- 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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꧁✧✧✧꧂
𝕬 violent cringe ambushes Romie at what her indirect vision supplies.
Regulus is vaguely scanning what she initially assumes, fears, is another invitation inviting them to a humdrum Slug Club meet. The relief settling in her stomach realising how wrong she was is only fleeting, for the actuality isn't much better.
"That's like the tenth this week" She observes, the cursive in an ink as black as they come all too familiar.
A low hum drones out of Regulus, mildly correcting as he folds up the letter in one, crisp movement, "Eleventh. She's not a happy camper"
Unlike any other parent — or brotherly friend — availing themself in a howler as a slap on the wrist to a wrongdoer child, Walburga Black resorted to other methods. For her, howler's were a waste of speech and air, a failing attempt to get the point across. She didn't need to exert her voice, her voice was executed explicitly in her writing. In more ways than one.
"When is she ever not?" Romie scoffs, adamant that the single motion her lips have undertaken in her overlong existence is an ugly curl up.
They don't know a smile. Not like Romie. Not like Regulus. A lovely phenomenon she's not currently being bestowed, the contents of her unquestionably grating lecture stripping his face clean of any contentment formerly boosted right up how he endlessly deserves. Romie fights the scowl on the inside he's probably undergoing enough for the both of them, trying something new. Something mature, something considerate.
"Want to talk about it?"
The frozen hard edges defining the glacial cast to his eyes thaw out and soften, deciding there and then there is nothing better than Romie Lupin. It's something he's known for a while, probably longer than he cares to admit. Whilst fear and history push him to keep personal matters safely locked away, far in distance, his heart wins over his mind, encouraging him to open up.
She would accept either, whatever he's more comfortable with, and perhaps that's the bigger push. That or the fully fledged rage he'll be able to watch her bend over backwards to conceal in order to maintain this level head. He's always had a liking for her fierceness.
Letting out a sigh, he discloses in a mumble, "I keep turning down marriage contracts, it's driving her insane"
Romie sucks in a harsh breath, sucks in the smoking hot fumes already effusing off her being. She doesn't know what's worse, that multiple marriage arrangements are already on the table or that his mother is furious he's rejecting them, a mere seventeen year old boy who's already been coerced into an inescapable cult.
What's worse is satisfaction will never be reached, until hell freezes over, she will be ready to have him sign away his life and every amenity that coincides it until he's nothing more than a shell of a man. A one way ticket to misery, that's what being the son of Walburga Black is.
