dead inside, i stand up. harry potter.
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Title: Dead Inside, I Stand Up
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters/Pairing: Molly Weasley
Genre: Angst. Character study. Drabble. Rating: PG
Word Count: 303. Warnings: DH spoilers.
A/N: All recognizable characters and settings belong to JKR; there is no copyright infringement intended, and no profit is being made out of writing this. For the 3rd challenge @
ldws , that requested the POV of a character during the Battle of Hogwarts.
It burns; it flows, it flows, it burns. The taste of madness grabs her throat, her eyes are tainted by flickering darkness. For the first time in her life - a life spent in love and devotion, wasted, she thinks - she’s ready to fight tooth and claw; arms stretched wide, trembling fingers clutching the wand like it’s the last remnant of a dying past, Molly waits. Now, she’s the hunter. Eyes half closed, narrowly filtering the light, dry lips cracking over memories.
It burns; it flows at its turn, swirling in circles; a dance of images, of sounds and scents that wouldn’t fade. She wouldn’t let them. Inner sight, flaring nostrils, dry lips - all desperately grasping the last touches, the last high-pitched laughter and mischievous blinks. Memento mori, Molly swallows; it’s now or never, she knows. The fiend dances before her eyes, swishing and flickering, hopping and ducking, tapping on a silent, morbid tune. Dark eyes - so hollow, dark clothes concealing a darker soul; at this very moment, she hates every inch of Bellatrix Lestrange. She hates her with a passion, with the heat of her boiling blood, by the bitter biting of her lower lip; she hates it by the last memory of her dead son, his eyes reflecting the candle lights.
It burns; it flows, it flows, it burns. It’s the taste of hatred, the flame of revenge. It grabs her right arm, stretching it by will. Molly frowns, remembering an ancient saying; revenge is a dish best served cold. As the fiend jumps again, almost gracious in her sinuous movement, she’s not aware it will be her last. Cracking lips pressed together, eyes as empty as his will always be, Molly holds her hand steady; the fire within suffocates under the cold touch. I’m dead inside, she thinks.
Then she strikes.
Title: Dead Inside, I Stand Up
Fandom: Harry Potter
Characters/Pairing: Molly Weasley
Genre: Angst. Character study. Drabble. Rating: PG
Word Count: 303. Warnings: DH spoilers.
A/N: All recognizable characters and settings belong to JKR; there is no copyright infringement intended, and no profit is being made out of writing this. For the 3rd challenge @
ldws , that requested the POV of a character during the Battle of Hogwarts.
It burns; it flows, it flows, it burns. The taste of madness grabs her throat, her eyes are tainted by flickering darkness. For the first time in her life - a life spent in love and devotion, wasted, she thinks - she’s ready to fight tooth and claw; arms stretched wide, trembling fingers clutching the wand like it’s the last remnant of a dying past, Molly waits. Now, she’s the hunter. Eyes half closed, narrowly filtering the light, dry lips cracking over memories.
It burns; it flows at its turn, swirling in circles; a dance of images, of sounds and scents that wouldn’t fade. She wouldn’t let them. Inner sight, flaring nostrils, dry lips - all desperately grasping the last touches, the last high-pitched laughter and mischievous blinks. Memento mori, Molly swallows; it’s now or never, she knows. The fiend dances before her eyes, swishing and flickering, hopping and ducking, tapping on a silent, morbid tune. Dark eyes - so hollow, dark clothes concealing a darker soul; at this very moment, she hates every inch of Bellatrix Lestrange. She hates her with a passion, with the heat of her boiling blood, by the bitter biting of her lower lip; she hates it by the last memory of her dead son, his eyes reflecting the candle lights.
It burns; it flows, it flows, it burns. It’s the taste of hatred, the flame of revenge. It grabs her right arm, stretching it by will. Molly frowns, remembering an ancient saying; revenge is a dish best served cold. As the fiend jumps again, almost gracious in her sinuous movement, she’s not aware it will be her last. Cracking lips pressed together, eyes as empty as his will always be, Molly holds her hand steady; the fire within suffocates under the cold touch. I’m dead inside, she thinks.
Then she strikes.