II. Fourteen Years Later

Persephone smoothed down her Slytherin green dress expertly, brushing imaginary lint off the silk. She considered that she came from a predominately Slytherin family a blessing really, because Merlin knows that only a few colours don't clash horribly with red hair. Green, black and grey are some of the few that don't.

It's fate, really.

She took a tiny sip of her Champaign and wait for the next little heir to try and trick her into allying with their house, preferably through marriage. Please. The snooty little purebloods couldn't connive their way out of a paper bag. Standards really had been falling rapidly. Persephone blamed it on all the inbreeding, most of the time; it's the Flint's own fault they married into a troll family. What were they thinking? The Malfoy's at least had the decency to marry into veela heritage when their bloodlines got to close and gave everyone all a nice bit of eye candy. They were quite a pleasant family, really.

Until they opened their mouths, that is.

Though Aunt Narcissa was lovely all the time, but she was a Black, technically.

She pursed her red lips and tapped her fingers gently against the glass with her free hand, making the bubbly liquid vibrate before sighing dramatically.

All the good purebloods were really gone. Greengrass's, who showed promise, were neutral so they didn't attend the purely dark family balls, but both Daphne and Astoria were good company and allies.

Her mind briefly flickered to a memory of a man who had given her a piece of advice at a party much like this. Rule one of pureblood culture: never refer to anyone as a friend unless you want something from them. Breaking that rule got you hurt.

Her eyes sweep the ballroom before landing on a handsome boy of Italian descent, Blaise Zabini. A very good match for anyone willing to try, but he might take after his mother and mysteriously 'lose' his wives. Really not worth it. A little to his right were Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber, also known as Crabbe and Goyle. She didn't know their first names. Merlin, she didn't think they knew their first names. They communicated in grunts and only excelled at looking rather large with a permanently stunned expression on their faces. Her eyes grazed the room again.

Millicent Bulstrode was actually a worthwhile acquaintance, but she had a tendency to be crass and really needed to be introduced to a set of tweezers. Pansy Parkinson had her cornered and was probably prattling on about how magnificent she was and how she would be the next Lady Malfoy. Persephone felt a stab of sympathy for Millicent, once Pansy got going it was nearly impossible to escape. She would help her, but general Slytherin 'live to see another day, even if it means throwing someone else at the chopping block' policy dictated that she let her grit and bare it.

Not that Persephone was in Slytherin, or even attended Hogwarts. Her mother was adamant that she would never attend a school under the thumb of the leader of the light, which was probably a smart idea. Just because her mother and father were never thrown into Azkaban didn't mean that they weren't suspected of being deatheaters. If she was caught by anyone doing anything slightly illegal, she would be whisked away for the greater good faster than you can say lemon drops. Dumbledore really had an unhealthy addiction to those things.

A man cleared their throat behind her, and she turned gracefully around to appraise them before breaking into a smile.
"Uncle Rabastan! About time you paid attention to your favourite niece."

"My only niece," he answered amusedly before offering his hand with a slight bow. "A dance, my Lady?" he asked. Persephone set her glass down on one of the passing waiters' trays before placing her hand delicately in his.

"Of course, my Uncle," she replied, tilting her head up as if insulted he had to ask. He chuckled under his breath while guiding her to the dance floor. Persephone placed her free hand on his shoulder while he placed his on her waist and they began to move gracefully across the floor in time to the waltz.

"Having a good time?" he asked her in a low voice. Persephone snorted before smiling beatifically.

"I enjoy marvelling at the fine specimens of our humble and just society, Uncle," she replied while Rabastan smothered a grin.

"I'm sure you do," he said drily, "and that you behaved like an upstanding member of it." Her smile widened.

"I may have picked up several tads of blackmail," she admitted, "and enquired to a couple ongoing business deals that can be turned to my advantage, naturally."

"Naturally," he echoed with a roll of his eyes and guided her through a complicated series of twirls as the music rose to a crescendo. She moved with the constant grace of a panther that was ready to pounce. Her hair, a living flame, was pinned in its natural delicate curls to her head withed diamond encrusted clips. Her almond shaped hazel eyes sparkled with their ever present amusement, as if she was one step ahead of everyone else (and he often suspected she was), and were framed by long, dark eyelashes. Her creamy complexion was highlighted by the slight blush that came to her cheeks. Her magic was so strong that it was almost a tangible presence around her, making the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. Persephone was a league beyond the other heirs and heiresses, and they knew it.

The music slowed to a stop and Rabastan released her hand to bow to her while Persephone dropped into a curtsey.

…..

Lord Voldemort was not Lord Voldemort tonight, but Lord Slytherin. He refused to use the Gaunt, and it was his name after all: Tom Marvolo Riddle, Lord Slytherin.

Besides, it sounded impressive.

He studied the room with practised eyes, but everyone was acting predictably, as usual. Except her.

Persephone.

She never acted predictably. She would bait the people around her and then ignore them for the next hour, compliment them and insult them in the same breath. She would remain silent when they wished for her to speak and then cut across the conversation with another Lord as if it was addressed to her. It didn't matter that she was fifteen, that she was unmarried or that she hadn't yet joined the deatheaters. She had them eating out of the palm of her hand, and they loved her for it.

So he watched her as she too watched the room critically, watched as she swept gracefully across the floor with her uncle, watched as the men's eyes lingered upon her with desire.

Without even realising it, his feet began to move, pulling him towards the being that was destined to be his.

She would struggle against the pull; she would delay it as long as possible to show her independence, because that's what he would do. Because she would belong to him.

She already did, even if she didn't know it yet.

….

She breathed in the cold night air as she looked out over the balcony into the manicured gardens below. Her eyes wandered up to the sky, naming as many constellations she could see. She smiled reminiscently. It had been a game she had played as a child, and the image she used to enforce her occlumency shields. Her father had taught her the stars.

"You see that one, Persephone? That one is Lyra. You were named after it."

Her gaze dropped back to the gardens as her hand absently came up to trace the silver lightning bolt scar on her left wrist. She had gained that in a garden, too. She let out a shaky breath.

Persephone felt him before she saw him, the feeling pulling her out of her memories. She could almost taste the magic in the air. His aura was dark, so deliciously dark. It reminded her of a snake, which baited its prey before going in for the kill. Her head rolled back appreciatively before turning to look at him.

'Oh.'

He was beautiful, there was no other descriptive. His cheek bones were sharp and angular, ice blue eyes mocking and cruel. Dark hair was swept away elegantly on top of his head, somehow matching his pale complexion nicely.

He appeared to be around thirty, his very presence demanding subservience from lesser beings. But she was no lesser being. Her eyes narrowed and her stomach fluttered in anticipation. This was a worthy opponent.

He dropped into a graceful bow and Persephone automatically dipped into a curtsy before rising.

"Milady," he said silkily, even his voice was dark and seductive.

"Milord," she replied in kind.

He cocked his head to the side, considering her. "What is a young heiress like you doing out here in the open air?" he asked politely, with a mocking edge to his words.

Persephone smiled brightly at him. "One must get back to nature, milord. Remind themselves that even roses have thorns," she replied as a smirk began to creep its way onto his face.

"Indeed. But the best rose disguises its thorns until it wishes to draw blood."

A look of faux confusion worked its way onto Persephone's face. "You talk almost as if the flower was a person, milord! No person known to me would have need of such sly ways to live their life. Why, I'd dare say all the members of the houses were open books!"

"Only to those who know how to read them," he answered, his eyes flashing red with amusement. Persephone observed the change with interest. They were beautiful too. Crimson, like blood.

"And can you read them, milord?" she said innocently. It was a double sided question. If he said no, he was a liar, which was not acceptable in their society. Their role was to twist the truth, play on it to suit their needs, but never lie. It was a fine line walked by all purebloods. If he said yes, then he wasn't adept at reading people as he would have claimed, and he knew it.

"Milady, I write them." Persephone suppressed a smile. A perfect sidestep from a worthy opponent.

"Do you, milord? Then, pray tell, what you have written for me?"

"Oh, a good many things, I can assure you."

Persephone's eyebrows rose slightly. Interesting. "Indeed," she whispered before raising her voice slightly. "And will you reveal anything to help enlighten me as to what they are, milord?"

"Are you asking for a taster, milady?" he asked amusedly.

"I do believe I did just ask, unless you have need of a hearing aide before your time, milord," Persephone said cheekily. His eyes flashed red again.

"Very well," he said simply. He stepped forward, arms going around her possessively. One hand came up to cup her face and his long, pale fingers caressed her cheek gently. His lips came down to crash over hers, kissing her until she wasn't even sure what her own name was. His aura surrounded her, dark, malicious, cruel and safe. It pulled at her, danced over her skin, crackled beneath it, briefly joining with her own.

He stepped back abruptly, and Persephone blinked, her red lips swollen from the kiss, the colour in her cheeks higher than usual. The man bowed.

"Milady," he said before turning on his heel and strolling easily inside.

"Milord," she replied to his retreating back, recognising the event for what it was: a declaration of war. He wanted to play.

Persephone's hazel eyes narrowed.

Game on.

….

Hi everyone! Just want to thank all those who favourited, followed and reviewed. You are all angels!

You might have realised that Persephone is talking really formally at the moment. She's doing this to make fun of society so she'll tend to do this from time to time but she will talk normally too.

Crabbe and Goyle's first names are Vincent and Gregory, by the way.

This was a fast update because I'm still really bored at the moment. Oh well.

If anyone has an absolute favourite fanfiction, please leave the name of it in a review or something, I've read so many lately I'm running out.

Electra2Pandora

Update 24/09/13