Slave

Tom always told me I was born to be a slave. To be submissive and weak. But coming from him, it wasn’t an insult. It was a great honor. To have him lean so close to me that I could feel his icy breathe on my cheek and whisper instructions into my ear, telling me how well I was doing. Trailing light kisses and harsh bites along my neck and holding my small wrists so tightly that I found bruises on them in the mornings.

They thought I didn’t know what I was doing. But I did. I knew and I was proud. And when Tom came to me every night, he made me call him Master. I was his servant, his slave, and I was more than willing to let him use me.

And when he left, I remained a slave. Only this time, I was enslaved by memories, and desperately searching for a new master.

~*~

A new opportunity presented itself after my fourth year. Harry was still grieving. He was a slave in his own way. A slave to emotion. He bended to its will and was now paying the toll.

I placed my hand upon his shoulder and he shrugged it away. I spat insults at him, my voice as hard as glass, and watched his muscles tense. Finally he whirled around, his green eyes blazing and his face white with fury. For one glorious moment, I actually thought he was going to strike me. He certainly looked angry enough. I glared back at him, daring him to do it. To give into his rage and do us both a favor. But he took a deep, shaky breath and began to cry.

I knew then that Harry was a lost cause.

~*~

Somehow I found myself with Malfoy. I saw the glint of cold hatred in his eyes, the spark of arrogance, the calm surface of ruthless ambition. It was only my luck that he accepted me.

He needed someone to love him. Someone he did not have to love in return. I was never in love with Draco, for my heart always belonged to Tom, but I found it easy to pretend.

Love, to Draco, meant obedience. It meant listening to him without asking questions. It meant letting him control me, in every way. He learned this from his father, no doubt.

Draco could be very gentle when he wanted to be. The tenderness was nice, but oh, how I longed for the nights when his temper ignited. When he would throw me against the wall so hard that my skull buzzed from impact and press himself against me until there was not even an inch of space between us and bring his cold lips crashing down on mine. He would bite my lips until I could taste blood and pry my legs apart with his knees and rip my blouse and push me toward his bed without so much as a word.

When it was over, he would always push my hair back and place a kiss on the side of my neck.

"You’re mine, aren’t you Ginny?" he would whisper against my skin.

I ran my fingers through his fine blond hair and replied, "Yes, Draco. Yours and only yours."

~*~

I was in my seventh year when I recieved the news.

Tom wanted me back.

I went with Draco to initiation. He asked me several times if I was sure. I merely nodded. Of course I was sure. I hadn’t even needed to think on it. But Tom had insisted that this decision not be made in haste. He wanted me to come to him of my own accord.

When I found that it was Tom seated on the dias, Tom and not Voldemort, I was surprised and pleased. Harry had often talked about how horrible Voldemort was to see. But Tom was as handsome as I had remembered.

Being Marked hurt. Oh gods, did it hurt. The Mark burned bright red before darkening to black. As soon as my vision had cleared, I smiled up at Tom.

He beckoned me forward. I stepped up, closer to him.

"I always knew you would return," he said before placing his lips upon mine in a searing kiss.

Draco frowned behind me.

He never did like sharing his toys.

~*~

I served my master faithfully through the war. Draco and I married. Tom came to me every night that he could. Draco, like a good boy, hurried out of the room, barely concealing his scowl. But he, too, served someone higher than himself. And he knew better than to question his place.

I was Tom’s lover. His slave. His equal. I shared his soul and therefore I was the only one he considered worthy to stand by his side.

Our side won. The Order fought bravely, that much I will admit. But Harry had had a death wish since his fifth year. We just helped him out.

Tom told me that night that he couldn’t have done it without me.

In the end, a master needs his slave just as much as a slave needs her master.