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03 - The First Melody
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Ninety-six degrees celsius was the perfect serving temperature for a cup of americano to intensify its morning-awakening scent and kick off drowsiness out of a soul. Steaming hot liquid gushed down her tongue and she had let the heat burned it off—still, Gammaliel didn't care when it slithered down her throat in an almost familial crisp aftertaste that felt lava-like in her palate.
Full disclosure, she hated coffee. Had it been not for the identical scent of the lingering substance that reminded her of a figure that was haunting in her chambers of buried memories, Gemma would have finished it while it was chilled. But not now, perhaps never.
She couldn't sleep, nor she wished to. Coffee was the suitable offerings into bargain black dream from Epiales. It barely happened—at least not the amount she used to have nine years ago. The Irish sorceress didn't want to close her eyes ever since a symphony echoed in her mind. Her eyesight, her brain, her memories, it was all threaded in a silver string that was ravaged by yesterday's melody.
It was razor-sharp, tormented her the way it froze the hemostasis procedure of her bleeding soul. So she continued to bleed, and ichor spilled out of her soul, pooling over pristine floor until she appeared ghostly. Had it been not for the caffeine shot she might have it worse in her dreams. But the combination of continuous dosage of caffeine that almost equal to Evan Rosier's daily requirement with Martin McKinnon's fantastic broom polisher was too much for her senses.
"For Avalon's sake, Marty. It smells burning in here." groaned the irritated witch, scrunching her nose by the unbearing aroma akin to petrol and wax as the boy rubbed it on his broom eagerly—Gemma doubted he would stop until he could see himself reflected on the handle. Now, McKinnon's recent puberty made him suitable for a beater—the position he held since their third year.
The blond was leaning against her legs, as he stretched his legs on the floor. Gemma on the other hand was reading her copy of Sherlock Holmes he got for her. Legs crossed, a book on her lap. Martin grinned, "Nope." answered the blond, rubbing the cheap linen to the handle keenly until it emitted a squeaky clean sound. Gemma rolled her eyes as he went on, "Next match will be against Slytherin and oh—can you come to my practice this Saturday?"
"Tell me why would I do that?" a sarcastic smile curved on her pomegranate lips as she shut her book. Pressing hands above it before she leaned closer to the boy. "The last time I watched your match you almost cracked your skull and it was . . ." she pursed her lips for a moment, recalling his last season's fall from Sirius's bludger backbeat.
"What?"
"Terrifying imagery." her shoulders shivered at that, she turned to Marty raising one hand to touch his golden hair, "Don't get bloody again."
"I won't, it's my job to get everyone bloody," the golden-haired boy closed his eyes at her touch, she gently caressing his hair, "Except Sirius, he was better beater than I am last season."
"It wasn't nice to not have you around while your silly ass ended up in the Hospital Wings." Gemma admitted right away, pondering at the thought of bloody-faced Marty made her winced.
"So that's the reason." Marty threw his head back leaning to her knees. A small smile was masked off his lips as he grinned, "You get lonely?"
Gemma scowled, pushing his golden messy hair to cover his forehead and covered his eyes with both of her hands, "Yes, of course."
Gammaliel traced her fingers on his skin and it glided like morning dew on a rose petal before she slapped his cheeks gently. Martin chuckled at that, eyes shut for a second. There was a blissful wave that washed over him, a peculiar tranquil that felt cool against his skin when her satiny fingertips mapped the quidditch scars on his face.
"So, are you watching my practice or not?"
"'Course, idiot." jested the girl with a grin.
Her face was closer than he remembered, her hair fell gracefully and poked the sides of his face. And he could see the countless little dots of freckles under her eyes. She babbled about how boring her holiday was, albeit, his eyes lingered on the way her eyebrows raised when she talked about the things she loved. Martin tried his best to listen, but he couldn't—not when the girl appeared so galactic before him. He looked at her the way he would look at the stars, blissful, then his gaze darted to her lips.
As red as cherry, a kick of curiosity crossed his mind to think what kissing her would feel like. He blinked rapidly as he shook his head out of the thought. No, he couldn't allow it to happen.
***
The Merlins were not scaredy-cats not by blood nor the remaining historian daresay they were cowards. Since the 11th century, Arthur of Merlin the third was the first in line to get sorted in Slytherin before it became a tradition; they were witty, ambitious, and cunning. The youngest heir, despite wasn't sorted in the house of serpent, was not a coward.
At the age of seven, her friendship with Evan Rosier bloomed over a small joke—Prometheus, his uncle, suggested Gemma to join the boy's weaponry lesson—with that, the witch was not playing pretty dolls and fake tea party. She was twirling her shiny jeweled blades and threw it over an old rowan tree in her backyard, before being chased by her Nana in the garden maze for giving the poor lady a heart attack. At nine, she lifted her first bow then on her eleventh birthday the witch beheaded her training dummies with her sword.
By the time Gammaliel arrived at Hogwarts' Great Hall for sorting, she already had combatting skill equal to a Spartan commander, second-best after the young Rosier himself. Yet, behind Gemma's everlasting steel armor of nobility—a warrior was a mere mortal with fear. Gammaliel's fingers were trembling over a tune. The caffeine she injected to herself and gushed over her brain was no longer working to keep her eyes opened. The witch hit her forehead on the table twice already during Flitwick's charm class the past week. Curiosity had poisoned her ignorance, that she could no longer pretend she never heard the said melody.
Gymnopédie No. 1.
The piece was a masterpiece of Erik Satié; a rhythm of musical poets written to retell freedom and pure happiness without words. The Irish girl tried to bury her thought away, but like a chamber full of secrecy—once her sealed-tight memory was unraveled—the gigantic serpent that laid inside its lair for years was starving and waiting to be freed. Ready to lurk and preying on fragile heart, brain, at last, her saneness.
Her brunette hair felt stiffy around her azure scarf, that hugged around her neck for comfort that Saturday. Pale fingers nicking on the edges of her opened sling bag, pulling at the weak sage nylon string as her eyes were staring indignantly straight ahead. There was a slight of doubt glossed her eyes, knowing the basilisk of her fear was nearby.
Before her, was the reason why her heart was pounding, a door right next to Gunhilda's statue on the third floor. Strange coldness pierced her being, feeling goosebumps resurfaced on her peach skin. The corridor was deserted as she counted down inside her head, a tang of bitterness hit her tongue when she raised her hand to the doorknob.
She twisted it firmly, and to her dismay, it was locked. Brows furrowed, there was a warning inside the dam on her head to back away and not to reveal what it was behind the door. But when archangels whispered the obvious good-girl idea, her rebellious sides kicked in with Lilith's whisper; open the damn door or you are a coward.
A soft huff, she leveled her gaze down to the lock the witch muttered an old-English incantation. Thrills of coolness wrapped her being when her eyes flashed neon blue and at the sound of click, the door was creaking open to her touch.
Her eyes trailing down to the floor first, as if afraid to look at her basilisk in the eyes. The dusty air entered her throat as she breathed, surveying the floor and the disused tables on the corner. A faint golden gleam was poking through the window, along with the winter breeze spinning the air sporadically. Gemma gulped her nerves, there was no sign that someone could be in this room. Perhaps, she was—she shook her head in denial—the tune was coming from this room and she was sure of it.
Lifting her gaze, azure eyes gravitated on a foreign item that was placed by the window. A jet black grand piano was settled on the corner, that it appeared so out of place between the dull room. Albeit, unlike the rest of the items stored in the room, it was spotless clean not a speck of dust latched on it. The lid was opened, and a barren leather chair was placed by its side—someone had been playing.
Waves of sourness washed over her as the Irish stared at it, both curiosity and fear poisoned her gut. Curious as to who was playing Gymnopédie that day. Fear as she felt her fingers trembling and nicked the nylon strings of her bag harsher. Her heartbeat pacing hard in her ears, feeling the scarf around her neck was no longer comforting, ( not when the piano was in front of her ) instead, it was suffocating as if the basilisk was serpentine tight around her neck. Forcing the witch to see—see this, see it, see everything and suffer and remember.
Gemma had let her blood rushed to her face, coating it carmine as she breathed sharp and shorter and shorter the longer she stood and stared at the piano. There was a faint hissing of poison in her gut, telling her to see, to watch. The reason why she no longer found her reflection interesting, why the heir abandoned her pretty dolls and jabbed a straw-man dummy with her dagger instead—for every jab and stab and beheading, her head was damming devil's screams; her fault, her fault, her fault.
With blurry vision, she pivoted on her heels, darting out of the room in a hurry, she heard a loud thump before she shut the door behind her harshly.
Footsteps slicing the deserted hallway, the witch darted away with dizzied head. Her vision spun before her eyes, her skin burned everywhere, every nerve. The basilisk was unleashed and it was freed to roam along her saneness. Until a voice came behind her.
"Oi, Merlin!" a cocky timbre came behind her, followed by two rushed footsteps.
The witch palmed over her cheeks, wiping the aquic bead that was too late to escape. She inhaled shortly as she felt two pairs of firm hands lunged over her shoulder gently. James and Sirius. She counterfeited an eye-roll as she knew the two of them must have been from one of their classified escapades.
"What?" she cocked an eyebrow, facing the two grinning boys who stood taller than herself.
"Where are you going?" they spoke in unison, a mischief grin was clinging on their lips.
The Merlin's heir shook her head, stepping ahead as she squirmed from their grip. "To the pitch." she began, two identical footsteps followed her along with a strong scent of papaya from sharing their shampoo. "—Martin's practice."
The two fifth years shared a look, "I'm coming with you." stated Sirius, placing a fist above her head playfully earning a groan from Gemma.
"Stop that!"
"What?" Sirius leaned and wrapped his armpit around the girl's head, "This?"
"Urgh! Sirius!"
James grinned as the witch lunged her palm on Sirius's arm, which soon bloomed into bickering and round of smacking. He shook his head and placed his palms before their forehead to separate them apart. Clicking his tongue while Sirius flashed his mischief grin and Gemma glared at him with a pout. Huffing to himself James went on, "You mean, we are going to the pitch."
The quidditch pitch was colder than Gemma anticipated, seeing it was raining right before the practice. The stands and floorboard were damp from the rain as she smelled petrichor chilled her nostrils. The blond boy kicked off the ground and launched himself to the ivory sky with his broom. Gemma pulled the sleeves of her pink jumper to cover her fingers.
"How can you two even be related?" mused the Irish witch, With that, the two Gryffindors turned their jaw to face the witch as she gazed away to the pitch.
"Who?" Sirius cocked an eyebrow.
"You and your brother." Gemma replied, her lips turned upward at the amusement. James on the other hand pursed his lips and shrugged while he shoved a treacle fudge to his salivating mouth. She went on, eyes narrowed. "He's more self- preserved, and good-boy perfect at anything type and then there is you."
"Welcome to the club, Merlin. That was the first thing I asked." James chimed in and winced when Sirius stepped on his foot.
"You barely talked to him, and you down-right judge him how wonderful, Merlin." mused Sirius, clicking his tongue to his cheek.
"I got partnered up with him earlier this week in potions, two periods, and I can see how one-eighty you two are." answered the witch, extending her hand to nick a few treacle fudge off James's pocket.
"The tales of the better son." Sirius answered bitterly, he dropped his gaze down in grimace, "You could see the difference with blind eyes—Maybe that was also why we don't get along."
"You don't?" Gemma inquired, brows raised as she leaned to James with a comical grin.
"Surprising." replied James sarcastically.
Sirius rolled his eyes, "At least I'm hotter."
"That's debatable." James admitted lowly, shoving another treacle fudge down his mouth.
"You're supposed to be on my team." said Sirius with eyes narrowed, James shrugged at that.
Soon enough, James retorted with a rebuttal, then another escaped from Sirius's lips. While she formed a small smile, gazing away at Martin. The blond swung his bat to a bludger swiftly, sparing her a wink right after as she clapped her hands. A small smile pulled from her lips, but her thought was on something else while she watched him flew away.
A question lingered on her mind;
Who was the pianist?
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Author's note:
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