Again, we have no idea what this is. Just plot bunnies invading in droves, with no end in sight (and we're out of cages to store them). Please read and review and let us know what you think.

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"Liar", by Lucas King

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"My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth."- Hamlet, William Shakespeare

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Her arrival into the magical world left a lot to be desired.

The introduction was lacklustre and uninformative, the people backwards and unimaginative, the culture stagnant and misogynistic, and her guide too ignorant buffoon to give her a proper tour. She felt a momentary disdain for the 'peasantry', before a migraine overtook her need to make her opinions known, and she forgot what she was supposed to be upset about. The half-giant had her key, could access her gold, could've been robbing her blind and she wouldn't have known, and…

The children were all pathetic, mewling leeches who lacked ambition and drive, and wasted their time (and hers) playing around when they should have been planning and plotting. She had been the centre of attention from the moment her name was called, from the moment her robes changed to red and gold (blood and riches, her birth right), throughout classes as she left the pitiful masses behind, left basic study and progressed right into advanced learning.

"A genius." Her teachers called her.

"A showoff." Retorted her peers.

They were jealous, and unaccustomed to working hard for what they wanted (blackyellow, bronzeblue, they would whisper behind her back in first year, not redgold), the teachers barely doing their jobs, irritation dictating her sharp, aggressive movements and acidic tongue in order to teach these peasants their place. But in their eyes, she could do no wrong.

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More the fool they.

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Oh, but she was a liar, and she was a very good one. No one could play the game the same way, no one could ever hope to match her. Half-truths, white lies, black lies, all falling from blood red lips and smirking in poison green eyes. Many puppets, tangled in her wires, dancing along to the tune the way she wanted, knowing nothing but their own insignificant existence, their inadequate ideals. They had thought her a golden girl, one that they could put upon a pedestal and worship, all the while planning to throw her to the wolves when the time came, expecting her to go quietly, lamblike, meek, weak. (Greensilver, they began to hiss in her second year, not redgold).

She wouldn't. She would never succumb to their pathetic ideals and imaginings. For she had a much greater prize, and much greater gift than their pathetic magic. She had the fire that burned through her very veins, the fire that scorched her professor in her first year, until there was nothing left but ashes. She'd laughed then, low and delighted, in that room of stone, with no one to witness the murder she'd committed (a pleasant buzz, and a high that lasted until the end of the school year). She'd lied then, as well. Plastered on a look of horror and distress, gone to the hospital wing hysterical and crying and pleaded the Headmaster not to send her away, she didn't mean to kill her professor but he was so close and he was going to kill her…

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They all fell for it, hook, line and sinker.

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She had meant to do it. Relished it, even, feeling the blood sing as the man screamed beneath her hands, the wraith dying just as quickly to the red flames and she had laughed as the sweet sensation of death filled the air. How could she not, when the Peverell blood ran thick with Blackness thought her body. When she had dreams of flames, of destruction, and high pitched laughter and that damning green light, and red falling, falling, falling down and red that filled her vision.

She knew that she was never going to be what they wanted, but if she could fool them (black hair, Potter hair, green eyes, Black heart), then more the fools they, for while they were busy admiring the flower, they failed to see the serpent underneath (hidden in redgoldlionbravechilvalrous) that was waiting to strike and pump them full of venom (dripping from false smiles and honeyed words).

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(She had such cold eyes, Draco Malfoy once said, eyes that could stare into your soul and judge you, and more often than not, find you severely lacking).

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But there were other dreams too.

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Of sunny yellow, misty indigo, electric green, rainy blue, purple clouds and a burning, angry sky that encompassed them all, but sheltered them from the worst of humanity as much as they could. Of a small, floating snake and strangely enough, a shark. But there was one other thing she dreamed of, and it was of a boy, of whom the very sight will fill her with such an intense hatred that she often woke to the screaming of her dorm mates as her hangings caught fire (such pretty, pretty fire) but the hatred stayed, just boiling beneath her skin.

There was a hollowness, too, just below her ribcage (Pansy Parkinson said that it was because she didn't have a heart. After that comment, Parkinson didn't have a left hand), and she always felt like she was supposed to be searching for….something, to fill the void. Oh, she had tried, and only Luna Lovegood had come close to something substantial, but the blonde had sang something about how a storm can only happen in the sky, but the mist would hide the storm for now (but it ached less when she was around the younger girl, somehow, and she liked the company). Her skin itched and itched and felt like a strange covering, yet she couldn't remember why. She felt caged, trapped, and there were eyes watching her every move and it made her spine crawl. There was something so very, very wrong with this school, underneath all the magic and dust motes and smiles and laughter, something rotten at the very core and she wanted out.

She didn't belong here, and that much was obvious, no matter how much Hermione Granger tried to reassure her that she had trouble fitting in as well, no matter how much Ron and Ginny Weasley insisted that she belonged there (but she never listened to liars). Fay Dunbar knew, had whispered in the early hours of the morning when everyone else was asleep that Fay didn't belong there either, but they were both stuck (sweet, quiet Fay, who had smiles that never reached her own cold, frozen eyes, who lied as well as she did) until there was a small chance of escape (Fay had managed to disappear over the winter of her third year, a note drenched in her magical signature proving its legitimacy, and she had felt the smallest stirrings of jealousy, had Luna not been with her).

There were memories, as well, of two fat pigs (ripe for slaughter, meat packed onto the bones) and an emaciated horse (with a craning neck and a penchant for eavesdropping), echoes of her name (it didn't fit, it never had) and everything felt weird and she found herself dissociating numerous times (wrongwrongwrongs, her mind would scream), find herself walking outside at night with no clue as to how she got there, seeking dark alleys for no reason, falling in with 'the wrong crowd' (bright, neon hair reminded her of someone dear, and hoods of a close friend, but who), only to wake up back in her room (lockscupboardtrapped) with torn feet and a haze over her mind.

She had never felt as confused, as disorientated as this, and there was something screaming at her to leave, an urging to curse in various languages that she wasn't supposed to know, to slice all those who irritated her up into small tiny pieces with knives and wires and to laugh while the world burned with the pretty flames that danced in her hands, in her eyes, in her mind.

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Because if she wasn't Belladonna Vulpecula Potter (the Black Potter, they muttered in her third year, the Dark Witch), then who was she?

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Read, Review, let us know if you want this continued or not, etc.

Sayonara!

Vic and Siofra