Three Good Choices, Instead of Seven

by DoctorD

Ron is gone, leaving Hermione, Harry, and The Locket behind. Ancient magic, stress, and delirium doesn't help when it comes to discovering a successful way to destroy it, especially with Hermione shouldering the burden of the Locket's call. But, perhaps it does help when it comes to filtering through all their choices to end the war. Especially the dark ones. Dark AU.

An experiment.

I wanted to do some test practice in manipulation of lore and world while adding a… sensual flare and the usual amount of darkness. Think of it as practice for certain concepts that might or might not make a return in other works.

This is a patchwork piece of fiction. Warning: dark AU, smutty, multipartner.

If you enjoy this work please consider supporting my writing, more details are on my profile dashboard.

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She can't escape. Not when she's awake and certainly not when she's dreaming. It's an all-consuming sense of corruption, of sweet incoherent whispers and near suffocating pressure, heat, and darkness. It exhausts her, steers her mind - once so sharp and logical - in spiraling directions. She cannot think past the twisting sensation in her belly. Past the heavy hum that fills her limbs with warmth and inconveniently sends her heart to thumping, heavy and strong, against her rib cage. It's those whispers that claim this is how it feels to be alive, that tempt her to using her magic without viable reason and pushing her body to its limits doing such little things. One spell here. Another there. Anything to ease the pressure in her body. To shake off the tongues of flame that lick right below her belly and tease her thoughts to distraction.

Which is why she can't hear The Boy, or rather, can't comprehend him as much as she used to. Her head is full, too full, of whispers and fog and exhaustion and her body is sore and achy in ways beyond just pain and exertion.

She took a shuddering breath and tried to control the sudden thud thud thud of her heart. She can't control it, when the magic within her surges, when the thing against her chest sends those tendrils of magic across her mentality and body. Invading her. Changing her.

She swallowed harshly, "Come again?"

Her tone is breathy, her legs tighten, and her thighs press together when the hissing starts up in her consciousness again.

"I said…" The Boy hesitated and settled beside her on their shared stump of rotting wood. His lips moved without sound for a bit and her gaze is drawn to them before they are pulled back toward his face. He frowned, noticing her distraction for once. "Do you need me to…?"

Fear. It flickered in his gaze and Hermione swore she could taste it, smell it, feel it brush against her skin. She wants to… she wants to…

"No. We need you at one hundred percent. It doesn't bother me."

It does. It does. Constantly. Sweetly. It's haunting her.

He sighed with relief, an action he tried to hide from her. But he couldn't. Coward, she thinks, I'm suffering for you.

She sighed too, unaware that her hand had reached up to brush sweat slick curls from her flushed face before her fingertips, so sensitive, slip toward the locket about her neck - which feels so warm, as warm as she does, and… and it's pulsing, as strongly as her entire being is.

"We can't wait for him. We should move again." He licked his lips, nervous and grieving.

She'd stopped grieving over Ron days ago. When The Boy had handed her the locket and she had taken it, worn it, hadn't yet taken it off. It was so heavy, so…

She nodded, her tone wistful, "Yes. You're right."

"One more night then, we should sleep."

She was unable to hide her grimace. Sleep? It was always so much worse when she slept. When she… dreamed but couldn't remember.

"Let's."

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Her heart is thumping, hammering against her chest. Terror swept over her, infused her, heightening her senses and filling her with more than just the whispers. But they are there. Loud against the backdrop of her dream, or lack of it. There are flickering visions, slices of moments - not her own, and yet they are - of persons conquered and broken. She isn't sure where the fear is coming from, her mind is too sluggish, burdened under the blanket of her exhaustion and the lure of sleep, and she cannot fight it's pull. The Locket's. And it does pull. It tugs on her very essence, sufficing her belly with panic and heat, spreading that need throughout the rest of her body, dark and sharp, until her center awakens, twitching at first with involuntary spasms and slickness. Then it throbs, angrily, ravenously. Needing something. Something more than the twisted visions of screaming persons in her foggy mentality or the phantom sensation of using magic that suffuses her limbs and makes her writhe. Yes, in her dream she always feels like she's using magic. Powerful. Potent. Raw. Dark. It's dizzying, this release. Her body is being used, drained by the Locket. Punished in her dreams. She's overflowing with it, with urge, need, and lust for dream-obedience.

It whispers which spell she should use on which vision-fleshed victim and she does it. The relief of doing the spell, the power that writhes around her - spilled from her wand hand - grips her throat and squeezes, cutting off her breathy sounds of submission. She's learning, being taught unfamiliar wand motions as a dream-thrall while she sinks deeper into the addiction of using darker magics without caution or control.

It felt so lovely to use that magic. So stimulating. As if every portion of her body had been starving and now ached for something more.

Yes, yes she ached, terribly. With flushed and sweat drenched body, with tight and swollen clit. While something within her, some core where magic and might often manifested, felt sore from corrupt stimulation. Changed.

The fear returned while the vision changed, while the lust continued to crawl over her, while she arched her back and barely felt the rough rocks of wilderness beneath her. She couldn't wake, but she knew The Boy wouldn't stir while the Locket teased her, ravished her with its intention and appetite.

Eventually dawn would come. Eventually consciousness would return and she'd be left feeling raw, her center still pulsing, her nipples sensitive and achy. And she'd drunkenly grip the Locket about her neck and instinctively contemplate tossing it aside. But… but…

She'd spend the time The Boy remained unconscious trying to remember the spells she'd used in her dreams instead, while trying to ignore the exquisite pain of need that blossomed beneath her legs and throbbing of the Locket against her heaving chest.

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"Do you think it feeds off magic?"

Hermione swallowed. She knew that it must. That it took from her constantly. Her energy. Her sanity. Her will.

She ignored the hissing whispers in the back of her mind and cleared her throat, "Do you think it's sentient enough? Like the…"

"Like the diary, yes."

She opened her mouth then, her throat tight, her heart hammering. So afraid, so afraid of it, even as it hung around her neck, hot and alive. She wanted to tell him about the dreams, about the visions of panic and rich agony that always translated into a low hum of hunger beneath her skin come dawn. She wanted to ask him if he… if he thought she was hurting people in fantasy, while her vision-flesh burned and grew slick, or if she might have been walking around beyond their tent and…

And what if that were the case, what if she was possessed?

She snapped her mouth shut and made a thoughtful sound instead, "I'm not certain."

He looked at her, dependent, hopeful. He reached across the space between them and she pretended his hand wasn't shaking and that their bodies weren't pounding with the pain of trekking across foreign uneven terrain. Not that she could feel it. It mixed in with the general soreness of the rest of her body, her drained body.

"We should make camp soon," she whispered, dreamy and dazed, "I need to... sleep."

He didn't object to that.

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There was no time, no privacy, to relieve the painful ache between her legs. Though, she was too naive, too clumsy with her fingers, to even consider that being an option. Instead she turned to books, balanced those few texts she'd managed to snatch before their departure upon trembling legs and tried to breath past the curling tongues of warmth that built in her belly. It was so much stronger now, like something had burrowed within her and made itself home. This flesh-lust was constant, it didn't ease and the longer she wore the hungry Locket the stronger she felt it swell within her, wave after wave, always gentle and teasing come dawn and then firm and unrelenting as the sun set.

What did it want, what did the Locket wish for her to do…?

Not that she'd do it. Not even for the false relief it made her feel in her dreamscape. But… but she was curious as to its behavior and still retained enough of herself to question what was happening to her body. So, she tried to research during the day, when her mentality wasn't weighed down by the heavy pressuring blanket of desire and the conditioning need to sleep. She really wasn't sure how much longer she could handle that though and… and maybe The Boy could wear the Locket just one night so that she could recover?

She whimpered then, clenched her thighs as a gentle caressing wave of its magic swept through her, so seductive and exciting and… It nearly strangled her, as her body grew tense and her lips parted in a soft sound of surrender.

The surge of it suffocated her, surprised her, and the book slipped off her lap as she clutched the sides of the transfigured stool she sat on and tried not to beg for more of that magic to fill her and strengthen the pulsing at her center and the throb that picked up, heavy like her heartbeat, in her clit. She lost all comprehension of her situation. For that brief moment all that existed was herself, her flesh, her magic - which sluggishly came to the surface of her flushed skin with a sense of liquid flames - and the heavy teasing hum of the Locket.

Powerwhispered of displeasure and she gasped and swayed to the beat of it while trying to maintain control and ignore the tightening of her traitorous nipples.

Yet it didn't hold her captive for long. It eased, just barely, and she felt her magic and that of the Locket go dormant, slumbering until it could no doubt be used tonight, but it still left her slick and wanting.

Well, perhaps she wouldn't allow The Boy to wear the Locket. It was already so distracting for her and she really needed him to focus.

A good excuse, she suspected, while she stroked the edge of the Locket and felt the tingling influence of its power sing happily against her mentality.

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This dream was… different. She felt strange. Off balance. Trapped within her flesh and yet…

"My Lord," A voice said, garbled and warped, but she understood it well enough.

What she didn't understand was the clarity of the vision, why she was surrounded by several darker figures - nearly literal blurs - in the center of what looked like a circle of shifting greys, blacks, and-

Steam. Heat. It licked across her naked flesh - rich and golden brown - as it shifted in forms of heavy clouds, barely hiding the lines and twisting rivulets around her bound ankles and the space that pulsed in ribbons about her, veins within the earth that felt solid and warm at her feet. She took a shaky breath and prepared to move back, but something held her. Someone. With her arms high above her head and her delicate wrists clasped in one hand. She was exposed here, captured, with all her deep scars and war-flesh on display.

She shivered, though not unpleasantly.

She wanted to speak, in fact tried to speak, but another hand - dainty, feminine, was it? - reached around and grabbed her throat. Firmly, just enough…

Fear licked beneath her skin, and the blobs around her laughed – dark eager rumbles that pulled at her enflamed flesh and roused passion between her legs. Could they sense it? These fiendish manifestations of delirium, of the Locket, which rested between her naked breasts, unassuming and yet still so controlling.

"She's awake," another voice, snide and confident, but still garbled. Irrelevant. Maybe that blob was part of the scenery instead of the experience.

"And so, the lesson begins," a sibilant voice, His voice, deep and all-consuming, a hum of authority that slipped from the shapeless mass to form some monstrosity before her. He glided, wraith like, otherworldly, toward her, with fine robes of black that writhed with independent thought, moved by the heavy blanket of magic that oozed from His person so naturally. Each step He took seemed to chase some of the steam-fog away, leaving a split moment of clarity, of pulsating veins of power in the earth before that steam crawled back to cover it. She wondered, with idle fascination, what that was and why, but her attention was split, focused mostly on the gleaming red and the twisting shadows of His gaze as He approached.

She squirmed with parted lips and thought, briefly, to scream. But the hand on her throat was so possessive, and even her voice was captive, held still. Not her heart, of course, which beat in that familiar rhythm, the one that exhausted her, that told her her magic and body were preparing and awakening to hunger and restlessness. But everything else was so focused, so hyper aware of Him, that she could scarcely prepare or resist when she began to squirm in the grip that held her.

"She's so clever, they say," another voice came from the mass, barely recognizable, two-toned, alien, "I'm sure she'll understand this one, my Lord."

"And that is certainly expected," He rumbled, curious, amused, interested.

The Locket pulsed heat against her chest. It was anything but soothing.

"Do you know what possession is…?" He started, his voice soft, a low drawl that tugged at her belly but still seemed impossibly loud. "How one can come to be possessed?"

She opened her mouth to speak, to voice confusion, to confirm that she did indeed have an understanding - though rudimentary and purely theoretical - of possession but the hand across her throat squeezed in warning, warm and so real. She closed her mouth.

"One could be possessed by an object," Slowly His hand lifted, the robe pulled back as if by magic, to reveal wrist and hand with fingertips that seemed to long with far too many knuckles that pressed, just barely, against the surface of the Locket. "That would be the easiest way to… possess and control."

The crowd laughed, warped chuckles of predatory interest.

"But the more interesting, complete way, is to possess through magic. Wilde magick, in this case."

The body that held her so tightly rumbled, a soft hum of curiosity, as the hand around her throat slipped lowered and He followed it with the eerie glow of his gaze. That hand, definitely feminine, slipped fingertips gently across and down the length of her throat, toward her heaving chest before it possessively gripped her left breast. She only had a moment of brief bewilderment, of wonder at the weight and sensation of being touched so firmly in the dreamscape, before that hand began a careful slow manipulation of her flesh. A gentle, testing squeeze right at the base, that began to spiral out in exploration. Peach tawny flesh covered her own darker skin, cupping her just right, squeezing just right.

That dizziness returned. She had… had never been touched before, even in the dreamscape and it felt so… so overwhelming. That hand continued a rhythmic motion, flexing, massaging slowly until gentle and curious kneading became something… firm. Until fingertips bent slowly inward and sharp nails pricked along her flesh, sending tendrils of pain down her spine, pain that made her gasp and arch as her ardor began to climb… She wouldn't have thought, would have never considered that such sensation, so wicked, could only flame her everlasting needs. That the grip, to tight, so tight, could still bring tingles of aching sensation to her belly.

He spoke, even while the figure at her back explored, and gripped, and pulled, a slow methodical torture of her breast without ever touching the hard-aching tip.

"You see, wilde magick slumbers…" The very tip of His finger scraped just lightly against the Locket and for some reason it she felt a yank deep within her, right behind her bellybutton, hot and painful. It drove her to squirm, to hiss.

Don't touch it like that, she thought. Don't touch it at all.

He did it again, a teasing stroke of fingernail upon the Locket, her Locket, which made her itch and tingle and pant, just slightly. The figure at her back shuddered with delight.

"Until it is roused, called forth by powerful potential and a need." He cocked his head, so snake-like, considering her, his prey. "It has slumbered for many years, and yet I felt it, connected with it. Used it to make…"

Again, another cruel scratch across the Locket came from Him and she arched, her voice a soft strained cry as she pushed her chest against the hand that, cruelly, slipped lower - with sharp nails scratching along her belly until they dipped, playfully, into her bellybutton. Power shifted in her very being, tugged toward the Locket, twisted, pushed back into her, flaming the heat, making her drip.

"It's the darker magics that do it and powerful intention. They awaken. Form. Obey. But wilde magick is… unpredictable at best and far too dangerous to control, to manipulate and often the essence of…"

Someone at His back cried out, "The Olde Gods, our Gods! Our fallen Lords! Our lost Ladies!"

The crowds shifted, swaying in her blurred vision, and He gave a slow lick of lips that weren't really there, "Oh yes. The Olde Gods, the even older magicks." He motioned briefly to himself, as if he could take such a title, "And, did you know…"

She gasped, jerked as the figure's fingers dipped lower, gone from her belly to instead tug playfully at the neat and trimmed hairs right above her swollen slick lips.

If only.. If only…

"That that magick, drawn to those who use far too much, who exhaust themselves and become vulnerable, open, too tired to fight… Did you know that that magick can also… possess?"

His eyes weren't on the Locket. They were on her. On her red sweat drenched face. On her parted lips and the dark deep storms that struck flashes of reddish-greens and darker browns among her honey-tinted eyes.

"And that possession changes you, shifts the balance of magick, makes Lords and Ladies out of mud." He hissed, spat out the word with venom while the crowd at his back seemed to roar with agreement, loud and wild, animals strung up on His leashes.

While teeth, so sharp, nipped at her shoulder and trailed a path toward her neck only to settled over her hammering pulse and gently suck, giving insight to wild locks of black tumbling hair from the corner of her vision and eyes of wide, almost unseeing, black.

"And makes you hunger for more."

Those fingers, her fingers, the woman at her back, soon dipped into the valley between her legs, passing so cruelly over her throbbing clit without so much as a gentle rub, and instead explored along her moist and dripping folds, teasing her, opening her to the hot suffocating air around them, forcing that terrible agony, that ache of painful lust, to suffuse her body and steal away her breath. Her belly clenched, and pressure built right there, an ominous sense of being to full, so full of… of something all the while remaining so horribly empty.

It was madness, a sort of pain that toyed with her consciousness and sanity, and stretched it so thin, so very thin.

She would break.

She was going to break.

Because she needed, she needed…

Power. Magic. Pleasure.

She couldn't be entirely sure.

"And you are right on the cusp, I suppose. Of awakening. Your little theft has changed you, more than you may realize." His amusement pushed against her flesh just as surely as the firm teasing press of her holder's fingertips did. She could feel it, could… could feel Him. A presence in her mind alongside another.

"And you can't stop now, mustn't stop. Until the change is… cemented. Until the bond with your body, with your magic, with our soul, enthralls you completely."

She should she scared. She was scared. But her senses were so heightened and there, right as the figure gave her engorged clit a gentle pinch between forefinger and thumb, right when her body practically began to ooze and tremble, she could feel… something else.

Something deep within her chest. That part of her that was constantly sore, flexing and growing. Changing. Becoming more.

While being bound tighter.

It only brought her further, deeper, into what little flesh-pleasure she was being allowed to experience. She wanted to… she wanted to use her magic then. She wanted to be stimulated while expelling this pressure from her dreamself.

But she couldn't.

"So. Do continue to practice your magic, mudblood."

She shook, panted, so close, so… so afraid, so hungry, so tight and wound up from all the teasing, from the tingle that ravished her spine when He spoke to her in that vile magic language.

"So that I can find you and twist you into something else."

And then, and then-

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She woke up panting, a scream, a cry of ecstasy on the tip of her tongue, not realized as her body hummed and pulsed and burned from the pain of…

"She bit me…" She mused, sullenly remembering the sharp sensation of teeth in that sensitive vulnerable place between neck and shoulder. That very place seemed to throb with phantom memory, as if the dreamscape could translate such feelings into her waking reality, but before she could ponder that with well-deserved petulance she was… lanced through with the ebbing heat that vision had given her, a vision that was rapidly fading into her subconsciousness as she sat up with a tremble and a gasp, clutching her sheet and trying to shake off the pounding in her head.

And the loud, thought shattering, whispers there.

She could hear them so... so clearly; incoherent hissing that spoke to something else within her being, some portion of her that understood completely. Some portion of her that clenched and ached with the need to obey. With a soft moan of surrender at a particularly powerful throb from her sex she kicked and wiggled out of her sleeping bag.

She… she had concepts, concepts of… a mission but the only idea in her head right now was the one that was sung to her from the Locket. She knew what she had to do, or rather, her body did. Her mind on the other hand was bewildered, swaddled in anxiety as she shifted quietly from her place and took her wand and aimed it at The Boy slumbering but an arm's reach beside her. His brows twitched, and perhaps he sensed something unusual but…

Well, he wasn't awake, and Hermione was.

His body was bound with but a quick mumble and with a flick of her wand in a spell that had slept within her, one learned and acquired during her dreamscape thralldom. She blanketed his consciousness, suppressed it just slightly...

Because she didn't need him to think, she needed his… magic, his darkness, and she knew how best to get it.

Lust-drunk wizards could be softened. Desire made them vulnerable and distracted while pleasure devoured individual will and cemented bonds - intricate and ancient - depending on the magic used. She wondered where she'd learned that lesson, that dark magic and pleasure were so tightly integrated. That dark magic brought change, but that it was greedy, that it slipped into the mind and held the body captive after each use, driving it to greater and stronger heights in exchange for flesh control.

She bit her lip as her own body throbbed with promise, just a bit, just from one spell, while that thing within her whispered for more and more. For power. For an end to her suffering.

She swallowed nervously and climbed atop him.

If she were in her right mind, if the Locket didn't ride her so completely, so fully, she might have thought herself too anxious and manic for the task she had in mind. She was too logical, emotional use of her own mentality - for magic or otherwise - had always been difficult but ever since the Locket all she'd been was… emotional. Perhaps dark magic, real magic, fed off that.

You had to mean it, after all.

But her thoughts were so sleepy, so slow, and the idle curiosity and need to research faded away, drawn into the embrace of her own desire as she sat upon The Boy with tilted head and… bewilderment. Why was she… here? In this position? With her crotch of her thin pajama bottoms hovering over The Boy's own, covered by cartoon character covered boxers.

But the whispering was there. The whispering guided her and as she shifted just slightly, squirming almost playfully over his body as she felt magic trickle across her flesh. His and... and something that covered the earth.

Were they situated over a leyline?

She licked her lips, a subconsciously sensual action as that earth magic touched her, clung to her.

Then she began to move.

"I shouldn't…" She mumbled, the heavy weight of the Locket between her breasts, her wet sex right over where she presumed his slumbering member sat. "I shouldn't…"

But her body obeyed another now. And with each little rock, gentle tongues of flame lapped at her sex and the Locket pulsed with perverse encouragement. It pulled at her again, at the core that kept her magic. Took from her and… and she took from him, The Boy. She could feel it now, how with each slow grind his magic brushed her own, curious, eager...

She wanted more. Needed more.

He groaned, softly, confused. He squirmed beneath her and his brow furrowed weakly. He was exhausted, she knew. They had both been running and running and sleep never came easy. The Locket tormented her and his scar tormented him. But they could be tormented together, she supposed, by the wicked power that tried to consume them.

She gasped as his cock began to twitch, as the heat of it rose slowly, a thick and full form between her legs… but she didn't stop her teasing rock. He was… growing, still swelling, fitting so perfectly between her swollen lips despite the hinderance of their clothing. And his magic, it pressed against her, vulnerable as her fingers pressed firmly on his chest. He'd grown stronger on the run. His hands were so… big, his body broad and scarred… Some portion of her, tiny and weak, proclaimed that she loved him but even that felt… changed. Possessive. Wicked.

Her tentative grind became more sensual, teasing, a slow roll that allowed her to feel the length of him through her damp bottoms. The head of his fully formed cock, so thick, nudged her twitching clit, sending pleasure and heat throughout her fluttering sex, which contracted, ready for… for him.

But she couldn't, not yet, not as he parted his lips and his frown deepened. Not as he began to squirm and make soft sounds, sounds of discomfort as she pressed down further. Sounds of wanting as his cock twitched beneath her and his magic flexed.

She wanted more stimulus, more… control of him. The way he squirmed, as his hips rolled almost instinctively against her, and his upper torso writhed, too strung up on silver chains of magic to allow him to alleviate her weight, was hypnotic. The slow torturous grinding dance they did together was just as powerful. The ebb and flow of bliss that pulsed from her sex was lovely, but it wasn't enough, just as she knew it wasn't enough for him.

But… but she couldn't stop. Wouldn't be able to stop, she knew, until the sun was high above them and the Locket was done.

So, she rocked, wanting to stop, for it did little to ease the ache deep in her sex and knowing she couldn't.

She was just as ensnared as he was, both of them puppets on magic strings.

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She was vibrant, a humming source of magic that felt off and not centered. When he looked at her, really looked at her, he felt a tug somewhere behind his bellybutton, a tug he had never felt before.

And a… a rush of heat over his flesh that settled low and deep.

It made his heart rocket in his chest and he swore, swore, he could feel the seductive curl of her magic calling to him, some part of him. His scar had been acting up lately, aching strangely. It was painful, still distracting but… the pain also felt good. Sweet. Soothing. Like he was being punished and rewarded. A good boy, going on this silly horcrux hunt and staying out of the way, right? A naughty boy for finding one of them and hoarding it.

Well. 'Moine was hoarding it. Wearing it with a dreamy distracted look and soft sighs.

He wondered if she knew he watched her. If she knew she had changed. Which was understandable. She was wearing a piece of Him and… he felt ashamed to admit that it was better that way. He didn't want to wear it. Didn't want to succumb to the whispers he'd heard and understood when Ron had been around-

Ron.

Bloody wanker…

He missed him.

But, he wondered if she were fighting it. Or, if she were as exhausted as he was, burdened by dark thoughts and loathing and…

He didn't want to do this. To do any of this. He didn't want to be a puppet, a slave to fate. He'd wanted to create his own path, to be left alone and… and it was such a shame but sometimes he did miss his cupboard and the darkness and the blessed silence. The pain his Muggle relatives had inflicted upon him-

He swallowed harshly, knowing that Hermione's teasing magic was making him… lose hold of some of his darker emotions and that he certainly did not ache with the urge to tear them apart.

-had been unwelcomed but the darkness had been his friend. That and the spiders.

But he didn't have time to reminisce or think back. He only had time to move, to worry, to wonder how close he was to destroying that thing around Hermione's neck and if she had the mental fortitude to even try anymore.

She sighed again at his side, a sound he had to admit seemed a bit… submissive and needy. He couldn't really describe it.

"Hermione," he said, as he tried to soften his gaze and ignore the odd stirring within him at the sound of her name past his lips. He'd also felt strange, and while he blamed that on the stress of his unwanted mission he couldn't help but notice that his chest felt sore and… well, lately, in the morning, his libido had been inconsolable.

"Yes," She answered him, a bit distractedly, with eyes wide and strange shadows in her gaze.

Maybe she was very tired too.

"Are you okay?"

Coward.

"Do you need me to…?"

He swallowed his panic.

She smiled, a bit solemnly at him, with a sort of sly exasperated peek at him from beneath lowered lashes and shook her head.

Relief flooded him. Inappropriate.

"Hermione, you've been wearing it for weeks. I think it's…"

How to explain it.

She shrugged, "It isn't doing anything that it hasn't been doing. We need you… uncompromised by the Locket."

He could agree with that. For sure.

He swallowed a bit of anxiety and looked ahead, only to be interrupted by a hand upon his arm. He stood, frozen as his body... His body…

His heart began to beat, a wild trapped thing in his chest, and heat rose to his flesh. He felt his bicep flex, as if he were instinctively reacting to a woman touching him, trying to show her that he was the best, that his magic was potent, the perfect match for-

He turned to face her, brow furrowed with his own puzzlement at his body's reaction as she stared at him with sudden intensity, enough focus that he dropped his gaze from her own, feeling small and vulnerable…

And also excited.

"I'm tired, Harry…"

"Let's set up camp then."

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His body… felt odd. His heart seemed to speed for no reason. His magic felt different, swam through his veins and left him burning, unstable. It was like he was learning for the first time about his true nature, all eager with the excited tingle of power in his chest, but now…

Now when he called to it, it left him too excited, panting, needing to use more. Or, maybe it was a need to do something else with it. New spells. Better spells. Concepts that only came to him in short bursts and whispers before they faded back into the darker pockets of his mind, pushed aside.

After all, there was no need to practice such things out here, when he only had need for tracking erasure and survivalist spells. He really didn't have the desire to get better with curses and whispering crucio under his breath at passing birds - just to feel the heat of his magic, that pleasure in his belly, of fire and power and taboo spellwork, to offset the balance of feeling out of control of his life - when he thought his idle companion was to dazed and unawares, just wasn't enough.

So, he started sending her away, telling her with strained pants that he needed her to scout their area while he supposedly did the same. But, it was only once she was out of his sight and he was able to settle some parts of him, while inflaming others, that he grew worried and just a little…

No, not guilty. Never guilty.

Sometimes, sometimes when he didn't see Hermione an unusual amount of fear and need would sweep over him. Maybe they were becoming dependent upon one another? He noticed she leaned against him more often. Noticed that her magic also tasted… wild, that it stirred within him a bestiality he couldn't really explain until all he could think about were his strange dreams and how painfully hard he woke up after them.

But there wasn't any privacy about to… handle it and if she noticed he said nothing, so eventually he would… lessen, a little. But he was always somewhat aroused. It was strange. Half ready, half asleep. He just couldn't describe it, not even to himself. He wanted to speak to her about it, about the oppressed visions he had when they slept. About… about…

How he was always trapped beneath someone, weighed down by heat and magic while something slick and warm and hot caressed his cock, commanding it until it was hard, so painfully hard, and his lungs were tight. He was always consumed by a feverish urging. He would rock thoughtlessly, pushing against that wetness, seeking friction but the sensations were always so invasively lazy, seductive, sensual. It wasn't enough, just enough to drive him to madness. Just enough to make him hungry and achy and so ready to burst.

But the worst part was… was when he throbbed. When his cock pulsed, his sack tightened and… but nothing… right happened. Nothing came, only his energy. Each pulse, each slickening drip from his cock, seemed to push out his magic, his potency, leaving him delirious and tired.

And each morning he would wake up dizzy and drained, his cock throbbing, his balls so tight and ready, and no way to relieve himself of the pain or the desire.

So, he spent the day feeling distracted anyway, his vision blurred by unconquered lust.

Might as well just wear the damn Locket.

He couldn't tell her any of this, of course. He'd sound like a crazed pervert and as the only woman on a long horrendous journey with a young adult wizard, well. He didn't want to scare her off or anything. He couldn't, wouldn't, be able to do anything without her.

"Hermione?" Harry called over his back. "Tents ready."

And his cock felt… ready to. Excited. Maybe he was starting to be conditioned by this. To put up the tent meant to sleep. Sleep meant that hot wet warmth, sliding up and down his cock. Pleasure… teasing desire.

He balled his hands into fists and shook his head. Enough of that.

"Hermione?"

Where was she, anyway?

He moved slightly away from the tent and closed his eyes. If he… was careful, he could ping the Locket. Just a curious brush against the other portion of the soul within him-

He swayed, felt as if something was summoning him. T-t-the Locket, the Locket was so strong. The other soul shard brushed against his very essence, so heavy and real.

Join. Complete. Obey.

So much eagerness, so much passion to be one with… with…

He shook himself and managed to disconnect. His magic, almost reluctantly, snapped back to his person and he moved with shaky legs in the direction he thought he felt the Locket, which still licked at his consciousness and core.

Fear swum in his veins and his cock sat heavy and large in his pants, ready, so very ready.

When he found her - after taking the time to magically enlarge his shirt. Didn't want to be vulgar or anything, best to hide his problem - she was talking to a…

"H-hermione?"

She looked up, gaze glassy, twisting strings of red and green among the storms of her gaze. Yet, beneath that dreamy curiosity was fear. The very same amount of fear he felt.

"Harry," she whispered, lost and confused. "Is the tent ready?"

He wrinkled his nose and stepped forward. His desire almost forgotten, "What are you doing, Hermione?"

She licked her lips and his heart skipped a beat, "I can hear him, Harry. I…"

She looked back to the snake and it happened again, her lips barely moved but the voice came out, sibilant, familiar, hissing.

Parseltongue.

He stepped over quickly and the snake, slender and small, white with gold and red patches - so very Gryffindor - reared back with a hiss.

"No!" Hermione yelped, and he stopped, startled by the terror and anger that rolled through her gaze. "Mine! He's mine! Mine, Harry!"

She panted at him, petulant and yet…

He cleared his throat and glanced at the snake.

"Speaker, speaker! This one will bite, will chase-"

"No, n-no, this is The Boy-"

The boy…?

"Harry," he grunted, correcting Hermione who looked at him with a small amount of awe and delight. Maybe… maybe she was happy to now share this skill with him but… but that also meant the Locket was doing things to her.

And he still couldn't take it from her.

She reached out her hand toward the snake, a gentle coo on her lips, and the snake moved forward-

"Warmth. Power. Speakers! Mistress. This one is hungry."

He grunted as she stood up, the snake carefully wrapped around her arm, her expression serene as she looked at him.

"I want… I want…"

He looked at the snake and sighed.

"Come on. And you better hope Crookshanks doesn't see him, when this is all over. He'll be jealous."

She laughed at his turned back, a sound like thick wine and pleasure.

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He whimpered, gasped. Heat, so much heat. Wrapping around him. So wet.

There were hands on his chest, dainty fingers hooked into his flesh. Thighs were on either side of his hips, clenching around him and that weight was rocking on him, against him. Back and forth, so teasing, so… painfully teasing. His cock, thick and hard, throbbed with a sort of anger that felt tangible. His hips lifted, gently, eased into a rhythm he couldn't stop. His muscles flexed.

His back arched and his lips parted as he gasped and sweat and ached.

His scar was on fire, filling his head with whispers. With half formed images. With the need to use magic, to be powerful, to shed his skin and become something else. Desire mingled with a strangling sense of terror. It made his cock pulsate, spilling moisture from the tip. Spilling his own magic onto his belly and he felt it, oh he felt it, pulled like yarn from his body leaving some deep part of him sore and tired and so so compliant.

This wasn't the first night this had happened to him, or the second, or the third. It was driving him, pumping pain and desire into his flushed flesh. Making him strain against the magic that held him captive, mentally and physically.

It's so good… the whispers in his mind purred. So good…

But it hurts… another voice said.

But the pain, the need, will cleanse me. Make me stronger. Ready for Him, ready to be complete.

His lips parted and he gasped, his hips strained. He wanted to increase the speed, to grind against this moist wet thing harder, but he couldn't. His body obeyed, conditioned, slowly rocking, grinding just a bit harder and then so soft, so gentle and explorative.

Lips touched his own, soft, humming, sighing. His mouth moved automatically and he tried to open his eyes - oh how he tried - but he was still locked within his mindscape. Trapped with gentle moans that echoed off his head, in his own voice.

Pressure eased his lips apart, a soft wet tongue peeked in and his entire body shivered at the touch of it. It was almost like something… someone was reaching into him, tentatively poking and prodding his core, easing more of his magic to the surface of his person to be… milked from him, so that only the darkness in his scar was left, leaving his muscles sore and making him feel….

So needy.

Like he wanted to… to… fuck, but also to practice magic, darker and darker magics - security, safety, power, pleasure. Why… why...

The lips continued their gentle press above and below. His tongue moved sedately against the invader. He arms twitched and... and lifted, weighed down by something and while it felt like he was fighting, moving against some massive pressure, he could still move.

He groaned into the mouth as his hands found something, someone, soft. He gripped small hips and then shifted his hands lower, to a soft arse to squeeze and pull tighter, closer.

The someone upon him gasped, startled, but didn't stop kissing him, didn't stop sliding her tongue across his own and certainly didn't stop moaning softly against him, little keening sounds of pleasure.

And pain.

He growled and shifted, just slightly. He fought against the bonds, against the magic that kept his mind dulled and his eyes closed.

So good. So good…

But the fog was so heavy and the heat hurt as it lashed his belly and cock. He was being bad and he needed to be patient.

With a soft whimper his hips continued their gentle grind and for a brief moment he thought… felt like… a youth, experiencing a heavy session of new and fresh desire, not yet wise enough to move to the next step, perfectly willing to torture himself…

Teeth bit at his bottom lip and he groaned, frustrated.

Why, why would he… why would this sensation….

But he knew why.

The more desire that drenched his skin and focus, the more of his magic was being pulled from him and returned differently. He couldn't take this.

Then the lips moved away and his eyes, his eyes were able to open.

To the sight of Hermione, naked (but for the Locket), upon him, riding him with dazed expression and conflicted gaze. It was as if she wasn't entirely aware of her actions. As if she fought for control over her own body, much like he had and…

Ah, but the Locket, he could feel it, it's light caress was all over his skin and the influence…

He growled low in his throat and Hermione trembled, her lips parted to release a little kittenish mewl that drove his lust to greater heights. He reached, slowly, for the Locket around her neck and he gripped it, holding it within his weakened hands as if he had the power to remove it from her.

To save them.

But she only trembled and growled in return, some low rumble and stirred the wildness within him.

He panted loudly as she closed her eyes and slowly began to shift her body-

"Ah… my Lord," she whispered, so soft, confused but…

"'M-moine." He tried to speak, but weakness had returned to him alongside terror at hearing her speak that phrase. The Locket felt as if it were suckling on his flesh, toying with his magic until his body was again not his own and his hand shifted from the Locket to one of her breast, to squeeze and knead and drive his own desires wild.

She was so so damn soft.

So good.

She arched her back and narrowed her eyes. "Harry..."

She stopped rolling her hips and instead squirmed a bit, "Stop…"

But he couldn't stop, no more than she could.

"Can't," he croaked, "It… it hurts. I need to…"

He wasn't sure.

"Mmm…" she sighed and lifted her body, just slightly, before she slipped down… just a bit so that she could grab his cock.

He jerked, his palm now empty, and looked down. He was… big, bigger than he'd ever been. Swollen. Drooling. The very tip seemed to pulse differently from the rest of his cock and his veins, so prominent, looked angry. But, more than that, they twitched around the muscle, little slivers of light being pumped throughout him.

"Magic," Hermione said, distractedly. "It's a particular and rare phenomenon that takes place when — "

"Don't. Need… a lecture." He snarled, arching as she squeezed him at the base and stroked, slowly, up toward the swollen tip.

Gods, he ached.

"Oh," she slurred, eyes closed, as if she were listening to something he couldn't hear. She probably was, he thought, as she began to slowly stroke along his length again. Such a lazy pump that made him tremble and wheeze. Her hand was so warm, the skin felt so nice against him, so nice…

His balls felt just as swollen as the rest of him. Full, perhaps, due to a lack of relief and Hermione's nightly torture. He wanted to cum, needed to cum, but her soft fingers weren't enough.

"Don't…" He gasped, just as her curious tongue gave a little lick at the very tip of his cock, near the slit, which rewarded her with moisture and magic.

He wondered just how and why his body was doing this. Maybe he should have listened to the lecture after all.

Then his thoughts scattered again as her tongue returned, tracing veins, sliding over the head. But just as quickly as she'd opened her mouth to… to take him, she closed it and stood up, moving over him and then…

Sliding down, slowly, slipping him inside.

He groaned loudly, neck snapped back, eyes closed as he entered her. She was tight, so tight, and slick, and hot. She wrapped around him completely, squeezing him, crushing him and… and his magic sang with joy, slipped against her own - so dark, it feels so so dark, like Him - and the Locket, it gripped him, possessive as she moaned, low in her throat.

Slowly she lowered, took him completely, locked them together…

Then she licked her lips and looked at him, her pupils red among a sea of honey-brown. "My Lord."

He gripped her hips, felt infused with new energy, new life. He rocked into her, just as slowly, just as torturous as she had been with him. She whimpered, and he knew he was stretching her, filling her just enough to stir her passions, to drive her as crazy as she had driven him night after night.

He wanted her to hurt. To ache.

He chuckled, low in his chest, a sound that seemed otherworldly, not a part of him.

She whined, distracted, as his hands moved her hips back and forth and controlled the speed, the motion. Suddenly, she was the weak one, strung up by his magic - by his Locket.

He trembled, seduced by the notion of control, when he knew, deep down, that neither of them had it.

The magic controlled them.

"Not tonight," he rumbled, low and curious. He felt elevated, joined with the heavy pulse of magic that suffused her.

"Oh… oh please..." she gasped, begged, shivered.

He groaned, parted his lips, but something else was… was in him. He couldn't answer. He pulled her down to him, to his lips, to kiss as they became one, in the most twisted perverse sense. No relief. Not tonight. Not yet. Not until… not until they were complete.

He shifted just a little, then began a small teasing thrust. Deeper. Deeper…

Her sweet cries echoed across his mentality for a great deal of the night.

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She was in control tonight, her mind filled with the whispers of the Locket, her body shivering from the phantom touch of the woman from her dreamscape vision, from her beginning night of thralldom.

Bellatrix, the Locket whispered.

She… she wanted to see her again, to be held in reality by… Bellatrix.

But with a slow blink she was back to the present, back to gently lowering snake-no-name to the floor of the tent, with his glowing eyes of sickening yellow only set to spare her a glance before he retreated to the shadows. Did he watch? Did he... did he know? Did the Locket change him? Make him...

"Stop thinking, Mistress."

So, she did, barely taking notice of the hissing warped laughter from the shadows.

Instead she licked her lips and stepped up to sit on The Boy's lap, The Boy who looked at her with the same dreamy gaze and a soft sigh.

"Fight it," he mumbled, even as his hands went to stroke along her back and she arched and wiggled, unable to repress a gentle kittenish mewl.

Ah, how… how embarrassing. Such a leftover thing from her first potions incident, such sensitivity along her spine that drove her to madness whenever she was touched in such a way.

She practically purred when he stroked her there, just the base, the very sensitive knot of flesh right at the end of her spine.

Flesh that made her feel hot and flushed. Yes, yes, yes…

"Can't," she grumbled, shifting fingertips through his hair before she rested them on his shoulders, "my magic doesn't… listen right."

There was a better way to articulate that, she knew. She wanted to tell him that she dripped all the time, hungry for power.

That her magic grew more powerful but without her control, without her permission. It… it did what it wanted, made her feel wild and free but hardly obeyed and was certainly petulant about being focused through her wand in these trying times. But her magic filled her limbs, made them move, told them what to do and her mind was embraced by the Locket, held tightly, told to relax and dream…

But she didn't dream as often, or maybe her dreams were starting to invade her waking reality?

Who could be certain.

She was just so full of dark potential, and having such raw magics… no, such olde magicks within her stimulated her nerves constantly. But the magic tortured them both, punished them...

She whispered in his ear, a soft and gentle 'My Lord', before nipping at his lobe and he reacted, snarled, gripped her harder, laughed manically, before sighing.

"Don't do that, makes my head spin," he mumbled into her shoulder, and she knew it did, knew that calling him by His title made Harry more like Him. Made Harry… turned Harry into Him. Triggering them both toward completion.

She only sighed in response, "we're in so much trouble."

Then she slowly lifted herself up, and took him, deep, into her belly.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

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Ron returned.

Hermione was enraged.

Harry didn't blame her.

He'd been with her for the evening. They'd been talking, whispering to one another as she'd pressed close and spoke to him about his essence, about how he felt to her, about the Locket, her dreams. He'd shared his own as understanding dawned on him. That they were both strung up in something neither of them understood and that it all came back to Him. She'd been… touching him so much. Keeping their magic together, close, too close, stroking him through his pants and making him tremble and pant and feel out of his mind, but frozen, captured by her power and the ache in his scar.

And then, Ron had stumbled outside of their tent, shouting their names like some frantic beast.

He'd growled low in his throat and Hermione had shivered at the sound, but her face was twisted up, her gaze a reflection of loathing that he knew had little to do with the Locket but more or less could only be enhanced by it.

Her harsh poisonous whisper of 'blood traitor' slipped across his skin and made his eyes flutter.

He shifted then, unwrapped an arm from around her waist as snake-no-name slipped up the length of his arm and coiled tightly around his neck, whispering nonsensical things against his ear, betrayals and secrets.

He let her go with wide unblinking eyes and beyond the flap of the tent he heard Ron cry out-

"Hermione!"

And then he screamed as the sound of flesh against flesh came from beyond Harry's space.

He grunted, attempting to repress an amused but dark chuckle at the sound of Hermione no doubt giving Ron a good couple of whaps for his dissertation while Ron yelled for Hermione to take off the Locket, take off the Locket.

He narrowed his eyes.

"Master… stop him."

He rose from his spot and went out to greet his friend.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

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She was overwhelmed, her anger inflamed, her rage inconsolable. She didn't have her wand, it had barely worked for her in the past week - it felt like it choked her magic, like it was afraid to obey or felt insignificant to her budding otherness - but she wouldn't have reached for it anyway. She wanted to feel him beneath her, his life in her hands, figuratively and literally.

Besides, she had only wanted to slap and hit the screeching Red One until he understood that she was pissed and -

"'Moine.." Harry whispered, his arms around her, lifting her away as she clawed and screeched and swung back an arm to hook fingertips into his face. He hissed and snarled and his magic pulsed, a heavy much stronger flare of his irritation and slowly, slowly she felt her mind calm.

Soothed.

Controlled.

She sighed, exhausted again, felt His soul shard whisper to her, to the heavy Locket around her neck, to the wildness inside of her chest and she settled, pouting.

She watched the blood trail down the side of his face as she relaxed her tension filled muscles and giggled, dazed. She wanted to hurt him again, knew he'd take pleasure in the pain. In the passion of it.

They were both so… swaddled in their agonies.

"B-bloody hell." Ron garbled, his hand upon his jaw, his face bruised.

She wondered how many other bruises she'd left him right before her gaze moved to the sword and -

The Locket hummed, it's song was so loud. It tightened, coiling around her neck. She gasped, reached up instinctively to clutch the burning metal even as tightened, threatening, warning her, punishing her.

Heat spilled between her legs, heat ebbed from her own magic. She was being torn apart, kissed by those sweet agonies she had only thought of moments before -

"My Lord," she croaked out a hiss, frightened, submissive, ready to subjugate herself to the Locket. To Harry. To Him. "Please, please, please."

For a moment Harry was startled, his hand upon the Locket, his gaze filled with terror and bewilderment. Ron echoed his look, no doubt, but for different reasons.

"What the hell -"

But Harry barely paid him much mind. He didn't get to run off and then reintegrate himself so perfectly into their existence. He didn't get to abandon them to darkness, to corruption, to pain, to suffering, to lust and magic and power, then return with that filthy sword to ruin it all.

Nobody got to do that, to defy him. To… to defy Him.

He wasn't sure if the choice was his own, but it was a choice, and there was freedom in that, in being able to do something else than be Dumbledore's Chosen One.

"Voldemort -"

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The Snatchers were quick.

Not particularly kind but they were quick.

The Red One screamed, confused and no doubt somewhat betrayed while she trembled, overwhelmed by the aura that oozed from Harry, that aura of absolute confidence and… and a determined gleam that twisted vibrant green into something dark and perverse. His hands remained possessively around her, holding her to him, a body hardened by travel. They didn't have their wands, such useless woods had been set aside within the tent, no longer compatible, fighting the corruption…

So, when the Snatchers came there was only one thing they were able to do.

Surrender.

"Well well well," Snatcher-First grunted, his men set to round them up quickly while Harry let go of her.

Yet, when Snatcher-Two went to touch her Harry snarled, feral, his magic an overwhelming pulse, suffocating, furious.

They looked shaken, they swallowed nervously, but they still touched and they restrained her as surely as they restrained him.

When they took Ron and the sword Harry did nothing but snort.

Their apparition was quick and when the world stopped tilting they were before Malfoy Manor and-

"What's all this then?"

Hermione gasped, a soft surprised 'oh' at the sight of her, the woman from her dreamscape, the woman with the haunting beauty and the rolling voice - a voice that revived slumbering terror, a voice that inspired her body to warm, to prepare for submission…

And instantly, as if pulled by the furl of her magic and the Locket the woman held up a hand and looked to her.

Her features, pale flesh, moonlight skin haunted by madness, held the sort of sensual beauty that only a bloodline could gift. And those eyes, the very same that had seemed dark and drowning, were now upon her - endless twisting black, snakes eating snakes, thoughts eating thoughts.

Her chest heaved with a bit of a slight breath. Did something within her recognize it? The corruption in her veins? The ache in her sex and in her chest?

The Snatcher loosened his grip, but only because Bellatrix was stomping toward her, the Snatcher-First that had been about to answer forgotten, his insulted 'oy!' just a howl of petulance on the wind.

"You," Bellatrix mumbled, lips moving as if there were more words to say but -

She twisted around on the heel of her foot with a sniff and a roll of shoulders, "take them inside."

Before she practically skipped into the manor.

The inside was lavish, the walls groaned, pulsed, with ancient magicks olde and refined. They resonated with something within her, and she could see Harry stiffen and cock his head to the left, as she had cocked her head to the right.

How curious.

Ron only trembled, held captive by fear but without desire. She couldn't imagine being afraid and not wet, not burning. Even now…. Even now she…

The Snatcher-Pack marched them in, grumbling, weary, until they were within a large sitting room, the table pushed against the wall, the wooden floor - how immaculate, how shiny - barren of rug or carpet.

In a far corner stood the Malfoys, their lord-head pale and sneering while the madam looked toward the gathering - no, looked at her - with narrowed eyes and flared nostrils.

She shivered from the invasive gaze, whimpered softly - while the Snatcher at her back laughed at what he must have thought was fear - as her mind was invaded so casually.

She hid nothing, let the pulse of the Locket guide her mind and fluttered her eyes as her memories slipped beyond her grasp to easily, almost gently, be pushed aside by the Malfoy Lady.

She placed a hand on Draco and held onto him, Draco, who looked extremely uncomfortable with a wide gaze and a stiff-back posture.

"Bellatrix."

The woman in question tilted her head, just as the Snatchers shifted uncomfortably, nervous by the idle pulse of power in the woman before them.

She was listening.

"The girl." Narcissa said.

Bellatrix moved the intensity of her gaze, settled it upon Hermione.

"The sword."

Then she was moving, a whirlwind of prowess and force. Her wand was suddenly within her grip, her magic wordless, boundless as it leapt from her person and struck Snatcher-First in the throat, then Snatcher-Second in the chest. She twirled on the heels of her boots, expertly destroyed the men with a grace unnatural, in a swift efficiency that should have been commended right before, at the very end, the blade swung through the air and into her grip, summoned, bowed to her power.

And all the men tumbled around them.

"Oh…" Harry whispered, gaze wide, amused, as a man beside him gasped and arched, his chest sliced into, the blood bubbling.

"Pretty…"

Ron looked sick.

But his tongue was stilled, his gaze unseeing, his panic almost physical.

She licked her lips, stirred by his grief and terror and the Locket's encouraging whispers.

Snake-no-name hissed as Bellatrix gave an idle motion of her hand. Immediately Draco was moving, snatched Ron by his collar and shook him with a twisted expression of disgust and rage-

"The mudblood and Potter," Lucius said, his hand hovering over the mark as Narcissa stepped up, almost casual in her stroll, to stand beside her and grip her arm, none too gently.

Good, good. She felt safer that way. Well handled.

"Don't," Bellatrix screeched, magic set to spark between the untamed locks of her hair. "It is my right to call, mine through blood, mine through effort!"

Lucius sneered, his gaze flickering, wild-

"Lucius. Sweet-one," Narcissa purred, her magic a soothing curl, a breeze, and it brushed across Hermione's own heated wildness before it reached out past Bellatrix shoulders and toward her husband. "A moment, please. We'd like to talk to the girl."

Lucius swallowed, and Bellatrix stalked, snarling, caged, contained by her sister's magic and yet -

"I... N-narcissa, my love."

"Lucius," she playfully said his name, but there was warning there in that sing-song tone.

"I am just not… certain how valuable the mudblood's information could be."

Narcissa idly tugged at one of Hermione's own dirty locks, clicking her tongue against the back of her teeth when she discovered how, well, filthy Hermione's head was, host to muck and leaves from her scuffle with Ron. "Do you trust me…?"

The room was silent, filled only with Bellatrix erratic breathing and a sudden wild laugh from the very same woman.

"Yes." Lucius said, his tone stern, before he gave a nod - probably to himself - and turned with Harry now in hand, Harry who hadn't moved, Harry who seemed lost in his head - in the scar… maybe.

"Draco."

"Coming, Father." Draco replied, breathing heavily as he shoved and pushed Ron toward the hallway beyond and the darkness there.

"H-hermione?! Hermione! Let her go you bloody - "

"Oh hush," Harry chuckled, so calm, so completely at ease - she could tell by the mischievous timbre of his voice as they were marched beyond her sight.

Then, she was alone.

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Pain.

It… it hurt.

Everything hurt so much.

The curse struck her, consumed her, changed her.

It was needles under her flesh. Fingers pinching her, tugging, trying to pull skin from muscle and bone. Her mouth opened, her scream was genuine, pure, and her body burned, burned, burned-

There was a body on top of her. Heavy. Heavenly. It hurt her. She hurt her. Bellatrix. Her professor of the art of pain.

She arched beneath her, writhed, couldn't breathe. Her cheeks were slick, moist from her tears. Her sex was slick, moist from her twisted desires.

More pain, more power. More.

The body above her shifted, pressed closer. Hot breath fell across her neck, wild, uneven. They were both driven to perform.

Hermione by the Locket. Bellatrix by her own darkness.

She was too tired to move. Her limbs twitched, her throat closed. No more sounds now. Only pain. Only sweet pain as the curse laced her nerves and restricted her thoughts.

She wondered if she looked beautiful beneath Bellatrix, if her suffering brought more than superficial joy to the heart of her captor. She could imagine, in fractured pieces and brief moments, what she must look like. Drooling and screaming in her affliction. One thought shifted, then another, strung so tight, ready to break, so ready, and suddenly she knew she must look beautiful.

Harry had thought the Snatcher had looked pretty too, in his pain. He had once had the curse inflicted on him. Perhaps, it was called a curse because it did more than cause unimaginable distress. Maybe it truly did craft monsters out of average men –

"Gack!" She arched, felt the fresh renewed wave of pain, saw through blurred trembling eyes as Narcissa walked around her to the front of her head then slowly lowered herself - so graceful, as she folded her dress beneath her - onto her knees.

There was pressure then, unyielding and invasive, slipping along her fractured thoughts and picking, almost gracefully, at once hidden particulars. Her head was pounding, full to bursting from that extra presence. So much so that she was unable to tell how long she'd been subjected to this new form of suffering. When such a sensation had begun, since she'd been swaddled in agony, or when it had ended, so great was her shattered concept of time.

"Enough."

Then it all stopped.

Her body spasmed, twitched. Her muscles didn't listen, they wanted to escape her.

Bellatrix stroked fingertips curiously across her forehead, like an inspecting cat, then down her cheek as she tried… as Hermione tried not to…

She gasped and squirmed, felt fresh heat sweep up from her belly and mingle with lingering pain from tired sore muscle. Her nerves were crying out in sudden relief. Relief from the curse, from the pain…

Narcissa looked amused.

Bellatrix looked inflamed.

Hermione moaned.

"What did you see?" Bellatrix voice whispered, as her fingertips slipped along the length of her arms and down to her heaving chest.

"Too much," Narcissa answered casually, "but I am loyal."

They were all loyal.

"My Lord... " Hermione whispered, aroused, needy, dazed.

Bellatrix growled, stirred.

She rocked against her, used her prone body to ease her own ardors.

"Bella," Narcissa whispered, pouting just slightly, "not in the receiving room."

Bellatrix snorted but her hips did slow… a little.

"It's the locket around her neck."

Hermione hissed and bucked. It deserved reverence, more recognition. "The Locket," she snarled at the youthful blonde woman, devoted, controlled.

"Hush," Bellatrix murmured against her neck, right before she bit her just right, so right.

She was quiet after that.

"She feels like…"

"Yes," Narcissa whispered.

"Isn't she a…?"

"Perhaps, not. At least, not anymore."

Hermione cooed and wiggled.

Then, Bellatrix jerked, head up, nostrils flared, alert, "He's here!"

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"My Lord," Harry cooed, happy, joyous, blinded by the pulsing power before him, by the harsh ache in his scar.

Ron was pressed against the wall, garbling, enraged.

His words were barely heard over the brilliance of the man before him, the being, the god, the Lord.

In the other cell, Lovegood shifted forward with wide eyes of silver, eyes that were poisoned, tainted by the influence of so much dark magic curling through the house, pressing in on her, changing her…

Maybe the Malfoy Manor sat on a leyline too.

She made an odd sound, a thoughtful hum, and retreated to the darkness.

His smile didn't waver.

"I called, I called for you," Harry whined, his knees weak. "We waited, we waited…"

The soul shard within him rejoiced, pumped him full of promise, of heat, of need, that swirled in his gaze and made his cock throb, so hard, so ready.

But He was silent, His magic oppressive, beating against him, drawing his own essence out. Show me, His unspoken command brushed against him. Show me…

He gasped and his magic came, called, beyond his control. Snake-no-name hissed in pleasure, in animalistic laughter, his sickly yellow eyes a-glow. Harry echoed that laughter, desperate, spiraling down, down into the depths of the Dark Lord's eyes of glowing red.

"P-please. Please." He was not above begging. Only above the filth, the blood traitors, the mudbloods that wouldn't bow. He had learned so much, had done so much with Hermione, day and night. Had learned to accept, to change. He was pragmatic.

He was a thrall.

A vassal.

A weapon to be used.

A being ready to betray.

"My Lord."

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You can have them.

Whoever you want.

I reward loyalty…

And I want you to grow.

"She's mine," a soft voice whispered.

"She's His…" a softer voice replied, drowsy and amused.

"She's mine to shape, to grow."

"So, do a good job, by all means. Where is The Boy?"

"Rodolphus and Rabastan. He's eager. He's learning." the first voice said, a drawl, distracted, uncaring.

She shifted on the bed, stirred by the soft and cryptic nature of the voices that floated around her, gently prodding her to wakefulness. She stretched, enjoyed the feeling of the two bodies that surrounded her, one softer than the other, but their magic was sharp, distracting, tugging her back down to slumber.

She sighed and lifted a leg, felt another weight across her belly and lower torso from under the covers, knew that the Dreamy One had joined them shortly after Harry had asked for her.

She didn't know where the Red One was.

Her thoughts shifted anyway, the pulse of the Mark against her flesh tugging at her focus as she turned slightly, face nuzzled against sister-three, the one who felt like chill and pine.

Narcissa shivered, sucked in a breath, "you have to share."

Bellatrix grunted, "stop whining."

Narcissa snarled, an unlady-like sound, vicious. The bed jumped, magic rose around them, acutely, sharply raising goosebumps over Hermione's exhausted flesh. The weight across her belly whimpered. Bellatrix barked, enraged, hurt -

"Cissy!"

Narcissa purred and Hermione smiled into the flesh at her front as she was squeezed and held. "Don't get blood in the bed…big sister."

Bellatrix made an angry sound that melted into an almost dazed sigh and a curious mumble of, "if that blood curse didn't exist, you would not control me so…"

"Hush, big sister."

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"Tonight then."

"Tonight," Hermione mumbled, distracted. She had a smudge of ink across her nose, across her fingers, across her neck. Cute.

"Do you ever stop?"

"Let her be," Harry grumbled, annoyed, his head over a particularly difficult book to digest: Lordships, Titles, & Accounts by whoreallycared.

He didn't want to read.

He wanted to be wild.

He wanted to conquer.

He wanted to be complete, one with His lord in a way that went beyond sexual gratification - though he was thankful for that, for finally being cleansed, for being purged of his horrific sins by his Lord and his Lord's most faithful cock.

He shivered, licked his lips, shifted his green gaze to Draco, who shivered as his magic called to him coaxed him, touched him in a way only He could touch his followers.

But, weren't they one in the same?

"B-but… I wanted to play a bit of chess-"

"I hate chess," Hermione mumbled, nose almost touching the piece of parchment she scribbled on.

"You love chess," Draco sounded hurt.

Hermione's lips twitched in a smile but she repressed it.

"She needs to learn," Harry rumbled, voice low, luring. Draco twitched before he turned, chest heaving as Harry tugged on his magic, on his darkness. He took shambling steps toward him.

"M-my Lord," Draco whispered, lost.

"We can play something else instead."

Hermione didn't bother looking up from her parchment or the book opened to her left, some droll boring thing on properness and pureblood tradition next to a rolled-up scroll that looked relatively old and untouched.

"Thank you, Harry."

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"Hermione?"

She, the owner of that voice, was confused. That was alright. That made sense. She was alone and maybe a bit scared, even if her expression didn't show it. She was a Slytherin though, so that made sense. They were all about control.

But her magic. Her magic trembled, held tight, bound up in fear. She knew then, what Hermione was.

A catalyst of change.

"It's time for you to come home." Hermione sniffed, a hand gently on a picture of a youthful man, woman, and a young girl.

"I've prepared a room…"

She wanted this. Needed this.

The Locket pulsed with encouragement. The thing within her, the catalyst, told her this was the right thing to do.

Heat pooled between her legs and magic shifted within her, controlled by Him, controlled by the Locket. It swept against the walls, gentle and probing. It set up wards as the woman before her, older, tired, familiar and not, stood up abruptly from her seat, head tilted up, back straight.

Her magic trembled, curious, but still leashed.

Hermione smiled gently then shifted her gaze up, to the rooms hidden above her head, to the body… the magic, she felt there. The magic that wasn't as trained. Too curious. Too naive. It came when called and she hummed softly, knowing that the body above her was trapped now, writhing, manipulated by Hermione's magic, infected with the urge for darkness.

She wondered how long Nymphadora would be able to fight it. How long she'd hold tightly to the bed and twist and turn with furrowed brow and terror in her heart as Hermione invaded her, magically… so much more intimate that flesh-pleasure.

Andromeda kept her eyes upon her. Weary. She swallowed. Confused. Hermione's power pressed. She kept her out.

So strong…

"The Order is looking for you." Andromeda's wand was in her hand now, held tight by whitening knuckles. She flicked her gaze up to the rooms above them and frowned. Maybe she was curious about her daughter.

She wouldn't be coming down for a bit, unfortunately.

"Are they?"

"You and Harry and Ron-"

Hermione's eye twitched but other than that she only tilted her head curiously, "thought they might have been here. The Order."

It was why she had Draco outside, bubbling with eagerness, and Harry nearby, soothing her, pushing her forward.

"This is not…" Andromeda's voice trailed off and her head cocked to the side, a familiar thing, so very Bellatrix as her gaze darkened with the first signs of urge, deep pockets of black amongst lighter once brilliant eyes. She could, after all, only keep her out for so long. "... a safe house."

"No," Hermione whispered, understanding the twice-meaning beyond her words, "it isn't."

Andromeda was swift. Quick and practiced. She was a Slytherin and a Black to boot, no matter how domesticated she appeared in the Tonks residence. Her magic was explosive, a strike that slammed against Hermione's hastily raised shield that tested the power of her new wand - courtesy of one wand maker in the basement.

She didn't call out to Nymphadora and Hermione casually wondered why, even as she kept up her shield and Andromeda sent magic her way, calling it up from the depths of her core and letting it loose as she did so. But each time, each time, she opened herself up a little more.

"Bloody, fu-, Salazar." Andromeda grunted. She knew. She knew. That each spell she sent off as she backed up toward her kitchen was another small pocket in time for Hermione to push onward, physically and magically. But more than that, her heart was racing, her magic singing, and that small part of her, the Black-blooded part of her, rattled its cage and begged to be free, to be wild.

Hermione could feel it, crisp and sharp, like careful fangs while Bellatrix often seemed like serrated claws. Narcissa's, pointed and precise.

A hex splashed against her shield and thoughtlessly, as her Protego broke, Hermione cast a similar hex.

It was a little dark.

Andromeda deflected it though and grimaced, as if just touching the magic with her wand was…

Well, the wand was an intimate tool of the wizard or witch. Hermione had no doubt that Andromeda had felt her magic touch her. Somewhere. Deep within.

Above her, Nymphadora's magic stuttered, gripped-

"You're feeding off her." Andromeda blurted, gaze somewhat wide. Could she feel that? Were they connected on such a level? Or did Andromeda also have the sense, the raw nerves that carefully surveyed the ebb and flow of magic as it was crafted into pure intention? Either way her fear was there now. A mixture among unwanted desire, amongst the extension to match her power while keeping her own so pathetically Light.

Her core was not very well aligned to that sort of paltry magic.

Hermione smacked her lips, "A little."

Andromeda retuned fire and the force of the spell pushed Hermione back and made the bones in her arms tingle.

"O-oh…" Hermione huffed. That was…

"Fuck," Andromeda grumbled beneath her breath, startled by her own easy use of the spell and the vulgarity of her own language.

She seemed far more upset by the latter too.

Her magic shifted, greying. Andromeda swallowed, nervous.

"What are you doing? Why are you-"

"Here?"

Andromeda was reluctant to fight back, maybe she was afraid of unlocking that portion of her that had been subdued so long ago. Maybe she wanted to honor Ted's memory. Ted, who was dead, rotting somewhere.

"Come home."

She snarled. So fussy.

Magic moved. Harry…

"He's upstairs."

Now she grew pale, frantic, her head turned upward toward the ceiling, her breath came in pants. Terror. Now she looked wild, enraged. So much like her sisters. So beautiful too, in that very same way.

She snarled again, a vicious thing born out of more than just her irritation.

Hermione smiled.

The Locket pulsed.

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"A gift," Hermione chirped, joyous. She'd dragged her teachers into the receiving room, eager.

They both froze in the doorway, stunned, if a bit startled.

Bellatrix had her wand out before Hermione could even blink but Narcissa's magic was crazed, tight. It held Bellatrix very still, very very still, and pressed down, so heavy upon Hermione.

She moaned.

"Little Lady," Narcissa cooed, but her voice was not playful. It was… off. Restrained in the way only she could be restrained.

The bound Andromeda, propped up at the center of the room, squirmed, her gaze wide, her eyes shifting between her siblings.

There was longing there. Pain. Confusion.

Hermione smiled and brought her fingertips together, ink-smudged, "Yes, Cissa?"

Narcissa stepped forward and Bellatrix, with soft breaths, stepped after her, expression feral, her grin far too wide. "Did you bring us a gift?"

"Yes, Madam," Hermione bowed slightly, yet to undress from her battle-leathers and slacks. Harry and Draco stood against the wall, distracted - well Draco was distracted, absorbed by Harry's aura, as the other body shoved him playfully with a wild smile.

"Two gifts, really, but the second one is for me. He said so."

Narcissa nodded, she knew who He was.

"Bella."

The manic witch snapped her attention to her sister

"Take Hermione to our Lord. See to the second gift."

Bella licked her lips, eyes glassy, "But Cissy!"

Narcissa never raised her voice, "Go. Now."

She was too focused on Andromeda, who looked up at her and squirmed in her bonds. But she froze and held her breath when Narcissa slowly lowered herself onto Andromeda's bound lap, sitting across it with a gleeful smile and a smile that was anything but kind.

And still, she looked so childlike, so happy.

She leaned over, arms wrapped around her sister's neck and squeezed before she lifted her lips to her ear to whisper secrets and declarations of relief.

"I missed you so much," she mumbled.

Andromeda grunted, her mind was confused, one part of it whispered-she's sort of heavy now, heavier than last time, while the other portion panicked.

Hermione embraced her further with her power and Narcissa continued her whispering-

"We have much to catch up on, big sister. So much to bond over."

Then Andromeda's eyes closed, and she sighed, The Order's strings had been cut. Blood, especially curses, were just a bit stronger than despair and flimsy promises.

Hermione left her to it.

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Bellatrix held her, nuzzled her neck, bit along her flesh while the magic rode her, lifted them both, infused them with heat and longing. More. More. More.

She licked along the chain of the Locket, drew a gasp and a moan from her lips as fingertips groped her, desperate, both of them beyond arousal, both of them infused by the stimulation of heavy ancient magicks. She arched her back, felt heat roll through her belly, stabbing, slickening her core as Bellatrix groaned into her flesh and hooked fingertips against her hips.

"A-ah…" Hermione whimpered. Bellatrix had scratched her. The nerve… but the pain, sharp and sudden, only increased the power of the throb between her legs.

She was cruel, so very cruel, twisting fingertips around her clit, whispering about power, magic, their Lord, and driving her to heights beyond simplistic ecstasy. She was within her, twisting up her magic, toying with her most intimate places and shattering her mind.

Fingers brushed against her wetness, one finger… another, both within her, easing the tension, teasing that hot aching part in her belly -

A groan came from the slab of rock before them, illuminated by the light of the moon above and Bellatrix laughed, so completely at ease with what they'd done, at the rush of power, at their casual nudity and lunacy.

Luna, nearby, hummed appreciatively, standing over the body of worthless Muggle - and reminding Hermione that she was very glad she'd banished her own Muggles away, for she was still fond them (as if they were pets, more than parents) - and ignoring the blood that dripped down her front. Blood that had splashed against her pearly skin just as much as it had Bella's and her own.

She could appreciate the beauty of that but -

"She's up," Luna's voice whispered, her hand around a necklace, one rather familiar but defunct- a Time-Turner, "come here."

There's a sharp breath from the slab but the body moves, drawn to Luna, confused, and shivering and naked, her hair no longer pink so much as a mixture of soft reds and silver-fear and desire, Hermione suspected. She would need to learn a great deal about Tonks moods to control her, to train her.

Luna put the necklace about her neck and nodded, "perfect."

Tonks groaned, eyes closed, and Hermione moaned softly, felt the connection between them just snap. She had always enjoyed the other woman, so playful, and now…

"Come here." Hermione drawled one arm extended to her friend, who gazed upon her with parted lips and predatory hunger. Bella trembled, laughed into her curls. Ecstatic. Drowning, just as Hermione was, in the ecstasy of creating a horcrux.

Her first human horcrux.

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He didn't need to be resorted.

He didn't want to be resorted, even though Lucius, in a moment of inspiration, had suggested it.

It wasn't needed, to be fair.

His court had visited frequently during his sequestering. Introduced one by one through Draco and told to submit. If they did not… then he conquered, or Hermione conquered. They were one in the same. Both His. Both commanded by the soul shards that wriggled under their flesh. He suspected Hermione only kept the Locket for sentimental sake, she didn't need it now, surely.

Not when she was possessed, owned by Him and the catalyst.

So, they came, and they bowed, and they took His Mark if Harry thought them worthy enough. Or, if Draco begged prettily enough when they tussled and rutted. So, he knew, without doubt, that his house affiliation would change very little upon his return to Hogwarts proper. Still, there were some hiccups that had everything to do with an acceptance of change and nothing to do with his being a lion — no matter how dark.

"Parkinson is being fussy." Harry mumbled, "I want her soothed before we return to Hogwarts."

Hermione nodded, licked her lips, "Greengrass?"

"She's having a bit of a time settling in the new order, in the new thought, is all. Greengrass is fine. I'm protecting Astoria, she cares about that."

And Harry thought it only proper. He was a lord, wasn't he? It was his duty to protect, to gather his court and bind them in unwavering loyalty, so that his duchy thrived without contest or due to ill-management. And, even if it wasn't, He was pleased by his initiative, at least.

"A bit of pain then," Hermione pondered, bathed by the warmth of the sun above them and the magic they carved, like heavy lashes, into the Malfoy gate before them to send a humming pulse of their intent to those that occupied the space. Undeniable. Indisputable. Authority, "then pleasure, to bond the magic tighter…"

"Yes," Harry hissed.

"Yes," Snake-no-name hissed.

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Bellatrix didn't want them to leave.

Narcissa pouted.

Andromeda looked at her nervously, submissive, then tried to cover it up by closing her eyes and hiding her desires - Hermione figured she would have to be extra attentive when she returned to claim the last sister, but she might need a firm hand. She was rebellious and wayward, after all.

Tonks, her Nymphadora-crux, only swayed and bobbed her head, smiling- "Please, one more… ah… just one more. T-touch me again, my Lady."

And He, well… He told them He would come when called, that He and His most faithful were ready. That the war would end, even if their blood hummed from war-lust and a need to conquer, to consume, when all of them were ready. Complete. They bowed to him, understanding what didn't need to be said or taught.

Then they boarded the train to go to Hogwarts, intercepted with wand and sadistic sneer, only for the Carrows to see their Mark and switch to squealing and belittling. The proper thing to do would have been to leave them alone, she thought, since every tool had its place, and the Carrows were still a necessary function to Him, for whatever odd reason…

But they didn't, Harry more so than Hermione, who was feral and demanding in his need to dominate, to control. Who was irate from their interruption and displeasure at their language, which wasn't proper at all before a Lady, he'd said. But more than that, he was livid at their treatment of the children, the future soldiers of their shared Lord, who Harry loved with all his thumping heart and certainly wished little harm toward.

So, he kept them there, on the floor of the train, under his wand, exposing their secrets while she smiled at him — just a tad giddy from his exercise of authority — and prepared to leave the current car. The car with the downtrodden faces, who looked at him with mistrust and fear and hope, so much hope, that at least one of those emotions would end and they could be free somewhere else, even on another person's chains.

He was their savior, in that moment. Their beacon of light, and they watched him, greedy and worshipping, some sobbing, as he put the filth — the true filth — in their place and gave them a much-needed break from a Carrow specific sort of terror.

She left them to their admiration, even as Harry laughed softly and bid a first year forward — "You have to mean it, of course, and you should, they deserve to suffer for damaging you, all of you, when you are all of magic blood."— to exact a bit of revenge on the twitching twins.

She had other plans.

She found Pansy, who tried to avoid her, who muttered excuses and then hissed at her, denounced her blood status, yelled her confusion. Hermione muffled her, soothed her. She showed her just how little her blood mattered now that she was magic and wild - no, wilde. She stroked experienced hands along her body, heard her mind fracture and beg, felt her magic bend to her will… Hermione thought that she rather enjoyed her flesh, her pretty body, her sweet fear, her defining nose… she was growing into it. She thought that, perhaps, her Lord would reward her with another flesh-crux, another yielding body that burned eternally, just as she did.

She left Pansy spent, yet still yearning. She allowed Luna some fun and to provide her 'skinship care', her seneschal to the newly raised House Granger, soon to be Noble House Granger, if she was lucky and brilliant enough.

Harry was already holding court with The Circle by the time she had finished and left her commandeered compartment, the cluster of young returning heirs - Slytherin's really - purebloods fresh and eager to serve after the emergency Hogwarts hols.

Trapped before him, held by Crabbe and Goyle, red-faced, sneering, stood Neville. His chest bare as Zabini gently licked along his twitching neck and nipped at him. Draco sat in a corner, eyes wide, grin wider. He blurted out that Neville should obey, that House Potter was Most and Ancient, but that Potter was also heir to House Black, that Neville should serve, no - must serve.

Harry's power flexed, calling to her. She hovered just outside of the room, watching, curious. She enjoyed the way Neville panted, the way he flexed - he had grown muscle, in the short months she'd been gone - and how his eyes flickered as Harry tilted Neville's head back and whispered words against his parted lips.

When he started to swell, when his magic answered Harry's call, Hermione turned to continue exploring.

She'd spend time with their new dark lion too. Later.

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"I didn't find Ginevra."

"Do you think they sent her back?"

"Do they even have a choice about that?"

"He won't be happy, Pansy. We must do what he says."

"You think I don't know that? I'm not trying to upset anyone."

"So, learned you lesson, did you?"

"I... I…" panting, soft, confused.

"She got you good, didn't she? Our Lady?"

"Shut up," the second voice mumbled, dazed. "Keep looking for the Weaslette."

"And what will you do?"

"T-the urge. She's done something to me-"

"Oh no, I'm not going to be looking all over this castle for a blood traitor while you receive pleasure."

"But, Blaise - "

"Let's go!"

From the dark alcove, where her lips pressed against another's, where her magic conquered and feasted, Hermione smiled, even as Pansy whimpered.

Then another whimper grasped her attention, hot and heavy against her neck – "Please, please, please."

"Hush," Hermione mumbled, pressing closer. Rocking, grinding, teasing. "I've got you, Susan."

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He knew that Hermione was curious, that she wanted one more before she was finished. One more, to lord her control over, to show that she had conquered her weaknesses, her vulnerability, her bullies and fears.

Harry wanted it to be special.

"Here," he whispered, barely contained. His magic slipped beyond his control, stroked across the broad backs of the men that brought him this... This thing, this disgusting thing swaddled in pinks and wrinkled skirts, bound by magic and writhing like a worm on a hook. Indeed, she was on a hook he supposed, one that was hung up in the Room of Requirement, which had been transformed into his court, a space of intimacy, of magic, of Hogwarts' power pulsing in the walls in leyline ribbons of gold and red. In twisting colors of black and green.

He swallowed thickly, trying to tamper down his excitement as Crabbe and Goyle left her hanging there, twirling at the center of their room of couches and pilfered butterbeer - and one very old elfin wine Draco had been gifted by his mother.

With grunts the boys moved from his prize and shifted toward the couch. He flexed his magic, summoned those beneath his control and felt for her, his Lady.

"My Lord," Susan whispered, dazed and predatory, "do you have need of me?"

He could feel her needs and her foggy mentality. He knew that the idea of success, of being a good girl, had awakened darker desires. She'd thought briefly of Hannah, some innocent Hufflepuff, and he smiled at her gently as she beamed, pulled into his sincerity.

"I am very pleased, Susan. Thank you."

He meant it.

She curtseyed, as was proper, and then he turned from her as she quickly moved back through the door. Her interest was elsewhere tonight. That was fine.

When Hermione arrived she was laughing, her voice enchanting, her language relaxed. She had well and truly fed upon their shared court, no doubt, and enjoyed returning to their home with so much power, so much security. Zabini walked her in with a bit of swagger, her arm tucked into his own, while Draco slipped in behind him, Neville at his side, both of them discussing something that seemed suspiciously chess like.

It wasn't until Luna came in after them, tugging a distracted Astoria and Daphne in her wake, that he cleared his throat to catch their attention.

Granted, the screaming poorly gagged Dolores Umbridge strung up like a yule-tide turkey was doing a good job of that too.

Hermione gasped and stepped forward, hands covering her mouth, her body shivering in repressed astonishment. The boys in the space laughed with good-natured ribbing. Women and their gifts.

Harry only kept his attention on her, let her know that this. This. Was all for her. For them. For the scars carved into his flesh.

For the pain that would always linger in his heart at being denied and shamed.

She closed her eyes, overwhelmed, by the intensity of his own emotion he suspected. He shook his head. That wouldn't do.

He was gentle as he took her in his arms, as he turned her around to face the flushed and red Ministry official, who looked deliriously furious.

His court, their court, came closer.

Luna squealed with delight. Daphne hummed curiously. And Astoria took her Charms homework to a nearby couch with a distracted sound of mild interest.

"I didn't think… I was so sure we couldn't," Hermione whispered.

Harry nuzzled her neck, felt her pulse, and rumbled playfully, "The means are irrelevant. But, if you must know, the lovely Heir Bones used her connections and brought her here, to our boys, and then we prepared her."

Hermione swallowed, he knew she was holding back her war-lust, her need to express her loathing and disgust. He rubbed her arms and shushed her softly, motioning toward the table where Pansy lay, panting, prepared, ready. Her skin was damp with flecked red, her flesh held the appropriate runic symbols for a successful transmission of power and soul.

She whimpered and Luna moved forward to the table, gentle as she brushed sweat drenched hair from Pansy's feverish face.

Hermione cooed, "Beautiful…"

The boys in question held various expressions of interest, none of them particularly kind or gentle. Only Harry remained a statement in the space, loving and warm, and intoxicating against her back. "Let me get their drinks."

Hermione nodded then asked, "The gag?"

He gave a twitch of his wrist and it was gone.

Probably a mistake -

"You filthy miscreant. Dirty, horrendous mudblood wretch! And you, how dare you even stand in the same space as me, boy."

Hermione trembled, her breathing heavy. She was suddenly so very aware, aware of the boys as they poured their drinks, as their shoulders tightened as Dolores continued her rant. But more than that, they were enraged, their thoughts like angry rattles against her own mind, thoughts Harry mercilessly pushed toward her.

How dare this incompetent pig-

-doesn't even know the power of our Lord and Lady?

-She deserves to hurt. They all deserve to hurt-

-such a foul mood though, maybe she's a little hungry?

-should keep an eye on Longbottom, he looks ready to rip her throat out.

She smiled, centered, embolden. Back in control. She swallowed the need to slay her so quickly. She wanted this to last.

"My Lord, my Lady?" Greg looked uncomfortable and Vincent just sneered as he moved to take his own glass of wine, "should we, uh… gag her again?"

"No," Hermione answered before Harry could, "I want to hear it. I want to remember the scum here."

Then, removing herself from Harry's arms, she approached the swinging woman - who Neville had kicked in the bum to get that desired motion and so that the bindings holding her to the ceiling hook tightened about her with a particular sadism that left her looking like she was being squeezed far too tightly. A pig in a blanket.

Or something like that.

"Do you know who I am?" Dolores barked, apparently not in so much pain that she couldn't screech.

But Hermione only looked at her, nose wrinkled, as the Locket pulsed-

"T-t-THAT'S MINE!" She screamed, "you stole it?! Of course! Mudbloods, grubby little things. How are you even here? The registration committee-"

"Should be shut down, after today," Draco mumbled under his breath, irritated.

"Shh!" Neville hissed.

"Well it should," Draco retorted.

"Should have torn you asunder first!"

Hermione wondered how much breath one person could possibly hold, but the words of the other were barely relevant. Instead she felt the whispers, the eagerness, the hunger of the Locket, which she stroked before she looked to Pansy, who Luna was talking to as she leaned over her - whether the dazed twitching girl could actually hear it, was another story. "- not even that bad, really. The pain is cleansing. The sins forgotten. Very good, in this particular would-be. Very safe too, you won't explode or anything like that."

She took her attention from Luna and put it back to the woman.

"We don't want you in the reborn world," she said, and Harry nodded.

"She's rotten."

"Extremely." Neville snorted.

"Stupid too." Vincent croaked, smiling broadly, glad to not be the dull one in the room.

"A… bit thick?" Greg joined in.

"Yes." Draco said, taking a sip of his elaborate, if not unnecessary, goblet.

Zabini only had his attention on Pansy. "I don't want her to suffer more than needed."

Fair.

She'd been good, after all.

The girl on the table gasped then, squirmed in her bonds, as Hermione touched her with her magic. Soon…

"H-how are any of you… Why are any of you even here?! Allowing this? Letting this filth-"

Hermione lifted her hand, flicked up two fingers, and Dolores found her mouth opening impossibly wide. Her throat gurgled and Hermione took a brief moment to peek inside, just a little curious, before she rocked back on her heels and made another idle motion.

"Stick out your tongue."

She did.

Then, with a slow lick of her lips and an expression that was almost coy, she swung her hand downward.

Blood gurgled from Dolores mouth and she screeched while the men around her laughed and Harry, her sweet Harry, chuckled with mirth. Her tongue, now severed by her own teeth, flopped around pathetically, twitching from spasms and the magic that had held it captive before it stopped, while Dolores made her pathetic sounds of pain.

One deep breath.

Then another.

And heat filled her, so sweet.

She shared it with them, felt their bodies shudder, their desires awake. Draco moaned softly into his cup and Greg reached out to grip Vincent's leg tightly.

But the bulk of the sweet magic milked from Dolores pain went to Pansy, who arched as their connection, their true bond, began to build.

That's right. Take this gift.

She turned back to the woman, head tilted, enjoying the pain she drank and her tears that now came as she coughed and sputtered among the sounds of her terror.

"Is that enough?" Harry asked her, not touching her physically, but magically.

"It will never be enough. She got poor Mr. Tonks killed and I'd planned on gifting him to the Black family for vassalage."

Harry nodded sadly, "what a waste, I liked Mr. Tonks."

If she'd still had her tongue the former Ministry official might have had something to say about that. But she didn't.

"Slowly." Hermione whispered as she began to feel Pansy's emotions more acutely, her delirium, pain, desire, and need for her, a need that had slowly driven her to near madness since their return to Hogwarts. "I want to do this slowly. Don't let me rush it, Harry."

"More," Luna demanded, a little growl in the back of her throat as she massaged Pansy's shoulders.

"Yes yes, so greedy." Hermione mumbled before she lifted her hand and, without touching the dirty bloody woman, drew it down the length of her sleeve. Cut her, feed them, create for me.

And her flesh blossomed in red, her bone visible. She screamed. Pansy moaned, breathless and enthralled, and the boys shuffled closer, hungry, so hungry.

Except for Zabini who moved over to Pansy with a broad smile and caressed her trembling, sweat-slick belly.

"Told you this was a good idea. Pleasing them. Pleasing her. You're doing great champ."

Hermione only smiled as she heard something, something from her writhing gasping future flesh-crux, which sounded suspiciously like 'fuck you, Blaise'.

Harry laughed.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

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She couldn't be found because she hadn't wanted to be. She'd only come out, with her small resistance, when they'd coordinated with Severus - conquered, punished, and reborn through Dark Lord Harry's gracious nature, and His blessing - to capture Hermione's favorite professor.

She hadn't wanted her hurt. She was hers to do with as she pleased, and she had ideas, grand ideas, after all. One He had been pleased with, involving a fountain of youth and a test subject. Now, as she grinned sincerely at her angry professor, she felt the Locket pulse in affirmation.

"Professor?"

Harry addressed Sinistra, who breathed deeply and swayed a bit.

"Yes, Lord Potter?"

Hermione enjoyed the glazed expression she held. The heated adoration. They had made her suffer a bit, only touching, pushing to act through idle hints and pretend fears.

"I can see them on the horizon and our teams are in place. Take the Deputy-Head and go to the room we spoke of. Do not come out until we or a flesh-crux, comes for you."

She furrowed her brow, inhaled deeply.

Hermione gently touched her magic. Drew it out. It would obey, even if the woman wouldn't.

The professor shivered and nodded, expression serene.

"Yes, my Lord."

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They'd lost.

Not surprising.

They were children without a prophecy boy. They'd been adults and… well, other children with a prophecy boy.

It stung, the loss. The betrayal. It hurt, dug some hole deep within her being and carved into her, changed her. She felt somewhat deadened by it, no longer touched by terror or rage as she closed her eyes and thought back, back to when they'd been drawn out, her and her small group of Gryffindors. Dean had given her the information, and Katie Bell and Angelina had confirmed it, but she'd still been unsure.

Angelina had been antsy lately, sighing and distant. Maybe she missed her brothers, brothers that hadn't answered her owls.

Brothers that had told her to return to Hogwarts and prepare, to grow.

That had been… odd.

But furthermore, Katie seemed to always be touching Angelina. Telling her it was okay, that he understood. That they would do whatever he'd say, he was waiting on them, and would accept her-

Were they… still talking about her brother?

But the nail had been when Ron had returned. Good, faithful Ron, with a tight smile and flared nostrils and pain in his eyes.

"It's time. We have to…" He choked on something, air, emotions. He gasped and hunched over, mumbled —"They… I'm sorry I'm so late."

She had hugged him tightly, he had hugged her back, repressed a sob - "We heard intel that you had disappeared and.. .and when Harry and Hermione came back they…"

They'd been changed. Dark.

She'd trembled, unnerved.

"I made such an awful mistake." Ron hiccupped, overwhelmed, "It's my fault, my fault."

He didn't talk about it.

"We don't have a lot of time. We could run - "

"Run?" Dean had snarled, flexing, his magic felt… wild.

"Dean! It's fine. It's fine. We… we aren't going to run, Ron!" She had turned her glare to him, her tired glare, before she rubbed her chest.

She was so… tired, and something kept stirring within her. Something… hot but…

She shook her head and snorted. "We win or we die. What else is there to do?"

And maybe, if they won, the dreams she couldn't remember quite right would stop too.

He'd given her a watery smile and a firm nod. "Yes, let's… do it."

As they'd marched, solemn and quiet, through the woods to the space where McGonagall was said to be held, wands lit and

Ron at her side, he'd continued to mumble -

"S'all my fault. Such a bloody git. I can't believe this."

She wondered what he'd done.

She had expected Harry to be there, had expected the serenely smiling Hermione who waved excitedly and the Slytherins around him, confident, with the gleam of their fanaticism in their gaze.

What she hadn't expected was -

"Harry."

"Ron."

He sniffled, just a bit, before he shook his head, then whispered - "Expelliarmus."

And she jerked, lost her footing, as her wand flung out of her hand with such force that she'd nearly kissed the dirt. Instead she landed on her hands and knees, before she collapsed completely, held down by Katie and Angelina.

Well.

This was some shit.

"Harry!" Ron then said, joyous, longing in his tone. "I… I… they said, they said -"

Harry opened his arms, his own expression a match as the Slytherin's around him gave him some room, manipulated wordlessly by his magic. Magic that even crawled over her flesh.

Possessive.

She trembled as her brother stepped into the embrace and held him tightly, muttering, wailing.

"I was such an idiot, such an idiot! I would never… never leave, never doubt I… I shouldn't have. H-harry."

He was… undone, she had never seen him like that before.

That was what terrified her. Not the dark cloaks that stepped up behind them. Not Bellatrix, who roared with laughter at the sight of them, not Tonks who stumbled forward into Hermione's cooing embrace or the Dark Lord himself, who stepped over her and stood there, silent for but a moment…

Right until He looked down at her and smiled.

"Hello, Ginvera. I've been looking for you." He hissed while the massive snake about his neck curled around him, past the

Longbottom heir at his side, who looked fierce in a way she'd never seen before. Drunk on a power he'd found and cultivated.

When the tears finally fell, she didn't cry because she'd been betrayed, because Hermione was now hugging Ron's back and cooing sweetly, or even because the Death Eaters were now moving around her, marching forward into her home.

She'd cried because something in her clicked.

She'd cried because she'd understood Him.

And because, she'd missed Him.

"Tom!"

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

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She arched her back when she suffered, when she burned. Hermione thought that was so pretty, so gorgeous.

"She's really grown up," she mumbled, distracted as she slowly filtered magic, life-force, toward Harry, Luna at her front, Bellatrix on the couch with Andromeda, half-aware and cuddled against her. Clinging. Content.

Hermione smiled, knowing she held them all, now.

There was a groan at her feet and groan from the wide wooden table they'd brought into the receiving room - and Narcissa had put up such a fuss to, but they could clean later. Instead, she kept focus, pushing Zacharias Smith's very essence toward Harry while Luna toyed with the open wound on his belly.

"Do you suspect that these organs would provide proper protection from the misguided ones? They should hold residue magic. All of them should. Perhaps, we could make a stew too, out of these-"

"Luna," Hermione whispered, "don't touch that. Be a good girl now."

She shivered and nodded, moaned softly before she crawled, on hands and knees, so that she could push and nuzzle against Hermione's bare flesh, right where her sex was.

Bellatrix growled, encouraging.

Hermione kept her serene smile.

There was a hiss from the corner, twin hisses, one belonging to a pair of glowing yellow, the other to a pair of glowing red.

She hoped their show pleased Him. She ached to know. But that thought shattered when movement came between her legs. When Luna's tongue tentatively licked across her throbbing clit…

She needed to focus.

"He's almost gone." she gasped out, felt Luna's hands grip her arse and squeeze.

"Good." Harry mumbled, distracted, his hand holding onto one bound foot of a trembling woman, he's other hand was… was hurting. Carving, lightly slicing into flesh with Bellatrix blade - flesh that would heal eventually, in this instance, but she knew that would be due to the power of the wilde magic in Harry, not because the blade was benign. A voice, muffled, strained, keened highly. It was swaddled in pain. The flesh Harry abused was enveloped in agony and he gave the foot in his hand a little squeeze as he tried to soothe her.

"She'll be alright, won't she?" A voice croaked from the corner, rough, tired.

"Don't bother him," Draco sneered.

Hermione paid the boys in the corner little mind, concentrating on the feeling of the heavy pulse of her sex, gently teased by her second flesh-crux, while she also gave Harry what he needed from her.

His catalyst.

She shivered and groaned, pushing her magic out, making Bellatrix on the couch cackle, just a bit and Andromeda mumble and squirm.

She felt her third flesh-crux above her jerk, and she tugged playfully on Pansy, knowing the woman was busy being helpful in Narcissa's address to Katie Bell and Angelina's discussion on properness and pureblood honor. While her first, her most precious, hovered above the Malfoy gardens on a broom and prepared to recover one Charlie Weasley, her 'best chum', from her school tenure.

Because, Hermione wanted all her Weasley's in one place, and other than the twins, who had delivered Smith to them, with sly smiles and cruel laughter, there were still a few to report in.

She thought that, maybe, Narcissa would like Molly enough, once she was changed, and certainly Arthur would not disobey his

summons to court to take his lordship, as He commanded. Maybe Lucius could help with that.

But she was getting ahead of herself.

"Don't tell me what to do, you little slimeball."

"How dare you even-" Draco sputtered, almost at a loss for words. Almost. "Slimeball?"

There was the soft sound of shifting material, whatever couch Draco and Ron had shared was now pushed away, scratching against the poor wooden flooring while Andromeda winced, and Bellatrix snorted. Well, it wasn't her floor so-

They gripped one another, tussled, growling like animals-

"Boys." Harry whispered, his work delicate, his voice low, authoritative.

"Yes, my Lord." They both replied, soft, submissive, quiet.

"Go work off that energy. Out. I'm busy. I can't play right now." Yet, as they quickly gathered one another to leave the room, face flushed, eager for bonding, he mumbled, "Maybe some Quidditch after this will get you two to settle."

They scurried out faster, eager, dark magic trailing in their wake.

Hermione laughed, breathy, consumed by pleasure from her flesh-crux tongue.

"Hermione. Focus."

"Yes, my Lord."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

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It hurts.

It hurts.

So… so bad.

W-where am I?

A squeeze. Her foot. She could feel it. Heat. It spiraled up from his touch. She keened. She wanted to wail. To scream. But he'd done something. Repressed some part of her.

It hurts.

It hurts.

T-tom?

H-harry?

Her vision was blurred, her breath rapid. Someone's hand, Harry's… other hand? Gracefully worked on her flesh. Cutting. Slicing. It hurt so bad.

Then another squeeze to her foot and she shut her eyes tight as heat swam up again. Ravaged her spine. Made her squirm in her bindings, spread eagle on that cold cold table.

Oh… o-oh!

That felt… good.

But then the pain came back. Hot. Sharp. Agony.

While he cut, so meticulous and slow, magic swam through her. Her magic, she thought. It beat at her skin, it felt as if it were trying to… escape her. It slipped beyond her control, reddened her freckled skin and made her entire being feel tight. To tight. The magic wanted out. The magic wanted-

Another squeeze to her foot.

She keened again. Confused. Needy..

He cut again.

Pain.

It...hurts…?

Her belly ached, her sex felt slick, hot, alive.

Other magic pressed around her but she was disorientated, unable to tell who they were. Well, she could feel Him, all of Him, two… Hims? No, three. There was one inside of her too. Was it due to the diary? Had she been exposed to long? Had that sliver of Him been sleeping within her this whole time? When had she stopped being entirely herself?

Cut.

Squeeze.

Her thoughts scattered, returning to pain. Returning to need.

He chuckled, warmly. Her vision cleared, just slightly, and he looked at her. So… vibrant. She arched a bit, squirmed. Hot. She… wanted…

"That's it. I'm almost done."

A woman moaned behind him. Then another - no… no that was her. She moaned the second time. Hermione moaned the first. She felt him, Harry. Felt Him, the Dark Lord. Felt her, the Dark Lady.

O-oh…

"Break for me, okay?" He tickled a toe.

She… she giggled, then cried out, as the pain returned.

He didn't touch her, not her flesh. But he did touch her, with his magic. That was more invasive, more intimate. She could feel it slither in, stir her own, call to it until her blood was rushing, covering more of her body in it's red, and her nipples were hard and swollen.

Disorientation made it difficult to resist whatever… this was.

"There's already some of Him within you." Harry mumbled, glancing up as he traced over a thigh with the blade only to smile again. So warm, so loving. He was capable of it. He was His love, His raw potential, His determination. Hermione was His serenity, and His catalyst, His pragmatism.

She trembled, afraid.

She was His fire, His temper.

"Yes," Harry smiled knowingly, "good girl."

She sighed.

Wilde magick, olde magick, stroked her, soothed her.

"You will be apart of Him. Which is, obviously.., apart of me."

He made a face at that, something playful, as the sound of Luna's soft begging filled the space. A whisper, barely coherent, as Harry created an atmosphere of intimate agony around them. All she could see was him, all she could feel was him.

"But you should also have room for some of me."

He laughed then, it pulled something low in her belly, it made her pulse and clench, eager, bewildered.

"Which, I suspect, is just more of Him."

He shook his head and gave up trying to explain, but he didn't need to. She understood him, even in her delirium. He mumbled something in latin, his magic obeyed, touching her, sealing in Smith's life force, forcing her to accept his gift of generous magic.

She shook her head, to full, too hot, to slick.

"Let's bond, Ginny."

He parted her legs, licked his lips, and lowered his head. She moaned, body sore, tender from the carvings and her clit was so swollen, pulled into a practiced mouth. He suckled her, nursing. She gasped, misunderstanding the hunger that had been forced into her body. She shook her head, naive, a novice to flesh-pleasure and tugged at her bonds as he worked. His tongue, so agile, flicked gently, teasingly, against her very center and slowly, the sucks increased in power, in pressure.

It hurt, just a bit. Hurt just enough as he used his teeth to add a bit more pressure, to drive her a bit more crazed and she was so ready…

That sliver in her quivered from the ecstasy, it felt the shard within Harry, it felt the shard with Hermione. It begged to be completed.

That's it…

She couldn't tell if she was in too much pain or drowning in fever. Harry's fingertips were prying tentatively at her swollen lips, stroking along the slit, entering just a bit… but not enough.

More. More!

He pushed in then, one finger, felt her tightness and warmth, hooked it, dragged it back out… then back in again, just as slow, patient, so patient.

There was too much magic shoved into her small body, magic that was building and building, buzzing in her head just as powerfully as the heavy throbs that consumed her sex and her twitching clit in Harry's mouth. Just a bit more and it would be over. Just a bit more and-

Then Harry bit her.

And her world exploded in white.

And shades of black.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

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He let them do what they pleased.

He ruled from a throne built on power and ancient ability.

They enjoyed their little freedoms, worshipped him, and fed him.

They were the only ones allowed such a right. Well, they and the Black sisters, who had their own brand of wildness and self-abandon that he found somewhat adorable now that Andromeda had returned to her true elements. He supposed that Lucius and his son were good enough as well, claimed fiercely by his love.

He huffed softly. Harry was so sentimental, in his craving for family.

"My Lord."

He cocked his head, heard the flesh-crux, his and Harry's, slip over to him and settle, defiantly upon his lap. He allowed it, if only to feel the singing hum of her power beneath her flesh.

She gasped when he tugged on that power, took just a bit.

She squirmed and got more comfortable.

He spared her a quick glance, enjoyed the twist of his influence in her gaze, both his and Harry's and idly, he wondered, if

Dumbledore was pleased with what he'd done and the future he'd wrought.

Then, he thought, that Ginerva's hands were getting bold as she pressed them against the cold flesh of his chest beneath the wisp-like robe he wore and stroked.

"Harry…" she whispered.

Ah, that's right. His flesh-cruxes often interchanged names, as if they weren't individuals, as if they were all just pieces and variants of him, shells with personalities.

He directed a cold smile toward her, curious about their little game and enjoying the dynamic. "Yes. Ginverva."

She shivered and licked her lips, sighed as his magic brushed against her skin and wiggled a bit more on his lap. A foolish little thing she was, he held little in ways of desiring flesh-pleasure, but his magic held more intimacy than his current form did. He would stroke and enflame her passion and then she would run to Hermione or Harry to ease the ache he placed in her.

He liked that idea since they were all just pieces of him.

He made a sound, some cross between a hiss and a chuckle - like gravel underfoot – and went back to the scroll within his hand. He had court this evening and he really should see what sort of drivel Goyle Sr. was trying to pass now. Really, he was thankful for Harry and his own circle, which were much more manageable and a lot more interesting.

He wondered how soon Goyle Jr. could take his father's place.

"Very," Ginny whispered. "He's ready. Ready to serve. Always."

He smiled, one hand set to rest upon Ginny's thigh as he continued to read through the scroll.

Good, he'd have some use of him very soon.

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Pansy snored but that was fine, Bella did too, just a bit.

She left them both in bed before she stepped from her bedroom and into her suite, a space she shared with Harry, with Ginny, and often times Luna and Bella.

And all the rest of the Circle if she were honest. They were never too far apart from one another, not now.

Draco was already settled on the couch, waiting for them, a cup of tea and the morning paper in hand.

Venerable Lord Goyle Sr. Missing the headline said.

She knew where he was.

Greg knew too.

Ron was at the table against the corner, playing chess with Neville.

This was their common room, their court, held in Malfoy Manor. Narcissa wouldn't let them leave,

She promptly took a seat right on Draco's lap. He grunted for a moment, before he reached out to wrap an arm around her waist and adjust the paper to lay over her lap. She stared, sleepily, at the headline but thought little of it.

"Don't you think you should change?" Draco mumbled, distracted as he read the wizarding holdings over her shoulder, hardly paying much mind to the massive jumper she'd stolen from a recently recruited Theo Nott, and frowned, "Firebolts are really becoming rubbish-"

"-You take that back!" Ron blurted, Neville's laugh making his face red. Draco ignored him and instead kept his attention upon Hermione.

"I will. I want a bath though." She twirled a loose strand of Draco's carefully maintained hair.

He tilted his head for a moment before he nodded. "Of course. Come with me, my Lady."

"M-me too!" Ron stood up hastily, already sliding off his new outer robes while Neville rolled his eyes and Draco's hand twitched against her back, warm.

"You've already bathed!"

"So have you!" He stomped, a bit petulantly.

Hermione hummed softly, "That's fine... But be quick. Harry wants you today."

Because, they needed seven, between the three of them, to be closer to Him.

It was a good, stable, and appropriate number, after all.

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Dobby was unexpected. His presence, his existence, had slipped their minds.

He'd ripped into the space, a product of unchained magic, of wilde magic, feral and desperate because he hadn't been bound up, chained to service as he should have been.

Bellatrix was raving mad, he'd broken Narcissa's chandelier and she was fairly sure that would somehow be her fault.

Andromeda thought that was appropriate, since it had been Bella's spell that had gotten deflected into the ceiling, not her own, which she had been sure to fire toward the elf's feet. It also wasn't really her fault that it got reflected back at Bella and she'd thrown it into the nearby couch. She had no desire to be punished by an angry Narcissa for Bella's constant reckless behavior.

Which had then transformed into even more reckless behavior once the elf had been caught.

Maybe, if they hadn't been snarling at one another, wrestling like children on the ground and getting the carpet all messed up and bloody by wayward magic neither of them would have been caught.

Unfortunately for them they were both were, and punishment was swift. Narcissa's fury had been potent, vicious, and absolutely inconsolable. Hermione didn't see them for three days because of that.

So, it wasn't unusual that she was a bit angry with the house-elf, and by angry she was -

"Don't kill him, 'Moine." Harry sighed, tugging her away from the elf that was banging his head on the wall. "That's mean."

"I'll very well be mean," Hermione muttered, His influence inciting her. She knew that this was a bit cruel... that these thoughts were intense… but the catalyst was upset. It wanted… no, she wanted to feast, to have her cute collection of sisters available whenever she pleased. They belonged to her, hers to corrupt and grow and play with, just as surely as Lucius and Draco belonged to Harry with Rodolphus and Rabastan.

"He didn't know any better, I suspect." Harry said pleasantly, "and I did like him. Do like him, Hermione, please put down your wand."

She didn't want to though, but she did, for him, for Him... and with a unlady-like snort that Harry threw a mocking gasp at hearing she broke her spell of control.

"Mr. Harry Potter Sir," The house-elf, bruised and bloody, croaked and Harry gently grabbed the back of Hermione's neck before he squeezed it in warning.

She practically melted, that cheater.

"Good kitten," he murmured, right before motioning for Dobby to go ahead.

"D-d-dobby is good house-elf, sir." He had a bit of a snarl to his tone, a growl that ebbed with his twisted magic. "Much better than dirty mean Kreacher, sir."

"And yet," Harry said, stroking Hermione's pulse with his thumb, "Kreacher has been doing good service, keeping Malfoy Manor clean."

"B-but. But! But Harry Potter Sir, Malfoys are worse kind of wizards."

"They are my family Dobby," Harry smiled, but the warmth was gone.

"D-dobby… doesn't understand." he whispered, his big eyes doe-like, confused, "B-but! Dobby is here to rescue Mr. Harry Potter Sir!"

"I do not need to be rescued Dobby. I am home. With my family."

Dobby was quiet, torn.

"I would kill for my family, Dobby. I have in the past."

"But… the dark wizard is here."

"Yes. He is."

"A-and, bad Malfoys." He snarled.

"Good Malfoys. Now, anyway."

"They do treat their elves a bit better," Hermione mumbled.

"Better than you treated this one."

She didn't have anything to say to that.

"Dobby," Harry rubbed his chin with his free hand, but kept careful hold of Hermione with the other. He was thinking, she could feel his magic move curiously against her.

Maybe, of what had brought him here.

Maybe of their failed mission.

Their need to survive.

Their magic, so much more potent.

Their Lord.

Their freedom…

"Dobby," Harry said again, "I'm very free here."

"Mr. Harry Potter Sir is not free here. Mr. Harry Potter is stuck under bad wizard."

Or the illusion of it.

But Harry smiled, something genuine, bright.

He was happy.

And that made her incredibly happy.

"But, that was my choice. Not the Orders, not Dumbledore's, not even Voldemort's, at the end."

Because, he had shaken off some of the worst magic in existence. He could have fought. Tried harder.

He hadn't.

"I will continue to be 'stuck under the bad wizard', because that is my choice."

Dobby's floppy ears, a bit tattered - that was her fault - drooped low on his head, "T-then… Dobby is… "

Alone.

"But I also want to give you a choice, Dobby, to clear up the bad thoughts in your head."

He shook his head frantically, terrified, unsure. The bad thoughts, his bestiality, had probably consumed him for much for this time.

"Do you want to belong to me, Dobby? Do you want to work for me? You would not be free, but you would be…" He gave her a glance and she sniffed, "sane."

Or what would amount to such, for a house-elf.

"Because, you need to work Dobby, to serve. I am a powerful Lord, with magic to feed you. With work to keep you calm and happy. I care about you Dobby-"

"Oh, oh!" Dobby practically sobbed, "Dobby cares very much about Mr. Harry Potter sir-"

"Lord Potter, Dobby."

"L-lord Potter Sir."

Close enough.

"Then, do you want to serve my family, my court? Help me Dobby, because I need you."

But he didn't. What Harry wanted, what he needed, was so very different than anything anyone could actually provide him outside of their circle. Harry had needed direction. The Dark Lord would provide it. Harry had wished for salvation. His servitude would grant it. Harry had craved family and touch. Hermione had given him the means for an army of such. And Harry wanted, hoarded, power.

They would have all that and more.

He only needed Hermione. He only needed Ginerva. Draco, his second flesh-crux, Ron his third, and definitely his bashful Neville, the flesh-crux he'd helped Ginerva craft with glee and eagerness. That had been a memorable night for all three of them.

He didn't need Dobby, but he wanted him, because he had love and ambition. Because, well, a young dark lord did need a loyal house-elf and he had the means to make Dobby one. So, Harry hugged the house-elf to him, encouraged him to obey and be loyal, wrapped the spell around them that bound him to Harry's will, that shifted his personality to match Harry's good choices.

And she was insanely satisfied by that.

They were finally complete.

And now the world could burn.