peculiar situations were an anomaly in your relatively tedious life. the only species that could disagree were muggles, but they were bound to perceive the life of a wizard or witch as an experience far from mundane.

rhydian black exceeded your expectations of baffling. as of now, two in the bloody morning, he was perched on your lap—clingy (perhaps his abandonment issues played in here), feverish, and a walking migraine. he was readily refuting your consolations in favour of smothering them with his endless complaints, which were simply driving you insane by replaying in your conscience or he was repeating them word for word.

for a reason not quite shrouded in enigma, you presumed the former was more probable.

a predicament along the lines of this was bound to happen; you’d made the decision to venture into muggle london, and the asinine agreement to allow him to accompany you during the excursion. (it hadn’t been an option; he would’ve tailed you either way.) you weren’t sure what was a startling development; that he’d gotten himself lost, or that you’d somehow managed to locate him.

following your return, rhydian had succeeded in deluding himself into the belief that he had unintentionally procured a lethal disease during his autonomous exploration (also known as, his accidental disappearance in pursuit of a muggle that he’d mistaken for you; they’d had a disconcertingly similar set of features to you, he insisted). you’d determined it to be a measly cold, an ailment that would dissolve sooner rather than later, but black was adamant in his claims that it was a ‘man flu’.

from where he was situated on your lap, he let out an exaggerated cough, before wittering a sullen little, “i’m withering away. my death is approaching, i can sense it. i don’t believe i have long left, thanks to this man flu i have acquired from those filthy muggles,” he gazed morosely at his hands, “before i go, i’d like to profess my undying love for you one last time. and perhaps punctuate it with a kiss—“