Someone once told me it is better to have loved and lost, than to have never of loved at all. Whoever told me that must never have loved her, because loving her, is by far the most painful thing I have ever experienced. And I have experienced a lot of pain.
Welcome to my life. If you are wondering, yes it does suck, quite much in fact. And if you are wondering who I am, I have to answer you honestly; it does not matter. It never has mattered. I may not even exist. Do you care? I doubt it, I doubt it very much.
I am old now, a wrinkled mass of scarred flesh; useless to the world and to myself. People did not always turn away from me in revulsion; I was not always so ugly to look at. Once I was attractive, handsome even. I had clear, smooth skin, white blonde hair soft as silk, and the best clothes money could buy. I have nothing now.
I have made mistakes- so many mistakes. She was never one of them, but everything leading up to, and everything after her was.
And yet you are still here, waiting to listen to a bitter old mans stories, as though they have any merit, or are in the least bit worthy of your attention. They aren't by the way. But as you are still here, and as you are patiently waiting, I will tell you, explain to you, how it all happened, why I am the way I am, and why I am so undeserving.
I hated her the day I met her, and I hate her to this day. It consumed me, and I wanted her like nothing else. She monopolized my everyday thoughts; I could kill her for that. And yet there she was.
She was beautiful; diaphanous. I often felt inferior in her presence, but she wouldn't have liked to have known that. She's dead now anyway. She died in the war. A lot of people did.
I was there; if you must know. In the war I mean. I watched her die. It was slow; tragic. I think it was then that I truly appreciated her. It was hard living afterwards, so many times I wanted to leave the world myself; I still have the scars to prove it. Nevertheless I exist- I think that is my punishment; to live, to remember.
The day we fist kissed was phenomenal; not the day mind, the kiss. The day was dreadful.
She had had me cornered; they'd been searching for me for weeks. She asked me if I had any last words- so Gryffindor of her. I told her I hated her and wanted her to have my child. She looked at me as though I was a disgusting piece of filth from under her shoe.
She then proceeded to lead (and when I say lead, I mean forcefully drag) me to the Order. They magically bound and apparated me to their headquarters; I was to be charged with attempted murder; I was to be killed.
I was a bloody mess; I had gotten considerably scratched up in my flight from Hogwarts, and though a month had passed since that night, I had yet to wash. I must have smelled, I cannot remember. I have since lost most of my senses; or so it seems.
I cried that evening. I cried most evenings. I had not seen either of my parents in months; my mother was likely dead by now. Voldemort had been searching for me, the dark mark; it still burns my flesh. It was much worse then, when he was sill alive. Now all I feel is the remnants of an evil man, seeking to destroy.
I had been thrown into a room, locked and sealed. I had no wand. I did not know if Snape too, had been captured. They left me unaware of all.
They sent a house elf in to tend me- Kreacher. How I despised him. His descendant now cares for me. He held me no respect. I had betrayed the family name; I was filth, equal to the mudblood in his eyes. He begrudgingly gave me a tray; on it a bowl of soup- chicken I believe, and a piece of bread. I ate it all, and vomited notoriously afterwards. It far surpassed the quality and quantity of food I had recently been living off of, and my body could not yet handle it.
I had to use the toilet, but there was not one in the room. I tried the door, but it was locked. I knew it would be. I wanted to call out for help, but my voice was too weak. It was hours before anyone thought to ask me if I needed to go. I had soiled myself by then. It was by far the most degrading experience of my life. Worst even, than my initiation to the Death Eaters.
She was the one who came to me that night. I was lying in the corner, foul and deranged. She must not have breathed around me, because by then my body did reek, I know that much. She lifted me without magic; she was strong. I leaned on her and she led me to the lavatory. She turned away and let me relieve my needs. She then proceeded to start a bath for me. She gave me a bar of soap and turned towards the wall again, as I undressed.
I do not remember wondering why it was her doing this for me. It would have made sense for one of the male members of the Order to have helped me, or even an adult woman. I do not wonder now; it would be useless information to me at this point.
I stepped in the water rather reluctantly; it scalded my skin, and I was red within seconds. But I was filthy with grime and dried blood, so I proceeded to rub myself raw. I ached afterwards. I stood when I was done, and she handed me a towel. She looked at me, I was naked, exposed. I grabbed the towel and covered myself quickly. She would not see me so weak.
I stepped out of the tub and stumbled. She grabbed my arm and steadied me. I once again marveled at her strength. It did not occur to me then how pathetic I was, how skeletal.
She led me back to the room and sat me on the bed. She handed me some clear soda and a bathrobe. I couldn't take both so I took only the soda. My mouth was still sour. I nursed it slowly; I did not want to repeat my earlier performance. She watched me, we said nothing. When I had finished, she took my empty glass and helped me into the robe. It was too large for my bony frame.
She asked me if I was okay and I said nothing. I hadn't spoken since they took me. At that point I felt no need to. She looked at me with large, sad eyes and I cried. She held me. She was warm, where as I was cold. When finally my eyes were dry, and I was drifting off to sleep, she looked at me; really looked at me; into my eyes, my soul, my battered core. And then she kissed me, and it was wonderful. I felt good; sane almost. Better than I had ever. It was like I was free, like my life was mine. My life has never been mine. Not even now, when the war is over, and lives have been restored. I am still not my own.
But that night, that night I was. And she was with me, and we felt happy. Maybe. I felt happy, that much I remember. I could not think enough to know if she was happy; to care. I assumed she was, because I was. My bed was warm that night.