For a long time I thought it was love. How could it be anything else? I didn’t know when it had started, or how. Sometimes it felt as if I’d loved her from my very first breath, as if the world only existed because of her.

It wasn’t her beauty that made me love her, it wasn’t her hair, her skin, her body or her voice. No, it was the fire in her eyes, her strength, her mind. Her power.

The memories from my childhood all run together, holidays, birthdays, family reunions. She barely noticed I existed back then but, oh, I noticed her. She was always the perfect Pureblood, the epitome of what a witch should be. Her words measured and polite, her behaviour unfailing. Until the moment her parents turned away.

I was five the first time I saw her use a curse. My brother never knew what hit him. I was seven the first time I watched her bring a grown man to his knees. Her father wanted her to marry the wizard, she thought he was too weak. A whispered word, a flick of her wand, and she broke his mind to pieces. No one ever thought to blame her.

A year later she found her sister sneaking out of the mansion to meet some Muggle. That was the first time I saw what the Cruciatus Curse could do. I was always watching her by then, always hiding, following her wherever she went, never wanting to miss a moment. I still remember the screams, the cries for help, the way Andromeda’s body contorted on the ground. But above all I remember watching her, I remember the smirk on her face, the gleam in her eyes. She was beautiful. That night she finally noticed me. One moment she was watching her sister writhe in pain, the next her eyes met mine. For an instant she’d seemed surprised to find me there, but her curse never wavered. Long seconds passed as she watched me and I watched her, and her smirk turned into a smile, and it was all for me.

I was eleven when I saw the Mark on her arm. Her parents were distracted, my parents were gone. My brother and her sister were out of the way. She let me sit next to her, let me slide her sleeve further up, let me trace my fingers over the raised skin. I remember watching it for what felt like hours, shivering every time I touched it, not knowing if it was the Mark making me feel that way, or just the fact that it was her I was touching. She told me what the Mark meant, told me of the night she had received it. Told me of the things she’d done, the things that had been done to her. I listened to every word, closed my eyes and tried to imagine what it must’ve been like.

When I was thirteen I told her I wanted to join the Dark Lord. She smiled at me, then walked away. That night she came to my room, handed me a mask and took me with her. I never knew who the Muggles were, or why they had been chosen, and I didn’t care. She was the only thing I could see. She smiled when they cried, and laughed as they screamed, her eyes shone at the very sight of blood, her breathing grew heavy when they died. I took in her every reaction, and knew I would do anything to see it again. She was beautiful.

The night I turned sixteen she told me she had a present for me. She held out her arm and I took it. The first Muggle was for her, but the second for me. She stood behind me, her hand held mine as I raised my wand. I could feel her breasts against my back, her breath against my neck, her lips against my ear as she whispered what she wanted me to do. Her power mixed with mine, made my magic stronger. It was the first time I killed for her. Even then I knew it wouldn’t be the last.

I met the Dark Lord that year. The night he marked me. She was there with me the entire time. She smiled at me as I walked into the room, and the rest of the world seemed to vanish. The Dark Lord stood in front of me, and she moved behind me, pressed against me just like that night. Long, cold fingers wrapped around my wrist, raised my arm, but I barely noticed any of it. Her arms had moved around me slowly, her lips rested against my neck. The tip of a wand touched my forearm just as her hands slid inside my robes. The sound of chanting was drowned by her heavy breathing. My first moan was of pleasure and pain. The second was only pleasure. Her fingers wrapped around me, her grip firm, tight, and she stroked me as the Dark Lord marked me. I came with a scream, just as the Mark was finished.

She always came with me on my missions. Just the two of us. Sometimes she did the killings, and I watched her every move, entranced. She would torture her victims for hours, the more they screamed the happier she seemed. She looked so beautiful those nights. But other nights she wanted to watch. Those nights she would sit down comfortably, ready for the show, and tell me just what she wanted me to do. I needed no instructions by then, I knew what she liked.

I always made sure to make our victims bleed. The first drop of blood would earn me a soft moan. A few more curses, and she would slide her hand under her robes, her eyes following every red trail on our victims’ flesh. By then the victim held no more interest to me, I only had eyes for her. I would absently cast a few more curses and watch her hand move faster. Sometimes I would touch myself too, imagining it was her hand on me, just like that night. And all the time I would watch her, and she would watch our victim. She never closed her eyes, not even when she came.

The night before her wedding she finally looked at me. That night she had seemed more sadistic than ever, making me bleed so many Muggles the room was bathed in red. She wanted to hear them scream, she wanted to hear them beg. She wanted to keep going, hour after hour. And as I cursed the last Muggle she stood up. She moved closer to me, and for the first time she wasn’t looking at our victims. All her attention was on me.

She pushed my wand out of the way and grabbed a handful of my hair. She pulled my head back, made me trip, then vanished our clothes as we fell. I felt the blood against my back, thick and cold, and I felt her skin against my chest, warm and lush. Her eyes were wild, her smirk wider than ever. She raked her nails down my chest, moaned as my blood welled under her fingers. She was beautiful.

She painted lines in blood on my body as she rode me, and I painted them on her everywhere I touched, until there wasn’t an inch of bare skin left. She moaned and screamed and moved faster, and it was all just for me. And when I came I screamed her name. And perhaps it was my name she breathed when she came.

For a long time I thought it was love. How could it be anything else? And for a short time I thought she loved me back.

I was barely eighteen when I learned the difference between love and obsession. I finally saw she didn’t love me, she never would. She knew obsession as well as I did, but hers wasn’t for me, either. There was only one man she really wanted, the only man I envied, the man I hated above all. The one man that couldn’t be killed. But for her, I would try.


***

To the Dark Lord, I know I will be dead long before you read this but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more. R.A.B.