Dies Irae
She'd worked long and hard for this.Standing there, regal and cold, her face framed by waves of darkness, she felt more powerful than any woman in the world.
They looked at her lecherously---they always had, from the day of her birth. Prime breeding, beautiful figure, flawless skin.
She had always used that to her advantage.
Now, she stood still, lips curled in a mockery of a smile, eyes frozen.
The Mark on her arm festered with a slow burn. She didn't care. She was far above pain.
She allowed Him to raise her fragile, pale arm in the air next to his, her sleeve falling back from her wrist.
He thought she was His.
She was no one's.
In one swift movement, she drew a sword from her robe and impaled her intended, finally rehearsing movements planned out by the Order so many months before. She raised the glittering blade, triumphant, eyes blazing, hair flowing back, an avenging angel.
She descended upon the rest nearly silently, and soon they ceased to be. The sword she carried—the sword of Voldemort himself—could not be resisted. They stared at her, hypnotically, and she reveled in their blood.
Finally she stepped back, into the only clear circle on the silent stone floor, and reached into her robe, bringing out her wand.
She touched her wand to her heart, activating the portkey created nearly a year before, and waited, sword and wand in hand.
They arrived, just as they had said they would, nearly immediately, one after another. Dumbledore was first, and he couldn't look her in the eye. He only shook his head and looked sad.
She didn't know why he was sad, how he could be anything but jubilant.
McGonagall was next, and she had never been close to her, so she stood to the side while McGonagall conversed with Dumbledore and eyed the bodies.
Snape appeared, and he stepped towards Blaise, looked her in the eyes, and murmured a few words, taking her into his arms, and giving her something tangible, something warm. She collapsed into his embrace.
Voldemort had always been cold.