The Crown of Thorns was a notoriously painful way to die. The wizarding way, that is. When placed atop a witch or wizard's head, it would dig in its poisonous spines and constrict its red vines slowly, always slowly. It hadn't been used for executio...
Eloise started at Molly Weasley's knitting needles. They lacked together in midair without any hands to guide them. Growing up in a muggle home, she found it rather creepy.
The older witch stood across the room, folding the clothes in her drawer for the second time that day. She was sure Molly didn't mean to suffocate her, but the woman was mothering her to the point where she felt she couldn't breathe at times.
Eloise continued to stare at the needles in a sort of disgusted trance from where she sat on the bed, stretching out her legs as Fleur had suggested. Apparently, the beautiful witch had been a dancer at one point, and the stretches would help her muscles strengthen. It could be utter hogwash for all she knew, but it felt good to have something to do.
"You are a Hufflepuff, aren't you, Dear?" Molly asked for the third time.
"Yes. Yellow's right." She glared at the mustard-yellow jumper that was beginning to take shape. She mouthed witchcraft in its direction. The jumper didn't confirm nor deny her accusation.
"Did I ever tell you about my Sorting, Dear?"
Molly had, twice, actually.
"No," Eloise switched legs and bent over her right instead, feeling a bit like a pretzel, "Do tell."
"I was nearly a Hatstall. It was between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor, you see. Apparently, I'm quite brave, but I have just as much love to give." Molly's cheeks pinkened at the notion, clearly pleased, "But I so wanted to be a Gryffindor, and that's what the Hat finally settled on."
"And the rest is history." Eloise grinned.
"The rest is history," Molly agreed.
Eloise paused and gave the horrific knitting needles a glance as she mustered her courage, "Do you think I could go on a walk along the cliffside? I think it would be nice to stretch my legs a bit."
Molly didn't look up from the cream shirt she folded against her torso, "Maybe another day, Dear. I don't want you to slip and have an accident."
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Liquid, warm and thick, was filling her throat and lungs. When she tried to open her eyes, they were coated in the substance too. She was drowning in it. It was thicker than water, and the acrid taste of iron filled her mouth until she was gagging and choking, flailing her arms in an attempt to propel herself out of whatever dark hole she'd fallen into.
Eloise bolted upright in bed, gulping in large lungfuls of air and clawing at her chest. The dream was still a haze at the edge of her vision and the back of her mind, pulling her hair on end. She could still taste the blood on her tongue.
The distinct sound of footfalls came to a stop behind her door. She looked up in time to see Molly edging into the room, face pinched with motherly concern under the light in the hall, "Another nightmare, Dear? Should I tell Ginny to send Susan another day?"
