Chapter 13: Chapter 13
The stale, recycled air of the Ministry hit Cassie like a physical barrier as she stepped out of the lift onto Level Two. Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a sickly pallor on the polished stone floors and endless rows of identical oak doors. The scent was antiseptic overlaying something deeper, older – parchment dust, ink, and the faint, metallic tang of contained power. She smoothed her sensible charcoal skirt suit, a deliberate choice, her heels clicking a sharp counterpoint to the muffled bustle echoing down the corridors. Tom’s summons, delivered via a curt, impersonal memo charmed to appear over her morning tea, had been chillingly formal: Miss Black. My office. 10 AM. Matter concerning Lestrange surveillance. Rabastan. Of course.
His secretary, a pinched-faced witch with perpetually disapproving lips, barely glanced up. "He’s expecting you. Go straight in." The dismissal was absolute.
Cassie pushed open the heavy door. Tom Riddle’s office was a monument to controlled ambition. Expansive, impeccably ordered, dominated by a vast obsidian desk that seemed to absorb the light from the tall windows overlooking a murky, enchanted view of the Thames. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with imposing legal tomes and artefacts that shimmered with restrained magic. He sat behind the desk, quill scratching across parchment, not looking up. He wore impeccably tailored robes of deep charcoal, his dark hair ruthlessly styled. The air crackled with his presence, cold and dense.
"Miss Black." His voice was clipped, devoid of inflection. He finally lifted his gaze. His eyes, usually pools of dark intensity, were flat, distant. Professional. Utterly terrifying. "Sit." He gestured to the stiff-backed chair opposite him.
Cassie sat, crossing her legs deliberately, the nylon whisper loud in the silence. "You wished to discuss Rabastan Lestrange, Head Auror?" Her tone matched his coolness.
Tom leaned back, steepling his fingers. "Indeed. Surveillance reports indicate increased… volatility. Associating with known agitators. Potential links to the recent Knockturn Alley disturbances." He spoke precisely, outlining facts, his gaze fixed somewhere over her shoulder. "Your proximity to him is noted. Any insights? Observations beyond the… personal?"
The deliberate omission of their history, the reduction of their encounters to mere ‘personal’ footnotes, was a calculated blow. Cassie felt a flicker of anger, quickly banked. She uncrossed her legs slowly, letting her skirt ride up just a fraction. "Volatility is Rabastan’s baseline, wouldn’t you say?" She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on the edge of his imposing desk. "As for insights… he talks less than he fucks. And he fucks… loudly." She let the crude word hang, watching his jaw tighten infinitesimally. "But focused? Driven? Not really. More like a stray dog looking for a fight." She traced an idle pattern on the cool obsidian surface with her fingertip. "Or a warm hole."
Tom’s expression didn’t change, but the air thickened. The professional mask remained firmly in place, but the coldness intensified, sharpening into something dangerous. "Your assessment is noted, Miss Black. Colourful, if unprofessional." He picked up his quill again. "Dismissed."
Cassie didn’t move. She tilted her head, a slow, deliberate smile touching her lips. "Is that all?" Her voice dropped lower, huskier. "After all…" She let her gaze drift pointedly downwards, towards his lap, hidden by the desk. "...you seemed rather… invested… the last time we discussed surveillance techniques." She recalled the brutal claiming in Bella’s powder room, the fury in his eyes as he took her. "Or have you forgotten how I taste? How tight I feel when you’re buried inside me?" She shifted in the chair, the movement subtle but designed to draw his eye to the curve of her hip, the hint of cleavage above her buttoned blouse. "Rabastan certainly hasn’t. He mentioned you, you know. After he finished. Said you came too fast."
It was a lie. A vicious, deliberate barb. Tom’s knuckles whitened around the quill. The snap as it broke was shockingly loud in the silent office. The professional detachment shattered. His dark eyes locked onto hers, blazing with a fury that was pure, undiluted possession. The cold mask dissolved, revealing the raw, jealous predator beneath. He stood, the movement fluid and predatory.
"Get up," he commanded, his voice a low growl.
Cassie rose slowly, maintaining eye contact, the challenge bright in her own gaze. "Make me."
He was around the desk in two strides. His hand shot out, grabbing the front of her blouse and wrenching her forward. Buttons popped, scattering like tiny pearls across the obsidian. He shoved her backwards hard. Her hips hit the edge of the massive desk, the impact jarring. Before she could react, he spun her around, bending her forcefully over the cool, smooth surface. Parchment scattered. An inkwell tipped, spilling black ichor like blood.
"No," she gasped, the protest instinctive, fueling his aggression.
His hand clamped on the back of her neck, pressing her cheek against the cold stone. His other hand shoved her skirt up around her waist, ripped her tights and knickers aside with brutal efficiency. There was no preamble, no tenderness. He fumbled with his trousers, the rasp of the zip loud, then thrust into her with one savage, deep stroke. She cried out, the sound muffled against the desk, the sudden stretch and invasion sharp.
"Shut up," he snarled, his hips already pistoning against her, setting a punishing rhythm. "You wanted this. You fucking asked for it." His hand left her neck, gripping her hip bone hard enough to bruise, using it for leverage as he slammed into her. "Filthy little tease. Flaunting yourself for that gutter trash." Each thrust punctuated his words, driving her forward against the unyielding desk. "My cock the only thing that shuts that smart mouth, isn't it?" He leaned over her, his breath hot and ragged against her ear. "Tell me."
She couldn't form words. The force of him, the friction against the desk edge, the sheer overwhelming intensity of his fury translated into physical possession… it was brutal, degrading, and it ignited a matching fire in her core. She moaned, a low, involuntary sound of surrender mixed with defiance.
"Yeah," he hissed, satisfied. "That's what you need. Hard. Deep. Mine." His pace became frantic, losing its measured brutality, driven purely by possessive rage and the tight heat gripping him. He reached around, fingers finding her clit, rubbing with rough, demanding circles. "Come on it," he ordered. "Come on my cock while I fill you."
The dual assault – the relentless pounding deep inside and the rough friction on her clit – pushed her over the edge violently. Her body convulsed around him, a silent scream tearing through her as wave after wave of intense pleasure-pain crashed over her. Feeling her inner muscles clamp down, Tom roared, driving impossibly deep, his hips grinding against her as his own release tore through him. Hot pulses flooded her, deep and possessive.
He stayed buried for a moment, panting heavily against her back, his weight heavy. Then he pulled out abruptly. Cassie slumped forward, trembling, feeling his spend already beginning to seep out of her onto the cool obsidian. Before she could catch her breath, his hands were on her shoulders, hauling her upright and spinning her around to face him. His cock, still slick and glistening with her wetness and his own release, was already half-hard again. Fury and lust warred in his eyes.
"Open your mouth," he commanded, his voice thick.
She hesitated for a fraction of a second, meeting his burning gaze. Then, slowly, deliberately, she parted her lips. He gripped the base of his cock, guiding it towards her mouth. "Suck it clean," he growled. "Suck me clean."
She obeyed, taking him into her mouth, the taste of herself and him salty and primal. She worked him with her tongue, hollowing her cheeks, looking up at him through her lashes. He groaned, his head falling back, fingers tangling in her hair, guiding her rhythm. "Yeah… fuck… just like that…" His hips jerked forward, fucking her mouth with shallow thrusts. It didn't take long. With a harsh gasp, he pulled her head forward sharply, holding her still as he came again, thick spurts hitting the back of her throat, flooding her mouth. She swallowed convulsively, the taste overwhelming.
He pulled out, panting. His eyes raked over her – blouse torn open, skirt rucked up, face flushed, lips swollen, his seed glistening at the corner of her mouth. A fresh wave of possessiveness seemed to hit him. "On the desk. Now. On your back."
She climbed onto the vast obsidian surface, lying back amidst the scattered parchment and spilled ink. He shoved her legs apart, kneeling between them. He didn't enter her again immediately. Instead, he gripped his cock, already stiffening once more, and began stroking himself vigorously, his gaze fixed on her exposed sex, slick with his previous release. "Look at you," he breathed, his voice ragged. "Used. Filled. Mine." His strokes became faster, more desperate. "Cover you… mark you…"
Cassie lay still, watching him, the power shifting subtly. He was lost in it now, consumed by the need to claim, to mark. His control was gone, shattered by her deliberate provocation. He groaned, a guttural sound, and then he came again. This time, thick ropes of white spattered across her thighs, her belly, her breasts. He shifted, aiming higher, stripes landing across her collarbone, her neck, finally spattering her cheek and chin. He kept stroking, milking every last drop until he was spent, his chest heaving, his gaze fixed on the obscene tableau he’d created – her body painted white, marked irrevocably as his territory.
He slumped back onto his heels, breathing hard, staring at her with a mixture of satiated lust and lingering, dark possessiveness. Cassie lay amidst the ruin of his office, covered in his essence, exhausted, aching… and utterly victorious. She’d cracked the ice. Reduced the Head Auror to a rutting animal on his own desk. She slowly sat up, the drying cum tacky on her skin. She met his eyes, a slow, deliberate smile spreading across her sticky lips. "Satisfied, Head Auror?"
He didn't answer. He just watched her, his expression unreadable, the coldness slowly creeping back into his eyes, but the fury beneath it banked, replaced by something more complex, more dangerous. She slid off the desk, ignoring the mess, pulling her torn blouse together as best she could. She didn't wait for dismissal. She walked out, her bare legs sticky, the scent of sex and his release clinging to her, leaving Tom Riddle alone amidst the wreckage of his control.
The journey home was a blur of sticky discomfort and simmering adrenaline. Taxis were out of the question. She walked, the cool London air doing little to dispel the scent of Tom clinging to her skin and clothes, the drying cum tightening uncomfortably on her face and body. Every step reminded her of his brutal possession, the shattering of his icy facade. Power thrummed beneath her exhaustion. She needed a shower. She needed oblivion. She needed to see the fallout.
Her flat felt unnaturally quiet after the violence of Tom’s office. She pushed the door open, the familiar scent of home overlaying the lingering traces of the previous night’s encounter – firewhisky, sweat, sex. The living room light was on. Sirius and Lucius were both awake.
Sirius was sprawled on the sofa, shirtless, nursing a large glass of amber liquid, a fresh bruise blooming near his collarbone. He looked wrecked, but a familiar, reckless glint was back in his eyes. Lucius stood by the window, impeccably dressed once more in fresh, dark robes, his posture rigid, his face a carefully constructed mask of disdain. The air between them crackled with residual tension, embarrassment, and something else… a shared, unspoken awareness forged in the crucible of their mutual collapse and Cassie’s command.
Sirius whistled lowly as she entered, his gaze sweeping over her torn blouse, the visible streaks on her legs and neck, the unmistakable state of her. "Whoa. Rough meeting with the Head Auror, sweetheart? Looks like he… disagreed with your report." He took a large swallow of his drink.
Lucius turned, his pale eyes narrowing as he took in her dishevelled state. His lip curled slightly, but Cassie saw the flicker in his eyes – not disgust, but recognition. Possession. Jealousy. "Disgraceful," he murmured, his voice icy. "Appearing in such a state."
Cassie ignored them both. She walked straight to the small sideboard and poured herself a large measure of firewhisky, downing half of it in one burning gulp. The alcohol hit her system, sharpening her senses, burning away some of the fatigue. She turned, leaning back against the sideboard, the glass cool in her hand. She looked from Sirius, lounging with forced nonchalance, to Lucius, radiating icy disapproval. The memory of finding them pleasuring themselves, then their frantic coupling under her command, surged back. The power she’d wielded then… she wanted it back. Needed to see it again. Needed to remind them who held the leash.
She set her glass down with a decisive click. "Take off your robes, Lucius," she commanded, her voice low but carrying absolute authority.
Lucius stiffened. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me." Cassie’s gaze didn’t waver. "Take. Them. Off. Now."
A flush crept up Lucius’s neck. He glanced at Sirius, who was watching with rapt, amused fascination, his drink forgotten. "This is absurd," Lucius hissed.
"Do it," Cassie repeated, her tone leaving no room for argument. "Or leave. And never come back."
The ultimatum hung in the air. Lucius’s jaw worked. The humiliation warred with something else – the memory of yielding to her before, the illicit thrill of losing control. Slowly, with agonizing precision, his long fingers went to the clasp of his robes. He undid it, letting the heavy fabric slide from his shoulders to pool on the floor. He stood there in tailored trousers and a crisp white shirt, his posture still defiantly erect, but vulnerability shimmering beneath the surface.
Cassie’s gaze shifted to Sirius. "Stand up."
Sirius raised an eyebrow but obeyed, unfolding himself from the sofa with lazy grace. He stood before her, shirtless, the bruise stark on his skin, a challenge in his grey eyes. "What now, princess? Want me to bow?"
"Kiss him," Cassie said, her eyes fixed on Lucius.
Sirius blinked. "What?"
"You heard me." Cassie took a step forward. "Kiss Lucius. Like you did last night. Like you wanted to."
Sirius barked a laugh, sharp and humourless. "Fuck off, Cassie. That was…" He gestured vaguely, "...a moment of madness. Shared trauma."
"It was hot," Cassie countered flatly. "And you both know it. Do it again. Now. For me."
Silence stretched. Lucius looked like he’d been slapped. Sirius stared at Cassie, disbelief warring with a dawning, reluctant arousal sparked by her command and the sheer audacity of the demand. He glanced at Lucius, who refused to meet his eye, staring fixedly at a point on the wall, his cheeks flushed.
"Come on, Black," Cassie taunted softly, moving closer to Lucius, her presence forcing him to acknowledge her. "Scared? Or just not man enough to admit you liked it? Liked feeling him? Liked him taking you?" She reached out and traced a finger down Lucius’s tensed arm. He flinched but didn’t pull away
Lucius’s breath hitched as Cassie’s finger trailed over his bicep. Sirius watched, the mocking glint hardening into something hotter, more dangerous, as he saw the tremor run through the normally unshakeable Malfoy patriarch. "Liked him taking me?" Sirius echoed, a dark grin spreading. "Bold words, Cass. Considering you were the one screaming my name into the sofa cushions last Tuesday." He took a deliberate step towards Lucius, the air thickening like cheap perfume.
Lucius finally met Sirius’s gaze, pale eyes flashing with fury and something else, something raw and deeply shamed. "This is beneath contempt," he spat, but his voice lacked its usual conviction, sounding strained.
"Then leave," Cassie breathed, standing impossibly close to Lucius now, her scent – Tom’s scent, firewhisky, and her own sweat – enveloping him. "Walk out that door. Prove you’re still in control." The challenge hung, sharp as broken glass. Lucius didn’t move, his body rigidly still except for the rapid pulse visible in his throat. Sirius closed the final distance, stopping inches away. The reckless energy radiating off him was almost tangible, a live wire sparking near dry tinder. He looked down at Lucius, the ghost of their frantic coupling the night before hanging between them. "Still playing the pureblood prince, Lu?" Sirius murmured, the nickname deliberately crude. "Even after you begged me not to stop?"
Lucius flinched as if struck. Before he could summon a retort, Sirius closed the gap. His hand shot out, not gently, tangling in the silver-blond hair at Lucius’s nape. He yanked Lucius’s head back, exposing the taut line of his throat, and kissed him. It wasn't tender. It was a clash, a claiming, teeth scraping against lips, fueled by defiance, lingering humiliation, and the undeniable, illicit heat Cassie had ignited. Lucius froze for a split second, a choked sound escaping him. Then his hands came up, not to push away, but to grip Sirius’s bare shoulders, fingers digging in hard. He kissed back, just as fiercely, a dam breaking under pressure. A low groan vibrated from Sirius as Lucius’s tongue met his, the fight morphing instantly into a desperate, hungry friction.
Cassie stepped back, leaning against the sideboard again. The firewhisky warmth spread through her, merging with the pulsing ache between her thighs, a direct counterpoint to the lingering soreness Tom had left. She watched, transfixed, as Sirius shoved Lucius backwards until his legs hit the arm of the sofa. Lucius stumbled, falling onto the cushions with Sirius landing heavily atop him, their kiss unbroken, a tangle of limbs and harsh breaths. Sirius’s hand roamed down Lucius’s chest, ripping buttons from the pristine white shirt, revealing pale skin. Lucius arched up, meeting Sirius’s thrusting hips, a ragged gasp tearing from him as Sirius ground against him through the fine wool trousers.
"Look at her," Sirius growled against Lucius’s mouth, breaking the kiss only long enough to rasp the command. He yanked Lucius’s head sideways, forcing him to look at Cassie. "Look at her watching us. Liking it." Lucius’s eyes, wide and storm-grey, locked onto Cassie. She saw the shame warring with unwilling arousal, the flush high on his cheekbones, the way his lips were already swollen. He didn’t look away. Sirius fumbled with Lucius’s belt buckle, the metallic clink loud in the room. "She wanted this," Sirius muttered, his own hand now working frantically at his own jeans. "Wanted to see you break. See you take it." He shoved Lucius's trousers and underwear down roughly past his hips.
Lucius didn’t resist. His gaze remained fixed on Cassie, burning with a complex mix of hatred, submission, and a terrifying hunger. When Sirius positioned himself, Lucius’s eyes fluttered shut for a second, a low moan escaping him as Sirius pushed inside with one harsh thrust. "Fuck," Sirius hissed, head dropping forward for a moment before snapping back up, his grey eyes finding Cassie’s again, blazing. "Yeah. Still tight, Lu. Still fighting it?" He began to move, setting a punishing rhythm, the sofa creaking under them. Lucius’s hands scrabbled on Sirius’s back, nails scraping skin, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts, his eyes never leaving Cassie’s face.
Cassie didn’t move. She didn’t touch herself, though the throbbing in her core was insistent, a direct echo of every brutal snap of Sirius’s hips. The power was a physical thing, a current arcing from the tangled men on the sofa straight into her veins. She saw the exact moment Lucius stopped fighting the sensation, saw his head fall back against the cushion, a guttural cry ripped from his throat as Sirius found a brutal angle. Sirius’s pace grew frantic, his groans mingling with Lucius’s sharper cries. "Look at him, Cass," Sirius panted, his voice thick, his hips slamming relentlessly. "Look at the great Lucius Malfoy crumble." He reached down, gripping Lucius’s cock, pumping roughly in time with his thrusts. Lucius arched violently, a strangled shout tearing loose as he came, spilling over Sirius’s fist and his own stomach. Feeling Lucius tighten around him, Sirius cursed, burying himself deep, shuddering as his own release followed, hips jerking erratically.
They collapsed together, a sweaty, gasping heap on the ruined sofa. Sirius rolled off after a moment, landing heavily on the floor beside it, breathing hard. Lucius lay utterly still, one arm thrown over his eyes, his chest heaving, his trousers still pooled around his thighs. The silence was thick, broken only by their ragged breathing. Cassie watched as exhaustion swiftly overtook the adrenaline. Sirius’s eyes drifted shut where he lay on the carpet, limbs splayed. Lucius’s breathing grew deeper, slower, the rigid tension leaching out of his body as sleep claimed him too, the absurdity of their position seemingly forgotten in utter depletion.
Cassie waited. Five minutes. Ten. The only sounds were their deep, even breaths. The power still hummed under her skin, unsatisfied, restless. Tom’s possession had been brutal, but controlled by him. This… this was hers. And it wasn’t enough. The ache remained, sharp and demanding. She needed something wilder, something matching the feral energy crackling inside her. She needed chaos.
Moving silently, she stepped over Sirius’s prone form. She didn't look back at the tangled mess on the sofa. She grabbed her coat from the hook, not bothering with anything else. The cool night air hit her skin as she slipped out the door, the image of Lucius and Sirius burned onto her retinas. She walked with purpose, the streets quiet now, heading towards the dilapidated townhouse Rabastan used as a bolt-hole. The heavy, scarred door was unlocked, as usual. Inside smelled of stale smoke, cheap whiskey, and something metallic. She found him in the dimly lit living room, sprawled in a threadbare armchair, a half-empty bottle at his elbow, cleaning a wicked-looking knife. He looked up as she entered, his dark eyes instantly alert, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face as he took in her dishevelled state, the torn blouse barely held together.
"Well, well," Rabastan drawled, setting the knife aside. He stood, stretching with cat-like laziness, his gaze raking over her. "Look what the Kneazle dragged in. You smell like trouble, little bird. And Riddle. And… Malfoy?" He sniffed the air theatrically, stepping closer. "And Black. Busy night." He reached out, a rough finger tracing the drying streaks of Tom’s spend still visible on her collarbone. "Looks like the Head Auror marked his territory thoroughly. Didn't stick?"
"He was… thorough," Cassie murmured, stepping into his space, her body almost touching his. The restless energy found its focus in his raw, untamed presence. "But he doesn't own me." She pressed herself against him, the hard planes of his body a welcome anchor. "Do you?"
Rabastan chuckled, a low, dangerous rumble. "Own you?" His hands closed possessively on her hips, pulling her flush against him. She could feel his arousal already hardening against her belly. He leaned down, his breath hot against her ear, smelling of whiskey and danger. "Sweetheart, I don't want to own you." His voice dropped to a rough, guttural whisper that sent shivers down her spine. "I just want to wreck that tight little cunt of yours until you forget every other name but mine." His hand slid down, cupping her roughly between her legs through her skirt, his fingers pressing hard. "Feel that? Already wet for it. Still hungry after Riddle emptied his load all over you? After watching Malfoy bend for Black?" He ground his palm against her, making her gasp. "Tell me you want it wrecked, Cassie. Tell me you need my cock tearing you apart."