Name: Courtney Kathrys

Title: Descent

E-mail: Faeriedeath@hotmail.com

Summery: The path to revenge can often destroy more than just the victim. A tale of how unrequited love can be mutated into something darker and more sinister than can ever be imagined.

Notes: I've always wanted to write a 2nd Person story, and this just is what emerged from my mind.

Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters are by JK Rowling. I only own the plot. The opening quote I found while surfing my LiveJournal friends list a long time ago... don't remember who it was that said it.

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Facilis descensus averni

(The descent into the underworld is easy)

It starts as a small idea, snaking in the back of your mind. And you laugh at the utter absurdity that your thoughts could concoct something so impossible. But as the years, and the months, and the weeks, and the days drag slowly by, the hours, and the minutes, and the seconds seem to race and that absurdity becomes desperation.

It doesn't shock you at that moment, how what you believe to be love could turn into something so dark, and so unbeautiful. Beauty is, after all, in the eye of the beholder. And you want to feel beautiful. And if you can't make him love you, you will destroy him instead.

You are unsurprised at how willingly you find others only too pleased to assist you on your quest to cause him pain. And you learn that the magick words "I want to cause Harry Potter pain" can open up doors that you never knew existed.

So you make a plan, with the only other person who you believe has motives that are strong enough to match the passion of your own. Together you have found a bond in mutual hatred, in revenge. A burning drive that pushes you together. You are connected through him, the man you hate, the man you are poised to destroy.

And slowly you do. It starts off small; slipped secrets and hidden jibes. It escalates to subtle humiliations and unobserved sabotage. With the help of your partner you develop wiles and seduction. You learn to swivel your hips, and flutter your lashes. Your voice drops to husky, and your sound is breathy when you whisper in his ear. You learn how to move your tongue over your lips, and the lips of your prey. You are taught how to make him squirm in sexual frustration, how to make him scream your name, and how to build him up and bring him down 'till he pleads for a mercy you refuse to grant. You are ready to make him fall for you.

And he falls, hard. You know it isn't love, and have forgotten what that word means, as your feelings for him have been mutated and twisted into something sinister. This is fed off of his lust, and his teenage hormones, and his frustration. He is shocked at your skill, and you are disgusted at his ineptitude, imagining skillfully smooth hands working you expertly, instead of the rough and fumbling paws which are unsuccessfully trying to build you up. You fake your climax and as secret punishment make him wait for his. He repulses you now, and you have lost sight of the true reason for your hatred, since your darkened mind can no longer recall your school girl fancy with this boar.

So you distract him expertly while the world falls apart around him, and you shield his ears from their cries for help. You care not for the world, not for their savior who now lies in the palm of your hand. You would have given the moon to be in this position so many years ago, and now the only position you want is to be on your back, with your partner fucking you, making you scream the only name you deem worthy enough to scream during sex.

You say this to your partner, and he smirks at you, his skillful aristocratic hands gripping your naked waist. He reminds you of how far you've come. Potter is reduced to nothing more than a whipping boy, his balls wrapped around your every finger. You pout that his balls aren't as much fun to play with as you thought, and are given much more amusing ones to satisfy you.

The sidekick, for that is what he is, since you no longer hold him enough esteem to bestow the term 'brother' upon, approaches you one day, begging you to talk sense into his idol, and you mimic that smirk you love, and laugh coldly, shocking the red head. You inform the boy that his petty war doesn't interest you, and neither does his idol. He is simply a distraction, an amusement to pass the time. You know the boy will be running to Potter, and you know that he is too far gone to believe a word. So you smile as the destruction of Potter has taken a positive, yet unexpected turn. You spend the night in the bed of a happy partner.

Things progress nicely and the idol and the sidekick split in a vicious and unforgiving duel where both end up cursed and hexed until they are almost unrecognizable. He comes to your bed the next night, and you pretend to cry that such accusations would be made about your honor, and he tries to comfort you clumsily, and you fake a climax to please him.

Your influence causes him to ostracize himself from everyone who was once on his side. Your anonymous Daily Profit articles discredit him, and your sensuality convinces him to ignore it, the Ministry doesn't matter, the war doesn't matter, Voldemort doesn't matter. All that matters is them, and you don't want him getting himself killed all over this, you couldn't bear to loose him. So he swears that he won't fight, that he will stay by you, and you smile outwardly in thankfulness, and inwardly in malice.

While he sleeps you leave his side to shower, riding yourself of the residue he leaves on your skin. And you break, and sob, uncontrollably. You question everything and anything. Him, your partner, you mission, your heart. And you let the last bit of humanity in you wash down the drain with your tears.

The war progresses and he keeps his word. One by one the allies who lost hope in him lost their lives. And while your family falls around you, you can manage no tears, no grief, no feeling. You are past this.

And when no one is left from his past, you leave him. You pack up all your belongings from the flat you share and simply vanish. You stop by his office while he coaches Quidditch and hand him your engagement ring wordlessly, your eyes cold. He asks what is happening when your partner saunters over to you, and places his arm around your waist protectively. You both are smirking identically. The green eyes widen in shock, and he asks if it's true then, what the sidekick and everyone else who has lost their lives have said. You tell him of course, and confide to him that he was a game. A butterfly you caught just to pull the wings off and leave to helplessly struggle. You tell him that you hate him, that you always have hated him. You confide that after you let him fumble over you, you cleansed yourself in the arms of your partner, his enemy.

And as he stands there, broken, his world around him destroyed, you allow yourself that tiny inward victory you have been waiting for. You have done what even Voldemort could never accomplish. You destroyed Harry Potter, inside and out.

And when you read in the rag then next day of the suicide of the Boy Who Lived, you laugh, and toss the article into the fire. And your eyes search the street, as your partner points out potential victims for your next game. And you smirk that hate is only a game now, a game which has taken possession of your heart and extinguished it. And while you have destroyed Potter's life, he has destroyed your soul.

So then, who has really won?

Your name, spoken by the man beside you, startles you from your reverie. You allow his icy demeanor to entrap you, and loose yourself in his winter eyes and pale skin, your hair blending into the crimson sheets he has you pinned on. And you feel empty, and gone; suddenly understanding why death is preferable to the Dementor's Kiss.

That night you pull a small dagger from your robe pocket, and slowly slit the throat of the blond man whose bed you share. His eyes widen as he struggles to hold the blood inside with his pale hands. You watch, fascinated as it spreads over his immaculate clothes and onto the opulent Persian rugs and marble floors. He gags on his own life fluid as what little color in his face fades away; his winter eyes open and unseeing.

You dress yourself in a long white gown, casting a charm upon the fabric to remain pristine. Slowly and deliberately trace the knife up your wrist and to your elbow, opening the artery. You repeat this with your other arm, a bit clumsier, since your other hand is not dominant, and already bleeding profusely. You place the knife on the floor, and slide into the arms of your already cold and gone partner. You are fascinated on the blurry vision taking over you, and the breaths which are increasingly harder to catch and hold on to. You leave your eyes open when death overtakes you; knowing full well that when the Ministry finds you both, they won't know where your hair ends and the puddles of blood begin. Two snow angels in white clothes, surrounded in a sheet of crimson blood.

The image leaves a smile on your face as you succumb to darkness.

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