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“You’d hurt yourself if you’re not careful.”
“Since when do I ever tiptoe around?” she said as she ever so gracefully kicked off the pair of dragonhide boots and went straight for the lake.
Chuckling, he watched on as she was devoured by a darkness none other than her own. Long luxurious dark hair staining the water like ink as she submerged. He waited for her to reappear, she didn’t.
Dreams, they’re either prophetic or plague, he cursed to himself in the haze of interrupted slumber.
This mysterious girl has been haunting his subconscious ever since he rid the world of his muggle scum relatives. Could it be his soul has reached its strain, conjuring these dreams as a cry for help? Exactly how far along can his experiment go? Or was it his mother? Has she come to lead him to damnation for patricide? Has she come to collect his life as payment for her own?
He sneered at the thought. Moping Merope. He doubts she neither had sufficient intelligence nor self-respect to come reaping. If there was any payment to be made, it ought to be his to collect.
All the trouble I went through to take back what was mine by birthright, that fucking Smith women.
He hates playing the pretty boy, he hates how everyone seems to notice his muggle father’s face first and his ancestral powers second. He hates being second to those purebloods at school. The mysterious woman reminds him of the Blacks in looks.
She looks like one of Walburga’s spoilt minions.
However, her identity isn’t the object of his concern, rather the emotion he felt laying eyes on her. A strange familiarity, it made him vulnerable, his heart sank as she did. She makes me feel old. That was his observation, the way he noticed how young she looked, it was strange, she couldn’t have been much younger than he is, yet whenever he set eyes on her in the dream, he felt a seniority over her, a responsibility even. Her carelessness in stark contrast to his intensity as she skipped along the waters, laughing as she did. He’s never heard a laugh quite like hers, like bells on a breezy summer day, ringing shamelessly without a care.
That was what separated her, in his mind, from any of the purebloods at school. Her wild demeanor, and the rawness of her youth, not quite cultivated or tamed, alarming something within him, a premonition. I know her. But not in the way he knows the clans of Slytherin. The boys were easy enough to tolerate, the girls however, were insufferable little brats, giddy, and demanded chivalry and adoration. He knows she would most definitely sneer at the pathetic prim-properness of their childish sophistication, scoff at their domestic ambitions, and wreak havoc at teas and parties. He felt a certain pride at the thought of this, chuckling to himself, suddenly there was something he knew for sure. She belongs to me, but how?
Could she be his own flesh and blood? A fragment of his soul? Whether she is a creation of his imagination, a plaque of his soul or an extension of his blood, he knows she belongs to him, he can feel it, he’s never been more certain of anything, his heart palpitating in revelation as slumber came drowning once again, his last conscious thought being the wish to see her once more.