Disclaimer: All these characters are not mine. All this belongs to J.K. Rowling.
It was not supposed to be this way.
She should not have been here, this night, waiting for that man. It should have been Ron. Kind, sweet, gentle, Ron. Ron who loved her. Ron whom she loved. Not him. Not a man who could never love her because he would always love someone else.
She stood in the darkened room, too afraid to move. Her wedding night should have been with Ron, with all her friends there to see her, in a beautiful dress she picked, her hair and make-up perfectly done. Her loving parents should have been there as her dad walked her down the isle and handed her away; she should have seen the tears of joy in her parents eyes as she married the man she loved.
This night was a farce of a wedding. She wore a sundress, the only white dress she owned. The man she was marrying barely bothered to show up. The wedding was devoid of guests. Only her two best friends attended, both looking at her with pity the entire time as she was given to a man whom she didn't love and who, most certainly, didn't love her.
She was not supposed to stand in the darkened, unfamiliar rooms, with a white gold band encircling her ring finger. Circular, eternal, unending. Silver, sparkling, noticeable. There was no escape from this fate. Only death could end her sentence, and she was not willing to die. Not yet at least.
She was supposed to smile and laugh on this night, her wedding night. She wasn't supposed to stand alone in a darkened room, close to tears, as she awaited for the inevitable. For it was inevitable. They were man and wife. It was expected of her.
She was not supposed to be married to a man who used to despise her kind. Mudblood. Carved into her flesh, the pale white lines from the curly writing forever a part of her. It was not who she wanted to be, but who she was. It described how people saw her. It was a word that put her beneath him, beneath them all, even though she was how brightest witch of her age. It shouldn't have happened, not with him, not in the wizarding world that she saved. That they should punish her so in return!
The man silently entered the rooms, his black robes blending into the darkened room. His lank, black hair clung to his ashen face, a stark contrast to the darkness of the room. His obsidian eyes were unfathomable as he gazed at her, expressionless, drawing her into their black depths. She searched in his eyes for a hint of joy, but none was there. She searched for his soul, but there was none, or it was hidden so deeply she could not find it. The fire in her eyes disappeared, leaving behind fear, nervousness. She had never done this before, and her first time was not supposed to be with him. It should have been Ron.
The man stalked towards her. She clenched her hands together nervously. He pushed her further back into the darkened room, forceful and commanding. She could not resist. Her legs bumped onto the edge of the bed. She stood, frozen, pleading to the man whose face was concealed by shadow. The only evidence of his existence the glowing white of his pale complexion and the gleam from his greasy hair.
She was lifted, ever so gently, and set onto the bed. The man stood over her, looking down at her fearful expression. She wanted to turn over and bury her head in the pillows as if this had never happened; she would live an oblivious dream. She wanted to sink into the mattress and be buried under the sheets in a shelter of warmth as a jasmine scented woman rubbed her back and soothed her, assuring her this was just a nightmare. She was five again as her mother soothed her, murmuring softly that she would be protected. Forever. She would always be safe from the wraiths that haunt her dreams. This wasn't real. It couldn't be real. It was just a nightmare that clenched her in its jaws, a hunting dog unwilling to give up its prey.
The man stood over her, something akin to pity in his expression. No, he did not love her, but he felt sorry for her and sorry for himself. She respected the man, she even admired him, but she never loved him, and certainly never wanted to marry him. And he, he could never love her. He despised her, hated her. She was an annoyance to him, and now, he held all the power as he gazed over her.
A shiver of fear raced down her spine at the hungry expression in his eyes. There were no doubts as to what his intentions were. No one would care that she didn't want to. She was his wife. It was expected. It was required by law.
The man climbed on top of her, arms straining to hold his body weight above her as he stared down. She squirmed, uncomfortable with his scrutiny of her blemishes forever marked on her skin, visible even in the darkened room. From this close, she could smell him, a scent of cinnamon and pine, and something else. Something masculine. Something scary. He made no move to her, letting her lay there in uncomfortable silence as he ever so slowly lowered his weight onto her, until he was pressing her into the soft mattress. His greasy hair fell over his eyes and onto her face. She flinched.
She shouldn't have been in this darkened room, forced to give into the man above her. His face lowered towards her. His eyes were full of some strange emotion. Pity? Sorrow? She wasn't sure which. She could turn her head away and refuse the kiss, but there would be no point. There was no point resisting her fate.
She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping all this would go away as she went into her fantasy worlds. In these worlds, she married the man she loved. As his lips descended on hers for the first time, she imagined she was kissing her love. They would kiss, soft and gently, savoring each other for eternity. Never letting go, never hurrying, but existing. Bliss. And then his forcefulness, domineering. His breath, gentle against her quaking lips, his probing tongue and nipping teeth giving her no respite. She couldn't resist. It was inevitable.
Hands stroked down her arms, their touch light as a butterfly kiss but still there, still insistent. Cold fingers slowly pried her dress away, leaving her exposed to the chill of the air in the rooms far below the ground of the castle. The warm body pressing on top of her warmed her so she would not get goose pimples. Then, the body withdrew, and moments later returned. She felt warm flesh on flesh. Scalding, burning and tearing away unwilling innocence.
She felt a slight pressure between her legs. Upon reflex, she clenched them shut. It couldn't happen. It wouldn't. But she knew it would. No matter her desires, it would occur because the world she lived in deemed it necessary. She, their war heroine who saved them, was condemned to this fate. She was called the smartest witch of her age, but even she was powerless to resist demands of the society she belonged to. The society saw no use for her other than this. The society saw that her only use was on her back, with this man, as she would grow rounded with his child, as she would scream in agony as his baby tore through her flesh and stretched her, marked her. Her society saw her only use as a mother, raising children in a loveless home to replace the depleted population. That's what she was: war heroine, breeding stock.
Legs settled between hers. She opened her eyes again to stare into the face of the man above her. His expression was clearer now. He was conflicted. He felt hungry for her warm, human flesh. He felt guilty for forcing himself on her in this way, guilty for forcing her to bear this pain and guilty for conforming to society just as she did, too. There was no choice. This was not her dreamed of wedding night. Her husband wasn't supposed to feel guilty for what he was going to do. They should be happy, blissful. But not here. Not like this.
There wasn't supposed to be this blinding pain as the thousand little knives pierced her body. The salt of tears leaked unashamedly from her eyes, trailing down her face and leaving streaks of wetness. She emitted a sound from her lips, cutting the silence with its demanding shrillness as this piercing flame split her body into fragments. Her thighs, abdomen and lower belly ignited, and burned. With the quick thrust of a sword, her life, her innocence, was ripped away.
It was never supposed to be this way.
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