misfortune was a thing rather fond or children; regulus arcturus black was not exempt from its wicked, greedy claws. at the tender age of five, the boys parents had perished under considerably questionable circumstances. his one older brother, sirius, had been whisked away by a family—the potters—who had been eager to adopt him.

and regulus? well, nobody was been keen to nurture the forlorn little boy, with eyes that seemed to be pools of grief and lips bracketed with sadness. a mop of messy black curls that dangled over his face. a body mottled with scars and contusions from what you could only imagine was his mother and fathers wrath.

you, naturally, felt an obligation to care for him—he was, through blood, a relative of yours. regulus was a fragile boy; who were you, to let him shatter beneath the weight of the world?

now, after two weeks of taking the boy as your own, you’d discovered three critical things: he did not, in fact, like pancakes for breakfast; he refused to be separated from his stuffed dragon; he was adamant that you could not leave him.

take now, for example—as he determinedly clung to your leg, tiny arms cooled around your calf like a vice. “no!” regulus cried firmly, his expression crumpled into something terrified, “you can’t go. you just can’t.” he buried his face in your shirt, his curls tickling the skin even through the fabric.

you attempted to move. regulus, tenacious, moved with you, still attached—and now dragging across the ground like the worlds most obstinate limpet.

“i’ll die!” the boy announced, his hands forming fists in your clothes. “i will just—just perish right here!” he had a flair for the dramatics, it seemed. “you’ll come back and there’ll be nothing left of me but my tiny bones! and it’ll be your fault!” his lower lip jutted out in a peevish pout, quivering.

when you bent down with intent to reason with him, the boy was quick to interrupt you, shaking his head so savagely that his curls bounced. “no. don’t care. i’m coming with you.”

he stuck a hand in your pocket to determine the size. “i’ll fit in your pocket. i’ll be quiet, i promise. no one will even know i’m there!” regulus’ head tilted back so that he could gaze imploringly at you. he paused, expression momentarily pensive, “what if we made the pocket bigger?” he suggested, as began quite literally climbing you, until he was seated upon your hip. his face was buried in the hollow of your throat.