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No, I want someone to tell me what to wear every morning. I want someone to tell me what to eat. What to like. What to hate. What to rage about. What to listen to. What band to like. What to buy tickets for. What to joke about. What not to joke about. I want someone to tell me what to believe in. Who to vote for and who to love and how to... tell them. I just think I want someone to tell me how to live my life, Father, because so far, I think I've been getting it wrong. And I know that's why people want someone like you in their lives, because you just tell them how to do it. You just tell them what to do and what they'll get out of the end of it, even though I don't believe your bullshit and I know that scientifically nothing that I do makes a difference in the end, anyway, I'm still scared. Why am I still scared? So just tell me what to do. Just tell me what to fucking do, Father. Fleabag / 2019
INT. 12 GRIMMAULD PLACE — NIGHT
Sirius Black sits in his little brother's room, a cigarette clutched between his lips, as he places the plain black disc with a few cat-scratches into the golden gramophone. He pushes the needle down and the disc begins to spin.
REGULUS (ON GRAMOPHONE) The date today is—
The gramophone hisses, crackling with the sounds of the past.
REGULUS Erm, twenty-fifth June 1972 and I am Regulus Black.
SERAPHINA (ON GRAMOPHONE) And I am Seraphina von Stein, and we are taking Regulus to the treehouse [CHUCKLES] to celebrate his eleventh birthday.
REGULUS And we are celebrating Seraphina's birthday, too.
SERAPHINA That was two days ago!
Sirius leans back in the old armchair, exhaling smoke as he listens to the recording. The room around him is dimly lit, filled with the dregs of Regulus's childhood: a set of meticulously arranged quills and ink bottles sat on the desk by the window. A stack of well-worn textbooks rested on a nearby shelf. The soft glow of an enchanted dragon-shaped nightlight cast flickering shadows on the walls. A collection of polished stones and tiny vials of potions cluttered the top of a dresser. A small, dusty broomstick leaned against the wall, well-worn from his Quidditch co-captain days. Framed family photographs adorned the walls, capturing moments of forced smiles. On the bedside table, a well-thumbed copy of The Tales of Beedle the Bard lay next to a silver-framed picture of the two brothers in happier times. The air was tinged with the faint scent of old parchment and cologne, echoing his little brother's presence.
