"You never knew the stars had a flavour until you first kissed him. It turns out they tastes like ambition and ancient fire. Desperation and self-destruction. Determination and dark matter. And the mind-numbing fear of being left alone again."
Tom R...
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The first night at Hogwarts was the worst, it was one of the most difficult nights she'd ever experienced, and this time she didn't have anyone to run to, to hold her and tell her it would be okay. She hadn't had that person for a while, but she felt more isolated than ever. She thrashed from side to side, tossing and turning inside of her single bed, sweat forming on her skin, cascading down her sickly white skin and staining the bedsheets. Her dark tresses desperately slung to her forehead, soaked in sweat.
'Come forward and join us or die.'
A man shouted in her mind, he looked sickly and snake like, his face seemed as if it constantly plagued her. Haunting her. Everyone cowered in fear from this man whose sick smile amidst the grave and war-torn faces tore Elizabeth apart from the inside. It felt like she was falling when her body jolted upwards, rapidly panting in an attempt to catch her breath, her teeth sunk into the inside of her cheek, fighting back the screams and tears, bringing herself back to reality.
Glancing around her bedroom, the soft rise and fall of each girl that occupied the room, they were sound asleep, the harsh snoring of Katherine being the only noise that registered in Elizabeth's mind. Tilting her head to the side she saw Valeria's lips twitch into a frown, slowly peeking open and over at her, staring at her in a heavy-eyed haze. "What are you doing up? It's too early." Valeria grumbled, shifting and rolling to the other side, her limbs splayed over the bed as she fell asleep again.
Slipping from her bed, she grasped her wand and reached for her notebook of all the household spells she'd learnt from Mrs Malfoy. Holding out her hand and wand over her bed, she silently uttered the incantation, returning the bed and the sheets to its former state. She then turned around, placing her wand down and reaching for her clothes and she stopped in front of the mirror, numbly studying herself.
The dark circles under her blood shot eyes, the sweat drenched hair clinging to her sickly pale skin. She looked like a mess; Fitzwilliam had always said Blakely's never looked like a mess in public. To give too much to someone, to show weakness to the public, it was giving them part of herself that they did not deserve. Not according to Fitzwilliam. Holding her clothes close to her, she began to clean herself, washing the sweat off of her body, scrubbing and cleaning until she was satisfied. She was dressed in her robes and in front of the mirror again. With a few choice words and a magical touch, the dark circles were gone, her hair soft and light, tugged back into a ponytail, not a hair out of black, her skin glowing.
Everything wrong was only in her mind, it was a dream – a nightmare actually – but that was irrelevant. The things she heard and saw, the things she dreamed of, they followed her everywhere, weighing her down, feeling her heart being clenched by some impossible force greater than her. When she was face with these feelings, she took a deep breath, then another, reminding herself about the advice Fitzwilliam had given her. She couldn't be weak, she couldn't cry.
