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This is a sick game, you know.
Don't give me that. You know exactly what I'm talking about.
I suppose I should have expected it. You do so love to play innocent. But I know you too well, you see. I'm not like the professors, I'm not like Dumbledore, and I'm not like your friends.
Perhaps that's why I understand you so well.
Well, regardless of why, the fact is that I do. I know exactly what's going on in that perfect little head of yours, and I know that you feel the same way.
I still hate you. Why I'm bothering to tell you, I don't know. Because you still hate me. But that's what makes this so beautiful. Mutual animosity. A fairly nonstandard basis for love, don't you think?
Yes, you do. Which is why in addition to hating me, you hate yourself. You hate us both because you love me.
You didn't think I knew, did you? Of course I know. I read you perfectly clearly.
Because I love you, too.
Now, don't think that I'm just saying this to make you feel better about the situation or some rot. It wouldn't anyway. In fact, it distresses you more because it increases the sick beauty in all of it.
I told you it was twisted. But of course you already knew. You already know the thrill. And you love it, almost as much as you love me.
No, I won't stop saying it. You do. But you're afraid of it, of me, and of yourself.
And that's alright.
Because you know what else?
So am I.