Her chestnut hair was tangled and dirty, but it still managed to gleam and look just like silk. Her filthy white clothes hung loosely on her, yet he could see her gorgeous figure well underneath. Her small hands tugged gently at a strand of hair, twirling it thoughtfully.
But the most amazing were her eyes. In all the other prisoners their eyes seemed dull, all the colour gone from them. When you looked they would stare back blankly. But her chocolate eyes were still full of fire. When anyone made eye contact, she would lift a perfect brow, as if asking what they were looking at.
She took punishment easily. With each stroke of a whip on her back, or scalding metal on her hip, she would just stand there, her face blank. Sometimes she would examine her nails, picking little pieces of earth out from underneath them. She was… extraordinary.
Not even magic would make her scream. He put her under the cruciatus curse, and when he did, he controlled all his magical energy into it. Yet, not a single sound could be drawn from her lips.
Sometimes at night he could hear her voice. She would sing, oh so softy, and he always found himself straining, desperate to hear more. Her calm melodies would sooth him.
Many times, rich came to buy Mud-Bloods, but she never went with them. Every time a buyer approached, she would roll her eyes back into her head and start humming way of pitch, one hand scratching her thigh and the other clawing at her face. The buyers would leave in a rush, and as soon as her cell door snaps closed, she would smirk.
He was not stupid. He knew she wasn't mad. He knew everything about her. He would observe her carefully, and when he did not have a chance to watch, he would re read her files. Again. And again. And again. You could call it an… obsession.
She was smart. She knew how to get the guards to bring extra food and water. She could easily get them to bring her a washcloth. She did this about once a month. He knew she did it, but made no move to stop her.
Her pale skin shone in the moonlight that the tiny window on the top of her cell let through. Her beautiful neck was exposed as her head tilted back on the mossy, cracked stone wall. How he longed to see his locket swing gently there, before resting just beside her heart.
He was standing by her cell one day, watching her sleep, when she started mumbling. He leaned in and heard her murmur: "Harry. Oh Harry. Harry."
It was the blasted boys name over and over again. Red hot furry boiled up inside of him, wanting to be released, begging to curse somebody. Mine. All seven parts of his soul screamed.
The door was blown of its hinges as he prowled into the room. She jumped as the door hit the wall, and her eyes widened at the sight of him, ready to kill. His red eyes were literally on fire as he advanced. She scooted back, shaking, putting her hand up. He loved that he could make her cower. He wanted to control her.
He put a hand on either side of her head, caging her in, no escape possible. He leaned in close, so that his nose, which was finally starting to reappear, was nearly touching hers.
"Potter," He murmured. "Is dead." And he crashed his lips to hers. It was by no means gentle. It was possessive. She tried to push him away, but he didn't budge. He snaked an arm around her skinny waist and hoisted her up, crushing her soft body against his hard chest.
She didn't kiss him back, and kept her mouth sealed shut. He growled, and sunk his teeth into her bottom lip. He swallowed her gasp and shot his tongue in. She whimpered and tried clawing at his face. He took both arms and pinned them to the wall.
She cried out, struggling harder as he nipped and sucked at her skin on her jaw. He traveled down to her throat and bit down. She thrashed against him, and he lifted her up, grinding his hips into hers. She tugged at his jet-black hair desperately, trying to pull his face away.
He hissed at the stinging sensation in his scalp, and bit down harder. He tightened his jaw, almost like a snake holding its prey in place. She was his prey. His precious.`
Forgetting he even had magic, he ripped the tattered shirt off her, and her breasts bounced, the rosy nipples stiffing as the cold air hit them. She shrieked, and he loved it. Finally he had made her scream.
His caught a rosy bud in his mouth and sucked hard. She moaned, still trying to push him away. His stiff member begged for attention. He pulled her shapeless pants off, and she had started beating him with her fists, tears of frustration pouring down her face. She stiffened as he ran a finger along her sex.
He drew a ragged breath and disposed of his pants without loosening the grip he had on her. He pulled out his aching manhood and lined her up, his tip just above her entrance. She shrieked, thrashing, trying hard to pull herself away. He had wanted this for so long.
"Beg me to stop," He murmured hoarsely, burying his head in he crook of her sweaty neck, inhaling deeply. She said nothing. "Beg me if you want me to stop." He hissed. She drew a ragged breath.
"I'm not begging for you." She growled, and he smirked.
"My little vixen." He groaned, and prepared to thrust. He was so close to her warmth. So close…
"Milord?" A startled voice came from the broken door, and Vodemort saw red. He spun her around so that his follower could not see what only he was allowed to see. With a wave of his hand he was dressed, and so was she. Only this time she had on a comfy green sweater that went past her knees. It was one of his own.
He spun around, murder in his heart.
"What Robinson?" He spat, and Robinson slunk back, terror etched clearly on his long, horse like face.
"The A team has returned my lord." He whimpered. Nostrils flared, the dark lord nodded.
"In the meeting room. NOW." The minor Death Eater sprang up the narrow steps. Voldemort turned back to the still shaking girl. He leaned down next to her, gripping her shoulders so that she could not escape.
"I will get you, my dear. You will be mine." He hissed in her ear, and then he stood up. He repaired the door with a wave of his hand and with another a sofa, rugs, a fireplace, quilts, and pillows appeared. "Make yourself at home until I collect you."
And he left; already planning ways he could kill Robinson so that it would be as slow and painful as possible.
A/N: So, who do you think the girl is? I already know who I want it to be, but Id like to know whom you guys think it is. What do you think? I feel sort of bad for poor Robinson. This chapter was fun to make. Poor girl. She was saved there, but luck can't keep Voldemort away forever. Review? It would help me get going. I'll update real soon.
Bye my lovelies!