- 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...
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"𝕬re you sure you want to go?"
Romie stifles a sigh of irritation and bites back a snarky comment, reminding herself her Hufflepuff friend is only trying to keep her best interests at heart.
Weaving the wavy kinks of hair into a pretty loose braid out of the way, Hestia carefully continues, "l doubt James, Sirius or Marlene would mind, given the circumstances"
Ah, the circumstances. Hogwarts' new favourite hot topic to gossip on. The break up of the unbreakable, the separation of the inseparable. The finishing of Romie and Regulus. Done, over, the end. The Gryffindor gently rubs over her eyes, itchy and sore for reasons other than the pollen collecting on the flowers in full summer bloom. She fights through the fresh sting, saying firmly,
"It'll take more than a little breakup to stop me supporting my friends"
Hestia stares apprehensively at her, thinking little would be the last of terms she'd use to describe what's happened. Because not only had he taken the notorious honorific of Romie's first breakup, but also her first genuine like. Potentially more than like. And she's barely, if it all, opened up about any of it. Hestia doubts Romie will open up again any time soon. Little. Huge, messy, touchy is more appropriate.
She stays sitting whilst Romie stands and throws a jacket big enough for two over her dainty shoulders. It's purple, the world wide adored shade of lavender to be precise. For a while, that half of Romie's wardrobe had barely been touched, tending to opt for more blacks, whites, navies, colours that accentuate the uniqueness of her eyes. Not anymore, purple has resumed to be the essential element.
"Come on. I promised James I'd be front and centre" Romie announces, twisting the knob to open the door.
Hestia hops up from where she was sitting and glues herself to Romie's side, worries fading and smile growing when she feels a small, playful bump to the hip. At a leisurely pace, they stroll in the busy direction to the Qudiditch Pitch, the bulk of the flock buzzing with excitement for the final match of the year. The final match ever for a select few of their favourite players.
The usual party of spectators are already waiting in the stands, Mary happily waving them over whilst Peter kindly hands out his sweets and Lily and Dorcas gush over the pleasing sights of their loves in uniform. Romie doesn't eavesdrop but she hears a distinct number of dreamily sighed big, strong muscles dropped here and there. They're missing out big time if they think Quidditch arms is where it's at.
"Oh, get a look at this"
Romie's focus diverts to Peter, then to where his is pinned. It's not an easy see, the locus across the spacious width of the pitch. Omnioculars would be quite useful, though not necessary, because straight away Romie discerns what the mousy boy decided to point out. She's not surprised, tact, just like trust, isn't a value Slytherin House favours.
