Not Love
It is not love that brings him to the sturdy desk of his potions classroom on certain nights, and it is not love that has her sneaking through the door of said classroom beneath a borrowed cloak. A garment intended to render her invisible to the world, friends and foes alike. As every friend to see her here might turn to foe faster than she knows how to draw her wand, whereas her foes might become inclined to regard her with something akin to friendliness. And she cannot let either happen in these times. Lines have to be kept, carefully guarded and, if necessary, defended. No blurring of feelings, as victory needs rightful hatred, or an almost fanatic conviction to its cause.
It is only to him that she will reveal herself, as for all the knowledge she has gathered in her sixteen years, she has not learned to share confidences or feelings. And he demands neither. Wouldn't even know what to do with it, probably. Or, even more likely, would know to retreat to his customary hiding place inside a swirling black cloak made of heavy wool. A deceptively simple cloak, which matches the sneer he is used to wearing with it.
It is not a romantic notion that lights the torches on walls of cold stone, illuminating the room in yellowish light, giving it an appearance of warmth that their encounters thoroughly lack. Her hair is burnished copper against his black, a red as rusty and mottled as dried blood, and his pale, spidery hands look like white scars marring her skin. Skin that is still almost baby-smooth in reality, but reality does not exist in this room. It falls under the reign of desperation, of depravity, too, as of now. Ever since his desk was bathed in her virgin blood, given freely, yet taken quite forcefully, almost a year ago, this room reeks of sacrifice, of the foul smell created by the cost of living, which is most expensive, as he has always known and as she has since discovered. It should smell of herbs and roses, not of this all-permeating stench, but he has long since forgotten that there might be things not drenched in this foulness, and she has no desire to look for it any longer.
It is not the first time they have met in this room, upon the smoothly polished, but heavily stained surface of his desk. It won't be the last. She might be able to recall that first night, but she chooses not to. He was under the influence of dangerous vapours effusing from a potion commissioned by one of his masters. The one which is darker than the other, if maybe not quite as dangerous, for all the terror he's been credited with. He does not remember much. All that he recalls of this night is the unquenchable desire to taint innocence. Though he does not think they will meet here much longer, as it has already taken him far longer than he expected to rid her of all her innate purity. Soon there will be none left for him to feed upon. He does not know where that will leave him. But he knows where it will leave her. Yes, that he knows intimately. Probably more intimately than he knows her, even after he has taken her in every way possible to human kind, shrouded her in the same darkness that seeps out of his pores and colours his breath.
It is not quite a secret they keep in these late hours. Or at least, it is not theirs alone. These walls do talk, and they have always done so, at least to their past and current masters. And while some of the past ones choose to cringe almost three dimensionally within their gilded frames, the current one has chosen to refrain from interference. He does not extend his blessing, as it is not needed anyway and would only destroy the very thing it were meant to further, but he extends his benevolence. At least that's what he calls it every time he offers her a twinkle or a lemon drop, to preserve her youthful innocence, her childish trust, just a little bit longer.
It is essential that both of them stay here under his influence, that they stay bound, forceful in their desperation and hunger for even more sacrifices. They are two of his greatest assets, fearless of pain and death, as there is nothing left they want to live for.
It is their destiny that has percolated through the surface of a desk in a classroom set deep within the foundation walls of Hogwarts. Next to embedded lines of black and bright red ink, precise and purposeful, like veins on their quest for the heart, but marred by whitish bruises, created by acidic fluids of various organic origin. And when he sits at his desk, in class, ready to dissect piles of waiting essays with his quill, he sometimes finds himself staring at a spot of dull red-brown. And he feels the hunger rising in his blood once more, boiling to the surface, unbidden yet welcome, and almost enough to bring a touch of colour to his face. Almost.
It is not the colour that doesn't reach his face that alerts her to his mood, sending an unspoken invitation through the layers of her outer robes, her pleated skirt and plain white underwear. It is the fire suddenly rising in his eyes, the brief feral grin revealing several pointy ends of the stained teeth he normally cares to hide. She has become used to his erratic behaviour, his random bouts of lust, if they could be labelled such. She knows him to be a spy after all, a profession where predictability is a death sentence, or a death warrant at best. And she has been carefully conditioned to respond to these sudden appointments.
They come as sudden as the burning of his mark when he is called to bow at his masters feet. Though tonight it is her cowering on the ground, between his legs, on the cold stone floor, damp from the weeping walls of the dungeons. And while his body is quite with her at the moment, enjoying the efforts she is making not to gag, the small signs of pain she has learned not to hide from him, his thoughts are elsewhere. Wondering if the walls have always been dripping like this, or if it is his presence, his long-time residence in these rooms that is responsible for the steady noise of drops shattering on the floor, forming murky puddles. Like her tears do, sometimes, but not nearly often enough. With tears streaming out of her eyes, her nose clogged, struggling to get her fill of oxygen, as she knows better than to release him from her mouth, she always reminds him of the frightened first-year Granger, hiding from a mountain troll in the girls' bathroom. Poor, lonely know-it-all, thinking she could make this world her own, reign it like a Gryffindor princess and defend it like a lioness rampant.
It is but a memory he has meticulously guarded. But it is a powerful one, of a time he still managed to scare her, intimidate her. And it is almost enough to make him spurt deep into her throat. But he does not surrender the only control he has left over his life that easily. With his masters, his bodily functions are not his own, where one dissembles them, the other puts them back together. He cannot tell, which, in the end, is more unwelcome. But here, in the potions classroom, he is the master of all things, alive or long dead, and he does not relinquish any of his power.
It is what she craves, too. She no longer fears him, fear has eluded her lately, but she submits to his dominance and the pain he inflicts. Pain that she does not fear, but can still feel. And a dominance that is far more tangible than the subtle, but powerful manipulation that has controlled her life ever since the troll incident and her befriending of the boy-who-lived. She has no choice against that, but here, in this classroom, she is by choice, a choice that is hers alone, and she treasures it for this simple fact.
It is a tangled web they weave, and he, as their omniscient master, the one who has instigated their first encounter by sending innocence down to the dungeons, aware of the potion being brewed at that very moment, knows all about it. The silken threads so seemingly fragile and easy to be destroyed, yet they are powerful and poisonous enough to lure their prey to its certain death. They just have to take care not to trap themselves within this appealing labyrinth they have created. At least not before the war is over.