Family Line
Official Response from Regulus Black & The Noble House of Black
Following the explosive Vogue Unfiltered interview with Sirius Black, where he called the upcoming House of Black Casting Show a “power move” designed for control rather than opportunity, the fashion empire has finally broken its silence.
Official Statement from The Noble House of Black
“The Noble House of Black has always set the standard for fashion, artistry, and excellence. We are not concerned with the opinions of those who chose to walk away from this legacy. Our casting show remains an unparalleled opportunity for rising talent to be seen, transformed, and elevated to a level of prestige beyond their wildest imagination. We look forward to working with the next generation of icons.”
Hashtagged, of course, with #ExcellenceOnly.
But it wasn’t just the House itself responding. The man at the center of it all—Regulus Black, heir to the empire and rumored mastermind behind the casting show—gave his own statement to an exclusive press outlet.
Regulus Black Responds to His Brother’s Criticism
“My brother has always made it clear that he wants nothing to do with the House of Black. That is his choice. But he does not speak for me, nor does he understand what I am building here.”
When asked whether the competition was about control, as Sirius claimed, Regulus’ response was sharp:
“Every industry has rules. Every empire has standards. The fashion world is not built on wishful thinking; it is built on precision, discipline, and vision. If you are good enough, you will rise. If you are not, you won’t. That is not cruelty—that is reality.”
And his final word?
“If Sirius wants to scream about how unfair the world is, let him. I, however, have work to do.”
© the sun, Emily Walters
@fashiontruthdaily: And just like that, the Black brothers are officially at war.
@RunwayDrama: Regulus said “I don’t have time for my brother’s nonsense” and kept it moving. Iconic behavior.
@IndustryInsider: Regulus calling out Sirius for ‘not understanding what he’s building’??? What is he building?! This show is about to be more than just a competition…
@SiriusBlackFanclub: Okay but let’s be real—Regulus sounds exactly like someone who’s been trapped in the House of Black too long. Someone get him out of there.
James stifled a yawn as he hurried across campus, his messenger bag slung over one shoulder and a to-go coffee clutched in his free hand. It was his third cup of the day, which was probably excessive, but he hadn’t slept more than four hours last night. Again.
Between classes, assignments, his part-time modeling gigs, and tutoring for extra cash, his schedule was held together by sheer willpower and an alarming amount of caffeine.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He ignored it. He already knew it was a reminder for his next shift at the library tutoring center—because of course, squeezing in a few hours of helping struggling first-years was the only way he could afford groceries and keep up with rent.
James barely had time to breathe these days.
He jogged up the steps of the old brick university building and slipped into the lecture hall just as the professor started speaking. The place was packed, students scribbling notes, typing furiously, or zoning out behind their laptop screens. James slid into a seat near the back, dropping his bag onto the floor with a quiet thud.
The lecture was on media ethics—one of the only subjects that actually interested him—but his brain felt like sludge today. He tried to focus, but halfway through the discussion on consumer manipulation, his eyes drifted toward his own reflection in the blacked-out laptop screen. His hair was a mess (again), and his dark circles had dark circles of their own.
He wasn’t exactly thriving.
The professor started a debate on how branding influenced public perception, and James couldn’t help but think about his own situation. He wasn’t a model, not really. Not in the way people assumed when he told them. He wasn’t walking for luxury brands or shooting for Vogue—he was doing ad campaigns for department store catalogs, posing with electric razors and affordable winter coats.
It paid, barely.
His phone buzzed again.
Lily: “Don’t forget we have that ad shoot at 4. Please don’t be late, Potter.”
James exhaled, already exhausted at the thought. After this class, he’d have exactly twenty minutes to cram in food before sprinting across town to the shoot. Then he’d have to rush back to campus for his tutoring session, somehow manage to finish his essay by midnight, and—
“Mr. Potter?”
James’s head snapped up.
The professor was staring at him, expectant. A few students turned to look.
Shit.
He had no idea what the question was.
James cleared his throat, trying to look thoughtful instead of completely lost. “Uh… could you repeat that?”
A few chuckles from the front row. The professor sighed. “I asked for your thoughts on the role of manufactured exclusivity in luxury fashion branding.”
Oh.
That, he actually knew something about.
James leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. “It’s all smoke and mirrors,” he said, pushing away his exhaustion for a moment. “Luxury brands convince people they’re unattainable, but that’s exactly what makes them desirable. It’s not just about the clothes—it’s about who gets to wear them. They sell status, not fabric.”
The professor raised an eyebrow, clearly expecting something more academic. But another student chimed in, agreeing with James, and the conversation shifted away from him.
James exhaled in relief.
The second class ended, he was out the door, shoving his books into his bag as he speed-walked toward the cafeteria. He had exactly eight minutes to grab food before catching the train to his modeling gig, and if today was anything like the last job, he’d be posing with some ridiculous product—last time, it had been a set of ergonomic office chairs.
As he shoved a prepackaged sandwich into his bag, his phone buzzed again.
Another reminder.
Another obligation.
James ran a hand through his hair, already bracing himself for another long day.
He barely had time to process how exhausted he was.
James barely had time to eat. He crammed half of his sandwich into his mouth while waiting for the train, washing it down with the last of his now-lukewarm coffee. His phone buzzed again—another reminder from Lily. Four PM. Don’t be late.
He wasn’t planning on being late, but the universe had other ideas.
By the time he made it to the studio, he was ten minutes behind schedule, breathless from sprinting the last few blocks. Lily was already there, dressed and ready, shooting him a glare as he skidded to a stop near the makeup station.
“You owe me coffee for this,” she muttered, arms crossed.
James held up his hands in surrender. “I live in a constant state of owing you coffee.”
She huffed but didn’t argue. Instead, she shoved a garment bag into his chest. “Go change. You look like you fought a war on the way here.”
James groaned but obeyed, slipping into the dressing area and pulling on the clothes for the shoot—some cheap but fashionable-looking jackets for a mid-tier brand that no one would remember the name of next season. He barely had time to fix his hair before he was shoved in front of the camera.
The job was simple: look cool, smirk a little, pretend like he wasn’t dead inside.
James had perfected that last part.
The shoot wrapped two hours later, and as soon as he was done, he bolted back to campus for his tutoring shift. His student—a nervous freshman who was failing their media studies course—was already waiting for him in the library, fidgeting with their notes.
James forced himself to focus. Helping others actually felt good, even if it didn’t pay much. He spent the next hour explaining research methods and helping structure an argumentative essay, and by the time his shift ended, his brain was fried.
And he still had an assignment to finish.
James dragged himself back to his apartment—a tiny, two-room space that barely fit his life inside it. His textbooks were still sprawled across the kitchen table from the night before, coffee cups stacking up beside them. He was too tired to care. His shoulders ached from lugging around a laptop, three textbooks, and a sense of impending academic doom all day.
“Not enough critical analysis, Mr. Potter.” The professor’s voice still echoed in his head. “Your argument lacks depth. I expected more.”
Expected more. Right. Because James Potter was meant to be brilliant at everything, wasn’t he? University was supposed to be his backup plan, the thing he could fall back on if modeling never worked out. Except lately, it felt like he was barely keeping his head above water in either world.
He rubbed a hand over his face, pushing his glasses up onto his head as he glanced around his apartment. It was small—really small. The kind of place that made you appreciate the art of multi-functionality. His tiny kitchenette was practically in his bedroom, which was also his living room, which was also his workspace. The walls were covered in a mix of fashion tear-outs, class notes, and half-finished to-do lists. The rent was cheap (well, cheap for London), but every creaky pipe and drafty window reminded him of exactly how much money he didn’t have.
James sighed and collapsed onto his worn-out couch, kicking his shoes off as he reached for the remote. He just needed a few minutes to turn his brain off before figuring out what the hell to do about his essay. Maybe there’d be a match on, or some terrible reality show he could zone out to.
The TV flickered on, and immediately, a sleek black and silver logo filled the screen.
“The Noble House of Black announces its first-ever international model search—”
James froze.
The news anchor continued, her perfectly manicured hands gesturing toward the screen behind her, where the House of Black’s logo glowed like a goddamn beacon.
“For decades, the Noble House of Black has been the pinnacle of high fashion, an untouchable empire known for its exclusivity and prestige. But today, for the first time in history, the legendary fashion house has announced an open competition—giving unknown models from around the world a once-in-a-lifetime chance to break into the industry at the highest level.”
James sat up so fast he nearly knocked over the empty coffee cup balancing on the edge of his table.
“Thousands of aspiring models will compete, but only one will emerge as the future face of the House of Black,” the anchor continued. “Agencies worldwide have already begun submitting their top talent for consideration. The stakes? A multimillion-dollar contract, international campaigns, and a career launch unlike anything the industry has ever seen.”
James barely heard the rest. His brain had short-circuited somewhere between “open competition” and “multimillion-dollar contract.”
The House of Black. The House of Black. The most prestigious, untouchable, utterly impossible fashion empire in the world. Their models weren’t just models—they were legends. They were sculpted, impossibly beautiful creatures who graced the covers of magazines James couldn’t even afford to buy.
And now… they were holding a competition?
For amateurs?
James let out a breathless laugh, running a hand through his already-messy hair. This was the kind of thing that only happened to other people. People with connections. People who weren’t running on instant ramen and a dream.
Still, his heart pounded in his chest as he watched the screen, where a clip of Regulus Black played—a sleek, cold figure in an impeccable black suit, standing at the center of his family’s empire.
“We are looking for more than beauty,” Regulus was saying in a perfectly smooth, perfectly rehearsed tone. “We are looking for someone who embodies the essence of the Noble House of Black. Someone exceptional. Someone unforgettable.”
James swallowed.
Well.
That sure as hell wasn’t him.
But damn, he couldn’t look away.
The afterparty of the latest House of Black showcase was exactly what Sirius expected—glittering, exclusive, and suffocating. Every guest, every conversation, every carefully curated moment was designed to reinforce the power of the Black family.
Sirius didn’t belong here. He never had.
And yet, he was here. Because of Regulus.
The younger Black had made his statement. Publicly. Coldly. Like Sirius was just another critic, another bitter outsider who didn’t understand how the world worked. It was bullshit, and Sirius wasn’t about to let it slide.
He found Regulus in one of the private lounges, away from the main event. Of course. Regulus never liked the chaos of parties, even when they were in his honor.
Sirius didn’t knock. He never did. He just walked in, closed the door behind him, and leaned against it, arms crossed.
“So, that was a fun little statement you gave.” His voice was casual, but his eyes were sharp.
Regulus, standing near the floor-to-ceiling window, barely glanced at him. “If you’re here to argue, I don’t have time.”
“Bullshit. You always have time for this.”
Finally, Regulus turned to face him, his expression unreadable. His suit—custom, tailored to perfection, the very definition of House of Black excellence—was as immaculate as ever. Not a thread out of place. Not a crack in the façade.
Sirius, in ripped black jeans, scuffed boots, and a band tee that likely cost less than a single button on Regulus’ jacket, felt the contrast between them like a slap.
“I don’t know what you expect me to say, Sirius.” Regulus exhaled, tired, but not surprised. “You wanted me to lie? To pretend this show is something it’s not? You know how this world works.”
“Oh, I do. I know exactly how this world works. Which is why I’m trying to understand why the hell you’re willingly making it worse.”
Regulus’ jaw tightened. “I’m not making it worse. I’m making it mine.”
Sirius let out a sharp laugh. “You think you’re in control?” He pushed off the door, stepping closer. “You’re not running this show, Reg. You’re a puppet. Just like we were when we were kids. And you’re pulling others into the same damn trap.”
“It’s not a trap,” Regulus snapped. “It’s a chance. If they’re good enough—”
“Oh, fuck off with that ‘good enough’ crap.” Sirius cut him off, eyes burning. “You know damn well how this industry chews people up and spits them out. You, more than anyone, should know what it’s like to be judged, picked apart, turned into whatever they want you to be.”
“And yet, I’m still standing.”
“Are you?” Sirius’ voice dropped, softer now. Not mocking. Just… sad.
Regulus didn’t answer.
For a moment, they just stared at each other. Brothers. Strangers. Two people who had been broken by the same hands, in different ways.
“If you hate it so much, why do you care?” Regulus finally asked, voice quieter now.
Sirius swallowed, ran a hand through his hair, and sighed. “Because it’s you, Reg.”
That was all.
Regulus’ expression flickered—just for a second, something almost vulnerable beneath the surface. But then it was gone, locked away behind the carefully constructed armor he wore so well.
He turned back to the window. “I have a party to attend, Sirius.”
That was the dismissal.
Sirius clenched his jaw. Nodded. Fine.
He walked to the door, pausing just before stepping out.
“You always hated this world more than I did.” His voice was quiet, but it hit like a gunshot. “I just hope you don’t lose yourself trying to survive it.”
And with that, he left.
Regulus didn’t turn around.
But his hands were shaking.
The door clicked shut behind Sirius, and the room was silent again.
Regulus didn’t move. Didn’t turn. Didn’t exhale.
His reflection in the window stared back at him—sharp cheekbones, unreadable eyes, a suit that fit like armor. A perfect image. The image he had spent his entire life cultivating.
"You always hated this world more than I did."
Sirius’ words echoed in his skull, like a wound he hadn’t realized was bleeding until now. His fingers twitched at his sides. He curled them into tight fists, nails biting into his palm.
He had to be in control.
That was the rule. That was how he survived.
Regulus inhaled slowly, steadying himself, then turned from the window and walked to the sleek black vanity table in the corner of the room. His movements were deliberate, precise. He pulled open the smallest drawer, knowing exactly what was inside.
A silver lighter. A pack of French cigarettes he never smoked in public.
He took one out, lit it with a flick of his wrist, and let the smoke burn in his lungs. Something to ground him. Something to hold onto.
"I just hope you don’t lose yourself trying to survive it."
His hand shook. Regulus clenched his jaw and pressed his free palm against the table, forcing himself to be still.
Sirius was wrong. He wasn’t lost. He was exactly where he was supposed to be. Wasn’t he?
He exhaled, watching the smoke curl toward the ceiling.
Outside, the afterparty continued—laughter, champagne glasses clinking, the distant hum of classical music. His world.
The world he ruled.
The world that had never once felt like home.
And yet, he stayed. Because what else was there?