Book Of Demons And Misfortune [Tom Riddle]

~ Chapter four ~

~ Love was the law, religion was taught ~

TW : Blood, language

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September 1995

It had always been theorized in the magical world that all those capable of magic possessed a core embedded far deeper than a heart. Tucked beneath the ribs and shredded enough that tendrils could flow and entangle with your being. Something to be nurtured and as familiar as perspiration upon skin, bending to the body's joints and welded amongst the muscles.

Pulled too taut and the power tears, leaving shards to cut and maim. Left suppressed, and it will darken, mimicking a disease and scraping your cells from the inside raw.

But most unexplored, is the phenomenon of power in excess. The core rusts and the blood is poisoned, ripping into its very nature until all of its ire has been absorbed. Corrupted before given the chance to feel the first expansion of your chest.

The essence of magic was as feeble as human flesh. With wounds more permanent and scars left with the mark of ghost hands. Silver and swollen.

Sanguis Monstri's had always been regarded by the Wizarding World in the same manner that they themselves had demons. Sanguines was their preferred term.

Illustrations of her kind were often misdirected, and the text that followed was nothing less than ambiguous. For centuries they'd been grouped either amongst half-breeds or part of the highest danger level of creature. The Crimson Dagger had ensured that their indoctrination had been stretched beyond repair to keep their justification of torture in steady hands.

And continued to justify their mass slaughters, leaving behind the rubble of people who were more familiar with shadows than the bustle of a laughter.

They'd played on the idea that Sanguines were all power and utterly mindless to their chaos, but magic was a muscle, and most of them let themselves begin to decay from the inside. It hurt to use that excess, even drops of it had consequences on their physical health.

A breeze ruffled the stiffening air, and Mace swung her crossbow over her back. The humidity of The Forbidden Forest had deepened, causing the fabrics of her clothes to stick to her flush skin and the back of her neck to latch onto anything to dissolve her discomfort.

She tucked a stray hair behind her ear, parted her lips and allowed her chest to rise more loosely. A path of broken twigs dragged her gaze a few steps ahead.

Every morning at dawn she snuck into the forest and hunted, dressing in white tank tops, acceptable black trousers that most Slytherin Quidditch players wore, and her hands wrapped in bandages. Her crossbow was left hidden beneath foliage near a tree filled with Bowtruckles, a further precaution for her weapon to be left alone.