𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐋𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐞𝐬 | 𝐉𝐄𝐆𝐔𝐋𝐔𝐒

PART TWO ii: Wilde

It's almost Christmas.

Most of the castle is celebrating, either because of the upcoming three week break or because of the imminence of Christmas Day and the beauty that befalls Hogwarts at both physical and emotional standpoints. The remnants of dizzying, sweltering autumn sun begin to grow tiresome in early December, paving the way for impossibly cloudier skies that seem oddly deliberate despite the meek smatterings of rain that weren't quite strong enough to provoke a storm. The painstaking horrors of school commitments come to lazy standstills; even the professors turn weary and unmotivated.

So, Christmas at Hogwarts is truly unbeatable. There's wonder, there's gifts, and there's love. Love for friends, family, freedom. Love for magic.

Oh, the magic. Snow is already otherworldly enough on its own, with how it glows golden under the weak sunlight that peers past grey slates of skyline on rare warmer days. But pairing snow with magic unseen by young eyes, magic that brings flora and fauna frolicking about the grounds and sparks the castle with life, there's almost nothing in the world that is as alluring.

Even in the midst of the unrivalled beauty, Regulus is not celebrating. Regulus, contrary to the majority of Hogwarts' student body, has a merciless proclivity for fucking hating Christmas.

Christmas for the Black family is not an occasion worthy of wonder, or gifts, or love. Every year of the House's reign, from the beginning of time to the dregs of you, there is never an ounce of festivity to be found within a thousand kilometres of 13 Grimmauld Place.

Christmas at Grimmauld Place is the time of year that has dark magic slithering through the dying wreaths the house elves insist on hanging in the corridors. It is the time of year that has cloaked figures making their ways in and out through to the early hours of each morning, and muffling charms laced through the kitchen and living room walls. Shadows dance across the dark surfaces, locks are chained on cupboard doors, and children hide amongst the shadows underneath their beds.

So, for the sake of remaining concise, Regulus is not too fond of Christmas. It stokes the uneasy toxicity of an acidic flame and bleeds violent petulance.

"Stop looking so gloomy," Evan mutters, elbowing Regulus so fiercely between two protruding ribs that he's left gasping for breath. "It's less than two weeks until Christmas, for fuck's sake."

Emerald mistletoe swirls amongst the Black Lake's usual fiasco of algae molecules and moss, and fairies dressed in festive green and red play with them as though they're fidget toys. The foliage is as alive as they are, with beating hearts and soft whirring to accent the delighted squeals and chirps, and Regulus would shoot the flora down with cruel magic if it wouldn't ruin the awed glaze settling over his friend's irises.

Screw the fairies; they could find a million other forms of entertainment. But the raw joy in Evan's gaze, the purity of his smile, how it concaves into faint lines around his eyes... That's a sight he's unwilling to sacrifice for his own encroaching selfishness.

"I have to return home in three days," he mutters instead, mindless fingers picking at a fraying thread of his trousers bagging lazily around his folded knee. "I believe I'm allowed to be a little bit upset about that."

"Oh," Evan says, soft. Withdrawn. His smile has turned its devotions to the delicacy of sombreness, and smoothes cornered dimples. "I forgot about that. Sorry."

The pair don't have a single class today between them both, and Evan (upon discovery) had immediately taken Regulus' by the hand down to the Great Lake. Evan has been an avid stone-skipper since third year when he'd first spied Hagrid doing it by the lakeside, and Regulus often likes to accompany him amongst the cotton comfort of growing grasses and the slow trickle of dark waters against the shoreline.