Happy November! I own nothing that JKR does, as always.
So I participated in 2 fests this year for Halloween. Pony Up was my fluffy one shot. If you've not read it, maybe take a look? :)
This story, however, was written for the Dramione Fanfiction Writers Tropes Fest. We were assigned random tropes, pulled literally out of a "cauldron", and I was given Dark!Draco. It's something I've never touched and rarely read but I took a deep breath and dove in. This is my offering. It will be 3 chapters total.
Warning: I flirt with dubcon here pretty seriously. If you have specific questions about that before you read, feel free to track me down here, on tumblr, or in the FB groups.
Thanks to LightofEvolution and In Dreams for their usual tag-team support.
War is a stubborn and endless thing. This century's second wizarding war is no different, continuing much longer than anyone would have believed. The Dark. The Light. Everyone had been so confident in the beginning that they would bring the conflict to a swift end.
Unfortunately, it hadn't happened that way. The infamous face off between Harry and Tom Riddle had been a draw and only served to make the Dark more determined, knowing Harry had the Deathly Hallows in his possession.
After almost ten years of fighting, if you count Riddle's resurrection as being the start of it all, the war still rages, even bloodier than before.
As far as Hermione and the Order can tell, the Death Eaters have become more desperate over time. Core players like Bellatrix were always deadly. Always vicious. But now, some of the more tame members, the younger set, are equally playing for keeps.
In her most recent battle with members of the Dark, she had watched Dean Thomas fall to the wand of Greg Goyle and cursed herself for being a part of saving Goyle's life years ago. In fact, her entire cell was dispatched by the end, leaving only Hermione. A mess of awkward limbs, she had gone toe to toe with Marcus Flint and lost, another spell taking her by surprise from an unknown source.
Now, lying beaten on the ground, her hair fanned around her head and blood seeping into the roots from lacerations on her scalp, she squeezes her eyes closed and prays for the first time since she was a little girl. Prays and whimpers for a mother she no longer has.
She feels her body turned none too gently onto her back and cries out as pain shoots down her legs. Both broken, she would imagine. Her eyes remain closed, and she concentrates on breathing, not expecting it to be something she will do much longer.
"Well, well…" hot breath hits her ear, and a set of fingers trail her jaw.
Please, dear Merlin, no, she thinks, knowing the voice and his reputation for cruelty. He casts the Cruciatus in battle with greater frequency than any Avada, seeming to enjoy inflicting pain more than anything else. She's not sure how many he's killed, but believes the number to actually be lower than most. His spells have a more lasting effect than death.
"Pretty kitty broke her legs. You won't be any fun to play with like this." She feels a warmth spread down her lower half, and the pain is dulled.
"What the fuck, Malfoy?" The voice is agitated and rushed. "Finish the bitch so we can get back."
"Oh no… this one is special. I want some playtime with her before we're done."
"Whatever…"
Hermione can't tell who the other voice is. Her head is starting to swim from her loss of blood, and her prayers for a quick death don't seem to be answered. She feels herself lifted and then she is whirled away, side along.
They land somewhere that is quiet, and then things are fuzzy for a time. She thinks maybe she passes out.
After an hour, a day, however long it takes, Hermione finally wakes and has difficulty understanding where she is. Her pain is gone; that she knows. Her wounds seem healed, and she feels clean and comfortable.
Her eyes open for the first time, and she lies silently, looking up at an ornate ceiling. Moldings trim the walls, and the center is recessed in the elegant style of older estates. She's been out of it for some time, but she instantly guesses where she is: Malfoy Manor.
Where else would Draco Malfoy have taken her?
"Oh, excellent." His voice is low and slippery, a hiss more than words. "You're awake."
Hermione snaps her gaze toward the sound and finds him sitting in a fireside, a tumbler of amber liquid in one hand. He's dressed as if he's expected at Windsor, pristine and formal.
"Malfoy?" She's afraid, but simply too weak to show it. Her instinct is to scramble away from him, but finds her limbs to heavy to move. Her distress grows into panic when she slowly realizes it is more than that. She can't move because she is bound.
"Hermione Granger," he notes, a thoughtful lilt to his voice. "You gave me quite a scare. I was afraid I might have to put you down."
"That scared you?" she prompts quietly, almost afraid for him to clarify.
She watches him rise from the chair, poised and smooth. He's a cobra swaying before the strike, and suddenly their house lines have metaphorical form. Hermione is a broken lioness, stretched out on hard ground.
"I'd hate to lose my prize. I've never taken a trophy before, usually just let my brothers finish off your side. But you, Hermione," he says, eyes trailing her, "you are a rare find."
She whimpers, eyes closing for a moment, her body trembling under his gaze.
"Are you going to kill me?" She tries to sound less affected than she truly is. Pragmatic. Looking for answers. The Hermione that Draco Malfoy would recognize. Truly, she expects to die in this room. She just hopes it will be sooner rather than later. If he keeps her alive, she only has two theories as to why, and neither will be pleasant.
"Do you want me to kill you?" He seems bemused, a light chuckle in his tone, the utter bastard.
"I don't imagine you care what I want."
"Hm, smart girl," he whispers, close enough to touch. His fingertips graze the skin of her arm and she shivers, the binding spell holding her in place. "But I do have a vested interest in the things I want, Granger." His hand lays more firmly against her, slowly raising toward her shoulder and sliding beneath her sleeve and cupping around her arm. His other hand finds her collarbone, tracing the line, and then one digit continuing to the dip between her breasts. "For instance, I've always wanted a little taste of your filthy cunt."
"Oh God," she releases with a sob, her worst nightmare realized. Torture or rape or both; that is the end of the life and legacy she has lived. The Order will find her, broken and empty, a corpse left to destroy Harry's morale even further. She wasn't sure he would come back from it last time a victim was presented at his virtual door step. Luna had been left as a message, both literal and metaphorical, a note from Dolohov pinned into the skin of her chest.
"Please, just kill me, please." It says something that she is not even attempting to gain her freedom. She knows begging for release is beyond impossible. Maybe, if she can appeal to whatever humanity is left in him, he will Avada her and be done.
"Why on earth would I do that," he asks her, putting on a face of mock confusion. "You're my darling pet now, Hermione. Mine, and no one even knows you're here."
"What?" Her heartbeat quickens.
"Oh yes. They burned the bodies, you see. Incinerated. The Order will believe you were amongst them. I didn't even have to ask. It's Gregory, bless him. A bit of a pyro since Vince died. I think he's just punishing himself, between you and me," he adds conspiratorially, as if the psychological fuckery of Greg Goyle is even remotely her current concern.
"But… the others… The ones who were with you…?"
"Oh, my fellow Death Eaters?" He laughs lightly, just a joke between friends, as he crawls onto the bed and settles himself against her. "They think I had my fill of you days ago while you slept. Assume I raped you into this mattress then dumped your body in the dungeons."
"B-because you have a history of doing that?" Her trembling has increased to tremors of fear, imagining that is exactly what is about to happen. Has he healed her just to start the cycle of pain all over again? Will he fuck her to death on this bed?
His face darkens, some sort of uncertainty flashing across it. "Of course not. I don't bring just any Order slag into my bed." His brow smoothes once again, his countenance softens. "But you… I hardly understand it myself, but you are very different, Hermione Granger. You'll be the first and the last."
"... last?"
"Of course." He cups her face, turning her head toward him. She finds that she can barely move, but under his touch she is as pliant as a doll. "Why would I need any other witch when you are mine?"
"Oh fuck… please, please… just let me go, please…" She's begging in earnest now, terrified of the picture he paints. Will her keep her here until the end of the war? Torturing and raping and healing her just to start all over again?
He frowns. "Well, I can't do that, obviously. You can't just let your pets wander about, or they might be hurt. Or stolen away from you. No, my little kitty, you will stay here."
She searches her mind. Over the course of their short conversation it is becoming clear to her that he is a bit unstable, prattling incoherently like Bellatrix Lestrange has always been want to do. Perhaps dementia is rampant amongst the Black bloodline…
"Am I to lay in this bed forever? My limbs will atrophy. I'll… I'll waste away, and you won't have a pet."
He laughs then, heartily, and she flinches. Malfoy slides his arm across her belly, hooking his hand beneath her and tugging her close. "Of course not," he answers finally, nuzzling his nose against her cheek. "I'll give you your freedom in this room, Granger." He pauses to look at her, his eyes instantly growing more cold than before. She'd hardly realized there was something like warmth in them until it was gone. "But not yet. Of course not yet. You're still feral. I have to be sure you won't try to bite my hand or make mischief. You'll be tame before I can let you roam about. It's up to you to decide how long you want to be difficult."
"I can behave," she tries, feeling a glimmer of hope. If she can earn freedom, she's a smart witch and surely could find a way to escape. After all, what is Malfoy Manor but a house? And all houses have doors.
His eyes brighten once again and he chuckles. "I'm sure you can," he concedes. "But I'm not stupid enough to believe you will. Not yet, at least."
Hermione stiffens when he begins to move his hand once again, slipping from around her hip toward her chest. "Fuck, Granger, were you always this delectable? Gods, we are going to have so much fun…"
"Please, don't…"
He stops moving, his fingertips barely laid on the swell of her breast. "You're not supposed to say 'no', pet. Or don't you want to be a good girl?"
That's when the first tear falls. Is he going to force her, not violently to be taken, but instead force her to agree? It's almost worse that way.
"I… I don't…" She doesn't know how to answer. Does she simply lay here and think of England? Does she fight? And how? She can barely move anything except her mouth. The only way he has left her to fight is by arguing, and he's giving her that choice. Will it be painless if she doesn't?
"Shhh…poor kitten." The tip of his nose trails toward her temple, and then she feels his tongue, quick like a serpent, lap against her ear lobe. Hermione whimpers again, but, conflicted, still doesn't answer. "You've had a terrible few days. I must apologize," he says quietly into her ear, "for my overzealous brothers. Yaxley, you see, he is the one who broke your legs. Snapped them with a spell of his own design."
He pulls back then to look at her, expression changed once again. Neither cold nor emotionally warm, he looks curious like a child. "You might like this, actually, great swot that you are. He modified an old spell, pre-Ministry. Before we realized the purpose of house elves, wizards kept slaves, just as muggles did," he says brightly. "Perhaps we have more similarities than we know. Don't let the Dark Lord hear me say that of course," he snickers. "Anyway, there were spells, specific to slave handling. This one was to stop someone from running away." He gestures down to her healed bones. "It seems like it would have been effective, wouldn't you agree?"
She looks at him, aghast. The longer she's here, the more she fears for her future, much more than if she thought an Avada was in her fate. He'd absolutely mad, she realizes then. He's nothing like the boy she remembers. Only flashes of the haughty, entitled princling are still there.
He's still looking at her, expectant, and she realizes he is waiting for a response. Unsure if she's going for irony, cheek, or simply truth, she answers, "Yes. It would be very effective."
He frowns at her again. "Don't try to trick me, Granger."
Hermione blinks. How was that trickery…?
"I know you're not broken yet, so stop pretending to be so docile. Where's the fight in you, lioness? If I wanted a fucking Hufflepuff, I could have had one by now."
She's terrified, she really is, of his mood swings as much as anything, but she can't help her pragmatic answer. "It was a straightforward question. I could fight you on a lot of things, but not the truth."
"Hm," is his only reply, like he needs to consider her comment further.
Before she can wonder what he might do next, he has jumped off the bed and is straightening his cuffs and looking down at her with slight disdain. There he is, she thinks. There's the pureblood she knows.
"I've a dinner engagement. I will make sure one of the elves cleans you up. It's been a few days since you had a bath."
"A bath-?"
Then he is gone, striding out the door and slamming it behind him.
An elf does indeed visit her that evening. She protests as the elf levitates her into a large soaking tub, removing her clothes magically as she was floating along. "Let me down! Stop it! I can put myself into a fucking bathtub!"
It's all irrelevant, her efforts to appeal to the elf. He doesn't even speak to her. She tries to appeal to the creature's mercy. She tries to convince. She makes both promises and threats to bestow clothes.
After twenty minutes, during which she has cried and screamed and whimpered, she is deposited with a plop back onto the bed, wrapped in a light purple silk robe, and the elf pops away.
It's then she realizes she is quite hungry, and wonders how they have sustained her the past few days. She assumes she has not been here more than a week, going by the tone of Malfoy's conversation, but would still have needed to be fed.
She's alone for what must be the night. She sleeps, she believes, though it's hard to say for how long. Alone with her thoughts, trapped inside her own head, she is almost delirious with exhaustion and hunger by the time she sees the rays of sun filter in through the east window, chasing the shadows into the corners of the room. No one returns for her during the day, the light outside slowly fading as the hours pass.
She might be asleep again when the elf returns, a tray in his hands. He lays it next to her head on the side table, and immediately the smell is enough to make her weep. Before the elf can snap himself away, she tries again to speak to him.
"Please, is that for me? I can't… I can't move so I can't eat. Please."
The elf looks conflicted for the first time. "Pipsy isn't supposed to speak to Miss."
"You don't have to," she assures him quickly. "You don't have to say another word. Just please release my hands. Or levitate some of it into my mouth. Please."
There is a long pause before the elf, seeming to decide speaking with her is a smaller offense than feeding her, says, "Master Draco is to be feeding you." And then, he is gone.
She cries then, the tears running tracks down her temple and into her hair.
It must be the dead of night by the time he returns. Draco storms into the room, still donning his Death Eater robes, his mask still on his face. Hermione stares at him with wide eyes, noting the spatter of blood across the horrible frozen face of his mask.
She watches as he begins to shuck off the robes, throwing the mask into the corner of the room absently, and strips down to just his pants. As far as he's paid her any mind, he might have forgotten she is here at all.
His back is marked and scarred, she notes, and wonders if her side did that, or if the Death Eaters often turn on one another. Neither would surprise her.
"Please," she rasps out, and watches him flinch. He turns around and his eyes bore into hers.
The look makes her falter, but she steels herself with a breath. "Please, can I please have something to eat?"
He looks her over with cold detachment, then turns without a word and disappears into the en suite. She sobs once, then closes her eyes tight and tries to pretend she is very far away.
Malfoy isn't gone long. He comes out with a towel around his waist and his hair wet and mussed, rubbing a smaller towel against it. When he looks at her this time, he grins. "I'll bet you're hungry."
She could weep all over again, but instead just nods in response.
Watching him warily, she doesn't take her eyes off him as he makes his way to bed, setting the second towel aside. He slides his index finger under the first layer of her robe where it is crossed over the other side. "I like this," he says quietly. "Pretty."
Does she say 'thank you'? Hermione is at a loss as far as how to navigate him. He left her to starve for an entire day, but had her cleaned and dressed and is all soft compliments. "It's yours," she finally answers, referring to the robe.
Malfoy grins at that, and she realizes exactly what he's thinking. "All mine. Fuck… Who ever thought I'd have my own little kitty to play with?"
Hermione takes a breath, summoning the courage that had dwindled while she was hurt and disoriented. "You won't have anything if you don't feed me."
"Obviously. What do you think this is?" He gestures to the tray she can barely see in her peripheral.
"I wouldn't know." It's hard to sound prim when you are captured and bound, but she manages it. "I can't move, and I can hardly even see it."
"It's meant to be your dinner," he says, sounding a bit more dangerous than before. "But I don't know if you sound grateful enough."
She swallows, hearing the warning in his tone, and her hunger wins out over her pride. "I didn't know if it was for me. The elf wouldn't say."
His eyes flash in the way they sometimes do when his mood shifts. She's only had one conversation with him, and already she can pick up his expressions. "Pipsy is a good elf. He's been instructed not to talk to you. I can't let you go putting any notions into his head about being a free elf." Then he smiles and it's so boyish and genuine it makes her head spin. "Don't think I've forgotten about your little campaign. Bleeding heart Gryffindor, through and through."
"He was a very good elf," she agrees, not wanting to get the creature in trouble by admitting he had spoken at all. "Does that mean you'll let me eat?"
He scoffs at her as he stands, his towel low on his hips and in danger of sliding off. He doesn't seem to mind either way. "I can't imagine why I'd go through the trouble of having the food brought if I wasn't going to give it to you."
"To torture me," she says, without thinking, then immediately bites her lip to stifle anything further.
His eyes are dark once again when he looks down at her. "If I was going to torture you, Hermione, you're aware my reputation is beyond this." He gestures to the food. "I have spells for that, kitten. I was hoping we could have a different type of relationship."
She nods, unable to do anything else and afraid to speak.
"Well then," he says, turning back to the tray and pulling the cloche from the first dish. Immediately, she's hit by a stronger smell of soup. Something rich and unctuous. A cream-based soup with autumn spices, and her mouth waters.
"Pumpkin bisque," he confirms. "I do hope that's to your liking. I can have the kitchens make other preparations if not." He has slipped back into the roll of host and aristocrat.
"It smells wonderful," she allows with honesty. "But… I won't be able to eat, unless…" She trails off, glancing down at herself.
Malfoy laughs lightly, as if her paralyzed state is merely a bit of a lark. An amusing prank amongst school chums. "Not to worry, love, I will take care of that."
She sighs with relief, waiting for the movement to return to her limbs, but it never comes. Instead, her captor moves toward her and slides his arms beneath her body, curling his hands over her shoulders from her back. He slides her up the headboard, propping her against it gently and fluffing the pillows that surround her. "There, now. Wouldn't want you to choke, would we?"
Hermione watches in mild horror as he retrieves the shallow bowl and a wide soup spoon, settling in beside her. He intends to feed her, she realizes, and all she can do is accept it lest he take it away due to her ingratitude.
Laying the bowl of the spoon into the soup, she watches as the liquid rushes inside, her mouth watering. When she looks up to his face, Malfoy is watching her intently. He lifts the spoon toward his own lips, and, for one agonizing moment, she thinks he is going to swallow it down. That he will make her watch him eat and this was all a ruse. Instead, he gently blows out, the soup rippling under his breath. "Careful," he whispers. "It's still hot."
Gently, he lays the edge of the spoon against her lip until she parts them, opening her mouth so he can slide the spoon inside. It is, as he said, still quite warm, obviously having been under a stasis charm the past hours. The soup itself is delicious. Perfectly thickened and tasting as rich as it smells, she closes her eyes as she swallows it, feeling her neck bob as she does. When she opens them again, he is still watching her, but his eyes have fallen to her lips.
"Too hot, love?" His voice is soft, almost reverent.
Hermione shakes her head no. "It's perfect." Her gratitude for the nourishment is second only to her sense of wariness over the wizard feeding her with care. If she says the wrong thing, she has learned quickly, he will take it away and leave her once again. She's hungry. She will play nice.
He smiles, and it's once again that boyish look that reminds her of his youth.
They continue like that until the bowl is empty and Hermione no longer feels a hollow to her stomach. "I have a treat for you," he tells her next. He lays the bowl back on the tray, and moves to a dish of berries with cream. Settling back beside her on the bed, he shows her the bowl, holding it close to her face and leaning toward her. His nose brushes hers before he says, "Cream for my kitten."
It makes her heart race, the intimacy in his voice, and then shame follows after. How much of this is a trick, she wonders. How much of him is real? What part of him is real? He threatened her only moments ago, and now she feels like she's being seduced by an expert playboy.
When she doesn't react, only looks at him with wide eyes, he clears his throat and leans back. "I remember," he says, "you always seemed to like strawberries. Back in the Great Hall," he clarifies. "You always had two bowls when they offered them on shortcake, always forgoing the cake. So I've left that part out." He smiles and picks up one gingerly, pinched between two fingers, dips it into the cream, and lays it against her mouth.
Once again, she takes his cue and parts her lips for him, taking the berry between her teeth and chewing slowly as he watches. It's juicy and ripe and lightly sweetened with cream smeared across the tip. "Good girl," he praises, and she is disgusted with herself for her relief at his approval.
She finishes the bowl in much the same manner. At the end, he picks up a cloth napkin from the tray and dabs at the corners of her mouth.
"Thank you," she finally says, having not spoken since the first bite of soup, and meaning it more than she'd even realized.
"Are you satisfied?"
It's strange phrasing, but she nods her response. It's only after his expression changes that she grows afraid once again. "It is only fair to return my efforts, is it not? Satisfaction in turn…"
She stiffens immediately, and his hand lays against her throat. She swallows, and it seems to please him. "I like feeding you," he confesses. "I love watching this pretty throat bob as you swallow it down. What would you do, I wonder, if I shoved my cock so deep I could feel your neck bulge under my hand?"
Her breath quickens and she feels her eyes prick at the corners. The gentle version of this wizard vanished as fast as he came, and she is back to the reality of her own impending torture. Is this part of a sick game? Making her feel safe so he can continue to provide fresh terror?
Keeping his right hand held at her throat, both possessive and threatening, he buries his other hand into her curls, tightening his fist and tugging at the roots. Her head tilts under his whims, her face inches from his as her scalp starts to sting. Malfoy nips once at her bottom lip, eliciting a harsh intake of breath. "Are you afraid of me, Hermione?"
How does she answer? Does she say 'no'? Does she try to convince him he's not monster he seems? Would that pacify him? Or would he feel the need to prove her wrong?
Shuddering as her mind runs away with possibilities, she settles on truth once again. "Yes."
He answers with a grin that sets her blood to ice. "Oh, good," he breathes through his toothy smile. "You certainly should be."
With that, he drops her back down roughly, releasing his grip on her hair. When he stands, she is mortified to see that his towel is left behind on the bed, and he faces her, unashamed, his erection bobbing in front of him.
She's bracing herself. Mentally, physically… trying to be prepared for what is to come. He is rigid, twitching, with a drop of moisture sitting right at his tip. When he reaches forward and takes himself in hand, she feels her breath stutter in anticipation.
He begins to pump himself slowly then, his large hand making deliberate passes up and down his shaft. He swipes over the end, collecting the pre-cum there, and moans softly at the effect. All the while, he looks at her. His eyes pan from her curls to her feet, pausing occasionally in various places. When he reaches down to her, Hermione's face flinches, but that is all the movement his binding spell allows.
Reaching into the middle fold of her robe, he pushes the fabric away and palms her breast gently, thumb swiping over her nipple in rhythm with his hand. "Oh, fuck, yes. Merlin's cock, you have such pretty, pretty nipples, Hermione. She feels herself pebble under his attentions, the movements achingly slow and measured. "I'm going to paint you with my cum. I want you covered, dripping with my seed. So you know…" his pace on his cock speeds up, and his other hand simply lays possessively on her breast. "So you know to whom you belong," he finishes with effort. "So you know… you're mine. You're… fucking… mine," he growls out as he reaches his completion.
She clenches her eyes shut, waiting to feel his disgusting fluids rope against her exposed chest, but it never comes.
When she finally opens her eyes, he's standing over her, breathing hard. Malfoy has turned himself away from her, finishing himself onto the plush carpet beneath his feet. "But not today," he says. When he looks back, it's sharp and assessing, his near reverence from before having slipped away.
"Pipsy!"
The elf pops into the room just as Malfoy wraps himself back with the towel. "Clean that up," he barks, pointing to the tray that once held her meal. She realizes then she is thirsty and the carafe of water was untouched while he fed her.
"Please… the water, please…"
She looks at him with pleading eyes and he sneers down at her. He locks into her gaze as he says, "Leave the water, Pipsy."
Once the elf is gone, Hermione still panting and afraid, he adds, "Good luck trying to drink it."
With a smile that could freeze the earth's core, he is gone.
Hope you are enjoying my stoll on the dark side of the moon. Reviews are love. Part 2 will be up this weekend!