Master of Death, Lover of Witches: Chapter 40

Chapter 40

Soulloss

Hogwarts was back as if it never stopped. Classes were on again. Chatter could be heard, between periods, about whether Fleur Delacour would hold onto the hefty lead she’d taken following the second task, or if another champion would steal the Triwizard Tournament out from under her. The only sign that anything had been amiss was a certain extra jumpiness Draco Malfoy showed during the first week. He’d developed a fear of open palms, his body assuming they would crash against his cheek. When half-bloods walked in his vicinity he’d lower his eyes.

Harry was having a pleasant time testing this new trait of Draco’s by walking past his seat at the Slytherin table as many times as possible. Draco hadn’t caught on yet to the fact that Harry was doing laps, just to watch him dip nose toward his dinner plate.

“Would you leave already?” Pansy Parkinson complained, the first to break the silence.

Harry stopped, rather than walking away. “I can’t. I’m here for a reason, actually.”

“I’m sure you are,” Pansy said snidely.

“I’m waiting for my wives.” 

“You’re married?” Pansy said.

“There’s multiple of them?” Millicent Bulstrode asked.

“Can I be one?” Lilith Moon asked.

“I’ll ask them later,” Harry told Lilith. “They’re on their way now.”

Daphne and Astoria turned heads when they entered dressed like there was a second Yule Ball that only they knew about. Harry stepped forward, linking his arms with them. Daphne turned her eyes toward the ground while, on his other arm, Astoria held her chin high, looking around to make sure everyone could see who she was with. 

“We’ll be on our way now,” Harry announced. “See you later!”

It wasn’t an accident that he led his girls past Draco, forcing the formerly-pompous pureblood to avert his eyes one last time for the road.

“Wait! Where are you going?” Pansy asked. “We’ve only been back in school for a week. You can’t simply leave campus.”

“Some sacrifices have to be made… School rules among them,” Harry said. “Besides, we have permission slips!”

He took his arms off his girls just long enough to take out a sheet of parchment, which he sent floating into Pansy’s vicinity. When she snatched and read it, she found it was a writ of consent by the girls’ guardian.

Mrs. Greengrass-Potter was very clear about her wish for the girls to be allowed off-campus for the night, on the sole condition that they came along with Mr. Potter, and that by the time the night ended he ****** in her **** until *** was all over her ******.

“Sorry about the censorship. We wouldn’t want to get risque in an official document,” Harry said. “I think you grasp the gist of it.”

Pansy had been rendered silent.

O-O-O

Voldemort was going to kill someone for the shame he was experiencing. 

It’s not as if he was a stranger to killing. When this worked, and he returned to life, he was guaranteed to leave a few immediate victims in his wake, just for the love of the game. A mudblood here or there to whet his appetite.

But when he did it, he was going to be thinking about this. And he was going to make them scream extra loudly. 

Currently, the Dark Lord was a fish.

Or possessing a fish. His wrinkled, miniature, newborn-like face was jutting off of a cod two inches below the dorsal fin. The fish’s tail strokes were starting to waver. Its heartbeat was weakening. A halibut swam past going the other direction and Voldemort made the leap— his spirit rushed out of the cod, which was left to sink, and possessed the halibut, which stopped, turned, and continued the direction he’d been going. Bubbles drifted to the surface as an identical miniature face formed like a tumor out of the halibut’s head, Voldemort’s small mouth screaming. He was fortunate that he didn’t have to breathe as a spirit. It was the only reason this method worked, no matter how demeaning it was.

Possessing animals was tiring work. His dark magic ate through them in minutes. Where an adult wizard, with the correct resources, could support Voldemort for the better part of a year… Animals failed him in the time it took to perform a single action.

Fortunately, there were plenty of fish in the sea.

When one animal failed him, he took another as his vessel. When that one failed, he moved to a third. He swam onward. Voldemort refused to stop, even for his wounded pride, until he arrived at Azkaban.

Voldemort oozed out of the sea. The fish whose body he abandoned flopped on the sand and stopped moving. Voldemort’s form was somewhere between mud and a shadow. He forced his way along the island’s gritty sand. Right away, the island’s dark nature caressed his skin. There was powerful, dark magic here, built up across centuries of foul captivity within its premises. Voldemort felt as at home here as anywhere in the British Isles. It was the home of some of his most valuable allies.

The Ministry were fools to use Dementors again after the war. Voldemort had shown he could turn once, he would have no trouble turning them again. They longed for souls and chaffed against their leashes. Indestructible, they answered only to their own hunger. Voldemort would use them to devastating effect. The perfect opportunity to return had fallen into his lap!

It was odd, the relationship that he had with his Horcruxes. Voldemort could sense things about their whereabouts and surroundings. It couldn’t be described as seeing or hearing. All the same, he was aware of things. He knew that the locket had reached Azkaban. He knew that Bellatrix possessed it. Somehow, that was another all she possessed. She had a Flamel Stone.

Its presence cried out to Voldemort, full of life-granting possibility. Not a true Philosopher’s Stone… There had only been one of those, which was gone now… But another of Nicholas Flamel’s creations. A prototype. Something chaotic, dangerous, but promising. Voldemort would welcome the risk if it could restore him from this wretched state.

Bellatrix would revive him. He would free his followers, rally the Dementors, and march on Britain before they became aware of the threat. His return would make the streets run with blood!

So far, everything was according to plan. That he hadn’t seen a single Dementor was strange, but they were there. Voldemort could sense them somewhat. They were crowded together at one end of the island, all of them forming a dense group. Merlin knew why. Even the Dark Lord didn’t claim to understand Dementors.

A Ministry wizard, one of the small handful assigned to the island, was standing outside watching the Dementors congregate. Voldemort oozed to his ankles and lunged, seizing the man’s body. There was a loud shout. Voldemort quelled the fool’s will and forced his body to do his bidding, stumbling inside the prison. Unwillingly given, this body would imminently fail. It served just long enough to bring him to the right part of the prison before it collapsed, ejecting Voldemort’s spirit as the man collapsed behind him. He ignored the corpse and struggled to reach the cell ahead of him.

“Bellllaaa…” Voldemort hissed, voice sounding like wind passing through the knot of a tree. 

Poor, loyal Bellatrix couldn’t answer him. She was whimpering and groaning in the dark of her cell, plagued by the Dementors’ presence. Voldemort would restore her to what she had been once, as she did the same for him.

“The stoneeee Bella… Use the stone and the looocketttt…”

She didn’t answer him. Voldemort was struggling to keep himself corporeal; aspects of his body were transforming to mist and starting to evaporate, bleeding back into the form of a pure spirit. He had to get her attention. He squeezed through the bars of the cell.

“Bella!”

“Gulk,” Bellatrix said.

Slowly, Voldemort realized he’d been mistaken. Bellatrix wasn’t huddled in terror, the island’s poisonous air eating away at her already strained psyche. She was on her knees in worship. In front of him.

Voldemort as Voldemort used to be, in the days when he had his handsome face and human looks. It disoriented Voldemort to look at this man, for it was like a mirror turned on the distant past. Pangs of longing shot through the chest for the days when that was him, before prophecies and damnable unexplained magic allowed an infant to get the better of him.

“Bella! Serve me!” Voldemort screamed.

His loudest utterance barely crested the volume of a whisper. His ability to affect the world of the living was severely limited. Voldemort hissed and spitt as he lay on the floor beside the bars. Bellatrix didn’t adhere to his command; she didn’t even hear it. She could see her master in front of her… And she was most assuredly serving him.

The false Tom Riddle petted her black curls. Bellatrix’s lips, which had always held a level of fullness that not even Azkaban could thin, moved her head forward and back, sliding his cock into her gullet. She didn’t think of minor concerns like ‘gagging’ when her master desired her services. She sucked with all her might, drawing out a thick load of his seed. 

“Bah!” Bellatrix said happily, dragging her head off the cock she’d been servicing. Cum ran over her lips and dripped down her chin, falling onto her hands, where she held her palms to catch what she missed. As Bellatrix brought her hands to her mouth and licked them clean, Voldemort noticed that not only was she devoid of clothing, seed was already coming from between her legs. 

Love was an emotion he had never experienced, not even once. Possession, on the other hand, was something Voldemort took very seriously. Bellatrix was one of his toys. From his earliest days, Voldemort never allowed others to touch his things and get away with it. All you had to do was ask the orphans he grew up with.

“I’ll destroy you… Replace you… Make you pay…!” Voldemort growled at the facsimile. 

He assumed it was the splinter of his soul left in the Horcrux. That would make the most sense, in the situation. He hadn’t thought it could materialize this way… But stranger things had happened. His diary managed it. Perhaps his soul was stronger than even he knew.

He’d have to manage the ritual by himself. Bellatrix was no help until his body was restored. Then, she would come back to him. He would welcome her with open arms and a sufficient punishment. She would understand. She always had.

Slytherin’s Locket was sitting in the corner. The false stone glittered next to it, red like a ruby and a thousand times more valuable. As a puddle with arms, Voldemort dragged himself to the priceless treasure. The copy of him watched it happen. Something about those eyes (his but not) made the great Lord Voldemort shudder. Was that truly a fraction of him?

Voldemort’s formless body encompassed the locket at the stone. From the stone, he pulled the precious nectar of life. The locket acted as an anchor to the world of the living. Together, their power started to change Voldemort.

The gaseous parts of his body turned to liquid. The liquid parts became solid. His amorphous shape, as if pressed into a mold, took on the properties of a living human. He grew arms and limbs and a head. His growling and moaning increased in volume. The sensations weren’t pleasant; merely one more challenge for him to weather and withstand. He would surpass this. He was Lord Voldemort!

His copy had grown bored with watching him. Standing up, the supposed Tom Riddle walked toward the bars of his cell. As he went, he held onto Bellatrix’s hair. She was led like a dog on a leash, padding after him on her hands and knees while cum dripped from her chin and left her slit in droplets. At the door, Tom Riddle stood her up and bent her over. His manhood buried into her snatch.

“Yes, my lord! My body lives to serve you!” Bellatrix cried out.

Not him, you fool! Voldemort thought. He nearly had a body again. It was naked and thinner than a rail, truly on death’s door from its first moments, but it was an inestimable improvement on the state he’d been in before. If it had been the true Philosopher’s Stone, he would’ve come back in a body like the one that was thrusting into Bellatrix. Voldemort ignored the clapping, moaning, and Bellatrix’s pleas for more. He had thought, incorrectly, that nothing would be more demeaning than possessing mere fish. Voldemort was going to make that imitation scream.

He stood up. When the process finished it left him on shaky legs not unlike those of a newborn dear, covered in a coat of slippery oil. He held his hand out and summoned the wand of the dead guard who brought him to the cell. Voldemort aimed at his copy’s back. “Avada—!”

“That won’t do what you wish it to,” The copy said.

It wasn’t the words that stopped Voldemort, but the fact that his doppelganger was looking at him. Without turning around, without stopping his  pelvic movements, the fake Tom Riddle’s head had turned backwards, looking at Voldemort like there were no joints in his neck.

“What are you?” Voldemort asked, unable to keep the question to himself.

Bellatrix was still moaning, unaware that the one fucking her was looking backwards with the flexibility of an owl.

“Look into my eyes.” The  pupils went as dark as night. “Tell me what I am.”

Voldemort lost himself. He dropped his wand. The righteous anger he’d been feeling abandoned him. He… He wanted to flee. He had to run!

“It’s too late,” said Death, for that had to be what this was. “From my perspective, I must say, you’re pathetic.”

Voldemort’s chest swelled. “I have bested you! You cannot claim me!”

Death looked disgusted. “Bested me? When? You’ll be mine eventually. All you have ever done is run from with all your might. That isn’t close to enough to defeat me. Only one man ever did that.”

“Who?” Voldemort said, when what he really meant was, how?

“You know him very well. But you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” 

A purple glow began outside the prison’s windows. With it came an intense whine, nearly a howl. Dark shapes shot past, cloaks flapping around them. The dementors were trying to flee.

“What is happening?” Voldemort demanded. 

“You’re reaping the fruits of your labors,” Death said.

Without adjusting its head to the normal direction, Death came inside of Bellatrix. Her knees knocked together and she moaned as a single, long white strand dripped down to the floor. She moaned in a way that Voldemort had never heard, even at the times when he took her body for his pleasure. She sounded oddly satisfied. Frankly, Voldemort had larger concerns. The glow was getting brighter and the Dementors were becoming louder. He hadn’t known they could speak… let alone scream.

“You used Dementors to tear out countless souls. They’re wretched, unnatural existences.” Death sounded angry. “They steal souls for themselves, sequestering them away from my reach. You made my master hate them as much as I hate them myself. He devoted years to solving the problem they presented. In the end, he created a ritual.”

“I’ve heard nothing like this!” Voldemort said.

Death cocked its head. “Of course not. You were dead at the time.”

“Never!”

Death’s lips twitched. “Multiple times, actually. I’ve watched you die. I’ve claimed your splintered soul. Before long, I imagine I’ll reap it again. But we were talking about Dementors. Can you guess what this ritual does?”

Voldemort was too lost to respond. He was shaken and he could not hide it. This was the entity he despised more than anything, telling him it had watched him die. It did not feel like a lie. Death felt like it could not, or would not, waste time on untrue words. None of this made sense.

“No answer? It kills them,” Death said. “It kills Dementors. Actually, it eradicates them. They aren’t the kind of monster that could end up in my embrace. The ritual bathes a region in bright purple light and targets the soul. Any beings inside without a complete soul are promptly destroyed. For Dementors, their very soul is ripped away. A living being without a soul wouldn’t be treated so harshly. Their body would just be—”

Voldemort disintegrated.

“—turned to dust,” Death said.

Voldemort’s soul was ejected from the body that had lasted mere minutes. He roared, reduced to a dark spirit made of billowing smoke. The spirit sped away, taking advantage of its intangibility to flee. He didn’t wait to mourn his failed return attempt. He left Death and the cell behind, then the prison in its entirety. He hardly noticed the beautiful indigo light that had encased Azkaban in its enthralling glow. He raced past Dementors, which were falling to the ground like flies stripped of their wings. Where they hit the rocks they withered on the spot. Voldemort fled as fast as he could, proving Death’s diagnosis in the process.

Among the things Voldemort never noticed was a small Muggle boat. While not massive, it was a very nice one, with plush seats and a roof. It was turned with the prow facing away from Azkaban, letting the occupants watch the gorgeous purple light show. Only one of them was taking in the view.

“I can never get over how beautiful this spell is,” Harry said, gazing lovingly at the purple light. “Are you sure you don’t want to watch?” 

Anastacia Greengrass leaned back to disengorge Harry’s dick from her mouth. Her daughters, both of them with running makeup, darted in from either side to lick him while their mother was out of the way. 

“I prefer the view I have,” Anastacia said, gazing at Harry and his dick. Her dress robes were down to her waist, letting the cool night air nip her bare breasts.

Daphne and Astoria proved their agreement by slobbering along the sides of his job, licking with all of their might. Harry shrugged, followed shortly by a groan.

When his dick spat out its first load, delivering a facial across two generations of fine Greengrass females, Harry acknowledged that the perfect view had gotten even better— his wives wearing his cum, backlit by the bright purple glow representing total Dementor annihilation. 

This was his kind of honeymoon.