𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐠𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐲 | 𝐝.𝐦.

sixty one

Crying does not come frequently to Betty. However, these days, she hasn't been able to brave the grief she suffers, confined in her bedroom.

Whenever she is alone, she finds herself sitting in the little corner of her windowsill, looking out the frosty windows and watching as death eaters slip in and out of the building.

For one, they have an air of freedom to them which is why Betty lingers a little longer, admiring the bit of it she does not possess.

Her tears fight through her will, usually coming as a curation of annoyance. She has never felt so useless in her life - being trapped behind the window and only observing as life carries on for others outside.

Draco brings books for her, but she finds them feeble in livening up her mood. With the shackles keeping her hands at close range, it is more of a hassle opening the books and flipping through them, with the weight of the iron pulling her down, withering away what little strength she has.

Back when her hands belonged to her own, she would frequently revise spells that she had learned years ago with a desperate yearning to be useful in the event of an actual battle - but now, her wand lies motionless in front of her.

She has tried to wave it a few times, muttering incantations, seeing if what Draco had said about the shackles were true. And to her dismay, indeed they were.

Cooped up in her own bedroom, she is just teeming with frustration overall - hence the wetness crystallising around her cheeks almost everyday.

The manacles are robbing away all the controls of her body that once belonged to her own.

Even though she had promised Draco she wouldn't go insane, with the unease of her body getting weaker everyday, she isn't sure if she would last as long as she had hoped for.

Contrary to her, Draco keeps his promise. He visits her significantly everyday, always bearing with him a faintly bright smile that only meagrely brings up her despondence.

She doesn't cry when she is with him; no matter how aggravated she feels watching him strut around the room so effortlessly, without his limbs being weighed down by shackles.

She definitely is envious of that part, but she tries not to disclose that emotion when she is around him.

Still, it is hard to fabricate a lenient smile every second that he is here and act as though she is absolutely fine like he believes her to be.

Her bedroom door is left a crack open and she hears the approaching footsteps of a horde of death eaters. They stop momentarily outside of her room and she sees a sliver of their velvety black cloak brushing against the door.

"That's Bennett's girl, isn't it?" one of them asks the others with a pompous snicker.

"Bloody fool that one is," speaks another, and Betty imagines the haughty grin plastered along their crooked teeth. "Can't believe he's kept her alive after she dared let Harry Potter flee."

She hears the shuffle of their footsteps and her heart lurches at the thought that they might barge into her room.

"It's even ridiculous thinking the Dark Lord has agreed to keeping her alive. I would've taken her life out of pure spite just for her audacity," a gruff voice speaks. "A blood traitor like her will only waste our resources."

"Well, I believe whatever it is the Dark Lord has planned, can't be a fate worse than death."

Betty feels her scanty breakfast rising from her stomach, reaching her throat sickly. She buries her face in her knees, sobs bubbling up her throat together with her food, and prays for them to leave.