Tortured
She could hear their voices echoing from the corridor, their footsteps growing louder by the second, the door to her dungeon cell slowly creaking open. It took but a glance at the ivory face before her, in all its gleefully malicious glory, for her to know that it was time. And it was the twisted smirk that sat upon Lucius Malfoy's face that warned the girl that, despite the discomfort, in a few short hours she would miss her place in the dungeon.
"You are the mudblood friend of Harry Potter." The corners of Voldemort's lipless mouth turned upwards in a sneer. "Lucius, you have outdone yourself." Hermione Granger lay sprawled on the floor at the Dark Lord's feet, where Malfoy's masked companion had shoved her. Abrasions coloured her knees and the palms of her hands red, and her tears left tracks of visible white skin on her otherwise dirt-covered face.
"I live only to serve you, my Lord." Even in the depths of her anxiety, Hermione felt bile rise in her throat at his sycophantic tone.
"Good, good. Now," Voldemort addressed the heaping mass on the floor, "I am not one to waste time on pleasantries. You will tell me where he is hiding." A slight whimper escaped her throat, but she otherwise remained silent. "Crucio." A strangled cry erupted from the girl as her body writhed violently. Voldemort continued the spell for several long minutes, before finally allowing the victim to collapse in a helpless mess. "That was simply a taste of what is to come. Now tell me, where is he hiding?" Again she refused to answer, and again she was cursed.
And it continued. Hermione lost track of how many times she was held under the curse, how many cuts and bruises graced her body from various other well-placed spells, and how many hours she may have been there.
Impatiently, he hissed, "Where is he?"
"No amount of torture would make me tell you," Hermione rasped, her voice hoarse from her screams.
"No? Well perhaps you would respond better to a different kind of torture." The girl felt the blood drain from her face. This could not mean what she thought it did. It just couldn't. "Lucius, I trust it wouldn't take long to gather some men? I think this one will give you some fun." Malfoy sniggered darkly. Almost as an afterthought, the Dark Lord added, "Crucio." The room echoed with the peals of her screams, but mercifully, the spell ended quickly, and she was being dragged out of Voldemort's room once more.
She did not realize how close she had been to blacking out until she came to. Hermione reached to rub her stiff neck, only to be abruptly stopped after a few mere centimeters. She turned her head to her arm, startled, and saw the shackles chaining her to the stone floor. Hermione's fear grew, and her eyes darted to the rest of her limbs, until they eventually squeezed shut, her breathing erratic and shallow. I am chained to the ground. I don't have a wand. I have no way of escaping. I can't tell them anything. What can I do?
But she would not let her mind speak of the worst: her arms were straight out from her sides, her legs were positioned to form a perfect 'v' and she was chained that way, in a flimsy white nightdress. There was little doubt of her intended fate.
"Good, you're awake." Six men eyed her figure appreciatively through her scant clothing.
She bucked and screamed. Wet lips pressed themselves against hers, but she turned her head away. Then she saw the knife. Hermione knew that they could achieve the same physical effect – or even worse – with magic and a wand, but the intention of its wielder was a psychological one; to scare. It worked. She shrieked as she heard the thin material rip and rough hands pull it off her.
"Please don't! Please! I'll do anything; I'll give you anything. Just don't do this. Please!" Tears stained her face, and her voice quickly grew hoarse. They laughed as she begged; their genuine mirth permeated every part of the room, and crushed any last glimpse of hope in Hermione's heart. She quieted and whimpered, "Please. I-I'm a virgin." The room grew still to her confession, but the aura of malice thickened.
"Lucius you lucky bastard," one of the men drawled. "Your turn to start, so I guess that'll make you her first. Just think of it, to be stuck in a woman's head like that, never leaving, slowly tearing her mind and soul apart. And she'll never be able to do anything about it, not for the rest of her life." He leered pointedly at Hermione, and she quailed under his lewd gaze.
"Not that that'll be long," another cackled.
"Actually, Yaxley, I prefer the ones with experience. They think that if they make it good for you," the Malfoy sneered, "then you'll go easy on them later."
"Well then, I'll do you a favour. If you prefer the girls who have experience that much, I'll give her some for you." She felt hands, roaming parts of her body that they had no business touching. A tongue made its way across her face, along her cheekbone. She wanted to scream, but refused to give them the satisfaction.
"You bite me, and I promise you you'll regret it." Whispered words, telling of a fate she wished with every fibre of her being to avoid. Then the tongue pushed into her mouth. He bit her, more than once, but she made herself stay slack. She would weather this storm. It left her mouth as suddenly as it had come, and trailed its way down her neck, down to her breasts, where teeth painfully clamped on a nipple. Sharp fingers clawed at her most private place, scratching her tender flesh. In that moment, Hermione wanted nothing so much as death's cold grip. She shuddered at the realisation.
Mistaking its cause, Yaxley sneered at the girl. "From here," he warned, "it will only get worse."
Hermione's screams renewed and redoubled in intensity as he entered her. Her precious maidenhood, saved for a Ron who would never take it, ripped to pieces.