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𝕾leep didn't come easy the first night of the holidays.
Usually, Romie's full of delight to have back a bed double the comfort and size than hers at Hogwarts, at the cottage her childhood was spent in. Yet she couldn't shake off the feeling it was too big, too empty. She had half a mind to build a solid barrier of pillows right down the centre, just to give the effect someone was on the other side. He was on the other side.
Add on the shadows of matted fur, vicious claws and bloodthirsty canines lurking unceasingly behind her eyelids and Romie was more than ready to get up when the sun does. Lazily, she rolls into the untouched sheets, crisp and cold, and stretches, spindly arms bending overhead and freshly painted toes curling over. Orchid. The latest colour of choice had been a vibrant orchid.
She roots through her drawers much neater than she remembers leaving them for something to throw on over the flimsy t-shirt and shorts slept in, growing rigid when she spies a spot of dark colour not included in her common colour palette. Material that's more upmarket than the easy to wear and tear knit she's used to. She shouldn't. It's almost a pity Romie doesn't care much for 'should's and shouldn't's' any more.
As the Marauders often say for their own benefit, finders keepers. It's Romie's find, soft and warm and covers up everything it needs in order to prevent any unwanted flashes to the manor's outnumbering male population. She quietly tiptoes out of her room, along the landing and down the stairs, disinclined to wake the cranky pants that is her older brother. It's his time of the month.
Romie isn't surprised the colourful kitchen isn't vacant, but the same couldn't be said for who's making it so, pottering around. She ventures further in, ducking under and into the sturdy arm reaching for the cabinet home to the mugs, incapable of resisting a smile when she hears,
"Morning, trouble"
"Considering who's currently here, I think I give trouble a good name" She declares, scoffing quietly at the sceptical hum earned in return.
Romie's an angel compared to the boys, or atleast whilst she's in the presence of who she is. But that's the thing, in the manor, angels are strictly forbidden. Trouble and mischief is the rite of passage to the Potter family. Romie knows that, Monty knows that. She's too much a family member to give trouble a good name. She's too much of a family member to stand back and allow him to make all three hot drinks himself.
Into the left and middle mugs, she adds the contents and pours the boiling kettle water to the level where the splashes of milk are added. Leaves the favoured mug graced with flowers the colours of a summer sunset untouched. He likes to make Mia's tea. He knows how she likes it best. Romie follows him to the back door, pretending to be stuck for the couple of moments it takes Mia to thank him, pressing a doting kiss to his lips.
Her smile when bringing the steaming cup to her lips is irrefutably precious and Romie feels an honour like no other. Because it's not every day one's able to glimpse such a strong, healthy love before their very eyes. She certainly didn't have that growing up, it feels important to see its value. Recognise it.
On the patio bench chosen for the morning's relaxed ease into the day ahead, Mia and Monty take up either end, leaving a small space in between. A space reserved for a certain someone, Romie realises with a swell of the heart. Drink in hand, she pads out and carefully settles in that reserved space, knees drawn up to chest.
"Sleep well, honey?" Mia asks, reaching to twirl a stray strand of Romie's hair around her finger.
Romie's eyes bounce in the direction of her left, where Monty's readying to read today's newspaper with a short, straightening waggle.
"Did you hear that? Honey because I'm sweet"
"Trouble. She didn't call you Honey she thinks because you're sweet" Monty hums, suddenly pausing his read to shoot his wife an apologetic look.
He doesn't just know how she likes her tea. He also knows what's about to come out of her mouth before she technically does. And that's some downright love right there.
"Who's 'she'? The cat's mother?"
Quiet laughter escapes Romie when casted back and forth over her being are matching raised eyebrow expression. He breaks first, into a fond smile that breaks Mia too. She returns to her even tea sips whilst Monty explains,
"My darling, darling dear called you Honey because that's what that panda—"
"Bear" Mia gently corrects, bringing him to a faint frown.
It's fairly obvious he thinks panda would make more sense, but for the sake of not challenging and losing to his all-knowing wife, he simply plays along,
"—Bear in those Muggle books you like, has an extreme fondness for"
Romie positively glows. Granted, it's not the jibing yet irrevocably endearing Heffalump, nothing will ever compete with Heffalump. It's enough. It's more than enough. It's them listening and paying attention to her special interests, incorporating them into their lives. They didn't have to, just like they didn't have to take her in. Out of the goodness of their hearts they did. This is the same. Because they wanted to.
Nestling further into the older witch's side, Romie finally answers, "I slept well"
Mia's lack of answer indicates that she's not entirely convinced that's the case, but decides against arguing. That's not going to help anyone. Romie's no toddler in need of a strict bedtime routine and nap schedule. She's a growing teenage girl, now of age and more than capable of making her own decisions. Or atleast Mia thinks so, perhaps she should pass that on to remarkably laid back brother of hers.
She passes her cup into the other hand and stretches the arm closest to Romie around her frame, murmuring, "James mentioned you've had a tough couple of weeks"
"You don't have to act like the git hasn't told you everything" Romie snorts, remembering how he'd kindly taken it upon himself to inform them of her relationship in the first place.
Mia's hum is as soft as the rub on her arm, confirming all Romie needs to know. James had, indeed, told every little detail divulged about the ending of her and Regulus. She watches a cat, the colour of midnight, prowl across the tidy lawn and disappear into the rose shrubs, seeking shelter from the blinding rays of sun.
"I think it's a true shame. It's not every day you find someone who looks at you how he did"
The recovery from the sharp pang resulted in hearing a verb in the past tense is quick, for a vast curiosity kindles inside Romie. She sits up a little, powerless to resist inquiring,
"How did he look at me?"
"Like you were his Snitch"
It's not the gentle, insightful voice of Mia's that speaks the answer, she didn't have to. He knows what's about to come out of her mouth before she does. Or perhaps it was just that conspicuous. Real. Perhaps it was just that real. Real because a single peek in Monty's direction conveys it was a distrait utterance. He's nose deep into the column reserved for harshly criticising Dumbledore.
He tunes out only when the burn of Romie's round gaze becomes too extreme to ignore, from behind his circular frames identical to his son, flickering back and forth between her and what she imagines Mia behind. His weathering hazel eyes squint slightly and his nose twitches, clarifying,
"The Golden Snitch"
"Well I didn't think you meant a tattletale"
Out of pure instinct, Romie retorts, jumping on the bandwagon of an eye squint and nose twitch when reality kicks in who it is exactly she's talking to. Much to her relief, Monty doesn't appear bothered, probably pinning it down to teenage girl hormones or simply Romie Lupin's fierce nature. The only thing obvious about her, is that she's about as tempestuous as she looks.
Three sips of tea settle her back down, both frame of mind and seating position, her eyes glazing over as she falls into a deep well of rumination. Romie herself is no stranger to referring to the Snitch, but her analogy had solely been about the fluttery mechanism. Not the operation, the aim, the undertaking at hand. The Golden Snitch ends the game. Regulus looked at Romie like she was his.
His end game.
And such conspicuousness was deciphered back in, God, December. Christmas time. All along it wasn't the Snitch he wanted to catch and never let go.
Mia retrieves the half empty cup from her unsteady hands and sets it down on the bistro table pulled close. Magic could repair any breakages, any damages but nothing's ever the same again. Her creasing features soften when the light weight of a head tips onto her shoulder, finding a comfortable resting place.
She observes how Romie's hands have vanished, in their place, cute sweater paws, crafted from the dark fabric that a scent not belonging to Romie clings to. Someone that's done, finished, over doesn't cling to what's been left. Mia hardly doubts Regulus isn't much different.
"Remember, Romie, there's — how many is it, Fleamont?"
"Six, dear" Monty calmly answers, licking the pad of his finger and flipping the page.
Mia nods in remembrance, finishing simply, "There's six matches in a season"
Just because one or two didn't end the way she hoped, doesn't mean they all will. Romie swallows hard, doubting Mia means it may work out with other boys that aren't him. It's not six different teams for six different matches, it's the same handful. He'll play again. But the thing is, Romie isn't sure she wants any more playing.
She sighs and blinks through her eyelids now weighing down pretty heavily, granting them peace by closing for just a moment. A long, long, long moment. Because the kisses of the radiant sun's to her face are quite lovely and the chirpy songs of the birds in the trees are quite dulcet. And the bench doesn't feel too big, too empty. It fits a snuggled three. It feels like four.
Feeling the prickle of a watchful gaze glued to his side profile again, Monty rolls his neck in the direction of his wife, muttering instantly,
"No, I did not slip her a sleeping draught"
Disinclined to disturb the restless girl finally resting, Mia's tones down her remark to a whisper, "I didn't say you did"
"She's asleep?"
Both Potter's ears perk up, craning around to the source of the groggy question. Solo, standing in the open doorway, lacking in the shirt department as though just rolled out of bed, their son. Sirius steps over the threshold his toes were dancing against and strolls outside to take a peek for himself at the wonderfulness that is Romie Lupin soundly snoring away.
Frown relaxed, jaw flexed, a picture identical to the one walked in on the morning after Fenrir Greyback's attacks. He nearly sinks to his knees, kisses the feet of the beloved being he's called mum more than his own for accomplishing what's practically impossible. But then he sees it. He sees it. The reason why the picture's identical to that morning.
He bites his tongue, deciding against his better judgment to mention who the jumper engulfing her whole belongs to. In the greatest scheme of things, it doesn't matter. As long as she's fitting in the winks, Regulus can be her sleeping draught.
He bends down, pecks the cheek of Mia's not being tickled by the shimmery strands of Romie's hair and makes his way back inside. Special triangle toast duty had been declared his this morning and Merlin, Sirius better make it to perfection. It's his time of the month.
Before returning to the side of his personal cup of tea cocooned in bed, he peers once more out of the window, gently shaking his head.
Sirius didn't need to look after her.
Whether he was aware or not, Regulus was still undertaking that role.
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Monty and Mia have my heart!!
Quick question, can any of you see the picture that I always add to the top of the chapters? Not the gif, the picture above where the chapter title reads. I don't know whether it comes up or not :)