A/N: I've just published my first novel, a historical fantasy ebook about Morgan le Fay - the original wicked witch or the original fairy godmother; the legend retold. Arthur's Witch Book I: The Priestess.

Links to Amazon are on my profile page, as are my official Facebook, Twitter and my own website. The sample of the book is free to download, so you really have nothing to lose. Please, give it a chance.

I really have no excuse for why this took me so long to get out - thank you for the reviews, and please enjoy the chapter.

Chapter Thirty Two

They came as they had been bidden to, melting out of the dark. She'd seen all of them together only once; the first time she had come here, bearing the body of the only person she had ever killed. So far, she thought with a shiver. But she would never do that. It was too much. Then would be the time to get out. If the time wasn't already here. From the back of her mind, a tiny person was loudly and insistently demanding that she run and forget all of this had ever happened. The rest of her shushed the person and stood quietly, unmoving. She stood slightly behind and to the left of Voldemort, watching impassively as the Death Eaters arrived. Most of them—the smart ones, anyway—had guessed what was about to happen. After they knelt to Voldemort, they each gave her a subtle acknowledgement too, whether it was a nod of the head or a little bow. Helena made a note of their names. They could obviously recognised whose star was in ascendence now. She would have to work hard to stay in his favour though, she was under no illusion about that. One failure and it could all be gone.

When they were all assembled, in two lines down either side of the factory floor, Voldemort gestured Helena forward. For once, she didn't mind keeling at his feet. Just as long as it was the only time she had to. Far from her heart pounding in hear chest, hearing her blood rush through her ears, she felt the exact opposite. It seemed that her heart wasn't beating at all; that her blood was still and cold in her veins. The only thing about her that seemed hot were her eyes, and that was because Voldemort's gaze was burning into hers.

"Pledge yourself to me," he said. "Swear to serve me however you are commanded, to put me above everyone and everything else." There was a touch of cold amusement there now, reminding her of their conversation about Sirius. "Swear eternal fealty—to serve me into your death, if I bid it."

It slipped from her tongue like oil. "I swear."

"Your arm."

She put her left arm into his cold hand, and he pushed her sleeve out of the way. She wondered if he would comment on the pink scar that ran the length of her forearm, or if it would be in the way and force him to use the right arm instead. Apparently that was not the case, since he lowered his wand tip to her skin, pressing hard. It hurt, she could not have pretended otherwise, but she managed to keep any sound of pain to herself. The wand tip actually pierced her skin, forcing blood to well up. But it did not drip to the floor, or roll down her arm; instead it trilled over her skin in a specific pattern, obeying Voldemort. When the Dark Mark was complete, the blood dried, hardening into a black scab. With his other hand, Voldemort brushed it away. The crust came off, but the lines remained. The burning sensation progressed up her arm, until there was prickling pain all the way to her shoulder. It faded slowly as Voldemort let go of her.

"Rise."

As she did so, the Death Eaters began clapping slowly, savagely. Helena only looked down at her arm. My God, she thought, quite coldly. What have I done?

When she looked up, it was not Voldemort's eyes on her, but Snape's. They shared one mutually hostile nod, and then he turned away. Voldemort held his arms up for silence, and it fell quickly. "The time is ripe," he said. "Soon, very soon, we shall break open Azkaban, and release those faithful trapped there. Including your dear brother," he added to Helena, with a smile.

Sudden and vicious elation filled her. He intended to give her what he had promised. He would give her Lucius' life, to take as she pleased. Finally. "Thank you."

"You have my deepest and most sincere thanks, too, my lord," a voice said.

They turned to see Narcissa Malfoy approach, one hand on her belly. Helena raised an eyebrow. She hadn't known her sister-in-law was pregnant, but there was no doubt in her mind she was. But then it had been a long time since she had had any contact with Lucius. Narcissa smiled, apparently not noticing the nature of the look Helena was giving her—that of a wolf analysing prey before it struck.

"If I may offer Malfoy Manor, for celebration, my lord? We have a well-stocked wine cellar."

Voldemort nodded. "A good idea, Narcissa."

They all adjourned to Helena's childhood home, collecting around the dining table. It seemed incredibly strange for it to be full, since it had never been so in her memory. She sat at Voldemort's right hand, sipping only occasionally at the elf-made wine while everyone around her got drunk. Voldemort did not touch a drop, which did not surprise her. It was now well after four in the morning, heading toward five. Any later, and she ran the risk of not being home in time. But she knew she would stay until Voldemort told her she could go, at least tonight. He did not, not for over an hour. The mistress of the house tired more quickly than others, and begged the Dark Lord's indulgence to go to bed.

He smirked, as he always did at any kind of perceived weakness. Helena did too, at the ludicrousness of it. This was Narcissa's house, and she was so terrified of Voldemort that she begged permission to be allowed to go to bed? What was that level of power like?

"By all means," he said. "We must take care of the next generation of Death Eaters, mustn't we?"

When she was gone, Voldemort turned to Helena and gestured around the room. "How do you like your future home, my dear?"

She looked at him questioningly. "I thought it was my former home."

"You will soon by the only Malfoy heir. Legally, anyway. It will all be yours."

"And what of the child?" she asked. "Even with Lucius dead it will still live."

"Then you can do with it as you wish. Let it live, or kill it."

"As you did your son?" she asked quickly. "Because you thought he would be more talented than I… Do you still underestimate me?"

"We shall see."

She went home not long after that, feeling her arm smarting again. God, it hurt. Before she went to bed, she considered writing to Dumbledore, telling him everything and asking to see him. But what would she say to him? He would ask why she had done it, and at the moment, she had no answer to give him. Without hope of sleep, she changed into her pyjamas—long-sleeved ones—lifted the spell on Sirius and slipped into bed next to him. She was torn between feeling like her own flesh repulsed her from him, and needing his skin next to hers. She knew she should not wake him up.

But then again...why shouldn't I?

She should let him sleep.

He's slept enough.

Her desires were selfish.

He would still enjoy it…

Compelled to act, she shucked her pyjamas and straddled her lover. He slept naked, as he always did, and she took full advantage of it. His cock began to stir almost as soon as her fingers curled around it, blood swelling in. She only waited until it was semi-hard before she lowered her mouth to it, licking along the length and sucking the head. Sirius stirred, a faint groan issuing from his lips, though he didn't wake. Under her ministrations, it took seconds for him to come to full hardness. Helena knew she was already dripping wet and more than ready for him. Letting go of his length, she moved up his body, lowering herself onto his cock. That woke him up. Eyes snapping open, he focused instantly on her.

"Hellfire, what-" he cut off with a loud groan. "Where did this come from…?"

She put a hand to his mouth, not stopping the movement of her hips. "Don't speak."

"But-"

"No." She reached up to the back of his head, grasping his hair hard and forcing him to look at her, locking their gazes. "No words."

He could hardly fail to miss what was on her arm, but neither could he fully look away from her eyes. "What is-"

"It's nothing."

He frowned. "Nothing?"

She leaned forward, kissing him passionately and biting his lip. "Nothing. There's nothing there."

Suddenly any resistance snapped, and a dull look came over his eyes, rendering them as dead as two grey stones. It was all she wanted at this time, and a cold smile spread over her face. "Now. Fuck me."

He did so: hard, and fast. He flipped her over, pounding in her with complete ferocity, burying his face in her neck and giving her what felt like a serious love bite. She threaded her fingers through his hair, moaning loudly in pleasure.

"Do you want me? Tell me you want me."

"I want you."

"Tell me you love me."

"I love you."

"Tell me you need me."

"I need you."

She came hard, loudly, exploding in pleasure with her every nerve ablaze. "Come," she ordered. "Come for me, come!"

He did so, with her name on his lips. Helena allowed him less than a minute to catch his breath. Then done with him, she pushed him of her. He was asleep as if he'd never been awake in the first place. Satiated and satisfied, she put her pyjamas back on before falling into slumber herself.

Despite the vastness of the space, the music completely filled it. Helena could almost see the melody, a river, washing through and submerging everything. It seemed so thick she could taste it. With her eyes closed, she was buoyed up by it, floating. It was no tune she recognised, but its beauty was powerful. It reminded her of Veela song—or what Veela song did to men, anyway. It required her to dance. So, dance she did. She raised her arms as if she were waltzing with a partner, and began to turn on the spot, circling and spinning around the dancefloor, quite alone in her own imagination. One two three, one two three, one two three…

The soft clearing of a throat; she opened her eyes to see Sirius, in dress robes, of all things. She looks down at herself, surprised to see she was also dressed up, though in a muggle evening gown, modest but for a slit, right up her thigh. It was scarlet in colour, the shade of fresh blood. The idea made her frown, but that disappeared when Sirius held his hand out for hers. When she gave it, he pulled her close to his body, inclined his head as though he wanted to kiss her. When she went to join their mouths, though, he pulled away with a dark, low chuckle. Her skin burned for him—he carried on teasing though.

He clicked his fingers, and the orchestra that wasn't there struck up again. Helena looked around, but could only see the spotlight on she and Sirius—not even the floor under her feet. Was here a floor under her feet? The music surged, demanding once more that they dance. It was latin this time; strings and a piano. Sirius led them in a tango, or a rumba, or some dance she couldn't remember the name of; quick-moving at times, slow at others, but passionate, sensual all throughout. His breath was hot against her neck, his hands possessive and his eyes the colour of a winter sea. They had not wavered from her gaze. Helena took a shuddering breath and prayed that he might always make her feel like this. More than desired, needed. She felt it too, like a line, a thread which was knotted under her ribs, connected to one in the same place under his. They were connected, but how strongly?

"You didn't mind me cutting in?" he murmured in her ear, voice warm and low.

She looked at him strangely. "There was no one else. There never is."

"So you were imagining me then?"

She nodded, though now she wasn't sure. It seemed to be the right answer though, since Sirius continued to dance with her. Helena lost all sense of time or space—just like when they slept together, there was nothing but him; his smile and his eyes and his hard body beneath her hands. It was pure happiness.

Then the music changed. It was no longer tuneful, and the strings turned too high, too shrill, too up and down, seesawing. The piano was being pounded, bass notes being forced, booming, into the room. Hands that weren't hands curled around Sirius' shoulders, tore him away from her. Shadows swarmed around him at the edge of the spotlight. She could see him, but when she went to reach him, a hand curled around her own arm. This was far from shadow. White, almost luminous. It turned Helena to face her father. Have gave a warm smile which was not corresponded by icily-cold red eyes. Like Sirius, he offered a hand.

Sirius broke briefly away. "Helena! Helena, run-"

Voldemort snapped his fingers. "Hold him."

Helena could only stare as the shadows wrestled her lover back. Then she turned wordlessly, back to Voldemort. He shouldn't be here, Sirius couldn't see them together, it would ruin everything. This, apparently, did not concern the Dark Lord. His long white fingers beckoned.

"Shall we, my dear?"

She couldn't look away, couldn't say no, couldn't think, but her hand was coming out to take his anyway. It was a waltz this time, graceful and terrifyingly elegant. His robes billowed outward as he turned her around and around the dancefloor.

"Why are you here?" she asked, hearing her own voice sound weak and hazy. Issued from some point far beyond her mouth.

He didn't give an answer, only a smile which chilled her blood. She wanted to stop dancing, to make him release Sirius, or to beg if she couldn't make him. If it were up to her they would have stopped dancing, but she was unable to. Neither could she blink, she suddenly realised. The viper had her mesmerised.

There was a commotion from the shadows, then Sirius wrenched her away from Voldemort. Her legs fell back automatically into the latin steps. Sirius spoke quickly, urgently. "Helena, you have to listen to me."

She was too busy looking around to see where Voldemort had gone. He was still circling, him and his shadows pacing at the edge of the dancefloor. "Helena!"

At Sirius shaking her, she returned her gaze to his. "I don't understand what's going on."

"It's simple," he assured her. "You're in check, but it's really easy; all you have to do is move diagonally. He's expecting you to move left or right. Sacrifice me if you have to."

Aghast, she shook her head. "No! Padfoot, I would never-"

He kissed her. "It's alright, Hellfire. What else are pawns for?"

"Sirius, run-"

Then Voldemort was snatching her back. "Well?"

"Well what?" she asked, feeling increasingly as though she were falling.

"You must take your pick. Choose one of us."

"I can't," she whispered, ashamed.

"You have no other option," he replied, tone cruelly amused.

"But I want you both. I need him—I love him—but what you offer-"

"Then you choose me?"

"No, I… Don't make me. Please."

There was a flash of angry contempt on his face, then he was forcing a knife into her hand. It was wickedly sharp, and in the spotlight, violently bright. "Do it."

Then he pulled away, and there was more noise now. The shadows had coalesced into Death Eaters now, but they curled around Voldemort. Sirius was flanked by blurry faces she recognised: the Order was here. But no one was helping her, no one was telling to drop the knife. They were all yelling, all screaming for her to kill one of them: Sirius or Voldemort. She knew what the right choice was, so why couldn't she make it? Every time she advanced toward him though, something seized control of her legs and marched her back the other way. Helena was spinning again, blinded and crushed as the crowd closed in. She couldn't think, much less breathe.

She lashed out suddenly, the decision made in a fraction of the second. Silence immediately fell. So did Helena's jaw. The knife, handle still in her hand, was buried, hilt-deep, in her own chest. She could only stare. It didn't hurt, only felt very, very cold. The pain came rushing in when she pulled it out. It dropped to the ground, leaving a bloody splatter. With it, her strength evacuated her limbs too, and she crumpled, falling backwards into Sirius' arms.

His face was horrified. "What've you done?"

"I… I couldn't stop myself…" she whispered, putting a hand to her chest.

Before she got there, a cold white hand grasped hers, stopping her. Voldemort, crouching in front of her just as Sirius was, supporting her from behind. "Don't you dare touch her," Sirius told him, though he made no move to stop it.

Whatever pain there had been before was nothing compared to what she felt next; Voldemort slammed his entire hand into her chest. Ribs snapped, her lungs were crushed, and her heart seized with an iron fist. She screamed all the while. Sure enough, when he pulled his hand out, there was a bloodied lump that was only vaguely recognisable as her heart, clenched in it. Miraculously, the pain was gone. There was still a gaping hole in her chest, but no more blood pumping from it. With his prize, Voldemort turned away from them. She felt dizzy, and whispered that to Sirius. Told him she was sorry. She wanted to close her eyes.

"Hellfire, stay with me. Please, sweetheart, don't go."

She didn't want to go anywhere, but how did he expect her to carry on? She didn't have a heart. But her curiosity about what Voldemort was doing with it was powerful. Looking at the heart, it suddenly looked like it was…expanding. Getting bigger, growing- limbs. It was impossible, but within a few moments, it was obvious. He was growing another her. What was more, the wound in her own chest was healing, then gone. Able to get up now, she did so, staring at Voldemort and her quickly-forming doppelganger. Skin, then hair and a face-

The other her was crouched on the floor, and completely naked; Voldemort clothed it, in black robes much like the ones he wore. Then it turned around, and looked exactly the same as she did. With one exception: gleaming red eyes.

The doppelganger raised a finger to her lips. "Sshhh."

The alarm woke him up; seven a.m. with the first tinges of sunrise nowhere near visible. He was confused for a moment, then remembered the clocks had gone back a few days ago. Of course; it would be dark like this for months. Dark when he got up, dark when he came home from work. Brilliant.

The alarm had woken Helena up too, though with a much more dramatic reaction than Sirius. She was sat bolt upright, one hand to her chest and moving in the way it did when she'd had a nightmare. Again. She was looking wildly around the room.

"Helena? I know it doesn't look like it, but it's morning. Time to get up." No response. Damn. It was taking her longer and longer to wake up from these things. He took both her hands in his, feeling her jolt at the unexpected contact. "Hellfire, you know where you are?"

She nodded. "B-bedroom."

"And you're with me, right?"

She nodded again, then opened her arms for him. He hugged her closely, fighting a loud sigh. "What's going on, Hellfire?"

She shook her head. He pulled back and looked at her closely; her blue eyes were darkened, and there were dark grey circles under them. He frowned. "You look like you haven't slept at all."

"I feel like I haven't," she said with an odd smile.

"You up for work?"

She nodded. "I'll be fine. Just need a few litres of coffee."

She climbed out of bed and headed for the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. He frowned. Not right. Still not right. Pushing back the duvet himself, he sat up and- And stopped. Because there was something weird in his lap—something slightly hard and crusty and which looked a lot like dried- But it couldn't be, could it? They hadn't-

"Hellfire?"

"Yeah?" she asked above the sound of running water.

"Did we have sex last night?"

She laughed. "Yeah, I'd say so."

"How do I not remember it?"

"No idea. I won't be forgetting it in a while."

Weird. Very, very weird. But equally not something too worrying…until it happened again. He needed a shower before he got dressed though, clearly. Helena came out of the bathroom just as he opened the door, still clad in her pyjamas. She grinned, kissed him, and then shut the door behind him. He showered quickly, and dressed, then went downstairs to find his girlfriend cooking breakfast, another cooked affair. It was delicious, but the more of these she made him, the more he couldn't shake the feeling that she was making up for something. Though what that was…

She seemed to have had all the breakfast she was going to have—which apparently consisted of nothing except a cup of espresso, another thing he wasn't happy about—and kissed him again, then stepped into the fireplace, disappearing into a billow of green flame. He ate the rest of his breakfast slowly, chewing on both the food and what was going on with her. Her behaviour recently had been so odd, so unlike the Helena she had been right up until…Lily and James' wedding. Right up until that moment when they'd confessed how they felt about each other. That was sobering. God, was she reconsidering? Had she not meant it? No, he thought suddenly, she did mean it. She yelled it at him in the middle of an argument, for God's sake, there couldn't have been a moment—except blind drunk or in the middle of sex—where her inhibitions were lower. No, she meant it. She loved him. So then what was it? Did she think he was reconsidering? That he had just said it in the heat of the moment, and didn't actually mean a word of it? Was that what this weird Stepford Wives thing was about? It made a twisted kind of sense. The midnight shags (as of last night anyway), and the cooked breakfasts…were they some kind of odd attempt to prove what a good little woman she could be?

Again, the idea was ridiculous. It wasn't Helena. She was who she was, always had been. Anyone who wasn't okay with that could get fucked. And that had always, always included him, in love with him or not.

Right, he thought determinedly, I need to put a stop to this shit. Immediately.

He got as far as putting his plate in the sink before remembered one slight hitch to the brilliant plan now formed in his mind. "Ah. Bollocks."

This called for advice of the kind only best mates could give. Following this plan, he apparated to the ministry and walked into the Auror Office with a resolute stride. Apparently it was more anxious than it was resolute though, since when James saw him, his brow furrowed in concern.

"You alright, mate?"

"Where do we stand on breaking promises?"

"Um… We don't. And I've never known you to. Why?"

"In seventh year, Helena made me promise I wouldn't marry her."

"Ah. And now you want to?"

"And now I want to."

A/N: 'Stepford Wives' was the only analogy I could think of, even though I know it's a muggle thing. Review please!