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He watched as the blood slowly dripped down her face, following the curve of her nose, dripping onto her lips and reluctantly down her chin and off her face. He saw a little drip partially onto her neck before falling to the floor like a tiny, liquid ruby. The blood on her lips smeared as her tongue darted out and tasted the wine of her chalice, the chalice writhing on the floor at her feet and her standing above it as though she was queen.
He watched as she leant forward with her wand held above her head as her face twisted to sneer at the victim at her feet. The filth screamed louder and he was pleased to see the increase in pain; he hadn't thought the mudblood could take much more. She once more proved her prowess at her craft, though, as she brought out even more reaction from the disgusting heap. She was pleased with her work too, he could tell. She threw back her head as she released the harsh cackling sound from her throat, her eyes scrunched tight and her mouth spread in a wide, sadistic grin. Sadistic: that was the word to describe her. She was a sadist queen.
The mudblood would be killed, but not until after her bloody ministrations. It was inevitable and the only true solution to the mud polluting the blood of their world, after all. She would kill him and he would be pleased. She did it so artfully and with the most pain and pleasure. This was why she was his favourite. The mudblood would die. They all would die. And yet to die at her feet was an honour many and yet few could claim. She was his favourite and it was well deserved.
They did always say it was a great honor to sit at the feet of a queen. It was her gift to the filthy mudblood; she was the queen and death was her throne.
It was only right, after all.
Death became her.
Leave a review. Is dear Bella's title deserved? She's so evilly fantastic. She's terrible, but great.
Good ol' Ollivander, if you got that little reference.
Take care,
Hermitt