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••• H •••
The last thing I expected to see in the Malfoy Manor basement was Luna Lovegood and Garrick Ollivander. Maybe more so Ollivander than Luna, seeing as Luna's father had told Hermione, Ron and I that they — the death eaters — had stolen her to get back at him for what he'd been publishing in the Quibbler.
She was grimy and her curly blonde hair was dull and more disheveled than usual, but her blue eyes were still bright.
"Ron? Harry?"
Before I could say anything, Luna was grabbing my wrist and pulling me forward, towards something against the far wall.
"She needs help. She can't take much more."
"Who? Luna?"
In the dim light of the dank basement, I could make out a figure on the ground - leaning against the wall with their legs outstretched before them. Their head was slumped to the side, stringy hair obscuring their face.
"Blimey," I heard Ron scoff. "Harry, it's Roselyn Stirling."
My stomach dropped to my feet, and my mind went blank as I dropped to the ground beside her. My hand shakily went to her neck and I waited to feel her pulse throb against my fingers. There. It was there, but it was weak.
"What's wrong with her?" Ron voiced the question at the tip of my tongue.
"They think she's a traitor," Luna answered. "They think her loyalty was with you this whole time. Because she tried to run away that night."
••• R •••
"You're a dirty little traitor! Rotten bitch!"
Another scream was ripped from my throat as Bellatrix pointed her wand at me again.
"Bellatrix."
My whole body went cold as I heard my father's low voice. I knew Bellatrix and the Malfoys had summoned my parents, and had told them what I'd done. The fear of what my parents would do to me was far greater than the fear of what Bellatrix would do to me - what she's been doing to me.
My greatest fear used to be them disowning me - I would have been an outcast at school, ridiculed by the other slytherins. But now I wish they already had. I wouldn't be here right now, I wouldn't have that mark on my arm. I wouldn't have TRAITOR carved into my other arm.
"Leave us."
I heard the staggered clicking of her heeled boots on the polished floor as she walked out of the room, laughing.
Softer footsteps approached, and the broad figure of my father bent over me where I lay on the floor in the center of the room. He was silhouetted by the lit chandelier hanging above us, the light reflecting off the silver streaks in his ink-black hair. I could still see his cold blue eyes, staring emotionlessly into mine.
