Poison Ivy [Sirius Black]

IVY AND THE DEATHLY DUO

ＴＷＥＮＴＹ－ＯＮＥ

𝕚𝕧𝕪 𝕒𝕟𝕕 𝕥𝕙𝕖 𝕕𝕖𝕒𝕥𝕙𝕝𝕪 𝕕𝕦𝕠

       THAT NIGHT HE DREAMED that a pink flower had sprouted from the walls of the room. Seven petals, outlined with a bright white, growing in between the ghastly white wallpaper, ripping it apart to spring out from the space it made. Only, he didn't think it was a flower, for the little delicate thing had tendrils, yet it wasn't exactly a vine, it gripped the wall as if it were arms, digging itself out from the wall as a corpse might spring from a grave.

       In his dream, he wasn't a rat, the Animagus he had been for the last few years. He was as he had been, flesh and bone and farther from the ground than he had been in years. Peter had stumbled towards the flower, its deep sepals growing into the shape of petals as if he were watching it grow in great speed. He had stumbled towards the wall, his feet having a mind of their own, intrigued by the glowing tendrils that grew around the flower. He had grazed his fingers along the petal, but it seemed to have burst into smoke, rising and falling like a blanket of dust, coating him and the ground beneath his feet.

      He was clumsy as he moved back, his feet practically foundering in the dust, clinging to him. His hands were coated in it, under his nails, in his throat, and he coughed it up, but it was no use as it burned his eyes until he had to squeeze them shut. The dust had a green sort of sheen, not unlike the color of the tendrils, and it swirled around him, lighting up the room, bathing it in soft green light. 

        Peter tried to move away, his vision blurring from the grains in them, even as the light had bathed him in an eerie color. Suddenly, Peter was are of a presence in the room, and he raised his head, his hand pressed against his chest as if it might protect him. He gazed at the room, trying to recognize where he was, but the blurry vision was only enough to spot the figure standing by the open door, half of her face obscured by it. It was a woman in a dress of reddened, antique lace. The dress dragged against the floor when she walked, and the door slammed closed, trapping them together. 

       Her face was blank, with no mouth, no eyes, no nose, just long red hair that fell down her shoulders. 

       Next to Peter, the wall had begun to quiver, beating to an unnatural rhythm that drummed loud in his ears. The floorboards, just beneath the woman's bare feet, pulsed, like that of a heart: alive and knowing. It was then, that Peter noticed as his vision began to clear, the tears streaming down his cheeks, that the woman's dress was not made of lace, but rather those same, netted filaments that made up the tendrils beneath the flower.