"I'm going to fucking ruin you."
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The Dark Lord conquers the wizarding world, Harry Potter is dead. Muggleborns are slaughtered. Halfblood's are shoved into imprisonment, conditioned to alter their beliefs and dictated to worship Purebloods.
Y/N Y...
In the world we call "dreams", I am canvassed in dirt. From the threads of hair embedded in my scalp down to the soles of my shoes, brown soil engulfs my figure. Fragments of dried mud crackles and chips at my skin whilst I utilize the length of my legs to run through the thick woods.
I perceive a rotted tree, a portion of the bark is crumbled to the core and a sense of relief floods my senses, this is a region I can stow away in. Glancing back— it continues to chase me, the giant butterfly with bird wings.
My awareness of the factor that this is a dream confirms when I attempt to continue running— I utilize my legs to run but it is as though the bottom rubbers of my shoes have been glued to the dirt and the sticky substance singularly permits me to dash in a sluggish movement.
Frustration squeezes at my heart, blood regarding fear spills into the chambers of my heart as the monster-like butterfly approaches my figure. It's beady eyes and thick antennas pierce terror into my senses and for a moment I think I may—
With a single blink of my two lids, my location begins to alter, the perspective of the splintering brown trees disappear in splotches.
My eyelids slit open and I declare to myself that I despise dreams.
The bubbly sensation in my stomach diminishes and I have returned to reality.
"Y/N," a deep voice mispronounces my name repeatedly as my blurred vision begins its process of fading. "She has awakened," he states.
A deep breath of crisp oxygen spills into the vicinity of my lungs, the mattress below me has a soft silk texture— a high thread count (I presume). The cotton blanket enclosing the lower portion of my body presents a heavy weight to its fabric, the seams brushing against my bare skin.
There is a man glaring down at me, an expression of curiosity plastered onto the features of his face. He presents himself with long luscious hair, the color is light— nearly silver. There isn't a solitary wrinkle embedded on the material of his clothes, nor is there a flaw in the position of his figure.
Lucius Malfoy.
"Y/N," he pronounces my name wrong once more. "Do you remember what happened or shall I explain it to you?"
