Ill Fate


Every time I say I love him, it feels like condemnation. There is a death sentence whispered under the sentiment, just low enough that he can't hear it.

From the start, he berated me for my reluctance to say the words, couldn't understand why I was so cautious. I didn't expect him to. He thought the only darkness in me was a childish violent streak and a mean temper.

I still remember the first time. He made me say it, intoxicated me with impossibly soft lips, wandering hands, the feel of his skin under my fingertips. I could barely even breathe when he latched his hand around the back of my neck and forced me to stare into his eyes. They were cold, steeled with a determination I'd seen in them a thousand times on the Quidditch pitch but never once when we were alone together.

He grabbed me and he kissed me and he told me that if I didn't grow a spine and admit I loved him, I'd never see him again.

"No more bloody games, Marcus. Say it or I'm gone."

So I said it, spat the words at him. They stung like poison on my tongue, burnt my lips as I spoke. I knew what this meant. Oblivious, he stared down at me and smiled, pressed our lips together. With his tongue writhing against mine, I almost felt like things would be alright.

But they won't be. I can't kid myself. He's as damned as I am and there's no one to blame but myself.

To be loved is considered a blessing. To be loved by a death-eater is always a curse.



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