- 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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꧁✧✧✧꧂
"𝕿his is how I envision your mother"
Regulus chokes, the mint he had stolen back days prior lodging tight into the pipes of his throat. He couldn't decide which threw him more, the totally random confession in the first place or the ludicrously casual tone the totally random confession was expressed in. He couldn't decide whether he felt highly amused or deeply offended.
Gunhilda of Gorsemoor wasn't widely known for her beauty, nor her sterling contributions helping to advance the Wizarding World's healing community beyond its developing years. No. By the dwellers of Hogwarts, staff and students, past, present and future, she's forever fated to the recognition for the distinctive quality of having one eye.
"The sculptor wasn't messing around, was he?" Regulus grimaces, recovering from his fleeting bout of flashing memories.
No considerate modification, no kind touch ups, carved to the utmost precision was the enormous hump protruding from her back, the scanty, straggly strands of hair on an otherwise bald head. Admittedly, the sight is on the harrowing side, a great contender for a feature in his nightmares. Never the main. That spot is already filled, the curly baby hairs on the nape of his neck standing tall at the brutal flare now targeting him, hot and heavy.
"So you think only a man is capable of creating art like this?" Romie fumes, jabbing her forefinger against his remarkably still chest.
No one else is around, both early curfew and the mysterious forbidden stipulation freeing the third floor corridor of any unwanted lurkers. Perhaps if that detail wasn't one, that they were openly standing alongside the fountain in the courtyard rather than the ugly statue of the One-Eyed Witch, Regulus might've instantly sprang to profusely amend, sing a different song titled it's Romie's world and I'm just living in it. The lack of company calls for a lack of appeasing.
So Regulus finds himself muttering the first thing that pops into his head, "You call this art? I call this an utter carbuncle"
"Hence my original impression" Romie points out firmly, grey eyes deviating from the scrutinisation of the disgustingly dusty figure, pinning to her.
Her arms are tightly crossed over her chest and her eyes taut at the corners like she's just waiting for him to slip up and say the wrong thing, warranting a pounce for a savage scrap. He almost wants to give it to her, since she's so bloody eager and all, and he loves seeing her in her element, but his body betrays him, lips twitching. He reaches out, brushing the stray strands of hair off her face, murmuring,
"You want to rant at me so badly, don't you? I'm sorry"
Romie's head sharply swerves, frustrated for reasons she couldn't begin to understand or explain. All that she knows is that her blood is constantly hot, constantly boiling, firmly rejecting any speck of peace and comfort that seeks out her system. Yes, she's hot and uncomfortable and there's this twinging pain in her abdomen that makes her want to scream her head off. There's only so much relief Madame Pomfrey can give for such obscure symptoms. Atleast Lycanthropy has case studies, research pieces to go off.
