Disclaimer: I don't own J.K. Rowling's universe, I just like to do really evil things with her characters, on occasion.
Author's Note: This crack was enabled by the wonderfully devious plot-bunny thrown at my by slasher454. Her prompt was: Pick any item out of my Borgin & Burkes inventory and write a story about it from the item's pov (referring to her dark!fic on OWL). How could I resist that? Especially when the very first item up is the Blade of Teradia, inspired by yours truly!
Warning: This story deals with subjects that may be too dark for the average reader.
The Blade of Teradia
by Scribe Teradia
Long, strong fingers opened the case, allowing torchlight to illuminate the metal of the blade within. Nineteen inches of shiny silvered steel, elegant and sharp, the hilt fashioned of gold but simpler than one might expect on such a weapon. The beauty was in its simplicity, and in the magic that kept it sharp and free of such blemishes that might tarnish other, less well-made blades, over time.
A hand wrapped lovingly around the hilt, drawing it from its velvet bed, and a finger tested the edge, blood welling from the cut as metal pierced skin, the thinnest of red lines that was gone by the time the finger was drawn back, as if by magic. From another part of the room came a whimper, followed by frantic, panting breaths and then a plea for mercy.
The response was swift, immediate, and violent; a slight breeze caressed the cool metal as it was moved rapidly through the air. Then there was warmth, wet and sticky, the softness of skin that parted so easily and then the resistance of the tougher flesh beneath, muscle and tendon: a leg. The dagger's point nicked the floor beneath the limb, but the hand had angled it just right, burying the blade to the hilt in sinewy flesh. Fingers stroked the hilt as blood pooled and pattered to the floor, the damaged tissue knitting itself back together around the steel, its magic already going to work, and the hand withdrew it, allowing the wound to close.
More whimpers, more pleading, elicited a similar reaction, in varying locations. The needle-slender point bit first, boring its way into the warm softness which always yielded before it, wielded with precision that would have proven fatal with any other blade. Each part of the body was different, the way the muscles contracted, reacting to the violation of being parted, and sometimes the dagger rested as the flesh healed around it, only to be jerked with a deft twist of the wrist to open new wounds atop the old. The eye was softer than the rest of the body, already slick on the surface before being rent by the dagger, the orb itself tender and moist and the tissue beneath it softer, sponge-like. The resulting scream was higher-pitched than the previous ones, followed by ragged breaths and pained whimpers.
The blade was withdrawn slowly, and a silken cloth was drawn along its length, removing the traces of blood and whatever fluids had been on the eye. It never wavered, the hand that held it firm and steady, fingertips brushing the crossguard before delivering another blow, this time to the chest. The angle was slightly upward, to drive the point through the heart and seat the blade fully in the body; the heart muscle clenched, released, and ultimately continued to beat, pulsing around the steel as tissue knit itself back together. There was no scream, only a garbled choking sound and then the spitting out of blood. It didn't last, the blood flow never did, even when the hand gave a cruel twist to the knife, then another, as if deliberately trying to bring about death with the dagger that healed every wound it made.
Finally, slowly, the hand withdrew the blade, once again wiping it clean with the silken cloth and then placing it back in its velvet bed. Its mistress gave it a final stroke before letting go to close the case, her voice the musical chime of bells, "Next time you present me with a 'gift' like this, Rodolphus, darling, I won't play so nicely. Now, be a good boy and take that belt back where you got it from."
The End