He seemed like the perfect person: His soft blond hair fell loosely into his dark grey eyes; his body tanned and toned perfectly showing his muscles, his charm and wit overpowering his beautiful features. Although he seemed perfect, behind the gentle smile, was a hidden and dangerous persona. His hands were perfect and that was not sweating nor trembling were waiting for that one person.
He couldn't wait. She would never accept him. They were too different – she had values on good and evil, he felt that the world belonged to him and what wasn't his wasn't to be anyone else's.
She was in the library. She always was. He watched her through his piercing grey eyes. She was beautiful: Honey colored eyes, brown silky soft hair and breathtaking figure. It had to be tonight. He had to strike.
Stepping out of the library he waited.
Midnight.
There she was.
A muffled scream.
A soft thud.
She was his.
Caressing her silky hair, he inhaled her scent. It wasn't possible to kill her just yet, he needed someone to fill in the unbearable hunger, the unfulfilled emptiness in him.
Three days passed. Soon she would regain consciousness. Then what would happen to the unbearable hunger and emptiness he felt?
He had to kill her now. There wasn't another choice, not if he wanted her to stay his.
He was in Azkaban. First degree murder. Guilty. Her body was found at his mansion, turned into a sculpture, stuffed and hung on a wall.
He was to be given the kiss and although he knew what was going to happen to him, his head was held high, confident, like nothing was wrong. And just before the kiss was given he uttered in a hollow voice:
"It was beautiful tragedy. It was love. But no-one would understand."