My eyes snap open in the damp darkness of the musty cell, calloused fingers methodically fiddling with the trigger of my gun as I ready myself.
I breathe deeply, the familiar and strangely comforting coppery tang of blood tickling my nose before it's followed by a rush of icy air, courtesy of the poorly ventilated dungeons. I follow the burn down my throat, feeling my racing heartbeat steady, tense muscles loosening as I slip into calmness, everything fading away until it's only us left.
The predator and the prey.
I raise my gun, dimly aware that a bloodthirsty smile is slapped onto my face, that the raging torrent of guilt and despair residing below my skin has been pacified, shoved down into the deepest pits of my soul where it would never see the light of day.
She stares up at me from where she's slumped in her own waste, the garish sight of chalk white bone protruding from the mangled mess of flesh and blood on her face. She attempts to stumble forwards, pleas for mercy falling from chapped lips as she tugs helplessly on the shackles binding her bloodied limbs to the wall.
And in some cases, bloody stumps where her arm used to be.
I should scoff at such a pitiful effort at survival, should let loose the mocking laugh that refuses to bubble up my throat, should put a bullet through her head.
But it’s those eyes that stop me. Those pleading emerald eyes which look so much like Harry’s, so much like my baby brother’s, and my arms tremble, because oh God, how can I kill someone that looks so much like him? I avert my gaze as shame floods me, the grief perpetually eating away at my soul swelling in a symphony of misery and devastation before I regain control, jerking my head up and forcing those haunting eyes back into my peripheral.
And perhaps God is punishing me, as for one wretched, heart-wrenching moment, I see Harry in that face.
I see a little fist scrubbing at a grimy face, a fire burning bright in his eyes as he stares me down, defiant until the end. I smell the salt of his tears as they stream down his face, streaks of unblemished skin revealed as they clear a path through the filth on his face. I hear his pained cries, voice hoarse as he demands an explanation, demands an answer I'm not ready to give - an answer I don’t even think I have. I hear the tell-tale 'BANG' of a fired gun, a bullet sinking into tender flesh as blood gushes out the fatal wound.
I laugh, the hysterical sound ringing through the room.
I remember that day.
How can I not, when it haunts my dreams, lurking in every dark crevice of my mind?
How can I not, when I see his face every time I look into a mirror?
How can I not, when I was the one who had fired that gun?
A choked sob escapes me, the forced serenity I had coaxed myself into dissipating, crumbling and blowing away in the winds of my affliction. A thousand different sensations hit me simultaneously, senses heightened as my vision distorts. I grasp at thin air blindly, the pounding of my racing heart so loud it could have come from outside my chest for all I knew. Throat constricting, I claw at my neck as I stumble around, the frantic action sending distant echoes of pain through me as red marks appear across my throat.
"I can't," I gasp out between frantic breaths. "I can't do this."
"You can't?"
I swallow, throat bobbing as a pair of garnet eyes snap open in the shadows, menacing and dangerous.
"She’s part of the Order of the Phoenix. They’ve killed millions in some disgusting attempt to achieve their warped reality of a better world," he begins, head tilted curiously as he studies my face like I'm a particularly fascinating specimen in a lab. "And you're telling me you can't do this."
He seems to find whatever he was looking for a few moments later, a disbelieving scoff leaving his mouth.
"Pathetic. A Death Eater unable to execute her kill."
I ignore the scathing words, making no move to lift my gun.
"You don't have a choice, Potter," his voice is frigid at my inactivity, unforgiving in its harshness.
"I can't!" I shriek, a sudden desperation overtaking me.
"You say that she's killed, that she deserves to pay. But to do this-" my voice breaks, stricken with helplessness. "To do this is to damn us to Hell."
"Who are we?" I demand, voice watery in my anguish. "Who are we to play at the Reaper, to choose who deserves to live and die?"
His breath ghosts over the back of my neck, goosebumps appearing in their wake as a muscled arm drapes over my trembling shoulders. A finger traces the vulnerable skin of my chin as I await his reply, a parody of love behind the gentle motion.
"You? You're nothing." He smiles darkly, the small quirk of his mouth more teeth than lip. "But me? I'm your Master, your General, your King. Do it, darling, or pay."
Quivering and despairing, petrified and sorrowful, I lift my gun and fire, my aim true as the bullet embeds itself into the skull of the haggard woman. I dare not look as a chilling laugh saturates the dark atmosphere of the cell, the disquieting sound echoing through the enclosed space.
“Oh well done, love,” he smirks, pressing a soft kiss to my cheek before sauntering off, no doubt to take the ever-faithful Bellatrix up on her offer to have her join his bed.
I'm not sure how long I stand there after he leaves, my eyes trained on the corpse of Lily Potter: looking; yet not seeing. But when I finally exit the room face blank and an odd numbness in the pit of my stomach, there is no longer anything human in my gaze.