PRE FIC RANTINGS AND A SPRINKLE OF DISCLAIMER: This is the one good piece of fanfiction written in Sammy's abscence. It's got blood, death and Voldemort. That's about all I can say for it, as well...
Characters and sitautions are not mine, but I write about them anyways. I love capitalism! *blinks* Or not...
Avada Kedavra
Izzy Girl
The Avada Kedavra draws no blood, so I carry a knife. It hardly seems fair to steal someone's soul while leaving the very fluid of life coursing throught their veins. I'm not that sadistic, whatever *they* may think.
A dead body lies at my feet. I don't feel a need to look at it. I've seen enough death to know what it looks like by now. A magic induced death is never pretty, it leaves no physical marks, true, but the victim always sees it coming. Mouths twisted in fear; fingers curl into unnatural shapes and the eyes film over, sticky and white.
They always leave echos on their lips, on the walls, on the wind. Most often:
"You can't do this!"
(Oh, but I am.)
Or:
"You're insane!"
(Yes. So?)
I kneel down and clutch my victim's wrist. He was a pureblood, unfortunately, but I had a good reason.
In one slash, his vein is severed and thick, sweet blood is making a glistening river on the hardwood floor. Cold blood. Dead blood.
Carefully, I turn my arm over and press the blade into the skin just below my elbow. I watch the drops of blood collect and then spill to the floor beside my victim's life force. They look like crimson teardrops.
No matter how I squint or lean my face forwards, I see no difference. No sparky, no color variations, no abnormal formations in the two blood pools. I bite my lower lip. Perhaps he wasn't pureblooded after all. There was no way that a proper wizard would bleed the same color as a mudblood. Muggle blood was different. Ugly. All things Muggle are like that. Ungraceful, akward and utterly disgusting.
I stand and tuck my knife into the belt of my robe. I keep my wand drawn, though. A beautiful thing, my wand is. I run my finger down it's length, feeling the gorgeous strum of the Pheonix Feather core.
How many Avada Kedavra spells have I cast with this wand? The spell itself holds a certain grace and beauty. There's something alluring, attractive even, about death. I've been obsessed with those words since my fourth year at Hogwarts. The night after we had learned it, I lied awake in bed for hours, memorizing those six, lovely sylabells.
"Av-ad-a Ke-dav-ra." I murmered again and again while I stroked my wand softly, "Avada Kedavra." the words felt good on my tounge.
"Tom?" I barely jolt, though someone is calling me.
"Tom?" the call comes again.
I laugh. I don't care what *they* think, I will set things right. They'll all thank me in the end.
"Tom's not here anymore... I am Lord Voldemort!"
fin.
Characters and sitautions are not mine, but I write about them anyways. I love capitalism! *blinks* Or not...
Avada Kedavra
Izzy Girl
The Avada Kedavra draws no blood, so I carry a knife. It hardly seems fair to steal someone's soul while leaving the very fluid of life coursing throught their veins. I'm not that sadistic, whatever *they* may think.
A dead body lies at my feet. I don't feel a need to look at it. I've seen enough death to know what it looks like by now. A magic induced death is never pretty, it leaves no physical marks, true, but the victim always sees it coming. Mouths twisted in fear; fingers curl into unnatural shapes and the eyes film over, sticky and white.
They always leave echos on their lips, on the walls, on the wind. Most often:
"You can't do this!"
(Oh, but I am.)
Or:
"You're insane!"
(Yes. So?)
I kneel down and clutch my victim's wrist. He was a pureblood, unfortunately, but I had a good reason.
In one slash, his vein is severed and thick, sweet blood is making a glistening river on the hardwood floor. Cold blood. Dead blood.
Carefully, I turn my arm over and press the blade into the skin just below my elbow. I watch the drops of blood collect and then spill to the floor beside my victim's life force. They look like crimson teardrops.
No matter how I squint or lean my face forwards, I see no difference. No sparky, no color variations, no abnormal formations in the two blood pools. I bite my lower lip. Perhaps he wasn't pureblooded after all. There was no way that a proper wizard would bleed the same color as a mudblood. Muggle blood was different. Ugly. All things Muggle are like that. Ungraceful, akward and utterly disgusting.
I stand and tuck my knife into the belt of my robe. I keep my wand drawn, though. A beautiful thing, my wand is. I run my finger down it's length, feeling the gorgeous strum of the Pheonix Feather core.
How many Avada Kedavra spells have I cast with this wand? The spell itself holds a certain grace and beauty. There's something alluring, attractive even, about death. I've been obsessed with those words since my fourth year at Hogwarts. The night after we had learned it, I lied awake in bed for hours, memorizing those six, lovely sylabells.
"Av-ad-a Ke-dav-ra." I murmered again and again while I stroked my wand softly, "Avada Kedavra." the words felt good on my tounge.
"Tom?" I barely jolt, though someone is calling me.
"Tom?" the call comes again.
I laugh. I don't care what *they* think, I will set things right. They'll all thank me in the end.
"Tom's not here anymore... I am Lord Voldemort!"
fin.