There is something hopelessly beautiful about watching someone die. I know that few people have seen as many die as I have, but seeing the very effervescent soul that humans try so desperately to sustain and hold on to and keep alive, seeing it wisp out of dying breaths… it is beautiful. When I kill someone, I hope they know that no matter how they go, whether it be by screaming, thrashing, fighting back, submission—in the end, when the life force is knocked out of them with one well aimed curse, it is perhaps the most stunning thing the world will ever see.
It's not the loss of human life, or the thrill of it—because there is none—that keep me killing. It is the addiction to those barely visible tendrils of life that I can almost taste when they exit the body. I kill strong wizards because who else has a radiance for life like they do? The harder it is to bring someone down, the more beautiful their soul. I can feel it, the aura diffusing into my pores and allowing me to absorb their power. With every person I kill, I can feel myself become bigger, my own broken soul thickening, breaking more but still growing. Oxymoron? Yes. But I was born an oxymoron.
I wonder what it will be like to kill Harry Potter. The only wizard to ever thwart me, he who must be the strongest of any I've ever murdered. The boy who lived. It will be a pleasure to see his soul, which must be opaque with strength, enter me, contribute to my own power. I hope he comes tonight. I don't want everyone witnessing something so majestic, and I have enough pity to know that his poor saps of followers would rather die than see his last act as a gain for me. No, if he is to die it should be in a place where it can be appreciated. I truly do wonder what it will look like. His death may be the most beautiful of all.
I see him walking towards me now. It is time. The Boy Who Lived. Come to die.