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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WARNING: This chapter will contain graphic description.
Platform 9 ¾ was grey everywhere Martin looked and he breathed in the dust. From the bruised sky above, the floors, the walls, in the suits that his father wore as his parents bid him goodbye for his last year. No matter the angle, the joy that once latched into its number had been scrapped over like old wallpaper, buried forever under the ruins and patches of blood.
During these slow seconds, Martin replayed his heed to Levy less than fifteen minutes ago. "If anything happens today, there is a chance that the traitor is a menber of the Order outside our group."
For the first time, McKinnon loathed that his theory was proven right.
Being right no longer meant earning House points or defeating arguments to enhance his pride. It was waking up from a haze of must and means. It was watching a woman fished out a shard of glass out of her little sister's arm, digging her nails into the open wound and coo that it would be over soon. It meant being a second away from having deprived mentality or facing death. It was shutting his eyes so stranger's blood wouldn't get into his eyes, drowning in the scent of iron. These seconds shackled his ideal that he was mortal.
Martin could feel the rush of his blood, pumped through millions intricate vessels. He was made aware that he was a breathing sack of flesh and blood. His skin pallid beneath the sunless sky, dull-colored but the shine remained, presenting him akin to a fragile doll. He imagined that from above, he was a pawn and the platform was the grand chessboard. And the war was a game of light and dark. Black versus white—grey was the color of its border. A collateral damage.
"Two minutes." The blond repeated it like an enchantment. It was the final agreement he made with the conductor, seconds that he meant to use to sweep an Irish witch from hell.
A countdown clock materialized inside his head and he was down to 01:30. Fifteen seconds wasted on sprinting to the brightest shade of blue. Five down to his unexpected reflex, caging Regulus Black with his arms. Another five for a scream to manifest inside his chest and the last five was spent to cast bewitched sleep jinx on the Slytherin. Which led him to where he was; limp arms clung on his shoulder, dragging two pairs of feet with searing gasps and ash-stained face.
His eyes were combing between the ruins, trying to spot a shortcut to the only shade of gold in that platform—the protection ward he cast earlier.
While he searched, his eyes caught a woman, raising her wand to the sky, and muttered vermillion. Clever he thought, yet the crimson firework vanished into a gush of wind before it reached six feet high. He turned away and found a wizard was leaning against a pillar. The tint of grey in his dark hair was the same shade as ashes that whirled in the air. His chest heaving, breathless as he shut his eyes for a momentary peace. Perhaps, he was tired of the battle that he crouched and snatched a wand from a corpse before his feet. He stared at it for a few seconds, contemplating. The man was trying to apparate.
