Marta Flores (bella_black) wrote in doorslogs, @ 2013-10-10 09:46:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | bellatrix black, door: harry potter |
Who: Bellatrix
What: A dream
Where: Dreamland?
When: After the sisters encounter Remus at the Shack
Warnings/Rating: Bit of unintentional self-harm?
She finally slept. She hadn't had cause to, before. Not when the dirty orphan girl from the other side so often kept her away through the night. But curled up in a chair, a small fire keeping the room warmer than the outside air, journal on her lap and open to the page where she had been speaking with Tom, her head tipped to the side, and she slept.
And she dreamt.
She was trapped. Locked in a dirty, ruined room that was open to the sky - a sky filled with unspeakable shadow shapes that made her writhe in the chains wrapped around her wrists. It was awful, the darkness and despair of it bearing down on her even as the wind tore at the ragged shift she wore, protecting nothing from the icy humidity that was thrown up from water below. And yet, she laughed. She didn't know why, and part of her shuddered to hear the joyful, broken sound of it. It was wrong, and yet she laughed. Unstoppably.
She sagged in the chains, and they tightened around her wrists until she could barely feel her fingers. For a brief moment, she was convinced that the manacles would simply tighten until they cut off her hands, but then the pain was gone, replaced by a caressing slither of muscle and scales. The despair fell away, replaced by warmth, by the stealthy bloom of desire, and when she looked at her hands, they were ringed by snakes - twining around her wrists and up her arms. And suddenly a third, much larger, wrapped around her waist with a pressure that was only just less than painful. She laughed again, something lower, something pleased. "Nagini," she murmured in the dream, slipping from her sleeping mouth, and she let her hand slide along the reptilian column of flesh around her body. It felt like coming home, and she sighed in contentment.
As she slept, in the waking world her jagged fingernails found the inside of her unMarked arm, the arm that was once (either in the past or the future) meant to hold his (His) sign, the skin there pale and perfect until scratching abuse turned it pink, then red, then broke the skin for tiny rubydrops of blood to bead at the surface. Even then, she kept scratching, red under her fingernails, the color of it staining her dress, the one piece of clothing she had, adding to its messy condition.
When she woke, she didn't remember the dream - only vague flashes of icy mist on her face and something smooth and warm under her fingers. She was alarmed at the state of her arm and did the best to hurriedly clean it, at least remembering the spell for bandages, and the white material wrapped itself carefully around her arm from wrist to elbow, hiding the damage there. Her dress sleeve covered the bandage, but though she tried to remove the signs of blood, there were still dark blotches in the fabric, clean but stained. She brushed and braided her hair as best she could, stubborn tendrils slipping out to curl around her face, tried to ignore the shadows under her eyes, found a book to read on the history of asphodel in potionmaking, and ignored the fact she'd even dreamt at all.
She didn't tell her sister. Not a word.