A/N: I don't plan on writing one of the happily-ever-after stories that have been done to death. All I promise is not necessarily mutually exclusive fun and pain. If I begin to do anything of a predictable nature, kindly notify me and fire at will.

Disclaimer: I don't own the Potter universe, ideas, dragons, etc. I make no claim to those ideas and no money from this story.

My wand rolls under an overly expensive mahogany coffee table and comes to a stop amidst the dust and the cobwebs. It is far out of reach, but by this point having it my hand would only serve as a small comfort rather than any defensive use. There is no way to amend the present circumstances, for now I am about as magical as a common newt, plus I happen to be staring down Voldemort's wand.

Yeah, I screwed up.

His flattened serpentine face is twisted into a furious sneer, those red eyes glower down at me. I feel fear, of course, but there is a resigned acceptance behind it. It takes away some of the sting, but doesn't quite lessen the hollow feeling that comes with defeat. It will all be over soon.

I struggle to sit up after the pain has subsided. I try to meet those red eyes again, and although my skin feels like it is burning, what I see sends a chill down my spine. No one mentioned how hard it is to look into the face of death. Especially when it's that ugly.

Absently, through my fractured awareness, I wonder which particular thing I did instigated this personal grudge with our resident Dark Lord. Is it the stain I represent on the face of his ideal magical race? Or perhaps it was the indestructible howler I sent him that screamed about his heritage to the tune of muggle nursery rhymes? Come to think of it, he is probably miffed that I concealed a cheering charm within that letter, but I don't know, perhaps he's used to that kind of thing.

He still looks really mad. Is that saying something about my singing ability?

I recognise Bellatrix Black as she summons my wand and it flies into her outstretched hand. The expression on her face is one of scorn and abhorrence. She's even more unhinged than I am.

Her lips curl into a sneer and she says something my brain can no longer process, but I don't need to know the specific wording, I can just about quote the 'you're not a witch' speech by now.

She snaps my wand and incinerates the remains, her wide hateful eyes darting over my face, eager for some display of suffering. I can't completely hide the pain and stick out my tongue to mask it as best I can.

I pay for that with another cruciatus curse, for longer this time.

I hold no deluded hope for a rescue. I am very scared and very alone. I just hope my death means something, or better yet, I hope my life meant something.

My blood, both inside and outside my body, feels hot and the air in my lungs is dry and tastes of bile. It hurts to breathe, it hurts to remember, but in those brief last minutes I remember it all.