𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐥𝐚¹- hp.

𝐯𝐢. the lord and all his marionettes.

꧁—— ❦ ——꧂

          Luminous beams gleamed in through the stained glass windows, covering every nook and cranny of the church with specks of glistering white as dim hues of navy blues and forest greens reflected on the floor and church pews, delicately painting the silhouettes of God and his angels across those in attendance.

A balmy ambience interflowed the monotonous Gospel that Lavinia was certain she had heard a thousand times, the icy solace of Harry's touch the only thing stopping her eyes from repeatedly drooping shut, scowling at the woman who sat beside her that consistently shot deprecating looks their way. She would rather be anywhere else, but church was a small price to pay in order to have Harry in her company; 'the boy only leaves if he's going to church', Mr Dursley had told her earlier that morning, and that was a sacrifice she was willing to make; even if she spent majority of the service wondering why he called Harry, the boy.

Religion had always been codswallop in Lavinia's opinion. She could never understand why the weak minded would lower themselves beneath a higher being, the inferiority of the hierarchy making her sick; every Sunday spent stuck in the pews between her mother and father was another day she defied the demands to bow down, to place her faith in someone other than herself; they should have bowed down to her, not the other way around.

The lectures of bliss and purgatory haunted her wakened moments; jagged words floated between crimson shredded flesh and peccable bones to plant the seeds of dubiety and deception in the garden of her cadaverous skeleton, as the bile of her priests words crept up her esophagus, prepared to crack like a dam and become a waterfall of fabled words, watering the seeds until they sprout into godless flowers that gradually crucify her soul.

Of course, however, that all changed when she realized she was a God ( or so she thought ) and that she deserved to be worshipped. When the most wicked of departed souls were brought forth on judgement day, she was who they saw; the first time she had ever intoned the ancient chant she was only eight years old, but back then she had been confused and terrified, not understanding why it was her who decided where souls were sent to rest; but now she has accepted it, and proudly so. If the godless flowers replaced every vein and nerve in her unholy figure as a permanent reminder that she was just that — unholy, then so be it; she would rather be a God ( again, or so she thought ) than an inadequate soul, being uncompromisingly judged.      

She was confident that there were certain skeletons in the cupboard she'd take to the grave with her ( unfortunately for her, she was wrong ), forever concealed as to leave the blame for someone else. She knew this was one of those skeletons; she would never be able to look Harry in the eyes and admit to him that she had, on quite a few occasions, been the catalyst of someone else's —