Twisted Deviant

Aspria Hogglesnop ~ St Mungo’s Field Medic It’s all about the blood; funny, how I remember that axiom of my old grandmother’s now, or rather it would be if it didn’t have such a foreboding ironic touch to it. In a way, it always has been about the blood. I’m one of those on the fringe, not really old enough to remember the last time – even now I have a hard time saying the name – Voldemort, he-who-must-not-be-named, or rather Tom Riddle. Tom Riddle sounds so innocuous though… such a normal sounding name, that it doesn’t deliver the punch-in-the-gut response that the first two monikers bring. However, I digress. As I was saying, I’m one of those on the fringe. I wasn’t old enough to have terrifying memories of when he – when Riddle, was first around, so, it was hard to believe that he could have possibly returned. He was a vague figure, much like Grindwald or the Muggles’ Boogieman, used to scare children onto the path of goodness. He wasn’t real. How apathetic I seemed when I lo

This just had me laughing my ass off. Granted, the way JKR has written the character, he is terribly complex and convoluted, but there is no way in hell that he is innocent. With the exception of this first book, everything we’ve seen of this character has been colored by the “Harry radar,” and those glimpses gives us a look at an unpleasant man who enjoys terrorizing those he holds within his power. What I mean is, throughout the HP books, we basically have Harry as the narrator, but he is an unreliable one at best. We see everything colored through Harry vision. For example: Malfoy is, by din of that one small little meeting in Madam Mankin’s, now the new Dudley, and there for we have the initial set-up of why Harry will never be his friend. Yes, I know the dislike goes much deeper than that, but it is that first impression which leads the reader to know that Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter will never be friends. The Weasley’s also, by din of first impressions, become very impor

We are the same, he and I, though he tries to make it sound like I am a curse, an affliction that rises with the full, pale face of the Goddess. He is the human, I am the wolf, and instead of embracing the gifts the Goddess has offered, he tries to bind me; as if that could ever truly stop me. He cages me, and I admit, I do allow him this small victory, for now. Each month I feel her calling, her power ebbs and flows over me as the days wear on, only to surge as she regains power. I wish to bay at her face, to let my voice rise up in praise to her glory, but he keeps me in check with a potion. He is terrified of what we are, fears what happens when he shifts and becomes me, as if I am unnatural. If only he weren’t so afraid… there are so many things I could offer him, so many things that would make us both more than we are, yet he insists on burying me deeply. I am not evil, not as he believes; I just loose myself to the sensations when I escape. Anyone caged would react so, and I