꧁ʙᴏʀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴜʀᴘʟᴇ꧂

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 39

"That's typically what people say when there's a body to be buried" She utters, settling on a narrow, based on the way his lips are twitching at the corners.

Tone touching on the light hearted side of the spectrum, Regulus returns, "I'm not surprised you of all people put two and two together. Have you something to tell me?"

"Have you something to tell me?" Romie throws back on a more serious note.

Whatever the something is that came up, in need of taking care of at the crack of dawn evidently topped more than just the likes of the quidditch team practice because it's still niggling in the back of his mind, influencing the odd behaviour she's witnessing. His face gives nothing away, not the blank and empty, but not riddled with answers either.

There is something though, something small, something easily missed. Something that makes her want to change her answer or lack of to the question whispered into the broken walls of the Lupin Cottage. It starts to fade, chased away and replaced by the rather harsh reaction to what, until now, had fallen deaf to Romie's ears.

"Filthy half-breeds. I say we lock them up where they belong. Silver cages"

The baby hairs on the nape of her neck stand, feeling that awful sinking sensation in her gut. Regulus' eyes stray from hers, darkening considerably at what they zero in on. Not the people, not the slimy gang Romie reckons hadn't unintentionally ended up directly behind her whilst speaking of the topic that's caught their attention. He's zeroing in on what's, again, not so unintentionally, in the hands of their leader.

The Daily Prophet.

The renowned, popular newspaper the majority of Hogwarts, students and staff, pay a monthly subscription for. Romie's not one of them, she doesn't need to be, there's plenty to go around if necessary. There hadn't been plenty in the Great Hall this morning. There hadn't been any at all.

Fetching and flourishing her wand sticking out the opening of her tote, she casts a quick, simple, "Accio"

Whilst, greasy and slimy Snape doesn't bat an eyelid at his edition landing into her thieving hands, Regulus does. Relentlessly, his hands attack like snakes going in for the ruthless kill, each and every one blocked by Romie's change of position, shoving her back to him. Eventually, he manages to confiscate the paper, but it's too late. Romie's read enough to gain the overall gist.

Full moon.

Wizarding village.

Werewolf attacks.

Fenrir Greyback.

Romie's head whirls fast and her chest starts to hurt from how hard her heart pounds. In the distance, she can vaguely register Regulus' sharp, commanding voice over the deafeningly loud ringing in her ears, shooing away Snape's snickering gang and the rest of the nosy onlookers gathering up as much of the scene as possible to spark a gossip wildfire Romie's the centre of. She wishes she was the centre of her consuming thoughts. She's not. He is.

Regulus swears when she's suddenly on the move, running away. Running away from him, from the newspaper, from the fear inducing name written in black bold unavoidable ink across the front. Sweeping up the bag she'd abandoned in fight or flight mode, he takes off after her, the instability of her limbs making it an easy task to catch up.

He isn't discouraged by the entry sign reading the gender he's not, pushing open the door and slipping through. The format's different to the boys toilets, a reflection, a mirror image. Where the dome-shape stain glass window would be on the right wall, it's on the left. And Regulus is turning away from it, looking for the furthest possible spot. His heart stops when he finds it. Finds her.