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Chapter Text

She walked to her death, unhurried.

Around her, the Forbidden Forest was silent. There was no breeze rustling the leaves, no bird songs, no critters skittering in the bushes. There were no voices with her either. She had left her ghosts behind, the Resurrection Stone lying forgotten in the dirt.

She walked on, step after step, forcing her tired feet forward. Her fingers were clenched around her wand—well, Draco's wand—but she wasn't holding it at the ready, wasn't even fully aware of how hard she was gripping the stick of wood. Her mind swirled with one heavy thought, blanketing her, almost cutting her off from reality. It clung to her every breath, that thought, burrowed in her lungs and rushed back out again, a never-ending cycle.

She walked faster, then, as if she could leave it behind too, that bone-deep realization. But there was no escape.

She was a Horcrux.

And she was doing to die.

She needed to die, really. So she would, and then someone else would take care of Voldemort. Harrie smiled at that thought. For once, she wouldn't have to do all the work. Her part wouldn't even be difficult. Dying was the easiest thing in the world, if you accepted it. People had been trying to kill her for years, Voldemort especially, and now she would simply allow it to happen.

Her heart was beating frenetically in her chest, as if the organ knew it was living out its last moments. The hand gripping her wand was sweaty, but that was a remnant from the earlier battle. She wasn't nervous. Not anymore. She had reached a calm, cold state, and she walked in that mindset, confident in her purpose, shielded by the cloak of invisibility.

Perhaps she shouldn't have bothered to hide. Perhaps it would be better to walk in plain sight, offering herself to Death, and perhaps then it would take her without her even noticing. Red eyes piercing hers, a flash of green light, and the world would fall away. But no, no. Voldemort would gloat, at least a little. Say her name, tell her she would die now, that he was triumphant in the end. She would have gladly skipped that part to go straight to endless oblivion.

To peace.

She didn't want to die, but some peace would be nice. She was tired, and she deserved a rest. So what if it was eternal?

Harrie gave a slight shake of head, noting in a detached manner the glumness of her own thoughts. Her right foot caught on a rock, and she stumbled, only managing to avoid falling on her face at the last second. Grumbling at her clumsiness, she rearranged the cloak, which had slid to reveal her legs partway. She had just made sure she was once again entirely hidden when she heard a noise.

It sounded like a rustle of leaves, straight ahead of her. She froze, eyes scanning the expanse of the forest, saw nothing but tree trunks and the rich, brown carpet of fallen leaves. She was alone—or she appeared to be.

Clutching her wand, she took a small step forward, taking care to make no sound. As she was taking a second step, there was another noise, this time behind her. She spun around, wand raised, ready for anything. The forest lay silent.

Was she too paranoid? Perhaps there was nothing to these noises, and she shouldn't have let them bother her. Her purpose was ahead, in the clearing where Voldemort waited for her with his followers.

On the other hand...

"Homenum Revelio," she whispered under her breath, with a small flick of her wand.

It wouldn't help if the possible intruder wasn't human, if it was a goblin or an house-elf, and briefly Harrie wondered if the magic would still identify Voldemort as human, or if he was too far warped by the dark arts and had become something else entirely. The spell expended outward in a slow-moving bubble, a wave of soft blue that would frame any humans in the vicinity with a bright aura.

And then her scar flared with pain, and Harrie forgot all about any revealing spell. There was no need for it. It was him.

She stepped back, fighting not to make a sound, not to let out the scream sitting behind her clenched teeth. Her eyes watered, a pulse of agony making her head throb. Where was he? She didn't see him anywhere, didn't hear any more noises. Keeping her cloak tight around her, she executed a full turn on herself, which didn't yield any answers. Was he in her head? Was that why she couldn't see him?

Inhaling sharply, she pressed a hand to her scar. Another burst of pain nearly sent her to her knees. She groaned this time, a hoarse sound filtering through her lips.

"Harrie Potter..."

That hiss of her name seemed to come from all directions at once. It was his voice, and every syllable dripped venom. He had said her name like a curse, like he was damning her, like he hated the very thought of her.

And still absolutely no sign of him. Where was he? Was this a trick so she would reveal herself, slide the cloak off her? That was what she was supposed to do anyway, wasn't it? Offer herself to him, her life in exchange for the safety of everyone else. A hero's fate. Sacrificing herself, again, always.

"Do you think you can hide from me, Harrie?" came his voice again, pitched low, still reverberating from every angle.

The pain was worming its way down her jaw, radiating in fierce pulses synced to her heartbeat, coming faster and faster as her fear increased. She had promised herself she wouldn't beg, wouldn't let her emotions show. Taking a slow breath, she let the cape fall. The fabric pooled at her feet in a whisper, and there she stood, exposed.

"I'm not hiding," she said to the empty forest.

"Neither am I," was Voldemort's answer.

He appeared in front of her, a few yards away. Her spine went stiff as she looked at him, the black robes, the pale skin, the red eyes, all of him screaming dangerous dark wizard. Strangely, the pain in her scar eased, dulling from agony to a mild headache.

"Harrie Potter," he said again, his snake-like face twisting with a disturbing smile, too wide and near hungry.

She waited, tension growing in the pit of her stomach. Waited for him to gloat, to raise his wand, to cast it, that green-edged curse, to finally do what he had tried to do all these years ago. Kill her, and be done with it.

Silence stretched between them. He wasn't even pointing his wand at her. He was idly playing with it, his long pale fingers curling around the length of dark wood, flexing, unflexing, almost caressing it. Harrie noted he had come alone. No Death Eaters to back him up, and no giant snake either. It was too bad, she wouldn't have minded taking a shot at Nagini.

More silence. She shifted her weight, hyper-aware of the slightest of her movements. The tension had teeth now, and they were wracking down her back, a slow, aching descent, every second worse than the last. Voldemort was looking at her, taking her in, his scarlet eyes examining every inch of her. She had the feeling he was searching for something, though for what, she didn't know.

Why wasn't he attacking? Did he suspect some trickery? That she wasn't actually her, but some Polyjuiced decoy? That she had brought allies with her? There were no more tricks, no more friends to die for her, no more lies. No more running from her fate.

"You wanted me, here I am," she said, giving him a defiant look.

"Indeed," he replied.

Suddenly he was holding his wand with a combat grip and slashing at the air in a wide arc. It was instinct that made her parry, instinct that guided her wand up, instinct that had her lips shaping the words. It was all muscle memory, and in a fraction of a second she had cast a Protego charm, deflecting Voldemort's spell. She hadn't meant to, but she hadn't been able to override the damn reflex, born from countless hours of fighting, of protecting her life.

Voldemort laughed, a low, sibilant sound.

"Do you wish to fight, Harrie? Shall we duel?"

He gave a mockery of a bow, and his wand flashed again, firing another spell at her. This time, her decision to counter it was a conscious one. Harrie erected another Protego shield, the ribbon of red energy crashing harmlessly against it, the ethereal snake vanishing in a shower of fragmented particles. It wasn't the Killing Curse. The first one hadn't been either.

Confused, Harrie shifted her feet, sinking into her battle stance, wand held close to her. When Voldemort flicked his wrist, she cast a spell of her own, a simple Expelliarmus. Light erupted between them as their spells collided, fading one second later, canceling each other out in a burst of brilliance.

Another spell flashed at her, a swirl of yellow light streaked with dark. Harrie deflected that one too, then edged right, her gaze trained on Voldemort. The dark wizard mirrored her move, and they circled each other, wands poised to unleash more magic.

"I see you've made some progress," Voldemort said, his eyes roaming over her appraisingly. "Holding your wand correctly instead of clutching it like a lifeline, hoping it will save you from me."

I was fourteen and Cedric had just died! she wanted to reply. She held her tongue, sent a spell his way. He didn't bother parrying it, simply stepped aside quickly. The ray of red light flew over his shoulder, slammed into a tree behind him, leaving a burning hole in the bark.

His retaliation was swift, and they exchanged spells, Harrie casting Expelliarmuses and Stupefies while Voldemort used lesser known spells that she couldn't identify, each one brimming with dark magic. Colors flared between them, red, white, black, blue, clashing, mingling, burning against the monotone background of the forest. There was no green.

Harrie was breathing hard, every sense focused on Voldemort, her heartbeat a hummingbird song in her ears. She was casting spell after spell, the tip of her wand barely moving, every gesture economical and precise. Voldemort, on the other hand, was making wide motions with his wand, stabbing at the air, slicing in diagonals and half-curves. She thought it must have been on purpose, giving her time to see the spells coming, and as the duel went on, his gestures became tighter, faster, and more compact. It was harder to block, to dodge, but still she managed it.

Eventually they reached a point where they were slinging spells at each other every half-second, Voldemort doing it all non-verbally while Harrie was muttering hers, the duel punctuated by the sound of their steps on the mantle of dead leaves covering the ground and by Harrie's harsh exhalations. Voldemort's face was focused, his eyes piercing Harrie's the way his curses couldn't pierce her defense. He was no longer going easy on her, and she was actually holding her own against him. A little thrill went down her spine. Oh, she knew he wasn't fighting to the best of his abilities, but still...

It was as close to a real duel as she would ever get. And she was enjoying it. Every spell she fired at him came with a burst of anger, a raging desire to see him suffer for everything he had done. Every time, she kept hoping her strikes would land, and every time, of course, they didn't.

As they circled each other once more, trading more spells, Voldemort started to smile. At first, it was a slight tugging of his lips, hardly noticeable, and then it grew, his lips stretching, his teeth gleaming, until it had become a wicked, twisted grin that sent Harrie's heart beating even faster. Was he... was he enjoying this, too? God, what was she doing? She was supposed to die at his hand, not fight him! But he wasn't casting the right spell. Why wasn't he casting the right spell?

Muttering one last Expelliarmus, she then lowered her wand, leaving herself wide open to any attack. None came. Voldemort had done the same, his wand pointing at the ground. There was a lull in their battle, out of a seemingly common decision.

"All those weak spells," Voldemort said, still with that smile that unsettled her so deeply. "Why not cast the one you truly mean, Harrie?"

"I've delivered myself to you," she replied. "I've answered your ultimatum. Will you keep your word?"

He inclined his head.

"They will all be spared. I won't spill one more drop of magical blood."

Except mine, Harrie thought grimly.

"Do it, then," she goaded him. "Kill me, Tom."

His eyes ignited with anger.

"Do no," he spat, "use that name."

She didn't see him raise his wand. Pain hit her, flooding her entire body all at once, and then she was on the ground, screaming, screaming, screaming.

Snape had once remarked to her during one of her private Occlumency lessons that the strength of some spells depended heavily on the caster.

"If I were to cast the Cruciatus curse on you right now," he had told her, "it would hurt, but not as much as if Dumbledore did it, and meant it. The stronger the magical abilities of the caster, the worse the pain."

"Is that a theory, Professor, or have you tested it?" she had asked, some measure of snark in her voice.

"A theory. Let us hope you won't ever find yourself in a position to test it, Miss Potter."

Unfortunately, Snape had been right. Voldemort's power was stronger now than it had been three years ago at the moment of his rebirth, and so was the pain. It was pouring into her, a tide of blood, of bone-clenching agony, every single nerve ending on fire. Her throat was burning too, from the sheer volume and strength of her scream.

If only she could have died, right now, died so the pain would stop. She'd been ready to die, and now she wanted to, was hoping Voldemort would do it, that he would show mercy. She would have begged for it had she been able to.

When the curse ended, it was instant, but Harrie stayed on the ground, gasping, trembling. Her fingers scrabbled at the forest floor, blindly, looking for her wand, where was her wand, it would protect her... She needed her wand, she needed—

"Get up," said Voldemort's cold voice. "Or are you a dog, girl, that you would rather lie on the ground?"

She swallowed, her throat so raw. Her fingers touched the wood of her wand, and she gripped it fiercely, the end of it cradled in her sweaty palm. Then she got up to face Voldemort. The Cruciatus had sapped her of a good amount of her strength, and since she'd already been running on her reserves, standing up required every bit of energy she had left. She found some additional energy to raise her wand, somehow.

Glaring at Voldemort, she said what she had to say.

"Kill me, or I'll kill you. Again. I think I can do better than the first time."

He laughed, a quiet mirthless sound that chilled her to the bone.

"Let's not pretend, Harrie," he said. "You could never cast the Killing Curse."

She honestly wasn't so sure. One thing was certain: she had come here to die, not to be tortured. The best way to accomplish that was to make Voldemort take her seriously.

So she cast the Cruciatus curse at him.

"Crucio!" she shouted, channeling all her hate into her wand movement.

He didn't deflect, he didn't dodge. He caught her spell. It shouldn't have been possible, and yet he did it. There, at the tip of his wand, the red-black crackle of magic pulsed angrily, caged in a bubble of flowing power with a shining, translucent surface. Harrie gaped. Voldemort cocked his head, narrowing his eyes as he looked at her spell.

"A decent effort," he said.

With a flick of his wrist, he discarded the magical energy. It impacted a tree several feet away, soundlessly.

Decent? She would show him 'decent'. Taking a step to the right, she pretended to lower her wand. As she did, she cast her spell non-verbally. It took a lot of concentration, but she had done it before, and that particular curse worked very well as a nonverbal. In fact, she suspected it worked better when silent, and that it had been designed that way, to allow sneak attacks.

It didn't look like she was casting a spell at all, but Voldemort saw it anyway, and once again he did the impossible, intercepting the magical energy and trapping it at the end of his wand. This time it was a bead of white light, buzzing and fluttering in the transparent bubble.

"Better," he commented, giving her a thin smile. "That one came from your heart. And this is a very peculiar spell, isn't it? Did Severus teach it to you?"

"I found it by myself," she replied, which was only half a lie.

"Dabbling in dark magic, Harrie... What would your parents say?"

He dared ask that question. She gritted her teeth, keeping a level head.

"We'd know if you hadn't killed them," she said.

He flung her spell away, with the same dismissive gesture as the first time. Not even back at her. She would have preferred it, but no. He caught her spells as if they were paper projectiles aimed at him and then threw them away as such. It revealed the truth: Harrie was hopelessly outclassed. Had she really thought she could duel Lord Voldemort? She'd be dead in a second if such was his wish.

She lowered her wand, for real this time.

"How long are you planning to torture me before you kill me?" she asked.

She didn't really want an answer to that, but that was better than throwing herself at him, asking to be killed.

"Kill you, Harrie?" he said, with mild surprise. "I'm not going to kill you."

There was a pregnant silence. Mentally, Harrie was reeling. Had she heard him correctly? He was not going to kill her? After all these years of trying to do just that?

"So all of a sudden you don't care about the prophecy?" she said, at a loss for how to react.

"Oh no, I care. I cared then, and I care now. But Lord Voldemort forges his own fate."

He paused, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, a soft, dangerous murmur.

"Did you think I wouldn't know?"

"Know what?" she said.

"Playing dumb, Harrie? Please dispense with the theatrics. You no longer have any secrets for me."

His red eyes were intense, casting their own brand of magic, holding her under their spell. She felt exposed before him. She felt naked.

"I don't know what you're—"

The only warning she got was a flash of anger in his eyes. Then she was on the ground again, screaming, again. How could she feel so much pain and still live? It should have killed her. It should have been the end. But it wasn't, and it went on for a handful more of impossible seconds, before the pain vanished.

She breathed in gasping hiccups, staring at the sky above, at the low, gray clouds. It was going to rain. The thought was so detached from her current situation she almost laughed at its absurdity.

"Do you want to lie to me again?" Voldemort said, cold and calm and everything she was not.

"No," she groaned, rolling on her stomach, pushing on her arms to get to her knees.

She stayed there a moment, gathering the strength to stand up. When she did, she was clutching her wand like a lifeline again, like she had three years ago in Little Hangleton cemetery. She was terribly aware it couldn't help her.

"No," Voldemort repeated, sounding so very reasonable. "No more lies. No more hiding. I know what you are, Harrie. Severus knew, and he wasn't able to conceal it from me."

He still hadn't said the crucial word. She wasn't about to say it herself. In fact, she was doing her damnedest not to think about it, because nonverbal Legilimency was well within Voldemort's abilities.

"I didn't intend for it," he continued. "But when I realized what had happened that night, it cast everything in a new light. It explained so much."

He breathed in, slowly, the flat slits of his nostrils flaring.

"Harrie Potter," he said for the third time.

A gleam in his eyes. A knife of a smile. A soft, deadly tone.

"My Horcrux."

She threw a Sectumsempra at him. He blocked it, and then her wand was flying out of her hand and into Voldemort's. He caught it gracefully, his fingers curling around the wood with familiarity, as if it were his wand.

"That certainly explains why you're so eager to die, doesn't it?" he commented. "Tell me, how long have you known? Not long at all, I'd wager. I can't imagine Dumbledore shared that dirty secret with a child, or even a teenage girl."

"It doesn't matter," she said.

Her only thought was that she was standing in front of Voldemort without her wand, and that he knew. He knew.

"Did you learn of it today?" he guessed.

Should she try to run? Maybe he'd stun her, and she would fall and crack open her head on a rock, die right there. Maybe there still was a way out. But no, she had to be killed by him, didn't she? He had to destroy the piece of his soul that resided inside her; she couldn't simply die.

Her scar was burning again, the pain growing with every breath. She took a step backwards. Voldemort's wand moved almost imperceptibly, and Harrie's feet became stuck to the ground.

"You cannot run from me."

He stepped closer, tilting his head, his brow furrowing slightly, as if examining something he found curious. She stood still under his scrutiny, holding back the tide of panic that rose from the very bottom of her. She had done this before—faced Voldemort while the situation looked hopeless, lived to tell the tale—she could do it again.

"Do you understand that you're nothing, Harrie, nothing at all?" he murmured as he began circling her. "You're only what you are because a part of my soul lives in you. Everything that makes you you, your will, your drive to succeed, your courage, they all come from me."

Her nape prickled as he stepped behind her. She stared ahead, doing her best to pretend there wasn't a dark wizard at her back.

"Harrie Potter doesn't exit. She is an illusion, a shell, and my soul is the spark that moves her, that breathes life into her."

Why was she listening to this drivel? Not a word of it was the truth. Yet she didn't dare interrupt Voldemort, whose low voice curled like ribbons of smoke around her trembling form, casting another spell that had nothing do to with magic. It was, Harrie reflected, akin to a snake coiling its body around the helpless prey, trapping it completely before the gleaming fangs struck.

"Without me, you'd be nothing, Harrie. You wouldn't have gotten your wand, you wouldn't have that much magical power, and you certainly wouldn't have managed to accomplish any of what you did, any of those heroic acts."

He stepped back into view, facing her again. His face wore a contemplative expression, his features relaxed. He took another step, and then he hovered at the edge of Harrie's personal space, too close for comfort.

"I made you," he said, lifting a hand.

He touched one long finger to her scar, followed it down. It was a strangely intimate touch, soft as a feather, nearly a caress. It also hurt like hell. Harrie felt as if his finger was a razor blade he was taking to her forehead, slicing her skin open. She bit her lips, waited for blood to cloud her vision, for the pain to explode into excruciating fiery agony like it had before. A blink, and Voldemort had removed his hand, the pain fading with the loss of contact.

"Do you realize," he whispered, still standing too close, "what a gift this is? Truly, you should be thanking me."

Someone must have cast a Confundus on her, because he was speaking pure nonsense.

"A gift?" she sneered. "It's a curse. Take it back. I don't want it, I don't want your soul, I—"

In a flash, the tip of his wand was under her jaw, digging painfully into her skin.

"You don't want it?" Voldemort said, his tone icy, his features tightening in anger.

She would have gotten the same result had she insulted him.

"Ungrateful girl. Do you have any idea what it is you have? Wizards would kill to be in your place."

He moved his wand down, to the hollow of her throat, resting it above her pulse point. Her heart was making a awful racket in her ears, so much that she almost missed what he said next.

"Not to mention that removing it would kill you. Didn't you hear what I said? Your soul is so tightly intertwined with that fragment of mine that one cannot exist without the other. If I were to take it back, as you so crudely put it, there would be nothing left of you."

"I don't believe you," she said.

I'm so much more than what you believe me to be, she didn't add.

"Your beliefs have no incidence on reality, Harrie," he returned with more than anger, something closer to exasperation. "Whether or not you—"

Her hand shot out, and she grasped her wand which he was still holding, her fingers closing around the middle. She wrenched the tip toward Voldemort, screamed.

Two words.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Nothing happened. No flash of green, no rushing sound. Voldemort's mouth twisted merrily. In the same breath, he cast a targeted Impedimenta point-blank, and when Harrie's arms were dead and useless, her wand slipping away, he laughed.

"Dear girl," he said with a savage joy that terrified Harrie much more than his anger did, "I know you better than you know yourself."

"You don't know me," she returned, thinking it again, Avada Kedavra, with hate, hate, hate. But it wasn't a spell one could cast wandlessly, not unless your name happened to be Tom Riddle, and she felt she needed to say the words anyway, to pour her emotions into every syllable.

His hand gripped her jaw, the length of his wand pressed against her cheek.

"The Sorting Hat told you you would do great in Slytherin," he said. "That you had ambition enough, and a thirst to prove yourself. But you didn't want Slytherin, did you, Harrie? You chose bravery over cunning, and that is your failing. That is why you're standing here now, powerless and at my mercy."

"I'd make that choice again," she said.

Then she spat in his face.

She got a burst of satisfaction at the outrage that flitted across his features, but that was short-lived. Too soon, pain was all she knew. She was drowning, she was burning, she was being quartered alive, and every inch of her was suffering more than any human being could possibly suffer. It went on and on, an infinite expanse of agony. Her mind was going to break, and there'd be nothing left of her. It was too much, it was too much, it was—

The pain left her.

For a second, she felt empty, hollowed out, not quite herself. She gasped wetly, expelling phlegm onto the forest floor. She was lying on her stomach, her face pressed into the leaves and dirt, and a foot planted at the small of her back was grinding her further into the ground, causing her a small amount of pain compared to what she had just endured.

"That was a minute of the Cruciatus," Voldemort informed her in a curt, crisp voice. "The next time you disrespect me, I'll make it two. I'm sure you're aware any permanent damage to the psyche doesn't occur until five minutes in."

She hadn't been, actually. And that had felt so much longer than a single minute...

"Kill me," she croaked.

She wasn't begging: it was an order. The foot lifted off her, and she was flipped onto her back, rather violently, her breath punched out of her lungs. Voldemort knelt next to her, dizzyingly close, a black-clad silhouette against the darkening sky. He pushed back a lock of her hair with his wand, before the tip of it touched her scar.

"Precious Horcrux..."

The two possessive, cloying words, hissed low, made Harrie feel nauseous.

"I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to keep you."

A rough sound of protest scratched her throat. It came out as a moan, some harsh, wordless sound, but she knew Voldemort had understood her meaning perfectly. He smiled at her, a pleasant sort of smile, with genuine warmth, which was even more disturbing because it didn't belong on his face at all.

"Not one more drop of magical blood spilled," he said, and he pointed the tip of his wand directly at her face.

A flash of white light sent her into unconsciousness.

Too hot.

That was the thought she came back to. She was too hot, her mouth dry, her body burning up, her pulse thumping in her ears. Her mind was swimming in thick sludge, every thought slow and not quite right. Her limbs felt odd, heavy, like she was drugged, or stuck at the frontier between dreams and reality, unable to fully wake up. There was a strange pressure in the pit of her belly, a pleasurable knot that seemed to be growing.

Was she lying on her back? It felt that way. Lying down, coming out of a deep sleep, body and mind reluctant to emerge fully into reality.

And she was so hot, sweating, the warmth suffocating.

She swallowed, blinked her eyes open, trying to parse through the hazy cocktail of confused sensations saturating her brain.

Green, above her. Not the sky, no. Those were drapes, a canopy, and that softness below her was a mattress. She was lying on a bed.

Bed.

That one word sent a shot of adrenaline in her veins. Blinking again to clear her blurry vision, she looked down. Her body was there, and she was naked, but that wasn't the important part. No, the important part was that between her thighs spread obscenely wide, there was a head, bent down, and that the pressure and that pulsing pleasure were coming from a tongue, licking her there.

Voldemort's tongue.

Sheer blind panic cut through everything, and in a crystal-clear instant, everything came back to her. Her walk through the forest, her confrontation with Voldemort, the fact that he knew she was his Horcrux, and his decision to spare her.

And now this, his hot tongue on her bare sex, forcing unwanted tendrils of pleasure deep into her belly.

She bucked, a scream of protest wrenched from her parched throat. It came out like a mewl, a pathetic little sound that did nothing to communicate her distress, her disgust, her shock. Voldemort chuckled, right against her, the vibrations traveling through her flesh, sparking more pleasure along her nerves. She felt him lick her, a broad stroke of his tongue on the whole length of her sex, and she heard herself moan, her thighs jolting, a lava-hot stream of sharp bliss rushing down her entire lower body.

She squirmed, struggling, but her strength was lacking, her limbs still weak, and Voldemort held her down, his large, strong hands keeping her legs opened and pinned to the mattress. Moaning again, gulping in a lungful of air, she fought the pleasure, her hands curling into the sheets like claws, her mind wrestling with the fact that Lord Voldemort was eating her out.

Stop, stop... She tried to say it, couldn't manage it, but what good would that do anyway? Voldemort didn't care for stop, nor for any protest she might voice. He licked her again, a wave of languid warmth surging with the movement of his tongue, and Harrie was a writhing mess, her too tense body shifting in the sweaty, rumpled sheets beneath her. How long had he been doing that? How long would he keep doing it?

Despite herself, she made another noise, a pleading sob torn out of her heaving chest, like she was in pain, like it was agony thrumming in her bloodstream instead of pleasure. It might as well have been. Voldemort responded by swirling his tongue around the bud of her clitoris, bringing shocking stimulation to the small sensitive bundle of nerves, the action so sudden and so raw that Harrie's hips arched, an electrifying pulse seizing her from the inside. Right at that moment, the pressure snapped, the pleasure flared, and before she could process what was happening, she was coming.

She came, and she came hard, with a strangled cry of surprise, thrashing in the sheets, her hips jerking, cresting on top of an intense swell of ecstasy that flattened every thought into nothing. Muscles deep in her belly spasmed, her cunt clenched rhythmically, the convulsions out of control, each one delivering a bright jolt of bliss to her system. She made more noises, shameful ones, gasping moans that only served to prove how good the orgasm was. It was stronger than any other she had ever had, better than anything her own fingers and vague thoughts of a boy between her thighs had ever brought her.

At last the pleasure ebbed, and she slumped onto the damp sheets, exhausted and limp. Voldemort lifted his head from between her thighs, gave her a smile.

"Welcome back, Harrie," he said, his mouth shining slick with her wetness, his tongue darting between his lips maliciously.

Her brain refused to work. This couldn't be happening. She couldn't be in bed with Voldemort, Voldemort who had just made her come with his mouth, with his tongue. The violation was unthinkable.

"My sweet little Horcrux," he said, curling a hand around her jaw, the hot smooth expanse of his palm burning against her feverish skin. "Was that your first time getting a taste of such pleasure?"

He was still dressed in his black robes, while she was entirely naked. He had even removed her socks. For some reason, her mind fixated on that detail during a few seconds. No, she knew why. It was easier to think about missing socks that it was to think about everything else.

She took a small, trembling breath, and looked Voldemort in the eyes.

"Why?"

Her tongue was a leaden weight in her mouth, the word numbly falling from her lips. She wasn't sure of the exact nature of her question. Why keep me? Why like this? Why give me pleasure? It wasn't what Voldemort did. He hated her, he despised her, he wanted her dead—well, he had, until now. If someone had told her this morning that Voldemort wanted to have sex with her, first she would have been horrified, and then she would have imagined a brutal, painful thing, the Dark Lord rutting between her thighs, mocking her the whole time, hurting her. Not this, not his mouth on her soaked sex, not pleasure burning bright in every inch of her body. The only thing that matched her expectations was his mocking smile.

"Why not?" he replied. "What else would I do with you, Harrie... except make you even more mine?"

"You don't own me," she said, which felt like such an obvious statement it shouldn't have needed saying.

But this was Voldemort, and they were past obvious, past normal, past anything she knew or had expected.

"I think you'll find that actually, I do."

With that, he thrust a finger inside her. She yelped, surprise and shock blotting out any pain she might have felt at that sudden intrusion. While her channel was wet and technically ready, his fingers were much longer and thicker than hers, and the stretch made her inner muscles spasm, her body trying to force his finger out as her mind rebelled. This wasn't happening.

"No," she said, slipping away from his hold with another bucking motion, scrambling backwards on the bed.

She turned and crawled away, escape the only thing on her mind. The bed was enormous, and she'd been right at the center of it, so no matter which way she went, there was a great deal of mattress to cross. Oh God, was it his bed? And where was her wand?

"Accio wand!" she shouted, one hand outstretched. It remained empty.

A hand closed around her ankle, yanked her back. She kicked at him, kept struggling as he bore down on her, using his superior strength and weight to pin her down. He wasn't exactly muscled, or what would be described as athletic, but he still had sixty pounds on her.

"Stop squirming," he said, annoyance clear in his tone, like her resistance was inconveniencing him. "There's nowhere you can go."

Trapped beneath him, still she fought. His lips curled back in irritation, and he used a wandless, nonverbal spell to paralyze her. At least that was her conclusion, because suddenly her body locked up, incapacitated from the neck down, her limbs non-responsive. She glared hard at Voldemort. The spell hadn't come with any associated numbness, and she could still feel his hands on her, the one around her wrists, and more worryingly, the one on her thigh, fingers splayed wide and possessive there.

"Are you going back on our deal?" he said, letting go of her wrists, leaning away now that she couldn't run.

"What deal?"

"You've delivered yourself to me, and in exchange I've agreed to spare any wizard or witch who fought against me during the Battle of Hogwarts."

What that how it had gone down? Maybe. Still, there was one major oversight in Voldemort's statement.

"For you to kill me, not to—"

She couldn't even say the word.

"For me to do with you as I please. And this is what I want. I'll ask again, are you reneging on our deal? Shall I go back to Hogwarts, Avada a few people at random?"

She had never heard the spell used as a verb before. It seemed so callous, so casual. Voldemort, her brain reminded her.

"No," she said. "No, I... Our deal stands."

And how hard it was to say it. She'd never imagined she would have to sell her body one day, least of all to Voldemort.

"I thought so," he murmured, smugly satisfied with her surrender.

He worked a finger back inside her at the same moment he cast the counter-curse to lift the paralysis. Harrie tensed up, containing her protest. He wasn't brutal with her, but he wasn't gentle either. His red eyes were trained on her face as he moved his finger back and forth in the tight wetness of her.

"Where are we?" she asked. "What happened?"

"You're in my home. I Apparated us here after securing Hogwarts' surrender. The castle is mine once again, and I have united the magical world under my leadership."

"No, you haven't."

He flashed her a cold smile.

"I will, soon."

His finger touched a particular spot inside her that felt so good she couldn't quite hold back her moan. The sound slipped out of her, a mark of shame. How could she feel pleasure at the hands of her parents' murderer? Was that a consequence of having part of his soul inside her? Or was her body that weak, that easily manipulated?

Voldemort pushed a second finger in, and she winced. It wasn't exactly pain, more of an uncomfortable stretching sensation. Very uncomfortable. She tried to relax, tried to think about something other than the twisting curl of his fingers inside her, the damning slickness of her cunt.

"Were you saving yourself for someone?" Voldemort asked idly, like this was a perfectly reasonable question to be asking right now.

Harrie blushed, looked away. She thought about lying, telling him that actually, no, she wasn't a virgin. But what would have been the point? It might have even angered him, since he thought of her as his.

He did something with his fingers that sent a faint pulse of pain between her legs. Had he added a third one? She didn't want to look, didn't want to know.

"Will you bleed, Harrie?"

She couldn't place his tone. It fell between a taunt and a concerned question, like he meant both at once, or neither.

"If I do, doesn't that qualify as spilling magical blood?" she returned.

"I'll try to be gentle, then," he said.

Which was... the most surprising thing he could have said, really. She glanced at him, didn't read any mockery in his eyes, nor any sign he wasn't being honest. There was also a whole lot of lust in his gaze, the dark pupils dilated, and she quickly looked away, because that was a disturbing sight, the Dark Lord sexually aroused. She didn't want to think about sex and Voldemort, or sex with Voldemort.

She wouldn't have a choice.

She heard the rustle of clothes, then Voldemort grasped her hips, the heat of his body intensifying as he leaned over her. More out of instinct than anything else, she tried to close her legs. He stopped her with one firm hand, positioned her the way he wanted her. When she felt something brush against her entrance, hard and hot and big, she quivered beneath him, grasping for elusive calm, for some goddamn courage. She wouldn't beg. She wouldn't, she wouldn't.

The tip of his cock breached her, and her eyes flew wide, because that was already a lot. How big was that thing? No, she didn't want to know. Voldemort paused, one hand curled around her thigh, while the other caressed her stomach in a frankly disconcerting manner. Was that him being gentle? She almost laughed, a nervous, absurd chuckle bubbling in her throat.

He moved, sinking an inch further into her. Her breath itched, her cunt doing an odd fluttering thing around the intrusion, trying to get used to the stretch. Thank God he had bothered to get her wet first. She couldn't imagine how it would have felt otherwise.

His fingers traced patterns on her belly. The next time she breathed, he pushed again, forcing more of him into her. And the next, and the next. She was breathing very slow on purpose, so he was going just as slow, agonizingly so. If she stopped breathing, would he stop, too? Wouldn't it be better if he just did it, shoved in, get it over with? She was being spread open with care, and she might have resented it, would perhaps have preferred the brutal rape she had first imagined. Perhaps it would have been quicker, perhaps she wouldn't have had to feel so much.

Feel his cock pulse inside her, feel the slow parting of her inner walls, feel him making room for himself inside of her.

It was all too much. She squirmed, flexing her toes, trying to shake that feeling of fullness, of wrongness.

"Stop that," Voldemort said.

His voice came out as a rough growl, and his hand was suddenly squeezing her hips hard. Harrie stilled, glanced at him again. She didn't want to be looking at him at all, but she couldn't help herself. He looked angry. No, he looked in pain. No, no, he looked like he was desperately restraining himself. His features were drawn tight, his lips curled back, his eyes narrowed as he stared at her. Harrie stared back, defiantly.

"Do it," she said.

His lips curled back further. He put more weight on her, his nails sinking into her skin, pinpricks of pain.

"Your choice, Harrie," he said, and yes, it was.

She steeled herself. Voldemort covered her with his body, bracing a hand besides her head. He was still mostly dressed, had only opened up his robes enough to pull his erection out, which was better, right? She didn't want his naked chest brushing against hers.

"Blood, then," he murmured.

He thrust the rest of the way in. One single, violent stroke that seemed to skewer Harrie to her core, pain ripping her apart. She didn't make any noise, her teeth stubbornly set in her lower lip. Voldemort gave a single low grunt. He felt ungodly big inside her, and for a second she wanted to ask if that was normal, if he was normal, but the question would have been too humiliating to say, and anyway she was pretty sure the answer was no. The same way dark magic had twisted his face, it must have done things to other parts of his body, things she didn't want to know about.

She breathed around the pain, looking at the dark green drapes above. It wasn't terribly bad, certainly nothing like the Cruciatus. Voldemort shifted, hips drawing back, before he filled her again. He gave a few experimental strokes, pausing when he was fully hilted, grinding on the next stroke, angling himself differently. At one point he brushed a spot inside her that made her muscles spasm and pleasure burn amid the pain, and Harrie groaned. He paused once more, then he set a leisurely pace, every thrust ensuring there was friction on that one spot.

Well, that's cheating, Harrie thought dazedly, but of course it was. Slytherin and Dark Lord and well. Voldemort never played fair, which apparently extended to his behavior in the bedroom. Could have gone my whole life without knowing that.

His whole weight was on her, crushing, pressing her into the mattress. There was so much heat, on her, inside her, an acute sense of it right between her legs. The pain was fading, the pleasure mounting. Harrie kept taking slow breaths, the way she did when her body hurt too much. Right now she was having the opposite problem, Voldemort's thrusts inside her being too bloody pleasant. The drag and slide of his cock stirred unknown nerve endings, he was touching her where no one had ever touched her before, and her cunt was dripping liquid heat, answering to the merciless stimulation, fluttering in pulses, independently of any of her desires.

The wetness of her channel also meant each thrust came with slick noises, awfully carnal ones. Harrie stared at the drapes, her face all red, hate and shame warring inside her.

"Enjoying yourself, Harrie?" Voldemort taunted.

"You're cheating," she said, which felt to her like such a childish reply. She regretted speaking the words the moment they crossed her lips.

"Am I? Perhaps I should cheat more."

The hand on her thigh slid further up, and then there was the slow, heavy press of his fingers on her clit. She produced a shocked squeak at the fierce pleasure that lanced up her cunt, her hips rising against her will, her body seeking more of that wonderful feeling that thrilled in her belly. He caressed her intently, bringing more of her own wetness to her clit, stroking it in slow, maddening circles.

The pleasure was becoming unbearable, a devouring tide of all-encompassing bloodyfuckinggood that gnawed at her sanity. She was fighting to stay whole, and she was losing. It spiked higher and higher with every brush of his fingers, with every thrust of his cock, with every second of this torture, and she couldn't contain the desperate whines that spilled from her lips. Her hips were twitching and rolling, her breaths coming in quick inhales now, and though she kept her eyes firmly on the drapes, Voldemort's smile was visible at the edge of her vision, another taunt.

And he wasn't stopping.

Harrie couldn't stop herself either, the answering throb of her body, the climbing ecstasy. Even worse than orgasming from Voldemort's tongue was orgasming on his cock, but she knew it was going to happen. It wasn't her. It was him, forcing this on her. She held onto that thought as a cramp seized her from the inside, the start of one tight, hard convulsion that didn't go anywhere for a couple of seconds. Then the pressure crested, cascaded, rupturing and—

—she keened low in her throat, mouth open—

—electricity skittering over her skin—

—next, a choked sob, rattling her teeth—

—pleasure, flooding through—

everything, everything.

Her orgasm was a violent series of earth-shattering tremors, and she thrashed beneath Voldemort, sundered apart by the pleasure. It lasted for long, delicious seconds, helped along by Voldemort's touches and thrusts, and when it was over she was left mindless, breathless, and full of shame.

Slowly, cognition sparked again in her brain, and she was aware of the limpness of her body, of the fact that she was still being fucked, of his cock plunging again and again in her dripping cunt. The feeling of utter fullness and the way the hard flesh rubbed at her inner walls overwhelmed her. She struggled, her legs jerking. Voldemort issued a possessive growl, draped himself over her, and if she had thought he was resting all of his weight on her, she'd been wrong: now it was everything. His robes were touching her bare skin everywhere as he caged her in under him, flattening her to the bed.

She struggled some more, until she felt his teeth at her throat, and at that, she stilled. He didn't bite down, merely mouthed over her pulse point, giving her a hint of his hot tongue.

"Little Horcrux," he said, the words buried in her skin.

"Don't call me that."

"This is what you are, Harrie. Mine. Mine, from the start."

She seethed silently. Her hands rose, and she was envisioning wrapping them around his throat when he caught them, pushing them down to the bed above her head. His hips moved faster, his cock finding no resistance as he fucked her. There was that sound again, the slap of their bodies, wet and disgusting. She closed her eyes, wishing he would hurry. He was muttering things into her skin, his mouth exploring her throat, his tongue a flicking wet lash of heat.

His free hand suddenly caressed her arse, grabbing one cheek and squeezing, and Harrie bucked, letting out a shocked noise of protest. His hand stayed there, fondling her with a roughness that shouldn't have surprised her at this stage.

"Are you happy, Harrie?" he said, speaking near her ear. "Being their hero? Suffering for them?"

Where the hell was this coming from?

"I stand by my choices," she said.

"You could be more. I could offer you so much more."

She nearly laughed. Was he trying to turn her while he was raping her? She'd known Voldemort wasn't exactly sane, but that was a whole new level of fucked-up.

His hand moved to her clit again, and he teased the engorged little nub. She clenched her jaw, feeling much too sensitive for this kind of stimulation.

"No," she gasped when his thumb pressed harder, and again when he slammed his cock deep, and then on every thrust after that, a litany of weak protests.

There was no escape. She was held down, and he hilted himself inside her repeatedly, his thumb relentless on her clit, pushing into her another orgasm. Swept up in a storm of intoxicating bliss, she heard him grunt, his pace faltering into something jerky and uneven, just before she felt a rush of wet heat in her. He gave another grunt, retreating, pushing deep one last time, shuddering on top of her.

She lay still, struggling to breathe with his weight on her. She didn't want to think about anything. Not about what had happened, not about the fact that he had come inside her, not about what he planned to do next. She wanted to sleep, she wanted to die.

There was a flash of pain between her legs when he got off her. He leaned away, sitting back on his haunches, and Harrie's gaze was drawn between his legs, almost automatically. The first thing she noticed was the blood, her blood, tingeing the pale flesh of his cock. The second thing was his size, even soft. No, that wasn't normal. Had that really been inside her?

"I could teach you," he said, which was such a non-sequitur it snapped Harrie right out of her dazed contemplation of his cock.

"What?" she said.

Then she remembered that, no, it wasn't a non-sequitur at all. He was simply picking up their conversation again, that insane offer he'd made while he was deep inside her.

"I could teach you," he repeated, slower, clearly doubting her cognitive function at the moment. "There's much to the Dark Arts you don't know."

He had one hand curled around her ankle, as if he thought she was going to bolt away from him. She doubted she could even stand. Her whole body was still being wracked by minute tremors, the kind one got when one was really cold—or apparently, when one had just been raped by Lord Voldemort.

"Teach me," she said, and there it was, the laugh that she had swallowed back earlier, now coming out of her all small and bitter. "Are you... are you insane?"

"So that's a no?"

"Yeah, that's a no. That's even a 'fuck off'."

She thought he must not be hearing them often, those two words, and she had prepared herself for his anger, but he merely smiled, somewhat amused. He patted her lower leg, got off the bed, redressing himself. She watched him walk to the door.

He opened it, paused, looked back at her. Smiled again, a shark's smile, sensing blood, relishing the upcoming meal.

"I'll ask you again tomorrow," he said.

The door closed.

Harrie swore.

Chapter Text

Red upon white, her blood on the sheets.

Sitting down on the bed, still trembling, Harrie stared at the small stain, at the faint red marring her inner thigh. Divorced from its context, it meant nothing. She'd never really cared that much about of virginity, and she rejected the notion that the first man she would sleep with would own her in any way. She belonged to no one; Voldemort could go hang himself.

In context, well... it meant a lot of things, but she wasn't ready to parse through all that yet, wasn't ready to examine what Voldemort just raped me implied. She needed to act. She needed clothes, she needed a wand, she needed to get out of here.

She wiped away the blood on her thigh, crawled to the edge of the bed, put her feet on the ground, stood up. She didn't stagger. Good. The first thing she checked was the window. She walked up to it, ignoring the pain in her groin and the cold stone floor beneath her feet. Beyond the glass pane stretched a garden, a row of neatly trimmed hedges, and then an unremarkable swath of the British countryside. No clue as to where she was exactly. The sun appeared to be more than mid-way across the sky. She'd been unconscious several hours.

She opened the window, her hand brushing up against a ward as soon as she tried to put it outside. The magic barrier rippled in the air when she pressed against it, waves of translucent power refracting the light. When she pressed harder, it sent a jolt of pain flashing up her arm. She couldn't escape that way. Breaking a ward could be done, but she'd need her wand, and breaking Voldemort's ward, well... that was another matter entirely.

But she had to escape, somehow. She had to get back to her friends, to Hermione, to Ron, find a new plan. Her heart gave a painful squeeze. She hoped they were all right, hoped Voldemort hadn't lied, that he had indeed been true to their bargain. He'd lied before, so many times, had lied to Snape, telling him he would spare Lily, so she wasn't confident he hadn't been lying to her.

Except if he had told the truth, she couldn't run. That would endanger everyone, and would render her sacrifice pointless. And she really didn't want it to be pointless, because that had required a lot of courage for her to lay there in that bed and let Voldemort have what he wanted. Why did he even want—no, that was for later.

She went to check the door. It was locked and warded. Turning on her heels, she surveyed the room. There were no signs of her clothes anywhere, nor of her wand. The bedroom was vast and well-furnished, but it didn't look lived-in. Harrie's gaze swept over the plush rugs on the ground, the bedside table, the desk with a bare surface, the two high-backed chairs, the closet with a large mirror affixed to the doors, that monstrous draped thing of a bed—she looked away quickly from that last one. It was all clean, and a bit sterile, like an hotel room freshly prepared. The ridiculous idea that Voldemort had tidied up because he had brought her in popped into her mind.

The lack of sleep is getting to me, she thought.

She'd been rendered unconscious, which didn't equate to proper rest. She still had all the night's fatigue resting on her shoulders, all the fighting, all the deaths. Bile rose up in her throat, and she tottered for a second, before she recovered, steeling herself. She could still fight. The plan had changed, and she would have to adapt, that was all. She wasn't beaten, they weren't beaten.

She just had to fight on.

Should have known getting myself killed by Voldemort wouldn't work out.

Dumbledore's plans had never functioned smoothly. There had always been itches, bumps that she ran into violently, inevitably, leaving her suffering in either mind or body. That one was a particularly monumental hitch. An unforeseeable, bizarre, insane hitch.

She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. Things she didn't want to think about were dripping from between her thighs.

There was another door, in a corner of the far wall, and when she went to try it, it opened. She was relieved to discover a bathroom. It was all white and gold, with an enormous bathtub mounted on clawed feet. Harrie didn't care how it looked, or that it was Voldemort's bathroom. She ran herself a bath, a very hot one, near scalding, sitting in the tub and letting the water slowly rise until it came up to just under her breasts. Cleansing, purifying heat. It stung between her legs, and when she gingerly prodded her sex, it stung more.

Alone with her thoughts and the low thrum of pain, flashes flooded her mind. His heavy weight on her, his grunts of pleasure, his fingers rubbing at the center of her pleasure, the brutality of his thrusts, and... that rush of warmth at the end. He had come inside her.

Harrie frowned, stomping back the panic that threatened to creep in. She wasn't on any contraception, but there was no way Voldemort actually intended for her to get pregnant. Right? He was too focused on himself for that, and he wanted to master Death and live forever, so there was no point in having an heir. Besides, if he had wanted it, it would have already happened. Harrie was sure there were a lot of female Death Eaters eager for the job, among them Bellatrix Black. They'd probably consider it an honor.

She noticed her shoulders were hurting, realized she was clenching her fists hard, clenching her jaw, her whole body one big ball of tension. She forced herself to exhale, to unclench her hands, to lie back in the tub.

She would ask him. Whenever he came back, she'd ask, see his reaction for herself. Maybe he would laugh, scoff at the very idea. Maybe he'd smile maliciously, and that would be an answer. She was tensing up again, imagining the different scenarios. She had to stop. It didn't help her in any way, it only sent her mind into further turmoil. She had to focus on the facts.

He had raped her, would probably do it again. No. He would definitely do it again. The discovery that she was his Horcrux had changed the nature of his obsession with her, and now he saw her as his, which included her body, to be used for his pleasure. Well, her pleasure seemed to matter to him too, but she didn't know what to make of that. Was it a way to humiliate her, to show her that he could do whatever he wanted to her body, having it betray her? Or had he bothered to make her come only for his own benefit, so she'd be wet and it would be better for him?

She wondered how often he had sex, if at all. That was a line of questioning she had never thought she would ponder. The sex life of Voldemort.

And then, there was his offer. To teach her, to give her something he thought she deserved.

You could be more.

The Dark Arts. There was much more to them than the Unforgivables. A whole branch of magic that wasn't taught at Hogwarts, that she consequently knew little about except what she had been forced to learn to fight him. Powerful, dangerous spells. But she didn't crave power, or knowledge. She wanted a peaceful life. After seven years of troubles coming after her again and again, she thought she deserved that.

Voldemort wanted... what, to make her his apprentice?

I'll ask you again tomorrow.

It had been at once a promise and a threat.

Where had he gone, anyway? Back to Hogwarts? Another slew of images came to mind, Voldemort torturing her friends, breaking them. Harrie shuddered. Taking a deep breath, she submerged herself entirely in the water, stayed there as long as she could. Eyes closed, heart beating too quickly still, the warmth all around her, cut off from the outside world. Slowly, she let out her breath through her mouth, until she had no air left. She remained underwater for a couple more moments. It helped center her, that focus on her sole body, on the pure physical sensations.

She wondered what face Voldemort would make if he found her drowned in his own bathtub, and at that a choked off chuckle burned in her throat, and she resurfaced, breathed deeply.

An idea had come to her. She gathered the dark mass of her wet hair, putting it at her back, then she reclined into the tub, thinking. Yes, it would work. She had done it before, and rather easily. She did not want to do it again, but she'd know exactly where he was, what he was up to. Before she could hesitate more, she focused and did it, her hands gripping the edge of the bathtub.

Her scar throbbed with pain. She felt the bond, felt it open, and it was so simple, like walking into another room through an open door. She wasn't sure there had even been a door, and oh, how frightening that possibility was. Suddenly, she was looking through Voldemort's eyes, was hearing his voice.

"...to hold them here until they can be properly processed," he was saying in a low, commanding tone. "Not all of them, but certainly the most troublesome. You've extended the cells capacity, as instructed?"

"Yes, yes, of course my Lord," the man in front of him replied with a deference that did nothing to hide his fear.

He had long black hair and a silver-streaked beard. Harrie recognized Pius Thicknesse, the current Minister of Magic. They were standing in an office, probably Thicknesse's at the Ministry.

"My Lord, if I may ask... what about the Undesirable no. 1?" Thicknesse said, casting a wondering look at Voldemort.

A profound sense of satisfaction washed over Harrie. She felt Voldemort's emotions as if they were her own, how the question had split the calm waters of his mind and had brought forth strong feelings at the thought of her. Such a nice surprise, his little Horcrux. How enjoyable she had been, how enjoyable she would be. He was more than pleased: he was thrilled.

"What about her?" he said far too lightly.

"Where will she be held? Shall I arrange something special for her, perhaps with additional Dementors?"

"No," Voldemort said, and it was a simple, soft word, but no one would have dared challenge it, and certainly not Thicknesse. "Harrie Potter will stay with me." A pause. "Won't you, Harrie?" he said, and he was there, in her mind, red eyes burning into hers.

She recoiled, shocked at the intrusion. He smiled at her, a victorious grin. For a brief second, the tip of his tongue peeked between his bloodless lips, as if tasting the air, or tasting her.

"Have you not had enough of me, that you seek me out now?" he whispered, a venom tainting her thoughts. "Are you eager for my return?"

She felt a phantom hand curl around her breast, fingers settling possessively on her flesh. A flinch somewhere, her body reacting. She tried to raise her mental shields, tried to Occlude as she had learned, but Voldemort did something with his mind that canceled out all her efforts and kept her trapped with him, a rush of magic surrounding her, leaving no way out. Thicknesse was talking again, Voldemort was answering, and he carried out a conversation Harrie couldn't hear anymore while he was holding her captive.

"You need Occlumency lessons," he commented casually as she struggled mentally, looking for a way to escape him. "You're all raw power and no finesse, Harrie. I thought Severus had taught you better than that."

"Let me go!" she demanded.

Hot lips pressed at the side of her throat, kissing her there. She raged at him, a completely ineffective tactic. She was still getting some echo of his thoughts, and all her resistance did was amuse him. He bit her throat, eliciting a pang of pain. It was muddled, the sensations from her body filtered through a veil, a step away from her as she was projecting her mind.

"Do not worry," Voldemort said. "I shall attend to you soon."

She wrenched herself away, and this time he allowed it. She found herself back in her trembling body, nausea threatening. Around her, the water was cold. A spasm shook her, gripping her stomach, then another one, stronger, and she retched. Only bile and water came up. She spat a final time, wiped her mouth. She felt weak, her mind sluggish, her vision blurry. Was it hunger, fatigue, or the strain of looking into Voldemort's mind? Perhaps a mix of all three.

She got out of the bath, wrapped herself into a towel. White and very soft, it was long enough to cover her from her breasts down to her knees. She used another towel to dry her hair, the familiar gesture ringing different in Voldemort's bathroom.

Back in the bedroom, she hunted for clothes. In the closet, she found only dark robes, all identical. Going by the size, they were Voldemort's, and while they would have offered more protection than the towel, she wasn't about to dress in his clothes. It didn't matter anyway how she was dressed. Voldemort would do what he wanted.

She sat on the chair near the desk, a high-backed velvet thing that was too big for her, swallowing her up.

Then she waited.

Hours, or so it seemed to her. Her stomach was a churning mass of anxiety, her continuously smoldering anger the only source of energy in her body. There was fear, too, for herself, for her friends, a black hungering plague eating at her from the inside. She wanted Voldemort to come back so she could ask him her questions, so she could know, and she also never wanted to see his face again, to be in his presence at all.

She picked at the velvet covering of the chair, racking her nails down the soft material. She readjusted her towel, she combed her fingers through her wet hair, she shifted in her seat, time and again.

At one point, she got up and went to bang on the door, screaming for anyone to hear, anyone to come. The wards burned her hands, and she knew it was foolish to hope for help, but she couldn't stop herself from doing just that. Hoping. When her hands began to blister from the corroding magical force, she stopped, went back to sit in the chair, more exhausted than before, having gained nothing.

Outside, the sky began to darken. It was another half hour before she heard noises outside the room. Footsteps, a key turning into the lock. The handle jiggled. Harrie tensed, holding her breath. The door opened, and someone walked in.

It wasn't Voldemort.

"Are you kidding me?" Harrie said.

Draco Malfoy scowled at her.

"I'm not happy being here either, Potter," he said.

He was holding a tray with an evening meal spread out on it, a plate with a mix of meat and vegetables, and a ceramic cup filled with chocolate mousse. Harrie had been so ready for a confrontation with Voldemort that she floundered, the sight and smell of food not helping. She was starving.

"What are you doing? What—why are you here?"

"Bringing you dinner like a bloody house elf, what does it look like? And where else would I be? This is my home."

"I'm at Malfoy Manor? But Voldemort said it was his home..."

Malfoy's face twitched at that.

"Yes," he said. "The manor is the Dark Lord's place of residence at the moment."

Now that she thought about it, it was obvious. She hadn't recognized the gardens because the room must have been at the back of the house, showing her an angle she hadn't seen before.

"Of course," she said.

Malfoy made a sort of affirmative sound at the back of his throat that somehow sounded mocking. She glared at him, the old reflex. Then she noticed he looked as exhausted as she felt, his face pale and gaunt, black circles under his eyes.

"What happened?" she asked. "At Hogwarts?"

He set the tray he was carrying on a low table, glared back at her.

"What do you think happened? They surrendered. We won, you lost."

She could have challenged that 'we', could have reminded Malfoy that he hadn't seemed entirely onboard with all things 'Death Eater' lately, but she had more pressing concerns.

"Did you see—"

"Your friends are fine," he said immediately, didn't even need her to complete her sentence. "At least they were fine this morning, but I'm sure nothing's been done to them. The Dark Lord promised to spare all combatants who laid down their arms, and they did." He chuckled, a ghoulish noise. "You were the wind in their sails, weren't you, Potter? Once you fell, all hope vanished."

"I didn't fall."

He raised an eyebrow, didn't point out that she was standing wrapped in a towel in Voldemort's bed chamber. She supposed she should have felt self-conscious that he would see her in such an apparel, but her mind was already so full there was no place left to care about that.

She glanced at the still open door.

"Don't even think about," Malfoy said. "I'll stun you."

He produced a wand from his pocket, pointing it at her. The very same wand she had held mere hours earlier. Voldemort had given it back to him.

"You've got your little wand back, then?" she jeered. "Doing Voldemort's bidding like a good dog? Are you happy, Malfoy?"

Something flashed in his eyes, a quick burst of emotion. His features spasmed, then he set his jaw and gave her a very cold look.

"You have no idea what you're talking about," he said, and she thought she could see his hand trembling around his wand, but he was holding it steady, aimed at her chest.

"Give it to me," she ground out. "I won that wand."

He barked out a short, disbelieving laugh.

"I saved your life twice today!" she reminded him. "We—" She groaned, out of patience for him. "Give me that wand."

"To do what? You've faced the Dark Lord, and you failed."

His face wore an odd expression, bitter, angry. Like he'd hoped she would succeed.

"We can try again!" she said. "I know exactly how to defeat him, to make him as mortal as any wizard. You could—"

"Shut up, Potter," he gritted out. "I'm done defying the will of the Dark Lord. I suggest you do the same."

He backed up, keeping his wand aimed at her. She lunged for it. A stupid move in retrospect, but in the moment it was the only viable option she saw left. Malfoy's lips moved, the tip of his hand flashing white, and she toppled forward, limbs unresponsive. He had used that curse on her before, had even broken her nose while she was incapacitated. This time, he caught her, stopping her from hitting the ground too harshly.

"I'm not doing that for you," he said quickly to explain his actions, as if afraid she would think him kind. "He doesn't want you damaged."

That might have been the funniest thing she had heard in a while. She would have laughed if she'd been able to.

Malfoy laid her down on the carpet, then she heard him moving away.

"A free bit of advice, Potter," he said. "Do what he wants."

The door closed as the curse was lifted off her. She scrambled to her knees, then slowly rose to her feet. Do what he wants, really? It wasn't advice, it was salting the wound. She didn't regret saving Malfoy's life, hadn't really expected any sort of gratitude from him, but it would have been nice. Too far-fetched, she supposed. Malfoys didn't thank people they despised.

The meal smelled delicious, tempting her. She hesitated for all of three seconds before starting to eat. The food could have been spiked with something, but she was too hungry, and she needed to get some energy back in her. Besides, drugging her with spiked food didn't seem Voldemort's style. He would just use magic.

The warm meal made her feel a little better. There wasn't enough of it; she wouldn't have minded seconds. She ate the mousse slowly, savoring the taste of chocolate. She had reached the last few spoonfuls when the door opened again and Voldemort walked in. She froze, her heart jumping to her throat, her pulse doubling.

"Please," he said. "Don't stop on my account."

She set down her cup.

"Actually, I'm not hungry anymore."

Voldemort's eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly, but she was watching him with so much focus she couldn't miss it.

"Do you not realize how pointless it is to lie to me, Harrie?" he said.

He came closer, sat in the chair opposite her. He looked as relaxed as she was tense. She thought they made a strange tableau, him and her, a dark wizard dressed in black with a pale, unnatural face, and a girl in a white towel, her half-wet hair curling on her shoulders.

"I want proof," she said, glad that her voice didn't waver, that she could still face him and hold the fear at bay. "That you've kept your side of our bargain," she added when he didn't say anything. "That my friends are safe."

"You have my word," he replied solemnly.

"That's not enough."

Why did she have to spell out the obvious for him, again and again?

"It should be. All combatants have laid down their wands and no more blood was shed. Your dear friends are all alive and well. You should also consider yourself lucky that I don't punish you for doubting me."

His cold eyes swept over her, and Harrie shivered. She suddenly wished she had bundled up with more than two towels. The one she has used for her hair was draped over her shoulders, but her arms were still bare, and she felt exposed before him. His gaze lingered on her throat for a couple of too long seconds, where there must have been a mark from when he had sucked at her skin there. She hadn't looked at herself in the mirror, because she didn't want to see. Finally he met her eyes, a very thin smile on his lips.

"I expected I would have to force you to take a bath," he said. "I'm pleased that you took the initiative."

He was praising her like a cat who had used the litter box correctly. Harrie felt her face contort. She wasn't sure what expression she was making. She hoped it didn't show too much disgust, disdain or murderous intention that Voldemort would decide she needed to be punished. And then almost immediately, like an idiot, she made it worse by opening her mouth.

"I had to get your stench off me."

Brilliant, Harrie. Let's taunt the psychopath.

Voldemort didn't react with anger, didn't raise his wand to inflict more pain on her, didn't even so much as frown.

"Oh, Harrie," he said. "You could scrub yourself bloody, it still wouldn't help. I'm inside you, down to your soul. There is no escaping me."

He tilted his head.

"Ah, but you've hurt yourself."

She looked down. Her hands were clenching the towel so hard the blisters left by the wards had opened, staining the white fibers with blood. Through the adrenaline, she barely felt the pain. More blood, again, because of him.

"Maybe I'll bleed to death," she said with a strange sort of humor.

"You will bleed no more," Voldemort said softly.

She caught him making a hand gesture at the edge of her vision. Warmth tingled over her hands, as well as between her legs, the familiar sensation of a healing spell. She flinched, despite the fact that this was helping her, and watched the open blisters on her hands disappear, felt the soreness in her sex vanish. It took mere seconds before the skin of her palms looked pristine, with no trace of any scars, which wasn't easy to achieve, least of all in a wandless, nonverbal manner. It made sense that Voldemort's immense magical power would also apply to healing magic, but for some reason she had imagined he would be bad at it. He clearly wasn't.

She sent him a questing look.

"I would not see you hurt, Harrie, unless you deserve it. Pain has a purpose. When it's wielded haphazardly, it loses its weight. Do you understand?"

The question had the tone of a teacher asking his pupil.

"Yes," Harrie answered nonetheless.

Voldemort nodded, looking satisfied.

There was a moment of stillness, of silence. Harrie's heart was still beating frantically in her chest, her muscles tense from the sheer proximity of Voldemort, from the whole situation. There were a hundred things she wanted to do, almost none of them reasonable or safe. A hundred things she wanted to say, the vast majority of it a sure way to get Crucioed.

She picked an important subject, going at it obliquely.

"Where's your wand?"

Voldemort's long fingers curled in, then unfurled, a strange, spidery motion.

"We've established you can't kill me," he replied.

That wasn't what she'd been thinking about.

"I need you to cast a spell on me," she said, keeping her face carefully blank.

"Which spell would that be, Harrie?"

She had a feeling he already knew the answer, was only asking her so he could watch her squirm in her chair.

"A Contraceptive Charm," she stated firmly.

It was 100% effective when cast before any sexual activity, but it still produced very good results when cast in the following hours. The success rate stayed at around 95% up to twelve hours after intercourse. After that, it dropped sharply. It hadn't been twelve hours.

"I understand that you're worried, but you're insulting both our intelligence with this request," Voldemort said. "I have no need of an heir, and if I did, I would not have an unwilling witch be the mother. I cast the spell on you while you were unconscious. So you see, you're perfectly safe from that imagined scenario."

His red eyes were heavy on her. Assessing. Judging.

"And Harrie, I expect better of you," he added. "You are free to ask me questions, but I won't suffer pointless ones."

"Fine," she said. "Not a pointless question, then. A request. I don't trust your word, so cast the spell on me, right now."

A muscle flickered under his left eye. He said nothing.

"You just healed me, so you care about my well-being, in some way," Harrie went on. "This is the same, on an emotional level. I need—"

She stopped herself, unsure of how much she should say. She wouldn't plead. Was it even worth it to try and reason with Voldemort? It sounded like he had been telling the truth. Was she digging her own grave by insisting for that spell?

"Is it a request, truly?" Voldemort said, in an arctic tone. "It seems to be missing something crucial."

A word which wouldn't pass her lips. She wouldn't say please to Voldemort. Ever.

As if sensing her resolve, his face darkened, red eyes gleaming with displeasure. Harrie braced herself.

"Are you under the impression that you can give me orders, Harrie?"

His voice was the softest, most lethal whisper she had ever heard. It froze her bones, sank into her marrow, a terrible dark-cold ice gripping her from the inside.

"No," she replied, holding very still.

"And yet you just did, didn't you? You gave an order to Lord Voldemort."

His gaze radiated fury. Harrie couldn't look away, staring into his eyes, into the abysmal depths of his anger. She chose to remain silent. There was nothing she could say that wouldn't make this worse.

"Another lesson in pain, my Horcrux," Voldemort said, a cutting verdict from which there was no escape.

He had no wand, his lips didn't move, and yet the Cruciatus that fell on her was just as strong as the one in the forest. Harrie felt herself slide from the chair and onto the floor, her body convulsing, excruciating pain lighting up every nerve. She heard herself scream, an uncontrolled howling, an animal sound of pure agony.

She had no idea how long it lasted. Time was stripped of all meaning, and all she knew was pain.

Eventually, it stopped. She became aware of her face pressed into the soft fibers of the carpet, of the skewed tilt of her glasses, of the string of drool leaking from her mouth, of the fact that her towel had slipped, revealing her breasts. Voldemort was crouched near, his large form looming over her. She tried to speak, didn't manage more than an odd groaning sound. Her eyes were leaking tears, stinging, wetness accumulating at the corners, but the effort required to lift a hand and wipe them away seemed insurmountable. She blinked up at Voldemort, who was regarding her with an inscrutable expression.

"I'm not surprised that you would be stubborn, for I am too," he said. "However, I suggest you learn quickly to pay me the required respect, or we will find ourselves in this position time and again." He smiled, and it was a cold knife sinking into her abdomen. "Is that understood?"

"Yes," she croaked.

"Good girl. Now, about your little concern..." He grabbed her chin, his other hand hovering over her face. "I will show you, since my word isn't good enough. After all, I wouldn't want you to suffer too much emotional distress."

So much mockery in that last sentence. Harrie swallowed hard, feeling like a fly trapped in Voldemort's web. He brought one long finger down on her scar, and pain erupted in her head, splitting her thoughts, splitting her mind.

Her current reality winked out, replaced by another. She saw herself through Voldemort's eyes, her body lying in his bed, still clothed. Even while unconscious, her lips were curled into a snarl. Voldemort looked at her for a moment, and she felt the swell of his emotions, couldn't avoid that plunge into his thoughts. He had won, and he was basking in the thrill of victory, enjoying his triumph. What an unexpected prize the girl was. And full of potential...

He pointed his wand at her, vanished her clothing all at once. He smiled at her nakedness, with deep satisfaction and a spike of something hot and yearning that nauseated Harrie and had to be arousal. Then he pointed his wand at her stomach, and she saw it in his mind, the intent behind the wordless spell he cast at that moment. There was a glow around her abdomen. It was the correct colors, pink in the center, red at the edges.

Voldemort put his wand away, gliding his hands up her thighs. Thankfully, the memory cut out there.

Back in the present, Harrie watched Voldemort remove his hand from her scar, her vision blurry with tears. He lowered his eyes to her still exposed breasts, and though his lips quirked up, he said nothing. Then he got up, moving out of Harrie's field of vision. She curled up, drawing the towel back up to her chin. Her whole body was trembling, the meager strength she had gotten back thanks to the meal all but gone.

"Is your mind at ease now, or do you still think I'm lying?" Voldemort said.

That wasn't a question she wanted to answer. Him showing her that proved nothing. It could have been a false memory, a trick, just like that time he had exploited their bond to make her believe Sirius was in danger. She had won nothing but pain.

"Better," she said, and hoped he wouldn't interpret that as a lie.

"Get off the floor."

Harrie pushed on her arms, sitting up first. The room spun around her, a whirl of cloudy colors. The dark green drapes of the bed seemed to move on their own, rushing toward her. She closed her eyes, wiping the tears away with an unsteady hand. Her other arm was braced against the floor, but it didn't feel like any kind of solid anchor at all.

"I don't like repeating myself, Harrie," came Voldemort's voice.

"If I stand up now I'm gonna vomit all over your carpet," she groaned back.

She opened her eyes again. The room only wobbled, an improvement. Sweat drenched her nape, her armpits. She swallowed the excess saliva that was building up in her mouth, focusing on keeping the nice meal she had ingested in her stomach. She felt a prickle at the back of her neck, the weight of Voldemort's gaze settling there, and she wondered if he was going to torture her again. Her only consolation was that if he did, she'd definitely ruin his carpet.

Her muscles bunched up, anticipating the torrent of pain. It didn't come. Instead, there was his voice.

"I will be in the bathroom. When I come back, I expect to see you in my bed."

"What?" she said reflexively, panic stabbing her in the guts.

He didn't repeat himself. She heard the bathroom open, then close. Carefully, she glanced behind her. Alone. She felt no relief. His last words repeated themselves in her head, again and again. In his bed. She'd known that would happen, but... so soon?

She battled another wave of nausea, pressed her hand to her forehead, groaning. Her brain felt oddly squishy inside her skull, vibrating from tension. She didn't know if that was from the Cruciatus, from the memory he had shared with her, or more generally from her whole damn day so far. A day which would end in Voldemort's bed, and she wasn't ready for that. Maybe she'd vomit on him.

She finally managed to get up, dragged herself to the chair and slumped into it. There was the sound of water running coming from the bathroom. He was taking a bath. His Death Eathers had killed countless people today, so many people Harrie would never see again, that would never laugh again, never do anything ever again—Harrie inhaled sharply when the claws of grief raked her throat, her chest. He had won, he would continue to pervert magical society so the pure-bloods would be elevated and the Muggle-borns stomped into nothing, and he was taking a bath. She wanted to run in there and inflict on him even a tenth of the pain that was currently twisting her insides.

She had lost so much. Remus and Tonks and Colin and Lavender, and even Snape, who had been on their side after all, that two-faced arsehole. They'd given their lives in the hope of a better world. It wouldn't happen today.

Tomorrow, Harrie promised herself, promised them.

A sudden loud popping noise startled her. A house elf appeared near the coffee table. He had a small head, big ears, large brown eyes, and he was wearing a pillowcase, all stained and yellowed, just like Dobby when he was still serving the Malfoys.

"Hello," Harrie said, managing to get the word out despite her tight throat.

"Wimsy must not talk to the girl," the elf said in squeakier voice than Harrie had expected. "Wimsy must not talk to the girl, no, no, and she won't, she won't."

She took the cup with the few spoonfuls of chocolate mousse left in it, placed it on the tray, lifted everything.

"Pleased to meet you, Wimsy. I'm Harrie Potter."

Another popping noise, and she was gone. Harrie hung her head, removing her glasses for a moment. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, sighing. Wait, if they had a house elf, then why had Malfoy brought her dinner? He had even said he didn't want to be there. Had someone forced him to do it? But to what end?

Harrie put her glasses back on, looked at the bed. Her stomach squirmed. The strong nausea had abated, leaving her with what felt like a nest of writhing snakes in her insides. She imagined herself lying on that bed, Voldemort next to her. Could she? He'd Crucio her if she didn't comply, and then she would end up in that bed anyway.

A pop! announced the return of Wimsy. The house elf frowned at the bed, raising a hand. The creased sheets vanished, replaced by new ones. Wimsy made another hand mention, and the bed made itself, the new sheets straightened perfectly, the pillows back in their proper places, with a dark green duvet on top, matching the hanging drapes. Satisfied with her work, Wimsy disappeared again.

Harrie stayed in her chair, looking at the bed. Minutes ticked by. She had to make a choice. Hesitantly, she rose, approaching the bed. She was swaying, and she caught one of the bed posts to steady herself. Her clammy palms slid against the varnished wood. She gripped it with both hands, leaning against it. Exhaling slowly.

Behind her, the door opened. She sat down abruptly—fell backward, more precisely. With one hand curled around the bedpost, she looked at Voldemort. He was wearing night attire, a softer, simpler black robe. His feet were bare, but that was fine. She would take bare feet over him sleeping naked.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said.

"I don't think that's possible."

The bed had the nicest-feeling mattress she had ever laid on, and it didn't matter one bit. She wouldn't have been more tense with a nail board under her.

"You are going to sleep with me, Harrie. Get used to the idea."

She watched him approach, sit on the opposite side of the bed. In the half-gloom of the room, with that face and those glowing red eyes, he looked more monster than man. Harrie sank her nails into her palms.

"I would be fine in the dungeons," she said calmly. "I—Why do you even want—"

"It's not complicated," he returned with equal calm. "You're mine, so your place is at my side. Having you stay in the dungeons would be a disgrace."

"But I'm your enemy!"

Said not so calmly this time. She drew back, fearing her outburst would have consequences. Voldemort waved a hand, and the curtains at the windows closed, plunging the room into total darkness. Now she couldn't see his face, only the red glow of his eyes. It was unspeakably creepy. She couldn't look away, frozen to the spot.

"Are you?" Voldemort said, silkily. "You're not a threat. In fact, you're a key to my survival, one of my two remaining Horcruxes."

"Yeah, and what happened to the others? Was I also not a threat when I was destroying them?"

Something struck her, a wave of magical force, heavy, dense. It forced her down on her back, pinning her to the bed. She gasped, feeling like the darkness was surging all around her, pressing down on her. Red eyes appeared above her, red, red, the eyes of the monster. Her heart stopped, started again at twice its previous rate.

"There are other ways to punish you than with the Cruciatus," Voldemort said in a nonchalant tone that didn't match the situation at all.

"Don't touch me."

She had sworn to herself she wouldn't plead, but she sounded suspiciously close to it right now.

"Giving me orders again, Harrie?"

Shit, shit. She closed her eyes so she wouldn't see his red eyes anymore, inhaled, exhaled. The breath that left her lungs was accompanied by a strange little noise that might have been a whimper. She hated the sound, hated that Voldemort would think it weakness.

A hand grasped her jaw, his thumb resting just under her lips.

"I will touch you. The sooner you accept it, the less difficult it will be for you."

"Less difficult," Harrie repeated, as if it would make sense if she said it.

"You've had a life punctuated by suffering. Dumbledore used you as a pawn. The magical world laughed in your face when you told them of my return. You were denied the respect you deserve, repeatedly ignored and mocked."

He paused.

"I would give you more, Harrie. Much more than what meager scraps they let you have."

He was painting such a skewed tableau of her life. Yes, she had lived through hardships, but she had friends, she had found a family in the Weasleys, she'd been happy, she'd known joy. Not to mention that a good portion of her suffering was his doing. He had made her an orphan, the first and most grievous offense of all.

She opened her eyes. Voldemort's red gaze was closer. She could feel his breath on her face, the darkness pressing in, impatient to get her. Sink its claws in her, open its maw, swallow her whole. Harrie was determined that it would find her very inedible.

"I like my life," she said.

I could do with less Death Eaters and less you, she didn't add.

"Evidently not enough. Dumbledore would have had you sacrifice it for the greater good, and you were going to do it. You would have embraced death at his behest, would have left that life you so cherish behind."

His tone was growing more intense, his fingers tightening on her jaw, as if he was annoyed on her behalf.

"I trust Dumbledore," she said.

It was that simple. She would have liked to be warned, to be told more, and she was angry at him, but in the end, she still trusted him. Her response made Voldemort hiss, a low serpentine sound. She wasn't sure if that was a laugh or a sign of anger, but it sent frissons down her spine, crystallized ice in her stomach.

"Look where your trust in this old fool has led you. In my bed, naked, at my mercy." He bent down, so close Harrie stopped breathing. "Do you still like your life?"

A moment passed, time suspended between them, space reduced to that corner of darkness in which they lay. Another, and Harrie still wasn't breathing. She was too afraid it would break the stillness of Voldemort, too afraid of what would happen then.

"You should only ever trust yourself," he said at last, whispered it against her lips.

He leaned away, and she breathed, with hardly any relief. The mattress shifted, Voldemort going back to his side. The magical force that had been pinning her to the bed was gone, had probably been gone a while. She'd been too focused on Voldemort to notice.

She lay in the darkness, her heart beating loudly in her ears. Was that it? He wasn't going to do more? She waited, wallowing in anxiety, the darkness lapping at her. She didn't sense any more motion from Voldemort. She wondered if he slept on this back or on his side. Was he still looking at her?

Slowly, she turned her head his way. Only darkness greeted her. Either he had his eyes closed or his back turned to her. You're not a threat, he had told her. So harmless that he would have her next to him at his most vulnerable, asleep. She huffed, aching to surprise him. Attacking him now would be stupid—and with what, her bare hands?—so she made a pillow with the towel she has used for her hair and exercised patience.

Her thoughts clashed in her head, a mix of regrets for things of the past and worry about what the future held. If only she'd been faster, better at casting spells, if they'd been more efficient at getting rid of his Horcruxes, had gotten the last one besides herself, if she could have saved more people, and what was she going to do now, was she going to be forced to sleep in his bed every night, be raped whenever he wanted, while he ruled the wizarding world? Questions, questions, questions, and her mind was turning in on itself, a snake eating its own tail.

She opened her eyes, which made no difference. Did Voldemort really expect she'd be able to sleep like that? She could hear his slow, deep breathing. Was he asleep already? She felt insulted that he'd feel so safe in her presence he would fall asleep in, what, ten minutes? Then she realized it meant she could do whatever she wanted as long as she didn't wake him.

She started inching toward the edge of the bed, very carefully, shifting her weight in minute increments. It took her long minutes to reach the edge. Even more slowly, she lowered a leg to the floor, her foot making contact silently. She breathed out, let her arm fall down too, moved her other leg...

A flash of red light sundered the darkness. Something lashed at her wrist, yanking her back to the bed, and up toward the headboard. She thrashed, but the thing caught her other wrist, shackling them together above her head. Straining, she looked up, right into multiple glowing red eyes, illuminating the bodies of hissing serpents made of shadows that acted as ropes, tying her to the headboard. They coiled with roiling smoke, twining around her wrists, their heads resting above her pulse point, fangs out.

"You will sleep in my bed," Voldemort said, in an almost bored voice.

Harrie pulled on her arms, but the snakes didn't yield an inch. They were holding her tightly, and in an awkward position, her head lifted from the bed.

"Do I need to tie your legs as well?"

She stilled.

"I can't sleep like that," she said, looking at him, at the red eyes. She had a feeling he was smiling.

"You'll behave next time."

The red disappeared, his eyes and the serpents', darkness closing in around her. She felt Voldemort shift, no doubt getting comfortable. Sighing, she scooted closer to the headboard, until she had found a position in which her arms didn't hurt and she could lay her head down on her shoulder. She closed her eyes, resigning herself to spending the night like this.

Fatigue dragged her down toward sleep, the current situation pumping adrenaline in her veins. As a result she skimmed the surface of real sleep, waking periodically from a half-slumber, her heart slamming into her ribs each time, her mind jolted awake by the reminder that Voldemort was right there. Eventually the cycle broke, and she slept for real.

Her dreams were dark. Snape was dying, looking at her, telling her she had her mother's eyes. Dumbledore was showing her a Pensieve, and the moment she looked inside, the silvery liquid went up her nose, choking her. Voldemort was holding her against him, trapping her wrists with arms that had become shadow snakes, hissing at her, dripping venom on her skin.

"Let me go!" she screamed.

His smile was cavernous.

"Never, Harrie. Never."

He smothered her into his hold, squeezing her to him so tightly she couldn't breathe, drowning her in him.

Darkness, the memory of light extinguished.

Darkness, darkness, and she was lost.

Chapter Text

She woke in pain.

Her arms were almost paralyzed by cramps, her neck bent at a awkward angle, putting pressure on the tendons at the back of her right shoulder. She shifted, and everything flared up, pain on top of pain, her upper body very unhappy.

Daylight streamed in through the windows, the golden rays of light pooling on the floor, on the dark green duvet of the bed. The room was facing east, the rising sun peeking from behind the hills. It was dawn, the third of May. A Sunday, though the days of the week had ceased to matter to Harrie months ago.

Fragments of her dreams clung to her mind, blurry images, piecemeal sensations, and above all the memory of that consuming darkness. In her dream, she'd been defenseless, unable to stop the inky tide. Unable to stop him. She wasn't faring much better in her waking life.

For now, she amended, decisively.

She took stock of her situation. The shadowy serpents were still tying her to the headboard, so she couldn't stretch or do much of anything to relieve the pain. She felt rested in a superficial sense, having regained some energy in her limbs, while the deep exhaustion that had made its nest inside her chest during the last year was bidding its time and would reemerge during the day.

"Are you afraid to look at me, Harrie?"

And then there was Voldemort to deal with.

She had pointedly avoided looking in his direction, but she'd been aware of him, lying on the bed to her right.

"No," she replied, turning her head his way.

He was reclined languidly on his side, pondering her, his eyes dark and sinister even in the light of dawn.

"But you are afraid. I can smell it."

What a creepy choice of verb.

"I think I have good reasons to be," Harrie said.

"Did I not give you pleasure?"

So he was going to broach that subject right away. Harrie did her best to glare at him.

"Why did you bother with that?" she asked.

"I take care of what is mine."

His red gaze roamed over Harrie, appreciative. The towel still covered all her important bits, but from the way he looked at her, she felt naked.

"Are you aware you can't own people?"

"In the Muggle world, perhaps. You're a witch, and different rules apply. Your rules, Harrie, the rules you chose, in the world you chose, that of magic, not mundanity. The right choice, of course. But even so... what do you think a Muggle would say if I told them you had a piece of my soul inside you? Would they not recognize ownership?"

"Yeah, they'd say I own you," Harrie replied.

Voldemort smiled, a frightening stretch of lips.

"And they would be very wrong, and very dead."

He stalked toward her, his eyes gleaming in predatory delight. She stiffened, angling her body away from him, pressing her legs together.

"That will not keep me away, Harrie."

"What would?" she said, more rhetorical question than anything else.

Yet he answered. One word.

"Beg."

Harrie clamped her mouth shut. Glaring, glaring, with all the strength of her hate. It was a lure, and she wouldn't bite. He'd listen to her begging, and then he would rape her anyway.

"No?" Voldemort said, cupping her jaw in a caress. "Are you too proud to beg?"

He was above her now, casting a shadow over her, the hem of his robes brushing her legs. Harrie wished she wasn't trembling. At least she was looking Voldemort in the eyes, even if her fear must have been evident by every other measurable gauge.

"Perhaps you wish for me to touch you," he suggested in a silky whisper. "Perhaps Harrie Potter longs for the touch of Lord Voldemort..."

He slid one hand under the towel, near her knee, and then started hiking up the tissue, slowly revealing her legs. Up and up, a soft touch on her inner thigh. It tickled, which was the stupidest thing.

"So tense," Voldemort remarked.

He reached the very top of her thigh, cool air hitting her sex. A helpless blush spread on her face. Voldemort's fingers forced their way between her thighs, and he explored her folds, rubbing strategically. Harrie wished for her body to remain unresponsive, for her flesh to ignore the stimulation, in vain. It wasn't pleasure yet, but she felt something, little whispers of a warm sensation fluttering in her lower belly.

Voldemort brought his other hand down toward her chest, tracing lines on her skin just above the towel, drawing out that reveal. Harrie steadfastly refused to beg, so he lowered the towel and bared her breasts.

"Such soft skin," he taunted as he caressed her, his thumb rubbing light circles on a nipple.

"Yeah, I've had compliments," Harrie said acidly.

"Tell me the boy's name, so I might rip out his spine."

The fact that he was jealous sent Harrie's head spinning, though she really should have seen it coming. Of course Voldemort would be angry at the idea of someone else touching her. He didn't like to share.

"Was it the Weasley boy?" he said, cold and demanding.

At the same time, a press of his fingers on her clit made her wince. Pleasure, this time, sharp, hot.

"No," Harrie denied hurriedly. "Ron is with Hermione."

"The Mudblood? Why would he choose her when he could have you?"

"Don't call her that!"

He pinched her nipple, hard.

"I'll call her what she is," he said, while his fingers worked with increasing force between her legs, bringing more unwanted pleasure.

Harrie's breath hitched. She tried to think of something else. She didn't want to have her friends in mind while Voldemort had his hands all over her.

"The boy is a fool, then, but he'll live," he decreed. "Tell me who I have to kill. You wouldn't want me to have to find out by myself."

"No one. You killed him already, all right?"

She gulped down the bitterness in her mouth, giving one good yank on her bound arms. Voldemort raised a brow, a silent question. His fingers didn't relent, pushing more pleasure on her, while his hand kneaded her breast, his thumb tweaking her nipple.

"Cedric Diggory," she said, and looked away.

"Ah, that boy," Voldemort said, with something like disdain. "He's already been forgotten."

Not by me, she thought defiantly.

Then she had to stifle a gasp, as he had coated his fingers in her slickness and slid one inside her. Her channel pulsed softly around the intrusion. When he moved his finger in slow, languid pumps, it felt too good, and when he focused on one particular spot inside her and pressed on her clit at the same time, it was electric, her body lighting up like one giant nerve. Harrie grunted, the cramps in her arms hurting as she tensed up.

"Won't you look at me, Harrie?"

She thought it was strange that he was phrasing it this way, instead of simply ordering her to look at him.

"I'd rather not," she said.

"Then I suppose you won't mind this."

The serpents vanished, her stiff arms falling back to the bed, and Voldemort flipped her over on her belly, immediately molding his body to hers. She squirmed beneath him, not really struggling, but enough to make a point that she didn't like this.

"Is that all?" he said, in a whisper near her ear. "I expected more resistance from you. Such a reasonable girl."

"We have a deal," she gritted out, trying to slow down her panicked breathing. "Don't we?"

"We do."

He trailed a hand up the side of her leg, a slow advance, his nails scraping against her skin. She could feel his breath on her nape, and his arousal pressing against her arse, that insistent bulge through his robes.

"However, I am used to people squirreling out of deals made with me, or simply ignoring them."

His hand reached her waist, and he inserted it between her stomach and the mattress, splaying out his fingers. He whispered the incantation in her ear, which must have been purely for her benefit. She felt the warmth of the spell penetrate her abdomen, a series of tingles settling deep.

"It never ends well for them," Voldemort said, removing his hand.

She wasn't worried about her. Hell, the ideal sequence of events would have required him to kill her, and she had accepted that, so no, she didn't care all that much about what happened to her if she reneged on their deal. She cared about what that meant for everyone else. He was holding her heart hostage, using love the only way he understood it, as a weakness, a weapon held at her throat, sharpened by her own tender hand.

And it was so hard, keeping still, letting him touch her. She was burning with the desire to deny him, to spit in his face again, to kick and punch in the most primitive way. No fancy magic, just her fist in his face. She was sure she could have landed a good hit or two before he restrained her. Lord Voldemort didn't do fist fights, which meant on that terrain, she had the advantage.

She thought about that while he put his hands back where they had no right to be. He hiked up the towel completely out of the way, before he bared himself enough in a whisper of clothes. Her muscles tensed at the feel of his heavy, hard cock against her thigh, her whole back cramping anew.

"Spread your legs for your Lord."

She huffed a disbelieving noise.

"One day, you will," he said confidently.

He forced her legs open with a knee, braced himself against her back, and entered her. Harrie's hands twitched in the sheets. She lay still, exhaling a shaky breath. His hard member went to the core of her, pushing past the resistance of clenched muscles and unwilling flesh. It rubbed at spots that had been awakened by his previous ministrations, spots that tingled with hot pleasure, and Voldemort kept going, filling all of her with all of him until his hips were flush with her arse. It felt impossible that he fit inside her, the pressure between her legs commanding all of her attention despite herself.

She didn't want to care that he was doing this, she wanted to be elsewhere, to have her mind fixed on something else while he used her body. Perhaps she could have managed it if he hadn't been making this so pleasurable. But there was pleasure, too much of it, too quick and too bright for Harrie to be able to dismiss it. When he pulled his hips back and thrust forward again, she choked on a moan, biting her lips so the sound wouldn't come out.

He wasn't even touching her clit, but the sheer breadth of his cock and the fact that he had prepared her beforehand worked against her, and she was growing slicker, could feel her body clamor for more.

He gave her more.

Slow, measured strokes inside her, designed to coax sensations from her body, his cock prodding at that sensitive place in her, the one that sang with pleasure on each thrust. Her nipples were rubbing against the towel, an additional layer of stimulation that she didn't need. As soon as she tried to move her hands to fix that, the serpents were back, curling around her wrists, forcing them together.

"If you want to touch yourself, you have to ask permission," Voldemort said.

"I wasn't—"

She bit back an insult when she realized he was only mocking her. He chuckled.

"Ah, but you don't need it to come, do you? My cock will be enough."

Unfortunately, she knew he was right. There was no denying the building pressure between her thighs, the insidious heat spreading throughout her body, the tight curl of pleasure that the drag and push of his cock inside her elicited. Trapped beneath his weight, she could do nothing to stop what was coming. It was humiliating to be reacting so strongly and so quickly to what he did to her. She decided it must have been because of the bond between them, that vile thing of dark magic that shackled her to him, the fragmented part of his soul that lived inside her. After all, it was the only reason he was touching her at all.

Voldemort was silent while he fucked her, his rhythm precise, a thing of metronomic regularity. She strove for silence herself, didn't want to give him more than what he was taking, certainly not any noises of pleasure. She was holding in tiny whimpers that rattled behind her closed lips, biting down on her tongue to the point of pain. As the minutes passed, it became harder to muffle her reactions. From burning embers, the pleasure had morphed into a living flame, licking every nerve, threatening to consume her.

In a bid to stay silent, she pressed her mouth to the inside of her arm, biting down. The flames devoured her belly, and there was no mercy to be had from Voldemort, who was still thrusting inside her at the same slow infernal pace. Her inner muscles were rippling around him, clenching, building toward her climax.

Suddenly, he grabbed her by the hair, forcing her to lift her head. The cramps in her neck and shoulders ached in a painful pulse, and she gasped.

"Yes," Voldemort said, a low triumphant rumble. "Let me hear the sounds of your pleasure. Do not deny me that symphony."

"It means nothing," she said between two sharp inhales that sounded like whines.

"It means everything."

He switched his pace, going from slow long strokes to deep brutal ones. Immediately, Harrie couldn't help but moan, the pleasure flaring to an unbearable point. Was she climaxing? She couldn't even tell. There was just an unbridled degree of ecstasy, and her body struggling to cope. Her eyes watered, her hands curled up, her mouth opened, a low breathy wail coming out of it. Thread by thread, her composure fell apart, undone by Voldemort's hard thrusts until she had become a shivering needy thing that knew only pleasure.

Knew only a debilitating ecstasy that made her quiver and shake, made her into something she had never wanted to be.

"Mine," Voldemort said.

She felt him tense, felt his thrusts falter, and when he came inside her he groaned, his lips pressed to her ear. Her own pleasure peaked even though she'd been convinced she was already at the top, one hard spasm in her core that split her wide, unraveling her from the inside. She made noises that she had never imagined she could make, breathless halting sobs mixed with reedy whimpers, while she trembled all over, falling into another abyss of pleasure.

Voldemort kept moving inside her, in full strokes that reached too deep and rubbed at over-sensitive tissue. She could feel how wet she was down there, her cunt swollen and dripping with liquid, twitching from the aftershocks of her orgasm. It nearly hurt now, to have him in her, to be so full. She found herself squirming, her hands grabbing the sheets and pulling, as if she could get away.

"Nnngh," she protested.

She hoped he wouldn't think that meant stop, or worse, please.

"Do you think we're done?" he said, cupping her jaw from behind, immobilizing her head. "No, no, Harrie. You'll come again for me."

A frustrated groan built in her chest. She tried to shake her head, tried to crawl away, knowing full well it was futile. Voldemort even seemed to enjoy it, groaning again, his hips grinding into her backside. The friction hurt in an odd way, like the pain was barely skidding the top of her nerves, a very superficial, hollow sort of ache. Her cunt throbbed with that strange sensation, which she didn't understand and had trouble enduring. It wasn't pain, it wasn't pleasure, it was something sitting right at the frontier of the two, something that made her grind her teeth and lose her breath.

Voldemort persisted.

He switched to short aggressive strokes, angling his hips differently. It made the sensation all the more vibrant, every thrust sending fine tremors through all her limbs. How was he still hard? She had definitely felt him come. Was that dark magic? Some spell that imbued him with unnatural stamina? Oh, there must have been sexual spells, and that wasn't something she wanted to explore. Especially not with Voldemort.

Her cunt twitched along with his continued motions. A vibrating tension was building in her, which didn't feel like anything she recognized. It was heavy, too tight, all wrong, and it hurt like nails dragged across a chalkboard, inches from her ears.

"I can't," she gasped.

"You can," Voldemort said, his fingers tightening around her jaw, his nails digging into the softness of her cheeks. "I know you can, Harrie."

She nearly begged him, then. Begged him to stop, or to make her come the normal way, to give her pleasure, not this. A noise halfway between a sob and a whine escaped her. She was shuddering continuously, desperately trying to relax, because every minute tightening of her body made everything worse.

There was no stopping it.

It was a slow, agonizing climb to something that couldn't even be called an orgasm. Harrie choked on her breath when the tension peaked, knotting hard at the apex of her cunt then releasing in a series of brutal spasms. She felt some measure of pleasure, a very particular kind, like a blade scraping her senses raw.

"Good girl," Voldemort whispered.

He ground his hips into her, tensed when he came again, flooding her with more liquid heat. Disgust coated Harrie's skin, but she didn't have any air left to voice it, which was just as well. Voldemort sagged into her for a couple of seconds, dropping his head into the crook of her neck. She felt him take a deep breath, releasing it right against her skin.

He got off her, leaving the bed after trailing a hand down her back, a light parting gesture, an idle caress. The serpents around her wrists melted into nothing. She adjusted the towel so it covered her again, rolled on her side, trying to still her trembling.

As she lay on the bed, she heard Voldemort get dressed.

After a minute, he stepped back into her field of vision, heading for the door.

"Am I just supposed to stay in this room?" she said, more plaintively than she wanted.

Voldemort gave her an intent look.

"Have you changed your mind about my offer?"

"No."

"Then yes. You're staying here."

She sighed, a soft frustrated noise stuck in her throat.

"As my apprentice, you would be allowed to move around the manor," Voldemort went on.

"How can I be your apprentice when I want to kill you?"

He adjusted his sleeves before he answered her.

"That's not the obstacle you think it is. That desire would strengthen your thirst to learn, which would prove an advantage. And I'm not a fool, Harrie. I don't expect you to instantly become a devoted servant of mine. That will take... time."

A devoted servant. Right. As if that would ever happen, as if she would abandon everything she believed in, everything she was, and submit to Voldemort because he wished it so.

"Will you ask me again tomorrow?" she said, swallowing around the hard lump lodged in her throat.

"Yes, Harrie. I will ask every day until you say yes."

She worked the soap into the insides of her thighs until her skin was raw, flushed all red. She could still feel the warmth of Voldemort here, feel him inside her. He hadn't hurt her this time. There was no blood, and she was only a little sore, but she felt dirtier than the first time around. He had touched her again. One time was bad. Two times was the start of a routine.

She let the soap drop to the bottom of the bathtub, rinsed off her thighs. At the end she turned the water cold. Something about it felt more cleansing.

When she went back into the bedroom, there were clothes laid out for her. A gray sweater, black trousers, and a black robe with green and silver accents at the sleeves and the hem. She put it all on. It was better than being naked or wearing only a towel, even if it felt strange to be wearing those colors. Despite the thickness of the material, especially the robe, it didn't feel stifling. She wondered if there were Cooling Charms woven into the garment.

The bed sheets had been changed, and there was a breakfast tray on the coffee table. Harrie wasn't hungry. She forced herself to eat anyway. It wasn't like there was much else to do.

Then she paced around the room. The movement helped to get rid of some of the anxiety that skittered along her nerves like static electricity. Some. Just enough that she avoided beating down on the wards, injuring her hands again. She walked in circles and she worried, her mind getting bogged down in bleak suppositions and even bleaker thoughts of her own future as Voldemort's prisoner.

At some point in the morning, the house elf popped in to pick up the remains of breakfast.

"Hello," Harrie said.

"Wimsy must not talk to the girl!"

She was 'the girl', not even Harrie Potter. She wondered who had forbidden Wimsy to talk to her, wording it like that. Not Draco. Perhaps Lucius Malfoy. 'The girl' sounded like the type of dismissive address he'd afford her.

The hours crawled by.

Harrie paced and paced, and looked out the window. The sun climbed in the sky. It was a beautiful day, faint wispy clouds trailing across the azure blue. She wondered if her friends could see the sky right now. Somehow she doubted it.

She kept checking the right pocket of her robes, hoping for a wand there, against all logic. She always put it in the right pocket. How many times had she reached in and grasped solid, comforting wood? Even Malfoy's wand had felt soothing at times. It hadn't been her wand, but it had been a wand. Now she had nothing.

Wimsy appeared again around noon, bringing more food.

"You don't have to talk to me, but I'll talk to you, all right?" Harrie said. "Thank you for the meal."

"Wimsy doesn't need thanks!" the elf retorted with indignation.

"Well, you have mine anyway."

The meal was good, an omelette seasoned with herbs and baked beans on the side. She ate half of it. Wimsy came by to retrieve the plate, vanished, came back again rather quickly, still holding the half finished plate.

"Master says you have to eat all of it," she announced, putting the plate back on the table.

"Tell your master he can go fuck himself."

She didn't care about Lucius Malfoy's orders. Or Draco's. She already had to obey Voldemort, that was enough.

"Master will be angry..." Wimsy protested, her hands twisting in the hem of her pillow-robe. "Master will punish Wimsy..."

Harrie sighed.

"Can you bring me to talk to your master?"

Wimsy shook her head frantically.

"Wimsy will be punished if the girl doesn't eat all her meal," she whined.

Why did the Malfoys cared what she ate? With a groan, Harrie picked up the fork.

"I'm eating."

"All of it?" Wimsy said with a squeal of hope.

"Yeah, all of it."

It took a few minutes. The food was cold, and anger had tightened Harrie's throat, but eventually the plate was empty. Wimsy grabbed it with haste, vanished again with a pop.

More hours passed. Harrie had nothing to do but worry, nothing to do but stalk around the room like a beast in a cage. It wasn't her first time being locked in a room. That had happened too many times with the Dursleys. But back then she had Hedwig to keep her company, and staying in her room meant she didn't have to deal with any of the Dursleys, so she actually enjoyed that time alone.

Right now, it was torture. Not that she wanted Voldemort to come back—God, no.

She wanted out of here.

The sun drifted along its journey in the sky, descending toward the horizon. It had started dipping behind the hills and was treating Harrie to a rather spectacular sunset when she heard the door open. She turned around, her stomach churning anxiously.

Then all that anxiety snapped into annoyance.

"Seriously, why are you here?"

Malfoy sneered at her. He was holding a tray in one hand, pointing his wand at her with the other one.

"Why do you bring me dinner?" Harrie went on. "Why do you care if I eat at all?"

"Take a guess, Potter." He set the tray on the table. "I wouldn't inflict myself the misfortune of your presence, but the Dark Lord insists. We live to serve him."

"But why?"

"Why don't you ask him? I'm sure he'd show more willingness to answer your questions than mine." A side of his mouth quirked up. "Or perhaps you don't do much talking, do you?"

Venom, rising from the very bottom of her.

"You're a despicable waste of a human being, Malfoy."

"You shouldn't complain. You're alive."

Her shoulders shook. She took a step toward him, another, slowly.

"I shouldn't complain to be kept prisoner and raped?"

"You're alive," he repeated, like that was everything.

"Do you even know why he didn't kill me? No, of course you don't. You're a lackey, kept in the dark about everything except the bare minimum."

Another step.

"I bet you don't even know what a Horcrux is," she all but spat at him. "You fancy yourself a Death Eater, but you're a sad little sidekick they keep in the wings. All you're good for is bringing me dinner. You've got a good future as a house elf if the evil minion thing doesn't pan out."

His brows drew together as he regarded her. The tip of his wand was aimed at her chest. She knew better than to try and grab it right now. It would end with her laying paralyzed on the carpet again.

"I don't care why he's keeping you around, Potter. If it pleases the Dark Lord to have you in his bed, that's his business. I'd be happier not to have to suffer your presence, but I am an instrument of his will, first and foremost."

"You're an arsehole first and foremost."

He had the nerve to laugh at that, a quick, bitter laugh.

"Lovely chatting with you, but I have places to be," he said. "I'll unfortunately see you tomorrow."

She flitted her gaze to the door, eyes widening like there was someone there. He took the bait, half-turning his head. The moment his eyes were no longer on her, she jumped. Her fingers closed around his wand, gripping it with all her might. She yanked it upward when Malfoy shouted an incantation, trying to stun her. The red ray of light missed her by inches, hit the ceiling with a fizzling sound.

Malfoy groaned, stepped back. She followed, and they struggled for control of his wand for a few seconds, in a confused tug of war. Then he punched her. She should have seen it coming, but she was so focused on getting that wand she missed it, missed his right hand clenching into a fist. He hit her square in the stomach, hard enough to knock the wind out of her and make her stumble back. While she was staggering, he kicked her viciously, and she was sent sprawling on her back. Her head hit something hard, a bolt of pain lancing in her skull and shooting down her neck.

And then she couldn't move at all.

Malfoy stood over here, breathing hard. Her glasses were skewed, so she was seeing him in double vision, with twice the hate on his face.

"Why do you have to be so bloody stupid? You lost! It's over, Potter."

He kicked her again, in the thigh. She felt the impact, her body jolting from it. There was nothing she could do to protect herself. Her limbs were immobilized, her entire body rigid from the spell. Malfoy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, staring at her like he wanted to kill her.

Go ahead, she thought. Try it.

But he only heaved a sigh, lowering his wand.

"Stop resisting and just accept it," he said, in a quiet, dejected tone.

He spared her one last look before he turned away. He left her field of vision, and Harrie waited for him to lift the spell when he would exit the room, like last time. She heard the door open, close. She remained paralyzed.

"Draco," came a high, cold voice.

"My Lord."

She relished the note of fear that hung around Malfoy's words.

"What were you doing?" Voldemort said, very calmly.

The question wasn't directed at her, but it still sent a chill down her spine.

"I—She attacked me, my Lord. I had no choice but to—"

"To injure her? I told you to take care with her, didn't I? I told you she was precious and was not to be harmed. And what did you do, Draco?"

The paralysis gripping her vanished at this moment. She sat up, correcting the tilt of her glasses. Face to face with Voldemort, Malfoy looked small, insignificant even. He had his head bowed, his gaze fixed on the floor. She cradled the back of her head where pain throbbed faintly, wondered if she should speak.

"I'm sorry, my Lord."

"What did you do?" Voldemort repeated, regarding Malfoy with evident displeasure and a kind of malevolence that he had never directed her way.

"I harmed her," Malfoy answered in a hollow voice.

"You did. And in so doing, you've earned my anger."

Harrie flinched at the sudden scream that tore its way out of Malfoy's mouth. He collapsed abruptly, writhed on the floor, convulsing in pain. His loud, tortured wail was awful to hear, but what Harrie really focused on was his wand. It was on the floor, not so far from her. She pretended to try and get up, stumbled forward, and then lunged for the wand. It flew out of her range and into Voldemort's hand before she could grasp it.

He gave her a slight shake of his head, an amused light in his eyes. Malfoy was still screaming.

"Stop," Harrie said, rising to her feet.

Her demand was inaudible, drowned out by the piercing screams. Such terrible screams, roaring agony given voice. She knew how much pain Malfoy was enduring right now. Horrible person that he was, he didn't deserve that.

"Stop," she said again, taking a step toward Malfoy's convulsing form. "You've made your point."

Voldemort switched his focus entirely to her, and the screams stopped. Malfoy went limp, trembling on the floor.

"Mercy, Harrie? For your enemy?"

"I did attack him. What was he supposed to do, let me take his wand?"

"He was supposed to subdue you in an efficient manner, which he should have done with laughable ease since he has a wand and you don't. Instead, he hurt you."

He said it like it was the most terrible offense.

"You hurt me much more," she replied.

"Have you already forgotten what I told you about pain?"

"No," she said, looking away from him.

Malfoy was getting up, his face cold and impassive. He kept his head bowed, hands at his side.

"What do you think of her mercy, Draco?" Voldemort inquired, holding his wand between his long fingers.

"A mark of weakness, my Lord," he said, his voice raspy.

"Fine. I won't say anything next time, let you suffer."

She was saying that now out of spite, but she knew she wouldn't do it. She wouldn't listen idly to anyone scream like that, except a couple of people in particular.

"I deserve the pain," Malfoy said.

"Indeed," Voldemort said. "You will also apologize to Harrie for hurting her."

Malfoy turned to her, giving her a bland look.

"I apologize for hurting you."

"Sod off," she muttered.

"Your wand, Draco," Voldemort said, holding it out to him. "Do try to be worthy of it."

"Yes, my Lord. Thank you, my Lord."

"Leave us."

He walked to the door in no particular hurry, and Harrie admired that show of restraint for a split-second before her own situation took up all her focus. Voldemort was looking at her, red eyes roaming over her.

"Those robes suit you well," he said. "I am pleased that you put them on."

"Slytherin colors," she said with distaste.

"My colors. And they suit you much more than the gold and red of Gryffindor. They pair exquisitely well with your eyes."

She couldn't believe she was hearing that from Voldemort. Worse, it was a good line. She would have liked it coming from someone else.

"Sit," he ordered, indicating the nearest chair. "Eat. You'll need your strength."

There were battles to pick, and this one wasn't worth it, so she sat and she ate, not really aware of what she was putting in her mouth. It was warm food, it would sate her hunger, and yes, give her strength. Voldemort watched her in silence. She forced herself to chew and swallow every bite, despite how tense she was.

"What did you do all day?" she asked when the silence became too much.

"I was at the Ministry. There are a lot of matters requiring my attention. Some tedious bureaucratic details to wade through as well, which are unavoidable."

"Are my friends held there?"

"That depends on whom you consider your friends, but yes, some members of the former rebellion currently occupy the Ministry's cells. That would be the individuals who have most grievously erred against me, which does include the two other members of your Golden Trio."

He said the two words derisively, a smirk touching his lips.

"What will happen to them?"

"They will be judged according to their crimes, and receive the punishment they deserve."

"Death?" she asked, dreading the answer.

"No. The only one I was planning to kill was you, Harrie. No, I expect they'll serve a life sentence in Azkaban at most."

The food in her mouth suddenly tasted like ashes. She gulped it down, set her plate back on the table.

"Are you done?" Voldemort said. "Good. Now, there is an important matter that needs clarifying, and you happen to have the answers I seek. You will give them to me."

"What matter?"

"My Horcruxes, and how they were destroyed."

Her heart stalled, then fluttered in her chest. She looked down, sliding a hand into her right pocket. No wand, no wand.

"Look at me, Harrie. Look me in the eyes. I would like to see."

Reluctantly, she met his red gaze. His eyes pierced hers, and suddenly she felt like she was falling inside herself.

She's twelve again, facing a sixteen-year old Tom Riddle in the Chamber of Secrets, her blood soaking her robes, her breath coming in gasps.

"What makes you so special, Harrie Potter?" he asks, in a low, sibilant voice. "How did you defy me twice, survive me twice?"

She plunges the Basilisk fang into the diary, ink surging like blood, and Tom Riddle evaporates into thin air.

"Make that three," she says, before she rushes to Ginny's unconscious body.

and

She's standing with Dumbledore on the island in the middle of the lake of the dead, she's looking at the fake locket, the fragment of parchment with the message on it, Kreacher is telling her that Master Regulus had ordered him to come back, then Ron is stabbing the sword of Gryffindor into the real locket, shattering it forever.

and

Ron is holding the mangled remains of Hufflepuff's cup, telling her how Hermione destroyed it, the same way the diary was destroyed, with Basilisk venom.

and

Fire, fire, below her, their narrow escape out of the Room of Requirement, and the diadem, leaking something black and thick, a liquid that drips to the floor like tears of blood.

and

"Kill the snake."

"Kill the snake?" Neville repeats.

"Yeah. It's important. Kill it, if you can."

"Sure, Harrie. Sure, yeah."

Determination glints in Neville's eyes, and she nods at him and walks away, to her death...

A gasping breath, inflating her lungs fully as she resurfaced from the storm of memories, like a diver coming back up after a long plunge into the dark depths. She shivered, touching unsteady fingers to her scar which pulsed with faint pain. Voldemort's face was a cold mask of indifference, but his eyes burned, two intense points of scarlet red.

"Who else knows?"

"Just... just Ron and Hermione," she said, because he knew that already, he'd seen it.

"The Weasley boy and the Mudblood... and about you, Harrie? Who else knows?"

"No one. I didn't tell anyone."

"Why not?" he said, two precise words that cut deep.

She knew he would accept nothing but the truth. The problem was, she wasn't sure of the truth herself.

"I... I didn't have time."

"But you did. You could have told the Longbottom boy when you told him about Nagini. Why didn't you?"

Again, she wasn't sure.

"It didn't matter, because I knew I was gonna die anyway," she said, looking down at her hands.

"No, no. That is not the real reason, Harrie." He lowered his voice when he said her name, and then what he said next was spoken even more quietly. "You didn't tell anyone for the same reason I kept that crucial information to myself. The same reason I told my Death Eaters I would face you alone in the forest. The same reason your heart is beating so fast right now."

She glanced up at him, couldn't help herself. Oh God, the way he was looking at her. Fierce and possessive and wrong.

"This is our secret," he said, voice so low it seemed a serpent's hiss. "Ours alone."

"Yes," she agreed, from numb lips.

Her nails were digging into her palms with such force it hurt. Was she even breathing? She must have been, since she wasn't lacking air. Voldemort was still looking at her like they were the only two persons in the world. Her mouth was so dry. She wet her lips, realized what a terrible error that was when Voldemort's gaze flickered to her mouth. No, no. He wouldn't kiss her... would he? The very idea seemed grotesque. She couldn't imagine him kissing anyone. Why would he even want to? A kiss was about affection, and love, and intimacy, and Voldemort cared for none of those things.

No, he wouldn't kiss her.

Why was he still looking at her mouth? She had to say something to break the tension. Anything.

"Can I see my friends?"

His gaze slithered up, and he met her eyes. It was only a moderate improvement.

"Certainly. You only have to ask me properly."

"Properly?" she repeated, a shiver of dread running down her spine.

He smiled a monstrous smile.

"Get on your knees."

Chapter Text

In the silence that followed his words, her sharp intake of breath was a glaring admission of her shock.

"What?"

"Don't play games, Harrie. You heard me. You're asking a favor of your Lord, and there is a proper way to do this. Get on your knees."

She sat frozen, her blood ice in her veins. On her knees. After he had just been staring at her mouth. There was a coalescing thought in her mind, one that was too scary to contemplate. She pushed it away, swallowing thickly.

"I... I don't..."

"You don't want to see your friends?" Voldemort said in a soft, enticing voice. "They must be so worried about you. They must think I'm torturing you, that I'm doing the most horrible things to you. Don't you want to ease their worries?"

She shifted in her seat, uncertain. Her friends, her friends, her heart clamored. But to get on her knees for Voldemort... to submit in this manner, of her own volition... no, she couldn't. This wasn't even pride. This was a complete refusal of what he expected of her. He could force himself on her, that she couldn't stop, but she wouldn't beg like a dog for a treat, wouldn't give him the satisfaction of bending her to his will without a fight.

"No?" he said, in a courteous tone so at odds with the intensity of his gaze. "Ah, so much hesitation. Let me help you with that. Get on your knees."

The order rang through her skull, and there was nothing else, her mind empty of all other thoughts. She was floating in a blank void, at peace. Yes, she should get on her knees... After all, why not? It was easy, the floor was right there... Get on her knees, yes... she wanted to, didn't she?

No, said a voice rising from the bottom of her. No, we're not doing that. No, no.

That 'no' echoed, again and again, a rising tide, overcoming the idea that she should get on her knees, battering it, until...

"No," she said, the word dragged out from her very bowels, her voice ragged and raspy, but not weak. Not weak.

She drew back in her chair, glaring at Voldemort.

"I'm not getting on my knees. And I withdraw my request."

He looked pleased, a thin smile on his lips.

"Your mind is strong," he commented. "And I would have nothing less. I wouldn't suffer a weak receptacle for my Horcrux."

"You'll find me far more troublesome than a locket or a snake."

He rose and came toward her. She held still, didn't look away from him, didn't flinch when he cupped her jaw.

"Did you know that when Herpo the Foul wrote about Horcruxes, he considered the thought of a human Horcrux ludicrous? After all, what wizard would want a part of his soul bound to a living, breathing human being, he said? What wizard would run the risk of having their Horcrux run away from them, or having it fall into enemy hands? Indeed, better to choose an inanimate object, which you would then hide away in a safe place."

"What did he have to say on making a Horcrux without meaning to?" she asked, surprised by her own aplomb.

"He didn't believe it to be possible. It takes an immense amount of magical power and an indomitable will to create a Horcrux. To think I did it by sheer instinct... that my desire to live was so strong half of my soul took refuge in you..."

"Not half. Your soul had already been split five times by then. I only got a tiny percentage of it."

He laughed, a cold chuckle.

"Half, Harrie. I did not split my soul evenly each time I made a Horcrux. I only parted with, as you put it, a tiny percentage. But on that night, Harrie, on that cold October night... I wasn't in control, and my soul split evenly, which makes you my other half."

His thumb brushed her lips, and there, she flinched. He tipped her head back further, his fingers tightening on her jaw, the tip of his thumb pressing down on her lower lip, nearly intruding into her mouth. Her lungs had stopped working, her heart going the opposite way, slamming fretfully against her ribs, an alarm bell that rang and rang.

His thumb pressed in, forward, a slow, steady advance, and...

Pop!

Harrie jerked back, startled by the loud noise. Voldemort turned around, and she could only imagine the murderous glare he directed at Wimsy.

"You didn't eat it all," said the oblivious house elf. "You have to eat it all, or—"

"Out," Voldemort ordered, death in his voice.

The elf realized the danger she was in, and promptly vanished with another pop! Harrie scooted back in her chair, mentally thanking Wimsy for her timely appearance. She had no idea what would have happened if she hadn't showed up, but the tension had been broken, and when Voldemort turned back to her, he didn't touch her again.

However, she wasn't out of the woods yet, since what he said was possibly worse than his thumb in her mouth.

"Come, Harrie. We shall take a bath."

She opened her mouth to protest, but the way he was looking at her made her close it back up, the words getting stuck in her throat. It was a look that would suffer no refusal, a look that said she would obey or be Crucioed into complying.

Then he offered her his hand. Harrie weighted her options. Did she want to suffer more? Was it worth it? No, and not really. But she also wanted him to be fully aware of how much she hated this, so while she took his hand, she said, "I might try to drown you in that bath."

"You're smarter than that," Voldemort replied.

He tugged on her hand, and she followed, a slight hysterical edge to her thoughts, having trouble believing she was holding the Dark Lord's hand, letting herself be led into his bathroom. The marble and gold surroundings seemed tainted by his presence, like a dark stain on an otherwise immaculate canvas. He let go of her hand, turned the water on.

She stood there, wondering if it was too late to run away. Yes, much too late, she realized when Voldemort looked at her again, his gaze rooting her feet to the floor.

"Do you intend to take a bath while fully clothed?" he said, casting a critical look at her robes.

"You first."

She regretted her words in the next moment. Voldemort disrobed with quick, efficient gestures, and she watched as he bared more and more of his body, much more than she had ever wanted to see. Her first thought was that he was wrong. All of him, wrong, flesh too pale, limbs too sinuous, not a man but something else, something changed, something warped. He had no hair, anywhere, and his skin seemed to shimmer slightly in some places, the light catching oddly, like he had actual scales.

Despite herself, her gaze lingered between his legs. He wasn't aroused, which was a relief. Of all things, his penis seemed the most wrong, and she really wondered if dark magic had had any influence on, well, his size.

She expected him to comment on her staring, to make a crude joke or to gloat, but he didn't.

"Your turn, Harrie," he simply said.

It was nothing. She'd been naked before him already. It was nothing, she could do it.

Slowly, she removed her robes, folding them carefully on a nearby chair. Then her sweater and her trousers, removed even slower. She didn't look at Voldemort, focused on the floor, pretended there was no Dark Lord and she was just undressing to take a nice bath. Her bra was next, and finally her panties, which she tugged down while imagining herself elsewhere, far away from any Dark Lord and Horcruxes.

Then she was naked, and Voldemort could see everything.

Which doesn't matter, she reiterated to herself firmly.

Maybe if she said it often it would become the truth. Her stomach was twisting and turning, her nerves sparking like faulty wires. She became aware she was grinding her teeth, stopped. She could feel Voldemort's attention, the glide of his gaze upon her, heavy, sinking into her, reaching her down to her bones.

"Look at me."

She did, flinching again from the blaze of his eyes. A singular smile touched his lips, which curved ever so slightly.

"Are you ashamed of your body, Harrie?"

She was insecure about a couple of things, like most people.

"No," she replied. "I just don't like getting ogled by psychopathic murderers. It's a personal preference."

"Such a mouth on you."

The comment was rife with threat. Harrie decided she would keep her mouth shut.

Voldemort approached the bathtub and glided a hand through the water. Seemingly satisfied, he got into the bathtub, sank into the water.

"Come," he ordered, extending one pale hand toward her.

She didn't take it, but she did pad over to the edge of the tub, then lowered herself into it, facing Voldemort. The water was scalding hot, which was how she liked it. She also liked her baths with absolutely no Dark Lords in them, but she would have to suffer it for now. Suffer him.

"Closer," the Dark Lord said.

Would it be childish to splash water at him? Definitely. It was also dangerous, as was the fact that she didn't budge.

"If you Crucio me right now, I'll drown," she said.

"I would hold you."

For some reason, the idea was more terrifying to her than the simple threat of pain, even if it meant excruciating agony. She moved closer, until their legs touched. In the narrow space of the tub, she couldn't avoid it.

"Closer," he repeated, satisfaction painted into every line of his face.

She thought she could taste it, the pleasure he took in this, heavy on her tongue, a sickly-sweet tang. Reluctantly, she shuffled closer, her slow movements generating small ripples at the surface of the water. His hands came up, the tip of his fingers brushing her sides. She shuddered.

"Turn around."

Why, why? He would give her the same answer. You're mine, I own you, do what I say or suffer. She took a single breath, locked it in her lungs, and turned around. He grabbed her by the waist and forced her closer, until she was practically seating in his lap, her back touching his chest. She let her breath hiss out of her mouth, her entire body so tense she could feel her cramps flare up.

"There," Voldemort said, in a tone that aimed at soothing.

His fingers brushed the back of her head, where faint paint still throbbed, and a warm tingling sensation spread over the spot. The warmth went down her spine, different from the hot cocoon of the bath water, reaching her in a deeper way. She felt the tension from the cramps ease, felt herself relax despite not wanting to.

"How are you doing that?"

"Healing magic has many uses," Voldemort replied, lowering his hand to her shoulder. "What is taught at Hogwarts amounts to paltry parlor tricks. You know nothing, Harrie, less than nothing."

"I know enough."

It wasn't true, but she would rather lie to Voldemort than admit her dearth of knowledge and invite more criticism. He laughed, softly, the sound chasing away the warmth of the water, gripping her from the inside with ice.

"Poor girl. You have so much to learn."

"Not from you," she said with venom.

"But you must have thought about my offer. You must have entertained the idea of accepting, and then using every bit of knowledge I would bestow upon you to try and vanquish me. Or perhaps that is too Slytherin a tactic?"

No, she had thought about it, more or less in those terms. She couldn't get past the fact that she would have to say 'Yes' to Voldemort first. It felt too much like a surrender. She also wanted to win on her own, without having to sully herself by delving into the darker side of magic. Perhaps, truly, she was afraid it would be too easy to do so, to learn dark secrets and then use them, afraid of what that would mean for her.

Yet if this was the cost of victory, shouldn't she try? After all, what was one more sacrifice?

She was thinking about it when Voldemort picked up the soap and used it on her, sliding it on her belly, up, just under her breasts, on her sides, slowly, meticulously. A bath sponge followed, scrubbing her skin. Harrie sat unmoving, half-stunned by this development. She hadn't expected Voldemort to actually wash her, and even less that he would do it so carefully, like she was liable to break at the slightest touch.

"I can wash by myself," she said, without moving.

He didn't reply, but next his hand cupped her right breast, engulfing it in his large palm before he gave it a light squeeze. Ah. Of course he'd use the opportunity to grope her. She bit her lips so she wouldn't beg him to stop. He played with her breast, rubbing and kneading, did the same to the other one, casual touches, an abject declaration of possession that sickened her.

She resigned herself to being fondled by Voldemort, to his fingers teasing her nipples, his thumbs slotting too intimately against the swells of her breasts, his breath coming slow, wafting over her collarbone. He didn't say anything while his hands palmed and squeezed and caressed, mapping out her curves with intoxicating thoroughness.

He hadn't touched her in this way the two previous times, hadn't paid her breasts that much attention. Now he was paying them too much attention, all roaming hands and frightening intent. Every wet brush of his fingers, every warm glide of his skin on hers, every press of his palms made Harrie tense further, her spine burning from the need to get away from him. He wasn't even restraining her. She would have preferred it, to have that choice taken away from her, to be physically forced into this. Holding herself still was placing a strain on her mind, and she didn't know how much longer she could bear Voldemort's touch.

She was also steadfastly ignoring the consequences of said touch, the warmth it sparked lower between her legs, the tightening of inner muscles, the whispering traitorous itch building and building. The way her body liked it, wanted more.

It's the bond, it has to be.

The Horcrux in her reacting to the proximity of him, to his attention, or perhaps even influencing her from the inside. Tainting her, poisoning her. Making her receptive to his foul touch.

When he suddenly cupped both her breasts and rolled her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, something contracted hard in her lower belly, accompanied by a jolt of warmth. She jerked forward, away from him, sending water splashing. He had one hand around her throat before she could move out of range, and he brought her back against him, inexorably. His teeth nipped at her shoulder.

"There's no escape, Harrie."

He said it with words, and he said it with his hand, curling tight around her throat, and his teeth, skimming the wet skin of her right shoulder. He said it with all of his body, trapping her against him, as in her dream, an engulfing darkness that sought to consume.

He held her close for long moments, his free hand trailing her sides, no longer caressing her but simply touching idly. Shivers prickled in the wake of his fingers, drew her skin tight, and she felt small and vulnerable, awfully so. She wanted to claw her way out of his grasp, or to drag him down under the water with her and drown him, drown them both.

And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives...

"When was the last time you did this?" he asked, a murmur at her ear.

"Did what?"

If he meant 'wished he was dead', then it was a regular occurrence, and she wasn't even sure she could give a satisfying answer other than 'two minutes ago'.

"The last time you took a bath with someone."

"Never," she said, stomping down on the urge to squirm—something was happening between his legs, and it wasn't good.

"Never?" he repeated in surprise. "Why not?"

"It just... it didn't happen, that's all. What about you?"

"Back at Hogwarts, in the Prefects' Bathroom."

Nostalgia rang through his voice. Harrie pictured a young Tom Riddle in that vast, sprawling bathroom. Not alone. He was charming back then.

"Poor girls," she said.

"What makes you say that?"

"They were probably in love with you, and you used them to further along your agenda. Lying, breaking their heart."

"They didn't complain," he said smugly.

"Not to your face, I'm sure."

His hand went under the water, grabbed her right wrist. She didn't resist when he guided her hand behind her, to his groin. Didn't resist, but she closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, thought of anything else but her fingers brushing against his half-hard member. Anything else but Voldemort groaning in pleasure when he forced her fingers to close around the length of him.

"This is bringing back memories," he said, and Harrie wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. "Although my paramours were usually much more willing."

"Why, do you only rape your Horcruxes?"

The question was slightly nonsensical, but he was making her move her hand, and she really needed something else to focus on besides the sensation of giving a handjob to Voldemort, so any conversation would do.

"How long until it's no longer rape, Harrie?"

"What?" she said.

Then she winced because his cock had just throbbed in her hand, her disgust spiking. He was growing harder, bigger, and she was glad her back was turned and she didn't have to see it.

"How long until you seek out my touch instead of recoiling from it? How long until you ask me to fuck you?"

There was something singularly odd in hearing Voldemort say 'fuck'. It made his question all the more obscene—a question that was also so absurd she didn't bother answering.

"I didn't want this bond either," he said. "A human Horcrux is an inconvenience in many ways. I chose to accept it and use its advantages. You should, too."

"What advantages?" she gritted out.

"It's a soul bond." His tone was self-evident. "As I said in the forest, many would kill to be in your place."

"They can have it. Let them come right here in the bath and take my place."

"They would relish the opportunity to please their Lord," Voldemort said softly, his mouth tracing the line of her shoulder.

"Out of fear, or to curry favor. None of them would really want that."

"My dear Bella would disagree."

"Then why aren't you with her?" Harrie huffed.

He squeezed her fingers tighter around his cock, let out a groan. Harrie shuddered in revulsion. Would he be done soon? And would he stop there for tonight? Hope was a terrible thing to have in this moment.

"You should never give people what they want, little Horcrux. The key is to leave them wanting, leave them needing, leave them unsatisfied, so you can dangle all manners of promises and pretty tomorrows just out of their reach. That is how you get them to dance to your tune."

"Spoken like a Slytherin Dark Lord. And doing that leaves you open to betrayal, once your followers realize that you're never going to deliver on those promises."

"The ones who do betray me were never worthy of following me in the first place, and are dealt with accordingly."

That topic of conversation seemed to be a sore spot, because he didn't pursue it further and forced her to move her hand faster. She followed the urgent rhythm, tightening her hand a bit more, stroking his hard flesh roughly.

"Beg for my come," he ordered.

Not fucking likely.

"One day, you will," he said, the same way he had promised her she would spread her legs, too.

Was this what he wanted, truly? For her to be willing?

"I will never want this," she said, biting the words out.

Even now, she was repulsed by it down to her soul.

"Give it time," Voldemort murmured, the soft threat roughened by lust.

A couple more moments of this torture, and his cock throbbed in her hand, his hips jerking forward. He sighed against her neck, made her give two last pumping motions as he came. To her utter shame, something clenched deep in Harrie's core, a vague pulse of pleasure. Her little mortified hitch of breath echoed Voldemort's long exhale.

He shuddered, then relaxed, freeing her hand from his. Harrie immediately moved her hand away, grabbed the soap and furiously scrubbed her palm. It wouldn't be enough, but at least she could do this.

Behind her Voldemort shifted, the hand he had at her throat tightening, drawing her closer to him, her back sliding wetly against the planes of his chest. His other hand brushed by her stomach, heading lower. Harrie tensed further, her heart racing quicker. Her teeth sunk into her lips as his fingers crept toward her inner thigh. Just as they were about to reach their goal, her hand jerked violently. The soap sailed through the air, bumped Voldemort's shoulder, fell into the water with a splash.

Voldemort paused.

"Did you just throw the soap at me?"

"Yes," she replied, in the same tone she would say "Fuck you".

He chuckled, fingers curling into the soft flesh of her thigh.

"Your Muggle upbringing shaped you into a wild little thing, didn't it? Why Dumbledore thought it to be the best choice is beyond me. You should have been raised among wizards, should have known about your heritage from the start."

His knuckles skimmed her folds, retreated, a playful touch.

"You would have grown up into a very different young woman had your extraordinary potential be impressed upon you at an early age."

"I was protected with the Dursleys," she said, unwilling to admit that she had thought about that fantasy a lot, wondering and imagining how it would have been like to grow up among wizards, to wait for her Hogwarts letter, to be with her peers.

"Protected," Voldemort repeated, mocking. "Did I not reach you, year after year?"

"Not at home. You couldn't get me at home, so you had to do it at Hogwarts, and it wasn't that easy, was it? You lost a Horcrux, you lost faithful followers, and even when you did reach me, it was never for long."

"I have you now."

His fingers sought their way to her sex again. She pressed her thighs together, but he forced his hand in between, and exerting pressure on it only led to enhancing the sensations, so she stopped doing it. It was different underwater, too. She could feel his touch more keenly, the individual pads of his fingers, every brush and stroke.

He sank a long finger inside her, pushing into her resistant channel, rubbing and prodding. Unwanted warmth bloomed in her core. It started slow, a low simmering fire, but she knew it would soon become much more. She couldn't stop it, so she focused on something else.

"Why did you choose me and not Neville?"

He didn't answer right away, kept pumping his finger in her, added a second one. Harrie gripped the edges of the tub, took slow, deep breaths.

"I chose the outsider," Voldemort said at last. "The one nobody would have bet on. The girl, the half-blood."

He crooked his fingers inside her, catching her most sensitive spot perfectly. She swallowed a groan.

"They all thought I would go after the Longbottom boy. All my Death Eaters, the ones I trusted enough to tell them about the prophecy, they all assumed he would be my choice. That I would mark him as my equal. A boy of pure blood, coming from a respected, powerful family, of course it has to be him, they said."

He adjusted his hand on her throat, placing it a bit lower, and curled his other fingers, causing Harrie's legs to tense up.

"Even Severus was adamant it couldn't be you, shouldn't be you. He was too afraid that I would harm his precious Lily Potter, who wasn't even his. 'Not the Potter girl,' he said. 'Surely it can't be her, my Lord.' I asked him why, and do you know what he said?"

Pressure, pressure, delicious and intense, right on that spot inside her. Harrie made a sound she was ashamed of, a little mewl that sounded pathetic.

"He said, 'She has half of James Potter in her. She's a weak little mongrel, and could never be your equal in any way'."

Harrie could hear those words in Snape's voice. Trying to save her life by denigrating her, how very Snape.

"Only one person defended you. One person said, 'You shouldn't discount the girl, my Lord. It could just as well be her.' Do you want to guess who?"

"Bellatrix," Harrie said.

"Indeed. Bella thought you could be as much as a threat as the boy, perhaps even more. She had no idea how right she was..."

He moved his fingers faster, stimulating the spot that sparked with honeyed pleasure inside her, added his thumb on her clit. Harrie groaned, gripped the edges of the tub harder, knuckles going white.

"I thought about that choice a lot during the years I was forced to exist as a formless entity, stealing bodies. What if I had decided to kill the Longbottom boy? Would his mother have sacrificed herself the same way? Would I have suffered the same fate? But I chose you..."

His thumb pressed on her clit in a tight circle, his fingers drove again inside her, and her pleasure peaked. She came with a choked-off whimper. It was a slow-rolling orgasm, a series of shivers that wracked her body from head to toes, each one a delicious pulse of bliss. Voldemort guided her through it all, pumping his fingers in her clenching channel, making the orgasm last to its final shudders.

Finally, he removed his hand from between her legs.

"In the end, it was the right choice," he said casually. "The Longbottom boy wouldn't do at all in my bath."

Harrie couldn't believe he was joking about this. Couldn't believe he was joking at all.

The Dark Lord has a twisted sense of humor, great.

"Would you rather I had chosen him?" he said.

That too, she had thought about a lot. A life in which she wasn't the chosen one, in which nothing bound her to Voldemort, in which there were no shadows behind her, and a clear sky above. A life she would have wanted. But Voldemort's imagined scenario implied Neville would have inherited everything she would have escaped, the scar, the fame, the expectations, the guilt, and Voldemort himself. She couldn't condemn anyone else to that fate.

"No," she said. "It had to be me."

"It had to be you," he echoed, the words damning her from across time.

They stayed some more minutes in the bath, Voldemort as relaxed as Harrie was tense. Finally he moved, getting up, leaving the tub. Harrie followed, immediately grabbing a towel to clad herself in it. Voldemort dried himself with a non-verbal, wandless charm, got dressed in his long pyjamas that were essentially another simpler version of his robes.

He pointed to a small pile of clothes that had been set to the side.

"For you," he said.

Harrie wasn't particularly pleased with the offering. The clothes consisted of shorts and a tank top, green and black, made of a light tissue. There was also a pair of panties, but no socks. What did Voldemort have against socks?

"Why can't I get a robe like yours?"

Something that would cover her legs, cover her arms.

"You can wear these, or be naked. You can also elect to keep the towel. I won't mind."

Only bad choices. She went for the least worse of those options, and put on the pyjamas Voldemort had chosen for her. Then she lingered in the bathroom, pretending to fiddle with her hair. Voldemort grew impatient, calling her from the other room.

"I'm not ready!" Harrie returned petulantly.

"You have five seconds to come here before I Crucio you."

"You need line of sight to Crucio," she pointed out, feeling safe.

The five seconds went by. Pain slammed into her like a Bludger had hit her at full speed, first in her scar, then in all the rest of her. She crumpled to the ground, muscles locking up, a wave of fire eating at her nerve endings. It didn't last long, merely a couple of seconds. It wasn't about the pain, it was about proving he could do it like that.

With a groan, Harrie got back to her feet, walked out of the bathroom. She stood in the doorway, glaring at Voldemort, who was reclined in the bed, smiling at her.

"Not with you, Harrie. I can reach you from anywhere, at any time."

"That also works in reverse," she said, rubbing at her scar which still tingled.

His smile grew.

"True. Would you like to try it, close your eyes and Crucio me right now? Wandless? I'll let you say the incantation."

She grumbled a 'no, thanks', stomped over to the window. She looked outside, turning her back to Voldemort. It was pitch dark, but she would have rather been outside and naked than inside and clothed with Voldemort. She could feel his gaze on her, a steady pressure at the back of her neck.

Silence stretched.

"Why did you say it was your home?" she said. "It's not your home. It's the Malfoys'."

He didn't answer.

"You don't have a home. You hated the orphanage, the Riddle house is a reminder of your Muggle father, and you never built anything else."

He still didn't answer.

"You're alone," she said, without knowing why.

Getting him angry wasn't wise. She should have shut up. And yet...

"You've been alone all your life, and you'll die alone, too."

Spoken quietly in the silence of the room, it didn't sound like a threat. It sounded like an omen, a dark prophecy tumbling from her lips.

"What about your home, Harrie?" he finally said.

"Hogwarts," she replied, still looking into the dark of night. "It's always been Hogwarts."

The Burrow, too, but when she thought of home it was Hogwarts which came first, the girls dormitories in the Gryffindor Tower, the Great Hall, the classrooms, the staircases, and the grounds. Hogwarts, her Hogwarts.

"It was mine, too, for a time," Voldemort said. "But a school isn't a home, and we must all grow up. You're no longer a child."

"As you've made abundantly clear."

Another silence, this one denser, and it seemed to mean something, but Harrie didn't care to try and decipher what.

"Come to bed," Voldemort said at length.

"Does it make you feel less alone, sleeping with someone?"

Again, he didn't answer. Instead he reached for her when she climbed on the bed, wrapping his long fingers around her throat and tugging her forward, his grasp hard enough that she could barely breathe. He stared down at her, the red eyes burning. Harrie shivered, but she didn't look away. She would never look away.

"You seem to worry a great deal about my supposed loneliness, Harrie."

It was her turn to stay silent. She offered only a defiant look, her jaw set, staring back at Voldemort.

"Do you pity me? Is that it? Are you thinking of your own lonely childhood? Is that empathy, Harrie?"

He said the word like a curse, his grip tightening, choking her. This time, she had to answer.

"Yes. Yes, I pity you. You want to live forever, but you don't understand what makes life worth living."

"Love?" he said, chuckling lowly. "Harrie, Harrie... You have to let go of such childish notions. Love is a fool's errand."

"It has power."

"Does it? Ask your mother how it turned out for her."

She groaned like some sort of savage beast, threw herself at him. He shoved her away, both with his hand and with magic, the unknown spell pushing her back like a wave of force. She landed on her butt near the edge of the bed, scrambled to her knees, and seriously considered lunging at Voldemort again.

"Do I need to tie you up again?" he said, raising one hand in warning.

She drew back, shook her head.

"Behave," he said mildly.

Then he plunged the room in darkness, all the curtains drawing shut. Harrie let out a slow breath. She had to behave. As tempting as it was to try and strangle Voldemort right now, she did not want to spend another night tied to the bed.

She settled with her back to him, this time with the blanket over her—actually in his bed, instead of on it. At least he'd been satisfied with the thing in the bath, and wouldn't rape her again tonight. That would be for tomorrow.

She became aware she was eating at her bottom lip when the taste of blood filled her mouth. With a sigh, she flopped onto her back, opened her eyes to stare ahead in darkness.

She stared a long time, shifted again on her side, sighed again.

Sleep eluded her for hours, until finally exhaustion claimed her. This time, she didn't dream.

She woke to warmth. At her front, and at her back too, languid sleepy warmth, cocooning her. It felt so nice. She gave a happy yawn, her eyes fluttering open.

Black.

The sheets weren't black, nor was the blanket. There was only one black thing in the bed. Her eyes blinked open fully, and the truth became apparent.

She was cuddling with Voldemort.

He was on his back, and she was plastered to his side, burrowing into the warmth he gave off. He had one arm braced at her back, his hand a hot weight on her spine. Instantly, she stiffened, drawing back in horror. His arm slipped off her as she scrambled away, getting tangled in the sheets. She kicked them off, crawled backward until she had reached the edge of the bed.

"Did you sleep well, Harrie?" he asked, the weight of his red gaze feeling like another kind of touch, more than skin-deep.

"You did that," she accused him.

"Did I? I suppose, in a sense. My soul longs to be whole."

He cocked his head at her, with an inquisitive look in his eyes.

"Can you feel it? Inside you?"

"No," Harrie replied, a small shudder crawling up her spine.

"Have you ever tried?"

"Why would I want to try that?"

He smiled.

"You are in a unique position, housing a part of my soul in yours. Aren't you the least bit curious about it?"

"Not really," she grumbled, but then what he had said fully hit her. "Wait, do you mean to say your soul is in mine?"

"Where else would it be?" Voldemort replied like it was Horcrux 101 and she should have known that.

"I don't know, in my body somewhere. It's not in my soul. It can't be."

What would that even mean, to have his soul in hers? It was unfathomable.

"When a Horcrux is created, the object targeted and the part of the soul bond irrevocably, forming a new whole. The soul fragment attaches itself to the most essential part of its recipient, which yes, would be your soul."

"You can't be sure," she said stubbornly. "It might be different with a human Horcrux."

"Do you imagine you know more about Horcruxes than I do?"

"You've never been one."

"Which brings us back to my earlier point. Try feeling my soul inside you, and then tell me it's not in yours."

"I'm not doing that," she grumbled.

The less Voldemort, the better. She didn't even want to think about the Horcrux.

"Is it a lack of natural curiosity, or are you afraid, Harrie?"

"Of course I'm afraid," she snapped. "You're—"

She clamped her mouth shut before she said anything she would regret.

"Perhaps we can work on that in time," Voldemort said.

"You don't want me to be afraid of you?"

"Not to the point that it stops you from experimenting and improving your own magical potential."

She didn't see how poking around Voldemort's soul fragment in her would improve anything. And how could she be anything but scared of him? He was the biggest threat in her life at the moment. He always had been, she just hadn't been aware of it.

He got up. She tracked his movement, looked away when he disrobed to get dressed. No rape this morning? How lucky she was.

"Have you changed your mind about my offer?" he asked her again.

She looked at him. He was standing in the open doorway, and beyond him she could see the hallway, the walls covered by panels of expensive dark wood.

"If I said yes, would I be free to move around the manor?"

"Yes," Voldemort said.

"Would you still touch me?"

"Yes."

Not even a pause. There was no escaping him.

"Then no, I haven't changed my mind."

"There's always tomorrow," he said with a teasing smile.

He left, and she was alone again.

Alone, for hours.

She sat. She walked in circles. She looked out of the window (that one made it worse, to see all there was out there).

She waited, and waited, and waited. Her mind was her worst enemy, conjuring awful scenarios after awful scenarios. Her friends getting tortured, or dying. Hogwarts burning. Voldemort running wild and unopposed, killing indiscriminately. She knew it probably wasn't that bad, but she couldn't stop worrying. It became a itch under her skin, an ache in her jaw, a needle-like prick at the back of her neck.

Inescapable, scratching her nerves raw, changing her into a twitchy, nervous creature.

Harrie had always thought she was pretty good at waiting, and she had had lots of practice over the years, but she couldn't bear the particular torture of waiting as Voldemort's prisoner.

What if you said yes? a little voice whispered in her head. That would get you out of that room.

It also meant she would get more Voldemort. Him training her, whatever that would entail.

It could be useful, the little voice in her mind went on. Could create opportunities.

She didn't want to explore that future.

When Wimsy appeared, bringing lunch, Harrie practically pounced on her, asking the house elf to help her, despite knowing how futile it was.

"Can you Apparate me out of here? Please, nobody has to know."

"Harrie Potter must stay in the room!" Wimsy replied in her squeaky voice. "She must eat all the food and she must stay in the room!"

The house elf walked over to the bed, took care of the sheets with a snap of her fingers.

"It could be our secret," Harrie argued weakly.

"Wimsy is a good house elf. She obeys her Masters' commands!" She sent Harrie a worried glance. "If she didn't, then she would have to punish herself again."

"Again?"

The elf raised a hand, showing two swollen, purple fingers.

"Wimsy had to punish herself after she talked to Harrie Potter when she wasn't allowed to."

Harrie winced.

"But you're allowed to now?"

"Yes," Wimsy confirmed.

"I'm sorry," Harrie said.

"Harrie Potter must stay in the room," the elf repeated vehemently.

So Harrie stayed in the room. She walked some more circles around, stared again out of the window, poked at the wards, not enough that she would hurt herself this time, just so her fingers would tingle and she'd feel something else than that mind-wracking anxiety.

The day went on, until it was time for Malfoy to show up again.

This was her chance. She had a plan, she was ready. She was doing this.

She waited next to the door, flush against the wall, and when it opened, she slammed into Malfoy, with all her strength and all her pent-up anger. He was knocked into the door, the tray tumbling to the ground with all its contents. She punched him, hard, square in the jaw. He groaned in pain, head snapping back, raising his wand in a jerky movement.

Grappling with him, she tried to wrestle the wand from him, but he was holding it tight and had already recovered from her initial attack.

"Stupe—"

She lunged, mouth open. Her teeth sank into the meat of his hand, at the junction of the thumb and forefinger. He cried out, and the wand dropped to the floor.

She had a split second to take a decision. Dive for the wand, or use the distraction.

The door was open. The only thing stopping her was the ward.

She threw herself against it. It hurt, it hurt, pain electrifying every nerve. Straining against the magical force, she screamed. Screamed, screamed, and something tore, and suddenly the resistance was gone.

She ran.

Breathing hard, pain reverberating with every step, she raced down the corridor. She heard Malfoy curse behind her, abruptly veered right on instinct, dodging the ray of red light that flew past her. She ran, she ran, arrived at a landing, a large double staircase leading down, and she rushed down the stairs, so quickly she almost lost her balance.

"Filthy half-blood," hissed a portrait as she careened past it.

She landed in a crouch, sprinted forward, reached the drawing room, and from here she knew where the front door was.

"Potter!" Malfoy roared behind her.

There was no stopping her.

She ran faster, and she could see the door now, at the end of the long corridor lined with portraits. She was almost there when a spell hit her. Not from behind, but from the side, something vicious and powerful which lifted her off her feet and sent her crashing into the wall.

She dropped back to the floor with a grunt, cheek smacking against the hard wood, limbs paralyzed. Dazed, she blinked up at the tall figure looming over her, at the aristocratic features, the cold gray eyes, the silver-blond hair. Another blink, and a slightly smaller figure joined the first.

"Are you incapable of handling one little girl?" Lucius Malfoy growled at his son.

"She ambushed me," Draco muttered.

"This cannot happen, Draco. When the Dark Lord gives us a task, we have to complete it, no matter the obstacles that stand in our way. Even if they're as distasteful and uncouth as Potter."

Both Malfoys were sneering down at her. Harrie sneered back.

"Let me go," she said, panting. "Let me go, and I'll make sure you're spared Azkaban when this is all over."

Lucius barked out a coarse laugh. Harrie had the thought he looked as worn out as his son, the gaunt lines of his face aging him ten years.

"Do you really think yourself in a position to negotiate, girl?"

"Yes," she said, confident, because she had to be. "My offer stands, at any time. Help me and I'll help you."

"I was under the impression you had some semblance of a brain," Lucius said. "I can see now I was mistaken."

"This isn't gonna last. Or is that really the future you want? Being lackeys to Voldemort in your own home?"

"Your lips are unworthy to speak his name, Potter," Lucius replied, anger gleaming in his eyes.

Draco said nothing, his face a cold mask.

"He doesn't seem to think I'm unworthy. He keeps asking me to be his apprentice."

From the looks on both Malfoys' face, this was news to them. She was about to add something when her scar heated up, a lash of fiery pain at her forehead, burning into her skull.

"Incoming," she gasped.

Voldemort Apparated a handful of seconds later, his sudden presence injecting new tension in the air, an electrical current burning between them all. His red eyes pierced hers, and she felt his fury. The pain in her scar had her groaning.

"My Lord—" Lucius started.

"Silence," Voldemort said. "I have no interest in your excuses."

He stepped closed to her, crouched down. The slits of his flat nostrils widened as he took a deep breath. Harrie stared, defiantly. She couldn't move, and her scar was throbbing with so much pain her eyes were watering, but still she looked at Voldemort.

"Trying to run from me, Harrie?" he said softly.

"That shouldn't surprise you."

"No. What surprises me is the crudeness of that attempt. Simply running, without a wand?"

He carded a hand through her hair, abruptly yanked on it.

"You disappoint me," he said.

"Next time, I won't. I won't disappoint you at all when I kill you."

She heard a sharp intake of breath that must have been from one of the Malfoys.

"Yes, she is rather insolent, isn't she?" Voldemort said, his nails scraping her scalp. "Tell me, young Draco, how would you punish this escape attempt?"

"With the Cruciatus, my Lord."

"A good start," Voldemort commented. "Proceed."

Through her tears, Harrie saw Draco aim his wand at her. His lips pressed together, his features tight, he cast the curse, saying the word in a hoarse voice. Harrie's world narrowed down to the agony that filled every inch of her body. It hurt, and badly, but comparatively it was the weakest Cruciatus she had ever been subjected to.

She heard Voldemort say something, heard Draco answer, while she screamed, unable to even thrash. Lucius' spell kept her limbs paralyzed, while Voldemort's hands forced her head steady, fingers tight in her hair and around her jaw.

"Enough," he finally said.

On her next breath, the only pain left was the one in her scar. Her vision was so blurry Voldemort's eyes seemed two twin points of fire. She dimly registered movement beyond him, Draco lowering his wand, maybe.

"Lucius, your son failed me. For the second time, I might add. What should be his punishment?"

"My Lord, I will administer the Cruciatus myself," Lucius replied stiffly.

"Do you think a single Cruciatus will repay the inconvenience Draco caused me? He let my dear Harrie escape. He failed to catch up with her until she was nearly at the door. He didn't—"

"Stop it," Harrie said, her breath hissing out of her. "You want to punish someone, punish me."

She was suddenly the sole focus of Voldemort's attention. He forced her head back until the muscles in her neck were burning, her spine bent at a painful angle.

"Ah, the brave, self-sacrificing nature of a Gryffindor," he mocked. "Do not worry, Harrie. You will be punished adequately. I think..."

He swiped a finger down on her scar, making it flare, a burst of agony that had her teeth gritting.

"I think, since you insist on behaving like a savage little beast, that you will be treated as one."

He smiled, a nefarious stretching of his bloodless lips. Then he pressed down on her scar, and this time it wasn't pain that swallowed her, but darkness.

Chapter Text

Pain.

It flickered at the edges of her consciousness, throbbing in time with her heartbeat. Impossible to ignore. Lapping at her in waves, dragging her back to reality, across broken shards of a half-slumbered nightmare where she didn't know what was real and what was not.

A place of darkness. The forest. A bath, warm water, a presence at her back... red eyes, and a shadowed wraith, alongside.

The pain throbbed and throbbed. Harrie squirmed, somewhere. The nightmare tore open suddenly, and she fell, into the gaping void below.

She woke with a gasp.

Woke to softness, to her head cradled by a pillow, to her body lying down on a bed. His bed. The green drapes hung above her, taunting her.

The pain, too.

Pain on her tongue, her mouth dry, pain in her skull, a pulsing headache knocking around her head. But the worst of it was in her hands, which felt like they had been plunged into boiling water. A groan rose from her throat, stayed trapped behind her lips.

She blinked again at the drapes, tried to sit up. A hand pressed down on her chest, a steady, firm contact.

"Don't move."

She issued another groan, protesting purely for the sake of protesting. He was right. Moving made the pain flare, made everything worse. She really didn't need to make things worse, not when Voldemort was right there, sitting on the edge of the bed.

She looked up at him. Outside, the world was dark, and in here, there was him. She had expected he would be amused, smug, or in the worst case angry, but he was none of those things. Instead he bore a pensive expression, with something more intense hiding in his eyes. Harrie didn't want to waste her time deciphering Voldemort's emotions, but she might have to, to avoid further pain, and that annoyed her deeply.

"Your hands," he said.

Her hands. They looked raw, the flesh an angry red, like they'd been burned badly, and goddamn did they hurt.

That must have been the result of breaking the ward. She had thrown herself at it, hands first. 'The Harrie approach', Hermione would have said with a disapproving expression. Diving headlong into trouble, and worrying any danger later.

She flinched when Voldemort touched her hands, tracing one finger along the reddened flesh, probing the inside of her palms, brushing her fingertips. It was a slow, thorough examination, and for all Voldemort's carefulness, it still hurt. Harrie gritted her teeth, enduring it.

"Does it hurt much?" Voldemort finally said, a completely superfluous question he already knew the answer to.

"Yes," Harrie said nonetheless.

"And did it hurt, when you broke the ward?"

"Yes."

"In your hands?" he said, with another brush of his fingers against her palms that made her tense.

"No, sort of... everywhere."

"Everywhere?" he repeated, making it a question.

She had nothing to add.

He dove into her mind without any sort of warning. She was suddenly tumbling through her memories, before he focused on the one he wanted to see. He revisited that moment, her struggle with Malfoy, her decision to body slam the ward. The pain that had seized all of her, hadn't lasted that long.

Living it a second time, she realized now that it had lasted about a second.

Which meant she had broken his ward in that amount of time, too.

It shouldn't have been possible. They hadn't studied wards all that much, but she remembered bits and pieces from Charm class, a lesson about finding the weakest point and using your wand to weaken it further. She hadn't done any of that. She had thrown herself at the ward in a moment of desperation, and it had popped like a soap bubble.

It wasn't normal. What did it mean, that she could do that? Maybe nothing. Maybe it hadn't been Voldemort's ward, but Malfoy's. Maybe it had been weak to begin with.

A thousand other maybes sprouted in her head, until she wasn't sure of anything but the pain. It pulsed in her, a double-edged sword, both in her past and her present. Then Voldemort withdrew from her mind, and the pain settled in the now, with his hands on hers. His long spidery fingers made curling motions, almost caressing her palms.

"Tell me Harrie, what do you think happened?"

"I don't know."

He tutted, fingers tapping on her palms once, sending a splash of pain up her wrists.

"You do know. Don't hide from me."

"I broke your ward," she said, a vindictive bite to the words.

"Yes, you did."

He was smiling, his eyes glinting with approval. Harrie was simply confused. Why was he happy about that?

"You broke my ward. In one second, you did what my best Death Eaters would have struggled to accomplish had they had all the time in the world."

"Then they're all incompetent."

His hands suddenly squeezed hers, making her cry out.

"The truth, Harrie," he said.

Her breath hissed in a gasp, and she bit her lips, glaring at him.

"You know the truth," he added, more softly, but there was still that awful pressure, his hands crushing hers.

Her heart pounded violently, her mind centered on the pain.

"I... I don't know what you expect me to say."

"This is tiresome, and unbecoming of you. Accept what you are."

"Your bloody Horcrux, all right!"

And then, from the way he was looking at her, smiling at her, she understood. She understood, and she laughed, a dark, bitter sound, something that hurt into her chest like the stabbing of a knife.

"You think that's the only reason I broke your ward," she said. "Because I'm your Horcrux."

"I think, little witch, that you have no idea of your true potential."

His tone was far too fond for her liking. She scowled, but no easy answer came to her, and simply telling him to fuck off would surely have unpleasant consequences.

Her hands tingled. Warmth spread into her palms, radiating out to her fingertips and down her wrists. The pain diminished, until it was gone completely. Voldemort removed his hands from hers.

"Better, isn't it?"

"I'm not going to thank you."

He stared at her. She held his gaze, wondered if he was reading her thoughts. Did he even need any spell at all to do so, the way they were bound?

"Did your Muggle relatives not impress upon you the importance of politeness? Did they fail you in that area, too?"

Say thank you, girl. Say thank you, and be grateful we took you in at all.

She shook away the memory of Vernon's words.

"Politeness is for other people," she said. "Not you."

"Aren't you wild today? Biting Draco, and now this. You deserve your punishment."

Which was to be what, exactly? She opened her mouth to ask him, closed it without uttering a word. Anything she would say now would come out too defiant. Voldemort made a soft sound at the back of his throat, as if pleased.

"No mouthy retort, Harrie?"

She stared at him, said nothing.

"We might get along yet," he said, a smug light in his eyes. "To answer your question, why don't you move now?"

His tone was rife with challenge. She shifted, sitting up. There was a metallic sound, sharp and clear, like a cascade of musical notes. It puzzled her for only an instant, because now that her hands didn't scream their pain to the rest of her body, she was aware of what else there was, including the unusual pressure around her right ankle. Slowly, she moved her leg, and...

And it all came into view.

The cuff encircling her ankle, the silver chain glinting against the dark green of the duvet, and, when she grasped at it, the evident fact that the other end of that chain was tied to the bedpost opposite her.

She let the chain slip from her fingers, blinked a couple of times.

"You chained me," she said.

"I did."

"To your bed."

"It would appear so, yes."

Despite the firm reality of the mattress below her, she felt like she was falling. It just didn't happen in real life. People didn't chain people to beds. Yes, he had chained her before, but with magic, and only for the night. This was an actual metallic chain, and it seemed... it seemed he intended for it to last.

"You can't be serious."

He smiled thinly.

"I'm very serious, Harrie. This is the consequence of your rash actions."

He ran a finger along the length of the chain, toying with it.

"That should stop you from attacking poor Draco again. I don't tolerate in-fighting between my followers. It's counter-productive."

"I'm not one of your followers," she bit out, giving a sudden yank on the chain.

Quick as a viper, he caught it, exerting tension on it. She relaxed her leg, refusing to engage in such a pointless tug of war. He let go, and the chain fell back, the silver links pooling and gleaming against the dark duvet. It wasn't long, just enough that she would be able to move around the bed.

"I would argue that you're one of my best followers, Harrie. Your blood contributed to my resurrection. You're hosting the other half of my soul, keeping it safe. We're bound through our flesh and our souls, and eventually we'll be bound in purpose too."

She huffed.

"Why don't you propose marriage while you're at it."

"If that is your desire," he said.

She choked on her saliva, both from his words and the nonchalant poise with which he had delivered them. There were a few seconds of terrifying silence.

"No," she said at last, the word so strangled. "No, get away from me."

He got up, leaving her side of the bed. She tracked his movements, feeling more trapped than ever.

"Are you hungry?" he inquired.

"No," she lied.

"Then we shall sleep."

He started raising a hand, and she knew what that meant, the whole room going dark.

"Wait."

"Yes, Harrie?"

He sounded so solicitous. As if he really cared about what she had to say. She wanted to scream at him.

I'm your prisoner, you chained me to your bed, stop pretending to care!

"What if I need to go to the bathroom?"

"The chain will lengthen if there is a need."

"There's a need right now."

She got up gingerly, took a few steps away from the bed. The chain allowed her that movement, lengthening like Voldemort had said, growing additional links before her eyes.

"It will know if you lie," Voldemort said. "I wouldn't advise you to try to trick it."

"Or what, it's gonna strangle me?"

"No. It might, however, tie you up completely and leave you like a pretty little package on my bed for me to find."

She had to stop asking baiting questions. It was her defense mechanism when she was stressed, but with Voldemort, it always backfired in her face.

She went to the bathroom. The chain tingled softly with each step, not that she could have forgotten it was there anyway. Briefly, she thought of Crookshanks, and the collar with a bell Hermione had made him wear. Her chain made the same sound.

It seemed to have a mind of its own, because shortly after she was done, it started tugging at her ankle.

"One minute," she grumbled, tugging back.

The chain tugged harder, once, then gave a yank that nearly made her foot slip. Harrie relented, coming out of the bathroom before the chain dragged her back to the bed while she struggled on the floor. She envisioned it so clearly it made her spine ache.

As she neared the bed, the chain shortened, until it was back to its original size. She climbed under the covers, doing her best to ignore Voldemort who had already settled in. He darkened the room, and she stared ahead at nothing.

For minutes, possibly for hours. Voldemort had fallen asleep quickly. He didn't snore, but she could hear his slow breathing. She wondered what he dreamed about. Then she wondered if she could strangle him with the chain. No, it was too short. It wouldn't reach all the way up to his neck, and sadly she doubted the magic would deem valid her need to strangle Lord Voldemort.

At some point, she fell asleep.

Nightmares tormented her. She woke with a start from a particularly bad one in which Voldemort was pressing her into the bed, suffocating her beneath him. Her legs jerked, and the chain jangled. She experienced a beat of momentary confusion at the sound, before she remembered where it came from.

To her right, Voldemort shifted. She froze, but he didn't reach for her. He didn't move again, so she tried to relax. She must have managed it, because the next time she opened her eyes, the bright light of day greeted her.

Voldemort was already up and moving about in the room. She sank deeper under the covers, drawing them up to her chin, dreading the moment he would come close to touch her again. He had touched her repeatedly in her dreams, in what she remembered of them. She had struggled, but there had also been a twisted form of pleasure, even in the sanctity of her own mind. He was poisoning her from the inside. A corrupting force that wouldn't stop until she'd surrendered.

"Good morning, Harrie. You didn't sleep well, did you?"

"Did I wake you?"

"A couple of times."

"Good. I hope you were very inconvenienced."

It was petty, but she couldn't help herself.

"Not at all," he said, giving her a small smile. "I'm a very light sleeper, but I also fall back to sleep very quickly."

Of course he wasn't tormented by all the atrocities he'd committed. That would have been fair, and the world wasn't fair.

She tensed when he came closer. His eyes lingered on what he could see of the chain, traveled up to her face.

"Is that not your case?" he said.

"Not at the moment."

Not with you in the bed.

He hummed at her answer, tapped one finger against the end of the chain.

"Have you changed your mind?"

"No."

He stepped away, heading for the door. Harrie allowed herself a sigh of relief.

"I shall see you tonight, then," Voldemort said in parting. "Have a good day, Harrie."

His tone didn't suggest a jab or a taunt. He really meant it.

"Have an horrible day," she returned.

"How could I, when I know what awaits me in my bed at the end of it?"

He closed the door on that. Harrie scowled at it ineffectually. Then she slipped out from under the blankets, set her feet on the ground. The chain jingled. She took a good look at it. It was cold between her fingers, and made of small, elegant links. It looked like it could snap if one were to exert enough strength on it. She knew better than to try.

Upon closer inspection, the metal links were indented with tiny inscriptions that must have been runes. Harrie hadn't the slightest idea what they meant: she had always been terrible at Ancient Runes. Maybe Hermione would have known.

She went into the bathroom, ran herself a bath. Voldemort hadn't touched her yesterday, nor this morning, but she felt dirty all the same, and she really needed a nice cleansing bath. It seemed the chain agreed, because it didn't pull her away. It even unfastened from the cuff at her ankle to allow her to undress. As soon as that was done, it clinked close again, connecting to the silver circle with a viper's speed.

Harrie soaked in her bath, partly relaxing. It didn't last long. Soon, she felt a tugging at her ankle. She glowered at the stupid chain.

"I need more than ten minutes!"

It tugged again, harder.

"Seriously, do you even know what a bath is?"

It didn't care, and on the next tug, it coiled around her ankle, giving a threatening squeeze.

"Fine, fine," Harrie grumbled.

She got out of her nice warm bath, began drying herself with the towel. The chain grew impatient, jerking on her leg. Harrie dressed hurriedly, exited the bathroom at a near run to satisfy the chain's demand. It was humiliating, but ending up tied up in Voldemort's bed would be even worse.

She sat on the bed, waited. Bored, anxious, going out of her mind with the need to get out of here, and chained to the fucking bed.

Around noon Wimsy brought her lunch, but the house elf didn't stay to chat, disappearing as soon as she had completed her task. Harrie tried to go sit in the chair with her meal. The chain stayed the same infuriatingly short length, so she ate on the bed.

Then more waiting.

It was worse than the day before, because of the chain, because the situation kept deteriorating, because there was no end in sight. She ground her teeth, picked at her nails, glared at the chain, and inside she boiled and boiled.

In the evening, Malfoy showed up. He entered the room slowly, his wand trained on her.

"Really?" she said. "You think I'm gonna attack you now ?"

"I haven't the faintest idea of what's going on in that head of yours, Potter."

He set the tray on the coffee table.

"I can't reach that," she said, jiggling her chain with a shake of her ankle.

He seemed startled by the statement, his eyes going wide at the sight of the chain, before he regained his composure. With a wand movement, he levitated the tray until it rested on the bed.

"Wait," she said when he moved to leave.

He paused, and actually waited. Maybe standing up for him hadn't been for nothing after all.

"Can you pass along a message?"

"Do I look like an owl?" he replied with disdain.

"Please. Just tell my friends—"

"Oh sure, I'm just going to prance about the Ministry and go down to the cells level for no reason, that won't be suspicious at all."

"You don't actually have to go there in person," she retorted, matching his annoyed scowl. "Just send your Patronus."

His face hardened into something stony.

"Unless... unless you can't cast one?" she said.

"Because I'm clearly bursting with joy at the moment."

The scalding tone was pure Malfoy, but there was much more bitterness in it than there used to be. Something that Harrie hesitated to call sadness, as well. He looked so tired.

"You can cast it in intense moments of despair," she said. "All you need is one happy memory. I'm sure even someone like you has one."

He didn't move. She considered that a win, that he was still listening to her.

"How about that time you broke my nose on the train?" she suggested in a light tone, trying to joke.

He made a sound that might have been the start of a laugh, stifled. Or possibly just a hiccup.

"That did feel really good," he said.

"Yeah, so think about that and summon your peacock or whatever."

She had no idea what form Malfoy's Patronus took, but a peacock sounded right for him.

"What would you even tell your friends, Potter? Your experience of the Dark Lord's hospitality?"

"Tell them... tell them to not give up hope."

Malfoy snorted.

"That's it?"

"Tell them that I'm alive. That I'm fine."

"So lie to them."

She had a lot more to say, but it was nothing she could confide in Malfoy. And saying too much was dangerous anyway, for them both.

"Will you do it?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"I'm not taking such a risk for that."

"I always knew you were a coward."

"It's not cowardice, Potter. It's common sense, which you seem to lack cruelly."

"Whatever helps you sleep a night, Malfoy," she replied acidly. "Don't forget to lick Voldemort's boots before bed."

He left. She ate her meal, barely savoring it.

Voldemort returned late. She didn't ask him why, didn't engage the conversation. He set a small vial on the bedside table, looked at her expectantly.

"I got this for you."

She stared at the vial. It contained a dark liquid that glittered in some places, like the night sky on a clear summer night.

"I don't want it," she said.

"It's a potion of sweet dreams. It would help with your nightmares."

"I don't want it," she repeated.

She couldn't trust anything he offered her. And even if he was telling the truth, she didn't want her dreams altered by him in any way, not even to replace the nightmares with sweet dreams, whatever those may be.

"You would rather suffer than accept help, then?" Voldemort said, tilting his head, considering her with something close to reproach.

"Your help, yes."

"How wonderfully stubborn of you," he said with a slow, disquieting smile. "I shall respect your wish, and won't force that potion down your throat. However..."

He moved then, crawling onto the bed and coming toward her. She made herself smaller, tucking her knees against her chest, the chain rattling. He approached until he was almost on her, looming over her.

"There are other ways to make sure you sleep soundly. Other ways to make sure you're sufficiently... relaxed."

He said the last word with dripping innuendo, like it was a game, like she didn't already know what he planned to do, hadn't already felt it so deep in her flesh she'd carry it around forever.

"I'm relaxed," she said.

"Not yet."

He slid a hand in her hair, lightly petting her scalp. She battled the urge to swat his arm away, to push the whole of him away.

"Lie down," he murmured, as if saying it softly killed the bite of it.

When she didn't move, his fingers tightened in her hair, and he yanked her head back.

"Lie down, or I will make you, Harrie."

She stretched out her legs, unfolding from her protective crouch, then she did as he wanted. As soon as her head touched the pillow, his hand turned caressing. He dragged his fingers through her hair, petting her with gentle care, like a sick reward for obeying him. She bit back the sarcastic comment that rose to her lips, something about loneliness again, and a pet chained to his bed.

His eyes roamed over her body, heavy with lust. Harrie knew she wasn't gonna keep her clothes on for long. His hand trailed down her temples, her cheek, the side of her neck, lingered for a moment at her throat, then headed lower. His touch wandered over her, slow, just this side of a taunt. Fingers exploring her curves, brushing up against the swell of her breasts, teasing her nipples, then curling possessively, cupping her breasts, using both hands now. He wasn't even touching her skin, but she burned already.

"I can feel your heart," he said, the remark low and weighed with meaning as he splayed one hand over the spot where her heart pounded in its cage of flesh and bone.

He tapped two fingers there, clicked his tongue.

"You're not relaxed at all."

An understatement. Her spine was one rigid line of tension, her jaw cramping, her legs pressed together. A shudder ran through her when Voldemort swiped the thumb of his other hand over her nipple. The motion found an echo between her legs, which made her flush with shame. It should have been nothing at all, nothing more than a disgusting, perverted appropriation of her body. But it was also Voldemort, and anything he would do to her would always be meaningful, because it was him.

"Get on with it," she snapped, losing patience.

Inviting her own impending rape, what a concept. Voldemort raised a brow. She had managed to surprise him.

"These things must not be rushed, Harrie," he replied. "Our sharing of pleasure should be enjoyed at its own pace."

"You're the only one enjoying it."

His lips tugged up in a faint smirk.

"We both know that's not true, my dear."

She flinched at that, when she hadn't even flinched from his touch.

"Don't call me that."

"But you are, Harrie," he said, with a caress upon her cheek. "So very dear to me. So very precious..."

His hands stopped caressing and started undressing. He opened her robes, rucked up her sweater, pushed up her bra. She clenched her fists so she wouldn't be tempted to shove him away, or grab his hands and sink her nails into his flesh until he bled. If he could even bleed.

He bent down. The shocking heat of his mouth engulfed the peak of one nipple. Harrie went from 'not relaxed' to 'strung so tight she felt she was gonna snap'. There was no way to ignore what Voldemort was doing, no way to shut out the sensations he was wringing from her body with his mouth. His mouth on her breasts, wet, hot, the press of his tongue, even the scrape of his teeth against her skin, which made her jolt when she first felt it.

Why was he so good at this? Why was she so bloody sensitive? Would it even feel like that with another person? She grimaced at the stupid thought. Of course it would. People had amazing sex all the time, and none of it involved Voldemort.

He wasn't special.

She wasn't his.

She wrapped herself in that defiant thought, not yours, not yours, not yours, and stared at the green drapes above her.

Stared, while she shuddered, while Voldemort used his mouth on her. Her pulse raced and heat pooled beneath every inch of her skin. Tendrils of pleasure squirmed between her legs, throbbing keenly. Voldemort sucked and licked and nibbled, feasting on her breasts like he couldn't get enough of them. It was almost like she could feel it, that haunting hunger, the ravenous need that inhabited him. Something that whispered mine, mine, mine, in an exact, inverse echo of her own thoughts.

He gave a soft groan against her breasts, then his tongue trailed a scorching path down, reaching her navel, heading lower. Pushing down her trousers along with her underwear, he parted her thighs. She held her breath as his mouth slithered hot and wanting over the spread of her cunt. He licked her slit, one slow, heavy pass of his tongue. Her breath rushed out in a low hiss.

Last time he'd done this, she had been unconscious at the start, had only awakened close to her orgasm. This time, she felt it all, her cunt growing slick, the pleasure coiling in her core, the slow build up to another unwanted climax, which loomed ever closer.

When Voldemort flicked his tongue over her clit, an electric shock seized her spine, and she couldn't help but cry out. He persisted, tongue pushing and laving at the center of her pleasure, where every nerve thrilled, where everything burned. She couldn't stay still either. She writhed and squirmed, her hands clenching into the duvet, her hips jerking every time his tongue moved. Distantly, she was aware she was making noises. She was breathing through her mouth, panting, gasps and moans escaping her. It all sounded like wordless pleas, for him to stop, for him not to stop. Which was it? Did she even know?

Her back arched suddenly, the pleasure cresting high. Voldemort made a rough noise, flattened his tongue against her clit, pushing her into abysmal throes of bliss. Her vision whited out, her muscles twitched and jolted, her breath rasping in her throat.

It went on and on, and just as she was beginning to come down from those heights, he forced two fingers inside her and sent her flying again, her body wracked by ecstatic convulsions. Between her groans, she heard the rattle of the chain, her legs jerking helplessly.

That second orgasm receded slowly, leaving her gasping on the bed, her skin flushed hot. Voldemort's face appeared above her. He was smiling wickedly, his mouth slick from her fluids. She felt his hand on her belly, then the warmth of the spell.

"Perhaps you could start taking contraception potions," he said. "What do you think?"

She made a vague noise that could pass as an affirmation. Potions would be fine. About as safe, and that way, there was no risk he'd forget to cast the spell in the heat of the moment.

"I'm so glad we agree on something, Harrie."

He spread a hand over her right hip, while the other went next to her head. Then he pressed his large body over hers, and she could hardly breathe, both from the weight of him and the heat he brought with him, the air now stifling, like it didn't carry enough oxygen.

He wasn't even inside her yet.

That changed in the next moment. She whimpered at the stretch, at the merciless way his thick shaft filled her. She'd never get used to this. He paused once he had bottomed out, sighed next to her ear.

"How perfectly you fit me," he said, his hand flexing on her hip. "You feel it too, don't you?"

She shook her head, biting her lips.

"You can't lie to me, Harrie. I know you feel it."

She only felt him. There was room for nothing else. Him, his weight, his heat, his cock. Smothering, burning, taking.

"This isn't perfection," she said, looking him in the eye. "It's perversion."

"And yet it feels like this."

He rolled his hips, one languid motion. Harrie choked on air. Her entire body tightened, became one giant nerve plucked so skillfully by Voldemort. He rocked inside her, each thrust of his hips jolting her with all-encompassing pleasure.

"Like this," he groaned.

Harrie was losing her footing again, everything eclipsed by the back and forth of Voldemort's cock inside her. He drowned her in ecstasy, and the only thing she could cling to was him. Her hands clenched in the duvet, then they were on his arms, her nails digging into the wool of his robes, and she was touching him of her own volition, but she couldn't stop. She squeezed, hard, hoping she was hurting him.

"I hate you," she said, somewhere amid the surging waves of heat.

He thrust lazily, a smile on his lips. She didn't know how long it lasted. She only knew that when she came, she came sobbing and cursing, everything twitching and clenching, an overwhelming blast of thrilling pleasure rolling through every cell.

The orgasm left her dazed, the world fuzzy at the edges. She was making noises, little gasps interspersed with her messy hitch of a breath as she fought for air. Her cunt was throbbing around Voldemort's cock, each spasm coming with a vague curl of pleasure. Her hands were still clenched tight around his forearms. With effort, she opened them, let her arms fall back to the bed.

Voldemort gave a few more thrusts, then stilled. He grunted low as he reached his release, his cock hilted fully inside her, spilling deep. She squirmed at the feeling of liquid heat burning the deepest parts of her. Voldemort sagged against her for a second, then quickly drew away, sitting back on his haunches.

He studied her silently. When Harrie realized he was looking at her cunt, she closed her legs, the chain rattling. Her face flushed hot at the idea that he wanted to look at that, at her sex after he had just come inside her.

"Shame has no place in our relationship, Harrie. I already know your mind, and I'll come to know your body, too. Every inch of it."

He cocked his head, smiled.

"If you're not satisfied by me spilling in your cunt, we can find another arrangement. There are options, after all."

Options. Harrie swallowed thickly. Was he talking about her mouth? Or...

"No," she said.

"No? Then you're satisfied?"

His stare was so heavy on her she felt he was still touching her, was still inside her.

"Yes," she forced herself to say.

"For now," he said, his smile gaining an edge.

She didn't ask what he meant by that. He cleaned her with a spell, let her redress, then killed the lights in the room.

Hr brain was swimming in the wave of endorphins released by the orgasms, and she fell asleep easily.

She dreamed.

She was back in the forest, the Resurrection Stone cradled in the palm of her hand, a hot, comforting weight. The ghosts walked with her, her mother, her father, Sirius and Lupin, all surrounding her. Her dead, her hearts, her lost family.

"Dying doesn't hurt, Harrie," Sirius said. "It doesn't hurt at all."

"Like falling asleep," Lupin said.

"It'll all be over soon," her mother promised with a soft smile.

"You'll be with us," her father said. "That's what you want, don't you?"

She walked on.

There was another ghost at the very edge of her vision. He didn't speak, trailing her like a silent shadow. She didn't look at him.

She walked through the cold, darkened forest, alone, not alone.

Finally she came upon the clearing where she would die, where he was waiting with his Death Eaters. He turned toward her, and regarded her with a slow, satisfied smile.

"Harrie Potter," he said. "The Girl-Who-Lived."

He was close, raised his wand, the tip of it touching her throat. She stood still.

"Why are you so stupid, Potter?" Malfoy said, from somewhere behind Voldemort. "You should have run."

She wasn't a coward.

"Come to die at last," Voldemort hissed, triumphant.

"Is that what you really want, Harrie?" said another voice. "Truly?"

There was no choice.

Voldemort's lips moved, whispering the incantation that had stolen so much from her. A flash of green, green, green, and...

She woke with a start, her heart hammering in her chest. A wave of goosebumps started at the base of her spine, spidered up, making her whole body shiver. She shook herself to clear the dream from her head. It hadn't happened this way.

For better or for worse, she was alive.

She was alive, and it was another morning.

She said no to Voldemort, again.

She took a bath, again.

She spent the day chained to the bed, again.

If it was possible to explode from sheer frustration, Harrie would have been the center of a nuclear detonation.

In the evening, Malfoy was back.

He floated the tray over to her as he stood in the open doorway. Harrie almost sent everything flying back at him, or into the nearest wall, but in the end she didn't like wasting food. So instead of choosing the most satisfying course of action, she picked up the fork and dug into the meal.

"Why are you still there?" she said, with a glower at Malfoy who was watching her eat.

"Why are you refusing?"

"What?"

"To become his apprentice. Why are you refusing?"

She glared harder at him, chewing slowly, refusing to answer such an inane question.

"I'm serious," Malfoy said. "Say yes, make things easier for yourself."

"Did he tell you to try and convince me?"

"No. This is just me, telling you to stop being so stubborn. That's always been your problem, Potter. Get your head out of your arse for once."

She laughed. It sounded much too bitter, and she wondered if she would ever laugh for real again.

"That's rich, coming from you, Malfoy."

"It won't make things worse. You'll be out of his room, you'll get more freedom, you'll get—"

"More Voldemort, no, thank you."

"A wand," Malfoy said. "You'll get a wand."

She blinked, scrutinizing Malfoy's face. She still wasn't sure if he was being Voldemort's mouthpiece, but that last argument was more appealing than everything else so far. She hadn't thought about it.

"He's not gonna give me a wand," she said.

"He will. He showed me your wand, asked me if it was yours."

"So what? It's broken."

"Not anymore."

For a second she was stunned by the words. Then she laughed, again. What a perfect trap this was. She had no doubt he'd been sent by Voldemort now, to dangle this in front of her.

"How convenient," she said. "Does he really think I'll bite? Go back and tell him you failed. Maybe if you beg him he won't Crucio you."

Malfoy made an annoyed noise, glaring back at her.

"I'm not here on his orders. I mean, I am, but not for this, not—"

"Why do you care, anyway? It won't change anything for you. You'll go on being one of his minions. Hell, why don't you do it, if you care so much? Become his apprentice, suck his fucking cock, Malfoy!"

There was a spasm on his face, but she couldn't decipher whether it was anger, disgust, or something else. He shook his head, left without another word. She was strangely disappointed. She had wanted him to argue more, to try and convince her again, so she could scream at him, insult him, dare him to come closer and then maybe attack him once more. Talking with Malfoy felt liberating. She could be herself, which wasn't the case with Voldemort, where she had to watch her every word.

She ate the rest of her meal while she finished the conversation with Malfoy in her head. He was telling her she was stupid and that there was only one way out of this, and she was replying that actually, there were lots of ways, and he was a coward.

"Don't call me coward!" the imaginary Malfoy shouted, with the exact same tone as Snape, that night after he'd killed Dumbledore.

But Malfoy wasn't Snape. He wasn't a double agent, wasn't secretly working against Voldemort. He was a bully and a coward, groveling at Voldemort's feet. She should expect nothing from him.

Her imaginary conversation devolved into her throwing insults at Malfoy, and eventually petered out. There were only so many variations of 'spineless coward' she could come up with. He wasn't the real target of her anger anyway. Only a convenient scapegoat.

Some time later, Voldemort returned. He presented her with a potion, this one a clear liquid with a barely noticeable red sheen. Harrie grabbed the bottle from his hands, uncorked it.

"You haven't taken those kind of potions before, have you?" Voldemort said.

"No."

Unlike the Muggle pill which could be taken for a variety of reasons other than preventing a pregnancy, the contraception potions had only one use. Harrie never had cause to be drinking one. She only knew what they looked like because there was a page in her sixth-year Potions manual that covered them, although they had never brewed one in class.

"You have to take two swallows now, and then one every week. The time doesn't matter, only the day."

"Are there any side-effects?" she asked.

She didn't really care, and the question was more out of boredom than anything else.

"None," he answered. "This isn't Muggle medicine," he added with a touch of disdain. "It's vastly superior, and you can trust it to be both hassle-free and effective."

"Great."

No sarcasm in the word. She took two full swallows, one after the other. It tasted faintly of strawberry, and left a sweet aftertaste in her mouth.

"There are other flavors," Voldemort said. "Apple juice, Butterbeer, or—"

"Strawberry's fine."

It seemed so absurd that he cared about the flavor of the contraception potion he was making her take so he could keep raping her.

She hoped he would leave her alone tonight, but she wasn't that lucky. He joined her on the bed, made her come using his fingers, then he rolled her onto her stomach and took her from behind. She gripped the duvet as once again he brought her to unbearable heights of pleasure. She shuddered when she came, a series of low, breathless moans leaving her lips. Voldemort was quick to follow, spending himself with a muted grunt. His body softened against hers for a few seconds, before he got off her.

The only good thing out of it was that she ended up so relaxed sleep came nearly instantly.

She dreamed, again.

She walked in the forest, her ghosts following along, and that one silent shadow, trailing behind. She came upon the clearing, faced Voldemort. Snape was to his right, Malfoy to his left, and they had the same look on their faces as they regarded her.

"I'm not a coward," Snape intoned.

"I'm not a coward," Malfoy echoed.

Voldemort said nothing, merely lifting his wand. No. It was her wand, Harrie realized. She looked down. She was holding an unfamiliar wand, bone-white, with a curved, smooth handle, several inches longer than her own.

Voldemort's wand.

Her fingers opened as if burned. The wand fell to the ground.

"Are you a coward, Harrie?" Voldemort said, with a soft laugh.

She woke, her eyelids fluttering, her heart pounding in her chest. Groaning, she shifted, instantly froze when she saw what was lying on her chest. There, in the folds of the dark duvet, lay a wand.

The same one as in her dream.

Harrie blinked, but the wand remained.

"I'm still dreaming," she said, and her words echoed differently around the bedroom, like they were echoing inside her head, too. "I'm still..."

The wand.

It taunted her, so close.

She was at once attracted and repulsed by it. It was a wand, and she needed a wand. But the wand that had killed her parents, killed so many? An instrument of terror, the wood as white as the bones of its victims, as white as Voldemort's skin. Was it fate, trailing her fingers there? Had it been decided all along, from the moment an eleven-year old Tom Riddle had chosen his wand?

"Take it," a voice whispered, without any echo.

She would not.

"Take it," the voice said. "It's yours."

She sat still, the wand lying on her chest like a dormant snake. She couldn't trust it. She didn't want it.

"And yet you need it. Don't you?"

Her eyes snapped open. This time, she was truly awake.

The room was still dark, shrouded in silence. It wasn't morning yet. Harrie stared ahead, forcing herself to breathe slowly. After a few minutes, she slipped out from under the blanket. The chain jingled on her way to the bathroom.

A scowl on her face, her hair a mess of curls, a sheen of sweat glistening on her skin: the Harrie that look at her in the mirror was the Harrie of the very bad days.

"You look dreadful," her reflection said.

It was the start of her third day chained to Voldemort's bed, and she was ready to rip her own skin off. Yes, she was defiant and angry, but what was the point? The world was all wrong, her friends were suffering, and she didn't even know anything about what was going on.

She couldn't go on like this. Staying here served no purpose. She couldn't do anything from the inside of this room.

"I know that look," her reflection said. "Are you sure, dear?"

She gave herself a grim nod, her eyes sparkling with resolve. The decision wasn't an easy one, but it was the right one.

She went back to bed, waited for Voldemort to wake. Waited for him to ask his question.

And then, when he did...

"Yes," she said.

"Yes?" he repeated, cocking his head.

She sat with her back straighter, staring into his red eyes.

"Yes. I'll become your apprentice."

A devious smile spread on his face. He snapped his fingers, and the chain at her ankle vanished. She didn't move as he approached the edge of the bed.

"Come here, Harrie. Stand beside me."

She obeyed, looking up at him. She felt smaller than the last time she had faced him so close, in the forest.

This isn't giving in, she told herself. This is a strategic move.

"Your first step is to address me properly," Voldemort said.

She was ready for this.

"Lord Voldemort," she said.

Not 'Master'. No 'my Lord' either. She hoped it would be enough. The words already burned her mouth, staining her lips like venom.

"That shall suffice for now. Ah, my apprentice."

His hand rose between them, and he tipped a finger under her chin. This time, his smile sliced her to the bones.

"Be proud. We will accomplish so much together."

Chapter Text

"Your glasses, Harrie," Voldemort said.

He held out a pale hand. She removed her glasses, placing them in his palm. He closed his fingers around the frames, and they dissolved into ash, with a soft, sizzling sound.

"Lord Voldemort's apprentice doesn't rely on Muggle contraptions."

His hand came toward her face. Harrie didn't flinch when he placed two fingers above her eyes, spread apart. She felt his magic, the silent spell pulsing under her skin, down in her flesh, and when next she blinked, she could see clearly. For the first time in years, she had perfect vision without any external aid.

"There," Voldemort said, removing his hand. "This is how it should have been from the start."

Nobody had ever told Harrie magic could fix her eyes. Had it been that simple all along, or had Voldemort used an obscure spell, one not widely known?

"Don't look so surprised," he told her. "I reward my apprentices well."

"Have you taken one before?"

"Once," he said, a peculiar expression flashing across his face.

"What happened?"

The expression vanished, replaced by his usual cold, calculated demeanor.

"He betrayed me. You'll attempt to do the same."

Lying had never been so useless.

"I will."

"Of course. But this time, I won't make the same mistake."

"Which was?"

"I trusted him," he said, his mouth twisting in a smirk.

Were they talking about Snape? Someone else? She was about to ask when Voldemort spoke again.

"Go get dressed. It's time for your first lesson."

A lesson, already? She had hoped she would be given the opportunity to leave the room on her own and go outside.

She went into the bathroom, quickly got ready for the day, came out five minutes later. She was still barefoot. Would Voldemort make her walk with naked feet everywhere? Did he hate shoes for some reason?

Oh yes, that's it. The power he knows not: footwear.

He looked at her approvingly, before his gaze rested on her feet. He didn't use his wand, nor did he speak, but she felt the spark of his magic, recognized an Accio. The target of his spell came out of the wardrobe, landed at her feet. A pair of sandals, black, simple. Harrie put them on without saying anything.

Voldemort nodded, headed out of the door. She followed, stopping for an instant where the ward was, or used to be. There was no resistance as she stepped forward. Either Voldemort had dismissed it right now without a word, or he hadn't bothered to recast it since she'd been chained to the bed.

They walked along the corridors, side by side. It felt surreal to be here, to do this. Harrie stretched in subtle ways as they went down the hallway, rolling her shoulders, craning her neck left, then right. This wasn't a dream. She was his apprentice now.

"What is the first lesson about?" she asked.

"You'll see."

That answer did nothing to appease her anxiety. She was fully prepared for it to be awful. But she had chosen this, and she would stick with it. Besides, Voldemort had to know that she'd balk at something too horrid. He wasn't gonna ask her to kill someone. Hopefully.

They went down the staircase. The portraits glowered at her, as hostile as last time.

"You're soiling the house with your presence, girl," one of them hissed lowly as she passed by.

Voldemort stopped abruptly, and Harrie, who was just behind him, nearly bumped into him. He whirled around, facing the portrait. One elegant arm movement, and he had drawn a wand, pointing it at the head of the woman who'd spoken. It wasn't his bone-white wand that Harrie had dreamed about. It was the Elder Wand, black, with nodules running down its length, spaced out at regular intervals.

Harrie watched it slash the air. The woman screamed, for about half a second. Then there was a black, smoky hole in the middle of the portrait, an unseen fire rapidly spreading outward and eating at the material until there remained only the frame and a smattering of ashes.

"Does anyone else have something to say about my apprentice?" Voldemort asked, cold and precise.

The remaining portraits stayed silent.

Pocketing his wand, Voldemort walked on. Harrie followed after a beat, unsure how she felt about what had just happened. A part of her was vaguely nauseated. Another part wanted to ask what that spell had been. And a third part, a most tiny morsel of her, was pleased that he had stood up for her. Pleased and surprised. She'd been ready for horrible things, but she hadn't been ready for Voldemort defending her. It was only because any insult aimed at her reflected on himself, she knew. But still...

"Did you have to do that?" she said to shake off that stupid feeling.

"You will be respected, Harrie."

His tone brooked no argument.

They reached the drawing room. A fire burned in the hearth, warming the space. Lucius Malfoy sat in an armchair, facing the flames. He had a glass in hand, half-filled with an amber liquid that reflected the fire. It seemed awfully early to be drinking.

"Lucius," Voldemort said.

"My Lord," the elder Malfoy replied in a deferential tone.

"Harrie is now my apprentice," Voldemort said, landing a hand on her shoulder.

She did her best not to look too crestfallen about it.

"A most auspicious news, my Lord," Lucius said with a strained smile.

"Indeed."

Voldemort's hand slipped off her shoulder. It trailed down her spine, lingering for a second at the small of her back before it was gone. Harrie was left perplexed. The touch had been proprietary, almost affectionate. Was he going to touch her like that in public? Did he want everyone to know he was raping her? Obviously the Malfoys knew, but that couldn't become the official story.

Lord Voldemort kept the Girl-Who-Lived chained to his bed, proclaimed the newspaper headline in Harrie's head.

No, no. Either he wouldn't let the sexual side of their relationship be known, or he would spin it differently.

Harrie Potter seduced by the Dark Lord, now read the newspaper.

Oh God, that was gonna be his angle, wasn't it? That he was so irresistible and so convincing she had joined him willingly. Some people wouldn't buy it, but others would, and what would they think of her? It didn't matter. She had to make it not matter.

"Tell Draco to join us in the dueling room," Voldemort said to Lucius.

"Yes, my Lord."

"And Lucius, your wand."

"My Lord?"

"Lend your wand to Harrie," Voldemort said, so casually Harrie thought she had heard him wrong at first.

But Lucius was retrieving his wand, rising up, coming toward her.

"Can't I get my wand back?" Harrie said

Neither of the two wizards acknowledged the request. Lucius presented his wand to her, silently. His face was blank, but Harrie could see the conflict in his eyes. He felt humiliated, and she thought there was anger in there as well, and desperation. If he hated all of this that much, why wasn't he doing something? Why was he bending to Voldemort's every whim?

"Take his wand, Harrie."

She did. It was long, at least fifteen inches, made of dark brown wood, with a curved handle. It looked elegant and refined, much like Lucius—or how he was before. She hated holding it. A wand was a highly intimate object, and having Lucius' wand in her hands felt like intruding into his personal sphere, touching a piece of him that she had no rights to.

"Thank you," she couldn't help but say.

He showed no reaction.

"There is no need to thank your lessers, Harrie," Voldemort said. "Indeed, they should be grateful to serve you."

There was a beat of silence.

"Aren't you grateful to serve, Lucius?"

"Always, my Lord," Lucius said, in a rough whisper.

Harrie didn't need to be a Legilimens to know that wasn't true.

Voldemort turned and walked away. Harrie met Lucius' eyes, hesitated. She wanted to say something, had no idea what. You're a coward? Or, I'll take good care of your wand? Or, I'm sorry, I don't want this either?

In the end she said nothing and followed Voldemort. They went down another corridor before entering a large room. There was no furniture, which made the space seem that much more empty. Windows pierced the far wall, bathing the room in the morning light. It would have been a completely unremarkable room, were it not for the floor. Harrie heard her soft exclamation of surprise. Then she thought, of course the Malfoys would have something like this.

The floor gleamed, glossy wood both dark and light, a mosaic that was patterned in a very specific shape, that of a stylized dragon. The animal spanned the length of the room, maw open and wings flared, its long tail twisting down then up. Small points of light shone in strategic places, like opals of fire, either set ablaze by the light that poured from the windows or possessed of their own inner flame. Harrie recognized the Draco constellation.

"Step forth," Voldemort said.

Harrie walked softly across the floor, stopped a few feet from Voldemort.

"Closer. You need not fear me, Harrie."

"Then maybe you should stop raping me."

"You were so brave in the forest. Is my carnal appreciation really enough to defeat all that Griffyndor courage?"

"Yes," Harrie said bluntly.

That wasn't strictly true, or she wouldn't be here, but this was the most frightening thing she had faced so far, and that was saying a lot considering her life.

When all this is over, I'll retire in a cottage and spend the rest of my days tending to my garden.

"What a waste of your talent that would be," Voldemort said.

"Right. I should be ruling the magical world at your side."

Voldemort's eyes gleamed in approval, regardless of her sarcasm.

"You will," he said.

She was going to answer that would never happen when there was a knock at the door.

"Come in, Draco."

Draco entered the room, his gaze sweeping over her and Voldemort. He looked his usual cold, guarded self.

"You've requested my presence, my Lord."

"Indeed. Come, come. You will assist in Harrie's first lesson."

Did Voldemort mean for them to duel? Harrie tightened her grip on Lucius' wand, several thoughts running through her head. Cursing Voldemort right now was so tempting. She couldn't. She had to play the long game.

Voldemort stepped behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders.

"Do you know what is the single most defining characteristic of a wizard or witch, Harrie?"

"Magic."

"No. Magic is an instrument, to be wielded as the wizard decides. It is not what separates the great wizards and witches from the rest of the rabble."

Harrie racked her brain, thinking about the answer Voldemort wanted. It wouldn't be blood either. His followers would have said so, but she felt that wasn't it.

"Ambition," she said.

"Close. It is the strength of one's will."

His hands squeezed her shoulders briefly.

"Draco, call the house elf."

Harrie's stomach lurched.

You knew this was coming. You knew you wouldn't be the only one getting hurt if you chose that path. You knew.

"You're tensing up at the idea of the house elf joining us, Harrie," Voldemort remarked. "Why is that, when there was none of that tension regarding Draco?"

"Draco chose to be here," she said, as he was calling Wimsy.

The house elf immediately popped in.

"I'm at your service, Master Draco," she said with a bow.

"And the elf wants to serve," Voldemort said. "She will be delighted to obey all of her Master's commands. It's in their nature. They are most happy under our boots."

Harrie had heard that discourse again and again over the years, in the mouths of so many people. She was getting so tired of it.

"Raise your wand, Harrie. Now, can you tell me which spell demonstrates best a wizard's strength of will?"

She felt she was back in class, with the worst possible teacher, and much higher stakes. Who cared about N.E.W.T.s when Lord Voldemort was grading her? And what would happen if she failed?

"The Imperius," she said, taking a reasonable guess.

Forcing your will upon another, making them do your bidding.

"Yes. Casting a successful Imperius is purely a matter of will, and its strength is measured against the target's. You are deciding that you will be obeyed, while your target tries to resist. Go on, Harrie. Give the elf an order."

Harrie pointed Lucius' wand at Wimsy, who was looking at her with her big eyes. Her mind went to Dobby. She hated herself in this moment.

"Imperio," she said.

There was a tingle in her hand, the wand vibrating slightly. It didn't like her. But the spell had taken hold, and Wimsy's eyes were glazed over.

"Sit down," Harrie ordered.

The elf sat obediently.

"Yes," Voldemort said. "Very easy, of course. The house elves have no will of their own, so the Imperius doesn't meet any resistance. Tell me, both of you, what do you think is the hardest target to overcome with your will?"

"The will of another wizard," Draco said, standing stiff and pale, but looking Voldemort in the eyes. "And of course yours would be the hardest to defeat, my Lord."

Choosing the easy, boot-licking answer. Harrie made a pensive noise.

"I think it would be harder still to cast a successful Imperius on someone who was under an external influence. Like someone who had ingested Veritaserum. Getting them to lie via the Imperius might not even be possible."

"Once again, you're very close to the correct answer, Harrie," Voldemort said, and she felt his smile. "The hardest obstacle is magic itself. You will encounter it in a variety of ways when making regular use of the Imperius. Your targets might have protected their mind with a spell, might be under some magical influence they themselves are not aware of, or might, indeed, have taken Veritaserum while you need them to lie... which is possible, by the way," he said in Harrie's ear.

He stepped away, his hands leaving her shoulders.

"Now, the magical bond between a house elf and its Master isn't particularly subtle, and there are stronger magical forces, but it shall suffice for today's lesson. Draco, you will order the elf to stay standing while Harrie attempts to make her sit down."

Draco nodded, giving the corresponding order to Wimsy.

"Yes, Wimsy will stand, Master," she said, clasping her hands behind her back and standing straight.

Harrie raised the wand.

"Imperio."

This time she felt a resistance before she even opened her mouth to give the order. Wimsy's mind had been a calm ocean before, letting her in as she wished, but now...

"Sit down."

Now, it was like pushing against a solid wall. Wimsy didn't move an inch.

"Again," Voldemort said.

So Harrie did it again, cast the spell, gave the order. Lucius' wand wasn't cooperating, and some sparks crackled from the tip as the wood trembled. Wimsy's mind was impenetrable, a hard surface with no weak point. There was also something thrumming along with it, something Harrie had never encountered before. She had only cast the spell before a handful of times, because it was needed, and her targets' minds had been a single whole, but Wimsy's had a strange resonance, as if the spell was encountering more than one person. Was this the magical bond that linked her to the Malfoys?

"Again," Voldemort repeated.

Harrie obeyed. This time, the wand delivered an electric shock, one nasty zap that made her grunt. Draco started to smile before he stopped himself. She shook her hand, flexing her fingers.

"I can't do it with this wand. It's fighting me."

"You only had to ask," Voldemort said, and he produced a wand from the folds of his robe, offering it to her.

It wasn't her wand. It was his, laying bone-white and poisonous in his palm. She flexed her fingers again.

"It won't be better."

"Try it," Voldemort replied.

Pocketing Lucius' wand, she reached out, gingerly picked up Voldemort' wand. The wood seemed unnaturally cold and smooth, but there was a strange sense of familiarity that came with touching it. She hoped it was because of the phoenix feather core that her own wand shared, and not from anything else.

"You must hold it correctly, Harrie," Voldemort said with some sort of fond amusement.

Then his hand was on hers, and he made her wrap her fingers around his wand the same way he had forced them to wrap around his cock a few days ago. Harrie blushed crimson, hoped to hell Draco wouldn't wonder why. For now, he was watching with a disinterested expression.

"Like so," Voldemort said.

His fingers caressed her hand when he withdrew them. Harrie fought the wave of nausea that rose from the bottom of her stomach.

"It won't work," she said.

"It will," Voldemort said, and to her shock, he was speaking in Parseltongue. "You're mine, Harrie. Our souls are one, and my wand is your wand. Now, do it. Bend the elf to your will."

Aiming Voldemort's wand at Wimsy felt so wrong. Harrie knew wands weren't evil in and of themselves, but the one she was holding had been used to cast so many dark spells she imagined they had seeped into the wood and were festering there, under her fingers.

"Imperio."

The surge of magic through the wand took her by surprise. It wasn't fighting her. It was helping, amplifying, the way a wand did when it answered to its owner. When she gave the order, her command crashed against Wimsy's mind, and the elf wobbled, her knees bending for a second before she righted herself.

"Wimsy will stay standing!" she proclaimed.

"A wizard is only as strong as his will," Voldemort said. "That is the reason I survived when the Killing Curse rebounded, the reason I was able to claw my way back from the shadows and regain my former might. That is the reason other, weaker wizards are dead, because their will faltered. It will always be your single most formidable weapon."

His hands settled again on her shoulders.

"And your will, my dear, is equal to mine."

His mouth brushed by her ear.

"Crush her, Harrie."

Harrie leveled the bone-white wand at Wimsy.

"Imperio!"

Her magic flowed forth, a steady, strong stream. She couldn't deny it: Voldemort's wand was working for her. There was no tension, and something in her was answering to it. No, she had to be honest with herself. The Horcrux was answering to it. She wondered what that meant, but she doubted anyone in the history of wizardry had ever considered wand compatibility in regard to human Horcruxes.

She focused her will, thought of it as a spear, to strike at the steel wall that was Wimsy's mind.

"Sit. Down."

The words were gritted out, and they came with a burst of power that she felt vibrate through the wand. It all crashed against the wall, the order, her magic, the anger that she had thrown at it too, anger at Voldemort, at herself for doing this, at the world for being this twisted.

The wall shuddered, then crumbled. Wimsy sat down so fast it looked like she was falling.

Exhaling, Harrie lowered the wand.

"Well done," Voldemort murmured in her ear.

He stepped back. Harrie wanted to drop the wand and run to Wimsy, who was now getting up.

"Wimsy disobeyed Master Draco! Wimsy will punish herself!"

The elf ran to the nearest wall and banged her head against it. Harrie swallowed burning bile.

"That concludes our first lesson," Voldemort said. "Your wand, Harrie. I shall have it back for now."

It wasn't her wand, and she didn't want to keep it anyway. Voldemort's fingers brushed hers as he took his wand back.

"You will return Lucius' wand to him at once," he said. "That is my only expectation of you until tonight. The rest of the day you can have to yourself. Why not spend some time outside? The weather has been lovely lately."

On that note, he left the room.

Harrie took a step toward the poor house elf who was still punishing herself.

"Wimsy..."

The elf turned around.

"Does Master Draco still need Wimsy?"

"No," Draco said.

"Wimsy, wait..."

The elf disappeared with a pop. Harrie's shoulders slumped.

"Congratulations," Draco said. "You found your brain and started using it."

"This isn't a joke!"

"No, it's not," he said in a cool voice. "So be careful, Potter. The Dark Lord is a hard master, and he doesn't tolerate failure."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Draco gave a little shrug.

"Just warning you. You're one of us, now."

"I'm not," she refuted hotly. With a sigh, she rubbed her face. The absence of her glasses felt odd. "I don't know what I'm doing."

"So the usual, then."

She scowled at him.

"Fuck off, Malfoy."

"Give me the wand," he said. "I'll return it to my father."

"No. I'll do it myself. Voldemort was very clear on that. Unless you want to defy his orders?"

Draco looked like he wanted to say something, but in the end he didn't, and simply walked out. Harrie was left standing alone, her heart still pounding, her mouth filled with bitterness.

"Sorry," she said to the empty room.

The sunlight rippled across the floor, making the gems scattered along the dragon flare. Her vision blurred, and she blinked to clear away the nascent tears. There was no point to that at the moment. She'd cry later, once Voldemort was dead.

Fishing out Lucius' wand from her pocket, she held it firmly, and focused on a happy memory. Some months ago, one evening in the tent with Hermione and Ron, when they had celebrated his birthday. Hermione had managed to get treacle tarts, and they had laughed and danced, and forgotten temporarily about the war. Thinking about that moment made her chest feel lighter and brought a small smile to her lips.

"Expecto Patronum," she said, with a twirl of the wand, focusing so very hard on that happiness.

But all she got was a burst of white sparks and a shooting pain in her hand.

"Well, fuck you too," she said to the wand.

It wasn't gonna be helpful in any way. Perhaps she could have used it for very simple spells, but she could think of none that would improve her current situation. That explained why Voldemort had left her with it.

In the drawing room, Lucius was still in his chair, watching the flames. He didn't react to her entrance, and she had to clear her throat to get him to look up. Even so, he said nothing, merely watched her with those gray eyes that were just Draco's on a different face.

"I'm here to give you your wand back," she said, since maybe that wasn't clear.

He rose, and when he came toward her, his gait seemed a bit unsteady. The decanter on the table was more than half empty. Was he drunk?

"How generous of you, Miss Potter," he said, his tone just shy of mockery—his eyes did the rest of the job.

He picked up his wand from her palm, taking care not to let his fingers touch hers, then proceeded to slide it through the folds of his sleeve, as if he needed to clean it.

"Did it serve you well?" he said, casually.

"No. It fought me with every spell."

"As expected," was his reply.

She didn't say anything about Voldemort's wand working for her. She wished it could have remained a secret, but Draco couldn't be trusted to keep it.

"I must extend my congratulations on your new rise in rank," he said. "From political prisoner to our Lord's apprentice, that is quite a shift."

"We both know I'm still a prisoner."

"Nevertheless, you are choosing to trust our Lord, and that is an admirable choice."

His lips were set in a faint smile. Mocking all the way through, then.

"How could I not, when he's been so generous with me?" she said. "Sharing his bed..." Fuck it. "...his wand, his knowledge, all so freely. Like he told me, he rewards his servants well."

She smiled at Lucius, pleasantly, as if they were having a perfectly normal conversation.

"Hasn't he rewarded you well?" she said.

A shadow passed over his face. His upper lip twitched, and hate flashed in his eyes. Not just hate. Harrie thought she glimpsed desperation, too, burning raw in the depths of his gray gaze. Then it was gone, all of it, and he just looked tired.

"Don't you have somewhere else to be?" he said, with a vague wave of his hand. "Another foolhardy escape attempt to make, perhaps? Don't let me keep you."

"I haven't got any escape attempt planned at the moment. I'm afraid you'll have to get used to my presence here."

"Hardships all around," he muttered, so low she barely heard him.

He regained his chair, refilled his glass with more alcohol.

"Should you be drinking this much?"

He grunted in answer. She wondered why she was still here, realized that she missed talking with someone who wasn't Voldemort. She missed inconsequential conversations, where she didn't have to watch her every word. Surely there were better options than Lucius Malfoy. Plus, he didn't exactly qualify for a friendly chat.

"Who else lives here? Are there other guests, apart from Voldemort?"

He shook his head.

"Where's Draco's room?"

At that, his lips thinned, and he shot her a glare.

"You will stay away from my son."

"I don't think you're in any position to be giving me orders. Besides, Draco can defend himself. Or are you afraid I'll bite him again?"

She showed her teeth, smiling widely. There she was again, goading a Malfoy. There had to be better ways to work out her frustration. She also had to stop antagonizing potential allies. And yes, the Malfoys could be allies. Although starting with Lucius was not the smartest idea. Draco would be a better target. And then there was...

"Where's Narcissa?"

Lucius' face jerked, then turned to stone. A spike of anxiety hammered at Harrie's chest. Had something happened to Narcissa? Had she been injured during the battle?

"My wife is resting in our bedchamber. You will not disturb her, and yes, that is an order. The Dark Lord might Crucio me for this, I do not care. Do you hear me, girl?"

Either he was really drunk, or he cared so much about this he was willing to put himself in harm's way. Harrie was inclined to think it was the latter. For all Lucius Malfoy's faults, and there were many, he loved his wife.

"I'd prefer Miss Potter, if it's all the same to you," she said. "And I wasn't planning on bothering your wife. I was just... curious."

"Direct that curiosity elsewhere, Miss Potter," he replied, looking at her over the rim of his glass.

"Sure. I assume you have a library?"

He sighed, but he did gave her directions. She thanked him, though this time it took effort. Possibly it was useless, but she'd try, she'd keep trying. She'd grasp at anything to use against Voldemort, she'd take any allies.

She didn't head for the library. For now, she had another destination in mind.

The portraits were silent in the hallway. The front door opened without a sound.

She stepped outside.

Sunlight hit her like a physical blow to the chest. It was mid-May, early morning, and the air smelled of roses and lilac. She took a few steps forward, then more. Nobody stopped her.

She tipped her face up, toward the glowing warmth, and a sigh left her, something unknotting deep inside her chest. She was outside. She had earned this, had earned the sun.

She kept on walking, down the gravel path, along the tall hedges, letting her feet lead her without any conscious thought. She went through a rose garden, passed by a large oak tree dominating a small pond , and finally she stopped, confronted to the large wrought-iron gates that b arred the way out of the estate.

She ran her hand along the metal. It tickled, a silent warning sent to her. There were more wards there. They felt different from the ones in Voldemort's room. Not stronger, not exactly, but more ancient, as if their magic had had time to seep into the ground and become part of the estate. She knew they'd be much harder to break. She'd need a wand, one that listened to her.

A concern for later.

For now, she couldn't run away. She had to play the role she had chosen.

She meandered back toward the house, skirted around it. A hedge maze sat on the left side, the green walls neatly trimmed, the entrance wreathed in shadows. She continued on, sat in the grass a good way away from the manor. Looking up, she knew one of the windows was the one she usually gazed out from. She couldn't tell which one.

Stretching out her legs, she lay down on the grass, staring at the sky. Her eyes followed the lazy drift of the clouds. It was a perfect day to go flying. Would Voldemort let her have a broom? Perhaps if she asked when he was in a good mood... so much later, tonight.

Pushing that thought away, she closed her eyes. She lazed around for a long while, basking in the warmth of the sun.

A soft pop broke her out of her reverie.

"Will Miss Potter take her meal outside?"

Harrie sat up so suddenly she was dizzy. Wimsy stood two feet away, her big round eyes set on Harrie. There was a bruise on her forehead, blooming yellow and purple. Harrie winced at the sight of it.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"What is Miss Potter sorry for?"

"I forced you to disobey your orders."

Wimsy shook her head, her ears flopping around in such an endearing way Harrie felt the urge to hug her.

"It was Wimsy's fault. Miss Potter only obeyed her orders. Wimsy should have obeyed hers."

How easy it would have been to agree. To shed that guilt, absolve herself of sin, agreed that it was Voldemort's doing, and that she had no choice.

"I could have disobeyed. I didn't. I chose to hurt you, so I'm sorry."

Wimsy said nothing, blinking owlishly.

"Will Miss Potter take her meal outside?" she asked again after several seconds of silence.

"Yes. Thank you, Wimsy."

The house elf came back with the usual tray of delicious food, and Harrie improvised a picnic. She was hungrier than usual. Casting Imperiuses again and again had required a lot of magic, and her body needed to recharge. She asked Wimsy for seconds, which the house elf was happy to provide.

"That pie is so good. Did you make it?"

"Wimsy makes all the food."

"It's very good," Harrie reiterated, stuffing her mouth full. "Like at Hogwarts."

"Really?" Wimsy said in a high-pitched voice. "Wimsy's food tastes like Hogwarts'?"

Harrie nodded. Wimsy smiled very brightly.

"Does Miss Potter want more pie?"

"Yes, I do."

She ate more while Wimsy stayed with her, and only stopped once she felt so full she was sure she'd explode if she had another bite. Wimsy vanished the remnants of the meal, then disappeared with a sharp noise. Harrie lay back down in the grass.

After some time, she got up to explore the grounds further. She went up to the tree line, felt more wards there, walked along the edge. She ended up in the rose garden again, wandered around smelling the flowers. The roses were blooming pink, but also yellow, blue, and purple, and Harrie could feel magic thrumming in the air, soft threads of it. It reminded her of Herbology classes. The green-houses had felt alive with the same type of magic, something that made her think of sunlight on her skin and the smell of fresh cut grass.

She wondered who took care of the garden. Was that Wimsy's task as well? Or did someone else tend to the flowers? Narcissa, maybe. She couldn't picture Lucius or Draco tending to roses.

Moving on, she found herself at the entrance of the hedge maze again. This time, she went in. The high green walls swallowed her, and she plunged into a shadowed, cooler universe. The sound of her footsteps was muffled, almost nonexistent.

The last time she had been in a maze had been for the third task of the Triwizard's Tournament. The night of Voldemort's resurrection. The night Cedric died.

Kill the spare, Voldemort had said.

The spare. As if Cedric hadn't been a person, but an object to be discarded. That was what Voldemort did to people he didn't have any use for. He threw them away. Like a child done playing with his toys.

Unfortunately for her, she was a very compelling toy. She wouldn't be thrown away. She'd be shaped and molded until she had become exactly what he wanted, or she would break in the process.

Her hand was in her pocket again, looking fruitlessly for a wand. She took it out, clenching it at her side. She wouldn't break.

She'd break him. Somehow.

She would avenge everyone he had ever hurt, and wasn't that a long fucking list. Everyone she knew had been affected by him. He was like a plague. What did that make her? The cure? She didn't feel like a cure. She felt like a flamethrower who would burn everything Voldemort had ever built. Raze it all to the ground and dance in the ashes.

Yes, that was how she felt.

She wandered in the maze, got lost a few times before she managed to find the center. There was a fountain there, gurgling softly, the water cascading down from three winged cherubs holding pots. Harrie sat for a moment, in a small patch of sunlight. Occasionally, she dipped her hand into the water to fling droplets around.

Her first day as Voldemort's apprentice. There'd be more. She would have to do more horrible things. Evil acts, and though her intentions were good, did that really matter when people were suffering?

She flicked her fingers in the water again, thought about how Snape had managed it. He had been a triple agent for years, pretending to be on Voldemort's side. He must have seen and done a lot of awful stuff. Perhaps that was why, she had never, not once in her life, seen him in a good mood. He had carried all of it inside him, and it had never come out, except perhaps to Dumbledore, whenever Snape reported to him. But that would have been the facts, given in his cold, detached voice. None of the horrors behind it.

And he had been strong enough to sustain those horrors. Strong enough to go back to Voldemort, again and again, to sit there and do nothing as people were being tortured and killed before his eyes. Strong enough to himself, torture and kill.

Because of love.

Because he had loved her mother, beyond death, beyond everything. Always.

So that would be it, then. Harrie would rely on love to weather the coming days. And like Snape, she'd carry everything inside her.

She got up, headed out of the maze. It took her some time. Eventually she emerged outside, and wondered what time it was. How long was she allowed to stay out? Voldemort hadn't said anything. Did he expect her to go back to his room to have dinner there? She really didn't want to.

She was contemplating her options when Wimsy appeared out of thin air.

"Miss Potter! Master sends me to tell you that you'll be expected at dinner in fifteen minutes."

"Dinner? In Voldemort's room?"

"No. In the dining room."

Oh. Dinner dinner.

"Okay, thank you Wimsy."

"Is Miss Potter not happy?" the elf asked, blinking her large eyes at her.

"Not really, no."

"But she's not in the room anymore! And she gets to eat at the Masters' table!"

Apparently she should have been overjoyed. Eating with the Malfoys, what an honor. She was gonna chew with her mouth open just to annoy Lucius.

"I'll need some time to get used to this," Harrie said diplomatically.

Wimsy gave a nod.

"Time!" she squeaked. "Time is complicated."

On that note, she vanished. Harrie sighed. She should have known that becoming Voldemort's apprentice would come with social expectations. Being integrated in pure-blood bullshit. Maybe he'd bring her along next time he would go to the Ministry. Flaunt her around.

Look, I convinced the Chosen One to join me.

She'd deal with that, too. Actually, she wanted that. It would come with opportunities, and opportunities were good.

Squaring her shoulders, she started up the path to the manor. Approaching the porch, she slowed down, mentally preparing herself for dinner. With Voldemort, and the Malfoys.

Stepping back inside the house felt stifling, like willingly walking into a cage. She told herself she'd be outside again tomorrow.

In the hallway, she ran into someone unexpected.

"Well, if it isn't little girly Potter," drawled Bellatrix Black, smiling maliciously at Harrie.

Her first reflex was to thrust her hand into her pocket, looking for her wand. Her fingers closed around nothing, making a fist. She thought about punching Bellatrix then. Deck her across the face and see where that got her.

No.

This was Voldemort, testing her patience. Her ability to follow his orders and behave herself, at least for now.

Exhaling, she unclenched her hand, forced a smile to her lips.

"Bellatrix. Are you coming to dinner too? What a wonderful evening it promises to be."

"So wonderful," Bellatrix echoed. "I hope you won't get too confused by the fact that we'll sit at a table and use cutlery. I know Muggles like to eat with their hands."

Had Voldemort instructed her to rile Harrie up, or was that just normal Bellatrix?

"If you're going to insult me, can you at least be creative about it? That was uninspired."

Hatred flashed in Bellatrix's eyes. She took a step toward Harrie, who stood her ground and regarded Bellatrix as if she were an annoying insect who was in her way. An insect she deeply hated and wanted to crush beneath her heels, but an insect nonetheless.

"You're nothing," she hissed. "And when he's done playing with you, he'll toss you away, to anyone who wants to see how loud the Girl-Who-Failed can scream."

"Slightly better, still very cliché. But you know him well, don't you? Tell me, when he finds something fascinating, does he tend to let go of his obsession? Or does he pursue it with all the ardent passion and the unwavering focus that characterize him?"

The words weren't easy to say, but they were worth it for the look of pure hatred on Bellatrix's face, and yes, the jealousy.

"He'll grow bored of you," she said, glaring daggers at Harrie.

"I don't know, I've managed to hold his interest for seventeen years. I think I can manage seventeen more, at least. As his apprentice first, and then more."

What was she insinuating? She wasn't even sure. It worked really well anyway, getting a hiss of displeasure from Bellatrix.

"And do you enjoy his bed, Harrie? Does he make you scream?"

Abrupt shame brought a blush to her face. If Bellatrix knew, did all the Death Eaters knew? Had he told everyone he was fucking her?

"Yes," she said, powering through the crippling feeling. "Too bad you'll never know what it's like. I think he'd even prefer his hand to you."

"What a slut you make, spreading your legs for a man old enough to be your grandfather."

The remark hit Harrie like a Full Body-Bind Curse, and she froze, internally panicking. How old was Voldemort exactly? Oh God, at least seventy. But he didn't look like it. He looked ageless, and not like any man at all, so that didn't count. That didn't count! And it wasn't like she wanted it.

"The real question is why he's interested in someone so young," she said. "Is that how it's done in pure-blood society? Forcing young girls with old perverts?"

"You insolent—"

Suddenly she was looking at the end of Bellatrix's wand, inches from her face.

"Go on," Harrie said. "Finish that sentence. Crucio me. I dare you."

She could see Bellatrix weighing her actions, deciding if she would risk the punishment. She hoped Bellatrix would do it. Would hurt her, and then be punished. In fact, she hoped... she hoped she'd be the one to punish her.

Her vague thought sharpened. Voldemort's wand in her hand, Bellatrix in front of her, and a curse on Harrie's lips... She recoiled from her own imagination, shocked at how quickly she had jumped to torture. And even more shocked at how appealing the image still was.

The last time she had screamed Crucio at Bellatrix, she'd been mad with grief and rage, and she had managed to inflict a couple of seconds of absolute pain. Not a true Cruciatus, but the start of one. This time, she felt it would work better. Her anger was different, not as hot, rather like slow burning coals that smoldered at the heart of her, not a reflexive lash of pure emotion but a malleable tool, one she could wield like a knife to cut into Bellatrix.

Yes, Harrie was sure it would work.

There was a voice inside her that was protesting. No, come on, this isn't who we are. We don't torture people.

And another, colder, deeper, saying something else. She deserves it. She killed Sirius. She tortured Hermione. She killed Dobby. She deserves to feel pain.

She deserved it.

"Do it," Harrie said, loading her whisper with all of her disdain for the witch. "Put me in my place. Or are you too much of a coward, Bella?"

Her eyes flashed with answering contempt, and a hate that matched Harrie's. Or perhaps didn't quite match it, no. What would happen if two Cruciatuses were to collide, Harrie idly wondered. Would the stronger one win out?

Bellatrix's face contorted into a sneering smile. Then she lowered her wand, and slid it back in her pocket. Cold disappointment trickled down in Harrie's chest. Not today, then.

"The day will come, Harrie," Bellatrix said in a sweet, poisoned murmur. "And when you're cast aside, I'll be there to watch."

"The day will come," Harrie agreed.

She felt him a split second before he arrived. It wasn't pain, nor even a physical sensation. It was more like an intuition, a feeling in her gut that left absolutely no doubt. And then there was the crack! of an Apparition, and Voldemort was standing in the hallway.

His serpentine face split in a smile when he saw them.

"Harrie, Bella! Getting properly acquainted, I see."

"Yes, such a pleasure meeting young Harrie again," Bellatrix said, with a particular emphasis on 'young'. "She has so much to learn about our world and her place in it."

"She does," Voldemort agreed. "And you will contribute to her education, Bella."

That sounded like a threat to Harrie's ears. Bellatrix didn't seem to take it that way.

"With pleasure, my Lord," she replied, smiling sharply at Harrie as if she had won their argument.

"Looking forward to it," Harrie said with a sharper smile.

"Yes, yes," Voldemort said, now dismissive. "Come, Harrie. Dinner awaits."

Dinner. She was seated between Draco and Voldemort, facing Lucius and Bellatrix, which was very unnerving. She would have preferred to have Voldemort in front of her, so she could see him. Instead he was at her right, and she had to control the constant need to recoil from him.

The atmosphere was a mix of awkward and tense. No one was talking. Draco and Lucius were both focused on their plates, Bellatrix kept smiling at her, disturbingly so, and Voldemort presided over them, like a master over his servants. He wasn't saying anything either.

About four minutes in, Harrie cleared her throat.

"Won't Narcissa be joining us?"

The question made the tension ratchet up further. To her left, Draco shifted minutely in his seat.

"She is resting," Lucius said, without looking at her. "She takes all her meals in our bedchamber."

"You will not disturb her, Harrie," Voldemort said, and though his tone was casual, there was no mistaking the order.

"No, of course not," she said.

"Such an obedient girl," Bellatrix commented. "It is pleasing to see how much you've changed already, Harrie."

Perhaps she would explode before dinner was over. Lose control of her magic and drench Bellatrix in that delicious pea soup they were having.

Be like Snape, she reminded herself.

She took a slow breath.

"I have such good role models. You're all so eager to do the Lord's bidding."

"I think you mean our Lord, don't you?" Bellatrix retorted.

She didn't offer a reply. Voldemort didn't press the issue, which was, if she thought about it, rather generous of him.

The main course was a roasted leg of lamb, and Harrie devoured it. She was famished after spending the entire day outside. Voldemort looked on approvingly, made a comment about her needing to eat more now that she would use her magic.

"Every day?" Harrie asked.

"Eager for more lessons, are you?"

"Yes."

"What an honor to be taught by the Dark Lord himself," Bellatrix said. "You must be so proud, Harrie."

She always said Harrie's name with subtle condescension, as if she was a child, and Bellatrix the superior adult. It was grating.

"An honor indeed," Harrie said, smiling like she meant it. "I shall surpass all of you in no time."

"Ambition is a fine quality," Voldemort said.

He put a hand on Harrie's shoulder, left it there while she wondered what she was supposed to do. His thumb sort of stroked the side of her neck, a disturbing, intimate touch that had no place at the dinner table. She could pretend a lot of things, but pretending she liked that touch was not within her capabilities.

"I have many fine qualities," she said, on autopilot.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Voldemort smile. He traced a path down to the hollow of her throat with a finger, brushing her skin in a feather-soft contact. If she got any more tense, she'd snap her knife in half. In fact, it was taking all of her willpower not to drive said knife into Voldemort's side right now.

"What about the situation at Hogwarts, my Lord?" Bellatrix said. "Have you taken a decision?"

Voldemort withdrew his hand, picking up his fork again. Harrie exhaled silently. Salvation, from Bellatrix? Life was full of surprises.

"I have," he said while Harrie hung onto his every word. "I've decided to make Amycus the new Headmaster. The students need a firm hand to guide them through their education, and Amycus has proven he has what it takes."

A sadistic mind and a total absence of moral compass. But any Death Eater running Hogwarts would be horrible anyway, whether it was Amycus, or Greyback, or even Bellatrix.

"Such a tragic end that befell the last Headmaster," Bellatrix said. "Poor Severus. He will be missed."

Her tone wasn't quite right. Musing, playful, enjoying Snape's demise, yes, but it lacked cruelty. It lacked vindictive bite, and the pleasure found in an enemy's defeat, in a traitor's death.

"Yes, he will," Harrie said. "He wasn't a pleasant man, but he was competent."

Bellatrix's lips stretched in a nasty smile.

"You must have felt so betrayed. Poor Harrie, trusting her professor when all along he was Lord Voldemort's inside man."

So Voldemort hadn't told them. Hadn't told anyone, keeping that information for himself, because it made him look weak. He had failed to see Snape's true allegiance for years, had failed to understand love, and no one knew except her. The thought was staggering.

Bellatrix misread her, clearly thinking Harrie was faltering from the blow of her words, and she doubled down on her perceived advantage.

"How does it feel to know Dumbledore was fallible? Has it led you to reconsider other things he might have taught you?"

"Enough, Bella," Voldemort said, which cut short Bellatrix's enthusiasm. "Harrie couldn't have known Severus was mine. He played his part so well he deceived even Dumbledore. And besides... Harrie was a trustful child. Were you not?"

"Yes," she answered, playing into the charade. "I trusted Snape."

Never. She had never trusted him, ever since that first Potion class where he'd been awful to her, maybe even since that very first look in the Great Hall. It was Hermione who, time and again, had told Harrie that she was sure Snape was on their side, Hermione who had insisted there was more to him then met the eye, Hermione who had defended him whenever Harrie criticized him. Hermione who had been right.

"He will be remembered," Voldemort said, in a solemn, almost contemplative tone. "For his unwavering loyalty to our cause and his keen intellect. He gave his life so I could hold mastery over the Elder Wand."

Gave his life... He said it as if Snape had been willing. But he hadn't given anything. Voldemort had taken, as he always did.

"I regret it," he had said to Snape moments before ordering Nagini to kill him.

And then the snaked had hissed, struck, and struck again, and afterwards Harrie had held a dying man, had gotten his blood on her hands trying to heal the wound, had looked into Snape's eyes as he faded away.

Had felt the weight of another person dying for her.

"It was his greatest honor, my Lord," Bellatrix said softly. "The best thing he ever did was sacrifice himself on the altar of your greatness," she added, and her voice was all warm honey, a cloying, suffocating thing.

Harrie had never heard Bellatrix being seductive so far, and after hearing that, she hoped it wouldn't happen ever again.

"A sacrifice I would ask of all of you as well, should it be necessary," Voldemort said.

"I'm ready to follow Snape's example," Draco said, speaking for the first time of the entire dinner.

Harrie didn't miss the biting irony of that statement. Voldemort nodded, his pale face showing only satisfaction.

"As am I, of course," Bellatrix said.

"And I," Lucius said, not looking up from his plate.

Voldemort's gaze fell on Harrie. Oh. Was she also supposed to declare her undying devotion?

"Sure. I'll do what Snape did," she said, and watched Voldemort's left eyelid twitch.

Her scar tingled. She felt something from him, some flicker of emotion. Anger, yes, but not predominantly. Amusement, first.

"You will," he agreed, words heavy with meaning.

They moved on to dessert. Harrie ate the chocolate cake with raspberry filling, slowly. Each spoonful was bringing her nearer to what awaited at the end of the evening. She thought of what else she could do to delay, but none of her ideas were safe. She had already angered Voldemort enough for today.

Eventually, dinner came to an end. The Malfoys left quickly once they were dismissed, while Bellatrix lingered.

"Should you need anything, my Lord, I am as ever at your service..."

Harrie studied her empty plate with great interest. She didn't want to witness more of Bellatrix's flirting. At the same time, she wished Voldemort would have been more receptive to it.

"I know, my dear Bella. Your devotion doesn't go unnoticed."

And he was almost flirting back. No, he was. Voice pitched lower, reassuring, just shy of teasing on that last word. Harrie was sure that if she looked up, she'd see him gazing at Bellatrix with the same suggestive slant. She didn't look up.

"Thank you, my Lord," Bellatrix said, a bit breathlessly.

She took her leave. Harrie remained sitting until Voldemort said her name.

"Come. We'll retire for the night."

He offered her his arm.

"I think I know the way back well enough," she said.

"I insist."

Suppressing her sigh, she took his arm, and let herself be escorted to the bedroom. He walked at a moderate pace, in no particular hurry.

"Did you enjoy dinner?"

"Not really. I would rather not do this again."

"Yet again you fail to realize what an honor it is to be granted my attention. To sit at my table. Besides, dinner fulfills an important societal function, especially in pure-blood society. You will need to get used to it."

"There wasn't much socialization going on," she pointed out.

"The Malfoys are preoccupied, and Bella was jealous. Next time, do try to initiate conversation."

Preoccupied by what?

They reached his bedroom. It felt wrong to be in here again, and when Voldemort closed the door behind them, something pinched in Harrie's stomach, an unpleasant, tight sensation. She started moving away from Voldemort, but he didn't let her go, put his hands on her shoulders and brought her back against him.

"Do you think you can defy me publicly?" he murmured in her ear.

There it was. The backlash from her earlier action. The tension was a knife trailing up her spine, Voldemort's hands shackles, branding her in iron.

"I didn't defy you," she said. "I gave the answer you expected."

He hummed low.

"Don't misunderstand. I enjoyed that little spark of defiance. But now, you'll have to pay for it."

He pushed her forward, following closely.

"Bend over the bed," he ordered.

He spanned a hand at her back to incite her to obey. She went to the bed, bent down halfway, braced her arms against the duvet, clenching her hands into fists. What sort of punishment did he have in mind? More of the Cruciatus now that they were in private?

"You'll want to be lying down fully for this," Voldemort said, in a teasing tone that puzzled her.

"A rough fuck? Is that the punishment?"

"Oh no, Harrie. I'm not going to fuck you."

She shot him a confused look over her shoulder. His gaze was on her arse, his lips curled back to reveal his teeth in what really didn't deserve to be called a smile.

"Then what?" she said, her breath catching in her throat.

"I'm going to spank you, of course."

Chapter Text

Her heart stopped, and when it started again, it was at a frantic gallop.

"Spank me," she said, the words foreign on her lips.

"Yes. Take my hand to your arse until it's glowing red."

Something bubbled up in her chest, the start of a laugh. She huffed instead, swallowing thickly. Surely he wasn't serious. Surely he didn't meant to actually... to spank her, like...

His eyes were on her arse right now. They had never felt more of a threat. She pivoted and sat down swiftly, her hands gripping the duvet.

"Tell me it's a joke."

"Why would it be a joke? Spanking is a time-honored punishment for naughty boys and girls."

He was serious. A frisson went up her spine.

"And you've been very naughty, Harrie," he added, with a meaningful look at her.

She regretted it, so much. She wanted to go back in time and make a different choice. Be compliant. Be a good little apprentice.

"I'm not going to let you spank me!"

She had raised her voice, unable to stay calm when faced with that . Voldemort wanting to spank her like she was a child. Or... or was it a perverse sex thing? Yes, that was it. Perhaps he wouldn't fuck her, but he'd still derive sick pleasure from it.

"Would you prefer a rough fuck, then?" he said.

He sounded so serious. As if this was all so reasonable.

"No," she said, glaring at him, imagining a wall conjured of her hate between them. Impenetrable, spiky, and enough to protect her from anything he might want to do to her.

He tilted his head, considering her for a moment, the red eyes unwavering. Then he took one step forward, almost bringing him within touching distance.

"Would you like a third option?"

"A third option," she repeated flatly.

She had a feeling the third option would somehow be worse than the other two.

"If you don't want to be spanked and you don't want to be fucked, I am prepared to let you earn your penance another way."

"What way?" she said when it became clear he wanted her to ask.

"Your defiant tongue got you in trouble, Harrie. It can also get you out of trouble, provided you make use of it correctly."

"What does that m—"

Her thoughts were ahead of her mouth, and she cut herself off when she understood what he was hinting at. A fierce blush heated her cheeks. Yeah, the third option was the worst one.

"So," he said, with a thin smile. "What shall it be?"

She shook her head.

"I see only shitty choices."

He clicked his tongue.

"I am very merciful to allow you to choose at all. No one else gets that privilege."

"Actual mercy would be forgiving me for my mistake."

His eyes gleamed, and he inclined his head slightly.

"I am in a good mood today, Harrie. Beg for my forgiveness, and I shall grant it."

That seemed too good to be true.

"If I do... if I beg... you won't touch me?" she said, wanting to make sure.

"Not tonight, no. Beg, and I'll forgive your transgression and let you go to bed without any punishment."

This was more than she had ever thought she would get. The possibility to erase her mistake entirely. No consequences.

"One word, Harrie. All you have to do is say 'please'."

One word. So easy to say, in theory. She wet her lips, going over it in her head.

Please. Just say please. Just say it.

Don't, said another voice from deep inside her. Don't give in. We do not beg.

Voldemort was waiting for her answer, patiently. She wondered how much longer he would wait. Experimentally, she let a full minute pass. He didn't say anything, his gaze expectant and a touch amused.

"Can I give you my answer tomorrow?" Harrie said.

"My mercy has limits, my dear. Make your choice. Now."

She flinched at the endearment. Why was she reacting that way? It wasn't an insult. It wasn't mocking, either. It was... the truth. She was dear to him. Or at least the Horcrux was, and its recipient became precious by association.

Please. She just had to say please, and she'd go to sleep, and nothing else would happen.

She could do it.

Easy.

Easy. Come on, Harrie.

She was opening her mouth to say it when something rose up inside her, something that didn't want to bow, something that categorically refused to submit.

Something that said We do not beg.

It resonated like a gong at the heart of her, and she couldn't deny it. Whatever it was, it was right.

"I won't beg," she said, lifting her chin. "And I won't do anything with my mouth either."

His face showed no irritation, no anger.

"As you wish. Turn around."

She wouldn't do that either. She remained sitting, hands gripping the duvet, jaw locked and eyes on Voldemort. He snapped his fingers. She tensed, was aware of a flash of movement on her left, then something was wrapping around her and flipping her around, forcing her on her stomach.

That fucking chain. It was back, and this time it coiled around her body, like a snake, immobilizing her arms, her legs. Harrie groaned, bucking. The chain tightened, until she could barely breathe. It seemed to weight a ton, and when she tried bucking again, she couldn't.

"I told you struggling would be of no use," Voldemort said, approaching.

Cheeks burning in humiliation, she looked ahead, out of the window. She imagined herself out there, flying among the clouds, and not in here, not tied up for Voldemort's sick pleasure.

He tugged down her trousers, then her knickers. Cool air tickled her skin. His hand rested at the base of her spine, his palm pressed flat there, hot and heavy.

"I think we'll go with ten strikes, won't we, Harrie?"

"I can't stop you," she said, bitterly.

"Yes, ten is a good number. You'll remember that punishment."

Harrie didn't think she'd forget even if she was Obliviated.

The first slap to her arse made her jolt. She thought she was ready, but actually, no, she wasn't. Not for Voldemort's bare hand on her bare arse, not for the sting, not for the sheer indignity of it all. She braced her feet against the floor, as best she could given the chains.

The second blow was harder, falling precisely in the same place as the first. Voldemort's hand was large enough that he could hit both her arsecheeks at once. He struck her again, a third swat, and the pain started truly registering. It fucking hurt. Harrie steeled herself.

She bit her lips at the fourth slap, groaning. Voldemort wasn't using all his strength, but neither was he going easy on her. She'd have trouble sitting tomorrow.

"Halfway there," he said after another thwack. "Is the lesson sinking in yet?"

His hand rubbed her stinging arse, soothing the sensitized skin in a tender gesture. She would have preferred he stuck to spanking only. That caressing hand was skirting too close to what else could happen.

"Yes," she said. "I'm learning I hate being spanked."

He landed the sixth slap lower on her buttocks, on a new area. Her skin glowed with warmth, but along with the pain, there was something else. A spark between her legs, an electric zing to her nerves. A whisper of a different type of warmth. Harrie felt her cheeks heat up further. No, no, it couldn't be happening...

The impact of the next strike vibrated through her flesh, jolting her insides with heat. She muffled a whine.

Voldemort paused, his hand resting on the place he had just spanked.

"You're not supposed to be enjoying this," he said, his voice amused.

"I'm not!"

It was confusing, pain and pleasure, but she wasn't enjoying it. Never.

"It sounds like you are, Harrie..."

He rubbed her arse, then slapped it, like a perverse punctuation mark. Another jolt of awful pleasure snagged at her insides, burning between her thighs. A rough exhale left her lips.

"It's because you're enjoying it," she said, squirming ineffectually against the chain.

"I am," he admitted. "You look exquisite."

Of course Voldemort would get aroused by spanking her. He was a sadist, after all. So far he hadn't exercised his sadism in the bedroom, preferring to drown her in pleasure, but it seemed spanking was a temptation he couldn't resist. Or perhaps he had truly intended for it to be merely a punishment, and couldn't stop himself from having a physical reaction to the act.

She stopped squirming, groaning into the duvet. Any movement only worsened that pressure in her core. It came from Voldemort. He was hard, and somehow, across their bond, the sensation traveled to her, pulsing in her own body.

"I don't want this," she said, trying to Occlude.

He made a mild noise, stroking her arse gently.

"You can't Occlude a soul, Harrie. Not when we're so close." He leaned closer, almost whispering in her ear. "Not when I'm touching you."

She tried. She pictured her mind close, her thoughts a vast, tranquil ocean, using every trick Snape had taught her. It didn't work. Pleasure coiled low, unrelenting. She was wet now, she knew she was.

"Ah, so stubborn," Voldemort said, with horrible fondness.

He spanked her again, two quick strikes, burning and painful. Then he tangled a hand in her hair, yanked her head back. His lips brushed by her ear.

"What lesson have you learned?"

"I won't defy you publicly," she said, breathless, anger and shame churning in her chest.

"What else?"

Was there more? She wet her lips, trying to think.

"Need I show you, Harrie? You can feel it, I'm sure."

"I can't... I can't keep you out."

"Exactly right."

The chain released her, pooling to the bed with a metallic whisper. Harrie pulled up her trousers in a rush, wincing at the feel of fabric against her tender, red arse. She crawled on the bed, away from Voldemort, only looked back when she had reached her side. He was smiling at her.

"So many lessons learned today, apprentice. And on your first day."

She grimaced. It was only the first day, and already she felt flayed raw, exposed to the bone. Her arse throbbed, along with an insistent pulse of heat between her thighs.

"I have one last question for you, Harrie."

"What?" she said, lying on her side, catching her breath.

"What did Bellatrix say to you that got you so panicked?"

She frowned.

"You... you felt that?"

"I did," he said, sitting on the bed. "It was a very strong emotional beat, and it carried across."

"What else carries across? Are you always spying on me?"

"No. I don't seek out your mind, but I can't help sensing its turmoils when they flare. So, tell me. What was it?"

"She reminded me of your age," Harrie said, a curl of shame rising to the surface.

Voldemort's face showed no emotion.

"Had you forgotten about it?"

"No, I... I just hadn't thought..."

She shook her head. It didn't matter. She couldn't change anything about Voldemort, not his thirst for power, not his cruelty, not the fact that he wanted her, and certainly not his age.

"We share a soul, Harrie. That is what matters. And since I intend to live forever, you'll soon find age an entirely irrelevant factor."

"So my age means nothing to you?"

"You're not a child," he said, tilting his head, red gaze studying her. "Beyond that, no, it doesn't."

"You'd still be attracted to me if I was old and wrinkled? Really old, with skin like parchment."

There, Voldemort smiled.

"I would. You would still make the same delightful little noises, would still shudder and squirm beneath me, would still look at me as if I'm the center of your world."

"I don't!"

"Which of those statements are you objecting to?" he said maliciously.

"The last one," she groaned.

She couldn't reasonably deny the other two, but when she looked at him, it was with hate, and nothing else.

"Perhaps I should show you," he said.

His red eyes glinted. Harrie didn't look away. She felt his mind touch hers, a cold advancing wave of unwavering purpose. It seeped in, a hungering darkness. It was so much more personal than any Legilimency with Snape. Snape's mind had felt hostile in hers, but there had been a barrier between them, always, and Harrie had been able to differentiate what was his and what was hers.

There was no barrier with Voldemort.

She couldn't tell if he was in her mind or if she was in hers, couldn't tell where he ended and where she began.

A memory rippled forth. She was on her back, Voldemort inside her. She was coming, that much was clear, but the sensations were from Voldemort. She felt the fluttering spasms of her cunt around his cock, felt how strong they were, massaging his length and giving him so much pleasure. Her hands clenched tight around his forearms, her cheeks flushed red, her eyes brimming with tears, mouth open and slack, something transcendent in her face. She was looking at him like—

Yes.

Like he was the center of her world.

Reality rushed back in as Voldemort's mind retreated. Harrie blinked.

"That's just..." Oh God, she was blushing so much. "That's just the face I make when I come. I'd look like that with anyone else."

"No," Voldemort said softly. "You wouldn't."

She chose not to reply. Voldemort took it as a victory, and they didn't speak further on the subject.

He kept his word, didn't fuck her. The spanking had left her wet and wanting, and she could feel Voldemort's arousal, but he remained on his side of the bed and made no move to touch her. She took refuge in the bathroom for a while, changed into her pyjamas, annoyed at how sore and red her arse was, annoyed at her feet that still lacked socks, annoyed at everything and everyone, herself included.

She stomped back to bed, and lay on her side, turning her back to Voldemort.

"You should take the potion," he said, voice carrying some irritation.

She wondered if he felt her emotions through the bond, if he was annoyed only because she was.

"No," she said.

"Sweet dreams, Harrie."

She grunted a wordless reply under her breath. It took her a long time to fall asleep, and she knew she was being stupidly stubborn refusing the potion, but she wouldn't cave. She wouldn't do what he wanted when she had the opportunity to resist.

We do not bow, said the voice inside her.

She dreamed of the forest, again. This time she was in the clearing, facing Voldemort. He didn't have his wand, and neither did she. There was a fire burning in the center of the ring of grass, bright and warm.

"Sit," Voldemort said, more suggestion than order.

She sat in the grass, and Voldemort sat next to her, close, but not close enough to touch her.

"There are things you must learn, Harrie."

"Then teach me."

"Do you think you're ready?"

He made a hand gesture, and the fire in front of them flared higher, its warmth now nearly suffocating.

"What I have to teach will hurt you. It will challenge your world view. You will not enjoy it."

"Do I have a choice?" she said, question all but rhetorical.

"Of course."

She couldn't hold back her laugh.

"No, I don't. My other 'choice' is to be chained to your bed."

There was silence for a moment. The fire crackled and roared. Harrie was certain that if she sat even an inch closer to it, the heat would turn painful.

"It will not be easy," Voldemort said, in an even voice. "But you cannot give up, Harrie."

And there he looked at her, and she startled, because his eyes were wrong.

His eyes were green.

"We do not give up," he said.

"We do not bow," she echoed, knowing those were the right words, feeling the truth of them.

His smile was a caress, his gaze—green, green—a weight upon her, upon all of her. It didn't make her feel less. It made her feel exactly like herself.

"Yes, Harrie," Voldemort said, grinning. "Yes."

She woke with that image on the brain, green eyes on the wrong face. It was morning, the lazy, soft light of the rising sun shining in the bedroom. She was still on her side, but she must have moved during the night, because she was facing Voldemort.

He was awake, watching her. Red eyes. Did he influence her dreams? Had that been him, every time?

"Stay away from me," she said reflexively.

"Beg," Voldemort returned, nonchalantly, as if his demand wasn't utterly abhorrent.

Harrie pressed her lips tight. Voldemort crawled closer, set a hand on her cheek, slowly lowered it to her throat. She shifted, and with the movement she became aware of wetness between her legs, and a gnawing pain in her lower stomach.

A slight frown creased Voldemort's forehead.

"You're in pain."

He seemed confused by the sensation. Could he tell it had nothing to do with last night's spanking?

"I'm having my period," she said, wondering how he would react.

Would that change anything? Would he still rape her while she was bleeding?

"I see. And does that come as a surprise?"

"No, it's pretty much on time. I just... I wasn't thinking about it."

I'm not sorry I'm bleeding on your sheets.

He removed his hand from her, drawing back.

"What do you need?"

She blinked at him.

"I assume there are potions for this," he said. "Special blends beyond the standard pain relief? You'll have to tell me. Or I could ask Bellatrix."

"Don't," she said, struck by the sheer absurdity of Voldemort asking Bellatrix about periods. "There's... yes, there's a potion. It's called Easy Period."

"You shall have it."

"And I need... I need special underwear."

If she expected Voldemort to be embarrassed by her demands, or by the fact that they were discussing such a subject, she couldn't have been more wrong. He smiled, something teasing.

"Are you asking me to buy you underwear?"

"You don't have to buy anything," she growled. "I have two pairs in my trunk at Hogwarts."

The glint in his eyes told her he was absolutely going to buy her underwear.

"Anything else, Harrie?"

"A broom."

"A broom," he repeated, the faintest surprise overlaying the words.

"Flying makes me feel better, instantly," she added. "It would lift my mood."

"Very well. A broom."

Wait, really?

She didn't think he would say yes, had only asked because... well, because she wanted it, but...

"It's reasonable enough, and you told the truth. You do enjoy flying." Another smile. "Something else you get from me."

Harrie rolled her eyes, restraining her annoyance as well as her snarky retort. Now wasn't the time to piss Voldemort off, not when he seemed inclined to give into her demands. Not when she had more requests.

"And socks. I want socks. And I want to see my friends."

"We'll discuss that last item tonight. Socks... why do you want socks?"

"You might enjoy getting around barefooted, but I don't."

"That's how I knew I was special," he said, in a soft tone that hinted at nostalgia.

Harrie looked at him questioningly.

"At the orphanage, they made us walk barefoot on cold, freezing flagstones. One day, my feet were warm. It was my magic, protecting me. The first sign of it."

She imagined it, a young Tom Riddle ecstatic at that realization, that he wasn't like everyone else, immediately thinking that meant he was more . Better.

"...so you don't wear socks in the bedroom because it reminds you of this moment?"

"It means strength, Harrie."

He didn't say it in a condescending manner, not exactly, but it still made Harrie want to bite him, want to yell at him that magic didn't make them better than Muggles, and if it made them stronger, then they had a responsibility not to abuse that power. But it was all so useless, words he wouldn't care for, words he would laugh at.

She rubbed her eyes, groaning. Socks, they were talking about socks.

"Okay, but not for me. It just means my feet are freezing, and that's all."

He tilted his head, humming.

"What was your first act of accidental magic?"

"My hair grew back. Petunia had cut it to an ugly bob, and the next morning it was shoulder-length again."

He reached out, twirled one finger around a curl of her hair.

"It suits you better like this."

She sat still, said nothing.

"A broom," he said, smiling. "The potion, underwear, and socks."

He finally left the bed, got dressed and ready for the day.

She waited until he was gone to go into the bathroom. She ran a bath, slowly lowered herself into the hot water, sighed. It helped, both with her sore bottom, and with the cramps.

Closing her eyes, she thought about Voldemort. His behavior was confusing. He had punished her last night with a spanking, and now, upon finding out she had her period, he'd been... nice. Understanding. He had agreed to get everything she had asked for.

Which was good. It was good, right? She just couldn't shake the feeling there would be unpleasant consequences later. All that good will would have a price.

And what did that mean for his sexual appetite? Harrie knew some men didn't care about periods when it came to sex. Would Voldemort care? Perhaps if she told him it would hurt if he tried. It might be the truth, after all. Even with the potion, her whole pelvis area felt very tender for the first two days.

She was thinking of a way to phrase that problem so he'd be convinced when the door opened.

"What happened to knocking?" she groaned.

"In my own bedroom, with the sweet half of my soul? I think not."

He was holding a plastic bag, large and pink, with handles shaped like elegant knots. She eyed it suspiciously.

"Your underwear," he said, clarifying in case she thought the bag contained a snake (it might have).

Already? Not that much time had passed. Were the shops in Diagon Alley even open? She pictured him going into a lingerie shop and asking for knickers. Some poor clerk must have had the surprise of their life. Unless he hadn't even asked.

"Did you pay for it?"

"Do you take me for a thief, Harrie? Of course I paid for it. I even had a long discussion with a very knowledgeable young lady about which pair would be best suited for you."

That was too much. Voldemort, talking about the lingerie he was buying for her with a shop employee... No, no. Harrie took a deep breath and sank under the water.

Eyes closed, she floated in warm water, listening to her heartbeat reverberate in her ears. Fwomp, fwomp, fwomp. It was slower than she expected, given that Voldemort was in the room with her. But here, hidden under the surface, she felt safe.

She stayed there for as long as she could, until her lungs burned and threatened to burst. When she emerged, Voldemort was gone. The pink bag sat on the chair, looking perfectly harmless.

Harrie lingered in the bath. She had things to do today, and she knew she had to get off her arse, but she couldn't muster the willpower at the moment.

In a minute, she kept telling herself. In a minute, I'll move.

Time passed.

The water of her bath was starting to turn lukewarm, and the cramps in her belly had intensified, occasionally twisting her insides with a sharp shooting pain overlaid on top of the constant aching thrum.

Finally, she got out of the bath, dried herself. Then she couldn't put it off any longer. She needed that underwear. Grabbing the bag, she peered inside. There were two pairs of knickers, both green, both decorated with frilly lace along the edges. One had silver lace that glittered under the light, the other black lace with a subtle red shimmer.

Harrie groaned in dismay. The underwear she owned and used during her period was solid black and simple, with no stupid lace anywhere. This... this wasn't just period underwear. It was sexy period underwear.

Unfortunately her only other option was to bleed everywhere, so she put a pair on, grumbling all the while. There, done. She wouldn't think about it. The self-cleaning charms woven into the fabric meant she could keep the knickers on for several days, even if she usually rotated between pairs.

Back in the bedroom, Wimsy had changed the sheets, and was putting a breakfast tray on the table. There was a potion there as well, and a pair of black socks. Harrie hurried to drink the potion, giving a cursory glance to the label. It occurred to her she was accepting help from Voldemort regarding that particular problem. Was it that different from her troubled sleep?

She finished the potion, sighed in relief when the pain vanished.

"Wimsy, where do the Malfoys take their breakfast?"

"In their rooms, Miss Potter," the elf replied.

She hesitated before asking her next question.

"Is Narcissa all right?"

The fearful glance she got in return told her a lot more than Wimsy's squeak of an answer.

"Wimsy is forbidden to talk about this!"

With a sudden pop, she was gone.

So Narcissa was either sick or injured, which explained the Malfoys' behavior. 'Preoccupied', Voldemort had said. Eating her breakfast, Harrie wondered if she could do anything about that. Voldemort had forbidden her to disturb Narcissa, and the punishment for doing so would likely be another spanking.

If she was honest with herself, she could take another spanking. It was a punishment that only affected her, and it was one moment in time, painful and shameful, yes, but limited. If it was worth it, she could endure it. But it wouldn't be worth it, because she wouldn't be able to do anything. She'd get a look at Narcissa, satisfy her curiosity, and that would be all. Without a wand, her options were severely limited. And she wasn't that good at healing magic anyway.

Voldemort was great at healing. Why wasn't he healing her? The answer came to her in a flash. He was using her as blackmail over the Malfoys men. Do what I say, be a good servant, and I'll reward you by healing your wife, your mother. Yes, that sounded exactly like Voldemort. People were pawn, and he was the chess master.

She hated all this. Schemes, secrets. No one telling her anything. Snakes, all of them.

Done with breakfast, she left the bedroom.

The manor was shrouded in silence, the corridors empty. None of the portraits said anything when she took the stairs. They didn't even look at her.

A fire was crackling in the drawing room, but there was no one there either.

Harrie went outside.

It was another beautiful morning. She wandered for a time.

In the rose garden, she came upon Draco. His face was paler than the usual, his lips drawn tight, his gaze focused. Over the years, she had seen that expression on him a lot. This was more than preoccupation. This was rage.

He had his wand out, and as she watched, he pointed it at a rose, a pretty yellow one in full bloom. The flower started withering, the petals curling up on themselves then falling off one by one, until the rose had shrunk to an ugly, shriveled stem.

Draco lowered his wand for a second, took a breath, then aimed it at another rose.

"I'm sorry about your mother," Harrie said.

He gave no indication he had heard her.

"Voldemort told me. I don't know your mother well, or at all, really, but it's not right. I wish I could help."

"You can't even help yourself, Potter."

The sentence had been spat out of the corner of his mouth, brimming with anger—the same anger the roses were currently suffering. Another one was left withered, and Draco moved his wand again.

"Are you going to kill them all?"

"Can't you leave me alone?"

Not an order, but a grumbling question. She carried the shadow of Voldemort with her now, and that would affect everything, including any social contact.

"I'd like to have a conversation," she said. "Feel free to insult me if that makes you feel better. I won't tell him."

He made a small disparaging noise at the back of his throat.

"I'd rather not waste my time with you, Potter."

"Yes, because clearly destroying your mother's roses is a much better use of your time."

His jaw twitched, eyes narrowing. He flicked his wand, targeting yet another rose.

"They're useless," he muttered. "All beauty does is invite destruction."

Harrie was absolutely not going to comment on that.

"Nagini," she said, going straight to the point. "Do you know where she is?"

Malfoy finally looked at her, his pale, pointy face showing brief confusion.

"That's your question?" He shrugged, looked away. "I haven't seen the snake since the battle."

"Not at all?"

"That's what I just said."

"Is it possible she died?"

He wrinkled his nose as a large, beautiful purple rose shriveled into nothing.

"I doubt it. There would have been... repercussions."

"Torture, you mean."

"He would have been very angry," Draco said quietly, without any emotion. "If the snake was dead, we'd know."

Two Horcruxes left, then. Of course, he could always make more as well. He would, if he was smart. Many people knew about his Horcruxes by now, and they all thought there was only one left. If there was a resistance movement left, any resistance at all, they'd focus on Nagini. He must have hidden her away, somewhere safe, probably under a Fidelius charm.

"Another question," Harrie said, watching Draco's wand move through the air. "What did your wand work for me?"

He didn't answer.

"Your father's wand didn't work half as well. I mean, you saw what happened. It zapped me. But I had yours for weeks, and it worked fine."

"How much do you know about wandlore?"

"Not much," she admitted.

He sighed.

"Wands have allegiances," he said, still focused on the roses. "You wrestled mine from my grasp, so you won its temporary loyalty, fair and square. My father gave you his wand. That didn't come with any transfer of power the wand recognizes, and it rejected your ownership."

Harrie absorbed that, thinking.

"But I used Hermione's wand before," she said. "It didn't fight me."

"She's your friend. Those types of bonds matter too, and if you really needed it, well, the wand would have let you use it."

"So... you're telling me wands are intelligent enough to understand those nuances?"

"It's magic, Potter," he said disdainfully. "I thought you'd be used to it by now."

He slashed his wand through the air in a wide arc, targeting multiple roses at once. They withered instantly. He repeated the gesture, leaving behind another half-circle of burnt out flowers. There weren't that many roses left now.

"A better question," he said, wand raised, "is why does his wand work for you?"

He slashed down again, one violent, angry motion. Harrie shrugged, as if she were confused as well.

"I've been wondering that myself. I think it's because of the prophecy. I'm his equal, and we're linked by fate."

"It's got to be more than that. Emotions matter when the wand is being loaned. His, yours."

He looked at her on that last word. She forced out a laugh.

"What are you suggesting, Malfoy? I'd wager you've got a pretty good idea of how I feel toward him."

"That's my point exactly. It shouldn't work."

He raised his wand again, holding it above his head, higher than before. His arm was trembling, and Harrie could feel the amount of emotion he was channeling in the upcoming casting.

She sprang forward, catching his wrist just as he brought his arm down. The spell fizzled, a shower of sparks bursting from the tip of the wand.

"Don't touch me!" Draco snarled, yanking his arm away.

"Leave them be," Harrie said, quietly. "Leave them be, you'll regret it later if you don't. Trust me, I know what it feels like to want to destroy everything around you so you feel better, but that's not the answer. It doesn't help. You're just left empty afterwards."

He glared at her, the old Malfoy-to-Potter stare, shock full of disdain and hate. A week ago, Harrie would have glared back. Now, she met his eyes calmly, and with barely any animosity. She reserved the bulk of her hate for someone else.

"Whatever," Draco grumbled.

He holstered his wand, then walked past her, back toward the manor. Harrie stood in the ravaged garden. Only a handful of roses had survived. She wasn't sure why she cared, but... she did.

Kneeling down, she brushed the tip of her fingers against a small blue rose, very delicately. She could feel the magic, pulsing softly, a background field encompassing the space. It was hurting right now, damaged by Draco's wrath. She couldn't do anything but witness the pain.

You can't even help yourself.

That wasn't true. While she couldn't snap her fingers and get herself out of there, there was a path forward.

She left the garden, walked around the estate. There was a slight breeze today, coming in from the east. Blue skies, barely a cloud in sight.

She wanted to fly. Where was the broom Voldemort had agreed to get her?

As it turned out, it arrived at lunch, with Wimsy. Harrie had expected her broom, or the same model, a Firebolt. What she got was a surprise. The broom looked like a Firebolt, with its elegant, streamlined design, and it had the trademark silver trimmings near the tail, but there were notable differences. It was lighter, for one, and the curve of the wood was more pronounced toward the tail, dipping sharply to accommodate the weight of the rider.

It had to be the latest Firebolt model, which wasn't supposed to come out until next year. How had Voldemort managed to get one, and on such short notice? Immediately, she felt guilty, imagining the worst, Voldemort threatening people until he got his way. All because she had asked for a broom.

She didn't want the best, latest broom. She didn't want pretty underwear. She would have been perfectly happy with her old underwear and her old broom, would have preferred them, even. But that wasn't how Voldemort operated. He wanted the best, the shiniest, the finest. Nothing else was good enough for him, and now that also extended to her.

A golden cage with golden toys for his precious Horcrux.

"Will Miss Potter take her lunch outside?"

"Yes, thank you, Wimsy."

She ate quickly, impatient to go flying. As soon as she was done with dessert, she grabbed the broom, ran a hand along its smooth length, enjoying the familiar sensation. If she closed her eyes and only focused on that feeling and the warmth of the sun on her face, she could almost believe she was back at Hogwarts, about to do a bit of Quidditch practice.

She swung a leg over, settling herself on the broom, and up she went. She flew high, until she hit the wards, which prevented her to go any further. By her reckoning, they were about two hundred meters up. They felt like the ones on the ground, ancient and strong.

She flew under them, skimming the curtain of magic, looking for weak spots. She didn't find any. The person who had enchanted the Malfoy's estate had done a very thorough job of it. Most likely it would have been one of their ancestors, when the house was being built.

"No escape," Harrie concluded after about an hour of fruitless searching.

She dove toward the ground, straight down. Wind rushed in her ears, her robes whipping out behind her, the broom cleaving through the air faster than anything she had ever experienced. In four seconds, she had reached the grass.

She pulled up inches from the ground, streaking with mad speed above the grass. Shifting her weight, she made a sharp turn, then another, before gaining altitude again.

She flew more, playing around.

The broom handled like a dream. Swift, with spectacular aerodynamism, it responded instantly to every single one of Harrie's commands, and it felt like she had been riding it for months instead of merely an hour. It felt like it was her broom already.

As she was drifting back down after a series of tight loops, she caught a glimpse of movement in one of the manor's windows. Intrigued, she flew closer, until she could peek inside. It was a bedroom, decorated in black and green, with lacquered furniture and rich, beautiful carpets. Harrie squinted, getting a bit closer in an effort to see more of the interior. The room was dark, the curtains more than halfway drawn, and she was looking in at an angle, but it seemed to her there was someone in the bed.

Then there was movement, and yes, it was a person, lying in bed. Harrie got a glimpse of a feminine face. For a second, she struggled to recognize it. The lock of white hair among the dark curls told her who it was, but the face—the face was terribly wrong, twisted in pain, and more than half covered by patches of gray flesh that oozed some kind of dark liquid, glistening in the low light.

What was Harrie seeing, exactly? What had happened to Narcissa that she now looked like that? And shouldn't she have been at St Mungo's?

Then Harrie realized all her questions had the same answer: Voldemort. That was his doing, and Narcissa wasn't at St Mungo's because he didn't wish her to be. She was to remain here and be used as a pressure point against the Malfoys.

Harrie's hands tightened on her broom, a wave of revulsion coming over her. This was so vile. And she felt stupid for not understanding it sooner. Of course it wasn't a coincidence that Narcissa was unwell, and of course it was Voldemort.

A figure appeared at the bedside, their back turned to Harrie. Lucius' long white hair almost gleamed in the low light. He leaned over his wife, dabbed a small cloth at her face, in careful motions. Narcissa's lips moved, shaping words. Then her gaze found Harrie. It was sharp and clear, and in her pale blue eyes, Harrie glimpsed a mind intact, a mind that endured despite the decay of the body.

Lucius turned abruptly, glared at her. He pointed his wand at the window, and the curtains were drawn shut, violently. Harrie drew away from the manor, letting the broom drift in the air.

Nothing to be done. Nothing. Nothing? Well, no. She could beg Voldemort for mercy. That was always an option. But that wouldn't work. He wouldn't let go of such a pawn just because she asked. And she had asked a lot from him today already.

She had to be patient. Oh, yes, patience. The time would come. (She liked that thought. It let her see a future, let her have hope.)

Evening came.

Wimsy informed Harrie that she would be expected at dinner again.

Entering the manor, she left her broom in the hallway, ventured into the drawing room. She found Lucius there, standing in front of the fire, cradling a half-filled glass to his chest.

"Can I get some of that?"

His eyes flickered to her, then back to the flames.

"Be my guest," he said.

Harrie retrieved a second glass, filled it halfway with the amber liquid.

"Is that Firewhisky?"

"It is. A very fine vintage from 1980."

She was going to drink alcohol as old as her. She had tasted Firewhisky a couple of times before and hadn't particularly liked it, but it had felt good, in a cleansing sort of way. Her expectations were shattered at her first sip. It burned down her throat like actual fire, much stronger than her previous experiences. Coughing, she felt tears well up in her eyes.

"That's..." She coughed again, groaned. "That's a fine vintage?" she said, looking at her glass in disbelief.

"Single malt, aged for two decades in Oloroso sherry casks, one of malt master Mary Campbell’s special releases. If you're not going to appreciate it, do refrain from wasting more."

She took another sip, much smaller. It was still awful.

"Must be an acquired taste..." she muttered.

She drank anyway, until warmth blossomed in her chest, the alcohol buzzing pleasantly in her veins. Lucius was silent, which angered her. She knew it was irrational, knew nothing good would come of voicing her emotions. They spilled out anyway.

"Why don't you do something? Why do you let him—Why don't you—"

It wasn't even coherent, and she couldn't finish her sentences. She took a mouthful of Firewhisky instead, welcoming the burn.

"You understand very little of the situation, Miss Potter," Lucius said with eerie calm. "Don't make it worse with the usual Gryffindor blundering."

"You could use some Gryffindor courage."

He drank, and only gave her more silence.

"Is every Death Eater a coward? Snape, and Draco, and you... Even Bellatrix wouldn't Crucio me. Are you all so afraid of him that you'll take everything lying down?"

"Hold your tongue. I will not be lectured in my own home by a child."

"Or you'll what, glare at me?"

He glared at her.

"A lot less frightening than when I was twelve," she said.

Not frightening at all, in fact. Like her anger, her fear now only related to a single person. Him. Everything revolved around him. As the thought came to her, she found herself laughing, something bitter and painful.

The center of her world. Fuck.

Then she felt it, that slight scrape along her senses, a telltale pricking at her neck.

"Incoming," she said, and she drained her glass, the intense burn scalding her throat, killing the rest of her absurd amusement.

Voldemort Apparated with a crack. He swept into the room, gave Harrie an appraising glance followed by a small, satisfied smile.

"There you are, my dear," he said.

Where the fuck else would I be? Harrie thought and didn't say.

"Yep. Making conversation with Lucius."

"And drinking?"

He tilted his head, not reproachful but curious. Harrie considered her answer. She wasn't drunk. She was tipsy, which wasn't the same thing. And perhaps she was allowed to get drunk anyway.

"I wanted a taste. It's awful."

"I'm afraid Miss Potter has no appreciation for the finer things in life," Lucius said. "She's not at fault, of course. Growing up with Muggles did her no favors, and she never had the chance to properly experience the real wizarding world."

If what he called the 'real wizarding world' was all the pure-blood bullshit, she had experienced enough of it already, thank you very much.

"That will now be remedied," Voldemort said.

"I didn't expect there'd be a place for a half-blood in pure-blood society," Harrie said.

She had only meant to refer to herself, but as soon as the words were out of her mouth she remembered Voldemort was a half-blood as well. Was that common knowledge? Surely not. Or maybe his Death Eaters suspected it, but would never have dared to say anything.

"Nonsense," Voldemort answered, stepping closer. "I have always accepted talented half-bloods into my service. I would even make exceptions for the brightest of Muggle-borns. I did try to recruit your mother, after all."

"What? When?"

Her mouth had gone dry. She wanted Voldemort to be lying, because it would be simpler, but she knew he wasn't. She could feel it.

"Come," he said, offering her his arm. "I'll tell you all about it."

She walked with him to the dining room, and they sat down for dinner. There was no Bellatrix this time, which was a small mercy. The Malfoys were as tense as the previous nights, and they both avoided looking at Voldemort.

Harrie looked. She stared at him with eager need as he talked about her mother.

"Lily Potter was a very bright witch, in spite of her parentage. I keep an eye on the most promising students at Hogwarts, and from very early on I heard nothing but good things about her. Exceptionally gifted in Potions, and adept in DADA, too, but of course you know that, Harrie."

She did, yet she never tired of hearing about her mother. She wanted to know all there was to know about her parents. For her father, she had gone to Remus and Sirius, and she had listened to their tales about James Potter's reckless spirit, Quidditch victories and daring adventures. They hadn't talked about his mean streak or the bullying he inflicted on others, hadn't talked at all about the unsavory aspects of his personality in his youth. That part had come from Snape.

Snape, who could have told her a lot about her mother too, and never had, keeping that secret to himself. Harrie had heard about her from Sirius and Remus, from McGonagall, and from Slughorn. She never would have thought that Voldemort, of all people, could tell her anything new.

"A few months after she graduated, I went to her, and I asked her to join me. I made the same offer to your father, out of courtesy. It was clear they were an item and I couldn't just get one part of the set, but it was your mother I wanted. James Potter was an average wizard, and would have made an average Death Eater. Your mother would have been one of my best."

"You couldn't seriously believe she'd say yes," Harrie said, frowning.

"I thought there was a chance she would. I offered safety and protection in these uncertain times, the possibility to grow a family without fearing any attacks. Why wouldn't a young, bright witch weigh the risks and decide it was better to align herself with the winning side?"

Harrie was shaking her head.

"What did she say?"

"Do you want to hear it now, or do you want to see for yourself, later?"

"...see for myself," Harrie said, hesitant to believe that Voldemort was offering her the chance to actually see her parents.

"I thought so. Lucius, I assume you have a Pensieve?"

"Yes, my Lord. In the office, on the second floor."

"Excellent," Voldemort said. "And Harrie, in exchange, I'd like to see a memory of yours."

Ah. Of course he would never offer anything for free.

"Which one?"

"The day you received your Hogwarts' letter."

That wasn't what she expected.

"It's really not that interesting," she said cautiously.

A flood of owls, a tempest of letters, fleeing the house, Hagrid bursting in with a cake and giving Dudley a pig's tail. It was the strangest day for eleven-year old Harrie, but she didn't see why Voldemort would care about that.

"Nevertheless, I'd like to see it."

"All right."

They ate in silence for a time.

"Did you like your broom?" Voldemort asked as they moved on to dessert.

"Yes. But I thought the new model wasn't supposed to come out until next year. Did you pay for it too?"

"The owner of Firebolt Inc. was very happy to hear I had an interest in his products. He graciously provided a broom for free."

That could mean anything, from being the truth to Voldemort using the Imperius on the poor man.

"I didn't use any coercive magic," he said, either sensing her thoughts or reading them on her face. "I didn't have to. That's what power means, Harrie."

"You're used to getting what you want, aren't you?"

"Generally, yes. I did suffer a few setbacks in my life, the most formidable of them all at your hands, of course."

Not yet, Harrie thought. Not yet, but you will. The most permanent of setback.

Dinner ended. Voldemort insisted on walking her back.

"I thought we were going to the office?" she said when it was clear they weren't.

"We don't need a Pensieve, my dear," he said in Parseltongue, and oh God, the endearment was even worse in those hissing, slithering tones, making her skin erupt in goosebumps and her stomach squirm. "That is, however, our little secret."

"Right," she said, in plain English.

"It bothers you, when I speak in the old tongue."

"It's unsettling."

She had always found Parseltongue deeply creepy, and whenever she spoke it, she had to slip into a different mental state, one where the world was colder, simpler. The mind of a snake, perhaps.

"It is your heritage," Voldemort said. "A most ancient, powerful one. The greatest wizards in history spoke Parseltongue."

"You're including yourself in there, aren't you?"

A thin smile stretched his lips. Harrie snorted.

"Descended from Salazar Slytherin himself, you must have been so pleased when you found out. Probably killed a Muggle to celebrate."

The words were bitter on her lips, and she hated that she was making it into a joke, but this was the only way she could even speak of it.

"A Muggle-born, yes."

Cold fury squirmed in Harrie's guts. The urge to bite rose up, to plant her teeth, right there, in that smooth white expanse of throat, bite down and get at the jugular underneath, at the heartbeat trapped in there, and just tear it out. Tear everything out, spilling blood on her, on both of them, until he stopped moving, stopped hurting people, stopped doing everything he was doing because none of it had ever been good or even neutral.

She took a shuddering breath, clicked her teeth together, slipped her arm away from his and walked the last few steps alone. He followed, silently.

In the bedroom, still he was silent. He sat on the bed, patting the space next to him. She hesitated for a moment, went to sit where he wanted her, turned to him and made eye contact. He slid a single finger under her chin. There was a brush of contact along her mind, something inviting, something open. Looking into red eyes, she waited for the memory to overwhelm her.

"No, no," Voldemort said, almost gently. "I will not force it on you, not this time. Come and look in, Harrie."

"Do I have to cast the spell?"

"We don't need it either."

He was so pleased by that, by what the bond between their minds allowed them to do. The bond between their souls.

Fine, she didn't need the spell then. It was just her and Voldemort, and perhaps a part of her enjoyed that too. When she would kill him, it would also be just the two of them.

Taking a steadying breath, Harrie dove into the Dark Lord's mind.

Chapter Text

For a beat, it was like falling.

She tumbled down through grayness, a void filled with a single color, where she saw nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing. There was no point of reference, and she only knew she was falling because of that rushing sensation, her own weight carrying her down.

She didn't land, not exactly. Great pillars of smoke suddenly rose up all around her, flattened into a scenery, gaining edges and sharpness, gaining colors, getting more and more precise. Sound returned, popping in her ears, a low din of conversations, then smell, a mix of sweet aromas and the strong fragrance of coffee.

Coffee?

Yes, Harrie was somewhere, and that somewhere was a coffee shop. She glanced around, catching sights of blurred faces and indistinct clothing, a general mass of people that thrummed about, waiting in line or seated at their tables, conversing in low tones. She had never seen a memory quite like that, with unclear parts. Dumbledore's memories had been crystal clear, every neat detail rendered to perfection, and while she hadn't had the time to really appreciate the ones from Snape, too swept up in their meaning to care about faithfulness or accuracy, there had been no smudgy faces, that was for sure.

Was it because Voldemort didn't care about all those people? They didn't matter, so he didn't recall what they looked like, perhaps hadn't paid them any attention at all in the first place.

Voldemort himself stood at the center of the scene. Harrie looked up at him, and suffered several shocks at once.

First, he had hair. Wavy, thick, dark hair, stylishly arranged, a few strands falling purposefully over his forehead.

Second, he was young. Well, younger, at any rate. He looked to be in his early thirties, and no older.

And finally, his face. He had slits instead of nostrils, and his eyes were, of course, red, which came as no surprise. The shocking part was that he had scales on his face. She could see them, and they weren't the faint iridescent shimmer she had glimpsed on his naked body when they had taken a bath together. They were actual scales, the color of flesh, crisp and gleaming, especially prominent on his cheekbones and forehead.

A snake in human form. Or perhaps an Animagus at the start of his transformation. If he opened his mouth, no doubt she'd see fangs in there, dripping venom.

He looked alien, and dangerous. Yet there was also something oddly magnetic about his presence, something that made it hard for Harrie to tear her eyes away. It was as if she had seen him before. This wasn't the Voldemort she had witnessed in Dumbledore's memories, nor the one who presently made her life hell. Was it possible her brain remembered him from the time he had stood over her crib and cast the Killing Curse at her? He must have looked like that, then.

A young, snake-like Voldemort, standing in a Muggle coffee shop. Those were Muggles around them, ordinary people, Harrie was sure of it. Voldemort's memory gave no details to the clothes, but there remained a vague idea of them, and they looked normal, with no flowing capes or silly hats. Besides, it was the very reason they were all blurred: unimportant and dismissable in the eyes of Voldemort.

She followed his line of sight, received yet another shock. They were there.

Her parents.

Seated at a table near a window, both looking so young and so alive.

Her mother, pale skin, her face dotted with freckles, her dark red hair falling past her shoulders, her bright green eyes framed by long eyelashes, wearing a long flowing green dress that left her arms bare.

Her father, tall and broad-shouldered, with an athletic built, his dark hair sticking up at odd angles, wild strands falling over his hazel eyes, wearing round glasses and unassuming brown clothes.

Her heart squeezed in her chest with an all too familiar longing and pain. It was the pain of 'Your parents are dead, Harrie', the pain of 'She doesn't have a mother', the pain of 'that little orphan freak', and 'You're as arrogant as your father, Potter' and 'You have your mother's eyes', and it was fierce enough that she felt her throat close up, tears threatening.

Her father said something that must have been a joke, and her mother laughed, a joyous, carefree laugh. It sounded so much like her own. Harrie thought that perhaps her heart was about to fracture in her chest.

Voldemort stepped forward.

Like a snake sliding through the tall grass, approaching two unsuspecting preys, and he must have been using a Notice-Me-Not Charm, or something equivalent, because her parents were oblivious, didn't see coming the dark wizard that would kill them—not here, not now, but not so long after. How long did they have to live from this moment? Two years? Three, if this was the summer of 1978.

He stopped close to their table, dropped his spell. They both froze, going from relaxed laughter to sudden tension. James' hand inched toward his pocket, while her mother's eyes darted around, analyzing the surroundings and the level of danger. Harrie knew what they were thinking. Her father: 'if I'm fast enough...', her mother: 'is it only him?'. Had they thought that, too, when Voldemort had come for her on that fated Halloween night?

"There is no need for wands," Voldemort said, in a level voice. "If I wanted you dead, rest assured you would be."

He was lingering a bit on his s, as if he would rather be speaking Parseltongue and had to make do with English. That had to be intentional. It injected more alienness into his presence, made him more intimidating.

"What do you want?" Lily said.

Her green eyes were blazing, alive with anger, and again so much like Harrie's own. She didn't seem the least bit afraid, nor did James. In fact, they looked like they were ready to duel Voldemort, and if it had been just the three of them, Harrie was certain they would have engaged in hostilities. The presence of so many innocent people around ensured that wasn't an option, which was why Voldemort had chosen this precise moment to approach them. Using people again—this time as shields.

He Accio'd a chair, sat nonchalantly, as if joining them for their—morning, afternoon?—tea.

"I have a proposition for you," he said.

"No," Lily said, so emphatically it felt like a steel wall coming down between her and Voldemort. "Whatever it is, no."

"Allow me to expound." He rested his hands on top of his crossed knees, steepling his fingers. "Our goals are not so different. We want to see magic flourish. We want to live in peace."

"You want all Muggles squashed under your boot," James said, disgust wrapped in every syllable.

Voldemort appeared unaffected by her parents' hostility. His serpentine features maintained an expression of icy politeness, along with a studied patience that made it clear he was willing to overlook their obvious hate and disdain.

"We know the value of magic," he said, "and we know our own value. Why should we have to hide from the Muggles? They should look at us in awe, and they should accept our guiding hand."

He emphasized 'hand' in contrast to the way her father had said 'boot', making it sound almost gentle.

"It is only natural that we should lead, don't you think? Our greater gifts call us to an equally greater purpose."

He sounded so reasonable. Wrapping his hideous ideology in pretty words, pretending this was for everyone's good.

"And you want me, a Muggle-born, to join the ranks of your followers?" Lily said, her mouth twisting in disbelief.

"I do. You are exceptionally gifted, and you have the potential to become a truly great witch. This is the type of people I want surrounding me. The best."

Her parents exchanged a look. Harrie couldn't tell what they were thinking this time.

"Severus asked for this," Lily said.

"He did point out that you would make an excellent recruit. However, I was already aware of your talents, and my offer today has nothing to do with Severus' wishes. It comes from me."

He shifted, leaning down toward them as his red eyes narrowed.

"Think about what I'm offering, and measure it against what else there is for you. You're young. You have your whole lives ahead of you. Joining me would ensure you wouldn't have to worry about your safety. The war will get worse. There will be more suffering before our new world can be born."

"Oh, sure," James said. "We'll betray our friends for safety, that's an entirely Gryffindor thing to do." He let out a coarse bark of laughter, abruptly ended it to direct a lethal glare at Voldemort. "Lions don't consort with snakes."

Voldemort smiled at that, a subtle stretch of his lips.

"I have a few Gryffindors within my ranks."

"No, you don't," James said.

Lily was shaking her head, her lips thinned, her gaze sharp as a knife.

"Is that a no, then?" Voldemort asked.

Harrie thought they would give the same answer she had, at the start.

Yes, that's a no, and fuck off.

"Let me be clear," Lily said, leaning forward, that same sharpness in her voice, ice cold, something that didn't care about Voldemort's power, didn't care that he could kill them both in a second. "Your ideas are repugnant, and as long as I live, I'll always oppose you. We will always oppose you, and we will never join you, no matter what pretty gifts and assurances you put forward. Am I being clear, Lord Voldemort?"

The inflection she put on 'Lord' stripped the word of all its haughty meaning and made it sound like an insult. Harrie committed that exact tone to memory. She would want to use that again, at the right time.

Voldemort inclined his head in acknowledgment. He didn't tell them they would regret their decision, didn't threaten or gloat. He stood up, and gave them an even look.

"My congratulations on your upcoming nuptials," he said.

Or perhaps the threat was there. Her father certainly took it like one, his hand clenching spasmodically, as if barely restraining himself from reaching for his wand.

Voldemort turned away. Harrie kept looking at her parents, memorizing every detail of their appearances. She wished she had more time, knew she could have spent hours in this memory. Too soon, the scenery dissolved into smoke, the image of her parents flickering into ascending curls before vanishing in a single second, as if blown away by the wind. Her surroundings turned to gray, a flat landscape of nothingness.

Harrie blinked, and found herself looking into the red eyes of Voldemort. A moment passed as he waited for her to speak. She cleared her throat, stomping down the tangle of emotions that was beating in her chest where her heart used to be.

"Was that the only time?" she said. "That you interacted with them?"

"Apart from that Halloween night, yes. But I imagine you don't want to see that particular memory."

"I already have."

He cocked his head, eyes narrowing in interest.

"Have you?"

"Several times, when I was threatened by Dementors, and during my Occlumency lessons with Snape."

At the time, she had thought it was her memory, of her as an infant, remembering her mother's murder. Now she knew it had been Voldemort's memory, which had bled into her own mind at some point and which she could recall as if it was her own.

Lily Potter, standing over her crib, pleading. Not Harrie, please, not Harrie... Take me, kill me instead...

"I offered to spare her," Voldemort said, in a low voice. "I told her, twice, to get out of my way. Do you know how rare that is for me?"

"Because Snape asked you to."

"Severus' wishes had nothing to do with it. Your mother was a bright witch, and any loss of a talented wizard or witch is a loss for us all."

"Still a loss you can live with, so in the end it doesn't matter what you said to her," Harrie replied, aware that her voice was vibrating with pent-up tension. "You killed her."

I'll kill you, went unsaid, but it didn't need to be vocalized. They were so close right now, and she had just been in his mind, so the bond between them was wide open. Harrie could sense traces of his emotions, and she had no doubt he could see everything she was feeling.

Despite his words, she didn't perceive any regret coming from him. There was a slow-flowing current of satisfaction, scattered shards of curiosity directed at her, and a smoldering interest that seemed to constitute the base of how he related to her. But no regret.

"Why would I regret it, especially now?" he said, with a sliver of a smile. "Her sacrifice eventually gave me you, my precious little Horcrux."

She bristled at the nickname, even more so because she could feel how much satisfaction he was taking in using it. Her reaction pleased him, and she perceived more satisfaction from him, with some added amusement.

"Get used to it," he said. "I quite like calling you that."

At least he wouldn't do it in public, she mused.

"Don't be so sure."

She glared at him. Still smiling, he caught her chin between his thumb and his index, tilting her head back a bit. She hadn't realized she'd been curling onto herself, dropping her chin down while she stared at him. Perhaps it was an instinctive reaction of her body, trying to make itself smaller, present less of a target. She had to get rid of it: all it did was show her weakness.

"Now, I believe it is your turn," Voldemort said, his index brushing her cheek. "Focus on the day you received your letter. Call up the details to the front of your mind."

There had been multiple letters on multiple days, really. She recalled it from the start, reasoning Voldemort would want to see everything. Something tugged at her mind, like a key rattling in a lock. She grimaced, coiling in on herself again, mentally this time.

"No, no," Voldemort said, in her mind. "Don't resist. Let me in."

It didn't feel like much of a resistance anyway. The door was flimsy, the lock equally so. He could have easily barged in, had done so before, many times. Today, he waited, for her to open the door and invite him in.

She did.

She opened to him, for him, allowing him into her mind as she focused on that sunny summer day, many years ago. She fell through grayness again, only this time she didn't land. Hovering above the scene that unfolded, she remained there, witnessing things from a distance. She saw Voldemort materialize down there, on the lawn of Number 4, Privet Drive, next to her child self.

A tiny, scrawny ten-year old Harrie Potter, wearing an ugly gray dress too large for her, her broken glasses held together by some tape, her hair sticking out so much it looked like a halo of wild curls framing her face. She approached the mail box, peered inside, retrieved three letters. Her expression lit up when she saw the one addressed to her.

Harrie remembered how she had felt. Puzzled—who would write to her?—then excited—she'd gotten a letter! Quickly followed, of course, by crushing disappointment as Vernon confiscated the letter. She watched that, too, her uncle's face turning ashen-white when he realized what it meant, her scuffle with Dudley to determine which of them would listen at the keyhole after being ushered out of the room, the snatches of conversation she heard, 'stomp it out of her', and 'not going to cave in to these people' and 'will grow up far from these freaks'.

The memory progressed swiftly through the next few days, as tiny Harrie received more and more letters, each one confiscated and thrown into the fire. Vernon boarded up the mail box, then the windows. Sunday arrived, and he boasted there would be no mail today. Of course he was immediately proven wrong, a storm of owls darkening the sky and making it rain letters onto the lawn. Tiny Harrie was locked in her new bedroom upstairs, watching it all from the window with eager eyes. Voldemort stood next to her, like a dark, gloomy wraith. He didn't cast any shadow in the memory, but if he had, it would have completely engulfed the tiny slip of a girl she had been.

Then there was the car trip, the brief stay at the hotel, and the boat trip to the rock out at sea. Tiny Harrie gripped the side of the boat as the wind whipped her hair about, her eyes squinted, her face scrunched up in an expression of profound discouragement. She was cold, hungry, and all she wanted was to go home. She wasn't even thinking about the letters anymore. They'd been a strange anomaly, one that had passed and didn't matter now. She couldn't afford to hope: it hurt too much when it was crushed, and it was always crushed.

The shack on top of the rock was a miserable, cold hovel. Tiny Harrie sat in a corner, hugging herself. As night fell, so came the storm. The wind howled outside, rattling the filthy windows, and great waves rose, battering the lonely rock. Aunt Petunia had given tiny Harrie the most ragged blanket of them all, and she curled up in it, shivering and miserable.

Voldemort hadn't left her side. He trailed her close, looming over her, looking mostly at her. Sometimes he cast a glance about. Harrie thought she could see his red eyes flare whenever they stopped on the form of Dudley sleeping on the ratty sofa. She wondered what he was thinking. It wasn't a fun memory to revisit, not that part anyway. But the best part was coming, and that bit Harrie remembered fondly.

Tiny Harrie tossed and turned on the floor, unable to find any sleep. She watched the lighted dial of Dudley's watch, counting down the minutes to midnight. To her eleventh birthday. The shack creaked, a rumbling noise coming from outside. When there were ten seconds left, tiny Harrie mouthed the numbers, until she reached zero and they had tipped over into July, 31st.

A resounding BOOM shook the entire shack. Tiny Harrie sat upright, eyes wide. A second later, the door flew off its hinges and crashed down to the floor.

Hagrid always made the best entrances.

The memory unfolded, Hagrid's casual behavior, the Dursleys' outrage mixed with fear, and tiny Harrie's complete bewilderment. The squashed chocolate cake, Hagrid mentioning Hogwarts, followed by Harrie's question, 'What's a Hogwarts?', and 'Harrie–yer a witch', her letter, which she finally got to read, and Hagrid's anger when he realized the Dursleys hadn't told Harrie anything. Hagrid's explanations about her parent's murder, and Voldemort. The first time she had heard his name had been from Hagrid's lips, a mere whisper, forcefully enunciated like Hagrid dreaded every syllable.

The Dursleys grew more and more agitated, until Vernon exploded, calling Dumbledore a crackpot old fool. That didn't sit well with Hagrid, who used his umbrella on Dudley, giving him a pig's tail. Harrie thought she saw Voldemort smile, briefly. In a panic, the Dursleys retreated to the other room, slamming the door behind them.

Hagrid gave tiny Harrie his thick black coat, and she settled on the sofa, swaddled in the coat-blanket, nearly disappearing under it.

"Good night, Harrie," Hagrid said, patting the top of her head.

"Night, Hagrid," tiny Harrie said in a cheerful voice.

She fell asleep near instantly, her belly full of chocolate cake, her head swarming with thoughts about witches and wizards and the special school that awaited her. A place where she would belong.

The memory faded, bit by bit, until the smoke had scattered away entirely. Harrie blinked, back in the present.

It was like smacking head first into a hard wall. Her scar gave a sharp sting, the pain lashing at her the face, followed by a pulsing, throbbing ache within her skull. An acid taste spread in her mouth, rising to her nostrils, near burning the inner lining of her nose. A spike of cold entered her heart, twisting there. All physical manifestations of an emotion that wasn't hers.

Voldemort was furious. His anger vibrated through the bond, so strong it was overwhelming, swamping Harrie's mind until she could feel wrath in every cell, pounding through her blood, howling in her bones.

It's not mine, she reminded herself. It's not mine, it's not mine.

It also wasn't directed at her.

"Is that how they treated you your whole childhood?" Voldemort said.

His features were tightened, lips almost nonexistent, pressed too thinly together, and his gaze could have cut through glass.

"It wasn't that bad," Harrie found herself saying.

"Muggles," he spat, venomously. "They saw something extraordinary and tried to stifle it. They tried to erase you, Harrie. They were afraid, and they wanted to stomp you into nothing, until you became just as mediocre, just as small and unimportant as them."

She felt his murderous intent swelling. He stared her down.

"Did they hit you?"

"No."

"Don't lie to me."

She stared back, lips drawing back in a half-snarl.

"I'm not! It... all right, maybe once. But I wasn't starved or beaten. I was just neglected. And once I went to Hogwarts, they were afraid of my magic, afraid of me, so they didn't bother me much."

The red eyes were unwavering, pinning her with fierce focus, his anger a steady, cold throb under her skin.

"It's a pity Dumbledore is already dead," he said. "I would have taken the utmost pleasure in flaying the flesh from his bones."

She exhaled sharply through her nose. What could she say? She felt as if balancing on a rope above a precipice, where the smallest misstep would spell certain doom. What had she agreed to show him this memory in the first place? She'd been an idiot, had only thought of her parents, getting to see them... she hadn't properly weighted the consequences of her own actions.

Or perhaps, a little voice said from deep down, you wanted him to see, wanted someone to bear witness and tell you you were wronged. Perhaps you want him to act, now. Perhaps you want all this anger to be used.

The image of Voldemort burning the portrait of the Malfoy ancestor flashed across her mind. It hadn't even been anger, then.

"I had to stay with them," Harrie said, uttering the same excuse she had told herself so often. "Because of the blood protection."

"That was never in question. However, the other adults in your life should have taken responsibility and showed the Muggles what would happen to them if they kept mistreating you. Why didn't they, Harrie? Did they not know of your situation at home? Did they not care?"

"They didn't know everything. I didn't..."

She hadn't told any adult in detail. At first she hadn't realized it wasn't normal, the way the Dursleys treated her, and then once she'd gotten to see what a real family looked like, a loving one, it would have felt too much like complaining. When they had asked (Mrs. Weasley inquiring gently about the ratty dress Harrie was wearing, Lupin broaching the subject of the summer vacation), she had deflected. Of course, they could have dug deeper, and maybe they did, on their own, maybe they even went to Dumbledore to voice their concerns, but...

"They trusted Dumbledore," she said.

"Yes, that was the crux of it, wasn't it? Dumbledore said it was fine, so that was enough for them. They left you to suffer. They failed you."

"Don't put everything on them," she said, her own anger rising from somewhere in her guts. "I was supposed to go live with Sirius, and then—"

It had all been ripped away from her.

"Bella will have to be punished," Voldemort said, in a musing tone so at odds with the torture he was suggesting. "And those Muggles... They will regret their actions."

She saw the intent in his mind, clear as day. The Dursleys, writhing under the Cruciatus.

"Leave them alone."

"They tortured you, Harrie. They should have worshipped the very ground you walk on, and instead they made you feel like nothing ."

The shape of what he was planning shifted, and Harrie saw more. Images with sharp, raw edges, slicing at her psyche. Blood, flesh pulled from the bones, squirming bodies, and pleas for mercy that would go unheard. Oh yes, he would delight in seeing the vermin suffer, in hearing them pathetically cry out, and he would make sure they would know why it was happening. He would make them pay for every minute spent denying his Harrie the childhood she should have had.

Harrie wrenched her mind away from Voldemort's with a gasp, shaking free from his thoughts. A wave of nausea squeezed her stomach, her throat. Her heart was pounding.

"Don't, don't..."

"This is only what they deserve."

"Please, don't."

It had escaped her before she realized it. She bit her lips, wishing she could swallow back that 'please'. Voldemort's eyes narrowed further.

"For them?" he hissed, nearly in Parseltongue. "You're begging for them?"

"They're not yours to punish! I... I get to decide if I want to take revenge on them. You don't decide for me."

"And what would you decide, Harrie? How would you punish them?"

The precipice yawned below her. A balancing act. It was all a balancing act, and she had to be so careful.

"I wouldn't," she said. "It's behind me. I'm not looking for revenge. They can have my contempt, I won't ever have to deal with them again, and I'm content with that."

There were some things she wouldn't compromise on.

"Forgiveness?" Voldemort snarled. "You're no longer a martyr. You don't have to suppress your needs or your anger anymore. You don't have to suffer for others."

A sharp, bitter laugh climbed up her throat before she could stop it. It shook her chest, spilling in the space between her and Voldemort.

"I don't have to suffer? Are you serious? My God, the hypocrisy! I can't believe..."

She stood up, unable to keep still, the rush of emotions making her head spin.

"I don't have to suffer?" she said, turning away, whirling back on him.

Another laugh clawed away from her throat, in stuttering exhales. It sounded quite insane to her ears. She shoved her clenched hands in her pockets, swallowed thickly. Voldemort was watching her, with no expression on his face. She no longer felt his anger, but she had enough of her own now. She was vibrating from it.

"You want to hurt the Dursleys, punish them because they hurt me, well guess what, you're hurting me too, and far worse than anything they've ever done. I'm suffering because of you."

She bared her teeth, the urge to bury them in his throat lashing at her spine. She ground them together instead, the scrape straining her jaw. Her next sentence came in a hiss.

"So tell me, Lord Voldemort—" and there was that tone, derisive, mocking, Lily's tone, used sooner than planned— "what's the difference?"

A glint, and then a whip of movement. The silver chain snapped at her, wrapping around her torso, trapping her arms against her sides. In the same movement, it jerked her forward. She tumbled into Voldemort's lap. In a flash, his hand gripped her face. His nails dug into the flesh of her cheeks as he forcibly tilted her head up.

"The difference is that you're mine," he hissed, bending down until their faces were inches apart.

"No."

She had said a lot of no's in her life. That one had the most weight behind it. And then she looked Voldemort right in the eyes, and to make sure he would hear and fully grasp the significance of what she said next, she said it in Parseltongue.

"Never."

His rage hit her, pulsing in her scar. She'd been ready for it. What she hadn't been ready for was the shocking amount of lust there was as well. Specifically, lust at the fact that she'd spoken in Parseltongue. The simmering fire of his desire had roared to life, and like a venomous twin, it throbbed around his anger, infecting it.

"Never? Oh, how wrong you are, my dear..."

He smiled, without warmth, without mercy, and Harrie knew she was fucked. The chain squeezed her, once, like a large hand closing around all of her. She was thrown onto the bed, landed on her back, her breath leaving her in a harsh exhale.

Voldemort crawled on top of her, still smiling.

"It is not a matter of opinion. It has already been decided. It is fact, my Horcrux."

"Never, never."

He brushed a finger against her scar, tenderly. Lust flared between them, crackling across the bond, sinking under Harrie's skin, boiling in her veins, an incandescent wanting that set her aflame. She gasped, tried to focus on the rage, his, hers. She could handle rage. She wanted rage from him, or pain. Not this.

Not raw desire, lancing in her cunt, flowing lava-hot through her system.

With a groan, she turned her head away. His finger stayed on her scar, prickling at the skin, tracing the shape of the lightning bolt.

"You cannot escape. You could run to the ends of the Earth, and still we would be one."

"I won't run. I'll kill you."

She hadn't meant to reply in Parseltongue. It had slipped out of her reflexively, an answer to his hisses, to his snake tongue that would not leave her alone. A mistake. The lust flared to an unbearable acuity for a second, a devastating wave of heat rolling through her sex, and she was convinced she was coming before it lessened to a heady throb, still too much.

She felt Voldemort's smile, hovering there above her, like a brand he would press into her flesh.

"I cannot wait for you to try," he said, the sibilants consonants of Parseltongue filling the air between them, slithering over her skin like another chain.

He Vanished her clothes. All of them, gone. Cool air licked at her skin, a shiver crawling down her spine. The silver chain adjusted, coiling around her legs, her arms, shifting over her torso. It secured her arms above her head, forced her to spread her legs, slid under her breasts and just above them, perversely highlighting her curves.

Voldemort leaned back.

"Such a prize," he said, his gaze roaming heavily over her.

"You're only proving my point," she said, and she shoved her rage toward him like the thrust of a weapon, hoping to hurt him.

It had no effect as far as she could tell. Another wave of searing desire hit her, and she gasped, at how wrong it all was, at how right it felt on a purely physical level.

"I will drown you in pleasure. "

He immediately made good on his promise, lowering his mouth to her breasts and using his tongue. Her body went rigid at the hot, wet contact, her pulse leaping to her throat. Her breasts were especially sensitive on the first two days of her period, and every motion of Voldemort's tongue, every lick and every flick, it all reverberated directly in her cunt.

He focused on her nipples, teasing the stiffened peaks, drawing them into the heat of his mouth, shifting from one to the other. While he licked at one breast, he fondled the other, his palm kneading and stroking expertly, mirroring what he was doing with his tongue. Harrie squirmed, helplessly, scorching lust burning in her breasts, between her legs, half of it hers, half from Voldemort. He was so aroused. She could feel it, a rapt hunger poised to devour her, a thing with fangs and claws, ravenous.

A soft, shuddering keen left her lips, her hands clenching above her head, her thighs trembling, trying to close. The silver chain tightened, pinning her in place, keeping her still for Voldemort, who emitted a low chuckle against her skin. He redoubled his efforts, looking at her as he wickedly flicked the tip of this tongue over her nipple, before applying wet suction to it. She bit down on her tongue, squeezing her eyes shut, squirmed again, hoping to alleviate the growing need, the tightening knot in her core, gulping in the heated air.

It was just his mouth. His mouth and one hand on her breasts, and he wasn't touching her anywhere else, and it was enough.

It was pleasure, pleasure, pleasure. As promised.

She drew in rattling breaths, approaching the exquisite edge of a brilliant climax despite all her attempts at resisting it. Her muscles tensed, something fluttering deep in her core, she gasped and wheezed, guttural noises leaving her, and she couldn't stop it, she couldn't—

Teeth, scraping against her raw, overstimulated nipple.

She flinched as she came, body shaking and spasming, clawing at the bed sheets, loud, long moans streaming out of her mouth. The heat was overwhelming, the orgasm surprisingly violent considering its source. She strained, breathless, and would have thrashed around if not for the chain, which kept her limbs pinned down.

God, it was too much.

She was still coming when Voldemort sank his cock inside her. He did it in one steady thrust, seating himself inside her clenching channel, and the sudden friction had her flinching again, sending more orgasmic shivers through her body. She was stretched full, aching pressure against every sensitive inch of her inner walls, so much, so much.

A hand grasped her chin.

"Look at me."

Her eyelids fluttered. Tears leaked down the sides of her face. She met the red gaze, closed her open mouth, cutting off the little whines that were spilling out. His thumb stroked her lips, a gentle gesture. He wasn't moving, poised above her, sheathed to the root inside her.

"You have beautiful eyes, Harrie," he said.

He gave a slow thrust, forcing a keen from her as the largeness of him ignited every nerve ending down there.

"You are an exquisite creature."

Another thrust, so deep. She inhaled sharply through her nose, her mind rebelling against how he felt in her. She wasn't sure if it was because she was on her period or because of the bond, but all the sensations were heightened, slamming into her brain with startling force. And that was with him going slow, leaving long seconds between his thrusts. She dreaded the moment that would change.

"You should have been told just how exquisite you are, every day of your life."

He kept moving slowly, looking into her eyes. She looked back, her body battered by piercing pleasure.

"And now that you are mine, I will say it."

He changed his angle on the next thrust, and his pelvis ground against her clit, jolting her with a merciless bolt of heat.

"I will make you feel it."

The pressure on her clit didn't relent. He moved with purpose, focused, insistent, slowly upping his pace to something faster. The sounds their bodies made were particularly obscene. His cock was a dagger he kept plunging into her, tormenting her with pleasure even as he praised her.

"You will get what you deserve, Harrie."

And what did she deserve? To be raped daily, and forced to enjoy it? To be treated like an extension of Voldemort, like she wasn't even her own person? To be chained, metaphorically or otherwise?

She tried to voice a protest, but when she opened her mouth, all that got out were whimpering groans, to the tempo of Voldemort's hips, so she closed it again, taking shuddering breaths through her nose.

"And you will accept it," Voldemort said, leaning down until his lips brushed hers.

Was he going to kiss her? A shot of panicked adrenaline coursed through her, quickly overshadowed by that growing ball of pressure in her core that threatened to burst at any moment. His fingers grasped her chin tighter. He drove faster into her, harder, and ecstasy followed, an acute tide of it, bearing Harrie ever higher. It felt like drowning, like burning, like she would cease to exist altogether once she would hit that pinnacle.

"Look at me when you come."

She did. She looked into the red eyes, and she came, body tensing to an unbearable degree, forcibly dragged over the edge of another orgasm. Her cunt spasmed, her thighs shaking from the intensity of the release, the world narrowing down to wrenching pulses of heat, each one jolting her from the inside out. A series of breathless squeaks streamed from her open mouth, sounding pleading and tortured and pathetic.

Then more noises, cut-off gasps, ragged, desperate, as Voldemort switched to pounding thrusts, throwing her right into overstimulation. His face hovered inches from hers, the serpentine features twisted in a smirk, aggressive and edged with viciousness. He drove into her with that same ferocity, pushing in to the base of him every time, tormenting the raw edges of her nerves.

She gasped and jerked, and could do nothing else. She had come down from her orgasm, but Voldemort wasn't stopping. Bliss was beating down upon her, radiating from that inflamed center between her legs, where everything was quivering. Her hands clenched, grasping at the sheets above her head. Her muscles strained, hurting from how tense they were. And there, in that mess of sensations, she also felt Voldemort's pleasure, like a white-hot needle piercing through her own perceptions.

It was impossible to get away from him. Not physically, not mentally.

He was planted deep inside her, and no amount of struggling would dislodge him.

"You're mine, Harrie," he said, raw, guttural.

He licked along her jaw, his tongue flicking there hotly, then slithering down to the hollow of her throat. Another searing point of contact. His tongue, his cock, the heat of him. He was still wearing all his clothes, and she hoped it would never be otherwise, that he would never be naked with her, in bed.

"Say it," he hissed, rolling his hips in a slow, deep thrust.

She choked, her throat spasming under his tongue, impossible pleasure burning up her spine. Too—fucking—much.

"Say it, Harrie. "

More thrusts, a series of brutal ones that would have had her howling if she had had the breath for it. Instead she whined continuously, low animal noises that sounded like wordless pleas. They weren't. They weren't, she wasn't begging.

Voldemort asked again, and again, and say it, Harrie, say it, you're mine, and she couldn't form any coherent thoughts. How could she, when she was on fire? The muscles in her abdomen and thighs were burning, strained taut taut taut, the silver chain was molten metal against her skin, every gasp of air she inhaled scalded her lungs, and she was speared open.

Filled, and filled, and filled.

He was breathing raggedly too, and his Parseltongue got simpler and sharper, until eventually he was whispering mine, mine, mine against her throat. The rhythm of his hips increased to such a harsh tempo her entire body ached from it. His cock kept rubbing against a spot deep in her core, something swollen, needy, pulling too tight, like it wasn't meant to be stimulated that much, couldn't handle the strain.

"No," she finally managed, some croaking protest, and she didn't care if it was in Parseltongue, at least she'd said it.

But on his next thrust, traitorously, her hips bucked into his, seeking out that radiant pleasure. And then once more, and she crested again, high, every single muscle going rigid as she was hollowed out by bliss. She lost her grip on that No, hissed through her teeth, not Parseltongue anymore, simply tension being released, and what a glorious release it was.

As she spasmed through it, Voldemort shuddered above her. His hips drove forward with sudden urgency, slamming into her, once, twice, and then a third, final time. He hissed low against her throat, his teeth nipping at her skin while he rode out his orgasm. She felt the rush of pleasure, his pleasure, another needle driven into her brain, planted there by the hammering force of the bond. Her gasp of surprise made her body jerk, her hips twitching into his. She moaned next, but that sound of protest stayed stuck halfway in her throat.

The pleasure ebbed. Her muscles went lax, and the silver chain, too, slackened. Voldemort sagged against her, breathing hard. Curiously, he stayed there, his body heavy over hers, his mouth still at her throat. He had never done that before. He always got off her swiftly once he had come.

She waited, unsure of what she should do. His breath was hot against her throat, tickling her. Languid warmth cocooned her body, along with a sense of deep satisfaction. Both came from him. She didn't sense any anger. It could have been there, lying behind the pleasant torpor. She could have checked, but to do so she would have had to reach toward him on her own, and she didn't want to do that.

So she waited.

After perhaps a minute—and it felt so long, an entire minute trapped under him, it felt like a lifetime—he shifted, lifting his head.

"That was your body speaking the truth," he said, looking her in the eyes. "I will have your mouth, in time."

"Why does it matter to you so much? Isn't your opinion the only important one?"

"No at all, my apprentice. I value your input."

He said it playfully, with a glint in his eyes. Purposefully jerking her metaphorical chain. The actual chain fell off her as Voldemort leaned back on his haunches, still halfway on her. There was a snap of magic, and suddenly she was clothed in her pyjamas, while she recognized the tingling sensation of a Scourgify applied to her body. The tears that were clinging to her eyelashes vanished, as did the messy wetness between her legs.

Voldemort gave her an appraising look, then moved to his side of the bed and settled there comfortably. She grabbed the silver chain, now lax and much shorter, and threw it off the mattress, then sat up. Her body felt too light, her muscles too sore. So much for her period being a deterrent to Voldemort. He hadn't cared at all.

She exhaled deeply, one shuddering sigh.

"Did you fuck your other apprentice, too?"

"No."

Some vague amusement traveled across their bond. She snapped her mind shut. Occluding didn't work well when he was this close, and especially not since they had just shared memories, but she tried.

"Who was it?" she said.

It was a safer conversation topic than the previous one. She'd been careless, allowing her anger to break through. It was still there, festering inside her, and she wanted to scream at Voldemort that he didn't own her, that nothing he did to her was justified just because she had half of his goddamn soul inside her, but she had seen where that path led.

You're mine and I'll make you feel it.

An echo of his thoughts. Sense memory. Had he said that while he was fucking her? Had he thought it instead?

"It's not a secret, Harrie. The one person I trusted most among my followers."

"Snape?"

"I saw potential in him. A half-blood, like myself, who hated his father, like myself. And his intent was genuine, at first. When he joined me, he believed in our cause." He cast her a glance. "It was only because of your mother that he turned against me. Because, in the end, he was suffering from the same weakness as you, my dear."

"How can you call it a weakness when it's exactly what allowed him to work as a spy all these years? To deceive you?"

"Love was the catalyst for his actions, not the reason Severus deceived me for so long. And love got him killed. He could have told me he wasn't the master of the Elder Wand. There was no need for him to die. He made that choice, Harrie. He made it for you, so you'd have a chance when you would face me. In the moment where it mattered most, he allowed weakness to guide his hand."

Harrie lied back against the pillow, looking at the green drapes above her head.

"Do you regret it?"

"I regret killing him so swiftly, now that I know of his betrayal. He deserved an agony matching the breadth of his deception. Seventeen years of exquisite pain..."

It felt like coldness again. Whenever he thought about revenge, about inflicting pain, she got icy, keen, cold intent. She retreated further into her own mind, throwing up her shields, connecting to her inner warmth. She didn't want that cold infecting her. Didn't want it seeping into her thoughts.

We won't let him, came a voice from deep down. He cannot change us. We do not bow to him.

Without knowing why, she thought of the fire from her dreams, of its warmth. When Voldemort turned off the light, she kept thinking of it.

Sleep was quick to come.

She dreamed of the forest again. She walked through it alone, and came upon the clearing. In its center, the fire burned, bright and clear. There was a man silhouetted against the flames, with his back to her. At her approach, he turned toward her.

She looked upon Voldemort, the same Voldemort as the one from the memory with her parents. Thick brown hair, slit nostrils, scaly face.

Except...

Green eyes.

"Hello, Harrie."

He smiled, slow, warm.

"It was high time we met properly, don't you agree?"

Chapter Text

Harrie stared into the green eyes of Voldemort. The wrong color. The right color?

Behind him, the fire burned, blazing orange-yellow against the night. Beyond the clearing, the forest was silent and still. And in here, just the two of them, facing each other.

He looked so much like the Voldemort she'd seen in his memory. So different from the current Voldemort. The light from the fire highlighted the scales on his face, making them glisten, giving the impression that they were moving on their own. She should have been repulsed, but... but he was still smiling, and it was a smile that didn't belong on Voldemort's face. Something genuinely warm, something happy, something... something so familiar. It was her smile, just like it was her eyes.

"We have a lot to talk about, don't we, Harrie?"

He didn't sound like his current self either. Nor did he sound like the Voldemort from the memory. He still had that peculiar way of shaping the syllables, the one that made her think of Parseltongue, but his tone lacked the distinct coldness of Voldemort. It matched his smile.

"You're the Horcrux," Harrie said.

"I would prefer if you didn't call me that."

"Why wouldn't I? That's what you are."

The part of Voldemort that lived inside her, and he had her eyes and her smile. She felt a bit sick at the idea.

"At first," he said, with a tilt of his head. "Now I'm much more."

The arrogance was pure Voldemort, at least.

"You're not. You're a parasite, and you've no right to be here. Not in my soul, and not in my dreams either. Get the fuck out."

His smile vanished, replaced by a serious expression.

"I would love to."

"Excuse me?"

"Do you think I am happy with my current circumstances, Harrie? Trapped within you, living as a mere passenger? I wasn't even awake until very recently. I would love nothing more than to leave your body. Our interests are aligned."

Harrie couldn't believe what she was hearing. This had to be a trick. He was lying, he had to be. Perhaps he wasn't even real. Perhaps this was Voldemort playing a game, for whatever reason.

"Was this you every time?" she asked. "All the other dreams?"

"I was... there. Not always in plain sight."

"Why did you hide? Why pretend to be..." She hesitated on how to phrase it. The English language lacked the nuance required to express the subtleties of Dark Lords and human Horcruxes. "...the other you?"

"It was easier to deceive you at the time. Now that you've seen my past self, I was confident I could reveal myself to you."

She stared at him, trying to read him. Probably a useless effort. This was a dream, or some sort of shared mindscape, and he'd proven he could look like anything he wanted. He returned her gaze, allowing the scrutiny. It felt so odd, seeing her eyes on his face. Like looking into a distorted mirror.

"Why the forest? Why the fire?"

"It feels right. Doesn't it?"

He sounded like he was looking for her approval. Like he wasn't sure. Voldemort had never sounded like that.

"It does," Harrie agreed, unable to explain why.

Her gaze flicked to the fire behind him. It was... familiar. Powerful. A force that could comfort or hurt, depending on how it was wielded. It burned bright at the center of the dark forest, like a beacon.

"Is this a dream, or are we inside my mind?"

"Both. Neither. This is our own way of communicating. There is no word for it. There has never been anything like us before."

"Don't sound so fucking proud."

"We should be, Harrie. We are something wholly unique."

She snorted.

"I should be proud that my soul was used to house half of yours? That I would, how did you put it, ah yes, be nothing without you?"

"You know that's not true. You are an exceptional witch, and I have nothing to do with it."

A chuckle escaped her, low, nearly Parseltongue. Behind Voldemort, the fire gave a loud crack, the flames briefly flaring higher.

"Oh, is that how you're going to play it? Good cop, bad cop? Fuck off."

She turned away from him. He caught her wrist, immediately let go of it when she yanked her arm away.

"I am not him," he growled, and that made Harrie pause, because that, too, was familiar. That growl, twined with a protest.

She stared him down, weighing her options.

"How can I believe anything you say? How do I know you're truly the Horcrux?"

"There's a way to prove it. You'll like it."

"What?"

"Punch me."

Well, if he asked. She unleashed her best right hook at his jaw. It was utterly satisfying to see his head snap back, to hear his small inhaled gasp, to feel her fist connect and inflict pain. Less satisfying to feel that same pain bloom across her nerves, feel the impact of her own punch, and hear her own gasp of surprise.

Stepping back, she nursed her jaw. It hadn't felt like sharing sensations with Voldemort, where she could tell it came from him. There was no sense of a bond. It had felt like punching herself.

"You see," he said, in a slightly breathless voice. "Everything that is done to you is done to me, and vice-versa."

She met his green eyes, considering his words. If he was, as Voldemort had said, in her soul... then how intertwined were they, exactly?

"I am not him," he said again.

"You're not me either."

He tilted his head, his slit nostrils flaring, and that reminded her of Voldemort so much she almost got whiplash.

"We started off on the wrong foot," he said. "Let's try this again."

He stuck his hand out.

"Hello, Harrie Potter. You can call me Riddle."

She looked at the offered hand as if it were a venomous snake.

"Okay, you're not current Voldemort. You still killed my parents. You're still an arrogant maniac bent on a hateful crusade against all things Muggle."

"I am more than that," he said softly.

She almost punched him again.

"Fine. You're more. What do you want from me?"

He lowered his hand, with hesitation, as if he was still hoping she would shake it.

"I want what you want. To be free of you. And for now, as long as our souls are merged, I want our continued survival. I want us to thrive." His lips pursed, something harsh flickering in his gaze. "This subjugation is humiliating."

"Try violation. Try horrifying. Don't pretend we're equal in this. You have no idea—"

She cut herself off, her hand twitching.

"Everything that is done to you is done to me," he repeated, his gaze trailing to her hand, and back up, his tone echoing her frustration. "More to the point, I can help you. I know him."

"You expect me to trust you?"

"So far, following my advice hasn't led you astray."

"I didn't."

"Yes, you did. You didn't realize it, because as we are now, your thoughts are my thoughts, and—"

"Vice-fucking-versa. Let's go back to you leaving my body. How do we make it happen? Voldemort said it wasn't possible."

"It must be," Riddle said, with such conviction Harrie felt it in the air between them, vibrating. "He has no interest in looking into it, but there must be a way. We will need more information. There are very few resources on Horcruxes, and none, so far as I know, regarding human Horcruxes. When I was researching the subject, I found the most promising texts in Merlin's Repository."

"Merlin's...?"

"The world's largest magical library, in Broceliande forest. You'll need to convince Voldemort to let you go there."

"Convince," Harrie said, feeling out what the word entailed.

"Play the apprentice. Demonstrate your thirst for knowledge. Bargain." A sneer flitted over Riddle's face. "It's frankly pathetic how much influence you have over him."

"It's not enough. How do I gain more?"

"You know how."

Unfortunately, she did. Her one lever with Voldemort was sex.

"And if I don't want to do that?"

"Then nothing will change. He will continue to use you as he wishes."

"He'll use me anyway!" she shouted, a sudden flare of rage burning in her chest.

The fire behind Riddle burned higher, crackling and spitting. Harrie took a calming breath, and a step back from Riddle. He looked at her in silence. Looked at her so differently from Voldemort. There was no lust. No coveting greed. His gaze was contemplative and sharp.

"How am I supposed to deceive him?" she said. "He's expecting me to betray him. He'll never trust me."

"Of course not. This isn't about trust. This is about the lure of something he can't resist. As for the betrayal, do it. Do it early, and do it clearly. A signal that you won't be broken. Endure the punishment, and show him more respect afterwards."

She shook her head.

"He'll see everything in my mind. He'll see you."

"He won't. I am shielding all our interactions from him."

Harrie gave him a suspicious look. Voldemort didn't usually lie, but she wasn't dealing with standard Voldemort here.

"You can do that?"

"I am a Master Occlumens. Our secret will remain so. Besides, Voldemort is weaker than I am."

"Doesn't feel that way."

"He is," Riddle insisted, a touch of arrogant impatience in his tone. "He lost his original body, and the one he currently inhabits is a simulacrum born of dark magic. The base was weak. He tried to strengthen it by using your blood, but ultimately it can never match a real, natural body."

"What were you doing to yours that you ended up looking like that?"

"I improved upon my body. Made it sturdier, stronger, capable of channeling more magic. The physical manifestations of that transformation were useful as well."

"I didn't help you at all when you took your own Avada to the face," she said with a smile.

He smiled back, which looked so strange on his serpentine face.

"It was my own magic, ripping me apart. Nothing else would have been strong enough to shatter me as it did."

Singing his own praises. Now that was more familiar terrain.

"Assuming I believe all that," she said, "can you shield more than our interactions? If I need to hide secrets from him, can you help?"

"I could. I would expect a favor in return."

"I'll do you a favor by not punching you right now, how's that?"

"I appreciate it, Harrie, but if this alliance is to work, we will both have to make concessions. We will need to learn from each other."

She wasn't opposed to an alliance with him. She needed any ally she could get, and he knew himself very well, could be a source of invaluable insight. She was, however, surprised he would make the offer.

"You're aware I want you dead," she said, surveying his face.

"No, you want him dead."

"Even if I ignore that you're still Voldemort, the problem lies in your very nature. You're tethering him to life. I can't kill him without killing you."

"For now. That's why we need to do some research. Any hostility between us should be postponed to after he's dead, don't you agree? We call a truce for now."

"You can see everything when I'm awake?"

"See everything, hear every thought."

No privacy at all. Harrie humphed.

"Why doesn't it work both ways? Why can't I hear your thoughts?"

"An idiosyncrasy of our particular situation, I would wager. Though we are intertwined on the deepest level possible, our souls merged, you are the vessel and I the passenger. You're in control, while I can only watch."

"How long have you been awake?"

"Since the forest. Before, I was... slumbering. Not truly conscious, but I still had some sense of what you were going through. Like a dream. A deeply interesting one," he added, a small smile ticking at the corner of his lips. "So. Truce?"

He offered his hand again. Harrie looked at it.

"I need to think about this," she said.

"Not really. You've already decided. Now you need time to rationalize the answer to yourself, because you don't like it."

Well, fuck.

"Take that time," Riddle continued, and Harrie appreciated that he wasn't smiling, or mocking her, or even judging. "Tell me when you're ready."

She woke to light, her eyelids fluttering. The dream lingered at the back of her mind, barely there unless she focused on it, like a spider's web that light would reveal at a certain angle.

Reflexively, she looked left, toward Voldemort. She found scarlet eyes and the ageless serpentine face, where the scales were much less apparent, and she found a kind of tranquil arrogance that Riddle lacked, or at least didn't flaunt as much as Voldemort did.

"Good morning, Harrie. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes," she said cautiously.

She was tense, expecting another assault. He had ravaged her last night, had been more possessive and more vicious in the wake of her protest that she wasn't his. She felt sore, and the effect of the potion that alleviated her period pains was waning. She needed another dose.

"Good." His gaze raked down the length of her body, and she felt it on her skin, even under the blanket. "Are you ready for another day as my apprentice?"

"Yes. Will there be another lesson?"

"Not today," he replied as he left the bed.

She watched him warily. He didn't approach her.

"Why not?"

"We have time, Harrie. Or are you that impatient to delve into the dark arts?"

"I am," she said. "I'm eager to learn more."

He shot her an approving look as he put on his robes.

"Your curiosity will be satisfied in time. For today, familiarize yourself with the manor. Have a chat with Draco."

"All right," she said, already anticipating how awkward that was going to be. "And..."

She hesitated, unsure of her request. Voldemort seemed in a relatively good mood this morning, but the events of last night called her to prudence. She couldn't lose her temper like that again. Couldn't let her rage set fire to his lust and be met with a hammering of his desire, so brutal it chafed her raw.

"Speak your mind," he said, and it was just another kind of order.

"You said we would talk about me seeing my friends."

She had completely forgotten about it last night.

"Ah yes, your friends. Ask me again tonight."

Harrie grimaced. Anything he wanted to discuss in the evening had the risk of being entwined with sex.

"Can't we talk about it now?"

A hungry smile spread on his face as he considered her.

"So eager to negotiate, my dear. Was last night not enough? Did I leave you wanting?"

The way he emphasized the last word had her spine crawling.

"No. It was enough. It was more than enough. We'll talk about it tonight."

"So we shall," he crooned, with such anticipation she could feel it, a bright, living thing skating across her skin.

She waited until he had left to get out of bed. She took her potion, then a quick bath, ruminating on the night's revelation.

An alliance. With the Horcrux inside her own soul. It was the best path forward, and actually the best ally she could have asked for, if she ignored the fact that she absolutely couldn't trust him. And he was there anyway, why shouldn't he be of use? He could have chosen to be very disruptive to her, could have chosen to make her life more of a living hell. Yet he'd done the opposite.

We do not bow, ah. Not even to himself.

Besides, it wasn't like she could plot against him. He knew what she was thinking.

Are you there now? she thought, experimentally.

I am.

I felt like an echo of her own thought, coming from inside herself.

You must be so bored, she remarked.

Oh, immensely. But I'm also very patient.

She washed herself, without caring that the Horcrux was seeing her naked. He had seen worse. He had seen everything, and he knew every thought in her head, so at this point modesty was a distant mirage.

She spent the morning outside. The weather was grayer today, and shortly before eleven there was some brief rain, but she stayed out, flying around on her broom. The rose garden remained in the same state as the day before, a ruin with a few surviving flowers. For a time, she sat near the destroyed bushes and let her magic flow from her, adding it to the background thrum.

Neville had once explained to her that the greatest botanical wizards and witches synchronized their magic to the plants they tended to. That wasn't what she was doing—she would have had no idea of where to start—and she didn't even know if her magic would make a difference at all, but still, she spent some time with the roses, her magic slowly seeping out of her.

She had lunch in the damp grass, and used a wandless charm afterwards to dry herself. That was about the only magic she could manage without her wand. Cleaning spells. Maybe some levitation charms if the target wasn't too heavy.

She asked Wimsy where Draco's room was, and headed there, on the second floor, in the wing opposite Voldemort's room. She knocked a first time, got no response. He opened the door after her second attempt.

"Potter," he said, his lips curling in apparent annoyance. "What do you want?"

"Can we talk?"

His lips curled further, until it looked like he had bitten down on something foul-tasting. He stepped out into the corridor, closing the door behind him, and leveled an expectant look at her.

"I'm listening."

"I mean really talk, Malfoy. We're in this together now."

His expression didn't change.

"What do you want to talk about?" he said reluctantly.

"Tell me about the manor."

She figured there was a lot to tell, and that would qualify as a conversation in Voldemort's eyes. Draco seemed to follow her train of thought. He gave one terse nod, his face shifting to a If I must kind of resignation, and he proceeded to give her a tour.

Malfoy Manor, Harrie learned, had been built in the time of William the Conqueror. Draco's ancestor, Armand Malfoy, had been given the land for services rendered to the crown, and had built the manor with the intention that it would serve as the Malfoy family's seat of power. Since then, the house and the surrounding lands had been passed down from father to son.

Draco spoke in cultured tones as he recounted his family's rich history, and Harrie heard pride in his voice—wounded pride, but it was there. They walked the length of the house, both wings, going over all three floors. There were numerous unused bedrooms, several offices, including Lucius' personal one which had a Pensieve, a library which would have made Hermione jump for joy, a potions lab which looked resolutely modern, and the dueling room, which had been built by Draco's paternal grandfather, Abraxas, and was in Harrie's eyes the best example of the Malfoys' pride.

"Did you spend a lot of time in there?" she asked.

"Countless hours. Father hired tutors every summer so I would receive formal training in dueling, since our DADA teachers were almost all useless."

"Almost, yeah. Barty Crouch was surprisingly competent for an undercover Death Eater, and Snape was adequate."

Draco gave her an odd look.

"I never thought I'd see you praise Snape, and that's the second time you're doing it," he said.

She shrugged, aware that there probably should have been more hatred in the way she said his name. But she had praised Barty Crouch in the same sentence, so it wasn't improbable that she would have praised Snape too, even she had still believed him to be a traitor to the Light, instead of the brilliant triple spy he'd been all along.

"He'd be rolling in his grave if he could hear me," she said. "Don't get me wrong, I hate that arsehole of a traitor. But he did teach me some things. I suppose one can learn from even the worst people."

They finished the tour. Some doors Draco skipped without saying anything. One was probably his parents' bedroom, the others, Harrie wasn't sure.

He led her into the gardens, said nothing about the roses either. He talked a bit about the wards when Harrie asked how old they were, told her they dated back to the same time as the manor, and that every Malfoy heir added his magic to them once they came of age.

"So your magic is in there somewhere," Harrie said, her hand skimming the ward near the entrance gate, her fingers prickling from the thrum of magic.

"Don't even try it, Potter," he said, and she saw him tense, as if he thought she was going to attack him right there, attempt to steal his wand and try and dismantle the wards.

"Don't worry, Malfoy. I'm not running."

He didn't look convinced, and when they moved toward the hedge maze, he watched her warily. They entered the maze, Draco guiding her through it until they reached the center, in less than five minutes.

"It was planted by my grandfather Abraxas," Draco said. "As a child, I used to get lost in there all the time. I once spent an entire night wandering, utterly incapable of finding the exit."

"An entire night? And your parents let it happen?"

"The same happened to Father. It's a rite of passage. Find your way out of the maze before dawn."

"How old were you?"

"Six."

"Jesus."

Draco's nose scrunched up in disapproval.

"Don't say that in front of the Dark Lord. No Muggle swearing at all."

"Thanks for the reminder. Wouldn't want to get Crucioed again."

There was, perhaps, a flash of guilt on his face, a brief tightening of his features and a shadow over his eyes, gone before Harrie could be sure it had been there at all, and then he gave her the haughty Malfoy stare.

"The Dark Lord doesn't exact unjust punishment," he said. "Every Crucio is deserved."

"I'd rather you shut up if you're planning on saying such bullshit."

He looked uncomfortable, avoiding Harrie's gaze.

"We're not at school anymore, Potter," he said, his eyes set on the gurgling fountain. "You can't badmouth him behind his back and expect there'll be no consequences. He'll see it. He sees everything."

"What is he, evil Santa?"

Draco didn't laugh.

"How often does he read your mind?" she asked.

"About once a month." He looked at her again, eyes flitting over her face. "Hasn't he read yours already?"

"He has. He looked for... things of interest to him. He can't really punish me for my thoughts. If he did, I'd never leave the bed."

Even more uncomfortable, now. Harrie cleared her throat, sat at the edge of the fountain, dipping a hand into the cool water.

"Aren't there supposed to be white peacocks around?"

"They're all gone," Draco said, with a twitch of his shoulders that didn't look deliberate. "It's an ill omen for the family. There have always been white peacocks on the grounds, ever since the foundation of the manor."

"Where did they go? Where they killed? Chased away?"

"I don't know, Potter, it's not like they left a letter. One morning, they just... they weren't there."

"There's still your Patronus," Harrie said, directing a smile at him.

She was trying to cheer up Draco Malfoy. What improbable event would happen next? Harrie's life had never been predictable, but lately it had gone completely off any rails.

"It's not a peacock," he said, his face hardening, gray eyes looking at anything but her.

"Don't tell me it's a ferret."

That got her no reaction at all.

"All right, that wasn't funny," she acknowledged, throwing her head back to stare at the sky.

It was such a beautiful, beautiful day. For a time, she sat in the shadows of the hedge maze with Draco, neither of them saying anything. She peered at the wispy clouds above, sometimes sneaking glances toward Draco. When in a foul mood, both Malfoy men clenched their jaw, their eyes going flinty.

She didn't really hate Draco anymore. Their school rivalry seemed so far removed from her current situation, so petty compared to Voldemort. And while Draco had taken the Dark Mark, he hadn't been able to kill Dumbledore. He'd frozen, and Snape had stepped in. He wasn't a killer. Right now, he didn't even look like much of an arsehole. He just looked miserable, and angry.

"I think you can cast it," she said, aiming for an encouraging tone.

"Death Eaters don't cast the Patronus. It's weak magic. It's not useful."

"Snape did. Are you calling him weak?"

"He's dead," Draco said, with a shrug. He set a hand on his left forearm, squeezing it. "And I never saw him cast a Patronus," he added, looking at Harrie like he thought she was lying.

"I did, once."

She couldn't give him more details. It was a well-known fact that the Order of the Phoenix members communicated via Patronus, and if Draco started suspecting that Snape had been anything but a loyal Death Eater, he'd be in real danger.

"What was it?"

"A bat."

The lie felt like a blow against Snape's memory, but Draco would never have believed it was a doe, or he would have drawn a really wrong conclusion, since hers was also a doe, and he knew that.

"Great big bat," he snorted.

"Yeah."

Draco shifted, setting his hand back on the stone ledge.

"The Dark Mark doesn't stop you from casting your Patronus," Harrie said. "So, is it a dragon?"

"Oh yes, very clever Potter. Draco, dragon. Couldn't possibly be anything else."

"A wolf."

"You're terrible at this."

"Show me, then," she challenged.

A sigh filtered through his teeth. He unclenched his jaw, gave her a long look.

"Step back, Potter."

"Seriously? I'm not going to attack you to try and steal your wand. Been there, done that."

He glowered at her until she moved away, near one of the hedges, putting a few yards between them.

"There," she said. "Satisfied, Malfoy?"

"If you try anything, I'll Stun you."

She rolled her eyes. He reached into his robes, pulled out his wand, and, keeping his eyes on her, said the incantation in a loud voice.

"Expecto Patronum!"

A fine silver mist sputtered from his wand, surrounding him, catching the droplets sprayed from the fountain and making them radiate light. The non-corporeal Patronus hung around Draco like a glittering shroud, before dissipating after a few seconds.

"You're not supposed to sound angry when you say it," Harrie pointed out.

His face pinched with frustration, he lowered his wand, tapping it against his thigh.

"It's not working," he said, stubbornly, like she had bullied him into this and he resented it all.

"Try it with another memory."

"I don't have a better one," he ground out.

"Not better, just... something that's more thematic to our current problems. I used to think of the first time I flew on a broom for my Patronus, but right now, I'd think of moments spent with Hermione and Ron. His last birthday. We celebrated it in our tent."

"My last birthday was not particularly joyful."

"But your parents love you, and you love them. Find a memory that exemplifies that love. Warmth, and family, and trust."

His nose wrinkled. A faraway look crept in his eyes, and he appeared to be elsewhere for a moment. If Harrie had wanted to take his wand away from him, she would have acted now. But she didn't, so she stood still, watching him. He appeared to have made a decision, and lifted his wand again.

"Expecto Patronum."

He said it very differently from that first time, with hope, almost softly. Like it was a wish he made rather than a spell he cast. A silver-tinted animal burst from the end of his wand. A quadruped, with a lithe body, a short, narrow face with a pointed snout, a bushy tail, and gigantic ears.

A fennec.

Harrie thought it very, very cute. She didn't say anything lest she vexed Draco. She imagined he would have rather had a majestic Patronus, like a peacock, or a powerful one, like a dragon. The small fox looked neither majestic nor powerful, and she kind of wanted to pet it.

The animal ran around the length of the fountain, trailing wispy silver light in his wake. He brushed by Harrie, and she felt an echo of the joy he carried, bright and strong. She smiled.

"Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light."

"That sounds like something Dumbledore would say," Draco commented as his fennec bounded to him and nuzzled against his leg.

"He did."

Draco snorted.

"Useless wisdom from a dead man who could have never predicted this," he said with disdain.

The fennec vanished.

"Not even Voldemort predicted this," Harrie said, which made Draco wince, either from the use of his name or the sacrilege of saying Voldemort wasn't omniscient. "I'm sure he talked a lot about killing me during your Death Eater meetings. 'Leave Harrie Potter to me. I'll be the one to kill her'. Right?"

"The Dark Lord changed his plans for the better."

"Oh yes. I'm so very pleased to be here."

Her sarcasm was thicker than lead.

"Are you saying you'd rather be dead?" Draco said. "That doesn't sound very Gryffindor."

"No," she admitted.

A dead Harrie was useless. While she breathed, she could act. She could fight. Dumbledore's plan had been for her to die so the Horcrux would die as well, and then for someone else to kill Voldemort. After a full day of fighting Death Eaters, running around the castle, and seeing so many people die, her friends, one after the other, it had seemed like her only choice left. The one thing that would free everyone else, at the cost of her death.

Their sacrificial lamb, Riddle said from inside her head, with deep disgust.

Now, with her head clear and time to reflect on it, she saw it as it was: a very flawed plan. For a start, she hadn't even been told about it until the very last moment, and it was only because Snape had managed to cling to life for a few more breaths that she had come to know. And then, by the time she walked into the forest, Nagini was still alive, so even with Harrie's Horcrux gone, one remained, and too few people knew about that. How would it have gone? Would Neville have managed to kill the snake? Who would have faced Voldemort? He would have killed more people, that was for certain, or, seeing the snake dead, would have retreated.

"Dumbledore's plan was shite," Harrie said, bluntly.

"The shittiest," Draco agreed. "As if you could ever defeat the Dark Lord one on one. As if anyone could."

"You're right. I could never do this alone."

Draco let out a huff. He stood up, putting his wand away.

"Are you coming, Potter?" he said as he entered one of the many corridors leading away from the center.

"You go on. I'll find my way out."

He gave her one final look, and then departed. She listened to his decreasing footsteps until they faded completely. She stayed for some more time at the center of the maze, thinking about Draco. The fact that he could cast a Patronus was a good sign. Death Eaters couldn't. Voldemort couldn't.

Draco wasn't really a Death Eater. He was just pretending to be one, and the mantle was very ill-fitting.

You can't trust him, Riddle said. He'd rat you out to Voldemort in an instant to save his own skin. He's too scared to be reliable.

Not many reliable people around here.

There's me.

Harrie looked at her reflection in the water. She tried to smile, but it didn't come out right. Could she even summon a Patronus if she had a wand? Or would it fail, and give her nothing but a blanket of misty silver light?

You could, Riddle said. You have so much light inside you.

Is your plan to flatter me until I agree to an alliance?

You've already agreed. You just need to say it.

Yeah, that was the problem with having someone else inside your own soul. They knew everything.

She left the hedge maze, managing to find the exit quickly. She retrieved her broom, and went up for another flying session, a long one where she burned off her energy, going through her Quidditch drills. Would she ever play Quidditch again? Would she ever experience another day where her most pressing concern would be whether or not she managed to catch the Snitch? Once all would be said and done, and Voldemort dead, could she return to this level of carefreeness?

Or would this haunt her?

Her time spent in Voldemort's bed, clinging to her heels, a shadow, thick as molasses, unshakeable? Harrie, changed forever because of him?

No, she told herself. No, I'll leave him behind. He won't darken my days.

It was another couple of hours in the air for Harrie. She was thinking of heading back down when there was a sudden pop, and Wimsy Apparated on her broom. The house elf lost her balance immediately, and Harrie grabbed her, directing her flight with only her lower body.

"It's time for dinner, Miss Potter," Wimsy said, apparently unperturbed by the whole situation.

She weighed less than a Quaffle.

"Thank you, Wimsy."

The house elf smiled and blinked her big eyes at Harrie.

"Miss Potter is flying very high," she commented.

Harrie didn't have the heart to tell her that they weren't high at all, merely level with the roof of the manor.

"Do you want to fly down with me?"

Wimsy looked down, then back at her.

"Yes," she said. "Down."

"Hold on," Harrie instructed, shifting her closer to her chest, freeing one arm to steer her broom.

Wimsy grasped at her clothes, setting her chin on top of Harrie's shoulder. Making sure she was secure, Harrie went for a dive. Quick, sharp, tumbling from the sky on the best broom in existence, and it was fun, it was so fun.

They reached the ground in an instant. Harrie leveled the broom and pulled it to a stop, the exceptional Brake Charms of the model ensuring the motion was smooth. She set Wimsy down. The elf gave her a confused look.

"Wimsy does not understand why Miss Potter likes it."

"We went fast."

"Too fast."

"The wind was whistling in our ears."

"Making too much noise."

"We were headed right for the ground, and then we didn't crash."

"Wimsy thinks Miss Potter might be crazy," the elf said, shaking her head.

"Not the first time someone tells me that," Harrie said with a quick smile.

She went into the house. Voldemort was already there when she walked into the drawing room, discussing something with Lucius.

"...of age now," Voldemort was saying." It is time to think about the future of your house name, Lucius."

"Of course, my Lord."

"Ah, Harrie. How was your day, my dear?"

Such a domestic, banal question. For a crazy instant, Harrie imagined a world where she would answer, "It was wonderful, sweetheart", and went to sit in Voldemort's lap. Lucius would have a heart attack. Possibly Voldemort as well, from being called sweetheart. It wasn't what he wanted. He wanted 'master' and 'lord' and Harrie getting on her knees.

"The usual. How was yours?"

"Progress was made," he said.

"Could you be more vague?"

His eyes flicked to Lucius, who shifted in his seat, perhaps uncomfortably.

"Tell Harrie what you've told me," Voldemort said.

"The Puceys have seen reason and have agreed to join our cause. They've accepted the new regime, and are eager to contribute to the glory of our great enterprise."

Puceys. There had been an Adrian Pucey on the Slytherin Quidditch team, gone by Harrie's sixth year. Decent bloke. He played fair, which was actually rare from a Slytherin.

"Their daughter starts Hogwarts next year," Lucius added.

"She'll be welcomed among her peers and receive the best magical education possible," Voldemort said, a self-satisfied expression on his face. "Such a strong, ancient family. Well-bred, too."

"Quite so," Lucius said, taking a large sip of his glass.

"What about the Muggle-born who were supposed to start next year?" Harrie asked.

"You needn't be worried, Harrie. They'll have their chance. We shall establish a system that will give the Muggle-born a taste of the wizarding world before they can attend Hogwarts. A couple of years spent with a wizarding family, who will educate them about magic, as well as test their abilities and their compatibility with our society. If they're deemed unfit, they will be discarded, cast back among the Muggles."

"Unfit," Harrie said. "At eleven years old."

"You can tell a lot from a child of the adult they will become," Voldemort said. "You were an adorable feral child at eleven, and here you are. Still adorable, and still so feral."

"I can be more feral if you wish. You only have to ask."

"A behavior we'll confine to the bedroom, dearest," he replied, while Lucius looked like he wished to be anywhere else but here.

Voldemort rose from his seat, offering Harrie his arm to escort her to dinner. She complied.

They sat in oppressive silence. Harrie focused on the food, stabbing the tender beans with her fork before shoveling them into her mouth. Draco gave her a sort of reproachful look that left her puzzled until she figured out he didn't like her table manners. Ah! As if she'd care about that. She already had to sit and eat with Voldemort, she wouldn't do it politely as well.

"Did you have a pleasant chat with Harrie, Draco?" Voldemort inquired.

"I did. I told her about the manor's history and gave her a tour."

"Excellent," Voldemort said. "Now, Draco, you've come of age, and it is time to think about perpetuating the Malfoy line. As such, your father made arrangements."

"You will marry Leora Pucey, once she's of age," Lucius said. "It's a good, strong match."

"Yes, Father," Draco said with the air of someone who had been told they had a funeral to attend.

"A toast," Voldemort said, as with a hand gesture he filled everyone's glass with wine. "To the future of House Malfoy."

Don't say that, Riddle advised.

He had a suggestion. Harrie liked it.

"To your future," she said, looking Lucius in the eyes.

His strained smile didn't falter, but she could see the impact of her words in his gaze.

"Do you usually involve yourself in the marriage decisions of your followers?" Harrie casually asked Voldemort when they reached dessert.

"Not usually. But these are crucial times we're living, Harrie, and a united front must be presented. And now that the war is over, we must turn our eyes to the future. I expect there will be many joyous announcements in the coming weeks."

As if it was over. As if now it would all be wedding bells and happily ever afters.

She kept her mouth shut, and nodded in pretend agreement.

Then back to the bedroom it was. Harrie's palms were sweaty, and her mouth felt like cotton. It was time to step into the lion's den. She was fairly sure Voldemort wouldn't broach the subject if she didn't. He had left it alone last night, and it had been her who had put it back on the table this morning. Now he was waiting for her to ask.

So she did.

"Can we talk about my friends now?"

"Certainly. I am prepared to let you see them, Harrie. One hour with both the Weasley boy and the Mudblood."

"What do you want in return?" she asked, even though she had a pretty good idea already.

He stepped closer to her, caught her chin in a gentle hand, brushed his thumb against her lips. Said nothing. There was no need. She swallowed, anxiety battling disgust in a mess of tangled nerves, her heart stuttering in her chest.

"I've never..."

"I don't expect enthusiasm or skill," he said softly, his red eyes flicking between her eyes and her mouth. "Only willingness."

Don't, Riddle said. That's a major card. Use it for something that matters.

But her friends mattered. She wanted to see them, needed to see them.

Fine. Don't make it very good. Leave room for improvement. Make him want more.

Getting blowjob advice from a Horcrux. What a wonderful life Harrie was living.

"Yes," she said to Voldemort.

He smiled, victorious, conquering, and Harrie felt the kick of excitement that spread through him, echoing in the bond. It would get worse. She would feel pleasure from pleasuring him, and she wouldn't be able to stop it.

Can't you stop it? she asked Riddle as Voldemort sat down on the bed.

No.

The word vibrated with anger, with disgust, with absolute helplessness. Strangely, that comforted Harrie a tiny bit. She wasn't alone through this. She had the Horcrux, who hated all of this as much as she did. A companion of misfortune.

"Come here, Harrie."

She stepped closer, stomach roiling, the urge to run battling the urge to bite.

"Get on your knees," Voldemort instructed, each word delivering corrosive poison in Harrie's veins.

When she lowered herself to her knees, his eyes flashed in greedy pleasure, and a pulse of heat rolled through her, languid, smooth as honey. He spread his legs wide, the evidence of his desire tenting the material of his trousers.

"Undo my belt," he murmured.

Her fingers found the leather, worked the belt out of the loop, stayed there, hovering next to the bulge. Voldemort took her hand and pressed it against his clothed cock.

"This is your doing, Harrie. All your doing."

He made her caress him, still through his trousers. Harrie thought of a snake coiled there, red eyes and venom fangs, about to bite her. Unwelcome heat prodded at her lower belly, while Voldemort's erection seemed to harden further beneath her hand.

"Take it out," he hissed, Parseltongue now. "Look at what you do to me."

She slid a hand under his clothes, closed it around the heft of him. Silky, hard, throbbing flesh. Clumsily, she extracted his cock from the fabric, trying not to stroke him. It sprang free eagerly.

She nearly closed her eyes.

She hadn't had the time nor the opportunity to really look at his erect member, nor had she wanted to. And now... now she was seeing everything.

She was seeing too much, she was seeing it all.

It was big and thick, as pale as the rest of him, though the very head of his cock was flushed a darker hue. There were veins running down the length, which seemed to be vaguely pulsing. The size still puzzled her, especially right next to her face like this.

Disgust tightened her throat, solidifying in her chest. Her skin crawled at the thought of doing anything to him with her mouth. It would never fit, anyway.

"Start by giving it a lick," he suggested in a low, rumbling murmur, heavy with lust.

Hesitantly, she did, one quick lick. Voldemort made a gruff noise, a bitten back exhale at the back of his throat.

"Again," he said, and this was time it was an order.

She did it again. Her tongue caught some of the pre-cum leaking from the slit, which made her grimace, both from the taste and the fact that she was licking Voldemort's cum. He sighed, tangled a hand in her hair, petting her.

"Keep licking, dearest."

Was this better or worse than when he was fucking her? She tried to convince herself it was better. She was somewhat in control, giving slow, unenthusiastic licks to his erection, vague embers of pleasure flickering between her thighs. He wasn't holding her down, wasn't forcing his cock inside her. Of course, the worse part was that she was doing this on her own.

Giving him what he wanted.

Think of it as a tactical decision, Riddle said. A chess move.

Some chess move, Harrie thought.

She kept expecting Voldemort to grab her head and thrust his cock in her mouth, but he seemed content to let her lick at him, in awkward, inexperienced motions. His shaft quickly became wet with her saliva. It twitched under her tongue at random moments, like it had a life of its own and was very interested in what her tongue was doing.

"Look at me," Voldemort said, his hand coming up flat against her skull to cradle her head.

She met his red eyes as she slid her tongue against the underside of his cock, in one wide lick. He shuddered, and an echoing shiver of heat pulsed in her cunt.

"Open your mouth and take me in, Harrie."

Half-remembered advice from late nights in the girls' dormitories flitted through her head, when they had discussed such things, safe and warm in their beds, giggling about it. Hold your breath, mind your teeth.

Don't, Riddle said. Let him feel them.

Keeping her eyes on Voldemort, she closed her lips around his cock and eased him into her mouth. She didn't have to do anything on purpose. It just happened, her teeth grazing the hard flesh as she moved her head down, her jaw already straining from the size of him. He hissed, fingers tightening in her hair.

"Careful with your teeth, my dear."

She yearned to do the exact opposite. Biting Voldemort's dick off hadn't been a tactic she had ever considered in all of their confrontations, but the idea was very attractive at the moment. If only it wouldn't have meant dire consequences.

She drew back, glowering at his cock.

"You're too big for this."

He cupped her chin, fingers spanning large and warm at the start of her jaw and at her throat.

"Relax your jaw. Go slow. I'm not asking you to take all of me. Only what you can handle comfortably."

His voice was pitched low, his tone reassuring. He didn't seem angry about the teeth. Through their bond, arousal simmered, flickering in her belly.

"'Comfortably' isn't the right term," she pointed out.

"Have you changed your mind?"

The question wasn't a trick. She knew if she said yes, he wouldn't force her to do this. The whole point of it was that he wanted her willing. He wouldn't get angry if she refused. But he would fuck her, that was for certain. And he wouldn't let her see Ron and Hermione. She had to see this through, regardless of the double-sided disgust that was near choking her, toward him, and toward herself for giving in.

"No," she said. "Haven't changed my mind."

Her tongue darted out to lick the tip of his cock. He groaned, his hand sliding down to her throat, fingers flexing, before releasing her. She took him back inside her mouth. The hot, heavy weight of his erection forced her tongue down, straining her jaw. He rumbled appreciatively as she worked her head up and down, engulfing the first few inches of his cock.

With the repetitive motion came pleasure, needling her, hot and glowing in her cunt. She shifted, trying to find a position where she would feel it less. There didn't seem to be one, and every movement intensified the sensation.

"Let yourself feel it, Harrie. This belongs to you as well. Our shared pleasure, mmmh?"

It grew as the minutes passed, a coiling, tightening pressure, a perfect mirror of Voldemort's state of arousal. He was groaning often now, both hands in Harrie's hair, gripping her. His thighs were tensing at every lick, at every dip of Harrie's head. She was drooling a lot on his cock, and she really was not trying to make it good, but it didn't seem to matter. Voldemort was going to come, and Harrie was pretty sure she would as well.

When she tried to take a break, drawing back, letting his cock fall from her mouth, he wrapped a hand around his erection and began to stroke himself, in lazy pumping motions.

"Again," he said, urging her closer with the hand knotted in her hair. "Take me in your mouth again, and look at me."

She glared at him as her lips glided around his shaft, retreated, glided again. His red gaze burned, lust scorching every part of her body, scalding between her thighs. Her own hands were gripping the fabric of her trousers so hard she could hardly feel them anymore.

This was worse. She was doing this to herself, inflicting that awful pleasure on herself, and Voldemort was enjoying himself immensely, because she was participating, so this was worse. Sick, perverse pleasure was etched into every line of his face, he was making more noises than ever, and she could sense everything through their link, mounting bliss, joy wrapped in fierce possessiveness, and triumph, along with a sort of tenderness as he threaded his hand through her hair in soft caresses.

He kept stroking himself rhythmically, and each time she swallowed she got more of his taste, salty and bitter and awful.

"Yesss," he hissed as she wrapped her lips around his cock once more.

He gave a rough grunt. She nearly moaned, the brink of ecstasy threatening. Every brush of her tongue, every motion of her head made her heart pound erratically, bringing additional degrees of heat, piercing her to the core.

"Ah, good girl... keep doing exactly that..."

His hand flexed in her hair, he took a raspy breath, and Harrie knew what was going to happen. Half a second later, he tensed, muscles going rigid. His cock twitched between her lips, liquid flooding her mouth just as a terrible lash of pleasure struck between her legs. She moaned this time, couldn't help it, her hands gripping Voldemort's thighs, a tortured huff of pleasure torn out of her. They shuddered together while he emptied himself in her mouth, spurt after spurt.

When he was done, his spent cock slipping from her lips, he cradled her jaw and made her close her mouth.

"Swallow, Harrie."

She gulped everything down, grimacing at the taste. His intimate touch made her feel queasy. His thumb gently brushed her cheek, then her lips.

"Show me."

She squinted up at him, confused.

"Open your mouth and show me you swallowed it all."

Numbly, she did. He stuck his thumb in her mouth, pressing down on her tongue, and hummed, pleased.

"Such a good girl."

He smiled, razor-sharp, victorious, and removed his thumb, trailing it across her lips, slick with her saliva. She swallowed again, fighting the urge to vomit.

"I did what you wanted."

"Tomorrow," Voldemort said, softly. "Tomorrow, you'll see your friends."

He spent another minute petting her hair and caressing her throat, which Harrie endured in silence, and a bit of confusion. Such affection coming from him felt so wrong she kept expecting his nails to press down into her skin, into her scalp, for something to hurt. But pain never came. Only a lazy aftermath of the pleasure they had shared.

On her end, she was trembling slightly, diffuse heat curling through her limbs, coaxing her into a relaxed state. The rush of endorphins brought on by the orgasm had been particularly powerful, and Voldemort's gentle caresses were prolonging the moment.

Finally, he buttoned his trousers, and let her get up. She told him she needed to use the bathroom, ran in there. She brushed her teeth, putting a phenomenal quantity of toothpaste on the brush, and scrubbed at her teeth, at her tongue, at every part of her mouth she could reach. Even then, she could still taste him.

He made no comment when she came back in the bedroom. She was afraid he would want more, would now fuck her as per usual, but he made no further move to touch her, and she was allowed to go to sleep.

That night, in the forest, she found herself face to face with the Horcrux again.

"Allies?" he said, offering her his hand.

"Allies," she said.

She shook his hand, the hand of the Horcrux currently stuck inside her own soul, half of Voldemort, the man who had killed her parents and had tried to kill her.

"We're going to annihilate him," Riddle promised with a tranquil smile, his green eyes gleaming.

Harrie smiled back.

Chapter Text

Austere, cold, black marble corridors. Magical torches casting a dim light, pooling shadows on the floor, their edges flickering. No windows, only dark, smooth walls, interrupted by doors from time to time, all identical, wooden heavy-set doors carved with intricate runic designs, silver handles gleaming in the semi-darkness.

It was cold, so cold Harrie could see her breath misting the air in front of her. She walked side by side with Voldemort, eyes wide open as she took in every single detail.

They were in the deepest bowels of the Ministry of Magic, on the cells level, which Harrie had never visited so far. It somehow matched all her expectations, a cold, dark dungeon where a Dark Lord would imprison his political opponents.

And her friends were there. They'd been held there for more than a week, in the cold, in the dark. Surrounded by Dementors. Harrie could feel the soul-sucking creatures more and more clearly as they approached the end of the corridor, could feel icy, phantom fingers clawing at her skin, the Dementors' auras pressing upon her consciousness, threatening to rob her of joy, of hope, of anything that wasn't miserable despair and doom.

Warmth, she thought, picturing the burning fire at the heart of the forest.

Warmth, Riddle echoed, with the kind of assurance she needed right now.

She was going to see Ron and Hermione. Voldemort was holding up his part of the bargain. She could at least trust him on that.

They reached the end of the corridor, and a set of large, metallic double doors. A man was standing guard there, dressed in a dark uniform with golden clasps and buttons gleaming at the side of the jacket and on the sleeves. An Auror. Was the entire Ministry under Voldemort's control? Had they all accepted his rule?

Unlikely. There will be pockets of resistance, both declared and undeclared.

Harrie met the Auror's gaze, found it neutral and professional.

He's either been Imperiused, or he was a traitor from the start. No guilt at all. He's not uncomfortable. He thinks you're meant to be there.

Riddle's thoughts rang with contempt.

Probably a traitor, he added. It wouldn't do to have a weak mind guarding the cells.

The Auror bowed to Voldemort, and opened the door without a word. They stepped through, into a large room with a high ceiling, more dark marble, the light brighter in here, falling from floating magical globes that circled high above. It made all the more apparent the shadows swarming at the back of the room, a living, roiling mass of darkness, snapping and coiling. Dementors, a dozen of them, all intertwined in one massive, writhing herd.

A shiver went down Harrie's spine, the glacial presence of the creatures weighing on her mind. The sensation of unease only intensified when Voldemort set a hand on her shoulder.

"They will not touch you, Harrie. You're safe with me."

She was so far from safe it wasn't even funny. Not to mention she'd have taken a Dementor over Voldemort any day.

He guided her into a side corridor, smaller and dimmer, with dozens of doors along the walls. The utter silence grated at Harrie's nerves. She had expected to hear some noise coming from the prisoners down there, to get some confirmation they were there, but her ears were telling her Voldemort and her were the only people here. There must have been Silencing Charms in use. It made sense, and yet Harrie couldn't shake the acidic, malignant worry that was chewing at her insides.

What if Voldemort had lied? What if he had killed them all? What if she was truly alone, and no one would ever—

They're all alive and well, Riddle said. You're being affected by the Dementors' aura.

Aren't you?

It seems your soul provides protection. Fascinating.

Oh yes, fascinating, she returned with a mental huff.

Voldemort opened another door, and ushered her into another large, black marble room. This one wasn't empty. Three people stood in there, an Auror dressed in uniform, her wand out, and—

"Harrie!"

Ron and Hermione, huddled together but on their feet, and not dead, not dead. She wanted to run to them and hug them, couldn't, Voldemort's hand still on her shoulder, holding her back.

"My Lord," the Auror said, with a deep bow.

"No trouble, I expect?" Voldemort inquired.

"None," the woman answered, her gaze flickering to Harrie, showing the same lack of concern as the other Auror.

Useless traitor, Riddle seethed.

Harrie's own anger flickered, but it was currently drowned out by the sheer relief of seeing her friends. They were there. Alive, and injured as far as she could see.

"One hour, Harrie," Voldemort said, squeezing her shoulder. "Careful of what you say."

He released her shoulder, and she ran. She ran to her friends, grabbed them both in a clumsy hug, a single sob releasing from her chest as they hugged her back, all grasping hands and trembling bodies. Another sob broke from her, which she muffled into Hermione's shoulder. It felt so good to be holding her friends. Some kind of knot that had been wound tight in her chest since she had walked into the forest loosened a bit, welcome warmth flowing through her. It was a sigh that left her mouth next, not a sob, and she relaxed against her friends.

"Harrie," Hermione said, and she was sobbing as well as she shifted even closer, embracing Harrie tighter.

"You're alive," Ron said in a croaking rasp.

They had thought her dead, then. No one had told them.

"I'm alive," she said, like a promise.

They didn't stop hugging for many more minutes, a huddle of comfort and warmth. Even Riddle seemed to enjoy it.

Worth it after all, he commented, his voice warmer than anything she had ever heard from Voldemort.

When finally Harrie leaned away, she glanced back, and saw that they had been left alone in the room. Looking at her friends, she was met with tired, haggard faces, dark circles under their eyes, and wide smiles stretched over cracked lips. Ron had a long scar running down his cheek that was barely starting to heal, the skin puckering, red and swollen, and Hermione's hair had never been that flat and lifeless.

"Are you alright?" Harrie said, painfully aware the answer could only be a no.

"We should be asking you that!" Ron exclaimed, still holding her arm.

"I'm fine."

The lie came easily to her lips. Her friends weren't fooled, of course they weren't. Ron's smile wobbled, and he squeezed her arm, while Hermione wiped her tears away and gave her a long look.

"Harrie, you're not wearing your glasses," she said in an even tone that hinted at much more.

One could always count on Hermione to identify the most telling details in a single glance.

"Voldemort fixed my eyesight."

"What?" Ron said, startled. "Why would he—"

"He made me his apprentice."

His. The possessive pronoun made her grimace as it passed her lips. That was how she would be seen, by everyone. His apprentice, wearing his colors, using his wand... sleeping in his bed.

Ron made a surprised, choked sound at the revelation, while Hermione merely nodded.

"He's hurting you," she said grimly.

"He's—"

The rest of the words caught in her throat, like barbed wire. She swallowed thickly, her heart lurching in her chest, shame and disgust coating her tongue. She couldn't say it. And what good would that do? They didn't need to hear it. That would just made them worry more for her.

Tell them.

No, they' don't—

Tell them. They're your friends. You don't have to bear this alone. You shouldn't.

Won't he be angry if I tell them?

No. You can't tell them about me, but this he won't mind.

She took a slow breath.

"He's raping me."

There. The simple truth. The right words.

Ron's eyes widened in shock. He squeezed her arm, his face quickly turning murderous.

"I'll kill him," he said, every word ground out darkly. "I'll kill the bastard."

Hermione set one hand on Ron's shoulder and the other on Harrie's arm.

"I'm so sorry, Harrie."

She didn't seem as surprised as Ron by the information. Had she been able to tell from the way Voldemort was standing next to her? Keeping his hand on her shoulder? Was it written on her face somewhere that she let him put his hands all over her?

"I'm alive," she repeated.

More than that, Riddle said fiercely.

"Is that why he didn't kill you?" Hermione said. "Because of his... of his sexual attraction to you?"

"Yes."

It made Voldemort seem like a complete pervert, ignoring the prophecy just so he could have Harrie in his bed. That also didn't really align with his public persona, or what they knew of him so far, and Hermione frowned slightly, no doubt wondering at the discrepancy.

"What about you?" Harrie said, changing the subject before Hermione could ask further questions. "Are they treating you well?"

"The bloody Dementors are a nightmare, but we're not being Crucioed," Ron said, "so we're treated better than I expected. The cuisine could really use some improvement, though. Getting tired of bland, tasteless slop for breakfast, lunch and dinner."

Harrie felt a small smile come to her lips, Ron's humor shining through even in this situation. And they were fed three times a day, that was good.

"Who did that to your face?" she asked, her eyes drifting to the inflamed cut on this cheek.

"Rowle. He called Hermione a Mudblood and I had to react."

"He very bravely and very stupidly leaped to my defense," Hermione said. "Attacking a wizard bare-handed..."

"I managed to punch him," Ron said proudly. "Definitely worth it," he added, brushing the cut on his cheek. "And Ginny almost kneed him in the balls."

"Ginny's with you? Who else?"

It was Hermione who answered.

"Luna, Neville, Seamus, Angelina, Dean... Nearly all the members of Dumbledore's Army. McGonagall, too. She's doing a lot to keep morale up. She stays in her Animagus form most of the time so the Dementors affect her less. She brings much needed warmth as a cat."

Harrie imagined Ron and Hermione sitting in a dank cell with a tabby cat in their lap, and couldn't help but smile.

"Fred, George and Percy are on the run," Ron said. "They haven't been caught yet, at least from what I overheard last night."

So there was a resistance movement.

Of course there is. And he hates it. Don't talk about it unless you're trying to really piss him off.

"What about Kingsley?" she asked.

"On the run as well."

More warmth poured into Harrie's chest. She took a slow, deep breath, and it almost felt like there was nothing obstructing her breathing this time, that her lungs could expand fully, without the weight that had been plaguing her for days.

"Voldemort promised nobody would be killed," she said, trying to sound comforting. "You'll be tried, and sentenced to Azkaban."

Ron grimaced, while Hermione gave a sort of resigned nod.

"I know, it's bad," Harrie quickly added. "But Voldemort will keep his word."

"How can you be so sure?" Hermione asked in a small voice, as if aware she was touching a sensitive subject.

"We... we made a bargain. And he cares about magical blood. He sees every death of a witch or wizard as a waste. He tried to recruit my mother, did you know that?"

Their expressions of surprise told her they hadn't been aware of that.

"Do you know when our trial will be?" Hermione asked.

"No." She realized she hadn't asked. "I'll ask Voldemort. I'll come back to see you."

They exchanged a look Harrie wasn't sure how to interpret. Wariness, uncertainty, something else.

"Where are you being kept?" Hermione said.

"Malfoy Manor. Voldemort lives there now. He sort of made it his home."

Hermione set a hand on her arm, comforting, and Ron pressed his mouth together, anger in his gaze. They didn't ask questions. They let her tell them what she wanted, at her own pace. She wasn't going to tell them that she was sleeping in Voldemort's bed, wasn't going to tell them about the chain either. No. But she could tell them other things.

"The Malfoys hate it. Lucius is drinking a lot."

"So would I if I had to host bloody Voldemort," Ron said.

They talked more, Harrie recounting the boring parts of her days, and some of her conversations with Draco, while Ron and Hermione told her of the long hours in the dark, damp cells, losing track of time. They were being guarded by a mix of Aurors and Death Eaters, always in pairs.

"The Aurors aren't so bad," Ron said. "They do their job, and that's it. But the Death Eaters, they like to taunt us, call us names... Most of them are sadistic cockroaches."

"They're not... they're not torturing you, are they? You'd tell me if they were?"

Or would they withhold that information so she wouldn't worry about them?

"No one's torturing us," Ron said in a reassuring tone. "Unless you count Bellatrix's mad cackles piercing my ears."

At the mention of Bellatrix's name, Hermione twitched, her hand flexing on Harrie's arm.

"She's one of your guards?"

"We only saw her once," Hermione said. "She's the one who told us you were dead. She... she described how Voldemort killed you. I know she's a lying bitch, but she gave so much details I really thought that..."

"You can't believe anything they tell you," Harrie said.

"Right," Ron said. Then he seemed to hesitate. "You can't believe anything Voldemort tells you either," he added, looking Harrie in the eyes.

Harrie opened her mouth, promptly closed it when she realized she had been about to defend Voldemort. To tell her friends that, yes, actually, she could trust him one some things, because... because she knew him. How could she even phrase it?

I trust him because I've got half his soul in me.

No, she couldn't tell them about the Horcrux.

I trust him for no good reason at all, yes, the very man who's raping me.

They'd think her mad. Or under the Imperius.

"You're right," she said. "I can't trust him. I don't trust him."

She saw some measure of relief in their faces, and she hated Voldemort for making her friends doubt her, for making her lie to them. She wished she didn't have to, that she could tell them the truth, but she knew Voldemort would kill to preserve that secret. No one could know she was his Horcrux. One of his weaknesses. One of the two tethers securing him to life. Or more.

Two, Riddle said. He did not make more. He'll hide the snake and flaunt you, like a pretty jewel on his arm.

Two, then. That made things easier. Find Nagini, destroy the Horcrux inside her, using the Killing Curse, or Basilisk venom, or the Sword of Gryffindor, and then research her own—their own—situation, extract Riddle from her, make him not a Horcrux (if that was even possible), and then deal with Voldemort. Laid out like that, it all sounded impossible. Especially the second bit.

You are underestimating your own potential.

No, I'm accurately measuring the obstacles in my way.

None so great that we cannot tackle them.

She could start with a simple question.

"Where did you last see Nagini?"

Ron frowned. Hermione's eyebrows drew together, the way they did when a teacher asked a question and she had to think about the answer.

"Who?"

Harrie's heart skipped several beats, then pounded twice as hard.

"His snake," she said, surveying the faces of her friends.

"I... didn't remember he had a snake," Ron said hesitantly, while Hermione chewed on her lower lip, her eyes getting distant.

"It killed Snape," Harrie said, even though she knew what had happened, knew you couldn't recover memories from being told about them.

Ron and Hermione looked at each other.

"I remember Voldemort killing Snape," Hermione said.

"Same," Ron said.

Harrie's heart wouldn't stop racing. Was that all Voldemort had taken from them? Or had he...

"Do you remember... do you remember what we were doing in the forest, the whole year?"

It was her best attempt at asking without asking.

"We were hiding from Voldemort," Hermione said. "We needed to... to hide."

She frowned, knowing that wasn't right, but unable to recall why.

"Harrie—"

"It's fine," Harrie said. "Don't worry about it. It's not important."

And she changed the subject, so they wouldn't dig any further, so they would stay safe. She spoke more of Malfoy Manor, of the broom Voldemort had gotten her, of the dinner with Bellatrix. She spoke and spoke, venting her frustrations to her friends, and they listened without interrupting.

As the end of the hour neared, she hugged them again, fiercely, emotion swelling in her chest, her throat tightening.

"You hold on," Hermione told her, voice half-breaking. "You hold on, Harrie, and we'll get through this."

"Tell everyone I'm alive," she whispered in Hermione's ear. "Tell them I'm fighting."

"We're all fighting," Ron said. "I'll punch the next Death Eater I see for you."

"Don't."

"I'll glare at them real hard, then."

"You do that," Harrie said, the shadow of a laugh on her lips.

Gryffindors, Riddle said, warm and amused.

The door opened a minute later, letting in Voldemort and the Auror. The woman had her wand out, and her eyes trained on Ron and Hermione, as if she expected an escape attempt. Harrie hoped there would be one. That somehow, her friends would all slip out of the Ministry's jails, and run free, never to set a foot in Azkaban.

It was a sort of desperate, foolish hope. The sort Harrie needed right now.

"Harrie," Voldemort said, and she felt he was calling her to this side like a dog.

She went anyway. He set his hand on her shoulder, and steered her toward the door. She glanced back at her friends, smiled, trying to capture in her mind this image of them, holding hands and smiling back at her, so, so brave.

Then they were in the corridor, and the door closed behind them, and she was—

Not alone.

—with Voldemort, who wasn't taking his hand off her shoulder. His grip wasn't hard, but it was possessive. She let him guide her through the corridor, back into the large room with the mass of writhing Dementors, where her hopes shattered and she was suddenly sure her friends would never escape, would end up in Azkaban, would die there, while she slept in Voldemort's bed, in chains.

From within, Riddle snapped his fingers in front of her face. It was enough to jerk Harrie out of the despairing spiral she had entered. She squared her shoulders, looking straight ahead.

"You took their memories," she said.

"I could either Obliviate them or kill them, Harrie. You'll agree that was the better option."

"And you took everything about..."

"Speak in Parseltongue if you wish to discuss this in public," Voldemort said, his hand briefly squeezing her shoulder.

"Everything about Horcruxes," she said, the low hissing sounds of Parseltongue fitting right in with the cold, dungeon-like decor.

"I did."

So no one else knew now. They hadn't told anybody about Horxcruxes, keeping that terrible truth a secret even as they hunted for the items hosting a part of Voldemort's soul. With Snape dead, and her friends Obliviated, it had gone back to being a well-kept secret. Neville might remember Harrie had asked him to kill the snake, and that was only if Voldemort hadn't been thorough.

What are the chances? she asked Riddle.

Low.

Voldemort ushered her into the next corridor. They walked down the shadowed length of it, footsteps echoing along the walls.

"Can't they be held somewhere else while awaiting trial?" Harrie asked.

"They are all where they need to be."

"They're my friends," she said, in a tone firm with resolve. "It would make me happy if they were treated better."

His hand slid closer to her neck, his pale, spidery fingers sort of crawling over her shoulder.

"You don't need friends, Harrie. You only need me."

The tip of his fingers rested at the start of her throat, on her bare skin, causing a cold shiver to go up her spine.

"They are treated as well as possible given the circumstances," Voldemort went on, his fingers brushing idly against Harrie's pulse point. "Remember that they are all traitors, refusing to acknowledge my authority."

"Have they gotten to talk to a lawyer yet?" she said, half-derisive, half-biting.

"They will have a defendant appointed by court."

"When is the trial?"

"In two weeks."

She bit her lip, weighing her options. In truth, she only had one card to play. Well, two, but she wasn't going to beg him. She'd try the other one first.

"I'll give you what you want if you give me what I want," she said, with every ounce of her Gryffindor courage.

He hummed, his hand curling at the side of her throat, like half a shackle.

"And what do you imagine I want, Harrie?"

There was that precipice again, a yawning void under her feet. She dove straight into it.

"My mouth on your cock."

He stilled, his fingers flexing, and for a second she wondered if she had miscalculated, if this was overstepping some line, if he was going to punish her for trying to negotiate with sex in public. Then he was pushing her against the wall, his large hand curling fully around her throat, looming over her, a cold, nefarious smile on his lips.

His lips, which came very close to hers, almost brushing them. When he spoke, his Parseltongue drenched her in ice, every hiss crawling over her skin like a tongue.

"Right here, Harrie? You'll get on your knees here, and suck my cock in this hallway, where anyone can pass by and see us?"

The abyss still yawned. There was more darkness to fall into.

"Yes."

His hand shifted to cup her chin, his thumb creeping toward her lips. Holding her gaze, he slipped the digit inside her unresisting mouth. She closed her lips around his thumb and sucked, which hooked a pang of arousal right in the pit of her belly. He made a sound deep in his throat, almost like a purr, and pressed his thumb further in. She licked it, moving her tongue around it, making it as enticing as possible.

Seducing Lord Voldemort on a Monday morning in the jail level of the Ministry...

Desire flared between them, running molten hot in Harrie's cunt. She moaned, the sound muffled but still ringing with need, and her hands flexed on the wall behind her, as if to stop herself from grabbing onto him. The red eyes gleamed with an amused thrill, the sides of his mouth quirking up, the weight of his attention at once exhilarating and suffocating.

He removed his thumb slowly, dragging it against her tongue, and she chased after it, in an awfully wanton move that made her internally burn with shame. His digit smeared against her lips, applying wet saliva like lip gloss. Her heart thundered, every second tenser than the last.

She was ready for him to order her to her knees, then. She was sure it would happen. His arousal was a condensed storm sweeping through her, a howling, clawing beast, one that demanded to be satisfied, now, now...

And then—

"No," he said, and he abruptly turned away.

The acute sting of desire that had been hounding her belly was dampened to a blunt shadow, arousal swiftly reined in. She blinked, confused. No? What did he mean, no? Not now? Not at all? Didn't he want her?

She had thought...

Vague warmth still pulsed through her. Her lips were still wet, her heart a riot in her chest, and she, she—

She was at a loss on what to do.

He had stepped away, wasn't even looking at her.

"Come," he said, in a brisk tone. "Let's not dally."

He started walking. She followed.

So he has some dignity left, Riddle said.

You knew that wouldn't work?

I hoped it wouldn't. It would have pained me to see a version of me sink so low.

So that's a final no? Harrie asked, puzzled. If I try again once we're back to the Manor...

He'll delight in having you try, but he won't meet your demand. He'll never meet it. In fact, he'll make it a teaching point.

What's the lesson ?

That he is in control, not you.

Harrie ruminated on that as she trailed after Voldemort. He wasn't looking back, confident she would follow.

They got into the lift, the delicately-wrought golden doors closing with a clang. The space felt too small, Voldemort taking up too much room. Harrie hung near the back, watching him as she would watch a dangerous predator. One whose behavior wasn't predictable.

"And if I beg you?" she suddenly said.

She had to insist anyway. If she hadn't had Riddle to explain Voldemort's reasoning, she would have tried again and again.

"You can certainly beg, Harrie," he said, sliding her a coveting, honeyed look.

He left it at that, without any promises. A single dangling thread for her to cling on and tangle herself in, while he watched her efforts and enjoyed her struggles. This was a game for him. A game called Let's make Harrie squirm.

Frustration sawed at her nerves. She shuffled her feet, wishing the elevator would go faster. The climb up was taking a long time, as they rose from the depths of the Ministry toward the Atrium.

A chime sounded, and the elevator shuddered to a stop.

"Level Three, Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes," a cool female voice announced.

The doors opened, revealing a young witch in Ministry robes. She stepped forward, instantly recoiled when she realized just who was in the elevator, her face displaying her shock as she grabbed onto the stack of papers she was carrying, squeezing them to her chest like a shield.

"Do come in," Voldemort said smoothly.

One couldn't refuse Lord Voldemort. She stepped in, didn't pivot to face the doors, instead keeping her eyes on Harrie and Voldemort, a frozen smile on her face as the elevator resumed its ascent. Harrie's first thought was that the witch looked like a librarian, with her square glasses and her hair in a tight bun, and then she realized she knew her. She'd been three years ahead of Harrie at Hogwarts, a Ravenclaw, indeed often seen in the library. She had tried to help Harrie once for the Second Task of the Tri-Wizard Tournament, giving her so many books about lakes and underwater environments that Harrie had ended up buried under a small mountain.

"Why don't you introduce us, Harrie?" Voldemort said, visibly enjoying the tension.

"Err, this is Charlotte Griffiths. Charlotte, Lord Voldemort."

"A pleasure," Charlotte squeaked, looking everywhere but in Voldemort's direction.

"Oh, I'm sure," Voldemort said, with a sharp smile.

Charlotte clutched her papers harder, her eyes going to Harrie, as if she had the answer, as if she would, any second now, whip out her wand and attack Voldemort. Do what she was supposed to do.

The tension was a knife, scraping at Harrie's nerves. She had to do something, or she'd end up screaming at the top of her lungs just to find some sort of release, to cut into that thick, palpable atmosphere, to stop too-hot air from fraying past her throat, each breath as if she were inhaling cotton.

"I'm his apprentice."

The sentence tumbled from her lips, landing in the confined space. It wasn't the right explanation, but it was one explanation.

Charlotte gave a jerky nod, her smile wobbling precariously. The elevator stopped, the female voice announcing Level Six, and she nearly ran out as soon as the doors opened.

"Skittish little thing," Voldemort commented. "You're braver, aren't you, Harrie? You wouldn't run from me."

"I wouldn't. I have to stand very close if I want to rip out your heart."

To her surprise, his reaction to the threat in Parseltongue was one of pleasure. She felt it first in her belly, a needle of piercing desire, and then he was crowding close, lips pulling into a delighted, toothy smile.

"My heart, Harrie? What makes you think I have one?"

She met the red, gleaming gaze head-on, her hands clenching at her sides. He placed one hand on the wall near her head, leaned closer, his gaunt, pale face inches from hers.

"Perhaps the only heart I have..." Hi s other hand settled over her heart , which was pounding fiercely. "...is right here."

He closed the slight gap between them, and his lips brushed hers in a feathering contact. Her breath hitched, an electric shiver pulling every single one of her muscle tense. His fingers flexed where they rested, above her heart, squeezing the flesh of her breast. A thread of gossamer want fluttered across the bond, searing into Harrie's heart when it landed. She gasped, head thumping back into the wall. Voldemort followed, his lips skimming hers again, the soft contact pulling a whine from her.

"What you do to me..." he hissed, his hand pressing hard against her chest, hard when his lips were anything but, barely touching Harrie's.

It wasn't a kiss. It was what came just before, faces close, sharing breaths, hearts pounding, and the anticipation of it, a swell of tangled emotions in her chest, denial and delight interlocked tightly.

A clear, bell-like ding cut through the moment, the sound falling between her and Voldemort like the blade of a guillotine.

"Level eight," the female voice said. "Atrium."

Voldemort drew back swiftly. The golden doors opened, and he stepped out, beckoning Harrie to follow. She obeyed, falling into step besides him, so relieved he hadn't actually kissed her. It was a different threat than the rapes. Those were just about her body, but a kiss... a kiss would attempt to touch her soul, to make her react. A kiss was a way for him to take more of her, and she was fairly certain she'd bite his tongue off when he'd try, which wouldn't end well.

Golden light flowed down from the high ceiling of the immense hall, shining onto the polished, dark wood floor and the walls panelled in the same type of wood, a shade darker. The gilded fireplaces gleamed, bursting green flames whenever there was a new arrival.

Harrie glared at the gigantic statue of black stone that dominated the southern part of the hall. A witch and a wizard, sitting on ornately carved thrones, while under them a mass of Muggles teemed, some with their faces contorted in pain, others bowing down in worship with an awed expression. And as if that didn't send enough of a message, there were words engraved in foot-high letters at the base of the statue: MAGIC IS MIGHT.

Voldemort led her down the hall, while the few Ministry workers that were there at this hour pretended very hard not to see them. When Harrie had first come here with Arthur, she'd been jostled and bumped into by wizards and witches alike in a hurry to get to their destination, but now, everyone steered clear of Voldemort, and of her.

You could run now, Riddle said.

I wouldn't even make it to a fireplace.

It's not about succeeding. You need to rebel early, so you can pretend you're afraid of any further punishment, and wouldn't do it again.

I'll rebel. But something useful. Not just running.

There was an answering hum as he saw what she was contemplating.

They reached the end of the hall, and the point from which Apparition was possible. Voldemort's hand settled on her shoulder, his magic creeping over her like warm honey, coating every square inch of her skin, insinuating itself everywhere. It didn't last long, only the brief handful of seconds of the Side-Along, but the feeling lingered afterwards, even when he removed his hand from her.

They stood in the gardens, not far from the damaged rose bushes.

"Was that satisfying, Harrie?" Voldemort inquired. "Did I answer your expectations?"

"Yes. You did."

He surveyed her for a moment more, then shifted his stance, enough that she sensed he was about to leave.

"Are you going back to the Ministry?"

He tilted his head, a smile snaking its way onto his lips.

"Were you hoping I would stay?" When she didn't answer, he went on. "I'm afraid I can't. I have a meeting with Pius and several members of the Wizengamot."

"Can I come?"

A dry chuckle escaped him, approval glinting in his eyes.

"Aren't you eager? It's too early for that, my dear. You haven't even been officially announced as my apprentice."

"There's going to be an official announcement?" she said, something dropping cold and hard into the pit of her stomach.

"Of course."

"But... there wasn't any for Snape."

She realized the stupidity of that statement the instant it was out of her lips.

"Severus was my knife in the shadow," Voldemort said, his mouth curving into a strange smile now, not exactly melancholic, but like he was remembering something amusing. "You will be my jewel in the light."

"Your jewel. Just a pretty thing containing your Horcrux, is that all I am ?"

A beat of arousal slithered between her legs as he regarded her with sudden, intense focus. How easy it was to stir his desire, she thought. Some Parseltongue, that was all it took.

"It all depends on you, Harrie. I would have you at my arm in your full glory, should you accept it. As my equal."

" Really."

"And the Dark Lord will mark her as his equal," he said, lifting a hand to brush a finger against her scar.

The soft contact tickled.

"You're still young, but in time, you could be, Harrie."

She knew what he was going to say next. She knew, she knew, she could feel it in the air, in his magic that thrummed between them, in her very bones.

"My Dark Lady."

Enticing, promising words. Words that shaped Harrie's future, so clearly she could see it in her head, in vivid images: she would sit besides him, clad in fine robes of dark and green, at his right hand side, and together, they would rule. Nothing would resist them. Their combined magic would annihilate their enemies, and the whole world would bow to them, wizards and witches bowing their heads while Muggle bent the knee.

Harrie stood utterly still. The vision floated around her in fine tendrils of magic, a coil poised to tighten and trap her within that future. Her skin prickled, her heart beating fretfully against her ribs. Perhaps if she didn't move, none of it would happen.

A moment passed.

Another.

His finger was still skimming her scar, such a light point of contact it felt ethereal, and yet momentous at the same time. It traced down, following the shape of the lightning bolt until it came to the end of it. She felt the press of a nail, tensed, expecting more, expecting pain, expecting—

His hand dropped. The vision vanished, his magic retreating.

"I'll see you tonight, Harrie."

With a crack splitting the air, she was left alone.

In the wake of his departure, the day seemed brighter, the garden more colorful. The charged tension that had been vibrating between them was gone, and she exhaled loudly, craning her neck back. The sky was powdery blue, wispy clouds trailing across its expanse.

"This isn't my future," she said out loud.

Not our future, Riddle said.

As if you're not planning to rule over Britain if you get free, she retorted.

There was no answer.

She headed inside the manor. The house lay silent, the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway the only noise. Harrie entered the drawing room, and was not surprised to find Lucius there, in his armchair, a glass of Firewhiskey in his hand.

"Mr. Malfoy," she greeted him.

"Miss Potter."

She approached the mantelpiece, smoothed a hand down the varnished wood. The clock ticked away in the silence.

"I saw my friends today," she said.

"Indeed."

One neutral, polite word. Had he known? Did he know what she had had to do to be able to see them? Their gazes connected, and in his gray eyes, she didn't see any mockery or malice. She saw shrewd consideration, and a calm intelligence that chafed at the current situation.

From within Harrie's mind, Riddle suggested a particular heading for the conversation. She turned fully toward Lucius, let a pensive expression come onto her face.

"When you learned that he'd been defeated by a baby, all those years ago, did you wonder if I would eventually take his place? Did you wonder, if, perhaps, I had potential to become the next Dark Lord? Well, Lady."

His gaze didn't shift. He kept looking at her in a sort of quiet contemplation.

"There were a few Death Eaters who held that belief," he said. "I was not among them."

Liar, Riddle said. Oh, Lucius. Of course you doubted him. The greatest wizard of the century, beaten by a single little baby? He doubted, and he feared, and he wondered. Had you chosen to listen to the Hat's suggestion of Slytherin... things could have gotten very interesting indeed.

"My faith in our Lord never wavered," Lucius added.

He drank from his glass, one long swallow. Harrie clicked her tongue.

"What a devoted servant you make."

A tiny muscled jumped in his jaw. Harrie sent him a smile she sourced from Riddle.

"I do hope you'll be as devoted to me when I become his Dark Lady," she said, holding the smile, shifting it slowly to something incisive.

"Is that your ambition?"

"The prophecy did say I would be his equal."

She let the implications of what else the prophecy said lay unvoiced between them. Lucius set down his glass, his gaze sweeping dispassionately over her.

"Our Lord has his opinions, which are to be respected, but personally, I've never put much stock in prophecies."

She looked away from him for a moment, tapping her nails against the mantelpiece.

"There'll be a trial," she said. "They'll go to Azkaban."

"The Dark Lord is merciful. Usually, only death awaits traitors, and a painful one at that."

"How is it?" she asked, looking at him once again.

"Surely your mutt of a godfather answered all your questions about the place."

"Sirius didn't talk about it. Ever."

She had asked him only once, and the expression that had come across his face had dissuaded her from asking again. Lucius bore a similar expression right now, a sort of hollowed-out look combined with a harsh coldness. His gray eyes had hardened to ice. His voice, when it rang in the room, seemed a shadow of what had come before.

"The first thing you see when you arrive is a rock. A black, lifeless rock in the middle of the churning sea. You disembark, and they take your shoes away, so you're forced to walk ashore barefoot. That's when you start bleeding. You never stop."

He was no longer looking at her, but at some place above her shoulder, far away.

"Azkaban bleeds you of hope. It bleeds you of everything you are. You sit in your cell, watching the walls. Out of the tiny window, all you can see is gray. The gray sea, and the gray sky, teeming with Dementors."

He blinked, his gaze focusing back on her.

"Do you have any idea, Miss Potter, how it feels when the word 'son' becomes void of all meaning? When you can recall your wife's face, but not the warmth of her touch? When you start to wonder how come you're still alive, when everything inside of you feels so dead?"

He aimed that last word at her like he hoped it would hurt.

"That's how it is."

"Sounds horrible," Harrie said, but she wasn't thinking of Lucius at all. All she could imagine were her friends stuck on that bleak island, bleeding and despairing.

"A fit punishment for all traitors, and those who fail to serve our Lord," Lucius said.

He filled his glass with more Firewhiskey, resumed his drinking.

"What a shame it would be if you should find yourself on that rock once again," Harrie said.

She left him there, in the drawing room.

Venturing upstairs, she went into the library. The room was large, and ostentatious, the dark wooden shelves that lined the walls decorated with intricate carvings, twisting snakes and blooming flowers intertwining. High windows let in the late morning light, which played off the polished wood of the shelves and the golden titles gleaming on the spines of some of the books.

Harrie wandered around, reading the titles, occasionally pulling a book off its shelf when it piqued her interest. She found Tales of Beedle the Bard, as well as a lot of wizard fairy-tales and stories for children. There was a section on Quidditch, with many books she recognized and had read herself.

An entire wall was dedicated to books about magical theory and spellcrafting, all very dense and very specific reading material that was above the N.E.W.Ts level. She opened a book titled Limits and prowesses of Transfiguration as applied to multi-threaded wards, read a sentence, read it again, read it a third time, and when she still couldn't figure out the meaning of the words, closed the book. This really wasn't for her.

She gravitated toward the fiction books. There were many romantic tales of young witches saved by dashing wizards, tales of arranged marriages and duels to the death between two wizards coveting the same witch, tales of Unbreakable Vows and doomed romances. She wasn't in a mood for such stories, and she wondered who in the Malfoy family read this sort of things. Perhaps Lucius had a sister who had dreamed of meeting her own daring paramour who would court her.

There was also a large section on horticulture. Harrie paged through several books, Caring for your Magical Garden, The Fundamentals of Herbology, Circe's Garden, Pairing Seeds and Wand Cores, Roses and Thorns. She grabbed that last one and sat down to read in a high-backed chair near one of the windows.

Flowers, Riddle said after some time, not hiding his disdain.

What, you wanted to read 'A Primer on the Dark Arts: Blood and Sacrifices'?

That was an actual title she'd seen.

Learning the Dark Arts won't make you evil, Harrie.

I don't want to learn the Dark Arts, thank you very much. Look at what it did to you. Turned into a half-snake, half-man, and now you're stuck inside me.

They could be a formidable weapon against him.

The power he knows not, she retorted.

Love? You're planning to fight Voldemort with love? That is delusional. Love can only be a shield. It won't kill him. It won't even hurt him. And we need to hurt him, Harrie.

Images flashed in her mind, fragments of scenes, one after the other, pictured in vivid colors and painstaking details. Voldemort on his knees, Voldemort writhing under the Cruciatus, Voldemort with his face bloody and broken, Voldemort begging for his life...

You want to torture him?

I will pay back every ounce of suffering he inflicted on us. And you want me to do it, Harrie.

"I do," she admitted, out loud, vague nausea settling in her stomach.

Don't be ashamed of that desire. It's part of your fighting instinct, the very thing that has kept you alive for so long. Fight or flight. Choosing fight can be so very satisfying once you get the upper hand.

It's not fight, it's revenge, she said, torn between the appealing image of Voldemort screaming in pain, and something inside her that rebelled at the notion of torture.

And it will feel like nothing you've ever known.

Warmth pooled in her chest, comforting, soothing. It was just like hugging her friends, that exact type of revitalizing sensation. It felt so nice. She basked in it, despite knowing where it came from, knowing it was wrong. The sentence she'd been reading blurred out of focus. She trailed a finger along the words, trying to read them.

Enough of this, Riddle said. Go into the garden if you must. I'll tell you what to do.

She closed the book, put it back on its shelf, left the library. She had lunch outside first, sitting in the grass, the sun warming her skin. Then she searched for Draco. She couldn't find him. He didn't answer when she knocked repeatedly on his door, wasn't in any of the rooms she checked, and when she finally asked Wimsy, the house elf told her Master Draco wasn't presently in the house.

"Where is he?"

"Wimsy does not know, Miss. Wimsy is not told where the Masters go."

"Alright, thank you."

"Miss Potter shouldn't be saying those words," the elf said, her ears dropping a little. "Wimsy does not require thank-yous."

"I'm afraid it's a habit of mine. You'll have to get used to it."

Wimsy appeared to think about it, blinking owlishly as she stared at Harrie.

"Will Miss Potter stay a long time?"

"I don't know yet. We'll see what happens."

"Wimsy will serve Miss Potter as long as she is here!" the elf declared.

"Thank you, Wimsy."

"Wimsy will never get used to being thanked..."

Harrie went into the garden, approached the devastated rose bushes. Her gaze swept over the scorched earth and the few remaining flowers, which were wilting.

How much of your magic are you willing to expand? Riddle asked.

As much as is needed.

He emitted a sort of indulging sigh.

Without a wand, you'll have to draw from your magical core with no conduit. It will be imprecise, raw, and it will leave you exhausted.

But it can be done?

For this, yes.

Then let's do it.

She sat on the ground, closed her eyes, followed Riddle's instructions. Focusing on her magic, she pictured that fire burning in the dark forest, and willed the flames to her. They came, nestling into her chest, a squirming fire that built and built as she kept drawing more. A strange pressure accumulated inside her, weighing on her nerves, reminding her faintly of how she had felt all these years ago when doing accidental magic—something tightening, clamoring for a release, an itch that she desperately needed to scratch.

Hold it, Riddle said. Take more.

Keeping the flames contained, she channeled more magic into the heart of the inferno. Riddle helped. He couldn't touch her magic, but he was adding stability to what she was taking. It was like she could feel him at her back, his hands over hers, helping her hold the expanding tempest of her power.

She had to let it go. There was so much pressure, too much, the flames roaring, hovering on the edge of collapse. What would happen if she lost control?

Steady, Riddle said, like a rock at the back of her mind.

I have to let go!

Not. Yet.

The fire raged, pounding at the heart of her. Her magic wanted to burst free, wanted to spill into the world, and suddenly she worried about the result. It didn't feel like a healing force at all. It felt like a hurricane that would devastate anything in its path.

Picture the rose garden as it was before, Riddle said. Intact flowers, soft petals, verdant stems. Do you have it? Good. Now weave that into your magic.

She did, and while she worked on that part, Riddle ensured the churning fire remained stable, the flickering core kept away from collapse. Her magic thrummed with a different kind of energy, the image of beautiful rose bushes refracted a hundred times. It was ready.

Now.

They released it together. It felt like a supernova going off, an explosion of condensed magical energy, radiating out from her in a wave. Air left her lungs, and she found herself wheezing, her head spinning. Her hands slapped the ground in an attempt at bracing herself, the sky tilting above her, as if it was about to swallow her up.

Sweat beaded at her brow. Her fingers twitched, clawing together, digging furrows into the soft ground. Her eyes snapped open. Slowly, and with great effort, she lifted her head. Her vision swam with glowing pinpricks, incandescent stars that danced around, scattered across her cornea. She blinked a few times, until they vanished.

And then she could see.

A riot of colors, spreading all around her. Pink, purple, yellow, green, blue, red, a multitude of hues, some soft and pale, others vivid and stark, merging and intermingling, creating a rainbow tapestry. Dozens of roses, all healthy, all resplendent in the sunlight.

A smile tugged at her lips.

She sat there on the ground for a time, exhausted muscles trembling as she contemplated the fruit of her work. She was panting quietly, her heart racing in her chest, her ears pulsing with white noise. Her eyelids were really heavy, but she was afraid she would faint if she closed her eyes for even a second, so she kept them open, kept them on the display of colors her magic had brought back to life.

I'm actually surprised that you didn't faint, Riddle said.

Thanks for the warning.

He laughed in the face of her sarcasm.

You wanted this. Who am I to oppose you?

More labored breaths, her mouth dry, her tongue tingling. Her gaze found the sky, explored that pale azure for a bit, then settled back on the roses.

Can I use my magic in that way to attack?

She imagined directing a fiery explosion of power at Voldemort, reducing him to ashes.

It works best for healing, and then only for small matters. As an attack, it would take too long to build, and it's laughably easy to block or deflect, not to mention the complete lack of precision. Magic really shouldn't be used that way, in such a childish manner. Too much power expanded, so little gained. You've felt the danger of it as well. If I hadn't been there to stabilize it, you would have hurt yourself.

She pushed her hair away from her face, wiped her brow, grimacing at how much sweat there was.

But it worked, she pointed out.

The roses were beautiful, their delicate petals caressed by the wind, their smell reaching Harrie, sweet and so pleasant.

A team effort , Riddle said. My control, your power.

Could I... Could I have healed Snape with this?

No. It would be ineffective for all but the lightest wounds. You could heal a paper cut, if you so wished.

Looking at the roses, she wondered if Aunt Petunia had known magic could be used like this. Perhaps she wouldn't have hated it so much if Harrie had used it for gardening.

After a while, she managed to stand up. She approached the closest bush, a mix of pink and blue roses, and knelt down, reaching out for a pink rose. Her hand was trembling. When she closed her fingers on the rose's stem, the trembling stilled for a couple of seconds, then returned. She drew back her hand, closed it into a fist, inhaled and exhaled, tried again. No, still trembling.

She picked up the rose, straightened up, and headed inside the manor. She walked slowly, on unsteady legs, but when she made it inside she had already regained a good amount of strength. She went upstairs, holding the rose with great care, and found the door she wanted.

She entered without knocking.

The curtains were drawn, the light low, barely enough to see where she was going. She closed the door behind her, silently. A form stirred in the bed.

"Lucius?" came a weak, raspy voice.

"Mrs. Malfoy," Harrie said, drawing up to the bedside.

Blue eyes blinked, focused on her. They were piercing and vividly awake, though there was a glaze of pain over the bright color. From up close, Harrie could see the details of her face, how the curse—yes, curse—had twisted it, gray flesh covering the entire right side, infringing an inch or so upon the left, a mottled texture, spidered with cracks which seemed to be oozing rivulets of a dark liquid.

The effect was ghastly, even more so because Harrie could feel Voldemort's magic, dark and nefarious, clinging to Narcissa's skin, polluting it, eating away at her flesh.

It would kill her.

Not tomorrow, not in a month, but eventually, it would kill her.

"Miss... Potter," Narcissa said, in a whisper of a voice.

There was confusion in her tone, and a sort of weary resignation as well. Harrie held up the rose, presenting it to her.

"I brought you a rose from your garden. I thought you might want some color in here..."

A faint smile pinched Narcissa's lips. Trembling fingers came to rest upon the rose's stem, steadying themselves there. Harrie let go, and the flower wobbled slightly, before Narcissa tightened her grip. She brought the rose to her nose, inhaling its perfume.

"Thank you," she said, setting the rose against her chest. "That is very thoughtful of you."

There was a long, textured silence. It wasn't the same kind of silences Harrie shared with Lucius. Those ones were awkward, with underlying belligerence. This silence was an empathizing, kind one. It was the silence of two women hurt by the same man.

"You shouldn't be here," Narcissa eventually said, unmistakable concern in her voice.

"You shouldn't be in pain," Harrie replied.

"It was my choice, Miss Potter. I do not regret it."

"You chose this?" Harrie said, confused by how adamant she sounded.

"The Dark Lord's punishment was set to fall on Draco. I pleaded with him, and he allowed me to choose to suffer his wrath instead. In his mercy, he spared my son."

"It's not mercy. It's just additional guilt."

Narcissa let out a pained exhale.

"You do not know the Dark Lord, Miss Potter. We should all be immensely grateful for his mercy. A mercy he extended to you as well, regardless of his other actions toward you."

The irony of someone telling her she didn't know Voldemort. She felt a laugh bubbling up, swallowed it back down, managed a sort of twisted smile instead.

Can we do anything? she asked Riddle.

We need a wand.

"Where's your wand?"

Narcissa closed her eyes as the gray, mottled part of her face contorted in a grimace. She breathed in and out several times, raspy sounds filling the room.

"Do not defy him..." she said, with a tiny shake of her head. "You do not want to invite his wrath upon you, Miss Potter."

She opened her eyes, set them on her. They were brimming with unshed tears, and Harrie wished she could take the pain away.

"As his apprentice, you will occupy a crucial, coveted role. You must not show weakness. Most Death Eaters will underestimate you, on account of both your youth and your sex, and they will try to undermine you, thinking you easy prey. You must fortify your position. Our Lord is favoring you greatly, and that is something you must cultivate."

Harrie knew it was good advice. She had only interacted with Lucius and Bellatrix so far, but once she would meet the other Death Eaters, they would look down on her. They would think the only reason Voldemort took her as his apprentice was because she also occupied his bed.

One act of rebellion , Riddle reminded her. Yes, that would work.

"Thank you for the advice, Mrs. Malfoy. I'll come visit you again tomorrow."

Narcissa gave a small, fleeting smile, her eyes closing again. Harrie left the room with a plan in mind, pieces slowly slotting together.

When it was time for dinner, she was waiting in the drawing room with Lucius. Voldemort swept in, inquired about her day, she lied (she had a boring day and definitely didn't do anything forbidden), and he escorted her into the dining room.

"Harrie saw your former classmates today," he said to Draco. "The younger Weasley boy and the Mudblood."

Draco slid a careful look toward Harrie, then met Voldemort's eyes with a neutral expression.

"I always knew they were traitors, my Lord. The Weasleys have dishonored their blood. The whole family is useless."

"You will be present for their trial, filling the Malfoy chair," Voldemort said.

"As you command, my Lord."

Harrie tapped her fork against the side of her plate.

"Could I be present too?"

Voldemort hummed, considering her with that crimson gaze. Right now, it felt cold, and disturbingly analytical. She pretended she had nothing to hide, pretended she had been a very good apprentice, listening to her master.

"It will depend on how well you do with your lessons, Harrie. Please me enough, and I might grant your that request."

Was it code for sexual activities, or did he mean actual lessons?

Both, Riddle said, sounding so done with all of this.

"Speaking of lessons, when is the next one?" she asked.

"Sometimes this week. Though I will impart a lesson right after dinner. One that will ring through your flesh."

She fought a blush. That declaration was so unabashedly sexual. He had all but just announced to the Malfoys he would be fucking her after dinner.

She made a point of eating slowly, while her stomach squirmed from apprehension. Did he know she'd gone to see Narcissa? Was the lesson actually a punishment? She hadn't even done anything yet. Her plan was still up in the air, unrealized.

He won't see it, Riddle assured her. You can cease worrying about that.

I'll just worry about the sex, then, shall I?

She cut her steak into very, very fine slices, the meticulous task giving her something to focus on. The meat tasted like nothing in her mouth. Each spoonful of her dessert was similarly bland. It was like her brain had turned off her ability to enjoy food, while cranking up her awareness of Voldemort to an unbearable degree. Every molecule of air between them was vibrating, tension wrapping a noose around her throat until it became impossible to swallow one more bite.

"Won't you finish your dessert, Harrie?" he said, like he was concerned she wasn't eating enough.

"I'm full."

Dinner ended despite her desperate wish that it wouldn't. The Malfoys left the table. Draco gave her a glance as he stood, and perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought there was a hint of sympathy in there, though his face was cold and controlled.

Voldemort had set a hand on her chair so she couldn't push it back. She waited, like a meek lamb resigned to slaughter. Once the Malfoys were gone, Voldemort hovered closer, infringing into her personal space.

"Up," he ordered.

The second she was on her feet, he crowded at her back, looming like a dark cloud, enveloping her in his all-consuming shadow. His hand brushed her arm, settled at her nape, his fingers resting over the start of her throat, too warm, and much too close from her frantic pulse. Each beat of her heart sent adrenaline through her veins, the harsh tempo thrumming in her ears.

"Is there anything you wish to say to me, Harrie?" he inquired, fingers slowly stroking her sensitive skin.

She swallowed hard, hating the way her body responded to his proximity. There was fear, and dreaded anticipation, yes, but also a damning smolder in the pit of her belly that she couldn't stifle. Knowing it came from him didn't change a thing. Lust had sunk its claws in her, and she was helpless to stop it.

"Nothing comes to mind," she said, the words thick and heavy on her tongue.

He hummed, his hand sliding down until it curled around her throat, and, applying a slight pressure against her windpipe, he made her tilt her head back.

"Are you sure?"

A whisper, deceptively soft, insinuating itself like a smudge of smoke into her ear.

"Yes."

Her throat working against his palm as she spoke the word. Her pulse, fluttering, betraying her with every beat.

"How curious," he said, indulging her for some reason, more amused than angry.

In fact, she could barely feel any anger from him. There was some, but it amounted to the barest of threads, a faint, glimmering filament set against a backdrop of pleasant cordiality. And lust, of course. Lust, burning through the bond, coming in waves, like solar flares that sought to eclipse reason from her mind.

"Because you see, Harrie, I happen to have set up a monitoring ward on the Malfoys' master bedroom, and just a few hours ago, it informed me you had trespassed into it."

"Odd," Harrie said. "I stayed in the gardens the entire afternoon."

"How soft those lying lips of yours must be."

His own lips trailed the shell of her ear, slid across her cheek, kissed the slope of her jaw, meandering a searing heat on her skin. Her breath hitched, molten arousal pulsing between her thighs.

"There are consequences to defying my orders, and they apply to everyone, including you. Or do you imagine yourself above the rules, Harrie? Do you think sharing my bed entitles you to some special treatment?"

"It does. Unless you're planning to Crucio me."

"You will not escape your punishment," he said, nearly in a hiss.

He was looking forward to it, she could tell. A kind of malignant, perverse anticipation, sluicing through her veins like poisoned honey, a sweetness that hid fangs and claws. The desire to bite that ached in her jaw was perhaps not entirely her own.

The hand that rested at her throat slid down to cup her right breast, his thumb pressing down on her nipple, teasing it, a scrap of nail and a pinch, as his teeth nipped the edge of her jaw, followed by a flick of his tongue. She strove to remain indifferent. She wouldn't react, she wouldn't make noise, she wouldn't—

Oh God, what if the Malfoys heard them? What if they were listening right now, as Voldemort was talking about punishing her while he was fondling her? Was the door even closed?

"The door..." she said, a mortified blush heating her cheeks.

"Hmm. Perhaps I ought to make your punishment public. What do you think, Harrie? Shall I spank your pert little arse while my faithful Death Eaters watch on?"

"You wouldn't. This is private. This is... between us ."

"So it is," he said, Parseltongue hissed low against her jaw, along with the scorching slide of his tongue.

A burst of movement, dizzying, and she was suddenly bent over the table, her cheek pressed against the dark wood, her hands pinned above her head by his iron grip. An unsteady exhale left her mouth. She bit down on her lips when he tugged down her trousers. He palmed her arse, slow strokes of his hand over her knickers—the green, lacy ones he had bought for her—then tugged them down too, exposing her to the cool air of the room.

"How many strikes, Harrie?"

Go fuck yourself.

She ached to say the words, a physical strain in her chest. Her teeth ground against each other, her jaw working.

"Ten," she managed, from some place within herself that remembered what reason felt like.

She flinched from the first strike, delivered with no warning, a wide blow that fell across both her cheeks. For the second, she was ready, both for the sting and for the squirm of pleasure between her thighs. The third fanned on the flames of his desire that echoed in her, and she pressed her thighs together, holding back a moan.

"This is mine," he said, with a soft, gentle rub of his palm, a caress that compounded upon her arousal. "All of you..."

SLAP!

" ...is mine. "

He rained down more blows upon her arse, quickly, intensifying the pain, and that burning ache in her core. It was humiliating, being bent over the dinner table while he spanked her. One glancing blow almost hit her cunt, and she cried out at that, a little reedy sound slipping past her lips.

SLAP! SLAP! Two more hard swats, and she hadn't been counting, was he almost done?

He stroked her next, and her arse was so sensitive, the tissue so tender, she could feel every pass of his fingers, every slight change in pressure, every scrape of nail that seemed to demand a reaction from her.

"Are you sorry you disobeyed my orders?"

It felt like a trick question. If she said yes, she admitted to disobeying him. If she said no, well...

"Yes," she said, choosing the lesser of two evils.

His palm landed across her arse, harder than anything before. Her hips jolted forward, she emitted a breathless sound, and a forceful spike of heat pulsed in her core, inescapable. Tension was coiled there, throbbing desire, her nerves prickling, begging for... more.

His fingers slipped between her slick folds, her flesh twitching at the sudden contact, muscles spasming.

"We should do something about that, don't you think?"

A hard swallow, her throat gone tight. He wanted to fuck her here? On the table?

She tensed as a fingertip prodded at her entrance, pushed in. Her cunt offered no resistance, accepting the intrusion readily, slicking his digit with the proof of her desire. His desire. He gave two lazy pumps, teasing her with the friction, pressing purposefully on her sweet spot just before he removed his finger. Her cunt fluttered, feeling so empty.

There was the metallic sound of his belt, which sent a thrill of heat up her spine, and a twist of anger in her chest. Her hands flexed. He squeezed her wrists, putting more weight on them, and stepped closer. The hot, blunt head of his cock dragged along her slit. He coated himself in her fluids, sliding his shaft back and forth her sex several times, the sensation teasing her nerves, then he drove forward, burying himself inside her in one fluid motion.

She jolted at the sudden fullness. His hips pulled back, and he speared his way into her again. The rhythm he set was immediately quick and merciless, pulling a series of ragged, desperate inhales from her, her thighs quivering. He gripped her hair, his hips smacking into her rump with violent snaps. In this position, and with her legs held close together, his girth was putting unrelenting pressure on the spongy spot at the front of her vagina. A storm of sensations descended upon her, spikes of bliss radiating into her flesh with every thrust.

She squeezed her eyes shut, the dining room filling with the lewd sounds of their bodies meeting, and the shameful noises that flowed from her mouth, half-aborted moans.

"Mmm, Harrie," he growled.

"Stop," she gasped, despite knowing how utterly useless that word was with him.

It was too much, too fast, this rough pace with no build-up, and on the dinner table of all places, she couldn't—

"You'll take it," he said.

He pressed her face into the table, pumped harder. Her moans transitioned to quiet whimpers, her mouth smashed against the varnished wood. She was going to drool all over the Malfoys' ancestral table. Her fingers scrabbled, finding no purchase. She couldn't clench them in the sheets as she usually did, was denied that small outlet.

A spiral of heat wound tighter in her belly with every thrust, promising devastation once it would burst, and Voldemort wasn't slowing down. He was going faster, building to a ravenous rhythm, the noises of their bodies merging lewder and lewder. Her cunt was grasping at him, constricting like a vice, wet, so wet, and she could feel it from his end, how good it felt to push into her, to pump into her tight heat, to possess her.

"How mine you are. "

A long, smooth thrust, pleasure starbursting along every nerve.

"Every inch of you knows it."

"Nnn—"

She couldn't even voice a full protest.

He dropped a hand between her legs, rolled her clit between his fingers, a light caressing motion as he surged within her brutally. The tension ruptured, violent heat cascading out from the nexus of her cunt. Her muscles locked, her body squeezing his cock, with near painful convulsions of ecstasy. High-pitched whines clawed their way out of her throat as Voldemort kept fucking her through her orgasm, in heavy, pounding thrusts.

His cock was a spear, forcing its way through clenching, swollen tissues, bringing untold amount of pleasure. It took her, again and again, and she wailed and sobbed, overwhelmed by the sensations on his end, tightness, wetness, his, his, and she would take his seed and beg him for more—no—beg him for his cock—no, no—beg to be fucked into his bed and chained there for his enjoyment—stop, stop—because she belonged to him and they both—never—knew it.

He hilted himself fully with a guttural exhale, sank his teeth into her shoulder, and came, shuddering over her as his cock pulsed and filled her with burning cum. And it felt—oh, God—rapturous, a divine bliss, a perfect union of bodies and souls—not true—yes, absolute perfection.

She heard herself moan brokenly, heard Voldemort grunt, his tongue laving at her skin. He rocked his hips, grinding into her, fucking his spend further into her. She'd gone limp, tears leaking from her eyes, breathing raggedly, her fingers twitching in weak spasms, still scrabbling at the smooth wood as if she could crawl away from him that way.

As if there was any escape.

Bent over her, he heaved a sigh.

"Good girl."

She flinched when he withdrew. Her muscles were wrung out, her legs unable to support her, and she was trembling all over, drool staining her face and cum dripping down her thighs. She felt wrecked.

And she hadn't even truly rebelled yet.

What would he do to her when she healed Narcissa tomorrow?

Chapter Text

Harrie knocked on the door, rasping her knuckles lightly against the wood.

No answer.

She knocked again, with more force.

"I know you're in here," she said. "Wimsy told me."

There were footsteps from the other side, and a sigh, loud enough that it was probably exaggerated on her behalf. The door opened smoothly. Draco stared at her, a mild sneer on his pointy face. It reminded her of Snape. The Potions Master used to wear a similar expression whenever Harrie would show up to his office for her detentions.

"Potter. Why do you insist on seeking out my company?"

"I'm bored," she said, shrugging.

He arched an eyebrow at her words.

"Have you taken a look at the library? We have one of the most comprehensive collections on curses and dark magic in all of Great Britain."

Sound advice, Riddle remarked from within her. Perhaps the young Malfoy heir isn't a complete waste of space after all.

"I'm sure it would all be fascinating to someone else, but I don't intend to spend my time here reading. I was thinking we could play chess."

He throttled his sigh this time, and it came out as barely a heavier breath.

"Fine. Chess. Prepare to lose, Potter."

They went into one of the studies, a small room decorated with a large Persian rug on the floor, and gray, heavy drapes at the windows, which opened up on the western part of the grounds and gave a view of the hedge maze.

They settled on ornate, dark wooden chairs. Harrie tapped a nail against the head of the coiled snake that served as an armrest while Draco set everything up for the game.

The board was made of marble, and the white squares seemed to glisten and glow under the rays of sunlight slanting from the windows, while the black squares absorbed them, their color flat and mat. The pieces were marble as well, exquisitely carved, so elegant they looked like works of art instead of anything having to do with a game. Pawns, rooks, bishops, knights, all intricately rendered in pretty, curved lines, bearing a shimmering opalescence for the white pieces, and a midnight-blue tint for the black pieces. The kings and queens had a pearl for a head, and wore crowns of silver studded with tiny, glittering diamonds.

"I was expecting an all-gold set," Harrie quipped.

"Gold? What are we, Gryffindors? Silver or nothing."

"Has there ever been a Malfoy in Gryffindor?"

"My great-great-aunt Margaret," Draco said, with a quirk of his mouth. "An absolute shame for the family. She even made Head Girl." He leaned back in his chair. "You're taking white, I assume."

"Yes."

She moved a pawn forward. Draco did the same.

"Who taught you to play?" she asked.

"I had tutors. You?"

"Ron."

He gave a light scoff.

"It will be an easy win for me, then. I would never lose against the strategies of a Weasley."

"Funny, I seem to remember you did."

"Quidditch isn't chess, Potter. No team to drag me down here. Just you and me."

They played, trading mindless remarks and inconsequential chatter. Harrie wasn't very good at chess, had never had the patience to study the strategies and learn them, but as it turned out, Riddle was great at it. He even enjoyed it more than her.

She let Draco win the first game, since she needed him to lower his guard. The second game she narrowly won, after a hard, long exchange and many pieces lost on both sides. Draco's mouth twisted to the side in a grimace when he realized he had lost. His king threw his crown down, bowing before her queen.

"Interesting," he said, when really he probably meant how the bloody hell did you do that?

The board reset itself for a new game.

"Can we get something to drink?" Harrie said.

"Wimsy!"

The house elf appeared, and bowed before Draco.

"Master Draco is needing something?"

"Bring us some lemonade."

Thirty seconds later, they had a jug of fresh lemonade.

"Thank you, Wimsy," Harrie said.

"Is Master Draco needing anything else?" the elf asked.

Draco dismissed her with a wave of his hand, and she disappeared with a pop.

"What?" Harrie said, since Draco was looking at her strangely.

"You don't thank the house elves, Potter. That's basic wizarding etiquette."

"You thank someone when they do something for you. That's basic politeness."

He shook his head slightly.

"Aunt Margaret would have liked you."

Harrie set her full glass on the side of the table, strategically. She started the game aggressively, forcing Draco to think and take time on his turns. He appeared to be fully engaged, bent over the board, his gray eyes sweeping over the pieces, trying to discern what she was doing.

"Is that a strategy from Weasley's playbook?"

No, you're actually playing against the Dark Lord.

"Yes."

"Interesting," he said again, which was apparently his go-to word when he was outmatched.

He moved one of his knights to threaten her bishop, which Riddle had anticipated. From within Harrie's mind came half a dozen suggestions, all backed up by explanations that she understood in the blink of an eye. None of them ultimately mattered. The game would have a different conclusion than a checkmate.

She reached out to move a pawn that had almost made it to his side of the board, and her elbow knocked over her glass of lemonade. It spilled half on the table and half on Draco, who let out a groan of dismay.

"Shit, sorry!" she said, righting the glass, leaning over.

He reached for his wand to dry himself off, had already drawn it halfway out of his robes when he realized that might not be such a good idea. She made a grab for it, and at the same time, toppled his chair with a kick. Her fingers closed around the wood. The wand was yanked out of Draco's hand, not cleanly, but efficiently. He hit the floor, floundered, an angry snarl on his face.

"You—"

She would never know what he was about to say, because she Stunned him right there. He went limp, his unconscious body sprawled in the knocked-over chair.

"Thanks," she couldn't resist saying.

Don't waste time gloating, Riddle said.

Are you sure you're Voldemort?

She examined Draco's wand, the handle sticky with lemonade. A cleaning charm took care of that, and she felt no resistance at all from the wand. When she cast a Binding spell to tie Draco up, the wand didn't protest either. It was wonderfully responsive. She could have done a lot with it, but there was no time to lose.

No time to run, either. Breaking through the wards outside that barred her from leaving would take hours. She didn't have hours. There was still Lucius in the house somewhere, and he could wonder where Draco was at any time, not to mention the possibility of Voldemort sensing something was wrong through their bond.

No strong emotions. Control yourself.

Didn't you say you could help with that?

Only to a point. You're a very effusive person, and I cannot stop your strongest emotions from bleeding through the link.

She left the room, went to the master bedroom, entered without knocking. There was a bit more light streaming in from the windows, the drapes opened a few slim inches further than last time, and Harrie immediately noticed a problem.

A problem called Lucius Malfoy, standing right there at his wife's bedside. His head snapped up, his eyes narrowing when they locked onto her like those of a bird of prey. He spotted the wand in her hand, reacted immediately. She threw herself back, avoiding the jet of red light, scrambled out of the room and flattened herself against the wall, wand aimed at the door.

"Wait, we don't have to fight!"

No answer.

"I can heal her!" she added, and then she waited for Lucius to make the next move.

It came swiftly, a bead of darkness that landed on the carpeted floor of the hallway, pulsed once, and expanded to engulf the entire corridor in pitch-black obscurity. Harrie had never encountered that spell before. Riddle had. He shared his knowledge, between one beat of her heart and the next, and she knew the darkness wouldn't last, knew Lucius could see through it, knew a Lumos wouldn't help her.

She heard his footsteps, fired her own Stun, at random. Next was her Protego, blocking another red spell. He was trying to stun her, and nothing else. He couldn't hurt her.

She deflected his next spell too, her shield going up preemptively. Then, in a blink, all darkness vanished. She found herself facing Lucius, the man just a few steps away, his wand raised, his face locked into an icy expression.

"Lower your wand," he said, "and surrender."

"Really? You think that's gonna work?"

"You cannot escape. I won't open the wards for you, no matter what you threaten me with."

Well, that's just not true, Riddle commented. A few rounds of Crucio on Narcissa and he'd do whatever we want.

The thought had Harrie recoiling.

No.

I wasn't suggesting we do it. Merely letting you know how malleable Lucius is.

"I'm not trying to escape," she said. "I meant what I said. I'm planning to heal Narcissa."

Lucius made a soft sound, a sort of hum, his features pinched with contempt, along with a touch of annoyance.

"You cannot. You know nothing about curses, and you are not a Healer. You cannot advance through life by way of sheer Gryffindor stubbornness, Miss Potter."

"Watch me."

They both fired a Stun, the beams of crimson light meeting in mid-air, colliding, exploding into a violent shower of sparks before fading. She cast a non-verbal Expelliarmus, which he promptly blocked with a shield, and when she followed that with a double Stun, one verbal and one non-verbal, he deflected them as well.

Any advice? she asked Riddle.

Hit him with a Cruciatus.

Something that doesn't involve torture.

And why not? Riddle said, as she dodged another Stupefy, the red jet narrowly missing her. He's a traitor. He serves the impostor.

He doesn't even know you exist!

He knows what Voldemort is doing to you. He's letting him rape you, and it's happening in his house. He should be on his knees, begging for forgiveness.

While this was true, she didn't feel the same degree of hatred toward Lucius as she did toward Bellatrix, or Voldemort. There wasn't enough venom in her that she could spit some on him.

I can't cast Crucio on him.

I can. Say the word, Harrie. I'll give you what you need.

She hesitated, shielding against another Stun. Time was running out, and she was losing precious minutes with this duel. Lucius was watching her with keen eyes, but there was a slight tremor to his wand-hand. If she was lucky, he was drunk enough to hinder his reflexes.

She switched her footing, slipped on a hard mask, the face she would make upon casting Crucio . Cold eyes, sharp stare.

"Aren't you wondering what I did to Draco?"

He'd been about to cast again. The question made him pause.

"It's a nifty spell I got from Snape," she went on. "You might know it. Sectumsempra. He's bleeding out, I'm afraid."

He paled ever so slightly, his features tightening.

"You wouldn't."

"No, you're right. The old me wouldn't. But you see, I've been stuck in this house for over a week, I'm being raped every day, and I have a lot of anger to unleash. Draco was merely a convenient target. I have nothing against him, personally. You might even be able to save him if you go to him right now."

His eyes flicked behind her, the tip of his wand trembling.

"You're bluffing."

"Am I?" she said, with a smile borrowed, not from Riddle, but from Voldemort, that merciless shark smile that always heralded the worst.

She cast it then, hissing the incantation, fully betting that Lucius would shield from it.

"Sectumsempra! "

White light flashed, crashed into Lucius' Protego. He stumbled back, some emotion sweeping over his face, quick as wildfire. Rage, black and acrid, the same rage as when she had tricked him into freeing Dobby years ago, so she knew what spell he'd cast next.

"Cru—"

Her Stun hit him before he could get to that second syllable, and he went down, body collapsing heavily to the carpeted floor. Harrie collected his wand, cast an Incarcerous to make sure he wouldn't be a problem even if he woke up.

You share only what's convenient, she remarked to Riddle.

If you were expecting me to bestow you with the complete mastery of my dueling talents, you will be sorely disappointed indeed. Besides, you handled that well.

She decided to take the compliment. Everything was going fine so far. She'd been relatively sure she could steal Draco's wand, but she hadn't counted on having to duel Lucius, and she'd gotten away with a clear win. Against a trained Death Eater.

A drunk one, Riddle said.

Go back to complimenting me.

He chuckled from deep inside her mind, and she wondered what the hell she was doing, bantering with a version of Voldemort. Perhaps she ought to worry about her own sanity.

Entering the master bedroom, she kept her wand at the ready, but that turned out to be unnecessary. Narcissa's wand wasn't even in sight. She was lying under the blankets, her hands gathered together on her chest, her eyes tracking Harrie's movements.

"Obviously I was bluffing about everything," Harrie said. "Draco is fine, I only Stunned him. Same with your husband."

"I know," Narcissa replied, her voice faint but nonetheless firm. "I never doubted you, Miss Potter. And I believe you when you say you want to cure me, but you shouldn't attempt it."

"Why not?"

"Do you not fear our Lord's retaliation? That I suffer from this curse is his will. And his will is absolute."

Harrie shrugged, nonchalantly.

"Defying his will is kind of my hobby."

She came closer to the bed, surveying Narcissa's face, feeling out the low buzz of magic. It was a simmering, churning darkness, something that clung to its victim and burrowed a bit deeper each day.

How do I stop it? Harrie asked, even as she pointed Draco's wand at it.

It's an ongoing spell. How do you end an ongoing spell?

Surely it couldn't be that simple.

If you were a Healer attempting to help her, it would be different. You would slowly map out the curse, understanding it bit by bit, and undoing it over the course of days, or weeks. Or you'd try and fail, since it cannot be healed. But we know the spell. Thus we can end it.

Alright, it was that simple.

"Finite Incantatem," she said.

Nothing happened.

Intent matters here, Riddle said. You're thinking of it as an opposing force. Something to vanquish. It's not. It's our magic, Harrie.

It's not mine! It's vile.

It is ours. Part of our arsenal, just as Sectumsempra or the Cruciatus. A weapon to unleash on our enemies. You would enjoy seeing it strike Voldemort.

'Enjoy' wasn't strong enough a word.

What's the incantation?

There isn't one. It's not a battle spell. It's a series of runes that one has to inscribe upon an object. I originally created it to protect something of mine.

Now that sounded familiar.

The ring? she guessed. That's...

The curse that was killing Dumbledore, yes. A variant of it.

She blinked at the graying flesh, at the dark liquid oozing from the cracked skin.

My curse, she tried to convince herself. My magic. It's mine, and I can stop whenever I want. It's mine. Mine.

She breathed in, and felt it, the vague, pulsing tendrils of the spell caught in her inhale, and hers, absolutely hers, as much as any other part of her magic.

"Finite Incantatem," she said, and breathed out.

The buzz of magic cut off abruptly. Like an intricate knot that could actually be undone if one tugged sharply on the right end, the curse unraveled, letting go of its target. Narcissa jerked, and then breathed deeply. Gray scales fell off her face, in large flakes, sliding down to her chest, turning into fine dust there. She lifted a hesitant hand, running her fingers over flawless skin.

Harrie lowered her wand, triumph thrilling through her. She had done it. Had put an end to a curse wrought by Voldemort, a curse that not even Dumbledore had been able to stop. With a wand that wasn't even hers!

Very well done, Riddle said, sharing her elation, a bright kind of buoyancy that suffused her from the inside.

That lasted a few seconds. Then came that sense of doom, that dire warning that he was coming. An abrupt return to the reality of her situation, and the incoming consequences of her act of rebellion.

Fuck.

She whipped around, her feet sliding into a dueling stance, her wand held defensively.

And there he was. A direct Apparition into the bedroom, with an ear-splitting crack that went off like a bomb in the calm, darkened chamber. She didn't waste time.

"Crucio!"

One word, shouted with all her hate, all her rage, and Riddle's too. The spell didn't make it to its target. Voldemort's wand dipped low, swept through the air, and caught the curse. It buzzed at the tip of his wand, a red-black crackle of energy, spitting and hissing.

His red eyes burned in the gloom, briefly flicking to Narcissa, then coming back on her, the weight of his stare palpable, making goosebumps erupt along her arms, down her neck. A searing, avid gaze. It matched his smile, a slash of white teeth in his too-pale face, a widening gleam as his lips kept stretching.

It was utterly puzzling to feel, across the bond, that same sense of elation that had gripped her heart seconds earlier. Anger thrummed low, barely perceptible, drowned out by bubbling delight, and, shockingly, pride.

"Oh, Harrie," he breathed softly. "You want to play..."

In an instant, he was upon her.

His hand closed on her shoulder, a tight grip, and then her body seized with the familiar feeling of a Side-Along Apparition. She staggered back as soon as they landed. He had brought her to the dueling room.

That suited her just fine.

"Crucio!" she cast again, hate welling deep and dark in her chest.

He dodged, preternaturally fast, and the curse hit the far wall, the discharge of magical energy leaving a black, smoking mark on the wallpaper.

"Very good," he said, with such scorching approval she felt almost dirty. "You're getting much better at casting Unforgivables. And ending my curse, on your own, that shows great promise. I'm suitably impressed. And now you wish to duel?"

"I wish to kill you!" she snarled.

Another surge of delighted pride, so strong, like a shot of Firewhiskey straight down her throat, scalding, intoxicating.

"Let's see how you do this time."

A whip of his wand, and a purple spell was streaking toward her. She snapped a Protego up, grunted when the bolt impacted her shield. She dodged the next attack, replied with two Stuns one after the other, followed by a non-verbal Sectumsempra. Voldemort flicked them all aside, nonchalantly.

"Your footwork could be tighter," he commented.

He sent a fizzling spell right at her feet. She jumped back, and the yellowish energy crashed into one of the gems embedded in the floor, a big one that represented the left eye of the dragon. It sent off a shower of sparks as it was struck, glowing brighter for a few seconds.

"And of course, your wand isn't ideal. It's serviceable, but you cannot achieve your true potential with a borrowed wand, Harrie."

"It's doing fine," she snarled back, sending another Crucio at him.

Draco's wand was working with her, channeling her magic with no resistance. And it was familiar: she had used it for weeks, after all.

"'Fine' isn't enough," Voldemort said, catching her spell again.

He volleyed it back at her, and she had to jerk her body to the side in a hasty dodge.

"You should strive for excellence."

He produced his bone-white wand from the folds of his robes, threw it at her, in a high arc. She caught it with her left hand, hesitated. His wand felt like her own. Even simply held in her hand, she could sense the difference with Draco's wand, and she knew Voldemort's would be stronger. Wasn't it all that mattered?

Stowing Draco's wand away, she gripped the stick of white wood, both resenting and appreciating how well it suited her. When she cast a spell with it, a quick Impediment Hex, the energies flowed quicker, exactly as they would with her actual wand.

"Better, isn't it?" Voldemort said, his gaze fixed on her wand hand, on her fingers curled around the bone-like handle.

She replied with an Expelliarmus. He didn't use Protego. Instead, his wand barely twitched, and then flicked to the side. She suspected he had caught her spell again, and discarded it in the same motion. She had to learn how to do that.

Do you know how? she asked Riddle.

He didn't reply.

"Shall we make this more fun?" Voldemort said.

A swish of his wand, and the room was suddenly plunged in complete darkness. Harrie startled. She could see Voldemort's red eyes, crimson and piercing, and the gems of the dragon that glowed faintly on the floor, a dull amber, but beyond that, all was thick obscurity, pressing in against her

Fun, he'd said. Was this a game to him? She was trying to kill him, and he found it amusing. She posed no threat at all. She was a mouse showing her teeth to the big bad cat, imagining she could take him on. Her recent victories had emboldened her. But Voldemort wasn't Draco, a boy her age deceived by a well-thought out stratagem, and he wasn't Lucius, a somewhat drunk adult wizard who loved his son and wife and could be made to worry about them.

He was the greatest wizard of this age.

And she wasn't his equal yet.

Are you planning to help at all? she snarled at Riddle.

She would have thought he'd be eager to face Voldemort, and he had certainly contributed a lot of hate to her Crucios, but he hadn't given her anything else. No advice, no shared knowledge.

We will have our chance at killing him, he replied. This is not now.

Why not?

There was no answer.

She took a step back in the dark, raised her wand.

"Lumos!"

She felt the magical energies channeling up to her wand tip, but any light failed to appear. No, of course it wouldn't be that simple.

"Have you had any formal training in dueling, Harrie?"

The red eyes gleamed closer. She took several steps back.

"You should know that the wizard who controls the environment controls the duel," Voldemort said, in an educational tone which left her perplexed.

Was this a punishment, a lesson, or a game? All three at once?

"I've trapped you in a lightless room. I can see, while you can't. I could kill you at any time."

"That's always true," Harrie said, casting a Crucio to punctuate her words.

It was easy now. Almost like any other spell. An Unforgivable, but that was what she needed against Voldemort. Not love. And she'd forgive herself.

A beat of silence, then an answering flash of purple. The spell crashed into her shield and nearly collapsed it, the impact making her grunt.

"Quite right, my apprentice. You live at my leisure. You breathe at my leisure."

The red eyes vanished. She looked around, saw nothing but thick, crowding darkness. Holding her breath, she listened for footsteps. Her heart was beating too fast in her ears, a frenzied staccato that drowned out any subtle sound. She gripped her wand, realized with a jolt she'd been thinking of it as her wand the whole time, told herself this came from Riddle.

Are you not going to say anything? she thought at him.

We have to make it through this.

His voice was heavy with resignation. He burned with anger, yet he wasn't willing to unleash it fully.

At least tell me what 'this' is.

You know already. It's the cat playing with the mouse.

A low chuckle filled the room. Did it come from right behind her? She whirled around, firing a Stun.

"Attacking at random isn't the solution," Voldemort chided her. "Your strikes should be precise, or should not be at all."

He then demonstrated by attacking her and calling out the side from which his spell would come from. Left, and she threw up a shield to stop the crackling bolt, right, and she dodged, the swirling red arrow whizzing past her, from behind her, and she cast another Protego . Even with advanced notice, his blows were not easy to parry. They came with momentous energy, and hit with needle-like precision.

In the forest, she hadn't had time to study his technique, but here she could afford to pay more attention to it. She wished she could have seen his wand movements, and the way he moved.

"You can't see," he said, as if reading her thoughts, "but you have other means to tell where I am."

She did. She didn't want to use it, but there it was. Their bond, a subtle vibration between them. She was holding herself closed to it at the moment, like a turtle hiding in her shell. He was sending sensations along the link, and those she couldn't stop, but she refused to feel him back. Refused to seek him out.

"Don't you want to know, Harrie?" came a sinuous whisper, nudging the shell of her ear.

She fired a hex behind her, heard it hit the wall. Exhaling a frustrated grunt, she completed another turn on herself, couldn't tell where Voldemort was. Not like this, not with her eyes and ears.

Fine.

She'd use the bloody bond. Opening her mind to it was so easy. It was the act of keeping herself from the link that required efforts, while she only had to relax to let herself flow through it. And it felt right, too. As if their souls were meant to be connected.

Instantly, she was aware of him. He stood three paces ahead to her right, his wand held parallel to his body, level with his neck.

"That's it, my dear," Voldemort crooned. "Now, let's test your defense."

He sent a barrage of spells her way, streaming from his wand, flick, flick, flick, small, explosive little spells that sizzled against her shield and threatened to make her stagger back. She fed more power into her Protego, grasped her wand tighter, groaned. Voldemort wasn't stopping, his attacks were intensifying, in speed as well as in strength, and maintaining her shield was costing her. A single one of his spells was worth ten of Lucius'.

He wasn't letting her breathe. Her back foot slowly slipped on the floor, the sole of her sandals too smooth. Her wrist was cramping, the strain of keeping her defense up making her sweat. Colored lights exploded against her shield, again and again, as the burn of spellfire singed the air. The room was heating up, the floor gems kept glinting at the corner of her eye, reflecting the spell-light in bright flashes, and she had never maintained a shield for so long, but she had no choice.

"Who taught you that defensive stance? Firmer on your dominant foot, Harrie. Lean into your shield."

She knew that. And her defensive stance was fine.

Snape hadn't been easy on her during his DADA classes, criticizing her more than anyone else, hounding her until her basic stances held no flaws. He had thrown spells at her in mock duels too, though never like that. Back then, Harrie hated the way he treated her, hated that he pushed her much harder than her classmates, that he was never satisfied with any of her progress. Now she understood what he'd been trying to prepare her for, and she wished he would have been even harder on her.

A series of red-purple spells ricocheted off her shield. It held, wobbling against the final bolt but remaining intact. Harrie dropped it afterward, took a strained breath, repositioned her feet and sank back into her defensive stance. Voldemort sent a heavy spell her way. She didn't tremble, didn't doge. She answered with another shield, and the spell crashed into it in a shower of yellow sparks.

"Better," Voldemort said, in a soft voice that felt like a caress.

He moved right, the hem of his robes whispering against the floor, his red gaze staying on her, unblinking. More spells flashed, illuminating the dark room in brief bursts of color. She withstood them, feeling their impacts vibrate through her body, imagining what they would do if they hit her. She didn't even recognize most of them.

And Riddle seemed uninterested in providing any help. He sat there at the back of her mind, exuding rage and hate, while Harrie defended herself, sweating and straining.

There came a lull in Voldemort's attacks, and she used the moment to cast a spell of her own.

"Expecto Patronum!"

Because that was something she hadn't tried yet, and it would make light so she wouldn't have to rely on the bond, and it would mean hope.

But nothing happened. Her wand didn't even produce silver mist. No Patronus at all, corporeal or uncorporeal.

Her heart sank. What was wrong with her?

"Attack me, Harrie."

She remembered that day, the rain outside, the warm atmosphere inside the tent, the cake, Ron's smile, Hermione's laugh, the sugary taste of treacle tart...

"Expectro Patronum !"

And still, only darkness.

The problem didn't come from the wand. It came from her. Voldemort had done something to her, changed her so much that she couldn't even—

"Where is my lioness? Where are your claws, Harrie? Show them to me."

Hate surged, swelling up her throat, coming thick and bitter on her tongue. So much hate, choking her, bearing hot in her veins. He'd done this. He'd done this, he'd taken away her hope, her heart, her light.

And now she would make him pay.

"Avada Kedavra!"

Green light flashed.

The jet of magical energy sliced open the stuffy obscurity layering the room, and for a second, she glimpsed Voldemort's face, the shock on his features as he dodged the green bolt. Then it crashed into the far wall, and darkness fell back over them.

"Well, well. Isn't that interesting."

Crippling pain burned up her arm. She yelped. Her wand fled from her grasp, escaping her twitching fingers. She took a strained breath, reached for Draco's wand at her waist. It wasn't there. Neither was Lucius'. Voldemort had taken all three, and she was left defenseless.

He advanced on her, quick as a wraith. A hand closed around her chin, fingers gripping tight, claw-like.

"You keep surprising me, my dear."

Searing desire burned between them, all sharp edges, an inward fire that sought to infect her. She'd tried to kill him, and that was turning him on. He was letting her see why, his thoughts bleeding through the link. It was her rage, her hate, the fact that she was able to cast the Killing Curse, and the way she had looked in that flash of green, the echo of it in her eyes, the snarl upon her face, the transcendent beauty of her in that instant.

It made him want to own her, a primal need for possession which was just as suffocating as her rage. Her lungs struggled to take air in, her chest heaving rapidly, her throat too tight.

"Perhaps there is more darkness in you than you thought," Voldemort said, his nails digging into her cheeks.

"Because of you!"

She closed her hand into a fist, punched him, from below. It would have been a solid strike if it had connected, but her fist encountered a magical resistance inches from his chest which absorbed the momentum of the blow. He grabbed her arm, spun her around, forcing her flush against his body. His teeth closed on her earlobe, jolting her with sharp pain.

"Uncouth little beast," he murmured. "You will be brought in line."

Harrie growled, exactly like the beast she was accused of being. She clawed at Voldemort's arms, wishing she could strike flesh instead of fabric. He closed a hand around her throat, squeezed threateningly, not enough to cut off her air, but enough that Harrie stilled, her heart giving uneven flutters in her chest.

"We're not done playing, Harrie."

His magic snapped, taking her with him in a crushing Apparition. They reappeared outside, the light immediately hurting her eyes. Through half-closed eyelids, she glimpsed tall hedges, a corridor of green around them, and a sliver of blue sky above.

The maze.

He'd brought her to the maze, and as she realized his intent, desire poured hot and dark through the bond, forcing a whine from her lips. Her cunt throbbed, heat pulsing somewhere deep in her belly, a desperate ache that made her clench her thighs.

"No," she gasped.

He released her.

"Run."

The order slashed at her back, coming with another heady rush of desire-want-greed, so strong she teetered on her feet.

"Run, or I will fuck you raw right here on the ground."

She ran. Picked a direction at random, and bolted away from him, as fast as she could.

Her heart pounding, her breath coming in wheezing pants, she reached a corner, took it so fast she nearly slipped on the grass, over-corrected herself and half-slammed into the hedge on her right. She peeled herself from the vegetal wall, raced forward.

He followed.

She heard him behind her, chasing her. Running after her, the predator closing in on the prey, and did she really have any chance to escape him? She had to try. Put as much distance as possible between them. The strength of his arousal felt like a fire at her back, an advancing blaze that would devour her if it reached her.

She had to run.

Had to get away.

She reached an intersection, had the choice between going left and going right, chose right. Glimpsing back—and why would she, but she couldn't stop herself—she saw him, a specter in dark robes coming after her, a maniacal grin on his face.

"Enjoying the thrill of the chase, Harrie? Does it make your blood pump in your veins? Does it make your cunt wet?"

He was bloody mental.

She took another right, her lungs overworking, the muscles in her legs straining. She didn't know where she was in the maze, couldn't remember where the exit was. She was running without a plan, only seeking to escape him.

She wasn't fast enough. He was gaining on her, had longer legs, perhaps was using magic to sprint faster. She was losing this perverse, insane game of his.

Another right turn, sharp.

The hedge walls were caging her, closing in. She realized too late where she was headed.

A dead end.

Fuck.

She stopped abruptly, whipped around. He was already there, blocking the corridor, cutting off any possibility of escape. A cruel, sinister smile floated on his lips, a thing of searing hunger and clawing want.

"I caught you, little Horcrux."

"No."

He advanced on her. She stepped back, until she hit the hedge, and that was it, there was nowhere she could go. Voldemort stalked closer, his red eyes narrowing, the bond overflowing with heat. It was burning in her, a pulsing ache in her cunt, boiling to such an acute degree her vision blurred for an instant.

Too much.

Endure.

"On your knees."

"No," she repeated, thoughtlessly, as if the word would ever mean anything to Voldemort.

A flick of his wand, and there a hard kick of magic at the back of her thighs, sending her sprawling forward. She hit the grass on hands and knees, as if she were bowing down in supplication. He gripped her hair, jerked her up, until her face was level with his groin. A cold weight settled on Harrie's chest, her nerves firing off with adrenaline. His arousal was visible, the shape of his erection straining the fabric of his trousers.

He stroked her cheek with the back of his knuckles, his wand grazing her hair.

"You wanted to play, Harrie. You defied me on purpose, and instead of begging for my forgiveness, you doubled down on your errant behavior. Now take your punishment."

He freed himself from his clothes, dragged her closer, until her mouth rested against the head of his cock. She grimaced when the tip smeared pre-cum on her lips. His eyes were hooded, his gaze heavy-lidded as he studied the picture she made.

Impatiently, he tugged her hair again.

"Take it."

He forced his pale member between her lips, thrusting about halfway, and already the stretch in her jaw was uncomfortable. She groaned, tongue flattened by his girth. Her hands went to his thighs, to attempt to push him away or simply clutch at him, she wasn't sure, and she didn't find out, because half a second later her hands had been yanked behind her back by an invisible force.

The same force seemed to be holding her jaw open. She couldn't bite down. She had to take his cock, any way he wanted it.

"How long will you keep struggling, Harrie?" he asked, with a piercing look that said he couldn't wait to find out the answer.

He pulled back, drove forward again, hard. His cock hit the back of her throat, making her gag, bringing tears to her eyes. He moved with deep, full strokes, holding her hair tight, while her hands were trapped behind her back. His cock couldn't fit completely in her mouth, but he was pushing it down as far as he could, so much of it, cutting off her breathing, triggering her gag reflex every time. She squirmed at his feet, half from her struggles for air, and half from the punches of pleasure that radiated in her cunt, low and heavy, pulling on the muscles in her belly.

His gaze gleamed dark, the ruby of his irises overshadowed by a haze of possessiveness and ravenous lust.

"Such a good girl, sucking her Lord's cock..."

She wasn't doing much sucking. He was using her mouth, her throat, his cock sliding in and out at an unhurried pace, taking his pleasure and forcing her to feel it too. Her face was hot and flushed, her pulse roaring at her throat, her eyes stinging with tears. She was drooling, helplessly, and there were slick, obscene noises every time his hips pumped.

She tried to tune those sounds out. Tried to ignore him as well. Closed her eyes, focused on taking strained breaths when she could. Voldemort hummed.

"Now, look at you..."

He sent an image in her head, and she saw herself, kneeling at his feet, her lips stretched around his cock, her face wet with tears and drool. This was her, right there, gagging on his prick and not doing anything to stop it... moaning every time the pleasure between her legs flared... wanting more, didn't she? More of her Lord's cock, such a good apprentice, learning to take her punishment...

Sickly sweet, suffocating, his thoughts weighted on her, bending her own. They weren't true. She reminded herself they weren't true, that she didn't want this, didn't want more, that the only reason she wasn't fighting more was—

Endure.

—because she couldn't, because she had to—

—keep sucking his cock, just like that, yes...

He was groaning now, going faster, his fingers clenching in her hair, forcing her to take his cock even as he drove forward. She couldn't breathe, panic building in her chest while bliss kept spiking ever higher, and she felt so good, the hot wet heat of her mouth, her soft tongue cushioning his prick, the tightness of her throat, all so perfect.

It wasn't her—it was, it was, Harrie, so good—no, no, and she groaned her refusal around his cock, groaned as he hissed her name, rammed down her throat and came there, forcing her to swallow every slick spurt. She lost control of herself then, a convulsion of heat blasting down her spine, and she trembled and writhed through her climax, held in place by that vice grip in her hair.

When he let her go, she collapsed to the ground, coughing and retching. She had a few seconds of reprieve, then he gripped her by the arm, jerked her up, and forced her into a Side-Along. Her head spun, her body protesting at the treatment. She landed on his bed, air escaping her lungs in a wet huff, her face pressed against the sheets.

With effort, she straightened up. Voldemort was looming over her, his hand still around her arm. She met his eyes.

"What, no fucking on the ground? Oh, that's right, your old bones couldn't take it."

His eyes flashed, upper lip curling back to reveal his teeth.

Stop making it worse.

Worse. What was worse, at this stage? And what was the price of her pride?

"Let's see what you can take, Harrie."

He taped his wand against her chin, and her clothes vanished. There was a metallic glint at the edge of her vision, followed by the soft slithering of a chain across the silk sheets. She didn't struggle when it wrapped around her, the cold metal pressing against her flesh. Like a snake, the chain coiled and coiled, winding tight around her limbs.

It yanked her arms above her head, anchoring itself in place and supporting her weight, and it wrapped in multiple loops around her bent legs so she was positioned kneeling on the bed, spread open for Voldemort's enjoyment, her naked cunt on display, the dark curls above her sex sticky with arousal. The chain also framed her breasts, a row of cold links above and under, a jeweled parody of a bra.

"You will beg me to stop," Voldemort promised, his voice a barbed stinger sinking into the softest part of her.

"I won't."

He leaned down, his lips caressing the side of her cheek, the contact scraping the end of her nerves, making them burn, making them sing.

"Oh yes, Harrie, you will."

Chapter Text

He didn't touch her right away.

He went to serve himself a glass of wine, which he drank slowly while looking at her, circling the bed, making a point of admiring her from all angles. His gaze trailed over her body, skimming her sides, grazing her breasts, brushing over her cunt, a phantom caress that had every single nerve standing to attention.

She tensed every muscle, squirmed, and the silver chain tightened minutely in answer, pulling her arms a little higher, squeezing her thighs just a bit more. Her legs, too, were spread an inch wider, as if to make clear that any attempt at resistance would only make her situation worse. She swallowed, her throat burning from that rough blowjob of earlier. The taste of his semen lingered on her tongue.

His red eyes surveyed her, as red as the wine he was enjoying. Red as blood, too. He would make her bleed. She could feel it, that hint of savagery coiled under the surface, the desire to punish her, to be rough. To lay claim to her, body and soul.

She returned a defiant gaze, didn't slump in her bonds. She wasn't surrendering.

She would not beg.

Clinging to her rage and hate as if they were a weapon and she could wield them against him, she grit her teeth, following him with her eyes as he circled her.

A minute passed, then another.

She waited, drawing in strained breaths, body bent in an aching position, every second a torment. Waited, waited, for Voldemort to stop looking and start playing.

Or perhaps this was already a game, making her wish he would touch her, so this could stop.

He completed his circle around the bed, coming to stand in front of her. He braced an arm against one of the bedposts, tapped his nails on his glass, studying her in silence.

Sometimes between his orgasm and bringing her here, he had fastened his trousers again, so he looked perfectly put together, his dark robes clinging to his frame artfully, while she was nude and chained up, positioned in such a way that he could see every detail of her cunt. The contrast seemed obscene. And clearly, he relished it, since he appeared in no hurry to fuck her.

His keen gaze swept over her, his smile steadily growing toward a smirk. Finally, he got onto the bed, advancing toward her in a predatory crawl. She didn't flinch as he drew near, didn't flinch either when he tipped a finger under her chin. He clicked his tongue, softly, and the silver chain forced her arms back another inch, her back bending further, her chest thrust out for his enjoyment.

"Your breasts are magnificent, my dear."

He tipped his glass, spilling wine all over her chest. Instantly, the cool liquid made her nipples pebble. She suppressed a whine when Voldemort bent down and licked a wide swipe over the side of her left breast, collecting the wine from her skin. His hot tongue pressed down, worked up to her nipple, which he took in his mouth, eliciting a shocking bolt of heat between her thighs. Her cunt contracted around nothing, a gush of arousal leaking down onto the sheets.

Voldemort groaned, something appreciative and vaguely feral. He nipped at the soft flesh of her breast, again and again, small scraps of his teeth that keep sparking electrifying sensations in her lower body, then he bit down for real, sucking a bruise into her skin. She gave a moan when the pain hit, jerking in her bonds.

He moved on to the other breast, repeated the same process. The same punishment. More wine trickled down on her chest, the flat of his tongue licking it off her, followed by tight little nips of his teeth, then the assault of a bite, sharp enough that it truly hurt.

He did it again, lower, and between her breasts, and close to her collarbone, on both sides. His mouth was relentless, biting, licking, sucking, so hot in contrast to the cool wine he kept dripping over her, and she shivered and squirmed, feeling more trapped than ever.

His fingers ghosted over her sides, tracing her ribs, skimming over the spots he had sucked on, renewing the sting. Harrie's breaths were stilted, her mouth open despite herself, slick desire throbbing low, the heavy pull of arousal wrecking havoc on her focus. Every lick and every bite made it worse, until she felt so inflamed and needy she couldn't stop small, raspy whines from rolling up her throat.

At some point, between two thorough bites, Voldemort brought the glass to her lips, tipped it up. She took a swallow of the wine, the rich, fruity flavor suffusing her taste buds, the cool liquid providing some relief to her sore throat.

"Only the finest for you, Harrie," Voldemort said.

His gaze dropped down to her lips, wet and stained with wine. She froze, halting her squirming, her breath suspended. He leaned forward, and the tip of his tongue came to trace at the seam of her lips, very delicately. He made it a slow caress, the hot touch of this tongue like sweet fire over her nerve endings, bringing at once salvation and agony.

He lingered at the corner of her mouth, licking it once, twice, a third time, the tip of his tongue dancing there, almost slipping inside, and she still wasn't breathing, her heartbeat roaring in her ears, her body taut with dread. To her relief, there was no fourth time. His tongue trailed down, mouth sliding over her jaw, and lower, to her throat, to her breasts.

He sucked another bruise under her left breast, swiped his thumb across her nipple, groaned something into her skin, a word she couldn't make out. His mouth closed around her other nipple. He dripped wine down her breasts even as he was licking at her skin, and he looked her in the eyes, smiling a devilish smile, a red-eyed demon feasting on her.

Eventually, the wine ran out. Voldemort leaned back. A constellation of purple bruises bloomed on her chest, over her sore breasts.

"How beautiful you look, wearing my marks," he said.

He discarded the wine glass, reached into his trousers to free his cock, grabbed her by the thighs, lifted her, lined himself up. Then he dropped her right on his cock, gravity impaling her on him. She cried out, jolting, tensing, but it was done already. His cock had cleaved through her folds, found its way deep into her swollen cunt, and now it was throbbing there, huge and hot and scalding inside her.

"You're drenched for me," he murmured, with a slow roll of hips.

"Nnnn—"

"You enjoyed being chased, Harrie."

He lifted her halfway off him, brought her down again, sheathing his thick, heavy length back inside her. He set a steady pace, and from the outside, Harrie knew it looked like she was bouncing in his lap. The chain clinked with every lift and every slam down, and his cock scraped and rubbed her raw, pressed all the way inside her. Her chest shook with gasps, her muscles twitching from the strain of her position.

"And this, me licking you, marking you... you enjoy it too."

"No part of me—does—" she said, struggling to get the words out.

Feverish heat surrounded her, pierced her. She felt her heartbeat in every part of her body, but especially in her cunt, which was stretched around his cock, too full of him, and quivering with a taut, heavy kind of pressure. Each drive of his length into her made her moan, each impact of her thighs upon his echoed in the room with a wet slap.

The chain kept her spread for him, kept her body in a very uncomfortable position, with her arms up above her head. If would have been better if her arms were... where? Looped around his neck? As if they were lovers, sharing an intimate, warm moment? No. Her hands around his throat, maybe, so she could squeeze and squeeze and see how long Lord Voldemort could last without oxygen.

Hatred was beating inside her just as her heart was, and she wished she could spit it in his face like venom, use it to flay him alive, worse than a Sectumsempra, more force, more blades, cutting into him. She wished he would bleed, a puddle, a pool of vital fluid, so she could bathe in it.

He was looking upon her as he rocked her onto him, making use of her body. Tremors built in her thighs, in her arms. In her belly, too. There was this molten, glowing center in her core, and every thrust of his cock made that spot flame and ache further, made it burn hotter and hotter, forcing pressure to gather there until it felt like it would burst any second now, should burst, now, now—

Somehow it held intact, kept intensifying. Voldemort's pace didn't falter either. He lifted her, slammed her down, lifted her, slammed her down, with metronomic precision. She was sucking in her breaths, her mouth open, and soon her moans transitioned into shrill little cries, half-cut off every time he stabbed his hard length inside her.

That impossibly hot center became the focal point of her whole body, until she couldn't stand one more second of it, couldn't, couldn't. On the next lift-slam, she clenched her inner muscles and arched her back, desperate to have Voldemort reach just a little bit deeper, just right there where she needed him, fuck—

Almost, almost—

Again, lift, slam, clench, and this time his cock hit in just the right away. The heat flared, then spilled over, pouring into her thighs, up her chest, consuming her whole in a wave that overwhelmed her. She cried out, while Voldemort growled. He held her still as she convulsed in pleasure, keeping his cock fully sheathed inside her, his eyes burning. He watched her tremble and tremble, and then, just as the spasms of bliss subsided and she was starting to be able to think again, he hauled her up, brought her down again, in a jarring, harsh motion, sliding his cock deep in a terrible burst of friction.

She shrieked.

It was too much, too fast, she couldn't go through that again, couldn't—

"Yes, you can," Voldemort said in a hiss. "You'll come again on my cock, right now, Harrie..."

He leered at her, slipped slick fingers between their bodies, and worked her clit, rubbing tight little circles over the oversensitive nub. It felt like a heated hook jammed into her belly, pulling forth a quick, lightning-strong punch of an orgasm. She bucked and thrashed, a long garbled moan torn out of her, and she was being moved up and down at a frantic pace, a thick, hard cock slamming deep and hammering at her cervix, each thrust spearing her with ruthless brutality.

It hurt—felt too good—felt like pain and pleasure were fighting for control of her body, yanking her between them, chafing her raw in the process, scraping away at her nerve endings, and she was whimpering now, a little uh-nggh every time he forced her down on his cock, which was so big inside her, filled her so much.

"Good girl, ah... That's it, milk my cock, make me spill in that perfect—"

Slam, it hurt.

"Little."

Slam, so good.

"Cunt. "

His mouth latched on at the base of her throat, his teeth closed on tender flesh, and he bit down, another flash of pain as he came deep and hard. He flooded her with heavy pulses of heat, each one a throb of ecstasy, and when she moaned she wasn't sure if it was from the ache of the bite or from the pleasure of his orgasm. At least it was over much quicker than her own.

He didn't pull out. Didn't let her rest. He ground inside her in slow rocking motions, his hands squeezing her thighs. She felt him trace the bite mark he'd just given her with the tip of his tongue. Between her legs, her sore cunt was leaking his cum.

"Shall I brand you in more ways, Harrie?"

She shook her head weakly. He caught her chin, made her look at him.

"No?" he prompted.

She could read every thought of his in his wicked smile. Plead, Harrie. Beg me not to.

"You're inside me," she said, letting every word land with resigned bitterness. "What more do you want?"

"Ah, but it's our secret. No one will ever know how precious you are to me... but they still should know you're mine."

His hand traveled down her throat, and two fingers pressed on the bite mark, cruelly. She winced.

"A public claiming, perhaps... taking you just like that in front of my Death Eaters. What do you think?"

Bluffing, Riddle informed her, morosely, with a flash of bared teeth that reminded her of an animal trapped in a cage.

"You'd let them see me when the sight of my body should be for you alone?" she said.

His gaze narrowed, dark pupils contracting. He lowered his hands to her hips, his thumbs stroking small circles on her hips bones.

"For me alone," he agreed.

His cock twitched inside her. He was growing hard again. She might have been wondered at some point, vaguely, how many times he could fuck her in a row. In the most nightmarish scenario, how high could that number get?

"No one else will see those pretty little breasts of yours," he said, voice rough.

He pinched her nipples, the left one then the right one, letting his nails scrape at her.

"No one else will feel the heat of your cunt, or its rhythmic clenches when you come."

He splayed his fingers over her belly, possessively. His hand looked like a pale spider, a gaunt insect that needed sustenance and would gorge itself upon her, the helpless prey. She shivered as his hand wandered lower, bit her lips when slender fingers slicked through her folds, gliding in the wetness there, touching the place where they were joined.

"No one else..."

His fingers circled her clit.

"...will hear you beg."

He pinched the engorged nub of flesh, trapping it between his nails. She cried out. Her hips bucked, a cold-hot needle of sensation piercing her cunt. He flattened the pad of his thumb on her clit, toyed with it further while she squirmed in his lap, abusing her nerves, making them scream for relief. She was much too sensitive for this, every motion forcing whimpers from her lips, building a heat with teeth inside her, something that was all intensity and very little pleasure.

The muscles in her cunt were pulling taut, and his cock was fully hard now, felt too thick inside her, stretching her channel. Then he began fucking her in slow, steady thrusts. Keeping his thumb on her clit, he moved in even strokes, almost a grind, like they had all the time in the world.

She tried to relax so the sensations would be less acute, but it proved impossible. She might as well have attempted to reach inside her own chest to tear out the Horcrux. Voldemort was in complete control of her, and he knew exactly how to play her body. How to make her strain, how to make her mewl, how to make her come.

Even like this, when it felt like he bared her nerves to the air and was rubbing them raw, the pleasure was suffocating. It roiled and built and threatened to overwhelm her.

And it would, eventually.

"All those little noises you make... they're mine, too."

Her whines, her gasps, her whimpers, she didn't hold any of them back. Chained as she was, her voice was the only outlet she had, and she made full use of it. The only thing she didn't do was beg.

When she came for the third time, she wailed, a thin stream of warbling sound that went on and on until she half-choked on it, her body seizing up. Her cunt clutched at Voldemort's cock, in vice-like contractions, each one making her eyes roll back in her head from the burst of double sensations—those throbbing spasms around a thick cock, heat radiating out, and the wet, tight clamp of her cunt, heat coiling in.

Voldemort ground up in her in short strokes of hips, growled at her ear.

"Can you feel it, Harrie? Your little cunt is desperately trying to milk my seed. You want more, don't you? Shall I fill you again?"

"Nnngh..."

"No? Very well..."

Her confused, lust-drunk brain didn't parse the meaning of his words. It was only when he pulled out and began fisting his cock that she understood.

"All mine," he snarled as his hand worked in feverish motions, slick, urgent sounds filling the air between them. "All mine, Harrie, ah—"

A rough grunt, and he spilled over her breasts and her stomach, the splatters of his cum hitting her sweat-soaked skin. She flinched when the first pearly-white strand hit her, shivered in disgust as he kept coming, painting her breasts with his spend.

When he was done, he lifted her off him, set her down on her back. The chain released her legs, allowing her to stretch them. It remained tight at her wrists, keeping her arms above her head, but at least now she could grasp the sheets in her hands and find some relief there.

Voldemort's gaze burned as he admired what he'd done to her chest. Harrie glanced down, saw the way his cum glistened on her breasts, marking every inch of her skin, coating the bruises of his bites as well in a glossy sheen. She felt sick. Her belly fell and rose rapidly in time with her harsh breaths, and there was cum there as well, everywhere, he'd staked his claim like the lowest of beasts...

"Beautiful," he said, with a nauseating smile.

There was a moment of silence. She understood, this time. He was giving her the opportunity to beg. To plead with him to stop this. End the punishment, be merciful.

Would he? she asked Riddle, hating that she was even asking the question, because it shouldn't matter, she wouldn't beg.

Yes.

She steeled herself, remained silent. Voldemort grabbed her legs, held them up, bending them back toward her head, until her knees were touching the sheets and she was completely open to him, spread obscenely in this new position. He guided himself inside her again. That first thrust was slow, careful.

The next ones were anything but.

He withdrew, shoved back in brutally, forcing a shrill cry from her throat, and proceeded to fuck her at a wild, hammering pace. The position made it a tighter squeeze than anything before, his cock so thick, reaching so deep, and the impacts of his thrusts brought steady friction to her clit, already swollen and too sensitive from her previous orgasms.

This time, he was withholding from their bond, keeping his sensations to himself, so that she only felt what he inflicted upon her. The savage shoves of his cock inside her, stretching her ruthlessly, the weight of him, his large hands braced on his thighs, the slam of his hips against her, it was all her, and still every thrust came with a twisted sort of pleasure, a too-much too-fast burn that was devouring her nerves.

She keened, squirming beneath the bulk of Voldemort, her hands clenching in the sheets, her toes curling and uncurling. She was shaking so hard she swore she was going to break. Shatter apart under his thrusts, lose all coherence, dissolve into nothing.

But she didn't break.

And it went on, Voldemort's thick length splitting her open, his grunts echoing above her, her shuddering gasps torn from a sore throat, it went on, and on, and on.

There was a heavy ache in her womb, her muscles pulled tight, straining fluttering. Voldemort groaned, hips snapping at a faster pace, impaling her viciously, the ruby-red glow of his eyes an incendiary light, while fire ravaged her belly.

"Beg me to stop," he hissed.

She wouldn't.

His right hand left her thigh, came to curl around her throat. He applied slight pressure, fingers tightening a bit more as the seconds passed, threatening her breathing, and he fucked her harder, rhythm deep and rough. The slap of his hips against her rump was deafening, wet, sloppy. He slammed and slammed into her, denying her any reprieve, bearing down on her, teeth bared, breath heavy.

"Beg me to stop," he said again, fingers squeezing at her throat.

She. Wouldn't.

The world spun in tight, mad circles, his grip making it hard to breathe, his weight crushing her, his cock skewering her cunt. He was rutting inside her now, moving at a savage pace, and she heard herself moan as the pleasure swelled, then crested. She came again, in one violent spasm, her body seizing in bliss beneath Voldemort, blood rushing to her ears, her vision going dark.

Was she fainting? She couldn't tell, her whole reality reduced to a crux of pleasure, pressure, and the repeated intrusions of a thick cock that made everything burn brighter and brighter. Hearing gone, sight gone, she was just a bundle of overstimulated nerves, every single one screaming for mercy.

Was she begging? She couldn't tell either. All she could do was hope it would end soon.

Somewhere in that tangle of raw heat and the onslaught of acute sensations, she felt movement, her body being shifted. She sucked air in abruptly, sound returning—she was panting out little gasps—her vision returning—a canvas of dark sheets, everything fuzzy at the edges.

She was on her stomach now, the full weight of Voldemort braced at her back, her moans muffled by the pillow that had been placed under her head. Tears were pricking at her eyes, her mouth open, drool sliding down her chin.

He was still moving in her, the snap of his hips hard and brutal, fucking her in claiming strokes, the new angle rubbing a tortured spot inside her. She tried squirming so his cock would stop punching that exact place, but he groaned, pushed her head down, and held her in place. She was trapped, cunt aching, assaulted by devastating pressure, her entire lower body spasming and spasming.

Voldemort leaned down, mouth at her throat. There was the wet heat of his tongue, and then a spike of pain as he bit her. His hips stilled. Scalding wetness stung her insides. He came deep, burying a rough groan against her throat, then ground his cock into her, even as some of his cum leaked out. He stayed on her, in her, licking the sore skin he'd just bitten.

Harrie's shoulders ached, and she had a cramp in her neck. She shifted her head slightly, trying to breathe easier. The chain was too tight around her wrists. She could barely feel her fingers. Or perhaps that was because her whole body was a mass of frayed nerves, trembling and slick with sweat, and every signal sent to her brain would be drowned out by the barrage of sensations she was getting from her cunt.

Voldemort had gotten back to thrusting, in slow, grinding rolls of hips. His cock was still hard, still filling her in an unforgiving stretch, still rubbing at spots that sparked jolting surges of heat inside her. She panted into the pillow, muffling her moans there, her hands scrabbling at the sheets.

"I wonder how many times I'll come inside you, darling..." he murmured at her ear. "Do you have a favorite number?"

His nails skimmed down her side, scraping at her skin. He gripped her hips bruisingly.

"Personally, I'm very partial to seven..."

She mewled a protest into the pillow. His thrusts gained vigor, his hips slapping her arse in wet smacks. The bed creaked as he pumped inside her, mercilessly. She was being set on fire with each drive forward, each stab of his member into her depths, each faint grunt he let out, his breath hot on the back of her neck.

The world blurred again, another orgasm bursting through her belly. More tears spilling down her cheeks, a ragged, keening sound wrenched from her throat, her cunt clamping tight around his shaft, convulsions wrecking her.

There was no relief from that climax. No pleasure. Only a sustained burning, and a twisting cramp high up in her cunt, like she was being ripped apart from the inside. She choked on her own saliva, coughed, tried to lift her head up from the pillow, managed it only partially.

Panting, her heart pounding to a frantic beat, she kept seizing through sharp quakes of pure intensity.

Voldemort didn't stop either. He rammed into her again and again, spearing her with his cock, filling her sore, abused cunt with too much of him, pinning her down with all his weight. The friction felt excruciating, every thrust dragging and pushing at overstimulated nerves. Her body was pleading for mercy even if she wasn't, her muscles straining as she squirmed, and writhed, and clawed at the sheets, the smallest, most pathetic whimpers tumbling from her tongue.

She cried out when he bit her again, in the exact same spot, flooding her cunt once more with his seed. Just as she was caught and skewered on that spike of pain, he opened the bond back up, and suddenly, she was—

—coming, filling that perfect little cunt as it pulsed around him, grinding into her tight heat, and he was never going to stop, he'd keep her chained to his bed, perpetually leaking his cum, he'd fuck her at any time of the day, of the night, always available for him, yes, yes—

"Nn-no," she said, a weak rasp half-muffled by the pillow.

But there was no escaping the torrent of sensations rushing through the bond, the pleasure, that sense of belonging, of mine, mine .

"Are you counting, Harrie? How many times is that, mmh?"

She didn't know.

She couldn't form a coherent thought besides no. No, stop. No, please. It was there, in her head, that word. She wouldn't let it reach her lips, but if he had read her mind, he would have seen just how weak she was.

Please, I can't... Please...

"Sweet little Horcrux..." he murmured, as his thrusts still didn't stop.

He closed off their bond again, and she was alone in a tortured body, struggling to breathe, struggling to cling on to her sanity.

Tension built again, unbearable pressure coiling inside her, her thighs quivering, wet whimpers flowing from her, along with more drool. The impacts of Voldemort's thrusts reverberated through her whole body, jolting her into the mattress, as he forced her to keep taking him, to keep taking more.

And more, and more, and more.

A wave of static snagged at her nerves with her next release. She strained as everything burned, and something snapped deep inside her, a tangle of razor-sharp wire coming loose, sending her flesh pulsating and making her writhe and groan. There was an odd noise, a kind of repeated clacking. She realized it came from her, from her teeth chattering uncontrollably.

Voldemort did it again, opening the bond right as he was coming, his thoughts and sensations cascading down on her, crashing like storm waves upon her mind, battering her—her cunt tight as a vice around his cock, her slick sheath filled with his cum, his prick pulsing as he gave her more of it, branding her from the inside, and there was still more to come, he'd fill her until his spend would drip down her thighs, fill her until she could feel nothing but him, until she'd finally admit that she was—

"Nnnn..."

—his, all of her, oh yes, his—

"Ss-sstop."

He curled a hand around her throat, slid it up to cup her jaw. His lips touched her ear, followed by his tongue, and then his teeth, catching the delicate shell, putting pressure on it, releasing it.

"We are so far from done, Harrie."

His thumb slipped into her open mouth, past her teeth, finding her tongue, pressing down on it.

"Perhaps I could use your mouth again. Give your little cunt a break. Although it feels perfect around me, all snug and wet, welcoming every thrust..."

He moved in long, slow strokes, exhaling a faint grunt every time his cockhead hit the end of her channel. His thumb explored her mouth, started pumping back and forth, to the same rhythm as his hips, fucking her from both ends. It muffled all her noises, her pleading whimpers and her agonized whines, and she drooled over his thumb, over his palm that was cradling her jaw, and she thought of biting him, but every time she'd get ready to do it, he'd bury his cock to the hilt inside her, and her mind would scatter, undone by the friction, the pressure, the fullness—the array of all-consuming sensations clawing at her nerves.

His hands, one gripping her jaw, the other teasing along her side, wandering up and down in soft caresses that turned to nails scraping her skin with every other thrust.

His hips, a steady beat, driving his cock to the root, forcing her slick channel to accept every hard inch.

His breath, hot at the side of her throat, his mouth, spreading searing wetness on her skin, his teeth, nipping at her.

All of him, all of him, on her, in her, and where was she, even her thoughts were not—so good, so tight, and his, his—her own, she couldn't focus, couldn't think, she just wanted it to—go on, he'd have her again, and again—stop, please, stop—

A sob built in her chest, burst free, pressure releasing all at once. Like a dam breaking, and behind it, only pain and desperation. Tears spilled down her cheeks, wet the pillow, as she heaved and heaved, chest convulsing from the tremors.

"Please..."

The word torn from her, sputtering from her tongue between two ragged sobs.

"Please, stop..."

He stilled behind her, humming at her ear. Then he pulled out, slowly, the drag of his cock stinging as it left her. It was another prickle of sensation added on top of the mountain that was already crushing her, and she hissed out a wet breath, blubbering another please .

A hand grabbed her shoulder, and he shifted her to her back, moved her further, until she was half-sitting. Her face pressed into the soft material of his robes. Arms wrapped around her, holding her close. A hand began rubbing her back in soothing motions.

"Good girl, shh..."

She sobbed harder, couldn't stop her tears, a flood of them, her chest splintering from within, cracking open. His embrace felt good, felt like something she could take comfort from, so Harrie just let herself go, let everything go, releasing all that she'd held back so far. She cried, and cried, and she clutched at his robes, and he kept holding her, running a slow hand over her back, in her hair, petting her, murmuring soft words that she wasn't hearing.

It poured out of her like blood, in fresh waves of pain spilling from her chest, from her mouth, from her eyes, all her anguish, her rage, her helplessness, her hate, her disgust, her fear, her body couldn't contain it all, it was too much, she'd reached her limit, and now, now, it was out .

She cried, she cried, she grasped at Voldemort tighter, closer, buried her face into his robes, her limbs quaking, her throat choking with sobs, body out of control, mind going blank.

Couldn't stop trembling, couldn't stop sobbing, and still, still, he held her.

How long did that last, she didn't know.

It must have ended at some point, because she found herself in the bathtub, with no recollection of how she'd gotten there.

Warm.

It was all warm around her, the water infused with a pleasant fragrance. Lavender.

She liked lavender.

The mellow heat reached up to her chest, cocooning her. It felt nice.

Felt good.

But she wasn't alone.

Voldemort knelt just outside the tub, dressed in clean robes. He was washing her, running a soft, damp cloth over her nape and shoulders. His touch was gentle. It didn't hurt when he swiped the cloth at her throat, didn't hurt when he skimmed it over her breasts, where her skin was mottled with purple bruises.

She blinked, and her next breath came with a sniffle.

The world was blurring a bit at the edge of her vision. Her heartbeat was too loud, a resounding beat in her ears, a hammering pulse at her throat, but it was slow. She felt... removed from herself. Floating there in the bath, and everything was fine. Her emotions were distant things she couldn't touch.

Her mouth tasted of peppermint.

"You gave me a Calming Draught."

"I did."

He slid the cloth down her back one final time, set it aside. Glass clinked as he retrieved a small container with a silver lid. He coated his fingers in the paste inside, applied it to her breasts and at her throat. It smelled of flowers and honey, bringing a soothing balm to her abused skin. Voldemort dabbed the paste in small, delicate motions, rubbing it gently into the bruises.

That took a while. Harrie held still. She couldn't find it in herself to care about Voldemort touching her. The soft brushes and strokes of his fingers were not unpleasant. Nor were they pleasant. They just... were, and that was it.

When he was done, he washed her hair, with a shampoo that smelled of lavender too. He worked it into her wet hair, massaged her scalp in firm presses of fingers. Vague tingles washed down her nape and the line of her spine. He made her lean back until she was fully reclined into the tub, continued to wash her.

She closed her eyes, and thought of nothing.

Eventually, he rinsed off her hair, carefully enough that no water touched her face. His fingers remained there, trailing down her temple, touching her cheek, then cradling her jaw. Some part of her seemed to awaken and bristle at the touch. Perhaps the effects of the Calming Draught were fading.

"Harrie," he said softly.

She opened her eyes, met the red, piercing gaze.

"This is the price of your defiance. This is what will happen every time you disobey. I will use your body the way I please, and I will push you past your limits."

Yes. He had.

He had pushed her so far she'd broken right down the middle. She still felt the tear in her chest. Felt it every time she took a breath.

"But it doesn't have to be this way," Voldemort went on, his thumb stroking the side of her jaw.

She took a deeper breath, decided she wouldn't shy away from the touch. She would endure, and...

"Please me, obey me, and you'll—"

"Your equal."

His thumb paused. He cocked his head.

"I want to be your equal," she said, her lips tingling from the words.

A thin smile stretched his lips. The thumb resumed its stroking.

"In time," he said, a laden promise falling upon her.

In time.

He helped her out of the bath, dried her with a spell, kept her steady as she slipped on her pyjamas. The soft fabric of the top bit at her breasts as it settled over her, and she winced. Other parts of her were throbbing and sore as well, though it didn't truly hurt unless she focused on them, or touched them.

When she tried to walk, her legs unexpectedly folded under her. Voldemort stopped her from falling, and then he lifted her off the floor and took her into his arms. Again. He'd done it after punishing her with brutal sex on the dinner table the day before, had carried her all the way back to his bedroom like she weighed nothing.

He was careful with the way he handled her, one arm braced at her back, the other under her thighs. She resigned herself to being carried, even if it made her feel small and powerless. He could do whatever he wanted to her. In the grand scheme of things, being carried was nothing.

She stiffened when they neared the bed.

The bed where he had hurt her.

The bed where he had broken her.

The bed where the chain lay, ready to strike and coil around her, trapping her there.

Where she'd be unable to struggle, where he would touch her again, rape her again, make her feel so much, too much—

Voldemort halted.

"I will not touch you again tonight."

"Promise me," she said, feeling helpless tears threaten in her eyes.

"Harrie. Look at me."

She tore her gaze away from the bed, looked up at him. He was wearing a serious expression. No smugness there, nor any triumph. He wasn't even smiling. His gaze was heavy on her, as it always was, but the hungering beast that lived just under his skin was subdued. Sated, perhaps—for now.

"I will not touch you again tonight," he repeated.

And he made her feel it through the bond, the truth of his words, the solidity of that promise that she could rely on.

"Alright," she said, weakly.

She closed her eyes tightly shut, stopping additional tears from forming. Voldemort resumed moving. He set her down on the bed very gently, pulled the blanket over her. Then he was offering her a potion. She looked at the glass vial for a time, her mind thrown back to the last time someone had thrust that kind of potion under her nose.

It had been a long-fingered hand too, short nails clinking softly against the glass, in which a blue liquid swirled.

"Take it, Potter, and stop whinging," Snape had said.

"I'm not whinging!"

Her hand had hurt so badly, fresh scars still bleeding on the back of it. Snape had sneered, because he always sneered, and then he had grabbed her left hand and had pushed the potion into it, forcing her fingers to close around it.

"I'm not a nursemaid, Potter. Take the potion, and see Madam Pomfrey to treat that hand."

He had thrown her out of his office, and that had been it.

Blinking through the fog of memories, she reached for the potion. The liquid felt cool down her throat, soothing the ache that still lingered. It would took a few minutes before it affected her fully. But she wasn't really in pain anyway. Not physically.

Voldemort took the empty vial back, vanished it. He moved around in the room for a time, went back into the bathroom, came out of it minutes later. Harrie remained aware of him, even though her eyes were closed and she was trying to sleep. She couldn't manage to close herself off to him as well as she did before, and his presence flickered at the edge of her consciousness, like an annoying insect that wouldn't go away. Perhaps it was because he had forced his sensations through the bond on her earlier, so many times and with such force.

Perhaps he had damaged her, and now she would forever be aware of him.

No escape, she thought glumly.

Voldemort sat at his desk and read some documents. She floated, half-awake, half-dozing, and through that haze of fuzzy reality, she could almost see the documents before her eyes, could almost read the words he was looking at. Court documents, she thought, simply knowing what they were.

Hermione Jean Granger, to be presented before the Wizengamot on charges of treason, conspiracy to commit acts of terrorism, theft of magic...

Ronald Bilius Weasley, to be presented...

She tried to focus more on the words, but they blurred and smeared, black ink swirling like water, and then she was falling, as sleep claimed her for good.

Some time later, perhaps mere seconds, perhaps an eternity, she found herself in the forest again. A dark sky stretched above, while the shadowed silhouettes of trees swayed around her, a gentle wind blowing through the leaves.

Orange light was blazing somewhere ahead.

She walked toward it, and quickly reached the fire, where Riddle was waiting for her. He had his back turned to her, and pivoted as she joined him, tilting his head at her.

"Good work," he said, in a flat, calm voice.

"Good work? I fell apart!"

She kicked the dirt, sending leaves and a large clump of loose earth into the fire.

"I fucking begged him," she bit out, staring into the flames.

"Which was exactly what you were supposed to do. It will serve us well in the future."

"He broke me," she said, the words acid on her tongue.

"You are not broken. And he cannot break you, Harrie. You are the most resilient person I've ever met. Apart from myself, that is."

She looked at him, finding his profile painted in light, quick wispy-like shadows flickering over his face as the fire danced and crackled. His green eyes met hers.

"You did well," he said.

His praise stirred up a peculiar feeling in her, something that wasn't warmth, but couldn't be described as cold either. Maybe a weak, lukewarm 'Okay'. She didn't seek to instantly reject it. It helped that he didn't look like Voldemort, that he didn't look at her like Voldemort, didn't talk to her like him either. She could accept his words of praise, and they didn't trigger either her disgust or her rage like it did with Voldemort.

She kicked the dirt again, in his direction this time. Leaves and loose earth landed in a scatter over his shoes.

"Why didn't you help me during the duel? We could have killed him!"

"Our victory wasn't a guarantee," he said, frowning at his soiled shoes, shaking a leg to clear the dirt from one. "I will not reveal myself for a mere chance at killing him. We must be certain."

"You're afraid."

His face pinched in distaste. Clearly he expected praise back, not reproaches.

"I am prudent ," he said. "If he finds out I'm awake and helping you, what do you think he will do?"

"Put you back to sleep like a disobedient dog?" Harrie guessed. "He won't destroy you, since I wouldn't be his precious Horcrux anymore..."

"He would smother me, until I would be reduced to mere function, protecting him from death. I would not be able to help you anymore, and as it stands, I'm your only hope."

She scoffed.

"You're not, but of course you'd think that. Living in my soul hasn't changed a thing about Voldemort's narcissism."

"You're thinking of your friends?" he said, shaking the dirt from his other shoe. "They'll be going to Azkaban soon."

"Maybe not. And I'm also thinking of Narcissa, and the Malfoys."

Riddle's lips thinned.

"Cowards, the lot of them. You cannot rely on cowards. Use them, but don't let any plan depend on them."

"Is that a page from your playbook?"

He turned toward the fire, didn't answer right away.

"You can get Narcissa to mention Merlin's Repository if you ask the right questions," he said after a minute of silence. "Then you'll approach Voldemort, and negotiate. We'll have to wait until you've officially been announced as his apprentice. He won't let you off your leash before that."

Patience. It was all about patience.

Harrie faced the fire as well, watched the flames, thinking. Here, in the sanctuary of her mind, she could review the events of the day, and attempt to feel detached from them. Here, Voldemort couldn't touch her. Here, she was safe.

Well, maybe not entirely, since she couldn't trust Riddle. But safer than outside, at any rate.

"Won't he know you helped me for the curse?"

"Casting a Finite is a simple idea. You'll tell him you knew you could affect his magic, and that will be enough."

Riddle flicked something off his robes into the flames, a tiny mote of dust that was instantly consumed.

"Why was I so aware of him at the end?" Harrie asked. "I couldn't tune him out."

"The way he used the bond amplified the intensity of it. You can't stop him from pushing his sensations on you. You can, however, mitigate the aftereffects." He threw her a glance. "Sit."

He didn't phrase it like an order, more like a suggestion, which was the only reason why Harrie sat down. Right there on the ground, in front of her fire. Their fire?

He sat as well. Their knees nearly touched, and she looked at those few inches of air between them, a stupid urge to laugh bubbling in her chest. He was in her soul. They were already touching as much as two persons could.

"Picture a place where you feel safe," he said, in a low voice that mingled with the crackling fire.

"Is this going be like Occlumency?"

"In a way."

"I'm rubbish at it."

Riddle emitted a slow hum.

"Severus did his best attempting to teach you."

Harrie recalled those awful hours spent in Snape's office, sweating and grasping her wand while she was unable to keep him from entering her mind. His deriding, cutting remarks, his injunctions for her to focus, progressively losing patience as she failed at keeping him out, again and again.

"He didn't explain anything," she said, the fingers of her right hand twitching, as if missing her wand. "He just expected me to be able to do it."

"You don't need explanations in order to learn. You need actions, an example to follow, and clear stakes. Severus should have reversed your positions, and allowed you to enter his mind. Of course, he would never have accepted to be this vulnerable, and the resentment on both sides prevented you from gaining the full benefit of his lessons."

"Hatred. Not resentment."

"I don't believe Severus hated you. Perhaps at the start, but in the later years? No. You don't sacrifice your life for someone you hate." A sort of a hiss filtered through Riddle's lips. "And what a waste it was. Such a senseless act. He could have lived, had he told the truth."

"It wasn't senseless," Harrie protested. "He kept his secrets so I'd have a hope of defeating Voldemort."

"And yet, the secret that mattered the most slipped out. Voldemort learned about me, and here we are." He leaned back, away from the flames. "I suppose I should thank Severus for his weakness at the end. I wouldn't have awoken otherwise."

He didn't sound satisfied. There was an undertone of annoyance to his words, in the way he said Snape's name.

"He was never yours," Harrie said. "He played you, all these years. That must sting."

"Are you taking pleasure in rubbing that mistake in my face, Harrie?"

"Yes." She didn't smile, but it still felt good to be thinking about Voldemort getting fooled. "How does it feel knowing you're not the greatest Legilimens in the world? That all along it was Snape, that you were in his mind and still he deceived you?"

Riddle sneered—she saw half of it, his mouth twisting to the side.

"Severus played his cards well. I admire him for that. Or perhaps that comes from you."

"No, I think that's you, too. You hate him as well, but he was something you'll never achieve. He had integrity."

There, Riddle laughed, softly.

"Such a grisly fate. Poor Severus." He shifted forward slightly. "Now, for our lesson. Think of a place where there is an inside and an outside. A place where you feel safe. Voldemort is outside, and he cannot get in."

A place where she was safe. She couldn't think of Hogwarts. The wards had fallen, the school was overrun by Death Eaters. It was no longer safe.

Her thoughts drifted to the Burrow, but immediately, pain hit her as she pictured Ron in his cell, and the Weasleys scattered, the family torn apart. The Burrow had been touched by the war too. Gone were the days where she lazed around in her bed, idly conversing with her friends.

Grimmauld Place? It wasn't safe either. The Death Eaters knew where it was, and it had never felt like home to Harrie anyway.

She decided here was good. This place in her mind, the forest, the fire, it felt comforting. And it did feel safe, which was strange considering a version of Voldemort was right there. Constantly. But it was Riddle, not Voldemort, and she was pretty sure the fire was her soul, anyway.

"Now what?" she said.

"Keep imagining him outside. He cannot get in. He cannot reach you. Here, it's just you."

Just her. No interference. A safe place.

She sat there, in front of the roaring fire, next to Riddle, breathing slowly in and out, while all thoughts of Voldemort stayed outside, away from here, away from her.

"Good," Riddle said after a time. And then, again, "Good work."

It struck Harrie as entirely absurd that she took comfort from those words.

Chapter Text

A beam of light slanted across Harrie's face, slipping in past her fluttering eyelids, stabbing into her retinas. She groaned, lifted a hand to shield her face. Her eyes opened, finding the room bathed in the pink light of morning.

Voldemort was still in bed with her. Her muscles stiffened, emerging out of the languor of sleep and back into reality, where she was in his bed, with him so close. She could see the silver chain wrapped around the bedpost facing her, glinting menacingly. Cold dread drenched her, while something squeezed hard in her stomach. A wave of acid crept up her throat.

She brought her legs back toward her, sitting up slowly, huddling back into the headboard. If she stayed away from the chain, it would be fine. If she didn't provoke Voldemort, if she did what she was told, if she stopped being Harrie and became his precious Horcrux, his jewel of an apprentice, it would all be fine.

"Good morning, Harrie," Voldemort said, in such a mild, domestic tone, completely at odds with what he'd done to her last night.

"Morning," she said.

Her voice was a raspy croak. She coughed a couple of times, rubbed at her throat.

"Did you sleep well?" he inquired.

"Yes. I'm... I'm not in pain."

Which was surprising considering how rough he'd been.

"I gave you a strong pain potion. The salve I applied in the bath also helped. You should be fine today, as long as you don't overexert yourself."

She cautiously slid a look in his direction. He was reclined against the pillow, already dressed, watching her. She watched him back, and found him no different than his usual self. Last night hadn't meant anything in particular for him. He had punished her, had made her break down in tears, had cleaned and healed her, and nothing had changed.

"Something on your mind, Harrie?"

Did he expect her to rage at him? To scream and cry, again? Or to beg for forgiveness?

"I want to be your equal," she said, because that was what she needed to say.

He hummed, low in his throat, shifted closer and reached over. Long, pale fingers wrapped around her chin. He looked into her eyes, the red of his irises a shade lighter in the soft morning light.

"You did very well yesterday, undoing my curse." His thumb rubbed along the line of her jaw. "Very well indeed..."

"I thought... since your wand works for me, and I destroyed your ward, I thought I could manipulate your magic as if it were my own. And it worked."

"Yes. A curious phenomenon, to say the least. The fact that a human Horcrux can affect spells cast from the main soul source with no interference and a perfect synergy, how fascinating." He tilted his head. "It doesn't have a name yet. It's never been seen before. Do you wish to name this phenomenon, Harrie?"

"Um..." she said, not expecting that. "Something... something with soul? Soul resonance?"

"Soul resonance," Voldemort said, now caressing her cheek. "Yes, I quite like that."

Harrie swallowed thickly. Voldemort's touch had her bristling, especially since it was so soft at the moment. She wanted to grab his hand and twist it away from her away, twist it until it snapped and he screamed in pain.

She sat still. Let him him brush her cheek with tender fingers until he removed his hand, giving her an approving nod.

"I expect we'll discover more intricacies in our bond as we explore it," he said, sounding like he was very much looking forward to that.

No, thank you.

"Did you expect me to be able to do that?" she asked. "Cancel your magic like..."

Like it was nothing. She stopped short of saying it.

"No. Your stunt with the ward surprised me. Afterward, I considered how a living Horcrux would interact with magic coming from the main source, so I knew you could undo the curse I had placed on Narcissa if you wanted."

"I didn't want her to suffer... You won't curse her again, will you?"

Her tone was pleading, and as she said it, she bit her lips, letting her distress at the idea that he'd undo her work show on her face.

"I won't," he said. "She will owe her good health to you, my apprentice."

Harrie let out a slow breath, shifting on the bed.

"I ordered you to do it," Voldemort said, in a casual, detached voice. "It was a task I assigned you, designed to test your strengths, and you completed it to my satisfaction. Thus, Lucius and Draco will not be punished for failing to stop you, as it was the outcome I desired."

Fuck. Would the Malfoys believe that version? Would they think she had acted on Voldemort's orders, instead of following her altruistic heart? That would destroy any progress she'd made with them.

Lucius is smarter than that, Riddle said. Crabbe, Goyle, Macnair, those types of brainless sycophants will gobble up anything he tells them, but the more discerning ones will understand the game you're playing.

"Of course," Harrie said. "I acted on your orders."

She stayed in bed as Voldemort moved around the orders. This time, when she closed her eyes, she wasn't aware of him, couldn't feel his position through the bond. Riddle's technique appeared to work.

"You will have your second lesson this afternoon," Voldemort informed her. "Be ready for it."

He left after sliding her one last coveting look. She sighed in the wake of his departure, tension dropping from her shoulders. The room still felt like a cage, but the beast that roamed within had gone.

She immediately got out of bed and went into the bathroom. Locking herself in, she stripped, and groaned at the sight of her naked body.

She was covered in bruises. Purple-yellow bite marks spread across her chest, more than half a dozen, each one staking a claim. She had bruises on her thighs, too, in the shape of Voldemort's hands, as well as half-moon dents where his nails had sunk in, and bruises on her arse, which felt so sore, as if she'd been badly spanked.

The worst offender was the bruise at the start of her throat, just on the right. It spreads in an ugly bluish purple, the marks of each individual tooth starkly visible. The bite of a monster on her pale flesh. Her clothes would not hide it, unless she decided to wear a scarf. In May .

She had a feeling Voldemort wouldn't allow her to hide it anyway.

He'd want everyone to know she belonged to him.

She traced a finger under her breasts, frowning. They were small, and the bite mark on the underside of her right breast covered a lot of it, almost reaching up to her nipple. Heading down, her finger encountered lean muscles, then, over her stomach, an additional layer of fat from her stay at the Manor, and the rich food she'd been enjoying after a year on the run.

She put her clothes on, fidgeted as she adjusted her robes around her shoulders. It was all so Slytherin, black and green and silver. It made her feel like she was wearing a disguise. Not something forced on her, but something she had chosen because currently, it was the smartest choice.

Voldemort's apprentice, she thought, looking at herself in the mirror.

What would the second lesson be? More Unforgivables? Would he expect her to cast Crucio? Avada Kedavra? On any target but him, that was going to be more difficult than the Imperius. Or perhaps it'd be something else, a test of her skills. She would need to pass it. That was the role she had decided to play. She had to stick to that, to the best of her abilities.

I'll help, Riddle promised.

Will you? Or will you just tell me it's not time yet, and vanish to let me handle it alone?

She was still annoyed about yesterday, despite his explanations. She understood why he'd chosen not to confront Voldemort right then and there, but it still felt like a sort of a betrayal, and had left a bitter taste in her mouth.

I didn't vanish. I was there with you. I'm always there.

She grumbled an insult under her breath, which was so useless. Being angry at the Horcrux solved nothing either.

You'll help, she said, seeking to put an end to the argument.

That's what I said. My word has value, Harrie. I do not give it lightly.

Oh, you mean like when you promised Snape you'd spare my mother?

And the argument had just escalated. She was in such a foul mood this morning. There was no help for it.

I didn't promise Severus I would spare her. I said I would give her the opportunity to live, and I did. I offered her twice to step away. Instead, she chose to die, to protect you.

Her teeth were grinding against each other, her jaw strained. Why was she revisiting such painful memories? Her mental state was already precarious enough as it was.

She was as stubborn as you are, Riddle said.

He didn't say it like Voldemort would have, with pride or fondness or satisfied arrogance. He said with simple admiration, and pain shot through her heart, her throat going tight with emotions.

Don't —

She took a stuttered breath, forcing air in her lungs.

Don't talk about her. Ever.

Her request was met with silence, the acquiescing kind. She blinked away nascent tears, took another look at herself in the mirror. Her green eyes held defiance, and slowly simmering rage. This Harrie didn't look broken. She looked like she was holding herself back from breaking the world.

Another strained breath. Alright, she was ready.

She retrieved her sandals, sat on the bed to put them on. It was just a bed. She could sit on it; nothing would happen. The silver chain was wrapped around the bedpost, coiled and still. Harrie only glanced at it before looking away.

A soft pop startled her.

"Miss Potter!" Wimsy squeaked, tilting her large head at Harrie. "Mistress is inviting you to breakfast! You is awaited in the veranda."

"Thank you, Wimsy."

"Is Miss Potter going? Right now?"

"Yes, just putting on my shoes..."

"Mistress insisted that Wimsy made sure Miss Potter came. It's important."

"I'm going, I promise."

The house elf held out a hand.

"Wimsy can take Miss Potter there."

"Thank you, but I'd rather walk."

"Wimsy will follow!"

The elf shadowed her steps as she left the room and walked down the corridor. Harrie went at a steady pace, evaluating the physical state of her body. She was sore, her muscles unhappy with even a light walk, but she could bear it. It wasn't any worse than after a hard Quidditch workout.

The veranda was on the other side of the manor, so it took her a couple of minutes to get there. Light murmurs of conversation reached her ears as she approached the room. They abruptly stopped when she arrived.

She walked under an archway that stretched in elegant curves and whorls, and entered a space of glass, metal, and light. Glass: large panels, so clear they could easily be mistaken for nothing but air if one didn't pay enough attention; metal: silver frames holding it all together, inscribed with arcane runes; light: beams of pale sunlight suffusing the room, while iridescent rainbows were refracted on the floor.

Plants softened the space, adding vivid colors. Several bouquets of freshly-cut red carnations caught Harrie's eye, dotted around in levitating pots, while another bouquet of blue and pastel roses sprawled at the center of the large round table where the Malfoys sat.

From there, they were afforded a view of the entire back of the estate, and of the forest beyond, the verdant green woods stretching on for miles. Birds could be heard singing, exchanging thrills and playful calls with one another. The air smelled of fresh coffee and baked bread.

Narcissa smiled at Harrie, warmly. She looked healthy, her skin nearly glowing, her face free of any trace of the dark curse, and she wore a black dress with long sleeves and gleaming silver buckles that complimented her elegant figure. Her dark curls were arranged in an intricate hairstyle, half up and half spilling over her shoulders.

Lucius sat next to her, close enough that their arms were touching. He sent Harrie a cautious look, something guarded in his gray eyes, while his posture stiffened slightly, as if he wasn't sure of her intentions. She didn't miss the way his other arm shifted under the table. She would have bet everything he had his wand in hand.

Draco occupied a chair opposite his parents, and stopped in the middle of buttering his toast to stare at Harrie. She was surprised to see awe in his gaze. He was looking at her like he could hardly believe she was standing before him. Then his eyes caught the bruise on her throat, and he immediately looked away.

Harrie straightened her back. She would not be ashamed. She was in their house, getting abused under their roof, and she'd gotten those bruises by helping Narcissa. Let them see what it had cost her. Let them all see.

"Miss Potter, good morning," Narcissa said, with a tilt of her head. "I am delighted to see you could join us."

"Good morning," Harrie said.

"Would you sit with us?"

With wave of Narcissa's hand, the fourth chair, purposefully left empty for her, was pushed back from the table. Harrie sat. Her stomach growled at the lush display of pastries spread on the table.

"Do you take coffee or tea?" Narcissa inquired.

"Coffee, thank you."

Narcissa poured her a cup and offered her some honey with it.

"From our own beehives," she added.

"You have beehives?"

Draco had neglected to talk about that during the tour of the manor.

"We did before," Lucius said, in a bitter undertone.

"I had my rose garden, and Lucius had his beehives," Narcissa said.

Harrie tried to imagine Lucius taking care of bees, and failed. The image was just too bizarre.

"I thought Lucius took care of the peacocks," she said, which she half-meant as a joke.

"The peacocks took care of themselves," Narcissa said. "Proud, independent birds. They only needed to be admired."

"Too bad they're gone," Harrie commented.

"Indeed," Lucius said, stirring his tea.

She took some Malfoy honey with her coffee, plucked a tasty-looking pastry from a tray and bit into it.

A tense silence stretched at the table. Narcissa kept a smile on her face while she sipped her coffee. Lucius seemed lost in thoughts, looking down his tea cup, and Draco apparently couldn't decide what to do with himself. He shifted on his chair again and again, glanced at Harrie, then away, then back at her.

"I must thank you, Miss Potter, for your actions yesterday," Narcissa said, breaking the uncomfortable lull. "You executed our Lord's will perfectly."

She brushed two fingers against her cheek as she said that. The silver bracelets at her wrist clinked gently.

"It was clever," Lucius said, lifting his pale eyes from his tea cup to set them on her. "The way you fought, and used my weaknesses against me. Very Slytherin."

"Good strategy," Draco added.

Getting praises heaped onto her from all three Malfoys. It felt odd, but not undeserved. Harrie inclined her head, while from within, Riddle smiled comfortably.

"I merely followed his orders," she said, carefully avoiding any 'our Lord'. "As his apprentice, I am bound to obey him."

"As are we all," Narcissa said,

"It is not uncommon for the Dark Lord to pit his followers against one another," Lucius said, leaning forward, clasping his hands together. "In the past, he even made it a game. He would gather prospective Death Eaters together, and watch them fight each other for this entertainment. Not everyone made it into the ranks."

"Did you have to fight to get in?"

"No. The Dark Lord granted me the honor without any need to prove myself in combat first. He knew of my valor, and the worth of my blood."

"And Snape?" Harrie said, curious.

There had been nothing about his days as a young Death Eater in the memories he had left her.

Lucius paused, a minute hesitation in his posture.

"Severus did have to fight," he said. "I was there on the night he gained the Dark Mark. He was freshly out of Hogwarts, and was looking to prove himself."

So very eager to belong somewhere, anywhere, Riddle said. He impressed me that evening.

"He fought against other potential recruits. They were all older than him by a few years, but Severus was a prodigy in the Dark Arts. He first dueled one on one, then the Dark Lord made it two against one, and when still he stood his ground, three against one..."

As he spoke, she got images from Riddle. A young Snape, with that same hooked nose and dark, deep-set eyes, his face free of any of the wrinkles and lines Harrie had figured he'd been born with. His mouth twisted in a familiar scowl, and his hair was long, falling past his shoulders, lanky and greasy. He looked incredibly young, and all spindly, like a sick plant left too long in the dark.

And he was casting hexes and curses at a staggering speed, fighting off three other wizards at once. He dodged the attacks coming his way, weaving between the jets of light, retaliating with brutal spells, all meant to inflict high damage to his enemies. Harrie recognized Sectumsempra in the mix, which hit one of his opponents square in the face. Blood spurted as the wizard collapsed in a heap.

"Eventually, the Dark Lord had him fighting four against one, and Severus rose to the challenge."

More spells flying, crashing into Snape's shields. His black wand slashed the air, sending vicious curses toward his adversaries. They were trying to cage him in, surrounding him in a loose circle that was getting tighter, but Snape used their proximity to his advantage, and their own spells against them.

One man went down, hit by a Stunner, then a second one, tripped by a spell that targeted his legs and left the air smelling of burnt flesh. The third one was felled by a spell that Snape ricocheted off the wall, and which came back like a boomerang when the man had his back turned. The fourth wizard lasted a little longer, but eventually Snape feinted, verbally casting a stun, while his wand twitched in the pattern of Sectumsempra, and the wizard ended up on the floor, bleeding all over.

At last, Snape was the only one standing, breathing heavily, his lips bloodied, his eyes dark and wild. Then he was kneeling before her—no, Riddle—and promising to serve him faithfully.

"Your arm, Severus," came the cold echo of Riddle's voice.

Snape bared his trembling forearm, his head bent, his face hidden by that greasy curtain of hair. Riddle pressed the tip of his bone-white wand into Snape's skin, and hissed a spell in Parseltongue. Snape didn't scream when the Dark Mark burned itself into his flesh, though he tensed up, the tendons in his arm standing out starkly. The black brand spread on his pale skin, the snake twined around the skull, maw open, fangs on display.

"Rise," Riddle said, flicking his wand away. "You have earned a place among my Death Eaters."

"Thank you, my Lord."

Snape lifted his head, meeting Riddle's eyes. Harrie looked into his black eyes, and knew the triumph in them wouldn't last. Two years from now, he'd be meeting Dumbledore on the desolated hilltop, begging him to save her mother.

"It was a masterful demonstration of his skills," Lucius was saying, entirely oblivious to what was happening inside Harrie's head. "The Dark Lord granted him the Dark Mark, and over the years, Severus became his second-in-command."

"Until he killed him to get mastery of the Elder Wand," Harrie said.

"A necessary sacrifice," Lucius said.

Harrie didn't believe for one second that he was sincere, and the way Narcissa cast her eyes down for a second was telling as well. Snape had been their friend. He'd made an Unbreakable Vow to save Draco. The Malfoys were mourning him.

"He died in front of me," she said, and perhaps her tone carried too much bitterness considering who Snape was supposed to be, a devoted, faithful Death Eater, but she couldn't bring herself to say it with hate.

To her left, Draco shifted in his seat. Narcissa nodded, her pale blue eyes holding no judgment when they met Harrie's. No suspicion either.

"May I ask what his last words were?" she said.

Ah. Tricky.

"He didn't have any. Hard to speak with a torn throat."

That set off another uncomfortable silence. Harrie finished her coffee, took another pastry, and ate it slowly. Outside, a bird trilled in a loud, happy warble. Narcissa set down her spoon, the metal clinking against the porcelain.

"I was told you saw your friends recently," she said, in a softer tone. "How are they?"

Here also, the truth wouldn't serve her.

"They're very grateful Voldemort spared them. And anxious about their trial."

"The Dark Lord's mercy is a very rare thing. He doesn't grant it undeservedly... though it doesn't last long if the offender doesn't acknowledge their faults."

So they should plead guilty to hope for a lighter sentence? Harrie doubted it would matter. It would be a sham trial anyway. Voldemort would seek to make an example of her friends, to show to the world he couldn't be challenged.

He'll make them plead guilty, Riddle said. He'll use you to bend them, the same way he uses them to bend you.

"I'm sure they'll be reasonable," Harrie said, acid frothing in her stomach.

Narcissa nodded, didn't offer any more words. There wasn't anything to say that wouldn't ring false. The conversation was already a web of lie, and Harrie had only so much tolerance for it. She was itching to tell the truth, to scream it at them.

I healed you because I wanted to. I did it all on my own. Voldemort was furious, and proud, and then he almost broke me, but I'm still here. I've got a part of his fucking soul inside me, and he's been helping me. Snape was helping me, too. He was your friend and he was a spy, and he wished for Voldemort's death, and you'd agree with him if you knew.

Riddle sort of sighed from inside her head.

Calm down. You're getting agitated.

She realized she'd been fidgeting on the chair, and stopped herself. She'd made crumbs with her croissant, too, pulling off small chunks of it with her fingers, eating carelessly. With a sigh that echoed Riddle's, she leaned back, Vanished the crumbs.

"I have my second lesson this afternoon."

Draco's gaze snapped to her. Both Narcissa and Lucius' attention weighed on her a tad more heavily.

"You'll do brilliantly, whatever it is the Dark Lord demands of you," Narcissa said. "You're a very powerful witch, Miss Potter. It's easy to see why the Dark Lord chose you."

"Do you know if I'll be required to help?" Draco asked.

"No idea. He hasn't told me what it's gonna be."

Draco made a small sound and shifted in his seat again.

"It'll be fine," Harrie said, vaguely amazed that she was the one reassuring Draco.

"I have no doubt you'll both make him proud," Narcissa said, and she sounded so sincere that Harrie envied her. She'd never be able to lie that flawlessly.

Practice, Riddle commented. A lifetime of having to hide her true feelings and opinions. I'd wager Narcissa has been unhappy with Voldemort for quite some time, much longer than her son or husband.

Can I trust her?

Trust no one.

Breakfast came to an end. Wimsy appeared and cleaned the table. Draco scurried off, with one last glance at Harrie. Lucius bent down toward Narcissa and murmured something in her ear. Then he was off too.

"You are welcome tomorrow as well," Narcissa said with a luminous smile.

"Thank you. I'll be there."

After that, Harrie went flying. It hurt her sore muscles, and sitting down on her broom was uncomfortable, but zooming through the air soothed her in a way that nothing else could accomplish. Here, leaning forward, the wind whistling in her ears, the ground a blur below her, she was at ease.

Flying cleared her mind.

It was instinctive, and she was great at it. It felt like she'd been born to do it. On a broom, in the air, she was an unparalleled master of her craft. Not that it helped her at all with Voldemort. She couldn't challenge him to a Quidditch match for the fate of the wizarding world.

He'd tell you Quidditch is for lesser minds, and that you don't need a broom to fly.

Right. Unsupported flight. Is that a spell you invented?

Voldemort would say yes, but in truth it was a joint venture with Severus.

She didn't ask if he'd teach her the spell. She already knew what his answer would be.

When her muscles started to really protest all that exercise, she landed back down.

She had lunch outside, sitting in the shadow of an oak tree near the western edge of the estate. Her belly full, she went back inside.

She meandered on the ground floor for a while, before walking up the stairs. She stopped near the burned-out portrait, her eyes lingering on the charred marks left at the edges of the canvas. The Malfoys hadn't taken it down. Perhaps Voldemort had forbidden it.

"Excuse me," she said to the portrait directly on the right, a bearded man who appeared to be sleeping.

He jerked awake, set two pale eyes on Harrie, his face pinching in a frown, then quickly settling into a neutral expression.

"What is it?" he said, and added, "Miss Potter," clearly reluctantly.

"I'm looking for Margaret."

"You'll have to be more precise. We've had several Margaret in the Malfoy family. Would that be Margaret the Bloody, who decapitated her three husbands, or Margaret Malfoy-Peverell, or—"

"The Gryffindor one."

"Ah. Of course. You'll find her in the left wing, on the second floor, near the library."

Her portrait was secluded in a little alcove, as if here too she had to stand apart. She was an old woman, with the sharp features and the aquiline nose of the Malfoy family. Her long silver hair was twisted in a tight bun at the top of her head, and she was holding herself with the same rigidity that shone in her hairstyle, her posture communicating unyielding stiffness. She wore very formal robes, with a black cloak over them, clasped at the front by a silver brooch.

There was a Thestral in the portrait with her, and she was petting it, running one hand on its gaunt flank as the other rubbed the beast's throat.

When Harrie stepped close, Margaret's gray eyes immediately found her.

"Miss Potter," she said, a shrewd look in that silver gaze. "I have heard much about you."

"Hello," Harrie replied. "Draco told me about you."

"I can't imagine whatever he said was flattering. Have you sought me out for a particular reason?"

"Not really. I thought we could talk."

Why do you keep seeking help elsewhere? Riddle said, sounding a bit miffed.

I'm not. I'm just... curious.

"Certainly," Margaret said, turning fully toward Harrie.

The Thestral nudged her shoulder, emitting a quiet snort. Margaret laid a hand on its bony forehead and pressed her lips to the muzzle, murmuring something. The Thestral responded with another snort, a shudder going through its equine body.

"He's beautiful," Harrie said, wishing she could touch him as well.

Something soft flitted in the old woman's gaze.

"Not many can see the beauty in Thestrals," she said.

"Not many can see them at all. Although probably more and more people can, these days."

Harrie bit her lips. She hadn't meant to steer the conversation in that direction. She didn't want to talk about the war.

"Thestrals must have been important to you in life if there's one in your painting now," she added.

"Arawn was my familiar. I got lost in the Forbidden Forest as a first-year. He found me and flew me back to the castle. We formed a lifelong bond."

Harrie's heart tightened, grief sinking its familiar claws into it. She still missed Hedwig so much. She remembered back in her first year, finding a book on owls in the library, and reading that snowy owls could live up to thirty years with the proper care. She had imagined herself as a forty-year old, with a graying Hedwig by her side. And instead, she'd had to bury her owl before she even turned eight.

She had never found out who exactly had killed her. Perhaps it had been Voldemort himself.

In the painting, the Thestral spread its skeletal wings, and took to the skies in a great flap of rushing wind. It quickly became a little dot in the gray background, receding further and further until it had disappeared completely.

"Apprentice to the Dark Lord," Margaret said, sizing Harrie up with a shrewd, sweeping look. "Quite a significant change from his previous one."

"You knew Snape?"

"Not personally. Portraits do gossip."

She frowned at Harrie, her mouth thinning.

"I saw him a couple of times from afar. He was much more put-together than you. Why are your clothes rumpled? And is that dirt on your sleeves?"

Harrie was speechless for an instant. Was she really getting criticized for her appearance by a portrait?

"I was on my broom all morning!" she said defensively. "And I ate outside."

"Mmmph. You look like a woodland creature."

The old woman's mouth twitched, her features pinching into a tighter expression. The artist who had painted her had done an admirable job, because right now she looked surprisingly lifelike, and she reminded Harrie, oddly enough, of Molly Weasley. Yes, the Weasley matriarch wore the same expression on her face when Harrie refused another serving during dinner, because she had already eaten her full. Disappointed, but meaning well.

"Unsurprising, perhaps," Margaret said. "He was a wild thing himself when he was younger. I remember him as a first-year. Always outside, digging in the dirt. Fighting in it, too."

"Snape?"

"No, no, not Snape. I just told you I didn't know Snape personally. Pay attention, girl. I'm referring to the Dark Lord. He was a twitchy little first-year, hanging out at the edges of the Forbidden Forest, talking to snakes. I caught him outside after curfew several times. I was Head Girl at the time, you see."

Voldemort, a wild thing? Digging in the dirt?

Really? she said to Riddle.

We all had our beginnings.

"I could never have imagined he'd grow up to become the next Dark Lord. Over that first year, he changed, started to emulate the older Pure-bloods... and then by his seventh, he had cultivated such a refined, elegant image that everyone forgot where he came from."

Her brow furrowed, her neatly groomed silver eyebrows coming together.

"I saw my nephew become enamored with Tom Riddle, pulled into his orbit. He took the Dark Mark, knelt at the feet of Lord Voldemort, and in so doing, dragged the entire family with him. The Malfoys had managed to steer clear of Grindelwald, but our fate became entwined with Voldemort's. And now he's taken our ancestral home for himself."

"Were you a Death Eater?"

"Me? No. I watched from the sidelines. I would never have been offered the Dark Mark anyway. I was a bit of a joke in life. Crazy Aunt Maggie, with her Thestral obsession, living alone in her cottage with no husband. No wonder she was sorted into Gryffindor."

"No husband?" Harrie repeated.

Wouldn't that have been very unusual for the times? For a Malfoy, especially?

"They tried to marry me off, of course," Margaret said with a bob of her head. "Barely out of Hogwarts, and my father informed me he had found a husband for me. Someone who would show me my place, were his exact words. I was married to an older gentleman the next month. He had recently lost his first wife and was forty years my senior."

She smiled.

"He was dead a month later. A particularly virulent strain of Dragonpox. It took him in a week, while the Healers were powerless."

"Oh, I thought..."

"That I killed him? Yes, of course I did. A pinch of powdered black hemlock added to his morning tea every day, to soften him up, and how unlucky that his young bride happened to contract Dragonpox with no symptoms herself, while he didn't fare so well."

"But they must have suspected you."

"They did," Margaret said, still smiling, in a rather nostalgic manner, as if recalling a pleasant event. "Nothing could be proven. I was shunned, and left very much alone, which suited me perfectly."

Harrie nodded. When Draco had told her about a great-great aunt who had been in Gryffindor, she had imagined someone like her. She hadn't been that far off.

"I imagine it resonates with you, the tale of a woman killing a man for putting his hands on her without her consent," Margaret said.

"I don't think Dragonpox would do it for Voldemort."

Margaret's eyes gleamed, which was quite a feat considering she was painted of gouache.

"Oh, no, no. You're going to need something much stronger for the Dark Lord."

"Aren't you afraid he'll do something to you? It's dangerous to oppose him."

"I'm well aware of what happened to dear old Agatha. I do not fear Voldemort's ire. Nor do I fear death." She glanced back in the direction the Thestral had flown off. "How could I, when it's been a constant companion my whole life?"

She turned her gray eyes back on Harrie.

"Do you fear death, Harrie Potter?"

"No."

She feared for the fate of her friends, and she feared what Voldemort might do to her in his bed, but she didn't fear death. She'd been ready to meet her end in the forest. She was living on borrowed time now.

You are not, Riddle protested. We will find a way to untangle our souls.

"Brave girl," Margaret said, with a thin smile. "You'll give him hell, won't you?"

"Yeah. I will."

She hadn't expected to find another ally this morning. Someone to talk to, perhaps, but not someone who was openly vying for Voldemort's death while in the same house he lived in.

"You don't really sound like a Malfoy," she remarked.

"How well do you know the Malfoys? Any Malfoy? Were you close to Draco while at school? Romantically involved, perhaps?"

"No," Harrie said, scowling at the very idea. "We were rivals. From the moment I met him in Madam Malkin's shop the first time I went to Diagon Alley, even before setting foot at Hogwarts, we didn't get along. I hated him. Still do."

"The old Gryffindor-Slytherin rivalry, alive and thriving. Was it your opinion about Mudbloods that sealed his hatred for you?"

"Don't use that word," Harrie said, bristling.

"It's the word they'll use around you. You'll have to get used to it. Look me in the eye, girl. Don't slouch. Being apprentice to the Dark Lord comes with a myriad of expectations. You'll have to meet them if you intend to be convincing."

"Were you convincing to your husband?" Harrie shot back.

Margaret clicked her tongue, eyes flashing with approval.

"I was. The perfect dutiful wife. I kept the house in order, I dressed the way he wanted me to dress, I let him stick his old wrinkly penis inside me. He never suspected a thing."

I've changed my mind, Riddle said. She gives excellent advice.

"I won't use the word," Harrie said, to both of them.

We will.

No.

Harrie—

Footsteps, soft and light, coming her way. Harrie's first reflex was to reach for a wand that wasn't there. She let out a frustrated snort, turned toward Narcissa, who smiled at her.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," the older witch said.

"Quite so," Margaret said, her pale eyes flicking to Narcissa. "Miss Potter and I were discussing overbearing husbands and the necessity to get rid of them."

"I see," Narcissa said, in a pleasant, neutral voice.

"Before that, I was bemoaning her state of undress. Perhaps you should do something about that, Narcissa. The girl can't look like a street urchin if she is to be his apprentice. Appearances matter, Miss Potter."

Harrie groused something under her breath.

"If Miss Potter desires my help on this matter, I will be happy to assist," Narcissa said. "In the meantime, you would do well to remember who you are talking to, Margaret. The Dark Lord keeps a very close eye on his apprentice."

"Let him come," Margaret said, standing firm in her frame.

"Foolishly brave as ever, but we are not all portraits removed from real life," Narcissa said.

She made a small hand gesture, inviting Harrie to step with her.

"Miss Potter, would you come with me for a walk?"

Harrie followed, sending one last glance toward Margaret, who inclined her head forward in goodbye. Narcissa led Harrie down the stairs, through the drawing room, and toward the front door.

They stepped out of the house, into the afternoon sun. Harrie took a deep breath of the fresh air. Above her, the sky stretched on, a flawless blue, while a light breeze played with her hair. The weather had been glorious for the past week. The sun didn't care at all that the magical world was suffering under the weight of Voldemort's cruelty. It shone on, undeterred, indifferent.

Narcissa didn't speak until they had reached the rose garden. The flowers were thriving, their petals spreading in vibrant colors, while a thick, pleasant fragrance perfumed the area. Magic tickled on Harrie's skin.

"I planted the roses when I came to live at the manor, in the week after I married Lucius," Narcissa said.

She knelt down close to a dense bush of blue roses, brushed the petals with the tip of a finger.

"I chose several different breeds, because I wanted a wealth of colors. I took care of them, year after year."

"Did you have good grades in Herbology?"

"No," Narcissa said, with a soft, amused smile. "I barely got an A on my N.E.W.Ts. But I learned. I went through many setbacks, made many mistakes... until I'd gotten the garden I had imagined all along."

"It's beautiful. And so peaceful."

"It is," Narcissa agreed quietly.

She slid her fingers down the rose's stem, stopped at a small offshoot, tapped a nail against the green bud.

"They need regular pruning all year long to stay healthy"

With an elegant wrist movement, she conjured a pair of scissors into her hand, and held it out to Harrie.

"Would you care to help?"

"I don't know how. I was also not very good at Herbology."

"I'll tell you what to do," Narcissa said.

Harrie took the scissors.

"Aren't you afraid I'll attack you with these, steal your wand, and then run off?"

"Should I be?" the older witch said, raising an eyebrow.

"No. But I guess Lucius would tell you to be careful around me."

"Men have their ideas about how we should live our lives. We know better."

Harrie smiled.

Narcissa conjured her own scissors and began pruning the roses, explaining her actions to Harrie, who followed her example. They carefully pruned the stems that would have impeded the full growth of the flowers, making clean cuts. After a while, Harrie felt herself sink into a pleasant headspace, where all she had to care about were the roses, and the cuts she had to make.

Her eyes located the buds or stems to be trimmed, her hands held the flower, her scissors snipped the plant with a soft snick , and then she repeated the process. It was satisfying to leave a well-pruned bush behind and move on to the next. Narcissa worked faster than her, humming a song as she expertly pruned the roses.

They didn't talk. Narcissa cast a Cooling Charm upon them when the heat started to be too much, bringing an instant refreshing sensation to Harrie's entire body. She also offered Harrie some conjured water during a brief break.

In a couple of hours, they had gone through the majority of the roses. They took another break, Harrie stretching while Narcissa stood at the center of her garden.

"What is that song you're humming?" Harrie asked.

"An old melody my mother sang to me as a child. I've forgotten the words, but the song stayed with me."

Harrie's throat tightened with the shadow of grief, and painful longing for something she had never known. What did she have left of her mother? No memories of her own. No scent or song, or anything personal. She had her eyes, and the memories Voldemort had given her. Her mother begging for her life. Her mother glaring at him in that Muggle coffee shop, telling him she would never join him. Snape's memories of her, too. Lily smiling as a child, Lily launching herself from the swing and soaring through the air, Lily getting Sorted, Lily arguing with Snape, looking at him coldly...

She wished she could remember something by herself. Wished that her mother had left her something of her. She'd had the Cloak from her father, had used it so many times, and that had meant something, knowing James had done so before her.

Where was her cloak now? Voldemort must have taken it after defeating her in the forest. A flash of anger burned through her at the thought. It was hers. She didn't want Voldemort to touch an inch of the smooth, gray fabric.

He's not using it, Riddle said. Lord Voldemort doesn't hide.

Where is he keeping it?

I have a few ideas, which I won't be sharing. We have rebelled enough.

Harrie grumbled, but deep down, she tended to agree. She wanted the cloak back because of sentimentality. It wouldn't help against Voldemort at all; he could sense her, no matter how well hidden she was.

And just as she had that thought, came that feeling again. A prickle at her neck, a light scrape along her senses, nerves suddenly standing to attention.

He Apparated next to her with a loud crack!, a dark presence in the colorful garden. Narcissa startled back.

"My Lord," she said hastily, with a bow of her head.

Voldemort acknowledged her with a slight narrowing of his eyes, barely anything, before the red gaze settled on Harrie. She met it steadily, fingers twitching on the scissors.

"It's time for your second lesson, apprentice."

She stepped closer to him, and—buried the sharp end of the scissors in his throat—no, no, only in her imagination. In reality, she dropped the scissors, and curled her hand around Voldemort's arm. He smiled down at her, a slow spread of lips, while he set his larger hand over hers.

He didn't warn her about the Side-Along Apparition, but it would have been superfluous, as she felt his magic gather, like someone taking a breath before speaking. This close, touching him, she had insight into his actions, could sense his mood. And right now, his mind was coursing with a strong feeling of anticipation.

Reality snapped around them, breaking, reforming. They appeared in the Atrium of the Ministry of Magic, at one of the Apparition points.

Their arrival turned several heads, Ministry workers and visitors noticing first Voldemort, then her. Everyone quickly looked elsewhere, though most Ministry workers bowed their heads in Voldemort's direction.

He walked her down the length of the Atrium, keeping his hands over hers. There were much more people than last time, not quite a crowd but enough that moving around would have been difficult if Harrie hadn't been with Voldemort. As it stood, everyone stepped aside for him, creating a corridor of uninterrupted space.

They had almost reached the lifts when a voice called out for Voldemort.

"Lord Voldemort!"

Rita Skeeter came rushing toward them, jostling a couple of people along her way. She had a quill in hand, and a smile on her face.

"Lord Voldemort," she repeated, breathless. "I was hoping to see you today... and also hoping you would be available for an interview?"

"I have no time for you at the moment," Voldemort said.

He made a small, indolent hand gesture, like he was lazily swatting a fly away. Skeeter switched her focus to Harrie.

"Miss Potter, any comments?"

"No," Harrie threw over her shoulder.

They entered the lift, and the golden doors closed with a metallic sound. They went down. And down, and down, and they were alone in the lift, and Voldemort still hadn't let go of her, so Harrie stood very still, not wanting to give him any reason to do anything else than this.

She remembered too well their last lift ride, the brush of his lips against hers, his desire burning across the bond, and how close he'd been to kissing her. She'd bite him if he tried. She would.

That didn't seem to be on his mind at the moment, though. As the lift descended into the bowels of the Ministry, he remained as still as her, albeit much more relaxed. It wasn't lust she could feel through their link. It was anticipatory excitement, so sharp and so potent it was starting to infect her, her heart beating faster, sweat gathering at her nape.

Whatever he had planned for that second lesson, he was looking forward to seeing her do it.

"Level 0, Containment Unit," the female voice said.

They were back in that black, grim corridor. The same Auror guarded the door at the end, nodding at Voldemort when they passed through. This time, there was no swarm of Dementors in the large room beyond. Harrie didn't feel their presence at all.

"No Dementors?" she said.

"I want you to be able to focus on your task without any interfering factor."

Good. That was good. Her friends would get a respite. It also meant her second lesson promised to be difficult, but it was fine. She'd deal with it.

Voldemort guided her toward the same room as last time, and a little flame of hope burst in her chest. Was she going to see Ron and Hermione again? She shouldn't want to, not in this context, not for a lesson...

Voldemort opened the door, ushered her in, and Harrie froze as soon as she stepped in.

Hermione was there.

Hermione, and Bellatrix.

They stood two meters apart, each flanked by an Auror. Hermione gave Harrie a strained smile, while Bellatrix simply stared at her, face twisted in a hateful grimace. Harrie blinked and took a few more steps, Voldemort right at her back. He set both hands on her shoulders, steered her closer, stopping her with a flex of his fingers.

Hermione looked alright. Tired, her smile gone, her shoulders slumped, but alright. Harrie ached to rush forward and embrace her. That wouldn't happen. She doubted she'd be allowed to talk to her at all.

Today wasn't about friends.

"Hold out your hand, Harrie," Voldemort ordered.

When she did, he placed his bone-white wand between her fingers, and let his own fingers trail back up her arm in a tickling contact.

"Today's lesson is simple. You will be casting the Cruciatus. I have provided two targets for you. Choose one."

Too simple, was her first thought.

Neither Hermione nor Bellatrix reacted to his words. They already knew why they were here. They both accepted it, Bellatrix because she would have done anything to please her Lord, and Hermione because Voldemort must have threatened punishment if she didn't.

At her back, she could feel the warmth of his body, and his anticipation, like a held breath waiting to be released. Or a blade suspended above flesh, about to make the first incision.

"You've cast it before, my dear," he said in a low hiss of Parseltongue. "Show me you can do it again."

She raised her wand, slowly, as a volley of thoughts flitted through her head, reflecting that—

—Hermione's shoulders shouldn't have been that slumped—

—her smile had seemed forced and lacked any real warmth—

—Bellatrix's hateful sneer was missing something—

The tip of her wand rose, rose, stopped.

Aimed right at Hermione.

Oh yes, Riddle said.

Hatred poured in, a flow of dark intent, swelling in her veins, nearly choking her. She didn't wonder if it was enough. Didn't wonder if she could cast the curse. It was, and she could.

"Crucio."

The energy of the spell traveled through her wand and slashed through the air, a funnel of ripping, roaring magic. Hermione dropped to the floor, screaming. She screamed, screamed, high and hoarse, exactly like she'd screamed at Malfoy Manor when Bellatrix had tortured her. Harrie knew exactly what she felt.

Knives, cutting her open.

Molten lava, forced straight into her veins.

A hundred thousand white-hot needles piercing into every inch of her body.

So much pain that five minutes of it could irremediably damage the mind of the victim. Harrie was pretty sure it'd take her more than five minutes for her , however. She also couldn't maintain the spell for five minutes. Even now, she could feel the strain it took on her. Her fingers gripped the handle of the wand tighter and tighter, her breath getting shallow, her shoulders cramping.

Hermione was still screaming, horrible, high-pitched screams that were progressively sliding into gurgles at the end whenever she had to take a breath. She thrashed on the floor, jerking with hard spasms, her hands clawing at the stone beneath her.

Harrie wondered how strong her Cruciatus was. Did it equal Voldemort's?

Stronger, Riddle said. It's from us both.

But she lacked the endurance and control of Voldemort, and after roughly a minute, she had to stop, flicking her wand away. The relief was instant, like she'd been holding a difficult position where her muscles strained, and had suddenly let go.

Hermione went limp, the sound of her harsh breathing echoing in the large chamber. Bellatrix didn't spare her a single look. She was looking straight at Harrie, her face lined with worry, because of course, she wasn't really—

"Again," Voldemort hissed, hands heavier on her shoulders.

Through the bond, his elation sang, bright and heady, interlaced with enough desire to send her head spinning. It was impossible, a torrent of arousal, cascading down upon her, crashing into her mind. And it was only what she could sense . How could he stand it? How could he function at all?

She inhaled fully, until her lungs were almost bursting, then she cast on the exhale.

"Crucio."

Screams.

Hermione writhed, her body contorting in unnatural ways. She was bleeding now, her nails torn from clawing at the stone floor, her lips crimson, red spittle flying from her mouth whenever she gasped. The Cruciatus didn't inflict any physical wound, but the victim often hurt themselves in the throes of agony, unaware of their actions.

She tried to hold the curse. Her body was already tired from the first cast and couldn't sustain this casting for long. Thirty seconds, and the point of her wand dropped, as her own gasp huffed from her lips.

Voldemort shifted behind her, pressing his entire front to her back, his hand squeezing her shoulders slightly. His lips touched her ear, sending an ice-cold shiver down her spine.

"Care to try for a non-verbal?" he murmured, for her alone.

She glared at the other witch, who was panting on the floor. She still had so much hate inside her. It wasn't a finite resource, oh no. It was dark, and plentiful, and it would never run out. She could drown her in it, until it choked her, until she was unable to take any breath without being suffocating by the power of Harrie's rage.

She raised her wand again.

Got another influx of hate from deep within her.

I don't need your help. Not for this.

Take it anyway, he replied, and pushed more hate at her, a weapon sharpened by his hands, delivered straight into hers.

She had her own. She took his anyway.

Crucio, she thought, and screams filled the chamber again.

They hit a high note, warbled, their strength waning, and then transitioned to whimpers and strangled gurgles. Harrie listened to it all, her wand steady. Behind her, Voldemort's joy burned.

He was elated to see her cast the Cruciatus successfully.

Proud that she had understood.

And so aroused he was considering ordering everyone out and taking her right there. Perhaps on the stone floor.

Harrie couldn't close herself from the bond, not when he was touching her, and not when she had to focus on her spell anyway. Her body reacted to Voldemort's fervid desire, a wave of violent heat rushing down her back. The tip of her wand trembled.

"Clarity of purpose, " Voldemort said, in low Parseltongue, "and strength of intent. "

She centered herself, spreading her feet a bit more. Her next breath came easier. The tip of her wand stabilized, pointing at the writhing witch like the vengeful finger of God.

"Yesss," Voldemort hissed, and with it came another rush of rapacious lust. "Hold it a little more."

She managed twenty more seconds before she had to stop. There was a point where the strain of magical energies became too much to bear, and no matter how much she wished to keep going, she couldn't. A spasm went through her limbs, and the tip of her wand dropped.

She was breathing hard, sweat at her nape, small shivers coursing through her. Her target remained on the ground, trembling as well.

"Very good, my apprentice," Voldemort said.

He made her pivot so she would face him, caught in the embrace of his arms. Red eyes peered down at her, gleaming with hunger, as dark as her hate and just as boundless. It knew no end. No limits.

And it was all for her.

"How did you know? " he asked, soft enough that the hissing sibilants of Parseltongue felt like a caress upon her face.

"I know you."

His gaze flared, the crimson of his irises darkening. The bond went molten with need, and she knew what was going to happen then. His mouth descended upon hers, and in one swift, savage motion, his lips were on hers.

It wasn't her first kiss. She'd kissed Cedric once, clumsily, in a shadowed, secluded corridor during the Yule Ball. He had kissed her back for a moment, before pushing her away and apologizing, saying he didn't want to take advantage of her.

So it wasn't her first kiss.

But it felt like it.

It felt like she had never kissed anyone before, and would never kiss anyone else, because how could they hope to compare?

To this?

The instant ignition of the most primal part of her, his lips molded to hers, his hand at the back of her head, pushing her up against him, and his tongue, his devilish, wicked tongue, slipping in as his hot breath fanned over her face. And just as Voldemort knew exactly how to make her body react to him, his kiss, too, wrenched rough sensations from her.

It was a kiss that electrified her every nerve, a kiss that streaked blazing heat through her entire system, a kiss that turned her belly into a raw crux of want.

She moaned into his mouth, opening wider for his tongue, experiencing the taste of him, a strange, metallic flavor that had no equivalent anywhere. He surged harder against her, his slick tongue exploring her, the bond burning like a brand between them. With a hiss, his other hand settled at the small of her back, slotting their hips together.

A kiss.

A bruise.

A searing wound to her very soul, and she licked venom from his lips, avidly drinking the very poison that would kill her.

It was wrong, it was wrong, she knew it was. She should have bitten him, should have refused him even the slightest taste of her mouth, should have used his own wand against him, murmuring the Killing Curse against his lips.

Instead, she parted her lips once more for his tongue, and let him set fire to all of her.

His hand flexed in her hair, mouth sliding wetly against hers with increasing pressure. He groaned, the sound rumbling from his chest, and his teeth nipped at her lips as the bond flowed with a deluge of raging desire. She gripped her wand—his wand—and stood still. Every brush of his lips sent wispy jolts through her as he ravished her mouth, and she wanted it to stop, she did, but she couldn't make it stop.

How could one stop Fate, anyway?

It was always meant to happen like this. He was always meant to kiss her with the Cruciatus still lingering on her tongue, he was always meant to crush her to him and consume her, always meant to have her, body and soul, always meant to—

She bit him then, not hard, but enough to derail the current of his thoughts. He growled, bit her back—venom, venom—and lifted his head, finally breaking the kiss. His eyes shone with a feral light, triumph seared in those crimson depths.

He released her, and she stepped back. She had trouble finding her breath. Her lips felt bruised, her heart pounding erratically in her chest.

"Bring the Mudblood back to her cell," Voldemort said, without taking his eyes off her.

Harrie half pivoted to look at Hermione as the two Aurors dragged her away. It was strange to see the shape of Bellatrix, and know her friend was in there—her friend, who had just seen Harrie use the Cruciatus, and then kiss Voldemort.

God.

Harrie turned away, avoiding Hermione's gaze. She couldn't bear the judgment she'd see there, or the pity, or... no she couldn't bear it.

The door opened and then closed, signaling the exit of the two Aurors with Hermione.

"Get up, Bella."

At Voldemort's command, Bellatrix staggered to her feet, still bleeding from the mouth. She brushed Hermione's frizzy curls out of her face, and sneered to herself, probably disgusted that she looked like a Muggleborn at the moment.

"My Lord," she said, bowing low. "Did I serve you well?"

"Was she convincing, Harrie? Did you believe her to be Miss Granger?"

"No," Harrie said. "Her smile when she saw me enter the room didn't feel right."

"Mm. So I thought."

And Bellatrix dropped to the floor again, screaming under the power of Voldemort's Cruciatus. He didn't hold it for long—a simple lash of his whip, falling onto his servant, punishment for failing in her task.

Bellatrix immediately stood up once more when it had ended. She kept her head bowed, as blood dripped to the floor.

"Dismissed," Voldemort said, and she limped away without looking back.

Now alone with him, Harrie shifted her grip on her wand. He raised a brow at her, a silent question.

Will you dare, Harrie? Attack your Master?

She raised the wand, and pivoted her hand, palm up, offering the bone-white stick back to him. He collected it with a hum, his fingertips brushing hers in a tingling contact.

"You did very well, apprentice."

She gave a stiff nod, holding her tongue.

"The third lesson will follow next week," he added, settling an expectant gaze upon her.

"I'll be ready."

She was still reeling from that kiss.

It felt like she had let him take a part of her soul. Like he had burrowed deeper into her very being, gouging at her with soft lips and a skilled tongue, and had retreated with a prize. More of Harrie Potter, for him to bend and break and toy with.

She wondered how much more she'd lose to him before it all ended.

Chapter Text

Hot lips glided on her skin.

Up her throat, along her jaw, soft, so soft—a lie—and so very gentle—another lie. They skated across her cheek and found her lips, which were pressed close together, her mouth a stubborn line of denial. Refusing this.

Pressure, as his lips molded to hers. He gave a sharp snap of hips, forcing his cock to the root inside her, breaking open her wet cunt in one hard, jarring stroke. She gasped, mouth opening, and his tongue speared in, entering her mouth the same way he had entered her cunt. Against her will, and with force.

And that was more him, this. A hidden violence under the tenderness, a kiss starting out sweet and ending in a venomous bite.

The truth of his hunger.

Corrosive.

Seeking to corrupt, to change, to make her into something else.

He rolled his hips, his cock dragging along her walls, providing intense friction, slowly conquering the tight fit of her sheath until there was no more resistance, and her cunt hugged him snugly, welcoming him on every thrust. She exhaled into his mouth, half-moan, half-protest. His red eyes glinted in the shadows of the room, his gaze steady even as he kissed her.

Who kept their eyes open during a kiss? The Dark Lord, apparently.

His tongue played with hers, caressing, stroking further into her mouth, trying to coax her into kissing back. She lay still, refusing to participate. Her hands were clenched at her sides, her mouth slack, her body taut but unresisting. He could use her as much as he wanted, however he wanted. Fuck her, kiss her, make her come, yes. But she wouldn't kiss him back.

He moved inside her in languid thrusts, his weight heavy on top of her. He had one hand in her hair, fingers threading through her dark strands, and he kept his motions gentle there, while the tempo of his hips increased. The steady beat of his strokes drove a slick heat into her center, until her body was reacting to his intrusion with a shock of delight on every thrust.

He wasn't particularly wielding their bond as a weapon, not this time, not when this wasn't a punishment, but she could feel a constant thrum of sensations from his end, magnifying the pleasure. Could feel just how tight she was for him, and how exquisite her moans and whimpers were to his ears.

"You can be loud for me, darling," he whispered against her lips. "No one will hear you."

Panting, she shook her head, wrenching her mouth away from his. He followed, his lips chasing hers, and shifted a hand to her thighs. He spread her legs wider, lifted her right thigh and pushed it back toward her, opening her up for him. His cock slid deeper on his next thrust, the pressure of his pelvis adding friction to her clit, and she gasped, a loud exclamation in the silence of the bedroom.

"Yes," he said, his teeth grazing her jaw. "Just like that, Harrie..."

He licked her lips, kissed her again, sweeping his tongue into her half-open mouth. His hand still on her thigh, keeping her in the same position, he increased his pace, fucking her in concussive thrusts that reached too deep.

He buried himself in her, building to a pounding rhythm, and her body responded, clenching around him, producing more slick. She huffed through her nose, grabbed the sheets harder, resisting the urge to tilt her hips and make it even easier for him, for her.

She squeezed her eyes shut to escape the sight of him over her, they way he occupied nearly the entirety of her field of vision. He was always on her. Always in her. And the heat of him, too, suffocated her. Even through their clothes, it was scalding. At least she was still wearing her t-shirt, and he had left her breasts alone this time.

The tension in her cunt was reaching unbearable levels. He slid in at the same angle each time, lighting a roaring fire, brushing hotly against a nerve bundle inside her, and the smack of his hips against her pelvis added to the feeling, battering her as she kept dripping on his cock, her arousal making everything so wet between them.

"Harrie..." he murmured, voice rough with lust.

He slipped a hand down to her mound, teased her clit in heavy, slick rolls upon the sensitive nub. The aching burn sharpened to a sudden edge, and she cried out, right into his mouth. Toes curling, hips bucking—into him—she came in long, shuddering spasms, the brutal pleasure forcing whimpering gasps from her mouth, which Voldemort drank at the very source.

And how lovely they were, those gasps. Each one breathier than the last, layered with desperation, strung together like the prettiest song of surrender—no, no, it wasn't—and just for him, oh yes.

His pace increased to a feverish tempo. He slammed her into the bed, violently enough that the headboard banged against the wall, while the slap of his hips bruised her. It didn't last long, perhaps a dozen thrusts, as he strained into her cunt, seeking his pleasure. Then he was grunting, hilting his cock deep a final time, and he flooded her with his release, progressively sagging onto her as he emptied himself.

Limp beneath him, she grimaced, trying to ignore the surge of possessiveness that came with the action, and his own litany, crowding the bond, mine, mine, mine.

When it was over, he took her mouth again, in a consuming kiss that lasted until she couldn't breathe for it.

"Mmm," he said, his lips sliding down to her throat, finding the bite mark and sucking on it. "Good morning."

"Not really," Harrie returned.

She hated morning sex more than sex just before bed. At least in the case of the latter, she could escape into sleep, and then another day started, and it was easier to forget about what he'd done to her the previous night, to drown any details out. Morning sex meant she had to carry this—his cock inside her, his grunt in her mouth, his tongue forcing itself past her lips—for the entire day.

Why hadn't he touched her last night? She had thought he'd want to, after that kiss at the Ministry. She had prepared herself for it, and when night had come, she'd been sure she would spend her evening on her back. Yet he had left her alone.

She was paying the price of that momentary relief now, with a rough bout of morning sex.

He gave one last lick to the bite mark, got off her. She closed her legs as soon as she could. Her whole body felt sore, overworked. You were supposed to stretch in the morning, not have your body bent in half by a horny Dark Lord.

"Have a good day, my dear," he said before he left.

She took a bath, attempting to cleanse herself from him. She scrubbed hard at her body, ignoring how painful it was, reawakening all her bruises. She would take a potion later to help with that, but for now, she would rather be suffering and clean than free from pain and filthy from his touch.

Dressed for the day, she went downstairs, joining the Malfoys at breakfast. The conversation was light. They apparently knew all about what had happened yesterday in the lower level of the Ministry, and Narcissa congratulated her on passing her second lesson, without going into details. Lucius talked about trimming the hedges of the maze and other work that had to be done on the estate, and Draco didn't say anything.

Harrie didn't volunteer any of her feelings. She might have if it had been Narcissa alone, but she didn't want to open her heart in front of Lucius and Draco. It was something too private to be aired at the breakfast table anyway.

You can discuss it with me, Riddle suggested.

I already know your opinion on it.

She didn't want more of Voldemort, however different the one living in her soul was from the one she had to endure every day. She wanted a friendly ear, and someone like her, a peer, who would offer advice, and maybe comfort.

She missed Ron and Hermione so much their absence felt like a hole in her chest. Hermione had seen everything, and she must have told Ron about it. What would they tell her, knowing she could cast the Cruciatus so easily? Knowing she had let Voldemort kiss him?

They would hug her, first, before saying anything, and that... that she missed like a vital part of her, too.

That was how she found herself in front of Margaret's portrait again.

"I hate her so much," she told the old witch. "I hate her, I hate him, and I cast the curse like any other spell."

"Do you feel any guilt about it?" Margaret asked.

"No."

"As well you shouldn't. All the Cruciatus requires is hatred, and hating some people is perfectly healthy. Besides, Bellatrix is a lost cause. All that can help her at this stage is the Killing Curse."

"I don't want to kill her," Harrie said.

She wondered if that was the truth, or if she was saying it because it was something the old Harrie would have said.

"My dear, some weeds just need to be plucked so the garden can flourish. Do you think I should feel guilty for killing my husband?"

"He should have been brought to justice for what he did to you."

"Pah, justice!" Margaret exclaimed with disdain. "There would have been no justice. He was perfectly within his legal right. In my time, a man could dispose of his wife's body as he pleased."

She turned to the left of the painting, where her Thestral appeared, entering the frame with a soft snort. She raised a hand, setting it upon Arawn's bony forehead, and scratched him, a smile on her lips.

"Sometimes death is a necessity and a blessing."

"For some people," Harrie quietly agreed, thinking only of one person, really.

The Thestral dipped his head, mouthing at Margaret's hair. He towered over her, so either he was a very big specimen, or Margaret was a small witch. It was hard to tell given the painting's perspective.

"Stop it, you big brute," she said, pushing the beast away.

Arawn snorted again, and wandered away, his wings flexing. Margaret gave Harrie a sharp glance.

"You haven't taken Narcissa's counsel."

"...not yet."

"So you do intend to fix this?" she said, vaguely gesturing at Harrie's general state of dressing.

"Voldemort hasn't complained," Harrie sullenly remarked.

"Oh, he would enjoy the change, believe me. He may style himself as a Dark Lord, but he remains a man, and they're all the same. They go weak for a confident, smartly-dressed woman. Though that is not the reason why you should curate your appearance. His followers will judge you, and find you lacking. Your dress and your makeup will be your armor. They will deflect some blows, absorb others. The more you look like his apprentice, the less you'll be challenged."

"Are you saying I should start dressing like Bellatrix?"

The dark witch was always wearing tight robes that showed off her curves, and heavy makeup, especially around her eyes. She actually looked like a Dark Lady, very much on purpose.

"Not to that extent," Margaret said. "But you might want to imitate the general style. Don't go doing it on your own. Ask Narcissa to style your face so you look older. Put your hair up, in a tight bun, neatly groomed. Some cleavage on the dress. Nothing outrageous, don't frown at me, girl. I'm trying to help!"

"I don't see why I should care what his followers will think. They won't be a threat to me."

Voldemort wouldn't let them touch her.

"It's not only a matter of who threatens whom," Margaret said, looking upon Harrie critically, as if she had just failed an important exam. "It's also a matter of seduction."

Harrie recoiled.

"I'm not going to—"

"Not that kind of seduction," Margaret said tersely. "The same thing you're already doing with the Malfoys. Presenting yourself as an alternative to the Dark Lord. A kinder, gentler, saner possibility."

"Shouldn't I try to look more like Harrie Potter, then? Instead of his Dark Lady."

"Do you think the Malfoys will stops seeing you as Harrie Potter because of a dress and some makeup?"

"No."

"No," Margaret echoed. "You will present yourself as his apprentice, looking exactly the part. The fanatics will hesitate, and those who hope to see Harrie Potter under the artifice will do so. His grasp for power is shaky at best. The wizarding world has always been resistant to change, and the kind of change Voldemort has in mind takes decades to come to fruition. Impatient boy, digging in the dirt for treasure..."

She looked almost amused by Voldemort's ambitions, such as she was describing them.

"Some of his followers are tired. The war went on for too long, and the Dark Lord is exercising an undue amount of influence over their personal lives. Those are the ones you can seduce. The quiet ones, nurturing doubts behind a façade of faithfulness."

"How can I do that under Voldemort's nose? Or lack of nose."

"Slowly. That kind of undertaking will take months, possibly years."

"Years?" Harrie said, appalled. "I can't live like this for years ! You only had to endure your husband for a month!"

"My husband wasn't the Dark Lord."

"He's not my husband," Harrie growled.

"Be that as it may," Margaret said, face pinched in a severe expression now, "this is your best bet to extricate yourself from this situation. A slow undermining of his reign, while you play the role of his apprentice."

Her assessment is mostly correct, given the flawed knowledge she is working with, Riddle said, chiming in. And her advice remains viable.

Harrie sighed.

"Alright," she said. "I'll talk to Narcissa."

*

Two days later, Harrie was looking at herself in a mirror, sitting in front of a vanity while Narcissa styled her hair.

She'd gone through more kissing during sex, more silent breakfasts with the Malfoys, more awkward, tense dinners with Voldemort sitting on her right, more puttering around the Manor, more flying on her broom, and more waiting.

A lot of waiting.

She despised it. She felt like she was stagnating, locked away in the manor, while outside the world rushed on, leaving her behind, trapped in Voldemort's web. Every second of doing nothing grated at her. It amplified her helplessness. It made her want to scream and rage. It was torture.

She used to be excellent at waiting. As a child, stuck in her cupboard, she'd tell herself stories, and make shadows puppets on the wall, spending hours immersed in her imagination. She was never bored, and she loved that time spent alone.

But that was before.

When there were no stakes. When waiting didn't mean her friends were suffering, people were getting hurt, and the world was sinking further into darkness every day.

Her only window to the outside was the morning paper Lucius left on the table after breakfast. The Prophet had become a propaganda machine, with articles about the threat of the Muggle-borns, and long flowing pieces going on and on about Voldemort, the benevolent leader who would lead the magical world to a new era of prosperity. Harrie read it with rage simmering in her guts every time.

She couldn't believe public opinion had turned so fast. She couldn't believe that was the world now, where the most major newspaper in the wizarding world could print such vile lies. There'd been a small article about her yesterday, penned by Rita Skeeter, describing their encounter in the Atrium.

Miss Potter was most recently seen in the company of the Dark Lord at the Ministry of Magic , w here they crossed the Atrium and got into a lift together. They both declined to comment on the meaning of their association. Miss Potter did not appear to be in possession of a wand, but she was free of her movements, and as the door of the lift closed, she cast a coquettish look at the Dark Lord. Furthermore, she appeared to sport a bite mark at the side of her throat, a detail that should raise many eyebrows and lead us to wonder just what type of association exists between Miss Potter and the Dark Lord.

And what are the Dark Lord's plans for Miss Potter? She led the rebellion against him and is known to have strong sympathies toward Muggle-borns and other traitors. With the trial of the most high-profile traitors scheduled to start soon, perhaps we should expect to see Miss Potter judged for her crimes along her friends.

The newspaper had ended up crumpled in her hands, while the desire to strangle Rita Skeeter had blinded her for an instant. A coquettish look, God. And she'd seen that blasted bite mark! At least there hadn't been any photos.

She glared at herself in the mirror, hackles raised all over again. Yes, that kind of hard, sharp stare, that was how she looked at Voldemort. Certainly not with stars in her eyes, or whatever Skeeter was imagining.

"Do you want something particular done with your hair?" Narcissa asked.

She was gently brushing Harrie's hair, untangling it with a careful hand.

"I'm not sure. What do you think would look best?"

"That depends on what you want to achieve."

"I want to look older. Unapproachable."

I want to look like I can rip out a man's spine with my bare hands.

"We can certainly do that," Narcissa said.

She tamed Harrie's fringe, flattening the wild curls of hair and sweeping them to the side, then gathered the bulk of her hair and put it up into a high bun, using thin, silver hairpins to make sure it stayed in place. She left free two coiled strands of hair starting at her temples, which dangled a bit, then looped back into the bun, adding volume to the hairdo.

Looking into the mirror, Harrie thought it made her heart-shaped face seem sharper. Combined with the makeup Narcissa had already applied, this Harrie looked different from the every day Harrie. Her eyebrows were darker and thicker, her eyes were rimmed in lines of dark kohl, their lids dusted with a pale, pinkish hue, her cheekbones were highlighted by a tint of blush, and Narcissa had done something to make the freckles dotting her cheeks and her nose more visible. Her lips were painted a neutral shade, a kind of soft pink that blended in with the rest of her face, while her pointed chin was more prominent.

She wasn't wearing a dress, since Voldemort hadn't given her any and she hadn't wanted to ask, so she had simply put on her witch robes lined with silver and green, a white blouse, and dark trousers. Narcissa had made sure her clothes were immaculate, and on Riddle's advice, Harrie had undone the top button of the blouse, and was flaunting the bite mark at her throat.

"What do you think?" Narcissa asked, stepping back to let Harrie stand alone in the mirror.

"It's perfect. Thank you."

The older witch smiled faintly. With a flick of her wand, she tidied up the vanity, and the various brushes, vials and little powder containers sorted themselves, jumping back into the drawers. Harrie watched the display with vague amusement.

She hadn't known half the names of what Narcissa had used on her. She had never bothered with makeup before, other than on a few rare occasions, and she had had to ask Hermione and Lavender for help. The last time had been... oh, so long ago, for Slughorn's Christmas party in her sixth year. She'd worn a dress, and then had regretted it, freezing her arse off in the corridors as she looked for Draco.

"I really appreciate your help," she said, shifting one of the side-mirrors so she could better see the way her hair had been arranged. "I couldn't have done any of this on my own."

"It's my pleasure. I can teach you to do your makeup, if you wish. It's a vital skill for a witch wishing to get ahead in pure-blood circles."

"Did your mother teach you?"

"My sisters."

Bellatrix, and Andromeda.

Harrie imagined all three of them for a moment, gathered around a vanity, fussing with their hair and exchanging tips on how best to use Everard's Instant Blush Powder. And now Bellatrix had killed Tonks, and Andromeda was left with only Teddy, her grand-child of barely a few weeks.

Harrie's heart ached, its beats nearly painful in her chest for a breath.

"Have you heard any news from Andromeda?" she asked.

"A wellness check was recently conducted by Ministry officials at her house. The child is healthy, and Andromeda has been deemed capable of raising him. That is all I know."

Harrie heaved a discreet sigh.

"Thank you."

Narcissa's smile was tinged with sadness as she fiddled with a hairpin in Harrie's hair, repositioning it.

"Sometimes I wish I had a daughter," she said.

"You didn't want another child after Draco?"

"I couldn't. Draco was already a miracle child. I struggled to conceive for years, despite the strict regimen of fertility potions I was given. The birth was difficult, and afterward, my reproductive organs were too damaged for another pregnancy."

"I'm sorry," Harrie said.

"I've made my peace with it. Mostly."

"I would have thought magic would have been able to help with that," Harrie remarked. "There are so many spells, and they can do so many things..."

"While magic is a formidable force, it has its limitations, and they are most apparent in the domain of life and death. Magic can create golems, and it can animate crude avatars and reanimate dead bodies, but it cannot birth true life. That can only come from us."

Boundaries can be pushed, Riddle said. One only needs the vision and the willpower to break down natural barriers.

Harrie could feel his disdain for Narcissa, whom he considered too weak to grasp for what she wanted.

Maybe she didn't want a child born of dark magic, Harrie said.

Then she didn't want a child enough.

"It's time," Narcissa said, her tone leaving the realm of the intimate to slide into something harder.

"Let's go," Harrie said, standing up. "Can't afford to be late."

"In the future, perhaps you could. Severus was always late. He came in last, and didn't bother to make excuses half the time."

"And Voldemort wasn't annoyed by that?"

"I think he was amused by it. Others complained, but Severus was never punished. Not for his chronic lateness, at any rate."

Harrie pondered that as they left the room and walked down the corridor. She doubted she'd be allowed to be late. Her situation wasn't the same as Snape's. His position as Voldemort's apprentice had been much more solid than hers, and he probably could have defeated in combat any other Death Eater—except maybe Bellatrix.

It's possible he'll let you be late, Riddle said, pondering as well. It's a way to drive up tension. A lot can be revealed when people get impatient. Faults are unearthed, and envy rises its head.

So Snape was late on Voldemort's orders?

I just said that.

Narcissa slowed as they approached the heavy double doors of the meeting room. She let Harrie go first. The bronze handles were cold against Harrie's palms. She took a steadying breath, pushed the doors open, and walked in, her head held high.

The room was markedly more austere than others in the manor: a black, sparse space with no windows and only one chandelier hanging from the ceiling. In the middle stood a long table of dark marble, half occupied. Voldemort was seated at its head, his silhouette cast in a mix of light and shadows by the flames behind him, a fire roaring in the massive hearth.

Every head turned toward her. From the surprise and shock painted on the faces of nearly everyone, it was obvious Voldemort hadn't told his Death Eaters Harrie would be joining them for their meeting. Only Lucius and Draco seemed to expect her. Bellatrix's lips curled up in a near snarl, while her eyes narrowed to mere slits.

Voldemort's red gaze flashed with appreciation, and Harrie felt it rake across her skin as well as through the bond. The link between them oozed his satisfaction. He was enjoying seeing her dressed up and wearing make-up, was enjoying her sudden, unexpected entrance and the effect it had on his followers, and with that slow, honeyed contentment came streaks of desire, vivid and hungry, like grasping fingers reaching for her.

He was particularly interested in that one undone button at the top of her blouse. He liked all the rest, clearly, but the button captured his attention more than anything else.

Why?

Because it suggests you're willing.

But I'm not.

The illusion of willingness is a potent aphrodisiac.

"Ah, Harrie," Voldemort said, his voice caressing her name. "Come, sit."

He pointed to the seat directly on his right, the one across from Bellatrix—where Snape used to sit.

"We will be joined today by my apprentice in training," he added as Harrie took her seat.

The Death Eaters exchanged glances between them. More arrived, reacting to Harrie's presence with the same puzzlement. She did get a nasty, angry glare from Rowle, who then sat right next to her.

Careful with him, Riddle said. He was angling for Snape's seat, and he's not happy you got it instead.

In short order, everyone was present. Harrie took a good look at the people around the table. There were the Lestranges, and then Rowle, Greyback, Crabbe, Goyle, Nott, Mulciber, McNair, Rookwood, Dolohov, and the Malfoys. The Carrows weren't there, presumably staying at Hogwarts.

"Begging your pardon, my Lord," Greyback said, "but is it wise to have Potter here, when two weeks ago she was actively working against us?"

"Oh, little Harrie is all tamed now," Bellatrix said, her dark eyes glinting with perverse mirth. "She's a darling, so eager to please our Lord."

"Do you think it your place to tell me what is wise ?" Voldemort said, in a very soft voice that made Harrie's fine hair stand on ends.

Greyback flinched.

"My Lord, I apolo—"

"Crucio."

Yes , was Harrie's immediate, instinctive reaction. Yes, fucking scream.

And Greyback did scream, loudly, horribly, his agony audible in every piercing, wretched sound torn from his throat. Harrie listened to everything with grim satisfaction, because past that instinctive Yes , there was only more of the same. A hunger to see the werewolf suffer. To see them all suffer, really, except for the Malfoys.

She became aware she was smiling, did nothing to stop it. It was half hers, half Riddle's, and it was vicious, and she hadn't smiled like that while torturing Bellatrix... had she? She couldn't remember.

Everyone remained in their seats as Greyback writhed somewhere on the floor. The fire crackled. Screams echoed under the vaulted ceiling. Harrie kept smiling.

The screaming cut off from one moment to another, replaced by panting breaths. Greyback sat back in his chair, his head low, his shaggy gray hair masking his face.

Voldemort stroked the Elder Wand, running his fingers lovingly over the black wood.

"Doubting my apprentice is the same as doubting me. Think carefully before you speak negatively of Harrie."

"I for one am very glad to see Lady Potter sitting here with us," Doholov said, with a tilt of his head toward Harrie. "No one would question her strength as a witch."

Sycophant, Riddle commented. Ignore him. He'll lick your boots and betray you in the same breath.

Harrie made herself comfortable in her chair, leaning back.

The meeting started with reports about the Ministry, and the way the different departments had been converted to serve Voldemort's purposes.

The Aurors were taking orders from him. The Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office had been shut down, as well as the Muggle Liaison Office. Rowle had paid a visit to the Muggle Prime Minister, 'to let him know his place'.

"He asked a lot of questions," Rowle said with a smile, "but a little application of the Cruciatus shut him right up."

The Department of Magical Transportation was monitoring every Portkey in and out of the British Isles, and they had started a review of the entire Floo network, looking for unlicensed ones.

Rookwood gave a brief overview of what was going on abroad. The international magical community was watching Voldemort's takeover with keen eyes, and several countries had officially condemned his methods and his goals, but for now no one was moving.

"As of now, the only potential problem are the French, and that's only because they've planned a vote on whether to take a vote or not."

There was a wave of laughter around the table.

"Even if both votes pass, the sanctions they'd slap us with won't be much of a handicap," Rookwood added.

"And what news of the rebels?" Voldemort said.

Harrie tensed, her breath stuttering. Across from her, Bellatrix threw her a goading smile.

"Still hiding like cowards, my Lord," Rowle said. "The safe house we located in Sussex was deserted, but we have recovered evidence that a few of them used it recently." He hesitated. "There was also a... message left for you, my Lord. A childish taunt."

"A message?"

Rowle pulled a photograph out of his pocket. Voldemort Accioed it silently, and too swiftly for Harrie to be able to see more than a blur of colors. He looked at it as an uncomfortable quiet descended over the table. The slits of his nostrils flared, a tiny muscle feathering in his jaw. A single pulse of dark, potent anger streaked through the bond, sparking adrenaline in Harrie's veins.

She clenched her hands under the table, kept her face blank.

"What do you make of it, Harrie?" Voldemort asked her, handing her the photograph.

It showed the interior of a dilapidated house, and a wall with half-peeling beige wallpaper, upon which someone had sketched a drawing in thick, black lines, and had then animated it with magic. It depicted her, a stick figure with comically wild hair, her lightning scar occupying most of her face, dueling Voldemort, who had been represented with a skull for a head. She was casting an Expelliarmus so powerful Voldemort was knocked off his feet and landed in what Harrie was pretty sure was meant to be a pile of dragon poop.

The twins' work, undoubtedly.

Harrie fought to suppress her smile.

"Unimaginative art, but a decent use of the Animating Charm," she said blandly.

Another pulse of anger thrummed through the bond. He really had no sense of humor—at least when it came to himself.

"And what do you think should be done to the authors once they're found?"

"I do hope such acts won't be held against them," she replied. "It is after all, like Rowle said, a very juvenile taunt."

"They will answer for it," Voldemort said. "As they will answer for everything else."

He pulled the photograph from her hand with another nonverbal Accio, and set fire to it in mid-air. Ashes rained down to the table.

"Continue," Voldemort ordered in the dead silence that had fallen over the room.

Rowle cleared his throat, reported some additional information about the safe house, said they had set up a runic trap in case the rebels came back, and then speculated on where they could be hiding. His speculations were very thin, and gave the impression that he was mostly trying to placate the Dark Lord, while he had no idea where the rebels actually were.

"Perhaps we should ask Harrie," Bellatrix mused, flashing her a smile. "Where are your little friends, Harrie?"

"I don't know." She shrugged. "I was never told much about the Order's plans and resources. I didn't even know they had safe houses."

"Harrie has no secret from me," Voldemort said.

Ah, Riddle said, so very smugly.

Voldemort liked to lord his superiority over people, and doing so over a version of himself was apparently the most delicious thing.

There were a few more exchanges about where the rebels could be and what they could be doing ("Nothing of real significance," Rowle said. "We have everything under control."), and then the meeting came to an end.

The Death Eaters exited the room, mostly in silence. Harrie caught a few snatches of conversation clearly about her, couldn't make out any full sentences. Rowle lingered only to glower at her, and left after a few moments. Bellatrix remained seated.

"You have something to add, Bella?" Voldemort inquired in a lazy drawl.

"I simply wish to congratulate Harrie on her performance from yesterday. Such a strong Cruciatus. Quite a lot of darkness in you, Harrie. I wonder what your friends are saying about you. I'm sure the Mudblood told everyone about your bloodlust. The poor little thing was probably shocked by such violence."

"If you want another immediate demonstration, I'd be happy to oblige," Harrie said, with a smile of her own, sharp and goading.

"I rather wonder how you'd do in a real fight... How would you manage, all on your own? All the adults you used to hide behind are dead now."

Harrie was opening her mouth to fire off a reply when Voldemort clicked his tongue.

"Leave us, Bella."

Bellatrix targeted Harrie with one last mocking stare, and departed. The double doors closed behind her with a soft creak.

Voldemort pushed his chair back, leaving more room between him and the table, and patted his thighs.

"Come sit, Harrie."

A mixture of dread and simmering desire jolted in her belly. She stood up, her jaw clenched, and approached him.

"Facing me, my dear. Yes, like that."

Awkwardly, she sat on him, her thighs on either side of him, her hands resting on his shoulders. He grabbed her arse and forced her closer, until their chests were nearly touching and she was properly in his lap, the position so intimate she was startled. She could feel his body heat through his clothes, could feel the firmness of his thighs under her, and—well, there was no ignoring how aroused he was.

The bulge of his cock pressed up against her arse, insistently.

"I've been hard this entire meeting," he said, with a slow smile, his hands squeezing her arse. "You look delicious enough to eat, darling."

He lifted a hand to touch her hair, one finger tracing along her scalp, then sliding down her temple, following the line of her jaw, brushing over her lips, and finally coming to a rest low at her throat.

"Such a pretty girl I have on my lap..."

She remained still, her limbs tense. Her breath came in shallow, strained inhales, even though he hadn't even started touching her yet. She was gripping his shoulders tightly, and the temptation to slide her hands around his throat and squeeze was stronger than ever.

His finger ventured lower, reached the open part of her blouse, and that single undone button that was such an obsession for him. His nail grazed her skin, the touch light and teasing.

"Why did you undo that button, Harrie?" he asked in a silky tone.

She gulped, swallowing through a tight throat.

"I don't know."

"I think you do know." He smirked. "You wanted to please me. You wanted to tempt me..."

He looked down her blouse, and at this angle, he could see her bra. It was an everyday, black bra, nothing special. He had bought her knickers, but he hadn't bought her any bra. Not yet, at least.

"And you succeeded," he said, his eyes raking over her breasts through the fabric as her nipples pebbled from the hot, heavy weight of his hungry gaze. "You tempted your Lord."

She held her tongue. Her protests wouldn't have sounded convincing.

He undid a second button, then a third, his fingers brushing her skin in the process. A fourth allowed him a full view of her bra, and he emitted a little hum at the back of his throat. Her spine prickled, her breath hitching. Her fight or flight reflex was kicking in, and right now she wasn't pinned down to his bed, wasn't pushed against a table with a heavy hand at her back. She was sitting on him, and the urge to simply get up and run was nearly overwhelming.

It would make it worse.

He'd catch her, and he'd fuck her on the table, or possibly right on the floor.

Worse, worse, it would be worse. She kept repeating that to herself as he finished unbuttoning her blouse. He pushed down her bra next, and the bond flowed with mounting desire. He stared at her breasts for a full minute of suffocating tension.

They're not that special, she almost said.

They were small, and her left breast was bigger than the right one, which had always annoyed her, even though Hermione had told her it was very normal when Harrie had complained about it one time.

But apparently Voldemort thought her breasts were magnificent.

Good enough to lick, and he did just that, bending his head to press his mouth to her right breast, his tongue swiping across her nipple. She gripped his shoulders harder, her fingers spasming there, nails digging into the soft material of his robes. She could feel the muscles underneath. Her hands seemed small on his strong, broad shoulders. It also felt like she couldn't hurt him.

Perhaps he'd even enjoy having her hands around his throat.

He licked and sucked her breasts, rolling his hips at the same time, grinding his erection against her arse. She stifled a groan when he bit her nipple, not overly hard, just enough to get a reaction out of her. He licked it immediately after, soothing the pain with the heated brush of his tongue. She tried not to squirm, but her thighs twitched on their own, and then a sudden spike of pleasure—which came from him—had her moaning and wriggling on his lap.

"So impatient, Harrie..."

Impatient to get this over with, yes.

Voldemort cupped her breasts, kneading them while applying firmer licks of his tongue. He hummed with contentment, and Harrie held on, jaw clenched, teeth gritted. Embers of arousal kept flaring up between her thighs, insistent heat inching deeper and deeper into her. She stopped herself from squirming further, and tightened her hold his shoulders harder instead.

Finally, Voldemort moved on to his next step. He tugged down her trousers, pushing them down to her knees, smoothed his hands over her thighs. A small spasm shook her limbs. Smiling, he brought one hand to her knickers, and traced a single finger over her clothed cunt. He deliberately nudged her clit through the fabric, which brought on another spasm.

"Such pretty knickers... ah, but your bra doesn't match. What an oversight on my part."

Magic whispered against her skin.

"How about now, Harrie?"

He placed her bra back over her breasts, sliding the straps over her shoulders. It was completely different. The edges were now trimmed with green frills, and the top half was semi-transparent, a black lace that left visible a good portion of her breasts. It fit snugly, the feel of it much softer against her skin, similar to her knickers.

"Silk and lace for my pretty Horcrux..."

He played with the hem of her knickers, stretching the tissue in little motions, his fingers venturing lower and lower, until he touched her folds, in a sort of grazing, light contact. It sent tingles of heat in her belly.

"Oh, Harrie... I thought I would have to prepare you..."

With a wicked smirk, he sank one finger inside her, and it glided in so easily—she was so wet, so terribly wet.

"But you're ready for me, my dear."

He pushed her knickers down, freed his cock, and lifted her, both hands at her waist. Then he brought her down on his shaft. His cockhead breached her, slipping inside her channel, followed by the stinging stretch of his length as she sank down on him. There was always a stretch. Her body initially struggled to take him, his girth challenging her.

He gave an appreciative rumble once he was fully hilted inside her. In this position, his cock put pressure on the front of her walls, and the temptation to squirm grew tenfold. He let her sit like that for a moment, his hands stroking her sides on the inside of her blouse, smoothing up and down her curves, his thumbs rubbing the outer swells of her breasts.

Then he set his hands at her waist, and he began moving. He rocked his hips, coaxing her into a slow rhythm, making her slide up and down his length while he thrust, their bodies meeting and merging. His cock was a throbbing length of heat inside her, reaching the furthest recesses of her cunt, opening her to him, with no reprieve. Her hands kept clenching on his shoulders whenever he bottomed out.

She was looking directly into his face, the pale serpentine visage so close, the red eyes more than a brand upon her skin, more than consuming fire, more than she could bear—no, fuck him, not more.

Not more, not this time.

As if sensing her resolve, he gripped her waist more firmly, and increased the pace. His cock stabbed into her. Pleasure was assaulting her nerves, and soon she was clinging to him with a clawed grip, wishing her nails were sharp enough to slice right through his robes and into his flesh.

"Look," he said, glancing down.

She followed his gaze, to the lurid spectacle of his cock entering her. His member was glistening with the slickness of her arousal, and there seemed to be more and more of it with each thrust, while the accompanying sounds were lewd and wet. She could see every inch of his thick shaft, feel every inch as he pushed her down upon him.

And resented every single one of them.

She was convinced his size wasn't normal. Had he given himself a large cock on purpose when he had crafted his new body? Had he been that vain?

A little mewl escaped her as said large cock went deep again. So deep, all of him inside her, and her brain was shocked with shivers of bliss, her spine curving on its own, her thighs trembling.

"Shhh, you're doing so well, Harrie," Voldemort said, his thumbs stroking her hips. "Don't look away."

He breathed the next sentence in a whisper, a soft promise of terrible venom.

"You'll watch as I make you come on my cock."

He moved her up and down, meeting her motions in jabbing thrusts, his cock possessing her with relentless power. And as she rode him against her will, she watched. She watched her body take him, again, and again, she watched his sinuous, vicious rolls of hips, she watched his cock twitch before he buried it in her.

His words of praise mingled with her moans. Her arms were so tense they were shaking continuously, her hands were claws upon his shoulders, and she was panting, each breath coming out strained.

"How beautiful you are, my dear. Sitting on your Lord's cock, riding him, offering him your sweet cunt. What a perfect end to this meeting."

"I'm not—offering," she gritted out.

"The top button of your blouse was undone, Harrie. You knew exactly what you were doing."

"Nnn-aah, nggh—"

Her protest remained unvoiced, stolen away by a burst of pleasure.

She had never meant for one undone button to lead to this.

Did you? she asked Riddle,

No. I underestimated his appetite.

His appetite was currently making a meal out of her. A twelve-course one, to be savored at length.

Progressively, he moved toward a faster pace. The heat and friction increased to an acute, unbearable degree, one that wrenched terrible cries out of her throat. She hoped no one had stayed behind to listen at the door, because they would have heard Harrie Potter's screams of delirious pleasure, mingled with broken moans and little sobbing mewls.

The tide rose, crashed down upon her. Her thighs strained, her walls clenched around him, another awful cry escaped her lips, and she watched herself come on his cock, gripping every inch of him, drenching him in more slick arousal. He drew his cock out more slowly, guided her back onto him as she was still coming, his thick shaft filling her spasming cunt once more.

"Good girl," he crooned.

He stayed there, sheathed in her sex while the last tremors of her orgasm coursed through her. His hands went lower, gripped her arse, and he made her grind against him, in languid motions. His cock rubbed at her oversensitive walls, so unflinchingly hard, taking up so much room inside her.

"Shall I come inside you?" he asked.

She bit her lips, huffed through her nose.

"No? You prefer it on your breasts, Harrie?"

The very idea of him coming on her breasts again, marking her with his cum, had her belly twisting with nausea.

"No," she said, in a whisper.

He hummed, kept moving her, squeezing her arse, forcing his cock to a deep, deep grind.

"Where should I come, then?"

She muffled a whimper into her lower lip. Her thighs hurt, aching with tension, and her cunt felt too hot, a simmering fire that Voldemort kept sparking with his cock.

"On your breasts," he said again, in a soft, teasing tone.

She knew what he was doing. She knew exactly what he wanted, but—

"No..."

—she didn't want to do it, didn't want to say it.

"Tell me where," he murmured, brushing his lips against her cheek. "Tell me where, or I'll spill all over those pretty breasts of yours."

"Don't," she gasped, her cunt clenching around him in a traitorous jolt.

"Your body is saying it, Harrie, but I want to hear it directly from your lips."

He brought his thumb to her mouth, stroked her trembling lips. She inhaled through her nose, sharply.

"Say it," he ordered.

She exhaled, her fingers spasming on his shoulders. His cock twitched, and he started withdrawing from her, and no, no, he couldn't—

"Inside."

The word rasped through her teeth, laced with venom. Voldemort growled. His thumb pushed in her mouth, entering it roughly. At the same time, he thrust back into her cunt, fully. Then he stiffened under her, and she felt the jerk of his cock, felt every spurt of seed he released inside her, as an arctic pleasure vibrated along the bond, so hot it felt cold, the sensations all jumbled up.

She moaned around his thumb, her tongue pressing against it involuntarily. Voldemort rolled his hips at the end, snarling through the last twitches of his climax. Finally satisfied, he removed his thumb from her mouth, smearing a trail of saliva down her jaw.

"Very good," he said in a low voice. "You please me, apprentice."

He ran his hands up her arms, reached her wrists, then covered her hands with his.

"You held on so tight," he remarked, his fingers trailing over the back of her hands. "As if you never wanted to let me go."

His hands moved down, stroking over her forearms, a firm pressure through the sleeves of her blouse. A tremor went through her limbs, starting from where he was touching her, traveling up to her chest, ending somewhere around her stomach. He was insistently caressing her arms, and... that gave birth to a new fear, a dreadful idea she hadn't considered before.

"Since I'm your apprentice... are you going to require me to take the Dark Mark?"

He grasped both her forearms, tighter on the left, and grinned at her.

"Would you?"

Her heart lurched. She clenched her hands on his shoulders, her mouth going dry.

"If I asked you to bear my mark, Harrie..."

"I already do." She met his gaze. "And the Dark Mark could never compare to how you marked me."

His mouth tugged to one side, in a sort of roguish smirk.

"You're right."

He lifted a hand, set his index finger at the top of her scar.

"How could I do better than this?" he hissed.

His nail followed the zigzag of the lightning bolt, while a flare of breathtaking desire made Harrie choke. She felt a rumble in Voldemort's chest, and she swore he was laughing, silently. His eyes smoldered with such lust it looked as though he was planning on eating her alive. One ravenous beast, hungry for her.

He was growing hard again inside her. Her inner muscles clutched at him, encouraging his cock to reach complete rigidity.

"My perfect Horcrux," he said, his hand smoothing a path down her face until he cupped her chin. "So very tempting..."

He rocked his hips in shallow thrusts, setting a slow pace.

"And I'm afraid..." A ripple of heat coursed through her, her body answering the call of the Dark Lord. "...I was never very good at resisting temptation..."

Harrie held on, and hoped there wouldn't be a third round.

Chapter Text

"I'm going to kill him."

The fire burned bright.

"I'll strangle him in his sleep. Wrap my hands around his throat and squeeze and squeeze and squeeze."

Around her, the forest was dark, the air still and silent.

"I'll take those scissors Narcissa uses on her roses and I'll plant them in his crotch. Cut off his cock, right there."

There was no breeze. The flames danced, the logs crackling, strange shadows shifting on the forest floor.

"I'll steal his wand, shove it down his throat, and cast the Killing Curse while he's choking on it."

She turned to Riddle, who was standing near the fire, watching her.

"And you'll help."

"Those are all terrible plans that have no hope whatsoever of succeeding," he said, rolling his shoulders.

Harrie sneered. She kicked the loose earth, sending a scatter of leaves and small particles into the bonfire.

"Then what? What's your plan?"

"I have already explained it to you. We pass his lessons, you are officially announced as his apprentice, then we maneuver until he allows us to visit Merlin's Repository, where we'll research our condition. You may not like it, but it is the only viable option."

No, she didn't like it at all. It meant she had to wait. Wait, and be raped again—and again, and again.

The second round in the chair had lasted longer than the first. He had touched her everywhere, his hands roaming hungrily over her body while he thrust into her. His cock had rubbed her raw, forcing her to another climax, one that had left her limp in his lap. Then he had grabbed her hips and had used her body to bring himself to a snarling release.

"You always come so hard for me," he had whispered in her ear.

Followed by a soul-searing kiss, flooding her mouth with venom.

"Patience," Riddle said. He tilted his head exactly like Voldemort did, which she hated. "I am helping."

"Not as much as you could."

"If we overstep, we will regret it," he said, with a slight flare of his nostrils. "We are playing defensively. The game will be long."

"How long? Margaret said years. How long until this is over, according to you?"

"Months," he said.

Harrie gave a deep exhale.

"Okay."

She crouched down in front of the fire, gathered a handful of leaves, and threw them in. They crackled as they burned up, cinders carried toward the sky in a flare of incandescent particles. There were no stars up there. Only a velvety darkness, smooth and unbroken.

"And if we don't find anything? If we can't separate you from me?"

Voicing her fears. She had to. They couldn't stay inside her, festering.

"In the unlikely case that I would fail to understand our condition and manipulate it to our mutual advantage, I will let you take the lead."

She whipped her head in his direction.

"What?"

"You will improvise. You're not bad at it, and it has carried results in the past. Some people would call it luck, but I do genuinely believe you have a gift for it."

"It," Harrie echoed.

"Getting yourself into the worst kind of trouble and somehow managing to come out on top."

"Now you're just complimenting me so I do what you want."

Riddle smiled. Harrie groaned and craned her neck back.

"Okay," she said for the second time.

She threw another handful of leaves into the fire, which burned hotter for a brief instant, then settled back into a steady blaze.

"The third lesson is going to be about the Killing Curse, isn't it?"

"Yes."

Harrie's hand clenched.

"I can't cast it on anyone but him."

"You will need to."

"I can't—I..."

She imagined it, Voldemort at her back while she pointed his wand—her wand—at a target he had chosen for her. A random Muggle. One of her friends. A house elf. She wouldn't be able to do it. Perhaps, if it was Bellatrix... but he wouldn't use her for this lesson.

"I'll just fail the lesson. He won't be happy, and maybe he'll punish me, but I won't do it."

"This is not a lesson you can fail. They are not decided on a whim, and cannot be dismissed on a whim either. They are ceremonially significant. A failure means you cannot advance. He would have you try again."

Harry cursed.

"But I can't."

"I will help," he said.

"I don't want your help on that . I don't want—I'm not killing anyone!"

The fire flared brightly, sending sparks over the carpet of dead leaves.

"You won't sacrifice one life to save countless others?" Riddle said.

She glared at him.

"So what, I'm Dumbledore now? I can just take these kind of decisions? For the greater good ?"

The words tasted caustic in her mouth. She never wanted to say them again.

"If that's how you wish to think about it. Personally, I would see it as something you do for yourself."

"That's even worse," Harrie said, a hysterical bubble of laughter trapped somewhere in her throat. "You do get that's worse, right? Killing someone to improve my personal situation? Like they mean nothing? Like I can just dispose of them, turn around, kiss Voldemort again?"

"You will have to kill them anyway. Why not be selfish for once? You've sacrificed enough of yourself for the world out there. And they don't deserve it. They don't deserve to have you chip away at your soul just so they can have it better."

She didn't even know what to do with that.

"That's how it is," she said, more to the flames than to him. "That's my life."

"It shouldn't be."

She woke with that sentence echoing around her skull. Some part of her agreed with it, and she wondered if that was from the Horcrux's influence, or if it was just her.

Timid light filtered through the curtains. It was early, barely dawn. She tugged the blanket up to her shoulders and shifted to her other side.

Red eyes greeted her.

"Do you sleep at all?" she said.

"I do. But I need far less sleep than mere mortals."

"So you just sit there and watch me?"

His lips curled into an amused smile.

"You make for a very appealing sight. And you look so peaceful in your sleep. Remarkably at ease in my bed." He cocked his head to the side. "No nightmares, Harrie?"

True. She hadn't had any nightmares since a couple of ones at the start. She guessed it had something to do with Riddle's influence.

"I'm already living through one."

Voldemort made a kind of pensive sound. It felt dangerous to Harrie. They were threading too close to her secret. Her last secret, her only secret.

"And what do you dream about?" he said.

She wet her lips.

"You. You're everywhere. I can't escape you, whether awake or dreaming."

She wasn't lying. And Voldemort seemed to revel in that answer. He inched closer, the red of his eyes burning in the low morning light.

"I also dream of you," he said, in a low hiss that was nearly Parseltongue.

She held her breath.

"Do you want to know what you do in my dreams, Harrie?"

"I already know."

"No... I don't think you realize just how enthusiastic you are. Riding my cock until you're completely breathless... trembling on top of me, every inch of your delectable skin glistening with sweat... and still you want more. Still you beg for more."

His gaze caressed her.

"You're insatiable in my dreams, my dear."

She said nothing, holding very still. Expecting him to pounce on her at any moment.

He sat back into the pillows and considered her in silence for a moment. Her nape prickled, a nervous buzz of energy coiling into her limbs. She thought of the chain that would spring up to wrap around her if she tried to run.

"A kiss," he said. "And I won't touch you this morning."

"A kiss."

"Yes."

"Just a kiss?"

He nodded. She pushed the blanket back and moved to him, on her hands and knees.

She had said she wouldn't beg, and in the end, she had. She was tired of early morning fucks, of having his tongue shoved down her throat, of being pinned down to the bed when she had just barely awoken. If a kiss was the price to pay for a small respite, she would pay it.

Leaning forward, she brushed her lips over his cheek, then immediately drew back. He gave her a bemused look.

"Is that what you call a kiss?"

"Yes. It's a kiss. You didn't say what kind."

A growl rose from his throat. In a flash of movement, a blur of black robes and crimson eyes, he was upon her. He toppled her down to the bed, and his mouth met hers in a clash, a heated assault that stole her breath. She gasped, her hands instinctively going to his shoulders to try and push him away—useless, useless.

He licked into her mouth once, twice, a third time, tongue agile and hot, sliding against her own in curling, flicking motions. She remained unresponsive but for her hands on his shoulders, clutched there like claws. He moaned, and a thread of incandescent desire traveled through the bond, igniting a fire between her thighs. She moaned back in protest.

He licked a final time into her mouth and gave a sigh.

"A proper kiss, Harrie," he breathed against her lips.

His hips were pressed flush against hers, and she could feel him , hard and hot and ready.

"You got what you wanted," she said, every inch of her body tense.

"I had to take it. Next time, I expect you to give me what I want."

He rocked purposefully against her, once, then he moved off her. She grabbed the blanket and tugged it up to her chest, the flimsiest shield imaginable. She was trembling, from that kiss, and from his threat.

He wished her a good day before departing.

As soon as the door closed, she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. His taste lingered on her tongue. His voice lingered in her mind. She didn't want it there. Her own thoughts weren't enough to drown it out.

Say something, she demanded of Riddle.

I thought that was clever.

She snorted.

Yeah. Too bad it backfired.

She went downstairs for breakfast, where she chatted with Narcissa about the weather and other inconsequential topics. Lucius looked particularly tense, and left early, with no explanations.

"Lucius seemed preoccupied," Harrie remarked out loud.

"The Dark Lord is asking a lot of him," Narcissa said. "Lucius strives to meet his expectations."

Harrie reflected she hadn't seem him drink since she had healed Narcissa. He was also less present in the house, gone for most of the day.

"I'm sure Voldemort will be satisfied by his efforts," she said.

Narcissa smiled and stirred her tea.

There was nothing new in the Prophet. Harrie perused the paper while finishing her breakfast, dropping crumbs on the pages. More lies about Muggle-borns stealing magic, more praise of Voldemort, and more news that Harrie couldn't care less about (there was an outbreak of Dragonpox in Wales, and three articles about it).

Later in the morning, she wandered into the library. It was raining quite heavily outside, and she didn't fancy getting that wet. She was looking for a quiet spot to sit when she noticed she wasn't alone.

Draco sat in a chair near the larger window, an open book resting on the desk in front of him. He spotted her and tensed.

"What are you reading?" she asked in an amiable tone.

He flipped the book to its cover and showed it to her. Advanced Transfiguration for the accomplished wizard, volume III.

She grabbed a chair and sat near the window as well.

"I didn't expect you'd be studying," she said.

"The school year may have been cut short, but that doesn't mean you'll find me slacking," he said with a purse of his lips.

"So you're planning to go back to Hogwarts in September?"

"Yes."

Harrie made a mild noise of dismay. It seemed absurd. Was Draco just going to head off for another school year while the Dark Lord reigned? While he destroyed everything that made Hogwarts Hogwarts?

"And then what? You'll get a job?"

"Malfoys don't work," Draco said with a sniff. "We manage the estate and our vast fortune."

"Oh, right. Not to mention you lick Voldemort's boots, too."

"Yes," he said, his tone clipped and cold. "We do that too. Is there something you wanted?"

"Give me the book. I'll help you revise."

He seemed to weight his options, hesitant. Then with a sort of resigned sigh, he handed her the book and crossed his arms.

"Alright, so..." She skimmed the page he'd been looking at, while Riddle emanated contempt from the inside of her mind. "What's the incantation for turning wood to flesh, and what's the main problem you have to circumvent?"

Circumvent. She sounded like Hermione right then. Her heart hurt, thinking of her friends in their cell, surrounded by Dementors, waiting in the dark. Their trial was next week. They'd be found guilty, and shipped off to Azbakan. Then it would be worse.

"...Potter?"

Shit. She hadn't been paying attention.

His answer was correct, Riddle said.

"Yes," she said. "Good. And what's the incantation to turn flesh to wood?"

She quizzed him for a while. He made a few mistakes, but he mostly had the subject well in hand. Harrie herself was learning new things, while Riddle sometimes complemented the book's instructions by adding his own remarks.

When they reached the end of the chapter, Harrie handed the book back to Draco and went to pick out one for herself. She chose one titled One hundred and one duels: a comparative study of the most famous wizard duels throughout history. Draco moved on to the next chapter of his book, and they read together in silence.

The books covered a few early wizard duels, in Ancient Greece, Ancient China, and then through the Middle Ages. Most of the chapters, however, were dedicated to recent duels, since there was much more information about them. There were three entire chapters about the Dumbledore/Grindelwald duels.

Harrie read the chapter about their very public duel at the walk of the Qilin, the one that had ended in a stalemate. There were multiple eyewitness accounts, and a few moving photographs. Incredible speed and determination, recounted Vicência Santos. Grindelwald fought like a demon, but Dumbledore matched him.

Harrie watched moments of the duel captured in the photographs, flashes of colors meeting and roaring out sparks, blades of light swiping the air, missing the opponents by inches as their wands whipped about with staggering speed, multiple spells being fired in the space of a second. It was dizzying to see, and those were only photographs. Harrie wondered what it must have felt like, to have been there when that duel took place.

A true duel against Voldemort would be like this. A flurry of lethal spells, decisions taken in the blink of an eye, and no room for error. She wasn't ready for this. She couldn't fight like this. Not yet.

No, but look. Look closer, Riddle said.

He directed her attention to one particular exchange in a photo. Dumbledore and Grindelwald came close, their wands pointed at each other, bursts of light filling the space between them. Then they touched—it was fleeting, their respective palms meeting the other's chest—and they sprang apart, another volley of spells cleaving the air.

Do you see?

Harrie squinted at the photo.

The way they're touching... it's like...

Yes, Riddle said. They were in love. So you see, that was the reason this particular duel had no winner. They couldn't bring themselves to truly hurt each other.

They were in love?

Harrie had trouble believing it. Dumbledore had never mentioned that. Granted, he had been very tight-lipped about most of what mattered. But a love affair with the greatest Dark Wizard of the 20th century—at least until Voldemort came along—wasn't nothing!

He was ashamed, Riddle mused. Tempted by darkness, when he wanted to be a bastion of light. A scoff. Two of the most powerful wizards of our age, and look at them. Waylaid by their emotions. Pathetic.

That doesn't help me.

On the contrary. Voldemort's feelings for you will be of use.

He doesn't love me!

He cares for you the way an owner cares about what belongs to him. The day we fight him, he won't be seeking to kill you. That will give us an advantage.

Alright, Harrie could accept he had a point there.

That's why we're the only ones who can kill him, Riddle went on. Anyone else will fail.

Harrie moved on to the next chapter, which covered Dumbledore's final duel with Grindelwald. There were less eyewitness accounts, and only one photograph. It had captured the very end of the duel, showing the moment Dumbledore disarmed a kneeling Grindelwald. The Elder Wand flew through the air to land in Dumbledore's hand.

Harrie brushed the image of the Elder Wand with a finger. Voldemort had it now. It belonged to him. It obeyed him. And he had the Cloak, and—

Fuck.

He hadn't asked her about the Stone. Hadn't mentioned it at all, but...

Most likely, yes, Riddle said in answer to her forming thought.

Harrie's spirits plummeted further.

So he's Master of Death, she said.

It's merely a title. There's no power behind it.

It was still an incredibly depressing thought.

She spent the next hour morosely turning the page of her book, without really reading it.

Around noon, she went downstairs with Draco, and had lunch with him and Narcissa. The conversation was kept light, gravitating around Draco's studies. Harrie only ate half of what was in her plate. The discovery that Voldemort had all three Hallows had cut her appetite.

After lunch, she grabbed her broom and went outside. The rain had stopped. The air smelled fresh, and a moderate breeze was blowing, ruffling her hair. She mounted her broom and kicked up, zooming toward the sky.

She flew recklessly, as she always did, but perhaps with a touch more wildness today. She skimmed the edges of the wards, feeling the energy brush her senses, close to lashing out at her whenever she leaned too much to the wrong side, and she practiced her loops, making them tighter and tighter, coming out of them breathless and dizzy.

It started raining again, a light drizzle that misted her face. She blinked, unaccustomed to keeping a clear vision in such circumstances. She had cast so many Charms in the past to stop her glasses from fogging up as rain streaked across them.

Hovering as high as she could, she let go of her broom handle and swiped her fringe back, running a hand through her messy hair.

The rain came down harder, the wind picked up, and soon it looked like the kind of weather Harrie would have ranted against if she had had to play Quidditch, though right now, she liked it. It matched her mood.

She craned her head back, wondering if there would be thunder.

A flicker at the very edge of her vision caught her attention. She snapped her gaze back to the ground, setting both hands back on her broom, ready to act. To dive, to dodge, to—

Oh. It wasn't the Snitch, or a Bludger. Nothing so mundane, no.

It was him.

He stepped on the grass, moving with fluid grace, his robes flapping in the wind. He was looking up at here, and his eyes gleamed like two fiery rubies, searing into her, a burning caress that banished the cold brought on by the rain and ignited her nerves, whether she wanted to or not.

She felt relatively safe on her broom up there, and then she didn't, because in the next second he left the ground and was flying up. The wind whipped at his dark robes while rain fell on his pale face. It almost seemed like he had wings, large and black, flexing behind him as he ascended toward her.

A demon, come to tumble her down from her perch and drag her down with him into perdition.

"Harrie," he said softly as he glided up to her.

He hovered there, in front of her, his robes rippling in the wind, his face glistening wetly as rain battered him.

"Voldemort," she said.

He inched closer and set a hand on her broom handle, brushing her own fingers as he stroked the wood in an idle gesture.

"The correct address would be 'my Lord' or 'Master'." He smiled. "For now, as you have yet to be officially announced as my apprentice, I will accept 'Voldemort', but eventually, I will require more of you."

Harrie gave a forced nod, while her hands clenched on the shaft of her broom. She wouldn't call him 'Master'. No, never. 'My Lord'... Perhaps she could say that, if she really had to.

"Are you enjoying your broom?" Voldemort said.

He was still stroking it, his nails trailing up and down the handle.

"Yes. Very much."

The crimson of his eyes flared. Tendrils of heat reached across the bond.

"Finding pleasure in riding something I have offered you," he hissed.

A blush crept onto her face. She clenched her thighs and tried not to squirm.

"I wanted to ask you something," she said, throwing out the change of subject like a life belt into the sea.

"Ask away, my dear."

She leaned toward him. Here, thirty feet in the air, with the elements raging around them, it felt like their conversation couldn't be more private, but when she asked, she used Parseltongue anyway.

"You have the Cloak, and you have the Wand."

"I do."

"What about the Stone?"

The slit of his nostrils quivered. He leaned forward as well, flying closer until his breath fanned her face.

"What about it?" he said, with a playful tilt to his lips.

"You have it too," she said, the certainty of that statement dropping like a stone into her stomach.

"You left it in the dirt, Harrie. You should really take better care of your possessions..."

His hand cradled her chin, his fingers burning hot against her skin. She knew he could feel her frantic heartbeat, racing wildly in her throat. His smile edged an inch sharper.

"I only took what you no longer wanted," he said, brushing her cheek with his fingers in a lying, tender caress.

"I want it back."

"Too late. It's mine now."

Then his lips were fire upon hers, his tongue a searing lash. She had known this was coming. She kept her mouth lax, allowing him entry, enduring his vicious hunger. His tongue snaked in, undulating like a snake between her lips, licking her. A stab of arousal made her clench her thighs again. Voldemort drew back swiftly, his smile well on its way to a full venomous grin now.

"You haven't asked the obvious question," he said, switching to English.

She leaned away from him, inhaling a lungful of fresh air—not the air between them, thick and suffused with desire. The rain was coming down hard, soaking her clothes, droplets of water sliding down her face and throat.

"Why are you here?"

It was the middle of the afternoon. There was no reason he should be here, flying with her, kissing her.

"I was in a very boring meeting, and I couldn't help but sense your restlessness," he said. "It then occurred to me that we both needed a break. Something to relax, mmh?"

"Flying relaxes me."

She had aimed for a casual, neutral tone. It was only a partial success: dread lurked under the syllables, just as it lurked in her heart.

"I was thinking of something we would both enjoy. A duel."

"Against you?"

"Against any of my Death Eaters. I'm letting you choose."

"Bellatrix," Harrie said instantly.

Voldemort's low chuckle seemed an echo of the thunder gathering above.

"Ah, Bella. She'll be delighted to have this opportunity. Are you sure you can handle her, Harrie? Draco would be a safer choice."

"I don't want safer. I want Bellatrix."

She would fight the dark witch, and she would make her feel pain.

"Very well," Voldemort said.

He turned and headed down, in a whirl of his dark robes. They flapped behind him, making him look more imposing, and Harrie noticed the fabric was trailing smoke, thick and black, curling in wisps in Voldemort's wake, as if he were wearing a coat of shadowy mist instead of regular wizard robes.

Is that normal or can I hope he's going to burst into flames?

Normal, Riddle said. Part of the spell.

She watched Voldemort for a few more seconds, wondering how the spell worked. From afar, it looked as if he was descending a staircase made of smoke, gliding down invisible steps with absurd ease. Unsupported flight: it was a feat of magical prowess that no one had been able to achieve, except him and Snape. She wondered how that felt, to simply decide you wanted to fly and then soar through the air of your own power.

Exhilarating, Riddle said with a touch of smugness.

He knew exactly how to do it, and here she was, stuck using a broom.

Will you teach me once we've dealt with Voldemort?

There was a beat of silence in her head.

Should that be your wish, I will.

Harrie decided right then and there that yes, she would learn this from Riddle. This and more, if he was willing to part with more secrets.

Angling her broom downward, she zoomed after Voldemort, catching up to him in a quick burst of speed. A thrill of excitement lit up her chest. She was going to face Bellatrix in combat—the perfect opportunity to unleash more Crucios on her.

She landed on the grass at the same time as Voldemort. They entered the manor through the back entrance, and he dried her with a spell as soon as they were inside, his magic cocooning her in a burst of warmth for a instant. It happened quickly, though Harrie still had the impression that the flare of magic had licked at her skin.

Voldemort took the direction of the dueling room, summoning the house elf with a sharply-barked command. When Wimsy appeared, he ordered her to fetch Draco. Did he think she would change her mind? She realized a moment later he needed Draco to summon Bellatrix. He couldn't act on the Dark Marks unless he had one at hand. That seemed like a flaw in their design.

He always envisioned having a follower at hand, Riddle said. A king is never alone.

His voice dripped with contempt.

You don't like that anymore?

I don't, Riddle said, without elaborating.

The gems of the dragon reflected the flashes of thunder that lit up the sky, the ruby eyes and the jewels set along its back sparking with an answering fire. It made the carving feel alive, and Harrie stepped onto it with a beat of trepidation. The energy in the room was already electric.

"My Lord," Draco said as he entered, bowing his head.

Voldemort made him bare his left sleeve. The Dark Mark stretched there, pale red at the moment, the snake twining around the skull. It stood out starkly on Draco's fair skin. Voldemort pressed a long finger into the tattoo, and Draco flinched as it darkened. The pain was also by design—a cruel reminder of the price of their allegiance to their Lord.

Voldemort smiled, then released Draco. Thunder growled outside, so close the windows trembled. Harrie clenched and unclenched her fists, yearning for a wand in her hand. The last time she'd been here, she'd been fighting Voldemort, and then... well, it hadn't ended so well. But this time would be different.

"Do you wish me to stay, my Lord?" Draco said.

Voldemort glanced toward her, as if seeking her opinion. She shrugged.

"Yes," Voldemort said, the word matching another flash of light. "Tell me, Draco, in a duel between Harrie and Bella, who do you think would come out the victor?"

Draco seemed thrown by the question.

"Aunt Bella has much more experience," he said slowly, "but you chose Potter as your apprentice for a reason. I think it might be a stalemate."

"We shall soon see," Voldemort said, with a sort of gleeful anticipation that she could feel through the link.

Draco looked at her, restrained surprise on his face.

Yeah, she thought, meeting his eyes. I'm about to duel your aunt.

Bellatrix arrived about three minutes later, which meant she must have run to get there. She bowed to Voldemort, her dark eyes taking in the rest of the room. The flash of hate in her gaze when it passed over Harrie was stronger than lightning. Harrie replied with a tranquil smile.

"You have need of me, my Lord?" Bellatrix inquired, expectant breathlessness in her voice.

"Indeed. You will face Harrie in a duel. I expect the best from both of you."

Bellatrix smiled like Christmas had come early.

"I'll show her what she has yet to learn," she said, sending Harrie a taunting glance.

Voldemort handed Harrie his wand, his long fingers brushing hers when she took the bone-white stick from his palm.

"Have fun," he said in Parseltongue, and the words echoed down her spine in a ripple of heat.

Harrie realized he hadn't told Bellatrix or Draco that this was happening because he'd been bored and had sensed her own agitation. That yes, this was about having fun. Draco expected the duel to end in a stalemate. Bellatrix expected to flatten Harrie in two seconds with her superior skills. And Voldemort expected her to enjoy herself.

Was he convinced she could win, then? Was he not afraid that Bellatrix would hurt her? Perhaps he thought she would rather face the dark witch and take some blows rather than fly around aimlessly, and he was right. Harrie was ready to bleed.

They faced each other, Harrie standing on the head of the dragon while Bellatrix was positioned at the end of its tail. Wands raised, teeth bared, they waited for Voldemort's signal.

"Begin," he said.

There was a sudden flash of light. It wasn't lightning. It was Bellatrix's spell, heading for Harrie at a staggering speed. She snapped a shield up at the last moment, and the hex crashed into the blue barrier in a shower of sparks. Already Bellatrix was casting again. A second spell streaked across the space, a red bolt edged in dark energy. Harrie ducked and retaliated with her own curse, but the dark witch deflected it easily.

It hadn't been the Cruciatus. Harrie couldn't cast it on the move. She needed to be standing still, which would make her a target.

It became quickly apparent that she couldn't afford to stand still at all. Bellatrix was too quick, raiding down spells upon her, and she had to keep moving if she wanted a chance at avoiding them. She couldn't block them all. Some impacted her Protego, while others sizzled close to her body, snagging her clothes a couple of times. She only recognized about half of them. Her heart pounding, hate streaming in her veins, Harrie aimed the darkest spells she knew at her opponent—spells that would make boils erupt on her skin, spells that would paralyze parts of her body, and spells that would make her bleed.

She really wanted to make Bellatrix bleed.

Voldemort's wand sang with magic, perfectly at home in her hand. Rain and thunder roiled outside, a rage of elements, and inside, Harrie and Bellatrix clashed in their own tempest. Trails of light burned through the air while spells ricocheted off the walls. The acrid smell of spellfire filled the dueling room as they hurled curses at each other, their wands slashing forward like whips.

Despite her best efforts, Harrie was clearly losing. She wasn't as swift as Bellatrix, couldn't manage to weave between attack and defense with her level of skill, and was spending too much time blocking and avoiding incoming spells. She couldn't win with just her hate—she'd known that, but now she was experiencing the truth of it.

She could feel Voldemort's eyes on her, feel him watch every single one of her movements, silently judging the efficiency of her spells and the speed of her reactions. They weren't bad, but they weren't enough . They weren't what she needed to face Bellatrix.

She was losing, fuck—

Losing, losing, and Riddle was watching, and judging, too, just like Voldemort. She didn't want to ask him for help, because he'd just tell her he couldn't help, and she wouldn't gain anything. She was alone for this.

"Not what you expected, Harrie?" Bellatrix taunted her, her dark eyes alight with sadistic glee.

Another one of her hexes burst from her wand. A trio of black, gleaming spikes of magic sliced forward. Harrie managed to avoid two of them, but not the third, which cut open her right sleeve and reached the skin underneath, inflicting a superficial wound.

She was bleeding now.

Edging along the far wall, she tried to put more distance between her and Bellatrix so she'd have more time to react, but the dark witch moved closer, her lips twisted in a knowing smile. They traded another set of curses, and the white flash of a Sectumsempra met more of those wicked spikes. They each shielded from the assault, their wands moving in identical motions.

Bellatrix advanced on Harrie again, her smile widening.

"Am I going too fast for you?" she said in false concern.

In the next second, another spell was heading for Harrie. This one she didn't know either, though it resembled Fiendfyre: a roaring blast of fire in the shape of a dragon's head, bearing down on her. She grimaced when it slammed into her shield. Shards of hot, piercing magic pressed against her barrier, and she wasn't sure if that was part of the first spell, or if Bellatrix had cast another curse right on the tail of the first one. The force of the attack sent her staggering back. A wave of heat raked down the front of her body, tears coming to her eyes, sweat drenching her.

She blinked, momentarily disoriented. Her wand trembled between her fingers. Beyond the curtains of smoke cloying the air, she caught a glimpse of Bellatrix, of her arm whipping forward. Then a burst of agony hit her right side. She crumpled with a gasp, and her knees impacted the floor, hard enough to send another bolt of pain up her nerves, her jaw twinging as her teeth clacked together.

A conflagration of flames rose in the air, the fiery dragon's head brushing the ceiling. Its maw opened as it descended upon her. She rolled on the floor in a desperate scramble to the right, and the inferno came down where she'd been a second earlier, scorching the wood. Tears stung her eyes, the heat licking at her skin.

The dark shape of Bellatrix stalked closer, smoke swirling around her figure. Harrie aimed her wand.

She wasn't fast enough.

"Crucio. "

God, the pain.

Thousands white-hot little hooks were stuck in her, digging at her insides, pulling her apart. She hadn't escaped the fire after all. It was there, burning in every muscle, every tendon, every nerve. Her vision swam, black creeping at the edges. Her vocal cords strained from her screams. She flailed on the floor, her limbs thrashing about, her spine bent from sheer agony.

It ended abruptly.

She sucked in a gasp of air. Bellatrix said something, gloating, giggling. Harrie glimpsed her looming form standing above her prone body, the smile on her face, the wand pointed at her—she was imitating Voldemort's grip, the wand resting upon two fingers while her index and middle finger curled atop the wooden stick.

Harrie's wand was cradled to her chest, already aimed correctly. She cast her spell non-verbally. It wasn't a combat spell, and she hadn't planned to use it. The thought popped into her head. It might have come from Riddle, but she was too frantic to be sure. The spell struck Bellatrix's hand, hitting her two lower fingers, Transfiguring them to wood.

When Bellatrix tried to shield, her wand wobbled, unbalanced because of her stiff fingers, and Harrie's second spell struck true.

"Crucio!"

The older witch crumpled to the floor, screaming. Savage delight flared in Harrie's chest. She maintained the spell as she shifted to her knees, the yew wand pointed at her enemy. Her arm trembled, but she focused on her hate, on the perfect perfect sight of Bellatrix writhing in agony, on her screams. And there, finally, Riddle helped, his hatred pouring alongside her through the spell.

Harrie stood on shaking legs, breathing fast, her muscles straining from the cost of the curse. More, more, more... Her head ached, her ears buzzed, the tips of her fingers were numb, but she wanted more.

With a little gasp, she dropped the Cruciatus and followed it up right away with another spell. This one was non-verbal, the four syllables echoing in her mind. White light snapped from her wandpoint, and the spell clawed at Bellatrix. Blood spurted from deep gouging slashes that appeared on her arms and chest. She jerked, a different scream torn from her mouth, raspier, rougher. Harrie enjoyed that one as well.

Bellatrix's hand twitched, her fingers now back to normal. A spell crashed into Harrie's shield at point-blank range. She grinned, and replied with the same curse as before. She said it out loud, this time.

She wanted Bellatrix to hear it.

"Sectumsempra!"

She had aimed at the witch's right hand, the one holding her wand. The spell struck it with blinding force, and her hand was split in two, the entire breadth of her palm torn in half, two bloody fingers hanging limply while the other three were bent forward, curling into the lacerated wound.

Harrie tasted blood on her lips. For once, it wasn't her own.

It was the blood of the enemy, spilled by her actions.

She stood over her fallen foe, breathing hard, brimming with coiled energy. She could do anything. She was in control.

Bellatrix was gasping, and in her eyes, Harrie saw—

Fear.

Real fear, glinting like a dying star in the dark pupils of the other witch.

Harrie hesitated.

Her hand stalled, her mouth hung open, and she waited, waited, unsure if she should continue. Wasn't it enough? Bellatrix was bleeding so much already, and her wand hand was in tatters, chunks of bloody flesh dripping crimson—wasn't it enough? The world throbbed and throbbed to the rhythm of Harrie's heart, and everything felt very far away, but she'd done this, all this blood, she'd done this, she had reduced her enemy to a trembling heap on the floor, to someone who feared her. It was enough, it was...

Then her wand flicked to Bellatrix's other hand in a trembling, unsteady motion, and it wasn't—she hadn't willed the movement to happen, it wasn't her who—

Pale, spidery fingers wrapped around her wrist.

"That's enough," Voldemort said.

He brought her arm down, until her wand was aimed at the floor and no longer a threat. His body was firm behind her, the heat of him bleeding into her.

"You did so well, my dear," he hissed in her ear.

"My Lord," Bellatrix whined, clutching her ruined hand to her chest.

"An adequate performance, Bella. You satisfied me as well."

Bellatrix's mouth spread in a fanatic smile, as if her pain didn't matter now that her Lord had praised her. She shifted to her knees and managed to get up, though she was wobbling severely, her breath coming in rattling exhales.

"Draco, come help your aunt."

Draco approached swiftly and Bellatrix leaned on him with a small sigh. He gave Harrie a long look, something cautious and guarded, something that said What have you become? Hermione must have looked at her like that too, right after Harrie had let Voldemort kiss her.

She deserved that look.

What have I become?

She flexed her wand hand. It responded normally. In her mind, Riddle was silent and still, and she wanted to confront him, to ask him what the hell he'd been thinking, but there was no time. Voldemort was dismissing Bellatrix and Draco, and then he was gripping her jaw and turning her face toward his.

"Look at me."

She met his gaze. The dark of his pupils had swallowed the slim ring of crimson around them, leaving only the barest sliver behind. He inhaled, slowly, as if smelling... what? Her rage? Her helplessness now that he was holding her? The savage hate that poured off her every pore?

"How magnificent you were, my apprentice," he said in a soft, reverent voice.

Her blood was a war drum in her ears, her mouth half-open, her breath straining into her lungs. She was wrapped up in him, his body coiled around her like that of a snake's, his fingers digging into her jaw. His free hand slipped between them and retrieved her wand from her. He leaned closer, staring at her face intently—at her blood-splattered face, and the crimson droplets mingled with her freckles, each one similar to the glowing gems adorning the dragon carving, enhancing her beauty, making her into—no, no—a striking vision, wreathed in remnants of dark magic, baptized in blood, his apprentice.

He bent down.

His mouth smeared across her cheek, his tongue flicking out to lick at the blood. A slow swipe, the tip of his tongue curling at the end, retreating between his lips. He gave a rough growl and did it again, licking Bellatrix's blood off her face as if it were the greatest delicacy. His tongue worked in small motions, brushing fire on her skin, each flick reverberating lower, between her legs.

She let out an involuntary whimper, a little sound drenched in desire. He groaned, pressing her closer to him, his eyes flashing.

"You wear blood like the purest of gold," he hissed in Parseltongue. "I would have you wear it often, Harrie."

"Yours," she hissed back.

"Yes. You're mine."

His lips seized hers, the kiss as violent as any serpent's strike. He growled, tongue spearing into her mouth, and while he kissed her like the monster he was, he fisted a rough hand in her hair and forced her to move backwards. Her feet half tripped, balance lost, and she grasped at him to stop herself from falling. Then her back met the wall.

Trapped between an unyielding surface and a hungry Dark Lord.

He groaned, tongue licking her own, pressing every inch of his hard body against hers. His hands ripped at her clothes, savagely. He yanked her robes off, pulled open her blouse, revealing her breasts to him, then he attacked her trousers, tugging them down roughly. The cool air of the room hit her legs, and Harrie shivered, squirming a bit. Voldemort didn't stop. He grasped the hem of her knickers and snapped them off in a wild move, tearing through the lace and silk.

"Mine," he said, with a feverish bite at her throat.

He seized her thighs and hoisted her up against the wall, her legs spread for him. With a whisper of magic, his own trousers were open, his cock jutting up eagerly. He notched the slick cockhead at her opening, and promptly impaled her with the throbbing length of him. She tensed, the harsh penetration forcing a gasp from her lips.

He drove his hips forward until he had seated himself completely inside her, pinning her to the wall. She trembled as he kept her there, as he licked up the column of her throat, scraped his teeth over the bite mark, and clenched his hands on her thighs. His grip was bruising, his cock inside her a burning brand, and there was no denying it had slid in easily, no denying how wet she was for him.

The bond was wide open, flowing with liquid heat, heightening her sensitivity. When he pulled back and slowly pressed in again, she felt it from both ends—her cunt, filled by his girth; his cock, constricted by her tight walls.

Her hands went to his throat, painting blood there, streaking crimson on his pale skin. He growled as she squeezed lightly, and the sound vibrated beneath her fingers.

"My little killer... "

Her breath hitched, something winding tight in her chest, just below her heart. He drove up into her, hilting his cock fully over and over, his pace rough from the start. His erect cock massaged her walls, caressing her from the inside, bringing increasing heat and friction, wrenching terrible moans from her. Her fingers twitched, both her thumbs pressing into his throat. She could feel his heartbeat, racing fast, pulsing strongly just under his skin, and she squeezed, harder, harder, and he growled and pumped equally hard into her, his hips bruising her in jarringly brutal thrusts.

She kept squeezing, and it did nothing.

He didn't care, no, no, he liked it, mouth spreading in a curved smile, teeth glinting savagely, spreading her cunt with his cock, possessing her, making her yield for him, oh yes, she was his, his—no, she'd kill him—his deadly Horcrux, sublime in her murderous urges, and every inch of her delectable body belonged to him, and him only—

—because she was his, his—

—no, no, and she threw her head back against the wall, every muscle strained, spine tensed like a bow string, hands clenched around Voldemort's throat, nails sinking into his flesh, wishing he was dead—but he'd never been more alive, fucking her tight cunt, alive and thriving, finding divine pleasure between her thighs, each primal surge its own lightning strike, both of them painted in blood, both of them at the heart of the storm.

Her body trembled violently, lights dancing in her vision—flashes from outside, the fiery glints of the dragon's gems, and white, luminous sparks streaking from side to side. She squeezed, her hands around his throat, her thighs around his waist, all of her, squeezing him, even her cunt, her core throbbing and contracting, grasping at his cock—a snake, she was like a snake, imitating him, and he liked it.

Reveled in it.

He pressed his teeth to her throat, licked a path of rabid desire up, up, and kissed her, pushing a demanding tongue in her mouth. Asking for more, taking more, filling her in vicious thrusts, faster, faster, his hips bucking into hers—she couldn't even feel her hands anymore, she only felt him, his heat, his power, his cock, splitting her open, plunging into her aching core, and she was saying something, she was—she was—

—spitting her hate in Parseltongue, no words, just venom, die, die, die—

"Perfect girl," he growled back, speaking thunder against her mouth. "Perfect cunt. All mine..."

A heavy thumb grazed her clit, followed by the very edge of his nail, and her sky lit up with sudden lightning. It split her vision, her world, the flash of electricity frying her system. She jerked, body twitching with ecstasy, every nerve singing. He groaned. Spilled, hot and thick, in her clenching cunt, growling, growling—biting—and she had to take it, every jolt of pleasure, every prickle of pain, every spurt of seed.

It ended in ripples, each consecutive reverberation losing strength, until she was shivering, still pinned to the wall, Voldemort's bulky frame dwarfing her, his now soft cock sheathed in her. When he pulled out, she felt his cum drip from her, felt the warm trickles run down her thighs, and she winced, disgusted.

He licked the spot he had just bitten, swiping his tongue over the tender flesh.

"My darling..."

Nibbled at her throat, the predator playing with his prey.

"What a fun afternoon we had."

And he kissed her again, bloody lips meeting her own.

*

The fire burned bright against a backdrop of inky darkness.

He stood in front of it, silhouetted by the flames, a lone figure. Always there. Always waiting for her.

She stomped over, a snarl on her face, her nerves tangled up in an angry mess of emotions.

"What the fuck was that?"

He turned to her, green eyes taking her in.

"I was helping," he said, calm—as calm as ever, steady warmth opposing her incandescent rage. "Mutilating Bellatrix further would have been a strategic advan—"

"No," she growled. "No, you don't do that! You don't take control of my body!"

She advanced on him, finger pointed as if it were a wand, and made contact with the middle of his chest.

"You don't do that," she spat in his face.

She was still reeling from the revelation that he could take control of her. That he could move her hand against her will, move her fingers. What else could he do? Had he always been capable of exerting his will onto her body, or had that been an isolated moment, something only possible because she'd been so high on adrenaline, the world half-receded from her senses?

She was too afraid to ask.

"Never again," she said, pushing on his chest with that single finger.

"Or what, Harrie?"

So calm. She hated that he was this relaxed, this detached. She had spent the rest of her afternoon feeling utterly raw, every nerve ending on edge, even after Voldemort had departed. Then she had to endure dinner, and another round of sex in the evening, Voldemort growling into her mouth while he moved inside her.

She felt like a fragile glass bauble holding a storm inside. Any moment now, lightning would strike, and she would break apart.

"Do you have any idea how merciful I've been so far?" Riddle said, in a low voice that melded with the crackles of the fire. "How much I've protected you? Have you noticed you haven't had any nightmare in days? I could fill your nights with the most terrible dreams, Harrie. I could scream in your head during every waking moment. I could make your life even more of a living hell."

He glanced down at her finger.

"I am not doing any of that. I am helping you."

"That doesn't give you the right to—"

"To choose what is best for us?"

She ground her teeth together.

"If you do that again, if you take control of my body, in any way, I'll tell him about you."

She pushed on his chest, aiming to emphasize her words. He flashed his teeth at her. They were too sharp—fangs, he had fangs.

"And then he'll put me back to sleep and you'll be stuck forever as his apprentice, in his bed."

"I don't care. The moment you use my body like your own, the moment you take control by force, I'll tell him. And you know it's true."

She couldn't lie to him. Not when he was in her soul.

He watched her in silence for a moment.

"Yes," he said. "You would. Very well. Next time, I will ask."

That set off a tremble of dread in her chest. She shook her head, stepping back with a harsh inhale.

"If you could take control at any moment, you would have already," she said.

A faint smile tugged at his lips.

"And I won't ever say yes, Riddle."

"We shall see, Harrie."

Chapter Text

Her nails tore into her prey.

She ripped it apart methodically, piece by piece, her fingers curving like claws, carving, shredding. There was no mercy in her heart. Her rage poured forth like black ichor, potent, intoxicating, and she worked in quick motions, pulling large chunks out and grinding them to small scraps before dropping them.

Soon, she had reduced her target to a mangled mess.

Looking upon the result of her wrath, she sighed.

Great job, Harrie.

Her croissant lay in a mound of tiny crumbs on the table.

She hadn't eaten any of it. With greasy fingers and a belly full of pastries, she had picked up a croissant from the tray and had destroyed it. She had entirely obliterated it, unleashing all of her frustrations upon the innocent pastry.

Wasting food, Aunt Petunia would have said, with a nasty glare. Spoiled, ungrateful girl.

Then she would have locked tiny Harrie in her cupboard to teach her a lesson.

With a wave of her hand, Harrie Vanished the crumbs. She got up from her seat and stretched. Draco had already left the breakfast table, while Lucius and Narcissa were done eating, and seemingly only waiting for her to put an official end to the meal. She gave them a nod and turned away.

"Miss Potter, might I have a word?" came Lucius' voice.

"Of course."

He led her into the drawing room, where a fire burned low in the hearth, close to smoldering to embers.

"Preparations for the trial are underway," he said, facing her. "I will be heading to the Ministry today, and will see your friends."

"Oh. Alright."

It was Wednesday, and the trial was scheduled to start next Monday, the 25th. Harrie simultaneously felt like it would come too soon, and not soon enough. While they were waiting to be judged, her friends languished in the Ministry jails, which were awful, with teeming Dementors roaming about, but at least they weren't in Azkaban. They were certain to be headed there after the trial.

"Is there anything you wish for me to tell them?" Lucius asked.

So many things.

It's not me.

I didn't want to kiss him.

I didn't want to stop kissing him.

Please don't be mad at me.

"Tell them... tell them things aren't what they seem."

Was it the truth? Had she not allowed Voldemort to slide his tongue between her lips? Had she not moaned in pleasure while he was plundering her mouth? Perhaps things were exactly as they seemed. Harrie Potter enjoyed torturing Bellatrix, Harrie Potter kissed the Dark Lord and liked it, and Harrie Potter sported his bite mark at her throat for all to see.

Harrie Potter was a liar.

Oblivious to her thoughts, Lucius gave a nod, telling her he would pass on her message.

She remained in the drawing room after his departure. Her gaze plunged into the flames, getting lost there for a long moment. She recalled the fire at the heart of her, blazing in the dark forest, and she wished it were strong enough to destroy everything. To lay waste to Malfoy Manor and leave it nothing but a scorching pile of ashes.

She wished it were as easy as shredding her croissant to crumbs.

One day, Riddle said. We'll burn it all down.

It was an easy promise for him to make. He could offer her the world from the inside of her head, since he so desperately needed her to trust him, to listen to him, to go along with his plans.

I do not make empty promises, he pointed out. Another thing we have in common, Harrie. Our word has value.

I'll hold you to it, then. Burning down the manor. Teaching me how to fly.

She sensed his agreement, communicated in silence. One last look into the flames, and she left the room.

She spent the morning outside, on her broom, burning off her anger and her restlessness by flying high and then diving, repeating that pattern over and over. As she cruised at maximum altitude, she looked down, and pondered what would happen if she jumped. She wasn't suicidal. She was simply curious to see if Riddle would take control then, and make her fly without a broom.

He declined to comment, which gave her some hope. If he was keeping secrets about this, it meant he wasn't sure what he could do. Perhaps that brief moment where he had moved her hand had been a fluke. Perhaps he wouldn't be able to do it again.

Or perhaps he was just lying in wait until he could take full control of her.

But then Voldemort would know. He'd notice if someone else was piloting her body. He'd see it, and he'd put the Horcrux right back to sleep. The thought brought a grim smile to her lips. While she was using Riddle against Voldemort, Voldemort himself was protecting her from Riddle's ambitions. They were two hungry lions that each wanted a piece of her, and she could set them against each other.

It wasn't a chess game. It was a game for her soul, which she couldn't lose.

At least she was comforted by the fact that Riddle really wanted to be out of her body. She could feel his frustration with the situation, could feel how much he wanted to walk this earth in a vessel that was his, completely. Her body was but a temporary host, one he didn't really like.

I suppose it's adequate, reflex-wise, he said as she was drifting near the upper wards. I could have been stuck in worst hosts.

Would you have preferred Neville?

No, he said after a small pause. The Longbottom boy is too soft. He is a spoon, while you're a knife. Not much can be done with a spoon.

Neville is capable, she huffed, defending her friend.

He had improved greatly since his first bubbling years. He had honed his skills in Dumbledore's Army, and he had led the rebellion among the students while Snape was Headmaster.

How do you think he would have done against Bellatrix? Riddle said.

Harrie grimaced. Alright, 'capable' had its limits.

You are exceptional, Riddle went on. You possess the budding talent of a true master, and the drive to improve your skills.

More compliments. That was his way of... well, not apologizing, but softening the blow for having taken control of her. And she couldn't pretend it didn't feel good to hear. She had managed to beat Bellatrix! Not many could have made that claim. And yeah, the older witch hadn't been fighting for her life, not like she would have in a true duel, and there had been no threat of the Killing Curse, but still, it was worth something.

Harrie flew above the roof, lazily circling the chimney, coming close enough to touch it with her foot.

Will you make yourself a simulacrum of a body, like Voldemort did?

Flesh of the servant, bones of the father, blood of the enemy? No. I told you, the body he created for himself is inferior. I won't seek to imitate the ritual he chose. I have a different plan.

Does that plan include my death?

That is not the right question to ask.

A pause. Harrie leaned her foot against the chimney, then kicked off from it, sending herself a bit higher.

If I were planning your death, I wouldn't be open about it, Riddle said, not in a condescending manner, but simply as a fact. I would strike out of nowhere, when you least expect it.

Snake, Harrie said.

She got a flash of a smile in answer, not an image, but the sensation of it, while something flared within her chest.

In truth, he said after a time, as she had reached the other side of the roof, what will happen next once we are separated and Voldemort is dead depends entirely on you. I will not seek to destroy you if you do not come after me.

She pondered that. He was still Voldemort—just a different version. Still dangerous. Still a threat to Muggles and Muggleborns. She couldn't imagine not opposing him.

A pity, Riddle said. I do hope you'll change your mind.

That was unlikely.

*

In the afternoon, she sat in front of a mirror again, while Narcissa explained makeup to her. There were so many steps, and even more products. Harrie felt like she was trying to memorize a potion's recipe, but instead of 'stir clockwise four times', it was 'prep your skin with a moisturizer', and instead of bat spleens, dragon blood and porcupine quills, it was primers, foundations, blushes, powders, eyeshadow, mascara, and lipstick. Some glitter, too, if she wanted.

"You can achieve very extravagant looks, should that be your wish," Narcissa said.

Harrie dipped a brush into sparkling glitter, bringing it close to her face. The glitter had been enchanted to change color, and was blinking from red to purple to blue, cycling continuously between hues. It also smelled like honey—a strong, sweet scent.

"I just want something easy that I can do by myself," she said.

She gave a little shake to the brush, and some of the glitter fell onto the vanity.

"Something simple..."

She picked up a pot containing a shimmering, silvery powder. She chose another brush, a smaller one, and layered some powder on the soft pad, then she dabbed it on her eyelids and at the corner of her eyes. She liked the effect. It made her gaze brighter, and the color reminded her of a Patronus—the spell she couldn't cast anymore. Silver glittered around her eyes, radiant, luminous.

"Mrs Malfoy?"

"You can call me Narcissa, you know."

"Narcissa," Harrie said, smiling at the woman via the mirror. "Are you able to cast a Patronus?"

"I am."

"Could I see it?"

Narcissa produced her wand, a thin stick of ebony wood with a black and silver handle. She said the incantation loudly, a smile on her lips. A form burst from the tip of the wand, the silvery light coalescing into a quadruped, a big one with shaggy fur, a fluffy tail, and a large, heavy head. For a second, Harrie thought of Padfoot, and her heart kicked in her chest, but no, no—

It was a wolf.

A she-wolf, and Harrie knew that instinctively.

The beast came to sniff Harrie's hand, then laid her head on her thighs. No weight came with it, and it didn't really feel like anything except magic. A tingle of cool and bright energy, and the warmth of joy behind, the same joy that sparkled in the wolf's eyes. Harrie pretended to pat her head.

"She's beautiful," she murmured.

The ethereal silver light wobbled, then vanished, leaving behind little glittering wisps for a moment.

"All Patronuses are," Narcissa replied.

"I can't cast the spell anymore."

The confession fell from her lips and settled somewhere between them, among the last traces of magical light.

"I can't," Harrie went on, and now the words were pouring from her. "My Patronus was a doe, the same as my mother's, and now it's gone. Maybe forever."

"Not forever," Narcissa said in a gentle voice. "You'll see your doe again. And your mother is still with you. She never left. You carry her in your heart, wherever you go."

Harrie tried to smile.

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right."

Lily's love had protected her as a baby. It had protected her against Quirrell, and in the graveyard, and every summer when she'd gone back to the Dursleys behind the safety of the blood wards. It had been a constant shield against Voldemort.

A mother's love, Riddle said, offered in sacrifice. You do carry it with you. Even now, it matters. And it weakened him, too. When he took your blood at the resurrection ritual, he took a small portion of that love into him... which means that yes, he can touch you, but he's weaker for it.

W hat do you mean ?

Consider magical intent. On one hand, you have a dark ritual. A servant mutilating himself, a grave desecrated, a enemy forcefully bled of their lifeforce. On the other hand, a mother's love, the ultimate sacrifice. It's unbalanced. Mixing the two weakened the finished product, which is why his body is flawed.

He didn't realize that would happen?

It is likely he suspected, but he thought his raw magical power would be enough to overcome the problem. He treated love as just another ingredient. A mistake he'll come to regret dearly.

"What shall we do to your hair today?"

Harrie blinked, focusing back on the current conversation. She lifted a hand and threaded it through her hair. Her dark curls fell softly over her shoulders, except for that one tuft of hair that always stuck out near her forehead.

"How about a braid?" Narcissa suggested.

Harrie nodded, content to let the older woman take the lead. Narcissa brushed her hair, then began braiding it, twisting the strands close to her scalp in a manner that made the braid stand out.

"Will you be present at the trial?" she asked.

"I'm not sure."

Voldemort hadn't said anything about her being there. She was pretty sure he was waiting for her to ask, so he could put a price on it.

He won't ask, Riddle said. He wants you to come to him on your own.

Even worse.

Will he rebuff me like at the Ministry?

Probably not.

So he wanted her to beg, suck his cock or debase herself in a similar manner, and then she'd be allowed to see her friends again. Great. And she'd do it. She would trade sex in exchange for being there while her friends were condemned to Azkaban.

"It will run for two weeks," Narcissa said. "If you have to choose a specific day to be present, I would advise you pick either the opening day, during which outside voices are allowed a say, or the day of the verdict."

"Thank you."

She was sitting when it came—a wave of bright, sharp joy, knocking the wind out of her for a second. She gripped the armrest with both hands, blinking several times in a row. Voldemort was happy. No, more than that. Voldemort was elated , and his fierce delight throbbed through the bond, overwhelming her. Her scar prickled as the corners of her mouth tugged up in an unwilling smile, the joy infecting her.

What had happened for Voldemort to feel like that? Had the rebels been found? Were more of her friends in danger? Harrie reached out toward the other end of the bond, too anxious to stop herself. She didn't get to see anything. Immediately, she was confronted with red eyes and a serrated smile.

It's a surprise, my dear, Voldemort said.

And he slammed her back into her body, cutting off her link to him.

Disoriented, her scar pulsing with faint pain, Harrie groaned.

"Are you alright?" Narcissa asked, one hand on Harrie's shoulder, her voice pitched low.

Harrie gave a weak nod.

"I'm fine."

She desperately wanted to know what that had been about, and she also knew she'd stay in the dark until Voldemort decided otherwise.

Narcissa finished her braid. It started on the left side of her head, ran parallel to her ear, then swept behind and came to a rest on her right shoulder. Narcissa tugged on the outside of it, which fluffed up the hair and made the braid look bigger.

"The proceedings of each day of the trial will be summarized in the Prophet," she said. "It might not be an objective report, but you won't lack information."

"I already know how it's going to go. There won't be any surprises."

Azkaban for everyone. Did the number of years really matter?

Narcissa set a friendly hand on her shoulder. Their eyes met in the mirror.

"What about your next lesson?"

"Sometimes this week," Harrie said. "Maybe tomorrow."

"I have no doubt you will succeed," Narcissa said, squeezing her shoulder lightly.

Yeah, that was what she was afraid of.

A few hours later, she sat in her usual seat at the dinner table. What wasn't usual, however, was Voldemort's hand on her thigh. It rested there, a tranquil weight, while the Dark Lord was enjoying the savory meat pie in his plate and talking with Lucius and Narcissa. Sometimes the hand stroked her, in a languid, idle caress.

Constant tension thrummed through her body. Voldemort was being very obvious. Both Lucius and Narcissa, sitting opposite them, could see clearly he had one hand under the table. Did they think he was touching her? Running his fingers over her groin, right there during dinner? Perhaps they thought Voldemort was fingering her... Who could say where the Dark Lord's depravity ended?

She was having trouble paying attention to the conversation. All of her focus went into eating her own meat pie and restraining herself from stabbing her fork down into that loathsome hand. That heavy, possessive hand, whose fingers were now tracing random patterns on her thigh. Harrie was thankful she was wearing trousers. If she had been in a skirt, there was no doubt Voldemort would have taken full advantage of it.

Lucius was saying something about the trial, and everything being ready for next week. Harrie forcefully jerked her attention back to the discussion. So far, there had been nothing about additional rebels being caught, nor any hint that could explain the rush of joy that had overtaken Voldemort in the afternoon.

"...and what about Harrie's closest friends? The Mudblood and the youngest male Weasley... Are they in good health?"

"Reasonably so, my Lord."

The hand squeezed her thigh, and something slimy edged with a razor-sharp hunger crept across the bond. It felt like possessiveness in its purest form. The coils of a great snake, slowly tightening around her. Would it stop before she'd suffocate? Or would the snake consume her, until Harrie Potter disappeared into its maw, never to be seen again?

"The Golden Trio," Voldemort said with a mocking inflection. "Two third of it entirely useless, and one third..." He looked at her, red eyes glowing, burning, avid. "...pure gold."

"I'm not worth more than them."

Voldemort smiled indulgently.

"You're far too humble, my dear. Your friends will be but a footnote in the history books, while you..." Another squeeze of his hand, and more pressure through their link. "...will shine on."

"As your apprentice," she said, opposing no resistance to his greediness—not here, not now.

"As more, should you wish to."

She forced a smile.

Voldemort's gaze shifted to Draco.

"Harrie's friends were your classmates, Draco. Tell me, what do you think they are worth? Let's put aside any consideration of inferior blood or traitor status for the moment. I'm speaking only of their magical capabilities."

Draco put down his fork and met Voldemort's eyes.

"Granger was top of the class," he said in a bland, neutral voice. "She memorized entire textbooks and could quote from them at will. But that's all she was good at: the theory. In a fight, Harrie would win without trouble. As for Ron Weasley... he never amounted to much. I always found him to be a joke of a wizard, quick to anger and unable to follow through on his threats."

That answer seemed to satisfy Voldemort. He gave a thoughtful hum, his touch turning playful on Harrie's thigh, fingers now drumming to a rhythm.

"And Harrie... what is your opinion of Draco's worth?"

"He's a good Death Eater, with an ingenious mind. No one expected the Vanishing Cabinet, and he managed to repair it on his own. He forged a way into Hogwarts, past all the wards, while avoiding Snape's scrutiny during that year. That was impressive."

"Doesn't he lack... conviction?" Voldemort said, the word sharp and clipped in his mouth. "After all, he was unable to kill Dumbledore in the end..."

"A temporary faltering. Dumbledore was very skilled at establishing personal connections, and getting into people's mind. I'm not surprised he got to Draco."

"Indeed," Voldemort said as his hand crept up her thigh. "The old fool believed love to be the ultimate power in this world. A force that couldn't be matched by any magic... He presented himself as this bastion of redeeming love, and yet all the while he used people like pawns whenever it suited him."

His hand, now resting at the base of her thigh, squeezed possessively.

"He used you."

"He was fighting a war," Harrie said. "There were no good choices."

"He kept you in the dark," Voldemort retorted, the bond flowing with restless hatred. "He allowed you to get hurt over and over because it was more convenient."

"He was trying to protect me."

Defending Dumbledore right in Voldemort's face was perhaps not the wisest move, but at least they weren't talking about Draco anymore.

"And do you feel protected now, Harrie?" he said, leaning toward her, his nails digging into the fabric of her trousers.

"With you, yes," she said, which were not the right words, not the words that were true in any way—but she said them. And then, in Parseltongue: "You won't let any harm come to me."

"I won't."

And to seal that promise, he kissed her. His lips upon hers, right there at the dinner table, in front of the Malfoys. His tongue plunged, teased, stroked, and Harrie let him plunder her mouth, tipping her head back, unresisting. The bond rippled with heat, while his fingers slipped between her thighs, brushing her groin. She groaned, he groaned back, and just when she thought he would do it, would put his hand down her trousers and finger her here and now, he drew back.

The rest of the dinner was awkward. Harrie's blush refused to die down, and her cheeks felt blisteringly hot during the entirety of dessert. She ate her blueberry pie without looking any of the Malfoys in the eyes.

Eventually, the three of them took their leave, and she was left alone with Voldemort. She was steeling herself for a rough fuck over the table when he spoke.

"It's time for your third lesson."

"Now?"

"Yes."

He rose from his chair and invited her to take his hand. When she did, he tugged her close, wrapping one arm around her. They Apparated away, his magic bearing down on her in a crushing vice for a fleeting moment.

At this hour, the Atrium was empty. Harrie followed Voldemort through the vast hall, the enchanted ceiling casting an ethereal glow upon them. Her nerves felt raw, and a ball of lead was weighing down her stomach, its mass steadily increasing until her breath became stilted, her heart racing behind her ribs.

She wasn't ready.

She wasn't ready, she couldn't do this, not now.

You are. You will.

The descent inside the lift felt especially short. It seemed they had barely stepped into the golden cage that already they were exiting it and walking down the gloomy corridor. She slowed down, which caused Voldemort to turn around.

"Are you faltering, Harrie?" he said, raising a brow.

Her tongue was a piece of leather in her mouth. She made it move, somehow.

"No. I will pass this lesson."

She hurried to his side and matched his pace. He set a hand on her shoulder, left it there the entire way down to that room again. The room where she had met with her friends, the room where she had tortured Bellatrix, the room where she had kissed Voldemort.

The room where she would kill someone.

Voldemort guided her to enter first. She took a step in, and froze, one foot in the air, almost comically, before she wrestled down her emotions and moved forward. The door clicked shut behind them, cutting them off from the rest of the world.

Two circles of glowing red runes marked the floor, one meter apart. One contained a house elf dressed in a ratty pillowcase, his ears so large they flopped down to his chin. From the other, Aunt Petunia stared at Harrie, eyes wet with tears, her chin quivering.

"Your Muggle family was not hidden very well," Voldemort said, his hand lightly squeezing her shoulder as they came to a stop a few paces from the two circles. "They didn't even leave the country... They thought themselves unimportant." He gave a low, mirthless chuckle. "After all, why would dark wizards bother with them ? They're just Muggles... They don't count... But they forgot one thing, Harrie."

He exhaled in a hiss, leaning down to whisper in her ear.

"They forgot they hurt you. And Lord Voldemort will not let such a transgression go unpunished."

So that was it. The reason he'd been so happy earlier. He had found the Dursleys, and now he would use them for the lesson.

Her insides had turned to ice. She felt like she was breathing through several layers of wool, all pressed up against her face, suffocating her. Adrenaline twisted her nerves until the frayed ends of them were burning. The air was too thick, fraught with harrowing tension.

Petunia was looking at her like Harrie could save her, like she hadn't been led in here to be her executioner, like she could make everything alright with—with fucking magic, like she had that kind of power.

You can't, Riddle said, grimly. You can't save her. You can't save anyone, not today. Don't try.

Caressing fingers brushed her hand, then pressed the smooth wood of the yew wand into her palm. She gripped the wand, the motion nearly automatic.

"Now, my apprentice, for your third lesson... I want you to cast the Killing Curse. I have generously provided two targets. Choose one."

Harrie swallowed through the lead ball stuck in her throat. Voldemort's lips grazed her ear, his breath hot against her cheek.

"A filthy Muggle who mistreated you for years... or an innocent elf?"

The house elf was standing still, a serene smile on his face. Harrie knew that smile. It was the smile indicating he had been given an order and was fulfilling it. At least he wasn't afraid. At least he wasn't trembling, not like Petunia, who was shaking continuously, her face a mask of terror, blood drained from her visage, her features taut with dread. Her mouth was slightly open, and she was repeating a word under her breath—not loudly enough for it to be audible.

Harrie shifted her grasp on her wand. Voldemort had both hands on her shoulders, and she could feel him behind her, a monolith of magic and unshakable power.

"What happens to the other one?" she asked.

He clicked his tongue.

"You know what happens, Harrie."

He'd kill them. She sensed it across the link—an icy purpose, drenched in steel metal will. Neither Petunia nor the elf would walk out of this room alive.

She couldn't do this. She couldn't, she couldn't.

They're both dead anyway, Riddle said.

"Killing one's family is very freeing," Voldemort said.

Interior and exterior pressure, both of them pushing her to do this.

She raised her wand, aimed it right between the rune circles, at the air. She'd kill one person. It was the price to pay in her path to Voldemort's destruction. A sacrifice. She had to make a sacrifice, but who was she to decide? Who was she to hold this kind of power?

"I'll give you a countdown," Voldemort said. "From five, and if one of them isn't dead by then, you will have failed."

Do it.

"Five."

She bit her tongue, the tip of her wand wavering.

"Four."

Her aunt, or a house elf she didn't know.

"Three."

Two words. Avada Kedavra. She knew them. She could say them.

"Two."

Hate flowed from Riddle, ammunition enough to kill them both. She only had to channel it.

"One."

Her wand wobbled, left, right, left—

She was out of time.

"Wait, wait—"

There was a single flash of green light, and two bodies dropped to the floor.

Just like that.

That simply, that quickly.

It didn't feel real. Harrie stared at the unmoving forms before her, her heart making a racket in her chest. The elf had fallen forward, arms parallel to his body, his big ears flopping out on the floor. Petunia was crumpled sideways, one arm thrown forward, the other awkwardly bent back, half under her. Her upturned face stared at Harrie with vacant eyes, her mouth slightly open, her features frozen in a expression of terror.

A yawning void was eating away at Harrie's insides. More people dying in front of her.

She hadn't been able to save Cedric.

Hadn't been able to save Dobby.

Hadn't been able to save Snape.

All dead because of her.

And now another house elf had died, and Petunia had died, and—who was next?

"Don't worry," Voldemort said, sounding so absolutely normal, like cutting two lives short was nothing to him. "You can try again."

He waved his wand, and both bodies burst into flames, quickly reduced to ashes. Another flick of his wand revealed two more people suspended above, the Disillusionment spell that was hiding them being pulled away like a curtain. Shadowy snakes wrapped around their bodies, curling in thick ropes across their limbs, gagging them as well. Silent tears rolled down Dudley's face, while Vernon was screaming noiselessly, struggling against the snakes with all his might.

No, no, no...

Voldemort made them descend. Dudley touched down in the runic circle on the left, where the elf had been, and Vernon in the right one, his feet landing into the ashes, that, a minute ago, had been a living, breathing human being.

"Perhaps you'd like to hear what they have to say?" Voldemort suggested.

Harrie nodded. The serpents shifted, drawing away, freeing the men's mouths. A long, moaning whine came out of Dudley as more tears flowed down his cheeks. Vernon screamed. He was red in the face, his eyes bulging, and he shouted, he bellowed, he filled the room with the din of his voice, spitting out sentences that were barely coherent.

"ALL YOUR FAULT! SHOULD HAVE NEVER—NEVER TAKEN YOU IN! SHOULD HAVE LEFT YOU ON THAT DOORSTEP!"

Raw grief contorted his features, and there were tears in his eyes too, only they weren't falling. Instead, he was screaming.

"SHOULD HAVE SMOTHERED YOU—IN THAT BLANKET, SMOTHERED YOU FROM THE START!"

He fought against the snakes, straining, trying to move forward, the muscles in his neck tensing. Harrie was sure that had he been free, he would have been upon her, his hands around her throat.

"YOU FREAKS! YOU KILLED MY WIFE! YOUR FAULT, YOUR FAULT—"

"Silencio," Harrie said, in barely more than a whisper.

Instantly, silence fell on the room. Voldemort leaned down, brushing her throat with a finger.

"Do you want another countdown? Would that help?"

"No. No, I'll do it."

She took a slow, forceful breath.

"I'll kill one, and you let the other go."

"You're asking me to let one go free? To forget that they hurt you?"

"Yes."

She turned to him and held his gaze, looking into those cruel, scarlet eyes, and she pushed her desire at him through the bond—a sharp slice of need, unashamed, not sexual but close to that spectrum, something determined and pleading all at once.

"Please. For me."

The crimson irises flared, set on fire by his answering desire. She had steeled herself enough that she didn't flinch, even when he grabbed her chin and lowered his face barely an inch from hers.

"For you?" he hissed in sinuous Parseltongue. "That is quite the request, Harrie..."

"But you're a very generous Lord," she countered.

She closed the gap and pressed her lips to his, flicking her tongue just once to lick into his mouth, withdrawing as soon as she'd done that. If she thought his eyes had been burning before, they were now positively volcanic. His tongue twitched, as if to follow hers, and he inhaled in a hiss, the flat slits vibrating as the bond flowed lava-hot.

"So be it. One will live, and one will die. No more hesitation, my dear."

She turned back to what was left of her family, and aimed her wand at Vernon. He was still screaming, mouth open in complete silence, still fighting the snakes' hold, with such frantic anger it bordered on madness. Vernon, it had to be Vernon. There remained some hate for him in her heart, however minuscule, whereas Dudley—Dudley who had smiled at her and told her he thought she wasn't useless the last time they'd seen each other—Dudley she couldn't hate anymore.

It had to be Vernon.

Remember what he did to you , Riddle said.

Images poured in, dredged up from her past, half from her own recall and half from Riddle shoving them at her.

"Be thankful we're feeding you at all, girl. Waste of space, I say..."

A large hand grabbing her by the scruff of her neck and shoving her head first into her cupboard, even as she was struggling and pleading not to go...

A beady, hateful gaze bearing down on her, and the swat of a hand across her cheek, pain reverberating across her entire face.

"You just cost me a lot of money, you little freak!"

Memories poked at the dormant hate that had been smothered by recent events, stirring it to a full fire. Yet Vernon was also here, in the present, crying now, shouting silently and sobbing, his red face wet with tears, and she would have to kill him like that, as he was crying, and perhaps he wasn't even insulting her anymore, perhaps he was begging, and how was she supposed to do this, how?

It wasn't a conscious decision.

She felt the same way as when she'd been standing over Bellatrix, in that strange altered state, and she reached for Riddle, and she gave him permission. No words needed, simply an acknowledgment.

Was it her who moved her wand, or was it him? She didn't know.

Her mouth said the words. Hate shot across the space, green light sundered the stillness, followed by a great whoosh of air being displaced, and—

It was over.

Vernon lay on the ground, face-down.

Had she killed him? Had Riddle? Did she even want to know?

"Very good, apprentice," Voldemort said, his approval settling over her like a warm mantle. "You have passed your third lesson."

Harrie met Dudley's eyes, found them glistening with tears and wide from pure terror. He had sagged forward and was only held upright by the shadowy snakes coiling around him.

He looked at Harrie as if she would kill him next.

He looked at Harrie as if she were Voldemort himself.

"Dudley walks free," she said.

"Of course. We'll deliver him back to his Muggle hovel on the way."

He flicked his wand, and Dudley was flipped onto his back and levitated horizontally. Next, Voldemort requested her wand, which she relinquished without protest. The moment the white wand changed hands, her spell fizzled, and Dudley's whimpers filled the room. He was quickly silenced by a snake that crawled over his mouth to gag him.

Voldemort reduced Vernon's body to ash with a single gaze and a tightening of his fingers on his wand. Then they were leaving, Dudley floating behind them.

In a daze, Harrie walked down the corridor next to Voldemort. Someone else had come this way earlier—a different Harrie, a Harrie who hadn't killed anyone yet, who was innocent of that particular sin. A Harrie with less blood on her hands.

That Harrie was gone.

She was Voldemort's apprentice now. A killer.

The ride in the lift felt stifling. Voldemort had parked Dudley in a corner and was standing close enough to her that their robes were brushing, and the bond was vibrating between them like a live wire, so charged with sensations she imagined that, had it been visible, it would have been glowing in incandescent radiance. Delight, pressing against her like lips against her skin, possessiveness, a hand around her throat, and arousal, dripping like slow, molten wax down her spine.

Harrie remained immobile, trying to craft for herself an armor of cold indifference. Pretending this wasn't affecting her, that her heart wasn't racing madly, that her sex wasn't slick. How could she be aroused when people had just died, when she had killed someone? It was sick.

Don't, she said to Riddle when she felt him stir, about to say something. Don't tell me.

You didn't kill him. I did.

She didn't want to hear that. She didn't want to be absolved of any guilt and get to come out with pristine hands.

This was necessary, Riddle added. And you saved your cousin's life. Focus on that.

Harrie glanced at Dudley, whose head brushed the wooden panel of the back of the lift as he floated horizontally. Tears were running down his temples, dripping to the floor, and he was shaking, chest heaving in silence. She got the urge to hug him, dismissed it immediately. She couldn't show any physical affection, not with Voldemort right there, and what good would it do anyway? Dudley had just had both his parents killed before his eyes, because of her.

There was nothing more she could do for him.

The lift came to a stop with a rattle, and finally, they stepped out of it.

Someone was waiting for them just outside.

"Lord Voldemort! Lord Voldemort, might I have a moment of your time?"

Voldemort faced Rita Skeeter with a smile worthy of a politician, smooth and charming.

"Certainly."

Skeeter preened, her Quick-Quotes quill hovering in front of her.

"I see you're accompanied by Miss Potter tonight... any comments on that?"

"We were putting in order some affairs about Harrie's Muggle family. It's all sorted now." A wave of his hand brought Dudley next to Harrie, his body still bound by writhing shadow snakes. "I must say Harrie has a very big heart. She forgave her cousin for his crimes against her, and convinced me to do the same."

"So you intend to show more leniency towards Muggles who commit crimes against wizards?" Skeeter said, pushing her golden glasses up to the bridge of her nose in a quick gesture.

"No. That particular Muggle was a special case. He is the last of Harrie's living family, and she made a compelling case in his favor." He gestured to the giant statues of the witch and wizard dominating this part of the Atrium, and specifically to the Muggles depicted beneath them. "The Muggles will be put in their place, below us. They will fear us, as they should always have."

Skeeter's quill was nearly vibrating while it was writing down on the floating parchment.

"Miss Potter," she said, suddenly switching her focus to Harrie, "what are your thoughts about Lord Voldemort's mercy? Are you grateful he pardoned your cousin?"

"Yes. I'm very grateful for Lord Voldemort's kindness."

"Are you hoping he will extend the same kind of generosity towards your friends who stand to be judged for high treason next week?"

"No," Harrie said, keeping her face neutral. "I—"

Voldemort set a hand on her shoulder. Something glinted behind Skeeter's glasses, and the quill suddenly seemed overtaken by a frenzy, furiously scribbling down words.

"There is a world of difference between one Muggle boy hurting a witch while they were both children, and terrorists who threatened the very foundations of our society. Harrie is well aware of that."

"And will she be sitting with those terrorists to be judged as well? With all due respect, Miss Potter had an instrumental role in that heinous rebellion against you. One could almost say she spearheaded the movement."

"That would be a gross misstatement. Albus Dumbledore was the head of the so-called Order of the Phoenix. He recruited children to fight his war, and he used Harrie in his crusade against me. In fact, he groomed her from a young age so she would see him as a kindly grandfather, and would not question his plans or his motives."

Voldemort shifted his hand on her shoulder, his fingers curling there possessively as he leaned forward slightly.

"Harrie was specifically targeted by Dumbledore, and fell prey to his manipulations. She cannot be held responsible for any action she took against me. That was Dumbledore, using her as his puppet. As a matter of fact..."

He paused, and leaned forward further.

"...and this is exclusive information, not yet released to the public... As Minister of Magic, I have issued a full pardon to Harrie Rose Potter. The paperwork is being processed as we speak."

"A full pardon?" Skeeter said in an excited whisper as her quill quivered.

Harrie registered Voldemort's words with a delay. Had he said—

"Might we know more about your plans for Miss Potter?" Skeeter went on. "I couldn't help but notice you keep her very close... and forgive me if this is too forward, but my trained reporter eye notices details other might miss..." Her gaze glanced to Harrie's throat, though the bite mark Voldemort had left was currently hidden under her collar. "Should we expect wedding bells in the near future?"

"What?" Harrie squeaked. "Are you serious? Do you really think—"

Voldemort squeezed her shoulder, and her mouth clicked shut.

"I believe I can clear up any misconceptions," Voldemort said. "I keep Harrie quite close to me, that is true... as close as a Master would want his apprentice. I have taken her under my wing, and I am teaching her the ways of magic as she's never seen them before."

His index finger rose to brush the exact spot of the bite mark over her clothes.

"Sometimes, the bond between Master and apprentice requires... a branding in the flesh, shall we say. Magic has its needs."

This was such a poor excuse Harrie nearly laughed. Blaming magic and a hypothetical master/apprentice bond, when the real culprit was Voldemort's lower brain. But Skeeter ate it up, gushing about what an honor it must have been for Harrie to be chosen by such an accomplished wizard, and how did she feel about it, did she have anything to say in particular about that, was she proud to be Lord Voldemort's apprentice?

"Very proud," Harrie said automatically.

Voldemort uttered some more nonsense about teaching her, and then he steered her away from Skeeter. They walked down the deserted Atrium, Dudley drifting next to her.

"Since when?" she asked.

"This afternoon. It's the front page of this evening edition of the Prophet , of course. Thicknesse suffered a rather timely accident that left him unable to fulfill his duties. The Wizengamot had to urgently convene to choose a new Minister of Magic. I humbly offered my services."

"You mean you coerced them into voting for you."

She felt his smile without looking up, a victorious stretch of his lips.

"I only had to nudge a few of them in order to obtain the majority. It was less work than I envisioned. The truth is, most people don't fight as hard as you do, Harrie. When they see something inevitable coming upon the horizon, they lie down, and they simply surrender."

Voldemort. Minister for Magic. The highest possible point in the hierarchy of wizarding society, and he had reached it, clawing his way there and leaving countless bodies in his wake.

"They call it Fate," he went on, "and they tell themselves it couldn't have been stopped. But you and I both know Fate isn't a pair of shackles. It is an instrument to be shaped. We make our own fate, don't we, my apprentice?"

They had reached the Apparition point. Voldemort wrapped his arm around her, and negligently grabbed hold of Dudley's leg. His magic blanketed her in a dark, smooth velvet embrace for the duration of the Apparition, and she shivered as it licked at her skin before retreating.

They now stood in a quiet house, somewhere in a Muggle neighborhood. The lights were off, the room plunged in shadows. With a snap of fingers, Voldemort turned on the various lamps around the cozy living room, revealing a well-worn sofa, and a low table with a knocked-over tea set and multiple cups in disarray, some lying in pieces on the carpet. Harrie's eyes lingered on the framed pictures adorning the mantelpiece. Dudley and his parents smiling happily at the camera, Dudley on one of his birthday, posing with a mountain of gifts, a little chubby Dudley on a bike, Dudley with Marge's dog on his lap, feeding the beast a piece of bacon...

She remembered those photos well. She had to dust them regularly, and each time she wondered what it was like to have parents who loved you. They were all that was left of Vernon and Petunia now.

Voldemort deposited Dudley on the floor and Vanished the snakes off him. Dudley immediately scrambled back, hitting the sofa in his haste, letting out terrified whimpers as he looked up at them.

"This is where we leave you, Muggle," Voldemort said. "You get to keep your miserable life, for which you should be immensely grateful. If I hadn't promised Harrie I would spare you, your entrails would currently decorate the room."

Dudley moaned pitifully, more tears running down his face.

"Nothing to say?" Voldemort taunted him. "I think you should thank Harrie."

Another small whine came out of Dudley's mouth. He grabbed at the sofa behind him, his hands going white-knuckled from the force of his grip. Voldemort tilted his head. He didn't use his wand, and he didn't speak the spell, but Harrie felt it nonetheless—the tendrils of his magic, reaching forth across the space, wrapping around Dudley's mind and annihilating his willpower. Dudley's entire body went slack, his hands falling into his lap, his eyelids dropping.

"Thank you, Harrie," he said in a hollow voice.

"Now crawl to her and kiss her feet."

He moved forward on all fours, his movements steady, and bent down to kiss her feet. Harrie's stomach gave a sharp twist. This degradation of Dudley's dignity sickened her, but saying no to Voldemort would make it worse. He was so angry at Dudley it bled through the bond and seeped into her own mind—an ice-cold fury, claws dripping venom, and he wanted to grab into the boy's torso and rip out his still-beating heart to present it to her, wanted to flay him open, wanted to make him beg and scream so she would hear it—

Dudley straightened up, awaiting instructions, his face vacant.

"What else should I command him to do?" Voldemort mused. "Perhaps I should order him to starve himself. Or to cut off some of his fingers... he doesn't really need his tongue, either."

"No, please. Let's just... Let's leave him like this. He's lost enough."

"You're begging again," Voldemort said.

The red gaze cut to her, coming with expectant weight.

"You should never beg for your inferiors, Harrie. They don't deserve it. And that word from your lips should be reserved for me alone."

"It is for you."

She met his eyes and stood her ground.

"Please," she said again, and she tried sending the word through their bond as well—offering images of entreating fingers brushing along sensitive skin, lips skimming lips.

For all the crudeness of her tactic, it worked. It wasn't that different from the time she had offered to suck his cock in the corridor for the sake of her friends, but here, instead of rejecting her, he replied with a swelling wave of heat that seared its way to her, forcing a shiver down her spine and a tremble in her legs.

"Lord Voldemort will answer your request."

He wrapped one arm around her again, his hand splayed at her hip, his long, spidery fingers flexing there. His magic rose and snapped them away. The living room disappeared. Harrie's feet landed on wet grass.

A glade spread around them, twilight painting long shadows over the ground. The low light of the sun filtered through trees swaying in the soft breeze while faint ribbons of mist meandered above the emerald grass and tangled shrubbery. Mounds of heather crowded here and there in faded purple spots, and wild flowers threw shocking colors into the mix, bright yellows and reds glittering like jewels. The air smelled of brine, the scent borne to Harrie's nostrils by gusts of wind that tickled her nape and played with her hair.

The most distinctive feature of the area was by far the standing stones planted in a circle around them, jutting like teeth from the ground, weathered giants of old. They towered over them, eight feet tall, bulky and uneven. Harrie eyed the altar interrupting the circle. It was a slab of rough, moss-covered stone, flat, and large enough for a whole person to lay upon it. Apprehension prickled at her nerves.

"Where are we?"

"The Isle of Man," Voldemort said, one long finger tracing the length of his wand. "One of the oldest places of power in the British Isles."

He released his grip on her, his hand lingering at her back. She took one step forward. The wet grass brushed her feet, cold enough to make her shiver again.

"This is where you will truly become my apprentice. We will seal the bargain, as witnessed by ancient stones."

"I'm guessing a blood ritual," Harrie said, her gaze stuck on the altar.

"In a way," Voldemort replied.

She turned to see his red eyes flash in the gloom. He flicked his wand, and magic rushed past her. Two burning runic circles carved themselves into the ground right in front of the altar. The magical fire seared through the grass until the runes were inscribed upon the earth, under a crown of smoke and ash.

They were of equal size, but one appeared to be more elaborate than the other, the circle doubling in on itself, some runes curving inward like talons, while the other circle on the right had one plain, thin line of runes, and no indentations. Both circles glowed red—like blood, like Voldemort's eyes.

"Take your place in the apprentice's circle, Harrie. You must do so with no artifice and no barriers, as you were when you came into this world."

"You mean naked."

"Yes."

"Was Snape naked?" Harrie asked, shedding off her robes.

"He was."

It helped, knowing someone had been through this before, and for the same reasons as her. Snape had sought power under Voldemort's guidance so he could better stab him in the back—unless it had happened he turned, but Harrie didn't think so.

"When?"

Voldemort was also undressing as well, undoing his belt. It didn't look particularly threatening, not the way he had done it while she was on her knees before him, but the sight still rattled her nerves.

"In the summer of 81. I was reluctant to take an apprentice at all. I thought no one worthy. Then Severus proved himself. He killed his father for me."

Harrie wasn't terribly surprised by that information. She had already imagined the worst of Snape during the year she thought he was on Voldemort's side. And now, she understood more than ever what it meant to make sacrifices in the pursuit of one's goal.

She had removed her blouse and was unclasping her bra, goosebumps spreading along her arms. Voldemort was naked from the waist down, his half-hard cock twitching between his legs. He revealed his torso next, and rolled his broad shoulders as he cast off his upper garments. Harrie's gaze swept over muscles and sinuous limbs, their proportions slightly skewed, slightly wrong. More pale, gleaming skin, and Voldemort stood entirely naked.

Harrie let her trousers pool on the ground, then discarded the very last of her clothes: her knickers.

There.

Both of them naked in a glade at twilight.

Stepping into the circle felt like diving into water. There was a slight resistance, and cool, dense magic rippled around her, accepting her. Her own magic answered, in a small pulse that spread from somewhere deep inside her. Harrie almost didn't want it to react. Surely her magic had to be tainted by the last spell she had cast. By the Killing Curse.

She was entering the apprentice's circle as a killer, and the ancestral magic of the glade knew it.

Voldemort faced her in the Master's circle, his wand lightly held between his long, slender fingers. An incantation streamed from his lips. Harrie didn't recognize any of the words. He spoke and spoke, in a low, monotone voice, weaving tight patterns with the Elder Wand, and the magic flowed higher, thrummed stronger, responding to his will.

His pale skin began to glow. Opalescent light bled from him, highlighting the faint outlines of his scales, especially on his cheekbones, until his entire body was emitting its own gleaming shine. It wasn't blinding. It looked liked barely-there smoke, a pearly, vapory armor that encased him from head to toe, while slowly curling ribbons wafted up from his skin.

The air crackled, charged with magical energy, humming with centuries-old power. Her head was pounding, and every cell in her body seemed to be vibrating, while Voldemort kept unfurling his incantation, syllable after syllable. The pulse of magic around her now matched her heartbeat.

Voldemort dipped his wand low, and when he brought it back up, swirling black ink was in the process of coating both his forearms. It crept down his wrists as Harrie watched, and slowly engulfed his hands, until they were glistening wetly, like he had dipped them into charred, greasy smoke. His nails turned black too. The color was solid, and with a definite thickness to it. Then, with a soft crackle of power, lines of gold streaked across the black, gleaming brightly. They followed the path of his veins, where his blood—her blood, too—pumped, and reached up to the middle of his forearms, ending there in a circle.

Harrie didn't flinch when Voldemort reached out for her. One blackened finger made contact just under her throat. It glided down, smearing her skin with dark ichor, the substance clinging to her slick and wet in the wake of Voldemort's touch. He traced a straight line down her chest, between her breasts, stopping just above her navel, then he moved to her arms, the right one then the left one, tracing a single line down to her wrists. He knelt to paint more lines on her lower body, adorning her with longs smears of black, weaving an intricate pattern that twisted around in a double circle along her hips bones, before the lines divided, going down the outside and inside of her thighs, then along her legs, and finally reaching her ankles, where he drew a closed circle.

He straightened up and touched her face next. His index finger painted a circle on her forehead, then a line down her nose. He pressed down the pad of his finger on her cheek, left and right, leaving twin blots of black.

Magic pulsed against her skin, alive, flowing with an arcane power she could only guess at. The dark pattern painted upon her naked body felt like it had a physical weight. She bore it, not with pride, but because she had to.

Voldemort traced an identical pattern on his body, a perfect mirror of her own. The dark smears shone like fresh ink on his pale skin. He looked even more alien, even wronger like this, a gaunt specter wearing war paint. She imagined Death itself might have looked like that—and wasn't it ironic, that Voldemort now resembled the thing he feared the most.

With a flick of his wrist, a dagger appeared in his left hand. It had an elegant handle, a thing of crisscrossing silver threads with gaps left between them so the center appeared hollow, and it boasted a short, curved blade. Voldemort dragged the edge of the gleaming blade along his thumb, making a quick incision.

Blood flowed.

Red, red, and perfectly normal. Harrie had imagined he would bleed black bile, or venom, or something equally foul, something viscous and as dark as his soul.

He looked at her, entreatingly. She offered him her hand. He pressed the dagger to her flesh, and the edge bit into the meat of her thumb. Her blood looked identical to his. He clasped her hand in his, intertwining their fingers, smearing their bloods together.

She had expected some type of blood ritual. It still grated to feel his hand in hers, to have his blood on her skin, to share that kind of intimacy. And it reminded her of the last time a ceremonial blade had cut her open, the last time Voldemort has used her blood, that day in the graveyard... He'd been naked then too, though she had been too paralyzed by terror to pay any attention to his nether regions.

"One Master and one Apprentice, bound by blood, until death," he said, as both runic circles glowed brighter.

Until death.

Was there no escape at all? She wanted to ask Riddle, but he was holding so still and silent she wasn't even aware of him. Could the ritual's magic feel him? Was he being bound, too?

Voldemort flicked his wrist again. The dagger disappeared. He cradled her hand in his, and his long, skeletal fingers traced the inside of her palm. His skin was still glowing, exuding raw power. His index brushed over her bleeding thumb. Magic hummed, sealing the cut in the wake of Voldemort's touch. He had healed himself as well.

He made it look so easy. Healing magic wasn't taught at all at Hogwarts. Any witch or wizard who desired to become a Healer had to enroll in further courses at a specialized school after their N.E.W.Ts.

"I want to learn this."

"This?" Voldemort said, stroking the pad of his finger back and forth over her thumb.

"I know you'll teach me how to fight, and dark magic, but I also want to learn healing."

Voldemort smiled, an almost imperceptible twitch of his lips, but she felt his triumph smolder along the bond. Triumph and... pride, that was pride, flowing golden between them.

"Anything you want, apprentice."

His nail pressed down where the cut had been. It didn't even hurt. There was no trace a blade had ever bitten into her flesh, no scar. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it, the contact of his lips light and tingly.

"There remains one last thing to seal the ritual."

Harrie could guess what it was. She felt it through the link—his arousal, burning hot and steady—and she felt it in the air, as the thick mantle of magic around them hummed and thrummed, waiting for something. For a crescendo. For a climax.

"You said you never slept with Snape," she pointed out.

"I didn't. The blood exchange was enough. Severus' blood was virginal, which granted it far more magical potency... whereas yours has been used in a ritual before, Harrie. Surely you haven't forgotten..."

"How could I?" Harrie grated through a clenched jaw.

"Don't worry. I will be gentle."

He crossed over into her circle and grabbed her, his hands hooking under her thighs to lift her. She shuddered when he pressed her body to his. He was naked, and she was naked, and she could feel it all, his warm skin against hers, and the pulsating beat of his heart, and even his scales, smooth and gliding under her hands as she gripped his biceps.

He sat her upon the altar.

The cold, rough stone beneath her thighs made her shiver. It contrasted with the hot body of Voldemort and the swirling flow of magic that twined around them. She steeled herself, taking a deep breath as she gripped Voldemort's forearms harder. He spread her legs and positioned himself at her entrance, gliding the tip of his cock across the spread of her cunt. Her body was receptive, her sex slick with arousal.

His hips moved forward. There was a blunt, insistent intrusion for the first few inches, and then his cock slid inside her in a fluid motion, her wetness easing the way for him. A low growl rumbled somewhere deep in Voldemort's chest. Harrie let out a soft moan. She was blanketed in scorching heat, inside—his heavy cock, nestled snugly in her sex, so hot—and outside—Voldemort's naked body, pressed so close, overwhelming in both breadth and power.

He had one hand splayed at her back, the other pinning her right thigh to the stone, and he was plunged to the hilt inside her. Even as she was impaled on his cock, her sex fluttered in small spasms, as if to encourage him to thrust. A tight knot pulsed somewhere deep in her cunt, needing stimulation. That close to him, she couldn't tell if it truly came from her, or if it was an echo of his desire, infecting her like some virus.

The Dark Lord.

Her own personal plague.

He rocked into her, giving a few thrusts, his cock dragging along her slick walls, providing perfect friction. Her hands moved to his shoulders—and how odd it felt to have them bare beneath her fingers, to feel every twitch of his muscles as he flexed his hips, to have concrete, definitive proof he was flesh and bone.

A particularly deep stroke wrenched a gasping mewl from her.

"Are you already making hot little noises for me, my dear? We haven't even started yet..."

What? What did he mean, they hadn't started? He was buried inside her!

She emitted an interrogative noise. Voldemort withdrew from her. He tilted her hips up, and his cockhead slipped lower, to her other orifice. Harrie tensed as the meaning of his words became suddenly much clearer. Fuck. Fuck, he wanted to—

"Wait, wait—"

"I need to claim some virginal part of you," he said, his hand stroking the inside of her thigh. "I've used your blood already... and your mouth..."

He brushed her lips with a heavy thumb, which he slipped inside, on her tongue.

"Your pretty little cunt, too..."

His eyes gleamed with a wicked flame.

"But I haven't had your lovely arse yet."

She made a stifled noise around his thumb. Her legs stayed open. She closed her eyes briefly, took a strained inhale through her nose, and when she looked at Voldemort again, it was with a resigned acceptance. It was going to happen.

His thumb slid out of her mouth, leaving a smear of dark ichor on her lips and down her jaw. It hadn't tasted like anything in particular, but her tongue was tingling, some remnant of power lingering there.

Voldemort murmured a spell. A slick, warm sensation coated her insides, and she felt a slippery liquid drip from her arse. She attempted to relax her muscles, knowing any tension would only make this more difficult. Voldemort kept stroking her thigh, in firm, soothing motions. Then he took himself in hand and adjusted his position, nestling the tip of his cock against her anus.

And he pushed forward.

The thick, blunt cockhead pressed into her opening, breaching it in a sudden burst of pressure as it conquered the resistance of her body. Harrie swallowed around a keening whine, her chest heaving. The lines painted on her skin pulsed with a beat of raw magic.

Voldemort groaned.

"Look at me."

Each word rumbled like the shifting of tectonic plates. Harrie raised her head and stared into those crimson irises. They were burning. The red bled into the whites of his eyes, and into the dark pupils as well, streaking through both like tiny lightning strikes. He was smiling, sharp as a knife, and as intimate as that same knife pressed to her throat, the edge toying with her pulse point.

His hips shifted back and forth, in slow, careful motions. He opened her up, relentlessly, stretching the rim of her hole, sliding his cock into her arse. The magic permeating the air all around them reacted, as if it had been waiting for this exact moment. It thrummed faster, growing denser, until it felt like every inhale Harrie took was supercharged with power in its purest form, coiling in her chest, burning in her lungs.

The pressure increased further between her legs as Voldemort's cock inched forward. Deeper, deeper, and he was so incredibly thick, would it even fit? She could take him in her cunt, she had, so many times, but in her arse? And yet her body was yielding. Her body was being filled, was being split open, and her body responded with pleasure.

Pleasure—sweet fire skittering along her nerve endings.

Pleasure—sinking into the tight channel that welcomed him.

Pleasure—heat advancing, skewering her, reaching so very deep.

She whined low in her throat when he gave the final push needed to seat him fully inside her. It stung, the thick, unforgiving girth of his cock stretching her rim, and she strained, her hands grasping at his shoulders, nails digging in. He sighed.

"What a good apprentice you make, Harrie. Offering your tight arse to your Master..."

The entire length of his cock was sheathed in her, a hot, throbbing presence which she felt more keenly every time she breathed. He shifted his hand to grip her hip, the other sliding up to her nape, his red eyes still smoldering into her.

Then he moved.

Out, in, one languid stroke, and she was empty then filled again. Her entire body clenched. She arched into him, her mouth opening on its own, a tiny noise slipping out. His cock felt like a spear plunged into her, bringing incredible pressure and a kind of searing ecstasy that bordered on pain.

He did it again, the same languorous thrust, and again, setting a rhythmic pace. Skin smacked against skin. His body was too close, his skin glowing, luminescent, every point of contact between them burning. It felt so different from the usual sex. It reminded her of that very first time, where she'd woken up to find him licking at her cunt—there was that same element of shocking newness, that same, the same thought of he can't be doing this, fuck...

But he was.

She was being fucked by the Dark Lord on a stone altar, both of them naked, and his stiff prick was buried in her arse.

His thrusts turned devastating. He hadn't altered his speed, yet something had changed, from her side, from his side, from somewhere she couldn't pinpoint. Her thought scattered, dissolving into primal heat. She bucked her hips and heard herself cry out. Voldemort hissed in reply, his tongue peeking out from between his lips, the scarlet of his eyes darkening with rapacious desire.

His cock moved in her with wet, filthy noises. Her body was jostled from the impact of his thrusts, from the savage smacks of his hips into hers. Little keens and whimpers spilled in a torrent from her mouth, her body a line of taut muscles, her pulse frantic at her throat. Her hands found the smooth expanse of his back, and she dragged her nails down, snarling.

He moaned.

Long and low, he moaned, and his hips stuttered as he sank into her again. Magic swirled around them in shimmering flashes, colors erupting in scintillating clashes, dark purples and reds meeting pale greens and golden yellows, until there was a maelstrom of raging energies in the glade. She kept carving up his back as he surged between her thighs, and his blood ran slick and hot under her nails—but the pain was inconsequential, nothing, nothing at all—

—nothing compared to the bliss of pushing his member into her tight channel while she trembled for him, to the ecstasy of having her yield to him, her body taking him, and he held her, his hands firm and guiding, and he watched her, her green eyes wide and glistening with unshed tears as he fucked her perfect arse.

His jewel of an Horcrux.

His feral little killer.

His Apprentice.

—it shouldn't have felt like this.

She should have been cold, shivering upon the altar, and she should have been in pain, from that rigid thickness pumping into her, but there was only heat and pleasure, the sensations overflowing. Voldemort rutted into her, and her empty cunt fluttered. Her hips were twitching forward, matching his thrusts, and every stroke sent her spiraling further, magic pulsing through every part of her.

She raked her nails down Voldemort's back again. He pushed hilt-deep into her. They groaned at the same time.

So close.

They were so close to their mutual completion.

And she could feel—

"Say it, Harrie."

—how tight she was for him—

"Say it."

—the spasm of her rim, massaging his cock—

"You need to say it for the ritual to conclude."

—his pounding thrusts, and the incandescent heat scalding every inch of her cunt—

"You know the word..."

She choked on her own groan. His cock was reaming her insides, each brutal thrust driving the air from her lungs, and she ached, and she soared, breathing in ragged gasps, her body drenched in sweat, the lines of dark paint pulsating strongly, like a second heartbeat.

There was a god between her thighs. A god of pale skin and crimson eyes, a god with blackened arms veined with gold, a god inside her, in every way.

"Go on, Harrie... "

Sinuous Parseltongue hissed from his lips. He leaned down until his forehead was touching hers. His hand slipped to the top of her mound, and a finger brushed her clit. A thousand reverberations of that single touch thrummed through her nerves, pulling a keening whine from her. She gasped his name—Voldemort—as her entire body clenched, and yet it wasn't enough, she wasn't coming, no, no, she was being kept right on that edge—all that pressure inside her, heralding something truly phenomenal, and it wasn't—wasn't reaching its apex—

"Vold—"

Her plea was cut off when his finger skimmed over her clit again. Another burst of searing bliss traveled along her nerves, without triggering the climax that awaited, burrowed deep in her bones. She trained and writhed, clawing at Voldemort's back, incoherent noises spilling from her open mouth, wanton moans, high-pitched whines and long wails.

She had never been this desperate.

Never been this full.

Never been this—

"Say it, my sweet, and I will give you what you want."

—frayed.

She had to say it.

One word, to seal the bond.

Say it.

"Call me Master," Voldemort murmured, lips sliding in a hot smear across her forehead while he thrust to the core of her.

His hands on her, his hips battering into hers, his lips on her skin, his breath on her face—and that red, red gaze that never wavered, that flayed her open and read down to her soul. Between the constant assaults of Voldemort and the rapid, demanding thrum of ancient magic all around them, inside them, she was torn, she was lost, she was taken—

—and she was his.

She let out a gasp.

A gasp, and a word, forced from the very depths of her.

"Master—"

He produced an inhuman growl, a predator's raspy noise of triumph, and with a fierce thrust he claimed the empty space inside her, carving out room for him in her trembling body. His thumb pressed down on her clit, rolling heavy circles over the little nub of flesh. And that was it. Harrie's world turned molten, the whole of her thrown into an abyss of electric bliss as the magic roared and reached a cresting peak.

She saw white flashes of light bloom across her vision, wasn't sure if it was actually happening or if it was all inside her head. Tremors wracked her from head to toes, her arse squeezing Voldemort's cock in spasms, contracting hard around him. He snarled her name. His cock released a pulse of hot wetness inside her, and another, and another, as he spilled as deep as physically possible—

—each spurt coming with wrenching pleasure, and he was filling her up, was marking his Horcrux from the inside, claiming for his own her last virgin hole—

Harrie emitted a small mewl, her hands flexing at his back, nails dug into his shoulders. They both shuddered, over and over, while he came inside her and she rode her climax, until it ended, a series of weak aftershocks following in the wake of that exhilarating high.

Gently, Voldemort removed his spent cock from her. He kept his hands on her, though the black substance coating his skin was slowly fading away, as were the golden veins. He wasn't glowing anymore.

The glade was silent. The magic had settled, and the spectacular show of colors that had exploded in fireworks across the area was over. Thousands tiny sparking points of light were left behind, like a dense cloud of fireflies floating in the air.

Voldemort exhaled, his hot breath fanning Harrie's face. He cupped her chin, tipping her head up, and she met his eyes, all too aware of his spend leaking from her at that very moment.

"My apprentice," he crooned, the words as soft as a spider's web.

"Yes," Harrie acknowledged.

Her lips were still tingling, still burning from the word she had said earlier—that loathsome, necessary word.

But here she was.

Bound to him until death by yet another thread.

Chapter Text

Morning light crept across Harrie's face. Her eyelids fluttered open, and immediately, she winced. Her body had woken up before her, and it was already sending her all kinds of uncomfortable signals. She had cramps in her arms, cramps in her thighs, cramps in places where she hadn't even been aware she could get cramps.

And between her legs... God, she was so sore.

"Good morning, little apprentice."

And Voldemort was there, and awake, because he never slept, and he never left her alone in the morning either. She had to wake up and immediately face him.

"Good morning."

He raised a brow, expectantly. She weighed the consequences of fighting him on this. Did she really want to make a stand, and then find herself face-down on the bed, full of his cock, begging for mercy? No.

"...my Lord," she said, her tongue reluctantly shaping the syllables.

The crimson gaze flickered with heat.

"Is that your choice of address for me?"

"Yes. Is that acceptable?"

"It is."

She relaxed minutely. He swept that heated gaze over her, and she felt his attention through the bond.

"You'll be needing a potion for the pain," he said. "I was very rough with you last night."

This wasn't an apology. This was Voldemort stating a fact and taking pleasure in it.

"Of course, you were also very rough with me," he added in a lower, more intimate tone.

Her hands twitched under the blanket. She recalled her nails sinking into his back, carving up his flesh. She recalled it with glee.

"I'm not sorry," she said.

"Oh, I know. Nor would I want you to be, my dear. I do so enjoy your feral side."

He shifted, showing her his back, then he tugged up his nightshirt. His back appeared, and Harrie restrained a gasp. The pale skin was marked by a multitude of red lines, half-healed but still starkly visible, painting a canvas of violence upon his flesh.

The sight stirred vindication in her, and an odd sort of pride that flickered like flames in her chest. She'd done that. She had marked him enough that he would scar.

Flesh and blood.

He was just flesh and blood.

And one day he would fall.

"You've marked me as I have marked you," he said, letting the nightshirt cover him again as he turned to face her.

He crawled closer, coming to her on all fours, predatory and sinuous. Harrie sat up higher, her heart knocking against her ribs, adrenaline crashing into her veins. Voldemort settled on top of her, sitting on her legs, leaning forward with a smile. One large hand slid through her hair, his nails scraping her scalp.

"I didn't expect it would be so satisfying," he said.

"Taking me as your apprentice?"

"The complete and utter possession of you."

Heat rose in her cheeks. He shifted closer, his hand smoothing its way down, finding her throat. His thumb stroked along her pulse, in a tender, intent motion. More heat came, cloying and sticky, like honey, pooling in her gut, dripping down her spine. Her breath hitched when the pad of one finger skimmed the edge of her mouth.

There was a fever under her skin, pressing inward, and its source was sitting right on top of her.

"I'm giving you a choice, Harrie," he said as he leaned back, grinning lazily at her.

"Such a generous Lord you are."

"If only you knew the true extent of my generosity..."

That way lay dragons.

Harrie leveled a hard stare at the demon currently smiling at her, ever so slightly. Oh yes, what a choice to make. A kiss, willingly given, or he would take it. He would take more than a kiss.

She shifted under him, propping herself up on her arms. Then it was her turn to lean forward. He was so tall, even like this. She had to anchor one hand at his nape and use it as leverage to properly reach him. Her lips made contact with his. She slanted their mouths together and flicked her tongue forward in a quick lick, before retreating swiftly.

"A kiss," she said.

His eyes were on fire. The bond had gone molten, drenching her in searing heat. She didn't squirm. She remained still, confident in her choice. A flurry of images flashed through her mind, a kaleidoscope of carnality—she was on her back, Voldemort pounding into her, her legs over his shoulders; she was on her belly, and he was fucking her into the mattress with brutal thrusts; she was on her knees before him, taking his cock in her mouth, pink lips stretched wide around his shaft. It lasted less than a second, this barrage of erotic fantasies, and then the bond quivered as Voldemort reigned himself in.

It seemed to require herculean efforts.

A tremor went through his body, and his slit-like nostrils flared as his jaw worked. He bit down on a rising growl, which came out in a strained exhale.

"An excellent choice," he said.

He cupped her chin briefly, his fingers skimming the line of her jaw. She felt the tension in his hand, and she wondered what it cost him to keep his word. A willing kiss in exchange for no morning sex. Harrie considered herself the clear victor here.

He didn't linger in bed. Quickly, he was off her and getting ready for the day. She watched him dress, like every morning. Except it wasn't.

So much had changed.

"What will the Minister for Magic be doing today?" she asked.

"Today will be meetings upon meetings." The red eyes found her, unerringly, as if called to her like a magnetized needle pointing north. "I will be thinking of you, of course." He adjusted the black tie at his throat. "Use today to rest, my dear. Reflect upon your future as my apprentice."

She remained in bed, alone, for fifteen more minutes before she finally moved. Her body protested, sending her more signals of pain. She took the potion Voldemort had left on the table for her, which acted rapidly, numbing the discomfort.

The Malfoys were mostly silent at breakfast. Lucius left early again. Harrie grabbed the newspaper, expecting the worst.

Lord Voldemort confirmed for Minister for Magic, read the headline. There was a photo of Voldemort standing behind a podium, smiling serenely—in black and white, so the chilling effect of his red eyes was lost. The article below was singing his praises, going on about his unprecedented vision for wizarding society, announcing that he would lead Britain into a new golden age.

The second page covered the upcoming trial, and listed every defendant. There were thirty-four in total. More than a good half were her classmates, the rest a mix of Hogwarts professors and Ministry officials. Their blood status was printed next to their names, as if that really could say something about a person, as if that was all that mattered.

How about you change your headline, then? Harrie thought. Lord Voldemort, halfblood, confirmed for Minister for Magic.

The third page was exclusively about her. There she was, standing next to Voldemort in the Atrium, looking angry and frankly half-feral. She hadn't realized she had glowered that much at Skeeter. The article called her 'the Dark Lord's young apprentice', talked about the full pardon Voldemort had issued her, and went over the more marking events of her life, summarizing them. It was far less incendiary than Skeeter's usual bullshit, with no stupid speculations on her romantic life, and no jabs about her fame-seeking tendencies or her potentially unstable mind. Maybe Voldemort had exerted his influence there.

Miss Potter's official announcement of apprenticeship will take place this Sunday, May the 24th, at Malfoy Manor. The lavish three-story manor has been the seat of power of the Malfoy family ever since their ancestor came to Britain nearly a thousand years ago, and...

She set the newspaper down.

After breakfast, she spent some time with Narcissa, learning more about makeup and the ways a young lady should dress. Truthfully, Harrie was only half-interested in the lessons. She enjoyed Narcissa's company, their discussions, those moments of relative tranquility. Narcissa spoke about her family history, her childhood years, her time at Hogwarts, and they traded stories.

"...the Room of Requirement, of course, yes. Lucius and I had our first date here. He had asked the room to look like the ballroom of Malfoy Manor, and we danced."

"Very romantic," Harrie commented.

Narcissa smiled, a wistful look on her face.

"I used the room to train my classmates in Defense," Harrie said. "We had such shitty teachers we had to teach ourselves."

"I had the same experience with my DADA professors. The curse the Dark Lord had cast ensured no one lasted longer than a year, and they were all rather... lacking. The teacher we got in our third year spent all his classes trying to warn us about the danger of Nargles. He'd go on passionate rants about them, and would show us his scars from his supposed battles against them. It was really ridiculous."

"Luna would have liked him."

Narcissa put the finishing touches to Harrie's hairstyle, showing her how she had done the braid this time. There were two braids, one on either side, which then met up in the middle and merged into a bun that sat on top of her head.

When Harrie put a hand on the bun to check it would hold, Narcissa placed her hand on top of hers.

"I'm very sorry for your loss," she said softly.

Harrie's throat tightened. No one had talked about the Dursleys so far. Voldemort hadn't mentioned them at all since they had left Dudley behind in the living room. As if they'd been erased from history. As if they had never mattered at all.

"Thank you."

She bit her lips, trying to find the words.

"We weren't on good terms... but they were family. Now no one will ever know what happened to them. They'll just have disappeared into thin air."

Narcissa squeezed her hand lightly.

"I did manage to save my cousin," Harrie said. "Voldemort spared him for me."

"You have a good heart, forgiving your Muggle family for what they did to you. Some would have used the opportunity to lash out. To make them pay, in blood and tears."

"I never wanted revenge. And I didn't want them dead."

"But our Lord's will is absolute," Narcissa said.

Unless I beg.

She didn't give voice to that dangerous thought.

"What is your favorite color?" Narcissa asked her as she was tidying up the vanity.

"Purple. Darker shades, when it's nearly black."

Narcissa nodded.

Harrie left the room after some more small talk. She went down a series of corridors, lost in her own thoughts.

Riddle was silent. He'd been silent since the ritual. She hadn't seen him in her dreams last night. He was still there—she could feel him, like steady warmth in her mind—but he didn't seem to be in a talkative mood. When she reached for him, questioningly, she got a vague acknowledgment in return, still in silence.

He told her he had killed Vernon, but she wasn't sure he wasn't lying. Had he truly taken control of her at the last moment? Her memory wasn't reliable. Whenever she tried to recall what had happened, she couldn't determine if she had moved her wand or not, if she had said the words or if Riddle had. It was all swamped in adrenaline, and there was no clarity to be found.

"Ah, that's much better! You look like a proper apprentice now."

"Hello, Margaret."

The old woman was alone in her portrait. She set a stern but approving look upon Harrie, her gray eyes as sharp as the rest of her.

"And how are you faring?" she asked.

"I'm officially his apprentice," Harrie said, since she'd rather focus on facts than her feelings. "We did the ritual in a stone circle on the Isle of Man."

"Bound by blood and ash. Good. Be proud."

"Of being the Dark Lord's apprentice? I had to do terrible things to get there."

Margaret nodded gravely.

"Great sacrifice that it is, you cannot deny Voldemort wields immense magical power. Ensure that your pain is rewarded. Learn as much as you can. And when the times comes, use every bit of knowledge you've gained under his tutelage."

She would. In the meantime, it didn't make the pain any lesser.

"Any more advice?"

"You're doing well. Do not overlook small victories."

Like saving Dudley. One light amid an ocean of blood. It meant something.

"Where's Arawn?" she said.

"He comes and goes. Wanderlust strikes him often, and there are entire weeks where I don't see him at all. I suspect it's the same out there. He must have left the Forbidden Forest to roam the countryside. I was told he comes to my tomb on the anniversary of my death every year."

"You mean he's still alive?"

Margaret looked amused by the question.

"Thestrals live far longer than us. Don't they teach this at Hogwarts? Who was your teacher in Care of Magical Creatures?"

"Hagrid."

"Well, that explains it," Margaret said, with vague contempt in her tone.

"He was great. I'm sure he told us about the longevity of Thestrals. I just forgot."

"Did you not take your studies seriously?"

The older witch's stern gaze now held some judgment.

"No, I did... moderately. I wasn't anything like my friend Hermione, who devoured book after book and can quote them by heart. I cared about getting good marks, but I also cared about the next Quidditch match, when I wasn't worrying about Voldemort would trying to kill me again. He tried almost every year."

"An apprenticeship is different from regular schoolwork. You might find it more suited to your style, though I have no doubt your Master will be very strict."

"He's not my—"

The reflexive protest died in her throat. She had called him Master. She had called him Master and she had come on his cock.

"I don't want him to be," she said instead.

It sounded like a childish protest. She had agreed. She had done the ritual with him. In the eyes of the world, and in the eyes of magic itself, they were bound as Master and apprentice.

"Endure," Margaret said. "Endure, and eventually, the sun will rise again."

Harrie spent the rest of the day in the manor, mostly in the library. She wasn't in any state to go flying, her body much too sore, even with the potion she'd taken. Draco was there, in his spot near the window, studying. They didn't exchange more than a couple of words. Sometimes she caught him glancing at her with a peculiar look in his eyes—something fear-adjacent, something that made her feel very far away from him.

In the evening, Voldemort gave her a choice regarding where she wanted his cock—in her cunt or in her mouth. She chose mouth, and she gave him a blowjob, kneeling at his feet while he sat on the bed. He praised her as she sucked his cock, calling her his perfect little apprentice.

"Always so devoted to pleasing your Master..."

He seemed to live in his own fantasy world, where she was doing this of her own free will, where she actually cared about him so much sucking his cock was a treat. Where she loved him? Perhaps not. He didn't think love was worth anything. He wanted her devotion and her obedience.

He wanted her soul to be his.

His greedy desire to possess her knew no bounds.

"Very good, Harrie..."

He came with a hiss of pleasure, pulsing his release on her tongue. She swallowed until he was spent, then endured his fingers threading through her hair in a mimicry of affectionate petting. When he was satisfied, he released her.

She climbed onto the bed and huddled on her side, turning her back to him.

Sleep came swiftly.

*

On Saturday, Voldemort took her to Diagon Alley.

"You need dresses, and a proper selection of clothes. My apprentice should be fashionably dressed wherever she goes."

Harrie tried to argue that she could go with Narcissa, but he wouldn't be dissuaded, so she found herself walking next to Voldemort down the familiar streets, like a very strange nightmare. People were looking at them, exchanging hushed whispers in their wake, and hurriedly getting out of their way. A few witches and wizards came up to Voldemort with enthusiastic smiles and congratulated him on his election.

"Excellent work you're doing, Minister!" said a tall wizard with a neatly trimmed beard while shaking Voldemort's hand.

"Finally someone who dares to tackle the Muggle problem!" a woman declared.

"We've been waiting a long time for someone like you," another man said.

Harrie herself was the target of many glances and outright staring. Some people also congratulated her.

"How exciting it must be for you, to be the apprentice of such a great wizard," said an old witch, whom Harrie vaguely recognized as one of the regular patrons of the Leaky Cauldron. "I can't wait to see what you become, Miss Potter."

"Thank you."

Next was a witch barely a few years older than her, and who actually seemed envious of her. Unless Harrie was mistaken, the witch flirted with Voldemort, calling him 'my Lord' in honeyed tones and smiling coyly at him—which was baffling. Harrie hadn't thought anyone but Bellatrix could be interested in Voldemort.

Power attracts, Riddle said matter-of-factly. I've always enjoyed a fair amount of female attention.

Back when you were charming, sure. But he's a half-snake monster.

You're not that vain. His appearance wouldn't matter if you cared for him.

Harrie grumbled back a non-answer. Riddle was right, of course. She only hated Voldemort's current visage because she hated him. If he'd been a friend, it wouldn't have mattered. Riddle's face was also snake-like, with far more scales, and she didn't shiver when she looked at him.

Well, she can have him, Harrie thought as the witch laughed at something Voldemort had said. He's all hers.

I'm afraid she doesn't have what it takes to capture his interest.

A piece of his own soul inside her. How narcissistic.

You're aware it's more than that now? You being his Horcrux was but the catalyst that sparked his obsession. It wouldn't fade if I were to be removed from your body.

But it's all he cares about! Harrie protested. He keeps calling me his precious Horcrux.

He's fascinated by the entirety of you. The similarities between you, and the crucial differences. Yes, there is the obvious enjoyment of your body, and the soul bond plays a role as well, but it goes beyond that. Especially now that you're his apprentice.

The thought made Harrie very ill-at-ease.

The fawning witch took her leave after one last coy look. They walked further down the street, left alone for a few moments. They were heading for Madam Malkin's, the shop nearly in sight now.

Some tortuous hours in perspective, Riddle said, clearly less than enthused by an afternoon of shopping.

You think I want to try on dresses while he spends his time ogling me? Harrie replied. I bet he never took Snape shopping for robes...

"Minister!"

A man wearing a top hat approached them with a bounce in his step. He bowed to Voldemort, barely sparing a glance at Harrie.

"I have to thank you for the necessary work you're doing... taking care of all this Mudblood filth. And labeling them as what they are, truly! Thieves, the lot of them, stealing magic from good witches and wizards!"

"Necessary work indeed," Voldemort said smoothly. "They will all be taken care of."

The man nodded eagerly.

"I have a name for you. The name of one such Mudblood... I know for a fact he stole my magic."

"He didn't steal your magic."

Harrie knew she'd spoken out of turn the second the sentence left her lips, but still she didn't regret it. The man scoffed, giving her a rather outraged look.

"Of course he did! We were neighbors as children, and we always played together. He had Muggle parents and knew nothing about magic, but when the time came, he received a Hogwarts letter, while I, born from two magical parents, got nothing! He took my magic for himself and turned me into a Squib!"

"He didn't."

She'd said it once, she could say it again. And Voldemort wasn't stopping her. His attention weighed on her, charged, but not disapproving.

"Well then how do you explain it?" the man said, face growing redder.

"He was born with magic. If you ask his parents, they'll tell you about feats of accidental magic he no doubt performed as a child."

"Of course they'll lie to cover up the crime! What do you expect, they're Muggles ."

He spat the word with a tremendous amount of hate.

"The name," he said, focusing back on Voldemort, dismissing Harrie as unimportant.

"Forward it at the Ministry to the Muggle-born Registration Commission," Voldemort said. "They will handle your thief." His hand fell on Harrie's shoulder, fingers squeezing lightly. "And do forgive my apprentice for her rash opinions. She still holds a great deal of fondness for Muggle-borns. She became friends with one at a young age, and that sort of influence tends to persist."

"At least she's easy on the eyes," the man said, with a sort of conniving smile that made Harrie shudder.

A ripple of possessive pride went through the bond. It was obvious Voldemort particularly enjoyed this. He took pleasure in displaying her like a pretty ornament, having others remark on her beauty—all but hissing she was his, really.

The man took his leave after thanking Voldemort for his time.

"You have to learn not to contradict me in public, darling," Voldemort said in Parseltongue.

"You don't really believe Muggle-borns are stealing magic."

He clicked his tongue, his hand still on her shoulder.

They had reached Madam Malkin's shop. A little bell emitted a clear chime when they entered, and Madam Malkin herself came to greet them while a shop assistant offered them refreshments. The older witch, dressed in a distinguished mauve dress with spiraling patterns, wearing a a tight-lipped smile on her face, went on and on about what an honor it was to have Lord Voldemort in her shop. Meanwhile, the young assistant who was holding a tray bearing pastries and a pot of tea looked like she was about to faint, her eyes betraying her fear.

"This is about Miss Potter, I presume," Madam Malkin said, her smile edging into warmer territory when it landed on Harrie.

"She needs everyday dresses, as well as one dress for the official announcement of her apprenticeship," Voldemort said.

"Any preferences in styles? What about colors?"

"Um," Harrie said.

"Whatever suits you, my dear," Voldemort said. "You do look particularly fetching in black and green."

Malkin directed Harrie to stand on a small stool in front of several mirrors, then she took her measurements and had her try on dresses. She was stripped to her underwear while Voldemort sat nearby and watched. No one told him he couldn't stay, or that it was inappropriate for him to see her like this. You could do whatever you wanted when you were a Dark Lord, and that included ogling your apprentice in her knickers and bra while she chose outfits.

He wasn't obvious about it. Outwardly, he even appeared bored as he nibbled on a flaky pastry, his gaze idly roaming about the shop, only stopping on her occasionally. The bond told the truth, alive with predatory lust, thrumming hotly between them.

Harrie first chose several black dresses for everyday wear. They had skirts of reasonable length, and they didn't show a lot of cleavage, so she felt relatively comfortable in them. Then she tried on an emerald green dress with an open back, while the front hugged her curves, the fabric dipping low between her breasts. It looked indecent enough to make her blush. Did people really wear these kind of things? Aunt Petunia would have been scandalized.

Aunt Petunia was dead.

Harrie inhaled sharply, suddenly struck by a wave of raw grief. It was sharper than what she'd felt when it had happened, and sharper than what she had experienced afterwards too, both muted by shock. But now shock was gone, and there remained only the excruciating reality of loss, striking by surprise.

She blinked away her nascent tears.

"What do you think of this one for the announcement?" Malkin said, smoothing out a wrinkle at the waist.

"No," Voldemort said immediately before Harrie could reply. "But we will take this one as well."

So much for the illusion that it was Harrie who was choosing the dresses.

The fitting continued, and Harrie tried on more dresses. There was a peach one, which she hated, the color all wrong on her, multiple cumbersome lacy ribbons decorating the sleeves, a yellow one with a very fluffy skirt, in which she looked ridiculous, like an overstuffed canary, a white one that frankly looked like a wedding dress, and which she was quick to get out of when the bond sparked with a sudden spike of lust, and more, until Harrie had been standing here for over an hour, going through dress after dress.

"What about this one?"

Malkin presented her with a dress that was half-green, half-white, the bodice studded with a wealth of tiny emeralds arranged in swirling patterns that looked like flames. It had long sleeves, a low neckline and a skirt boasting multiple folds falling over one another like a waterfall, each one shorter than the last.

When she put it on, the smooth, silky fabric caressed her skin. It gleamed whenever she moved, in a satiny, opalescent sheen that caught the light.

She stared at her reflection in the mirror.

She looked regal.

"That one," Voldemort said, voice layered with heavy approval, his burning gaze trailing over every inch of her. "Yes, that one will do. She will also need underwear."

Malkin directed Harrie to a more private changing room at the back of the shop, and gave her a collection of bras and knickers, telling her to call if she needed help. Then she slid the curtain shut. Harrie let out a small sigh, leaning against the wall for a moment, some tension dropping from her shoulders. The respite was more than welcome. Voldemort's presence was a tiring weight to endure, especially with the way the soul bond kept pulsing with heat.

She hadn't realized how suffocating the atmosphere had become until she'd been removed from it. Malkin had valiantly ignored Voldemort, focusing on Harrie as her sole customer, and the poor girl that must have been Malkin's assistant hadn't stopped trembling the entire time, as if she was expecting Voldemort to cast the Cruciatus on her at any moment.

At least it was almost over now.

She only had to choose her underwear, and the shopping trip from hell would come to a stop.

Trailing her fingers over the various bras, she tried to find one she could stomach wearing. They were all pretty, lacy things that would no doubt hug her breasts flatteringly. Most were black and green, while one was flesh-colored, and another one white. The knickers matched the bra selection—same colors, same spread of lace and silk, with thin straps that would cut across her hips.

Harrie chose a bra that was mainly black, with some green threaded through the cups, outlining the edges, culminating in a little satiny bow that would sit between her breasts. Could she wear this? Did she really have a choice anyway?

She was picking up the knickers that most matched the bra when the curtain was suddenly yanked back. Voldemort entered the stall as if he belonged there. She jerked back, her protest stuck in her throat. He looked down at her, a faint smirk on his lips, and drew the curtains shut behind him.

"You can't be here," Harrie whispered, her heart beating frantically in her throat. "They'll know, and then—"

Then everyone would know he was fucking her. Did he want that? But he had lied to Skeeter about it...

"I asked her where the restroom was," he said in a low murmur. "Though Malkin won't say anything. Her assistant is a Muggle-born pretending to be a halfblood, which Malkin knows, and if my secret gets out, so does hers..."

He took a step forward. The changing room now seemed so small with him in there—a malevolent, solid presence infringing on more than her personal space.

"Nevertheless, you should be quiet, Harrie."

His gaze fell to the bra and knickers she was holding.

"Excellent choice," he said, and with a snap of his fingers and a surge of magic, she was wearing that underwear, her old one nowhere to be seen.

Her back hit the wall, lungs heaving with a strained breath. The bra was silky-smooth against her skin, fitting her well, and so were the knickers, both cold enough to make her shiver—or was it him, and his mouth opening on gleaming white teeth, preparing to devour her?

To her surprise, he didn't swoop down on her.

Didn't crush her lips with his, didn't pin her to the wall and ravage her.

No, he knelt.

In one fluid, graceful movement, he was on her knees before her, his dark robes pooling like midnight ink around him. He reached out, setting a hand on Harrie's leg, midway between her ankle and her knees, well below the hem of her dress, which stopped short above her knees. Slowly, he slid his hand up, caressing her as it went, his palm smoothing its way up, past her knee, and then under her dress, and—

"What—what are you—oh—"

Oh, because he had lifted her dress enough that he could see her knickers, and she understood then what he was planning to do, and this felt different. This felt utterly wrong, sacrilegious even, to be doing this here, in a public place, far removed from the privacy of his bedroom or the sanctum of the meeting room. There were people around—people who could hear, people who would know Voldemort was touching her—that they were—

"Voldemort," she breathed, a sort of oozing dread half-choking her.

He pressed a hot kiss to her inner thigh. The muscles there twitched, and a pang of heat reverberated through her flesh. Harrie tensed, biting down on her lips when his mouth slid higher, smearing a wet trail on her skin. He reached the seam of her knickers, and his tongue traced an upward path on the fabric, pressing down, as his red eyes were set on her face, watching her with ravenous attention.

More heat swelled beneath her skin.

The mouth of the monster latched on her clothed cunt. His tongue swiped forward in a knee-shaking move. Harrie let out a huff through her nose, every nerve alight. Teeth snagged on the smooth fabric. Ever so slowly, Voldemort dragged the knickers down with his teeth, peeling her bare. He stopped when the underwear was halfway down her thighs, and then came back to feast on her cunt.

His tongue dipped between her folds, as agile as any serpent's. It slithered and glided, exploring her lasciviously, alternating between slow, languid licks and quick little flickers that pulsed against her sex. Her hands scrabbled at the wall, seeking something to hold on to, finding nothing. Her sweaty palms slipped against varnished wood, her nails catching on the surface when she flexed her fingers.

Tension gathered in her muscles as Voldemort kept lapping at her cunt.

His grin grew while he licked and licked, igniting her from below, his slick tongue playing on her trembling flesh like she was a musical instrument and he was the uncontested master of it, able to draw the most beautiful sounds from her.

The first whimper broke from her lips despite her resolve. It joined the wet sounds of his mouth on her, adding to the lewd, illicit symphony of her debasement. Next came a stifled moan, forced from her by a wide lick of his slick tongue, and then a ragged gasp as his lips closed around her clit, cradling the little nub in a hot, wet embrace. Pleasure radiated in her belly, growing fiercer by the second.

Everyone would hear—everyone— fuck —

She bit into her clenched fist, a tremor going through her body, her chest heaving. His mouth was relentless. It prickled and caressed, gliding on her sex, laving at every part, from her clit to her entrance. Flames licked at her nerves, until the air in the stall felt suffocatingly hot, and when strong hands pinned her thighs down, pushing them flush against the wall, she realized she'd been squirming.

"Shhh," Voldemort crooned, his mouth glistening from her fluids as he grinned at her. "Be very quiet, dear..."

He dragged his mouth over her cunt again, up and down, the tip of his tongue trailing molten pinpricks on her flesh. She buried another whine into her fist, torn between the rational, logical desire to flee and the purely animal instinct that urged her to buck up against Voldemort's mouth. He shifted even closer, the pressure of his mouth increasing.

Then he growled.

He growled right against her slick sex, and the vibrations traveled up, like a discharge of electricity into that soft, sensitive part of her, and Harrie mewled, her heart a frantic thrum in her throat, her legs threatening to buckle. Voldemort hissed something—something that sounded like praise, or perhaps gloating, she didn't know—she couldn't focus—couldn't help making noises, and if someone was outside the changing room right now, they'd know exactly what was going on inside.

They'd know Voldemort was eating her out with that demonic mouth of his.

He focused on her clit again. Harrie huffed, unbearable pressure coiling in her abdomen. When she felt the graze of his teeth against her swollen clit, she jerked and slapped a hand down against the wall, the sudden impact making her palm tingle. Her head tipped back, her teeth sinking into the meat of her thumb as she moaned lowly, pierced to her core by a spear of hot pleasure.

His tongue slid down, swirled around her entrance, and dipped in. It stabbed into her cunt, again, and then again, and he was fucking her with it, pushing the slick muscle into her, his hands gripping her thighs firmly. Her body was reacting more than favorably, and she knew she was dripping liquid desire for him as she panted, aching from it all, the walls of her cunt fluttering around that intruding tongue.

A fingertip joined in, a feathering contact circling her quivering entrance. Her muscles seized when it pushed inside, not much at all, simply enough for her to feel it. She glanced down and met avid red eyes, alight with volcanic heat. Something pulsed in the depths of her cunt, something demanding and needy and so very wrong. A clear whimper broke from her lips.

Voldemort's smile was a bestial maw as his finger pushed further in. He toyed with that sensitive spot just past her entrance, rubbing it firmly, scraping his nail against the patch of flesh, and she heard a hiss slip past her lips, her own tongue flicking out, licking her lips. Sweltering heat surrounded her, inching deeper inside her with every rub of that finger, until it broke over her, in a series of waves that had her convulsing.

She tried to be quiet. She really did.

Tiny mewls cascaded from her open mouth, crashing against her trembling hand, bouncing off the walls, echoing in her ears like the most damning confession.

What was she saying?

This is so good.

Or...

My body has no secrets for you.

Or...

I'll come for you no matter what else you do to me.

All of this, really.

He licked her through the spasms—licked her until the overstimulation made her squirm and thrash, another broken groan leaving her. She gasped his name again, pleadingly. Only then did he finally relent.

He removed his mouth from her and palmed her thighs gently, smoothing his hands down her legs, letting her dress fall back in place. Then he straightened up to his full height, smiling, his mouth and chin smeared with her slick arousal.

"Quiet," he murmured, brushing her lips with his, his tongue flicking forward.

Harrie's raspy little inhale sounded like a whimper. Voldemort grabbed her by the hips and maneuvered her to the middle of the stall, in front of the mirror. Her cheeks were flushed red, and she looked debauched already. He dwarfed her from behind, a full head taller than her, and the contrast between their sizes struck Harrie with sudden force. If he wanted, he could have engulfed her whole in his robes, making her disappear entirely.

She met his eyes in the mirror. They gleamed with the same torrential lust that inundated their bond at the moment. He hadn't had enough. Oh no, not nearly enough.

He grasped the hem of her dress, rucking it up, his fingers skimming her thighs in the process. A spell ensured it stayed the fabric stayed out of the way, leaving her lower half uncovered. He tugged down her knickers next, then there was the jingle of his belt buckle as he freed himself. His hips thrust forward, and he slid his length along her slit from behind, coating his cock in her arousal.

Entranced, she watched as he rubbed himself against her, back and forth, without entering her. He stroked her sex with his, his erect cock an iron line that burned against her slick flesh, each measured thrust accompanied by wet sounds. His cockhead bumped into her clit repeatedly, sparking shards of nascent pleasure, and Harrie held still, her breathing labored, her thighs quivering.

"Is there something you want, Harrie?" the monster breathed in the shell of her ear, his tongue swiping there, wetly.

She shook her head. He wrapped an arm around her torso, pinning her in place against him, thrust again, and this time, the crown of his cock prodded at her opening, briefly catching on it. Another slow motion, his hips pushing a bit more. The tip of his member entered her, then immediately withdrew, offering the barest stimulation.

He kissed the base of her throat, red eyes watching in the mirror, and he kept teasing her like this, sliding the head of his cock into her, just one inch of it, in and out. Her nerves ending crackled with unrealized potential, her sex spasming every time, needing to be filled. They were pressed tightly together, his chest molded to her back, his breath puffing at her throat, tongue swiping there in wet passes, a glide and then a scrape, the edge of his teeth skimming her pulse point, again and again.

His cock throbbed between her thighs, a constant teasing presence, and she was leaking arousal all over it, her body wanting him home—no, not home, not in her, she didn't—where he belonged, lodged deep in her pretty little cunt.

"Nnnn-naah," she protested, but her thighs only shook further, need snaking deeper into the pit of her belly.

The vibrations of his deep chuckle spread through her throat.

"We are not getting out of here until you tell me what you want, Harrie. Until you admit..." An undulating motion of his pelvis wrenched a moan from her. "...the one thing you're desperate for. I'll gladly give it to you, but you need to say it."

She tasted blood on her tongue. She'd torn her lower lip open, blood welling in a bright burst of crimson—a sharp contrast to the green of her dress, the green of her eyes—a perfect complement to Voldemort's red gaze, his irises as vivid as freshly-spilled blood.

"Say it," he crooned lowly, teeth scraping against her tender skin again.

Always demanding things of her. Always wanting more. Always reaching for pieces of herself, seeking to steal her bit by bit, until he was cradling the whole of her into his long-fingered hands.

She knew he'd keep her there until she gave in.

He'd torment her for hours, and he wouldn't care that people would notice, and wouldn't care that Harrie already wanted to pluck his eyes out. He would have his way.

So she gave in. She gave in, and she said it.

"Your cock."

"Oh my darling, of course you can have my cock..."

On his next push, he sank the head of his member inside her, and then gave her more.

"Watch. Watch how I fill you."

She watched. Watched the thick shaft disappear inside her, inch by inch, opening her up, answering the needy ache burning in her cunt. Watched how she took all of him, right to the base of his cock, until he was fully seated in her channel, the lips of her sex snugly hugging him. And from this vantage point, right in front of a mirror, she could also see how her belly bulged from the girth of him.

He was so big, and she was too small for him, and it showed.

"You take me so well," he hissed, shifting minutely, grinding his cock in her.

She grabbed his arm, both hands clutching at him, seeking an anchor. A small whimper built in her chest, and came out in a thin stream of air—a hiss that echoed his own. He pulled back until there remained only the tip of him in her, then pushed forward, sinking in her cunt with a groan. He repeated the action, faster, building to a steady pace.

The space filled with noises, wet and obscene, and Harrie contributed to it, in messy, garbled moans as Voldemort's cock carved its way inside her. With each full penetration came an electrified surge of heat, swelling from her belly, shooting along her nerves, radiating to the rest of her body. Her cunt rhythmically clenched around him, and she kept watching it all in the mirror, eyes glued to the spot where they were joined, kept watching his large cock pumping in her, the way the shaft glistened with her arousal, the flex of his hips and the slight bulge in her belly every time he bottomed out.

Her orgasm blindsided her.

It came with no warning at all, devastating her between one thrust and the next, right as his cockhead brushed over her most sensitive spot on entry. She gushed on his cock, her back bowing, a single little mouse squeak passing her lips. He pushed deep, and stayed inside her, enjoying the spasms of her sex around him, the way she gripped him so deliciously, massaging every inch of his shaft.

Then, as she was coming down from her peak, he slapped a large hand over her mouth, and he moved, setting a hard, brutal pace.

He fucked her in vicious snaps of hips, his cock cleaving through her drenched cunt, the smacks of skin on skin so loud they'd definitely be audible to the people in the shop, and so obscene Harrie immediately turned beet red. Her moans were muffled by his hand as his hips pistoned, battering her rump with no mercy.

He rutted into her, his hot breath washing over her cheek, his eyes two crimson drops of blood as they raked over her trembling form in the mirror. He looked at everything—her shaking thighs, clamped fruitlessly closed, her heaving breasts, clad in silk and lace, her face, flushed red from his rough treatment, and most of all he looked at her cunt, her cunt that was taking every inch of him, soaked after her orgasm, every pump inside coating his cock with her slick arousal.

"So good for me..."

He dragged his lips over the column of her throat, smirking against her skin, his hot tongue swiping at her pulse point. The impact of his thrusts reverberated through her entire body, any mewl he forced out of her stifled by his palm, while she teetered on the tip of her toes, her attempt to escape him thwarted by the vice-like grip of his arms.

His controlled pace began to stutter.

"Ah, Harrie—"

He pressed a hand to her bare abdomen, feeling himself there, and with one last thrust, he buried his cock to the root and came with a low growl. It was a sound of such carnality a shudder wracked through Harrie in answer, her sex clamping down around him. She felt him pulse heavily in her. She saw it, too, the physical throb of him as he spilled deep—obscene, so obscene.

She rocked back on the balls of her feet, a tiny whimper escaping her lips when the movement seemed to drive his cockhead deeper inside her. Voldemort hissed, and his nails scraped at her belly. He ground his hips into her backside, the motion forcing tendrils of a slow-glowing pleasure up her nerves, making her squirm.

"What a little temptress you are," he said as his tongue flicked out to lick at her skin. "Leading your Master to ravish you in a changing room..."

When he pulled out, his seed leaked from her, staining the insides of her thighs. He cast a cleaning spell, tugged her knickers up, then allowed her dress to fall back in place.

"Keep this one on. Keep it all on. We're buying everything."

Her only answer was a quiet wheeze. He released her, and she swayed, feeling strangely weightless. The rush of endorphins from the orgasm had her head swimming and her legs too weak.

"Ah, was I too rough?" Voldemort said, tipping a finger under her chin. "Do you need me to carry you?"

"No."

She walked out on her own two legs, refusing the arm Voldemort offered her as support. Madam Makin made no comment when they came back together. Harrie avoided her eyes, staring at the floor, knowing her face was still flushed red—her cunt still tender from Voldemort's rough thrusts at the end.

Malkin discussed the dresses they were buying with Voldemort, while the shop assistant offered them refreshments again.

And they knew.

They knew what had happened back there.

They knew Voldemort had fucked her.

Raped you, Riddle said. It's out of your control. Shame has no place here.

But they know.

They know nothing. They will project onto you whatever best suits their small little minds. They are beneath you. Remember that.

Harrie lifted her gaze. Her eyes met the shop assistant's, who quickly looked away, but not before Harrie could read absolute terror in there. Did she think Harrie was spreading her legs willingly for the Dark Lord?

You'll establish the truth later. When this is over, everyone will know what really happened.

That's easy for you to say. You're not the one people will look at and judge. No one even knows you exist.

Voldemort paid for the clothes. The price was an exorbitant one, more than a thousand Galleons. For dresses? Harrie would never have paid that much if she'd been shopping on her own. She had the money, but spending over a thousand Galleons at once felt wrong, somehow. She wouldn't have hesitated if it had been for a friend, but for herself? No. She would have bought one dress, and that would have been enough.

"Do you think that's too much?" Voldemort said as Madam Malkin was putting everything into a very pretty bag with ornate handles.

"Yes."

"You deserve to be spoiled, Harrie. You've never been spoiled one day in your life, and that will change."

Spoiled, like a favorite pet—and then expected to perform like one, too, while being called a good girl.

"That's very generous, my Lord," she said almost absently.

"Indeed, very generous," Malkin echoed. "And that dress suits you so well, Miss Potter! The green goes wonderfully well with your eyes."

Harrie made a vague noise of acknowledgment.

They finally left the shop, Voldemort carrying the bag. In other circumstances, Harrie would have been amused by the sight of the Dark Lord holding a pink, frilly bag, but she couldn't stop thinking of what had happened in the changing room. She had thought—wrongly—that he wouldn't be so brazen as to fuck her nearly in public. Now she knew better.

She knew Voldemort had very few limits when it came to her.

"Are you... are you Harrie Potter?"

The question came from a little girl who couldn't be older than six. She wore a blue dress, had blue ribbons in her blond, curly hair, and looked up at Harrie timidly while she clutched a doll to her chest.

"That's me," Harrie said, stopping to smile at the child.

"Mummy, it's Harrie Potter!"

The woman next to the child had been talking to someone else and wasn't paying attention. She turned, said, "Don't point at people, you know it's rude," and then had a mild heart attack at the sight of Lord Voldemort. She nearly recoiled, caught herself, and forced a smile to her lips.

"Mi-Minister," she stammered.

Half a second later, she noticed the pink bag Voldemort was holding, and her face went on a journey of confusion.

"You look like a princess!" the little girl said to Harrie with visible excitement.

"Yes, doesn't she look ravishing?" Voldemort said pleasantly.

The woman made a noise of assent, her gaze navigating from the Dark Lord to Harrie as she dropped a protective hand on her daughter's shoulder.

"Look, look!" the girl said. "I made a doll of you!"

She showed Harrie her doll, which looked like a crude approximation of Harrie, with wild, not-quite dark hair, a smiling face, and a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt drawn on its forehead.

"That is very cool," Harrie said, smiling. "She looks great."

The girl giggled. She blinked up at Voldemort, her mouth opening in surprise. Then her gaze switched back to Harrie, who was trying very hard to pretend everything was normal. It was fine. She absolutely wanted to be there with Voldemort. She didn't mind the way he crowded her, standing so close, oh no.

"Are you married?" the little girl asked.

Harrie stifled her noise of surprise, pretending she was clearing her throat instead, while Voldemort let out a soft chuckle.

"No, we're not married," he said.

He knelt in front of the child, a smile spreading on his serpentine face. The mother stiffened but said nothing.

"I did not expect to find such a young fan of Harrie," Voldemort said. "How admirable."

"I wanna be a Seeker like her!" the girl volunteered brightly.

She didn't seem afraid of Voldemort at all. Harrie would have imagined he'd terrify children, with his monstrous face and his red eyes, but instead of being repulsed or terrified, the girl appeared merely curious, staring at the Dark Lord.

Voldemort held out a large, pale hand.

"May I see your doll?"

The girl handed him the doll. He held it with care, fingers half-closed around it. A small Harrie Potter puppet, entirely at his mercy—and then the doll changed. The hair darkened to match her exact hair color, the ends coiling into untameable curls, while the face sharpened into a miniature version of hers, every detail replicated to perfection, down to every single freckle.

The girl gasped in delight.

"Mummy, look! It's so much better now!"

"Yes, darling," the mother said, failing at masking how uncomfortable she was in the presence of Voldemort. "What do we say when people do nice things for us?"

"Thank you, Mister!"

Voldemort reached out—Harrie tensed—and he ruffled the girl's hair, in a harmless, nearly affectionate gesture. As he straightened up, the woman apologized for wasting his time.

"...I'm sorry, my daughter is just so enthusiastic about Miss Potter..."

"It's quite alright. I am myself very fond of my apprentice."

He said it in the most innocent manner possible, as if his cock hadn't been buried in her cunt ten minutes ago. The woman gave a strained smile and called Harrie a talented young witch.

"Bye, Harrie!" the little girl chirped, prompted by her mother. "Bye Mister!"

"I thought you hated children," Harrie observed as they resumed their walk down the avenue.

He hadn't behaved at all like she'd have expected. Instead of being cold and dismissive, he had done something good for the little girl. Something seemingly selfless.

"Of course not. I aimed to teach at Hogwarts in the first place, if you'll recall. Children are the future."

He cast a glance her way, an easy smile floating on his lips.

"What about you, dearest? How do you feel about children?"

Her throat closed up. Something tight and painful swelled in her chest, every heartbeat reverberating dread through her veins.

"Do you imagine yourself having a big family?" Voldemort said, still in such a pleasant tone, as if their conversation was a casual one.

"I'm too young for that."

"Surely you've pictured your future. How many children were there?"

His hand found the small of her back. The throng of people had grown around them, but they still could advance without issue.

"Tell me your dreams, apprentice. I will make them all come true."

His thumb stroked her back, such a intimate gesture in full view of all the passersby.

"Or shall I guess? Hmm... three children. You don't care if they're boys or girls. Three children, all healthy, all loving their mummy. As for the father... you want someone you can rely on. Someone with a kind smile and a warm soul. Someone who makes you laugh. Someone who can match your power..."

"No."

"No?"

"To that last one. It doesn't matter to me if the man I love is magically powerful or not. He could even be a Muggle."

She felt his hand twitch at her back.

"No Muggle could ever be worthy of you," he said tightly, while glacial cold spread through the bond.

"I should be the one to decide who is worthy of me. And any man I'll love will be."

Carrying this type of conversation in public was dangerous, but she figured he was the one who had broached the subject, so he deserved to hear what she had to say.

"And again you brandish love as if it is the answer to everything," he remarked. "Grievous mistake, apprentice."

They had reached the Apparition point. A family of four had just used it to appear into Diagon Alley. The parents saw Voldemort and quickly moved out of the way, ushering their two children with them.

Voldemort wrapped an arm around her, tugging her closer against him.

"Love won't save you," he whispered in her ear.

His magic enveloped her, a cloak of midnight velvet, smooth and dark.

Harrie let herself be borne away.

Chapter Text

Purple flowers.

They bloomed in thick clusters, throwing splashes of color along the walls, threading their glossy petals up the supporting beams and to the ceiling, where they spread like an inverse garden, hanging upside down, swelling with glittering magic.

The ballroom stretched on and on, all marble and silver, ripe with ornate carvings, ostentatious mirrors, and crystal chandeliers. Light glinted around the space, ricocheting off the smooth surfaces, until the entire room shone like a jewel underwater on a very sunny day. Everything sparkled and gleamed and shimmered, a display of pure-blood wealth if Harrie had ever seen one.

And now, vivid purple spread among the silver and white, adding a touch of wildness.

Harrie stepped closer to the wall and reached a hand out. She brushed a delicate green stem with a finger, trailing up to the petals. There were five of them, flat and vaguely triangularly shaped, and they felt silky smooth under her probing digit.

"What are those?" she asked

Narcissa turned her head in her direction.

"Browallia. They're also called Amethyst flowers. This particular variety is the fruit of the experimentations of a well-known wizard botanist. They're sturdier than regular Browallia, and the flowers exhibit a darker coloration."

"Purple."

"Your favorite color," Narcissa said, with a small smile. "Our Lord requested that I add a touch that you would enjoy to the room. Does that satisfy you?"

"Yes, very much."

With a flick of her wand, Narcissa sent another cluster of flowers soaring up. Harrie watched it fly, then settle near a large ceiling beam, the green stems curling around the wood in a close embrace while the flowers themselves opened wide.

"What else did Voldemort ask for?"

"Simply this." Narcissa hesitated before adding, "He said he wanted to see you smile."

Oh, really. Well, he just had to die, then. She'd smile so wide.

From the other side of the room, Wimsy asked Narcissa a question regarding the layout of the tables. The house elf was busy arranging the furniture and tending to the decor, her big ears flopping back and forth as she moved around the room. Another image inserted itself in Harrie's brain, striking her suddenly—the face of a different elf, an elf who was falling to the ground, his ears grotesquely splayed out, lifeless, lifeless—

The world receded in shades of gray, bile burning in her throat.

She fled.

Her feet led her away, out of the ballroom and down the corridor, and she didn't stop, faster, faster, her eyes half-shut, her heart hammering in her chest, and someone was saying something but she couldn't hear it, the words brushing over her without reaching her, and—

She collided with someone.

"Merlin! Watch where you're—are you alright?"

She blinked at Draco. His pale face hovered close to hers, his lips set in a worried tilt. His hands were on her shoulders.

"I don't think you should be touching me," she said, slowly.

He took his hands off her.

"Do you need to sit down?"

She struggled to make sense of the words. No—no, she didn't need to sit down. She was fine. Perfectly fine. Why was she trembling?

"You need to sit down," Draco said, in some sort of soft, strange voice. "Come on."

He headed down the hallway. She followed, without thought, one step after another. The drawing room was silent. Draco led her to a chair, ornate and plush, a chair that belonged there, in a pure-blood manor, and Harrie sat, because that was what you did with chairs. You sat on them. That made sense.

That made much more sense than killing one's own family.

You didn't.

"Shut up," she said, and only realized she'd spoken out loud when Draco gave her a confused look.

"I didn't say anything."

"You were about to. I don't need—" She shook her head. "I'm fine."

There was a lengthy silence.

"I'll make tea," Draco said, abruptly.

"What?"

"You'll feel better with some tea."

"No," she said, struggling to make sense of the situation. "You can't bother Wimsy, she's... she's helping your mother set everything up."

His face twitched, his eyes widening slightly before his features settled into a pinched expression.

"You think I can't make tea by myself? Merlin, Potter, who do you take me for? That's almost enough of an insult for me to duel you over it."

She stared at him.

"That was a joke," he said flatly. He pointed a finger at her. "Stay seated. I'll be right back."

He left the room. Harrie remained in the chair, wondering what was happening. She scratched idly at the lush upholstery of the armrests, her nails drawing clean lines in the red velvet. Scratch, scratch, scratch. The repetitive motion made her feel a tiny bit better.

Minutes elapsed as the grandfather clock in the corner ticked away the seconds.

Harrie raised her head at the sound of approaching footsteps. It wasn't Draco, but Lucius who entered the room. He paused when he saw her.

"Miss Potter."

"Draco is fetching me tea," she told him.

It sounded absurd. Yet Lucius merely nodded, accepting this new reality where his son made tea for the Girl-Who-Lived. He approached the hearth, and, with a flick of his wrist, made the fire burst into life, reviving the dying embers. A wave of warmth reached Harrie, licking at her limbs, lapping at her face. She realized she was still trembling.

A clink of porcelain announced Draco's return. He placed the tea set on the table and poured her a generous cup. There were butter biscuits and some jam, the apricot one she liked so much. She took the offered cup and cradled it in her hands. More warmth.

Draco pulled up a chair and sat facing her. He watched her, his face rippling with an emotion that left her perplexed. Was it worry?

"You should drink while it's hot," he said.

She gripped the cup tighter. She gripped it until her knuckles turned white, until her hand hurt, until the heat of the liquid was seared into her palm, and the pretty floral pattern of the porcelain ought to have been imprinted upon her flesh, scorched there permanently.

She didn't drink.

Silence stretched, awkward, heavy with things unsaid.

I killed my family.