New beginnings
Regulus wakes up in the middle of the night because of the constant vibration of his phone,
5:30am
his display shows, he quickly realizes that the vibration was due to none other than his nosy brother who’s been nagging him for days to check his new practice plan for the upcoming season. Regulus cannot be bothered, he really doesn’t care who’s going to be his coach as long as he’s not Incompetent. He sits up in bed and unlocks his phone, typing a quick message.
I’ll check in the morning.
He thinks for a second before adding.
stop texting me.
Now, Regulus and Sirius have never been the typical brothers. They aren’t close to one another and they’re surely not friends, yet they have a deep and incredibly strong connection to each other that was mainly shaped through their shared time growing up in their Parents’ house. Sirius and Regulus both started playing Tennis at only 4 years old, while Sirius didn’t really think anything of playing, saw it sort of like a hobby, it was Regulus’ flesh and blood.
Regulus always thought that Tennis is the sport he can be best at, where he can play his way. He’s been determined since eight years old to never lose a match again, and so far, he hasn’t.
Regulus puts his phone on airplane mode and falls back against the covers, hoping for at least another 3 hours of sleep.
The next time regulus wakes up, theres a stream of light shining into his room. He sits up and stretches, he’s excited to finally be able to play on sand courts again rather than the indoor Tennis courts.
Regulus goes through his usual morning routine and then packs his Tennis bag, he needs to restring his racket soon because his current strings have started to get softer which ultimately means that soon enough they’ll snap.
He checks the time and then heads out.
On his way to the Tennis club which happens to be the same one Barty and Evan, his best friends play at, he decides to check his new practice plan.
Practice plan: upcoming season (April-September): Regulus A. Black (19)
Mondays: 9-12:30am, 2-4pm and 8-9pm
Tuesdays: 12am-3pm, 7-8:30pm
Wednesdays: 9:30am-11am and 5-7pm
Thursdays: off day (courts still available if interested)
Fridays: 10-12am, 3-5pm and 9-10pm
Saturdays: free practice day
Sundays: off day
Well that was a plan Regulus could work with, he was certainly intrigued now who his coach might be.
He pulls up to the Tennis club and gets out the car to grab his Backpack and heads straight to the courts. On his way he sees Dorcas— a fellow club member who he gets along with, warming up.
“Morning Reggie!” She greets him as he passes by.
”Good Morning!” He answers politely, walking into the clubhouse and into the changing rooms to get ready. The Changing room is surprisingly empty, but after all it was only 9am, Regulus assumes most people will come later to practice.
Regulus walks back onto the courts, the spring sun already high in the sky. He stretches his shoulders, rolling them slowly, he feels the slight tug in his left one, a familiar reminder of overworking , but not yet an injury. He sets his bag down beside Court 5 and grabs his racket, bouncing a ball against the strings with rhythmic, absentminded flicks of his wrist.
He liked mornings like this. Quiet. Uncomplicated. Just him, the court, and the sound of the ball. It’s times like these when he can genuinely concentrate, when there’s not many other people around.
Dorcas walks over to him with her own racket tucked under one arm and a bottle of iced water in the other.
“Wanna warm up?” she asks, already grinning.
Regulus shrugs. “Sure.”
They play in silence for a while. Regulus keeps his shots clean, controlled, but easy, just enough to get into rhythm. Dorcas doesn’t push either, though she sneaks in a few slices that make him roll his eyes.
“You check the plan yet?” she asks between points.
“Yeah.” He hits a lazy forehand. “Looks manageable.”
“Any idea who your new coach is?”
“No.” A pause. “But it doesn’t matter. If he’s incompetent, I’ll make sure he is replaced.”
Dorcas snorts “Right, of course.”
Regulus is about to serve again when something across the court catches his attention.
Court 2, usually reserved for higher-level players isn’t empty anymore. A guy he doesn’t recognize is hitting serves with casual precision, his stance is loose but confident. The guy is dressed in all red and is wearing the most charismatic smirk Regulus might’ve ever seen. He finds it ridiculous. Or maybe just irritating.
“Who’s that?” Regulus asks Dorcas, not looking away from where the guy was still hitting perfect serves.
Dorcas squints. “Not sure. But he’s good.”
Regulus doesn’t respond. He’s already watching again, a flicker of something sharp curling low in his stomach. Whoever he is, he’s not just here to play around. Suddenly a voice behind him speaks.
“You’re early, Black. I like that.”
Regulus turns. The man standing a few feet away is insanely tall— surely around 6’4, a bit older, dressed simply in track pants and a windbreaker. His light brown hair is windswept and his expression unreadable. There’s something tired about him, like he just woke up, not weak, but quiet.
“Who are you?” Regulus asks flatly.
The man raises a brow before saying. “Remus Lupin. I’ll be coaching you this season.”
Regulus takes a second. The name sounds vaguely familiar, something about a player who retired too young, rumors of injury, or burnout maybe. He was good, Regulus thinks. Not flashy, but respected.
Still. This wasn’t who he was expecting.
“I thought I’d be working with someone more… current,” Regulus says.
Remus doesn’t move a muscle. “And I thought I’d be coaching someone less dramatic. But here we are.”
That earns the tiniest twitch of Regulus’ mouth. Almost a smile. Almost.
Remus glances down at Regulus’ racket. “Your strings are about to snap.”
Regulus blinks.
“I’ll see you on Court 4 in ten. We’re starting with drills.” And just like that, Remus turns and walks away.
Regulus watches him go, unsettled in a way he can’t quite explain. There’s no charm, no arrogance, no posturing. Just calm authority and a total lack of interest in Regulus’ reputation.
Which is… well, new.
Still, as he grabs his bag and heads toward the court, Regulus glances once more towards Court 2.
The stranger in red is gone.
Court 4 is still empty when Regulus arrives, but only for a moment. Remus is already walking over from the clubhouse, a basket of tennis balls in one hand and a clipboard tucked under his arm. Efficient. Silent.
Regulus hates silence when he’s not the one creating it.
“You warmed up?” Remus asks, dropping the basket with a soft thud.
“Enough,” Regulus replies, spinning his racket lazily in one hand.
Remus doesn’t respond. Instead, he walks to the baseline and starts feeding balls, simple, clean strokes right into Regulus’ forehand.
“Footwork,” Remus says.
Regulus frowns. “You want me to do footwork drills?”
“No,” Remus replies. “I need you to do footwork drills. You’re relying too much on reach. Clean shots, sure. But lazy legs.”
Regulus’ frown deepens. No one criticizes his movement. No one dares. But he says nothing, just resets and adjusts his stance. The next ball comes faster. He moves sharper.
Good. Not great. And Remus doesn’t say a word.
They go on like that for nearly an hour. Drills. Repetition. No unnecessary commentary, no praise, just precise correction if needed. Regulus knows that Remus knows that it’s pushing him, the lack of approval, of praising. Yet he can’t deny it, he’s sweating more than usual and his backhand is snapping cleaner.
Eventually, Remus calls for a break. He tosses Regulus a bottle of water from the bench.
Regulus catches it mid-air. “So,” he says, cracking the seal, “what’s your deal?”
Remus sits down across from him, crossing his legs. “My deal?”
“You’re not impressed by me,” Regulus says, too flatly for it to be arrogant. It’s just observation. “Most coaches are.”
Remus tilts his head. “Well I’m not like most coaches” he says before adding. “You’re good. One of the best. But raw talent is nothing without precision and discipline. You’ve relied on instinct long enough.”
Regulus takes a slow sip of water. “You think I’ve been relying on my instinct?”
“I think,” Remus says evenly, “you haven’t been challenged in a long time.”
There’s a pause.
Then Regulus stands and spins his racket in his hand again.
“Fine,” he says. “Challenge me then.”
Remus smiles, not smug, not taunting. Just… pleased.
“Oh I will”