꧁ʙᴏʀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴜʀᴘʟᴇ꧂

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 86

꧁✧✧✧꧂

𝕬 drink to fuel himself for the terror to come.

Rodolphus Lestrange hadn't launched an attack on the quaint village of Hogsmeade, because plans were already set in place for later. Appalling plans, barbaric plans, plans that, to the hilt, wiped out town after town sweeping across Wizarding Britain. Not a single hair on an innocent head remained untouched. Monstrous and vicious had been the Prophet's description of the onslaught, graphic details of gauged eyeballs, bare muscle and bone visible to the naked eye as a result of torn flesh caused several plant pots and armour helmets to serve as vomit buckets.

None of that hadn't been the source of Regulus' awfully violent stomach lurches, harsh nausea sloshes against the back of his throat. Relentless sharp pangs of guilt. Missing children. Countless muggle children, full of life and spirit, had been reported missing, the total expected to increase as time ticks on. Parents left for dead couldn't cry for their snatched babies. No one lived to proof their existence, speak of how their life counted, mattered.

Romie had been beside herself, taking up McGonagall's offer made out of sympathy and worry to skip out on classes that day. All had been cut short anyway, more pupils showing up at the Hospital Wing than their timetabled lessons. She'd ended up there herself. But not to occupy a rickety bed, play patient. No. She had sat at the bed side those paralysed in fear, gently rub the backs of queasy and distract all from the horrors of the world.

Regulus swears if it weren't for Madame Pomfrey keeping him busy and making good use of his helping hand, he would've melted into a puddle at her feet. She didn't have to push down her own crippling panic, her gripping terror. But she did so, and willingly, because the infirmary was cram-full and with so with children. Children whose main concerns should be if they remembered to make their beds that morning, or flossed after dinner. Not if their loved ones were next, if they were next.

Children who look up to the Head Girl and Boy in more ways than one.

Things were still a little disturbed and sombre, but the scenario would likely be significantly worse without their input. Without Romie's magnificence, navigating through the dark until dead of night's privacy crept in and it was Regulus' turn to take over. He hadn't stopped since, his comfort continual even now, whispers of both the greatest and scariest feeling of all flowing out the library's secluded corner.

Away from his catching up DADA reading, Regulus flits, contemplating the girl next to him, huddled over the table, face down. The delicate almost waltzing strokes his fingers have taken to pause briefly, checking for the steady breathing pattern that indicates sleep. Soft snores couldn't be a tell tale sign currently, jersey clad arms hiked up and a substitute pillow for her head, muffling any noise. Yes, she's still snoozing away, he soon determines, proceeding on with what helped lull her earlier.

It's only when he hears distant swishes and tapping footsteps closing in that his pale gaze leaves Romie, fixing to the intruder. Strangely, irritation isn't one of the reacting emotions he faces, any traces of that going out of the rain drizzled window when subtle crimps and round eyes the sweet colour of chocolate frogs appears from behind the bookcase.