She was eleven, a silent, young thing, arrogance built into her cheekbones.
She was twelve, a cynical thing, bitingly cold, red lips twisted in disdain and haughtiness.
She was thirteen, a furious, darksome thing, sharp of tongue and quick of mind.
She was fourteen, bitter, arrogance built into the curve of her neck and the poise of her spine, dark hair thick and sleek; eyes black as coal.
When she was fifteen, she came to me, murder in her eyes and silver on her tongue, and she touched me--just there, briefly, I who had never before felt the caress of a woman--and I was hers.
I had resisted, at first. Oh, how I had resisted, resisted until my loins ached and my nightmares bled into my reality. Yet, she continued to haunt me and hunt me. I was crazy; I deserved to be locked up and never allowed to come into contact with my students again. Let not a madman pollute these pure, sweet halls!
But relief eluded me, and ever she danced in my mind. The limbs of the nymphet were slender and pale and moved with swift surety and grace. She taunted me! Had she no pity, no mercy for my soul?
The lessons I gave continued. They were oblivious to my rage and suffering--perfectly oblivious. I would have laughed were my face not frozen, would have cried were my eyes not filled already with the sight of her, always and ever of her.
I must be mad. She drove me to it, and made no attempt to hinder me--indeed, encouraged me, even, wrapped her slender legs about my waist and forbade me to draw away; let me scream, and screamed with me, every bit as depraved and wanton as I was.
When she bit my tongue, we both tasted my blood. We tasted each other’s breath and drank of each other's blood, and our screams rang in perfect unison. If this was love, then I was fulfilled. If this was lust, then such lust it was! That the winged seraphs of heaven must covet us.
So she came to me every night, and in return I offered her myself. I laid myself at her feet and bared my life.
She proved a very willing listener.
I see you shaking your head. I should have guessed it, you say? I should have known that the nymphet was as shrewd as she was lovely?
The life of a spy is lonely, dear reader. I told her things that I would not have told my most trusted colleagues--not because I trusted her, no, but because she left me no choice. Her touch was like veritaserum on my skin.
I should have known! I should have foreseen it! I should have guessed that retribution would blow out of the sky by night when I lay in her arms and sweep me up in chains, while she just sat there, her eyes wide, her skin pale and flushed and rosy and, god, mauve, in turns, and unblemished save for the one angry red burn on her left forearm, its macabre grin and lolling tongue mocking me. Me!
I found myself in the centre of a clearing surrounded by a hundred black-hooded Titans; only she was still small and frail by the side of her master, the Dark Lord, master of all ("Master! Master! Forgive me!" I tried to say, but I looked up and he held my tongue in his hands and I was drowning in my own blood). When he spoke, his voice echoed in the clearing--or was that merely the doing of the Death Eaters surrounding us?
Snape. Snape. Snape. The accursed name.
"My unfaithful Death Eater."
Death Eater. Death Eater. Death Eater.
"You have betrayed."
"For this, you will eat your own death!"
Death! Death! Death!
Before the last wail died away, my own blood was on my hands, and my chest was torn apart, and I held my own heart, still beating, before me. My beloved stood still beside her lord. I called out to her. "My fire! My flower! Light of my wretched life! Pansy!" But my voice was little more than a gurgling scream. I swallowed my burning heart, and she turned away even as I perished.
She was sixteen, ruthless, beautiful, and cruel. Lolita. Delilah.