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Chapter Text

The melancholy notes of a lovesick ballad flew deftly from the fingers of a seated man. twirling chords indulged the dejected duke draped haphazardly over a high-backed chair across the room.

James’ most recent rejection at the hands of the Lady Lily barely stings this time - like brushing gently past a bramble, the suggestion of a harsher hurt. Still, being constantly unwanted aches like pressing on a fresh scab.

Years of desperately trying to become enough for her had worn away at him. He wanted, at least, to be acknowledged. Perhaps, to have a civilised conversation as equals, if that wasn’t too much to ask. Instead he’d been consistently dismissed and remained frustratingly blindfolded to the truth of why he was apparently so violently unappealing.

“Keep playing please, Barty,” the forlorn duke requested as the song slowed to its final notes. “It’s helping me reckon with being sad and lonely forever.”

“Fucking hell,” a new, amused voice quipped as a man strolled into the room. “It might be about time to burn that guitar if he keeps up like this.”

At that, James jerked up, the mood of the room brightening as he laid eyes on his brother, freshly returned from a political trip.

“Sirius! How was your trip?’’ he cried as he leapt up to wrestle the man into a tight embrace.

“Brilliant: we sailed all over the place. The people were great and the views on some of the islands were unbeatable. The meetings and political stuff was boring as always -”

“- yet you’re still the best at it -”

“- but the locals took me to see some amazing places -”

“- like their beds?”

Sirius shot James an unimpressed look, “And some of them, I’m hopeful, will push for their leaders to form some sort of treaty with us.” He released James and fell gracefully into a chair, sprawling in exhaustion.

“And did you…” began James, “I mean, when you went east, were there…”

“Spit it out,” Sirius demanded, eyebrows raised.

James huffed. “Slytherin? Any luck?”

Sirius sighed at the name of the island governed (or rather, controlled) by the Black family; his family, if only by blood. He stared pointedly at the ceiling with his head lolled as he thought about his disowned relatives. After being thrown out at 16, he’d bargained his way onto a ship sailing to Illyria, the island justly governed by the house of Potter.

“They wouldn’t let my ship into the harbour, let alone allow me to bore them to death with some trade treaty when we all know they’re loyal to that bloody dictator Riddle.” Sirius spat angrily, voice rising with each word. “Couldn’t be arsed to sit around on their plush fucking cushions in their plush fucking castles while their subjects starve like there’s some famine when really the Lesttranges and the Blacks and all the rest of those suck-up purist knobs are bleeding their people dry with their ‘property taxes’ to fund their caviar and Cashmere bullshit. Too obsessed with their padded bank accounts and licking Riddle’s boots. Some ‘allies’ they are, they wouldn’t deign to give us a nights rest on any of the islands. We’d been sailing for days!”

“Sirius,” James replied, leaning over to grip his shoulder reassuringly, “I know, but at least you tried, mate. It’s okay.”

Sirius rolled his eyes but said, calmer this time, “Yeah, dunno why I expected anything more. It’s alright.”

He stood up and moved to the table to grab a handful of grapes. Whilst he leaned over, picking the best ones, he spoke again, “I’ll be off again tomorrow morning to another wreck. This one’s fresh, after the storm yesterday.”

“How long?” James asked.

“A few days, probably. It’s only a day’s travel but it’s a big one, apparently.”

James grabbed and pulled at Sirius’ sleeve in mock annoyance, “Nooo, stay longer before you go.”

Sirius laughed. “I imagine you’ll be waiting here, lonely and desperately waiting for your gorgeous husband to return home from war.”

“Alright, no need to be cruel,” James said, crossing his arms and looking away, “I just like having my best friend around, is all.”

“Okay fine, I’ll bring you a present back from the wreck. But until then…” Sirius grinned maniacally, “race you to the pool! Last one has to wash up after dinner!” He set off sprinting to the doors.

James cried after him, “Sirius, that’s what the servants do!”

He set off running, a second behind, nonetheless.

…

Bedraggled curls steadily dripped water from their knotted lengths into the waterlogged neckline of a wrecked gown. The figure took heavy steps, laboured by a combination of exhaustion and the heavy, dragging fabric.

She threw herself down onto the sand, wringing out the ends of her hair.

“That was a refreshing swim, eh?” an equally drenched man, the sailor, asked in his gruff voice in an attempt to be lighthearted. The girl just shot him an unamused look.

“Right, well, I’ve gotta get myself to the port for another ship for work, so I’ll be going now,” the sailor announced as he walked away from the girl.

She watched him turn away and narrowed her eyes. “Wait,” she says, and he stops, turning back to her. "What do I do, I’m a girl stuck alone on an unknown island now. What do you think will happen to me? I can't work, I don’t have any money, I can’t steal a boat to sail outta here on my own. Are you really gonna leave a weak girl to fend for herself?"

"Well I can’t take you with me. You’ve just said it, you can't work so how’ll you help on a boat? And the rest of my crew’s gone walkabout now."

"I see," the girl nodded. "If this is how it must be, give me some of your clothes." The sailor raised his brows. "Oh, and a knife."

"What d’ya need a bloody knife for!?" the sailor said, reeling back.

"How else will I look like a boy?" she grabbed her hair pointedly. When he stared on, confused, she rolled her eyes and sighed. "I need your clothes and short hair and then maybe I’ll find a job and then not die of starvation or being attacked on the street."

"Ah," the sailor nodded dumbly. He turned and grabbed the shirt and trousers washed up in a bag on the shore to hand them over. They’re wet, but at least they're not heavy. He then pulled a knife out of a small sheath at his hip and walked behind the girl, who flinched and spun to shove him away.

"Woah!" he shouted. "I’m just gonna shear the hair off, like you wanted."

The girl nodded warily and turned slowly to face away from him, tense and listening to his every movement.

The slick sound of a blade slicing was matched by the gentle coiling of the tangled hair as it fell to the ground.

Once that was done, the sailor turned away to give her some privacy.

First, she ripped a long rag from the hem of her dress, 20 centimetres wide.

"Merde," the waterlogged girl breathed out as she shucked the soaked dress, scrabbling at the laces of the corset to peel it away, instead binding a strip of the torn fabric tightly around her chest and shrugging into the loose, men’s shirt. Stepping into the trousers, she grabbed her boots to carry down the beach as they dry.

As she turned, she called out to the sailor.

"Right," she announced shortly, "I’ll be off to find work then."

The sailor turned back around. "You’re looking well manly, now," he smiled. "And who am I speaking to, sir?"

The newly made boy stopped short, cropped hair ruffling in the wind, brow furrowing.

"Regulus," he said. "Regulus Arcturus."

Chapter Text

Regulus followed the man in front of him on his tour of the vast house. The man looks to be around Regulus’ age - 19, maybe 20 - and wears the plain, practical trousers and shirt of a servant. He’s taller by at least half a foot, with spiky, brown hair and clever, dark eyes.

“And that’s your tour all done, Reggie,” the man announced as they stopped outside the only open door along a corridor of four other closed doors. He grinned, “Mind if I call you Reggie?”

Regulus glared at Barty, frowning.

“I guess that’s a no, then. Well, this one’s your room.” He gestured to the plain room, furnished with only a bed, sink, and wardrobe. The table next to the bed is barely big enough for the lamp sitting on it, emitting a warm light.

Passably polite, Regulus nodded to Barty as he walked past into his new room, his expressionless face betraying nothing as the other man quirked an eyebrow in amusement. Regulus set the bundle of clothes - a mixture of comfy garments borrowed from the other servants for sleep and their hours off and three sets of the plain, dark uniform - on the bed as he began to hang and fold them into the wardrobe.

His induction into the Potter household, the name of the ruling House of Illyria, was smooth. The four other staff were pleasant and welcoming. One cook - Mr Dobby who had huge, kind eyes and a squeaky, high-pitched voice - and one groundsman - Mrs Sprout, who managed to have soil stuck between the straps of her overalls - shook his hand and bustled off to their respective duties.

The two other men, roughly Regulus’ age, informed him that they are occasionally assigned menial tasks like sweeping the floors, dusting the shelves, making the beds, and clearing up after dinner. However, while Regulus would be living in the house full-time, they move fluidly between Illyria (House Potter) and the Emerald Isle (House Evans) as court jesters and entertainers. Barty’s extroverted conversationalism was already obvious, yet Evan was a quieter, dreadlock-sporting, taller man, a complement to the other man’s buoyant personality. Clearly, both were endowed with amusing enough wit, and this manifested as a comfortable chemistry between them. Their easy dynamic flowed like water, each bouncing a word off the other like they played an endless game of ‘keep the balloon off the floor.’

When Evan dismissed himself to attend to his musical duties for Lord Potter, Barty announced that he would take Regulus on a tour of the house. A plethora of trips through bedrooms, pantries, kitchen, dining room, staircases, the sprawling gardens, snaking hallways, and - finally, now - the servants’ rooms later, they’d finally stopped.

Glancing up to see Barty still standing in his doorway, Regulus looked at him expectantly as he continued to fold. “Inform me of my duties when I’m needed.” He hesitated then mumbled, “please.”

The corner of Barty’s lip lifted, his shoulder leaning into the doorframe. He placed a hand to his chest and gasped in mock surprise. “What manners you have, Regulus dear. But there is a masquerade tonight at six so be down at noon.”

Donning a more serious expression, he stared solemnly into Regulus’ eyes, “But the way you look right now, it’s not acceptable. This little outfit is not okay for you to wear in public tonight.”

Muscles tensing, a flash of fear ricocheted through Regulus. He was suddenly very aware of the fabric wound tightly to compress his chest, the short coils of his hair scratching his skin where they were a new, comfortable brush only seconds before. Mouth suddenly dry, he stood pin-straight, shaking his head with an explanation forming on the tip of his tongue.

“We’ve gotta get you a costume for tonight!” Barty announced, oblivious to Regulus’ brewing panic at his presentation as a man failing. “What’s a masquerade without masks and outfits, anyway? Obviously Evan and I will dress you up in something, we’ve got plenty of old costumes.”

Regulus swallowed hard as he realised that, for the first time since his brother left, there was someone who wanted to spend time with him for him and not for his political strength. Or maybe Barty had just been ordered to make him presentable. Nonetheless, he found himself, dare he say, excited at the prospect of a ball on a new island, in new clothes, with a new identity and name, where no one knows who he is or who he’s related to.

Becoming aware that he was getting emotional over someone offering him a costume and - potentially - company, whether it’s because he was being paid to or not, he chided himself: there’s no use wasting energy on silly, irrelevant people. And there’s no use throwing away power by revealing this weakness.

With a perfunctory nod, Regulus murmured a “thank you” and moved to the door to his room, shutting it gently but swiftly to retreat into the privacy of his new quarters.

…

Light filtered through the broad windows of the hallway. The shadows thrown were short in the warm, mid-morning light. They moulded and twisted as one of the two figures stood chatting leaned against the wall, gesticulating aggressively.

“And so, I said, yeah of course he’s attractive, because who the hell doesn’t look at Lord James Potter and think ‘smash’, you know?” The rough, echoing voice of one of the figures - a blonde, slouching young woman - said to the shorter, bemused man listening to her.

The man tilted his head and wrinkled his nose. “Marlene, do I really need to remind you you’re not attracted to men?”

“Yeah, I know Peter,” she huffed impatiently, waving her hands around wildly but inconsequentially as she spoke again, as if explaining something to a child. “I’m not attracted to them, but I can bloody well tell when one of them is objectively attractive. And I would say, aside from the huge trust fund and gigantic house - who even needs more than three bedrooms? - he’s good looking, and that’s pretty appealing.”

“Okay, I can't argue with that, I guess,” Peter admitted, stifling his laughter at Marlene’s long-winded explanation.

Marlene rolled her eyes, crossing her arms. “Yeah. Well, anyway, so when I told her that, she said, ‘Well I just don’t find him that attractive -’ ”

“Who don’t you find attractive?” a new voice asked as an elegant, lithe figure walked towards them. Long, neat braids swung heavily, the beads clinking together, as she stopped next to Peter and Marlene.

“Oh, hi Dorcas,” Marlene said as she straightened away from the wall she was leaning on. “It’s not me, it’s Lady Lily. Basically she thinks Lord James isn’t attractive, so I was just telling Peter about how I had to explain that he’s obviously, like, super handsome, you know?”

“You’re attracted to James Potter?” Dorcas asked in confusion. “But isn’t everyone trying to get Lily and him together? I find it strange how involved everyone else is, but I’m curious why you would be inclined to interfere.”

Marlene laughed. “Oh, no no no I’m not attracted to him, see this is what I was just telling peter, I just think he’s attractive but somehow Lily is in denial when it’s staring her right in the face. And that he’s loaded so he could basically keep anyone happy. But I would obviously never go for him because, you know, that's not really my type.”

With her head tilted and a small smirk on her lips, Dorcas raised her eyebrows and asked, “I see, and what exactly is your type, then?”

She winked at Peter, who just grinned back, as Marlene faltered. “Well, you know,” she shrugged helplessly.

“No, I don’t really,” Dorcas claimed.

Marlene looked at her in confusion. “What, you haven’t heard all the rumours? I mean, I’m not discreet and I don’t hide it, because I know I’m safe in Lily’s court, but people still gossip pretty nastily about it.”

A frown appeared on Dorcas’ face, eyes flickering to Peters. What had been meant as harmless teasing had suddenly become a topic that needed to be walked around lightly. Whilst the Gryffindor Houses tended to be accepting, the Houses that ruled the Slytherin Isles were notorious for being bigoted and prejudiced. Some of those practices slipped into some of the Gryffindor residents, who found the fear that can grow from not understanding something to be best expressed through unwelcoming behaviour, rather than educating themselves.

“Nah, I’m just bullshitting you, I’m gay,” Marlene said, grinning and high-fiving Peter, snapping Dorcas out of her concern. “The rumours about me are all true, and all from public incidents. They’re all just facts at this point. Like that guy who threw salt at me when he caught me kissing a girl at a party. That was wild. What, am I a demon or something?”

She laughed again, nudging Peter as he turned to speak to Dorcas reassuringly, “Don’t worry, she does this all the time. She thinks it’s a funny prank and she tells the same story about the salt guy at least once a month.”

Dorcas nodded as the amused smile returned to her lips. “More fool me for falling for it then. Are you two planning on attending the masquerade at Potter’s later, then?”

They nodded in confirmation.

“Actually,” Peter started, “you could probably help us out with this.”

Dorcas looked at him questioningly, “Oh?”

“See, Lady Lily isn’t really our biggest fan at the moment,” Peter explained. “Just because we keep making use of her extensive wine cellar from time to time.”

“Okay, and this is a problem because..?”

Marlene interjected, “It just happened to be when she had important political allies and representatives staying in the house. But it was only once, maybe twice -”

“Maybe six times,” mumbled Peter.

“But Lily isn’t pleased about it, and Mary’s always walking about sneering at me because of that one time I invited Lord James over for dinner even though I know Mary has a thing for Lily,” Marlene rolled her eyes as she finished.

Dorcas looked at them both, unimpressed. “So, you two screwed yourselves over and want me to trick Mary so you can sneak into the masquerade?”

“Yes!” Marlene and Peter exclaimed simultaneously.

Giving them both a shrewd stare, Dorcas was silent for a moment.

“Please?” Peter asked sweetly. He and Marlene watched her face in suspense, hope slowly fading.

Dorcas finally sighed her resignation, “What’s the harm, I guess. You two seem fun to have around. I’ll make sure she’s plenty distracted by Lily’s dress tonight.” As the other two started celebrating their mini-victory, she held up her hand to stop them. “On the condition that you show me some of this cellar wine at pres, later. I’m not rocking up fully sober to one of the Potter parties, especially not with this masquerade theme.”

Marlene smiled a self-satisfied grin, “Meet in the garden at 6. We’d better be late and drunk enough for Sirius Black to approve.”

She turned the corner at the end of the hallway then took a step back around and called out, “Oh, and, Marlene? Don’t go getting salt thrown at you without me there to rile up some rando.” She winked and vanished into the next hallway.

Marlene and Peter watched her leave, mouths agape.

“Well, shit,” Peter laughed.

“Well, shit.”

…

Regulus knocked firmly on the grand doors to the ballroom, anxiously checking his uniform to ensure he’s presentable to speak to his new Lord.

Not ten minutes after he’d left, Barty was back at Regulus’ door telling him Lord James was in need of his services immediately. Luckily, Regulus had finished putting away his meagre belongings and changed into the uniform - a black button-up and black slacks - in less than five minutes. It had only taken lacing his professional but perfectly comfortable leather boots, his favourite part of the uniform, to be ready, and he was downstairs in under a minute.

The smooth, handsome voice that called “come in” made him conscious of his fidgeting. He pulled his shoulders back, straightened his spine, and abandoned picking at his cuffs to instead hang his arms by his sides.

He pushed open the door.

In the middle of the vast ballroom stood a tall, finely-dressed man. The thin fabric of a white dress shirt stretched elegantly over his broad shoulders, the muscles in his back straining as he surveyed the windows across the far side of the room. The mess of hair atop his head was frustrating - but perhaps, though Regulus wouldn’t admit it, endearing - and the comfortable confidence of his stance was obvious in the relaxed way his shoulders were thrown back, feet placed widely enough apart that he appeared at ease in taking up the space he needed, and hands clasped loosely behind his back. The windows’ bright light illuminated his silhouette, Regulus squinting slightly as he walked into the brightness.

“Sir,” Regulus called out, startling James. “You called for me?”

James turned to face the unfamiliar voice, “I did. Regulus, yes? I need you to relay a message to…”

He trailed off as he saw an oddly familiar face. The man standing across the room from him was shorter than him and met his gaze boldly, tumultuous grey eyes staring out from under the bouquet of dark - almost black - curls that fell over his forehead and coiled to the base of his neck. The gentleness of his hair softened the harsh cheekbones and jaw. A slightly hooked nose was framed by light freckles over pale skin, dark eyelashes contrasting the porcelain. James couldn’t place how those perceptive deep eyes, dancing curls, and angular features could be so familiar on their own, yet unidentifiable despite that.

“Relay a message to..?” Regulus prompted, visibly unimpressed.

Cheeks reddening at the embarrassment of being caught staring speechlessly at the gorgeous, composed man in front of him, James cleared his throat.

“Oh, uh, to Lady Lily Evans, of House Evans. Here’s five quid for the river taxi,” James said, rifling in his pocket for the coins. He held his hand out to Regulus.

As the coins fell into Regulus' palm, his hand brushed James’. He pulled back hurriedly and muttered an apology.

James tilted head, biting the inside of his cheek in thought. “You know,” he started, “there’s something about you. Something I just can't quite place.”

Regulus tensed.

“You’ve got such a. I’m not sure. Not a fragility, but you stand so small and held together, like you don’t know how to take up space.” Muscles loosening, Regulus meets his eyes again, raising his eyebrows and looking up in offence.

Fumbling out of the hole he was digging himself into, James tried to justify it, “No, not in a weak way. Just… You’ve got this kind of dark femininity to you, you know? No, that only makes sense in my head. You’re very, well, pretty. Like, you’ve got a pretty voice and a pretty face. Like, if I knew what a goddess’ lips looked like, they’d look like yours. Is that weird to say? Sorry. I don’t know what I’m talking about, I’m apparently not very good at complimenting people. It’s okay, I’ve been told before. Yeah, sorry.”

Regulus dug his nails into his palms, hands scrunched behind his back, as he grew uncomfortable at being called ‘pretty’ - he’d have a crisis about it later - yet felt his cheeks and neck growing warm at the compliments - something else he’d have a crisis about later. He glared at his feet, shuffling his feet apart with the new-found awareness that he was, in fact, allowed to take up space.

He cleared his throat. “MAy I have the message you wish to relay?” he requested curtly.

“What?” James looked at him dumbly, clearly forgetting his incredibly awkward ranting. “Oh yeah. Um, so this is a letter for Lady Lily. It’s a request to meet for tea.”

“Why?”

“Sorry?” James asked, befuddled.

“Why are you sending her a letter when I could just ask her?” Regulus looked him in the eye pointedly.

James huffed an astonished laugh. “Because it’s polite.”

“Is it a political tea, I thought you were allies already?”

“No.”

“Oh, is it about the people on her isle? Emerald Isle?”

“No,” James responded, brows furrowed.

“Is it a love letter?”

Blushing furiously, James stepped back in shock. “No! I just want to meet for tea. I was too… forward, let’s say, when we were younger. She seems to think I still want that sort of a relationship with her, but I’ve been trying to be friends and meet to talk for months. The letters keep getting thrown away though, by her advisor Mary. Or, most of the time these days, Mary just turns Barty or Evan away because she thinks she knows what it means.”

Regulus nodded thoughtfully, “I see. And I’m a fresh face, so I’m useful because she won’t recognise me.”

James looked slightly embarrassed, “Well, yes, I suppose. And I think Lily would listen to someone, especially someone with your… bearing. Plus, she likes talking to someone sharp, no matter their status. There’s a lot of Lords who’d disregard someone for jesting, but more fool them, I’d say.”

“Perhaps,” Regulus said with finality. “I’ll return to assist with the masquerade decorations later.” He turned on his heel, made his way to the doors, and left.

“Later, Regulus,” James said as he listened to the footsteps fade and, finally, the doors to the house slam. He stared at where the man had stood and responded with as few, but necessary, words as possible. Regulus may have been succint, almost dismissive, but James stood idly thinking of his new servant’s captivating, perceptive eyes and dark, elegant curls.

Chapter Text

“What ails you, my dear lady?” Barty asked theatrically, bowing with an exaggerated flourish of his hand. “Beyond the drought of humour in your home. It reeks of something… melancholic.”

In offence, Lily furrowed her brows at the man in front of her. Her gently wavy red hair bobbed against the deep blue of her dress and she shook her head, unimpressed, “No, Barty, I don’t need your mockery right now. Go back to amusing Lord James or something. I’m in mourning.”

“What are you mourning, Lady Lily?” 

“I’m mourning my father, first and foremost, though you probably know that he died years ago. I’m mourning how reassuring he was; I could do with some reassurance right now,” she admitted morosely. “But my sister, too.”

“Why are you mourning them? Are they in hell?”

Lily gave him an offended look, “No, my father was a kind, loving man and he ruled the Emerald Isle justly, and my sister isn't dead, she just won’t speak to me anymore.” 

Barty’s attempts to redeem himself were evidently struggling.

“Well don’t mourn a man in heaven! And if your sister won’t acknowledge you, more fool her for sending her own soul to hell!” Barty exclaimed.

A shocked huff of a laugh escaped Lily’s mouth. She nodded, expression a cocktail of confusion, consideration, and looking like she’d been slapped. Perhaps the jester was wiser than she’d thought, or perhaps his brashness was too sudden and unexpected for her to know how to react.

Pulling herself together, Lily retorted, “Keep that up and I’ll tell every bar on the island to refuse to serve you.”

“No, no, no I didn’t mean it, it was only a joke!” Barty cried, eyes widening in fear, though Lily was evidently sufficiently amused by him and maintained their conversation for just that reason.

“Mhmm,” Lily responded noncommittally with her lips pursed in faux judgement. “How will you redeem yourself, then?”

Grasping at an opportunity, Barty raised his eyebrows as a suggestive smirk grew across his mouth, “I could show you around. Take you out to all the best bars right now?”

At that moment, another young woman walked through the door into the parlour. Her tightly coiling hair was held away from her face in a tightly pulled ribbon. Her red dress complemented her dark skin, the striking red of her full lips mirroring the shade of the fabric flowing down her form.

She glared at Barty. “I’m afraid you will not be taking Lily out to the bars. Watch yourself.”

“Ah, I see, Mary” Barty grinned, then winked as he asked his next question, eyes narrowed and a cheeky glint in his eyes. “What, you wanted to be the one to take her?”

Mary flushed, “A Lady shouldn’t really be seen at the dingy bars around town if she wants her people to respect her, should she?”

Assuming an austere look, Barty looked her in the eye innocently and shook his head, “No, Mary, that wouldn’t set a good example. Please stop making such silly suggestions in front of a -” he leaned in a mock-whispered “- distinguished lady.”

Lily snorted.

“Right, it was… thrilling speaking to you Barty,” Mary delivered monotonously, “but there’s a young man calling on Lily to speak to her now.”

“Ah, of course there is. And I’d bet it’ll take you almost as long to get ready for the masquerade as it takes me, so I’d best be going now, anyway.”

Barty said his goodbyes, blowing a kiss to Lily to antagonise Mary one last time before he left to decorate and dress.

…

Dorcas raised her hand and knocked, bottle of red wine in one hand, the other raised in a fist against the door. 

It had been easy to convince Mary to stay and dine with Lady Lily. Dorcas had barely had to suggest that Mary keep her company - “you know how lonely it’s been for her, what with her sister cutting all contact she needs all the support she can get” - before she agreed profusely.

“I suppose I am the closest to her. And we’ve always had fun together, since we were kids,” Mary had replied. “You keep Marlene and Peter under control while I stay with Lily?”

Dorcas had nodded innocently.

“And please make sure Marlene doesn’t get involved in any scandals again. I don’t care what she gets up to, but we need to maintain a reasonable amount of authority for Lily.”

Reassuring Mary, Dorcas had walked back upstairs to help Lily prepare for dinner. In an elegant, comfortable emerald dress, Lily had joined a wide-eyed Mary at the dining table. At the awed look on Mary’s face, Dorcas had smothered a self-satisfied smirk and slipped back to the servants’ corridor, leaving her standing in front of the door with her drink and costume.

The sound of footsteps drew closer until the door was flung open. Marlene grinned, Peter sat on the floor behind her, mask in hand and costume already on. 

Before she could say a word, Dorcas was being pulled into the room by her arm. “Welcome to the party!”

…

Regulus stood in the hallway to the house’s entrance, waiting patiently. He’d rubbed his thumb over the same corner of the letter from James at this point that the paper had started to thin and soften.

His foot tapped a restless beat, not sure what was to come. His past experiences with other families on the Slytherin Isles had been… demeaning, to say the least. There’s only so many times one can hear how gorgeous babies with ‘your eyes and my son’s bone structure’ could be before it feeds the flame. ‘The flame’ being a lighter to burn the house down with all the people in it.

As he catastrophised the outcome of his errand, his tapping evidently grew excessively audible; a female voice called out to him.

“So are you tapping a hole to the other side of the world, or just composing a symphony?” the woman asked as she strolled closer to him.

Regulus cleared his throat, embarrassed. “My apologies, I’m new to the job.”

“The job of… composing?” Lily questioned bemusedly.

Regulus flinched at his slip up and scolded himself. What family wants a fool for a child. If you’re not direct and precise you can never measure up to anything. The words of his mother echoed through his head, angry and harsh.

Seeing his discomfort, Lily cleared her throat and spoke again, “What can I help you with?”

Regulus looked up, shocked that he’d avoided being scolded for his incompetence. He quickly drew his surprise into a look of slight, unimpressed boredom.

“I have a message from Lord James Potter.”

Lily’s eyes widened a fraction. A small smile grew on her lips, “He’s sending them younger and more handsome each time, I see.” At Regulus’ blank stare - her flirting was lost on him entirely - she spoke again, unembarrassed but somewhat unsure of how to approach a conversation with the cold man in front of her. 

“What does he have to say to me? Seeing as he won’t speak to me himself, apparently.”

Regulus frowned, “Strange, he told me he’d tried but that you wouldn’t speak to him .”

“No, no, I’ve only turned him away when he’s been too familiar and forward with me,” Lily began to explain.

“But he’s been trying to get you to receive his invitations for years..?”

Confused, Lily asked, “What invitations?”

“The invitations to have tea. To have a conversation. To be friends.”

“To be friends?” Lily exclaimed. “He kept inviting me because he thought it was romantic.”

“Romantic?” Regulus stiffened.

Lily nodded, “Yes, he had a bit of a thing for me when we were younger. He asked me to go out with him about a thousand times.” 

“Oh, well this isn’t that,” Regulus told her defensively. “This is just a… platonic thing. He said he wants you to be friends again.”

Realisation dawning in her eyes, Lily gasped, “Oh no, I’ve had Mary turn away all his offers for literally years now. And he still wants to be friends? He gave up on being romantically involved?”

Regulus nodded.

“He kept sending different servants, mostly Evan and Barty, with letters, and it got to the point where I wouldn’t even greet them. And he always instructed them not to tell anyone except me what it was. How have I been so shallow!?”

With nothing to add, Regulus shrugged. Though he probably should’ve reassured her that she wasn’t shallow, he was slightly envious that a Lord - a kind Lord - had shown a genuine interest in her. And not because it was James, obviously.

Lily looked slightly bashful as she held out her hand for the letter, “Can you let him know that I’ll respond in the next few days, please?”

“Yes, Lady Lily,” he replied.

“And maybe you could be the one to collect me? To accompany me to travel to his house?” she asked slyly, blushing gently.

He shifted, “Um, yes, of course, Lady.” He turned to leave

Lily stopped him with a cry, “Wait! Take my ring. I want you to be the one to return it, and I’ll only trust you to.”

Nodding in a facade of complacence, but secretly very ready to leave, Regulus took the ring. He hurried to the door.

…

As the salty wind blew his hair away from his face, Sirius closed his eyes and breathed in deeply: the tangling curls flying around his head were dampened by spray from the waves, the clean air was a refreshing smell of freedom. He only truly felt comforted in the anonymity of the ocean. The closest person was a ship in the far, far distance. His only company was the whipping sea wind, the deep, rolling clouds mirroring the waves below, and the vastness of the water.

The danger out at sea, while obviously very real, was at the will of nature. The water could do what it chose, but it could never rob Sirius of the - quite literal - feeling of escape that it gave him.

Every time he took his sailing boat out and wrestled with the wind and ropes, he was reminded of how he lived a better life now. His childhood, the dark-panelled walls, the drawn curtains filtering interrogation-light beams, the cruel sneer in his mother’s eyes, the threats and feeling of worthlessness, were lost to the salt. There was nothing left for him in that house - never a home, only a haunting shadow filled with fear and misery - but there was always someone waiting for him now, always welcoming arms and a loving greeting.

That house was an empty shell when he left. The grief, the mourning, the guilt. They all stayed in those four fortified, caging walls. Noone was left there for him, only a cruel mother, a resentful father, and his ghosts.

The night he left, tear-tracks running down his dirty cheeks as he crept through dark, grimy streets towards the docks, was the night he realised he had nothing to stay for anymore. After he’d paid his way onto a ship - with enough stolen cash to purchase discretion, too - he’d felt the true beauty of that same sea breeze he now stood in years later. The work on the ship taught him the realities of labour and honest effort, and the terrifying knowledge of his own insignificance which, once he’d come to terms with how unspecial it made him to know this, he came to grips with. The stars and the vast emptiness of the sky reminded him of what could be out there, the other worlds where he could’ve done more, been more, been there.

Getting to House Potter had been the greatest relief of Sirius’ life. Exhausted, absolutely reeking, and emotionally drained, James had helped him come to terms with his new life. That new life involved visiting other islands for political purposes - he’d been raised ro have the more politics-inclined mind - and recent shipwrecks to check for artefacts as well as threats, like weapon movement.

As he pulled up to the wreck site, in relatively shallow water near the cliffs of another island, Sirius readied his gear. Pulling zips and tightening bands, checking dials and securing fittings, he lost himself in the actions, muscle memory driving him to complete them.

Once he was in the water, he’d swam down to take a closer look at the wreck. The carcass of the split boat was typical: the splintered edges of split wood from being bashed by the waves, probably some rocks; the sales ghosting through the currents in the water; boring abandoned barrels inside the ship itself.

As he rifled through a large, mostly empty chest, he found something curious. A dark-stained wooden chest, the width of his hand and length of his forearm, sat locked closed inside one of the flooded drawers. 

He grabbed it out. Alongside the extensive pen-nib collection and wax sticks he’d found (both relatively useful), there was nothing else that called to him just yet. He ascended slowly to the surface with those few things in his hands. 

After dumping the loot onto his own boat, he turned to dive back into the water.

A crack rang through the sky. Sirius looked up in alarm. After a minute, he shrugged and swam a little away from his boat to start from the opposite end of the shipwreck.

A bright flash of light, another crack. Flinching, Sirius surveyed the sky nervously. Very quickly, the clouds turned dark and violent. Whilst he treaded water, deciding whether to risk the dive or not, even in such shallow, typically gentle waters, a heavy rain began to fall.

The splattering against the boat was beyond pessimistic, and Sirius sighed as he heaved himself onto the boat and made his way back to the ropes and sails of the small boat.

Picking up speed inland with the new, stormy breeze, Sirius huffed a sigh of disappointment: what a waste of a dive day. He’d searched barely half the ship and in a few days time, when he’d be clear to go back in and likely to start searching new wrecks, the harsher currents would’ve stolen half the sunken treasure.

With no need to actively man the boat now, Sirius grabbed the little box by his feet. The lock didn’t deter him. Instead, he took a little pick - left in the boat for just that purpose - and worked at the lock until it snapped.

It fell open. Inside lay a surprisingly dry, folded parchment. Curious, he unfolded the sepia edges to reveal… a map of the isles?

He scanned the paper, surprised to see some of the more recent alterations to some of the isles: new houses being built or moved for the Lords, a bridge constructed between two closely neighbouring islands, even the new canal. 

Even more surprising was the peppering of familiar names across the land masses. The names of the respective nobility of each isle were scrawled onto little ink sign-posts, and sat dormantly. He skimmed over them mindlessly for a minute.

A movement caught his eye. A sign, embellished with and elegantly scrawled ‘Sirius Black’, shifted on the corner of the screen. It moved north-west, the same direction he was doing. As he advanced home, so did the marker. He peered curiously, eventually coming to the conclusion that it followed him.

The wind began to pick up, his name moving east instead. He frowned and fiddled with the rigging of the sail. As he redirected, a heavy, sudden rain began to fall. The cold raindrops stung his cheeks, pelting down from heavy, seething clouds.

The harsh wind blew his sails, throwing him off course. He frowned, a slight nervousness forming in his gut: he was alone on a small boat at sea with no way to call for help.

He was wrangling to direct the boat against the force of the harsh wind and through the sheets of rain now obscuring his vision. Squinting against the water dripping into his eyes and shoving his drenched hair from his face, he peered at the map, expecting a soggy mess of inky pulp, instead finding it… completely dry? He could just about make out his name, swerving further from his original journey back to Illyria and James.

The rope tore into the skin of his hands, the gusts of wind too strong for him to fight much longer. Rain hit him so hard it felt like his skin was bruising with each drop. The angry clouds raged above him, rough waves violently rocking him. 

The rope was sliding, his hands burning from the fibres. Each time he tried to grab further up the rough material, it would only slip further. 

Eventually, he grew weak. He shivered in the freezing rain, flinching at each crack of thunder. Lightning lit the ominous clouds and Sirius’ boat tipped back-and-forth on the relentless waves. The rope slipped completely from his numb fingers, panic flashing through him.

As he tucked the map away into a pocket inside his jacket, he tried to think of a way to get himself to safety. 

All of a sudden, a flood of sea water crashed onto him and the boat. The huge wave swallowed them easily.

The water dragged Sirius, flinging him like a ragdoll.

The storm raged.

…

Gentle lighting illuminated the warm room. James stood by his mirror, adjusting the cuffs of his shirt.

His sand-coloured shirt was loose, billowing around his arms. It tucked into a pair of fitted, beige trousers and tan leather boots. His only jewellery was a small gold hoop in each earlobe, matching the rim of his glasses.

James’ hair was as unruly as usual, despite Regulus’ valiant attempts to style it into something other than havoc. He’d tried with the pomade, but even that was too weak to defeat the raucousness of the lord’s hair. The blush that spread across his cheeks as soon as he’d realised how close he really was to James, and how his hands were brushing James’ scalp and tugging the ends of his hair, and how James let his eyes drift shut, and how the deep, relaxed breaths hummed out of James’ throat. 

Regulus had pulled away ashamedly and stepped back to announce how frustrating James’ chaotic head of thick, soft hair was. Since then, he’d had to consciously keep his hands away from the other man’s hair as he drew shimmering gold eyeliner along his waterline and let it flourish into a wing on the outer corner of his eyelid. 

“- Regulus?” James asked, interrupting Regulus’ stream of daydreams regarding his fingers in James’ hair. And his thumbs brushing over the tanned, gold-dusted cheekbones. 

Regulus startled, “Sorry, what was that?”

“Could you please pass me my jacket, Reg?” James chuckled.

Throwing him a hard stare at the nickname, Regulus glared and crossed his arms. “Try again.”

James snorted, “Some might think that you’re the one really in charge here.” Regulus didn’t let his gaze relent, instead raising his eyebrows. “Okay, I’m sorry. Could you please pass me my jacket, Regulus ?”

“Better.” Regulus handed James his matching jacket. The fabric matched the light shades of the rest of the costume. “You do know you’re late?”

James grinned at the man, “Yes. I can’t be early to my own masquerade. Not when I need my own grand entrance, and not when my costume looks this good.”

Regulus rolled his eyes but kept his mouth shut. It definitely wasn’t just the costume that looked good.

He then reached to hand James his mask, an elegant part of his costume with a  painted, delicate, fawn-like nose and little antlers curling from the top. The material of the mask itself was the same colour as his trousers and transitioned seamlessly into the faux - though realistic - antlers.

Tying the mask at the back of James’ head, and making an unbelievably strong display of self restraint with his fingers brushing the man’s hair, Regulus took a moment to appreciate the gorgeous craftsmanship of the main feature of the costume. 

Once the mask was secure, Regulus nodded to James. “May I be dismissed to put on my own costume, my Lord?”

“Of course Regulus,” James replied and then sighed. “And please remember to call me James, you may be employed by me but the Lord was my father and we’re basically the same age anyway. That sort of formality feels strange.”

“Yes, James. I’ll make my way downstairs in a moment.”

Regulus turned on his heel and opened the door, walking down the stairs to his room. Already dressed in his anonymous, plain black trousers and button-up, he picked up his mask. 

When he looked in the mirror, grey eyed stared back out of the face of a black cat. He took a deep breath and walked down the stairs, entering the party, already in full swing, to the sound of upbeat music and indistinct chatter.

Chapter Text

Marlene stumbled away from Peter, unwrapping her arm from around his shoulders, over to Dorcas. She linked their arms and tugged the taller woman towards the servants entrance to House Potter to follow Peter.

They were all tipsy and giggly from their earlier rondez-vous with the wine. In their costumes, they’d left Mary and Lily to their dinner and set off to the party.

Dorcas was wearing a flattering white slip, the satin flowing like water, hemmed with white feathers matching the ones blooming from the top of her swan mask. The dark blue of Marlene’s dress trousers and button-up contrasted Dorcas’ pristine all-white outfit. Marlene was allegedly dressed as ‘the ocean’, with a mask a myriad of dark tones of blue.

In truth, she and Peter had coordinated. Their theme was… original, if not odd: underrated animals. Marlene was actually supposed to be a whale, which Peter had mercilessly announced to an amused Dorcas.

This left Peter in his mouse-inspired outfit. The mask was anything but flattering, but the dark grey of his shirt and trousers fitted him well; he was suave and put together when he took the mask off. Or, to quote Dorcas after her 3rd (very) generous glass of wine, ‘dapper’.

They’d laughed the whole boat-ride and walk, the trio thoroughly enjoying each others’ company.

Peter had remained oblivious, though, to how Dorcas and Marlene’s knuckles brushed as they walked, or the way their thighs pressed against each other’s when they sat on the river taxi’s seats, or the secretive way Marlene would wink at Dorcas she laughed at her joke, or Dorcas would grab Marlene’s hand and hold onto it the whole time they stopped to look at some innocuous bug or flower.

Gravel crackled under their feet, interrupted by Peter’s sharp knock on the smooth, dark wood of the servants’ entrance. He waited patiently, hands held casually in his pockets, flanked by Dorcas and Marlene who stood arm in arm.

The door opened and they all stepped through. Peter grinned wryly as he set eyes on Barty, who was in all black. A black mask hung dangled from his fingers. It had an oily sheen and a hooked beak that would lay over the nose.

“A crow, Barty?” Peter commented once Barty had closed the door behind Dorcas and Marlene. “Very fitting.”

Marlene snorted, “What, he likes shiny things and being loud and annoying?” Dorcas muffled her snort as she looked at Marlene.

“Sure Marls. And you’re supposed to be… 50 shades of blue?” Barty snarked back.

With an indignant huff, Marlene crossed her arms and replied, “So you’re unoriginal” - she counted on her fingers as she listed them off - “you can’t count, and you can’t name a shade of blue?” She started towards the unbothered man, but Dorcas stepped in and grabbed her arm to pull her back.

She tugged Marlene closer to her and murmured gently into her ear, “Cool it Marlene. We gotta keep a good track record for Mary, remember?”

Marlene had relaxed as soon as Dorcas put her hand around her arm, but nodded obligingly nonetheless. Her face was tilted up to look Dorcas in the eye, and her own eyes were wide with no hint of the frustration she’d felt only seconds earlier.

Barty exchanged a look with Peter, eyebrows raised in question and a smirk across his mouth. Peter shrugged and answered the look. “I don’t know, it’s been like this all night. The looks and the touches and all that.”

“Okay, come on mouse-boy. Let’s go get Evan.” He grabbed Peter’s hand and turned back to Marlene and Dorcas to point to another door. “Party is that way. Don’t cause a scene, Marlene!”

Marlene and Dorcas tied each others’ masks on before heading to the door as Peter and Barty disappeared up the stairs.

…

Bright lights covered with thin, colourful paper guarded the perimeter of the grand ballroom. Tables laden with finger foods - “picky bits!” Marlene had cried when she and Dorcas walked through the double doors to the room - were stationed along one wall. The glasses of champagne and vibrant cocktails sat at one end of the feast, with cakes and sweets at the other.

Guests milled about the room. Some danced to the live music, shimmering fabrics and flying fabric twisting around their bodies.

Barty, Evan, and Peter had stumbled into the room half an hour earlier. Peter and Evan danced clumsily but enthusiastically to a few songs before Peter retreated to lean against a wall with a red cocktail in one hand and a lime green in the other, Barty taking his place to wrap his arms around Evan and laugh with his face buried in the crook of his neck. He snorted every time Evan stepped on his toes and leaned a little bit too far to the side.

Eventually Peter found an old friend to talk to. Barty and Evan ran off giggling with a full bottle of champagne they’d nicked from the kitchens soon after.

In the middle of the crowd of dancers, Marlene and Dorcas were wrapped up in each others’ company. They rocked back and forth aimlessly, indulging only in the devoted, rapt attention in the other woman’s gaze. After a few hours of this, intermittently interrupted by a quick trip for a refreshment, they retreated to sit on a cushioned bench in one of the bay windows along one wall.

They sat with the ends of their shoes pressed against each other, hidden in the dimly lit alcove and partially obscured by the heavy red curtains that framed the seat. Dorcas leaned her forehead against the cool window, the lights from the house casting long shadows in the garden, as Marlene sat with her head tilted back against the wall. At some point, they had loosely wound their fingers together, until Dorcas had rolled her eyes and moved to find a proper grip on Marlene's hand. Marlene had tried to hide her obvious blush with her hands before Dorcas had stopped her and moved to sit next to her instead, still firmly holding hands.

Marlene had looked slightly bashfully at Dorcas, who smiled gently at her until she smiled back, dimples softening her features.

They stayed there talking for hours, passing a bottle of red wine between them.

…

Meanwhile, Regulus had entered the ballroom on his own and immediately made his way to hover by the food and drinks. Nobody here knew him except Barty and Evan, who were too caught up in each other; Peter, the man Barty had quickly introduced him to before heading downstairs; and, of course, James.

With his mask on, no one except Barty and James could recognise him, so he stood against the wall sipping a glass of champagne. On the occasion that someone would nod his way or engage him in conversation, he was appropriately polite, but curt enough to cut the small-talk short.

Countless minutes of sipping from his glass later, he heard a hush go through the room. Curious, he looked around to identify the cause, the delicate sound of a cutlery clinking against glass catching his attention.

On the platform on which the orchestra sat to perform stood James. In his hand was a full flute of bubbly, a spoon held next to it in his other hand.

The masked party-goers had all turned to look at him, the music gone silent. Regulus scanned James’ graceful, strong form and the dark eyes looking out from the holes in his mask. He leaned against the wall behind him as James began to talk.

“Thank you all for attending today,” James began. “I hope you’re having fun and enjoying the live music.” Someone whooped in the crowd.

“I’m sure you’re all already aware of the food and drink. Please, continue to help yourself. I know it’s been a strange year with me inheriting the Lordship, but remember you can always come to me with concerns and I’m keeping our political relationships strong. I just wanted to say that it’s been lovely talking to those of you who I’ve managed to catch for a chat, and I hope you enjoy the rest of the night.”

The crowd applauded. As the musicians started up an upbeat song, more couples filtered onto the dancefloor. Partners invited each to dance and led each other by the hand to join the milieu.

James was twirling a young woman in circles, waltzing gracefully to the violin. As the musicians transitioned into the next song, he stepped into a livelier dance with another woman. This continued for a few songs, until he excused himself from the dancefloor, greeting the Prewett twins, a pair of auburn-haired men in their mid-thirties whose family had run one of the Gryffindor Isles for many generations. Saying a brief hello to a few other acquaintances on his journey to the drinks table, he finally grabbed a fresh flute of champagne.

Sipping at his newly acquired refreshment, he glanced around the room. Over the rim of his glass he surveyed the guests. In the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a figure in all black, a feline mask across the bridge of his nose, grey eyes watching the crowd calculatingly. He was all graceful lines and dark-toned, nicely fitting fabrics.

James walked over to the man, who was propped against a wall not far from the drinks table. His form was familiar: the slope of his shoulders and the tilt of his head felt close, not friendly so much as a pleasant (sort of) acquaintance.

The man hadn’t seen him yet. James put on a charming smile, knowing that was the only part of his face to make an impression with, along with his eyes.

He stepped up next to the man and leaned against the wall next to him. The movement jarred the man from his focus and he turned towards James.

Before he could say anything, James greeted him. “Good evening. I'm James Potter.” A crooked smile formed on his face as a slight shyness crept up on him. Luckily, the elegant man couldn't see his cheeks warming slightly. “Would you like to dance with me?”

…

Regulus was startled when he noticed James stood next to him. He was surprised when James smiled and started greeting him. And then, he was even more surprised when James didn’t seem to recognise him and asked him to dance.

Most of all, he was surprised by his own response: “Yes.”

That’s how Regulus ended up dancing with his boss, who didn’t recognise him and would likely never have asked him to dance if he had.

James smiled and offered his hand to Regulus, palm up. They walked hand in hand into the crowd of couples already dancing. They turned to face each other. With James’ other hand on his waist, Regulus rested his free hand on the taller man’s shoulder.

Regulus could feel the comforting warmth from James. He was all too aware of his own frozen fingers and clammy palms: too many people, too many important people who might recognise him. Who might call him by the name his parents gave him. The name he left behind. The name that isn’t actually his, that would fit him like a corset wrenched tight enough to break ribs.

The short hair and men’s clothes couldn’t be enough to fool them. If Bellatrix turned up, or Rodolphus or Lucius or even Orion or Walburga, he’d be clocked immediately and forced back into the frilled dresses and meetings with dull, poncy suitors until marriage and a couple of kids and a cushy, adventureless life and eventually a spot in the mausoleum or the family plot.

At the thought of his extended family - and the awful prospect of the life they’d force him into - Regulus cleared his throat. Still stepping in time with James’ movements, he asked, “So, who actually gets invited to these things?”

James’ lip quirked on one side at the unexpected initiation of conversation. “I don’t know the whole guest list, but plenty of the locals. All from Gryffindor Isles and it varies with each party so basically everyone gets an invite at some point.”

“Ah.” Regulus nodded, the note of relief in his voice - there was zero chance he’d see any of his relatives - resulting in the questioning look in James’ eyes. “Just curious, you know.”

All of a sudden, the music shifted to a slower tempo. James hadn’t looked away from the man in his arms since they’d started dancing. Through each song they’d danced to together, he’d watched him. Regulus looked up to meet the taller man’s gaze as they moved closer.

Regulus’ arms wound around James’ neck. They swayed to the new song, James’ brown eyes still holding Regulus’, whose cheeks were warm enough that they would have been very obviously pink, save for the mask across them.

“You have very pretty eyes,” James said. Regulus looked down at their feet shyly. “No, no, no, look back at me. I like it when you look at me,” he said as he tilted Regulus’ chin up with his first finger. His warm, friendly eyes were more determined.

“Thanks.” Regulus whispered hesitantly. He’d never spent time with boys; his parents had always kept him secluded because ‘other girls your age only leave the house to see their friends, and you don’t have any so you’re not permitted to leave’ and ‘befriending boys isn’t fitting’. Like befriending boys got you pregnant and married.

“Your costume is a black cat, right?” James asked. Regulus nodded in response. “Aren’t they supposed to be bad luck?”

Regulus looked taken aback. “I don’t know. I kind of relate to them, I guess? They’re avoided for no good reason, it's just tradition. They’re more likely to be abandoned than any other type of cat. And I think that in another, very magical life, I could’ve been a black cat.”

At the look in James’ eye, Regulus blushed and glanced away. The total commitment to watching him through every word was enough to send Regulus stuttering. Though he prided himself on his eloquence, he struggled to form a coherent sentence once he realised that James had listened to each and every word he spoke. “I mean,” he tried to explain, “that probably sounds pretty foolish, especially coming from someone you just met. I don’t know what I’m talking about, it’s -”

“Someone I just met?” James was astonished. “Regulus, I knew it was you as soon as you agreed to dance. It just took me a minute to recognise you without seeing your full face, but I know your eyes.”

Regulus - though he was shocked - managed to choke out, “Right, of course. My mistake. But still, I feel like the cat thing was weird. Forget I said it.” He berated himself for assuming that James wouldn’t recognise him. He needed to be more aware if he wanted to live how he wanted here.

“No, no.” James reassured, a small smile across his face as he tilted his head. “It was cute.”

Biting the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the bashful smile trying to force itself onto his face, Regulus raised his eyebrows. Nonchalant. Collected. Reserved, as his mother would say, going off on a tangent about how he’d breathed too loudly, or used the wrong fork, or done something else entirely humiliating that would destroy the family’s ‘good name’.

In those few seconds of his thoughts floating around until they sharpened into the ugly, pointed memory of his mother’s merciless impatience over any incompetence or slipup, James had waited for a response. Putting himself in such a vulnerable position and getting zero response from the man in front of him, a typically witty, quick man - made him a little nervous.

“Regulus?” he asked when he didn’t even get an unimpressed stare. The shorter man’s gaze snapped back, a solemn look across his face for a split second before it morphed into a gentler expression. James could see the smile he was hiding (again).

Somehow, James’ face had morphed into one of concern, and then questioning. How he could express so many emotions so effusively was a true mystery to Regulus. And that, Regulus found incomprehensibly attractive. Infuriatingly attractive, in the way that - allegedly and evidently - opposites attract.

The amount of concern James could show was something Regulus couldn’t understand, but it fulfilled a longing he hadn’t realised he had: if he was honest with himself, he wanted someone who cared. He wanted someone who cared. And considering how raptly James’ sight had stayed on Regulus’ face, drifting across his features, and how tightly, with a gentle but confident grip, he’d held Regulus’ waist as they danced, James might just want someone to care about. If only for a little while.

That fleeting thought, paired with a subconscious decision not to overthink it, spurred Regulus to grab James by the arm and march off the dancefloor.

The shock on James’ face was almost comical. The man didn’t let go of him as they left the ballroom, instead pulling him assertively into a quiet hallway.

Regulus pushed James into a room before him. He shut the door behind himself and leaned against it, hands still against the firmly shut door.

“Regulus, what are y-” James tried to ask as he stumbled and turned back around to face the other man. His question came to an abrupt halt when he saw Regulus’ face. He looked up at James through elegant, dark eyelashes, gazing at the man with his lips slightly parted.

Immediately, James picked up on this new atmosphere. While he hadn’t expected the situation, he couldn’t say he wasn’t pleased by it. A smirk snaked its way onto his mouth and he stepped forward experimentally, an eyebrow raised, curious for a response.

Clearly, this was exactly what Regulus had been waiting for: he moved forward at the same time, meeting James in the middle and pulling him down by the collar. Their lips met, working against each other experimentally, until James fitted his hands to Regulus’ waist, evidently Regulus’ cue to loop his arms around the back of James’ neck.

Pressed tightly together, Regulus slipped his fingers into James’ hair, tugging lightly. James groaned and titled his head, pushing more force into their kiss. They stumbled towards the door, Regulus’ back against the lines of the wood. The movement forced them apart for a split second, a laugh huffing from James’ lips until Regulus tugged him back down to meet him.

James pulled one of Regulus’ legs up around his hip. Regulus arched up into James’ mouth, his tongue grazing the taller man’s lower lip.

Licking into the warmth of Regulus’ mouth, James pulled him closer still. Regulus distantly felt his head knock onto the door behind him. The heat from James’ hands on his waist, and the lips on his own, and the hard body pressed into his torso blurred his thoughts into a mess of Yes and more and closer and wait he’s my boss and never mind, his lips feel too good there.

When the noses of their masks clacked together for a third time in that artificial way that plastic and stiffened paper always do, Regulus untied the string on James’ mask and tugged on his hair as he ran his hands over his head to pull the material off. At the same time, James impatiently pulled the black mask off of Regulus’ face and threw it to the floor.

Their mouths met again, wet and warm and passionate and electric, with the frustration of the separation of those few, rushed seconds discarding their masks. James dragged his nose along a sharp cheekbone, open mouth ghosting gently and warmth breath rustling the dark curls in front of him.

With his lips working down the man’s throat, James pushed himself harder into Regulus between his lifted leg - still wrapped around his body - and the one planted unsteadily on the floor. The short gasps that flew from Regulus’ parted lips, red from the blood rushing to them and the gentle bites made on the skin, sent electricity running through James.

Everything was warm skin and heated breaths and pressing limbs. Neither of them could think of anything but the desperate movements between them.

Regulus dragged his nails over James’ shirt - the shirt he’d helped him put on only hours before - as lips pressed reverently between his collarbones. His short breaths forced the kisses harder against the skin when James rocked against him.

James’ hand slid down over his hip and caressed higher along his thigh, before coming to hold Regulus’ knee, thumb gently working circles into the soft skin on the back of his leg. The gasp that left Regulus was the catalyst for James to rock harder into him.

Regulus had his head thrown back fully, throat exposed entirely, one hand still in James’ hair and the other with its fingers curled onto the door. The layers of clothing between them couldn’t shield the heat, and the sharp, shocked breath from Regulus encouraged James to press harder into him.

James breathed heavily as he brought their lips back together, tongues caressing, uninhibited and messy and hot. Everything was warm; hands, lips, cheeks. Everything.

His free hand slid up from Regulus’ waist. His fingers left warm trails through the dark shirt. His other hand still held his leg up around his hip. There was barely any space to move between the two of them, his hand rising slowly over Regulus’ stomach.

When his hand reached Regulus’ chest, the other man flinched away. James pulled back immediately. Regulus couldn’t back up anywhere, instead grasping for the door handle and pulling the door open behind his back.

His shoulders had hunched forward slightly. He spoke, “I’ve - um - had a bit to drink. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have, well… this? I’ll, uh, I have to go but I’ll go and clear up after the party and I’ll be ready tomorrow morning as usual.”

He left the room before James could say a word. The abandoned man stood in the room, motionless for a few seconds. His thoughts started churning. He ran his fingers over his raw lips, the taste of Regulus still on his tongue, the memory of his pliant, smooth skin against his mouth spinning through his mind. Slightly embarrassed, he shifted his trousers and smoothed his hair down.

He couldn’t figure out what he’d done. The possibilities slashed into him: had he been disrespectful, had he hurt him, had Regulus just not really wanted to and couldn’t find a good excuse to leave?

But Regulus had spent those heated few - or more than a few - minutes groaning James’ name and writhing, pressing their bodies together and breathing out Yes and Closer in a depraved, desperate voice that sent James’ thoughts haywire and blood rushing south. He had to know James would have let him leave if he wanted to, right?

As James finally felt composed and appropriate enough to leave the room, his thoughts continued to spiral. He’d done something wrong, and now Regulus probably wouldn’t speak to him normally again. This train of thought followed him as he undressed and dressed for bed, spiralling and contemplating and worrying.

…

He’d completely humiliated himself. Not only had he kissed (more than kissed, if he was being honest with himself) a man he’d only just met, that man was also his boss. The lack of self-restraint astounded him: he’d never been so impulsive before, and while it was fun in the moment, this was gonna come back to bite him on the arse. Repeatedly. For years. Every time he saw James, who he now lived in the same house with and had to speak to every day.

Regulus stepped into a bathroom to gather himself. He tore at the buttons on his shirt, yanking it off so hard the stitches almost ripped. He unwrapped the band of fabric binding his chest, turning away from the mirror. As he rewrapped it, tighter, then tighter again, tighter for a fourth, fifth, sixth time, he pressed his chest as hard as he could.

His fingers rubbed raw against the fabric with the force he used to wrap and tie the fabric. He moved through the motions: tuck the end of the binding away, button the shirt over it, see yourself in the mirror, unbutton the shirt, retie the binding, button the shirt, hold your chin up.

Opening the bathroom door, Regulus tugged the hem of the shirt down, then pulled it away from his chest. He took a deep breath and walked down the hallway to say goodbye to the last of the guests.

As the last of them trickled out, he watched Barty and Evan from afar. They both hugged the last three goodbye: one tall, Black woman in a pristine white dress, arm around a slightly shorter woman with choppy, shoulder length hair, navy outfit, and dark eyeliner. The taller one - who seemed to be holding up the other as she switched between giggling at what Barty was saying and staring up at the woman supporting her - said her goodbyes and walked to wait outside in the cooler air.

Peter - he’d heard Evan refer to the other man by the name - was smiling at something Barty said. Evan quipped something back and pulled Peter in to embrace him and quickly peck him on the cheek. Barty rolled his eyes at Evan’s modesty and instead pulled Peter to him to kiss him full on the mouth. He pulled back and grinned, laughing as Peter snorted and followed after the two women.

Regulus was only slightly surprised: Evan and Barty were well-matched but they seemed the types to get bored quickly. He’d never met anyone in anything other than a monogamous relationship, but it had nothing to do with him and they looked comfortable and happy together.

With a wink as he caught Regulus’ eyes, Barty nodded towards the ballroom. “Ready to clear up?”

They spent a few hours carting glasses into the kitchen and sweeping up any mess. Any lost items - masks, jackets, ties - left in the ballroom, or the bathrooms, or any room accessible, were put into a big crate for safekeeping.

It took them until the small hours of the morning, but they’d decided that clearing up before sleep would be better, and Barty said they could sleep in later if it was clean.

Someone had evidently dropped their glass in the ballroom. The little pile of glass shards in the corner was easy enough to clear up: Regulus grabbed a dustpan and brush from the kitchen. He picked up a couple of the bigger pieces with his hands.

“So, Regulus, what were you doing before you came to help us say bye to the guests?” Evan’s voice asked from across the room.

Regulus spun sharply. “What?” he said - a bit too loudly - before he gasped. The shard of glass in his hand had left a long slice across his palm, blood blooming across the wound.

There were dots of blood along the edge of the shard. All of a sudden, he could hear his heartbeat. He could taste sick in the back of his throat and his palms growing sweaty. A drop of blood fell from his hand from the jagged cut. His breathing turned short as a vivid memory flashed through his mind. He sat down hard on the ground.

Shouting, angry screaming, the stain of red wine on the carpet. The violent, drunken words of his mother echoing in his ears. He’d burned something on the stove? He’d knocked a painting to the floor? No, he’d dropped a mug. An empty mug, but a mug that shattered. And his mother had not liked it.

She had a glass of wine next to her, the bottle almost empty. She’d drank it all herself. She watched him trip, drop the mug, watched the shards scatter over the floor. Luckily, it hadn’t damaged anything or anyone. She didn’t care.

As soon as the mug hit the floor, she’d been out of her chair and shouting. She’d told him how useless and worthless and clumsy he was and how all he could do was break things and that’s why he was all alone now. And, the cherry on top, the memory devolved into the shattering of the bottle of wine.

Sharp stings from cuts as the glass shattered over his head. One shard dug hard into his shoulder, another into his inner forearm. The rest left shallow cuts, but the other two would need to be disinfected, a poultice for healing, a bandage.

Red wine and red blood swirled in a divot in the wood of the floorboards underneath him, the edge of the carpet stained, too. Green glass littered the floor, waiting for his mother to order him to clear them up himself.

“Regulus!” Evan and Barty’s concerned faces loomed in front of him. Barty had a napkin wrapped around Regulus’ bleeding hand. Evan spoke again, “ Okay, you’ve cleaned enough, you go to bed.”

Before they could say anything else, Regulus rushed out of the ballroom with his head down, napkin still wrapped around his hand.

In his room, still breathing harshly, he unbuttoned his shirt again. He untucked the fabric he used to bind his chest, his ribs loosening and his breathing deepening.

A sharp inhale came from behind him. His heart started beating, drumming in his ears. Eyes wide and fear gripping at his body, he grabbed his nightshirt and pulled it over his head, crossing his arms over his chest as he turned to see Barty. Barty, who’d just watched him unbind his chest. Barty, who now knew his secret. Barty, who held Regulus’ fate in the palm of his hand.

Chapter Text

The room was freezing. The stagnant air was pierced only by the sinister voice intimidating the group into silence.

Peter thought the rest of the room must be able to hear his pounding heart; smell the fear emanating from him; read his desperate, flailing thoughts as he tried to keep himself afloat in this ocean of cruelty and self-service he’d so hesitatingly dived into. Beneath his nails - pressing sharply into the palms of his hands, grounding him - was the feeling of his sweaty, trembling hands. He held his arms tightly against his sides to disguise it.

“The policies will be presented by Lucius. He will propose the trade as beneficial to the voters,” the voice concluded.

“Sir - My Lord?” a gruff, lacklustre man chimed in from a corner of the room. “So, we’re not actually increasing the trade, are we?”

A man with lank, long, blonde hair sneered. “Good god Bellatrix, you married this gormless fool?” He pursed his lips disdainfully and turned to the man who’d asked the question. “Obviously, we promise and make good on it for a short time, then slowly revoke it without the masses knowing. It’s not difficult to -”

“Thank you, Lucius.” the grim voice from earlier interrupted. The room seemed to quake in waiting until he made his verdict. “We do make the promises, then we manipulate them to be most ideal for me. For us.”

Rodolphus nodded and grunted, “Yes, Lord Riddle, sir.”

“I hope you’ll be capable of contributing to such a society, Mr Lestrange?” Riddle asked, at which Rodolphus flushed in humiliation. Lucius restrained a nasty smirk, nostrils flared and chin raised in arrogant superiority.

…

“Um, sorry.” Barty started. “I just wanted to make sure you hadn’t, y’know, passed out or something. I’ll go, if you wan-”

Regulus pressed Barty against the door, closing it at the same time as holding a knife - taken from dinner one night, to keep under his pillow - against his throat. He narrowed his stare and glared at Barty. “How much did you see? Your life depends on this.”

“I saw… Enough, I guess?” Barty said, eyes wide, flinching when Regulus pressed the knife closer. “But I’m not gonna spread it around. I was trying to offer you my help to bandage your hand.”

Regulus didn’t move, unimpressed. “You have 30 seconds to get yourself out of this. Starting now.”

Wracking his brain for something to placate the other man, Barty stuttered his way into an explanation. “Regulus, I saw you, y’know’, unbind - is that the word? I don’t know but I think it is, is that right? - and I can’t say I get it because I don’t get it, but the Gryffindor Isles haven’t always been that accepting of everyone. Me and Evan and Peter didn’t let people see us until -”

“- 15 seconds” Regulus threatened.

“Okay, okay, sorry! Anyway, I can’t tell you that I know exactly how you feel knowing someone’s caught you like that, but I know the feeling of hiding. I mean, after I bandaged your hand, I’ve got some clothes left over from someone like you who Evan and I helped sneak onto the island a couple years ago. There’s a couple of compression shirts in there that’re probably a thousand times nicer than tying that fabric -”

“- someone like me?” Regulus lightened his hold just enough for Barty to unpin a hand and grab the shocked man’s dagger-wielding hand to hold it away from his throat. “There’s other people like me?”

Barty nodded in affirmation. “Yeah of course. People who have different, like, parts to what people assume they are.”

“And you knew one of these people? And he had a shirt that bound his chest instead of a scrap of fabric?”

With a relieved nod at Regulus relaxing to lower his dagger hand, Barty answered. “That guy a few years ago, Evan and I helped him find some clothes for that. Men’s trousers that hid his hips, shirts made from special fabric that I used when I had some burns. Last I heard from him, he’s happy and doing well, and he’d even found someone with special potions that made his voice deeper.”

“Huh.” Regulus had retreated completely now to sit on the edge of his bed. For one vulnerable moment, he drew his knees up to his chest and held them there as he tentatively asked, “You have some of these? Here?”

Barty nodded. “Give me five minutes.”

He disappeared through the door. Regulus’ thoughts flitted through the conversation. All of a sudden, he felt truly exhausted: the dancing, long night, cleaning the ground floor, panic attack, and huge adrenaline spike and crash probably weren’t helping him.

A gentle knock sounded at the door. Regulus glanced up. Evan.

“Come in.”

Evan walked in tentatively and leant against the wall opposite where Regulus stayed sat down. “Are you okay? Where’s Barty, I thought he was gonna bandage your hand.” Evan glanced at Regulus’ bare, bleeding cut in confusion.

“Yeah, he’s just gone to his room to get…” Regulus trailed off, anxious to reveal the truth to another near-stranger, before he remembered what Barty had said. Evan and I helped him. He’s happy. “To get me the compression shirts.”

He looked Evan in the eye, gaging his reaction to see if the dagger in his hand would need to come back into the game. Evan just met his gaze, eyes flashing with understanding, and nodded.

At that moment, Barty walked back in, plain, tan fabric held in one hand. “Oh, hey Evan. I went to grab some, uh, some fabric to tear to wrap Regulus’ hand.”

Evan and Regulus met each other's eyes, mischief gleaming as they saw the opportunity of Barty’s weak excuse. Evan turned to Barty, “Compression fabric? But won’t that be bad for the wound?”

Barty laughed nervously. “Oh, yeah. Maybe not the best, I guess.”

“And isn’t it supposed to be really tight? It’ll restrict the blood flow. And it’s not sterile, is it?” Evan asked.

Balling the shirts in his hand, Barty nodded. “No, it just slipped my mind.”

Regulus chimed in, “And won’t it fray?”

Barty looked up, glaring suspiciously between the two before the realisation slapped him across the face, expression comically offended. “Wha- oh my god, you trusted him more than me?” he cried to Regulus. “But I’m your best friend!”

“Honestly, Barty, that's what you’re worried about. You should be more concerned about your abysmal attempt to lie on the spot.” Regulus quipped.

Offended, Barty turned to leave the room. “Well, I’ll go if I’m not wanted. And I’ll only leave you one of the shirts and I’ll give you all the sweaty chores and I won’t tell you where the laundry goes so you’ll just have to smell.”

“Wait!” Regulus shouted. “No, I want the shirts, and I don’t want to smell.”

Barty grinned. “What’s the magic word, Reggie.”

Rolling his eyes, Regulus sighed and reluctantly answered. “Please.”

Less than five minutes later, the compression shirts were tucked away with Regulus’ clothes and the trio were settling onto his bed. They sat facing each other after a brief interlude of Barty putting his shoes up on the bed and Regulus scolding him until he took them off. Evan held a bandage in one hand and antiseptic in the other.

In silence, Barty watched as Evan meticulously cleaned and wound the bandage around Regulus’ hand. None of them said a word, afraid to shatter the comfortable quiet they’d built.

As Evan tucked the end of the bandage in, Regulus finally spoke. Facing Barty, in a low voice he said, “You’re not gonna ask me anything?”

Evan and Barty made eye contact, Barty glaring pointedly as he struggled to find something to say. Equally unsure, Evan just shrugged.

“Well, what do you want to tell us, I guess?” Barty started. “You’re a little intimidating and we don’t want to scare you off but we’re happy to help you bury a body.”

Regulus frowned and Evan rolled his eyes, lowering the other man’s neatly wrapped hand. “He means that we’re here to listen to anything you want to tell us. And if it’s something like that we won’t rat you out for it. We’ll help you with anything you need.”

Glaring at his shoes, Regulus frowned deeply, but started his story nonetheless. “So I ran away -”

“- Sick, me too!” Barty interrupted before Evan slapped his arm and shut him up.

“Anyway, I ran away a few weeks ago. My family was involved with some awful people and they…” he took a deep breath, “they were starving me. Until I agreed to join them. I didn’t want to.” He was grateful for how little Evan and Barty reacted; he didn’t want or need their pity. “They’d locked me in a room but they didn’t realise there were maps. I figured out the most convoluted route to get as far as possible. I was supposed to join the man they swore loyalty to the morning after they released me. When they were in bed, I took some cash and went to the docks, where I boarded a cargo ship. I switched between ships for a couple of weeks so they couldn't find me. Then, on the way to Potter Isle, there was a huge storm. The tempest wrecked the boat. Me and the captain survived, and now I’m here.”

Barty was nodding as he absorbed the information. “Okay, I get that. Shit family and all.”

Next to him, Evan cleared his throat. “Regulus, if it’s okay, why the compression shirts? I mean, I know why but, you know, when? And also why?”

Regulus shifted uncomfortably, organising his answer. “When I got shipwrecked, I realised that nobody knew where I was. I’d essentially died. I could become whoever I wanted to be. I could get a job and live a life and not have to get married like my parents were going to force me to. So I cut my hair off and I flattened my chest and I chose a name. I left behind that old life: rich, proper girl who’d adhere to the whims of my parents and husband, pop out a couple of rich, proper kids.”

“You chose Regulus!? Of all the names, you chose Regulus?” Barty exclaimed.

Somewhat relieved by the lightening tone, Regulus rolled his eyes and sighed. “It’s a star. It's a family tradition.”

“So you changed your name to Regulus and got a job here? And you need to keep looking like a man to keep that up? Or..?” Evan prompted him.

Regulus folded his arms over his chest. Unfolded them. Balled them into fists resting on his knees. “This is kind of just who I am now, I guess. I thought, at first, that I would live as a woman again, someday. That I might want to be one of them. But, over the time I’ve spent like this instead I’ve come to the realisation that I’ve never felt this…right. I act and look and get treated like a man and I like it. It feels like I finally got a pair of trousers altered and they fit now.”

They sat digesting that information. Regulus felt on the verge of tears. Speaking the words aloud felt so real. Like he wasn’t living in some fantasy where everyone called him ‘he’ and shook his hand when he met them.

“I’m a boy.”

Evan reached out and grabbed one of Regulus’ balled hands, covering it with his own. Right after, Barty did the same. Regulus looked at the hands over each of his, swallowing hard. Though it was tough to say it out loud for the first time, he felt more secure, happier, a warmth filling his chest.

Breaking the silence, Barty shifted where he was sitting. “Regulus,” he said firmly, enunciating every sound in the name, “you’re 19. You’re a man.”

A laugh slipped from Regulus’ lips. He looked directly into Barty’s eyes. “I’m a man.”

He glanced at Evan, who smiled encouragingly.

“Okay let me go now.” Regulus shook their hands off of his, pulling them into his lap instead. “That’s enough of you two soppy gits sitting around holding my hands like I’m on my deathbed or something.”

“If you’re done with the heavy shit,” Evan rolled his eyes at Barty’s crudeness. “Where did you disappear for so long tonight?”

It took him a minute, but the realisation suddenly flashed through Regulus. “Oh, I just went to the kitchens for some water. Too much to drink, you know.” He brushed the question off.

Evan narrowed his eyes. “You went to the kitchens for half an hour, returned with your clothes creased and twisted, flushed-”

“-Not to mention the hickeys.” Regulus blushed at Barty’s words, pulling his collar up.

“- Yeah, not to mention the hickeys all down your neck. And that was all for some water?” Evan finished.”

Regulus blushed furiously, averting his gaze. “Yes?”

“Okay,” Evan agreed. “Could you answer a question for me, Barty? Where was James during all of this?”

Shaking his head exaggeratedly, Barty shrugged and responded, “I don’t know Evan. When I went back to the ballroom for an extra bottle of wine, all I saw was him being dragged away by someone in all black with dark, curly hair.”

They both looked at Regulus.

“Nooo, you two can go now.” He fell back onto the bed and rolled so his voice was muffled by the duvet. “I don’t know what James you’re talking about anyway.”

Barty looked over at Evan, who was chuckling lightly. “Reguluuuus, I hope you’re being safe. We don’t need any annoyingly athletic babies with shiny hair and unfairly superior genetics running around the place.”

“What!?” Regulus screeched, shooting up and smacking Barty over the head with his pillow. “I am not sleeping with James Potter: Lord and - need I remind you - our boss. We kissed a little and that is all. Nothing else. Get your filthy mind out of the gutter.”

Smirking, Evan pressed further. “You kissed a little? What do you call that?” He folded Regulus’ collar down.

Regulus blushed again. “Fine. We kissed a little and then he kissed me on my neck.” He surrendered, then mumbled, “And licked me. And bit me.”

“Regulus, you dirty dog! Make out session with your boss!” Barty fell dramatically over Regulus’ lap.

Evan chimed in again, “The scandal!”

“Shut up it wasn’t that dramatic,” Regulus whined.

Abruptly, Barty sat up. He turned to face the blushing man and asked, very seriously, “So when are you going to see him again?”

“Tomorrow? I work for him?” Regulus responded questioningly.

“Oh, come on Regulus,” Evan hit his arm with the back of his hand. “You know what Barty means. When are you going to talk to him about it? Or make out with him again? Or – you never know – sleep with him?”

Dramatically, Regulus flopped back onto the bed with his arm slung over his face. “He’s my boss Evan. Even if I wanted it to – which I most certainly do NOT – it would be inappropriate. It would absolutely destroy his reputation, anyway. And his marriage prospects. He can’t be seen associating so… intimately” – Regulus blushed at this – “with a man. He’d be a disgraced Lord.”

“Regulus…” Evan started in a serious tone, pulling the arm away from the other man’s smothered face, “I don’t know exactly where you lived before you came here, but most people don’t have an issue with a man shagging another man.”

“Or a woman with a woman. Or a man with two other men.” Barty added with a wink.

Letting his arm fall back onto the bed, Regulus managed to disguise his surprise, “Of course. I only meant he couldn’t be seen with his servant. Man or not, he’s still my boss.”

“Ugh don’t be such a bore Regulus,” Barty groaned. “If he presents the opportunity, I bet you wouldn’t turn him down.”

“Stop it, that’s enough now,” Regulus demanded. “Thanks for the shirts, Barty, but you – both of you – can get out of my hair now. I’ll see you tomorrow.” He finished with a pointed “Goodnight.”

Barty rolled off the bed and made for the door. “I guess we’ll go then. I’ll miss you!” He waved dramatically as he stepped beyond the doorframe. Evan followed, adding, “Oh, Reg, don’t wear the shirts for too long. Like, not at night.”

After they left, Regulus sat on his bed for a minute, processing that whole conversation and the myriad of emotions he’d just experienced in a very small time period. With a mixture of disgust and questioning, he murmured to himself, “Reg?”

He shrugged, not uncomfortable at the nickname, and got ready for better. He fell asleep lighter than he thought possible: his big secret was slightly less secret, he had two familiar acquaintances – friends, at a push – who he could trust, and he could bind without breaking a rib or suffocating.

Regulus wasn’t necessarily happy, but he had people who were helping him get there.

Chapter Text

Remus Lupin loved sailing: he loved the sway of the sea beneath his feet, he loved the sound of the waves, he loved the peace. Most of all, he loved the vastness of the ocean, that there was so much open space, uninterrupted by humans.

The only reminder that other human life existed thus far had been a small boat he’d seen in the distance – or rather, the bright white sails of a small boat. It hadn’t moved closer to him yet, in fact, it hadn’t moved at all in a while.

This far from inhabited land, there was nowhere to stop for an extended time. The only visible land was a small island, which he’d visited before and knew was still uncorrupted by humans. The faraway boat had clearly moored near the sheer cliffs of the island, but likely wouldn’t stay there long.

Remus fiddled with a length of rope, tightening the knot in it. With the wind propelling him and the relatively gentle condition of the waves today, he could sit back and relax.

With a book in hand, he relaxed where he was sitting. The sun cast a warm light across his face, preventing him from getting cold in the breeze. He sighed and sank further into his seat, tanned face bared to the salt and the sunlight, calloused hands flicking the pages of the novel he was reading.

After only twenty minutes of peace, the boat began to rock slightly. Put off by this interruption, Remus marked his page and set his book down to glance at the sea and the sky. I hope it doesn’t get any rougher, he thought.

Predictably, this wish was immediately shattered by a concerning flash of light and echoing crack through the air. The wind grew in force, ruffling the sails to the boat.

The snapping sound of the fabric was joined by the sudden, gushing raindrops. His boat had drawn closer to the island, close enough that he could tell that there wasn’t anyone currently on the other boat. His attention was drawn back to the gathering storm clouds in the dark sky. Harsh waves were suddenly swirling around the rocks at the base of the island’s cliffs, mirroring the ones rocking Remus.

In the distance, just visible through the rain now pelting down on him, Remus saw a figure drag themselves onto the empty boat from the water. Soon after, the boat set off quickly, heading around the island and using the strong wind to propel itself through the water.

Remus was tugging at ropes and adjusting sales now, pointed in the same direction as the other person. He knew the island well enough to remember that there was a sheltered cove around the other side. He used the wind to his advantage, manoeuvring towards the area where he knew he’d be safe.

In record time, he’d navigated around the cliffs and had the cove in sight. The other boat, however, was nowhere to be seen.

He scanned the water in the far distance for a few seconds before something caught his eye. Not 100 metres away was the underside of the boat; it had capsized in the unforgiving waters, upheaving all the contents, including the person sailing it.

There was no time to try and collect anything from the boat. Urgently, he looked into the water around him, trying to spot the sailor. He was still moving quickly through the waves, slowing himself down and shielding his eyes from the heavy rain. Eventually, he spotted a figure being tossed by the waves, pulling them away from the island.

Thinking on his feet, Remus hastily grabbed a large fishing net from his boat and tossed it out. Ahead of him, the person was drawing closer. Being as tactile and efficient as possible, he pulled the net in as his boat swept past.

He wrenched the net, hauling the body over the edge of the boat despite the added weight of the sodden layers of clothing dragging through the water. Once the figure was in the boat, he put his ear to the stranger’s mouth. Thankfully, weak breaths wheezed out. He turned them on their side, ensuring they wouldn’t choke and any water in their lungs could be coughed out easily.

Through the heavy water and torrential rain, Remus steered into the cove as fast as possible.
…

All his limbs felt heavy. There was a pressing sensation on his lungs, a cloying need to cough. He was cold and damp and felt a little like someone had thrown him against a wall then kicked every part of his body.

Peeling his eyes open and linking through the stinging saltiness on his eyelashes and waterline, Sirius spent a few seconds trying to figure out where he was before he violently shot up from where he was lying on a hard, dirty floor. He collapsed into a coughing it, hacking up what felt like every molecule of air in his body and some salty water.

Through his swimming vision and bleary eyes, he saw the outline of a figure make its way in front of him. A hand swam towards him as he started to gain back sharper sight.

He crawled backwards, backing away from the unfamiliar figure.

When he could properly see again, Sirius brushed his severely tangled hair from his face. That would be a nightmare to peel apart later if the huge knots and salty clumps were anything to go by.

Now able to take a good look at the person’s face, he was left speechless for a few awkward moments.

The man kneeling in front of him was ruggedly handsome. His face was tanned and textured from what Sirius could only assume was months in the sea and sun. His cheekbones were deeply tanned and freckled, slightly burned at their peak. The shirt he wore was a loose, sepia fabric, unbuttoned down to his sternum and rolled up to his elbows. Long legs clad in darker, lightweight breeches were bent at the knee to allow the tall man to lean down. Extending a calloused hand scattered with small, pale scars, the man held out a leather flask.

Wordlessly, Sirius extended a hand to take the flask. Opening it, he hesitated to eye the man suspiciously.

“It’s just water. To clear your throat.” A deep, rough voice explained. “You swallowed some sea water, and I imagine you need some fresh water after you just spent a good 30 seconds coughing your lungs up.”

Sirius supposed there wasn’t much he could do. Even if the liquid in the flask was poisonous, he was weak and stuck on a foreign island with an intimidating stranger and no weapons.

Once he’d taken a few long gulps of the refreshing, clean water, he capped it and handed it back. “Thank-” he started, clearing his throat before continuing. “Thank you.” His throat was raw, his voice grating, but thankfully not burning anymore. “For the water and for rescuing me from drowning.”

The man surveyed him for a moment. “What were you doing this far away from inhabited land without a sturdy boat?” he asked.

A flash of surprise swept across Sirius’ eyes. “I go out and do dives to recent wrecks. We got word of one a few days ago after that nasty storm.”

“Who’s we?” the man asked, caution hedging his words.

“I’m Sirius. I work for Lord James Potter of the Gryffindor Isles.” He answered honestly but tried not to say too much: the man may have saved his life, but he was still a stranger. A taller, stronger stranger.

Accepting that answer, the guarded and defensive look in the man’s eyes faded. He held out a large hand. Sirius grasped it tightly, feeling the calloused, rough skin beneath his own less worn, smaller palm.

“We need to repair my boat and get out of here. If we work fast, we can be done and on our way before sundown.”

Sirius frowned. “Wait, tell me your name first. You know mine but I don’t know yours.”

The tall man turned back towards him. “Remus. Now let’s get working.”

…

A few hours later, Remus’ boat was repaired. Any cracks that needed to be plugged were filled with tree sap, thin wood shavings, and bark. They’d found thin, strong fibres to pull tight to thread and fix the rips in the sail.

Dusting his hands off, Sirius stood up from his work. Remus made his way over and nodded, satisfied with their work.

“This will get us back to Illyria.” He confirmed.

They wasted no time in setting sail to the isle, prepared to travel through the evening and late into the night.

As soon as they’d made it safely out of the cove, Remus made a frustrated sound, raising his arms and letting them slap back down against his sides. “Ugh, this bloody compass is broken. Tell me you’ve got one on you?”

Sirius shrugged, “Lost mine in the storm, sorry. Let me take a look at yours, though: I’m pretty good with my fingers.” He winked, Remus rolling his eyes and snorting at his flirting.
“You’re not gonna have much luck with it. There’s nothing left to fix.”

He handed the compass over anyway, receiving a predictable, “Right. That’s not great.”

In Sirius’ palm sat an ancient-looking compass, delicately engraved with the north, south, east, and west and embellished with an elegant rose. Though it was flecked with scratches evidencing its many years of use, Sirius couldn’t help but admire how stunning the fine frame and baseplate were.

The only problem was that the compass was now only the frame. There was no dial, no needle, even no cover. The roughness of the storm had caused it to crack, the already fragile glass falling out and the thin needle getting lost somewhere deep in the ocean.

Remus took it back when Sirius accepted that it wouldn’t be fixable in the next five minutes with only his hands, and maybe a bit of cloth.

“That was my mother’s. It’s been in her side of the family for years and never broke, so I guess I’ll have to find someone to fix it.” He said, somewhat forlorn.

Immediately, Sirius offered his help. “I know a guy who can do it. Best in Illyria, he’s mates with James. He’ll get it done up for you like that” – he snapped with his fingers – “so don’t worry about it right now.”

“Maybe wen I find some work; this stuff doesn’t come cheap.”

Sirius scoffed, “Don’t be silly, I’ll pay. It broke because you were rescuing me.”

“No that’s no”- Remus started to object.

“Shush. We’ll talk about it later, but I’m paying for it. Right now, we need to figure out how to get back. I’m pretty good using the stars but it won’t get dark for a while yet.”

Caving - for the time being – Remus nodded. “All we can really do is sail away from the island then.”

Sirius nodded, and they did just that. They fell into a comfortable silence, peaceful in the warmth of the setting sun and the rocking of the boat.

After a few minutes, Sirius suddenly gasped. Remus jerked his round to look at him, alarmed.

“What? What is it?” He asked.

With excitement, Sirius told him, “You know what I found when I was scavenging that wreck? A map!”

Remus stared at him. “And? I’m 100% sure it’s completely soaked from the rain. What, are you trying to give me a fucking heart attack? We’re still lost until nightfall.”

“No! See, this map was different,” Sirius explained, buzzing with excitement. “When it was in the rain, it didn’t even get wet. And it shows you where you are on the map. It’s like magic or something.”

“Yep, it’s probably magic and fairies and bloody unicorns, isn’t it. You’re just taking the piss now.”

Shaking his head, Sirius replied vehemently, “I promise. It’s in my pocket, hang on.” He withdrew and unfolded the map from where he’d tucked it securely inside his jacket before the storm.

Remus scanned in, disdainfully at first, but as he surveyed the paper his brows drew together. His eyes drifted south for a moment, apprehensively, to the Ravenclaw Isles, before he turned to Sirius, cleared his expression, and shrugged. “Huh. Strange, but who am I to complain? Let’s just use it to get out of here.”

For the next few hours they tracked their way back to Potter Isle, the name ‘James Potter’ drifting around in his house. Near it, huddled together with Barty Crouch and Evan Rosier, was a name Sirius didn’t recognise.

‘Regulus Black’, it read. A burning shot of hatred flicked through him at the sight of his family (ex-family) name, tinged with grief, before he rationalised with himself that it was a very common surname. James must’ve got some new staff he thought idly.

Preoccupied with sailing home – and the conversation he made with Remus – he forgot about the new name. He lifted his face to the wind, letting the salty air sweep through his curls.