Leah Labelle has spent most of her years at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in the shadows, always present but never quite noticed. She often felt caught between not being ugly enough to be bullied and not being captivating enough to seiz...
It's the seventh day of torture, and I'm clinging to what little I have left—the hope that this agony, this relentless assault, is a way to unlock what Theodore tried to steal from me. I force myself to think of the pain as practice, each jolt, each slice a path to memories I lost, a means to an end. But even that fragile purpose is starting to slip as everything blurs, as pain seeps into the marrow of my bones until it's not something I feel but something I am. I can sense Bellatrix's boredom, the frustration etched on her face each time she realizes she's getting nothing from me. It's only a matter of time before she grows tired enough to end this, before I'm six feet under, forgotten in some dark corner of her world.
Today, she begins as she always does, moving methodically, taking her time. By now, her spells are nothing more than a twisted rhythm, one I'm helpless to resist. Her favorite curses—those that make my skin feel like it's tearing apart, my bones splitting—she saves them for last, savoring my weakness. But today, even as she casts them, I'm on the edge of unconsciousness, hanging on by a thread that's so frayed, I wonder if it's still there at all. The pain should make me scream, but I'm beyond that, beyond sounds and words. I am fading, slipping away from the world, a dark calm settling over me.
Is this it? I think distantly, as if from the other end of a tunnel. I brace myself, thinking I might be ready to go.
But then, something explodes inside me. It could be another spell or the final breaking point in my mind, but whatever it is, it cracks open something vast and hidden, and memories rush in—memories of Theodore, of us—flooding my mind in a torrent that's almost as painful as the torture itself.
"I really l—" his voice echoes, familiar and raw, filling my mind.
His face appears before me, younger, unguarded. "I really like you," he murmurs, eyes cast down as if he's afraid to look directly at me.
My voice, just as hesitant but braver than I feel, echoes back. "You only like me, huh?"
He glances up, a flush of embarrassment coloring his cheeks as he shrugs, his usual confidence nowhere to be found. "I actually wanted to say that I love you," he admits, almost stumbling over the words.
"Then say it," I whisper, feeling my heart pound like it's the first time I've heard him say the words.
He takes a breath, his eyes meeting mine, steady now, unflinching. "I really love you, L."
The memory shifts, slipping away like water through my fingers. Another takes its place.
"Why can't you meet my friends?" His voice is rough, frustrated, and he's pacing back and forth, hands clenched at his sides.
"Because they wouldn't like me!" I shout, my voice a desperate plea.
"How do you know that if you haven't even gotten around to meet them?" His voice cracks, and I can see the hurt flash in his eyes, cutting through his frustration. "You won't even let me tell them about you, about us!"
"Because they won't accept me!" I scream, the words echoing in the silence that follows.
The scene fractures, splitting like glass, and I remember the heavy silence that stretched between us after that fight. We hadn't spoken for over a week, each of us caught in our own wounded pride. But he came back, he always came back, and so did I.
Another memory pushes forward, bright and sharp.
"I've had a crush on you for years," Theodore says, his voice soft and strangely shy. We're standing in the dim light of the common room, and he's looking at me like he's afraid I'll disappear if he blinks.
"Really?" I ask, a frown creasing my brow.
"Yes," he says, a smirk breaking through his hesitation, "ever since you nearly fell on your face after the Sorting Hat put you in Slytherin."
"Oh, shut up!" I laugh, shoving him, feeling my cheeks burn. But he only laughs, too, catching my hand before I can pull away, and suddenly his lips are on mine, warm and certain.
The memories keep flooding in, flashes of laughter, of whispered promises and stolen moments. I see myself in the reflection of his eyes, see the way he'd watch me when he thought I wasn't looking, the quiet, steady love that I once thought would never falter. Each memory pierces through me, shattering the void that's wrapped around my heart.
As they come, one after the other, I can feel my heartbeat pounding, pulsing like it's trying to escape my chest, fighting to remind me of everything we had, of everything he's taken from me. The scenes play on and on, each one a fragment of the love we shared, a love that once felt unbreakable.
"I don't care what anyone thinks," he whispers, holding me close on a cold night, his arms wrapped around me like he's trying to shield me from the world. "It's you. It's always going to be you."
I look up at him, my heart thundering in my chest, overwhelmed by the certainty in his eyes. "Promise?"
"Promise," he murmurs, his forehead pressed to mine, sealing the word like a vow.
And then, it all fades, slipping from my grasp. The memories shatter, and suddenly I'm back in the cellar, cold and empty. I open my eyes, gasping, my throat raw and dry. I can feel the rough floor beneath me, the damp chill seeping into my skin. I'm all alone, the moonlight casting a pale glow through the small, barred window high above.
I gasp for air, my chest heaving, and the nausea hits me like a wave. I choke, coughing, bile rising in my throat until I can't hold it back. I throw up, feeling the bitterness burn my throat, but I don't care. Because now, in the hollow silence, I remember. I remember everything.
I clutch my arms around myself, every part of my body aching, but the memories thrum within me, filling the empty spaces, piecing together the girl I once was.
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