Based off "Stranger" by X Ambassadors & "I See Fire" by Ed Sheeran
Searing, burning pain. That was all she felt. It scoured her from everywhere, starting at the tips of her toes and working its way up through her veins, touching every nerve ending and every cell. Her skin inflamed to a bright red, flushed with the heat it was causing. The pain, the relentless, unforgiving pain, caused her back to arch up, her fingers desperately trying to clutch something underneath her that wasn't there.
When it stopped, for those brief seconds, oh, was it wonderful. Though she was garmented in thick clothes in order to keep herself warm while she had been camping in the frosty English wooden countryside, the marble floor she was lying on felt cool on her cheek. Felt good on her palms. Her feet twitched; she was aching to take her clothes off and lay flat out on the marble to get the heat out from inside her. It lingered, even when the pain wasn't there.
The heat would always be there.
This time, it wasn't burning heat that pained her. It wasn't hearing the words inciting the pain, or seeing the memories of better days flash through her eyes, that pained her.
It was a blade, the side of it glinting brightly from the light of the grand chandelier. The tip was sharp, pointed so finely that one had to squint to see where it ended. The metal seemed to shimmer, sparkling like it was made from a diamond. It had a translucent appearance to it; one would not know it was a dagger.
But she knew. She knew, and it hurt.
This time, it was stinging. Like a thousand little bee stings, all at once. It hurt, boy, did it hurt. In some ways, having the soft flesh of her forearm sliced open enough to leave a mark but not enough to cause her to bleed out and die was almost worse than feeling as though she was being burned alive.
Then, suddenly, there was pressure. Just pressure.
The stinging was gone.
Her eyes swept around frantically, trying to figure out why the pain had stopped. She knew her arm was still being dug into; the black-clothed figure was still there, leaning relentlessly over her arm, head shaking with determination and excitement.
But the stinging wasn't.
She couldn't lift her head; doing so would give away that she no longer felt what was being done to her. Still, her eyes searched, until they found what they were looking for.
The doctors claimed it was a miracle that she could have children years after her exposure to the unforgivable curse. Her psychiatrist claimed that the reason she didn't experience any pain while having the derogatory term mudblood carved messily into her arm was because she was in such a state of shock from her experience that she checked out mentally; she was no longer feeling pain.
Her best friend claimed it was because she was strong enough and willed herself to no longer feel the pain she was being forced to feel.
Her husband claimed that it was because she had heard them coming from the dungeons; she had known that they - particularly him - were coming to get her (she played this off as a joke, of course; she refused to see her husband as a narcissistic man who suffered from an inferiority hero complex).
It wasn't until nineteen years later, when she was confronted with her past again, did she confirm what she had already known.
"Why does he walk with a cane, Mummy?" her son asked, his voice high with innocence.
"Because he's just like his father," her husband sneered from next to them, eyes clouding with anger. He was wrong, of course.
And she knew why.
Their eyes met after the train departed, but no words were spoken, no gestures were made. To the unseen eye, it would just seem as though two random people had made eye contact for a short period of time.
Only they knew why they stared at each other.
The pain didn't hit her until she was through the wall. It coursed through her arm, pulsing under the skin that had scarred over throughout the years.
She excused herself to the bathroom; it was a long drive home.
There, she collapsed onto the floor, not caring about how dirty and disgusting the floor was. All that mattered was that she was no longer okay. Her arm throbbed, and she clutched it in her other hand tightly.
When the door opened, it wasn't her husband who came in, oh, no. The footsteps were too soft, too light. The short, professional heels of his dress shoes clicked lightly, clacking on the tile floor.
When her arms were pried apart, it wasn't her husband's hands that took them in his own. These hands were too thin, too cold. The fingers too long, the skin too pale.
When she was pressed against him, it wasn't the scent of her husband: musky, with hints of oak and river water. The scent was too feminine with hints of freshness, sandalwood, and apples.
When the spot right where her cheek ended and her ear started was peppered with soft, quick kisses and whispers of endearment and comfort, it wasn't her husband's lips. They never really spoke comforting words; he was never good with emotions other than anger and blatant courage, and his lips were course, sometimes chapped from being outside at Ministry stakeouts. These lips were soft, smooth, and creamy, much like the skin she could see when she turned her head to sob into the newcomer's neck. The words his lips spoke haunted her worse than the memories and nightmares she had, but they comforted her in a way that she could never get anywhere else.
This is what it felt like to get rid of your pain. This is what it feels like when you realize everything you've ever wanted for was all a ploy. This is what it feels like to know that the feelings you harbored will never be returned.
This is what you do for the person you love, even if you know it will never happen in reality.
She sought those lips, that scent, and those hands out long after that moment in the bathroom. Quietly, in the dark, in places no one to think to look for them. Her nightmares ended, and she slept in warm arms.
Her husband knew, but he looked the other way. There would be too much scandal if they left each other, and they did not want their children to suffer from a broken home.
But, when her daughter caught them, things changed.
Her nightmares returned, she slept cold, desperately wrapping herself in multitudes of blankets to keep warm, especially since she was on her own.
Four years later, her daughter was walking across the stage, accepting her diploma from the same woman she had.
And the eyes she met across the Hall looked away from hers. They were cold, lifeless. Demeaning, despicable. Hard, angry.
Nothing good.
When he cornered her that night, he pushed her up against the wall, eyes imploring her to tell him what he wanted to hear.
But no words were spoken that night, no sounds made. Both pairs of eyes were hollow; they were strangers, looking at each other with a fire that hadn't been seen in years.
They parted that night, not bothering to look at each other. They swore it was the last time, but there were many times after that. There were so many times that she lost count, but it never grew into anything more.
And, years later, when the marble casket was about to be lowered into the ground, she took the disillusionment charm off herself and quietly asked the men to remove their wands for a moment before hand. Even with her grey hair, they recognized her, and they knew to do as she said. The four of them stepped away, giving her as many parting moments as she needed for closure.
She leaned her head onto the marble, hair and clothes sopping wet from the current rain, pressing her cheek into the surface.
And, just like all those years ago, the marble helped to quell the burning sensation her heart was feeling.
Don't ask why. Just review.
~QueenRoyallt