Consolation

I hate them all.

Every whiny, weaseling little brat of them, I hate them all. Oh, I'd never tell them, of course, even though some like Potter (and the Weasleys, not to waste my pun) know it already. The rest have no idea; Malfoy, of course, thinks I'm his best friend, even though a blind monkey should be able to see that I favor him in ORDER to irritate Potter. Some bulbs are simply not as bright as others.

For fifteen years, I have struggled here. Fifteen years! Surrounded by fools, inundated with every new generation of pubescent whim and fancy, loathing every inch of the school that houses them and yet in spite of it all, I cannot leave.

I cannot go - because of what I owe Him. And because of what He would do were I ever to turn.

Oh, don't misunderstand me; I will never go back to the dark lord. I have seen the error of my ways, turned to the good, pleaded my case, etcetera and so forth. And yes, perhaps were I on my own, I would be doing... something... to aid the side of light. But whatever that something is, I would never be doing it here - and I would most certainly never be doing it with children. Even when I was one, I hated them.

Of course, none of that really matters. Dumbledore always knows best, I suppose, as the old and wise stereotype of necessity should, and He has decreed that I should remain here. That is little consolation, but at least I have one small comfort: if the dead know anything that goes on in this world, then she who brought me to this place must surely be amused.

I am not inclined to share my experiences as a Death Eater. Not with anyone, and certainly not as an inspiration or a warning or whatever else one who has tasted and rejected the darkness is expected to be. No one living today knows why I defected, and no one ever will. To think that I could be so turned by just a few kind words during my miserably stunted youth! I did not know - could not know - that the things she said to me would stay in my heart like a time-released poison, hidden, unobtrusive - and were doomed to be activated when I finally faced her to take her life.

She did not try to fight me. Even when I pointed my wand at her swollen belly and threatened to take James' child away from her, her expression did not change. All she did was look at me... with eyes full of pity but no condescension, of disappointment but no hate. And then, while I stared because I could not understand what I saw, when my guard was down, she finally cast her spell.

She gave me a gift. A simple gift. A brilliant gift. Briefly, powerfully, Lily Potter gave me her heart.

An eternity of passions I had never known and for which I had no name flooded my soul. She gave them all without reserve - love, warmth, peace, forgiveness, HAPPINESS, all taken from her own heart and her own life and force-fed to me until I was so saturated that I felt ill with longing.

And then, she went away.

I do not believe she knows the hole she tore in me. She never saw me as others did, as a thing to be loathed, violated, derided; I believe she did not realize that she was giving me a taste of things I could never have on my own. Or perhaps she did, and this is the price I paid for threatening her unborn child; but somehow, I think not.

I was, perhaps, fortunate that Dumbledore found me as I fled stumbling and gibbering from Lily's revelation and my dark lord's command. I barely remember the rest of that night. I know that I could no longer stand the thought of death and destruction; suddenly, it seemed revolting, and had any of my comrades found this out I would have suffered a fate far worse than death.

But they did not, and He did; and at the end of it all, this is my penance. Or perhaps I should call it my shackle - the thing which keeps me bound to Hogwarts, bound to Him who kept me from Azkaban, bound teaching the pitiful lifeforms that are other people's children when I will never have any of my own.

In the end, it is easier to hate them; they hate me, after all, without any help, and my own hatred is a natural reaction. It is certainly safer - I am supposed to be a double agent, after all, and what could possibly be more wicked than hating other people's children?

There is one thing - just one - that I have as a final consolation here. As I live my life, surrounded by others in whose hearts blossom those things I never knew and Lily Potter so briefly shared, I know that I will never again feel the way they do. But on the other hand - they will never feel the way I do, either.

None of them will ever really understand my heart. They will never know the darkness I have known. And my consolation, my will to fight, my reason for everything, is the hope none of them will ever have to.

"Sometimes lacking what one desires is all one needs to succeed." That is what He told me the night He took me in. He was right; but I will most certainly never, ever tell Him.