the last verse ; harry potter [2]

prologue ; the last verse

In an old manor in the desolate hills of England, one side of the war was concocting their plan to destroy the other side.

Their leader, their king, sat at the head of the long, oak table, his followers clad in black robes lining the sides regally. Some, like heavy-lidded Bellatrix Lestrange, took much sadistic pleasure in the presence of their vile king; others, though, feared him, like young Draco Malfoy, sitting next to his mother and father, sweat under his arms hidden only by the desperation to remain fearless. Draco Malfoy was the youngest of the Death Eaters, only a mere seventeen years old, but was no monster like the rest. He was born into a life he did not ask for. This manor held no presence of a god; only the cruelest souls daft enough to believe their blood superiority.

Severus Snape, the murderer of Albus Dumbledore and apparent traitor of the Order, was no monster, either. He was a doe masked in the costume of a snake, bred from terror and harvested in the seasonal sow of the weak. He could fool Voldemort, and he could fool his fellow Death Eaters, but he could not fool the youngest Riddle girl, away in another village, heart broken in loss. After all, they were the only two left who knew the truth of Severus' true alliance.They were the only ones who had the right to feel broken enough from this fight to die.

And what a weight it was for Severus Snape to have been forced to kill his mentor, his friend, all in the name of this god-forsaken war. This war had taken his liberty, his innocence, and most importantly, this war had taken his Lily, long before the young Riddle girl rose from the ashes and long before he was forced to care for the boy birthed by his love and another man. There was no god watching over him; there was only Death and Time and all of the indestructible forces that thwart the powerful and taint the purest of souls.

Here, in the desolate hills of England, in the lonely manor housing the wealthiest and wickedest purebloods, there was no god. There was only darkness, and those who have grown too content living in the shadows.

Lord Voldemort was no god, either. He may claim the mighty throne at the head of the table as his, he might declare himself supreme even though he was born inferior, and he very well might claim the crown for his own head, but he is no god in a world of darkness. In a world of darkness, a world like this one, there was only war and chaos, with no person worthy of ruling except those who did not ask to.

Voldemort, though, not unlike men throughout all time, loved once. Not even he, as wicked as ever, could resist the vehement pull to temptation. As he sat at the dining table in Malfoy Manor, his eyes trailing over the faces of his followers, he did not consider himself evil in that very moment. Of course, he knew he had done evil things, and will continue to do evil things, but his actions are not the actions of a pure monster: his actions are those of a desperate fool in love. To him, this was not a war; this was the search for power, and the only power he seeks is the enduring and everlasting light that comes with love.

Here he sat, his eyes trailing over his followers, and he was no devil. He was a man in love, blinded by the promise of ecstasy, desperate to destroy this loneliness that had been gnawing at him for far too long.

Here he sat, his eyes trailing over his followers, and he vowed that he would get his true love back. He vowed never to cease his crusade until he is reunited with her--and reunited they shall be, soon. He was close, closer than he had ever been. He would see her beautiful face once more, even if it killed him to do so.

So, in the darkened manor of the darkest purebloods, there was no god. There was only chaos created for the sake of self-righteousness and grandiosity.