Chapter Text
His back ached and he was bored, and tired, and honestly a little hungry. But his advisors insisted on rambling on and on, and it wasn’t that he didn’t care or that it didn’t matter what was happening in his Kingdom, only that he had no idea how to fix the problem, or how reliable the information really was.
James Potter, Crown Prince of one of the longest-standing royal lines in the Kingdom, was a good person. Truly he was. He cared, and for all that he’d been spoilt as the heir and only child to King Fleamont and Queen Euphemia, his people mattered to him.
But a lot of the Kingdom’s problems were beyond him. The economy wasn’t great, and no one in the advisory room could work out why. People were starving in spite of a decent harvest season, and trade was down—marred by bandits on the main roads.
“Padfoot and Moony,” Lucius said, his sneering voice carrying over the table. “They’re a menace. They are the problem, and they must be stopped. Lord Riddle has already lost enough men to them.”
James tried not to sigh. How much harm could two bandits really be causing? He refused to believe no matter how much trouble they caused, they would be responsible for that much of the economy’s problems. “I don’t think…” But James was cut off by the rest of the advisors murmurs.
James wasn’t overly thrilled with his father’s advisors, either. A few were good, trying to offer sound advice on how to sort out some of these problems, but others were whispering into his father’s ear. “There’s nothing we can do, we must let this play out. Let Riddle handle this.”
That was Lord Malfoy, of course. A poncy aristocrat without any real idea what it was like to be living as a common person. James, of course, didn’t either, but it didn’t stop him from wanting to make things better for his people. And wanting to prove it wasn’t a couple of bandits. There was more going on.
He just had no idea how to do it.
The meeting finally ended, and James was dismissed from the council. Instead of going to his rooms, or even sneaking into the kitchens to chat with the cooks and nick a few sweets, he headed out to the stables. His favourite stable-hand was already out, running the horses, and he wanted to talk things out a bit with someone who didn’t have something to gain by the oppression of the people.
“Oy, Peter. How’re they running today?”
Peter Pettigrew, a man with a passion for animals and an uncommon kindness, grinned at the Prince. “Well enough, your highness. How did your meeting fare?”
James rolled his eyes, brushing his hand over the top of his perfectly tamed hair. “Ah well. The usual. People are starving and poor, there’s talk of a revolution brewing, and the advisors see fit to do nothing. Yet again.”
Peter’s face fell. “Is it Malfoy again?”
James leant on the fence, watching his favourite horse gallop. “It is. And my father, for all that he’s a good man, feels that decisions should be made by vote. The people should have a voice. Only the Lords aren’t speaking for the people. They’re speaking for themselves. It’s been too long since Father went among the people, I think.” As James talked, an idea was forming. “Maybe…”
Peter looked at him carefully. “Oh. Your majesty…I think I know where you’re going with this and I don’t…”
“But don’t you see?” James said, slapping the side of the fence. “If I could get some experience, see the people, find out what’s happening and why…”
“You’d be killed within a day. Kidnapped at best,” Peter said.
“I can defend myself,” James said, puffing out his chest.
“No one would trust you. You’d be recognised.”
James furrowed his brow and looked down at the dark skin on his arms. “Well. There are plenty of people like me, aren’t there?”
“Well yes,” Peter said slowly, “but Sire, your image adorns coins and standards.”
“Artist renditions on gold and silver,” James said waving his hand. He then brought his fingers into his hair, scrubbing and scrubbing until the thick oils had rubbed off, and his hair flew free of its own accord, wild like the wind. He then stared at Peter, and without warning, plucked the glasses from his face and shoved them onto his own nose.
Peter stared, then burst into laughter. “It actually makes a difference, you know.”
James grinned broadly. “I can’t use yours, of course. Can’t see a ruddy thing but…find me a pair with plain glass, can you? And then you and I…”
“Oh Sire,” Peter said quietly, “you know if I joined you on this mission and we get caught, your father would have my head.”
“My father hasn’t executed a soul during his entire reign,” James reminded him. “And our prisons are nearly empty. Trust me, Peter, I would protect you with my life.”
Peter’s face fell, mostly because he could never say no to the Crown Prince. Not just because he was the prince, but because James was a loyal and kind friend. “Well…”
“Excellent,” James said, clapping him on the back. “I’ll make preparations.”
“Sire…what exactly do you plan on telling the King?”
James shrugged as he backed away, flinging his royal cape behind him. “Something brilliant, of course,” he called out with a laugh. “Perhaps we’ll go hunting. See you at dusk Peter!”
***
For all James was a brave person and had never backed down from a challenge, he was not entirely secure in his current disguise. Messy hair and glasses, along with being clothed like a commoner would fool only so many. But as they stepped into the tavern with a few pieces of gold, and armed with the intent to listen and perhaps see where things had gone so badly wrong, James found himself blending into the crowd.
Peter took a seat at a long table which had only a few men drinking and eating, and James went up to order. Two bowls of the stew, two tankards of ale, and bread. They hunkered down, and James took a bite, trying not to grimace.
“Just keep your ears open, Petey,” James said. “I don’t know where to start.”
“Yes Si—er. James,” Peter stuttered, finding it far too strange to have James’ name on his tongue.
The pair ate in silence for a while, and whilst they didn’t exactly find information about why the economy was doing so poorly, and why people were starving, James was getting a feel of the crowd. They were downtrodden, many of them tired, and overworked. James didn’t know, however, if it was like this always, or if things were worse than they had been.
He became distracted, however, by a pair of men sat at one of the far tables. They were more jovial than the rest of the crowd, playing game with dice and cards, and clearly taking money. Whilst gambling wasn’t forbidden, his father had a distaste for it, and James had never gotten to see anything like that in play.
Unable to stop himself, he stood up, reaching into his pocket to clutch his gold as he approached. His eyes were drawn to the one who appeared to be the leader. They were both dressed casually, tunic, trousers, boots. But the leader had long hair tied in a plait with a leather thong, and his fringe hung casually over one eye. His face had aristocratic bone-structure, and he looked familiar in a way, though James couldn’t place him.
His companion was quieter, but no less intelligent. His amber eyes shone with something fierce, and James immediately knew that if either of these two were a threat, it was him. He had a young face, which would be disarming to someone untrained to recognise the danger in him. His dark-tawny curls added to the look of innocence, and James felt himself both threatened, and impressed.
After a long moment, the dark-haired one looked up at James, and gave him a bright, lovely smile. “Are you next, my friend?”
James cleared his throat. “I’m unfamiliar with the game.”
“With that accent,” the curly-haired one said, “I’m not surprised. Grow up in a Lord’s manor, did you?”
“Don’t be absurd,” James said, and lowered himself. “I was just not allowed out much.” He said a short prayer to the pantheon of gods that he wasn’t recognised. But he didn’t see a flash of that in either pair of eyes. No, he saw desire in them, perhaps for his money, or his time. Peter was nearby now, but James paid him no mind as he put a gold coin in the table.
“What are you called?” the black-haired one asked as his fingers brushed over the top of the coin. Satisfied that it was real, he sat back, cocking the edge of his boot up on the side of the table.
“James.”
The stranger lifted an eyebrow. “Like the prince?”
“I suppose,” James said with a shrug.
After a moment, the stranger barked a laugh and slapped his hand on the table. “That’s fairly brilliant, James. I’m Sirius, and this here is Remus. And if you’re ready to play, Remus will give you the rules.”
Remus, the curly-haired one, leant forward to explain how the game worked. It was chance, of course, with the dice and the cards, and it seemed to favour James, only he was no fool. He knew Sirius now had a pocket of coins from those who had come before James, so it was clear he was going to lose.
Which he did.
Three games in a row.
But Sirius was grinning and offering to buy another round of ale, and James took him up on the offer. Sirius even rejected a few others who wanted to come for a game. “Closed up for the night, lads,” he declared, waving them off. “Me and my new best friend Jamie are having more drinks.”
***
That was the last thing James remembered before waking up hours later, just before dawn. He was stripped down to his tunic and trousers, his money, sword, and daggers gone. His head felt full, spinning, and he groaned, trying to push up from the ground.
Not a few feet away was Peter, looking in much the same state as he was, and he frowned. Scrubbing at his face, he pressed two fingers into his temple as Peter groaned, and sat up.
“They drugged us,” Peter said. “Those gambling bastards. I swear I’ll…”
James held up his hand. “We have more gold with the horses, unless they got away with them as well.”
Peter grimaced as he pushed to his feet, then extended a hand to James. “It’s probably best if we go home, Sire.”
“James,” he corrected gruffly. “And I won’t let being had by some ruffian gamblers distract me from my mission. I know for a fact this Padfoot and Moony are not responsible for the economic devastation and I intend to find out what it is.”
Peter let out a small sigh, but carried on following James back to the stables where their horses were still boarded. James paid the stable-hand, then they mounted. He had water and a bit of food in his pack, passing bread and cheese on to Peter, and they ate carefully as they reached the main road.
“We should go into Hogsmeade,” James said. “I know a lot of travellers pass through there. If we’re to find out any information at all…”
“Si—er James. I’m not entirely sure passing to Hogsmeade on the main road is the best idea.”
James lifted a brow. “Why’s that?”
“Well er…” Peter went a bit rosy in the cheeks. “That’s where a lot of people are mugged.”
“Well we were mugged last night, and this time I’m prepared.” He gave his remaining sword a pat. “You forget how well trained I am.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Peter muttered. “It’s only I think it unwise of you to underestimate the people who live out here. Who do this professionally.”
James rolled his eyes and pushed forward, ignoring his nervous friend. Peter hung back, though, his eyes darting from side to side, and just as they reached the bend that would take them straight to the small trade village, James spotted something.
A fallen tree in the road, and a cloaked man who appeared to be in pain. “Help,” he called when the sound of the horses became apparent.
“Sire,” Peter said.
“Help please. I can’t see and I’m stuck!” The voice was light, airy and young, a man maybe a year or two younger than James was.
“Sire, really,” Peter hissed.
“Nonsense!” James said back. “Look at him. The fellow’s blind and trapped! I’m not going to be mugged by a blind man.” He pushed his horse to a gallop, then came to an abrupt halt to look down at wandering, stormy grey eyes. The man looked rather familiar in a way, though the hood put his face into shadow, but James wasn’t bothered.
He carefully stepped round the log, and knelt down. “Hey, are you al…”
The rest of James’ sentence was cut off by a swift kick to the backs of his knees. He lost his footing immediately, and he had a dagger pressed straight to his throat as the blind stranger hovered over him. He tried to reach out and knock the man off balance, but he quickly had his wrist pinned to the ground by a sharp boot.
“Reggie!” called a voice from the trees. “Did you get one? I was just telling…” The voice—the too familiar voice—cut off and was replaced by a near hysterical laugh. “Oh heavens, no. Not you two again!”
James’ head twisted to the side, even as he tried to dislodge himself. “You!”
Sirius. The gambler from the night before. Drugged or not, James instantly recognised him. “This seems almost unfair, you poor sod.” Planting his fists on his hips, he cocked his head to the side. “Reggie…did you find anything?”
Reggie, apparently startled by Sirius actually knowing his victim, let up just enough to tell James he was distracted. Which allowed James to grab him by the front and throw him to the side, landing him on his face. “Blind my arse,” he muttered, standing.
But the gesture went unappreciated by Sirius whose expression went dark, and he drew his sword. “If he’s hurt…”
“You’ll what?” James challenged, drawing is own. He took a step forward. “Pretending to be blind to mug people on the road is not on, you know.”
“And carrying round massive sacks of gold is just begging to be mugged.”
James rolled his eyes. “Your morals are astounding.” He thrust, and Sirius stepped back with a laugh, doing a small dance-like step. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“Nor I you, James. Just your remaining gold, and this time I’ll let you walk away without having your body dumped in an alley.”
James, now unamused as well, began to fight in earnest. He had no intention of letting Sirius win, though he would let him free without being harmed. Sirius was not his mission.
Sirius, however, was also as good as Peter had warned, and James had a feeling he might have met his match now on the road. They continued to fight, Sirius seeming to enjoy it more than James did. Twice James caught a glimpse of Reggie who was sat on the ground still, face tipped toward his shoes, pressing a sleeve to a cut on his cheek.
James felt bad, but not bad enough to give up.
Sirius was getting tired. He could see it.
James would’ve had this fight as well, if he hadn’t missed a step. If he hadn’t got arrogant and had paid attention. But Sirius took a playful thrust at him, and James at the same moment stepped on a root. He stumbled forward before Sirius had time to pull back, and suddenly the blade sank into his side.
Sirius face, were it not for James’ extreme pain and shock, would have been comical. The way he went too pale, the way he yanked back his sword which was now covered in blood. James felt instantly light-headed as he toppled to his knees, and the edges of his vision went black.
Was he actually dying? Out here on the dusty road like this?
His last thought as arms took him and pressed something firm to his side, was of his father. What would Fleamont do to learn of this? And what would happen to the Kingdom?
***
James was in and out of consciousness for days, though he didn’t realise it. An infection set in and he’d been taken to Sirius and Remus’ camp to be cared for. Each time he woke for treatments, he didn’t remember the last time he’d come to.
By the third day, he was starting to get better, though his fever was still raging. He opened his eyes when he felt something soft and cool press along his forehead, then down his face. Everything in the room seemed to have a warm glow, like a halo, and his eyes locked on the figure in front of him.
A young man, soft black hair falling into his eyes, a sharp jaw, full mouth. His slender fingers clutched a piece of wet, cool cloth that smelt like it was soaked in herbs, and it was brushing along his skin.
James couldn’t stop himself from reaching out, grabbing the man’s wrist who startled visibly. “Are you an angel? Am I dead?”
For a second, the stranger’s mouth quirked, and he shook his head. “You’re fighting off an infection in your wound. You don’t remember again?”
James frowned, then recalled the fight. Sirius. On the road. Being stabbed. He blinked, and tried to move, but searing pain shot up his side and he hissed. The stranger pushed him back to the makeshift pillow and shook his head.
“You’ll only reopen it, and this time you might not survive it.”
Reggie, James’ brain supplied. This was Reggie. The fake-blind man on the road who had tried to mug him. Had he been this good looking the last time?
“Reggie,” he said aloud, and the man stiffened.
“It’s Regulus. Sirius only calls me that to upset me.”
“Sorry,” James mumbled as he settled back. He watched as Regulus’ fingers reached out, ghosting along several items on a table near the bed. After a moment, James realised something. “You actually are blind.”
Regulus froze, then barked a laugh similar to his brother’s. “Yes, I am.”
James blinked. “You…bested me.”
“Yes,” Regulus said slowly, “I did.”
“Bloody hell,” James groaned. “For all my training, and I get bested by a drunken gambler, and a blind man.”
Regulus went tense as he found the phial he was looking for, and turned to face James. “Being blind doesn’t make me incapable or useless.”
“Clearly,” James groused, then realised he’d offended him, and felt his cheeks go hotter than the fever with a blush. “I’m…I didn’t mean… I’m sorry, Regulus. I spoke without thinking.”
Regulus seemed startled by the apology, and shook his head. “It’s alright. You need to take this, though. It’ll make you tired again, but I think when your fever breaks, it’ll be the last one.”
“Are you a doctor?” James asked as he lifted his head. Regulus’ hand felt out, touching the corner of James’ mouth before he brought the phial to it, and tipped the liquid in. It tasted awful, and burnt fiercely, but a sort of numbness settled over his body, and his head started to float into the clouds.
“I’m not,” Regulus replied as he set the empty phial down, a tiny smirk playing at his lips. “I’m a bandit. But I’ve learnt a great deal on the road, as my brother and his ridiculous lover seem to find themselves at the wrong end of swords often.”
“Lover. Remus,” James said, his voice sounding far-off to his own ears. He grinned, then reached out and brushed his fingers down Regulus’ cheek. “Are you quite sure you’re not an angel? I don’t really believe in them, you know, but you may have convinced me. You’re beautiful.”
“You’re drugged,” Regulus reminded him.
“You were beautiful when I was fighting your brother. Beautiful when he was stabbing me.” Then James laughed, and he heard Regulus chuckle under his breath. “Angel. A bright star.”
Regulus shook his head, and reached out, pressing the inside of his wrist to James’ forehead before he smoothed away his hair. “Sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.”
James nodded, and did just that.