Chapter Text
Regulus is standing inside the keep’s living quarters, hands folded behind his back, shoulders pulled back hard enough to please the portraits lining the walls, chin lifted at exactly the angle he’d been taught to maintain. He is waiting upon the arrival of a prince from the capital. Some carefully curated political gesture meant to prove that House Black was respectable, cooperative, harmless. As if a visiting royal could bleach the blood from the stones or soften the cruelty etched into the family name.
God forbid his parents be seen as tyrants, when in truth they wore the title like a second skin.
When word had reached him that they would be leaving the city for “business,” Regulus had felt something dangerously close to relief. Not freedom, he would never be foolish enough to name it that, but something adjacent to breathing. As though the crushing elephant that usually sat upon his chest had been replaced with a slightly smaller one.
He stood before the tall arched window overlooking the castle’s front courtyard. Beyond the iron gates, the road curled away toward the hills, empty but for dust and sunlight. If Regulus knew anything about Prince James of Pottermere, it was that he was late. He was meant to arrive for tea, and the sun, traitor that it was, had already crept past its proper place.
Regulus exhales sharply through his nose and calls over his shoulder, “Sirius.”
His brother answered with irritating ease. “What is it, little brother? You know how very busy I’ve been since Mother and Father left.”
“Please,” Regulus said flatly. “You delegate your work to half the advisers and then vanish to God knows where.” He shoots Sirius a pointed look, one that might suggest he knows exactly where Sirius goes while the council argues themselves in circles. “I only wanted to know if there was any word on our guest. I’m not a patient man, and-”
Before Regulus can finish speaking, the door swings open.
Barty, Regulus’ personal butler, enters without a sound, the door clicking shut behind him so softly the candles barely flicker. “Excuse me, my lords,” he said, bowing. “Prince James has arrived.”
Sirius grinned, infuriatingly pleased. “Well. Looks like if you had been a patient man, you would have gotten your answer.” He straightens, already turning away. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was in the middle of doing something far more important. Please send the Prince my dearest apologies, and I will meet him during supper,” He offers a mock bow, overly dramatic, flourishing in a way that would have earned him punishment had their parents been present. An hour of correction, shoulders forced back, spine rigid until pain became obedience.
Regulus bit back the instinct to reprimand him. Or to roll his eyes. Or both
Instead, he turned to Barty. “Please escort him inside,” he says evenly, “and see that his belongings are brought in.”
“Of course, my lord.” Barty bows with the same impossible symmetry he brings to everything else, spine straight, hands neatly clasped behind him, and withdraws..
Moments later, footsteps echo against the stone.
Prince James enters as though the room already belongs to him, easy, unguarded, too bright for the severity of the keep. He smiles, and it was a dangerous thing, all warmth and confidence, the kind that could make people forget themselves
“My lord,” James says, bowing with the same irreverent flair Sirius had used, though his was polished enough to pass for charm. His smile never wavers. “My apologies for the late arrival. You’d never believe me, but my carriage was delayed by some thieves. Fortunately, I had guards with me. Otherwise, I suspect things might have gone rather poorly.”
Regulus nodded, offering the bare minimum of courtesy. He was only half listening.
His attention snags instead on James’ hair, sun gold and hopelessly unruly, catching the afternoon light as if it was something meant to be admitted rather than tamed. It looked soft. It looked wrong here, amid cold stone and sharpened silence.
Regulus drags his attention back to the prince’s face and smooths the reaction from his features before it can settle there.
“Welcome to Blackspire,” he says at last. “I trust your journey will not be an omen of our alliance.”
James’ smile sharpens, just slightly, like he’d heard something interesting beneath the words. “I suppose,” he replies, “that depends on what sort of omens you believe in.”
And Regulus has the sudden, unsettling thought that this prince might be far more trouble than a late arrival ever should have been.
James’ gaze drifts, slow and assessing, taking in the vaulted ceiling, the ironwork along the beams, the portraits that stare down like judges. His expression never falters, but something thoughtful settles behind his eyes.
“I was told that there were two of you here,” he says lightly. “Is your brother not joining us?”
Regulus does not hesitate. “He’s off doing work,” he replies. “With our parents gone, the responsibility of the estate falls largely on him.” It’s the approved answer. The sanctioned one.
James hums softly, neither agreement nor disbelief. His eyes flick to Regulus’ face, attentive in a way that feels invasive. “I see,” he says. “That’s quite a burden.”
Regulus inclines his head, acknowledging the statement without accepting sympathy.
Sympathy, after all, was a liability.
Barty appears in the doorway moments later, not a single movement is wasted. “If it pleases you, Your Highness, I will escort you to your chambers.”
James’ smile returns in full, bright and effortless. “Lead the way.”
Regulus keeps himself rooted beside the window as they leave, refusing the impulse to follow the conversation drifting down the corridor. James continues talking as they walk, hands moving, head tilting toward Barty, voice animated even at a distance. He can already imagine how that conversation will be relayed later, recounted in careful detail once the keep has gone quiet and Barty allows himself the smallest breach of protocol.
The carriage was late, my lord. He laughed about it. Asked the footmens their names. Wanted to know how long the west wing had been closed.
Regulus presses his tongue against his teeth and turns away.
There is still work to be done.
Rosemary and smoke linger in the dining hall by the time Regulus arrives, long tables polished to a dull sheen, silver laid out with military precision. Candles are already lit despite the remaining daylight, appearance must be maintained. Other nobles will arrive soon. Smaller houses, yes, but loyal ones. Loyal to his parents. Loyal to the cruelty dressed up as order.
He wonders, briefly, if James’ charm will survive here.
It nearly pulls a smirk from him.
Guests begin to arrive in waves. Coats are removed, titles exchanged, hands kissed and clasped. Regulus receives them all with practiced ease, his smile held in place with practiced ease, warm enough to reassure, distant enough to discourage familiarity.
Sirius is still absent.
Regulus catches Barty’s eye as the last of the guests filter in. “Find my brother,” he says quietly. “Please.”
Tension ripples through Barty almost instantly, shoulders stiffen by a fraction before he bows. “Of course, my lord.”
Sirius favors the alcoves near the western stairwell when he wants to avoid scrutiny, or the servants' staircase when he wants to disappear entirely.. He also knows Sirius will not miss supper entirely. He never does. There are lines even Sirius will not cross.
Right on cue, footsteps echo just as the head butler clears his throat.
“My lords, my ladies,” the man announces, voice carrying effortlessly, “supper is prepared.”
Sirius appears at the far end of the hall, looking infuriatingly unbothered, dark hair slightly out of place, mouth already curved into something that suggests amusement. He offers Regulus a look as he approaches. A silent see? I’m here. Before taking his seat.
Sirius crosses the hall with loose shoulders and an easy grin, as though pain has never once managed to leave a mark on him..
They are seated according to rank.
To Regulus’ left sits Prince James of Pottermere. To his right, Lady Rosier, sharp eyed and sharper tongued, her family crest glinting against dark silk. Across from them, Lord Avery, heavyset and perpetually displeased. Lord Mulciber, whose smile never quite reaches his eyes. And Lady Flint, whose gaze lingers too long on everything worth dissecting.
Their attention prowls over him like a pack of wolves circling wounded prey.
He rolls his shoulders once and settles into the posture beaten into him since childhood, and begins to guide the conversation as he always does, safe topics, neutral ground. Trade routes. Harvest yields. A passing mention of James’ kingdom, framed carefully as admiration rather than inquiry.
James plays along beautifully. He is polite without being deferential, charming without crossing into disrespect. He laughs at the right moments, asks questions that flatter than threaten.
Lady Flint laughs too quickly at James’ joke. Across the table, Lord Avery’s expression soften by degrees, and understands with reluctant clarity just how easily the prince wins people over.
James turns slightly toward him when speaking, shoulders angling closer with easy familiarity. Too close. Close enough for the others to start drawing conclusions.
Because the others are watching.
Not listening.
How Regulus reacts. How he inclines his head. How often he meets the prince’s gaze. Watching whether he stiffens or softens, whether he leans in or away.
A whisper carries down the table, barely audible. “They look well matched.”
Regulus locks his jaw before any reaction can reach his face, answering in the same even tone he uses during interrogations from his mother, as he responds to Lady Flint’s question about the southern borders. He does not look at James. He does not react.
But something cold settles in his chest. Because he understands, with a sudden and perfect clarity, that nothing he does tonight will be dismissed as coincidence.
Every glance will be remembered.
Every silence weighed.
Every breath, interpreted.
And whatever role they are expected to play, he will be punished for it later.
Regulus has always been better at enduring punishment than preventing it.
James waits until the servants have withdrawn and the last of the minor nobles have settled into smaller, murmuring clusters before he speaks.
“My lord,” he says pleasantly, pitching his voice to carry just enough, “might I impose you for a brief walk? The evening air is meant to be freshening, and it would be a shame not to enjoy the grounds while I’m here.”
It is phrased as a request. Polite. Entirely impossible to refuse without consequence.
Regulus spares him a glance
Around them, conversation falters, not openly, not enough to be rude, but just enough for Regulus to feel the collective attention sharpen. He inclines his head.
“Of course,” he replies evenly. “If you’ll excuse me.”
He disentangles himself from the small knot of nobles in the drawing room with practiced ease, offering murmured apologies and assurances of his return. James follows at his side, unhurried, as though this were the most natural progression of the evening.
At the threshold, James pauses and offers his arm.
The gesture lingers half a second too long to be accidental, polished enough that refusing it would look far ruder than accepting. Regulus hesitates only a fraction of a second before accepting it. To refuse would be noted. To accept will be noted.
They step out into the cool night.
Quiet settles over the grounds, the gravel path pale beneath the moonlight. The keep looms behind them, its windows glowing softly, though Regulus knows better than to assume darkness means privacy.
James inhales deeply, as though savoring the air. “Dinner was delectable,” he says, a little too loudly. “And after a meal like that, one really must walk it off. Preferably with good company”
Regulus keeps his gaze forward. Movement flickers behind one of the upper windows, shadow briefly interrupting the candlelight. He does not turn his head.
“Yes,” he says. “I suppose so.”
Their footsteps crunch in unison for several paces before James speaks again, his tone casual, conversational.
“My parents,” he begins, as if discussing the weather, “are very invested in my future. Particularly the…romantic aspects of it.”
Regulus’ grip on James’ arms tightens, just enough for James to notice, but imperceptible to those looking.
“They take keen interest in how I’m perceived,” James continues lightly. “Who I’m seen with. What conclusions might be drawn from that.”
“I’m sure,” Regulus replies, voice cool, “that most royal families do.”
James glances at him, studying the set of his mouth, the careful neutrality. “And yours?”
Regulus lets out a small sigh. “House Black values usefulness,” he says. “Affection is…secondary. If it is valued at all.”
James hums, thoughtful. “That sounds exhausting.”
“It is efficient,” Regulus corrects.
Silence stretches between them, thicker now. Not uncomfortable, simply weighted. Understanding settles between them without either naming it aloud.
This visit was never about courtesy.
Never about alliances alone.
They near the entrance again, the warm light spilling out to meet them. Just before they reach the door, James speaks again, his voice lowered now, stripped of its earlier projection.
“If they intend to parade us,” he mutters, “we should at least decide how we stand.”
Words meant quietly still hit like a final decision.
James opens the door and steps aside, allowing Regulus to enter first. The sounds of conversation swell immediately, the illusion of ease snapping back into place. For a fleeting moment, the noise of the drawing room had faded enough to forget they were being watched at all.
“Regulus, my dear brother,” Sirius calls, relief plain on his face as he looks up. “So glad you could rejoin us. We were just about to serve some drinks,”
Good, Regulus thinks dryly as he takes his seat. Now he knows how it feels.
James sits beside him without comment, close enough to be unmistakable.
Whatever his parents intend with this prince, whatever performance they are constructing, James is at least competent.
Cheerful. Smiling. Dangerous.
And Regulus has the unsettling sense that, whether he likes it or not, he has already been placed exactly where he is meant to be seen.
Once the last quests depart, the keep settles into a different kind of silence. Servants move softly through the corridors. The halls echo longer. Candles are snuffed one by one, leaving pockets of shadow in the corners that had been brightly lit only hours before. Regulus retreats to one of the smaller sitting rooms tucked away off the east corridor, a space too insignificant to host councils, too plain to invite scrutiny.
He sits by the window with a book open in his hands, though he has not turned the page in some time.
“Ah, Regulus,” Sirius says, voice carrying a note of forced lightness. “Hiding from His Highness already?”
Regulus does not look up. “He retired early.”
Sirius crosses the room, glancing at the untouched tea set, the careful order. “Pity,” he says mildly. “He is quite pretty. Pretty enough to cause trouble, I’m sure.”
Regulus hums in response, eyes still fixed on the page. “Yes. Well, if you think so, why not have him court you?”
Sirius stops. The shift in him is immediate, like a door slamming shut. The humor drains from his expression, replaced by something harder, older.
“I refuse,” Sirius says flatly, “to be part of whatever Mother and Father have in mind.”
Regulus finally lifts his gaze, the last time Sirius went against the wishes of the house, the entire west wing heard it.
“You’re their lapdog,” Sirius says, the words landing cleanly.
Regulus does not correct him.
“You always have been. You should have known this arrangement was never going to be harmless.”
Sirius delivers the words cleanly, like he’s spent years sharpening them for exactly this fight.
Regulus closes the book slowly, fingers marking his place out of habit rather than intent. “You think I don’t know that?”
Sirius scoffs. “Then why do you play along?”
“Because,” Regulus replies, “someone has to.”
Sirius turns away, pacing a short line across the rug. “You let them parade you in front of him like a prize horse.”
Regulus’ fingers tighten on the edge of the book. The leather creaks. He loosens his grip immediately.
“You sat there while they watched every glance, every breath-”
“And you,” Regulus interrupts quietly, “were absent.”
Sirius still.
“They notice that too,” Regulus adds. “They always do.”
Sirius turns back, jaw tight.
Regulus’ gaze drops automatically, and then lifts just as quickly. He has learned not to look at Sirius’ hands for too long.
“You don’t have to make this easy for them.”
“I don’t,” Regulus says. “I make it survivable.”
Neither of them speaks. Sirius’ jaw ticks once. Regulus keeps his eyes fixed on the edge of the table.
“You think this prince is harmless?” Sirius asks at last.
“No,” Regulus answers immediately. “I think he’s observant. Which may be worse.”
Sirius exhales sharply. “Then don’t trust him.”
“I don’t trust anyone,” Regulus says. “That’s how I’ve lasted this long.”
Something like guilt flickers across Sirius’ face before he looks away. “You don’t have to do this alone.”
Regulus looks back down at his book. “You say that now.”
Sirius doesn’t respond. The silence presses in again, heavier than before.
When he finally turns to leave, Regulus speaks once more, voice steady despite everything.
“They’ve already decided,” he says. “What I am to them. What I’m for.”
Sirius pauses at the doorway, shoulders squared.
“And if this prince complicates things?”
Regulus’ gaze drifts to the darkened window, to the faint reflection of the keep behind him.
“Then,” he says softly. “I’ll pay for that too.”
The door closes without another word.
Regulus opens his book again, though the letters blur together. Somewhere in the keep, a prince sleeps, unaware, perhaps, or pretending to be.
And Regulus cannot decide which possibility is more dangerous.
Darkness has settled across the corridor by the time Regulus heads upstairs, the keep settling into its nocturnal hush. Torches burn low in their brackets, casting long, wavering shadows along the stone. His footsteps are nearly silent, a learned habit, not caution.
It’s the light beneath the door that stops him.
A thin, persistent line of gold spills across the floor from the room beside his own.
Regulus closes his eyes for a brief moment.
Of course.
His fingers linger briefly before he pushes open his door.
Barty, efficient to the point of cruelty, has placed the prince exactly where he will be seen. Exactly where he will be heard. A sick joke, dressed up as obedience.
He steps inside his chambers and shuts the door behind him.
Barty is already there, smoothing the bed linens with unnecessary precision.
Regulus arches a brow. “You know,” he says mildly, “it’s quite improper for a butler to be hiding in a lord’s room at this hour.”
Barty doesn’t even look startled. “I have been attending to your every whim, my lord,” he replies serenely. “And you cannot imagine how difficult it has been moving things into His Highness’ chambers. I don’t think he knows what silence is.”
Regulus huffs, shedding his outer coat and draping it over the chair. “I suspected as much.” He loosens the clasp at his throat, fingers working automatically. “Speaking of the prince,” he adds, tone carefully neutral. “Why must he be housed in the room next to mine?”
Barty pauses, just briefly, before turning to face him. “Your mother’s orders,” he says. “As much as I serve you, they do rank above you when it comes to giving instructions.”
Regulus hums noncommittally as he slips free of his gloves and sets them aside. He does not bother to mask the tension that settles between his shoulders.
“I see.”
Barty resumes his work, straightening a candle that does not need straightening. “If it’s any consolation, His Highness seemed quite pleased with the arrangement.”
“I’m sure he was.”
Regulus unfastens his doublet, each motion economical, practiced enough that he can undress without seeming hurried or flustered. The candlelight catches on the sharp lines of his reflection, every expression already smoothed away before it can fully form.
Barty glances over his shoulder. “What was that whole, let's take a walk around the grounds affair, anyway?” he asks lightly. “It had everyone in a proper tiff. I heard Lady Rosier nearly choke on her wine.”
Regulus’ mouth twitches despite himself. “Not anything good,” he replies. “If I read the situation correctly.”
“And you are very rarely wrong,” Barty says, tone dry.
Regulus meets his gaze in the mirror. “They’re watching,” he says quietly. “All of them.”
Barty inclines his head. “They always are.”
Silence settles again, broken only by the faintest sound from the other side of the wall, movement, perhaps, or a muffled voice. Another muffled sound slips through the wall. Regulus’ hand pauses halfway to the candle snuffer.
Barty notices.
“I can request additional tapestry to be hung,” he offers. “The walls here are…thin.”
Regulus’ fingers still against the buttons of his sleeve.. “No. That would draw attention.”
“As you wish.” Barty finishes his tasks and moves toward the door. Before leaving, he pauses. “Shall I remain nearby tonight?”
Regulus hesitates, then nods once. “Yes. Just in case.”
Barty bows and slips out, closing the door softly behind him.
Regulus sits on the edge of the bed and allows himself one final, quiet sigh. The candlelight flickers, shadows dancing along the walls. From next door comes another muted sound, too close to ignore, too distant to confront.
Whatever his parents have arranged, whatever role they intend for him to play, it has already begun.
Sleep feels impossibly far away.