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TWs for murder, torture, violence

INNOCENT EYES, QUIET lips, and the unspoken promise of something submissive; that was the way of men. Always thirsting for something to be wholly theirs, untouchable, untouched, untainted. Something mailable and aching to be trained.
In some way, Seven felt her life so far had been nothing but a period of constant curation, always moulding, forever reshaping. Her mind and soul were forever shifting. Sometimes into something to be feared — she became what she needed to when she needed — into something more desirable, more easily stomached; men did not like harsh edges, only softness. Sharpness reminded them of themselves and all their vulnerabilities, their skin no less immune to blood loss than that of the women they laughed as they bled. The women they broke.

It was that thought that spurned Seven to brush her chest against the man's back as she passed despite the way the crowd parted for her. He turned, eyebrows drawn in and looking ready for a fight, but his expression changed when he saw the fragility of her femininity. Little did he know that Seven had no femininity left inside her, it had all been stolen, scraped out by greedy men and left hollow to ache at the emptiness.
  "Oh, sorry." Seven smiled up at him, all wide eyes and nervous smiles, before quickly looking down and continuing through the market.
   She didn't look back, she knew he was following. His heavy breaths stole her own, and for a second she faltered as she headed for her alley. What am I doing? What am I doing? What am I doing? What if it happens again?
   Rage was easy for Seven to find, barely buried, always lingering just below the surface. It was a far easier emotion to stomach, she found, and far easier to feast upon. Perhaps he might like her rage, she thought, some men loved a challenge, like a wild beast for them to weigh down and tame in their image.

  At the mouth of the alley, she turned, walking backwards with a smirk as low and behold the man dumbly followed. They didn't need words; her eyes held promise and his held deliverance. Each feeding off the other. Each fuelling. Each a fire with a different aim to burn.

Her fire still smouldered, now a glimmer of white ash and muted embers. "Can I help you?" She asked coyly, all innocence long lost.

  The man returned her sly smirk, misreading her openness as willing, "You certainly can."

  "How so?" She cocked her head, circling the fire so that it stood between them and holding out her empty hands, "I have nothing to give."

  "You have more than enough, come here girl, let me show you." When he tried to walk right around the fire pit Seven walked left so that they remained the same distance apart.
   "What's wrong little girl, you're not afraid of me are you?" He said, tasting the words, feeding on the power behind them; feasting the idea of being feared.

  "Should I be?" Seven replied.

  "Not at all," He beckoned, "Come, let me show you how gentle of a man I am..."

And with that, she was suddenly less afraid. The worst monsters warned before the bite, beautiful, but beckoning nonetheless. They knew their own destructive hands and the power they held but offered them in kind anyways. Draco had told her as much; said she should not fear him, at least, not yet. But the day would come when she would. She had, time and time again, accepted a cruel hand from him in hope it may one day turn kind.

This man, however, was a coward. Unable to even admit his own ill intent despite it being obvious for all to see. Did he really think Seven believed him for a second?

She wanted to hurt him, use him as a proxy for all the evil deeds of man, this great, stinking beast of a creature. "Why don't you come and get me?"

Maybe I will, she heard Draco's voice in her head as if he was standing right beside her. She fought the urge to turn and look for her lost love. That is what he would've said, had he still been by her side... But this man only lunged, like a feral dog loosed from its cage. No grace or thought or fluidity to its actions, only a belly filled with greed. Seven used to be like that too — back at the start of it all — when she was too headstrong and ruled by rage to hesitate or back down, regardless of her winning odds.

Seven slammed her foot into the remains of the fire, sending a great cloud of ash and still-smouldering embers into his face. He roared, hands clawing at his eyes with all the grief and pain of a spurned mother as the ash caught in his eyes and throat. He charged still; blindly, barrelling towards Seven like a tidal wave of rocks. She pulled out her wand and the stolen magic thrummed beneath her palms, desperate to be let loose and destruct. "Expelliarmus!"

It hit. And then he hit her, his body a weapon in itself as he crashed into her. The two bodies sprawled to the floor, a mess of limbs and for a moment they were both dazed; lying still. Then Seven snapped back, kicking at the grasping hands of the man as she crawled for the wand that was once his but was now rightfully hers, whilst he clawed for her ankles to stop her.

The wand was longer than she was used to, thicker, and even the wood felt rougher, but undeniably the magic that came flooding through her palms was her own. Won magic; she hadn't realised how foreign and wrong her stolen magic had felt until this.

"Crucio!" She didn't think, her body acting for her. At once the man let go, howling and writhing, begging for her to stop — but she couldn't. The return of her magic had brought with it the return of her malice, and so she became those she swore to destroy, and he — the man, he became what she had once been. At the disposal of another's mercy, where there was none to be found. In some small part of her sickened mind, Seven saw him as a proxy for herself, all that innate hatred so deeply ingrained into her psyche that she could no longer imagine being without her. An old friend, of sorts.
She stood, cursing him again, and again and again, wondering if this was just how she had looked when it had been her to be tortured. So pitiful, so pathetic — ripped free of all grace and societal niceties — until all that was left was something so primal it became strange.  Uncanny. Human, and yet, somehow so far removed.

Scream, she grinned. Scream as I screamed. No one is coming.

At some point, he stopped screaming. At some point, he stopped moving. Cries turned to gurgles and thrashing faded to the occasional twitch, until... he stilled for the final time, disappearing with one final, ragged breath.

Seven's chest heaved, feeling drained from all the magic it had taken, but still not done. She still felt unsatisfied, like if anything the man's torture had served not to quell her frustrations, but instead bring them all roaring to the surface again.

It took until the next morning for the body to burn, Seven stayed up all night watching as if worried the half-charge corpse would reanimate and come after her again. The smell made her gag but she made herself suffer through it, viewing it as just another weakness to overcome. Nobody came to warm themselves by her fire that night, nor any night after.

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Hey everyone sorry it's been so long! I took a bit of a much needed break but hopefully should be more active from now on! Also sorry if this chapter doesn't really make sense, I was three joints deep when I wrote it hahahaha