Crescendo
Summary: In the Dark Lord's new world order, Draco Malfoy specializes in doling out pleasure in exchange for guarded information, until he's tasked with breaking his most challenging prisoner yet. Dramione. Warnings: Captured prisoner fic, non-con, lemons, angst.
Author's Note: PLEASE HEED THE WARNINGS! This story is dark, contains dark themes, and will not romanticize non-con. If you don't like this type of story, then do not read it. With that said, this fic is dedicated to the Strictly Dramione Facebook group and the original poster who was in the mood for captor/prisoner fics where Draco or Hermione uses sex (oral or otherwise) as an interrogation tactic on the other (not roleplay). Thanks for the plot bunny, and enjoy this romp through devilish delights. 😉
And a special thank you to SaintDionysus for offering beta services and wonderful suggestions! This fic is better for it. X
The mind's capabilities are endless when under pressure, truly. Draco Malfoy learns this unfortunate truth at just eighteen-years-old. At the close of the second Wizarding World war, the newly-victorious Dark Lord presented his followers with two choices: resist and die or kneel and evolve. And so, like many others that day, Draco chose to evolve, for evolving meant staying alive.
And ever since, the Dark Lord carefully molded him into the perfect tool for his newly-constructed world order. The process took years and came either by direct tutelage or indirect lessons.
'Despite your family's faults, you can atone for their mistakes, young master Malfoy. That is, if you wish to serve,' the Dark Lord had whispered as Draco dutifully walked behind his Lord shortly after the final battle at Hogwarts. Though they glided through the halls of Malfoy Manor, Draco mused it was his Manor now. Soon the pair found themselves in his mother's bedroom, or what used to be his mother's bedroom. Draco swallowed the unpleasant memory that broached the surface as he thought of his mother. He rubbed a hand over his mouth to force the bile down his throat.
She made a choice, he painfully reminded himself as a prisoner of war levitated into the bedroom.
During his very first lesson, Draco watched intently, equal parts disgusted and fascinated as the Dark Lord stripped the witch, an Auror from looks of her Ministry-stamped cloak, naked. She whimpers as her wrists and ankles are chained to the bed. Draco is not a virgin, so he does not flinch as the Dark Lord circles his prey and thrusts his face into the unnamed witch's cunt. His Lord is adept in carnal knowledge as well, it seems, for it isn't long before the Auror is broken and weeping in ecstasy, as the Dark Lord assaults her weeping pussy on stained satin sheets.
Draco is instructed to watch, so he does as the woman wails in a twisted song of rapture and shame.
Grinning, the Dark Lord lifts his face, dripping with the Auror's arousal, and places a hand on the woman's cunt. The woman cries as she tries to curl upon herself, but is prevented from doing so by her constraints. "You see, young master Malfoy," the Dark Lord instructs, "At the edge of the world, we are naught but flesh with wants and desires. You will excel at extracting what we cannot by traditional means." He strokes a finger around the witch's quivering entrance and beckons his ward, "Now, come here."
That was seven years ago.
Now at twenty-five years-old, Draco Malfoy has evolved into something that resembles a man, with urges and wants, but operates more as a machine. Freethought and independence were stolen the day the Dark Lord invited him to feast upon an unnamed witch until she sobbed and pleaded, promising to deliver anything they wanted. The wizard he used to be vanished, and has been re-made into a weapon, ever proficient in the art of seduction.
As the Dark Lord grew confident of Draco's process, he instructed him to grow his flock. Pansy Parkinson and Blaise Zabini joined this most unnatural unit three years prior, and despite their best efforts, word grew of the young faction's combined abilities. When Voldemort would hold court, he often boasted of his 'Dark Hand', as he was fond of calling his trio. His court would clap and nod politely, but in truth, his followers were equally intrigued and terrified of what went on in Draco's tender care. The most stalwart rebels would be sent to him after traditional methods of torture failed.
All would return irreparably broken beyond repair, though none bore a physical scar.
As Draco stands alone on the balcony of the Manor's east wing, he studies his hands, his personal weapons of choice. To the naked eye, there are pure and free from blemish, but to him, they are forever stained with the evidence of his proficiency.
"Muggle Britain has fallen, Draco," a silky voice interrupts his thoughts. "Their Ministry was finally overpowered by the Dark Lord. I hear there's to be a treaty of some sort with their Muggle leader tomorrow."
Draco looks over his shoulder, not surprised to find Pansy approaching. She was his first recruit after the Dark Lord had instructed him to find and train others in this most peculiar specialty. A natural tease, Pansy made the transition into a 'Dark Mistress' quite easily. Cold and calculating to all others, there is love in her eyes as she regards him now. "I know you don't like to be disturbed, but I thought you should know."
Draco shoves his blemish-free (but never clean) hands into his pockets and lifts a haughty eyebrow at the petite brunette. "Is that all?"
She shakes her head, sending her immaculately coifed bob every which way. "With Muggle Britain now under the Dark Lord's control, the rebels will have lost their Muggle backing. Eventually, they will be flushed out of hiding, and when they do…" she leaves the sentence hanging, almost giddy for him to finish.
"Potter will be forced out of hiding, or someone who knows where he is, will," Draco finished bitterly.
"Blaise believes he is close with his newest pet," Pansy informs him as she takes his elbow, ignorant of his resentment, and buries closer to him for warmth. She is at ease with their station in this new world. A lifetime ago, she had dreamed of their marriage, perfect pure-blooded children, and parties. Though their trajectory has changed, they work together in service to the Dark Lord, and she is content with that.
She has tried many times to take him into her bedroom ("For pleasure," she would laugh), but he always turns her down.
"And another thing," she begins again.
Draco sighs, and knows the remainder of his solitude as disappeared with the setting sun.
"The Dark Lord has gifted us a manor of our own. Won't it be grand to finally leave this place? I'm going with Blaise in the morning to see it. Ashton Hall, I believe it's called…"
Draco nods and dutifully replies during the breaks in conversation as Pansy charts plans and their next steps. He wants to vomit.
"Did you hear? What they did to Luna?" The question scraps past the barrier of Harry Potter's lips as if the words burn. Pushing his glasses sharply up the brim of his nose, he cuts her off before there is a chance to answer. "Don't," he warns his twenty-five-year-old best friend and fellow soldier. Sitting across the kitchen table in 12 Grimmauld Place, his emerald eyes flash as he begs her, "Promise me you won't, Hermione."
But Hermione Granger was never one to be ordered around, and despite her promise, Harry should have known she would seek out someone who knew what happened to the carefree sprite who suddenly returned fifteen pounds lighter and a ghost of her former self. Three weeks later, Hermione finds the young witch alone in an upstairs bedroom at Grimmauld Place, staring blankly at the wall. If Luna hears Hermione opening the door and stepping cautiously into the bedroom, the Ravenclaw makes no mention of it.
"Hello, Luna," Hermione carefully announces as she shuts the door behind her.
"Hi, Hermione," Luna replies, staring blankly ahead.
Hermione isn't a fool. She's been in plenty of Order meetings and heard what happened to captured Phoenixes. She'd read the reports for those who had been allowed to return … physically unharmed. As the war drags into its eighth year (or was it fourteen years, now?), the Dark slipped further into depravity. Members of the Light are tortured and killed if they are captured alive, and if they had damning information, they are subjected to unspeakable things. Harry and the others never tell her what sorts of things outright, as if she wasn't a young woman steeped in the virtues of war. But this war was a part of them all, whether Harry and the others like it or not, and rather than imagine the worst, she seeks out the Ravenclaw to offer support in the best way she could.
Hermione did not have to read Luna's medical file upon her harried return to know that the pretty witch had been subjected to horrid things. Hermione desperately wants to ask the witch what she had experienced as she sits quietly on the bedspread beside her; her curiosity is a dangerous thing. But when the witch suddenly grabs her hand and squeezes for dear life, Hermione tempers the question on her tongue.
Quietly, "I'm sorry," Hermione whispers as she reaches forward to push an errant lock behind the young woman's ear.
Unshed tears gather in bright, blue eyes as Luna's lips tremble. Leaning forward as if to kiss, Luna offers her terrible secret, "The scary thing is…" A hair width's away, Luna searches Hermione's face for evidence of shame. "I don't think I am."
Hermione swallows and nods, stemming the condemnation that sours her gut. She is in no place to judge, so she doesn't. "You are alive. That is all that matters." She rubs the witch's back and thinks of all the words that will not come. So, she sits with Luna as slowly, the story begins.
"It's a game to them. The Dark Lord's Dark Hand." Luna looks away as she recalls her captivity. "How quickly can they break you. How they use your own mind and body against you until you aren't sure what's right and what's wrong anymore. It was absolute hell, and at the same time, it isn't," she whispers into her lap in disgust. "When I was there, all I wanted was to leave, but when I close my eyes, all I see is him." Luna's fingernails pinch into her palms. "He is forever a part of me," she laments, as tears fall down her cheeks.
Here, Hermione offers solace, "He doesn't have to be. Not anymore." She takes ahold of Luna's hand. "We will help you."
"You won't," Luna answers forlornly. "Not after what I've done."
There is barely time for confusion before shouts of warning sound through the rickety floorboards. Hermione stands in alarm as Luna remains frozen on the bed. As if she knew this was coming all along.
Accusingly, Hermione questions as she removes her wand from her holster, "What did you tell them, Luna?!"
Hermione receives her answer as shouts below indicate Grimmauld Place is under attack. One of the rebellion's last strongholds is falling. She gives Luna a disapproving look before she rushes out of the bedroom and into war. A few of them are fighting the onslaught of Death Eaters, but most are retreating. She hopes Harry has since escaped as she casts and aims every spell she could think of at the hooded figures as they advance closer. Right before her magical core expires, she turns her wand upon her head and whispers, "Obliviate in brevi." It is a modified spell she has been working on, although she never thought she would use it.
The spell takes the last of her magic, but she is not done yet. Stowing her wand, she resorts to punching and kicking and screaming, desperate to provoke her opponents into using the Avada.
Because she would rather die than let them take her alive.
But they must've known this because in short order, they restrain her flailing arms and silence her raw screams. Her wand is taken quickly after that. No, they will not let Harry Potter's best friend die in battle. Quickly, they Apparate her away from former rebellion stronghold. Purposefully, they jump twice more until she is too sick to properly discern her surroundings.
Still, she fights them. Her legs go limp and she sags in her captors' arms as they pull her up a gravel entryway. She struggles against their hold, albeit weakly, but still, she struggles all the same. They have already taken her voice, but she silently yells in protest as they drag her up and over the threshold of an ancient stone house. The magical wards, warm and searching, caress her skin as they pull her through the barrier until she is thrown mercilessly onto a pristine marble floor.
On her hands and knees, she glances through curls to the men who brought her here. She tracks two pairs of black boots as they circle around her.
"She has valuable information, I'm sure of it. Could we just use a penseive?" one of the Death Eaters asks.
Hermione remains as still as the other replies, "You bloody fool! Did you hear her earlier- she's oblivated herself!"
The first man approaches and speaks down at her. "Not all the way. Isn't that right, sweetheart? She would've gone limp as a noodle, if she did. No, this one's hiding something from us." He bends to grab her chin and roughly pulls her up to him. "Aren't you, love?"
Hermione glares at his ivory mask, unable to reply.
"Cat got your tongue?" The first man chuckles and he orders his partner, "Take her upstairs and call Parkinson. She'll know what to do."
an: More to come...