He'd always liked chess.

He was enchanted by the rules, the order. He was obsessed with the strategy. But, most of all, he was enamored with the sacrifices necessary to win. Each time he'd played, he'd thrived under the all-encompassing pressure when it seemed (to the untrained eye) that no chance remained of his triumph.

Long before he'd learned of Legilimency, before he even knew why he was able to do things other kids couldn't, he was an expert at reading people. If it was ever possible for him to experience love firsthand, that must be what he'd felt for the power of watching his opponents virtually taste victory, completely oblivious to the fact that they were playing right into his hand.

He'd always chosen black.

Most said it was because he was a dark, brooding character (of course, they never said it to his face – they didn't have to), but in truth, he chose black because white moved first. He liked to answer – let them make mistakes like a teenager who's been caught in a lie and can't shut his mouth to keep from digging himself into an even deeper hole – he'd sit back, unreadable, as they'd move. THEN he'd respond.

It was always the queen.

His challengers couldn't engineer a plan that varied from their predecessors. Time after time, game after game, he'd watch the same events unfold.

They'd start out somewhat recklessly, moving quickly, sacrificing pieces. Eh, it's just a pawn, after all. But as the game progressed, they'd become more careful, more measured – after all, nobody wanted to lose a rook – until they were so cautious, so protective, their queen was more guarded than their king.

And the little white king and queen would watch, helpless, as their fellows were slaughtered, one-by-one, because their puppeteers couldn't foresee a future for the king without its mate. The romantics.

Meanwhile, he'd use her, the ultimate tool.

While his adversaries had eyes only for their queen's protection, he would skillfully set into effect a series of events that would lead to his own queen's demise. He'd set it up perfectly. Because when they'd look at the board and see that it was their queen or his, they'd strike.

And he would look into his opponent's eyes, their haughty, victorious eyes. Then, as he'd move a single piece on the board, he would quietly utter the one word they weren't expecting.

"...Checkmate."

He would slightly quirk one eyebrow but remain otherwise impassive as they experienced a barrage of emotions: confusion, incredulous amusement, then confusion again as they studied the board. Then came the bewilderment. And, lastly, as they'd helplessly reach up and flick over their king, he would revel in seeing his favorite emotion of all cross their features: defeat.