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always a green light. it was always the green light that sinuously made its way through her dreams.

she dreamed of harry, his glasses broken. she would repair them for him and they would always break again. after the tenth time of fixing them she broke down and cried as the lenses promptly cracked again. then the green light and harry's slightly stunned eyes (naked without his glasses) as she screamed soundlessly.

then she saw ron, lying so still on the dank ground, his red hair a halo around his face. never to talk about quidditch again or to grin lopsidedly at her as he tried to convince her to sneak out. his skin was so pallid; it looked moist and otherworldly in the dim wandlight. there was blood dried at the corner of his mouth (that mouth that had kissed her as she had haughtily tried to explain how to exactly add monkshood to a medicor vulnus potion) and his eyes were blank, the shades had been drawn. then the green light. her lips drawn back from her teeth.

the same dreams. played and replayed. taunting her, leaving her shaking (her mouth open to scream) and white. she would think of snape then. the way he had gazed at her so calmly, so coldly, as she had been presented in a bloody and torn robe. there had no longer been any need to wear masks (those silvery white deatheater masks from which cruel eyes glared) now that the war was over. they were free to kill muggles and muggleborn alike without the dark hooded robes and secret meetings.

she would think of snape and bite her lips until they bled, wondering if he was the one. if he had been the one that had put the last nail in the order's coffin. he had not asked for her. he had not asked for anyone.

when that woman touched her she would cringe, waiting for the next cruelty, for the feel of that mouth against her bare skin. she would not have expected it. at the department of mysteries, hearing those mad shrieks of rage against harry, she would not have expected her to have a taste for mudblood flesh. but they all did. they all carried on in parties against the mudbloods (whose blood they spilled freely) and, in the very houses they held their lavish parties, they fucked mudbloods and halfbloods.

she had never been at any of the parties. she had only heard them. heard the murmur of distant chatter and the tittering laughter. sometimes she wished she wished she could be there, to talk to someone other than herself, but mostly she wished to be alone. she wished very much for it.

sometimes she would wake up and realize she had been masturbating as she dreamed of ron, dead and still. horror would curl and clench in her stomach. once she vomited, the sticky sweet smell filling the room. then she would lick off her fingers, smelling that musky scent and wondering when she would come next. that mad woman with the shrieking laughter.

once she had woken up, wet between the thighs. the scent of bellatrix heavy in the dark room. when she had reached down, there had been blood on her fingers. a dreamy terror had seized her as she remembered another time she had bled (maybe ron had awakened from the dead?). then the rustle of robes and the feel of hands stroking her inner thighs. her clit had stung and ached and she had wished she could be free of it. the blood pooling beneath the weight of her body. the inky black of the room had been electric with pain; the black of it had unspooled in her mind. she had felt cold metal stroking her inside, cutting her open from the inside out. her cunt throbbed with pain even as she had felt cold hands twisting her nipples. pinching them with force. the slithering pain at which pleasure lurked around the edges. she had come more than once that night and she had not healed her afterwards. she had left without saying a word. at the end of the night bellatrix had carved a symbol into the curve of her spine. marking her. the blood had been offered to her from fingers that were still sticky with come. she had lapped at it eagerly. feeling her mind blank and numb and thinking of the green light. the green light that had filled the world and then left it black and dead afterwards.

escape was no longer an option. even as she dreamed of harry's glasses breaking over and over again she could feel the darkness slip into her. it slipped into her through her cunt. when she would come down into the room where she was being kept she would bury her face (and her mind) between the older woman's thighs. the heavy lidded eyes would glitter at her and she would think of blood, the taste of it filling her mouth.

ginny had been brought down to the room. the room smelled of sex and dirt. ginevra weasley. there had been that dazed look in the redhead's eyes. a lamb brought to slaughter. she would have thought that dealing with tom riddle so long ago would have made it easier for her. instead it had made her brittle; it had made shadows underneath her eyes. when ginny had seen hermione she had looked as if she could almost dare to hope, then she had seen bellatrix, dark and regal, behind hermione. later that night, face tinged with blood, hermione had looked up from between ginny's thighs into bellatrix's dark eyes and had grinned. the grin had been bloody. it had been pure.

the next day she had been whisked away from her dark room to a bath that was not her own. she had slipped underneath the bubbles and smiled secretly. that night she had talked to purebloods (with bellatrix holding her by the arm). they were no longer murmurs that seeped in through the walls. they were real and they were cold glittering diamonds that knew they were a cut above the rest. she smiled and she tittered. she was beneath them. she was safe.

still she dreamed. dreamed of the past, never of the future. harry's glasses still broke and refused to let her fix them. but she would wake with the feel of breasts pressed against her back. she would finger the scar at the curve of her spine and think of the green light. the green light that had turned the world upside down and then rightside up again.