FicWad

Lucky, lucky me

Disclaimer: Not mine. Hers. Sob.

I might have agreed, had they taken the trouble to talk to me about it. After all, it was supposed to be for the greater good, and it's not like continuing to fight Voldemort was my only pleasure and reason to live.

Instead, they arranged all behind my back, had the contracts drawn, witnesses gathered, festivities laid out. Then they drugged me into docility, dressed me in festive clothes, plonked a wreath of white roses on my head, and led me to my wedding. I was a sixteen-year-old virgin, and was given to Voldemort in wedlock on my birthday, to seal the cease-fire between the warring factions.

He got me, the obedience of the Ministry, control over the Wizarding world, they got their precious peace, the promise he'd go easy on the Muggles (whatever that meant, and "easy" never exactly being defined). Me, I got a wedding ring with a huge and rare red diamond, a set of very nice clothes, and a husband whose very sight made me sick. Literally. When he walked up to where I was waiting, when I saw him for the first time, the drug they had given me did not let me run or fight him, but it could not prevent me from trying to vomit my guts out. So I did, I got violently sick over my nice new robes, the lush carpet I was standing on, and most of the witnesses, as I saw no reason to try to turn away. Lucky me again, I was surrounded by wizards, so a few cleaning spells later the ceremony could proceed as planned, the minor glitch of a vomiting groom soon forgotten, the pictures for the press suitably glamorous, if you looked past the ghostly pale face of yours truly. When we newlyweds were told to kiss, he took my chin, pushed his non-existant lips on mine, and I graced him with a new demonstration of projectile vomiting.

They decided my presence was needed at the gala dinner; after all it was in my honour. The food was exquisite, the wines expensive, and the decorations more than tasteful. It must have been so; I read the articles of Witch Weekly and Daily Prophet. They did not mention that I took not even a glass of water. My adoring husband clearly did not desire a repeat of the colourful scene at the altar, and told me to sit quietly, and smile for Merlin's sake. After I demonstrated what a nice smile I had when forced, he promised to reward me for it, and told me to forget smiling, he'd seen more attractive smiles on a month old corpse. I could not care; the wedding in itself was already my worst nightmare.

After the truly impressive wedding cake, one last formality had to be obeyed. As the band started playing, my husband led me to the dance floor for the first dance, and I showed him how to dance with two left feet. I trod on his feet as much as I trod on the floor. This somehow seemed to worry him, and after the slow waltz he dragged me over to the table where his loyal and not-so-loyal followers were seated. He dropped me off on an empty chair, and went to talk with a certain potions master. I truly did not care what they had to discuss, but could not help but overhear snippets of their conversation. "Already wearing off" and "Guaranteed until midnight" were some of the meaningless words that got stuck in my mind.

His red eyes were trying to burn holes in mine as he returned, and he told us we'd make our farewells now, and leave immediately for our honeymoon. I nodded my agreement, and he told me he'd accompany me to the important guests to talk to them. He led me to the Ministry table, the Hogwarts Teachers table, again to the Deatheaters table, and lastly to the table where my classmates were seated. All seemed to be very pleased to hear his little speech - at every table the same - about happiness, respect, and sensibility. None seemed to care I did not say a word, and was dragged along as a living dummy, my wreath askew and slightly withered. Even the eyes of my closest friends showed no pity, no empathy with me; and in Ron's eyes there was more than a hint of envy. It hurt, but I was not allowed to speak to him, or to show him how I felt about this glorious day. Hermione actually managed to speak to me for a few moments, but all she had to say was that it was for the best.

We left the party at a quarter to midnight; I saw it on my watch, as my husband ripped it of my arm saying no muggle filth would besmirch Riddle Manor, or any of its occupants. Having decided flooing was out of the question as being not dignified, he had arranged a carriage - white, for the occasion, humorous mottoes and strings of old shoes included - taking us home. He told me to rest a while until we got there, and I agreed, for once. I slept, having no scruples of using his lap as a pillow. He didn't seem to mind, and only pushed me away when we arrived. His shove landed me on the floor of the carriage, and I was told to get up, and get into the house.

Clearly he had done quite an effort on the manor. Instead of the near ruin I had so often seen in my nightmares, I entered a luxurious, multi-coloured marble extravaganza. The house elfs that welcomed us and took our coats, were unusual in a way I could not pinpoint, but eager to please as always, and, when they were told my name and that I was their master's husband, displayed all signs of an overdose of happiness. One of them, a swooning female named Bitty, was assigned to my personal service, and told to lead me to the master bedroom and prepare me for my wedding night. Though the potion had mostly worn off, I decided putting up a fight now would not be very smart. I had seen a demonstration of a pissed off house elf as Malfoy Senior tried to hex or curse me after I had freed Dobby.

Freed. That was it. Every house elf I had met at Riddle Manor was tastefully dressed. Bitty wore a simple black dress, white socks, and black slippers. My head reeled; this was getting stranger by the minute. Still, freed or not, her orders were to take me to a place where I would get to know the carnal side of our wedding, and prepare me for that. I seriously doubted she would ignore her orders if I asked her to let me go, and chose to go along for the ride.

The "master bedroom" was very masterly indeed. Green marble everywhere, ebony wood, silver drapings, silver-grey sheets on the bed, silver chains at its posts. Huh? Bitty gave me little time to ponder this, led me to a (green marble again) bathroom, stripped me, bathed me, positioned my naked body in the middle of the bed, told me to stay there until the Master arrived. I knew there was no way out of this, and laid there, fairly frozen with apprehension. I was glad I had not eaten at the feast, as I doubted my vomiting prowess would be very welcome here. I didn't have to wait long, minutes after I was draped over the sheets, he drifted in, followed by an elf carrying a champagne bottle in an ice-bucket and glasses, another one loaded with a tray of appetizing-looking finger foods. They put those on a (ebony) table, bowed to their master, bowed to their master's husband, and disappeared.

Their master's husband remained wisely where he was, trying to study said master unobtrusively. His face was hard to read, the lipless mouth and red, slitted eyes gave no clues to what was going through his mind. His actions made one point clear though: our union would not be platonic. In other words, he stripped. He kept his wand handy though. I realized I had not seen my wand the last twenty-four hours, and wondered if me having no magic was also part of the contract.

I must have missed him casting his spell while I mused, because I suddenly realised the chains were now attached to my wrists and ankles, and I was lying face down. I tensed, thinking I knew what would follow now. To my surprise, no weight descended on or near my, but I heard a cupboard being opened. He actually hummed - rather tunelessly if you ask me - rummaging through its content. Having found whatever it was he wanted to find, he returned to the bed. Still no weight, but a finger trailing along my backbones, my ribs, my hips. "Too bony by far" he muttered. Inside my own head I agreed, I was skinny, but hey, he had wanted me, he got me, bones and all. "If I give you the punishment you deserve right now, I'll do irreparable damage to you. It will have to be postponed to a later date, but rest assured postponed does not mean cancelled. For now, a little something so you remember this." With this little speech, what was supposed to be the happiest night of my life started. He used his flat hand to spank me for a while, until he tired of this. My backside was already glowing red from my shoulders down to my knees, but clearly he decided I had not yet had enough. He continued with something that felt as a table tennis bat. My silent sobs changed gradually to loud screams, and only after I lost my voice and was reduced to hoarse, begging whispers, did he put it aside. His hands stroked over my body, his voice sounded satisfied when he stated that there was no blood, no broken bones, and he was very happy with my high pain tolerance. The hands disappeared, and suddenly the chains pulled my legs wide apart, and a pillow was placed under my desperately squirming hips. "You must learn to trust me, Harry. I know you are in pain, but I had to punish you, you know that. What I will do now, is not meant for pain but for pleasure. Of course, being a virgin, it could be a little painful, but I promise you I'll be careful." Somehow, the promise of rape did not sound very comforting.

I suppose he kept his promise, his lubrication spell was very effective, his stretching gentle and unhurried, but the entry of his huge erection tore me inside and out, the pain great enough to force my tortured vocal cords in a high, keening wail as I finally, mercifully fainted.

I don't know for how long I was out, but when I awoke nothing had changed. My back still burned, my arse still felt as though a centaur impaled me. His hand caressed my face, wiping my tears away, and he started to make small movements inside my torn body. My tears kept flowing, I didn't know a person had so many tears; it was as if my eyes had been equipped with faucets. His hand seemed to give up on drying my face, and replaced its stroking activity to my flaccid cock. His ministrations at first had little result, the activities in my arse simply too negative an influence. He kept going though, and as the soft rocking developed into a firmer, deeper riding, he started hitting a place deep inside of me, that I didn't even know existed. It gave off flashes of pure heat and pleasure, and I could not help but react to it.

And react I did, with surprised moans, a raging erection, and pushing back on to his cock. The pain had not disappeared, but it was now of no importance, forced in the background by the fierce pleasure flooding my body every time the ridge of his cock's head passed that center of pure ecstasy inside of me. The steady rhythm he had kept until now, rose to a higher level, and he too was no longer silent. His broken endearments were hissed out in sibilant Parseltongue, and I soon responded to them likewise. My hissing seemed to take him by surprise, he fell silent for a moment, called me a sweet little serpent, and started pounding in me, and pulling my cock, in a wild, irregular manner. His loss of control drove me completely wild; I hiss-screamed my orgasm as the combined sensations inside and out drove me over a border I didn't even knew to exist. My wild trashing and screaming did him in too, and I never had heard my name hissed with such tender feelings.

I could not help my yelp as he dropped on my still very tender back, and he immediately rolled away to lie panting beside me. When we both had regained our breath somewhat, he managed to find his wand back, heal my hurting backside with a swiping gesture, and get rid of the chains. He rubbed my sore wrists and ankles, and only then seemed to notice the blood dripping down my legs. He gasped, uttered a cleaning spell, followed by a healing spell, and panicked as blood kept trickling out of me. His healing abilities were not very well developed it turned out, and the tearing had been too deep and too severe for him to heal. He summoned his robes, put them on any old how, wrapped me in a sheet, picked me up, and apparated with me to what proved to be a doctor's private practice.

The doctor seemed to know him, he greeted him formally and respectfully, but was not scared stupid as I halfway expected. When the emergency was explained to him, he listened attentively, and put some pertinent questions to my husband. I had not thought it possible, but he actually blushed while answering them. The doctor asked him to put me on an examination table, and he gently unwrapped the sheet covering me, and did so. Seeing my discomfort being positioned in this awkward position, he stayed close by my side, holding my hand all the time the doctor examined me. I tensed as the doctor inserted the tip of his wand in my bleeding orifice, but he hissed reassurances in Parseltongue, explained that the man had to get as close as possible to the wounds to make the spell work better, distracted me with silly-seeming questions. They helped me concentrate on him instead of what was happening in between my legs, and I hissed back my answers.

It was strange to see that lipless mouth smile, strange but alluring in a snake-like way. In fact, if you looked at him in a reptilian frame of reference, he was a very handsome snake. His face was very strong; his eyes radiated a deep wisdom and untold power; and the contrast with his very human, luxuriant mahogany hair was exotic to say the least. Spread out naked on a doctor's examining table was not the place to think such thoughts, even less to think thoughts of having this snake-man giving me unknown pleasures. I tried to will my erection away, but knew he had seen it at least as quickly as I realised it was there. I decided to joke about it, told him that getting treatment for the wounds he inflicted on me during our lovemaking made me want to do it again, and damn the consequences.

It may sound confused, but it made perfect sense when expressed in the convoluted sentences of snake language. My words pleased him immensely, he called me his sweet, strong serpent boy, his chosen beloved, told me he wanted me too, but that he guessed the doctor would not be happy if we pushed him away and got me in the same state that had brought me here in the first place. I had to agree, he was a wiser snake than me. The doctor coughed discreetly, he had finished whatever he'd had to do down there, and handed out a little vial of clear, purple speckled ointment, together with detailed directions how to use it.

It came down to the fact that my husband simply was much too big for me, and that, if his directions weren't followed to the letter, he'd do much damage each time he penetrated me. He warned us not to neglect his words, as the damage might become permanent. He spoke in lurid detail of peritonitis, of having to remove a damaged prostate, of a terminally paralysed muscle... We were both thoroughly awed by his true-life horror stories, and listened to him as if he were Merlin returned to the living world. His instructions were precise, and not impossible to follow.

The vial contained a special lubricant, a muscle relaxant was mixed into it; it was to be applied liberally and in depth, and he stressed the importance of lots of stretching me, always using the special lubricant. He strongly advised not to content us with the usual one finger, two fingers routine, but expand to minimum three, and preferably four fingers. And loads and loads of the lubricant. He hemmed a bit then, turned a lovely shade of beet red, and added, throwing meaningful glances at my husband's elegant, slender hands, in our case, even fisting might be a good idea. I did not know this fisting, but seeing my husband turning pink too, I decided to ask him later, in private.

A strangely subdued Dark Lord, still blushing, fingered the small vial with the lubricant. He finally managed to get his question out: we were newlyweds, just beginning our honeymoon, and this vial, while very welcome, was rather small and... He had to say no more, the doctor actually laughed at his predicament, explained this was a sample, it should be enough for one, ahem, test, but he'd write a prescription for an unlimited quantity of the stuff. We should take the prescription to any apothecary or potions master, and they'd provide us with whatever quantity we deemed necessary. However, the prescription would be valid for six months only, after this he'd need to see us again, me in particular. As I was not yet fully grown, there was a possibility I'd outgrow the need for the muscle relaxant, and he would need to control this regularly.

I picked up my discarded sheet and draped it around me as well as I could. While it would never win a Best Toga price, it covered me and stayed in place, what was all I expected it to do. My husband - I was getting annoyed calling him that, but I could not name him Voldemort, it had too many negative connections. Voldemort was the evil madman who killed my parents and uncounted others, my husband was... my husband, not Voldemort. Anyway, my husband, or whatever we'd agree I would call him, arranged payment and scheduled an appointment six months from now, and I clutched the prescription. He hissed a question to me, and I told him I'd hold on to the prescription and the vial of lubricant, as he would have to carry me back to our house, this would be the safest way. He agreed, and I jumped in his outstretched arms to be carried back to our room. After all, this was our wedding night, and he still had to carry me over the threshold. I hissed my thanks for his unknowingly romantic gesture softly in his ears, and we both laughed as a couple of loons while we disapparated from the doctor's practice.

We turned up, still laughing; in the room we had left in such a hurry. I willingly returned to the bed that had seen me in great pain and even greater pleasure, and put the prescription and the precious vial on the nightstand. If I had my way, we'd test its properties sooner than later, and most definitely this night. I had reached unknown heights last time, while I was in such a bad state, and I could not begin to guess what it would be if the pleasure was undiluted. My husband turned to the table though, and came to the bed carrying two glasses of champagne. He offered me one, and I took a careful sip of this unknown drink. It was fizzy, slightly sourish, but very tasty. I suspected it was also quite heady, and drank slowly, after all I had not eaten all day, and due to my initial reactions at the sight of my husband, a good part of yesterday's nutrition was lost to me too. He did not offer any of the food on the table, and I kept ogling it. He noticed my silent obsessing, and spelled the table to walk over to us. "Eat, my skinny little snake, you need every calorie you can get hold of" he grinned. I remembered his promise of a "severe" punishment when I wasn't so bony anymore and shuddered, but decided to not let it spoil my appetite. I was hungry, the food was excellent, and future punishments were right where they belonged - in the future.

He stared incredulously at the way I shoveled the delicate tidbits into my mouth, not caring if two less than complementing tastes clashed in my mouth. "How long have you been starved, that you are so hungry?" He clearly thought he was very funny, but his joke fell flat as I replied I only ever ate my full at the tables of Hogwarts. "Did your family not dote on you, the pride of the Side of Light, the Champion Who Slew Me?" "Funny way of doting they had" I replied, slightly annoyed. "Housing me into a cupboard until I was eleven, never giving me enough food, always dealing out plenty of chores, and harsh words too; lying to me about my parents, about who I was, never one kindness...Oh yes, I was a real spoilt brat" I saw he had trouble believing this, shrugged, returned to the rather empty looking table. I chased the last delicacies down with a little sip of champagne, hid my burp politely behind a hand.

My husband was lost in thought, and I decided that, if I wanted some more action soon, I'd have to take the initiative. I got rid of my sheet-toga, stretched out with arms and legs wide open, and hissed rather loudly that a man could get lonely in here, and feel neglected. I got through to him all right; my being a parseltongue certainly had advantages. Not only did we communicate in complete privacy in front of who ever else there might be - I thought back at the shameless flirting I had done, while being under doctor's care - but if I said anything with the least bit of innuendo, my husband reacted beautifully. In a matter of seconds his robes landed wherever he threw them, and his eyes were once more piercing mine with their inhuman fire.

I could not care less this time, in fact I welcomed it now that I recognized the fire. Desire caused it, the same desire slowly building in my own body. I reached up to his face, caressed his cheek - he hissed his surprise - "sweet little snake, how daring of you" - I buried my fingers in his lovely hair, pulled him down and kissed him. Hard, and with lots of tongue sliding over his lips. His mouth dropped open in surprise, giving my tongue a nice opportunity to enter his mouth and play around. He appreciated it, moaned in my mouth, draped his long body over mine, and covered me completely. I wriggled under him, rubbing my erection against his, drawing new moans from him. Suddenly, I realised something: he needed me, badly. The past two years, and Merlin knows how long before the time he was discorporated, nobody had looked at him with desire, touched him voluntarily, showed desire for him. I can only imagine what this meant to him, a young, innocent partner, his former mortal enemy to boot, reaching out for him, wanting him, desiring him. He shuddered as my other hand started exploring his pale, hairless body, and I realised the power I had over him.

Being nothing but submissive, I could lead him exactly where I wanted him to be, here, in bed, and perhaps I would find ways to do the same outside this bed too. For now, I wanted him to start preparing me as the doctor ordered, and I broke the kiss and pleaded softly for more, spreading my legs even wider and bucking my hips, letting no doubt arise of what exactly I wanted more of. Shameless, for certain; but then, who would care what I did in my own wedding night,besides him and me? I never cared much for conventions and shame, and he posed no objections, so what if I did make a spectacle of myself. My opportunism pleased him to no end, the fire in his eyes rose to new levels as he started his own explorations.

I could not deny his experience, he played my body as a virtuoso, but his slight hesitancy left me in no doubt that this was one of the rare times, perhaps the very first time indeed, he was making love to a willing, caring partner. I made sure my body welcomed him, and encouraged him with hissed endearments. This time I was able to fully concentrate on the pleasure he gave me, and as his finger first touched my entrance I was so needy the doctor's advice was all but forgotten, and I begged him to take me there and then. Luckily, he had better self-control than me, and it was a well-lubricated finger that slipped inside of me. I loved it, wanted more, and more I soon got. A second finger, and a third one soon joined the first, and I wept, overcome by the sensations it caused. I felt so open, so full; I couldn't imagine it could get any better. Until number four joined its brothers, and they started a bunched attack at my prostate. I nearly jumped out of the bed; he had to use his body weight to keep me in place. Forced to stay where I was, the clever fingers hitting my sensitive spot time and again, the knuckles of his bunched fingers gently pushing against my relaxing muscle, I melted into a puddle of tears and come as the second orgasm of that night hit me.

Vaguely I felt the knuckles pass the now totally loosened ring, more and more lubricant being slipped into my already slick entrance, coating me deep, so very deep. This was beyond pleasure, I found no words for it, and only raspy moans expressed the whirlwind of sensations spiraling out from my insides. His hand stilled for a moment, and suddenly I felt pressure on my inside spot - from the outside. Hazily I wondered how that was possible, and struggled to see how this neat trick was done. He grinned at my curiosity, and helped me up to see: his hand all sheathed inside me, until it was halted by his thumb, which was stretched flush with my skin, pushing firm but gently on the spot behind my balls, and awakening new arousal in my spent cock via the now well known source of pleasure deep inside of me. His other hand traveled to my budding erection, and suddenly I was under triple assault: my pleasure spot got stimulated inside and out, my cock stroked. This time, I positively howled at the overload, but a sudden, vice-like grip around the base of my erection prevented my orgasm. I protested this vehemently, and the retreat of the other hand likewise, but his voice assured me this was only preparation, the real thing was still to come. He scared me, if this was only preparation the real thing would kill me, pleasantly but as effective as a death curse. I somehow got this idea through to him, and his laughter was pure music.

I watched him apply all the lubricant left in the vial generously on his erection, and soon he was positioned between my wide-open legs. He pushed them even further apart, bringing my knees close to my shoulders, and let his cock penetrate me. There was no pain this time, no tearing of tissues, only a gradually filling of an empty space inside of me, that I hadn't even known to be there, that needed this to feel complete. Once he was all in, he paused a moment, withdrew enough to allow his fingers in between us, and gently controlled the skin stretched around him for signs of tearing. Not finding anything wrong, the fingers left, and he regained the lost inch with a gentle push. I moaned; wanted, needed more of that, and told him so. I don't know if I succeeded in making this clear to him; or if it was what he needed too coincidentally, but he repeated the movement, enlarging the arc with each movement, until he nearly withdrew and re-entered completely. By this time, my happy spot was getting all the stimulation it could desire, and I was babbling utter nonsense, but getting my contentment with this situation over loud and clear it seemed, as he continued his efforts, and making pretty much the same noises as me.

It suddenly dawned on me this was a third language we both spoke and understood, a language made of little cries, moans, improvised vocalisations, and the sound of sloppy kisses. We both spoke it fluently, and encouraged each other in it, chasing our willing bodies to new heights of ecstasy, joyfully dragging each other to a place where we were one, limits having fallen away, and our cries were interchangeable as we rode the crest of a tsunami, and plunged head first into a blood-warm sea of quieting passion and spent desire. We slowly descended back into our still shuddering bodies. Had he decided then and there to kill me, I would have smiled, let him do it unprotesting, and died a very happy man.

Killing me was the last thing on his mind however. He gently withdrew his spent member, checked it for eventual traces of blood, found none and kissed me happily. We thanked each other till it got slightly ridiculous, and did laugh. He sobered down, and told me he loved me. It nearly stopped my heart, and I held him real tight, and told him I loved him too.

Parseltongue is a very strange language. Its complicated, meandering structure is eminently prone to double entendres, but a straight out lie is not possible. Not difficult, or hard to camouflage, no, you simply cannot lie. So, when we declared each other our love, we could be sure that the feelings were true. It did however not mean he would change to the side of Light, nor did it indicate my turning towards Darkness. Our love did not include promises of faithfulness, nor did it blind us to reality. When we left these chambers, the reality would be: he would be ruler of wizarding Britain, and I his subordinate, young and beautiful (in his eyes) husband. He would wield his powers more or less fairly, that was up to him to decide, and I would be not much more than an ornament, or a toy to distract his wearied mind, and, in due time, the means to provide him with one or more children and give him a heir, to continue his name and his rule.

I knew things would go like this, I had heard the terms of the contract read at our wedding; I even had given my agreement to it. Never mind that I was drugged at the time, my agreement was registered, and never have I returned on my word, no matter under what circumstances it was given. Still, the craftier Slytherin side of my brain already was searching for loopholes. Not so very long ago, I had read the memoirs of a famous Muggle courtesan, some French woman who lived hundreds of years ago. She had been a simple bourgeois girl - worse in those days and that nobility-oriented society; than a Mudblood in the eyes of a pureblood family today - and used her so-called weaknesses to rule her monarch. She hid her quick wits behind a vapid smile, air-headed babbling and an all-encompassing sillyness, camouflaged her well-reasoned advice as lucky guesses. She made sure the king never tired of her, keeping him sexually aroused by being sexually aroused: no aphrodisiac mightier than a truly interested, and admiring partner. She submitted joyfully to each spoken and unspoken whim, and, when asked what she wished as a reward, always hesitated, and had to be forced to name something, anything. After a time neither too short nor too long, she gave in, and admitted her desire. An enemy destroyed. A friend favoured. Jewels, a title, a castle, money, money, more money.

What I had not understood at that time, but now understood very well, was what she wrote on one of the last pages, as she looked back over her long and advantageous affair. All her cunning, all her zeal had only been possible because she loved him, in a very sober, bourgeois way. I decided I'd try and follow her example, seeing the paralells between our situations. I'd find that book again, I was fairly sure, and then I could look for some forgotten finesses. So, when he asked me what present he could give me for the gift of my virginity, I acted coy and vaguely not understanding, and finally asked what name I could call him. Voldemort was out of the question, I explained him, Voldemort had killed my parents. "Husband" had no such connections, in fact I liked the connections it did have - giving a little squeeze on a significant body part - but it did sound a little formal, and was rather difficult to scream in the throes of passion. He smiled, agreed, and reminded me his original name was Tom; was that acceptable? I made a big show of my indecisiveness, with lots of scratching of hair and nail ticking on teeth, and finally let the name take voice "Tom... not bad. Thomas... mmm, perhaps when we have guests and a little formality is requested. Tommy-love, Tommy-dearest..."He silenced my teasing by kissing me, and I chuckled around his intrusive tongue.

A little cuddling session followed, and from now on Tom it would be. Obviously he found that this was not an honest exchange of gifts, and insisted I demanded another one. I wondered what mattered most to me, what I could ask of him without danger of creating a new debt on my side. I rested my head on his shoulder, played distracted with one of his pale nipples, and finally decided on my request. I asked to be there as he punished the Dursleys for the way they had treated me. Relatives or not, I was a pureblood wizard and his husband, and they should not get away with such disrespect. He agreed readily, his own sense of honour demanded such a reaction. The insult had been on me, and since I was his now, he felt the insult himself. He generously offered me the choice: would I participate in their punishment, or did I prefer to watch professionals in action? I didn't know what to choose, and asked with a small voice if I could start out as a spectator, and join in when their example had inspired me? He complemented me on my choice, said I paired common sense to true courage and desire to learn. I hid my smile, and sent silent thanks to miss Dubarry, wherever her lewd little soul might be.

Things would be most interesting from now on. I would learn to play his heartstrings the way he had played my body this night, but I'd have to be most careful - this was not a gentle man who would not mind being tricked into decisions. This was the most dangerous wizard alive, and I was in his power totally. Escape was not possible, and getting caught at my little plots would have more consequences than I preferred to think of. Still, I had been living dangerously for so long a nice little trickle of adrenaline was a constant craving with me now.

I looked forward to an exciting life, at the side of my beloved snaky lover and husband. I did not know how long I would live, but live I would, drink all life put in my cup, drink it deeply and greedily. I would find satisfaction in what power I could draw to me discreetly; gorge my desires on a deep, true love; and give my Tom all my body, heart and soul could give. True freedom I had never had, the contract that enslaved me forever to him only formalised my situation. My childhood, my youth, my innocence had been shattered long before it came to this forced loss of bodily virginity, and it had been a quite pleasant loss, all things considered.

I considered myself a very lucky boy, and would not hesitate to make everybody I once had trusted to care for me, all those I had considered friends, pay for it.