You always go to the party,
To pluck the feathers off all the birds.
She remembers running through palaces of sparkling silver and molten gold, cursing the candles from their holders. She remembers them tumbling through her hands, over her limbs, dodging the glass shards shattering over her head like an entire galaxy of stars. Destruction had the potential to be so beautiful.
(More elegant than a Malfoy dinner party, more special than a male heir, but lacking that distasteful blue-blood refinery.)
And they ran, oh yes, they could run. Run in a fashion that was much like dancing; a few concerted steps, a pattern, a fluid sequence. They were performers on a stage, a flexible set.
The definite beginning, the defiant entry. A theatrical pose - no need for covert operations, it was simple transparency that worked best (and was the most intimidating). The performers positioned perfectly for the start of the music.
The opening bars, the first movement. Maniacal music in the sound of screams or yells, echoing off the walls of the houses they entered, ringing like a familiar bell, perfectly in time. Their movements; perfectly in sync, fluid and beautiful, colours of spells falling all around them. Smashing into cabinets and doors, flinging themselves off balconies, caressing the wooden fittings with harsh curses.
The build, the gradual swell of the violins. Playing with their dolls before they got to the business that they sought, having their fun before the games were over. Leaping over motionless figures, collateral damage strewn on the ground.
The climax, the height and tension. Crucio. Tell us what you know.
(You know that now we've got no choice.)
The confusion, the continual music. The desperation, the defiance. The mistaken spell flying over others, frustration its messenger, breaking the group apart.
And information looks just like collateral.
Fuck.
The end, the retreat. Kicking over bodies, tripping over glass and strewn items, escaping. Curses flying under their breathes, directed at her because something's gotten the better of her again. And she smiles, knowing that sometimes her haste is simply the product of an overactive mind.
(And she better fucking enjoy it now because when he finds out he'll sit you right next to death at his table again.)
But for these moments she's powerful, and she remembers the fame, the notoriety, almost like his own.
In just a few minutes you wouldn't recognise your own house, she was that revolutionary. In just a few minutes, you wouldn't remember your first name, she was that powerful. In just a few minutes, you'd beg her to kill you, she was just that convincing.
She giveth and she taketh away. Implanting an ideology by forceful destruction, taking away that chair, those earrings, that last breath.
Like a hasty puff on that candle, she extinguishes you.
The Weeknd - The Party & The After Party