𝗔𝗕𝗢𝗩𝗘, 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗥𝗦 𝗪𝗘𝗥𝗘 𝗙𝗟𝗔𝗠𝗜𝗡𝗚 𝗟𝗜𝗞𝗘 𝗘𝗠𝗕𝗘𝗥𝗦 drawn from a smoking inferno, floating in the sky and shimmering through the impeccably thick wall of obsidian. Constellations mingled and formed cryptic shapes, representing different configurations to every pair of eyes gazing upon the rotating hemisphere, upon the canvas of ink.
In the glamorous, unwavering wedding dress, Scarlet stood in front of Bridget House; her eyes clung to the darkness, trying to decrypt the sinewy shapes coalescing with the shadows.
The House that held years of love and comfort and trust and soothing and all those cruel words exchanged and all those apologies, all the tears and laughs and exclaims of victory and the corridors where they once danced like two ghosts.
The sounds of the waves crashing on the shore of the lake rang in the core of her head, the electric vibration of it rennervating and coursing thorough each and every one of her matte-black vein.
The Ministry is too furious with Dumbledore due to his Order business for them to ever believe his testimony about Scarlet being a spy. It would be easy to clear Snape's name; Scarlet's name held too much of an infamous, brutal reputation for her behaviour to be excused.
Not that any of that mattered.
Assuming Severus' words were correct, this was how it was going to go: Scarlet could sacrifice another life to save her child's. Except, her heart was now so full of an yearn for approval from others, after all those ethical and moral information jumbled in her brain, she could not bring herself to do it.
