talking_muses: Prompt #2C; Hurt
There are worse things than being hurt yourself.
Narcissa Malfoy knows this.
Not that she would ever tell you, or anyone else for that matter. Some things must be kept personal, kept private ... away from prying eyes and sharp tongues. She wakes often at night to nightmares that come without bidding, with trembling hands and tearful eyes.
No matter what potion she takes; and that's the really worrying part.
Sometimes the dream is so vivid that she's sure it's a premonition, but she's never been good at divination.
A dark, black corridor leads on forever, the tiniest speck of light at the end. It reminds her of the Black residence, in one of the secret bowels of the basement where her cousins had told her awful stories of minotaurs and more horrible monsters just before shoving her down the steps to it. She had walked for hours with only the tiniest sniffles; even then she was far too dignified to cry. And when she emerged from the end, there was only a delightful little tea party with her relations.
But this tunnel does not end. As she walks, it changes in front of her eyes; the walls become taller and barred with heavy iron that twists and gnarls like unnaturally heavy wood. Sounds begin; horrible grinding, slithering, squelching noises like someone forcing an entire human body through a mouse-hole. She runs now because the light seems the only thing that might make the sounds stop. Is she suffocating? The air is thick and heavy with tangible despair, and she trips on a loose cobble.
Narcissa picks herself up and looks to the side, vainly trying to focus her vision to the darkness. She is in front of a cell, now...a cell deeper than the rest. And there in the back corner, not huddled but perched, is Him. He looks ashen and pale in the poor light and his hair is certainly not in the best of condition, but she can tell who it is.
Her husband.
There are claw marks on the wall, long scratches carved in desperate times. She can see them well. A noise sounds behind her and the dragging of heavy chains and feet and unnaturalness rush past her ears along with her blood.
The Dementors move forward, stretching tendrils of loneliness and worse towards Lucius.
She awakens screaming, shrill and loud enough to startle the nearest house-elf into lunging into the room before it is chased out by a furiously hocked candlestick.
Dream or not, she knows that it doesn't matter. Similar things have to be happening if any of the tales of Azkaban are true. And when the time is right, when those responsible are found ... they will hurt.
Muse: Narcissa Malfoy
Fandom: Harry Potter
Word Count: 455
Narcissa Malfoy knows this.
Not that she would ever tell you, or anyone else for that matter. Some things must be kept personal, kept private ... away from prying eyes and sharp tongues. She wakes often at night to nightmares that come without bidding, with trembling hands and tearful eyes.
No matter what potion she takes; and that's the really worrying part.
Sometimes the dream is so vivid that she's sure it's a premonition, but she's never been good at divination.
A dark, black corridor leads on forever, the tiniest speck of light at the end. It reminds her of the Black residence, in one of the secret bowels of the basement where her cousins had told her awful stories of minotaurs and more horrible monsters just before shoving her down the steps to it. She had walked for hours with only the tiniest sniffles; even then she was far too dignified to cry. And when she emerged from the end, there was only a delightful little tea party with her relations.
But this tunnel does not end. As she walks, it changes in front of her eyes; the walls become taller and barred with heavy iron that twists and gnarls like unnaturally heavy wood. Sounds begin; horrible grinding, slithering, squelching noises like someone forcing an entire human body through a mouse-hole. She runs now because the light seems the only thing that might make the sounds stop. Is she suffocating? The air is thick and heavy with tangible despair, and she trips on a loose cobble.
Narcissa picks herself up and looks to the side, vainly trying to focus her vision to the darkness. She is in front of a cell, now...a cell deeper than the rest. And there in the back corner, not huddled but perched, is Him. He looks ashen and pale in the poor light and his hair is certainly not in the best of condition, but she can tell who it is.
Her husband.
There are claw marks on the wall, long scratches carved in desperate times. She can see them well. A noise sounds behind her and the dragging of heavy chains and feet and unnaturalness rush past her ears along with her blood.
The Dementors move forward, stretching tendrils of loneliness and worse towards Lucius.
She awakens screaming, shrill and loud enough to startle the nearest house-elf into lunging into the room before it is chased out by a furiously hocked candlestick.
Dream or not, she knows that it doesn't matter. Similar things have to be happening if any of the tales of Azkaban are true. And when the time is right, when those responsible are found ... they will hurt.
Muse: Narcissa Malfoy
Fandom: Harry Potter
Word Count: 455