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Fight! That was the first word your father had shouted towards you as you limped and struggled to hold onto the railing of the bed and he dangled your breakfast in the air with his wand when he came to visit you for the first time since you were born. Fight for what you deserve, or die pathetically like a worm.
Your eyes glowed with hatred from such a young age, but the adults around you seemed pleased that you held such a fighting spirit. You wonder if that was when your soul had started to corrupt itself. Really, such a dreadful boy you were. You didn't even need to be taught curses to use them. And you used them frequently on servants and house elves. That is, until a stray curse landed on your father's arm. He taught you how to reign in your temper and endure it with a smile with one simple word.
Crucio.
Like the nasty child you were, you would get him back, somehow, and you did. You shredded the love letters some mistress of his had written for him, and staged the blame to be on one of his trusted servants. His lover slapped him, and the servant got fired, but you got off, scot-free. Even if that didn't completely satiate your desire for revenge, you've relished in learning the power of lies.
You had your first seer dream, though you didn't know it was one at the time. All you remembered was that there were five swords on a card. It wasn't long after that you were dragged into what was known at the trial. For young purebloods to learn of the inherently cruel nature of this world. Muggle world. You didn't know what it was at the time, but you could guess. Your father had done it in such a blatantly obvious way, you wanted to roll your eyes. You were sleeping on the bed in one moment, and then woke up shivering on the streets of a muggle town, with no idea where you were. Even better, they were speaking in a foreign language you couldn't understand. You later learned French. Very thoroughly. And other languages as well. Needless to say, such a thing won't ever happen again.
For a moment, you had thought your father had abandoned you for some inexplicable reason, but you quickly crossed that out of your mind. It would've been better for him to kill you then. For sure, you wanted to kill him when you returned a month later, exhausted and struggling to breathe. Your entire life consisted of you struggling to breathe in the same filthy air as his. He briefly glanced at you, and said the only praise he'll ever say to you: Well done, son.
It felt like an insult instead. Merlin knows you didn't want to be even distantly related to that blob of flesh.
You were nine when you unleashed your abilities as a powerful seer. The joy and greed in your father's eyes truly disgusted you, however, you smiled brightly, and obediently exclaimed you would elevate this family's status to new heights. Which you did, and in a way that made your father's face twist unpleasantly. Whenever you think back, that moment had always pleased you, and made you feel less regretful over the things you've done.
There was a penchant for you to dream of death and you've held nightmares after you've awakened your seer capabilities. Perhaps it was because you've killed your mother the moment you were born, and karma has sought you out to return the favor. The gore and the blood and the tears of countless unnamed faces shook you at first, but quickly became as faded as the incessant voices of servants who once talked behind your back. Inconsequential.
Life had taken a comfortable turn since then. Your father no longer sought to make your life miserable with his annoying bantering, but continued to make your life miserable as he pestered you for advice for his career. At least, he carried gifts every time he came. Finally, you started living like a young master, and not a servant in training.
You showed him who the true master of this house when you finally obtained your wand. Glorious freedom. You laughed and laughed at his incredulous and disbelieving face, his knees spread on the floor and his hair completely uprooted from his head. You have nothing. Sneering at the pathetic man who called himself a father, you've said this line quite affirmatively as you blasted the manor with your magic and watched it crumble. Then, you left for your schooling at Durmstrang, and in the end, you simply moved from one cage to another. But at least, you didn't ever return to that place.
Who knew you two would end up so similarly? That was probably the power of vicious bloodlines like yours.
When you've tried tarot reading for the first time, you drew the Five of Swords. You scoffed. You hadn't connected what you've drawn to the dream you had previously. For the first time in your life, you question your abilities as a seer. Defeat. Surrender. Conflict. Loss. Betrayal. Losing even while winning. Ha, you don't trust anyone in your life, you thought, and you never will. The word defeat didn't exist your dictionary, nor did the word surrender.
You should've known better.
When at last, you were expelled for your dark arts experiments. Or more precisely, "experiment" on a fellow student who irritated you to no end. You decided to give him a lesson, and teach him the joy of the dark arts when an associate of yours took note of what was occurring and reported it to a professor. It just so happened that the student you were torturing came from one of the more prominent pure blood families in Europe. You wrinkled your nose in distaste, distaste at their hypocrisy. Considering you knew that the boy you had tortured had done far worse to others who displeased him. All from unknown pureblood families, of course.
Not caring to stay anyways, you've learnt all you've can from these snot nosed professors who drilled their students on the importance of blood purity instead of focusing on completing their actual curriculum. For all that pureness in their blood, their heads were certainly filled with mud.
You had found a distantly related relative who was willing to take you in. Charity case you were. Met a boy who was around the same age as you. A boy with enchanting blue eyes and a brilliant mind. Gods, the way he looked at you. You feel as if you could finally breathe for the first time in your life. Your heart would never be the same again. And neither would his.
Both of you spoke of silly dreams and futures. You couldn't know that you would eventually be the only one who believed in them, but you drew that blasted card again. Five of Swords.
That card haunts your life like a ghost. Choking you. You curse it and ripped the card to shreds. You wouldn't try tarot reading again. And so, when that eager boy suggested you form a blood pact with him, you immediately agreed, and thought that was the end of your worries. In the midst of an easy life, you've lost yourself to the praises he sung and the admiration he freely gave. You were already arrogant enough, and the sweet words he doled out made you even more so. This arrogance and pride of yours ruined both of your lives.
Foolish boy. Do you regret running away that summer?
Like a filthy rat escaping to his sewers. You coward. You hypocrite. You could've taken him into your arms. Whispered honey into his desperate ears. Kissed his broken tears away and caressed his cold trembling body. Made him forget the events that happened that evening, and covered his eyes. Anything, so long as the thread between you and him remained tied. Her corpse will forever hang on the wire that connects the two of you, but at least it would still be connected. You didn't know what you've thrown away that day.
This time, it wasn't someone else who betrayed you. You've tried to convince yourself otherwise, clinging to the ambitions and dreams the two of you concocted that summer. Angrily brainwashing yourself like the prideful idiot you were.
Silence had been the preferred form of communication between the you two. After decades of evasion, you've finally succeeded in completely muddling your mind, and the most impactful thing you say to him was that you were going to declare war on Muggles.
Five of Swords. This time you didn't even need to draw it. You knew it was coming. You fought with him, and you broke the only evidence that the two of you were once together. The blood pact broke, and all you could do was stand there, staring blankly.
...Did I mention you were an idiot?
It didn't take long before he broke something of yours as well. Before that famous duel, you had your card dream again. This time clearer. You've finally seen clearly what that card actually looked like from that time you've dreamed of it was a child. Five swords pierced the body of auburn haired man with cold glassy blue eyes—you woke up screaming.
This card doesn't fade. Can't fade. Won't fade. Admit your loss. You've lost.
As usual, you've refused to give into fate, stubborn old menace you were. The future you behold may be a ruined one, but it would only be molded and shaped by your own hands. Fate be damned.
That man proceeded to dutifully crush your spirit and throw you inside a cell to rot for the rest of your eternity. You wouldn't ever breathe freely again, but that was alright because you only ever did so when he was by your side. Lamenting your loss, you idly laid in your cell for decades in denial. It was certain that your greatest talent in life was wasting it. In ignorance, you dream until that card shows up again. Your dratted feeble old body skewered by five swords.
This time, you finally accept it with a smile.