𝐃𝐔𝐋𝐂𝐄𝐓 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐔𝐂𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 - Viktor Krum [book 1]

41

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 only Albert Camus—a mere muggle who according to her held entire universes in the passion of his words.

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 Louise Glück. It didn't matter to me that I consumed poetry that had to be translated into French. Because the words were French I thought nothing of the muggles behind them, my judgment concerning the vanity of muggles still holding 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.

A girl I had known for six years of my life, an irrevocably flawed yet vigorous girl, who had reduced me to the brink of collapse in most moments in my life, catching my hate and fury by its throat and challenging me with her seemingly adverse views on life and friendship. When all along it were my views that had been adverse. When you held unmoving confidence in your own, everything else that people around you said or did was adverse to you.