꧁ʙᴏʀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴜʀᴘʟᴇ꧂

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 40

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𝖂ith some guarantee and assurance from Dumbledore the castle's walls are impenetrable, Romie's mind had been at ease.

The only werewolf crawling the corridors would be her older brother in disguise. No other furry surprises. Remus had been torn after finding out what had happened, unsure whether to comfort his little sister or distance himself, lie low in his dorm. It's his kind, after all, that puts the fear of God into her.

James and Sirius insisted that was stupid and they were right, Remus barely had a foot through the portrait hole when the wind was knocked from his lungs. Strong, firm hugs like that don't exactly scream I'm terrified of you and never want to see your face again. More like I love you and don't ever want to let go. Romie didn't want to let go, that night, Remus was her blanket, promising safety and comfort.

The next night, they were back to the squabbling siblings Gryffindor Tower know and love. The latest top Hestia had lovingly patched up hadn't been to his liking. Too small. Too thin. Too revealing. Taking his concerns on board, naturally, Romie wore it to breakfast.

"Oh, I hope he's not angry with me" Hestia whispers nervously, peering down the table and catching sight of his hardened glare.

Taking a healthy bite out of her buttery toast, Romie shakes her head, advising, "Just ignore him. I love it, that's what matters most"

"It is rather pretty. Really brings out the colour in your eyes, Romie" Pandora compliments, choosing a pickled dirigible plum from the centre of the table.

Romie's overjoyed the wobble of her smile goes unnoticed by the pair, Hestia already considering their Ravenclaw friend with an adorably bright and excited gleam in her eyes.

"I'm glad you think so, because I've already started on yours. Pastel shades"

"Oo, and what colour will I have, Pufflehuff?"

Hestia twists around to the source of the terribly intrigued voice, colour flooding her cheeks when she meets the toothy grin of Evan Rosier's. He's already wearing his hat and gloves, the shamrock green standing out immensely amongst the table of predominately red.

"Why are you wearing those indoors?" Romie asks, finishing off the crust of wiping away the residual crumbs with the back of her hand.

Evan shrugs one shoulder, answering simply, "Walk's cold from the dungeons"

"And you're after one of these? Your little nipples would freeze off" Romie retorts, his hand over wounded heart and gasp of mock offense not bothering her in the slightest.

Theatrical antics like these are exceedingly common around the people she surrounds herself with. Throwing his legs over the wooden bench, he nudges Barty, pouting,