꧁ʙᴏʀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴜʀᴘʟᴇ꧂

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 6

꧁✧✧✧꧂

𝕽omie patiently waits, in the meantime, absently stroking the skin between her knuckles.

As he'd so kindly ordered, Regulus was catching up on the butterbeer rounds he had missed, sweetening up the bitter taste on his tongue. Romie wasn't sure Madame Rosmerta would have enough in to subside it and make him sweet, Regulus Black's bitterness mounted higher than Mount Everest. Second to none. He'd have to drink atleast five times more than his bodyweight, and frankly she didn't want to sit around waiting for that.

Her patience was running out, and something intuitive in her gut tells her that he knows and he's putting it to the test to see how long until she tips over the edge and finally snaps. She has to keep a firm hold of the reins, otherwise he'll never agree to her proposal.

Whilst he's silently staring at her, brazenly and blatantly, she takes the time to stare back, inspecting his every little detail. It's no secret in the Wizarding World that the Black's are blessed with otherworldly genes, piercing features that easily make anybody swoon, even if they don't swing that way. Regulus isn't any exception, but it's becoming clearer to her now, that over the summer, he's gone from pretty boy to sexy aristocrat. A man. He's starting to look like a man.

A bone structure of an Adonis, sharp and protruding, particularly his jaw line that Romie feels the traitorous urge to bite down on, and knows she's not alone in the thought. Raven curls that are tousled and ruffled but oh-so outrageously perfect it's nearly debilitating. It's understandable why no one can touch, he can't take the risk of anyone messing up the form. Her gaze lowers to his dark finery, shaking her head. It's a pity his pompous personality deducts all the points his appearance wins.

Fleeting his tongue over his foamy upper lip, Regulus hums, "Enjoying the view?"

Any other girl might've flushed, stammered or apologised for being caught staring — checking him out. Romie's not any other girl.
No, unlike them, her eyebrow arches, replying back fairly,

"I could ask you the same question"

An aversion that's she's familiar with all too well crinkles his nose up, and curls his lip. Because, no, poor, dirty half-blood Romie Lupin could never be a sight that's enjoyable to wealthy, superior pure-blood Regulus Black. It's much the opposite, he can barely stand the sight of her, repulsed. She almost feels sorry for him, that he's so blinded by blood status and purity, he misses all the great beauty of the world.

"If we're going to do this, there's going to have to be rules. Can you handle some of those or will that elfin side of yours through a tantrum over that?" Regulus questions mockingly.

Romie's smile is sickly sweet, eyelashes fluttering at him at the backhanded compliment, "Aw, Black. You think I have mischievous charm?"

"I think you're like every other Gryffindor, lionised and commended just for wearing red and gold around your neck — 'I set the entire castle on fire', 'That shows impressive magical ability, one hundred and fifty points to Gryffindor!'"