Getting Harry Back

Chapter 23
Something's Up

Tyger, Tyger, burning bright
In the forest of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
William Blake
The Tyger

"Something's up."

Peter knew that.

For over a week, there'd been more comings and goings, and more private meetings, many more, in the small room off the subterranean Great Hall. So something was up. As always, there was a clear dividing line between those who knew and those who didn't. As usual, Peter didn't, though through his feeling link with the Dark Lord, he knew it was connected with Harry.

For almost three weeks, Peter had felt "His" -- the Dark Lord's --Harry-rages stronger than ever, and he'd known why. "Through that new Harry-link that showed up, sudden-like inside of me, I feel all the love Harry's getting. And so I feel the love that's passed on to 'Him'."

Behind his mask, Peter smiled crookedly. "Like I'm sharing in all that love coming to Harry." He shook his head. "Deserves it, he does, poor kid, after all the sodding hell he's been through." He blushed with rising shame. "After all the sodding hell I put him through." He added softly, "And then he goes and saves my life."

Peter mulled that over for a few moments before scowling. "With 'Him' feeling all Harry's love...." Peter near-spasmed as waves of cold fury and pain shot throughout his body, waves that came whenever he touched those long-ago memories of his childhood, waves that came much more so when "He" reacted to Harry's love. "And then there's my own outrage at 'Him' -- that's getting more and more difficult to keep in check." He felt his outrage surge, followed by sadness. "Haven't felt this way about anyone - like I've got to save them -- since...." He gulped. "Not since Mam."

For the past three weeks, after his connection with Harry had suddenly appeared, Peter had become.... "Well, it's almost like he's calling me with all them feelings of his. And a very lively calling it's been." He smiled. "Forgotten how busy, how up and down, a sixteen year old boy could be. Was I ever like that?"

Peter knew better. "Yes, I had me ups and downs, but not....." He sighed. "Not the love, not at sixteen, anyway. But then I had love earlier, when he didn't have any, none at all."

He shook his head. "Bloody drowning in the stuff, Harry is now. And that makes no sense. While I was Scabbers, I overheard plenty from Ron, and from Harry, too, about the Dursleys. Weren't any of them likely to waste love on Harry, that's certain. So I know something's changed -- something's up there, too. And I know I'm getting Harry's feelings right, 'cause I'm getting 'em twice, through Harry and through 'Him', through the Dark Lord."

Peter frowned. "But that's not why something's up with 'Him'." Ever since Peter gave his hand to help Voldemort get his body back, he had access to the Dark Lord's feelings. "And since that Harry-link came, it's like I can almost sense his thoughts, too -- not clearly, but.... If it's really important to him, especially if he keeps thinking about it, somehow I know what he's thinking on. And I can feel myself getting closer and closer to knowing words, too. Even more."

Peter had gotten snatches of words, and some glimpses, brief flashes of what Voldemort was seeing. "And they're coming more and more, they are. Right scary, that is, and bloody dangerous. But...."

Over and over these past three weeks, Peter found himself searching his link with the Dark Lord. "Careful, careful," he warned himself, "don't want 'Him' knowing this, what all I can feel and learn." But while he was cautious, he didn't stop. "Something's up, and maybe, just maybe if I can work it out, I can find a way to help Harry."

With his new Harry-link, Peter knew there was more going on than his feelings of outrage and protectiveness. "I'm going to do what I can for that boy." Peter felt in his own heart something besides the fears, the hollowness, the deadness there since his mam was murdered, something even beyond his caring. Peter could feel....

"Courage. Not a lot, yet," he admitted. "But it's growing, it's growing. And maybe...." He felt it and drew on it -- its strength, its magic. "And not just courage, but... hope for Harry." He frowned. "No, that's not quite it. Hope from Harry -- that's closer." He paused, thinking and feeling. "S'almost like that boy, he's giving some of his hope...."

Peter felt the shock. "To me."

* * * * * * * * * *

His red eyes burned into hers, a bare few inches above her face. As always, those eyes never closed during sex, not even during his orgasm. She always saw the same cycle. At first, he seemed full of anger, as if enraged that he needed her for this. For need he did; she always felt his hot desire, his fierce need at the beginning.

"Never foreplay," Bellatrix thought, "not that. Just those red eyes, boring into me with his furious lust." And she would know. Without a word they would strip, she would lie down, and he would get on top and enter her.

Sometimes it hurt at first -- when she wasn't prepared and was dry. "But always those eyes, they're my preparation. I take his lust and anger into me through his eyes, and I become ready. I become his."

With that thought, she stifled a smile of satisfaction, stifled it because she knew that he hated her smile during sex. "My smile always interrupts him; it always brings his eyes back to that rageful lust, and I can feel him hating himself." So she'd taught herself never to smile, only to stare back, opening herself through her eyes even deeper than she opened herself between her legs.

"Besides," she thought, "while I love the thrill of our beginning, I love even more what follows."

What follows - she could see that now in his eyes, their softening. Never to tender, but.... "It's almost as if my Lord comes out from behind his mask and reveals himself to me, though only in his eyes, and even there, only in wisps and hints. And most of all, only so long as I never reach out to him, but make myself available for his taking. Because it must be his taking -- never my giving and even more, never my taking from him. But, ah, what he gives to me and only to me in his taking." She allowed herself a small sigh and a shudder - she knew that was permitted. She suspected, she could almost feel that he liked it, though he would never show or tell her.

"There's not just glints of softness in his eyes, but an edge of sadness, a sadness he also shows also only to me. And a gratefulness, too. He knows that I notice - I can feel that. And he knows that I'll never show that I notice. It's not just that I'll never betray him. It's more - this is the way I like it, too. This is the only way either of us can bear love. This is our love, though we'll never name it."

What she and Rudolphus shared -- that wasn't love. Nor was it, nor had it ever been monogamy. "A partnership, some goals shared, some things we like together. And that's enough for us both. No meeting of the minds, let alone knowing each other. But with my Lord...."

While she knew that during sex, her Lord didn't use his official Occlumency, she also knew - "I have more than a touch of native Occlumency myself, not only training" - that he always probed her with his heart. "I can feel that, and while I will never probe him in return, when he probes my heart, my feelings, I know."

She stifled another smile.

"And I know that he knows, too.

With his almost timid heart probing, Bellatrix also felt his excitement -- he was getting close. With that, she could open her eyes and her heart even more. And with her opening up - for only to him and only in their furtive way, could she ever open herself up to anyone - with her opening up, she felt, as always, her own excitement; she felt herself getting close, approaching orgasm.

* * * * * * * * * *

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes!
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?
William Blake
The Tyger

"Something's up."

Even if he hadn't seen all the heightened activity, the whispering and intensity would have told Snape that something was up. "And the Dark Lord probed me deeper than ever before - all about Harry. So something's up about Harry."

With that "about Harry", Snape shuddered as he felt all his conflicted emotions. "Damn," he swore softly but meaningfully. "In spite of everything, that arrogant brat is still a 'Harry'." As always, Snape felt defeated and perched on the edge of even greater defeats. And as always, Snape set this aside for his duty -- worse, for his calling.

"I must warn the Headmaster." He frowned behind his mask. "But the Dark Lord is keeping his eye on me. Slipping away is out of the question." Not for the first time, Snape chafed at Dumbledore's refusing him the means to communicate directly. "Yes, I know it would add to the danger of discovery. But not having it adds dangers as well."

Snape's frown became a scowl. "I hope something doesn't have to happen to our precious 'Harry' to convince Dumbledore that more is needed."

* * * * * * * * * *

As always, Tom dominated their coupling, and he saw Bellatrix, beneath him, acquiescing. He was grateful that she never pushed, that she gave only the barest signs. He knew that she'd learned not to, that he'd wordlessly taught her not to. "Because whenever she does more, whenever she so much as smiles, he takes over again, at least for a time."

Tom loved sex - no, he craved sex, craved the release it brought and more. Had it been up to him, he would have long ago partnered with Bellatrix, well-knowing that Bellatrix was willing and that her 'husband', Rudolphus, would never care. "I've never considered partnering since...." Tom couldn't bring himself even to think, "Brian", though the ache - an ache that went all the way down to Tommy, an ache exceeded only by Esther - that ache, he knew, was always within him, always ready and liable to break out.

He'd often wondered why he wanted to partner with Bellatrix. "It's not as if she's the most beautiful I've had, or I could have." Bellatrix had her beauty, no doubt, but that wasn't it, that wasn't why, for many years before the Potter disaster and, again, since her release from Azkaban, Tom had always and only chosen her for sex.

"And it's not even that she's the best at sex, though she's very good indeed, even more than very good."

As he looked down into her dark brown eyes, he saw her open herself deeper to him, he felt her opening.... "Opening her heart to me." It wasn't as if no one had opened their heart to him. "Over the years, men and women both," he thought. "At first, because of my handsomeness. Later, for my power. But none, none before Bellatrix opened themselves knowing so much about me - both the power and...."

Tom had difficulty even thinking this. She knew him, she knew the "Tom" behind the power. With his natural Occlumency, which he'd never abandoned, he knew that she knew him. And her knowing him, that didn't make it more exciting, as it might have when he was a young man - the danger of being known, and, thus, danger heightening sex. "Now... it's not a relief, but... a satisfaction, being known. And, I suppose, being loved for it." For he knew that Bellatrix loved him, though she would never say it, nor even feel it except off-handedly - he trusted her for this.

"That's there, too," Tom thought. "I trust her. I trust her to know me, to know us. And...." Tom felt himself reaching into her heart to check and knowing that his checking was needless. "No," he corrected himself, "not needless - it's a stimulus." Tom found what he knew he would find:

"I can trust her not to want any more love and, much more important, any different love than I want." He paused and felt himself go deeper into Bellatrix, physically as well as emotionally. "A distant and unspoken love, a love that mistrusts, even hates more love as intrusive and dangerous. A love shorn of tenderness, a love--" For a flicker, he remembered Brian and he felt a catch. "-- shorn of most of what love is and can be - the barest ghost of love. And a love where hate is always given its regnancy."

He felt himself close to release.

"I can trust her, like me, never to want more or different."

And with that, Tom let himself go into the safely cramped love-space that was Bellatrix, that was all she would ever allow herself. And that was all he would, ever again, allow himself. Though as he felt his climax, within his, not Voldemort's but Tom's mind, and from deeper within his heart and soul, he heard the vaguest and never-to-be-acknowledged echoes of, "Brian".

Unknown to all but Tommy -- and to Tommy known only without words and therefore without full knowing -- in that moment through the wound, the wound that they all shared, in that moment of Tom's greatest, but still minute opening up, Tommy felt a little touch of Brian and a little touch of Esther. Oh, so wonderful, yet so painful and brief as to be even more starving than nothing at all - that tiny, deeply-embodied touch, reaching out to him from within the wound, of Esther, Esther, Esther....

* * * * * * * * * *

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? And what dread feet?
William Blake
The Tyger

Nagini was terrified.

Tom was set to kill Harry again, and nothing she could say, do or feel could deflect him. When he got like this, she knew that Tom was unreachable. And he'd been this way ever since that new link showed up, that new link she felt and heard between Tom and Harry. A link which she knew was not her Harry continuation, but someone, or something else.

Ever since that new link, Tom had risen to almost manic focus and intensity. When he was like that, Nagini knew, more-than-knew that she had no choice but to follow. Completely. "Anything less...." She shuddered and felt her insides twist. "Anything less is to lose all influence, to lose everything."

Nagini had never tested her magic in a direct fight against Tom's. Their magics were so different, it was impossible to predict the outcome. "But if either of us lost," she thought, "I still lose." She felt her continuations, her not-yet-born new selves, in Tom and in Harry. She thought again, "I still lose."

There was no other way. As hard and as long as she'd tried, she knew. "There is no other way."

She looked over at Tom, now finishing his pleasure with that one, that Death Eater he seemed to fancy. "Bellatrix?" she thought. "Yes, I think that's her name." She brought her mind back to her concern.

"I have alerted my sons, as he 'ordered', and they will do their duty. At my command." She felt her insides twist again. "And there's nothing more that I can do. Nothing at all."

* * * * * * * * * *

She always found herself empty and dissatisfied after it was over. Wordlessly and without looking at each other, they got dressed, resuming their greater distance and their denial. Not of the act, not of the sex. "Nothing to deny there," she thought. "All the Death Eaters know, even Rudolphus." Their denial -- more, their lying was to themselves -- a transparent but still important lie about what it meant, and about what each other meant.

When he looked at her again.... "It's almost as if he's... another person, not the one I just had sex with."

As always, she'd left the small room, still wordlessly, closing the door behind her, closing the door on that different person, but not on her emptiness. That she took with her.

Empty -- she was used to feeling that after sex. Ever since her first time; she'd been seven years old. "My dear uncle," she thought as she re-entered the subterranean Great Hall. All the Death Eaters carefully avoided looking at her, which always gave her a thrill. "I can taste their fear, that beautiful acrid, metallic taste. I can see not only their looking away, but those small, less-than-fluid motions which scream, 'Danger!' Most of them know little or nothing about sex -- small wonder, given the pigs they are. But they all know power." She allowed herself a full smile; it felt good not to have to stifle it. "My power."

"Power," she repeated to herself - what filled her emptiness. "The sweet taste of power built on fear." Again she smiled at her memory. "That, too, my dear uncle taught me, and starting with the first time." She remembered the shock of his forcing her. "Before, he'd been the only one who'd ever noticed me, who'd ever done anything with me, the only one of my family who seemed to care whether or not I was there or even alive." Then, even more stunning, came the second shock, which she felt through her natural Occlumency. "I could taste that he was afraid of me. All his mumblings about how I mustn't ever tell, and all the delightful things he'd do for me."

"At first--" She chuckled hollowly to herself. "--I was too dazed to realize what this meant, its potential. Of course, there was pain, and some blood, but that didn't bother me. Thanks to my father, I'd almost come to expect pain and blood, though never from my uncle."

"My dear, dear father," she repeated.

She allowed herself to gloat over the memories of her father's pleadings - she'd learned, by then, never to rush that stage - followed by his screams under her Cruciatus. "Except for our sex," she thought, "it is my Lord's most precious gift to me. When I falsely accused Father of betrayal, my Lord allowed me, me to question him, and to administer the Cruciatus. How surprised I was to discover that Father actually had betrayed us." She smiled. "While my Lord has never said anything, I can feel, I can taste that this, too, has bound me closer to him - our hatred of fathers. I could feel his excitement, his own rush of power as he felt my hate and my joy at the exquisitely slow - though never slow enough! - dissolution, the spirit-dismemberment of my father." She shivered as she felt near-orgasmic waves of pleasure at this, her sweetest and most fulfilling revenge.

"Not that it changed the hate and pain behind it. I would never allow that; they're much too valuable. But since then, with every Cruciatus I cast, I hear again my father's screams, I feel his agonies, and I feel, deep within, my own joy."

"That," she purred, "is what makes my Cruciatus stronger than all others, all save my Lord, himself. The others," she thought with contempt, "they feel only the crude and petty thrill of power coming through another's pain. But I, my Lord and I...."

She let that pleasure-wave fully course through her body. Only as all those delicious, little after-shivers dissipated, did she bring herself back to that first memory of sex with her Uncle Black. "My shock when I realized that he thought my father would care was even greater than my shock at his entering me. Or that my mother would care, for that matter - all wrapped up, as she was, in her own power struggles with Father. And her succession of lovers. As wrapped up as my father with his succession of lovers."

She smiled. "But Uncle's rewards were pleasant. And through the years, I found ways to make them increasingly lavish. Just as I found ways to make myself increasingly, shall we say, 'indispensable' to him. The old fool became so hooked that he broke down and cried when I went to Hogwarts. Such a weakling, yet still useful."

She remembered, with a little thrill, when she'd demanded - coyly, of course, but still demanded - that he give her Regulus. "I was thirteen and he was not yet six." She smiled. "And I thought it only fair -- my right, in a way. And Uncle's horror, his knowing that he had no choice...."

She smiled. "Regulus put up with it, but I could feel his fear. And later, as he approached puberty, I felt his hate and, finally, his revulsion. My native Occlumency has been so useful - I always knew what revolted him most, not just about me but, even better, about himself. He was so humiliated, so disgusted with himself by the way I could get him to incestuously respond, even to want it, to crave it, his body betraying him. He wound up hating himself more than me."

She chuckled. "So Regulus I kept up with. Right up until I gave him his own Cruciatus, and then his own Avada Kedavra - which even that little fool knew was coming. All this, of course, after one last time of particularly twisted sex, so that he died not just in pain and fear, but in shame, deep shame."

She felt the satisfaction, the power course through her. "But with my uncle, I pushed it too far. Yes, I enjoyed telling him, giving him all the wonderful little details of Regulus's last hours. I didn't need to embellish them - the boy's responses were fully satisfying. But not halfway through my story, I saw Uncle break. I saw his eyes go dull and I knew that he'd gone away, that his spirit, his will to live had departed. Even my cousin's final pleadings, his final grovelings, his final degradations and agonies couldn't bring Uncle back into the pain."

She pouted. "He was finished. And though he lived a few more years, he was gone, hollow, no sport."

She smiled. "My uncle's last teaching - everyone has limits, and if the toy is not to be broken and thrown away, then I must be alert to those limits and not cross them." She stifled a yawn. "Not that he had much left in him anyway. But with Regulus gone, all the fun in Uncle was gone, too. We never had sex again. Neither of us wanted it."

She brought her attention back to the Great Hall, where she noticed that the whisperings had started again.

"They know something's up. A few have even glimpsed what's happening. But--" She smiled contemptuously. "--they do not know as I know. And--" Here she allowed herself her greatest satisfaction. "--they never will."

* * * * * * * * * *

What the hammer? what the chain,
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp,
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
William Blake
The Tyger

Cravings, wild cravings coursed through his almost-body. He could taste, with his very unsoul, the many and rich feedings so close, so past-ready for his harvesting. He could smell, as always, the soul-nectar all around him, waiting, begging to be kissed. He had abstained for so many, many years, near-starving himself on those few that the other soul-creatures chose to gather into Azkaban. They were never chosen in consideration of his needs, only their needs. And even then, he had only been permitted -- he and all his brothers - to taste at such a distance, never to kiss. A paltry trickle, it left them all on the verge of unbecoming.

Now, now just as he and his brothers could truly feast, he was faced with a duty that might stop him from ever feeding.

The Dementor forced himself back to his task, the task given by his Queen, the Source of his unsoul, the Full-She out of whom the Dementor, the incomplete, the lesser-he was bred, and whom the lesser-he was bred to serve.

Words. He knew he must push himself to say words, not just to hear them, not just to absorb them through his ears and decompose them into action. And not snakewords, so easily hissed - no, these words were not Parseltongue, having within themselves only unsoul and thus causing no loss, only an unaccustomed concentration. These were soul-formed words - even at their basest, at their most evil, linked with a still-living soul. And, therefore, his saying, even his thinking those words meant not just crossing into the world of the unformed, where soul and unsoul dwelt fused together in their chaotic, uncreated potentialities. No, this meant that he must cross beyond that and into the soul world, and not to prey. There he must make within himself a piece of that soul-world, make it with his mouth, even with his unsoul, where all words, all actions - whatever their nature - must be forged by his own free choice, in his smithy of little creation.

His unsoul -- the Dementor knew this to be his dark manufactory. Just as he knew the soul to be the light, the always parturient nursery, the nursery which, by his unsoul and by his breeding-shorn almost-body, he was robbed of knowing. More -- anything other than destroying this nursery, draining it of light and the hope of light, could mean his unbecoming. The thought of even touching that all-painful soul-world sickened him.

And now he must go there, into that devastating all-pain, and from there, form and say those soul-ridden words. Words that he knew would drain his unsoul, words that might uncreate him, throwing him back into the abyss of unformedness from which he might never emerge.

Mindful of all this and cherishing all that he might lose, this Dementor, dignified and earnest, turned his hollow eyes to face the soul-creature. He saw it flinch, though in his pride, he withheld himself from even that smallest taste of soul-nectar. He did take, as he knew he was permitted, satisfaction from its soul-flinch, and satisfaction from his determination never to give an unsoul-flinch in return.

Deliberately, proudly, he formed those soul-words, disregarding the all-pain and his fears. Deliberately, proudly he forced those soul-words through his almost-lips, words searing with hope, a hope he felt magnified by that soul-creature:

"Your Lord comes to free you. Tell the others and hold yourself in readiness. You will have tasks to accomplish."

And with those soul-words, the Dementor, as he knew he might, as he had solemnly prepared himself, felt his own loosening, the beginnings of his unforming. He felt those beginnings grow, as his loosening became his unbinding, as his unbinding became his dispersal. This he felt stoically, with no useless pleadings or actions. He fully felt his unbecoming.

And then he was no more.

He left behind only the faintest echoes of those words and the dark sheen of his pride in a duty well-completed in dignity, no matter what the end.

* * * * * * * * * *

In his blackstone cell, Lucius Malfoy stared at the shimmering darkness, a darkness that slowly receded into the shadows of the poor light. He was grateful for its going. Just the dark shadow of the Dementor chilled him, sickened him to his very soul.

He blinked his eyes and looked around his cell, a sight which he had long-since memorized for lack of other stimuli and for wanting, desperately wanting to escape those Dementor-created thoughts and feelings inside him.

"Even with our pre-arranged agreement," he said aloud, "that the Dementors will not feed on us, still...." He shuddered.

Lucius had taken to speaking out loud, as it built a sound-wall between him and the Dementors, a wall behind which he could breathe and plot and better preserve his sanity, a wall behind which he could hang onto the shreds of his hope. As part of the Dementor agreement, Lucius knew that, should others be listening in, he would be warned.

"Never before have I heard a Dementor speak. Nor--" He shuddered again. "--have I seen a Dementor...." Lucius struggled to find the right words. He'd discovered that, by forcing his mind into these small speech-acts, somehow this lightened his soul and strengthened that wall around him. "It was more than Disapparating. It was almost as if the Dementor was swallowed up, swallowed up into...." He shrugged. "Nothingness."

Lucius shook his head as the last of that dark-infested shadow faded away. "No sense wasting time thinking about Dementors. Now, at last, there's work to be done. Now, at last, something's up."

Using their pre-arranged system - "A system," he said aloud, "pieced together by those vile Dementors." - Lucius began the laborious task of alerting the other Death Eaters. He knew they must all be ready, fully ready at a moment's notice. There would be no excuses for anything less.

* * * * * * * * * *

When the stars threw down their spears
And water'd heaven with their tears:
Did he smile his work to see?
Did he who make the Lamb make thee?
William Blake
The Tyger

"Finally, finally, I will crush that miserable Potter brat."

In the small room, now fully back after sex, Voldemort was waiting for the precise moment to sweep into the Great Hall to announce the return of the imprisoned Death Eaters. And to reveal his plan. "My plan, made possible by my newest source, my best source yet of information about Potter."

His small laughter was anything but friendly. "The fool thinks that my only target will be Ronald Weasley. Not--" He arched an eyebrow. "-- that 'Ron' won't be one target."

Voldemort stood up, moved to the door, and, before opening it, quick-searched the Death Eater minds in the next room with his Occlumency, feeling their jolts in response.

"Now," he said, "they are ready, too."

With his mind, he opened the door, collecting all gazes before entering the hall.

* * * * * * * * * *

He, "himself", was on edge. "Always am whenever he gets into one of these snits. Especially about that Potter boy. Leaves me a bit weak in the knees, it does. Never know what he's going to do or what kind of chances he'll take."

He whisper-shuddered. "And when it's Potter, I've never seen it once turn out right. Even that time we got sodding body back, much good it's done us. Safer we were -- a lot safer -- just slithering from snake to snake. Never minded that, I didn't, not at all. Rather nice -- not much to worry about. No matter who popped out -- even me -- we were always more powerful than anything around. Bit of a holiday, it was. And that thing -- whatever it is -- that's growing inside -- it never got any worse that I could see. Even gave poor little Tommy a chance to catch his breath. He liked it, too, Tommy did, just moving around the mountains and the forest. And Tom, he didn't seem to mind, either."

He barely scowled. "Not that he'd ever settle for that. Oh, no; oh, my no. Couldn't have that, now, could we? Not good enough for Mr. Lord Almighty Voldemort."

He wrinkled his nose slightly, then whisper-shrugged his ghost-like shoulders.

"Voldemort." He, himself, gave a very slight smile. "Hates that name, he does -- 'Death Wish'. Ironic, isn't it? But Tom, he chose it, because after Brian, he just wanted to die. And the only way he could work that out was to give it all over to someone else, someone he had to build from the ground up."

He whisper-frowned, puzzled. "Not like the rest of us -- that Voldemort. The others, even me, all of a sudden we just found ourselves out there -- no building, just there. But Voldemort...."

His frown deepened. "In a way, Tom put him together. And Voldemort always has to transform back -- he never just pops out. Tom, and I guess all of us, we decide to become Voldemort again, we decide to make him again and to give over to him. Like we all give him some of our power and... well, then, there's all that magic he's learned on his own. But he's not like the rest of us, that's for sure. And it seems the more that thing inside keeps growing, the less he's like us. And the crazier he gets. Howling, barking mad, sometimes." He gave the merest snort. "'Death Wish' -- Tom got that one right. Even though Voldemort's the one who can best protect us, more and more I think he'll be the death of us all."

He paused, silent for a moment, just thinking.

"Oh, well. No use crying over spilt milk. What's done is done. And now, can't do more than stay alert about what's to be done next. Not that I can do more than stand there and watch. Unless--" He barely-scowled again. "--there's another bloody balls-up."

He whisper-sighed. "That's always me, isn't it? Just standing and watching and waiting for the next bloody balls-up."

* * * * * * * * * *

While she was in the Great Hall and he was still in his small room, with her natural Occlumency, Bellatrix could feel his waiting, his almost straining. "At these times," she thought with a smile, "My Lord has never been a patient man." Then still behind her mask, her smile left and she said softly, "The Dark Lord."

She knew that whoever came out of that room would not be "my Lord", but "The Dark Lord" - she could feel that, she could feel him. "He is now the Dark Lord," she thought sadly, "and I am only Bellatrix, no one special except for my war skills." She felt a wave of alone-ness.

She felt her alone-ness keenly, mercilessly. She knew. "Now, I am just a pawn in his game, or perhaps a knight. To be placed wherever I might be most useful, always liable to be sacrificed for some larger gain. No longer am I... his queen."

His queen. After that first stage in his eye-cycle of sex, she could feel that in him. "I am, for that brief time, his queen. No, that's not it. Then, between us, it's no longer a game, or at least it's less of a game. And I become his Lady. Felt but never said, much less acted on. And with sex's end, as 'my Lord' goes away and 'the Dark Lord' returns, I'm thrown back into the game, and all save my usefulness is cast aside."

"Or maybe," she thought, as she often did, "it's sex that's the game." For Bellatrix well-knew how sex could be a game, one she had known, literally, since her childhood - "Such as I ever had a childhood." She had played that game with consummate skill.

"Yet with 'my Lord'...." Again, she felt a sadness, and a yearning bound with terror, neither overcoming the other. "Yearning for more, terror at more. Yearning and terror locked together, never one gaining mastery over the other. As one becomes stronger, the other strengthens, as if these dark twins in my heart were nursed equally by some darker mother." She smiled wryly. "Perhaps my heart is their mother. And plenty dark, that."

She retreated from her natural Occlumency, retreated both because she knew that he would want it, as well as knowing that she, herself, needed it, that they needed it. She thought softly,

"I am my Lord's most faithful servant."

Bellatrix felt the Dark Lord's Occlumency touch her mind. She had cast her natural Occlumency around and felt that the others had also been touched. As always, a thrill went throughout her body. She turned to face the door from the small room. It opened, and he stood there.

"Not 'My Lord'," she knew, "but even with him...." She straightened her back and lifted her chin. "I am also 'The Dark Lord's' most faithful servant."

Eyes glistening, she watched as he swept into the Hall and onto the dais.

* * * * * * * * * *

"Soon, pet, very soon." Green eyes looked into red and saw their own excitement mirrored. "Soon we shall be rid of that meddlesome redhead. We've absorbed enough of his power, his wild magic to expand our own. And dear Harry, stripped of his twin and his twin's power, will be ours for the taking."

A smile joined those green eyes.

"Then he'll know what we know, won't he, dearest? He'll know all that we know. Before the Bite."

The snake hissed.

"Yes, we'll be generous; we'll hold nothing back. That fool mudblood friend of his, that Hermione - and, oh, we'll have fun destroying her, her and as many Muggles and Mudbloods as we can get - she once said, 'Knowledge is power.' But neither she nor poor Harry have any idea what a dark power knowledge is."

Again, the snake hissed.

"Too right you are. That bloody fool we're using to destroy Ron - he'll learn, and he'll learn soon."

Two heads nodded in rhythm with each other, as green and red eyes stayed locked together, as their excitement, their near-lustful excitement grew.

Tyger Tyger, burning bright
In the forest of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
William Blake
The Tyger