Chapter Thirteen
Secrets

It was black. It was cold. It was cramped.

There wasn't enough room for him to stretch his limbs, nor was there a bed; he was forced to curl on the chilly floor, damp and malodorous with his refuse. There was no light, save for that which crept in from the tiniest of cracks where the floor met the door, illuminating just an inch of the unforgiving blue-gray stone. Sometimes he'd creep toward the pale light, his face pressed flat against the floor in the hope of seeing something—anything—beyond his dark, infinitesimal world.

He never saw a thing.

He hadn't eaten since… when? It felt like days, but he couldn't be certain. There were no windows, no rhythmic leak drip-drip-dripping onto the floor, nothing from which he might measure the passage of time. He half believed he'd starve to death in this place. He'd waste away until there was nothing left, and no one would have noticed a thing out of place—a meaningless death, the worst of all kinds of deaths. He didn't want to have an end; he wanted to live, he wanted out of this prison, he wanted to be free—free with her. Why couldn't he have had a rat for company? For then he wouldn't have truly been alone. That is, until he inevitably ate the beast out of hunger.

She came periodically. He didn't know if her visits were scheduled or spontaneous. Sometimes the time between visits felt like a week, other times only a day. He wished she'd visit more often; her presence made the ordeal bearable—worthwhile, even. She was his shining beacon in this dark realm of despair, his lighthouse in this sea of lonely tides. Oh, how he longed to see her face if but for a moment, for despite being his captor, she was also his beloved, his everything, the one for whom he'd conquer the world entire if she were to simply ask. And, oh, how he craved her touch! That she withheld it from him only heightened his desire to experience the caress of her gentle fingers, the embrace of her sweet lips…

And she desired him in return, he knew. She desired him for his mind. She desired him for his experience. Most of all, she desired him for his secrets. Oh, yes. She always wanted to know his secrets; she asked after them every time she visited.

From the door issued a click, which to anyone else would have been subtle but to him was deafening. He jerked from his reverie and bolted upright in expectation. The portal creaked open with agonizing lethargy, flooding the room with a blinding light that wasn't nearly as luminous as the lone figure it framed, like an angel before the sun.

She wore flowing robes of molten silver and sparkling malachite, which he was certain hid a form most delightful. Her pale skin was lustrous, not pallid. The features of her gloriously symmetrical face were elegant, every single one, from her sharp eyes, more orange than amber, under magnificently curved brows, to her exquisite nose and those delicious, pink lips that he desperately wanted to taste. Her midnight hair was as silk, perfectly groomed, falling like freshly ironed fabric to the middle of her back; he wanted to run his hands through those luxurious locks and breathe in whatever elusive scent they possessed. Upon her slim fingers and wrists rested numerous bejeweled rings and bracelets worthy of her eminence.

The man groveled before her, entirely unashamed of his nudity, for what was his meager frame's purpose if not for her pleasure? He bowed his head and said, "It feels an eternity has passed since last we met, my sweet. What would you have of me?" His voice was hoarse from nonuse.

The woman speared him with her gaze. One hand was laden with a tray, from which wafted the scent of his hunger's desire. With her other hand, she produced a wand from her fabulous robes, and with it she cleared the waste from the floor, freshened the stale air and conjured a pair of cozy, padded chairs, for which there was barely enough space in his room.

"Sit," she bade him, voice clipped as if she were commanding a dog. He gratefully did so, and she took the chair opposite. She then conjured one final piece of temporary furniture—a narrow mahogany table that separated them, impassible in this cramped room as a churning river. He inwardly lamented that half her precious form was now hidden from sight.

She deposited the tray on the table, but he did not eat, nor did he drink. He simply waited; he knew the game.

The door was left open to provide them light for their rendezvous. She sat with her back to the door, her face, hidden from the light, was silhouetted like a blank mask. Even so, her beauty, in his opinion, was in no way diminished in the dim atmosphere. Behind her, all he would see in the unlikely event he chose to avert his gaze for even the briefest of moments was a short corridor, lined with lamps and without doors, that terminated in a steep stair.

She considered him in silence for over a minute while he fidgeted in his seat, the soft padding of the chair against his naked buttocks and thighs a rare treat for him.

"Have you recalled any more secrets you wish to share with me?" she asked at length. Some might've found her voice high, cold and dispassionate, but to him, he heard dreams and melodies.

"My love," said the man in earnest, "I have no secrets anymore. I have told you all that I know. Perhaps…" The man hesitated, then dared to be daring. "Perhaps you could tell me a secret, since you know all of mine."

A slim eyebrow rose. "Perhaps." The word lingered, soft and sibilant like a hiss.

Her vibrant eyes never left his, not once since she had arrived, and the man was struck with the notion that she was peering into his very soul.

The man waited for her to elaborate, to confide in him a secret, but nothing came. He looked down at the untouched food before him, wordlessly asking permission.

"You may eat."

And eat he did. He wolfed down the roast beef, devoured the carrots and potatoes, and sucked down the water, pausing halfway through to ask, "Would you like some, my love?"

The woman tilted her head so fractionally it might've been unconscious. "No," she said, unmoved. She reached into the depths of her marvelous robes and procured a familiar dark bottle. Producing a pair of wineglasses from nowhere, she poured the deep burgundy into both. With a flick of a finger, she sent one glass drifting toward him across the table, even though it would've been simpler to hand it over.

The man accepted the wine graciously, taking only a sip before returning to his meal. Not another word was spoken until he'd finished the food and the water. The wine remained almost untouched.

"You understand why I do this, don't you?" said the woman, not bothering to gesture at the man or his little room for clarification.

"So that I may suffer," replied the man immediately. "For without suffering, life would have no meaning. With your boundless generosity, you define my pitiful existence."

"Good boy. Drink your wine, now."

The man seized his wineglass and held it before him. "To a miserable existence!"

The woman smiled, though it was without joy or sympathy; it was a stretching of the lips, nothing more. She raised her glass in kind and clinked them together, but while the man drank gluttonously, she returned her wine, undrunk, to the table.

The man placed his empty wineglass on the mahogany, his hands wracked by a faint tremor. He felt the warmth of the alcohol spread through him immediately, bolstering his confidence and dampening his insecurities. He extended a leg beneath the table, stroking a shapely calf through the woman's mercurial robes and whatever other evil articles of clothing prevented their flesh from meeting.

The woman remained impassive.

The man's foot trailed higher, but the proximity of his beloved and the table between them, and all the angles involved, prevented him from proceeding like he wanted. Her lack of a reaction did nothing to deter him, however, and he retracted his leg so that he may lean across the table and steal a kiss.

The table vanished suddenly, along with everything on it, and so did the chairs. The man lost his balance and fell onto the cold, hard, unforgiving floor. He looked up, dismayed to find the object of his affections already out the door, one hand poised to slam it shut.

"You want to hear a secret?" she posed.

The man pushed himself to his knees, imploring her with his gaze.

The woman leaned forward, her jet hair falling like curtains around her face and obscuring it further. Her ocher eyes gleamed in the dim. And for the first time since she arrived, she smiled, truly.

"Albus Dumbledore will die."

Author's Note

So there we go. This chapter was a bit of an interlude that marks a shift in the story. It's interesting writing a scene without using any names. Tell me what you think!

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