I am always dancing now.
Even when my feet are still, I am doing a graceful waltz. The music never stops, never gets drowned out.
Not since him.
It was he who taught me. He taught me everything I know.
First, he taught me what love was. He made me fall into it. His voice was sweeter than honey, and deadlier than cyanide.
But I listened. Oh, did I listen. Because he played the most beautiful sounds.
His promises were a movement in themselves. Something played on the piano. Rich and deep and classic.
But when they were broken, it was the sad, mourning sound of a violin.
But he always knew how to make the sound beautiful again.
He taught me to dance. He took me to a ballroom, the likes of which I had never seen. The floors were marble, the walls were silk. The ceiling crystal. The light, coming neither from a lamp or a flame, but seeming to come from the movements themselves, reflected off the ceiling, sending streams of color across the room. Those streams of color danced as we danced, and I was enchanted.
We danced for hours. Until my feet were aching, and my legs were screaming in protest. And even then, it didn't stop. He told me if we stopped, he would leave and I would die.
And I believed him.
And that is when it started. We were dancing, even in my sleep. I would wake in the morning to find that I had kicked the blankets off my bed, and there were aches in my calves and up my spine.
And when Harry took him from me, he taught me how to wait. I was patient, because I knew he would return.
He told me so every night, while I dreamt, when I was taken back to that beautiful ballroom.
And I was reminded every morning when it was difficult to walk.
And the night that he finally lived again, he taught me the most valuable lesson of all.
He taught me to destroy.
Destroy the minds, the bodies, and the souls of my victims.
And that is why I'm here.
They think I am insane. That my mind has been addled by magic.
They don't think he exists. They insist that the last piece of him was destroyed in my first year.
But they don't understand.
I, alone, bore the last piece of him. It was imbedded within my soul, and a simple Basilisk's fang couldn't destroy it.
And I was the one who brought him back.
They are all dead. All of them. My family, my friends. Even the man I loved.
He told me it was necessary.
And now, without him, I will still dance.
The atmosphere is different. It is blindingly white and perfect clean.
But I am still in that ballroom. And I will dance until the day I die.