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Chapter Text

Thousands of Illean men and women, at this very moment, sit planted in front of their television screens, eyes darting across pixels like predators, on the hunt for their desired outcome: to be Selected . Unlike the masses, Regulus Black would rather throw himself upon a sword than hear his name called tonight.

Every time the heir to the Illean throne reaches an eligible age, a nationwide casting call is sent out, a “randomized” net intended to ensnare a jewel box of glittering elites vying for the chance to marry the Prince and take the throne. 

God, please not me Regulus silently wails, simmering in the scorched, viscous air of the Black’s humble sitting room. The Illean royal creed teeters out of the decade-old speaker box, signalling the start of an important message.

The bleary television screen cuts to a familiar face - Severus Snape. After the last host retired from the television hosting spot, Snape, a boy not much older than Regulus himself, attempted to fill his big shoes. His deep-set eyes glitter in the studio lights, reminiscent of a garden snake. His hooked nose twitches, a betrayal of his delight in the chaos soon to ensue. 

“And now.. The moment you’ve all been waiting for… it’s finally time to announce the results of the Selection!” Severus Snape’s sharp voice squeezes through the charged air like a rodent wriggling through a collapsing tunnel. Regulus Black sits perched on the threadbare corner of the beaten sofa, legs bouncing so violently each jerk of his knee sends his entire body jittering.

“Our King and Queen have personally overseen the Selection themselves!” Snape announces happily, eyes gleaming with mischief, “Before we begin, please do tell us, your Majesties, have you gotten a glance at the results? If so, what are your thoughts?”

The camera pans to a fine, cozy sofa where the King and Queen of Illea sit. King Fleamont is in his usual dress- a fine, starch-pressed suit glittering with accolades- and Queen Euphemia (fondly dubbed Queen Effie by her countless fans) dons a creamy blue satin gown so pale it’s nearly silver. Both of their faces sport age lines, markers of their many years of rule, but their eyes are both open and sincere. 

The people’s love for the royalty has not been forced, but has been earned. The King and Queen have proven to be kind rulers, bringing prosperity to their kingdom despite the numerous wars brewing around.

“I’m afraid my lips are sealed Severus,” King Fleamont responds warmly, steely brown eyes gazing steadily into the camera lens, “All I can say is that, as you will soon find out, the process has selected thirty-five perfect candidates from all sorts of backgrounds, as it always does. I just hope my son James can find as much happiness with one of these candidates as I have with my lovely wife.”

At that, King Fleamont looks to his wife fondly, squeezing her hand reassuringly. Queen Euphemia grins brilliantly at the attention, gazing into the King’s eyes lovingly. Their love story had been one passed down through generations- a destined kind of love that only arrives once every lifetime.

Regulus cringes internally away from the screen. Love like that is not meant to exist- something so open and pure. Love comes with strings, with hardship, with work- it’s never as pure as they make it seem. 

He knows that the odds that his name will be called are nearly zero. Each Selection cycle thousands of plump-faced young women and meticulously groomed young men clamber at the opportunity to become a One. Nobody in that fateful decision room would purposefully select an unknown Five to compete alongside the elite. Yet he can’t help the uneasy feeling brewing in his gut- a gut that has never steered him wrong yet.

His eyes burn from the harsh contrast of the blinding boxy television and the heavy dusk filling the room. Finances have been tight recently with the annual Performance Drought (the period just before the holidays where nobody hires Fives to perform), and Regulus’s mother had elected to keep the food and lose the electricity: thus explaining the numerous tallow candles strewn across the floor. The air smells of steely smoke and mildew, aromas catalyzed by the drizzling rain interacting with the ancient wood framing of their humble abode.

Walburga Black paces behind the couch, her back straightened as taught as a dancer’s, poised for a performance even in the empty confines of their humble living room. She stops suddenly, eyes fluttering shut. Her taloned hands curl around the lumpy cushions adorning the back of the sofa, constricting them in an effort to contain her anxiety. On the screen, Severus’s silver eyes glisten with delight, reveling in the knowledge that all of Illea watches with bated breath. He receives a queue card from an off-screen attendant, and glances down at it briefly.

“Our first contestant is…,” he drags out each syllable, stretching the audience’s patience to an almost painful degree. Regulus sucks in a breath, attempting to decipher the shape of Snape’s lips, decoding the answer before it is spoken aloud, “Lily Evans, Four.”

Not me. Good.

An image of a refreshingly beautiful girl overtakes the screen. Her grin spreads across her freckled face, her luscious green eyes twinkle, warm and inviting. Tufts of fluffy, flaming red hair float softly around her face.

Regulus exhales, breath crawling its way out of his constricted airway. It was a smart move, he thinks, starting with a Four. Makes it seem more real .

He stares into the veridian eyes overwhelming the television, and can’t help but wonder what Lily’s motivations are for joining. Is she after the Prince or the Crown? Those who sign up for the Selection always have a motive- what could hers be? Her stagnant gaze and open smile reveal nothing. 

As the number of available spots dwindles down to thirty-four, Regulus notices Walburga’s grip tighten on the splotchy tartan fabric. Her iron-clad grip causes Regulus to clench involuntarily, afraid of what would happen should his name not be called tonight.

The picture is whisked away as quickly as it appeared, reverting back to the simple scene of Snape at a wooden desk, a silver pin glimmering in the stage lights right over his heart. He snatches another queue card from a gloved hand. He glances at it contemplatively, his face revealing nothing.

“Next up is Pandora Lovegood, Two.” Regulus’s heart thunders, the organ struggling to pump blood past the building walls of anxiety. An image of a dreamy, slender, pale girl fizzles over Snape’s businesslike face. Regulus recognizes her immediately. Instead of studying arithmetic like the other twelve-year-old Fives, Regulus had instead studied the jumbled interconnected web of the high elites- as per the demands of Walburga Black. According to his encyclopedic memory, the Lovegoods are well known diplomats with tight connections in New Asia. Pandora’s appearance in the selection is of no surprise to him.

Snape opens his dreaded mouth again, each word spoken either salvation or a death sentence.

“Marlene Mckinnon. Six.” Regulus’s eyes widen. There hasn’t been anyone below a Five in a Selection in decades. Clearly they were shaking things up this cycle. Regulus passively notes the pretty blonde as her face momentarily engulfs the screen.

“Wow, maman , a Six?” Regulus remarks, twisting towards his mother. He’s careful to use the correct amount of derision at the mention of a lower class. His mother was already incredibly on edge, but he hoped that playing into her hatred of the lesser classes would calm her. It did not.

“Hush, Regulus. Listen.” Walburga’s eyes flash with a badly contained titration of anxiety, excitement, and longing. Regulus knows better than to push when she’s like this. 

Regulus notices, for the first time, the tiny box at the bottom left of the screen that displays Prince James’s reactions to each name in real time. He has an easily recognizable face, one that has been projected to every household since his birth. In fact, though no living soul would ever hear of this, Regulus kept a poster of his smiling face in his room. It wasn’t out of desire, but out of pure-hearted curiosity.

The picture was a candid photo of the young prince, chestnut curls bouncing wildly atop his head. He held up a beautiful flower, but that was not what drew Regulus to the picture time and time again. It was his smile. Prince James had the most beautiful smile that Regulus had ever seen. His eyes curled up at the corners just so, displaying his merriment and joy, unobstructed by reality. His lips stretched wildly across his face, an expression so open and so bright that it could ground him in his sorrow. Though his brother, upon finding the illicit picture, would tease him mercilessly about it, it didn’t stop Regulus from returning to the image time and time again.

After his brother left, the young boy’s smile kept him going. That is, until Walburga took it away.

Regulus wrinkled his nose at the sight of the current Prince James’s smile. It’s a plastic expression so wildly forced it looked almost painful. Unlike the beautiful, carefree young boy Regulus had admired all those years ago, this Prince James looks to be more of an approximation of a prince than a real, actual breathing human being.

“Evan Rosier. Two.” Regulus lets out a low whistle, forgetting his anxiety for a moment. Evan Rosier is a high profile celebrity, coming from a long line of wildly talented actors. Of course, Rosier wasn’t chosen by chance. He’ll draw the cameras like moths to a flame .

After the mention of Evan’s name, Regulus stops paying such close attention, and instead allows his mind to wander, putting his anxiety from his mind. A common practice he had perfected after years of living alone with his mother. Each name called means that his chances of being picked became slimmer. 

After the thirty-third name is called, Regulus exhales in relief at the same time his mother inhales in outrage. Her fury is a growing, living thing, raising the temperature of the room to unbearable levels, and forcing her feet to carve footpaths in the worn-out carpet through pacing so intense she’s essentially jogging.

The golden thirty-five so far consists of an odd mix of well-known public figures and absolute nobodies. It has always been Regulus’s working theory that some members of the Selection were doubtlessly hand-picked, but that some were chosen randomly to keep appearances.

“Two names left…” Walburga mutters, voice strangled with fear. Two names . Regulus’s heart begins convulsing, struggling to pump blood through his constricted veins. Something about this one feels different. He has a bad feeling about this. Severus opens his mouth, a business-like smile tingeing his lips.

“Our next contestant is…” Snape’s voice drags out, each letter rolling with calculated tension. Regulus holds his breath as if his silence can somehow spare him. His mother’s nails scrape against the sofa fabric, shredding its exterior in anticipation.

“Regulus Black, Five.”

Those three, simple words hang in the air, hovering above Regulus’ neck like the blade of a guillotine.

Fuck.

The blade slams into him, reality bashing his solar plexus like a strike. He blinks. Once. Twice. Surely there’s been a mistake. His knuckles whiten as he fights the natural instinct to bolt, swallowing the growing lump in his throat that threatens to choke him. The last announcement passes in a blur.

Regulus’s vision of the future dissipates like bath salts, imploding into thousands of particles as its’ forced under the water. His dreams of becoming a pianist- gone. His aspirations of escaping from his mother’s clutches- finished.

“Congratulations to all those Selected! To those not: better luck next cycle. I look forward to seeing which one of these fine young men and women becomes our next royal consort.” Snape exclaims with forced excitement, turning suddenly to Queen Euphemia, “Your majesty. As someone who has won this competition, do you have any words of advice for the young men and women who have been chosen?”

“As a matter of fact, I do, Severus.” Queen Euphemia lifts up her head, her sunny face taking on a motherly disposition as her eyes bore into the camera, “I know that whoever my son chooses will be, at their core, the partner that he needs. So please, for his sake, do not come here with false pretenses. Show Prince James who you truly are. For, how can we truly care for someone if we have never seen them without a mask? That isn’t love! That’s admiration at best, delusion at worst. No amount of jewelry or makeup will enhance the makeup of your soul.”

It is quite obvious why Queen Euphemia was chosen as the winner of the last Selection. She is eternally eloquent, remaining strong in times of hardship and always speaking her mind. It is unfortunate that Regulus’s mind is too noisy with shock to listen to what she has to say.

He and Walbura sit in charged silence, gaping at the television screen like they’d just been clobbered over the head. This is exactly the outcome Walburga hoped for. This is also exactly what Regulus had been dreading ever since the day he was forced to submit that stupid application.

The screen flickers, its grainy picture dissolving with the last of their electricity rations. Candles sputter in their makeshift holders, their wax pooling like spilled secrets on the crackled wooden floor. Regulus feels the damp chill of the room creep into his skin, a far cry from the opulent splendor of the royal palace waiting beyond.

The phone rings, startling and shrill. Regulus answers it.

“Hello?”

“Is this Regulus Black?”

“This is he.”
“Hi dear! My name is Rita Skeeter and I will be the one preparing all of you lucky few for the Selection!” she chirps, voice grating offensively against the silence engulfing the room. 

“Oh, isn’t this just wonderful? Out of thousands of applicants, you’re one of the lucky thirty-five! A moment to cherish, truly.” Regulus fights the visceral urge to hang up right there, her fervent enthusiasm scraping against his raw nerves. She barely pauses for breath between each sentence, rattling off a script with practiced neutrality.

“Okay.” he responds, unenthused. She pauses, clearly taken aback.

“Well- yes! Okay! Right! I don’t have much time you see, a lot of contestants to speak to, you know! Just to let you know what to expect in these upcoming days: tomorrow we’ll have a physician come out and make sure everything’s healthy over there, and then the day after I’ll need you and your parents-”

“It’s just my mother.” Regulus cuts in, disturbed at any mention of his other parent.

“Right then… I’ll need you and your mother to sign some paperwork. Nothing major, just the basics- NDA, release form, the like. And then the day after that you’ll be off to the capital!” Her voice lilts up at the end, attempting to force a positive association between Regulus and the competition. She’s failing.
“Okay. Thank you.” Regulus hangs up, despite the appalled blubbering on the other line, and walks cautiously back over to his mother. Her hand ghosts just above her mouth, eyes glimmering with tears. Her head snaps up to him with the movement.

“Regulus, don’t you realize what this means? I could be a One!” Walburga’s voice cracks on the word, her tone hungry and reverent. Her eyes glimmer with tears as her trembling hands lift to her face, the childlike wonder in her eyes existing in stark contrast to the harsh woman he’s always known.

For a second, Regulus glimpses the girl his mother had once been, the one she keeps stuffed in the deepest cupboard of her mind- blooming in youth, standing in line for the Selection in her woefully drab gown with her head soaring with hope, only to unknowingly return home with nothing but Orion’s empty promises.

But that girl is gone. What’s left is her gutted husk, a hollowed puppet with the sole motivation to gain back what she never had to begin with.

His mother’s trembling hands creep towards him like claws, trembling with desperation.

“Maman, I can't do it. I won’t.”

The words fall from his lips before his senses can filter them, voice muted, almost pleading. As soon as they’re out, Regulus can sense his mistake.

Her eyes snap to his, the reverent wonder dissolving back into the cold mask he’s become familiar with. Her voice drops into a low, dangerous hiss.

“You will do this, Regulus. You will not rob me of this chance.”

She creeps closer to him, her oppressive presence filling the cramped room. Her hand ghosts toward the cabinet against the wall- the cabinet he’s been trained never to look at, let alone open. His stomach lurches. Through sheer will, he manages to remain still, pulse rushing through his ears.

“I’ve already lost one son- I won’t lose another.”

The words land like a lash across his face. Unable to stop himself, he flinches away, the memory of her wrath-sharp and unrelenting-etched into his skin and bones.
“You speak of him like he’s dead.” 

“He might as well be, Regulus.” She laughs mirthlessly, staring down at him in her familiar patronizing manner. His mind screams at him to fight back, to say something, but his body refuses to move.

The silence stretches taught between them, and Regulus’s mother takes his silence for obedience.

  “This family does not lose, Regulus. And neither will you.” Her voice is dull, implacable. She leaves no room for argument, no space for defiance. Regulus swallows hard, his hands curling into fruitless fists in his lap. He doesn’t dare meet her eyes.

“Don’t forget why you signed up in the first place.” Her voice hisses, turning sinister. Unbidden, Regulus’s eyes flicker up to the cabinet. It was supposedly empty now, but he remembers the last time she’d open it- the air thick with the coppery scent of blood, the screams she’d torn from his brother before it had been closed.

For years, the threat of what lies in its enclosed depth has been used to destroy Regulus’s integrity. He tells himself the Selection isn’t so bad. He’s survived hell, surely he’ll survive this too. The sentiment does nothing to heal his wounded spirit.

“Now, tell me what that phone call was about.”

“It was a woman named Rita Skeeter,” He spits out, the words coming out so quickly they tumble clumsily out of his lips. She quirks an eyebrow. 

“And?”

“She said that tomorrow there’ll be a physician, and then we’ll have to sign paperwork. After that I’ll go to the capital.”

Walburga’s smile spreads across her reedy face, thin and triumphant. Regulus feels his insides twist. He wishes she would shout, wishes she would strike him, wishes she would do anything that he’s used to enduring. But this- her… pride- is somehow worse than any attack she could unleash upon him.

“Regulus” she tuts, her voice soft now, deceptively sweet. She lifts her worn hands to either side of his face, the motherly gesture juxtaposed with the way her nails dig into his skin like restraints. Though his brain implores him to bat the hand away, Regulus’s body sinks into the gesture, welcoming the pain as most children would welcome a kiss on a cheek.

“You’ve done what I couldn’t. You’ve succeeded where I failed. With the beauty you’ve inherited from me, the Black family will finally take its rightful place.”

Her words are honeyed, poison that tastes sickly sweet. Regulus doesn’t respond. Instead he stares straight ahead, unblinking, as the weight of his future crashes down on him.

He didn’t fight back, not really. He never did. It was never just the fear- though that was always there, curling tight around his lungs. It was the certainty that fighting back wouldn’t change anything.

And in the suffocating silence, he submits. He always does.

The physician is quick and thorough, working in seamless tandem with Rita, a clear sign that they have been to many other contestants' houses before. He is currently giving Regulus’s body a quick overview, making sure everything is in working order.

“So!” Rits begins, clapping her hands together happily, “Let’s go over the format of the Selection. I know you’re probably familiar with it by now, this is simply just a formality.”

Regulus sits, staring at Rita expectantly. He certainly isn’t going to feed into her air-headed delusional state. The doctor prods at his stomach, scribbling into a worn, yellowed notepad.

Rita Skeeter looks exactly like Regulus expected. She has predatory green eyes that never seem to blink, afraid of missing even a miniscule reaction. Though the rest of his face is expressive, those discerning eyes never change, betraying her allegiance to drama, not truth. Garish red lipstick is smeared over her lips that are constantly curved into an unnerving smile. A smile that only wavers when Regulus refuses to react, such as now.

“Tomorrow is the big day!” Rita perseveres, hoping to appear undeterred,  “You’ll leave here first thing in the morning, give a quick speech to your town, and then to the airplane you go! We’ll provide all clothing, accessories and so on. so make sure to pack only what you need. We’ve provided you with a brief packing list just in case you forgot anything.” She slides a thick, creamy sheet of paper with a short, concise list on it across the table. Regulus scans it absentmindedly.

“A change of clothes?” He recites, brow raised. He raises his arms at the doctor’s prompting.

“Yes dear! Just in case…” she trails off, eyes widened suggestively.

“In case of what?” Walburga cuts in, leaning on the rickety drywood wall. 

“In case things don’t work out,” she picks her words, eyeing Walburga warily, “The contestants are not allowed to take any of their wardrobe home, so everyone needs an extra set of clothes just in case.”

Regulus’s mother nods, satisfied.

“Now!” Rita begins solemnly, “It’s time for the dreaded paperwork. Ms.Black-”

“It’s Mrs. Black.” Walburga spits, the words erupting from her esophagus on instinct.

“I do apologize Mrs.Black!” Rita’s eyes glow at her violent reaction, mischievous smile returning to her face. Regulus fears what she’ll do with this newfound information.

“I have a few things for you to sign while the Doc finishes his evaluation, and then, if possible, I’d like to have a few minutes alone with dear Regulus here. I just have a few words of advice I’m sure he’d like to hear.”

Regulus certainly did not want to hear whatever this witch had to say.

“Of course Rita, it’s no problem at all.”

The doctor continues his check-up, mousy face lost in concentration as he pokes and prods seemingly every bit of Regulus’s body. Eventually, with a final scribble in his peeling notebook, the doctor shoots Regulus a quick smile and scurries out the door.

“And that looks like everything!” Rita sighs happily, her voice radiating flat enthusiasm that doesn’t seem to reach her eyes. “If you’d just give us a moment Mrs.Black..”

“Yes of course Rita!” Regulus’s mother slowly backs out of the room, a wistful smile ghosting her shrewd face, “Behave yourself Regulus.” She tuts at him, sounding almost…motherly. Regulus does not respond, a blank mask firmly secured over his features.

“Regulus, dear, before we move on to the next step, I have to confirm one last, very important thing. It’s a bit personal, but you understand, don’t you? Palace rules and all…” she dances around her words, eyes darting around uncomfortably. She whispers the next words like a secret, “You are a virgin, yes?”

The question lands like a slap, but not for the reasons she probably intended. The palace could have asked about his health, his skills, his intelligence- anything that mattered. Instead, this. Of course it’s this.

“I know the law, yes.” Regulus answers, fury licking its way up his throat like flames. 

“Good, good.” Rita sighs, eyes seemingly looking through him, “I had no doubts but they make me confirm, you see?” 

Regulus doesn’t respond, hoping his eyes don’t betray his homicidal emotions.

“Look, I’m going to be quite frank here.” She lays a taloned hand on his arm, “ technically , your mother has just signed the forms to make you property of the palace. Though the law will not change, and you must wait to be married before… doing those things, if the Prince asks, it would be foolish for you to say no.”

Disgust flares through Regulus’s entire body. Has she told every contestant this? He snatches his arm away, glare slipping through his placid features. Rita smirks at the change in expression.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Rita.” He chokes out through the bile in his throat, “Can you find the exit or do you need my help?”

“I’m fine, thanks. Good luck Regulus.” She sends a chilling smile over her shoulder, and flounces out of their house.

“That’s sound advice,” Regulus’s mother comments, floating into the room, looking at him pointedly.

Regulus nods absentmindedly, nausea churning through his stomach, his mask of indifference back in place. 

It’s too late to back out now. 

If the Selection had already stolen his future, then he would make damn sure it wouldn’t take his dignity.

“Well, lover boy, what a turn of events.” Barty whistles, jabbing Regulus between the ribs as he pulls himself up into the cramped treehouse.

“Don’t, Barty.” he swats at his hand harder than necessary. “I’m not in the mood” Regulus glares up at him, unamused. He hoists himself onto the worn, dirty wooden slats and curls his knees into his chest. The darkness envelops him like a blanket, the narrow walls hugging him like an embrace. This place always makes him feel safe.

“Yeah, I bet.” Barty’s face softens, empathy filling his expression. “Out of all the people they could’ve picked… they somehow chose the only person in all of Illea who isn’t slobbering at the chance to get with Prince James.”

“Yeah, tough luck I guess.” Regulus forces a chuckle. Barty’s eyes furrow in concern.

“She’s really making you do it, huh?” At this, Regulus laughs organically, sharp and garish in the warm candlelight of the treehouse.

“Would Walburga Black ever give up a chance to become a One?” he bites, wounded pride curling in his chest like a defeated lion.

“Shit, Reg. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” Barty means it. He’s had his fair share of run-ins with controlling parents.

“Thanks.” Regulus mumbles, eyes drifting towards the makeshift window balanced precariously in the drywood slats.

Regulus still remembers the soft, sun-drenched days of his youth. Even before his father left, his upbringing was never easy. His parents were more than strict, more than expectant, more than demanding. Finally, fed up with the constant supervision and threat of punishment, Regulus’s brother devised a plan to make a house of their own, a sanctuary where they were finally free to exist.

They scrounged through the streets every day after school for old plywood, nails, screws, anything they could get their hands on. In the few, stolen hours they could sneak from under their parents’ noses, the pair would escape to the thickest, most concealed tree in their yard and ramshackle a home that belonged to only them.

After his brother left, it belonged only to Regulus. He spent a lot of time there.

Barty’s parents were the highest-paying patrons of the Black family, meaning that Regulus spent every holiday at the Crouch estate. Regulus always noticed Barty in the crowd, and Barty, batshit crazy Barty, tried to corner him in the middle of his family function. Regulus slipped him a napkin with their house address on it, with directions to the treehouse, and met him there later that night. Needless to say, this treehouse has seen a lot of things.

Though their relationship was romantic at first, over time their desire for each other fizzled into contentment with each other’s company. They met here once a week, long after curfew. Sometimes they talked until dawn, sometimes they didn’t talk at all, simply enjoying breathing in the same air as each other, garnering support from presence alone.

They understand each other on a level that nobody else has even come close to reaching. They both have shitty home lives. They both feel abandoned. The only difference is Baty took his hurt and reflected it back outwards, whereas Regulus took hit after hit, cowering like a kicked dog. Barty hates his dad. Regulus still loves his mom.

“He’s making me enlist,” Barty releases into the comfortable space between them. Regulus looks up, alarmed.

“Holy shit.” Regulus exhales, panic gnawing at the edges of his vision. He’s been here before, abandoned and begging for someone he loves to stay. Except this time there would be no reason to stop him. Regulus is leaving too. The knee-jerk adreinaline fizzles out, leaving nothing but nostalgia and grief in its wake.

“He says I need to toughen up,” Barty admits, face marred with pain and twisted with anger, “I need to learn how to be a ‘real man’.”

“Well, I guess I stand corrected.” Regulus says carefully.

“Why’s that?”

“Remember when I swore I’d never agree with you dad?” Barty nods solemnly. “I guess we finally found some common ground.” Barty chuckles, tension seeping out of his posture as he relaxes.

“Yeah, alright. At least I’m not the one getting pampered like a pretty doll for the prince’s choosing.”

“Oh yeah?” Regulus quirks an eyebrow. Careful not to bump his head on the low ceilings he scrambles towards Barty, comically cocking back his arm.

The two exchange playful, half-hearted blows, enjoying the simple physical movement keeping their minds off of their respective fates. Eventually they both slump over, exhausted both physically and mentally.

“Y’know Reg…” Barty starts, a wicked smile on his face. Regulus looks over, shifting to get comfortable with the other boy’s arm under his skull. “Just because you’re doing this doesn’t mean you have to give up your future. In fact, it may actually be helpful.”

“How do you mean?” Regulus asks, emotional walls rebuilding as he retreats microscopically away.

“Do you know how many rich assholes go through the palace every day?” Barty tightens his arm around Regulus protectively, taking advantage of the rare moment of physical contact his friend allows, “Do you know how many people watch the selection? If you can find a way to broadcast yourself playing your career will literally be launched into the stratosphere.”

“And what if he ends up liking me? I literally just signed a contract that says I can’t refuse any of his advances.” 

At this, Barty pauses.

“You did what?”

His tone is deliberate, careful, yet laced with a quiet anger that Regulus knows better than to provoke. He’s seen Barty go crazy. He doesn’t care to see it again.

“She was watching. I couldn’t refuse.” Barty drags a hand down his face, exhaustion weighing heavy.

“Fuck. I had no idea.”

“Yeah.” Regulus mumbles.

They sit in charged silence for a minute, the gravity of their situations finally settling in after being spoken aloud, forcing them to face the reality that this might be the last time they ever see each other. Barty grapples for purchase on Regulus’s back, tugging him close.

“Good thing you’re ugly.” Barty mumbles. Regulus laughs weakly, tears eking their way through his defences for the first time in years. Finally releasing his mask after years of wearing it firmly placed, Regulus marvels at how it feels to be emotionally free. Too bad he finds freedom right before he is to be placed in a cage.

“Yeah, good thing.”

Chapter Text

The problem is that Regulus is not ugly. Quite the opposite in fact. Regulus can’t ignore it as he stares into the dust-streaked mirror. He regards himself objectively, not out of vanity but out of necessity. He’s about to be prostrated in front of the whole town, carted onto an airplane for hours, and then abandoned in a cesspool of vipers all trying to take him down. In short, he needs to look his best.

Deep purple shadows jut out from under his eyes, betraying his lack of genuine rest. He hasn’t been able to sleep soundly for years, brain running on overdrive all the time. The black cotton shirt provided by the palace clings to him awkwardly, stiff in a way that feels foreign, like borrowed skin. He adjusts the small silver pin that sits just above his heart, the one that keeps a small bundle of silver Edelweiss pinned to his shirt. All contestants must wear their province flower today.

It’s quiet in the house, so close to silent that he can almost forget what’s going to happen today. Regulus takes a deep breath, as if he can inhale the peace of this moment and trap himself here for eternity.

The soft creak of the door hinge interrupts the sacred morning silence, forcing him to exhale, bringing reality with it.

“ Bon matin, Regulus.” Walburga Black coos as she enters the room, a soft smile on her face and a tray of food in her hand. The soft stream of sun tumbling in from the window hits her just so, giving her translucent skin an almost human glow. She’s clearly in a good mood today. She always speaks French with him when she’s in a good mood, an old habit of her youth.

“ Bon matin. ” Regulus mumbles dutifully. His gaze doesn’t stray from the mirror. 

“How are you this morning?” she chirps. Despite his best efforts a guilty part of himself purrs like a kitten with his mother’s positive attention. He pushes the feeling down.

“Fine.” 

His mother frowns at his lack of enthusiasm, humming unenthusiastically.

“You look so handsome,” She gushes, walking across the cramped space to crouch next to him in the mirror. His room isn’t much to look at, just aged peeling green walls surrounding a scratched dark oak twin bed. The rest is bare. The entire house looks like this: expensive furnishings used and tarnished to near extinction. 

Walburga’s feet scrape against the matted sandpaper carpet as she tightens the silk robe around her waist, hiding the holes he knows are there. Much like his mother herself, the robe is a remnant of wealth from the past. She sets down a plate of too-expensive toast, which she must have splurged extravagantly for, and runs a hand through his well-kempt curls. 

“Just like your father.”

Regulus chokes back a snort, careful to keep his face blank. With their faces so close together, he marvels at the fact that his mother cannot see the jarring similarities between them. He looks exactly like her. They have the same sleek black hair, tumbling in curls like rivulets of oil, the same thick, long lashes, the same French nose, the same curved lips. The only difference between them is their eyes. Walburga Black’s eyes are a blue so clear and discerning they are nearly translucent, as arresting as Medusa. Regulus has his father’s eyes, a flinty gray that oscillates intensity depending on his mood.

Everyone tells him that he looks like his mother. The only person who refuses to accept this is the woman herself.

“Thank you, maman .” Despite his best efforts, he feels himself lean into her cold touch. Her lips peel back into a catlike smile as she scratches his head lightly, nails scraping painfully against his skin.

“Finish packing Regulus,” She commands, snatching back her hand, pushing his head down with the motion.  “I have something for you.” At that she flounces out of the room, a dangerous smile still affixed firmly to her features.

Regulus sighs, silently berating himself for his lack of composure. With one final glance in the mirror and a bite of toast, he turns his attention back to packing. 

He runs a finger across the expensive paper detailing his packing list, checking off each item as he scrounges through his neatly packed bag and attempts to discern Rita’s impractical scrawl. There aren’t many to go through.

Identification papers. Check. 

Toiletries for the plane. Check.

A change of clothes (just in case). Check.

Regulus had put extra thought into this, seeing as it would be his last moment to soak up exposure before retreating back into obscurity. The only nice thing he owns is his concert attire- a simple starched black button-up paired with well-tailored pants. Though they could barely afford to eat, Walburga refused to compromise on appearances. She allocated far too much of their finances to attire, an impracticality that somehow, in this case, worked out perfectly.

Regulus would leave the Selection dressed for his future, painting a picture in the minds of all of Illea of what he will become- one of the greats. A pianist rivaling Mozart himself. Despite his inherent dread, he feels a bit of excitement peek through. This is his chance.

While going through all the things he’s bringing, Regulus can’t help but mourn what he leaves behind. The plan is to leave for the palace and never return. This means that he leaves behind not just his mom, but the only scraps of his brother and father he has left. He leaves behind the treehouse. The piano his father had bought for him all those years ago. His brother’s preserved, untouched room. His father’s closet he used to sneak into just to smell his cologne. Barty.

To this end, he snuck a few things in his bag he likely was not allowed to have- a folder of sheet music (just in case), a heavy silver ring (a gift from Barty), and a small, sanded block of wood (stolen from the treehouse). He had thought about bringing a knife with him, just a small dagger to make him feel safer, but decided against it. The palace doubtlessly would frown upon bringing weapons to spend weeks in close quarters with the crown prince of Illea.

Regulus zips up his beaten leather bag, locking his future inside and preparing to leave the rest behind. This house is soaked in memories, some fond, most painful. It’s all Regulus has ever known.

“ Coucou!”  Regulus hears his mother chirp from the door. He flinches, as if he had been caught in some illicit act, not just reminiscing.

“What is it, maman ?” he asks carefully, meeting her discerning gaze,  “We need to leave.” Having changed out of her robe, Walburga seems to be a new person- no longer the warm motherly presence of before, but sharper. Shrewder.

“Here.” Walburga spits out, peeved by Regulus’s tone. “These were your father’s.” In her hand lies a small black box. Regulus takes it out of her small hand carefully, opening the lid to reveal two flinty silver cufflinks, the same gray as his eyes. Regulus traces the edges with his thumb, their weight heavier than it should be. His father had been such a fleeting figure in his life it was hard to remember much about him, but this... this is real. Proof his father existed. Cold, solid, undeniable.

“Thank you.” He says, meaning it genuinely. His mother turns up her nose. 

“Come. It’s time.” she commands, digging her nails into his wrist and dragging him towards the stairs. He spares one last look at his childhood bedroom, the sanctuary that has housed him all these years, and then follows after his mother dutifully.

As he stumbles along he bids goodbye to the only home he’s ever known. The peeling green wallpaper flies by too quickly as his mother carts him down the stairs. He makes eye contact with the portraits of his ancestors, part of an art installation his mother had ordered when he was five. A family tree to remind them, and their guests, of the Black family’s great past. He garners strength from their tattered faces, vowing to live on not to honor them, but to spite them.

Finally they reach the bottom of the stairs. This is it , Regulus thinks, a titration of staggering fear and murmuring excitement brewing. His mother shoves him towards the door, practically herding him past the dark oak doorway. With a final mournful glance, Regulus corrects his facial expression, settling into placid blank objectivity. Luckily living with his mother had given him a lot of practice with this.

In the overgrown gravel driveway sits a sleek, shining limousine adorned with miniature Illean flags. Instead of gawking, Walburga waltzes up to the door with the practiced ease of an heiress so steeped in luxury her skin puckers with oversaturation.

“Come along, Regulus,” she calls, back to business. The soft, almost human woman from inside replaced with the venomous viper he’s come to know. It was as if when she donned her black pantsuit she had suited up for war, wearing an armor so impenetrable it even covered her humanity. And, as always, Regulus follows.

The car rolls to a stop next to a familiar square, teeming with people pushing their way towards the stage. Regulus had been here just two days ago running errands, ignored and even looked down upon. The same townspeople who had scorned him now tear at each other to get a better look.

“This is it, Regulus.” Walburga says, curt and businesslike. “Make me proud.” 

Her kind words fall short as Regulus catches her stealing glances at the driver, performing for her audience.

Walburga grabs onto his sleeve and yanks Regulus close, whispering in his ear.

“Beauty is a weapon.” she hisses. “Use it.”

She places two firm, painful hands on his shoulder, pushing him back, and stares into his eyes intently, unsaid words swimming in her gaze. Regulus nods again, his mother’s influence nearly having its way with him.

She leans towards him, arm outstretched. For a brief, foolish moment Regulus wonders if she’s going to embrace him. He can’t help the flourish of joy he feels as she approaches, acting motherly in a way she never has before. But Regulus should know better. This is Walburga Black. 

Regulus’s mother opens his car door and shoves him out, feeding him to the wolves. So much for a tearful goodbye.

He stumbles onto the paved stones of the square, unable to keep the betrayal from his expression, silently berating himself for his foolishness.

“Hello Regulus.” a warm voice intones, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’m Mayor Aberforth Dumbledore. I don’t believe we’ve met before.” 

Regulus looks down to see a kind looking middle-aged man, slightly shorter than him. Light wrinkles line his face, marks of stress Regulus is well acquainted with.

“No, I don’t believe we have.” Regulus responds smoothly, aware of the need to lighten his tone but unable to muster the courage to do it. The mayor smiles understandingly.

“It’s quite the pleasure.”

“Likewise.”

The mayor continues to usher him towards the stage, trying to distract him from the crowd pushing at the gate mere feet to his right. The town square is normally a large tranquil place framed by shops and townspeople going about their day.  Now it seems that every person in the entire district crammed their way in to get a look at him. The hyper chatter hums in the background, making it nearly impossible to hear anything else.

“Don’t worry about this, son.” Mayor Dumbledore says, likely recognizing his unease. Regulus quickly schools his expression. “I’ll say a few words about your accomplishments, wish you luck, and then you’ll say something and be on your way.”

 Regulus nods, tight-lipped smile betraying his nerves. He hates crowds. 

“That is, if you want to say something.” he says perceptively, “It’s not a requirement.”

“I don’t have much to say. Thank you.” Regulus hides his relief under layers of forced nonchalance.

“No problem.” The mayor replies, unconvinced. With a final suspicious glance, he leads Regulus up the steps and onto the makeshift stage.

The ramshackled wooden slats groan underneath Regulus’s boots, clearly put together last minute. Large panels have been set up behind them, echoing the voracious screams and making it impossible for him to focus.

“Good morning everyone!” The Mayor calls into the microphone, attempting to quiet the raucous cheers that explode as the spotlight hits Regulus’s face. He squints, light eyes battling the artificial rays, tears forming in his eyes. 

Don’t squint Regulus . He hears his mother’s berating voice in the back of his head. You’re on TV. 

Regulus forces his eyes to relax, wills the water in his eyes to retreat, and orders his face to remain neutral. It works.

Good . He hears his mother purr.

The mayor continues on with his speech, rambling about Regulus's accomplishments, embellishing his character, and gushing about his piano playing skills. However, Regulus's mind is not on the speech, but rather on the crowd. 

His eyes scan over the congealed mass, staring at faces he’s known his entire life, knowing this is the last time he’ll ever see them.

He sees the butcher that always gave him a little extra, knowing he didn’t have the funds to ask for more. He sees the bassist that played with their band at an event one time. He sees Barty’s dad. And then he sees Barty.

Regulus didn’t expect to feel so emotional seeing his best friend for the last time, but something about his anger-filled face breaks something in him. He won’t be able to protect him from his father. From the military. Hell, more likely than not, Barty will die in the next year. Regulus forces himself to look away.

“Our Regulus even speaks three languages!” The mayor announces, voice loud and animated like an auctioneer selling off his finest goods. Regulus feels sick.

His eyes catch on a crying woman, shivering in heaving sobs on the sidelines of the crowd. Something about her seems familiar, so he squints and shuffles forward, trying to catch a glance of her face. Just at that moment, the woman looks up, translucent eyes pinning Regulus to the spot. 

That’s my mother.

Walburga Black is crying.

For me.

Regulus stands, dumbfounded as he regards this impossible scene. 

Yet before he can fully process, the mayor interrupts him, placing a firm hand on his shoulder and locking him in place.

“And so, please continue to support our very own Regulus Black, potentially the future leader of Illea!” The crowd goes wild, cheering madly at the prospect. They push forward, trying to get a better last look at the Selected they claim as theirs. With the sudden surge in movement, the gates stretch, bulge, and groan.

Snap.

The gate gives way. Jubilant attendees funnel through the gap like sand, clambering towards the stage with a maddening frenzy.

“Time to go.” a deep voice commands into his ear, gripping his shoulders painfully and practically dragging him backwards off the stage. Regulus looks up, unamused, to see a handsome man with a face littered in scars.

“I can walk, thanks.” he sneers, yanking his hand from the man's grip. He doesn’t appreciate being pulled around like a dog. That’s happened far too much today.

“Suit yourself.” The man shrugs, dropping him and jogging across the paved street towards a black armored car. Regulus does not rush, despite the obvious danger behind him.

Keep your composure. This is your first impression.

The guard opens the car door for him.

“Get in.”

Regulus glares up at him, unamused with his tone, yet complies.

The guard clambers in the driver's seat after him, turning the ignition and sparking the engine to life. With calm, decisive motion he worms his way through the crowd, eventually breaking free out on the open road. 

Regulus casts one last glance out the window at the town that made him. He prays he will never see it again.

“We’re here.” The guard announces, startling Regulus out of his daydream. He stifles his shock quickly, giving him a curt nod. The car sits in front of a gaping air hangar, a small, beautiful jet nestled inside. 

With a deep breath, Regulus grabs his bag and steps out. The ground feels too solid beneath him, like he’s anchored somewhere he doesn’t belong. This is the first time he’s set foot out of his hometown in fifteen years. The guard doesn’t miss his hesitation.

“This way.” He says, gesturing towards the plane. Regulus gives him a look.

“Yes, I know Mr… Lupin” He finishes tiredly, glancing down at the silver name tag affixed to the guard’s suit jacket in an attempt to ruffle him. It doesn’t work. He stares at him with flat brown eyes, but Regulus could’ve sworn he saw a twinkle of amusement in them.

“Waiting for you Mr.Black.” 

Regulus narrows his eyes, waiting for a beat out of spite before turning with a huff and heading towards the plane. He hopes he never has to talk to this guard in the palace, something about him angers him to no end.

The early September air is warm, yet holds a chilly undercurrent prophesying the harsh winter soon to come. The sun is bright, forcing Regulus to squint slightly as he regains his bearings. He fiddles absentmindedly with his flower pin, the fabric of his palace-mandated clothes foreign yet comfortable.

After a few minutes of walking they finally enter the shady, gaping entrance of the hangar. With practiced self-confidence, Regulus walks confidently to the polished wood staircase leading up to the jet. Lupin gives a nod to the guard standing in front and he smoothly steps aside. 

“Welcome Mr.Black.” The guard says, giggling with a slight mischievous hysteria in his voice, an undertone that this is all a game. Something about the sharpness of his amusement puts Regulus on edge. He makes a note to keep an eye on him, glancing down at his pin. Pettigrew . He files the information away, highly suspicious of his attitude.

“Thank you.” He says shortly, making his way up into the plane.

Keeping an air of easy, comfortable confidence Regulus silently marvels at the severe opulence of the private jet. Creamy leather seats sit atop a soft, squishy red carpet that envelops Regulus’s dirt-soaked boots as he treads across the aisle. Regulus has never been in a plane before, but he’s pretty sure that they usually have more than eight seats, and never have so much room to walk about.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” a dreamy female voice calls out to his right. Regulus turns slowly, looking down at the seat beside him to see a tall elegant-looking girl with fine, silken hair so blonde it’s nearly white. 

Pandora Lovegood. Two. Family of diplomats with connections to New Asia. Regulus’s brain supplies immediately. A good ally to have.

“Please,” she implores calmly, gesturing to the seat next to her, “Sit with me.”

Regulus complies. He stumbles slightly, caught off guard by the sheer softness of the cushion beneath him. It’s been at least ten years since he’s felt something like this. He forces himself to relax, hoping she hadn’t noticed.

Pandora looks at him strangely. Or, at least it seems strange to Regulus. Her eyes are a cool pale silver, tranquil yet knowing, as their clarity could allow her to see right through him.

“I’m Regulus.” He says cooly, proffering his hand, “Regulus Black.” 

“I know who you are.” She says, never breaking eye contact. She grabs ahold of his hand, yet instead of shaking it, she turns it over and brings it up to her lips. “And you know who I am.”

“That I do.” Regulus says, suspicious yet intrigued. He’s mildly surprised at her lack of normalcy, yet finds a sense of camaraderie in Pandora’s oddity. He allows himself to relax a little, tension seeping from his frame as he settles into the fluffy cushioned seat. Pandora smiles softly.

“I think we’re going to be good friends, Regulus Black.”

“I think so too.” he responds, a rare genuine smile lifting up the corners of his mouth.

“What are we talking about?” Another voice projects into the cabin, each word dripping with easy confidence. A woman struts in, dark curls bouncing as she moves. Her palace-mandated uniform of a simple black shirt and jeans has obviously been altered, hugging the curves of her body with a master’s stitch.

Mary Macdonald. Three.

She twists a single curl between her fingers, betraying nerves lying just beneath her confident exterior. Regulus retracts from the conversation, looking instead out the window at the last guest making his way up the staircase. Pandora responds quietly, but Regulus isn’t listening.

Mary seems annoyed with his lack of attention, yet Regulus suspects that will soon fizzle away as soon as she sees the next guest. She finds a seat in the middle of the plane, picking at her manicured nails meticulously.

Then Evan Rosier comes in. It’s hard to believe that he’s dressed in the same place-provided clothing that the rest of them are in. The fabric hangs off him with just the right amount of give to look stylish without looking oversized. His golden locks are pushed back by a pair of expensive black sunglasses, making him look effortlessly cool.

“Who’s ready to get this show on the road?” He asks, plopping into a seat at the back of the plane.

The movie star. He'd be a powerful ally to have.

Regulus regards them all warily, weighing his options and using his encyclopedic knowledge to find the best way to approach them all. Out of all the contestants he could have shared a plane with, this was a great bunch to have.

The flight passes in relatively comfortable silence, interrupted by the occasional chatter. That is until the topic of the prince is brought up.

“So,” Mary begins, a dark twinkle in her eye, “What do you all think of Prince James?”

Pandora opens her mouth to speak, but Mary cuts her off with a swat of her hand.

“And none of that ‘I think he’s a great guy!’ crap. I want to know what you really think.” Her eyes flick between them all intently, finally settling on Regulus.

“You. Go.”

Regulus shakes his head, tired and unwilling to satisfy her whims. However, he forces himself to answer so as not to make an enemy.

“I’d like to hear you go first, Mary.” he answers, deftly avoiding the topic.

“I mean, we’ve all seen him.” She laughs, spreading her hands to the group, “He’s certainly easy on the eyes. The crown on his head just adds to the effect.”

Pandora laughs, high and breathy.

“He seems like a genuine person.” She adds, silver eyes alight with excitement. “I’d love to be the one to rule by his side.”

“Oh come on Pandora! I said none of that sappy bullshit.” Mary rolls her eyes, playfully angry. “What about you, movie star?”

Evan looks up briefly from the book in his hands, uninterested. 

“He’s hot. Can’t say much else.”

“Right.” Regulus agrees, leaning backwards into his seat.  “For all we know he could be a massive prick. They can make him look however they want on TV, but you can’t live in luxury that long and still somehow salvage a passable personality.”

Evan snorts, snapping his book shut with a smirk.

 “I like you, Black.”

Regulus feels a jolt of victory run down his spine. He grins wickedly in return.

“Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts.” The captain murmurs over the intercom.
“We are about to begin our descent.”

Evan turns pale, twisting his hands in his lap. Regulus notices that he hasn’t taken his seatbelt off at all during the flight, preferring to keep it fastened with a strangling tightness.

“You okay?” He murmurs, indifferent yet slightly concerned. If he starts freaking out, things will get ugly in here really fast. There’s not exactly anywhere to go. Evan gives Regulus a tight-lipped smile and a curt nod.

The plane lands smoothly, the pilot displaying obvious experience as he guides the machine to the ground with barely a bump. Evan holds his breath the whole time.

The door creaks open, spilling viscous humid air into the cabin. A sharp click-click-click echoes against the steps, each step deliberate, predatory. Even before she speaks, Regulus knows exactly who it is.

“Hello everyone!” Rita Skeeter’s voice floats in, its sickly sweet residue leaving a bad taste in Regulus’s mouth. A quick glance at Pandora’s horrified face tells him that she feels the same.

“Hi Rita.” Mary responds, the only one to do so, giving a half-hearted wave.

“Now, I know you’re all tired after that long flight,” She begins, fanning herself theatrically, “But I have the perfect opportunity planned for you all!”

Dread pools in Regulus's stomach. Whatever Rita’s planning, it’s nothing he’s going to like. In her serpentine gaze Regulus is struck with the reminder that Rita can do whatever she wants with him. With any of them. He tenses, preparing for attack.

Seeing the looks on all of their faces, Rita laughs. The sound is sharp and cruel, filled not with merriment but with malice.

“It’s nothing bad! I promise!” Pandora gives Rita a look that tells her her promises mean nothing. “As the Selection’s media liaison, I’ve arranged a way for you all to meet the public before you go on air!”

“What do you mean by that, Rita?” Evan asks, the simple swagger returning to his posture.

“There’s roughly… five or six hundred people outside. Now go! Walk through the crowd, mingle, and then I promise you’ll be on your way to the palace!”

Regulus’s stomach drops. He’s already been through enough today, he did not need another hour of elbowing his way through a merciless crowd. He’s frankly had enough of crowds today.

“Oh, and before I forget.” She taps her chin, red talons emerging from her fingertips. “This is your camera crew! You should all get used to having them around, they won’t leave your side for… a while.”

With that, Rita flounces off the plane, waving at the cheering mob below with a gleaming smile of barely concealed venom.

“I hate that woman.” Pandora whispers to Regulus, leveraging his shoulder to rise to her feet. “She’s so steeped in corruption, I’m surprised she doesn’t leave a trail.”

Regulus nods solemnly, forcing himself to his feet. 

Mary is the first to step into the storm. The second she hits the pavement, the crowd surges, a deafening wall of noise swallowing her whole. She handles it effortlessly, drinking in their adoration like a performer at curtain call. Regulus watches from the doorway, pulse tightening. 

Evan goes next, his years of practice in the spotlight becoming obvious as he works his way methodically through the crowd, kind yet focused.

Pandora gives Regulus’s shoulder a brief squeeze, garnering an ounce of courage before making her way down the stairs. She moves into the crowd with a natural ethereal grace, her white-blond hair setting her apart from the dark-haired mob.

Taking a deep breath, Regulus tries to think of the most personable person he knows. Only one person comes to mind, despite his best efforts to push him down- Regulus’s brother. Desperate, Regulus takes down the barrier separating himself from the painful memory of the boy who used to be his world. Channeling his brother, Regulus makes his way down the stairs and gets to work.

It’s exhausting. He smiles, and laughs, and listens to every person he meets along the way. Children look up, holding sweet handmade signs and offering words of encouragement. Adults grapple at him, grabbing his shoulders, his arm, his hands, trying to get a peek at one who could possibly be the next ruler of Illea. Each time he thinks to himself, “What would Sirius do?”. 

He puts on his brother’s persona like a mask, ridding himself of his normal personality in favor of another.

Despite how uncomfortable he is, Regulus finds a bit of enjoyment in the crowd. All of these people are here to root for him, to cheer him on. As he nears the end of the path set before him, a little girl with a rickety sign grabs his attention.

For the most part the signs people are holding have been neutral words of encouragement, with the occasional “I love you Evan!’. However, this girl holds a sign of a poorly scribbled piano with the words “I believe in you Regulus!” scrawled on top. Regulus ignores the rest of the people surrounding him, headed straight for her.

“What’s your name?” he asks, crouching down in front of her. She looks away shyly, bringing one ginger braid in front of her face.

“Evelyn.” she says, swaying back and forth with barely contained excitement.

“That’s a beautiful name, Evelym.” he smiles, finding her utterly adorable.

“I think your name is pretty too.” she mumbles.

“Well, thank you.” He reaches towards her, brushing the red hair from her face. “May I ask what made you believe in me?”

“I want to be a pianist too!” she erupts, small hands gripping Regulus’s arms. For once, Regulus doesn’t find the touch unwelcome. “My mommy says that I have to be a teacher, though. It’s my duty as a Three.”

Regulus frowns.

“But if you can play piano and rule Illea, that means I can do both too!” 

Regulus’s lips turn down in empathy. In a rare show of affection unlike himself, he reaches out and hugs the girl.

“Of course you can do both, Evelyn. Of course you can.”

Regulus can’t tell if he’s consoling the girl or himself. As he embraces her, he hears the whirls of camera clicks and feels the invasive warmth of light flashes. Unintentionally he had created the perfect photo-op moment.

After meeting Evelyn, the rest of the crowd work flies by. Though he still finds each interaction stilted, the positivity he feels from meeting her carries him through to the end.

“Nice work out there Regulus.” Evan comments, sliding a hand through his thick blonde waves, ruffling them just so. “You handled it like a pro.”

“You too, Evan.” he jokes, a slight smile tugging at the edge of his lips. The four of them clamber into yet another car, the last step of their journey. As Regulus looks out the window, he finds himself looking for evelyn, trying to get one last glance for encouragement before he leaves. She vanished into the sea of bodies, gone forever in his sight but burned forever in his memory.

“Welcome to the palace of Illea.” A woman stands in front of the palace gate, arms open in invitation. Light lines cover her face, rivulets marking her age, yet making her stern face appear softer, kinder. “My name is Minerva McGonagall and I am the director of the Selection.”

Pandora waves to her, a small smile on her face. Regulus remains still.

“I know that you all must be exhausted. You’re the last ones to arrive, as you all had the longest distance to travel. I’ll bring you straight to your rooms. Lay down, get some rest, and prepare yourself for tomorrow.”

“What about dinner?” Mary asks. She complained about her undying hunger the entire car ride here.

“We’ll have it sent up to your rooms, don’t worry.” McGonagall responds smoothly. Mary pipes down, satisfied. “Follow me everyone!”

The four of them tread after her, feet crunching in the gravel path. The air is cool and damp, carrying the scent of fresh earth and roses. A garden. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to reach out—to touch, to ground himself.

It’s so peaceful here, Regulus can almost close his eyes and pretend he’s somewhere else. Somewhere where his brother’s laugh still twinkles like a windchime, where he spends languid hours hidden away in their treehouse, where responsibilities don’t exist.

But they do.

The palace is an impressively sized building, bubbling stone walls towering above them at impossible heights. The sun dips just below the horizon to their right, casting dramatic shadows across its uneven surface. It looks beautiful yet haunting, a place meant to keep outsiders out and insiders in.

“As you can probably tell, this is not the main entrance. “ Madam McGonagall informs them, “I promise that you will get the full tour tomorrow, after a good night’s rest.”

Regulus nods solemnly, his attention tuned to lush greenery surrounding them. He reaches out a hand, fingertips crazing the dew-soaked petals of the rose, fiery red lit aflame by the intense lighting. The sky above them shifts through pastel pink and orange hues, rippling through colors like a roiling sea.

Madam McGonagall shares a nod with a pair of guards behind the large oak door at the end of the path, and they promptly open it for her. She walks in confidently, shooing them all in.

Regulus stumbles a bit as his shoes sink into the pillowy carpet beneath him. Pandora reaches out to steady him, eyes forward and movements small so as to be as discreet as possible. She floats across the surface with the same ethereal grace she exhibits everywhere else.

The grace of a queen. Regulus thinks, looking at her with new eyes.

Thick, ornate golden chandeliers hang from the ceiling, alit with warm electric bulbs meant to resemble candles. Sunlight still trickles in through the windows, casting a warm glow over the creamy white wallpaper. The occasional painting hangs on the wall, vague impressionistic landscapes that brighten up the mood.

“Your rooms are just up here.” McGonagall says, leading them up a final ornate staircase, and down a series of halls to four beautiful wooden doors at the end of a hall, tucked in a corner.

“These belong to you all. I’m afraid, since you got here last, the others were already taken.”

“Thank you madam.” Evan says, oddly polite.

“You’re welcome.” she responds, a cheery smile entering her features, pleased with Evan’s small show of respect. She schools her face quickly. “Your servants have already been dismissed, but they will wake you tomorrow morning bright and early. Your dinner should be in your rooms, so please do not leave them until tomorrow.”

With that final warning, she turns on her heel and walks away, leaving them to their own devices.

“God, I’m beat.” Mary mumbles, taking the room closest to them. Evan silently takes the room across from her. Regulus selects the room in the corner, furthest from the others.

It’s odd. He should feel better. The day is over, and he has finally arrived. Yet, a nagging anxious feeling tugs at the edge of his consciousness. He pushes it down, opening his heavy door with a creak.

His room is beautiful, white crownings lining each wall. It’s long and rectangular, with a dark oak bed frame curled in the back right corner of the room. On top is a mountain of pillows, freshly fluffed and looking softer than anything  Regulus has ever seen.

A grand piano sits in the back left, polished and waiting. His stomach twists at the sight of it. It shouldn’t feel like relief, but it does. Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s across the room, hands trembling as they reach for the keys.

They move of their own accord, settling into a familiar melody. His left hand jumps, moving languidly from a low note to a chord, over and over again. Regulus settles into the comfortable rhythm it makes, attempting to relax. 

When the melody comes in, Regulus has to stop playing. Something is really wrong. Normally playing piano can help relax him, yet the nagging feeling keeps growing and growing in intensity. His chest grows tighter and it becomes harder to breathe.

He grabs his pack, deciding that unpacking might help take his mind off of things. However it only makes it worse.

As he sets his pitiful trinkets on the grand dark oak armoire, he realizes how little of himself he truly has. The grand, beautiful room suddenly feels wrong- too big, too sterile. He tries to regulate his breathing, yet his breaths soon turn into pants. The walls start closing in, and Regulus is struck with the intense desire to get out .

He runs to the back of the room, where a glass sliding door opens to a terrace. He claws at his chest, trying to open his lungs up to get more air. This hasn’t happened to him in years, the potent feeling of being trapped in a cage with no escape.

His eyes scan the room, eventually landing on the small, sanded block of wood he brought with him. The treehouse. He thinks. The garden.

He tears through his room, lugging the door open and stumbling through the hall. Keeping a hand on the wall he retraces his steps from before. He’s suddenly appreciative of his ingrained distrust, as it forces him to devise an escape for every space he enters. This means he knows exactly where to go.

Sure enough, lungs burning from lack of oxygen, he finds himself back at that grand oak door leading to the garden.
“Please.” He gasps at the two guards, knees shivering under his weight. His body convulses mildly, shivers wracking his frame. “I need air.”

The guards do not respond. They stare at him blankly, likely under orders to let nobody out.

“You should be in your room.” One of them says, stepping towards him menacingly, brandishing the pistol at his side.

“I..” he starts, his breathing speeding up. “I.. need to get… outside.”

Spots dance on the edges of his vision. His body is screaming for oxygen, his legs locked, his arms trembling. He’s running out of time. He braces himself, tensing to shove past them—

Then, a voice.

Clear. Authoritative. Unshakable.

“Let him out.”

The guards comply.

Why?

Because the voice belongs to the Prince.

Chapter Text

The guards step aside dutifully, and Regulus collapses through the large ornate door. Immediately crisp, fresh air whooses through his lungs, satiating his intense need for oxygen. He stumbles forward, feet catching on the gravel, making his way over to a small stone bench a few steps down the path.

He practically falls on top of it, head resting on his arms as he arches his back again and again, grateful to finally get a deep breath.

“Um. Hi.” A voice calls out from behind him, a far cry from the authoritative figure he’d just heard in the hall. Regulus doesn’t care who it is—only that they’re bothering him.

“What?” he spits, glaring over his shoulder. The menacing effect is lost slightly as he hiccups, tears streaming silently down his face.

“Are you alright?” Prince James asks, stepping closer. He sounds concerned, yet almost…shy? The dim lighting obscures his face, yet Regulus can just make out the mop of dark curls atop his head and the fine clothes he wears left in a state of utter disarray.

“No. I am not alright, thank you.” Regulus responds, turning his head back into his arms and focusing on taking deep breaths.

In.

He inhales,

And out.

He hears it—his brother’s voice, distant but clear, coaching him through just as he did all those years ago.

In.

“Hey, just take deep breaths, alright.”

 The words are soft, imbued with a hesitation that makes the authoritative Prince sound uncertain. Regulus jumps as a warm hand grazes his back, the touch unexpected yet not unwelcome. The Prince’s hands trace soothing patterns up and down his back, the warmth seeping from his fingers to Regulus’s cold skin. For a second he relaxes, reveling in the first kind touch he’s felt in years.

Out.

“I know .” He gasps, breaths still stuttering in and out. He swats at the Prince’s hand, ignoring the twang of disappointment at the loss of his touch. He shivers, the cool night breeze sending goosebumps over his pale skin.

“What happened darling?” Prince James questions, hands at his sides yet still hovering nervously at Regulus’s side. The simple endearment falls out his mouth much too easily, a subconscious habit.

“Do not call me that.” Regulus spits furiously, lifting his head and finally regaining control of his breath. With a deep inhale he turns to face the boy at his side. He wipes furiously at his tears, attempting to regain a semblance of dignity.

“And why ever not?” the Prince pauses, a slight mischievous smile in his voice like a child poking at a bruise, “Darling?”

Regulus meets his gaze with a glare. However, he soon realizes that looking in the Prince’s eyes was the wrong choice. The boy in front of him sports a large boyish grin dripping with delight - the complete opposite of the emotionless robot he’d seen on TV. His eyes twinkle with amusement, weighed down slightly with concern. A fine pair of glasses sits upon his regal nose, slightly askew in a way that makes Regulus itch to adjust him. He does not, annoyance outweighing his impulse. He opens his mouth indignantly, a string of curses on his tongue, when a single thought whizzes through his mind.

If I screw this up, I have nothing.  

“You people act as if you know us.” Regulus responds, slow and deliberate as his eyes narrow, entering a staring contest he is determined to win. The Prince’s eyebrows fly up in amused shock.

“You people? ”

“You know what I mean.” Regulus retorts, “You.”

He gestures wildly at the building in front of them. “The palace. That viper Rita. Hell, even McGonagall. We’ve barely been here two hours and yet you act as if you know who we are.”

Prince James tilts his head, intrigued. His lips press together, thoughtful—but his eyes are sharp. The intensity makes Regulus’s stomach turn.

“I suppose you’re right.” He turns his gaze away. Regulus’s lips turn up wickedly in victory.

“Thank you. I am.”

“So tell me about yourself.” The Prince returns his piercing gaze in full force, eyes earnestly trained on the boy in front of him. Regulus sputters for a second, caught off guard.

“I- What?”

“You say that I don’t know you, so tell me about yourself.” he responds simply,  “Hobbies, friends, secrets?” 

“And what makes you think you have a right to that information?” Regulus inquires, prickly demeanor back in full force. How dare this privileged prick demand a life story from him?

“Maybe the fact that you’re here to compete for my hand in marriage.” Prince James muses incredulously. Regulus’s eyebrows furrow in frustration. He has a point.

“Just because I’m here does not mean I want to marry you,” he scoffs, avoiding his gaze by turning away, “God help the poor soul who will be stuck with your pompous ass.”

So maybe Regulus was overreacting.

But it had been a long day, and Regulus was exhausted, nerves raw from his very recent panic attack, and here was this boy who was perfectly and rationally contradicting everything he was saying. And Regulus so loves to be right. 

“I see.” The Prince says simply, amusement alight in his eyes. His gaze flickers down—quick, but deliberate. A glint of recognition crosses his face before he looks back up, eyes unreadable. Regulus fights the urge to look down, wondering what he’s looking at.

 “Then I shall bid you goodnight mister… Regulus.” 

Regulus glares in response. Prince James chuckles, opening the large oak door with an easy swing.

“Stay out here as long as you’d like.” James flashes another stunning, easy grin. “They won’t bother you anymore.”

Regulus blinks. He hadn't expected that. He hadn’t expected… thoughtfulness.

“Thank you.” he mumbles, genuinely thankful.

“No problem darling.” The Prince winks, slipping briskly out of sight. Regulus growls in frustration, scowling into the night sky..

He sits on the bench for a while, reveling in the brisk night breeze and the familiar scent of pine. With his eyes closed he can almost hear Barty’s voice, chuckling wickedly at Regulus’s embarrassing outburst.

But that life is over. No point reminiscing. He forces himself to focus on what’s next. He is here for a reason - to build his future.

His stomach plummets. There’s no way the Prince will let him stay after that display. He drops his head in his hands with a groan. That minute of exposure with the girl is not nearly enough to set off his career.

Yet that’s a problem for another night.

He picks himself up off the bench, walks in through the heavy wooden door and, with a pointed glare at the guards, makes his way back to his room.

He’ll surely feel better after a good night’s rest.

He does not. The sun streams in through the gap in the curtains, beaming a ray of light right into Regulus’s eyes.

“Good morning Mister Black.” A female voice singsongs, ruthlessly ripping open the curtains and forcing Regulus’ eyes open.

Regulus groans in response.

“Yes, yes I know. It’s time to get up.” 

Regulus turns over, last night’s memories rushing back in an unforgiving flood.”

Garden. Guards. Prince.

Oh god the Prince.

Regulus drags a tired hand over his face, bemoaning his lack of composure. Now he’ll have to practically beg the Prince to let him stay.

Unable to avoid reality any longer, Regulus rips off the blanket covering him and faces the day.

“Hello.” he greets the servant in front of him. She quizzically quirks her brow. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

He stands, proffering his hand towards her. He must look ridiculous, displaying proper manners in his pajamas, yet the gesture is so ingrained in him he doesn’t think twice. She shakes it, a guarded, incredulous tint to her expression.

“It’s nice to meet you too, sir. My name is Dorcas Meadowes.”

Regulus smiles a bit, mildly impressed by her boldness. She looks to be the same age as him,

“I’m Regulus Black. Please just call me Regulus.”

Dorcas smiles back, a mischievous glint in her eye.

“Well, Regulus , you’d better get a move on or you’ll be late for makeovers.” She gives him a once over, clearly unimpressed. “And maybe you should consider a change of clothes.”

“Makeovers?” he asks, confused.

“You really think they’d let you all go in front of Illea with your…” she waves a hand at his whole body,  “Unrefined flair? Please.” 

With that she turns on her heel, setting a heavy breakfast tray on a table in the corner of his room.

“Sit. Eat. You need to be downstairs in ten minutes.”

The first bite of eggs melts on his tongue, so warm and buttery it almost aches. He hadn’t eaten this well in—he doesn’t even know how long. Quite honestly it had been forever since he’s had real food like this. Even toast was a luxury at his house.

Was.

Regulus smiles at the past tense, reminded that his life with Walburga was over. Never again would he go hungry. He grins around the metal fork, motivation renewed as he ponders a way out of his mess.

“TIme to go, Regulus.” Dorcas asserts, taking the still-half-full tray from under his nose.

“What are you doing?” He gasps, horrified at the wasted food. 

“I said it’s time to go .” she repeats, sending him a pointed look. Regulus complies, rising from his seat immediately. 

“Good.” Dorcas smiles, beckoning him to follow. “This way, Mr.Black.”

They follow roughly the same path that Regulus stumbled last night. Regulus cringes at the memory, averting his eyes from the distressed spots in the carpet where he had slipped. Dorcas remains unbothered, leading with a joyful pep in her step.

“Here we are.” she comments with a flourish. “Best of luck.”

“Thanks.” Regulus mumbles, regarding the broad doorway warily. Sounds of bustling workers leak through the gap in the two wooden slabs. Regulus approaches warily, taking a second to collect himself. He inhales, focusing in on the way the breath whirls through his lungs, imagining the oxygen spreading to each limb, calming his nerves and steadying his shaking hands.

Feeling better, he pushes open the door. In front of him is a large room, likely used as a recreational center, that has been renovated into a mass-scale beauty parlor. He scans the room quickly, eyes snagging on faces he recognizes. The other Selected .

They sit at various stations, some getting their nails filed as others sit with their head covered in foils.

“Mr.Black?” A female voice questions in front of him. His gaze jumps back down in shock to see a small, kind-looking palace servant. He nods silently.

“Right this way.” She takes off with well-practiced steps leading him expertly to the back of the room. 

“Sit right here please.” She gestures towards a seat in front of a large, expensive looking camera. “The palace needs before shots of all the Selected for the special they’re going to run later.”

Regulus nods, doing as he’s told. He doesn’t smile at the camerawoman’s provocation, staring stonily into the lens just as his mother taught him to. The flash goes off, the fluorescent light hot and itchy on his face.

Judging by the look on the camerawoman’s face, the picture didn’t turn out too bad.

My first impression. Regulus thinks, a flicker of excitement rushing through his body.

With a tight-lipped, faraway smile the palace servant hands him off to an eccentric looking man.

“Take a seat, please.” he says, a welcoming smile spread across his face. He wears a simple gray dress shirt paired with navy blue slacks, yet manages to make the simple outfit look elegant.

Regulus climbs onto a high-up stylist chair, turning to face himself in the mirror. He nearly jumps in surprise. 

The last time he had looked at himself like this was only yesterday, yet it felt like years ago. His face is solemn and flat, his cheeks are swollen, and his eyes are puffy and bruised with bags, all likely the result of last night’s events.

The stylist clearly notices yet says nothing. Instead, he holds out an ice pack.

“It’ll help with the swelling.”

“Thanks.” Regulus mumbles, holding it to his face. The cool surface sticks to his sensitive red skin, the prickling sending goosebumps rushing over his skin. He shivers slightly, yet remains composed.

The stylist sizes him up in the mirror, giving Regulus an odd sense of deja vu. Just like his mother, the stylist scrutinizes everything about him. Only his gaze is objective, unlike his mother’s judgment.

“What kind of look do you want to go for?” the stylist asks, eyes glazed in concentration, “With your looks you could pull off pretty much anything.”

Regulus rolls his eyes adjusting the ice pack.

“Anything?” He asks, raising his brow skeptically. He pauses, pondering his next words carefully. 

“Then I want to look intimidating. Not a cookie cutter Selected, but someone memorable .”

“Intimidating?” The stylist questions, tilting his head in confusion. “Are you sure? You could be utterly captivating with the right changes.”

He runs his lithe fingers through Regulus’s hair, twisting a black curl in between his fingers.

“With the right haircut you could make any man fall to his knees.”

“Yes I am sure.” Regulus asserts, swatting his hand away. “And don’t cut too much off my hair.”

If there was one feature Regulus liked most about himself it was his hair. His eyes were too similar to his father, his face too similar to his mother. Looking into his reflection sometimes felt like facing an enemy, the ghosts of his lineage carved into his visage.

Yet, when he looks at his hair, he remembers a small boy with definitely long black hair, the same color as his own. Though he prefers to keep his hair short, cutting pieces off of it feels like losing a piece of his brother. No matter what contract he signed with the palace, he does not belong to them, and Regulus refuses to allow himself to be changed too much by this place. Also, the more memorable he was while on camera, the better his chances would be outside the palace.

“Okay…” the stylist agrees, eyebrows pinched in obvious frustration.Yet he gets to work with the tired resignation of an underpaid employee.

Regulus’s eyes sink closed at the washbowl, relishing in the scalp massage he receives. It’s the first relief from the wound-up tension simmering beneath his skin he’s felt in days.

“They’re letting you keep your hair color?” a girl asks timidly from his left. Regulus peels an eye open to regard the girl next to him.

Marlene Mckinnon. Six.

Her head is covered in tiny silver foils, bleaching the rich brown color from her hair.

“I wouldn’t let him change it even if he tried.” Regulus responds smoothly, sending a cautionary glare towards the stylist above him. The man rolls his eyes, exhausted.

“Lucky.” the girl responds, eyes fluttering shut. “They said that the Prince likes blondes best, so I should dye my hair.”

“Pity,” Regulus responds, “I thought that the brown suited you well.”

Marlene cracks a smile, a spark of defiance shining through her meek demeanor.

“I’m sure blonde will suit me just fine.”

“Hmm.” Regulus hums, returning to a peaceful silence.

The stylist works quickly and efficiently. The shampoo he uses has a faint, lovely lilac scent that lulls him into a peaceful trance. If he closes his eyes, he can almost believe the scrape of the scissors against his scalp is Barty’s fingernails, his friend trying to send him off to sleep. Yet Regulus cannot sleep.

The stylist trims his hair slightly, just enough to give it shape without cutting off too much. Regulus keeps a rapt eye on his scissors the entire time, making it clear if he cut off too much he would regret it.

“Okay, Mr.Black, you’re all set.”

Regulus looks up, snapped out of his daydream. He still looks like himself, just… sharper. More dangerous. His hair remains the same as usual, but the glossy black curls are arranged just enough to accentuate his face. His skin is rejuvenated, making him look less exhausted and more sharp, the swelling gone down to reveal the strong cheekbones underneath.

“Thank you.” Regulus intones sincerely. “It’s perfect.”

The stylist pats his arm softly.

“I truly did not have to do much. Best of luck.”

“Thanks.” Regulus mumbles, lowering himself off the chair.

“Just head over to wardrobe over there” he leans around the thick blue curtain separating their cubicle, pointing to a row of dressing stalls next to a laden rack of clothes, “And then you should be good to go.”

Regulus follows instruction, heading over to a kind older lady who beckons him over with a large smile.

“Hello there, Mr.Black! Your room is just over here. We’ve got a few things picked out for you, please just put on whatever feels right.”

Regulus nods silently, pulling open the curtain with his name affixed to the front, and taking stock of all of the options.

There’s a couple pairs of well-tailored pants, shirts, and various styles of outerwear on hangers attached to a small rack to the side. Regulus picks out his clothes with ease- concert-black slacks, a deep navy button-up of fine, subtly expensive fabric, and a structured black blazer that fits like a glove. The shoulders are embroidered with a silver brocade that gives off a vaguely militaristic impression.

Regulus looks good. He looks just intimidating enough to turn away the competition while keeping the air of a musician. Regulus smiles slightly, slipping his father’s cufflinks from his discarded pocket and affixing them softly to his blazer.

This time, when Regulus faces the camera, he can’t hold back the soft smile from his face. Excitement pulses through him at the realization that his future is so close. The camerawoman smiles at him kindly.

“That’s the best one we’ve gotten all day.”

Regulus flushes slightly, a gust of pride sweeping his frame.

Maybe this won’t be too bad after all.

He mumbles a quick ‘thanks’ before lining up at the front of the room with the rest of the Selected.

“Before you all go in to meet the Prince, we need to go over some protocol. I know that some of you may not have learned this before…” McGonnagal’s gaze sweeps over the group, snagging on the Selected of lower ranks, “So please listen carefully.”

Regulus rolls his head, cracking his neck lazily. Royal protocol has been beaten into his brain since he was old enough to walk. After a brief demonstration of a curtsy and a bow, and a rapid-fire run down of titles, the older woman sighs reluctantly.

“Once we enter the room, please line up in front of the door. Prince James has requested to meet with you all one by one before your official on-camera meeting. After your conversation, should you still be here, please go through the door into the hall at the end of the room. Otherwise, please leave the room and come see me to arrange transportation home.”

Regulus’s stomach sinks.

So this is it.

The Selected file into the room, and Regulus picks at his nail beds, a nervous habit his mother tried to beat out of him. Clearly it did not work.

Regulus keeps his eyes trained on the ground, afraid of meeting those discerning eyes in clear daylight. Eventually the procession comes to a halt, and Regulus drops his hands, forced to turn around and look up.

His eyes snag on the imposing figure immediately. Even before they rose from the ground, Regulus could feel his presence, overwhelming and bright enough to give him a sunburn. Regulus hates how easily he’s drawn to him.

“Hi everyone!’ the Prince calls with a silly juvenile wave, the action at odds with his serious get-up. “My name is- Well, I suppose you know my name by now don’t you.”

He trails off topic, running a frustrated hand through the chestnut curls atop his head while his foot taps anxiously. He looks up, rich brown eyes meeting Regulus’s immediately, their gazes snapping together like magnets.

 Regulus inhales sharply, breath caught in his chest. When Prince James speaks again, he directs the words towards him. 

“I’d like to begin by saying that I don’t wish to keep any of you here against your will. If, at any time, you wish to leave, you are free to do so.”

Oh I’m so screwed. Regulus bemoans silently, wishing the events of last night were just a dream. The Prince averts his gaze, regarding the Selected in front of him.

“With that said, when I call your name, please step forward and come speak with me for a second.” he smiles again, nervous and a little strained, yet genuine. “Looks like you’re up first miss…”

“Mary.” Mary steps forward confidently, clearly pleased she had placed herself at the end of the line. She wears a beautiful red halter-necked gown, eye-catching yet classy.

The Prince takes her hand, placing a kiss on the back of it. Mary smiles, taking his arm and trailing her fingers up and down as he leads her over to the secluded sofa in the corner. They speak quietly, heads bent together and words too soft to hear.

“What do you think they’re talking about?” Regulus whispers to Pandora at his side.

“Judging by her body language… it’s probably best that we don’t know.” Regulus spares another glance at the two, and his eyebrows fly up as he watches Mary walk two fingers up the royal’s chest.

“Right, yeah. Probably for the best.”

Pandora hums, staring off into space with a dreamy expression on her face. Regulus takes that moment to study her. She doesn’t look that different at all after the makeovers. Her hair is trimmed a bit, and there’s a bit of mascara on her lashes, but other than that she looks nearly identical to the moment he first met her.

Her dress is white, simple, and long and flowy. It suits her well accentuating the sort of regal air that follows her, commanding attention. 

She would make a good queen.  Regulus thinks silently, curious gaze turning analytical.

He ponders the chances of the other Selected, statistics running through his mind. It helps him keep his mind off the impending awkward conversation he’s about to have. However, he can’t put the inevitable off forever.

Finally, the Prince finishes speaking with the last girl—a redhead Four. His eyes twinkle as he lays a final kiss on her hand and she walks through the next door, freckled face flushed a deep red. Prince James saunters over, making a bee-line to Regulus with a big grin on his face.

“Mr.Black.” he greets, not even needing to look down at the silver name pin. He extends his right hand, clearly hoping to kiss his hand like all the rest.

Regulus had wondered why he was doing that. He thought perhaps it was a test to see who knew royal protocol and who didn’t, but with the open, kind expression on the Prince’s face, Regulus knew that couldn’t be it.

However, a kind-looking face isn’t enough to undo years of Walburga’s training.

Speak when spoken to. Bow. Don’t mess this up.

Regulus ignores the outstretched hand, kicking back his left foot and sinking into a deep bow. With his head hanging low he smiles secretly to himself, knowing that his movements were perfect and that everyone saw.

“Your Highness.” He murmurs, following protocol to the letter.

“No need for the formalities.” Prince James says hastily, clearly uncomfortable with Regulus’s display of knowledge. So Regulus was right- the Prince was not testing them.

He lays a hand on Regulus’s shoulder, reminding him uncomfortably of the night before. His hand is warm, just like it was then, steady and grounding.

Regulus rises, avoiding eye contact. Without being prompted, he walks past the Prince and heads straight for the sofa.

No sooner had Prince James sat on the cushion than Regulus had opened his mouth to speak.

“I’d like to apologize for last night.” He blurts, color rising in his cheeks. “It was a long day and I was… stressed.”

“That’s one word for it.” Prince James snorts, sardonic but not angry. Just amused. He reaches out a hand and lays it atop Regulus’s. 

“I meant what I said earlier. If you don’t want to be here, I would never force you to stay.”

Regulus finally looks up, meeting the Prince’s gaze. His eyes are crinkled with compassion. He means what he says.

Regulus hesitates, feeling the intense weight of this moment.

If I screw this up, my career is over before it even starts.

“I need to stay.” 

Regulus means to say these words with authority, a demand not a request. However, they come out all wrong. His voice is soft and shaky, cracking a bit at the end. He sounds desperate. 

Prince James tilts his head, warm gaze rippling with confusion.

“But last night-”

“Please just forget last night ever happened.” Regulus implores, holding up his hands in distress.

“Okay…” Prince James accepts slowly, a mischievous grin taking over his face, “So then what’s in it for me?”

Regulus hesitates, blinking harshly.

“Excuse me?” 

“Well, yesterday during the evening-which-did-not-happen you made it quite clear that you did not want to marry me. I get why you would want to stay, but why should I let you?”

His logic is clear and maddening. Regulus narrows his eyes. Luckily, he’d prepared an answer for this.

“The other Selected are here for one of two things- James Potter or the Crown. Lucky for you, I’m here for neither. I can be your… friend.”

“Friend?”

“Friend, advisor, whatever you need. I can let you know who’s in it for you and who’s putting up an act.”

Prince James pauses, settling back and tapping a finger against his chin.

“Alright, you can stay.” 

Regulus can’t help the grin that pulls at the corners of his mouth.

“Thank god.” he murmurs, praying the Prince didn’t hear him.

“I look forward to working with you, Mr.Black.”

He extends a hand, this time for a handshake not a kiss.

“Please, just call me Regulus.” Regulus offers, placing his hand in James’, “We’re friends now, after all.”

“Okay, Regulus. I’ll see you later.”

With a final wink, the Prince rises from the sofa to speak with the next Selected. 

“Bye, darling.”

Regulus rolls his eyes, yet walks out the far door with a bit of bounce in his step.

He had spent years perfecting his performance. Now, he just had to hope that this was a role he could play well enough to keep his place on the stage.

Chapter Text

The oppressive silence of the dining room is interrupted only by the occasional clink of glass against the table and the off-handed murmurs of the remaining Selected. Their numbers have dwindled down from thirty-five to twenty-seven. The eight empty chairs sit stoic and silent at the end of the table, magnetizing wandering eyes to them as the guests wonder who could have sat in their place.

King Fleamont sits at the head of the table, surveying the Selected with a genuine and open expression. Occasionally he will see someone who interests him, causing him to lean over and whisper to his son, the very picture of a doting parent. Prince James, seated at his right, would immediately bury his face either in his arms or hands, squirming in embarrassment.

Regulus takes a sip out of the crystal glass in front of him, lips screwing upwards as he savors the taste of clean water that fills his senses. This is nothing like the biting metallic taste he had come to associate with the liquid.

Servers glide into the warmly lit room, balancing silver trays piled high with glistening meats, jewel-toned fruits, and roasted vegetables that gleam like lacquered wood. The peppery scent is maddening. They land with a heavy clunk on the glossy dark wooden table.

Regulus catches the eye of a few of the lower caste members there, making a mental note to keep close control over his expression. These poor souls look as if they’ve just discovered fire. He couldn’t afford that blow to his image.

The king stands, a serene smile on his face. Candlelight from the tall ivory candles bounces off the crown molding on the walls, casting a pleasant glow over the room.

“It’s such a pleasure to invite so many extraordinary young men and women into my home. Regardless of your background, here you are all equals. As participants in the Selection you are now all Two’s.”

At that there are a few joyous gasps and wondrous giggles.

“My name is Fleamont Potter, and this here is my wife Euphemia.”

The queen rises, the motion causing her shimmering cream gown to catch the light in blinding strokes. Her expression is set, a fierce maternal look in her eye.

“One of you will soon be my son or daughter-in-law. Please just call me Effie.”

Regulus’s eyes widen. That is certainly not part of the royal protocol his mother taught him. He shares a brief look of shock with Pandora before returning his focus to the Queen.

“Over the next few weeks I’m sure we’ll all get to know each other quite intimately. If you have any questions or doubts at all, please send for me. I’d be happy to answer anything.” 

She takes a second to meet each Selected’s eyes, drilling her point home. Regulus gives her a sincere nod.

“Now, I think we’ve kept you long enough. Please, eat.”

With a final gesture towards the spread before them the Queen and King of Illea sit. The lower caste Selected pounce at the food, tearing ravenous bites in between gulps. Regulus cringes minutely, taking time to serve himself just the way he was taught.

“How was your conversation with the Prince?” Regulus asks Pandora lightly, turning to face her. Her plate is piled high with vegetables and fruit. She takes a second to find her answer before turning her transparent eyes to him.

“Quite pleasant, I’d say.” 

Regulus feels his lips curl upwards, pleased. He’d be quite happy if Pandora became the next queen.

“Although…” She trails off, contemplative. “He seemed quite vulnerable. I don’t think he’s quite learned how to guard himself yet.”
Regulus nearly chokes on his water.

“Vulnerable?” He spits. He spares a glance at the front of the table, incredulous. The royal he’d spoken to was anything but.

Yet, the more he looks at the Prince in front of him, the more it seems to fit. With his parents, Prince James looks- and acts- much younger. He’s much more loud and unreserved, face flushed with excitement as he recounts some indecipherable tale Regulus is just too far away to hear. His unruly hair and crooked tie match his warm, frazzled expression. He looks like a mess.

His eyes glisten with such unrestrained familial affection that Regulus has to look away.

He’s not ready for the viper’s nest that awaits him.

Pandora regards him silently, gaze steady and curious.

“I’d actually agree with that.” Mary chimes in softly from across the table. She keeps her eyes downcast as she speaks, more serious than Regulus had ever seen her. “You can tell he means what he says. That’s rare. He’s very genuine.”

Her words are bursting with admiration, yet her tone is more polite than impassioned. Regulus takes note of that for later.

“I think I know what you guys mean.” Evan offers, off to Regulus’s right. Regulus whips around in surprise. “It’s been a while since I talked with someone who didn’t seem to care about my career. It was nice.”

Regulus nods solemnly, taking a bite of the roasted potatoes on his plate. His eyes instantly drift shut as he fights back a contented sigh. The flavor is simply divine, pungent garlic flaring through his senses with alarming ferocity. He hadn’t had anything like it in over a decade. He chews slowly, unwilling to let his face betray how much he’s missed this.

“Are you enjoying yourself, Mr.Black?” the Prince calls jokingly from the front of the long table. Considering Regulus placed himself near the end on purpose, the Prince’s voice has to be considerably loud to do so.

A hush falls across the room as every venomous pair of eyes makes their way to him. Regulus pauses, face falling flat. His eyes crawl their way over to the head of the table. He narrows them, pleased when he sees the Prince flinch slightly. He does not rush his chewing, choosing his words with care.

“Enormously.” 

He turns his gaze to the King and Queen, conjuring a practiced smile that tastes like iron. The pair looks just as confused as Regulus feels.

“Thank you so much for this delicious meal. I’m certain even my mother would break her composure when faced with such a wondrous feast.”

They chuckle, sending charged glances towards their son. He’s not laughing. He leans forward, face solemnly serious. The reflection of the candles in his glasses masks his gaze.

“You really think so?”
Regulus feels his brow furrow as he attempts to decipher Prince James’s motives.

“Yes, I really do.”

“How sure are you?”

The Prince leans forward even more, gaze alight with mischief behind the clunky frames on his face. Regulus can’t help but mirror him, leaning against the table himself, helplessly drawn in.

“Positive.”

“What are you willing to bet?”

Regulus raises an eyebrow.

“What do I have that you want?”

Prince James takes a second to contemplate.

“If she so much as cracks a smile, you can have whatever you wish. If she doesn’t… you owe me a date.”

Regulus scowls.

“The gardens perhaps?” The Prince muses, breaking his direct gaze to tap his finger comically against his chin. “I know how fond you are of them.”
Regulus’s scowl deepens, his competitive nature getting the better of him.

“You’re on.”

Those two words seem to break the spell, and Regulus suddenly realizes that they are not alone. Twenty-nine stunned pairs of eyes flit between the two of them. Some are flaringly jealous, some curious, and some satisfied.

This is not the first time in his life that Regulus prayed for his mother to show some emotion. He suspects it won’t be the last.

Maybe this will be the first time his prayers are answered.

After dinner Madam McGonagall herds them all through the halls and into the sitting room.

“This is where you will spend the majority of your time. When you are not with the Prince you will either be in lessons, studying, or honing your crafts. The life of a King or Queen consort is not easy. It is my job to prepare you as best as I can.”

The room is likely larger than the entire first floor of Regulus’s house. The walls are covered in decorative molding, edges gilded with golden embellishments. The sharp corners are softened with carved flowers cascading down the wall, so real he can almost smell them in the air.

A large, ornate grand piano sits off to one side, a finer instrument than Regulus had ever seen. It had clearly been built custom just for this room, its ivory paint and golden accents perfectly matching the room. Regulus’s hands itch to reach out and touch the keys.

Four colossal windows take up the farthest wall. During the day they must be spectacular, yet in the darkness of night they are simply an unfathomable ebony. Candles light the space, as with most places in the castle Regulus noted. 

Where Regulus and his mother only resorted to candlelight when money got especially tight, the castle seemed to use this lightsource as a luxury. And certainly it did achieve that effect. As opposed to the eye-burning white light the electric lights give off, the candles make the room feel inviting and warm. With no rancid tallow smell, Regulus quite liked this method of lighting.

They are all allowed a minute to wander through the space, familiarizing themselves with the room they will soon call home, until they are pushed towards the semicircle of sofas in the corner. With twenty-seven men and women, it is a tight fit, yet they all manage to somehow squeeze onto the cushions together.

In front of them is an expansive, sleek television screen. Just as they get settled, the Illean royal creed sings harmoniously through the expensive speakers.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen of Illea!” Severus Snape projects with a serpentine smile. “Today marks one day since the official start of the Selection!”

He pauses, raucous cheers echoing in the background.

“As we speak, the chosen thirty-five are in the palace with the prince right now! I know that many of you already have your favorites to win, but before you cement your decision, I’d like to show you what happened on their journey to the palace.”

Snape fades away, replaced with footage of each of the Selected giving their speech to their hometowns, then the footage of them at the airport. Snape gives commentary over each clip, naming the contestant, giving some facts, and then his own personal opinion.

The redhead next to him gasps and jumps a little at seeing herself on TV. Luckily Snape’s comments for her are more than kind.

“As a Four, Lily Evans may be an underdog in this competition. However, that does not mean that she is one to be ruled out.”
The program switches to a clip of her speaking to the crowds outside the airplane. Regulus has to admit, she’s a natural. Every clip is incredibly flattering, picturing her shaking hands, speaking with kids, and conversing with absolute grace. Regulus is impressed.

“Could this be a candidate for Prince James’s hand?” Snape asks. “It certainly appears so.”

Whereas the other Selected use this segment to gather intel on their competition, Regulus uses the time to gauge the personalities and reactions of everyone around him. From what he can tell, Lily Evans is not in this competition for the status. He files that information for later.

The only contestant he can’t get a read on is Mary MacDonald. She keeps her guard up at all times, face blank yet deceptively open. It’s frustrating.

Regulus’s section is a lot more flattering than he thought it would be.

As soon as his name was spoken by Snape, every single head turned towards him.

Great.

One day in and the Prince had already put a target on his back. These people had no idea that he posed no threat to them, making their jealousy incredibly infuriating. He shot a few of the more obvious oglers with a venomous look.

“In a stunning turn of events,” Severus comments, voice filled with unrestrained shock, “Regulus Black, a Five, has shown stunning promise in the race for royal consort.”

The image shifts to Regulus at the goodbye speech. He grimaces slightly. Though his face is stoic and blank, Regulus can see the clear agony in his eyes. He’ll have to fix that going forward.

Though it’s good that he is getting such good press, Regulus hates that nobody but him and the Prince know he has no interest in marrying into the royal family. The instinctual rebellion nearly makes him scream it, quelling the jealous stares and probing questions currently berating his peace.

“Many are shocked with the young man’s stellar composure and ability to empathize with the public.”

The clip switches to him hugging the young girl Evelyn with the dream of being a teacher. He softens a little at the reminder.

“That was smart,” the blonde woman to his left murmurs. It takes Regulus a second to recognize her, considering the drastic change to her hair. Marlene Mckinnon looks like a completely new person.

“I wasn’t doing it for the press.” Regulus responds.

“Sure. And I changed my hair because I wanted to.”
Regulus frowns. Marlene could believe whatever she liked about him, but it really irked him that

others would assume his sympathy came from a place of a status climber. Sure, he knew how it would look to the cameras, but Evelyn’s ideas genuinely brought out a side of him that he hadn’t recognized in years.

When Regulus speaks to Dorcas that night, he’s incredibly deep in thought.

“Dorcas.” 

He speaks the word quietly, yet the girl in front of him still jumps.

“Yes, sir?”

He can practically feel the sting of that three-letter word in the air between them. He winces.

“Please, just Regulus.”

She nods, eyes widened with a sort of horrified curiosity that throws him off. She had stood tall earlier, voice crisp and clear when ordering him to eat—so sure of herself, so in control. Now she looked like she barely recognized her own name.

“What is it? What did I say?”

“Nothing… Regulus. It’s just that this isn’t how it’s supposed to work.”

“How do you mean?”

“We’re not supposed to speak to you like that. You’re a Two.”

The realization settles on him like an ill-fitting blanket. He fidgets, suddenly uncomfortable. Before his father left he had been a Two, but for the vast majority of his life he has been a Five. He adapted his habits, his demeanor, his self to be a Five.

Will they even let me play piano as a Two?

His hand twitches at his side.

“Dorcas.” He intones, voice gravely serious. “Two days ago I was a Five. It’s wrong that you should have to treat me with some… forced deference all because of some twist of fate. It’s not right.”

Dorcas settles a bit yet keeps her wary gaze skittishly on his movements.

She wasn’t much older than him. One step down the ladder, and he could’ve been scrubbing these floors beside her. One step—but it changed everything.

Dorcas is beautiful. Her richly colored skin is smooth and unblemished, and her carefully braided hair hangs around her face in a dark halo. However, as a servant in the palace and a Six, it would have been impossible for her to have the opportunity Regulus had. The Selection liked to present itself as an equalizer that provided anyone with the chance to be King or Queen. It was always a game of chance. But it had never been fair.

Regulus feels a massive pang of sympathy pierce his chest. After the dramatic events of the past two days, his raw emotions bubbled just beneath the surface of his skin. It would feel good to be seen as kind. To be seen as more than a Five playing dress-up.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Dorcas asks, baffled.

“You can call me whatever you feel comfortable with. I just hope that we can be friends, Dorcas.” 

Her gaze is straightforward and confused, yet no longer scared. She looks at him like he’s lost his mind. Maybe he has. 

She opens her mouth, garnering her breath as if to say something profound. Then she shuts it abruptly, with a small shake of her head.

“You’ve had a long night. I’ll wake you bright and early tomorrow morning, sir.”
“Have a good night, Dorcas.”
She lets out a sharp breath—half a laugh, half a warning—and turns on her heel, gone before he can respond.

Time becomes mechanical. Wake, eat, study, sleep. Repeat. The Selection segment is on hiatus, and so is any glimpse of the Prince.

None of them have seen the Prince in a week.

Regulus wasn’t bothered by this, of course. He had barely known the man for a day. Yet despite his greatest protestations, he couldn’t quell the nagging curiosity that tugged his mind back to the Prince again and again.

The lessons kept him busy, helping him to ignore his fretfully wandering mind. Though many came from higher castes, only a handful had received proper training in royal etiquette. He was pleased to see Pandora and himself quickly rise through the ranks.

Regulus couldn’t ignore the poisonous glares that his competence attracted, but he didn’t mind at all. He revels in the animosity. It’s proof of his skill. Yet he would be lying if he said he wasn’t the slightest bit annoyed.

You all have nothing to worry about. I’m not even close to your competition.

On the second to last day of the etiquette bootcamp, Madame Mcgonagall announces that the next day there would be an exam on all that they learned.

“If you fail this exam you will not be immediately sent home,” Mcgonnogall starts, a firm set to her face, “but you should know that the scores will be shown to both the Prince and his parents. You have the rest of the day to study, and I recommend that even the most competent of you,” she pauses with a significant look in Regulus’s direction, “put in your due diligence. You are dismissed.”

The Selected sit in the room, dazed in shock. Regulus feels a smile curling on his face like a vindicated cat.

He rises from the long wood table functioning as a communal desk, grabs Pandora’s hand, and glides out of the room. Immediately chaos ensues.

The lower caste contestants scramble after them, begging for a tutor.”

“Please Regulus!”, another Five wails, tugging on his unresponsive black sleeve, “Have some sympathy!”

At that Regulus raises his brow.

“I have nothing but sympathy for you all. I know what it’s like to be a Five thrown into a world of debauchery. However this is a competition and you need to secure your place on your own merits, not mine.”

The girl’s face drops. She gives a curt nod, then turns on her heel with a disappointed sigh, shaking her head at the gaggle of Selected behind them. Regulus sighs in relief when they leave him alone.

“I’m holding a study group in the Sitting Room later.” Pandora announces, soft-spoken as always. “This may be a competition but I’m more than happy to share what I know.”

She ends with a pointed look in Regulus’s direction. He rolls his eyes.

They walk into the grandiose Dining Room that has functioned as their mess hall still arm and arm, yet Regulus can feel the tension in Pandora’s small frame.

“Why did you do that?” she asks, her delicate features bunched in something that resembled… hurt? Regulus feels a pang in his stomach.

“It’s a competition.” He shrugs, “It’s not my job to help my competitors. If they can’t comprehend basic etiquette they shouldn’t be competing in the first place.”

Pandora drops his arm, a hard glint in her eye.

“We both know you’re not competing, there’s no need to be cruel.” 

Regulus blinks at her, his face entirely blank.

“What do you mean?”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowed like a predator. Pandora shakes her head.

“Just know that you could be taking away someone’s chance of happiness by sending someone home.”

She walks off. Regulus has to really fight to reign in his expression. A wave of pain flickers over his features before he secures it firmly behind his emotional wall.

Maybe she was right. But Regulus did have a point. As Prince James’s…friend, he felt bound to let the weak weed themselves out. If they couldn’t even master a curtsy, how could they expect to run an entire country?

He sits at the end of the table, posture ramrod straight as he focuses on not feeling the hurt creeping through his veins. Pandora pointedly sits on the opposite side of the table, chatting fondly with whoever chooses to sit near her.

She really would make a wonderful Queen.

The servants spill into the room in a pleasantly scented horde, bringing the usual palace fare. Regulus still was awed by the flavor each time. 

Though he had likely had similar meals in his childhood, it was hard to appreciate the flavor while knowing there would always be more. He knew what it was like to go without food, making each bite he took a precious gift it would be sacrilegious to not savor.

Yet today, with Pandora occasionally sending chastising glares from across the table, he didn’t have much of an appetite. He pokes mindlessly at the potatoes on his plate, stewing on Pandora’s words.

“What’s wrong?” a familiar voice asks, toned with the mild concern one has for an acquaintance. Evan Rosier has one elbow on the table, his unblemished face tilted up towards Regulus with a small frown.

Regulus sighs.

“It’s nothing that won’t resolve itself.”

Evan hums, unconvinced. 

“If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine.”

His easy confidence and wildly candid demeanor remind him a lot of his brother. He can’t help the fondness from blooming in his chest.

“I like to keep to myself.”

“Yeah I can tell.”

He trails off, going back to his lunch. Regulus smiles slightly, just a quick curve of the lips, before returning to his own plate. 

He can’t help but notice that Evan doesn’t have much of an appetite either. Instinctually he opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong, yet he shuts it with a snap. He has almost exclusively talked to Pandora ever since the first day, and hasn’t quite gotten a good handle on how to interact with the others.

There’s no need to be cruel.

Pandora’s words ring through his head again and again. He spares a glance in her direction to find her calmly watching him and Evan.

“Are you alright?”

The question interrupts the stale silence between them, disrupting the silent truce. Evan looks up, a bit shocked.

“To be honest, not really. I’m worried about the test tomorrow.”

Regulus frowns slightly. Evan is a Two, and a celebrity legacy at that. From what Regulus has seen in lessons Evan’s etiquette is fine.

“Why?”

“I’ve been trained to high heaven on how to interact with the media, how to present myself in the most flattering way, and how to imitate. This is unlike anything I’ve ever attempted before.”

Regulus nods slowly, digesting his words.

“Do you want me to… help you?”

The words taste foreign and bitter in his mouth. Evan’s normally static face lights up.

“That would actually be great, yeah.”

Regulus nods again, lips pressed together. He feels horribly out of depth.

“Well, first of all, you should fix the way you’re holding that fork.”

The smile on Evan’s face is replaced with one of utter confusion.

“What’s wrong with the way I’m holding it?”

“You’re supposed to lay it across your hand, not strangle it.”

Evan takes a second, a mild shock covering his features. Then he bursts into laughter. Regulus scowls.

“Tell me how you really feel, Regulus.”

Regulus rolls his eyes.

“Do you want my help or not?”

“No, no, please ignore me. I really could use the help, my bow is terrible.”

Regulus sighs, but relents. He swears he catches Pandora’s satisfied glance from across the room. A small burst of pride curls in his chest. He wrestles the small smile from his face, determined to remain unbiased.

He’s here for one reason. That doesn’t mean he can’t find more motivation along the way.

Chapter Text

To Regulus’s surprise, Evan is a fast learner. He watches Regulus’s every movement with rapt attention and synthesizes every word he speaks. It’s mildly unnerving.

“I’m not saying that I’m hopeless at learning etiquette.” Evan had earnestly explained earlier, “I have to learn a lot of things very quickly for different roles, so I’m used to learning. I could just use the practice.”

Regulus had hummed softly, uncharacteristically understanding. He’d found that Evan brings that out in him. He’d also found the fact utterly revolting.

Despite his best efforts to remain detached from the competition, Regulus is unable to stop himself from liking Evan. He’s witty and charming without being arrogant. He fights for his place in the world, unlike most of the snobby Two’s Regulus has come into contact with. It shows.

Evan does everything deliberately, with clear care and intention. His eyes are sharp and discerning as he analyzes Regulus’s lecturing. His posture is eternally perfect yet open, as if he is so enraptured by his education he forgets propriety. 

Had he not been so used to the shrewd gaze of his mother, Regulus might have felt intimidated by Evan’s intensity. Instead he found his hunger and ambition comforting. Almost…relatable. He is a dichotomy between hard work and privilege, a bit too much like himself.

Yet because of all these dissimilar traits Regulus found it difficult to pinpoint Evan’s motivations: The Prince or The Crown?

He couldn’t imagine as a movie star that Evan would want for much, so why, exactly, was he here?

They work huddled in a dark corner in the sitting room well into the night, joined remotely now and again by nosy onlookers seeking to leech off Regulus's knowledge. They hover hesitantly to the side until Regulus finally sends a glare sharp enough to send them away.

They cover every topic he can think of from royal nomenclature, to greetings, to table manners, to history. Near the end Evan looks a bit dizzy, yet his focus never wavers. After a few hours, Regulus relents.

“I think you’re ready.” Regulus announces eventually,  his clear-eyed gaze locked with the boy in front of him. 

A smile breaks across Evan’s lips, breaking his learning stupor.

“You mean it?”

Regulus nods solemnly.

“You’re practically the Queen herself.”

Evan cocks his head quizzically before barking out a sharp, surprised laugh.

“Well that’s good to hear. I’ll make sure to tell McGonnogall that tomorrow.”

Regulus lets out a small huff of laughter, a small smile entering his features.

“Of course you’re still not perfect.”

Evan rolls his eyes.

“Not everyone can be you, Black.”

“Pity, that.” he deadpans, tilting his head. “You’re going to pass. Get some sleep. God knows I need some.”

Evan grins.

“Thank you, Regulus. I mean it.”

Regulus just shakes his head, never one for emotions. He stands up quietly and slinks out of the dimly lit sitting room, careful to avoid anyone who might try and ask him for help.

The palace halls are dark, the expansive glass windows oppressively ebony. The occasional candelabra makes it impossible to make out the winking stars in the distance. 

If he squints he can almost make out the garden lying below. Embarrassment floods his system, forcing his eyes to drift shut as he remembers the actions of that fateful night. No matter how much time passes he’ll still feel ashamed.

As much as he wants to deny it, he can’t help feeling trapped here. He can’t even go outside when he wishes. The Selection is supposed to be his saving grace - a catalyst to kickstart his career.

Instead he’s right back where he started: a scared little boy learning how to be a prince while trapped in an oppressively ornate cage.

Some things never change.

The unmistakable sound of the shuffle of feet against stone echoes down the hall. The sound bounces off the delicately decorated walls with a nearly inhuman quality, the gold molding cutting it in strange ways.

The Prince, Regulus assumes, as though it were natural for the royal to appear in times of existential peril.

He turns on instinct, a venomous insult quivering on his lips.

Only there’s nobody there.

He shakes his head, fighting his instincts with voracity.

He goes to bed, claustrophobic and paranoid. Though his body finds sleep, his mind does not find rest. By morning, he felt no less trapped — only more determined to perform.

The sitting room is abuzz with activity as the remaining Selected scramble to cram for the exam. Pandora is right at home - hard at work speeding through core topics for the anxious folks in front of her at a soft, steady volume. Her pedantic voice is innately soothing, calming everyone around her.

Regulus finds a seat at the side of the room and lounges, black tea in hand. His intense scowl stops anyone from daring to ask him for help.

He takes a sip from his mug, savoring the delicate flavor. It’s entirely unlike anything he’s ever had before. The palace tea is miles ahead of the normal coffee sludge he’s used to choking down every morning.

The sofa groans as Evan plops down on the cushion next to him.

“Feeling nervous?” he jabs, knocking his shoulder against Regulus’s. Regulus snorts.

“Petrified.”

Evan rolls his eyes and takes a long sip from his steaming cup of coffee. The milky brown liquid is surprisingly appealing, but Regulus sticks to his tea. He’d sworn when he left that he’d never drink coffee again if he could help it.

“I don't know what they think they're gonna learn five minutes before the exam begins.” Regulus mutters, judgmental eyes peeking out from behind his mug.

"Well not all of them had a tutor,” Evan points out kindly, "They've just got to take what they can get.”

It's a fair point, one that makes Regulus feel a twinge of guilt. He pushes it down, smothering it the way he's grown accustomed to. If these Selected couldn't even pass a simple etiquette test on their own, they're clearly not fit to rule.

Mcgonnogall strides in through the large enameled cream doors, expression set yet kindly.

"Good morning everyone!” 

The room fills with the sound of swishing skirts and squeaking shoes as everyone scurries to their feet to bow or curtsy. McGonnogall smiles softly, the gesture breaking through her stiff expression.

“If you all keep that up you certainly have nothing to worry about.”

They all chuckle, the tension in the room easing slightly. McGonnogall had that effect when she wanted to. Unfortunately, she preferred to keep them on their toes instead of putting them at ease. 

Regulus thinks that she is one of the only genuine people in this cage.

"Now let's go over some logistics.” She folds her hands together elegantly and straightens her already-perfect posture. “I'm going to call you all back one by one into the dining hall and run through a few scenarios. You all just need to respond in accordance with the training I have given you. Shouldn't take more than a couple minutes each.”

Everyone in the hall nods, eyes glued to the proctor in front of them with rapt, anxiety-ridden attention.

“Though nobody who fails will be immediately sent home, you should not slack off. Consider this your first test of whether you belong here. If you fail, you’ll just have to work that much harder to stay.”

Waves of unease ripple over the room. 

She carefully unfolds a piece of paper from her palm, squinting slightly as the sun reflects off of her eyeglasses.

"Regulus Black,” she recites, looking up to search for him. She meets his eye with a grim smile “You are first. Please follow me.”

Regulus could almost roll his eyes. Undoubtedly more time in the waiting room would not have improved his performance, but he still, naturally did not want to be the one to go first. Though he knows the petulant desire has no logic, he can’t help but feel cheated. Yet, as usual, he refuses to let it show.

He stands, straightening each vertebrae until he's certain he has flawless posture. He glides through the room, mouth twisted into a smile so sharp it borders on cruel.

McGonnogall simply turns on her heel and leads him down the hall.

They don't speak on the walk there. Their feet echo ominously against the sparkling clean tile, the noise fanning the kindling flame of anxiety building in his heart.

 As soon as the pair enter the hall, Regulus surveys the surroundings with militaristic precision. All of the chairs at the long, grand table have been removed except for two.

His brain barely has time to process the third person in the room before he sinks into a low bow.

“Your Highness.” he breathes, eyes on the floor in front of him. He hears the young prince struggle to suppress a giggle.

“Mr. Black.” Prince James greets, waiting just a second too long before gesturing for him to rise.

It's cruel to expect these novices to perform under the Prince's gaze Regulus remarks silently, feeling slightly off-kilter. He didn’t like that the prince was here. Something about his presence puts Regulus on edge - sending adrenaline pumping through his veins, forcing his heart to laboriously race, opening his senses to an unnatural degree.

Regulus closes his eyes, allowing himself to take a second to collect himself. 

He inhales.

In.

And out.

He opens his eyes, looking at McGonnogall expectantly.

She has a tiny, private smile tugging on her lips. One that Regulus has a nagging feeling he's not meant to see.

"Before we begin, please take a look at the table setting. Is there anything amiss?”

Regulus walks to the second chair in the room, giving the table a wide berth like a spooked cat. It doesn't matter that the Prince is at the head of the table on the opposite side, his presence is magnetic in all the wrong ways. It repels him away.

He gives a quick shake of his head to clear his mind. His eyes scan the place setting in front of him, analyzing all possibilities.

“Is this perhaps an event hosting New Asian royalty?” Regulus inquires, noticing the unique placement of the forks - along the bottom of the plate instead of the side.

"Good eye.” Mcgonnogall remarks, gaze narrowing, “Yes it is. Is there anything you'd like to change?”

Regulus takes a second look, rearranging the salad fork and a steak knife before stepping back, satisfied.

McGonnogall cranes her head, nodding absentmindedly while penning notes in the leather bound notebook in her hand.

They repeat this process a few times, with her arranging the place setting in various ways and then asking for his input.

The Prince watches on silently, chin resting on his palm. His gaze is intense, burning his skin enough to leave a brand. Regulus refuses to let it interfere with his focus.

After a few final textbook questions about royal history and protocol, McGonnogall shuts her notebook.

"That's all Mr.Black. You may return to your room if you wish.”

His eyes widen a bit in surprise. It was a lot shorter than he expected. Yet he simply nods, inclining his head in deference.

"Thank you, Madam McGonnogall.”

She gives him a tight smile before turning promptly, heading back to the sitting room to claim her next victim.

Regulus’s gaze creeps across the wall until finally colliding with the Prince's.

"How did I do?” He asks, voice sounding more bashful than he wanted it to. Though he wanted to deny it, he really did want to know what the royal thought. He knows he did well, but confirmation from a real, true blooded royal could ease some of his anxieties.

Prince James simply shook his head, his patented smile taking over his features. The one Regulus used to stare at for hours. 

The expression completely transforms his demeanor. He becomes less royal and more tangible. Regulus would never admit it but it's incredibly disarming. 

“That was incredible.” He shakes his head, a breathy giggle escaping his lips. Regulus almost smiles, a triumphant feeling spreading through his body.

 "I'd never imagined that willful spitfire I met in the gardens that night could be so… obedient.”

The half-smile drops. Regulus promptly turns to leave as the young prince roars with laughter. 

"No, no, no, please don't take that the wrong way. It's just… I knew Minerva was an impressive woman, I just never expected her to be able to tame you like that.”

Regulus rolls his eyes, stepping into the hallway and away from the unserious royal. He only makes it a few steps before jumping in surprise. The Prince walks in perfect tandem to his side, much closer than Regulus is comfortable with.

“Your Highness…” he starts. The Prince cuts him off, a slight furrow in his brow.

“We're friends, remember Regulus? Just call me James.”

Regulus scowls, the expression becoming his default around the frustrating royal.

"James.”

There's that smile again, so bright it almost makes Regulus hiss and pull away.

“Yes, Regulus?”

“Don't you have other exams to be proctoring instead of pestering me?”

The Prince tilts his head side to side, seemingly pondering his question.

"Technically, yes. However, I'm the Prince and they can't really make me do anything I don't want to. I just wanted to see how you did."

Regulus's steps falter as he gives him a horrified and puzzled look.

“What do you mean by that?”

The Prince shrugs, looking carefree as ever as he bounds down the hallway.

“I'd heard that you were a prodigy in your lessons and I just wanted to see it for myself.”

Regulus flushes slightly, his ego purring.

“And did I live up to your expectations?”

“Honestly, all that and more. That was one of the greatest displays of etiquette I think I've ever seen. And that's saying something, I've met a lot of royals.”

He pauses, looking down with a sheepish grin.

“I think if Mum were there, she would've offered you my hand on the spot. She's always complaining about me being a slob at the dinner table.”

Regulus thinks back to the behavior he's observed at the dinners where they had all eaten together.

"Honestly I can't really say she's wrong there. You're definitely rusty.”

The Prince pouts slightly, letting out a deep sigh.

"Maybe I should be in lessons with the lot of you.”

Regulus hums in agreement, pointedly looking away from the royal figure beside him.

“Any news from my mother? I haven't forgotten about our wager.”

"Trust me, I haven't forgotten either. After exams are finished you'll all send out letters to your family. Your letter will be accompanied by a feast - the very same that you had that day. I've instructed the guard delivering it to report her reaction back to me.”

Regulus nods.

“I can't wait to be given full access to the gardens.”

Prince James snorts.

“Sure, right after our date.”

Regulus flushes, eyes darting down. He's tempted to shut down and walk away. The Prince is friendlier than anyone he's talked to in years, and every conversation with him reminds him of his meltdown in the gardens.

But in order to stay here he has to be his friend.

“I still don't understand why that was your boon.” he shakes his head,  “I think I've made it very clear that out of all the Selected I am the last person you should be asking out.”

James tilts his head forward, placing it right in front of Regulus's face and forcing him to meet his eye.

“There's two reasons.” He holds up his hand, two fingers raised. "First: if you're going to be my spy on the inside, we can't let anyone know what we're up to. We both know that I can't keep a contestant around until the end without showing any romantic interest.

"Second…”

He trails off, suddenly bashful.

“I've never been on a date before.”

He whispers it like a secret. Regulus's jaw drops.

“You're kidding.”

James's hand scratches the back of his neck, his tanned skin warming with embarrassment.

“Trust me, I wish I was.”

Regulus shakes his head, shocked.

"How does it happen that the Prince of Illea, the most eligible bachelor in the entire kingdom has never been on a date?”

"Look, you've seen my schedule. I barely have enough time for this competition as it is, and this is a lightened workload. It's just never happened.”

"Huh.” Regulus scoffs, processing this information. So they threw him into a dating competition with no experience? Although, considering his clumsy flirting, Regulus can certainly believe it.

"So I'm practice?”

“I guess you could say that, sure.”

A flicker of anger whips through him. As a relatively prideful individual, Regulus doesn't enjoy being used in this way. He stamps it out easily enough.

“Makes sense.” 

Somehow Regulus feels calmer, the gnawing anxiety surrounding the prince easing a bit. Any romantic attraction on either side would just complicate his plan.

Regulus turns towards the left corridor, headed towards the main staircase. He pauses and then turns, hands folded behind his back.

“Of course, that's if you actually win the bet. Which you won't.”

James smiles, a competitive edge in his features. He extends his hand, breaking the unspoken distance between them.

"May the best man win.”

Regulus takes it, tugging him forward slightly, just enough to throw him off his footing.

“Oh, he will.”

The Prince stumbles back, stupid smile still pinned to his features.

Regulus strides away. There's nothing he craves more than a competition - and nothing he enjoys more than winning.

Dinner that night is strained. The results have been posted in the sitting room, simply sitting on the wall while they are all forced to wait.

Needless to say, nobody is eating much.

Except Regulus.

After years of living on the edge of starvation, it would take serious emotional trauma to keep him from enjoying every meal. However he keeps himself in check, manners still perfect despite his ravenous animalistic instincts.

"How did you do?” he asks Evan to his right, politely dabbing his mouth with his napkin.

“Much better than I expected.” Evan answers honestly. It was a trait he possessed that Regulus both appreciated and envied. He could always trust Evan to tell him the truth, good bad or ugly. "But you'll see it quantifiably soon enough.”

“You don't seem worried.”

"Should I be?”

A hint of anxiety creeps into his voice. Regulus laughs, fork halfway up to his lips. The sound is harsh and without humor, but a laugh nonetheless.

“I was your tutor. Frankly, I'd be offended if you were.”

Evan smiles, friendly in a way that scares him.

“Well then, if I pass it is all thanks to you.”

He should have felt proud. Instead, the words sat heavy in his stomach, heavier than the food he’d just forced down. Regulus can feel himself pulling back. Despite Pandora's best efforts, he can't magically become friendly overnight. He just nods, focusing on his plate with an intensity unbecoming of a man of his training.

Pandora gives him a knowing look from his left. She strikes up a small, friendly conversation with Evan, keeping him occupied. Regulus shoots her a thankful glance, retreating into his own mental shell.

All anyone talks about is the exam. From what Regulus can glean from their conversations, nobody else had a surprise guest. James had been true to his word.

Some send him mildly vitriolic glares, as if their failures were his fault. Sure, he had refused to tutor anyone but Evan, but their shortcomings were their own. He was talented, not a miracle worker.

McGonnogall finishes her dinner, standing up with a solemn expression.

"No matter what the test results were, I just want to say that I am proud of your improvements. All of you.”

The room fills with “aww"s and mushy glances. Regulus's eyes narrow, visibly uncomfortable.

"Your results are posted in the sitting room, and you have all been ranked one through twenty-seven. Based on your performance you have all been placed in letter groups. If you are in C or F you will need to attend remedial lessons to bring you all onto the same level.”

A collective groan is released from the contestants who knew they did not do well. Regulus rolls his eyes. 

If it were up to him they would all be sent home. He doesn't want to be ruled by someone who can't even pass a simple etiquette test.

“I will warn you…” McGonnogall starts, demeanor gravely serious. “Though none of you will be sent home without the Prince's say, those in the lower letter groups should watch out.”

With that ominous ending she turns and walks out. 

A hush falls over the dining room. Contestants share anxious glances, eyes cow-like in size. They all sit frozen for a beat.

And then they all collectively burst in motion. Chairs are left fallen and discarded, plates rattle against the table, and silverware crashes against the ground in the stampede. They all push against each other, trying to get through the bottleneck of the doorway and into the hall. 

Regulus hangs back, walking at a leisurely pace. Though he'd never show it, he does feel a twinge of anxiety. If he somehow failed this test, he could be sent home. His career would never start, and he'd be trapped in that hellhouse forever. 

The more he thinks about it, the worse he feels. 

He picks up the pace a bit.

Then a bit more.

Pandora lets out a soft giggle, walking in pace with him at his side.

"What?” he asks, clearly in a snit.

“Nothing.” She sighs, “I just didn't expect you to care so much.”

Regulus stops dead in his tracks, mouth slightly agape. Sometimes Pandora's innate ability to read people through pretext scared him.

“I don't know what you're talking about.” he huffs, walking at a deliberately slower pace. Pandora just shrugs and follows suit.

The sunset casts golden beams of light through the windows in the sitting room, the contrasting light giving an almost painterly quality to the dramatic scene before them.

Some contestants sob quietly into their handkerchiefs, and some simply lay across sofas with their hand on their forehead. Some jump around in excitement, while others console their worse-faring friends.

However, when Regulus enters the room, they all manage to glare in such unison that one would think it was planned.

Regulus shakes off the itchy feeling their gaze provides, used to being the object of derision. He simply walks up to the paper posted on the wall, back straight and eyes forward. He scans the paper, searching for his name.

He does not need to look far.

• Regulus Black     Grade: A

Waves of satisfaction roil across his body. A slow, entirely foreign grin spreads its way across his face.

His eyes skip to the next name

• Pandora Lovegood   Grade: B

“Well done, Pandora.” The words are choked, his throat constricting with excitement. He almost giggles

I’m the only one in A. 

Pandora simply smiles serenely and shakes her head, walking away. She’s quickly surrounded by well-wishers who congratulate her victory and thank her for her help.

Regulus is suddenly left standing alone.

It’s impossible not to notice that the lower ranking contestants hold a grudge against him.

He can’t help the involuntary wave of jealousy and regret that wreaks havoc through his system. It all becomes a bit too much.

Maybe he should’ve been friendlier. Friendlier? No. That wasn’t him. But maybe—just maybe—if he had shared even a little of himself, he wouldn’t be standing alone now.

He shoves down the unnatural feelings. Loneliness has become less of an exception and more of the norm for him over the years.

“Well, well, well…” a deep voice speaks beside him. He turns, afraid of what his unguarded expression might reveal.

“Looks like that tutoring really did something after all.” Evan remarks, a soft smile on his face as he regards the results. Regulus suddenly feels steadier, almost anchored by his presence. He looks at the list again, searching for Evan’s name.

5. Evan Rosier   Grade: B

“Only fifth place?” he asks, a slight bite to his voice. “After all that work I expected at least third.”

“Seems like someone is overestimating their tutoring skills…”

Regulus sends him a glare. He feels better. Almost like himself again.

“But seriously, Regulus, thank you.”

Regulus waves him off, suddenly uncomfortable. 

“You did it on your own. I only guided you a bit.”

“Don’t be modest, Regulus, we both know it’s not like you.” Regulus lets out a huff that sounds suspiciously like laughter. “At least now I won’t have to take remedial classes.”

“Good for you.” Regulus deadpans. After the long day of testing, walks with princes, and withering glares, he’s beyond exhausted.

Before he can manage to slip away, McGonnogall walks in accompanied by a few palace servants. They immediately begin dispersing pens and paper to all of the contestants. Regulus remembers the Prince’s words from earlier - that they’ll be writing home to their families after the test results.

“No matter if you placed first or last, you all performed tremendously today.” McGonnogall announces, her demeanor unusually bright.

“To celebrate the end of our etiquette boot camp and the start of the televised competition, you will all be encouraged to write letters home. I know homesickness can be overwhelming, but you must keep pushing on. Your future depends on it.”

Regulus accepts a sheet of paper and a small, navy pen. The writing device is elaborately decorated, with more gold accents than functional devices. The paper is just like the one the invitation was sent on - thick, durable material colored a creamy ivory. It felt almost sacreligious to write on it.

The contestants, who have previously spent most of their time cooped up into their own cliques, surprisingly all separate for this exercise. They all curl into corners, craving privacy for them to pour their true feelings onto the expensive pieces of paper. For once, all of their guards were down.

As he surveys the furiously scribbling pens of his peers, Regulus realizes a major difference between himself and the competition. 

He was not homesick. And, frankly, the last thing he wanted to do was spill out his soul to his mother. She’d probably disown him 3 words into the letter.

So then what does he write?

The nagging, competitive desire to win prompts him to say something to make her smile, something to help him win the bet with the prince. The only issue is that he can’t think of a single thing in the world that could make that woman smile.

He decides on something succinct and to the point.

Maman,

The competition is going well. I’ve placed first in our recent exam. I am still here.

…

Perhaps this time next year we could both be Ones.

Your son,

Regulus

It wasn’t an outright lie. There was a nonzero chance that they could both be Ones next year. However, there was also a nonzero chance that Regulus could be flattened by a flying cart full of exotic animals. Technically, anything is possible.

He hopes the stroke to her ego and the nod to her ambition will be enough to crack that indelible mask of hers. 

However, knowing her, he wasn’t hopeful.

He folds it up, hands it to the nearest servant, and promptly walks out of the room. From the surprised glances the action garners, he didn’t spend nearly as much time writing as everyone else in the room.

“Good evening.” he greets Dorcas, feeling a wave of relief as his bedroom door shuts behind him. As much as he enjoys Dorcas’s company, Regulus finds himself secretly wishing he could be alone. Something in his demeanor must give him away because she takes one look at him, curtsies, and then promptly leaves.

Regulus sighs, exhausted yet relieved to finally be alone. He creeps through his expansive bedroom and unlatches the glass doors leading to the balcony.

He inhales, the fragrant night air filling his lungs. The last few rays of sunlight catch on the edges of the treeline, illuminating it as beautifully as a painting. The gardens below are perfectly manicured, their perfect, neat lines allowing Regulus a curious peace he hadn’t known he’d been craving.

He leans his elbows against the black steel railing, reveling in the feeling of the wind winding its spectral fingers through his hair.

He stares out into the skyline, picturing what lies out there beyond for him. His future. His career. Fame. Fortune. Freedom.

If only I could go to the gardens he thinks, the thought fleeting and vague.

For the first time in years, he cracks a true, genuine smile. A smile that soon turns into a giggle. Then a laugh. A full, whole-bodied laugh that shakes his frame as violently as an earthquake. He folds over, wheezing, placing his hands on his knees and wiping tears that leak from his eyes.

The laughter dies on his lips as suddenly as it came. He straightens, chest heaving, staring at the manicured perfection of the gardens below. He doesn’t know if he’s finally free— or if he’s finally cracking. Likely both.

All he knows is that after tonight, the competition has truly begun, and he's never safe.