golden snitch: wand challenge, tom riddle, yew—write about death
word count: 603
points: 10
house: hogwarts, slytherin
author: like firing
characters: hermione jean granger, tom marvolo riddle
/
his kiss is death.
it pulls you into him—pulls you into his story—until you are drowning in all his sins, dragged underwater by his lips on yours, unable to disconnect them, maybe because you don't want to disconnect them—
love is not what you have. what you have is not even liking, though some may not think so. what you have is mutual need, like a craving. you are his mortal anchor, and he is your immortal reach, and you do not belong together. you do not belong together. you do not belong together.
for you are life, and he is death, and together you both create everything in between—you create chaos.
/
"sweetheart, i want to kill you," he says, nonchalant as he can be. there is one white rose in his hand that is slowly turning black as his blood flows onto it, his paper-pale skin leaking like ink.
you just stand for a moment and you do not say anything. loving monikers sound disgusting from his mouth—he is mocking you, you can tell. you smirk. "it's too late, darling. i'm already dead."
when he kisses you he tucks the rose behind your ear, the cream and night hybrid looking sharp against your curls. you can feel his blood dripping onto your ears. you make no motion to remove the fluid which is overtaking half of your visage—you just push yourself further into his embrace, feeling ice-cold lips against your own fiery ones, mouths closer and closer and closer together until—
he pulls away, his hands smeared in his own blood and yours, skin cut by the thorns of the rose. that little sadistic smirk crosses his face when he bends down to whisper in your other ear. "yes, i see. cut down my workload, didn't you?"
all the blood on his hands is as dark as his soul.
/
there are no time-turners, no great wizards, no larger plot when it comes to both of you. you did not come together because of fate. "we make our own destiny," he whispers, quietly, and you frown when you look at him.
"no. we do not make anything. we are everything."
/
his kiss is death. his smile is death. he is death. you are life, but you are slipping away, being dragged away by his maligning hands.
"are we hades and persephone?" he asks.
"no," you say, "you may have chosen the underworld, but i am not a weak flower goddess."
"not a flower goddess," he reminds, "the queen of death."
/
his diary is dry. you find it surprising. so much blood went into the pages and the words which fill them. you want to breathe into it, to relish the smell of pages like dead skin. you can puncture it, kill it, do whatever you want to with it—and you should, most definitely, you are life, why are you not destroying death?
you know the answer but are loathe to speak it out loud. i am obsessed with you. he asks you why you have not broken him yet. you say he is already fractured. i am obsessed with you. he asks you why you have not killed him yet. you say he is death. i am obsessed with you. he says he hates you. you say you want to kill him. you want to kill him. why do you not destroy him? i am obsessed with you.
maybe living with a piece of a soul is worse than death.
/
he is death. he will always win.
/
i am obsessed with you. i hate you. i want to kill you. i love you.
/
this isn't great, but i hope you liked it anyway.
x dee
