Angel's Revenge: Ingel Parri (Marauders' Era HP FF)

Chapter III

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His hands were on her neck, but she barely felt it. The cuts were everywhere, soft and sweet and lovely. They were painful, yes, agonizing.

He was choking her now. Her own father, knee pressed up under her rib cage, holding her down. The heat trapped in place inside her body, the rush and flow of adrenaline coursing through her.

Normally, she could have just curled up and let it happen, let him hurt her. Normally, he would leave her there once he was done.

This was the worst he'd ever done, but it didn't hurt anymore. Not the way it should, like he was destroying her, not just killing her.

Maybe she'd always been fascinated with blood, she didn't know. But she discovered it then, as her fingernails closed onto his wrist hard enough to tear open the skin.

And then what should have been pain became a song to her, intensifying the smell of the hunt. The anticipation on her tongue, dancing through her, fitting inside her veins just right. All it took was that little well of blood on his wrist, and she went mad.

Her father was pressing harder on her windpipe, until she couldn't breathe at all. Stars danced in front of her eyes. All the pain in the world was hers, now, and it was exhilarating.

She died, then, just a heartbeat missed, then two, then three. The silence in her chest didn't faze her. Nothing could faze her in that moment, because every single agony of living was gone. It felt good. Better than good. Better than anything.

He stepped away, smiling just a bit. She could still see him. Her vision wasn't gone yet.

Her blood, which had started to run cold, heated back up again, because there! There it was again, her heartbeat.

The pain returned, but it was more of a buzz, clearing her mind. She lifted her head experimentally. So she could move.

It turned out, though, that she didn't have to move to make the first slash.

Her father's robes were suddenly drenched, dripping with a heavy scarlet. There was a distinct line on his neck. The look of shock on his face as he fell forward made her feel warm.

She trailed her fingers absently through the flood, reveling in the feel of it, still hot. Holding her hand up, she examined it under the dim light barely illuminating the hall. She looked beautiful in blood.

Bethany thought that it must have been pretty strange, looking back fondly on her death. She couldn't help it, though, making comparisons. Because there she was, blood coating her hands again.

The woman at her feet was obviously terrified. "Are you going to kill me? I have money, whatever you want, it's yours!"

She looked down her nose at Carla Poll. "I don't want your money." The woman looked exponentially more hysterical. "How is your little boy?"

"You want him? Have him, take him, just let me live!"

"No. Either he stays with your aunt, or you die. Take your pick." Bethany fingered the main cut, on the woman's arm, ignoring the little scream of pain.

"I'll take him to Aunt Mona right away, please!"

"Make it so."

And Bethany turned around and left, continuing through Hogsmeade as if nothing had happened, feeling the usual disappointment. She hated leaving a job unfinished.