Where had I gone wrong? Which of my choices had been wrong? Why did I do what I did?
These questions torture me every second, of every hour, of every day. It is these questions that keep me alive, that keep me from simply slipping into the vast, black nothingness of insanity. They torture me, day and night, but at the same time keep me from becoming an empty, pitiful shell, carcass, of a human being, like those the others have long become.
I say I am not like them, but in reality, I am little different. I eat, and sleep and move as infrequently as they do. Hell, I can hardly be called alive. So weak, I can hardly stand, with white hands that have barely the strength to hold a spoon. My eyes have long become used to the darkness – so used, in fact, that I think I they won't be able to bear the sunlight. Of course, the delusion that I will ever see sunlight is a ridiculous one. A mere hope, a straw, I cling on to, like the dying man that I am.
I am fading. No, I am sure they'll keep me alive – he will make sure of that – even if they have to force-feed me and make me drink Sleeping Potions. I am fading, my identity, my hopes and dreams and memories and everything I had been before... this. Sometimes, I try to remember the faces of my dead friends, but I can not. I try to recall something, anything, of the knowledge I gained at Hogwarts, and yet all I can remember is a handful of spells. Everything is slipping from my mind, like sand between fingers, and I can only sit there and watch it happen. I used to cry about it, before, but I can't anymore.
There is just the bleak, somewhat faded ache within my heart, an ache that is my only solace and light because it means I can still feel. It is my only company, my only companion, the last lingering sign of my fading humanity. Yet I know that soon, inevitably, even that will go and there will only be numbness. Merlin, how I dread and look forward to that moment...
I never wanted it to happen. I might have been a selfish, evil brat, but I never wanted this to happen. I never wanted the Ministry to turn into a band of puppets controlled by Voldemort. I never wanted so much pain, death, blood, anguish, despair...
I try to tell myself that it's not my fault. That it is Father who made it all possible. That is was he, and the others, who killed and tortured the right people – and made it possible for Voldemort to become so strong again. Indeed, I fear even Hogwarts is no longer pure. This evil is permeating everything, and when I visit the school, I half-expect to see malice and hatred in the eyes of the little children.
Voldemort has a way of getting into your heart and soul. I watch as those who were the closest of friends kill each other. I watch as families are broken apart, as those on one side plot against the ones on the other. Heck, who can be sure who is on whose side now? His spies are everywhere, listening, eavesdropping, collecting information, torturing, scheming. It could be anyone, from a five-year-old child to a dying old woman. No-one can be sure anymore – of anything.
I am fading. I am no longer the person I'd been once – no longer ambitious, proud, vain, haughty. Somehow, this evil had striped me of everything. My family. Friends. Hopes. Myself, even.
I live in a limbo. I work and eat and sleep and kneel before him, and yet I know that I am nothing. A robot. A shell of a human being. Yet somewhere deep inside me, my old self slumbers. I hope.
I guess it's the only way for me to remain untouched – both by Voldemort's promises and by the horrors I witness everyday. I say I 'witness', but in reality I've performed quite a few. I had to, don't mistake me, I never took pleasure and I prayed for those I've killed. How naïve... As if anything can cleanse me of what I've done...
If there is anything that pains me most, it's seeing the fallen hero. I visit him sometimes, in that hellish place that is probably worse than hell itself. He doesn't see me, not under my Cloak. He's so weak now, thin, pale, and yet still so beautiful. But his eyes are no longer shining emeralds - they're pale, like all of him.
I tell Voldemort I only visit to gloat. How lucky I am that my godfather made sure I became an accomplished Occlumens, because if Voldemort ever finds out about my true feelings - well, let's say I don't want to imagine the consequences.
Harry Potter is completely defeated. Broken, mutilated, his soul in tatters. I'm surprised that he's still sane, after Voldemort made him watch his friends die. Hermione Granger, tortured to death. Ronald Weasley. Arthur and Molly Weasley. Remus Lupin. Neville Longbottom. Ginny Weasley. All of them died before Harry's eyes. And scores of others dies by the wands of the Deatheaters.
He sits there and does not move. The Boy-Who-Lived. A twenty-year-old man who has endured more than some of the wizarding world's most renown heroes – put together.
And now this... God, how it hurts to see him like this. How blind I'd been, blinded by my pride and vanity and naïve delusions of greatness; I did not see what an angel he was - still is. My beautiful angel on a bloody rack, an angel with broken wings.
I cry, sometimes, silent tears streaming down my face. I tell myself it is the Dementors' influence, but I know that they have nothing to do with it. I love him. Simply so. Horribly so. I am close enough to reach out and touch him, and yet we are worlds apart. He, a prisoner toyed with and tossed aside like a torn glove. Me, Voldemort's most gifted protege.
We always were too different to be friends.
Too proud to be friends.
Too blind to be lovers.
Once, I thought I saw him. Platinum hair, grown longer now, fine, aristocratic features, eyes of molten silver.
Hallucinating again, probably. Wouldn't be the first time... And yet I find myself stronger than in months, suddenly wishing that he was here. That glimpse – or had it been a dream? - was the first familiar face I'd seen - remembered? - in weeks. Or had it been years? I can't remember...
Where is he now? Is he alive? What is he doing?
Having nothing else to do, I hungrily try to recall everything I can about him. His laughter, his pale hair and grey eyes, the manner in which he moved and spoke, his gestures, the scent of bitter herbs he always seemed to have about him. I go so far that maybe these aren't memories anymore – it's quite possible that I'm just fantasizing, that I'm making all these details up. However, I do not care.
Days later, I am more alert, and I hear his footsteps. Invisible, probably under a Cloak. Why is he here? What does he want? Does he come to gloat, to look at his master's handiwork? I cannot imagine him not being a Deatheater, although the little naïve child in me longs for him not o be one. Maybe he turned to the 'good side.' Maybe he is working with those few of us left. Maybe... Yes, of course, for how much longer am I going to delude myself?
I feel his presence. He just sits there, does not move, does not speak.
And then a thought slips into my mind – a rather ridiculous one. I can't be sure whether it my own tortured mind, or the influence of the prison, or simply knowing that another human being is here with me, but I suddenly think – no, know – that I love him.
Why, you may ask? Why do I love, if I indeed do, an enemy? I do not know why. I do not want to know why. But I long to see his face once more, really see, not imagine it, to hear his voice, to feel his hair under my fingers...
I sleep that night, for the first time in what seems like a very long while.
I ask Voldemort whether he has any plans for Harry. He says that he might need to use him as bait – to lure out those of the Order who are yet alive. How few they are...
I do not reply and simply walk away, but he is a sharp being, and senses my distress.
'Is something wrong?' he asks, in a voice that has as much warmth and caring as an icicle.
I lie that no, nothing is wrong, that I am merely tired. He orders me to go and rest, but I cannot sleep that night.
I am haunted by Harry. Haunted by his pain, and despair and, oh... guilt. I had nothing to do with his being put in that godforsaken prison, but I cannot but feel help the most sharp, overwhelming guilt. If I had done something, if I had stopped Father from going and capturing Harry in his London flat, then maybe all would have been different. Maybe Voldemort would not have been at large now. Maybe, possibly, I would have been dead. But I had done nothing, I had been too afraid, and now Father is dead (not that I am much upset about that), I am a Deatheater with a conscience and Harry is fading away.
If I could go back, would I change it all? Yes, a million times yes!
Would Harry have been mine now, if all had gone differently? No.
We always were too different to be friends.
Too proud to be friends.
Too blind to be lovers.
But he would have been free, and fighting, no doubt. And that would have been enough for me.
He comes every three days, I know that now. Once, the Cloak slipped off and I glimpsed his face. So beautiful; he always was. But cold. Like a statue of ice, perfect, yet emotionless and not alive.
But I did not see evil in this eyes. No, he was not lost. There was no malice, no hatred, no evil about him. He was a tired, worm out man.
Weeks after that, he comes again, without the Cloak. He makes the Dementors go away, says he is upon Voldemort's orders. That he has to retrieve some information from me.
We are alone now. He, an angel of beauty, a Deatheater – God, what an oxymoron... Me, the shards of the man I'd been. There's no hatred amongst us now, no wall of bitter words and hurled insults. Just the dry silence and a foot of almost solid darkness.
He looks even worse from up close. Horribly pale, almost colourless face, limp hair and thin limbs. The clothes he wears are worn, but whole and clean.
I turn away, not really knowing what to say or do.
'Why are you here?' is voice is hoarse after being unused for so long.
'I don't know,' I answer lamely.
'Is he going to kill me?' there is no emotion in that question.
'Yes.' I see no point in lying.
'Kill me. Now, please, don't let him have me,' he pleads in that still strangely empty, emotionless voice. Raises his eyes. Huge, empty eyes.
'I won't,' I say.
'Why?
Why, you want to know? Because the only thing I have left is hope. Hope that maybe I will have the courage to break free, to defy Voldemort, to laugh in his face and save you, whisk you away, heal you... Hope that maybe there is the faint chance that you will come to love me, need me.
Simply hope.