The Darkest Witch

Belinda: One Hundred Thirteen Days Before January

Scotland
Hogwarts
Belinda

    Last night, Belinda dreamt of it again — a starless night, soft white snow falling from the sky, and Morrigan Manor in flames. She had been dreaming the same dream ever since the fire. Its recurrence frightened her, made her feel breathless, but it was its stubborn consistency that kept her nights longer, and her body tired.

    Without a blink of sleep, Belinda sat quietly in a dark room; heart, mind, and soul in chaos.

    The largest room, situated on the seventh floor, east of the castle, was made available for her upon the headmaster's approval. Albus Dumbledore, Hogwarts Headmaster, had not only gifted her a temporary working space but had also granted her permission to continue with her work whilst completing her studies, a luxury she wasn't expecting to acquire. Nonetheless, she was beyond grateful. Belinda couldn't fathom how devastated she would be if she was not.

    Alchemy kept her sane — especially in her current state of madness.

    After completing her classes, Belinda hurried towards her workroom, excited to rip her tools from its boxes. It disappointed her classmates — who were eager to meet her — that she decided not to spend even a lone second to share a single word with them.

    Roger Davies who spent the entire Transfigurations class formulating the perfect greeting, was left crestfallen in his seat as Belinda dashed out of the door without a moment's notice.

    Rumors had started circulating before she could reach the seventh floor of the castle. Arrogant, imperious, proud — it flowed through every passing ear like a large rapid river. By the time Belinda reached for the door, she was already labeled despicably loathsome.

    On the days that followed, her awareness of the matter remained nonexistent. Even thunder and lighting could not shake Belinda's center. Let alone, slanderous whispers.

    If only they knew the horrors that occupied Belinda's mind. If only they knew the things she was expected to perform in that isolated room. If only they knew what she came there to be.

    They would not gossip — they would run.

    As the dream begun to dissolve from her mind, Belinda felt the air move back to her lungs. The terrifying images of snow and fire, all coexisting inside the same nightmare, succeeded in haunting her mind even in the most innocent forms of daydreams.

    Belinda straightened out from her set and inhaled, welcoming life back to her soul.

    During the last few days, Belinda felt almost lifeless, more machine than human. Eating felt unessential. Waking up felt tedious. Life felt unreal. She thought of nothing but her tasks and her dreams, and how they strangely felt connected.

    Belinda learned not to ignore her dreams the hard way. For the first time it spoke to her, it showed her death. 

    The nightmare visited her the night before the fire. She could still remember it vividly, more vividly than she hoped she could.

    It was a gloomy afternoon, the sky was gray and the air smelled like mud and rubber. The room she was in was familiar — pale yellow walls, tiny potted plants, scattered acrylic paints — it was her home, their home.

    She wandered around the room, searching for a brown-haired woman who usually occupied the living room in an untidy bun and frilled dresses. She sauntered about the cottage and was left mortified when she reached the living room door.

    A girl with the same black hair and black eyes as her, sat on their living room couch crying, holding Matilda's unfinished clay pot in her arms.