Chapter Text
The moment Regulus Black, the youngest Prince of Wizarding Britain, saw James Potter striding into Buckingham Palace, all golden skin and easy smiles, he knew his life was about to be significantly worse.
“You’re late,” Regulus said coolly, arms crossed over his chest as James made his way across the marble floor of the ballroom. He looked entirely out of place, with his messy curls, rolled-up sleeves, and Muggle trainers. A Gryffindor in every sense of the word. Meanwhile, Regulus stood immaculate in his tailored black suit, the very picture of royal perfection.
“Traffic,” James replied with a grin that was anything but apologetic. “You know, us commoners don’t have carriages at our disposal.”
Regulus’s lips twitched, but he smothered the urge to smile. “You’ve got a Portkey, Potter. Don’t be absurd.”
James stopped a foot away, his grin softening into something gentler. “I don’t suppose you’re happy to see me?”
“No,” Regulus deadpanned. “Why would I be?”
“Because,” James said, leaning in ever so slightly, “you’re stuck hosting me for the next three days, and I’d hate to think I’m already on your bad side.”
Regulus arched a single, imperious brow. “Potter, you’ve been on my bad side since the day you spilled champagne on my robes at the International Wizarding Gala.”
“I said I was sorry!” James protested, looking genuinely wounded. “And technically, you bumped into me.”
“Your elbow,” Regulus replied, “was far too close to my personal space.”
James laughed, bright and unbothered, and Regulus felt something sharp twist in his chest. It was infuriating how effortlessly James could charm an entire room—or, in this case, Regulus’s entire family. Sirius already adored him, which was deeply annoying, and even his mother seemed charmed by James’s Gryffindor earnestness. It was Regulus who had to deal with the fallout, tasked with babysitting the future Minister for Magic while he was on a diplomatic tour of Britain.
“Shall we get this over with?” Regulus asked, turning sharply on his heel and heading toward the double doors at the end of the room. He didn’t wait to see if James followed, but he could feel him there, practically radiating warmth.
“Lead the way, Your Highness,” James said, amusement lacing his tone.
Their first stop was the Royal Gardens, where Regulus had to endure the indignity of James Potter crouching in the dirt to inspect the tulips.
“You’ve got great flowers,” James said, brushing dirt off his hands. “Do you even know the names of half of these?”
Regulus rolled his eyes. “Of course I do. I’m not a complete idiot.”
James stood, brushing his palms on his trousers, and gave Regulus a look so soft it nearly made him falter. “I didn’t say you were. But you’re very good at acting like you’re above it all.”
Regulus felt the jab like a flick to the chest. “And you’re very good at pretending you’re everyone’s best friend.”
“Maybe I am,” James said, shrugging. “But at least I’m honest about it.”
There was a moment of silence, the kind that always seemed to settle between them. A low hum of tension, unsaid things coiling tighter and tighter. Regulus didn’t like it. He didn’t like how James looked at him, like he was peeling back layers Regulus had spent years perfecting.
He broke the silence. “Are you quite done playing in the dirt?”
James grinned again, lopsided and boyish. “For now. What’s next, Your Highness?”
“Next,” Regulus said, “you’re going to learn how to behave like a proper guest.”
* * *
By the end of James’s three-day stay, Regulus was certain he’d developed some sort of allergic reaction to the man. How else could he explain the warmth spreading through his chest every time James grinned at him? Or the faint flutter in his stomach when James accidentally bumped his shoulder during a game of wizard chess in the palace’s drawing room?
It was insufferable, really, how easy James was to like. Regulus prided himself on his ability to keep people at arm’s length—sharp words and even sharper glares usually did the trick. But James? James bulldozed right through every barrier Regulus put up, his persistence somehow infuriating and endearing in equal measure.
When James left, Regulus told himself it was a relief. No more sunny smiles. No more casual touches that lingered just a second too long. No more stolen moments in the gardens where James would say something ridiculous, and Regulus would have to bite back a laugh because damn it, it wasn’t funny.
But the silence of the palace felt heavier without James around. The echo of his absence lingered, and Regulus hated it.
It started with an owl, a week later.
James Potter
(Written in his infuriatingly messy handwriting)
Your Highness,
I thought you’d appreciate knowing that I beat Sirius at wizard chess yesterday. He claims you’ve “rigged” your chess sets to favor yourself, but I’m certain he’s just a sore loser. Thought you’d like the update.
P.S. You don’t smile nearly enough. Try it sometime.
Yours obnoxiously,
J.P.
Regulus read the letter twice before tossing it into the fireplace. But the next morning, when an owl appeared with another note, he didn’t hesitate to open it.
Over the next few months, their correspondence became something of a ritual. James’s letters were always lighthearted, filled with stories about his work as an up-and-coming politician or complaints about Sirius’s latest antics. Regulus found himself replying, almost against his will, with sharp observations and begrudging advice.
Somewhere along the way, the letters stopped being just another task on Regulus’s endless list of royal duties. He started looking forward to them. He started staying up late, penning responses that were longer than strictly necessary. He started catching himself smiling at James’s awful jokes and teasing comments.
It was a dangerous thing, this… whatever it was. But it was also irresistible.
One evening, Regulus found himself sitting by the window of his private study, James’s latest letter in hand. It was a short one—just a note about how he’d tripped over his own feet during a speech, followed by a hasty “Don’t tell anyone, or I’ll never forgive you.”
Regulus smiled, his fingers brushing over the parchment. He wondered what James was doing at that very moment. Was he still laughing at his own clumsiness? Was he thinking about Regulus the way Regulus thought about him?
The thought was ridiculous. James Potter was sunshine personified, and Regulus had spent years perfecting the art of being a storm. They didn’t belong in the same orbit, and yet…
He sighed, setting the letter aside. Across the room, his enchanted gramophone began to play a soft, mournful melody—one of James’s favorite songs, if he wasn’t mistaken. He didn’t know why he’d charmed it to play that particular tune. It wasn’t like he’d been thinking about James when he did it.
(He had, of course. But admitting that was a step too far, even in the privacy of his own thoughts.)
James’s letters became longer, more personal. He started asking questions—real questions. About Regulus’s childhood, his favorite books, the things that made him tick. Regulus answered with careful honesty, testing the waters, until he realized he was telling James things he’d never told anyone else. Not even Sirius.
And then there was the night Regulus sent his first letter without a proper reason.
Regulus Black
(Neat and precise handwriting, as always)
James,
I read The Secret History this week. You were right—it's brilliant. Though your comparison between me and Richard Papen is highly offensive. I’m significantly less melodramatic, thank you very much.
How’s your campaign going? I assume you’re still charming your way into everyone’s hearts.
Yours,
Regulus
He almost didn’t send it. But the thought of James reading it—of James smiling at the sight of his name in Regulus’s handwriting—was enough to make him seal the envelope and call for an owl.
Weeks turned into months, and their letters became a lifeline. For all his distance and detachment, Regulus found himself tethered to James in a way that scared him. And yet, he couldn’t bring himself to stop.
After all, James Potter had a way of making the storm feel just a little bit brighter.
James Potter
(Still messy, still impossibly charming handwriting)
Your Highness,
I was going to ask how your Christmas was, but knowing you, it was probably filled with elegant parties, stuffy aristocrats, and at least one moment where you wanted to hex Sirius into next week.
Mine wasn’t much better. Mum tried to set me up with the daughter of one of her friends. Lovely girl, but I couldn’t stop thinking about someone else the entire time. (No, I won’t tell you who. You’re far too smug as it is.)
Anyway, here’s the thing: I’ll be in London for New Year’s. Sirius invited me to some royal party or another—said you’d be there too. Thought I’d warn you in case you want to prepare yourself for my dazzling presence. Or, you know, conveniently not attend.
If you’re up for it, maybe we could… sneak away for a bit? Just the two of us? We could talk properly, for once. Or not talk. Whatever you prefer.
Let me know.
Yours (if you’ll have me),
J.P.
Regulus read the letter three times before letting out a soft sigh. He hated how easily James’s words could unsettle him, how one simple sentence could unravel all the careful composure he’d spent years perfecting.
“Just the two of us.”
It was dangerous. Reckless. Stupid. And yet…
Regulus Black
(Impeccably neat, as always)
James,
I’ll be there. Don’t make me regret it.
Yours,
R.A.B.
New Year’s Eve arrived with the kind of cold, clear night that made the palace’s golden lights glow even brighter against the dark sky. The grand ballroom was filled with diplomats, nobles, and celebrities, all dressed to the nines. Regulus stood near the back, nursing a glass of champagne and doing his best to look unbothered.
He hadn’t seen James yet. He told himself he didn’t care. (He did. Of course he did.)
“Looking for someone?”
Regulus turned, and there he was. James Potter, impossibly handsome in a tailored suit, his hair as messy as ever but somehow perfect for it. There was a cocky tilt to his grin, but his eyes were soft, warm, and searching.
“You’re late,” Regulus said, because he didn’t know what else to say.
“Traffic,” James replied, his grin widening. “You know how it is.”
Regulus rolled his eyes but didn’t bother hiding the faint smile tugging at his lips. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re as charming as ever,” James shot back. He took a step closer, his voice dropping. “Do you want to get out of here?”
Regulus hesitated. Around them, the party swirled on, a blur of laughter and music and glittering lights. But James was a steady presence, grounding him in a way no one else could.
“Fine,” Regulus said, setting his glass down on a nearby table. “But if you embarrass me, I’m hexing you.”
James’s grin softened into something almost reverent. “Noted.”
They slipped out through a side door, escaping into the crisp night air. The palace gardens were quiet, the only sound the crunch of frost beneath their shoes. James walked a step behind him, as though waiting for Regulus to lead the way.
“You’re freezing,” James said suddenly, shrugging off his coat and draping it over Regulus’s shoulders before he could protest. “Don’t argue. It’s New Year’s—consider it my good deed for the night.”
Regulus sighed but didn’t shrug the coat off. It was warm, and it smelled like James—woodsy, with a faint hint of something sweet. He hated how much he liked it.
They stopped near the fountain, its surface frozen over and sparkling in the moonlight. James leaned against the edge, watching Regulus with an expression that was almost unreadable.
“What?” Regulus asked, crossing his arms.
“You look…” James trailed off, his lips twitching like he couldn’t quite find the right word. “Different. Happier, maybe.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Regulus replied, though his cheeks flushed pink.
James laughed softly, shaking his head. “You’re impossible, you know that?”
“So I’ve been told.”
A comfortable silence fell between them, the kind that had become familiar over the months of their letters. But tonight, it felt heavier. Charged.
“You know,” James said quietly, “I wasn’t joking in my letter. About thinking about someone else.”
Regulus’s breath hitched. “James—”
“I’m not saying you have to feel the same,” James interrupted, his voice earnest and a little nervous. “But I needed you to know. Because for some stupid reason, you’re all I think about. And I’d rather ruin this than keep pretending I don’t—”
Regulus cut him off by stepping closer, closing the space between them. “Shut up, Potter,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
James’s eyes widened slightly, but he didn’t move, didn’t breathe, as Regulus leaned in and pressed his lips to his.
It was soft, tentative, and over far too quickly. Regulus pulled back, his heart pounding, and looked anywhere but James’s face.
“Happy New Year,” he muttered.
James blinked, then broke into the brightest grin Regulus had ever seen. “Happy New Year, Your Highness.”