Don't Cry For Me.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Harry Potter characters, all characters owned by the marvellous J.K Rowling.
~~
He stumbled to the floor. His platinum blonde hair fell into his eyes, which were swiftly filling up with tears. He had promised himself that when it happened he wouldn't cry. The Dark Lord had told him that only the weak cry- he was not weak; he was not going to cry.
He turned his head away from her body, her delicate figure, lying crumpled in a pool of blood like a wilted flower floating in water. Her hair, now loose, was doused in blood. Her dark dress, now ripped came above her knee showing her pale slim legs which were now gashed.
If it wasn't for the crimson liquid she would have looked a vision of peace, her eyes were closed and she looked like she was in a deep slumber, rather than gone forever.
His pale, lean hands were covered in blood, her blood. He was responsible for this angel's death. If only she'd listened to him, if only she had stayed true to the Dark Lord as she'd promised. He choked as he recalled their struggle.
She had followed him into one of the Dark Lord's dungeons. Both had the same hidden agenda.
Murder.
It was she who had brought the dagger, she who had Lunged at him first, but he pushed her to the cold, damp, dungeon floor. He had told her that he never wanted to hurt her, but it was the only way. She had thrown insults at him amongst curses. The curses did him no harm, but the insults; the insults broke his heart.
She claimed that she had never loved him, and had only used him to help the Order. It was then that he drove the blade into her heart.
Her dying words would haunt him forever- cold and full of disgust, she had pledged her hatred towards him.
When the Dark Lord had found out that she was working for the Order, he had commanded her death; and, in a sick twist of fate, it was he who was made to kill her. His one true love.
Love. He hadn't realised he was capable of such an emotion. All these years he had taken her for granted, allowed her to be neglected, and hidden his feelings from her for so long. He threw the blade away from him, disgusted by it, and by himself. Still he did not cry.
He tried to stand, but fell back onto the floor, his knees weak and his will lacking. He stroked her face. Time had not changed her, even though they had been so young when they had first met. He pulled her limp body slowly up to his chest. She was as cold as stone. He refused to cry.
His eyes were drawn to the dagger. It amazed him how such a small Muggle weapon could cause so much anguish, pain and death. But it wasn't the blade, it was he. He who had killed his beloved; and now he would carry this burden with him for eternity. He could feel the tears; hot in his eyes.
He traced her lips with his fingers. At one time these lips had pledged her love and had caressed his own. He gave his lost love one last kiss, the coppery taste of blood, her blood, remained on his lips.
Her hair was soft against his cheek. He ran his hand down it, to the small of her back. It felt like a river of silk tumbling down her back. It normally smelt of lavender but now it smelt of blood. Her blood covered everything. His hands, his clothes. He was covered with her.
He gently laid her body back on the cold floor. Next to her body was a small golden locket. A delicate heart which was open, his picture inside was slashed. Hands trembling, he fastened the chain around her neck, where it belonged. He had given this heart, his heart, to her after they had finished school and she had vowed to stay with him forever. Now she was gone.
The dagger, glistening with blood was beckoning his eye again. Begging, begging for one last victim.
Begging for one more life. Slowly, shakily he reached over her body and brought the blade back to him. He held it with both hands, away from his chest.
He turned to look at his love, his Narcissa, one last time.
Then he drove the dagger into his chest and fell backwards onto the cold hard floor, and the tears that Lucius had been holding back, finally fell slowly to the ground.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Harry Potter characters, all characters owned by the marvellous J.K Rowling.
~~
He stumbled to the floor. His platinum blonde hair fell into his eyes, which were swiftly filling up with tears. He had promised himself that when it happened he wouldn't cry. The Dark Lord had told him that only the weak cry- he was not weak; he was not going to cry.
He turned his head away from her body, her delicate figure, lying crumpled in a pool of blood like a wilted flower floating in water. Her hair, now loose, was doused in blood. Her dark dress, now ripped came above her knee showing her pale slim legs which were now gashed.
If it wasn't for the crimson liquid she would have looked a vision of peace, her eyes were closed and she looked like she was in a deep slumber, rather than gone forever.
His pale, lean hands were covered in blood, her blood. He was responsible for this angel's death. If only she'd listened to him, if only she had stayed true to the Dark Lord as she'd promised. He choked as he recalled their struggle.
She had followed him into one of the Dark Lord's dungeons. Both had the same hidden agenda.
Murder.
It was she who had brought the dagger, she who had Lunged at him first, but he pushed her to the cold, damp, dungeon floor. He had told her that he never wanted to hurt her, but it was the only way. She had thrown insults at him amongst curses. The curses did him no harm, but the insults; the insults broke his heart.
She claimed that she had never loved him, and had only used him to help the Order. It was then that he drove the blade into her heart.
Her dying words would haunt him forever- cold and full of disgust, she had pledged her hatred towards him.
When the Dark Lord had found out that she was working for the Order, he had commanded her death; and, in a sick twist of fate, it was he who was made to kill her. His one true love.
Love. He hadn't realised he was capable of such an emotion. All these years he had taken her for granted, allowed her to be neglected, and hidden his feelings from her for so long. He threw the blade away from him, disgusted by it, and by himself. Still he did not cry.
He tried to stand, but fell back onto the floor, his knees weak and his will lacking. He stroked her face. Time had not changed her, even though they had been so young when they had first met. He pulled her limp body slowly up to his chest. She was as cold as stone. He refused to cry.
His eyes were drawn to the dagger. It amazed him how such a small Muggle weapon could cause so much anguish, pain and death. But it wasn't the blade, it was he. He who had killed his beloved; and now he would carry this burden with him for eternity. He could feel the tears; hot in his eyes.
He traced her lips with his fingers. At one time these lips had pledged her love and had caressed his own. He gave his lost love one last kiss, the coppery taste of blood, her blood, remained on his lips.
Her hair was soft against his cheek. He ran his hand down it, to the small of her back. It felt like a river of silk tumbling down her back. It normally smelt of lavender but now it smelt of blood. Her blood covered everything. His hands, his clothes. He was covered with her.
He gently laid her body back on the cold floor. Next to her body was a small golden locket. A delicate heart which was open, his picture inside was slashed. Hands trembling, he fastened the chain around her neck, where it belonged. He had given this heart, his heart, to her after they had finished school and she had vowed to stay with him forever. Now she was gone.
The dagger, glistening with blood was beckoning his eye again. Begging, begging for one last victim.
Begging for one more life. Slowly, shakily he reached over her body and brought the blade back to him. He held it with both hands, away from his chest.
He turned to look at his love, his Narcissa, one last time.
Then he drove the dagger into his chest and fell backwards onto the cold hard floor, and the tears that Lucius had been holding back, finally fell slowly to the ground.