You cannot imagine the agony of it. Of having your soul rent to pieces. Having it ripped, shredded by the murders I commit so lovingly.
My wand feels wonderful in my hand. My finger curl delicately around the handle, the carve base gripping my little finger in return. It vibrates softly at I shout those lovely words. Avada Kedavra. It just rolls off the tongue, doesn't it? I willingly give it the breath it rips so harshly from my lungs. Then, if I need it, I cast another, siphoning off my very being to be held safe in another vessel. It hurts. Oh, it hurts, but it's worth it. The feeling that follows, that tells me I am even safer now than I was then. I can't die, but even if I meet an unfortunate beam, I will just be elsewhere. I can come back if I wish. Any of my closest servants will do it, will restore me.
I split my soul seven times. The first hurt grievously, but I endured it. Then I felt the rush of a new block of power, safeguarding my life, and I had to laugh. I had done it! I was immortal.
The next six were just as wonderful, each altering my face and figure to better fit me. My nose disappeared. My nails grew out. They were so lovely, so sharp.
The last time, I hadn't meant to. I was disposing of the boy, my only opponent.
Something went horribly wrong.
His father didn't put up much of a fight. He didn't even bear a wand. I laughed, and uttered those wonderful words. Avada Kedavra. He fell to the floor, his now ungainly limbs striking the floor with the most wonderful, percussive sound. His mother begged. Many of them do. They beg for their lives, mostly, or their lover's, their child's, their pet's even. She begged for the little boy. She begged me to leave him alone, to kill her instead. I obliged. She fell lightly, retaining the same grace that I assume she had in life.
But the boy. He stared at me, under my hood, probably thinking that this was a game, a new game with only green lights. Nothing was a game to me, and he would soon learn it, I thought. I was horribly wrong.
I raised my wand arm, lifted my chin. My nails dug into the flesh of my palm in my excitement. This one curse, and I would be forever mighty, able to shape the world that I envisioned.
I drew breath, a large breath. I opened my thin lips. My tongue flicked against my teeth, and I yelled, with all my might.
Avada Kedavra.
This was the worst. My soul was rent, torn even more grievously than before, and I was falling. I couldn't appreciate the lovely percussion over the pain, and the boy's incessant crying. It was terrible. I felt the remnant of my soul flee me, squealing, wailing as it went, until I lost it.
You cannot imagine the agony of it. Of having your dignity ripped from you. Of falling in battle, no matter how small a battle it may seem.
You cannot imagine.