Categories > Books > Harry Potter
Villains Aren't Born
0 reviews[Female Harry Potter; Dead Dursley's; Song Fic] How strange, how the human mind works. Hope stared with apathy. Stupid, stupid, stupid.
0Unrated
Watch the torch set aflame.
Watch it burn, watch it fade.
Hope stared at the burning house with apathy. Any anger that lingered in her expression slowly died out. They were dead. After so many years of torture and pain, her relatives were dead. Was it evil of her to find solace in that fact? Emerald eyes were filled with pain but her stoic composure didn’t waver.
Watch the armies gather suit.
Someone’s gotta win or lose.
The authorities fought over her placement. Social workers were in and out. Therapists followed. They said it was okay to cry. Hope knew better. Crying did nothing but cause pain. And she would never welcome it. She settled for staring at the dull gray walls of the police station. The bustle around her kept her grounded and she didn’t speak.
They say my heart is almost black.
Well, baby, who’s to blame for that?
The memories crash into her. It’s been three days since they died. Yet she can hear Vernon’s screams. She can feel Petunia’s terror. How strange, the human mind. Hope frowned at herself. Bruises were fading and she felt thankful that none of the workers had caught on to the signs of abuse. Even as a part of her cried out in anguish.
Count your blessings, count your minutes.
Played my game, hell, now you’re in it.
Bittersweet, my renegade.
And I’m anything but tame.
The ignorance of the supposed adults scared her. Weren’t they supposed to be in charge? Weren’t they supposed to fix everything? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Chanting the word, she reminds herself, does not change the ideal. She watches the doctors and wonders how they miss the clear malnutrition and mistreatment.
Grab your sword, you might just need it.
‘Cause I’m not afraid of cheating.
Oh, I hate to tell you this way.
A dark smile spread over her face and she watched the bustling adults with pure malice.
But villains aren’t born, darling, they’re made.
After the doctors; after the workers; after the coppers; after the lawyers. Far after. They wait for something. She doesn’t know what they’re waiting for anymore. Why wait? Why not? Arguing with herself is becoming far too common and she knows it's a sign of withdrawal. Luckily enough, none of the psychiatrists caught it. Maybe not luckily. Maybe a bit more worryingly.
Scream my name when they run.
Honestly, it’s kinda fun.
They put her through homes. Various places, all designed to lower her inhibitions and get her to trust. She doesn’t. Trust is not so easily won when the person you are trying to win it from has none. And so, apathetically, she watches as they cycle through the possible parents. None keep her for more than a month. They can’t stand her stares and her lack of feeling.
Scream it louder when they fall.
I’m never satisfied at all.
She stares at her name, written out on the orphanage papers. Hope. (She idly thinks she should have been named Hopeless but does not comment.) Azalea. (How odd that she’s named after her favorite flower.) Potter. Gone, gone, gone. The adoption legally renames her. Hope Azalea Marie Rioux. It was… strange to say that she had a family. A family who didn’t mind her strangeness.
They take, they take until you give.
You taught me well, now watch me win.
Her new family are experts at chess. Her new father (and wasn’t that strange to say) was Elliot Rioux, a respected businessman with many dealings is less than savory places. Her mother was Delphine Rioux and spent her time spending money. Perhaps she got high off the craze. Then there were her adoptive brothers. The youngest was fine. Benjamin. The oldest was… unsavory. Rigel.
Count your blessings, count your minutes.
Played my game, hell, now you’re in it.
Bittersweet, my renegade.
And I’m anything but tame.
He has no right. Hope watches Rigel with a dispassionate stare. The fear that pulsed through him made her smile. It was a disjointed smile. The kind of grin that made one run for the hills. Something about the sharp edges had Rigel shivering. She tilts her head and watches the fear. He has no right. Hope may be naive in certain ways but he should not have touched her the way he did.
Grab your sword, you might just need it.
‘Cause I’m not afraid of cheating.
Oh, I hate to tell you this way.
They find his mutilated body the very next day. No one notices her grim smile as they mourn.
I aim before I kill.
The blood washes off of her hands easily.
Live only for the thrill.
A feral growl rips out of her and she knows.
It’s bad, I know, but still.
There’s nothing left to lose.
She knows she wasn’t supposed to. But the body was exhilarating.
Don’t tell me it’s not fair.
She won’t get caught. She’s much better than that.
Believe me, I’ve been there.
She tenses and finishes her bath. Stepping out of the shower, she stares at the mirror at that girl that stares back. How… quaint. Guilt escapes her as she dresses herself.
I’d much rather be alone.
If I’m sitting on a throne.
The funeral is slow and dark. She doesn’t cry. But then she never has. As the body is lowered into the ground, Hope stepped up and dropped a black rose on top of the casket. A feeling of pleasure and closure encompassed her. Was this happiness? Or longing? Longing for a time where the fire never began, where Rigel kept his hands to himself, and where she wasn’t a killer. No. No. This was pride. Leaning forward slightly, she muttered the words replaying over and over in her mind.
“Villains aren’t born, darling, we’re made.”
Watch it burn, watch it fade.
Hope stared at the burning house with apathy. Any anger that lingered in her expression slowly died out. They were dead. After so many years of torture and pain, her relatives were dead. Was it evil of her to find solace in that fact? Emerald eyes were filled with pain but her stoic composure didn’t waver.
Watch the armies gather suit.
Someone’s gotta win or lose.
The authorities fought over her placement. Social workers were in and out. Therapists followed. They said it was okay to cry. Hope knew better. Crying did nothing but cause pain. And she would never welcome it. She settled for staring at the dull gray walls of the police station. The bustle around her kept her grounded and she didn’t speak.
They say my heart is almost black.
Well, baby, who’s to blame for that?
The memories crash into her. It’s been three days since they died. Yet she can hear Vernon’s screams. She can feel Petunia’s terror. How strange, the human mind. Hope frowned at herself. Bruises were fading and she felt thankful that none of the workers had caught on to the signs of abuse. Even as a part of her cried out in anguish.
Count your blessings, count your minutes.
Played my game, hell, now you’re in it.
Bittersweet, my renegade.
And I’m anything but tame.
The ignorance of the supposed adults scared her. Weren’t they supposed to be in charge? Weren’t they supposed to fix everything? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Chanting the word, she reminds herself, does not change the ideal. She watches the doctors and wonders how they miss the clear malnutrition and mistreatment.
Grab your sword, you might just need it.
‘Cause I’m not afraid of cheating.
Oh, I hate to tell you this way.
A dark smile spread over her face and she watched the bustling adults with pure malice.
But villains aren’t born, darling, they’re made.
After the doctors; after the workers; after the coppers; after the lawyers. Far after. They wait for something. She doesn’t know what they’re waiting for anymore. Why wait? Why not? Arguing with herself is becoming far too common and she knows it's a sign of withdrawal. Luckily enough, none of the psychiatrists caught it. Maybe not luckily. Maybe a bit more worryingly.
Scream my name when they run.
Honestly, it’s kinda fun.
They put her through homes. Various places, all designed to lower her inhibitions and get her to trust. She doesn’t. Trust is not so easily won when the person you are trying to win it from has none. And so, apathetically, she watches as they cycle through the possible parents. None keep her for more than a month. They can’t stand her stares and her lack of feeling.
Scream it louder when they fall.
I’m never satisfied at all.
She stares at her name, written out on the orphanage papers. Hope. (She idly thinks she should have been named Hopeless but does not comment.) Azalea. (How odd that she’s named after her favorite flower.) Potter. Gone, gone, gone. The adoption legally renames her. Hope Azalea Marie Rioux. It was… strange to say that she had a family. A family who didn’t mind her strangeness.
They take, they take until you give.
You taught me well, now watch me win.
Her new family are experts at chess. Her new father (and wasn’t that strange to say) was Elliot Rioux, a respected businessman with many dealings is less than savory places. Her mother was Delphine Rioux and spent her time spending money. Perhaps she got high off the craze. Then there were her adoptive brothers. The youngest was fine. Benjamin. The oldest was… unsavory. Rigel.
Count your blessings, count your minutes.
Played my game, hell, now you’re in it.
Bittersweet, my renegade.
And I’m anything but tame.
He has no right. Hope watches Rigel with a dispassionate stare. The fear that pulsed through him made her smile. It was a disjointed smile. The kind of grin that made one run for the hills. Something about the sharp edges had Rigel shivering. She tilts her head and watches the fear. He has no right. Hope may be naive in certain ways but he should not have touched her the way he did.
Grab your sword, you might just need it.
‘Cause I’m not afraid of cheating.
Oh, I hate to tell you this way.
They find his mutilated body the very next day. No one notices her grim smile as they mourn.
I aim before I kill.
The blood washes off of her hands easily.
Live only for the thrill.
A feral growl rips out of her and she knows.
It’s bad, I know, but still.
There’s nothing left to lose.
She knows she wasn’t supposed to. But the body was exhilarating.
Don’t tell me it’s not fair.
She won’t get caught. She’s much better than that.
Believe me, I’ve been there.
She tenses and finishes her bath. Stepping out of the shower, she stares at the mirror at that girl that stares back. How… quaint. Guilt escapes her as she dresses herself.
I’d much rather be alone.
If I’m sitting on a throne.
The funeral is slow and dark. She doesn’t cry. But then she never has. As the body is lowered into the ground, Hope stepped up and dropped a black rose on top of the casket. A feeling of pleasure and closure encompassed her. Was this happiness? Or longing? Longing for a time where the fire never began, where Rigel kept his hands to himself, and where she wasn’t a killer. No. No. This was pride. Leaning forward slightly, she muttered the words replaying over and over in her mind.
“Villains aren’t born, darling, we’re made.”
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