𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐘𝐄𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐑𝐏𝐒𝐄𝐒.
Eris Achlys believed nothing could save her. She was another puppet waiting to be mastered. A witch crafted from Hades' hands and cast to Tartarus, doomed for all eternity to fail. A talented girl born purely to be used...
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October of 1976
Hogwarts, Scotland
⋆ 。° ⋆ ━━━━━━━ ⋆ 。° ⋆
Eris Achlys had been forced into a life of a prisoner - a puppy meant to follow its master. She had been reduced to nothing; her skin was carved with scars that someone else had earned. She, an accidental villain who had fallen for the craving and addiction the evils brought her, a pure drug to the vein.
Her forearm burned, a calling in which no response meant certain death. Her traffic in the hallway with Sirius Black had put a sure damper on her speed and time record to respond at a decent time.
Voldemort burned her, asking for her presence, alighting her dark mark.
Her master called. And as an obedient servant, she followed.
She raced through the halls, minutes behind from her hold-up with Sirius Black. The portraits had long since given up on shouting at her small light from her wand illuminating the hallway just enough for her to see her own feet.
Whilst she'd normally be damned if told to take off her heels (her most prized pair of shoes), she had no choice but to part with them, kicking them off sharply. Her bare feet slapped the stone flooring - a stark difference from her killer (literally) heels.
She bound her way toward the One-Eyed Witch Statue who hid a secret passage behind her toward the cellars of Honeydukes in Hogsmeade (the only place she could undetectably escape from Hogwarts via Floo Powder), she felt overcome with nausea, bile rising in her throat as her anxiety began peaking.
Being late was never an option when it came to Lord Voldemort and his calls.
Her nerves had made their way to her throat as she dry heaved, still sprinting through the halls, avoiding onslaughts of awed first years, so frazzled by her state.
She hadn't even had time to pack up her books in the library. Instead, her secrets were sprawled out for the Marauders to see. Her mind had been in such a frenzy as her dark mark burned that they could see it somehow, despite the charmed wards and glamour spells hiding the ugly.
No one seemed to see anything.
She sometimes wished someone with enough brain power could sense her wards, could sense them and tear them down. To sense the fake skin she wore to hide the fact that her body was decorated with scars from her own assault, her own nails. To rip off the abundance of spells that kept her awake, that fed her body fuel to pursue even after days of not being able to rest. To take down the spells which she poured onto her scalp to regrow her hair which had been previously torn out from her own assault. To see past her cold expression and notice the drunken haze in her eyes, to smell the alcohol on her breath and feel the buzz from her shaking, drugged body.
