The Return
Some people might say the Great Hall was a cliche, a repetitive spot for his activities… Perhaps. But he felt otherwise. The Great Hall was…the center of Hogwarts. A place they all went to, home within their home. Where they stuffed their faces and spoke with friends, where all the houses mixed together, dwelled with their teachers, felt safe…
He enjoyed ruining the sanctity of such a place.
They were moved from the forest rather easily, a simple levitating charm, the unconscious students hovering in front of him on his calming walk to the castle - though they probably made up a rather strange image to any unfortunate student looking out their window that night.
He left the three strewn haphazardly on the center table. They’d endured a rather…large amount of blood loss, he doubted that they’d really be able to wander off, even if they did come to anytime soon. And they did look rather appealing, strewn about so, limbs hanging limply, torn clothes revealing his work.
But it wasn’t quite complete yet, wasn’t quite the perfect picture. One little piggy, two little piggy, three little piggy; come little piggies, what were they missing -
He gave a dark laugh, then. A quick turn of his wand, and he held three apples, giving a gleeful hop as he circled the bunch, sinking their teeth into the apples, one by one. And when he backed away, there they were, the perfect picture, his little piggies… with their little apples, cut and trussed up like fresh meat for dinner -
When the students entered the hall for dinner that night, they’d find them laying there, the three missing students that only some had noticed missing at all. He supposed they’d try to pull them off the table, take them to the hospital wing, but he’d put a charm up - one that should last at least an hour after the students would first be found. After all, what was the fun if everyone didn’t get a chance to view his handiwork?
Such beautiful handiwork it was, too… He’d made good use of his canvases, though he’d chosen to create more of a poem than a painting on each of them - though the words flowing across their bared skin did have a rather aesthetic beauty all its own. Not a conventional poem, perhaps, but he certainly enjoyed it. No special messages or warnings, merely a random pattern of smiley faces and words - predominantly a simple, HAHA. But most noticeable was perhaps what he'd done to their faces - a precise and difficult process that had required much screaming and pain. Children apparently didn't enjoy knives so close to their faces, trying so desperately to pull away - but he'd warned them, warned them to keep still or he'd accidentally carve out their eyes - and they'd stilled enough for him to finish his carvings, screamed out and cried, salty tears mixed with the cuts in their skin. While the words cut into their bodies varied, their faces all matched - a delicate curving pattern, curling lines around their faces, ending in a picture that matched the same mask he'd worn to the ball those few nights. He did need to sign his work, did he not, and what better way than with a replication of the mask he'd worn? They'd wanted a masquerade, after all, and masks he gave them.
The words were carved deeply into their skin; some with a knife, some with a wand, but they all hurt just the same, had just the same effect. Some had already scabbed over, a dark burgundy layer with dried bloodstains; some were still fresh, a vibrant red paint created by their own bodies… The sight made him long to do more, but no, no, he’d done enough, he’d had his fun…
He smiled widely as he finally turned to leave the hall. Perhaps he’d pop in later to see the students’ reactions, but for now, he gave the three a quick pat on the head. “You were wonderful guests, my piggies. Do come again sometime," he hummed, finally waltzing his way out of the hall and disappearing with a final laugh.
