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Memoirs of a Death Eater Whore: A Year and a Day

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Memoirs of a Death Eater Whore: A Year and a Day


Note: Written for my partner-in-crime's birthday. Smut, Slut!Harry, and all Maeglin's favourite boys. Except Remus. Sorry.

Harry Potter's year of service ended on the twenty-sixth of March, and they all knew it.

His schedule for that day started out peppered with as many names as there were time slots, but by dawn on the day of his emancipation, only two remained, Snape and Malfoy having bought, bribed, or blackmailed his time away from their peers.

Harry didn't mind at all, for those two already monopolized his schedule, and he thought it rather sweet of them to want to say goodbye before he entered their lord's exclusive service. He wondered if the Dark Lord could compare to the exquisiteness of Malfoy or the intensity of Snape, or the sheer physical satisfaction of the endless parade of lesser men who booked his time. Voldemort had yet to touch him, so Harry did not know whether he would enjoy serving him and him alone. He did know he would be very unhappy if someone -- anyone -- didn't fuck him at least twice a day. The prospect of one master unnerved him, for he had yet to observe any sole man with that sort of stamina.

But those worries belonged to tomorrow; today he had appointments to keep. Malfoy for two hours, Snape for one, then Malfoy again. Neither seemed willing to pool his acquired time to get a solid half-day with him, but Harry didn't mind. He found them unbearably adorable when they competed over him.

He lay back on the circular bed, naked and oiled, massaged, painted, hungry; just the way Malfoy liked him. When the door opened he stretched, wanton and arrogant, and posed for his temporary master, and Malfoy was on him in an instant. No preparation, no lubrication beyond precome and the small amount of oil Malfoy's cock picked up from his body -- just enough to reduce the friction to tolerable levels. Nipples tingled from pinches, skin stung from bites and the scratch of Malfoy's clothes, cock ached from neglect and the residue of whatever aphrodisiacal charm Malfoy had used on himself. Their lord permitted no wands near Harry, so the charms must be strong enough to affect him through osmosis, but they nonetheless made Harry insane with lust.

He clenched his ass around the invading prick, twisted his hands in long silvery hair, wondered eagerly if Snape would bring his little basket of treats later. Malfoy slapped him -- always knowing whenever his mind wandered, particularly when it wandered to Snape -- grunted, bit him again, and came.

Harry quivered beneath him, unsatisfied erection throbbing, hair prickling at the charm vibrating from Malfoy's skin. Malfoy didn't bother pulling out; he would harden again in minutes.

He did, and took Harry again.

And again.

And again.

His 'office' consisted of two rooms: the bedroom, with its circular bed and wide variety of sexual equipment, and the bathroom with its marble tub and blissfully soothing shower.

The water-like substance poured over him, translucent blue and tasting of weak mouthwash, tingling on his skin. Bites, bruises, and scratches faded from his body, cosmetics and oil and dirt and semen and blood washed away. The shower soothed away the remnants of the arousal charm, leaving him clean and pure and as innocent as he could ever be for his next appointment.

Snape did indeed bring his little wicker basket. Divided into compartments, stacked with trays, it clinked as the contents shifted.

Harry waited at the end of the bed, sitting naked with his hands folded in his lap. The blue water dried odourless, leaving nothing but clean, pale skin. No paint or oil for Snape; he didn't like his whores looking the part. Harry smiled from under lowered lashes as Snape set the basket on the side table and methodically removed the contents. A few toys, cuffs, clamps -- things that Snape did not like sharing with others no matter how good the house elves' cleaning spells -- but mostly bottles. Bottles and bottles of lotions, potions, and pills.

He swallowed what Snape gave him, rolled over when commanded, and let the man rub assorted creams and oils into his skin. Some tingled, some burned, some made his pulse speed and his head spin. The cocktail changed every time, no two highs the same.

Today, the potions merely intensified all sensory input, leaving him able to feel the whorls on Snape's fingertips as they caressed his body, hear the whisper of hair on the pillow, taste soap and sulphur and chamomile and curry and mermaid-scale residue on his skin. Left him a sobbing wreck from the slightest touch of lips on his flesh, the feathery brush of hair on his prick. Drove him momentarily insane when a tongue lapped his balls.

Made him scream when Snape took him -- just once, but once was almost too much after forty minutes of torture. By the time Snape came, the high had crested and the distancing had set in. Harry knew his cock still throbbed with potion-driven need, but didn't care, and kissed Snape a temporary goodbye, and walked to the shower in a numb daze. The tiles a mile beneath his feet. Cold and sleek under his toes. Air cool and velvet on his body.

It seemed he stood under the spray for hours before the first drop hit his skin, blue glass beads crawling through the air, then they struck him, and everything was fast-forward as the blue rain washed away the potions as it did the love-marks. Sobriety returned, and so did the house-elf who reapplied his paint and oil.

He checked the clock. Nine hours left of his year of service.

He ostensibly worked twelve hours a day, or at least, his schedule had twelve slots. His clientele consisting of a smallish group of high-level Death Eaters, he occasionally had free time in addition to his regular off hours as they all had responsibilities beyond fucking him.

Other times none of them seemed to have anything better to do, and they lined up outside his door, and booked half-hour slots to free him for more of them to use. Occasionally, they would share him, just to keep the line moving quicker, so Harry took it in stride when Lucius brought a guest.

He hadn't seen Draco in ages and ages, and though he was certain they'd gone to school together, the details kept slipping by, memory and imagination twining. He wondered if Draco had always been timid, or if it was just his first time with a whore -- and if the second, what he had done to deserve the promotion into the ranks those privileged to touch him. Perhaps because it was Harry's last day. Perhaps it was Draco's birthday. Perhaps Malfoy had snuck him in.

Harry lay back, smiled, spread his legs like Malfoy -- Lucius -- liked. Hid his confusion when Draco's eyes widened, and flicked skittishly at Lucius. Hid his nervousness when Lucius ordered Draco to strip and get on the bed, and then had to order him to hurry. Hid his dismay when Draco joined him, but would not look at him, and stayed on the edge of the bed.

Harry glanced at Lucius for direction. Lucius snagged a chair, and sat, fully clothed. "Prepare him."

All other thoughts scattered like a bludger into the crowd. He didn't get to top very often; of all the Death Eaters, only Wormtail seemed to want it on a regular basis, but he usually required his arse paddled so hard beforehand that Harry was too tired to enjoy it. To have Draco, every bit as exquisite as his father, squirming beneath him... He hoped Lucius was not teasing him.

Draco rolled over, stiff, still, and parted his legs for Harry's eager hands. Harry nearly spilt the oil in his haste and in seconds was rubbing slick fingers across the small pink pucker. He paused when Draco flinched, and cast an inquiring gaze at Lucius.

"Keep going. Stretch him well."

Harry pushed a single digit inside, trying to humour Draco's tenseness while obeying Lucius. Two fingers, three, four, Draco whimpering and Harry stroking his back and Draco was not relaxing, nor was he hard despite the workout Harry gave his prostate, despite the half-bottle of oil in and around his hole.

"Relax," Harry whispered.

Draco did not even look back. "Don't fucking talk, Potter. Just shut up."

Harry threw another look at Lucius, whose lips parted, gaze a palpable weight on Harry's skin.

"Fuck him."

Quiet words, expelled almost breathlessly, and Harry needed no second command to slide between parted white thighs, ease himself into Draco's body, sphincter gripping him painfully. He tried to go slow. Wished Draco would stop whinging. Gasped as he made it past the tight muscle and slid deep inside, oil squelching. Set an easy pace. Fondled his partner's prick, and stopped when Draco snarled.

"Baby," Harry muttered. He'd been patient, which was more kindness than anyone had ever shown him, and damnit this was his last day, and he seriously doubted the Dark Lord was a bottom.

Draco tensed suddenly, and Harry felt the bed shift, and the hot press of another nude body behind him. He stilled, and shifted his legs apart as Lucius' slick cock nudged his ass. Flesh parted before it, and soon Harry knelt sandwiched between father and son, fucking and fucked and wishing Lucius had thought of this months ago.

Harry forgot everything as Lucius rode him, pushing him into Draco with every thrust, then lost his blissful calm when Lucius withdrew before Harry could come. He pushed Harry forward, forcing Draco to raise his arse higher, and spread Harry's legs even wider, until he was up on his toes, knees bent and out awkwardly as Lucius' erection prodded his balls... went lower... slid along the underside of Harry's penis...

Draco cried out sharply and tried to squirm away as his father's cock breached him alongside Harry's, but Lucius held him still. Harry could do nothing but moan at the feel of the long prick gliding in beside his, snugged up close and stretching Draco's anus tighter.

Lucius waited, Draco trembled, and Harry squirmed to keep the circulation in his limbs. Finally Lucius drew back slightly, began thrusting in short, hard movements, and Harry matched the pace with just enough lag to cause their cocks to rub inside Draco.

Panting, pinned between heat and heat, bodies sliding with sweat and oil so that hands lost their grips, squeezing flesh, Lucius biting him again, Lucius liked to bite, and Lucius moaned through his nose, his mouth full of Harry's flesh, the earth dropped out from under him and the backwash of pleasure flooded him to his fingertips.

And when sense returned, he was just sticky and uncomfortable, and his muscles protested the awkward position.

Lucius pulled away, allowing Harry to free himself. Draco lay in an expressionless puddle on the dark sheets, and Harry flopped next to him, toying with his limp penis. Lucius was hard again, but Harry felt nothing stirring so he decided Lucius must have used more subtle charms this time; Draco hadn't gotten hard once, after all.


Draco whined.

"Come here." Lucius sat in the chair, patted his lap, and Draco edged closer, until Lucius could grab his arm. He pulled his son onto his lap, hooking Draco's legs over the arms of the chair, spreading them wide. Harry could tell by Draco's grunt that Lucius had stuffed his prick inside him again. "Potter."

Harry came over immediately.

"Suck him."

Harry knelt between two sets of parted legs, and went to work on the uninterested flesh. Sucking, licking, nibbling to no avail, and he had a brief flashback of another time he'd failed to arouse, of someone striking him over and over, of crawling to the blue shower, of his next client's fury over the delay. Memory or dream, the soft flesh filled him with a desire to please -- more so than usual.

He sucked Draco's balls, taking them into his mouth one at a time, and finally felt a stir of interest. Confidence creeping back, Harry doubled his efforts, and once he coaxed a full erection, slid lower, lifted the sac to lick at the stretched anus and the cock sliding in and out. Lucius moaned, and Harry reminded himself it was Lucius he had to please.

He engulfed Draco's prick, but massaged Lucius' balls, keeping the stream of pleased sounds flowing. He let his other hand wander up Draco's chest to toy with his nipples, pinching them to hear him gasp, wishing he'd hurry up and come before his jaw locked. Saliva ran down his chin.

Lucius had Draco by the hips, and slammed into him in short, hard thrusts, and the jerking made Harry's task even more difficult, but finally bitter-salt liquid spurted into his mouth. Harry released the wilting prick, and sat back while Lucius finished.

"Go clean up, both of you," Lucius said, and Harry paused. The five minutes at the end of the hour were his time, and the thought of Draco in the blue shower raised protests to his lips, though he knew enough not to let them leave his mouth. He fought back a scowl, took Draco by the arm, led him into the bathroom.

Draco drew away once the door shut. "Don't touch me."

Harry shrugged, and turned on the soothing blue water, and stepped under the spray. The tingle erased him, made him clean until Draco joined him.

The blonde shuddered when the the spray hit his sticky skin, then relaxed and leaned against the tile.

"He's different now."

Harry ignored the whisper, as he had no image of Lucius outside his bed, and furthermore didn't care.

"We used to be-- He used to--" Narrow shoulders shuddered once, and the pale, pointed face relaxed, and tipped up to the spray.

Harry regarded him curiously, but Draco appeared to have forgotten his speech. They finished their shower in silence.

Shouting from the other room drew Harry out earlier than he would have chosen, naked, rapidly drying, a meek Draco Malfoy at his heels. He found the curious sight of Lucius and Snape at each other's throats.

"If you cannot comprehend such a simple concept as allotment, I suggest you ask one of your house elves," Snape said as Harry and Draco came in. "Or perhaps a three-year-old child could explain it to you."

"So sorry, Severus." Lucius, while standing aggressively close to Snape, did not raise his voice. "I must have lost track of the time."

Snape narrowed his eyes. "You owe me two minutes. Now get out."

Lucius smirked. "Come along, Draco."

Draco did not look at Snape, but gathered his clothes and dressed. Snape watched the pair leave, a speculative slant to his glare. Irritated and uneasy at the disruption, Harry crawled onto the bed and fondled himself until Snape noticed him.

"Did you get to fuck Draco?"

Harry bit his lip, for Snape had never asked about his other patrons before, but nodded.

"Did Lucius?" Another nod, and Snape sighed. "Absolute power corrupts absolutely, Potter." Severus tipped his head up, ran a thumb across Harry's lower lip. "When scavengers run out of prey, they turn on each other. Make no mistake, Lucius is an opportunist. As am I."

Harry wished Snape would be quiet and use the time wisely, and after a moment, he did. But when Severus took the nipple clamps from his basket, Harry forgot all about the Malfoys and his impending freedom.

Later, after Lucius came and went once more, Harry remembered Draco, because Snape had also brought a guest. A lovely, dark-haired man followed Snape in on a leash, his gold-painted eyes widening when he saw Harry.

It took Harry several seconds to recognize Sirius. He looked... pretty. Feminine. Much as Snape preferred the natural look on Harry, it seemed he thought Sirius better suited to eyeliner and jewelry.

"You wanted a chance to top, pet." Snape waved a long-fingered hand at the bed. "Here's your chance."

Pale blue eyes framed by dark kohl pinned him to the bed. "Harry?"

Harry held his godfather's gaze; Sirius was near tears, and it disturbed Harry to see him so fragile, a vase falling, knowing he would either chip or shatter. He opened his arms, beckoned, and Sirius glanced at Snape for permission, then came to him meekly, and pressed his face to Harry's neck.

"God, Harry. I'm sorry, I didn't mean it this way, I didn't know he'd bring me to you."

"Is he kind to you?"

"He... doesn't hurt me." An answer, just not to the question he'd asked.

"I'm glad. And I'm glad that he did bring you to me. I haven't seen you in..." Harry tried to recall, and could not. "I don't care if you have to fuck me, as long as you're here." Sirius flinched as though struck, and Harry remembered Draco again. "No, no, I like it. I like hands on me." He caught Snape's expression, which bordered between amusement and impatience, and cursed himself for forgetting the cardinal rule: always please the master. He turned so that Snape had a good view as Harry silenced Sirius' protests by licking his jaw.

Sirius shuddered, and the vase hit the ground, and he kissed Harry's neck with frantic need; Merlin only knew what Snape had fed him beforehand. Harry unclipped the dangling lead, wondered where the image of a large black dog came from, and why it seemed so intensely Sirius. Dismissed the thought as distracting, pulled his godfather atop him, careful to angle them for Snape's visual pleasure.

Hands everywhere, scorching him, destroying his calculations and his rhythm. This was no cold lust burning through him; this man had loved him, once upon a time, and he forgot Snape and his watching black eyes, forgot Voldemort, forgot his year of service.

Why is this different? Why do I feel as though I could cry? He never cried, not even when Macnair booked him. But if I never cry, how do I know what it means when my eyes sting and my throat gets tight? Confused, he reached for one of the bottles of lubricant, and pressed it into Sirius' hands. He ignored the choked sound, and pressed his body against the other man's.

"Please take me," he hissed, startling all three of them. "I want to feel your cock so deep inside I'll taste you when you come."

Sirius groaned, and fumbled with the bottle. Cool, slick fingers pressed into Harry and he spread his legs wide, arched his back. He didn't need much preparation, he never did, and urged Sirius on, tugging his hair, his collar, his cock. And then an incredible heat filled him, stretched him, and Sirius kept trying to look away, and Harry kept pulling his gaze back.

"Feels so good, yes, take me, fuck me," Harry moaned and Sirius gasped and shuddered, bucking against him, and Harry came onto his stomach, rocked into orgasm by--

By someone who loved him.

Harry grinned in weary triumph at Snape. Snape smirked back, and hesitated in the manner of one holding a trump card. "James would be so proud."

Sirius stiffened, pulled out, pushed Harry away, and Harry watched the muscles of his back shudder.

He wondered idly who James was, and why Sirius cared what he thought.

Snape was fucking him under Sirius' anxious gaze when someone knocked on the door.

"Tell them to leave," Snape gasped, and returned to biting Harry's already bruised lips, but Sirius barely opened the door when Malfoy -- the elder -- pushed his way in.

He raised an eyebrow, taking in their position -- Harry bent almost double while Snape fucked him slowly. "Snape."

"Malfoy." No break in the slow rhythm. "I believe Mr Potter's remaining time is mine."

"Five-hundred thousand galleons for the last hour."


"A million."

"No, damnit."

"Two." Malfoy paused. "And Draco. For one year."

Snape's turn to pause. "Two million galleons and Draco Malfoy's exclusive services for one year, for which you may stay and watch."


"I'm in control."


"Good. Now sit down and shut up."

Malfoy looked affronted, but sat. After a moment, he beckoned Sirius over, and once Snape nodded permission, Sirius went, unbuttoned Malfoy's robes, put his mouth to use. Harry preened under the hot grey eyes, glad for the distraction. Sirius' gaze was making him uncomfortable, and the potion Snape had rubbed into his cock was driving him out of his mind. Nothing he did made Snape quicken the pace, and the slow, steady pounding made him want to scream.

He did scream, eventually. And begged and cried and squirmed and threatened, but Snape shrugged it all off, and fucked him with the same methodical precision. He tried to make himself come, thought about what it would feel like if Malfoy joined them and shoved his prick in next to Snape's like they had done to Draco. And maybe Sirius could suck him off at the same time. Almost there--

A dip in the bed distracted him, and he looked over to see Sirius leaning on the edge, hair falling in his eyes as Malfoy fucked him. Harry reached out and brushed the long black strands aside, and wondered why Sirius wouldn't look at him. Malfoy whispered something, and Sirius slowly reached over, and took Harry's prick in hand, and Harry arched into Snape, straining for more contact. The delicate, hesitant tease of Sirius' fingers and the hard, steady pounding in his arse sent him into blissful orgasm.

Snape finished moments later, and told Sirius to lick the come off Harry's abdomen. Malfoy let him go, and watched the procedure, but the second Sirius had finished, Malfoy pushed him aside.

Snape scowled, and threw a cloth at him. "Clean yourself off first."

Malfoy cast a pointed look at Snape's stained fingernails, but obeyed when Snape cast his own pointed look at the door. Harry found the pair of them amusing; Malfoy with his lack of control of his personal desires, and Snape with his hypocritical phobia of other people's germs. Amused or not, Harry met Malfoy eagerly, though part of his attention was on the clock.

Forty-five minutes.

They traded him back and forth for the remaining time, and when neither potions nor charms could raise another erection from Malfoy or Snape, they had Sirius fuck him again, and it was slow and gentle and fire, and Sirius stared into his eyes the entire time, and he felt like he was flying. He remembered the feel of a broom between his legs, thighs clamped around the slender, solid wood, and laughed.

When that was done, they passed him around, and he went eagerly from lap to lap for kisses and fondling. Snape smelled his hair, and Malfoy memorized the taste of him, and Sirius simply drank him in with eyes and hands and mouth.

Then his shift ended, and he cheerful kicked them out.

Sweat and semen swirled down the drain in a hypnotic vortex of blue.

Three hundred and sixty-six days.

He hadn't really remembered what Voldemort looked like, and had to bite back a moue of disappointment. He wasn't stunning like Malfoy, or pretty like Sirius, or even striking like Snape. In fact he was decidedly... reptilian. And the red eyes were very, very tacky.

Nonetheless, Harry entered the strange new bedroom and approached his lord and master, feeling awkward and finding his breath short. The walls felt too far apart, and the colours too bright compared to his office, which he had not left for the duration of his service. He could not afford a bad impression on the only one who would ever touch him again, so he put on a bold front, sauntered across the room, naked as always, and knelt at his lord's feet, laying his chin on a knee and blinking coquettishly.

"This is a vast improvement over your earlier behaviour, Mr Potter. You were very bad before."

"Was I?" He couldn't imagine why, but then his memory of before was hazy at best.

Scaly fingers stroked his hair, and he arched into the touch, and got up when the hand tugged on his hair. He climbed into his master's lap, and Voldemort kissed him, tongue taking him with such finesse he forgot all about the red eyes and scales, and instead wondered how he could have lived this past year. Had he though Malfoy exquisite? Snape intense? His dark lord overwhelmed them both. A sudden pain in his teeth pulled him back to reality, an upleasantly sweet fruity flavour seeping over his tongue, and Voldemort moaned and licked the insides of his mouth.

"Show me what you've learned, my pet."

Harry forgot the ache in his mouth, slithered to his knees, parted Voldemort's loose robe, took semi-hard, cold flesh in his mouth, and gave a stunning demonstration of the kind of talent only daily blow-jobs could inspire.

His master seemed pleased, and Harry threw himself into the task. While not as vocal as Malfoy -- or even Snape -- Voldemort was more demonstrative than Harry expected, and the situation began to look up.

Voldemort interrupted his efforts with a sharp tug on his hair, and Harry climbed to accept more feverish kisses and fondling, pleasantly surprised at the Dark Lord's ardour. He mumbled incoherently against Harry's neck; Harry caught only a few words, but they all seemed to be along the lines of 'Good pet,' and 'So hot,' and 'Need you.'

Harry preened and crawled closed, rubbing his ass over Voldemort's cock. Voldemort grabbed Harry's hips and pulled him down, and Harry gasped, thankful he'd thought to prepare himself. His lord fucked him in short vicious thrusts that had Harry squirming and crying out as the friction tormented his prostate.

Voldemort's pale skin was flushed and sweat-damp, his eyes burning into Harry's. His hands clamped down painfully. "What-- What did... you... do?"

Confused, Harry put on a coy smile. "What needed to be done." He didn't know where the words came from, but it didn't matter because Voldemort was coming, gasping, panting, leaving Harry behind.

The familiar burst of hot semen inside nearly made him come, but his master did not seem inclined to touch him, and Harry hesitated to do it himself without permission. Voldemort continued gasping, the pauses between growing longer, until he finally calmed. Harry slipped off his lap and knelt at his feet, discreetly stroking himself as Voldemort watched him with slitted eyes.

They stayed like that for nearly an hour before Harry realized the Dark Lord wasn't blinking. A touch to his calf met chilled flesh.

Harry rose, circled the room in a burst of restlessness, then went to find the bathroom. It was much larger than the one in his old rooms, but he ignored the extra fixtures, and went straight for the shower.

The water, when he turned it on, ran clear.

He tried the bath tub, the jacuzzi, and both sinks to no avail. Itchy now, and feeling the soreness of the rough sex, he returned to the shower, and stepped into the spray. It took several minutes to realize the water alone was not cleaning him. Soap, he remembered, and found some. It cleaned his skin and hair, but no matter how hard he scrubbed the bruises didn't fade, and in fact, he only made his skin more raw. It wasn't cleaning him inside. It wasn't soothing his nerves, or dulling his emotions, and they came bubbling up from somewhere in his chest, pounding at his throat for exit until he thought he would scream.

He left the useless shower, still dirty and sore and upset, and found the towels since the water did not evaporate as easily as the blue liquid. Disgruntled, he wrapped himself in several large, fluffy towels, and stalked out to the bedroom. He cast a glance at his master, still sitting slumped in the chair, and climbed into the bed, cocooning himself in towels and blankets until his shivering ceased and he fell asleep.

He woke itchy.

Need crawled under his skin, and he desperately wanted hands on him, stroking, touching, pinching, slapping, hurting, caressing, feeling. He glanced hopefully at the chair, but the figure there appeared locked in place, too pale and marred by purple bruises where blood had pooled at the lowest points.

Harry sighed.

After a few hours, the restlessness drove him to pacing again. He'd tried wanking, he'd tried the shower again, he'd tried going back to sleep -- nothing soothed him. He needed contact with warm, living skin, and Voldemort no longer qualified.

Muttering to himself, Harry stalked over to the corpse and kicked its shin. "Bastard. Had to go and die on me." He remembered Voldemort asking him what he had done, remembered the fruity flavour bursting in his mouth in a wave of overripe sweetness, remembered a woman in a wimple telling him to open wide and try not to move as she inserted a wooden stick in his mouth. Remembered pain and cold in his teeth as the stick touched them.

Wand. He remembered now. He searched the room, and found one in Voldemort's robe. He picked it up and felt a shudder tear through him, soothing some of the itch. Not all, but enough that he no longer felt as though he would crawl out of his skin.

Still, he needed someone to touch him, and standing there waiting for someone to come was not going to help. He went to the door, dredged his memory for the word.

"Alohomora." It opened and he smiled, and walked down the short hall to another door. This one opened onto a dais overlooking a hall populated with most of the inner circle -- all people whom Harry had serviced regularly in the last year. He knew them all, and, relieved at the familiarity, emerged onto the platform.

The wand held loosely, he sauntered across the dais, self-conscious as the assembled Death Eaters fell silent, but determined not to show it. Seeing a chair nearby -- a rather large, impressive chair at that -- he strode over to it, reflexively swinging his hips for his audience. He sat down, and looked at them, fiddling with Voldemort's wand. The silence stretched.

He recognized Snape and Malfoy standing near the dais, and they shared a long look, unspoken communication passing through the air between them. He could almost feel the silent negotiations, the eventual agreement before, as one, they knelt. Harry stared at them, wondering if they were really that blind that they thought their decision anything but transparent. Split the power, share the oblivious puppet lord. Didn't they know he would have them at his feet, begging? He knew their weaknesses. He knew them all.

He let his gaze wander over the senior Death Eaters. He'd planted the seeds; it only remained to see if what he'd sown would bear fruit. He wondered what it would feel like to fuck Malfoy while Snape sucked the blonde off, and decided he would find out very soon. But first he'd give Draco to Sirius. He didn't want Snape distracted after all, and Sirius deserved someone serving him for a change, and Draco... Draco had been a bastard in school, he remembered.

He looked over the assembly, two of their number quick enough to sense the change on the wind. This was the test. They would tear him limb from limb, or they would fall at his feet and serve him.

He looked at the masses of the Eaters of Death, his rapists, his tools.

They looked back.