Work Text:
...CHAPTER EIGHT...
"Why do they call you Rhea?"
"What?"
"Rhea," Robby repeats - pant legs rolled to the knees. His toes idly seeking comfort in the shallow tides of the black lake.
"Oh, uh, First year," Miguel says, "my Yaya packed Bismol in my trunk. It fell out, and spilled everywhere. Kyler thought it was hilarious so-"
"Oh," the realization dawns, "Diar-Rhea," he chuckles, "got it."
"Yeah."
"Well, that was nice of her," he says.
"Don't... - you can't call me that just because-"
"Not gonna. But seriously," Robby smiles, "she obviously thought that you might need it. It's sweet that she bothered."
"I guess."
"The two of you close?"
"Me and Yaya?" Miguel asks, "course, she's the best. Mom, too."
"My mom's pretty cool. When she's around, I mean."
"She travels?"
"In her own way," he says, "mostly depending on the guy she has. An all-expense venture if she's lucky. Still leagues better than my old man so I guess I should find comfort in that."
"You don't like your dad?"
"More like he detests me. I'm the black and yellow sheep of the family," he says. "Go Lions."
"But you get good marks and shit," Miguel points out, "surely that counts for something. And you're a Seeker."
"Tell me," Robby frowns. His hand pivoting to one hip as he had kept to the water. "Have you ever seen my dad at any of the games? Even when up against Gryffindor? Yeah, didn't think so. He'd rather watch reruns of the cup than bother with a live match featuring his son. Trust me," he contends with a weak laugh, "I could win the Triwizard tournament today and he wouldn't utter a damn thing."
"That's... I'm sorry-"
"About what?" He asks, twisting around. "Not your fault. Anyway - you coming in or not?"
"What are you doing again?"
"Trying to catch a fish-"
"With your bare hands?" Miguel says. The arch to his brow intentionally comical. "We could literally be anywhere else - doing anything else."
"Hogsmeade sucks. The novelty of that place easily wore off a few months ago."
"Let me guess - LaRusso?"
"Drags me every other weekend," he nods, the offhanded glimpse a given. "You know her too?"
"We're acquainted."
"Oh, big word," Robby chuckles, "you really have been working on your syllables. Now stop stalling, and get in."
"Why?" Miguel questions, raising nonetheless. His previous perch upon a fallen tree forgotten.
"It's fun," says the other, "Mr. LaRusso actually taught me and Sam how to do it."
"Instead of using, I don't know, an actual fishing line? Or, you know - magic?"
"Now where's your sense of adventure?" The Puff asks, peering up from where he's bent over. A lone bicep given to the depths of the lake as he had clucked his tongue. "Come on, Simba - just reach down, bob for a moment. Let him come to you, and - fuck-" he releases, his hands baring nothing but mounds of mud.
"You suck," comes the squall. With Miguel trampling over in a flurry of limbs - surface rippling into an endless array of ringlets.
"Stop horsing - you're gonna scare them away."
"You already scared them."
"I've done it before."
"Show me then," Miguel concludes, coming in close. The lake a numbing kind of bite that had begun to travel north of his thighs.
"Cold?" The other teases. His smirk nearly flushed against Miguel's neck.
"No. Now show me."
The shit endearing smile had returned then, a minute passing via a quaint stillness as Robby had cradled into himself - his hands back to the recesses - eyes never once wavering from the lake.
"Anytime this century, Keene."
With a speckled cry, the boy had resurfaced. The droplets falling to the wayside as the captured creature had batted against his hold. It's tail thrashing about - tossing the already enraptured Gryffindor into an endless set of hysterics.
"Show me - show me! I wanna catch one-!" The horse had returned - spirals marked all about his legs as he had pranced along the surface.
Which - "okay - okay," Robby laughs. "Just - well, stop doing that."
"You mean my dancing? You don't like when I dance?"
...CHAPTER EIGHT END...