꧁ʙᴏʀɴ ᴛᴏ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴜʀᴘʟᴇ꧂

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 113

꧁✧✧✧꧂

𝕽omie moves down the train cart closely behind Pandora, plastering on a smile.

Wishing the younger students Happy Easter wasn't in her role description, but duty of care was and that means dispelling, to her best ability, the worries and frets of losing the security Hogwarts provides, going out into a world that's in a scary shambles. So when her pearly haired friend mentioned a promise to Xenophilius to tour the train with his Quibbler editorials, hoping to score some interest in a holiday special discounted rate,  Romie was quickly tagging along.

At first, the appeal was fairly limited, many preferring to spend what's left of their saved  pocket money on sweet treats from the lady at the trolley, but by the time they're halfway through the middle carriages, sales had started to pick up. And if it happened to have something to do with the perfected art of eye contact Romie began initiating from over the whimsical Ravenclaw's shoulder, then no one needed to know. The perks of purple eyes. A sweet intimidation to some, a forever favourite fascination to others. To him.

Him who she suspects is guilty party behind the nifty, attention craving tug at the hind-most belt loop of her jeans. Briefly biting her bottom lip, in a tone she counts on to come across as casual, Romie says,

"I'll catch up with you in a minute, Panda"

It's as though that's all he had been waiting for, because in the blink of an eye, the two curled fingers toying with the frayed denim disappear, replaced by a fit and possessive and delightfully eager arm sealing around her waist. Already hauling her backward, stealing her away before Pandora has the chance to look. She doesn't look, doesn't need to, misty eyes full of insight steady on the silver sickles she's exchanging as she breezily responds,

"I doubt that. Hello, Regulus"

A low, gravelly chuckle that tingles Romie in places she didn't know could tingle before echoes through the carriage, echoes into the empty compartment he flings the sliding door open of and quickly ushers her into whilst politely bowing his head a fraction,

"Pandora"

Then the door's banging shut and lips are on hers. Occupying hers, blitzing hers with the sole intention of making her forget her own name and being unable to forget his. She's never been more confident in a belief than she is in the one that she could never forget him, even with a forgetfulness potion shoved down her throat and obliviate cast on her mind. It's impossible to erase the effect he's had on her body, her mind. Her soul. He's her purple person.

What makes her like, admire what she sees staring back at her in the mirror in the early mornings, what makes her not want to close her eyes to go to sleep late at night. He's her purple person and she favours, loves purple. First and foremost, her purple, that's shining and shutting at the knee buckling feeling of the wetness of his mouth, how deliciously easy it slides against hers. How insistently it slides against hers, flat-out rejecting the more comfortable idea of separating in the process of ensconcing together on the bottle green seats.