Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/312277.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M
  Fandom:
      Harry_Potter_-_J._K._Rowling
  Relationship:
      Bartemius_Crouch_Jr./Padma_Patil
  Character:
      Padma_Patil, Bartemius_Crouch_Jr.
  Additional Tags:
      Fear_Play, Bondage
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-01-04 Words: 2523
****** A Chance Encounter ******
by tristesses
Summary
     Padma sees something she shouldn't have, and is punished for it.
     [Underage character is 16.]
Notes
     Written on 11/29/2008 for the prompt "pharmacopobia".
Flesh is weak, the Dark Lord says, his lip curling, and you must not give in to
its temptations.
No, Lord, Barty agrees, kneeling in the cold dirt at his Master’s feet.
I will trust you to do this, he whispers through snakelike lips, and I trust
you will succeed. My most faithful of servants.
Barty bows his head under the Dark Lord’s palm; swathed in black at his side,
Bellatrix eyes Barty with death-lidded eyes. She is not pleased by his usurping
of her position, but it doesn’t matter; she is not the creature he caters to
now, nor does he bow to her beauty despite his lusts and excesses, ravenous for
a scrap of flesh or sex under the thin veil of his sanity.
(Bellatrix has a dastardly allure, ripe with new curves to complement the
dangerous edges Azkaban gave her. It is difficult to keep from staring.)
Barty, the Dark Lord chides. You are straying.
My Lord, he says, and he is truly sorry.
Receive your punishment, says the Dark Lord, and raises his wand.
Barty accepts Crucio like communion.

                                    . . .
The pain of betraying the Dark Lord is agonizing, worse than the Cruciatus
Curse or any other elegant torture the Death Eaters are so adept at developing,
but if he spends too long in this blood traitor’s skin Barty will go mad and
start tearing at the body he’s stolen until his real self bleeds through the
rips. At night, alone – just sometimes, when he’s certain he won’t be seen – he
lets his medicine brew longer than necessary and assumes his true shape in the
privacy of his office. It’s sweet relief, a freedom from the tension that bows
his shoulders as he plays this charade of identities (but he plays it gladly;
anything for his Lord and Master).
Now he watches the Polyjuice roil in its cauldron; it’s ready for consumption,
but he won’t pour it into his hip flask. Not yet. The minutes are rolling past
and he can feel the vibration deep in his bones as they realign, readjust,
minute changes now, larger ones later. A shiver rushes down his spine; his skin
erupts in goosepimples. In the air he can smell his sweat, dank and musky, the
same in this body as in his real one. Times like this he wishes he’d paid
attention in Potions; this scent could give him away when he changes back into
the blood traitor, huge and ponderous, not lithe like his true body. The change
rests on his tongue like sweets. It’s happening.
Now.
The plates of his skull shift and roll, cracking as they align; his skin
lightens, smoothes; the pressure on his developing eye increases exponentially
until the false one pops out of the socket; the peg-leg, gone, scars, gone,
replaced by the long bones and flesh of his real self.
Barty shrugs out of the giant shaggy robes; they’re useless to him now. The
cold of the air bites his skin, a jolt into reality; every time is startling
and beautiful. He strokes his face, narrow and hollow with sharp cheekbones,
ruffles his dark hair, runs his hands down his ribs, stroking every divot
between the bones, cups himself – his real self, for pleasure is intensely more
satisfying now than as the other – oh, it’s delicious like this. Absolutely
wonderful.
Is it worth the guilt? (Maybe.)
His skin prickles, pierced by eyes. (Is the Dark Lord watching? Judging?
Condemning?)
He whips around and glares fiercely around the room, ready to throw himself to
the ground in abject shame if his instinct is true, but there is only silence.
No, wait: a breath, so quiet and dagger-sharp, like the skipping of a
heartbeat. Another, frightened and fast. It’s distinctly feminine, a girl’s
fear, perhaps some young second-year creeping into his office on a dare – or an
older girl, slinking around the corridors on long legs, seeking for a story to
tell her friends back in their room.
A predatory smile crawls onto his face.
“Won’t you come out and play?” he singsongs, gripping his wand in one hand,
turning to the wardrobe looming ominously in the corner. “Little girl, oh girl,
won’t you let me know who you are?”
(Behind the slightly-cracked door of his office, to his left and a little back,
a movement, like someone ready to leap.)
“Trust me,” he croons, “I won’t hurt you – at all!”
He snaps his wand at the door and it slams open, nearly crushing the dark child
behind it before she darts away with a chirp of fear, keeping close to the wall
and the shadows. She’s carrying her own wand in one hand, and when he squints
he can see a shield charmed in the air around her, the level of the spell
marking her as a sixth year or higher. Clever girl, though, to use it; the
charm will fool most warding spells, except the Darkest and most complex.
Sadly for her, it won’t have any effect on the snaring charm ten paces from his
door.
Barty can hear her breathing, nearly hyperventilating; she’s so afraid, the
tastes of her sweat and panic slick in the air. He steps into a pair of black
trousers, taking his time, allowing her fear to build as she hangs in the
corridor, suspended upside down by a ghostly glowing spell-cord, her world
inverted and so much stranger than it should be. She flails – he can hear her
palms smack the walls – but she can’t free herself, not unless she knows the
counter-spell, which she doesn’t; it’s Dark magic and far out of the realm of a
Hogwarts student. Barty waits, stroking his wand absently, until she utters a
gasping sob and begins to cry. She’s ready; he goes to her, leaning against the
stone wall and smirking at her terrified face.
It is Padma Patil, strung up by an ankle, her jumper caught around her breasts,
exposing a smooth strip of dark skin. He scrutinizes her, noting her eyes
flicking to the tattoo on his left arm, the tears tracking mascara dark down
her forehead. Her nose is overly strong, her brows unplucked and a little
thick, but her body is that of a woman’s and her skin is clear and smooth. She
is silent, dangling before him, eyes dark and full of vindictive fire and just
a bit of fear. Barty likes the way that looks. He runs his tongue over his
teeth idly, and flicks his wand. She drops to the ground headfirst, barely
catching herself with her hands; something cracks and she cries out in pain.
Barty rolls her on her back with his foot, wand pointed at her face.
“Into the office,” he says quietly, “and don’t you dare scream.”
She doesn’t move from her position, just glares at him, a false show of
courage. He prods her again, then kicks the wrist she’s cradling sharply. She
jerks away with a short cry, and staggers to her feet.
“Good girl,” he says, with a devilish grin. “Isn’t that much easier than
disobeying me? I am your professor, after all.”

                                    . . .
As she cowers on the floor of Moody’s office, Padma takes stock of her
injuries. Her left wrist is throbbing, and there’s a nasty grating sensation
when she tries to move it, but she’s mostly in one piece. No wand, though, she
dropped it in the corridor. He must have it. He – who is he? She has no idea,
but that dark tattoo glaring ominously from his left arm told her enough. Oh
Merlin, a Death Eater, what if he kills her?
Be calm, Patil, she tells herself. Be reasonable. (She presses her cheek to the
cold stone floor and tries to control her racing thoughts.) Analyze the
situation, like during tests, you handle stress well. Think. What are you going
to do?
A wand presses into her spine, and she lets out a whimper, quite unexpectedly,
then a warm weight settles over her, he’s straddling her back, his wand now
jabbing at the delicate hollow at her jaw line, behind her ear.
“So, Miss Patil,” he hisses in her ear, “care to tell me what you’re doing in
my office? Don’t lie, or it’ll be fifty points from Ravenclaw.” This is
punctuated by a little giggle, manic and dangerous.
“I was just trying to get to the library – ” she begins, but he twists his wand
savagely against her skin.
“Lies,” he accuses. “One more chance.”
“Let me go, then,” she says. “I’ll tell you everything but you have to let me
go.”
He shifts above her, placing a hand between her shoulder-blades, stroking her
with his thumb.
She can’t repress a shiver at his touch.
“Perhaps,” he drawls, “if I’m feeling nice.” He leans over her, mouth by her
ear, and whispers, “And that lies in your hands. It’s your choice, Miss Patil.
Tell me everything.”
“You drink Polyjuice Potion,” she stammers. Her voice is too shaky, she sounds
weak. “In your flask, I mean, not alcohol. I could smell it, it was too bitter,
too strong. I looked it up in the library – I knew something was wrong. So I –
followed you, for two weeks, and nothing happened, and I thought I was wrong –
”
“Until tonight.”
“Yes.” Her whisper is faint.
“How serendipitous.” He shifts, stretching across her body, pressing her to the
ground, and wraps one arm around her neck. Their proximity makes Padma shake;
he is a full-grown man, and she is just a girl, and the vital differences
between them suddenly seem more important than the brand upon his arm. This is
threatening in a way Padma has never experienced before.
“The Dark Lord has told me to resist temptation.” His voice is dark, silky,
rustling like lace against her ear. “Carrying out my task is my foremost
responsibility – ” he hisses almost snakelike on the sibilant syllables, “ –
and I must not be distracted by anything,
even lovely little morsels like you.”
Suddenly she is painfully aware of every intimate place he’s touching her right
now.
“But even the most faithful servant must stray sometimes,” he continues, and
sounds truly regretful. His arm tightens around her throat, his breath
quickens, and oh something is prodding her back, and he nuzzles into her dark
hair, and he murmurs, “In the end, Padma, I will blame you.”
His teeth close around her earlobe and his hands slide under her jumper, nails
scraping her skin, and she shrieks and writhes and nearly bucks him off but
when she flips onto her back she catches a glimpse of his wild-eyed countenance
and the flick of his wand as he hisses Incarcerous and her wrists are bound
above her head. He never tries to kiss her and she’s glad, for she’d go mad if
he did. Instead, he bites and licks at her neck, not delicately or like
lovebites but as if he wants to tear her apart, leaving crescent teeth marks in
the muscle of her shoulder.
The rasp of her wool jumper against her skin is, for some reason, the sensation
that drives her to silent tears; it’s the same feeling she gets every day,
pulling it over her head, it’s comforting and lumpy and Parvati knitted it for
her last Christmas and the knowledge that now she will forever associate his
touch with it infuriates her, kills her with anger.
“You’re a bastard,” she hisses, and he just laughs and says, “Yes, I am, aren’t
I?”
He lowers his mouth to her nipples, oddly tender, catching one lightly between
his teeth and teasing it with his tongue, and the sensation shoots sparks
through her nervous system, joining the coil of anger and adrenaline churning
in her gut. Now he strokes her skin, sending ripples of shivers through her
body, rolling the nub of her other nipple between thumb and forefinger, the
light caressing touch a stark contrast to his abuse before. It’s disorienting,
she doesn’t know what to think, it tickles and she wants to sob out loud but
when she opens her mouth she moans instead, low and sensual. It turns into a
gasp of pain as he pinches her skin brutally, drawing blood with his nails.
“Not quite the good girl you pretend to be, are you?” he jeers, and yanks her
pyjama bottoms to her knees. “Or perhaps you’re far too good,” and he drags a
finger along the crotch of her knickers and she whimpers and arches her back to
his touch and why the hell isn’t she fighting anymore?
“Stop it,” she whispers, then repeats herself loudly, but it lacks any real
feeling and he does nothing but mock her voice and her little moans, delving
under her cotton knickers and stroking. She raises her hips to improve his
access and hates herself for it.
When he withdraws his hand she hisses in anger and he hears, smirks at her as
he licks her juices off his fingers.
“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had anything but a Mudblood whore?”
he asks her conversationally, and the use of that word makes her flinch.
“You’re young – ” he’s fumbling with his trouser buttons now, kick him in the
face Padma you worthless bitch, “ – but you are so pure. I can taste it.”
He’s inside her, she screams and tries to push him away but her hands are
fastened and useless, he grinds deep and swift and unsteady and buries his face
against her collarbone, grunting; her clit rubs against his pubic bone with
each thrust and a low pressure is building deep where he hits her, she’s making
little needy noises and writhing against him; his moans are unbalanced and
shriller, reedy cries; he’s inside her and she can’t stand it and she’s going
to explode but he does first and he nearly screams his release, a Death Eater
undone, hectic and trembling over her inert body. Coherent thought is lost to
her; she doesn’t know how to cope with what is happening to her. The Death
Eater – she still has no idea who he is – looks at her wide eyes, and sighs.
“I have to kill you now,” he says, then pauses. “Unless – yes, much easier.
Less messy.”
His expression, detached and cold, is the last thing Padma sees before he
presses his wand against her temple.
“Obliviate.”

                                    . . .
Barty is on the cold dirty floor of the Dark Lord’s house. He is screaming, but
his throat is too raw for noise to escape. Blood trickles in a slow stream from
his nostrils and the corners of his mouth; he’s bitten his tongue nearly in
two. Bellatrix hasn’t moved her wand from his prone figure for ten minutes.
The pain of betraying the Dark Lord is equal to a thousand lashings of Crucio.
Barty is willing to take all of them, sear the lust from his body. Later,
though, as he lies in the dirt and struggles to hold on to his sanity, he will
see Bellatrix, smiling evilly at his pain, and he will want her. No punishment
will ever be strong enough to cure him of that.
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