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𝕽omie yawns quietly as she exits the History of Magic classroom, taking the offered hand.
It's used as an invitation to snatch her in close, practically glueing their sides together. It could certainly be a move based on his possessive declaration at the last Gryffindor party, but that wouldn't explain his odd behaviour all morning. Wary glances around, constantly on his toes. He hadn't even dozed off to Professor Binns' droning lecture.
Now she thinks of it, hardly anyone had, choosing to fill the boring hour whispering between friends. Whilst that was of little concern to Romie, this was a different story.
"What's the matter with you? You're acting like—"
She stops before the sentence is finished, remembering who she's talking to. What they do and don't know. Briefly breaking observation of the hallway ahead, Regulus quirks an eyebrow, prompting,
"Like?"
Like how she should be acting around now. Shifty, cagey, on one's guard. The side effects from the full moon don't stop the second dawn breaks, there's a gradual decline back down to what's considered normal functioning. The intricate state of emotional turmoil persists, and he's only adding to the confusing mix.
"Nothing" She disregards, head shaking.
Regulus didn't appear to mind the subject being dropped, yet another thing that's odd. He possess indisputably the biggest spirit of inquiry Romie's ever encountered in her sixteen years of being, and if she had anything to do with it, the children's likeable character named Curious George would be renamed Curious Regulus. More fitting.
He pulls her out of the way of two students racing past you'd imagine were giddy first years, overly keen to be the first to arrive to their next lesson. No first years in sight, just Evan and Barty. Romie watches as they push and shove and skid around the corner, somehow full of beans. From her knowledge, they're not supposed to be full of beans, more out and desperate for beans.
Frowning faintly, she turns to Regulus, murmuring, "Sorry I missed your practice, I—"
But before the whole explanation is made known, Regulus is talking again, her frown deepening when he informs, "Didn't miss anything. I cancelled"
"You cancelled? Why?" She inquires, sensing there must be an important reason.
Cancelling an early morning Quidditch practice last minute when nice, warm, cosy beds have already been left can't have boosted his levels of popularity amongst the Slytherins. Pale eyes remaining forward fixed, Regulus shrugs, brushing off,
"Something came up I needed to take care of"
A sigh escapes him when he loses the company of the warm body next to his, the arm and fingers connected to his tugging him back to where the feet refusing to move are planted firmly. Romie peers up at him, violet eyes stuck between widening and narrowing.
"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.
He rushes forwards, crouching down to his knees where she's backed up against the pearl coloured tiled walls, trembling furiously. Hyperventilating furiously. The urge to do something, do anything is overwhelming and whilst he wants nothing more than to scoop her up into a bundle in his arms, that will only spook her further. Touching first will only spook her further, Romie has to be the one to initiate contact.
Helplessly, he thrusts out his open hands, palm face up, nearly exploding with relief when promptly, her shaking hand clasps and snatches his toward her body. Initiating the contact he needs to carefully and calmly fulfil his want, settling Romie against him. He smooths back the loose hairs sticking to her flushed skin, worst fears coming true when he notices the quiver of her lips, shiny not from lip gloss, from tears.
She's crying. Sobbing, inconsolably and uncontrollably. Regulus doesn't like this uncontrollable, not like he does her fieriness, her fierceness. He shushes her softly, but it's futile, she's already trapped in her panic, in her fears. In the four words she chokes out over and over.
"He's coming for me"
Regulus contradicts her nods with small shakes, hand sliding down the length of her arm until there's defined ridges and soft skin beneath his palm. Like the night of the nightmare when he'd tormented her mind then, Regulus tenderly strokes between each clenched knuckle, adding reassuring whispers to the method of soothing.
"He's not, baby. He's not"
He is, Romie thinks miserably. He's coming to finish the job, what he started that night and was stopped before he could finish properly. The lower left segment of her abdomen burns inside and out, feels like it's seething with the irrepressible fire that dictates her mood seven days of the week. She gasps, hand that's not being stroked flying down, yanking up the grey fine knit jumper and tucked in shirt, yanking down the waistband of her school skirt.
The burning skin's greeted by a rush of cool air, producing a sting that makes Romie wince. Rather that than the raging flames though. She tries to focus on that, how much better she feels already, how the boiling heat that coincides with being Romie Lupin's is rapidly cooling down to a bearable temperature. How the cold pads of fingers, lightly rubbing in all the right places helps. How the boy she's tiredly slumping against, cheek to shoulder, helps. Massively.
It's getting easier to breathe, mind not racing so damn fast now she's thinking of him. The steady drum of the heart she can both feel and hear, the dark, masculine aroma clinging to the heather grey sweater her nose is pressed into. The natural ability to comfort without any prompts or guides or instructions.
Regulus can't help but smile slightly when she relaxes, growing less tense in his arms. Furious trembles becoming occasional twitches. Choking heaves, soft breaths. Slow breaths. He brings the knuckle strokes to an end, smoothing his thumb against the circles underneath her shut eyes, wiping away the wet that'll otherwise dry and sting when she wakes. Plucks away the purple ribbon holding up her hair too, remembering the style doesn't help headaches.
He looks up from her sleeping face when he hears running footsteps out in the corridor growing louder, nearer. Sirius appears from the door, hair scraped back in an untidy bun and clothes rumpled, like he's rolled out of bed, thrown on the first thing he could find and ran straight here. One thing on his mind.
Romie.
His frenetic eyes dart over her sleeping figure, lingering on the exposed skin Regulus is avoiding checking out at all costs. It wasn't the time, place or setting to explore things of her past. His itching curiosity would just have to wait. He can be patient enough, for both the snitch and her, he can be patient.
"I came as soon as I heard. Would've been sooner but it's like someone stole all the copies of the Prophet. Can you believe that?" Sirius quietly speaks, approaching light on his boot clad feet.
Regulus glances down at the Gryffindor in his arms, heart purring, "No, I can't"
Sirius smiles knowingly, kneeling down in front of the couple. He's almost glad Remus isn't awake yet because this moment's too sweet to destroy.
"Need me to help move her?" He offers, eyebrows raising when Regulus softly shakes his head, mumbling,
"Don't want to run the risk of her waking. I'll stay here"
"Alright. I'll block off the door, put up a sign Myrtle's moping in here or something. No one will want to come in then" Sirius mutters, glancing around to ensure the emotional ghost's not lurking and heard.
The very last thing needed right now was one of her overly dramatic meltdowns, splashing up the toilet water. Regulus nods, a small, appreciative little thing. He reckons if it were someone else discovering them like this, staying here, keeping Romie to himself wouldn't have been an option.
Before Sirius stands, he reaches out, striking Regulus with surprise when he not only caresses Romie's head, but his too, ruffling his curls. He shoots a glare that Sirius merely grins at, easily able to perceive he didn't hate it as much as he let on.
He disappears out of the door he practically launched through believing Romie was in need and Regulus can't bring himself to hate how he'd never received the same treatment all of the times he was the one in need.
He would be the same.
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