- 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 rolls over onto his front, bare arms hitching onto the fluffed pillow beneath him.
His spine curves into an arch, pale eyes hypnotised by the silver encircling his finger and how beautifully it catches the morning light shafting through a narrow gap in his black out curtains. He's ruminated over, activating its special charm, ruminated over it plenty, until the concept of magic in itself felt strange and surreal during innumerable excruciatingly long, sleepless nights spent hating how miserably empty his bed is, how toe numbingly cold his bed is.
But he also hated the idea of sucking the joy out of whatever she was up to, distracting and grating on her nerves when she's most likely having the time of her life, making last minute arrangements for the wedding. The wedding. Today was the day. The big day foolishly lovesick James Potter has been dreaming about since his bright, round eyes were blinded a smidgen more by the brains and beauty of Lily Evans. The big day family and friends come together to celebrate their ultimate love. The big day Regulus was supposed to be involved in.
He clenches his jaw tight and then sighs, trying to shut out the gnawing thoughts of the embarrassing toasts he'll miss out on laughing at, the horrendously wacky dance moves he'll miss out on making fun of. The obligatory, full scale admiring he'll miss out on, making a bigger fool out of himself than the embarrassing toasts and horrendously wacky dance moves put together. Oh yes, that's a gnawing thought, a cruel thought.
While Regulus is able to appreciate it's Lily's special day, a huge excitement for the little girl still living within and upstaging the bride sinks lower than a couple of sincere crucios to the chest, it goes beyond question that she will. In every room, in every instance, in his eyes, Romie Lupin is the spotlight, the vision that steals away his ability to move or think or breathe. She's his loss of calm and cool composure and he thinks he's okay with that.
What he thinks, he knows he's not okay with is living the momentous moment through a narration, no matter how circumstantial and detailed the narration is. He deserves to be present, deserves to be part of the narration and memories forever to be looked back on, reminisced with the utmost fondness. He deserves to be there. He knows that. She knows that. Something that's evinced in the pleasantly smooth vibration that tingles the skin around his relaxing knuckles and gives him the final nudge.
The final nudge out of bed and over to the pristine set of dress robes he struggled to tear his eyes off the night before. Struggled to stop envisioning how perfectly they would complement her while being plain and bland enough to be comfortably dethroned by her showstopper allure. Not that he needed to dress down in order to be outshone, she's an expert in putting him in his place, ruling her own.
His fingers glide against the silken material of the handkerchief peeping out of the top pocket, something that's not often one of his trademark qualities thick in his tone, steeled to finality. Courage. He wasn't courageous. But Sirius and James are, unnervingly and perhaps senselessly so. Romie is too and that's a reinforcement, an encouragement in itself.
