If the Leopard Were Offered Wings to Fly.

Chapter Two; Rigour Fortis.

Harry found himself walking down the dank corridor he had been fantasising about for days. After he'd left his cell, weak on his knees and light in the head, Draco had placed a forcefull hand upon his neck as he pushed him forward. Malfoy seemed to know exactly how much pressure to apply to cause great discomfort. Life as a Death Eater must have been educational to his former classmate.
They approached a set of stone steps that were cracked and mossy with age. Harry paused.

"Don't even think about pulling any tricks, Potter. Excluding execution, I have a Carte Blanche when it comes to you, and remember, I'm the one with the wand."
Harry felt a sharp jab in his back, confirming Malfoy's claims. He suddenly felt very naked without his own wand, like an oyster being herded by a moon snail.
Up and up they went. At the top of the stairs was another corridor, less dark and certainly better smelling than the last. They reached a heavy teak door that was carved with the most alien and horrid patterns Harry had even dared to dream of. Malfoy pressed his palm against the door and it slowly opened with a creaking sound that was more like an inhuman moan than the sound of old wood.

The door opened into a vast ballroom with cold marble on both the floor and the walls. Harry couldn't help but feel like he'd just entered a massive mausoleum. The sight he beheld was even more terrifying than the obscure surroundings. There were rows upon rows of cloaked, masked figures, scores of nasty nocturnal creatures like vampires and werewolves, several dozen giants, a whole flock of gurgling dementors and countless of unholy things that Harry couldn't even identify. The air left his lungs involuntarily as he slowly realised what he was dealing with; a carefully planned display of Voldemort's army. It didn't take him long to spot the tall, bony figure dressed in black. Voldemort was surrounded by a small group of masked bodyguards; his inner circle. As the Dark Lord passed each row, his underlings fell to their knees and bowed in full prostration, like an unspoken command. There was no doubt in Harry's mind that Voldemort had called all his troups from their assigned duties for a theatrical show of his power. Still, Harry couldn't help but think that the Ministry had no idea what it was up against, and although the Dark Lord was his sworn enemy, the blind servitude of Voldemort's legions was awe-inspiring. How could one man hold this kind of power in the palm of his hand?
As the bony Master of Evil approached, the ambient temperature dropped a few degrees, as usual. Voldemort grinned his snake-like grin and opened his otherworldly hands in a mocking gesture of welcome.

"Do you like my army, Potter?"

The words were meant as a twisting knife of insult, for the Dark Lord's slimy mind tendrils had been grazing Harry's brain from the moment he'd stepped into the grand hall.

"Where's Ginny?" Harry demanded.

"Never one for pleasantries, are you, Potter? I would normally ask if your parents didn't teach you better, but we both know for a fact that they didn't in your case."

The flash of anger at the mention of his parents struck Harry like a lightning bolt and he tried to lunge forward to wipe that smug smile off that evil bastard's face, but one firm squeeze of Draco's hand upon his neck retained him.

"Your girlfriend is right here."

Voldemort stepped aside to reveal a scantily clad Ginny. She seemed to be dressed only in a nightgown that clung around the small bumps of her breasts. Harry could see her chest rise and fall with every frightened breath. One of those unholy hands snaked it's way over her gentle curves down to her stomach. Her moon-pale skin seemed dark compared to the ghastly alabaster of the Dark Lord.

"Some of my best men are in Azkaban, Potter, all because of you. The way I see it, you owe me, young one. Loss for loss, I'd say."

Voldemort's voice was smooth with a hint of fire, like a good Single Malt. He had placed his mouth near Ginny's neck and nipped it with a smirk, the bastard! Harry's nerves shot up in full attention. He had a vague idea where this was going.

"Kill her, Potter. We'll be even then and I might even consider letting you go free."

Harry's heart sank. This man, this evil man, would not rest until everything he loved was dead. He pressed back his tears and desperation.

"We are far from being even, Voldemort."

Harry spat the name, causing the entire army of horrors to gasp in indignation. Voldemort raised his hand to calm his minions, his sinister red eyes never leaving Harry's piercing greens.

"Suit yourself, young one. Tell me, have you ever killed?"

Harry's nostrils flared with anger and his silence spoke the answer.

"It can be very clinical, very mindless; Something you do in a thoughtless moment, because it needs to be done... But, it can also be very intimate, very personal. Do you know what the most intimate way of killing a person is?"

Harry could no longer contain the salty streams aching to flow from his eyes. He kept waiting for someone to come; Someone to rescue Ginny, but no one came. Seemingly faster than the speed of light, Voldemort conjured a curved kris.

"The most visceral way of killing," the Dark Lord continued, "is not by crude magic. Oh, no, Potter, I can do much better than that. True intimacy in a kill is done by slitting the victim's throat."

Harry shut his eyelids, letting his tears flow free as he stifled a sob. Draco jabbed so he'd reopen his eyes.

"You have to get up close to your victim, pressing yourself against their back."

Voldemort smirked as he pressed himself close to poor Ginny. Harry could see the bony hand on her stomach press her tighter still.

"They can feel your breath upon their neck, Potter, they can feel your free hand taking more and more liberties."

The Dark Lord moved his hand towards Ginny's fruit and grinned even wider. She trembled under his touch like a flower in the April rain.

"Then you strike, swift and mercilessly, and the last thing they feel as they die..."

Here Voldemort sliced his blade across Ginny's neck.

"... is your body against their own."

Ginny struggled for air, her laboured breathing slicing right through Harry's heart.

"I... I... I'm sorry, Harry," she managed.

Harry kicked and struggled against Draco's firm hold, screaming like a madman.

"NOOOOOO! YOU BASTARD! YOU SON OF AN INBRED BITCH! I'LL KILL YOU!"

Voldemort laughed as he held Ginny's dying form.

"Any regrets, Potter?"

Harry knew damn well what he was getting at. He'd never slept with Ginny. She had been too traumatized about the Chamber experience. He'd never even touched her as intimately as Voldemort had just done. As soon as the thought flashed through his mind, Harry regretted thinking it, for those tendrils were still upon his brain.
The Dark Lord let go of her body and it fell limp to the floor as blood steadily flowed from it.

"Do it then, Potter. Do her now. She's still warm, she's still moist from my touch."
Harry was paralised. Couldn't move from sorrow and hate.

"Do her now, Potter. Or I will. Sources tell me I've already hit that, but that was a different incarnation and I'd love to feel her warm inside. This is the last choice I'm giving you; Do what you've been wanting to or so help me, I will."

Harry fell to his knees in utter desperation. He couldn't... he couldn't violate her like that, but then again, it would be worse to let him violate her like that. He was at a loss of what to do. Then Bellatrix approached him with a pipe.

"Smoke up, son. It will make all your pain go away."

He looked at the pipe loaded with that blue, luminous substance, Essence of Muggle.

"You can do it if you smoke, Potter. It will make all your woes go away. There's no way out, just smoke it."

Harry looked at the pipe again, it's eerie glow beckoning him like a whore on a street corner. He had no wand to take to his head,, he had no way out and rather than sit through the Dark Lord or one of his foul creatures desecrating his girlfriend's corpse, he took the pipe and placed his mouth on the tip with great trepidation. Harry closed his eyes and breathed in deep. In an instant, all his limbs relaxed, his mind filled with cottony bliss and the dull ache in his chest faded away.

"There, there, Potter. Isn't that much better?"

Harry started laughing.

"Good cop, bad cop," he cried through his mad laughter.

"What?"

"You're good cop," he said to Lestrange, "he's bad cop," he added, pointing to Voldemort.

His observations were clearly lost on the wizards around him, so he brought the pipe back to his mouth and dragged. If he was going to hell, he might as well go high.
The drug was strong and Harry barely noticed several bright flashes as he breathed out the thick, sweet smoke. His muscles had grown weak and he was staggering on his feet. Bellatrix stroked his hair as she slowly forced him down towards Ginny's dead body. Harry had lost the ability to see clear or think straight. There was laughter all around him, but the fuzz in his mind tuned it out so it sounded like a distant flock of seagulls.

Ginny still smelled nice, although her usual perfume of oriental wood and orchids was blended with the strong, metallic scent of blood. Harry's hand shook as he gently brushed the stray strands of red hair from her face. She looked so peaceful, so perfect, oblivious to the terrors Lord Voldemort would undoubtedly inflict upon the world. She would never grow old, grow fat, get wrinkles or become bitter and jaded. She was, and always would be, immaculate. He would be the protector he failed to be when she was alive. No one would blemish her. He had to make sure of that.

He kissed her lifeless lips; They only gave way ever so slighty to his pressure.

"Still warm, isn't she, Potter? Timing is essential when it comes to the dead. You don't have long. I suggest you hurry up."

Harry hated that his nemesis interrupted the moment. He hated himself for what he was about to do. He slid his hand down and raised the sheer nightgown that had become Ginny's shroud. Trailing kisses down her stomach, he made his way down. He hesitated when he reached that spot. Her fruit; a dead fruit that would never sprout life. Tears rolled down his cheeks again as he kissed it. He was aroused in full. Partly because of her silent beauty; silent forever more. Partly out of duty to her sweetness and partly due to that vile drug coursing through his veins.

Ignoring the laughter and taunts of his enemies, Harry freed his swollen cock. He tuned out their insults and rolled his eyes back. He thought he could hide in his mind. Hide to himself that the girlfriend he was fucking was a corpse. He would imagine her breathing, moaning, calling his name, but even there he had an audience. Even in the privacy of his thoughts, the Dark Lord was watching, so he chose not to picture her alive. He wouldn't give that snake the satisfaction.

Harry thrust inside her rather unceremoniously. There was no need to be careful, no need for foreplay. He thought about how utterly Libertine it was to fuck a corpse; no pleasure but your own. So he gave in to it. He fucked her hard, satisfying only his own need for swift, tight closure around his cock. Again there were bright flashes all around him, but Harry dismissed them as a side effect of the drug. As he drew close to release, he sped up his pounding thrusts and something equally heinous as it was amazing happened. Ginny's body began to stiffen around him. The sensation of rigour mortis all around his cock was so overwhelming that he came harder than he ever imagined possible. He screamed with pleasure as he kept spurting seed into a dead womb. When the miraculous climax finally subsided, he rolled off Ginny's corpse in a state of tainted bliss. Bliss because he had never felt anything quite as extraordinary, tainted because he was ridden with guilt and self-loathing. The world was spinning as he gasped for air. Voldemort picked him up by the shirt and pressed his thin lips against Potter's ear.

"Wonderful, isn't it? We call it Rigour Fortis."

Harry didn't reply. He was trying hard to settle the disgusting feeling in his stomach.

"Harry Potter is dead. You, you are one of us now."

That was the last thing Harry heard before losing consciousness again.

The next morning he awoke in his cell again, but he was not alone. This time it was the Dark Lord himself who tossed him the Daily Prophet.

"You made the front page again, boy," he said with a smirk.

Harry looked at the paper and felt the icy sting of panic shoot through him. The picture on the cover showed him smoking that pipe last night and laughing. Another picture showed him touching Ginny's corpse.

"YOU BASTARD! This was your plan all along, wasn't it? You didn't kill me, because you wanted to use me!" Potter screamed.

Voldemort merely grinned at his outburst and grim realisation.

"You were their hope, boy. And now they have none."
Harry curled up in a ball on the dirty dungeon floor and screamed in disbelief.

"Why?" he sobbed.

"It was actually a Muggle who first realised this some seventy years ago, when I was about your age. Control the media and you control the masses, Potter. Now that your turning has caused panic and chaos in the wizarding world, all of it will soon be mine."

"But I haven't turned!" Harry yelled.

"Oh really? The pictures speak for themselves, boy. You are as dark as they come."

Voldemort laughed. He had won and they both knew it.

"Now how about some tea, Potter?"