Blaise Zabini skimmed the shop walls for the object to contain the part of him. The small angelic trinkets displeased him. His feet gravitated to an overpriced childish doll that was burnt on one half of the face, the other half beamed at him and delved into his soul that dwell deep inside a his bottomless trench of cocoon.
"This is perfection." He stared into the grey eyes, the liquid colour leaking out of the damaged black area. Four muggle dollars later, he exited the shop and turned down a dark alley. He looked at the spots seemingly just appearing on the ground. The spots thickened in a matter of seconds and laced his skin until he stood over a small puddle of rainwater. Taking precautions as to not be seen, he apparated to the front of the aphotic door between him and Borgin and Burkes. He walked in slowly, ignoring the musky smell that made his sinuses go numb.
"Mr. er. . ." A small loathsome man with wiry brown hair fondled a sack filled with money, "Zabini."
"Where is the book?" He sternly glided to the shelf located behind a large cluttered counter.
"I can't have it open to just anybody." He found a large rusted key from under the counter and shoved it into the keyhole of a nearby safe. "50 Galleons."
"That is absurd! We agreed on 33!" Blaise clenched his hands into a tight fist under his cloak.
"Well, I changed my mind." He smiled slyly.
"40." Blaise lowered his eyebrows.
"55. I'll just keep going higher." His smile widened, bearing uneven yellow teeth.
"Fine." Blaise handed him the money, knuckles pale.
"After the deed is done, destroy it if you want to live." He said just before Blaise apparated to the outskirts of his dimly lit home.
"Cryaetid." He pointed his wand at the sharp gates. the metal bars incinerated and the general area turned a soft blue. Through it, he cautiously went, thinking of what would happen to the fool that would so ignorantly waltz into a force field that shatters bones and wipes them completely out of the body, laces the skin with acid, and massages a flammable fluid into their scalp before lighting them on fire.
He crept into the dungeon where tools laid. He opened the booked and began to chant in the vicious tone that illuminated his mind with images of the life leaving the eyes. He read through the steps and began to pace back and forth, plotting his deeds carefully.
First he casted a simple silencing charm around the room and singled out his least wanted needed part: his left arm would do. Slowly he grabbed the jagged knife he'd used to cut so many before and made his way to the fireplace. He singed the hair of the doll and watched the placed melt as he dropped it into the burning flames before him. He set it the floor and carved a small opening into its chubby neck. He strapped it to a table and hooks opened the wounds wide like a mouth preparing for the dentist. He slowly tied a strip of cloth around his forearm and breathed steadily, studying the knife for the sharpest point along the edge. His hands seemed to move without him telling them to. He squealed in pain as he stripped the skin off of his forearm. Blood oozed and splattered his nice white shirt and black cloak. A cup was place underneath. His screams echoed through the entire floor when he stripped the next layer off. Tears squirted and drenched his already steaming face. By the third layer's removal, he'd filled almost half of a glass with blood. He looked at what he had done as he injected his searing flesh with a clear liquid that made his arm feel like stone. He gasped between throbs of his nerve's natural reflex to pain. His arm felt like it was distant and frozen in ice. When the pains settled slightly he got the nerve to peek down one more time. The outer line of ripped flesh was bloody, mangled, and leaching out in all different directions. There was a distinctive difference between where the flesh was taken from. The three strips of tissue flapped around, still partially attached to him. The deepest of the wound showed a thin layer of flesh halfway clinging onto the bone.
He grabbed the same knife one last time. He carved into the other side of his arm one name, "Enya Zabini." He closed his eyes and kissed his hand and fingers that he could still feel. His uneven breathing and the drips of blood were the only things heard in the silent room.
He grabbed the cup and poured the sticky red substance into the doll. "Reparo." he cried. he moved his hand one last time. After grabbing a freshly sharpened clever, he pounded it just before the joint. He shrieked and wailed with pain as this limb was felt no more. The clear liquid caused his blood not to be shed, although the pain was increased. There was a layer of white foam that coated the roughly cut nub of an arm that he had left.
He lifted the doll and shook it, hearing the blood splash about. He split the third layer of flesh in half with two fingers, creating two thinner strips. He slicked the flesh to a side and shoved the doll into the shredded cavity. The flesh mended and formed a soft layer of skin after being place on either side of the doll. The second layer was split and did the same. The final layers was placed on top, strengthening the new pink skin.
He grabbed his wand and dismembered arm, a blade, and the syringe of clear liquid, then walked slowly up the stairs. Each step shot agony to his arm and wails to his mouth. Further up the stairs he went until he reached his mother's room where she laid ill and barely breathing. He inched closer, controlling his breathing. It happened in about two seconds: He pointed his wand at her head and her eyes shot open. Her mouth opened to speak but it was halted by Blaise's killing curse. The light left her eyes in a misty white light. It gathered in a sphere and sunk into the detached arm. He broke the new skin and tore through the newly joined flesh. He yanked out the doll carved a carved a cavity into her chest and left the doll there. He injected the syringe's contents into her and watched as she healed. His soul remains protected by his mother's carcass that "died from the illness in her sleep."