"Trust me, you shouldn't want anyone like me on your back."
"Maybe I don't want anyone like you on my back," His eyes darkened as he stepped closer, confining me tighter into barely any space as my back pressed against the wall.
"Maybe I want you. U...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
A FRENCH MUGGLE, PHILOSOPHER AND author once wrote to his lover, "If you must die, I'll envy even the Earth that wraps your body."
There was madness in that whole concept—in those words. I had abused that madness from the start, when Bridgette Monet had swooned over the deceased French muggle's words, choosing to fill her dorm room with the written word of mostly Albert Camus—a mere muggle who according to her held entire universes in the passion of his words. She had called his words poetry, but she and I had always had a different definition of what that word truly entailed.
But now, as that quote rivaled its way to my brain, amidst the intense tragedy of my despair, I realized that those words hadn't just been words. They had been the passion Bridgette had made them out to be, all along.
Perhaps even she hadn't entirely been aware of the depth of Camus' words, and now as she lay askew on the destroyed ground of the Schalun Castle ruin, she would never hold the tenacity to know anymore.
It was sheer irony, that the words echoed in my brain now as I gripped onto a rune that the blatant force of my fury and despair offered up to me, when I had thrown a silk pillow at Bridgette's face when she had dramatically recited them to me in our sixth year Beauxbatons' dorm room.
I had decided then that Albert Camus wasn't the muggle philosopher I wanted to indulge my interest in, and instead I had stuck to muggle poets like Edmond Jabès, Amadis Jamyn and more recently the volume of Louise Glück. It didn't matter to me that the poetry I consumed while Bridgette obsessed over authors and philosophers elaborating upon the meaning of love, was written down by mostly muggles, for my judgment concerning the vanity of muggles still held itself firm in its place.
A blast occurred then, yanking me out of my thoughts as my raised hands jolted with the intention, the rune I had used swiftly vanishing at my side as every single death eater head I had earlier counted outside the castle ruin dropped dead in their new acquired spots.
Lucius Malfoy had ordered them all to charge, not one second after he had killed Bridgette Monet, and little did he realize that unlike his own tendency for observation, my wrath followed no time spectrum.
And there he was then, gaping at the writhing bodies of the death eater army he had brought, as they shook with rapid seizures, before the darkness and life in them died simultaneously—all before they had even neared me and friends. Like flies on a checkerboard, the Schlaun castle ruin was littered with death eater forms, displaying the fury of perhaps Merlin himself, through hands that belonged only to me.
Bridgette Monet, an eighteen year old, seventh year Beauxbatons student who cared for passionate love poems and quotes and was an advocate for most invariably underrated things in life along with undoubtedly being my best friend, had died of the killing curse aimed by Lucius Malfoy.
