one time warning: this story will contain scenes of a dark nature, violence, language and other possible triggering themes. there will eventually be lemons, some of which will not be vanilla. no slash, so if that's what you're looking for, i apologize. i only own what you don't recognize. the rest belongs to j.k. rowling.
rest at dawn for the night is a huntress
prologue.
ghost.
Summer; July 7, 1945
Nurmengard: Holding Cell 7
An unambiguous feeling of dread seeps through the walls, lingering like the cold wracking shivers through her malnourished frame. Her fingers spark, grip the tattered white cloth hanging around her legs, wrap around and squeeze as if to emulate some feeling of comfort, home—nothing to be afforded in this desecrated room. The heat aggravates old wounds, unscarred without time to heal, and she counts the drops of blood that leak onto the floor in sevens. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. One. Two…
Her breath leaves chapped, purple lips in a tangible mist, frost in the air, and she once would have chuckled at the irony—he has turned her into the very thing she fears most. Perhaps he will come to her one last time and ask for the one thing she has refused to give him. But no. She will die today, unwillingly, with the dignity of untainted lips who never touched another's and only molded words of light to protect, heal, cherish, love.
The door to her prison opens suddenly; she lifts her head to stare at the man—the monster silhouetted in the doorway. His eyes, blue, clouded with lust for power, have a resigned glint, and he opens his mouth to speak the same question he has asked 777 times for the 777 days he has locked her here, though now it seems more of a formality, respect for this cruel pattern they have created, "Will you follow me?"
She laughs a vile hacking laugh, eyes, steel, narrow with defiance and no malice, "No." Her aura is red and gold, like her ancestors, ferocious and feline.
He takes seven steps forward, and it speaks volumes of the respect he holds for her: everything he sees in her is interpreted in sevens. She has since become seven, magic, his own well of hope. If he possesses her, he will win. If he possesses her, she will lose.
She looks into his eyes as he raises his stolen wand, he: master of nothing, she: slave to none. "Avada Kadavra."
She sees green at last. One last breath leaves her parted lips, a Dementor's Kiss; in hours her murderer will know the taste of defeat.
Briseis Herriot knows no more.
.continuandum.
a/n: so we all know the magical significance of the number seven. anyone notice briseis is seven letters and herriot is seven letters? i only noticed after i wrote this. it was fate. anyway: more to be revealed in later chapters. they will be much longer than this prologue, that's for sure. hope you enjoyed! review if you have the time, thanks!
m.m.