29. Daddy Ain't Always Right

Disclaimer: I Disclaim.

AN: I know! It's been forever since I updated this story! You all hate me! But… I'm in OZ! Or I was when I first wrote this. But my JETLAG (I HATE jetlag) has finally gone and I'm in such a good MOOD right now it's unreal! And… yeah! I got writers block for this one, but it came to me suddenly and I wrote it down real quick. Review please, I'm aiming to pass 100!

His father had first spoken of blood supremacy when he was four.

Well, it wasn't the first time his father had spoken of it, but it was the first time his father had spoken about it to him. He had been much too young to understand much, but he had picked up that the reason that Daddy wouldn't let him play with the other children in town was because their blood was dirty, like Mud.

That's what Daddy called them: Mudbloods.

Avery hadn't understood at first; but when his Daddy unexpectedly slashed at his arm with his fingernails, and red blood flowed out of the gashes. Daddy said to him that his blood was pure, so it was the nice red colour, but the children's blood was dirty, and coloured.

Avery thought that it smelled rusty, but he didn't say so to his Father.

Many years later though, when he was nineteen, he went on his first muggle murdering spree, and the streets ran red with blood, Avery realised that if his father was right, if his Lord was right, then it shouldn't have been red and rusty and pure; it should've been brown and murky and stinking. And that scared Avery; that he may've been wrong.

Maybe he was wrong… to take the mark. Wrong to vow to kill those without the purest blood. Wrong to let all the blood on his left forearm burn black, every single night (did that count as pure? Avery didn't think so).

But, he had to be wrong. It must just have been the light that made the muggle's blood look as pure as his own.

So he killed a few more, just to be sure.

It made him feel no better.