SEQUEL OF GYMNOPÉDIE
Regulus Black had picked a side. So did Gammaliel of Merlin. What's next?
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Regulus Black x Fem!OC
Marauders' era ( 1978 - 1981 )
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Scars fissured on Dorcas' russet skin like a night sky glittered with stars. There was a sense of melancholy in them, each enclosed with hidden meaning or stories, and she was not afraid to gain more. Like the strokes on her arms, it told her of the riotous cheers she used to hear during her days as Gryffindor quidditch team's captain. Or the dotting marks etched on the corner of her eyes every time she smiled were proof of her idealist, impatient teenage years, trapped forever in Hogwarts' dormitory as she squeezed the zit out of her reflection.
They were not all nostalgic and sweet. Some reminded her of pain, some weighed courage, some too bitter to be told again. Still, she'd journeyed from one scar to another, determined to search for more until no gap remained as if jigsaws of a human, only then she would be able to rest.
She never once regretted getting them, it was what keeping her grounded—the pain, the agony, bitterness, the sweet sorrows were what anchored her to be what she had become today. It was pain and the hard choices she took that led her to where she was. At least that was what her father had told her once.
Her memories weren't vivid but the pain was, she remembered the hiss that escaped her lips when one of her marionette strings had cut her fingers. She remembered she'd wanted to cry. She peered behind her raven curls, staring at the blisters and cuts on her fingertips and knuckles.
"Hold it for a second," her father had asked her once, she gave him a nod then he lathered his fingers with a honey-colored healing balm, though it appeared as if a liquid wax. He dabbed the balm on the blisters, gentler when he reached where blood was oozing out of her skin.
"It hurts," Dorcas whined, it was the first time she had ever wanted to cry so bad, she fisted her skirt and bit her lips to muffle herself. But she could not afford to cry now, not when her father had just arrived home after weeks-worth of mission. She had begged him to get out of bed, willing to show him how her lesson was going when he was gone. And she should not waste this time by moaning how difficult it had been.
Dorcas had never seen her father cry over the scars he got from work before. He had let himself bled, had tainted his suit scarlet with a big grin on his face, and then proceeded to tell her how badass he was while he wrung dark wizards on his strings during his missions. She watched and listened to him with a beam in her eyes, as he recited every movement on dinner table. She would clap and giggle while her little sister, Johanna, would pull at their mother's arm, begging to get her hair braided for bedtime.
