Blondie

A/N: Just wondered how the pet felt about all this. Let's see, shall we?

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She was his reward they had said when they had dropped her on the floor like unwanted luggage. Old scabs tearing open and the feel of broken ribs grinding together had kept her from laughing. He would be rewarded indeed; she would see to it personally.

He thought her a virgin that first time he had forced her thighs open for his use. Hardly; a teen ager doesn’t spend the better part of year with two young males and remain untouched. It was risky as Lucius Malfoy was no innocent to be easily duped. She’d played the part well enough to convince him, however.

Played the part of the hopeless captive, cowed and resigned to her fate, unable to summon the merest flicker of defiance, a sad broken wreck of the vibrant Witch she had once been before Harry had died with the sun in his eyes. She chose her name deliberately, knowing he would find the meaning amusing. He treated her like a dog, and she would bite the hand that fed her.

She ate from his hands, the scraps from his table; wore the clothes he ordered for her, listened to his monologues, made sounds when he touched her. He took her everywhere with him. She heard everything, saw every plan, and memorized the conversation at every conference or meeting.

She read his correspondence even as he pressed her down on his desk and slid inside her for his pleasure. Always standing one step behind him, she read the most secret and confidential communiqués over his shoulder as he received them.

She never, ever looked into his eyes, for fear he would see the seething hatred and disgust that burned her throat like acidic bile.

Every night Kreacher would come silently to her in his rooms. The elf had seen another master die at the hands of Voldemort, and had attached himself to her as the last chance for vengeance. He brought a flask and removed the memories from her mind and took them where they would be of use. He took them to the Order and to their allies.

He could have taken her away with him, but she refused to go. It was too much of an advantage to have her where she was, now that they had help from outside. She was too well-placed; they would never again have such a reliable source of information, here at the heart of their enemy’s fortress. So she stayed for Harry’s memory, for Snape’s and for Ron, whose fate she did not know.

The Russians were at the gates, now. She lay in the bed and feigned sleep as she listened to his footsteps pacing the length of the baroquely decorated chamber. Wards and spelled traps were useless when the attackers knew them as well as the wizards that had designed them; she had passed them on before they had been in place. She had almost smiled when news came of Voldemort’s suicide. But that would have been unwise; he might have seen and known.

It was almost over. The outcome she had engineered was upon them. The explosions and noise of fighting were her vindication.

When he pressed the lip of the bottle to her mouth she had drunk deeply, recognizing the scent as a gift from her old potions master, her freedom from all that had been done to her and by her. Like her teacher, she had become what was necessary in order to accomplish her task.

She had been a very good student, the best.

But she had been a very bad pet.