The Serpent & Hawke | Mattheo Riddle | Enemies to lovers

Part 52 - Guest

3 Days Since Dumbledores Death

Lyanna's POV

My eyelids blinked slowly as I stirred awake to muffled voices and noises echoing from the ceiling above, each sound distorted by stone and darkness.

Sometimes the voices sounded like laughter, other times like screams — after a while, they all began to sound the same.

I didn't dare to move.

Even breathing felt dangerous in this place, as if the slightest motion might draw unwanted attention.

My body tingled painfully all over, a thousand needles pricking beneath my skin.

The lack of magic left a hollow ache in my chest, like a vital organ had been removed.

What did they do to me?

The cold had settled into my bones, becoming a part of me, and hunger gnawed at my insides like a living thing.

I can't remember the last time I ate.

Food had become a distant memory, like warmth, like safety.

I had no recollection of how long I'd been in this cell — days and nights had blurred together.

The only thing I was certain of, the only moment that remained crystal clear in my mind, was Dumbledore's death.

It was like watching it in slow motion, a nightmare I couldn't wake from.

The green flash of the killing curse, how it shocked the life from his eyes.

His body arcing gracefully as he tumbled from the clock tower.

And I was helpless, restrained and weakened, forced to watch.

But that wasn't the only horrific scene that played on a loop in my head, tormenting me.

Mattheo pleading with Snape to let me go, his voice cracking with desperation.

I'd never heard him sound like that before.

Screaming my name as he fell to his knees, the sound tearing from his throat like it was being ripped from his very soul.

His face had been streaked with blood and tears, and something in his eyes had shattered when they met mine for that last moment.

Then he was gone, and I was left with nothing but these memories and the cold stone walls of my prison.

Sometimes, in the depths of night, I wasn't sure which was worse — the physical pain of my captivity, or the emotional torment of remembering his face as they took me away.

I curled tighter into myself, trying to preserve what little warmth remained in my body.

The stone floor beneath me felt like ice, but I barely noticed anymore.

Physical discomfort had become my constant companion.

More voices drifted down from above, and I caught fragments of conversation.

Something about "the Dark Lord" and "the girl" and "ancient magic."

My stomach clenched.

Suddenly, I heard a door creak open and footsteps approaching, along with the sharp click of heels against stone.

The sound made my skin crawl.

I tightened my arms around my legs even more, trying to make myself smaller, as if I could somehow disappear into the shadows.