Summary: When he didn't remember and then suddenly he did and wished to forget again. Or where Regulus survives, hits his head and becomes the Cloud Arcobaleno.

Disclaimer: Neither Harry Potter nor Katekyo Hitman Reborn is mine.

Warnings: Language, Reborn, others I'm not sure of, absolutely NO pairings

Rating: T

Word Count: 2895

Author's Note: It's my birthday. Yay. I don't know what to think about it. I have differing feelings about this fic but oh well. I found it on my phone. Wrote this during my friend's birthday party, I was pretty drunk soo... Yeah. Don't know if it will be continued because I have no idea what to do with this one. I have another fic from this party (Bleach one) but I will think about posting it for now. If you see any mistakes, kindly point them out to me.

(This chapter was edited. A little bit. (22.12.2015))

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Chapter 1

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Skull didn't remember his whole life. He woke up one day on a beach near the sea, not remembering a thing from his past. There were bits and pieces that flitted through his mind when prompted by something, like when he first saw a motorbike. His first thought was I want that. His second was some vague mix of jealousy, resentment and love. He didn't know why he felt like that but for some reason a smell of a wet dog came to mind.

He decided that since he wanted the thing he would get one.

He walked away from the shore in some random direction and after a few hours, arrived in a small village, empty and abandoned a long time ago. It was burned, he concluded after taking a long look at his surroundings, although not all of it was. There were some small houses that escaped from the fire that burned everything else down.

It was in one of these houses that he found some useful things such as clothes (although from a rougher material than what his skin was used to, he discovered soon, scratching at himself and generally feeling uncomfortable) and water (although it was ice cold and not suitable for drinking. He bathed in it and drank it anyway, desperate times call for desperate measures).

He discovered that he rather preferred not to be in the same room as a large gathering of water when he poured some into the bathtub (erratic breathing, sweating, rabbit fast pulse, shaking hands, weak knees, dizziness, all the signs of panic attack, he tripped backwards and smashed his head into the floor, blood was spilled from it and he needed to use the towels he found in the bathroom to stop the bleeding).

So after that particular event, he slowly poured some water into a bowl and stood in an empty bathtub, systematically pouring the liquid on himself, washing all the grime and dirt his body accumulated over his journey.

And when he got rid of the rags (robes those were robes, whispered his subconscious) he was wearing from his time at the beach and was cleaning himself up, he saw his body for the first time. It was slim, a little too slim, with ribs that were showing and limbs that were all lithe muscle and little to no fat. There were also some gashes and scratches and even a few hand-shaped bruises on his body.

It was definitely concerning but he focused on his limbs, more specifically, his inner left forearm. There was a washed-out tattoo there, of a snake and a skull and a word flashed through his mind's eye, Voldemort. Well, it was a little cliche but it was all he had to go on so he took skull, added demort and he had a new name. Skull de Mort. Skull of the Death.

Soon, he left behind the half-burned village and moved on, eventually ending up in a circus. Without a ticket, with ill-fitting clothes and eating a stolen hotdog, the workers thought him another teenage runaway, told him that since he was sixteen (they guessed), they would let him stay and feed him if he worked for it.

That was how he started his journey as a stuntman. Eventually, after earning quite a sum of money, he bought himself his first motorcycle and suffice to say, the circus suddenly become much more popular. He learned quickly what was what and after getting some initial help from his colleagues and fiddling with the machine himself, he figured out the rest and went from there.

There were other things he figured out as he went. For example, he was fluent in quite a few languages, for example French, Italian, Russian, Latin plus some Japanese (he could hold a conversation alright but he couldn't read any of their weird writings, because three alphabets, who needs so much? why? for what purpose?) and traditional Chinese (spoken only, too).

He came to the conclusion that he had a rich family, for them to hire so much tutors or he had a family that could speak in many languages. The former was most likely. And he wouldn't like to start pointing fingers but with the injuries he was currently covered in and some flashes of memories ("Behave yourself, like the heir of the most ancient and noble House or I will blast you out of the family like that disgrace of your bro-!" "Bow, you imbecile of a boy!" "You will serve him or you will experience the pain of Cruc-!"), he was inclined to believe that his family was involved in some way. Negative way.

As time went on in the circus, Skull developed his own personality. It was mostly based on everything that was going on around him. His fame needed someone that was boisterous, loud and proud. He thought that sometimes he overreacted and was too emotional but he had no way of checking if his old personality was similar to the front he was presenting (besides an uncomfortable feeling curling in his stomach every time he needed to talk loudly for his audience and generally be a showman, he silently thought that in the past he was a quiet and withdrawn person by nature but now he simply could not return to that because he was a stuntman and needed to be loud and draw attention).

But he found out something else. He was quite durable and finding this out turned out to be a painful and terrifying experience. The first time, everyone was relived enough that they overlooked it. The second, they called him lucky. But after the third time he stood up after a fall from his bike that should have broken his neck or his spine or something, with only a slight stumble and a thumbs up to show he was okay, they regarded him with slightly more wariness and morbid curiosity.

He was quickly dubbed as Immortal Skull, the One Hated by Grim Reaper.

That was when the Man in Checkered Hat came and his whole world turned upside down.

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His first meeting with the Strongest Seven was manageable. They were all strangers and so they didn't interact much. Besides Luce (who gave out cookies and tea and coffee and wasn't she just amazing) but that woman was exceptional, different from everyone else because she was the only one of them who was a boss. A Mafia boss. Skull, on the other hand, was the only one not involved in any shady dealings or in Mafia in general. That made him a civilian and therefore, weaker and an easy picking. The fact that he didn't have any idea when they were talking about Flames and Dying Wills made everything worse. He was uninformed and the weakest because he couldn't access his own Flames, couldn't even say what Flames he had, he was going blind. He didn't ask anybody because he knew how they would react (Reborn - scornful and belittling, Fon - serene as ever, hiding behind a peaceful smile, Lal - dismissive and cold, Verde - clinically detached, not even sparing him a glance, Luce - apologetic and sympathetic wasn't something he wanted from anybody and Viper... would probably demand money and that wouldn't be such a bad idea. He should totally ask Viper for some help).

Checkerface gave them missions and Skull generally tried not to make a mess and stay out of everyone's way. Because as much as his pride hurt at that, he knew when to back down and let experts do their work. Even if he muttered bitterly every time they disregarded him and didn't include him in any planning because he was, in their opinion, too stupid (something dangerous stirred in him at that, he was many things and inexperienced in everything Mafia related was one of them but he took pride in his intelligence, he wasn't stupid, unfortunately every time he made a sharp retort, he was punished quite harshly - Reborn beat him down ("You need to build immunity and learn how to fight eventually") or shoot at him ("Dodging practice"). And Luce who was usually appalled at these practices was quickly appeased with Reborn's silver tongue ("He needs to learn if he wants to survive, Luce").

And something in Skull was telling him that he should try to convince Luce that it was madness and that Reborn was simply a sadist who enjoyed seeing others in pain but he wasn't a speaker, he was like a snake (slithering snakes, a green and silver banner, slitherslitherslither, where did he hear that before?), who was bidding his time and waiting to strike.

He carefully catalogued every scrap of information he scavenged about the other six and while it wasn't much (Reborn, Italian, Strongest Hitman in the World, formerly known as Renato Sinclair, Sun, uses guns, womanizer, arrogant, strong, favorite drink espresso. Lal Mirch, the Rain, Italian probably, former leader and an instructor at COMSUBIN, a no-nonsense type of woman, easily irritated. Fon, the Storm, was a martial arts specialist, peaceful and kind, oolong tea was his favorite drink, he was born in China and worked for the Triads. Verde, the Lightning, was a scientist from France, said to be the next DaVinci, with cold personality and interested only in his research. Viper, the Mist, was greedy and tended to charge high prices for his services, his favorite drink was strawberry milk. Luce was the Eight Giglio Nero Boss, the Sky, all-encompassing and accepting and understanding. She was also quite blind to the faults of her favourites - Reborn (no, he wasn't bitter, at all) and quite deaf to the hurt of the some others - himself. She was also quite pregnant and despite her ignorance to the abuse others heaped up on him (he didn't need help, he wasn't helpless or weak enough to need help, especially from a pregnant woman), he still quite liked her, she actually took third place when it came to the other six of the Strongest (first was Viper, then Fon).

After asking and paying Viper for his time and patience, he learned more about Flames and found out that he himself was a Cloud and a powerful one to boot. And after asking and paying some more, he started learning how to control these Flames.

Viper was a hard instructor but an efficient one. He was hard and praise came rarely if at all. But when Skull succeeded in accessing his flames and channeling them to his arms which erupted in brilliant purple flames he was reluctantly impressed and congratulated him. Skull felt warmth seep into his being and ignored the whispers in his head ("Mother, look what I did!" "Not now, don't you see I'm busy? Your brother could do that when he was two years younger than you! Get out of my sight and back to your room or you will taste Cruciatus again!" '…I wanted to make you proud.').

Missions and training took much of his time. And then came the Fated Day and everything changed again.

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He behaved like a weak wimpy and petulant child because that was what everyone expected him to be. The strangers who thought him to be a real child and the other Arcobaleno, who thought him a pathetic waste of space. He behaved like that because he didn't remember the time when he was important and pureblood and aristocrat. He only remembered the After. There were some clues pointing to his wealthy childhood but after some memories of his family ("You are a Black, I forbid you from associating with dirty mudbloods! You will be punished for your insolence! Spitting in the face of your ancestors! Turning your back on the traditions followed in this House for years! Crucio!" "Straighten your back, do not hunch in on yourself like some mudblood! You are a proud so of Blacks!"), he was cheerful enough to hunch in and eat messily and do whatever he wanted and associate with whomever he wanted to.

Then, the Vongola Decimo broke the curse.

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Hands. Grasping at him and pulling him. Down. Into the water.

Air. He couldn't breathe. He needed-

Kreatcher. My friend.

Take it. Destroy it. Go.

Hands. Cold, so cold. The hands were cold and grey and they were pulling at him. The water was so cold. Those hands were in him.

He was in the water. He was drowning. He needed to-!

He woke up.

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The love of motorcycles was clearly a Black family thing, he thought hysterically, hand tugging at his abnormal hair in obvious distress and a nervous, half mad little laugh escaping his painted lips. He remembered sneering at his brother when he first saw him fiddling with the monstrous machines. He thought them loud, dirty and useless, like most things muggle and muggles themselves.

Now, though... Well.

He glanced through the open door of the bathroom into the corridor which lead to his messy living room. There were magazines about, pictures of, some parts and an actual motorbike in there. It was horrifying. Both the mess and the actual machine and the Muggleness that seemed to be present in the whole apartment. Regulus was horrified. Because he would rather be at Grimmauld Place (even though he didn't especially like it, it was home) than in a Muggle's flat. The devices around it were indication enough. For example, something that was like the pictures from his world but wasn't. There were sounds coming from it, people talking, music playing while the pictures were mute. He would have said that it was a painting but the scenery was changing and the figures that he could see, couldn't see him. The pureblood in him was disgusted and amused with their tries at imitating Magic. The schoolary wizard in him was fascinated by their ability to do so. The rational person, which he was, was uneasy at their progress and knowledge.

He shook his head and turned back around from his blank starring at the wall to the mirror.

He looked at his reflection and couldn't believe what he was seeing. He slowly examined his appearance for the third time.

His face looked... interesting, which was the only thing he could think of without insulting himself. He had purple lipstick smeared on his lips, eyeshadow of the same colour. There was also a teardrop under his eye and some piercings. On his face. His mother would have fainted. But first she would have cursed him (in words and with a wand) all the while screeching about removing him from the family tree. His father would have stood behind her and even though he wouldn't have said a word, his stare alone would have literally been throwing Avada Kedavras around like Dumbledore liked throwing around his blasted lemon drops.

His hair was a wild mess of purple locks, looking like it was styled with lots of spray and gel but it wasn't so. It wasn't a fashion statement or anything as silly. It just wouldn't lie flat. It reminded him of the bedhead Potter used to have when he forgot to tame his hair on some mornings. His mood lifted for a moment remembering Potter's face when he realized the state of his hair and ran to the Griffindor's dorm to fix it. Then his mood smashed and crashed and died a very quick death because he doesn't look like Regulus Black but like a Muggle punk. He mourned his eyes the most, though. Instead of the typical in Blacks silver (sometimes light blue), it was a striking shade of purple. Which glowed, a little. It was a little bit worrying, in all actuality. And depressing because his eyes have always been a point of pride in him because he was a Black (only Blacks have eyes like those, the colour like that of a distant star after which all of their family members were named, one only needed to look them in the eye to know that they were of the Most Noble and Ancient House and Regulus wasn't ashamed of his heritage).

It was his body but at the same time, not really. The Dark Mark was still there, a little blurred around the edges but there nontheless. His facial features didn't change in the slightest (except the piercings and band aids and some make up, covering scars) but the colour of his hair and eyes did.

And he was wearing a little too tight for his tastes (he was used to wizarding robes and loose shirts and flapping cloaks) but still surprisingly comfortable one piece biking jumpsuit. It was black, white and purple too. Plus gloves and high boots of the same colour scheme. He liked purple, it was his favourite colour (not every Slytherin is all about green and silver) but that was a little too much. He liked purple when it was stylish but throw too much and you just look like a colourblind person.

He looked like a punk, he thought miserably, pulling at the chain linking his lip to his ear and accidentally smudging his makeup with his glove. Like a clown, he despaired, eyeing his mess of a hair and the now smudged lips. Like someone with zero sense of style.

It was a disaster. He was a disaster.

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