Hermione
Malfoy hadn't come home until late in the evening. She listened as the door clicked shut, and he walked toward the bed, quieter than a man his size should be able to. Hermione tried to keep her breath even as the sound of clothes ruffling filled the dark room before they landed on the floor. The soft fabric of the comforter slipped over her skin as the bed dipped, and Malfoy climbed in beside her. She chanced a peek to see if he was facing her, letting her eyelids open the barest degree. After seeing him face away from her, she dared to let her eyes open so she could observe him in a state of peace.
His skin was as pale she remembered, but he was no longer pointy and bony. Now, Malfoy was littered with scars, a map of everything he had experienced, each marking telling a tale of the horrors of his life. The map and story were unlikely to be dissimilar to her own. The lines of his body were now wrapped in muscle she doubted he obtained from hard days at the gym. They were the kind born from survival; each sinew forged in the crucible of struggle.
Learning that Malfoy was her alpha had been a shock, but the fact that he didn't want her had been a blow to the gentle psyche of her omega. Hermione had spent years building up her mental walls, forcing herself to become hard, calculating, and ruthless to survive. Her omega was the soft part of herself that presented itself in moments where being brutal and ruthless wouldn't help. Her omega would take over in these instances, forcing her consciousness into the depths of her mind as the cruel men pretending to be scientists experimented on her body and mind, testing the limits of her sanity and ability to endure physical torture.
During a particularly nasty heat, she'd been forced to endure alone, as was customary, she'd begun ripping her hair out at the root, the long strands sticking to her sweat soaked skin, rubbing against her overly sensitive skin like sandpaper. Her body had been aching to be filled, to have her alpha to guide her and help her through the inferno that had
So, when the alpha she'd waited so long for had rejected her, her omega had crumpled into a tight ball within herself, fearful of more heats without their mate and heartbroken over the fact that the one person meant for them didn't want them. Hermione had fortified the walls around her mind and heart, refusing to let a prat like Malfoy be her undoing after surviving years of torture.
No, she was better served to table thoughts of Malfoy and any hopes of him being the alpha she needed. What she needed to do was focus on the task at hand. She had to speak to Harry, if he was still alive, or any of her old friends from The Order. She wasn't so daft to believe she was actually safe enough to go wandering about Wizarding Britain on her own without any idea what the political landscape really looked like anymore. She'd heard bits and pieces in her various cells over the years, but most of the people providing the gossip were buffoons who could hardly have two brain cells to rub together.
She would need outside help, and if she couldn't get it from Malfoy, she would need to start strategizing about whocouldhelp her. She mentally ran through a list of everyone from her past that she trusted, vowing to find out who was alive and who would be willing to put it all on the line to finally end this war. With these thoughts, Hermione drifted back to sleep, subconsciously matching her breaths with Malfoy's steady inhale and exhale.
The next morning, Hermione awoke to find Malfoy's side of the bed empty. The space where he'd slept was now cold, indicating he'd been gone for some time. Deciding that a hot soak in the tub was exactly what she needed to wash away the mental stress from the prior day, Hermione made her way to the large en-suite bathroom.
The smell of lavender salts hung heavy in the air as steam from the scalding bath water rose like a scented cloud, fogging the mirrors and clinging to her skin. Hermione tested the temperature with a quick dip of her toe before tugging the soft material of Malfoy's shirt over her head, letting it fall to the cold marble floor as she sank into the scalding waters with a sigh. Hermione moaned in relief as her muscles relaxed against the porcelain of the tub, the feeling of contentment foreign after years of being deprived of basic necessities. The usual method for bathing, if you could call it that, was a quick hose down with frigid water before being tossed in a new cell.
Hermione hadn't realized how much time had passed until she opened her eyes and lifted her hands from the now lukewarm water, her fingertips pruned from their submersion.
After cleansing her skin until it felt raw, Hermione dressed for the day in a pair of Malfoy's black sleeping pants and another one of his black tops. She noticed there was a common theme to the color choices in his wardrobe; dark. The clothing was much too large for her smaller frame, so she tied a knot in the side of the shirt and shrunk the pants to a more suitable size. Feeling clean and more ready for the day, she decided to explore the house and find her friends.
The sound of dishes clinking, and voices talking beckoned her down the stairs as she exited Malfoy's room, where she found Pansy and Luna in the kitchen. Luna seemed to be preparing breakfast while Pansy gathered dishes for the table.
"Good morning," Hermione greeted as she took in the copper pots hanging over the stove, a kettle of water warming on the cooktop while Luna fried eggs and sausages in a pan, the vibration of her growling stomach a reminder of the fact that she'd not eaten since her rescue.
"Will you eat with us, darling?" Pansy asked as she set cutlery beside each plate, her jet-black hair swaying as she moved easily around the table. How many times had Hermione run her fingers through those silky strands, telling the girls stories of her adventures with Harry and Ron, or about her parents? More times than she could count, that was for sure.
Hermione walked toward a shelf displaying an assortment of teacups and grabbed a baby blue one with a small chip on the handle to prepare a cup of tea for herself. She sniffed at what seemed to be an herbal remedy. She usually preferred a sweeter tea, but it had been so long since she'd been allowed such a luxury that she wouldn't complain.
While her tea steeped, Hermione asked if there was anything she could do to help, but was shooed away and assured that everything was under control, so she decided to explore Malfoy's home. She noted how neat everything was; the books on the shelf seemed to be organized by height and width first, followed by genre and author. It was a system she found herself approving of. The clean lines soothed her as she ran her hand over a few of the aged leather spines.
It seemed that Malfoy kept very little in the way of personal items, such as pictures or trinkets, to decorate his home. His books being the main window into who he might be. Genres ranging from clinical to historical and even a few fiction titles decorated the shelf. Her eyes caught on a title she found herself surprised to find: Lord of the Flies. The choice of novel was not something she would have associated with Malfoy.
Looking away from the shelf, her eyes fell on the view outside. A lush yard lined with fruit trees displayed through a picturesque window, beckoned Hermione from her place of warmth. She'd not stood under the open sky or felt the wind against her skin without a guard watching her every move in years. The temptation too great to resist, Hermione made her way through the kitchen and found herself pulling the heavy wooden door open.
What Hermione hadn't accounted for was how the years in captivity would affect her ability to actually stand beneath such an open space. Anxiety and want warred for first place as the autumn breeze swept over her, carrying scents that sparked memories from long ago. Dew-covered grass, foggy mornings and the sound of leaves crunching beneath her boots. Longingly, she glanced at the grass and the tress, while her hand was curled around the doorframe, her knuckles white with how hard she gripped.
Her favorite time of year had been fall. The fond memories attached to it brought on a rush of both sorrow and nostalgia as she recalled a time before her designation, before the war and before everything in her life had imploded. She'd walked the packed dirt lanes in the park next to her childhood home. The path littered with leaves of sunset orange, earthy browns and sunrise gold. She'd loved exploring the forest with her parents but even more so when she'd been allowed to wander ahead by herself. Hermione had felt like an explorer looking for her next adventure as she'd leapt over moss covered logs, trudged through thick bogs of mud in her bright yellow boots and swung from low hanging branches. Armed with a thermos of warm cocoa, homemade chocolate biscuits and unbridled curiosity.
Those days were long gone though, she couldn't say with any amount of certainty if she'd ever see her parents again let alone walk through the woods of her childhood. Even if she could, would it feel the same or would the woman she'd been forced to become cast a shadow over the once happy place? Would the darkness of her world taint the serenity of such a beautiful place like it had done to her soul? Perhaps some memories, and people were best left in the past where they remain safe.
"Hermione? Breakfast is ready," Pansy called from the kitchen, pulling her from her maudlin thoughts.
"Coming," Hermione answered, taking one more peek outside before shutting the door and vowing to tackle this hurdle another day.
After enjoying a quick but delicious breakfast, the girls took their fresh cups of tea and settled against the soft cushions of the living room sofas.
"So, do we want to talk about the elephant in the room?" Hermione asked, meeting Pansy's challenging look and Luna's curious one.
"Do you mean the elephant that is Draco being your alpha or the topic of our rescue and where we go from here?" Pansy asked in her usual no-nonsense tone before taking a sip of her tea.
"Oh yes, though Draco being your alpha was always rather obvious, wasn't it, Hermione?" Luna's voice tinkled in that ethereal quality that gave Hermione chills.
Hermione took Luna's hand, a habit that had developed over the years when one of them was feeling uncertain or anxious. "I wouldn't say it was obvious, Luna. I mean, he treated me like absolute shite for years."
Pansy's brows knit together, and her lips pursed before she responded. "Perhaps Luna isn't completely off base here. I mean, consider this point of view. Draco was the only heir to a long line of purebloods with certain expectations. He starts to develop an…attraction to a certain curly-haired witch with a smart mouth who challenges him at every turn. What is he supposed to do with those feelings?"
"So, you're saying that Malfoy was attracted to me, and instead of processing those feelings, he treated me like shite and called me vile names? I don't know Pansy." Hermione could get behind a lot of things, and she wasn't saying she hadn't moved past Malfoy's treatment of her as a child, but she didn't know if she could get behind this logic.
"You didn't grow up in this world, Hermione. I did, and I know what those expectations do to you. Don't let the past hold you back from having a future," Pansy urged.
"I'm not. I would have accepted our bond, accepted him. He's the one who turned me away, so he's the one who can figure out how to fix this," Hermione argued.
"Oh, sweetheart, think about what I said. Draco was raised a certain way. There are things that he is allowed to have, and then there are things he can only dream of having. Knowing the Draco from our youth, he probably doesn't even allow himself to do that. He has always been an expert, burying what he wants underneath the weight of the expectations placed upon his shoulders. And you didn't see his face the moment he laid eyes on you."
Hermione couldn't help the tightening in her chest, the way her omega instantly hoped that beyond everything he'd said, Malfoy didn't find the idea of being her alpha abhorrent. "What do you mean?" she found herself asking despite the logical part of her brain demanding she protect herself and build her walls higher.
Pansy seemed to consider her for a moment before responding. "I remember the day my little sister was born. In pureblood culture, it is frowned upon for anyone apart from the mother and the healing staff to be present during the birthing process. Still, I desperately wanted to be in the room when Violet made her appearance, so my mother finally agreed, allowing me to stay, but only if I agreed to sit beside her where I couldn't witness the more…detailed aspect of things." Pansy paused to take another sip of her tea before continuing, a faraway look cast over her features. "My mother pushed for so long, hours, it seemed, before little Violet finally came into the world, screaming with all her might while the healers cleaned her and placed her upon my mother's chest. I will never forget the way my mother looked at Violet. It was like…her heart had broken and healed itself in the same beat; the little human with her powerful lungs and squished features had captured both of our hearts, and I knew from that day forward that I would do anything to keep her safe." A stray tear trailed down Pansy's cheek, gathering at her slight dimple as she smiled softly at the memory.
"The moment Draco saw you, that was it for him. I know it because I've seen that look before. He may not understand how to navigate everything going on inside his mind right now, but one thing I know for certain. You own that man's heart and soul, and there is nothing he wouldn't do to keep you safe. You didn't see the carnage he left behind; he didn't just kill those men to save us. He eviscerated them for what they did to you and the emotions all of it stirred within him."
Hermione remained quiet as the weight of Pansy's words settled in her heart. Her mind reeled as she tried to come to terms with the way Malfoy had treated her thus far and the man that Pansy described. A man who brutally murdered for his omega and the things that had been done to her. That didn't sound like someone who was disinterested. "I- I don't know what to say. I don't know how to move forward with Malfoy if we can't even have a civil conversation. You know that I'm not unwilling to try but I need to know that he's in this too. I won't chase after an alpha that doesn't want me."
"Well, I said that the man is gone for you, not that he wasn't stubborn. I think you are doing the right thing, making Draco face his past and decide if he's brave enough to fight for the future he wants. Don't give up on him just yet," Pansy said as she leaned toward her from across the sofa, her hand squeezing Hermione's reassuringly.
"It doesn't hurt that Draco has BAE so I'm sure he would be more than capable of pleasing you during intercourse," Luna announced like this was a helpful bit of news, her big blue eyes staring expectantly at her friends.
Hermione and Pansy glanced at each other curiously, wondering if either one had a clue what Luna was referring to. Pansy simply shrugged while grabbing a biscuit off the table.
"What is BAE, Luna?" Hermione finally asked.
"Big alpha energy, of course. He definitely has a large cock. Do we have any banana biscuits? I've been craving them for some time."
Pansy and Hermione glanced at each other before bursting into a fit of laughter.
"Gross Luna, I don't want to think about Draco's cock or how large it is," Pansy complained through her laughter.
Hermione was surprised to hear Pansy's adverse reaction to Luna's explanation. "Didn't you guys sleep together back in school?"
"Absolutely not. It was just a rumor. Draco's parents were considering a betrothal contract with Astoria Greengrass, and he was less than pleased with the match. So, we pretended to be courting to get his parents to give him some slack."
"Bloody pureblood culture. I'll never understand it. And I can confirm that he does have a large cock," Hermione chuckled as Pansy threw a pillow in her direction.
"You bloody arsehole, Granger."
"Theo has a proportionate cock, thick but not so long that it's uncomfortable, and he's a very gentle lover," Luna said between bites of her banana biscuit.
"I'm going to murder both of you. Happily," Pansy growled as she covered her ears.
"Who knew Pansy was such a pansy," Hermione joked lightheartedly, tossing the pillow back at the onyx-haired witch.
Pansy rolled her eyes before responding primly, "We all know I'm the toughest of the lot of us."
The air seemed to shift around Hermione, the truth of Pansy's words hitting her like a ton of bricks to the chest. A soft rush of air passed Luna's lips as her eyes glossed over.
Something Hermione had learned meant she was occluding.
"You were, no, are, Pansy. You saved us more times than I can count, and I will never be able to repay you for that." Hermione's voice trembled as she took Pansy's hands in her own and pulled her closest friend in for a hug, one that they both desperately needed. "There were days when I wanted to give up, thought that if the hunger didn't get me then surely the experiments would. You two were the only thing keeping me going in those moments. The way you took our punishments for yourself, repeatedly. Those nights were the worst; I had to hide within myself and let my omega take over. I never wanted you to do that, Pansy. I would do anything for you, for both of you, and I hope you know that."
Luna shifted in her seat for a moment before she stood to join them, taking up the cushion next to Pansy and wrapping her arms around her friends. "I can't sleep on the bed. I tried last night, but I couldn't do it. It was too warm, too soft. I told Theo it wasn't necessary, but he slept on the floor with me."
"I love you guys," Pansy said, her voice thick with emotion as the three friends embraced each other. Letting the silence settle around them as they enjoyed the peace of mind knowing they were safe. Well, as safe as could be in the world they lived in.
An indiscernible amount of time later, Pansy pulled out of her friend's embrace, her body turning to look at Hermione. "Are you feeling warm, love?" she asked while placing a hand on Hermione's forehead.
"A little, but it's been like that since I woke up. I suppose it could be because of the change in scenery. The scenery is always changing." Hermione felt her mind start to drift, becoming distant, her ability to focus on Pansy's words fading quickly as her skin began to warm beneath the surface, her joints throbbing as the telltale signs of a sudden heat began to surface. "Fuck, I can't do this right now," Hermione groaned before swiping a bead of sweat off her brow.
"It's going to be okay, love. You've done this before, and you'll do it again. We'll be with you the whole time," Pansy said with much more confidence than Hermione felt.
"Don't forget that Draco will most certainly assist you this time," Luna added as she set the white tea place on the table and skipped toward the kitchen.
Did she want that? Her omega certainly did, but did Hermione want him to help after the way they'd left things yesterday on top of their history?
"Don't think about that now, let's get you upstairs and settled before things get any worse," Pansy urged as she pulled Hermione to her feet, ushering her up the stairs and into Malfoy's bedroom.
Voldemort
Darkness had followed him around like a shadow his entire life. From his earliest memory, inside of that hell hole, he'd been forced to call home for the majority of his adolescence to this very day. Voldemort distinctly remembered the day he'd had his first accidental burst of magic at roughly eight or nine years old.
He'd always been called a handsome child with his ivory skin, pale cheeks, and dark hair. Vanity was never something that he had any interest in, and the praise for the way he looked did nothing for him. He would watch his housemates blush under the praise of the visiting couples looking to grow their families. His lip would curl in disgust at the weak display of never need such validation from others—these pitiful creatures he was forced to entertain with their painted-on smiles and promises .
The day he'd realized he was different than others—better—the house manager, Mary Ann Ruth, had arranged for a young couple to meet with him in hopes of finding an adoption match. He'd donned his best suit as Mary had ordered, shining his shoes and brushing his hair to play the part of the perfect puppet. His strings about to be pulled by the invisible force demanding that he perform in the way he'd been taught was right.
He'd walked dutifully to the sitting room where lukewarm tea and stale biscuits would be served. As expected, his prospective family was awaiting his arrival. A man with sandy blonde hair, pale green eyes, and a too-large nose sat closest to the doorway. A slight woman with black hair, blue eyes, and lips painted red sat beside him; their hands clutched together, and those fake smiles painted on their faces, probably puppets on a string just like him.
The woman, having spotted him, jumped to her feet and rushed to take his hand between hers, the scent of her cheap perfume assaulting his senses. "Hello Tom, it's lovely to meet you. My name is Josephine, and this is my husband, Gregory. We are so happy to be here."
Gregory stood to join Josephine, his hand resting on her shoulder as he pulled her into his side. "Such a handsome lad; I'm sure he has to beat those lassies away with a stick." Gregory laughed as if his joke was funny. If he only knew how many times Tom had actually wished he could do just that, beat those he found inferior to himself.
"Would you care for a biscuit, Tom? Perhaps we could spend some time getting to know each other?" Josephine asked, no doubt expecting him to play along like a good boy would do. Heshouldaccept the biscuit, heshouldlaugh along with Gregory's horrible jokes, and heshouldn'tfocus on what he really wanted to do at this moment.
The thing was, he couldn't control himself. And this time, he really didn't want to. He let all of the thoughts he'd been told were naughty, impure, andevilrun rampant through his mind. He thought of the way he wished he could smash that stupid smile right off of Josephine's face. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to see fear in her eyes; at least that would be real.
With every chortle that passed Gregory's lips, Tom's anger grew, and his fists clenched until he felt his nails digging into the skin of his palm. He imagined gouging out the fool's eyes, wrapping his hands around his neck until he couldn't breathe—anything to silence that ridiculous laugh.
A tingling sensation started in his chest, morphing until it felt like a siphon pulling at the center of himself. The harder he stared at Gregory and the more he let his anger build, the harder this feeling pulled at him until it exploded outwards in an invisible tidal wave of destruction.
Gregory's hand flew to his chest, his face contorted in confusion as his eyes widened in panic. His breath hitched, a loud, desperate swallow breaking the silence, followed by a wet, ragged cough. When he pulled his hand away, it was smeared with dark, glistening blood.
"Josie, some-, something is w- wrong," he rasped, his voice thick and broken, as though his throat was filling with something far worse than words. Each syllable came out strangled, his body failing him as he struggled to understand the terror now consuming him.
His dutiful wife shot out of her seat and rushed to his side, her hands frantically patting his face, touching his throat as if her touch could help him somehow. "What's wrong, Greg? Where does it hurt, sweetheart?"
"M-" He never was able to answer because, at that moment, his eyes nearly bulged out of his head, his jaw dropping open wider than should be possible, and snakes of all colors and sizes began to pour past his lips. Their slithering bodies were covered in bits of flesh and blood as they dropped to the floor, leaving wet trails of red as they made their escape.
"Somebody help. Help my husband!" Josephine screamed as she clawed at the never-ending stream of reptiles cascading from her husband's mouth. His hands frantically ripped at the snakes, pulling one after another, but they never ceased. Blood pooled past his lips, leaving puddles of it on the floor as he gasped for air, only the sounds of Josephine's screams overshadowing the song of his death.
For the first time in his life, Tom heard himself laugh. Once it started, he couldn't stop. His shoulders shook at the sight before him. This man, with his ridiculous laugh and his whore of a wife, could do nothing to stop any of it. To stopGregfrom choking to death on these beautiful creatures. Creatures that Tom was certain he'd conjured. He didn't know how, but he knew he'd willed this into existence. At that moment, he found clarity. Understanding that he was right in his belief that he was better than these waste of-space sacks of meat. Because, he, Tom, was exceptional, he had power that they could never hope to obtain.
Present day
The Dark Lord aka Voldemort aka Tom Riddle aka soon-to-be Divine and Terrible Overlord of Anything and Everyone was having a good day. No, he was having a fantastic day. Those had been few and far between since this stupid, yet necessary war had started. While he did relish the carnage, the smell of fear, and sowing terror wherever he went, he could also stand to have it end now. He should be sitting on a throne befitting his greatness, having people bow to him and herald him.
Besides, he had much to do. Much to change. The Wizarding World had become lazy and obliging. Letting Muggles run everything. Hiding. They were the strong ones, the ones with magic. Muggles should hide fromthem. He smiled to himself as he walked down a dark corridor. At least he and his army had sent countless of them scurrying. Some of them to their graves. Fine, a lot of them.
But no, today had been grand so far. Not only had that Malfoy lad found and blown-up one of the Order's secret hide-outs a few days ago, but Snifter, his top scientist, was close to a pheromone prototype. It was all very exciting. Voldemort smirked at the note he had just received via owl.
My Lord,
The test-runs have proved to be promising. Out of five alpha's three reacted very strongly to the artificial pheromones and the other two broke down once directly sprayed with them. With a few more tweaks, I will be able to account for that too.
Devotedly yours,
Snifter.
,he would be able to control an alpha with the snap of his fingers. Because as efficient as Draco was, he had grown into an exceptionally strong alpha. And while Voldemort's magic was far superior, he wouldn't be able to keep the upper hand in a fight. The primal strength and amplified magic of an alpha, who was in a state, would trump anything.
It was good to have a weapon on hand for such occasions. Just in case. And he had more plans still, when it came to alphas and omegas.
With a swing in his step, Voldemort sailed through the winged doors of the master bedroom, his cloak billowing around him, as his naked feet slapped the marble floor. He grinned widely at the blood-soaked bed, which had his last torture victim hanging in it from a few chains.
He mock-saluted the dead man. "Chin up, old chap. At least it's over for you now, since you have shuffled form this mortal coil." With a hum and a flick of his wand, Voldemort cleaned up the blood and the linen, while simultaneously floating the man from the bed and past him out the door. The thump of dead flesh on the tiles was a satisfying sound and he grinned before vanishing the softly clinking chains.
With a gleam in his red eyes, Voldemort swept into the ensuite and sighed in elation. Bixby had not advertised falsely. Not that the little pale man would dare, but Voldemort was pleasantly surprised by how full the large bathtub was. Yes, an excellent day indeed.
With a swish of his wand, his clothes vanished, and Voldemort dipped his toes into the silver liquid. This had to be the blood of at least five Unicorns. How on earth Bixby had managed such a feat, was a sheer wonder, but Voldemort would not complain. He sank into the thick smoothness and immediately felt the effect on his skin and mind.
The tense muscles in his neck and legs unwound and his skin stopped itching around his elbows and feet. His mind cleared and he was able to float through a sense of utter elation for a few minutes. He sank further down, feeling the porcelain of the tub cold against the back of his head. His lips dipped beneath the surface, and he took little gulps, relishing the taste of copper and chocolate. It reminded him of a time long ago, when he had needed this forbidden elixir of silver and innocence to live. Now he only indulged because he could.
Lifting a hand from the depths, Voldemort twirled his long fingers in the candlelight, marveling at the glinting metallic sheen coating his skin. It looked like… He grinned, like Wormtail's hand had.
Ahhh, that silly old fool. His weak heart had been his undoing in the end. And that hand had killed him for his betrayal. It wasn't a terrible loss. The man had been useful in some ways and a nuisance in others.
Rubbing the blood between the pads of his fingers, feeling the smooth glide strengthen and invigorate him, he then waved his hand and smiled as Antoine appeared in his palm. The rubber duck was fabricated to look like a Death Eater. Pale, with a black cloak and the Dark Mark on his left wing.
"Hello, my little friend," Voldemort crooned and dropped Antoine into the bath. He let him sail silver waves, made bubbles and even sang a little song, feeling on top of the world. Antoine had been along in quiet moments during the past few years and Voldemort was very fond of his rubbery, squeaky friend. Letting his magic seep into the duck, it came alive and started quacking, paddling around and flapping his beak.
He nuzzled into Voldemort's hand, letting his hood drop from his pale head and let out a happy squawk.
Voldemort took him into his palm and nudge his beak with his own nose. Or, what was left of it.
A knock sounded form the door and he frowned, very annoyed at being disturbed. "Who is it and what do you want?" he snarled.
"Bixby, My Lord. I have…news, My Lord," the jittery voice of Bixby came muffled through the door.
"Can't it wait?" Voldemort asked with a sigh.
"I… uh… I'm afraid… You will…" The rest of the sentence was a jittery mumble Voldemort could not make it out.
"By Salazar, Bixby, come inside, stop stuttering and get to it," he hissed.
The door creaked open, and the pale and mousy features of his personal attendant appeared. He shuffled inside, looking down.
"My Lord, I'm afraid you'll want to know about this immediately," Bixby said.
Gathering Antoine in his palm and feeling his little beak nudge between his fingers, Voldemort frowned. "Yes. Get on with it, you nitwit!"
Bixby wrung his stubby hands in front of his belly. "Well… One of the facilities… I received news it was broken into. And- and some… Well… Three omegas were stolen, and several guards killed."
Black wrath coiled through Voldemort's chest, making the blood around him darken, as if ink was leaking from his very skin. "Which omegas?"
"The… Uhm… Parkinson, Lovegood and…"
"And?"
"And Granger, My Lord," Bixby croaked pitifully.
Voldemort felt all blood drain from his face. The Golden .Acidic fury exploded from him, making the blood slosh around, the tub crack and the windows at his side shatter. Antoine squeaked and Voldemort watched in horror as his little friend melted in his fingers, the rubber dripping into the dark-mottled blood with hissing plops.
Antoine's little face deformed and vanished into hot goo. Voldemort grimaced, dropping his hand to wash the rubber away, his chest clenching and his ire freezing along his veins.
"Bixby, get over here and hold out your arm," he ordered.
Bixby stumbled up to his side and Voldemort snatched his wand from the ledge of the tub. He stuck the tip to Bixby's Dark Mark, calling all his disciples into the grand hall of the manor. One of whom would pay the ultimate price.
Bixby gasped at the burn on his skin and Voldemort turned to face him, a snarl on his features. "You unfortunate little man," Voldemort drawled, looking straight into his servant's watery, blue eyes.
Sweat beaded on his meaty upper lip and he squinted, trying very hard not to let his gaze sink.
"You made me kill Antoine, Bixby." Voldemort clicked his tongue. "That was…really unfortunate on your part."
Bixby had the audacity to look confused. "Who—"
Voldemort's face twisted with disgust. "Avada Kedavra!" he spat, watching with no small amount of satisfaction as the green jet left his wand to slam into Bixby, who looked stricken for a moment, then the light left his watery eyes, and he slumped to the ground.
"You know, Bixby," Voldemort said. "The messenger always gets killed. Especially if he is to fault for the death of innocent little duckies!"
Rising from his—by now blackened—bath, Voldemort stepped over Bixby's corpse, leaving him to rot where he lay. His feet squeaked on the tiles and drops of blood ran down, hitting the marble at his sides. With a twirl of his wand, a black, satin robe manifested around his form, clinging to his bloody body like the old skin of a snake.
Killing Bixby had merely taken the edge off his anger, and only that relating to poor, melted Antoine. The crux of his problem was still front and center, eating at his insides with slicing bites. His omegas. Granger. His Golden Girl! The one who still had suffering to endure. A lot of it. That filthy Mudblood omega… He had to find her again. But first… First there would be more punishing.
Rodolphus Lestrange… That bastard had been in charge of the facilities. A cruel smirk danced across his bloodstained lips, as Voldemort tapped his wand to his thigh, the hem of his sating bathrobe slapping wetly against the back of his knees. He left it open in the front, uncaring for such nonsense as propriety. Besides, he had plans… And putting on a show of stripping wasn't part of them.
No, Rodolphus would suffer his failings and then his disciples would find the Golden Girl again. By Salazar, if the world burned down, he did not care. She would be his once more.
As the blood started to dry, his soles became sticky on the floor and the sound of Velcro followed him, echoing along the dark hallways of the manor until he reached the great hall, where countless masked faces already waited for him.
Voldemort's eyes narrowed to slits as he stepped into the great hall, the faint flicker of torchlight casting long, serpentine shadows on the walls. The room hummed with suppressed tension; the masked figures lined against the walls holding their breath. Every eye was on him, tracing the movement of his long, fluid steps, as he made his way into the heart of the hall.
But Voldemort's focus was .
The man stood hunched, taller than most in the hall, yet somehow managing to shrink under the weight of Voldemort's gaze. His face, sharp, haggard, was a mask of barely concealed dread. There was something pathetic in the way his pale brow glistened, a sheen of sweat catching the low light as it trickled down the side of his face. His dark hair clung damply to his temples, the sharp line of his jaw tense, twitching.
Voldemort could smell the fear radiating off him. Sour, metallic, like rust and old sweat. Rodolphus swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his gaunt throat, and Voldemort delighted in the subtle tremor of his hands, trying desperately to stay still at his sides.
Voldemort's voice slid through the silence, low and deadly. "Rodolphus..." He drew out the name, savoring the moment like a snake savoring a cornered mouse. His tone was soft, but in its softness, there was danger, a hiss of venom.
The hall seemed to close in, the air growing thicker, heavier with each second of silence. Voldemort let it stretch, watching the beads of sweat gather on Rodolphus' upper lip, the wet shimmer beneath his sunken eyes. He could hear the man's breathing, shallow and irregular, trying to mask his rising panic.
Finally, Voldemort tilted his head, eyes glinting with the flicker of distant firelight. "I have learned," he began slowly, letting each word hang in the air, "that the facility housing some of my most precious omegas has not only been breached..." His gaze turned sharp, cutting through Rodolphus like a blade. "But that these omegas have beentaken."
The last word echoed in the cavernous hall, and Voldemort watched with satisfaction as Rodolphus' face drained of color. He could practically see the man's mind racing, scrambling for excuses, for explanations, for anything that might lessen the blow of what was coming.
Rodolphus licked his lips, his voice coming out hoarse and uneven, "My—My Lord, I—"
"Who," Voldemort interrupted, his voice suddenly sharp and cold, slicing through the man's stammering, "was in charge of that facility?"
Rodolphus flinched at the interruption, his entire body tensing as if he had been physically struck. His eyes darted wildly to the side, to where Bellatrix stood, her lips curled into something almost like a smile. Hungry, eager, her dark eyes alight with perverse pleasure. She relished this, the deadly tension crackling in the air between them. Voldemort knew, even without looking directly at her, that she cared far more for the thrill of his fury than she did for her husband's fate. The flash of anticipation in her eyes said as much.
Rodolphus's mouth opened and closed, no words coming out at first. He was drowning in his fear, sweat now openly streaming down the sides of his face, dampening the collar of his cloak. "The—the guards, my Lord—" he finally managed, voice trembling. "They—they failed... I—"
"Don't." Voldemort's voice was icy, his red eyes glowing with quiet malice. He stepped closer, his presence looming over Rodolphus like a storm cloud. "Do not insult me with excuses, Rodolphus. Who was in charge?"
Rodolphus' knees buckled slightly, his hands twitching at his sides, clenching and unclenching, desperate for something to hold onto. "It—it was I, my Lord," he admitted in a rasp, his voice breaking. "I oversaw the facility... but the guards—they failed to—"
"You oversaw it," Voldemort repeated softly, his lips curving into a smile that never reached his eyes. His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, "And yet you let them escape."
Rodolphus stammered, words tripping over themselves in his rush to explain, to apologize, to survive. "Please, my Lord, I—I can fix this. I—"
Voldemort's hand moved with eerie grace, silencing him with a single, raised finger. "Fix this?" He took a slow step forward, towering over Rodolphus, the scent of fear and desperation thick in the air. He could see the terror in Rodolphus' eyes now, wide and glassy, the man's entire body vibrating with barely suppressed panic.
Voldemort tilted his head, a cruel smile playing at the edges of his lips. "You will not fix anything, Rodolphus. You have already failed. And failures, as you well know..." He let the words drift, watching the realization sink into Rodolphus' face like a dagger. The man's breathing hitched, his chest rising and falling rapidly now, his entire body trembling.
Out of the corner of his eye, Voldemort saw Bellatrix's eyes flicker between them, gleaming with dark, twisted glee. Her fingers twitched at her side, as if barely restraining the urge to touch her wand, to feel the rush of magic, of violence. She lived for this. The deadly dance of power and punishment.
Voldemort's red eyes glinted with a cruel gleam as he let the silence hang, thick and suffocating. His gaze returned to Rodolphus, who stood frozen, sweat beading at his temples. Slowly, Voldemort's lips curved into a thin, cold smile. "You must be punished, Rodolphus," he said softly, each word a deliberate stroke of the knife, sinking into the man's already unraveling nerves.
In one swift, almost graceful motion, Voldemort's hand shot out and tangled in Bellatrix's wild, dark hair. She half-shrieked, half-laughed, her voice a jagged mix of pain and excitement, her body arcing toward him in an almost obscene display of eagerness. He trailed a long, cold finger down the side of her throat, feeling the erratic pulse beneath her pale skin, and her breath hitched. Desire and madness dancing in her wide, hungry eyes.
Without shifting his gaze from Bellatrix, Voldemort spoke again, his voice as smooth as silk over steel. "Tell me, Rodolphus," he murmured, letting his words hang like a noose tightening around the man's throat, "do you know how many times I've fucked your wife?"
Rodolphus made a choking sound, but no words came. His eyes, hollow and desperate, flicked toward Bellatrix, but she only stomped her foot in excitement, her chest rising and falling with short, sharp breaths. Her lips quivered, bitten and slick with saliva as she licked them in anticipation, her dark eyes sparkling with the wicked thrill of the moment.
The silence was delicious. Voldemort let it linger, savoring the tension stretching between them like a taut wire. Then, without waiting for a response, because he didn't need one, he continued, his voice a slow, cruel purr. "Since you have lost me my omegas," Voldemort said, his gaze still fixed on Bellatrix's neck, his fingers tracing her jawline as though Rodolphus was beneath his notice, "I will take something from you in return. I will take your wife."
He let the words hang in the air, savoring the way they struck Rodolphus like a curse. A soft, strangled sound escaped from Rodolphus' throat. An attempt at protest. His mouth opened as if to speak, but the moment Voldemort's cold, piercing gaze snapped to his, the man's jaw slammed shut with an audible click. His eyes were wide with a mixture of terror and helplessness, his body rigid with suppressed rage and fear.
Voldemort's lips curled into a cruel smile. "Perhaps," he mused, "I will put an heir in her. You wouldn't mind that, would you, Rodolphus? After all, you've proven yourself unworthy of providing me anything of value."
The words struck Rodolphus like a hex, and Voldemort could see the immediate effect. The man's face twisted in a grotesque mask of suffering, his muscles twitching as though they might tear from the tension. He was breaking, collapsing inward under the unbearable weight of the shame Voldemort had thrust upon him. There was no dignity left in the man. Only the silent, pitiful act of submission. His mouth stayed shut, and Voldemort felt a cruel satisfaction knowing that Rodolphus had no choice. Defiance was a luxury few could afford in his presence. Least of all Rodolphus.
A flick of Voldemort's wand, casual, effortless, conjured a bed in the center of the hall. He barely noticed the awed, tense silence that rippled through his audience at the sight. To him, the bed was simply another tool. Like his wand, like his magic, likeBellatrix. It was there to serve his purpose. It appeared fully formed, an imposing four-poster draped in velvet, its heavy curtains swaying ever so slightly in a phantom breeze. To the others, it might have seemed like something from a dream or a nightmare. Yet to Voldemort, it was nothing more than another step toward Rodolphus' complete humiliation.
Without loosening his grip, he dragged Bellatrix toward the bed, her hair still twisted tightly in his grasp. She followed, her breaths short and excited, the tremor in her body unmistakable. She thrived on this, on beinghis. Her anticipation was palpable, an almost physical presence in the room. He could feel her excitement thrumming through her, like an animal vibrating with feral energy.
At the bed, he released her, and for a moment, she staggered. Unbalanced. The wide, wild eyes that had been so full of dark hunger now shimmered with uncertainty. He could sense it, smell it: the slow, creeping fear beneath her excitement. The realization that this was not just another display of her devotion but something more, something darker. She hadn't yet fully grasped how deep the humiliation would cut.
"Strip," he commanded, his voice a soft, dangerous whisper. It was not a request. There was no room for hesitation.
His red eyes gleamed with cold malice, the faintest trace of amusement curling at the edge of his lips. He could see the tremor pass through her as his words hit, but her hands stayed frozen at her sides, as if some part of her still clung to defiance or fear of what would come.
A flicker of annoyance curled in his chest. "This isn't the time to be shy, Bellatrix," he hissed, his tone mocking, twisting the words like a serpent coiling around prey. "You share your husband's failure. Do not think you are any less guilty." His lips curved into a thin, humorless smile as he saw the flash of fear in her eyes. "Your punishment will be his humiliation. If I put an heir in your belly, you will be nothing more than a vessel. A means to an end."
The words landed like a curse, and he could see them sink into her, wiping away the remnants of her bravado. He watched with clinical detachment as her expression faltered, as the bright, manic energy that usually radiated from her began to dim. She swallowed hard, and for the first time, the fear that flickered in her eyes was genuine. Her movements became slow, hesitant. She was no longer the eager devotee, but a woman teetering on the edge of realization.
Her fingers twitched as they reached for the clasps of her robes, but they fumbled, shaking slightly. The chaotic, unbridled energy that always seemed to pulse beneath her skin had vanished, replaced with uncertainty. Voldemort could feel her fear now. It permeated the air between them, mixed with the sweat that had started to bead at her temple. It was almost intoxicating, the taste of her humanity breaking through her carefully crafted facade.
Howpathetic, he thought. She was so close to breaking, so close to losing what little control she had left. It was all so... satisfyingly human.
He relished this moment, watching her composure slip away like sand through her fingers. The way her breath hitched as her cloak fell to the ground. The way her gaze flickered nervously to the crowd of masked faces, aware of every eye on her, waiting for her complete undoing. Her hands shook more now, betraying the fear she could no longer hide.
Voldemort's gaze never wavered, cold and unfeeling as he drank in her fear. He didn't care for her trembling, her vulnerability. He cared only for the power he held over her, the way she crumbled beneath it. This was what he thrived on: the complete domination of another's will, the way their humanity disintegrated under his gaze. Bellatrix, for all her devotion and madness, was still so easy to break.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Voldemort let his robe slip from his shoulders. It fell to the floor in a soft, graceful heap, as if the very act were a display of power and majesty. And indeed, it was. He stood tall, terrifying; his form stripped bare but still cloaked in the raw, cold power that made him more than human. To those watching, it was a moment of awe, a display of the Dark Lord's invincible dominance. To Voldemort, it was merely another step in Rodolphus' and Bellatrix's descent into complete subjugation.
Now, as she undressed before him, he let his eyes roam over her with cold calculation. For a woman in her fifties, she was...passable. Her breasts, while no longer youthful, did not sag, and her figure, though thin, still maintained the traces of allure it once held. He supposed she might even be considered attractive by someone whocaredfor such trivialities. But Voldemort was not such a person. The superficial details of flesh meant little to him—her body, like everything else, was a tool. Nothing more.
And, of course, there were her flaws. The rotting teeth, the madness that clung to her like a diseased shadow—pervasive, unyielding. It had long since eaten away any semblance of grace or dignity. What she lacked in beauty, she compensated for in obsessive devotion, but even that, in the end, was nothing more than another symptom of her weakness. The madness was all she had left.
He watched as her trembling hands moved to cover herself, pathetic in her sudden and futile grasp at modesty. His lip curled in disgust. "On your knees," he commanded, his voice a cold, cutting whisper that left no room for question.
She obeyed instantly, her knees hitting the cold marble with a dull thud. Her hands, still shaking, reached tentatively for him. "Use your mouth," he continued, his tone colder still, as if he were instructing a servant on how to clean his robes. "Get me ready."
Her eyes flickered up toward him, wide and filled with both fear and reverence. He could feel the weight of her worship as she lowered her head to him, but it barely registered. She might see this as an honor, but to him, it was nothing more than an exercise in power. One that had grown increasingly tiresome over the years. Her lips parted, and she took him into her mouth, warm and wet, but entirely unimpressive. The sound of her mouth working on him echoed in the hall, wet and obscene. The slurping and sucking mingled with the hushed breaths of those watching, the collective discomfort and fear palpable.
She was trying. He could feel her pathetic attempts to please him in the frantic movements of her tongue, but it only served to irritate him. She was clumsy, inefficient. There was no skill in her actions. Just desperation. He had experienced far better, far more satisfying pleasures, and the fact that his body remained unmoved was a testament to her inadequacy.
He glanced down at her, her wild hair falling in dark tangles around her face as she , butjust. Her mouth, though warm, offered little more than the bare minimum.
His thoughts drifted as he stared down at her. She was nothing. A tool. A vessel for his amusement, his control. But there were others... greater tools to be used, stronger vessels that would serve a far grander purpose. His mind wandered to the girl, one who had escaped him for now but would be brought back. She would serve where Bellatrix could not. His true heir would be forged through her, strong and perfect, untainted by the madness that had ruined the woman before him.
He felt the frustration rise within him as his body failed to respond to Bellatrix's efforts. She wasn't good enough. She had never been good enough. He knew it, but he let her continue, if only to draw out the humiliation further.
He turned his gaze to Rodolphus, standing off to the side like a broken man. The pitiful fool kept his eyes firmly fixed on the ground, his face pale, jaw clenched. Voldemort could see the effort it took for him to stay upright, the strain in his posture. He couldsmellthe man's sickness. The nausea roiling beneath his skin as he stood there, forced to watch his wife debase herself in front of him.
"Look at me, Rodolphus," Voldemort said, his voice cutting through the air like a knife. The man flinched, his shoulders shaking as he lifted his gaze. His eyes were hollow, glassy, but they met Voldemort's with the barest hint of defiance, a spark that was quickly extinguished.
"Watch," Voldemort hissed, savoring the command as it dripped from his lips. "I want you to see what happens when you fail me. Let this be a lesson to you all." He raised his voice, addressing the Death Eaters who surrounded them, their eyes fixed on the scene, every breath hitched with anticipation and fear.
"Anyone who loses another of my omegas will face this," he continued, his tone cold, controlled. "I will take your wives, your lovers, your sisters, your mothers. Yourdaughters. Perhaps then you will be motivated to do your jobs properly."
The hall was filled with the sound of Bellatrix's mouth working him, wet and rhythmic. The quiet horror of the scene rippled through the room like an invisible wave, though none dared to look away. Rodolphus was trembling now, his hands shaking, his skin a sickly shade of gray. He looked as though he might vomit at any moment, his body betraying the revulsion he felt but could not express. He was trapped in the humiliation, bound by fear, and Voldemort relished every second of it.
Voldemort's eyes flicked back to Bellatrix, whose face was now streaked with tears. She continued to move her mouth over him, her cheeks hollowing with the effort, her desperation evident. The sight of her tears, of her brokenness, stirred something within him, a dark pleasure that bloomed in his chest. Yes, this was what he wanted. The fear. The submission. The total control.
His body responded at last, his cock growing hard in her mouth, and he smiled coldly, his fingers curling into her hair. With a sudden, rough yank, he pushed himself deeper into her throat, feeling her gag around him. She choked, but didn't pull away. Her hands gripping his thighs as she struggled to keep up with his demands.
"Suck mebetter," he growled, his voice low, threatening. She tried; he could feel her frantic efforts. Yet it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. He could feel her teeth scrape against him, and a thought flickered through his mind:Maybe she would be better without them. Maybe if she were remade, stripped down to her most basic form, she could finally serve her purpose.
The idea pleased him, sent a chill of satisfaction through his veins. Yes, he could remove them. He could take everything from her. She would be nothing more than a means to an end. And that, in the end, was all she was ever meant to be.
With a sharp tug, he pulled himself from Bellatrix's mouth. Her lips parted in a gasp, her face still streaked with tears, but he gave her no time to recover. "On the bed," he commanded, his voice like ice. "Hands and knees. Face your husband."
She didn't hesitate. Even in her broken state, she scrambled to obey, her limbs trembling as she climbed onto the bed, positioning herself as he instructed. Knees pressed into the sheets, arms shaking under the weight of her own shame. Her face turned toward Rodolphus, her wild hair hanging limp around her. Voldemort watched with cold detachment as her eyes flickered with something akin to pleading, but Rodolphus could offer her nothing. The man was crumbling, his expression a mask of helpless horror, watching as his wife was reduced to a mere plaything for his master.
Voldemort moved behind her; his movements slow, deliberate. There was no pleasure in the act itself, not for him. This was not about lust or desire. He took her hard, without care, thrusting into her with mechanical precision. Bellatrix whimpered beneath him, the pathetic sounds escaping her lips only adding to his satisfaction. She was nothing now. Just flesh.
But it wasn't the act that pleased him. It was the destruction. The way Rodolphus' face contorted with each thrust, as if with every motion, a piece of him was being ripped apart. The man's entire world was crumbling before his eyes, and Voldemort reveled in it. The emotional ruin, the humiliation, was far more intoxicating than any physical pleasure could ever be. Rodolphus was breaking, just as Bellatrix was breaking, just as every one of his followers would eventually break beneath his power.
As he continued, shadows began to stir around him, dark tendrils coiling and twisting in the air like snakes. They slithered off the bed, silent and predatory, weaving their way toward the Death Eaters lined up along the walls. The air grew heavy with fear, thick, suffocating. Voldemort could smell it, the acrid stench of terror seeping from the pores of his followers. It was delicious, intoxicating, a testament to his dominance over them.
All but one.
Draco Malfoy stood among them, his face pale, eyes fixed on the scene before him. But unlike the others, his fear was tainted with something else. Not submission. Not dread. It was disgust. Pure, undiluted revulsion.
Good, Voldemort thought with a cold, twisted smile. Disgust would serve him just as well. Malfoy's arrogance would be broken soon enough. His disgust, his defiance, they were nothing compared to the power Voldemort wielded. Draco would learn, just like the others had learned, that there was no escape from his control. Malfoy would be his, reduced to an obedient dog. And the thought of it, of molding Malfoy's arrogance into servitude, soothed the lingering anger he still felt over the temporary loss of his omegas.
The shadows, his conjured serpents, slithered back toward the bed, curling around Bellatrix's body, coiling into the spaces between her limbs, seeking out every vulnerable part of her. They entered her where they could, slipping beneath her skin like living darkness. He could feel her body stiffen, could hear the gasp of terror as the serpents filled her, leaving behind a sensation of constant dread that would never leave her.
Her fear was palpable now, a thick, sweet thing that clung to the air like honey. Voldemort could taste it, feel it coursing through his senses, rich and decadent. It was everything he craved. The power, the control, the absolute terror he inspired in those around him. Bellatrix's whimpers became more frantic, her body trembling as the fear consumed her, but Voldemort remained unmoved, cold, and detached. Her suffering was just another part of his design.
Yes, her fear tasted like honey to him. Sweet, thick, and rich. And as he took her, he relished in it. Every whimper, every tear, every shuddering breath.
This was power. This was control.
And they would all learn to fear him like this.