The small voice whispering in her head (lodged surreptitiously in the magical implant seated on her cochlear nerve), the disembodied voice spoke about her slutty pussy and hungry ass-hole. During her school years her classmates had always noted her insufferably perfect ability to retain information, both the voice in her mind and the message relayed (played whenever she was asleep or unconscious) seemed comfortingly familiar, reminding her she was just a collection of holes to be used. She was still pleasurably buzzed from the treat Mistress Narcissa has provided her, that she didn’t think to question the odd timing of this new sensory input or why she seemed so comfortable associating the Death Eater as her mistress.