Chapter 1 : Heart's Desire
| ||Rating: 15+||Chapter Reviews: 23|
Change Background: Change Font color:
I stare into it’s glassy depths, obscured slightly by the blood in my eyes, shaking, trying not to see it taunt me. How cruel was this contraption? How twisted its maker? Another bout of shudders run through my body; I’m dying whether I realize it or not. Gently reaching out, cold hand shaking, I want to touch the illusion before my eyes, grab it, kill it in my hands, make it real... But I stop, my fingers centimeters from the hem of the robes. My hand will meet glass, I know it.
Many times this image has haunted my dreams, my day visions, my peripheral eye, as if were I to turn left or right I would see it coming to swoop me into it’s embrace. I’ve never seen it playing before my eyes, visually, let alone in a flat surface. Taunting me, taunting my heart’s deepest want and desire.
It’s stupid inscription was blaring down at me as if in neon lighting, that Latin that I’ll never want to or need to understand, for it all means one thing: What you can’t have. Staring hatefully into the depths of the glassy mirror, no longer paying attention to the wounds covering my body, broken and bleeding and decaying like Juliet over Romeo’s poisoned body. Slowly, as I stare up at the image burning into my tired eyes like a thousand little needles, I slowly feel it starting.
It’s an odd sensation, I haven’t felt it in years. Some sort of deep clenching on my stomach, hot, gripping it’s way up my intestines, crushing my back so that I bend double over myself. My body is shaking now more from cold and pain and actual fear that now that Voldemort and the others are gone, the accursed Ministry will find me before I die here, alone. Forsaken by those cowards, that traitor, lost to my master to whom I have given every fiber of my being. My body is wracked with a thousand painful points of rolling sensations, consuming my entire body like fire that burns a curious child.
Looking back, I have no idea why I did it all. Pointless, it was, to become who I was based on a stupid thing like love. Why does it seem like that little word means death and destruction to so many, now including myself? It was a pointless quest, but all my life had been in vain until today, when I realized.
No matter how hard I tried. No matter how many I killed. No matter how many goddamn times I let him invade the deep of my mind and body for pleasure better than any physical contact or sex could bring.... He would never want me the way I wanted him. Hell, he would never want me at all. Of course I was beautiful in my youth, but corruption of the soul and mind does not often leave the surface unmarred, and after years of my work my body was turning on me. I knew it was useless to try to win him with my looks, he could cast a spell over any supermodel and have them in his bed in minutes if he so chose.
But, of course, he was always more metaphysical than physical.
Somehow, though, I could not help but feel like all of this was deeply his fault. Of course, most things these days are, but also what is happening to me. It’s his fault I fell in love with him when I first laid eyes on him as a child. It’s his fault that I was able to see through all his barriers and sick mind games to see who he used to be. I loved everything about his independence, his desire to prove himself, to have power. It was thrilling, the bad boy personification. Even if he was forbiddingly older than myself, I knew I wanted him above anything any twelve year old girl could ever desire. Even if he was old enough to be my father, I didn’t care. He was perfect in every way to me.
As the sensations kept ripping through my body, I remembered that first encounter. The day I stood in the study of my father’s house, smiling shyly at the frightening creature before me. He’d glared down his nose at me as my father writhed on the floor under the Cruciatus, and he’d directly spoken to me for the first time.
“Shed you not a tear for this man and dare you to smile upon me....” he hissed menacingly. “Are you blind?”
I almost dared a giggle, but something about my father’s pained screams stopped me from it. “Purebloods do not suffer the same diseases that the Mudbloods do.”
He stared at me for a moment, ignoring that his victim’s wife, my mother, was screaming for him to lift the curse, that he’d honestly never meant to do wrong by his Lord. Then he cracked a sneer, probably as close as he could ever get when he was that maimed. He nodded curtly to me, tugging hard on a lock of my hair so that it hurt badly, before turning back to my father as he screamed silently now, no voice left. From then on there was an insane bond between us, because we both thought the same.
At least on some level.
But now, I shakily take back my hand, feeling tears piercing my eyes like knives. The salty tears burned a fiery, hellish pain into the cuts in my eyeballs and cheeks, but if anything it just made me want this illusion more. The more pain, the better I felt. For some reason it always has been so. I suppose my father beat me so many times as a child that I came to think of it as the pleasure I do today.... Shaking my head, I tried to look away from the vision. But it seemed that every way I turned, there it was, smirking down at me in some unseen way.
I remember, now, how he promised me the world. He promised me land, power and money. What else, he’d said, could such a lovely woman want? I knew many answers to that question, and though he never even implied it, somehow I thought I could have him, too. Why wouldn’t he want me? Damnit, I was young, beautiful, and a Black for God’s sake. I was going to be the best servant he ever had if it killed me.
And it has... sneered a nasty little voice.
“God I hate you!” I gasped at the man before me. “I hate you! You killed me! Look at what you’ve done!”
I had everything I could ever want. I had power, of course I did. I’d been his right hand woman in killing Potter. In fact, his stupid, seventeen year old body was in a pool of blackening blood just feet away, among many other corpses. Who had done everything he’d ever wanted her to? Me. Who’d been looking for him and gone to Azkaban for it? Me. How dare all those other liars even fathom calling themselves his loyal servants?! I have been with my master since I was twelve years old. I’ve been by his side since I was sixteen. I gave him every part of me there was to give and he gave nothing back.
“You’ve used me!” I sobbed, beating a fist against the hem of his robes. “You used me like a bloody whore! I was your whore! I seduced every man you sent my way for you!”
I started crying fully, feeling my body shake in it’s icy coldness. Death was coming, I could almost see the dark shadows of the room slowly creeping closer. I could almost sense some supernatural force tiptoeing it’s way towards me, just to torture me as I waited. Shoulders shaking as burning tears fell down my bloody face, I glared hatefully but lovingly at the figures before me.
“You were my first!” I whispered. “In everything there ever could be a first for, you were it. I love you. I loved you. You did this to me. I’d be alive if you’d never come along!”
But the face sneered down at me, like usual. It knew my pain and it fed off it. Just like he fed off every noise and jitter I made when he ever touched me. Just like he knew I relished the physical pain he lashed upon me that night, when I was but sixteen. And just like he broke my heart when he died.
I remember that day vividly, the hot tears of grief and anguish. My life was over, there was nothing left. I’d revolved my pitiful existence around him, he was my everyone and everything.
And so I did the first thing that came to mind. I killed countless Muggles in a last attempt to obtain what my love so desired. And then I found Rudolphus. He had always been madly in love with me, and Lestrange was a respectable name to have. And now that my Lord was dead and had left me alone forever.... I was going to kill myself.
Not physically, though. I wouldn’t dare, because in the back of my mind I wanted to believe he would come save me someday. But emotionally, mentally... I was ready to die. And so Rudolphus and I wed just before our trial of the Wizenmegot. I suppose I figured that he would keep me safe until he got back, if he ever did. I don’t know what insanity possessed me, and it just made me relish more the day that I killed him in our kitchen, after the others had helped us escape Azkaban. The sight of a body in blood and it being my work has always delighted me.
Nothing however, has delighted me more than him, though. I always knew that he was in there, somewhere beneath that hideous shell. I remembered him as I first met him, so many years ago, devilishly handsome even though he was then ghastly, too. I always imagined that he would break down the walls of that horrid prison and take me in his arms, tugging on my hair so hard it almost bled, just to let me know I was his again.
But he never came. The others who has escaped persecution came, after the Dementors fled. And I was alone, without a ripping pain in my skull to comfort me. But then he came back. Not to me first, but he came eventually. He came and stared down at me as I cowered on my knees, waiting for some signal of love or gratitude. None came, he just walked on. My heart burst in my chest from the swell of emotions that had welled up.
I was dying.
And now, as I lay at death’s door in that old room, I knew I was far past ready for the spirit of the dead to come collect me. As the mirror stood before me, reflecting my heart’s deepest desire, I felt the sobs rolling out of my chest, sending gushes of blood out the numerous holes in my body. Hot tears streamed down my icy face, making slight steam if you looked close enough. I reached a bloody hand up, hardly noticing that three fingers were gone, and ran it over the surface of the Mirror of Erised. A bloody smear appeared on the cool glass, and I wanted so to just fall forward into that delusion.
I wanted him to kiss me and ravish me against my will, as he did that night so long ago. I wanted to kill him and feel his black blood on my hands, running through my nails and into my mouth as I kissed his wounds. I wanted him to apologize for making me what I am. I wished so for him to rise from his heap on the floor, next to me, and tug my hair so hard some flesh came off, just to know it was all OK. For him to envelop me in his arms and pin me there so tight I could not even attempt to feign him off. I wanted to find a logical reason I had given in to all the madness.
I wanted to consume him, flesh and soul, so that he and I were one and he could never leave me. So that when I died he’d know my misery, too.
I slowly looked next to me, seeing his red eyes staring meaninglessly at me. They were wide, far too wide, he looked like the lying snake he’d become. His hands, one inches from mine, were white and nothing but bones and skin. I saw the marks that Potter’s Aveda Kedavera had left upon him. Blue veins showed obviously through the skin of his limp body. Blood of others covered his hands and flecked his face like paint.
Slowly I reached and held a shaking, numb hand directly over his. My hand shook violently, centimeters over his, tears streaming down my face in grief and hate. I could feel the heat still radiating off his body, filled with so many years with only one thing driving it’s life. Hate. That was the only reason he’d been alive, besides his horcruxes. He hated Harry Potter and the only way to help it was hating him. Not even I could help him, these past few months. He shunned everyone away.
A surge of fury overcame me as my hand shook there, and in a last burst of energy my leg swung cross the dusty, uneven stone floor and connected hard with the body of the fallen Dark Lord. Damn him and all his remained to hell for all eternity. I hated him and never wanted to know about him again. Letting out an anguished cry, I watched his body roll onto it’s back eerily, eyes now staring up at the ceiling. I sobbed hot tears onto the floor, the chamber echoing it back tenfold. All the corpses in the bloody battlefield around me suddenly weren’t so stupid to me, I felt sorry for them. They’d died just like me for this man’s selfish conquest.
I felt loud, earsplitting wails of misery ripping themselves from what was left of my shredded soul. He’d done that, too, taught me how to kill mercilessly and not give it a wink. He’d taught me to stab at my own mortality until there was nothing left. The room was echoing with my misery, piercing my eardrums painfully, sending me darker into the abyss. I almost felt all the angels turning where they floated, to see what could make a mortal so pained.
Slowly, I felt death gripping at me. I felt my body stilling as I sobbed in a pool of my own blood, the darkness coming forth at last. A cold breeze was sweeping over my body, chilling me. I’d always been told that everything went white when you died, but it was all going black. I started, glassy eyed, up at the Mirror, watching the scene over and over again. I could almost see angels fluttering down to get me and drag me to Hell. I could feel something warm on my hand and my head, taking me away as that image played, burning bright, through the blackness that otherwise blinded me.
My master, young and beautiful as he was as a youth, was holding me in his arms, kissing my head, sneering down from his framed scene in the mirror of desire. As a long, slow sigh escaped my lips, breathing out one last word, Tom kissed me one last time in the mirror.
Mirror, mirror, on the wall
Should I try to rise and crawl?
Or lie here, fetal, on the floor
Crying ’to my knees for-ever more.
Mirror, mirror, in my hand
I try to make me understand.
The sun has gone now in a hurry
Now comes the darkness with a fury.
Mirror, mirror, in your face
I echo back what I can't erase.
And as the teardrops stain your surface
I try to find some long-lost purpose.
Mirror, mirror, you taunt my pain.
Knowing what I’ll never gain.
If only you weren't so cruel
Maybe then my life refuel.
Mirror, mirror, I’ve smashed to bits
Piercing loud my throat emits
A haunting sound; makes the Angels turn
From their pedestals nocturne.
Mirror, mirror, watch them now.
Peer up high and see how
Though I'm dead and though I cry
The Angels look down from the sky.
Mirror, mirror, my friend so shattered
Come see how my heart is tattered.
Ripped to bits and torn to shreds
And now the Angels wings do spread.
Mirror, mirror, they flutter down
They touch my cheek and kiss my crown.
Gently do they take my hand
To lead me to the Promise Land.
Mirror, mirror, I leave you now.
Don't ask when and don't ask how
For I know not when we'll meet, my friend.
All I know is this is the end.
Mirror, mirror, as you gather dust,
Unto you I do entrust.
That you won't let me have been in vain
You'll remember me whom love has slain.
- poem written by CocoapuffShooter