𖤓 | Rosalie can confidently say that her visions are a sack of shit. Dealing with the past in hazy dreams is not something a teenager should be doing, but neither is arguing with a grey eyed, emotionally constipated annoyance over everything.
Her s...
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NULLA ━━━━ September 1976.
Rosalie wakes up, haunted by what she saw. The candles gleam in her dorm room, a mix of orange and yellow. All the girls in the dorm are fast asleep, snores light as the curtains blocking the moonlight flutter from the wind.
She wants to burn herself, to light the whole room on fire until the only thing she can see is the blinding light. Maybe her eyes won't be able to see anymore; maybe her dreams will stop pounding her head, marking dark circles under her dark eyes; maybe then she'll never always feel pain — because in those certain dreams, she's always a ghost, unable to move but feeling the pain of the people around her.
Rosalie stays in her bed, sitting up. She remembers her mother's voice in her head: Breathe. In. Out. In. Out.
She does so. Air fills her lungs, before leaving it. Nothing changes. Rosalie still wants everything to burn.
In fact, she's tried all she could to make the dreams leave her head. She's pulled all-nighters, studying or writing in her rotting brown journal, only for the visions to plague her thoughts, rather than her sleep. She's annoyed Sirius Black to make herself feel better, but it's only a temporary fix; the visions still return.
(Now, her vision journal sits at her desk, withering from the constant use. Rosalie has written every single detail of her visions there. It's a painful cycle, even though Rosalie relies on them for important information at times.)
They're a routine, but it doesn't make it any less painful. She feels the twist of a knife, every emotion, every cracked twig, every stabbed back. She feels and hears and sees and touches and does it all. Today, it is a young boy being tortured by Voldemort, screaming for help — for anyone — as metaphorical knives draw blood, twisting into his flesh, a stolen, silver watch with bronze roman numerals crushed in his palm.
Lifting her comforter, goosebumps travel up her long legs as Rosalie stands up, gently heading towards her desk. Her muggle pen slowly scratches against the thin paper of the journal as she scribbles down everything she remembers, before tiptoeing out of the door.
Downstairs, the Common Room's hearth burns. A few sixth and seventh years are studying, wrapping blankets over their bodies, eyes screwed in concentration as parchment lies on the floor. Amongst them are Drake Wilkins and Acacia Abbott, Rosalie's two best friends. Sprawled on the yellow, comfortable carpet in between the fire and sofa, the sixth years argue as they dip their quills into wet ink, scribbling words on crumpling parchment.
"Hello, guys," Rosalie says, sitting down on the carpet next to them. Her panging head is drowned out by the arguing in front of her.
Drake waves shortly, his Slytherin tie tight on his collared shirt. Despite belonging to the House of Snakes, Drake is considered an "Honorary Hufflepuff", and one of the only people outside of Hufflepuff that are allowed in the Common Room, no matter how much Acacia protested when he was first let in by Rosalie.
