Sequel to Control
Crack.
Brown eyes never moved from the crack in the wall. The crack in the wall that mirrored everything in this place. Mirrored the crack in his skull, mirrored the crack in his mind. But as with all cracks, the crack was a release like the crack in his skull released his blood, like the crack in his mind released him. This crack released him to his love. Blinking hard one, twice, he crawled over to the crack and peered though.
Eye.
At first there was nothing then there was an eye. It was far more beautiful through the crack than it had ever been without it, though more madness shone through it that it ever had. Not that he would notice, not that he had ever noticed. The eye did nothing but stare into his brown ones. Nothing at all. Did not blink, did not water. Even when the blood dripped into it. He wanted to know if it hurt, but his muddled mind could not process the words, so he simply stared back.
Fingers.
Then the eye was gone, replaced by two long, white fingers that prodded at his face, stroked his lips, scratched his cheeks. He would kiss her if he could, but there was not enough space for that. Not enough space for anything but two fingers to poke through. The fingers delved into his mouth, flicked his broken, distorted teeth, slid across his tongue. He pulled away to kiss the fingers, kiss them for all he was worth. Not that he was worth much anymore. Not here.
Memory.
As the nails pierced his skin, the memory of a knife flooded in.
She withdrew her knife and looked at it, eyes wide and painfully beautiful. She leaned forward slowly, as if awaiting a kiss and licked the blade, her eyes sliding shut in undeniable pleasure. Her tongue swirled about it, just missing cuts on her own flesh, cleaning it and savouring it. Once the blood was gone, she threw her knife aside, deeming it useless and took his blood covered hand in her own.
Perhaps he had been wrong, perhaps the eyes were nicer free of the crack. But he was not sure now. It had been so long since he had seen them.
Blood.
He pulled from the crack in the wall and prodded at the crack in his skull. His fingers came away slick with red liquid – or was it black? he could barely a see in this light – that he would have once called blood. But the name no longer came to his broken mind, no words came to mind anymore. All he knew was the pain of more blood flowed with each beating of his head against the wall, with each time the prison guard hit him. It was not his fault really, he had not meant to kill them – for that is what they say he did, but he cannot remember – she had told him to. And he loved her. He would do anything she said.
Sun.
The sun does not shine in this place. Nothing shines in this place. Not even her eyes. The moon cannot be seen through his barred windows, it never can be, no matter the time, the month, the day. Perhaps the moon has fallen with the sky as the sun has, just as they have. They do not fly like they once did, do not reach for the sun and feel it burn their skin. They sit still, waiting for the sun to rise.
Silence.
They sit alone, separated by only a wall, but separated all the same. Alone, silent. The silence is never breeched, not even by their screams when the Dementors suck from their souls. Their vocal cords have broken, ripped from their throats by hands they cannot see. Not that they can see anything here. They are silent as they search for each other through the crack. The crack in the wall that mirrored everything in this place. Even he is silent now. He has long since determined that she is the cause of this awful fate. This fate that he would go through over and over and over and over to see her face just once more, just a glimpse.
Control.
Once upon a time, far too long ago to remember rightly, she controlled the pain, he controlled the love, Lestrange controlled neither but it is he who keeps them apart. Now nobody controlled anything, not even themselves. Or so he had thought. But as she looked for him, through that one crack - the crack in the wall that mirrored everything in this place – with her eye that no longer shines, but is still more beautiful than anything else, he knows that is a lie. Even in Azkaban she controls him. And how could he ever stop her?
Love.
Her footsteps were almost silent, but not quite. He raced after them blindly. A crackling, cackling laugh burst free from her mouth as she danced playfully away from him. He knew she was there, she knew he knew. She grabbed him by the hair and pulled him to her. They were somewhere else. Bathed in moonlight, deep in a forest she began to run again, giggling and cackling joyously, with a severe lack of sanity he would never notice. He chased after her, around trees, over roots and stumps. They stopped at a shallow stream. She looked at him, mischievousness glittering in her dark eyes, the wind blowing her black, untamed hair. He reached out for it and she was gone. He barely hand a second to look around before he was on top of her, lying in the water. Eyes found eyes, hands found hands, lips found lips. She was soft beneath him, soft and warm and wanting. He was hers. He was gentle with her. She was rough with him. He tried to keep himself form crushing her, pushing himself up on wounded arms. She stripped him, he stripped her, until they were both freezing, wet and naked. He slid into her and stroked her. Her back arched. She bit his neck. He loved her, she loved him. They both found release in each other. He gave himself to her, she gave herself to him. But she wasn't.
Chaos.
One day, they would escape. They would be free. Free to create chaos, to love, to control, to be silent, to gaze upon the sun, to see blood as blood and not black ink, to remember, to feel her fingers around his, to peer into her eyes, to crack everything around them like the crack in the wall. The crack in the wall that mirrored everything in this place. But with the chaos in both their minds, there will be nothing left of them to control when they escape, not really.