Work Text:
Pure? What does it mean?
The tongues of hell
Are dull, dull as the triple
Curses she screamed in my face. Crucio
Who burned at every nerve. Incapable
Of scouring clean
The Mudblood scar, the wound, the wound.
The fever cries.
The indelible smell
Of burnt flesh and her perfume!
Love, love, the black smoke rises
From me like Medea’s clothes, I’m in a fright
One hint of Darkness’ vapour will catch in the wheel,
Such green and violet fumes
Make their own element. They will not lift,
But circle through my veins
Choking the innocent and the young,
The weak
Muggleborn girl beneath her knife,
The shrub rose of childhood
Hanging its snipped roots in soiled air,
Damnable bitch!
Curses turned the blood spoilt
And killed in a minute long.
Marking the bodies of Mudbloods
Like Fiendfyre and eating in.
The wound. The wound.
Darling, all night
I have been burning, hot, cold, hot, cold.
The sheets grow heavy as her palm on my neck.
Three days. Three nights.
Dittany, Draughts, healing
Draughts, Draughts make me gag.
I am too pure for her or anyone.
Her knife
Hurts me as the dark hurts light. I am a beacon –
My head a star
Of Lumos and wandlight, my scarred skin
Unendingly marked and unendingly precious.
Does not my heat astound you! And my light!
Cell by cell, I am a vast phoenix
Burning and dying and rising, flame of flames.
I think I am going up,
I think I may ascend –
The sparks of molten feathers fly, and I rage, I
Am a pure Patronus
Otter
Protected by lightning,
From her, from the Lord himself,
By whatever this white fog is!
Not him, nor her
Nor him, nor her
(My shame dissolving, old Mudblood shame) –
To victory.