- 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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꧁✧✧✧꧂
𝕽egulus kneads at his jaw, forefinger and thumb, relieving the reflex tension.
Despite the brevity of the letter, the words written in flawless cursive were like a heavy anchor weighing on his chest, leaping off the parchment at him.
Duty.
Blood.
Honour.
Black.
All things he's heard before, especially when promoted from the spare to the heir in the wake of Sirius' desertion. In his youth, he'd been filled with so much resentment, so much anger that Sirius even as the rebel, the defiant, the black sheep, had consumed all their parents attention, robbing the perfect, worthy candidate. Who craved to be in the shoes Sirius craved to be out of.
He didn't understand then, the weight, the responsibility, the burdens that falls on the shoulders of the one that will inherit the dynasty. He understands now. To the point it's almost crippling. Hands taut, he folds the letter, pockets it and tries to push the contents to the back of his mind. Bring something else to the forefront.
"You alright?"
He glances right, for an embarrassingly long second forgetting that's a question directed to him he's supposed to answer. It's only when Romie's writing hand stills and she turns to him, violet eyes questioning that he's snapped back to the present, to reality.
His feels his head incline in a nod, his lips find their parting, "Yeah. Just a reminder that I'm expected to return for Easter"
This time, it's Regulus feeling like an open book, bare and naked under Romie's awfully attentive stare. It's the odd phrase used that's hooked her in, the distant attachment. Romie's heard the horror stories regarding Grimmauld Place, the name speaking for itself. Grim, old, place. It's somewhere to return, not somewhere to go home to. Regulus silently pleads she doesn't do what he thinks she's about to, propose he join the rest of them in their decision to stay in the castle for the break. He's afraid he'll agree, an option that's strictly not open to him for this one.
"How's Macdonald?" He blurts out, hoping she'll accept the swift change of subject.
As luck would have it, she does, expression morphing into something sad and angry when she thinks of the older Gryffindor like a sister. A couple of nights ago, whilst retiring to Gryffindor Tower for curfew, peacefully minding her own business, Mary had been cruelly ambushed by one of nasty, blood purity preaching Slytherins. Thanks to quick thinking on her feet, Mary had managed to stun him long enough to run to safety, any second longer and who knows what might have happened.
What might happen again. It's a bloody good job Dumbledore's office is guarded by a password seeking gargoyle otherwise the Headmaster would've had a visit from Regulus' favourite fire spitting volcano. Detention. That's the punishment Mulciber had received for his cruelty, a handful of detentions. He may as well have invited him to strike again. Because that's inevitable now the war's infiltrated the castle's walls, the high and mighty pursuing the downfall of those of supposed lower blood status now more than ever.
