Only the Best

Only the Best

There were times when you craved for this moment, for your hands to be bathed in his blood. You dreamt of it, caked under your perfectly manicured fingernails, looking like mud. You knew his blood was unclean, so maybe you imagined it looking more like dirt than it actually did.

It felt so satisfying, slipping the knife beneath his ribs as he slept; so delicious and gratifying as the thick, dark blood of his liver began spilling from the wound, oozing out and soaking hunter green silk pajamas you'd bought him. "Only the best for Harry Potter," is what you'd told him as he opened the package.

Eyes the same verdant shade as the silk covering his body had shot open as a gasp escaped his lips. The sound had been euphoric and you'd nearly become drunk from the look of confusion and hurt in those emerald pools you had become so familiar with. Those eyes had blurred with agony before sliding closed as he curled into a fetal position, cradling the clean slice in his side. You were a Malfoy after all, and nothing less than perfection could be expected, even in betrayal.

Then you'd looked away from him, examining your hands in shock. They were exactly as you'd imagined they would be; glistening crimson in the moonlight, rust under your fingernails looking just as you'd envisioned.

You still held the knife, as though it were an extension of your hand. You'd had it specifically crafted for the occasion. Only the best for Harry Potter.

The hilt was a pair of serpents, entwined in combat, or perhaps something else entirely. You were no longer sure. One snake had jade for eyes, the other silvery hematite. It seemed oddly fitting for the blade to be spattered in blood, looking infinitely more natural that way. You didn't clean the knife before setting it on your bedside table, nor would you ever, instead placing it in a glass case in your study, just as it was.

Then you'd heard an agonized hiss from the bed, your bed, and had refocused your attention on the seventeen-year-old boy lying there. His eyes had reopened, and now they were filled with a combination of horror and dawning realization. "Why?" he'd whispered hoarsely, his tone nearly identical to the way he sounded when he came.

"I had to," you'd answered. "Even Lord Voldemort knows it's only the best for Harry Potter." That had been only half-true. Voldemort had told you to gain his trust and betray him, but he hadn't told you to get so personal, to actually feel things for the boy.

Hate and love are the same thing in your mind; both are passion, and you feel them both in regards to this boy. You don't know when the line blurred, but you knew that when you killed Harry Potter, you couldn't do it in such an impersonal way as the Killing Curse. It had to be slow, to let you feel his life slip away, to let yourself die a little as well.

As his eyes closed for the last time, you leaned down and brushed your lips across his, surprised when you felt him weakly kiss you back. And when he drew one last shuddering breath, you whispered, "Only the best for my Harry."

~~~***~~~

A/N: I've been reading quite a few second person POV fics lately, and I thought I'd try my hand at it. Don't be too brutal, please, but constructive criticism is always welcome.