- 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 takes it upon herself to dip a hand into the nearest trouser pocket, proffering what she finds.
Away from the distant Scottish Highlands soaking up the strength of the sun rays, Regulus shifts his darkened gaze, silently regarding at the wrapped sweet sitting in the palm of her hand, then her as a whole. Romie's hum is one of prompt, proclaiming assertive yet caring,
"Your bone structure is crying, suck on this instead of clenching"
Responsively, his jaw slackens, fingers flying up to rub over the tender aches he hadn't realised had gotten so terrible. Since the night of the quidditch after party, he's been held prisoner in his own mind, thoughts deteriorating the more time goes on and still no sign. Brooding. He's been in a long, dark spell of brooding, which is apparently taking a toll on his body.
Romie's lips curve slightly at his compliance, vanishing the empty wrapper as he pops the peppermint into his mouth and feels for her hand. She'd mentioned his impossibly sharp bone structure crying, but not his skin, the all too familiar starvation of touch imminent. The apology for his disassociation weighing on his tongue dies before making it out into the open, Romie beating him to it to speak, dissipating his growing concerns,
"You ordered him to come back to you, he is magically bound to obey"
"I know. But I still worry" He sighs, sucking harder on the mint in alternative to grabbing a fistful of curls and tugging harshly.
The house elf's highest law of his master's bidding does indeed bring Kreacher back to him when the task he was requested for is completed, but the lack of guarantee for good health gnaws at the back of his mind. Creatures that purely exist to serve under employment is the gist of how house elves are generally viewed in the Wizarding World, of little importance to those who preach supremacy. Dispensable.
They're commonly treated as though they're dispensable, a rather funny take because said preachers wouldn't last a day without clean laundry to change into and fresh food prepared on the table. Regulus certainly wouldn't be the person he is today without the care Kreacher invested in him from birth, and to think he could appear at any given moment, within an inch of his life is gut-wrenching.
His eyes skip to Romie, unable to wrap his head around how she's staying so strong, so sane when there's no guarantee of Remus' return at all, let alone in tip-top condition. He barely moved from the bottom stair for three days after Sirius called quits on their corrupted family and fled during the early hours of the night, relying on hope that he would burst through the door, bellowing the muggle music part of his rebellion at the top of his lungs. Maybe there is no hope to rely on anymore, maybe she's made peace with that. Or peace with something else.
A loving squeeze to his hand causes him to stop walking, tucking her close into his chest before she can pose a question. He wasn't aware of how much he needed to hug her, how much she needed to hug him until they were, the warmth of her tightening embrace confronting the arising cold he's terrified will freeze over, numb him again.
