The Boy Who Cried

Two Thousand.

Two years...

Cho closed her eyes, remembering the good time. It had been right before the night of graduation, and they had all sneaked away.

Ron.
Hermione.
Herself...
And Potter.


Hogsmeade. They had met up with a lot of their classmates, friends. The invasion of the Three Broomsticks had been spectacular. All of them, Gryffindors, Ravenclaws, Hufflepuffs, even a few Slytherins had shown up. The party had lasted a long time. Very long, and it was very good. She remembered dancing with just about every boy in the entire pub, and possibly most of the girls. Even when Draco and his cronies had shown up, it hadn’t broken the mood. Rather, everyone had used them as practice for every silly charm, hex, and jinx they could think of, then sent them packing.


Not like now. She whimpered, softly, ineffectually. There was only one other person in the room, and she in the same predicament as Cho. Her eyes fell across her beautiful self, and choked on irony. They, they two among wizards left in the world, were kept pristine, carefully tended. Cleaned, their hair brushed, everything a young woman should do done for them. Hermione was kneeling on the floor, collared, with a chain from the collar to the wall, in front of the large, silver fireplace. It was crackling, the fire a blue-gold, that gave off constant heat, never uncomfortable. Rather like the Bluebell flames that she had once had a penchant for.
Her eyes were closed, her face sad. Even Cho had to feel it was slightly erotic, the way her lips were parted slightly, and her body; kept lean, without fat nor muscle, by a perfect diet, and good magic. Cho’s own body was the same, albeit shorter, with heavier breasts, and a leaner, more sportswoman figure.
She longed to crawl to the taller, cowed woman, and embrace her, comfort her. But she couldn’t, for she was laying on a rug in front of a more conventional stone fireplace, with slow-burning, low yellow flames, that kept her warm. Her own neck had a similar collar, that was chained to the floor.
Sometimes, he let them hold each other. It was only for an hour, though. Far too short.
Hermione’s eyes met hers. They didn’t move their heads, nor did they speak. Not that they were forbidden to. Of all those he had prisoner, they were allowed to speak, of whatever they wanted. But what was the point? She could say she missed a whole lot of things. Hermione would agree. She could say she’d rather die than have seen what had happened. She already knew Hermione agreed. So why waste energy?

The door opened. Both of their eyes went to it, but their heads didn’t move. Yes, it was him.

He walked into his bedchamber. The former bedchamber of Albus Dumbledore, former Headmaster of this former school. Now it was a sanctuary for him.

”Well, that went well. My Death Eaters are closing in on that crazy old bird McGonnagal. Shame she transfigured MacNair into a newt, then stepped on him, but not much of a shame. He was getting to be useless, and muttering that he missed Malfoy.”

It was the same voice. The same, pleasant voice, she remembered from two years ago. The voice that had, after that final win, told her that he was giving her a gift; the Quidditch Cup. Professor McGonnagal had been furious that Harry had thrown the match, and nearly gave him detention for the rest of the year, but hadn’t.
And here he was, two years later, discussing in that same, pleasant tone, the tracking down and murdering of his Head of House.

He was calmly pulling off the shortened robe he wore like a jacket, then his shirt, and boots, pants, then underwear. She neither looked nor didn’t look. What was the point?
He may have been crazy, she thought. Some nights he chatted with them, or rather, at them, as if they were his partners in crime. Other nights, he simply bade them goodnight, as he would have his friends, and slipped into bed. Still other nights, he used them. It was different. Sometimes, he would play them, touch and caress them, as a lover would. Cho’s throat choked to admit it. But it was good, that way. Other nights, he could be rough. Not necessarily violent, he had never hit Cho, and only hit Hermione once, before apparently deciding he didn’t like it, but rough… Sometimes, he took delight in choking Hermione with his penis, other times, roughly using Cho’s rear, or a lot of things. She hoped tonight wouldn’t be a rough night… But on second thought, she did. The last two weeks had been stht sht softness, and she was afraid of loosing herself to her captor. She still had her mind, right? Her own will, even if she surrendered? Right?

He smiled, pleasantly, walking over to Hermione. She shuddered, softly. She always wished, when it was Hermione’s turn to go first, that he’d use her first. Maybe make things easier on Hermione. She somehow knew that Hermione felt the same way, but that didn’t stop her from wishing it.

He was hard, and ready. She could see that clearly. Hermione opened her mouth, ready. Why fight it. There was no point. The speed with which he had conquered the Wizarding world of England was amazing, and frightening. In two years, he had done what Voldemort never could.
For some reason, he had never used an Unforgivable, other than the Killing Curse. It was a point of curiosity. But then, he was a powerful wizard. He didn’t need torture to get his subjects to talk, nor the Imperious curse to make people do his bidding. It was eerie; how much he sounded the same. People just, sort of, listened.

It looked like her wish was answered; He had fisted his hands in Hermione’s hair, and was pumping himself into her mouth, with quite a lot of force. She watched, idly, as his testicles slapped up, curling under her chin, hitting the bottom of her head, and down again. His one hand left her beautiful tresses, pinching her nose. He was skilled at this; he knew she could take just enough of a breath around hirustrusts to keep herself alive and conscious.

It was so strange, how he could be their evil overlord, he raped them nearly nightly, yet the odd amount of compassion he showed them. His eyes closed, and he moaned, his fingers releasing her nose, as he spilled himself into her. Cho watched, slightly sad, as Hermione gagged. Just a bit. Then she could breathe again.

He picked up a soft, silk cloth, pristine lean, and kneeled down. Gently, he wiped her face off himself, and then replaced the cloth, and got a brush, undoing what damage he had done to her hair. So very, very him. And very strange.


He stood up, smiling, as he walked over towards her. His eyes roamed her body, and there was a jovial lust in them. Not an evil lust, not an ‘I’m going to use you, and there’s nothing you can do about it’ lust, but more like one would eye a lover, or a friend who was giving you the gift of their body.

He kneeled between her knees, smiling. It was eerie, how he could smile, and rape them. Maybe, in some way, he thought he was loving them. Maybe, in a twisted way, he was...
His hand traced from her shoulder, across the swell of her breast, down her stomach, to her slit. He gently parted it with his finger, sliding in, a thumb flicking across her clit. That was the worst of all; how he gently made love to her, playing, getting her off. Orgasm under his touch could very well be the worst part.

Yet she still enjoyed the orgasms, anyway...

His arms roamed over her, gently, pinching softly at her nipp kis kissing her nipples. Oddly, he had never forced a kiss on their lips. Never. He played her, until she was very much aroused, although she didn’t show it. They were good at that, but he knew anyway. He smiled broader, as he gently wrapped her legs around his waist, and put himself at the entrance to her. Then she gasped, as he slid into her, the hollow stabbing feeling, of hating this, and loving the sensatiot tht the same time. That was the source of the pain.

He was quick, although not forceful, like she had hoped. He was soft, sliding easily, smoothly in and out of her, as his fingers played her clit. It was over mercifully quickly, the orgasm he elicited from her throat erupting at the same time as he released into her.
He stood up, and smiled. Then he calmly bade them both a warm, soft goodnight, and went to bed.



The dreams were odd, that night. Usually, he dreamt of his conquests, his glories, or of the time he spent making love to the ladies he had. This was different. Everything felt.. Different, more innocent… Warm, . Th. The conquests and glories seemed to evaporate behind him, as the scene unfolded. Why had he thought it was 2000? It was obviously 1998. Graduation. They were holding a massive ceremony. Everything was mostly black and white, but if he concentrated on someone, their face leapt into color.
His attention was on Dumbledore, at the massive table at the front of the Great Hall.

Dumbledore was giving a speech to the graduating class. Everyone looked so sparkly and good. Even most of the Slytherins were smiling, which was threatening to break some faces in half.
Malfoy was, of course, scowling, but what else was new? His attention raked over his friend’s faces.

“-Honor the graduating class of 1998. We have had you for a long time, with us, in this castle. There have been many trials, tribulations, and some who should be standing amongst us, today, are not. Some who gave their lives bravely, others, who were ambushed, and had not a chance to account for themselves. Some fell to Voldemort’s evil power, others, to internal strife. Yet those thatnd hnd here, today, stand with each other, now. And stand with each other, in the future, or surly peril, will befall. For Voldemort is not yet gone, and his Death Eaters are still at large. It is, in part, up to us, this generation of witches and wizards, to hold fast against the temptation of easy power, to stand strong and united with your fellows-“


The door then burst in. A group of Death Eaters, Voldemort at their lead, entered. It should have been more than that, but that’s really how only to describe it, it was sudden, and strange.
Wands leveled, they faced off at the student body, who were turning towards them, or fleeing, mostly the Slytherins fleeing. Dumbledore’s wand was out, as were the rest of the teaching staff. Harry’s wand whipped out to, but the crowd around him was so thick, he could only see, not get his wand up to throw a spell.

Spells were flashing, hard. Members of the D.A. were at the front of the student body, except for him. Death Eaters started to fall, more of them than the students were. He scanned their faces, quickly.
Susan, Ginny, Luna, Neville, Ron, Cho.
He scanned over all of them, and saw Voldemort, leveling his wand. Who was it aiming it? Who? None of the above, not him...
He choked when he saw who it was aimed at. Her face was framed with beautiful curls, her face a mask of concentration, as she fought back. As he watched, he could feel she was the most important person to him, period. The others could all die, if he could only save her, he’d be right to do so... He started trying to push through the throng. How could one spell’s casting seem so very long...
“Avada - - - - - - Kedavra!!!”
A scream ripped through his throat...


“HER-MI-ON-E!!!!!”