Callidora ☆ Fred Weasley

[chapter 113]

She didn't have anyone to talk to.

Not really.

Every word spoken in that house felt like it was being listened to.

So she kept everything inside.

Locked.

Tightly.

The way she had to.

And Calli's nights weren't better than the days.

If anything they were worse.

Because during the day, Calli could control it; her thoughts.

Locked tight behind walls she built.

But sleep stripped all of that away.

The nightmares came quickly.

Relentless.

Uninvited.

She was back in that office, door slamming open, her wand raised too late.

A flash of light.

Then pain and darkness.

She'd wake with her heart racing, breath shallow, fingers curled tight in the sheets like she was still bracing for impact.

Other nights she'd see the graveyard.

Even though she hadn't been there.

Her mind filled in the gaps anyway.

Cold air.

Shadows moving.

A voice she'd never truly heard but knew.

High.

Cruel.

Unmistakable.

Lord Voldemort.

And her father next to him.

Waiting.

Watching.

Sometimes it was worse.

Because it wasn't memory.

It was her imagination.

Twisted into something far more personal.

One night, she found herself standing in the manor dining room.

The same long table.

The same place she sat every morning.

Only he was there.

Lord Voldemort.

At the head.

Calm.

Composed.

Like he belonged.

Eating.

Speaking casually with her father as if they were discussing nothing more dangerous than the weather.

Calli had just stood there in the dream frozen.

He looked at her with a cruel smile and told her the orange juice was particularly fresh this morning. 

She woke from that one abruptly.

Staring at the ceiling.

Silence pressing in around her.

And after a long moment, a quiet, almost disbelieving breath left her.

Because that one was so absurd, so wrong, she almost laughed.