Hell Heart ❤️‍🔥 Harry Potter [1]

xix ⟶ Dead Girl Walking

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xix. Dead Girl Walking
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TW: references to torture/violence.

THE HALLUCINATION ENVELOPING Thea calms her. It slows the spinning of the world around her, that is sometimes so fast it's like it might leave her behind, and she's left floating through space. Through emptiness. It has the softness of a strand of her hair brushing her cheek, of autumn leaves twirling through an October breeze, of a snowflake landing on her face in the morning as she makes her way to class on a frosty December morning, whose sky is only just breaking with the first ray of sunlight.

It's like a strong, reassuring hand is gripping hers.

It's Harry's hand.

At least, in her hallucination.

In her reality, as her eyes begin to open and voices break through the searing, blinding headache that lives in her skull, pain is all she is aware of. In her left arm is a wave of fire, not unlike the one that lives within her chest. Only as more clarity replaces the confusion in her head, does she notice the dripping that falls down it. Then, a metallic scent fills her nose, and before she can stop it, bile rises up her throat and it takes every ounce of strength left for her to not vomit across Bellatrix Lestrange's shoes.

"Haven't I taught you a lesson, Cinders?" she screeches.

Her voice is a set of knives cracking her skull and piercing her brain. She frowns, because although she's gaining more awareness, everything around her is still so hazy.

So. Hazy.

"Give it up! Can't you see that we are winning? You will bow to the Dark Lord, Theabel!"

So...hazy...

"That's enough, mother! She's so pale, you're going to kill her..."

A wail leaves her lips as someone picks her up, and she can see Bellatrix's dark cloak swish out of the room.

"You're OK, Cinders. I've got you."

Her eyelids drift shut, and the back of them remind her of the night sky.

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When she wakes up, sitting up takes every ounce of effort left in her body. A cup of tea is sat steaming on the bedside table on her left. She looks at it suspiciously, but notices a small piece of paper underneath the cup. Picking it up with a furrowed brow, she begins to read handwriting that she doesn't recognise.

Thea,

I'm sorry for all of this.

You can trust the tea.

D.M

Her mouth drops open in shock. It's then that she notices the dryness of her lips, that are stinging like salt in a wound, just like her arm. She looks down at her arm, to see nothing but a tight white bandage wrapped around it. There isn't a speck of blood.

Before long, she has to lie down again. This is how she spends most of the day, as no one bothers her except the House Elves who bring her meals and fresh water.

She glances to the window and pulls back the curtains, to see a navy, star-speckled sky hovering over Malfoy Manor. The days have dragged her into late August already, and she wonders if she'll make it back to school on time, and if she'll have her birthday at school as normal, with her friends.

Thea misses her friends. All she wants to know – needs to know – is if they're OK.

She doubts it; they probably think she's long gone, maybe even dead...

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It takes Thea three days to recover from Bellatrix's torture.

Only Jude and Draco come to visit her. She learns that Jude had been treating the wound on her arm with Dittany that Eden had stolen from her mother's supplies, and wrapped it in a bandage. But he couldn't save her properly from the scarring, and that's why she has 'DEATH EATER' etched into her skin.

Draco had just been bringing her cups of tea. Thea never thought that would happen to her, of all the things that have over the past year.

Now, she's shaking with anger.

She's alone, with her face pressed against the cool glass of the window, looking out over the beautiful gardens.

"Let me out," she says aloud, as though it will shatter the thick, enchanted glass and provide her with an escape.

A pit of worry is growing in her stomach. It's started to go completely dark outside, which means she doesn't have much time left.

She's checked her rucksack to make sure she has everything. Not that she has much. But she's made sure to take a few sets of clothes and pyjamas, her toothbrush and a blanket so she doesn't freeze if she's left to fend for herself for a few days.

That had been her original plan. She was going to just burst out, and run.

But that changed when someone – she still doesn't know who – slipped the town's bus timetable under her door. Now, she's trying to make it for the last one in three-quarters of an hour, that will take her to London. From there, she can make it to Dean's.

She bites her lip until she feels blood run into her mouth, and the metallic taste chokes her. She steps away from the window for a moment and lies face down on the soft silk of her bed sheets.

"What do I do? What do I do? I can't stay here anymore, I can't! Think, Thea, think!" she whispers to herself, trying to think clearly through the disorganised buzzing in her head.

Sitting up, she looks around the room. Her gaze lands on the windowpanes surrounding the glass, that are made of mahogany. Their shape is uniform and perfect. The panes are thick, wooden, and filled with stained glass, alternate windows decorated with the delicate stroke of an artist who appeared to have a fondness for emerald and silver.

The panes are made of wood.

"Stupid!" she mutters to herself, spinning on her heel to face the huge blazing fireplace in her room opposite the bed. The whole time she's been here, it has provided her with her only solace, the flames a taunting memory of the Gryffindor common room, and Harry and Ron and Dean and –

Focus! she thinks to herself, shaking her head and bringing her mind back to the task at hand.

Slowly, she takes off her jacket and goes to place its sleeve into the fire. She feels her heart lurch at the sight of the flames brushing against her finger. Her hand moves away reflexively, but she doesn't yelp at the scorching sensation because it doesn't come.

It doesn't hurt.

It doesn't hurt.

What?

Ignoring the uncomfortable beating of her heart in her chest, she launches her jacket behind her and bends to a crouch position in front of the fire. Her hand stretches out to the furious red and is warmed, but not burned.

She feels courage leak into her body, and plunges her cupped hands into the fire, eyes tightly shut and heart hammering.

It doesn't hurt.