Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: Don’t bother reviewing to tell me that the main character in this story is OOC. I am aware this is probably far from her character, but if she wanted to survive she may have stifled her morals and everything. Thanks to PirateQueen for beta-ing.

She purses her lips and silently draws; carefully marking line after line, figure after figure. Throwing her brown curls over her shoulder she grasps the sharp object closer to the point, leaning forward and pressing in, completely absorbed in the picture she is making.

            The figure in front of her lets out a muted groan and bows his head in pain. Without looking away from her work, she grasps the thick chain that is attached to the iron collar around his neck, giving it a vicious tug, her dreamy expression never wavering.         

            Line after line, figure after figure, the red liquid paints his back in a scene of two boys, one with a Snitch next to him, one standing taller than the other by a head. After a moment’s thought she presses the blade forward in several sharp dots and leans back, looking satisfied at the warped freckles she has drawn.

            It is here that she immortalizes her memories; in scars on the backs of her victims. For the ones she loves are dead, now, and she wants to live.

            And so she drowns her compassion and buries her morals, goes without a fight to the Dark side, because when all is said and done she could have died like a hero but she would still have been dead.

            Tapping the blade silently against her cheek, unmindful of the steady trail of blood running off the metal and onto her face, she carves at the bare flesh in front of her, line after line, figure after figure. With one last wrench of the blade, her pale hands working delicately at her masterpiece, she engraves her signature at the bottom of the Snitch.

            She stands up and swirls her blood red cloak around her shoulders. She stops at the door and turns around, carelessly throwing a bolt of green light over her shoulder. The man sinks to the ground, silent, and she leaves with a triumphant smile on her face.

            The steady drip, drip, of blood on the cold stone floors is the only remnant of her past, when she had been innocent and young. But innocence does not last long when you are the Dark Lord’s executioner.