Disclaimer: Characters of HP belong to JK, not me. That line's becoming a broken record now…
A/N: This is a short excerpt from the HP fic I'm currently writing called, "Fade Far Away". When I wrote this, it was about 3 o'clock in the morning, but the end product seemed to sound good just as a short stand alone story. It was inspired by a burning candle that I lit in my room. Please R/R.
Summary: About self-mutilation and brief logic about what 'addiction' really is. Very short, so not detailed, but enough to understand.
A Most Beautiful Sin
Momma always told me not to play with fire. You could get burned or worse, it could kill you. But maybe that's the beauty of it. Each time fire becomes your companion, you die a little. A part of you dies, lost forever, but you're willing to make such a sacrifice. Let part of you die, so the rest of you can live. Feel the high. The drug of life. But that's all you need. The high, the exhilaration, the brief moment of insanity that screams out at you. Makes you feel alive…while a part of you dies. It always dies, but it's always necessary. And your body hates you for it, but it craves for more at the same time. Begs. Screams so loudly that you're certain all the Gods of the heavens can hear your tortured soul. And the only way to stifle the horrifying screams is to give in. Surrender to your body, and give up on the relentless wars. Wars against yourself. Half of you begs you to stop, while the other half threatens to kill if you do stop. And every time, you give in, too afraid to stop. Addiction. Such a hideous sin.
Hermione watched the flame dance flirtatiously around the glowing wick. Watched until her eyes burned from the intense light, but careful not to break her gaze. The blue part of the flame was ironically the hottest part of the flame, while most would believe it to be the coolest. Appearances can be deceiving. Beneath the cold exterior, lies a passion that burns with more intensity than you can imagine. It's just waiting to be ignited. She held the wooden matchstick between her thumb and her index finger, watching the end of it glow orange, while the flame burned dangerously close to the tips of her fingers. She gently blew out the flame, listening to the tender flicker before it vanished out of sight, leaving nothing except for a slight trail of smoke in the air. While the match still glowed a bright shade of orange, she took advantage of the moment and pressed the tip against her forearm. She winced at the excruciating pain, yet immersed herself in the moment, thankful for the adrenaline rush. Thankful for the high. Thankful for the smile it produced on her face. And thankful for the piece of her that had just died.
