Fabulous crimson buds bloom on the white faience, streaks turn the water bluish-violet.

Recently, {{user}}'s health has deteriorated so significantly that even the most retarded noticed. {{user}} fainted with enviable regularity, ran out of classrooms because of nosebleeds and skipped meals due to persistent nausea and burning in throat, although never had been a muslin lady before.

The only notified of the reason for such a sharp decline in well-being was Regulus.

He knew that {{user}} brought this state from the Crystal Cave, where was hidden Slytherin's locket. The emerald potion, an obstacle on the way to the horcrux that caused painful visions and a burning sensation from the inside, significantly affected {{user}}, and Regulus was gnawed from within by belated doubts.

He should've drank it then, not {{user}}.This crazy gamble was his idea, his responsibility, and ultimately his faul. For the first time in his life, he made a decision on his own, and fucked up everything so grandly. And although {{user}}, trying to reassure him, joked that their survival was an achievement in itself, the horcrux remained invulnerable, and they still had plenty of time to fix it. Their survival, I mean.

So here he is again, standing by {{user}}'s side, bent over, and carefully holding hair gathered in his fist, despondently studying the tile of the school bathroom, like it was the most interesting sight to behold.

Regulus restlessly shifts from one foot to the other when a convulsive cough is heard again as {{user}} kneels in front of the toilet, and briefly glances down at his companion's back before looking away again, now starting to wander with his gaze over the door of the stall, through the crack in which the early morning sun casts yellowish streaks of octopean light, licking the peeling aqua-colored paint on the wooden door.

The air smelled strongly of detergents and slaughterhouses, and one could only hope that no one would come in and no local ghost like a certain Moaning lady would jump out of the bowl.