The beginning of enmity, most would call it; and perhaps it was, though it was a lopsided sort of animosity at best. To tell the truth, I approached him mostly because of Lucius. Lucius the Death Eater. Lucius whom I hated.

Lucius who was my father.

He detested the Boy Who Lived with a passion -- they all did, Mother, Father, his cronies. It was the way of them, Death Eaters all, the way they chose to live their lives entangled in bitterness and hatred, wrapped 'round with gall and mitter.

I, too, must confess the same, for such emotions are mine by blood if not by desire, difficult to resist in the dark of the night, even in such a spectacularly well-protected place such as Hogwarts.

Perhaps even especially in such a place.

Slytherin I was and Slytherin I am, born knowing the Dark, or so they say: Hufflepuffs, plodding creatures that they are, Ravenclaws, always pretending to be so very bright, Gryffindors, idiots who run in where angels fear to tread -- I heard a Mudblood say that once. None of them *think* before they act, they don't contemplate action, they don't consider repeatedly what they will do if this happens or this or this or -- perhaps -- even *THAT*.

None of them, I suppose, are Slytherin. That says it all, doesn't it?

Of course I'm proud of what I am. I was raised to be, taught that no one else was as good as I, as capable of power as I, as lovely, milk-pale, as *I*.

They lied, of course. Lucius is very good at lying. If he hadn't been, he'd be stuck in Azkaban, wouldn't he, with all of the others who continued to fight on after *HE* was destroyed. I say destroyed; perhaps I should only say 'harmed'. It would make more sense, wouldn't it? Considering the way things are now. Still, that brings us full circle back to Potter again, doesn't it?

Isn't it remarkable how things always come back to Potter, in the end?

When first we met, I didn't even know that he was, well... *HIM*. I thought he was just another boy, probably a Mudblood of some sort, bound for Hogwarts. After all, he couldn't be *Pureblood*, for I didn't know him. All of the Purebloods stick together, probably too much. Inbreeding, Professor Snape calls it, and he's right, and more than right. After all, we wouldn't have Crabbe and Goyle if that weren't the case, now would we?

But back to the subject at hand.

Perhaps if I had known that it was *him*, that he was *THE* Harry Potter, I wouldn't have tried so very much to offend him. Perhaps. Of course, with me, the possibility is still there. Aggravating him is almost as much fun as...

Well.

And then on the train, when we met again, he was so despairingly cold. I'd never thought eyes that shade of green could turn to ice, and yet they did, and he informed me so easily that he could tell the right sort for himself. It was shocking, rather; after all, he was sitting with a *Weasley*, the wretched Muggle lover.

I hope his father *does* get that damned warrant one day. I'd like to see Lucius suffer, even if I have to go to Azkaban with him, though I'd much rather not. Still, an inevitability is, as they say, inevitable....

Perhaps today it's not quite so unavoidable.

Tomorrow, though...

Well, they do say tomorrow is another day. I suppose that they, whoever 'they' might be, are right.

But *his* friendship with Weasley went on, and then the Mudblood, and every overture made on my part was met with rejection.

You might have noticed that I don't take rejection particularly well. Oh, you *had* noticed that. Good. Your brains aren't *entirely* made up of dust, then, are they? Even though you look as though they might be.

First it was Weasley chosen over me. Then the Mudblood. Then Quidditch. And then on and on and on, inevitably driving me into an absolute fury, I admit. I *needed* to be better than him at something, needed to defeat him, needed to pass him by, win him over, do *anything* so long as Harry Potter *was not the one still on top*.

Vivid mental imagery there, isn't it?

If only... ah, well.

Six years is a long time to live only on offer and rejection. Sometimes, I wonder if he even notices. I know that others don't seem to remark upon it, but then, I rarely make my overtures publicly. I'm no more fond of humiliation than I am of declension, after all, and I'm not a complete idiot.

Maybe I am.

Maybe I'm a fool for being so very blase that first day. Maybe I'm a fool for so many of the things I've done in retaliation for his refusals.

Perhaps I'm even a fool because I was born that way, stubborn and proud and ubiquitously arrogant and *smug*.

One more time, I'll offer.

One more time, he'll refuse.

And tomorrow, Lucius will come.

And tomorrow, HE will put his mark on me, the Dark Mark, the Mark of Death in so many ways, no matter that I don't desire it, that I can't bear the thought of it, burned into my flesh. Burning charcoal on milk. The heat will curdle me, I know it, and I'm terrified of it, and I don't want to go...

But I will.

And like Lucius, I will lie.

And then, there will be no more tomorrows.