The night we met| Jegulus

Prologue

"... the knife twists at the thought that I should fall short of the mark ..."

The dim lights of the store illuminated the corridor; the shelves full of records created hypnotic shadows on the walls. Staggering footsteps approached the front of the cosy venue.

"... frightened by the bite, though it's no harsher than the bark ..."

The humming voice was drowned out by the rhythm of the music that sounded from the speakers that hung from the four corners of the store, making the place quite noisy.

"... the middle of adventure, such a perfect place to start ..."

The black combat boots clattered against the ground, but the sound couldn't be appreciated due to the volume of the music. Their owner took slow, cautious steps, trying to keep his balance and not drop the heavy stack of boxes that he carried in his arms.

Finally, the man stopped humming the melody, having reached his destination. He set the heavy stack of boxes on the glass table that served as a counter, and slapped them as if they were a dog or some other animal. "Prongsie, be a dear and keep these behind the counter; the records we ordered just arrived from that vintage shop in South London and I want to take a look at them before we put them up for sale," he said, loud enough so that he could be heard over the sound of music.

The man was probably in his twenties. He had long hair, almost shoulder length, black and wavy. His nose was refined, his jaw sharp. He wore a music band T-shirt, which had the image of two guns surrounded by red roses. His skin was pale and full of tattoos. On one hand he had a letter tattooed on each knuckle, which if you put together, formed the word 'moony'.

He had different designs on his arms; you could see tattoos of constellations, numbers, words, or simple squiggles with no apparent meaning. You could assume that underneath the shirt he probably had more ink designs, on the chest and back, but you couldn't know for sure.

His eyes were grey, bluish grey, as if a part of the ocean was in them, and his lips formed a wide smile, showing all his white and aligned teeth.

The man behind the counter nodded, grabbing the boxes and setting them on the floor at his feet. "They arrived rather quickly," he pointed out. "I was expecting it to take at least three weeks, we should send a thank message to that old lady that was liquidating her store. If you see any Mother Mother records, set them aside for me, okay?"

"As you like."

The man behind the counter winked at the black-haired man as he watched him walk away to continue setting up the store shelves or helping passing customers. He reached out to a stereo to change songs and turned the volume down a bit.

He raised his hand to adjust his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and took the opportunity to messy his hair adorably. He was also in his twenties, tall and broad-shouldered, with messy curly dark brown hair. His hazel eyes reflected the colourful lights of the store behind his rectangular glasses.

He was wearing a red T-shirt with the name of a team from the English Quidditch League. Some clients unfamiliar with magic stopped to ask about the unusual emblem of two cannons forming a cross, to which the man responded by saying that it was the symbol of the local team of his hometown.

He had a single tattoo on his wrist, the drawing of a deer antler, which did not stand out too much on his tanned skin, unlike the other man, whose black ink drawings stood out on his whitish skin.

He was fiddling with a pencil between his fingers, humming the melody to the music under his breath, meanwhile, the man with the tattoos walked through the store, wandering between the shelves.

He sorted records here and there, dusted off record players that hadn't been touched for a long time, and snooped what the customers were looking for in those boxes full of vintage vinyl that cost less than four pounds and that were at the entrance of the store.

He was just about to approach the brass band t-shirt section to rearrange the hangers that some inconsiderate people had left misplaced when he noticed someone calling his name.

"Black!"

He turned gently, coming face to face with a short boy in his early twenties. He had brown hair, with a couple of dyed white strands in his bangs. He was wearing a black turtleneck and white mom jeans; the red beret of his hair made it difficult to distinguish whether it was straight or curly.

His eyes were outlined in black, and on his forearm, thanks to the fact that he had the sleeves of the sweater rolled up to the elbows, you could make out a lot of gold bangles and bracelets from different organizations.

"You are not Regulus," he said, taking a step back when he saw Sirius turn around and was able to analyse his face. "I'm sorry," the boy added, with a deep brummie accent. "I am very sorry; I have mistaken you for my roommate. We had entered the store together, but I think he left without telling me," he ended with a snort. "Sorry for bothering you."

Sirius blinked foolishly for a moment. Before the boy turned completely around, he grabbed his shoulder, and made him stare into his eyes in confusion.

"Did you say Regulus? Are you here with someone named Regulus Black?"

"Yes," the boy replied, scowling at Sirius. "Yes, and you look quite alike, I should add. Well, I'm in a hurry and I want to find my friend, so if you'll excuse me ..."

"Wait!" Sirius exclaimed. "Where is-"

"Hey, I told you, I've mistaken you for my roommate," the boy cut him off, visibly uncomfortable with Sirius's strange attitude. "I'm in a hurry so ..."

He then left the store, not giving Sirius time to add anything else.