One freezing december evening as Remusâ freed from classes whixh had been cancelled on account of the snowstorm and the slytherins being snowed in from the dungeons, (much to sirius and james' delight and amusmentâ was scouring the limited muggle section in the hogwarts library.
He grabbed wuthering heights, worth a try, he thought, pocketing the copy as he headed to fill in the card.
That night, up from a familiar ache in his disobedient joints, he opened the book, casting a quick lumos. It was actually quite entertaining, he disliked the characters, but enjoyed how they were written.
At around chapter two, he noticed something odd.
Annotations? What fucker annotates a peice of library property! Dickhead. He stared at the handwriting, it was actually quite elegantâ a curving slanted cursiveâ Catherine they dont understand youârolling his eyes, he scribbled over it, probably some rich prat
He grabbed a sticky note from the foot of his bed, where he kept a pouch for miscelanious reasons, and wrote down "this isnt yours to write in."
As he kept reading, he enjoyed the book immensely, at some point, he shared the same opinions as the ponce who wrote in the book, the witty dialouge he added was refreshing and made the read a bit more entertaining.
By the time he had finished it was early morning, might as well return it, he thought, pulling open his curtains to wake the boys.
He hated being snowed in.
A full day, of the snow being thawed, of the freezing cold, of useless warming charms that only warmed a fucking midget.
A full day trapped in the common room with Mucbliers bitching, he was certain that idiot couldnt pronounce a word longer than three slyabulles, and most defenitely sure he didnt know what a syllabale was.
Even worse, his own dorm, his one respite, was infested with debauchery, Evan and Barty seizing the opportunity to mess around, on the excuse of shared illness.
So no. Regulus was not having a good day. Not at all.
Grabbing a jumper and his wand, Regulus slid on his slippers, not paying any mind to Bartys' probings on his so called "night escapades".
You see, a few days ago, in a fit of needing to prepare for exams with full dillegence, he made the painful but neccasary decsion to return all his half read books to the library, till he was done studying.
It worked, half insane over needing to know the ending, hell he even dreamt of possible endings, he studied for days till he finished half of the syllabus in two days.
Trying not to run too loudly, he found the librarys muggle section, grabbing the copy of wuthering heights, he sat down, right there at the foot of the shelf and began to sift through the pages, skimming to find his last page, when he saw a brightly colored magenta monstrosity.
A note? And in the most barbaric, crude, moronic, handwriting he had seen, barely legible, a scrawl more soâ isnt mine to write in? Oh? Really? Why then, i guess it must be yours, whats it to you? Is this book your sole property? Oh and heres some helpful advice to return the favour, learn to fucking write.
Irriated and tired, he set the book back down, grabbing another- geroge orwell? Whatever, it was, a much smaller book. Fine.
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