Author's Notes: Written for Hermione's Harmony's "Miserable Melody" competition, the general idea of which was to write a piece based on a sad song, and attempt to make the piece as sad as possible.
Song: Taking Over Me (Evanescence)
It has been fourteen years since the night when the Dark Lord lost his life. Every night since then I've lain awake, even entombed in Azkaban, and tried so hard not to think of that. No easy feat, for the event haunts my dreams, and who can decide what they dream? Dreams of his fall, and of my inability to gather the necessary information from the Longbottoms to save him…
"You know!" I scream, fighting against my husband's restraint. "You know where the Dark Lord is and you will tell me! Crucio!"
"Bella, they know nothing, and they are too far gone to tell us in any case! You will have us all caught! We will be in Azkaban before sunrise tomorrow!"
It does not matter, I shall not fear Azkaban. I believe in my Lord, and I would give up anything just to find him…
Why has he not come for me? I know he is active, he has been since June, and the mark on my arm is raw and stinging for his touch. It has burned many times since he was revived. Has he forgotten me? His most faithful? Has he forgotten all we had? I have not forgotten him – I could not, even without the constant burn of his mark on my arm. I knew him so well, loved him even, though I knew full well I would never be requited. But I had always known I loved him, since I was first marked, first felt his hand on my arm, my hand. And for all his speeches against love, I feel sure that there was something he felt for me – some little inkling of affection, perhaps? Something, anything. Has he forgotten that?
In Azkaban, knowing he is awake once more, his image has taken over me. I cannot shut my eyes without seeing him burned into the backs of my eyelids. His face can be seen in patterns of dust motes in the air, when the weak sun filters through them. The caress of cold air on my skin is that of his hands, and the whisper of wind past the tiny window of my cell is his voice. If I stare at my reflection in one of the tiny puddles of stale water that gather on the floor of my cell, if I look deep enough, I can see him there too. His face takes over mine, and I see him where I should be. His image is mine, for I am his.
A part of my mind wishes for me to rebel, to break away from my single aim – to be his – but I hold that traitorous aspect of myself in check. That corner of my mind hisses to me that he has forgotten me, and all I was, that I should give up hope, as so many others did. I refuse. I believe in him, and when he sees that I have given up everything in my attempt to find him, surely I will be rewarded. And if I have my way, I shall be rewarded not only with status and riches, but with his love. Surely, if there is any way to make a man like the Dark Lord love me, it is to show him how I believe in him, how faithful I am to him, how loyal, how I need him.
Surely he will love me for that.
So I silence the corner of my mind that tells me that he will never love me, and hold on to the thought of him, alive once more, expressing his gratitude for what I have done.
I believe in him.
He is everything to me.