Rule #13

“BuzzzZzzzZZZZzzZZZZZzzzzzzZ—”

The mosquito’s frail body splatters between Regulus’ hands. 

“What the—” Sirius shakes their head. “How the fuck are you so good at that?” 

From his waterproof, anti-theft backpack, Regulus pulls out a designated handkerchief for such insectile incidents. He meticulously wipes his hands, then squirts a dime-size dollop of sanitizer in his palm. Only when his skin is lathered in the acerbic alcohol does Regulus say: “Killing a Culicidae is nothing impressive, Sirius.”

“Just say mosquito like us commoners, Reggie.”

Regulus smirks. “I thought you appreciated my robust vocabulary?”

Sirius has, on multiple occasions, used Regulus as their personal thesaurus when writing songs. Last month, she called for a ‘mushy but sophisticated synonym to promise ’. 

“Yes, your big brain does come in handy,” Sirius concedes with a sigh. 

The two of them are sitting at the camp circle, backs facing the unlit fire pit as the staff prepare for the campers’ arrival. It’s organized chaos; Lily barks orders as counselors run back and forth from the cabins with pinched expressions. 

The Black siblings were tasked with organizing the camp shirts under the campers’ names. Years ago, Sirius and Regulus had to alphabetize files in the Whitmore Group Home, a tried and true way of ‘building character’. Thanks to such useful foster kid prowess, they have long since finished laying out the purple Hogwarts camp shirts, featuring Pandora’s rather adorable cartoon of the Wayward Woods. 

And, in classic Black family fashion, they’re doing nothing to help the others set up.

Sirius is sitting on the right and Regulus on the left, as it’s always been, with an inch of negative space between their thighs. Sirius is the only person on the planet allowed to sit so close to Regulus. 

“As I was saying.” Sirius stretches her hands in front of him, cracking their knuckles. “Since you’ve got Cabin #3, the eleven and twelve-year-olds can be particularly energetic and you never know when…”

Regulus listens to Sirius word-vomit, biting back a fond smile. All their lives Sirius has begged Regulus to come to Hogwarts. Regulus’ excuses changed over the years, from worrying about trans-exclusivity to computer science summer classes to the most convincing of all, a deep loathing of nature. This year, however, Regulus volunteered to apply for the counselor vacancy. 

Making Sirius happy is, admittedly, a bonus, but that’s not why Regulus came. No—his reasons are much more selfish. 

“And if the campers ever stop listening to you,” Sirius continues, “give them something new to focus on, like a weird accent or tell them a ghost story.”

“Scare them into submission.” Regulus nods solemnly.

“ No— ” Sirius sputters. 

“That was a joke.”

Sirius flops their head to the side, messy bun sagging with it. “Was it?” 

“I swear on Alphard’s grave that I won’t terrify my campers.”

 “Alright, I believe you, Reggie.” Sirius laughs under his breath. “I still can’t believe you’re actually here. At fucking Hogwarts. A goddamn counselor.”

“Get it all out now, you know you can’t swear in—” Regulus glances at his waterproof watch, an apt recommendation from Lily. “— five minutes.”

“Shit.” Sirius jumps up. Then she proceeds to shake out their limbs, from his hands to his hair to his ankles.  

Regulus watches from his semi-uncomfortable spot on the sanded-down wooden log. Unlike Sirius, he is neither nervous nor excited. His perfected neutrality is to be expected; he has prepared for this day in every way possible. The Hogwarts handbook is memorized, all of Dumbledore’s theories on child psychology are locked and loaded, and Regulus has combed through all of the less official resources online for ideal camp counselor behavior. 

Just as he does at MIT, Regulus has mastered the code for summer camp. 

So, in Regulus’ objective view, there is nothing to fret about. 

Once Sirius has finished her…choreography, they lay down on the log slapping an arm over his eyes to shield the sun. Their excited mumbling about camp soon shifts into a slow hum; a soft, perfect alto harmony of the Hogwarts camp song. 

It’s rather lovely listening to Sirius’ music, whether improvised or produced. Regulus’ Spotify consists of strictly Russian classics, with the exception of every record his sibling has worked on. 

“Hogwarts, Hogwarts, Hoggy Warty Hogwarts…” Once Sirius starts to sing the ghastly lyrics, Regulus sighs. 

He glances over at the lion's ears sticking out of Sirius’ hair and the long tie-dye dress draped over their ankles. Given the heat, Regulus had also opted to wear something loose; wide-legged shorts with a black shirt. 

Sirius, a mess of rainbow, and Regulus, a tableau of black. 

In spite of their distinct aesthetics, neither Sirius nor Regulus categorize neatly. Their legal documents leap from orphans to adoptees to foster kids. Of course, labels stick to both of them—Regulus the trans-masc child prodigy turned MIT professor, and Sirius the non-binary musician turned world-renowned producer. 

Regulus can't repudiate society’s love for categorization, he too groups people in careful boxes in his mind. It’s a bad habit only reinforced by his numerical profession. 

With Sirius, however, Regulus loses track of order. His mind wobbles into an unknown frequency, an enigma as mystifying as a black hole, and simply exists . Regulus has always felt a precious peace with his sibling. 

“Sirius?” Regulus says. 

She cracks open an eye. “Yeah, Reggie?”

“I’m glad to be here with you.”

Sirius’ eyes well up with tears. 

Regulus immediately walks away. He makes his way past Lily and Mary at the check-in desk at the edge of the parking lot, nodding to Dorcas and Marlene waiting at the entrance itself, then into the dining area to refill his water bottle.

Amidst the many adjustments Regulus has had to make in this wilderness milieu, tap water is among the hardest. With a grimace, he twists open his bottle and flicks on the rusted water fountain tap. 

“How much longer until the bus?” Regulus hears Peter, the groundskeeper, call out from the shed tucked in between the Nurse’s station and Dumbledore’s house. 

“Bus is in 30! But the parents driving their kids are arriving now.” 

Every single muscle, tendon, ligament, and inexplicably, bone, tenses in Regulus’ body. It’s not as if James’ voice is a shock to hear. He works here. He’s a counselor. James Potter is, in many ways, the essence of Hogwarts. 

It’s why Regulus came.

“Fuckmefuckmefuckme,” Regulus whispers as he hears that familiar cadence of steps walk through woodchips, in the direction of the dining area. 

The tap water wooshes into the water bottle, and Regulus schools his features into something blank. 

“Regulus!” James jogs up to the water fountain, side-stepping the wooden tables dispersed throughout the dining area. He’s got a camp shirt on with a necklace full of beads and shells that a previous camper made for him, paired with fraying jean shorts. The tips of his tattoo, that mysterious, ensconced design on the side of his thigh, peaks out from the shorts’ hemline. 

“Hello, James.”

Regulus sounds incredibly calm. He is doing well. Very well.

“I think you’re water bottle’s full, no?” James gestures to Regulus’ hands with a chuckle. 

Water is spilling over the sides of the bottle, coating his fingers. Regulus pulls away quickly with a simple; “Oh.” 

Once he has the lid back on the bottle, he has no choice but to look up and meet James’ gaze. 

Then, promptly, Regulus falls apart. 

That long brown jawline and brows arched up with that exceptional smile and chestnut curls and russet glowing skin and glimmer of sweat on sloped cheeks and curved nose and singular dimple and long lashes and hazel eyes with crinkles around the corners and—

Regulus squeezes his eyes shut. And clears his throat. Twice. 

“It’s ok to be nervous.” James’ voice comes closer. 

“Nervous?” Regulus squeaks. 

“I freaked out my first summer as a counselor,” James says reassuringly. “Had a panic attack in the kitchen. Luckily, Molly had some lemonade on hand.”

“Lemonade?”

“Yeah, you want some? I’ll bet she’s made some—”

Regulus opens his eyes and James cuts off.

It’s been this way for years. 

Before James, Regulus had never once had a crush. Before James, Regulus was comfortable in ditching romance and sex. Before James, Regulus was a coherent, respectable man. 

But ever since that fated day seven years ago, when Regulus visited Sirius in his new apartment, with his new roommate in California, Regulus was done for. 

Love at first sight the romantics would call it. Regulus would never describe it in such lavish terms. 

He feels James’ gaze peel every layer on his skin from the dry-skin sensitive lotion, to the 50 spf sunblock, to the coating of bug spray, and finally, the green snake Barty painted on his left arm. Once more, Regulus is naked, stripped of every last cerebration. All James has to do is look at him and he is a puddle of madness.  

But that was before. Regulus has a plan now; he needs to stick to the plan. 

Step 1 is clear: have a real conversation with James…

Regulus mind spasms as he studies the lion’s face on James’ neck, its burgundy-orange mane stretching to his ears and chin. When James swallows, his adam apple bobs, and the lion’s teeth stretch. 

“I—uhm,” Regulus stumbles over his words. 

Though Regulus concurs with his colleagues in chemistry that human pheromones do not exist, much less affect our sociosexual behaviors, he unjustifiably feels that James is the exception. 

James smells like grapefruit, a soft citrus tang that is just begging to be bitten into. 

Regulus has wanted to bite for years.  

“I’m dehydrated!” Regulus blurts. He takes a long sip of water as proof, then proceeds to choke.  

James comes closer, not touching, never touching, but holds his hands out in silent request to help. 

“Sorry,” Regulus wipes his mouth. “I’m fine. How are you doing?”

James raises a brow. “Me? Well I’m great, but are you sure—”

Regulus refuses to spend another moment with James worrying about him. This is not the plan. This is not how this is supposed to go. “Do you need my help with anything to set up?”

James smiles. “No, Pete and I just finished setting up the cabins in Gryffindor, I picked bunches of lavender from the garden and laid it on my campers’ mattresses.”

Regulus nods, speechless. James is like a honey bee. He gestures when he speaks just as the bees communicate by dancing, has an atrocious sweet tooth, is fiercely loyal to his hive, and best of all, inspires flowers to blossom everywhere he goes. 

He’s a walking motivational poster that makes Regulus sick to his stomach with want and wish and wonder . 

“So, yeah,” James smiles sheepishly. “We’re ready for the campers.”

He looks over to the parking lot, then back at Regulus. “I’ll see you out there?”

Regulus smiles. “Sure, James.”

Once James is out of the dining area, Regulus slumps, glaring at his water bottle. A slow clap comes from the kitchen area. 

“Well done, Regulus.” Evan shakes his head, a smirking Remus just behind. “Well done.”

Now that James is a healthy distance away and Regulus can think properly, he nearly passes out from embarrassment. 

“I thought the first step in your plan was to talk to James?” Remus teases as he walks around the buffet table, Evan mirroring him on the other side. Once the two of them are standing just in front of Regulus, he flips them off and scurries up the hill toward Slytherin.

Evan, a talented chef with a knack for smiling, and Remus, a macabre ER nurse that is much too handsome for his own good, have unfortunately become Regulus’ friends. In the moment, Regulus thought explaining his intentions to charm James Fleamont Potter was shrewd. 

He has never regretted anything more.

Once he makes it into Slytherin Cabin #3, full of five empty mattresses and one bed covered in dark green sheets, he slips out his moleskin notebook from his pocket. Regulus combs over the thirteen steps on the first page. He has an impeccable memory, but staring at the steps grounds him. 

13 steps to win James’ heart; 13 steps to break Dumbledore’s infamous Rule #13. 

 ******

It takes a while for the increased capillary of blood flow in Regulus’ cheeks to fade, and that damning blush to soften into his usual pale, lifeless complexion. He slabs on another layer of mineral sunscreen, then rushes down the hill and back towards the campfire. 

Regulus will stand next to James as the campers arrive. They’ll make conversation. It will be great. 

But as he cuts through the trail in between Pandora’s craft house and the dining area, Regulus sees white-blond hair in the parking lot. 

The woman’s face is angled, a stern but patient expression pursing her lips as she speaks with Lily and Mary. A child hides behind her black dress. 

Regulus finds himself caught just by the camp entrance, staring, gawking . 

His first instinct is to run away. Of course it is. He’s the twice orphaned turned foster kid black sheep of the, ironically, Black family. 

But, Regulus reminds himself, he’s working. And he’s not alone.

Sirius doesn’t even have to ask when Regulus comes rushing up, they merely say a few words in parting to the junior counselors, then follow Regulus into the parking lot. 

“What is it?”

“See for yourself.” Regulus gestures to the woman, now unloading her child’s luggage out of the back of her minivan. 

“Narcissa?” Sirius chokes. “Has a minivan?” 

“Oh for fuck’s—”

The blonde woman, Regulus and Sirius’ cousin, Narcissa, looks over her shoulder at the two of them standing in the middle of the asphalt. Her expression does not change. She merely holds up a finger, then bends down to her child and holds their face softly. 

Sirius leans in. “That can’t be…”

“I guess there’s a new Malfoy.” Regulus squints at the blonde hair, the aristocratic profile, the perfect posture. 

“Poor kid.”

“Yeah,” Regulus agrees.

Neither of them remember much of Walburga or Orion. They died when Sirius was five and Regulus was four, and Uncle Alphard refused to talk shit of the dead. He did, however, prattle on about his ‘psychotic’ brother Cygnus and his ‘irascible’ wife, Druella, with their three captive daughters. 

Alphard had always hoped to get those girls out of that horrendous home. So, for the girls, Alphard attended all of the Black family holidays. For the girls, Regulus and Sirius agreed to such torture. 

In the end, only the eldest, Andromeda, escaped. But not before Alphard’s death. Andromeda never got a chance to learn the endearing chaos of their Uncle’s mind, his flair for tea parties with indie writers, and deep-seated queerness. When she wrote to Sirius and Regulus that she skipped town with her boyfriend, they’d already been placed in their third foster home. 

Narcissa and Bellatrix never wrote. 

The white-blonde kid nods at Narcissa’s words with teary eyes, their lips curling down in a wobbly frown. Then their mom takes their hand and leads them to the counselors waiting at the fire circle—Barty and Pandora. 

Regulus sucks in a breath when Narcissa spins on her kitten heel and struts straight for the two of them. 

“This can’t be good,” Sirius says. 

Narcissa gestures for them to follow her behind the minivan. 

“Hello, cousins.”

“What the fuck are you doing here, Narcissa?” Sirius snaps. 

Narcissa’s eyes flare for a beat, then she turns to Regulus and her ire cools. “I’m surprised you are here.”

Regulus’ stomach drops. It’s been years since he saw his extended family. Over a decade of staying far, far away. But always wondering…sometimes even missing — 

“I’ve brought my son here,” Narcissa moves on swiftly. “He is a bright, creative boy, but has a deep attachment to me that I worry is unhealthy. It is my hope that summer camp will help him step out of his comfort zone socially, and encourage him to try new things. Without me.”

Sirius’ mouth flails. 

Narcissa looks at her sternly. “I know what this camp did for you. I want the same for Draco.”

“Draco?” Regulus finally finds his voice.

Narcissa smiles softly. “Yes.”

Draco . After the infamous ancient Greek lawgiver, Regulus guesses, or perhaps the constellation. Or, most likely of all, Narcissa wished to call her child dragon. She always had a flair for the medieval. 

Names in the Black family often pay homage to history, a curse disguised as a blessing that with such a title, the child is destined for greatness. It was a part of the reason Regulus and Sirius changed theirs. That, and reinvention necessitated queer astrological names.  

“You couldn’t have told us before you just showed up here?” Sirius hisses, crossing their arms. 

Narcissa sighs. “This isn’t about you, Sirius.”

It’s the first time Narcissa has used the new name. She didn’t dead name Sirius. It’s much more than Regulus thought she was capable of. 

“I chose this camp knowing that Sirius would be a counselor,” Narcissa continues. “I think you both would be a good influence on my Draco. But I do not wish for him to know our blood ties.”

“Good influence,” Sirius repeats dumbly. “ I’m a good influence?”

Narcissa offers nothing more. She pulls open her Honda door and turns on the engine. Regulus can hear the ending of Vivaldi’s “Winter” riff through the speakers. 

******

Draco is…unexpected. A wrench in the long list of divergences Regulus had mapped in his head. He never thought—He couldn’t have imagined—a Malfoy? At Hogwarts ?

The pure shock of it all ruffles Regulus’ calm and collected, and Sirius is no better. The two of them linger on the other side of the parking lot, staying far from their second(?) cousin. The kid is crying, Barty on his knees talking in a low voice to console him.  

“Why would Lucius allow Draco to come here?” Sirius whispers. 

“It must be a secret,” Regulus reasons. “The entire family would have an aneurysm if they knew Draco was at the ‘summer camp for queers’.”

Sirius raises an eyebrow. “I did describe it that way all those years ago, huh?”

Draco’s sobs are loud and wet. He keeps looking towards the entrance as if Narcissa’s minivan would turn around and take him back to the brutal familiarity of the Malfoy Manor. 

Regulus grits his teeth. A simple Google search would show the connection between the Malfoy and the Black families. What if Draco talks about his grandparents’ infamous fortune from the gold rush? Narcissa loved bragging about that around puberty. Or, Regulus realizes with a glance at Sirius’ profile, what if Dumbledore sees the similarities in their noses? 

Rule #17 from the handbook is clear: Campers may not be of relation to their counselors. 

“Shit,” Regulus curses. 

Sirius tenses. “What now?”

“We’re the counselors for Draco’s age group. It doesn’t matter if he ends up in Gryffindor or Slytherin. He’ll be related to his counselor either way.” 

“How…do you know his age?”

Regulus shrugs. “Simple math. Narcissa got engaged to Lucius when I was seventeen, then married shortly after. If they didn’t want to shame the family, they’d produce an heir within a year.”

Sirius is quiet for a minute. “You read Draco’s age off Lily’s clipboard didn’t you?”

Despite everything, Regulus can’t help but smirk. “Maybe.”

“Look it’ll be fine.” Sirius shakes her hands out. “The kid doesn’t know shit, and we don’t look that alike. And Dumbledore’s rules are meant to be broken. And we’re barely related.”

“Any other excuses?” Regulus prompts. 

“No, I think that’s sufficient.”

“Great.”

“Wonderful.” Sirius blows a raspberry on their lips. “Time to be counselors.”

With one last wary glance at Draco, Regulus pulls himself together and runs through Lily’s instructions for greeting campers. 1) Enthusiastic hello. 2) Ask if they are new or a returner camper. 3) Distract them from the goodbye of parents by talking about all the fun things to come. 4) Offer physical affection if wanted. 

Regulus does all but the last step with Cho, a 13-year-old from Hogsmeade, and Riley, a nine-year-old from Las Vegas. He leads them through the Lodge, pointing them to their shirts. He doesn’t overwhelm them with energy, instead asking them about their most anticipated activities (beekeeping and breadmaking respectively) and then which house they wish to be in (both Gryffindors, tragically). 

Everything is going according to plan, and Regulus feels an unexpected wave of courage as the two kids talk to him. Then the bus pulls in with excited, eager faces and Regulus freezes.

He teaches graduate students at MIT. He’s faced horrifying meltdowns and teachers' pets and even thesis advisee crushes. But adolescents en masse? 

It’s rather terrifying. 

He finds Lily at the check-in desk. “That’s a lot of children.”

“Yes.” She glances from her clipboard with a grin. “It seems much more when you see them all.”

Regulus swallows, gearing himself up for the inordinate amount of social energy and patience this next bit would require.

Lily meets his eye. “You got this.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely.”

Then the campers are running off the two-decker bus, old friends squealing as they reunite, others running up to counselors for familiar hugs, and the new ones lingering in the back, holding their luggage with wide eyes. Regulus goes to them first. 

Once all the bags are out of the bus, and the campers have all been checked in, the counselors rally the crowd onto the parking lot. 

Mary jumps up onto one of the wooden logs. “Hey, campers!

More than half of the kids respond with a clear, “Hey! Hey! Hey!” 

“Welcome back for the returners!” Mary slides down her sunglasses, one side painted red, the other green. “And for the newcomers, welcome to Hogwarts!”

There’s a chorus of cheers from counselors and campers alike. Regulus even finds himself clapping, the sheer intensity of prepubescent screams sinking under his skin and pulling a smile from him. 

With all the aptitude tests and advanced classes, Regulus never had time for the foolish, juvenile tendencies of childhood. Not summer camp. Not friends. Not even screams. 

Regulus chose his path, with the support of Alphard, and eventually Alphard’s inheritance. But in moments like these, he can’t help but envy Sirius for their untamed, wild past. 

Then again, Regulus was made for order, not fun. 

“Your first adventure waits just behind me!” Mary turns around and gestures to the wide expanse of the camp. 

Lily steps up on the log, clearing her throat. Regulus doesn’t miss how her hip knocks into Mary’s, nearly pushing her off. “Hidden around camp are red and green snitches.”

“Whichever color you find,” Mary cuts in. “Will determine which house you are in this summer.”

“There’s Gryffindor!” Lily holds up a ‘snitch’, a hacky sack dyed in bright red. 

Across the parking lot, James and Sirius scream loudly, practically jumping on each other. Regulus pretends as if he’s watching the campers’ reactions while he stares at a blood vessel pop in James’ neck. 

“AND THEN THERE’S SLYTHERIN!” Mary echoes, holding up a green snitch. 

The cheers are even louder, Barty and Dorcas chanting something about snakes and venom.  

Regulus understands the notion of ‘houses’, who doesn’t love a good rivalry?, but he finds the sorting process to be somewhat lacking. Children running around camp for balls full of pellets in Christmas colors seems a malapropos method of determining sleeping arrangements. 

But what does Regulus know? He’s only a certified genius. 

After a few more explanations from Mary and Lily, both interrupting each other regularly, the horn blows and the kids set off in all directions. The counselors spread out to follow them, tasked with ensuring that none of them wander in the Wayward Woods, or fight over the illustrious hacky-sacks. According to Sirius, fights have broken out about the snitches before. 

But just as Regulus moves to his assigned section, the path to the Black Lake, he spots Draco sitting in the campfire circle. 

Lily, of course, notices the camper, but she gestures to Regulus as if to say, “give it a shot.”

Regulus shakes his head. 

Lily smirks and turns on her heel. 

With sweaty hands clasped behind his back, Regulus walks forward. When he sits beside Draco on the log, the kid jerks away. 

As per Dumbledore and Lily’s guidance, Regulus offers a vague, but sincere question to show that he ‘cares about the camper’s feelings and is ready to listen’. “How are you doing?”

Draco doesn’t respond. 

Regulus gives him another thirty seconds. He counts. Then he tries again. “Not into scavenger hunts?” 

“No.”

“Me either. I find it a very infantile game.” Regulus realizes his mistake quickly. Counselors are supposed to be sincere, but not blunt. Honest but not critical. 

“Well.” Draco sneers. “This is an infantile camp. It’s all a big joke. I don’t want to be here. Mother forced me to come, and now she’s left me and—” he cuts off, looking away.

Regulus stares at that blonde hair. This isn’t any ordinary Hogwarts camper. This is a younger version of himself. This is a Black successor. 

So he changes tactics. “Of course, there’s a layer of unexpected complexity to the sorting that most campers fail to realize.”

Draco doesn’t turn his head. 

“The snitches are hidden in a pattern,” Regulus says nonchalantly. “If one were to map all of them, they’d discover a message.”

“Why should I care?” Draco’s voice is high and tight as if he is holding back tears.

Regulus holds back a sigh. Not interested in intellectual challenges, then. 

He tries again. “The first to find a snitch is, of course, a camp celebrity.”

Draco says nothing. 

Regulus’ brows furrow. If not ego or wit, there’s only one more option. What the Black children want and fear most of all; their parent’s pride. 

“And,” Regulus drawls. “All parents are notified of each camper’s sorting, of course.”

Immediately, Draco’s head whips around. “You’re going to write to my mom?”

“Yes—”

“About me ?”  

“It’s important to share your victories with your parents.” Regulus is quoting the handbook. He knows that the letters the counselors write are really to convince the parents to donate to Hogwarts. 

“I—but—” Draco swallows. It’s not fear in his eyes, but rather desperation. He wishes to please Narcissa. Regulus had wanted the same for Alphard. 

Draco stands up. “Tell me where a snitch is.”

“That would be cheating.”

“So?” Draco’s nose scrunches. “If you don’t tell me I’ll—”

Regulus nearly laughs at how similar the kid is to his mother. “No need to threaten me, Draco.” 

Another slip on Regulus’s part. But if Draco is surprised that Regulus knows his name, he doesn’t show it. 

“I’ll give you a riddle,” Regulus says with a smirk. “Where life is measured in hours. Where destruction and comfort dance. Where air is nourishment yet wind is enemy.”

Draco’s eyes light up and he sprints across the circle, digging into the unlit fire pit. Regulus finds he’s almost proud when Draco holds up a green snitch a few minutes later. He comes in second, behind a kid with shaggy brown hair and a strange scar, who found a red snitch in Peter’s ATV. 

It’s only when Sirius comes forward with a pitying frown, that Regulus realizes what exactly that means. 

Draco Malfoy is one of his campers. 

Fuck.