Almost all of my short life, I'd been pushed to the side. I'd always been the freak, the Potter boy, the unwanted relative. Then when Hogwarts started, I was someone's friend. I was a savior, I was needed; I wasn't wanted, though. People needed me for what I could do for them, things they couldn't do themselves.

I didn't want that, however, I wanted to be needed. I needed someone to ache for me so deeply they couldn't live without me, not that they couldn't survive without me. Everyone else could survive on their own. I didn't want anything to do with their greed.

It was my second year. Those words whispered into my ear in sibilant parseltongue that sealed my faith.

"But of course, you would be mine, I would need you, for only you could fulfill my needs, you wouldn't need or want anyone else, Harry, and I wouldn't need anyone else but you."

Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, the most powerful wizard in a century besides Dumbledore needed me. He didn't want me; I'm sure he did, but in a totally different way. I was his, the word mine wrapped around me in ways I couldn't imagine. I seemed to be dazed and confused, but yet, even still, I seemed to be not only unsure, but completely insecure.

What did he need me for? Would I just be a face? Another power-tactic? Would he hide me away forever, and only speak or see me when he needed something?

It was the first time someone had made a pass at me that his intentions became slight to me. He'd dropped a hand to my waist and held his arm at the curve of my back. I had been confused at first. I had stared him in the eye before following his line of sight.

When I saw the man who had been staring at me, I only smirked before turning away, nuzzling against Voldemort, nodding my head as I did so. I was his; no one would change that, no matter how much they stared. I could only hope the man understood my intentions.

It's not like I minded, I didn't mind at all, actually. I was needed, yet wanted, yet neither had a reason. He needed me because there were things I did that left him aching in want, and he wanted me because I was his; was there ever better a reason? His touches were always hard, they were confident; they left me melting, needy, and wanting in his hands. A firm stroke up my spine, a sure move to move my face so that he could stare into my eyes. His arms wrapping around me, leaving me in security and bliss. The more possessive he got, the harder I fell. I think he realized it one day. He never said anything, but the possessive, slightly playful touches that he knew sent me wild became more meaningful.

I'm happy, however, because the more focused he is on me, the less he will be on anyone else. He is mine after all.