Tainted - {d.m. & h.g.}

eight - shared nightmares | green jumpers

song: sleepwalking - bring me the horizon  

DRACO

DRACO

He wakes Saturday morning with sweat beading in continuous strings down his forehead and chest heaving up and down uncontrollably. He flutters his eyelids for several seconds to regain vision of reality from his interrupted slumber— sits up and slips his undershirt off in aggression, as the thin material clinging to his clammy skin was causing a sensory-overload that only added tenfold to his distressed state.

A nightmare was the culprit of disruption.

But it seems that his brain decided to direct a new film for the back of his eyelids to amuse his fucked-up mind for the prior evening's slumber.

This newly developed cinematic experience had his mind inserted into Granger's perspective of the battle at the Manor, his intellect inside of her shell— lying on the cold floor of the damned drawing room, while Bellatrix furrowed her wand into the dermis of his forearm, flaying every nerve ending open with the simple mutter of Crucio under her breath. He saw himself— how fucking pathetic he looked just standing there, his mother cradling him like a child— like a fucking purposeless git, twiddling his fingers as if there was no better action they could be exerting.

Once his vision returns to reality, he runs his hands through his sweat-ridden hair and begins the ten even breath exercise his mother had taught him to ward off the feeling of a lung-collapsing panic attack.

These reoccurring assaults on his sleep schedule had subsided for majority of the week—the horrific visions making a heavily vengeful comeback after an allotted time away from her proximity just furthers his credence that being near her doled out some sort of vaccine that fleetingly cured the illness— the tireless ailment that is his mind's habit of slowly killing him, ending his existence by picking apart segments of his brain.

She's his alternative— his possible substitute medication to the self-infliction of pain that was once the only remedy for his mind's torment; and he truthfully isn't certain which option is more excruciatingly rotten— isn't sure which one inflicts the most torture.

He swivels from his bed landing roughly on the floor, hurriedly pads to the shower; eager to wash the nightmare's memory away with a boiling shower that tinges his skin red— a beautiful punishment.

HERMIONE

She's there— and it's all the same but the perspective of the scene is modified.

A scream brimful of anguish rips her confused gaze away from the ornate ceiling to the locality of the noise— and she's met with a scene of horrifying déjà vu.

It's herself— Bellatrix leaned over her limp body sprawled yet tangled on the stoned floor; the rugged witch is screaming some sort of rubbish regarding her blood status in broken outcry.

She feels a hand press into the nether of her back; turns to see that it's none other than Narcissa Malfoy. She feels her own shaking hand abruptly force itself into the pocket of the trousers she has on— feels her fingers impel around the smooth surface of a wand that isn't hers— too smooth, too sleek.

"Hold it together, Draco," the Malfoy wife murmurs into her ear in a tone of voice that's begging calmness.

Her eyes automatically widen at the mention of his name, instinctively lifting the appendage that isn't cemented around the mystery wand toward her face to inspect the surface— and sure enough; she's met with a pale, veiny hand that's adorned with a sizable sterling ring.

She's merely a conscious fixated inside Draco Malfoy's body.

She's about to panic— hyperventilate, but the blood-curdling screams commence; a crystal-clear cue that Bellatrix has begun her poor attempt at a profession as a tattoo artist by crucifying the smooth skin of her forearm.