected the water that had been boiling. She poured into the tub, a loud scorching sound, steam hissing against the metal. Narcissa lay her cheek against the tub's edge, holding a hand over the steam until her palms stung and flushed red and moist. Alice grabbed her wrists. “Halt, please, My lady. You shall burn.”

 

“We do not burn.” Narcissa smiled weakly. Her hand pricked with the burn; she shut her eyes and let it.

 

Alice clicked her tongue. The room was humid now. “I do not believe that myth.”

 

“You have seen it.”

 

Narcissa felt the press of soft cloth against her forehead. She opened her eyes to see Alice close, squat before her, wiping the sweat from her temple. Her lashes, thick and sprouting, were dark around her concentrated eyes. Narcissa averted her gaze, looking to the ceiling where oil lamps hung low and dim; her heart still raced like the thumping leg of a rabbit. The warm cloth had become her hand; her knuckles stroked sequences down Narcissa's face, soothing her hair, an attempt to soothe the heartbeat, but it was to no avail. “I am no fool. I do not wish for you to be hurt, my lady. Please wait until it has cooled .”

 

“I am hurt enough.” Narcissa laughed to herself. She wondered what the image of her own face was in Alices’ own gaze. Not just how her nose curved or how her eyes looked in that light but how her nurse perceived them. How did Alice enjoy the sight of her face—if she even did. “It is I who is the fool, being the wife of that dolt.”

 

Alice sighed, standing and taking a bucket into her hand. From the way Alice hissed as she picked it up, Narcissa could tell it was full and burning. “You are no fool.”

 

“ You are no fool . No fool, she says.” Narcissa recounted to herself in whispers, leaning back against the copper tub with a self-mocking chuckle. “ No fool. ”

 

Alice stood for a moment in silence after she poured the last bucket. She contemplated; Narcissa could see it. “I’m sorry.”

 

The bath was filled, but Narcissa did not strip the undergarments from her body. A strange shame curdled in her nurse's presence. A nervousness. “Don’t be. I love him. Despite… Despite everything, really. I think things would be easier if Abraxas and his own wife lived with us. He needs another man in the house.”

 

“Narcissa, you are the man of the house. You slouch like one.” Alice playfully hit the nape of her neck, and Narcissa straightened, leaning forward

 

“One he will recognise, Alice,” she whined. Her woman-like posture slouched with Alice; she forgot to perform as she did around the court men. “A man needs to see a cock in the trousers to give respect. And he will not wish to lay near me if he sees that.” 

 

“I would not bet on it, my lady.” Alice snickered

 

“Ha, do not make jests as that. It worries me too sometimes.”

 

“That your husband is a sword swallower?”

 

“Hush!” she clicked her fingers and pointed to her nurse, “You are too sneaky, Alice. It will get you in trouble.”

 

“I just try to keep you on your toes.” Alice's bright smile faded after a few seconds of eye contact. She nodded to herself and retrieved the cloth, slightly muggy from Narcissa’s sweat. She worked the thing around her fingers before returning to her cower, knees and leather-bound toes on the floor. A palm, calloused and worked like boiled leather, breached the skin of Narcissa’s cheek, somehow finding its way inside her. It spun a foggy light-headedness in her mind and a desert in her mouth.

 

“Please say my name for a moment,” Narcissa whispered, mouth agape. Her tongue worked at the inside of her cheek, investigating, seeking moisture that was not found. Her urge to slip into the bath burned.

 

“My lady—“

 

She closed her eyes. “Please.” 

 

“....Narcissa.” Alice smiled knowingly.

 

“Thank you.” Narcissa sighed and opened one eye.  “That feels nice from your tongue.”

 

The nurse scoffed. “I prefer my lady.”

She wished Alice would sit. Perhaps find a stool to sit on. Narcissa eyed a chair with a small basin upon it, a dark wood one with a Lancet-carved back. She imagined Alice dragging the chair in front of her and taking a seat. She would tower over Narcissa, then, but she didn’t mind; she would prefer it to the worshipping kneel before her. “You are too formal for a woman who I know has no formal upbringing. Where is it you are from?”

 

“Merlins beard”

 

“Which island?”

 

Alice smirked, cloth bunched in her fist, “...Illvermorny.”

 

“Tell me,” the cloth was worked from hand to hand, from Alice’s grip to Narcissa’s, “how did a woman from across the sea stumble across this country?”

 

“I do not know, my lady. I was cold and felt a warmth here.”

 

Narcissa lay her head against the copper edge, hair lowering into the boils. “Ha. A funny jest.”

 

Her legs straightened, and she interlocked her hands over her stomach, lightly scratching at the thin cotton of her undergarments. So thin it was as if she herself were newborn bare.

 

“It was not the black family, though. “

 

Narcissa's head flew up, chin to her chest. “Oh?”

 

“No. They are rather cold… if you would believe it.”

 

“Oh, I believe it. I’ve spent many a biting night freezing in their company. Regulus was my own little hearth. I suppose Draco is now, too.”

 

“It was the weather.”

 

“Ah, of course.” Narcissa smirked, nodding “ the weather. The weather, she says.” Her head fell back to where it lay moments before. Neck now strained, her mind raced with thoughts of Regulus, soft hair, eyes wide as the pans of a bed warmer. Whispering, “The weather, she says. Weather, weather, weather. ”

 

Alice stood upon her knees, as close to Narcissa as she seemed to allow herself. “He will come back. He has just turned sixteen, not one month ago. My cousins ran off at sixteen and came home the moment their sickle bag ran dry.” 

 

“Not my Regulus. He is scared. He stays by my side. I haven’t taught him how to fend for himself.” Her exhale was as meek as a rustle. “All I’ve done is lie to him.”

 

“You’ve protected him.”

 

“I haven’t prepared him. If he returns, I’ll prepare him.” Narcissa promised, lip chewed between her teeth. The steam whispered in her ear. Secrest of fire. Enticements that she ignored. Blood was rushing, and her stomach was hopelessly empty. “I’ll burn the soft from him until all that is left is leather and metal. I will make sure he survives.”

 

“Who will make sure you survive? “

 

“Is it not my nurse's job?”

 

“Ha, unfortunately.” 

 

“Unfortunately?” 

 

“It will only hurt that much more if you do not.”

 

“Well, I trust you.”

 

“I Hope your trust is well placed."

 

She felt as though the humidity had wrung all the moisture from her, and the desert tongue that had sat heavy in her mouth only softened into sand. She worried if she spoke too much, it may come tumbling out. The dune built hills between her cheeks. She refused to meet Alice’s eyes, gaze fixed on the ceiling, the rising steam. “It is.”

 

“Just stay away from fire, my lady.”

 

Soft and arid, rasping maybe, “Something must cower to me if nothing else shall.”

 

“I will. I do. I cower to you like any dog would,” She wondered why Alice could speak so casually, with such a lack of desperation, when laying such heavy words on the table. Words that curdled milk in the way time turns liquids into solids with only time. Defies the states of matter. She did not even understand herself. “I am your servant, after all. Stay away from the fire.”

 

She saw Regulus and Draco, and then Alice was breathing too heavily. Her head began to sink further back, and the scorching water threatened to touch her scalp.

 

“Okay.”

 

“Thank you. I will have Draco fed while you bathe.” Alice stood and wiped down her dress. She turned, a hand on the door before she departed. “Unless my lady needs assistance?”

 

“Your lady shall manage. Do not go far.” Narcissa barely managed to turn her head to gaze upon Alice, “Ever.”

 

“I do not plan to. Keep yourself busy in his absence. Many women go mad trying to chase their husbands. It is a mass hysteria of forms.”

 

The water had settled slightly, but it still burned as Narcissa slid in. It burnt everything off. She did not feel new, though; she was as she had always been. That is the problem, Narcissa chanted as the water enveloped her; that is the problem, that is the problem, that is the problem.

 

 

♟

 

 

The days lay on an unnerving tilt for another week before it readjusted. It occurred with the weight of two newly-turned men returning back into court. Even though the two presences weighed far more than Lucius’ meek impact, things felt a little more stable. 

 

Draco had been laid to rest, dead to the world in his slumber, so Narcissa wandered down the halls, fingers tracing the wood engravings upon the wall. Her nails scratched, carving a low, subtle song to follow her trail while her eyes watched her feet dance.

 

“Narcissa.” She gazed up. Andromeda stood by the doorway, hand on the frame. She was more done up today. The past weeks had her dishevelled and unkept in the wake of her cousin's absence. She wandered the hall in a loose nightgown, and unbrushed hair cascading down her shoulders in a crazed mess. “Longbottom and the Ward.”

 

The hallways were noised with the clicks of heels as the sisters rushed to the great hall. The boys were far taller than they had been when they left. Frank, who had barely reached Narcissa's shoulder in his boyhood, now towered over manhood, even over Ted. The year at the wall had chiselled them into men. Time seemed to have done what time does best. 

 

Alice appeared beside her, a light smile on her face. “Finally in the flesh.”

 

Of course—Alice had never met either boy. Her arrival was a few years after their departure. 

 

“Be respectful to him,” Narcissa warned, “Lady Longbottom is my lady, as I am your lady. That makes him your superior.”

 

“When am I ever anything but respectful.”

 

She blushed in the jests, “Ah, I wish it were not true, but,” Narcissa cast her gaze to Alice to see her attention stolen. Her nurse's smile now faced Frank, who reciprocated it eagerly. She looked between the two; her body spoke for her as she suddenly strode forward to greet Lord Longbottom's son. It was as an old friend–perhaps a current from the surplus of letters they exchanged. She should have remembered that today was their return; Frank had detailed his excitement in the past few letters. Words of joy to see his family again, words of disappointment to leave his new family. Many words of the great new king's nephew, James Potter. He talked of the boy well—it did not make Narcissa like him any more. 

 

Frank turned at the sound of her approach and scooped her up as if she were only a sack of thin grain. “Ha! You are still as old as ever!”

 

Narcissa huffed, a slap on his shoulder releasing her. “Respect your elders, Francis.”

 

He winced at the name, “You cannot twist my jest; you are only two years my senior.”

 

“Two years wiser.”

 

“ Two years wiser. ” Frank scoffed, a huge grin plastered across his face. He nodded behind Narcissa.  “Who is that woman there? I do not recognise her.”

 

Narcissa looked over her shoulder subtly. Alice stood, hands held in front of her and hair tied in a neat and short horsetail. Clean and proper. “Alice.” her tone more worried than she would have liked

 

“ Ah . Alice. Of course.” Narcissa’s letters to Frank had detailed her. She could recite them well with how long she read over them before sending them. Half drunk on the pride of her—she wasn’t sure why she felt pride. It was just having a servant.

 

 Lucius told me I should pray to Godric for the blessing of our son; Narcissa wrote, I felt spiteful; he leaves as if he is a God as if he has the right. He thinks himself one sometimes, and it is not Godric who bathes and feeds my child. Usually, it is Alice. Why shall I pray to Godric, Frank, to thank him for this blessing when it is Alice who nurtures it. All I pray for is a later sunset, that seems to be the only thing the sun God can provide.

 

“She is my nurse.” Still looking over her shoulder. Alice threw up a hand in a polite wave.

 

“Oh,” Frank smiled at the answer, eyes on Alice, his own hand flying up to wave. He seemed to catch his own enthusiasm and quickly found a more relaxed greeting, a slight smile and nod. “OH! Draco! Where is your husband? I must speak with him.”

 

“He is out. On business.” Narcissa clarified.

 

“Ah, so you wed a noble, I see! Or a man with great visions?”

 

The Malfoys were fortunate for a long time but lost much of their nobility in the War of Nine Hundred, the war that killed King Phineus. They found a shame—siding with the Mad King, so Lucius sought fortune somewhere the Blacks were not shunned. It was families such as that—those apologists who sided with the Blacks, publically or in private—who still believed them to have a claim to the Hallowed Throne. She believed that was why Lucius seemed so intent on courting her. Letters from Frank and rumours from travellers told them of people, speckled around the realm, who still believed in the Black claim.  

 

“An apologist. He has visions.”

 

“ Ah. 

 

“Ah.” She nodded knowingly.

 

“He must have been extra happy on your wedding night.” Narcissa grimaced, clicking her tongue and pushing Frank in chastization. “The potters taught you no manners. You will have to relearn. Come, we will feast, and you will share your time.”

 

Frank and Alice met and went together to the feast. They walked alongside each other; Frank looked down to meet her eye, and Alice up to meet his. A scene so perfect it could be a woven tapestry with carefully thin thread. Narcissa couldn’t find it in herself to be pleased about it. She didn’t enjoy the way Alice seemed more casual when laughing at Frank's jests or when she didn’t shy away as he stepped into proximities that Narcissa was not permitted in. Hands on her shoulders or in her hair.

 

Suddenly, she did not want to be at the feast but found herself reminiscing about that moment by the bath a few days ago.

 

Druella and Cygnus sat beside the lord, while the returned boys sat next to the Lady, and all the court children sat around the table. It was draped in a brown tablecloth, carefully embroidered with horses and knights, all things from tales. The table was set as any feast would be. Food mounted Higher than their casual supper, not quite what one would see at the royal court, though. Meat, not a decorative hog, fruits, but none of too much expense. No pomegranates or Loup Garou grape vines.

 

“So, are the Potters as righteous as we hear?” Bellatrix snickered amid their table-wide conversation, picking at the herbs on her plate. The scrapes of metal and ceramic itched Narcissa’s ear drums. All the discussions they held felt like echoes in a roofed canal. She found herself naming all the meals on the banquet table. Pork Pie and Makerounds, Polenta drizzled in berry jams. She tried to seem present, with her fingers thumbing her cutlery to look busy.

 

“Born kings, I would say.” Ted smiled, a polite toast as he sipped his drink. Some type of yellow drink. Narcissa’s own wine was untouched. Her face stared back at her on the surface of the silver chalice, rippling and distorted. 

 

“Yes, It is strange. King Phineus stood as the king's hand but never welcomed us back, don’t you think?”

 

“Bella,” Andromeda warned. “How is the son? James Fleamont, was it?”

 

His name had a strange taste in the court's mouth. Thick like a stocky flu. “He and his brother were leaving for their knighthood the day we left. Promising king.”

 

“His brother?” Narcissa smiled politely. She thought of Regulus, and her stomach sank. It almost bothered her how they feasted in the midst of Regulus’ disappearance. She knew it was unfair, though. There was nothing else they could do. Thoughts of him hurt or dead passed her mind, and her light smile wavered; she bared her teeth to hold a stronger fort.

 

“An adopted pauper, son of some village woman lost in the war. They were raised together; he is practically the son of the king's brother. Certainly acts like one.”

 

“Charitable.” Narcissa nodded, teeth on show. She was glad to find a reason to ignore the Chyches and Egg bread on her plate. “That makes great kings. What was his name?”

 

“This knighthood,” Bella interrupted, fork placed neatly by the plate. “It is to the wall, yes?”

 

Frank laughed at her eagerness. “Yes—Ted and I made a journey around West Country; knighthoods are spent with your mentor completing a task. Then, if done correctly, we spend a year in the order by the wall.”

 

“And what did you see there…” she narrowed her gaze, brows furrowed, “beyond the wall.”

 

“Ice. The air was so cold all you could see was a white mist. On the days, it was sheer enough there was just forest. Pine and green. That was all. Do not tell me you have come to believe myths, Bella.”

 

Lady Longbottom chuckled fondly, reaching for the reserve to refill her chalice, “She has been listening to far too many traveller’s stories, Men beyond the wall, demons, ghouls.”

 

“You saw no death eaters?”

 

“Hush, Bella!” Narcissa hissed suddenly, looking at the Lord and Lady Longbottom. They were welcome guests, but any interest in things that defied the monarch suggested an uprising on their side. “I trust it was a fortunate and educating experience. You two are knights now; you can serve on any court in the realm! Perhaps in any continent!”

 

Frank clicked his tongue, “Enough pleasantries; where’s the baby? Young Regulus never skips lunch.”

 

There was no response, and Frank's smile wavered, finding a nervousness in the silence. “Regulus is not here,” Duella eventually said.

 

“Do not tell me you married him off already. He was only nine when we left.”

 

“Well, the boy is sixteen now. You have missed much.”

 

“Druella.” Lady Longbottom spoke sternly, “We shall talk of Regulus later. I am sure the boys would love to meet Draco. Narcissa, would you and Alice show them to his nursery after we eat?”

 

“As you wish.” Narcissa nodded.

 

So when the last pork slice was chewed and the last wine drop drunk, Narcissa closed the nursery door behind her; Frank already had his hands on the fence around the cradle. She locked the wood and walked beside him, staring down at Draco. His blonde hair was growing faster by the day. She reached down to stroke his cheek, soft skin and a white cotton swaddle, feeling the breaths leave his agape mouth in childish snores.

 

Frank lay nervously still for too long, and Narcissa took his hand, bringing it down to the sleeping baby's face. He stroked in smooth patterns as if he were touching a miracle, a grin of wonder on his face. “I want to say he looks like Regulus, but I scarcely remember what he looked like.”

 

Narcissa almost laughed, relating to that statement. “I look for him around here, too, but there is nothing. Nothing but his chambers.”

 

“Does he still have no portraits? You’d think he would even in how someone paints their dog if anything.”

 

The wind whistles, blowing her hair over her shoulder. Narcissa made a note to close the window. Lest Draco catches a cold. “You know my father will not have a bastard painted and hung on the wall.”

 

“Cygnus is still unfair. How is it Regulus’ fault? Can my parents not make that decision? It is their court, after all.”

 

“They cannot hang the portrait of someone else's child; that is not up to them.” She smiled as Draco snored once again. His eyes moved under his lids, lashes long and even lighter than his hair. “Wait until Draco wakes up; it is his eyes that are like Regulus’.”

 

“And you all say he is not related. May I hold him?” She nodded and slowly plucked Draco, a significant weight, from his cradle, holding him tightly in her arms. She gestured for Frank to wave his arms together the same way and handed the baby over, settling his head into the nestle between Frank's bicep and chest. Draco soothed into it, nose pressed against the doublet, smacking his lips between stuttered snores. Narcissa smiled. It hurt her heart in a good way. 

 

“Where is he really?” Frank asked, swaying Draco slightly. He was not fooled by the comments in the dining hall; of course, he wasn't. Narcissa knew he was never a dim man. 

 

She felt hair between her fingers, thin and new. His scalp was soft, his ears tiny. “He is missing. Ten days ago. I awoke, and he was gone from his bed; it was not made either. He would always make his bed, but it was not made, the fur was on the floor, and the pillows were not fluffed.”

 

“Stolen?”

 

She would laugh if her chest were not paralysed. If her heart was not petrified into stone at the thought of it.“Do not even suggest that. A Black stolen? A Black Heir ? What would that mean?”

 

“He is no use to any apologists if he is not of Black blood as you say. Not a true heir, right?”

 

“I know.”

 

“So why do you seem so scared about it?”

 

Narcissa took a breath, inhaling and exhaling with care. Darn you , she cursed, hating that Frank knew her well enough to speak such words, even after the years that separated them. She wished he would bite his tongue deep enough to find silence.e Maybe she would care for the wound, the one thing she was good at, and they would forget the conversation. The hand stroking Draco's hair stilled and then hid behind her back. “I think you know.” She whispered.

 

Just as quietly, “I am never sure with you, Narcissa.”

 

“I just want them to be safe, both of them.”

 

They were face to face; there must have been no oxygen in the small space between them from how thin the air felt. “You think this is a sign of war?"

 

Their eyes met. She did not know what to say to that, so she told the truth.“I think it could be.”

 

“And if it is? Are we ready?” Narcissa inhaled, the scent of Butterbeer heavy and sweet on his breath.

 

“Rather early in the day for that.” She said with enough lightness for it to feel casual. 

 

“Ignotus encourages it in Griffin.”

 

“A drunk king.”

 

“Hardly.” He took a breath and averted his gaze as if he were finding reasons to bring up the topic that Narcissa had so expertly dodged like a bird to an arrow. Frank seemed to have forgotten Draco in his arms with how his chest relaxed and the baby lowered from his face. Or maybe he felt more comfortable with him. “Narcissa—”

 

“I know. I know. Regulus is not ready to be a pawn in this game; that is all. Whatever game these apologists think they are playing. They will wish for us to fight, but I won't. I only wish to raise Draco. I do not want to bring him into a world of war. We left that in Nine hundred. Our time died with Phineus, and Frank and I shall not be the ones to resurrect it, and neither shall Regulus. Ignotus has left us alone, so we shall do the same. That is all.”

 

She took Draco straight from Frank's arms, and the small baby sputtered, almost waking up. “Regulus is—”

 

“Vulnerable. He is vulnerable and, as far as most people know, the son of Orion Black. If I could burn ‘No-Black’ onto his forehead, I would. So that people would know he is no pawn to play with. He has no place in war, and I will not have him on the board.” Frank wilted, “ That is all. ”

 

Narcissa bent over the cradle, placing the swaddled child in his bed. She rocked it, hands on the fence.

 

“I do not think he is as vulnerable as you think. He is kind but not weak.” Frank commented after a while.

 

“He is snarky now. You have missed alot.” Narcissa joked. “He does not like Lucius. Thinks he is pompous.”

 

“Ha! He would hate James’ brother. That is what I call him. Pompous.”

 

“Perhaps not. Regulus is rather pompous. In an endearing way, I guess. He is not horrible or vain; he just employs standards, at least when he feels comfortable enough to vocalise them. He adores the court's luxuries. I hope he will find a way to return for that reason alone, if anything.” Narcissa sighed. They retreated to the seating area. Two soft leather armchairs that faced the cradles, slightly curving into each other. The spot she and Alice would sit in. Narcissa stopped before she sat. Would she want Frank to sit next to Alice’s or in Alice's? It halted her for a second, and the two stood silently as she decided, Frank patiently waiting behind her. She settled into Alice’s seat after a while. “The king is good, at least? I am right to not want a change?”

 

“I mean, when was the last real, true, good king? Never, if I am correct. And the realm is still alive. The myth of a king to unite all three realms is just that—a myth. You know that.”

 

She chewed her cheek. Frank's hair had been tossed in the ride; he clearly had no time to tame it between his arrival and the feast. Bunches of brownish red, almost like autumn leaves, curled around his ears and temples. His face was more freckled and tanned, unusual considering the weather up north. “The heir? Will he be good?”

 

“ Will he be good?” Frank recounted almost humorously as if it were obvious. “Believe it or not, Narcissa, I think James would have been the best king we ever had. If a king were to unite all, it would be that one.”

 

She shrugged, the mundane conversation feeling calmer than the previous. It did not feel necessary enough to maintain eye contact, so Narcissa looked between Frank and her fingers. Long and cared for, fiddling with nails. “Perhaps he will be.”

 

“Sadly not, the king's wife is due; we will have a new heir if all things work accordingly.”

 

“Ah,” he nodded, “ if it is a boy. ”

 

“If it is a boy.” He confirmed

 

“Ha,” Deadpanning, “the dilemma as old as time.”

 

“You would be a good queen, Narcissa. If they allowed that.”

 

“Well, Sadly, I am a wife now and a mother. So I cannot be even if I wished it.” She stuck up her finger in accusation, “And I do not, Frank.” 

 

He grinned a spark of recognition in his eyes. “Same old Narcissa; Motherhood looks to be treating you well?”

 

“Looks.” she said, “I think we spend too long speaking about how beautiful motherhood is to ever actually spend time enjoying it. The time spent speaking of it takes too long; all you are left with is crying at the loneliness. Even so. I wouldn't pick royalty over it.”

 

“A loss for the whole world, I say.”

 

“ A loss for the whole world, He says . Ha. A Jester in my nursey.” 

 

He seemed to pick up on her fidgets and how distracted she was. “You are still worried for that speak of war?”

 

“I am worried for my cousin.”

 

“I did not mean to scare you with that talk. It is almost impossible for an apologist worthy of retaliation to have anything to do with this. Who is powerful enough to challenge the throne, Narcissa? There have been none so far, and there will be none. The wolf men have been silent; they do not cross the border. Monashire and Ministry side with the Potters.”

 

“And hill rock?” Wherever Lucius had come from. The hills of haunting. “What of them? They house one of the wealthiest courts in the realm.”

 

Frank brushed the suggestion off immediately. “Hill Rock is too remote. Invasion is their weakness. Ted likes to say they would pass from exhaustion before they ever reached the kingdom.”

 

She raised her brows, “Your mother wishes to marry Ted to my sister, you know?”

 

Frank looked forward, lips pressed together. He was leaning over the armrest a moment ago; her words seemed to have put a splint in his spine, forcing his posture up. “Seems ideal. Being a ward, there won’t be anything better on offer.”

 

“ On offer. ” she scoffed, a fake offence, “ Elegant. That is my sister you speak of.”

 

His arms opened, “How else should I phrase it?”

 

“Ah,” She brushed him off, “Hush.”

 

“You know, I did not expect us to fall into marriage so soon.” He scratched at the iron buttons on the front of the chair, “I thought we would mess around for a few more years. The freedom of the palace has groomed me to be weak of duty, I guess.”

 

Somehow, Narcissa agreed. She encouraged his recoil, delighting in the thought. Delighting in the idea that he was not in active pursuit of Alice. “It is also up to him, you know. He will have to agree.”

 

“Oh, he will.” Frank chuckled to himself, “He will think it's what I want because it is what my mother wants. So he will do it.”

 

Narcissa felt guilty, half her motive lying with keeping both men away from marriage, and therefore keeping her nurse to herself. “Speak truthfully to him. Is that not what brothers do?”

 

“Brothers.” Frank laughed to himself, looking down, “Brotherhood is the cruellest trick the gods ever played.”

 

Just another thing the gods won't let me be a part of, Narcissa thought.

 

♟

 

JAMES POTTER

 

Upon entry into their first town, the two boys had done nothing. They snuck from Moody’s gaze as he slept and slipped into the town square, purchasing Ale-braided Westnuts with a Galleon and taking the handful of change. They sat by the fountain, crossed-legged and facing each other as they shared the small bag, gobbling the small nuts in giggles. They had ridden by the pastures that grew the nuts only the night before. It was a delicacy only served in Hogsmeade, the town they were passing through, as the Westnut trees only grew in that small circle of West Country.

 

“I know I seldom ask…” Sirius began.

 

“Go on,” James said between bites. They were like sweet fruit nuts on his tongue. 

 

“Do you think…” He leaned his forearms on his knees, shaking the bag and watching the nuts pile upon each other. James dipped his head, trying to perceive the expression on his face, “That madness is curable?”

 

“Madness?” James sat up, smile downturned in thought, “Huh, I’m not sure. I’ve never heard of a person returning from it.”

 

“Do you think you can avoid it?”

 

James plucked a nut from the bag, only for it to halt by his lips. “When it’s in your family? What, in the way, the House Black was mad? Old gods preserve thy tongue.” He added before he could forget.

 

Tattling his finger, “Ah, I did not say that. I am just curious.”

 

“Well, I’ve never met anyone who had gone mad, so I guess I would not know.” James chewed on the graze.  “I think your home is built inside you. I also think if you know something well enough, you may never really forget it. But, what do I know?”

 

Sirius leaned back on his arms, chest in the air and sun upon his cheeks. He spoke lowly, “I think you know a great deal more than you suppose.” 

 

“But I’m not wise at all.” James chuckled, gazing away. The hounds were on the stone just below them, bellies on the floor and jaw gnawing on stray meat another street food stall had sold.

 

He gave himself a few seconds to mock a thought. Playfully, he spoke, “ Maybe not wise , but you know things.”

 

“ Sirius! ” James leaned forward to smack his arm, “You are supposed to say I am wise.”

 

“ James! ” He mocked again, “You heard Marlene; it's treason to lie to a prince.”

 

“Ah, I think you are going mad. Let's hope there is a cure.”

 

“Do not jest of that.” He seemed to be offended by the way his arms crossed. James raised his brows.

 

“Sirius, do you think you are going mad?” he sang.

 

Looking away, “It was a hypothetical.”

 

“Well…if one day, you hypothetically go mad,” James played into his strange inquiry, “I shall stay so you will not even have the chance to forget me. I will be so irritatingly present that you will wish I was forgotten.”

 

“And what if it is dangerous for you?” He looked up with earnest eyes, and James laughed, humoured by his doubts.

 

“Sirius, when we are knighted, we will be adults, and then nothing will be able to stop us. We will never die; we will never go mad.”

 

He watched Sirius play with the words, his cheek hollowed as he chewed on the skin and fiddled with his fingers. “Maybe I was wrong,” Sirius spoke finally, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, “those words feel true enough to be considered wise.”

 

The town was bustling and autumnal. It felt Autumnal to James; that in between of winter and summer, their south passage convinced him. They wasted much time in conversation and exploring. Soon, they fell into a game of hide and chase. 

 

While running through alleys and the in-betweens of the town, bordered by stone walls and wind-swinging tavern signs, James slowed his search for Sirius. He put a hand on a store corner to catch his breath, having just rushed towards a light between two shops. A group of people, a finger older than James, maybe, found a rustle in a circle. He stepped behind the wall, looking into the courtyard. It was wide and full of overgrown shrubbery—nothing planted, all weeds. Wooden crates and some stored bottles from the local brewery. The sun, being at its tallest point, kissed heat and light directly into the four walls. 

 

There were four of them. Three tall and one stout and slow. They were bearing the bottles, empty mead flasks and butterbeer carafes and hurling them to the brick walls, cackling and jumping at the breakings. They threw them as a game, some game James couldn't figure out the purpose of, and delighted in the destruction of it. The short one tugged on the sleeve of another; both boys had a precise shade of saffron hair, very precise. Brothers—James was sure of it. He cast his wide-eyed gaze around the courtyard with a nervous and almost terrored twitch in his eye. 

 

The older brother plowed him back. His laughter taunted his sibling, and soon, the other two teased him, too. James could only see through one eye as he hid, careful not to be seen, yet still curious. It became vicious quickly. Sneers and scourging hisses. They prodded and gouded the boy until he fought back with tears, yet it only provoked their cackles more. 

 

James put his foot out, leaning pressure on it, waiting for his body to move, yet it didn’t. He balled his fists and willed himself, yet the action never came. The redheaded boy took a bottle, one that hadn't been emptied, and dispensed it out upon his little brother's head.

 

He knew what he desired to do. He would compel the other boys back, towering with the sheathed sword proud and winking on his belt. They would know he was a knight—or at least they would think it, village boys never having seen clothing so fine—and they would falter and leave the young brother alone. He’d warn them, but he wouldn’t hurt them. They wouldn't hurt the boy either after that.

 

James found himself pacing backwards, much to his dismay. He began to run, legs scampering and fists still clenched, far away from that courtyard. He ran until he came to another wall, somewhere else in the town, and with one hand on the stone, he bent his legs and panted, clutching his stomach. Even outside his mother's door, he was a step away from helping her, yet he couldn't. Something he never understood. He knew it wasn't the absence of care. He cared so much his stomach ached with it. As strange as it seemed for a budding knight, he just lacked courage. James didn’t know why he couldn't help people; he only felt the fear. 

 

He posed by the wall, seated with his head against the stone and eyes shut as the adrenaline galloped its course. He rubbed at his face. “Coward.” James chastised himself. “Coward, coward.”

 

There were many things he understood in the world. But many, in the grand scheme of how much was in the world, was actually rather small. Most of it was what was taught. His father, Moody, mostly. He knew that the mean and the unjust were wrong, and his father believed it was hereditary in the way it was passed down from another who also held it. He pointed it out with Ignotus, a man strung with some type of guilt that James could not figure out, who stole the thing his brother loved most. 

 

James would make kind gestures. Give to those who need it most. It wasn’t an attempt to prove himself but a simple desire. It was all he wanted to do. He hoped it was what he wanted to do. Still, It did not blow the fear away. He never wanted to hurt people; he never wanted to stand by as someone was hurt. James thought his ability to admit his cowardice may make him feel brave, but it didn’t. He was still a coward.

 

There was a reason his father would always say to Develop knights before bishops. A formed motto of sorts. “Develop knights before bishops.” Moody recounted to him each time he gave lessons on righteousness and justice. A cowardly man with power in his seat will never have the worthiness of a strong-hearted man with a sword in his hand. It was the motto of a famed game move as well, one they had plucked with great reasonings.

 

The stag was proud and brave—that was the reason for their sigil. James was an imposter, he had decided. He also agreed that one day, he wouldn't be. 

 

 

♘

 

 

Moody found them, of course. But the chastising had not been as scorching as they expected. He granted the boys a day on the town, instructing they return to the fountain by midnight, where they would find an inn. Sirius asked why they could not stay with the village's Lord, clearly missing the comforts of home, but Moody brushed him off, leaving to do whatever it was that Moody did with his time. The horses were tied in a local stable, and Marlene tended to them for a minute before she apparently grew bored and found James and Sirius.

 

They slipped into stores, candlemakers and trading points, breweries, bakers, and the blacksmiths. Marlene inspected the hooves while James and Sirius were banned for life for testing the swords and blunting their blades. They went into butchers and bought more meat for their hounds as the day wore them down, and they mewed and howled on the ground. “See,” James heard Sirius say to Marlene, “Dramatic.” They took turns tossing beef slabs into the air as Padfoot and Harry lept for them. 

 

James did his best not to think of the encounter he had seen in the alley. It was a reminder of all his doubts about knighthood, and had not an ounce of comfort on his one day off. His cowardice had always loomed and threatened to pounce when he needed bravery the most. It put him slightly on edge at all times; when he was with the people he cared for, the thought that something could happen and his body would betray him and run was maddening. 

 

James had a deep sadness inside him sometimes. One he did not acknowledge enough to even give a kiss goodbye when it left his mind.

 

The three sat on the steps of the village temple on the lazy afternoon. It was built so high even the entrance overlooked a field. A vast wheat one, besides a fallow. Yellow next to soil brown. Grazing livestock, lambs and sheep and a Tithe Barn. “I have always been curious, James,” Marlene began, “If I may speak freely.”

 

“Yes?” He lay spread across the stairs, the corners dug into his neck and back. The sky was cloudless but noisy by then, and they had left their hides and leather by the tannery to be bathed, so the wind was harsh on their skin, only blouses, doublets and thin fabrics covering them. Even Mckinnon, who would mostly be seen in long skirts and tight bodices around the castle, had taken to vests, riding boots and trousers. 

 

“If you were to be crowned, would that mean taking a certain wife—one you would not have had to pick if you were simply an heir.”

 

“As in,” James opened his eyes, looking towards Marlene with a curious squint, “would they need to be nobler?”

 

She shrugged, a false casual. “I guess so.”

 

He thought about it for a moment. It had never been explained to him—the prospects of marriage, his own duty in the union. He was left to train under Moody and learn of his position politically. However, when he thought about it, marriage, in terms of his position on court, would have to be political. The engraving of knights before bishops in his consciousness had put a citrus-sour taste of political men on his palate. There were a select few ladies James could imagine his uncle welcoming into the royal wing of the court, and none of them were below the class of noble. Even if an heir was born, his uncle would not forget about James enough to allow that. After a while, he decided on the truth, “I do not think my family would implore the prospect of a peasant in their chambers.”

 

Sirius shook his head, “Fleamont would not mind.”

 

James retaliated. He knew his father held no prejudices. “I do not talk about my father.”

 

“So any noble woman,’ Marlene threw her palms out, shaking her head in question; there was a whisper of disapproval there, “you can just… have your pick?”

 

“I guess.” James spoke in a slight whine, feeling overly examined, “I do not know. It has never even been suggested to me before.”

 

“Really?” Surprisingly, it was Sirius who narrowed his eyes at that information.

 

“Well, yes. There has been no need for advantageous marriages yet, and there is no higher my family can climb past the hallowed throne. I don't know. I’m happy about it.”

 

James tried to close his eyes and return to his rest, fingers interlocked over his stomach. “You are happy you do not have to marry.” Marlene clarified before he had the chance.

 

Sirius pointed his finger at James with a wide grin,  “No, James is happy he has time to fall in love.”

 

“Hush, Sirius.”James groaned, throwing his forearm over his eyes.

 

“Oh? You believe in love?” He peeked over his arm to look at Marlene, leaning towards him with a smirk plastered all over her expression. He cursed Sirius and sat up, shrugging his arms. The line had been rehearsed many times to Sirius as an excuse for why he never pursued anything past childhood kisses in courtyards. 

 

“No, I—” sighing, “I simply believe the world is a little tilted for everyone, and there is one person who happens to fit perfectly to until it. That's all.”

 

“James Potter, a romantic,” Marlene nodded as if it were unbelievable, yet said, “Probably the most expected thing I've ever heard.”

 

Sirius, sitting below them on the stairs, rolled onto his stomach, resting his chin on his knuckles and kicking his feet, worn soles on show. “It's sickening; he is more than a romantic; he believes in very true love.”

 

“Very true love?” Marlene snickered.

 

“The very truest”

 

James grumbled, hissing at the others and sheltering his pride. “Hush, all of you! It is no strange opinion. Many believe it.”

 

Still smiling sinisterly, Sirius whispered, “Not many as great as you.”

 

“Well, what can you describe in your very true love?” Marlene asked, her humour dropping as she inquired sincerely. “You must have particularities?” 

 

That was rehearsed, too; he knew it well. “There…There would be nothing physical that would make me shy away.”

 

“Emotional then.”

 

He shrugged. “I like someone strong-minded. Kind, but—not in the way you think. I cannot love them if they are a bad person. At least, I don't think I could. I think that would be a Godly trick towards me if I did. But obvious kindness is not always the determining defiance of badness. I could see their kindness in whatever way they present it to me.”

 

Marlene rolled her hands, asking for more insight, “In simpler terms, perhaps?”

 

“Someone I understand, who understands me. Who…” He pondered, “Who will eradicate any cowardice from me. I will know the moment I see them.”

 

“Oh, he's a romantic!” Marlene squealed, pulling on the sleeve of his blouse, shifting it out of place under his doublet. “How beautiful!”

 

“Love at first sight, ugh,” Sirius jested a belch. His tongue dropped from his mouth, and his eyes squinted. “Vile.”

 

 

♘

 

 

On their short walk back to the town square fountain late into the night, Sirius began running towards an alley, Shouting for the others to follow him, rambling about hearing rumours of a seer, pointing to the sign that hung above a discreet door. A wooden square reading ‘divination’. A painting of a glass ball beneath him—one of those from the children's books. The hounds sat beside the door, tails wagging.

 

“I heard some people by the tavern talk of a fortune teller with this sign.” 

 

“I do not play with magic.” Marlene threw her hands up, stepping away.

 

James disagreed, “It is not magic. There is no magic of this sort in the realm.”

 

Sirius narrowed his gaze, “The man who believes in love at first sight does not believe in magic?”

 

“It is not real, Sirius.”

 

“It doesn’t matter, it is fun ,” Sirius whined and grabbed the collar of James’ doublet, shaking him. “Oh, Please, James. Please.”

 

He crossed his arms, shifting his weight between his legs and glancing around, the body still being abused in his friend's grasp. “We should get back to the fountain; Moody should be there soon.”

 

Marlene nodded erratically. “Yes, the horses will be missing us.”

 

Sirius groaned, hanging from James as his legs gave up. “Damn the horses, this is our future!” before James could reply with an eyebrow raised, Sirius clicked his tongue, “I know it is not real! For the jest, at least. It will be humorous . Come on. Please. I will wash Prongs!” Marlene laughed at that. 

 

He grabbed Sirius by his waist, hoisting him back to his feet, yet the grip around his collar had not let go. His eyes were as wide as a pup, and his lips had curled into a pout. “You do not even wash Scobe; that is Marlene.”

 

“I will carry all your things for the next week! Even your saddlebag so that Prongs can ride faster!”

 

James bit his cheek, looking towards the road from which the alleyway had veined. He groaned. “You do not have to carry my things. I can do that.”

 

Sirius began to smile, knowing he had cracked. James sighed, “Okay, hurry in; we will just be quick.”

 

Sirius practically jumped with glee as he pulled away from James and threw the door open, rushing inside. It was even darker than the alley; the small spurts of light were warm oil lamps instead of the cold, blue corners of the moonlit street and a bell rung upon their entrance. They left the Hounds sitting patiently in the alley.

 

“Oh, I hate this,” Marlene winced, clutching Sirius’ sleeve, which seemed to be the wrong decision as he strode quick and in front of the group. They followed the lights until a woman came into view. Young. No child, though. Hair the colour of Beaufort cheese, thrown from her head in ringlets. She wore a lace-detailed smock with frilly poet sleeves. Her face blossomed with heat from the candles on her table. 

 

Without looking up from the cards she had on the wooden surface, she gestured to three chairs on the other side of her desk. James, Sirius and Marlene found a spot on the cushioned seats.

 

“So… Do we pick a card. Is this a court jester type of—”

 

She put up a finger, hushing Marlene. “James.”

 

Sirius gasped, grabbing onto James’ arm. James, however, just raised his brows. His portrait had been painted; it had been disrupted. It would not be unusual for others to know him, especially when this village was so close to Griffin.

 

The woman put an open palm to the scattered cards, sliding them all into a pile and pushing the stack toward James, who sat in the middle. “The prince shall shuffle.”

 

James reached out to the deck with unsure hands and cut the deck, integrating each card into each other until they were a new blend. He straightened the edges against the table. Each one was handpainted; he could feel the ridges of dried paste upon each face as they moved between his fingers. He had peeked at paintings of jesters and headmasters, Ones standing in front of shrines of Godric, Salazar and all the Gods.

 

“My name is Madam Trelawney.” She finally looked up, scanning the group. 

 

“Pleasure.” James nodded, somewhat nervous. He was not sure where the nerves had sprouted or when. Sirius was still excitedly clinging to him.

 

Madam Trelawney took the deck, and with two fingers, she slid the top card off, laying it face up in front of James. Once four were layed, she pointed to each.“The star, the sun, the moon, the world.”

 

Then, another four were placed just below the others, each lining up to a previous card. “The hanged man, the emperor, the hermit, the fool. Only major cards for you.”

 

“What does that mean?” Marlene asked quietly.

 

She pointed to the first set. “Sacrifice for a good future. Much like what the wonky cross in tea leaves at the bottom of a teacup tells. Suffering, but next to the sun,” she pointed to the set next to it, “Happiness when placed together. You will suffer, but you shall be happy about it.” 

 

“You?” Sirius questioned.

 

“Whomever you see. It is your reading, after all.” But she did not look to anyone as she said that; instead, she held a finger to the next set. “The sun sits above the emperor. A person in a high position, with a simmering goal. A yearn. They will achieve it only if they take the stride to do so. Which may be the most difficult part.”

 

“This set…” she tapped the cards in thought. “This set is influenced by an outside being. The moon hangs heavy above them, commanding them as if they were the tide. They must have time away from that influence to find insight. They must find a new light or a new form of isolation. Or they shall always be in the dark.”

 

Madam Trelawney brushed her hair from her face, wide sleeves falling down her forearms. Her right hand sheltered the high deck. James hadn't noticed before how her fingers were ringed in silver and looked gold by the candlelight. He began to thumb at the table corner. “The world is the final peace, a completion to a set.” she began, stroking light circles upon the world card. It was a map, all four continents painted with Godric far west. “Once this set is complete, a new beginning shall commence. The wheel has been built, and is the innocent riding upon it.” 

 

She eyed James, taking one last card and placing it away from the other eight. He pulled his hands away from the desk and lay them politely on his lap before looking at the table. Two people were painting upon it, reflecting each other but on different backdrops. One black, one white. She tapped it, and James looked up suddenly. She was leaning in, and the candlelight flickered up her cheeks. “The lovers.”

 

James could feel how Sirius turned to him with a grin. “Somebody waits on the other side.”

 

“ Other side? ” Sirius whispered with a smirk and pat James on the back. “Other side of what?”

 

She took another card and placed it upon the lover's card. “The ten swords. Reversed. He is inevitable. No matter which way you walk or which life you live, you will find this card and this person. If It lay like this, though,” she turned the card around so it said upright, “you may regret the inevitability and wish he never occurred.”

 

“He?” Sirius asked.

 

James ignored him, “But it didn’t… so I won't?”

 

“Do you play chess, James?” Madam Trelawney asked with a strange inflection in her words. 

 

“Yes—well,” he coughed out, “I, um, know it well enough.”

 

His uncle played it often with his father. He would see them in the courtyard, a marble chess set between the brothers.

 

“Which side do you play? Which square? Black or white.”

 

He slowly shook his head. His glasses were slipping down his nose, but he couldn't find the movement to readjust. “I couldn’t tell you, Madam Trelawneyl, I'm sorry. Whichever square my opponent doesn’t pick.”

 

Madam Trelawney pulled her hands to the centre of the table, where they lay palm-down. She took a breath, eyes closed, before her lips parted and recited what sounded like a poem—almost like a prophecy. They all watched her with unwavering attention.

 

 

“A severed tree of soil, molten laced,

the underbelly of an envy-shade snake.

 

A pilfered Lord, a beastly face,

a prince kneeled for servant’s sake.

 

When four knights pose upon the board,

it begins, the second match.

 

With the great burning of an antlered stag,

a dragon egg shall hatch.”

 

The grip on his sleeve had dropped. James looked to Sirius, whose face was drained to white.

♘

Chapter 5: Regulus | James

Summary:

“Why are you here then, Ser James?”

Notes:

ohmygod they finally meet. Get ready for jegulus for the next 100 chapters! :))))

I’ve learnt extensively of Lupos habits through my long-standing friendship with the assumed son of Fenrir Greyback, one of the more recognised Wolf-Men leaders. “Longa Vivat” is one that stuck with me, a celebration of a long life, instead of a funeral.  Their customs, although unorthodox, could be quite beautiful. I’ve never loved anyone quite like I loved my friend.

 

-  From ‘The Appendices: A Recount of the Fourth Realm’ by Lily Evans.

 

REGULUS NO-BLACK

 

In all of the wakeful dreams that Regulus seemed to contract while in Loup, he was in the bath. The smallish tin tub that he spent most nights paddling in, eyeing the ripples from his hands and lingering in until the boiling water had lulled into a frigid plunge. He drew his knees up to his chest and rested his cheek upon them, staring at the cracked door. A stream of golden light fled, chaperoned by sounds of dialogue and court bustle. He shelved himself in the water at his young age and denied all servants who knocked and asked to assist. He had scrubbed each part of him sterile, simmering in the soap-sudded water, but he could not reach his back and waited for Narcissa, who would kneel on the floor and, with a cloth, wring out all that used water onto his shoulders, evening the dose with careful scrubs. She would do this each night until she was married. Then, Regulus was alone in that dark bathing chamber and had been ever since.  

 

She lingered in her room far more often than she used to. Regulus had reasoned it to something she had said in passing years before, “Nothing can come between the bond of a girl and her bed chambers.”

 

He spent alot of those moments, fingers pruning and skin reddening, thinking of his mother. She was a simple phantom that he had never seen before. After the war of nine hundred, they had gone their separate ways. Of course, Regulus had not been granted the privilege to choose which way, as he had not even reached a day old before they left. Though he wondered what he would have chosen if he had that privilege. It wasn’t until Narcissa seemed to find new priorities in the face of Lucius Malfoy and a possible son that Regulus really began to think of his mother. He knew a few things, her name was Walburga, and she was considered scum to the family for the very reason Regulus was born. 

 

In those dreams, if he sleeps in, past the rising sun, sometimes he would step from the bath, water cascading off his as though he were a sea-blanketed mountain rising from slumber, and he would clothe for a banquet. A family one. He sat in front of Narcissa at one end of the table; the rest lay empty, and in the very head seat, where the lord would sit, Lucius beckoned his cunning grin. His own head was adorned in the House Black headpiece, as were Narcissa’s and Regulus’s. In his dream, he was not bitter about it like he would be awake. He caught himself smiling as the two doted over him as if he were the son that Narcissa seemed so distracted on having for the past five years. His eyes were grey like the other Blacks, and his hair grew in tufts of pale blonde. 

 

The dreams weren’t that strange. They were a familiar fictive tale that had eclipsed his own truthful reality. One he fantasised about in his head in all aspects of the day. It was a morbid longing, a screeching need he kept swaddled in his stomach.

 

Regulus awoke perspired with an eerie feeling each time. He attributed it to the scorching heat of Loup. Despite that, he slept early whenever he could, stalking that slumber by the bath and on the dining table. He envisioned the herbed potatoes that Narcissa passed to him with a smile or the chalice of Dragon Fire-Whisky that the two drank together while Regulus gulped down a sweet juice. He tried to smell it, and some nights, he swore he could. Pungent and musky and slightly like coal. 

 

Remus was there each morning. After two weeks of unproductive travels, the Wolf-Men halted their journey. They seemed to have a destination that was not towards the Wolf-Land he knew lay in the fork of Loup's main river vein; it was following the border to Flemings Sea. They had time to butcher, and butcher they did. 

 

“Is it a wedding ceremony?” Regulus had asked as he walked from his tent one morning to see the pack setting up a scene rather than preparing for travel. They poked- spire-like sticks into the ground and left their baggage and things around a large, empty space.

 

“No. Fenrir’s uncle passed. Think it was his uncle. I’m never very sure.”

 

It was not the scene of death. There was battle, but no mourning. “It feels more celebratory than a funeral.”

 

“He passed from time,” Remus explained. “That is rather rare here—a cause for celebration. It’s called Longa Vivat.” 

 

“Longa Vivat. ” Regulus mouthed to himself, watching the scene. He articulated the phrase. “ Longa-Vivat ”. It must have been a relation of Remus as well. Regulus chose his words meticulously, careful not to offend. He imagined it was Cygnus or Druella, but he knew there was no true relation there. His ‘father’s’ side. He simply would not understand it. “They celebrate for everyone? Even those who are not related to Fenrir?”

 

Remus shrugged as if it were common knowledge, “Ev’ryone is equal. But they celebrate more than mourn. Mourning halts journeys for far too long.”

 

“I like it… I think.”

 

“ Oh ”, He laughed, “you won’t. Is not a wolf-man celebration without a full moon cycle of fighting.”

 

He placed a hand on Kreacher, scratching the black fur lightly. He was in favour of the idea of remaining at that very spot for a month. Closer to his home. “Will you translate for me?”

 

“There is not much else to do, Regulus.”

 

He snickered almost immediately before composing himself; he glanced quickly to Remus, whose lips were angled to a smirk, before looking down just as swiftly. Regulus nodded shyly. “So… do they have weddings?.”

 

“Yes, I think ev’ryone does in their own way. It's rather traditional here. The same ceremony I would expect you to have.”

 

“Just with a full moon cycle of fighting?”

 

Regulus caught the second smirk from the corner of his averted gaze. “Fast learner.”

 

He stayed on that same thought of distance, pondering how far he was from his home—from Narcissa. “Do you carry maps here?

 

“You will not find a map anywhere in this part of the realm. They know each blade of grass, each pebble.” He spoke dully, twisting his body to look at the others. Each bone of his spine protruded from his aun-tanned skin like sequenced mountains, and his shoulder blades twitched with the movement. There was muscle, but it did not conceal his leanness. “The maps are in their heads. A wolf-man lost in Loup is no wolf-man.”

 

“What if someone gets left behind and then lost?”

 

“No one will go back for them.” Remus confirmed, “If they cannot find their way, they have lost the respect of Fenrir.”

 

“That is so harsh.” He furrowed his brows in disapproval, “Is there no family?”

 

“It may not be the family, you know, but it is a family. You may disapprove; sometimes I do too, but there are thousands of people here who don’t.”

 

The words were strong, but his tone was relaxed; it was not an attack, Regulus had to remind himself. “Where are the rest of them? My cousins told me there were tens of thousands. “

 

“Some scattered, some in wolf land.” It was what Regulus expected as Remus continued to list spaces. Loup was an impenetrable fortress because no matter where one voyaged, there were wolf-men under every Loup-sunned rock.

 

“You call it wolf land?”

 

“ You call it wolf land. It is Ortus to us. Beginning”

 

“Wolf-tongue?”

 

He shook his head and held up a palm, “It does not have a name; it is just our language. It’s others who name it that, all those from the West Country. Rather unoriginal. Wolf-men, wolf-land, wolf-tongu e.”

 

“And Loup Garou?”

 

“That was us… “ he flicked a lazy hand behind him, “or them. Them.”

 

Regulus had begun tilting forward, looking closer to Remus’ eye than he ever had before, “What do you call each other, if not Wolf-Men?”

 

“The armies? My Lupos ,” Remus looked behind him; Fenrir stood upon a body, hands pumping in victory. “But him. I call him father.”

 

♛

 

Regulus lay curled against his horse, watching the beginning of the celebrations from afar. Vultures had flown and anchored and been hunted. The baits, bloodied from the fights, got up as they caught the birds with laughter and back-pats from the others. He wondered if it were moral to roast a beast and consume it in the same dressings one wore when hunting it. He couldn't find a reason why it wasn't, yet he couldn't find it in himself to decide that it was.

 

Regulus almost overlooked it amongst the flock of birds of prey, but a raven, feathers shining in the sun, soared down towards him, landing on the rocky auburn soil. He gaped for a moment before noticing a postage cylinder fastened to its ankle, Lucius’ snake sigil engraved upon the metal. Regulus scampered to draw the message out as fast as he could, unrolling it:

 

 

Dear Regulus Black,

Lucius has had us rework the ruins of an old castle in this state. He called it the start of his very own court. It must have been built centuries ago, yet the structure still remains strong. I have found no use there; I have neither the skill nor knowledge to build like the others, so Lucius has employed me at his side. He sent word for his parents to join him; I hear they intend to haul a whole court with them. Apologists.

 

I recall a poem I read long before I was taken by the Wolf-Men, long before the tragedy of my mother. Some Monashire poet who had hermitted himself since the days of Mad King Phineus. I read it so many times over on our journey because there was simply nothing else to do. 

 

‘The mad king's fortune runs thick in petals, 

plucked off the rose-shaped faces of his people. 

In dreams of the free world, he winks and heckles from the soil.

His daughters grew from the petal seeds and blossom with sun-empty flames.’

 

I do not remember the rest; as much as I recall the poem in my mind when I am in silence, it never goes past that line. I know you probably would not appreciate it, as it is about your grandfather and your mother, but I could not help but think there was something interesting about it. Maybe the journey's dullness hypnotised me. This journey's dullness has hypnotised me; I can do so with complete certainty. It is unwise, I know, and if I am caught, I do not think it would go very well for me. But still, I am going to take one of Malfoy's Ravens and curl this letter into his postage cylinder and let it take a hair I plucked from your horse's main in its beak so that it may find you. 

 

My mother told me she heard hearsay in Monashire of how the poet was not just hermitted but ostracised for a derailing mind. But if you will spare me for ill-talk, I think his poem had a string of logic. A king who plucks from his people will never leave; his effect will be rooted in the very soil of the kingdom in a rather morbid way. I cannot think of a king who has not done that. I think there could be one, though. I have no doubts about that possibility. 

 

A servant,

Peter Pettigrew

 

 

Regulus held it for a moment. He had expected words from Narcissa or perhaps even Lucius. He would rejoice in words even from Lucius. An acceptance of a return. He was sure it would be effortless, as they lay so close to the border, he would only have to follow the treeline east. Still, he felt too young to betray Lucius's commands. Despite his abhorrently limited knowledge of who he was and his foul, rather unpleasant mouth, he was married to Narcissa. And to defy him would be to defy her. To be in his favour was to be in hers.

 

He still found it in himself to write on the back of Pettigrew’s parchment. He coursed the contents of a wineskin onto a black clay rock. He plucked a porcupine spin from one of the coats that lay draped over a dozing wolf and scratched the rock until an ink-like substance had formed. It was thin and difficult to write with, and the thought of how many porcupines had been used for that hide had unsettled him, but he managed to write with secrecy behind his horse. The raven waited patiently, beak nipping at wormholes in the ground.

 

He asked of Narcissa, and whether Lucius had clarified his plans for Regulus. He asked of Narcissa again. And again and again and hoped if he had nothing else to ask, Pettigrew would be inclined to respond to that one request. He thanked him for the letter, for the risk of sending it. 

 

If you wish to send more, he wrote,  I would be grateful. I am grateful.

 

Your servant

Regulus

 

When he sent the raven back, he tried to recall the poem, but it had been shirked from his mind. Remus joined him soon after. Regulus wondered if he had any other friends in his Lupos . 

 

“Salve.” 

 

Regulus looked up, “Sal—what?”

 

“They speak of you.” He sat down, and Moony followed closely, nudging Remus’ shoulder with his snout. Despite its calm demeanour, Regulus couldn't find it in himself to let his guard down near the animal. Ignoring its monstrous glare and razor teeth, its sheer size was enough to disturb him.

 

“Oh?” Regulus acted.

 

“Fenrir wants you to join.”

 

Regulus glanced to the shouts, where groups fought and tussled. There were no moans of pain, only strong grunts. Somehow, that was what troubled him the most. “I am okay. I’d rather not. If… that is okay.”

 

“I don’t think it’ll be okay with him,” Remus mumbled before picking at his nails. Regulus watched him, knowing he had a question simmering. “Regulus?”

 

“Yes?”

 

“Did you…” He threw out some suggestive and nonchalant hands, a dull look on his face. A precise performance that Regulus could sniff as clearly as the wolves around him, “Happen to bring any books with you from Grimmauld. Perhaps.”

 

He let the hope sit between them for a second longer than needed. “No. sorry.”

 

Remus chuckled, nodding, “You would not believe how little things we come across.”

 

“You read?”

 

Moony sat by his crossed legs, head on his lap, when Remus did not provide him with any attention. He set a hand on his wolf's head and one behind his own leaning body, nothing else. “I used to back when.”

 

“Back when what?”

 

“Just back when. Way way back.” His tongue sat on his front teeth, hand leaning behind him before he clicked it and sat up. “Is the Black House like they write in stories? Are you all truly fire-proof?”

 

“They are. My cousin says a Black can hold their hand over a hearth and not even feel a sting.”

 

“And the dragono…?”

 

“ Dragouno-Feu.”

 

He smiled, “Yes, Dragons can understand it?”

 

“They do not exist anymore.’ Regulus mumbled.

 

“But when they did. You would speak Old Gallo, and they would just know?”

 

“They would be trained.” He spoke simply and obviously. His chest swelled at the thought of teaching others about the topic after having it only taught to him. “They have just only ever been trained in that language.”

 

“Wow.” Remus nodded. “I loved stories, but my favourite books were those survival guides. How to camp, how to catch food. I haven't read a book in a long, long time. It’s days like these I miss it.”

 

"Why? You don't want to join in?” Regulus took the courage for a joke, knowing it was obvious.

 

“I've joined before. You’ll have to, too. I did alot when I was sixteen; I try to avoid it now, though. It's hard to avoid things when you live with a thousand people.”

 

He sat in thought a moment. You'll have to, too. Spoken with some type of pity. His gaze flickered to the scar that trailed gruesomely across his face before averting quickly. Still, humourously, Regulus raised a brow with a meek voice, “...Too bloody?”

 

“Simply, It just hurts alot.” Remus nodded to the others, “They enjoy it... I don’t think I have the gene.”

 

“I don’t think I would either. 

 

“Ha, that much is obvious, little prince.” Regulus looked down. “You do not like to look people in the eye, do you?”

 

He swallowed as he spoke, “I look at you.”

 

“At my hands, my shirt.”

 

Regulus wanted to apologise but held himself back. “It cannot be helped.”

 

“It is okay. Nothing wrong with it.” Remus stood without warning, and even Moony jumped in surprise, his head losing its ledge. “Let us go. It will be over faster if we leave now.”

 

Remus put a hand on his shoulder as they walked, one Regulus’ muscles tensed around. He muttered apologies, ones Regulus began to forget the reason for, at least until he was pushed into the circle. It was not as he had expected; it was not a thousand ravenous beasts chanting around a cage like the fight rings he had heard of in the times of old. Many wolf-men drank far away in humoured conversations, some playfought in the circle's edges, and many lay around lazily, all in their own form of celebration. The ones watching the fights cheered with cups filled from the barrels they travelled with. They cheered and chanted, and a colossal uproar came from their liquored breaths as Regulus stumbled in. The man there had been stripped of his shoes, only in trousers and those belt-like corsets they all seemed to wear. It was nothing like the bodice his cousins wore, but he had seen nothing else to compare it to. 

 

The man circled him and grinned; his knuckles were bloody, and wine-red splatters had freckled his arms and chest like sun spots. Regulus glanced at Remus, who had a tightlipped expression, when the man ran at him, knocking Regulus to the ground. He slid across the stern and dusty soil, groaning as some stray grass blades tucked themselves between his teeth. He used his arms to push himself up when a leg hammered into his stomach, kicking him onto his back. The dust that puffed from the ground upon each hit blinded and stung his eyes. He winced at the scrapes on his hands and shuffled away from the man. He couldn't help but worry about the state of his blouse as it became soiled with red earth.

 

“Stop!” he shouted, a hand up, yet the man kept walking. “Stop, I surrender! Surrender!” He found a wobbly footing and ran to the circle's edge, only to be pushed back in by the crowd; he glanced to Remus, who gave an urgent shake of his head, warning Regulus. 

 

So he straightened as much as he shaking frame allowed and watched the man's approach, slow hands unbuttoning his blouse and eyes refusing to tear. He would not allow himself to be outfitted with nothing in permanence. He shuddered at the thought of stalking around the camp, riding Kreacher, with just the waist belt the others sported. His shoulders were out and vulnerable, his skin on show. 

 

The freshness of the cotton and his poet sleeves were the softest reminders of home he had. The thinnest armour to ever exist to him. Once off, he let it fall to the floor, unbearably naked despite the leather shoes and proper trousers. Regulus fought to not hold a modest arm over his skin as he began circling the ring, keeping his body facing the man the entire time.

 

It was to no avail, though, as Regulus did not find the courage to charge and was pushed to the floor, his body stomped and kicked until he curled in on himself like an autumn leaf. He gagged with each beat to his rib and pleaded until Fenrir called “ Satis !” with his hands raised, clawed wolf paws draped over his fingers like gloves, and the man pulled away.  Remus was the first person to pull him up into a sitting position. 

 

“Regulus?”

 

“You are a beast,” Regulus coughed out in sobs, dirt lodged between his teeth, “why did you allow that!”

 

He wanted to yell that he was a Greyback for standing and watching; that despite what Remus had assured him, that he did have ‘the gene’, a taste of whatever violence the others indulged in, but he didn’t. He composed himself with the distraction of earth muting his throat.

 

“They need you,” he brushed the soil from his hair, dusting his cheeks, “ they won't kill you. Fenrir stopped it before—”

 

“That is worse! There is dirt in my mouth,” he gagged, spitting on the floor as Remus picked him up, chest to chest and walked him from the circle. “You are a dog for that.”

 

“I know,” he sighed. Regulus coughed once more and pushed Remus away, letting himself plunge to the floor. 

 

“A Dog!” He spat. He knew Lucius was an ass, but he would not leave Regulus here knowing this. He refused to believe that. He could ask Peter to tell him in the following letter. He had to come back. He had to. 

 

“I know.” Remus stepped back into his space, pulling Regulus in. “Sorry.”

 

His head was held in place, chest to chest again. It was boiling, and his body was pounding, and he thought he might cry again just from that. Regulus tried to move, but his pushes were not heard. Later, when he thought back of the slick struggle of bodies, he wondered if it was Remus desperate for the embrace.  “Sorry,” Remus repeated. It was all he said. “Sorry.”

 

Regulus’ palms covered his face, all of his self-control had gone to holding his legs up, and his face was contorted into an ugly whine. He had had enough and shoved Remus back with a scream. When the boy tried to step forward, Regulus hissed.

 

“Don’t–” Regulus stumbled, holding a halting finger to Remus. “ Do not. ”

 

Remus bit his lip and flared his nostrils, a look of pity as Regulus crossed his arms over his chest. Regulus sighed, looking up to catch any tears, possibly—probably to avoid eye contact. “Can you.”

 

He nodded knowingly and returned back to the circle. 

 

Regulus walked to Kreacher as if nothing had occurred between the time he sent the letter and the time he returned. But his arms throbbed with the scratches of it, and his shoulders heaved. Regulus sat by his horse, who was seated, belly down, and curled into its hide. Remus's light steps approached, and Regulus refused to look, emphasizing his point by cowering his face into his hands again. He folded the shirt and placed it before Regulus, just in his eyeline. He parted his fingers to peek at it. He managed to discreetly peek at Remus, who stood slouch and guilty, like a dog reprimanded for bridging a carcass to a doorstep.

 

“I’m sorry for calling you a dog,” Regulus sniffed, voice completely muffled in his hands.

 

“It’s okay.” he said simply, and Regulus reached out to hold the blouse to his chest, his face exposed again. Despite the stained fabric, it was folded perfectly. He knew it was Remus’ mother's influence. The thought of his knowing head shake sparked a question.

 

The wing-flap beat of his heart began to slow until his breath was released in steady, kind heaves. “Is that how…” Regulus’ fingers brushed over his own nose bridge.

 

“Yes.”

 

“You tried to run?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Regulus sat up, gaze meeting remus’. His fingers dug into the ground beside his hips, dirt nudging their way under his fingernails. “Have,” but his breaths were still somewhat scattered, and he allowed himself another moment to calm.”Have you ever…”

 

Remus stood silently. “I think you know,” he whispered. Simply, It just hurts alot , Remus had said minutes before. Regulus could feel the hurt on his arms and his stomach, but he knew it was a different throb that Remus had talked of. “It is…ruining, to be celebrated for something you know is wrong. It wasn’t. Then you indulge in it. And then it was.

 

The sun hissed, and Regulus wiped his forehead, the sweat and dirt making thick paint upon his skin. He felt as though he would belch at the very thought of muck upon his skin. “You just did what wolves do. I wouldn’t blame you” Regulus felt that he probably would. But he couldn't find the blame; he would have to look harder for it later.

 

“Yes. I bit. As I was meant to.”

 

Regulus looked to his own hands, connected and fiddling, “I do not have any books... But I can tell you the stories from one’s I've read.” 

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay?”

 

He nodded, solemnly.“Yes. that would be nice.”

 

That night, the two boys sat shirtless on either side of a hearth, a little ways from the others. It did not look strange, as many of the Lupos seemed to pair off. Celebrations took place however they pleased. There was organisation–but their own way of it.

 

They’d spent the afternoon by a lake, a small trip from the celebration. Longa Vivat. Regulus reminded himself. He chanted it in his head. Lupos , Longa Vivat. Remus had drawn him from his spot by Kreacher with the promise of a place to wash his blouse. And he had not lied. The warm orange stains were no match for Regulus' dedication, as he spent the better half of that day scrubbing any colour from his very best shirt. It irritated him how he could not wear all the things he had arrived in, but the uncomforts of sweat were worse than any light irritation. He’d slipped into the lake himself, denying Remus’ offer to clean the wounds on his arm and let the blood simply wash off his. He feared touching his skin; the pain of the bruises warded him off. 

 

Regulus gestured for Remus to be seated once the fire was lit, and he followed obediently. His shirt lay on a clothesline made of three posed branches by the fire, drying the fabric while his legs were wrapped with a pair of Remus tawny trousers (his own also drying from scrub in the lake, but he did not want to think of how he stood exposed in his braies in a place with no walls nor doors). He was glad for the ankle synch, or the pant legs would trail a tree shadow behind him as he walked. He even rolled the hemmed waist up a few times for comfort.

 

“And what do you call this?” Regulus had whispered as they scrubbed.

 

“ Terra Vacua . Earth empty. What do you call it?”

 

“Just laundry.”

 

Remus chuckled. “And what about the water. What does Old Gallo call that?”

 

He bit his lip, “Ennemie,” and looked to Remus, slightly embarrassed, “A foe.”

 

He simply blinked before laughing heartier than Regulus had ever seen.

 

Regulus thought of the books he had read as they sat, visualising the leather-bound novels in his palms. Flicking through the pages so quickly, his fingertips grew scared from papercuts. That scent. Dusty and thick like a bookshelf. Earthy yet in every way different to the earthy scent around him. 

 

Remus had told him how, with his mother gone, so had all the books. It was things that only she delivered to him, and with her absence, Fenrir had them all dropped for being ‘dead weight’. Remus argued to Regulus in place of Fenrir, saying their contents were far too valuable to be considered ‘deadweight’.

 

“There is a legend.” Regulus began, gazing down at his forearms, barely able to see the scratches, too light to scar. “There… is a legend of a star. I read it in a children's tale adapted from the myth. The star was lost and somehow found himself in the day. It was so bright there, though, that the star, which had once been the brightest of the night, blended into the blue and faded out in the sun's light. The star worried that one day, people would see that the he did not belong, and they would leave him behind, moving forward with the day until the night caught up, and he would be back there again.”

 

Remus thought to himself, seemingly absorbing all of the story. “If he is the brightest star in the night sky,” he decided on, “why did he not want to remain there?”

 

“Because the day loathed the night, they talked of them as though they were scum. Inadequate. He thought it would be a harsh shame to himself to be considered a part of the night.”

 

“So, did he just stay hidden behind the sun forever?”

 

The fire cracked, and Regulus almost flinched. Remus’ face was lit in warm, bronzing yellows. Sunset shades. The scars blended to nothing in that light. “No. The sun got distracted; he ruled the sky and could not keep track of every cloud or every meek star that the clouds covered, and he lost the star. 

 

Remus waited, but Regulus had finished. “... That's it? He lost the star?”

 

“Yes. the story ends there. He was simply too distracted and did not see the star disappear.”

 

He seemed as outraged as his calm demeanour allowed him, “That is a children's tale? Why does it end so solemnly?”

 

Regulus just said simply, “Most children's tales do end solemnly. I think Stories of children often end solemnly, too.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Stories are all about hardship. The story of a child is sad because of that very fact. They are only a child.”

 

He pondered it. Clearly, even in his youth, when his mother still provided his literature, he indulged in kinder stories and those survival novels he had spoken of earlier. “Do you think he would not think that if the star was raised with the night?”

 

Shaking his head, “The story doesn’t say, so I couldn't tell you. But I do not think so.”

 

“If it is a myth… what star was the myth based on.”

 

Regulus shrugged, “I do not know, no one does. it disappeared.”

 

♛

 

 

JAMES POTTER

 

The very first thing Moody had warned them was not to travel near the border. They had stopped for camp right before the river, more hearth stories and cooked mutton. James awoke earlier than the others—far earlier—and he took prongs for a walk past the water vein. An innocent endeavour. The weather was much warmer than his horse was used to, so he saddled and mouthed him and spent a good portion of the morning running across the shallow river. He wore his usual attire, sporting armour upon his shoulders and a blanket of ringmail. 

 

He enjoyed it. Back home, he often rose before the sun to ride through the hills with Prongs or alone run into the Grffin Woods. The time before the sun's rise was when he felt most himself, in a way. No competition, I’d that made sense. 

 

It was a strange peculiarity that even James himself did not understand. In the training yard, sun overhead, he had no competition. He would slash his sword against his opponents and come out victorious. He did not understand it, but he knew it was there.

 

The Stallion grew tired of scuffing its forefeet against pebbles and walked to the other side, splashing James with water colder than morning dew. The dawns darkness began to lighten into a brushed lemon yellow. He began trotting until his gait turned to gallops, and they ran towards a hedge of trees upon the horizon.Moody's warning did not translate in his fast-paced consciousness as they ran. It did not take long to arrive into the lined forest. A rich woodland of those tall trees only seen at the north wall and the south border; never in the west country. This treeline was the border of Loup Garou. 

 

James pulled at the reigns, slowing the gallop into a careful walk and maneuvering into the woods. The trunks were thick and layered with bark-like bracts on an artichoke. Engraved with what almost looked like deep and somehow protruding scratch marks. It was quiet; the low whisper of wind danced around the branches, pulling fallen leaves from their bed in the mulch.

 

He almost missed it, and it was fortunate he hadn’t, as he pulled Prongs behind an especially large tree just in time. The growl of wolves, the chatter of men in a foreign language. Some still slept, but most were roused or being roused with shouts and kicks. 

 

A howl came from behind him, and James almost fell straight from the saddle when he turned around to see Harry sitting by Prongs’ hind legs. A dangerous spot with his stallions known liking for kicking. He hushed his dog with an urgent hiss, begging to Godric. Please, do not let them have heard that. 

 

“You can stay if you are quiet, Harry.” James whispered. He resumed his watch from behind the trees, a small army of wolf-men. Rugged and toned, mounted on snarling and slobbering animals. They camped and feasted with breakfast on a ground-seated banquet, the slow padding of wolf paw against soil. Curious, James moved closer, but the sun, hidden behind the trees, soon peeked out in streams, blinding the boy. He shielded his eyes, shunning the sun, and as his vision faded back from white, James saw it.

 

“Oh.” he mouthed. His heart sputtered and ached with a sore throb. It changed into something he had never met before and pulsed like waves on shore. It bulged as great as a Monashire summer pear, his mouth watered just as sweet. For a second, James felt stuffed full in a fluttery, kind sort of way. A dog whimpering and licking at one’s ankle type of way. His own dog bowed and wagged its tail in excitement. It must have been fear—perhaps curiosity. He peered upon the wolf-men because of a groomed curiosity. Famous tales of story-book men in the flesh. It is a test of human resistance to deny a curiosity such as that. 

 

Below the sun-haloed thing, A black horse, snowy mane. Delicate amongst the sacks of brutality around it. The light was on him too, the haloed boy upon the horse, flowing to him like rapids flow to a river. The sun led James to him. The most beautiful thing he had ever seen. An angel, he dared to say.  

 

He talked with another boy who was mounted upon a wolf. The horse was only a pinch taller than the beast, so their faces sat at equal height. That boy looked like he belonged. Hair sandy and a face scared. He was as big as the other Wolf-Men, just leaner. 

 

But the horse-rider was nothing like them. He wore a court-appropriate blouse, unsoiled, but with the same trousers the Wolf-Men wore. Leather-bound feet and leather-bound hands that gripped his reign with a clear inexperience of horseback. He had rich black curls— tufts that fell on his forehead and were cut properly by his ears. 

 

The blouse billowed. He had not noticed there was wind while hidden within the woods. James noted that specifically. How the rising sun sheered the white cotton so— ever so slightly— the outline of his torso could be seen. He stretched on the horse, elongating it, and let out a yawn, lips taut. 

 

He pulled the reins, moving towards the forest, and James stumbled back, guiding his horse further into the trees. Once in the shade, the boy halted his horse, and James couldn't explain why, but he jutted forward, signalling Prongs to follow. With slow steps, his horse hoofed from the darkness towards the smaller one. 

 

It noticed immediately, stumbling and letting a whiny neigh as the boy hauled the reigns back tight against his chest. It regained its footing with a few strong clomps. 

 

“Stop, Stop. It's okay.” James held up his hands, unarming himself. The boy's eyes were large circles, dark as a Does. Close enough to see him properly, James relaxed; he almost repeated the words he had spoken earlier. An ‘oh’. A realising one, perhaps? A knowing one more likely. A sort of understanding sentiment. 

 

The boy's jaw was clenched and lips slightly parted, gaze flickering from James to the sword hanging from his belt. Immediately, James unhooked it, letting the weapon drop to the floor, and the sound of metal was muffled against the leaves. “See. I won’t hurt you.”

 

Still, his eyes were trained on the saddlebag, where other weapons hung. James sighed, and with both hands, he undid the buckle, letting all the contents hanging from Prongs fall beside the sword. It crossed his mind for a moment how close he was to an army of wolf-men, all armed with rabid wolves and gruelling weapons that he could only name from hearing them in legends. Spears that could travel across mountains, hammers that weighed more than a horse that could crush someone with a light tap. It crossed his mind, yet he found himself not concerned with it.

 

All he seemed to be was concerned with calming the boy across from him.

 

“You are from a court, yes?” He narrowed his eyes, suspicious, and James reasoned, “Your blouse… it's far too fine to not be.”

 

The way the boy bit the inside of his cheek answered that for James, “So you would know, Knights are sworn to not harm innocents. I am under a Godly oath not to touch you.” He falsified the truth. He would be a knight in one four-season pass. By next winter, it would be true. 

 

The boy straightened, examining for a few more seconds before speaking. “You are a knight?” He asked, and James couldn’t help but smile. Hello , he thought, there you are . The voice was small but sure. Honey Sweet. It was like his own accent, but with a foreign inflection he had not heard before. Similar to the one Ted and Frank had arrived with. Not one they had left with, though.

 

“Aye.” He confirmed with a soft laugh, “Aye, I am.”

 

His horse began moving until the two were circling each other. As they moved, he would pass streams of light through trunks and leaves that cast yellow and gold upon his cheeks and shoulders. James expected his hair to shine into a lighter brown under the sun, but even with the morning gleam, it was pure black. As pure black as the feather of a raven—or as the hide of his horse. Two short plaits sat were a sideburns may if he were older. 

 

The boy looked him up and down, glancing back to where the wolves lay just past the trees. they were mostly out of sight then. Just murmurs and irrelevance. “Are you lost?”

 

James raised his brows. Amused, he found enjoyment in the boy's question. “Are you?” 

 

His head moved back in a subtle offence, “I am exactly where I mean to be.”

 

“Is that the truth?” But the boy did not answer, scared. Still reserved. James was wholly unconvinced. He was no fool to reservations, though, and pulled himself back, no fool to his habit of overstepping. “Of course. That is reasonable. I am a stranger, after all.”

 

He looked to James with a strange curiosity. “A stranger who is a knight.”

 

“Yes.” James smiled and nodded, and he could swear he laughed a little. “Yes. what is your name? If–if you are willing to give it.” Still, the boy was silent to that, eying James with a peculiar look, “My name is James. This is Prongs.”

 

“ Prongs .”

 

Harry suddenly jumped up towards the boy, who gasped and pulled his feet from the stirrup and sat them upon the saddle seat. “Harry! Down!” James scolded with enough volume to reprimand his hound but not alert the wolves outside the forest. Harry cowered and lay back down,  chin upon his paws. “I’m sorry; he’s harmless; he is just friendly. I've let him sit on Prongs for too long. He thinks he’s welcome on anyone.”

 

He relaxed, the affection in his face blossomed, and the tight grip on his reigns eased. The boy tilted his head. “You let your dog ride on your horse?”

 

James smiled at his response. He smiled about the fact that he talked in general. “Yes—Sometimes. He is a lazy dog; he hates to walk.”

 

“Maybe he would not be so lazy if you made him walk more.”

 

“Yes.” James beamed, chuckles leaving his words. “You are right. He probably wouldn’t be.”

 

They circled each other for longer, as the boy unhurriedly settled back into his seat. James took the time to see the boy closer. He was right—black eyes, no sign of pupils or color. The same inky shade as his hair which curled in large tufts above his eyebrows. His horse had no armor except for a strange iron band that sat awkwardly on its mane, a dip between its eyes like a strange crown. The blouse synced in large bishop sleeves by his wrist at his collar was prominent and frilled. He could have sat at the very court James dined at each night with not one head turned. At least not for the reason of doubt. Even the fingers that extended past the hide gloves looked manicured for a castle. “You are not who I expected to linger around Wolf-Men?”

 

“What did you expect?” The question seemed to come without his permission, as though they were running through his mind and happened to slip from his tongue. His mouth did not move much as he spoke. His words still meek.

 

“More… wolfishness. Less niceness. You seem nicer than stories.”

 

He shuffled in his saddle, looking down. “I am nice.” Almost as if he had to convince himself.

 

“I know.” James nodded, almost mimicking the way his brows turned up, and his eyes grew sad, “I know, It seems that way. But you are not one of them, I presume?”

 

He pulled on the reigns, and his horse nikkered. The circling was halted. “Who knighted you…” The boy lowered his chin so he could look through his lashes. Always suspicious, always wary, “Ser James?”

 

James tightened the reigns, his legs tensing upon his mount, “The—the um, King. King.” He scrambled to remember his own uncle's name. The name flapped around his head; syllables came in like the beats of wings. “Ignotus. Ignotus. With his very sword. Right here.” He tapped the armoured shoulder.

 

“You met the king?”

“I’ve known the king a long time.”

 

He swerved his horse to trot closer. the horse was obedient despite his lack of equestrian knowledge. “You are from Griffin?” the boy spoke with a sudden interest.

 

“Yes. I am a…” James weighed his options in his head as swiftly as he could, “A son of the court. My father is the kings hand.”

 

“ Kings hand .” He mouthed. The smaller horse walked towards James, lining up beside him so they faced opposite directions. Still a good distance away. A safe distance. Even settled, he seemed to be ready to move at any sudden moment. “Why are you here then, Ser James?”

 

A smirk tugged at his mouth at the name, “A quest of sorts.” he knew it was a brag, and a falsified term. The boy must have known it was a brag from how he shrugged his shoulders with a self-proud smile.

 

“A quest.” the boy confirmed.

 

James chuckled, “Yes, It is something knights do when ordered by their king.”

 

He raised one unbelieving brow above bored eyes.  “ In Loup? ”

 

“No… I was not meant to be here. My mentor may just have my head on a block for being here,” James pointed to the direction he came from, “I was camped a little north from here. There is a trail there I'm following.”

 

“Honeydukes.” The boy said almost immediately. He knew it without a second thought. Raised and educated with Griffins maps and trails yet wandering with Loup Garou wolves.

 

 

“Oh? You know your maps; I usually have one ready. I know a bit myself.” James smirked.

 

The boy looked away for a moment, his gaze practically stuttered—if that was possible. He eventually met as much of James’ eyeline as he had so far. Eyes punctuated with thick, begging lashes. James coughed out a non-verbal exhale.

 

“I probably know more.” He whispered.

 

James stared for a moment before a hearty laugh left his throat, and the boy pulled back, eyes flicking to the Loup side of the border. 

 

“I only came here for a moment of shade.” he rushed out

 

“Oh, I hope it was… shady enough.”

 

He turned and began trotting back to the pack. “Wait!” James called. He hadn’t expected it to work, and it hadn't. The boy pulled the reigns back of his own volition. He turned just his torso. 

 

“Prongs.” He said. “As in the…” two hands reached up towards his temples and waved their fingers, imitating antlers.

 

“Yes.” James chuckled, and the boy nodded, lips pressed tightly before he disappeared as quickly as he came. 

 

 

♘

 

 

Mother,

 

If you will believe it, Sirius took me to a Seer. She told us so many fortunes that I could not figure out which was mine. If you were there, you would have laughed at how scared Sirius was, especially considering how he had practically begged us to go.

There is so much to say that I am tempted to say nothing. The thought of telling you in person out-blossoms anything I could write on paper. Know, too, that I do not expect a response; I know you will be tired and sleeping most of the day. I just would like for you to have something to read on your bedside table in case. Just in case. You must not tell Moody when he returns because I have seen how you two can gossip of court hearsay, but I left this morning, far earlier than the sun, as I usually do. Because we are so close to the border, Moody forbade it. I thought it was paranoia, but He was right to do so, as while I was riding Prongs, I saw wolf-men. Camped and having some celebration. I hid in that treeline on the maps—it is far thicker than you would imagine and lies perfectly on the realm division. 

What was most curious was a horse. Amongst all the rough wolves, there was a horse. The rider was a court boy. I could tell immediately. All I could think was: he is not supposed to be there. Yet, even though his attire did not belong, and he seemed more on edge than an alley cat, he hid his foreignness. He had a curiosity for Griffin, and he swore he had a skill in maps. I did not think to look at anything past our own court before, but now that I have, I myself have curiosities. I cannot look away. 

He was curious, and he made me curious. Somehow, I think that has taught me more than any of my courtyard lessons. A fascination now seems more valuable than skill in swordplay. Do not tell Moody that either. Perhaps just burn this letter after reading it. He has a way of finding things out. 

I was testing my courage by edging towards the borders. My nerves were screaming, but any cowardice or fear I had seemed to cool in my short conversation with this boy. I dropped my weapons only a minute away from a wolf-men pack. I've come to the conclusion that it is curiosity that kills cowardice. And if there is anything curious in the world, it would be him. 

Perhaps seemingly good things in the presence of horrors are illusions. Just a comparison. Bad things make normal things seem more well-mannered than they truly are. He was familiar enough to know that it was not a simple comparison.

When we return, I am going to have Marlene visit you weekly. Perhaps make it a tradition. I know you girls love your hearsay, and I know your chambers have been lacking that influence, so please prepare some simmering excitement for a new friend. Sirius tells me of how he's begun to train her in the mornings. I know you would get along, and I want her to be in favour of the court's most special lady. As well as my most special lady.

 

Your James

 

 

♘

 

James pulled the map from Moody's saddlebag the moment he arrived back in camp. The retrieval of his own belongings from the treeline floor was nervous and quick, as the wolf-men hollers seemed to only grow. He rearranged his thoughts to consider that morning; he looked at it from each corner of the woods and from each owl-peering eye. It heightened a keen curiosity—perhaps it was reminiscent of a court-bred boy, something in him missing his family and that life he was so carefully nurtured for. Perhaps simple curiosity at the strange scene. 

 

He slipped the map into the inner pocket of his doublet and kept it by his chest. Every so often, he would remove it and let a finger trail around the mountains and villages spread through the realm. He circled Grimmauld Bight, speculating a thought. Ted and Frank would have arrived by then, back in their home after years. Moody had told them that after their job was completed, they would ride down to that state and spend a final night in the court before riding the full west country length north to the wall. 

 

This ‘job’ or quest he had so dramatically told the boy by the border in an attempt to appear more mythical than he felt was still unexplained past the hearsay Frank and tonks the mischief makers had whispered in his ear. James held some sadness at the thought of being absent from his home for so long, not just because of the missing, but because he had an idea for as long as he could remember that one day he and Sirius would inherit the mischief Frank and Tonks once orchestrated. That they would be the new mischief managers of Griffin. He feared that by the time they returned, at the old age of two decades, it would be too late for them to kiss the court with blessings of jokes and laughs in the way boyhood had allowed. 

 

This new infatuation—no, curiosity, there is nothing infatuating about it, James told himself, just sheer interest—seemed to let those thoughts slip away for the day. His worries were replaced by the map. 

 

“I saw you riding back.” Marlene sat in front of him as he quickly slipped the map away, lodged between his back and the tree.

 

“Hm?” He smiled, shaking his head, “I wasn’t.”

 

Marlene raised her brows and crossed her arms, even going as far as to cross her ankles in solidarity with the upper-body limbs. “Of course. My mistake, my lord.”

 

As she began to push herself up, James reached for her, a hand wavering by her shoulder. Despite their conversations, she still held a shield up. “Mckinnon—Marlene, sorry. I lied. I was. Please do not speak guarded me.”

 

“That is precisely what Sirius said to me on the first day.”

 

She strayed from the hovered hand by finding her seat. James retracted it into an enclosed fist by his side. He inspected it with a smirk, eyes flickering to Sirius perched upon the soil across the field. “A brother mimics his own.” he tucked the ball into his lap, and his glasses slipped down the bridge. “You've been training with him?”

 

“Training?” Marlene narrowed her eyes. “Is that what he tells you?”

 

‘Yes—well, he mentions you two tussles some mornings,” she bit her cheek, tucking her hair behind her ears. He almost considered mentioning his own morning outing, having a mutual activity in a way. Still, something compelled him not to. “Does he share all people's secrets

 

“Was it a secret? It doesn't have to be if you're worried.” He shook his head, words all wrong, “I mean—there nothing wrong with it.”

 

Marlene gave a brassy eyebrow raise, words tasting bitter and one-sided, “Maybe I feel a little vulnerable having you know things when I know nothing of you.

 

It did not phase James. He pictured the two a few days earlier, silhouetted by the sun, as Sirius instructed Marlene into a combat stance. Knees bent, right leg in front. He taught Marlene to advance and how her arm should curl into the swipe. How to land in a jumped retreat. “Hold the grip in one hand!” he groaned every time her retreat ended in a jagged two-palm grip.

 

“Sirius told you I was a disgustingly sappy romantic; is that not enough?’James offered.

 

“Ha.” She snickered, “That was somewhat proficient. It is why you have not courted anyone, am I correct? Most people are bound to wed before they become of age.”

 

“I have been groomed rather kindly most of my life. There wasn't much expected of me

 

“Wasn't much that you do not expect of yourself?’

 

“Woah.” he sat up, clicking his fingers at her, “Woah! I never said that, McKinnon. You are like Sirius; you jump in my ears and put a telescope into my brain. Dreadful.”

 

“Someone should. Most people are rather scared of you.”

 

That pitted his stomach. He quietened. “Um, Sirius told me what they call him at court. He said you told him?’

 

“I’m surprised he said anything. Feels like the type of thing he would not wish to talk about.”

 

That was true; he had spoken curled next to James in their tent nights before. His hands slipped under his cheeks, and his eyes closed. ‘ Marlene said ,’ he had whispered in a sleepy whine and retold her story. James stroked his hair until he slept. “He was tired and probably half asleep.” The leaves rustled in the wind above him, a similar sound to that tree line. He took a breath in, honeysuckle and wildflower. Pure heat presses down on them like thick sleeping fur. The treeline boy ploughed into his memory relentlessly. He halted himself from turning around to squint that arrangement of plants into vision. James’ palm passed over his face and then hung aimlessly in the air as he tried to articulate his next sentence, “Is… is it anything we did, or I did? My father and I, to make people say that. No-Potter has to be a lack on our part.”

 

“James, There is absolutely nothing either of you could say. Not even royals can hush gossip. It's just that. Gossip. Hearsay. rumours.”

 

Okay.” He leaned back against the tree, and the map was pressed into the small of his back; he juggled the thought of slipping it back into his doublet, but even though it was nothing out of the ordinary to hold, he did not want anyone to now he had it. “At least he brought it up to me, so it doesn't bother him too much. Either way, he needs to speak. Things get messed up with him if he just sits on them.

 

“He does not sit on much; that boy is an open book.” James smiled politely, silently disagreeing. “Though I do not think he tells Moody about the training.”

 

“Does Moody not wish him to? Is that why you train so early?”

 

“Is that what you were doing up so early?”

 

James blinked, feeling like that conversation had passed hours before. He shook his head, trying to remember why Marlene had approached him. “What–what did you see, sorry?

 

“This morning. I rose before the others to brush the horses and saw you walking back from the river. I thought to mention it because you looked to have been up a while. Do you usually take Prongs on early walks before the sun?”

 

“Just training.” he shrugged, “I always train before the sun.”

 

“Moody will be disheartened. He does not think it is safe.”

 

James gazed down, a little laugh as he pushed his glasses further up his nose, “Moody will have to worry about the younger boys of court, not the ones who are of age and practically finished their knighthood.

 

“I think he will worry about the only prince until that prince is old and withered.

 

A cool breeze ran through the camp, freezing him for a moment. Only his hair bristled and shuddered with the chill; he seemed immune to that temperature. “They'll have a new one to train soon. He can train with the sun.”

 

Marlene shot him a look of two knowing eyes. “You do have time to train with the sun now,” she offered, “we are camping here for long enough to train until your demise.” 

 

James sat up straight, indents of prickly bark on the back of his thin blouse-covered arms. He felt the map he had tucked there sliding further and further with each jolt he made. “What do you mean?”

 

Marlene just raised her hands to silently speak her unknowance. “I think Moody is waiting for some letter. I do not know much.”

 

James looked to the treeline behind him; it was only a few speckled dots on the horizon from where they sat, practically invisible and faded. “A letter from where?” He spoke distractedly, wondering how long the wolf-men were staying there. He wondered if a certain horse rider would need a map. It was a simple kindness to offer. One he would have to do as a prince. Hands reached behind his back to thumb the parchment. 

 

“Griffin, Grimmauld, probably Monashire, I would say.” Marlene listed with sighs; she pulled her knees up to her chin “It becomes confusing. messengers and ravens and horseback sending parchments with different messages written at different times from across the realm. I do not know many details.”

 

“Why?” He met her gaze again, “Did they not plan the route prior? We are going to Grimmauld still, right?”

 

“Yes. But—” she checked the camp with a quick and discreet flick of her eye before shifting closer, whispering lowly, “there are whispers of a new claim.”

 

“What are you talking about!” Both James and Marlene jumped, looking up to see Sirius standing with his hands proudly on his waist.

 

“Hush!” Marlene hissed, beckoning him to sit. Sirius shuffled closer. “You came from nowhere.”

 

“I was behind the tree.” James' head turned to the trunk behind him, then to the field where he swore Sirius lay moments before.

 

“You eavesdropper.” Marlene scowled, and Sirius smirked. “You tell anyone, and I have you castrated like a horse.”

 

Sirius furrowed his brows, “Wait, did someone castrate my horse—”

 

“I took a letter from Moody’s tent.” Marlene continued, ignoring Sirius's puzzled and rather worried look. “He was talking to Hill Rocks Court about the new claim.” 

 

“No one claims new land. It simply doesn’t happen,” James argued.

 

Sirius’ hands found each side of his temple, hands clutching his hair and on a path of panic, “Who took his balls.”

 

“Sh.” James shoved his head, leaning closer to Marlene.

 

“It does happen now. There is new claim in Beastal. I do not think Moody wants to pass it.”

 

Beastal? His eyes widened, and he replicated Marlene, “Who could claim an entire Loup area?” A complicated matter, something no one had done since the formation of Grimmauld. 

 

“Well, according to Lady Carrow in yesterday's letter, One Lucius Malfoy. ”

 

James blinked, ready to reply, but he was left with nothing but haze.  Nose scrunched, he gaped his mouth in confusion. “Who?”

 

 

♘

Chapter 6: Regulus | Barty

Summary:

“I’m my mother's child, so…”

Notes:

One thing about Regulus is he is GOING to be looking for a map and a parental figure. He is also going to be incapable of riding horses.

‘The Lord’ was only heard in whispers until he breached the walls. 

 

- From ‘The Appendices: A Recount of the Fourth Realm’ by Lily Evans. 

REGULUS NO-BLACK

 

Regulus had begun to understand the loose fabric the wolf-men wore; his sheepskin trousers made him feel like roasted mutton in the blistering heat. He swore he could smell the stink of a sun-aged carcass around him. It may have been the hogs with their hooves elegantly crossed, hanging from tree-branch gambrels, thrown over sluggish walkers' shoulders and readied to roast for the nightly feasts. Kreacher was young and did not tower over the beastly height of the wolves around him. They were more significant than any pictures of Direwolves Regulus had seen on parchment—more mythical than anything. Even the riders were starved of the age-induced growth stunts. Remus, who seemed old enough to have stopped growing years before, was still taller than any man he had met at Grimmauld Bight. 

 

He had begun to understand the loose fabric; even wearing it, he needed moments in the trees, shaded by the sun. It was one of those moments when he saw the knight from Griffin. Ser James, upon his horse, Prongs.

 

“Is the heat getting to you?” 

 

Regulus looked up from his grip on Kreacher's mane. His focus had been shifting from the darkness of its coat to the milky, plait-scattered hair. He had just returned from the treeline, mind still hovering around the conversation with the Northdon man.

 

You know your maps; I usually have one ready .” Those words sat on a wheel and rolled around his skull. He would have use for a map. 

 

“Is it not the same over there? We are both from the south.” Remus asked when Regulus just handed him an unspecific look.

 

“It is coastal… my home. If there are seas, there are winds. That is known Anemology.”

 

He heartily chuckled—as cheerfully as his stony demeanour allowed him. “I do not even know this word.” He mocked Regulus' postured, court-bred accent, “ Anemology .” 

 

“Study of the wind.”

 

“I thought that wind was just a God's breath. Or spirits.”

 

“ The Great Sciences .” Regulus laughed, recalling old lore he read of Loup Garou's religions. “It’s the New Age. Without Gods to worship, knowledge blossomed.”

 

“So, with the death of your family, more people read?” Remus jabbed.

 

Regulus tugged on the reigns and turned his horse to face the treeline. He stared.  “Evidently.”

 

“They have different skills of value here. Violence is their knowledge. Stories are their art.”

 

His head turned back to Remus. “Stories?”

 

“Wolf tales—as you would call them. Pack stories. Fenrir says that we are descended from Godric’s own pet, Hound, who became rabid in his owner's absence when the four gods disappeared, and wolves were born from him. 

 

“So…” he trails pointedly, “you worship him?”

 

“We worship nothing except the wolves we ride on. Wolf-men acknowledge nothing outside their pack.”

 

“Why not.” Regulus shrugged with a suggestion, “Your life is short.”

 

“Ah.” He tattled his finger, “That argument goes both ways. Why travel to unknown people when you only have a short time with the ones you know. 

 

“Is that what you really want?”

 

“I don’t know. A boy like me lived here just as I did every century since the Lupos came here. They stayed here forever and died, and so shall I.”

 

“Are you not starving?” It came out more desperate than Regulus intended.  

 

“Tell me, Regulus, what is your ideal. Your ideal spent life?” He noticed Remus never spoke with offence. Never offended when he could be. Just corrective. He never made Regulus feel bad. Challenged, not bad.

 

Easy. he knew that better than he knew anything. It wasn’t something he could ever lie to himself about. “I’d like to have dinner with my parents each night. Family feast.” 

 

“And have you so far?”

 

Regulus quietened, “I’ve never met my parents.”

 

“And if you had that? You wouldn't be starving? You wouldn't wish for more?”

 

No.” He imagined eating the sweet bread at the table, ladling it into his chaliced wine. His faceless mother and father were beside him. “I’d be full of myself. Belly swelled on life.”

 

“See. a slow ambition is not unusual.

 

“That is not a slow ambition. That would be… everything to me… even so.” Regulus had begun leaning forward in thought, grip lazy on the Saddlehorn. It was imperfect timing, too, as Kreacher immediately dipped his head to graze, sending Regulus falling forward beside his neck. He landed on his back with a horribly loud grunt.

 

“Regulus!” Remus was beside him immediately, about to reach out before Regulus held out his left hand, eyes squinted and body curling like an old orange peel. He’d predicted that Remus had gained some grasp on his disapproval of a stranger's touch. How he often wished to draw the curtains of sight on his body when in the presence of most people. He had ensured all his garments were clean enough since that first day of Lupos celebrations.

 

Regulus muttered some incoherent words about how he was okay, and he was. He would have to practice horse riding if he were to keep up a lifestyle manning his own horse. He would have to learn to dismount, too. Lucius would not be there to pluck him from his seat.

 

 After his thought was severed by Remus’ whispers, Regulus managed to push himself back up, leaning on his elbows.

 

“Kreacher is a dirty, dirty animal.” He glared.

 

Remus let out a dry, relieved laugh, “Look at the blouse; you are the dirty, dirty animal.” 

 

Regulus’ eyes widened, and he sat up, ignoring the pain and pulling the fabric of his shoulders to peek at the awfully soiled white cotton. He groaned louder than he had during the fall, letting himself go and collapsing back onto the earth. He would spend the day by the lake scrubbing again, with enough time to let it dry for a night stroll. A night stroll that would happen to take him somewhere towards the border.  “The gods are gone, yet still looking to have my head.”

 

“Ha, you would think with the gods gone, you'd finally understand gravity.”

 

Regulus squinted at the sun, which was hot and demanding on his cheeks. He huffed out a large breath while Remus grunted as he lay beside him. They lay side by side in silence, letting themselves be abused by the heat until it didnt feel so jarring anymore. “Where would you go if you could leave, even just for a day?”

 

He turned to Regulus, “If I could leave here for a day? I’d go to a court. At least one of them has to have a book. Somewhere, I can do whatever I like. Somewhere with a Knights type of freedom.”

 

“Something without a solemn ending? Or a survival guide?” Regulus teased.

 

“Yes. You can never tell me another story; I've been put off.”

 

Regulus closed his eyes. The heat reminded him of the knight. The knight and his court maps. No doubt his court books. “If I happen to come across a book. You will be the first I tell.”

 

 

So, Regulus decided he was doing Remus a favour by crossing the border. A court boy such as that knight would have to own a book. If Regulus were going on a quest, he would bring reading material. And a map. A map, a map, a map. He pictured himself leafing through the map pages until he found the dot of Slygt, where his court lay in the capital of Grimmauld Bight. Where Narcissa was remaining. 

 

While most of the Lupos dozed and draped themselves in tents or under the stars, Regulus redressed in his poet-sleeved blouse, and he had tied the back of Remus’ pants with string, tightening them into something court-appropriate. He took Kreacher and quietly trotted towards the border. The trees formed songs of leaf rustles in the sky and below his horse's hooves. A north route should lead him directly to the honey-dukes trail. The knight's camp would be somewhere near that path. With enough wandering, he would find it, and Regulus trusted his tracking skills. 

 

He had barely ventured halfway into the forest bunch when Regulus heard the snap of a twig that was not below him. It was in front of him. His head whipped up from its previous fixtures on his reigns. 

 

The knight sat proudly upon his horse. His… Prongs. His eyes widened as he noticed Regulus, and he pulled back to slow the horse. 

 

When Regulus first saw Ser James, he thought that he was beautiful in a precise way. His skin, though very real and very present, looked almost like the oil strokes of a painting. The barrier of a canvas between them. There was something unreal about him the whole time, untouchable in the way his aunt would slap his hand if he tried to reach out and graze a portrait, curious about its textures and bumps. He’d thought to touch a painting was to understand its origins, how it was made, to feel the brushstrokes in time with the artists. But he was trained to know that it was something to be seen, not touched. Regulus admired beautiful things, but he rarely allowed himself to hold them. 

 

He tried to equal it to the armour, the strong, gallant pose. The sword and the mighty horse. A horse that could step on Kreacher with one small lift of its hoof. But then, it became evident that his picturesque nature was more due to how he held himself. He carried his body as a knight would. Even in the late darkness they stood in now, his body shon and reflected each light source like armour. He was haloed with the sun behind him, Regulus in his shadow.

 

“Oh, What a coincidence.” The knight smiled. Blouse, doublet and riding books. Hair tousled from the ride. “We must stop meeting like—”

 

“Do you have a map?” Regulus cut in. He had straightened his back and held his chin high, pushing away the wonders of whether he looked regal or proper to the knight—Ser James, yet still acted on them. He had seemed intrigued about Regulus' origins in court before. Somehow, it only made Regulus want to appear more court-like.

 

He tried to move forward, but Regulus held up a hand. “Stay on your side, please.”

 

His stare lingered as his horse trotted in position, “You want a map?” Regulus nodded, “You are not sure where you are, right?”

 

“I know we are at the border.” Regulus spat rather defensively, an offence in his inflection.

 

Ser James nodded once, “How?”

 

Kreacher sauntered beside a tree, and Regulus placed a hand on the bark, scratching it lightly and collecting small scabs of wood under his nails. “Clôture Verte.”

 

“What is that?”

 

He trailed a finger around the roof of branches and leaves, “The green fence. It is what they call the line of trees that grow by each border.”

 

“Each border? They made the borders on purpose?”

 

Narrowing his gaze, he ran the sentence in his head three times before saying it, hoping to sound witty and leaving just the right amount of time between responses. “Do you think these trees are less than a thousand years old?” 

 

“What language is that? What court are you from?”

 

Regulus wasn’t sure where it came from, but when he spoke it, it came out as more playful than the scolding he had prepared in his head. “Do they not have books at Griffin?”

 

Ser James blinked, then grinned. With one knuckle, he pushed his glasses up his nose, “So, what, is that what you do? You read maps, and you speak languages? Is that what you like to do? There is a job for that, you know, both of them.”

 

He tried to cross his arms but almost lost balance as Kreacher swayed below him, “I like maps. And I like the stars.” he rushed out as he grasped the reigns. Ser James chuckled. “ Speaking languages —My communication isn't a pass-time. ”

 

“The stars, then. Just watching them?” he shrugged in response, “So you're a stargazer.”

 

“ Stargazer ”, Regulus snorted to himself in humour. “ Stargazer, he says. I like the constellations,” he confirmed casually. As casually as he could. Regulus left another lingering hint, “And I like the constellations of earth.”

 

“Maps.”

 

Regulus thought for a moment. “Do… you have a star map as well?”

 

“I’m sorry, we don't.”

 

“But you have a map. You said you did in the tree line.”

 

“Clôture Verte.” He corrected, and Regulus pulled back, offended. He wondered for a moment how he came to be there. How he would have been curled comfortably in his bed chamber no less than a month ago.

 

“You could get into trouble saying that at your court,” he whispered. “ Clôture Verte. ”

 

“What is your court, actually?” Prongs began walking with a slight kick on his hip. Regulus tried to pull back, but his abilities with Kreacher did not prove sufficient, as he simply neighed irritably below him, “You know griffin maps. They do not call it the honey-dukes trail in Monashire, nor do they in Hill Rock. Your accent is similar to people I've known from Grimmauld. They have griffin maps in Grimmauld.

 

Regulus' face tensed; he was not too close, yet his neck still retracted back, and his chin turned to the side. “I am not from there. I have just been there. 

 

“Well travelled. You are a mystery.”

 

He snorted, brushing some hair from his eyes. The dampness of the air had sunk it heavy on his temples. “I’m not. I’m just a stranger.”

 

“Huh.” He nodded suspiciously before shrugging,  “Perhaps. Why are you here, anyhow? There is no need for shade.”

 

“Why are you here, Ser James.”

 

He raised an amused brow, “Can I get a name if you are to mock me with that?”

 

“Maybe. If you have a map.”

 

“ Ah. ” Ser James breathed out, nodding again with the evilest smile Regulus had ever seen in his life. Except it was really, it was entirely happy and far too close,  “you were looking for me.”

 

“ I was looking for a map,” Regulus hissed.

 

“You were looking for me .” He smiled teasingly

 

Hypocrite . Regulus pulled the reigns to face Ser James easier, and Kreacher grunted at the sudden force. “And am I supposed to assume you came here to wake sleeping wolves?”

 

Ser James put two hands behind his head, relaxing and effortlessly balancing as he leaned back slightly. Regulus fisted his hands around the leather, rather angry for some reason, “Believe what you like. Why do you need a map?”

 

Regulus blinked; he watched how Ser James smiled turned up in one corner of his mouth, white teeth on show. Arms strong underneath the blouse, which seemed far too small. Regulus picked up his own blouse, worried it looked unkept and improper. “I told you.” he gritted through his teeth.

 

Regulus noticed a lack of metal clinks. Ser James’ belt lay empty, with no sword nor scabbard. He’d returned to the treeline unarmed. Unthreatening. His hands dropped from his head to a wide-armed shrug, “You said you liked maps; do you just want to look at it? Do you want to keep it?”

 

“I’d like to know where I am. I’d like a sense of direction.” 

 

Ser James handed him a speculative and investigating look, “What are you doing here?” He said, practically to himself. 

 

Regulus bit the inside of his cheek. He glanced down in thought; the taste of mutton still coated his mouth. Slow-roasted and hearty. It felt as though sheep were the only thing the Lupos ate. Ironic. “I’ll tell you in exchange for a book.” Regulus said, finally looking up.

 

“You’re quite the bargainer.”

 

“Are knights not meant to help the helpless?”

 

“Oh? Are you helpless now?” He smirked, “You’re not helpless, I can see. Lost maybe. Not helpless.”

 

“ The book. ” Regulus urged. Rather tired of the games. Or perhaps he worried that he wasn’t tired of them. One option seemed worse than the other. It brushed over his mind briefly that this was a Griffin courtboy. He would ride around with the stag that had struggled over the dragon-shaped body of his family on a proud sigil shield. Even his horse was named like a stag. Prongs did look like a deer in a way. His tawny brown fur hissed with snowy white hairs like the side of an aging man’s head. A badger face marking. Similar to paintings he had seen of white tail stags in books. Even his snout sloped into a quaint pinch, much alike a deers. He could imagine Ser James, in all his armoured glory, prongs with crown-like antlers. 

 

“You’d like a map and a book. Anything else? Perhaps I can write home and have them send a wagon over for you to ride in? A few jewels perhaps.”

 

Regulus hid a smile, his mouth ending in an awkwardly tense line, “I wouldn't mind that.” Ser James laughed, clutching his stomach. “So you will?” Regulus pressed on.

 

Ser James let his chuckles calm; he swung a leg over the saddle and jumped effortlessly from the horse, landing with a soft leaf crinkle below his shoes. He kept a grounding hand on the leather horn.  “Name?”

 

With a breath and a firm hand on the horn of his saddle, Regulus swung one leg over, slipping two shoe points into the one stirrup so that he sat facing Ser James, now having to look down. “…Regulus.”

 

He softened his humour, “ Regulus . Does Regulus have a last name?”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay. What do your friends call you?”

 

“Regulus.”

 

“May I call you Reggie? I like to give nicknames.”

 

“I wish everyone who nicknames me to die. Regulus is easy enough. It is my name”  Ser James smiled. He licked his lips and nodded to the horse, “And him?”

 

“Kreacher. You mustn’t nickname him either.”

 

“ Kreacher . And why is that?” he asked softly, amused.

 

“He likes his name very much.”

 

Somehow, if it were possible, the amused look on Ser James’ face only rose. It was cultivated and farmed itself into something even richer. “ He likes his name very much? ”

 

“Yes.” Regulus said irritably, not wishing to explain himself, “The map, please?”

 

“I have not forgotten,” Ser James smirked and opened the flap of his saddlebag, pulling out a folded map. “I came here specifically to give it to you.” 

 

He choked, “You are no knight! You play games at my expense; you have no honour!”

 

“I can promise you, Regulus , I have honour.” He stepped away from his horse, “I don’t have any books on me, though.”

 

Regulus lifted a wary foot from the stirrup, ready to swing it back over his saddle are ride away. “You have books at your camp?”

 

“Yes, Regulus .”

 

“Stop that.”

 

“Stop what?”

 

He gestured to all of Ser James. “That”

 

“What’s that , Regulus?”

 

“Hush!”

 

He seemed to enjoy Regulus' distress. Which only created more distress. “I’m going to come closer, okay? To give you the map.” Ser James held his hands up in surrender. “Please don’t back away.”

 

Regulus mimicked him, holding his palms forward with a careless ‘please , go ahead’ shrug. He tried to seem thoughtless, but it left a panic in his stomach. The idea of being so close. He could do anything—he certainly had the arms for it—grap Regulus’ ankles, pull him to the ground, and rip him straight from his seat in the saddle. The bruises on his stomach throbbed as he slouched, forcing his back into a straight line again.

 

Ser James held out the map but pulled it back just before Regulus’ fingers could even brush it. “Take care of her; I’ll need it back.”

 

He’d confirmed they’d have to return to that spot. Regulus wondered if Ser James would come unarmed again. He wondered if he had come unarmed because of Regulus’ previous wariness to the weapon. Regulus gave him a bored look, “Are you really so lonely you’ll make up false truths to see a stranger again, Ser?”

 

“We are still strangers?”

 

“Well… yes”

 

“What do I have to do to not be a stranger anymore?” He waved the map around as he spoke, grinning up at the seated boy. The last time he had been in that position, Lucius reached for his waist to pull him from Kreacher, knowing he had not ridden before. It goosefleshed his skin yet left an empty pit in him. The type of pit that needed to be filled. “What do you classify as friends?”

 

Regulus raised his brows, swallowing his previous thoughts. “ Friends ?” he asked.

 

“Acquaintances then,” he suggested.

 

“Acquaintances…they know things about each other.”

 

“Oh, Should I ask you questions-” Ser James stepped forward so suddenly that Regulus almost instinctively brought up a foot to kick him in the chest. He grunted and stumbled backwards, one hand against his doublet and the other scrunching the map and pushing on air to steady himself. Regulus almost gasped, a hand coming to squeeze his mouth and his knees slamming to his body. He kept one hand still on the saddle horn to balance the awkward position. 

 

“I’m so sorry.” He exclaimed, muffled in his own palm. “I—I’m.”

 

“No–no.” He steadied himself and coughed out, a hand rubbing his chest. “You're okay. I’m not hurt. The doublet is padded for a reason.”

 

“Sorry,” he whispered again, feeling the words on his fingertips. “Sorry.”

 

“Regulus.” The hand over his mouth curled into a fist. Not one of anger—one of worry. Ser James slipped the map under his bicep, pressing it against his side and stepped closer, his two free palms up in surrender. He had to do that alot, yet he did not seem to mind. The hands hovered around his ankles. “Okay?”

 

Regulus nodded very slowly, observing Ser James carefully. How his eyes seemed to close from the high angle when he looked down, the dark lashes, like black wings on his eyes. Regulus would have heard Prongs and assumed it was a jest towards his unkempt hair if he had not known the reason for his horse's name. He had a temptation to reach out and touch, to run his hands through the thick locks and hold on, but his aunt's lingering words slapped his hand away.

 

The aim was for his ankles, just above his boots, but Ser James took a detour, picking at the fabric of his trousers. A dry, amused laugh left his lips as he thumbed the string, tying the fabric taut. Regulus did not take his eyes off the fingers for a second. They took his ankles eventually, pulling them from the saddle and placing them kindly back in the stirrup. He hovered as if he wanted to give a reassuring tap on rRegulusthigh—at least his eye line gave the impression—but he did not push what he was granted. 

 

“You can make it up to me,” Ser James said, glancing back up to Regulus’s face. 

 

“How?” Regulus whispered, slowly taking the Cantel in hand so he could hold onto either side of the saddle.

“Tell me how I can become your Acquaintance. If I cannot be your friend.”

 

He could've laughed, really. He may have if his chest had been beaten from the inside out. It was so fast that he thought his ribcage might begin to vibrate. A man like that did not need to try for any time of friendship. Regulus’d bet anyone would drop to their very knees to be friends with a knight of the Griffin court. Though he was too wary to even move his legs. “Acquaintances do not know each other like friends,” Regulus said very quietly. He picked a place on Ser James’ face to look at, a way of avoiding his eyes. It was easier with him. Having glasses made his gaze less demanding, more settling. “Their knowledge is from time spent. Casually. Circumstantial.”

 

“Circumstantial. Okay. I can work with that, Regulus.” Ser James, his chest now almost touching Regulus’ knees, took the map from its place under his arm and held it up. 

 

He caught something in Ser James' eye as he shifted his knee slightly forward, testing what Ser James would do. His smile twitched in the corner at the pressure, but he kept his eyes on Regulus’. He felt nothing but the padded doublet. Maybe if his knees were sheathed in fabric, he would feel the soil from where he had kicked. As Regulus reached out for the map, pulling away for an unsure moment, he was sure he could feel the chest push back. Ser James looked so sincere and soft that Regulus had no doubts he would snatch it back again; he took the parchment with a swift, closed-mouthed inhale. 

 

Quietly, almost mouthing, “Thank you.” 

 

He was unwaveringly irritated at how grateful his groomed politeness forced him to be in the face of the situation. There was no room for snarky remarks or rude jives. It wasn’t as if Regulus had the confidence, either. He still prepared all his quotes in his head three times before they left his mouth, and even then, they never felt right.

 

As if reading his mind, Ser James said, “Polite.”

 

He coughed out a single laugh, “Well, Ser, you are a knight. And you are the only one of us who knows how to wield a sword. It would be rather stupid of me not to be polite.” 

 

Ser James blinked slowly, a kind smile on his face as he gazed up. Regulus fixed the hair that had fallen across his brows in the altercation, looking away. “A special request for the book? Genre?”

 

“Something without a solemn ending… Or a survival guide novel. 

 

“Okay.” Ser James nodded, walking backwards in long-legged strides, “Okay, You’ll have it soon.”

 

 He mounted his horse with an effortless glide and tugged on the reigns to direct prongs towards West Country. Turning his head, “Hey, Regulus?”

 

“Hm?” The map tightened in his hand. Regulus had not moved. Hand on horn. 

 

“I think we just made the first West Country and Loup trade.”

 

Regulus laughed to himself. Himself . He was careful to keep those things. “A trade would involve me giving you something.”

 

“Oh, right. I’m sure you’ll come up with something. You owe me for two things now.” He whipped the reigns, and with a click of his tongue, prongs galloped through the trees. With how fast he ran, Regulus was surprised his glasses never managed to fall off.

 

He stayed watching until the knight disappeared.

 

 

♛

 

 

He was back the very next night. 

 

Regulus rode past the treeline straight north until he found a camp. There was no certainty it was Ser James’. Until he saw Prongs grazing by a large oak tree, Ser James beside him, stroking the brown fur. He was in a sleeping tunic, wholly untied and relaxed. The sleeves were rolled up to his upper bicep.

 

He thought about approaching immediately with a recount of his day. How he had studied the map. How he had appreciated the small circle Ser James had drawn where they met, saving him the trouble of figuring it out. He had left it in his tent under the sleeping fur, an excuse to not have to return it just yet, and instead came in pursuit of the book. 

 

When not speaking with Remus, the day was spent in the tree line—the Clôture Verte, Ser James’ internal voice corrected him—with the map. When unfolded, it covered a whole empty plateau of the woodland. Salazar, Godric, Helga, Rowena, and the surrounding seas and gulfs. He had avoided the Lupos games that day, though the way Fenrir watched him as he passed in the morning—smug with dog-like drool—made him think he wouldn’t for much longer.

 

Ser James bent forward to scratch Prongs’ snout, exchanging incoherent mumbles and jests with himself. 

 

“Where’s Harry?” Regulus asked. Ser James flinched, spinning around, one hand grasping his chest, the other over the flap of a shoulder bag he had lazily cast across his tunic.

 

“Godric.” He let out a breathy laugh. “Regulus?”

He nervously looked down, readjusting his footing in the stirrup and locked his hands behind his back. He did his best to balance without the reigns. “Hello.”

 

“You—” his head whipped around him, “have you just been waiting there?”

 

“…no.” 

 

He smirked, giving Prongs a pat before walking forward. You step like a cat. Completely silent.” he stopped a few paces before Regulus, “Harry is probably asleep with Padfoot.”

 

“Padfoot..?”

 

“My… brothers hound.”

 

“Like the,” He curled his fingers into gestured paws. 

 

“Yes. Paws. Rather clever, I thought.”

 

“Rather stupid,” Regulus mumbled.

 

“Rather mean,” Ser James narrowed his eyes. I thought you were meant to be nice.”

 

He chewed on his cheek, grasping the reigns and thumbing the leather. “I am Nice,” he whispered.

 

“Yes, you are nice.” he made his way to Kreacher, scratching his chin and cupping his face in warm strokes. Regulus watched cautiously. “I sort of like being in such an empty place because if I want to be the nicest person in the world, I can be here. There’s no one else to compete.”

 

“Except me…Ser.”

 

Ser James’ gaze shot to Regulus’, who looked down immediately, “Except you. My biggest competition. You speak shortly. Quaintly. Have you noticed?”

 

“I do not have much to say,” he mumbled incoherently.

 

“I don’t believe that."

 

“ Well, you should . Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t come up with useful remarks.”

 

“Is that why you need the book?” His hand slipped into the bag, and he pulled out a small, thin novel, “Education on charm and useful remarks?”

 

Regulus’ eyes widened, “It is to be a gift.”

 

“A gift? To whom? A lady you are courting?” he started carding through the pages, turning them with a dramatic flare as he circled Kreachr and Regulus on foot. “Cannot imagine anyone as lithe as you riding a wolf with a woman from Loup. 

 

“I’m not courting anyone,” Regulus spoke rather accusatorily, straining his body to watch James’ circling. Eventually, he settled on a side saddle stance, holding onto the horn like the night before. 

 

“Oh?” he slammed the book shut in one hand, “Are you too young?

 

“I am sixteen years, Ser.” Regulus straightened, “I will be seventeen this year.”

 

“Of age, yet still lone.” He nodded, “Why is that? We’ve established you are nice. And you are… proficient enough on horseback. Although I think that is more due to Kreacher's intelligence over your skill.”

 

“Hush!”

 

He laughed, “I’m just wondering! Why is it no one has set you into a marriage yet? You are certainly no repulsive thing. “

 

“Well… I’m I am far too busy to court.”

 

Ser James smirked and walked up to the Kreacher’s side. “Oh.” Much to Regulus’ dismay, he put one foot into the saddle stirrup, with either side on the leather beside Regulus’ hips, “with what?

 

He blinked, a sharp inhale. Regulus was titled back slightly, and there was still a fair distance between their face. “You see, for the longest time, I've been trying to collect a book from this oaf with a knight's sword; I fear I’ll be here forever. “

 

“Ha!” he threw his head back,” You may stay that long if you wish.”

 

Regulus held an open palm, expectant, “Book?”

 

“Ah, so demanding.” He gave a cunning smile and landed the book into Regulus’s hand, jumping off. “ I do not read much If I am being honest, so I took one from my mentor's saddlebag.”

 

“You do not read?” He exclaimed, suddenly emboldened with the offence. “What do you do with your time?”

 

“I talk, see Sirius.”

 

“Sirius?” Regulus asked

 

“The brother.”

 

He looked at the book briefly before throwing it to the side of his conscious, exasperated, “Do you not get tired of talking and seeing people?”

 

“Not often, if they are the right people. Do you not agree?”

 

“No.” He shook his head. “No. I feel like I could not pay people to leave me alone, yet I could not pay them to lay their attention to me. “

 

Ser James stumbled in his confident gaze for a movement. Just a passing second that one may have missed if they weren’t staring as intently as Regulus. “I will still indulge your remarks if your pockets are empty. “

 

His lips straightened into a thin line. He weighed the book in his hand before opening a page. He would leave. He had the book so he would leave and curl into his sleeping furs. Yet he stayed seated in his side saddle, passing time with the thumbing of parchment pages.

 

“I’ll warn you; the words are small, so it’s hard to read.” Ser James recounted, trying to look at the pages from his distance. Regulus snorted at that.

 

“I think everything would be hard to read with those glasses.”

 

“What? You don’t like them?” He adjusted them on his face 

 

Regulus looked up with only his eyes. Despite being on the horse and seated above him, their eyeliner did not differ too harshly. “They look like they are a part of you.”

 

He smiled. “I Hope the ending isn’t too solemn. I snatched it, so I didn’t get to ask about the plot. “

 

Regulus closed the book, reading the title embossed on the front in a font he fancied. The view from inside the Yew. He flicked through the pages. “From the first line, I think this will have a solemn end.”

 

“What?” Ser James walked closer. Even when he stood far away, his feet did subtle paces. Never one to stay still. “how?”

 

“The evergreen yew pulsed like a beating organ on Thursday Dawn until the weekday end. By Sunday, it had stopped. The bound body that had been writhing upon the branch skeleton had died by the time anyone had found it.”

 

He scrunched his nose. “What does that mean? That is not the common tongue.”

 

“It's metaphors.”

 

“For what?”

 

“I'm not sure. I’d assume a body was tied and hidden within a yew. Left there so long it died.”

 

When reading, he took a hand off the saddle as Kreacher had grown very still and managed to balance himself. He did it as a subtle sign for Ser James. Not an invite per se—just information. That he would not retaliate to an approach. That he would find comfort in it, if anything. 

 

Ser James, observant knight that he was, flickered with happiness and leaned on Kreacher. “Oh, A mystery piece?”

 

The jump he had made before, foot in the stirrup, face so close to Regulus’, was a horribly bold action. Regulus couldn’t see if he had regretted it afterwards. Regulus hadn’t lamented the fact that Ser James had done it, though. There was no other way of letting him know than by welcoming it again. 

 

“Yes.” He nodded, avoiding looking to his side where Ser James would be leaning casually and smugly against Kreacher's hip. Regulus” eyes trained on the book, “Scary too.”

 

“I don’t like scary stories.”

 

“I do. They have a type of picturesque one cannot find anywhere else. A picturesque that happy things do not have the beauty of,” Regulus went back to read, “the evergreen yew pulsed like a beating organ.”

 

Regulus scratched at the page, absorbing the words in all ways he could. Briefly, he could hear the puff of exhales from their horses, the low hum and nature. All the sounds that a night held funnelled into his ears; he tried to imagine everything and everyone that had ever been there because it felt right to do so for some reason. “Read me more?” Ser James said, after a thousand years of evolution, “It is only early.”

 

“It must be the middle of the night, Ser.” 

 

“Read? Please.”

 

“…I can’t, Ser” Regulus whispered.

 

“Why not?” Ser James whispered right back.

 

Their eyes met. Ser James was already looking. “I can’t, um. Get down.”

 

His polite smile twitched as though he was holding in a laugh, “You can’t dismount a horse. How did you get on?”

 

“I can get on!” Regulus whined, “I just can’t get off.”

 

“Ha.” A huge, toothy grin, “Get off.”

 

He blinked, “What does that mean?” And Ser James opened his mouth, but nothing was in the cave of his cheeks. Not even echoes.

 

“...Let me help you!” His hands outstretched to his sides. Regulus did not move, and Ser James sighed, “Regulus, please trust me. Do you want me to drop the sword?”

 

“Somehow, I think it would be safer for me if you kept it.”

 

He shook his head slowly, seemingly trying to convince himself of the situation. “How did you get off the last time?”

 

“I hold onto the tree and just.. Slide down.”

 

“Slide down.” Ser James held his hands to Regulus' waist and looked up, “May I?”

 

“I don't know.”

 

He pulled back. “How about you try yourself, and I will be here to catch you?”

 

“The embarrassment may be worse.”

 

Ser James sat around in thought before letting out a huge sigh as he kneeled on one knee, patting the other. Never short of ideas. “Flip onto your belly and slide down to stand on my leg like a step. The lacquered leather should make it easy.”

 

Regulus’ hands touched each side of the saddle. He took a breath before maneuvering himself to belly down, hanging like a limp carcass. It was far worse than hands on his waist—his hind in the air. Groaning, he slowly slipped down, stopping himself at every point despite his feet being mere inches from the thigh. He, of course, got stuck and had his hands locked around the saddle beside him, legs dangling off. James cruelly waited for Regulus to beg. 

 

“Please help.” He said with his eyes clenched closed, trying to keep his dignity, when Ser James took his waist into his hands and lowered him. He was practically already on the ground. 

 

Regulus crossed his arms when he found his footing, gnawing on his cheek nervously. “Bring him over to Prongs,” Ser James said sweetly and began to his own horse. After a few seconds, Regulus followed behind him, and Kreacher’s reigns in his hands. When the horse came close, Prongs neighed in a joy Regulus had never seen in an animal. They trotted around each other, and he dared to call it playing.

 

Ser James sat in front of the oak, gesturing Regulus to have a seat with a bark backing. The kindest gesture he had been given that night. The book was opened as soon as he got settled.

 

“The evergreen yew pulsed like a beating organ on Thursday’s Dawn until the weekday end. By Sunday, it had stopped. The bound body that had been writhing upon the branch skeleton had died by the time anyone had found it.” Regulus flicked the page, wondering if Ser James had grown bored yet. He was too afraid to check.

 

“It was identifiable. The only rupture of her purity was the light frost upon her nose and shoulders. The blue hue in her eyelids and the purpley-blackness of her nails and fingertips. She defrosted in the ground, but no one was there to see that. So she was remembered only as the frozen woman.”

 

“Soil molten laced,” Ser James mumbled as Regulus looked up urgently. “Mm, nothing, continue.”

 

It took him a moment to fall back into the rhythm, feeling foreign and strange. “Margorie Helene was born with the view from inside a womb, into the view from the inside of her home. She was a runt and accustomed to views from the underside of the leaf. She reasoned with herself, proclaiming that she was safe from the rain.”

 

He took a breath, “Swaddled in a chrysalis of cotton and slumber yearnings, The Thursday a year before her death began in bed.”

 

Ser James winced, “Cotton and slumber yearnings? That is not the common tongue at all.”

 

“Yes, I’m quite sure it is.”

 

“What does it mean?” He leaned forward, arms curled around his raised knees, hands clasped together, and thumbs fiddled against each other.

 

“Just that she is tired.” Regulus shrugged, waving the book around aimlessly, “She wishes for sleep and for her bed.”

 

“Why say it like that?”

 

“Why not? You do not read often, do you?”

 

“I could.” He decided, “If it always sounded as you speak it.”

 

Regulus blinked. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words wavered for a long moment before they stumbled out. “I just do not need glasses to read each word. They come out faster.”

 

“Ah.” He winced, holding his glasses protectively, “You wound me, Regulus.

 

“I do not mean to.”

 

“Yes, you do.” Regulus began to feel the distance between them. Ser James couldn't seem to decide on how much space he would respect; now, despite them being only a few feet away, it felt as though Ser James was across the field. “It is endearing, though. I enjoy that. Keep reading. It may put me to sleep.”

 

“Should I find offence in that?”

 

“You can’t; this is the trade.”

 

He raised a brow, “Oh?”

 

“I give you your books and maps, and you show me how they work.”

 

“ Show you how they work, ” he laughed. “It’s a book.”

 

Ser James flattened his legs so that his shoes touched Regulus very briefly. “I am just a dumb knight.” He knocked one foot, and Regulus jolted.

 

“I—I cannot argue with that. I always like to, um, to think you can see people in the books they read. At least see what type of person they are. Or what type of person they think they are…”

 

“What is it that you like to read.”

 

“Stories. Mostly. I’m my mother's child, so” It slipped out before he could tell himself it wasn't true. But Ser James did not know better, so he did not correct himself. He began listing off the books Narcissa had given him. “Normans Hymns, The Great Torrent Woman, Diseases of the Child.” In the last word, he yawned harshly into his palm and muttered a brief apology.

 

Ser James' face suggested he had heard none of those. “Cotton and slumber yearnings?” Regulus nodded with a slight smirk, rubbing his eyes.  “And if they don’t read? How do you see them?”

 

Regulus shut the book, laying it on his legs as he pulled his knees up, forcing distance between them again. “Remember what I said about acquaintances? I guess you would have to do that.”

 

“Travesty.” He smiled through every syllable, “Can’t think of anything worse.”

 

“Oh, there are worse things than my company.”

 

“I’m yet to find them.”

 

He wouldn’t deserve that , Regulus thought immediately, despite the fact that he truly did not know this knight. He knew that, at least. Mumbling lower than the noise of the wind, “I hope you don’t.” 

♛

BARTY CROUCH JNR

“Have you visited Monashire before?” 

 

Barty refused to reply. Evan had been pushing his pony forward with just the jolt of his body, gaining traction on the filly. His silence was long forgotten. Those tightly sewn lips found means to pass the time. Barty had begun to understand what began to understand Bagman's stench-breathed warnings of temptation, as he couldn't help but want to reply. But a criminal lies and his words are not worthwhile, no matter how dull the trip was growing. Perhaps the only truth Bgaman had ever spoken in his five hundred years in that realm—the old hag. 

 

The woodland trail was endless, and the trees arched over them with a looming eerieness.

 

“I’d assume you never left your court, a boy as proper as you.” Evan rambled. “Your voice is proper. No peasant inflection. An unusual lacking though, as if you put it on—”

 

“-I put nothing on.” Barty cut in.

 

“ ‘I put nothing on, ” he mocked 

 

Barty gritted his teeth. I spoke through the tooth-tight smile, “I did not wish to fight.”

 

“Oh, I cannot help it,” the boy pouted, “I am a criminal after all. No good thieving, poaching bastard.”

 

“Was that what you did?” Barty looked at him. “Thievery?” 

 

Evan pulled his chin to his throat and raised his brows. “I thought that it did not matter.”

 

He looked forward, searching for the horizon through the woods. “...It doesn’t.”

 

“May I ask you something, Barty crouch junior?”

 

Barty sighed, patience waning. “I assume you will anyway.”

 

And clearly, Evan expected that answer, as his question was ready on the very tip of his tongue. “What god is it that you worship?” 

 

He thought he might sigh again, the question having such an excruciatingly obvious answer.  “What other god can you worship while living off Godric's land?”

 

“He does not seem to align with your morals.” Barty tensed his jaw,  “Law and justice.”

 

“He does. It is what’s right.” He spoke through gritted teeth, a fake smile, reciting the words, “It is brave to do what’s right.”

 

“You know, I am from Godrics land too.”

 

Deadpanned, “Clearly.”

 

“I speak your language, worship your god. I look as any of you men on the court do. What difference is there between us?”

 

He laughed. Loudly. “A lot.”

 

“Can you name our differences? Why should I be locked in a cage while you feast on fine beef and sweet wine?”

 

Barty reigned his filly. He threw an excusatory finger at Evan. “You steal bread; you pay for the wheat and the yeast; you pay for the time to grow and the time to bake. You pay for the offence given to the seller and farmer. You serve time to pay that debt. That is our difference. You are serving time; I am not. There is a reason for your servitude. That reason is our difference. I am chelovek, you are prestupnik ”

 

His words began a scale of sound. Hurriedly becoming louder, “I am not from your court; I do not speak your language!” 

 

Barty pointed to himself, “Person”, and then to Evan, “Criminal.”

 

Evan flared his nostrils; his playfulness had wilted. “I steal bread, and I am no longer human. Language, religion, that does not matter. I bled like you. By your hand, actually. Do you think you are Godric? That you can decide when a man—sorry, a prestupnik shall bleed?” 

 

“You do not respect the law.”

 

A flash of movement caught Barty’s eye, “You do not respect me!” he narrowed his gaze onto it. It was too slow for a beast, too skinny and tall.  “Your logic is a flawed thing!” 

 

“Get behind,” Barty spoke calmly, watching for another movement

 

“Of course, just like court men to flee when given the truth.”

 

“No, No.” He reigned his Filly slightly, focused as his heart beat faster, “I do not jest, get behind. Bandits”

 

“Everything about you is a jest. Everything about your family—”

 

“Hush!” Barty held a hand up to Evan, letting it linger to prove the point. He pulled his horse into a slower walk than before, listening closely. The rustle of leaves–the clop of hooves against dirt and pebbles. Even the hop of hares and grazing of deers. He inspects each one, and they are all ordinary. He could've sworn. But with the snap of a twig, Barty whipped his head to the right, and the sight of a masked face within the woods was enough proof. He slashed the reigns against his Filly’s neck, “ Idti !” and they flashed into a gallop. Evans pony followed soon- forced by the rope that tied them together. 

 

He leaned forward, clenching hard around the saddle, feet forcing themselves down in the stirrup. As fast as wind, they fled. Barty looked behind him on occasion, perhaps to check for the bandits, perhaps to check Evan had not fallen. Every time he looked at the boy, whose hair was now wind-tossed and face fear-stricken, he felt the burn of the letter, now tucked in his sleeve. It burnt against his forearm and seemed to pulse with every look of Evan’s face.

 

It was not just for the safety of their supplies, the weapons Barty held, or the precious bags of galleons that had heavied the saddlebags. The thing on his arm and the thing saddled behind him was worth far more than Barty’s own life, in his opinion. They were the mean to an end called his father’s right hand. And it was a mean he was going to deliver. 

 

The eiderdown his Filly wore smacked against flesh, beating the same noise as when serving ladies slapped drying carpets against balcony fencing. The mail rang like a bag of coins. It was all synchronised beats–at least it became that. Even the way Barty rose and fell with each gallop, the times he would glance behind him.

 

They were far out of the forest by the time Barty slowed. The fields were far too open to be attacked in. Just mountains, grass and dispersed shrubbery. He lept off the horse, pacing around, letting out grunts of stress as all the panic shed off him. Barty bashed the heel of his palm into his forehead; an attempt to let out the frustration in a quieter way than the spurts of shouts he had done moments earlier. 

 

He stormed towards Evan’s pony, reaching for the restraints and undoing them, the short stature making it more manageable. Once free, he reached for the boy's collar, ripping him from the horse. 

 

“If i—If I say to hush, you shall!” Barty shouted as Evan stumbled down. He was heavy in his grasp. Words rocky and unsure, “If I say—”

 

“I shall!” his eyes were wide, and his hands up in surrender. “Good godric, I did not realise! I did not realize. Do not fret so harshly. You outran them.”

 

Barty shook his head, fist shaking around the doublet collar. He could not come down from his heart's rapid beating as quickly as Evan surrendered. “Bandits don't stray from the forest. I outran nothing.”

 

They stared momentarily, connected only by gaze and the hand that sat by Evan’s neck. “Do not discredit yourself so much, Junior,” he said blankly, eyeliner whipping from Barty’s eyes to his snarl. 

 

“Don’t call me that.”

 

“Sorry.”

 

Barty licked his lips, studying Evan’s sudden wane from the cocky jabber he was moments before. “I won’t let you be careless and get hurt.”

 

“Why?”

 

“You are special cargo. Fine meat. That is all. That is all you are.” Barty shoved him back and ran a hand over his face, exasperated, “You are meat! You are a trade! You have nothing except for yourself, so you had better stay alive, or I will kill you myself.” 

 

Evan stood idly, limbs lazy and eyes awkwardly averted. “I feel like I shouldn’t be apologising. But sorry.”

 

“No—You… I do not even care. I don’t! Evan, I do not know what you did or what they want with you.” He pulled up his sleeve, showing where he had bound the letter. “But I am to take this and you to Monashire. And I can bet anything is better than drinking ceiling drip water and grovelling in a wet-straw floored cage. It is in both of our best interests to keep you and this letter safe. There is no one without the other. This letter gets destroyed; I may as well kill you because I do not know what to provide lord lupin with if I do not have it. The same goes for you. Do you understand? I need you to understand that.”

 

“I understand there is no good option for me.”

 

“You plea, but there is not a much better option for a Prestupnik. Perhaps you will have the God’s blessings, and the letter is instructions to have you in his court.”

 

Evan stared, and Barty became uneasy with how sad the gaze was. No longer challenging, a simple and unmistakable solemness. Pressing his lips together, he whispered, “Perhaps.”

 

 

♗

 

 

The rest of that day's journey was no finer. The perversions of realisations were heavy and sagging on Barty’s body, like armour of metal and mail pulsating with heat and uncomfort on his skin. The year Barty’s mother died, his body felt similar. His soul simmered on a temperature that lay both boiling and freezing and somehow in the middle all at once. He had always edged slightly to the middle since that day, as much as swaddled himself in thick blouses and doublets to heat himself and ignore any chill. 

 

She had renounced any affiliation with Barty’s father. Somehow, death's suggestion had freed the words from her. Only the protection of death had freed her tongue from her husband. That alone was enough for Barty to flinch when he saw his father sitting in his usual seat the next day. He had not cried—at least Barty had not seen a tear—he simply became hysterical at the mention of her name, an angry, insulting hysterical. Banning the concept completely. Barty had no mother, according to his father, at least.

 

The journey was a dull silence once again. It had only been a single day, and night was nearing. He knew the town they were to stop in was only a short moment away, so he pressed on. Dusk would shelve itself until Barty had a meal by the hearth. 

 

“Hungry?” he asked, dullness ripping conversation from him.

 

Evan was bitterly silent. Barty turned around. He had his head hanging as if in slumber, body at the mercy of the sways his pony was making. He leaned back, hoping to catch some sun, some proof that the growing heat was the blistering light that hung in the sky and not his own looming conscience. But the sun was rolling on the horizon, and he could only feel wind and dusk air.

 

“Do not be dull, please.” He gritted into a moan. “Do you want me to apologise? Because I will not.”

 

Looking again, the same scene. Hair over his eyes, most of his face, really. The tip of his nose—a buttoned thing—peeking out.

 

“If you wish to eat, you will have to let me know. Or I’ll have you starve.”

 

“That is not very ethical,” Evan mumbled.

 

Despite his pathetic begging, Barty rolled his eyes and spoke as sarcastically as he could, “He speaks.”

 

“Speak to your ass. Even that is worth more than a Cavy.”

 

“Gods, what is that?” Bart threw out his arms, looking behind him again, sure he would strain his neck. 

 

“None of your concern.”

 

“You are insufferable.” He snapped

 

“Oh, we have that in common.”

 

Barty kissed his teeth as he whipped forward again. He closed his eyes, summoning any patience his father's act had given him and leaving it behind him, dropping crumbs in the beat of his grounding breaths. 

 

He thought of a kind bed. That meal he would have. They would stay in an inn. He would have to figure out how to restrain the prisoner. Tie him to a chair, to the wall. Something that could give him the peace of mind to have a night's rest. But truthfully, he knew he would be up each hour, holding a candle to Evan’s face to ensure he was not dreaming and the boy had not slipped out the window in the night. 

 

He wanted to rest now, he wanted to gallop to Monashire and finish his duties. He wanted to sleep in the inn; he wanted to sleep in his father's bed, upon his mother's grave.

 

Barty did not know what he wanted. When did he ever, though?

 

For short-term satisfaction, he decided he would sleep.

 

Barty did not take even a moment to explore when they arrived at the town. He followed the cobblestone streets past butchers and blacksmiths, through streets punctuated with oil street lamps, until he found the first inn. The pony and filly were cast to the stables, where they stood side by side, grazing on the fluffed yellow straw of their bedding.

 

Barty could not help but think of Evans' cell, pungent and mulched. The same bedding but dripping and soggy. How even the horses lived better than he. He must have committed a horrific crime. That was the only explanation. And it was the right one in his mind.

 

The saddlebags were strewn over his shoulder as he paid two galleons for a stay in a room. The innkeeper did not question the bindings around Evan as if it were every day. It could have been Barty had not left the court long enough to know what was normal.

 

The room was as expected. Quaint and yellow-lit. He dragged Evan towards a chair by the dining table—which was just a small side table and two wooden chairs— and wrapped the restraints around the backing. Tightening them far harsher than needed. 

 

“In all honestly, I’d like to go to the tavern, but I cannot leave you,” Barty mumbled as he pulled one buckle to its very last pinhole.

 

“Bring me.” He mumbled back.

 

“Unwise.”

 

“Unwise to get drunk on the job?”

 

Barty glared at him before pulling the strap as hard as he could, winding Evan, and then buckling it.

 

The boy coughed out, leaning forward. “I could have gotten you a meal,” Barty scolded, squaring in front of him, “but since I cannot trust you to stay still, we will both have to eat vegetables and sun-dried meat.”

 

“Better than gruel and mud wheat.”

 

Barty grimaced. “What is mud wheat? More of that foul porridge the guard had in your cell.”

 

Evan looked at him with a sneaky smirk, “ was that necessary ,” he mocked in Barty’s voice. The first time, he had acknowledged Evan.

 

Barty clicked his tongue, smacking the back of the boy's head. “Idiot.”

 

He was still snickering in the seat. “It is exactly what you stood on. Mud wheat.”

 

“What? The mulch?” Barty gagged, “They had you eat that?”

 

“Not to your standards, Lord Junior?”

 

Barty had no time to scold the jest as he felt far too sick. His stomach churned, and he grimaced at Evan. “That is foul, why did they do that?”

 

Evan leaned forward, “Because I am prestupnik,” and Barty glared, straightening and finding his seat on the other side of the table beside Evan. They both faced forward. He would have to light the hearth as the room had a sudden chilling flush. 

 

“You cannot make me feel guilty with your tricks. Bagman warned me of that.”

 

Evan opened his mouth in disbelief, “ He warned you of my tricks?”

 

Yes. 

 

Barty refused to meet his eye; he could hear the jests and laughs in his inflection alone, ““Boys like me, I’m guessing? Was he tricked by me? A boy like me?”

 

“…what, criminals?”

 

“Bagman is the sword swallower for that. Ha! Idiot’s Hypocrisy.” 

 

He looked warily, a brow raised, “You don’t like bagman?”

 

“He makes me eat wet straw; what do you think?”

 

“Oh Gods!” He spun his body to face Evan, groaning into the sky, “There is no word in the common tongue that I can describe him in.”

 

He mimicked Barty's turn, “Okay, how about another language? What is it you speak in your court?”

 

“Ministry Rech. The town speaks Common Rech. “

 

“Why must a court speak a whole different language to its town?”

 

“That’s just the way it is,” Barty shrugged.

 

“That is your explanation for many things. What is Bagman in Ministry rech?”

 

He narrowed his gaze before shaking his head, “I feel like I cannot speak it without a judgment on your part.”

 

“Perhaps. It does not matter. There is a word for him in every language; that is how common he is. I would say he was a floorboard creak.”

 

Bagman wa no common thing to Barty. He was a particular type of aggravating. It annoyed him that Evan did not think so. Still, he laughed.  

 

“All of you are.” Evan continued.

 

“No,” pointing, “You only think that because you are bitter, you lie in the cells beneath the floor. We are the only ones able to make it creek.”

 

“What a metaphor.”

 

“Are you hungry?”

 

“Are you going to feed me, or will you allow me the dignity of not having another man’s fingers in my mouth.”

 

Barty dug into his saddlebag and dropped the vegetable rations so they rolled across the small table. He threw the leather flask beside them, “You know I cannot indulge that.”

 

“Then no.”

 

“You know you will have to eat anyway.”

 

“I know.” Evan sighed. “But at least I have the knowledge that I denied it. Some shred of dignity.”

 

Perhaps it was too cold, and Barty was tired from the journey. Perhaps it was that recurring look of sadness on Evan's face that he would not have noticed was there if he had not shown every other emotion known to man. His heart reached as the curtains beside them billowed into the room. “Der’mo, ” he cursed, raising his head to pull the window doors shut and locking the latch. He combed a quick and mindless finger through the front of Evan's hair, fixing the mess the wind had made before taking his bag to the fireplace. He retrieved the flint and fire starter and went to work on the hearth. He sparked a small flame into the logs until it cultivated into a worthy fire.

 

After dragging Evan's chair with a horrific wood-on-wood screech to sit in front of it, he leaned close, intimating him with two hands on his legs for balance. “I will leave, and you are going to stay. You are not going to run. The room is too high up for you to climb out. I will lock the door. You will spend the rest of your life running if you somehow get out because I will chase you.”

 

Evan nodded slowly. “Are you getting proper food?”

 

“Yes. And maybe a goddamn drink.”

 

 

♗

 

 

It was that inciting incident, that solemn look on Barty’s face that had the two boys, much later in the evening, both on the chairs in the middle of the room, Barty’s feet on Evan's lap as they leaned back, bellies full of beans, roasted vegetables and meat, and dragons fire whisky. He had returned with a tray of the food and two large glasses. 

 

When they had finished the glasses, Barty pulled out his leather flask and, snickering, poured more into Evan's mouth. After a couple sips, he had become less inclined to spit at Barty when he tried to feed him a spoonful of the dinner. “You will be in so much trouble if this is how I escape. Sneaking whisky into your waterskin.”

 

“Do not tell on me, prisoner.” he hummed, leaning back in the chair with his eyes closed. They had been in guffaws for the better part of midnight, warmed by the still-strong hearth and the tavern food.

 

“I don’t think I will have the chance. I am to be a prisoner of Lord Lupin?”

 

“Is that what this is?” Barty’s head wrenched up; it was as heavy as a boulder. His legs were as weak as a twig. “Just from cell to cell?”

 

“It is what I can assume. Maybe some peace agreement—an offering?” He wondered what he would do if his whole body were not bound. Where would he be displaying his limbs? How would a man—a criminal act when given free rein, seduced under liquor. The first sip had been a long while ago by then, the taste becoming stale and dry in Barty’s mouth as he rambled out words that even he himself found slightly incoherent.

 

“No—no, we are already at peace with Monashire. They are aligned with the…the” he gestured a crown on his head, leather flask in hand and spilling slightly to the floorboards, “potters, the potters, and we are their lawmakers.”

 

“The Blacks have only been gone sixteen years. They ruled for hundreds. Everyone will be on edge about alliances for many more decades. Especially.” His chin fell to his chest, and he looked at Barty through his lashes, “ Especially , Junior, with them still being alive.”

 

He rubbed the sole of his shoe mindlessly against Evan’s doublet. Padded and proper. He would have to dress him for bed. If he could stand. “What do you mean?” He mumbled, eyes still on the contact.

 

“I mean the court full of house black that still lives and breathes every moment your great potters are ruling.

 

“My great potters,” Barty spat, “They are not mine; do not say it like that. Still, House Black’s dragons are dead. They are no threats.”

 

“Oh, so you do not believe the myths.

 

“What? That they themselves have a godly magic? No. Fire-proof and dragon whisperers? Tales.”

 

Evan closed his eyes and sighed. “Tales are rooted in truth. Every prophecy is bound to come true at some point, even accidentally.”

 

“Lucky there is no prophecy of a dragon-rider return.”

 

“How would you know? When do you leave your court?”

 

“I leave.” Barty pouted, “I do. I walk. Around the gardens.”

 

“ Call the guards; he walks around the gardens! ” Evan mumbled, chest bubbling with laughter. Barty pressed his foot into Evan's stomach, reprimanding him with the only energy he had left. He groaned out, and Evan only laughed harder. Vibrating against him.

 

“Do not laugh,” he meweled out in a whine. He threw his body forward with enough momentum to sit up straight and reach for his ankles, where he ripped the shoes off without even caring for the laces. He chucked them across the room and returned his feet to where they were. The vibrations rung ever truer. The thrilling conundrum of touch. Despite the barrier of socks and blouse and all that padding in Evan's shirt, he found himself cursing. “Do—Do not. I wish to be at Monashire already. My friends there.”

 

“You have friends?”

 

“I had a friend. Years ago. She was the ward for peace with Monashire. Dorcas.”

 

“Maybe you will see her.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“Gods, I’m tired.” Evan moaned.

 

Barty droned in agreement. “Thought Dragons fire whisky was meant to make people rowdy.”

 

“Probably. Not people who have been travelling all day.”

 

Barty curled in on himself, bending his knees and turning so his calves lay flat on Evan's thighs. “Would you be mad at me if we just slept like this? I do not have the energy to move either of us.”

 

“Out of everything that has happened, that is strange to ask if I would be angry about.”

 

“ Would you? ” he whined.

 

“No, junior. I think I'll be fine.” Barty opened one eye to see Evan already twitch, his head tilted back and eyes closed.

 

“You won't be mad?”

 

“No.” he murmured, “not tonight.”

 

The fire flickered out over ash and burnt logs.

♗

 

 

Chapter 7: Sirius | Narcissa

Summary:

“I think you would be good with a brother.” He spoke as kindly as he could, feeling as though Regulus deserved the softness. “I can see that.”

Regulus gave a smile. A subtle one with solemn eyes. “I guess we will never know.”

My intended told me of the prophecy he heard that night on his Honey Duke trail travel. We were rather close for a time; I relied on him, and he relied on me. But no love was attending; as much as I fool myself into thinking there was, it couldn’t have been while his memory of that travel, and the boy in it, kept him awake at night. 

 

- From ‘The Appendices: A Recount of the Fourth Realm’ by Lily Evans. 

 

SIRIUS 

Heat does not allow one to forget things. It all sits upon you like a muck of hot and sweltering moisture, clogging and curdling and retaining all irritable memories. 

 

Sirius was trying to forget Madame Trelawney's words. She was no older than he. Baby-faced with sun-parched skin. Perhaps from the back, her hair may have looked as white as a withered witch, but she was not. There was no reason to trust her. Seers, prophecies, all of it simply did not exist–at least according to the court. But the court also denied the magic of the Black House, and Moody did not. He trusted Moody, so he doubted the court.

 

Sometimes.

 

“With the great burning of an antlered stag,” he mumbled to himself, eyes closed, and head rested against a tree trunk. He scratched against it in thought. A fantastic pine no doubt splintering his scalp, weaving with his hair, “ With the great burning of an antlered stag, a dragon egg shall hatch.”

 

He feared he would picture a burning stag, only to open his eyes and see James before him. Anyone else would have been sure no one was there, with how harsh the sun beat on his cheeks in the dawn bask, but he knew the sun would simply run straight through his friend. It could be the dead of night, and he would feel the heat upon James’ shoulders. “With the great burning of an antlered stag.” Sirius enunciated each word with care, finding a rhythm. “A dragon egg shall hatch. A Dragon egg.”

 

He’d spent every day since that reading thinking about what it could mean. Each possibility in his mind ended with James and his bright smile hidden behind the light of a flaming pyre. He could whine at the thought—he could cry at the thought. He may bend over in his seated spot and belch at the thought.

 

When a stumble of pebbles ran across the gravelled soil, Sirius sat up, so distracted he did not even think to look for James. It was worse than what he could have imagined. A wolf-man stood tall, feet kicking the rocks as he walked. Sirius jumped to his feet, and the wolf-man noticed. The wolf was behind him, prowling with slow, careful movements.

 

He unsheathed his sword quickly, pointing it towards the man. “Stay back!”

 

He did not flinch. Scarred face completely idle. His eyes ran Sirius up and down, passing over each curve of his body. He raised his hands so slowly it was practically mocking. Entirely unthreatened. 

 

Sirius’ gaze flickered between the man and the campground behind him. Marlene was resting, Moody had left, and James had gone on one of the early escapades that he couldn't seem to stay away from those days. His voice was low, dribbling with a foreign inflection. “Ser James?”

 

Sirius dropped the sword to his side. “Oh. um.”  He scratched his head, unsure of what to say.

 

The wolf-man raised his brows, waiting.

 

“No.” Sirius shook his head. He rubbed the back of his neck, keeping his palm there.

 

“You know him?” The Wolf-Man's hands dropped to his side as well.

 

“Yes. Are you two… friends?”

 

“No. I am just looking for him.” Sirius stood as awkwardly as he had the whole time. The wolf-man waited for an answer. His breathes were slow. With each inhale, his chest rose, and all the deep scars upon it grew taut. His shoulders bore light freckling, a slick moisture, a cape of sweat. A stern face with a soft look. Still, he wore wolf-men garments and the scars of a wolf's claw. It was the first Southdon man he had ever seen. “So…? Where is he.”

 

Entirely foreign, Sirius had no shame in declaring that he had absolutely no clue what to do. How to act. What to say. He spoke the common tongue, and his lips did not slobber with saliva and snarls like the stories. They sat pursued and expectant. Plush and human. Even his teeth were blunt. White and pearlescent as though his mouth were an oyster, but blunt nonetheless. “I—I don’t think I should tell you.” He admitted.

 

The wolf-man sighed. He gestured to his face in large, circled movements. “The round glasses. Black hair, brown horse. Enormous shoulders,” Sirius nodded slowly. At that last comment, he would laugh at the thought of James’ smug face. “I saw him walk off with my friend. I am looking for them.”

 

“Ser—James. James was with a wolf?”

 

“And so are you. You have so much in common. Where is the knight?” He asked, annoyed.

 

“Knight?” Sirius actually smiled. “James has been lying to some wolf-maiden about his status.”

 

“It is a court boy.” The wolf-man cut in, “A very important one that I cannot let out of my sight. Surely you would understand.”

 

“I would understand?”

 

The wolf-man began walking towards Sirius, who stumbled back and held up his sword in return. The man walked until the tip pointed into his stomach. Arms out slightly, he looked down at the peirce and raised a brow, shifting it to the side with the flick of his hand. Sirius did not put up much of a fight. Maybe it was due to confusion. He did not feel like a true threat. Perhaps curiosity. “Drop it, please?” The man said, voice low and subtle. Human. Sirius waited. 

 

“ Please? ”

 

Sirius dropped the sword, cursing himself. If he were to die from that decision, he would have to find a way to haunt himself. Or perhaps haunt the wolf.

 

“You are a court boy too, yes?”

 

“Yes.”

 

The wolf-man held out a hand between them, palm up. Sirius had to look straight down to see it. Even the hand had thick scars trailing across it. Streams over veins as prominent as hills. “You’ll appreciate a court introduction, then?”

 

Sirius licked his lips, eyes darting between the hand and the boy's looming face. It would have felt less awkward and robust if he hadn't had to move his head so harshly to reach the two points. His hand rose and hovered close to the wolf-mans. Loup diseases rushed through his mind quickly. Anything he had read of the illnesses wolf-men may carry. Sirius read very little. And he was somewhat impulsive. He took the wolf's hand in his and shook. A tight, calloused grip. Leathery with wandering fingers. Sirius was sure to note all of those things. “My name is Remus.”

 

“ Remus .” He repeated, “Sirius.”

 

“Pleasure to meet you, Sirius.” He spoke as if he were giving an example—a light mockery of a proper introduction. Their hands continued to shake as they spoke. It was Remus who pulled away; Sirius almost chased the grip; it was so sudden.

 

“Have you met a Regulus?”

 

Sirius crossed his arm. And pursed his lips. Speaking as smoothly as possible, “Cannot say I have. Sorry.”

 

“Sirius,” he smiled, teeth only, “we have a problem here. I need to find that boy.”

 

“Why? What is a wolf-man doing with a court boy.” His head nipped up, and Sirius could have sworn he saw Remus flinch back momentarily. 

 

“What is your knight friend doing with my court boy, is the question.”

 

“Wolf–”

 

Remus cut in, “Calling someone something else, when they have given you a name, is an indefinite sickness.” 

 

“ Remus .” Sirius corrected himself, “I know nothing.”

 

He straightened, looking around, clearly eyeing the camp. Sirius noticed how his eye snagged on the stag-sigil shield leaning against a pine near his own tent. He tensed, thinking about Marlene asleep in the tent nearby.  “What are a couple of knights doing this close to the border anyway?”

 

“We are across the river. We are a long way away.”

 

Remus scoffed, “Only a ride away. Not far enough away for Regulus to find you, apparently. Or for your friend to find him.” His arms crossed, mimicking Sirius, and he walked around slowly. Remus took careful and concentrated steps. “Rather inappropriate for a knight of Griffin to be sniffing our border like a dog.”

 

He stormed up behind the taller boy. “Do not speak of him like that!”

 

Remus spun back around, face close to Sirius’. “And how shall I speak of your knight?”

 

“A bow would be adequate.”

 

He stared, pondering, eyes flickering between each feature of his complexion before a smile flickered across his face. “Is it not too hot for all of that?” he eyed the padded leather doublet, and Sirius placed a hand instictively over it, trailing fingers across the boiled leather, directing Remus’ eyeline. “We have a word for pompous boys of court, you know. Cocta .” Sirius’ eye twitched with how his mouth wrapped around the pronunciation. “It means boiled. So heavy with hot wealth that they slowly disappear into an invisible mist. Until, poof, they are nothing. Nil, Vale.”

 

They both blinked. One blinked in a smug expectance, one in annoyance. “ ...Calling someone something else when they have given you a name is an indefinite sickness. ”

 

He was taken aback. Sirius had already caught onto how physically he portrayed his emotions, body moving with each thought. The way he straightened his spine, the way his left cheek rose with the push of a slight smirk. He was surprised. “Sirius, was it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Help me out? Please? Don't you want to know where your friend is?

 

Sirius bit his lip. Remus raised his eyes, mouthing, please . Sirius groaned. “Get on your wolf; I've seen where he walks off too.” He called over his shoulder, “Marlene!”

 

Remus squinted. “Marlene?”

 

After a few seconds, Marlene crawled out of the tent, moaning some incoherent blubbers about how she was moments away from slumber when Remus caught her eye. She dipped back unto the tent—which was actually James’ and Sirius’— as quick as a blink and retrieved the sword. Marlene looked between the two boys, eyes wide, yet the sight of them casual and calm next to each other dimmed her spark. So confused, she looked simply upset. She threw her arms out and whined,  “ What? ”

♘

“He has been spending these days lying around the border.” Remus was talking from his wolf beside Sirius and Marlene, “quite literally. Sometimes, he curls up beside a tree, lying on the floor, sort of just waiting. Every time I find him, he stands up suddenly and urges us to walk back to the tents. Then sneaks right off later.”

 

Remus explained his curiosities to them. How only the day before, he had gone to the border, knowing Regulus would be there, and saw him sitting cross-legged, fiddling with his fingers and gazing up. His horse grazing nearby, Remus had stepped away only a moment, and when he returned, Regulus was gone along with his horse.

 

“Kreacher?” Sirius laughed when he was told. “Stupid name for a horse.”

 

“And what is your horse called again, Sirius?” Marlene asked.

 

“Scobe is perfectly fine.”

 

“Oh,” She laughed, “and Padfoot?”

 

“Who is Padfoot?” Remus asked. His wolf did not have reins or any of the intricate saddling of a horse. He gripped plain grey fur. The wolf was a mythological type of large. As large as an overgrown pony. An ample of blesh and bones and menacing horrors in the form of an animal. But to see it conquered underneath, a man changed that. It walked in coherence with how Remus tagged him. Its paws fell elegantly, poised and in perfect accordance with its rider's commands. “Tardus.” he would whisper under his breath when the wolf trotted too far, or “salve” when his wolf's snout turned away, distracted. Despite the monstrous form, Sirius could see something elegantly beautiful about the beast. Moon-shaded fur and a regal stance. 

 

“My wolfhound,” Sirius answered.

 

“You have a wolf? Where is he?”

 

Sirius smiled. Of course, that would intrigue him. “Wolf Hound . I have a dog. He is probably asleep back at camp—the lazy bastard.”

 

“I like you more, knowing you have a wolf.”

 

Of course you do , he thought. “Hound! Godric, I should have called for them. Harry could sniff James out better than I.”

 

“Better than me?” He challenged, still facing forward as they travelled. Sirius glared, urging him to look, “Thought I was a wolfman?”

 

“I don't think you can smell anything out of that nose, Remus; it looks like it's been broken too many times.”

 

He whipped his head towards Sirius, who smiled at the victory, “ Ks ,” he scolded, “shut yourself, Cocta.”

 

“Oh, I’m right?” He grinned as Remus’ nose was scrunched. It was just an assumption. The scars trailing over crooked bone.

 

“You probably have not thrown a punch in your life.”

 

“I do not need to. I have a sword.”

 

“And when you are found without it? What then?”

 

Sirius held his chin high and proud. “I run.”

 

“I chase, what then?”

 

“ I chase, he says, ” Sirius mocked in a jester's voice, “Okay, I out chase you.”

 

Remus stared for a moment before looking straight ahead once again. His body moved in accordance with the wolf. He held his chest high and proud. “You speak like him. It’s strange.”

 

“Who? Your Regulus?”

 

“Who’s Regulus?” Marlene spoke up from beside Sirius. He barely caught it—eyes trained on the strong bump of Remus’ nose bridge. The small incision-like dip of where the scar followed.

 

“Yes. You speak how he does when he is offended, except you do it all the time.” Sirius gaped in the offence. 

 

“ Regulus Regulus .” She muttered to herself, “Do we know a Regulus?”

 

“Well, Can you explain to me then how a court boy came to stay with wolf-men?” He shot at Remus, “I’ve never heard of a trade between Loup and courts.”

 

A laugh, loud and obnoxious, “Ring the bells; Sirius has not heard of something, so it must not exist.”

 

“Oh I would love to hear you say that it is a normal event for a court boy to live with wolfmen.”

 

“Regulus. Re-gu-lus . I think he delivers my haystacks. Regulus. Or is that Reginald?”

 

Remus glanced at him briefly. Their eyes caught, his bored and Sirius’ waiting before he looked forward once again. Indecisive , Sirius thought. “I didnt say that.” Remus huffed, “I think it’s best we don’t discuss this. You care for your business, and I mine.”

 

“It’s simple curiosity.” Sirius leaned closer, scobe following his movements until he and Remus were far closer than before. As close as they were at the camp, “Can you not entertain a man?”

 

“No, it’s Reginald. Reginald with the beard and the wife.”

 

Remus pressed his lips into a thin line, “I mean, were you tasked with protecting him or something?” Sirius pressed. “Is that why you are running past borders looking for him?”

 

“I’m sure you know how incapable you court folk are.” He said low and gruff.

 

Sirius stared—studied. Remus was reserved and taken aback. Something stuck in his throat. He wondered who this ‘Regulus’ was to him. The thought irked him. He knew jealousy well—this wasn’t it. He was sure of it. He knew the simmer of heat in his stomach and the coldest of his palms that could only be warmed by curling them into a blanket of a fist. He felt it each time James jested with Frank or Tonks. When he duelled with other boys. Other possible brothers. Ones that were cleaner and quicker than him. With straight, short hair. He knew of the whispers of ‘soft hair’. 

 

They would whisper a kind-sounding term when a man had what the court deemed a woman's lock. Hair that meandered in womanly curls like Sirius’. It was why so many styled their own under hats or in blunt cuts. Sirius always had thought the hats, velvet and boisterous, were much more ladyish than any hair could be. His hand touched his curled hair briefly before it darted back to the reins. There was no jealousy there. He had grown out of such a trait in his youth. “No. I do not buy it.”

 

“He is special.” Sirius raised his brows, waiting for a true answer. “And a target to certain people.” 

 

Satisfied, Sirius pulled back, spine straightening on his horse. “Godric, it sounds like you are talking about the Prince.”

 

“You could say that.” Remus jested, “Just don’t want to see anything happen to him. He never said anything wrong; it wouldn’t be fair.”

 

“What a big heart for a wolf” and

 

“A keen mind for a noble.”

 

“Regulus like the fish?” Sirius looked at Marlene, finally indulging her questions.

 

“Marlene, I’ve never heard of that before.”

 

“It means kinglet in my language, you know.” Remus said. 

 

“Kinglet?”

 

“A minor, petty king. Also, a type of small but frantically energetic  bird,”

 

Sirius chuckled, “Would that describe him?”

 

“No.” he laughed. Weight and memory behind the noise, “Not at all.”

 

They continued the ride scattered between silence and conversation. Jabs of insults and the occasional restraint chuckle. They walked west along the river. Sirius and Marlene followed the grass match that bordered it while Remus’ wolf trailed along the rock beach. It was hypnotising in a way. How the wolf's muscles rolled as he walked, slumped over and tired. How Remus mirrored him. Strangely, they both had nicked ears.

 

He had speculated thoughts on where James was running off to and had grown rather offended at the boy's lack of trust in Sirius to tell him. He saw how he left the tent at night; he was not very subtle. Sirius often slept curled right into his friend or just with his limbs splayed erratically on the bed of James’ body. So it was hard not to wake Sirius when he grabbed his glasses in the dead of night and rushed off with Prongs.

 

Though secluded and private gatherings with another boy were not something he would have guessed. Even with the confirmation of their meetings, Sirius knew his brother was no cavy. He saw him stare at the fire-red hair of women in court. A keen relishment of redheads, as Sirius often teased him. They were boys together, so they spoke of their desires in courtships. He knew verbatim the company James desired to keep. 

 

Under blankets, with a candle between them, warmth flickering on their young cheeks, they shared. Even Sirius fabricated a woman. Sandy-haired, the colour of the coast, he had said. Stoic and strong—but he added lady-like in there for good measure.

 

Because Sirius knew what he was, he could tell it was something James was not. The prince was no Cavy. Sirius was not like the prince. It may be the most bothersome thing he would never be. 

 

Sirius’ stomach had begun to rumble for their lunch when Remus spoke for the first time in a few minutes. “Tell me, Sirius. This Ser James…It was the man in a horrendously crimson vest?”

 

“Doublet, yes.” he mumbled, chin on his chest and eyes closed, completely tired and hungry.

 

“And the crazed hair and glasses? “

 

Sirius nodded, “Yes.”

 

So is that him right there, dead by the river?”

 

He shouted out, head whipping up, “Dead!?”

 

Sirius squinted to see a boy. A boy he had never seen before with wide eyes and a scrunched face. He whipped the reins into a gallop—The closer they rode, the clearer he could see that those eyes were not shocked; they were rather bored, actually. The wideness was credited to just how round they were. 

 

He kicked a body below him, and Sirius, practically on instinct, threw himself from his horse and ran towards them; Marlene followed soon. 

 

“Get off my brother!” Sirius shouted and shoved the boy, who stumbled back into the shallow river with a splash. Cold water spattered back into Sirius’ face. As he regained his footing.

 

“Sirius!” He looked down. James had sat up and began crawling to the river's edge, where he tried to fish the boy out. It was not received well, as he pulled back the arm James reached for and found his own stance. 

 

He dropped with water. Sopping wet. His blouse stuck to him and faded from the crisp white to sheer cotton. “You ass!” He shot at Sirius. “You get in there now!”

 

“What?” Sirius sputtered.

 

“You get in the water! Eye for an eye.”

 

Sirius cast his gaze down to James, who was just standing up, looking between the two boys, “I thought he was hurting you.”

 

Looking now, The boy, as angry as a drowned rodent, could not hurt James. What muscles the hugeness of his sleeves suggested evaporated as the cotton now stuck to his money frame. “Ha, you should take his glasses. Blind-bat brother.”

 

“Godric who spat in your chalice.” Sirius sneered.

 

“I don’t know; I swallowed far too much to tell when you pushed me into the water!”

 

“Regulus!” 

 

His eyes widened properly. Like two large moons. “Remus?”

 

“Marlene,” James dropped his jaw.

 

“Ha! Regulus like the fish.” She smiled and pointed at the dripping boy.

 

Regulus looked around, confused and judging everyone's expressions to the comment. “Was that a jest?”

 

 

♘

 

Regulus had decidedly refused to bare skin informs of the griffin boys. He did not have to proclaim it; Sirius could tell by the insistence that he stay in his disgustingly dripping blouse and wolf-man trousers. 

 

So, as Remus hung his river-soiled garments on a tree to dry, Regulus sat in James’ clothes. Black trousers, a white blouse—far less frilled than his own—and a doublet that he had thrown off almost immediately, sitting on it to avoid the staining soil. James instead sat in only his undergarments, very bold and legs spread as he relaxed against a rock by the river. Regulus sat far away from the water, devoured by fabric far too big for him. It almost relieved Sirius, this man's appearance. 

 

“You cannot run off. Fenrir asks for you. I say you are sleeping, but I cannot say that forever.” Sirius heard Remus mumble to Regulus on the other side of the tree, as he helped James remove his clothes. 

 

“I do not want to fight. Ser James does not make me fight, so why do you?”

 

“I do not make you do anything.” He muttered, frustrated.

 

“Yes, you do.”

 

“You are acting like a child.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“Yes—”

 

“Nuh-uh.”

 

“ Regulus . You meet a boy and lose all rationality. I am not going to stop you. But you tell me if you do this, you tell me when you leave. I need to know.” There was a silence before Remus spoke again, rather sternly, “Regulus!”

 

“Yes! I know.” he conceded, “I will, I'm sorry.”

 

“...Fenrir asks for you. Do you understand? He is easier to handle when you simply obey. What is one fight a week?”

 

James and Sirius looked at each other, just as confused as the other. “Brothers?” Sirius mouthed, and James shrugged.

 

Sitting by the river, Sirius asked Regulus questions. He had determined how the two had met, what they were doing, and also the case of a certain missing map. 

 

It was all coincidence, James had said. They bumped into each other on the border, and Sirius slapped him on the back of his head for even nearing Loup. Then, circumstances had them seeing each other more. Trading books for time.

 

“He cannot read.” Regulus said. His voice smooth and young. Griffin inflection. Sirius squinted, taking the boy apart with a gaze. Raven curls, a sweet face. No place with the wolf men. Staring at Regulus beside Remus almost gave him whiplash. 

 

“I can! I just do not care to do it myself. I like to listen—” 

 

“Regulus, where are you from?” Sirius questioned.

 

Regulus' mouth opened, a silent inhale and a pause. “So this is Remus!” James cuts in, slight panic in his voice. He glared at James, speaking through sight. James simply grinned his everyday grin and rubbed the back of his neck. “Regulus told me all about you!”

 

“What did he say?” Remus said cautiously, eyeing Regulus, whose face held no emotion.

 

“Just that he had a friend who loved to read. I hope you like the book I gave him.”

 

“That was yours?” He raised his brows, “Regulus told me he found it at the bottom of his saddlebag. I wouldn’t take you for a reader.”

 

“A casual liar.” Sirius sang, nodding and taking notes in his mind. 

 

“You are a casual ass.” Regulus retorted so quickly Sirius’ face stumbled, eyes widened. So swift it was as if he were waiting to insult Sirius. He couldn’t help the laugh that he coughed out.

 

Regulus’ face was a forest of scowls, of outraged offence and surprise. “St—” he choked out a laugh as well, which only fueled Sirius’ chortles. “St–op,” He giggled. “ Stop ! Hush!”

 

He threw up a finger, then an open palm, a signal to hush Sirius, whose hands covered his mouth, enclosing his humour. It didn't hide the sounds of the erratic movements of his shoulders. Regulus threw his hands to his eyes, covering them with the largest grin Sirius had seen him give. He seemed to be straining it to pull it down into a frown instead but could not.

 

“ Do not look at me .” he whined. James, who was on his other side, leaned over and took a wrist in his palm, fingers wrapping all the way around and then some. He pulled one hand from Regulus’ face so his eye peeked out, pouting and pitiful. James gave him the brightest smile, and the gripped boy cocked his head in an even deeper mewl.

 

Sirius’ breathing slowed. To the naked eye, James would seem more Cavy than any of them, with how he held and stared at the boy. “Isn’t he an angel?” James joked to Sirius, nodding to Regulus, hand still grasping his wrist. It did not feel like a joke. He caught Marlene’s eyes, which was already speaking to him with a wide-eyed stare.

 

“I wouldn't say that.” He said, chest still throbbing from the laughs. 

 

“You are his brother?” Regulus asked, peeling James’ hand away with his free one. James put it back into his lap, a straightened posture and eager waiting. Sirius could practically see a tail wagging behind him.

 

“Yes. Adopted.”

 

He looked between them, almost flinching at how close he realised James was. Regulus put a hand on his shoulder and pushed the boy back. “Which of you?” he addressed Sirius.

 

“Me. My parents were lost in the war.”

 

“Mine too. He is not your cousin or—?”

 

“No.” It itched Sirius deep under his skin. No relation. Simple luck. Lumps grew under his skin when he thought of that truth. He grew into a beast of all irregularities. 

 

Marlene began to moan about her hunger, and Sirius suddenly remembered the noises his stomach made on the journey. Remus clicked her over, striding to the rive, with James following suit as he showed them how to strike a palm into the water and come up with a fish. He did it once, a grand silver-scaled creature in his hand, writhing and flapping, only to throw it back in, despite Marlene's screams to not and insist they do it themselves.

 

Marlene soon ended up on his hands and knees, becoming very personal with all the fish. James clutched his belly in laughter as one particularly wriggly fish's tail splashed water straight into her mouth.

 

It was strange to sit there. Somewhere in the south-west of west country, by the riverline. At the start of that year, he had been blanketed in all his sleeping furs, huddled by the hearth and moping of the cold. As if summer came in a sweltering dream, he was suddenly under a sun so warm it could be Loups. It felt like it would only be a pinch of time—something he could not return to as he woke up. 

 

Regulus sat beside him, cross-legged and proper. Not exactly beside—but next to him. A proper distance away. “Do you have any portraits of your family? Do you remember them at all?” 

 

He gave a dry laugh, then retracted it, knowing it was unfair to mock the question when Regulus knew nothing of the history behind the jest. “I…I was one when the war ended; I do not remember living anywhere other than the court.”

 

“No portraits?”

 

“None. No trace at all. You?”

 

“My mother.”

 

That was what turned Sirius’ head. It was not his muscles but the sheer grip of those words. That one word, more precisely. He had the urge to ask for her face. How her hair curled and how her gaze felt, even if it stared in oil paint and brushstrokes. The skeletal and tall woman bore a shadow across Sirius’s back and in front of him like a hallway rug. “Is it nice? Knowing…Knowing why you look how you do? O–Obviously, we all know why we look how we do, but having the evidence staring back at you.”

 

“I think…I never knew her, so there is nothing for me to miss, but I would die for the ability to miss her. It would be better than yearning.” He glanced at his hands, fingers fiddling in his lap, “Sorry. That was improper.”

 

“No, no.” Sirius shook his head, shifting slightly closer. “Speak to me. I want to hear.”

 

“I do not look much like her. She was bony.”

 

Sirius laughed, glancing at Regulus’ appled cheeks, his childish face. “No relation there.”

 

“You are a funny man.” He deadpanned.

 

He smiled, and they sat in that silence, staring at the river. The three continued to fish. Remus groaned, and Marlene threw herself against the river like she was wrestling. James stumbled around as if he had lost his glasses. Sirius thought he looked nakedr with no spectacles upon his nose than he had moments before when he was lying around in just his undergarments. “Thank you for telling me that.” he said after a while.

 

Regulus scowled, brushing him off with the flick of his wrist, “Do not be gross.”

 

Chuckling, “I have a neck strain from how quickly your emotions change.”

 

“I'm not usually like this.”

 

“What are you usually like?”

 

Sirius looked at Regulus, and Regulus looked at the river. Regardless of their conversion, Regulus retorted to the comfort of that. “I do not laugh like I did.

 

“Is that just from a vow of silence?” He asked, a slight jabbing humour to the question. “A refusal to have fun?”

 

Regulus shook his head slowly. “No one makes me laugh.”

 

“No one tries?”

 

“No… just nobody does.”

 

An ear-splitting yell brought the presence of the other three back. More splashes and play. “James?”

 

Regulus smiled, gaze shifting between Sirius and the group in the river, “He has enough laughs for all of us.”

 

“Does he make you laugh?”

 

Regulus looked at him.“What are you really asking?”

 

“...are you? Do not take any offence when I ask you this because I will not judge.”

 

Regulus blinked, turned back forward, and Sirius eyed the curve of his profile. The slope of his nose. “Should I remind you that we do not know each other, Sirius?” He spoke not coldly but honestly. Even monotone, his voice was soft and unthreatening. “We have never met before, so I have no reason to answer your questions honestly.”

 

“I’d appreciate it? Orphan to orphan?"

 

“I have…I have an aunt… and an uncle.” He recounted, “I have cousins, and my cousins have husbands. I am barely an orphan. I have a family.”

 

“Everyone who misses someone is an orphan of some kind. Longing orphans us. ”

 

“Longing orphans us.” Regulus repeated. He put his fingers to his lips, “ Longing orphans u s. I think longing brings people together. A longing for something, for others.”

 

“What do you long for?”

 

Regulus sighed, bringing his knees to his chest and resting his chin upon them. He curled into himself, laying his head upon the underpart of his cheek. “What was your question? The one you mentioned before.”

 

“Oh. You—how old are you?”

 

“So much build-up for such a shallow question.” he chuckled. 

 

“How old?” Sirius pressed on. 

 

“Sixteen.”

 

“Have you been courted yet?”

 

“What?” His face scrunched up, and he turned his head very slightly so that he could see Sirius, but he would have to strain his eyes. His hair had begun drying under the sun, still as raven, dry as it was wet. “Like marriage?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He thought. Pondering. “It has never even been mentioned to me. None of that has.”

 

“You are interested in women, then?”

 

“I'm sixteen; I'm not interested in anyone.”

 

“You are a boy; you should be interested in everything at that age.” He was trying to tread carefully, the topic rather important to him. The real answer he was trying to wring from Regulus was as though he were a drenched cloth over a basin of dirtied dishes.

 

“At that age? You are my age.”

 

“Seventeen, actually.”

 

“ Seventeen, actually. ” He mocked, “I don't know. I could be. I've never really met anyone outside of my family. I do not know what I like.”

 

“You have to leave your family to know what you truly like—at least, that's what people say.”

 

“I do not think so. If I had the option to stay with my mother forever, I would. I would be content with never leaving my house.”

 

Sirius raised a brow. “Clearly not content enough. Far away from home?”

 

“You could say that.”

 

A whisper of whined whispered through the grass, a sonorous tapestry of wildflowers swayed in the warm breeze. Dragonflies darted past them to the river, readying their legs to land upon the vegetation that sprouted from the water's surface. The sun bathed them. Hues of gold and heat. It grew so warm that Sirius almost stood up and joined the others in the river. Almost.

 

His wariness would not subside from a few relatable remarks. Sirius, out of everyone, knew the dangerous mystery of someone who did not know where they had come from. “You say you could stay with your mother forever. You have never met her, though?”

 

“Uh, I was born the day the war ended,” Regulus said, scratching the shell of his ear. “The moment I was born, my uncle took me. It is not just that I do not remember her. I truly never met her.”

 

“Even then—”

 

“Even then. I am sure of that.”

 

“Decisive.”

 

He snorted. “Barely…. Barely.”

 

Silence again. Sirius would puncture it each time it made itself present. “...my mother haunts me, I think.”

 

“Godric,” Regulus said, exasperated, “I wish I had that privilege.”

 

 And Sirius laughed, “I wish I wanted it in the way you did.”

 

“Ah,” he clicked his tongue, waving Sirius off, “We always wish what we do not have. We resent what we are granted. We hate the soil we are grown in. That is how life grooms us. It is up to you to snip the leash.”

 

“I understand the poet's sleeves now, Regulus.”

 

He buried his face in his knees, a button nose between the two caps.“Sh. Sh. I'm tired of talking now.” he was muffled, although his voice never usually raised above a muffle, except when he was shouting at Sirius.

 

“Okay. I can be silent. Despite what James says.”

 

“No, don't.” still muffled, “Narrate something. You speak.”

 

“About what?”

 

He turned his head, resting his temple upon the knee, “I've never had a brother. Tell me what that's like, I think.” 

 

No brother. He glanced at Remus. Sirius wanted to press for his original question but could not even say it to himself. He knew what it was, though. There were many things other than that he wanted to ask. The obvious question is what a boy like him was doing in a place like that. Fenrir asks for it; what is one fight a week ? Fenrir became a faceless shadow in his mind. 

 

“ Hm ,” Sirius articulated his deep thought, then lay back, hands behind his head in a pillowy cradle. “It creates the worst thing in the world. You realise what life is like with a brother, so you can never go without one.”

 

“Sounds horrible.” Regulus was now staring at him, straining his neck to have sight of Sirius.

 

“I've known you not even an hour, and I already know that sounds like your absolute dream. The greatest thing for you.” He rolled his eyes, looking forward. Sirius knew the story he would tell. It came to him like it had been sleepily curled around the tip of his tongue for years. “One time, I slipped into a creek and cut my head open. It wasn't fatal, but the amount of blood would make you think it was. I landed on my back with my head in the water and was lying there. I did not know what to do; I was sort of comfortable, strangely. I heard James; he was looking for me, and all I could do was let out a feeble help. I could not even count one sickle before I felt my body lifted and thrown over his shoulder. He ran back to the court screaming for help, and I remember thinking rather smugly, wow, all I had to do was whisper the word, and I'm getting the royal treatment. I passed out straight after that, though, and woke up in my bed, my head bandaged and James asleep, arms wrapped around me, face in my neck, dribbling all over my shoulder like a dog. Disgusting. “

 

It was not out of the ordinary. Many a serving girl had walked in to see the two boys whispering hearsays under sheets with a candle between them or puled upon each other in a fit of snores after an especially long day with Moody, but they had shared beds since they were infants. It was nothing strange. Neither boy questioned when the other would retreat to their room, the door locked as they grew. Unspoken and accepted. Sirius was glad for it. He never entertained the thoughts of other men in his own chambers. There was something disrespectful about that. To whom he wasn’t sure. James, possibly—Fleamont definitely. 

 

Anything shameful to Sirius lay only behind him in the mirror in the form of a looming ghost, or outside of court walls, exhausted, clothed and kneeling.

 

‘What did you do?” Regulus whispered.

 

Their eyes met. Sirius had not noticed he’d been staring. “I turned towards him, hugged him back and fell asleep.”

 

“Gross…”

 

“I think you would be good with a brother.” He spoke as kindly as he could, feeling as though Regulus deserved the softness. “I can see that.”

 

Regulus gave a smile. A subtle one with solemn eyes. “I guess we will never know.”

 

Sirius stared at him, blinking for a little while. The playful sounds of splashing and giggles were only echoes in his ear. 

 

“You should go with James. The water was not too cold. I’ll be fine alone. I like it.” Regulus was looking straight ahead at the river once again. Clear aversion to eye contact. Sirius followed the thing his eyes were caught on. James jumped in the water, a fish in his hands above his head. “I caught one!” He shouted. “Look!”

 

“James, that one was already dead—you cannot eat that.” Remus pulled the decaying fish from his hands.

 

He groaned, “It's sustainable!”

 

Sirius laughed. James was never able to hunt with confidence. Not due to a lack of skill but a love for animals.

 

Marlene held up her fish, shoving James to the side, a great sage trout. She was completely drenched, her hair fallen from her horsetail and stuck to her face. “Tonight, We feast!”

 

♘

 

 

NARCISSA MALFOY

 

When Narcissa was first promised to Lucius, she was ecstatic. Of course, she was. She was a young sixteen and had the imaginings of a prince riding on a white horse to meet her. Lucius was just that. 

 

The family stood outside the court the day he was to arrive from Hill Rock. Narcissa was dressed in her very best silks and beads. Hill rock gemstones hung from her ears and neck and weaved into her plaited hair as a sort of gift to her future husband. A way to honour his place of birth. She has a modest, ribbon-corsetted bodice and the thickest skirt she had ever worn. Cuffs that faltered all the way to the floor and more layers than her sleeping fur in the dead of winter. 

 

Regulus was eleven then. They had given Narcissa a fox skin to wrap around her arms like a shawl, and instead, she had given it to Regulus to play with by her feet as they waited. He was very silent then and had only found voice in much more recent years. Besides the hope for a knightly prince, she also hoped Regulus would like this Lucius. She decided he had to, or the marriage could not work.

 

It was everything she had dreamed of when he arrived, riding past the sunrise. A white stallion, proud and swelling with strength and muscle. The man above it was adorned in silver armour; waterfalls of stark blonde hair fell from the confinement when he removed his helmet. They cascaded like streams of water and shone upon his shoulders. His cape was embossed with the imprint of a writhing snake, the fabric green. Narcissa, the young girl she was, immediately fell in love with him. She had never known love before, so she did not know what it felt like. But she decided then and there that this was her great love. Her very own prince. 

 

The wedding was a grand event. It was held in the main hall. Lord and Lady Longbottom sat behind the altar on their risen seats, and Narcissa wore green instead of black, a symbol of her changing houses. It was a wholly silk drapery. The train ran far behind her, and her hair was wrapped in snakeskin. In her vanity mirror, as serving girls tightened the wrap around her blondeness, she remembered recounting how wrapping one's hair in scaly dragon sin was a Black House tradition. She wondered if the Malfoys took it from them. 

 

They had painted her face with colours that she had only ever worn on her body. Black around her eyes and crimson as dark as blood on her lips and cheeks. They pulled strands to her forehead, slipping them from the wrap to frame her face. 

 

“Have you seen Andromeda?” She whined to the ladies, touching her face with pigments and jewels.  “I must see what she is wearing, or she will arrive in men's attire, and Lord Lucius will never marry me!”

 

“He is no lord.” Narcissa whipped her head to the door, the wet paint being painted upon her eyelid smearing. 

 

“Andy! You ruined my eyes!” The ladies around her promised to fix it, hurrying around her. Andromeda strode in. 

 

“His parents are not even lords anymore; the Malfoy house lost all their power in the war. They are simple members of the carrow court.” She was dressed in exactly what Narcissa had asked for her not to be. Brown pants tucked into riding boots. A billowy blouse—not even fitted! 

 

“Andromeda, I swear to our dar Godric, if you do not change—”

 

“I shall, I shall.” she stood beside her, so they both stared into the vanity mirror. “I would not try to hurt your special day ever, despite what you believe.” Andromeda turned to the other girls with a smile, “Have some time off; I can help her.”

 

They all nodded and bowed with thanks, scurrying off. Andromeda reached for a fur pad from the vanity and began blushing it against Narcissa’s cheeks. Narcissa stared; two grown women of sixteen.  “You know,” she said after a while, “In the days of old, a man had to gift something invaluable…something worthy of a Black in order to marry one. What did this Lucius bring?”

 

“We are not in the days of old anymore.” Narcissa huffed childishly. It was true, though. She had heard of gifts as large as kingdoms, as armies of a hundred thousand men, of as much gold to build mountains. Hundreds of years ago, Herbert Burke, a nobleman from the east, gifted Belvina Black three dragon eggs that his family had somehow come across generations before. In the days of old, marriage to a Black was as valuable as the eggs of the most feared creature in all of Godrics history. It held more power. 

 

“I am sure he gave what he could, Narcissa.” she stared at her work momentarily, brushing extra powder off Narcissa’s diaphanous skin with her fingers. “He is rather handsome, isn’t he? Like a real prince. Exactly what you deserve—a real prince.”

 

Narcissa smiled. Patting the skin-sheathed, “I hope he likes the dress. I wanted white.”

 

“Who wears white to a wedding?” Andromeda snickered.

 

“It would have matched my hair so fondly. His too.”

 

She scowled. “Do not remind me; it is strange that the only Black not having dark hair in a millennium is to marry someone just as blonde as her. You two look as related as our ancestors.”

 

“Hush! Do not be inappropriate.”

 

Andromeda smiled, and the room grew silent. 

 

“What of regulus?” Andromeda whispered.

 

She monitored how Lucius and Regulus spoke, wanting a connection. Perhaps a brotherlike relationship. And she decided it was a good thing when Regulus, in his small frame, would carry trays around for Lucius. Holding his lettering stationary for him and retriveing any goods he asked for. She never saw them really talk, just the occasional pat on the head and an execution of her husband's bidding. He called for a ‘ Lu ’ and Regulus, with his short legs came running, eyes on Narcissa.

 

“They get along well enough. He does what Lucius asks him to do, so I assume he is fond enough.”

 

“No, what are you to tell him?”

 

Their eyes met. “I will not tell Lucius.” Narcissa repeated what she had been told.

 

“And you will lie well.”

 

She clenched her jaw, crossed her arms and slumped in the chair. “I do not wish to lie to my husband.”

 

“You love Regulus?"

 

Narcissa held her face, stern and idle. “Of course.”

 

“Okay,” she nodded, standing behind her sister, and watching her in the mirror, “That answers that.”

 

“ That answers that. ” She muttered bitterly. 

 

“I just hope Regulus does not know what a bastard is yet. He can learn when he is older.”

 

The after-party was missing a certain small cousin. They celebrated nonetheless. It was a huge banquet. They had not hosted events such as that one since Bellatrix’s marriage. 

 

It was late at night, and the only light came from candles and laughs. She sat beside her new husband. He was draped in the most elegant green. The shade that you would only find on the leathery skin of Loup Apples or a prickly pear. He smelt of delicate roses and not quite trees, but the wood a chamber may be built off. Not musky but nursed. His hair was plaited by his temples, and she couldn't help but think it was a mimic of the two plaits Blacks weaved by their ears. Still, she hurried those thoughts from her mind as one would hurry someone from their quarters. She hissed it away like a snake. For she was a snake. Now draped in House Malfoy colours, hair blonde like a Malfoy. 

 

There was a relief in the wed. She was certain, with her new name and new colours, that the Black madness would not follow her, as it had followed so many before.

 

Narcissa had noticed a small hand, slowly slinking up to seize fare, before rushing it back under the table. She pulled the tablecloth up only to see Regulus cross-legged and eating.

 

“Who are you hiding from?”

 

“I don’t remember.” He mumbled, chewing on some pastry with a baked apple in the centre. 

 

“Regulus—“ she held out a hand to his mouth, “you know you are allergic, spit that out. Apples make you sick and hazy.”

 

He opened his mouth, and the food fell out into her palm. She disposed of it on the tissue he was eating on. Always clean. A true courtboy even then. “I’ve been eating them all night.” 

 

Narcissa sighed, holding the back of her hand to his forehead. He was as warm as a flame. “Come here.” It was never fatal. They simply made him sick and faint. “Is your throat dry?”

 

He nodded. “Did you sleep?”

 

Another nod. She pressed her lips together, knowing it was another faint. “I’ll take you to bed before you faint again.”

 

She picked him up and crawled out from under the table, staring at Lucius as she left. He was occupied, laughing.

 

“You will still tell me stories?” He asked as they walked. Or rather, she walked, and Regulus wrapped his arms around her neck and legs around her waist. His voice was muffled by the way his cheek pressed against her neck.

 

“What do you mean?” Narcissa replied very quietly, the noise of the party falling far behind them. 

 

“You will not leave me outside? Lucius says there is no room for bastards in a true marriage.”

 

She winced, her grip on her baby cousin tightened. Even at his tall age of eleven, he was her baby. Her conversation with Andromeda recited itself in her mind. “Who told you what that word meant?”

 

“Lucius.”

 

“You are not a bastard, Regulus.”

 

“That is what everyone says. That is what they all started saying when he arrived.” There was a childish spite in his words. She had been so glad to see them get along—at least, she told herself she was glad. She knew what it really was. 

 

“It does not matter. I will still tell you stories.”

 

“No-black. They said that.” She hated the citrus in his tone. The sore sourness. She deemed him too young to have any of that inflection. 

 

“You are as much my cousin as Bellatrix and Andy are my sisters. Hereditarily linked, you and I.”

 

She knew he didn’t know what that meant but was too proud to ask. Even at eleven, he was too proud to show any intelligence. “Does he like me?”

 

“I’m sure he does.”

 

“So he won’t kick me out?”

 

“Why would you think that?” He shrugged, and they continued to walk to his room in silence.

 

“…Who gave you them?” She asked him after a while concerning the pastries. He never had them unprompted.

 

“Lucius.” He mumbled, and she slowed.

 

“Why? You have to tell him you are allergic.” 

 

“Mm,” he mumbled sleepily. “I do not feel well.”

 

He never seemed to learn. Lucius or Regulus. It was stubborn hope to expect that. 

 

Men . 

 

Lucius decided himself an ambitious man. He married an exiled Black and, even then, could not seem to sit still. He talked of climbing ranks, having his own court, and having heirs to continue the great Malfoy name. Narcissa could not provide that until she turned twenty-one. But, of course, he was not there when Draco was born. Regulus sat outside the whole time, and when he was finally let in, when her baby had been swaddled and placed in her arms, Alice dabbing a cloth upon her sweated forehead, she could see the jealousy on his face. The hidden scowl. Still, he sat next to her and held it. He was fifteen then, but that was only three months ago. 

 

Much changed in a few short moments. He turned sixteen on the day of the King's Solstice and then disappeared. 

 

The kitchen bore witness to the clatter of pots and pans, the aroma of meals she crafted with meticulous care, when the servants slept. Her chambers bore witness to the things she occupied her time with. Reading, sewing. Narcissa had begun to realise with her husband and Regulus gone, there was almost no one to occupy her time with. No one to validate her existence. To reassure her that she did exist. 

 

Alice had been busy with the newcomers. Narcissa had forgotten that Alice was not just hers . 

 

So, Narcissa had spent the better half of the morning in her chambers, dressed in her nightgown and hunched over a desk, sketching out a face. She had made several attempts, none being quite right. The curve of the face, slightly off, and the eyes, not quite round enough. The hair too long—the hair too short. She sketched what she remembered about Regulus’s face—and she remembered him well. 

 

She went to the kitchen for a glass of milk around midday. She drank, staring forward at the tiled walls, regulus on her mind. So deep in thought, when the door slammed shut, her heart sputtered, and she dropped the glass, cursing as the drink crashed and splattered around her feet. She swore and shouted and turned to see Andromeda, wide-eyed and fearing. 

 

“Don’t slam the door!” She shouted, “You—you Godric!”

 

“Narcissa!” Andy exclaimed, shocked.

 

The words could not stumble out well, or slow enough. As her lips just mouthed erratic words and it scared her how sudden the outburst was. As If it had been slow roasting at the very back of her skull, and with the right heat, or the right sound, it jumped up and banged around her skull like a loose Pearl in an oyster. 

 

“Narcissa! Stop!” She looked horrified. Narcissa was never one to snap as she just had. She glanced up to Andromeda, then back to her hands, wondering where the glass was, wondering why her breathing could find an exit. “Still, sister.” She hushed, holding Narcissa's face.

 

Her sister's eyes in her own, she calmed. Ever so slowly, but she calmed. The look of concern felt like a stub of her toe. An embarrassing stub.

 

She sat down, further from the spill, and lay her head against the wall. Andromeda did not ask; Narcissa expected she knew where her outburst—where all her recent outbursts had come from. 

 

She sobbed into her hands and, after a while, in a fit of hiccups and shallow breaths, stared out the window. She watched the clouds move and the hills roll. They had no portraits of regulus, which was why she was trying to make her own. It wouldn’t have mattered, though; even with no paintings, she saw him past the panes. She saw him in the hills and the sky and the cliffs and the sea. 

 

It finally came to be around supper. Two things, actually. She perfected the sketch. It was as if Regulus stared straight back at her on the parchment. A piece small enough to sit on her palm. She folded it over a few times, hiding the piece in her locket and holding her thumb there over the dome of silver. 

 

The second was another parchment. That was bigger and folded with a proper wax seal of envy green. A snarling snake embossed. She could not rip it open swiftly enough. 

 

 

My Dearest Narcissa,

 

My most sinceriest Apologies for the hushed leaving. I received your letters, and I apologise most deeply for your cousin; I can promise you I am expensing the absolute last of my resources to find him. I am wringing them dry. I've travelled north to contact my mother and father, Lord and Lady of our house, as I’ve said in previous letters, and now I’ve taken a court to the Beastal Territory. 

 

I’m writing as a means to ask you to join me in the West. I have made a deal to claim the place, and bearings of an a thousand-man army. I shall attach a map, detailing where the court is. It is being built on old ruins as I write, the men work fast, and by the time you arrive, we will have a quaint beginning to build our own court off of.

 

I cannot help but wonder the coincidence of timing. Your dear cousin, our dear Regulus’ disappearance, is aligning so gladly with Longbottom and Tonks’ arrival. Of course, I could never accuse anyone of such things, but I cannot help where my mind wanders.

 

Bring Draco and any servants you need, as I do not plan on leaving this place; instead, we will build it into the court my parents have been worthy of owning, but never have. And of course, regulus is welcome to live with us, given we find him. May Godric help us with that. Our rein in this court will be undirtied and pure. A right rein. A true rein. 

 

Lord Malfoy

 

 

Folded up inside of the letter was a map of Godric, and where Beastal Territory once lat snugly curled into Grimmauld, lay a space labelled ‘Malfoy’.  

 

Narcissa held it in her hand, simply staring. It absorbed her and took all the air from her. Her organs were hollow with nothing. 

 

She ran to Alice.

 

♟

 

Notes:

Realized i messed up when i had to creat the brothers relationship from scratch daangittttt. when regulus an sirius meet james before each other... perhaps an opportunity for an "I was born knowing you" trope.

Chapter 8: Regulus | James

Summary:

“I like it better here.”

“I like you here better, too.”

Notes:

i got soooo dead with writing this is a scrap that I'm choosing to ignore. i will edit and fix one day. oneee dayyy

Bless him. I wish someone had. He was just a boy when it all happened. 

 

- From ‘The Appendices: A Recount of the Fourth Realm’ by Lily Evans. 

 

REGULUS NO-BLACK

 

The ground never agreed with Regulus. Only when he would walk into the coast and have it decide to not drown him was the day he decided the world would be right. Perhaps the ability to hover would suffice; to taunt the topsoil and wave surface. To gain a closer seat by the sun and the stars. He could not climb trees well enough to find a home in the air, and he could not fly. Dragons were dead, and he had none of the blood that would have made him worthy of riding them.

 

Sometimes, he would hear siren whispers in the voices of his mothers and fathers of generations before, taunting him closer to the water. The Gulf of erised that slipped between his home and Salazar had a temptation like no other. The current of that gulf always swayed upwards. He would have to swim straight through to avoid the colder waters of the North Sea. Though sometimes he thought the south was more frigid than whatever lay up north. 

 

Laying around lazily in the heat, Loup's crypt had a chill, and he knew he could escape if he took Kreacher by the reins and galloped north. He inevitably closed his eyes and decided he was thinking so deeply about it that the water burnt his eyes, making him biased and disorientated. 

 

His affection towards Remus had curated itself into something of not quite brotherhood but something of the sort. Yet, still, he found his situation as foreign as one would away from a brother. There was an open-wounded crevice in him that no beating thing—at least no beating thing he had found— could fill nor sew up with a string of cotton comfort.

 

There was a knight, though. 

 

“When did you find this place?” Ser James asked beside him. Regulus sat by the creekside, leaning forward and watching his mirroring. The surface rippled with each gust of wind, and his face rolled across the water as if his reflection were offending the water.

 

“Wandering. I’m good at that.” He was cross-legged, hands politely in his lap and face content and softened in the calm creek.

 

“Not good enough. I find you very easily.” He grinned before standing back up and walking to Regulus’ other side. He had lapped the water many times and tried to climb a few trees in a rather energetic mood. His keenness to stand on his hands upside down against trunks did not disrupt his own solitude; they co-lived well and domestically. 

 

Regulus snorted as reasonably and appropriately as he could. “I wander in your direction alot.” 

 

“You speak with such…” Regulus looked up suddenly, seeing James on the other side of the creek, his palms waving in circles, “ book words .”

 

“Romantisicim?”

 

“Romantic?!” he widened his eyes.

 

James was shouting, pushing his voice across the expanse of water. Regulus smiled and sighed, as there was no reason to shout, as his own subtle answer was heard, but the knight seemed to love the dramatics of everyday life. With each hour they had spent together, he became more and more intense. 

 

Intense.

 

He couldn’t think of any other word. Perhaps sincere. He was honest about himself and carefree about what Regulus thought of him. He did not know if he wanted that; there was something ego-stroking about a person being guarded around you. Knowing that they care enough about your opinion to curate a mirrored persona. He wondered if he valued the false because it felt more loving.  “No, poetics. I don’t know–what were you referring to?”

 

James shrugged, walking back along the creek edge. “Book words.”

 

“I speak only the common tongue, okay?”

He returned to their spot and sat, stretching out and leaning on his forearms. “Anything else?”

 

“Any other languages?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

The words of Old Gallo ran around his head—something he thought he may be even more fluent in than the common tongue. But it was a tongue not to be spoken in front of a griffin boy. He lifted his chin, gazing to where the sun hung from branches. Non , he could say. None for you . But what he said was, “...Nothing else.”

 

“ Nerthing else .” James teased.

 

“ Stop !” Regulus smacked him across the arm, a humoured whine in his voice. 

 

He grinned, playfully flinching away from the hit and lifting his leg to stop any more. One regulus halted the invasion. They both fell into a breathy silence and looked to the sky, Regulus sitting up while James lay down. They each pondered; Regulus could tell James was in thought. He strained to think of his own ideas and thoughts. He tried to look busy and humming, but he could only wonder what it was that James was thinking about. He appeared to care about nothing else. 

 

“Regulus” James voiced after a while. Regulus was relieved he had a plausible reason to be thinking of the knight again, a reason to pilfer glances with the justification of politeness. “This…romanticism. What do you know of that? You—” he looked down briefly, scratching his chin in thought, “You have known it?”

 

Regulus shook his head unhurriedly; he could recount all the great romances of the time. He could recall a dozen confessions so plunging you could dip them in the Great Sea, and it would still stick out of the surface with heights greater than a palace. “I've known nothing outside of pages.”

 

“Love, though. Even outside of romanticism. Has there been anything of the sort in your life?”

 

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you asking if anyone has loved me?”

 

“That is a stupid question, I know, who wouldn't love you—” 

 

“What?” Regulus chuckled, stunned.

 

“I mean, who isn’t loved but—as in, not just brotherly or a friendship—but a religion defying genuine love.” He rambled, now sitting up and thrusting his hands so quickly and with such pose they practically spoke for themselves, “And mind you, that is not always romantic and star-crossed. There is that religion in connections that do not induce a man and woman to wed.”

 

“What, I—” Regulus stared at James, the eye contact longer than it had ever been before, as he replayed the ramble in his head, trying to form a reply, “I have loved others,” he finally decided on, “I do not know if they have loved me.”

 

“How could you not know?”

 

Looking down, “I don't know. People are not very clear alot of the time.”

 

“Well, who is it?”

 

Regulus was mute while choosing how he should respond to that. His retorts had begun feeling far too strategic in recent interactions, as if he ought to reply rightly, despite James never responding negatively, no matter what he said. If his comment was not met with a smile or a laugh, he considered it a failure. It was growing difficult to live up to the boy that he had decided James saw him as. He decided on the truth. That always gave him the best results. He would skin himself to display all his truths like a canvas if it meant a pleasant response from Ser James. “My cousin. She is my greatest friend. But I think she loves others more than she loves me.”

 

“That does not mean she can’t love you. “

 

“It does mean I don't want the love, though.” Regulus winced after saying it. The fact that James took a moment longer than usual to respond devastated him.

 

“Why.” He said with a curious sadness.

 

“It’s stupid.”

 

“No..no speak,” James shuffled forward, soil scuffing his trousers, “please.”

 

He shrugged casually—a performed casual—and spoke with a nonchalant lack of care, yet as his words spilled out, there was nothing but a foreign truth. “I want to kill any love that is not given wholly. It embarrasses me. Knowing I am not enough to be their first priority makes me want to not even be in the room of people they care about. I would rather they just expel me and lock the door.”

 

He eyed James quickly with a wide stare before averting once more, embarrassed by the tumble of words that lurched from his tongue.

 

“How do you know you are not the first priority?”

 

It spoke from the mouth of someone who had no doubts like those. The sheer curiosity of it all—Though Perhaps that meant he had a sense of it, and was pursuing a more resounding confirmation. “When you know, you know, or however they say it. I understand, though. Husband and child.”

 

Regulus thought that maybe five years ago if he had told Narcissa he was in the Clôture Verte, she would have uncovered her own horse to pursue him. But she was weighed down by the love of a family chosen, which seemed far more desirable to her than a family given. 

 

The thing was, though, the family given to Regulus was not his, as they had made sure he knew. A No-Black Bastard. If he had the choice, his mother would be who he’d choose. He prayed that fate would have her given to him or him given to her. That one day he would hear someone choose him first for the very reason of “because I am your mother”, and he would not have to labour for the love that it would simply be given. Because I am your mother. No other reason.

 

“My parents always said when you have a child, it becomes the most important thing to you without your consent. It is just a natural thing.”

 

“It is stupid.” He huffed, his face handling the strain of grief. “You do not get to pick your child, so you have no obligation to love them.”

 

“I think many would disagree,” James whispered.

 

“My parent found no obligation. I cannot blame them.”

 

“I can.” Even quieter, but with far more emphasis than any of his other words, “I can.”

 

“Don’t, Ser.” He croaked, aware of the glimpse of tears that welled in the corner of his eyes. Regulus simply did not blink, and they stayed hidden. He willed himself to stop speaking but seemed to lose all willpower around the knight. “Then you are saying they defied the natural order just to stray from me.”

 

Regulus swallowed, the sound deafening. Yet the silence still conquered it in a devastating defeat. He endeavoured to build up another swallow, but his mouth was arid and deserted of any moisture. He clenched his jaw to halt the quivers of his lips and faced James with a strained, brave face. 

 

There was a short distance between them, James having shuffled closer throughout the conversation. He lifted a hand, waiting for an invitation in the form of an accepting glance, seemingly knowing that was how Regulus offered them before he dusted a tuft of hair from the crumpled forehead. He toiled at the dark hair, brushing it to the side until he let his hand drop in satisfaction. Regulus stared at him the entire time. “Regulus, if I had only one night with you, I think that would defy the natural order.”

 

“Oh.” Regulus blinked as the strands fell back in front of his eyes. He blew the hair from his face.“If I had only one night with you, I would use it to tell you to cut your hair.”

 

“What!? Me?!”

 

“You look like a Godric monk with your rounded fringe.”

 

He laughed, grabbing his stomach, and Regulus could have pounded the air with a victorious fist. It started right there. The way his teeth bared most joyously and his top lip curled up taut within the smile. The twist of his stomach. Regulus can recount it all to starting at that very moment. “I never see you look at my hair. Do you stare when I look away?”

 

“Do you keep a record of what I look at regarding you? Where my eyes go?” Quick, witty, and bringing an emotion to James’ face. Exactly how he hoped to speak.

 

“I defy the natural order in that way.”

 

“Why is that a defiance?”

 

James smiled. “Nevermind. You are just so funny-looking that I cannot look away.”

 

Regulus scowled only on his face. The most un-knightly knight he had ever met. “I’ll tell Remus you said that.”

 

“Oh Godric, please don’t. I’m brave but not that brave.”

Regulus bared his teeth in a laugh.

 

♛

“Regulus?

 

“Yes?”

 

James had been seated on the low fork of an infant oak, legs elevated and head slanting back against the trunk, Regulus beside him but on the leaf-tiled ground. They were not very far apart at all. He was in thought; the only time James ever silenced was when he was in thought, and Regulus chose not to disturb him. He found that the longer he allowed those knightly thoughts to simmer, the more exciting words would come of them. 

 

“If you only had one night…not with me, but in life, would you spend it looking for someone to love you the best. Is it important enough for you to spend your last moments pursuing it?”

 

Regulus scratched his head against the bark. It was a thought born from their previous conversation. He slightly wished that James had not added the ‘ not with me’ . That ‘ with me ’ was the compass of the inquiry. It would force some truthfulness from him that he refused to do without prompt and a perceived forcing. It was never that he did not bear the words to say (he did, and he bore them with a deep shelter); he just never wanted to be the first one to voice them. Settling on “Would you?” seemed the right passage in that circumstance.

 

“I asked you, Regulus .”

 

“I’m asking you now, Ser .” His head lifted to his right, and James looked down toward him. His glasses were far enough down on his nosebridge to be able to see Regulus from that angle. His jaw was squared and robust as he looked down with only his eyes, then his chin dipped as one eyebrow raised.

 

“You aren’t going to answer even if I do, are you?”

 

“I might…”

 

He sighed. “My last day. I would ride Prongs for a while; I’d hope to see Sirius for most of the day. A lunch with my mother and father. That would be all I needed.”

 

“I’d pick a meal with my mother,” Regulus said immediately, glad to have reason to mention her. “That's what I'm picking. Even if she does not love me best, I can look past it if it's her.”

 

“Have you ever met her?”

 

“Not personally. But you are born knowing your mother.” He winced, thinking that he may be too honest.

 

“Yeah.” A silent beat before James swung his legs over, simply sitting on the branch instead. “Okay, play a game with me.”

 

“A game?” Raising his brows, “like chess?”

 

“No, not like chess. A curiosity game. I am curious, and maybe you are too, so we will ask questions to quench that curiosity.” 

 

“A question game?”

 

“Yes. No strategies, just honesty.”

 

‘What if I don’t want to answer?.”

 

“Just refuse. Or lie, but make it a good one so I cannot tell. I will let you have the upper hand.” He said before hopping down, landing on the ground with a stable thud, gesturing to his previous seat with a nod and hovering his hands to Regulus’ waist.

 

He peeked down at the open palms—They each held fingers that twitched as if waiting for contact—and nodded. James lifted him onto the tree, and he sat where James had once lay. Physically giving him the upper hand. “You would accept lies about myself as truth?

 

“I wish,” he grunted, situating Regulus, “ to see you however you wish to let me.” James put his hands upon the wood on either side of Regulus’ hips.

 

“Okay.” He crossed his ankles politely, “You begin; I cannot think of one yet.”

 

James chewed his cheek, hollowing it a pinch, before he clicked his tongue, stepping back. “I would ask for a perfect day, but I think you have already answered. If you could change anything about yourself, what would you change?”

 

Regulus thought, not for very long, “Blonde hair. I wish it to be as white as raw corn.”

 

He grimaced, “Why, your hair is perfect as is.”

 

“Reasons. I try to move on, but that type of want is all I've ever known.”

 

He thought James would laugh at such a strange deepness simply for a hair colour, not understanding why, but he did not. There was an understanding there. “So how will you move on from it if it's all you've ever known?

 

“Hush, It is my turn.” James surrendered and gestured for him to take the floor, “Do…. How do you feel about your mother?”

 

“I feel…. Distance. But a presence.” 

 

“How do you mean?”

 

“I cannot think of how to describe it. Once, she was sick, and I was not allowed to visit her. My dad agreed with the doctors as well, so I decided to take a vow of silence against him. I talked to practically no one, even Sirius, because I was so enraged. I thought she was on her deathbed, and they were refusing me entry. I sat outside the door, so distressed that I was not close that I could not do anything, but what kept me together was the thought of what she would say to comfort me. She wasn’t there, but she was. The effect that my time with her had implemented was still ever present. She only had a light autumnal cold, though.”

 

Regulus stared, and James took his next question. “Do you have a hunch of your death?”

 

“Water.” he said absentmindedly, eyes still fierce and focused, “Is your family close?”

 

“ Halt , I gave you a full story; you cannot give me just a single word.”

 

“I answered. I think it would be water.” Regulus gazed towards the creek before he stumbled down, having gained practice in dismounting his horse, and kneeled by the water. James followed. He leaned forward, dipping a finger into the cool surface. “It has never been kind to me; I often think it is actively trying to drown me.”

 

James eyed him before grasping his wrist and pulling the hand out. “Tell me a story of that.”

 

“I would rather not.”

 

“Okay.” James nodded, palm still wrapped around the limb,  “Okay. My family is as close as they are able to be given our circumstances. And I try to receive it with gratitude.”

 

“And do you?”

 

“No. I am angry about it often.”

 

Regulus looked to his own grasped wrist. “You are very honest.”

 

“You are, too, more than you think. At least, I think you are. I mean, you could be lying all the time, and I wouldn't know.”

 

“No, you wouldn’t.” He agreed.

 

“So… did you lie at all?”

 

“No.”

 

“Was that a lie?”

 

Regulus smiled, and very quietly, he said, ‘I don't want to answer that question.”

 

“Okay. I won't make you.” James replied just as silently.

 

“You couldn’t make me even if you tried.

 

James’ thumb pressed harsher into the softness of Regulus’ inner wrist; his own chin was propped up on one knee, and they bore into each other's gazes. “Do you want to keep playing?”

 

Regulus shook his head, simmering in the moment.

♛

Two days later, “Remus finished already?”

 

Regulus glanced up from his page of the book. He had been expending much of his time waiting and wandering in the Clôture Verte. Curled as if in a cot. Gaping and laying, and now, reading. Remus sat with him occasionally. He brought out a large, thin sheet of white cotton and laid it upon the rooted joining of the earth and tree Regulus now coiled upon. The knight blistered upon him in all the ways that repelled the aesthetics of this solitude he hoped to achieve. 

 

Essentially, he was happy to see him.

 

In a rather stark amazement, he had not grown mad in the days of wolf-like activity. He was rounded up into only one fight. Of course, it was not in a No-Blacks blood to contract that mad disease, but he still found marvel in it. He could credit it to a few things.

 

“Oh.” He checked the page number, deciding whether to close it. A nervousness seized him as he stumbled to determine. “Yes. He is fast for someone who has not read in years. He asked for more.”

 

“I can find you more,” James offered, tall and fitted in fancier clothes than usual. His hair perfectly swayed back, and his tunic buttoned perfectly. Billowing like ship sails in wind. He appeared as proper as Sirius. That boy had been on his mind almost as much as the knight in the two days he had been away. Different reasons, but present nonetheless. The words he had gifted Regulus: Longing orphans us . He declared that to Remus numerous times afterwards, endeavouring to pass it off as his own tongue, fitting it into their conversations. It explained much. So much that he did not wish to explore but had found closure in the reasonings.

 

Regulus peeked around the tree behind him before reattaching his scalp to the bark. He had his back to the Lupos. They were deep into the tree line, which still made him skittish. “We never finished reading.” The knight said.

 

“I started…” Regulus admitted, he thumbed the pages, fanning through them with his nail, “I’m a bit farther in than we were before.”

 

“Okay.” Ser James sat cross-legged, shuffling past the coating of leaves with his backside to find a comfortable spot. 

 

“Kreacher is further into the forest that way,” Regulus pointed to his right. The few days away created a nervous divide. Perhaps his having so long to consider their time together had provided room for tenseness. “If Prongs wants to…”

 

James turned his torso around and clicked his tongue, pointing to where Regulus had just directed. He had an unspoken command with his horse, one Regulus lacked the training for. He and Kreacher stumbled around each other. Regulus was sure he was trained, being a court-stable horse, but he had not had the chance to learn those trained commands. When Prongs caught sight of Kreacher, it was a second of cantor before the two horses played like lambs. Their hooves clopped against the few stone fragments of ground.

 

“I think he will be sadder than I to see you go,” James said casually, smiling at the horses.

 

Regulus examined the side of his face. His eyes followed the bump of his nose, the pout of his lip. “You’d be sad when I leave?” 

 

“Of course.” James turned, and Regulus’ eyeline lashed straight to the horses. 

 

“What…What if you leave before I do?” He knew it did not matter who would leave first. If Regulus stayed where he was, he would spend his life around wolf fur and snarls that he could not challenge. If he went home, it would follow his cousin and her husband around like a pup, as he always had for the rest of his life. He knew he would. Regulus floated down a lazed river of nothing special. James was a knight. Only one of them would genuinely ever leave.

 

“Then I'd hope you'd be sad when I left.” James leaned in, and Regulus caught the beaming, cheeky grin from the corner of his eye. “Would you?”

 

The book found its way into his lap. He leaned back against the tree trunk further and crossed his arms, shrugging and begging his eyes to stay still to find a focus. “I might be, I don't know.”

 

Still smiling, “He might be .” 

 

His own words in the knight's mouth sent a shudder from his stomach up his throat. The same shudder of him using Regulus’ name. Regulus gave the trimmest smile back and pulled his knees up, tautening his body. He wondered where they kept all the clothes James kept changing into, always in the newest and finest cloth. His boots were made of red leather that matched the vest. Lace on his tunic. He had no reason to dress so fine in such warm weather. “But I would bet you’d miss the books and the maps.”

 

“Maps?” He laughed dryly, “You’ve given me only one.”

 

“And you have only read to me once.”

 

“I can’t, like I said,” he held up the novel, “I’m rather ahead of you now.”

 

“Okay, I can catch up.” James lay back, resting his body on his forearms before gesturing his hand to start. “Explain away.”

 

Regulus blinked before he opened the book and rested it against his thighs as if he were sheltering it. He was now hunched so low that he could not see James behind the arch of his knees. He flicked to the first page, “Where were we?”

 

“Something about slumber yearning..”

 

He nodded, looking for that quote, “ She was a runt and accustomed to views from the underside of the leaf. She reasoned with herself, proclaiming that she was safe from the rain. Swaddled in a chrysalis of cotton and slumber yearnings, The Thursday a year before her death began in bed. ” He recited, thumbing the page, “Well…We scarcely see her, honestly. Because the book is narrated by someone else. And they spend alot of time rambling about their own opinions on her. She is never actually described straightly or with any personality.”

 

“Personality? As in what she is like?”

 

“No… as in there is nothing personal about how Margorie is illustrated. It feels like we are watching her from afar.”

 

He looked up, waiting for Ser James’ input. He seldom nourished his own voice. He had never spoken as much as he had now. 

 

“Continue, please.” 

 

Blinking, Regulus stuttered, “O-oh.” James’ eyes were wide and expectant, circled by large glasses.  “Um, we do not know this narrator. We do not know who he is.”

 

“He? How do you know it's a he if you do not know who they are?”

 

“The way he talks about Margorie Helene. Like he owns her. I don’t know. I haven't met many women, nor many men, but it sounds far more…owning than mothering. I can only assume.”

 

James—Ser James sat up and crawled towards Regulus. He settled down next to him, facing a pinch more to the west as he found a spot on the trunk. Regulus straightened the leg between them, the other—his right one—still bent. James did the same. He eyed how James’ knee curled to face Regulus as much as the joints allowed him. It was barely visible through the trousers; he could only see it from the point of his leathered toe. 

 

“Show me.” He whispered, nodding his head to the book. 

 

Regulus swallowed dry air, nodding and flicking through pages to find the first passage that could come to mind. “Uh, The… And although Margorie had paid back all her brother owed me in dues, I could not help but feel a lack of compensation for the struggle the girl had put me through .” He looked between James and the pages as his face was turned to look entirely at Regulus’. “ Money was nothing compared to the sheer anger I felt at her free will. She —”

 

“You have pretty eyes. You know that?” His head whipped to James officially. Regulus’ lips wavered.

 

“I—I don’t think so.” He licked the dry skin. Mainly to check if they were chapped. “Everyone in my family has much nicer eyes.”

 

The light poured through the trees like a jug poured whisky into a chalice. It filled James’ eyes with an amber hue. It lit his skin with that same hue. “Nicer than yours? I do not think anyone has nicer than yours.”

 

He looked down, shaking his head and forcing a laugh. It came out parched and sandy. “They all have this hereditary stormy grey.” He thought of Sirius. How his eyes were almost mirrors of Bellatrix’s. “Like your friends.”

 

“I like yours.”

 

“They are just brown—”

 

“No, they are black.” He said with much thought, and Regulus jolted at the word. “I've never seen that before. Pure black like a north sapphire.”

 

“I've never heard of that.”

 

“Now you have. Now you know,” James nudged him, pressing their legs together, and Regulus tossed his hand to James’ knee, holding it there. James watched him watch the limb. He could feel the eyes on his hand. “Continue,” James whispered. “With the story.”

 

He swallowed, eyes on the contact of palm to fabric, unsure why he did that. “She um.”

 

“What's wrong?”

 

“I’m nervous.” He breathed out so honestly that he thought everything he had ever said may be a lie in comparison.

 

James matched his tone, “Why are you nervous?”

 

He didn’t know. Still, he said, hoping that James—older and wiser— would tell him: “You know why. You have to know why.”

 

“Is it the touching?”

 

“Why’d you come today?” Regulus squeaked out in a plea as if he had not been waiting and lingering day and night for him. “We hadn’t planned anything.”

 

“You know why. I wanted to see you.”

 

You know why, you know why. Why? Do either of us know anything? Is it futile to ask you ? Regulus wondered. Yet, he could not learn under pressure, “Why?”

 

He sighed, resting his head against the trunk and looking up at the canopy of leaves and branches. “Do I need a reason?”

 

Regulus's hand curled into a ball, still on the knee, except there was no actual contact anymore. Touching with the back of his fingers felt different to the heart in his palm. “Everything has a reason.”

 

The conversation didn’t exist suddenly, as James forgot it like the wind. “Will your friend let you leave tonight?”

 

“I—Probably not.”

 

“How about right now?”

 

He had spent much of that solitude arranging conversations in his head. He wasn’t sure where the want for it all had come from–or why the thought boiled in his skull. But it felt different that time. He and the knight together.

 

They walked side by side on horseback. He studied the side of James’ face as they walked. Ser James—James, it forged together, really. They travelled into the acres of plain until, from a bird's view, wing spanned, and in flight, they may look as two travelled pieces of debris rolling in the breeze. He had not been this happy since before he turned eleven. 

 

Regulus wondered what it would be like to walk like that through Griffin. He had wondered about Griffin alot. Whether it would feel like home, whether he would be noticed and exiled. The name No-black always punctured those thoughts, though.

 

He did picture how the known cold of the north would cast its chill upon James, upon all of them. Marlene, Sirius. The mentor they spoke of. He thought of the rosey blush the show would bless upon James’ cheekbones. The fur he imagined they would wear, like a king's cape. Regulus pictured him in red robes. Satins and velvets and pure cotton-lined deer skin. Every wealthy fabric one could imagine. He knew a knight was not afforded all those luxuries, yet he could imagine James with them.

 

The week's thoughts could be summed up in one sentence: He did not know what day of the week it was, so he wondered whether James knew.

 

After the sun had moved a good way across the sky, and the two had spent the days middle playing, talking, and reading, James offered to show Regulus the feeling of a true stallion Gallop. Prongs was larger than Kreacher—much larger and faster— and Regulus did not know how to hold reins in a gallop. The fastest he had ridden was a swift trot or a bumpy canter. In truth, he did not realise he had not galloped until he showed James the very fastest he could take Kreacher, and the knight strained his face to hold the laugh he clearly so desperately wanted to let out. 

 

He pulled Prongs up close to Kreacher and shifted as far back in his saddle as possible. 

 

“You expect me to climb over?” he raised a brow, and James reached for Regulus’ waist.

 

“May I?”

 

He swallowed as he spoke, so it came out hollow and unsure. “Yes.”

 

James put either hand on the waist from behind. He shifted his fingers, and Regulus felt it all over his body. The pressure hardened as he gained a steady grip before lifting him straight from the saddle. It felt wrong—the awkward angle, the heavy weight of his body—for James to so seemingly effortlessly lift him. Yet with only one closed-mouth grunt, much like he had days earlier, he dragged him from Kreacher towards his own horse. 

 

Regulus put his own hands on top of James’ and lifted his left leg midair to sit on the saddle easily.

 

“Heavy?” James settled him in, pulling them closer until the thighs touched.

 

“Barely.” A smile in the words, “Is this okay? The touching—”

 

“It’s okay. You're okay.” Regulus reassured. Back to chest, he knew later it may make him shudder, but at the moment, it felt okay. 

 

James nodded; Regulus could feel the movement in his hair. James reached around his body for the reins and held them tightly, whispering low commands for Regulus. He moved his feet back so that James could hook their legs and lock them in the stirrup to hold onto the arm that he had wrapped around Regulus’ torso. 

 

James had said he would sit at the front to feel the wind. The true venture of horseback. When he whipped the reins, Regulus understood. They bolted off, bodies bouncing from the leather, James’ chin against the side of his head. 

 

He heard nothing but the sound of metal hooves and channelling wind. Each step was as loud as thunderclaps, and each inhalation bore the breath of all the wind spirits at once. He wasn’t anywhere at all, simply at the halfway point, that place where the wind travels from beginning to destination. Regulus closed his eyes and felt. 

 

Regulus saw each conceivable past life wisp past him with the wind. He lives; he was not a bastard; somewhere, he was a king and a farmer; somewhere, he was the very horse he was riding. He decided flying was better than anything. He knew in every life he had ever lived, he found a way to fly, or he simply would've died. When he closed his eyes, he saw James in each one, too. Sometimes behind him, a hand around his waist like he was then, sometimes as birds in a flock,  sometimes on the other side of the sky, flying on brooms like in the bedtime stories.

 

He lay his head back on James’ shoulder, or at least as much of the curve he could reach, and sighed out. Each tower of pressure exorcised itself from him. It was a feeling he could not get from anything other than a scolding bath. Complete and total exorcism.

♛

“I think I could find it in myself to be jealous of you,” Regulus said upon horseback beside James. He trotted and circled Prongs, practising the rein movements James had taught him. They had decided on a pact. Regulus would read, and James would teach. Regulus had a salt pinch of disappointment, as he had found so much pride in being the sole teacher in something for once—the one who listened too. But it was soon expelled once he realised the joy of his newfound riding skills. The knight lay forward, head in Prongs’ mane, eyes shut and mumbling sleepily. His glasses awkwardly pressed into his face. The straw-like strands of horsehair rustled like branches in the wind by the breath of his exhales. 

 

“Of me?” Grogilly laughs. “Cannot imagine that.” He muttered as if it was meant to be for himself, but his tiredness made him forget that.

 

“Yes. Woah! Haw! Haw!” he called to Kreacher, commanding him right, “Haw!”

 

“Haw is for left.”

 

Regulus stuck out a tongue, glaring, to hide his embarrassment in jest, despite the fact that James could not see, “Gee!” and Kreacher turned right with the simple tug of a rein. 

 

Traitor.

 

They walked closer to James. “You are a knight of the king. A son of the largest court in the continent. The responsibilities–the duties. Type of duties a parent could be proud of their child for. I have nothing special ahead of me like you do.”

 

Regulus thought before he spoke again, “I mean, if I were to be left in a room with everything I’ve ever done, I would be as lonely as the day I was born. You are spilling with knightly potential.”

 

He pushed himself up, staring at Regulus with lopsided glasses. “Quite the statement.”

 

“Do you not think so?”

 

James stared, thoughts running through his mind before he sighed and fell back down, “I am not really a knight.” Words mumbled like a silent confession.

 

Regulus pulled his horse around to the side James was facing so he could look at his face as they spoke. The fact that his eyes were closed made it easier. “What? But you have a sword—”

 

“I will be.” He assured him, “Knighthood is a long and tedious ritual.”

 

“I’m listening.”

 

James opened the one eye that wasn't squished against his horse’s neck and raised a brow as if to say, do you really want to know? Do you really care?

 

Of course, I care. Of course I care , he wanted to say back. But neither of them said either thing. So Regulus just shurgged. 

 

James thrust himself up with a groan once again. Not an annoyed one—Regulus hoped—a denial of slumber groan. “People who train for knighthoood are different to those who have it bestowed upon them from battle. I was trained, so ever since I was young, I have had a mentor teach me the skills and values of knights.” He gestured with his hands, “Swordplay and swordsmanship. You train like that for many years, and then sometimes—only sometimes—the king gives you a task. When you can complete that, you serve a year at the wall and are knighted. If you have no task, you simply serve your year.”

 

“The wall? The one between Woolsorphan and West country?”

 

“Yes, the…” He clicked his fingers, remembering his intended word, “ The Stone Clôture Verte , as you would most eloquently say.”

 

Regulus narrowed his gaze. Woolsorphan was a ghost realm. “You would join the order?”

 

“Yes.” his smile faltered at the tone, “It’s rather noble.”

 

“It’s rather suicidal.”

 

“Well. There is no safety in honour.”

 

“There’s no way to be honourable if you are dead.” Regulus gripped the reins, thinking. “And… you are doing your task now?” 

 

“Yes.”

 

James’s face was stagnant as if waiting in intense anticipation. “What do knights in Griffin get. Just honour? No riches…no courtships?”

 

“I do not think my prospects with women will change after I am knighted.”

 

“Women? Why?”

 

“Wait,” he scrunched his face before stretching his arms behind his back and above his head. He twisted his body with a grunt and shook and slumber from his face. Regulus waited with all his patient willpower. Hurry , he urged mutely. “I do not need to marry yet. I haven't sought it out. Most courtships are tedious. The ones I have seen, at least. That’s not what I want in a marriage.”

 

Regulus straightened. “In my family, courtships used to be one of the most expensive events of the year.”

 

“Used to?”

 

He shrugged. “We do not indulge in traditions as we used to. They try. But time has forgotten it.”

 

James found great humour in that, with the first big smile of that hour, he asked, “Tell me regulus, in the times of old, how would one court you?”

 

“To make a request of someone's hand, you would have to gift something worthy of them. And if the gift wasn’t a sheer belch of wealth and riches, it was considered an insult. It would always be something invaluable. It had to be, or they would be refused.”

 

“Invaluable? What could be considered invaluable.”

 

“My family, apparently. At least they used to be.”

 

He looked up, still in thought. “Invaluable,” he mouthed like it was a revelation, something clicking in his mind, before turning back to Regulus, “You come from disgusting wealth, don’t you, Regulus. How on earth could you have ended up here?”

 

“Come on, Would you like me to read to you or not?”

 

He grinned, looking to the floor, “I don’t know… can you dismount yet?”

 

Regulus lit up, “Yes!” He stood, feet still in the stirrup. The whole day, they had not even dismounted once to show his new skill, “Oh, look! I've practised.”

 

With much struggle, he lifted his leg over so only one foot sat in the stirrup, the other just hovering beside it. He gripped the saddle with both hands and very unsteadily lowered himself down before turning around to see James’ reaction.

 

He nodded. “Okay, yes. Definitely, that was something!”

 

Regulus frowned. “It’s better than before.

 

“Yes,” he smiled, dismounting flawlessly and standing in front of Regulus, “Yes, it is.”

 

Regulus looked to his feet, digging for courage before he met James’ eye and took one step forward. James straightened before he reached a hand to Regulus’ arm; the back of his fingers trailed down it until he reached the elbow. Regulus wondered if it were too bony—or he himself was too skinny. He found doubts about his own skin that he had never held before.

 

“I have so many things I want to ask you,” James mumbled.

 

“You will have to pick one.” 

 

He brushed the middle joint of his two first fingers under Regulus’ chin next, pushing it up. “You've got a scrape.’

 

Regulus threw his own hand in front of his chin, looking away and feeling the scab just hidden with shadow. He had no idea. A man had thrown his face into the ground the evening before in the ring, but he had no vanity to look in. “Nothing,” he spoke.

 

“Nothing? Does not look like nothing.”

 

“Just wolf games.”

 

“Who’s playing them? Them or you?”

 

Regulus clicked his tongue, waving James off before walking away from their horses, “It does not matter. Do you not duel?”

 

“Yes, but duels are enjoyable.” James jogged after him, “They are fun, and they are training to be better.”

 

“Who’s to say a quick beating will not make you better.”

 

He got in front, holding his right hand to Regulus’ chest and his left to his own. “ I say . I say that it won’t. It just makes you beat.

 

Regulus gave him a bored look before peeling the finger off as if it were James who was the scab. “I am not beat, Ser James. I've never been so. What I am as a result of my treatment is who I am. If I wasn’t a result of my treatment, I wouldn’t be me. And I  am happy.” 

 

“Yes, I hope you are.” His expression was all concern and all proximity, “Right now especially.”

 

“Happy with you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He thought James was meant to be smart. Or maybe that was what Regulus had just decided him to be. “It’s adequate. I can tell you that I am not having a horrendous time.” 

 

Laughing, reaching his hands to grasp either side of Regulus’ face, “Stick with Ser James, and you’ll continue to not have a horrendous time.”

 

He winced, using the back of his own hands to combat the contact. He exaggerated each movement so James would know it was a jest, so James would keep pushing. Regulus hoped he had not made up the knight's intelligence. “That was so awful I think I must go. I do not think I can stomach Ser James anymore.”

 

He did not make it up; James kept trying to hold the boy's face in a jesting coo. “Okay, how about James.”

 

Regulus grabbed the wrists as they flapped around like a distressed bird, “I really cannot.”

 

“Just try.” He urged, “James.”

 

“N-” he laughed involuntarily, “No!”

 

“ James. ”

 

“James!”

 

“Regulus!” James gasped.

 

“James!”

 

The hands went straight to Regulus’ neck, “Regulus regulus regulus.”

 

“James James James.”

 

They persisted in chanting and teasing. The names weaved into each other until he wasn’t sure who was saying what name.

 

James, Regulus, James, Regulus, JamesRegulus.

 

Feeling blossoming with courage and truths, Regulus spoke up. “I wanted to call you Ser, actually. Cause it was my decision. Not just for respect.”

 

James looked at the scab, brushing a thumb over it. He manhandled Regulus’ head, and Regulus let him, “Did someone—

 

“Hush,” Regulus scolded, scrunching his nose, “do not try to be a knight.”

 

“I am no knight, remember.”

 

They stared at each other for a moment. Each time Regulus blinked, he wondered if James would still be there when he opened them again. “Ser—” he began before correcting himself, “James. James.”

 

“Hm?” The thumb pressed itself into the face of his chin. He moved it down, opening Regulus’ mouth.

 

Swallowing, “What is this?

 

“What?”

 

“This…Us?"

 

"What we do?”

 

“Yes. Is this what a courtship is?”

 

“A court–what?” He laughed, and his hands retreated to his side. “I do not think that allowed.”

 

His body grew warm. He thought he was becoming used to the heat. “What do you mean.” Regulus croaked, feeling far too young and small. 

 

“Did they never—oh.” James’ brows furrowed. “What court did you come from?”

 

Regulus said nothing, so James continued very softly and carefully. “That is not how courtships work. They are with a girl.”

 

“If I were a girl, would this be a courtship?” He pushed, growing agitated in his embarrassment. 

 

“I suppose it could be. You would not see a man and woman spend this much time together.”

 

“Okay. Pretend I'm a girl; what would you do?”

 

“That…” he chuckled to himself before grasping the sides of Regulus’ head and pulling him close. He pressed his lips to the very top of his head, buried in the hair. “ You, You, You . We can’t do that.”

 

James pulled back and kept walking; Regulus had forgotten where they were. “I've never had a courtship; I do not know what they entail once a gift has been given,” he called, following beside James. It felt like a plea, even though it wasn’t. Perhaps it was because he had to look up to see James’ face. Everything feels like a plea when you feel like a child.

 

“Well, I suppose I would have to get you a gift.” It made him angry how James jested. 

 

“You know, by my family's law, if you gave me that invaluable gift, I would have to be with you forever. You could not be rid of me.”

 

“That doesn’t sound like a negative.” Regulus glared, silently begging him to halt the mocks. Silently begging him to slow down as well. 

 

“Will you ever have a courtship?”

 

“Oh, you mean besides this one?”

 

Regulus shoved him to the side, “Do not mock me!”

 

“I’m not!” he laughed, regaining his footing. “...I’m not... I—” James ran his hands down his face, sighing. Regulus was wholly hot and felt too young yet too tall. At the same time, he wished to be taller so he would not have to look up to James. It was an opposing thought. “I assume I will someday. I do not think I will have to gift anything to them, though.”

 

“And if you did, would you?” He urged with everything in him; he did not know why he needed his questions answered so badly—or why he was getting so angry.

 

“Would I what?”

 

“Gift them something invaluable.”

 

“I think I'll leave that tradition with you.—” he reached for Regulus’ chin again before it was swatted away. “How old are you again, Lu?

 

He tensed. “Don’t call me Lu.”

 

“How old are you, Regulus?”

 

Regulus inhaled. “Almost seventeen.”

 

“Almost as in?”

 

“...A year.”

 

He laughed. “Only Sixteen.”

 

“Only? You speak like you have never known what it was like to be sixteen. I am old enough; I feel like I have been sixteen since I was seven. And I feel like I am eleven still.” He had so much spite in his mouth he feared he would choke and gag on the poison of it all. He wanted to belch at the thought of them fighting. Was it fighting? Why could he not stop?

 

“You will have a courtship when you are older.”

 

“I am not a child.” Regulus gritted his teeth. “You may not think I don’t know things, but I do. I understand things that maybe you do not!”

 

“And I do not doubt that.”

 

He sniffed, his mouth remained downturned, and he quickly wiped the back of his hand across his temple. Heartbeat and body temperature as high as when he contracted the flu the year before in autumn. His entire body burnt up, and although he could not feel the sickness, Narcissa insisted on holding him under the surface of a freezing cold tub until he cooled. He could have sworn steam rose as he was submerged.

 

Regulus took a deep breath.

 

“I’d like you.” He corrected himself quickly, “If anyone asked to court me, I would hope they’d be like you.”

 

James blinked before he put a hand on Regulus’ shoulder, and Regulus put his own hand on top as a defensive shield. Do not move it . “You haven’t lived long enough to know what you want. Or to know how people do things.

 

“How do people do things? As in a lady marrying a man? Not a man marrying a man? Is that how things are done in your court?”

 

“Yes. Do they really not expel that where you are from?”

 

He shrugged; he had been told nothing of that; he knew nothing of it. “It’s rather shamed upon to not marry right.” James continued.

 

“Well… we aren't in your court now.”

 

James bit his lip before turning the grasping palm into a fist and lightly pounding it against Regulus’ shoulder. Regulus' own shielding hand had fallen off as autumn leaves. “You are an evil, evil thing; why are you like this?” Except he said that last line with a smile.

 

“I don’t know why,” Regulus whispered.

 

He bore into James' gaze, eyes asking more doubtful eyes. “come on, let's ride back. You need to go home.”

 

“Must I?”

 

“Remus said I cannot keep you for so long anymore.”

 

“I like it better here.”

 

“I like you here better, too.”

 

♛

 

Dear Regulus Black,

 

Have you heard of the tale of Death by the End of the Bed? I used to fear it as a child. My mother would tell me to get me to sleep. I barely remember it now, only brief things such as he was the one who scared the three brothers into dividing the countries, as they all fled to different realms, building their walls and growing their treelines to hide from him. It was just a story, though. 

 

I have only been to two realms, The West Country and Loup Garou. I do not know if this new country Malfoy has claimed would be considered a realm, so I just call it Malfoy. Death is a game—at least, that is what my mother said. He is a cunning and cheeky figure, and the more people hide, the more he finds a thrill in the game to find them. She would talk of the saying that the Hallowed Throne could only truly be owned by a ruler who ruled all three realms and says that once the walls dividing them were diminished, then death would have no playground. And the legacy of that reign will be immortal.

 

I have never spoken this to anyone, but I wish to be a knight. Under your command, it would be an honour. My first action would be to travel north—to see Woolsoprhan in the flesh and feel the trees made from frost and oak. There is no freedom like that of a knight's life. Nothing would compare. 

 

Peter 

 

 

Regulus folded his own letter with no wax seal and sent it off to this new country. Malfoy. He knew his cousin must be there. Narcissa would not go anywhere without Lucius. She was as bound to him as the very ring welded upon his finger. 

 

He wondered if he looked different. The lack of looming clouds that often hung heavy in Grimmauld may have bleached his hair a shade lighter or thrown splatters of freckling upon his cheeks. He hoped Narcissa would intercept the letter somehow. His response was halfway catered to her in that very same hope.

 

He hoped that when he returned, it would feel new and fresh. That his absence was like a long nursing in the womb, and he would return as if he were just born. Lacquered and new and like Draco. Perhaps the Loup sun would bleach his hair blonde like the child’s.

 

The night he sent that letter, he lay in the tent and sobbed. It was the first time since he had arrived. There was no particular reason; he was simply edging upon slumber, staring at the tent walls, and it rushed out of him. He was happy yet confused, grieving the bed that he was not lying in. His stomach curled, and his face strained taut. An unnerving, helpless feeling infected him, and he found no way to expel it but through tears. So his shoulders heaved as he cried with heavy and gutted whines. 

 

Remus must have arrived and realised, as soon enough, there was a hand on his shoulder. Just one hand, just close enough, and a rubbing thumb. He hushed Regulus until the sobs faded, and part of him wished he could cry for hours and hours longer. He wished the large hand on him was delicate and dainty and had the same creases that Narcissa had. Even with his eyes blurred, he would have recognised the touch.

 

He thought of talking to Remus about his day. About the monologue of confusion that had imbedded itself in him, and perhaps he would have, but another wolf pulled them from the tent to the hearth for dinner. It was a monstrous fire that looked as large as a tree when Regulus sat down. Remus sat beside him and handed him a line of meats skewered upon a stick. 

 

Regulus nibbled on them, still glazed in heat and char. His own silence was killing him while the other wolves shouted and sang.

 

He took a deep inhale, the empty stick in front of him, before he shuffled slightly to his right, no further away from the heat of the hearth but closer to the heat of Remus. He lay just his temple on the boy's shoulder, rubbing into his skin. Regulus could feel Remus look down, his nose brushing his forehead before he reached an arm around Regulus and pulled him closer. 

 

“What was that about?” Remus mumbled low and against Regulus’s skin.

 

“I want to speak of things but cannot find the words,” Regulus replied honestly.

 

“You have a mouth for a reason. You have words and language for a reason.”

 

“I am no good at using them.” An age-old dilemma, Regulus found.

 

“Tam ostende eum.” 

 

Regulus understood. So show him .

♛

JAMES POTTER

James Potter was smug, even for a member of the royal family. 

 

That spoke volumes, as he had never seen any king smirk the way he did then. He felt a smugness greater than what any title could have given him. He dismounted Prongs and strolled back to his camp with the ego of a thousand suns trailing behind him weightlessly. He was sun-washed and breezy and warm.

 

“ James, James, James. ” Regulus’ voice chanted in his head. The loss of ‘ser’ had an effect that he had not expected. It had thrown back the sheets on a discovery that only induced the desire for more discoveries. The desire to know someone, and yet, each day, still find something new. A new mannerism, an inflection in their voice, in their accent. A preference you did not know they possessed. Perhaps the lingering shadow of their preferences and styles within oneself. The realisation of that was perhaps the most beautiful part of connection. 

 

“James, James, James,” he murmured as he strode. It felt like an accomplishment. It was as if he had taught Regulus a new word and a new perspective. 

 

Regulus' naivety, despite him being a court boy, held an invitation for James to shed some of the court-cotton cloaks he always harboured heavy upon his shoulders. “Well… we aren't in your court now.” he had said, and James could only think, do not remind me . Because he wasn’t sure what he would do if he was too aware of that fact. It rattled him, the mention of courtship, the way regulus shed it from his lips so freely—without any care. It would have felt like he was taking advantage if he did not give the boy the truth. That those were the types of things they were not to speak of between men. James did not know why he entertained it so, why it had sprouted something in him, a question. 

 

James turned around, looking back at the treeline—the Clôture Verte—on the horizon, with two interlocked hands upon his head. He let out a gut-deep laugh. A sort of shocked one. Before nodding with a big grin and walking back with a skip-like step. 

 

His father's words recited themselves in his head as he trod. Very specific ones that he had said, seated by James’ bed as he lulled him into slumber. “We deplete ourselves of all the great nourishments to sustain a court-like appearance. All the great pleasures and satisfactions the gods bestowed upon us, but man cultivates religious rules to deny and forbid. Nourisments make us often kinder and happier. Perhaps you need the courage to find that space where you can feast upon those satisfactions. It is all courage. They sit at the end of your bed; you just need to find the courage to wake yourself up and trudge to them.”

 

He kissed James upon the temple and left the room. 

 

James did not know if it was a message of anonymity. To seek the pleasures not allowed in court—at least not spoken about—and do them in the privacy of one's chambers. Or whether it was an urge to act publicly or to defy. That was the time Ignotus took his brother's bride as his own, though, so he thought his father may have some simmering rebellion in his stomach.

 

The growing size of the camp only helped James think of the ‘invaluable’ present regulus had mentioned. When he first said it, the only thing that came to mind was the three eggs. Frank and Ted both said it was an invaluable thing. Despite being paralysed with stone. Frozen in time. They remained more valuable than an army, more valuable than a kingdom. And Moody would have him destroy them. That was the type of gift Regulus was referring to.

 

James saw Marlene as he and Prongs walked closer. 

 

“Your Highness, I—”

 

“Marlene!” He threw up his hands, embracing her in a tight squeeze.

 

“Oh!” she laughed. “Thank you?”

 

The balmy and sultry weather only thickened with contact. He pulled back. “You are in a right good mood.”

 

“Right, good day,” he began walking, and Marlene joined him; she always had the sound of horseshoes clinking upon her belt as she walked. “Right, great day.”

 

“Off with the wolves.”

 

Humoured, “No wolf there.”

 

“You know, I think Moody will have us leave soon once your ‘task is done’. He's been receiving ravens.”

 

“Leave?” James stopped. All the things of recent days tipped from their bucket.  “The task. At the banquet, Marlene, Frank and Tonks told me that there is a trunk with invaluables; it’s what he’s been carrying on the back of his horse.” 

 

James had forgotten about that. Marlene dipped into his eyesline, regaining his attention after he fell into a paralysed stare. 

 

“Okay,” she laughed, eyebrows raised. “Invaluable?”

 

Invaluable. 

 

“In my family, courtships used to be one of the most expensive events of the year.”

 

“It would always be something invaluable.”

 

“Invaluables!” James practically panted, “That is what I am going to the drop for.”

 

“Good luck then.” she continued to chuckle. “You’ll be on your own; they never accompany the knights on the final task.”

 

“Alone. Moody won’t see me take the trunk?” He said with too much of a smile. He himself didn’t know what plan his running mind was cultivating. The memories of the past few days sat at the red-hot centre of his consciousness. 

 

“I would assume not.”

 

“How long would you say? Until we leave, that is.”

 

She shrugged, no thought in her gesture. “Soon. Let him get his bearings, though; he still needs to talk to you about it. As much as he decides himself in charge, you’ll still be on the throne one day.”

 

“Unless—“

 

“Yes unless, unless. Still. No one has been born. Not yet.”

 

James chewed at his lip. “A week, would you say?”

 

“Maybe more. Probably not less.”

 

His mind betrayed him, as when he pictured himself riding along the Honey-Dukes trail to the drop, he could only see himself swerving, shouting “Gee!” to Prongs and riding toward Regulus. He pictured the look on his face. The laugh he would give when James offered those invaluables. What harm could frozen eggs do? It was no courtship. Not a courtship , James told himself; you do not dabble in those things . 

 

Those things.

 

He wasn’t referring to a general courtship. He could not even think of the word.

 

But it would be a worthy gift. Simply a worthy gift. And if he were to leave so soon after, it would be a kind parting gesture. He reasoned with it from every angle and could only see it as a brilliant idea. He would not mess up his brilliant idea. 

 

In all honesty, amid his mystery and tight-lipped smile, Regulus had a simmering sadness that bobbed shyly outside of his stern expression. It hung in the air around him like a cool breeze, goosefleshing being the only proof of it. It had been an expanse of a few days since they had known each other, but James, ever fast in his decisions, decided that they were great friends. Of course, like anything, that scared him, the whole searing intensity of it. As a nephew of the King, a boy in the line of succession, his position alone clanged loudly as his armour, but there, in the north of the realm, edging towards Clôture Verte, he was just James.

 

To Regulus—as far as Regulus knew—he was James, a knight. Ser James, as he insisted on saying. But even that was a lie. No—that sounded Ill-intended. He simply enjoyed the anonymity. His Uncle,  of course, had been grating him, finally chopping him into annoyance and hatred as much as one can be spiteful towards one’s family, so it was a kind, freeing feeling to sever their hereditary connection; but of course, that also expelled the shield, the clanging armour. One did not need courage—and James’ father would smack him silly for thinking this—when you are royal, the title is courage enough. It is the simple truth.

 

His own itching inability to find bravery in himself was no trouble when everyone simply bent the knee. Though that, too, he despised. James’s whole life was cultivated upon contradictions, and he found it hard to find his balance.

 

“Do not worry, James.” She nudged him, pushing a large swallow down his throat as he eased back into consciousness. “It is only one road.”

 

“Yes.” He nodded. “One road. You are right.” Then turned to Marlene. She ran her fingers mindlessly through her horse-tailed blonde hair. “You are far too smart to just be a stable hand..”

 

“That is what I tell everyone, but no one listens.” she sighed dramatically, and James laughed, hoping the noise would distract him from his day with Regulus. One can only have so much of a good thing before it grows dull—or at least that was what his uncle preached in regard to wives. 

 

James could not imagine that happening with someone like Regulus.

 

♘

 

James wished he were wearing a vest. Or a doublet. Just something with padding. 

 

It wasn’t how Regulus’ front and cheek were pressed against his back but how his hands held James’ stomach. Wandering hands, he corrected. Unconsciously wandering hands. It was an innocent situation—no one was at fault—it was a normal reaction. At least, that is what James decided; from touch, Regulus’ hands were relatively indistinguishable from a lady's. So, it was okay in his eyes. As long as it was in no one else. 

 

“Would it not be faster to run.” James felt Regulus’ chin move against his back as the boy spoke. 

 

“We have all afternoon.”

 

“You saw me this morning.”

 

He chuckled, and Regulus tightened his grip as the shoulder-shaking movement loosened him, pressing below his navel. James straightened. “I wanted to bring you here today.  

 

“Why not tomorrow?” He whispered.

 

“Why not today?” James whispered back. He preferred to have him behind. In any situation of danger, James’ pure stoicism would be enough to serve protection. That fear had not dulled even with distractions. 

 

Remus rode Kreacher, adorned in the Black crown upon his white main and everything. Moony, surprisingly to Sirius and Padfoot’s dismay, was left behind. It would have been havoc to bring a wolf-man and his second leg to a town in Griffin. Remus and Sirius were far ahead while Marlene trotted, flashing her sword and playing a knight. James watched Remus—stoic and quiet and sometimes scared him a little. Every so often, when Sirius wasn’t looking, he would reach down and unbuckle his saddle before tugging his reins and strolling away unsuspecting. James watched Sirius slip and struggle to re-buckle while staying upon Scrope as Remus cackled.

 

He hadn’t expected the two to get along, but watching Sirius drap him in James’ clothes as they articulated a court-like disguise affirmed that they did. James thought that perhaps Remus wasn’t the challenge that panicked Sirius. Despite his love for the grandeur and as much as he denied it, Palace scenes were an obstacle to him. It was all pressure and whispers draped in lace tablecloths. 

 

Remus was an unknown thing. He was unknown to James as well. 

 

Those thoughts rushed from his mind as the pinch of a fingernail slipped between the buttons on his blouse and onto his skin. He glanced down quickly. It was a stray hand, unnoticed to regulus, simply induced by the movement of Prongs below them. James did not move it; otherwise, it would become a thing. And it was not a thing. He did not know why the thought was even crossing his mind.

 

Regulus took him out of thought again, “You're surprised they get along.” He said, placing his chin upon the curve of James’ shoulder, straining to reach.

 

“Godric, you're scary. How’d you know I was thinking of that?” He looked down to Regulus, jolting back forward when their noses brushed. The skin was as soft as it looked.

 

Regulus lay his cheek against the blouse. “All I can hear is Remus laughing.”

 

“Is that out of the ordinary for you too?”

 

“No. He’s just never this loud. Just make sure he doesn’t try to stand on Kreacher. He insists he can stand on his wolf while they walk.”

 

James smiled at that thought. “Can he?”

 

“What is it you say? Godric , no.” 

 

Laughs warmed his chest, and Regulus' fingers warmed his abdomen. “ Godric no. You're a delight sometimes. ”

 

“ You're a delight sometimes .” Regulus mocked right back in his highest voice, his lips dangerously close to the skin of James’ neck. He flicked his hand and clicked his tongue with a smirk, ushering Regulus away, who had just giggled and settled back onto the shoulder. He had warmed to James quickly, although Regulus had never been cold.

 

“You pick up things far too quickly for my liking. You mock almost as much as Sirius now.”

 

“You don't like it?” He teased with a smile. 

 

“Copycat.”

 

“Of course, a Man from Griffin would claim a simple concept as his own. You don’t want to share with me?”

 

“I'll share whatever you wish.”

 

James could've sworn Regulus curled even further into him. “Ha, pathetic.”

 

“Oh, I'll be pathetic for you, Regulus.”

 

They rode a bit farther in silence. When he left Marlene’s company earlier, James rushed to Sirius, who was slumped by a tree, needing obvious condolence from whatever spineless matter he deemed worthy of punctuating his day with sorrow. He was always one for dramatics. So James suggested they spend their last night in a town, remembering one Northeast from their camp on the map. He had casually slipped in that his only map was with Regulus, even though they had enough to spare with them, and Sirius looked up, eyes glinting. 

 

It was settled then, and they took Marlene, their horses, and a satchel of James’s clothes to the Clôture Verte. Regulus was appointed navigator, to his apparent delight, and they set forth.

 

James truly could not say why his mind ran to those eggs with Regulus. He had somehow become so set on gifting him something worthy of the family stories the boy had shared that even the word ‘invaluable’ triggered some slight excitement. James was never one to think very rationally. Quick thoughts and oafish movements, as Sirius would tease him about, despite the high count of won duels he casually hangs over Sirius’ head whenever appropriate. 

 

Though Sirius’ leaner frame allowed him to slink around the ground with a much quicker dance, it did not challenge the sheer power of royal treatment and better tutors.

 

“S’cold,” Regulus muttered, eyes closed and body bristling, 

 

“We are south; you shouldn’t be.”

 

“I run cold.”

 

“I run warm.”

 

“I can tell.” His fingers bundled up the hem of James’ blouse, and his hands were flat on the stomach. James swallowed the fingertips like branding tools.

 

“It–” he licked his lips, and much to his dismay, the following words slipped out, “It's warmer here.” James took Regulus’ wrist into his hand and led him further down, just below his navel, before placing his palm upon Regulus; his other hand manned the reins. 

 

“ Mm. ”

 

Regulus read a book to him once, and James had thirteen complete novels' thoughts on him. All appropriately curious. He wanted to lean his head back to lean on Regulus’s shoulder, but this height did not allow that, so he straightened and ignored the pulse on his belly. The touch of skin had always tugged longing from him, so James saw nothing out of the ordinary. “Are you breathing?” Regulus mumbled.

 

“Yes.” Unconvincing. 

 

Regulus pulled back, and James’s body almost chased the touch, leaning back with him and pulling Prongs to a halt. “If we aren’t going to run, I think I shall stretch my legs.” he managed to slip off the saddle with much effort. Despite the fumbling, it significantly improved how he used to dismount. 

 

“Regulus!” He wined as the boy skipped off, hands interlocked behind his back. James could see the smirk as he walked forward. Eyes glinting with mischief.

 

He chuckled to himself, considering whipping the reins and galloping past Regulus. But James decided to be kind. They were in a giddy part of their lives. Stepping into spring in the hotter part of the continent. A summer feeling. He feared it would fade as quickly as the summer heat. James was conscious enough to specify that those may be the good times he would reflect on. An unconscious man looks forward and sees the boy trudging along. However, despite his idealistic perspective, James was still conscious and very aware of who he was. When he looked forward, he saw a woman and a castle. His home and his place. Perhaps the right hand of the king, maybe a commander in his brother's army—if he ever had a brother. 

 

They had met too many times in the trees and on open plains. By the creek, they had claimed for their own, at night and in the day. James had never done anything like that before. Of course, he would sneak from room to room in his boyhood. Some could say he was still in his boyhood, a fresh seventeen. Those hops between bed chambers were simply so he could jump into bed with Sirius, draw the curtain and whisper the night away. He had never whispered with anyone else before until now. 

 

The afternoon plan was a simple one. They would arrive at the town at a reasonable hour and leave it at a less reasonable one. Early enough for Moody not to know, late enough to have a final and theatrical hurrah. From what James had gathered about Regulus, he had lived sheltered in a rather unconventional court. They held traditions and expectations—he wouldn't have been groomed so meticulously if not—but a lack of teaching of Northdon cues. Perhaps his knowledge was a more ancient pre-Potter rein type of knowledge. He knew relations between man and man were done with fewer locked doors before his uncle implemented laws. Regulus seemed to have no clue about those types of prejudices. 

 

A few days before, when they were sitting near the creek that Regulus had shown him, James saw a strange mark on his neck. The back, a small press of irregularities, almost naked to the bare eyes, but they were there. A slight discolouration of the skin that one would only see if they were looking at closely as James, in as much clear daylight as they bathed in that very morning. 

 

At first, his mind wandered to a strangely jealous conclusion. Initially, thinking it was an obscurely large love bite. He pictured it for a moment, right there by the water. Regulus sat in front of him, playing with some pebbles cross-legged on the bank. James leaned back in his forearms a few short paces behind him. Right there on the small rock bank, he pictured it. How it could have happened, and he found himself rather upset. His mind went to Remus first, then to all the names he had heard the two mention. Fenrir was one, some denomination of the word wolf in another’s surname. 

 

He chastised their lack of creativity.

 

The disgust that grew, he reasoned with the fact that Regulus was far too kind to be touched by any of them. He decided that was the reason. But, as he, too, leaned back slightly and the collar of his shirt bent with his body, James could see how the mark trailed further down in a larger pasture. The shadow inside his blouse disfigured the clearness, of course, but it was there. A strange, healed burn of sorts. The skin goosefleshed slightly, something the lips could do, no matter how sharp the canines behind them were.

 

And that small hint of naivety and innocence James had perceived him with altered to something of quietness instead. He simply did not speak on those things. He did not mention how he was branded with the strange burn, and James didn’t think he ever would. He seemed content to ignore it and cover it with his wealthy court cotton.

 

The disgust found an even more permanent residence at the idea that someone had given the mark to him. But it was much worse that way. 

 

James pulled his eyes from Regulus’ neck, focusing on the path ahead.

 

“Your Highness.” Marlene rode up beside him, hair done in a tight clasp that would not fray from the bump of a horse ride. She had altered her demeanour over the past few weeks, cultivating a less serious attitude towards James, calling him ‘your highness’ in a way that was more jesting than anything.

 

“Marlene.” He grinned.

 

“Charming. You two.” She grinned wider. 

 

“You think?” It was a race.

 

“Yes, who knows, when you become king—“

 

“It’ll be Ignotus’ son.” James reminded her.

 

“—or the king's second, you’ll be able to bring him back to Godric.”

 

Regulus weaved between Sirius and Remus, jesting an irritation every time Sirius would lean down to grab his shirt collar, pulling him back. James smiled. “It does not matter where I sit; he seems happy where he is. No matter how strange.”

 

“Have you seen him there? Not lingering around the forest line—“

 

“Cloutre verte.” James corrected proudly.

 

“…Cloutre verte.” She said, unsure and confused. James liked that she didn’t know what it meant. Despite the fact that it was a whole language that he did not speak, it felt like a private thing between him and Regulus. One, he could dangle in front of others to let them know that it is just between them. “You have not seen him outside of there; I wouldn’t enjoy it if I were him. Maybe he’s only happy here.”

 

 

James gripped his reins, aware of the bumping beneath him as his body swayed forward and back. She was wholly correct. “I can't force him to leave. I don’t want him to resent me. I’ve only known him for days. 

 

I’ve only known him for days. He thought about that for a little while. I’ve only known him for days. “If it’s unsafe, would you care whether he resented you?”

 

“No. If someone wasn’t safe—” he stopped himself. Considering the town they had stayed in. The bullied boy he did not defend. “I would have my father—the court come. I’d ensure he’d come with me—home or anywhere safe.”

 

“You’d send your uncle's army into wolfland to keep one boy safe? Are you listening to yourself?”

 

“Yes.” 

 

“Has he not told you why he runs with wolves?”

 

“I don’t think he knows himself. He is still dressed as if on the king's table.”

 

“He has a monk haircut and a court boy vest; the boy barely runs with wolves; staggers is a more ideal term.”

 

James laughed at that. Regulus’ curls hid the obscene haircut; maybe it was how he wore it that concealed the purposeful unattractiveness of that style. But it didn’t sit on his head with that unattractiveness.

 

“He wears it well, though.” 

 

“Regretfully, he does.” Marlene quieted for a moment before she asked, “Do you think you’d get to decide who is knighted, even when you are king's second?”

 

He considered. More evidence was needed to base his argument on. His father was the king's hand, and they treated each other appropriately to brotherhood. Ignotus did not listen and did not take suggestions. James did not tell her that. “I don’t see why not. The king will be my broth—my cousin. I can just ask; he will be family.”

 

“I will be very straightforward and ask. Women have been joining courts; there are Nobel women all over the realm, so why can one not be a knight?”

 

“Oh.” James said, “Oh, I hadn’t thought about that. I didn’t really notice that there wasn’t.”

 

“There’s none. It shocked me at first. Not even one. I know baker women taller than some of your uncle's knights; it makes no sense.”

 

Strangely, James knew the exact baker woman she was referring to, and even he, when passing the store, mindlessly thought that she had the perfect build of a knight. She had solid shoulders and a high pain tolerance if her record for holding freshly hot bread was any marker.

 

The idea of her faultless inability to be one had not crossed his mind. It clearly had kept Marlene away at night, from how her face scrunched at the thought. He’d heard her, some of those sleepless nights, with metal clanging and grunts as she duelled Sirius outside the tents.

 

“Are you…” James queried, knowing the answer. “I know you and Sirius have been duelling. Is that why? You want to be a knight.”

 

“Do not laugh.”

 

“You know I wouldn’t. Why would you say that?”

 

“Frank did.”

 

James furrowed his brows. “When?”

 

“A long time ago, he was a boy, so it does not matter.”

 

He reached over to place a hand on Marlene's shoulder. “You don’t have to wait for my cousin to be born; I’ll talk to my uncle.”

 

Her breath hitched as though she was not expecting it. She kept her composure, though, nodding; there was still that flickering barrier of class between them. “Thank you.”

 

His focus hasn’t been on the three boys before him for some time, but much must have occurred. More of Sirius’ cheeky games towards Regulus, as they played and spat words at each other like brothers might. All of Sirius’ jabs landed him on his ass, though, as he leaned down to grab Regulus’ shirt again, just as Remus unhooked the saddle. He screamed as he fell onto the walking boy. Regulus stumbled but jumped forward, missing the collision. He rolled on the ground in whines.

 

Both James and Marlene pulled their horse to a halt. “Sirius?” He shouted. Regulus stood before him, kicked his body once and looked at James with a huge, playful grin he’d never seen before. So James did not worry; he knew the rolling boy was okay.

 

Regulus pointed at Sirius, laughing. “He fell on his ass.”

 

And the way he pronounced the words with his inflection made James, heavy with endearment, laugh too.

 

♘

Notes:

okay i redid AS I SAID I WOULLDD ONE DAYY this so i thinnkkkkkk the plot is a bit offf....? reread if you are reading this or it'll be confusing I think hahahah

Chapter 9: Sirius | Barty

Summary:

Tavern part 1 yyyuuhhhhhhh

Notes:

underage drinking??/ was that a thing in medieval times???/

 

I’ll take the shame of saying I believe prophecies can be true. I believe there is an art to prediction. Even as they established those markers of time in the language of Old Gallo, ‘Avant-Frer’ or known easily as ‘AF’ and meaning “Beofre brothers” as the time before the three brothers split Godric into The Inbvisible, Resurrected, and Elder Territory, and all the time after known as ‘Suivant-Frere’ or ‘SF’ a translation to “Next Brothers’. 

Call me an endorser of the dark magic and omens, but I do believe it was a prediction of those very Black Brothers history writes of. 

 

- From ‘The Appendices: A Recount of the Fourth Realm’ by Lily Evans. 

 

SIRIUS 

 

They arrived at Little Whinging in the late afternoon and tied their horses in a stable before disbanding around a benched table in the tavern. The door had a crooked oak sign engraved with a spilling cauldron, swinging lazily above the door, creaking with each gentle gust of wind, a telling and clear direction. It creaked especially loudly with one breezy breath and caught Remus’ attention, who still walked like a telling wolf-man. Sirius took it upon himself to slap his back occasionally, forcing him straight and well-postured. 

 

The leaky cauldron, as displayed jaggedly on that creaky oak sign, was sick with the heat of hearty stew and fresh bread. A comforting embrace. Candlelight and lantern hum flickered on the plastered walls. Jovial minstrels strummed lutes and vaulted between their instruments and frothy ale. 

 

They chose a small, rounded table that was scratched and wooden and pulled up as many chairs as needed. The centre of the tabletop held a single candle, a jar of sea salt for seasoning, and plentiful mountains of wax droppings. Regulus—trying to earn the favour of James, in Sirius’ opinion—offered to bring the group a dawning batch of drinks. 

 

Sirius decided that he did not know what drinks to get, nor would the tender give someone as young-looking as him anything worth purchasing, so a strange impulse forced him up to trail behind Regulus. He felt strangely bad for the boy. Perhaps holding a slight infatuation for James, while Sirius was sure James saw him like a charming little brother. Upon arrival at the bar, Sirius threw an arm around Regulus’ shoulders, offering him a winning smile. Regulus caught on.

 

“I know how to do this.” He said simply.

 

“Have you done it before?” 

 

“No.” Regulus shot back, small underneath Sirius’ arm. Not in the way of tallness but in how he curled into himself. A nervous stance. Sirius rested a palm on his shoulder, an attempt for comfort, but it made the boy tense. He let out a stuttering breath. “Have you?”

 

“I'd say I’ve frequented enough taverns to have a bit of a reputation,” Sirius stated proudly. 

 

“I know what to do…”

 

“But I know James’ favourite drink. So I’ll help.”

 

Regulus gave a resigned, unsure look. Willing, but still unsure. Sirius knew he had caught him. “It’s okay; you didn’t have an older brother to sneak you out, I understand.”

 

“And did you?”

 

“I was the older brother. Or the bad influence. I used to drag James straight from his bed in the dead of night to roam the town under cloaks.”

 

He glanced back briefly to James, who was laughing wifely, a hand on Marlene’s shoulder as he wheezed out. Remus was leaning back in his seat, arms crossed and smirking. When he was fourteen, Sirius had met another boy on the street, the son of a merchant who had only docked for the day and night. That very evening, he took Sirius to the local tavern of the south village, a spot he would scarcely be recognised, and they shared a slight innocent kiss behind the building after a long few hours by the bar, and an even longer list of various whisky’s consumed. 

 

The next night, when the boy had left with his father to travel to Hill Rock, Sirius brought James there for the first time. A pocket full of galleons and a plan in mind to make great memories as a true adult. Though he was not an adult, as the years went on, the visits became more casual and normal, less about acting above their ages. 

 

He burned slightly with shame, thinking about bringing James to the scene of such an act. But Regulus cooled that. He had his suspicions. The obvious need to impress James, the eyes, the stares, the touches. 

 

Underneath Sirius’ arm, he felt the same tenseness he had once held, staring at other boys across the court. He knew it was futile in vain. James would marry a lady of the court—maybe a lady of another court. He was more likely to marry Marlene, a stable hand, rather than the boy under Sirius’ arm. But he saw a familiarity, and he decided himself responsible. A brotherhood of sorts.

 

“James doesn’t have much at court. He doesn’t like his father to see him drink. Not his mother—not that she’s around much during dinner.”

 

Regulus looked up at him. “Why not?”

 

He stilled, unsure what to say, not wanting to burden Regulus with such a story. “Just…family matters. You understand?” He asked, almost worried about the answer. Regulus’ silence confirmed his worries, and this time, when Sirius squeezed his shoulder, he didn’t tense up. He allowed it.

 

It was uncomfortable looking at Regulus with the confirmation of a complicated family. He was still a child, Sirius decided, despite him only being a year his junior. Sirius himself was still a child, but he fashioned himself older in the presence of the boy. Someone had to. 

 

“His father… The king's hand.” Regulus said, and Sirius nodded. “You two are brothers? So he is your father, too.”

 

“No, not brothers, really. I like to think so sometimes, but not really. I won’t lie to you. These wolfmen are not the very brotherly company?”

 

“Nome of them like me very much.”

 

“Did they tell you that?” Sirius pulled back, his arms resting upon the bar table, and he slid onto a stool, which was wood and lacquered. Regulus chose to still stand. I felt in front of him painstakingly still. He tried his best to remain focused on Regulus’ words, but he couldn’t help but blink quickly every time he met Regulus’ eyes. It was like those strange moments of clarity and shock when you unexpectedly meet a mirror a little drunken or in a not quite sufficient light. There was an undeniable similarity in his face. 

 

The hair, of course, even with the candlelight’s warm hue, no brown nor red nor any tawny tones were sucked from the locks. Pure ink black. It was what made his eyes so jarring. Having such dark eyes alone would already be unlikely—something you would bring up in conversation or ask to see under the clarity of the sun. But the pure raven circles inside raven lashes and brows and hair were as striking as Sirius’ own unlikely grey. 

 

He had the same leanness, maybe bigger cheeks that he would lose eventually with age—when sideburns finally replaced those strange plaits. He meant to ask of them. He didn’t.

 

Sirius didn’t ask Regulus why they had the same face either.

 

“They don’t tell me anything. I haven’t learnt their language, so we don’t speak.” Regulus said as though it was his fault. Sirius disagreed.

 

“Remus learnt yours.” He found his gaze going back to the group at the table. Remus stayed as he was, the smile still growing. “Remus isn’t like the wolfmen, is he?”

 

“No—he is like them. They aren’t bad. The lupos.”

 

“Lupos?” Sirius inquired

 

“It’s…” his hands rolled as he tried to explain what it was; he seemed to not find the specific words he was seeking, “ what they are called. In their language.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“They just do things differently, but they are kind to each other. I have seen it. They—they aren’t like all the stories. They don’t like others, but what court favours other courts?” Siris narrowed his eyes. Huh . He thought, a surprised thought. He didn’t expect such words from a court boy.“No one with the common tongue has ever been very nice to them anyway.” Regulus mumbled.

 

“You make them sound much smaller and less scary than they are.” Sirius laughed. “I don’t think anyone would have the chance to be nice to them before getting their head bitten off.”

 

“You still have your head.” Regulus offered. “And you are very nice to Remus.”

 

“Ah,” Sirius winced dramatically, throwing his palm at Regulus’ shoulder with a light smack. “Shove off.”

 

“ Very .” He grinned. 

 

“You’re sneaky.” Sirius wagged his finger in Regulus’ face. He was on a high, hoping Regulus was implying what he assumed he was implying. There was no one else to talk to about those things. He decided to ask. Plainly and simply. Not completely plainly, he hid it in a jest. “What are you implying, troublemaker?”

 

Regulus shrugged. Sirius gained no answer as the boy found his seat on the bar stool beside him. He was silent, in thought, for a few seconds, and Sirius let him be. “I have cousins, you know,” Regulus said after a while. “Lots. That is almost like siblings. So I think I understand…a small bit.”

 

His voice wavered by the end, and Sirius did his best to ease the worry.

 

“Aye, really?” Regulus smiled slightly in response. Sirius asked eagerly, “How many?”

 

“Three. They are girls, so it feels like more; they are much older, though. One has a baby.”

 

“You can be his older brother, then.”

 

“Maybe…maybe,” Regulus said quietly.

 

“You say you understand a small bit? Aren’t you close?”

 

“They are sisters. I am just a cousin.” Regulus whispered rather sadly. He averted his eyes, lashes curtaining them. “What do I say?” He gestured towards the tender, who was already preoccupied throwing liquor bottles around like a court jester. Fire whisky and ale braided with each other in the air.

 

“Well.” Sirius spun to face the wall of drinks. “James likes the mulled wine, but he won’t say he does. He’s embarrassed that he can’t drink it normally and that he likes wine. I don’t blame him. So just get him a fire whisky first, sneak the wine in later.”

 

“And you?”

 

“You want to order for me too?” Regulus nodded. In the midst of a strange and foreign swell of pride, he told Regulus which drink he predicted each of the others would like. Something soft and malty for Remus, whose innards seemed soft compared to his harsh face. Something harsh for Marlene, who found herself contracted with the very opposite dilemma. He decided on two butterbeers. One for him, one for Regulus. Light and barely liquored. Warm and caramel and frothy. A perfect first drink. He would have it with regulus so as not to make him feel alone.

 

Once the tender arrived, regulus recited it with a nervous voice but a proud, swollen bird's chest. Sirius pat him on the back and helped him haul the cups back to their table. When Regulus placed the whisky in front of James, he beamed, taking it and exclaiming how it was his very favourite drink, only to blabber on about some time he accidentally stole a barrel of the stuff straight from the palace reserve. Sirius didn’t need to listen; he knew the story, and he was there. Instead, he and Regulus shared a sneaky glance, a knowing, thankful one. 

 

Sirius swore he saw Regulus smile as James rambled the falsified truth of his favourite drink. It was right there that he decided it did not matter if his suspicions of the boy's queerness were true or not. He couldn’t help but want to be the cause of a smile again.

 

Now, Regulus had a distinct humour. A sneaky one that shot quickly and looked away even quicker. Each time James’ gaze wandered off, and Sirius suspected Regulus was going to slip in one of his obscure remarks into the conversation, he’d give his friend a light beating of the shin under the table. A quick and kind, ‘pay attention to him’. 

 

Sirius just couldn’t help but see him in the boy. He couldn’t help but find it endearing amongst the sputter of sadness. But it wouldn’t be sad for Regulus, he’d decided.

 

It wasn’t too much work anyway, James looked to his left almost the whole night. Right at Regulus’ spot. Sirius watched him, glances at Regulus’ hand, fiddling in his lap, fingernails picking at the fabric of his pants. When he tucked those short plaits behind his ears, James would offer a hand to properly tuck it in, thumbing at his temple mindlessly. His eyes were latched onto the other body beside him. Sirius almost figured himself jealous. He would’ve been if he hadn’t worked himself up so momentously over helping the very boy James was sitting beside.

 

And for a small moment—a moment he wasn’t proud of—he slightly hoped James was like him in terms of preferences. Or maybe that he was like James. Or maybe there was something wrong with the nephew of the king, and Sirius was not so bad in comparison. 

 

Plainly, Sirius almost hoped that James was queer, and he hated himself for wishing persecution on his brother like that. 

 

If anyone said that Sirius wanted the role James sat in, he would have laughed. But if someone said that Sirius sometimes, late at night, under the eyes or the moon or with a man’s mouth near his neck, wished that he was James, then it would not be funny enough to even chuckle at.

 

He’d wondered, on occasion, whether his preferences lay in the body of James. The number of times he thought of himself with guilt while pressed close to men, lacking clothes, and even thinking of short hair and long limbs would prove that very suggestion. But he didn’t; he realised that after a long half-year of averting James’ eye and avoiding him in hallways until James cornered him and milked an extremely convincing excuse from his friend. 

 

He was simply ashamed. That was all. He would have rather died than have James find out what he was doing. James’ face, contorted with disgust, maybe the only thing Sirius ever feared.

 

“Please, for the love of all the four Gods, can you tell us where your abhorrent animal names came from!” Marlene exclaimed, banging her half-filled glass on the tabletop. She barely touched her drink and seemed simply drunk from the atmosphere. They all were. With loud jests and shouts, Sirius knew they would find themselves having many more rounds, even though they didn’t really need it.

 

“It is obvious!” James rebutted, pointing to Sirius, “Padfoot because he’s a hound. The padded feet. Prongs because he looks like a deer with his long snout.”

 

“And skinny legs.” Sirius snickered. Remus huffed out a laugh as well, which only made Sirius smile more.

 

“Prongs means antlers, but that’s the one thing he doesn’t have?” Remus asked, raising his brows. 

 

“Okay—“ James held up a finger. “Listen here—“

 

Sirius cut in, “I told him it was stupid the very day he named him.”

 

“No more than Padfoot.” Regulus slyly said. 

 

“Hush! I’ve heard what you call your horse; you are the very worst of us.”

 

Marlene threw two hands up to her face in anticipation. “Oh, please tell me, Sirius. Please.”

 

“ Kreacher .”

 

She grimaced, almost screaming, “That’s horrifying! Why would you pick that?!”

 

“I’m not the one calling a dog, Harry,” Regulus mumbled, only to grunt rather loudly when James let out an obnoxious laugh, smacking him on the back. 

 

“People names for pets. I stand by it!” He spoke proudly. Sirius watched his hand trail up slightly, lightly rubbing at the back of Regulus’ neck. He leaned in, whispering something that Sirius couldn’t quite make out. But when he pulled back, regulus only gave a sincere smile and nod. James smiled right back down at him. 

 

Sirius hoped, and then he scolded himself for hoping.

 

Deciding to redirect his attention to something that would not guilt him, he looked to Remus. 

 

Remus was certainly a type of man. He was a boy for sure, but still a man. Seventeen, probably—maybe twenty. He carried that boyish youth around with him like a school satchel would be wrapped tightly around a proper schoolboy. 

 

But the face betrayed it. Worn with scars. Three distinct ones that covered one eye, a nose bridge and a mouth. His ear was clipped as well, and Sirius hoped he would not get so drunk that he’d ask to touch it because he had been wanting to. Remus’s hair, sandy-coloured, was lotal to that name. It truly looked as though it had been sand tossed, a beach rubbed into his scalp. His complexion was almost the same, except instead of sand, his skin was freckled with the small spots Sirius had ever seen. So freckled, they almost absorbed him.

 

At home, Sirius had never had too harsh of a preference. They mostly were simply there, so Sirius decided to not be a harsh critic—nor a picky one. But they all were tall; that was something he seemed to float towards, all slightly harsh. All mean. 

 

Remus was tall; that was the furthest thing from opinion possible. Further than the distance between  Monashire and Griffin. It was a fact. He was like Sirius’ conquests in that way. A harsh face, perhaps, a mean complexion. But despite Remus’ quietness and closed-off nature, he was not mean. That was the biggest difference. He was a kind one. Genuinely, truly kind.

 

But Sirius refused to think like that. He was determined to be like James that night. He and Remus took the next shift by the bar. Regulus was preoccupied, and Sirius found a very fond conversation with Remus that he did not want to end. 

 

 

♘

 

 

Regulus slinked off a little while after they got settled, so Sirius hadn’t gotten to say goodbye and had been missing the latest two drinks. Two promising glasses of mulled wine (for James) and fire whisky. By the time he returned, Sirius had thought his liver may be diseased from the sheer litres of fire whisky that had passed his lips and down the burning channel of his throat. He was in a state of kindness and blurriness that was only assisted by the hearth-like heat of the tavern. The type of blurriness that is only available when one is young and suspended in the summer vagueness. 

 

The tavern littered itself with chatter and laughter. None seemed to recognise James nor suspect any ill-origins from Remus. All was well, then. Sirius and Remus decided to play drinking games, arguing between sips. Marlene judged their games and soothed their arguments with harsh words while James chuckled along. 

 

“I’m not scared; I am just saying it would be physically impossible to beat me,” Remus said as Sirius groaned. 

 

“ Physically impossible ?” He gawked, “ Physically impossible . What a narcissist!”

 

“Would you fight a wolfman?” He asked expectedly. Sirius saw James’ shrug and knew he agreed to an extent. Remus had the build of a lean and long teenager, much like he was. Except his body fought against muscles. A head bigger than his body that seemed to balance with the new bulge. If that made sense.

 

“Sh!” Marlene laughed, holding her hands in front of his mouth. Sirius glanced between the scene and the door, wondering about Regulus’ whereabouts.

 

“Where’s Regulus?” James mumbled, hazy. But the others did not hear him. Only Sirius, but he was too focused to reply.

 

“I have a sword.”

 

Remus took her wrist and lowered it slightly to speak. “I don’t need a sword. I don’t need armour like you.”

 

“I am not asking to fight; I am just asking to test strength.” Sirius placed his elbow upon the tabletop, his palm eager and beckoning.

 

He interlocked his own hands in front of his drink. “And I am saying you are just embarrassing yourself.”

 

“Humour me, wolfman.”

 

“I’m not one for jests.”

 

“Clearly,” he opened his palm wider, and Remus took it. They tensed around each other and shook a bit, preparing themselves. James reached over and held the two fists, counting down until he let go and reached zero. 

 

It was an almost equal feud. Remus pushed Sirius down almost immediately, but he caught himself, knuckles hovering above the wood.  Remus squinted at the wrestle, focused, as Sirius grimaced. In a last effort, he reached over and scratched once right behind Remus’ ear. Surprised, he looked up suddenly, and Sirius slammed his hand back around in victory. He stood up and pumped those victorious fists in the air, hollering and pacing around the table. James and Marlene laughed, and Remus stood, arguing with the noise. 

 

The night continued, and soon Sirius and Regulus were alone on the table. “You ever heard of the true man falters?” Remus said, face close and elbows leaning upon the wooden tabletop. His brows were furrowed, and he spoke as if he was asking a question much more Sirius than what came out. 

 

Sirius leaned back in his chair, unsure whether to match the sudden distance closing. “True man falters?”

 

He took the tiny shot of fire whisky Sirius had grabbed minutes earlier and dragged it between them. The liquid sloshed with disruption. He briefly gazed around, looking for James, wondering where Regulus went. For the trim pinch of time that Siirus had talked to Regulus, he had gained a few opinions. He was the type to simmer in what they were given. Sure, he had a rather obvious veil on—an opaque one at that, but still noticeable—but what he was hiding, he never strayed from.

 

A court boy dressed as pompous and regal as a prince but seemingly no recollection of where he learned to employ such fashion. Sirius had tested it once. He asked very offhandedly what his clothes were made from, whether it was linen, cotton or even satin. Regulus kissed his teeth and said, “No one with any sense would wear anything but linen this Southdon.” So even though Sirius initially decided (and still was quite loyal to the claim) that they were nothing alike, he was raised in a court that he held some secret-inducing shame about or had a clear preference for men. Sirius figured them alike, no matter which was true. 

 

The most famous thing he decided that told them apart was that this covert origin Regulus shunned, he was loyal to, the covert origin Sirius shunned was misery.

 

Now, secondly, Regulus was irritating in the way brothers would be. But he was still fond of him, in the way brothers would be. He would be an easy person to have as a brother. Sirius deceived that cousins were wasted on him. Remus seemed to be fond of him, and Remus held no fondness for Sirius. That should have been the first thing because it irked him the most. He and Regulus did not even look very dissimilar! If anything, Sirius would have claimed they could be brothers.

 

Of course, he and Remus knew each other for however long before they ever came across James, Sirius and Marlene, but it did not soothe the irritation of his apparent worldwide appeal. He had a closeted nature and a scowling face, but still, James, a monk to his duties, rushed off with him in the dead of night in this remote village. Sirius could not even remember the name of the tavern they were in, much less the town. 

 

He tried not to think about that, though, as Remus seemed to warm up to Sirius with the hearths around them. He wanted to ask about those origins with Regulus. Sirius knew about hiding one's family, even if his concealments were mere paranoias. As often as he scared himself to death with the thoughts of what the effects of his own ill-birth could do to James, he apparently did nothing about Regulus. The danger of the unknown. He lurked around the heir of the hallowed throne and plucked him into the night. 

 

And Sirius did nothing about it. 

 

Marlene's loud shout from across the room brought him back.

 

“It's a drinking game,” Remus said. He refocused. The press of the chair on his back and hair on his neck woke him. “You don’t play that where you come from?”

 

“No—No, I do.” he whipped his gaze between Remus and Marlene. She was boastfully yelling at another girl just as aggressively as she was near the bar. The bartender, the poor soul, looked as frightened as one would under a stampede of wolves. “I’m sure wolf-men drink, but I just didn’t think they made games out of it,” Sirius admitted truthfully.

 

Remus shook his head, leaning back slightly. “Anyone who drinks will make a game out of it. Not this one, tough. I met a traveller from Hill Rock years ago who taught me this. A rum merchant. He’d smashed all his rum on the trip south and spent his last intact bottle on the first man he saw.”

 

Sirius narrowed his gaze, nostrils flaring and lips pressed tightly shut. Of course, everything about Remus was foreign to him; At least, he expected it to be. But there was a budding familiarity between them, and he dared not create fantasies in his head. He dared not nurture those fantasies by asking the specifics of his time with that Rum merchant and begging for the details. Instead, he found an approach that was casual at best. “Okay… spent his last bottle as in…?”

 

“What are you thinking of?

 

“I’m asking you.”

 

“It feels like you've already come up with what you think the answer is,” Remus smirked. Sirius had nothing to say to that. He caught a sickening silence and he did not let it escape. Remus saw his hitched breath and continued as if nothing in the conversation had led him astray.

 

“What happens is I’m going to ask you a question—and you have to be truthful in the end. Otherwise, the game is no fun—and you give me an answer. He explained. 

 

Sirius watched his mouth; a slight scar parted the skin of his lip like a chipped piece of ceramic. Yellow under the glow of the Tavern. “That's dangerous.”

 

“I'm not done. I ask you a question, and you give me an answer. I guess whether the answer is right or not. And if I’m right, you drink; if I’m wrong, you drink. That’s why you have to be truthful by the end.”

 

“And if I’m wrong, you won’t tell me the real answer?”

 

“Unless I’m ten drinks in, you're getting nothing out of me.”

 

“Okay..” Sirius nodded and situated himself in his chair. He took note of that. Ten. ” let's go.”

 

Remus offered his hand for a shake.“I’m very good at this, Sirius, you should know.

 

“You never know.” Sirius took it. Calloused and large.  “I might be better.”

 

 

♘

 

 

Sirius, much to his dismay, found himself lacking in the department of face-reading. Someone as stone-faced as Remus was impossible to decipher. He picked from the knowledge he already knew to best him.

 

“I first rode a wolf when I was eleven.”

 

“Wolf-men ride from birth.” Sirius squinted. 

 

“I know.” That face showed nothing. A crooked nose that did not flare and a stern jaw that did not tense. 

 

“But you are the only one speaking the common tongue with an almost perfect accent.”

 

“Almost?”

 

Sirius knawed on his cheek, weighing his options. It was like an interrogation. Face to face, hands on the table. He was, however, many drinks in (Sirius would say he just had no idea; all he knew was that his throat was as warmed as a bed in summer) and decided to use a more tactical approach to even their drunkenness. “Truth. Give me a hard one next time.”

 

“...what gave it away.”

 

“Language. I don’t think you were always in that pack.”

 

Remus gave a sort of ‘huh’ expression. A surprised nod before he took the whisky shot swiftly and easily. After a squint, Remus slammed it back down onto the wood, a mute hiss in his throat from the flavour. “Okay, your turn, then.” he rasped.

 

Sirius sprawled back on the chair, body hot and relaxed; he kicked his crossed ankles upon the edge of the table and picked at the buttons of his tunic. One by one, he took three apart. He considered his question, and when he looked at Remus, he was already staring intently, waiting with a clear impatience from how his jaw was now clenched, “I'm a knight.” was what Sirius decided. 

 

“Lie.” He fisted his hands, lining his forearms on the table.

 

“Why did you answer so fast!?”

 

“Regulus told me about you and James.” Remus said simply, “Not knights yet.”

 

Sirius exhaled. He thanked Remus inaudible for bringing up the topic; it was something that had been picking at him. “Regulus talk about us alot?”

 

“He talks about James alot. Only when he is in a talkative mood. He doesn't talk much outside of that.”

 

“Hm. what about me then?”

 

“What about u?” Remus asked, confused. He doesn’t get confused. Sirius knew he was playing with him but did not have the sober energy to play along; he wanted an answer. Why was he so curious? 

 

“Does he talk about me?”

 

“He has a fondness for you.”

 

“Same. I'm fond of him, too.” The actual question sat on his tongue. “Where—where is he from?”

 

Remus pushed the shot towards Sirius. “You lost, take a drink.”

 

He scowled, downing the shot. They would have to get another round as their cups all lay empty. “Your turn”

 

Clapping his hands together in thought, Remus stared his partner down. “My first wolf was Moon’s brother.”

 

“Truth,” Sirius said without a thought. Maybe his drunkenness was catching up to him, or maybe he simply knew, as he did not miss a beat. 

 

Remus waited, teasing him before a smile painted itself on his face. No–not a smile, a smirk. A heavy, smart one. “You're good.”

 

“Better than you?”

 

“Not quite. You go.”

 

He decided (the fire whiskey decided) that the night held no place for unanswered questions. “no, not yet; let me ask about that.”

 

“That’s not the game.

 

“ Oh right, you're not ten drinks in yet .” Sirius teased, “Will you answer just this one? As a favour?”

 

Remus fell silent. Running a tongue across his bottom lip. He pushed the chair back, grabbed the small bag of sickles that Sirius had left by the drinks, and took long-legged strides to the bar right next to Marlene. Sirius watched his back. James’ shirt was tight on him and danced between creases and taut fabric with each movement. He lifted a hand to signal for more drinks, blending in perfectly despite (Sirius assumed) never having stepped foot in a tavern before, and the white of his shirt pulled tight between his back and bicep. 

 

Marlene threw an arm around him, chatting about something, but he didn’t linger. He gave a curt nod to Marlene's new-found friend, and once the drinks were in his hand, he found his way back to the table.

 

“Just one.”

 

Sirius took the drink and gave it a skimming sniff, something different to fire whisky. “What happened to this wolf.”

 

“He ran away.” Remus shrugged. ‘That's it, really. I woke up one day, and he ran off. He was a bit on the older side, and Greyback gave his brother to me instead. Moony was a pup then. It’s why he isn't as big as the others. Now you go.”

 

“I…” the question came to him—he did not have to think about it like the others, “I am a brother.”

 

“Truth,” Remus answered in perfect timing, just as Sirius had answered before.

 

“Lie.”

 

“No.” shaking his head, “I don't believe it.”

 

“It's true. No siblings. Unless you count James, but that's adoption.”

 

He still bargained with a speculative look, holding Sirius’ gaze before deflating with a shrug. “...okay.”

 

“Go on, drink.” Sirius grinned, tapping the table beside his drink, “You have to believe me, that's the rule.”

 

Remus sighed and threw his head back, downing the new liquor.

 

“So, how many is that?”

 

“Gods,” Remus said, face still pinched sourly from the burn, “I can’t remember. Call it an even four?

 

Agreeing, “Okay, Remus. Even four.” 

 

They took the draw celebration closer to the bar, where Marlene snickered and sang. Sinking into the warmth of the amber liquor by the tender. And for a boy of seventeen who had never been given limits on dining table whisky or drinks, Sirius strangely could say he finally understood why people drank, why they chased that dazed drowsiness. He chased that drowsiness. The contempt sort of drowsiness. Sirius could admit openly that he would be considered strange in court. Even without the liquid courage, he knew it—Gods- and he often acted on it. But even with the whisky hot and bothered in his stomach and throat, he knew not to say it out loud.

 

His body lurched it, though. The brushes of Remus’ shoulders and the cleaning of fists around the back of his neck in the most friendliest of ways. The way you would grab a brother mid-jest. He camouflaged his anchored interest in those. Because that interest was immediate, even if it was a little hazy at the beginning, some sort of interest was heavy and bobbing above the water of his conscience. 

 

He decided a few things. He wasn’t going to wish for Remus in that way. But he wanted Remus to wish for him in that way still.

 

 

♘

 

 

BARTY CROUCH JR.

 

Barty met Regulus while he was tying his and Evans's wrists together. 

 

“We have to go eventually; we are only a day's walk from Monashire.” Evan teased. He was getting irritatingly confident, finding pleasure in stabbing Barty with snide remarks. Were all prisoners like that? He had a strange skill for knowing exactly what to say.  “You will be killed by your father if you wait any longer.”

 

Barty scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Sorry, if I was not mistaken, I would think you wanted to be delivered.”

 

“I'm simply looking out for you.” Evan mewled in the most vexing of voices. An irksome boy, that one. “I am also curious why we have been here two days now. If I didnt know any better, I would think you're scared.” he winced as Barty tightened the rope harshly.

 

He bit his lip, denting it. “I’m not scared. I am biding my time.”

 

“Biding your time?” he laughed, “For what?”

 

“Hush. No prisoners speak as much as you do.”

 

“ You let me talk.” Evan clarified, “Usually, three words would be gifted with three lashes.” 

 

Barty was silent, continuing to work on the rope. He felt himself going brittle—was it brittle or soft? If he ever became as soft as Ser Bagman, he would find the only righteous option to throw himself underneath a galloping horse. 

 

Barty had been called soft before. Soft like cotton pillowing. Only moved under the pressure of his father. He’d done nothing about the comments. They were easy to ignore as not done to his face. At least it is easier than the shame of having no rebuttal to a face-to-face spat. 

 

He despised it, in all honesty. It made his skin simmer to a heat not acceptable to be lurched in court. They all showed their anger through tight-lipped grimaces and baring their teeth in whispers. If he was telling the whole truth, a truth he wouldn’t ever vocalise to his father. He found them cowardly, and he decided himself better than them. He was only quiet from necessity; they were from a lack of balls.

 

Ser Bagman especially.

 

“But of course, I deserve that, right? Being a criminal. A prestupnik”

 

“Stop with that,” he muttered, feeling a foreign discomfort. Everything about where he was screamed foreign. It was warmer as they travelled closer to the border, and his compacted close offered a grotesque sweat instead of hearth reassurance. The towns were exactly as imagined—except for the fact that they were towns, and he had never left his own court. Sure, he had dabbled in the occasional stroll through the cities encircling Ministry, but it was not enough to map nor familiarise himself with the cobble or the people. Once, when he was much younger, he’d snuck off after a particularly snide comment from his father, and he had found himself in the very centre of the town square. He remembered that day well; the way so many buildings were an inky shade (a method he’d learned was designed to capture the heat in the caverns of a Ministry winter), the sound of the fountain and children splashing in the water. 

 

The shout of sellers and the sizzle of street meat. He’d taken a small slab of chicken without purchase. That was something he never told his father, no matter how much the need for candour heavied on his back as weighty as a ship's hull. Barty reasoned it with the fact that it was accidental. He was no prestupnik. A vulgar term for a criminal in the language the Crouch once spoke. Out of everything—every moral, every religion— everything Barty believed in, only two things were sure: one, his father was the wisest man he knew, the rightest one. The most morally just. And two, Barty was no prestupnik.

 

The word had become vulgar even in his mind. He didn’t know how it had become so taboo to him.

 

“You seemed fine saying it a day ago.”

 

He tried to silence Evan by forcing the restraints even tighter. He gritted his teeth.“I don’t like it when you say it.”

 

Was it fair? Yes. Barty decided he had the right to say it, for he committed no ill acts. It wasn’t because of the guilt. Evan kept pushing. “You can make me stop, you know. I’m the one in chains. But you won’t. You won’t hit me.”

 

“You think I won’t?” Barty hissed lowly, mouth near the shell of Evan's ear. He could, and it may intimidate him, but the boy kept standing tall.

 

“No. You will say words with no actions. You are scared of outcomes. That is why we haven't left. You don’t know what Lord Lupin will do. You are scared of what you are bringing me for.” He whipped his head to the side, their noses almost brushing. “What if he kills me? Will that be on your conscience? From how you are acting, I think it will be.”

 

Barty did the final knot of the manacles with the greatest tug yet, anger pulsating in his muscles. With the concluding tug, he was about to retaliate before a boy came up beside him. 

 

Completely polite, “Would you know where the blacksmith is?”

 

Both Evan and Barty looked to their side very slowly. He was lean and shorter. A very round haircut dropped upon a thin face. Barty would say he would have almost a Black House face if it weren't for the eyes. It's as inky as a Northern Does. Hollow cheeks and pouted lips whose colour blushed far above the line of its bow. A straight nose that, although looked almost buttoned from the front, he knew would have a strong, regal structure from the side. His attire, though, was as pristine as Barty’s own court. From his fingers, a strange crown hung.

 

“A court boy,” Barty said, eyeing the body in front of him. “In Little Whinging.”

 

Evan turned fully to face the boy as Barty let him go, unworried about his escape. Those curious black eyes flickered between his restrained hands and Evans's face.

 

He seemed to notice Barty’s stare and clarified, attempting to create some safety between them. “I wasn’t going to ask.”

 

“Ask away,” Evan smirked, “ I’m his prisoner .”

 

Barty shot him a spiteful glare. 

 

The boy straightened, awkwardly looking around. “Oh. Sorry?” He apologised. Barty narrowed his eyes, not looking away. 

 

Much to his own surprise, Barty nodded slowly. He had seen one on the way, built in an old stable, so most of the furnaces lay out in passers’ gaze. Smoke and forgers and bricks of iron metals. They had bardings and chanfrons hung from the fences, silvers and golds. It was unbelievably difficult to miss. 

 

He missed Evan looking between them, though. “He’d love to show you, wouldn't you, Barty ?” Evan said, rather monotone.

 

“It’s um, up the street.” He signalled with his chin to the shop before nodding to the boy's hands. “What's that.”

 

He held it up; it was barely a crown, just a wide metal band that circled like a bracelet. Like an armour helmet, it dipped as if protecting the nose. A rustic silver colour that may have reflected if it were not so uncared for. “It's my payment.”

 

“Oh, keep me away; I might steal it.” Evan jutted in, and Barty hushed him, grabbing the restraints and pulling them forward. 

 

“Follow me.” 

 

They walked up the hill of the street. Stoney cobble roads. Tall timber-framed buildings leaned slightly toward each other, creating narrow lanes that the three slipped through. Barty caught sight of a quaint tavern with a sign swinging lazily in the breeze, depicting a frothy tankard—almost cauldron-shaped— of ale. The smell of roasted meats wafted from its open doorway; he watched how the boy's eyes lingered on it.

 

“How are you going to pay with that, then?” Barty asked after a short while. Evan stunk of foot-dragging mopping, and the air was potently awkward with it.

 

The boy was brief—reserved; all he said was: “If he knows precious things, he will take this.”

 

“So what are you paying for?”

 

“Horse armour. I want a helmet made.” 

 

Barty nodded, pulling Evan when his feet dragged a bit too heavily. “What was your name?”

 

The boy was silent, though, Barty pressed. “I’m showing you the way. Least you could do.”

 

“...Regulus.” And Regulus looked at Evan. “What's your name?”

 

“...Rosier.” He answered with his family name as if he were a courtboy. And it slipped Barty’s mind how Ser Bagman—the ass—had said Evan was from a wealthier house. It only returned when he gave his title in the same way Barty was trained. Except Regulus didnt—his name was said informally with hesitation.

 

Barty waited as they walked, but he never asked him. Evan seemed to wait, too; his snickering turned to laughs. “He likes the prestupnik, Barty . ”

 

“Hush.” He said sternly, shoving Evan forward. Barty could swear he heard Evan mock the remark with a quiet “hush.” But he chose to ignore that. They turned into the blacksmith. 

 

The man in question had a thick and long beard, white but dabbled with soot and partially scorched. His body was draped in brown fabric with no form, just the rhythm of the wind channelling through it. He was hunched over a hearth, a piece of molten-looking substances dripping from a stick.

 

It took a few moments and a solid throat clearing from Barty before he looked up, eyes still ablaze. 

 

“Right! Customers!” he grunted in one of the deepest voices Barty had ever heard. Deeper than his own fathers, whose tone channelled through the very mines beneath their court. He had a goofy, foolish walk—a foolish tone as well, deep but jester-like. “Right! Right! What is it Goliath can do for your customers? Tell me!”

 

The title was ideal–his name meaning colossal—he was as tall and stocky and stomped as if he had no control over his movements. Standing, Barty could see how he was draped in a swallowing soiled tunic and brown pants. Huge boots that indented the ground so deeply he was sure the marks would be compressed and fossilised.

 

Regulus presented his hand, and Goliath took it with glee, shaking with unbridled enthusiasm. His hand absolutely enveloped Regulus’, fingers reaching his mid forearm. “Pleasure, Goliath; I’m Regulus.” Barty shared a look with Evan at his strange politeness—-the formality of it. It was not strange for a clear court-bred boy to act like that, but it sure looked strange in the presence of such a stark contrast.

 

“I’d like a helmet of sorts made. A chanfron like the ones outside. I have a specific request for it. How can I pay you?” 

 

Goliath nodded, “Yes, I take trades and galleons and all the metals you can offer!”

 

Barty had been waiting for this, so he eyed Goliath’s face as Regulus held up the crown. Except, unexpectedly, his dopey look hardened. His movements slowed, and he held out both his hands as if asking for water, and Regulus placed the silver crown in his palms. It was tiny in those hands. “A solid sculptured Palladium chanfron. In exchange for this.”

 

“A relic…You could ask for a hundred right golden stags in some parts of the realm in exchange for this, my boy. ” He said lowly.

 

“I know.”

 

But Goliath still pressed, as if bargaining—or maybe trying to reason with himself why Regulus would offer the metal. Barty still couldn’t understand it. “A large piece of land, even. Where the soil is worth more than a court.”

 

“I know. I want this.”

 

“How did you come across this? What business does a little boy have with this.”

 

Regulus narrowed his gaze and said nothing. They simply stared at each other. He sighed. Goliath's eyes twitched, and he looked at Barty, the first time acknowledging the other people, before whispering something. Barty did catch what he said; all he heard was Regulus’ response. “Bastard… Does not matter, though; it is still worth the same.”

 

Goliath blinked before he clapped Regulus on the shoulder. “Right! Come on in!” 

 

 

♗

 

 

Evan asked why they were waiting, and Barty gave no response as he did not know himself. Curiosity maybe, he knew curiosity absolutely flayed the cat, but still he lingered. There were obscene screeching noises of heated metal sliding and carving itself against stone, the hush of a quietened hearth, and the clang of hammer against precious material. 

“Whats palladium?” Evan eventually asked when none of his previous questions were even dignified in his response. They sat on a bench outside the stone slab wall of the Blacksmith.

 

“A metal. Light but precious.” He mumbled, playing with his fingers. Both boys were slouched. “Good for shallow armour.”

 

“Shallow?

 

“Performance armour, none battles.” I thought you were a noble family once, Rosier , Barty thought. He had not heard of that family, though. They must not have been that important. Even lower than Ser Bagman.

 

Evan nodded. They were silent for a moment before he spoke up again, “So. Another court boy? You waiting to ask how he came here?”

 

“Are you not curious, Evan? Or are you the only thing that ever crosses your mind?”

 

“You know nothing, Crouch.”

 

“I think I know alot more than you want me to believe.”

 

Evan seemed to struggle to articulate his words with his hands locked behind him; he just jutted his shoulders instead. “What crosses your mind besides appeasing your father? He would be much happier if you just sent him to Lord Lupin now.”

 

“Now, you know nothing, Rosier!” Barty spat, skin fizzling.

 

“I know you! All of you nobles are so easy. Predictable. I could suggest there was a favour, or gold, or a title under a rock, and they would break their noses sniffing under the stone! You are no different!”

 

“The only one on their knees sniffing the ground—“

 

“Oh, I know! The prestupnik”

 

Barty straightened suddenly, hand grabbing the manacles behind Evan, worried he might flee. “Just be quiet!” He scolded. “No prisoner has ever talked as much as you. I think they are sending you to Monashire just to get rid of your loud mouth!” he fell back against the wall, taking Evan with him. “Gods.”

 

It was silence once against, a simmering awkwardness in the lack of conversation. Barty somehow (it beats him) found himself embarrassed. That was too lacking. That word didn’t hold what he really felt. Mortified. He bit his lips to distract the thoughts, but the silence only reminded him. 

 

“Sorry,” Evan mumbled.

 

“Kill yourself,” Barty said anyway, despite the previous embarrassment.

 

He scowled. “Okay, I’m not sorry.”

 

“Good! Neither am I.”

 

A beat. Silent again. It was broken when Regulus surfaced, and they both stood up. He gave a curt nod, clearly surprised they waited, and began walking.

 

“Wait!” Barty dragged Evan after him. He was almost upset they didn’t have longer to simmer in the possibility of a conversation. Still, Barty chased, obscenely curious. “Wait! Just—”

 

Regulus slowed for a moment, looking behind him, but he did not stop walking. Barty swore he walked quicker after he saw them running after him. 

 

“What—What are you doing here? What court are you from?”

 

“What court are you from?” Regulus rebutted, face pinched and stern.

 

“I–I. Ministry.”

 

He slowed. Still walking, but a more idle walk. Nodding, “Huh. Okay.”

 

“And you?”

 

It was hard to keep up, considering Barty had a whole body to drag behind him, and Regulus walked with such an irregular pattern. Evan was not very helpful either, with lousy dragging feet and dramatic grunts every time the pace changed.  “It does not matter; I'm not a noble.”

 

“What do you mean? What family are you from?”

 

“None.”

 

“You—” he shook his head.

 

“Bastard.” Was all he said, as if it were a pass to have Barty halt and run from him. He recalled the conversation with Goliath, and it all fit into place for him. Barty fashioned himself rather smart—quick-witted, at least. He liked to think he was, at least. The obscure crown was of his family, and when he muttered that very title of “bastard” to the blacksmith, it was just honesty. He may not have taken it, but the family metal was given to only half of the members, but it still seemed heavy and worth it. 

 

“Thank you for showing me the Blacksmith; you did not have to wait.” Regulus kept walking, clearly expecting to be alone. But Barty followed, and Evan reluctantly dragged behind him. He was only that much more curious. A bastard is more likely to be wandering around a small town than a full-born son. But probability isn’t an explanation.

 

This family was heavy with worth. A metal band was worth ‘a hundred right golden stage’ as Goliath so eloquently put it. 

 

“Of what family? If you don’t mind me asking?”

 

“I do.” Cold and concise. Afraid. He sped along.

 

“Well…wait! Slow, please.” But Regulus didnt; he sped up. More of that was possible. For such a short stature, he moved like the stage Goliath bellowed on about. “Stop!” Barty shouted.

 

That did the job. He slowed, sighing and turning around. He was gnawing on his left cheek and looking to the side, some shame laced in his glance. Barty recognised it well.  

 

“What are you doing here?

 

He danced between his feet. “Friends. With friends. You are on duty?”

 

Barty looked at Evan. “Yes. to my father.”

 

Regulus squinted. Articulating slowly, “Ministry. Crouch .”

 

“Yes!” That was instant relief. “You know of our house?”

 

“You are loyal to the Hallowed throne—Crouch is their lawmaker; I know them. I know you.”

 

Barty stood in front of him. “So, who are you?”

♗

 

That was all it took. Barty figured out that Regulus trusted very quickly, as with just the explanation of his loyalty and house, he sat with them in a courtyard a few minutes from the Blacksmith. They were crosslegged on the cobblestone in a circle. The noises of Little Whinging were hushed in that area, with people congregating in taverns and shaded pines to escape the sun. The only constant was an elderly lady with long grey hair who passed by often with a cart full of sweet jams. Old wheels creaked as they journeyed over the stones, as she called for their sale.

 

They even carried themselves fondly with charming weather and a quick progression of the sun on its path as they talked. The winking light passed straight through dusk within their conversation. Evan was uncharacteristically quiet, and at one point, much against Bartys will (it was his body’s natural reflexes in the presence of a criminal, he decided), he kicked his side, chastising the quietness. Like letting a Hound loose to play by itself, he brushed Evan off to wander around the courtyard, kicking rocks and sighing far too loudly.

 

They discussed all the things that Barty had questions about. Regulus answered only some, but Barty answered all of his.

 

“You were loyal to the House of Black, and they still let you keep your place?” Regulus leaned forward, suddenly talkative with questions. Barty could look at him closer when he wasn’t rushing off, avoiding eye contact. The black hair, as black as a North Bear hide, a skeletal nose, the round doe eyes that widened with his newfound interest. 

 

“It’s not really me—I was barely born when the war ended.”

 

“But your family?” he pressed.

 

Barty shrugged. “The Potters are forgiving, I guess.”

 

“That's convenient.” Regulus chewed on his lip, gaze flickering between him and the wandering Evan. The remarks between them were quick and concise; there was no room for awkward slowness. “You have no loyalty to Black, then?”

 

“Just my father. Whatever he decides is always right, so I trust him.”

 

Regulus pulled his knees up to his chest, resting his chin on them. “How do you know?”

 

He leaned back on his hands, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. It was slowly becoming irritating—maybe embarrassing—having to repeat his reasoning for his morals so many times. It was something he spoke of proudly usually. Where was the pride? Even though his father was no God and could not read his mind, he still tried to shun the doubt from shame. He let out a shaky exhale, glancing up behind Regulus to see Evan standing there, his arms crossed. They blinked at each other for a moment, and Evan raised his eyebrows. Offering a terse ‘ go on ’ gesture. Barty shunned the incivility. “I’ve seen it. Always right, always has been.”

 

“You've never doubted him?” Regulus asked.

 

Evan came to sit back beside Barty, legs splayed and entirely improper. “Why would I?”

 

He took that well, nodding to himself and accepting the curt answer. 

“So what did he do to your father?” Regulus gestured towards Evan, who seemed surprised to be acknowledged by how close-knit the previous conversation was. He pulled his legs together to sit politely cross-legged now under the eyes of scrutiny. 

 

“He insulted him—the law,” Barty said.

 

“You mean he broke the law? Is your father the law?” Evan snorted at that. Barry smacked the back of his head. 

 

“Ass.” Evan hissed. His father would have him flogged or whipped or maybe thrown in the dungeon to simmer at that comment alone. Instead, Barty just cut him off. “My father helps orchestrate the law. But you knew that. Where did they teach you that?”

 

That was the first moment of proper silence. Regulus let a slow exhale out, leaning his cheek on his knee instead and closing his eyes for a moment. With closed eyes, he had that House black look again. But with closed eyes, he looked soft and sleepy. That was uncharacteristic of the slyness of a House Black complexion. It was a strange contradiction. “My cousin taught me some current politics—the things that hadn’t been written down yet.”

 

“Educated,” Barty commented, hinting at his desire for more information. He knew exactly what Ean would say. Some foolish nonsense about academic education being crutches for superiority. Half the comments he had spat at Barty danced around the fact that it was his first time leaving court and that he truly had no experience beyond Ministry walls. In all honesty, it embedded some doubt. He actually worried. It forced him to grow roots where they were, and the journey had made his legs too sore to pull them out. 

 

 “Something like that. We also had books on history.”

 

“Had?”

 

“I don’t go there anymore. I don't think I do; I'm not sure.” Regulus mumbled. “You…you personally, not your family. You are loyal only to Potter? Do you hold a despise for the Blacks like the others?”

 

“Despise… despise isn’t the right word. I do not think people despise House Black.” He wasn’t lying nor jesting in the name of kindness. It was fear that fueled the social ostracism of the Black name on people's tongues. It isolated itself to closed-doored hearsay. “Scared, maybe. Frightened. They are infamous.”

 

“Are you scared?”

 

Barty shook his head. “They’re dead. What will the dead man do to me?”

 

“No…Death doesn’t matter…it’s… it’s the message. Messages are powerful.”

 

Barty shrugged, leaning back on his hands, gravel and loose stone harsh on his palms. His gaze wavered around, eventually finding Regulus’ face. Wide eyes, as always. Small tufts of plaits by his ears. Completely familiar, he would have to ask about that later before his curiosity ran out. “Well, it is not as if they can come back. The old king had no sons. People in the court feared them even more back then; they kept a record of those who could persuade the dragons.”

 

“Persuade?”

 

“You know what I’m talking about, ride, withstand. Those with fire skin. It was not passed down to everyone. No one knew the patterns. Family secret, I’d guess.”

 

“How are those ones more dangerous than others—isn’t it just the title.” Regulus leaned in closer. Barty straightened. 

 

“I don’t think dragons were born speaking the language of House Black. They were trained. It would be impossible. The only reason that the house controlled them was that they were equals. Fire does not touch them like it touches us. They are dragons. You know the story of Salazar sending demons to Godric. I believe That.”

 

“I wouldn't expect you to be religious,” Regulus said.

 

The story had been told to him by his mother, who had a keen interest in dragons. She found a kindness in the tale, telling her son of the beautiful bond between man and beast. Barty decided himself a believer, then. It was one of the things that remained consistent in his life. The things his mother loved, often corresponding with the things his father feared, were always true and real. 

 

To say he was in favour of the House Black was false. He believed in the law. His father was the law. As much as the concept intrigued him, it was simple history. House of Black had died with their dragons. There were a few who fled to Grimmauld, of course. He knew all of the tales. But none fire skinned. None of the threats. 

 

“I am not. I just believe the truth. The god sent dragons. Not all dragons have wings, though. Salazar sent dragons with the face of man.”

 

Regulus only stared. His mouth opened to speak an ‘oh,’ but nothing audible was produced. 

 

Evan spoke up; he had been staring with an open mouth and confused, furrowed brows for the past few minutes. Barty had been so focused he’d wholly forgotten about Evan's presence.  “Sorry; what in hell's name are you doing here?”

 

He almost chastised Evan for the rudeness; cutting in was a signature move of Ser Bagman (Barty made a note to spend some time chastising that man in his head later), but instead, he just waited for Regulus’ response. He, too, was genuinely curious.

 

Regulus licked his lips, flickering his gaze between the two boys before standing and brushing any muck off his trousers, shirking the question. He evidently did not trust Barty that well. “Do you want to go to the tavern?”

♗

Notes:

okay it was meant to be rosekiller but I saw a bartylus edit and my world has changed and the plot has changed so everything is different now but there's still gonna be rosekiller

UGHHH I need a long jegulus fic but set in hogwarts with no voldemort ANGST AND HAPPY ENDING PLEASE SOMEONE

Chapter 10: James | Lily

Summary:

She had wanted that blessing. What a bitter thing it was to lose, as it turned out.

Despite having expended most of my life in the Merlin’s Beards Islands—an archipelago of courts that lay on the coastline of the West Country—I was made remarkably cognizant of this realms faiths from a young age. Unlike many other realms, Rowena for measure, which was known for its more eruditic theologies, Godric came to compromise rather readily on its selection of the four established Gods. It was disarraying to learn their names as a small girl: Godric, Rowena, Helga, Salazar. Especially when referring to the realms over which they lay claim. We live on Godric; we worship Godric. A man must have decided that I always thought.

When I was intended to the prince of the time, James Potter, I often wondered how I was expected to govern with ease when even the Gods were not women. I often wanted to sail to Rowena.

 

- From ‘The Appendices: A Recount of the Fourth Realm’ by Lily Evans. 

 

JAMES POTTER

 

“Wow, what did I miss?” It was James who stood up first, the scratch of his chair against the floor, wood against wood, screeched in the air. It was almost inaudible against the searing tavern talk. Everyone had found their way back to the table as if second nature. 

 

“Regulus.” He smiled softly, feeling his own cheeks pressing far too harshly in his eyes. They were hot—possibly from the drinks, possibly from the heat of the throng.  “Where were you?”

 

“Here and there.” 

 

James snorted, and the corner of Regulus’ lips tugged. “Mysterious.”

 

“I try.”

 

“Who are you?” James’ gaze averted from Regulus to Sirius, and his eyeline followed his brothers. He had not even noticed the two men who stood behind Regulus. One white-haired youth and one dark-haired and swarthy-eyed. 

 

“Barty Crouch, junior of the Ministry.”

 

James furrowed his brows. He knew of Barty Crouch, the Lord Minister, presumably this man's father. A court linked to his own, the lawmakers. The lawmakers just below the king. An advisor of sorts. They deployed those who kept the law and those who enforced it. They were known for being pompously titled without the title.

 

James knew Barty Crouch’s son as well. The rumours of him were as heavy as a stable stink. Nothing distasteful—all great news. Perfect son. But a perfect son to a pompously, practically untitled man. The only thing James, the appropriate prince he was, would say is that he had his scepticisms. He and Sirius, behind closed doors, had had their share of whispered jests about the family—more specifically about the ass-kissing son. 

 

A few years prior, when The Ministry court visited the king. They all sat around the dining table in the great hall, ruffles up to their chin and boots far too polished for people who had supposedly been riding all day. Sirius spent the day with his hair slicked back with kitchen oil, just as Crouch’s was, mocking his pretentious voice until the older cook smacked him over the head, sending him to his room like a sagging-faced dog. They were hurricane nuisances in those days.  

 

Both James and Sirius shared a knowing, mute glance at the very mention of Barty Crouch. Sirius glanced to the side with judgment, and James almost bent over and laughed. The pinched look on the juniors’ faces did not assist in that.

 

The question was, what was Barty Crouch's son doing at Little Whinging? 

 

“Ministry?” Marlene grinned, slamming the table. “Kiss me kindly; this one’s a politician.”

 

“A councilman.” Regulus corrected and narrowed his eyes. James wanted to reach out and smooth whatever crease his face contorted into. He couldn’t say why. 

 

“Does the councilman drink?” Marlene said.

 

It was the blonde one who replied. “He will say no but drinks as if it is nobody's business.”

 

Marlene pulled out the chair beside her. “My type of man.”

 

The one with dark hair—this pompous Barty Crouch junior—sat as he was heaving beneath a heavy woollen coat, slightly out of place. James immediately held a grudge against him. He had a scrunched nose and measly eyebrows. They were thick, sure, but still frail and measly, as though any angry face he made would be weak and unthreatening. James didn’t know how Regulus had found them. How on earth did Regulus find the son of Barty Crouch? He just arose with two men trailing behind him after vanishing for hours. Like a pup collecting birds to leave at their owner's doorstep. Except it was no treat-like bird; it was a tall, irritating man pressed too closely to Regulus. 

 

It only took him one drink to begin talking. He wasn’t a quiet person. James came to realise he was a shielded person, and the moment the heat of fire whisky melted that icey wall, he was snickering and full of sneaky jabs and sexual jests.

 

The blonde one, whom James came to know as Evan Rosier, was quick-witted yet naturally quiet. That is precisely what Barty Crouch Junior pretended to be. 

 

There were boys like Crouch at James’ own court. Prolific father-pleasers—regular ass kissers—who only lived in hopes of becoming the heir their fathers insisted on. Youngest sons spat poisoned gazes at their older counterparts; some even mysteriously passed in their chambers after one too many wines—although not a deathly amount—and were carried to a pyre the next day by healers. The youngest was appointed heir, and the cycle continued. If James’ uncle was to find a proper heir, one of his own face and lineage, then James would be expelled from the running. He would not have to worry about the sharp sleight of hand that may slip his way as his cousin…brother aged.

 

James eyed Regulus, and it was obvious as they sat beside each other. James’s head was turned completely to the side. The boy's hair was plaited just as it always was, two tufts by the side of his ears, where sideburns would lay had he been years older. “What's the hair for?” He whispered with liquid, having always been a little curious, and Regulus turned, faces far too close and hot with the pressure of fire whisky between them. He held his plaits.

 

“Just a court style.”

 

“It’s familiar.” James mused. He took one in hand and thumbed over the bumps of hair. “Pretty, too.”

 

Regulus scoffed wordlessly, “Do not treat me like a lady.” He looked down until his dark lashes curtained any visible part of his eyes.

 

“You're as cheeky as one, sometimes.”

 

A quick flick of eyes. Wide, wide eyes. Teasing. He had those round eyes, black as dark pearls in white sand. Punctuated in the darkest lashes, the strongest brows.  “Yes, because you have a lot of experience with that, don’t you?”

 

James bit his cheek to soothe his smile. He nodded his head towards Crouch without leaving Regulus’ gaze. “Where’d you find this charmer?”

 

“He says he’s rather prolific. You know him? I thought you would.”

 

“Oh, did you bring him here for me?” James toyed.

 

“Ministry and Grffin are not so different. I thought you would enjoy a piece of home.”

 

James narrowed the contact that was held onto Regulus’, inspecting him. He teased the gaze, prolonging it to prolific lengths, weighing the words before shaking his head. “You didn’t bring him here for me.”

 

Regulus smiled. The tavern quietened to just them. At least, it felt like that to James.  “I like him. We get along.”

 

He coquetted further. “How much. More than us?”

 

“I don’t know. Still deciding.”

 

Almost impossible to not, James placed his arm around the back of Regulus’ chair and leaned in even more somehow. “Do you get along with the others? Sirius seems fond enough of you.”

 

Looking down again, laughter frothing within him. “He’s fond enough of the whisky. He’s going to run the place dry.

 

“I think he’s drinking to forget. I couldn’t tell you what, though. He will not talk about it.”

 

“Drinking to forget?” Regulus looked with curiosity.

 

“You haven't drunk before?”

 

He shook his head. “I hadn’t left my court until a month ago.”

 

So James leaned back into his own chair, left arm still wrapped around Regulus’ chair. He pointed to the large pint in Marlene's hand. It was waving with amber nectar and snowy froth. “See what Marlene has, that is Butterbeer; you drink that in much larger chalices or pints than other things.” Then, he held his own class up. It was far less decorated than the pint, just a small cup with crystal-squared engravings. “This is dragons fire whisky. One of those harsh liquors. There is a superstition that every time you drink fire whisky, you must take a pinch of the drink and throw it over your right shoulder as an offering to the earth.”

 

“Why?” Regulus spoke almost wordlessly. 

 

“To beg them never let another dragon be born on west Country land.”

 

Regulus pulled at his own colour, where the slight dab of a yellowed stain lay. “That is why I was assaulted with a drink on my way in.”

 

He leaned back, laughing. “That is good luck! Or bad… I'm not sure.”

 

“What is so wrong about a dragon being born?”

 

“It does not matter.” James dismissed, “There are no eggs—no living eggs.

 

“Would they not bring a peace? If in the right hands.”

 

He stared. Every so often, amidst his naivety, Regulus would say something that made James’ stomach churn in an empty sort of way, a wanting way. He had only ever been surrounded by closeted and rather stupid opinions. It was a gulp of refreshing sweet wine to hear a critical and conscious thought. “Yes, you are exactly right. In the right hands.” But despite all that, there was still naivety. “But what are the chances of that?”

 

“Who would be the right hands then.”

 

James thought, hand on his glass, swirling the liquor around. “Someone kind, of course; there is no great ruling without kindness. Someone who thinks with critical awareness, you would not believe how many men on high councils think as though they have barely begun school. Fair, just, and with the ability to sacrifice.”

 

Watching Ignotus had drilled that analysis into him. He knew what he wanted on the hallowed throne, and he did not want a pain-bringing. His uncle brought far too much pain to his father and mother to not be considered one. But it was not James who would sit there. He knew it would never be. He decided that he lacked the most important quality. “Brave. They would have to be brave, too.”

 

Whispering, “You have thought of this alot.”

 

“I think if someone comes along with all those traits, I would happily kneel before them with a live dragon egg.” He met Regulus’ eyes once again. It always came back to that. 

 

“Live… why do you say live?”

 

James recalled the supposed three dragon eggs Moody had. Frozen. Paralysed, turned to stone. Whatever one wanted to call it. No longer a threat. He wasn’t sure why Moody was so intent on having them destroyed. What good is a dead one? He could sell them and never have to work for Ignotus again. “Paralyzed, frozen eggs, they are dead.”

 

“The body of a dead king still runs with royal blood. Still powerful.”

 

“There is nothing powerful about them except for what you can sell them for.”

 

“The message is powerful. “

 

“Messages are just messages.” James shrugged. “Wealth is God.”

 

“Who would be worthy of you giving a dead egg to then? Not sell, but get on your knees and gift.”

 

He thought. Pondered, mused. He’d already decided. “...Someone I really liked.” 

 

“Can you not just give them a kiss and be on your way?” regulus jested, and James looked down, giving a tight-lipped grin, relishing in each bit of humour Regulus offered. He was not cold, nor was he mean. He was nervous and willing to step into the golden window light, given someone helped him over.

 

“Someone whom I had no other way of showing how much I liked them.”

 

He saw how the apple in Regulus’ throat bobbed with a swallow. The movement guided the stare up to Regulus’ lips. Round and pouted. “I would never give away a dragon egg. I would keep them like children in my saddlebag.”

 

“Children in your saddlebag? Father of dragons, I can see it.”

 

“Father of dragons?” He raised his eyebrows, a jesting boredom.

 

“Regulus…family name that he will not tell me…of…House that he shant tell me either. First of his name?” Regulus nodded. “First of his name, Father of dragons, sweetest, most charming boy this side of Little Whinging. Though, That doesn’t strike fear.”

 

“Why would I need to scare people? Should a leader not have loyalty through respect?”

 

Right again. He had not expected to find any wisdom so great outside of his home. “No leader has so far.”

 

“Maybe the next king will. I have heard only ill things of Ignotus.”

 

“Truly? Such as what?” He leaned his whole body in Regulsu’s direction, an elbow on the table, cornering him again. His cheeks were reddening, along with the tip of his nose. Perhaps it was the tavern's heat, or maybe he was feeling the blood rush of liquor, although James had not seen him drink anything. He licked his lips before he opened them, and the moisture shone with all the lantern reflections. James could not help himself when he reached to brush—

 

“Wife snatcher, that is what people jest about.”

 

He straightened. The comment blew out the hearth between them. As if the chilly buttterbeer Marlene had to her lips poured over his shoulders and sunk cold dampness into his blouse. James swallowed. “ Jest? ” it was almost a squeak. 

 

Regulus’ eyes flickered with doubt as he, too, straightened. “They say it when they are drunk and joking.”

 

James furrowed his brows, looking to the side. It was jarring, this sudden soberness. Or perhaps his drunkenness made him so emotional at the thought. His mother's anguish is drunken dinnertime conversation. Regulus put a palm to James’ shoulder before attempting to pull it back, suddenly doubting the touch. But not before James put his palm over the veined knuckles, embracing Regulus’ touch into him. He did not look at the boy; he remained thinking. 

 

“Sorry.” he sniffed, “Drunk.”

 

“Did I do something? Is it what I said?” Regulus asked, and James almost had to look away again. His eyes were so glassy, the whites tinted with the orange heat of the tavern. Reflections of lanterns and hearths flickering in the dark iris.

 

“No… you are okay. Sorry, it's the fire whisky.”

 

Regulus gave him a nervous smile. One where his brows concave in doubt. “Perhaps because you did not throw it over your shoulder?”

 

“Perhaps. Will you do that for me?”

 

Regulus blinked before looking to the glass, sitting idle and neglected. He took a pinch of it and threw it over his right shoulder. “How will I know that the gods will accept the offering.”

 

“It was Salazar who sent the dragons. So if no dragons are born in your lifetime, then Griffin accepted your offering; if there are, then I guess Salazar lapped up the whisky.”

 

“You are a man of too many tales.”

 

“At least not of too many ale’s”, he laughed, nodding towards Sirius. It was an attempt for laughter, but Regulus was unconvinced and stood, a request for James to follow. And he did. It seemed to be a growing pattern. Regulus would request, and James would follow. Although there were no greater obligations to halt that heeding, He wondered whether he would still heed in the real world. When he reentered the winter of the north.

 

They walked past the table before James was halted in his every step. He looked down at the pressure on his arms to see a hand of long, ringed fingers holding his bicep. “Didn’t introduce yourself. Griffin, Regulus tells me…” He said. Dark hair over his forehead in straight strands

 

James pulled back slowly, nodding. “Barty Crouch’s son.”

 

Crouch offered his hand, a drunken smile slapped onto his face. James reluctantly took it, wondering if he would be recognised. He wasn’t. “Don’t go far, Reg.” 

 

James scowled at the nickname, remembering what he had said earlier, before being swept away in Regulus’s much kinder grasp.

 

He heeded Regulus into the street, leaving the others to sing jolly songs around their small round table.

 

♘

 

When they were still travelling, Marlene found a few strips of dried meat in her saddle bag and made the horrible mistake of vocalising her discovery as Sirius spun around. Quite literally spun around, a broad grin on his face, before insisting they stop for lunch despite it almost being dusk. James, not being hungry, pocketed his share of the strips. Hours later, James sat face to face with Regulus, legs outstretched, the soles of their shoes pressed against each other upon the cobblestone of the town square. James knawed very slowly at the barky beef while they stared at each other. Regulus’s mouth was empty, as he decided he did not want to put meat from a stranger's bag in there that day.

 

“You’re thinking,” James said rather matter-of-factly, chewing harshly at the leathery food. 

 

“I’d hope so.”

 

“What about?” He pressed. The conversation had led them a long while into the night's darkness. Regulus had found himself sunk into a thoughtful silence. James tried to wonder what the others were doing inside; he could even faintly hear the song of chatter behind the tavern walls, but he barely cared. Not barely—None at all. He did not care one bit. He pushed against Regulus’ foot, amused at the resistance. Maybe his amusement was coming from the absence of Crouch’s pompous son. 

 

“You tell me first.”

 

Laughing, “I am fairly sure I asked first.”

 

“Hie. Before I am bored.”

 

“Hie?” James raised his brows. 

 

“It means go. Go quickly now. It's the common tongue; you should know that.”

 

James couldn't help but smile, a cascade of thoughts barraging his mind. He pictured Regulus nestled beneath the shade of a towering oak, gripped in the pages of some old tome. The picture scintillated a sense of familiarity within him, a glimpse into the quiet moments of solitude Regulus found. Unwatched except for James.

 

"Ha, okay, Regulus. Junior back there called you Reg. Do you allow nicknames now?" James teased, his voice laced with impish curiosity.

 

Regulus cast a soft sigh, his shoulders rising and falling in uncertainty. "I don’t know. Eh. Maybe. Perhaps."

James leaned back on his hands, allowing the dried meat to fall into his lap. His brow furrowed in contemplation as he considered the prospect of granting a nickname to Regulus. It wasn't merely a matter of fancy; it felt like a significant gesture, a token of their burgeoning companionship.

 

"Can—can I give you one?" James ventured, his voice tinged with a hint of apprehension.

 

A mischievous smile tugged at the corners of Regulus' lips, a flicker of amusement dancing in his dark eyes. "I suppose I'm feeling a little generous. What would you give me?"

 

James pondered for a moment. He wanted to choose something that encapsulated Regulus' essence, something that Crouch junior couldn’t understand.

 

“H—” Regulus began, but James interrupted with a knowing smirk.

 

“Hie, I know. I’m thinking, give me time. Lu… Lus… Reggie.”

 

Regulus' expression shifted from amusement to mild disappointment. "So uncreative."

 

James chuckled at Regulus' reaction, relishing in the playful banter between them. "Oh?" he countered, his smirk widening. "Okay. What does your name mean? I've never heard it before."

 

Regulus hesitated, his gaze drifting to the distant horizon. "Little prince," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

"Little prince?" James repeated, his tone laced with amusement and curiosity. The notion of Regulus bearing such a noble title seemed both fitting and incongruous, a paradox that intrigued him.

 

Regulus offered a faint smile, a hint of vulnerability creeping into his features. "Do not laugh."

 

James shook his head, his own smile softening with genuine affection. "Is that not treason to give someone who is not royal that name?"

 

A gentle laugh escaped Regulus' lips, the sound carrying on the evening breeze. "You'd think so, huh?"

 

"Okay, little prince," James teased, unable to resist the opportunity for levity.

 

Regulus recoiled at the playful moniker, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "Absolutely not."

 

James relented, opting for a simpler alternative. "Well, Lu."

 

Regulus winced at the abbreviated moniker, his discomfort pronounced. "Lu."

 

"It's charming," James insisted, his tone gentle yet resolute.

 

"It's womanly," Regulus countered, a trace of self-consciousness dyeing his words.

 

"No, it's not. It's handsome," James countered, his conviction unwavering.

 

“You don’t get told no alot do you?” Regulus spoke subtly. “I wouldn't expect you to. What with your face and all.”

 

As they sat beneath the shroud of dusk, their voices mingling with the rustle of leaves on cobble and the whisper of the wind, James realised that he had stumbled upon something rare and precious—something that transcended the boundaries of time and circumstance. He wasn’t sure the time, nor really where they were. In Regulus, he had found a kindred spirit, a half. Not even Godric himself could stop the vast, beaming grin that broke out on James’ face like the plague.  “My face?”

 

Regulus rolled his eyes, a fond smile tugging at his lips. "You know what I mean," he scolded gently, his cheeks tinged with a becoming blush. An obnoxious crimson. "Don’t let it go to your head."

But, of course, like rushing blood, it went straight to James’ head with no intention of stopping. He couldn’t help but miss the closeness they had seated beside each other at the table. He threw the meat on his lap to the side and shuffled close to Regulus, sitting beside him, facing opposite sides. He looked shyly down, fiddling with his fingers like they were playthings. James waited. He was as patient as he knew how to be so that Regulus could meet his eye.

 

It did not matter how long; James would probably still be there waiting after years. Simply waiting for that little nudge of his chin a little higher or his eyes a little wider. He tightened his mouth, almost doubting that Regulus would ever glance up again, but, like clockwork, it only took seconds before he looked at him through the fluttery curtain of his lashes. Black eyes, sure.

 

“Hi.” James said.

 

“Hi.” Regulus replied. 

He often had this one thought. If he were to tell someone to leave, would them leaving or staying show more love? He’d expel them from the room in only words, with no hearty intention and if they heeded the command. Is that love? Or is that respect. Is seeing through the artificial anger love or just simple understanding? Is love just understanding? Could Regulsu hear him? Understand him? Godric, could anybody?

To be loved. A bore. Why he was using that word so much, so close to Regulus’ name, he did not know. But he knew everyone seemed to love their king, but they did not know him. They did not know his rude remarks and sloppy nature. Is love anything at all? Anything important? Is anything anything at all, really? But that was far too much of a thought to have so late at night.

James often thought the late hours only fed his dread. He held out hope that Regulus would grant him an entire night of that very stare he had gifted. He pursued nothing else. A grave problem for the man who was to be king.

“When you saw me that first time—”

“In the Clôture Verte?” Regulus smiled slightly. 

James responded with a smile that was just as warm. “Yes. The Clôture Verte. What did you think…You know, when you first saw me?”

“ Oh .” He grinned, nodding smugly. “What did I think when I saw the Knight with full armour. 

“Full armour?” James scoffed.

“Full armour and on his horse. Fully endowed in weaponry.”

James straightened, pointing a finger at Regulus in front of an arched brow. “I dropped the weapons the moment you saw me.”

“Why did you?”

“You wanted me to.” He shrugged. “I assume you did, at least.”

“How are you never scared? Lupos was right across the treeline.”

James simply smiled. He ignored how his stomach sputtered with a pinch of shame. The liquor worsened it. He looked forward. “Do you think Prongs needs armour then?

“Can I show you something?” Regulus whispered.

 

“‘Course, Lu.”

 

Regulus jumped up with a childish amount of pep as if running away from the stare. James followed like cattle and shepherds. Where he was the shepherd—No. He was the cattle….behind….the. There was too much foggy whisky in his mind to figure out how that analogy would work, especially for someone who had never been to a cattle field in his life before. Regulus led them further into the town, past closed shops and booths of things that even Griffin did not have. The trip consists mostly of James talking and pinching the back of Regulus’ neck just to get a response that’ll grant the vision of his face. Eventually, they arrived outside a slightly stable-looking store. A faint glow came from inside, humoured by the rhythmic banging of metal o metal. 

 

“Eerie,” James said matter-of-factly.

 

“Shh.” Regulus squinted at the light. “I think he’s still working. Can you sit there” He pointed at a small bench outside of the storefront. James willingly obliged. “Just—” his hands spun around, palms facing James. ‘Close your eyes, okay. I’m going to go inside… and then somewhere else. Just do not open them until I say so, okay?”

 

“Is that why you led me out here? Did you prepare a surprise for me, Lu?” James teased as kindly as he knew how to. The idea of Regulus doing something like that—he swelled. 

 

“Close your eyes!”

 

“Yes, M’Lord.” And James promptly shut his eyes. His hearing heightened. Or at least he tried to heighten it. The vague smack of shoes against the pavement, the halting of that horrendously loud banging metal, more footsteps and then silence. James slumped back against the half wall, huffing out a bored breath as his excitement wavered. It wasn’t until James had counted to two hundred in his head—many times, he had lost count every time he got past seventy—that Regulus spoke.

 

“James?”

 

“Regulus?”

 

“Open. You can open them now.”

 

Very slowly, he peered through the slit of his parting lids. Regulus stood there, looking small and wary beside a man as tall as a giant. A generous beard and grand smile. 

 

“Hello?”

 

The man gave Regulus a hearty slap on the back, muttering something in a joyful voice and wandering back into the building. James stood and began striding towards Regulus when he nodded to his side. James looked over. Prongs, his horse, stood tall and proud, a large helmet on her head. A splendid silverish piece of armour had two, even more magnificent antlers sprouting from the head like roots in soil. 

 

“Prongs,” James said,  putting his hands on his head, mimicking the horns, as Regulus had the first time they’d met. “Like…”

 

“Yeah…” he blushed. Eyes wide, waiting for James’ response. For him to say anything, really. But how could he? James couldn’t even explain to himself the unbelievable joy he was feeling. 

 

“How much did this cost?”

 

“Not much… nothing practically. He gave me a good deal.” He balanced between feet, “So… do you like it.”

 

James approached prongs, hands ready to graze the soft feeling of cold metal. He trailed a fingertip along the antlers, light but huge. If one squinted or saw him fleetingly in the forest, they’d think it was a genuine Stag rushing through the wilderness. “And you had this made? Today? For me?”

 

His own face felt hot, and he pressed a cheek against Prongs’ to soothe the inflamed skin. He could almost hear the hiss like molten in frigid water.  “Hours ago, when we arrived. Strange how he made it so fast, actually, I don’t even know how—”

 

“Regulus.”

 

“It’s… I don't know, I just thought it might look nice—”

 

“Regulus.” James caught his eye. They said three thousand words in the silence of their stare. “I’ve lived in Griffins Castle my entire life. I’ve been gifted so much gold and jewels that I could bathe in them. No one has ever done anything like this for me, though.”

 

“You like it?”

 

“Regulus…” James stepped towards him until there was only a whisper of distance between them. He did not consider his options because that felt like the only one he had. He grabbed his face, each cheek to a palm. “If you were a girl, I would have no other option than to kiss you.”

 

“If?”

“You are everything!” He hugged Regulus. Wrapped him up in his arms as tightly as he could, practically lifting him clean off the ground.

 

“Evidently not.” Regulus chuckled lightly, letting his body be flung from its spot on the ground. “Not a girl. Not everything .”

 

“Everything, Regulus. Everything.”

 

When he finally put Regulus down, his hair was just as it was before, and James considered redoing the whole embracing affair, wanting to leave some physical mark on Regulus, saying that he was there. He was really beautiful, and Marlene was right. Beautiful and right there. James couldn’t help that thought. He didn’t try to stop it. He decided it would be unlawful to ever attempt. 

 

“You are never to get me something so fine again. This is enough for the rest of my life.”

 

“I’m just happy you like it,” Regulus said softly.

 

James matched his tone, “Godric, I love it.”

 

In future months, when the name Regulus was something to be forgotten, James would say that he had never been given anything so great and knew he never would again. 

♘

LILY EVANS

 

On the other side of West Godric, past the sea in the second lowest Merlins Beard island, Lily Evans was promised to the prince. 

 

The day started as any other; she sat in front of her vanity and asked quite the question: Who am I to be when the war returns? 

 

She expected it to. Each court, Ministry’s, Hill rocks, Slygt’s, even the hallowed throne stunk with the incessant anger of their heads. The carrows in Hill Rock, a man overruling his sister's claim, the father and son in the ministry. She had heard the stories of their disagreements, their debates . She expected a war to return. It had been a long sixteen years since the war of nine hundred ended and no year of real peace. 

 

Now, people proclaim peace, but silence with whispers is not real silence. Every court wanted the then; she was sure of it. That was not true loyalty. So, the question remained. Who would she be when the war returned? What would her role be in it? The Evans was nobly born in Illvermorny, a Southdon island with an isolated court. The dumbledores, Evans, Prewetts, Princes and Snapes circled that table.

 

So, her roles were limited. She could be a nurse if her birthright wasn’t so aristocratic, or perhaps the head of a court—But women were not so freely political figures. Political pieces, perhaps, but not figures. Two of the Gods were named women, yet none on earth held such a ranking. She thought it ironic after reading about how the fireborn gene of the Black family was only passed down through the mothers. But most tales written about that family were only tales. The wife was expected. Eileen Prince, the last heir of her family before the passing of lord and Lady Prince, extinguished her family name and Tobias’ incessant debts by marrying Severus’ father. The princes became extinct, and the Snapes had an heir with a fortune twice as large as before.  The woman was a biological sin eater, of course. Always ever-hungry to eat the sins of others. To absolve them. 

 

The meeting in which that question was answered occurred in the late afternoon.

 

It was formal, as always. Albus enveloped himself in fancies. He loved to seclude his office behind strange passwords and litter conversations with strange phrases. Even pushing for strange themes when Lord Wang from the neighbouring north islands hosted a ball in their hall. He was a quirky man with a beard as long as his lifeline. At Dawn, he called all the people in the court to a meeting. The islands were, of course, a part of Godric, but no court was so secluded as theirs. Lily had never even left the town before. 

 

Petunia dragged her feet upon the approach to the great doors, peeved at some silly argument they’d had earlier that day. Lily tried her best to ignore the harsh presence that was her sister. Being the younger sister yet having to act like the oldest was something that bothered her to no end. She wouldn’t let that be known, though. 

 

Lily eyed Severus, who had an empty seat beside him, ready for her. His hair was loose on his shoulders, as pampered as it ever was. “Hi, Sev.” She whispered as she sat. He swept the hair from his face, flattening it on his scalp. 

 

“Lily.”

 

“Spontaneous meeting?”

 

“All his meetings are spontaneous.”

 

Lily coughed out a laugh. Petunia, face pinched, sat on the other side of the table near their parents. Severus’ own father, Tobias, sat on the other side of him. They waited until the three chairs arrived. Dumbledore, Lucretia Prewett and her husband, who all sat at the table’s very head. Illvermorny found itself being more democratic than the other courts, with three heads of courts, but really, Lily thought that Dumbledore allowed it as a way to intertwine their court with the Black family lineage, Lucretia being Lucretia black, before she was married to Ignatius. A controversial matter when it first occurred. But Lily was too young to really remember it. 

 

Lucretia and Ignatius found their seats only a minute later, conversing with Lily’s parents about whatever matters they deemed important. She was a tall lady like Lucretia. Adorned in all those Black features. The ink-black hair and the storm-grey cat eyes. A regal atmosphere strange against the stout red-headed man she had adhered to most of the day.  The doors opened with a large creak, and Dumbledore stepped in. The room was silent until he found a seat.

 

“I received a letter this morning. They sent it by boat, of course, probably hoping to put off delivery. Lucretia? Your nephews.”

 

“What of them?” She asked softly. It felt wrong of her if Lily was being honest. The subtleness of her voice. She had the face of someone who commanded a room. 

 

“Gideon was locked in the north side…. I will just read you the letter.” He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a folded paper. He cleared his throat, flattening it into the table. “ Dear Lord Dumbledore, I pray this letter receives you pleasingly; I am writing about heavy news that has ensued in Griffin concerning the two boys your court so kindly endowed to our order. Only two weeks ago, Gideon and another member took a mission in the north, but only one returned. He stated to their division's head that they were being stalked and had to lock Gideon out for security. Expressing it was either Gideon's safety or the safety of the entire wall. Upon hearing this news, Fabian attempted an attack on the boy. He was brought back to Griffin to be beheaded. As of tomorrow, from when I write this, his head will be taken. We will ship his body back so that you may bury him. I send my most regrettable regards to his aunt and uncle. 

 

I’d like to offer my own nephew, James Potter, an heir to the throne, as a marriage prospect for one of your ladies of court, as a treaty of peace in the midst of this horrible affair. While he is about to embark on his year at the wall, you may send your chosen lady to our court for preparation. I hope you’ll find kindness in the offer.”

 

Your king, Ignotus. ”

 

Everyone was deathly silent as he folded the letter back up and lay it in the bed of his pocket. Lily couldn’t believe it, reading that letter so freely in front of everyone. Not even an inch of warning.

 

Lucretia swallowed; Lily could hear it as loud as a bang. Her voice came out dry and raspy. “I’m sorry. Was that a joke?”

 

“I’m afraid not,” Dumbledore confirmed curtly. His hands found his beard as he pinched at the fine hairs, parroting a thought—as if he hadn’t read that letter many times before. “His body… and his head was shipped this morning.”

 

Lily gasped inaudibly, hands covering her mouth. Severus put an arm on her shoulder, and if she was not so paralysed, she may have spat him straight off. She had a great deal of feelings then; none of them cared for her own skin's comfort.  “Both of them?” Lucretia asked.

 

“Yes—Well, just Fabians. I’m afraid so.”

 

“You’re afraid so?!” She cried out, and Lily’s chest tautened. She looked to her lap at the seats she and Severus had moved into, which were used to house those two boys. “Afraid so? My boys are dead!”

 

“Please.”

 

She was gasping—choking on air as if winded. A horrifying—Haunting thing to witness. “No!”

 

“Please compose yourself, Lucretia. This will not solve anything.”

 

“How are you so calm?! They insist we need to send them boys—boys! Children!— for that wall, and then have them killed!”

 

“Why are they offering marriage?” Lily whispered in the midst of the fight behind her palms. 

 

Severus spoke sternly. Straightforward. “Lucretia is a Black. They are still scared of them. We are the most disconnected member of Griffin, so of course, they’d be worried. The king beheaded the nephew of the last identifiable Black.”

 

“Why couldn’t he just let him go?” 

 

“Let him go? His pride won’t let him. I bet he got a real kick out of killing a Black. Just like him, isn't it? Just like a king—to mess around and then toss his title in the ring to absolve his ugliness.”

 

She looked at her sister, her face scrunched even more than normal. All the other members of the court had begun standing and shouting, and the hall burst into a brawl. “What if they take Petunia?” The very thought of it churns her stomach like milk. Her supper had become butter. 

 

“Petunia?” Severus spat before leaning closer in a whisper.  “ Lily, what if they take you? You are exactly that Potter boys age.”

 

“I’m not a Black. His uncle won’t get a rush from killing me.” 

 

“Maybe Potter inherited his uncle's strange genes. Maybe he’ll get a rush from violence in general. You don’t know these people. None of us do.” Severus had always held a slight disdain for the royal family—so Lily was not surprised by his remarks. Years of slight remarks against the great brave James Potter culled any shock she might have held. The shock of Fabian and Gideon culled any surprise any other matter could have given her at that moment. 

 

It was illogical to see a Black like that. Of course, there was the lore of their madness. A tale of a biological need for their lineage to retain some insanity to make them more human than god—than dragon. But in Lily’s eyes, there was an edge of class to them. Lucretia, of course, was sophisticated and slight. A still woman. Or maybe a woman stilled. However, one may look at it. 

 

But she had never seen her as mad. Illvermorny’s court did not see the war like others; they held suspicions and doubts. In the darkness of dusk, Dumbledore had shared his own doubts about the war's origins, doubting the story that their current king simply ‘stepped in’ in the absence of the madder king. Even though, if anyone asked, he would deny it, Lily knew he believed the king was responsible. He also held a softer spot for the black lineage than others, or perhaps a new approach to keeping them at bay, from how he treated Lucretia with such civility. 

 

Anyhow, Lucretia looked mad for the first time. Her screams brought Lily back. “Send them a head back, I say! How dare they!”

 

“Lucretia!” Ignatius hissed, croaks in his voice. “Sit. Please.”

 

“Igna—“

 

“Please.” His voice was nothing better than a sob. His wife halted for a mere moment, meeting Lily’s eye, before she obliged at the tone. She slowly sat down, slumped into herself, face wet and red.

 

“I’m aware this must be horrible for you to hear. I’m truly sorry. I think we all know what has to be done.” Dumbledore sighed. He turned to Lily and Severus, who were also watching him and grabbed her forearm, stiffening like a dead rat, his hawk nose flaring.

 

“Lily, I’d like to ask you this favour.”

 

No. Her whole body extinguished like a defamed candle. Every hairsbreadth of her felt it.

 

“What!” Petunia wailed. “I am older!” Before hurriedly being shushed by her parents on either side of her. Her mother had a grave look on her face—her father, on the other hand, looked ecstatic. 

 

“No. Please.” Severus pressed. “Please, she’s the brightest in her year; that’s just throwing away gold—giving it to the enemy!”

 

“He is our king—” Dumbledore corrected. Severus had stood up so Lily could only see his back. A wall between her and the head. “ not our enemy.”

 

“You know that’s not true—You do not believe that. He isn’t my king!.”

 

“Severus!” Tobias, his father bellowed. Lily swore she saw her friend flinch, but he remained standing. His fist clenched, his face no doubt pursued sourly, wincing.

 

“ That is treason .” Dumbledore sizzled, dour. “You know I will not persecute you, but that does not mean I condone it. Sit down, Severus, before you leave on your knees dragged. Please.” The court stilled as they waited, suspended. Of course, like Lucretia, Severus sat. “I want her there for a reason. I want someone with her mind to relay a report to us.”

 

“I thought that was treason,” Severus mumbled, slouched in on himself and doleful. His hair sat covering his face like dark curtains, heavied by the length. Lily sat at the very old crotch of life. That ancient pith ring of the tree. Nothing quite new enough to tickle her fancy. Nothing quite significant enough. It seemed strange, being at such a progressive variation of a Godric court and feeling like that, but it was true. For as much good Dumbledore intended to do, he was born long before the age of the war of nine hundred and learnt his ways in the old ages. He was in the room with the old king long before he lost his life. He was there when the mad king's heir was born. He was there when Orion and his two sons were slain. 

 

That is at least what Godric knew. Illvermorny was no Godric, though. 

 

“It is not unknown in the court that we once had Orion black,” Dumbledore said, his voice old and weary from the mess beforehand. He sat poorly and tired. “The rest of Godric believed him to be dead, and he is now.”  

 

It was six years after the war, six years of imprisonment, that he died. He told Dumbledore of the two children he had fathered after the half a dozen years of captivity—and to Lily’s assumption: torture. One born in the same year as the current prince, one born the day of the war's end. Alive—that was the problem. Though the stories were shared that each member was slain, and only a few rumours of blacks seeking refuge in Grimmauld slipped through, no mention of children was made. Orion was the king's heir then. He had a wife and no children. That was the tale. 

 

The court changed after that. Orion was dead, but two new heirs were alive, somewhere in the country as far as he knew. 

 

“They aren’t rumours,” Tobias said when Dumbledore reminded the court of those gossips, grimacing, still clearly mortified at his son's outburst.  “Grimmaulds court took them all in as refugees.”

 

Lily could barely hear them. She wondered if she could refuse. How was one to refuse the king? Who else would be in her place—Petunia? As much as Petunia surely thought she wanted that, she didn’t, really. Part of Lily wished that it was Petunia having those thoughts about her. Being the oldest, it only seemed right. But it wasn’t like that. The thought of her sister being a bride only for the bed—her sister—disgusted her. She would rather have herself hung than see that. “Yes, we knew of the Malfoy's marriage to a second cousin of the heir. I’m sure there are more. But none that could challenge the throne as greatly as the sons of Orion Black.”

 

“We have been talking about this for over seven years! None have been found.” Lily's mother groaned.

 

“It is not something we should just forget. Two Fire born sons.” 

 

“There are no dragons left.” It was her father, then, who spoke, “Fire born does not matter.”

 

Dumbledore shook his head. “I believe their existence is unbalancing. I also believe the stories about the new king's crowning are not entirely true. Lily, I want you to find out all you can.”

 

She still found herself dazed, slightly sick, maybe. She knew her vision was a little bit blurry. Of course, she did not want to hold and misjudge prejudices against the prince, but Severus' incessant insistence that he was vile was her only experience with him. The only things she heard about him. It was challenging to think of anything else.  

 

Her father sat up straight, straightening the cloak around his bodice and smoothing back his greying hair. “We’ll have her ready immediately; when was the king expecting someone?”

 

Dumbledore threw his hand around aimlessly, his glasses sunken on his long nose. The seamed leather of his eyebags pressed and drooping. “I’ve only received that one letter; it’ll be swifter when I send a raven.”

 

Severus crossed his arms and squeezed his eyes shut, refusing to look at Lily. Was he angry at her now? Had she said anything the entire meeting? “Sev, don’t be angry.”

 

“ You're not going .” He gritted, shaking his head. 

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

He finally met her eyes, whipping his head to the side. “You want this, don’t you? To be Queen .”

 

“I never said that!”

 

“Why wouldn't you? Damn Potter.”

 

Dumbledore addressed Lily. “You will be the prince’s woman. His queen. I want—I expect balance from this.”

 

“He doesn't know me,” she whispered, only just loud enough to be heard. “He does not love me.”

 

“Unneeded. There is no language of Love in the scene of royalty. There are laws and signatures and heirs. It’s a privilege to have your blood on the throne. A gift to be chosen. Love perverts us. Marriage is the holiest substitute.”

 

She could have spewed that buttered supper straight upon the tabletop. She knew what he was expecting before he ever explained the commitment. Perhaps if he had not said that—love perverts us—she could have had some hope that the prince would find grace and love in her presence, that she could sit throne-equal with him. But Dumbledore did not believe she could. That was clear. She would have the title—granted Ignotus confirmed the union—but what else? Not even a place in the bed? Possibly less time than even the brothels. A husband's time spent longer in the walls of a whore-house than the walls of his wife’s company. Can you imagine that? Easily, one would presume. It happens more than enough. 

 

“It may not be like that—The king's wife is meant to be pregnant,” Lucretia said, voice calming and only slightly stuttering. “If she has a boy, you will not have to be queen. You would be free to live as you please in their kingdom.”

 

“You do not think he could love me?” Lily asked, looking straight at her sister but addressing Dumbledore. The hair framing her face had become frazzled. It was a strange brown—so dull it almost looked mouse grey. Very suddenly, Lily remembered that when they were twelve, Petunia had dipped her hair in sweet potato and carrot stew, contaminating the court's dinner and trying to make it as orange as her sisters'. It did not work. Her hair simply smelt of vegetables for that week. 

 

“I think it is foolish to expect things that may not happen, my lady. Your bloodline will become entwined with that of the Potters—that of royal blood.” 

 

She almost corrected him. The Potters were not of royal blood. The closest thing to royal blood lay teary-eyed across from her in the seat of Lucretia Prewett. Lucretia Black. 

 

“Lily, do you not want to be queen ?” He asked. Lily was silent, her jaw clenched. She could not refuse.

 

“It would be her honour.” Her father spoke for her, elated. “How could she refuse that? Princess Lily. Queen , if no son is born.” She wanted to blame him, but she couldn’t really. His eyes glazed over with the slight pane of royal promise. Tobias Snape was less thrilled; he stared at his son with disdain, assumably resentful that Severus was also not a daughter. 

 

“In the council…” Dumbledore continued, “They want to join all the realms.”

 

Tobias Snape eagerly sat up from his ruffled pose, eyes bulging at what was cited. The council. All those just a title too low to reach it itched for a seat on the council. A table only those royals and those seated at the head of each council found a place in. Ignotus Potter, Amycus Carrow, Barty Crouch Snr, Lord Longbottom, Lyall Lupin and Albus Dumbledore. “Salazar, Godric, Rowena, Helga. All the realms into one Empire.”

 

That was it—the very war she had expected. She almost congratulated herself. But how could she? It was obvious it would happen. “If they succeed, and you are married, you would not be queen. ‘Queen’ would be subordinate to you. You would be empress. That is the highest any woman can be.”

 

“Woman.” She cut in sourly. “What power would I even have? Standing behind the king!”

 

“You would have a clear, vulnerable shot to James Potter's back!” He said in a potent, frustrated voice. “You would have Illvermorny steel” Sighing, he slumped back into his old fatigued pose, “Lily, you are stronger in title than in body while you lay dormant of heirs. Just like everyone.” 

 

He asked her again, more clearly that time, if she would accept. Or, more specifically, to accept. In Illvermorny, an engaged woman would have a laced veil draped on her head until married. A silver thread, braided with iron wires. She pictured herself on a ship, crossing Flemings Sea to the coast of the Hallowed throne, that dark draping over her head as if she were some lifeless body, shrouded for modesty. It was a privilege to wear one under most circumstances, a blessing—but this one felt more animalistic, teaching a lamb the route to its own butchery. 

 

She had wanted that blessing. What a bitter thing it was to lose, as it turned out.

 

The meeting concluded itself, and just like that, as brisk as rain comes and goes in the winter season, Lily was sworn to the prince. 

♙

Notes:

i think my characterization of regulus is a bit off I just don't see him as like a mean character, or at least this one isn't mean? Idk I think he has some spite but still some optimism, I think he'll be meaner as the story goes on. ?

Chapter 11: Sirius | Regulus

Summary:

Write back soon,

Barty Crouch Junior

Notes:

i havent read over this properly if its literally insane let me know wait

okay tw: violence!! blood!!

 

(KISS CHAPTERR)

It was the first time in West Country’s history that this branch of man was documented in history books—and so many at that. I’d call it the age of the bastards. The Brothers Black.

- From ‘The Appendices: A Recount of the Fourth Realm’ by Lily Evans. 

 

SIRIUS

 

Sirius waited outside Moody’s tent. 

 

He had overheard James talking to Marlene about his assignment the day they left. To Marlene—not to him. Sirius felt almost everything he had to hear was through walls and secrets. It was why James was sometimes like a foreign enigma to him. Always on the other side of the court, always on the higher balcony. Always closer to the gods than he was. 

 

It took Sirius a long time to realise James was not a god. A lot of garish and brutal injuries. The sight of James’ leg with a running gash was one of them. 

 

In a duel when they were boys, the prince had sustained possibly the worst injury of his life up to that point. A stray swipe of his sword cut fabric and left James bemoaning and bleeding on the courtyard ground. He knew the prince was human then. He did not leak godly nectar or gold. He soaked the earth in a disgusting crimson and stunk up the air with a putrid metal taste. 

 

Sirius gagged at the sight. The horribly human sight. And like any human, James could bleed as much as anyone else, And he did. He bled a lot before he passed out and was carried away on the shoulders of palace guards.

 

That night, as he sat by James’ bed, who was a mountaineer in sleeping furs and kisses from his mother, he remembered how he gagged at the picture, and for a moment, he thought that it was not the gruesome sight that curdled his stomach. 

 

His belly flinched in the way of doubt, not of disgust. He watched James weak and sweated and realised this god he worshipped—the only god he believed in—was wholly human, inside and out. Who was there to command the winds to blow, or the seas to wave, or the plants to grow. Who was there to reason Sirius’ existence. 

 

For what is man without his god? What was Sirius without James?

 

A flock of geese flew past his window as James woke up, and Sirius decided it was a sign. He expelled any doubt that he was making meaning out of nothing in how man fictionised a god to suit their needs.

 

When James’ mother was chosen by the king, there was nothing anyone could do because he was the king. The king was the god of Griffin, like James was the God of Sirius. So he understood precisely why no one objected—why James did nothing, as much as he surely wished he had. That was another way Sirius saw him as human for a moment. James saw a god in his uncle and did not question his gods. He faltered in moments of judgment, thinking he did not have the right to make the call of persecution. He tried to hide it, but Sirius saw.

 

A human trait.

 

What shamed Sirius most when James’ mother became a throbbing subject that could never really scab over was the relation he got with his friend. A relation that made them feel more like brothers. Sirius’ own mad hallucinogenic visions of his mother haunted him in the way James’ mother now did. He was happy about that. Two brothers were waiting to grow as tall as their fathers so they would not have to be in their mother's eyeline. So they could see straight over their heads.

 

Sirius tried to show James, but he would not let him. He sat with his mother alone and worshipped the old Gods alone. None of it involved Sirius. And he loathed that. He feared he would not outgrow the mother in the mirror and that madness would have him cut the very heels of his brother so he’d fall at his feet. 

 

He feared James would run off before Sirius could cut the heels and stop the separation. 

 

Sirius did not want to be him—no, he knew that, he told himself that in the mirror. He did not wonder if that could have been him; he just stalked the very space next to James obsessively. That was where he was going to die.

 

The crowd had been back for a few days by then. James had been occupied incessantly with Moody. Cooped up in his tent, chattering into the night, Sirius found himself with almost nothing to do. He trained Marlene and sometimes found himself running into Remus; he wanted to ask about Regulus but thought it would be peculiar to bring it up. There was a day James had gone missing; his tent was barren, and neither Marlene nor Moody had seen him all day. Of course, he assumed it was Regulus. No one missed how Prongs returned with extra armour nor how they had slipped out of the tavern that night in Little Whinging. 

 

So Sirius seized his own horse with Padfoot and rode to the treeline. He was met by Remus and Moony. 

 

“Did he give you a time or…?” Sirius asked hands crossed over his stomach as he stared at the sky an hour or two later. Remus lay beside him, a good wingspan away, in the same position. The sun was beating, and Sirius had expelled the doublet from his blouse and the belt from his trousers, hoping to loosen his clothing and find some coolness. Regulus, too, had wandered off, and Remus went looking for him, but of course, neither one of their friends was anywhere to be seen. So the two lay down, weeds and long grass tickling their ears, and waited. 

 

“No,” Remus answered bluntly. The fog of their liquored memories stunk up Sirius’ consciousness. He wondered if Remus was thinking of their conversations in the tavern and if they meant anything of weight to him. 

 

“ No .” He mocked Remus in a deep voice, but he did not respond. Sirius exhaled boredly. Clicking his tongue, he recounted the conversation he and Regulus had had behind the tree weeks earlier. The day he first met both of them. He dug his fingers into the topsoil and poked his tongue to the inside of his cheek, some remnants of lamb loin coating the flesh. The morning dews offspring was still ever present in the grass, but neither seemed to care. “Who is this Fenrir Greyback anyhow? Is he the king of…” What was it that Regulus had called them? “Lupos?”

 

He heard the rustle of meadow, and the light squelch of damp sod, as Remus readjusted, placing his hands under his head. The silence was as pungent as the lingering taste of the merino in Sirius’ cheeks. “…who’s Fenrir Greyback?” he denied. 

 

“I heard you two talking about him the other week.”

 

“You've got the habit of eavesdropping, do you?”

 

He blinked, forgetting that he and James should not have been listening. Sirius rolled over onto his stomach, leaning on his forams and looking at Remus. His eyes were closed, and his lips pressed together. “...I do not eavesdrop.”

 

“No, you just listen to others' conversations.”

 

“You are very loud!”

 

“No.” he shook his head, “I am many things, but loud is not one.”’

 

Sirius stared. His hair was pruned by his ears; the rest grew shaggy and restless. He almost blended into the blonde pastures, with how his body hid behind the dry grass. As if the earth possessed him and was taking him back. His nose was crumb-scattered freckled under the sun. Despite its often low volume, his voice was full-throated and North-sea deep. “ Regulus, I do not make you do anything. I'm too relaxed, and I do not care about anything at all. I ride wolves and— ”

 

“Hush.”

 

“You can be loud.” Sirius lied; he had never seen it. Remus was a calm tendency. Despite his hard face, everything about him felt relatively soft. “You could be.”

 

“Could be.” He scoffed. His eyes opened, and he turned to Sirius. He did not look at him, though; he looked straight past him. “Your dog likes Moony alot.”

 

Sirius looked over as well. It was a beautiful collision; the two dogs were different sizes but had similar hearts in the game. “I think Moony likes Padfoot alot.”

 

“Yes.” he chuckled. “You’re right. Moony likes Padfoot alot.”

 

He pointed an accusatory finger, leaning only on his right forearm. “A laugh! I made you laugh.”

 

“That was barely a laugh.”

 

“Oh, no, you smiled.”

 

“And it was the last time.”

 

Sirius smiled, falling onto his back once more. That night in Little Whinging was all he could see. When they danced, some string quartet tuning and puppeteering their limbs, he had been watching Remus. The Boy was embarrassed—or maybe he just didn’t know how to dance. He refused to cull his rooting in the seat until Sirius grabbed his forearms and used all of his knightly training to pull him up. It took a little while, but soon, Remus was grinning. His mouth was wide and pearly. For a wolf-man—for someone from the Lupos, his teeth were blunt, there was no canine sharpness, no carnivorous modifications, he was entirely human then. Real and human. 

 

Unlike Regulus, who joined the floor but refused to dance, Remus moved. His body was long and lean, muscled but not bulky enough to restrict movements, and he moved well. Sirius tucked himself under his arm so that they could be side by side. As appropriate as it could have been, swaying like brothers. He remembered looking for Regulus’ face in that crowd of dancers, just to see if he was smiling, hoping that he was. He was. “ Sorry for eavesdropping,” Sirius said, sighing out dramatically.

 

“Go beg your gods for forgiveness; I do not care.”

 

“That is dramatic. I’m Remus. The heat does not bother me because my body is too cold, and I know so much, but I do not wish to share it with anyone! I ride wolves and sweep maidens off their feet with my rugged looks and mysterious nature .” His voice moved from its gruff imitation to a high woman, “Oh Remus, I love your wolfishness and your broken nose!”

 

He pressed his lips together, suppressing a grin. “You mention it alot.”

 

“I think it does have some charm.”

 

“You have type? Maidens with rugged features?”

 

Sirius smiled. He was much glummer before, in James’ absence. Time had groped him with perverted sorrow. He was less sad then, though. He’d forgotten his sadness. “Something like that.”

 

The entrance of Moody’s tent opened as Sirius called. Just a simple hand moving fabric aside. Simple was the wrong word—a thick and scarred hand. He had decided on something on the walk back from the treeline after finding Regulus on his own, writing with the stationary Sirius had given him as they returned from Little Whinging. James was simply on his own somewhere, without Sirius. He decided right then and there. 

 

“Ser.” Sirius nodded as Moody stepped outside.

 

“Sirius.” He looked around, clearly expecting James by his side, “How can I help you, boy?”

 

“I heard James mentioning the task.” He rushed out. Moody was taken aback by the pointed statement. He pressed his lips together and opened the fabric doors, gesturing to Sirius inside.

 

“…the task?” Moody asked as he walked in behind Sirius, taking a standing space before him. He was not adequately dressed. His immensely underfitted blouse hung around his body with a warming coat, despite their southdon weather. His feet were bare, large and bearish. Sirius scrunched his face, a futile attempt to focus on what he was saying—what he wanted to say, but Moody’s presence had always been frightful. He was like a father in some ways, but Sirius was not dumb enough to think that in that scenario, Moody was his father. He knew the priorities lay on the prince, on James. Sometimes at night, Sirius would pray to Godric that Ignotus would have a son so that James could be free to do all the boyish shenanigans they had planned in their youth. But that, too, was futile. 

 

“Yes,” he rushed out breathlessly, “the final task before we go to the wall is before the year with the order. I know you only gave it to him—“

 

“Yes. Exactly. It was for the prince.”

 

Sirius inhaled, his hands hung aimlessly in the air as he tried to show his point. The air was too thick in there—too musky; his hands had to fight their way through as if fighting heavy fog.  “I would like to make a case—a request. I think I can help him. We are both to be knights.”

 

He sighed. “Sirius.”

 

He winced at the name. He wasn’t sure why just yet. Bu Sirius looked away each time to conceal some ounce of dignity. “Listen, please. We are going to be partners in our knighthood; we do everything together, it would only make sense.”

 

Moody held up two palms, and Sirius silenced. “What did you hear about the task?”

 

He swallowed. It was early when he eavesdropped. The sun had just peaked on the horizon, and he groggily walked from his tent when he heard murmurs on the other side of a large oak. He ran a hand across his face in frustration. 

 

“Frank and Tonks told me at the banquet.” James’ voice said, “There's a trunk with invaluable; it's what he’s been carrying on the back of his horse.” This trunk was the reason for their destination, the drop. Marlene went on to jest about running off with those supposed ‘invaluable’ and finding fortune outside Griffin. James laughed almost nervously.  “Just what James mentioned.”

 

“What does he know?”

 

“He… Ted and Frank told him at the banquet. “

 

He shut his eyes and pinched his nose bridge. Sirius felt rather unwell, and the conversation leaned toward James’ punishment. “Okay. What did they say exactly? “

 

Moody's aggravation was undeniable; it curdled horribly in Sirius' stomach, evaporating his morale into nothing but mist and haze. “Just that you have a trunk for him to dispose of at the drop. I can only assume it is being disposed of. That you are going to send him there to do that…”

 

“Not what was in the trunk? Are you not curious about that?”

 

“He did not mention it, and no—I will do whatever you ask.” Sirius urged, “I would take it to the end of West Country and not open it.”

 

“Sirius, you do not need to do this to complete your knighthood.”

 

“ I know ,” he whined. “I know, but I want to! I can do anything James can do.”

 

“I do not doubt that Sirius.”

 

The constant use of his name, the harsh inflection—maybe the way Moody was a foot taller than him or anyone. It was as if he were a child. Too disfigured and immature for anything, gangly and gaunt.

 

“So—So, please,” Sirius held his palms together to plead, “let me go with him; give me a chance.” 

 

“No.”

 

“Please—”

 

“I said no, Sirius.”

 

“Stop saying my name like that!”

 

“It’s still a no, Sirius.”

 

The use of his name forced a half-shout from his gritted teeth, “Please!”

 

“I do not want you touching that trunk.”

 

“What am I?” he cried, exasperated, almost wincing at that. What am I? In truth, in all the truths he never wanted to say, he feared he was one of the Blacks the war had orphaned. He feared Moody knew. He feared James would find out. “Why do you refuse me everything? What do you know!”

 

“I know you were growing a whores womb while James is of the royal blood! That is your difference! You forget yourself, Sirius! Just because James considers you a brother does not mean the kingdom does! ” 

 

The tent became quiet. The only sound was Sirius’s own heartbeat and the rustle of the door opening. Sirius’ gaze stayed on Moody, but he could tell it was James who walked in from how their mentor straightened.

 

“You called for me?” James said with a smile. A thoroughly oblivious grin.

 

“Sirius, you may go.” Moody deadpanned.

 

“But—”

 

“ You may go. ” 

♘

It sent him back to the tree line. Sirius had a habit of running. When he would fight with James or when the court would become too much, he always found himself scampering to the closest embrace. Indulging in something shameful to perhaps make him feel more deficient. He shunned Padfoots barks and mounted his horse, beckoning it south back to the treeline—to Remus. 

 

He decided to find a remedy in those chestnut tufts and scarred skin. The wings of his bones rolled as he stretched, wadding like oars. The incessant frenzy of his body heat. The ride was tear-blurred, angry and sickeningly fast. He coughed out any slight sobs he had, mucus and phlegm in his throat as his body rocked back and forth on the saddle of his horse, barely even tied down properly. As the treeline became less of a view, and he rode straight into the craze of leaves and bark, Sirius threw himself straight from the saddle, landing on the mulch. 

 

“Sirius?”

 

His head switched to the voice. Remus, as if he knew Sirius was coming, was right there. They stood, only a few feet from each other, face to face. Remus abruptly stepped forward, a hand grabbing the very crux of Sirius’ jaw with concern. He held it tightly, thumb rushing and eyebrows furrowing with inspection. As if he were about to ask a question, his lips parted, but the concerned stagnance of his face paralysed any words. Sirius grasped the wrist, holding him, index finger trailing on the deep, tunnelling scars that puckered his skin like craters. Remu’s Jaw clenched, and Sirius wondered if it embarrassed him. He wondered if it was the scars that mortified him or how he obtained them. “How’d you know I was coming?” Sirius mumbled and pressed a nail into the indents. 

 

“Fenrir said he heard a horse—they have better hearing than me,” Remus replied. “I said I would check. Knew it was you or James.”

 

“I don't think either of us considers how dangerous this is.”

 

“No…” the hand moved to his cheek; Sirius kept a kind grip on Remus’ forearm. “You don’t.”

 

Sirius swallowed, and Remus talked again. “Are you okay?”

 

“Sorry.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Remus shook his head. “Something happened. Something.”

 

Something in him felt ashamed that he had no similar scars to ease Remus’ discomfort with. Nothing he could pull up a pant leg and reveal. To say we aren't so different. He was nothing like James—moody made sure he knew that, but he could be mirrored in one person. Remus, if no one else. “I’m sorry. I just—” 

 

“What?” he whispered, face troubled and faint. Not spineless—worried. His face squeamishly contorted, but his moth lay limp and ready. To say Sirius was reckless was an understatement. For someone with so much to lose, he gambled it far too freely. 

 

“You have many women here?” Sirius asked, looking, prodding. 

 

“Of course.”

 

“Do you…like….”

 

Whispering, “I don’t think I’m a good match for them.”  His hands dropped to his side, but he kept their proximity tight, “I’m a bit of a runt compared to the others.”

 

“You?” Sirius laughed, having to crane his neck despite his own tall stature, “a runt?”

 

“Comparison.” He said quietly, eyes darting down Sirius’s face to his lips. Sirius was sure of it. He parted them to see what Remus would do. He replicated it.

 

“I don't…. I don’t have anything to compare you with.”

 

He looked far too quickly back at Sirius’ eye, a hand rushed to his shoulder as if Remus didn’t allow himself to consider the movement before he made it. Leathered fingertips brushed to fit his blouse collar, but only the muscle was between his neck and shoulder. Even those fingers held some light scars. He threaded the fingers into Sirius’ skin and pulled the two faces’ together. 

 

Remus’ stagnance was just shyness. That was apparent when he kissed Sirius. It wasn’t as aggressive as it would've been if his coldness was cruelty. It was utterly unsure. After a second, he took Sirius' face into his palms, and only when Sirius grasped those scarred forearms like before and returned the kiss did Remus find the apparent confidence to move in the kiss.

 

He mouthed at Sirius, eyes closed, and looked somewhere between content and desperate. Sirius latched his own eyes.

 

It was good while it lasted, but it made Sirius drunk enough to forget why he was there. It was good because it was Remus who was there. But it barely lasted before a gruelling, disgusting sound—Metal against bone—parted them. Sirius stepped back, eyes wide, thinking Remus tripped, but where Remus’ collarbones once sat lay an older, more leathered and furred chest. Sirius stumbled. 

 

Greyback. It was him—it couldn't be anyone else. He couldn't imagine anyone else with such a wolfish face. A nose that fell from the brows like a snout, wide-bridged and wrinkled in a snarl. Teeth that were honed in all the ways Remus wasn’t. His muscles were bursting out from him behind a thin layer of hair, like a pelt that sheathed all of him. It was far scarier to see a man whose rich coat was simply a part of him and not skinned by a bear or wolf.

 

Greyback narrowed his eyes, those dark, feral eyes, and his mouth curled up in a smile. Remus groaned from the ground; Sirius could see him behind a club that hung loosely from Greyback’s grip. He pulled himself up, and a thick rivulet of red rushed down his face, finding a canal in that one plunging scar that ran across his nose bridge. 

 

“No—Fenrir—” Remus began as he realised the surroundings, his prompt concussion easing as his sight assumably returned. But the taller wolf held no regard for him; he simply grabbed Sirius by the back of the neck, like a wolf does to her pups, dragging him past the treeline from West Country into Loup Garou. 

 

Remus stumbled behind, he pleaded, turning to shouts and attempted commands. As if it were he who was bashed over the head with a club, Sirius’ vision blurred, and he found himself disorientated, confused. Maybe the sickness of the whole thing, all of it, threw him off. The sun blinded him as he traversed into Loup; with no tree’s gifting shade, he covered his eyes. It was like being pulled through a door into an arena. Blinding light, cheers, noise. Everything. All the time, everywhere around them. 

 

Remus shouted in a language that Sirius couldn't understand. “Tardo!” Many variations of that word. Tardo! Tardo! All ringing like begs. Sirius found his footing as Greyback stopped and was able to look behind him. Many other wolfmen had restrained Remus, holding his arms and chest so he could not surge forward. 

 

It would be hard to understand a situation such as that if one had not been raised in the West Country. The wolfmen were bedtime stories. Stories people tell to scare their children, only to enforce the genuineness of those stories later in life. Children-eating, wolf-men. Things of Nightmares. Every ghost of every horror cheered around him. Sirius found it in himself not to scream. His throat was too dry to anyhow. He would have rathered the last thing he did with his mouth was not terrored screams. He had a final remembrance stowed in the tree line.

 

“Prohibere!” Remus bellowed, “Nunc!”

 

Greyback cast the shouts aside, pulling Sirius to face him. “Knight?” He grinned, wolfish mouth wrapping around each word. 

 

Sirius shook his head frantically. It must have been the wrong answer, or maybe the right, because Greyback pushed him forward into a ring of people. He fell onto his back and was frenzied as he found his stance one more. Running a hand over his face, he tried to deduce his surroundings. Every piece of training Moody gave him simmered to a boil in his mind, rushing rapidly with no concise destination. 

 

There was a circle of chanting men and women, a fight circle of sorts. The sun was high above them, beating down with fevoured lashes. The crowd parted, and a man smaller than Greyback but much larger than Sirius strode in, grin wide to boast his sharp teeth. Jaundiced in color. Drooling. 

 

And Sirius was clever. Smart as a whip when he wasn’t playing around, as James’s mother used to jest. He was shrewd in times when James remained dopey and playful. But it is hard to be astute in the face of such things. The man took great strides, his body ready as he made the first grab, heaving Sirius to the silage-clad soil with a clamant grunt. 

 

Shaking his head, blinking himself back into consciousness, Sirius scrunched his fists, feeling the absence of his sword—of any weaponry. The man walked with weight, his legs lither than his torso and arms, an effect of riding overwalking. 

 

Bolting, Sirius ran for his legs. He dived, spinning his own calf to sweep the wolf-man straight off his feet. As he fell with a loud thump, Smokey sand rising around him, Sirius glanced to Fwnrir, unsure of how the game worked—whether that was enough to be freed. If being free was even an option.

 

But his expression held no clues; he had just watched. 

 

A gruesome roar left the wolf man’s throat as he lifted his body up to clamp his jaw straight onto Sirius’ forearm, knowing and shaking like a dog with a bone. 

 

“Shit!” He hissed, using the sole of his shoe to pummel him off. Under no circumstances did he want to scream, to lose that power. So he tightened his jaw, locking it shut and baring his teeth as compensation, imitating the wolfmen with blunt dentition. 

 

Sirius hoped the imitation was an insult to them.

 

The wound bled out onto the light soil, staining and clumping the earth. Blinded by the pain, Sirius shuffled back, clutching the bite when the wolf-man stood and ran to him.

 

He fought back immediately, kicking his feet straight into the man's stomach, winding him. It was successful for a moment; the man coughed and gasped for air, resisting a nauseating pain. But that harboured him to no avail. It was only a second, a second that granted Sirius no time to stand up, that he was back on the boy, hurling punches and scrapes. 

 

Sirius screamed out, betraying himself. He couldn’t help it—it was excruciating. The claws were quick on his neck, and his chest felt the dawn of bruising. He took a fistful of Sirius’ hair, bashing it into the ground. Again and again. Something sharp embedded itself in the back of Sirius’ scalp, no doubt a rock tucked neatly in the stern soil. Sharp hisses of pain ran through him. 

 

His vision began fading when a cry challenged his own. It caught Sirius’ attention as it was in the common tongue. Remus’ words had snagged into the background, and there was nothing identifiable about that dialect to Sirius. But this was familiar. A clear, Stop .

 

The man raised both of his hands in a fist, readying them to plunge down onto Sirius when a body slipped between them. 

 

Not slipped—threw itself between them. Regulus’ face hovered above him. He winced, gritting as the fists lay themselves on his back instead of Sirius’. His body arched, sponging the pain of it.  

 

“Regulus?” Sirius murmured, dazed. The beating to his head had caught up to him.

 

“Go!” He cried out, “Why are you lying there—AH!” Regulus’ arm buckled, and he collapsed onto Sirius, his back targetted again.

 

But Sirius couldn’t move, barely. Between his frenzied, concussed head and the weight of Regulus stumbling on top of him, finding footing only to fall back down with each punch, Sirius adhered to the ground.

 

As if Regulus could tell, he reached behind him as quickly as the shaking muscles of his biceps would let him and grabbed the wolf-man’s throat, digging his nails into the skin and holding himself up, hovering above Sirius. 

 

Sirius stared in awe—his fogginess wouldn’t let him do much else. He was so quiet in Litting Whinging, such a subtle, sterile presence. But there, right above Sirius, he forced the man to face him, clawing at the throat with one hand and, with a grunt, grabbed the back of his neck. Sirius knew he had to scrabble away to let Regulus drop himself down. He wouldn’t have moved to the side; he was refusing to give the man a clear shot of Sirius, clawing at that very throat in the process.

 

Regulus cried out, muscles spasming from exertion, eyes clenched shut, “REEEMUS!” The name was a drawn-out scream, a long plead

 

Sirius heard Greyback laugh, that loud, beckoning laugh, as he was dragged by his armpits backwards. Remus yanked him up, throwing Sirius’ arm around his shoulder as he dragged them from the crowd. 

 

The circle parted for them; Greyback seemed to allow it in the face of a better show. “No—Regulus,” Sirius said, looking over his shoulder to find the boy, but he was hidden behind the mass.

 

“I’ll come back for him–you need to leave right now, Sirius.” His teeth were red, the blood from his head finding its way into his mouth, sputtered of red spit slavering in his mouth as he talked. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

 

His mouth didn’t concern Sirius one bit, not like it had minutes before. He could only see Regulus’  wincing face. 

 

“No!” Sirius shouted as Remus dragged him back into the tree line. He fought against the grip, but Remus held him tight. “Regulus!” he screamed out, voice hoarse. “Regulus! I have to help him!”

 

“Sirius, stop!” Remus shoved him, and Sirius staggered back. They became silent, and Sirius rubbed at his already beaten chest, right where Remus pushed him.

 

His chest heaved, scared and speckled with crimson. He let out a frustrated whine and grunt, “Es Stercus! You shit!” before darting forward to kiss Sirius again, seizing his face roughly with unstable hands. It was a short kiss, one with much more desperation than before.

 

 Pulling back slightly, foreheads pressed together, he allowed for them to breathe.

 

His brows concaved, looking so apologetic, Sirius wanted to shout at him to go back for Regulus, but something in him said that there was nothing to be done. He knew at the very basin of his stomach there was nothing to be done. He didn’t know how those fights finished, but Greyback wouldn’t allow Remus to bolt in like before. 

 

Would Remus even bother to greet the fight circle when he returns?

 

“ Remus ?” Sirius was about to say. But James beat him to it. Sirius looked to his side. James stood tall and angry; he had a sword extended, pointing at Remus. Sirius had never seen him so angry; he was sporting a face he only held when his uncle made remarks about his mother. All dark eyes and angry snarls. “What did you do.”

 

It was barely a question. Just a thing to say, something to warn Remus. Sirius looked at himself. He hadn't realised how much blood had washed over his face. As if he had been scrubbed with it. Rivers down his nose and on his blouse, stinging scratches on his neck that begged for attention. And Remus lay looming, the only perpetrator in James’ head.

 

“James—” Remus began, stepping back and letting Sirius’ face go, his arms becoming limp. 

 

“Leave. He pressed the sword against Remus’ clavicle. “You go near him again, I fucking kill you.”

 

Remus’ hands went up in surrender as he stepped back, granting one last glance to Sirius before he ran to Regulus. Sirius watched him run until he disappeared past the trees. 

 

It was quiet, just as it was when he first arrived. As if nothing had happened. James dropped the sword and pulled Sirius towards him in an embrace, fisting the cleaner parts of his blouse at his back. “I tried to leave when you ran, but Moody wouldn’t let me, I’m sorry—If I’d known.”

 

“It's okay, James,” Sirius whispered, hugging him back. “You're okay.”

 

“I’m sorry, you're my brother—I should've been here.” He buried his face into Sirius’ neck. 

 

Sirius looked towards Loup, thinking of Regulus. 

♘

 

REGULUS NO-BLACK

 

Dear Regulus,

 

I am being incredibly serious when I say I hope you appreciate my efforts to get letters to you. I stole the bird my father had been using to contact me, so I could not keep it for long. My very worst enemy is this man named Ser Ludovic Bagman, and I loathe him. Imagine the worst man you could, the worst itch on your back, and it’s him. Sallow, stout little man. If he found out I was using the raven for perusal uses, I am sure he would tell my father. So I really hope this letter finds you in the strange spot you pointed out on the map; otherwise, I've lost a bird, and Bagman has gained something over me. I’ll stop myself now, or I’ll go on forever. Vapid coxcomb.

 

In truth, I do not know why I am here. I assume you can understand that being a court boy—although you refuse to tell me from where. I assume you’ll understand court fathers. I hate to say pressure because that is weak and complaining and very Bagman-like. But you know what I mean. What is your father like? I thought we were similar when I first saw you. The hair, for one. The hair! I've never seen anyone with hair as dark as yours except my mother. Mine was dulled to a brown because of my father— I can only assume he’s been grey since birth, so I don't know what he dulled it with. I was shocked. Black hair is far different from Brown, despite what people say. Pure black hair. I thought I saw her for a moment. Strange.

 

My father asked me to deliver Evan to Monashire. I am too young to know about business with Lord Lupin, yet I am not too young to act on it. I try not to question my father, even when I am confused because he’s always been right.

 

Once again, I’ll pray you get this and that you didn’t give me a completely incorrect place. Why you are in the treeline, I won’t ask.

 

Barty Crouch Junior

♛

Dear Barty,

 

If you are interested in talking to court boys, there are many who are much better than I am. James, for one, is the son of a man of court. He is from Griffin, so he’ll understand better than I do. Pressure—that is. I do not have many responsibilities. I mostly lingered around my cousin. That's all I've done, really, my whole life. How morbid to write that down.

 

My father is not a part of my court. He never was—I have my aunt and uncle, instead. I know they aren't always right, though; no one is. I am not related to any of them. My cousins, my aunt, my uncle, none. It was entirely coincidental that I live with them; it's just luck that they accept me as one of their own. I don’t exactly want to speak wholly on the matter, but my mother is not a part of their family, and my father is probably not a part of any court that I know of. I am not sure where he is, but I hope you can infer what I am saying without me saying it. 

 

Barty, I do not wish to insult your father, but I am curious about Evan's crimes? He seemed barely capable of pushing you over with how you handled him, and I doubt he could hurt anyone. Even when you’d forgotten about holding onto his manacles, he did not run. He seemed more law-abiding than you if I'm honest. Please don't take offence to that. You mentioned your mother; can I ask about her? Truthfully, I don't have a mother either, so I’ve always been curious about what it is like. My cousin Narcissa was practically a mother. She gifted all her things to me, and she stayed with me at night when I was sick. When she was betrothed to her husband, she was given a fox skin shawl; it was beautiful and eccentric. She gave it to me immediately—ever giving, she is. Was? 

 

I haven’t seen her in a little while. I hope to, though. I've been talking to a servant of her husband's. Peter Pettigrew, if you've heard of him. He sends me letters the same way you do. A blueberry-toned Raven a little more petite than yours. He sends me small… updates, you could say, about the beastal territory he is now living in. You know of it, I assume, having access to makes and all. That bordering spot that is not quite Lupos owned and not quite Grimmauld owned. Ostensibly, he possesses it now. Peter told me about how he wished to be a knight; if I could, I would ask the head of my court to knight him and bring him into their armoury. I think he deserves it, after all he’s been through—or at least what he’s told me about his life. It would be the right thing to do, I think. 

 

Maybe you could say something—or if your court is looking for a new knight, you could send a raven because I have the man for you! I initially replied to those letters because I wanted to know where my cousin was, I was hoping she would move in with her husband and Peter would write me about it, but I have not received many as of late, and I have no way of contacting him unless he sends one first. My stationary has improved, at least. Before, I was sending letters with mud and sticks, but Sirius gave me a small box full of his own quills and papers, saying that he had never used them before and never intended to. I’m sure you realised in your small meeting with him that he does not care about books or writing. Mostly talking and talking and talking a little more to even the other talking out. So I hope you appreciate the beauty of these letters, I was rather formally trained, you know? Despite not being related to my family, for the most part, they let me have tutors and nannies as if I were one of their own. 

 

What else were they going to do with me, though? No self-respecting court would throw an orphan out on their behind.

 

Regards, Regulus

♛

Dear Regulus,

 

You said Lupos? I can only assume you meant the wolf-men? What does that name mean? You really are a mystery. And why can you not ask the head of your court? Because you are not there? This would have been much easier if I had been there, but alas, Evan and I have continued our journey, so letters will suffice for now. I was riding today, watching him from behind. Lately, I have been paranoid about not being able to see him, so I make sure his horse is in front. I think I have been taking too many risks lately, which is far too out of character for me. Even writing these letters is a risk. But I want to talk to you for some reason or another. 

 

Last night, like every night, I tied up my filly to a stump somewhere she could graze and feed. Then I went to Evan, who had been unusually silent and began untying his restraints. It’s become second nature from how often I've done it, but when I pulled the last restraint off, he wobbled. He was silent and unsteady, and the first thing I thought was he was going to fall; he was going to fall on top of me. So I grabbed him and pulled him down before he could, so unluckily, he fell on top of me anyway. 

 

He was out cold, completely unconscious. It wouldn't have worried me if his face wasn’t on my neck, and I couldn't feel the boiling skin on my own. I panicked and pulled him to sit up on the stump my filly was tied to—his own pony was tied to mine, but I wouldn't have even been worried about it anyway. I’m not sure why it worried me so much; maybe it was the thought of Evan getting sick on my watch. Imagine what my father would say if he tasked me with a delivery only to find out I lost the package? Not that Evan is 

 

I put a hand on his forehead, and it was just as charring as his cheek. I was up all night after that, trying to rouse him, trying to calm the fever. I couldn't stop thinking about what would happen if the sickness took him. Godric, that would be in my hands, wouldn't it? Would it be on my father's? Or the man who sentenced him? Maybe it would be on Evans for committing the crime that got him sent here. I am no doctor, so I had no idea what to do, and Evan was out cold. I found coriander growing a short trip south of the path and tried to feed it to him because that was how the nurse said she would reduce the fever I had contracted at eight, but it was hard when he could not even open his mouth. I also think it may have been parsley; I was too stressed to really figure that out. I’d heard of remedies like willow bark and white meadowsweet petal broths, but where am I going to find meadowsweet? I don’t know what meadowsweet is, so how could I? I think that taught me to improve my medical skills. 

 

I was angry, as well. I wanted to really grab his face and smack it around a bit just for the sheer audacity of putting my assignment in danger like this. Why was I so angry? I've been angry a lot of my life because this feeling is familiar, so why have I not realised it. I had no issue with all the extra lengths I had to go to help him, but I was angrier throughout it. Isn’t that a paradox? I don't even understand it myself. 

 

Evan came, too, so all was well in the end. It was a rough and lengthy night, but he woke up well enough to climb onto his own horse. You are right that he is strangely law-abiding for a criminal; I worried the restraints would hurt him even more, so I just let him ride his own horse freely, as long as it was in front of me. He made no attempt to escape; he simply sat silently. It almost makes me feel sour. Almost. 

 

His fever feels like it has passed; his face is less gaunt and sallow, less Ser Bagman-like. I gave him my supper just to regain his strength, so I'm writing this on an empty stomach. Empty stomach, full head. It will be an empty head once I’m done with this. I like being able to write all this down just to send it off as far away as possible. 

 

I suppose I could burn it. I didn’t think of that. 

 

Write back soon, 

Barty Crouch Junior

♛

Dear Regulus,

 

Grimmauld! I don’t know how I didn’t realise! We stopped at a town once again, and I left Evan in the stables to sleep. He is still recovering from the fever. It's a nasty, incessant thing. While I was replenishing our supplies, I overheard a conversation about Lucius Malfoys' apparent claim over the Beastal Territory, and then it all clicked together. Lucius Malfoy married Narcissa Black; that is common knowledge. It was the only news anyone at Ministry talked about for a month; I almost got sick of hearing their names. My stomach sank for a moment when I thought about that. Your cousin, a Black. But I remember clearly you citing your practical adoption. Your unrelation to anyone at that court. 

 

I don’t know where anyone stands in relations to the Blacks being alive and well, really. The king seems to have left them alone, despite being very well aware that there are still many alive and being well aware of their location. I know Lucretia Black is married to the PrPrewett family in the Merlin Beard Islands. And I know some closer relatives live down in Grimmauld, but no direct heirs. I think that is why the king allowed them to stay–because they are unthreatening to him. I don’t know much about that family, only what I've read or what my father has told me, so I really couldn’t say much more than that, especially to someone who knows them as well as family. I can’t blame you for that, I guess. No one chooses who they are to grow up with. 

 

Sometimes, I hope that one day, children will have a choice in that regard. You know what I hope? I’ll tell you. I need to recount a story to tell you, though.

 

My grandfather told me stories of how his father was a cruel but fair man. He was violent alot, but my grandfather excused it. Then my father said the same thing. My grandfather was a cruel but fair man. He was angry but not quite violent. Because he did not want to be like his father. My father is cruel but fair. He is not angry, nor is he violent, because he does not want to be like his father. But he is absent, and he does not talk to me much. I’d rather he was violent or angry so that I could receive something from him—even if in roughness. 

 

I think that is a cycle; they each want to be better—to not be like their fathers, but they are all cruel, as all men are. They are cruel, but they are excused because it is ‘fair’. So that is something they pass down. I hope that I will be fair. Because I think cruelness is not fair, they do not go together. I’ve never told anyone that. 

 

Still, I would pummel Bagman if I had to, though.

 

When you and that James boy returned that night in Little Whinging, and we all danced together; the girl, the tall, menacing man, James’ brother, I cannot stop thinking about that. I worry I've never had so much fun, and I never will again.

 

Barty

 

♛

Barty,

 

‘The mad king's fortune runs thick in petals, 

plucked off the rose-shaped faces of his people. 

In dreams of the free world, he winks and heckles from the soil.

His daughters grew from the petal seeds and blossom with sun-empty flames.’

 

Peter sent me this passage in a letter, and it has taken a while for me to remember it since I sent his letter back. It was an excerpt from a poem he had read many times until memorisation. I wanted to share it with you. Peter said that his mother believed the poem held some truth, that a king who takes from his people will never leave, not in the way of stealing, but in the way of implementing his people into his rule, if that makes sense. Democratic, I would guess? I agree with him that there could be one like that, even if there has not been one yet. I apologise if that is treason to say, I know you are loyal to the king, but I want you to hear that because I believe it is possible to be nothing like those who have come before you. It is a simple day's work to uproot seeds. It may take a while to uproot trees, but the black family tree was tall, standing, and uprooted. It was replaced with Potter in only a second, a slash of a sword, and the death of a king.  

 

You do not have to be like your father, Barty. And wanting to not be like your father does not make you like your father. I do not think you are a cruel person. I think you're very nice. No—I don’t think, I know.

 

Regulus

 

♛

 

Dear Barty,

 

Once, when I was thirteen, I had this dream. I was a brother, the youngest in my family. A family where everyone was related and treated me like I was. My brother was braver than I; he was everything I wanted to be. His face settled better, his hair sat better, he acted better, and he touched others in the way I wanted to connect to others. Maybe in the way, I wanted to be touched.

 

It’s incredible, I wanted everything of him, but I wanted to be nothing like him. 

 

Is that what brotherhood is? Do you have a brother? Is brotherhood like fatherhood? From what you’ve told me, it’s somewhat like my dream. I think dreams are yearns, things that only come from the comfort of cotton bedding. But I haven't had a nice noble bed in a little while, so that may be what is rendering my dreams. What do you crave? What do you dream of? Who really knows. 

 

You haven't replied to my last letter, so I'm just waiting for another so that I can use your raven. My letters have been dry; I've received none from either you or Peter. Remus has been missing—off gallivanting somewhere of importance— and I have not seen Sirius nor James lately. 

 

Write back soon, please.

Regulus

♛

 

Regulus,

 

I’m thinking of ending it. I was thinking of it, at least. I considered very seriously what would happen if I took a knife straight to Evan's restraints and simply let him go; it would be far easier than the delivery. The letter burns my pocket. I want to open it more than anything. I want to know what Evan did, but I don’t want to ask him anything. He could lie—he could jest. I cannot trust him. A criminal. I cannot trust a criminal. I'm thinking of ending it, but ending this would mean ending everything. My father would expel me if he knew I willingly let him go—Bagman. 

 

I cannot even think about Bagman now. It seems childish when there are much bigger, more important things than that coxcomb to talk about. I barely think about it. Barely . I still do sometimes. I want you to tell me who I would be if I were not my father's son as someone who knows their own father's absence. I need you to tell me; I fear it's ruining my mission. My father's mission. 

 

When I return, I’m going to follow the raven to this spot. I’ll see you again. 

 

Barty

♛

Remus was going to make him equal. That's what he told Regulus, hunching over the boy and wiping his face down with a damp cloth inside their tent. 

 

“I don’t know why you're here or how long he wants you to stay, but you are a pet to him—those fights aren't equal, and he doesn't respect you,” Remus said, squeezing soiled water out on the floor beside him. Regulus was stiff, his back cushioned but in an excruciating stagnance. “He’s going to keep putting you in there.”

 

“I was good.” Regulus winced, speaking softly. “I did so well in that one.”

 

“It wasn’t yours. That was Sirius’ fight. Fenrir enjoyed all the dramatics, which is why he let me drag Sirius out. But it was still his. And you still lost.”

 

“I gave him a couple good scratches, though, didn’t I?” he laughed hopelessly. 

 

Once Sirius had been dragged from the scene, Regulus dropped back down, picking a nice portion of flesh with him under his fingernails. He didn’t prevail much after that; his back was too irate, and his muscles too sore from holding himself up, but he had his fair share of kicks. In the end, Fenrir ceased the brawl with a yell. Regulus lay untouched. He locked his eyes, picturing a day devoured galavanting north and playing knight with other court boys; James asked Regulus to simply ‘call him James’. But his family's voice would be in his head chanting about respect. A Ser is a Ser and should be addressed as such, as they would say. Although they probably wouldn't preach that about a knight of Griffin. They definitely wouldn't say that about a son of Griffin.

 

He was glad for a moment in the heat only to open them as that very warmth expired and see Fenrir, shrouding the sun. The lack of light had left the dirt-dessert-like plains in a rather chilled wink. He hissed in pain as Greyback’s clawed fingernails unearthed his scalp and braided themselves in his hair, hauling him to sit up. 

 

“How old?” He said in a stumbling variant of the common tongue. It was jerky—but Fenrir knew what he was saying.

 

Regulus thought for a moment, not knowing whether Fenrir knew the word in the common tongue. Instead, he held up ten fingers before enclosing them and holding up another six. “Sixteen,” he whispered, turning his head slightly away from the hot breath of the wolf. 

 

Greyback nodded at the finger gesture, but the grip on his hair did not subside; Regulus was sure it tightened. “Sixteen.” it was just a repeat; he did not know the word. “Similis Chiara.” 

 

“Similis..same.” Regulus swallowed and recounted the words Remus had taught him in whispers, “Same as…Chiara?”

 

When Regulus told Remus about this ‘Chiara’, he went still. She was a daughter of Fenrirs, his only one. Sister to Romulus. The only two children to Fenrir Greyback, Both murdered in the Lupos massacre of the war of nine hundred, that very year rReguluswas born. She would have been thirty-two the year before, and he thirty-three—the year Regulus turned sixteen. Remus, being seventeen, had never met her, but according to him, the stink of her memory hung thick and pungent. Fenrir never spoke of her, but that in itself was words enough. No one was entitled to speak of her. Many had perished over it. 

 

So, in the duty of teaching him to be equal, after a long and clumsy night on his stomach, Remus took Regulus around the camp in ways he hadn’t before. He showed Regulus how they cook their food, squatting by the fires and pointing out the ways they arranged the stones for different animals. Regulus himself gathered materials to build impalements and hearths, shrouding the squeamishness he felt at each meal, unroasted and hardened with death. Regulus angled one of the small daggers against the dry wood sticks in the hearth's centre and sharpened one of the rocks Remus had given him to start a fire. Much to his sunrise, a spark turned into a burning oven, and his bruised back was beaten once more, but this time, with friendly pats from men that he had never talked to before.

 

Remus sat him by the fire as they ate, feeding him words when he couldn't stomach any more meat. In all honesty, he couldn’t stomach any at all after watching it be cooked. He seemed distraught when he returned from taking Sirius back north, but Regulus learnt not to pry, so he let Remus talk about what he wished. That looming question was still present and pungent. Why Remus looked so distraught when he returned—why he was with Sirius in the first place. Regulus had his growing suspicions, but James had made him doubt the acceptability of him asking them in the ways he would have so freely in Grimmauld. He had his tutors, of course—but it was Narcissa who taught him most. Narcissa never told him that scene was wrong. 

 

He never realised it was. Mildly, he wished to shoot the messenger who made him realise. Especially them, wanting to ask Remus about it.

 

“ A pedibus usque ad caput. ” Remus said, cross-legged in front of him. He pointed to Regulus’ feet. “A pedibus,” before his finger trailed up the body until it anchored on Regulus’ forehead. Remus gave a kind tap. “usque ad caput. From feet to head. Then everything in between will come later.”

 

“A pedibus.” Regulus repeated, only continuing when Remus nodded. “ usque ad caput . Maybe a little simpler for the next one.”

 

“A simpler one?” And Regulus smiled. “From one, learn all. Ab uno disce omnes .”

 

“Something simpler. How do I introduce myself?”

 

“ Salve . Hello. Ego sum , then your name.”

 

“ Ego… sum Regulus No-Black. ” Regulus worded as Remus gestured for more. He found it in himself to say the next line. “...of House Black.”

 

 “Ego sum Remus of the Lupos.”

 

“Can you say the whole thing in your language?” Regulus asked and was swatted with a grin.

 

“You’ll learn that when you're a little better.”

 

A thought Regulus had found himself haunted by was the freedom of heat. Despite their south backdrop, Grimmauld was coastal and windy and chilly in the very heart of the sun's priority. Loup hissed like it was a stovetop. He’d wondered previously why the Lupos remained so powerful—even after their population was culled so harshly in the last war. But the heat was some freedom. In the north, everyone relied on House Black back when they ruled. They were the fire-bringers—the ones who were to melt snow and fill hearths and liquidate the sicknesses that came with December’s winter. Loup Garou simply never needed that guidance, and being from a court littered with Blacks from that very house, Regulus found a strange freedom as well.

 

He joined the Lupos when they hunted —though he never touched the spears. Remus ingrained as much as he could into Regulus, and Regulus made himself as pliant as possible. The good fortune of the past lessons had made him optimistic. 

 

“You didn’t seem well…” Regulus began warily, on his pony beside Remus. The sun lashed burns onto Regulus’ shoulders and sweat under his nose. He hoped to cover himself, but he was indulging in the heat—the whole metaphorical freedom of it all. Spoiling himself with the spoils of age and growing up. “Two days ago, when you returned after…the situation with Sirius.”

 

Remus scoffed, facing forward. His face was paralysed. All except for a tight scrunch on his hawked nose. A little bunching of skin that spoke instead of words. “ The situation with Sirius .” 

 

“I didn’t want to bring it up. You seemed…”

 

“Seemed how?” Remus cut in suddenly. It silenced Regulus—and forced him to inhale. Only for a moment, though. 

 

“You know what I mean. Save us both the embarrassment, and don’t make me say it.”

 

It was Remus’ turn to be silent as he refused to grant Regulus a reply. They both sat there, side by side, bodies thrust forward and back upon the saddles—or, in Remus’ case, bare-furred back—of their animals. Kreacher made a whinny nicker in the hush. He erected his ears as if scenting the anxiety between them. Regulus ran questions through his head, ones that would ease Remus—make him the pliant one. I won’t judge; I hold no illness towards that lifestyle . None felt as if they could ease the sheer distress Regulus witnessed the other day. It was a terrible thing to see and a terrible thing for the undersides of your fingernails to be stained with.

“I felt bad. Anyone would feel bad. Did you see him? His whole face was covered in blood.” Remus finally looked at him. “How’s your back?”

 

Genuinely, “Do you care?”

 

“You know I do.” he sighed, “I was squatting by your passed-out body, picking blood out of your fingernails.”

 

“I thought… I thought that your people were accepting of more… queer customs.” Rgulsu whinced at himself, knowing it was not the right thing to say. What would be, though?

 

“Listen—“

 

“I’m not—I’m not judging. I didnt realise it was such a big deal until James told me.”

 

Remus gripped Moony’s fur and pulled him back, not bothering to give a verbal command. Despite the disapproving neigh Regulus received, he managed to pull Kreacher to a standstill as well. The two animals and the two boys faced each other. “James told you… that men can’t be together,” Remus asked very carefully as if making sure Regulus understood each word. 

 

“Yes.”

 

“Regulus I don’t think we’re seeing them for a while. Me, at least.” 

 

“Why?”

 

“Don’t worry. Look forward; they’ll find a deer soon.” With a strong hyah, they were off again; Regulus did his best to follow behind.  

 

“You know—the royal family aren’t allowed to eat deer. It’s sacred to them.”

 

Remus snorted. “Thank Godric, we aren’t no royals.”

♛

Fenrir seemed to take notice. One morning, Regulus was pulled out of slumber and into the crowd outside. 

 

It was a full moon outside, and the air was as fresh as a mint leaf. 

 

He scrunched his nose, an aggressive inhale, and Regulus winced at the clarity of it all. He looked for Remus. 

 

All the other Lupos had faces of people—what made them wolves were the things they wore upon it. The clothes, or sometimes lack thereof, the scars and the paints and the hair. Fenrir Greyback, though, was very different. His hair grew from his head in wisps in the same way an animal would. It was not a style to be slicked that way; it just was. No distinct hairline—straight from his angry brows, hairs began to speckle until they reached the top of his head and circled around his face to a sparse beard. 

 

He had dark lashes that looked like paint upon his eyes. His eyes, though, were a murky yellow, and his pupils were always small like beads. He had a face that even rested angry. A bulge of a nose scrunched into an aging forehead. Sordid skin with a leathered touch. Regulus tried to keep eye contact. He knew it was an issue, and his aunt often snapped her fingers in his face whenever he examined his lap at dinner. 

 

Still, his eyes became fixed on the quilt of fur that draped over his shoulders. His fixations on things became amnesias to the true world. Still, Chiara rolled around his skill, and his brain became sore at the contact.

 

He had been so fixated on learning their ways with Remus that the amnesia had made him forget the brutality of Fenrir.

 

Greyback grabbed his wrist with so much force Regulus almost whimpered. He placed his palm on the fur and moved it, urging Regulus to stroke. He did, with slow and hesitant movements. It was thin and a dark, dark brown. Practically lacquered with how shiny it was. “You…” He jumbled with his words, remembering how to ask his question in their language. In all honesty, when Remus had been teaching him, he had been thinking about the knight. “Vos…kill?” He asked, but it was rather indistinguishable to either language. Did you kill it yourself, he wished to ask. “Neco?”

 

He shook his head, correcting. “ Necas .” 

 

You kill. “Oh. Necas?”

 

Greyback nodded as Regulus trailed a palm down, having forgotten about the fight beside him. “Ursus.”

 

“Ursus! The constellation!” Regulus shouted suddenly. He was reeled back in by Greyback's scowl. “The…” he pointed to the sky. “The bear in the stars. The… I don't know how to say it.”

 

He could not be less interested, though. As greyback simply pushed the hair framing Regulus’ face down into his eyes, maneuvering it to his liking. He simply stood. “Similis Chiara,” he repeated and then muttered more words that Regulus had not learnt. He picked up none of them, and they were all as good as mumbles. 

 

“Remus!” He shouted, and all his teeth were bare. His canines sharpened almost artificially. Regulus stepped back, hoping to weave his way to the crowd when Remus arrived. He had jogged over and was just slowly down, an expectant look on his face when he saw Regulus and his expression wilted. 

 

“What—are you okay?” he furrowed his brows and regularly nodded, interlocking his hands behind his back. Remus turned to Greyback, and they spoke so fast that Regulus didnt understand a word. Not that any of it was in the common tongue anyway.  At one point, he held out a hand to Regulus’ chest, almost stepping in front of him. His words were pleas. A begging of sorts. An indusguishable one.

 

At some point, Greyback began smiling; he spoke a phrase, and Remus silenced. Everything stilled despite the screams around them. Remus turned his face only; this time, it was him avoiding eye contact, and he whispered, “I am sorry.”

 

Then, he strode to the middle of the circle just as the previous occupants began their departure. One girl from the crowd walked to him with long leather ties and took his hand into her, wrapping them around his knuckles like a second skin. 

 

Regulus did not understand what was happening until he was shoved by a wave of hands into the middle. 

 

“Remus?”

 

“Follow me.” he began circling, and Regulus followed the movements. “Just fight back, please.”

 

The darkness was enveloping me. The crowd became sounds, and all he could see was Remus under the moonlight. I am tired of the moon , he thought; I wish for the sun .

 

It was an arena. Punctuated by shrills of shackles and shrieks of excitement. The previous times were just him being taunted into the dirt, meaningless kicks to his stomach that he did not even try to combat, knowing he couldn't.Regulus had been in this ring many more times since the day he met Sirius. He heeded Remus’ warning and, much to his own dismay, got many beatings in the process. 

 

They were all meaningless; this, though, was personal. He knew Remus was not going to attack him as ruthlessly as the others, or at least he hoped he wouldn't. But from the way Remus raised his brows and delayed the first strike, Regulus assumed he was trying to stage a fair, two-person fight. To give him a fighting chance. He did not want to hurt Remus, though. He never wanted to hurt any of them. 

 

So he took the first step, a shove against Remus’ torso, before jumping back.

 

“ Necas!” Greyback shouted as the others laughed, mocking Regulus’ broken words when Remus threw a weak hit that Regulus was able to avoid . You kill. Except it was not a question, a command from father to son.

 

Remus looked to his father, a hesitant nod before he ran. Slamming straight into Regulus, he fell onto his back with a harsh thud, skidding across the earth. He groaned, trying to sit up, when his shoulders were slammed back down, Remus on top of him. 

 

“Fight back!” he hissed. “The harsher the fight, the quicker he will call it.”

 

“I do not want this to be harsh.”

 

“He does not want us dead! He will call it.”

 

“I’m…I’m not fighting you.” he strained as he spoke, back aching.

 

“Please, this will be much more pleasant for me if you do.” It felt wrong, the way he begged before throwing a fist straight against Regulus’ jaw. “We are meant to be equals here, remember!?”

 

He grabbed the assaulted area, feeling the burn subside before he returned himself, turning to face Remus again. Sad eyes with the moon behind him. Regulus could not be mad. His father asked him to do this, so he did. No one understood that as Regulus did. He questioned why he stayed instead of riding Kreacher back to Narcissa, but he knew the answer. It was why he held no anger. He held no real father, at least not in the licit way. But Lucius had a puppeteering reign over him—one Barty carried with his father and one Remus had with Fenrir.

 

At least no lingering anger. Because when another fist vibrated his face, he puffed out a groan of irritation and brought his knee up, slamming into Remus, who shouted in pain and weakened his grip, allowing Regulus to writhe free. He crawled away so quickly, even through his trousers, his thighs burned against the grating of the gravel. 

 

He flipped onto his back just as Remus tried to pounce back onto him, and with a bent knee, he pounded the soul of his boot into the boy's chest.  Regulus stood, backing up, and Remus was already on his feet. They circled again; this time, though, they were panting and dirtied. Remus’ chest was marked with a soil sole print. His hair was manic, and even in the coolness of the night, a sheer glisten of sweat coated him from his forehead to his navel. His legs must've been drenched, too. A pedibus usque ad caput, Regulus murmered. From head to foot.

 

Remus and he run at the same time, colliding into a tumble into the floor that becomes a grapple of flesh and hair. Regulus’ face is thrown into the ground too many times. As his nose, though not broken just yet, becomes beaten in, the thrust slow, and when he turns his head slightly, he could see Remus frantically looking between him and Greyback, waiting for something. Waiting for the hand raise to command an ending. It didn’t come.

 

Regulus grabbed the wrist in his hair, twisting as harshly as he could manage from that angle, and freed himself. As he stumbled away, he touched the wetness beneath his nose and inspected his fingers. A light drip or blood. Light.

 

It overcame Regulus very suddenly, a slight panic that he had not felt before. The sudden wolfishness of Remus. His blunt teeth did not look so blunt under the moonlight, and his boyish hair had no distinguishment from greybacks. Perhaps Regulus needed spectacles, or perhaps his adrenaline was playing tricks on him. 

 

Perhaps he was staring at Greyback. 

 

But he could not help what overcame him to charge towards remus and leap. He latched onto him, feet digging into either side of his hips and nails curled against the swell of his shoulders as he bared his teeth and bit straight into the tendon between Remus’ neck and shoulder. 

 

Once he felt the tear of skin and the sanction of warmth filling his mouth, he let go, not even leaping off, but simply relaxing his body so he fell straight into the dirt, his already sore back throbbing. 

 

His eyes shut, and he let out a shaky exhale. Any soreness soothed as he relaxed on the floor. For once, he did not worry whether his blouse was blackened. 

 

But the lack of usual cheers rose him. Instead, there were gasps. Regulus lifted his head, brows furrowed in confusion. 

 

Blood. 

 

That was all he saw. He grazed his face and realised his mouth was dripping. Remus stumbled back and fell straight on his backside, mouth agape and hand covering his neck, crimson riverlets rushing from it. It wasn’t the blood, nor its abundance of it, that worried Regulus. It was the paralysed look on Remus’s face. The way he was gasping. 

 

The way all cheers died, Fenrir ran to him, replacing the hand with his own and pulling him to his feet. He shouted at Remus. More words Regulus did not udertsand. The harsh pressure of Fenrir’s large hands halted the bleeding, but Remus was already absolutely coated in a quilt of the colour. He could not reply to his father; his mouth was already full of hollow gasps. Regulus covered his mouth with both hands, fingers over his nose bridge, and shook. “No.”

 

Greyback roared a command, and many followed suit as they dragged Remus off. Regulus was left on the floor, eyes on the blood-soaked soil. His mind wandered to the worst possible thing. “No. No.”

 

He would have thought nothing had just occurred from how swiftly everyone left if the evidence were not making a carmine grave in the earth before him. 

♛

Notes:

The way i name the chapters always looks like a ship so ive been dreading the day regulus and sirius have a chapter together help plz.
guysyss what do you think like is this chapter freakish I wrote alot of it in the cinema before watching dune 2. And princess irulan?? lily?? this is going to turn into a dune fic omg... wow

 

Translations:

Es Stercus: You shit

Tardo: stop/slow down

Prohibere! Nunc!: Stop, No

Chapter 12: Barty | James

Summary:

Hie, My James. Hie

Notes:

*don’t know how to end this scene*
“Barty passed out”
I fear i want to redo this in 3-4 days when all my assessments are done so....
TW: blood, animal death.

also hie literally means go quickly remember that or this may be confusing

I recall a wink of time when his son was completing his knight obligations at The Wall, and I was in The Hallowed Throne, preparing to be wed, that I spoke to Fleamont Potter, hand and brother to the king of the time—Ignatius Potter II. I asked him why it was called The Hallowed Throne, a name rationed to those who have claim over all three territories, as they only have real rule over West Country.

He laughed so grandly—just as a king would—and hailed my knowledge of history, saying he wished his son would have such an interest rather than jests and pranks. I remember thinking how simple things might have been if it were Fleamont who was king. But I also believe his kindness would paint him vulnerable. In a world of selfish men, only a more selfish one can rule. I had yet to determine whether James Potter was one of these men.

-  From ‘The Appendices: A Recount of the Fourth Realm’ by Lily Evans.

 

BARTY CROUCH JNR

 

When Barty had first left for the assignment his father gave him, they dressed him in a quilted gambeson. The finest cotton and a cloak of North Merino wool. His tasselled beast was nameless when he left those few weeks ago. 

 

Now, in the face of February's red hot centre—the heat more being due to the lower West country weather than the season—all he wished for was to be in those fine garments, freshly cleaned and new to the idea of travel. The sun was high and foreboding, beating down on the two boys. Barty, much to his own dismay and shame, had expelled any doublets or cloaks or overshirts, stuffing them rudely into his own rucksack that hung from the still nameless animal. He rose and unbuttoned his thin linen blouse to his navel. Only three buttons to ensure security. His chest blossomed only burns and sweat; even the height of Evan's cheekbones and the tip of his nose had turned to bright red apples. 

 

The sickness that Evan had just recovered from still sat in the back of Barty's mind, giving him incessant paranoia. A closed-off sort of paranoia. He decided, despite their conversations in the town before, to shun Evan just as he had when they first left, busying himself with his letters to Regulus.

 

He wished to return to the days when they had first departed, not just for that sweet comfortability but also so the shunning wouldn't make him feel so guilty. 

 

Barty was waiting for a response to his last letter. When I return, I'm going to follow the raven to this spot. I'll see you again, He had written as Evan lay asleep on the tree stump beside him two days before. And now, he had nothing else to respond to. Barty couldn't help but reread the second last letter Regulus had sent as he and Evan rode. Wanting to not be like your father does not make you like your father. Wanting not to be like your father does not make you like your father. His eyes darted back and forth across the line obsessively. As if he couldn't help himself—because he truly couldn't help himself. The way Regulus had described it stuck with him in a way Evan's insults hadn't. A way Evans dismissal of the Ministry head, Barty's father, hadn't touched him. To say that it may take a while to uproot trees, but it still can be done. A family as old as House of Black was culled in one single war. Sure, they scattered like ants across the map—but none who were fire-skinned lived. That was the true legacy.

 

If one such as that could be uprooted so cleanly—how quickly could the Crouchs? With how little consequence could Barty slip from that court? He never even considered wanting that until the assignment. Until Evan and Regulus. Not to say it was because of them, but what a strange coincidence that was. 

 

"Barty, can we please wait in the shade." Evan urged in front of him, head strained to face Barty. Just as he had written in his letters, Evan was only allowed to ride in his eyeline. "It's so hot; why don't we travel at night when it's reasonable?"

 

Barty offered him nothing. He busied his mind with all other things to quench the urge for conversation—an urge he didn't realise he had until he began speaking to people who didn't aggravate him. Ser Bagman.

 

He harboured memories of one girl, Dorcas Meadowes, a peace ward between Monashire and Ministry, whom he had lost contact with early in his youth, and of course, a peace of him hoped to see her—but he didnt rely on it. That was years ago; she could be anywhere in the realm by then. She could be dead for all he knew. 

 

"Barty. Barty ." Evan nudged, exhorting him. "Hello, earth to Barty?"

 

Still, nothing. Evan, who apparently couldn't learn from his mistakes, tightened his body and tried to fling it off the horse. But of course, he had tried that before, and Barty began tying him to the saddle once again.

 

"Are you angry that I was sick? Is that why?" Evan asked, irritated. Barty could argue he was more irritated.

 

He rode up beside Evan with a quick kick of his horse's hind and smacked Evan in the back of his head before he had time to process the palm and dodge.

 

Yelping, "Ow!"

 

But Barty simply clenched his jaw and looked forward again.

 

"Thinking about Regulus' letters?" Letters? Barty wondered, confused. Letters . Promptly, he reached over and grabbed both of their reins, hauling the two steeds backwards. It earned an annoyed huff from each horse, but their travel soon halted.

 

"How did you know about that?" He demanded harshly.

 

"About what? Evan asked with an ill type of innocence on his face, " Barty, I think you're very nice. " He recited a line from Regulus' writings with a theatrical voice that made Barty want to fling him from the steed. It would take one slash to the ropes and the right angle to kick him straight onto the ground. Barty wouldn't care for him then like he had in the heat of the last fever; he would leave Evan on the dry soil and tell his father there had been an ambush he simply could not fight off. "You sleep with them in your pocket, and you only tie my torso to the trees when we sleep. I have arms!"

 

Barty looked around, mouth open as if he were gagged, unable to speak. "That–That is private!"

 

Looking back on it, in the whole blur of his stress, Barty had found himself not taking much pride in the knots he bound Evan with—nor in his own hygiene, to note, as he did not bathe that entire time from the mere focus. He also fell asleep on the same tree base; the southdon trees are not very wide at all. Some nights, face pressed against the bark, he would fall asleep with his thighs touching Evans—just to ensure he was still there. A cautionary measure that apparently did not pay off. 

 

"Evidentally not, considering how freely you just leave them around. What did you think, sleeping that close to a criminal?"

 

"Gods! You—"

 

"I ought to apologise about getting sick too, don't I?" he leaned forward, arms bound, " I wanted to really grab his face and smack it around a bit just for the sheer audacity of putting my assignment in danger like this . Do you remember writing that, Barty?

 

The anger growing inside him rang in his ears and stirred his stomach. Was that why he was angry? In the Ministry prisons, he harboured every insult as though they were perfectly accommodating tenants. Why had that half-assed insult triggered such unparalleled rage in him? Barty didn't have the regulation to ask kindly; instead, he sneered, "You little, nosey—"

 

"What?" Evan mewled, arching his brows, "Are you angry you cannot stay on your high horse now the prestupnik knows you are a Cavy too?"

 

Barty blinked, leaning back suddenly. "Cavy–I do not know what that word means; you know this!"

 

"Your Ser Bagman seemed to love it; I wonder what he would think—"

 

He had to grimace to expel any discomfort at that statement. "Do not say, 'My Ser Bagman'; I have no consideration for that ass."

 

"Oh, he's the ass? Ateats he knows his insults, Cavy."

 

"Don't call me that!'

 

"You do not even know what it means; I'll call you whatever I like." Evan hissed. "Can you imagine what your father would say? ' I worry I've never had so much fun, and I never will again' ." He quoted again, "After dancing with a bunch of cavy boys."

 

Barty opened his mouth, about to ask how he had read that line as it was one from his own letter. But he had dozed before he sent it, so it sort of answered itself. It also answered another budding question.

 

"Cavy means queer," Barty said simply, a strange sense of mercy in his voice as he realised it. Evan quietened. "They said your family was well-known—I couldn't figure out why a rich family would have their son thrown into a prison…but Bagman called you Cavy. You're gay, that's why."

 

And still, even held to response. He held eye contact with Barty as if that was the only power he had left. He should have known it, really; walking on such a thin line, Barty was going to find out eventually, with all the prodding and teasing. 

 

"Your father had you thrown in Ministry prisons because he what? Saw you kissing a boy?"

 

Evan inhaled sharply at that. He pressed his lips together until they turned a jaundiced white and said, "He saw a boy kissing me."

 

Barty softened. As much as a hard-shelled boy like he could. "Oh."

 

"Don't–" Evan winced, looking down, "Don't try to be nice, I'm not innocent in this."

 

"Why didn't you tell him? It was the other boy's fault, not yours."

 

"Because it's not easy to lie to your father's face." Evan snapped suddenly, "As if you could do it."

 

"You are a cavy," he said as if it were a realisation. It was, in a way, he had just realised what the word meant. He had just realised it was true.

 

"Yes, well, so are you, Barty crouch junior." he sighed and turned forward, "Look at us, just a bunch of queers on equines."

 

"I'm not."

 

"You write to Regulus as if you want to take his pants off."

 

"What?" Barty gagged, shocked, "no—"

 

"I don't care, really. I know something about you; you know something about me." Evan disregarded him with the fling of his hand. Barty had nothing to say—his arguments would just fly straight past Evans's ears anyhow. 

 

Sighing, Barty whipped his reins to induce the horses forward. "You are too late anyway," Evan continued after a few brief seconds of walking, "I think he was completely taken with the prince.."

 

Barty furrowed his brows. "The prince?"

 

"It makes sense; that house was known for its interesting customs. Something a bit incestual about two princes, isn't it? I heard the king's son married a relative."

 

Barty shook his head in confusion. "What do you mean? I don't follow."

 

Evan scoffed, nodding until he caught sight of Barty's stare. It shocked him how swiftly they wilted back into calmness. "...you didn't recognise him?"

 

"Who are you talking about," Barty sighed, "What prince?"

 

"The James that Regulus came with. That was James Potter." He said so incredibly relaxedly that Barty thought he was jesting.

 

"James Potter—nephew of the king."

 

"Oh Gods, you didn't realise!" Evan snorted with laughter, "I thought we were just being casual about it."

 

"What!" He shouted—actually shouted then. "How would I know that!? I've never been to Griffin!

 

"You've never heard of Fleamont Potter's two sons? James and Sirius? You've never seen portraits?"

 

"The—" blinking and shaking his head, "the war orphan they adopted? I've heard stories, but—"

 

"I've seen him." Evan cut in, "My family would travel to Griffin all the time."

 

"Who's the other prince? What were you talking about then?"

 

Evan stared for a moment before another scoffing laugh left in shocked spurts. "Barty, you have to untie me right now, I am far too confused, and being bound is not helping."

 

"I'm the confused one!" Barty exclaimed, throwing his arms about, "I don't know what you're talking about!"

 

" Regulus ."

 

Looking forward, it was as if the horizon circled around him and settled on one small answer. James and Regulus' proximity, the way they rushed off together. "Regulus is a prince? Is he with James? Gods, are you saying they're related?!"

 

"No!"

 

Barty grabbed his hair with both hands, "I'm so lost right now."

 

"I read all your letters. How did you not realise it?" Evan let out a long sigh as he explained, "Why would he ever let it slip to the son of the Ministry court head that he was in the Black family without hiding an excuse to say they aren't related? An adopted orphan? Have you seen his face?"

 

"I've seen his face."

 

"Maybe his eyes are a little strange, but that boy has the House of Black Face—and he said that Narcissa Black is his cousin. Think about that family tree for a moment, Barty."

 

"I'm thinking." He said, shaking his head and slightly panicking and somehow along for the ride. 

 

"You really know nothing; that is the grandson of the mad king! The only known son of the king's first born."

 

Barty blinked before coughing out a breathy laugh. It was not one of humour; it was one of stress. "Regulus. Small Regulus is the grandson of King Phineas Black II."

 

"Yes." Evan said, eyebrows raised and expectant, "You wrote to the only known heir to House of Black, and all you talked about is how much you hate a random old man on your father's court. Maybe Bagman should feel special."

His breathing hardened—the rising of his shoulders more prominent. "Evan, that's really bad news."

 

"I'll say." he said, unaware, "Courts have been searching for sixteen years for an heir to kill, and you've been writing to him about your father's issues."

 

"Dragons are dead; it doesn't matter." Barty reasoned with himself. 

 

"Well, we thought all the heirs were dead, but here we are. You'll go down in history, at least, Barty." He offered Barty a condescending sort of smile. "The stupidest Cavy to ever walk the realm."

♗

Barty had expelled Evan back to that original silence in priority of his own thoughts. He'd stopped in the shade, let the moisture on his skin dry, and did his very best to ignore the whole stickiness of it. The quilted gambeson found its way onto his chest, and his Merino cloak was clasped upon his clavicle. The sun was low, and the heat of the warmth did not offend him so harshly then. 

 

The words Evan had said were heavy enough to offend in its place, though. If it were all true—and the way it seemed to click into place suggested it completely was—then this, in accordance with their law, would be the most wanted man in the entire realm. It felt sickening to think about that while knowing Regulus. Because he wasn't a man, it was a boy in little whinging. Barely seventeen. 

 

Barty rubbed his hands down his face in frustration, the reins still hanging from his fingers. Would it be too harsh to call those hours the very best of his life? Had he had the finest time in the past few weeks of humid travel than he had in his whole life? How old does one have to be to name a time, one specific time, the very best of their life. Perhaps he had simply joined in life for the very first time. 

 

How strange it is to have only laid in the house you've paid rent your whole life for the first time at sixteen. How strange most things are, really, he'd come to find out.

 

Deeply, he wished to write to Regulus about that, knowing he'd understand. But Evan, too, may. His father allowed his own son to be imprisoned for something so futile. Barty wondered if his own father would do the same. He knew he needed to write to him.

 

Barty was in a harsh strain of thought when his horse tripped. It was most likely a lazy drag of a hind leg or perhaps a rock that the beast did not see, but in the blink of an eye, she plummeted to the ground.

 

"Barty!" he had heard Evan shout as his head hit the ground, leg stuck between the soil and saddle, his horses' weight on top of him. He screamed out a howl of pain. It was a sharp and immediately splintered pang. It shot up his toe right into his hip bone and then persisted with the ache of the horse's weight. 

 

"Shit!" he hined out, pressing his eyes closed, back arching in discomfort as he writhed on the ground, grabbing for anything to drag him out. "Help. Shit—Gods."

 

"What do I do?" Evan exclaimed, panicked. "Barty?!"

 

He tried to respond, tried to regulate his breathing. Barty took sequenced, focused breaths before whining in pain again. Much to his horrified dismay, his whine turned to a sob. 

 

"Barty?!" He was even more panicked.

 

"Sit down, you—" Barty snarled in pain once more as his movements sent another aching shot up his leg. " You Ass . Sit!"

 

"Where? How?" 

 

Barty threw his hand towards the saddle, lazily pointing to the sword that lay sheathed, hanging from the upright side of the saddle. His horse whined, huffing out grunts of pain in tune with his own. Evan, looking around erratically, took a moment to understand. But when he did, he acted fast. Tilting his body to the side, he managed to get his horse to edge closer to Barty's before using the small freedom his hands had, bound to his sides, to grasp the saddle and eventually getting it to sit. 

 

Barty didn't see anything after that. He heard the sound of a sword leaving its scabbard and the sound of rope being split. His eyes were shut, and he bared his teeth, which were so hardly clamped together that he almost feared their infringement. 

 

Eventually, he felt a body come up behind him, booking arms under his own. Evan put a foot on the saddle, and as he tugged Barty back, he pushed the horseback. It was excruciating as the pressure transferred down his leg in a slow, lagged journey. Evan let out long, aching grunts behind him as he expended all his strength to dislodge the other. 

 

"Gods—Barty sh, you're okay." he leaned his head back on Evans's shoulder limply, choking out sobs and mutters until finally, his foot was free. A hand was felt over the quilt of his gambeson, and Evan's hair tickled his cheek. "Don't pass out—I won't know what to do if you pass out; tell me what to do."

 

But everything felt surreal very suddenly; he saw stars even though it was too early for even night to fall. Barty let his whole body become loose and lip as he felt the earth on his back again. His pants were taken off, and a sharp inhale caught in Evan's mouth. "Barty…"

 

"Don't run away." Barty mumbled, wincing as his leg was prodded at, "I know you won't. Damn, strange you are. I can't get rid of you for the life of me."

 

"Wake up. I'm serious, Barty."

 

Barty's lids began to flutter shut, shifting between closed and drooping, when Evan left a harsh smack on his cheek. "Oh—shit," he muttered drunkenly.

 

"Don't pass out! I can't have you not waking up!"

 

"Do I cut it off?" he asked, panicked.

 

"Dont—Dont!" Barty pronounced, suddenly trying to centre himself, "Don't cut my leg off, you lunatic!"

 

Opening his eyes, Evan had hands in his hair, braided through the raw corn yellow of his hair. "It's really red."

 

"So is your—" he winced again as he tried to move his leg, "so is your face, but you don't see me—"

 

Evan quickly covered his mouth with a wide palm, "Don't, please, you'll only stress me."

 

It all built up, the pain and throbs of his leg, Evan's panicked muttering, and the whines of his horse. Barty passed out. 

 

It was dark when he came to. Barty was sitting against a tree.

 

"You're lucky." was the first thing he heard. "The soil wasn't too hard. We are all bone, you know; once you shatter one, you're all but done for, really."

 

"Evan?" He mumbled, blinking him into focus. "You're still here?"

 

Evan looked around him at the barren land and laughed, "Where else would I go?"

 

Barty's eyes darted between Evan's horse, white and with soiled ankles, and Evan, who was laying that very yard of cloth the servants had packed, ripped into strips and doused in cold water. It was like soothing a burn. The soothing almost distracted him from the absence of his own filly. "Where is my horse?"

 

Evan didn't reply.

 

"Where is she, Evan?" There was only one. Two riders and one horse. Evan—his prisoner–roamed free with his horse while Barty lay bedridden against a tree, bark scratching him irritably. 

 

"She broke her leg—there's nothing either of us could do." 

 

"Where did you take her—" he demanded.

 

"I did it quickly! She's too big to bury i just left her where we were." Evan nodded to the space behind them, and just as Barty turned to look, Evan grabbed his face, urging him back forward. "Don't. Just—You didn't even name her, so don't get attached."

 

It could be horrible—Evan could leave him and ride away with no way home. He had killed his horse. Anything could happen; Barty despised that uncertainty.

 

Strangely, out of nowhere, he asked, "Should I have named her?"

 

"Well, don't do it now."

 

"Can you do it?"

 

Evan blinked, startled. After a while of thought, he questioned, "...what was your mother's name?" he reasoned his question when Barty gave a perplexed look, "You—you wrote about her in the letters."

 

"My dad won't tell me," he shurgeged, careful to keep his legs stagnant lest he shout in pain again, "isn't that weird?"

 

"So she doesn't have a name either to you?"

 

"No.

 

"And she doesn't mean any less to you for it?"

 

Barty shook his head.

 

"Okay. Let your filly rest, unnamed. It's okay." 

 

And just like that, he returned to laying cold cloth over his leg, which, through the cracks of fabric, he could see blackened skin. Barty hated himself for it—he hated that he couldn't help how he cried. Right there on the floor, he sniffed, and a tear or three dripped from his eyes. His chest hurt and he promised to never cry in front of someone again, but he knew that would be a lie.

 

Evan granted him a safe privacy. He stayed there, layering the fabric but not acknowledging the sniffs and hearty swallows. 

 

The next day, Evan helped him onto his horse, transferring all of their belongings, only the pony's saddle. He couldn't understand why—he didn't understand Evan's kindness. He prepared his stationary to send his father a sequenced update, as he had that entire trip.

 

Barty knew what he wanted to write. He knew exactly.

Dear Father,

 

You have never given any kindness to me, and I'm old enough to admit that I did not deserve that. Why do I have to admit it? 

Why is that my duty?

 

Your son,

 

Barty

But he didnt. Instead, he wrote:

Dear Sir Crouch,

 

I've learned that King Phineas Black II's son Orion Black has a living heir residing in Grimmauld Place under the name Regulus Black. He has been living in the treeline between Loup Garou and West Country and has not made any throne claims, as far as I have been made aware of. I have Raven directions to his location and can forward coordinations once determined. 

 

Your son,

 

Barty Crouch Jnr

Barty hadn't decided whether he would send it; he kept it tucked in his pocket beside the letter for Lord Lupin. He desperately didnt want to. But a son is born into their duties.

 

♗

JAMES POTTER

In the scene of consequences, James held no rent. No residence at all. Bad things had come into his life but at no direct punishment to him. That was not to say he did not feel things; anyone who knew James would say he was lethally affected by most things. He felt far too significant for things that often were not his own burden. 

 

When his mother remarried—as the law would say, James would say she was abducted practically—it was nothing to punish him. He knew his uncle wanted his mother in pursuit of irritating his father, and like all men with power, simple boyish pettiness became far too serious. Despite it not being done to punish him, he felt it all the same. 

 

When he stole extra food at dinner or when he caused mischief in the halls, he was not subject to a single lash. Not one. 

 

Not in the ways others would have been. That was simply his nature as a prince. A future king—if Godric willed it. 

We, as a people, are under constant supervision. James as an individual, was too under such scrutiny. Though he didn't have the masses to cattle himself into. And where others had shepherds in the faces of mothers and fathers—he had a father with the face of the king's right hand.

 

Despite all this, he believed in consequences. He didn't align himself with the intensity of the crouches—he did not think the law was king. But he knew there was a right and a wrong. The wrong hurt people, and there needed to be accountability and consequences for that.

 

When he chased after Sirius, only to find him beaten and in the hands of Remus, James felt anger he had only felt with his uncle. The worst man alive in his mind. But also his family. y. An illogical contradiction. He didn't ask what Remus had done or why he had done it, even if James was unbearably curious. He just knew that he wanted him to have a consequence—any. It was important to him that it happened. 

 

It distracted him enough that he didn't consider Regulus until he pulled Sirius into his tent and let him sleep. James forced him to lie down—against many protests—pressing on his shoulders and gifting a sympathetic brow arch. He wasn't sure if that would make him feel worse, the sympathy. But he couldn't help it. 

 

Sirius turned over, tucking his hands under his cheek and curling into himself. James had tried to clean the wounds but was brushed off, saying they'd do it in the morning. The blood had hardened and become a shell around his neck by then. Like a scab, he could pick and peel at. "It wasn't him."

 

"What do you mean?" James sat beside him, resting his chin on his knees. But Sirius refused to speak. Regulus crossed his mind for a moment before Sirius whispered over the thought. "C'mere," Sirius whispered, and James crawled over him, hugging Sirius from behind as tightly as he could, just as they did as boys. He hid his face in the back of Sirius' neck and barely slept. 

 

James dreamt of that day. Hours before, when Sirius stormed from Moody's tent. Scrope was pasturing outside, the infrequent whiff huffing from his grey snout. 

 

A twitch in his eye. James watched Sirius—something was wrong. " You may go. " Moody had said, aggravation in the air. Something had happened there; it had simmered and boiled over before he ever docked. 

 

Sirius stepped back, briefly meeting James' eye before he left, rushing out of the curtain door. Moody sighed, "I had you come here to inform you of your task, but I believe you already know."

 

"What, how—"

 

He held up a palm and silenced James. His beard had become aggravated and dishevelled, without the time to groom.  "You're going to take the trunk to the drop tomorrow. You have studied the maps; you know where it is."

 

James' gaze flickered between Moody at the door. "Yes… of course."

 

"It will be thrown into the pit. You aren't to open it or speak with anyone; it must go straight into the drop. Do you understand, son?" He spoke angrily, irritated. James' incredibly pep-stepping mood had been dampened when he met Sirius' sad eyes. It turned to fear with Moody's tone. He desperately wanted to ask what had happened but couldn’t for fear of tipping the already boiling pot. 

 

"Yes, Ser." He said curtly. As distinguished as he could. James recalled conversing with his father under the throne pavilion before they ever left. “ I’ll never have to look as Moody looked this morning. ” He had declared grandly as if it were prophecy—as if it were his choice. Despite the jests, that morning gave him a newly born sympathy for Moody; the way he greeted the man he was to kill as if they were old friends. James knew that they were. Maybe the canopy of sweet grapes and mulberries of the pavilion candied his demeanour.

 

"Okay.” He nodded, composing himself. “Okay.  Tomorrow, I'll give it to you. I want it done as soon as possible. Tie the trunk to Prongs’ saddle—don’t take Harry, just ride straight there and back."

 

And, of course, he felt guilt—he couldn’t help it. In truth, a part of him that was immature and confused had decided he wanted to gift them to Regulus. The moment the word ‘invaluable’ had left his tongue. James tried telling himself that he would journey straight to The Drop. He didn’t understand why he didn’t want to.

 

James licked his lips, swallowing. "Ser?"

 

"Yes?"

 

"What was that with Sirius?" It came out before he had the chance to hold his tongue. Moody only responded with a long, thought-out sigh. He walked to the other side of the trim tent, a hand rubbing at his temple. 

 

"James,” he murmured, “you only need concern yourself with the business of knighthood and court. Do not worry about him."

 

"You know I need to worry about him," James answered quietly, sad that he had to say it—he thought Moody would just understand like his father did. To him, Sirius was blood; to Moody, Sirius was an outsider. James could always tell; the way he shouted when Sirius threw his sword a little too erratically in duels or when their boyhood pranks had James in a more dangerous position than usual. They were simple games to the boys, but Moody acted as though it was Sirius’ mission to have James’ head impaled upon a stick.

 

"Yes.”He said considerably, “But have your doubts."

 

"About Sirius?" James laughed nervously.

 

"About everyone. Everyone James. Everyone except yourself."

 

"That's a hard ask."

 

"I know, especially for you. 

 

“Ser,” James pleaded subtly as he could, “He always means well, you know that.”

 

He did not speak for a few seconds; he stared at the tent's other side. “I know. Go, son. Close the curtain as you leave."

 

Then, the next day was no better. Sirius' presence was scarce, and Marlene had slipped into his tent to fish because of his absence. James took the trunk from Moody and dragged it to the large tree near their campsite, settling into one of those scant patches of shade from the nosey sun. Their tents were not pitched in those meagre shades to warm up their sleeping quarters for the glacial nights—so James could only imagine how boiling Sirius and Marlene were in there. 

 

Despite the heat and the incredible lack of resilience James had to it, being born and bred in the north, there was a kindness to that climate. The desert-like stillness, the rustle of a fern frond, the animals that never lay in hibernation. James fiddled with the trunk lock once he became situated by the crotch of the barky tree, fitting himself between crop-level roots. 

 

It was a quick and easy latch, and when he lifted the lid, three white eggs sat before him. They weren't what one would expect dragon eggs to look like. They were not scaly and raven-toned, nor did they look sharp or dangerous. Their skin was flecked with dull age spots and yellowings like any old duck egg. James placed a wary hand on top of the middle egg, darker than the rest. It was cold, and when he pressed down, it was as hard as a stone, just as they said it would be. All three were paralysed, frozen. James picked one up and held it forward, away from the shadow spot, shrouding the sun, hoping to see through it. He swore—possibly his mind was fictionalising it—that a slight creature curled in on itself, preserved in the very centre of the egg. Its body was wrapped in a blanket, which he could only assume was wings. Wings . It had a snout like a horse and a tail as long as a lizard's.

 

Those were the things he was meant to throw into the drop, a never-ending pit that would butcher these eggs even in their lifeless condition. Three invaluable things. James tied the trunk to his saddle, readying it for the journey.

♘

That night, James crawled into the tent and sat beside Sirius. He was still as unwell as the evening before.

 

"I wonder what Frank and Ted are doing right now." he said after a while," Do you ever think about that?"

 

"Of course I do," James said quietly. JamHees couldn't help Sirius; he couldn't understand what happened or what was wrong, which hurt almost the same as the sight of him. He couldn't figure out what he would normally do. When Sirius was upset in Griffin, James always knew. He would say—do the right things every time. It was easy; it was second nature. When your brother looks foreign, how do you even recognise yourself? 

 

"Frank was an ass most of the time."

 

Snorting, straining to lessen the tension. "He's like you."

 

"Hush—you ass." Sirius let out a long, exhausted sigh before flipping onto his back. His face kept a hold of that upset expression as though he were thinking about something. James waited with patience. "You know all the Blacks that live in Grimmauld?"

 

James reached out to pick at the stray hairs on Sirius' face, brushing them back into place mindlessly. "Yes."

 

"Frank and Ted are from there, and no one in court cared. Would they care if any of them came back?"

 

He stopped, pulling his hand back to lean both on the floor beside him. Sirius remained staring at the tent roof; James gave a quizzical look. "Sirius…" he tested, "I'm going to be honest, okay?" and Sirius nodded, "I don't think Griffin will ever let anyone from that house back in its walls. My uncle would never let it happen again."

 

"Again?"

 

"Their reign. He would never let them rule again. If it were up to him—and it is, sort of."

 

"Why'd he have two people from the court train with us then?"

 

James sighed, knowing this must have some bearing on his disposition, but he was simply unable to figure it out. "House Black ruled for almost a millennium. He's scared of them—I'd be surprised if he wasn't. When courts give their children to others to train, it's a thing of partnership…peace. He's always trying to hush the flames of rebellion."

 

"Aren't you angry?" 

 

"About what?"

 

"At him. At everything he's done." Sirius' voice cracked slightly. One may not have noticed or attributed it to his pain or perhaps tiredness, but James didnt. James knew him. Like a brother knows a brother. So, he was not angry that Sirius brought up his uncle's misdemeanours. 'Everything he's done' only related to the one thing to James. It was everything to him. "Are you as incredible as they think you are? Are any of them? Wouldn't it be nicer if the war never happened?"

 

James blinked, honestly scared. He couldn't comprehend what Sirius was saying. At any moment, he was the one to jump in persecution of the last king to voice his disagreement with House Black. To wish for their reign was nothing like Sirius. It was almost theatrical, the way he detested them. In all honesty, James, too, was scared—somewhat paranoid about going to Grimmauld Bight when the task ended. One could only assume why. "We can ask Ted and Frank when we get to Grimmauld." James eased in the kindest voice he could manage, as Sirius' face contorted, "Sirius—You should sleep."

 

It began then. A sob. Then his chest began heaving, and it was the only part of his body that moved—the rest lay stagnant, his arms lay by his side. James hurried to his knees so that he could lean over Sirius, brushing his cheeks instead of his hair. "I don't w-want to go there." Sirius sobbed.

 

"What?" James shook his head, puzzled at the suddenness of it all. It all built up around him, and he ran his hands down his face in stress. 

 

"I don't—I don't want to go to that court, please. I want to go home."

 

"Sirius? Why are you crying—what—"

 

"James—"

 

"Is this about Remus?" he asked, desperate. 

 

Shaking his head, his mouth downturned in cries. "N-No"

 

James held his face once again, feeling his own eyes go foggy. "Look at me? Whatever it is, I'll fix it, Sirius. It'll be okay."

 

"No—"

 

"Sirius," he pressed, and Sirius met his eye, just slightly, looking up through his lashes. He completely obeyed as if he were anyone else, anyone else in the presence of the prince. James felt ill. "It'll be okay, you're okay. We are all okay."

 

"R-Regulus is still there." he sniffed throughout hiccups. 

 

"I know, he's okay." 

 

He gave a grave look. The clench of his jaw, stifling sobs, and the lagged shake of his head. Like twins, they spoke. 

 

And James realised what he had forgotten in the midst of helping Sirius. Bloodied at the possible hands of Remus—by someone in the south, if not him. Somewhere in the south realm, Regulus lay in. 

 

James' nails dug into Sirius' cheeks, and he tightened his grip. His throat suddenly dried. He shook his head, trying to mouth out words. That it was okay, that sirius just needed to sleep, that it was okay. It was okay. He couldn't get the words out—as if he could only speak it to himself as if he needed all the convincing he could. He couldn't share any of it. 

 

James swallowed—far too loudly. Sirius' breaths had eased, and the sobs were no more than descending hiccups. "Ow," he muttered, and James tugged his hands back.

 

"Sorry—accident. I'm sorry."

 

Sirius simply shook his head and closed his eyes. "I'm not your brother James. You don't have to worry like you did before."

 

"Sirius—" his chest hurt so badly. It burned.

 

"I want to be, but I'm not." 

 

" You are ," James promised. He promised it so much. He couldn't figure out how to help. It was out of his hands.  

 

Sirius exhaled slowly before turning over to face away from James. Like a stone mountain, he lay still. Then, as a final encore, he whispered, "We aren't the same, Jay... I think I'm going to bed now." As if he hadn't been in his tent all day.

 

James looked down and waved his hand between them. "Sirius… I thought we told each other things. You wanted a brother, and so did I, so we were each other's brothers."

 

"I'm sorry." He mumbled in the darkness.

 

"I mean—Did I do something?" His tensed hand pointed straight to his chest and shook. "I thought you just had a fight with Remus—or something like that. But it's something else entirely, and you are keeping it from me?"

 

"M'sorry." he sniffed, the last of sobs exhaling his tone.

 

"At the town, we were fine, and you were so happy—"

 

"I don't know." He whined, " I don't know !"

 

"I don't know either! I'm—I don't understand. We are brothers—how could you say that Sirius? What's…" he sighed, squeezing his eyes shut and pushing a thrust of his shoulders into each word, "What's different now? Has something changed? Is it me?"

 

"No—It's never you."

 

"I don't understand why you're hiding things now."

 

Sirius sat up suddenly. "Cause it's never you! It's never—" his breath stilted, and he exhaled again. James' brows concaved in distress as he waited. "I'm sorry, James. I just need to sleep; I think I'm tired."

And there was nothing James could do. It wasn't how it always had been. Sometimes, James had no one, and on those days, he had Sirius.

 

He was unconscious in minutes. Minutes James spent sitting and staring. 

 

He ran to his horse the moment Sirius fell asleep. 

 

Prongs galloped faster than the wind, an antlered helmet proud and shining under the moon. He gripped his reigns as tight as his fist would allow, his jaw clenched, and brows furrowed; he couldn't move quick enough. The world flew past James as he spurred his horse forward—the clack of his hooves on compact soil mimicked the pounding in his chest. Face buffeted by the wind, a potent perfume of dirt and adrenaline. Every bound pulsed in him until he was a slice of equine himself—at least, it felt that way.  

 

When he reached the frontier that divided Loup and West Country, James threw himself off prongs, running to the creek where he and Regulus would meet, hoping that Regulus would be there too. There was nowhere else he could go. James, even in his adrenaline, could find enough sense to not run into a pack of wolf-men unarmed. 

 

He realised just then that he had come unarmed. Only his blouse, doublet and saddled and antlered Prongs. The trunk was still fastened to the saddle. 

 

James stumbled through the fronds and underneath branches until he reached the vast opening of the creek. His head whipped around, scrutinising each part of the plot, looking for him. 

 

And like the first ripe fig hung from its tree in spring, he was right there, cross-legged and slouching. James strode towards him, reaching out a hand before he stopped, not wanting to frighten him. Regulus glanced up at him very slowly, entirely unsurprised. A waterfall of crimson had been spewed from his mouth. Like a child with chocolate smeared around their mouth, but it dripped terrored red. His eyes were tired and drooping. Defeated. His lips smacked a bit–as if repelling a taste from his mouth. "Remus said I wouldn't see you for a while."

 

"Reg…can I—Can I touch you?"

 

Regulus looked forward again, hands in his lap, before nodding. James kneeled beside him, taking a thumb to his chin and swabbing the inky blood. "Are you okay? Where is the blood coming from?" It seemed to spill from everywhere. From his nose and from his mouth, dripping around his Adam's apple as roots detour a rock.

 

"I'm okay," Regulus whispered.

 

 "Godric—did you lose a tooth?"

 

"No." He said bluntly—hopelessly. "He didn't touch my mouth." 

 

"Someone—this was…" his hand juggled between Regulus' face and being knawed between his own teeth, " someone did this ?"

 

James had no sense. Not anymore. He did not care that his sword lay dormant by his tent curtain, a horse ride away; he could have walked barefoot into Loup with no fear. His hand ran down his face, and he felt the cool ink running down with it.

 

"No…I don't know. Not all of it." Regulus met his eye, "Stop–stop, you're getting it on your face."

 

He grabbed the wrist that tried to reach for his soiled face, holding it in the air before letting it lay hand to skin on his cheek. James closed his eyes and felt the warmth of the palm, creased and dirty but warm nonetheless. "Regulus, what the hell is going on here. I found Sirius like this yesterday."

 

" Fenrir. Greyback. " Regulus said sourly.

 

"Greyback."

 

"Remus—"

 

James' mind stopped working for a moment. His eye twitched. "This was Remus? I knew —"

 

"No." he shot out quickly, his voice came out soft and whining. James quieted. "He taught me their language. From one, learn all. Ab uno disce omnes." Regulus hissed out with perfection, least James assumed it was—he had no reference to how it should have been pronounced. "That's a damn lie, James." 

 

He blinked at the tongue change, mouth wavering before he found words again. "What are you talking about? You're scaring me."

 

"I don't understand what I'm doing here, James. I tried to do what Remus said—I tried to learn, and he made me fight him." He whined, "They fight—that's their customs. They love it."

 

"Each other?"

 

"But I don't love it. It's not fair. I've never fought before; I can't beat them . It's rigged. I want to go home." He said, just as Sirius had earlier. The blood began to make James feel sick to his stomach. Like his lower face had been pressed into a pile of bloodied meat. 

 

"...you have my map," James asked, "can't you go home?"

 

Swallowing any sentiment, "No. No. Not until he comes for me."

 

"He? Who is this he? You keep saying that, but I don't know who you are talking about."

 

Regulus pulled his knees up to his chest, taking a breath. "My cousin-in-law. He left me here."

 

"You have a horse–-you can take Prongs if you need. I'll help you get home." Pleading, leaning towards him, "Reg, let me take you home."

 

"No, he gave me to them, James. He traded me for land."

 

He would have retched if he felt any sicker than he did then. "Why…what do they use you for?"

 

"I really cannot figure that out."

 

"That doesn't matter—we can leave.” He grabbed Regulus' hands, enveloping them in his own. "I'll take you back home with me if it's not safe. We can go to Griffin—My father will help you, please."

 

"James—"

 

He pictured it then. Regulus is on Kreacher beside him on the journey home. The duty of his year in the order—at the wall—had slipped from his mind. He would abandon it for Regulus; he knew he would. If Regulus would just let him . "Reg, please, let me take you home."

 

"Your home?" Regulus looked up at him, eyes wide. 

 

"It could be yours too." He pleaded, squeezing the hands. "Me, you, Sirius."

 

"I have to stay. He told me to stay."

 

"Why? He's not your father; why does what he thinks matter?"

 

Bitterly, Regulus pulled his hands back, darkening his eyes as if James had offended him. "He's as close as it comes."

 

"He sold you!"

 

"What have you done?!" Regulus snapped, looking at James, "You treat me like a child.”

 

"What? No— "

 

"You do!" he spat, "' Regulus, if I had only one night with you, I think that would defy the natural order. ' But I am too stupid not to know that these are not words of courtship."

 

"Reg…"

 

" Regulus ."

 

"I didn't mean it in any bad way—that's just how it works."

 

"And this is how it works here!" He said, pointing to his bloodied face, "It's normal, but that doesn't mean I have to like it!"

 

And it ended there. His rage, that is. Regulus just sat there, heaving. Though he looked expectant, desperate for the answer James 

would give. That only made him itch to offer a good one. Nothing comforting came to mind, just an unbearable question. "Regulus, please don't be angry when I ask you this."

 

"Famous last words." He mumbled painfully.

 

"Do you…want me?"

 

His eye twitched. "I want many things."

 

"And I'm one of them?"

 

"Hush." A dark blush covered all the parts of his face that weren't bloodied. "Your face lets you get away with too much. You cannot say things like that."

 

James' voice plunged into a low whisper. "How much would you let me get away with, regulus?"

 

"Are you asking me how good-looking I think you are?" Regulus mocked. 

 

"Maybe. I want to know what you'd let me do. I want to know what you want."

 

Regulus stared at him. Wide-eyed. Sad. His lashes clung together with the promise of tears, but none came. "I'm not a child, James. You've made me dependent on you like I am, though. I have a family, and it's not you. I want you to stop. That's what I want."

 

After James didn't reply, Regulus looked forward again, wiping some of the blood around his mouth onto the heel of his hand. He had an idea of what he wanted to do, but there was a lingering feeling that Regulus was far too young—perhaps not young, too naive—for it. James always had that loitering dread to pursue those things he desperately wanted to do; strangely, with Regulus' implicit blessing, he bore no fear. "Do you remember when you told me about your family's courting traditions? They would give your family something invaluable."

 

"A worthy price for an invaluable marriage." Regulus recounted. "It's all stupid."

 

James stood suddenly, rushing to Prongs, who had found a fertile patch in which to graze. He untied the trunk from the back of the saddle, hauling it into his arms to stagger back towards Regulus. 

 

Placing the trunk in front of him, Regulus looked up, confused. 

 

"Open it." James urged. 

 

With an evident pinch of doubt, Regulus did. He unlatched the lid, pushing it open. James could not see the eggs, but he could see the moment Regulus saw them. His face changed from shame to splendour. As if a light shone from the box. 

 

"Invaluable," James repeated, unable to dull his own grin.  

 

"Are these dragons?" he murmured, knowing.

 

"Three. Paralysed—but real."

 

Regulus picked one up like James had earlier that day, holding it to the small stream of sunlight that nipped through the branches. It was that same egg, swarthier than the rest, slightly runtish. "These are for me?"

 

"Yes."

 

James crawled beside him, waiting, feeling the rocky soil through his trousers. But Regulus granted him nothing. "What are their names?"

 

He couldn't help but snort. "It's up to you, father of dragons."

 

" Father of dragons . Ha," Regulus mumbled to himself.

 

James shuffled closer, sitting knees up while Regulus leaned forward on his shins. He nosed at Regulus' shoulder, almost preening for a response. It wasn't said, but no one could deny the implications of what that gift meant.

 

Regulus carefully placed the runt egg back in its encasement, letting his hands linger for a safe second before he abandoned them, staring forward. James was still nosing when Regulus sat up suddenly, throwing his leg around to straddle only one thigh. He took James' face in his hands and pressed them together in a blunt kiss. The flesh of their lips pushed flat against each other. Regulus' fingers curled into James' cheeks, turning him to face the diagonal angle at which Regulus kneeled, perched on only one leg.

 

He was still for only one moment; in that brief moment, Regulus initiated the kiss—if one could even call that a kiss. The second he pulled back, though, James slipped his palms to cup Regulus' cheeks as well, straightening his back and forcing another kiss. 

 

This time, their lips moved against each other. In a vague attempt to do something—he wasn't sure what—James reached his arms around Rgeulus' waist, pulling him so his navel would press against the hipbone below, earning a light noise from the boy. 

 

The leg in James' lap straightened to blanket both thighs. 

 

Regulus pulled back to breathe, and James moved to his jaw, kissing so drunkenly one would think it was being reciprocated. His eyes burst with constellations like they would when you rub sleep from your eyes. Just as he retook Regulus' mouth, the boy suddenly moved his fingers onto James' lips, separating them. His eyes were closed, and he waited as if allowing a breath. James waited, too, eyes wide and impatient. "Lu?" He asked behind the hand

 

"Sh."

 

James closed his mouth against the fingers, waiting until Regulus stood up suddenly. The absence was felt all over James; the air was suddenly cold. It probed him. 

 

Regulus bent in front of the trunk, closing the lid and doing up the latch. James stood, looming over him as he worked on the box. 

 

"Regulus?" he asked, confused and a little dizzy. "Why—"

 

"You meant it?" He smiled to himself. It felt like a personal smile, one that he was hiding by tilting his face away. James could still see it well. It was only then, as he licked his own lips, that James realised the harsh flavour of metal. Of blood in his own mouth. Touching the skin around his chin, he felt the inkiness, and as Regulus looked up, James saw the trail of blood he moved from his lips down to his neck and jaw. He'd forgotten about it. James' heart stuttered in a strange, sick way—Regulus' wide doe eyes innocent above the bloodthirsty molasses of gore, like rusty clay on his tongue.

 

"It's yours," James said, moving closer, eyes on Regulus' smiling mouth. "...So you'll come back with me?" 

 

It wasn't selfish, he told himself. This gift, under the guise of a courtship, to a boy that James knew he would have no courtship to. He brought the trunk, telling Moody he would have it destroyed, to Regulus as a gift—one he didn't know why he had the urge to give. Now, looking for those lips again, he began to understand it. 

 

By the next day, James, Marlene, Sirius and Moody would take their tents down and travel across the border to Grimmauld's court. Then, north to the wall. He would be leaving the very next day, but he promised that he would be there forever. 

 

"How did you get them?"

 

"What?" James laughed, almost stunned at the sudden change.

 

"How did you get these?"

 

"They are paralysed—stone. It's not as if one could do anything with them." He squatted beside Regulus, trailing a hand along the exterior of the wood. Carved with curling patterns and markings. Some were in another language that he could not read—possibly a dead language. "Untranslatable as well. I don't recognise the language at all."

 

"Old Gallo," Regulus said suddenly, his own hands brushing the words James just departed from. “Children of Salazar. Says it right there."

 

James furrowed his brows. The language of the Black House. "Old Gallo? Thats–"

 

"I learned from books."

 

"I didn't know they recorded the language anywhere—all the books were burnt, I thought."

 

Regulus didn't respond; he just continued reading the inscriptions. "When four knights pose upon the board, it begins, the second match. The beginning is filed down—I can't see the letters."

 

It was eerily familiar—something about that line. James pointed to the final line at the very front of the trunk. "What does that say?"

 

Regulus squinted, feeling the curve of each letter, scratching out some dust to suitably see. A gust of wind whistled through the leaves and through Regulus' hair. His words were drawn out as he pressed to get the right translation. "With the…extra? No." he rubbed some more dust and grime from the hollow of the engraving, " Super not supp . That means great. With the great burning of an antlered stag, a dragon egg shall hatch."

 

"Some foolish threat to the Potter house. Antlered stag ." Regulus continued to himself, shaking his head. " Crazy ."

 

Madam Trelawney. He remembered it then—the exact words she said and the look on Sirius' face. The kiss drained from his memory. 

 

"A severed tree of soil, molten laced,

the underbelly of an envy-shade snake.

 

A pilfered Lord, a beastly face,

a prince kneeled for servant's sake.

 

When four knights pose upon the board,

it begins, the second match.

 

With the great burning of an antlered stag,

a dragon egg shall hatch."

 

  ♘

James couldn't find it in himself to leave. He stood at the very edge of the Cloutre vert, Regulus in front of him, the expanse of the treeline behind him. The trunk by their feet. "I'm leaving tomorrow," he said finally. 

 

Regulus didn't say anything; he blinked up at James, waiting, expectant. His eyes were so wide that James wanted to cry. He couldn't help the promises he made—he knew he would follow through with them even if they weren't promised.

 

Unable to stop himself, James took Regulus' face in his hands, titling him up slightly. "Regulus, I have to do something, okay? I have to visit some places but I'm going to come back. It'll be a week's journey, there and back, with a stay at the court."

 

"You're coming back?" He smiled. 

 

"You come with me? If I come back?"

 

Regulus glanced down with just his eyes, doubting. "You have your duty at the wall—for your knighthood—"

 

"I'll take you home first. My home." James assured him. He meant it, too. It would be easy. Even if it wasn't easy, he would find a way to get it done. He could send him home with Marlene if nothing else worked. "One week from now, meet me back here. At this exact spot."

 

"One week."

 

"To the minute."

 

They waited like that for a while. James couldn't leave. Regulus could tell. "Hie, My James." He whispered, "Hie."

 

Hie, My James. Hie. Go quickly to return quicker. Your absence will be so pungent I shant breathe. Hie. 

♘

Notes:

www.tumblr.com/epihonest (how on earth do i link it help)

Chapter 13: Lily | Regulus

Summary:

They were still on opposite sides of the sofa, looking forward, sides pressed into the armrests, and neither sister made any effort to move closer.

Notes:

hi omg wow i havent written on this in months but I saw an ep of the new HOD and got inspired to continue

 

When asked why I began a series of appendices—something hidden in the hinds of a book deemed more burdensome than a story—I could only reason the answer with the truth. I think our history is our present and future, and it has not been considered as often as it should be. I believed someone present in the current should recount the stories of the second match, and I’ve always trusted my own judgment. 

 

Why and how we came to be are just as crucial as how we are. 

 

- From ‘The Appendices: A Recount of the Fourth Realm’ by Lily Evans.

 LILY EVANS

Severus ran his errands long enough that Lily had a few winks of respite. She wrote vividly and uninterrupted until the sun's half-day dying when Severus jogged in, failing to knock. 

 

“You finished quickly.” She stated, hunched over her small desk crammed into the corner of her room.

 

“I wanted to come talk to you,” he said, a little out of breath. 

 

Leaning back in the chair but still staring at the wall, “Where did your dad send you this time? Which family did you visit?

 

Lord Snape often sent his son to conduct his affairs in his palace—a way of training, as he frequently bragged. 

 

“It doesn't matter. What have you been doing?”

 

She knew he wanted a reply—a certain curated one. But she didn’t know how to give it without loathing herself for lying. Lily, too, wished he would reply in the perfect tone and words. But he often didn’t. So she despised the scowl when her words were satisfactory to him.

 

“Just writing.” she turned her head slightly to see him in the doorway, just to glimpse at his face as if she wanted to be angry. Of course, as predictable as always, he scowled. 

 

“Productive.”

 

“I agree, Severus,” she said curtly.

 

“Gods, stop.” he strode over to Lily’s bed and sat in her eyeline. “I’m angry too. Can you not just—”

 

“What? Be angry with you?” she snapped, and he straightened, “do you think if we are both angry enough, then they won’t send me—they’ll send my sister?”

 

“She’d enjoy it more honestly.”

 

‘She doesn't know what she wants!” Lily uttered a loud huff of annoyance before standing up, “She thinks this sounds nice—but she...”

 

She stopped, looking down at Severus, who slouched in on himself. Sighing, she sat beside him. His long coat was still cold from the journey—he must have taken to the coastline. 

 

“Don’t think I want to. Just understand I have to.”

 

He tucked a stray strand of hair behind his ear, the rest tied neatly in a trimmed horsetail behind him. The room was quiet, and neither of the two were very boisterous people. The wind, blowing linen curtains in, was the only noise. She grabbed his wrist, inching towards his hand and holding tightly as he tried to pull away, ever immature. “Hush. Stop being so afraid of girls.”

 

“I’m not afraid of girls; I'm afraid of you.” he huffed. “I have a scar on my head from when you threw a plate at me.”

 

“I was six!” She laughed.

 

“You threw like you were forty.”

 

“Shhhh.” she swayed their bodies together theatrically, holding his hand and forearm tightly against her own. “I’ll do it again if you keep insulting me.”

 

“At least I know you’ll be safe against the prince at dinner.” he joked with the most severe tone one could conjure

 

“Pft, James Potter, what’s he going to do?”

 

Sirius let out a long, exaggerated sigh. Too long. He threw himself back onto the bed and rested his hands on his stomach. They rose with each calming breath. “I talked to him—Dumbledore.”

 

“About me?”

 

“It began with you. It went to me.”

 

Lily lay on her side, resting a fist on her cheek and watching him. Severus puffed out his cheeks boredly. “What did you say?”

 

He shrugged.“I asked to join you, and then he said, ‘ Your initiative is admirable, Severus ’ in that serious but slightly jesting way he always does. The really offputting one:” Lily let you chuckle a little. “You know the one. He asked me to travel with you.”

 

She furrowed her brows suddenly, pulling back. “You're coming?”

 

“I’ll keep going—he wants me to go to the wall.”

 

Lily stared for a moment. Severus—in the wall. The only people there were soldiers or reformed criminals who had off-put punishment for servitude. Even with the presence of knights doing their required year on the wall—it was not the place for Severus. “In January? You've never left the island; how will you survive winter in the wall?

 

“It gets worse; they have camps–bases past the wall. In the elder territory.”

 

She sat up suddenly, shouting. “He’s sending you to Woolsorphan?”

 

But Severus didnt seem phased; he simply shrugged, continuing to look up. “Me and others, I presume.”

 

Lily stood, pacing around the side of the bed. “No—Severus, that's so much worse! That—I’m going to a castle, and you found a problem with that; you are going to Woolsoprhan!”

 

“It's not any worse than yours.”

 

“It's much worse, I'm getting married, Godric; you could die!

 

“They are the same thing, in a way.” She turned to see his head propped up behind his hands; he was staring at her. She didn’t have much to reply. She didn’t know how to respond to that. “But it's an opportunity.”

 

“Your family is already on the council,” she whispered, “how much higher do you need to climb?”

“I want to do it myself, climb myself. 

 

Lily sighed and sat beside him again. Her hands cradled themselves in her lap. “I wish you wouldn't.

 

“Just….lie here with me a second, Lils.” he tapped her thigh, “We will never be as young as we are today, at least not if we ever return.

 

She planned as she lowered back against the blanket. If she were to marry the prince, she could convince him to bring Severus back—This ‘James Potter’ could help him. Her mother had always said the woman seated beside the throne with the lowest whispers had the highest influence. 

 

“I'll have you seated on the Hallowed Thrones council. You’ll be higher than any ‘snape’ or ‘prince’ was. I promise.

 

He ignored it. “Shh. Just wait. Just... let me have this for a moment.”

 

Lily didn’t know how to articulate it because she was sure she had said it, but Severus couldn't understand it. She didnt want to marry this man; she simply wanted to go home. But it is never as simple as it is when you are young. 

 

Lily only saw a small part of her bed chambers when she visited them for what felt like the last time, even though she was not due to leave for another week. It was a half-hearted thing, like everything she seemed to do those days. Her room was a presence of what was once there; it was where she used to linger. But the person she used to be when she slept there wasn't there anymore, just the shell, the room. And she was self-assured enough to know her childhood was half why she loved her room. Without it, she could feel the half-assedness of it all. 

 

Her bed was familiar; it was where she and Petunia used to curl up most nights. Her bedside tables still held all the things from her past, and the curtains were still stained with paint. It was all aged now. 

 

“Packing your things?”

 

She turned around. Petunia stayed in the doorframe. 

 

“Patty…” Lily whispered.

“Gods, don’t call me that. Patty.” Despite the annoyed words, she said with less spite than usual. 

 

“You seem happier.” Or maybe less angry at Lily. Maybe sadder. She never did have the capacity to be sad and angry. Lily couldn't imagine what had happened since she last saw her sister, which changed her mood. 

 

“You don’t.”

 

“I’m not.”

 

“I don't see why not.” Petunia hummed. “Marrying a prince.”

 

“He’s my age,” Lily said simply. “It's nothing to do with your character, Petunia…”

 

“No one mentioned my character.” She spat. “Why are you bringing it up—”

 

“I’m not—”

 

“You just did.” 

 

Lily shut her mouth, her teeth clenched and ground together. Bone on bone, skin next to skin. Sister in front of sister. There was still an ocean of distance between them, just as much as there would be when she sailed for Godrics capital. 

 

“He is the same age as me—you're two years older; the king most likely wanted someone Prince James’ age.”

 

Petunia said nothing at first; she simply stared. They both waited until Petunia gave a long side, crossing the room to the sofa by the window. She found her seat amongst the pillows. “I know.”

 

“I'm sorry.”

 

“I thought royal men would be fond of older women, wouldn't you?” Lily almost gaped at the attempt at humour. Petunia was never one to jest, and she has not been, at least since she turned thirteen. “Some strange play for power. Or lack thereof.”

 

She laughed, and her sister's face reversed between shock at the sound and somewhat content with it. Lily made the stretch to the sofa. She considered it in her mind for a second before she strode over. What is the worst that could happen when you finally sit beside your sister? “What happened?”

 

Petunia sucked in a breath.

 

“What happened, Pat.”

 

“Mother married out of obligation, and she seems okay. Father, too.”

 

Lily nodded, not knowing what to say. It all felt so new. Petunia really hadn’t tried to talk to her since she figured herself an adult at thirteen. Back when Lily was newly eleven. 

 

Petunia continued. “ Why and how we came to be are just as crucial as how we are. We came from an obligated marriage, and I don't think that's terrible. We can repeat the good parts of history, I think.”

 

“Petunia—”

 

“They're going to marry me as well. Not to any royal—some man in ravenclaws islands. A lord, I think.”

 

Lily's stomach ached. “Is that not what you want?” She asked, feeling sick. It wasn't what either of them wanted; they both knew that. 

 

“I wish nothing would happen. I just want to sit here for a little while.”

 

“We can… We can sit here as long as you like.” Lily whispered.

 

“I want to sit longer than I would like to. And then longer than that.”

 

They were still on opposite sides of the sofa, looking forward, sides pressed into the armrests, and neither sister made any effort to move closer. 

 

♙

The following week, Lily and Severus set sail. A deep-hulled cog ship has been marinating on the east dock for the past year. There were rarely reasons to sail to the mainland. The sails had marooned from their pristine state despite the lack of use; they were yellowing fabric with a hull cratered in oysters. Lily and Severus sat on the edge, feet dangling over the waves and holding onto the boat lazily for support. Petunia refused to say goodbye as she had locked herself in her chambers the morning of the departure. Even when Lily knocked on the thick wood doors, pleading, Petunia only returned a spiteful silence. 

 

The ocean was bobbing with moaning dwellers, blue whales and schools of silverish fish. Those ones that leap from the surface and glide like birds. She couldn't help but think about the base Dumbledore planned on sending Severus. Past the wall was unknown. The elder territory. A rocky terrain of glacial spruce and rimy beech pines. Everything in the West Country was political, a shallow spat of men in uniforms, but the North was genuine war. She’d heard stories of the things that lurked in those icey forests and the lack of returns that visitors made. 

 

No metaphors of jests could be made out of the elder territory. Lily genuinely feared it. The terrain and the rumours of the ‘Dark Lord’ that lay dormant in the ice. It was not just the wind of the open sea between Merlin's beard and west country that made her shiver. 

Dear Petunia,

 

I hope you know that even if it were you on the ship, sailing straight to the alter with the famed James Potter, he would not deserve you. No Ravenclaw Island deserves you, either. I do not even deserve you. You lived two years without me, and I don't think I could manage a minute, so you are stronger than I. No one has taught me how to live without a sibling yet, like you did for those first two years before I was born, so I  think I'll have to teach myself, and I think I can manage that. I know we will never say it out loud, and even putting it into writing makes me nervous, but I'll always wear a little piece of you on me—and I hope you do, too. Even if it's just in my mind, the way I see you in the things, the way I see things in you. You are with me on this ship in a way. 

 

I know you think Severus is a ‘slimy cavy’, as you so eloquently say, and still will not tell me what it means, but he will be helpful for the small amount of time I get to keep him. It's strange how quickly things can change; it almost feels like I'm losing a brother and a sister. I hope you feel like that, too, selfishly. I want you to miss me, but I also want you to forget about me. I want you to live happily with this lord, even if he doesn't deserve you, and I want you to have two daughters who never have to sail away from each other. I hope one has brown hair, and I hope one has red. I hope they have our faces, and if they do have the same fates, I will never find out about them. I’d instead imagine they are playing on the beach, even long after they would have turned forty. If I am never allowed to have you visit, though, and the sisters still play on the beach when they are forty or even fourteen—which would be further than us—I do hear about it.

 

Mostly, I hope I hear from you. In whispers, if anything. I hope everyone you meet deserves you, and I hope that I'll be one of them. I hope to meet you, even if it's been so long it feels like the first time. I hope there will be no need for daughters, that it can just be us two, as it was always supposed to be. 

 

Yours, 

Lily

Lily held the paper in her hands, crumpled into a small ball with the ink enclosed in the centre. Severus came up behind her. 

 

“They are bringing the ravens out if you wish to send a letter.” He said quietly. Severus asked her this each time ravens came to their court. He knew she wished to write and would at any time. It became a tradition. She would send letters to circle back to her court since she knew no one outside the Merlinb Beards islands. 

 

“No letter for me,” Lily replied, letting her hand open as the paper caught a route with the wind. She tightened the woollen coat around her as she watched the paper fall into the waves, propping up the collar to cushion her ears until all she heard were muffled noises. She wished it had always been so quiet. 

 

In a way, it had. A court of people with nothing to say, a sister who never spoke to her. Everything was so bleak at that moment. She didn’t know when it wouldn’t be. 

♙

REGULUS NO-BLACK

 

Remus was dead, as far as Regulus was aware. 

 

He wasn’t, but Regulus spent a day thinking he was. The sight of him stumbling back, a hand over the blood gushing from his neck, mouth parted slightly in raspy gasps. The panic on Fenrir's face finished his paranoia. He sat in the treeline thinking he had Remus’ blood on his hands in ways far more than physical. 

 

Days after the incident, and one day after James left, Regulus ensured those eggs were hidden under his bedding and snuck past the other wolves to sit beside Remus. He breathed slowly and wholly. He breathed. He was breathing. Regulus curled onto the floor beside him and watched those small pants leave his lips. 

 

Remus didn’t wake up, though. He slept for the entire time. His cheeks hollowed, and his wrists became thin, but he breathed in and out, day and night. Even those scars that trailed around his skin like bangles became more pronounced with the loss of his muscles. Regulus thought they would kill him for what he did. Lupos died alot. He’d seen it. But Remus was the son of Fenrir. It was different with him. He couldn't help but think of that daughter Remus had mentioned before. 

 

He sat there and thought of James. The knight would come back in nothing short of a week, and Regulus had marked down the exact time he would have to wait, knowing he would probably camp early and stay out of anticipation. The celebrations that made the Lupos stagnant were ending, but the situation with Remus had prolonged their renting of that acre.

 

Regulus tried to sneak into the tent one morning, but a raven found him. He hadn’t even left the treeline yet. It cancelled any plans he had that day. His cousin was mentioned with grave news.

 

 

Dear Regulus, 

 

I keep waiting for the weather to become warmer as the year continues. But it never does, even though we are so far south. Something even colder came to the doorstep of Lucius’ new abode in the Beastal Territory. Or the Malfoy territory, as he decided. Your cousin, Narcissa Black, died last night. Perhaps it was the journey to her new home or something contracted in the new land we'd assumed. I’m genuinely sorry. I could never speak with her, as she mainly remained in her chambers after arrival. 

 

Lucius has sent word to the rest of your family, and he wished you did not know. I’m not sure why. I hope you are doing well. I regret that I’m the one telling you this.

 

Peter Pettigrew

 

He didn't scream when he first read it. Your cousin, Narcissa Black, died last night. That's how he assumed he’d react. To the genuine horror of that statement. Died last night. He simply opened his mouth, the letter falling limply from his hand, and all that came out was a childish, halfway mute whine. 

 

Your cousin, Narcissa Black, died last night.

 

It is not something one needs to prepare for. No one is tutored from a young age to glisten with suited tears and perfumed wails at the sound of death. Simply put, on any fine afternoon, whether it be cold and frigid or swarthy and humid, and whether it had lingered on the windowsill like tapping ranches or appeared like a stray feline, death will slip in through the window. If life is the angry old black dog, hunched over and ever-living, never dying, even as its slobbering snout sags into a worrisome age, death is the bitch. The loving mother that holds nutrients in its baring teeth, the one that sits by your front door with a fresh coat, barely brushed with the outside soil.

 

This news was a feline, slinky and lost. Unexpected. That was the primary reason why he didnt know how to react. Thnobody no body—no build-up. Nothing but news. It was simple news. Regulus imagined how they would announce it, like simple news. A life lost is just like a life born, simple news. 

 

He wanted to thrash and release all the contents of his stomach onto the floor, but all was still; all was calm. His legs gave out, and he only held himself up with his hands under shaky arms. Regulus curled in on himself, wailing out a sheer cry. The mulch was wet on his cheek, and the rocks scratched at his ears, but it didn’t phase him. His chest throbbed too much to take any notice.

 

Narcissa kissed his face as he rolled like an injured beast, writhing on the floor. His chest ached so badly. So badly. He screamed, and not even the trees could ignore the sound. They all shivered with him. 

 

After the distress wavered and he blinked as much from his eyes, regulus tried to write. His hand was shaking horribly, and he couldn’t gain control over the parchment or ink. He knew what he was to write, of course. A scold to Peter, it must have been a jest—it must have been a sickening jest that he was pulling. He couldn't understand why. Peter had never seemed to doubt him nor make an enemy of himself, so why was he doing this? He heaved out, and the parchment was forgotten; his hands cramped up, and then he threw up on the leaves. 

 

The treeline was quiet. A slight wind whistle and the tight gagging of a young boy's grief. If someone had been standing a few steps outside the greenery, they might not have heard it; they might have thought it was wind, light and dancing. But Regulus was heavy; everything was heavy and solemn and disgustingly sober.

 

When his body allowed it, Regulus found Kreacher and somehow managed to crawl onto him. His vision was blurry, but he knew the way. It wasn't that he had come to terms with it; some part, maybe a fictionalised part of Regulus, still believed it wasn’t true; he still denied it, but a pungent anger persisted. It was snappier and more enflamed than the confusion the letter had first brought. It was dominating. 

 

He rode east to the Beastal territory. The wind burned his eyes more than the tears, but he persevered. It was dusk when he arrived. It was no court; Lucius’ kingdom was built on the structure of old ruins. It was quaint but growing. People were finding in and out, no doubt servants he had taken in the Lupos deal. Regulus threw himself off the horse and ran inside. It was the very first room. A throne room, even though Lucius was no king. He sat there, blonde hair long and tamed, tied in a horsetail down his back. 

 

He lounged without care, as he always did. 

 

“Where is she!” Regulus cried out, and Lucius looked up suddenly, a slight but sure smirk on his face. A knowing look. A knowing look! Regulus wanted to gag but couldn’t find himself to acknowledge the look; his whole body felt sick, and he was far too panicked. Everything was too much, and it was everything. That alone was too much. Everything all at once. Everything and Narcissa. Everything except for Narcissa. He wondered if this was how the world felt, that all the people around him simply felt everything all the time and had learnt to live with the noise, and it was Narcissa had calmed it for Regulus. 

 

No one had tutored regularly like they tutored the others. No one had taught him how to live without his cousin yet. It wasn't fair.  

 

‘Regulus.” He stood, stepping towards the boy. His arms opened as if he were to embrace Regulus.

 

“Where is she!” he shouted again, pushing Lucius back roughly when they finally met. 

 

He looked at Regulus with offence, regaining his footing and holding his chest. He rubbed at the green doublet. The whole room was decked in jewel green and black. A large snack banner sat on the wall behind them. 

 

“Well, I don’t know what you mean, Regulus.” He said curtly after a moment. 

 

“You—” he panted, doubting himself, “You know what I mean. You do—you.”

 

“I—” he began to mock, “I–do. Regulus.”

 

“Let me see her,” Regulus simply pleaded. “Please, just. Narcissa.” The place was eerie, knowing she was lying dormant in a room just a few steps over. 

 

“Regulus, think about her mother,” Lucius whispered. “You come in here blabbering like an infant while someone a ride east has lost her daughter.” 

 

Regulus straightened. He said nothing. He was sure they could both hear the rapid drumming of his pulse. Seas of guilt bathed him, baptised him. “How–how did it happen,” he asked, holding as much of his composure as possible. Lucius didn't question how he knew; he just sighed, putting a hand on Regulus’ shoulder. It was a grotesque feeling. His fingers ran across the back of Regulus’ neck, shivering the more petite frame. It felt like small marbles dropped from their pouch. Or insects scattered along his flesh. Cold, cold fingertips. They couldn't have been Lucius’, with how calloused they were. They were stained as well, inky black—reminiscent of letter writing. 

 

Regulus’ mind considered everything simultaneously; he wanted to see Narcissa. He wanted his mind to consider her as well. It may have been the only way to slow those thoughts.

 

“She became sick on the journey here,” Lucius said. “She didn’t survive the night.”

 

“With what?” Regulus begged. His eyes were wide and teary, and he felt far too small in front of Lucius. 

 

“Some fever.” He said so casually. As if it all meant nothing. The pads of his fingers kept pushing into his skin as if unemploying the tension as if that was his purpose. But it helped nothing. Regulus felt no better. “Arrived in a cold sweat with Draco in her arms. He is all well, though. Regulus, you must be getting back—”

 

Regulus pushed him back once again. “She wouldn’t have gotten sick if you hadn’t moved here!” he cried. “It’s your fault! You killed her!”

 

“Regulus,” he said sternly, hands still raised. The ink was blotching all over his fingers. Why has he not washed them? Why was everything in disarray? Where was his cousin? Where was his mother?

 

“You–It's all your fault!” this time, regulus pursued him. He stepped forward, pushing at Lucius once more and seething. “Why not kill me and finish the job as well!”

 

“Regulus!”

 

“You killed me!” he sobbed, “You killed me with this! Finish the damn job!”

 

“Stop this!”

 

“Finish the job!” Regulus screamed. “Give me back to her! Please! She’s my—” he coughed, the sobbing drying his throat.

 

Regulus bent forward, his stomach threatening to implode and throw up again. He gagged there amid sobs for a moment before Lucius grabbed his shoulders, pulling Regulus into him and locking him in an embrace despite the protests. Regulus sobbed a wet patch onto his chest, right where he had previously hit. “Stop,” he mumbled to Regulus, unmoving against the squeezes. “Stop.”

 

“Do it. Kill me.” In another life, he may have managed the words ‘I'll kill you for this’ or perhaps a simple warning of his vengeance. But honestly, regulus simply hoped to die after that news. 

 

Your cousin, Narcissa Black, died last night.

 

Strangely, regulus wrapped his arms around Lucius, sobbing into his doublet. His body shook with tremors, and he couldn't find enough strength to properly hold on, so his arms sort of limply hung around the taller body, fingers scrunching. Lucius stroked soothing patterns through his hair. Slowly and rhythmically. “L-let me stay.” he cried. “Let me stay here, please, I don’t want to go back. Please.”

 

“Regulus.”

 

“Please, I’ll sleep outside, I'll help Alice, I'll do anything, I'll do anything please—please, do n't-don't make me leave again. I’ll die; I’ll kill myself if I have to leave her again. I’ll kill myself.” 

 

Remus, James, and everyone he had met in the tree line. He wanted to forget it all; he would have let James return to find no one if it meant he could curl up beside Narcissa’s frigid and stale body, stomach empty and predicting his barren death. Maybe the infection of her body would take him too. If he held her tightly enough, perhaps they’d mould into one like fossils turn to stone. Historians would find them and know nothing, but regulus would know. He would know everything. It wouldn't matter, though, because he would be happy there. He would be happy despite everything.

 

Lucius, voice a soothing grate, hushed him. “My grandmother had a dog, a grey wool orphan wolfhound; she was as big as I was when she had her fourth litter. It was the only one I had ever seen; the others sold or eaten. I sat there for hours watching, and then, when the final one was born, my grandmother scowled and shook her head. She had not seen it but knew it was the ninth pup. Her belly, still engorged with the dust of her litter, protruding with milk, only had room for eight, and much like her other litters, there was one too many. It wasn’t the firstborn, second, or third that went hungry that night, but by its mother's shoving snout, the last born, the runt, was ostracised. She barked at her own son, still stammering and hairless, for trying to feed with his brother and sisters. Regulus, what are you to do with nine children and eight teats? Why did she spend her spare time helping the pup, which may not even last night?”

 

“Because it's her son.” He said into the cloth of Lucius’ blouse, too confused to question the analogy.

 

“It is a defect. A bastard.” It made no sense, the sentiment. That pup, born from his mother's womb alongside his siblings, was no bastard, but Regulus understood it all the same. “That child was no child of hers. You are no child of hers.”

 

Lucius pulled him back slightly, looking down at Regulus with sympathetic eyes. “A mother hound bellies four children. One girl, spiteful and strong, with hair of their family's colour. A little younger, A smart, gracious pup, then the third girl, forgiving and quaint; blonde but just as Black, just as royal as the rest. Then, unexpectedly, into her cradle, a fourth is thrust. A little runt boy. If I put all these pups into a box and starved them for days, which one will leave? Is it the strong, the smart or the kind? Or is it the runt? Hm?”

 

Regulus simply blinked at him, face tense and threatening to whine. 

 

“There is no riddle there. The three firstborns would each take a leg from the runt and have the fourth for supper the next day.” 

 

Regulus clenched his jaw, unfurled with irritation. He stepped back. “women walk into a bar. One is a lady-haired masochist who has a keen eye for advantageous marriages. One is a runt with no home. Both are starved; who will be served first?”

 

“Are you trying to make your own riddle, Reggie?” he smiled mockingly. Regulus despised the way he said it; Reggie. 

 

“You can marry every single one of my cousins, but you will never be a Black. I may be a bastard, but I still have the name and am one of them.” Regulus' voice cracked as he pushed everything out. “You will never have that type of power. It is my home and has been far longer than yours.” He leaned forward, hissing between tears, “Power is what we fear; no one has ever shuddered at the Malfoy name. No one ever will.”

 

Lucius’ gaze hardened. Not to anything angry, but to a sinister dead-pan. He arched his brows in a false pout, “You want to go home?”

 

He nodded—it was all he could manage; the speech had flushed the last of his anger from him. The mortification of his wet sobs had left, and he scrunched his eyes shut. Regulus despised how Lucius could pry into his consciousness, how he knew Regulus far too intimately, and he made that intimacy known. 

 

“Regulus, that is your home.” Lucius grabbed the back of his neck like a dog to its pups. Regulus winced, lips parting. Lucius’ fingers grazed over raised scars on Regulus’ neck, only visible from the back; he thumbed at them with purpose. He had forgotten about them—at least he hadn't mentioned them out loud, which was good enough. Nothing inside his mind had to exist—at least not to others, and that was how Regulus measured the importance of things. Outside acknowledgement. But Lucius couldn't help but acknowledge. “You know why, don’t you, little Reggie?”

 

“Stop,” he whispered as the grip tightened and began to sting. Was it nails? He felt crescent blades scoring his flesh.  

 

“You remember how you got there, hm?” Lucius said, in the kindest voice he had ever given regulus. “I remember the first time the best; it wasn’t about fun back then…” he turned Regulus’ jaw to the side, inspecting the scars. He had only seen them patching and stringy like cobwebs in the mirror. A startling pink that had begun to fade into his skin but was only more visible on his back behind his blouse. “I genuinely just wanted to know… if you are the opposite of a Black, the ‘Black family bastard’, maybe instead of fire, you can resist the cold. Such a silly premise, but once I thought it, I couldn't stop.”

 

Regulus crammed his eyes shut as the nails crazed over each scar. “Do you remember what I did, Reggie?”

 

He nodded slowly. 

 

“Say it.”

 

Regulus's lips pressed shut, and he whined, holding back any sobs. He wanted to talk about Narcissa again. Or maybe he wanted to forget. He felt drunk and helpless.

 

“Does it still hurt? How about your back? I remember that was what made you scream the most. I removed your blouse and held you against the kitchen's freezer chamber on the ice wall. It had been so long since I was in Hill Rock I forgot that ice can burn you just as harshly as fire. And by Godric, it burnt you, didnt it, Reggie?”

 

He remembered it as well. He remember it all, every single time it happened. He could name each layer of scars to a specific time, like rings on a tree trunk. “Why are you saying this?” regulus whispered. 

 

“Because that is why this is not your home. You are a bastard. You are not reborn; you cannot even stand the cold; you do not belong here, nor north. You are as good as those dogs.”

 

Regulus gritted his teeth, thinking of Remus. He couldn't breathe. “ They aren’t dogs. ”

 

Lucius took a small dagger from his pocket, a sharp wharncliff point, and took two clean strokes at the small plaits by regular ears, culling them at their very root. The two pieces fell to the tiled floor with complete silence, and Regulus was let go. He stumbled back, holding his neck. 

 

“Your mother is in Salazar. It's just a boat ride across the Gulf of Erised.”

 

Everything stopped for Regulus; he thought he might pass out.  

 

“What?” he coughed out. Regulus tried to reason with those words. Your mother is in Salazar. “She's alive?”

 

“Always has been. She fled further than the others.” he laughed slightly, pointing at Regulus. “You know what, I'll give you her location; how about that, Reggie?”

 

He shouted to the side door and prompted Peter Pettigrew to walk in, head down. When he noticed Regulus, his eyes widened, but he said nothing. In his clean hands, he held stationary. Paper and an inky quill. Lucius took the feather and began to write; before long, he ripped a corner off the parchment and slipped it into Regulus’ pocket, tucking it in kindly. 

 

“You're to go back first, though, okay?” Lucius whispered. Regulus still had his eyes on Peter, waiting for some acknowledgement, who stared guiltily. He was adorned in the emerald green of Malfoy colours. His collar is high, and his pants are too tight. His hair was just as blonde as it had been a month before, though perhaps a pinch longer. 

 

Regulus nodded without thinking, agreeing with what Lucius said. He didnt ask why Lucius had told him about his mother, and frankly, Narcissa was such a simmering bruise in his stomach that he had begun to grow used to it in the light of that new stagnant ache.

 

“You go back.” 

 

“I go back.” regulus parrotted in whispers. “I’ll go back, yes.”

 

“Good boy.” Lucius grabbed his chin, forcing their eyes to meet. “You're like a son to me, Reggie, you know that, right?”

 

Regulus swallowed, eyes dead and nodding.

 

“Regulus, go back.”

 

It was Peter who said that. His voice was hoarse and struggling as if it had taken all of him to say it. It wasn't in the way Lucius had either; it was desperate. Regulus’ gaze snapped to him so quickly; his head was shaking, his body tense. “Go.” he mouthed. And then, peculiarly, the next word he mouthed came out with a squeak of noise. “Home.”

 

In his sort of drunken state, regulus would have assumed he was urging him to Mount Kreacher and ride back to the Lupos, but the way Lucius shouted for guards, pointing at Peter, ensured Regulus that he meant the Grimmauld Bight, Regulus’ court in Slygt.

 

“Out.” Lucius seethed at Regulus as guards in silver and green cornered Peter. It was a frenzy, And he was out on the steps as if nothing had occurred. Kreacher stood grazing on the small patches of vegetation underneath them. His hair was shorter, and his stomach hurt just that much more. 

♛

When he returned home—not home, to the Lupos—he found Remus first. It was the next day, and Remus saw it in himself to stand. At least, that was how Regulus found him. In the treeline, a bountiful prize of branches in his arms, collecting for the fire that night. 

 

“I was beginning to think you had returned permanently.”

 

Regulus sighed. He had cried enough. Possibly for a lifetime, and his belly was bruised from the ache. He was sure if someone cut him open, his stomach would be painted in blotchy patches of black and blue. He swallowed harshly. “I think I want to know what happened.”

 

“You think, or you do?” Remus said, annoyed. Why was he annoyed? Regulus found himself irritated by that—why did he have the right to be annoyed? Perhaps his own bitterness over Lucius’ words had made him resentful. “Regulus, think about her mother.” he had whispered. “You come in here blabbering like an infant while someone a ride east has lost her daughter.” 

 

But it hit him just as quickly. The hollowness of his figure was a reminder of what Regulus had done. But Remus wasn't the type to linger on those things; at least regulus didnt know him to be the type. The bite was on the other side of his neck, the side that Remus’s stance hid. 

 

“The trade.” Regulus finally spat out, “What is it for?”

 

A scoff. A light one, but a harsh one.“You're a Black; what else do you need to know?” He said as if it were obvious. Of course, Remus didnt know of Regulus’ bastard birth, which was the point of the entire trade, but being raised as a half-thing made Regulus so ingrained in his unsure of himself. He couldn't understand the trade one bit. Of course, Lucius had gained land and the odd servant—but something was missing. And that something lingered around him like a pungent stink.

 

“Blacks do not rule anymore.” That was all Regulus could say. 

 

“That is not relevant. You're smarter than that.”

 

He looked down, thinking of something to add. Regulus kicked a few small pebbles by his feet. “They left, you know… Sirius, James, Marlene. All of them.”

 

Remus stiffened. “...I know.”

 

“James said he’d come back….You don't want Sirius to come back?”

 

“I don't like him.”

 

“He’s not everybody's cup of tea, but you two seemed to get along more than most.” 

 

“Didnt you hear what I said.” Remus cut in harshly. Regulus may have flinched a day ago, but he just sat down, mulch under his backside, feet digging into the soil. He used to sit in this very same way, cheek edging towards the respite of his knees, in the said at Grimmauld. He would be as barefooted as the day he was born then, and the sand felt like drenched grains between his toes. 

 

Remus seemed to his at the prospect of what Regulus was hinting towards. He had scarcely managed to say it allowed, or even in the monologue of his conscious, but he understood it. Regulus was coming to understand much about the world of law, political and not. “Did you hear what you said? You're allowed to. James said.”

 

“James said?” Remus asked as if in disbelief. The scene Regulsu was picturing had taken place right there in the tree line. He saw it in the elbow-like turn of the trees, the way James pronounced ‘Clôture Verte’, the whisper of whistles through leaves and the sun's heat between the trees' toes. It wasn’t anything James had said that made regulus sure it was right per se, but the press of lips. It could never have been inadequate; nothing that felt so good could have been wrong. None of the four gods would ever have been so cruel. Regulus saw the best in them in that way.

 

“Eventually. He did it, so it must be okay. Just like I thought it was.”

 

“Did it?” Remus shook his head slightly, bending in front of Regulus. “\What did James do to you?”

 

“You know…”  

 

Remus clenched his jaw. “They…they don't care about those things as much here. But out there regulus.” he pointed beyond the tree to West Country. “ You touch a boy like that, and they cut your fucking hands off. They see that here, and you're weak, but you're intact. You aren't going to bring any of that outside of here.”

 

“Would they…cut your hands off if you left?” Regulus asked in the most inconspicuous way he could. 

 

He sighed, sitting on the mulch in front of Regulus. There was nothing but defeat on Remus’s face. “You went into the ring in place of my wrist decapitation, Regulus.”

 

“Oh. That was… because of you. You and Sirius.”

 

Remus said nothing.

 

“James is going to come back. He’ll bring Sirius, and we’ll be fine.”

 

“Well, Pray to your gods they don't.”

 

“Why?”

 

Remus pressed his lips together, crossing his arms and looking towards the trees. “I don't doubt that Fenrir would kill them. Not for..that… just for the fact of their knighthood. Their residence in Griffin.”

 

Regulus clenched his fists. “The thing with Sirius was… it was a big accident. “

 

“I thought he was a knight—” He said quickly. Remus had thought about this; perhaps he’d been thinking about it when Regulus returned. It seemed hot and present in his mind. “I thought he could defend himself.”

 

“Against lupus? Skill or brute? What is winning?”

 

“ They’re knights ,” he emphasised, “they won the war.”

 

“They are also too scared to come down here. James told me himself. My family told me. No one comes into beastal territory.”

 

“ Beatsal territory ,” Remus repeated. It wasn't a question; he repeated it with years of knowledge of the word. Regulus was too distracted to feel guilty. “...James is such a familiar name; I swear I have heard it before. I just cannot recall when.”

 

Remus stood, grabbing the branches he had cast aside into a swaddled pile in his arm. Regulus caught a swift glimpse of the bandages on his neck. “How are you? I'm sorry…by the way.” He said, feeling obligated. 

 

Remus finally turned so Regulus could see the wrapping that crossed his chest and lopped around his neck more clearly. They dipped ever so slightly into his throat as if a chunk of flesh was gone. There was a chunk of flesh gone. Stripped straight off. Regulus could taste it. 

 

“Feeling less whole than usual.” Remus chuckled with no laugh in the gesture. No humour, no jest.

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“It doesn't matter. Bound to happen.” He shrugged.

 

“You're still lovely”, Regulus whispered. There was nothing else he could think to say. The words made him feel slightly uneasy—it wasn't something one would just say freely, but he found no alternative. He thought of what he would want to hear in that circumstance. He would like to know that James still found him kind to look at, that his family still found him appealing in sight if not in presence. 

 

“Don't.”

 

“I’m sorry. It doesn't change anything about you.”

 

Remus winced. “What type of lupus would I be if I cared about a little scar.”

 

And even though scars had pillaged his entire body, the same way the scars pillaged Regulus’ neck, he couldn't help what he said next: “You not like them—”

 

Remus laughed angrily; the branches dropped from his arms and scattered around his feet, rolling into the crunchy leaves. “Oh im not lijke them?’ You are just like all of them. James and Sirius, both of them. It doesn't matter how long you stay here; you'll always think we are savage beasts!”

 

“Don’t be an idiot; you know what I meant.” Regulus hissed back. It was more of a conversation than a scold on his part.

 

“No, I don't, because how else can you mean it.” Remus leaned forward,  tilting his head mockingly, “ I can speak your language, so I am better than them?”

 

“That's not what I meant.”

 

“They are my brothers, my sisters!”

 

“Family aren't always equal.” Regulus winced at that. He just deflowered his own argument. 

 

“So it was what you meant?” he cackled.

 

“You know what I meant,” Regulus finally raised his voice, “Remus, you just want to be angry because of Sirius! Because of your injury! Just because you are different doesn't mean any of you are bad, not your brothers, you, or Sirius. I can be like both of you! We all can!”

 

“You can't!” Remus hsouted. “You're a man fucking prince, Regulus! What am I?”

 

Regulus stilled. He waited until the remorse flooded across Remus’ face, and he found a seat upon the leaf-drowned soil, plopping down heavily.

 

“Maybe we could be family 'cause we aren't equal.” Remus huffed out, standing tall.

 

 “I'm sorry, I really am. I just, I was scared. I wasn't scared of you, but I was scared out of my mind.” Rgeulus’ words ran out of him like a Dam cracking. He did not move or wince at the vulnerability of it all. He tensed up and gritted his teeth, willing any paranoia from his body. He found himself not conscious enough to house any anyway. Perhaps the drunkenness from his time with Lucius still lingered at the base of his skull, sloshing like waves into his head if he was shaken just a little too hard. 

 

After a little while, but what felt like a long time to regulus, Remus sat beside him. “It's okay if you are scared of me. You bite like you're terrified.”

 

Regulus shook his head. “No.” There was no reason for Remus to believe a lie, and he had enough care to push. He had never before used so much care. “You could never scare me. James would scare me before you do. He has a sword; you have a huge smile, even if you show it less than he shows his sword.”

 

Remus laughed shallowly. “Don’t look at me; you might see my huge smile.”

 

They sat, staring forward for a little while. “Why did you leave?”

 

“My cousin…” He shut his mouth. “I just missed her. Turned around though—I know better.”

 

Remus shuffled closer and pressed their arms together after a brief, thoughtful pause. Much to his own surprise, Regulus let his head fall onto Remus’ shoulder. 

 

Regulus stared forward; the sun shone through all the gaps in the trees around him. He saw places through breaks in the leaves and forces in the branches. He saw himself on his horse, riding north to Griffin, where he would sit and wait for James. Besides that, he saw himself taking Remus in a tree fork a little bigger; the two boys rode and laughed with the wind in their faces. Between two brown leaves, he saw himself with Lucius, staying at that court. He saw himself back in Grimmauld with children and a wife; he saw himself with the last name Black. He saw himself as Narcissa’s child, and he saw himself as James’s person. In any way, the boy would have him. 

 

Regulus, years later, would be able to recollect. The day the woman who kissed the role of his mother died, he remembered how the world didn’t stop. The sun climbed and winked, the birds piped and danced, and everyone lived as if nothing had changed. Remus didn’t know, and Regulus never wanted him to. He hoped for something of comfort but didnt know how to ask for it then. But regularly stopped. Something faltered in him, A candle flicker that never was quite as promising. An agonising vacuity of nothingness served life in Narcissa's following absence. The air didnt hold her breath anymore. But everything still smelt of her hair. Of her walking past. 

 

In one small gap, at the very top of the tree, a small pinch of light whispered a life where The Blacks never ran out, where Regulus was a true-born, fire-born son. He stayed with his family, and his family stayed with him. There is no need to look for any other life in that one. But it was at the top of the tree line, and Regulus didnt know how to climb trees; no one had taught him. 

 

He missed his cousin and prepared himself for an entire lifetime of that same feeling. Regulus looped a hand around Remus’s arm and closed his eyes so he didnt have to see Narcissa leave. 

♛