Disclaimer: characters and situations belong to J. K. Rowling and Warner Bros. I do not claim ownership.


Shadows of the Past

It had been easy. So easy. Nothing more than two words whispered softly into the thick, pregnant air, twisting and stabbing their way into the hearts and minds of all who heard them. And the light had come immediately, almost as if with practised ease, and with it, the uncontrollable surge of madness and power, power so addictive, even that first time, that she knew then that she would never relinquish it. Still, those words hung in the ominous air of the lavishly decorated common room, before the pale faces of those who looked on with dread.

Avada kevadra.

And Ron Weasley, beloved, well-known, well-liked Ron, had fallen onto the floor, his expression frozen in shock and disbelief; for how could he believe that his own, dear baby sister could possibly have hated him enough for this?

She sighed, as one would over a lost trifle, a mere plaything, and lowered her wand. She did not fear for herself anymore. Her life flickered uncertainly before her. How had this started? Surely not with a joke, a simple jest of affection! Dispassionately, she viewed the scene: her friends, huddled around each other protectively, afraid to breathe lest she turn her wrath upon them; her brother, lying on the carpeted floor, his frosted red cheeks a mockery of life, save that his eyes were blank and glassy with fear and death. But it was on Harry that her eyes lingered: Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived.

Some part of her marvelled at the detachment that she drew around her, like a protective cloak against the harshness of the world. Outwardly, she seemed placate, calm, serene.

It's all your fault, Harry. You could have saved me. But now, it's too late.

He seemed to sense her accusations, and desperately shook his head against them. His green eyes, once so bright with laughter and love of life, were wild with fear, and dull with despair. His scar stood out against his pale skin, streaking across his brow.

She smiled at him then, and laughed inwardly as he shuddered in revulsion. Her eyes danced in amusement and malice, mocking him, cutting cleanly through him.

I'm coming to you, Tom.

A second time she raised her hand, and a second time the air was scarred with those words. Again and again the room was bathed in red, a red as dark and rich as blood, red, the colour of Gryffindor, the colour of her house. The silence was broken at last; screams sliced through the air, screams of those she had once called friends. Tonight, she would be delivered. Never again shall she answer to them, never again!

In the midst of the mayhem, she thought she heard soft laughter, dry and scratchy as sand falling upon stone, and a soft voice, whispering from the darkness,

Welcome back, Virginia.


A/N: inspired partially by Meredith Ann Pierce's The Darkangel trilogy. Constructive criticism is welcome.

I realise that Voldemort's Avada Kedavra is green, but the theory is that not everyone's Avada Kedavra is the same.