Burn
Ripping, tearing. The book in my hands is no longer a book, but a disfigured, monstrous thing. Half of it lies in the flames roaring in the fireplace before me, transformed into ash by the hungry jaws. It no longer contains a door, a world, a soul. It no longer contains anything.
The fire abruptly flares down and with it my temper. Through a haze of bitter tears I toss the carcass into the flames. I turn my back on its peaceful, destructive, hypnotic power and walk away.
a/n: I wrote that as Hermione during the war but it can really be interpreted to any character. Please review-constructive critisism is highly appreciated-no flames...Thanks!