Harry looked around at the squalor of his room at the Dursley's, remembering another dirty room, more than fifty years ago, at an orphanage by the sea. The seawinds would whip through the loose seals in the windows, making the window pane creak, the curtains shift, and him shiver. Him...or Tom? Was there a difference anymore? Their minds had merged at the Ministry. Was there a difference anymore? Their minds had merged at the graveyard. Voldemort had sought to use his blood to revive his body, and so he had, but now Harry had something more of the man inside his head.

His memories, raw, and unfiltered. Unorganized, a lifetime's worth of memories still blasting through his memory. It would take him years to sort through them, to catalog them, to understand when and where.

He was sixteen now, just barely. And all he could think was that at sixteen, Tom had been a man, whereas he was yet a boy.

Every time he closed his eyes, Tom's life played in front of him, a vivid reel of film, one he could not look away from.

Flashes in time. Murder and mayhem. Magic most foul. Witches begging for their lives. Wizards failing to defeat him, losing their lives and then their loves. The rush of adrenaline. His cock, hard as rock as he killed and killed again. Power was pleasure. Why had no one told just how much pleasure there was in power, in dominance, in seeing the most mighty purebloods kneel at his feet.

Harry blinked his eyelashes and suddenly he was away, in a lavish throne somewhere, Bellatrix, black-haired and beautiful, her long wavy hair tickling his thigh as she deep-throated him, wide fanatical eyes staring up at him. She bobbed and gagged and spluttered, and it wasn't the sensations that made him spurt down her throat, but the worship, the delight in her eyes. He knew in that moment, despite her background, despite the degradation, she'd never been happier.

Harry wanted that. Or was it Tom that hungered for it? He wasn't sure it mattered. The papers slandered him as a liar and a fantasist for thinking Voldemort had returned. His friends ignored him. Dumbledore left him to be abused at the Dursleys. This wasn't the life he wanted. He too had power. Why else would Dumbledore control him, Voldemort seek him? He would create his own life, one full of dominance over those weaker.

There is only power, and those too weak to seek it. The phrase rebounded in his mind, and he realized he was murmuring it, again and again. His cock throbbed in his hand as he sat naked in his room. Tom's memories had revealed the true source of his power. More than the lifetime of research into mysterious and dangerous magic from across the world. More than the rituals and the sacrifices, of the soul-splitting and the blood-letting. It was the Death Eaters that were his true genius. Their brand, their submission, let him draw on their power, whenever he wished. They weren't followers - they were a living, breathing battery for his wand.

With their ready supply, always available, he could fight unaided for days, and conjure up spells gargantuan in design, uncaring of the magic cost. He could feel their minds, their thoughts and feelings, and alter them according to his will. The more followers he branded, the more powerful he came. And his growth was limitless.

The spell he'd used to brand them was partly devised by Tom. He'd rebranded a spell to share pleasure amongst the harem, meant to be used by sultan's and emperor's of reigns long past. Sick of the jealousy and infighting amongst his harem that threatened the safety of the empire, an ancient Egyptian emperor had created a spell to control his harem more directly. Once he'd seeded them, he branded them and their mind, their hearts, their souls were his. And if he took their power too, well, why not?

Tom hadn't cared for it, seeing as it was only worked on women. He desired a domination more complete, and he didn't care for his follower's love. He never wanted love. He wanted them to fear him, and the Morsmordre spell was the result, as well as the Dark Mark. A bond of his own.

But things were different now, he thought as he slowly jerked his cock as he mused, enjoying the heat of his hand against the chill of the night. He wanted love, the love of many. Not the love from fame, fickle and flighty. True love, unchanging, unbreakable, like his parents' had. He didn't want to be feared, not by those that followed him, at least. Love was its own kind of submission, more powerful than fear.

His owl stared at him reproachfully as he masturbated. Hedwig's submission was guaranteed - he was her source of food. But which of the other girls in his life would submit, and what did he have to control them?

None of the girls at Hogwarts came to mind. Perhaps Hermione, with the right approach.

Memories of Bellatrix in her youth sparked in his mind, and with that thought came another. Her sister, Narcissa. Perhaps Tom's memories held another gift.

Tom had never touched her, not wanting to anger his most influential lieutenant Lucius, or his favorite whore Bellatrix. Lucius preferred young boys, but he would rage and scheme behind his back if he'd touched his wife — weak men always wanted to keep hold of their possessions, no matter if they used them.

Tom had been content with access to the Malfoy's riches and their political influence. And for her part, Narcissa was content with her independence, ever the princess. But that could change, with the right leverage, if she thought he was Tom. She would submit, wary of angering the newly resurrected Dark Lord, of endangering her son and husband. Was she as beautiful as he remembered her being, at the Quidditch World Cup, her bosom high and proud, her hips wide, with an arse the Bulgarian Prime Minister had to tear his eyes away from?

He had to know, and now.

The Ministry's Trace on his wand washed away with just a thought and a flare of his magic. Tom's memories came in fits and spurts, but the ones he needed arrived easily. Malfoy Manor, he thought to himself. Apparition - ten thousand memories, of ten thousand jumps. More easily remembered. Would the wards let him in? Was he enough of Tom, or too much Harry?

The warmth of the Manor's living room was his answer, a vast roaring fireplace heating his skin. His feet sank into plush carpet, the sensation old and new. He'd been here before. In the corner, a piano, with a blonde playing a note that died as she rose, hand fumbling for a wand.

Narcissa.

"Potter!"

He batted away the spell easily, sending a vase crumbling to pieces.

"No. Lord Voldemort." He answered simply, flexing his magic to the full. His reserves weren't anywhere near as impressive as Tom's, but still the mirrors shook, the glasses rattled and Narcissa gaped.

"My Lord?"

"Surely your husband told you I used the boy's blood to resurrect, or is he a failure even in that?" Harry said silkily. The tone came easily, as did the arrogance. She was beneath him. She would be beneath him.

"I — I, he mentioned nothing of your appear—" Narcissa stuttered.

"My resurrection was complicated." He admitted. "And yet the result is not unpleasant." He realized he was still naked, his cock still hard and huge, jutting out at her. "It amuses me that I hold the form of the boy who cost me most dearest."

"But, my husband-"

"Is insignificant, and unknowing to my true plans. Is he here?"

"No, my Lord, he's gone to Switzerland, as you ordered-"

"Not him, you fool. Your son." Harry lied, snarling as he tried to cover his mistake.

"No, my Lord." She trembled. "He's at a dueling camp in Berlin. Lucius wanted him to attain better grades, and-"

"And thought it best he escape my notice, in case I want to recruit him, you mean?" Harry guessed, stalking over to her. She was stunning, an hourglass vision, a woman's curves, stunning aristocratic features, a picture of grace, that famous blonde hair falling delicately over her face. Pureblood breeding, he thought, amused — ready to be ruined by a half-blood.

"No, of course not, my Lord." Narcissa shook with fear. "We are always happy to serve."

"Are you?" He wondered. "More than ten years I spent in the wilds, a parasite moving from host to host, weaker than even a rat, waiting for my most loyal followers to find me. More than ten years, I waited for even one of my Death Eaters to follow their connection. More than ten years, I waited for the most influential, the most wealthy of houses, the Malfoys to use all their resources to track me down. And you did not try even once."

"My Lord." Narcissa trembled as he tracked his finger down her cheek to her neckbone, tracing it lightly as goosebumps appeared.

"I always respected your independence, Narcissa, content with Lucius' loyalty. I did not mark you. I had no need of you. And yet is it not the woman that commands her husband from behind the throne? Do they not say the Lady holds the power in every House? The wife that directs the husband, even as she kneels? Why then did Lucius forsake me for over a decade? I find myself," He leaned in, pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Enraged."

She sank to her knees leglessly, clutching as his leg as she cried. "Forgive me, Master. Forgive me!"

"Prove yourself, Narcissa." He grabbed her hair and moved her head to his cock so that his cock trailed across her face, leaving glistening precum across her fair features, like he was anointing her as worthy enough to take his virginity.

She moved to capture him with his lips, but he held her hair back out of reach. "No, that would be a light sentence. I shall be inside you, Lady Malfoy, or I will have your insides out." He mocked.

"Yes, yes, of course, my Lord." She hesitated. "Thank you for your touch, I am unworthy."

He brought his hand to her arse, fondling it for a moment, feeling its jiggle, groping her arsecheek, kneading it, for a moment just another teenage boy who couldn't believe his luck. He slapped it, watching it jiggle, enjoying her squeak.

"To your bedroom, Cissy." He taunted. "Take my hand." She took his hand, her own hand trembling in disbelief, and she led him away. He imagined himself just another teenage boy being led away by a shy girl, about to lose his innocence. But he was a boy with the memories of a Dark Lord, and she was going to lose more than her non-existent innocence.

She tottered off, into a palatial lobby, up a staircase that split left and right but ended up in the same place, on the second floor, under a stained glass that showcased the shining stars. Harry took a mental picture of the constellations. Would they look different the following night, when he became a man, a man who'd done terrible things to gain a woman's heart?

Into her bedroom, and this was not the master bedroom but her own private chamber, full of a women's touches. Pastels and pillows, cream shaggy rugs laden with stuffed bears from childhood. She stopped suddenly, perhaps realizing he was the first man to enter this domain in years, perhaps ever, and as she stopped so suddenly, he pressed his naked hardness into her bottom. She flinched but didn't move as he pressed forward, the fabric moving out of the way so he was pressed under her netherlips, separated by her skirt and her panties. Harry swore. The memories of a younger Tom doing this a dozen times did nothing to lessen the impact of the sensations, the imagery. His rival's young, beautiful mother, a picture of elegance and beauty. He was going to fucking ruin her.

Harry took the strap of her dress off her shoulder and peeled it slowly down her body, revealing creamy skin. It pooled at her feet, but Harry frowned. Her underwear was plain. Boring. His fantasy trembled, fragile.

"This will not do." He murmured.

She shivered under his gaze. "My Lord?"

"Your underwear. Do you have nothing to entice?"

"Of course, my Lord." She coughed, embarrassed. "Allow me five minutes to prepare for your magnificence, my Lord." Narcissa picked a few lacy items from her drawers and withdrew into the bathroom.

He followed her, enjoying her alarm. "I want to watch you." He explained, because he wasn't Tom, he was Harry. And Harry had never seen a woman undress, or a woman dress. Tom simply didn't want her to collect herself, for a moment of composure might reveal his lies.

She nodded, juddered as she took a deep breath, and then stripped completely. Harry drank her in hungrily. She was a contradiction as his eyes descended - an aristocratic face, elegant with sharp cheekbones and a long neck, but with huge teardrop breasts, proud and high, tapering to a stomach with a little fat on it, which then widened to child-rearing hips, more akin to a Weasley than a Malfoy. She was built for breeding, he thought, and he stroked his cock again as he leered at her pussy, nestled between her fat labia below her orderly strip of blonde pubic hair. Her lips were glistening, he realized with a start.

"You're wet." He said, and hated the awe in his voice.

She flushed, unable to look anywhere close to his eyes. "Your new figure is...pleasing, my Lord." She glanced at his huge cock, shivering as she saw him stroking it unashamedly.

"Hurry up, then, because pleasing you is not the objective."

"Yes, my Lord." First, she poured long legs into her stockings, and Harry thought it might be the most erotic thing he'd ever seen as she turned away from him, trying to keep her modesty. That was even better, for it revealed her full bubble ass, jiggling and bouncing as she tried to hide away.

"Stand up straight." He ordered.

"Yes, My Lord." She said resignedly as she pulled on a forest green bra, restraining her tits with no little effort, pushing them up. The flora bra was lacy and covered only the under half of her breasts, so her nipples peeked out from above them. Harry took over as she picked out matching panties, pulling them up her legs slowly, his breath heavy and hot against her skin. She trembled as he placed a feather kiss to her thigh. Was he going to last if she was this erotic before he even entered her?

"Much better." He smiled at her, and to his surprise, she smiled back. How badly had Lucius neglected this wilting flower that she would bloom with such little attention?

He took her back to the bedroom and brought her into his chest, so her breasts rubbed against him, his member against her core. He closed his eyes, searching for memories of Tom having sex, anything he could use so his first time was not a humiliation, so he did justice to this great beauty. She would be his regardless, once the branding spell took place, but it was important to him that it felt like, maybe, just maybe, he was enough of a man without it.

Years ago, before Voldemort was formed, back when Tom was a manipulator, a too-charming Hogwarts boy, he'd spoiled several witches. Harry focused on those memories, brought them to the fore, opening his eyes, and smirked.

Narcissa squeaked as she was pushed to the bed, closely followed by an aggressive, all encompassing lover, his lips on hers, his hands on her thighs, on her ass, everywhere. His tongue battled hers, but where he won she did not withdraw but gave, so that even on her back, him between her thighs, she melted into him. His lips vanished and when they reappeared, she realized her bra was gone, his lips on her nipples, and she shuddered as he found her weakness, her sensitivity.

A moment, a minute, how long and she was on her side, her legs intertwined with his as his long fingers slipped under her panties and found her lips. A sudden memory; a moment alone at Florean Fortescue's, enjoying her cherry and chocolate cone while she flicked through a Teen Witch magazine someone had left on her table. The headline screamed 'Ten Reasons Why Harry Potter Would Make You Scream Like A Banshee', and number five was his long, almost feminine, fingers.

Harry curled those same fingers into her and she gasped, suddenly grateful that she was looking likely to experience numbers ten to one. And then he was gone, his fingers gone and along with it her panties, and instinct told her to close her thighs from his gaze, her everything red with embarrassment as she felt her essence seep from her core. His hands held her thighs open, but gone was his confidence. Instead, he looked torn but excited, like the inventor of the broomstick, about to jump off a cliff.

Harry approached, brandishing his cock like a weapon. And in his hands, it felt like it. It pulsated, with his magic or his seed, he didn't know. Wizards had long since theorized about the close relationship between magic and sex. Harry didn't know the answers, but he trembled with power. Narcissa was flush with pleasure, but whose life was about to change more - his or hers?

He entered her too quickly, and she squealed and bit her lip with pain, the pain of entry into a garden left untended in too many years. He paused and kissed her, and she wondered if it was only wishful thinking that made that kiss feel like an apology. The Dark Lord didn't apologise. But he didn't fuck like a lover, either, and as Harry shifted back and forth, slowly, tenderly, that's what it felt like.

"Oh." She felt herself say as she wrapped her legs around his back, encouraging him deeper. Deeper her went instead she cried out wordlessly as she was filled, deeper than she thought possible. His monstrous cock was inside her, completely inside her, and she felt like owned. Suddenly panicked by the new sensations, she risked a glance down, desperate not to meet his eyes, unable to take the embarrassment. But what she saw was even more too much, his cock completely hidden by her body, her abdomen bulging with the sheer size of his cock, his hair pressed against hers.

He retreated, then, and she gasped from the sudden mass of sensations; the sight of his cock, glistening with her juices, ridged and veiny, retreating from her, beautiful and somehow aberrant in equal measure. The feeling of his member leaving her, scraping against every nerve ending she'd ever felt, his incredible warmth disappearing. The schlick sound, her unmistakable wetness. The scent, of his musk and her sweat, but unmistakable, their sex, joined. And then he pushed forward again and she felt it all over again.

Faster and faster he thrust, until it was not a slow lovemaking but a hard, passionate fucking. His balls slapped against her arse, his lips on her lips, her neck, her nipples, his hands pawing her breasts, squeezing and kneading, his cock drilling into her. She felt like a puppet to his whims, possessed by his cock, and she chorused a cacophony of "Oh's" that pitched higher and higher until she felt a big O rock her, starting in her toes and traveling upwards until she was undone. Lifeless, legless, her body almost upright against the headboard of her bed, as he rose her up with the sheer strength of his fucking.

"Mine." He growled, and suddenly he had his wand in his hand, and she could only absently wonder why. He stilled inside her, growing impossibly, a little, until he released a torrent of cum within, and she felt deliciously more filled, and, wonderfully, indescribably dirty, like she'd broken every taboo, like she was rebelling once more against a mother she'd lost long ago.

"Yes," She breathed, sort of in answer to his spoken dominance but also in thrill at the rightness of him spilling inside her, again and again. She, Narcissa Malfoy, untouched and unloved, had brought him to that. Still, he came, and she felt large, completed, her stomach bulging a little with his sheer load. It didn't bother her. Of course he wouldn't come like any other man. Would Merlin come like any other man? Wizards of power defied reason, this was something every witch knew.

As he used her body, one hand clutching her ass possessively as his load dribbled, reaching its finality, she stroked the black hair from his sweaty forehead, suddenly possessive in her own right. That revealed his glimmering emerald eyes, famous for a good reason. They shined with delight and possessiveness. He pressed a kiss to her lips and murmured a spell.

Her arm burned, suddenly, sharply. "Oh." She could only murmur as she examined a small black lightning bolt, branded into her pelvis. Her mind was absent as her hand traced down her body, over her cum-filled stomach to the new tattoo. It was magical, she realized, pulsating with pleasure. The tattoo vanished, swimming away, to be called back at his command, anywhere on her body. She looked up and met Harry's eyes and suddenly she understood.

She understood everything.

"Oh," She said again.

"Yes." He said simply, smiling as he felt their bond settle. He felt her magic, powerful, as expected from a witch of House Black, and beyond that, her memories. He ignored them for now, with more than enough foreign memories to assimilate first.

"Harry." She said, uncertainly. "Not the Dark Lord?" She said, a little scared.

"Shush, flower. I'm going to take care of everything." He settled her down on the bed, her head on the pillow, his core still inside hers. He pressed a kiss to her lips and she accepted it eagerly, excitedly, and it was that more than anything that made him sure the spell had worked. It was a different kiss. A lover's kiss, from an adorer so ardently devoted she cared for nothing else.

"I never knew the bond could be like this." She whispered, and her expression of happiness made her seem like a teenager once again.

"It isn't." He said. "This is my bond, not the Dark Mark. Isn't it wonderful?" He kissed her again, and she pulled at his lip as he left, and he knew she'd never deny him, never let him go easily. Could he keep his mind when faced with such a siren? Could any man path his own course when the temptations were so alluring?

He tracked his hand up her slick thighs, through her sticky pubic hair, up past her tattoo, his mark of his domination over her. And then he kept going, up over her arched stomach, where his cock remained in her and his enormous load too, palming her red, abused breasts, where'd he'd been unable to be gentle. Her porcelain skin was red with his passion, and he pressed kisses to the most egregious of love bruises, and wondered how soon he might re-mark her. As he trailed his thumb up, she sucked it into her mouth, and the resulting idea made him shift inside her.

"I have purpose, master. I can't thank you enough."

"There'll be time enough for that." He smirked at her, and she blushed in full. He felt a thrill of pleasure. His spell had not changed her personality, just gifted him her heart, and that was the biggest victory of all. He wanted not empty vessels of obedience, he wanted her in her entirety. And he had her.

Finally, he withdrew from her, and with his withdrawal came a flooding of his seed from her abused pussy, more than he'd ever thought possible, more than any normal man. But powerful wizards were different, and with her power feeding him, he felt more powerful than ever. How much further could he go? How much seed would he produce when he had conquered five more witches? Ten more? A hundred more?

Narcissa let out a moue of amazement as she traced her finger down, gently caressing her netherlips and in the process, slightly pulling them apart and unleashing another pool of cum from her pussy, dripping down over her puckered asshole and onto the bedsheets.

"Eat it." He commanded suddenly, and Narcissa flushed, but met his eyes. She used a few fingers to catch some of his cum and brought it to her bruised, ruby lips, swollen with his ardor.

She made a show of it, letting it pool on her tongue and then swallowing. Then, she shivered, and he knew not if it was from the taste or the humiliation or the pleasure. As she turned her loving smile on him, leaning forward to grasp his slick rod in both hands, he decided it didn't matter.

"There's nothing I wouldn't do for you, my beloved." She said, and he believed it. He rose to his feet and stood over as she sat back against the headboard, obediently capturing his cock between her lips. He groaned as he re-hardened within her.

Harry wondered if he could stop himself from blinking, so that he could capture every moment of this, her sweaty, glistening, full-bodied figure, every inch a woman, his cum pooling from her pussy and dripping down. He allowed himself a laugh of triumph as he gathered her long blonde hair in his hand, ready to guide her obedience until he came down her throat, or perhaps painted her face. His rival's mother, the wife of his enemy's greatest follower, one of the most beautiful women he'd ever seen, and he'd fucked her senseless and had her eating out of the palm of his hands. He felt the bond with her in his mind, felt her pleasure through it, felt her thrill at his attention. There was a lot of experimenting to do with the bond, but her love was enthralling in its absolution.

"My love, do something for me." His voice was throaty, still unable to believe his victory. "Kill your husband when he returns."

She made a gurgle of assent as she lapped at his cock, completely uncaring, her wide doe eyes staring up at him in adoration, her hands stroking his thighs.

"And next time I'm here, make sure you're wearing something sexy. You are mine, my love, and you should dress as such."

She hummed in agreement and moved her hands to his ass, pressing him further into her throat, the whites of her eyes growing as her throat swelled. She knew what he wanted. Perhaps that was the bond. Or perhaps, it was the power of love.