Hello my beloved readers, this is my first fanfiction ever! I hope you like it! Please feel free to comment and give me advice; tell me what you would like to happen, what you think is going to happen, whatever, I love all messages!
Please be aware that this is probably going to be rated mature for violence and *cough* "other" scenes (which will probably take place in later chapters, I will tell you when they are so can avoid them if you want), so take the appropriate cautionary measures and leave if you do not feel comfortable, but if you do please stick around and enjoy the show!
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned
Chapter 1: Fury
"Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned, nor hell a fury like a woman scorned." -William Congreve
She was in trouble. Big Trouble. Hermione gazed over the scene before her. Flames danced in the center pyre, while cloaked figures with steely masks emerged out of the darkness that had not been touched by the fire's emanating light, gathering in a circle, soaking up the fire's natural energy, waiting for the others. Deatheaters. She had almost given up in believing in such things anymore. After Voldemort's death at the hands of Harry, everyone had thought that these secret meetings would be something to plague wizarding history books for the rest of time, not quite ready to appear in reality so suddenly once again. But she had known better.
"After all," she thought, "evil doesn't die so easily."
They had told her she was paranoid, that it was simply not something to worry about anymore. Even Ron and Harry thought it was complete nonsense, which was why, out of the dozens of times she had helped Ron out with his homework and Harry with removal from the difficult situations he constantly got himself into, they were not here helping her out tonight, not to mention the fact that she hadn't even told them. "How very Slytherein of you, keeping secrets", she thought to herself. Despite the criticism she had received from her friends, she still felt like something just wasn't right, and so with her Griffindor sense of curiosity and courage she planned to find out exactly what it was.
And now her curiosity killed the cat. She was stuck here bordering the edge of the Forbidden Forest wondering which was safer: to head back into the mysterious forest with who knows what could be lurking, looking for a tasty midnight snack, or to stay here with the Death Eaters, hearing their gruesome plans for revenge on her and her friends and possibly found and captured. She suppressed the urge to shudder. Midnight snack it is then, she thought. I should report to Dumbledore right away anyway, she thought, as she turned to retreat home. She focused on the twisting roots that tripped her shoes, not noticing the cloaked figure in front of her. Hello, Miss Granger, it spoke. There was no time to see who it was as her head snapped back while the figure dragged her backwards by her hair towards the flames as she struggled.
Tears stung at her eyes as she was flung inches from the hungry heat of the flames. She didn't dare move from her place on the ground. What was going to happen to her now? Whatever would happen next, it wouldn't be pleasant. She didn't want to think about the horrible things that they could do to her. Death was her best option at this point, and by the way several of the deatheaters were looking at her, they had something very different in mind…She shivered uncontrollably as a tear dropped through the curtain of her hair silently onto the grass. The deatheater laughed and moved closer to her, grabbing another fistful of hair, wrenching up her face to look him in the eye, Girly, you have no idea what you've gotten yourself into. He smirked and then the blackness surrounded her.
The next day she had woken up face pressed against a soft down feather pillow and chained to the mahogany four-poster bed with thick ropes, charmed to be unbreakable. A perfect balance of opulence and cruelty, she thought, which could only belong to Lucius Malfoy.
The devil himself walked into the room with his typical pureblood swagger. Good morning, Mudblood. He called patronizingly from the foot of the bed, Sleep well? She stretched her body to try to kick him, but he dodged it easily. Feisty, hmm? Out to seek your revenge so soon? But the party has even begun yet! He called in mock surprise, amusement shining in his eyes; she could only glare at him for he kept his distance. Oh, don't look at me like that in disappointment; you'll have your time too. After all, tonight's festivities are all in your honor. I hope you're as excited as I am, He called to her as he left the room for her to wait.
She waited. And waited. And waited. And as the day stretched until up to high noon and down to the tangerine colored dusk that patterned itself across the wall through the ivory window curtains, the silence grew until it became a constant hum that kept in time with her heart beat. She was uncomfortable, scared and angry. Angry, she thought, was once a simple word, frustration at a particularly hard potions experiment. Now a new word bubbled underneath the surface of her skin, its acidic definition nibbling at her resolve to stay calm, to wait out the storm, the knowledge that someone would notice she was gone eventually and come to find her. By the time night had fallen, her resolve had fallen too, it was gone, eaten by something she could only call fury.