The Power of the Bond of Blood
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.
Summary: But there is no other option except to wait until he comes to save her, as always.
-G-
She hears them cry (Silencio!) the way the sun whispers its anger. Red. Hot. The blood drips…slides…creeps…possesses (like him) her skin. It glares at her and scars her. White. Red. White. Red. And then, there is black. The color is a void that drains her life force and her magic. It shoves their screams into her, fills her until she is certain that her skin (White. Red. White. Red.) is about to burst off of her, like their skin sometimes does.
She knows that the black is never and has never really been there though. A figment of her crazed mind. Red is for the blood that coated her hands. White is for their skin after she bled her victims. He liked both because they hurt her. He liked to see her hurt, see others hurt, sometimes even see himself hurt. His favorite torture was an intricate process.
She wraps them in fish net and muffles their screams ("don't do this…you can't, I'm your sister…stop!" She laughs and shivers at the sound of it), but she always hears them. Ringing in the emptiness of the hallway, ringing in the emptiness of his eyes, ringing in the emptiness of her soul.
She watches the blood ooze as the net tightens. Somehow, it dyes her fingers red, then her hands, her arms…her skin is beginning to look so pale, almost alabaster (her blood dying her skin). The blood coated the floor. She slips, but she is paralyzed and can't get back up(he will come). More and more blood dripped down. They look nothing but blonde hair, pale skin, and bones now, yet the blood keeps raining (it's so hot). She feels it sear her skin, but it can't be happening.
The hallway is flooding (why didn't he stop it) with blood. It wets her brown hair, then rises to ear level (their blood screamed at me), past her eyes, above her nose…
She's slipping away and the screams grow louder (their blood was my blood) until they're inside her (my blood was their blood). The feeling of the sticky redness seeping in is unbearable (their screams were my screams) but there is no other option except to wait (my screams were their screams) until he comes to save her. She almost wishes he won't (we are one), but she knows he will, like always.
(I killed them…they killed me...we killed us) The redness overpowers her and the whiteness swallows her. The red mixes with the white (it should be pink). The black is born.
She almost wishes he had.
-Z-
Author's Note: I apologize for the pointlessness. This was merely the product of twenty minutes of boredom.