She's crying. She never cries.
Never.
Not once has she shed a tear during the time we've been together. Even the strongest of his most faithful shed a tear of two after round after round after round of the Cruciatus Curse, but not her. My brave warrior takes her punishment with her head held high, like a proper Pure-blood. It's quite pretty to watch how her mouth opens, releasing a soundless scream as her body convulses over and over with the force of the curses he casts over the body.
But, she's crying. She never cries.
The sobs, a pitiful whimper at the start, have slowly escalated. She presses her face into her pillow, hoping to muffle the sounds. Her legs tremble and her body shakes as she kicks the bed sheets that have balled up at her feet.
She apologies over and over, incoherent mumblings mixed with her tears. It's as if she thinks the victim of her Killing Curse – her first – can hear her and somehow excuse her action.
It's her first – the first of many to come.
How did she think she'd get away with simply torturing her victims and having someone else finish them off? After all, he is good at breaking his promises to even his most faithful followers.
Normally, another finishes the task – someone less talented with the torture curses. This time, he requested she do it. He called it a prize for a spectacular display of torture. He praised her to the others and told them they should mold themselves off her.
Her charcoal eyes begged him to pass it off – to give it to someone else. Anyone but her. After all, the woman had been her friend. Her only friend outside her sister. But, this woman refused to join his ranks. No one refuses him.
"Kill her!" he ordered.
She didn't do it right away – couldn't do it. She hesitated for a moment, surveying the sniveling Slytherin woman on her knees in front of her. The bitch begged for her life, but her cries fell on deaf ears.
My warrior's normally steady arm shook. The woman would have escaped had she not already been on death's door. Blood everywhere. Ripped robes. Brutal lashings embedded on milky white flesh. The sad sight was enough to make any man sick. Not my ruthless warrior.
"Kill her! Do it now!" he commanded once more. Someone else offered, but he turned the man away. He intended for her to fulfill his original request. He never asked a third time.
"Avada Kedavra!"
And, just like that, the woman, the ex-friend, lay dead at my warrior's feet.
"Good job, Bellatrix," he cooed, caressing her shoulder in a loving way that made my blood boil.
And now, she's crying. She doesn't cry.
Though, it makes sense. It's hard to forget your first. It's hard to forget the first person that went down from the flash of green light that came from your wand. It's hard to forget the look in that person's eyes before the light goes out of them.
It took me a week to forget my first. Having more faces to add to the list helps. They all blur together once you've done it enough. Their screams, begging, promises to do whatever you want so long as you let them live, the look in their eyes once they realise what spell you're going to say next. It all becomes one. And, it gets easier over time.
She chokes on her cries and struggles to breathe. She wraps her arms around her pillow and presses it against her chest, as if it'll help.
She's crying. She never cries.
It's pathetic watching her small frame tremble. She should celebrate and cherish this moment.
For a few seconds, she's quiet and it seems as if her sobbing has stopped. But, it starts up again, even harder this time.
My heart longs to comfort her, pull her into my arms, run my hands through her crazy curls and let her know everything will be OK. My hand reaches out to her, but she's too far away. My fingertips crash into the cold, empty sheets in the space between us.
Her back's turned. She's at the very edge of the bed, and her body's almost pressed against her nightstand. She won't face me. She can't face me. She won't let me see her tear-streaked face. After all, to show me is to admit defeat. To show me is to admit she's weak.
But, what she doesn't know and what she will never know, is that seeing her in this state only makes me love her more. It shows me that my warrior's human.
But, she won't let me. She can't let me. Not even just this once.
She won't let me near her. She won't let me love her. She won't let me comfort her now – or ever.
And so, my body remains on my side of the bed, listening to my warrior's cries. My heart breaks with each sob. She won't let me help her. She can't let me help her. Not even just this once.
My mind runs in circles trying to come up with a solution. It hits me like a lightening bolt. Her sister! She knows what to do. She's the only one allowed in.
A house-elf summons her, and she arrives immediately. The mattress dips as she sits in the open space. She pulls my warrior into her arms. My warrior's head falls into her sister's chest, and her tears soak through her sister's expensive silk robes. Her sister runs a hand through my warrior's unruly curls and tucks a strand behind her ear. She rubs small circles on the small of my warrior's back and whispers soothing words into her ear. She promises her that everything will be OK, tells her that she was brave and assures her that she did the right thing.
And so, I watch, wishing desperately that she'd let me comfort her.
Just this once.