Twisted Tourniquette

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

 

 

Chapter 5: My One Regret

 

Their measured footfalls, padding on dead leaves of winters past, were the only sounds in the forest for what seemed like miles. Don’t panic, the soothing voice in her mind told her, and she felt much calmer, as if her body would obey the slightest suggestion. Hermione felt abnormally serene–until a chorus of sinister laughter echoed around her head like a flurry of chaotic, drunken bubbles, overcoming all rational thought until her brain screamed for her to bang her head against a tree in case the trauma might prove medicinal.

Hermione longed to glare daggers at Snape. He was obviously the source of the self-satisfied sounds of mirth, and he was none too remorseful, at that.

She wondered momentarily if Draco had the skill to levitate Harry all the way through the forest without ramming any suspended limbs or appendages against a tree trunk. She couldn’t find out, of course, because Snape was making her feet move.

The grove they eventually emerged in was surrounded by silent figures in black robes and pale masks that shone like marble and onyx monoliths in the pale and sickly light of the moon. Snape stopped Granger in the centre of the clearing; Draco set Harry down using his wand. Someone behind her draped roses and–what were those? –Bluebells in her hair. Rose incense. Rose petals sprinkled before her feet. The person stepped out from behind and faced Hermione.

It was another Death Eater; that much was certain. It was also most definitely a woman. Instead of a mask like the others, however, she wore a full-length black, gauzy veil. Harry, observing from the sidelines, had a sudden and fleeting vision of Mundungus Fletcher wearing a dress in the Hog’s Head Inn. This struck him as oddly funny.

The woman produced a circlet of dried blossoms, raising it above Hermione’s head before lowering the ring onto her hair.

Then they were chanting around her, singing at one time in the Old Way of speaking, at another in Latin, next Greek, and finally in the very language of magic itself, uttering words in the forbidden speech. She shuddered again as Snape temporarily removed the Imperius Curse, staring at the veiled woman, who took Hermione’s long fingers in her own gloved ones. Suddenly, she was in the dance, pulled to and fro, caught in a form of magic altogether different but no less demanding. She was weaving in and out, holding onto the lady’s hand for dear life, feeling dizzy and sickened from the frenzied pace. There were some ten or so Death Eaters performing around her; the rest remained on the edge of the grove, trapping them in.

Hermione caught sight of Harry once, and his eyes were lucid and wide, his mouth forming silent words that blended into the background noise. The dancers made their own music, drawn out of the very air.

Harry stood beyond the edge of the circle, Snape’s vice-like grip having closed around his shoulders as another man tied his hands roughly behind his back. Even he had some idea of what they were doing to Hermione, and he had no intention of letting their ceremony continue uninterrupted.

“Hermione!” he shouted. “Don’t give in. Block out the words from your mind–they have more power if you listen. Please, Hermione, please–” His voice came out in a sharp whisper. Snape uttered a snort of derision. Harry saw his friend look at him once, like a little girl, wandering forlorn in the woods. It was as if he spoke in tongues for all the good it did her.

Even as he watched in utter disbelief, the simple words and path were bending her will to theirs.

Her soul had already lost.

From far away outside of her body, Hermione saw herself drawn into the centre of the circle. The dancers parted, and a lone figure approached her. She sensed his presence before she saw him, for his spiritual mantle hung between them like a weight attached to strings, and as gravity pulled it into place, their bodies followed. He was fair, with light skin, his expression blank. Imperius at work again.

There was little left to assume save that this man was the reason she stood there, vested in raiment not her own, participating in a ritual both strange and new to her. She was incredibly tired, so weary of following the veiled lady and keeping up with the dance. I need to lie down and rest. I need to sleep. I need someone to hold me, take me underground—

She started, shaking her head as if to clear it. Where did those thoughts come from? But she had no time to wonder, because the woman had released her hand, and the young man was touching her cheek, stroking her skin with his knuckles ever so gently, and as she stared into his eyes, shining ivory and aquamarine, she heard the words that lay heavy in her thoughts flow over them both, surfacing from the distant past that lay in the rites. Fear coiled in the pit of her stomach as she shuddered at the thoughts she did not want to have—

All I ever wanted was to fulfil my promise, this promise of light and dark, I will suffer to be taken away… let me partake in you, and you shall partake in me…

He pulled Hermione’s arms across the yard’s length in front of him, drawing her forward, closing the space between them. Then his lips were on hers, hot and insistent, his mouth disarming her as no magic could. Ironic that he was under a spell.

Inside, she knew dimly that this was not merely some handsome stranger whom she was following, but her sworn enemy, Draco Malfoy. The drugs fogged her mind once more, and his kiss cut down her doubts, her hesitations, and the warning bells in her head, burning bridges already crossed. She was the face that launched a thousand ships, yet was she not also on fire like the topless towers of Ilium?

Her first real kiss, the first tender embrace of her fledgling life. His hands were in her hair, his hands smoothing away the strands of ebony from her pale skin as water retreats from moonstone in a dark pond. Her knees buckled; she was so weak and unprepared for this kind of assault–an attack of tenderness. He was gentle with steel underneath his fingertips, hesitant but unyielding, and she knew instantly that the magic had a hold on him as well as the curse. His arms wrapped around her waist to support her as Hermione struggled to draw air into her lungs.

Hades claims Persephone.

Then he was half-lifting, half-carrying her away from the circle and beyond it.

It was barely visible in the mist and gloom of the witching hour. A dais, three steps up, four torches pushing back the fog, keeping the night at bay. Draco nodded to the masked man standing guard over the tent and motioned for him to part the gauzy curtains for them. Hermione ducked her head to pass, dazedly wondering why the king of the underworld himself would bother with Death Eaters as guards. Then, as she smelled the sandalwood laced with vanilla, witnessed the hawthorn branches hanging over Snape’s head, gazed upon the bed with her own eyes–no, the altar –she knew once more. And screamed.

Severus and Lucius instantly darted forward to seize her arms, dragging her thrashing and kicking body forward.

The bed was indeed an altar. The upper half of it had cushioning, even a silk pillowcase for her head. The bottom half, however, consisted of only thin, woven straps of leather-like netting. Below it, she could see a stone basin. A flattened chalice with magical inscriptions lining the rim. And on either side of the bed, two sets of leather and metal wrist restraints. Shackles, if one could call them that.

“Bastard!” she hissed at Snape, finally understanding the sacrifice he expected her to make. Over my dead body, she thought. No chance in HELL.

“Now, now,” the Potions master tsk-ed, hauling her up roughly by the shoulders as Malfoy Sr. lifted her by her legs, swinging her onto the altar. “You of all people, Miss Granger, should know how wise it is to make promises you cannot keep.” He was practically grinning as he tightened the first wrist restraint and forced her other fist down to the bed. Lucius was repeating the process with her legs, albeit reluctantly. He looked as though he loathed the very thought of touching her. Snape finished his task and moved away.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Malfoy?” Hermione tried to jeer. “Guilty conscience? Or is it that you can’t stand to be so near Muggle-born skin?”

He scowled at her, striding forward, and it looked like he just might lose control and strike her.

“Lucius,” a soft voice warned him, firm as steel.

It was the dark lady again, ethereal and sensuous, gliding over the stone platform to the girl and her temporary charge. Apparently, Snape and Draco were busy elsewhere. Presumably with Potter. Lucius frowned, but he stayed his hand, preferring to rejoin the company outside.

Hermione was weeping. The veiled woman saw this and wiped away her tears with a clean handkerchief. “Shh,” she crooned softly, stroking the girl’s hair and lifting it out from under her neck, spreading the brown tresses across the silk-covered pillow above Hermione’s head.

“Why are you doing this?” A terror-induced candour, desperation overriding the inclination to keep silly questions to herself.

“Because he asked me to,” the lady answered simply. It was unclear as to whom the ‘he’ referred. “It is my duty.” She brought out a sickle knife, much like the one Draco owned, and began the process of stripping her bare. Cloth by cloth, Hermione’s white shift opened, baring her nude form to the humid atmosphere. More symbols, drawn over the first ones, like the cave paintings near the ancient site of Caerleon. The Horned One, Cerunnos, his phallus tall and proud, drawn on her belly. Blue symbols of fertility and young life on her legs. Hermione whimpered.

The dark lady sighed and picked up a silver chalice at the bedside, tilting Granger’s head and holding her upright so that she could drink.

Pomegranate juice. Pomegranate juice…and something else she could not distinguish–But as soon as the liquid touched her tongue, her nakedness was forgotten for the earlier feelings of euphoria under Snape’s potion, and the dizziness returned full-force.

“Feel better?” the woman purred.

“Yes.” Hermione’s voice was slightly slurred. Fast-acting. Extremely fast. “But now I’m dizzy again–”

“Don’t worry about that, dear. It’ll be finished and done with soon enough.” She is young. But then, they are all young when they were chosen. It was the way of things. She would serve, whether willing or not. That was the rule. Luckily, they had found a willing virgin to play the male role as well.

Draco had never technically slept with a woman. Funny, that, the lady thought. She supposed the rumours of him and Pansy shagging like rabbits in heat were fabrications of the boy’s own invention. Wishful thinking on his part that turned to bragging. Figures, she thought. They will suffice nonetheless; Severus and I will be free of our vows forever. As long as someone remembers to Obliviate the poor girl.

With a secret smile, Sinistra kissed Hermione’s forehead in a gesture of the utmost tenderness, and, murmuring more honey-tongued reassurances, left her to her fate.

“I want you to know it’s such a wonderful thing to not have to hear your whiny, puerile complaints,” Severus laughed, watching as Lucius yanked Harry’s legs further apart and shoved himself into the prostrate Gryffindor’s arse.

They had lubricated him, but it still hurt like hell, and Harry was having trouble catching his breath after each thrust, let alone making time to swear. He felt sloshed from the pumpkin juice mixer and worse from all of the sharp jabs and shoves. He couldn’t expect Snape to spare him, though: “There’s nothing more annoying in this world than having to clean up after you fail yet another one of your Potions experiments and whine about it.”

Malfoy Sr. appeared mildly annoyed that he couldn’t torture the boy in private, but it was this or nothing at all. Mind you, once the war was over and the naïve snake-man removed from the picture entirely (so run the thoughts of most megalomaniacs), he would have first pick of the spoils. To Lucius, Harry was far too intriguing as a prospective slave than as a corpse, though in a pinch, a body might serve nicely if still fresh.

One never really knew with Lucius Malfoy.

Harry grunted, his glasses slipping down his nose to rest haphazardly as the Potions master watched the other Death Eater fuck him.

“What’s the matter, Mister Potter?” Snape taunted him, Lucius thrusting in and out rhythmically, holding him firmly in place in the most demeaning manner possible—by his nipples. If Harry so much as crawled forward for an inch of reprieve, the older man twisted his skin hard enough to break the flesh. Harry only had to make that mistake once, to Malfoy’s utter disappointment. Severus leaned forward and yanked Harry’s head up with the roots on his scalp, tugging harshly. “Cat got your tongue?”

Harry stared straight ahead, blinking as he felt clumps of hair separating from his head. “I’m too busy thinking of various ways you’d enjoy being tortured before I finally kill you.” He gave Snape a dismissive look, choosing instead to look several yards away, directly into Draco’s eyes, as he received the blessings of the rites from the veiled lady, face impassive.

“There’s the stupid little Gryffindor I remember. Knew he was in there somewhere; I’d nearly lost my patience. Remarkable that you can find your own name amidst all the cobwebs in that vacuous melon on your shoulders.” Snape took a step back again as Malfoy pushed with the palm of his vice-like hand, and Potter’s head snapped forward again to connect with the ground in front of him.

Harry spat out some grass and weeds, but otherwise said nothing.

Draco was ecstatic.

He was so excited, in fact, that Sinistra had to give him a slap on the shoulder more than once to make him concentrate as she read the second stanza of the Latin Hymn of the Vigil.

Meanwhile, Harry’s eyes bore down on him relentlessly, as if he was willing his suffering onto his enemy without hesitation. Draco didn’t care. He wanted Potter to despise him. That was the whole point of this.

All of this.

He had tolerated standing under the Boy Who Lived’s shadow and the shadows of his friends. Sure, he had scored a few well-placed hits. But after Fifth Year and the incarceration of his father, the family name had fallen out of favour, and Draco’s fortunes had taken a turn for the worst. His mother had retreated into a state of self-righteous ignominy, preferring the solitude of the Manor’s bedroom suites to public affairs that might save her household from disgrace. This left the house-elves and her lover-of-the-week to take care of them. Even Lucius’ escape made no difference to her, and she remained in self-seclusion.

Narcissa also ignored her husband’s assignations. He brought Sinistra to stay at the Manor over the summer and did a right good job of hiding it. Sometimes the sounds from below made their way past the dusty wooden beams, through the ceiling of the dungeons to echo from hall to hall upstairs, the throbbing ricochet of dead hearts on hot and restless summer nights. Draco would near the secret opening behind the grandfather clock in the study, keeping out of sight so that he wouldn’t have a pointy-eared, nosy creature in a dither over his welfare. There, concealed behind the chaise or in the closet, he stroked himself to completion.

After his first time overhearing their activities, Draco inquired as to whether he could play with his father’s new ‘toy.’ Lucius rewarded him with a derisive snort. “If you’re going to shag a teacher, at least do it during term when it might do you some good.” Then he gave him a sound walloping.

Apparently, father and son had grown apart. They used to share most everything.

He used to have it all. Then Potter took it away. Corrupted it. Harry Potter had ruined his life. He was responsible, and he alone. And that was just fine and dandy by him–as long as he was allowed to return the favour.

Draco’s eyes drifted toward the pavilion.

It was too simple to just torture and rape Potter. The daft, headstrong prick would wallow in self-pity, indulging in pathetic displays of guilt and remorse. When those feelings had peaked and the waves of loathing had broken and receded from his conscience, he would move on and recover. Potter would heal, simply marking down the experience as one more suffering in many that Harold James Potter, wonder-wizard extraordinaire, had endured in the name of heroism. Sorry about all of this, but I can’t afford to let you off that easily, now can I?

Wanting to kill yourself out of shame was one thing. Knowing a best friend wanted to end her life was quite another.

Above all else, Draco wanted to hit him where it hurt.

Ron Weasley was right out. He and Draco matched each other in height and strength, but competing intellectually with a Weasley was akin to playing croquet with a giant, talking slug. All one could do was stare and laugh. No challenge there, really, none at all, Draco recalled amusedly as Sinistra made a slice down his shift, exactly like Hermione’s…

Hermione Granger. There was a problem that needed fixing.

It was incredibly difficult to remember precisely when he began to loathe her. What it when she performed her first spell perfectly? The day her broom jumped into her hands while his remained obstinately still on the dewy grass? No. It was when she joined forces with Potty and Weasel, and they became the Unbeatable Trio.

Draco watched his father go at Potter’s arse not two yards in front of him. His mind, however, went back to when Granger (stupid little Mudblood that she was) had dared to hit him. He had scrubbed his face thoroughly afterwards, afraid he had caught a disease, ashamed, furious, and positively shocked with disbelief that common filth would dare to TOUCH him, let alone slap him. He, a wizard and a Malfoy! It was unthinkable.

Since then, he had wizened to the ways of the wizarding world. Mudbloods didn’t infect your skin. They were far more insidious than that. They poisoned your very mind.

That was why Granger consistently outshone him in academics. That was why her end of term marks were always first and his were second, her hand always faster to shoot up boastfully into the air, her critiques ever more profound. One step ahead of him, every single time. Granger had to best him at all he did (save Quidditch). She wanted to trick the populace into thinking that physical health was irrelevant when the mind was sharp. She wanted to see him fail. Take him down a notch. How else would she find a place among her superiors if she didn’t beat him in all respects? How else could she gain any attention?

Well, she had his full and undivided attention now.

Draco was aroused at the thought of her tied up and waiting for him, Potter looking on in horror as he took her like an animal. He jumped when Sinistra touched him on the belly and moved her hands still lower, smearing the paint into curved symbols, then covering his cock with a luminescent oil. He couldn’t suppress the moan of wanton need that escaped his throat as she worked, the entirety of his willpower focused on rising slowly rather than running like a feverish patient to the oasis that lay before him. He had strength enough for this; he could ravish Granger again and again and still have the lust to do Potter or Sinistra before dawn…

It is time. Go to her.

Whether it was Sinistra’s voice or his own, he obeyed the orders with pleasure. Draco cast a disparaging look at Potter, who lay there limp and exhausted at Snape and Lucius’ feet. His father’s eyes… sweet Merlin, I know that look… He shot a warning glance at Snape, who perceived immediately.

“You will not take him away, Lucius. That is not your privilege.”

“Privilege be damned. He sent me to Azkaban.” Malfoy stooped and grabbed Harry, hauling him up in one quick jerk even as his cock slipped from between his cheeks. He held the boy still for a minute, considering, the coils in Harry’s stomach winding and tightening as he felt the man’s ringed fingers press hard into his shoulders.

Finally, “Does it matter if he’s damaged goods? Considering what I just did–”

“How damaged?”

“Not that much. A little blood.”

Snape grew annoyed. “Lucius…” His voice had a deadly tone in its warning.

Lucius debated whether Potter’s servitude was worth killing for. “Fine,” he spat eventually, his gaze murderous and barely contained. “No bleeding.”

They finally seemed to notice that Draco was standing there, watching with an impassive expression on his face. Then he turned towards the tent, not sparing them another glance. “On his knees,” the blond said casually over his shoulder. “I want him to watch.”

“YOU FUCKING BASTARD–”

Harry had only time to say three words before Snape grabbed his wand and hexed him into silence.

Hermione stiffened in fear as she heard footsteps ascending the dais once more. She jerked at her restraints, trying to tilt her head back and see who it was, but she couldn’t turn her head around far enough in this state. The translucent shades parted, and she could tell someone was watching her, molesting every inch of her with his eyes for several long moments. Then he took several slow, deliberate paces to the opposite corner, watching her, waiting for her reaction.

She didn’t have to look at him to know who he was. Did it even matter? Besides, whenever she tried to focus too hard her head would hurt.

An emotionless, dead acknowledgement. “Malfoy.”

“Mudblood.” The reply was a curt greeting, echoing hers.

“Yes, you have to remind yourself of that often, don’t you?” There was no time for shame or embarrassment; he had seen her naked once already. Hermione bit back the rest of the caustic remarks that bubbled up like bile in the throat, wanting to escape. “Listen to me, Malfoy,” she continued in a weak voice, appearing unconcerned that he was back to calling her names. “They’ve put you under some sort of spell. It doesn’t take up all of your thoughts, but it influences them to evil. I know, because they did it to me as well.”

He said nothing.

When it became clear he wasn’t going to say more, she spoke again, the words still drawn out and disconnected from the spells. “I know you don’t like me. That’s fine. I don’t care. But Snape has taken your jealousies and insecurities and turned them from foul to treacherous–”

He laughed harshly, his arms folding as he regarded her. “Jealous? Of who? Potter? You?” Draco gave her a look of pure incredulity, then picked at some dried blue paint on his linen outfit where his skin had smeared the cloth. “Granger, please. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“There are many explanations as to why someone like you would envy an orphan, a Weasley and a Muggle-born,” she replied quietly, praying she could keep her eyes open for a while longer without feeling too ill. It certainly didn’t start with jealousy, but then, it didn’t start with cruelty, either. At least, not from our side.” Hermione shot him a pointed look. He was still once more, looking at her with an unreadable expression.

Undaunted, Hermione used the only weapon in her arsenal, though she feared it was pointless. “It doesn’t matter whether you’re jealous or not. The point is you’re committing an act that you would never contemplate in your right mind. I’m a Muggle-born, remember? A “Mudblood.” Erasing my mind and Harry’s won’t change that. You won’t forget. I doubt your father will, either.”

She had had struck something. His eyes narrowed, and he shifted from one foot to another, making no indication that he was going to snap back. Still, Hermione suspected he would start throwing insults and blows any minute now. She took a good, long look at him, really looked instead of just observing. Her voice dropped. “You can’t reconcile it, can you?” she said, voice trembling. “Maybe in your heart, where you’re so entangled in poison and circumstance, but not in your mind. And I know why.” She took in a breath. “Your father.”

Draco’s eyes remained hooded. Any lapse into silence was an advantage to her. He had more time to let the words sink in. Maybe, just maybe…

“That’s right. Tell me your father will just adore you for this,” Hermione went on, clinging to a shred of hope. “Especially after he couldn’t wait to scrub his hands after touching me. He’s already had his litter. Wonder if he cares that you haven’t had yours yet. I wonder if he thinks a taste of tainted flesh will corrupt his precious ickle heir?” She smiled grimly, or tried to, in any case. It was hard to smile when one had to pinch one’s lips to avoid falling into dizziness again.

“You know what? I don’t think you were thinking when you thought this through. At the very least, you weren’t employing your brain. You’re a bigot by birthright, and he’ll never let you forget who you are. Lucius and your honourable name will not stop the wagging of tongues. Someone will find out, sooner or later. What will you do then, hmm? Pretend it never happened? This will eat away at your soul, piece by piece, day by day, until you are consumed. You slept with someone of impure blood. Can’t get it up without thinking about it–that’s what the men will say. The women will consider you dirty. Sullied with the scent of a mutt.” She hated saying these things, but that didn’t mean she was going to stop. After all, she didn’t believe them…

“Are you listening to me, Malfoy? Why waste your time on someone you obviously loathe? You don’t desire me, and you could have anyone you want. Snape’s using you. You’re nothing but a puppet, a marionette whose strings he likes to pull. Do yourself a favour and use someone you’d rather see lying here instead of thisfarce. The Malfoy inheritance will remain pure, Snape’s precious ingredient will be more potent, and you won’t be with someone you don’t want.”

Most of it was not far from the truth. Was there a chance? Even a little one?

She held her breath. And waited.

An extremely sardonic look spread slowly across his face, coupled with an expression of amusement. Definitely not good.

“Granger, Granger, Granger,” he clucked his tongue at her, unfolding his arms and stalking towards the altar with measured footsteps. “What am I going to do with you?” He laughed. “Actually, your night has a forgone conclusion, but I was hoping you’d be perceptive and try to guess.”

“Let me think. You’re going to develop a bloody spine and surprise us all by letting me go, absolving yourself of guilt and complicity so that Harry and I don’t press charges when we testify against you?”

“Hardly.” Draco stepped into the circle of light from the lanterns and candles surrounding her, sitting on the stone edges of the reinforced bed.

Hermione sighed inwardly. “Confess you were only shagging Snape for the grades?”

He leaned over her, picking up a piece of her dark brown hair and rolling it through his fingers, as though he were inspecting an exotic pet on sale at the Magical Menagerie. “Wrong again, Mudblood. You’re not very good at this, are you?”

“Take the opportune moment to kick your father in the balls for treating you more like a prize than a son?” Hermione knew this was true; the man barely acknowledged Malfoy Jr. at Quidditch matches unless he was yelling at him for losing.

“What’s that terrible, American, Muggle phrase again?” Draco asked, grinning in a horribly frightening way that froze the blood in her veins. “Ah, now I remember!” He leapt onto the altar in one swift move, his lithe body hovering over Hermione’s prone figure. She knew the manacles that held her wrists down were probably warded as well as locked. That didn’t stop her from struggling in panic all the same. He chuckled, running a hand down her side, trailing her curves. “Three strikes and you’re out.”

“No, Granger,” Draco breathed, tilting her head forcing her to look into his eyes. “You’ve missed the point entirely. I don’t care what my father thinks. He can rot in hell for all I care. Snape knows this, which is why I suggested you to him. It was an offer he couldn’t resist.”

“You… planned this?” she shrieked, jerking even more underneath him, desperate to free just one arm so that she would have the pleasure of clawing his eyes out with her nails as talons…

He coughed in astonishment, looking at her as if she was mentally impaired. “You couldn’t tell? What a stupid bint.”

“SHUT UP!”

“You’re a worthless piece of impure trash compared to me, Granger. You do know that, don’t you? No, I suppose you don’t. That made this all the more necessary.” He twisted one of her nipples and drew a yelp of pain from her, which seemed to please him. “I don’t need to treat you like I treat Pansy, or Tracey, or Millicent, or anyone else of better standing, for that matter. I can do whatever I want with you. And I will, too.” For emphasis, his hands kneaded her breasts roughly, cupping them and squeezing them before applying pressure to the tips again, causing her to whimper. It was then that she noticed Draco’s shift was split open like hers and barely tied together with another scrap of white cloth. Her eyes caught on the sizeable bulge in the fabric at his waist. He continued to talk.

“You see, deep down, we both know you’re not such a good girl as everyone would like to believe. Isn’t that so?” Draco waited a moment for her response. Then he yanked angrily on a nipple as his other finger dug into her flank with surprising strength. She screamed louder in answer. “I saw you watching us. I know you wanted it so badly, to be fucked and pummelled the way my father takes whores, begging and moaning like an animal in heat. I decided to be kind and indulge you.” Hermione cringed and glared daggers at him, but he continued as if he hadn’t even noticed.

Hermione tuned him out momentarily and wondered where Harry was. Had he escaped in the fuss they were making over her and this ritual? Were they torturing him, too? Just like her? Worse? Her mind was full of questions, but Malfoy’s words kept pulling her back to the present, denying her the pleasant twilight sleep the potions had accorded to her body. “I had some reservations about doing this with a Mudblood,” he remarked casually, straightening her eyebrows and running his hands along her face as if to smooth it out to his liking, “but Snape assured me I wouldn’t catch anything. After all those purification spells, you’re temporarily pure–in a certain sense of the word, mind you–for several hours. Won’t stop me from scrubbing thoroughly afterwards, though.” He leaned in to suck at the flesh of her neck.

The howl that erupted from Hermione’s throat was feral and harsh, and she reached with her mouth for his skin, biting down on the side of his jaw. He yanked his head away, lifting a hand to rub at the sore spot, staring at her incredulously. Then he swung his arm up in an arc and down, backhanding her fiercely. She gasped and sputtered as stars exploded behind her eyes.

Somewhere inside the castle, Ron Weasley was scratching his and wondering his friends weren’t around to enjoy his prank.

It was almost funny, he mused, holding her throat still with one hand clasped like iron around her trembling neck, the other trailing down her perfect skin, dusting over the peak and sliding along the underside of her breast. If Potter hadn’t ignored his feelings for her in the most idiotic of manners, exposing her strength and determination for the entire school to see as she struggled with her feelings and herself, Hermione Granger would never have spent hours upon hours in the library, studying all alone. This single act of ignorance on Wonder Boy’s part left Granger’s wounds open and raw. She dove even further into her studies, determined to distance herself and define who she was beyond simply being Potter’s sidekick and Weasley’s ex.

Of course, he was there beside her all along, watching from the shadows.

Slytherin’s common room was no place to accomplish anything that could be called ‘productive.’ He wasn’t about to study alone when he could pick up perfectly good secrets by eavesdropping on someone else. There was usually someone dumb enough to think he wouldn’t be caught wanking a few rows from Pince. Off to the library it was. That was where he found her, her eyebrows widening at some new revelation the latest dusty tome on her desk had to share, her quill stroking her cheek in languorous, sensual movements that ought to have been outlawed in every wizarding state in existence, her eyes burning with fire, hotter than the sun. He observed her from his hidden lair above the alcove in the Astronomy section, cloaked in silence, his own quill and parchment charmed to noiselessness, spending one hour on work that took ten minutes to complete. After the very first of countless times he did this, Draco was so hard he couldn’t move without wincing. Malfoy waited until she was gone before relieving himself.

That was the day he decided she would be his. At any cost.

To think that his loathed enemy, Potty-faced Adolescent Eunuch, was responsible for his final descent into uncontrolled obsession. It nearly made him laugh.

Hermione’s renewed struggles brought the ardent Slytherin back to his current blessed position. Still under the influence of the drug he had administered earlier but fighting like a wildcat, she attempted to knee him in the groin.

In reality, all Granger succeeded in doing was to rub up against him in a particularly erotic manner. As her knee goosed his inner thigh and brushed against him, the blood remaining in his upper body thrummed in his ears and rushed down his limbs to pool in his groin. He slipped a finger inside her, the first intrusion of her sacred virginity, no doubt saved in hopes that the drunken twit lying at his progenitor’s feet would someday relieve her of it. What a larf. He stroked her, pleased to see her breathing increased and her struggles lessen somewhat and give way to shameful tears instead. He supposed that was better than the other way around.

It was obvious Granger was aroused now. Her skin pebbled, and he applied his tongue to the tip of a breast before taking it into his mouth. Her lips formed an ‘oh,’ and she sucked her breath in sharply, pushing at his forehead with her elbows. He merely smiled and batted her limbs away effortlessly, licking her skin to familiarize his mind with her scent before he removed his probing fingers to sample them as well. Hermione watched him with a horrified expression on her face.

“Bet you a thousand galleons Ron never knows how good that tastes,” he lifts up to stare down at her imperiously.

She gagged.

“Snape,” Malfoy drawled, licking the excess moisture from his middle finger as a cat laps at milk, “you may begin.”

Her initial reaction to Draco’s practised violation of her—privates, down there—left Hermione a mess. Her head felt two sizes too big for her body, and she thought her neck might bobble like those silly Muggle toys caricaturing politicians in miniature. Her arms and legs and thighs and ribs ached, belying any pretence of gentility.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be, nothing at all like what they tell you in those books you sneak off your mum’s nightstand at age twelve, with flowers and romantic candlelight and words of endearment. Lust was all right, she supposed, trying to ignore Draco’s manhandling of her flesh as he pried her thighs apart, inch-by-inch. But at the very least it should have been reciprocated lust! Where were the tender murmurings of love and adoration? Malfoy had plenty of words, but most of them were four letters long, oft repeated, and they usually began with a “c.”

She let her head fall to the side, and what assaulted her senses there was almost worse than the actions above her. Professor Snape was whispering into the veiled lady’s ear. She didn’t seem to mind that his erection was rubbing up against her knee, getting closer and closer to the apex of her thighs, nor did she seem to notice that with every word of promised love—speech denied to her, though she envied this woman not—he removed another inch of clothing from her skin. Hermione couldn’t decide whether the woman was actually enjoying it or not; she seemed to be glancing over Severus’s shoulder in the rare moments when her eyes weren’t shut, beyond the curtains to another man. Malfoy. Snape didn’t notice, or if he did, he chose to ignore it. In fact, this was the happiest she had seen him, if indeed you could call the licentious, possessive look on his face ‘happy,’ that she had ever seen him.

“Hermione.” She lifted her head to look at Draco again, nearly grateful for the distraction, even if it brought her unwillingly aroused state to her attention.

He said nothing but inclined his head. She looked beyond him.

Her heart plummeted into her stomach. Please, please God, no—

“See? I’m not completely heartless. I brought you a present. It’s a bit used, but you can still look at it while we’re preoccupied, if you’d like.”

She tried to shut her eyes, but someone’s wand had cast a limited mobility spell, and she could not clench them shut, no matter that she would have given her soul for the right.

In that moment, Draco was the cruellest he had ever been. “After all,” he smiled coldly, eyes flashing, “what’s the fun in a special moment like this without your best friend to share in it?”

In the golden twilight between the strands of his hair, Hermione could see a bruised and ravished Harry sobbing her name as Draco thrust himself home.

“No, I don’t know where she is. This is the fourth time tonight I’ve told you exactly the same thing.”

Ron scratched his head. “Oh.” Then, ten seconds later, “Well, what abo—”

“I haven’t seen Harry, either! Not since nearly two hours ago! AND I TOLD YOU THAT BEFORE! GOODNIGHT, RONALD.” Ginny stormed off.

…Stumbling through the hallway that led directly to Gryffindor Tower, Ron frowned. He had been looking for someone. Right?

Right?

As he first slid into her, nudging between her legs, she almost felt relieved. It wasn’t hurting at all. Maybe it was an old wife’s tale meant to keep brides blushing on their wedding nights.

It turned out that the first push was merely positioning. He hadn’t even gone halfway inside of her.

The second thrust was vicious, and she happened to breath in when he did it. He came up against a wall inside of her that screamed, “Stop! No entry!” and he just kept on going. Something with her gave way in a sudden burst, and she did scream then, an afterthought to the blinding pain of being completely unprepared.

He didn’t give her a moment’s pause either, though if he had, she might have returned her stricken gaze to Harry, who was screaming bloody murder with a silencing charm muting it all out. In any case, all she could see was red. Red lights, crimson, searing pain, all over, and Draco laughing somewhere far above her.

Malfoy sank his teeth into her shoulder and moaned. Where is Potty’s triumph now?

Merlin, I could come on that thought alone. It was absolution without the sacrifice, lessened only by the itching reminder in the back of his musings that he would have to share her, presently and each time thereafter. He would always be her first, he would surface in her dreams and nightmares. It would be his face that would cross her mind at least once a day, even if she didn’t know the precise reason why, his scent she would smell every time another man touched her.

We all have to make occasional concessions, he told himself grudgingly.

He thrust harder, burying himself to the hilt, never lessening the force of his intent until he stiffened and spilled his seed inside of her.

Hermione felt a warm, sticky gush, and finally he stopped. The voice erupting from her throat was cracking and dead. “Get. OFF. Me.”

To her astonishment, Draco complied. Hermione could see Harry, holding his face in his hands. She was dirty now. He wasn’t ever going to look at her the same way again. I would have waited for you, she sobbed inside, but their was only numbness inside, an icy infection that snaked its way through her heart.

Snape finished with Sinistra screaming on his lap and his hand on her mouth. When he removed it, the imprint left a splotchy red mark on her face. Hermione couldn’t read her expression.

Snape collected something out of a basin below the meshed area. She realised, with a shiver of revulsion and recognition, exactly what kind of ‘sample’ Snape had needed.

Lucius hardly seemed unnerved that everyone but he and Potter were no completely nude. Harry certainly wasn’t surprised.

Someone thrust another drink into her hands and helped her sit up so that she could drink it. She didn’t protest.

At least, not until thirty seconds later, when her common sense kicked in.

Snape was looking at her, in the same way Draco had done only moments ago. If he had ever stopped looking at her like that.

Not again.

Weak and humiliated, she was still going to put up a good fight.

By the time Snape had her pinned beneath his arm and two fingers inside of her, she had bitten him at least ten times. Draco fared little better, having graciously opted to help restrain his recent conquest.

Snape took his bloody time, lying her back so that she reclined in Draco’s arms, his manhood already hard and pressed against the curve of her lower back. “He likes it when you watch,” Malfoy cooed into her ear, and she made a choking sound until a hand stilled her jaw and forced her to meet those pyres of malevolence straight on.

It was worse, in a sense, both because she was sore from Draco’s maltreatment of her and from the way in which he waited until his sensations forced her to enjoy it, and she was moaning and sobbing all at the same time, unable to look up for fear she might see a pair of eyes too unbearable to suffer.

Then he was filling her, rocking her slowly back and forth, thrusting and releasing her over and over again, and Draco worked his fingers around the back of her, groaning when he finally sank into her from behind on top of them. Hermione couldn’t see Malfoy, but she could definitely feel him.

They remained like that until Snape came, and then he tortured her some more.

She screamed as he parted her with his tongue, consuming her the way she had only considered fit for the seventh level of Hell, Draco still taking her from behind. Only when she began to beg with every halting breath, shouting though her voice ran raw, scratching at the blonde’s arms until they ran red with the blood she might have saved in his keeping, crying and beseeching Snape to cease the damnable waves of orgasms that cut off and subsided, only to crest and recede again, she would DIE, but this was what death looked like without sight anyway—

Only then, when she said the words he ordered her to speak from the song of her sins, did he enter her and send her to oblivion—

“Yours alone.”

Hermione woke up the next morning, shivering from a nightmare she didn’t remember. But her detention was served, wasn’t it? She could enjoy the weekend now, and…

Harry sat at the foot of her bed. The shadows on his face were longer than the eons it takes to create grief, and they hung like spectres from his eyes as he stared at her with a mixture of pity, despair and utter, complete tenderness.

“Why, Harry,” she exclaimed, happier than she had ever thought she could be to see him look at her so openly, the unmistakable signs of love written on his face.

“You’re crying. What’s wrong? Harry? Are you well? Harry? Speak to me, please!”

But he only hugged her more tightly, sobbing into her shoulder as if to protect her from himself. Then she noticed a faint mark—a glyph, perhaps? It was under the hair at the nape of his neck. Her fingers traced around it in little circles.

“…I can’t.”

She didn’t notice the single blood red rose on her bureau until that afternoon.

Fin

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