The Female of the Species

Chapter 11

The female of the species is deadlier than the male. - Rudyard Kipling

Voldemort looked vaguely surprised at this greeting, but his eyes were now fastened greedily on Narcissa's breasts, at the barely hidden nipples pointing at him through the fabric. He started to dribble. Narcissa had to concentrate very hard to force herself to smile at him and walk towards him, when all her instincts for self preservation screamed at her to run away, and her stomach was heaving. She stopped just before Voldemort, within arms' reach had Wormtail's body been facing the right way, and smiled softly at the hideous face, whispering, "Tom, do you remember how it was?" She made herself remember many years ago, and the expression she wore was a little less false.

Tom Marvolo Riddle had been a very beautiful young man: Narcissa had seen photos of him in his youth. By the time she met him at 20 years old, he was a very distinguished 48. He had aged well, and as is so often the case with handsome men, the greying hair and lines of experience on his face, coupled with the confidence of middle age and an air of brooding evil, only added to his attraction. Tom, now calling himself Lord Voldemort, had completely overwhelmed the youthful and impressionable Narcissa Black. He had seduced her with little effort, and had been an inventive and exciting lover. It had not really been an affair, just a case of the two of them enjoying each other whenever the opportunity arose. But then Narcissa had heard rumours of Voldemort's developing violent and abusive sexual tastes, and had gently extricated herself from his list of lovers, using her forthcoming marriage to Lucius as an excuse. Since then, until he lost his corporeal form, she had still had a special relationship with the Dark Lord. She had flirted outrageously with him whenever they met, and he made it clear that she would always be welcome in his bed. Narcissa Malfoy had been the only person whom he allowed the liberty of still affectionately calling him "Tom", even as he became more evil, and his appearance altered with his increasing fascination with the Dark Arts, in the manner of the portrait of that other dark wizard, Dorian Gray.

"Do you still think I'm beautiful, Tom?" purred Narcissa. She placed her torch in a sconce on the wall, and stepped forwards again. She could see that Voldemort was almost mesmerised by the sight of her. She reached out and stroked the sparse hair that was not his but Wormtail's, deliberately not flinching at its greasy texture. She exerted a gentle pressure on his head with her left hand, forcing his unresisting face down on to her milky white breasts, while her right hand loosened the lacing of her bodice. She pulled down the neckline of her dress, exposing her erect nipples, and groaned in mock enjoyment as the Dark Lord took one in his filthy bloodstained mouth, and began to suckle.

Narcissa allowed Voldemort to lick and drool over her nipples for a while, ensuring that he was fully occupied, his spittle running down her breasts. All the while she made small sounds of faux pleasure, while in reality her mind was as sharp as a razor, waiting for the right moment when his mind should be completely concentrated on satisfying his own lust. She also watched Wormtail's face, for she needed his eyes to be closed in ecstasy. The hands of the dual being began to stroke Wormtail's groin. Good, thought Narcissa. She waited a while longer, readying herself. Both Voldemort's and Wormtail's breathing became more ragged, and the hand worked faster on their now exposed small but erect manhood.

Narcissa projected her mind along the rowan wood wand in her pocket, at the same time slipping her right hand under her cloak. The dragon skin straps freed themselves from their buckles, and Narcissa took hold of the Knife handle, sliding it gently from its sheath and from her pocket, not noticing the rent it cut in her dress from the gentlest of touches. She knew by the feel of the handle which way round she held the Knife, for the golden wire Veela stood proud of the jadeite, providing the Secret Keeper with extra grip. She turned the Knife so that the steel blade faced away from her, and using her knowledge of anatomy from her days as a mediwitch, Narcissa Malfoy drove the Subtle Knife into the back of Peter Pettigrew, angling it accurately so that the tip of the blade sliced into his heart. She was surprised at how easy it was: the Knife cut through Wormtail's unresisting flesh as if it were butter. Blood poured from the wound as she withdrew the Knife, staining her blue dress scarlet.

The expression on Voldemort's face changed in the blink of an eye. One moment, he was sucking greedily on Narcissa Malfoy's nipple and simultaneously feeling a growing pressure in Wormtail's groin, his eyes closed in rapture. The next moment he looked completely shocked, as the Subtle Knife slid so gently and almost lovingly into the heart of his host, and he gasped as he felt Wormtail's life slipping away. Then his face took on an evil, threatening expression, and he glared at the witch who had so easily fooled him. "Narcissa Malfoy! So beautiful, so deadly. I never took you for a traitor! You'll regret this!"

But even as he said these words, both Narcissa and the Dark Lord knew it was an empty threat. Blood pumped from Wormtail's body at an alarming rate, for the Subtle Knife could wound as no other weapon, and the wounds would not heal.

Narcissa regarded Voldemort for a moment, and then said softly, "Tom, this is the way it has to be. Your time is over. You should have died when the aurors thought they had killed you.

"Tom, I have to make sure you really die this time. You're far too dangerous for me to let you live. And you tried to kill Lucius. I will never, ever forgive you for that.

"This is the end for you. And I hope your last moments are as unbearable as you intended for Lucius. Although given your perversions, perhaps you will have the last laugh on me, and die in exquisite agony."

As she said this, Narcissa took the Knife again, and slid the steel blade through the top of the creature's head, sliding it against the skull so that she sliced Voldemort's face away from the back of Pettigrew's head. She threw it to the floor, and with her wand she set the flesh and skin alight. It burst into green flames, and in them Narcissa saw an image of a man burning, his face screaming silently in agony as he blackened and shrivelled. At first, the face was that of the Voldemort she had just confronted, but as the flame burned brighter, the colour gradually became more orange, and the man seemed to grow younger and less ravaged. When the flame finally extinguished itself, the last image was of Tom Riddle the young man, dressed in his Hogwarts robes, with his Head Boy badge worn proudly on his breast.

Narcissa felt as if a great oppression had lifted from her, and knew in her heart that Voldemort was finally dead. She heaved a great sigh of relief.

However, she had momentarily forgotten Peter Pettigrew. He was dying in terrible pain, bleeding profusely from his back, and screaming in pathetic anguish at the bloody, gaping wound inflicted on his head. As he sank to his knees, his gasps of distress bearing an unnerving similarity to the gasps that had marked his former state of bliss, he turned his baleful gaze on the witch who was the cause of his torture. With his last remaining strength, he reached to grab the Knife, still held firmly in Narcissa's right hand. Wormtail cut his remaining human hand on the blade, and squealed like a stuck pig. But his efforts were enough to twist the Knife in Narcissa's hand so that the steel made contact with her fingers. She felt a slight stinging, and at first did not realise what that meant. She stepped back from Pettigrew, and watched him die in writhing agony. The old Narcissa would have rejoiced to see an adversary meet his end this way, but this Narcissa numbly watched every twitch and scream, until he lay lifeless at her feet in a pool of blood.

Finally, Narcissa looked at her right hand to see why it hurt so much. She registered the fact that two fingers were missing from the hand. She realised that the pool of blood was not only Pettigrew's: some of it was her own. This was the last thing she thought before she slid to the floor, unconscious, her life force bleeding away from those two tiny wounds made by the Subtle Knife. She sank into a scarlet pool that did not congeal.

Hibou blinked twice, and like a wraith he sailed away, obeying his Mistress's last order.