Filthy Royals
Regulus has known since the age of five years and eight months and four and a half days, that he isn’t average.
It had been quite the discovery on that sweaty day in Århus when the vast Marselisborg Palace became unbearably compact—hundreds of nobility toasting to midsummer in summer hats, smiling falsely over the swing of a jazz band and the shrill monotony of Walburga’s remarks.
Regulus had watched it all from the corner, dressed in his scratchy linen suit and scowling at all his foul feelings: sticky fingers, sun-kissed cheeks, the shove of ‘tag, you’re it!’, and a full bladder. He thought himself Hansel and Gretel combined, what with Sirius leading a band of Lost Boys on the beach. He thought himself already inside the evil witch’s oven, crisping like flæskesteg as bony fingers prodded him, blunt blades slicing deep to inspect the meat’s color. He thought himself the party’s main course.
His wild imagination had made the messy sensations tolerable.
Until his cousin Bellatrix pushed him into the fountain, and the dish was doused, his skin and hair and blood growing soggy with grimy water, dead bugs and coins pasting to his body, ruining the meal entirely. It was too much, that feeling of dirty, dirty, dirty.
So Regulus began to scratch his skin off.
Later, Sirius explained to Regulus that other kids didn’t mind filth so much. Later, Regulus learned to lock himself away before he scratched off the dirt. Later, he understood that these were no mere tantrums, that he was, is…different.
How different, he will never get to know. It wouldn’t be right to seek out professional help, Walburga says. Royals don’t need that kind of help.
Thus, all Regulus has ever known is idiosyncrasy, never mediocrity.
Average people don’t look at others between the eyes and imagine a third one because the normal two are too discerning. Average people don’t tap rhythms with their fingers in order to recite pie in order to avoid reality in order to escape. Average people don’t shrink away from light and noise and living things.
But above all, average people aren’t timorous and terrified of new things.
The conventional, the customary, even the commonplace have always seemed peculiar and unfathomable as if Regulus is the only human amidst aliens feigning humanity. Really, the metaphor should be flipped, but Regulus has never felt like he’s the odd one, but rather, everyone else is.
They’re average, he knows. And he isn’t, he knows. Yet it still feels like the rest of the world can’t keep up with him, not the other way around.
There’s no room for innocence in Regulus’ life, however; he is the spare heir, the also-ran, likely nothing more than a backup plan, but perpetually perceived nonetheless. He needs to be average, or rather, exemplary average—the superlative of everything common.
He must mime and imitate and hide his foibles and flaws, or as Sirius likes to call them, his superpowers. Perhaps in another life Regulus’ outstanding memory and skills in STEM would serve him well. But he was born to serve one of the most overdone causes known to mankind:
The monarchy.
As long as the secondary crown rests on his head, he will counterfeit normal. The world, Walburga, thinks Regulus the obedient son and Sirius the reckless, but it’s thanks to Sirius that Regulus knows how to small talk—he wrote Regulus a thesaurus of casual chit chat—it’s thanks to Sirius that Regulus pleases and appeases the Queen—he hogs all of her critical attention for a reason—it’s thanks to Sirius that when the cameras come out, they have someone more interesting to flash their bright lights at.
The illusion of Prince Regulus of Denmark, Count of Monpezat, second in line to the throne, is made possible by Sirius.
And as for who Regulus really is?
Sirius makes that possible too.
“Reg,” Sirius says from the doorway and his shoulders slump with relief, or what looks to be something in the realm of comfort. He’s one of the few people who become more comfortable in Regulus’ presence, endeared instead of disturbed by Regulus’ nature.
Once, Regulus tried hard to trade awkwardness for charm so that he could make friends at Hogwarts. He was not successful. But he still has his brother—he’s confident that, at least, will never change.
Regulus quite dislikes change.
Change like Sirius being outed to the world by a grainy video off of Snape’s phone. Change like Remus facing hate in the form of racist tweets and rocks through windows. Change like Regulus kissing James the night before.
Well, maybe that change isn’t so bad.
Since only Sirius is here to see, Regulus lets himself wiggle a little at the thought of Jamie’s soft lips; the cool velvet of the ottoman grazing the cotton of his pants settles his pulse just a touch.
“How are you doing?” Regulus asks Sirius, wishing there was a more suitably nuanced question for something so complex. Sirius has been to hell and back at least thrice by this point, only unlike Dante, he had no Virgil to show him the way.
The shadows of the room’s Renaissance Revival cast Sirius’ profile ten years older, bringing out the Orion they both carry inside them. One of the few things their father has willingly given them. Or maybe it wasn’t so willing—Regulus has never been clear on the circumstances of the Queen and the royal consort’s marriage, a darling love story to the public, but no more than a cold arranged marriage in truth.
“Honestly…” Sirius leans into the shut door behind him. “The day was looking up before I got Mother’s summons. Now I feel like shit.”
“Did they find the perpetrator?” Regulus was up all night thinking about Remus and Sirius on lockdown in Kronborg, about the apparently several death threats against Remus, about the video still circulating with them both obscenely undressed, and about—about—about—
Him.
Regulus thinks about Jamie too. It’s one of his mind’s most traveled neural pathways. But he does not step onto that yellow brick road right now.
“Yes, they caught them.” Sirius clears his throat and crosses the room to Regulus. His brown leather oxfords make a soft woosh with every step, and Regulus’ tummy twists at the noise, his throat shriveling salty as Sirius sighs.
“Is today a hugging day?”
Regulus suddenly feels the sixteenth-note rhythm he taps on his skin, anchoring his hissing skin, his seething limbs, and above all, his boiling heart. His body seems to be trapped in a desert today, or so his imagination declares.
“Don’t touch me, please,” Regulus answers.
Sirius nods and falls beside him on the other side of the couch. He deserves a hug and Regulus wishes he could give it to him. Regulus wishes he could give his brother even half of what Sirus has given him.
They stare at the marble busk of their great-great-grandfather, perched on a simple cedar table.
Frederik IX and Christian IX’s studies are too busy for Regulus’ taste, the walls coated with portraits and nick-nacks and illuminated by wide-open curtains. Fleamont always encouraged Regulus to get more sun—to go outside if he could manage the sounds and sensations, but if not, to sit by the window and let the light say hello.
Once upon a time, Fleamont greeted the sunlight with Regulus.
Now that he’s gone, Regulus finds it harder and harder to face the solar system’s burning heart. So he’s back to hiding in Frederik VIII’s study, an 1860s relic with gold wallpaper and deep red furnishing, plus a few sculpted ancestors and a few hundred books.
“It was just a couple of idiots,” Sirius says, lulling his head back onto the top of the couch. “They got Remus’ address from someone in town, where Hope works, and they thought throwing a rock into the window was funny. How the fuck is that funny?”
“I don’t find it funny,” Regulus says evenly. Then again, he doesn’t understand most humor.
“Cause it’s not.”
Regulus hums in appreciation for the confirmation.
“So…James came to Kronborg,” Sirius begins after a beat.
“I’m aware.” Regulus had been the one to encourage James to go and check up on Sirius and Remus. He couldn’t risk Walburga's wrath, but James could skip a few classes with minimal damage, and Agnes would undeniably let him in. She’s always been a sucker for James’ charming smile.
Regulus can’t blame her.
“How the bloody hell did you and Prongs happen?”
“Well, it started when he kissed me at Effie and Flea’s funeral—” Regulus stops at the teasing smile on Sirius’ face. “Oh, was that a rhetorical question?”
“More or less, but I do want to know everything. I’m a little offended that neither of you told me, but this isn’t about me,” Sirius says with a dramatic huff, which Regulus sees right through. Sirius steals attention in front of the camera, sure, but with his friends he’s an expert at deflection, lifting them up in place of himself. The only issue?
James is even better at it.
But Regulus is working on that. He intends to take care of James, now that James is finally trusting him again—touching him again.
“Well…?” Sirius gestures with his hands like a baby bird taking flight and failing.
Regulus opens his mouth but finds himself stuck—how does he explain it?
For most of his life, Regulus despised anything romantic. He thought it a delusion of the average folk, some sort of hypnosis that he could pride himself in not partaking. Everyone took a bite of the enchanted cake in Faerie Land, but Regulus stayed firm in his hunger strike.
Then James, drunk and grieving, kissed him.
At the time, there was only one thought in Regulus’ head: he hated it. He didn’t want it. It disgusted him. But like a seed taking root, a flower blossoming into dazzling petals, his shock and horror matured with time.
Regulus soon found himself…imagining.
His imagination had always been his haven, his escape route, but as images of James shirtless, hallucinations of James’ breathless voice, dreams of James’ gentle touch overcame his conscious, he realized he had been infected. Enlightened.
Sickness is one of Regulus’ least favorite afflictions—there is nothing so vile as a virus sullying the body inside out—but he grew to adore his fever dreams, he began to want his reality to merge with his fantasy.
But James wouldn’t touch him. James could barely be in the same room as him.
“I needed time to adjust to the idea of romance,” Regulus tells Sirius, the words somersaulting out of his mouth. “When I felt that I was fully acclimated, that I was ready to try, James refused to spend time with me. I was furious, of course, and he eventually admitted that it was because he was under the mistaken impression that I didn’t return his feelings.”
Sirius’ expression falls but Regulus feels the itch of his blistering nerves ease with every next word. It’s as if he’s telling a story, releasing the past to the magic of a folktale, and moving on. Not a complete change, but a clarification.
He loves James Potter. Always has.
Now he gets to love him in a new way.
“I just wanted to be there for James, help him with his migraines, his grief, but every time I asked what I could do he brushed me off.”
“But it’s Prongs, he hates asking for help—”
“He asked for yours.”
“Jealous?” Sirius laughs.
“Yes.”
“There’s no need to be. The way he talks about you…I should have guessed this before. I’m an idiot.”
“James is one too, typically,” Regulus hums. “I think that’s why you two get along so well.”
Sirius breaks into laughter and Regulus feels his lips twitch up too. The flame inside shifts to a simmer at the sound of his brother’s joy.
“So you and James, wow.” Sirius sighs.
“What about you and Remus?”
Sirius sits up, nearly matching Regulus’ perfect posture, but not quite. He does that often, Regulus has long since noticed—slump a little, drink a little, swear a little, snark a little—all so Regulus can look superior in comparison.
“I’m not glad for what happened, that we had to go on lockdown, but at the same time, Remus and I needed somewhere private to talk,” Sirius says, and Regulus can tell that he’s holding something big, he can hear it in Sirius’ stiff tone, slipping into a Danish so formal it drips with Walburga.
“Are you…together now?” Regulus asks. “That would be frustrating if Remus changed his mind a day after your public statement—”
“No, it’s not that.”
Excitement waves off of Sirius, coating Regulus in something sticky and sweet and maybe a little too much. Regulus stands and walks to the window, pushing the curtain open just an inch. The courtyard below is empty save for the stoic Palace Guard in bearskin caps, plus the scattering of tourists taking photos of them.
“Reg?” Sirius says, his voice coming closer. “I have something big to tell you, to ask you, really. Because you can say no. I’m not interested in testing Mother’s patience without your permission.”
“You test her patience all the time.” Regulus closes the curtain but doesn’t turn to his brother. If it’s a big piece of information, he’d rather not deal with any watching eyes as he chews and swallows the chunk down.
“Not like this,” Sirius says softly. “What I want to do will cross the line. But if I play my cards right, she won’t be able to do anything about it.”
Regulus holds in a breath, letting the air fill his hollow corners like airbags bracing a car. Like the ones that failed Fleamont and Effie a Wednesday long ago. Not long ago at all. It feels forever. It feels yesterday.
“Just tell me, Sirius.”
“Okay. There are a few steps I have in mind, but the biggest risk is exposing—”
“There you two are.”
Sirius and Regulus both whip around to the door in time, like rehearsed puppets. Walburga’s chin lifts as her stare narrows. “I did not summon you both to Copenhagen for chit-chat.”
“Sorry, Mother.” Regulus steps forward so he and Sirius are standing shoulder to shoulder. “We weren’t sure when you would be ready to meet.”
“Evidently, I’m ready now.” Her heels click on the floor as she walks to the armchair, gesturing to the couch for her sons to sit.
Regulus does first, but Sirius takes a few seconds to move, then perches on the edge of the cushion. The last time they sat with their mother was for a photoshoot at Easter. The weight of Walburga’s hand on Regulus’ shoulder left an imprint. Invisible to all but him.
“Sirius, you are well aware that code nightingale is reserved for threats against the royal family. Remus Lupin does not meet that criteria.”
“I was considering the optics, Mother,” Sirius replies smoothly. “If Remus were to die we would be the first and last accused by the media.”
Walburga's French nails fold in her lap. She does not acknowledge Remus again. “I had assumed that we had put your little incident to rest,” she says to Sirius with pursed lips. “But that Snape boy is unwilling to comply in our negotiations.”
“What negotiations?”
“Fie thought it best that Snape publicly affirm your statement that you were not the other boy in the video. He has been asking for a great sum in return.”
Regulus tucks his hands behind his back so Walburga doesn’t see the triplet rhythm his thumb and index have begun. The letters of Snape’s name slither through his body and he can feel the blood pumping from his heart, reaching the tips of his toes to his eyeballs. Soiled blood. Snape is soiling his blood.
“When we refused to meet Snape’s exorbitant demand, he claimed that he had more evidence against my son’s reputation. I can only assume that he was referring to you, Sirius. Am I correct?”
Take it like a man, Prince.
Though Regulus doesn’t look to see, he can hear Sirius’ quick breath, the wariness in his voice: “There’s nothing else I can think of that Severus would have on me.”
Come on, Regulus, swallow!
Walburga turns her face ever-so-slightly to look at Regulus, and he has to look back, so he stares between her perfectly trimmed eyebrows and forces his body perfectly still.
“Regulus?”
Regulus! Regulus! Regulus!
“I have no idea, Mother.”
******
He only does this when he must. Leaving the palace is a dance with the devil, a soiree with Lilith, and Regulus is not a person who enjoys risk, nor a person who usually ventures into novelty.
But throwing on a hoodie and going for a run through Copenhagen is an old trick of his. Either he feigns anonymity in a half-marathon of his own making, or he breaks down where Walburga can find him.
His body makes the decision for him.
Sirius’ disappointed expression follows Regulus out of Amalienborg, Walburga’s clipped tone too, but he can’t handle it, the octagonal courtyard, the rococo interiors, the ever-watching staff, he needs to push his legs forward, squeeze out the air in his chest just to gulp it back down.
It will clean him, deep down, a run. It will pump his heart and replace the soiled blood. It will wash away the spit, vodka, and cum they forced down his throat all those years ago.
“If you want to be a part of Suum Cuique you have to pass a few tests,” Mulciber sneers in the shadows of the Shrieking Shack. The rest of them are covered with dark hoods, a blob of anonymous cloaks standing in the candlelight with a handle of vodka each.
Regulus knows who each and every one of them is, he’s too observant not to catalog the members of Denmark’s most notorious secret society. He’s too perceptive not to understand the severe hazing he’s about to go through. And he’s too scared to do a thing about it.
Snape pushes Regulus’ chest, forcing him to lie down on the floor. “Even princes have to submit.”
Someone sticks a pipe into Regulus’ mouth and the liquid begins to trickle over his tongue and down his throat, faster than he can swallow, faster than he can breathe.
“Take it like a man, Prince.”
Their laughter, their prying eyes, their sadism contaminate him, polluting his body inside and out.
“Come on, Regulus, swallow!”
His limbs twitch, spasm, and the link holding his mind to his corpse snaps.
“Regulus! Regulus! Regulus!”
He can’t breathe.
He can’t breathe. Regulus stops his run and presses his palms into his knees. His heartbeat throbs in his fingers, in his cheeks, a rhythmic reminder that he’s flushing it all out. That soon enough, he’ll be clean again.
He’d been sprinting, evidently, letting his body fly as briskly and brutally as his thoughts. With a quick check that his hood is still up, he staggers to the park bench and orients himself. Kastellet is decently deserted, with a few dogs and their humans walking on the path curving around to the Gefion Fountain.
Regulus resolves to walk in the other direction, down the familiar promenade to his favorite statue. He’s not sure how long he stands there, in front of the bronze and rusted teal sculpture, the little mermaid a small but breath-taking thing in front of all that dark blue water.
Only 1.25 meters and 175 kilograms, and over a century old. The history she’s seen—the feats of women’s suffrage and welfare reform, the horrors of two world wars, of occupied Denmark. Den lille Havfrue is a fellow symbol of the Danish mythos, a rallying cry to the plight of one of the smallest countries in Europe.
Even the smallest mementos can leave lasting memories.
Maybe that’s why Regulus finds his way here whenever he runs—to remind himself that delicacy is not impotence.
“Reggie?”
Regulus squeezes his eyes shut and waits to see if he’s imagining James. It’s a common occurrence for him, hearing Jamie’s voice, though uncommon for the rest of the world. Or maybe average people do hear the people they love in their heads. Maybe it’s yet another symptom of lovesickness.
He’s been keeping a careful list of all his afflictions, he ought to jot this hypothesis down too—
“Are you okay, Reggie?”
Regulus nearly trips from how quickly he turns around. James stands in his Half Galla pants and button-up, with a fisherman’s sweater thrown over, which selfishly hides his arms and chest beneath its thick fabric.
“What are you doing here?” Regulus sputters.
“I dropped Remus and Hope off in Næstved,” James explains, adjusting his wire glasses. “And I was losing my mind waiting for Sirius to call me about what Walburga wanted and I’d already missed class for the day so I came here to see—” James stammers. “To see if you were okay?”
Regulus looks back at the statue and steps backward to lean into him. The warmth of James’ wool fabric, and the skin beneath, soothes Regulus’ shivers. He’s not cold, necessarily—not with the sheen of sweat over his body—but his body prickles with goosebumps, his thoughts still caught up in cloaked figures, in secret societies.
“Sirius told me you might be here, I can leave if you want some time alone,” James whispers into Regulus’ ear.
It’s the last thing Regulus wants. With every brush of James’ breath against his neck, he feels his mind settle, his body following suit. It’s always been this way between them—James is the only person Regulus can touch and feel better for it.
Feel not normal, not average—but at peace with oddity. At peace with himself.
Regulus nods to the little mermaid. “You know they’ve dismembered and beheaded her on multiple occasions. Five times to be precise.”
As always, James jumps onto the new topic easily, “Sad isn’t it?”
“Well, if you’re looking to catch someone’s attention, dismemberment seems a solid strategy.”
James’ body shakes with a chuckle and Regulus feels the tightness in his chest ease, as if James had switched off gravity itself to give Regulus a break from his own mass. Whenever James laughs, it means that he’s laughing with Regulus, not at him.
“Snape has something else,” Regulus says once he can find the words. “That’s what Walburga wanted to talk to us about.”
James tenses then wraps his arms around Regulus slowly as if waiting for Regulus to tell him to stop. He won’t.
“Do you know what it is? Maybe he hacked into Sirius and Remus’ texts?”
Regulus slips his hands beneath James’ sweater sleeves, pale skin meeting russet brown. “All he said was that he had something on Walburga’s son. He didn’t specify which one.”
“You think…”
“I’m certain.”
James’ grip loosens as he shifts to face Regulus. Unlike with everyone else, meeting James’ gaze doesn’t drill little holes into Regulus’ lungs and heart. It’s unexpecting and even, James’ attention. It’s loving and steady.
It’s a lot like finding balance on a tightrope.
“What do you think Snape has on you?”
Regulus swallows and accepts the hand that James offers. When their fingers are intertwined, he begins. “My first year at Hogwarts, I received an invitation…”
******
The car ride to Hogwarts is stifling and silent.
Regulus doesn’t mind the quiet, he does his best work in the absence of sound, but James and Sirius seem to wither like unwatered plants as the minutes tick by slowly, no voices there to encourage time forward.
“It’s only an hour's drive,” Regulus informs them when Sirius sighs, again. “Take a nap and when you wake up, we’ll be there.”
Neither responds but both look at Regulus from their seats across the car, tracking the way he flips a page. He’s nearly finished with Pedro Párama, Remus’ most recent library recommendation.
Though Regulus has made a game out of buying books for the people he loves most, a game inspired by his many recommendations for Flea and Effie, he’s never been able to curate a suitable selection for himself. Remus has taken that responsibility over a couple of years back. He’s yet to fail.
His good taste in reading is his highest recommendation for what Regulus has named Wolfstar, Remus and Sirius’ relationship. That’s over now, however. Or maybe it’s only put on hold?
Regulus shoos away the question, shoos away the feeling of the cold leather seat beneath him, and continues reading.
“How’s the book?” Sirius whispers.
“I’ll tell you when I’m done.”
“How many more pages do you have?” James quickly follows up.
Regulus blows out a breath and folds his bookmark back between the pages. “What is it?”
“You were a Suum Cuique initiate?!” Sirius yelps like a dog, leaning forward in his seat so his knees are nearly touching Regulus’.
“I was briefly,” Regulus concedes.
Take it like a man, Prince.
James and Sirius share a look, one of those silent telepathic conversations they have every now and then. It used to bug Regulus, their exclusive friendship—but he knows now that he has something equally special with both of them. Sirius, the brother who makes him, and Jamie, the boy who loves him.
The boy that Regulus loves.
“I don’t understand why you would even consider being a part of that secret society,” Sirius speaks slowly while his voice rasps with frustration.
“At the time it seemed a sensible option.”
Come on, Regulus, swallow!
“Why?” James pushes.
When Regulus doesn’t respond, James unbuckles his seatbelt and moves to sit on Regulus’ side, the momentum of the car nearly knocking him into Regulus’ lap.
Sirius grunts. “Do not sit on my brother in front of me, Prongs. In fact, I request that all PDA take place when I’m not there to witness it.”
“I’m not doing anything!” James huffs, taking Regulus’ hand and scooting closer.
The three of them haven’t talked about it yet, James and Regulus’ relationship, but clearly the two-thirds of the Marauders present are interested in another conversation. One Regulus has zero interest in participating in.
“Reggie,” James says in that fond way that makes Regulus feel things. “We’re just confused as to why you didn’t tell us? Why did you feel like you had to participate in…that.”
Regulus’ eyes flutter shut and he anchors himself in James’ warm grip.
Regulus! Regulus! Regulus!
“I wanted to belong somewhere.”
When James and Sirius are silent, Regulus forces his eyes back open to face their reactions. But all their anger has dissolved like a sugar cube in a cup of tea, leaving behind only liquid sadness, too sweet for Regulus’ palette.
“There’s no need to worry, that feeling has passed,” he adds.
“You’ve always belonged with us, Reggie.”
“Ugh.” Sirius scowls at James. “That’s so cheesy.”
James must shoot him a scolding look because Sirius quickly adds, “But yes, I agree with what your boyfriend said.”
Regulus looks to James. “Boyfriend?”
“Oh! Uhm.” James probably doesn’t even notice that both of his hands are cradling Regulus’ now, drawing small swirls on his skin. “I’m not sure if you wanted to label us, I just mean, well, I know we can’t go public but for Pete and Sirius and your friends we can tell them that maybe we’re boyfriends? If that’s okay?”
Regulus kisses James on the cheek, heart thumping like a marching band, but this time more like an Easter parade than a funeral procession. “I already told Pandora that we’re together.”
“What, you called her?!”
“She had to know,” Regulus says simply.
It’s true that Regulus hates using his phone, that even though the only contacts he has saved are his favorite people—Sirius, James, Pandora—he detests the ringing and vibrations, he loathes interpreting text tone, and above all, he can’t escape the feeling that someone’s watching or listening in. That Walburga could see it all if she wanted.
But Regulus and Pandora had been talking about James for months, no, years, and god help him, Regulus needed to gossip. Yet another symptom of James’ love virus.
“Why didn’t you tell us about the hazing?” Sirius breaks James from his trance.
Regulus begrudgingly returns to reality too. “I didn’t tell you. But I told Effie.”
James shudders beside Regulus, his voice barely a whisper: “And what did my mom tell you?”
“That I don’t need to prove myself to be worthy of love,” Regulus recites her maternal words. At first glance, they are almost too mawkish for the likes of him, but they’ve brought him much comfort ever since. A reassurance he didn’t know he needed.
“So Snape has dirt on both of us.” Sirius falls back into the car seat at a diagonal, stretching his seatbelt. If they got in a car crash, he wouldn’t be safe. Like Effie and Flea weren’t.
“Sit up,” Regulus tells him. “Please.”
Sirius does so while James squeezes Regulus’ hand as if he knows exactly where Regulus’ head went. Perhaps his thoughts took him down that dark path too.
“Snape likely has a photo or a video of me at initiation, I would appear…” Regulus’ skin crawls. “Indecent. Whatever he has, it’s enough to ruin my public image.”
“Maybe we can tell them it’s me?” Sirius suggests.
“But that’s only damage control,” James says. “Is there a way to stop Snape before it gets out?”
“Mother will negotiate, I’m sure she’ll meet his price once he shows her exactly what he has.”
Sirius shakes his head at Regulus. “We can’t let Walburga see that, she’ll make your life a living hell.”
“Like she has yours?”
“It’s my job, Reg. I’m the heir apparent. Besides, I have every intention of returning the favor once we handle this.”
Remembering what Sirius had started to say earlier, Regulus leans forward. “Sirius.”
“Regulus,” Sirius matches his solemn tone, only his eyes are lit with mischief.
“What are you going to do?”
“It’s not all that complicated, really. I just want to distribute information to our loyal subjects.”
“What kind of information?”
“You know…things like Bellatrix’ open marriage, Lucius’ tax evasion, Rodolphus’ fabricated revenues. And, of course, exactly where the public’s tax dollars are going to support the monarchy. They’re desperate for the fantasy of the royal family and I’ll be their story tale hero. Prince Robin Hood exposing the truth to the people.”
Regulus' mouth goes dry, his skin tingling with little pricks, as if he’s being push-pinned into the wall, a taxidermied royal on exhibit for all to scrutinize. “No.”
“No?”
“They’ll catch you and then ruin you,” Regulus’ voice wavers. “You—you can’t, you’re going to get hurt, Sirius.”
“I have to agree, Pads,” James says, hand stiff in Regulus’. “I don’t think you’ll get away with this.”
“I won’t.”
James and Regulus both wait for Sirius to continue.
“But when Walburga does figure out what I’m doing, I’ll have public opinion on my side. I’m already the one they love, imagine how much more they’ll adore me if I tell them the truth.” Sirius’ smile falls a little when he looks at Regulus. “I know it’s a risk. And if I’m disinherited, you have to take my place. Say the word and I won’t do it.”
“It wouldn’t work.”
Sirius tsks. “Don’t be such a cynic, Reg.”
“Cynic comes from the word dog-like. It refers to the original Cynics’ disregard for decorum and general shamelessness. Since then it’s adopted the pessimist connotation.”
Sirius' expression is patient as Regulus works out his thoughts.
“I’m not a cynic in the original sense or the modern one. I’m halfway in between, sitting firmly in rationality.” Regulus’ teeth clack together and he hates the sound, hates that his body is so loud and abrasive. Hates that his mind is so full and scattered. Hates that his brother would risk his very life for revenge.
“No,” Regulus repeats. “You’re not doing this.”
“Are you saying this because you’re scared you’ll take the throne? Or because you’re worried about me?”
It would be prudent, Regulus knows, to lie. To tell Sirius that it’s his own selfish fear that keeps him from agreeing, that the very thought of becoming the heir scares him senseless, but the truth is what scares him is Sirius—Sirius facing the full brunt of the Queen’s power.
“Have you forgotten about what happened to Uncle Alphard?”
Sirius’ confidence falls flat, Regulus can feel it, he can taste the air’s shift from thin to thick, full to hollow. Uncle Alphard had tried to test Walburga a few decades back. He didn’t live to tell the tale of abdication.
“That’s different. I have no plans of abdicating,” Sirius stumbles over his words. “And our Uncle wasn’t beloved like I am.”
“I won’t let you be a bloody martyr,” Regulus spits.
“I’m the only one who can do this,” Sirius pleads. “And I need to, Reg, I need to do something. I’m going crazy—”
“Then go crazy. Don’t get yourself fucking killed.”
Sirius blinks at Regulus’ cursing. “What do you think?” he asks James after a moment.
“I’m—I’m also scared that you’re going to get hurt,” James' words come out slow and rich as if delivering a speech. “But I’ll support you no matter what, Padfoot. You know I will. My only request is that you not do this alone.”
Regulus shifts away from James, pulling his hand out of his and scooting against the window. They’re almost at Hogwarts, he can see the Gothic spires in the distance, and when they park, Regulus can run out and lock himself in his room and sit in the shower and wash it off.
Wash it all away.
Take it like a man, Prince.
Wash it all away.
Come on, Regulus, swallow!
Wash it all away.
Regulus! Regulus! Regulus!
******
“You’re a bit like a turtle, you know?” Pandora finds Regulus in the shower, fully clothed, sitting beneath the sharp, scalding stream.
Regulus doesn’t respond, caught in the trance of and-a-one-two-three, and-a-one-two-three, and-a-one-two-three, his palms clapping together while his head shakes off the water in his hair, just to get soaked all over again.
“Hard shell but soft inside, slow but steady, likes the water but comes up for air every now and then,” Pandora continues, her voice like a rope hauling Regulus out of a deep, dirty well.
Up, up, up he goes.
“I, on the other hand, am an elephant. Thick skin but very sensitive and unapologetically taking up space.”
Regulus manages a huff bordering on a cough in response, then Pandora is sitting on the edge of the bathtub, twisting the water off.
“Would you like a towel?”
“Not yet.”
Pandora keeps her hands on her lap, not touching Regulus, probably not looking at him either—she knows how much he hates prying eyes. “Sirius gave me a summary of events with frustratingly vague details.”
Water slides across his slipper skin, leaping across the air and onto the porcelain bath. Take the dirt with you, Regulus silently pleads. Wash it all away.
“I assume you’ll fill in the gaps when you can,” Pandora says. “But I’d like to say that I’m all for taking Snape down if it comes to that.”
Slowly, Regulus turns his head in her direction. He doesn’t look at Pandora’s white hair or sea-glass eyes but lets himself inspect her floral overalls with pipe cleaner tied onto the straps. “Take Snape down?” he repeats.
“He’s blackmailing you, so you blackmail him. Now I don’t know what exactly he has on you but I am certain that with some proper sleuthing we can figure it out and get dirt on him in return.”
Regulus feels his upper eyelashes and lower eyelashes meet, batting together as if caught in a sandstorm. Blink away the grime, he pleads again. Cry out the sullied tears.
“Lily could be a great distraction if she’s up for it. Snape has this weird thing for her, though he’s also unbelievably racist, but anyway, the point is that she can talk him up while I sneak into his dorm room and swipe his computer. I’ll need Pete’s help because I’m no good with tech, you know that, but I am very sneaky.”
“What if you get caught?” What if Sirius gets caught? What will they do to him? Please don’t hurt him. Not my brother.
“I won’t,” Pandora says happily. “James will be on lookout.”
Regulus sucks in a breath at the name, and Pandora, of course, notices. “That’s right! Your new boyfriend. I’m so glad you finally made a move.”
“I…” Regulus trails off, thinking through all that’s happened, the kiss at the sweaty costume party, the search for Sirius and Remus, the visit to Amalienborg, Walburga’s pursed lips, the rusted Little Mermaid, Sirius’ eager smile, James’ warm hand in his.
James shouldn’t be overshadowed by all of this. He deserves to be showered with love the way that Fleamont used to Effie.
But Regulus can’t date James in public. Can’t even get out of the bathtub.
He can only offer James illicit kisses.
“I’m glad too,” Regulus finally says, feeling like a liar.
“I know you are,” Pandora says teasingly. She clears her throat. “James is really worried about you, but I told him to give you some space.”
“Thanks.”
“So? Do I have your permission to sleuth?”
Regulus risks a glance into Pandora’s gaze and finds her eyes earnest and even excited. “If you insist,” he breathes.
“I do.”
******
It’s well past sunset when Regulus finds the courage to peel off his soaked clothes, scrub his skin raw, and wrap himself in a thick, fluffy robe—but not too fluffy. He forces himself into dry clothes too—though the brush of fabric against the hairs on his arms is not unlike a fork scratching on a plate—and stands in front of the sink.
He takes off the piece of fabric over the mirror and looks into his reflection.
All he can see is Sirius.
Please don’t hurt him. Not my brother.
Their whole lives Sirius has been keeping Regulus one step behind him, a human shield against the hungry looks that try to slurp them down one organ at a time. He’s good at his job, Sirius—flirts and evades and laughs and demurs and smiles and excuses himself. No one walks away from the Crown Prince without feeling thoroughly charmed.
Sirius would try so hard if it weren’t for Regulus.
Because it’s Sirius who fears Regulus taking the throne—it’s Sirius who frets about Regulus in the full limelight—it’s Sirius who breaks his back to keep Regulus in second place. For his safety, his sanity.
But Regulus isn’t scared of the crown, of Walburga, of the public—he doesn’t like any of it, no, but he’s not afraid. At least not since Effie and Fleamont’s car flipped on its side, crushing them within.
A freak accident.
At least that’s what they say.
Regulus will worry until his dying gasp that it wasn’t. That after years of being upstaged by the kind, caring Potter parents, Walburga took matters into her own hands.
He’s never breathed a word of his theory, would never seed that doubt in Sirius or James’ head—this is Regulus’ burden to bear. This is Regulus’ fear.
Please don’t hurt him. Not my brother.
The mirror blurs as a slimy film coats his eyeballs, escaping down his cheek one drop at a time. It’s then, in the prison of tears, that Regulus recognizes his own reflection.
Of the two of them, Sirius has always been the uglier crier.
Wiping his face, Regulus craps his copy of Pedro Páramo and bolts out the door. It takes him one hundred and fifty-three steps to get to the library, and when he runs inside, he pushes the book onto the smooth granite counter in absolute silence.
Remus turns from the computer, his face an epic full of feelings that Regulus can’t decipher.
“I finished it.”
“I see that.” Remus collects the book, scanning the back barcode.
“It’s a story about setting, about the emotional bedrock of history. Reminded me of García Márquez.”
Remus is smiling now, Regulus realizes, and though it’s a small one, it doesn’t seem mocking. “Are you mocking me?” Regulus has to ask just in case.
“Of course not.” Remus stands straighter. “No, Regulus, I’m just—I’m glad we’re still doing this. That all that’s happened hasn’t changed this.”
“I don’t like change.”
“What about you and James?”
Regulus jolts back. “He told you?!”
Remus shakes his head lightly. “Not in so many words. I’m only observant. He talked about you the entire car ride to Næstved, though to be fair, my mom encouraged it. Apparently, you’re her favorite royal.”
Regulus didn’t think he was anyone’s favorite royal. “Please pass along my gratitude to your mother. And encourage her to reevaluate her preferences.”
This time, when Remus smiles, Regulus is more confident of his sincerity.
“I’d like a new book,” Regulus prompts, looking down.
Remus hands him a light pink cover with a drawing of a woman, her short black hair a stark contrast to the blue-to-green ombre behind her. “Woman at Point Zero. It was written originally in Arabic.”
“I can read Arabic,” Regulus says.
“Of course you can. Well, we don’t have that copy.”
“Okay.”
Regulus holds the book to his chest, the glossy lamination of the cover rubbing against his shirt’s Oxford cloth. He should go now, that’s how Remus and Regulus work. A quick trade of books, and then they sit in silence, or Regulus leaves.
“Your seat is open again.” Remus nods to the table on the left.
“I promised Sirius I wouldn’t. That’s his place now. He wants a full view of you.”
Remus swallows thickly. “He can’t—he’s not supposed to anymore.”
“So you two are really done.”
“We shouldn’t talk about this here—”
Regulus interrupts Remus with a clipped question, “This is part of the reason why he’s being so reckless, isn’t it? You won’t be with him otherwise.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I get that it’s scary, I get that you don’t want the public scrutiny.” Regulus grips the book, his fingers thrumming onto the edges as if playing piano. “But you’re giving up. I didn’t take you for a coward.”
“My life was threatened, Regulus.” Remus’ eyes narrow in anger.
“Sirius and I get death threats every day! What’s the point in living if you’re going to do it in fear?”
“I don’t know, Regulus. Why don’t you ask yourself?”
The two of them both seem to realize at the same moment where exactly they are, that anyone could be listening, could walk into their…argument? Regulus doesn’t have many of those, he prefers quiet over noise, particularly from himself.
But for once, the vibrations of his vocal cords don’t rattle his bones or cleave his chest. It feels good, whatever this is. “James and I are still figuring things out. But I will not be leaving him.”
“So you’re going to condemn him to a life of secrecy instead?”
Regulus’ teeth bite into the side of his cheek and he gags at the taste of blood.
“Look, Regulus, I—” Remus rushes from behind the desk and walks over to Regulus. “Are you okay?”
“I want to date Jamie openly,” Regulus says, swallowing the salty iron.
“Yeah, and I get why you can’t.” Remus hovers a few steps away from Regulus, arms extended to catch him. Regulus realizes why—he’s hunched over, scowling at the ground as if preparing to spit on the ugly carpet.
“Not—not everyone has been horrible about you two,” Regulus gets the words out slowly. “There are some people that are proud of you and Sirius, even with the statement. They’re—they’re editing videos and writing fanfictions and celebrating you two.”
“Fanfiction?” Remus’ voice cracks.
Regulus lifts his chin. “I’ve skimmed some of it. I can give you some recommendations if you like.”
“That’s—no thanks.”
“If you’re sure.”
“I’d rather have the real thing,” Remus admits. Then scoffs. “But I can’t, so what’s the point in putting myself through the fantasy?”
Regulus straightens himself, patting his pants and shirt in case some loose thread or fuzz has leeched its way onto him. He avoids Remus’ piercing stare and looks at the book still in his hands. “I will return this in a week’s time.”
He starts to walk out of the library when Remus calls out, “Regulus?”
Regulus turns to look back at Remus, fixing on the spot between his brows.
“Whatever Sirius is doing it’s—I don’t think it’s just for himself, and certainly not for me. I think he’s trying to stand up for something. It’s selfless.”
“We live in a selfish world, Remus.”
“I think that’s the whole point.”
Regulus sighs. “No, the point is that he won’t survive this.”
******
Call it fate, call it years of friendship, but Regulus knows that James will be in the school’s conveniently unlocked, unnoticed cellar. He knows that if he lets himself descend into that shadowed space, where all his obstreperous senses seem to dim amidst the darkness, he will lean on James' shoulder and feel better.
It’s as simple as that, with James.
But not up here in the light. No, there’s nothing simple aboveground, in the range of the sharpshooting sun. There are reminders of Flea and Effie’s absence and threats of Sirius’ too, there’s mockery and horror, in shades of homophobic justice, there’s James on the floor, his head pounding in pain, and there’s Regulus beneath the shower’s stream, his body rotting in dirt.
“Jamie?” Regulus says in the doorway, peering down the rickety staircase. “Can you come up here?”
“You—wouldn’t it be safer if you came down to me? So no one sees us, I mean.”
Regulus’ eyes flutter shut at the echo of James’ voice crawling its way to him. “Is this what you want?”
“What?”
“To hide in the dark with me?” Regulus’ rhythm is even but his tone is warped, an old violin long out of tune. Because hiding is not what he wants. Not at all.
Remus’ surrender showed Regulus just how vehemently he’d like to fight for Jamie, no matter the world’s searing gaze and the monarchy’s rigid rules. Regulus has never succeeded at meeting their expectations regardless. He thinks it’s about time he stops pretending he can.
“Reggie, come down here, let’s talk about this.”
Regulus listens because it’s James asking. He shuts the door behind him and takes each step one at a time, careful not to trip to his death. It would be a ridiculous way to go.
James is there at the bottom, wrapping Regulus into his warm arms and holding him tightly, easing the pressure of the world above them, welcoming him into the world almost below.
Maybe his parents are in here, two ghosts watching two lovers with fond smiles. Would Effie and Fleamont be proud of them? Or would they tell them to be brave, to step into the sun even if it burns a little?
Fleamont would, Regulus concludes. James gets his bravery from his father.
But Effie would assure them that it’s not one person’s job to fight an army. She would say wars are waged one battle at a time. James gets his wisdom from his mother.
“We got something on Snape,” James whispers into his ear.
Regulus pulls back but it’s too dark to make out James’ face. “What is it?”
“His dad has yet to pay his tuition. Apparently he’s gone bankrupt. That’s probably part of the reason Snape is demanding so much money from Walburga.”
“Do you think that’ll be enough?”
“Maybe, maybe not,” James answers honestly. “But Pandora also managed to swipe his computer clean. There’s a chance he kept copies, but if not, whatever he had on you is gone.”
There’s something about James’ tone that sounds alarms in Regulus’ head, the kind of bells that seem to wail, like the ones that warned of bombs.
“Are you in pain?”
“A little.”
“Let’s sit down.” Regulus guides James to the corner where just a couple of days ago they finished James’ homework.
After a few moments of silence, James lets out a breath. “I’m fine.”
“Please don’t lie.”
“No, really, it’s a minor migraine in the scheme of things, I usually don’t get them so close together but with all this stress…”
“How can I make it better?”
James interlaces their fingers. “You being here makes it so much better, Reggie.”
“Are you sure?” Regulus whispers, careful to keep his voice low. “It didn’t help before.”
“Because I thought—I didn’t know you liked me the same way I like you.”
“I don’t.”
James’ entire body stiffens.
“I love you,” Regulus is quick to add.
His answering smile is practically audible. “See? You’re already making me feel better.”
“I can say more nice things.”
James’ reply is hesitant, “If you want?”
Regulus, on the other hand, doesn’t hesitate: “The way you devote yourself to your school work is inspiring. Even when the material becomes complicated, your persistence is unflinching. You prioritize everyone’s needs above your own, even for those you barely know, and I find it equally endearing as it is frustrating. I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. That’s been true since we were little. I actually told Effie that once and she laughed and said she agreed. She wasn’t laughing at me though. She never did that. And you’re just like her in so many ways, strong and inspiring and resilient and endlessly kind. I miss them so much but every time I look at you, I can feel them right here.” Regulus points to his head, not his heart. “I feel them in my mind, keeping away the uglier, the dirtier bits of me. Reminding me that I’m not alone. Not yet.”
“Not yet?” James rasps.
“Oh. I misspoke.”
Two warm palms cradle Regulus’ face, the sensation like a blanket by a crackling fire, nearly too much. “We’re not going anywhere, Reggie. Sirius and I are never leaving you.”
“Sirius can make that promise. Not if he goes through with this plan.”
“I’m terrified too.” James presses their brows together. “But sometimes we have to do the things that scare us. I believe in Sirius. I believe he can take them down.”
“What scares you, Jamie?”
When James doesn’t answer, Regulus presses his hands over James’. “Tell me, you won’t scare me off.”
“Losing my reasons.”
“What reasons?” Regulus asks.
“My reasons to live.”
“Oh.”
“And—and sometimes, it’s hard to remember them. Some mornings I wake up and there’s just…nothing. I’m hollowed out.”
Regulus grips James’ tighter as if he can keep him from falling all the way to the bottom, as if he can anchor him in this limbo of not quite below, not quite above.
It feels insufficient. Cowardly.
And if Sirius is being brave, why can’t Regulus try that out too?
“Come on.” Regulus takes James' hand, helping him to his feet.
James follows Regulus as they walk up the stairs. At the last step, Regulus turns to James. “Fleamont told me to sit in the sun.”
“I know.”
“Do you want to sit in the sun with me?”
James inhales sharply. “What—what does that mean?
Before Regulus can answer, James continues in a frenzied rush. “I know that this is all happening quickly but are you asking if I want to go public? Regulus you shouldn’t feel any pressure from me to—”
“Is it something that scares you? Being together openly?”
“No.”
Regulus lips curve up.
“I thought it scared you though.” James quickly adds, “And I wouldn’t blame you if it did.”
Though it’s much too dark for absolute accuracy, Regulus leans toward James slowly, kissing him softly on the edge of his lips, then finding his way to its warm, wet center.
He pulls back after a moment, taking a piece of James with him. Something not clean, but good. Not sterile—but loving.
“I understand the risks. I just saw Sirius and Remus go through it.”
“And?”
“Earlier you said you had reasons to live,” Regulus answers with a question: “Am I one of them?”
James snorts. “Obviously.”
“You’re one of mine too.”
“That’s—oh—oh—wow, that’s really nice to hear. A little morbid, but that’s my fault—”
“James?” Regulus cuts off his rambling.
“Yes, Reggie?”
“Will you be my boyfriend? Publicly?”
“I’ll do anything you want.”
“No,” Regulus' voice is firm. “We’re only doing this if you want it. If this helps you remember in the morning, if this will make you feel less hollow. Because I will love you regardless of how.”
“Y—yes,” James stammers, sounding stunned. “I want to date you openly.”
“Alright then.”
Regulus pulls James’ hand and opens the cellar door. Neither one of them drops their grip as they walk into the Hogwarts’ Halls.
And for the first time, Regulus doesn’t mind so much all of the students’ invading stares. He doesn’t feel their attention slip under his skin like needles, contaminating his body with scathing perceptions—all he knows is his hand in James.
Right where he belongs.