A/N: I do not own anything, all credit for the Harry Potter universe and characters mentioned goes to the wonderful J.K. Rowling. I hope you enjoy!
It was not the dark Dorcas was afraid of; it was what lurked in the dark. And with Dorcas' overactive imagination, a tree branch scraping against the window was a Death Eater, clawing their way into her bedroom. The howl of the wind soon morphed into the guttural shrieks of her sister, undoubtedly being tortured by Death Eaters. Dorcas sank further into her bed, drawing the quilt her grandmother had made for her tighter around her small frame. The howling of the wind persisted, and Dorcas tightly shut her eyes and firmly placed her hands over her ears in a futile attempt to block out all sounds.
"It's just the wind. It's just the wind." She whispered to herself that phrase over and over, convincing herself that it was true.
Except, it was not just the wind. It was, in fact, the shrieks of Veronica, her sister and her rock. Dorcas was absolutely positive that the sounds she heard were screams, and not simply a trick of her mind. Grabbing her wand that she had gotten from Ollivander's at age eleven, she ran downstairs in her pajama pants and tank top, not bothering to put on actual clothes, or even a bathrobe. After all, this was a war. And during war, it was either act immediately, or be hexed left and right. And quite obviously, Dorcas was not one to be hexed.
Dorcas' feet slammed hard against the creaking wooden stairs of the cottage she shared with her sister. Her heart was beating quickly, and sweat was beading on her forehead. She ran all around the cottage: Veronica was nowhere to be found. And yet, the screaming continued. Outside, Dorcas saw two figures. Just two. One on the ground, and one raised in the air, upside down, hair dangling down as to indicate that it was more than likely a female who was the victim of such atrocities. And the two figures were coming closer to Dorcas' house. The unnamed Death Eater and the poor, helpless girl. But it was not just any girl. It was Veronica.
And then Dorcas remembered, Veronica was spending the night in London, presumably at the Leaky Cauldron. Something to do with the Ministry that Dorcas had not bothered to pay attention to. So if Veronica was in London, who was outside her house?
Dorcas' heart beat faster as the figures got closer and closer. From the place Dorcas was standing, she could no longer see the figures, but she could hear them. Their footsteps got progressively louder, and Dorcas' eyes started to water as she saw the doorknob to her front door turn slowly, as if this was some horror film. And in this film, Dorcas would not make it out alive.
The door slowly creaked open, and a lone tear raced down Dorcas' cheek. The Death Eater was wearing a mask, so Dorcas could not identify who he was. The Death Eater left in a flash of black smoke, and in his leaving, the figure whom Dorcas could not previously identify was dropped on her doorstep, a mere two feet from Dorcas herself. Yes, the Death Eater was entirely unknown to her, but the victim was someone Dorcas was far too familiar with. Dorcas hesitated to walk closer, but curiosity got the best of her, and she inched closer to the not yet deceased body, coming face to face with herself.
It was Dorcas Meadowes laying on the ground. It was Dorcas' limbs contorted into angles so grotesque, it was a wonder there were any bones left in the body, which there obviously were, as the nearly-translucent objects were poking through bits of purpled flesh. It was Dorcas' head that was so nearly detached from her body, it reminded her of her friendly Gryffindor ghost. It was Dorcas' right eye that hung out of its socket, though it was still attached to the optic nerve. The other of Dorcas' blue eyes had a shard of glass that punctured straight through the pupil, dispersing drying blood out, staining the once-white sclera of her eye a deep crimson shade. It was Dorcas who's staggered breaths rang throughout the Meadowes household. And yet, it wasn't Dorcas Meadowes. For how could it be Dorcas, if the real Dorcas was standing upright, physically unscathed?
"This is a dream. It's just a dream. Just wake up, and it will all be over." But she didn't wake up. Her heart felt as though it would beat right out of her chest, and her tiny frame was visibly vibrating. Why wasn't she waking up? Perhaps because it wasn't a dream. In the next instant, the bloodied Dorcas laying on the ground morphed into Veronica.
So the Death Eater forced Polyjuice Potion down Veronica's throat and tortured her? But…why? Who could hate Dorcas Meadowes so much that they would do this to her? But she knew, oh she most certainly knew who did this.
Evan Rosier.
The Death Eater that Dorcas had nearly killed. She could have done it, she should have done it. But she didn't. She simply could not find it in her to kill him. And…and now…Veronica has paid the price.
The very instant Dorcas saw the mangled body of her sister, she emitted a shriek so loud, she was positive her father could hear it from his pathetically posh house in an uptight, pureblood neighborhood. And then something strangely amazing happened: she woke up. Gasping for air, she looked around her room, her brain still not fully awake. Her sister wasn't there to comfort her like she normally was, so Dorcas was all alone. Except, she wasn't alone. At least, not for the first few seconds after her emergence from the nightmare. Before her mind could fully recuperate, she could swear that she saw someone at the foot of her bed, smiling down at her. But not just any someone. No, this would be the same man from her nightmares: Evan Rosier. His smirk and piercing eyes were gone just as quickly as she had seen them. It could have been a trick of her mind. But it might not have been. And Dorcas swore that Evan Rosier was in her bedroom.
But was he?