- 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 drops her potato peeler, taking a well earned break.
Child labour was no joke and she was starting to understand the perpetual crabby attitude of Kreacher the House Elf. If it was enforced she had to pick up another carrot after today, she might shove it where the sun don't shine. The only thing stopping her from carrying out that nice action now was the niggling reminder of who she was doing it for, helping out. Mia Potter was a loveable soul. And scary when she's cross.
Gingerly, she treads away from the kitchen counter, shooting the motherly figure the sweetest of smiles when her eye is caught. Whilst the smile isn't returned, instructions to get back to work aren't given either, her expression somewhat lenient. Romie takes that as her thumps up, good to go, quickly speed walking to the east end of the kitchen before minds could be changed.
Monty Potter freezes to solid stone in his chair, speaking in undertones as he steals wary glances of his wife. And the kitchen knife tight in her grip.
"Don't get me in trouble, trouble"
Romie opens her mouth to assure the break is only a five minute one to relieve the cramp she's certain is creeping up on her, but she's beaten to it.
"You're already in trouble. Sitting on your fat arse all day expecting us to do all the work!"
A squawk of protest sounds from Monty, straightening out the newspaper secure in his graft familiar hands,
"My arse is perky, not fat, I'll have you know!"
Mia rolls her eyes and mutters crossly under her breath while Romie claps her hands over her mouth, muffling the rather loud snort of laughter unable to be restrained. When in the clear, confident the whetted knife now chopping up her peeled potatoes isn't going to be hurled at heads preferred to be kept intact, Romie lowers her hands, shuffling up behind the offended wizard.
"What are the Quidditch scores?" She asks, spying the page column designated to the sport enjoyed and loved globally.
Monty adjusts the spectacles slipping down the bridge of his nose with a gentle push, reading aloud as the inked words come into clear focus.
"The Appleby Arrows lost to the Montrose Magpies 220 to 190 points"
"Which team caught the Snitch?"
The steady chopping suddenly halted, Mia tipping her chin over her left shoulder to exchange looks with her husband. Knowing looks that flood Romie's cheeks with a heat that's a very visible shade of pink. Never in her handful of years of being their bonus daughter has she freely shown interest in Quidditch results and the exciting details in between. Groans and moans would always be heard from her corner when James and Sirius broached the subject at large over the dinner table. They still would today.
