There is something inherently powerful about making a girl cater to your every whim, whether sexually or otherwise.

You are my own personal sex toy, Weasley. If people tell you something time and time and time again, you start to believe it. My father's been telling me I alone control my destiny for years now, but it's not just me, is it, my lovely? I control your destiny also, each and every night, when I climax into you, when my seed enters the cavern that was once untouched, when the tears slip down your freckled face and onto my arms that cage you on your own bed.

I would never tell you out loud, but I have been looking forward to this all day, to have you under me, fighting the urge to claw my eyes out with your dull fingernails, chewed to the tip out of anxiety. The thought of being the master of one other person gives me a high without even employing a narcotic. And then I get to ejaculate into you – you, who is always open for me. You, who will never say no. You, who hasn't experienced autonomy in eons for some mistake your blessed mother made.

This walk to Gryffindor Tower always does me a world of good. A little workout before the real workout starts. You don't want to be there under me, you don't like it when I touch you. If I never speak to you again, your life would be splendid, you once told me as I moved on top of you, in and out of you, as you turned your head and looked out the window, the moonlight the only luminescence in your dormitory that night.

You dread the nighttime, Weasley, I know. You associate me with the dark. When the sun sinks, so does your heart, as you know I am sure to arrive.

Remember, though, that light is nothing more than the absence of darkness – but I never leave you, do I?

I am in the back of your mind whether or not I am there. You look around to see if I am tailing you with Crabbe and Goyle, as we laugh about what power I must possess to turn the cherished Weasley daughter into my own personal prostitute.

You whore yourself out to me, you know this. Instead of money changing hands, though, its promises. And as an upstanding young Prefect, I keep my promise not to tell the world about the errors in your mother's judgment. Not to tell the wizarding world that there is a bastard out there, sharing half of your genetics. 

I turn the corner to the Tower. I am ready for you to lift your nightdress and lift your modesty. I am ready to touch you and taste you and feel you and scare you and fuck you.

I am ready.

I can see the portrait, the Fat Lady in the pink dress glares at me as usual. She knows what we do, but as far as she can tell, it's perfectly innocent.

Trust me, anything - or anyone - I do is rarely innocent.

You aren't there to let me in. I am an impatient man. If you do not appear in five seconds, Weasley, so help me - -

"Where is she?" I ask.

"She left this morning. I doubt she'll return," the Fat Lady replied, somewhat sad. "Not sure why though."

You fled Hogwarts?

"She left a note for you," the Fat Lady tells me tersely. "On the floor underneath my frame."

I see it, a piece of parchment that says "Malfoy" in loopy scrawl I assume is yours:

"You keep your word, and I will keep mine. I have your seed of evil growing in me and for that, I will forever live in the nighttime. The damage is done."

And I smile.

~*~FIN~*~