Black Rose [Regulus Black]

11 - wild parties & collapsing boys

Sandra didn't even bat an eyelash as Reg entered her house, partly because she was applying eyeliner so it would be dangerous to do so and because she'd grown accustomed to having him enter whenever he wanted.

"Where are you going?" he asked, watching her do her eyeliner. He remembered a time where Sirius had experimented with their mother's eyeliner and dragged him into it. Of course, there were the shrieks of horror that Mother let out when she saw her children looking like crazed robbers, but it was still a fun time.

"A party my friend told me about," she replied, putting on a pair of earrings.

"You mean a ball?"

"No, silly," she giggled. "It's just a casual outing, people won't be wearing ballgowns and suits."

He couldn't imagine a party where people weren't wearing ballgowns and suits, it was something he'd seen his entire life. As though she'd heard his thoughts, she turned to face him with a sinister smile on her face.

"Say, Reg..." she said slyly.

"Absolutely not."

"Please? You're going to have tons of fun, I'm sure you'll love it."

"Only in your wildest dreams, it's not going to happen."

One hour later, he was dancing with Alessandra as she screamed the lyrics of the song in his ear. Muggle parties were wild things, with no etiquette or decorum. People had no filter (and in some cases, no clothes), and he didn't mind it at all.

"This is fun, isn't it?" she yelled, laughing as he dipped her slightly with a wild grin on his face. He laughed drunkenly, feeling free for the first time in ages. It wasn't like he hadn't ever consumed alcohol before, it just felt a lot more liberating this time seeing as he didn't have a need to remain civilized for the time being. 

Two hours later, he also joined the shirtless part of the club, too busy drinking more vodka to notice her checking him out shamelessly.

The next hour, they were both grinning as they roamed the streets of London hand-in-hand, with Alessandra pointing out certain landmarks and the anecdotes she associated with them.

"And that is a tattoo parlor," she pointed at a place that was crowded even though it was nearly midnight. "I remember when this one girl in my orphanage got a tattoo on her arm, oh, Mrs. Richards lost her head. I'm thankful I didn't go with her when she invited me, I'd have been reduced to ashes by the time Mrs. Richards was done with me."

"Let's get one," he said randomly, his speech slurred.

"Huh?"

"A tah- tahth- whatever those are called."

She giggled. "Tattoos?"

"Yes, those. Let's get them." If he was sober, he wouldn't have dreamt of getting a tattoo in a million years. But, at the moment, he was so drunk that he saw four copies of everything, so getting a tattoo on his skin seemed like a perfectly rational decision.

Why not? Nothing could go wrong with printing something incriminating permanently on your skin for everyone to see and judge. Nothing at all.

"What will you even get?" she asked, completely invested in the idea.

"We'll see," he mumbled, turning to her and watching the way the moonlight bathed her features. "You're pretty."

"Thank you. You're pretty too," she beamed, too far gone to fully comprehend what he'd just said.

"Thank you," he said politely. "Shall we?"

"Yes, we shall," she looped her arm through his and they both strutted into the tattoo shop.