The First Spring

The early times hurt the most.

I am a voodoo doll, I will not cry,     

But remember - I will not forget.     

My mouth is clogged, my eyes sewn shut,     

But no one is forgotten, nothing is forgotten.     

Slot(band), author's free translation from Russian

Thou see her go, noting the black robes with Rawenclaw crest on them, yet she does not glance back. You will scrutinize her with your eyes, admire the gait, a little waggery; she won't even reckon you looking at her, for you are one thousandth of a crowd...

And maybe she will fall in your captivity, possibly even find herself to love you? And then you, and only you will to see the spark at the bottom of her blank green eyes. So icy... You'll melt it with a kiss on narrow, almost white, but such beautiful lips, you're going to place a hand on the soft skin of her cheek, flick away a tear, and it will fall onto the floor, dissolving among the dust, mixing in with the dark. You'll whisper softly: 'Don't be afraid!' but she will not believe you and tremble, and you're going to run a hand through her hair, feeling it's hardness. A smile shall grace your lips, your mouth repeating the request. Don't fear. 

She'll close her eyes, no desire to look upon her terror of you. She is frightened. You came to make her yours? Do not deceit yourself. Therefore, let her go. Let her get climb out of the bed. Don't touch...

She rises from the bed and looks at you, loathing, trying to say something, as you come up to her face and bash. 

- What for?! 

  - For your damned beauty ...

  And you abhor the woman. Her thin arms, her slender body with bruises from prying hands. She is flawed, and you know it. You'll hate her eyes, hate her voice, her inclinations. Each movement will fuel your very heart with hatred. For the reason be - she does not belong to you. And your hands will never learn this milky-white skin, never your fingers will touch the huge scar on her forearm. And the question 'Where?' shall remain inaudible. She will not answer 'Parents.' And you will never be bothered with it. 

And now she is sitting on the floor. Her cheeks burning, she fingers her hair, clueless of what to do... Fear is evident in her stare, as you snicker and push her onto the floor, wringing willowy white arms behind her back. And you'll be whispering in her ear a single word. Hate. And then release the girl... 

Through humiliation, through shame and cold she will rise and look down at you, and abruptly, you're the one scared, hiding the feeling away. And she'll go. Silently. Proudly. Uninhibited. Hating in response. Black skirt, now wrinkled, thin black shirt with silver buttons.

You crave to touch her, to feel body's warmth on your fingers. Flick of her wand, robes on the fragile shoulders. She leaves, closing the door behind. And you fall to the floor, remembering her body with hundreds of immaculate faults, and bawl, screaming "I'm sorry." She will not hear. And you will not know she might have belonged to you.

And your soul's destitute squalor was so hard to unravel. You're leaving, m'lady... Your Insignificance, maiden half-blood... 

Miscalculation, again.

Author's Note

This can be considered as a prequel to The Last Fall, although may be viewed as a stand-alone. Not a fanfiction, but presents in Harry Potter universe.
Pretty rough for a date, but, hey - all we are is what goes for the show.
Please note out awkward phrasing, etc. English is not my native language. Feedback is very appreciated.