antagonist;
noun
a person who actively opposes or is hostile to someone or something.
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It was impossible to distance herself from her enemy when she had an unbreakable alliance with him in the Dark Lord's favor.
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started: 2/5/21
ended:
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"My lord, we need your help."
Harley glared at the stormy creature in front of her through slitted eyes, concealing her fright. It was undeniable that he startled the pants off of her. Who couldn't he petrify? For his nose was nonexistent, two stout slits for nostrils. Beady, amber eyes, giving anyone the inability to analyze them. He had a lean figure, typically hidden by cloaks though. His skin looked as if it were almost rubbery, doused in loose wrinkles. Despite all these negatively unique quirks about Voldemort, Harley had to face her phobia of him. She was under his control now.
"Sir, her Dark Mark." Ezra asserted. He snapped the silky textile up her arm, revealing the gargantuas swelling to Lord Voldemort. Harley longed to howl in agony, but her senses became much too unsteady to do so. She kept her shrieks bottled up inside, unable to escape her trembling lips. Ezra's lean arms still gripped her torso, stabilizing her. "It's completely bruised. Is she going to be alright?"
Voldemort's hideous features remained expressionless. His silvery lips curled, eyes narrowing at the deepest bruise one ever did see.
"Please, sir. Do what you can to help." Ezra added once again, earning a snarl from the Dark Lord.
With that said, Draco detached from the cluster, his father and Tom Riddle soon migrating to accompany the bunch and see the hassle. Draco remained non-remorseful. Harley studied him as he ambled away from her, not even considering glimpsing back at her helpless figure. He ascended up the staircase, tall figure approaching the Young Adults Quarters obscurely.
She despised him, but at the same time, wished for him to care.
Before she could feel any access overwhelming feelings about Draco, a brittle and bleak hand had brought her wrist into its grasp. Her head snapped forwards, viewing the Dark Lord directly in front of her sight. Lucius and Tom were loitering on either side of their master, fixated snarls across their expressions. Voldemort examined the bruises, his expression almost unidentifiable. His eyes sparked with a glint that almost looked like realization, before heeding up at Harley, thin lips slightly parted.
"What's wrong with me?" She choked, the ache still scorching within her arm. Voldemort's hues flickered, skin in which would be concealed by brows, furrowing at her words. Her lips shakily fell ajar, struggling to utter what she had longed to speak.
"You're the Heir of Evil." He blurted monotonously, words stern and clear.
His statement made no bit of sense to her. The Heir of Evil? What was that supposed to mean? She was wildly curious to know what was the matter with her.
