Looks like I'm back. I know I have a tendency to only finish the one-shots, and I have a tendency to promise I won't let that happen, so I won't do that again. I'll just promise that I'll do my best to not lose track of the story, and to keep my focus on it. I've got about eight pages on the next chapter, so the chapters will be longer than this. This is set up to show you that the story is going to deserve its M rating. There will be clear descriptions of violence, vague mentions of rape, foul language, and potentially graphic sex scenes by the end of the story. I hope you enjoy; please review. : )


Hermione ground her teeth together in pain. Had she ever felt anything this painful? Had death ever seemed so attainable to her before? She couldn't remember. She couldn't think. She couldn't move. She just jerked on the floor, moaning in agony, refusing to cry out or beg.

"You're strong," Lucius grinned, crouching down on the floor beside her, fisting a handful of her hair and heaving her head around to look at him. "Not to worry. I will break you, you cumbersome little Gryffindor. You'll be singing at my command when I'm finished with you."

He flicked his wand once, released her from the clutches of the Cruciatus curse, and strolled in a circle around her. She focused on the tapping of his boots, counted them, tried to maintain some mental function to keep herself from insanity.

How much longer? How much longer did she have to wait this out? She hurt. She was tired.

Breaths came to her in gasps, movements only came with concentrated effort and excruciating, burning pain in her muscles, her limbs, any body part that she could think to move. It just hurt.

How many days? At least a week, she was sure it had been at least that long. Malfoy had told her so. She couldn't see the sun rise, couldn't watch it sink over the horizon – couldn't monitor the time at all.

Too long, she decided. It's been too long.

God, she didn't know how much longer she could stand it. She was reluctant to admit it, too prideful to give in, but he was breaking her. She would never talk, wouldn't ever betray Harry or the Order that way. But he was breaking her mind. She couldn't think properly, had trouble focusing on things other than the pain. It had been easier than this the first few days, she remembered. She had been able to focus on the dragonhide boots Malfoy wore, had been able to count the number of tiles on the floor as she writhed.

Now there was just pain.

She always remembered to count afterward. She knew she could be suffering brain damage. It was best to avoid thinking about it, but she knew it was a possibility.

So she counted the taps of his boots against the stone tiles. Six. Seven. Eight. Slower, now. Nine. He took another step. Close, she noted. He was close. Shit. She lost count. Eleven? Or was it twelve?

Pain.

An expensive boot crashed into her stomach. She coughed as her body shifted from the force of the kick, curled into fetal position to relieve the pain.

"Is it worth it, Granger?" Lucius sounded gleeful, pleasured, and deadly. "Is Potter really worth all this? There are better ways we could use you, Granger. You wouldn't have to die."

Yet. It hung in the air silently, but she could feel it hovering.

"It would be less painful," Malfoy amended. "Potter is going to die, Granger. He's going to die, and you're going to tell us how to kill him."

No I'm not.

She couldn't speak. Her body hurt, her lungs had no air, her jaw refused to move. She felt the response strongly in her heart, ached to spit in his face.

Go to hell.

"Not yet?" His voice was smooth and silky, very sophisticated. She hated it. It was arrogant, self-assured, pompous, and told her how very confident he felt about this situation, her situation. "Well, we'll see, Granger."

The silver blade flicked across her skin delicately, intimidating and daunting her. She feared the knife. It hurt hundreds and thousands of times less than the Cruciatus, but it was hundreds and thousands of times more invasive.

The knife was unrelenting. Once started, it kept moving across her body. The metal was cold against her skin, hovered over its previous scars and wounds, and gracefully drew lines over her arms, her legs, her stomach, and finally her breasts. The heated blood was a sharp contrast to her cold body.

The Cruciatus was infinitely better.

She counted the number of cuts. Sixteen. It pressed against her thigh, and she bit her cheek as it throbbed. Seventeen. Her hip now, and she heaved out a breath. Eighteen. The cold blade touched her stomach, digging in deeply. Pain. She felt the blood trickle over her sides, lost count of the next few slashes and succumbed to the suffering.

Twenty-two. Some part of her mind hinted at the number, but she didn't have the focus to find out how many counts she had missed, if the number was accurate. It was the last number before she saw the colors, the blues, oranges, reds, purples, the hues all clustered behind her eyelids, results of squeezing them together too tightly.

She was tired.

The pain flickered into pricks, almost as if her body had lost circulation, the way your foot will if you've sat on it for a while, or kept your legs crossed too long, and it falls asleep.

Pleasant.

/x\

Draco watched his father work, cringing violently with each dig into Granger's skin.

He couldn't do it. His stomach heaved, twisted, whirled in unseemly directions. God. It was sick and disturbing, and Merlin knew what else.

Why had they brought him here? Why? He wouldn't do it. He couldn't do it.

Lucius wanted him to learn, wanted him to see what they were for, wanted him to see what they did with muggleborns who didn't obey. Draco wanted none of it. He wouldn't watch this, refused to.

He couldn't turn away.

She didn't speak. Draco wondered if she was still able to, and was sickened by the thought.

How long had she been here? How long had they been doing this to her?

He saw scars on her skin, past encounters with the sharp blade that belonged to his father. He saw dried blood caked over her body, her naked body, degrading her, defiling her, even the new nicks tallied on her face.

God. Don't touch her.

This was wrong. It was insane, repulsing, repugnant, and absolutely vile.

He felt bile rise in his throat, forced it away, forced it down. It wouldn't do. His father would see, would mock his weak stomach.

Draco watched through the glass. His father's hands were all over her, touching her, squeezing her breasts, pulling her hair, torturing her. She was fucking unconscious, couldn't even scream for help that she knew would never come. What the fuck was wrong with him?

He couldn't stop the nausea, couldn't force it away a second time. What was he doing? He wouldn't rape her, Draco convinced himself. He thought she was lower than scum, he wouldn't taint himself that way.

But he did. Draco heaved up the remainder of his breakfast, turned away, refused to watch his father force himself onto her, and leaned against the wall. Thank God he couldn't hear, thank God.

He wouldn't let this happen again, couldn't watch it, couldn't know of it and do nothing. This would not happen again. Not to anyone, not to her. Not to her. She was the fucking harbinger of good, of innocence.

Lucius Malfoy had ruined her. She would never be the same. He would never be the same.

No. This would not happen again.