⫶⫶⫶ ᴇ ᴅ ᴇ ʟ y ɴ ⫶⫶⫶
― Edelyn Aurélia Black learned
from a young age that h e r o e s
aren't always the ones who win.
They're the ones who fight. And
so, Edelyn fights, until the green
lying dormant beh...
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SHE WAS FLOATING LIKE A MARIONETTE, feet just grazing the floor beneath, and her face wore a dazed expression, brilliant green eyes glazed over as Voldemort's voice spoke enticing words in her head, coaxing her to levitate or charm the goblets, portraits, and other Malfoy trinkets that littered the drawing room mantlepiece, and once even to blast the piano bench into a cloud of wood dust; she acquiesced so perfectly to every command.
Voldemort leered with glee. "I think we've finished playing around now, wouldn't you say, Bella?" Scarlet eyes observed the magic ripple down Edelyn's fingertips like faint wisps of gold light, and Voldemort tilted his head back, inhaling deeply through his nose as if in doing so he could channel some of the powers bestowed upon her by her French ancestry. "Fetch a prisoner."
Bellatrix nodded eagerly and returned a few minutes later with a dishevelled figure restrained in her arms. "This one is...disposable, My Lord." She smiled hungrily and shoved the figure down onto the ground. They landed with a small thud, and when their eyes drifted up to meet those of Edelyn's, they gave a small gasp.
"L-Lyn?"
The name floated softly into Edelyn's ears and for a fraction of a second, her expression faltered; the voice was so gentle, so calming, so so familiar. But then another voice sounded loudly through her head in a harsh hiss and Edelyn saw rather than felt her arm lift up and point down toward the figure at her feet. She heard rather than thought the next word that flickered through her mind: Crucio.
The scream that then ensued tore at Edelyn's insides like nails scratching through raw flesh. She wanted it to stop. Please, please, please make it stop. But she couldn't. She felt like a prisoner inside her own body, limbs attached to string and being controlled by someone else. Someone who wasn't her. Someone who was wrenching this agonizing scream from the writhing figure on the floor.
"Lyn — please — stop."
The figure was now panting, desperately pleading for the spell to be lifted, and Edelyn felt tears brim her eyes. She wanted to explain to them that she couldn't stop. She couldn't because she wasn't in control of it — wasn't in control of herself anymore. And as the screaming continued to pierce her ears, Edelyn was suddenly taken back to a night that had happened over a year ago. A night wherein it was Bellatrix who was screaming; Bellatrix who she wanted to torture and to kill. And then the ghosts of Harry's words fluttered back to the forefront of her mind.
"This isn't who you are! You can't let it control you, Lyn." She thought about him now, trying to picture those emerald eyes — it was funny, really, how she could fear her own green eyes yet find comfort in his. "One-sixty. One-sixty, Lyn," he had said to her, and Edelyn felt a warm glow flicker inside her. One-sixty:it was such a nonsensical concept — a simple number to an outsider — but to them, it meant more. It meant a sense of comfort, understanding, safety, and perhaps, unbeknownst to them both, the plain number was subtly laced with the promise of being each other's something.
