Title: Sex, Death, and Starshine
Author: Katana
POV: Draco Malfoy
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. Just borrowing!
Feedback: Makes me a very happy camper, who writes more!
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Sex, death and starshine. The things lodged deep inside of him that had been engraved in his very soul, force fed down into him from the moment he was ripped from his mothers womb, all sex, death, and starshine, a perfect, pale baby boy, the one who would carry on the family name with darkness and pride.
As he had lain in his room that night, the black night had summoned him out like an unquenched love, beckoning and tempting him with the promise of dark desire. He had given into the temptation, stealing out into the night like a shadow, hiding in the darkness that called him.
Now, as he sat by the lake, with the brilliant stars shining down on him, a butterfly flew near him, fluttering its wings as it flew in lazy circles around him. It landed on his outstretched fingers willingly, nothing more than a pure and pristine picture. The closest thing in nature to perfection. He bent forward slowly, trying not to scare it away, looking at it, inspecting it, as though that butterfly could have meant the world to him.
It had a tiny black body, so small against his pale fingers, its antennae twitching as its little eyes stared up at the creature it rested on. He could feel its little heart beat as he breathed in and out softly, slowly, languidly.
It had wings that were a bright color of red. Wings that were red like the color of Weasley hair, nothing more than a tangled in a mass around and in his perfect hands. Wings that were red like the color of the proud Gryffindors, nothing more than a ripped and mangled banner at his feet, just as their bodies would be.
A sadistic smile came to his perfect lips as he closed his fist around the perfection in his hand, swiftly, so that it could not escape the inevitable death he was providing. He smashed the butterfly in his fist, watching in appreciation as the blood ran down and through his fingers, running down his wrist, a beautiful stream of blood. He could feel the life leaving it, like a candle that had been violently and suddenly snuffed out.
And now those once perfect bright red wings were crumpled between his fingers, protruding from them. The butterfly was dead and gone like the Weasleys and Gryffindors would soon be. Now those crumpled wings were red like freshly spilled blood, red like the mark on his arm.
He opened his fist again, letting the carcass drift down onto the grass he sat on, as he brought his hand to his mouth and licked the blood away with one swipe of his tongue, from the moving end of the stream and up to the top, where he got the antennae in with the blood.
It tasted so tangy and coppery, and oh so pure. He loved it, he loved the taste. He wanted more of it. It was as if he was taking away the innocence, the purity, the perfection of the now dead butterfly; It was his, he had conquered it.
Death was nothing new to him- He had been around it since he could breath, since he had entered the word. It was likely he had been around it even when he was growing in his mother's womb, feeding of her blood and soul.
It was always present in his life, coming in with the dark night in the form of robed figures, robbing the souls of the pure and innocent. The mask he wore, sitting beneath robes in his trunk, was a mask of death, dark and unforgiving.
He could still remember the first time he had put it on, his heart pounding in his chest, fitting the mask over his boyish face, watching pale skin become blood red as the mask slipped over his face, resting against his flesh as though it was an appendix of it. He had known in that moment that the mask would forever be a part of him, along with the sex and death that came with it.
To him, death was just like sex. Dark and wicked sex, performed hidden from the eyes of the weak at heart and pure. It was something that he craved with every fiber of his being, something that was always on his mind.
The very thought of that little mudblood struggling beneath him as he slowly cut off her air, her hands struggling against his, pointlessly, wordlessly crying out for her savior, her Potter.
Hmm, soon they would all die by his hand, as he wore that mask of death, of blood. That mask of sex.
He closed his eyes, and opened them again, falling back against the grass and staring up at the stars. They were shining down on him, just for him, filling him with their starshine. One day he would blot out their light as well, and there would be nothing but darkness, impenetrable darkness.
He smiled up at the mockingly. Their light could do nothing. Mother Nature could surround him with it, blast him with it, and his darkness would only grow within until he was overtaking it, killing it with the blackness he held inside of him.
The stars merely twinkled and shined back down at him, as though were mocking him as he mocked them, and he laughed, a cold and cruel laugh that he had spent years perfecting. Just as he had perfected everything else about him. Every breath, every movement, every thought- They all came from the same source of perfection and order he had learned as a child, sitting in a blade-backed chair, the blood running down.
Sex, death and starshine, all his life, all of his ingredients for the potions of death he procured for those around him. All of them a part of him that was never going to leave, a part that the murders his hand itched to commit would only confirm.
Sex, death and starshine. Things lodged deep inside of him, engraved in his very soul, as he ripped from the pure babies of Mother Nature's womb, all sex, death, and starshine, laughing his perfect and trained, cold, cruel laugh, as the butterflies of the world died within his grasp, red like a dying Weasley, red like tarnished Gryffindor pride, red like their fresh spilled blood, and red like the mark on his arm.