The tavern reeked of stale butterbeer, grime, and sweat.
Ron Weasley tugged at his frayed robes, trying to make himself look presentable as he approached the large corner table where nearly a dozen wizards sat. Their faces were half-hidden in shadow, but their reputation preceded them. Everyone in the seedier parts of the wizarding world knew about Marcus Thornfield and his crew.
"Mr. Weasley," Thornfield drawled, not bothering to look up from his drink. "Right on time. I do appreciate punctuality."
Ron's hands trembled as he pulled out a rickety chair. The other men at the table watched him with varying degrees of amusement and contempt. "Yeah, well, I wouldn't want to keep you waiting, would I?"
Thornfield finally raised his head. His lips curved into a smile, his perfect teeth on full display. It held no warmth at all. Cold gray eyes assessed Ron like a piece of meat. "Indeed not. That would be rather... unwise."
The men around the table chuckled. Ron recognized a few faces from wanted posters - Crenshaw and Maltby, both ex-Azkaban residents who'd found new careers in loan sharking and intimidation. Others he didn't know, but their scarred faces and predatory expressions told him enough. There were amongst the most unsavory lot in Wizarding Britain.
"Nervous, Weasley?" asked a thin man with a sneer. "You look like you're about to wet yourself."
More laughter rippled around the table. Ron's face flushed red with a mix of anger and embarrassment.
"I'm fine, thanks. Just eager to get down to business."
"Business," Thornfield repeated, savoring the word. "Yes, my associates tell me you're in need of our services… again."
"Right, yeah, about that." Ron wiped his sweaty palms on his robes. "See, the thing is, I've got this business opportunity. Really promising stuff. Should pay off big time."
"Business opportunity." Thornfield's voice was flat, like he was humoring a particularly dim child. "How fascinating. Do tell."
Ron launched into his rehearsed lie. "Well, there's this... import business I'm looking into. Rare artifacts from Bulgaria. The profit margins are incredible. Absolutely incredible."
A stocky man with gold teeth—Maltby, Ron thought—snorted with laughter. "Import business? You? That's rich."
"I mean it!" Ron's voice cracked slightly. "I've got connections. People who know people, you know? The Bulgarian market is wide open for someone with the right contacts."
Several men exchanged knowing looks. They'd heard this song and dance before from desperate gamblers trying to justify their next fix.
"And these contacts," Thornfield said slowly, like he was genuinely curious, "they wouldn't happen to work at the Quidditch pitch, would they?"
Ron's face went pale, then red again. "I don't know what you're implying."
"Oh, I'm not implying anything, Mr. Weasley. I'm stating facts. You see, we keep very close tabs on our... prospective clients. You know, people who we believe might have need of our services soon. We like to know their habits, their vices, their personal lives. Everything."
Ron felt his breathing quicken. This was really not going the way he'd anticipated.
"We know exactly where you've been spending your time. And your money."
The thin man leaned forward. "Puddlemere United versus Ballycastle Bats last Tuesday. You lost fifty Galleons."
"Cannons versus Falcons on Friday," another added. "Another forty down the drain."
Ron's mouth opened and closed uselessly. His Bulgarian artifact story was crumbling around him.
Thornfield waved a dismissive hand. "Please, Mr. Weasley, let's dispense with the theatrics. We both know exactly what you want this money for. The question is whether you're going to continue insulting our intelligence."
The room fell silent except for the distant sounds of Knockturn Alley's nighttime affairs. Someone was shouting outside at a hag who was cursing at the man in return. Meanwhile, Ron stared at the table, his face burning with shame and desperation.
"The Cannons play United this weekend," he said quietly, all pretense abandoned. "The odds are thirty to one against them."
"Ah." Thornfield's smile returned. "Now we're getting somewhere. And you believe the Cannons will win?"
"I know they will." Ron looked up, his eyes blazing with the fervor of the truly addicted. "I've been following them for years. This is their year. I can feel it."
"You can feel it," Thornfield repeated thoughtfully. "Based on what, exactly? Their stellar record this season? Their string of victories?"
"They're due," Ron said desperately. "Law of averages. They can't keep losing forever."
The table erupted in laughter. Even the bartender glanced over with amusement.
"The law of averages," Crenshaw wheezed. "Oh, that's brilliant. The Cannons are due for a win because they've lost so much."
"That's not how probability works, you absolute muppet," the thin man added.
Ron's face darkened. "Look, do you want to do business or not? I need five hundred Galleons."
The laughter died down, replaced by calculating stares.
"Five hundred," Thornfield said slowly. "On top of the eight hundred you already owe us from your last 'sure thing.'"
Ron's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "That's the beauty of it, see? When the Cannons win, I'll clear fifteen thousand Galleons. More than enough to pay back everything. With interest. Generous interest."
"Fifteen thousand," Maltby said admiringly. "He's not just thick, he's mathematically thick."
"Thirty to one odds on five hundred Galleons is fifteen thousand," Ron protested.
"Minus the eight hundred you already owe us," Thornfield pointed out. "Minus the five hundred you're borrowing now. Minus our interest rates, which I don't believe you've inquired about."
Ron's confident expression faltered. Numbers had never been his strong suit.
"But let's say, hypothetically, that your beloved Cannons do pull off this miracle," Thornfield continued. "What makes you think you'd actually collect your winnings? Cornelius Fudge's betting shop isn't exactly known for paying out large sums to... shall we say, financially unreliable customers."
"I'm good for it," Ron said quickly. "Everyone knows I'm good for it."
"Everyone knows you're a joke," the thin man said flatly.
The words hit Ron like a physical blow. Around the table, heads nodded in agreement.
"Now, now," Thornfield said with mock gentleness. "Let's not be unkind. Mr. Weasley has simply fallen on hard times. It happens to the best of us."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conversational tone that somehow made him more menacing.
"Of course, I can't help but wonder what your dear wife thinks of your... business ventures."
Ron stiffened. "Leave Hermione out of this."
"Oh, but she's already in it, isn't she?" Thornfield's smile was razor-sharp. "Joint bank accounts, shared assets, marital debt. The law is quite clear on these matters."
"She doesn't know about any of this," Ron said quickly.
"Doesn't she?" Crenshaw piped up. "Hard to hide thirteen hundred Galleons in debt from the woman who probably balances your books. That on top of your negative with BetVault."
"She thinks I'm having money troubles at work," Ron mumbled. "Temporary setback in my career."
The men around the table exchanged glances that clearly said 'pathetic.'
"And what happens when she finds out the truth?" Thornfield asked casually. "When she discovers that her war hero husband has been gambling away their future?"
Ron's hands clenched into fists. "That won't happen. The Cannons are going to win."
"Of course they are." Thornfield's tone was indulgent, like he was talking to a child who still believed in fairy tales. "But let's discuss terms, shall we?"
He pulled out a scroll of parchment that seemed much longer and more complex than any loan agreement should be.
"Standard interest rate is forty percent," Thornfield began, unrolling the document. "Compounded weekly."
"Forty percent?" Ron's voice cracked. "That's a bit steep, isn't it?"
"This is a high-risk loan, Mr. Weasley. Your credit history is... shall we say, colorful."
Ron barely listened as Thornfield continued reading terms and conditions. His mind was racing with visions of Galleons, of the look on Hermione's face when he paid off their mortgage early, of never having to borrow money again. A vindictive feeling rose in his chest at the thought of his wife. She'd been dismissive of him lately, disrespecting him at every opportunity. He'd show her he was the man. She'll know.
"In the event of default," Thornfield was saying, "we reserve the right to claim equivalent compensation through alternative means."
"Right, makes sense," Ron muttered.
"Including but not limited to personal property, real estate, and services rendered by the debtor or listed financial guarantor, which in case means the debtor's spouse, in any capacity the lender deems satisfactory."
"Yeah, whatever works." Ron nodded, his mind entirely elsewhere.
Maltby leaned over to whisper something in Crenshaw's ear. Both men snickered.
"I'm sorry," Thornfield said with false politeness, "did my associates say something amusing?"
"Just wondering about the services clause," Maltby said with a leer. "Specifically what kind of services the debtor's guarantor might provide."
"Oh, I think we can be creative," Thornfield replied smoothly. "Mrs. Weasley is quite accomplished, I hear. Brilliant mind, prestigious job at the Ministry. I'm sure we could find productive uses for her... talents."
The way he said 'talents' made Ron's skin crawl, but desperation overrode his protective instincts.
"She won't be involved," he said firmly. "I'll pay you back."
"Of course you will," Thornfield agreed. "But it's always wise to have contingencies."
He conjured a quill and held it out. "Sign here, if you would."
Ron took the quill without reading a single word of the contract. The parchment was covered in dense legal text, clauses within clauses, conditions that seemed to go on forever. None of it mattered. All that mattered was getting the money.
He scrawled his signature at the bottom with a flourish.
"Excellent." Thornfield rolled up the parchment with obvious satisfaction. "Always a pleasure doing business with you, Mr. Weasley."
Crenshaw pulled out a leather pouch and counted out five hundred Galleons. The gold coins clinked together with a sound that made Ron's heart race with excitement.
"There you are," Thornfield said genially. "Your capital investment."
Ron's hands shook as he scooped the coins into his own pouch. "This is brilliant. You won't regret this, I promise."
"Oh, Mr. Weasley," Thornfield's smile was predatory. "I don't make investments I regret."
Ron stood up so quickly his chair almost toppled backward. "Right then, I'd better get going. Big day ahead tomorrow."
"Indeed. Do give our regards to Mrs. Weasley."
Several men chuckled at that. Ron missed the implication entirely, already mentally calculating his winnings.
"Thanks again, really," he babbled as he backed toward the door. "You're lifesavers, all of you. Absolute lifesavers."
He practically ran out of the tavern, clutching his pouch of Galleons like a lifeline.
The door slammed shut behind him, and silence settled over the table.
"Well," Crenshaw said finally, "that was almost too easy."
"Like taking candy from a baby," Maltby agreed, shaking his head. "A very stupid baby."
Thornfield signaled the barkeep for another round. "Gentlemen, I do believe we've just witnessed the final act of a once-proud man's downfall."
"Hard to believe that pathetic wreck helped bring down the Dark Lord," the thin man said with disgust. "Makes you wonder how they managed it."
"Luck," Crenshaw spat. "Pure dumb luck. Look at him now - crawling to us for gambling money like some common street addict."
"The mighty Ronald Weasley," Maltby laughed. "War hero, member of the famous Golden Trio. Now he's nothing but a degenerate gambler who can't even lie convincingly."
"His wife, though," the thin man said with renewed interest. "Now there's a different story entirely."
"Ah yes, the lovely Hermione Granger. Oh sorry, Weasley now," Thornfield's eyes gleamed. "Brightest witch of her age, they say. Respected Ministry worker too. Quite the catch for a failure like Weasley."
"Won't be much longer before she realizes what she married, if she hasn't already," Crenshaw predicted. "Smart woman like that, she'll figure out where the money's going eventually."
"And when she does?" Maltby grinned nastily. "When she tries to leave him?"
"Well," Thornfield said thoughtfully, "I imagine she'll discover that marital debt is quite binding. Legally speaking."
The men around the table leaned in, their expressions hungry.
"She'll probably try to negotiate," the thin man said. "Offer to pay his debts herself, maybe work out some kind of payment plan."
"Oh, we'll work out a payment plan," Thornfield agreed. "Though it might not be the kind she has in mind."
"Always wondered what it would be like," Crenshaw mused, "to take down one of those Ministry types. They walk around with their noses in the air, thinking they're better than everyone else."
"Weasley especially," Maltby added. "Little mudblood princess, acting like she owns the world just because she memorized a few textbooks."
"Bet she wouldn't be so high and mighty on her knees," the thin man said with a cruel laugh.
The table erupted in lewd laughter and increasingly crude suggestions. Each man tried to outdo the others with increasingly graphic descriptions of what they'd do to the famous Hermione Weasley née Granger when she inevitably became their property.
"Course, we'd have to break that spirit of hers first," Crenshaw was saying. "Can't have her thinking she's still in charge."
"Oh, I'd enjoy that part," Maltby replied. "Taking my time, making sure she understands exactly how things work now."
"And that husband of hers," the thin man added, "he'd probably just sit there and watch. Wouldn't even try to stop us."
More laughter ensured, and so did more detailed planning of Hermione's humiliation. The conversation grew darker, filthier, as each man contributed his own twisted fantasies.
Crenshaw, emboldened by drink and the group's energy, decided to push further.
"Hell, maybe we should invite Potter to watch too. Show Saint Potter what happens to his precious friends when they can't pay their debts."
The laughter died instantly.
Every head at the table turned toward Thornfield, whose face had gone completely white.
"What did you just say?" Thornfield's voice was barely above a whisper.
Crenshaw, suddenly realizing his mistake, tried to backtrack. "I just meant, you know, Potter's got all that money sitting around. Maybe he'd pay to get his friend back, or—"
The Cruciatus Curse hit him before he could finish the sentence.
Crenshaw's scream shattered the tavern's dingy atmosphere. He toppled backward off his chair, thrashing on the filthy floor as waves of agony coursed through every nerve. The other patrons scattered, chairs crashing as they fled for the exits.
Thornfield stood over Crenshaw, his wand steady but his hand shaking violently. His face was twisted not just with rage, but also with pure, primal terror.
"You stupid, worthless piece of filth!" Thornfield's voice cracked with fear and fury. "Don't you EVER speak that name!"
The curse continued. Crenshaw's screams grew hoarse before his voice gave out, and then he dissolved into whimpering gasps. His body convulsed uncontrollably, his limbs jerking at impossible angles. Foam flecked his lips, a streak of saliva sliding down his chin as he shook violently.
The other men had pressed themselves against the walls, their faces white with terror. They'd seen Thornfield angry before, but never like this. The man looked like he was having some kind of breakdown.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" Thornfield shrieked, spittle flying from his lips. "What you might have brought down on us?"
Sweat poured down his face despite the tavern's chill. His whole body was shaking now, caught in the grip of a fear so deep it bordered on madness.
"Harry Potter!" he screamed the name like a curse. "You don't say that name! You don't even THINK of mocking that man!"
He maintained the torture curse for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes. When he finally lifted his wand, Crenshaw lay motionless except for the occasional twitch and soft whimpers.
Thornfield staggered backward, wiping his face with a trembling hand. His expensive robes were soaked with sweat. He looked around the table at his terrified associates, and they could see something broken in his eyes.
"Listen to me," he said in a voice barely above a whisper. "Listen very carefully. That name is never to be spoken in my presence again. Not as a joke, not as a threat, not even in passing conversation."
He pointed his still-shaking wand at each man in turn.
"Harry Potter," he said the name like it physically hurt him, "is not someone we discuss. Not someone we plan against. Not someone we acknowledge exists. Are we clear?"
Nods all around. Even Maltby, usually the bravest of the group, looked ready to wet himself.
"Good." Thornfield holstered his wand and straightened his robes with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. "Clean up this mess. And spread the word to the rest of our organization. Anyone who has a problem with that rule can find themselves new employment."
He spat on Crenshaw's twitching form and stumbled toward the exit, pausing only to grip the doorframe for support.
"As for Weasley and his debts," he said without turning around, "we proceed as planned. The wife becomes our problem when he defaults. Which he will."
His voice dropped to something that might have been fear or anticipation.
"And when that happens, we'll show Mrs. Weasley exactly what happens to people who can't pay their debts. But we do it quietly. Carefully. And we make absolutely certain that certain other parties never find out."
He stepped out into Knockturn Alley whose depressing perpetual gloom somehow calmed his rage and fear, leaving behind the groaning, the whispered apologies, and the lingering smell of fear.
Behind him, his men slowly began to recover their composure. But none of them would forget the look in Thornfield's eyes when that name had been spoken.
Some fears ran deeper than business. And some names carried power that even the worst criminals respected.
-Break-
Hundreds of miles away, the owner of said name lay sprawled on the massive four-poster bed in the opulent suite, the soft silk sheets cool against his bare skin. He was naked, his body relaxed under the skilled hands of Bellatrix, who knelt beside him, her own nude form glistening faintly with massage oil. She worked her fingers into the knots along his shoulders, her touch firm yet devoted.
"Master," Bellatrix murmured, her voice low and husky as she pressed her thumbs into a tight spot near his neck. "You're tense here. Let me ease it for you."
Harry hummed in approval, his eyes half-lidded. The mirror shimmered, and two faces appeared—Narcissa and Pansy, both dressed in simple yet elegant robes, standing on a sun-drenched terrace that overlooked lush tropical gardens. The private island Harry had claimed as his own stretched out behind them, a paradise he'd entrusted to their care.
"Master!" Narcissa exclaimed, her eyes lighting up. She dipped into a graceful curtsy, Pansy mirroring the motion beside her. "We've been waiting for your call. It's such a joy to see you."
Pansy nodded eagerly, her dark hair tied back in a ponytail. "We've missed you terribly, Master. The island feels empty without you."
Harry smiled, propping himself up slightly on his elbows. Bellatrix adjusted seamlessly, her hands sliding down to his upper back without missing a beat. "Ladies, you both look radiant. Tell me, how's my little project coming along? I trust you've been putting in the work to make it worthy."
Narcissa straightened, pride swelling in her chest. She gestured behind her, where elves bustled in the distance, shaping manicured lawns and installing elegant fountains. "Oh, Master, we've made tremendous progress. The final touches on the main villa are nearly complete. Pansy oversaw the enchanted greenhouse you requested, stocked with rare magical plants from across the world. I dealt with the warders myself. Nothing can breach them without your permission."
Pansy beamed, stepping forward. "And the beaches, Master. We've expanded the white sands and infused the water with calming charms. No more rough waves; it's all serene now, perfect for your relaxation. We've even built a private dock for the muggle boat you wanted, with all required charms and fields to keep out intruders."
"It's called a yacht, Pansy," Narcissa added, smiling as Harry nodded, his green eyes warm with approval. Bellatrix's fingers dug deeper, eliciting a soft groan from him. She leaned in closer, her breath warm against his ear. "They've done well, Master. I can feel the tension leaving you already."
"You're right, Bella," Harry said, reaching back briefly to pat her bare thigh. "Cissa, Pansy—you've outdone yourselves. I'm proud of you both. The island sounds like it's becoming the retreat I wanted it to be. Keep it up, and I'll reward you handsomely when I arrive."
Narcissa preened, her cheeks flushing pink. She touched a hand to her chest, bowing her head. "Your praise means everything, Master. We'll redouble our efforts."
Pansy practically glowed, twisting her hands in excitement. "Thank you, Master. We live to please you."
The conversation shifted as Narcissa's expression turned more serious. She glanced at Pansy, who nodded. "Now, about the other matter you entrusted to us—the training of... Harmony."
Harry's lips curved into a smirk. He settled back down, letting Bellatrix work her way to his lower back. Her hands were strong, kneading the muscles with ease. "Ah, yes. My newest acquisition. How's she faring under your guidance? I gave explicit orders: she follows your commands without question."
Narcissa's eyes hardened, a flicker of disdain crossing her elegant features. "She's been... challenging at times, Master, but we're breaking her down. As per your instructions, we've kept her isolated in the lower quarters—no wand, no privileges. She starts each day with menial tasks: scrubbing the floors on her hands and knees, tending to the gardens under the hot sun. Pansy and I take turns overseeing her, ensuring she addresses us as 'Mistress' at all times."
Pansy chimed in, her voice laced with venom. "She hates it, Master. You can see it in her eyes—that bushy-haired traitor still thinks she's above us. But we've made her earn every meal. Yesterday, she had to beg for scraps after failing to polish the silver properly. And at night... well, we've introduced her to the obedience charms you suggested. She wears a collar now, one that tightens if she hesitates."
Bellatrix chuckled softly, her hands pausing for a moment on Harry's hips. She leaned over him, her bare breasts brushing his skin. "Sounds delightful. Tell me, sister, has the bitch cracked yet? I remember how she abandoned our Master during the war. She deserves every bit of humiliation."
Narcissa nodded vigorously. "Oh, Bella, you'd love it. We've pushed her further. Yesterday, we had her practice submission poses for hours—kneeling, head bowed, repeating mantras about her place as Master's bitch. She resisted a bit at first, but after a few sessions with the pain hexes, she's starting to comply. Pansy and I have even made her service us like we do to each other, but while we love it, she doesn't. I'm sure she feels it's just another way for us to drive home her lowered status."
Pansy's lips twisted into a satisfied grin. "Progress is slow, but noticeable. She doesn't argue as much now. Yesterday, she voluntarily licked the dirt from my boots after a walk in the mud. I think she's beginning to accept it—deep down, she knows she betrayed you, Master. We're molding her into the pliant toy you want."
Harry let out a chuckle, feeling no sympathy for his former friend. He shifted slightly, enjoying the way Bellatrix's touch lingered on him. "Excellent. I knew I could count on you two. Bella, what do you think? Should we escalate when I get there?"
Bellatrix's fingers trailed lower, massaging his thighs now. Her voice dripped with excitement. "Absolutely, Master. Make her crawl to you on arrival. Perhaps a public display in front of us all. I've got ideas—whips, chains, the works. She needs to learn true devotion."
Narcissa leaned closer to the mirror, her expression eager. "We agree, Bella. Harmony whimpers in her sleep now, calling out your name. It's progress, but she's not broken yet. We'll keep at it—degrading her until she's nothing but your loyal bitch."
Pansy added, "And we enjoy it, Master. Every tear she sheds is payback for what she did."
Harry felt Bellatrix's hands tremble slightly with anticipation, her body pressing closer to his.
As the discussion wrapped up, Narcissa's tone softened. "Master, we miss you so much. The island is ready, but it's not the same without you."
Pansy nodded, and Harry was pleasantly surprised to see her eyes misty. "Yes, Master. We ache for your touch, your commands. When will you come?"
Harry smiled, although a part of him wondered why their way of speaking to him had changed. He attributed it to their bond that was making them more pliant and truly his faithful servants.
"Soon. You've earned it. I miss you both as well—your dedication, your warmth. Hold on a little longer."
Narcissa glanced at Bellatrix through the mirror. "And Bella... I'm so excited to reunite with you after all these years. We've been apart too long, sister."
Bellatrix's hands stilled on Harry's legs. She looked up, her soft curls framing her face. "Cissy... I've missed you more than words can say. Once Master allows it, we'll be together again. Proper family, under his rule."
Harry chuckled, reaching out to stroke Bellatrix's thigh once again. "The time will come soon. Patience. Now, get back to work—make that island shine."
The mirror faded, the connection severing as Harry waved a hand, and it floated back to the nightstand. He shifted on the bed, his muscles loose from the massage, and swiftly, he grabbed Bellatrix by the waist and pulled her over him. She yelped in excitement, her naked, oil-slicked body landing atop his, skin sliding against skin.
"Master!" she gasped, her eyes wide with delight. She straddled him instinctively, her hands roaming his chest.
Harry grinned up at her, his hands gripping her hips. "You were squirming the whole time they talked about Harmony. I know how excited that got you, my sadistic little girl."
Bellatrix bit her lip, grinding slightly against his hard-on. "Guilty, Master. Hearing about that traitor's degradation... it stirs something in me. I live for breaking them, for you."
He trailed his fingers up her sides, teasing the curve of her breasts. "That's my Bella. Always eager for the dark side."
She leaned down, her lips brushing his ear. "Let me show you how eager, Master." Her hands wandered lower, bold and hungry.
The moment her fingers wrapped around the girth of his cock, Harry leaned up and captured her mouth in a fierce kiss, his body responding to her heat.
His tongue invaded her mouth with possessive hunger, tasting the faint sweetness of the wine they'd shared earlier. She moaned into the kiss, her body arching as she pressed her slick heat against his hardening length.
No more teasing—Harry flipped them over, pinning her beneath him on the silk sheets. Her curls fanned out like a dark halo, her eyes blazing with feral desire as she wrapped her legs around his waist, pulling him closer.
"Take me, Master," she whispered breathlessly, her nails raking down his back, leaving red trails that only fueled his fire. "Claim your bitch."
He growled low in his throat, one hand fisting in her hair to yank her head back, exposing the pale column of her throat. His teeth grazed her pulse point, biting down just hard enough to make her gasp and buck against him.
Bellatrix's hands roamed greedily, one sliding between them to grasp his cock again, stroking him with urgency. She was dripping already, her arousal coating his thighs as she ground against him, desperate for friction.
Without warning, Harry thrust into her in one powerful stroke, burying himself to the hilt. Bellatrix cried out, her walls clenching around him like a vice, her body trembling from the sudden fullness.
"Yes! Master, fuck me hard!" she begged, her voice a ragged plea mixed with ecstasy.
He didn't hold back. His hips snapped forward relentlessly, pounding into her with a rhythm that was brutal and unyielding. The bed creaked under their weight, the four-poster frame shaking as Harry claimed her completely. Bellatrix met every thrust with equal fervor, her hips rising to slam against his, her breasts bouncing with each impact. She clawed at his shoulders, drawing blood, but the pain only spurred him on.
"More," she panted, her eyes locked on his, wild and adoring. "Break me, own me—I'm yours!"
Harry's free hand roamed her body, pinching her nipples until they hardened into peaks, twisting them just to hear her whimper. She arched off the bed, her moans turning into screams of pleasure as he angled his thrusts to hit that spot deep inside her. Sweat slicked their skin, the scent of massage oil and sex filling the air. Bellatrix's legs tightened around him, her heels digging into his ass, urging him deeper.
He released her hair to grip her throat, applying just enough pressure to make her gasp, her eyes fluttering in submissive bliss. "Who do you belong to, Bella?" he demanded, his voice rough as he slowed his pace momentarily, teasing her with shallow thrusts.
"You, Master! Only you!" she choked out, her hands flying to his wrist, not to pull away but to hold him there, reveling in the control. Harry rewarded her with a savage thrust, picking up speed again, fucking her into the mattress with wild abandon. The room echoed with the wet slap of skin on skin, her cries growing louder, more desperate.
Bellatrix's hand slipped between them, her fingers circling her clit frantically as she chased her release.
"Please, Master—let me come for you," she pleaded.
"Not yet," Harry snarled, batting her hand away and replacing it with his own. He rubbed her swollen nub in rough circles, matching the pace of his hips. She thrashed beneath him, her head tossing side to side, incoherent words spilling from her lips—praises, begs, curses—all for him.
He leaned down, capturing a nipple in his mouth, sucking hard while his teeth grazed the sensitive flesh. Bellatrix keened, her nails digging deeper into his back. "Master, I can't—oh Master, yes!"
Her body shuddered, on the edge, but she held back, obedient even in her frenzy.
Harry flipped her onto her stomach without pulling out, yanking her hips up so she was on all fours. He slammed back in, the new angle allowing him to go even deeper. Bellatrix buried her face in the pillows, muffling her screams as he gripped her hips bruisingly, pulling her back onto his cock with each thrust.
"Look at you," he growled, slapping her ass hard enough to leave a red handprint. "My perfect slut, taking it all."
She pushed back against him, eager and unashamed, her body glistening with sweat. "Harder, Master! Mark me!"
Another slap, then another, the sting making her clench around him tighter. Harry's hand tangled in her hair again, pulling her head back so he could see her face—flushed, lips parted, and eyes glazed with lust.
He reached around, his fingers finding her clit once more, pinching and rolling it as he fucked her mercilessly. Bellatrix's arms gave out, her upper body collapsing onto the bed, but her ass stayed high, presented for him.
"I'm yours—fuck, Master, I'm coming!" she wailed, unable to hold back any longer.
"Come for me, Bella," Harry commanded, his own release building as her walls fluttered and spasmed around him. She shattered with a scream, her body convulsing, juices soaking the sheets beneath them. The sight and feel of her undone pushed him over the edge. With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself inside her, spilling hot and thick, claiming her utterly.
But they weren't done. Bellatrix, still trembling from her orgasm, somehow managed to find the strength and twisted around, pushing Harry onto his back. She straddled him again, her hands on his chest as she sank down onto his still-hard cock.
"Let me ride you, Master," she purred, her voice husky from screaming. She rolled her hips in slow, teasing circles at first, grinding down to take him fully.
Harry groaned, his hands gripping her thighs as she picked up speed, bouncing on him with wild energy. Her breasts swayed hypnotically, and he sat up to capture one in his mouth, sucking and biting while she rode him like a woman possessed. Bellatrix's head fell back, her moans filling the room as she chased another peak. "You feel so good inside me—fill me again, Master!"
He thrust up to meet her, their bodies slapping together in a frenzied rhythm. One hand slid to her ass, a finger teasing her tight rear entrance, pushing in just enough to make her gasp and ride harder.
"Yes! Use me everywhere!" she cried, her movements becoming erratic.
Harry flipped them once more, this time pressing her legs up to her chest, folding her in half as he drove into her with renewed vigor. The position let him hit impossibly deep, and Bellatrix's eyes rolled back, her hands clutching the sheets. "Master—too much—don't stop!"
They kept at it for hours, and orgasm after orgasm ripped through her, her body a quivering mess, but she repeatedly begged for more, her devotion absolute.
He pulled out briefly, only to flip her onto her side, spooning behind her as he re-entered. His arm wrapped around her, one hand cupping and squeezing her breast while the other hand drifted between her legs to stroke her clit while he thrust lazily at first, building back to frenzy. Bellatrix turned her head, their lips meeting in sloppy, heated kisses.
"I love you, Master," she whispered between gasps, her body melting into his.
Harry's pace quickened, his hand pinching her nipples, then sliding up to her throat again. "And I own you," he replied, squeezing just right. She came again, her cries muffled against his arm, and he followed soon after, pumping into her until they both collapsed, spent and entangled.
They lay there, their breaths ragged and their bodies slick and satisfied. Bellatrix curled into him, her head on his chest, fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin.
"Thank you, Master," she murmured, sleepy, spent, and utterly content.
Harry stroked her hair, his mind drifting as the afterglow settled. His lovely servants—Bellatrix here in his arms, Narcissa and Pansy laboring faithfully on the island, his indecision regarding Gabrielle, the delicate approach he'd need with Fleur and Lavender, his lovely colleagues in Susan and Nym, and even the breaking of Harmony—all pieces in his grand design.
Tomorrow, the French Riviera awaited, where his next conquest would begin: a certain pair of absconding witches who'd caught his eye, ripe for claiming, and if Narcissa was to be believed, one could be worth becoming something more.
A public face, to stand beside him as his partner, but also his faithful, to forever serve him.
The empire would grow, one submission at a time.
TBC.
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