The Triumph Bonneville's roar cut through the London night. Regulus Black twisted the throttle as tears of anger mixed with rain on his face. Sirius's words still echoed in his head: "You're throwing away a full scholarship?! All for some stupid drawings!"
Maybe Sirius was right, maybe turning down the sports scholarship was insane. After all, lacrosse had given him purpose when he needed it most, an escape from that house where their parents' screams made the walls shake. But every time he held a brush, when his charcoal-stained fingers brought a new sketch to life, Regulus felt like he was finally finding his true self.
The motorcycle—Sirius's precious bike—purred beneath him, and for the first time in ages, he felt free. Waterloo Bridge loomed ahead, its lights reflecting on the Thames like liquid stars. Regulus barely registered the approaching headlights until it was too late. The screech of brakes. A choked cry. The impact.
Then nothing.
---
"Hey, Black! Ready for practice?"
Regulus blinked, confused. James Potter, with his trademark messy hair and round glasses, was smiling at him from his Range Rover. As lacrosse team captain, James had always been kind to him, though they'd never been particularly close.
"I... yeah, sure," Regulus mumbled, vaguely aware that something wasn't right.
"New ride?" James asked, admiring the Bonneville. "Suits you. See you on the field then."
Regulus nodded, feeling an odd heaviness in his chest as he watched the SUV drive away.
---
The apartment was exactly as he'd left it: his sketches scattered across the table, the art portfolio open on the couch, Sirius's jacket thrown over a chair.
"Sirius!" Regulus called out. "I'm back! Look, about earlier..."
But Sirius walked right past him without looking, phone pressed to his ear, remote control in his other hand. On TV, a reporter stood in front of Waterloo Bridge.
"...the motorcycle was discovered early this morning by a local fisherman. The young rider, identified as seventeen-year-old Regulus Black, was rushed to St. Thomas' Hospital in critical condition..."
The remote slipped from Sirius's hand. "What...? No, that's impossible. Reg is in his room, I..."
That's when Regulus understood. The headlights. The impact. The river.
He hadn't survived the crash.
---
St. Thomas' Hospital was a maze of white corridors and antiseptic smells. Regulus floated—literally—behind his brother as he ran toward the ICU. In the waiting room, a familiar figure stopped dead in his tracks.
James Potter, who had rushed over after seeing the news, stood frozen. His eyes darted between the corridor where Sirius had just disappeared and Regulus's translucent form.
"You can see me?" Regulus whispered, incredulous.
James nodded slowly, color draining from his face. "But... this morning, on the bridge..."
"Wasn't real," Regulus replied softly. "None of it is anymore."
In room 394, Regulus Black's body lay connected to machines that marked the rhythm of a life refusing to end. Next to the bed, Sirius held a sketchbook recovered from the bike, its pages filled with dreams now hanging by a thread as fragile as the cardiac monitor's beep.
And in the limbo between life and death, his spirit watched, trapped between the brother who couldn't see him and the lacrosse captain who, for some twist of fate, could. In a corner of the room, an unfinished sketch showed Waterloo Bridge in the rain, lights reflecting on the water like liquid stars.
[End]