A/N: The completed Chapter Five -- Thank you for your patience
Dedicated to Lyntek
V. Intellectualism
The library is on the fifth floor of the Fides Solarius. Simple chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting a soft glow onto the books. The core of the library is set up like a Grecian symposium -- A series of chaise lounges covered in Monroe paisley (a garish gold and burgundy textile) arranged in a circle. A copper fountain stands in the center -- Fine Merlot pouring from the spickets.
Severus sits at the head of the congregation. A pair of glasses is perched down on his nose as he peruses through a book: Formal Education and the Dark Arts, a study by Igor Karkaroff. He underlines a few sentences with a quill, biting his bottom lip in contemplation. He fidgets slightly -- His outfit is unusually constricting this afternoon. The smoky brown bodice is boned to ensure perfect form and posture and even the skirt is straight- lined and simple. His hair is pulled back haphazardly into a bun at the nape of his neck.
I turn back to my text, afraid that I might be caught staring.
Ron Weasley sits next to me, skimming through a Quidditch magazine frantically. He mutters "damn" under his breath once or twice -- Undoubtedly another Chudley Cannons defeat.
"Who won the League Cup?" I whisper.
"The Falmouth Falcons again," Ron sighs mournfully, shaking his head. "They're bloody violent, that bunch."
A few more moments pass in contemplative silence.
"You may put your books away," Severus finally states, placing his volume on the floor. "The purpose of this next exercise is to teach you how to engage others in conversation. A Debutante should be intellectually stimulating and cultured. You must be well-informed in numerous subjects: Magical skills, traditions, history, and, most importantly, politics."
"Politics?" Ron asks, obviously puzzled. "Why would we need to know about politics?"
"Debutantes have an active political role," Severus says sharply. "But this is neither the time nor the place to discuss that matter. Now who would like to share what they read?"
"The bleedin' Falmouth Falcons won the League Cup again," Ron mumbled.
"Mister Weasley, please do not use the words 'bloody' or 'bleeding' in a conversation." Severus closes his eyes, trying to invoke all of the patience he possesses.
"The Falmouth Falcons won the League Cup," Ron says, correcting his speech. "I wanted Chudley Cannons to win this year. They haven't had a winning streak since 1972 after all. Joey Jenkins is a wicked beater though, least that's what I think."
"No 'wicked' either," Severus states. "Joey Jenkins is a capable beater. Although your language skills are somewhat lacking, your enthusiasm is laudatory, Mister Weasley."
"However enthusiasm will not bring you a sponsor."
Lucius Malfoy stands in the doorway, erect and deathly proud. Severus automatically rises to his feet and smoothes out any unseemly wrinkles in his gown. He removes his glasses and tucks them into his sleeve. Severus curtsies as an afterthought, remembering Lucius' position as a Death Eater.
"You look more the Ravenclaw, Severus," Lucius comments. "Tucked away in the back of a library . . . It's no place for a Szajha. You were created for the bedroom. Formed for the sole purpose of having a man spread you out beneath him . . ."
"Lucius, I don't believe you will ever have that pleasure," Severus states, a smile creeping over his lips. Lucius looks flustered for a moment, not knowing what to say to the impertinent young Szajha.
"I've come to call on you, Severus," Lucius finally declares. "Your presence is requested at an informal celebration tonight. Just a couple of friends and a few bottles of wine . . ."
"Oh, how innocent you make it all sound, Lucius." Severus laughs mirthfully. "Best to take what you want in the present."
"You cannot tempt me, Severus."
"Can't I?" Severus asks, arching an eyebrow questioningly.
*****
True to form, Severus calls me into his chambers that evening. When I arrive, he's sitting at his vanity in the corner, primping himself with the careful precision of a woman. The jewels trimming his eyelids catch the glow of the candlelight, temporarily blinding me. When my sight finally returns, Severus is standing, blotting his lips on a handkerchief. For a moment, I'm tempted to toss him down onto the pillows and have my way with him . . . But I cannot. I never realized until this moment just how destructive this entire experience has been for me. I envy the boorish masculinity of the Death Eaters. I can never be the man that the Szajha needs. I am only a Debutante which is a different thing entirely.
Severus glances at me out of the corner of his eye and smiles.
"Do you feel up to going to a party tonight, Harry?" he asks, fastening a necklace around his throat. "I feel that tonight would be a good opportunity for you to be informally introduced to public life. Would you like that?"
"I suppose," I reply, shrugging in a noncommittal manner. I glance down at the hem of my nightgown. "I'm not really sure what being out in public entails."
"There's nothing to it, Harry," Severus states with certainty. "I assure you. When you meet a Death Eater, you curtsey and pay them the necessary respect. You remember from lessons?"
I nod in confirmation -- Of course I remember.
"There will be some light conversation -- Discussing popular pastimes, various acquaintances, and politics. Try to participate in any conversation about popular pastimes but, if you don't feel comfortable, you may remain silent. Never engage in conversation about acquaintances -- It is not a Debutante's place to pass judgement . . . or to make enemies. And, while you will have a chance to speak on the subject of politics, I suggest that you don't dive into that terrain immediately. You haven't had enough training. If anyone asks you to dance throughout the evening, accept the offer. However, if anyone tries to touch you intimately, just motion discreetly and it will be taken care of immediately. I'll be watching you closely. You have nothing to worry about."
"Alright," I sigh, sitting down on the edge of Severus' bed. "If you're sure about everything . . ."
"It will be an educational experience for you," Severus comments. "However, you're slightly underdressed." He glances appraisingly at the cotton nightgown. "But we can remedy that."
Severus strides over to his wardrobe and begins picking through it. He's wearing midnight blue this evening -- "More the Ravenclaw," as Lucius Malfoy said. The facet of the gown that draws my attention is a bustle gathered in the back -- A full bustle trimmed with clumps of silk flowers. It's a spectacularly romantic article of clothing.
The Szajha finally pulls an outfit down from the wardrobe -- A mass of crimson taffeta.
"Try this one," he commands, handing me the gown. I slip into the changing room and draw the curtains.
The changing room reminds me of the pavilion in a way. It's a small space enclosed by a series of white curtains. Chinese paper lanterns hang from the ceiling, illuminating the otherwise dim area, making it seem intimate and warm. A full-length mirror stands in the center. I undress quickly, throwing my nightgown in a corner. The gown is slightly difficult to get into -- It has these small buttons going all the way up the front. The skirt is full though -- Giving me plenty of room to move around, giving me the freedom that I desperately crave.
I sidle out of the changing room. Severus is in the middle of his chambers, sorting through various pairs of earrings. I clear my throat, trying to get the Szajha's attention. He catches sight of me and all movements cease. For a moment, he's just looking at me -- Examining every trait, every movement, every aspect of my being. In a way, it makes me uncomfortable -- Like I'm some figurine on display. But, at the same time, it also makes me feel appreciated, even loved.
"You look outstanding."
"Thank you Severus," I murmur. He beckons for me to come over and I immediately perch myself on the bench in front of the vanity. He reaches over and picks up a hairbrush -- Silver plated and engraved with a message that I can barely make out. He mutters a few incantations and begins to gingerly brush my hair. My eyes focus on that hairbrush, trying for the life of me to read the inscription. Finally, when the light catches it in the right way, I'm able to make out the words:
Beauty is a form of genius -- Is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts in the world like sunlight, or springtime, or the reflection in dark water of the silver shell we call the moon.
The quote is attributed to Oscar Wilde, the infamous muggle author. Below that, scripted in ebony, is an ornate V. I have no idea why but my breath catches in my throat at the sight of that letter. That one letter, coal black against silver . . .
Severus finishes his work and draws the hairbrush away from the back of my scalp. I have this peculiar feeling that I'm heavier -- That everything has been weighed down. I then notice the layers of hair curling around my waist. Coiling strands of bay-colored hair . . . And I've never felt more violated than I do now. The burden of forced femininity, forced subservience, weighs down upon me.
I cannot stop myself and I don't try to. I allow the tears to fall freely -- To fall for all that I have become and to fall for everything that I will never have. I allow myself to sniffle and mewl, allow my body to shake with the force of my sobs. Severus makes no move to comfort me or to correct me. He simply stands to the side while Harry Potter, the Debutante, mourns the passing of Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived.
When I've quieted down, Severus approaches me and kneels by my side. He takes my hand in his, holding my fingers to his lips for a moment. His eyes close and, one by one, he kisses the pads of my fingers. He doesn't owe me his subservience, I think to myself. Yet he kneels there, showing his affections.
"I know it's difficult," Severus whispers. "Your entire identity is stripped from you in the course of a few days and you have to redefine yourself. In 1975, I was this homely snip of a boy who spent all of his free time in the potions laboratory. No one had ever shown me love or affection, I had certainly never known sexual gratification. The closest I came to happiness was sneaking out of Hogwarts on occasion to visit Lord Voldemort. It amazes me when I think that those were the Years of Terror. The Years of Terror and I spent my Sunday afternoons drinking brandy and discussing magic with the Dark Lord himself." Severus smiles nostalgically. "It was upsetting when, in 1976, I realized that I had become the most desired individual in Voldemort's service. You can imagine my inexperienced fumbling the first time Lucius Malfoy came to me . . ."
"Draco treated you with respect . . ." I sniffle. "Why did Lucius seem to be insulting you this afternoon? He made you sound like a whore."
Severus' fingers clench around my hand and I realize that I've upset him. His eyes burn with unspoken frustration. He rises to his feet and roughly brushes his gown off with the palms of his hands. He retrieves a stick of kohl from the vanity and he begins outlining my eyes, blotting and smudging the color. "You will soon find that different members of the public hold very different opinions of the Debutantes." He takes up a pot of ruddy paste and uses the tip of his finger to smear the coloring along my lips. "Some opinions are more hostile than others." He steps back and appraises his work.
"One thing is certain," he says. "You will do magnificently as a Debutante."
*****
The first thing I notice, upon entering the party, is that I recognize almost everyone in the room. They are mostly children I went to school with -- Newly inducted Death Eaters. Marcus Flint, the infamous Quidditch captain, is among them, along with Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Blaise Zabini, and Graham Pritchard.
Lucius Malfoy is present along with some of the elder Death Eaters -- the Lestranges, Walden Macnair, Augustus Rookwood, and Igor Karkaroff who has managed to rejoin the fold after defecting. All of them are people I became very familiar with during the war. I repeat their names to myself. Somehow naming them, remembering who they were before this moment, gives me power over them.
Draco Malfoy is missing from the entourage.
Severus doesn't waste time -- He strides over to Lucius Malfoy and curtsies deeply. "My Lord, I appreciate your invitation and . . ."
"Don't bother with the formalities, Severus," Lucius says, his voice strained with impatience. "How long have we known each other? I believe we're past that point by now . . ."
"You know protocol, sir," Severus replies, rising gracefully. He acknowledges the rest of the Death Eaters with a nod and they all greet him -- "Good evening Szajha."
"Did you ask me here tonight for a reason, Lucius?" Severus asks, his lengthy fingers playing with the silver buttons on Lucius' jacket. He twists one around -- Once, twice . . . And then rubs the pattern engraved into the metal. I would recognize that design anywhere -- The Malfoy family crest. How pureblood of them . . .
"Don't flatter yourself, Szajha," Lucius sighs, feigning ennui (even though he stiffens whenever Severus touches him). "I called you here to discuss Draco's sponsorship. He seems to have taken a shine to one of your Debutantes . . ." Lucius glances at me and I recoil slightly. "I objected to it at first . . ."
"Of course you did," Severus mutters under his breath.
"But if my Draco wishes to sponsor a Debutante, he shall have a Debutante. I want to finalize all temporary agreements here and now. Final agreements will be dealt with at a later date."
"Reasonable requests," Severus states, arching an eyebrow in disbelief. "Very well. We shall take care of that tonight . . ."
"Providing that it suits the tastes of the Debutante, of course."
I turn around to discover that Lord Voldemort has been observing this exchange. His lips are set in a bemused smile, his hands are clasped behind his back.
"Of course, my Lord," Severus insists, sliding into a deep curtsey. While he is still bent low to the ground, Voldemort gently brushes the loose hairs away from the Szajha's face, cupping the sharp chin in the palm of his hand. It fascinates me -- How they can be salaciously intimate in such a public setting. Severus rises to his feet, grasping Voldemort's hand tightly.
When Voldemort catches sight of me, his eyebrow arches slightly -- Obviously, he thought that the Debutante being bartered over was one of the others -- Maybe Justin Finch-Fletchley or Colin Creevey. He pauses for a moment before speaking again.
"Child, are you agreeable to this proposition?"
I swallow deeply, rubbing my sweaty palms on the bodice of my gown.
"I am undecided, my Lord," I answer.
"Lucius, if I may borrow our young Debutante for a moment?" The request is a kindness -- Everyone knows that Lucius has no choice in his response.
"Of course, my Lord."
*****
He leads me to a spare chamber, adjoining the ballroom. It appears to be an ode to the Grecian architecture -- A vaulted ceiling held up by Corinthian pillars, all carved from flawless ivory. A marbled floor chills the soles of my slippered feet. There's something unsettling about the sterility of the room -- A cold detachment of sorts. The furniture in the room is scarce -- A silver-plated sink in one corner, a stack of white towels in another. Peacock green curtains shield the center of the room from intruders.
Carefully, Voldemort draws the curtains aside and leads me into the inner chamber.
A bed. The only piece of furniture contained within the curtains is a bed, albeit an extremely well crafted bed. Two platinum serpents entwine around one another, creating the headboard. A light duventine fabric covers the mattress. Voldemort sits down on the edge of the pallet, unbuttoning his coat and easing it off of his shoulders.
Only then does it occur to me that Voldemort, the Dark Lord, has led me into a bedroom.
My heart begins slamming against my ribcage. The question floods my mind: What should I do? I could always run back to the bedroom and tell Severus that I want to return to my chambers. And then what would happen? I would have displeased Lord Voldemort and I might find myself dead before the morning.
I take a deep breath and sit down by Voldemort's side.
"Do you wish to belong to Draco, my child?" Voldemort asks quietly, unbuttoning his boots. "You seem hesitant. I want you to be absolutely sure before any contracts are signed." His left boot is eased off and placed next to the bed. The Dark Lord has very diminutive feet -- Perhaps a size six at largest. "After all, once signed, these agreements cannot be revoked. You understand that, correct?"
"Severus has mentioned it."
Voldemort removes his other boot and reclines on the bed. "Tell me, what else has Severus mentioned to you?" He pulls a set of matches from his pocket and lights one. We both watch it for a moment -- The blue center of the flame devouring the wooden matchstick. Suddenly, Voldemort tosses the match into the air. My eyes follow its upward path, watching as it lands in a brass thurible hanging above our heads on the way back down. Almost immediately, the scent of vanilla fills the air -- Smothering me, weighing me down, forcing me to relax.
Vanilla is a potent aphrodisiac.
"You are quite tempting," Voldemort smiles, allowing his fingers to play with the fabric of my gown. "I can see why Draco would be so desperate for your affections." His expression becomes quite serious for a moment. "However, I will have to be mindful of who claims you."
"My Lord . . ." I mean for that to be a firm statement but, when his fingers graze against my flesh, my breath hitches in the middle of my throat.
"Tom," he says, tugging gently at my sleeve. "You must call me Tom."
I ignore my better judgement and settle myself onto the mattress. He leans over and kisses the nape of my neck. I refuse to struggle.
"You are quite adaptable, Harry. That's one of the best traits to possess."
Silence falls over the room. Voldemort simply stares at me, memorizing my appearance at that moment. I notice a sudden change in his demeanor. His lips purse together tightly and I know that he's contemplating his options. He sighs, nods his head once, and his eyes are clouded with disappointment.
"Leave," he mutters. "Return to Severus. I don't want to take advantage of this situation."
I understand immediately. Voldemort isn't supposed to bed us until the Cockatrice Bacchanalia which isn't for six more days. His bizarre sense of chivalry causes me to smile.
"You'll see me again soon enough," I reply, leaning over and kissing him gently on the lips. I mean for it to be a chaste kiss -- The kiss of an innocent. It lasts longer than intended though and, for a moment, I'm tempted to allow him to continue his ministrations. However, decency forces me to pull away and I hurry out of the room, leaving Tom to himself.
Dedicated to Lyntek
V. Intellectualism
The library is on the fifth floor of the Fides Solarius. Simple chandeliers hang from the ceiling, casting a soft glow onto the books. The core of the library is set up like a Grecian symposium -- A series of chaise lounges covered in Monroe paisley (a garish gold and burgundy textile) arranged in a circle. A copper fountain stands in the center -- Fine Merlot pouring from the spickets.
Severus sits at the head of the congregation. A pair of glasses is perched down on his nose as he peruses through a book: Formal Education and the Dark Arts, a study by Igor Karkaroff. He underlines a few sentences with a quill, biting his bottom lip in contemplation. He fidgets slightly -- His outfit is unusually constricting this afternoon. The smoky brown bodice is boned to ensure perfect form and posture and even the skirt is straight- lined and simple. His hair is pulled back haphazardly into a bun at the nape of his neck.
I turn back to my text, afraid that I might be caught staring.
Ron Weasley sits next to me, skimming through a Quidditch magazine frantically. He mutters "damn" under his breath once or twice -- Undoubtedly another Chudley Cannons defeat.
"Who won the League Cup?" I whisper.
"The Falmouth Falcons again," Ron sighs mournfully, shaking his head. "They're bloody violent, that bunch."
A few more moments pass in contemplative silence.
"You may put your books away," Severus finally states, placing his volume on the floor. "The purpose of this next exercise is to teach you how to engage others in conversation. A Debutante should be intellectually stimulating and cultured. You must be well-informed in numerous subjects: Magical skills, traditions, history, and, most importantly, politics."
"Politics?" Ron asks, obviously puzzled. "Why would we need to know about politics?"
"Debutantes have an active political role," Severus says sharply. "But this is neither the time nor the place to discuss that matter. Now who would like to share what they read?"
"The bleedin' Falmouth Falcons won the League Cup again," Ron mumbled.
"Mister Weasley, please do not use the words 'bloody' or 'bleeding' in a conversation." Severus closes his eyes, trying to invoke all of the patience he possesses.
"The Falmouth Falcons won the League Cup," Ron says, correcting his speech. "I wanted Chudley Cannons to win this year. They haven't had a winning streak since 1972 after all. Joey Jenkins is a wicked beater though, least that's what I think."
"No 'wicked' either," Severus states. "Joey Jenkins is a capable beater. Although your language skills are somewhat lacking, your enthusiasm is laudatory, Mister Weasley."
"However enthusiasm will not bring you a sponsor."
Lucius Malfoy stands in the doorway, erect and deathly proud. Severus automatically rises to his feet and smoothes out any unseemly wrinkles in his gown. He removes his glasses and tucks them into his sleeve. Severus curtsies as an afterthought, remembering Lucius' position as a Death Eater.
"You look more the Ravenclaw, Severus," Lucius comments. "Tucked away in the back of a library . . . It's no place for a Szajha. You were created for the bedroom. Formed for the sole purpose of having a man spread you out beneath him . . ."
"Lucius, I don't believe you will ever have that pleasure," Severus states, a smile creeping over his lips. Lucius looks flustered for a moment, not knowing what to say to the impertinent young Szajha.
"I've come to call on you, Severus," Lucius finally declares. "Your presence is requested at an informal celebration tonight. Just a couple of friends and a few bottles of wine . . ."
"Oh, how innocent you make it all sound, Lucius." Severus laughs mirthfully. "Best to take what you want in the present."
"You cannot tempt me, Severus."
"Can't I?" Severus asks, arching an eyebrow questioningly.
*****
True to form, Severus calls me into his chambers that evening. When I arrive, he's sitting at his vanity in the corner, primping himself with the careful precision of a woman. The jewels trimming his eyelids catch the glow of the candlelight, temporarily blinding me. When my sight finally returns, Severus is standing, blotting his lips on a handkerchief. For a moment, I'm tempted to toss him down onto the pillows and have my way with him . . . But I cannot. I never realized until this moment just how destructive this entire experience has been for me. I envy the boorish masculinity of the Death Eaters. I can never be the man that the Szajha needs. I am only a Debutante which is a different thing entirely.
Severus glances at me out of the corner of his eye and smiles.
"Do you feel up to going to a party tonight, Harry?" he asks, fastening a necklace around his throat. "I feel that tonight would be a good opportunity for you to be informally introduced to public life. Would you like that?"
"I suppose," I reply, shrugging in a noncommittal manner. I glance down at the hem of my nightgown. "I'm not really sure what being out in public entails."
"There's nothing to it, Harry," Severus states with certainty. "I assure you. When you meet a Death Eater, you curtsey and pay them the necessary respect. You remember from lessons?"
I nod in confirmation -- Of course I remember.
"There will be some light conversation -- Discussing popular pastimes, various acquaintances, and politics. Try to participate in any conversation about popular pastimes but, if you don't feel comfortable, you may remain silent. Never engage in conversation about acquaintances -- It is not a Debutante's place to pass judgement . . . or to make enemies. And, while you will have a chance to speak on the subject of politics, I suggest that you don't dive into that terrain immediately. You haven't had enough training. If anyone asks you to dance throughout the evening, accept the offer. However, if anyone tries to touch you intimately, just motion discreetly and it will be taken care of immediately. I'll be watching you closely. You have nothing to worry about."
"Alright," I sigh, sitting down on the edge of Severus' bed. "If you're sure about everything . . ."
"It will be an educational experience for you," Severus comments. "However, you're slightly underdressed." He glances appraisingly at the cotton nightgown. "But we can remedy that."
Severus strides over to his wardrobe and begins picking through it. He's wearing midnight blue this evening -- "More the Ravenclaw," as Lucius Malfoy said. The facet of the gown that draws my attention is a bustle gathered in the back -- A full bustle trimmed with clumps of silk flowers. It's a spectacularly romantic article of clothing.
The Szajha finally pulls an outfit down from the wardrobe -- A mass of crimson taffeta.
"Try this one," he commands, handing me the gown. I slip into the changing room and draw the curtains.
The changing room reminds me of the pavilion in a way. It's a small space enclosed by a series of white curtains. Chinese paper lanterns hang from the ceiling, illuminating the otherwise dim area, making it seem intimate and warm. A full-length mirror stands in the center. I undress quickly, throwing my nightgown in a corner. The gown is slightly difficult to get into -- It has these small buttons going all the way up the front. The skirt is full though -- Giving me plenty of room to move around, giving me the freedom that I desperately crave.
I sidle out of the changing room. Severus is in the middle of his chambers, sorting through various pairs of earrings. I clear my throat, trying to get the Szajha's attention. He catches sight of me and all movements cease. For a moment, he's just looking at me -- Examining every trait, every movement, every aspect of my being. In a way, it makes me uncomfortable -- Like I'm some figurine on display. But, at the same time, it also makes me feel appreciated, even loved.
"You look outstanding."
"Thank you Severus," I murmur. He beckons for me to come over and I immediately perch myself on the bench in front of the vanity. He reaches over and picks up a hairbrush -- Silver plated and engraved with a message that I can barely make out. He mutters a few incantations and begins to gingerly brush my hair. My eyes focus on that hairbrush, trying for the life of me to read the inscription. Finally, when the light catches it in the right way, I'm able to make out the words:
Beauty is a form of genius -- Is higher, indeed, than genius, as it needs no explanation. It is of the great facts in the world like sunlight, or springtime, or the reflection in dark water of the silver shell we call the moon.
The quote is attributed to Oscar Wilde, the infamous muggle author. Below that, scripted in ebony, is an ornate V. I have no idea why but my breath catches in my throat at the sight of that letter. That one letter, coal black against silver . . .
Severus finishes his work and draws the hairbrush away from the back of my scalp. I have this peculiar feeling that I'm heavier -- That everything has been weighed down. I then notice the layers of hair curling around my waist. Coiling strands of bay-colored hair . . . And I've never felt more violated than I do now. The burden of forced femininity, forced subservience, weighs down upon me.
I cannot stop myself and I don't try to. I allow the tears to fall freely -- To fall for all that I have become and to fall for everything that I will never have. I allow myself to sniffle and mewl, allow my body to shake with the force of my sobs. Severus makes no move to comfort me or to correct me. He simply stands to the side while Harry Potter, the Debutante, mourns the passing of Harry Potter, the Boy who Lived.
When I've quieted down, Severus approaches me and kneels by my side. He takes my hand in his, holding my fingers to his lips for a moment. His eyes close and, one by one, he kisses the pads of my fingers. He doesn't owe me his subservience, I think to myself. Yet he kneels there, showing his affections.
"I know it's difficult," Severus whispers. "Your entire identity is stripped from you in the course of a few days and you have to redefine yourself. In 1975, I was this homely snip of a boy who spent all of his free time in the potions laboratory. No one had ever shown me love or affection, I had certainly never known sexual gratification. The closest I came to happiness was sneaking out of Hogwarts on occasion to visit Lord Voldemort. It amazes me when I think that those were the Years of Terror. The Years of Terror and I spent my Sunday afternoons drinking brandy and discussing magic with the Dark Lord himself." Severus smiles nostalgically. "It was upsetting when, in 1976, I realized that I had become the most desired individual in Voldemort's service. You can imagine my inexperienced fumbling the first time Lucius Malfoy came to me . . ."
"Draco treated you with respect . . ." I sniffle. "Why did Lucius seem to be insulting you this afternoon? He made you sound like a whore."
Severus' fingers clench around my hand and I realize that I've upset him. His eyes burn with unspoken frustration. He rises to his feet and roughly brushes his gown off with the palms of his hands. He retrieves a stick of kohl from the vanity and he begins outlining my eyes, blotting and smudging the color. "You will soon find that different members of the public hold very different opinions of the Debutantes." He takes up a pot of ruddy paste and uses the tip of his finger to smear the coloring along my lips. "Some opinions are more hostile than others." He steps back and appraises his work.
"One thing is certain," he says. "You will do magnificently as a Debutante."
*****
The first thing I notice, upon entering the party, is that I recognize almost everyone in the room. They are mostly children I went to school with -- Newly inducted Death Eaters. Marcus Flint, the infamous Quidditch captain, is among them, along with Vincent Crabbe, Gregory Goyle, Blaise Zabini, and Graham Pritchard.
Lucius Malfoy is present along with some of the elder Death Eaters -- the Lestranges, Walden Macnair, Augustus Rookwood, and Igor Karkaroff who has managed to rejoin the fold after defecting. All of them are people I became very familiar with during the war. I repeat their names to myself. Somehow naming them, remembering who they were before this moment, gives me power over them.
Draco Malfoy is missing from the entourage.
Severus doesn't waste time -- He strides over to Lucius Malfoy and curtsies deeply. "My Lord, I appreciate your invitation and . . ."
"Don't bother with the formalities, Severus," Lucius says, his voice strained with impatience. "How long have we known each other? I believe we're past that point by now . . ."
"You know protocol, sir," Severus replies, rising gracefully. He acknowledges the rest of the Death Eaters with a nod and they all greet him -- "Good evening Szajha."
"Did you ask me here tonight for a reason, Lucius?" Severus asks, his lengthy fingers playing with the silver buttons on Lucius' jacket. He twists one around -- Once, twice . . . And then rubs the pattern engraved into the metal. I would recognize that design anywhere -- The Malfoy family crest. How pureblood of them . . .
"Don't flatter yourself, Szajha," Lucius sighs, feigning ennui (even though he stiffens whenever Severus touches him). "I called you here to discuss Draco's sponsorship. He seems to have taken a shine to one of your Debutantes . . ." Lucius glances at me and I recoil slightly. "I objected to it at first . . ."
"Of course you did," Severus mutters under his breath.
"But if my Draco wishes to sponsor a Debutante, he shall have a Debutante. I want to finalize all temporary agreements here and now. Final agreements will be dealt with at a later date."
"Reasonable requests," Severus states, arching an eyebrow in disbelief. "Very well. We shall take care of that tonight . . ."
"Providing that it suits the tastes of the Debutante, of course."
I turn around to discover that Lord Voldemort has been observing this exchange. His lips are set in a bemused smile, his hands are clasped behind his back.
"Of course, my Lord," Severus insists, sliding into a deep curtsey. While he is still bent low to the ground, Voldemort gently brushes the loose hairs away from the Szajha's face, cupping the sharp chin in the palm of his hand. It fascinates me -- How they can be salaciously intimate in such a public setting. Severus rises to his feet, grasping Voldemort's hand tightly.
When Voldemort catches sight of me, his eyebrow arches slightly -- Obviously, he thought that the Debutante being bartered over was one of the others -- Maybe Justin Finch-Fletchley or Colin Creevey. He pauses for a moment before speaking again.
"Child, are you agreeable to this proposition?"
I swallow deeply, rubbing my sweaty palms on the bodice of my gown.
"I am undecided, my Lord," I answer.
"Lucius, if I may borrow our young Debutante for a moment?" The request is a kindness -- Everyone knows that Lucius has no choice in his response.
"Of course, my Lord."
*****
He leads me to a spare chamber, adjoining the ballroom. It appears to be an ode to the Grecian architecture -- A vaulted ceiling held up by Corinthian pillars, all carved from flawless ivory. A marbled floor chills the soles of my slippered feet. There's something unsettling about the sterility of the room -- A cold detachment of sorts. The furniture in the room is scarce -- A silver-plated sink in one corner, a stack of white towels in another. Peacock green curtains shield the center of the room from intruders.
Carefully, Voldemort draws the curtains aside and leads me into the inner chamber.
A bed. The only piece of furniture contained within the curtains is a bed, albeit an extremely well crafted bed. Two platinum serpents entwine around one another, creating the headboard. A light duventine fabric covers the mattress. Voldemort sits down on the edge of the pallet, unbuttoning his coat and easing it off of his shoulders.
Only then does it occur to me that Voldemort, the Dark Lord, has led me into a bedroom.
My heart begins slamming against my ribcage. The question floods my mind: What should I do? I could always run back to the bedroom and tell Severus that I want to return to my chambers. And then what would happen? I would have displeased Lord Voldemort and I might find myself dead before the morning.
I take a deep breath and sit down by Voldemort's side.
"Do you wish to belong to Draco, my child?" Voldemort asks quietly, unbuttoning his boots. "You seem hesitant. I want you to be absolutely sure before any contracts are signed." His left boot is eased off and placed next to the bed. The Dark Lord has very diminutive feet -- Perhaps a size six at largest. "After all, once signed, these agreements cannot be revoked. You understand that, correct?"
"Severus has mentioned it."
Voldemort removes his other boot and reclines on the bed. "Tell me, what else has Severus mentioned to you?" He pulls a set of matches from his pocket and lights one. We both watch it for a moment -- The blue center of the flame devouring the wooden matchstick. Suddenly, Voldemort tosses the match into the air. My eyes follow its upward path, watching as it lands in a brass thurible hanging above our heads on the way back down. Almost immediately, the scent of vanilla fills the air -- Smothering me, weighing me down, forcing me to relax.
Vanilla is a potent aphrodisiac.
"You are quite tempting," Voldemort smiles, allowing his fingers to play with the fabric of my gown. "I can see why Draco would be so desperate for your affections." His expression becomes quite serious for a moment. "However, I will have to be mindful of who claims you."
"My Lord . . ." I mean for that to be a firm statement but, when his fingers graze against my flesh, my breath hitches in the middle of my throat.
"Tom," he says, tugging gently at my sleeve. "You must call me Tom."
I ignore my better judgement and settle myself onto the mattress. He leans over and kisses the nape of my neck. I refuse to struggle.
"You are quite adaptable, Harry. That's one of the best traits to possess."
Silence falls over the room. Voldemort simply stares at me, memorizing my appearance at that moment. I notice a sudden change in his demeanor. His lips purse together tightly and I know that he's contemplating his options. He sighs, nods his head once, and his eyes are clouded with disappointment.
"Leave," he mutters. "Return to Severus. I don't want to take advantage of this situation."
I understand immediately. Voldemort isn't supposed to bed us until the Cockatrice Bacchanalia which isn't for six more days. His bizarre sense of chivalry causes me to smile.
"You'll see me again soon enough," I reply, leaning over and kissing him gently on the lips. I mean for it to be a chaste kiss -- The kiss of an innocent. It lasts longer than intended though and, for a moment, I'm tempted to allow him to continue his ministrations. However, decency forces me to pull away and I hurry out of the room, leaving Tom to himself.