Draco Malfoy stirred in his sleep, his fair brow sweaty with the exertions of his dream, another nightmare in which he heard the voice of his Uncle once again, the voice that not only haunted his day life, but now resonated on his sleep as well. He turned over to the other side, and his eyes flitted open, aware of someone else in the room.
"Who's there?" He said, disguising the fear in his voice with a volatile mask.
A blonde head bowed into the moonlight, the glow reflecting off the shining hair like it would on a mirroring pool.
"It's time." His father's voice said, murmuring to his only son.
Malfoy held back from asking "Time for what?". He knew perfectly well what his patron meant, and the thought of it made him shiver. It wasn't that he hadn't committed unspeakable acts. His virginity had been given to a servant girl, who had not wanted it. Since the age of four, he'd killed small animals, and in this War, one or two wizards as well. Things had not gone well for Malfoy over the years. He was emotionally scarred, but brave, showing up his tormentor by revealing nothing but a brave face and a sharp attitude to the world. At night though, and in solitude, he was haunted.
"Yes, sir." Was all he said to his father, staring into the cold eyes that watched him. Had Lucius Malfoy ever expressed warmth? Draco could not think so. He remembered his childhood in fragments, and each one left him with the feeling that his father was disappointed in him, somehow. There were parts of Draco that he would never know, and for that, the boy thanked Someone.
Draco nonchalantly pulled the sheets over himself, taking care not to bare his arms or chest to his father, who rose and began to stride out of the room. If he looked closely, if he looked at all, Lucius Malfoy would see something no one else had. Draco's secret, the bright red scream of gashes that coated his forearms and biceps, and dressed his chest like the namesake of the lacewing. The athame lay in the bedside table, and was kept sharp on both sides of the blade, for nothing was too good for Draco Malfoy, even in this situation. He'd sneered at others in school as he grew, the "damaged" teens and their safety pins, their "Goth" attire. His trenchcoat hung proudly on the back of his bedroom door; the thing was his pride and joy. Black and long, flared out at the bottom, with three silver buttons at the waist, he wore it whenever he could, often taking the place of the traditional wizard's robes. He dressed in black whenever he could, which was most of the time. The only thing fair about him was his appearance. A beautiful boy, once, and now a gorgeous man, he stood near six feet tall, with a crown of white-blonde hair and piercing eyes that resembled those of a hawk. His nose was small, but not feminine, and his lips just right. Fair skinned, he did not tan, and he avoided the sun, any chance he got.
He knew what he had to do. Rising from bed, he threw a long sleeved black shirt, with a silver snake on the front, and tight black leather pants that hugged his every curve. He looked in the mirror, sneering at his own reflection, at the dark circles that rimmed his eyes. Exhaustion did nothing for the appearance, he thought, and instantly realized how ridiculous the thought had sounded.
Good luck, boy. The Voice hissed, ever present in the back of his mind. The voice of his tormentor, his abuser, the person who kept his childhood locked within his vile intentions. Snape.
Combing his hair back, his spine tingled as he ran sharp fingernails over his scalp, finding no knots or tangles in the perfect crown that topped his head. He threw his coat over himself, fastening the buttons, and strapped his precious athame to his wrist. Wand attached to his hip, he smiled at his reflection.
"It's time."
Walking off the grounds of the castle, he Apparated to the small cottage in Hogsmeade, where he knew they lived. Behind him, he sensed a follower, and knew who it was. Aunt Bellatrix, he thought, turning to see her sneering face behind him. She had her part in the job as well, and he hoped she knew what she was doing. Crouching low beneath the bedroom window, he peered in and saw two heads of curls, the hair mingling on the pillows, sleeping peacefully in a double bed. Bellatrix cackled beside him, and as Ginny Weasley stirred, he clapped his hand over her mouth.
"Shut. Up." He hissed, knowing she would listen to him for fear of Lucius' wrath.
She did. Malfoy signaled to her to follow him, and together, they snuck around to the back of the house, where there was a door protected only by a screen.
"Such lax security." He whispered, touching his hand to the doorknob. Nothing happened. A small latch could be seen in the doorjamb, and a tap of his wand, and muttering of "Alohomora" got them inside quickly.
The inside of the cottage was dark, and small, with one main room, a kitchen, a door that he presumed led to a bathroom, and the slightly open door that, through the sounds of breathing, he thought led to the bedroom. Signaling to Bellatrix, he led her to the bedroom, pushing the door open slightly. "Petrificus Totalus!" He whispered, pointing the wand in his hand at Ginny's sleeping form. She stiffened, and Bellatrix levitated her out the door, Side-Along Apparating her into the night. That left Hermione and Draco alone. Hermione moved slightly in her sleep, turning over, and Draco used the same spell he had on Ginny to immobilize the girl. She woke as she stiffened, and the only parts of her that could move were her wide, brown eyes, which flickered from side to side in fear and trepidation as she was levitated out the door, much as Ginny had been. He gripped her around the waist as he led her to the door, then disappeared with a crack as he Apparated her, not back to the Castle. Not yet.
They arrived, underground, in a stone chamber. Draco had found it in Hogsmeade his fourth year at Hogwarts, and had used it with the servant girl. Her clothes remained in the armoire on one side of the room, while the other side's wall was decorated with manacles and chains. Hermione looked around, her face blank, but eyes worried, as Draco dashed her on the back of the head. He lifted the spell, and she crumpled to the floor, unconscious and bleeding.
She was surprisingly heavy as he lifted her to the wall, securing her wrists in the silver manacles suspended from the stone. He stripped her clothes away, barely taking the time to admire her nudity, and latched a metal bar across her waist. Chaining her ankles, he left her hanging, head lolling, as a thin stream of blood ran down her neck. He waited, and watched. Thinking of what he would do. He knew as she began to stir, and she opened her mouth to speak, uttering his name.
"Malfoy."
He
laughed.
"Ah, Miss Granger, I would think that we'd be on slightly more personal terms by now, wouldn't you?" Came the reply.
He listened and replied occasionally as she tried to plead her way out of the situation, trying to reason with her captor. It wasn't long before she asked after Ginny.
Where was Ginny? Malfoy did not even know. Not that he would tell his captive if he did.
"Waiting her turn." He answered, his tone ominous.
Hermione continued to plead with him, but it was to no avail. He knew what he would do, what he longed to do, what he'd been driven to, since childhood, since his Uncle first came to him, since he took that girl, so many years ago. He removed his clothes, dropping the black shirt to the floor, and the ass-hugging leather trousers that were all he had on his lower half were peeled off like a second skin. Pushing his way into the silent girl, he willed her to scream, to cry out, anything to make him come, he got off on the sound of pain.
"Anything?" He asked as he finished, breathing into her ear. Her head slumped against his shoulder as she passed out once more, and he pulled out from her, stained with blood and other things.
Excellent. You've learned well. Came the voice.
Shut up, shut up. He willed it to stop. Anything to drive that voice away. He rammed his head against the stone of the chamber's walls.
You're doing nothing but hurting yourself, you know. Not that you have a problem with that.
It bothered him, how this voice knew everything about him, how whoever invaded his mind knew his every secret, every action.
Of course I do. You're mine. The voice hissed, its tone charismatic and bold.
You're mine. It repeated before it faded out for the time, disappearing.