Before the Dawn
"When the sun came out I couldn't see the light
I was afraid to face the day"
-Broken Promises (By De'Monique)
"Your child will be born in blood and darkness," whispers her torturer, tongue snaking out to caress the shell of her ear. "My curse will cling to your womb, a lasting reminder of this night, even if my own heart ceases to beat."
"No," she stutters, feeling the tip of the wand pierce her navel, and jagged shards of metal fill her womb, slicing and cutting all till she shrieks and claws at the marble floor tiles, her nails breaking under the pressure.
"Even if my Lord does fall, and even if I die, your child will be my blade," cackles the Dark Lord's most faithful, before looking her in the eye and whispering, in a voice colder than death itself, "Obliviate, Mudblood."
.o0o.
"Sleep well, little flower," whispers Mummy, pressing cool lips to her brow. She smiles, snuggling beneath the covers as her mother rises from the bed and leaves, closing the door behind her.
The night is dark, but she does not want to sleep. The monsters lie in wait as they always do, as they've done since her first sleep when she was but a day old.
She doesn't know why it is that she sees them in her dreams, why she can't escape their cursed claws and simpering lullaby, but she's tired of seeing them.
Sleep is what allows them to haunt her, so all she has to do is remain awake.
It's easier said than done though, and soon enough she's drifting, her eyes fluttering shut despite her best efforts, and the savage tendrils of darkness are unfurling from beneath her bed.
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She wakes in a forest, the light dappled green by the thick foliage. She stirs, shivering as she feels the air, warm at first, begin to chill, signifying that they know where she is.
They're coming for her, just like they always do in this world of paper flowers.
From between the tree trunks steps the shade, shadows and death clinging to her siren silhouette like a second skin. Her eyes are heavily lidded, her hair a tangle of sable curls, and from her flows a corruption that dares blot out the sun.
Fair is foul and foul is fair, and is that not true of the shade, a being so deadly in her beauty that she is both feared and desired.
"Hello, little flower."
"Stay away from me," she cries, turning on her heel to run, when more shadows flit from between the trees, each more alluring than the last.
"Why run, flower?" simpers the shade, the lady of darkness. "Just listen to my song a little more."
"I won't let you in," she declares, backing away till her back is pressed against the rough bark of the tree.
"You'll break like all fragile things do," whispers the shade, voice carrying across the fog and ringing in her ears.
She screams, pressing her fingers to her ears to dim out the eerie song. It's the sound of heaven falling, of the death of stars, and the end of all things pure. It's the song that calls the writhing darkness, the shadows of the damned, and brings about decay.
Her scream rings on and on, the pieces of her mind warbling and then buckling beneath the siren song, and scarlet tears spill from her eyes. Red ribbons run down her cheeks, hot and sticky, as the shade's voice is joined by others, servants of the dark filling her mind with a darkness that not even a supernova can dispel.
Then it's crashing down around her and she's illuminated, bursts of light raining from heaven's gate, and the shades shriek and flee. She feels so warm, the slick ice melting from her veins and throat, as an angel manifests.
His merry eyes are hard as chips of flint, his usually grinning face replaced with a look of utter hatred, and he lashes out an arm. Flame bursts from his fingers, harsh and white, banishing the damnation till the original shade is all that remains.
"You will not harm her, Dark-Star," the angel declares, whirling upon the sultry phantom.
The little girl dabs at her bloody cheeks and huddles behind her guardian, feeling the warmth of family in his presence. It's comforting and keeps away the shade, but she's still feeling her mind tremble from the onslaught.
"Laughing God," proclaims the shade, batting heavily-lidded eyes at her angel, "I already have."
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She wakes, screaming loud enough to wake the dead. The whispers twist and turn within her mind, like writhing snakes weaving their way into her eyes and out her ears, scaly vessels of the devil filling her with their venom.
Her parents burst into the room, her mother hurrying over, wrapping her in arms as warm as they are soothing. In her head, she hears the whispers dim, if only a little, but it isn't her mother that's banishing them. It's the voice of her angel, the man who chased away the monsters, and he's forcing out the shades.
She sobs into her mother's shoulder, biting her lip to keep from spilling the details of the nightmares. Something, the most malignant of the voices perhaps, urges her to hold her tongue.
For some reason, she agrees, keeping silent when her mother asks what's wrong. A boy's cries fill the room and her father sighs tiredly, leaving them and hurrying to check on her baby brother, whilst she tries to not look into her mother's brown eyes.
"Was it a nightmare?" asks her mother, rubbing an arm along her back.
"I can't remember," she lies.
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"Why do they call you the Laughing God?" she asks as she walks beside him, nervous as they make their way through a forest. It's been a few years since she first met her angel within this dreamworld, but she's finally figured out who he is.
He's the uncle who didn't survive the war.
"It's what I stand for," he replies, grinning as they come to a clearing. There's a picnic blanket in the middle, and he leads her to it, gesturing for her to sit and help herself to whatever's in the picnic basket. Hungrily, she digs out a pie and bites into it, savouring in the delicious ambrosia of her dreams.
She often wonders why she can become hungry and thirsty within a place she knows isn't truly real, a fictional dream she knows only exists within her head. The thought is forgotten, however, when her uncle continues.
"Laughter, jokes, pranks, and merriment," he says, picking up a bottle of Butterbeer. "These are the things I stood for in life, they're the things I stand for in death."
"But wouldn't it be easier to just call each other by name, Uncle Fâ"
"No," he hushes her urgently, clamping a hand across her mouth. "You musn't use your true name, nor mine, not in this world. Names have power here, more power than you can imagine, flower."
She nods, not truly understanding what he means, when the air begins to grow chill. Instantly, she's alert, getting behind her uncle as he rises to his feet and takes on a defensive stance.
The dream is inhabited by more than just the two of them, as she's learned over the years, but also by the shades that whisper words of wretched succour, and sing the song of the damned. Her uncle, the Laughing God, keeps her safe from them â he has for all these years, whenever she drifts to this place in her sleep.
The wind increases and there are strangled hisses from the tree line. He tenses in front of her, eyes narrowing as his palms fill with the white fire that all angels command, but the threat is not before them but behind.
She screams as the mighty snake rears into the air, hissing, scales a mottled green. Its eyes are red, venom dripping from its fangs, and it stands taller than them both. Before her uncle can turn to face the beast, it lunges, snout forcing its way into her gaping mouth and muffling her shrieks.
The Laughing God roars in anger, but it's too late. She's already gagging as the serpent forces its way into her, slithering down her throat and coiling around her heart, dissolving into thick black slime as it makes contact with her blood.
"Kill the king," she whimpers as she falls to the ground, her throat raw, coughing scarlet tinted phlegm onto the grass, and the whispers grow stronger than ever before.
"What did you say?" presses her uncle as he kneels beside her, his palms glowing as he heals her off her wounds.
"Child," hisses the snake within her, "Look like the innocent flower. But be the serpent under it."
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Her eyes flare open and she swallows a shriek, clutching at her throat in fear, hearing the whispers lilting through her mind. Dimly, she's aware of her cousin's gentle breathing beside her, and she inclines her head to catch a glimpse of the ruby waves framing a freckled face.
"Kill," whispers the serpent within. She starts, a cool sweat breaking across her body, and she scurries out of bed as fast as she can. Perhaps a drink of water will be enough to calm her.
She doesn't want to wake her aunt, so she tiptoes down the stairs of Grimmauld, heading for the kitchen. The tap runs and she fills a glass.
Then it falls, the shadows coming to dance around her, the eye of the serpent filling her own, and she sets down the glass without really thinking. No longer in control of her own body, she heeds the feral voices, and reaches for the biggest knife upon the rack.
The walk to the master bedroom is the longest she's ever made in her life, each step dragging as the serpent urges her on and she fights to stay away. It's a losing battle, like a war waged between fire and feathers, and soon enough the door creaks open and she creeps into the room.
He lies asleep before her, shirtless with one arm around his wife, glasses set on the dressing table. The snake's tongue caresses the shell of her ear, urging her on, promising her that she will become great, that this is but a stepping stone to becoming the queen.
She fights it, opening her mouth to scream a warning to her sleeping aunt and uncle, but no sound leaves her lips as the blade descends. Seconds before the steel makes contact, her uncle wakes, raw shock filling his eyes as she stabs him in the throat.
His death cry is muffled by the sounds of him choking upon his own blood, but her aunt stirs all the same.
She flees, the knife turning to ash in her hands as she reaches her cousin's bedroom, and as she slips beneath the sheets, the screams fill the air.
"By demons will you be driven, young flower," laughs the snake, and she joins in the wretched keening, pressing her palms to her ears as a house ceases to be a home.
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"What have you done, little flower?" asks the Laughing God, shaking her by the shoulders. She gasps, feeling the snake twist and writhe within, and the tears prick at her eyes as she sees a shape form in the distance.
The form is made of nought but light. The uncle she has slain turns from her, his spirit shunning her in death as he's never forsaken her in life.
"I killed him," she whimpers.
Her uncle, the Laughing God, tightens his hold upon her shoulders before releasing, and then he's kneeling, gazing into her eyes and chanting.
He speaks in tongues she can scarcely comprehend, and she feels the serpent writhe and burn within, as waves of guilt slam into her. She's drowning within the oceans of burning emotion and she doubles over, clutching at her chest as he tries to purge her.
"You're too late." The voice is that of the shade, the Dark-Star, and then her uncle is sent flying and the serpents are leaping up from the long grass. They wrap around her, coral snakes and pythons, mambas and pit vipers, their scales scraping against her skin, shredding her clothes beneath them as they encase her like the bandages of a pharaoh.
She opens her mouth to scream, to beg for mercy, and just like that they begin to force their way within, bringing with them the evils of all those laid to rest.
"He knows," whispers the lead serpent, the reptilian form of the Dark-Star herself.
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"Please, please run," she pleads as her brother enters the room. The serpents crawl beneath her skin, vessels of darkness that curled around her veins, and she bites her lip to try and focus on the pain.
She could not let herself lose control.
"I can get you help, bud," he says, "Put down the wand . . ."
She whirls, striking him across the face, her messy hair whipping through the air as he goes flying, his head cracking against the nearby wall. He rises, fumbling for his wand, as like a wild animal she lunges, jabbing her thumbs into his eyes in twin gouts of blood and aqueous matter.
He wails, and she feels more of herself break as her baby brother suffers beneath her hand.
"I'm sorry," she weeps, as she feels the serpents tighten around her heart, "I love you, but you know too much."
"Don't let it control you," he chokes out as she shoves his wand through his throat, again and again till it's nothing but a red ruin.
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"What have you done to me, Dark-Star?" she shouts, her teeth grinding together, her eyes gleaming wetly in the light of the burning torches.
"I've given you purpose, and now I'll help you live forever."
She shakes her head and turns to flee when she feels it strike her in the small of her back. It claws at her, the demon beast, ripping at her flesh as she falls to the ground in a sobbing heap.
"You're filling me with darkness," she coughs, her spittle stained with scarlet.
"Silly little flower, darkness can never enter a heart that does not invite it in."
"Stop it . . . please, just leave me alone. It hurts, it hurts so bad."
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"Only a man of Toujours Pur will be able to kill you."
The serpent hisses within her mind, forked tongue licking at her skull and sending shivers down her spine as she approaches the manor. Around her, the bushes wilt, the leaves rotting at her very presence, her corroded heart leaching their life energy.
The skies are dark and the storm is coming.
She flings out her arm and tears down the doors. The boy rushes to meet her, wand in hand, and she remembers him as one of her former classmates. It doesn't stop her from shoving her hand through his chest, cracking apart the ribs with the force of her thrust, and yanking out his heart.
As he falls, she takes a minute to nibble at the still sluggishly beating organ, before turning for the stairs.
The mother is next, and she skewers her with a fire poker through the eye, simply blinking to send the iron rod hurtling through the air.
It ends in the last room, the nursery, and she approaches the crib. The baby lies within, reaching up to her, and for a second she feels fleeting guilt . . . and then the serpent tightens, flooding her with toxins, and she snaps the child's neck without a second's hesitation.
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"Laughing God . . ."
Her uncle looks pained as he caresses her cheek, and she feels tears sting at her, but then his hands are holding onto hers like vices and they're heating up.
"Out, leave her."
She screams as her jaw unhinges, the first serpents being pulled forth by the guilt she's feeling, evaporating in the roaring light. Then she slaps away his hands and rises, her eyes burning black, her mouth ripped open and bloody, and she splays open her fingers.
The Laughing God is hurled away, and the Dark-Star whispers into her ear. She nods, cocking her head to the side like a predator and says:
"I will bring you back."
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"Get out of my way, Mother."
"I will not let you drop the veil."
They're facing each other within the Death Chamber of the Department of Mysteries, and there's a trail of bloody corpses from her feet to the Atrium. Her mother's arm trembles, wand pointed directly at her, and she scowls as she feels the serpents shifting within her, filling her with their chaotic power.
"You'll die."
"If that's what it takes to atone for the sin of giving birth to a monster, then so be it."
She steps forward, flinging out her arm, and the darkness guides her. Her mother is flung against the gossamer mist of the archway, a final gasp of surprise escaping her parted lips as she dissolves into tendrils of fog.
Then she screams, seeing the blade burst out her chest coated in blood, black and rotten, and she cries as she turns, eyes meeting those of the platinum-blond, pureblood heir of Toujours Pur.
"Rot in hell, you conniving bitch," he spits, and she, the little flower and the Dark-Star, wail as the body slumps against the floor.
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"I'm so sorry. The voices made me."
"It was never your fault, little flower."
The Laughing God takes her hand and leads her into the light, but she pulls away.
"Heaven has no place for monsters like me," she whispers, turning to walk her Otherworld path on her own.
Word Count: 2970
A/N: Quidditch League, Season 3, Round 9. Chaser 2, Falmouth Falcons. Write about a story inspired by Macbeth. The interpretation by me works in the following ways: Rose is Macbeth, and is slowly corrupted to the dark side by the spirit of Bellatrix, who fills the rolls of the Grey Sisters (The Witches, in some editions of the play). Fred represents Rose/Macbeth's humanity and trying to stay away from evil; whilst Nagini represents her dark side brought about by Bellatrix's curse. Harry is King Duncan. Hugo is Banquo. The Malfoy Family (Scorpius, Astoria, and Scorpius' son Orion) are the MacDuffs, whilst Draco is Lord MacDuff, who kills her in the end.
Thank You to Lokilette for being such a great Beta :)
Prompts: Burning, Obliviate, Titanium by Sia.
The Second Competition That Must Not Be Named â Write without using Character Names.