╰┈➤ regulus black x oc
❝every summer ends in the same way: heartbreak, hangovers, and hatred.❞
❝you're just being dramatic, ophelia.❞
☄. *. ⋆ in which ophelia potter's pre-ministry summer holiday in france accidentally turned into a romance that sh...
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the villa they had rented from an old pair of french muggles was certainly something. it was a rustically gargantuan residence, with chipped beige plaster walls, and overgrown bougainvillea branches crawling their way out of the walls of the property to be admired by those passing on the sidewalk beyond. the air was sickly sweet with the perfume of dust and flora, giving ophelia the inkling that their hosts had tried to mask the aroma of mold in the awnings, birthed from the dampness of abandonment.
though, the first matter at hand, as far as ophelia, james and sirius were concerned, was who was getting which room.
"dibs on the biggest one!" sirius called, already halfway up the stairs by the time ophelia managed to detangle herself from the beaded mesh that covered the door, his worn sandals (how was he running in bloody sandals?) slapping against the floorboards.
"merlin, that one if for my parents, black–" she panted, leaning against the wall of the hallway, only to practically get bowled over by james, who had turned the corner. "common sense, no? the parents get the biggest room because they're paying for the residence, or just because we're supposed to be respectful, or something."
always playing as the suck-up.
james, playing the role of the dutiful son, chimed in with his claim. "i'll take the second largest, then." his words caused her to let out a little scoff of derision. "fine, you and sirius share a room then, if you're going to be greedy." ophelia stated, tossing them the keys to the room, before grinning slightly as they slapped each other's shoulders; they seemed quite content with that.
"i'll just take the one with the garden view." she shrugged, brushing past them to enter the smaller, but still sizable room. "au revoir, boys."
the door slammed.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
"what do you need ink and a quill for, love?" euphemia inquired, as she looked through her suitcase, splayed open on her bed as objects idly flew out of it, meticulously arranging themselves in cabinets and on shelves; awfully convenient, as ophelia had thought.
magic certainly reduced the need for manual labour, which still made her question why exactly it had taken them 3 hours to pack before the trip.
"i want to write a few letters." ophelia explained, shrugging her shoulders lightly as she stepped out of the way of a hairbrush, which seemed to have decided it's side mission was to comb ophelia's hair (stupid fucker). "i promised my friends i wouldn't go radio silent, and i pity ashby's owl, having to make so many flights in one month."
her mother chuckled, her warm eyes glittering slightly with a gentle mirth; she didn't question the codependency that youthful friendships seemed to inspire. "oh, of course." she hummed, handing ophelia a pot of ink and an old eagle feather quill that had snuck itself into the packing regime.
