ᴏᴍɴɪꜱᴄɪᴇɴᴛ ✵ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴜꜱ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ✵

𝐈𝐗

☼ ꜰʀᴇʏᴀ ☼

»»-------≪ °❈° ≫-------««

Never has Freya encountered someone as complicated as Regulus Black.

Many impenetrable thoughts cross her mind, but the absolute main occupant is him. Yes, Freya fears Regulus – or rather, who he'll become – but she often finds herself with a sort of ache in her heart that longs to be in his presence. While his physical allure could be an explanation, he is quite beautiful, it does not explain the cryptic sense of familiar warmth that overwhelms her whenever she meets his gaze. His eyes are silver-fire and she wishes to stay within his flame, even if she ends up burnt. It's almost poetic, their story, whatever it may be, and she assumes Shakespeare would relish in the way it ends with her death by his wand.

And this is why, against her unfathomable desires, she avoids Regulus like the plague since they officially met only a week ago. However their mysterious relationship begins, she won't allow herself to spark it. After Friday's class of humiliation, Freya is quite certain that she comes across as much, if not more, complex than he does. A strange nightmare the morning before class, that was her excuse for Ezra, and that is the same explanation she told her friends, though it's obvious none of them are convinced.

Conflicted with thoughts, Freya leans back against the foot of a bed behind her. She pulls her incredibly sore legs into her chest, knees crack as they bend, courtesy of Emmeline who held an intense practice at the break of dawn this morning. Luckily the past two joints shared between the friend group granted her body a sense of relaxation, but did not do the same for her mind.

It's the close of a Sunday, the sun has gone and a full moon stands in its stead, not yet high in the starry sky, but enough to pour a faint luminescent glow into the boys' dormitory. Most of the light, though, is from the dozens of glass jars bewitched to float just below the ceiling. Each one holds an azure-coloured flame, their lustre intertwines with the blue interior that decorates the room, and the effect is like sitting on an ocean floor.

"What's the score?"

"Fuck if I know."

"Oi!"

It isn't the heated game of Exploding Snaps that pulls Freya from her thoughts, but the violently sparkling card that Kingsley flicks towards Benjy. The sleeve of his plaid shirt catches flame right beside her, and without even a glimpse towards him, she waves her hand so it extinguishes. This is the fifth time a card game between the two boys led to some part of Benjy catching on fire, so it's rapidly become an instinct for Freya to become his own personal fire extinguisher.

"Thanks, Frey," he mumbles sheepishly.

Hastily turning her laugh into a hacking cough when Benjy glares at her, Emmeline looks up from the third joint she currently rolls for everyone. "Three hundred and twenty-eight to two hundred and twelve."

"Excellent," Kingsley says, pleased, as he awaits his opponent's next move. "Your ass is grass, Fenwick."

"And you're going to mow it?" Benjy grumbles after another card, angered by the dumb move he just made, throws sparks into his face.

"Nah, think I'll just set it on fire."

Each of them, excluding Pandora, disregard the chairs or beds, and they sit in a circle upon the carpet, surrounded by a wide variety of snacks and butterbeer that the house elves in the kitchen prepared for Kinglsey. Apparently they adore him, ever since he started to send every last one of them a Christmas card each year. There's a weave of music that plays from Dorcas's record player, oak brown hues nearly covered by intricate stickers, and a bright orange crate that is filled to the brim with vinyls.