Fatal Attraction | D.M. (Soft Rewrite)

Chapter Forty-Seven - Hangover

'Sweet or savoury?' Ophelia softly asked Millicent, whose head was down on the table surface. Her brow resting against her folded arms, while her hands cradled her ears.

But there was no response.

The only signs of life were her occasional groans and bitchy mutterings. Kicking Nott's shins, from under the table, if he made too much noise. She was mainly mute and unmoving.

Ophelia felt tired and a little foggy but it was nothing one tonic couldn't cure and a lengthy shower. Unlike Millicent, who took three tonics on an empty stomach and still felt terrible.

Skipping every class and meal to sulk alone in bed. She'd been happy to see Ophelia return from dinner with leftovers. Even if her appetite was gone and the smell of food made her queasy - it was nice to be cared for.

Ophelia's day had been equally uneventful, slipping through her fingers with its insignificance.

Lost in her head. Forcing her brain to concentrate and scolding her mind not to wander. She would scrawl headings for pages of notes but zone out before she got to filling the parchment with bullet points.

There was no way, transfiguration or charms, could distract from her nightmares.

The alcohol chased away the gruesome visions; the memory of each unforgivable curse. Leaving her to wrestle with darkness and a chorus of agonising screams.

Cries that either belonged to her parents, or other helpless victims. She was trapped in this cage, for hours. With terror filling her lungs and coating her feelings, until she was a numb version of herself.

Burning hot from the flaming pendant secured around her throat, she was sad to see her necklace make another outburst. She'd almost forgotten how much it hurt and stirred her anxieties. And she couldn't fathom what its warning meant - if it even pointed towards anything, except her own inner turmoil.

Her paranoia was so strong, she debated how difficult it would be to obtain a sneakoscope. Until she remembered that she was insignificant. Nameless and voiceless, to the people she hated. There was no real threat to fear, except the memories trapped in her head. And it didn't seem like she'd be getting those back anytime soon.

The death eaters on the run weren't aware of the revenge she wanted to take. The violence she wanted to unleash on Greyback, for tearing her father apart. For scarring Bill and torturing children, for the terror in their eyes. For the thrill of hurting the innocent, without consequence.

She knew she didn't only wear the necklace to honour her mother's memory. But how could anyone expect me to part with the one thing she left behind? An offering that affirmed her irrational theories and selfishly made her feel less alone. Convincing her that her mother wanted to communicate, to care, from beyond the grave. To lead her to the truth - no matter how twisted and cruel the answers looked, she knew there was an expiration date on her ignorance.

The only thing to put her at ease was the tiny portrait of Draco, propped against a stack of romance novels on her bedside table.

Lying there, still and quiet. She wondered whether he was resting in the same position, with her polaroid before his eyes.

For a moment, she fooled herself into thinking he would keep it forever. Until the film was spotted with age and wilted at the corners. Until only her green eyes and slow smile remained the same. With grey hair and gaunt eyes; sunken features and a frail body. She would want him to remember her this way, young and hopelessly devoted.

She imagined it living in the breast-pocket of his robes, to be retrieved whenever he longed to see her face. To run his fingertips over her likeness, whenever they were apart. To have it framed for his desk at work, to be seen by colleagues and visitors, who would all ask the same question and receive the same story of how they met... Or maybe, he would be more private... Keeping it to himself - leant against a pile of the serious autobiographies by his bed.