- 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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𝕽omie dries her hands on her skirt, walking out the girls lavatory.
Or atleast that's the plan, one that's scuppered by the unexpected bumping into a solid and smelly mountain troll blocking the stone archway exit. Loudly groaning at the hassle she's about to face, Romie takes a step back, inspecting the immaculate, toothy smile its face instantly splits into. Too immaculate, too toothy to be the picture of a mountain troll's.
Misfortunate. If the choice had have been hers, she would've preferred chancing upon a hideous, thick-skinned, thickheaded, bald beast carrying a giant, spiny club. Be that as it may be, Romie simply cannot resist engaging, elfin side brightly shining through.
"Lovey-dovey date with Myrtle?"
A cheerful dip of hands into trouser pockets and dazzling eye sparkle, then,
"What can I say? Her moans are a siren song"
For a long minute, Romie stares unblinking, torn between scrunching her nose to the point of permanent creases and laughing herself into stitches. The longer it goes on, the more she leans towards the latter, which would be a great misdemeanour under the circumstances. The knowledge the ability to genuinely make her laugh has been grasped is secret knowledge she would prefer to take to the grave. Or else, in no time, she'll be admitting how embarrassingly much she's warmed up to him and his ridiculousness that would forbid forgetting.
Brushing past him out the door and into the corridor, Romie playfully throws over her shoulder, "I'll tell Barty the good news. He lucked out"
"I'm sure he thinks so too"
Her facade drops in the blink of an eye, spinning around to double check she hadn't misheard, hadn't misinterpreted. A string or two of her heart wrenches at the immediate realisation she hadn't. At the strain of the smile Evan Rosier reliably exhibits no matter the place or time. It's slight, imperceptible to anyone who isn't capable of reporting which side he secretly favours to smartly comb his hair, which hand writing naturally comes to, if the option was his. Spoiler alert, it's left. For both. Romie could tell the world, and never second guess herself, in a heartbeat.
"What's happened? Last time I saw you he was trying to swallow your tongue" She wonders, arching an eyebrow at his reply,
"Tried and failed. You can't row without that particular organ"
Arching both eyebrows after putting two and two together. Row. Somewhere in the middle of stumbling into a broom cupboard, shirts untucked and lip locked, and the present, acting like a perverted weirdo by hanging out outside of girls bathrooms, they've had a row, quarrelled. Hard. She motions for him to walk in step with her, selflessly slowing down her corridor ruling strut to match his measured, leisurely pace. It's the least she can do, the same going for the light, low-pressure invitation to vent.
