- 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...
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꧁✧✧✧꧂
𝕺utside on the cobbled streets, Regulus leans against the stone wall of the Three Broomsticks.
He's sceptical to go in. Sceptical of what Romie Lupin's true intentions are in demanding that he meet her there, inside. Regulus isn't a fool, she can be just as much of a mischievous prankster than their brothers and merry band of misfits can be, this could all be a trap to humiliate him. He and Romie had never gotten along well, it wouldn't be too surprising if that was what this was about all along.
On another hand, something in his gut tells him this is different. That there's something else being the driving force behind Romie's actions. Ever since he was a little boy, he's been curious, eager to know all. Romie Lupin and her insufferable yet oh-so fascinating ways are no exception.
Which is why he finds himself kicking off the wall and pushing open the door to the popular pub. It's severely crowded, brimming with teenagers from Hogwarts, all savouring their freedom and every sweet bit of Madame Rosmerta's one-of-a-kind butterbeer. No one does it like Rosie.
Peering through the bustling groups of boisterous boys and giggling girls, his silvery eyes finally land on what he's searching for. In a private booth at the back corner, bundled up in that same aztec jumper from the train, her favoured colour of purple, Romie Lupin, reading serenely whilst she waits.
He soaks in her fawn brown hair, weaved loosely into braids that dangle from her pierced ears and the fallen strands that frame her freckled face. Her knees are tucked up to her chest, unladylike and improper, book balanced against them providing an efficient stand. He bites his lip, barely hearing Rosmerta when she pipes up cheeky from behind the bar,
"You owe me five galleons, Regulus Black"
There's a twitch to her coral coloured lips when he turns around, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. Again, something stirs in his gut and he has a tingling suspicion of the answer before he's even asked the question,
"What for?"
Rosmerta's gaze dances over his shoulder to behind, and ah there it is, "Romie said her drinks are on you today. Lucky man"
That elfin bitch.
Inhaling sharply and resisting the urge to abandon everything and storm out of the pub, Regulus digs into his pocket and hands over the apparently owed money of his. Five galleons isn't going to leave him poor, it's an equivalent to a knut to the wealth in his vault, but five galleons for butterbeer? That's ridiculous.
Rosmerta grins at him, cleaning the residue foam from some of the used glasses as he mutters, "How many has she had?"
"Three. You took your sweet time, Black. I say fair play" She shrugs, chuckling at his eye roll and irritable grunt,
