- 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...
Oups ! Cette image n'est pas conforme à nos directives de contenu. Afin de continuer la publication, veuillez la retirer ou télécharger une autre image.
꧁✧✧✧꧂
𝕽egulus sighs, tapping his ringed finger against the crystal tumbler.
Hestia had taken the request to spread the word and ran with it, the trimmed up Room of Requirement filled to its utmost capacity. Since the beginning of time, Halloween has been a Wizarding World favourite holiday, all means of arcane spookiness embraced and celebrated widely. But this year, on top of that, a chance to let loose, dress up in some costume otherwise deemed racy and sleazy, and forget what their magical world has come to.
He lazily studies around the bustling room, failing to mask his aversion to some of the tasteless ensembles sticking out like a sore thumb. He's not one to appraise randomers, believing it a waste of his precious time that could be earmarked elsewhere, it's infinite belonging. But to not wrinkle his nose, curl his lip, would be a grave error — he is still Regulus Black after all. And the brooding version of himself at that.
A dark demeanour prompted by his present loneliness. Or rather, his Romie-less-ness. Another sigh leaves him, mood toning down slightly when his sight latches onto the co-ordinated pixie fairies talking closely under the string of hanging jack o lanterns, their glittering faces just as alight. Seems like the listening did the trick. He doesn't linger long on Pandora and Xenophilius in their element nearby, afraid of the questions that might crop up in his mind watching them twirl on the spot, hands digging at the air like rabbits, the soil.
When he pinpoints the rather tall leprechaun on the outskirts of the dance floor and the strange interpretation of a clown emerging cheek by jowl, Regulus nearly abandons his armchair, demanding answers to his long list of questions. Questions like what had been so vital that Barty had to kidnap Romie for hours on end and where the hell was she now. He's on the edge of his seat, pushing against his feet to rise but he's rooted to the spot.
Not because every fibre of his being has been reduced to rigid rock, the preeminent gorgon unleashed on him again. He tries not to look in the eyes of Medusa. This is him shamelessly staring, transfixed in the vision that completes him tonight, tomorrow and every given day after that. His cohort, his accomplice. His other half.
She makes him whole as much as she does laugh, smile. Give his previously poor, mean heart reason to believe, reason to be. And he believes. Believes somewhere along the line this was his best move, his best choice, believes he hit the nail on the head. Because Regulus fears the powerful, the nice emotion she has single-handedly stolen from the cage deep within the hollows of his chest, will never fit back again. It's true. He fears her. But not as much as he loves her.
Loves her fiery eyes and all the damning curses they bear. Loves when she uses them to not-so-discreetly side-eye the randomers he had judged moments prior. He loves her instinctive knuckle strokes and how they immediately stop and an upside down smile takes precedence when she spots him. He'd even go as far as saying he loves the long lilac sock dangling from her nose, hiding the freckles he can join up to form the lion constellation.
