Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

Inspiration: By Rock Junkie and DikiCat's 'Marionette'

Summary: He is my Nightmare, my Insanity, my Want. And I shall forever remain as his Whore, his Marionette, his Want. I am his plaything, his toy, his to use in any way he sees fit. And that's alright because as long as it's him, why should I care?

Warning: Smut; Character Death


_ My Nightmare _


He's my beautiful Nightmare. His thoughts cloud mine with an overwhelming passion to drive my mind further into the cold, dark abyss. I don't mind so much.

A cool breath breezes past my ear as he tightens his hands on my hips; hard enough to leave bruises. But I can't find it in myself to be terribly angry at him. After all, he has such wonderful hands.

And when he twists my weak body to face him, I am suddenly glad that those hands are holding me because, surely, without them I'd be on the ground. The look in those amazingly crimson eyes, darkened with lust, is enough to send tremors through my entire being.

He only smirks. His mouth is a rather gorgeous thing, too. His blood red thin lips never fail to set my blood aflame with their icy heat. Ignore the oxymoron; I can't be bothered to describe them in any other way.

It is always like this; he seduces me so easily, hardly making an effort. But that's alright; it doesn't take much for him to turn me into a resemblance of a wanton whore.

He may be my Nightmare, but I'm his Whore. And that's alright because as long as it's him, why should I care?


He's my Insanity; the reason my eyes are bloodshot and wild. My crystalline emeralds are liquid jewels, he says. I think he just likes how they mirror his own. I think we resemble Christmas. I don't tell him this, though; who knows what he'd do to my eyes.

The bruises under my eyes, I believe, are not flattering in the least. But he ignores my comments on them. I don't mind; anything he wants.

I find that I have begun laughing at random moments. The hysteria that it causes never fails to amuse me, though. And I just adore the look on their faces when my manic gaze lands on them.

He's never there, however, but that's alright. I know he's busy with his associates. At least I get him at night. In fact, I do believe I am becoming rather nocturnal. It makes sense, really, that it should happen. After all, he's an insomniac.

And for as long as he's my Insanity, I shall remain as his Marionette. His plaything, his toy, his to use or destroy. I'd give anything to forever be so.


We fuck. There is no lovemaking but it is also not a one night stand. There is no love between us, only an all consuming want. And that is fine. I am tired of false love, and I don't mind that I have fallen into want with him.

When we're having sex, I lose all sense of reality and am immediately plunged into a sea of pleasure; never-ending yet never lasting as long as I would like.

The feeling of him moving inside of me, rough and deep, is like nothing I have ever felt. I would not give it up for all the power in the world. He knows it too; that's probably why he still fucks me: because I won't betray him.

There is always a countdown hanging over our heads, and I always seem to think upon it after he is asleep and I am reduced to a boneless heap.

Right now, the Battle is tomorrow. I don't like to think that this could have been our last time. But I am not a very optimistic person. If you were me, you wouldn't be either.

I just hope we don't die. Everyone else can go fuck themselves.

My insanity shows itself in a brief fit of hysterics as I imagine this. I apologize for that.


In the end, perhaps, it was meant to be like this. Arriving at the wide expanse of already bloodied grass, him and I analyzed the death toll, happening at the same conclusion that we would not win. But I knew from the murderous and crazed gleam in his eyes that he wasn't going to retreat.

So I followed him as we walked toward our opponents. Spells were cast and bodies fell left and right. I positioned myself as his shield, making sure that no spells would touch him. Those I could not deflect, I took. After half an hour I was dying slowly of blood loss. He didn't notice.

And as I fell, a sickly green light shooting above my head slammed straight through his chest. He died and I was taken to the nearest wizarding hospital.

I remained comatose the entire time, refusing to speak or look directly at anyone. The insane glint in my eyes had taken over them completely and the simple black silk robe that opened at the top of my thigh was covered in my own blood. He has left a permanent imprint on me; my Nightmare, my Insanity, my Want.

And as I sit in Azkaban, laughing and whimpering with the rest of the fools in this prison, I can still remember our last fuck and the words he whispered in my ear.

"I hate you, my love. And I love you, my hate."


© 2009 Inyx Dawn