In Which Regulus Black Hates Things (As Usual)
Regulus Black had a very simple routine, which he followed with the grim determination of someone deeply committed to judging things in peace. Every Saturday morning at precisely nine o'clock, he walked two blocks from his townhouse to a little café tucked between a florist and a bookstore. He always sat at the same table (back corner, near the radiator, best view of the door in case he needed to leave when someone started chewing too loudly), ordered the same drink (black coffee, one sugar, no milk—he wasn't a child), and read whatever book he’d selected from his ever-growing, stack.
Today’s selection: The Hollow Sea.
A bestseller. A debut. “Bold and original,” said the reviews. “A thrilling new voice,” claimed the back cover.
Regulus was halfway through Chapter Five and already suspicious.
The main character, so far, had spent more time longing than doing anything remotely useful. There were cliffs. There were riddles. There were brooding internal monologues that read like someone had swallowed a thesaurus and a therapy workbook.
Regulus narrowed his eyes at the page. "He felt the ocean’s grief in his bones, the storm echoing the ache he could not name."
“Please,” he muttered. “Name it. It’s probably just anemia.”
“Excuse me?” The stranger nodded towards the book. He was tall, with rumpled hair and gold-rimmed glasses, and looked like he’d walked straight out of a campus romance novel. Probably the kind who wrote poetry on napkins and thought getting arrested at a protest made him interesting. “That one any good?”
Regulus glanced at the cover. “Not really.”
“Oh?”
“It’s a bit… overwritten,” Regulus said, flipping the book closed. “The prose is trying very hard to be profound. The main character is all tortured silence. There’s a magical boat, I think? But it’s taken three chapters to leave the harbor.”
The stranger’s smile wobbled. “Ouch.”
Regulus shrugged. “I like books with actual stakes. And action. This one keeps hinting at things and then burying them in poetic metaphors and fog.”
“You don’t think there’s something kind of beautiful about that?” the stranger asked, sipping his coffee.
Regulus gave him a look. “No. I think it’s a literary disguise for a lack of plot.”
The stranger made a small, choked sound. Possibly laughter. Possibly horror.
“You asked,” Regulus said, calmly returning to his drink.
He didn’t notice the stranger staring at the cover of the book in silent, existential crisis.