"My lord," Cyril hummed in reply. Theo always preferred this title.
Theo asked, referring to the future they all would be witnessing, "Are you okay with what tomorrow brings? It's like privacy being snatched away, and secrets won't be secrets anymo...
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The atmosphere was both electrifying and seedy. Dimly lit, the space was bathed in a dusky glow that emanated from a few strategically placed, flickering neon signs. The walls were lined with graffiti and faded posters, remnants of past events that had taken place in this clandestine arena. The air hung heavy with the scent of sweat, stale beer, and the faint trace of illicit substances.
The club was a labyrinthine warren of interconnected rooms, each serving a different purpose in this clandestine world. The main area, where the boy stood with his tray of drinks, featured a battered, makeshift ring at its center. On most nights, this was where the illegal fights took place, a brutal display of underground talent that drew in a motley crowd of spectators.
Cyril tensed as he observed the unfolding projection. He was intimately familiar with the place being shown, yet his companions noticed his discomfort and exchanged concerned glances. Cyril responded with a subtle shake of his head, directing his attention back to the projection. The idea of his life story being displayed for others to see made him profoundly uneasy; it was an experience he abhorred.
Nevertheless, he recognized the necessity of it and resolved to endure it without protest.
His companions, on the other hand, exchanged questioning looks. Cyril had never disclosed the details of his life before coming to Hogwarts, and now they felt as if they were prying.
The shouts of the crowd were raucous and unrestrained, blending into a cacophony of excitement and fervor. They egged on the fighters, their voices rising and falling with each punch, kick, or takedown. Money exchanged hands covertly, wagers placed on the outcomes of the brutal matches.
In one corner of the club, a group of regulars occupied a pool table, their laughter mingling with the clatter of billiard balls. The jukebox in the corner blared out rock tunes from an era long gone, its volume competing with the cheers and jeers of the crowd.
Despite the surrounding chaos and clamor, the young boy found himself drifting away into the recesses of his own mind. Before him stood a woman, animatedly recounting the exhilarating escapades she had relished during his absence over the past few days. Her attire left little to the imagination; the low neckline and high hemline drew attention to her figure. Her long legs were accentuated by fishnet stockings that ended in stiletto heels.
A wolf whistle pierced the air.
"I've got to say, I don't know who that fortunate kid is, but that lady is quite the looker," Sirius exclaimed loudly, complete with a wistful sigh.
"Sirius, for Merlin's sake, that's a child," Remus chided, his tone filled with exasperation.
Euphemia, on the brink of losing her patience, retorted, "Sirius, don't push me to whack some sense into that empty head of yours."
He wore old, faded clothes that had seen better days, but they clung to his small frame as if tailored for him. His tattered jeans had holes in the knees, but they managed to keep him warm. An oversized, worn-out jacket draped over his slender shoulders, its sleeves slightly too long, revealing his youth. Despite the ragged attire, he wore it with a certain self-assuredness, as if it were his armor in this gritty world.
