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Summary
Generalisation. That was the plague destroying his world.
There were three different types of blood, yet the Mudblood-lovers inside the Ministry wanted to recognise each one of them as merely wizards, as if the race itself has not been belittled by the predominating mediocrity.
The Wizarding World housed different types of magic, yet those not blessed by the almighty Albus Dumbledore were generalised as the Dark Arts; and those who dared practise it were generalised as Death Eaters.
Tom Riddle had dirty blood, but he offered the channel to change that Lucius Malfoy has sought after since he was made to endure mind-numbing boredom while waiting for clueless Mudbloods to keep up. He had joined the cause freely, he had been willing to make sacrifices.
He had never signed up for genocide, though. Never signed up to lower himself at the feet of a Half-Blood.
He persevered, however. On behalf of the upcoming success, he would be awarded with.
He had never planned on faltering. He had never planned on saving filth from their fated end by his own wand.
At least until he met her. A Muggle.
Weak. Pathetic. Immature.
And drained by the raw magic dormant inside her.
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Vou ler
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NR
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Bookmark Notes:
chapter 10 (...3 seconds before I lose my patience...)