Bella, Dead
Title: Bella, Dead
Author: l3petitemort
Pairing: Draco/Bella
Rating: PG13
Warnings: macabre imagery?
Disclaimer: Not mine. Still poor.
Summary: This was written for prompt #10 - free on my drabble123 table
His breath; slow and in and out, moving his chest, brushing past his lips. His mother’s warm, brave hand on his shoulder. His father’s body, less imposing now, but still solid, at his side. The table under his arms. The chair holding his weight.
All this, real. All this, alive. All this, intact.
Bella, dead.
In the aftermath, blood-spattered, relieved, free, this was Draco’s thought.
Bella, dead.
He had thought it impossible. Bella, cruel and terrible and beautiful; Bella, lethal; Bella, with limbs like swords and fingers like knives, and somewhere - he had heard it, had pressed his ear to it to be sure it was there, and she had laughed - a heart, unyielding and loud and as tight as a fist.
He wondered about her body. He wondered who would take it. Not his mother. Not Andromeda. Rodolphus? Was he even here? Was he even alive? It didn’t matter.
Maybe they’d leave her here to rot; leave her skeleton tacked to the door in warning. She’d like that. She’d paint its mouth red and slither out of it like a tongue; she’d grab the boys by their throats and kiss them until they came in their trousers.
Bella, dead.
Author: l3petitemort
Pairing: Draco/Bella
Rating: PG13
Warnings: macabre imagery?
Disclaimer: Not mine. Still poor.
Summary: This was written for prompt #10 - free on my drabble123 table
His breath; slow and in and out, moving his chest, brushing past his lips. His mother’s warm, brave hand on his shoulder. His father’s body, less imposing now, but still solid, at his side. The table under his arms. The chair holding his weight.
All this, real. All this, alive. All this, intact.
Bella, dead.
In the aftermath, blood-spattered, relieved, free, this was Draco’s thought.
Bella, dead.
He had thought it impossible. Bella, cruel and terrible and beautiful; Bella, lethal; Bella, with limbs like swords and fingers like knives, and somewhere - he had heard it, had pressed his ear to it to be sure it was there, and she had laughed - a heart, unyielding and loud and as tight as a fist.
He wondered about her body. He wondered who would take it. Not his mother. Not Andromeda. Rodolphus? Was he even here? Was he even alive? It didn’t matter.
Maybe they’d leave her here to rot; leave her skeleton tacked to the door in warning. She’d like that. She’d paint its mouth red and slither out of it like a tongue; she’d grab the boys by their throats and kiss them until they came in their trousers.
Bella, dead.