I've loved him since the first day I laid eyes on him, in the shop. I rambled to him, just to keep him there and hoping against all hope that he would speak to me. I reached out my hand on the train, a few days later, not realizing what I was doing. I wanted to touch him, but all I felt was the sting of his refusal. Ever since then, I've held him up as the epitome of perfection. The unkempt hair, emerald eyes in perpetual confusion and determination. He has always been the only one worthy of my insults, my utterances, my sniping, my feelings that I forced into hatred. Throughout our days in school, we each had one role to fulfill, to play to the best of our abilities. His was the role of Wonder Boy, the headmaster's Golden Boy, the hope of our kind, the Boy-Who-Lived. And there was me. After him, I had the most influence. After him, I was the most feared, heir of the most powerful and hated Death Eater, expected to follow my father into evil. No one knew back there in school – that I was working for the other side, that I loved the Boy-Who-Lived. We graduated and to all who noticed, I joined my father, joined Evil. In reality, I had followed my favorite professor's example and became a spy. I don't think my love knew – no one told him. For five years, I passed on information, things that saved his life, his friends, his world. He never knew. For five years, we fought for the same side; I just had a pretense to live up to while he paraded his innocence in full glory. For five years.