Myths

Myths.

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He doesn't know what he does to me. When I stand in the shadows watching him hold court with his many admirers, it does nothing less than remind me that anything I speak in his presence doesn't mean a thing to him. But what he doesn't know is that when I stand here staring at him, I will take a little bit of him, from the casual tilt of his head to the words that leave his mouth for myself. He will be lost to everyone and himself soon, for I would own him.

***

Echo stood in the woods, twirling a frustrated finger through her long dark locks. The, the love of her life, was lying next to the clear pool of water, resting his sculptured chin on his pale, ivory coloured arms. She raged within herself, wanting to know desperately who was the water nymph residing in the pool who caught his fancy. She wanted to tell him how much she loved him, how much joy she could bring him. And even more, she wanted to tell him how much she could hurt whoever he loved if he did not let her love him.

***

You think that it isn't possible to own someone that way? You think you know my life story from the day I was born to the day I killed the one who killed my parents? You're wrong then. I'm more powerful than anyone who was anyone who was born into the wizarding world. You might say you already know that, but I'll bet you don't know that I can take anything I wanted from anyone, and I'm not talking about cheap materialistic things. I'm talking about little bits of your soul. I've quite the collection now. I have a drawer in which you would find all these little bottles, sort of like the Big Friendly Giant's collection of dreams in that Roald Dahl book. I keep old Voldie's in the tiniest bottle, and he doesn't like it. He keeps complaining that it's cramp.

And I'd laugh at him.

I even have a bit of 'Mione and Ron's. They don't know about my little hobby though. I used to think that my ability to dream about real things was because of some skewed connection through a failed curse, but I found out not long ago that I was something else. Some call my kind a Soul-keeper. I kind of like that name, it's cooler than the Boy Who Lived crap. Anyway, having a bit of some else's soul in me keeps me connected to them, and if I spend time with someone long enough, I'd subconsciously take a little of them. I can take the entire thing if I wanted to, but not in as crass a way as the Dementors do. They suck it out and digest it, you'd wonder what comes out as excretion if everyone subjected to the Kiss was so vile. Me, I can take it and keep it. But if I wanted the whole thing I would have to do worse than the Dementors. They'd have to be dead first. Yet thinking about it, maybe it isn't so horrid. I can't really explain the mechanics of it, but it wasn't until a year ago, when I finally kicked that evil butt that I realised I could take souls and bottle them up. And that was when I started my collection.

Old Voldie's one was a little unpredictable. I never thought it would be bright pink in colour. I took Dumbledore's after he died in the battle for Hogwarts from his body when I was at his funeral after Voldie died, and oddly, it a lovely shade of midnight black. I just might have underestimated the amount of darkness in that old coot. Ron's is just like his hair, reddish, while 'Mione's the colour of creamy parchment.

But back to my obsession. I've let myself get carried away with talking about the wizarding world's boy wonder, me.

Perhaps he is not the only one to blame when it comes to our form of conversation. I can't seem to say anything coherent when I'm around him. Well, at least not anything nice. I hurl back insults when he provokes me, when all I want to do is to have him pinned up against the wall with his lips to mine. Yes, we have been in that position many times over the years, but it's different now. What I did to him back then, I would more than anything like to do the same thing to the people around him who have his affection and with him, I would be nothing but loving and sweet and passionate.

***

Echo made a decision. She walked silently down and knelt next to Narcissus's prostrate body. She gently laid a hand on his thick locks, only to have the beautiful head snapped up at her and the bright eyes flashing at her.

"Who are you?"

Echo almost cried for joy. He was speaking to her! But her curse only allowed her to express her happiness on her face, not in words, and she blissfully cried, "You!"

"What are you doing here?"

"Here!"

"Mock me not! Leave and go away!"

Echo stumbled back in sorrow. He would never love her, nor let her love him. She walked back into the shadow of the woods, murmuring softly.

"Away..."

***

I needed him. So that night after that Quidditch match, I followed him to the dressing rooms. He wouldn't be celebrating after losing to me once again, and for sure he would not be happy to see me. But I wanted him. So badly, so much. Even if it was to be insulted, beaten, or mocked, I wanted to see him. I ached inside for him. Delirious sounding you say? I think not. I am a perfectly normal teenage boy with hormones, a sucker for danger and an exceptionally lucky one at that, given that I've been threatened many times and I've always been the one causing the most harm.

***

After returning to her place in the shadows, Echo realised that Narcissus wasn't in love with any nymph. She hadn't seen anyone in the water. Only the reflection of the sweet, sweet youth. And so she set it to her task to make him hers. By taking in his beauty and his arrogance, his mannerisms and pensiveness. She would own him with her gaze, up till the very day he died.

***

I walked into the dressing room quietly, only to hear quiet sobs coming from the cubicle in the end. This wasn't how it was supposed to be. I didn't think he would cry after losing a match. I thought of him flushed with anger and red with fury, and of course in many other instances in my dreams as well, but he never cried in my imagination, in my reality. He was always alive, and fighting, even when I made him beg for me to give it to him.

This crying image of him was something he claimed for himself. He didn't show it to anyone. He kept this softer, more vulnerable side to himself, and that made me want that even more this was the part of the soul that I wanted to myself, something that had never been stained before by the sight and conscious of others. I wanted his soul in this state. At its purest. And that was what I was going to have.

I knew that it wasn't his physique that I loved. Hell, it was easy to love something like that. The grey eyes that lit with mischief, the sweeping locks of blonde hair that he no longer gelled back Yes, I took that little part of his soul. The part where he decided for a change in hairstyle. Odd, no? I'm usually quite the delicate person, going for all the intricate little details. But I'm planning on taking it all tonight. To add the greatest prize to my collection, because this is one I can never get physically and mentally. But I would have him spiritually. Pun intended, folks.

And so I slam open his cubicle door with brute strength, and I see him curled up in the corner, looking in all honesty, as pathetic as anyone else who has just lost a match. He looked up at me with his eyes empty, as if someone had stolen his soul. I laughed at my own little joke, as I reached into the depth of my cloak and pulled out a tall, slim glass bottle, with intricate patterns etched onto it. Only the best for my love, of course. Then I whispered the words, green blazing from my wand tip and he crumbled against the wall. With a sweeping movement of my arm, I brought the tip of the wand from pointing at him into the bottle in my left hand, and watched the bottle fill up with misty white and flecks of gold and silver. Pretty. Just like him. When it was done, I sealed the bottle with a flick of my wand, and I slipped the bottle into my cloak.

***

Narcissus died, and in his place grew a beautiful white flower. The nymphs who saw his passing wept for him, and comforted one another by saying that Narcissus's soul lived on in the pale petals. But only Echo knew where his soul truly was.

It was with her.

***

I bent over and lifted his chin, and pressed my lips against his rapidly cooling ones. He was mine now, and just as you all know, a person is defined by his soul and not his flesh. For once you're right you know. A wizard isn't dark because of the spell he casts, but because of his intentions, which are in his soul. And now I walk towards the exit of the dressing room, but I turn back once more.

"For in the sleep of death, what dreams may come...

Goodnight Draco. Thank you for your lovely contribution to my collection.

Oh, and I promised with all my heart that I'll keep you well. I love you even though you didn't love me."