[Completed]
An alchemist who poisoned himself, an assassin who stabbed his own heart, an arsonist who burned herself, and a hero who couldn't defeat his inner monster.
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( A re-enact of Hades...
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WARNING: Be advised this chapter will contain mature content.
The butterbeer tasted like piss, at least to Regulus. Chatters and narky giggles buzzing in his eardrums, burnt caramel, twigs, and snow vaporized in Three Broomstick's air. Suffocating Hogwarts' students with warmth, clashed against the outside chilly air trying to break in the thick windows. Holy wreaths, red berries, mistletoe were clinging like cobwebs vines at the pillars, reaching above each table.
Regulus tore his platinum eyes to his pale, freezing hands—observing his lanky fingers, frost-bite seeped in the pallid skin, coloring it carmine. As if punishing himself for what the exact fingers did to someone, the thought of it brought sour waves that haunted him.
Why did he do that?
It kept him awake the past week, wide-eyed, perplexedly staring at the common room's window where Selkies danced between the dark water. He searched through his rationale inside out, trying to find the answer as to why. His state of mind was ruined, darkness clouding the last spot of sunshine in underworld's altar. Hades had no light, no stars had never been allowed to see it either way.
She was not talking to him, he was profound, she was scared of him as much as he was scared of himself.
Regulus found his gaze rotating back to her table, truly she was magnetic. Between the Scottish pub, she sat like the Goddess she was, appearing so radiant in the room. Azure eyes trailed down her glass of extra sweet butterbeer, he knew Gemma wouldn't take the normal one; she said it was plain.
No amount of sugar was saccharine enough to dam Black's ruined palate, not when McKinnon's eyes and filthy hands were lingering on the Irish witch. It was on her hand, fixing her scarf, dusting snowflakes off her hair. Fingers curled into tight fists when the blond daringly brushed away careless foam on her upper lip.
Regulus had enough, truly, he couldn't sit down and watched someone touch the witch. His witch. He had to figure out how to put out this tenebrous flame inside his chest, that suffocated him. It was multiplied every morning, serpentine around his ribs every day tantalizingly crushed his fickle heart, and he was unsure why he felt that way.
But Evan Rosier knew why.
The french boy downed his second glass half-way, the house's bonus, after sweet-talking Madam Rosmerta for a few minutes. Lips coated in a sugary taste of butterscotch and a pinch of satisfaction. His eyes saturated forest green, gaze transfixed to the Slytherin prefect as he fidgetted on his badge under the table.
