Opening an Unlucky Door
As a reminder, you can find MORE of this on my SubStar (dot adult slash KajaWilder), it's posted up past FWB2 Ch. 30 there.
And if you're just interested in discussing things with other readers, of course, you can go to my DISCORDhere:https://discord.gg/N9yDA8t6Cw
You can also read my ORIGINAL FICTION on Kindle. If you've got Kindle Unlimited, they're all free. Here's my author page, with links to everything published.
ALSO, if you want to readahead:From that Discord, go to the Links in General section and follow those to get 30+ chapters more than what's posted here, with art too!
FINALLY, my Patreon is back up, under a new name (same management)! .com/WildErotica, for all those who would like to support but can't, or won't, use Sub Star for whatever reason. Follow the links there for access. I won't be posting there frequently or directly any more, but the links will take you to the same posts everyone else who has early access sees. :)
Chap. 13: Opening an Unlucky Door
Harry James Potter, recently of 1337 Craftsman Road in the small town of Avondale, which itself was in the county of Cork, frowned at the structure he and his friends were looking at. The reasons for that visible displeasure were numerous, not least was that it looked a little bit too much like the home he had recently taken up ownership and residence within.
Another reason was that the place was in bad shape. Fully a third of the building, three floors tall and probably composed of at least sixty rooms above-ground, was absolutely gone. At least half was unlivable, either because the rooms were open and exposed to the elements, or parts of ceilings, roofs, floors, and walls had collapsed in on themselves since the explosion.
Of much greater importance, as far as he was concerned, was the people that currently resided within that building, or beneath it. The Death Eaters, Voldemort's followers, were holed up within the building, licking their wounds. Literally, in some cases, Harry imagined. Fenrir Greyback was known to have survived, Mad-Eye had seen the only werewolf who had earned a Dark Mark during his reconnaissance mission two days ago, but had been visibly wounded even then. Harry had learned during the Defense Against the Dark Arts lesson that Snape has substitute-taught for Lupin years earlier that werewolves, transformed or not, had much-accelerated healing from what normal humans had. That he was as burned and scarred as he was now attested to the sheer amount of damage the brutal man had sustained... and survived.
None of those, however relevant to his own future survival, or happiness, were the primary cause of the frown, however. As much as he despised the entire ideology of the Death Eaters, either the one they touted in public or the true one that was kept largely secret, he wasn't at the current location to stop them, kill them. Even, really, to attack or hurt them, though Harry was sure that was going to happen anyway.
No, Harry cared most about the prisoners. On a very specific level, he had been the last student of Hogwarts to see Isabelle Ross as a student. It had been his own missed spells that had allowed Malfoy to escape with her. His bad judgment that had Harry aiming at Draco Malfoy, instead of Isabella, who was not armed, and had her arm being pulled by Malfoy anyway. She would have been far less likely to dodge. Yes, Malfoy would have had an easier time escaping, but Isabella Ross would likely have spent the last few months free rather than a captive of Death Eaters. More generally, the young wizard both empathized and sympathized with the rest of the prisoners, too. People should not, he believed, kept in cages unless they were dangerous. Even then, the will to cause harm was necessary. And no one should be forced into slavery.
Ironic, in some ways, considering he had a lover he frequently called Slave, and another who submitted as if she were one, and a Succubus he had bound to his service. But Contract aside, none of them were forced by him to stay there, or in a place of subservience. They were only there because they wanted to be there. Pansy, Lavender, Ginny, even Lilith, were not prisoners. Any of them could go free the moment they chose to.
Sexual Submissives and actual slaves were not the same things, after all.
Some might call being captured by Death Eaters simple bad luck. Others might say it was karma, or that the prisoners had brought their captivity on themselves by dressing provocatively, or being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Harry believed none of that was the case. Luck had nothing to do with being the victim of a crime. Crimes happened because of choices, like so many other things did. Usually, the choices of the criminal themselves, whatever their motivation. Yes, there were exceptions. He would not, or would at least try not to, fault someone for stealing food they or their families needed to survive... even if that came at the cost of another's. It was, after all, human nature to look after oneself and one's own over others.
What the Death Eaters had done, were doing, was so far beyond the pale for Harry that there was no way he could countenance it. No way he could let it happen. Merely waiting two days since Mad-Eye Moody had told the Order of the Phoenix about Isabella Ross and the other prisoner's survival and location, had driven Harry mad with the need to act. He, however, had learned to not underestimate the value of planning. This was, after all, no easy egg to crack.
Malfoy Manor, the Order knew, had been protected as well as any home in centuries thanks to Lucius Malfoy's wealth, and now the presence of a small army of combat-capable witches and wizards. Plus, of course, Voldemort himself. Harry knew he was close by. He could feel it, prickling in his scar like it had done in ages past, though now the feeling was muted and weak.
More, Harry could feel it through the thread that connected them.
No white line, or red line, or anything else, the thread that Harry envisioned between his soul and Voldemort's was a chain, spiked, cold, made of frozen blood. As he closed his eyes and focused on it, Harry saw it running between his heart, and somewhere underground, less than a half-mile away, in the hill atop which Malfoy Manor still partially stood.
"He's here," Harry whispered. "Voldemort."
"Best be on guard, then," Moody growled from Harry's left, "I'll spread the word. Plan'll be the same, but if you run into him, withdraw immediately. If he takes the field, any six've us will lose in the first few minutes. Objective is to get the prisoners and get out. Nothing else matters."
"I'll distract him," Harry said quietly.
"The hell you will," Sirius Black, on his right, and Moody growled at the same time. Sirius was the one who continued, "You're his primary target, Harry. If he knows you're here, he'll come after you personally. And if you die, then the whole point of your parent's sacrifice is for nothing. He wants you dead personally."
"I know," Harry told them both, then looked in his godfather's direction, "That's why it'd work. I don't mean stand up and fight. I mean lure him out, away from the rest. Hit and run. Draw him away from everyone else. He won't kill me straight off... he'd want to gloat. Taunt me. That should give everyone else time to get the prisoners out, and then come back me up. Maybe, if we're lucky, we could end him right there: the whole Order is more than even he can handle. With Lilith backing me up too, we... we might just be able to break the last of their strength, and take him out too."
"I don't like it," Moody growled, shaking his head, "You're valuable, we all know that. Our side needs you alive, Potter. Dumbledore's made it clear since before you were even born, at least to me, that you were the one who had to bring Voldemort down. That doesn't mean you have to fight him at every turn. It's too risky, not enough reward either."
Harry's head turned to the other side, "There's not that much risk. Even if he gets me alone, gets my wand, all it would take is a moment for Lilith to get me out of the situation with Shadowstep. And if it works, it helps keep... what, five, ten, thirty, Order members alive? How long would it take him, single-handedly, to take out half the Order, Mad-Eye? Five minutes? I can buy you at least that."
"It's still not-"
Moody was interrupted by Sirius, who sighed, "He's right, Mad-Eye, and you know it. I don't like putting him in danger, either, but we both know the bastard couldn't pass up a chance to taunt, to capture, or kill Harry. He would leap at the opportunity. Even if he knew it was a trap, which it will be of course, he'd just think himself capable of springing it and surviving. He's that arrogant."
"He's also that bloody dangerous," Moody growled, "Neither of you have fought him as much as I have, not even together. People say he was always scared of Dumbledore. Well... Albus had reason to be worried, too. It's entirely possible you're right, I'll admit, Potter. Voldemort's definitely the type to walk into a trap he knows about just to prove he's that good. But right now, I'm not sure even the entire Order could fight him and win. Myself, you, included. Even your little friend."
"Besides, it's not like the whole Order is even here," Sirius reminded Harry, "most of them aren't that good in a fight. They'd be lambs to the slaughter. We only ever had about two dozen who could hold their own, even at the height of the last war. We're bigger, but it's still only about the same number now who can aim for shite, much less duel."
"All the more reason for me to draw him off," Harry argued, "Those less capable would only have to go up against the Death Eaters, not him personally."
"A compromise then," Sirius suggested, "Harry will not go looking for Voldemort, but-"
"Hey!"
"But," he continued, "if the chance comes for Harry to draw him off, he takes it. Draws him... I don't know, out to the front lawn, the side we aren't evacuating from. Me, you Mad-Eye, Moony, we and a couple other of the better fighters stay nearby if we can, to back him up even from the start. Don't want to make any trap seem too obvious, or too weak. There's gotta at least look like something of a threat. Harry isn't really needed to find the people downstairs, he barely knows them. Your eye's going to be more accurate anyway."
"I still don't like it," Mad-Eye conceded with a grumble, "but that actually might work. At least it's not suicidal. Alright, I'll leave it up to you to update Lupin and Flitwick, then, Black. Potter, your friend can tell your other friends the plan. They'll want to swing 'round this way once things kick off, I'm sure. Not that either are happy to be stuck on containment, but at least that'd give them a chance to keep an eye on you, too."
Harry nodded, and sent a mental call for Lilith to come to his location. He knew Mad-Eye was right about the last bit, neither Ron or Hermione, glad to be included, had been happy to be stuck on what amounted to guard duty to make sure few Death Eaters could escape if any thought to try. Anti-Apparition Jinxes were already up, thanks to Malfoy's protections, and the place was equally warded, Bill Weasley had assured them, against Portkeys. Physical entry into the grounds should have required a Dark Mark escort, at the very least, but that enchantment had seemingly been broken with the house's near-destruction.
Which, as Moody had described, gave them a good opportunity. They simply had to get close enough to walk, and then go in under cover of night, wearing camouflaged outfits and colors sourced from a muggle Marines contact Moody had kept for years, circle the place, and then move in, taking out any sentries as they went to hopefully prevent an alarm.
Four of them had already fallen to get this close, low-ranked Death Eaters who hadn't either done enough, or were new enough to Voldemort's service that they were not trusted with more important tasks, or even allowed to sleep in a bed at night. One of them, whose name Harry didn't know, had fallen to his own Stunning Spell, lay bound, silenced, and transfigured into a cat for the time being. She'd put up a fair fight, if he were being honest, but between he, Moody, and Sirius, the woman hadn't had a chance.
Now, though... it was time to act. No more waiting.
Two and a half minutes after Moody gave the all-clear and ready signal, light flared over Malfoy Manor again. A few seconds later, from inside the building, someone shouted, "Another of those flares! Take cover!"
Cries of alarm and fear sprang up throughout some of the exposed buildings, and Harry felt a ripple of magic slam over, past, through his position a moment later. Not from the front, but from the back. "Flitwick's done," Moody growled, "Dark Marks shouldn't be able to pass the other way for a while. Time to move. Let's go, and remember-"
Harry and Sirius both said it at the same time the grizzled ex-Auror did, "Constant Vigilance!"
Voldemort sighed in pleasure, as he stroked the hair of the delicious creature he had summoned two days earlier. Two full days of raucous, unending pleasure, and for now, he seemed sated. Finally. Her belly would be overflowing, were she human, but the silvery-skinned, violet-haired beauty was no mere mortal. Their Contract was complete: Serve him in all ways he deemed, until he should die. In return, she would get unending sustenance and power, all for herself, for he planned to never let her return.
He'd made the deal openly, with no hint of deception, because there hadn't needed to be any.
The creature had agreed after but a moment to consider. Her kind, the book penned by Gandalfus Nott the Elder (great, great, great, great grandfather to his most recent tool, not great, great, great grandfather to the same, who had, he now knew, cursed the Greengrass line using his father's magics), sought power as well as pleasure. Thus, they could be bought.
It was the way of things in the universe, or the multiverse. It was a pattern Voldemort understood all too well. Of course, there would be consequences if the Contract were breached. The usual, he understood: His body and soul would be forfeit, taken back to her realm to be drained of everything valuable, et cetera, ad infinitum, and so on. Hah. As if he would fail! As if he would die! All she had to do was serve him, and both ends of the Contract would complete... never.
And she seemed perfectly fine with that, as long as she, too, could spend her time however she wished when he inevitably grew bored of her.
He hadn't given her a name. Hadn't felt she truly needed one, and the creature hadn't asked. She had one, he was sure, in her own way, but didn't care to learn the language enough to speak it. Perhaps in a few hundred thousand centuries when he, too, was bored. He may have been a fool for discounted the pleasures of the flesh for so long in his own youth, but Voldemort could, and did, learn from his mistakes. Even he might be ready to die after that long. Perhaps. If he'd conquered the knowable universe, and ascended to what might be called Godhood.
Maybe.
Still, she was adequate thus far as a... he shuddered at the term lover, for love was a weak, foolish emotion worth nothing at all or less than even that, but... hm... toy. Yes, she was a momentary toy, here to enjoy as much as counter Potter's. Yes, that would be her name. "Toy," he hissed, "you have done adequately. Prepare yourself for battle. We will be under attack soon."
"Yes, Master," the silvery-skinned Succubus said with a smile, and he watched her shape change into something more like what the Nott Grimoire had described: Tall, armored in a shell-like skin, winged, tailed, horned... as erotic as before, perhaps even more so. A scepter made of flame and steel appeared in one hand, and a wicked, curved, serrated sickle of ice in the other. "I am ready, Master."
"Good. Wait, now. It will not be long, I expect. The fools have been assembling to assault our 'weakened position' for some time."
"I am eager to show you what I can do," Toy hissed back, her own eyes now as snake-like as his own, equally red, her tongue forked... Mm... She truly was delectable. But that could come later.
For now, he had yet another victory to assure.
About twenty feet away from her, Ron Weasley, her lover, her sort-of-just-slid-into-not-being-her-boyfriend-any-more, paced anxiously through the green trees and undergrowth that grew thick around the woods that bordered the southwest side of the Malfoy property. Between them, a veteran member of the Order of the Phoenix was there to keep an eye on both. Frankly, Hermione was glad the large, dark-skinned Senior Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt was the one who'd volunteered.
Not only did she like him on a personal level, he was witty and intelligent and quite capable, but he was a steady, calming presence, too. If they'd been saddled with, say, Mundungus Fletcher as a watcher, Hermione doubted she would have felt safe at all.
The message had come through a few minutes earlier. They'd been prepared for the possibility that the plan would change. The situation on the ground at Malfoy Manor had been fluid, and the fog of war had been active. Mad-Eye Moody couldn't see Voldemort, even with his magical eye, through whatever protections the evil creature had up. That he was present and detectable by Harry was precisely the reason the three of the had been allowed to come, despite their ages, over Molly's strenuous objections.
Harry (and Lilith) had assured the Order that he could, in fact, still detect and even pinpoint Voldemort's location if he was close enough, with a bit of effort. Hermione and Ron had been included because Harry had insisted. If, he said, they didn't go, he wouldn't go. There was no one else he trusted more to have his back, and if the worry was that Voldemort was there, then his friends needed to be there.
Even if they were stuck on guard duty. For most of the last ten minutes, she, Ron, and Kingsley had been circling around the property from directly at the back to be closer to the front gate, which was where Harry's team would be assaulting. She could just see the black mess of Sirius' long hair as it peeked over a bush a hundred yards or so distant. Too far, for her to be safe or feel Harry was safe, but close enough that she could, realistically, help.
"It's time," Kingsley said, a moment before she felt the magic of Flitwick's anti-Dark-Mark ward rush past her in a blinding green-red-blue flash that stung her eyes, and left lingering sparkles in her vision.
"I'm ready," Ron replied nervously, "Look, Harry, Sirius, and Mad-Eye are moving!"
"Twenty count starts now," Kingsley rumbled, and started mouthing silently, "Nineteen... Eighteen... Seventeen..."
Hermione felt her nerves, already quivering, sharpen and vibrate more intensely. She hated this, the calm before the storm. For the first time, she understood what Harry had meant when he talked about pre-fight jitters, or Ron discussing pre-exam nerves. She got nervous before big tests too, but she was also confident in her abilities (mostly), so her own nerves were more 'I want to show what I can really do' rather than worry she would pass at all, O.W.L. exams aside. But Hermione was used to thinking on her feet, being right at the thick of things, with no time to talk or plan or think too hard.
She'd thought that was the worst; being in a fight for her life, or the lives of those she cared about. A year ago, at the Ministry of Magic, Hermione would have said that was the most terrifying night of her life. She'd have been right... a year ago.
The waiting, it turned out, was a thousand times worse.
As Kingsley stood up, long wand in his powerful hand, Ron stood up too. Too fast, he cracked his tall head on a low branch of one of the many green, leafy trees (a Linden, she thought, judging by the strange seeds on their little stalks that hung from the leaves), and stooped again with a yelp. "Careful," Kingsley murmured, "On me, you two. Remember, we're to cover and support. We only engage if Harry's team needs backup, or Death Eaters are attempting to flee through our area."
"I remember," Ron muttered for the thousandth time.
Hermione knew, too, but she could only nod once. For some reason, her throat was too constricted to form actual words.
But she was there, wand in hand, a hundred, no, ten thousand incantations on her lips, in her mind, ready to go silently or verbally. She knew the number was a slight exaggeration, of course, but it was a personal goal of hers. Ten thousand spells known... a lifetime's worth of applicable, practicable magical knowledge, refined into different effects and abilities.
The sum total of spells known the world over, incantation differences based on language aside, was estimated to be about thirteen thousand total. Ten thousand? Well, Hermione knew she could do it, it was just a matter of when, how old she was when that goal was reached.
She shook her head to bring back her wayward, wandering mind as she started moving too, stalking with her fire-team (a term her father had taught her from old war documentaries, and that she had since passed on to Kingsley and Mad-Eye, who liked it well enough too for a group of three or four combatants) along the perimeter, close enough to cover each other immediately, but not so close to catch any two with a single stray spell.
Hermione saw the first flashes of green, of red, of stark, blazing, anti-light that radiated with the energy of the deepest void, as they streaked back and forth from the ruined side of the manor, to Mad-Eye, Harry, and Sirius.
In that moment, as she realized people were actively attacking Harry, her Harry, the man she loved, every bit of fear or nerves within Hermione disappeared. They did not strictly vanish, nothing so simple. Instead, the fear crystallized into desire, into a goal.
Keep Harry safe.
Keep them all safe.
Survive the operation.
Rescue the prisoners.
"I'm sorry, Kingsley... I can't," Hermione announced, as she stopped walking and turned to face the manor house. "I can't stand aside... not even for a necessary task."
Ron and Kinglsey turned, the first with an eager, hopeful expression, the latter with worry and concern.
Hermione looked away from them, a bundle of nerves transformed into a bundle of infrangible, adamantine bonds. Her wand moved in a series of lightning-quick slashes through the air, as if she had practiced the motion a million times, though in truth she'd only seen it in a single book two different times. "I... might need your help controlling this, in a minute. But let me try."
"What are you- Hermione, no!" Kingsley replied, ending with a shout as he, no doubt, recognized the movements as they sped up.
"Infernum Ignis Eternatus."
The Infernal Flames of Hell Unending were conjured into the world, hopefully under her control: Fiendfyre.