Perfidy | Tom Riddle |

45.

Lyra laid on Lestrange's bed with him beside her. Gazing mindlessly up at the ornate ceiling, replaying the events of yesterday. He was on his stomach with an arm draped across her hips over the quilt.

She carefully moved the wrist from her sore body while being careful not to waken him. In lieu of her lovely dress now being unwearable, Lyra settled for Lestrange's dress shirt. Her knickers were equally easy to find, so she took them on easily.

It was early in the dewy morning. Far too early from the way the sky was still clouded with beams of sunlight visible. She sat at the large vanity where to her no surprise was a bottle of whiskey and glass set next to it. Having poured herself a drink, she raised her leg on the chair she sat in. As Lyra looked at her, all she saw was her ruffled hair, her swollen lips, her bites and bruises on her chest, and her legs.

It was true that she told Lestrange not to be gentle, but she did not envision how rough and careless they would be together.

Like savage animals.

Her hair. The familiar sight of it enraged Lyra. How long it was, the loose curls that Tom always adored and played with. It was the colour itself that made her want to shatter the mirror in front of her. Intentionally setting the drink down along with her leg, Lyra conjured a pair of scissors in her hand.

Then, without evident hesitation, the continuous cut was made. When she thought of Tom playing with or pulling at her hair when they fucked, a snip was made.

"You'd make a shite hairdresser." Lestrange snittered, looking in the mirror at her mess of hair. Lyra handed the scissors slowly to her behind, as he motioned with two eager fingers for them. He then instructed the chair to be turned towards him.

And she did. She observed him wearing only trousers now that she was overlooking him. As Lestrange neatly cut her hair, bites and scratches ran down his chest and abdomen. He could feel her fingers carefully trace the lasting marks she produced on his flesh. Fondly remembering every second from last night.

Lestrange gently teased, "I look like I got mauled by a hippogriff."

She smiled a little, unbuttoning the visible top few buttons of the dress shirt she wore, looking up to him, "As do I."

"I have to ask." he paused for a critical moment still cutting her grizzled hair. "Last night why did you, why did you let that happen?"

"I was defeated with my emotions." merely resulting in a puzzled look from him. "I mean," she profoundly sighed."I don't know how to deal with them except one way. Before coming here there was someone. We used each other as a way to let our feelings out for a long time. And I guess through the process it became a solution each time I was angry or upset or just felt anything, same as him."

"What happened to him?"

She gently whispered, "He's gone now."

"And what did you feel during last night."

After a momentary silence, Lyra hesitated briefly, "Everything." she uttered and looked to him. "And you? What did you feel?"

"Guilt." Lestrange whispered in a low breath.

There was no further discussion between the two. Upon finishing his task, Lestrange set the scissors down on the vanity and motioned with his hands that he was done. "Take a look."

Lyra rose from the chair,stunned and looked in the mirror. She loved that it was short, shorter than she had expected, just beneath her shoulders. One more thing needed to be done.

"Hand me your wand," Lyra asked Lestrange. The object flew into his hand from a corner of the room, and he handed it to her. With a tap to her scalp, the golden mixed auburn curls turned into an onyx colour, the loose curls now more defined and bigger. The thin bangs Lestrange had cut evenly spread across her forehead. She turned towards him with a faint smile, "Well?"