- 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...
Though Minerva McGonagall conducts a fantastic demonstration, the subject he's painstakingly engrossed in isn't the complex and dangerous art of changing the form and appearance of an object or person. It's the complex and dangerous girl he feels like he hasn't seen for hours, days, months on end. A foolish feeling, neither have left the other's vicinity at all.
He's seen her, yes, his pale eyes locked on her hunched over figure as we speak, but he hasn't seen her. Her shimmer, her shine, her magnificence that makes her untouchable and so unbelievably fascinating. Like a sleepwalking version of herself, she's been coasting around, disconnected from reality and all its lively animation. Regulus couldn't blame her whatsoever, but that doesn't mean he likes it.
The piece that completes him, makes him whole and wholesome, makes him want to live is missing. His other half, lost and enervated and hurting so much it hurts him. No, he really doesn't like this, not even the Dark Lord could summon up enough evil to like this. His hand slinks into the grey jumper and shirt opening he had earlier created by untucking from the waistband of her skirt, long, slick fingers sprawling across the small of her back. Stroking tenderly, like he would the skin between her knuckles if in reach.
His ministrations never die down, continuing right through to the shrill ring of the bell that has her starting in place. Nevertheless, her head never picks up from the desk, even as their classmates file out of the classroom, Pandora and Hestia displaying concerned air. A reassuring smile from Regulus sends them on their way to charms, confidently apprising a grin-less Evan that if there was anything or anyone that stands a chance reviving the purple fire in their Gryffindor girl, it's the anything or anyone that's been born to it.
When the classroom is fully empty, free of any unwanted nosy stickybeaks, Regulus removes his hand from inside her shirt, rising to his feet. Calmly, he approaches the awfully cluttered desk situated at the front, quietly clearing his throat to gain attention.
"Minnie"
The professor jumps slightly in her chair, surprise blooming inside her chest at both being addressed by the Slytherin boy and the rather intimate address used. The edges of his lips curve up in a manner that exudes cheekiness, catapulting her back in time to the day the nickname she's long given up correcting, came to be. She wonders if he knows the pivotal baptism was conducted by the same blood that pumps through his veins. A learning for another day, when his mind isn't elsewhere.
"Regulus" She responds affably, dropping her grading quill in the pot of scarlet ink, offering him her full regard.
The growing curve of his lips is for reasons other than boyish cheek now, somewhat delighted to be on a first name basis with the Marauders' heroine. His smile fades at the thought of the graduated boys, one in particular prompting him to cast a brief glance over his shoulder to the rear of the classroom. Though his upcoming words are of a requesting nature, a sternness that forewarns no will not be taken for an answer infuses his tone.
