He hated everything about her: the way she tossed her hair, the know-it-all quality of her voice, the way she treated him like he was beneath her. Most of all he hated the expression in her eyes when she looked at him.
He would never be good enough for her, and so the good within him shrivelled and died. If he could not have her love he would have her hate. So he provoked her with whispered taunts and cruel rumours, revelling in her involuntary reactions to his words.
The more she hated him the more he ached to claim her; to sink his teeth into her soft skin and leave his mark for all to see. He would torment her until she sobbed for his touch, begging for a release that he wouldn't grant.
But for now he waited, and he watched.
When the Dark Lord succeeded she would be his reward.