- 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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꧁✧✧✧꧂
𝕽omie takes a breath from dancing, twirling around to the shoulder tapper.
She's not certain who she expects, the possibilities endless considering hormonal teenage boys with one thing on their minds encircle the makeshift dance floor. It's a boy. But Romie doubts he's after anything she has to offer. Too much up there, too little down there. And from the looks of it, he's already booked his stay in someone else's bed tonight.
A Cheshire Cat grin smacks onto her face, unable to resist teasing, "Well if it isn't the Man of the Hour! Did you enjoy your fight with the giant sq—"
"What are you doing?"
Romie blinks, lips pursing together not for the reason of being rudely cut off mid sentence, but for the reason never in her seven years of knowing him has she seen or heard Evan Rosier so humourless, so serious before. He's consistently the goofy kind of bloke, cracking jokes however light or dark the situation and sporting them wide, toothy grins that make her feel like she's been fed five spoon fulls of straight sugar.
Bemused, and admittedly a little unnerved by his sharp switch of his character, Romie's reply comes out as a sort of question,
"Dancing?"
And a question it must be, because Evan's head shakes, pursing Romie's lips further. She couldn't possibly think of anything else she was doing that would drive him to push through the drunk, sweaty parties, risking elbow jabs to the ribs and heels to the toes to personally seek her out. Hestia and to an extent, Amelia Bones had been her partners, Romie's not so much as glimpsed at anyone else. Perhaps that's the problem.
"No, you misunderstand. What I mean is, what are you doing letting that happen?"
Before she could further query what the that is he's referring to, his two hands, cautious not to touch too much exposed skin, grab her shoulders, turning her body one eighty to face the east wing of the commodious room. The lighting's dim and the air thick and hazy from substances she'll happily leave as her older brother's thing, but her eyes find it instantly. That.
Them.
She's not dancing, but she may as well be, in the bubble of his personal space, jiggling her perky cleavage that leaves nothing to the imagination. It's not a subliminal move, the smirk playing on her cherry lips and the seductive siren eye contact she's hell bent on initiating telling as much. That's not what gets Romie most, simmers, boils the rage gathering behind her bellybutton. That top spot is assumed by what her sly fingers are smothering.
Romie's ribbon.
She's soon stopped, but Romie doesn't feel any shred of relief, of satisfaction. Because it wasn't an harsh rip away, icy cold don't you dare touch that kind of thing. A mere ruffle of his hair. It's not even obvious it's grounds for preventing any more touching of what's not hers, just a fucking habitual ruffle of hair. Forget bad books. He's moved on, scored big and bold, front and centre in her black book.
