- ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴜs ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ ғᴀɴғɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ
"You. Me. Hogsmeade. Tomorrow" Romie demands, leaving no room for objection.
Regulus slowly lifts his head from his book, briefly wondering if he's managed to land himself into a similar alternate dimension,
"Come again...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
꧁✧✧✧꧂
𝕽egulus pivots when he spots a flash of violet in his peripheral vision.
As she nears the small congregation chitter chattering away whilst waiting, her eyebrows leap fleetingly on her forehead. He returns the gesture of acknowledgement, angling his left side outwards to open up space for her as he mumbles,
"Take a look at this"
Asking for extra detail wasn't necessary, the Gryffindor knew exactly what she was supposed to be looking at, the first proper glance. After all, the shamrock green colour wasn't difficult to miss. Lips pursed, she glances to Regulus, stating deadly serious,
"I'm not walking anywhere near him"
"What's with the sour face, Miss Leggy Lupin? We're matchy-matchy now!" Evan grins, shaking jazz mitten clad hands in the air.
Romie tugs at her own mittens kindly knitted by Hestia, undecided what's worse. The fact he used the silly phrase matchy-matchy or how they, rather devastatingly are, matching a touch. Her nose crinkles slightly, pointing out,
"To match we have to be in identical colours, of which we are not. Thank fuck"
She shoots Hestia a smile, reassuring that's not at all an insult to her beloved hobby whatsoever, more an insult to the Slytherin's dreadful taste of colour. Something clicks though, in the back of her mind when, eyeing his friend's new accessories, Barty pipes up casually,
"I rather rate the green"
From ear to ear Evan grins, looking like he's just single-handedly won the Quidditch World Cup. Romie feels quite the opposite, a bitter taste forming in her mouth as she blinks down hard at the woolly fabric keeping her hands warm. Purple, not green. Regulus brows knit together, near to joining in the centre when she looks back up to speak again, an element of resentment laced in her tone despite the toothy smile,
"Seems to be the case with your lot"
He doesn't loiter, feet stirring to life, catching up quickly when she sets off ahead, leaving the others a few paces behind. Whatever the deep root cause was for that little spiteful outburst, he couldn't identify confidently. He could have a good guess, however.
"Slytherin's are conditioned to like green, like any other house and their colours. That doesn't mean it's automatically our favourite" He says calmly, biting back a snicker when ever so grumpily, she asks,
"What's your favourite colour then?"
Without delay, in pure equal measure, Regulus boomerang's back the question, "What's yours?"
Romie abruptly halts, whole body shuffling forth five degrees to face him, face brimming with incredulity. Strangers, nobody's she's never met and runs into on the street could guess her favourite colour there and then on the first try. It's essentially worldwide knowledge, knowledge that a boy she's been hanging around for months now should have.
