I love the look of it. The bright crimson, shimmering in the light, catching the glow of terror in its owner's eyes. The blood of a victim— a necessary victim, of course, but a victim all the same.
I will never know how others deal with this thirst, this bloodlust that consumes me. What do they do to calm the nerves, the shivers that wrack through one's body, without the soothing sensation of another's blood dripping down their hands, their lips, their tongues. Do they not know the pleasure of partaking in such an act, such a cathartic, refreshing act? They must not know, or we would all be dead, all victims to this delightful terror.
I like to start slow and see the fear grow exponentially in my victim's eyes. At first, they do not truly believe I could be evil— how could such a handsome young man be such a loathsome creature? They are scared, but they have not felt true fear yet. And I love it. I love how their eyes grow larger and larger at every passing second, minute. The trembling of their hands turns into uncontrollable shakes of terror. It is the rhythm of pure joy on my part.
They must be tied up, of course. I certainly would not want a single bit of their dirty flesh to actually touch me. I do not mind the blood, but it is something about flesh that disgusts me to no end. I tie them up, a simple charm, really, and before me they stand, limbs stretched, torsos bare for my enjoyment.
Hooks work best. I once exclusively used Sectumsempra, a spell that I created but that fool Snape believed to be his own. But it lost its novelty. Magic is powerful and beyond the scope of muggle humanity. Rather, my enjoyment comes from the manual labor it takes to peel flesh off bones, tear muscle apart ligament by ligament. The sheer force required of me physically is a testament to the joy it brings me. And hooks do work so well. One jab and a pull, and the bodies come apart. Start right below the shoulder and yank diagonally, and immediately the blood pours, the ribs are split apart, the lungs bare to my eyes. I enjoy fondling the organs, feeling the life in them, the surge of breath leaving the pathetic soul. The heart itself is not particularly of interest. Certainly it provides blood and life to the body, but it is an ugly piece of meat, lumpy and complicated, ridges and bumps all over, stricken with veins and arteries. It is my least favorite organ.
But the blood, oh the blood. The sheer amount of it amazes me. How could we be so full of this delightful fluid? The way it rushes out of a wound, pouring from any bit of split flesh. It is so beautiful to me, so vibrant and lovely and shining with promise. It energizes me, strengthening my magic.
I cannot wait to get my hands on Harry Potter. This boy, this mere boy, who has defied the very face of magic. He dares to live, to breathe the same air that I breathe, when all he is an accident, an anomaly, a glitch in the system that happened to spare his life and unfortunately bring about a flux of glory and praise and idolatry of his pathetic being. Prophecy? Sacrifice of love? These pitiful ideas bring me amusement. It is so like the short-sighted, the narrow-minded, the stupidly inept and wildly incapable to believe such things. But I know better, yes I know better.
His blood will be special, unique. It shall bring me great joy as a balance to the burden and hassle it has caused me. I will savor each second that I watch his life force drain from his body. That idiot Wormtail thinks that I plan to use Avada Kedavra on Potter. Magic? On that pathetic boy? His life does not warrant the majestic flow of my power.
I will take my time and use my hands. I will use razorblades, sharp and poised at the ready. Clean cuts that will create beautiful rivulets of that luscious, scarlet liquid. I consider myself an artist of sorts. I will draw intricate, spindly webs down his back. The blood that ebbs and flows will be a whimsical prelude to the gore that is to come.
Next, I believe I will use a hatchet, forged of the strongest steel, perfected by the breath of the Hungarian Horntail. A quick swing and Potter's chest will be wide open, a slice down and the flesh will rip apart between his left and right ribs. I will make an exception to my no-flesh-touching rule to grasp the open flaps of skin and yank them apart, baring his ribcage for me to see.
Oh certainly Potter will be screaming in agony this whole time. I will not give him the release of passing out in pain. A delightful charm that I created, Vigilo Remaneo, will force him to stay awake, to participate in this wondrous activity with me through its entirety, or at least as long his body stays alive. I would not want him to miss a second of it.
Once his ribcage is before me, I will grasp each pair of ribs and pull them apart, one pair at a time, down the torso until at last, he is open to me, completely and utterly at my mercy, his organs frantically working to keep him alive, quivering under my lustful gaze.
The lobes of the lungs I will pull apart carefully, the motion of which I have always equated to peeling open a banana. Slowly, methodically—the left lung first, starting with the inferior lobe, gently pulling from the superior lobe. They will be smooth to the touch, slick with blood and full of that liquid life. Next the right lung, with its three lobes. I will cradle and lace my fingers through them, a sweet gesture, holding hands with this vital organ. Squeezing my hand, the lobes will split apart, the texture of the alveoli massaging my palm in a most tantalizing way.
The trachea is the obvious next step. At this point, it will have come apart from his body along with his lungs. The trachea is an absolute delight. A smooth cylinder, so strong and inflexible. It will give a loud crunch as I snap it in twos, in fours. Oh the snap it makes is so satisfying. I am utterly salivating at the thought of doing it to that insolent Potter.
The heart will be there too, of course. With no particular affection for this organ, I suspect I shall feed it to Nagini, if she even deems it worthy enough to consume. She can be quite finicky with her food.
Potter will be dead by the time I have had my fun with his lungs. No matter. His death will please me, but splaying my fingers through his open ribcage gushing with blood will be even more gratifying. My hands are shaking in anticipation, by breath quickening. I will admit my mind often wanders off in this direction. I find myself often getting lost in this fantasy—no, not a fantasy. It is a reality that is soon to come. It is the future absolute.
Soon, Potter, soon. You will meet horror, and you will know death. And I will know ecstasy immeasurable.