I slumped down on my bed. My head was throbbing. I slid open my drawer and felt around at the back. I felt the sheen of the photographs. I slid them out and looked at one. It was a picture of me at the age of two with dad. That was a week before mum died. Happiness could be taken away so suddenly. Snatched from right in front of your eyes. I put this photo to the back and looked at the next. It was mum and dad with a newborn me. Again, such joy, taken away so brutally. Voldemort's heart beated for none but himself, I felt sorry for him. He would never feel the wonder of love. I felt jealouse to for he could never have love taken away from him. But, was that reason enough for him to take it from others? I had given and taken love. I was the child of an affair. I took Lily and James' love and tore it to shreds, and yet, they could not see that. Life is full of lies and deception, but my life was entirely a lie. I was deceit himself. The cowardly man that hid in the shadows. That was me.