Points, Plots, and Plans

Of course, I make no money off of this fictional story; it is a labor of love and sleep-deprivation. JK owns the characters and the settings, but the twisted things I make them do are all my brainchildren.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~HG~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The tow-headed bane of my existence emerges from behind one of the dusty stacks. His clapping hands are immaculate, as are his half-open robes and tailored clothing. Whatever he'd been doing, it wasn't reading. Spying, more like. The Slytherin Prince's face is expressionless but for the slight tilt to his lips: a far cry from his full-blown smirk. It is as if he's trying to convey that he finds my situation only slightly more amusing than a snail crawling over the dusty ground.

It's obvious to me that his perfectly tailored pants are tented. Why hasn't he figured it out? If he had, he never would have emerged from his hiding place. "Enjoying the show?" I raise an eyebrow and nod to his erection.

Tension takes him over as he looks where I indicated. For a moment, I think I might hear him lose his tight rein on his emotions and swear aloud. In a blink, he schools his expression, although he cannot hide the creeping blush on his so-pale-as-to-be-transparent skin. He recovers from embarrassment as best he can by ignoring it. "I don't know what you're talking about. You must be mad. I found the absence of the sight of you groping the Weaslette to be mildly amusing at best." Ah, so he chose to bluff his way around it.

"Don't worry, Malfoy. I'll keep your secret." My cooing voice drips with gleeful sarcasm.

"There's nothing to keep. I repeat: you must be mad. Insane, Mudblood, as well as daft. I wouldn't come near you to save my life."

"Of course you would," I scoff. "You value your life far above your pureblood proclivities--how very Slytherin of you, by the way--so don't give me that tripe. But beyond threat of death, I wouldn't put it past you to turn up your nose, so I won't bother offering to help you with your... situation."

He's speechless as I walk out of the library, laughing at his thunderstruck expression.

"Mudblood!" His parting insult catches me at the door.

"That's Head Girl to you, Ferret! Five points from Slytherin." I shoot back without breaking stride. It feels good to ruffle that boy's feathers for a change. I really should do it more often. Muggleborns 1, Malfoys 0.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~GW~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Well, that was too close. I storm back to Gryffindor Tower to tell my idiot brother he can bloody well spy on Hermione himself. As far as I can see, she doesn't have a boyfriend. She's just spending the usual amount of time in the library, revising, not canoodling with some boy in the stacks. If he wasn't so dead set against stepping foot in the library if he didn't absolutely have to, he would have seen that she was alone long before now.

Before now. Now she's revising and groping invisible witches, is all. Heat creeps up in my cheeks as I think about the feel of her cupping me and I know exactly why. I've loved Harry forever, saved my virginity for him, but girls get me hot, too. I never got beyond a few kisses with any of the guys I bided my time with to make Harry jealous because anything more would have been dangerous and disastrous for my reputation. My experiments and experiences with the fairer sex have gone quite a bit further, though, which is fine. It's all part and parcel to the feminine mysteries, practically pureblood tradition. No one likes a cold fish in bed so it's our duty as future pureblood wives to instruct each other gently while maintaining our purity. Or some such rot. To me, it just feels good. It's a handy excuse, though. Once I get married, I'm expected to stop that sort of behavior.

I don't know how I feel about that.

Anger fills me again as I give the Fat Lady the password. I'd been caught after one day on the job of spying! My ego is seriously bruised. Maybe that's why I feel like smacking the back of my brother's head as it's bowed over the chessboard. So I do.

"Ow! What was that for?" he grumbles, rubbing the back of his head and scowling at me as I come around to glare at him over his stupid game.

"She caught me. Do your own dirty work."

"But what did you find out? Is she seeing anybody?" His stupid face takes all the anger out of me as hope shines brightly in his eyes.

"Not that I can tell. Why don't you just ask her, you idiot? You were sorted into Gryffindor for a reason!"

"After Lavender? I can't just... she'd laugh at me."

"Now I'm laughing at you. Idiot."

"Hey!"

"Just. Tell. Her. Before somebody else decides to. Remember the Triwizard Tournament. Remember the Yule Ball? You waited too long to ask her then. Just do it. Idiot."

"Will you quit calling me an idiot?"

"When you quit acting like one. Or do you prefer 'Coward'?"

"Okay, okay, I get it. I'll talk to her."

"Great," I smile brightly. "Where's Harry?"

"Dunno," he says, scratching his head. "I haven't seen him this morning. He was gone when I woke up."

"You think he's out on the Quiddich pitch?"

"Maybe. He has been talking about implementing some of the tougher moves and plays from the book Professor McGonagall got him for his birthday, although I think that was more for her own benefit than his," Ron's gaze looked off into the middle distance. I don't know anybody else who can pull off that look of thoughtfulness while maintaining the air of slack-jawed stupidity, but he manages. Maybe it's just that I'm his sister and hate his dumb guts half the time. I think so, but I can't ever remember thinking of Bill or Charlie like that. Percy, yes. The twins got my grudging admiration for their ability to cause chaos and avoid the fallout, but I've always had this feeling that I was the older sibling between me and Ron even though he's a year before me.

And Percy's just a self-absorbed, stuck-up prick.

"Fine. I'm going to find Harry. Good luck finding Hermione. I'm sure she's left the library by now and is back in her room where she can read without getting spied on."

"Thanks, Gin."

"No thanks necessary. Just pay me."

I wander the castle for hours, unable to find my lovely boyfriend. I'm starting to worry. "Oh, Harry. What have you gotten yourself into this time? And why haven't you taken one of us with you?" Even my ill-gained Chocolate Frogs fail to make me feel better. I sure hope I see him at dinner.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~LV~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I can't say when the novelty of loyal Death Eaters being reduced to their baser components wore off, perhaps some time before that fateful Halloween when I lost my body to my own rebounding curse due to an invocation of Old Magic so arcane that it had never been translated into the modern tongues. The evening's revels have once again failed to sate my appetite for good-old-fashioned mayhem, and the inevitable outpouring of sexual deviancy by my followers has left me... uninspired. Still, I must keep up appearances for them by watching all of it from my throne, tossing Crucios into the milieu every now and again to reassure them that they have my attention. Bella always comes so much harder when she knows I'm watching. She has the spirit of a true exhibitionist. She's always happiest when she can glance my way, covered in various bodily fluids, and find that my eyes are on her. Always on her.

Some of my followers might think that I envy them their positions, filling Bella's every available hole with the fruits of their efforts, but the truth is that the show is not for me. It hasn't been for quite some time, nor would I go anywhere near any of Bella's thoroughly used orifices had I been in possession of a working sexual organ. She may be my most loyal and fanatical follower, but she's also more like a daughter to me. It was through my tutelage that she evolved into the powerful, cruel, and terrifying witch she is today. I planted the seeds that the womb of Azkaban nurtured. She is a child of hopelessness, darkness, madness, and heartlessness. I wouldn't have her any other way. No, the show is truly for her, as I am the only audience that in the depths of her twisted soul matters. The floor before my throne is her stage. Sometimes, I think that when she is the only one standing after the orgy and the curses that she would like to take a bow. Some day I think I might let her, just for the shock value of it.

I order the lot of them out of the room, wanting to be alone. They can think whatever it is they wish about what I will do after they leave, not a single one of them would guess how I spend these hours. I think the mechanics and the irony would break their minds in twain were they ever to guess my guilty pleasure.

It has been far too long since I've allowed myself this distraction. This is the only time I am vulnerable. I do not eat, have no need of sleep, and am never in such an ignominious position as to be caught with my robes hiked up on a porcelain bowl. All my body's needs are taken care of with the transference of energy through the Dark Mark. I take a little from each of my branded followers, so little that none would be able to feel it. Their lives sustain the life of their Lord, as the mark was intended. It is only when I allow my consciousness to leave my body through the strange bond with Potter and enter him, using his body as my puppet, feeling everything through his sensory organs, that I am open to attack.

Giddy with the thought of experiencing the world through an 18-year-old's body once again, I set my wards on every opening to the room and summon my familiar to me, to watch over me while I'm away. Nagini twines herself about me, her smooth scales glinting in the low light cast by the fire, ready to hold vigil and kill any who enter here should they manage to get past the wards.

"Ssslleeep well, my masssster," she hisses softly to me, scenting the air before my face in her way of showing affection. "I ssshall guard."

I stroke her head with a single finger, scratching above her eye ridges in the way she likes best and settle deeper into the cushions of the throne. A few deep breaths later and I am speeding away on the wings of thought, deeper in and yet without, gauging Potter's state of mind as I near the surface of his thoughts.

He is awake, but tired. He is alone in his scarlet-draped dorm room. He is... conflicted, but overall, happy. That gives me pause. Why is he happy? I search further than his surface emotions, acclimating myself to the shadows of his thoughts, slipping beneath and around his feeble barriers undetected. As his memories of the time between my last visit and the present play out for me, I feel my ire rise.

She is MY Mudblood. MINE! How dare he touch her? I force myself not to pace like a caged panther in his head as he winces and puts a hand over his scar. He feels my anger so much more because the source of it is right there in his head, but all he knows is that I am angry. He looks into the mirror, and I can hear him thinking: "Voldemort's pissed. That's good," and he smiles a little, despite the pain in his scar. I lurk around behind his thoughts, fuming. Potter, you insolent brat, why won't you just DIE?

He changes into his sleep wear figuring that a nap wouldn't go amiss after the night he had. Memories play out anew and I simply watch, biding my time, waiting for his consciousness to go into REM so I can grab the reins and pay him restitution for trespassing where he never ought to have trespassed. There is groundwork to be laid and plots to plan. First, a conversation with his little red-head Blood Traitor girlfriend--a rendezvous at Midnight in the Head Girl's room before the Christmas hols. Second, the retrieval of a potion I'd had laid away by my dear Potions master before he'd killed that meddlesome old man while the original taking of Granger was still in the planning stages. She'd bowed to my seduction so easily it hadn't been necessary at the outset, but could prove quite amusing for me, now. This can be done in the space of a couple of hours and no one the wiser, least of all the insolent little shit I'll be impersonating.

Why don't I just make him walk out of the castle grounds where he could easily be snatched up by my minions, you might ask. He has his part to play in the grand scheme, make no mistake. Now that he is aware of what I can do with his body, he will be taking precautions against such a move, but that will put him right where I want him: powerless to act while I take the world around him and shape it to my liking. As long as he remains at Hogwarts, he is exactly where I want him to be. I will take the Ministry, I will take the school, and I will take his friends, one by one, away from him. In the end, he will crawl to me and beg me to take his miserable life away. It will be all too easy. And by coming to me willingly, head bowed, the last bit of hope for Dumbledore's 'Greater Good' will be crushed. I will not martyr the idiot child. I will take his will from him and crush any following or rebellion that might otherwise rise up in his name. I might keep him as a pet. Wouldn't that just be sweet?

Ah, he's out. And I'm in control. Time to make the boy pay by ruining what he values most. I'm really going to enjoy this!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A/N: I'm resurrecting the story, prying it out of the ashes of neglect and abandonment. I have to finish. I have all my old computerized notes and composition notebooks filled with insane scribblings somewhere. I'm sorry for the delay, but life got in the way of things. I WILL FINISH if it kills me. I owe everyone that much. I only hope that the admins will treat me gently and forgive my spelling errors. I never was an English major; I went to school for Graphic Design. Now I'm back. I hope you'll be pleased with the outcome.