𝕸𝖆𝖈𝖆𝖇𝖗𝖊 ➳ 𝙃.𝙋

07

[7]

ALEKSANDER

"Aleksander Malfoy," Persephone mused, a smirk plastered on her face, "you are quite a hard person to find, I must say."

The cellar was cold and damp, water occasionally leaking through the roof. It lacked any windows and furniture having only a straw bed that sat loosely at the corner of the room. The only source of light was from Persephone's ignited wand, which the girl left carelessly in her pant pocket. She had a small knife on her hand, it was sharp and shone effortlessly in the dark. The only other presence in the room was a man.

He was tall and lanky, his clothes were messy and unkempt but were made of expensive and rare velvet. He had pale blonde hair and a pair of cold blue eyes and sharp features like one of an aristocratic. He sat upright, leaning against the wall, on the straws at the corner of the room, his eyes never leaving the girl. As the light flashed across his face, a raw wound could be seen dripping with blood right next to his left eye, and there were multiple bruises next to his nose, his lips were slightly swollen as well as part of his neck.

"Who are you?" He croaked, his tone was firm and almost condescending but it broke, probably due to incessant screaming. Persephone held in her laugh. How utterly and completely funny. He turned his head ever so slightly in her direction. His eyes held a sadness, a sadness that Persephone failed to see.

"Oh, I think you know," Persephone replied, her voice teasing yet cool. A small silence loomed over the cellar.

Then she readjusted her hand on the knife and softly let the edge scrape through her palm, red ink trailed through and down her hand, the blood fell to the floor, one drop, another drop, drop, drop, drop. It did sting, quite a bit, to be honest, the feeling made her tingle. But the pain made her more alive, made her feel like the world around her is real, it reminded her of her role and the sole purpose of her life. She quite liked the feeling, it made her feel stronger, more powerful and free. She stared at the red stains dully, then the knife, it was sharper than Persephone expected.

She was intrigued by blood, it kept people alive, good and bad. 'Did her father need it to revive?' She wondered to herself.

"Why did you do that?" The man asked, his voice suddenly angry. He hasn't moved from his seat but his eyebrows leaned in and his eyes burned with an unexplainable fury, "Your mother wouldn't—"

"I was simply showing you," Persephone told the man with eerie tranquillity, still keeping her eyes on the blood that seeped through her wound. She chuckled at the blood falling out of her hand, it was so funny that people were so scared of blood.

"I didn't—"

"You didn't need to," Persephone cut the man off. She then closed her bleeding palm, the blood suddenly stopped flowing out. When she reopened her palm, the wound has already been healed. The man stared at the girl's hand that has just healed, "you know where it is and you won't tell me. Why?"

Stiffening, the man knew exactly what Persephone was talking about. Before the man got a chance to reply, Persephone continued, "Do you love her? My mother, Capella Black."

"Of cou—" The man said, his voice still calm.

"Then why can't you give her daughter the thing that she gave up her life for?" Her eyes burned into the man, unleashing her inner fury in her quiet voice.

"You don't understand," he croaked out harshly,  his voice becoming quieter as he carried on as his words became whispers. "I'm no hero. I can't give you the only thing that keeps me alive, that keeps me standing, that keeps me waking up in the morning! I can't give you that!" His voice even softer, "sorry, I can't help you."