Dark.
Everything is dark.
All she can see is the blackness that's pressing down upon her from all sides, closing in on her, choking her, squeezing out of her head the voice of reason that reminds her that she is a witch with a wand.
The rational part of her brain (the part that sounds suspiciously like her older sister) tells her that she is simply walking down a corridor, and that there is nothing to be afraid of. She is a Black after all. At her age, she should not be afraid of the dark.
But the rest of her is terrified. The problem with the dark is you never know what could be lurking just ahead of you…
As that last thought crosses her mind, the cautionary hand she's placed in front of her nose bumps into something hard. And warm. And human. She screams and jumps back, but is prevented from moving any further by a pair of hard, warm, and very human arms that snake around her waist. Part of her (a very small part) is triumphant, for she can finally prove to her dear sister that her fear of the dark is not unfounded. But the rest of her is too busy trying to fight off her attacker to feel smug.
She suddenly finds herself pinned to the wall by a body that's far longer than hers, unable to move her arms, her legs, anything. A whimper sounds in her ears, and it takes a few seconds for her to realize that it's hers. Once she comes to this realization, of course, she stops immediately. Blacks don't whimper.
Only then does his (for no self-respecting girl would have muscles like those, she reluctantly admires) oddly familiar voice register in her head.
"…stopped fighting, now? I won't hurt you, I promise. I'm not going to hurt you. Don't be scared."
This last wounds her pride enough to snap her out of her temporary bout of...insanity (not fear).
"I am not afraid." She is proud that her voice only shakes a little.
"Dorea?" His voice sounds confused, but there is the ever-present humor lacing his words.
Now she knows why that voice sounded so familiar. It is Charlus Potter, the man – no, she corrects viciously, the boy – that she...that they...that...
Her mind unconsciously jumps back to last week, to that horrid memory that she had been trying (unsuccessfully) to repress.
She had been sitting in her room at home, on her bed, thinking that the Black family mansion never felt as much like home to her as her dorm at Hogwarts did. Her mother had swept into the room, interrupting her mental comparison between the dining hall here at the mansion and the Great Hall back at Hogwarts.
"Dorea, you will soon be eighteen, and you will finish school in June. In July, you are expected to marry Charlus Potter. He is wealthy and has a fine background. And remember, girl, obedience makes a Black girl successful, and duty makes a Black girl loved." She paused for a moment. "And I expect to see you presentable and downstairs for dinner in an hour."
And with that, Violetta Black had swept right back out, leaving her words to swirl endlessly in her daughter's head.
...marry...marry Charlus Potter...marry...marry...
She returns to present time when she realizes she is no longer leaning against the wall. No, now she's leaning on him. And he's murmuring something into her hair. And she's crying.
She tries to suppress the tears, she really does, but she just can't. She's only seventeen for Salazar's sake! She isn't ready to be married! She really does not want to become her mother.
She is startled to find that she feels comfort in Potter's (no, Charlus') embrace. Her arms, almost of their own accord, slide around his (rather muscled) back.
"I'm sorry," he mumbles. "I know this isn't what you want. But don't be afraid. Please don't be scared."
Dorea pulls back slightly to glare at her (she mentally stutters at the word) fiancé. "A Black is never scared," she scolds scornfully.
"Don't forget," he replies, smiling lightly, "you're almost a Potter now."
Too long to be a drabble, I know. And some of the sentences were probably run-ons. But you know how sometimes your fingers just kinda take over, no matter what your brain says? Yeah.