The Boy Beneath the Floorboards
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Sirius Black invites his friends over for a haunted house sleepover in the ancient, cursed hellhole that is 12 Grimmauld Place. What starts as a dumb Ouija board dare turns into a full-blown paranormal disaster when they accidentally summon the ghost of Regulus Black—Sirius’ long-dead older brother, a dramatic 80s twink with a weed stash in the walls and a deeply complicated romantic history with Leonardo DiCaprio.
Now Regulus is haunting the house, going viral on the internet, picking fights with teenagers, discovering memes, and planning his private jet reunion with his A-list ex-boyfriend. Meanwhile, Sirius is spiraling, James is filming everything, and Marlene would absolutely let Dorcas punch her in the face.
It's gay. It's haunted. It's nostalgic. It's chaos.
And yes—Regulus is still hot, even in death.
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The night began with a lie.
Sirius Black hadn’t actually told anyone his parents were out of the country for the week. In truth, Walburga and Orion Black were attending some pretentious charity gala two towns over and wouldn’t be back until late the next evening. But that was good enough. Close enough. He had roughly thirty hours of freedom in a house older than God and twice as haunted.
Which is exactly why all eleven of them were crammed into the Black residence now, a mansion with bones like cathedral ruins and furniture that looked like it could sue you for sitting on it.
“This place is mental,” James Potter breathed, craning his neck back to stare up at a twelve-foot-high oil painting of someone who looked like they poisoned children for fun.
“That’s Uncle Phineas,” Sirius said casually, kicking the edge of a velvet armchair. “Allegedly.”
“Allegedly what?” asked Fabian Prewett, snapping a photo on his cracked phone.
“Killed six women and two dogs. Nobody could prove it. Except the dogs, obviously.”
“‘Allegedly,’” Frank Longbottom echoed, eyebrows rising.
“Well, one of the dogs bit a baby. So that one was kinda mutual.” Sirius grinned, all teeth and danger. “Anyway. House tour?”
By the time the tour was over, they'd each seen more fireplaces than they could count, a disused ballroom that smelled like time travel, and a corridor that led nowhere but back to itself like some kind of Escher painting on crack.
Remus Lupin nearly pissed himself when a door slammed behind him. Peter cried when a mirror briefly showed his reflection waving after he’d already walked away.
Mary Macdonald found a doll with no eyes in a drawer and refused to touch anything after that.
At some point, Marlene McKinnon stole a bottle of 2002 wine from the basement pantry and opened it with a shoe and a fork.
“Do you know how many steps it took to get this bottle open?” she said, voice reverent. “We deserve chaos.”
“Speaking of chaos,” Lily said, leaning forward across the table, “you bringing the Ouija board out or what, Black?”
Sirius threw her a wicked smile and held up a dusty wooden board like it was an ancient relic.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
They set up in the drawing room—the nice drawing room, not the cursed one with the bird skeletons in the fireplace. The chandelier above them creaked threateningly. The candlelight flickered. Sirius turned on the camera and handed the job of filming to Gideon, who immediately started narrating in a posh, BBC-style voice.
“This week, on Paranormal Tossers, a group of underage delinquents attempt to contact the dead in the home of local lunatic Sirius Black.”
“Cheers for that,” Sirius muttered.
“Will they succeed? Or will they just cry, scream, and pee themselves?”
“Probably all three,” Remus said dryly.
“Fabian’s already halfway there,” Alice Fortescue pointed out.
“One bathroom in this house has a toilet that whispers my name. I will not be mocked.”
The board sat in the center of the circle like a ticking bomb. Everyone touched the planchette with exactly the kind of performative irony that would be immediately regretted.
Sirius cleared his throat. “Spirits of the dead. Are there any among us who wish to speak?”
Nothing.
Mary snorted. “Wow. Shocking.”
Sirius narrowed his eyes. “Spirits of the dead,” he tried again, voice darker now, leaning in. “This house has been standing for over three hundred years. If anyone died here—anyone forgotten, anyone angry, anyone bound to this place—show us a sign.”
The lights went out.
Dead silence.
“Was that—?” Peter started.
And then every door in the room slammed shut at once.
The screaming started somewhere near Fabian and quickly spread like disease.
“What the fuck,” Lily shrieked, clutching Marlene.
“What the actual—” James dove for the camera, which Gideon had dropped while scrambling backwards.
The candles guttered out.
The chandelier above them swung violently, clinking like teeth.
And then… a sound. A voice. A whisper that crawled across the ceiling like a spider.
“I never said goodbye.”
The air went cold.
A shape began to form above the board—slowly, twisting like smoke, limbs coalescing, bones reshaping themselves in the air. They could see skin materialise like paper being painted by invisible hands.
When the shape was done forming, it was a boy.
A boy their age. Maybe younger.
Hovering. Hovering above them.
Eyes empty. Shirt torn and soaked in long-dried blood. Neck purple-black. Something jagged sticking from his chest.
Everyone screamed at once. Again.
“What the FUCK!” Sirius bellowed, scrambling backward over the sofa.
“NOPE,” yelled Frank, grabbing Alice’s hand and pulling her halfway to the hallway.
The ghost blinked at them. Then at his hands. Then at the board.
“What the hell is this?” he asked, voice rough and eerily calm.
Everyone froze.
Sirius blinked. “Wh—uh—who the fuck are you?”
The boy looked around. Stared hard at the walls, at the furniture, at the chandelier still gently swaying.
Then he frowned.
“Oh, no. No, no, no, fuck this. Why the fuck am I back here?!”
Everyone stared at him.
The ghost crossed his arms in a huff, floating about a foot above the floor now, face scrunched in disgust.
“Can someone explain why the hell I’m in the fucking drawing room again? This place sucks. This was the worst room. This was where the portraits watched.”
Remus cleared his throat, somehow the only one capable of forming words. “Uh. Who… are you?”
The boy looked down at him. “Regulus. Regulus Black.”
Sirius made a choked noise like someone had punched him in the spine.
“What?” he rasped.
Regulus turned slowly. “What?”
James grabbed Sirius by the arm. “Did he say Black?”
Sirius was staring, white as bone, mouth slightly open. “Regulus Black. There’s a Regulus on the family tree… but he died in the fifties. Like, ancient history. You’re not—what?”
“I died in 1996, dipshit,” Regulus snapped, now fully pacing in midair. “This house—this fucking house—hasn’t changed a bit. Of course not. Mum was a fucking psycho.”
Lily’s eyes widened. “Your mum—?”
“Walburga,” Regulus said bitterly. “Black. Obsessive, shrieky, always smelled like lavender and rage. Mum. Surprise.”
Sirius clapped both hands to his head. “NOPE.”
“She murdered me,” Regulus continued, almost cheerfully. “Threw me down the basement stairs. Dad buried me in the wall.”
Mary dropped the wine bottle. It shattered.
“I fucking knew it,” Sirius screamed. “I KNEW something was wrong with that wall!”
Regulus floated toward the far wall like he was on a leisurely walk and, without hesitation, stuck his head clean through the plaster.
“OH, YEP!” he called, voice muffled. “THERE I AM! STILL GOT MY TRAINERS ON. SICK.”
Marlene screamed so loud the mirror above the fireplace cracked.
James had gone ghost-pale. “There is a dead fifteen-year-old inside the fucking wall?”
“He’s not in it,” Gideon said faintly. “He is it.”
Frank gagged.
Regulus pulled his head back through the wall. “Chill. You don’t need to look. I was cuter when I was alive.”
“You—” Sirius pointed at him wildly. “You are my dead brother?! Nobody told me I had a brother!”
“Nobody told me my mum had another kid!” Regulus barked back. “What the fuck is your name?”
“Sirius!”
Regulus made a face. “Ugh. Typical. Of course they named you something pretentious.”
“I was born in 1999! You were already dead! How was I supposed to know you existed?!”
“Well now you do!” Regulus spun in a circle mid-air, arms flung out like a diva. “Welcome to the trauma party!”
The room descended into panicked chaos again, half of them crying, two of them trying to open the windows, one trying to fight the Ouija board.
Regulus floated upside down above them, chewing spectral gum and scowling.
“I was fifteen forever, and this is what I come back to? A bunch of hormonal weirdos and my bastard replacement brother?”
Peter whimpered from under a blanket.
“Do not haunt me,” Sirius warned, jabbing a finger at the floating boy.
Regulus snorted. “Mate, I’m not haunting you. I’m haunting the house. You're just in the way.”
Remus, gently massaging his temples, muttered, “This is why I told you not to mess with ghost shit.”
“You said that after we started filming!” Sirius snapped.
“I said it in Latin last week at lunch and you threw bread at me!”
Alice had curled into a corner with Lily, both whispering fiercely.
“Should we… should we call someone?” Lily asked.
“Who do you call for murder ghosts?” Alice hissed.
“Ghostbusters?” offered Frank, then immediately ducked as Marlene threw a cushion at his head.
Regulus was now inspecting a lamp like it had personally offended him. “Wow. Still got the dust of a thousand years. Classic.”
“So, uh…” James ventured. “Now that you’re here… what do we do with you?”
Regulus shrugged. “Hell if I know. You're the ones who dragged me back.”
“Is there, like… a spell? Or a ritual?” Gideon asked, voice shrill.
“Mate,” Regulus said, “this isn’t fucking Hogwarts. I don’t know. I’m dead.”
Peter popped up from under the blanket. “Wait. So we’re just stuck with him now?”
Sirius collapsed onto the floor, defeated. “We’re stuck with my dead brother. My dead ghost brother. My dead ghost brother who was murdered by our mum and buried in the fucking wall.”
Regulus looked smug. “Honestly? Could be worse.”
The camera’s on again.
It’s shaky, half-fogged from someone’s panicked fingers, but it’s catching everything.
Regulus Black floats six inches off the hardwood floors like a bored Sims glitch. He’s chewing on nothing—still bitter he can’t taste—and inspecting the wall he died in with the kind of exasperated teenage sigh that could flatten cities.
“That stain’s still there?” he says, deadpan, gesturing at a faint brownish splotch behind the piano. “That’s where I cracked my skull. Bleed like a stuck pig when your brain’s trying to fall out your nose, turns out.”
James immediately drops the camera.
“FUCK,” he yells.
“Oh, grow a pair,” Regulus mutters, already hovering into the next room.
Everyone's still screaming. Or whispering about screaming. Or trying to text emergency numbers with trembling hands and autocorrect betraying them.
Meanwhile, Regulus is giving them a grand tour of his trauma.
“Yep, still got the same wallpaper—horrid. That’s the chair I threw up in when I drank gin for the first time. Oop, and that’s where I kept my weed stash. Oh! Oh! Wait—”
He dives through a wall like a smug stingray and comes back out with a triumphant expression.
“Twenty-year-old weed still here, baby!” he cheers. “I mean, I can’t touch it, but it’s the thought that counts.”
Sirius is visibly twitching. “You smoked weed? In this house?!”
Regulus turns slowly to stare at him like he’s a particularly stupid toaster.
“I died in this house, bro. Think I gave a flying toss about the rules?”
Gideon’s filming again, zooming in on Regulus as he floats upside-down through the hallway like a judgemental bat.
“He’s like if a haunted Hot Topic hoodie gained sentience,” Fabian mutters behind the camera.
Regulus throws a double middle finger at them without looking back. “Eat my ass, flatcap twins.”
“WHAT ERA DID YOU CRAWL OUT OF?” Marlene screeches, laughing.
“The cool one,” Regulus calls. “Where girls wore fishnets, and music meant something, and everyone carried knives just in case.”
“Jesus,” Peter whispers. “He really is Sirius’ brother.”
Sirius, for his part, is spiraling.
He’s been following Regulus like a ghost of his own, staring, stunned, looking at the floor, the walls, the unassuming baseboard near the corner that now apparently hides a body. His brother’s body.
His older brother. Technically. Biologically. But not really. But sort of.
Regulus looks fifteen. Acts like fifteen. Died at fifteen.
But he’s technically nearly forty.
Sirius is seventeen.
Sirius is older.
Sirius is younger.
Sirius is freaking the fuck out.
“You were murdered,” he blurts, voice cracking. “By my mum. Our mum. She killed you.”
Regulus looks at him like he’s stupid. “Obviously. What, you think I tripped and fell into a brick wall at terminal velocity?”
“But why?”
“Oh, I dunno.” Regulus spins lazily in midair, smirking. “Maybe ‘cause I told her to get stuffed and stop threatening to ‘fix’ me with cold baths and priests. Maybe ‘cause I wore eyeliner and made out with Evan Travers under the bleachers.”
“You’re—?”
“Gay as Christmas, baby.”
“Right, but—”
Regulus turns sharply. “Wait. You knew?”
Sirius hesitates. “Well. I—”
“HOW THE HELL DID YOU KNOW I WAS GAY?!”
Fabian chokes. “Mate. You’ve been floating around like a Victorian fashion ghost complaining about interior design and yelling about how much you miss your weed. We guessed.”
“Oh.”
Regulus shrugs. “Rad. I mean, cool that it’s chill now. Not that it mattered, ‘cause I died before I could even get laid.”
There’s a long silence.
“You know,” Lily says gently, “it’s legal now.”
Regulus blinks. “What is?”
“Being gay.”
A pause. “What.”
“Yeah. Like, since the nineties.”
Regulus floats backwards a few inches, then forwards, like he’s buffering. “You mean… the government doesn’t arrest you for kissing boys anymore?”
“Nope.”
He floats into the ceiling, just his legs sticking out. “Get fucked.”
He returns with a vengeance, arms flailing.
“Right, catch me up! What’s happened since ‘96? Is Di still Princess? Did MJ drop another album? Is Steve Irwin still wrestling crocs or what?!”
Everyone goes very still.
“…um,” Mary says delicately, “about that—”
“NO,” Regulus says immediately. “NOPE. Don’t you dare tell me Diana is—”
“She’s—”
“NO!”
“She died in—”
“SHUT YOUR GOB, I WILL VOMIT ECTOPLASM!”
The mourning lasts approximately four minutes before Regulus is floating over the piano again, inspecting a loose floorboard like a judge at a haunted baking show.
“Still loose,” he mutters. “That’s where I used to hide my cassette tapes.”
“You had cassettes?” James asks, wide-eyed.
Regulus looks offended. “You don’t?! What do you listen to, clouds?!”
“Spotify.”
“What the hell is a Spotify? Is that like—radio for nerds?”
“Basically,” Remus says.
Regulus looks betrayed. “You people are monsters.”
Somewhere around 3:00 a.m., Regulus asks the fatal question:
“…Where’s Pluto?”
Sirius looks up from where he’s been curled into an armchair like a traumatized Victorian child.
“Who?”
“My dog. Pluto. Black cocker spaniel. Little shit. Followed me everywhere. Best dog in the world.”
“…we’ve never had a dog.”
The silence goes icy.
Regulus stares at him. “…Yes, you have.”
“I’m telling you, Reg, we never—”
“YES. WE. HAVE.”
Regulus whips around, fury building. “No way they got rid of Pluto. No way. That was my fucking dog, they wouldn’t—”
He’s halfway through a wall when he screams.
Everyone jumps.
Regulus floats backwards, pale (somehow paler than before), ghost-face blank and eyes wide.
“What?” Sirius gasps. “What is it?!”
Regulus points a shaking finger at the wall.
“…they put Pluto in the fucking wall.”
Screaming resumes immediately.
By the time the sun begins to rise and the chandeliers stop swaying on their own, half the house is trashed, the camera battery is dying, and Regulus has successfully bullied Sirius into apologizing for being born.
“Can’t believe you came after me like a sequel,” Regulus mutters, arms folded as he floats upside down over Sirius’ bed.
“I didn’t ask to be born!”
“I didn’t ask to be replaced!”
“I didn’t replace you!”
“You did such a shit job too, you’re like a knock-off me with worse fashion.”
“I am literally alive, I win by default!”
Regulus flips him off and vanishes through the ceiling.
The last thing caught on camera before the battery dies is Regulus, drifting out onto the roof like Peter Pan in a Joy Division tee, holding a phantom joint made from the spectral weed that died with him.
“What now?” someone asks him.
Regulus shrugs.
“I dunno,” he says, ghost-smoke curling around his face. “Guess I’ll haunt the attic. Maybe rearrange the books by colour. See if I can find my Gameboy.”
“You had a Gameboy?” Sirius asks, eyes wide.
Regulus looks down at him, smug as ever.
“Of course I did, little bro. I was cool as shit.”
And then he’s gone.
The camera rolls back on with a high-pitched shriek and a blur of ceiling.
“Jesus fuck—” James yells, clutching his chest and nearly falling over the arm of the settee.
“You are ACTUALLY gonna kill me,” Lily snaps, heart visibly pounding as she straightens her spine like she’s been electrocuted.
“Jump scare of the century,” Marlene mutters, hugging a throw pillow like it’s a life vest.
Regulus Black hovers through the nearest wall like a smirking bastard, arms folded, smug as hell.
“Boo.”
“YOU ABSOLUTE PRICK,” Sirius yells, throwing a sofa cushion straight through his brother’s incorporeal face. “What is WRONG with you?!”
Regulus floats higher, preening. “Didn’t even scream that loud. You lot are soft.”
“You scared the soul out of my ass!” Peter screeches from behind the curtains.
“Whatever. That’s payback. You replaced my room.”
There’s a collective pause.
“What?” Sirius says, dread pooling in his gut.
Regulus narrows his eyes and starts counting off on his fingers, floating in slow circles around the living room like a pissed-off Roomba.
“I went for a snoop, yeah? Wanted to see what kind of tragic timewarp this house turned into without me. You got rid of my posters, you got rid of my bed, you turned my closet into a linen cupboard, and all my stuff—gone.”
Gideon squints. “What kind of posters did you even have?”
Regulus throws him a look like he’s personally offended. “Joy Division. The Cure. Madonna. Bowie. I had a Prince poster above my desk that changed my life. And you replaced it with a mirror.”
“Reg—”
“And the room?”
“What about it?”
Regulus floats dramatically toward the ceiling, then points downward in rage. “You turned my room into a home gym! With like, weights and a yoga mat!”
James coughs. “Yeah that… that was your mum’s idea, mate.”
Regulus glares. “She murdered me, and then turned my room into a Pilates dungeon? Unbelievable.”
Sirius is trying to explain phones.
It’s not going well.
“So this is, like… a pocket computer,” he says, holding his iPhone out cautiously.
Regulus floats closer, squints, then recoils. “It’s glowing.”
“Yeah. It does that.”
“You’re telling me everyone just walks around with a glowing brick in their pocket?”
“It’s not—” Remus sighs. “Okay. It’s a phone, but also a camera, a video recorder, a map, a music player, and you can talk to anyone in the world with it.”
Regulus stares at him like he’s describing sorcery. “Are you shagging me?”
“It’s real,” Lily says, unlocking her screen.
Regulus watches the phone light up, then immediately flings himself backward like it bit him. “What the hell is that?! Did the screen change?!”
“It’s a touchscreen,” Alice says. “You just tap stuff.”
“You’re all witches,” Regulus hisses. “You’re cursed. This is black magic.”
But then someone says the magic word.
“Internet.”
Regulus freezes in place mid-air. “…The what?”
“The internet.”
He spins slowly in the air like a Victorian chandelier. “Say more.”
“It’s like…” Mary waves her hand vaguely. “All of human knowledge. And gossip. And porn. And cat videos. All at once. It’s everything.”
Regulus stares at her, stunned. “You’re telling me I could’ve died knowing there was a place where I could watch every Madonna music video on demand?”
Marlene pipes up, “Or like… look up your old friends. If they’re still alive. Y’know. Since you’re not.”
Regulus’ entire face lights up like a teenager who just got a fake ID and a ride to a liquor store.
“LOOK THEM UP.”
Sirius fumbles for his phone, already horrified by what’s to come.
They start with Evan Rosier.
Sirius types the name, scrolls, then makes a face. “Huh. He’s… in politics now.”
“Evan?” Regulus frowns. “What, like a city council?”
“No. Like—House of Lords.”
“NO!”
“And he’s… very Tory.”
Regulus makes a noise like he’s dying again.
“He’s anti-immigration, pro-capitalist, and I think he tweeted that climate change is a scam.”
“Evan once got kicked out of class for starting a food fight over the price of school lunches.”
“Well, now he’s calling strikes ‘unpatriotic.’”
Regulus floats into the wall and doesn’t come back for a full minute.
Next is Dorcas Meadowes.
They pull up a LinkedIn profile, a couple of news articles, and—finally—a company website.
“She’s…” Marlene breathes, “so hot.”
Dorcas, it turns out, became a war photojournalist in her twenties, fought in Syria, then moved into corporate activism and now helps run a women-led ethical tech startup.
Regulus peeks over their shoulders, beaming. “Classic Dorky. Still trying to save the world.”
Marlene is staring at the screen like it’s a religious text.
“I need her to punch me directly in the face.”
“I need her to ruin my life.”
“I need her to tie me up with rope made of moral superiority and throw me into the ocean.”
“You need therapy,” Lily mutters.
Pandora Rosier is next.
The articles are… wild.
“Multiple psych ward stays,” Frank reads softly. “A few near-death experiences. Married to a guy named Xenophilius Lovegood. Had a daughter—”
“Luna,” Regulus whispers.
“Yeah. Pandora Lovegood. Died in like, 2002.”
Regulus stares at the floor. “How?”
“Experimental invention blew up.”
Regulus nods slowly. “Well. That tracks.”
There’s a long silence.
“I miss her,” he says finally.
Nobody says anything.
Then comes Barty Crouch Jr.
Sirius searches the name and immediately recoils. “Holy shit.”
“Scandal after scandal,” James mutters, scrolling. “Drugs, family drama, maybe arson, possible cult ties.”
“Cult?” Regulus perks up.
“Went off the grid in like, 2007. Might be in Romania? Or dead.”
Regulus blinks. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”
And then—
Regulus grins, floating upside down again. “Alright. Now look up my boyfriend.”
Sirius chokes on his own tongue. “Your what?”
“Boyfriend. The love of my life. I wanna know what he’s up to.”
“Name?” Lily asks, eyebrows raised.
Regulus gives them a beatific, smug smile.
“Leonardo DiCaprio.”
The room explodes.
“WHAT THE FUCK?” James shrieks.
“LEO?!” Marlene screams.
“THE LEO?” Peter wheezes.
“THE TITANIC GUY?” Gideon yells.
“HE WAS IN INCEPTION,” Frank howls.
Regulus floats in a circle, confused. “Why is everyone yelling?”
“DO YOU MEAN THE FAMOUS ACTOR LEO?” Sirius is losing his mind.
“Famous? He was mine.”
“How the fuck did you date Leonardo DiCaprio?”
“Met him when I was thirteen. He was eighteen. He thought I was cute. We dated for three years. I lost my virginity to him in the back of a Honda Civic. He cried.”
“OH MY GOD,” Lily screams. “OH MY ACTUAL GOD.”
“THAT’S ILLEGAL!” Remus gasps.
“NOT IN THE EIGHTIES,” Regulus yells back. “IT WAS A DIFFERENT TIME!”
“WE NEED TO EXORCISE YOU,” Sirius shrieks. “WE NEED TO CALL A PRIEST.”
“NO!” Regulus screams back, “GET ME MORE GOOGLE IMAGE RESULTS!”
The room dissolves into pure chaos.
Marlene is on the floor clutching her stomach from laughing too hard. Sirius is threatening to throw his phone into the fireplace. Lily is still trying to search Leo’s dating history. Fabian is wheezing into a cushion. Regulus is floating around like the smug ghost of horny boyfriends past.
Peter screams, “He’s got a yacht now!”
“SHOW ME!” Regulus demands, full capslock, spinning midair like a disco ball.
“Why is this my life?” Sirius mutters into his hands. “Why is this what I’ve been born into? Why is my dead older gay ghost brother a former DiCaprio sugar baby?”
The YouTube upload was supposed to be a joke.
Something to scare their followers. Something to go viral in a “lol haunted house caught on tape???” kind of way. A good laugh. Some cheap views. Nothing serious.
It was not supposed to cause a global paranormal crisis.
But within twenty-four hours of posting the video—titled "We Accidentally Summoned a Real Ghost in My Best Friend’s Haunted Mansion (NOT CLICKBAIT)"—it’s trending in seventeen countries, sitting at four million views, and James is getting DMs from every paranormal TikToker, conspiracy theorist, verified Twitter account, and multiple news outlets.
Someone made a fan cam of Regulus set to “Sweater Weather” by hour two. By hour five, there’s a Change.org petition to give Regulus Black ghost citizenship.
Regulus, meanwhile, is loving it.
“LOOK HOW HOT I AM,” he beams, floating in front of the giant flatscreen as they replay the video on loop. “This is my legacy.”
“You’re dead,” Sirius mutters, face down on the carpet.
“Dead but still serving, babe,” Regulus says, blowing a kiss at the screen.
“Okay,” says Gideon, fiddling with his phone. “So we’ve taught you about phones, internet, memes, streaming, gay marriage, Lady Gaga, and climate change.”
Regulus, chewing on a spectral toothpick, nods. “The modern world is weird as balls.”
Peter pops his head up. “You wanna see what people are saying about you?”
Regulus perks up immediately. “Show me the thirst.”
They pull up Twitter.
@GhostHunterBaby69: id let regulus black possess me fr @vampmommy: who gave the haunted twink permission to look like that @actualdeadgirl: he’s my problematic fave. he smokes ghost weed. i love him. @houseofscreams: why is the floating emo poltergeist the sexiest man i’ve ever seen help
Regulus beams. “God bless the internet. This is what I deserved.”
“I don’t understand how we went from ‘oh no we summoned a ghost’ to ‘people are drawing fan art of your ghost nipples,’” Lily says weakly, scrolling TikTok.
“Because I’m iconic,” Regulus says simply, spinning midair like a ghostly ballerina.
But nothing—nothing—compares to what happens next.
James is sitting on the floor, filming Regulus reenacting the car scene from Titanic for the fifteenth time.
“You’re not even Rose,” James complains. “You’re just moaning and licking the screen whenever Leo comes on.”
“Because Rose is a placeholder,” Regulus says dreamily, staring at the scene where Leo’s hand hits the fogged-up window. “That’s my man.”
“Dude, you literally died before this movie came out.”
“I lived in his heart,” Regulus says dramatically. “And he lived in me.”
Sirius groans so loud it shakes the chandelier.
“Can we not talk about Leo living inside you,” Sirius begs. “I’m begging.”
Then—
A ping.
James glances at his notifications.
And freezes.
“Oh my god.”
“What?” Lily says. “Who is it now? BBC? Netflix? BuzzFeed again?”
James is pale. “No. It’s a… tweet.”
“From?”
“Leo. DiCaprio.”
There’s silence. Pure, holy, uncut silence. Like time itself took a breath.
“You’re lying,” Regulus breathes.
“Nope,” James says, stunned. “He… tagged me. Retweeted the video.”
“WHAT DOES IT SAY?!” Regulus screams, floating into James’ space like a vengeful banshee.
James reads aloud, voice shaking:
@LeoDiCaprio: this isn’t a joke right? this… this looks like him. if anyone knows who made this vid, please DM me. if this is real i think that’s my first love. i think that’s… regulus.
Everyone loses their fucking minds.
“HE WAS TELLING THE TRUTH?!” Marlene shrieks, grabbing Lily.
“LEO STILL LOVES HIM?!” Peter yells, falling off the couch.
“THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY FUCKING LIFE,” Regulus screams, spinning so fast his legs blur.
Not even twenty minutes later, James gets the DM.
It’s short. It’s surreal.
leo.d: this is insane i need to talk to him. can we FaceTime?
Regulus screams like a fangirl.
“SAY YES!”
“Dude he’s… he’s an A-lister, are we even allowed—”
“YES,” Regulus screeches, grabbing Sirius by the collar. “I WILL HAUNT YOU IF YOU DON’T SAY YES.”
“Alright FINE—”
James types back quickly. A minute later, the phone rings.
FaceTime call: LEO FUCKING DICAPRIO
Everyone’s screaming. Marlene is sobbing. Peter is on the floor praying. Gideon is filming it all. Sirius is having a full crisis in the corner.
James answers the call.
And there he is. Leonardo DiCaprio. In LA. Looking rich, confused, gorgeous, and shook.
“Hey,” Leo says, cautiously. “Is this—?”
And then, like a horror movie and a romcom had a chaotic gay baby, Regulus phases through James’ chest and floats directly into the camera frame.
“Hey, baby,” he says sweetly, biting his finger and giggling.
Leo gasps.
“Reg?!”
“It’s me!” Regulus beams, eyes wide and sparkly, floating in front of the camera like a happy anime character. “You look soooo good. Are you still rich? Do you have, like, seventeen yachts now?”
Leo makes a noise that sounds like a sob and a laugh smashed together.
“Oh my god. I thought you died. I thought—I thought you ran away or got hurt or—”
“I did die,” Regulus says cheerfully. “Got murdered. Long story. Not important. Tell me about youuuu!”
Leo is melting. Absolutely cooing. Smiling like a man who just saw a ghost and found out the ghost was still in love with him.
“You still bite your finger when you’re nervous,” Leo murmurs.
“I still love you,” Regulus says, grinning. “Does that count?”
The entire room erupts.
“OH MY GOD.”
“THIS IS THE BEST THING TO EVER HAPPEN.”
Marlene is openly sobbing. Sirius has put a pillow over his face. Lily is chanting “holy shit holy shit holy shit” like a prayer. James is filming everything like he’s going to sell it to TMZ.
They prop the phone up on a bookshelf, and Regulus parks himself front and center, legs crossed, twirling his hair with a dreamy smile.
“So tell me everything,” he says. “Where have you been? Are you dating anyone? Are you still mine?”
Leo’s eyes soften.
“I never stopped thinking about you,” he says.
Regulus floats midair, swaying and kicking his legs like a fifteen-year-old girl at a sleepover. “You’re such a sap,” he coos. “Do you have a jet?”
“I have four.”
“I want all of them.”
Leo laughs. “You can have anything you want.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me.”
Regulus squeals, clutches his face, and spins so fast he blurs again.
The screen freezes on Leo’s grin and Regulus glowing like a haunted cherub.
The rest of the world melts away.
Leo’s on speaker. Regulus is floating two inches off the ground, swaying side to side like a hypnotised toddler at a boyband concert, biting his finger and giggling like a dangerous amount.
“Wait—wait, show me your kitchen again,” Regulus says, his voice all breathy and flirty. “No, the other side. With the marble counter. Yeah. That one. That's where I’ll sit while you cook for me in nothing but Calvin Kleins.”
Leo chuckles. “You’re still such a little menace.”
“You love it,” Regulus purrs, twirling his hair and full-on levitating horizontally like he's on a Victorian chaise lounge. “I’m still your baby.”
Leo’s smile is audible. “You’ll always be my baby.”
Meanwhile, everyone else is absolutely losing their fucking minds.
“HI LEO,” Marlene yells into the phone at full volume.
“HI,” Peter squeaks. “I loved you in Catch Me If You Can!”
“YOU’RE SO HOT,” Fabian hollers. “YOU’RE LIKE MY DAD’S MANCRUSH.”
Leo laughs. “Hey, thanks, guys—”
“SHUT UP!” Regulus screams midair, eyes wide and outraged. “This is MY boyfriend! Stop trying to steal his attention! He only has eyes for ME!”
“You are dead!” Sirius yells.
“I am alive with love!” Regulus fires back.
“Let the man talk!” Lily adds, fanning herself. “God, he’s hotter in real time.”
Regulus covers the camera with his hand. “Everyone shut your eyes and pretend you’re not here. This is boyfriend time.”
Leo, blushing like a teenager, rests his chin in his hand. “So… how’s ghost life?”
Regulus instantly starts giggling again. “Sucks. I can’t touch anything. Can’t kiss you. Can’t even throw a wine glass when I’m feeling dramatic.”
Leo coos. “I’ll let you throw my wine glasses when you get here.”
“When I get where?!” Regulus fake gasps, clutching his own face. “Are you asking me to come visit? I simply couldn’t.”
“You could.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“You will.”
Regulus squeals. “YES. Yes, yes, yes, I’m coming, I wanna sit on your lap and wear expensive things and cry in a hot tub!”
Gideon raises a hand awkwardly. “Um. This might be dumb but… can Reg even leave the house?”
Everyone pauses.
Regulus’ face drops.
“…what?”
“Well,” Remus says carefully, “like… ghost rules, yeah? You died here. Maybe you’re tied to the property.”
Regulus gasps. “I—NO.”
“You’ve never tried to leave, have you?” Lily points out.
“I—I was busy! And then the internet happened! And Leo!”
Sirius frowns. “What if you step outside and just disappear?”
“Don’t you dare jinx me,” Regulus hisses. He turns toward the group, wide-eyed. “You. All of you. Test it. Get the phone. We’re going outside.”
The camera bounces as they scramble through the house, half-running, half-tripping over each other as Regulus floats ahead like a dramatic fog bank.
Front door. Open.
Regulus floats to the threshold and stops. Takes a deep breath. Floats through—
And lands.
Feet on the pavement. Standing. Solid. Standing.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!” His scream echoes through the hedges and probably into the next three postal codes.
“LEO!!” he yells, spinning and running—running—back to the phone. “BABY I CAN STAND! I CAN WALK! I’M ON THE FLOOR!”
Leo’s voice is so full of laughter and awe it crackles through the speaker. “You’re really out of the house?”
“I’m in the front garden, baby! I’m skipping! I can SIT ON A BENCH! I CAN DO A LITTLE JIG!”
And he does. A full twirl, a little jump, his hair flipping and his grin feral.
The rest of them are silent, frozen, watching in disbelief until—
He bumps into Peter.
Physically.
Peter hits the ground.
“AHHHHHHHH!!” “OH MY GOD!!” “HE TOUCHED ME!” “YOU TOUCHED HIM?!” “REGULUS YOU’RE SOLID!!”
Regulus freezes, blinking, hands trembling. Then he screams, lurches forward, and grabs the phone with both hands.
“OH MY GOD I’M HOLDING THE PHONE!” He stares at it, then at Leo, and then starts shrieking. “BABYYYYYYYYY I’M HOLDING YOU!!” Leo, full heart-eyes and soft laughter, is practically glowing. “You’re getting stronger.”
“I’M GETTING HORNY, THAT’S WHAT I’M GETTING.”
“Of course you are,” Leo laughs. “My beautiful boy. My horny, haunted little boyfriend.”
“I WANNA SEE YOU! I WANNA SEE YOU NOW!”
“I’ll buy you a ticket,” Leo says, already typing on another device. “I’m doing it right now. First class. Straight to LA.”
“YESSSS!!” Regulus does three cartwheels and somehow flies mid-way through the third one.
“Wait,” Lily says slowly. “You’re gonna send it to us?”
“I’ll email the e-ticket,” Leo confirms. “You just need to get him to the airport. I’ll FaceTime when he gets to the gate. Meet him at LAX.”
Everyone looks at each other.
“We can’t drive,” Sirius blurts. “None of us can legally drive!”
“WHAT?” Regulus spins on them, betrayal clear on his face. “YOU’RE ALL USELESS! WHAT GOOD IS BEING HAUNTED BY CHILDREN?!”
“It’s not our fault!” James yells. “We’re literally seventeen!”
“I’ll send an Uber,” Leo says calmly. “Don’t worry, baby. I got you.”
Regulus goes feral.
“My BOYFRIEND is sending me a CHAUFFEUR,” he shrieks, grabbing the nearest person (Peter, again) and hugging him so hard he drops his phone.
Regulus grabs it back, huffing. “Okay okay okay what do I wear? I need to slay. I need to kill. I’m not borrowing any of your crap, you all dress like 2012 Tumblr threw up on you.”
“Rude!” Gideon says.
“True,” Fabian adds.
“I need mesh. I need leather. I need chains. I need sunglasses bigger than my sins. I need to look like a dangerous twink from the past who’s about to ruin Leo DiCaprio’s life all over again.”
“I’ve got a mesh top,” Marlene offers.
“I’M FIFTEEN! I CAN’T BE SLUTTY IN MESH, YOU’LL GET US CANCELLED.”
Regulus is now tearing through the house, yelling, “DOES ANYONE HAVE A SILK SHIRT OR A LEATHER PANT?!”
Sirius, from the kitchen: “I have a Black Sabbath tee?”
“THIS ISN’T 8TH GRADE, SIRIUS! I’M MEETING THE LOVE OF MY LIFE AT LAX! I NEED TO LOOK LIKE A FASHION GOD!”
The clock is ticking. The Uber is coming. Leo’s sending the ticket. And Regulus is flying around the house screaming and glittering and trying to materialise a pair of boots with ghost power and pure gay panic.
Everyone’s running. Everyone’s yelling. And across the world, Leo is smiling like a man who just got his ghost boyfriend back after twenty years of mourning.
They were still frantically tossing shirts at Regulus when he dramatically floated upstairs with a shout of, “YOU’RE ALL HIDEOUS AND I DESERVE BETTER THAN THIS!”
And then he was gone. Vanished into the shadowy innards of the house. The attic, they guessed.
“Do you think he’s crying up there?” Peter asked nervously.
“He’s probably levitating dramatically in front of a mirror,” said Sirius, arms crossed, still reeling from being told his wardrobe was “a cultural offence.”
“Either that or summoning shoulder pads from the underworld,” Marlene muttered, digging through her bag for lip gloss.
Ten minutes later, he came down the stairs like a runway model in a gothic teen dream.
Layered chains. Mesh under a baggy punk band tee. A vintage bomber jacket with frayed patches on the sleeves. Ripped skinny jeans so tight they were either possessed or painted on. Black boots, scuffed and beautiful. Fingerless gloves. An entire constellation of pins on his lapel.
And a perfectly smug smirk to match.
The room screamed.
“WHAT THE FUCK,” said James, nearly dropping the camera.
“OH MY GOD,” Lily said, clutching her heart. “He looks SO good.”
“You look like you broke someone’s heart in an alley behind a club in ‘89,” Fabian breathed.
“I did,” Regulus said brightly, spinning and posing. “Twice. In the same alley.”
“THIS ISN’T FAIR,” Marlene shouted. “WHY IS YOUR DEAD VINTAGE CLOSET HOTTER THAN ME?”
“Because I had taste,” Regulus said. “Also trauma. It’s called character development.”
He strutted across the living room like it was his personal runway, snatched the phone right out of James’ hands mid-sentence, and immediately began checking his Uber reservation and e-ticket like a man who had ghost things to do and a celebrity boyfriend waiting across the world.
“Ooooh,” he cooed, zooming in on the details. “Leo booked first class? Oh he loves me.”
Sirius peered over his shoulder. “Did he actually send you money?”
“Sent me a full allowance,” Regulus said smugly. “For checking bags, snacks, a new eyeliner, whatever I want. My man’s spoiling me. I’m gonna be so annoying about this.”
“You already are,” Alice muttered.
Regulus kicked off the ground, floated upside down mid-spin, and clutched the phone to his chest like it was his own personal Oscar.
“I’m gonna get champagne on the flight,” he sighed. “I’m gonna cry in the plane bathroom while listening to Blondie. I’m gonna pretend I’m in a music video the whole time.”
They followed him upstairs like ducklings.
The attic was dusty and freezing and crammed with old stuff—trunks, boxes, suitcases, cracked record players, forgotten lamps—but Regulus was practically glowing as he zipped around, digging into everything with chaotic glee.
“OHHHH MY GOD,” he screeched, holding up a duffel bag. “THIS was my concert bag. I used to sneak vodka into gigs in this. It still smells like rebellion and poor decisions!”
“That’s vintage leather,” Lily gasped, reaching for it.
Regulus pulled it away like it was the Ark of the Covenant. “Don’t touch my things.”
He opened another box. “OOOH. My Madonna pins. My Cure records. My denim vest with the studs. My old eyeliner that probably has anthrax in it now. My Walkman.”
“Can you even bring a Walkman on a plane?” Remus asked.
“I’m going to try,” Regulus said seriously. “Leo deserves to see me in my final form.”
Marlene pointed at another crate. “Are those—platform boots?!”
Regulus cackled and shoved it behind him. “MINE.”
“You’re a goblin,” Sirius muttered.
“I’m a hot goblin,” Regulus snapped.
And then.
“Oh my god.”
He was crouched over a plastic folder with trembling hands. Everyone turned.
“…What?” James asked. “What is it?”
Regulus lifted something in slow motion. A battered passport. He opened it with reverence. Stared. Paused. And then shrieked.
“IT’S STILL VALID!!”
“WHAT?!” they all shouted.
“I found my fucking passport!” he screamed, waving it in the air. “LOOK! Birth year: 1979. Not expired yet. It’s technically still real. I was never declared dead. They just thought I went missing. OH MY GOD!”
He spun in a circle, clutching it like a holy relic.
“I’M GONNA GET ON THAT FUCKING PLANE!!”
Peter gasped. “You’re a legal person?!”
“I’m a ghostly legal person,” Regulus corrected. “I’m the IRS’s wet dream.”
He ran back downstairs, vintage duffel bag packed to the brim, his ghost form sparkling like excitement had become visible.
“I’M GOING TO SEE MY BOYFRIEND,” he yelled as he floated upside-down, twirling like a glittery banshee.
“AND HE’S RICH.”
“And he’s HOT.”
“And he LOVES ME.”
“And he’s sending me an Uber,” he said smugly. “And I’m gonna sit in the back seat like a legend.”
Leo, on FaceTime again, was blushing. “You’ve got your passport, baby?”
Regulus held it up like a trophy. “I was born ready.”
“Okay,” Leo said, voice warm. “I’ll be waiting at LAX. Call me when you get to the gate. I’ll be the guy with a sign that says 'MY BOYFRIEND’S A GHOST.'”
Regulus giggled like a feral little gremlin and did a mid-air summersault, yelling, “FUCKING ICONIC!!”
The air outside the Black family manor buzzed with the kind of unhinged energy you only get when you’re helping your ghost brother-turned-fashion-icon-turned-internet-phenomenon pack up his vintage 80s wardrobe to fly across the world to rekindle his long-lost love with Leonardo DiCaprio.
Regulus Black, resident undead twink and legally-recognised chaos spirit, was standing triumphantly in the driveway with his scuffed boots on the cobblestone like a prince surveying his kingdom.
“Okay,” he said, loudly and smugly. “Let’s all take a moment to remember that I am thirty-six years old and can legally drink, smoke, vote, rent a car, and marry a Hollywood actor in every state except like, Alabama.”
“Do not marry Leo in Alabama,” Fabian muttered. “You’ll end up owning a tractor and a cousin.”
Regulus ignored him, spinning in place with his arms out like the dramatic bitch he was. “Meanwhile, you lot are still seventeen. Babies. Little infants. Toddling around, crying for TikTok and oat milk.”
“We’re literally helping you get to the airport,” Lily said flatly.
“Yes, because I’m fabulous and you’re lucky to breathe the same air as me,” Regulus sang, tugging on his fingerless gloves. “I can’t believe you’re all going to live the rest of your lives knowing I pulled Leo DiCaprio while you were still doing GCSEs.”
“YOU WERE FIFTEEN WHEN YOU DATED HIM,” Sirius screamed.
“AND YET, STILL HOTTER THAN ALL OF YOU,” Regulus roared back.
They were barely halfway through Regulus describing his first fake ID (handwritten, laminated, said he was a French film critic named Jean-Pierre Moonbeam) when the Uber pulled up.
Except it wasn’t an Uber. It was a fucking limo.
“Oh my god,” James whispered.
“Oh my god,” Lily echoed.
“Oh my fucking god,” Regulus screamed, starry-eyed. “LEO IS SENDING ME TO HIM IN A LIMO?!”
The car was longer than the house. The driver got out in a suit and cap and actually bowed.
“Regulus Black?”
“That’s me,” Regulus beamed, practically levitating. “Don’t worry about the others. They’re peasants. They’re here to carry my things.”
“You're carrying your own damn bags,” Sirius grumbled, already hauling one of the overstuffed vintage suitcases.
“I’m fragile!” Regulus protested. “And delicate!”
“You’re a chaotic gay poltergeist in fingerless gloves,” Marlene muttered. “You’re about as delicate as a chainsaw in fishnets.”
The group scrambled into the limo after him, still in various states of disbelief. Regulus had parked himself across the entire middle seat like a fainting prince, arms dramatically draped over the leather.
“This is what I deserve,” he sighed, as he kicked his boots up on the mini-bar.
“You’re gonna haunt the fucking mini fridge,” Frank muttered.
James, squashed between Lily and a suitcase full of old Joy Division shirts, whispered, “Does he still have my phone?”
“He still has your soul,” Gideon whispered back.
Regulus was now clinking a Diet Coke from the limo’s bar against the window, sipping dramatically and monologuing like a soap opera villain.
“I hope the paps are waiting at Heathrow. I hope Leo sends a private jet next time. I hope you all cry when I post our wedding photos.”
“Wedding?!” Sirius yelped.
“Oh yeah,” Regulus said casually. “He’s gonna propose. He has to. I’m iconic. He’s been in love with me for two decades.”
“You dated him for three years when you were a teenager and then died.”
“And he never moved on,” Regulus said sweetly. “Because I’m unforgettable.”
Marlene leaned over. “If I kill you again, can I inherit your boots?”
“Touch them and I’ll haunt your bloodline.”
By the time they pulled up to the airport drop-off zone, Regulus had made the driver stop twice so he could lean out the sunroof and dramatically yell “I’M COMING, BABY!” into the sky like Leo could hear him from across the Atlantic.
They spilled out of the limo in full circus formation: Regulus twirling and posing, Gideon filming, Lily hauling two suitcases, Sirius holding the passport like it might bite him, and James trailing behind muttering, “I just wanted to make prank videos, not assist in a ghost elopement.”
Regulus was still clinging to James’s phone.
“I’m keeping this,” he said. “For the vibes. I’ll DM Leo with it. I’ll post airport thirst traps. I’ll use your TikTok to post ‘get ready with me: ghost edition’ in the toilet of a Boeing 747.”
“Can I at least have my contacts back?” James whined.
“No,” Regulus said smugly, swiping through the camera roll. “I’m the main character now.”
Security was gonna be a nightmare. But right now, they didn’t care.
Because Regulus Black—undead, illegally fabulous, thirty-six on paper, vintage on purpose, and high on ghost weed—was walking into Heathrow with a passport, a plane ticket, and a fucking limo ride from Leonardo DiCaprio himself.
And he wasn’t just going to LAX.
He was going home.
They walked into Heathrow Airport like the world’s most chaotic Scooby-Doo gang: eleven teenagers in mismatched outfits trailing a smug, floating twink in vintage boots and eyeliner, dragging luggage that creaked with haunted nostalgia and decades-old eyeliner pencils.
Regulus Black was glowing—not in the ghost sense (though, yes, still literally floating half the time), but in the “I have a private jet and a rich celebrity boyfriend and you all are peasants” sense.
People stared. People took pictures. People whispered in corners.
Regulus only tossed his hair and smirked harder.
Check-in was surprisingly smooth. Too smooth.
The airline agent, scanning Regulus’s (genuinely valid!) passport, did a subtle double-take at the 1979 birthdate—but then looked up, saw a devastatingly pretty boy with a dewy babyface and killer cheekbones, and just… assumed he was rich and genetically blessed.
“Wow,” she said softly, handing his documents back. “You do not look thirty-six.”
“I do pilates in the afterlife,” Regulus replied, winking, and floated off like a Victorian sex icon.
Security, on the other hand, was a disaster.
First of all, Regulus refused to take off his jewellery.
“They’re cursed pieces. They stay on.”
Second, he kept setting off the scanner by just existing. Every time he passed through, the machines shrieked like banshees.
After a solid ten minutes of chaos, panicked airport staff, metal detectors short-circuiting, and one brief moment where Regulus accidentally floated halfway through the scanner and made a TSA agent faint—
—they finally just… accepted that he was, in fact, a ghost.
Sirius showed a video of Reg’s head spinning in a 360 arc. Peter showed him phasing through a suitcase. Fabian casually let Reg fly upside-down and chant Latin into the camera.
Eventually, one supervisor just sighed and muttered, “This is above my pay grade,” and waved them through.
Then they reached the gate.
And stared.
Because it wasn’t just a gate.
It was a VIP terminal. With velvet ropes. And a small red carpet. And a flight attendant holding a sign that said:
“Mr. Regulus Black – LAX – Private Charter – Courtesy of Leonardo DiCaprio.”
James made a noise like a dying dolphin.
“HE SENT YOU A JET?”
Regulus, already halfway into a hair flip, smirked. “Of course he did. My man’s not cheap.”
Marlene grabbed Lily’s arm. “He’s about to have the best romantic comeback story of all time and I can’t even get a text back from my ex.”
They had an hour to spare before boarding.
Regulus took that personally.
“SHOPPING MONTAGE!” he yelled, spinning mid-air and zipping toward the Duty Free.
Everyone ran after him.
The damage was immediate and immense.
Regulus, arms full of overpriced moisturiser, sunglasses the size of windshields, and designer lip balm he’d never be able to apply, was floating through the shops like a deranged sugar baby possessed by the spirit of Madonna and cocaine.
He bought snacks, sunglasses, skincare, and five copies of the same fashion magazine just because he liked the cover.
At one point he grabbed a trench coat and yelled, “Do I look like I’m in The Matrix or like I just murdered someone’s husband in a 90s thriller?”
“Both!” Mary screamed.
Then he hit the ATM.
They watched in horror as Regulus inserted James’s debit card (where Leo had wired him the allowance) and withdrew...
“...Fucking £7,000,” Sirius said, blinking.
“That's... that’s like ten grand in dollars,” Frank whispered.
Regulus held the stacks of cash like they were a bouquet of roses. “I’m gonna tip every flight attendant with ghost money and then buy an airport Rolex just to throw it at a duck.”
“You can’t throw luxury watches at waterfowl,” Remus groaned.
“Watch me.”
They crashed at the gate, panting, bags in chaos, everyone mildly traumatised.
Regulus, still buzzing from sugar and supernatural adrenaline, was sitting on top of a bench, doing his makeup in a tiny mirror and singing “Material Girl” under his breath.
People kept recognising them. Pointing. Filming. One girl asked if she could take a picture with Regulus and he said, “Only if you call me a slur on Twitter afterwards.”
They didn’t stop him. People only liked him more.
“So,” Regulus said, pulling out his old concert duffel bag. “Just to check, can I smoke on the plane? I mean, it's a private jet, yeah? The laws don’t apply.”
Everyone froze.
“…No, Reg,” said Lily. “You absolutely cannot smoke on the plane.”
“Oh.”
He dug around in the bag. “What about drinking?”
“You can probably drink,” said Gideon.
“What about drugs?”
Everyone turned.
“…Please,” James said slowly, “tell us you didn’t pack literal vintage cocaine.”
“I didn’t intend to,” Regulus said innocently. “But this is my concert bag from 1987, and I used to keep some in the false bottom with my eyeliner and mints.”
Sirius groaned. “This is almost as bad as the fact your rotting corpse is still inside the walls of my house.”
“Leave my corpse out of this!” Regulus snapped. “What are they gonna do, arrest me posthumously? I’m already dead! Now someone check if they still serve mini vodkas on planes.”
“I can’t believe you’re gonna cause an international ghost incident,” Peter muttered.
“I believe it,” Regulus said proudly, applying lip gloss. “Now, someone Google if I can keep a taxidermy possum in my carry-on. I might want a travel companion.”