When Aven Selwyn is tasked to work with Draco Malfoy in repairing the vanishing cabinet by the hand of Lord Voldemort, the last thing she expected was for Draco's best friend to become involved. Caring for someone isn't something on Aven's agenda, b...
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(ᴘʀᴏʟᴏɢᴜᴇ : Rᴏʏᴀʟs)
The body writhed mercilessly, limbs flailing in a manor of cruel terror as it attempted to release itself from the pain. Sweat lathed on his forehead, blood staining his once white teeth as he grappled for a handhold.
Aven's breath constricted in her throat and her nails dug into her palms as she watched the body give a silent jerk before all movement ceased. His name didn't matter. Neither did the fact that he had just been murdered right before her.
"I don't take traitors lightly," he hissed. "And punishments are no thing to doubt. I will kill you and your entire family if you so much as step a single foot over the line."
Aven's eyes forced them self to the snake-like ones trained on her. His skin was sickly pale, blotted with skin tags and creases, the pale color complimenting his dark clothes and thin lips.
"Yes, my lord," she mumbled, hair working as a curtain to guard her face.
His hand darted out in a flash and locked around her chin, forcing her face only and inch from his. His fingers dug into her skin, no doubt leaving crescent shaped marks on her cheeks. Voldemort's rancid breath fanned Aven's face in a grotesque wave of heat, and she swallowed a gag.
"Speak clearly, or someone may misunderstand you. And misunderstandings are prohibited."
She set her jaw and shivered from his reptile - like touch. "Yes, My Lord."
She worked as a doll, at this point. Yes, My Lord. No, My Lord. A voice saying these trained, memorized words. A voice that no longer belonged to her.
The body, one she'd presumed as dead after being tortured to no return, gave a weak twitch. Bile rose in her throat as the room caved in. She wouldn't- no, she couldn't allow herself to collapse in her spot and cry. She couldn't allow herself to run, certainly not now.
Certainly not with the fresh ink plaguing the skin of her forearm, lines severed and weaved between her veins. It was too late.
"Good," he hissed. Aven suppressed a yelp as Nagini slithered against her leg, tongue lipping at her ankle where her robes ended, a thin layer of skin exposed. That was all the Nagini needed, however, in order to terminate.
"I have a task for you, Avena."
God, she hated that name. It seemed vile coming from his mouth. Wrong. That was her name. Before her mother blew into bits in the attack at the Ministry three months ago. Before she'd been inducted- no, forced into taking this monstrous mark.
That name was reserved for her mother. And Tom Riddle, He - Who - Must - Not - Be - Named, The Dark Lord, seemed to have taken a liking to it. He had so many names, so why couldn't she? Especially after he'd stolen hers.
