Submission

Submission

It was her submission I craved.

Although she was so young, I could see the life in her, the energy, the brightness, the spunk, as Muggles say, which made her so appealing.

Oh, I knew she would be hard to break - with her stubborn will, her courage, her affectionate nature. Yet I persisted, intending to subvert those qualities to my own advantage.

She was such a Gryffindor. I could almost taste it, radiating off her whole being. It was even evident in her writing for Merlin's sake.

But there were little weaknesses. Things I could use.

To tease.

Torment.

Torture.

She was the youngest in a large family, for example. The only girl. Away from home. The outside world is such a scary place, full of big, frightening things. No Mummy and Daddy at school.

Her loneliness was very useful. She needed someone with whom to share her thoughts, to listen to her troubles...and I was that someone.

She had been so excited to go to Hogwarts, and did I know that all her family had been there before her, and she had been so worried that she wouldn't get into Gryffindor, and-?

Her exuberance wearied me, but I made a point of listening. Why? Because her young love could not be suppressed. I was to learn all about him.

Every.

Last.

Detail.

Yet I was intrigued. As an infant, this boy - this young wretch - had overthrown the Dark Lord who I would one day become. How could this be?

It was her submission I craved.

Her good heart, her sickeningly pure innocence, prompted her to ask about me, my life. She was, quite literally, pouring out her soul to me. Didn't I have any soul of my own to give in return?

Well, no, Ginevra. I didn't. It had been stolen by that hero you worship. The one with his mother's eyes.

Her young heart loved too much, she trusted me, told me all her secrets. The more she gave, the more I took, until at last she could give no more.

But she would not submit.

She began not to love, not to trust. Her heart shut me out. But I had control over her.

I manipulated her actions. I dominated her waking hours. I haunted her sleep, turned dreams into nightmares, and those nightmares into reality.

She fought against me, abandoned me, but I was in her, inside her very soul. She was tainted, spoiled, ruined forever. That same life I sensed at the beginning was waning, and I was growing stronger.

The darkness was consuming her, swallowing her whole. Her purity was blemished. Her innocence was lost.

Deep down she intended to murder. She wanted to kill. And it wasn't because I had consumed her very being. It was because it was something no Weasley had done before. That insecurity I had used to its best advantage.

Was she evil to think like this?

No, she was young.

Was I evil to bring out the worst in her?

To bring out me in her?

I had forced myself into her. She felt what I felt. Wanted what I wanted.

And I wanted to kill.

You can run from the hidden truth. You can hide from the evil in the world. But it will catch you; it will smoke you out, until you have no choice but to face reality.

Yet she still fought me.

Her heart was the one place I could not reach. In flashes of weakness I grasped blindly, unsure where the source of her heart's strength lay.

I was not to know it was guarded. Guarded by those who loved her, something I could not fathom.

Why would anyone love such a silly little girl? With too trusting a spirit, too loving a heart, too confused a mind.

For she did not know the difference between right and wrong. She was not aware of the distinction. The one that governs my mind.

She was too tolerant of Mudbloods. Far too tolerant. She did not see them as lower than she, lower than a pureblood. To her, they were equal.

Equal.

As if they deserved to breathe the same air as she. As if they deserved to live.

At first I was angry.

Here, my chance to destroy my nemesis, and my supposedly trusted servant had delivered to me the daughter of a Muggle-lover as an instrument. A poor, misguided soul.

But then I saw its advantages.

If I could change her, alter her mind to mirror mine, that would be a victory. The children of today are the adults of tomorrow, after all.

Yet she would not submit.

Despite her faults, despite her weaknesses, the girl was able to draw great strength from those she loved, and loved her in return. Not understanding the source of her strength, I dismissed it.

I did not comprehend that to get to her heart I would have to defeat those who loved her. And that I could not do.

The fact he came to her rescue saved her. Even though he didn't love her directly, he loved what she represented.

Warmth.

Security.

Family.

And that was enough.

Would I have succeeded if he hadn't come? She would be dead, but he would be alive. With another score to settle. Another person to avenge.

And still, her heart would still not have been mine.

I craved her complete submission, but that would have meant surrendering her heart. It did not belong to her.

It belonged to her parents, her brothers, him.

She would not submit.

And it was her submission I craved.