Intoxication

"The mind has a powerful way of attracting things

that are in harmony with it, good and bad."

- Idowu Koyenikan

Chapter 7: Teacups

"Again!"

Voldemort stalked down the row of Death Eaters that were currently practicing their dueling.

He found it abysmal at best.

They had been running drills for hours and there was hardly any sign of improvement. The only slight promise that was being shown was coming from the youngest Malfoy and Theodore Nott. Zabini had already been sent to the infirmary for a slicing hex he took to his chest that he didn't manage to block in time. The only reason he didn't let the boy bleed out and be made an example of was he couldn't have the other two youngest Slytherins turning against him. All of his other Death Eaters had already started doing that long before and he was nipping that shit in the bud.

Seeing how careless his followers dueled now only confirmed what he had already been suspecting. They have gone soft, lazy, and dull. They moved like stiff statues and lost track of their steps. Lestrange was hardly holding his own against Dolohov, Barty Crouch Jr. was wheezing trying to keep up with a relatively young man, and Bellatrix was too busy showboating her craziness to actually be doing anything affective.

It was a truly disgusting display.

"Enough!" Voldemort yelled out, coming to a stop in the middle of the room he was in. Spells ceased and voices quieted down as all eyes turned to their ruler in tense anticipation. It was evident how displeased he was.

"Do any of you think you actually did a good job today?" His black eyes slowly scanned the room and watched as one by one; their eyes cast to the ground not daring to make eye contact with him. He slowly started to walk between people, every person moving slightly to the side to avoid contact if they could. Not only did Voldemort demand respect, so did the air around him. The sound of his footsteps was his only reply.

"No one?" He smiled sardonically, his head turning trying to catch anyone's eyes. "No one thinks they did a good job today? Don't be shy…"

Again, nothing.

Voldemort didn't know what enraged him more. The sheer cowardness of his 'cold, blood thirsty' Death Eaters or the fact that even they knew that were terrible at dueling. Stopping in front of Draco Malfoy and Theodore Nott, he clasped his hands behind his back and faced the two men.

"Theodore Nott, what do you think you did well?" Voldemort asked him, a thin smile on his face. Theo met his eyes bravely as he stood tall.

"I don't think. I know I do well with quick shielding and aiming curses at a distance", Theo listed to the room and to his master. "What I know I need to improve on is hand to hand combat."

"Draco Malfoy?" Voldemort turned his sharp smile towards him.

The aristocratic blonde-haired man stood tall, several inches taller than Nott, but several inches shorter than Voldemort. "I need to improve on fluid movement, but my hand to hand combat is on par."

"This!" Voldemort showed with a flare of his hand to the elder Death Eaters in the room," – Is what I am looking for. How is it that two of the younger Death Eaters, children compared to you decrepit, old souls, are better at this?"

No one said anything in reply and just as Voldemort was about to turn his back on his useless lemmings, a voice spoke out.

"Maybe we just lack inspiration, sir."

Voldemort quirked his head to the side as Rosier held up his hand to show that he was the one who spoke out.

"Inspiration?" Voldemort said the word like a question, indicating for the man to elaborate.

Rosier shuffled from foot to foot, clearly uneasy with the attention that was now bestowed upon him. "I just mean to say that it's been awhile since we've had a fire lit under us. To be quite honest sir, we thought this war was almost over and now we're reupping everything. I just don't think we were expecting it."

Voldemort nodded, pursing his lips slightly. "I see… You guys have been surprised into training again. You're tired, you're not as young as you used to be."

Several Death Eaters slightly nodded their heads in agreement to what he was saying but heads stopped moving as they heard gasping echo through the room. Their heads turned trying to figure out where the sound was coming from, and their eyes quickly found a blue faced Rosier that was clutching at his throat. His bulging, strained eyes found Voldemort's that were saturated in black as they focused solely on the choking man in front of him. Rosier continued to choke as he fell to the ground, clawing so hard at his neck that was drawing blood.

"Does anyone else have any qualms about my new training regime?" Voldemort asked the room loudly as Rosier's movements slowed, his lips turning purple, his eyes strained with tears. Heads quickly shook as Draco and Nott smirked confidently at the room behind Voldemort's back.

"Training is dismissed. Somebody take care of this trash."

He stalked towards the exit, stepping over Rosier's lifeless body on the way, the man's face permanently etched in fear and despair.

Voldemort frowned deeply as he watched the flames in his fireplace flicker and flare. He felt stuck in a rut. What was newly found inspiration and desire was now disappointment and disgust after witnessing the last dueling practice. The only promise he saw was from Malfoy and Nott and even they needed to practice more.

His want for domination and chaos was brimming at an all-time high as he slowly was starting to realize winning against the Order and the Potter child weren't enough to satiate him anymore. Like the fire in front of him, he wanted to watch the world burn. The world he saw before him was organized, flawless, with magic as the crown on top of it. For too long he has been hiding in the shadows, satisfied with children and lackadaisical adults fighting his battles for him. He could hardly blame Rosier for calling him out. It gave him no pleasure in taking his life either. Rosier's father, Edward, was one of the first Slytherins to see him for the powerful wizard that he was going to be at a young age.

For years, those who became his closest, most loyal followers, taunted and teased him mercilessly for being a half-blood. And when he found out he was a descendant of the great Salazar Slytherin, most of them didn't even believe him. Edward Rosier and Abraxas Malfoy were the only two that truly saw him for what he was and quickly afterwards, others began to fall in line. Abraxas Malfoy had passed away at a young age and Edward was killed in battle leaving his son Evan to rise through the ranks of Death Eaters swiftly. But in the last few years, while Voldemort was focused on himself and not dying, the man had become like the rest of his followers. Sluggish and uninspired. The Voldemort they knew was only focused on his health, surviving the best, he could with what he had.

But that Voldemort was no longer.

He craved violence. He craved an outlet. He needed something, or someone, to release the building tension in his body. But there was no one. No one equal enough to his magnitude to even give him a proper challenge.

He was young. Full of desire and rage.

He had forgotten in his frail form what it was like to want and crave things. As his patchworked soul blended more together and his humanity slowly returned to him, he felt his long forgotten, indulgences starting to arise. One indulgence being the kind that he rarely let others see, but as he raised the thin, white cigarette to his lips, he didn't care who saw him. Inhaling deeply from the stale tobacco, he relished in the hot prickly heat that coated his tongue as the steam cloaked his lungs. He exhaled a swirling cloud of smoke over his head.

It was just what he needed to soothe his chaotic energy.

He didn't like others seeing him smoke. Even in his youth.

It wasn't because he was worried that his sheep would judge him. It's that he knew they were so close minded that they couldn't even enjoy something muggle people had made without panicking about their prejudiced pureblood ways. Yes, he hated muggles, but that doesn't mean he couldn't admire their work.

Cigarettes.

The one vice that he allowed himself. Muggle made and hidden from seeing eyes.

Like the mudblood girl…

He flicked his ash into the tray next to his sofa chair as his thoughts drifted to the feisty lion he had hidden. The outside of her room was saturated in runes to prevent her escaping. He smirked to himself as he realized that probably wouldn't stop her from trying. Inhaling deeply from his diminishing cigarette, he couldn't help but see the synonymous nature between the two things that were feeding his addictions.

After their last blood exchange, he finally admitted to himself the following morning that her blood made him feel better and stronger than anything else he had ever experienced. It was like running on empty and then getting an electric shock through his system. Like drinking a thousand cups of coffee at once. It made him feel awake, sharp, alive. And it wasn't just her blood that he was enjoying from her. He found the moments when she wasn't trying to kill him or herself to be intriguing.

Recalling how her last weapon of choice being the pillow she was sitting next to, posed to strike took him completely off guard and what was even more surprising to him, was that he laughed. A genuine laugh which he had not felt the impulse to do in he couldn't remember how long. He could probably count on one hand how many times he found a situation to be humorous and so far the girl has achieved it twice. One, in the dungeon keeping her eyes closed and the other with the mass weapon of destruction, a feather down pillow.

She was a force to be held to say the least. The Nott boy had been right when he had said the girl wasn't pathetic like the rest of the Order. So far, she behaved drastically different than any Order member he had ever tortured and interrogated.

Voldemort's long fingers tapped against his right thigh as his ankle was crossed against his left leg. He couldn't remember everything from when fragments of his soul were kidnapped by her.

It was a bizarre puzzle to put together. It was like the Voldemort he was only several days ago no longer existed in his psyche. He certainly remembered everything up until this point that had occurred the last few years but now he had new memories. New recollections that his soul was trying to put together in the mind he had now. It was as if he installed a new update to his mind that he was slowly trying to put together.

Closing his eyes, he searched the depths of the mind to find memories of the girl who held his parts of his soul.

He could feel possession. Her possession. Opening his eyes, he knit his brows together. Possession of what? It was a strong feeling. One of the loudest memories he could feel. But it wasn't him feeling the possession. Voldemort was feeling her possession. The feeling was possession of his soul. His heart rate started increasing.

Did she feel like she had owned his horcruxes?

The feeling was distinctly possessive. It was so violent and blatant that there was no other way to take it.

Closing his eyes, he focused on sifting through the memories again. It was clear to him that all of the strong emotions and feelings were hers. He rarely felt the range of emotions that were etched into his fragmented soul.

Sadness, loneliness, vulnerability…

But there were others. Other feelings and emotions that he recognized so well that it felt like it was swelling inside of him.

Desire, anger, rage, longing…

He could feel the rage she felt. But it wasn't towards the horcruxes that he was sure of. If anything, it made his soul feel even more full. It was like she was feeding what his horcruxes craved most.

No, it was certainly in her surroundings.

Opening his eyes, the fire was still blaring in front of him. She had been unhappy with her surroundings. Her home, her friends, the Order.

How delicious…

He smiled viciously at the fire, the flames reminding him of her wild, clean, curly hair.

That's where her longing, her loneliness had to come from. She felt isolated from her family, her friends. The Order championed for the light, for second chances, for always giving people the benefit of the doubt.

It made Voldemort sick.

And judging by the way the girl ruthlessly killed Crabbe and the nun prisoner he had been holding for several months now, it made her sick too.

The girl was cunning. A survivalist.

Very much not a Gryffindor or a member of the Order.

She was vulnerable.

Alone and feeling isolated.

Voldemort felt a flash of desire and manipulation flare inside of him as he tilted his head back, smiling sharply as he brought a lit cigarette to his mouth.

This is going to be so much fun…

Hermione threw her bedside table at the window for what had to be the hundredth time. This time, however, the table finally broke.

"Dammit…" She swore, kneeling down picking up the pieces of the now shattered table. It was useless. She had tried escaping in every way that she could think of at this point. The fireplace had a ward in the chute to stop her from shimmying out of it. The windows were shatter-proof and couldn't even be unlatched to open. The bedroom door, shockingly, wouldn't open. She didn't have much hope for that one though.

She was a sitting duck.

A blood pet.

She glared at the floor as she sat at the edge of her bed, her nose scrunched up in disgust. He had left her sitting on the bathroom counter, not saying a word to her after he ran his wand over the incision he had made, stitched her skin back together. The pink, fleshy scar a reminder that this would be a semi-daily occurrence. She still didn't know the schedule of how often he needed to do his blood infusions since she had yet to have a simple day since her capture, but here, hidden away in her own room, she was hoping to get more clues as to why he was doing this.

During this last experience, she noticed that his fair skin-tone looked more flushed and even after he had finished the blood transfer and was stitching her skin back together. It was hard to miss due to his close proximity to her while doing so.

She felt bile rise in her throat at how small she felt in his hands when he gripped her waist to lift her on the counter. Besides her new comfortable surroundings, she certainly hadn't expected that. He didn't seem disgusted in touching her but then again, Hermione supposed touching her waist wasn't nearly as intimate as stealing her blood.

Hermione flopped backwards onto her bed and spread her arms out wide, staring at the green canopy that hung above her bed.

Of course it has to be green…

Her bed had four posts that held a green, crushed velvet canopy that could be closed if she untied them. A deep green duvet was underneath her and through it, she could tell the bed was impossibly soft and plush. She had yet to actually sleep in the bed, or even sleep at all, since she had been in the room. It almost felt like admitting defeat and accepting her new circumstances if she were to finally sleep in the bed.

And she was not ready for that yet.

She was not ready to admit a lot of things yet. Like how she wanted to sleep in the bed because she hadn't felt something this heavenly since leaving Hogwarts. Like how she secretly was enjoying being challenged and being pushed to her limit. Like how much she missed killing people and dueling. And the biggest thing that she knew in the back of her mind, but she would never, ever admit to herself: Voldemort, Tom, was not what she was expecting. He was still intimidating. He was still the most powerful wizard in the entire world. He was still a monster, and she couldn't wait to drive a knife into his throat.

But as she stared at the green canopy, she saw his dark eyes, his fair skin, his black hair staring back at her.

He had become beautiful.

He looked like what she imagined Lucifer, the fallen angel, to look like. There were no remnants of the ghoul she knew him to be. When he had laughed at her holding the pillow life a weapon, when he had gripped the side of her hips to lift her onto the counter, when he was actually gentle with her when he stole her blood, she knew none of these things to be the person, the monster, she knew him to be.

It would only make her kill him that much better, imagining her blood flowing from his body as she watched the life leave his eyes on his beautifully structured face. She wanted to be the one to reach into his chest and pull out his little fragmented soul and cast it to hell herself.

A renaissance painting brought to life.

She knew she had to bide her time though. He was too powerful, and she didn't even have a wand. She was at his mercy and they both knew it. Hermione would never stop fighting him, but she had to be calculated about this.

Hermione vowed to herself that he would not keep her forever.

Knock, knock, knock.

Hermione sat up straight, eyes wide with anticipation as she looked like a deer in headlights towards her door.

Knock, knock, knock.

Someone knocking? It couldn't be Tom because he would just barge in and she couldn't imagine Malfoy knocking out of politeness.

Placing her bare feet on the cold wooden floor, she slowly walked towards the soft rapping of her door, careful to stay on full alert. There was no telling who or what was on the other side and what they would do to her. Was it a Death Eater? Bellatrix?

Sweat beaded on her temple and she could feel her pulse in her fingertips.

"Who- who is it?" Hermione asked through the door, swallowing harshly.

"Can you just open the door?" she heard a female voice call out. If Hermione's brows got any closer together out of sheer confusion of hearing a female's voice call out, she'd have a unibrow. Placing her hand on the doorknob, she paused. Would it open? Every time she tried, it wouldn't budge.

Why should it now?

She turned the doorknob.

Click.

The door opened an inch to Hermione's complete shock and dismay.

"Finally!"

The door swung open pushing Hermione to the side as a short, petite girl came barging into her room carrying a tray in her hands.

"I know you Gryffindor's are dull but even you have to know how to work a door…"

"I'm confused- "Hermione slowly shut the door, the girl's back still facing her as she placed the tray full of covered dishes at the end of Hermione's unused bed. Her voice sounded vaguely familiar. After the tray was placed, she turned with her hands on her hips.

Pansy Parkinson!

Hermione's eyes went wide as she took in the extremely polished girl in front of her. She looked like she hadn't seen a day of the war in her life. Her skin was flawless and smooth, her bob perfectly cut and sleek, shining like it had its own light source. Her figure full but petite, dressed in a sleek green dress that ended at her knees, her legs in black tights, her feet clad in heels. Her fingers had several different rings with different sized diamonds on them, her dresses sleeves went down to her wrist.

She was as beautiful as she was in high school but even more so now. Now she looked like what a young woman should look like at their age.

"You look like you've seen a ghost", Pansy smirked at her.

"You wouldn't be the first I've seen lately", Hermione mumbled, her guard up but not as much as when Malfoy or Tom were here.

I'll even call him Tom in my mind… Take that you control freak!

"Comfortable in your new digs?" Pansy asked, gesturing to the room they were in.

Hermione shrugged, still not moving from her spot near the door. "I suppose it's better than the dungeon. I'm still just waiting for the other shoe to drop."

"What other shoe?"

"The 'you're going to be killed' shoe." Hermione stated. "Because I know it's coming. I just don't know when."

Pansy waved like her comment was nothing more than someone asking what the weather was like. "We could all die at any point, Granger. Even us followers of the Dark Lord. Don't think you're anything special."

Hermione snorted and both visually and physically relaxed. "Thanks, I guess."

"I'm not here to make you feel better." Pansy told her, flipping her bob behind her ear as she stalked over to the couch. Hermione watched as she sat gracefully, crossing her ankles and holding her hands in her lap.

"Don't be a dunce", Pansy said over her shoulder," Bring over the tea on the tray and the food I so carefully brought."

Hermione looked between Pansy and the tray on the bed before slowly, and begrudgingly, walking towards it. With hesitant steps she walked over to the couch and set it on the table in front of it.

"If you wanted it over here, you should have just brought it over here instead of leaving it on the bed", Hermione told her as she chose the chair that faced the couch instead of sitting next to Pansy.

Pansy snickered devilishly, smirking as she said," Why do the heavy lifting when I have a mudblood to do it for me?"

Hermione let go of the tray several inches above the table causing dishes and glass to clatter together before turning her glare to the polished girl sitting on her newly acquired couch.

"Did you come here just to insult me? If so, you would do well to leave. I'm not above killing you."

"Oh, I heard!" Pansy smiled widely with wide eyes, reaching for a teacup that had fallen over. "Theo told me all about your love and passion for killing people."

Sitting with a huff, putting her frowning face against her hand. "Not people. Death Eaters."

"People… Death Eaters… Civilians… The Order…" Pansy muttered, pouring hot steaming water into two cups. "All humans. All have the same red blood that flows from their bodies when they're killed."

Hermione narrowed her eyes as Pansy handed her a cup. "Red like mine?"

Red like mudbloods?

Pansy passed her the steaming hot teacup to Hermione without looking at her. "Yes, even red like yours."

Interesting…

"Thank you", Hermione said quietly as she received the cup. It immediately started to heat up her cold hands.

"Your wardrobe is quite… Something." Pansy lifted an eyebrow as she side-eyed Hermione who was still wearing the black long-sleeve shirt and sweatpants she had put on when Malfoy had left. She recalled him saying there were more clothes in her wardrobe, but she hadn't dared open it. Like sleeping in the bed, opening the closet and seeing the clothes that were supposed to cover her made it too real that this was her new reality.

"I can't imagine I will be allowed to go shopping anytime soon", Hermione rolled her eyes as she sipped her tea. "Malfoy said there were more clothes for me in the closet, but I haven't wanted to look yet."

"It's all clothes that were donated I would imagine", Pansy told her. "I'll make note to bring you some things. I'm sure those fools I call friends forgot to bring you underwear and basic feminine products."

Bring me things?

"I'm confused." Hermione set down her cup and leaned towards the girl in question. "Why would you bring me things that I need or want? Don't you hate me? Aren't I your enemy?"

"Why are you even here?"

Pansy looked… Upset.

She held her cup tightly at the handle as her even complexion turned blotchy red in her cheeks, the girl's frown deepening.

Did I hurt her feelings?

"Uh- I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings, Pansy." Hermione offered her apology, feeling extremely uneasy as she did so. Was she really apologizing to a Slytherin? A Death Eater? A follower of the man she hated most in this world? She was really starting to lose it…

"You really are quite cold-hearted for someone claiming to fight for the 'light'." Pansy snarked as she hooked her fingers into quotation marks when she said light.

Hermione frowned. "I never stated anything. And I do fight for the light."

Pansy scoffed. "Yeah right… No one who kills like you would fight for the light. You only fight for one thing. Yourself."

Hermione had nothing to say. They both knew she was right, but Hermione would never admit it out loud. That was something she only admitted to herself in the safety of her room when she had her horcruxes. She knew she was only fighting to survive. To see the next day. How did Pansy guess that?

Pansy cut the silence of Hermione's uneasiness. "There is nothing wrong with that, ya know."

The girl shrugged casually. "It's what we are all doing. Living to see the next day."

How does she know the exact sentence I'm speaking to myself?

"It isn't all happy go fun times here", Pansy admitted, staring into the fireplace," It's just as cutthroat as you can imagine. The only difference is, I can admit it. Can you?"

Pansy's perfectly mascara covered eyelashes flicked to Hermione as she pinned her down with her stare. Hermione felt an empty, hallow call in her chest as she felt a familiar feeling when she was down in the Order's prison cell when Theo was locked up in it. A feeling of understanding, feeling like the person in front of her knew what she felt like, not having to explain herself and not being judged for the way she thought.

And it was nice…

"No." Hermione sighed, looking down at the ground. "I can't."

The fire flickered.

A coldness swept into the room and Hermione could swear she saw her breath in front of her face. Pansy's face became blank except for the only emotion in her eyes. Fear. Her head hung low. Hermione didn't need to look behind her to know who was in here.

I didn't even hear the door open…

"Miss Parkinson." The 'miss' sounded like a hiss. His voice devoid of any pleasantries.

"My Lord." She stood up, hands clasped in front of her, her head bent down to avoid eye contact. "Pardon my intrusion. I was just-"

"No need to apologize." He came into Hermione's eyeline as he walked behind the couch, holding up his hand to cut her off. "It is perfectly fine that you are here. I would hate for our prisoner to go mad from isolation. You two were schoolmates were you not?"

Pansy didn't answer immediately. Hermione could practically hear the girl hyperventilating. Was she really this scared of her own leader?

"Yes, we were." Hermione answered him, her eyes briefly leaving Pansy to look at the dark figure that now haunted the room. There was no warm welcoming, there was no comradery. The only feelings he brought into a room were fear and horror. "Not on the friendliest of terms, her being a Slytherin and I being a Gryffindor, but what are childish rivalries anymore?"

Pansy's eyes briefly met Hermione's and for a moment, Hermione would swear she saw a slight relief.

"Hm." He seemed to measure her statement before turning back to Pansy. "Miss Parkison, if you wouldn't mind departing?"

"Of course, sir!" Pansy bowed slightly and didn't even lift her head as she went towards the door.

Please, take me with you!

Hermione silently begged but unfortunately, Pansy couldn't seem to hear silent pleas.

How tragic…

The door shut and Hermione's brief moment of a buffer shut with it. The crackling fire sounded behind her as she felt him move around the room like silent death.

"To what do I owe the pleasure, Tom?" Hermione asked, her eyes still set to the door, not daring to look at the man who was responsible for her being here.

"What a chilly reception." He snarked. Hermione whipped her head to look at him, her nose scrunched up with displeasure as she glared at him.

"Don't talk to me like we're some type of acquaintances."

"Aren't we?" He smirked at her, his dark eyes bright as he sat on the couch where Pansy was not a moment ago. If Hermione was uneasy when Pansy arrived in her room, it wasn't even comparable to how she felt with him here.

"I take your blood from you and in return, I have set you up in a pretty lavish room if I do say so myself." He crossed his ankle at his knee, gesturing grandly to the room they were in. "Some of my Death Eaters don't even have a room this nice."

Hermione smiled sardonically at him. "You could let me free and let one of them have it instead?"

He glowered at her. "Nice try."

Hermione's breath caught in her throat as she watched him bend over to grab a biscuit off the tray Pansy had brought. He brought it up to his mouth and took a bite out of it, his crunching now the other sound in the room beside the fire.

He was wearing a black cloak around his shoulders that buttoned down to his waist meeting the hem of black pants. His black hair was perfectly quaffed into a wave and seemingly never out of place.

Hermione shoved the thought to the back of her mind that reminded her that he was in fact beautiful now.

Scowling at herself, she turned her head to the side and refused to look at him. If he knew what she was thinking, it would be a fate worse than death. It's not like she was attracted to him. How could anyone ever be attracted to a monster like him? But that didn't mean he wasn't beautiful.

He reminded her of Lucifer. A beautiful, fallen angel that reeked hell on Earth.

How cruel of fate to make someone that looks like him so evil.

"Can I ask why I am so fortunate enough to receive your presence this evening?" Hermione coldly asked, still refusing to look in his direction. "Surely you can't already need another blood transfusion?"

"No." She heard him say. "Not at all. I was in my chambers, thinking… Thinking about our time together."

Our time together?

"When the part of me that is now was stuck in those horcruxes you loved so much…"

Hermione's eyes went wide as blood rushed to her ears.

This can't be happening…

"I was trying to remember if I could recall anything. Like the Order's plans, where Potter keeps his secrets, and if maybe you have some secrets of your own."

She heard the couch he was sitting on shift as he got up. The cold aura around him getting closer to her causing her skin to prickle with goosebumps. Still, she did not look in his direction.

"And all I could remember feeling was possession."

Please, stop… Hermione squinted her eyes shut. She felt like she was going to be sick.

"But it wasn't my possessiveness I was feeling." His voice sounded closer.

"It was yours."

His voice quietly hissed in her ear. Slowly, ever so slowly, she turned her head. He had both arms leaning on the armrests of the chair she was sitting on, and he was leaning forward. His horrifically pale, beautiful face was looking down at her, giving her a sharp smile that felt like it could cut her eyes from looking at it too long. Fear gripped her heart as her breath caught in her throat.

"And I thought to myself, if I can't find what I'm looking for in my own memories…" He leaned down slightly," Maybe I'll find them in yours."

"I'm not hiding anything, Tom." But her voice quivered. And they both knew she was lying.

"Like everything I do to you- "He reached into his pocket and pulled out the Elder Wand. "This is going to hurt."

Fortify your walls!

"Legilimens."