“APIS MELLIFERA” - SET: 1970
As a boy, there had not been much in the way of entertainment at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Walburga, in all her wisdom and kindness, had created a household that was as dark and dreary as her soul – a reflection of the cold, bitter, angry woman that she was; every room was draped in darkness. Even with living occupants, the house was never truly a home – only Regulus’ and Sirius’ room contained any kind of personality; any kind of spark or sign that the person living there truly lived.
But there was, across from their home, a park – tall trees, a playground, some sand – and Regulus had always been somewhat fascinated by it. As a boy, he’d never really ‘played’ – there were games with Sirius, to pass the time, but before long Sirius had left for Hogwarts, and besides, Regulus had always preferred his books over toys. Yet – there was something about that park, about the muggle children’s laughter echoing down the narrow street as they swung higher and higher on the swing sets or chased one another about across the sand. Regulus almost longed for a chance to join – just once, maybe; just to try it.
His chance came when Walburga was ill, down with a cold or her nerves or something that meant she was bedridden, and only Kreacher was allowed in or out of her dark room, a tray steady in hands and laden with empty cups of tea or soup. Orion had left early that morning, something to do with the Ministry, and Sirius was at Hogwarts, then. Already, Regulus’ older brother was something like a bitter name on everyone’s tongue in the Black family – how could he have allowed himself to be placed in Gryffindor? they all asked. Back then, Regulus hadn’t thought too much about it; he knew that it was supposed to be a Black tradition that they all ended up in Slytherin, but he thought that the traits of Gryffindor resonated with the brother he knew. Why should it be a bad thing? A naïve thought, but he’d been but ten – barely able to comprehend the lengths to which his own brother would go to prove that he was nothing like the rest of them.
Walburga hadn’t given any instructions to Regulus for the day – he could hear her from his fourth-floor bedroom, calling for Kreacher to bring her something or the other, and he knew that this was his chance. This could be the day he could see the park.
He dressed quickly, shoving his feet into shoes and lacing them with small, nimble fingers. Regulus layered on a coat, and wrapped a scarf around his neck – the weather was cool this time of year – before poking his head out of his bedroom door, ears hypersensitive to hear if his mother was about. The coast, for the moment, seemed clear, and Regulus crept down the stairs, feet light and placed perfectly in all the spots he knew that wouldn’t creak. He’d spent many years learning the exact path down several flights of stairs that would make the least amount of noise – times when he’d creep down to listen at the door as his parents yelled at Sirius, his breath caught high in his throat at the sounds from within. Times when he’d heard things – words, names, threats – that he shouldn’t’ve; times when he heard things that made him smile or feel validated. But he was so young, then – so young that the prospect of getting caught by Walburga made his heart leap in his chest with every step that he took.
By a miracle from none other than Merlin himself, Regulus made it to the front door without his mother or Kreacher catching him, and he slipped outside. He had, by his guess, about an hour or so before the old house elf would come looking for him to serve his lunch – giving Regulus more than enough time to try out the playground and sneak back inside.
Stopping on the curb, Regulus dutifully looked both ways like Sirius had always told him to do – though this time Sirius was not by his side or holding his hand; and when there were no cars, he crossed, cautiously looking over his shoulder as though he expected to see his mother at the window, hammering and screaming for him to come back. But Grimmauld Place was silent, and Regulus was free.
The park was bordered by a tall, black fence that had an opening a few paces up the street, and Regulus entered with bated breath. The playground had only a few patrons today – a handful of children darting about the coloured plastic with rosy cheeks and smiles on their faces. A parent or two sat on the bench nearby, reading a magazine and glancing up occasionally to make sure the kids were okay. Regulus tentatively walked closer, feeling very conscious of the fact that these were muggle children and that he did not know them – strangers and muggles were two definite no-no’s in his mother’s eyes, and if she knew…
The muggle children noticed him when he stood at the edge of the sand, self-consciously biting his bottom lip and looking at them. They looked back.
“Who’re you?” asked one of the girls, who dirty-blonde hair had been plaited into two long braids that ran down her chest.
“Regulus.”
They all made faces. “That’s a funny name,” said one of the boys, while the one behind him picked his nose openly.
Regulus thought they were the funny ones, but didn’t say anything. “It’s a family name – it belonged to my great grandfather,” he replied, defensive.
“Whatever,” said the boy who’d been picking his nose. “John’s name is John because his mother is in love with John Lennon.”
“Shut up!” hissed John, whirling on his friend and punching him in the shoulder. Regulus flinched at the sight. “It’s not true,” continued John, turning back to Regulus.
“I don’t… even know who John Lennon is,” Regulus said.
The little girl with the braids giggled, like Regulus had said something extraordinarily funny, and he smiled weakly back.
“You’re funny,” she said, as though it were decided. “Wanna play with us?”
“Uhm—“ Regulus glanced across the road at Grimmauld Place, sitting tall and dark and silent, like a crow atop a tree, watching the smaller birds below. “Sure,” he said, nodding. “If you’ll let me.”
John shrugged and dashed off, leaving the rest of them to follow. As it turned out, they had been in the middle of a complicated roleplay-type game when Regulus interrupted, but now they expanded it to fit him in. It was a story about dragons and pirates and faeries, even though both boys had agreed that faeries were dumb and shouldn’t have been in the story, but Piper – the girl with braids – had insisted. Regulus tried to reign himself in from correcting the others’ terminology and wrong information about dragons – he reminded himself that they were muggles, and they couldn’t know better, but it annoyed him, still. John determined that Regulus should be a wizard who was helping the pirates but who had captured the faerie and was planning to feed her to the dragon. Regulus thought that there were holes in the plot, but agreed anyway, mostly because he was a wizard, and it was easy to slip into character.
John and Lewis were rogue pirates who Regulus was working with, and he watched on as the two boys used sticks they found on the ground to slash and stab at the “dragon,” which Regulus had to strain his imagination to picture in place of the shrub that the boys were attacking. His hand was on Piper’s wrist, her skin warm where his fingers touched, and when he was supposed to, he called out “Enough!” and the two boys stopped their attack.
“I have come,” Regulus said, trying to make his voice sound deep, like a wizard’s should – like he imagined Dumbledore’s to be, or maybe Grindelwald’s, “to sacrifice this faerie,” and he took a step forward, pulling Piper with him, “to you, oh great dragon!”
There was mock outrage from the pirates, who claimed he was a traitor and they wanted their gold back. As Regulus went to “feed” Piper to the dragon, John and Lewis leaped forward and saved her, sticks brandished against Regulus – and then the chasing began. Regulus ran as fast as his legs would carry him, laughing as he leaped over a small log set into the sand. He felt invincible as he ran, the sound of the pirates yelling behind him – he felt young and happy and part of something that wasn’t about blood purity or piano lessons or learning Latin so that he could be a good Black.
He actually felt like a kid.
Eventually the pirates tackled him and they went sprawling, Regulus spitting sand but laughing, even though his legs and elbow hurt from the fall. They collectively called that game to an end, and Regulus had to peel off his coat and scarf because he was hot, almost sweating beneath the extra layers, and he hung them on a pole that was connected to the playground. The four of them – newfound friends, Regulus thought – contented themselves with climbing on the equipment for a while, Regulus watching what the boys did and copying, matching the places their hands went. He found he was a bit smaller than them, despite the fact that they were roughly all the same age – his hands and legs didn’t quite reach, but that was okay. He stuck to Piper, who showed him how to hang upside down on the monkey bars just fine, even though they were shorter and had to use a different set to the boys.
John’s mother came to pick him up after a while. She was a young-looking woman with hair down to her waist and a scarf tied around her head, the kind of person that Regulus’ mother would have scolded for looking unkempt and unclean. She seemed kind, and she waved to the kids as she tugged on John’s coat and gloves before setting off with him, hand in hand. Regulus didn’t know anything about her – except for her love of John Lennon, apparently – but she seemed okay to Regulus.
Lewis and Piper, without John there to lead them, turned to the swings, hands looped around the chains as they kicked off, pushing higher and higher through some sheer force of will or magic that Regulus didn’t understand. He’d seen kids on the swings before, but had never actually experienced them himself. Instead, he watched from the sidelines, smiling as Piper shrieked as she flew higher into the air, legs kicking out and pink glitter boots catching the light. Regulus wanted a turn, but he didn’t know how to ask – didn’t know if they would tell him to mind his own business, or to wait until they were done. Instead, he filled in the time by looking around the playground at all the things he couldn’t see from his bedroom window.
There were some quite nice plants, full and green with beautiful flowers, and Regulus headed over to them. Plants usually died inside their house, mostly due to the lack of sunlight, but also because Kreacher never remembered to water them. Regulus had once tried to grow a cactus on the windowsill of his bedroom, but it had died because he’d over-watered it. These plants were nothing like those scraggly things in Grimmauld Place – their flowers were bright and beautiful, and soft to the touch when Regulus reached out for them. Behind one plant, set a little further into the garden, was a flower the shadow of lilac – a complex looking thing that Regulus longed to pick and sit in a vase inside his room. He wove through the bushes, trying to get closer; they all grew closer together here, twisted and gnarled branches and trunks that attempted to trip Regulus up, and he had to duck beneath several of them to get to it. But when he did, it was worth it – the flower was as big as his palm, and as bright as a box of paints. He snapped it off at the branch, careful not to damage it, before he started to make his way back, and that’s when he heard it.
It was like a faint hum, like traffic through a closed window, but angrier. Regulus couldn’t place it – didn’t know how to quantify a sound like that, so he kept moving, retracing his steps back through the garden, but the humming grew louder, like a warning. It made his skin prickle with a bit of fear, mostly from the unknown-ness of it all – what was it? Glancing around, Regulus finally looked up, and saw it –
A great hive, the size of his father’s head, poised right above his own. Regulus swallowed thickly, frozen mid-step. What did he do? What could he do? He saw bees, swarming and crawling in and around the honeycomb hive, their wings fluttering and antennae flicking back and forth. Regulus had never really thought to be scared of them before – but then again, he’d never been this close to them in his life.
He had been so busy watching the hive and its occupants that he hadn’t realised that some were flying around and were on his clothes until he felt them on the bare skin of his arms. Regulus’ immediate reaction was to shriek and brush them off – but the movement had been too sudden, too violent, and the humming grew into a fever pitch: and he started running.
The bees gave chase, landing on his skin, on his face, in his hair, and no matter how much he tried to shoo them off and flick them away, there were a dozen more to take their place. And the stings – Regulus was almost blinded by the pain of it, sharp pinpricks across his bare skin, all the places that his now neglected coat and scarf would have covered. He could feel them stinging his face, his neck, his hands – he felt like his whole body was covered, like he was going to drown in the feeling of the insects all over him. He realised he was screaming – realised that he was on the ground, screaming and screaming, and that Piper’s mum, who had been watching her daughter from the park bench, was running to his side.
She tugged off her own coat and shooed away the bees, but Regulus couldn’t see - he couldn’t see. Something was wrong with his face – his eyes – he couldn’t see. His whole body felt like it was on fire, like he was tightening at the seams somehow; like all the available space that had sat beneath his skin was rapidly being taken up, and then – his screaming died.
He vaguely registered Piper’s mum yelling at Lewis to get help – to call someone – but what Regulus remembered most about those next few moments was that the air he’d used to yell in pain was the last air that his lungs felt before they closed off. And suddenly, there was no more air – he couldn’t have screamed if he’d wanted to, because now, he couldn’t see or breathe.
What happened next seemed to pass by in a blur.
Regulus remembered someone taking his hand, and he remembered squeezing them so tightly he felt his knuckles pop. He remembered hoping it was Sirius, somehow back from Hogwarts.
He remembered gasping for air, even though his throat felt solid – he remembered his heart hammering in his chest, panic rising higher and higher the less oxygen he could get.
And he remembered the moment when Kreacher arrived, because there were screams from Piper and Lewis, the sound of their feet running away from the house elf who must’ve heard Regulus’ screams of pain, because then there was a crack!, then silence.
When he awoke, Regulus was in a hospital ward full of noise and a strange smell that he didn’t like. It burned his nose, and with a start he realised that he could breathe – his throat, though sore and tender, wasn’t closed off anymore. His eyes, too, could see – and he fluttered them open, wincing away from the lights that covered the ceiling. They were sore as well, the skin felt bloated, almost – like he’d burned them and the skin was brand new.
Sitting by his side was Kreacher, ears drooping and eyes keen and lively.
“Master Regulus,” he said gently, his old, weathered hand rising to rest gently against Regulus’. Normally, Regulus would have shied away from the touch; house elves were not friends or family, but there was something almost paternal about the action, and Regulus allowed it.
“Kreacher,” Regulus rasped, throat sounding raw. He had so many questions – where am I? what happened? – but he really only needed to know one thing. “Does mum know?”
The house elf inclined his head and glanced over his shoulder. Regulus, following his gaze, felt his heart flood with fear and sheer panic, worse than anything the bees could’ve done – because there was Walburga, talking heatedly with a Healer in lime-green robes. He knew that look well; knew that she was angry and wild, barely managing to contain herself because they were in a public place. But her eyes – her eyes were feral, almost, and Regulus knew that he was in trouble. As he watched, his father strode into the ward – because that’s where he was, Regulus realised; he was at St. Mungo’s – and began speaking to the same Healer as Walburga. His face looked tight.
“Is she really very angry?” Regulus whispered to Kreacher, looking away from his parents to his house elf pleadingly.
“Mistress was most upset by what happened,” replied the house elf. “Mistress said that the muggles had to have their memories erased because of Kreacher.”
Regulus felt his eyes prick and water. “It’s not your fault,” he said, fingers curling around Kreacher’s hand. It felt like weathered leather. “You—you saved me.”
And, he realised, it was true – he had heard Lewis and Piper’s screams, the sharp intake of breath from Piper’s mother at the sight of Kreacher; knew that whatever the Ministry had done to the muggles who had seen Kreacher was because Kreacher had broken those laws for him.
“Thank you.”
Kreacher’s eyes were dark but warm as he looked at Regulus. “Master Regulus was ill. Kreacher heard him from the kitchen—“
Regulus knew that Kreacher was bound to his family; knew that Kreacher had to do whatever they told him to. But he’d never thought or even considered that maybe Kreacher would do something because he wanted to; it would’ve been easy for Kreacher to have heard nothing, to have done nothing… Regulus would’ve ran out of oxygen, eventually – would have laid on the grass, surrounded by muggle strangers, face swollen from the bee toxin.
Kreacher had saved him, and Regulus would never forget that.
“Kreacher, away now,” came Walburga’s sharp voice, cutting off the house elf who, with trained obedience, let go of Regulus’ hand and backed away, looking small. Regulus looked up at his mother and father, who were now standing by his bedside – Walburga looked livid, though it was pressed behind a mask of benign politeness, and Orion looked worried, brow furrowed as he gazed down at Regulus. “You disobeyed me, Regulus,” said his mother, wringing her gloves between her pale hands. “You were with that filth when we found you – no wonder you got ill, mixing with that sort—“ She cut herself off with a sharp shake of the head. “Healer Morton had deemed you fit for discharge, so we’re going home.”
Regulus knew better than to say anything, so he nodded, head down and eyes lowered. He didn’t think for a moment that he’d gotten off light – he would be punished, there was no doubt about that. It might not be that day, when he was still injured, but it would come; Walburga would make sure he didn’t forget who he was and who he was supposed to associate with. Orion paused by Regulus’ bedside after Walburga left, looking immobile and on the verge of saying something – his eyes swept over Regulus’ face for a moment, as though double-checking to make sure he was alright – before he followed after his wife.
Once Regulus was changed and carrying several vials of a potion that was supposed to help with the swelling and sore throat, the Black family used the Floo Network and strode back into the drawing room at Grimmauld Place. Regulus felt dizzy from the exertion and tied from the day, but he hovered, allowing Kreacher to take off his coat and dust off his pants while his parents spoke quietly and Orion, after another glance at Regulus, strode out of the room.
The sound of Orion’s study door closing was Walburga’s cue to turn to Regulus, her hands clasped in front of her like talons, ready to strike. Regulus’ heart was beating so quickly that he could hear it, and he was sure that she must, too, for it was so telling – so weak and vulnerable and loud.
“What were you doing out there, Regulus?” demanded Walburga in a voice that was quiet-calm, but deadly so. “What were you doing out there with muggles?”
He should’ve thought of a better answer while waiting in hospital, he realised – make up a story about losing something out of his window and going to retrieve it, but. He couldn’t lie well; she always knew, even when Sirius covered for him. She knew and she had let Sirius, but Walburga had always been able to read Regulus like a book.
“I—I was curious about the park,” Regulus admitted shamefully. “I wanted to see it.”
“Why didn’t you ask for permission before leaving this house? What do you think we are running here, a halfway house for delinquents? Do you not understand the rules of our family – what you can and cannot do, or do you just not care, like your brother?”
Regulus felt a lump form in his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said, half-desperately. “I’m sorry I didn’t ask or permission and that I left without doing so. I should’ve, and—I’m sorry.”
Walburga kneeled on the floor in front of him, her hand raised and cupping his cheek gently. “Of course you are, you’re a good boy, aren’t you?” she said soothingly, and Regulus – through teary eyes – looked up and across at her. She looked kind, forgiving, almost – but he’d seen that too many times to trust it. But he wanted to – he wanted to believe she meant it; that she didn’t blame him for what had happened. He tried to nod, to make her happy, and a smile echoed across her face, a ghost of one that might’ve been there years ago. “And you’ll ask next time, won’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re not going to talk to muggles again, are you?” she asked, pressingly.
“No, mummy.”
“Good boy,” she said again, fingertips soft on his cheek before her hand dropped to his shoulder, squeezing it comfortingly. “You should rest, Regulus, you look tired. You’ve had an awful day, haven’t you?”
He nodded, wiping at one of his eyes with the back of his hand. Just as he turned to leave – thinking he could escape to his room and sleep for a while, scot-free - her hand closed around his upper arm. Fingers, sharp and strong, dug into the flesh of his arm, and he let out a gasp of pain as he turned back to look at her – and her eyes were once against that kind of feral black that reminded Regulus of wild animals, caged and lashing out at anyone who came too close.
“If you ever do anything like that again, it won’t be Kreacher who is punished, do you understand?” Walburga hissed, bringing Regulus closer by the grip on his arm that was bruising. He wanted to cry – he wanted to tell her that she was hurting him, but he also knew that she didn’t care. All Regulus could do was nod, tears falling down his face at the pain. He couldn’t feel his arm. “He’s taking what punishment would have been yours. If you should ever embarrass our family like this again—if you dare to make us the talk of the Ministry, calling in Obliviators like this again—“
“I won’t,” he sobbed quietly, glancing down at where her hand was cutting off the circulation in his arm. “I won’t, I promise, mummy, I won’t.”
Walburga stared at him hard for a moment before her hand was gone, and blood flowed back into his hand.
Leaning forward, Walburga kissed Regulus’ forehead, the action unfamiliar and stiff. “Go rest. I’ll have Kreacher bring you some supper later,” she said, voice now back to being honey-smooth, and this time, Regulus didn’t feel a hand on his arm as he turned to leave.
He all but ran back up to his room, arm throbbing and throat sore, and when he collapsed onto his bed, Regulus allowed himself to cry. So many tears had stained his pillow since he was a boy that he was sure that it would fill a Pensieve if he had one – stories and memories and snippets of a childhood that hadn’t been one at all. Regulus knew he was a boy, and there was still time for all of that – but he would be going to Hogwarts next year, and he was scared that if he didn’t do what was required of him, he would regret it. He never wanted to shame his family – he had never meant to tarnish the Black name – but he realised now how it must’ve looked to his parents; how they must now pay for his selfishness.
Regulus only wanted to be good; he wanted to be whatever his parents wanted of him, and he wanted them to be proud of that. But he also wanted Sirius to be there, and he wanted to be able to play in the park, because that was the first time he’d actually felt happy since Sirius had left at the end of summer. Regulus wanted, wanted, wanted so much – but received nothing in return for so much dreaming, except a bruised arm and a new allergy to bees that he would carry with him for the rest of his life.
And, later, when Kreacher came into Regulus’ room, carrying a tray laden with soup and bread, and he saw what his mother had ordered Kreacher to do to himself, Regulus also knew that his selfishness got others hurt. He had to stop; he had to be better – and he choked down his soup with a raw throat with nothing but a memory of fleeting happiness to keep him company.
