Like Magic
I wondered, once, what the mudbloods must think of magic. Once, mind. Was it a toy? Was it that monstrosity of a shop the Weasleys opened in Diagon with whiz-bangs and nauseating kaleidoscopic greed? Magic is fun. Magic can do everything. It's magic.
I claim insanity. Or duress. Or whatever it is about bleeding out onto flooded bathroom floors that makes one's thoughts stray inappropriately. What did Potter think of magic, I wondered. What made someone able to eviscerate thoughtlessly? What made someone willing to kill?
On the top of the tower, wand shaking in the direction of Albus Dumbledore, I think I would give anything to know the answer to that last question. It seems academic. Just two magic words – fewer, if one gets creative – and one commands death. Was that the Dark Lord's concept of magic?
Maybe I am just stupid, but I've a simpler idea of it. An apple grows into a tree. A bird flies. Blood outs.
Somebody whispers, "Please."
I wonder what my blood said about me. Did it swirl around the bathroom floor like tea leaves for a reading? What did Potter see in my future? Did he see this coming?
I begin to raise my wand, away from the Headmaster and towards my own temple, but then professor Snape takes the words out of my mouth.
And Dumbledore is dead, like magic.