(Luna's POV)

This time my dream is not as happy. I see myself in the Forbidden Forest. Voldemort is beside me, holding the Elder Wand with pride. Harry walks calmly into the forest. I want to run to him, to protect him, to take the curse instead of him. My death would not be of any consequence.

"Harry, no, what are yeh doin here?" I hear Hagrid exclaim.

I turn around to find him bound by ropes, held back by Amycus and Alecto.

"Quiet you!" Amycus snaps at him.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort says quietly.
"The Boy Who Lived. Come to die."

He raises the Elder Wand as Harry slowly closes his eyes. I try to yell out to Harry to run, but I find my voice has been taken from me.

"This is all my fault," I think.
"Harry's going to die because of me."

"Avada Kedavra!" Voldemort yells.

A jet of green light strikes from his wand and right into Harry's scar. He falls to the forest floor with a soft thud.

I try to run to him, but something is holding me back. Why can I move? Why can't I close my eyes or look away? I can't even cover my ears. I am powerless to do anything but watch as Narcissa glides over to check him. She soon looks up at Voldemort.

"Dead," she says.

Then suddenly everything fades into a banquet hall. I find myself sitting in a chair beside Voldemort. He dons black, ceremonial robes. The cackling of Death Eater is loud and painful. I try to cover my ears, but I can't even lift my arms. It feels as though they're strapped to the arms of the chair and my legs chained down.

I can't make out what anyone is truly saying. It all begins to blur together as I try to pray that this is not a premonition, but I can only focus on the chatter overwhelming me. It's as if even my thoughts are trapped and controlled. A ball of negative energy begins to build inside of me and press against my body painfully.

I can't rock. I can't flap my hands. I can't speak. I can't block it out at all. I can only let the tears roll down my face. No one speaks to me, not even to ask what's wrong. It's as if they all know what's wrong but simply don't care.

Then it fades into a bedroom and immediately, my mind blocks it out. I feel the agonizing pain, as though I'm being split open. I hear groaning and screaming and weeping. It's as loud as a million people suffering, but there are only two of us.

"This can't be happening," I think as I double over in tremendous pain.
"I don't want this to happen."

Suddenly the pain stops and the darkness fades to my bedroom, but gilded in thin, gold bars. I sit high atop a swing, looking down at Voldemort, but feeling more like the inferior, feeling smaller. Suddenly the cage begins to shrink. I try to shrink into myself, but it doesn't work. The cage keeps getting smaller and smaller until it becomes a tight casing around my body. I can't move anything, not even the slightest muscle. The smallest movements press against the bars, sending burning pain through my body. Even my mind feels that it's been caged and the slightest incorrect thought will trigger a maelstrom of agony and desperation.

I want to scream, but my tongue feels as though it's made of heavy iron, unable to move even the slightest fraction of a centimeter. Is this what Hell is supposed to feel like? I feel hopeless, yet forced to endure it. There's no chance for escape. I'm stuck here forever as Voldemort forces my soul into pieces. I try to cry out in agony, all I can do is bare the pain of my soul being separated, silent tears falling down my cheeks as my soul is stored in common, indestructible objects. I can't even cry out, not even in my mind! Sweat falls in beads, but it burns me more than it relieves me. The sweat singes my skin as my flesh begins to burn. The bars begin to shrink in even further now; as they press into me, they too begin to burn my flesh.

The burning begins to split my skin and blood gushes out only it's thick and agonizingly painful. It's as though lava is flowing down my body. I try to scream, cry out, something to get someone's attention. I spy Voldemort, still splitting my soul into fragmented pieces until I feel the worst sensation of all; hollow emptiness.

I feel as though I'm nothing and no one. Yes, I still feel the pain and yes it still burns, but everything is a mere irritant compared to this emptiness. I am but a walking husk of what I was. And I know this is what he wants. He wants to remake me. He wants me to live only for him. He wants me to be his devoted wife, but in a more servile sense. I feel as though I have no thoughts, feelings, or opinions of my own. I merely want what he wants, say what he wants me to say, do what he wants me to do, feel what he wants me to feel, think what he wants me to think. I am broken and to serve the Dark Lord, my husband, is my only function in life.

Then everything stops and fades away into nothing. The husk of my former self comes alive again. All of my thoughts, feelings, emotions, and opinions have been restored, which includes the pain that comes with it. Free from my imprisonment and emptiness, I drop to my knees and weep into my hands. The pain from the cage still sears through me and body trembles all over.

"Luna, my dear," a voice asks compassionately.
"Why are you weeping?"

I dare not look up at them. My body is wrought with exhaustion from fear.

"I-it was horrible," I squeak.

I try to describe what I saw and felt, but even the tiniest details make me feel sick. Suddenly I feel a comforting hand lift my chin up and I see my conscience in all his compassionate glory.

"None of that shall happen," he promises gently.
"Lord Voldemort truly loves you. He would never want you to suffer."

"But he's a monster."

"Because life made him a monster. But all he wants is love. You are a being of pure love and kindness, Luna. You can show him what love is. He has never had love and thought that power would fill the void. But once he has all the power he seeks, there will be nothing else for him to obtain. Unless you show him what else there is; love. Love is the most powerful force in the universe."

I sniffle as he brushes his hand over my arms. The pain disappears with each spot he brushes over.

"Love can heal wounds and turn tides. You know that."

"I—I do," I sniff sadly.
"But is he truly a good person on the inside?"

"Of course. Everyone is. It's merely more difficult to reach that goodness for some than others."

He sits on his knees and gently pushes my head down into his lap. He brushes again my face, alleviating the pain.

"Feeling better?" he asks me gently.

"Much, thank you."

All of a sudden, the lack of pain is replaced with gentleness and drowsiness. He waves his hand over my face, clearing my tears as my eyes begin to flutter until they're too heavy for me to keep open. With this, I fall into a deep, peaceful sleep.