the girl who lost it all [d.m]

fifty four: inretire

inretire: to trap, to ensnare, to catch

———

ELARA couldn't stop feeling.

One after the other, emotions swirled in her like a whirlwind, wrapping her up in their grip and suffocating her, digging their talons into her throat.

It was all she could do to stop herself from collapsing, from sagging against the nearest wall and letting her feelings drown her. It was so tempting—to let the rage, the disbelief and the betrayal consume her until there was nothing left.

But Elara had never been the type to give up—and so she ran. In what direction, she had no clue. With what dangers around her—she seemed to have forgotten that too.

It was just Draco's words on repeat in her head. The things he'd said to her from the other side of the door, the desperation in his voice. The way her heart had cracked a little more with every single syllable that slid of his tongue.

I know when Dolohov touched you, it was my hands that actually violated you.

That was the phrase that had made her heart hurt the most. That was the phrase that had made the walls around her bear down on her, that had made her magic flicker where the dark tendrils twined around her hands. All of a sudden, she was transported back to that cell—trapped within four walls, bleeding out and barely alive.

She barely remembered most of those two years in that cell. The first year had been the worst: Bellatrix was still alive and her visits to Elara's cell had her begging for death. Mulciber showed up once and Dolohov another to try and get information out of her—but then Bellatrix been killed in the Battle of Hogwarts. After that, the war had begun and everybody seemed to forget about getting information out of her. Food and water still appeared every few days—never enough but it kept her alive. Towards the end, she'd given up altogether and ignored the stale bread and water entirely.

She still had nightmares of what happened to her down in that cell—of Bellatrix's gleeful cackle, Mulciber's threats and his weight on top of her as he slammed her head into the ground, and Dolohov's hand between her legs, his knife in her hip.

Her trauma was woven so deep into her brain, sometimes she didn't even realise it was the after-effects of what had happened to her. She'd find herself never realising she'd scratched at her hip until it bled through her jeans or how she always slept with her door cracked open because she needed to see at least a sliver of the hallway to know she wasn't trapped.

And Draco had caused all of this.

He had lied to her. He had hid everything from her. He had used her and betrayed her and taken her memories from her. And he'd never had the guts to come clean.

Instead, he'd lured her in with enticing words and soft promises, with that sincere look in his silver eyes. Had held out a patient hand and  offered to help take the knife out of her back.