King of Swords [ Regulus Black ]

Chapter 3

Three years later
I sit on an uncomfortable stool as the barista brings a cup of coffee to the greasy table. The barista's hair is black and curly, framing her face perfectly. She is beautiful and soft-looking. Still, I shudder when her fingers accidentally graze my hand.

"You come in here almost daily. What's your name?" She asks, placing a hand on her hip and smiling at me.
Her name is Nadia, it says so on her name tag. It is clear to her what I am.

The accusation is nearly true. I do not come in almost every day; more like every day and occasionally twice in a twelve-hour period. It has become an obsession that I am not proud of. I ache to be around them.

"Ana," I lie with a wry grin. I occasionally steal my sister's identity when using my real name seems risky, "yeah.. I can't seem to get my uni work done at home."

Nadia nods toward my open notebook, shifting her stance to get a better look, "what do you study?"

"Bit of everything," I say, "still undecided on my major."

"Perhaps you should consider philosophy."
Nadia traces a finger over my scrawled handwriting, "Find a meaning to life or whatever."

I laugh as she strides back toward the kitchen, "nice to meet you, Ana!"

Summer holidays started a week ago; I don't have any actual uni work to do. Nadia wouldn't know that. Her education was vastly different from mine.
They are all relatively lovely, friendly, unsuspecting of my stares.
Really, they must have anticipated that someone like me would plod in here eventually and thus be very difficult to remove.

I am inside The Wanderer, a small establishment in east London, tucked between a nightclub and a row of rubbish bins. The overhead lights cast their harsh luminescence over the wooden booths. Men in black suits smoke their cigarettes and read yellowed papers. Occasionally, the pictures on the covers move. I do my best not to balk when they do-some things you never get used to.

Those without, as Maslin calls us, frequent the Wanderer as well. However, their stays are typically short and to the point. They grab a coffee from Nadia, pay with their silver pocket change, and hastily split. It's the air in here. Something about it is unwelcoming to people like me. I have habitually ignored those feelings that make me want to leave, and it is worth every moment.

Maslin is overfond of telling me what a dangerous game I am playing. He tosses about words like track you down and, imperio, which mean a great deal to him and very little to me.
I am almost constantly reminded that I am lucky to have come across the Fawleys. Lucky that my sister drove us into a ravine, and his parents were there to help me out.

I know it is a privilege to be half-welcomed into their fold, A surface-level privilege to watch Maslin grow into his magic while I carve out a life the old-fashioned way.
It is not all bad, far from it. My discretion and capabilities have afforded me a luxurious existence. The Fawleys pay my unbelievably high London rent and tuition fees. They take me on the trips they can spare to sneak a muggle on and compensate me for my time.