Satisfaction
It was three in the morning, the wind lashed against the brittle walls and rain dripped eerily into the chamber of horror that Lord Voldemort occupied. The Dark Lord had risen and was growing ever stronger in his cocoon, aided by the news of one of his loyal servants.
Rowan Lennox had been there since her meeting with Harry Potter. The poor boy had fallen for her and her plan.
An acrid stench like paint stripper caught in Rowan's throat as she got closer to Voldemort. He slid his thinning eyes over her, maliciously taking in every inch. She was the one who would win where all others failed.
"You're sure he bought it?" He asked apprehensively, smoothing his scaled hand through her soft hair. She did not flinch, but smiled.
"No, my lord," She began slyly, "But he will." The grip on her head contracted, the Lord's forehead creased into a disapproving frown. He was not satisfied.
"My red one," Each word was spat out coldly. "I asked you to win him." Rowan could feel his nails digging into icily her scalp, but she stood her ground.
"It will take time, my lord." He pulled her head back sharply at her words, until she could feel her bones elongating in bitter defence. He glared into her eyes, taking in their contents.
"Time?" He asked severely.
"Yes." She mouthed, her face too taut to blink. The hold relaxed and the Lord's anger diminished.
"Very well." He murmured, releasing the scullion. As much as Voldemort needed the boy, he would not deprive himself of Rowan. She was far too profitable. No, it was much better to let her get on with it. Although he would need someone to maintain a close check on her. It was then that his mind settled on the mortal.
"You're in luck my dear." He began shrewdly. "Your Lord is never so merciful. Give me your hand." He reached down for Rowan's left arm, leering at the confused look on her face.
Meticulously undoing the sleeve's button, her pushed the fabric away. Glowing guiltlessly on the skin was their sign. A bold, bloody red skull with a snake writhing from its mouth lay there, aching to be touched. He extended his pale finger and pressed it onto the brand.
Rowan looked away sharply, a white-hot streak of hate shooting up her arm. Her body convulsed involuntarily as he withdrew. The scar was now burning jet black, the flesh throbbing.
"There." He whispered to her. "Start counting, my red one."
Rowan, who had swallowed the urge to shriek and renounce the cause of her suffering, had no idea what he meant. Lewd images stained her spinning head, still sore from her master's fingertips. Just one touch could send into spirals of agony, yet she still followed him.
She longed for a sleeping draft. Her eyes willed her mind to close down for the night. They were sick of witnessing the terror he inspired. Why did she put herself through it?
However her subconscious jerked into viability as a figure materialised before her.
The tall, broad shouldered frame and glinting locks were instantly recognisable. His hand cradled the silver staff he had used on her only nights before. And slowly, like the deliberate dripping of rain, Vodemort's punishment dawned on her.
A/N: Hope you like, do review, it makes writing so worthwhile :)
It was three in the morning, the wind lashed against the brittle walls and rain dripped eerily into the chamber of horror that Lord Voldemort occupied. The Dark Lord had risen and was growing ever stronger in his cocoon, aided by the news of one of his loyal servants.
Rowan Lennox had been there since her meeting with Harry Potter. The poor boy had fallen for her and her plan.
An acrid stench like paint stripper caught in Rowan's throat as she got closer to Voldemort. He slid his thinning eyes over her, maliciously taking in every inch. She was the one who would win where all others failed.
"You're sure he bought it?" He asked apprehensively, smoothing his scaled hand through her soft hair. She did not flinch, but smiled.
"No, my lord," She began slyly, "But he will." The grip on her head contracted, the Lord's forehead creased into a disapproving frown. He was not satisfied.
"My red one," Each word was spat out coldly. "I asked you to win him." Rowan could feel his nails digging into icily her scalp, but she stood her ground.
"It will take time, my lord." He pulled her head back sharply at her words, until she could feel her bones elongating in bitter defence. He glared into her eyes, taking in their contents.
"Time?" He asked severely.
"Yes." She mouthed, her face too taut to blink. The hold relaxed and the Lord's anger diminished.
"Very well." He murmured, releasing the scullion. As much as Voldemort needed the boy, he would not deprive himself of Rowan. She was far too profitable. No, it was much better to let her get on with it. Although he would need someone to maintain a close check on her. It was then that his mind settled on the mortal.
"You're in luck my dear." He began shrewdly. "Your Lord is never so merciful. Give me your hand." He reached down for Rowan's left arm, leering at the confused look on her face.
Meticulously undoing the sleeve's button, her pushed the fabric away. Glowing guiltlessly on the skin was their sign. A bold, bloody red skull with a snake writhing from its mouth lay there, aching to be touched. He extended his pale finger and pressed it onto the brand.
Rowan looked away sharply, a white-hot streak of hate shooting up her arm. Her body convulsed involuntarily as he withdrew. The scar was now burning jet black, the flesh throbbing.
"There." He whispered to her. "Start counting, my red one."
Rowan, who had swallowed the urge to shriek and renounce the cause of her suffering, had no idea what he meant. Lewd images stained her spinning head, still sore from her master's fingertips. Just one touch could send into spirals of agony, yet she still followed him.
She longed for a sleeping draft. Her eyes willed her mind to close down for the night. They were sick of witnessing the terror he inspired. Why did she put herself through it?
However her subconscious jerked into viability as a figure materialised before her.
The tall, broad shouldered frame and glinting locks were instantly recognisable. His hand cradled the silver staff he had used on her only nights before. And slowly, like the deliberate dripping of rain, Vodemort's punishment dawned on her.
A/N: Hope you like, do review, it makes writing so worthwhile :)