Disclaimer: Technically the following is all me since I entirely created Lucretia, but because it's also got stuff about Voldemort and Hogwarts, I can't claim all the credit
A/N: Hey, this was written for Electra, an amazing writer herself, because she asked for it and I thought it was a terrific idea. Others have asked for something like this as well, so here you go. This is very short just Lucretia's musings on her relationship with Voldemort. If you haven't read It's So Difficult to be Mature, this will make zero sense. So read that first. So far everyone who's read that loves it, so... Anyway, enjoy and this is NOT the sequel I'm planning. It's just a spur of the moment thing.
A Woman Scorned
It's hard to imagine that you could hate someone you once loved with a passion, but I do. He ruined me. He made me miserable. I don't even know if he ever loved me. I was only a girl when I fell for him. He was so mysterious, so powerful. He gave me shivers every time he walked by. I was his consort and his lover.
We used one another. That was really all there ever was between us, I see it now. I loved him, and he used me. I used him in return. I wanted his power. I wanted some of my own, so I could be his equal. Except that he never had equals. Only servants, and I was not about to be his servant. I had too much pride.
Like he did, I adopted an alias. Gertrude didn't suit me, it was too tame. I wanted a name that would cause witches and wizards to cringe when they heard it. He gave me the name. I didn't realize it until now, but he was asserting his dominance even then. I am not the kind of woman to submit to subservience so easily. I wanted power and I would do anything to get it. He created a hunger in me that was never quenched.
Before him, I was liked. I had friends. My House adored me, I was their Golden Child. The girl who brought glory to the Hufflepuff House. Then I met him and he saw an opportunity. He crushed my goodness. He fed a little of himself into me and I turned Dark. I alienated my friends, neglected my studies, and gave up whatever the future held for me. I suppose in that sense, he won.
It took me years to realize that he not only didn't love me, but that I was simply a prize to flaunt in the face of Albus Dumbledore. He had taken me from my path, corrupted me, and Dumbledore couldn't do a thing about it. By the time Dumbledore tried to reach me, it was too late. Dark power was like a drug to me, I needed more of it. I was dependent on it.
For several years we reigned together, although I was always below him. I struggled to be his counterpart, but no matter how many dead and tortured muggles I brought home to him, like a dog bringing the paper to it's master, I could never reach him. He pretended to love me with a passion equal to mine, but there was always something missing. But my desire for him and his power masked it. I stayed by his side, his trophy. I was his proof that he could win.
Then came the casting out. I was tired of letting him control me. I suffered it for too long, and it wasn't in my nature. I didn't fear him. I knew him better than he knew himself. I created him. We quarreled and he struck me down. It caused more damage than I knew then, but I struck back. I refused to suffer in silence. He refused to let me back in his life, and I refused to beg.
I am a patient woman. I waited for years to make my move. I waited until he would have forgotten me. I succeeded, too. He's gone. Only now I find myself yearning for the true him. The man who would take me in his arms and kiss me with an anger that scared me. He was never gentle. He didn't know how to be gentle. I let him hurt me, and it only strengthened my obsession for him. I didn't love him when he hit me, but I needed him. I craved his power. I never accepted the beatings. I retaliated. But I refused to leave.
I was second only to him. But I would have given my soul, and nearly did, to stand side by side with him on the peak of his empire. It was my one desire. By the time that he took me, I only cared for his opinion of me. I wanted him to look at me and tell me that I was amazing.
He's gone now and I am happy. He ruined me and nearly killed me. I could not forgive him for that. I cared for his opinion but my desire for self–preservation was stronger than my love for him. Yet, when I think of him, before he cast me aside like a used rag, I miss him. He was the only man I ever loved. And when I think of his bright blue eyes, perfect smile, and wonderful thick black hair, I shiver.
Yet I hate him. I hated him more while he was alive. The only man I loved threw me aside once he was finished with me. And he never gave me what I wanted. He was selfish, and I don't know how I could have ever believed his false promises. He was seductive and he killed my spirit. I hate him. Everything he did, he did in the name of death and for power. Served him right that he was destroyed by a baby.
I refused to cry over him. He wasn't worth the tears. Everything about him was fake, and the only sympathy I felt for him was based on that image I kept cherished in my heart. The true him. The one who showed me my potential. But what he became disgusted me. It took every ounce of strength I possessed not to flinch at the sight of him. Yet I was stuck to him because he was my drug, and I was hooked.
I don't understand how I could have been so thick. He never loved anyone. Why did I think that I, a misunderstood Hufflepuff, could have ever placed a claim on his heart? He had a heart of steel. It was cold, impervious to everything. All I wanted from him was a partnership and a child. We could have ruled the world as King and Queen with our child as heir. He threw that opportunity away when he grew tired with me.
And I loved him once. I really did. He fed it, the hunger, the desire, the cravings. He made me hate myself for groveling at his feet. I was never below a man just because I am a woman. Ever. Except with him. And that's why I hated him.
It wasn't because he used me; I used him too, so it was a trade. It wasn't because I loved him and he tossed me away with the garbage. It was because he made me less that what I am. He made me worship him. He turned me into the very image of a woman I hated. I had always promised myself that I would not be deferential to any man. I lied.
So I destroyed him. It felt good. Along with him went my self–doubts, and my fears of becoming a cringing bit of filth. I was finally on top and he was below me. I felt as if I had struck a blow for women everywhere who were confined by their gender. I was the most powerful. The bastard had nothing on me anymore.
It felt good.
A/N: Hey, this was written for Electra, an amazing writer herself, because she asked for it and I thought it was a terrific idea. Others have asked for something like this as well, so here you go. This is very short just Lucretia's musings on her relationship with Voldemort. If you haven't read It's So Difficult to be Mature, this will make zero sense. So read that first. So far everyone who's read that loves it, so... Anyway, enjoy and this is NOT the sequel I'm planning. It's just a spur of the moment thing.
A Woman Scorned
It's hard to imagine that you could hate someone you once loved with a passion, but I do. He ruined me. He made me miserable. I don't even know if he ever loved me. I was only a girl when I fell for him. He was so mysterious, so powerful. He gave me shivers every time he walked by. I was his consort and his lover.
We used one another. That was really all there ever was between us, I see it now. I loved him, and he used me. I used him in return. I wanted his power. I wanted some of my own, so I could be his equal. Except that he never had equals. Only servants, and I was not about to be his servant. I had too much pride.
Like he did, I adopted an alias. Gertrude didn't suit me, it was too tame. I wanted a name that would cause witches and wizards to cringe when they heard it. He gave me the name. I didn't realize it until now, but he was asserting his dominance even then. I am not the kind of woman to submit to subservience so easily. I wanted power and I would do anything to get it. He created a hunger in me that was never quenched.
Before him, I was liked. I had friends. My House adored me, I was their Golden Child. The girl who brought glory to the Hufflepuff House. Then I met him and he saw an opportunity. He crushed my goodness. He fed a little of himself into me and I turned Dark. I alienated my friends, neglected my studies, and gave up whatever the future held for me. I suppose in that sense, he won.
It took me years to realize that he not only didn't love me, but that I was simply a prize to flaunt in the face of Albus Dumbledore. He had taken me from my path, corrupted me, and Dumbledore couldn't do a thing about it. By the time Dumbledore tried to reach me, it was too late. Dark power was like a drug to me, I needed more of it. I was dependent on it.
For several years we reigned together, although I was always below him. I struggled to be his counterpart, but no matter how many dead and tortured muggles I brought home to him, like a dog bringing the paper to it's master, I could never reach him. He pretended to love me with a passion equal to mine, but there was always something missing. But my desire for him and his power masked it. I stayed by his side, his trophy. I was his proof that he could win.
Then came the casting out. I was tired of letting him control me. I suffered it for too long, and it wasn't in my nature. I didn't fear him. I knew him better than he knew himself. I created him. We quarreled and he struck me down. It caused more damage than I knew then, but I struck back. I refused to suffer in silence. He refused to let me back in his life, and I refused to beg.
I am a patient woman. I waited for years to make my move. I waited until he would have forgotten me. I succeeded, too. He's gone. Only now I find myself yearning for the true him. The man who would take me in his arms and kiss me with an anger that scared me. He was never gentle. He didn't know how to be gentle. I let him hurt me, and it only strengthened my obsession for him. I didn't love him when he hit me, but I needed him. I craved his power. I never accepted the beatings. I retaliated. But I refused to leave.
I was second only to him. But I would have given my soul, and nearly did, to stand side by side with him on the peak of his empire. It was my one desire. By the time that he took me, I only cared for his opinion of me. I wanted him to look at me and tell me that I was amazing.
He's gone now and I am happy. He ruined me and nearly killed me. I could not forgive him for that. I cared for his opinion but my desire for self–preservation was stronger than my love for him. Yet, when I think of him, before he cast me aside like a used rag, I miss him. He was the only man I ever loved. And when I think of his bright blue eyes, perfect smile, and wonderful thick black hair, I shiver.
Yet I hate him. I hated him more while he was alive. The only man I loved threw me aside once he was finished with me. And he never gave me what I wanted. He was selfish, and I don't know how I could have ever believed his false promises. He was seductive and he killed my spirit. I hate him. Everything he did, he did in the name of death and for power. Served him right that he was destroyed by a baby.
I refused to cry over him. He wasn't worth the tears. Everything about him was fake, and the only sympathy I felt for him was based on that image I kept cherished in my heart. The true him. The one who showed me my potential. But what he became disgusted me. It took every ounce of strength I possessed not to flinch at the sight of him. Yet I was stuck to him because he was my drug, and I was hooked.
I don't understand how I could have been so thick. He never loved anyone. Why did I think that I, a misunderstood Hufflepuff, could have ever placed a claim on his heart? He had a heart of steel. It was cold, impervious to everything. All I wanted from him was a partnership and a child. We could have ruled the world as King and Queen with our child as heir. He threw that opportunity away when he grew tired with me.
And I loved him once. I really did. He fed it, the hunger, the desire, the cravings. He made me hate myself for groveling at his feet. I was never below a man just because I am a woman. Ever. Except with him. And that's why I hated him.
It wasn't because he used me; I used him too, so it was a trade. It wasn't because I loved him and he tossed me away with the garbage. It was because he made me less that what I am. He made me worship him. He turned me into the very image of a woman I hated. I had always promised myself that I would not be deferential to any man. I lied.
So I destroyed him. It felt good. Along with him went my self–doubts, and my fears of becoming a cringing bit of filth. I was finally on top and he was below me. I felt as if I had struck a blow for women everywhere who were confined by their gender. I was the most powerful. The bastard had nothing on me anymore.
It felt good.