꧁ʙᴏʀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴜʀᴘʟᴇ꧂

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 61

꧁✧✧✧꧂

𝕱rom the sheer intensity of his grip, the skin of Regulus' knuckles is a milky white.

It hurts. It hurts to breathe, the rise and fall of his chest painful and the air inside his lungs stings. His throat feels red raw and the pressure behind his eyes almost unbearable. It hurts. And it's been hurting all day, getting worse as the hours tick on. Getting worse the more the distance grows from Hogwarts and shrinks to station.

Ignoring the series of knocks, he hunches over the train lavatory's excuse for a sink, splashing ice cold water up onto his face. Down onto the horrific mess that is his Dark Mark, buried in prickly heat and scratched to high heaven. He exhales a shuddering breath and catches his own eye in the small hanging mirror, watches as an unrecognisable darkness consumes it.

Incessant and impatient the door knocks become, not helping the pound of his head in any way, shape or form. Less than ten minutes he's been locked up in there, not half of the journey which is what they're acting like. Unable to take anymore, he rips down his sleeve, whirls around and swings open the door, his cutting voice blending into theirs.

"Learn some fucking pa—"

"It's about fucking ti—"

A halt. On both ends. Regulus isn't certain whether it's because of who it is or rather the vicinity that was, needless to say, not expected. The narrowest of margins separate them, something that could be, would be erased in the teeniest tiniest of moves. On both ends.

Powerless, Romie attentively follows the single bead of water's run from his hairline all the way down to where the breath, fresh with peppermint, kissing her lips stems from. Against her ribs, her heart rather erratically thumps, hyperaware this is the closest they've been in weeks. Since they ended things.

It's like it hits them both at the same time, senses quickly came to. Because then, in unison, they're adding to the distance between them, taking a few small steps back. Adverting starved gazes away from starved lips. As good of an idea that was, in actuality, it worsens everything, because neither make head or tail of which way the other goes. Just their luck.

Left and right, right and left, and so and forth, ending up doing that cringeworthy dance strangers engage in on the street. Though in this case, there's no awkward smile laughs or soft pedal apologies, on their way. Just caving sighs and hopeless eyes.

Romie tucks closer to herself what Regulus hadn't noticed until now, feeling his hurt heighten when he recognises a tub for the soothing ointment cream he stole the labelled instructions for months back. The reason for her incessancy, her impatience. He isn't the only one burning. A burn he inflicted on himself, unlike her.

He smoothly sides steps to the right whilst Romie remains still in one place, moving only when the entrance to the shoebox bathroom opens up. She doesn't recognise her own voice in the thanks she manages to choke out, doesn't recognise the feeble wave off response of Regulus'. Like strangers on the street. Strangers don't hang around after the door clicks shut, don't turn around or look back.