Arrows and cookware
The tangy taste of wild berries brushes James’ tongue as he crouches on a mossy rock, fiddling with the strap on the satchel that now houses the precious crown of Arcturus, hiding from the royal guard. Admittedly, Evan Rosier and Dorcas Meadowes aren’t the best company, but he’d much rather have somebody to tease than have to escape the law’s slippery grasp alone.
“Potter,” Dorcas speaks, “seriously, what is wrong with you? What on earth were you thinking?”
“Come on,” James rolls his eyes, “it was funny. Did you see the look on his face when he realised?”
“It won’t be funny if we’re all sentenced to death.”
Wow, way to kill the fucking mood. Now that the group has gotten to a somewhat safe location, he is forced to face the reality of what he’s done, and in all honesty, he can’t deny that it was a stupid thing to do. I, on the other hand, feel obliged to disagree. James Potter is the best source of entertainment I’ve had in literal years. Just the sheer idiocy of that guard is enough to have me in stitches for days.
Evan groans, “Whatever. Fuck you. There’s no undoing the past. Now we have to keep moving, or we’ll get captured. Thanks a lot, James.”
Exasperatedly, Evan and Dorcas raise themselves from their positions on the ground and begin to walk away without checking that James is following. Hastily, he leaps up to catch up to them.
“You know-”
The sound of horses’ hooves beating the earth silences him, and a sense of dread crawls around in his stomach. James twists his head to find the source of the noise, and sees a search party upon their royal steeds not so far away from them, just on the other side of a small cliff.
“There they are!” Somebody in the guard calls, “Get them!”
“Shit,” Evan curses, and the three of them break into a run, zipping through trees and slapping low-hanging branches away from their faces.
Now that he’s sprinting like the wind, cold air whipping his ears, leaves sticking into his eyes, James finds that he doesn’t have enough time to think about the consequences of his actions, and now that the adrenaline has returned to his blood, he breaks out into a grin once more. The fact that he could be captured and killed at any moment- afterwards, it will be terrifying. But now? It’s fucking exhilarating. Their little trio makes very decent progress, and has almost lost the cavalry, before James sees something that makes him gasp out of horror and halt in his tracks.
“No…” he says, appalled, “nonononono, shit, fuck, this is bad. This is really, really bad!”
“What?” Evan screams urgently, he and Dorcas skidding to a stop to check on whatever catastrophe has befallen them this time.
“They just can’t get my nose right!” James cries in a fit of dramatics that could almost rival my own. Almost.
“Your- what?” Dorcas stutters, utterly confused.
“Look!” James rips the poster from where it’s tacked against a tree and waves it like a banner in Dorcas’ face. On the poster is displayed, WANTED: Dead or alive for thievery, and then his name, along with what, other than the deformed tomato that replaces his nose, is actually a rather dashing image of him.
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
“I know! It’s horrendous! I know that I’ve committed many crimes during my time, but this?”
“Who fucking cares, Potter?” Evan hisses.
“You’re one to talk! Look at your bloody poster- it’s fantastic!”
Evan’s poster is in fact, not fantastic. At all. Dorcas, on the other hand, looks like a tricky-fingered goddess. Fuming, James rips all the posters from their respective trees and squashes them into a rough paper ball, then proceeds to lob it as far away from himself as he possibly can.
“Potter, seriously, we need to go,” Dorcas emphasises as they once again hear the King’s horses drawing near.
“Alright, alright.”
Once again, they return to sprinting, literally racing for their lives. A game that they cannot afford to lose. James’ leather satchel bounces at his side, silver crown secured within. The weight of it feels like a tall flag on a pole, HEY GUYS COME AND KILL ME displayed for everybody to see. When the group approaches a dead end, his heart almost stops then and there. Fuck.
“Okay,” James buzzes, “you guys give me a boost up onto that ledge, and then I’ll pull you up.”
Evan and Dorcas share a look, before the latter scoffs, “Yeah, right.”
“What?” James puts a hand to his heart, pretending to be offended. “You seriously don’t trust me? After all we’ve been through together?” The mask is like glass.
Evan rolls his eyes, and James gasps.
“You wound me, Evan. Really, ouch.”
“Shut up. Give us the satchel first, then we’ll push you up.”
James groans, hesitant to part with his beloved satchel, but eventually complies, passive-aggressively shoving it into Evan’s waiting hand. The main problem now is that the ledge is tall, and so there’s no way to get up other than stacking themselves on top of each other like jenga. Evan, as the strongest, goes at the bottom of the hazardous pile, then Dorcas. James steps back for a moment to watch with pure, childish delight as the two wobble like jelly. Honestly, I can’t say I blame him. It’s like watching a dog chase his own tail.
“Fucking move, Potter,” Evan grunts.
“I dunno, I’m actually quite enjoying myself here.”
“Potter.”
“Fine.”
As James is scrambling up the tower of DorcEvan, he somehow manages to snake his hands around the satchel’s frayed leather strap once again, and Evan, under too much strain to notice the priceless sack being stolen from him, doesn’t suspect a thing. Fucking slippery genius. Oh, I am rooting for this man so hard.
“Good,” Dorcas says, stretching out her hand. “Now help us up.”
James’ grin melts into a molten gold smirk. “Sorry,” he reveals to them the stolen bag. “My hands are full.”
As he takes off into a sprint faster than lightning, the outraged “allies” can be heard screaming.
“POTTER!”
“FUCK YOU, YOU SLIMY SKANK!”
This only makes him laugh. An energised, bubbly sort of laugh that you might release if you’ve had one too many tankards of ale.
But unfortunately, he’s only one man, and no matter how much experience his legs have in escaping the law, as he puts it, he doesn’t have anything on an army of angry horses. Despite the fact that, because of my family’s neglect, they’ve begun to fall behind on training, they still catch up to him in next to no time at all.
“Retrieve the crown no matter what!” The Captain commands his soldiers.
Ah, the Captain. That. Fucking. Captain. Not just the Captain of my horses, but also the Captain of my heart. Remus Lupin. With that scar down his face from a wolf attack back in his home village. With the will to command an entire cavalry of rusty men. He truly is a very special man. He provides the oil to the rickety old machine of men, helping it along its way to a smooth run. He also provides oil for… other things. To express my gratitude, whilst the rest of the guard mounts the standard chestnut horses, Remus rides atop a sturdy, noble steed of silky grey- a gift from yours truly.
Wait, I’m getting distracted. Let’s return to our tale, shall we?
Desperately, and with shockingly horrible aim, the soldiers turn their crossbows on James’ back, who is forced to run in a zigzag pattern to evade them. Although, in all honesty, I don’t think he would’ve been hit even if he had been standing as still as a statue. The only person who’s aim I know to be true is Remus’, but he considers himself beyond such childish weapons, choosing to ignore the crossbow that’s strapped to his back and wield a shiny sword instead. Any guesses who gifted him that?
Frantically, James winds through trees and bushes, desperately trying to shake the cavalry. And, shockingly, he manages it. One by one, each man and horse falls behind, until only one other remains.
But Remus is gaining on James with frightening speed.
“I’ve got you now, motherfucker,” he whispers to himself, raised slightly off the saddle to allow for a smoother ride.
Unfortunately, because of the magnificent speed that Moony (who I helped name) is galloping at, there is no time at all to prepare for the sharp turn that James takes, diving around a particularly heavy looking tree. The horse tips, Remus along with him, and James continues to run.
“Absolutely the fuck not,” Remus groans as he gets back to his feet. He has a clear shot at James, who suffers from the incorrect belief that he’s lost him completely. He could kill him so easily, it’s pitiful. But he doesn’t want to. Remus Lupin will never take a life if he can help it- that’s what he always vows.
As much as he would love to unsheathe his prized weapon, Remus deems this a crossbow job instead. Taking aim, he pulls the trigger and lets three arrows fly, each landing exactly where he means them to, pinning the sweaty Latino to the rough bark of the nearest tree. Breathing heavily, Remus ignores his screaming body and strides towards James.
“Well, well, well…”
“Shut the fuck up,” James pants.
“Hm, no, I don’t think I will. You’ve caused me quite a lot of trouble, you know. Have you got any idea how bloody stressful it is trying to track down a snake like you?”
“No, why don’t you tell me?”
“You see, I would, but I would much rather collect my reward,” Remus looks down to snag the satchel from James’ bound hand, only to find that his hand is… no longer bound. The arrow pinning his arm to the wood has disappeared. As has the one on his other arm. And the one on his hip. Fuck.
James grins, and it takes less than a second for him to squirm away from Remus, once again sprinting for his life. In a panicked haze, fearful of losing the fugitive and the crown, Remus begins shedding plates of hot silver armour in order to aid his gathering speed. Damn. I wish I was the one stripping him of armour right now… Oh, wait, that was inappropriate. Nevermind, moving on!
Now in only his black leather boots, trousers and the official royal green tunic, Remus takes off after James and tackles him to the ground. Without realising it, they’ve broken through the treeline and are now wrestling for the battered old bag along the side of a cliff. The exact depth of the drop is impossible to tell because of an eerie thick mist that is settled atop the trees down below.
“Give me the fucking satchel, Potter!”
“Keep dreaming!”
The two men- no, boys fits them much better at this moment in time- scramble ruthlessly. James trying to retain his grip on the bag, Remus trying to pry it from him. Remus steps on James’ wrist, causing him to cry out and relinquish his grasp, and he’s just about to escape with the crown when the filthy thief pulls his legs out from under him. The bag flies across the space, landing with a leafy rustle on a branch. But not just any branch. A straggly, unsturdy branch, attached to a thick tree jutting metres over the cliff’s edge.
Hearts beating raggedly, they clamber over to the tree, racing to get over the drop first. One wrong move, and they’ll fall down into a possibly deadly expanse of nothing but cold, punishing air.
As they scramble over the unsteady bridge of bark, they throw punches and shoves, trying to get the other to fear for their life so badly that they just give up and crawl back. Obviously neither of the two have the heart to truly try and end the other’s life. It’s all about threatening. All about making their opponent shake so badly in their boots that they have no choice but to relent.
Unfortunately, they’re both absolutely relentless.
In one almost fatal shove, Remus topples over the edge of the overhanging tree and is helpless to do anything but hang on with his hands, bark digging cruelly into the palms of his hands and laying splinters into his fingertips. James, far too sickeningly satisfied with himself, crouches down to gloat in his face, Remus grunting with the effort of keeping himself from falling like a stone.
“No hard feelings, mate. But I do what I need to.”
“Fuck you.”
Swivelling his head in every possible direction, trying to grasp a solution, Remus, in a haze of desperation and panic, lashes out with his feet as soon as he realises that the satchel is within kicking distance. Just as James is about to have it in his hands, it zooms off the branch and sinks into the mist below.
James’ voice goes dark, a dangerous twist in his words as he watches his precious satchel, along with the priceless crown of Arcturus, dip out of his sight, “What the fuck did you just do?”
“No hard feelings, mate,” Remus, now energised by the wrath he’s unleashed upon the thief, hauls himself back up onto the tree. “Either it belongs to the royal family, or it belongs to nobody. It certainly doesn’t belong to you,” he spits.
Remus walks back over, almost back to the safety of solid ground, anxiety curling in his stomach. What is he going to do now? Either he can go back to the castle and tell my parents that the crown is lost forever, and he’ll face their ruthlessness (which would be devastating for both of us, mind you, because there is no way that I’d be able to just sit and watch. I would leap in, and instead of serving as his saviour, I would merely doom us both.) Or, he can attempt to find a safe way down the cliff, and continue his search at the bottom.
Can you guess which option he choses?
Neither.
James, in a fit of impulsive rage, lashes out at Remus, completely out of control. He genuinely can’t stop what he’s doing. His body is moving faster than his mind, so he is helpless to do anything but spiral. As his fist collides with Remus’ skin, they both fall over the edge into the gloomy mist, far away from the comfort of anything even remotely solid.
As the two of them descend into freefall, they both close their eyes, take their deep breaths, and prepare for death. A death… which never comes.
Obscured from their vision by the suffocatingly thick mist resides a jagged bed of treetops. Each man falls through the trees, slapped by knife-like branches, breaking their fall. Remus lands with a jarring thud, unconscious, pink lips parted as he breathes in broken breaths that he would feel so lucky to have, had he been awake to feel that way.
James lands not so far away, fully awake now that his mind has finally caught up to his body. Coughing and groaning, he winces as he tries to sit up, eyes shiny with pain. However, all his usual light instantly returns to them when he realises that he’s landed right next to his prized possession- his battered old satchel. And inside it, a crown that is worth millions.
“Yes,” he exclaims, surging forward to snatch it up, then curses when he realises that he’s moved too quickly, grimacing in fiery pain.
He does have to move though- if he stays here like a sitting duck, the Captain will find him and run his sword straight through his heart. Obviously Remus would never, but James doesn’t know that. James only knows him as the loyal servant of the royal family. Somebody to fear. It’s a shame, really.
With a wince, he swings the bag over his shoulder and stumbles to his feet. He begins to wander around in search of something to eat or drink- another berry bush, maybe? Or even just a small stream? If he doesn’t get some sustenance soon, he’ll surely pass out. Little does he know that the unassuming “cave” he’s entering will lead him straight to what he needs- and a whole lot more.
When he reaches the end of the tunnel, swiping vines away from his face, he enters the space where my brother’s tower resides, and his breath is taken away. This, of course, is entirely understandable. Even if I despise the place with all my being, there is no way I can deny that it looks like something from a fantastical fairy tale.
Surrounding the tower is a field of luscious green grass and a waterfall that cascades from in between a much taller, much more lethal cliff than the one he’s just fallen from. Back down in the field, a babbling stream splits the ground in two, and sweet-smelling dots of flowers colour the landscape. There’s a few trees here and there, and another full-blown forest smothering the cave he’s just emerged from, hiding it from sight. James decides to stay away from these for now though. The thought of even going near another tree makes him sick. Nope, he’s had enough of those for a lifetime, thank you very much.
But what will he do now? Will he put his human needs aside and go straight into exploring, or will he forage for his energy first? Because, in whatever order he chooses to do things, it’s James Potter, and never in a million years would he pass up an opportunity such as this.
A shimmering thread of awe connects his chest to the mossy surface of the stone tower, drawing him in, and he does nothing to resist. Slowly, he inches towards it, blissfully ignorant to the soon-to-be-eighteen year old up at the top, watching him with careful, wary eyes. James reaches out to touch the stone, feeling how the cold moss soothes his sweaty palms. He releases a quiet laugh, bubbling with surprise and wonder.
James decides to go for the wisest option- I know, quite shocking, isn’t it? He dunks his hands into the icy flow of the stream that runs throughout the glade and drinks from it gratefully. He next searches around the surrounding woods for something solid, and comes across a jackpot. A rich bush of gooseberries, apple trees, and small patches of wild strawberries. He eats his fill, not just replenishing his physical energy, but his soul, too.
He’s buzzing with excitement, and can barely keep his lips from pulling up long enough to put the food in his mouth, but he manages it somehow. Finally, he’s finished, and he makes his way back to the foot of the tower. He peers at the small gaps in the stone and the ivy that creeps upwards, and then into his satchel, where he has three very strong, very lethal arrows stashed.
Well, that’s one way to get up.
Unknown to him, as he struggles and hauls himself up the stone face of the tower, a boy only a few years younger than him is watching, shaking. Shaking because all he knows about the men from the world that continues to turn around him is that they’re cruel, wicked people. This is true for quite a few of them, of course. But not James. James may be a thief and a backstabber, but, ironically, his heart is purer than a pearl.
“What the fuck?” Regulus is pacing, breathing heavily. “What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck…”
Bartemius crawls up to him, standing on his hind legs and… threatening his… fists? Truly, I don’t think I will ever get used to my brother’s remarkably human lizard. Somehow, Regulus even seems to understand what he’s trying to tell him.
“Fight? Are you insane? That man is climbing up our tower with just a few bloody arrows, and I’m just… me.”
Oh, Reggie.
Bartemius seems to wilt slightly at that, and climbs up to rest on his shoulder as if he can sense his emotions. He probably can, actually.
When James is close enough to the top that Regulus can hear his grunts of exhaustion, he begins to panic. Cursing, he runs through the tower, desperately searching for something that might serve as a weapon. In a haze of desperation, he grabs what he just assumes is a knife from the kitchen and comes over to stand to the side of the windowsill, that way when the dangerous ruffian invades, he can take him by surprise.
Regulus lifts it slightly, and then realises his mistake. This “knife” is far heavier than it should be. Frowning, he finally looks down at his hand for the first time and realises that in his foggy cloud of fear, he had in fact not picked up a knife, but a frying pan. A fucking frying pan. How does somebody even make that mistake?
Regulus silently scolds himself whilst his chameleon laughs.
Well, he’s just going to have to make do now, because he’s out of time. James, or rather, the ruffian, clambers entirely gracelessly through the window, tripping, but correcting himself before he can fall. All Regulus can tell about him right now is that he has beads of sweat dripping down the back of his neck. He finds himself utterly frozen in fear.
“Finally,” Ja- the ruffian says, voice hoarse.
Hearing him speak is what yanks Regulus harshly out of his daze. A spike of panic and adrenaline shivers up his spine, and he quickly lashes out like lightning, bringing the frying pan down over his head with a deafening clang and a squeal of fear. The ruffian plummets to the floor, and Regulus is left with quivering legs, towering over him with the frying pan still raised in his hands.
Regulus releases a broken, shaky breath, unsure of what to do now. He has an unconscious ruffian sprawled over his floor. (The floor he just cleaned, mind you.) Eyes wide, he looks over to Bartemius for further direction, which he shouldn’t be able to give, you know, because he’s a chameleon, but somehow he does anyway. He follows the lizard’s instructions and nudges the back of his head with the frying pan, then leaps away like a broken spring. When nothing happens, he creeps forward again and uses it to tilt the ruffian's head to the side slightly, getting a better look at what he’s captured.
Bartemius climbs down from his shoulder and starts prodding his cheek with his tail.
“Barty,” Regulus hisses, “stop, or you might wake him up.”
With a frown and an alarmingly human-esque sigh, the chameleon shuffles away from the unconscious man. Suddenly, an expression floods onto Regulus’ face that can only be described as trepidation. He’s had a thought.
Men with teeth like daggers and souls as black as the dark side of the moon. That’s what Apollonia had told him about ruffians like this. (Obviously not actually ruffians like this, because it’s James fucking Potter, but still, Regulus doesn’t know that.)
Heartbeat so fast and hard that it’s visible in his neck, Regulus inches even closer towards him. Using the handle of the frying pan this time, he, with a pitiful whimper, lifts his lip to reveal a set of very blunt teeth. Not at all like daggers. Regulus sighs in relief and some of the tension that had wound up in his body appears to seep out slightly.
Most of his fear now replaced with brittle curiosity, Regulus slowly crouches down to inspect the ruffian. Now Regulus realises that he doesn’t even look like a ruffian at all. Not that he really knows what they look like, but still, this is nothing like what he had painted in his mind. Filled with wonder, he takes his thumb and swipes a lock of brown hair away from the man’s eye, skin brushing against his warm, still sweaty forehead. The man inhales a sharp breath, and Regulus freezes. When he opens his eye, he weaponises his cookware once again and brings it down heavily on top of him.
Now truly starting to panic, Regulus ducks away from the freshly unconscious man, knees pulled up to his chest, struggling to breathe. The frying pan doesn’t leave his titanium grip for even a second.
“F- fuck,” he stutters to himself, staring intently at the man on his floor, fearful of what might happen if he fails to keep his eyes trained on him.
Bartemius comes and nuzzles against his ankle, doing his best to try and soothe him. My poor Reggie- I want to cradle his pale face in my hands and tell him that it’s all going to be okay, really, truly okay. Regulus forces himself to suck deep breaths in and out, and when he finally feels like he can move again, he raises up onto his frail legs and steps towards the sleeping man. He looks like he would fall over at just the slightest gust of wind travelling through the open window.
He blows out through his mouth again slowly and reluctantly sets his weapon down on the floor. Muttering calming things to himself, he takes the man’s rough hands into his own baby-smooth ones and drags him over to his wardrobe. He opens the dark wooden doors and frowns to himself. How is he going to do this? First, he attempts to go in before him then drag him in by his wrists, which fails. Next, he tries to shove him in by his shoulders, but the man’s weak knees fail to support him, obviously because he’s fucking unconscious, and Regulus ends up on the floor with a stranger resting on top of him. With a whimper, he kicks him off. It’s a miracle he hasn’t awoken already.
After three more sweaty, irrefutably frustrating attempts, he finally manages to get him inside. Hastily, he hauls a chair across the room and places it underneath the handle, just in case. He takes a step back and gazes at his wardrobe, which he knows now houses a literal man. Regulus’ breathing begins to quicken its pace again, but after he releases a short sob, he does something rather unexpected.
He laughs.
“Oh my fucking…” he cuts himself off, full on giggling by this point. “Too weak to handle myself, huh maman? Well, tell that to me and my frying pan.”
He swings said frying pan around by his fingers, proceeding to accidentally whack himself in the face. Now Bartemius is the one laughing.
“Shut up,” he tells the lizard, rubbing his cheek which is now beginning to bloom red.
As he stares down at the chameleon on the floor, a twinkling glint of something catches the corner of his eye. Turning his attention towards it, he finds James’ leather satchel discarded on the ground, the crown of Arcturus half hanging out, shining like a star. Overcome with curiosity, Regulus takes it out of the bag, feeling how the icy frame sends shivers down his fingertips, quite unsure of what to do with it. He swipes the pads of his thumbs over the emeralds and holds the diamonds up to his eyes, squinting at them.
What could it be? He thinks.
Whilst his puppy-like awe is adorable to tell, dear readers, I hope you can also comprehend just how painful it is. Had he not been kidnapped by our wicked ancestor, he would know instantly what it is just from a singular glance. In fact, it might even be sitting atop his head.
He pushes his arm through the centre of the crown, filled to the brim with wonder. It quickly becomes apparent that it obviously isn’t supposed to go there. Turning towards the mirror his mother so often gazes into, he stares at the crown in his hands, frowning. It looks like he briefly considers putting it around his waist, but thinks better of it.
Scanning himself in the mirror all the way from his black booted feet to his ocean eyes, he bites his lip, thinking furiously to himself. Eventually, with ever so slightly trembling fingers, he hovers it above his wavy hair for a few moments and then lowers it down so that it’s resting on his head. His eyes widen as he sucks in a sharp breath.
Fuck.
It’s perfect.
That’s my brother.
Not the tiny baby that was stolen away from me, but the grown up royal version of him that deserves to be sitting on a green padded velvet throne. Despite his true current appearance, I can imagine his black trousers as professionally tailored ones. I can see his sage corset-esque button up melting into rich frocks fit for a king. I can picture the lowly white shirt underneath shimmering with silver lacing.
Honestly, that little shit. The bloody crown looks better on him than it does on me. Me. I didn’t think that was possible.
Eyes blown wide, Prince Regulus looks over at Bartemius, who gives him a questioning look as if to say no, dumbass, that’s not where it goes, even though that is, in fact, exactly where it goes.
“Darling!”
Regulus curses frantically, removing the crown from where it so obviously needs to be and shoving it back inside James’ satchel along with the arrows that had rolled across the floor. The bitch has returned, a few hours earlier than promised. Short on time, he hides it inside the first thing that comes to mind, a shiny ceramic pot. Not wanting to keep his mother waiting any longer, he snatches the rope from where it hangs near the windowsill, letting it down with his heart pounding.
His arms quiver as he hauls Apollonia up. Not from exertion, because he does this every day, so logically the only other explanation can be fear.
“You took a very long time, dear,” she scolds as she sheds her cloak like a snake. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes, maman, of course,” he answers, voice slightly higher than its natural pitch.
“Well, that’s good because I have a surprise for you!” It’s obvious that she can tell he’s lying, but she just doesn’t care.
“Really?” he lights up with childish excitement.
“Mhm! I’m making your favourite tonight- hazelnut soup! Surprise!”
Regulus tries not to deflate at that. I know that deep down, however impossible his wish, he had been hoping that Apollonia had reconsidered his request to take him to the floating lights. Despite this, he fixes a smile onto his face and tries to be grateful. After a few sickening minutes of hugs and forehead kisses, he tries his lot again.
“Maman, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“This isn’t still about the stars, is it, Regulus?”
Reg seems to cower into himself at her tone. Rarely does she ever use his full name. It’s always darling or something equally sugary. But that’s the problem. Sugar and salt look exactly the same, and either of the two will make you dreadfully ill if you have too much of it.
Regulus proceeds as if he’s dancing on broken glass, “I know you think that I can’t handle myself out there-”
“Oh, darling, I know you can’t handle yourself out there,” there it is. The salt.
“Mother, please just hear me out…”
“No, Regulus. You’re not going because it’s too dangerous, and that’s final.”
“But mother-”
“Regulus, stop going on about it.”
But he continues to insist, bringing Apollonia closer and closer to losing her composure. At long last, the mask shatters into a million atomic fractions.
“Regulus Black, you be quiet about the stars before I shut you up for good! You are never getting out of this tower!”
Regulus trips backwards, eyes welling with a glistening glaze of tears which never end up falling. His teeth audibly snap together as he sucks in a cutting breath through his nose, jagged like rock, astounded by his mother’s knife. Apollonia’s eyes sink shut slowly as she heaves out a sigh, like a wicked entity escaping past her lips, and places a hand to her stomach, feigning sickness.
“Wonderful,” she says, melancholic, “now you’re making me sound like the bad guy.”
Reggie stutters through the hard lump in his throat, “I- I- I’m sorry. You’re… not the bad guy, maman,” he agrees, drowning in Apollonia’s guilt trip, poisonous water submerging his lungs.
Genuinely, fuck her.
I want to see her feel guilty for something, for once.
“How about this, darling, you can have whatever you want for your birthday within reason and I will go out and get it for you,” Apollonia scrambles to get back into his good books.
Regulus stands and thinks for a moment before making his decision. In a small voice, he tells her what he wants. New paint, obviously, but special paint. Paint that takes three days to acquire, because for someone who can be so fucking dense when it comes to a toxic relationship, he’s really so fucking clever, and he needs time to figure out what to do with one James Potter.
Apollonia agrees, and so it’s settled.
My little baby brother is spreading his wings, finally going to disobey his captor.
I bet you’re just crawling in anticipation.