Needles

Regulus Black wasn’t the type to rush into things. He liked control, precision, and careful consideration, which was why, when Barty Crouch Jr. had asked him to tattoo him during their seventh year, Regulus had flat-out refused. Tattoos weren’t just about art; they were permanent, they required responsibility, and most importantly, they needed to mean something.

Barty, of course, wasn’t the type to take no for an answer. He’d leaned in with his trademark cocky grin. “Come on, Reg,” he had urged one afternoon in the library, flipping through a muggle tattoo magazine. “You’re the best at drawing. Why waste all that talent on paper when you could make it permanent?”

Regulus had frowned, not out of modesty, but because Barty’s request sounded too casual. Tattoos weren’t something you threw out there just for the fun of it.

“It’s not that simple, Barty,” Regulus had said, his voice flat. “Tattoos are permanent. It’s a commitment. You don’t just—”

But Barty had been persistent, shifting closer, looking at him with that usual confidence that made it hard for Regulus to say no for long. “What about something simple? You’ve got the skill. How about a snake or something symbolic?”

Regulus had paused, his fingers stilling on the edge of the book he was pretending to read. A snake was simple enough—elegant even, and fit Barty perfectly—but the idea of using his art on someone who wasn’t completely serious about it nagged at him. Yet there was something in Barty’s gaze that shifted the weight of his thoughts, as if he knew something Regulus didn’t—or something Regulus hadn’t figured out about himself.

The following night, Regulus found himself sitting at his desk, staring at the blinking cursor on his laptop. He was in his room at the Black house, the walls closing in with their familiar, oppressive air, when a thought crossed his mind. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Maybe it was time for something new—time to test his limits.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Regulus quickly ordered a tattoo gun online. It wasn’t a top-of-the-line model, but it would be good enough for a first try. He pushed back the unease gnawing at his stomach, telling himself that it was just for practice, just a way to see if he could pull it off. No harm in that, right?

Two days later, the gun arrived, and Regulus wasted no time. He set up in his room, turning the lights low and closing the door to block out his family. First, he practiced on fruit—an apple, a pear, anything he could puncture and ink with relative ease. Then he moved to synthetic skin, a material that mimicked real skin enough to get a feel for it. His drawings were meticulous, each stroke calculated and precise, but this felt different. This wasn’t just about making something look good; this was about creating on a whole new level. It was deeper, more personal.

After a week of quiet practice, Regulus felt ready. He had even decided on a small design for Barty—a pair of intertwined initials on his wrist, simple and clean, but enough to show that he was capable of more than just basic doodles.

Barty, as usual, had been thrilled when Regulus finally agreed. “Finally, man. I knew you’d come around. It’ll be great. Simple but meaningful,” he said, flashing that cheeky smile that always made Regulus want to roll his eyes.

The basement of the Black house had never felt more like an underground lair than it did that day. Regulus had set everything up, the tattoo gun resting in his hand like a foreign object he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to hold, but couldn’t put down. The lighting was dim, the atmosphere almost suffocating, and yet he felt oddly calm. It was an odd mix of anticipation and focus. This wasn’t just a tattoo—this was his art, his skill, and, in some small way, it felt like a step into the future.

Barty had already rolled up his sleeve, offering his wrist eagerly. “I trust you, Reg,” he said with that familiar, cocky grin.

Regulus nodded silently, getting to work. The humming sound of the tattoo gun filled the space between them, and with each press of the needle, the tension in his body slowly unwound. This was different. He didn’t know what it was yet, but there was something strangely intimate about it, something more than just the act of creating a design. He was marking Barty, changing him permanently in a way that only a select few could understand.

When it was done, Regulus wiped away the excess ink, stepping back to examine the work. The design was neat, well-executed, and exactly what he’d intended. It was more than a snake, more than just a simple design. There was an understated beauty in its simplicity.

“Not bad, huh?” Barty said, his voice light, inspecting the tattoo as if it were no more important than a passing trend.

Regulus didn’t reply immediately. He just packed up his equipment, still caught up in the strange feeling that lingered in the pit of his stomach. There was satisfaction in it, yes, but there was also something else. Something that made him realize that tattoos weren’t just about creating art—they were about connection. A deep, almost unexplainable bond formed between the artist and the canvas.

By the time graduation came, Regulus was more certain of himself than ever before. He had been thinking about opening his own tattoo and piercing shop for a while, and now the idea seemed more real than ever. He and Pandora Lovegood had talked about it frequently—about taking their shared love for art and turning it into something tangible.

Pandora would mostly handle the business side of things, and Regulus would focus on the tattooing. Together, they could create something unique. It would be small at first, but it was a start.

As graduation neared, Regulus posted an ad for a piercer. He wasn’t sure what he expected—someone skilled, professional, and experienced—but he had a feeling that the right person was out there. A person who could join them, someone who could bring something different to the table.

He wasn’t sure who exactly it would be, but he had a feeling he would know when the right person responded.