salvation - f.weasley

Viktor Krum's fanclub

spread your love - black rebel motorcycle club

• • •

Grace Colten brings her hands to her face, waiting for the pain of the hit. Her pulse beats loudly in her ears, drowning out the muffled sounds of the house.

The house is damp, dark. Only the faint light from the entrance spills into the hallway. The electricity bill hasn't been paid for months now—years, maybe. But Grace is used to the dark now, used to stumbling through the pitch-black rooms, navigating the maze of their house by memory. The darkness has become over time an oppressive presence that wraps around her shoulders like a cold, heavy blanket. 

Sweat beads on her forehead, a few strands of hair clinging to her skin. She can feel the dry, sour smell of whiskey hanging thick in the air, seeping into the walls, the furniture, her clothes. Always that smell. It never fades, like a permanent stain. It makes her stomach twist.

Grace Colten waits for the blow. She keeps her eyes shut, her muscles tense. But the blow doesn't come. The silence stretches on, thick and heavy, until it's all she can hear.

Then she gasps, her breath ragged and desperate, like she's been underwater too long. Her hands clutch at the sheets as she wakes up.

Her sheets are soaked with sweat, clinging to her like a second skin. Her heart beat in her chest. She blinks as she notices the bed curtains, thick and heavy, and the familiar stone walls. Hogwarts. Not the house. 

She squeezes her eyes shut, just for a moment, letting the reality settle around her like. Here, the darkness isn't hostile. It's not filled with the threat of a raised hand or a muffled shout from downstairs. Here, she's safe. Here, she can breathe.

Home. Her real home.

She forces herself to glance at her watch. 5:38. She knows she won't be able to fall back asleep. She might as well get up.

Grace swings her legs over the side of the bed, moving slowly, each shift of her body a reminder of the bruises still fresh. She takes a deep breath, but it catches in her throat as she feels the pain in her ribs. She winces, pausing, and puts a hand over her side.

She's learned how to push through the pain, how to mask it with easy smiles. But here, alone in the early morning quiet, she allows herself a moment of weakness, a brief second where she lets the exhaustion and the pain settle into her bones. She's so tired. Tired of the nightmares that drag her back to that house, tired of sleepless nights, tired of the fear that clings to her like a second skin.

But she takes another breath, deeper this time, and pushes herself to her feet. Each movement sends a wave of discomfort, but she ignores it, like she's learned to ignore so many things. She presses a hand to her ribs, just for a moment, then lets it fall away, telling herself it will be gone in a few days, and the summer at her house soon a bad memory. 

When Grace arrives in the Great Hall, she is surprised to see a small group of students gathered in front of the poster wall.

Curious to see so many people standing so early, she approaches and walks in front of the plastered poster.

LESSONS WILL BE SHORTEN ON THE 30TH OF THIS MONTH DUE TO THE ARRIVAL OF DELEGATIONS FROM THE SCHOOLS OF DURMSTRANG AND BEAUXBATONS.

A feeling of excitement grips Grace as she returns to her seat at her table. The arrival of delegations during the week means that the prefects will have to help with school preparations. And above all that meant that she was going to meet probably one of the best quidditch players of their generation, Viktor Krum. She missed him at the Quidditch World Cup in August but she didn't intend to miss her chance to exchange a few words with him this year.