She was like the cancer of my mind, the fire of my soul. She taunted me with every movement, every breath; her very presence demanding prostration. Each languid toss of titian waves, every minuscule glimpse of opaline flesh… She was Venus, Helen, Roxane, Salome, Guenevier. She was all and none. She was Ginevra. And if the name that fell from my eager lips as I pressed ardent kisses to throat and clavicle was sometimes 'Lily', she never once complained. And nor did I, though her sweet mouth never failed to gasp out 'Tom'. For who was Severus but her willing slave?