ᴏᴍɴɪꜱᴄɪᴇɴᴛ ✵ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴜꜱ ʙʟᴀᴄᴋ✵

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐕

☾ ʀᴇɢᴜʟᴜꜱ ☽

»»-------≪ °❈° ≫-------««

In the Slytherin section, Regulus' heart hammers against his ribcage, a thunderous beat that reverberates throughout his body, matching the rhythm of his escalating panic. Freya seems to have lost consciousness shortly after the bludger struck her head, which is expected, considering the horrible crack could be heard even from the stands. Her flaccid body plummets at great speed to the Earth below.

A cacophony of deafening shrieks and cheerful applause that have no business being played together assaults Regulus' ears, but someone must have casted the aresto momentum spell to slow the velocity of Freya's fall. Regulus quickly learns it was Kingsley, who dropped his beater bat and extends his wand so she lands into the grass as though weightless. Freya looks of an immobile blur of muddied navy blue robes before her teammates begin to cluster around her.

Regulus' eyes dart around the pitch searching for confirmation, seeking reassurance that what he just witnessed was only a figment of his imagination. Evan's face gives no such consolation, his skin has lost all colour, he's chalk-white. While the Ravenclaw section launches into a tirade, the Hufflepuffs jump to their feet screeching with triumph. Gryffindors share the same rage, albeit with less ugly profanities shouted. Slytherins couldn't care less, and most have already begun to disperse.

Because while Freya was knocked off her broom, Diggory bolted for the snitch. That much is apparent by the way Emmeline Vance looks about ready to spring on him. And then Regulus can see Dearborn hold out his hands in what seems to be some sort of placating gesture, like Vance is a rabid animal.

Molten anger rolls through Regulus, suddenly he's a volcano on the brink of explosion; it was Dearborn who hurled that bludger. He rolls his sleeves up, the white-knuckle intensity of his clenched fists give rise to the veins along his arms that stand out in livid ridges.

Evan clutches him in an instant, eyes full of admonition. "Not worth it, mate."

Regulus doesn't respond outside of a snarl as he shoves him off. Barty speaks no words of disapproval, nor does he try to intervene. He likely understands; if that were Evan in Freya's place, Barty would already be on the field. Regulus grips the metal bar of the stadium to leap over it and land in the patch of grass. The force of his footsteps leave indelible imprints, each stride a testament to the restless anger coursing through his veins. As he draws closer, the words being exchanged become comprehensible.

"Look, the match can be replayed," Diggory is saying, calm and fair, the epitome of Hufflepuffs.

"Um, absolutely not," snarls a girl with a black bop and pinched face. Emma Vanity, he remembers, her shoulders take on a predatory bow. "It's Quidditch, people get hurt. Don't be such a sore loser."

"Sore loser!" Emmeline repeats through a humourless, bitter laugh that borders on a shrill shriek. "Dearborn could've fucking killed her!"

Out of his peripheral vision, Regulus can see a cot conjured underneath Freya, and Madame Pomfrey lifting her in the air to be carted away at full tilt. The only thing refraining him from chasing after her is the chaos of his violent fury, and then the source for it speaks.

Dearborn's expression is tight with strain. "I didn't mean to —"

"Yes, you fucking did, you pathetic piece of shit," Regulus sneers, announcing his menacing presence. He charges forward and shoves Dearborn in the chest harshly, forcing him to stumble back a few steps. "You sent every single bludger her way because she broke your little heart," his voice drips with disdain as he taunts Dearborn, each syllable aims to wound with surgical precision, and he shoves him again. "Do you feel like a man now? Did cracking her bloody skull mend your fragile masculinity?"