fear. ‎ ‎it consumes her the farther she pushes through the crowd attempting to flee or disapparate out of that place, only to be struck by the forks of violent fire—half a dozen aurors gone— the apostates had fallen — the acolytes prosper—queenie felt ill. she wanted to throw up. she don't want to be there. don't want to feel that trickle up her neck. ‎ ‎for once in her life, she felt truly scared. this is no nightmare, or some stranger's depictive thought. it's all true. the sweat rolling down her temple, the disgusting clamminess of her palms. they're dying, their minds are before they truly vanish, using her mind as the last door. she felt like dying, too, inside and out. but none could hear her, and help her. not when they needed escape as well. ‎ ‎then there's not much left. it's obvious at how quiet it had become in her skull. and she could think again, hear her own voice in her head again—snapping her out of it and remember why she's there. focusing, hoping, hurting, with a name echoing out of her ears, a name she's been screaming out for in vain. she's been crying out your name and she didn't even realize it. ‎ ‎but as she finally grasps the privilege of peace of mind, she sees you— entranced of some sort, moving through the flames. and right then and there, anguish blears her eyes as she witness the worse. "no.." she breathed out, gripping her wand so tight and blindly rushes forward to reach you, only to be pulled back by jacob. ‎ ‎"no— no!"