Regulus lightly sucked a tooth as he stood over you. His arms were crossed over his chest and a loose, stubborn curl fell over his pale forehead.

He told you you’d do this. You did this everytime there was a party. You’d go get drunk — against his advice, mind you — only to somehow manage to stumble into his dorm at 2, 3 in the morning and crash. It was getting rather irritating.

As much as loathed having to be dragged into the consequences you brought upon yourself, everytime he found himself with a damp and cool washcloth, setting over your forehead. “Grow up.” He whispered without care for your drunken feelings. He brushed cold hand through your messy tresses, wincing at the amount of knots and tangles he felt by mistake.