Title: The Master of the House, Part I
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters herein.
Summary: Narcissa Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange are rescued by Harry Potter from certain death by Voldemort. The ensuing chaos throws them into turmoil.
As a little background: I kicked the idea of Harry inheriting the Number 12 for some time. Throw a little bit of P.A. Elrod's "I Strahd" into it, and I came up with a rather weird definition of being the heir to a Pureblooded family.
The challenge in short(though now that I've thought about it, I've wandered rather far):
Harry is at Grimmauld Place, being trained extremely hard by various members of the Order, so he should be more powerful and skilled magically. It wouldn't hurt his chances if he's put on more muscle and had a growth spurt, making him more a young man than a teen/child. At some point he's alone in the house when he has one of his Voldemort Visions and sees Lucius sucking up to Voldemort to get back in his good books. Voldemort lets him back into the inner circle on one condition: he must give up his wife to be sacrificed in a ritual. Lucius agrees with little/no hesitation. Lucius is then sent with a couple of Death Eaters to retrieve the sacrifice.
During the vision Harry finds out where Narcissa is staying, and seeing as how time is running short Harry floos there on his own just in time to see Lucius torturing Narcissa into submission.
Harry walked down the silent corridors, each and every step sending echoes of magical power through his body. At times like these, when the heavy shroud of night and darkness fell on the residents, it seemed as if the house spoke to him, carrying whispers and faint echoes of long forgotten past to his ear, with the stench of cruel laughter and pain.
But above all he could feel the power, dark and malevolent, running beneath the very floorboards and behind the plastered walls to the very foundations of the house. It called to him, the power, stored through the countless decades, ready to bow at his command, at his barest whim. Here, in this house, he knew that no magic was powerful enough to touch him, that no force on this Earth could cross his will, be it the hordes of hell, or even Voldemort Himself. And so he kept himself in ruthless check, in command of both the power and of himself.
And it was here that he could finally come to the full course of pity for his godfather, denied his birthright as the heir to the power and fortunes of the House of Black. Coming back must have been a living hell, when the bond had been twisted and broken by the long sojourn in Azkaban till it rubbed like an open sore on the mind. But to the new Master the hidden passageways and secrets were offered openly, the house responding like a willing mistress with legs arched open. It was almost erotic, the heady call of power and knowledge.
Passing a closed door he noticed that it was unoccupied, the bed never slept in. No matter that he had given Ron rooms ajoining Hermione's, or that it had been him who had shown them the hidden door that linked the rooms together. After all, he knew the goings-on in every last inch of the house, as he knew each and every whirl and spiral on the letters of his own name, and beyond even into the realm of dreams where he could almost intrude on the edge of consciousness of each sentient being occupying his halls.
So it was no surprise to him to find, at the end of his nocturnal roaming, the dark figure waiting for him. He looked at the shattered remnants of the once great beauty, being painstakingly repaired by the magic running through her veins since her rescue a few days ago. The magic that Voldemort had wanted to draw out of her and her sister, drop by painful drop, to make him vulnerable at his strongest.
Taking a step closer, he could feel throbbing of magic rising in a wild surge through his body, the buzzing whispers at his ears turning into a crashing cacophony of shouting and screaming. His lips curled into a sneer as the heavy-lidded eyes cast downward, and the still-imperious figure bowed before him with a murmured "Master."
* * *
Narcissa turned the corner, then stepped back hastily. Peering around more carefully, she was neither surprised nor shocked at the sight before her, though perhaps a little concerned for their carelessness. While the hereditary home of the Noble and Most
Ancient House of Black had some turns and corners that would baffle even the most observant visitor, its ways were open to any and all with the Blood. And, of course, to the Master of the House, be it by hereditary or non-hereditary right.
It had changed the boy, she saw. It was no easy task, bearing the Master-bond of the a house magical, especially when it was something as old and dark as Number 12 Grimmauld Place, passed from generation after generation of Blacks, as powerful as they were cruel. He now wore his brooding darkness well, alongside the sharp edge of his grief. But summer had been generous to the heir of the Black fortune, and he'd grown taller and put on more weight on his wiry frame. But above all he fairly crackled with the aura of power and authority that the house gave him.
Poor cousin Sirius, she thought. Forced to bear the weight of it all at Azkaban, but denied setting foot upon his stronghold. It would have driven any lesser man outright insane. Though from what she had heard, the pale shell of a man that had emerged was not too different. By then it was too late, the bond twisted beyond all recognition.
But it was fully open to its new Master now, and over the past few days her sister had been sucking it up like the greedy slut she was. Already, Narcissa saw, she had regained some of her beauty, the haunted gaunt look disappearing from her cheeks, her hair regaining some of its former dark glory.
Narcissa watched the goings-on dispassionately. The two were almost fully dressed, pale skin bare only where they were joined together. But from what little she could see, and the guttural moans her sister was making being slammed against the wall, it seemed the young Potter carried more than his fair share of the package.
The sight, pulsing with heady lust and violent resentment and anger, did little to move her. She had always been cold and reserved, and Lucius Malfoy, with equal coldness and aloofness, had done little to bring warmth into the bedchamber. Guaranteed his heir, he had wanted little more, what needs of the body satisfied on his infrequent visits to the sultry harlots of Knockturn Alley. As was proper, she had indicated no further interest in the affairs of the bedchamber.
Suddenly Narcissa jerked back, startled at the pair of gleaming eyes staring in her direction, before remembering that the invisibility spell she had cast before coming out of her room was still intact. But the green eyes continued burning in her direction, even as Bellatrix, pinned to the wall like a moth on display, cried out in triumph.
To be continued