Daphne Greengrass lay naked on her stomach, legs lazily kicked up in the air as she skimmed the front page of the Daily Prophet. Beside her, her equally bare fiancé was wholly absorbed in a task of utmost importance – tracing imaginary runes across the small of her back, his fingertip sending light shivers over the ticklish parts of her skin.
It was all in jest, no real magic involved, though Harry insisted it was magical all the same. "A guarding rune," Daphne said absently with smile, eyes still scanning the paper.
Harry let out a dramatic huff. "Right… again!" he groaned, flopping onto his side in mock defeat. "How do you keep doing that?" he asked, settling in beside her. Daphne didn't reply, but her smirk deepened ever so slightly.
Of all Daphne's recent accomplishments, getting Harry Potter interested in Runes seemed like a minor footnote. But to her, it was a personal point of pride – especially considering Harry's distaste for the subject. 'Sitting still and drawing weird pictures,' as he once put it, was hardly his idea of fun. It had taken no small amount of plotting and scheming on her part to get him to even crack open the beginner's guide she'd given him. In the end, it was this little game that finally did the trick. Daphne didn't feel the slightest bit guilty about the manipulation. After all, Harry was the one who always claimed the mere sight of her naked body inspired him to greatness. Daphne was simply helping him live up to his full potential – exactly as any good fiancée should.
"How can anyone be this intelligent and sexy? It doesn't seem fair!" Harry declared, his tone halfway between awe and accusation. His eyes narrowed playfully. "How are you so perfect, Daphne Greengrass?" he asked, eyes narrowed and voice laced with mock suspicion.
Daphne resisted the urge to laugh as she finally glanced over at him, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "What can I say, Harry... superior breeding," she declared proudly, as if that explained everything. A few months ago, a remark like that might've made Harry uncomfortable and killed the mood entirely. But those days were long gone. Harry had learned not only to roll with Daphne's pureblood snark, but to also give as good as he got. Instead of being offended, Harry smiled mischievously, his hand draping around her waist before moving in to grab her ass.
"Mmm, speaking of breeding…"
This time, Daphne couldn't help but giggle at his antics. Still, she had no intention of giving in so easily. With a teasing little smile, she gently pushed his wandering hand away. "Instead of distracting me all the time…" she chastised him sweetly, "… why don't you read with me instead?" She tapped the paper in front of her for emphasis. "After all, Rita wrote such a lovely article about us."
Harry groaned in exaggerated disappointment, even as he trailed a series of kisses along her back, his path ending with his head resting beside hers. He glanced at the front page she'd been reading. "Yes, very nice... and very accurate," he said dryly. "Almost like you wrote it yourself."
Daphne didn't comment on that – she just smirked.
"How did you get that woman to behave, anyway?" Harry asked, eyeing the article suspiciously.
"I told her if she didn't play ball, I'd turn her into a bug permanently… and gift her to Granger as a pet," Daphne said casually, without a hint of shame.
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Ouch," he said, swallowing hard. "And here I thought we were being harsh when we blackmailed her two years ago."
"She deserved it," Daphne said firmly, though a flicker of guilt crept in before she could suppress it. "In my defense," she added, as if offering a perfectly rational explanation, "I was just going to bribe her at first." She shrugged slightly, her tone cooling again. "But then I remembered all the disgusting little things she's written about you…"
Over the years, Rita Skeeter had written plenty of vile insinuations about her fiancé – especially after Voldemort's return. But the ones that lingered in Daphne's mind, the ones that irrationally infuriated her, were published before that, in their fourth year. She was of course referring to all those gossipy pieces claiming Harry was romantically involved with Hermione Granger. The very idea that her future husband – the lord of her House – would lower himself to be with a dirty mudblood… a mudblood! It was both scandalous and repugnant. And that was why Daphne had issued the chilling threat she had, essentially traumatizing Rita into eternal obedience. She was so done with people spreading such obscene lies about Harry and getting away with it!
Though, in hindsight, Daphne had to admit she might have gone a bit too far with Rita. After all, spending life as a bug was already a grim fate. But spending it as Granger's bug? That was a whole new level of awful. Honestly, Daphne couldn't decide which part of the punishment was worse. It was a coin toss for her on most days.
"She didn't have to call me the Man-Who-Conquered, though," Harry muttered, pulling her from her thoughts.
"She didn't," Daphne pointed out. "The readers have." She gestured toward the column filled with reactions to their victory. "I'm sorry, Harry," she added softly, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "I know it makes you uncomfortable, but there was no point in trying to suppress your new moniker. The people have already made up their minds."
"I know… I know," Harry said, sighing in resignation. "It's just that… becoming the Man-Who-Conquered wasn't exactly how I hoped to stop being 'the Boy-Who-Lived,'" he added, using air quotes with a wry twist of his mouth.
She stroked his back gently, a quiet gesture of sympathy, before her expression shifted into something softer… and sly. "It's not all bad. There are advantages, you know," Daphne said, gently pushing the newspaper aside. She propped her head on one hand, her gaze locking with Harry's – steady, thoughtful, and just a little mischievous.
"Like what?" Harry asked, anticipation flickering in his eyes as he recognized that tone.
"Well," Daphne began, her voice low and teasing, "Being the mighty and powerful Man-Who-Conquered…" She leaned in just slightly, her breath warm against his skin. "…you get to do absolutely anything to me tonight."
"Anything?" Harry echoed, the sudden eagerness in his eyes shining like the brightest beacons.
Daphne nodded slowly, never once breaking eye contact. "Anything," she confirmed, her whisper low but firm, like a promise wrapped in silk.
Harry tilted his head, pretending to consider it with exaggerated thoughtfulness. "Hmm… since I am the all-powerful Man-Who-Conquered, I think I know exactly what my reward should be," he said, his voice suddenly deeper, hungrier. Before Daphne could even tease him back, he shifted behind her, hands sliding over her hips with practiced ease. And then she felt it – his grip tightening, steadying her, and a moment later, the warm, wet pressure of his tongue pressing between her cheeks, unerringly finding its mark.
"Oh… OH!" Daphne gasped as Lord Harry James Potter enthusiastically kissed and licked her asshole, her voice cracking with shock and pleasure as her body arched in response. The sheer audacity of what her lover was doing to her, combined with the focused intensity only he could bring to such a humiliating task, left Daphne completely undone.
But only for the moment.
Because soon Daphne realized what was happening – she had offered Harry absolutely anything in reward for saving their country… and all he asked for was to dutifully lick her asshole. It was so unmistakably Harry to do something like that. To claim humiliation as his reward! It made Daphne wonder whether she perhaps wasn't rewarding him too much. After all, she was Lady Daphne Greengrass – to be licking her asshole wasn't a right for any man, it was a privilege. A great privilege! And with that fantasy at the forefront of her mind, she acted.
"Who the hell do you think you are, halfblood?!" Daphne cried in mock outrage, pushing onto her knees and slapping Harry's probing mouth away with her plump ass. "You think I let just any loser kiss my asshole?!"
"But… but," Harry stammered before he noticed Daphne's expression and immediately decided to play along. "I'm the Man-Who-Conquered!" he declared, claiming the hated title with pride for the first time. "I'm powerful! A… a great hero of our age!" Harry stammered, his green eyes desperately worshipping her body after his tongue had been denied the privilege.
"And that's all? You actually think that makes you worthy to bury your tongue in my ass?!" Daphne asked incredulously, laughing with contempt. "How arrogant of you. Typical halfblood arrogance!" she hissed even as she reached back and spread her cheeks for his viewing pleasure, driving him mad with lust.
"Y-yes?" Harry stammered uncertainly. "Please… I want…"
"Hmph," Daphne huffed, pinning him in place with a gaze that was nothing short of merciless. "I don't care what you want," she snapped, her voice low and dangerous. She looked down at him with imperious disdain. "What I care about… is hearing you beg." Her breath came quicker, lust coiling in her belly, fraying the edges of her composure. Harry just stared at her – speechless and wide-eyed, unsure what to do. "Are you deaf?" she hissed impatiently, chest rising and falling as her control began to slip. "Beg me, halfblood." Daphne leaned back slightly, one finger sliding between the cheeks of her freshly licked ass, gliding along the sensitive skin in a deliberate tease. "Beg me to be allowed to kiss my glorious asshole," she repeated, her voice a low, trembling command.
At her command, Harry dropped his head to the mattress, pressing his face into the sheets with desperate reverence. He prostrated himself like the most devoted of servants, completely at her mercy. "Please… oh please," he begged, his voice muffled but shaking with need. "Let this worthless halfblood worship your asshole. I'm begging you… my pureblood mistress."
Daphne's chest rose and fell wildly as she listened to his pleading. She was nearly panting now, on the edge of hyperventilation from lust and power and the sheer thrill of control. "Lie down. Now," she ordered, her voice tight with urgency. Harry obeyed without hesitation, flipping onto his back in a smooth, practiced motion. Their eyes locked and in his gaze, Daphne saw everything she needed: unconditional love, boundless desire, and eager consent.
"I'm going to sit on your face, halfblood," she declared, imperious and breathless, as she climbed on top of him. Straddling his waist, then his chest, she inched her way forward with deliberate slowness. She stopped just shy of his face, hovering over her perfect fiancé like a judgment incarnate.
"You are going to bury your tongue deep in my ass," Daphne commanded. "You will not remove it unless I tell you to. Not for any reason!" she warned him sharply. Her voice was trembling now, not from uncertainty, but from sheer overwhelming need. She watched as Harry nodded furiously, eyes wide and utterly obedient.
And then… finally… she lowered herself onto his face.
Immediately, Harry's hands gripped her waist, pulling her down onto his face with firm, eager strength. His tongue plunged deep into her, obedient and insatiable, exactly as commanded. Daphne helped him along, whispering a charm under her breath – a body-mass spell designed to increase her weight. The effect was instant. Her knees sank deeper into the mattress, and her ass pressed harder against his face, sealing him in completely. The pressure was intense enough to cut off Harry's air, but neither of them cared.
For him, it was perfection. They'd discovered long ago that this was exactly what he craved – complete surrender, suffocating pleasure, the overwhelming presence of her dominance. And for Daphne... it was bliss. The rush of power, the physical control, and the knowledge that she was pleasing him while choking the life out of the so-called Man-Who-Conquered – it was all so intoxicating.
And the cherry on the top? They no longer had to worry about going too far.
The ability to hold one's breath indefinitely was among the most coveted of the legendary magical feats. Unlike many other rare abilities, it didn't require a person to be born with it, nor did it demand great reservoirs of power or the mastery of wandless magic. In theory, any witch or wizard could achieve it – replacing oxygen with pure magic, allowing their bodies to be sustained by their own latent power. And yet, in all of recent history, none had. The reason was deceptively simple – magical breath could not be studied, practiced, or taught. It could only be experienced.
This maddeningly vague truth had frustrated generations of scholars. But the explanation, though cloaked in mystery, was not as complex as it seemed. To access magical breath, one had to simply undergo a singular, unknown and personally unique experience – something so profound, so instinctive, that the ordinarily inert raw magic within them would understand what was needed and respond on its own. And in that moment, when magic replaced air without conscious thought, was the ability learned.
And that was exactly what Harry James Potter had recently achieved... completely unintentionally, of course.
It happened one night while Harry was once again choking himself with his lover's assistance – pleasurably, willingly, and desperately. All he wanted in that moment was not having to stop. Just a few more seconds. Just a little longer to please Daphne and keep himself on that pleasurable edge. In that perfect, breathless instant, the desire gripped Harry so completely, so absolutely, it reached beyond conscious thought. It wasn't just longing anymore, it was instinct. And the raw magic inside him understood. More than that – it obliged him. Without spell or intent, it took over, sustaining him even as his lungs screamed for air. Oxygen was no longer necessary. Magic filled his blood and fed his body just enough to indefinitely prolong the edge of oblivion, answering the silent plea Harry didn't even know he had voiced.
The irony of ironies was Harry had absolutely no idea he had just unlocked a legendary magical ability – and even if he had, in that moment, he wouldn't have cared in the slightest.
It was only a few days later that Daphne noticed something strange – sometimes, when he wasn't talking, Harry would stop breathing for minutes at a time. At first, Daphne thought she was imagining it. Then she grew understandably concerned even though Harry just calmly carried on as if nothing were wrong. He was in fact surprised when she had pointed out his strange breathing patterns. Needless to say, Daphne practically dragged him off into the infirmary after that.
The subsequent examination confirmed it: Harry had developed magical breath.
For the first time, they also uncovered the mechanism behind the legendary ability. For centuries, it had been theorized that the process involved a simple erasure of carbon from carbon dioxide. But the truth turned out to be far more intricate. First, magic formed a protective shield around the carbon dioxide molecule. Then, a conjured antioxygen particle was annihilated with one of the oxygen atoms. The energy released from that reaction was then harnessed to transmute the remaining carbon atom into oxygen, completing the cycle without producing any dangerous free radicals or putting strain on Harry's magic. Daphne, of course, had Sue Li document everything in detail. She intended to publish the findings as a formal magical theory – after she was done gloating, naturally.
It shouldn't need to be said that Daphne was absolutely thrilled her fiancé now possessed such a legendary magical ability. For a powerful witch, powerful wizards were generally irresistible, and Harry had already been immensely powerful, even before this. But if she were honest with herself, the situation also stirred something darker – frustration, even envy. Not only was Harry Potter, a halfblood, capable of wandless magic and feats that few purebloods could match, he also possessed the Elder Wand. He had also somehow become one of the only men alive able to wield it safely. But apparently, that still wasn't enough for him. Now Harry was also collecting rare magical abilities, like a child collecting seashells on a beach!
So many conflicting emotions fought for their place in Daphne's chest when she thought about it. She was proud of him, happy for him, of course, but also jealous, impressed, irritated, overjoyed, and quietly unsettled. The contrast was dizzying, and at times, it felt like those contradictions might tear her apart.
But it was moments like this, with Harry's tongue buried deep inside her with utter devotion, which brought everything into focus. The chaos of conflicting emotions stilled, and the world felt perfectly aligned. It was Harry's unwavering submission, his willingness to give himself over to her so completely despite his power, that made it all make a perfect sense. His tongue buried deep in her asshole was like the lynchpin that gave Daphne's reality a perfect balance.
"Egh... that's right. Choke on my butt, you nasty halfblood! It's all you deserve. It's all you're good for!" Daphne grunted, completely submerging herself in her darkest fantasy even as she fingered herself to orgasm.
Her humiliating words caused Harry to moan with pleasure and tremble underneath her as the last air from his lungs was expelled. In response, he redoubled his efforts, plunging his tongue deeper and syncing his movements with the rhythm of her hips. His erection, already painfully hard, now throbbed with need, desperate for attention. Daphne couldn't quite reach it comfortably from her position – but then, she didn't need to.
After all, she wasn't some stupid muggle, she was a witch. A perfect witch, according to Harry.
With a slow, deliberate motion, Daphne raised one hand and murmured a spell under her breath. Her magic responded at once, invisible but firm, wrapping around Harry's cock tightly like a velvet leash and stroking him with precise, measured intent.
"Come for me, Harry Potter! Come with your tongue buried in my asshole!" Daphne cried out loudly, letting her magic time her movements and the stroking of Harry's cock so that they would both orgasm at the same time. "AHHHH!" she howled with pleasure while Harry writhed helplessly beneath her ass, his tongue still frantically licking her asshole at light-speed, even as he fired off his cum into the air.
Even as the waves of pleasure ebbed, Harry remained exactly where she had commanded him – his tongue still obediently nestled between her cheeks, unwavering in its devotion. Daphne, breathing heavily, couldn't help but smirk as the memory of her earlier command resurfaced. She had told him not to stop under any circumstances. And of course, like the dutiful halfblood he was, Harry Potter obeyed his pureblood superior without question. The thought alone sent another jolt of pleasure through Daphne, so sharp and sudden it actually tipped her over the edge once again. She rode Harry's face for few seconds longer before exhaling slowly and, with a reluctant sort of grace, eased herself off his face, canceling the weight-enhancing spell as she did.
"So," Daphne murmured as she collapsed beside him in exhaustion, her voice still husky with satisfaction, "How was it?" Her fingers traced slow, lazy circles across his chest, feeling the rise and fall of each labored breath as Harry lay beneath the aftershocks, utterly spent, both in body and magic. She smiled faintly, eyes watching him with a mix of fondness and wicked amusement, fully aware words might take him a moment.
Finally, Harry managed to slowly gasp out. "Superior... breeding... indeed..."
Daphne's lips curled into a deeply satisfied smile. "And don't you forget it," she said, her tone sharp with mock sternness before it melted into a giggle and she shrugged. "Or do," she added playfully, leaning in to brush her nose against his. "I always have so much fun reminding you," she said and laughed again. "Have to say, I should have known you had something crazy planned for tonight when you insisted on full-body decontamination," she told him with a wink. Despite Harry deeply enjoying what he just did, he didn't enjoy the obvious hygienic consequences that would occur without proper magical measures.
Afterward, they simply lay there, tangled together in a warm, blissful haze, limbs entwined and bodies humming with satisfaction. Daphne rested her head against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as he slowly recovered. Eventually, Harry stirred and, with a groan of effort, pulled something crumpled from beneath him. It was their copy of the Daily Prophet - torn and wrinkled despite the protective charms placed on it. It had clearly suffered through the chaos of their lovemaking.
"Well, love," Harry said with a breathless chuckle, holding it up between two fingers, "I suspect Prophet readers would be deeply concerned if they saw what the Man-Who-Conquered and his future wife just got up to." He glanced at her with a mischievous grin. "Probably would've replaced who takes whose name as their number one concern." Daphne burst into soft laughter, nodding in complete agreement, her eyes twinkling.
"Oh, undoubtedly."
"Still can't believe that was actually someone's concern," Harry said, shaking his head in disbelief. He was, of course, referring to the flood of letters sent to the Daily Prophet's editorial office. Dozens of concerned readers agonizing over what would become of the Potter surname if Harry were to marry Daphne Greengrass.
Daphne didn't answer right away. After a few thoughtful moments, she lifted herself and rolled on top of him, straddling his midsection with practiced ease. "See," she said, settling into place, her tone light but affectionate, "this is just one of the things I really love about you, Harry. If you'd been raised as a pureblood, you'd have been bitching about the surnames since day one." Harry let out a grunt as her weight shifted, and his cock, hard again, became trapped between his stomach and the smooth curve of her lower back.
"But you don't even care, do you?" she asked, her voice soft but knowing, eyes locked with his. Before he could answer, she leaned down and captured his mouth in a hard, hungry kiss, pouring all the fire and affection she felt into the moment. Harry responded instantly, his hands tangling in her blonde hair he so loved, gripping it tightly as their mouths moved together.
"Oh, I care," Harry corrected her when they broke apart, his voice low and rough with lingering desire. Daphne straightened, lifting herself until she was kneeling tall over him, her body flushed and glowing, her expression unreadable and attentive. "Honestly though," he continued, his fingers gently tracing the curve of her hip, "these things matter far more to you than they do to me." He looked up at her, eyes glinting with curiosity – and just a touch of mischief. "Just out of curiosity… are the readers right? Am I becoming Harry Greengrass?"
"Mmm... no," Daphne hummed after a brief moment of consideration, her tone thoughtful, even as Harry's wandering hands found their way to her breasts. "We should both keep our names. It makes the most political sense." She paused, tossing her hair and then smiling softly. "Besides, Harry Potter and Daphne Greengrass – that sounds just about right." She placed her hands over his, gently holding them in place, grounding them both in the moment. "Are you... are you fine with that?" she asked, her voice quieter now, a rare hint of vulnerability beneath the confidence.
"Perfectly fine, love," Harry assured her without hesitation, his voice warm and steady. Daphne purred in approval, the sound low in her throat, pleased not just by his answer, but by the ease with which he gave it. But then Harry's expression shifted slightly, a flicker of memory passing through his eyes. "And the... the children?" he asked, his tone more cautious now, recalling the second concern that had filled those absurdly passionate letters to the Daily Prophet. Apparently, it wasn't just his surname the public was worried about.
"Hmm," Daphne hummed in thought, lifting herself just enough to free Harry's aching length. Without warning, she slid back down, taking him in with a smooth, deliberate motion that made them both gasp.
"Daphne!" Harry cried out, surprise and pleasure surging through him as she impaled herself on him.
"They'll be Greengrasses," she stated firmly, setting a slow, commanding rhythm as she rode him, her tone every bit the superior pureblood she was raised to be. "But when they're older, one of them will take the Potter name. Harry's hands gripped her hips, but his voice remained steady even as his breath hitched.
"Only if they want to," he said sternly, looking up at her. "We're not going to force them into anything."
"Oh, Harry," Daphne moaned, realizing Harry was already placing their children first, even before his own family legacy. She leaned over, showering him with kisses in gratitude, while never seizing the rhythmic movement of her hips. "Of course," she replied, lips curling into a faint smirk. "But they'll want to. You'll see," she stated with confidence. Daphne couldn't imagine one of their children refusing to carry Harry's surname.
"And the... the Blacks?" Harry managed to stammer, his voice strained as he clung to a thread of focus. That he could still form a coherent question at all impressed Daphne more than she'd ever admit. She raised an eyebrow, amused and a little pleased by his persistence, even as her pace began to build, her hips moving with slow, deliberate power.
"Possibly the same," Daphne said, breath catching slightly. "I- I haven't decided yet." Harry didn't press her further. He couldn't – not with the heat coiling in his spine, the way her body moved above him and around him. He let the thought slip away and surrendered completely to the moment, to her, to everything they were.
It was certainly a possibility for one of their children to take on the Potter name and another the Black name. The potential problem was that, to Daphne's knowledge, such an arrangement was entirely unprecedented. More importantly, she wasn't comfortable with the idea of dividing her family into so many pieces. Fortunately, Daphne had envisioned another option for the future heir of House Black. Whether that option would be viable depended on a very important question – would Astoria and Draco's future progeny be more or less annoying than both of their parents combined? Daphne sincerely hoped for the latter. Otherwise, she feared for the world. More importantly, it would open the door to a convenient possibility – naming one of their future nieces or nephews, their children's cousins, as the Black heir, instead of burdening one of her own children with that title. It would also serve as an excellent incentive to keep her sister and her future husband on their best behavior.
But that was the end of Daphne's plotting session, as in the very next moment, she surrendered completely to their lovemaking – moaning and crying out, her body moving with abandon as she brought both Harry and herself to climax. As many times before, she felt his seed, as well as a broken off piece of his soul, pouring into her. Only this time, Daphne didn't resist her instincts, didn't consciously stop her body from doing what it desperately yearned to do since falling in love with Harry.
And of course, Harry noticed. With his magic sight, he always noticed. Through the lens of his power, he saw it clearly – the fragment of his soul, instead of dissipating within her and temporarily boosting her power as it had in the past, merged with the piece of hers already present. Using their magic, they both watched it unfold in quiet wonder. Daphne had to admit, it was the most beautiful, awe-inspiring sight she had ever seen.
"Did we... did we just?" Harry whimpered, tears gathering in his eyes as Daphne collapsed onto him, her body too drained of strength, too overwhelmed to move.
"I didn't resist it this time," Daphne admitted after a moment, her voice trembling. "I can't be certain whether it takes." She hesitated, doubt flickering across her features. "We agreed to do this after the dark lord was gone... do you?" she asked, her confidence faltering, suddenly unsure and self-conscious.
Harry pulled her into his arms without hesitation, holding her tightly, his hand automatically drifting to her belly. "I love you, Daphne. I love you so much," he said, voice thick with emotion. "Thank you… for everything," And she felt it – his love, his magic, powerful and raw, wrapping around them… possibly all three of them… like a living shield.
Daphne smiled, her eyes soft. "I love you too, Harry."
Everything would be good from now on. She knew it. She believed it! They had won. And for the first time in a very long time, their future felt absolutely secure.
Charles Brown, known to everyone as Charlie, probably had the dumbest, most boring job in the entire magical world. But what else could he expect? His father was a mudblood, and his mother a muggle. To some of them pureblood fucks, that was for some reason even worse than being a mudblood. To make matters worse, Charlie hadn't been blessed with good looks, strong magic, or much in the way of intelligence. What he did have, however, was loyalty.
And the dark lord recognized that. That was why he'd assigned Charlie, and one other man of similarly unfortunate circumstances, to a task of utmost importance.
And yet, it was still dreadfully boring. Charlie wasn't allowed to leave his post, not even for a minute. All of his time was spent in what looked like an ordinary muggle butcher shop, complete with freezers, meat hooks, and the lingering smell of blood. He'd only recently discovered it had once been a real butcher shop. All part of the cover, no doubt. So what did Charlie and his colleague do in this macabre little setting?
Not much.
Their job was to keep constant watch over a magical circle drawn in the adjacent room, right next to a slab of stone inscribed with arcane wards Charlie didn't understand. According to the dark lord, what he described as a 'spectral image' might one day appear within that circle. If it did, Charlie and his partner were to immediately perform a very specific magical ritual. The dark lord had seen to it personally that both men knew the ritual by heart. It had actually been burned into their minds through dark enchantment, making Charlie still shudder at the memory.
But, of course, the dark lord's spectral image had never appeared. And so, for months, he'd been trapped in a dull routine. His colleague, as he soon discovered, was somehow even dumber than he was, and conversation was excruciating. To make matters worse, the only entertainment was an old chess set, and even that lost its appeal quickly, since his colleague was both a poor player and a sore loser.
Sometimes, the boredom was so crushing that Charlie regretted ever accepting the assignment – but only briefly. He hadn't had a choice, really. More importantly, the promised reward for a full year of service was staggering – more than what most of those pureblood fucks made in a decade. He still remembered meeting his predecessors as the dark lord was personally escorting them to Gringotts to collect their payment. Oh, how he envied them! Surely they were enjoying themselves on some tropical island by now! Charlie could hardly wait for that day.
"Checkmate," he muttered in a bored voice after far too few moves, already resigning himself to another long, dull day. His colleague rarely agreed to more than one game.
If only Charlie knew how wrong he was about the day being dull. He was just putting the pieces and board away when it happened. The magical circle, always dim and inert, suddenly flared to life, glowing with eerie power as the dark lord's terrifying spectral image appeared within.
"BEGIN THE RITUAL! IMMEDIATELY!" the spirit howled, its cold voice slicing through the air like a dagger. If murder had a voice, Charlie was sure it would sound exactly like that.
He and his colleague sprang to their feet, adrenaline of pure panic flooding their sleepy bodies after months of inaction. Their first task was to enter the room Charlie hated the most. Hanging on meat hooks, frozen solid, were around thirty identical bodies.
Every one of them belonged to the dark lord.
They carefully levitated the nearest hanging corpse out of the freezer and into the ritual chamber, dumping it onto the stone altar with a heavy, echoing thud. The spirit shrieked again, high and cold and furious.
"RITUAL… NOOOOOW!"
"Y-Yes, my Lord!" Charlie cried, his voice shaking as he and his partner rushed to the cupboards containing the necessary ritual ingredients.
As soon as Charlie opened one of them, he swore under his breath. The potion they needed was supposed to be brewed fresh every lunar month. But having grown up in a muggle household, Charlie had mixed up the timing and used the calendar month instead. As a result, the potion was two days too old. He was just about to brew a new batch in the evening.
But surely that wouldn't matter... right? Those expiration dates were always exaggerated, anyway!
The spirit in the circle let out another deathly impatient wail, and Charlie didn't have time to think. He pushed the thought aside and dove into the ritual, chanting and casting spells around the slowly thawing clone of the dark lord.
By the time they were finished, Charlie could barely stand. It was the worst thing he had ever seen – spiritually crushing in every way. It felt as though hope, love, and everything even remotely good in the world had withered and died in that room out of sheer principle. Despite all his effort to stop them, tears welled in his eyes.