Chapter 6. Sanguine
Friday, December 20th, 1929
She would have no regrets. She would go all in, her soul be damned, her conscience be squandered. The dagger in her palm held a heaviness to it that she assumed was purely physical, and surely not ethical. After all, he was only a man. Men meant nothing—all they did was take and take and take.
Ridding the world of one more man would be a favour to all women. She had sinned in the process, of course, but God forgave all who repented—and Pansy had repented… sort of. She had lit a candle, for Christ's sake! Didn't that mean anything anymore?
She weighed the dagger, twisting and turning her wrist in the process. It had been light as a feather when she slashed Ginevra's throat. It had pierced through her skin as if it were soft as butter, plump as a ripe peach. The blood had gushed so fast it had ruined Pansy's shoes. Blue Guccis, at that.
She found it hard to deny—that murder had given birth to a new thrill in her.
She had long been a simple hitwoman. In and out as fast as lightning—each kill was a job, and each salary kept her lights turned on at night, her fridge full and her clothes extravagant. It prevented her parents from forcing her into an unwanted union.
Killing Ginevra Potter was not a job—it was an animalistic, primal, instinctive impulse. A murder tugging at her heartstrings. Killing Harry Potter would be no different—it would be better, even. The idea alone made her sanguine.
She slowly grew into her resolve, playing around with the dagger, letting it come dangerously close to her milky-white skin. He was only just a man, after all.
Only just a man.
A man she wanted to devour whole.