Yarn / The Curse
The tangle of yarn was unceremoniously tossed into Hermione’s lap as she sat staring into the leaping fire. A tirade of admonishment rested on her tongue; she’d told everyone to leave her alone. But the words evaporated as she explored skeins that were the most beautiful she’d seen, seemingly all colors at once and shot through with glimmering bronze. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.
Ron shifted uncomfortably before her, ginger hair glowing in the firelight. The smile answering her murmured “thanks” brought blooms of color to her cheeks, and she patted the cushion next to her.
Draco’s arm was on fire. He could almost see tendrils of smoke curling lazily upward, almost smell the sickening stench of burning skin. He clenched his jaw, determined to still the shuddering fear. The Dark Lord may revel in it, but his father would not.
A ring of skeletal faces watched impassively as their Master pressed his wand harder into Draco’s flesh. He tasted coppery blood, closed his eyes against the sight of skin blackening beneath the tip of the slim wood.
“Welcome, Draco,” a voice hissed above him. “You’ve been given the gift to serve me. Use it well.”
Ron shifted uncomfortably before her, ginger hair glowing in the firelight. The smile answering her murmured “thanks” brought blooms of color to her cheeks, and she patted the cushion next to her.
Draco’s arm was on fire. He could almost see tendrils of smoke curling lazily upward, almost smell the sickening stench of burning skin. He clenched his jaw, determined to still the shuddering fear. The Dark Lord may revel in it, but his father would not.
A ring of skeletal faces watched impassively as their Master pressed his wand harder into Draco’s flesh. He tasted coppery blood, closed his eyes against the sight of skin blackening beneath the tip of the slim wood.
“Welcome, Draco,” a voice hissed above him. “You’ve been given the gift to serve me. Use it well.”