She joined him because it was what her parents wanted and because she had been taught that his cause was right. She stayed with him because power appealed to her, and she grew to enjoy the tortured screams of those she killed for him. But most of all, she both joined and stayed because she adored him. With all her twisted mind and heart. He was everything a man should be: pureblood, of course, strong, powerful with access to plentiful money, intelligent, and ruthless. She would have done anything for him. Not because she supported his cause, although she did, but because, if she did her work well, then he might spare her a thought, a glance, and if she was lucky, touch her, or praise her work. She was the most loyal. She had spent years in Azkaban for him. The thought of him had kept her alive and maintained her dreadful clarity of thought, which reflected like too-bright sun throughout the fog of her obvious insanity. She may have married Rodolphus, a marriage of status and convenience, but she never loved him. Although she could never suppress it, she considered him, her master, too great for her love. He was above it, he was powerful enough to shut it out, as she never could. She could never hope to be raised above a servant in his eyes. Not even the most valuable of his servants. But she was the most loyal. She could offer him that. Throughout her life she did her best to emulate him, but she never could quash her greatest fault. The love that he inspired in her was immortal, much as it's object was, and more in the end.