Bellatrix can recall quite vividly the touch of his lips.
They’d fluttered over the back of her hand, the first occasion he dared to try. Insolent, Lorcan’s hand had entwined in her own, his callused fingers slotting in the gaps between her slender own. Carefully, he mocked a kiss.
Or no, a peck. The foolish peck of a foolish boy; he hadnt made contact but skimmed over her skin; a puff of air drifted down her gloves and left her clothes feeling stifling.
It’s that first fractured memory that comes to her where she hunches over herself in her cell. The tease of her tangled hair, down to the waist, against her palms reminds her of him. Like how everything does.
A laugh splits her lips with the efficiency of a cutting spell. Futilely, Bellatrix brings a hand to muffle the growing sound. Not today; today she’d rather be by herself than part of the cacophony; just the once.
Dementors leave her be. The claws that grew unclipped on each finger dug in as a collective over her mouth. Slowly, her fingers slackened. Testing.
Rubbish.
Not at all could her fingers to her lips replicate the grazing of his fangs.