She was the last of her line, according to her father. A natural parseltongue, and a direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin.
Gaunt. The long lost Slytherin heir. The long lost phantom queen.
She was bred by her father to be determined, cunning, ru...
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"Don't hurt him. Hurt me. I am the one who crumbled your empire. It was me all along-", she tried.
Another slap. She could taste the iron inside her mouth.
"You heard her. Bring the whip. You see, Gaunt. As a Slytherin I know that what hurts the most is your pride", he said coldly circling her.
Her face paled. She wanted Draco's reassurance, holding her hand. She needed his hand in hers, Regulus's hand on her shoulder and Aidan's on the other.
"You count each one, Gaunt. Or I'll start again. I'll do them myself. Your pain will bring me a new type of pleasure", he finished.
With that, her face drained of color. She was going to die. She was burdened with a glorious purpose and now she was there on her knees before him. She would never bow to anyone other than her equal. The first time she ever did was before Draco. And only him. She would only bow to him. Her love and her equal in every sense.
"Count, or we'll begin again with each stroke you miss. You decide how long this goes for. Unless you'd rather Draco Malfoy receives these strokes", he taunted her.
No. Never. never would anyone else but her. Never. But as Voldemort walked slowly, savoring each step, as he let that whip drag along the ground, her body betrayed her. She began to shake. She did not know this kind of pain. She did not know how it felt like, or if it would sound like a resounding bullet. Her nightmares would be full of the whip dragging with every inch of the exposed root.
No doubt why Voldemort had picked a whip. Because he was going to break her spirit, then break her in front of everyone who looked up to her. Voldemort halted. She felt him studying the tattoo on her back. It was her sign. The sword intertwined with a snake. A sign of her hope. He snorted. Then she felt him reveal how he'd destroy that tattoo.
"Start counting, you filth", he spat as he sucked a breath in.
And even bracing herself, even clamping down hard, there was nothing to prepare for the crack, the sting, the pain. She did not let herself cry out, only hissed through her teeth. A Cruciatus curse was one thing. One whip wielded by the Dark Lord himself...Blood slid down the back of her pants, her split skin screaming. But she knew she had to pace herself. How to yield to the pain. How to take it.
"What number was that, Morrigan?"
She would not. She would never count for that. She would never count for him.
"Well, then. I will start over", he said with a breathy laugh.
Then the crack and Morrigan arched, the tendons in her neck near snapping as she panted through her clenched teeth. His lackeys holding her gripped her firm enough to bruise. Voldemort waited. Morrigan refused to say the word. To start the count. She'd die before she did it.
