"I felt like destroying something beautiful." –Fight Club

He started this. Honestly, it was him. He came to me. On the third of March in the year 2000, he showed up at the manor, a fire in his eyes and a desperation in his soul.

Harry Potter: The Boy-Who-Lived, The Chosen One, The Master of Death, The War Hero, The World's Youngest Auror.

Harry Potter: a trodden-on boy in ripped jeans, who placed himself on my doorstep and looked at me like no one else ever has.

"Potter."

"Are you alone?"

"Why?"

"Are you?"

"Yes."

His eyes didn't leave mine. "Can I come in?"

I stepped aside and closed the door behind him. He looked around. He was suddenly looking everywhere but at me.

"Potter."

"This was a bad idea. Obviously." He exhaled deeply. "Sorry." He turned for the door. I beat him to it and leaned against it.

"Where are you going?"

"I shouldn't have come here. This was stupid."

"Probably, but now that you're here, I need to know why."

He looked really uncomfortable. It took me a minute to understand why being in this place shook him up so much, but then I couldn't believe that I had to remind myself of what had happened here.

"I hate you," he said finally.

"It's mutual."

"Why?" I raised my eyebrows. "Why do you hate me?" he went on. "Tell me. Tell me everything that's wrong with me. Tell me how stupid and overrated I am."

I crossed my arms and straightened my back. "Why should I do that?"

"Because no one else will."

And then I understood.

"Come with me."

I led him into my bedroom and locked the door behind us. This was it. This was my chance to have Potter the way I've always wanted to have him.

I pushed him against the wall and pinned him there, then forced my tongue into his mouth. He tried to pull back, but I was relentless. And then he was kissing me, too, and I let my hands explore this body I've admired for years. I slid my hands over his abs and down to his jeans, which I promptly unbuttoned and violated. I found his balls and squeezed them, resulting in a pleasant little grunt. I tore my mouth away from him long enough to pull his shirt off, and I guided him rather violently onto my bed. He was quiet and patient as I took off the rest of his clothing. I ran my hand up his thigh. He was stark naked in front of me, and I stood over him in my high class robes, pouring my power all around him.

I climbed on top of him and resumed my invasion of his mouth. My knee found his penis and grazed over it gently. His eyes widened and I smirked around his lips. Then I pushed down, allowing my weight to rest on his package, and his head stretched back and he screamed. I gripped his head and held it in place as I drove my tongue in and out of his mouth.

I released my knee, to his immense relief, and turned him over. I put my hands all over his body, feeling everything, everywhere. "Put your ass up." I'm not sure what I expected, but I was pleasantly surprised when, after only a brief hesitation, he obeyed. I invaded every inch of that ass. It was so perfect and toned, just like the rest of him, and all of a sudden I was filled with a tremendous rage at Potter for being so goddamn perfect in every fucking way. But he's not better than me. He's never been better than me. People thought he was, but they were wrong. Because look what I could do: I could destroy him.

Before I even knew what I was doing, my hand was slamming against his ass, angry and wild and fierce. And he grunted and moaned, but he took it and didn't complain. Because he knew he deserved it. He knew I was better. I lifted him with my arm around his neck and positioned him in the center of the room. I spelled ropes to dangle from the ceiling and hold his hands together over his head. I took off my belt and snapped it in front of his face. "You ready for this, Potter?" He didn't say anything, but his eyes said, "Do it. I dare you."

I hit him. I hit him over and over again with that belt, all over his body, sparing nothing but his face. I hit him until he was red and bleeding and burning. I hit him until he couldn't hold back anymore and he was crying and screaming and begging for me to stop. I hit him until every inch of my superiority permanently dug itself into his veins. I hit him until I was good and ready to stop.

And then I let him out of his bondage and watched him crumple onto the floor, sobbing and broken. I dragged him over to the bed, where I laid him down next to me, his head on my chest. I ran my hands over his wounds, and I felt his body pounding with his sobs. I slid my fingers through his hair and stroked his black locks until his heaving breaths calmed, and he fell asleep.

So you see, that's how it all started. With him, coming to me for help. That's why he wears that collar around his neck. That's why there's a steel cage in the corner of the room for when he's bad. He has only himself to blame.