Reflections of a Spiteful Ally
A bitter wind passed through the open window of my office. Trivial things like this normally wouldn't bother me in the least, but I was in a bad mood. A flick of my wand and the windows slammed shut. Perhaps I was a bit too angry, the shutters almost flew off their hinges, but at this point I was beyond caring much about how the shutters of the window looked.
The letter was smoldering in the fire, it didn't burn as fast as it ought have. Perhaps it was because it was Dumbledore's paper, perhaps the fire wasn't hot enough or perhaps it was because the paper was still damp from the water I had spat upon it, but in any case after I had thrown it into the fire it had still sat there for 5 minutes, mocking my attempt to burn it, until it had finally shriveled up into ash.
The words still seemed bitter. Just a short message from Dumbledore was all it was, saying what had happened in the Department; a quick note stating that Potter was fine and that Black was dead.
You'd have thought it would make me happy.
It didn't though. All I had was a feeling of disgust and utter loathing towards Black. Black who had tricked me; Black who had taunted me; Black who had humiliated me.
I had told myself I would dance upon his grave, maybe that's why I wasn't happy, he wasn't just dead, he was gone and I had no grave to dance upon, no body to mock, no face at which to scream "I beat you Black, I beat you!".
The war between myself and Black had gone on for ages. It should have felt good to be done with it; I couldn't grasp why it felt so bad.
"I should have killed him myself," I said to no one in particular.
That may have been it. I had sworn to have my revenge on him, but Lestrange had taken that away from me. I had sworn it every night for the past 20 years, sworn that in the end I would be triumphant. That I would maim him, or kill him or whatever I felt like, and it would feel sweet, it was supposed to taste sweet.
This tasted more like bile than anything else.
It was the same when Potter had died. I swore I would dance on his grave too; swore that I would continue to hate him for eternity, but in the end I hadn't danced on his grave. I had loathed him, oh yes, I always would loathe him, but I had to let him rest in piece.
I don't know why, but Potter had made me owe him in some form. He had put me in danger and I hated him for it, but still I owed him. Down deep within me somewhere though I hated to admit it I owed him. That's why I couldn't dance upon Potter's grave, because I owed the man. Damn him! Damn Potter and damn Black too. Damn the lot of them.
I didn't understand why it worked like that. Why couldn't I hate Black, why couldn't I be content to loathe him for eternity? Why must I feel retched about a man whom I despised?
Black hadn't done anything for me; he had tried to kill me. I should be laughing, down at the Hog's Head drinking my eyes out in celebration; instead I was brooding in my office, psychoanalyzing myself.
Black and I still had things to settle; even in his death he would give me no peace.
Lestrange should have stayed out of it; it was my conflict; he was mine. If anyone should have killed him it should have been me, and so my thirst for retribution remained unquenched.
I would kill Lestrange; I need vengeance of some kind. Black and I had a personal war; it was ours alone to fight, she had no right to interfere.
"I will kill her and then I will be fine," I decided.
Black's death would be at peace, and I could go back to loathing him. But that would not happen either, I knew; it had not worked with Potter.
Potter remained still, his son at least, another taunt in this abysmal life, and he was just as arrogant and pinheaded as his father was. I knew he would be just like his father the moment I saw him, knew he would be just as loathsome and dense. So still I was unable to forget Potter and that damned black hair of his; I had a constant reminder of my teenaged torment, of my humiliation.
"I will not allow this to happen again!" I screamed out, " I will not have Black haunting me. Lestrange will die by my hands."
Damn Lestrange. Damn Black. Damn them all.
A bitter wind passed through the open window of my office. Trivial things like this normally wouldn't bother me in the least, but I was in a bad mood. A flick of my wand and the windows slammed shut. Perhaps I was a bit too angry, the shutters almost flew off their hinges, but at this point I was beyond caring much about how the shutters of the window looked.
The letter was smoldering in the fire, it didn't burn as fast as it ought have. Perhaps it was because it was Dumbledore's paper, perhaps the fire wasn't hot enough or perhaps it was because the paper was still damp from the water I had spat upon it, but in any case after I had thrown it into the fire it had still sat there for 5 minutes, mocking my attempt to burn it, until it had finally shriveled up into ash.
The words still seemed bitter. Just a short message from Dumbledore was all it was, saying what had happened in the Department; a quick note stating that Potter was fine and that Black was dead.
You'd have thought it would make me happy.
It didn't though. All I had was a feeling of disgust and utter loathing towards Black. Black who had tricked me; Black who had taunted me; Black who had humiliated me.
I had told myself I would dance upon his grave, maybe that's why I wasn't happy, he wasn't just dead, he was gone and I had no grave to dance upon, no body to mock, no face at which to scream "I beat you Black, I beat you!".
The war between myself and Black had gone on for ages. It should have felt good to be done with it; I couldn't grasp why it felt so bad.
"I should have killed him myself," I said to no one in particular.
That may have been it. I had sworn to have my revenge on him, but Lestrange had taken that away from me. I had sworn it every night for the past 20 years, sworn that in the end I would be triumphant. That I would maim him, or kill him or whatever I felt like, and it would feel sweet, it was supposed to taste sweet.
This tasted more like bile than anything else.
It was the same when Potter had died. I swore I would dance on his grave too; swore that I would continue to hate him for eternity, but in the end I hadn't danced on his grave. I had loathed him, oh yes, I always would loathe him, but I had to let him rest in piece.
I don't know why, but Potter had made me owe him in some form. He had put me in danger and I hated him for it, but still I owed him. Down deep within me somewhere though I hated to admit it I owed him. That's why I couldn't dance upon Potter's grave, because I owed the man. Damn him! Damn Potter and damn Black too. Damn the lot of them.
I didn't understand why it worked like that. Why couldn't I hate Black, why couldn't I be content to loathe him for eternity? Why must I feel retched about a man whom I despised?
Black hadn't done anything for me; he had tried to kill me. I should be laughing, down at the Hog's Head drinking my eyes out in celebration; instead I was brooding in my office, psychoanalyzing myself.
Black and I still had things to settle; even in his death he would give me no peace.
Lestrange should have stayed out of it; it was my conflict; he was mine. If anyone should have killed him it should have been me, and so my thirst for retribution remained unquenched.
I would kill Lestrange; I need vengeance of some kind. Black and I had a personal war; it was ours alone to fight, she had no right to interfere.
"I will kill her and then I will be fine," I decided.
Black's death would be at peace, and I could go back to loathing him. But that would not happen either, I knew; it had not worked with Potter.
Potter remained still, his son at least, another taunt in this abysmal life, and he was just as arrogant and pinheaded as his father was. I knew he would be just like his father the moment I saw him, knew he would be just as loathsome and dense. So still I was unable to forget Potter and that damned black hair of his; I had a constant reminder of my teenaged torment, of my humiliation.
"I will not allow this to happen again!" I screamed out, " I will not have Black haunting me. Lestrange will die by my hands."
Damn Lestrange. Damn Black. Damn them all.