I sit down on the steps in front of Dumbledore's desk. I'm in too much physical pain to stand, to hold myself up... to stay strong. My emotional walls are crumbling, unable to withstand the shots fired. I wrap my arms around my legs and bury my face in my lap to hide my pained expression.

I had loved him so much. It hurt like hell when I discovered he was a murderer... a monster.

"You're angry," Dumbledore assumed.

"No," I whisper, lifting my head. He had come and sat next to me on the steps. "I was never angry. I felt sad, confused. I'm usually so good at reading between the lines, at inferring other than the obvious. I couldn't understand how I missed the... darkness."

"You were blinded."

"By love? You got that right."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of - " he starts to say.

"I'm not ashamed! I'm confused and hurt. I hate that I didn't know."

"You two were close - " he began again.

"You've said that already."

"Did he ever mention living longer than normal?"

"You mean the horcruxes?" I ask. "Yeah, he asked me about them once, asked what they were, how they were made."

"What did you tell him?"

I look way. I remember that day; I was in my fourth year and Tom was in his sixth. We were in the Room of Requirement, sitting on an old, but comfortable couch, talking, when he asked, "Do you know what horcruxes are?"

The question had taken me by surprise. Just a moment ago we were talking about what we would do if we could live forever... I didn't know we would both in able to... in two entirely different ways. Now we were talking about some of the darkest magic in existence.

"Sort of," I answered. "Why?"

"I just want to know." He flashed on of those killer smiles at me, and I caved.

"They're really dark magic."

"How dark?"

I shrugged. "I don't know all the details. I know that it has to do with murder and the splitting of the soul... Why?"

"I cam across it in the library the other day in the restricted section. There were only two words to describe it; dark magic."

"Well then the information I just gave you is worthless, isn't it?"

He looked away. "Don't be so sure."

"What?" I asked. When he didn't answer I started to wonder. "Tom, why did you want to know?" I pressed. "What are you planning?"

Suddenly, he was there, in my face, his hands holding my cheeks. He paused only a second, only long enough to look into my eyes, and I realized that the one person I loved more than life it self, the person I would die for... was about to kiss me.

When his eyes closed and his lips slowly made their decent to mine, I closed my eyes and raised my face to meet him there half way.

At first the kiss was sweet, just his lips touching mine, but as they began to move, raging teenage hormones took over, making the kiss more passionate and desperate. Our lips fused together, our tongues twined. My arms wrapped around his neck, my finger twisting in the thick locks of his soft hair. In return, his arms wound around my waist, his hands knotting in my long brown hair. Our hot breaths mingled and I could feel our hearts in tune with each other. Buh-bum, buh-bum...

I remember leaving the Room of Requirement with swollen lips, mused hair, and a slight smile on my face. Tom looked just the same. When our eyes met as we walked down the corridor, a spark of the passion and desperation flared anew, strong enough to have me look away with a flush creeping up my cheeks.

But as we continued to walk, he sidled closer to me until he was able to twine his fingers in mine and keep them there, for all the world to see, until we had to part ways and go to our separate common rooms. His in Slytherin and mine in Hufflepuff. 

"Thank you for sharing that with me," Dumbledore says, I had told him the whole story minus all the snogging details, but I did tell him we shared a kiss.

"Why did you ask me that?" I ask. "It means something, right? What's so significant about it?"

"Voldemort was successful in making a horcrux," he says. "In fact, he made seven."

My eyes widen. "He always did have ambition."

"You're right about that."

"Anything else?" I know I sound rude, but I'm anxious to leave.

He's silently studying me. At least, until my stare turns into a glare. He doesn't flinch, or shy away like sane people would, he just asks me a question.

"When did he tell you he loved you?"