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The soft glow of the gas lamps lining their small Islington flat cast long shadows on the walls. Tom stood before the antique cheval mirror, his reflection sharp and severe in the low light. His suit was impeccably tailored, the dark fabric clinging to his shoulders, a stark contrast to the threadbare robes he’d worn for years at the orphanage. He was a man now, no longer the sunken-eyed boy Harriet had found. He ran a hand over the silk of his cravat, the deep emerald fabric a perfect match to the dress she wore.
She appeared behind him then, a whisper of movement in the mirror. The dress was a column of shimmering green satin that pooled at her feet. It clung to her, outlining the curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts. The neckline dipped low, revealing the pale skin of her collarbones. Her black hair was swept up, leaving her neck bare, vulnerable. His eyes latched onto the pulse beating there, a frantic little rhythm beneath the skin.
"Nervous?" Her voice was light, a teasing lilt to it. She moved to stand before him, her reflection now obscuring his own.
He did not answer. He was watching the way the light caught the gloss on her lips, making them look wet and swollen. He wondered what they would taste like. Sweet, probably. Like the honey she stirred into her tea every morning.
"Here, let me." She reached up, her fingers brushing against his jaw as she took the ends of his cravat. Her touch was fire against his skin, a searing brand. "You've tied it all wrong."
He looked down at her. From this vantage point, he could see the faint constellation of freckles across the bridge of her nose, the way her lashes cast shadows on her cheeks. She was so small. When she had first taken him in, a wary, undersized fourteen-year-old, she had seemed a giant. A force of nature. A goddess come down to earth, his prayers finally answered after so long. Now, he towered over her, and the top of her head barely brushed his chin.
"You've gotten so tall," she murmured, her gaze flicking up to meet his. There was a genuine surprise in her eyes, followed by a wave of something else. Pride. It was a recent but constant expression, that damnable pride. "I can't believe you're the same boy I met all those years ago."
Her fingers worked at the knot, smoothing the silk, her knuckles grazing the column of his throat. He could feel the warmth radiating from her body, smell the clean, floral scent of her skin. It was a scent he associated solely with her, a mix of expensive soap and something uniquely Harriet.
Intoxicating.
"Almost done," she said, her tongue poking out to wet her bottom lip as she concentrated.
His entire being narrowed to that single, thoughtless gesture. He imagined closing the distance between them, covering her mouth with his, tasting the slick wetness of her lip gloss. He pictured backing her against the wall, hiking that green satin dress up her shapely thighs, and showing her exactly what kind of man she had created. Not her brilliant pupil. But a monster of her own making, one that belonged completely to her.
"There." She patted his chest, her hand lingering on the fine fabric of his suit. "Perfect. You look so handsome, Tom. Everyone will be so impressed. The Malfoys, the Lestranges... they won't know what hit them."
She thought this Ministry ball was for him, a chance to network, to secure a future. She didn't understand. He already had his future planned. It stood right in front of him, smiling, utterly oblivious. She was his guardian, she had told him once. Her responsibility. But responsibilities could shift. Power could change hands. He would take care of her, just as she had taken care of him these past few years.
He gave her a small, practiced smile, the one he knew she liked. The one that reached his eyes, made his cheeks slightly dimple.
"It’s all your doing."
Her answering smile was brilliant, full of a misplaced faith that churned something dark and possessive in his gut. She took his arm, her fingers curling around his bicep.
"Ready to go?" she asked.
He looked at their reflection in the mirror.
Perfect, she had called him.
They were perfect next to each other.
He could be perfect for her, if she wanted.
"I've been ready for a long time," he said.
The Ministry's Atrium had been transformed. The Fountain of Magical Brethren was gone, replaced by a tiered, overflowing champagne fountain that glittered under the light of a dozen enchanted chandeliers. The vast, vaulted ceiling, usually a deep, serious blue, was now a swirling nebula of silver and gold stars. An orchestra played a swelling waltz from a balcony draped in velvet, the music weaving through the din of conversation and the clinking of glasses.
Tables groaned under the weight of roasted pheasants, glistening towers of shellfish, and pastries spun into impossible, sugary shapes. The air was thick with the scent of expensive perfume, rich food, and melting candle wax. Witches in jewel-toned silks and wizards in their finest dress robes moved through the hall like pieces on a chessboard.
Abraxas Malfoy was the first to greet them, his pale hair slicked back, his smile thin. "Harriet. A pleasure." His eyes, the color of ice, flicked to Tom. "Riddle. I trust you are enjoying the celebration of your many... achievements."
"Abraxas," Harriet said, her hand still resting on Tom’s arm. "You're looking well."
Her presence at his side was a shield. It made these interactions tolerable. He nodded once at Malfoy, a dismissal. They were met next by the Lestranges, then a gaggle of lesser purebloods whose names he’d already committed to memory and discarded as unimportant. Through it all, Harriet was a radiant, guiding force, steering him through the crowd, her pride in him a palpable thing.
"You should speak with some of them," she murmured, leaning close. Her breath was warm against his ear. "Your peers. Walburga Black is over there. And I think I saw Alphard. It would be good for you to... mingle."
She thought this was a game he needed to play, a ladder he needed to climb. She didn’t see that he intended to burn the entire structure to the ground. Before he could respond, a man with a sharp suit and silvering temples approached them. He moved with an easy confidence that drew eyes, his robes the deep plum of a high-ranking official.
"Harriet, my dear," said Undersecretary Tiberius Fawley. His voice was smooth, cultured. His gaze met hers directly, appreciative and intelligent, taking in the sweep of her hair and the green of her dress with an open admiration that was somehow more predatory than a simple leer. "You are, as always, the most striking woman in the room."
Tom felt a muscle in his jaw twitch.
"Undersecretary," Harriet said, her smile polite, yet missing its usual warmth. "Thank you for the invitation."
"Nonsense. The Ministry is always honored to host a talented witch like yourself." Fawley took her hand, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles. "And this must be the young prodigy, Tom Riddle." He turned his assessing gaze on Tom. "Exceptional marks at Hogwarts, I hear. A bright future ahead of you."
The conversation was a blur of platitudes. Tom stood silent as Fawley focused his attention entirely on Harriet, his questions about her work at the Ministry a thin veneer for his efforts to hold her gaze, to keep her hand in his. It was then that two figures detached themselves from a nearby group.
"Tom, darling. Cat got your tongue?" Walburga Black’s voice was a silken drawl. She stood beside him, her dark eyes glittering. With her was Druella Rosier, who handed him a flute of champagne.
"Fawley's laying it on rather thick, isn't he?" Walburga murmured, nodding toward the pair. "He's old, but I suppose I see the appeal. Mother says he'll be Minister one day."
"He is handsome for his age. All that power... and silver hair, think he has a silver tongue to match?" Druella giggled.
Tom took the glass, his fingers tight around the cool stem. His attention was fixed on Harriet. Fawley was smiling, leaning in to say something for her ears only before gesturing toward the dance floor.
"...just one dance? For an old admirer?" Fawley was saying.
Harriet’s polite smile wavered, but she gave a stiff nod. Tom watched, his grip on the champagne flute threatening to shatter it, as the Undersecretary led her into the throng of swirling couples. Fawley’s hand settled on her back with a proprietary grace, his long fingers spread against the shimmering green satin, resting possessively on the bare skin above it.
Their voices were insects buzzing at the edge of his hearing. All he could see was Fawley’s hand, the confident way he guided Harriet through the waltz. He saw the line of her throat as she tilted her head back to listen to something the man said. The music was a grating, discordant sound in his ears. Every polished turn, every smooth step, was a violation. A quiet, furious heat began to build in his chest, coiling in his stomach. He saw Harriet’s smile, the one she used when she was enduring something unpleasant.
He took a sip from the glass and suddenly turned from the two witches without a word, leaving them mid-sentence. He walked onto the dance floor, the champagne flute still in his hand, weaving through the other couples with a singular focus. The magic in the air seemed to part for him.
He reached them as the music swelled. Fawley looked up, his charming expression faltering with annoyance at the interruption. Harriet turned, and the strained politeness on her face dissolved into pure, undiluted relief.
"Tom," she said, her voice soft. She detached herself from Fawley’s hold, stepping smoothly toward him. She took the champagne flute from his unresisting fingers. "Thank you. I was parched."
She lifted the glass to her lips and drank, her eyes closing for a moment in gratitude.
He turned his gaze from Harriet to Fawley, a cool, dismissive look.
"Undersecretary. If you don't mind," he said, the words polite, the meaning a command. "As her ward, I believe I am owed the first dance of the evening."
Fawley’s suave expression tightened, a flash of irritation in his eyes before it was smoothed over. He gave a stiff bow.
"Of course. The young prodigy must have his due."
He released Harriet, who stepped toward Tom with that same look of relief, though it was now tinged with something else, a slight confusion in her brow. Tom didn't give her time to question it. He took the empty champagne flute from her hand, placed it on a passing tray, and guided her back into the center of the dance floor. His hand settled on the small of her back, right over the bare skin Fawley’s had occupied moments before.
A strange heat bloomed from his palm, spreading up his arm. The sip of champagne, it seemed, was more potent than he'd anticipated. The silk of her dress was a live thing under his fingers, and the delicate scent of her skin was suddenly overwhelming, filling his lungs.
She settled into his hold easily, her hand resting on his shoulder.
"Thank you," she murmured, her voice a little breathy. "He was... a lot."
The orchestra transitioned from a lively waltz to something slower, more intimate. A melody that encouraged closeness. Harriet’s body relaxed against his, her head dipping to rest against his chest for a moment. He could feel the warmth of her cheek through the fine wool of his suit. Her fingers tightened on his shoulder.
Every point of contact was a brand. His thoughts, usually so clear and sharp, felt thick, syrupy. The meticulous plans, the long game—it all receded, replaced by the immediate, overwhelming reality of her in his arms. The rhythm of her heart against his ribs. The soft weight of her body moving in time with his. He could feel the subtle shift of her hips, the brush of her thigh against his own.
He could feel her power over him, a tangible, bittersweet thing, like a current pulling him under. He fought to keep his expression neutral, to lead them through the slow, deliberate steps of the dance while a war raged within him. His own obsession was a cold, sharp thing. This was different. This was a hot, messy flood, and not entirely his.
He looked down at her. A flush had crept up her neck, staining her cheeks a deep rose. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on her temples. Her eyes, when they met his, were wide, dazed. The green was darker, deeper.
"Are you alright?" he asked, his voice lower than he intended.
She gave a small, shaky nod, trying for a smile that didn't quite form.
"Just... warm. It's warm in here." She pressed closer, as if for support, her hand sliding from his shoulder to curl around his neck. Her fingertips brushed against the hair at his nape, sending a tremor through him.
He inhaled sharply. Her scent, the heat of her skin, the unintentional intimacy of her touch—it was too much. The carefully constructed walls of his control began to crack. He wanted to stop moving, to pull her into the shadows and press her against him hard, to cover her mouth with his and taste the confusion and the heat on her lips.
The music swelled, a long, mournful note from the cellos. Harriet stumbled, her weight falling fully against him. Her eyes fluttered shut.
"Harriet," he said, his tone sharp now. Concern, cold and clear, cut through the haze. He held her steady, his arm a band of iron around her waist.
Her eyes opened. They were unfocused, swimming with a feverish light.
"I'm sorry, Tom," she whispered, her breath hot against his throat. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't want to ruin your night. This is so important for you."
"Maybe... maybe the Lestranges could Side-Along me home. You should stay." She tried to pull away, to stand on her own, but swayed on her feet.
The thought of anyone else touching her, of her being in this state under anyone else's care, was intolerable. He dismissed the idea with a barely perceptible shake of his head. Her health, her safety—she was his responsibility. His alone . He didn't care about the ball or any of the simpering fools in attendance.
He slid his hand from her back to her arm, his grip firm, guiding.
"No," he stated, leaving no room for argument. He began leading her from the dance floor, away from the music and the lights. "We're going home. Together."
The jarring twist of Apparition left them standing in the center of their quiet Islington flat. The silence was a stark contrast to the overwhelming crush of the ball. Harriet swayed, her hand flying to her forehead. Tom’s grip on her arm was the only thing keeping her upright.
"I'm so sorry, Tom," she mumbled, her words slurring together. "I ruined it. That was your night. Your... opportunity." A wave of guilt washed over her face, even through the feverish haze in her eyes. She was looking at him, but he wasn't sure she was seeing him.
He guided her to the settee, his hand firm on her elbow. She sank into the cushions, the green satin of her dress pooling around her. Her skin was flushed and her breathing was shallow. He said nothing, conjured her a glass full of cold water.
He knelt before her, holding the glass to her mouth.
"Drink."
Her lips parted, and she drank obediently. He watched the muscles in her throat work as she swallowed. A single drop of water escaped the corner of her mouth, tracing a path down her chin. His own throat felt suddenly dry, constricted. He had an overwhelming urge to lean forward and lick that droplet from her skin, to taste the water from her lips. The sip of champagne burned in his veins, a foreign heat that sharpened every edge of his perception.
When the glass was empty, she pushed it away weakly.
"I need... I need to get this off." She made a clumsy attempt to stand, stumbling.
He was there instantly, his hands on her waist to steady her. The heat from her body was intense, radiating through the thin silk.
She shuffled toward her bedroom door, leaning against the frame.
"I'm alright," she insisted, though her movements belied the words.
She turned her back to him, her hands fumbling behind her, searching for the zipper she couldn't reach. A frustrated sound escaped her.
He watched her struggle for a long moment, the rise and fall of her shoulders, the delicate shape of her spine visible through the fabric. Then he moved. He placed one hand flat against her back, between her shoulder blades. She went still at his touch, a silent, questioning tension in her body. His fingers found the small, cold metal tab of the zipper. He pulled it down. The sound was unnaturally loud in the quiet room.
The dress gaped open, revealing a long, pale expanse of skin. He stared at the vertebrae of her spine, the faint dusting of freckles across her shoulders. He could feel his desire for her coiling in his gut like a hungry serpent.
He let his index finger trail from the nape of her neck down the length of her spine, pushing the satin aside. The dress shimmied against her skin.
He reached for her hair, his fingers finding the smooth, cool surfaces of the pins holding the intricate style in place. He pulled them out, one by one, dropping them silently onto the floor. Her dark curls, released from its prison, cascaded over her shoulders, a silken curtain. He gathered a handful of it, pushing it over one shoulder to reveal the juncture of her neck.
She made a small, questioning sound in her throat, a soft half-murmur. Her head tilted to the side, a gesture of confusion, of surrender.
He could not stop. He did not want to. He leaned in, his lips brushing against the warm, pulse-point just below her ear. He breathed in her scent, that clean, floral fragrance now mingled with the heady, sweat-slick smell of her fever. He pressed a kiss to the space between her neck and shoulder, a deliberate claiming.
The soft press of his lips hardened into something else entirely. It was no longer a question. He sucked at the sensitive skin of her neck, tasting the salt of her sweat, the unique flavor that was just her. His teeth scraped against her skin, a prelude to a bite he barely restrained. He mapped the territory of her skin with his mouth.
A raw, uncontrolled sound broke from her throat, a moan that was thick with a confusion he chose to ignore. The sound vibrated against his lips, a confession. He had known, always, that this was buried beneath her placid, infuriatingly maternal surface. This heat. This wanting. It was for him and he refused to deny it any longer.
He tugged the heavy satin of her dress from her shoulders, the fabric barely resisting before it slid down her arms, pooling at her waist. He turned her then, his hands firm on the flare of her hips, spinning her to face him. Her eyes were wide, dazed, her lips parted on a gasp.
Good. He wanted her to see him.
His mouth left her neck and found the sharp line of her collarbone, trailing a line of wet, open-mouthed kisses across her skin. He mapped every inch he could reach, his hands an anchor at her waist, holding her in place.
His tongue swept out, a long, deliberate lick from the hollow of her throat down to the swell of her breast, over the lace trim of her chemise. A violent shudder wracked her frame. Her body, finally honest, betrayed her. He pushed the lace aside with his chin, letting it drop with the dress, and took her nipple into his mouth, sucking hard. She cried out, her head falling back, her fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.
She was shaking, her legs trembling, barely able to remain upright under the onslaught. He moved down, his mouth and hands working in concert, pushing the bunched-up satin lower. He knelt before her, a supplicant before an altar. His fingers found the delicate strap of one heel, unbuckling it, then the other. He slid them from her feet. Her hands came up, gripping his shoulders to steady herself, her nails digging into the suit.
He took the hem of the green dress and pulled it down her legs, the silk catching on the pert curve of her arse before sliding free. He tossed it aside, a verdant puddle on the floor. She stood before him, swaying slightly, naked but for a pair of delicate, cream-colored lace panties. The flimsy fabric was the last barrier, the final, pathetic shield between him and everything he had ever wanted.
He pushed her, not ungently, and she fell back onto the mattress with a soft gasp. The bed dipped under her weight. She landed splayed out on the white duvet, a mess of dark hair and pale limbs. Her eyes were wide, glassy, the green lost in the dilated black of her pupils. Her mouth was parted, a perfect, slack ‘o’ of stunned incomprehension.
He followed her down, covering her body with his own. The wool of his suit jacket abraded her bare skin, the contrast a thrill in itself. He was still fully dressed, a cage of fine tailoring and starched linen, while she was practically naked beneath him, exposed and vulnerable. His erection strained against the confines of his trousers, a painful, insistent pressure, but it was a distant sensation.
His entire consciousness, every thought, every nerve, had narrowed to her. To this moment. The culmination of years of quiet observation, of seething jealousy, of a bone-deep obsession that had shaped his every ambition. All the plans for the Ministry, for power, for immortality—they were pale, flimsy things compared to the solid, warm weight of her beneath him.
He lowered his head, his mouth finding the soft swell of her breast. He licked a slow, deliberate path from her collarbone down, tasting the heat of her skin. He nipped, his teeth catching the soft flesh, and she cried out, a high, keening sound he had never heard from her before. It was a sound of pure, mindless pleasure, and it echoed in the empty space of his chest.
That's it, he thought, a dark triumph surging through him. He chased the sound, his mouth growing rougher. He took her nipple between his teeth, scraping lightly, before drawing the pebble into his mouth and sucking hard.
She moaned, her hips arching off the bed, instinctively trying to press herself closer to the source of the feeling. The sounds she made were nothing like her usual measured tones or soft, chiding laughter. They were raw, broken things, torn from her throat. He drank them in like the finest wine.
This was the truth of her. Not the saintly guardian she portrayed herself as, but this. This wanton creature who writhed under his touch. He worked her nipple with his tongue and teeth until a dark, purplish bruise began to bloom on her pale skin. A mark. His mark. He wanted to cover her in them, a testament for her to see in the morning. A warning to any other man who might dare to look at her.
He moved to her other breast, giving it the same brutal attention, leaving another dark mark on her skin. Her fingers clenched in the fabric of his suit jacket, her knuckles white. He slid lower, his mouth and tongue leaving a wet trail over the flat plane of her stomach. He breathed in her scent, musky and sweet.
His mouth hovered over the delicate, cream-colored lace of her panties. He could see the dampness already gathered there, a darker shadow against the pale fabric. He pressed his face into her, inhaling deeply, before his tongue swept out, licking her insistently through the silk. The fabric was an inadequate barrier. A dark, wet patch blossomed against the lace, a lewd mark of her slickness and his saliva, a beautiful desecration.
Patience, a virtue he had cultivated for years, shattered. A flicker of intent, a nonverbal, wandless command, and the small slip of silk vanished into nothingness. He didn't hesitate. He buried his face between her thighs, parting her folds with his nose, inhaling the scent of her. It was the scent of the ball, of champagne and sweat, but underneath it was the raw, animal smell of her arousal. His . He had drawn this out of her.
His tongue darted out, tracing the slick entrance to her cunt before dipping inside. She screamed, a sharp, broken sound that was music to him. Her hips bucked, trying to escape the sensation, but he held her thighs down with a firm grip. He licked a slow, deliberate circle around her clit, feeling it swell and harden against his tongue.
"Tom, uhhhn, stop—" Her protest was a breathy, broken plea, her fingers twisting in the duvet.
He paused, lifting his head just enough to speak, his voice muffled against her flesh. "Why?"
"I'm—you—I'm the closest thing to a mother—"
The word was a profanity. He cut her off with another hot, long lick that dragged a gut-wrenching groan from her. He lapped at her, drinking the slick wetness from her as she writhed. Mother? Never. The thought was venom. She was a goddess, the object of his worship and obsession ever since she appeared to him nearly half a decade ago.
"You're not," he rasped, lifting his head to look up at her. His dark hair fell over his eyes, and his mouth was obscenely shiny, slick with her. "You're more."
"Is that what you want?" He continued, watching her, saw the conflict warring in her dazed eyes.
"What?" She had lost the thread, her mind dissolving under the calculated assault of his mouth.
“To be a mother,” he hissed, the words sliding from his lips in the familiar, silken cadence of Parseltongue. The sound itself was a violation, a secret language meant only for them.
Her body went rigid at the sound, a different kind of shock. He felt it reverberate through her. He pressed his advantage, his voice dropping to a low growl against her skin. "I can provide you with anything, Harriet. You only have to ask."
He returned his mouth to her, sucking her clit between his lips, his tongue flicking pointedly. "Fill you with my cum," he growled against her cunt, the words vibrating directly into her. "You'd be the first and the last."
The confession hung in the air, a strange, stark counterpoint to the practiced confidence of his mouth. He slid a hand from her thigh, up over the curve of her hip, and placed it flat against her lower stomach, his palm covering her womb with an almost reverential pressure.
"They would be worthy heirs," he continued, his voice a low, obsessive murmur against her wet skin. "Strong, beautiful little snakes."
His words hung in the air. He didn't wait for a response. His mouth returned to her, more demanding than before, while his fingers slid inside her. She was slick and hot, her inner walls clenching around him reflexively. She gasped, a sharp, wet sound, her back arching violently off the bed.
He found a rhythm, his tongue laving her clit while his fingers plunged in and out of her cunt, hooking towards a ridge of flesh deep inside her that he’d only read about in obscure anatomical texts. He pressed, and the world narrowed to her reaction. A low, guttural scream tore from her throat, and her whole body convulsed. Her hands, which had been clutching the duvet, flew to his head, her fingers fisting in his hair, pulling him to her.
Yes , he thought, a cold thrill snaking up his spine. Hold on. Don't let go.
She did not accept the pleasure passively, she was demanding, hungry. Her hips began to move, grinding against his mouth, meeting the thrust of his fingers with a frantic energy of her own. She was chasing the feeling, her head thrashing against the pillows. The sounds she made were completely unbound, a litany of moans and fragmented pleas that fueled him.
He had never expected this, not so soon. He had imagined a slow seduction, a careful, deliberate corruption over years. This raw, immediate surrender was an unforeseen gift, a far greater prize than any Ministry position.
He pushed his fingers deeper, stretching her, while his tongue grew rougher, merciless. Her thighs clamped around his head, trapping him, her muscles quivering with the strain. The scent of her climax filled his senses, thick and metallic. He could feel the tremors that signaled her approach, the way her cunt tightened impossibly around his fingers. He pressed harder, faster, driving her toward the edge. He wanted to watch her fall.
"Tom!"
It was a ragged cry, her voice breaking on his name. His name. Her body went rigid, a bowstring pulled taut. A final, violent shudder wracked her frame, and a wave of pulsing heat clamped on his fingers as her climax crashed over her. She cried out again, a long, wordless sound of release, before her body went completely limp. The hands in his hair fell away. Her legs went slack, falling open.
He pulled back, breathing heavily, his suit a rumpled mess. He looked at her. Her face was flushed, her lips swollen and parted. Her eyes were closed, and her breathing was deep, even. She had passed out. He looked at the marks on her skin, the dampness between her thighs, the utter devastation of her.
But it wasn't enough. It would never be enough. The aching pressure in his trousers was a testament to that. This taste of her, this single, stolen victory, wouldn’t quench his obsession. It had poured gasoline on a fire that had been smoldering for years. He had always known he wanted her, but he had never understood the sheer, bottomless depth of that wanting until now. Seeing her like this, broken and sated by his hand, knowing he could do it again, that he would do it again... it was a new kind of power, more potent than any magic.
The ache in his groin was a persistent, throbbing distraction, but the sight of her, so completely still, cooled the fire in his veins to a hard, sharp anger. He stood, adjusting his rumpled clothes, and looked down at the aftermath. A quiet flick of his wrist, wandless and silent, sent a cleansing charm over her body, erasing the evidence of his mouth and hands, leaving only the dark bruises blooming on her skin. Those, he left.
He placed the back of his hand against her forehead. Still too warm. The heat radiated from her, a dry, feverish quality that had little to do with passion. Another nonverbal spell, this one a gentle cooling charm, settled over her. He watched as the violent flush in her cheeks subsided to a more natural color, her breathing evening out further.
His own body felt… wrong. A residual heat, an unnatural sharpening of his senses that was only now beginning to fade, leaving a hollowed-out feeling in its wake. It was an artificial intensity, a poor imitation. The champagne. The glass Druella had giggled over and handed him. The glass Harriet had drunk so gratefully. A prank. A stupid, childish prank from two foolish drunk girls playing with potions they did not understand.
A cold fury, far more potent than the potion-induced lust, settled over him. They had dared, had introduced chaos into his carefully ordered world and, in doing so, had put her at risk. She could have been hurt. Anyone could have taken advantage of her in that state. The thought of Fawley’s hands on her, of his charming words and possessive gaze, now took on a far more sinister light.
He moved to the antique writing desk in the corner of the room. He took a piece of heavy parchment, dipped a quill in ink, and wrote. The note was brief, the script precise and unforgiving.
Abraxas,
Walburga Black and Druella Rosier saw fit to spike a drink at the ball this evening. Harriet consumed it. Their little joke had unfortunate consequences. See to it that they are punished accordingly. Make it memorable.
He sealed the note with a drop of black wax, pressing his signet ring into it. A whisper of magic sent the parchment folding into the shape of a serpent, which slithered out the open window and into the night. He stood there for a moment, looking out at the sleeping city before turning back to the bed where her form lay sleeping. He looked down at her, at his guardian, at the woman who was now, unequivocally, his.