Chapter Text
Original covers by @ancoris_art
LXIX
SPACE INVADERS SCORE
SOB — 195,448
DFL — 153,560
RSB — 130,934
JFP — 127,563
BVC — 120,974
That Saturday in early August 1993 was unusually lively at the arcade in the shopping centre. Not only were parents taking the chance to let their kids run wild on the machines, but there were also rumours swirling that the infamous RSB was about to beat DFL’s record on Space Invaders.
That arcade cabinet was a proper classic—it had been there for over eighteen years and had kept score the entire time. No one had ever managed to beat the name at the very top of the leaderboard, some SOB who’d played religiously between ’79 and ’81 and then vanished without a trace. But everyone knew DFL—Danny, to those in the know—a bloke in his mid-twenties who’d become a bit of a local legend thanks to his band.
Every time the shop’s bell rang, all heads turned towards the entrance, hoping it was RSB. Even Joe, the lad behind the counter selling tokens, was nervous. He couldn’t quite remember who RSB was exactly—loads of people came and went, after all—so he figured he’d just wait for the crowd to make a fuss and help him spot the bloke... or maybe the bird.
Didn’t take long before he showed up. The bell rang for what felt like the thousandth time, and in walked a boy with a skateboard in one hand and a Walkman in the other. Every bit of chatter and laughter in the arcade died instantly, drowned out by the beeping and chimes of the machines. He was accompanied by a girl whose neck was so stacked with silver chains Joe’s eyes started to sting.
RSB slung the skateboard over his shoulder and clipped the Walkman to the waistband of his black jeans as he strolled up to the counter. He had jet-black hair, perfectly messy, with a fringe swept up and shaped by the arch of his headphones. His eyes were a deep grey flecked with blue, his nose lightly dusted with freckles. The faint stubble on his chin betrayed the fact he was still underage.
Even so, he was taller than Joe, and there was something a bit unnerving about being stared down by that lanky lad whose features oozed natural arrogance. He tugged the headphones down around his neck.
"One token for Space Invaders," he muttered, sighing like he was already bored.
"Just one token?" the girl frowned, leaning her elbows on the counter.
"Just one token," he confirmed, the corners of his lips twitching into a smug grin.
"We're selling a minimum of three tokens today..." Joe said, the coins in the till clinking as he opened the drawer.
"Three tokens, then." RSB twisted his mouth in distaste, slipping his hand into his jeans pocket. Joe noticed he was wearing fingerless leather gloves.
"That’ll be sixty pence," Joe said, watching RSB pull out the coins and count them slowly.
"Wouldn’t it be easier to just give him a quid and have him give you forty pence back?" the girl asked, bouncing one leg impatiently. She had a thick accent and was probably foreign.
"What for, if I’ve got exact change?!" He handed the money to Joe. "Want the other two tokens?"
"Get ready to lose at Street Fighter!" the girl snatched up the tokens and shoved them into the pocket of her shorts.
"I'm not planning on playing anything but Space Invaders today, Lua," he muttered, rolling his eyes.
As RSB turned and began his confident stride toward the Space Invaders machine, the sounds of the arcade seemed to dim. All eyes were on him. It was as though he were a bloody celebrity among the crowd of teens, and even a few of the older lads looked on with a hint of respect.
Lua let out a snobbish little laugh, her fingers playing with the chains around her neck as she leaned against the Star Wars pinball machine beside Space Invaders, shooing away the boys who’d been playing there.
RSB stopped in front of the cabinet and tossed a token into the air, catching it with a confident flick. A few girls sighed audibly. He set his skateboard on the floor and ran his index finger along the coin slot before inserting the token. The game fired up, and instantly a crowd began to gather behind him. It was as if nothing else in the arcade mattered—all eyes were locked on the screen in front of him.
As the aliens descended, he manoeuvred with almost instinctive skill. A little tic made him stretch his mouth every time he fired, predicting the invaders’ movements and taking them out column by column with precise, calculated strategy.
The score kept climbing, and the crowd’s excitement grew with every level he cleared. Now and then someone shouted encouragement, and excited whispers rippled through the group each time RSB pulled off a controversial or meticulous technique.
"Want some water?" Lua asked, arms crossed.
RSB, his gaze fixed unblinkingly on the screen, simply shook his head in refusal. The white light from the aliens flashed in his grey eyes, turning them to platinum.
The first hour flew by. No one even noticed another person entering the arcade—a young woman with platinum blonde hair and clothes that looked like they belonged to the last century, which made Joe assume she was in costume or something. She wore sunglasses and craned her neck, scanning the crowd for her mates, weaving her way through until she reached RSB and Lua.
"You're late," he muttered sharply, not even glancing her way.
"I know, sorry, my brother took ages and—"
"You owe me for this one, Mims," RSB cut her off, oblivious to the dirty looks a few of the girls nearby shot her way.
"Come over here and stop bothering him, Mimi," Lua said, slinging an arm around Mimi’s neck and pulling her over to the pinball machine, resting her head on the girl’s shoulder.
The contrast between Lua and Mimi was stark. First, the hair—Lua’s was as black as Mimi’s was white. Then their skin—Lua’s was dark as chocolate, Mimi’s pale as porcelain. One thing they did share was their average height and build.
"Is he close to a hundred?!" Mimi asked quietly, eyes fixed on the screen.
Lua gave a proud little smirk.
"A hundred thousand," she corrected, weaving her fingers through the pale strands of her friend’s hair.
Mimi nodded, arms crossed, one leg bouncing incessantly. She wore a white blouse with a frilly collar and puffed sleeves, making her stand out a fair bit in the arcade—though everyone’s attention was firmly fixed on RSB.
"Yeah, I think I’ll get him some water..." Lua murmured, slipping away from Mimi and heading toward the snack bar to grab a bottle.
RSB was working the joystick and fire button feverishly, completely tuned out from the crowd behind him, moving as if by sheer muscle memory. Mimi let out a long sigh, biting the inside of her cheeks, one hand adjusting her glasses, the other resting against the pinball machine.
"What?" RSB pierced the silence, still staring dead ahead at the game.
Mimi opened and closed her mouth a few times before speaking.
"Did you read The Prophet today?" She tried to keep her voice even, but it was enough to make RSB glance away from the screen for a split second before locking his focus back in place.
"Why the fuck are you wearing sunglasses in an arcade?" he shot back, his jaw tightening, sharp cheekbones flexing with the motion.
"I’ve got a headache," Mimi whispered, pretending to look over at Lua across the room.
RSB didn’t seem to care much about her excuse. Not until the score ticked over to 155,000 and a cheer rippled through the crowd. Lua hadn’t even made it back with the water yet when he shot his hand out like a viper, snatching Mimi’s sunglasses off in a flash.
She flinched, trying to hide the purple bruise blossoming on her eyelid, her eyes wide as she turned her face away in shame. RSB didn’t get the chance to say a word, though, as the crowd immediately surged around him, congratulating him as his score overtook DFL’s, landing him in second place on the all-time leaderboard. He couldn’t have cared less—clearly irritated by the scraps of parchment with phone numbers the girls handed him and the lads slapping his back.
RSB had to push his way through the crowd to finally reach Mimi. He didn’t need to look at her to know she was tearing up, nor did he need to say anything for her to go on the defensive.
"I fell!" she insisted, trying to snatch the sunglasses back from RSB. He was taller, and simply raised his hand, the grey of his eyes sharpening into twin daggers.
"You really think that lie’s going to work on me, Victoria?!" RSB hissed, his voice laced with hurt. "Which one of those little shits did this to you, huh?" He planted his hands on his hips.
"Seriously? I did everything I could to come see you today, and you—"
"Everything?! You showed up late!" RSB cut her off, voice raised and harsh. Victoria narrowed her eyes and took a step back. "Who did it?"
She let out a short, bitter laugh. There was nothing amused about it. The caramel of her eyes burned with rage.
"I knew I shouldn’t have come here..." Victoria spun on her heel, but couldn’t get far—Lua was standing in her way.
"What is it?" she asked, handing the bottle of water to RSB, eyeing her friend as she crossed her arms. "What happened to your eye?"
RSB drank furiously, the plastic bottle crinkling under his grip until it was fully crushed. He tossed it in the bin with more force than was necessary.
"Go on, tell her, Victoria," RSB said, nodding toward Lua, a bitter smirk pulling at his lips.
Victoria rolled her eyes, her mouth twisting in disdain. She snatched the sunglasses from RSB’s hand with a sharp movement, wiping at the corners of her eyes with the back of her hand.
"Mimi..." he murmured, stepping closer with a sigh.
"You know you can talk to us, Mims," Lua said gently, opening her arms for a hug. But Victoria shrank back, shaking her head. "What happened?"
"Nothing, I just fell!" she insisted again, which made RSB exhale sharply in frustration and Lua give a weary smile.
"Why don’t you trust us? We’re your friends!" he snapped, voice cutting through the arcade’s bleeps and bloops. His heart was pounding hard enough to burst, furious.
Victoria slowly straightened her spine, her expression hardening with every breath. Her eyes, once frightened, now flared with fury.
"I knew I shouldn’t have come!" she spat, casting one last scathing look at the two of them before shoving her sunglasses on and storming toward the exit.
"Victoria!" RSB made a move to go after her, but a group of excitable girls blocked his path. "Mimi!"
Lua shrugged, tying her hair up into a ponytail as she shot a look of disdain at the fangirls crowding around RSB, trying to strike up conversation. She shooed them all off before helping him search for Victoria, scanning the second floor of the shopping centre with sharp eyes—but she was already gone.
"Yeah... congratulations," she said, feigning enthusiasm as she gave RSB a shake by the shoulders. "Now all that’s left is to beat that SOB bloke’s record..."
RSB let out a long sigh, his thin lips pressed into a hard line. He ran a hand through his short, black hair, fixing his fringe before staring at his reflection in a shop window. Despite the victory, he felt like a bloody loser. He dropped the skateboard to the ground with a clatter.
"You were a bit out of line back there," Lua said offhandedly, nudging the nose of the board with her foot as she leaned against the mezzanine railing. "Didn’t have to go that far."
"It’s not the first time, Luana." He used her full name like she wasn’t grasping the seriousness of it.
"It’s just... I don’t think it’s easy for her," the girl retorted with the same sharp edge.
"I never said I thought it was. I just... why does she keep lying? It’s obvious that—"
"If it were you in her shoes, would you tell anyone?" Luana cut him off, wetting her full lips.
RSB shook his head, resting one foot on the skateboard and rocking it back and forth.
"I don’t know. I’ve never been through anything like that," he admitted, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans.
"Yeah, exactly." Lua gave a knowing smile, which made RSB shrug dismissively. "Why are you so on edge lately? Never seen you like this... is it because of The Prophet today?"
"What?" RSB felt his cheeks flush as he glanced down toward the lower floor. "No, why are you all asking me that? What’s even in The Prophet?"
"If it’s not the paper, then what’s got you acting like this?" Luana ignored his question, drumming her nails against the iron railing.
"Acting like what?!" RSB snapped, his lips pressed tight, clearly thrown.
Luana stared at him for a long moment, narrowing her eyes as though trying to read something buried between the lines. She shrugged, fiddled idly with the charms on her chains, and exhaled slowly as she watched the shoppers below. RSB clicked his tongue.
"Just say it, Lua," he said, nudging her with his elbow.
"You fancy her, don’t you?!" Luana grinned, all mockery.
"What? No!" RSB’s voice came out higher than usual, and his face flushed crimson. "Where the fuck did you get that from?!"
"By Merlin’s balls, you like her!" She slapped a hand to her mouth in mock shock, then grabbed his shoulder with glee. "Since when?"
"I don’t... I don’t... I don’t fancy her!" RSB stammered, scandalised by the absurdity of the accusation, wriggling free of her grip.
"Since when?" Luana pressed, leaning on the railing with her elbows, amusement dancing across her face.
"Oh, piss off..." he muttered, hopping onto his skateboard and pushing off.
"Running away?!" she called after him, hands on her hips.
RSB didn’t even bother to look back, flipping her the middle finger as he weaved through the shoppers. A security guard immediately started after him, shouting that skateboarding was forbidden inside the shopping centre.
He didn’t so much as flinch, slipping on his headphones and pressing play on the Walkman.
[Song: Rainbow — Do You Close Your Eyes]
"Regulus Black is in loooove!" Luana sang out behind him before bursting into loud, unrestrained laughter.
Mystery to me is something I can't see
But I see you very well
You slinky, cool, nobody's fool
But there's something inside I can tell
Regulus picked up speed, weaving expertly between people and obstacles. His balance was flawless, and the security guards fell farther and farther behind. Some people chuckled, others tutted in disapproval—but Regulus couldn’t care less. A mischievous grin played on his lips as he neared the exit, just as the automatic doors slid open.
I know a poor man, a rich man
I know I can talk to a king
But nobody here is gonna tell me
I can't find out one thing
His eyes locked onto the final obstacle: a long staircase with a perfect rail for a grind. Without slowing, he aligned his board and, with inhuman precision, launched into a smooth grind down the entire length. The manoeuvre was so flawlessly executed it earned a round of applause from onlookers.
As he landed, a wave of muggy heat slapped him across the face. The sun wasn’t just blazing—it seemed hell-bent on scorching everyone alive. He skidded to a halt, adjusted his headphones, and pushed off again.
I see your glow around you
Open your arms
'Cause I'm walking to you, coming straight or through
Maybe I'm wrong but I know it won't take long to see
Regulus propelled himself forward, the skateboard glued to his feet, launching off the curb to cross the empty street, then again to hop onto the opposite pavement. Despite his speed, the suffocating heat clung to him—there was barely any breeze, and what little there was felt like a hairdryer to the face.
His mind was racing. What Luana had said made absolutely no sense—he wasn’t in love with Mimi. She was his childhood best mate, his next-door neighbour. He bloody well knew she fancied Cedric Diggory and even Harry Potter—especially those sodding green eyes of his.
Do you close your eyes
Do you close your eyes
Do you close your eyes
When you're making love? Yeah, yeah
Making sweet love to me, yeah
Not that Regulus was jealous, of course. He clearly didn’t feel that burning twist in his chest or that sudden dampness in his palms every time she mentioned the boys she fancied. Nor did he make a habit of booting over the second-years’ gobstones game whenever he left the clock tower courtyard after one of her rambling crush rants.
Mimi was his best friend—just like Luana. It was completely normal for him to like her. But that was it… liking her. As a mate.
Right?
The logical trend is that I'll know in the end
The things that make you smile
To right from the start, I'll take an aim at your heart
And know that all the while
He sighed, bending his knees as he approached a park bench, prepping for a flashier trick. With a precise push, he launched himself into a perfect kickflip, the board spinning cleanly beneath him before he landed it smoothly and continued gliding forward without missing a beat.
I know a rich man, a poor man
I know I can talk to a king, yeah
So nobody here is gonna make me believe
I can't find out one thing
The music in his ears was pure fuel, and he was especially obsessed with Rainbow. According to his Uncle Remus, he’d been listening to them since he was in nappies and never stopped. He had all their tapes—including a super rare release he’d inherited from his parents.
I see your glow around you
Open your arms
'Cause I'm coming, running, straight or through
I could be wrong but I know it won't take long to see
London summers had always been hot, but today was downright hellish. Regulus felt the sweat trickling down behind his ears and along his neck, already regretting the jeans. Should’ve gone out in shorts—but he always chose style over comfort. He cruised around a fountain full of playing children and continued until he reached a crossing, where he picked up his skateboard and waited for the light to change.
His Uncle Remus didn’t live far from the shopping centre. Technically, the house was Regulus’s too, though he still stayed with his aunt and uncle in a place further out from central London. Remus’s home, on the other hand, was much more central—bit of a gem, really.
Do you close your eyes
Do you close your eyes
Do you close your eyes
When you're making love?
It didn’t take long for him to reach the place. He came to a stop, grabbing his board as he jogged up the front steps. Panting, the sun roasting the back of his neck, he rang the bell a few times. Then he pulled the headphones down around his neck and paused the tape just before Stargazer could kick in.
"Uncle?!" he called, trying to peer through the glass of the front door—but he couldn’t see a thing.
He looked both ways down the street, crouched down, retrieved the key from beneath the wisteria pot, and let himself in without ceremony. He stomped his trainers on the doormat and crossed the foyer, greeted by the refreshing cool air inside.
Regulus left the skateboard in a corner and craned his neck towards the kitchen, only to find it empty. He downed a good amount of cold water before walking into the living room, letting his sweaty fingers brush across the black cover draped over the grand piano. His eyes scanned the mantelpiece, the trio of sofas arranged around the telly, and the corridor that led to the bedrooms.
"Uncle?!" he called out again.
No response. He was alone.
Regulus trailed his dirty fingers along the bedroom doors, pushing open the last one gingerly: a dusty, long-abandoned studio. Some equipment still remained—the drum toms and a couple of synths set further back. A broken amp sat next to a shattered frame holding the cover of Toto’s first album, and in one corner lay a worn-out, grimy kitten plushie.
He closed the door, checking the clock. Nearly four in the afternoon. Remus should’ve been back by now. Regulus took a deep breath and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand. Growing impatient, he took a few steps back and opened the door to another room—one with a large double bed strewn with clothes.
It had been left like that for twelve years, and it always struck Regulus how nothing ever changed. The dragon-hide leather jacket still lay gleaming and untouched atop the blanket, the aviator sunglasses beside it. His eyes drifted to the dresser in the corner, where a handful of magical photographs moved in slow, eerie loops.
Regulus sighed, stepped into the bathroom, and splashed water on his face. He stared at his reflection in the mirror—at the freckles across his nose, the grey-blue of his eyes, and the mess of sweat-damp hair from skating. His cheeks were flushed, definitely sunburnt from the harsh exposure on the way over.
He dried his face, opened the cabinet drawer, and found a cream that had expired years ago. Cracking it open, a soft vanilla scent hit his nose, making him smile faintly before tucking it back away. He really should’ve just left the room and not touched anything—his uncle had always asked him not to.
But Remus wasn’t home.
Regulus stripped off and stepped into the shower, letting the cold water wash the sweat from his skin. He skimmed through the dozens of magical cosmetics lined up on the shelves, eventually reaching for one that looked bizarre and smelled even worse. He gave up on the lot when he realised most were long past their expiry date—after all, when was the last time anyone had used them?
Twelve years?!
He stepped out of the shower and soaked the entire bathroom while fumbling around for a towel, eventually wrapping himself in one. Opening the drawers, he found a faded David Bowie T-shirt and pulled it on, along with a pair of chain-covered jeans that fit him perfectly—as if they’d been made for him, though they clearly weren’t. He grabbed his watch from the pocket of his old jeans and slipped it into the new pair.
Regulus left his hair wet, brushing the fringe to the side in that way that always made the fourth-year girls sigh. Did Mimi like his hair like this? He rolled his eyes at the thought, scooping up his sweaty clothes and shoving them into a plastic bag before sprawling himself across his uncle’s sofa.
He reached an arm toward the coffee table, trying to grab the telly remote. But a copy of The Daily Prophet lay in the way, and he couldn’t help but freeze as his eyes landed on the enormous photo splashed across the front page: a gaunt-faced man with long, tangled hair blinked slowly at Regulus.
BLACK ESCAPES!
Sirius Black, possibly the most infamous prisoner ever to be held in Azkaban fortress, has escaped. The information was confirmed today by the Ministry of Magic. “We are doing all we can to recapture Black,” said the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, this morning, “and we beg the magical community to remain calm.” Fudge has been criticized by some members of the International Federation of Warlocks for informing the Muggle Prime Minister of the crisis.
“Well, really, I had to, don’t you know,” said an irritable Fudge. “Black is mad. He’s a danger to anyone who crosses him, magic or Muggle. I have the Prime Minister’s assurance that he will not breathe a word of Black’s true identity to anyone. And let’s face it — who’d believe him if he did?” While Muggles have been told that Black is carrying a gun (a kind of metal wand that Muggles use to kill each other), the magical community lives in fear of a massacre like that of twelve years ago, when Black murdered thirteen people with a single curse.
It became hard to swallow when Sirius's eyes—fierce even in print—seemed to pierce straight through him. Regulus gasped, as if he’d just finished a long run, and turned his face away sharply. His heart pounded painfully in his chest. Soft, distant memories echoed in his mind, sending shivers racing across his skin.
He didn’t realise he was crying. Didn’t notice the breath catching in his throat or how the air seemed to vanish from the room. He stood, his muscles stiff with tension. His gaze immediately shot toward the small cord that dangled from the ceiling—leading to the attic.
His fingers tingled. His pulse faltered. He looked toward the front door, then back to the hallway, the battle inside him raging violently.
Then he gave in to the impulse.
He crossed the hallway and tugged the cord, unfolding the ladder with a dull creak.
The one place he was strictly forbidden to go. The attic.
Regulus had never been the type to break family rules—though doing it at Hogwarts was bloody brilliant fun. He gripped the ladder with both hands, eyes lingering for a moment on the Signet etched onto his left hand. A hereditary mark, almost like a tattoo: two serpents intertwining into the shape of an infinity symbol, each biting the other’s tail in a circle.
He climbed up and was immediately hit by the sharp scent of dust. Drawing his wand from his pocket, he whispered, "Lumos," and light illuminated the triangular space, full of cobwebs and mystery. Boxes were stacked everywhere—some labelled, others not. Regulus grimaced and crawled over to the nearest one, where Scarlett was scrawled in bold letters on a strip of tape.
He opened the box, sneezing as the pungent stench of mildew wafted up. Hundreds of vinyl records were packed inside, along with all sorts of random trinkets. He thumbed through a stack of what looked like polaroids, flipping the top one over.
It showed a woman with black hair and striking blue eyes, laughing as she hugged an enormous black dog. It was a magical photo, and as the dog licked her face, she pulled away with a comical grimace. Regulus found himself smiling in spite of everything, gently brushing his fingers over her face. His heartbeat slowed, the anger melting into something else—something quieter, older. Nostalgia, though he couldn’t place the memory.
He just knew it felt good.
Because now he was crying again—but for a completely different reason.
He turned the photo over. A messy scrawl read:
Scarlett and Padfoot, summer of '78.
Regulus traced a finger over Scarlett’s name and slid the photo into his pocket.
Then he picked up the next one.
Scarlett was being held in the arms of a tall, bearded man with shoulder-length black hair and tattoos covering his arms and chest. The wind blew through his hair, and he wore the very same aviator sunglasses Regulus had seen on the bed earlier. The man leaned down to kiss Scarlett with the kind of passion that made her arms tighten around his neck, her legs stretching with the contact. They were on a beach. They were smiling. The photo repeated the kiss in an endless loop.
Regulus choked on his own spit, as if he'd just taken a punch to the gut. His fingers clenched the edge of the photograph so tightly his knuckles turned white. He flipped it over.
Scarius, summer of '78, Brighton.
Suddenly, the attic felt too hot, too tight, too full. Regulus shot up, cracking his head against the sloped ceiling with a loud thud. Dust rained into his eyes and he winced, shaking his head as he scrambled backwards, patting the floor blindly until he found the stairs. He clambered down, gasping for breath, brushing the grime off his clothes in jerky, frantic motions.
He needed another shower.
Regulus sneezed, coughed, and darted back to the bathroom, splashing water over his face again. He hadn’t even realised he was still holding the photos. When he looked up, he saw one of them in the mirror, lying on the counter.
The sound of the front door opening made his heart thump louder than it already was, his emotions colliding in a chaotic blur. Regulus grabbed the polaroids and made his way slowly toward the living room, his mind a furnace of wild thoughts.
"Reg? You're home already?!" Remus’s voice carried in from the kitchen as he set down a bunch of shopping bags. He entered the living room with a smile on his face. "How was the arcade?"
Regulus’s reply was to hurl the photograph onto the copy of the Daily Prophet with Sirius Black’s face staring up from the front page.
Remus’s smile vanished instantly. The colour drained from his face, and his dark eyes widened slightly as he stepped closer, gaze flicking between the photo and the paper.
"They loved each other!" Regulus let the fury pour out, his voice cracking under the weight of emotion. "All these years—you lied to me!"
"You went up into the attic?!" Remus’s tone was accusatory, his eyes darting toward the hallway. His expression faltered when he saw the ladder still extended.
"Don’t you dare try to change the subject!" Regulus roared, rage washing over him in a blinding wave, breaking through the layers of self-control and dragging more tears to the surface. "Why did you lie to me?!"
"I didn’t—" Remus drew in a very deep breath, then another. He pressed his fingers hard against his temples. "Regulus… can we maybe not do this today? The moon—"
"Oh, for Merlin’s sake, you’ve lied to me my whole life and now you want to wait for the bloody lunar phase before you decide to tell me the truth?!" Regulus snapped, his voice ragged as he gestured wildly, barely keeping himself together.
"Reg, please… I…" Remus let out all the air in his lungs, scratching at the grey in his beard. "I was hired. I’m going to be your professor…"
"She died. And still… still you don’t want to talk about her. Uncle Orfy won’t talk about her. Nate won’t talk about her. But I want to—I deserve to!" Regulus rubbed at his eyes, trying to stop the tears from stinging. "Why?!"
"Reg…"
"It can’t be that the only thing she ever was… was a Death Eater!" Regulus pressed on, sniffling. "Why didn’t you tell me the truth? What happened between them?"
"Reg… Scarlett and Sirius, they…" Remus’s bottom lip trembled. He was putting up a herculean effort not to cry himself, running his finger over the scars on his face as he tried to explain something he barely understood himself.
Regulus waited. Remus didn’t continue. He just exhaled shakily and buried his face in his hands.
"You went into his room," Remus murmured at last, after a long silence, not daring to meet his gaze.
Regulus let out a bitter laugh, shoving the photo back into his pocket before jabbing a finger toward his uncle’s face.
"You’re unbelievable, Lupin!" he spat, then stormed over to his skateboard. He snatched it up in anger, grabbed his bag of clothes, and looked at Remus one last time. "I thought…" he gasped for air, feeling like he couldn’t breathe, "I thought you, of all people, would tell me the truth. You were their friend, Uncle. I… I remember him. I was young, but I remember him. He used to sing to me, that’s why I love Rainbow so much, because he…"
"Regulus… he betrayed us. They both did. The McKinnons, the Potters—"
"For Merlin’s sake, can’t you see past that?!" Regulus screamed, the tears scorching hot down his cheeks. "You know what? Go fuck yourself!" he hissed, plunging his hand into the Floo powder on the hearth.
"Regulus!" his uncle cried out—less of a scolding and more of a plea.
But Regulus didn’t stay to hear whatever else Remus had to say. Not like he was going to tell him the truth anyway. He stepped into the fireplace, letting the emerald flames swallow him whole, and emerged in his own house—nearly colliding with his Uncle Orfeu, who was reading the paper in his armchair.
"Reg?" Orfeu folded the paper shut at once, as though terrified his nephew might see the headline. "You’re back already? I thought you were having dinner with Remus—"
"No… I’m not having dinner with him," Regulus muttered bitterly, dropping his skateboard to the floor and kicking off, rolling slowly towards his room.
"Hey, what did we say about skating indoors?!" Orfeu shouted, but was promptly ignored. "Regulus Sirius Black!" he called out, more sharply.
"Leave me alone!" Regulus bellowed, hurling his clothes into the laundry basket with force. He grabbed his gloves and pulled them on, shooting a sideways glance at the door just as his uncle opened it.
"What happened, Reggie?!" Orfeu leaned on the doorframe, his face knotted with worry, dark brown hair tied back in a loose, half-done ponytail. "Is it about the paper? About… Sirius?"
Regulus swiped his arm across his face, wanting nothing more than to dig his nails into his cheeks and tear the flesh away until this burning ache in his chest disappeared. He looked at Orfeu, trying—failing—to hide what he was feeling.
He pulled the photo from his pocket and held it up.
Orfeu went pale. His green eyes darted instantly to the ceiling, and he recoiled.
"That wasn’t her, Reg," he said, barely above a whisper, but the grief in his voice hit Regulus like a punch to the chest.
"They loved each other."
"Scarlett loved Regulus," he corrected quickly, his voice vibrating with dread. "Not Sirius."
"They looked happy in this photo."
"Oh, Reg, she was good at pretending. She could make you believe anything. She was manipulative… she was…" Orfeu’s fingers slid up the sleeve of his long shirt, brushing against the burn scars that laced his arm. "It was her fault. She wasn’t a good person. The only good thing she ever did… was you."
Regulus shook his head slowly.
"I don’t believe you. You lied to me, just like Remus. Who’s to say you’re not lying now too?!" he spat, shoving past his uncle and storming out of the room. "You, Nate, Remus… three bloody liars!"
"Reggie…" Orfeu murmured, eyes squeezing shut as the boy slammed the front door behind him.
Regulus bounded down the steps outside his home, then sank down onto the concrete ledge at the front. He hugged his legs to his chest and rested his chin on his knees, rewinding his Rainbow tape, trying to drown out Orfeu’s words, repeating to himself over and over that it was all lies.
He needed it to be lies. His mother couldn’t be a monster—not when everyone already said she was. Not when the Slytherin bastards congratulated him for being the son of Death Eaters, for the murder of the McKinnons, for the murder of the Potters…
He wiped away the last of his tears as the sun dipped between the rooftops, sinking into the horizon and casting skeletal shadows across the pavement. His head ached, his eyes burned, and his chest smoked like it might burst. He pulled the photo from his pocket again, gently rubbing a thumb over Scarlett’s face.
The urge to cry rose once more.
He swallowed hard as a cluster of white-haired heads came into view, quickly trying to wipe away the evidence of tears before Victoria climbed the steps beside her brothers: Vinny, the eldest; Vin, the middle one; and Victoria’s twin, Victor. All of them were Slytherins, like Regulus. He’d known them his entire life, though he never cared much for the older two.
"Alright, Reg?" Vinny gave a smug little smirk. Regulus eyed his knuckles, searching for something that might incriminate him.
"Hey, Vinny," Regulus replied casually, greeting him with a quick slap of hands. Vin came next—nothing on him either.
Victor gave a small nod, and Victoria lingered, watching the trio head through the door right next to Regulus’s—their houses were semi-detached.
"What happened?" she asked, her tone laced with concern as she touched his shoulder lightly. Regulus stared at her slender fingers and long nails before raising his gaze to her face—the face that made his heart splinter into a thousand tiny pieces. And to the bruise that turned his chest to molten stone.
Victoria had the kind of beauty pure-blood families prized: refined brows, a sharp nose, a delicate chin, lips shaped like a heart—velvety and red, inviting. Regulus swallowed thickly, feeling foolish.
"Nothing," he lied, looking away toward the empty street.
"You read The Prophet," she guessed, leaning on the ledge in front of him. "Look, Reg… if you want—"
"I'm fine," Regulus cut her off, pretending to be far too interested in fiddling with his Walkman to look at her. "Just needed some air."
"I thought you were having dinner with your uncle Lupin," she went on. The streetlamps flickered on, casting long shadows across her face, turning her eyes to deep brown.
"I was." It was all he said.
Victoria’s fingers slipped from his shoulder, trailing down to his knee, gently guiding his face toward hers by the chin.
"Reg…"
"Are you going to tell me the truth?" Regulus didn’t even try to hide the bitterness in his voice.
Victoria sighed, licked her lips, and gave him two soft pats on the shoulder.
"You know I can’t," she murmured, glancing nervously toward the door of her house. "Either way…"
"Just go, Victoria. Leave me alone," Regulus snapped. He regretted it immediately. All he really wanted was for her to stay. But if she wasn’t going to tell him the truth, then he wouldn’t give her his either. Not even she could fill the gaping hole in his chest—a feeling that had haunted him since he was a child. It wouldn’t change now, not just because Sirius was on the run.
She twisted her lips in annoyance and slipped into her house. Regulus gave himself a couple of light slaps to the face, feeling like a complete idiot.
If it were Harry Potter, she would’ve told him!
A strange chill crept down the back of his neck, giving him the unmistakable feeling of being watched. But when he glanced both ways down the street, there was no one. Somewhere in the distance, a bin clattered to the ground and a few dogs barked, but nothing seemed out of place. He shook off the feeling and returned to his own personal mess, pulling his silver watch from his pocket and clenching it in his palm until it hurt.
It pissed him off how often he was compared to Harry Potter. He’d never even spoken to the bloke, but of course they’d both ended up at the centre of gossip when the Chamber of Secrets had been opened the year before. And again—Harry, the son of celebrated wizards who’d died fighting Voldemort. And Regulus?
He was the son of two Death Eaters.
And yet, he and Harry had more in common than people liked to admit. Regulus had grown up with his uncles too. He’d been the target of cruel whispers, even accused of being the Heir of Slytherin. He hated how quick people were to believe he was dangerous just because of his bloodline.
He pulled the photo from his pocket and opened his watch. Inside was the old family portrait—his mother sitting stiffly in a chair, dressed in Victorian-style robes, her face set in a mournful scowl as if attending a funeral. His father stood behind her, one hand on her shoulder, equally stern. Like it was all just a formality.
He turned his eyes to the photo from the attic, where his mother looked so genuinely happy it made his chest twist. He exhaled slowly, fingers brushing across her smiling face, the sorrow hitting him like a punch to the gut.
Regulus and Harry also shared one more thing in common: A godfather.
The fugitive, the murderer, the madman Sirius Black.
.
.
.
He was so, so, so tiny. His feet were barely the size of Sirius’s thumb, his little hands clinging desperately to his fingers as though searching for something— someone —to hold onto. Sirius gasped, adjusting the collar of his T-shirt like it was choking him, though it was the vertigo, the overwhelming sensation crashing over him, that made it hard to breathe.
“S-S-Sirius… Regulus…” Scarlett stammered, her bloodied fingertips clinging to his elbow. “Regulus… Sirius…” she repeated, pupils blown wide. “Black.”
Sirius’s stomach churned as he was ushered out of the surgery room by the healers, heart hammering in his chest with something so small and fragile cradled against it. He looked down at the black tuft of hair crowning baby Reggie’s head, at the little mouth that puckered and blew bubbles, then stretched into a wild, messy smile.
He had never wanted anything more in his life than for a child to be his.
Still reeling from what had just happened, his clothes soaked in Scarlett’s blood, his body trembling with the crash of adrenaline, Sirius could hardly process it all.
“Regulus Sirius, huh?” he murmured to the tiny baby, as if he could understand. Reggie reached up with his tiny arms, grabbing a handful of Sirius’s hair and tugging it gently. Just like his mother, Reg had a Signet on his left hand. “You like my hair?”
A single teardrop fell onto Regulus’s cheek, and Sirius quickly wiped it away. He hadn’t even noticed his own eyes brimming—tears washing away the fury, the bitterness, everything he’d felt until now, drowned by something as pure as a newborn’s breath.
“Are you the father?” one of the nurses asked, clipboard in hand, quill poised mid-air as she eyed him.
He had never wanted to say yes to anything more.
His jaw clenched. He licked his lips.
“Uncle,” he corrected her, forcing the word out like it tasted wrong.
“Oh,” she said, raising her brows as she flipped through a few pages on the clipboard. “Sirius Orion Black?”
“That’s right.” He heard a small grunt from baby Reggie and glanced down with concern—but the baby had already fallen asleep in his arms, breathing softly.
“You’re listed as the child’s godfather,” the nurse noted, handing him the quill. “According to your brother’s will.”
“What?” The floor seemed to tilt under him. His knees went weak. “Godfather?”
“That’s correct. Has the mother chosen the name?”
“Regulus Sirius Black,” Sirius answered, the words tumbling from his mouth before he could stop them—too dazed to do anything else but stand there, holding the child like his own world was unraveling.
He looked down at Reggie again, his chest churning with a hundred contradictory emotions. He should hate this child. He should’ve walked away, refused to help Scarlett, run from the war and all of it. Regulus Sirius was the living proof of betrayal—Scarlett’s betrayal, and his brother’s.
Scarlett, ever cruel, had named the boy after him.
So why, then, was every instinct in Sirius screaming to protect this baby? Even from himself?
He was so… delicate. Defenceless. He had Scarlett’s nose.
Something foul and burning twisted in his gut. Bile clawed at his throat.
He had never envied his brother more than he did in that moment.
Sirius had never wished so desperately that the child were his.
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