In Kind
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Chap. 11: In Kind
The next few days passed peacefully for Harry. He shagged Romilda, Hermione, Pansy, Fleur, and Lilith regularly of course, usually each of them at least every other day.
Not only peacefully, but what Harry would have called normal. What even the Dursleys, in some ways, might've called normal. He, Hermione, Pansy, and often enough two or three of their friends would work on homework together, either in Harry's study or the library, using his fancy internet connection on the computer, or the many books they were starting to get delivered several times per day from various publishers. Much of that time, either or both of Hermione's parents would be there, listening intently with varying degrees of hiding that fact through their own 'reading'. Neither Harry nor his girls or friends begrudged them the time spent near their daughter, of course, especially as the two seemed just as interested in learning about magic as they had been in their first year at Hogwarts.
In the afternoons, they chose more leisurely activities. Reading for pleasure, walking in the yard or garden, exploring the paths through the wooded hills behind Harry's property, or even simply sitting down in the mini-theater to enjoy some television. At night, that occasionally television viewing had soon turned into a new tradition of the household watching a movie together. Mr. Granger, it turned out, was an avid movie-watched. Everything from Hollywood's latest blockbusters, to older classics like Star Wars, Indiana Jones, along with dozens of others were quickly brought up from their home by Winky. They usually enjoyed one a night, popcorn and fizzy drinks included, as they slowly worked their way through the collection Dan had painstakingly put together over a couple of decades.
Elsewhere in the country, though, not everything was as quiet.
For example, in Wiltshire, there was a still-smoking crater where a good portion of Malfoy Manor had once been. The building itself still largely stood, one side of the magically-reinforced structure was even largely untouched if viewed from the outside. The northern face was still pristine and white. But the eastern and western, the longer sides of the home, were only half there. In an arc that stretched from the room downward and to the south side, which was lucky if even two feet of the originally foundation sat above the ground intact and had no wood remaining at all, an uneven curve twisted on both walls like some misshapen-toothed giant had taken a huge bite out of the house.
The yard, too, showed significant damage even though the blast had now occurred three and some weeks previously. Black scorch marks traced furthest where there had been windows, and those lines continued for about eighty feet. Where there had been walls, the lines only moved about seventy depending on how they fell against the slight curve of the hill the manor had sat upon, crowning the rise like some ancient despot. Bushes, shrubs, and trees had been burned away to ash or knocked down in charred husks for as far as half a mile.
The inside of most of the manor, of course, was gutted. Fire-retardant, flame-freezing, and general Impervious charm protection had only held up so well against the full might of the surface of Sol, even for only a moment.
But about a dozen rooms above-ground still held, in varying states of disrepair and damage. Below ground, deep within and even under the hill itself, forty-two rooms still existed more or less intact. Though, most viewers might say that calling the majority of the 'rooms' was being pretty generous. Of the forty-two, however, all of them had at least three solid walls. Twenty of those were little more than cells, however, with either magically-closing curtains or bars, or both, for the remaining wall. Five more were actual cells, complete with rune-covered steel doors that contained a small slit for passing food and water at the bottom, and for eyes at the top. No locks existed for those, they opened only for the wands of the owner of the house.
Problematic, some might say, for the owner currently was not in possession of his wand. The possessor of the house, however, if not the owner, did carry that particular stick of wood, one of seven he now carried on him at all times, 'just in case'. Priori Incantatum was unpredictable, he knew, but having been literally burned by it before, precautions had become necessary. The five cells currently had ten occupants, two per room, each bound magically and Silenced, lest some form of plan actually take shape. One of those was, in fact, the owner of the manor house, though he was put there as much for his own protection as any other reason.
The twenty curtained cells, well... they were the 'home' of thirty-eight women of varying ages, all of whom at one point might have been considered attractive, and most of whom still were, if they'd been a bit cleaner, or had their wounds cared for. Two, in the same cell, were men and served the same purpose for those with such proclivities.
The remaining rooms were, in fact, usable, livable rooms for those who were not prisoners. Most were simply storage spaces, though those had been temporarily repurposed into barracks of a sort. A potions lab, a research lab, and a repository of certain dark artifacts best kept hidden from the inquisitive eyes of someone like Arthur Weasley. Three sleeping chambers, one most sumptuously appointed for the current possessor of that particular wand, and two for his most loyal subjects: Bellatrix Lestrange, and one Severus Snape.
The last basement-level room was not even connected to the rest, and was simply a cellar, though of course greatly enhanced by magic.
The three magical beings that slept outside of the cells in the underground, most protected rooms were currently in conference in the research laboratory, constructed for the master's personal use and rarely even entered by anyone else. Currently, though he was loath to admit it, Lord Voldemort needed their help, both of them. "Here, Bella, just here," the pale, slitted mouth hissed, and a moment later, he wand shifted to the left by a few fractions of an inch.
"Yes, that will do. Hold there, and prepare yourself. It will hurt."
"I look forward to serving you, Master," she cooed, the ever-present madness in her always happy to sacrifice herself for him, but even more lately. She, after all, had been shielded by Voldemort personally during the momentary attack, or whatever it had been. She had been the only one aside from himself he'd protected.
Voldemort himself felt no such care, of course. He had been using her, slaking his overriding lust in her body again and again after the painful attack on his own psyche that had come the morning of the explosion. Potter was behind it, he knew. Dumbledore might well have found a way to use that disgusting emotion of love against him, but lust satisfied, or at least muted, the pain well enough. It had been his own self-preservation as their bodies were currently linked that had protected Bella, and nothing more. Not that he would tell her that, of course. Why make her upset? She was, while insane, a good enough servant.
Snape, whose missing arm had been replaced now with a quicksilver prosthetic of Voldemort's own design and crafting, held the device Bella's wand touched aloft, while his other hand bled a precise seven droplets of blood into the chalice his other hand held. Around them, a ring of blood drawn from twenty-seven (three times nine was an exceedingly powerful number, after all) servants, both prisoners and Death Eaters, adorned his work space floor. Candles lit every corner in the cardinal directions, and Voldemort, alone among them, was naked as he stood in one half of the central ring. "Yes... now, both of you, remain still. I do not know if this is the method that Potter used, but it should work in a similar fashion. Your service will be rewarded, of course, should the ritual succeed. And if you fail..."
He said nothing more to Snape or Bellatrix. As pleasing as using her or Narcissa was, the relatively younger body of Meera Yaxley was his current favorite plaything, and even she was growing boring. What better, then, than a plaything who could be anyone, anything, he desired?
Potter may have been a fool, but he was not stupid. Voldemort knew better. Like Dumbledore, like Voldemort himself, Potter had been forced to develop a brain by the circumstances of his life. That he dared send that emotional, psychic attack as a mere distraction! And then, somehow, trap his Vampiric servitor to bring him some sort of explosive device while he was indisposed? No, that took cunning and a will to cause harm that he did not think Dumbledore possessed.
If not Potter directly, than his Succubus.
The being once known as Tom Riddle glanced a final time at the Grimoire he had been loaned (permanently, if he had anything to say about it) by Theodore Nott Sr. had been most enlightening, but he did not need to skim the pages of this particular ritual to know that it had been performed perfectly thus far. Now, it was all down to him.
A silver knife flashed, and his own blood joined the chalice. "Come to me, O mighty servant from beyond the veil of this world," he began, voice sibilant and soft. Somehow, still, it rocked the floor and walls around them with the force and magic of it, of the binding.
Voldemort smiled, and continued the chant he had spent days memorizing.
On Saturday, Harry and Hermione went on a date. An actual, teenage-style date. Lunch, a walk in the park, a movie, which had been Hermione's choice: Spy Hard. It had clearly been a comedy, for all it had some serious subject matter, and Harry had delighted quite as much in hearing Hermione's easy, open laughter as he had in the movie itself. After that, the pair went on a walk through the quaint main street, occasionally window shopping.
"Ooh, Harry, there's a Chemist shop. We should go!"
"A Chemist?" he asked, already being tugged along by her hand in his, "You don't need the pill anymore, remember?"
Hermione rolled her eyes, "Not for that, Harry- look! They have ice cream and malts!"
"Oh, why didn't you say so," he laughed, and hurried his own pace. They were both a bit full, he was sure, even hours after the hearty burgers and fries they'd had for lunch, but it was a warm day and even on the shady side of the shop-lined street, busy with walkers aside from themselves, ice cream could hardly go amiss.
Inside, they found the exact sort of thing Harry usually imagined when someone mentioned a local Chemist. The kind of old-fashioned, '50's-era United States shop with over the counter medications in one section, a small window at the back for the more restricted ones that required a prescription, and against the wall to the right, a small counter with chrome and aged naugahyde stools with a marble top. Behind it was a bank of fountain drinks, and a soft-serve ice cream machine, where two harried, but attractive-looking women hastened to fill orders for a gaggle of kids about their own age.
The older of the two froze and jerked her head toward Harry as they stepped through the door, and stared at him for a moment with ice cream beginning to overflow the cup from the shake she was mixing. When her co-worker shouted at her to watch out, she jumped and tore her eyes away to quickly clean up her mess by dumping a lot of it into a nearby sink, then adding a bit more before resuming.
Harry and Hermione, who'd caught the look as well, shared a confused glance, but neither paid it much mind as they joined the back of the queue.
After the couple had received their orders of strawberry and chocolate malts, respectively, he glanced around for a place to sit, but could not find one. Distantly, he was aware that the older of the two girls told the younger that she was going to 'take her fifteen, now that the rush was over,' as he saw the three small booths jammed with four or five teens in spaces meant for two, and every stool full, with a couple more standing around. He and Hermione were already getting several looks as newcomers in the small town, so he tugged her arm, "Let's go to the park across the street."
"Alright," Hermione agreed, "that sounds nice, actually."
So they did, and it was. A warm day, sitting on a bench in a well-maintained city park beneath the shade of a towering oak tree was a fine situation to find oneself in, Harry thought, sipping on a tasty milkshake (even if he slightly regretted trying malt and strawberry, though he quite enjoyed the malt in Hermione's chocolate), with a girl he loved.
At least, for the first couple of minutes.
Then the same older girl who'd been serving milkshakes came out, her eyes and stride intent on them as she reached behind her curvy body to untie her slightly dirty apron. "Uh, oh," Harry said quietly, "Look, think she's coming here."
"Looks like it," Hermione agreed quietly, "and she doesn't look all that pleased to see us. Wands out?"
"Ready maybe," Harry whispered as she was nearing rapidly. "Don't know that she's a threat, but definitely on-edge."
The young woman, who had to be nineteen or twenty at most, stopped about five feet from them with her hands on her hips, the apron hanging from her left to partially obscure that leg. Only partially, because he'd already noticed that the uniforms the two girls had worn very much resembled that of a woman soda-jerk from the '50's era as well, with the tights and short skirt to match. "So," she announced by way of greeting, "You're him."
Harry blinked surprise as Hermione gave a resigned sigh. "Yes, he's Harry Potter. Thank you. He hates doing autographs, but he's pleased to meet you."
"Harry... who?"
The woman's incredulous, confused expression caused a similar glance to move between the lovebirds. Before even Hermione could formulate a response, the woman's scowl returned, "You Summoned and Contracted a Succubus. Last year, if I remember right. Goes by Lilith."
"Wh- What? How do you know...?" Harry sputtered.
"Oh," Hermione replied instead, "You're her. The other one."
It was the final statement that clued Harry in, and his eyes narrowed, "Ah... You know because Lilith ran into you last week."
The woman nodded curtly, though her expression was still guarded, "I don't want any trouble. Just leave me and my Master alone. Please."
Harry visibly recoiled. He...
He knew that tone. That false confidence. She wanted to project herself as tough, but felt anything but. It was exactly how he'd felt for the first ten-plus years of his life. So he took a deep breath, let it out slow, and as he did, removed his hand from his wand to put it on Hermione's thigh. "It's alright, Hermione, you can relax." The other hand was offered to the Succubus, "Harry James Potter. This is my girlfriend, Hermione Granger. Yes, I'm Lilith's Contractor. I'm sorry, she did tell me your name, but I forgot it."
"Margolie," the woman replied after a moment, and hesitated a few seconds longer before accepting his hand to shake. "I- I've been using Margolie since I was Summoned."
"Cool, it's good to meet you finally," Harry replied, smiling, "Do you want to take a seat? I wouldn't mind chatting a bit."
"Can't," she shook her head, "I need to get back to work soon. I... Did you mean it? That you aren't here to steal territory? Or push me out, or attack Master, or me?"
"I meant every word," Harry told her softly, making sure he broadcast as much emotion as he could in the hopes that her powers would pick up on them. "I try very hard not to lie, and I don't attack people without reason. You seem like you're nice enough, and so far as either I or Lilith can sense, you've minded yourself as well. Stuck to your territory, and not tried to encroach on Lilith's. I don't know a lot about how all that works, but... I see no reason to have a problem with you. Even if we did occasionally come into conflict, there's no reason why we can't work it out like civil adults. Right?"
"I... I suppose so," Margolie nodded, still with visible nerves, though she was starting to relax, Harry thought. She went on to explain, "Territory is... hunting grounds. It's where we go for the extras to take home. I mostly keep a couple of blocks on the northeast side of the town."
Margolie winced as she finished saying it, as if she had realized she said too much. But Harry only smiled kindly, "Don't worry. Really, we aren't going to come after you, even if we did know exactly where you and your Master lived. I understand he's not your Summoner, but that he's still your Contractor. I'm curious how that happened, but it's just curiosity. About Territory, then, and I noticed you say it like Lilith does, so it must be more than just 'territory'. Hunting grounds makes sense... I know she said something about the south side of the valley being about as much as her old Territory before I bought my house here last year. It's not as dense, though, so she might need to expand a little. I'm- well, I was raised in Surrey, so there were a lot of houses in the area. This is a lot more spread out."
The Succubus frowned a little, but nodded, "That- that should be alright. Just don't encroach. This town will barely support two of us, and if she's as strong as she made it seem... she probably does need more than you think."
"I honestly don't know how strong she is," Harry shrugged, ignoring her small flinch back, "I just know she said her growth has been pretty quick. I Summoned her in... what was it, May of last year? Maybe in the second half of April? Those first few weeks were hard to keep track of day-by-day."
"Too much shagging," Margolie and Hermione said at the same time, then shared a quiet laugh.
The Succubus was, again, the first to continue, "I remember those days. Master was younger and healthier, then... I don't know how much longer he'll be around, now. Once he dies, I've got to- got to go back home. Maybe a few more years, according to the doctors. A- Anyway, that's not... sorry."
"We don't mind," Hermione reassured her, "Is there anything that can be done...?"
Margolie shook her head, looking genuinely sad, "Not really, no. I've tried using a few Runes, but nothing's really worked... he's not magical, so they don't last long, and he doesn't have the potency to really fuel them. It doesn't help that he didn't Summon me, his wife did. He has a- a blood disease, a form of Anemia. It's kind of surprising he's lived this long, according to the doctors. He's in his late sixties. His wife was killed shortly after Summoning me."
There was something else there, something she wasn't telling them, but Harry didn't want to press. Instead, he told her, "Well, I'm not like, fabulously wealthy, but I do have some money if... if medical bills become a problem, or something. I'd like to help, if I could. I'm already covering one of my friend's sister's cancer treatments, and she's magical so that took some work. Just finding her paperwork that fit... eh, that's not important. See that manor house up there?"
He pointed at the distant home, now a few miles away up the hillside, "That's The Crockery, my house. If you need anything, either of you, stop by. If you've a phone, I can get you my number... hang on..."
Hermione rattled it off quickly, then wrote it down on one of the small notebook pages she kept in her handbag and handed it to the Succubus, "That's his home number. You never know who'll answer, but if you give them your name and ask for Harry, you'll get him soon enough if it's possible. If not him, then me or Lilith, alright? Seriously, anything."
Margolie took the paper carefully and folded it up before putting it into the pocket of her uniform shirt. "I... You're really weird. Both of you. And Lilith. But I appreciate it. Uh, I've got to get back to work, though, my break ended a couple minutes ago."
"Alright, well, thanks for coming to talk to us, Margolie," Harry said with a smile, standing up to offer his hand again.
This time she took it a little less cautiously, but she still shot the pair a couple of glances as she threw on her apron and hurried back across the street to the Chemist's.
"Well, that was interesting," Hermione giggled after she'd vanished, "Oh, poo! My milk shake's half-melted."
In a large, cluttered chamber beneath a blasted-out manor house in Wiltshire, purple and black smoke filled the room in swirls that crackled with unseen lightning.
Outside the burned circle of blood, Lord Voldemort heard both Bellatrix and Severus groan in pain from where they'd be thrown as the ritual completed.
"Ooh, you're delightfully twisted," he heard a throaty, feminine voice call from everywhere around him. "I love it..."
"Reveal yourself," he hissed, and watched in fascination as the smoke itself twisted, curled, and spun through the air, eventually congealing into a definitely female shape even his magically-enhanced eyes had trouble focusing on at first.
"Mmm... and powerful, too," she cooed, "just the kind I like..."
"Kneel," Voldemort commanded, "And begin your work while we decide on the terms of our... arrangement."
The Succubus, not even fully solid yet, giggled again as she moved to obey.
Yes... Potter had gotten an edge at first, Voldemort could admit to himself, but now that edge would dull by the moment. Dull, even as his own urges took a surging leap forward along with his shaft as the Succubus started taking it into her mouth, just like he desired.
He was tired of playing second-fiddle already. He was, should be, on the top of the pecking order. He would never fall from that place again, not if Lord Voldemort had anything to say about it.