Run

Layla Wright had no inkling that magic existed, the name Voldemort went right over her head and she had no clue what a muggle was. So how is it that she got stuck right smack in the middle of a wizarding war? When Draco Malfoy walked into the antique shop that she happened to work in, she had no clue that it would be destroyed by Death Eaters. And she definitely never thought that she and this stranger would have to go on the run.

Now, hiding from Death Eaters, she learns that this mysterious Voldemort won the Battle of Hogwarts, the infamous Harry Potter is dead, and the wizarding world, along with the muggle world, has no hope. At least, that's what they were led to believe...

Completely out of her element, with just a long barrel pistol as protection, Layla is thrown into a world she never knew existed in the midst of a takeover. She is persuaded to not only protect the wizarding world, but her own as the two collide.

Alternate Universe FF (FF Royale competition)

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16. jackson

I never meant to date Jackson. He was getting into trouble even when we were in school but after? After, he got into big trouble--of the gang variety. But we all have our rebel phases and he was mine. 

If I knew anyone who could get their hands on illegal goods, it was him. And I knew he would want to corrupt the good girl one last time. Although now, I wasn't sure I was the good girl. For one, I was on my way to obtain some smuggled firearms with a wad of stolen cash in my bag. I also had no idea just how many lives I had taken or how many I will have taken by the time this is all over--if it ever ends at all.

I sighed as I watched the trees go by in a green blur. Rain droplets raced down the train windows and I distracted myself by betting on which one would win. Even in such a trivial situation, I was losing. "So," George said from the seat next to me. I had originally not wanted George to come, mostly because I didn't know how he would react to whatever Jackson had to say, but he insisted. "Who is this guy, anyway?"

"Just a...guy. Someone I used to date a long time ago."

"You dated someone who sells stolen guns?"

I turned my head sharply. "He didn't at the time. God, what kind of person do you think I am?"

George shrugged. "I only met you a few days ago. How am I supposed to know who you are?"

"Well," I began, "That's not who I am. And you should at least have an inkling of who I am since you've insisted on either dragging me along to participate in your stupid ideas or insisting on doing the same for my stupid ideas since the very moment we met."

"The only reason I do that is because you're the only one who will let me. Besides, you don't know who I am either."

I snorted. "I think I have a pretty good idea."

George looked at me, amusement sketched in his raised eyebrows. "Go ahead. Entertain me."

I chewed on the inside of my lip while trying to come up with something to say. "You're angry," I said finally. And then the rest came. "You're reckless and seem to care very little about the well-being of anyone--not even yourself. If I'm going to be completely honest." The words poured out of my mouth like word vomit. They were already out before I could stop myself.

George leaned back in his seat with his arms crossed. "Spot on," was all he said.

Immediately I regretted it. "I'm sorry...I just--"

"Why are you apologizing? You were right. That's who I am," he said, looking straight ahead. "That's who I am." He mumbled the last bit to himself. What had I done?

"Geor--" I began, but was cut short by the train coming to a halt. He didn't say a word as he followed me through the station. Not one.

"Never been to this part of London before...," George said, looking over his shoulder anxiously as a few kids road by on their bikes. Graffiti painted the walls around us and trash littered the sidewalks. 

"Yeah, well, you're lucky," I snorted, taking advantage of George acting like himself again--or at least the George I knew. "I used to live here a long time ago. That's when I met Jackson. Luckily my dad got a decent job though, so we moved." I stepped over a shattered bottle and onto the steps that led to his door.

I felt anxious. I hadn't seen Jackson in over a year and I wasn't sure what had changed. Me, definitely, but I didn't know how deep he was into the things he was doing. And even though I had only been with wizards for a few days, it felt like a lifetime. It would be a shock to see a piece of my past, especially when my present--George--was colliding with it.

I hit the door with my knuckles a few times. I could hear angry rap music coming from the other side. I looked down at my clothes self-consciously. I was still wearing Hermione's clothes, a size too small and my shabby bag was still slung across my shoulder. When the door started to crack open, I could smell the pungent scent of cigarettes and alcohol. 

First, I saw a familiar blue eye through the dark crack of the doorway and then it widened abruptly. "Layla!" he said, giving me his crooked smile. "What's it been? A year? Two?" He threw one arm around me in a lazy hug.

"Hey Jackson," I said, awkwardly. "This is my friend, George." I motioned toward him. He had an amused look on his face, as if he was surprised by Jackson.

"Hey mate," Jackson said quickly, turning back to me. "So, what brings you to my humble abode?"

I struggled to get the words out. It was bad enough that I was on his doorstep, now I had to ask for stolen guns. "I have a favor to ask--a big one." He raised his eyebrows in a way that made me feel uncomfortable.

"Well, get in here," he said, motioning towards the entrance. 

I crossed the threshold hesitantly, George on my heels. His place looked nothing like I remembered. In a great contrast from the outside, the inside was filled with expensive pieces. He had a leather sectional couch and the biggest flat screen TV I'd ever seen. There were massive speakers lining it and an air conditioner blaring in the background. He turned down the music immediately.

I sat down on the couch and directly across from me was a coffee table with empty beer bottles piled on it and cigarette ashes and ends scattered all over. "So," Jackson began, sitting down on the corner of the couch at the same moment that George sat next to me. "What's this favor?"

"Well," I started, not sure how to say it. "My...friends and I have a problem. We need...something...and we don't know how to get it..."

"Drugs?" he said, his face serious. 

"No!" I said, though I could see how he came to that conclusion. "No, we need something else. And I wasn't sure where else to go. So, I'm just hoping you can help. ...We need guns. A lot of them."

Jackson's eyes grew wide with surprise. After a moment, he laughed and leaned back on the couch with his arms crossed. "Well, well, Layla. What have you got yourself into?"

"Just a small problem. Not a big deal. If we can get those guns."

"Well how many do you need?"

I counted on my fingers. "At least eleven. Maybe more."

His eyes were wide again. "You building an army, Lay?"

His use of my old nickname was a shock. It was like going back in time. I struggled to recover. "N-not quite. Just a few friends."

He laughed again. "Fine then. You don't have to tell me. I can get you the guns but it'll be a while. I might be able to get you them tomorrow. You can stay here, if your friend doesn't mind."

I looked interchangebly from Jackson to George, who didn't look pleased about the situation. In fact, when I agreed, he stood up abruptly. "Loo?"

Jackson pointed down the hallway. "Last door." And with that George stalked off.

"Never thought I'd see the day when Layla Wright came to my doorstep asking for a dozen guns," he said, laughing again. He rested his hand on my knee. I stared at it, remembering who I was the last time I felt the warmth of his hand. It was a blurry picture. A lot had changed.

"Have you ever killed someone?" I asked abruptly, my voice monotone and my eyes still on his hand. He removed it. 

"Why?" he asked, his voice more serious than I'd heard it. "Are you trying to prepare yourself mentally or--?"

"Or." I looked up at him and I was sure he could see it. I was sure he could see the word murderer painted across my face in blood, because that's how I saw myself.

His face was incredulous, though his mouth was molded into a smirk. "Who are you, Lay?"

I looked back down at my knee. "I don't know."

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