Chapter 1: The Elf's Willing Servant
The kitchen in Grimmauld Place was never warm, but tonight the chill felt different. It seeped from the ancient floorboards, climbed the legs of the heavy table, and settled in the marrow. A single candle guttered in the center, its flame drawing frantic shapes on the soot-stained ceiling. The rest of the house slept, silently judging.
Molly Weasley’s knees protested as they met the unforgiving wood.
She was a solid woman, built for hugs and gardening and wiping noses. Her body was a map of her life—soft belly that had carried seven babies, full hips that had bounced them, heavy breasts that had fed them. Now, that same body felt alien to her, a vessel of unfamiliar heat and a shameful, thrilling hunger.
She was naked. The air was coarse against her skin.
Before her, Kreacher stood. The house-elf’s silhouette was a broken thing, a tangle of knobby limbs and sagging skin. The candlelight washed over him, deepening every crevice, highlighting the milky film over his bulging eyes. He smelled of dust and old magic and something deeply, fundamentally earthy.
And between his spindly legs, it hung.
Molly’s breath hitched. She’d heard whispers, of course. Filthy tales passed between certain witches after too much firewhisky. She’d always dismissed them as cruel fantasy. But this… this was geological. A thick, veined column of flesh, dusky and heavy, utterly disproportionate to the frail creature it was attached to. It twitched in the quivering light, a living entity all its own. The sheer weight of it, the absurdity, sent a jolt through her that was equal parts horror and a dark, pulsing curiosity.
“Kreacher wonders if the blood-traitor’s whore is finally done with her gawking.” His voice was a dry rattle, like dead leaves skittering over stone.
The insult, familiar in its venom, somehow steadied her. This was still Kreacher, the bitter, wretched thing she’d shouted at for years. Yet here she was.
“Don’t,” she whispered, the word barely there. Her own voice sounded strange to her. “Don’t call me that.”
“What should Kreacher call you?” He took a shuffling half-step forward. The tip of him brushed her collarbone, a shock of unexpected heat. “You are not the mistress. You are a plump, begging thing in the dark. Kreacher knows what you are.”
A tear escaped, tracing a hot path through the blush on her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away. The truth of his words was a stone in her throat. This craving had become a quiet madness, growing in the domestic quiet between Order meetings and mending socks. Arthur was wonderful, kind, predictable. His touches were soft, familiar. They no longer reached the restless, hidden parts of her.
This… this would reach.
Her hands, usually so capable, fluttered uselessly at her sides before she forced them to stillness. She made herself look up, past the monstrous evidence of his arousal, to his face. In the shadows, his expression was unreadable.
“Will you…” she began, her voice cracking. “Will you just… let me?”
A slow, rasping sound escaped him. A laugh. “The witch asks permission. How pretty.” He swayed, the movement causing his cock to sway heavily, almost brushing her lips. The scent of him filled her nostrils—musky, primal, utterly foreign. “Kreacher is bound to serve the house. But tonight, the house does not command this. The witch does. So. The witch does not ask. The witch… takes.”
The challenge hung in the air, more intoxicating than any spell.
Shame warred with a desperate need to conquer this, to conquer herself. A sob welled up, but she choked it back, transmuting it into a shaky exhale. Her fingers, trembling, rose. They hovered, hesitant, over the hot skin.
Then she touched him.
The texture was a revelation—silken heat over a core of iron. A thick vein pulsed under her thumb. He was alive, terribly, overwhelmingly alive. Kreacher let out a sharp, hissing intake of breath. His whole frame seemed to quiver.
Emboldened, she closed her hand, unable to circle the girth. Her other hand came up to support the base, the weight of him a stunning, solid reality. She bowed her head, her riot of red curls curtaining her face.
Her lips parted.
The first touch of her mouth to that swollen head was salt and heat and a flavor uniquely his. She recoiled for a second, a final instinct of preservation, then leaned in again. This time she took him in, an inch, then two, the stretch of her jaw immediate and aching. A low, guttural groan echoed above her. Not words. Just sound.
She moved, a clumsy, tentative rhythm. Her mind was a riot of contrasting images: rolling out pastry at this very table, laughing as the twins charmed the spoons to dance, the grim set of Albus Dumbledore’s face during a briefing. And now this. The taste of a creature she despised filling her mouth, the coarse hair tickling her nose, the undeniable, growing ache between her own thighs.
She was failing at it, the technique all wrong, but the raw fact of the act was the point. She was doing it. She was choosing this.
Kreacher’s bony fingers tangled violently in her hair, not guiding, but claiming. He jerked her forward, forcing himself deeper. She gagged, tears springing freely now, dripping onto his root. The mix of pain and utter submission sparked something white-hot in her gut.
“The witch learns,” he crooned, his voice strained. “The fat, mothering witch learns her place.”
He began to move her head, setting a slow, brutal pace. Each thrust pushed against the back of her throat. The world narrowed to the choke of it, the slap of skin, the ragged sound of their breathing. Her own pleasure coiled, tight and neglected, a silent scream underneath the degradation.
Just as she felt a dizzying wave of darkness edge her vision, he yanked her back by the hair.
She gasped, strings of saliva breaking, chest heaving. Her lips felt bruised and swollen. He looked down at her, his bulbous eyes wide and black in the low light.
“Not there,” he snarled. “The master’s filth does not belong in a mudblood’s mouth.”
The cruelty was a bucket of cold water, but it couldn't extinguish the fire he’d stoked. She knelt, ravaged and trembling, as he shuffled around her. The warped floorboards creaked. The candle flame dipped.
His hands, surprisingly strong, gripped her ample hips, dragging her back until she was on all fours. The position was profoundly vulnerable, her generous curves exposed and offered to the darkness and this bitter, ancient thing. She buried her face in the crook of her arm, the wood grain pressing a pattern into her skin.
She felt the blunt, hot nudge of him, not at her core, but lower, searching, insistent. Panic, sharp and clean, sliced through the haze.
“No, not… that’s not…”
“Kreacher decides where,” he grunted, the head of him pressing against a forbidden furl. “The witch wanted a beast. She gets a beast.”
He pushed.
The pain was exquisite, a splitting, burning fullness that tore a raw shout from her throat, muffled by her own arm. It was too much, an impossible invasion. She tried to crawl forward, to escape, but his grip was like iron. He sheathed himself inside her to the hilt, a violation so complete it stole the air from her lungs. For a moment, there was only the shock, the feeling of being utterly remade.
Then he began to move.
And the pain, slowly, treacherously, began to change.
It was a fire that burned away thought. Each rough, grinding thrust carved a space inside her that had never existed, a brutal remodeling of her very architecture. The initial sear of it muted, transforming into a deep, spreading ache that vibrated in time with his frenzied rhythm. Her choked sobs against her arm became fractured gasps.
Kreacher made no sound but the wet slap of flesh and the whistle of air through his pointed teeth. His claws dug into the soft flesh of her hips, surely leaving moon-crescent bruises. She was an anchor for him, a solid, warm vessel he used to pump his ancient bitterness into.
Then something shifted.
A rough, calloused finger—his finger—found the swollen nub between her legs from behind, rubbing with a shocking, crude efficiency. The dual sensation, the brutal fullness and that targeted friction, collided in her nervous system.
A sharp, broken cry ripped from her throat. It wasn’t pain.
Her hands, which had been braced against the floor, now clenched into white-knuckled fists. Her back arched, pushing herself back against him, seeking more of that devastating friction. The shame was still there, a cold pool in her gut, but it was being drowned by a rising, molten tide. This was vile. This was magnificent. He was a monster, and he was the only thing that had truly touched her in years.
“Foul thing,” he rasped, sensing the change in her body, the new, eager tension. “The blood-traitor’s sow likes this. She likes Kreacher’s gift.”
She couldn’t speak. Language had dissolved. Her world was the creak of the floor, the scent of their sweat, the overwhelming stretch, and the coiling, screaming tension in her core. The pleasure was a live wire, electrocuting her principles, burning them to ash. It built in terrifying waves, each more powerful than the last, sourced from a place of pure, animal need.
His thrusts became ragged, losing rhythm. A hot, guttural snarl escaped him. The finger on her clit pressed harder, circling with a desperate, final urgency.
It was that which broke her.
The climax tore through her like a bout of violent magic, a shockwave of pure sensation that blinded her to the dark kitchen, to the who she was supposed to be. She screamed into her arm, a raw, ragged sound of utter release, as her body convulsed around his brutal invasion.
Her climax triggered his. With a final, deep lunge, he buried himself to the root and held there. A harsh, drawn-out groan echoed in the silence, different from his previous sounds—something almost like defeat. She felt the hot, pulsing rush deep inside that forbidden space, a claiming that was both violation and completion.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their labored breathing. Then he withdrew, the sudden emptiness a shock almost as profound as the taking.
She collapsed onto her side on the cold floor, limbs leaden, body humming. She didn’t look at him. She stared at the leg of the kitchen table, at a old scratch in the wood.
Kreacher shuffled back into the shadows. There was the soft, disgusting sound of him adjusting himself. The silence yawned, wide and awful. The candle flame sputtered.
The cold began to seep back into her skin. The stickiness between her thighs. The throbbing ache. The reality of what she’d done, what she’d become, settled over her like a shroud. And yet, beneath the horror, the embers of that fire still glowed.
She heard him turn to leave, his duty to the house—or to her depravity—complete.
Her voice, when it came, was a hoarse whisper, shredded from screaming. It seemed to come from someone else, from the woman left broken on the floor.
“Don’t go.”
She swallowed, the taste of him and salt and shame thick in her throat. She rolled onto her back, ignoring the protest of her body, and looked at the hunched silhouette in the gloom. Her eyes were wide, pleading, lost.
“Please,” she breathed, the word a prayer to nothing. Her hand trembled as it reached out, not toward him, but toward the emptiness between them. “More.”
The word hung in the cold air, naked and trembling.
Kreacher went perfectly still. The only sound was the frantic hammer of Molly’s heart against her ribs. She watched the shadows dance across his twisted frame, waiting for the sneer, the insult, the dismissal.
Instead, he let out a slow, wet sniff.
“The mistress is greedy,” he murmured, but the venom was gone, replaced by something contemplative, assessing. He took a step back toward her, his large, naked feet slapping softly on the wood. His bulbous eyes traveled over her prone form, sprawled and used on the Black family kitchen floor. There was no pity in that gaze. Only ownership.
“The witch said ‘please’,” he observed, tilting his head. “Kreacher hears. Kreacher decides.”
He didn’t help her up. He pointed a single, bony finger at the heavy wooden chair tucked beneath the kitchen table. “There.”
Molly pushed herself up, every muscle protesting. The cold bit into her sweat-slicked skin anew. She moved to the chair, her movements clumsy, and began to sit.
“Not sit,” he snapped. “Stand. Face the table. Bend.”
Understanding washed over her, hot and cold. She turned her back to him, placed her hands on the scarred tabletop, and slowly, deliberately, arched her back, presenting herself. The posture was one of total surrender, more explicit than being on her knees. She heard him shuffle close behind her. Felt his knobby fingers, surprisingly gentle now, trace the curve of her spine, down to the swell of her hip.
“The fat witch wants more,” he whispered, his breath a damp gust on the small of her back. “But her wanting is nothing. Her begging is nothing. Kreacher takes. Kreacher gives. Kreacher… controls.”
His hands gripped her hips again, but this time it was different. It wasn’t the frantic grasping of before. It was a firm, possessive placement. He was positioning her, like furniture. An object for his use.
And then he was pushing into her again, not where she expected, but reclaiming that first, violated entry. The pain was a bright, sharp flare, but it was familiar now—a gate he had already forced open. She cried out, a short, punched sound.
“Quiet,” he commanded, his voice low and steady. He began to move, a slow, deep, punishing rhythm. This wasn’t the frantic fucking of before. This was measured. Deliberate. Each thrust was a statement.
He controlled the pace. He controlled the depth. When she tried to push back against him, to meet his movement, one hand left her hip and smacked sharply against her buttock. The sting was a shock.
“Still,” he grunted. “Kreacher moves. The witch receives.”
Tears of frustration mingled with the tears of overwhelmed sensation. He was robbing her of even the illusion of participation. This was his show. His dominion. And yet, the sheer force of his will, the absolute authority in his twisted little body, ignited something deeper, darker. She was reduced to nothing but feeling. A vessel for his monstrous will.
He leaned over her, his scrawny chest pressing against her back, his stringy white hair brushing her shoulder. His mouth was near her ear.
“Tell Kreacher what you are,” he breathed, not missing a stroke.
She shook her head, whimpers escaping her with each drive of his body into hers.
He stopped. Just froze, buried inside her. The sudden absence of motion was a torture worse than the pounding.
“Tell Kreacher,” he insisted, his voice a serpent’s hiss.
“I’m… I’m a witch,” she sobbed.
Another sharp smack. “Liar.”
She gulped air. The truth was a pit. “I’m… a mother.”
He began to move again, slow and devastating. “You are a hole,” he corrected, his tone eerily conversational. “A warm, wet hole for Kreacher to use. Say it.”
The humiliation was absolute. It scorched through her. But the fire had burned everything else away. “I’m a hole,” she choked out.
“For?”
“For Kreacher to use.”
“Good.”
His approval was a perverse balm. He rewarded her by shifting his angle, and a spark of devastating pleasure shot through her core, making her gasp. He’d found it. On purpose.
“Kreacher knows the witch’s body,” he muttered, a hint of monstrous pride in his tone. “Kreacher knows what the witch needs, even when she lies.”
He began to manipulate her with a cruel, precise expertise. One hand snaked around her hip, his fingers finding that swollen, sensitive nub again, rubbing in tight, perfect circles in time with his deep, controlled strokes. The other hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back, arching her throat.
Sensation overloaded her. The brutal fullness, the targeted friction, the sharp pull on her scalp—it coalesced into a wave of pressure so intense she thought she might break apart. She was sobbing openly now, not from pain, but from the sheer, unsustainable intensity of it. She was a instrument, and he was playing a symphony of degradation on her nerves.
“You will come,” he stated, his voice rasping with his own effort now, his control beginning to fray at the edges. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was a decree. “When Kreacher allows it.”
And she understood. This was the final surrender. Not just of her body, but of her pleasure. He owned that, too. She hung on the precipice, trembling, begging wordlessly with every fiber of her being.
He drove into her, hard and deep, and pressed firmly against her clit.
“Now.”
The command unleashed her. Her climax was not a wave but a detonation, silent and shattering, because he still held her hair and she had no air to scream. It ripped through her with vicious force, blanching her mind, turning her vision white. She convulsed around him, muscles clenching and spasming without her consent.
With a guttural, triumphant roar, he followed her over. His own release was a violent pulse, a final, claiming infusion deep inside her. He held her there, pinned and pulsing, until the last tremor subsided.
For a long minute, the only sounds were the drip of wax from the candle and their ragged, merging breaths.