Sporadic update, I know, but I was reaching the 50 pages count for this chapter and decided to post it as a second part in a three-part series. Some more mature stuff happening at the end.

It was late into the night. Even the most restless of her friends had fallen prey to Morpheus, their chests dancing rhythmically under the bright white sheets. She should've been with them, letting her mind heal under the quiet of the night… but her eyes wouldn't close. Her mind was a whirlpool of emotions, chaotic memories fluttering in front of her thoughts as if baiting her – what should she think of herself? What could she do now?

She stood up and silently left Madam Pomfrey's domains. The well-intentioned nurse would throw a fit if she caught her out of bed, but she couldn't lie on the sheets and pretend she hadn't seen her godfather die. The feeling of the rough stone of the castle's floors under the skin of her feet felt almost delicious – the uncomfortable unevenness in the rock felt like a small punishment for her wrongdoings.

She wandered aimlessly, green eyes occasionally tearing up when she was reminded of what she'd lost. It wasn't until her feet were covered in dirt that she realized she'd been slowly making her way to Dumbledore's office. She stood in front of the door and wondered for a moment if it'd be impolite to call before the entrance moved and the familiar stairs were revealed.

The door was ajar.

"Please, come and sit with me, Harriet. I believe we're both in need of company tonight."

Harriet looked at her headmaster for a moment, her gaze blank. Eventually she relented. There was already a tea tray on the desk, but it didn't surprise her. The portraits must've told him she was up and about.

"I…" Harriet said, after taking a sip of her tea. "Can I ask you a question, headmaster?"

"Of course, dear girl."

"The prophecy, the power which Voldemort knows not… in the end, did it mean that I would have to kill her?"

The light in his blue eyes dimmed. "It could've been a possibility, yes," he watched her carefully for a moment. Then he softly sighed and said, "You believe the prophecy is no more."

"I… I feel different," Harriet's voice trembled. "I think my soul is broken."

"An act of murder by way of magic splits the soul, Harriet. What you're feeling now is nothing more than the rift which has been opened inside of your spirit. It will mend in time – your own feelings of regret and love for your friends and family will help you heal."

Harriet thought that in his mouth regret sounded like a funny word. She didn't tell him, however, that what she felt about the murder of the dark witch was as far from regret as it could get; at best it could be called righteous triumph, at worst it could be called cold indifference. She thought about the woman's wicked gaze and her own impotence when Sirius became prey to the green light, and she felt that it would have been worse if she hadn't raised her wand against her then. What could've been said of her? That she was a coward, that she was a powerless little chit that would forever remain a mere puppet in that war. And what about her friends, her family? How could she let them think that they could get away with touching a hair on their heads?

She was far from bloodthirsty, but she knew that Bellatrix's death wouldn't weigh in her conscience. She'd avenged her godfather, she'd done her duty. She felt like she'd had control of her own destiny for once.

"It was dark magic," she uttered, and then clarified. "I didn't feel this way when I killed Barty."

"You were acting in self-defense," Dumbledore said. "And just as you correctly assumed, you performed dark magic this time. There's not a branch of dark magic that couldn't be classified as soul magic, in one way or the other; even the lighter spells reach deep into the caster's essence, and because of this, more often than not their consequences are hard to fathom."

"Dark wizards and witches completely neglect the effect this sort of magic has on their psychic integrity. It can certainly make one feel powerful, it can tempt the powerless and the greedy with greatness, but it comes at a cost. Their neglect of their mind translates into an absolute disconnection with the rest of the world, and that is why they're like blind men looking into a mirror, unable to see themselves."

Dumbledore paused for a moment, bringing his hands together. "Harriet, you are still a developing witch, and you've casted nothing but light magic all of your life. You are sensible enough to feel the effects of the magic you've casted, and I daresay that in the coming days you'll start to notice that some things within yourself may have changed."

"I am almost talking to myself," he said with a soft smile. "But there is a point to this, and that is: don't feel afraid to open up. You have excellent friends; let yourself abuse their hospitality for a while. Confide in them. You may regret what you've done, but to err is human. "

Harriet nodded, casting her eyes downwards. "What about the minister, sir? Won't I get sent to Azkaban for casting an Unforgivable?"

"Ah, to be fair the reason I'm still awake so late into the night is because of Cornelius' own insistence," Dumbledore said. "The aurors managed to capture some of the Death Eaters you and your friends fought – among them, Lucius Malfoy, Cornelius' advisor. I believe it's sufficient to say that he has a particularly lenient streak when faced with scandals."

"W-what… what about Sirius?" she asked. "Will we be able to give him a proper burial?"

"Of course. I believe that Remus is already taking care of the details."

Harriet nodded. She retreated into her own thoughts, remembering Voldemort's whispered promise to her, the smoldering red eyes that seemed to leave no secret uncovered. "Before you arrived," she finally said, "she told me she knew the full content of the prophecy. I didn't understand why she wouldn't just kill me… I thought… that's what she was supposed to do right? The prophecy said I had a power she didn't have, and… and all my life, it seemed like people were pushing me towards this place, this role. Like I was meant to fight her. But she just told me that she'd make me give her the world I was meant to save."

Something died within Dumbledore's eyes, but Harriet didn't notice. She was staring at her thumbs. "I don't think I have something she doesn't know of. Not anymore."

"Harriet," the old wizard said softly. "Do you know what the prophecy says?"

He didn't wait for her answer; he simply stood up and walked to a tastefully carved wood cabinet. Its doors were ajar, and from between them a certain silver glow could be seen. Dumbledore motioned for her to join him.

"This is a pensieve, Harriet. A place to keep thoughts and memories for when your mind becomes too full."

The Girl-Who-Lived looked into the silver liquid that slowly spun around in an ancient-looking urn. She could guess some vague forms taking shape inside the steamy substance, like scenes from a play being enacted inside the vase. She looked back at her headmaster, confused. The old man simply reached inside the pensieve with his wand, and took a single thread from within. It was almost like a strand of hair.

He dropped it suddenly on the surface, and waved his wand over it. A figure emerged, and she recognized Sybil Trelawney, the Divinations professor.

"The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches..." the silver Trelawney said in a hoarse voice. "Born to those who have thrice defied her, born as the seventh month dies... and the Dark Lord will mark them as her equal, but they will have power the Dark Lord knows not... and either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives... The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord will be born as the seventh month dies..."

Harriet gasped. "So I do have to kill her."

Dumbledore hummed. "There are many interpretations for that phrase, Harriet."

The girl frowned. "Apparently. After all, Voldemort knows about it yet she doesn't seem to be out for my blood anymore."

"There is that," the headmaster said. "However what I wanted to bring to your attention was not that phrase in particular. I was to interview her the day Sybil Trelawney recited her first and only true prophecy; and to protect her, I granted her the position she currently has now in the school, although to be fair, she doesn't qualify for it as much as her famed grandmother did."

The man walked back to his desk, and Harriet stole a last glance at the professor's figure before following him. "Something that was said captured my attention; it was not the coming of the prophecy child, it was not a presage of the end of Voldemort's dark reign. Professor Trelawney spoke of a mark; and the Dark Lord will mark them as her equal."

"Them?" Harriet suddenly asked. "Isn't that a bit vague for a seer?"

The headmaster smiled. "It's a strange prophecy, for it doesn't prophesize a certain event; it prophesizes a choice. It wasn't about the child itself, but rather Voldemort's choice."

"Choice?"

"There were two children whose parents thrice defied her, born as the seventh month died. One of course, it was you. The other was your friend, Neville."

Harriet's eyes widened. "Neville? His parents… oh. He was born on the first of August, and his parents were also in the Order… right?"

Dumbledore nodded. "Yes. But it begs the question, doesn't it? Why did Voldemort choose to target you rather than him?"

Harriet looked at him in confusion. "He's a boy," she blurted out, almost without thinking. "I mean, it says that she'll mark the prophecy child as her equal, right? So it'd make more sense that she'd choose someone who resembles her."

The old man let out a chuckle. "So it'd seem. But Harriet, haven't you ever wondered why she has taken the title of Dark Lord, rather than the title of Dark Lady?"

"I simply thought it was a genderless title, to be honest."

Dumbledore regarded her in silence for a moment. "Cecilia Riddle believes that championing the cause of purebloods will erase her muggle heritage just as appropriating a male title will erase her womanhood. To her, women are weaker."

"But she's a woman!"

"She's also a halfblood."

Harriet frowned. "That doesn't make sense."

Her headmaster let out a laugh, truly delighted. "Of course it doesn't! Bless you child, you were born in gentler times. I think that for now, it'll be sufficient to say that knowing Cecilia's complex with her female identity it seemed strange to me that she'd choose a baby girl over a boy."

"And not only that; but between a halfblood girl and a pureblood boy, who did she mark as her equal?"

Something akin to understanding appeared in Harriet's eyes. "She… does she see me as a reflection of herself?"

Dumbledore sighed. "One can only conjecture at this point. But if you allowed this old man to take a guess, I'd simply say that it'd be more accurate to say that she sees you as an extension of herself, rather than simply a mere reflection."

"That's… disturbing."

The headmaster got up. "I believe I have given you enough to think about for tonight, Harriet. I would like to call on you in the following weeks, if you'll allow me to, to discuss Cecilia a bit more. You will undoubtedly be faced with a Voldemort who's entirely sane and at the cusp of her power, and I'd prefer it if you were armed with far more knowledge than you are now."

Harriet gave him a lopsided smile, and followed him to the door. "Know thy enemy, right?"

She heard a small murmur, and the distant sound of birds singing. Behind her closed lids, there was movement.

"Guys?" she said, and slowly raised her head, shielding her eyes from the bright morning light.

"Harriet!" Hermione cried, from the side of Ron's bed. Both her and the redhead got up swiftly, and walked to her bed. "How are you feeling? Are you ok? Did Bellatrix do anything to you?"

"Relax, 'Mione," Ron said, laying a hand on the frizzy-haired girl's shoulder. "How are you feeling, mate?"

"Uh," Harriet stammered. She didn't know what to reply. She didn't know what her feelings were. She felt empty, shell-shocked. It was as if she was standing right under a storm the moment before it hit, watching helplessly as everything went to hell. She looked at her friends, her mind trying to come up with words to describe it, but nothing came out of her mouth. Hermione's eyes softened, and she hugged the Girl-Who-Lived.

"It's okay, don't worry. You'll be able to sort it out," the girl broke the embrace with a sad smile, but kept her hands on Harriet's arms. "We're here for you, ok?"

"T-thanks," Harriet muttered. "It's all so confusing. But how are you guys? Were you hurt? Where's Luna and Neville?"

"Yeah, Neville was stunned and we came out of it with a few scraps and cuts, but nothing major," Ron replied. "Right now Neville's in the bathroom, Luna went to the kitchen to ask the house elves for food because she said that what they'd brought her had been touched by Celinchos, whatever that is."

Harriet suddenly remembered the previous night's conversation with the headmaster, feeling strange at the thought of Neville being the other prophesized child. What would have it been like if Voldemort had tried to kill him on that Halloween night?

"And you, Harry? What happened after… you know… when you ran off after Bellatrix?"

Harriet was brought out of her musings by Hermione. "Uh," she hesitated for a moment, not wanting to tell them the truth. She didn't regret killing the dark witch, but it wasn't something she was proud of. "We ran until we reached Hogsmeade. She kept taunting me; I told her I would kill her. Then she simply opened her arms and…" she lowered her head. "I was so mad. I wanted her to pay for taking Sirius away from me. It made me feel so weak, thinking that I wasn't able to protect my own family…"

"Harry, what did you do?" Hermione asked in a whisper.

"I killed her. I cast the killing curse at her."

The Girl-Who-Lived heard her friends' gasps. She didn't dare raise her eyes. There was a moment of silence before a soft murmur of steps was heard.

Luna entered the room with Neville at her side. In her hands there was a tray of food, in his a copy of the Prophet's early edition. She walked up to Harriet with a dreamy smile and left the tray on the bedside table with a cheery "good morning!" Meanwhile, Neville opened the folded newspaper and laid it over Harriet's legs for all to see.

Hogsmeade under attack!, the first page said in big, imposing letters. Death Eaters battle Girl-Who-Lived, she teams up with Aurors to fight them off. Under the title there was a picture of her, surrounded by aurors and members of the Order of the Phoenix. Remus had an arm around her, and in the distance she could see Dumbledore's white beard.

"Is it true, Harry?" Neville asked her, his small brown eyes intently fixed on her expression. She'd never seen his friend so eager, so strangely intense. "The paper said you killed Bellatrix. Is that true?"

"Y-yeah," Harriet replied. "I went after her after she… after Sirius was killed."

Something akin to relief washed over the boy's face. Harriet shot him a strange look, but next to her, Hermione discretely shook her head at her friend. The Girl-Who-Lived understood she'd have to ask the girl later for the details she was missing.

"I'm glad you're okay, guys," she said, smiling sadly. "I shouldn't have asked you to come. If I…"

"Don't, Harry," Luna said softly. "You did what you thought it was best at the time. And we all agreed. Don't blame yourself for this."

Harriet thought that she could hardly argue with the blond girl when the look in her eyes became heavy.

"This isn't okay," Harriet said, moving the weight of her body from feet to feet. She was dressed in formal robes: a sober black outfit that Mrs. Weasley had helped her choose during the summer, and the black pumps Hermione had insisted she ought to buy during a Hogsmeade outing. She felt uncomfortable, not only because of the attire, but also because of the occasion. Next to her, Snape's sour face did nothing to calm her.

"Pray enlighten me, Potter. What isn't okay?"

"Giving me an award for killing someone," she replied. Something shifted in Snape's face, and she got the impression he'd been waiting for her to say something else.

"When it comes to the Girl-Who-Lived, they would award you with a Merlin Class simply for breathing," he commented.

"Well, I get that Fudge wants to clear his name because of Malfoy being caught red-handed, but isn't this a bit morbid? I cast dark magic. Why's everyone suddenly overlooking that?"

"Are you indulging in a masochist streak, Potter? Would you prefer to stay the summer inside your godfather's old cell?"

Harriet flinched. She wasn't ready to hear someone like Snape mentioning Sirius in such an off-handed, cruel way; but she said nothing. She wouldn't pretend that she didn't know that for him, her godfather's death was a small victory to be cherished. If the roles had been reversed, she knew that Sirius would dance on the potions master's grave. If anything, she was grateful that he'd been relatively civil to her in the previous days.

"Have you ever cast it?" Harriet asked suddenly. "The killing curse, I mean."

If she hadn't known better, she'd have thought she'd seen her professor flinch. But he merely sneered at her, before turning his face away. His greasy black hair hid his expression.

"Don't ask stupid questions, Potter."

Harriet wasn't deterred. "What did it feel like?"

She'd assumed he would simply ignore her, but after a minute of silence he replied: "cold. It felt cold."

Harriet thought about his words as she stood in front of a podium, with an idiot minister at her side and idiot journalists in front of her. She thought not about the cold, but of a dark, sultry feeling; like cool silk on the tip of her fingers, or red eyes staring back at her from the shadows. She'd tasted the forbidden fruit – as the days passed and the shock had worn off, the only thing that remained was a growing itch. She had Sirius' last breath caught in her ears, Neville's joyful face burnt in her retina. She thought about justice and power, and how one broken rule had made all the difference – because now, even if she mourned the absence of her father figure, she could relish in justice having been carried out.

And she wanted more.

The return to Grimmauld Place was a painful experience. The absence of her godfather was certainly a heavy elephant waiting in every room; his cheery barking laugh repeating in the echoes of her memory. A maddening non-sound, ever-present, reminding her that nothing would ever be the same. There was a weight in her shoulders that hadn't been there before.

Yet, if asked, she would say that it was simply the expected feelings of a girl in mourning. That perhaps the thing that hurt her the most was Remus' own pained smile when he greeted her in the mornings. Not even Nymphadora's clownish antics could bring back the shine in his face, or erase his scars the way Sirius had been able to do. Harriet found herself pitying the man, evading him during the nights when he'd take to the bottle and suspend himself in drunken stupor not to feel the pain. She would look at him, close the door, and go back to her own room. When they woke up in the morning, they'd ask each other the usual ("how did you sleep?") and then they'd go back to their own minds.

Harriet knew what it was. It was fear, fear of speaking up and acknowledging that they had been broken.

Sirius' funeral was a quiet, quick affair. Harriet got a glimpse of her godfather's face for the last time. Remus' hand kept a painful grip on her shoulder.

None of them spoke a word aloud that day.

"Harriet! Here you are!" Hermione said one afternoon. The Girl-Who-Lived had been sitting by the window, blankly staring at the cul-de-sac outside. She could hear the kids' laughter in the street.

She turned to look at her friend. She and the Weasleys had arrived with their usual shenanigans two days before, and were met with a warm, if a bit tired, welcome from Remus, Nymphadora and Harriet. After that, they'd only seen each other at meal times, with Harriet spending most of her time locked up in the library or in Regulus' room.

"Something happened?" Harriet asked. Hermione looked at her a bit sternly, and sat down next to her.

"I think we should talk," she said, her eyes becoming softer. "It's obvious that you're not taking this well."

"Yes, Hermione, it's one of the unexpected consequences of seeing yet another member of my family get murdered."

"Harriet, please. Don't take this out on me. I just want to talk."

The girl frowned and shrugged her shoulders. "Okay, talk."

Hermione sighed. "I want you to tell me how you're feeling. I feel like you're bottling up all your emotions right now, and I think it's making things worse."

Harriet looked at her friend for a moment, then let out a bitter chuckle. "I am sad because I want Sirius here, I miss him. I am angry because the more that time passes and the more I feel his absence, the more I wish I would've dealt with Bellatrix better."

"And you think it could've made any difference?"

"It wouldn't have brought him back. It hasn't brought him back," she admitted. "You don't understand… when I killed Bellatrix, for a moment I felt like I had stopped being a victim. I destroyed her, and if I could do that, why wouldn't I be able to bring Sirius back?"

"Harriet, you know you cast dark magic…" Hermione bit her lip. "You know what it does to people. What sort of thoughts it gets into their heads."

"Does it really, Hermione? Or does it bring up things that were inside themselves, waiting to come out?" Harriet sighed. "I'm starting to think… it's as if a veil had broken."

"No. You were never like this, Harriet. You were never a vengeful person. Keeping things to yourself, locking yourself up in your mind… it's warping you. It's hurting you."

"I'm figuring things out, Hermione. That's all."

Harriet turned her face to the window again, silently asking for an end to the conversation. The frizzy-haired girl looked like she wanted to argue further, but she realized that it wasn't the best time and simply left.

He was standing by the fireplace, dressed in flamboyant violet robes. She couldn't guess what the look in his eyes meant, but she was sure that a similar expression could be seen on her face when she'd gaze into Sirius' room on sleepless nights.

"It's a bit late, professor," she said, putting her hands on the back of the ragged sofa.

"I'm very sorry, dear girl. Recent happenings have taken up most of my time these past few days, and if I'm here this late it's because I believe I shouldn't delay this any longer."

When he turned around, his feet lightly tapped on a discarded firewhiskey bottle on the floor. He eyed it sadly. She knew what he was thinking.

"I sent him upstairs," he simply said. Harriet nodded.

"I believe that we should get going then," he pointed to the fireplace. "I'm afraid you're already familiar with our destination."

They arrived at his office in a flash of green, sparks flying in the air and soot staining their clothes. Harriet dusted herself off with some annoyance, taking in the ordered chaos in the headmaster's headquarters. Everything seemed cheery, in motion – the place of a man that was constantly moving forward, and it brightened her spirits somewhat. She had felt so lost after Sirius' funeral, coming down from the vengeance frenzy of the days after his death that it felt refreshing to be in the master puppet's lair. There was a sense of purpose there, something she yearned for so desperately then. She wanted to feel like everything made sense again.

"These lessons are going to be a bit unorthodox," said Dumbledore, once they'd sat down. "I believe there's a great deal that can be learned from the past, which is why I spend a rather large amount of time looking into it."

"What I'm going to show you, Harriet, is Cecilia Riddle's past. I hope you come to understand how she came to be Voldemort. Hopefully you shall also gain insight into the workings of her mind, which I have no doubt that it will help you escape her clutches."

Harriet sat alone, downstairs. She absentmindedly gazed at the crackling fire, the flames twisting and turning and forming familiar shapes. It had been a long week. He'd come by in the evening and she had returned late into the night, her mind heavy with questions and impressions. She welcomed the distraction, this obsession that had taken over her; thoughts of mourning had changed into wild speculation about her greatest threat. It kept her focused, it kept her moving.

Now, after what had been the last lesson, she was reminiscing. Four visions of the same woman haunted her thoughts – like ethereal incarnations of furies that'd loom over her shoulder, whispering the wildest words she could think of.

She could remember Cecilia Riddle as a child, as she'd seen her from Dumbledore's eyes. The girl who would grow up to be Lord Voldemort had dark, knowing eyes, and cold fire in her veins. She knew that not long before that meeting Dennis Bishop had found an untimely end inside the furnace in the orphanage's basements, and she knew that Dennis Bishop had forced "the freak girl" to undress in front of the older boys. Harriet could understand the girl's reserve when Dumbledore, weird, tall, imposing Dumbledore, entered the room after Mrs. Cole introduced him.

Her little body was tense, and Harriet found herself almost reaching out to her. Could this be sympathy for the girl who almost looked like a mirror version of herself? Even if she knew Dumbledore's true purpose in the room, as she gazed into the memory-Riddle's eyes she could only think about her fear of having been discovered – because freaks are sent away, girls who don't do what they're told are sent away. Just imagine if you're both.

"Who are you?" she asked, cautiously, and Dumbledore replied. His gaze was soft and the light in his eyes dim – and Harriet felt like the man was trying to reach out but didn't quite know how to do so. He'd found Mrs. Cole's suspicions inside her unprotected mind, and had reserved judgment – but in the presence of the scarred, precocious girl, suspicions easily became facts.

He set the wardrobe on fire to prove his identity, to acknowledge their common abilities, and he'd asked her to give back what she had stolen. Harriet thought, rebelliously, what about what had been stolen from her? Could Dumbledore make those boys give it back? It was a spark in her green eyes that had been burnt out long ago in the charcoal black gaze of the little girl who'd just discovered she was a witch. But even if nothing could reclaim the innocence lost, there was yet hope to hold onto, and Harriet knew that Hogwarts and the magical world had given Cecilia Riddle another horizon in which she could thrive.

Dumbledore, present-time Dumbledore, had looked at her the moment they were back in his office and Harriet knew that her emotions were clear as the day on her face. Almost instinctively, she could trace the line that his words would follow, and with certain disappointment she realized she hadn't been wrong when he said that Riddle's evil was before her abuse at the orphanage. Harriet, if anything, that traumatic experience convinced her of the righteousness of her actions. Like a sponge, she'd entertained, she'd absorbed the traumatic and turned it into the hate that'd fuel her unparalleled cruelty.

Harriet knew otherwise, of course. It would be a long time until she could be convinced that evil was something other than the product of tragedies.

"She was conceived under the spell of Amortentia. Those who are born out of such heartless unions do come to be heartless themselves," Dumbledore said, and Harriet looked at him scandalized.

"What about all the kids who are born with absent fathers? Unexpected pregnancies because of one-night-stands? If that were true, headmaster, we'd have a huge Dark Lord problem going on," she argued. "Her mother loved her, that was clear to me. She loved her enough to carry her to term and try to give her the best place she thought she could give her. Cecilia wasn't born loveless."

Even under the relentless gaze of the man, she'd known the truth as she'd seen it in little Riddle's eyes – innocence that had been lost. Cecilia had known kindness before she'd been forced to strip herself of all her feelings.

Could it be, Harriet, that you're feeling compassion for Lord Voldemort?

Maybe. The second vision wasn't as easy to empathize with; as Harriet was reminded of Voldemort's words – I killed my first at sixteen. Dumbledore had taken her to the summer before Riddle's sixth year, when she'd taken vengeance on her family's lineage by murdering her entire muggle family.

"Is that so?" had been the only words Cecilia Riddle had uttered when, face to face with her uncle Morfin, she'd learnt that unlike what she'd believed until then, her father was merely a muggle. She looked hard as a diamond, unmovable and powerful; there was nothing subtle about her power, unlike the Cecilia Harriet had met down in the Chamber. This was her without the restraints of calculated posse, a rising Lord Voldemort.

The memory ended shortly after, and Harriet learnt of Morfin's wrongful conviction for the murder of the Riddle family.

The third fury that haunted her was Riddle in Hepzibah Smith's house, where the woman with flashing red eyes had posed as a charming, smiling seductress – all slick and silky smooth and with an unquenchable thirst inside of her that the older woman had been oblivious about. She took what she considered hers by birthright – and Harriet thought she could almost hear her voice again, her hand tightly grasping her hair, almost painfully… and she had understood that when Voldemort had marked her something inside the woman had begun regarding Harriet as another locket, another piece of her collection.

The thought made her quiver in fear – and at last, she thought about the fourth fury, that which had come into Dumbledore's office asking for a teaching position. Deep-seated malice, white skin almost translucent and red eyes burning bright – she looked like a demon, evil incarnate, sitting there amiably with the poise of someone who knew that she could turn everything there to ashes with a flick of her wand. That had been Lord Voldemort, already transformed, ready to take the world as her own.

Could it be, Harriet, that you're feeling compassion for Lord Voldemort?

Harriet thought about the journey the woman had made, from the little Cecilia Riddle to the wraith that had emerged as a Dark Lord in Dumbledore's memories. She felt some understanding for the woman, even if she would never excuse her actions – she couldn't deny the kinship, the similarities between them. Her mind wouldn't stop wondering about the what-ifs – what if Riddle had been adopted? What if she had had a happier childhood?

She stared at the cold, green fire in the fireplace and tried to search for answers she knew she couldn't find.

It was the night before her birthday and Grimmauld Place was alive with the screaming of its inhabitants. The fireplace flashed green constantly, almost like a heartbeat – it marked the coming and going of the Order members. There had been a raid on Andromeda Tonks' house earlier in the evening. A small but key meeting had been had, in order to organize the remaining forces within the ministry that were aware of and opposed Voldemort's silent takeover. More and more covert agents had been found, although none of them had been busted, as the pieces had been moved extremely carefully after Fudge had resigned. He had stepped down from his post following Lucius Malfoy's incarceration in what had been a huge media scandal; bribes and shady businesses had been uncovered, and amidst the increasing activity from the Death Eaters, he had caved in and followed Dumbledore's advice.

But someone within the Order had informed the Dark Lord of that crucial meeting, and she'd moved quickly to strike an important blow to her greatest threat. The Auror response had been slow to arrive; precious minutes in which two lives were lost. And then they kept pouring into Grimmauld Place, looking for assistance, for refuge, for backup. The kitchen had been made into a makeshift hospital from which they could be safely escorted to St. Mungo's; the living room, a place from where other Order members could jump into the fight.

The Golden Trio were told to stay put in their rooms upstairs, as the commotion dragged on. It had taken one grave and imposing look from Remus for Harriet to obey, and she let Hermione and Ron drag her upstairs to wait in silence for it to end.

"I feel so useless," Harriet finally said, her eyes looking to the night sky behind the window in Regulus' room.

"We all do," Hermione replied, "but we'll just get in the way. If they need us, they'll call for us."

"Do they know who told Voldemort about the meeting?"

"Probably Snape," Ron spat. "The greasy git was probably trying to get brownie points with his master."

"It would be really predictable if it was, don't you think?" Harriet said. "Snape's far more intelligent than that."

"And since when do you defend that git, mate?"

"I'm not defending him, I'm just saying that he knows that if something like this happens, all the eyes are on him."

Hermione cut Ron's reply. "She's right, Ron. Snape doesn't have anything to do with this. Dumbledore trusts him."

"For whatever that's worth…" Harriet muttered. "Maybe it was Fletcher. That bloke seems awfully suspicious."

"But he was in the meeting!" Ron exclaimed. "I saw him get through the floo, had a nasty cut over his eye as well."

"Well we don't know much about it…"

Ron's eyes then widened, and he suddenly snapped his heads towards Harriet. He had an expectant look which didn't sit well with the girl. "Mate, did you... did you, you know, have one of those dreams?"

"What?" Harriet asked, bewildered, before she remembered the dreams. "Oh! Uh, not since last summer. I have my Occlumency shields up when I go to bed, so…"

"Maybe… this is kind of crazy, but hear me out," Ron said, excitedly. "Maybe you could try to use that to get information, you know? Use your dreams to try to see what's going on…"

Hermione looked at her friend with her mouth open in shock. "Ronald Weasley!" she exclaimed. "Don't you ever think before opening your mouth?"

"What? What's wrong with it?"

"Do you really understand what you're saying?"

"Clearly, he doesn't," Harriet muttered, and fixed her eyes on her friend. "It isn't as simple as lowering my shields and waiting for the next vision to come. She can get these visions as well, and I can end up revealing stuff that she shouldn't see."

"Yeah, I know," Ron said, ignoring Hermione's stern looks. "You could try it for a week though. Maybe spend a week up here so if she gets a vision of what you're doing, it won't be anything important."

"You don't know what's relevant or not for her," Hermione answered as if she was speaking to a small child. "She could use the smallest details to her advantage."

"And besides, I don't want to get into her mind like that. It's not pleasant."

"Well, I couldn't tell, with the way you've been acting these past few weeks," Ron countered with a frown. "You've been obsessed with what Dumbledore showed you. Blimey, mate, you've even said you could empathize with her! You've been trying to get her point of view all this time, moping around the house – maybe you could put that thing – "he nodded towards her scar" – to some use and find some information for the Order!"

Harriet couldn't believe her ears. "How fucking dare you…?" she said, her voice low. "I'm not some bloody tool, Ron!"

"Of course you're not!" Ron shouted, "but you keep saying you want to help. Well, that's how you can help! I mean, what if you had already been using that connection for the good of the Order?! You could've prevented this attack!"

A sharp sound cut through the air. Harriet had stood up; in front of her was Hermione, cradling her hand, and Ron nursing his reddened cheek. "Fuck this," Harriet spat and ran out of the room.

The accusatory tone in her friend's words suffocated her. In the hallways of the Black ancestral home it somehow seemed more oppressive, as if the words could actually make the walls close in on her. There was a ringing in her ears, in her mind; and she fled however she could, passing by unnoticed amidst the chaos that was still going on downstairs.

She breathed a sigh of relief as she watched the dark sky above her head. In the cul-de-sac of Grimmauld Place, there was nobody on the streets except for a few stray dogs and some rival cats. Coming from the houses nearby she could hear the soft cacophony of the evening tv shows on the telly; sometimes accompanied by laughs, others by ignominious shouts. It was yet another summer night for those blissfully unaware muggles, those who were unaware of the conflict going on in the missing number thirteen, on the other side of their doorsteps.

She stretched her legs, and began to walk. It'd been a long time since she'd done that; she hadn't had that need ever since the Dursley home went up in flames. There was always something going on, something to hide from; and she was sure that if someone had realized that the Savior of the Wizarding World was walking on her own on a muggle street near midnight, she wouldn't have been able to cross that door.

She missed some things from her life at the Dursleys. Although if she had been given the choice to go back, she would probably choose to be incarcerated for life inside Grimmauld Place, she knew that over the years at her aunt's home she had acquired some semblance of freedom to go as she pleased. Out of sight, out of mind, that's how her aunt and uncle preferred it. That's why at Privet Drive, she had just been Harriet, the tolerable yet potentially dangerous nuisance. In Grimmauld place, however, she was always the Girl-Who-Lived; always shouldering everyone's expectations, always being taken care of like fine china in case she broke down before they could take her to exhibit.

It was draining. She was tired of the sadness, of the hurt; she was tired of the anxiety that Voldemort's menacing red eyes caused her, she was tired of the look in everyone's eyes – her, the slayer of Voldemort's lieutenant, a mere child of sixteen already prepared for battle. Everyone treated her like she was the key to their victory, like there was something about her that would make the difference in the war they were waging. She hated the feeling of the impending disappointment – and she hated it particularly because some part in her wished she could be the heroine her name had cracked her up to be.

She thought about Ron's words again – it wasn't like she hadn't thought about it before. She understood the advantage it'd provide them, but she couldn't help to ask… at what cost? She'd been angry that he, an outsider, had tried to take away her say on the matter, but she knew that it was because he didn't know. How could he? When she couldn't explain it in words…?

How could she tell them about the way her eyes would see through hers, how her mouth would move to form strange words, strange speech that wasn't her own? How could she tell them about the passing of the hours, so vividly and slowly, and the slipping consciousness of her own identity? That she feared that if she spent too much time inside Voldemort's head there would be nothing of her left except a dull copy of the Dark Lord's mind? How could she tell them about the mirror she'd keep beside her bed, and how her hands would clutch it almost painfully when she woke up, fearing that the face that greeted her wasn't her own?

There was much they would never understand, and that frustrated her. She stopped for a moment, squaring her shoulders as she felt that a weight had been lifted from her chest. A small cat scurried past her, and disappeared into a nearby alleyway. She wasn't far from Grimmauld Place, but she had wandered a good deal away from the house. She turned back to start her journey back, when she felt the sharp sound of boots slowly approaching her.

"It is a rather beautiful night for a stroll, I have to say," the familiar voice of the stranger said.

"How…?" Harriet asked, bewildered, as she turned around with her wand in hand. Voldemort smirked at her. She looked pale as a vampire in the dim glow of the streetlamps, her eyes glinting eerily through long black eyelashes. As she came closer, Harriet couldn't help but notice how tall she was – it only served to make her more imposing.

"Do put that away, dear, it tempts me," she said silkily, making a show out of taking the brother wand that she owned. Her eyes glowed menacingly, and Harriet relented, putting her wand back against her arm.

"How did you find me?"

"I am very resourceful, Harriet. Do not worry your pretty little head about it," she mocked.

The younger girl took a step back. "I thought you'd be busy with tonight's raid."

The woman lifted an eyebrow. "I could say the same for you. Did the werewolf Lupin sent you to your room to play with your toys?"

Harriet opened her mouth to answer the taunt, but she realized that there was nothing she could say against that. She'd been really sent to her room so she wouldn't interfere.

"Something like that, yeah," she went for the truth.

Voldemort looked at her for a moment, as if sizing her up, and held out her hand.

"What are you doing?"

"It is your birthday today, isn't it?"

"I'm not going anywhere with you. Much less to celebrate my birthday."

"I am merely offering you the illusion of choice because I am in an exceptionally good mood today. Do not test my patience, girl."

Harriet approached the woman. "I needed to try," she said, giving a rather too-casual shrug, before taking her hand.

Voldemort apparated them to a small place by the sea. The Girl-Who-Lived took a long look at their surroundings before she realized they were in the cliff that Dumbledore had shown her, where Cecilia had terrorized some of her classmates. She looked at the woman beside her, confused by her choice. "You're not going to throw me off this cliff, right?"

The dark witch chuckled. "It should offend me that you think I have so little creativity," she took a step towards the edge, and motioned Harriet to follow. "No, we are here because I need to show you something."

The moment the girl stood at arm's length, the dark witch snatched her up. With a tight grip on her waist they soon found themselves descending. Harriet felt her breath caught in her throat as the ground under her feet disappeared – they were falling, falling to the sea in a slow, calculated movement. Her body was tight against her, and she felt extremely aware of that – conscious of the woman's hands, of the little strands of hair that had got stuck in her lips. It was weird to see her up-close, it made her much more real.

When her feet had touched ground again, she felt she had recovered from the shock of Voldemort's proximity as well as from the sudden drop. They were in the entrance of a cave. The pungent smell of salt, iodine and rotting fish reached her nose, and she had to stop herself before she heaved. She felt Voldemort take her hand again, and before she could ask what the dark witch was doing she felt an acute pain in her palm.

"What the fuck?!" she screamed as her palm was roughly pressed against some inscriptions carved into the wall of the cave. Her blood dripped down, and as it touched the coarse, wet surface of the rock a series of lines began to light up. Runes, Harriet thought to herself, hysterically. It would have been a marvelous sight, the entirety of the cave covered in the glow of those mysterious lines, if it hadn't been for the grim sacrifice it'd demanded.

Something roared deep behind the rock wall covered in scripture, and the walls began to part.

"Ouch," Harriet said, cradling her hand and looking for something on her person she could use as gauze. Voldemort smirked at her knowingly, and healed the cut with one flick of her wand.

The Girl-Who-Lived looked at the other woman with little trust, before following her into the newly opened hall. It was almost a circular dome, rock clearly carved unevenly. She wondered if that had been there before, or if Voldemort had made the chamber herself. A big pond extended before them, almost a lake; its dark waters stirred almost menacingly as water drops fell from the humid roof. In the middle, she could see an island, with an urn of some sort placed in the middle.

"What is in that thing," Harriet asked, "and why did you go all this trouble to hide it here?"

"Patience, Harriet," Voldemort said with a smirk, "is a virtue."

"It's not so much that I'm impatient as I am apprehensive," the girl muttered, holding her healed hand up as an example.

"I promise that it won't hurt you."

Harriet said nothing, but thought that the words were the height of the bizarre coming from her. The woman turned back and walked forward, until she was almost touching the black waters of the lake. "You will make way for us," she hissed, softly, to the surface in front of her.

Something began stirring deep into the body of water, and its surface began to shake as untold creatures moved beneath it. Harriet got closer to the dark witch, peering into the depths of the water to try and figure out what was going on. When she got a look of the figures moving in the dark, she took a step back, hand on her mouth as she stifled a cry.

"Come, Harriet," Voldemort said cruelly. "The Inferi won't hurt you."

A catwalk the width of a man's back had been arranged for them on the bare surface of the lake as the Inferi had climbed on top of each other. Unmoving, the pale flesh glittered eerily in the dim blue light of the cave. It was some sort of invitation; they were supposed to walk over the bodies to get to the other side.

"Is that-?" Harriet tried to ask, horrified, but she was finding it hard to find her voice.

"The corpses of my enemies, animated by dark magic to service me," the dark witch chuckled, a wicked gleam in her eyes. "They are rather handy, aren't them? I made these during the first war."

"This is…" the girl took a step back, her eyes fixed on the clammy white skin of the bodies thrown before her. "This is disgusting. Why are you proud of this?"

"The complexities of the magic, the raw cleverness of making my enemies serve me in death," Voldemort said, advancing towards her. "Surely you can see that?"

"Of course I can! But before that I see their loved ones! And the indignity… they're supposed to be resting in peace."

"I wonder…" Voldemort cocked her head to the side, and lifted a finger in the direction of the lake. A figure clumsily emerged from its depths, standing unevenly in front of them. Its skin was sallow green; chunks of flesh seemed to be melting off his face. His whitened dead eyes stared straight ahead, unblinking and unflinching. Harriet felt herself shiver in revulsion.

"I don't suspect that you recognize this man," the woman said. "But he used to be an Auror. I killed him in 1968 after my Death Eaters had raided his home. In his basement, they found two little muggle girls he had kidnapped. One of them was dead, the other had to be put down."

The younger girl grimaced, understanding what had been left unsaid. "You're not going to convince me every single one of them deserves his fate."

"No, but I wanted to see how your expression changed when I told you that," Voldemort said. "You don't think he deserves to rest in peace anymore. Now think about the rest of them and what you know about their lives."

"Not everyone is guilty of something!"

"Not until someone decides they are," Voldemort smirked at her. "I am their executioner and judge, and as the victor I decide their fate. This is not a matter of morality, Harriet, it's how the engine of war functions."

She turned back to face her path of Inferi. "My word is law," she said. "Because I have the power to make it so. Harriet, it doesn't matter what your childish conceptions of the ethics of war say, because you are unable to do anything about it. But if you had the power, you could undo all of this…"

She looked back at her. "You could be the merciful and benevolent judge you would like to believe you are. Until then," the dark witch gave her an eerie smile, "follow me."

Harriet's body began to move on its own – she tried to make it stop, but her limbs wouldn't answer her, and step after step she followed the older woman. She couldn't help but shiver as her feet pressed on the soft, half-rotting corpses, feeling the bones crack and groan and move under the skin. When she arrived in the small patch of sand in the middle of the lake, she regained use of her limbs, and dropped down on all four, gagging.

"If you could allow yourself the opportunity…" Voldemort almost whispered, "I could give you the power to undo all of this."

Harriet looked at her, bewildered. "What makes you think I'd ever accept that?"

The dark witch laughed, truly delighted. "You have already done it once. I offered you Bellatrix and you so readily took her life… Didn't that make you feel powerful?"

Harriet paled. Voldemort pressed on, "You remember then, good girl" she mocked her. "Dare I ask what has been going on inside that head of yours since then? Maybe you relive that moment again and again, thinking each time that it felt right to kill her? Maybe your wand itches for the next one to cross your path?"

"I am not…" Harriet stood up, her hands clenched in fists. "I am not like you."

"Of course you are not! When you kill, you are rewarded with a shiny badge. I, on the other hand, am labeled a subversive and a murderer."

"That's because they fear you."

Voldemort's eyes flashed. "That's because they fear me; you are absolutely right, Harriet," she purred. "But most of all, they fear my power."

"My offer will stand, girl," she said. "I shall teach you everything I know."

"I'm worried about the payment."

Voldemort chuckled, and directed her eyes to the urn in front of them. An inferi rose slowly from the water, answering a silent command, and walked past the two witches. It took the urn and began drinking from it, and it was then that Harriet realized that it was filled with a strange green substance. The liquid seemed to come alive when it touched its lips, and a searing smell of scorched flesh reached her as the green water sizzled and spit.

The inferi crumbled into a mass of bones, which then dissolved into dust. Voldemort reached inside the urn, and grabbed a small, familiar locket that was at the bottom.

"This is where you kept it?" Harriet wondered out loud, suddenly understanding all the macabre games that had to be played to reach the mysterious urn. They were protections, rather aggressive ones, against potential thieves.

"Where I used to keep it, yes. This isn't the original."

She opened the locket; inside of it there was a small note with the initials "RAB".

"Regulus Arcturus Black?" Harriet blurted out, without thinking.

"Exactly. I had wondered what had happened to the Black boy after his sudden disappearance – it seems that the little scoundrel was taken by my Inferi after stealing my locket."

"How do you know that? He could've run away."

Voldemort's answer was the rising of a figure near the shore, a familiar shape Harriet had recognized from old pictures she'd found at Grimmauld Place. For the first time, she was face to face with Sirius' little brother. She felt a cold shiver ran down her spine when she realized that was the same man that had once slept in the bed she had taken.

"You seem awfully protective of your jewelry…" Harriet blurted out, turning to look back at the dark witch. She couldn't take the sight of the youngest Black anymore.

"It isn't just jewelry. My locket, and Ravenclaw's Diadem which you so kindly procured for me… they all contain piece of my soul."

Voldemort took out her wand, and Harriet felt a trickle of fear make her way down her back. The Dark Lord played with it, almost innocently, but it didn't make her any less nervous. "Do you know what a Horcrux is?"

The Girl-Who-Lived shook her head.

"It's an object in which you store a shard of your soul. It grounds your spirit so that part of it remains on Earth – you could never truly die. It's a triumph over death."

Harriet eyed the trinket in the woman's hands suspiciously. "What if you were to destroy all the Horcruxes?"

Voldemort's eyes gleamed wickedly. "I would be mortal again," she admitted. "Don't make hasty plans yet, Harriet. Very recently I found out something curious about that scar of yours."

The younger girl stared, confused, at her. "What?"

"Only magic that draws its powers from the soul is powerful enough to make it split. One such spell is the killing curse – you're familiar with its effects. When I tried to kill you, and in the process of my disembodiment after the curse rebounded, a shard of my soul split, attaching itself to the nearest living thing. "

Harriet paled. She felt a weight had dropped in her stomach, and her breath left her. She couldn't be serious, it couldn't be real. But then again, in its own distorted way, it'd explain their connection. "I am a horcrux?" she asked in a slight voice, her lips trembling.

"You are my horcrux," Voldemort said with no small amount of pleasure in her voice. "Your existence, dear Harriet, ensures my survival."

"For neither can live while the other survives…" Harriet whispered, suddenly remembering the words of the prophecy.

"Ah, yes, that wonderful, annoying thing," Voldemort said. "We're halfway to the point where it shall become null… you see, it takes a certain cleverness to nullify the designs of fate. It is, after all, a simple force of nature not unlike a storm, and so with the right spell, at the right time, it can be controlled."

Harriet took a step backward, a bad feeling coming over her. "I thought- you said that the prophecy didn't…"

"My previous self thought herself bound by the prophecy," Voldemort interrupted her. "I am still partially bound by it – something I strive to correct. And for that, I need your help."

"I don't want to help you."

The dark witch chuckled and waved her wand, effectively restraining the younger girl. "Oh, believe me, you do." Harriet began to panic as the older woman came closer, until she reached out and grabbed her by her chin. "What I will reward you for this, girl, is something that most men would kill for."

She forced the Girl-Who-Lived to her knees, and loomed over her. In one of her hands she held the fake necklace that Regulus had left in the urn and in the other her wand, pointing right into Harriet's forehead. The younger girl felt something wash over her, something cool and slick that seemed to penetrate her skin and reach the very depths of her soul.

"Just as expected. There's still enough dark magic inside that old house that your soul hasn't mended yet," Voldemort said with a self-satisfied smirk. Harriet looked up at her in horror, her eyes widening. She wouldn't…?

Just as she was about to protest, in panic, she was hit with a blinding light – and then it was excruciating pain, sizzling and bubbling in her throat, her veins, every single strand of hair. She was aware of the raspy sounds emerging from her throat as she screamed herself hoarse. Beneath all the pain, she was dimly aware of something being sucked out of her, excruciatingly slow.

And then something popped, and she plunged into darkness.

As her eyes opened, she thought that she'd never had such a strange experience waking up. Everything felt lighter, ungrounded; part of her was watching it from outside her own mind, part of her was watching everything from the inside. She remembered the pain, and then the blessed darkness… and now, where was she?

It was a dimly lit room. It was dark outside, and the full moon's light filtered through the wispy willowy curtains. Even with the enchantment produced by the white stone floors and the delicate, elegant decorations, she could feel something sinister about the room. She got up, and realized she was in her underclothes, and even in spite of herself, she felt a blush coming over her cheeks.

She walked to the double doors that promised to be the entrance to a walk-in closet, and rummaged inside until she found something she could wear. As she came out with what she believed to be a black dress (she could hardly tell what was what in the dark), she realized that someone had come into the room.

She hastily hugged the fabric, trying to hide her modesty when she saw Voldemort standing near the entrance with a pleased smirk.

"Why do you bother?" she asked. "You have nothing I haven't seen before."

Harriet let out a squeak as the woman advanced and quickly scurried over to the closet. She hastily put on the dress, which was a size too large for her. She walked out, looking mortified and avoiding the older woman's gaze. She didn't see her waving her wand at her, and let out a surprised gasp when she felt the dress' fabrics tighten, adjusting to her size.

"It looks lovely on you," she said, and motioned for Harriet to join her over some tea, which had been brought into the room while she was in the closet. The girl complied, somewhat doubtful of the other's intentions, but exceedingly aware of the hunger she was feeling.

When she sat down, she noticed the Slytherin locket hanging from Voldemort's neck, resting on the front of her white dress. "You…" Harriet said, remembering their conversation. "You took your soul out of me?"

Voldemort lifted an eyebrow. "That would serve no purpose at all. What I did was take a piece of your own."

Harriet stared at her, shocked beyond words. Voldemort smiled, "I do hope you enjoy my birthday gift, Harriet. You're now immortal."

Her poison green eyes focused on the locket, before she realized that it was the real one. She could feel Voldemort's dark and poignant aura all over it. Her first thought had been that she'd used the fake one as sort of a twisted parody, to contain her soul. But then she remembered the prophecy, and if Voldemort's endgame was to nullify it…

"You have a piece of my soul inside of yourself?" she asked, bewildered.

"I do," she said calmly. "As I said, I did both of us a favor. We're both free of the prophecy's whims, as of now."

Harriet felt she ought to be all sorts of angry right then, but she just felt a sort of detached calm. "You give me immortality, you betray the secret of your own immortality to me… I am your enemy. You killed my parents. Don't you think you're underestimating me? Even without the prophecy, I could still choose to kill you."

Voldemort's red eyes flashed. "You are absolutely right. I have only given you power you could use against me. But then, again, maybe you are the one underestimating yourself."

"You're saying that I don't want to kill you?"

"I'm saying that all your life you've led other people dictate what you ought to think, feel or do," Voldemort took a sip of her tea, and stared straight into her eyes with an unnerving intensity. "On the other hand, I have never held you up to any expectations. I have only given you choices. While they – your friends, your family, Dumbledore- have done nothing but treat you like a doll, I have given you power."

"You've used me."

"And I've made it quite clear to you that I was doing so. I'm not making the case that I'm a good woman; I'm simply trying to rid you of the notion that any association with me has to be negative."

"You just made a horcrux against my will," Harriet said. "You killed the Dursleys. You were indirectly responsible for the death of my godfather. You killed my parents. Honestly, I just can't see how anything good could come out of you."

Voldemort lifted an eyebrow. "I made you immortal, I gave you freedom from a prophecy. I got rid of your abusive relatives so you would be able to live with your godfather. I made your name eternal. "

"You just can't see it, don't you?"

Voldemort smiled knowingly. "You are unable to see it, as well."

Harriet sighed. "You want me to help you with the war."

The woman laughed. "I was able to bring an entire country to its knees on my own, well before you were born. No, I believe I don't need your help. But you are incredibly useful to me, which is why I try to keep you as close as possible."

Harriet wanted many things in her life, but perhaps the number one in her list was peace. And for her, that necessarily implied Voldemort out of her life - preferably dead. With the woman so intent on offering power, she thought about the age old saying keep your friends close but your enemies closer and decided it might be a damn good time to try and change tactics. She'd take everything the woman had to offer, even her life.

"I won't be able to keep you away from me, won't I?" she asked, sighing. "So at least let me get something out of this. I'll take that offer."

Voldemort smile's accentuated with certain malice. "Very sensible of you, Harriet."

"What's the catch?"

"You shall be absolutely honest with the Order about our lessons," at that, the Girl-Who-Lived eyed the woman with a certain perturbed curiosity. "You will inform them of every single one of our meetings."

"W-what?" Harriet stammered. "Isn't that a bit… innocent for you?"

Voldemort eyed her with a raised eyebrow. "Would you prefer me to ask for you to take the Mark?"

"No!"

"I didn't think so."

Harriet eyed the woman suspiciously, but didn't say a word. She knew it would be pointless to try and guess what the real catch was about their deal right then and there. Voldemort took the copy of the Prophet that had been left next to the tray, an old copy from some days before. Her eyes skimmed over the paper as the ghost of a smile took over her lips. The Girl-Who-Lived didn't ask what she was reading, because she had a fairly good idea what was making her so satisfied with herself.

"You might want to look at this," the older woman said, her red eyes fixing on Harriet's face with some wickedness. "I believe you will recognize her."

The girl stood up, and walked to the woman's side with clear uncertainty. As she peered over her shoulder, she took a good look at the page Voldemort referred to.

"Oh, what an absolute…" she whispered, as she stared at Cho's smiling face over the sensational headline written by Rita Skeeter, the trashiest journalist in the Prophet. Over the moving picture of her former girlfriend, big bold letters said I DATED THE GIRL-WHO-LIVED. "I can't believe it!"

"When asked about the candid details of what went on in the bedroom, Cho blushes and looks aside. 'She's into a lot of kinks,' she confesses, 'there were whips and chains'," Voldemort read. "My, Harriet, I would have thought you to be more of a vanilla girl."

The Girl-Who-Lived looked at her (former?) nemesis bewildered, her face red as a tomato. "I'm not discussing my preferences with you!" she sputtered. "Not that any of that is true! She was the one who always wanted to try weird stuff."

"And did you enjoy it?" Voldemort asked with an eyebrow raised.

"Some of it, yeah," Harriet answered sheepishly, before she realized just who she was talking to. "Why am I even talking about my sex life with you?"

"I did say I would teach you all," the woman said pointedly.

"Not that stuff!" Harriet took a step back, her blush reddening further. Voldemort stood up, teacup and newspaper forgotten next to the tray, and approached the girl. Before she could realize what was happening, the Girl-Who-Lived had her back to the wall. Voldemort's body, all of her curves, were pressing against her – and Harriet was finding it hard to tell herself that she wasn't enjoying the closeness.

The woman – who was a good head taller than she was – looked at her, and a small smirk began to grow on her lips (which were never ever painted, but somehow looked naturally red and shiny). Harriet dreaded what was to come, even if there was something deep in her belly that was reacting to her. The older woman's body was tight and lean, her breasts just the right size, and if she hadn't been who she was, the younger girl would've already had her hands wandering up the hem of her pencil skirt.

Voldemort lowered her head, one hand coming to barely ghost over Harriet's left cheek as she whispered to her right ear. "You could be surprised," she said, her hot breath ghosting over the girl's neck.

Harriet's heart was beating in her ears by the time Voldemort stepped back. "We will meet once a week," she said casually, as if she hadn't been cornering her just moments ago. "This," the woman conjured a ring wordlessly, and presented it to her, "will grow hot exactly one hour before it'll portkey you to me."

Harriet took it, eyeing the ring carefully before she slipped it on her index finger. It was a simple silver band. It began to shine, dully, and she looked up questioningly at the other woman.

"It'll take you back to Grimmauld Place," she said.

"Wait! What about the horcrux?" Harriet asked. "Any side effects I should know about?"

Voldemort smiled patronizingly before the portkey activated.

"Miss, can you throw me the ball?"

Harriet turned back, a bit disoriented. A few feet away from her, a little boy was looking at her expectantly. The idle mornings of Grimmauld Place were filled with children running in the cul-de-sac; smiles with wide gaps and scrapped knees, a sensation of quiet ecstasy under the warm sun.

She handed the little guy the ball before stepping into the field of the notice-me-not charms that surrounded the space where number 13 was hidden. With a hushed thought of the location of the Order's headquarters, she saw the slim line separating numbers twelve and fourteen grow, squeezing itself through the cracks to leave room for the grim façade of the former Black ancestral house.

Inside the house, she was met with silence. A growing apprehension stirred in her stomach; she'd thought before about charging right into the kitchen, probably to find Remus to tell them the truth. But now that she was surrounded once again by the stench of old wood and the metallic tang of dark magic that she'd come to associate with the house, her feet would simply refuse to obey. As she moved, they directed her towards their own intended destination – Regulus' room.

When she touched the frame of the door, she thought about his silent figure emerging from the depths of the lake. She could almost imagine his yellow-green bloated fingers covering in rotting grease and miasma the carved oak, eating away the remnants of his past in the house like the poison that Voldemort had used to hide her horcrux.

She felt like she could replace him, like a twisted reflection in the mirror of his wardrobe – he, who had been Dark in his life, had died trying to procure the secret to Voldemort's immortality, and now she, who had been Light all her life, would live on ensuring her enemy's survival.

It didn't have to be that way. If she could only play her in her own game…

She looked into the mirror, realizing she was still wearing Voldemort's dress. Her immediate reaction was to reach for the tshirt and the shorts that she'd left at the foot of the bed a few nights before – but something made her stop.

She had to turn the lights on – in spite of the time of the day, she didn't want to be deceived by any shadows casting a bad light on her features. When she looked into her reflection, she thought she'd see the same old emerald green eyes staring back at her from behind her glasses, almond-shaped eyes framed by thick dark eyebrows above and twin purple bags under them.

Instead, she was met with flecks of red in her irises and a certain slant to her eyes. Her cheekbones seemed sharper, her jaw smoother. Her lips, which had been plump and ready to smile, had a certain cruel slant to them. The changes were minimal, all in all, and only the kind that only she and those of a very perceptive nature could point out, yet it was there.

She was horrified at the thought that she was undergoing the same transformation that Voldemort herself had gone through.

A noise startled her, and she turned back to see the figure of Albus Dumbledore standing in the doorway.

"I'm terribly sorry to interrupt you, but I'd hope you would have some time for this old man."

"Uh," Harriet said, feeling awkward all of sudden. "I do guess we need to talk. Can you wait for me outside for a second? I want to change," she held up the tshirt and shorts that she'd grabbed before.

"Absolutely," the man replied, closing the door behind him.

It was just the three of them in the kitchen – Remus, Albus and her. "There's nobody else here?" Harriet asked.

"We weren't sure if the location of the house had been compromised," the werewolf answered. "So we had everyone evacuate. What happened, Harriet?"

The girl sighed. "Voldemort had another surprise for me. After arguing with Ron I went out for a walk, and somehow she was able to find me. She made me go with her to a cave… somewhere, near the sea," Harriet noticed that Dumbledore's eyes shined in recognition and so she waited for him to say something. When he didn't, she continued, "it was a place she'd made to protect something… a horcrux. A piece of her soul."

"She's immortal," at that, Remus' eyes widened. "That's her secret. She stores part of her soul in an object, so even if her physical body is destroyed, her soul remains on the Earth as part of it is kept in the horcrux."

"It is not true immortality, Harriet," Dumbledore explained. "As you were able to witness in your first year, the soul is rendered to a mere spirit, a cursed existence… The fracture of the soul warps the mind. The end result cannot help but be something pathetic, pitiful."

She could hear the disgust in his voice, which made her feel like laughing. A bitter smile took over her lips instead.

"But she survived," Remus pointed out. "And was able to come back to her full power."

Harriet nodded. "The only way to weaken her is by destroying these horcruxes."

Dumbledore looked at the both of them gravely for a moment before speaking up. "I hadn't meant to tell this to anyone, as it was a secret that was burden enough for me."

"I looked into the reason of her survival the night she tried to murder you, Harriet," Dumbledore confessed, "as my own personal experience, if you'll pardon the presumptuousness, indicated that only certain kinds of magic would've been able to save her from death. Soul magic, and particularly the use of horcruxes, was one of the first in the list."

"I was convinced that the diary that had come into the possession of the late Miss Weasley was one of such items the moment that you came back with news of her return. I began to work under the hypothesis that there would be more – Cecilia indulges her ambition with an almost foolish disposition, so if it was within her means to reach seven horcruxes she'd certainly advance towards it. Seven is a particularly strong magical number that would tempt her hunger for power."

Harriet nodded. "The locket that was in Regulus' room was one. The tiara that she had me fetch from Hogwarts was another."

Dumbledore beamed at her. "Indeed. Yet there's two other items that I believe form part of her collection – Marvolo Gaunt's ring, which you might have noticed in the memories I had you witness, and Helga Hufflepuff's cup, which was reported missing from Mrs. Smith's inventory after her death. Of these, the Gaunt ring is still missing."

"Yet the cup…" Remus began to ask before he widened his eyes and stopped himself. "That's the cup we found with the Carrows a month ago!"

"Exactly," Dumbledore directed his gaze towards the younger girl, who was visibly lost. "During the arrest of the Carrow siblings, we found several dark objects within their possession. One of them was Helga Hufflepuff's cup, which was strangely devoid of magic."

Harriet furrowed her brow. "But… that'd mean that…"

"Before that, it had been clear to me that Voldemort had been on a mission to recover all her horcruxes," Dumbledore continued. "I was led to think, like anybody else, that it had been for safe-keeping purposes, but the finding of the cup forced me to reconsider."

"She's… destroying the horcruxes?" Remus asked, confused. "What for? That'd only make her mortal again."

Harriet bit her lip, feeling sick. She still wasn't sure she wanted to tell them; she didn't know if the words would even leave her mouth.

"She's not merely destroying them," Dumbledore corrected Remus. "She's merging her soul parts again."

"Not all of them…" Harriet whispered, looking down.

"What do you mean?" Remus asked gently.

The girl took a moment to compose herself, and stared into the man's eyes. She brushed her bangs to the side, revealing her scar.

"I'm the sixth horcrux."

Both men's eyes widened. Dumbledore seemed to lose his cool for a moment, calculating blue eyes twinkling away as his mind seemed to process her words. "Your scar…" he whispered. "A piece of her soul split, unconsciously, and was lodged inside of you."

Harriet nodded.

"I… I don't understand this at all. If Harriet were her horcrux and apparently her last one, why would she let her go?"

"I'm not sure…" said the girl. "But… there's more… she took me to the cave, I figure, because she knew that Regulus had stolen the Slytherin locket I found here. I guess she wanted to see for herself what had happened… he was killed by her inferi, and replaced the real locket with a fake replica."

"Regulus?" Remus asked, bewildered. "The heir of the Black family? Death Eater extraordinaire Regulus?"

"He must've had a change of heart at some point," Harriet said timidly. "The thing is, she began to tell me about the horcruxes right before she hit me with a spell…" her emerald eyes were trained on Dumbledore's eyes. "She knew that we were still bound by the prophecy, and she wanted out. She wanted to break it. And so she made a horcrux… she took the piece of my soul that had been fractured when I killed Bellatrix and put it inside herself."

Dumbledore's eyes dimmed. "That is…" he whispered, and his hand flew to his mouth. It was the first time that Harriet had ever seen her headmaster struck speechless. He took off his half-moon glasses, rubbed his eyes in a tired gesture, and put them back on.

The girl felt hands on her shoulders, and she was met with Remus' worried stare. Dumbledore let out a very worrisome sigh. "Once again I am both fascinated and frightened by her cleverness."

"But… can't we do anything about it?"

"Harriet, the only known means to destroying a horcrux is to destroy its vessel. But as it is, it is not your body that houses her soul but your own spirit – meaning that if somebody were to kill you, you would simply find yourself in the same bodiless state that Voldemort experienced for eleven years, carrying her soul with you."

"You're saying that Voldemort is actually immortal now?"

Harriet looked at him for a moment, trying to process his words. Something within her broke and she started crying – big loud sobs made her chest spasm, her face reddening by the second as tears began to flow. She was hugged and she hid her face in Remus' robes – she had had so much hope that she'd be able to do something, that she was finally taking action…

"I thought…"she managed to say," I thought that there'd be a way for me to do something… I had been so fucking terrified of her every time… and I didn't seem to do anything but HELP her! If I hadn't given her the locket, the tiara… if I hadn't been so fucking gullible…"

Harriet looked up to Remus. "She offered to give me lessons, and I accepted. I thought that maybe I could do something… learn something that could help me fight against her. I was so tired… so fucking tired of feeling helpless…"

Remus kissed the top of her head. "Shush, Harry," he whispered soothingly, in spite of the haunted look in his eyes. "None of this is your fault. You're just a child. We should've been there for you."

"I'd have never thought…" Dumbledore muttered, pensively. "Not in my wildest conjectures I would have been able to imagine her taking on this path."

"What do you mean, Albus?"

"The Cecilia I knew would have never shared something as precious as her immortality with another human being," he explained briefly, without going into detail.

"Rest assured, Harriet, that there are other ways to stop her. But we need your full cooperation to be able to bring her to justice."

Facing Ron and Hermione again proved to be a challenge. They didn't know, of course, of horcruxes, of immortality, of her being now Voldemort's protégé. But it wasn't so much their reaction that she feared, but her own feelings of shame. She had fought so valiantly when Ron had merely suggested that she be used as a tool (and she had done so not to prove a point to him, but rather to herself) and now she came back, two days later, an official shiny tool for both Dumbledore and Voldemort.

She had met again with the headmaster, this time in his office at Hogwarts, where she'd been told to play along with Voldemort for the moment ("I daresay, Harriet, that if there is one positive side to this situation is that you will be schooled by the most brilliant witch that has ever graced these walls"). They'd agreed that both hers and Voldemort's status as living horcruxes would remain a secret, only to be known by the two of them, Remus, and Snape.

"Snape?" Harriet asked.

"Yes. Voldemort intends you to be a double agent, much like he is. But unlike him, you don't have the experience to deal with the intricacies of having to deal with two factions, so he will be there to assist you."

"Is this so she doesn't manipulate me into revealing things I don't want to reveal?"

"I believe so."

"The same could be said about you, though."

Dumbledore chuckled. "That's a wise attitude, Harriet."

And with that, the headmaster had left her with the choice of telling her friends.

"Harriet!" Hermione cried the day the Weasleys moved back into Grimmauld Place. Harriet had been barely out of the bathroom when she found her arms full of one frizzy-haired brilliant witch. Her mouth cracked into a smile, and she hugged her friend dearly.

"Mate…" Ron's apologetic voice sounded behind. Hermione released her, and Harriet turned back to see the red-haired boy, whose eyes were saddened with the burden of guilt. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said those things to you. I didn't really understand anything about the situation…"

"But you do, now?" Harriet asked.

"Yeah. I'm sorry."

"Apology accepted," the girl said, embracing the other boy.

"You have to tell us where you went," Hermione said. "We were so worried about you."

"Nobody told you guys?" Harriet was bewildered. Both of them shook their heads. "Voldemort sort of kidnapped me."

They opened their mouths in shock. "Yeah, well…" Harriet said sheepishly. "She found me some blocks away from here, and then took me to a cave somewhere. It was the place where she'd originally kept the locket I found in Regulus' room."

"There…" Harriet hesitated for a moment. "We talked. She's gotten into her mind that she wants to make a dark witch out of me. She offered to give me lessons."

"What?!" Ron exclaimed. "This is too bizarre."

"I know, but she… uh, it sort of makes sense. Dumbledore said that she saw me as an extension of herself. You know she has this weird narcissistic complex… and when I killed Bellatrix, she took it as a sign or something."

"It does make sense," Hermione mused. "As long as she thinks she can make you turn to her side."

"So, how come she took a 'no' as an answer? I wouldn't have guessed You-Know-Who to be the kind to accept that," Ron asked.

"Well the thing is… I said yes."

Both of her friends screamed their confusion in unison. "What?!"

"Well, like you said Ron, it's really hard to say no when you know how Crucio-happy she is… but I also thought it'd be useful. How ironic it would be if everything she teaches me ends up being used against her?"

"Harriet, this isn't about teaching you," Hermione reasoned. "It's about trying to manipulate you. She's just using this as an excuse to keep you close."

"I know. That's why I have to be careful." Harriet saw the indecision in her friends' faces, and decided to cut them off before they went on any further. "Look, Dumbledore knows it. He told me to go on with it. He's going to have Snape help me in case anything happens."

Ron arched an eyebrow. "Well, isn't that reassuring…"

"If Dumbledore knows it…" Hermione bit her lip.

Harriet tried to smile reassuringly. "It's going to be okay, guys. Don't worry."

Everyday life at Grimmauld Place resumed. A little pang of sadness, almost nostalgia-like, coated everything in the same way that it had done when she'd come back to the house without Sirius. There was, however, something different now: a certain something in the air, like waiting in silence for someone to finish a tale; the anxious expectation of words after a long pause.

She waited for Voldemort to snatch her from the house at any moment. She remained a thought in the back of her head, ever-menacing, even as she enjoyed the banalities of laughing with her friends late into the night at some silly thing, or while she and Remus cooked in silence for their guests. The first summon, however, didn't happen until a month before the school term started.

She materialized in a small clearing. The moon shone bright, coating everything with a pale silver glow. Above her, the rustling of trees seemed to sing enchantingly to her – marked silences when the wind would stop blowing were the words to a symphony she couldn't quite discern. Amidst the otherworldly foliage of the forest in black and blue, she saw Voldemort standing with her back to her, long black hair spilling on her shoulders like poison.

"Come closer, Harriet," she ordered. In the dim light, her pale skin became marble-like; a white so repulsive that made her think of the Inferis in the cave and tales of wicked vampires.

The girl took measured steps – feet making a ruckus as she tried not to disturb the peaceful sounds of the night. When she arrived to Voldemort's side, she immediately noticed a small nest next to her feet. In it, three snakes intertwined themselves in a mass of tangled bodies.

"They hatched yesterday."

"What are they?"

Voldemort looked at her with amusement. "Basilisks."

Harriet tore her eyes away from the hatchlings. She didn't know if, being so young, they already had their killing gaze, but she wasn't willing to risk it. Her eyes focused instantly on the Dark Lord's face.

"Their eyes become functional after puberty," she explained. "A process of maturing which lasts eight months, starting now."

Harriet, a bit reassured, turned to look back at the snakes. "You bred them?"

"I did," she said. "The last basilisk I had was killed by a twelve-year-old brat."

"If only there was justice in the world," Harriet said, rolling her eyes.

"I am justice," the woman said, amused. "Yet I am not blind and there's no balance in my hand, and that troubles you."

"What you do isn't justice," Harriet replied, frowning. "It's indiscriminate killing."

"Is it?" Voldemort's soft reply seemed to cut through the air. "I have yet to find myself taking arms without a purpose."

The girl looked at the little baby basilisks for a moment. "Purpose is not enough to turn murder into justice, you know. What if I killed these three baby snakes claiming it was some sort of justice over all the things you've done to me? There'd be three dead snakes, and still no justice."

"What if you took care of them? What if you raised them to make them act against me? Would that, as an act of creation rather than destruction, be justice?"

"Why does everything have to end in murder with you?"

"Isn't that what you would rather do? Kill me to avenge your parents, your godfather?"

Harriet thought about it for a moment. "No, that's not what I want," she said, slowly, as she felt a realization coming to her. "I want you to be remorseful, and I want you to stop."

"I'm sorry to say then, girl, that there's never going to be justice for you."

Voldemort's words might have seemed final, but in her eyes there was another tale being told. Her cold gaze regarded her with no small amount of curiosity, making Harriet feel strangely exposed. Her words had ignited a spark of amazement; although she hadn't noticed it, the concept of redemption and forgiveness being so foreign to Voldemort in the way Harriet offered it: naturally, naïvely.

"Is that all it'd take?" She asked. "For my crimes to be atoned… should I bend my knees right now, bow my head and ask for your forgiveness?"

"W-well," Harriet stammered, widening her eyes incredulously. "Yeah, I guess. If you really meant it."

"Would you know my repentance by some tears in my eyes?" The woman took a step closer to her, her red eyes turning bright and adopting a very strange look - and it took Harriet a moment to recognize the changes in her face, so foreign was the expression on her. Her lower lip almost trembling, she looked full of sickly sweet remorse. "I am sorry, Harriet," her voice had deepened and cracked, and if the girl hadn't known any better she might have actually believed her act. "I am so very sorry for everything I've done."

"I know you're acting," she said, taking a step back. Voldemort's entire countenance shifted as swift as lightning, and she was back in her full glory.

"Yes, you are rather clever when you want to," the woman replied with a hint of sarcasm. "But you wouldn't have known the difference had the circumstances been different. Even now, your first instinct was to trust me."

"It wouldn't have changed anything."

Voldemort laughed, and it was a dry, short, malicious laugh that send shivers down Harriet's spine.

"You overestimate yourself, Harriet," she said. The girl felt the shadow of doubt crept inside of her - she was aware that she was a bit too soft at times, and that had got her into trouble before.

Harriet watched with apprehension as the woman approached the snakes, and carefully removed one from the nest. It was the smallest one; all black scales and blind eyes and the pathetic look of a small child that tries to be intimidating when faced with complete strangers.

"Well then, as it appears you're in no hurry to breed an army of basilisks to take your revenge against me, you may have one," Voldemort said. "It has no name yet."

Harriet looked at her, then at the basilisk moving stupidly in her hands, and opened her mouth in shock.

"W-what? I'm not taking care of a basilisk! Where would I keep it? I don't even know how to take care of it!"

Voldemort paid no heed to her complaints and passed the small snake on to the girl, her hands doing a small gesture as the snake came into contact with the Girl-Who-Lived. "It's as easy as feeding it dead mice until it begins to ask for bigger prey. And when that time comes, you'll find it's learnt how to do it on its own."

Harriet looked at the small snake in her hands, frowning. "I'm not keeping it."

"It's part of your lessons, Harriet."

"You're just taking petty revenge for the Chamber," she said, morosely. Voldemort didn't reply, but the corners of her mouth quirked into an amused smile, and Harriet knew that she was right. "What sex is it? Agh, who cares. I'm going to name you Tom."

"Tom? Such a common, muggle name for a basilisk," the disgust was evident in the Dark Lady's voice.

"I know," Harriet said with a cheeky smile. "What do you think, Tom?" she asked the snake, who seemed to enjoy the warmth of her hands and had curled up into a small ball. It hissed contentedly, and the girl took it as a sign that Tom liked his new name. "He doesn't have a problem with it."

Voldemort sent her a distasteful look, but chose to leave it at that. "Very well then, take care of your Tom. Remember to bring it with you for our next lessons." Harriet felt a bit perturbed by the tone she used, as if she was her teacher and they were both at Hogwarts. "I believe this shall be all for today."

"That's it?" Harriet asked, bewildered. "No Dark Arts? No curses?"

"You sound strangely disappointed."

"I-I'm just surprised."

Voldemort smirked. "There will be time for that later, don't worry about it."

Showing up at Grimmauld Place with a small basilisk in her hands was a novel experience to everyone, and she earned herself more than one alarmed stare before Dumbledore appeared to assure everyone that the snake was still harmless.

"The bastard is enjoying this," Remus muttered under his breath. "She knows what the basilisk did to you in the Chamber… She's trying to…"

"I know," Harriet said, looking down to the snake in her lap. "That's why I'm trying not to let it get to me."

"And you are doing a wonderful job, I must say," Dumbledore said jovially. "Why, the snake has already imprinted on you."

"What?"

"Yes, my girl, she's recognized you as her mother and owner. She wouldn't be as calm as she is if that wasn't the case."

"She? It's a girl?" Harriet asked, and her headmaster nodded. "Oh damn, I named her Tom."

Dumbledore chuckled. "I don't see why a girl cannot be named Tom. Nevertheless, as much as I want to leave you to enjoy your new companion, I'm afraid there's some things I'd like to discuss."

"Oh boy, here we go," Harriet frowned. "I'm not going to like this, right?"

"Well, it depends," Remus interjected before Dumbledore could speak. "Albus spoke to me this afternoon, and I thought it sounded logical… but still, it's up to you."

"What are you going to ask me to do?"

"Well, considering the lessons…" Remus winced at his own words, "We are frankly on edge about Voldemort's latest strategy. Whatever this is… is not something she's ever done before. And we don't know where she might go with it."

Harriet waited for a moment for him to blurt the words out. She knew what he was thinking, what they were all thinking. She felt a pang of betrayal, even though part of her acknowledged that it was a sensible thing to do. She looked between Remus and Dumbledore, and then slowly set her gaze upon Molly and Arthur, their eldest sons, Kingsley, Tonks...

"I'm a danger, aren't I?" she said, when no one else dared to say it.

"Danger is a bit of a strong word," interjected Tonks, clearly uncomfortable. "We do need to take certain precautions."

"Harriet, I would be very disappointed if you thought we were asking you to leave us behind," said Dumbledore. "In no way we are proposing you should cut off contact with anyone in this house."

"We have a safe house," Kingsley explained, "somewhere where we can guarantee both your safety and the Order's".

Harriet parted her mouth to say something, but something in her convinced her it was a futile action. They were partly right, even if the most cynical of minds would point out that the Order's HQ were hers and that it'd actually make more sense for the Order to look for a new place for their base of operations. She fixated her gaze on Remus again.

"Where is this house?" her question was followed by yet another difficult silence.

Harriet said nothing when she met the stern eyes of her potions professor, and simply allowed herself to be led into what would be her room from there onwards. Her frosty politeness was enough to deter any petty comments that might have been doing the rounds in the older man's head, but even if nothing had been exchanged but a few snappy gestures, she could swear she could hear his mind saying something to the effect of "I'm terribly sorry that this humble room might not be up to your luxurious standards, Potter".

She sulkily sat on the mattress (which, for all of Snape's imagined remarks surely was better than the one she had had in Privet Drive), and slowly chewed all that had happened since the previous day. Resentment coiled up around her torso like a slow, lazy snake. Its bright red eyes flashed with reproaches and paranoia.

Maybe it wasn't just that her contact with Voldemort made her dangerous. Maybe it was also that she had killed two people already, that she had used the dark arts. Maybe it was that she didn't like Dumbledore in that blind, devotional way that the Order seemed to prefer. Maybe it was that she was now a half-traitor, and as such she should go stay with the other half-traitor, Snape.

And what about her friends? Hermione had certainly voiced her objections, and Ron was adamant that she should sneak back to Grimmauld Place. But it was a show of bravery, (maybe?) as in the end they had simply hugged her and told her they'd see her in September. She felt alone.

Tom nudged her. "H-hungry," it hissed, "mum".

Harriet reached over to the other side of the bed, taking care not to disturb the small basilisk that was starting to utter its first words. She took a velvet bag out of his backpack, and grimacing, produced a dead mouse out of its depths. The basilisk was ecstatic, its little fangs glowing in the dim sunlight.

"At least someone is happy over here," she muttered, and watched it eat the dead animal.

She was left alone until dinner time. A short, curt rapping on the door resounded in the quiet house, and Snape's voice called her to the kitchen, sounding like he might very well combust spontaneously out of sheer embarrassment.

She contemplated pretending to be asleep for a second, before realizing that even if it meant having to share dinner with Snape, she needed not to be alone with her thoughts for a change. Her decision surprised him as much as it surprised her, as the telltale red shimmering of a heat-preserving charm told her he'd expected her to ignore his call.

She said nothing, and sat in front of a very unpromising stew. However, upon the first bite she was in for a shock.

"Oh, wow," she said, eyes looking up to the man in front of her, "this actually tastes amazing".

Snape raised an eyebrow at her.

"It doesn't look very aesthetic," she said.

"I'm a man of practicality. I have no time for frivolities."

Harriet looked around, noting that indeed, the whole place had a very spartan feel to it. "Do you ever do anything besides potions and spying?" She blurted out, suddenly, before she realized how awful it sounded. "I mean, like a hobby or something."

He regarded her for a moment.

"I don't have time for that," he said, after a while. "I like to read, however, when my schedule allows it."

"That must be very stressing," Harriet said, taking another mouthful of the still steamy stew. Snape grimaced at her when she had to spit out part of the concoction, her tongue burning.

"Merlin, girl, do you have any care for manners at all?"

"What do you mean?" Harriet asked, "It's still really hot."

"Didn't your aunt teach you to eat small bites?"

"My aunt would never let me eat with them."

The man said nothing. The rest of the meal was spent in silence, with the occasional frivolous comment exchanged for the sake of politeness. However lovely the food was, dinner was an awkward experience. She muttered a small thanks after finishing, and got up to wash the dishes.

"It's not necessary," Snape said, stopping her. "They are spelled to clean themselves."

Harriet nodded and went back upstairs, thinking all the while that it would've been more like him to simply have her wash anyways, if only to annoy James Potter's daughter.

Harriet remembered Privet Drive. The white, crocheted curtains and the million peering eyes behind them. The perfectly manicured gardens, full of exotic-sounding flowers bought at a Marks and Spencers. The cream facades of its thirty-something houses, all looking like cheap copies of one another. She walked in circles around the housing estate, feeling like a dirty stain on that picture perfect life.

Now it was as if her dirty, ragged hand-me-downs had slipped into the landscape, and they covered the windows, even the doors in some places. The drizzle almost wanted to bring some life into the surroundings of Snape's town, whispering lush greens into the cracks of the musty brickwork of his neighbour's houses.

As Harriet approached the stream that ran at the side of the town (a greyish, horrible fog hung barely above it) she got the impression that at some point, it must've been a very picturesque, English-postcard town. But the looming shadowy shape of a factory upstream spoke volumes about its history, its greys seeping into the architecture, the sky, the faces.

Strangely, she didn't feel out of place. She was a stain in a stained town. Perfect choice.

"A penny for your thoughts?" said a voice. Harriet almost jumped out of her skin, startled, and turned to see an old woman standing behind her. She was carrying an empty grocery bag with her.

"I don't want to ruin your day," Harriet said with a weak smile. The woman waved her concerns away, "ah, it's not very cheerful around here anyway. Maybe you might want to help a little old lady do her shopping?"

The girl accepted, and walked alongside the strange woman. She certainly didn't seem very magical, but still she had an aura about her that made her stand out. "So what's in your mind, girl?" the woman asked.

Harriet thought about staying silent, particularly because it'd be hard to explain to a muggle the entirety of the very magical situation she was in. But something in her was dying to spill her worries onto someone else, even if they were a complete stranger.

"My godfather was recently murdered, during a… fight. A battle. I was there… I watched him die."

The old woman's eyebrows shot up, and a genuinely tearful look came over her face. She delicately placed one hand over her mouth, the other reaching out to the witch. "Oh dear, I'm so sorry," she whispered.

Harriet felt very moved by the old woman's sincerity; yet at the same time her kindly, caring demeanour maneouvered her back into the oubliette of victimhood. She felt disgusted at the idea of somebody feeling sorry for her - it made her feel powerless, exposed. So iron came over her voice, and her eyes became hard when she added "I don't think I deserve that compassion," she admitted. "I chased his killer right then and there, and killed her."

The statement shocked her audience, and something ugly coiled in her stomach. She just had to press a little bit more. "I actually enjoyed it… I know it sounds so callous and cruel, but it just felt so good to do justice. I didn't feel powerless."

Harriet shot a small, bitter smile at the woman. "I know though that these feelings might be wrong. People always warn against these kind of things, right? In tales and poems, right? I'm waiting for someone to judge me. "

The woman bit her lip for a second, her eyes adopting a lost look. "One finds in time that there's no really justice, just things that happen," she said. "I gave birth to three stillborns when I was younger. I used to think that it was God's punishment for my sins, but in time I came to accept that it was all a sham. We do what we do and things happen because that's the way things are."

Harriet almost blurted out the obligatory "I'm sorry", but she figured out that she'd have to extend the same courtesy she was asking for. Instead, she went straight for what was on her mind. "What did you do that you felt God had to punish you so harshly?"

The woman seemed to ignore her at first, and Harriet thought she might've annoyed her. But the elder was simply looking for something in the mostly deserted streets. She made a gesture so Harriet would follow her, and they went into the winding pathways around the church.

"I killed three men," the woman softly whispered. "One of them died of heartbreak, drank himself to death because I was cruel enough to play with his heart. Another one died trapped in a machine at the factory you can see outside the town; he was exhausted from working double shifts, because I refused to work. He fell asleep at the assembly line, and that was it for him. The third one died while on our honeymoon; he was rich, a businessman, and I asked him to bring me over to South America. He was bitten by a bug and contracted an endemic illness. He died shortly after."

"I kept thinking that I had to be punished for that, for the killing of three innocent lives. But if the death of my three children were my punishment, my men's deaths, wasn't that a punishment of their own to them? For what?" The old woman looked at her with a knowing smile. "I figured out it's all bullshit. I was vain and stupid, and that killed them; but they were also vain, and stupid because they fell for my pretty face, my voluptuous body. Who was to blame then?" She let out a laugh. "I guess that you could say that it's up to me to decide it, because I'm the one that's still standing."

Harriet felt almost like tipping a hat to that. The woman continued, "So take these as the words of an old harpy of a woman: don't waste your time asking the world to judge you. Do what you think is right, and make sure you're the last one standing so you can tell the world later on that the others were losers. Or winners, it doesn't matter; what matters is that it's up to you."

"Thanks," the witch said, sincerely. "For the most enlightening shopping trip I've ever had."

"That snake will not be allowed in Hogwarts, as you should be aware," Snape said one evening, as Harriet sat outside playing with Tom.

"Well considering that I'm the one that slayed the last basilisk in the castle I almost feel obliged to repopulate it," Harriet looked up to the Potions master, who was standing a few feet away from her. The day was sunny and ugly, and the harsh light made everything look more miserable, particularly the man in front of her. He frowned, and she relented. "I know. I cannot leave him anywhere though, he'll die."

"He can stay here."

Harriet narrowed her eyes at him. "Yeah, I bet basilisk fang is rather precious, isn't it?"

Snape barely smirked. "Its skin is very useful."

Harriet petted the contented snake, who (now at the impressive size of a large python), was busy collecting the sun's rays for the day. "What do you think, Tom? Would you like to stay here?"

"No… " the basilisk hissed back. "It smells horrible. The water is tainted, the soil is tainted."

"I don't think I can take you back with me to Hogwarts."

"I can hide, I'm good at hiding," to prove his point, he slithered under a nearby bush. "You can't see me now."

"I can, and soon you're gonna be too big for that anyways."

Harriet looked over at Snape, who was impassively regarding their hissed conversation. "I'm worried about his diet. What is he going to eat when he's twenty foot tall? I've been telling him that humans are completely forbidden, but I'm afraid he's going to forget that the moment he's hungry."

"I would think wild boars would be acceptable. Even then, he wouldn't have to feed very often. Only once a week, at first. And when he reaches adulthood he will eat even less."

"A second option would be to just hand him over to me. I have more than a few wild boars to feed him."

Harriet could've jumped out of his skin. Snape showed his surprise by a faint little jump he made the moment he recognised the voice. "My lord," he went on to say, dropping to a deep bow.

"Rise, Severus" Voldemort said, coming forth from the shadows of the yew tree that dominated the garden. "An interesting little development, this plot of Dumbledore's. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Desperate measures for a desperate man," the man said in a low voice that betrayed none of his feelings. Harriet was feeling weirdly disconnected at the scene - her eyes zooming in on Snape. She was hyper-aware of all the little twitches in his face, so bizarre was it for her to actually see the double-agent in action. Her friends and her had always held the dark mark on his skin against him, but even as common knowledge it was for all of them, it still came as a shock to actually see him play his role in front of Voldemort.

"I wouldn't call him anything but a very cunning man," the dark witch said. "After all, in all this gamble and with Sirius Black out of the picture, he knows the safest place for his little weapon is with you," at that, she smiled cruelly at Harriet. "I do agree with him."

Harriet thought that Dumbledore might be a bit daft if he seriously thought she'd be his "weapon". She was extremely wary of both the man and the organization he headed.

"How are you liking Cokeworth so far, Harriet?" Voldemort asked.

"It's fine," the girl said, weirded out by the small talk. "As gloomy as Grimmauld Place, but with less dark magic around the air."

Voldemort smirked. "Is that so? Are you getting withdrawals already?"

Harriet looked at her, confused. "She has," Snape answered, and at the young witch's look he expanded, "You have been feeling unwell this week."

"That was because of…" Harriet faltered and reddened. "Pre menstrual syndrome."

Snape cocked his head, "yes, but the potion I gave you should've taken care of that. It was your magic, not your body, going into shock because of the lack of dark magic in the atmosphere."

"Shouldn't I be shaking and feeling cold? Isn't that what withdrawals feel like?"

"Normally, yes," answered Voldemort. "However, women's bodies are different, and thus react in a different way." She looked for a moment towards Snape, then back to Harriet. "You have been taking good care of her… I'm curious, have you gone visit your family yet?"

Harriet felt the words hit her like a punch in the stomach, immediately thinking about the Dursleys. Was she making a stab at the family she murdered? "What? What family?" She didn't notice Snape flinching as well.

"Your mother's family, of course."

"You killed them, remember? Privet Drive. A long way from here."

"I mean your muggle grandparents," Voldemort replied without batting an eyelash at the girl's cheek. "Your mother's childhood home is not far from here."

That took Harriet by surprise. Her head snapped towards Snape. "You knew them?"

The man was silent for some time. His eyes darted once towards Voldemort, then back to her. "I did. They lived by the river."

"You knew my mother? When you were children?"

"I grew up with her."

To say Harriet was shock would be an understatement. She didn't know where to begin; she felt angry that Snape had kept that from her, but she was also conscious that the man's tight responses pointed to something happening between him and her mother, something that seems to have been painful.

Voldemort took advantage of the small pause. "Then, perhaps," she said silkily, "Severus would like to accompany us for the lesson. I believe he's more familiar with the history than I am."

Severus nodded curtly, but it was evident it was a forced gesture. Harriet looked at him worriedly, then back to the dark witch. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

It wasn't a long walk according to Severus, but Voldemort insisted on apparating there, disgusted at the idea of having a stroll through the ugly muggle town. They found themselves by a small cottage right next to the river - which was black, its shores replete with garbage. The grey, muddy day did no favours to the sight, and Harriet kept wondering how her colourful, witchy mum could've came out of that town (that it was Petunia's childhood home as well, however, was no wonder).

Snape seemed to understand her thoughts, and said, "It wasn't this way when we were growing up. The factory and the trash came later on."

Harriet wondered what remained of the cottage from the time her grandparents had owned it. It was inhabited, its owners clearly muggles as well. A second floor had been added, according to Snape, and the entire facade had been renovated. Harriet felt weird then, trying to search for some sort of connection to the place and finding none. "There's nothing here," she said.

"Which is why I didn't mention it," Snape said in a low voice.

"Fair enough," the witch said. She turned around and looked at Voldemort. "Is that all?"

"Oh no, we're just starting. If you will," she said, extending an arm towards her. "I believe you'll find something in our next destination."

Harriet let herself be apparated into a quiet, small graveyard. An old, tired grey church dominated the background, surrounded by dark green trees. She thought about how easily she was accepting Voldemort's hand when she brought her along these small trips, and felt a small pang of disgust. It was true, as her friends had said, that it was a very effective manipulation scheme.

Voldemort led the way, walking on the soft wet ground. The tombstones were big slabs of stone, mostly, covered in faded writing and green and brown moss. As they made their way through it, Harriet divined some of the years inscribed in the stone; seventeenth century, eighteenth century… and more modern tombs, marked by granite and printed gold lettering, sculptures carved with laser.

Finally they stopped at one of the modern tombs. Harriet read the inscription and gasped. It was her parents' grave.

"After all this time…" Voldemort said. "We're all reunited again."

And it was true, Harriet realized. Her parents, her, Voldemort; all the characters that played out the drama in that fateful night. She kneeled in front of the tomb, feeling the cold dew bite through her jeans. She stared, feeling numb, at the stone; it was all that physically remained of her parents.

"Why did you bring me here?" Harriet asked, looking back at Voldemort.

"So you could ask questions," the older witch replied.

Harriet looked back at the golden inscriptions. She wondered how it would've been like to have been raised by them. She realized, as her mind began to construct images of a red-haired woman and a messy-haired man, that all she knew about them was through other people's impressions of them. And they were so fickle, so partial; a tragedy it was, for all the images she could come up with, they were only fantasies, and the truth still remained. She didn't know her parents. She had no connections to them, only a brief glimpse into the night they were murdered.

"Questions, then," Harriet whispered and stood up. "What would they think of me now, visiting their graves for the first time because their murderer brought me here?"

Voldemort smiked. "Do you want me to give you an answer concordant to your views on absolute morality or do you want me to tell the truth?"

Harriet gave her an exasperated look. "The truth."

"Very well. Harriet, we were on opposing sides of a battlefield. Even if I hadn't been intending to kill you, I would have targeted them. And they were looking to kill me at any chance they had, they certainly tried it three times."

"It was nothing you would call 'personal'; rather, we simply saw the wizarding world heading in two different directions. They believed my views to lead to absolute destruction, I believe theirs to lead to a similar conclusion. I do not regret their deaths. I certainly cherish them, if it means that there's less probability of us heading into absolute annihilation of the wizarding world."

"Do you think that all this killing really justifies it?"

"I do. They did. And you do as well, even if you're reluctant to admit it."

"Pray enlighten me."

Voldemort waved her hand across her face, and the air shimmered briefly before a mangled face appeared in place of hers. Harriet gasped, a hand covering her mouth as she confronted Barty's disfigured appearance once again. "Do you believe your killing him was justified?"

"He was trying to kill me," Harriet said weakly.

"He was. And you could say a well aimed hex at his head was an accident," Voldemort waved her hand and Barty's countenance disappeared. "But in the end, it boils down to a conflict of interests. He wanted you dead, you wanted to stay alive."

"There's no comparison."

Voldemort laughed. "Wrong. It's all about survival; sometimes it's instinctual, sometimes it's a very logical process, but in the end what we fight for is life - to stay alive, to ensure our future."

Harriet had to back down. The older woman's words rang true, even if she didn't want to admit it. "I think that your parents would've liked you to survive, " Voldemort said after a moment. "They cursed me to a half life for twelve years because of that."

"They wanted you to have a future," Snape said. Harriet fixed his eyes on him, having momentarily forgotten that he was there. The man was not look at either of them, nor towards the tomb. His eyes were lost somewhere in the dark of the trees. "I was there the night Lily… your parents died," he admitted. He looked at her, "I held your mother's body while you were crying in your crib. I left when I heard Black's motorcycle approaching."

"And that's when you went to Dumbledore, and sold your life to him in exchange for a chance at revenge," Voldemort said cruelly, smirk in place. "You were furious that I had broken my promise; I had killed Lilly Potter."

"What?" Harriet exclaimed.

"Oh, yes, about the prophecy," Voldemort acted as if she'd forgotten about it. "I meant to tell you this at some point, but it was dear Severus who came to me with news of this prophecy he'd overheard. And he pleaded me to spare your mother, Harriet, which I tried to do. But dear, cunning Lilly, she knew that her best chance at protecting you was by performing very, very ancient soul magic. And she sacrificed herself."

"Why did you care so much about my mother?" Harriet looked to Snape, a bit confused, a bit angry. He avoided her gaze, and she became irate. "Answer me, Snape," Harriet said through gritted teeth, "it's the least you can do after having played so much with my life."

The man clenched his jaw, and seemed to draw in a big, heavy breath. "I love her," he said, his voice cutting across the empty cemetery. "I've loved her since we were children."

Harriet gasped. "You had a funny way of expressing that love," she said.

Voldemort put a hand on her shoulder, and leaned in to whisper in her ear. "Do you want revenge?"

The girl looked at her, surprised and confused at her question. "No," she answered back in Parseltongue, "I believe he punishes himself enough." Voldemort smiled, and moved to stand in front of her Death Eater.

"We have one more destination to cover, Severus" she said to him. "However I don't think you're feeling very well at the moment. Maybe you should stay back and a have a moment to yourself."

Harriet, as much as she wouldn't admit it to anyone, was glad to get out of the cemetery and out of the presence of her potions professor, and as she now knew, the man that had begun the entire chain of events that had led to her parents' death. She needed to get him out of her sight until she figured out what to think and feel about him.

Voldemort took her hand once again, and they apparated away, leaving behind a distraught man alone with his thoughts.

"It's not quite as whole as your grandparent's," Voldemort said as they arrived to a dusty countryside road. In front, a crumbling shack was poking out of the vegetation, covered in graffiti.

"This is Merope Gaunt's house," Harriet said, surprising the older woman. "Your mother's house." Voldemort looked at her questioningly, and the Girl-Who-Lived obliged. "Dumbledore told me about your past."

That seemed to infuriate her. "Trust the meddling old fool to peek into my past," she said. "Indeed it is Merope's house. The last descendants of the Slytherin clan, living in their own filth, reduced by incestuous marriages and poor intelligence to living almost like muggles."

Harriet took one look at the shack, and one look at the woman in front of her, and before she could think better, she blurted out "for all your championing about purebloods, you can't deny you'd have ended up a squib if you had been your uncle's daughter instead of Riddle's."

Voldemort gave no signs of reacting to the comment, other than blasting the girl against the nearest tree. Harriet tried to catch her breath, but was hit instead with half a dozen cruciatus curses, one after the other.

She was left twitching on the ground, spitting blood from her mouth. She'd bitten her tongue out of shock at the sudden barrage of spells. "Mind your words, girl," Voldemort said in a very low, very angry voice that reeked of danger. "I can break your body and remake it without any trouble. I will have you living the rest of eternity without a tongue, if you choose to remain this impertinent."

Harriet was shaken by the sudden brutality - a stark reminder of the woman's true nature. All her silkiness and seductive word games had managed to make her forget about Voldemort's bestial spirit. She felt stupid for letting herself be played around like that - and she felt angry. Angry at the attack, angry at her own powerlessness. In a split second, her twitchy fingers clutched her wand, and she found the force to come through the pain and the after effects of the torture curse. Adrenaline fueled her muscles as she raised herself from the ground and blasted a curse towards Voldemort.

The woman's red eyes barely widened, and a cruel, sadistic smirk grazed her face. She repelled the curse effortlessly, and let out a high pitched laugh. "That's much better, dear."

Harriet felt like cutting the smile right off her face. Something inside of her burst open, and like a crumbling dam, all these aggressiveness came out of her, flooding her mind with the same bestial violence which Voldemort used against her opponents. The dark arts Sirius had taught her in the library at Grimmauld Place cascaded down from her lips, and her wand went back and forth as she attacked and defended herself.

Voldemort took it all in stride, elegantly avoiding and blocking; almost dancing to the tune that Harriet was playing. Her eyes lit up like torches, the smile growing from sadistic to savage. As the battle grew more intense, so did Voldemort's attacks, and Harriet was easily overpowered by the older woman in no time. Two spells at once hit her straight in the chest, and she slumped backwards, feeling the air leaving her lungs and her vision darkening.

As soon as she felt like she might fall unconscious, a hand closed around her neck with surprising force, and she was brought back. Her wand was lying on the floor, next to her.

"Very well, Harriet," Voldemort said with evident glee. "I daresay you're learning very quickly."

"However," she said, bringing their faces together, "next time try to be a little more creative. I appreciate the brutality of a well-casted disembowelment curse, but they are easy to foresee."

Harriet felt spent, pain coming back to her limbs. The closeness of their bodies added to the static in the air, and she felt something coiling inside her stomach. "Fuck you," she spat at the woman. "I hate you."

"Quite the contrary, darling," the dark witch whispered, her eyes flicking to Harriet's lips, "You don't know anything about hate. Love, on the other hand..."

"You're mad," Harriet said, trying to get out of the firm grip the woman had on her. Her struggling only caused her to fall deeper into the embrace, with the woman snaking an arm around her to press Harriet's body against hers. "Are you saying that I…?"

"Perhaps," a cruel smirk on her face. "You're obsessed with me."

"I could say the exact same thing about you!"

"Then you know why I say it," Voldemort's hold tightened. "I have part of your soul; you are my horcrux. We are bound to obsess about each other because we are each other."

Harriet whimpered when she felt her lips crashing against the older woman's. It wasn't a pretty kiss; it was possessive, aggressive. Their tongues intertwined like serpents trying to strike at each other. Her hands took hold of Voldemort's shoulders, and digged in very painfully. She felt almost compelled to take the battle into her mouth, and show the other one what she was worth.

Voldemort almost growled into her mouth, and threw her to the floor. Her body trapped her against the ground, and Harriet moaned when she felt her breasts pressing against hers. Soft, silky black hair obscured her vision, and she could only see the other's red eyes gazing at her with unabashed lust.

She snaked an arm around the woman's shoulder and grabbed a fistful of hair, and yanked her head back, exposing her throat. Voldemort growled, and thrust a hand down Harriet's pants, long fingers easily reaching for her clit, pressing down and slowly rubbing circles on it. Harriet's teeth loosened their hold as she was overcome with the buildup of her arousal. It felt so fucking good, and it was so fucking wrong, and she couldn't get enough of it.

Harriet tried grabbing onto the other woman, but her ministrations became more intense, and soon a hand was keeping her down on the ground by the throat, while Voldemort's fingers were thrusting in and out her pussy. Her body was on fire, incensed with pain and arousal. She was taken almost to her climax, and then down again, a maddening rollercoaster that caused her to kick the other woman off her.

She wouldn't be able to say how she did it, but she climbed on top of Voldemort and with her magic she kept her against the ground, trapped. Her head went down, and her tongue soon was licking and sucking and going up and down, and in and out the other woman's pussy. The grip loosened and Voldemort reached over to press Harriet's face into her cunt, her arousal building up until she climaxed.

Harriet was then grabbed by the throat once again, and dragged until she was eye to eye with the other woman. She was pressed against the other's body, a hand in the back of her head, another one around her waist. The Girl-Who-Lived felt like a doll that was being cradled by a cruel little girl.