Twisted Tourniquette

Disclaimer: All characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling.

Chapter 4: Whatever You Do, Don’t Panic!

The first thing Hermione felt when she awoke was cold. A rush of air over her body, reducing her skin to goosebumps. She wanted to stretch, to find a blanket to cover herself, but even the concept of shivering seemed like too much of an effort to make. She simply wanted to drift back to sleep, to dwell in this languor of semi-consciousness, the realm between waking life and her dreams…

Hermione sighed and settled deeper into the silk duvet, savoring the scent of jasmine that surrounded her.

Silk? Jasmine?

“Ah. You’re awake.”

Memories came flooding back, hermind playing with the strange events of the evening until logic could make sense of them. There was a room– no, Snape’s classroom, and a fight of some kind…forbidden words…someone slashing buttons off her blouse with a knife…and a long winding staircase into the dark…

Draco.

Hermione managed to turn her head sideways towards the voice. It felt as if she was rolling a mound of canvas. A bone cracked in her neck, and she cringed. Well, half-kicking, half-rolling.

He was standing with his back turned to her, struggling into some sort of white garment with his lower body still clothed. She had a glimpse of arm muscles flexing and a washboard stomach as he swiveled towards her again. Surprise, surprise. So why am I more sickened than swooning?

The younger Malfoy threw the rest of his garment over his body, straightening it. Underneath, he relieved himself of his trousers and belt, kicked off his shoes and socks, reached for his wand and pointed it at her before she could gasp. “Ennervate Minimissima.”

Suddenly, Hermione could move–but only in slow, sluggish bursts of energy. She found her vocal chords intact, though, however tired the voice that emanated from them sounded. “Ferret Boy, I don’t know what the Hell your problem is, or why you’ve concocted some elaborate scheme to get me into your bed while unconscious, but believe me when I say that I want no part of it.”

Draco shrugged, “Suit yourself,” and proceeded to examine some bottles and flasks sitting on his bureau. She stared at him for a moment, then dragged her limbs to the edge of the bed. For the second time in one night, Hermione succeeded in falling out of the giant bed and onto the hardwood floor.

Gee, this feels familiar.

It was only then that Hermione realized she was stark naked, with no idea of where her clothes went.

“Your clothes are thoroughly ruined, I’m afraid,” he said as if reading her thoughts, still absorbed in his mixtures. “But the door’s wide open, if you insist on leaving so abruptly.” Draco shoved a lock of blond hair out of his eyesight, pouring one liquid into another as he spoke. “I was rather looking forward to discussing…a great many things with you.”

“My wand,” she gritted her teeth. “Where. Is. It.”

“In the Slytherin Common Room, above the fire on the mantlepiece.”

Such a simple answer. He had to be lying. Perhaps he thought she would be too mortified to risk someone seeing her in her birthday suit?

Not likely.

Hermione rose unsteadily to her feet. She yanked the sheet out from underneath the comforter, wrapping it around herself like a makeshift toga. Her brain felt like it had just taken a rollercoaster ride with the most obnoxious hills and turns in the park, and her eyes were pounding.

She shot Draco one last withering look, knowing something was afoot but too furious and feverish to care. He simply folded his arms, watching.

Her footsteps were uneven at best. The stones, polished smooth and slightly loose from centuries of Slytherins gliding past in leather boots, shifted in their molding. Hermione reached one arm out, reaching for the doorframe to steady herself. She put one foot across the threshold–

–Nothing.

She did nothing, didn’t even jolt at running into an invisible brick wall. Hermione was stuck, in every sense of the word: her body would not respond, because she could not command her own limbs.

She was Petrified, and he hadn’t even uttered a word.

“Impressed, Granger?” Draco asked nonchalantly. “Of course, you won’t be able to answer that, although I’m sure you’re curious as to how your body is in an actual state of suspension, as opposed to falling over face first, stiff as a board.”

Hermione blinked. Tried to blink. Maybe breaking the spell required some sort of telekinetic burst of energy, such as the kind of wandless projection he had used on her. So if I imagine serving Draco one in the groin and giving him the finger…

No such luck.

“Light as a feather, stiff as a board. Do you remember that little larf, Granger?” the younger Malfoy drawled in his most irritating of aristocratic dialects. “If I recall correctly, all of the Mudbloods at my public school used to try and make people float around the classroom. Wanted to share dirty little secrets with the Muggle population.” He snorted in contempt. “Roundheaded twits.”

“I’ve found that the basic principle of the game is, in fact, based in magick,” he continued, walking around her frozen form, standing as if to inspect a sculpture in the Museum of Antiquities. “Elemental magick requires three basic components: work, will and wandless magick. Will is simply the intent of the wizard, or how badly they want something to happen. Primal energy doesn’t simply spring forth out of nowhere, you know. You have to desire the outcome above all else at that moment, and when acting upon another person, subject them to your will. Work is self-explanatory. Wandless magick is the actual incantation required.”

He reached out to wiggle her foot, testing to see if she would collapse. “You know,” Draco continued in amazement, “I didn’t master basic intermediate elemental magick like levitation until my fourth year, but was it ever worth the wait.”

“Down.” He gestured with his hand, and she resumed a standing position, still frozen. Despite the drugs, her eyes still flashed with unspoken fury.

“So modest, Granger,” Draco purred. “But for once, I trusted the judgement of one more experienced than I in judging your assets.” He ripped the sheet off of her and turned back to his arrangment of mixtures.

Hermione blinked. What was he talking about?

“When Snape and I first became lovers,” he continued, bringing a pot of a cerulean-colored substance to his nose for inspection, “we used to size up the sexual potential of the students in Advanced Potions. Apparently, you never bothered to keep your robes on during cleanups or those detentions you served with Weasley in sixth year.” Draco snorted. “Dear Sev was so fascinated with the glimpses of your chest and the way your blouse clung to your wet skin one week that he apparently gave an entire class of first-year Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws A’s on their final projects.”

She started in shock and disgust. Her teacher was sexually interested in her? What if he was lying just to keep her distracted? Was anything worth believing at this point, even if it served no purpose other than to cloud her mind with perverse thoughts and weaken her defenses? Did she really want to hear any more of the bile that spewed from this hypocrite’s golden-tongued mouth? Even if it wasn’t useful as testimony later?

Hell yes.

“I was skeptical that you could have anything to offer that a willing Slytherin wouldn’t, what with being a filthy Mudblood and all, although neither of us doubted the sincerity of your repressed sexual desires.” He dipped a finger into the goopy substance, stepping even closer to her naked flesh, pausing as if considering the next words to form with the utmost care. “But…even Malfoys aren’t perfect all of the time.”

Hermione wished she could roll her eyes.

Suddenly, Draco straightened, and his entire demeanor transformed. It was as if a veil of the unseen clouded his eyes, and he bent down, kneeling before her with the blue paste, dipping his index finger in it.

And then it touched her skin.

If the spell for Mobilicorpus could affect the soul without the body, then that wouldn’t even come close to what this felt like. It was as if a thousand forces were pulling her in a thousand different directions, tugging at her being, the very essence that was Hermione Granger. Her throat was parched; she long for the sea; her limbs ached to fly, to be one with the wind, and blow away into nothing.

Dimly, far way from the place she occupied, Hermione was aware of Draco, drawing ancient symbols on her body–some astrological, most in the Runic word, and a few of the forbidden language of Magick itself. She had only seen them written out once before, and it was in one of the oldest books in the Restricted Section of Hogwarts’ Library.

Far more disturbing were the words he dared to speak. The Old Norse of the Druids.

Þurs ríst eg þér
og þrjá stafi,
ergi og æði
og óþola;
svo eg það af ríst
sem eg það á reist,
ef gerast þarfar þess. 1

She hissed, knowing that he was binding her to the traditions of the land, manipulating the verses to suit his will…or Snape’s…or whoever’s damnable idea this hellbent scheme was in the first place.

He ignored the slight lapse in the power of his spell, knowing the powers of the current incantation would keep her from escaping. Hermione tried to ignore the feel of his finger, dripping the cool liquid across her bare abdomen…

Ølrvnar scaltv kvnna,
ef þv vill annars qven
velit þic i trygd, ef þv trvir;
a horni scal þer rista
oc a handar baki
oc merkia a nagli Naþ. 2

After what seemed like an eternity of looking at herself though a window, frozen in place and helpless and Malfoy drew fetility circles on her breasts, she returned to herself, and with a flash of pain slumped to the ground. Draco drew a single rune on the back of his hand and on a curved drinking horn sitting on the bureau beside them, both with the blue dye.

“Drink this,” he ordered, pouring what looked like brandywine into the horn and pressing it to her lips. He remembered himself, cursed quietly, and forced her jaw open. The liquid burned down her throat, much like the one before. This time, there was no resistance on her part.

The symbols on her body flashed neon for a second or two, and Hermione caught a glimpse of similar glyphs on Malfoy’s body under his shift. Like a vapour, the light fragmented and feaded into nothingness. The evanescence of a kiss.

He dressed her in the same white cloth, blinfolded her, and shoved her through the door.

“Get up, you half-arsed excuse for a Muggle pimp.”

“Why, Severus, it’s a pleasure to see you, too.”

“Just get off of her and get dressed, Malfoy.”

Lucius smirked in a manner not unlike his son otfen did, rolling off of the teacher sprawled amidst the bushes at the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest. Sinistra flicked a leaf out of her raven hair and smiled angelically at Snape. “Give a lady a hand up?”

Sinistra never had one sleeve out of place. She managed to stay calm and cool in every situation, whether it was shagging Lucius senseless like a peasant in her master’s stables or throwing the most potent of dark curses at multiple targets. After knowing her most of his adult life, like the Malfoys, she was still as much a mystery as when he first met her. Unlike Lucius, the only weakness he knew of to date was her pride. She would rather die than kneel for anyone.

And of course, she had no equal in bed. Probably one of the family perks. She was too good to be true–which likely explained why a large number of her lovers vanished without a trace.

He sighed inwardly and held out his hand.

Sinistra rose gracefully, steadying herself on Lucius’ shoulder.”I expect my son has been obedient…in all things?” the elder Malfoy inquired casually, stroking her cheek. His blue-green eyes shone in the dark, an indicator of the supernatural forces at work about them. Snape wondered if Sinistra had done some “warmup” exercises without telling either of them.

“Naturally.” The Potions master’s response was curt.

“I am counting on you, my friend,” Lucius purred, baring his teeth in a feral smile at the emphasis of the last word, “to teach Draco to excel in those skills most pertinent to our cause. He may yet live to surpass his father and repay the debt owed to his name.”

He already has, you twit, Severus thought silently. Out loud, he said, “Perhaps.”

They donned the appropriate robes and costumes in silence, daring each other to look but not touch. There wasn’t one among them who didn’t have to fight temptation.

Snape secretly wondered if their little menage à trois was going to be the death of them. He was certainly going to die if he were forced to accomodate less skilled lovers. Death Eaters really outdid themselves sometimes. Of course, a change in taste might do his old habits good…

It was times like these that he wondered why he fought the darkness creeping over him anymore. Sinistra knew what side she was fighting for. But she would die for Dumbledore and in the meanwhile, enjoy the ride. Provided that Lucius didn’t find out and vaporize them first, of course.

So, Severus, what’s it going to be? Where do your loyalties lie?

He wasn’t sure he knew anymore.

That was the problem. He did know, however, that his wish to hurt that infernal wonderboy Potter was about to come to fruition.

The trio stared out over the vast expanse of the lake, drawn to the orange glow of candlelight, muted by stained glass windows. The sounds of laughter and music floated across the waters.

Hogwarts Castle.

In the long shadow the hall cast upon the earth, two figures stepped from a hollow tree and began to move towards them.

Hermione was too numb from the drugs to react strongly when Draco dragged her through yet another secret passageway. But when the carved door in the oak swung open to reveal a vast expanse of field and he started dragging her towards the woods, panic took hold in the recesses of her mind and pushed its way to the surface.

“Let me go!” she cried, shoving her heel down on the broad part of her foot and kneed him in the groin with the other leg.

It caught Draco by surprise. He howled in agony and slumped forward.

The momentary lapse in control was all she needed. Hermione pushed him over and scrambled in his robes for his wand. Finding her prize, she lifted the shaft of cherry wood out of his reach. She leaned over towards his face, still contorted in pain, and hissed, “Just because I’m a girl doesn’t mean I’m a pacifist. Arrogant, presumptuous bastard.”

Then, just for effect, she spat on him again.

Dizzy but still able to run, Hermione scrambled over the roots and moss sticking up around them, turning long enough to cast a hasty “Petrificus Totalus!” at Malfoy. The spell shot unsteadily out from the wand, and what felt like a mild static shock shot up her arm, but the orange arc reached its target nonetheless. She inspected the wand hastily as her feet pounded over the dry grass. The near-ebony wood was punctuated with a red, green and black core, the colors swirled together like a pinwheel.

Not sensing any immediate threat, Hermione cursed silently. If she were to try any powerful spells, the hexes Malfoy had probably placed on the wand for protection could very well burn her arm off. It was too much of a risk to use someone else’s wand without any foreknowledge of what might occur.

Hermione did the next best thing. She broke it in half.

The force from the explosion that ensued blew her backwards several yards and momentarily blinded her. When she had recovered sufficiently to sit up, Hermione shook her ears out to stop the ringing. Then she looked down at the pieces.

The core had liquified, and each component was glowing, little rivulets streaking across her palms like lava descends a mountain.

“Bugger,” she exclaimed, immediately heaving the pieces of wand as far away from her as possible and swabbing her skin on the grass, trying to wipe the poison off. “Little shit must have put a self-destruct charm on it.”

She knew what they were planning. Hermione had read about the medieval version of the Beltane rites, and there was no way in heaven or on earth that she would consent to the mockery of nature they had in store for her. She was almost to the doors…

“Going somewhere?”

…only to stop in horror, frozen in her tracks.

Standing on the topmost step, eyes flashing in the moonlight and cloak curled around his crossed arms to flow and blend in with the blackness at his feet, was Severus Snape.

Harry Potter was restless. Typical of that git teacher to give Hermione a detention on a holiday, he thought scornfully. He shuddered as he tried to imagine having to spend, two–no, maybe even three–hours in the combined presence of the slimy ‘Poisons’ Professor and the Demon Ferret From Hell. It was enough to send the hardiest Gryffindor’s skin crawling.

He sighed and tugged at his robes. Man, it’s hot in here. I’m tipsy enough as it is.

He turned suddenly to whom he thought was Ron, swaying and nearly losing his balance. “Ron, have you seen Hermione come back from the dungeons yet? It’s half-past eleven already.”

The youngest of the Weasleys turned and glared at him. “Honestly, Harry,” Ginny glared, “I hope you can tell the difference from the front of if not from the back when my hair is up!”

Harry slapped himself mentally. “Sorry, Ginny,” he apologized, kissing her on the cheek. “I must’ve had more spiked punch than I thought.”

“The punch wasn’t spiked. Ron’s been pouring vodka into your pumpkin juice all day.”

“Oh. Right. That.”

Ginny looked incredulous. “You didn’t notice? Lavender was laughing so hard she was snorting pancakes.”

Harry scratched his head. “I thought my drinks tasted sour today! I was wondering about that.”

“You should’ve seen yourself dancing on the table with Millicent earlier.”

He scoffed. “I would like to point out that Ron paid me good money for that.”

“Whatever.”

Shrugging, he flashed her a debonair smile and moved through the crowds, weaving his way towards one of the large windows at the side of the hall. I desperately need some air.

He pulled at the iron latch at the side and was about to open it, when a flash of light in the corner of his vision caught his attention.

Harry peered through the dusty glass. A figure was lying on the ground, looking petrified. Several yards away, a smaller person rose from the grass and started to sprint towards the castle on shaky legs. He hadn’t seen either face, but the long brown hair was clearly visible in the light, even at more than a story above ground.

“Hermione,” he whispered, and Harry dashed out the noisy Great Hall, a feeling of dread coiling in the pit of his stomach.

Hermione took a step backwards, crouched in a defensive position, ready to take flight at the drop of a pin. Snape was reminded of an injured tiger cub who had just watched its family die.

“You’re being extremely uncooperative this evening, Miss Granger,” he purred, allowing the ghost of a smirk to grace his lips. “Mr. Malfoy certainly has had his share of trouble with taming you, hasn’t he?”

When she didn’t answer, he chuckled. “I am very disappointed in you, Hermione. I really had thought that your keen intellect would have seen through this whole charade from the start.” Snape was slowly advancing on her, step by silent step. “Although I must shamefully admit, I am delighted you did not.”

She had the distinct feeling Mina Harker might have had–moments before Dracula descended upon her and shrouded her world in death for the first time.

He was barely three paces from snatching her arms when one of the great double-doors banged open and a young man burst outside.

“Get away from her, Snape.”

Harry’s voice was laced with venom, but both Hermione and the Professor were focused on his wand. It was pointed at Severus’ heart.

“This is ridculous,” Sinistra seethed. “Wrapping her up and owling her here would have been faster.”

“Patience, sweet,” Lucius replied, pausing to light up a thin cigarette. “If we need to take more precautions to avoid detection, so be it.” He exhaled, frowning at the rolled paper in his hands. “Honestly, I don’t see why those Muggles get such a kick out of these things. They don’t even get you high, and they’re more expensive than a cheap lay in Knockturn Alley.”

“Don’t be crass, Luci.” Sinistra began chanting and lifted her arms to the sky. He back away a few paces at the familiar prickling that began on the nape of his neck and travelled down his spine. He may have had veela ancestors, but the Malfoys were not taught the magic of the Hill People. As mediocre as her overall power might be, Sinistra still had a few nasty tricks up her sleeves. When her eyes had paled completely and Lucius’ hair was practically standing on end, she lowered them again. Instantly, the entire hillside, Hogwarts included, was covered with fog.

Lucius raised one eyebrow and unconsciously took another drag. “Nice touch.”

She allowed herself a grin. “I know.”

He sleared his throat. “If you don’t mind my asking, how will Severus know where to find us?”

“Because all paths meet here.”

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” Snape’s voice dripped with sarcasm as he looked over his shoulder at Harry. “It’s the Boy Who Has An Innately Bad Sense of Timing.”

Harry gritted his teeth and strode forward. “I said, LET HER GO. I won’t repeat myself again.”

The Potions master raised an eyebrow. “You dare to talk to one of your professors in this insolent fashion? I ought to have you expelled for pointing your wand at me–little good it will do you notwithstanding.”

Harry gave a grim smile, never lowering his arm. “Somehow, I seriously doubt that Dumbledore would agree.”

“And why is that?” Snape replied. “Miss Granger here fled her duty of serving detention. I only just apprehended her and was escorting her back to the dungeons–”

“Don’t listen to him! He’s lying!” Hermione whimpered hysterically, “They were going to use me in an ancient Beltane ritual. Please, Harry…” she intoned, trailing off.

Drunken as he was, Harry still managed to dive out of the way as the first of several curses shot forth from Snape’s wand. He leaped off the remainingstone steps, simultaneously hurling a few of his own spells. Hermione ducked as the red blast from a Supefy! zinged past, mere inches from her head.

Crouching low to the ground, Hermione momentarily reflected on Harry’s improved skills with grim satisfaction. If Professor Lupin hadn’t taught him to duel–

Someone had shouted “Silencio!” and the entire battle continued without sound. She watched as Snape and Harry threw various curses and countercurses at each other, their wand moving so fast it made her head spin. Harry’s mentor would have been proud. Hermione had hoped the crowd in the Great Hall would have noticed the flashes of light by now, but she could see in a glance that a fog was making quick work of that option. She had to reach the door–

But it had already shut of its own accord. Someone grabbed her shoulders and yanked her arms behind her back. “Don’t even think about it,” warned Draco, his breath hot in her ear. She shuddered.

“Not that bad, for an amateur,” the Professor laughed. “How nice to know you can teach an old dog new tricks–or in this case a dead dog’s prodigy,”

Harry snarled and whipped his wand in an arc. “Crucio!”

Snape dived to his right, but not fast enough. The blast caught his leg and enveloped him in reddish-gold flames. He gurgled and writhed on the ground.

Harry was going to leave him to rot like that, just as he was. The bastard deserved every second of pain, every spasmodic jerk. But cursing Snape into oblivion wouldn’t help Hermione.

As if on cue, a scream ripped through the dense, night air. Harry snapped to attention at the sound. Malfoy struck Hermione again. She crumpled to the ground, lying motionless. Harry immediately ended the curse, cast a quick body-binding spell, and rushed to her side. Malfoy was wandless, and Harry subdued him dismissively with a quick Stupefy! and knelt to lift Hermione’s head. Breathing–she has to be breathing–

Hermione rolled out of his grasp, coughing violently. Harry sighed in relief.

“Don’t make yourself too comfortable, Potter,” a voice snarled from behind him. Snape?!

“You still have much to learn about the Unforgivables. One: hatred helps tremendously. Two: never leave your victim unattended, because if he recovers, he’ll likely be irate enough to break any restraints you may have cast on him.” Snape had his wand on the back of Harry’s neck. “Three,” he smiled crookedly. “Three: Death Eaters have remarkable powers of recuperation.”

He snatched Harry’s wand out of reach and pocketed it in the folds of his robes. “Oh, don’t look so forlorn, Potter,” the Potions master said, irritated by the murderous look Harry was shooting at him. “You can have it back later.”

Without any further discussion, Harry found that he couldn’t move. He and Hermione were frozen in place, kneeling and clutching at each other like deer in headlights. Not exactly the Kodak moment I was hoping for, Harry thought miserably.

“Draco,” Snape motioned, and Harry noticed with dismay that Malfoy was not only fully-functional, but striding towards them as if nothing had happened. “There’s been a slight change in plans. Would you be so kind as to escort Mister Potter to our little soirée?”

“With pleasure,” Draco sneered, his usual demeanor firmly in place. He levitated Harry’s body laterally. Harry made no move to fight him. He couldn’t.

“Now, Miss Granger. If I unbind you, will you be a good little witch and stay still, or am I going to have to make this embarrassing?” He released her so that she could answer. Reeling from the effects of the drugs but still pushed on by adrenaline and fear, Hermione scrambled away on all fours. Snape watched dispassionately, as if he was watching a burning ant under a magnifying glass.

She travelled three feet at most.

Snape’s arm shot out, yanking her to her feet. He pulled Hermione flush against his body, quelling her struggles in a vice-like grip. “You may be able to distract a students of the Dark Arts into breaking his concentration,” he purred against her hair, “but I can assure you, that particular feat will prove impossible with me.”

“You’re a sadistic, insufferable bastard, Snivellus,” Harry spat as he floated by. Apparently, Draco enjoyed listening to his prey mouth off. “If you were always this bad, then I understand why everyone chose to torment you.”

He had struck a nerve. Snape paused and turned slowly toward the figure floating ahead of him. “So that’s what you believe, is it?” he asked quietly.

“As of tonight? Yes. Voldemort may be a schizophrenic megalomaniac with unspeakable power and delusions of grandeur, but even he’s not so utterly malignant just for the hell of it.”

Severus parted his lips in a grin devoid of mirth. “Really, Potter. Such harsh words. I prefer to call it morally challenged.”

“Now, I was going to be merciful and let Miss Granger’s punishment be a private affair. However, I fear that Mister Potter’s gall will require active participation.” With that, he swung back to Hermione. “Imperio.”