A Flurry Of Crimson

Chapter 8 | Ink on Paper

My heart races against my ribs like a bird flattering its wings hardly against its cage, desperate for escape.

A gentle hand wraps around my neck, and my short breaths calm involuntarily at the touch. I hold my breath, unregistering that, for an unnoticeable second, a spell broke in unison with the tears I held in my eyes.

I finally take a deep, clear breath, welcoming the sweet smell of wet earth and ripe green apples in a great delight.

The person is hid with a Death Eater's mask, but his silver eyes makes me know him.

With a smooth flick of his wand over his face, the mask emerges away into the air. It disperses, like smoke.

The rain stops.

A weird feeling strikes me as I apparate somewhere.

Pretty patterns are embroidered on the vellum fabric of the curtains that gently flutter at the breeze.

I'm too weak to stand on my own, hobbling my steps around, not knowing where to rest or sit.

I feel his arm wrap around my waist for support.

I'm driven out of focus with the thought of how they tossed me outside, and how the rune got slit into my bare skin. An extravagantly agonizing torment it was, leaving dreadful wounds.

The long series of thoughts gets cut when I stumble. His hand presses against my stomach so I don't fall, and he would squeeze it harder as I hobble to the edge of his bed. My cheeks would heat each time he did it.

"Tergeo!" He says, siphoning away the dried blood off my face.

I sweep a cleaning spell over me before resting down after he gave me back my wand.

He brushes a thumb over my forehead and says, "Ferula!" Bandages conjure from his wand and run over my head, easing the pain.

"You're extremely great at healing. Would you ever like to become a healer?" I comment as I sniff in the tears.

"Who did this to you?" He says out of subject. Clearly, he wasn't hearing me.

"Didn't you call me a bigmouth? I won't speak. Forget about what I just-"

"Tell me who did this to you?"

I shut my eyes, hesitant to answer his question. It pisses me off that, why does he care? Isn't he the same guy who cut my hand enough to bleed wildly?
His breaths are hot against my face. I hesitate even more, tilting my head away from him to avoid his gaze that burnt inside me. The attempt of keeping the tears inside is a complete failure.

"You know who they are, your friends," I note, blinking away the tears.

He slightly nods. "Open your hands."

My hands remain two fists on both sides due to hard tension.

"It's hard to-" I mumble, tears coursing down my cheeks. I'm truly a cry baby.

His fingers catch my fisted ones, and he tries to dig in and open my hands. I urge myself to unattach them, but its hard, so very difficult.

Until he manages to intertwine our fingers. My hands are stained dried blood, and I watch as the red liquid gradually starts to vanish.

"It's like repairing something you broke, isn't it?" I ask sincerely, with deep emotion. "Why would you ever care to fix something you destroyed? Or heal what you have hurt?"

"I guess I'm trying to become a better person," he says, his eyes like serene, grey lakes as they lock mine. Every word that escaped his rosy lips echoes in my mind with the power to shock me. "But that doesn't mean I'll ever stop hating you."