- ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴜs ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ғᴀɴғɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ
"You. Me. Hogsmeade. Tomorrow" Romie demands, leaving no room for objection.
Regulus slowly lifts his head from his book, briefly wondering if he's managed to land himself into a similar alternate dimension,
"Come again...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
꧁✧✧✧꧂
𝕴n Romie's opinion, no other Hogwarts house could even try to compete with that of the Lion's den.
Located behind the portrait of the 'Fat Lady', the Gryffindor tower was welcoming, homely and snug. There's roaring fires crackling orange glowing flames, comfortable stuffed armchairs to lounge on with wicker baskets brimming with many blankets, thick crimson streamers draping from the ceiling to the stone walls, outlined with a strip of gold. Crimson and gold, the most common colour scheme throughout — being the house colours of course.
From the bay windows, there's broad views of the Scottish Highlands and Hogwarts grounds. Mahogany tables, chairs and bookcases for students to complete their homework or individual interests, many taking up the space with a game of Wizard's chess or exploding snap. The portraits on the walls are friendly, chatty and always supportive when they're informed of house points or trophies won.
And the aromas of Madagascar vanilla, treacle tarts and burning earthy cedar wood that wash over you once setting foot in the towers are oddly reposeful to say the least. Romie loved it, even though she thought Pandora's common room to be enchantingly beautiful and Hestia's to be wonderfully sweet, they didn't compare. Not to Gryffindor.
"Roman Empire!"
Romie blinks, regretfully glancing left and up to the balcony of sorts on the landing between the boys and girls dormitories, overlooking the entire common room. Because, standing there, holding up in one hand an expensive hairbrush, the other, a pack of hair accessories, Sirius Black, grinning boyishly. Grinning boyishly down at her. Roman Empire. Apparently, as it seems, Romie is the Roman Empire he so charmingly called for.
Locking eyes with silvery grey, she presses a finger to her lips, gesturing to the lanky figure sprawled across the couch, sleeping off the exhaustion from the full moon. Sirius bobs his head up and down understandingly, quieting down his triumphant cheers to silent ones when the younger girl then crooks that same finger, patting the growing space between her legs.
He's dressed in his Quidditch gear, Romie notices, as he appears from the staircase, winking to the swooning, drooling girls dotted around the common room. There must be a practice later, and he doesn't want his luscious, long raven locks all up in his face distractingly. Sirius exchanges his hair products for the cushion in her awaiting hands, thanking profusely for her thoughtfulness towards his perky arse and the measures taken to keep it comfortable whilst he's there.
Rolling her eyes, she yanks him down onto the floor between her legs, ignoring the many palpable stares and glares of jealousy around the room from girls wishing they were one of the very few able to touch Sirius Black's hair. Romie put the privilege down to being because she's to be his future little sister-in-law. Made sense. Sirius hums happily to himself, grasping ahold of her knees and adjusting her so that they sit on his shoulders, her ankles instinctively crossing over at his chest, locking him in.
