- 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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꧁✧✧✧꧂
𝕽egulus studiously reviews his perfected game plans, blocking out the rest of the lively Great Hall.
His focus isn't easily broken, proficient in being able to phase out the rowdiest of rackets thanks to growing up in a household where shouting is the closest thing to a love language. But the damnable, claim stating arm slowly hooking around his neck, teasing an invade on chest territory certainly puts up a fair fight. There's no fight. He couldn't imagine in a million years fighting the almost sultry whisper fanning his ear.
"Hidden alcove. Five minutes"
The arm smoothly retracts, and taking with it, like it never belonged to him to begin with, Regulus' mastered ability to clearly focus, to keep sedately cool. Marginally, he rocks side to side on the bench, tucking his chin to his sternum for a sneaky survey of the swaying hips and swishing ponytail dominating the main aisle and disappearing out of the big, oak doors. Whilst there's no over shoulder brief look back to flutter his stomach, the realisation of something else flutters him to the core. Energy is recovered, one of a kind sparkle is back. She's back.
His enthralling Heffalump is back and five minutes is unreasonably long to cool his heels, a grave misuse of time that could be well spent showing, proving what he thinks of the shiny, new return. Shoving the game plans he couldn't lose himself in if he tried, to an airy Pandora spooning out a delicious passion fruit, he throws his legs over the bench and walks out of the hall, his pace pathetically quick.
Good luck wishes and optimistic cheers are pitched at him left, right and centre, each receiving a nod that's impolitely brisk and distrait. Anyone that thought they would get any better was kidding themselves, for one, if Wizarding royalty was an establishment, the crown jewels would be his, and for two, it's glaringly obvious his idea of the jewel in the crown isn't glued at his hip so that must mean he's on his way to do something about it.
The gradually quickening thumps of his heart finally reach the state of being erratic when he spies a familiar lithe figure up ahead, leaning casually against the cracked stone away from him. No, that'll not do, he feels like he might depart this life, perish if there's no dangerous, glowing rays of violet to leave a lasting effect on his broken soul in the next ten seconds or so. He ducks into the seclusion of the alcove, spinning her around quicker than she could poke fun at his awfully short interpretation of five minutes.
No traces of surprise can be found in her eyes, only a waggish glint that tells him she was testing his avidity, his devotion. There's no fight. Quidditch is his escape, his sense of freedom, his chance to have something and finally never have to let go, but what is there to escape for, to chase freedom, to catch and never let go if not Romie Lupin. It's not the golden snitch he wanted to catch and never let go, it never has been. Her and her insufferable yet oh so fascinating ways are the prize, the end game.
"Bonjour, handsome" Romie grins, grins brighter, grins harder when she clocks the influence the sprinkle of French combined with the complimenting nickname has on him.
