I do not own anything. Please note the warnings due to themes of violence.
***
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Down the hallway, through the kitchen, I look up.
“Please.” A croak. A whisper. Raspy, like nails scratching, scratching.
The stranger: burning black eyes. “Funny how things come back to us, yes?”
Voice like pins pricking me.
I clutch at my side, warmth spreading between my fingers. I hadn’t wanted to accept it before. Now it is inevitable.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Let it end, please, let it end. Leave him alone. Take me.
Tears are fast to burst through my shut eyes, sliding, slipping, dripping.
“A Blood Traitor,” is all that needs to be said. He cackles and it is like daggers, hitting me over and over.
More warmth. Less pain. Black colouring my vision, great twirls of it, dragging me leisurely away. Not much longer now.
My stomach lurches. Hugo. My son.
Brown eyes appear from behind the doorway. I feel a gentle tug at my sleeve.
“Daddy, you’re bleeding!”
With one arm I thrust him behind me, away from The Stranger. Away from the end.
But it is feeble.
There is a struggle, shouting for Daddy! Don’t let him! Don’t let him hurt me! Daddy!
Hugo is being dragged, ripped, torn from me. I pant, hiss, fall to my knees, the sound of Hermione and Rose’s screams still ringing in my ears. I cannot save my son.
And now I am haunted.
My blinded eyes lift to him.
“Weasley,” he says, an aged leer plastered on his face.
It is all he needs to say to stab me again and again, mentally.
I have fought, have wounded. His limp tells my struggle.
But I am not enough.
I never have been.
I watched my wife and daughter be murdered, the Muggle way. The way that makes vomit rise like fire to the unwilling throat.
I have nothing left inside me as I watch my son, held at his death.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Warmth.
I see now through tunnels; tiny holes that hurt my mind, my heart. Brown eyes are pleading. The words they say do not make sense to me. They stick in the air like a jumbled mass, and all I can do is watch through a foggy looking-glass.
I am not enough.
Harry could save his son. Harry could, could, could.
And I feel Hermione’s hand in mine; skin soft like flower petals smoothing my touch.
Shhh.
“Hugo,” I say. A hollow, haunted whisper.
“Daddy.”
And words fill me. “This is what you deserve, this is what you get…Potter could take me…Potter would be a challenge…. This, this is easy. Easy because you are a coward.”
Words swim up my raw throat, begging to escape. “Lie,” I whisper. Raspy. I have nothing more inside me.
His face contorts.
And it’s happening, happening, happening.
Make it stop, God, please...
Shhh.
Soft.
Her lips are at my ear, honeysuckle-breath warming me.
Shhh.
“Hermione.”
Shhh. I am here. I am here for you. I love you.
Her hand is gone, falling through my skin like wisps of smooth satin.
“Hermione.”
Screaming, shouting.
And I am slipping, dripping, falling away from my son, my only son.
Heaven or hell awaits me.
But I am not enough.
***
For tell_me_what_the_truth_is's Horror/Dark challenge.
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