(A/N: Sorry for not posting this on Friday as promised; Friday was a BIG event at work, the biggest event of the year in fact. But here's chapter 2, just a little late!)
OoOoO
Dying. She had to be dying. Had to be. This wasn't the sort of pain that a person could be expected to live through, to simply endure... was it?
No. Surely not. She had to be dying.
For a long time she lay exactly as they had left her, sprawled half-on and half-off the filthy, stinking mattress, now even more horrifically soiled than it had been before. Soiled with her own blood, and their... their…
No. I can't think about that. I WON'T think about that. Won't, won't, won't...
She wanted to curl into a ball again, but the pain was too overwhelming and she lacked the strength. She felt utterly abused, utterly degraded, utterly used up. She'd struggled against them as hard as she could, for as long as she could, injured wrist or no... had managed to land one or two passable kicks in the process... and as a result they'd been... just completely brutal.
Unbelievably brutal.
If her wrist hadn't actually been broken before, it most assuredly was now. She had a couple of cracked ribs at this point to go along with it... though she wasn't actually aware of that fact. All she was aware of was that she hurt more than she ever had in her life, in ways she hadn't even realized a person could hurt. Her breaths were shallow, rapid, panting because of the injuries to her ribs. Her body was telling her it wanted desperately to throw up, but she was fighting the urge, keeping it in check because she knew she'd be unable to withstand the fresh pain that action would bring. She hurt all over; all over and deep inside too, in the very center of her body, where they'd violated her, where they'd...
NO! I'm not going to think about that! I'm NOT!
Her eyes had been open, staring sightlessly into the dark in the general direction of the ceiling; she closed them now and hot, fat, stinging tears squeezed their way from beneath the lids, trickling slowly down her face to lose themselves in her tangled, sweat-damp hair.
It occurred to her then that her ordeal was not over, despite the fact that her tormenters had left some twenty minutes ago, snickering as they'd let themselves out of the cell, making incredibly crude and humiliating comments about her body as they went. Raising their voices to ensure that she heard.
This wasn't the end. They could come back at any time. This was only the beginning. This torture and debasement could go on for days... weeks... months. A deep shudder wracked her slim form.
Oh God. I can't. I can't do that. I can't TAKE that. I can't, God please, I can't...
She wanted to go home. She wanted Harry. She wanted Ron.
Her body surprised her with a single wretched, heaving sob then... and the pain it generated was so spectacular that lights bloomed before her eyes.
That was when the room started spinning in slow, sickening circles.
Semi-conscious at best, her thoughts were becoming disjointed.
Something. I have to... do something. I can't just lie here. Have to... assess the damage, at least.
Stupid. Assessing the damage... could cause more damage. Shouldn't... shouldn't move.
In the end, though, she made herself. It simply wasn't in her nature to do nothing.
Levering herself up onto her elbows was one of the hardest, most agonizing things she'd ever done. And it was largely useless to boot. It was too dark to really make anything out, no matter how hard she stared down the length of her body... a cruelly battered body that was rapidly becoming feverish. Distantly, she registered that she was shivering, and her teeth were beginning to rattle.
She eased herself back down again. She could devise more about her current physical state by touch than by sight at the moment. Could feel, for instance, that there was blood drying on her thighs; blood and... and something else. Something she WAS NOT going to think about. She hadn't been a virgin, thank God... she'd given that most precious of gifts to Ron not quite a week before; on the night he'd proposed, in point of fact. But they'd made her bleed anyway. They'd been that rough.
She began to drift away from herself at that point. Honestly, what reason was there to stay? All she wanted was nothingness... not to have to feel what they'd done to her anymore. Not to have to think about what they'd done to her anymore. Peace. Permanent would be nice but she'd settle for temporary. Temporary would do in a pinch.
She almost achieved it, too... the temporary brand, at least. She was most of the way unconscious, barely tethered to her defiled and broken body at all anymore.
Then the cell door opened again.
OoOoO
Draco stepped into the cell with his wand at the ready but not yet illuminated. He spoke her name first - "Granger?"
Waited a moment - got no response - and only then murmured, "Lumos." Took a few seconds to absorb what he was seeing, and then said, in a perfectly flat and inflectionless voice, "Christ."
He stayed where he was for a few heartbeats more, then repeated that single word in the same oddly toneless voice - "Christ." And crossed the room toward her. Reaching her, he bent to one knee with an easy, thoughtless grace that made Hermione wonder briefly whether she'd ever be able to move that freely, that... painlessly again. She thought probably not. She didn't want to deal with Malfoy right now. She didn't want to deal with anyone.
She pressed her eyes shut again. More tears escaped. She heard the rustling of fabric, and then felt something lightweight, soft and warm settle down on top of her. Her shivering subsided, though it didn't stop. He'd just covered her up. This fact surprised her, but did not induce her to look at him.
"Granger, open your eyes."
"No." Her voice was a rusty croak. "Get away, Malfoy. Leave me alone."
He was silent for a moment, apparently considering. Then, "is that really what you want? To be left alone, like this, until they come back?"
It was Hermione's turn, now, to pause and reflect. Then, "no." More tears. A slow but steady flow.
"Then open your eyes. Let me assess the damage."
"It's not my eyes they hurt, Malfoy." But she obeyed.
"I can bloody well see what they hurt," he retorted. "What I want to see is how alert you are, whether you can follow my movements." He raised a hand into her line of vision; snapped his fingers once and then began to wave it slowly back and forth, just inches from her face. "Can you follow that?"
"Yes," she said, but she didn't track his hand with her eyes. She locked them, instead, on his face. "Why the hell do you care?"
"Because you're best mates with the Boy Who Lived. That makes you incredibly important, Granger. Incredibly important. Didn't you get the fucking memo?" He looked at her hard; his eyes narrowing, boring into her own. An intense, searching gaze the color of glacier ice. Then he snorted. "No. Of course you didn't. You don't think that way. You've never thought that way. You don't know how to think that way." He shook his head, just once. "Very strange to me, Granger. Very strange."
He unfolded back to his feet with that same lithe, natural grace. "Wait here. I'll be right back." Now it was her turn to snort, bitterly amused despite everything. "Where am I going to go, Malfoy? Off to Diagon Alley for a little shop?"
He crossed to the door, then looked back. "I can't do very much for you, you understand. Can't remove you from this cell, can't prevent them coming back. Don't have the authority for either. But I'll do what I can. Hold on."
He turned and slipped out, shutting the door behind him.
It seemed that he was only gone for a matter of seconds, just the proverbial blink of an eye. But she didn't think that was possible, and so concluded that she must have blacked out for a while; lost some time. The conclusion was correct.
But that wasn't what mattered. What mattered was that he was back again, bending over her, and now he wasn't alone.
"She's got some broken bones that need to be seen to before we move her," he said to his newfound companions - a pair of unusually brisk-looking house elves - then let's get her up off the floor. Hang on -" she saw that he was making passes over her with his wand, the tip of which was glowing green except for when it encountered an area of particular hurt; then a cool shower of red sparks erupted from it. He was running some kind of diagnostics on her injuries. "Looks like her right wrist for sure... couple of ribs. There's plenty more damage too, but the rest can wait until we get her elevated. All right - get to it."
He stood back and then it was the house elves who were leaning close over her, taking a moment to conduct an inspection of their own, it seemed, before setting to work. Then they were all quick efficiency, tending her in absolute silence, shooting one another occasional glances that seemed heavy with meaning, but not uttering a sound.
"Thank you," Hermione murmured, actually catching one of the creatures' diminutive wrists as it worked. "What's your name?" The elf pulled away, looking startled almost to the point of alarm before bending back to its task.
"Don't talk to the elves, Granger," Draco said, hunkering down beside her. "They're not accustomed to our kind addressing them so familiarly. It destroys their concentration, and makes them uncomfortable. Besides which, it's completely pointless. Their names are not important. What's important is that they're the best damn medics we have; better than any witch or wizard trained in the healing arts I've ever encountered. They've patched up just about everyone on our side, including myself, more than once. You wouldn't get better care even at St. Mungo's. Although -" he paused and glanced around the dank cell - "I suppose the hospital itself is somewhat more appealing a facility."
He appeared to reflect on that fact for a few seconds, then frowned. "Hm. Anyway, they'll never answer you because the Dark Lord decided that speech is an unnecessary and... distracting ability for them to possess. He's muffled them, permanently."
"That's barbaric," Hermione whispered. Then one of the elves chose that particular moment in time to reset the mangled bone in her wrist, with no prior warning, resulting in a small but nevertheless horrible pop - and she screamed and passed out.
OoOoO
She came back around to the sound of her name.
"Granger. Granger. Wakey-wakey, come on."
She blinked her eyes slowly open; blinked; struggled to focus. Just about her whole line of vision was taken up by Draco, who was leaning close over her with a glass of water in his hand. Seeing that she'd come around, he slipped his other hand under her head and lifted. "Drink."
She did so, realizing as the cool water passed her lips just how ragingly thirsty she'd actually been; she drank until she nearly choked, Draco pulling the glass away when she began to cough and sputter. "Pace yourself, Granger, shit."
Though there was irritation in his voice, his hand as he eased her head back down to the pillow was oddly gentle.
Wait... pillow?
A quick glance around herself revealed that the healer-elves were gone, and though she remained in the same horrible little underground cell, someone - either the elves or Draco himself, presumably - had vanished the awful, stained and ripped mattress. It had been replaced by one that was considerably newer, sat higher from the floor, and was equipped with all the accessories one normally associated with a mattress; sheets, pillows, even a fluffy duvet.
Also, she felt quite a bit better. Physically, at any rate. Still terrifically sore, every inch of her; but the screaming agony she been in before was gone; likewise the feverishness. Emotionally, well... that was something else. There were big problems there. And yet even that wasn't as bad as it could have been... maybe should have been.
It's shock, she thought. Everything is being dulled by shock. And seeing as that thought itself was dull; muted and... distant somehow, as if it were actually someone else's thought that she just happened to be picking up on - she supposed it must be true.
Everything was still there; the grief, the anger, the disgust, the shame, the humiliation... but it was tucked away at the moment, to be examined at another time. She couldn't deal with it right now. She wouldn't deal with it right now.
She let her eyes fall shut.
"How long was - was I-" she broke off coughing again, the water she'd accidentally inhaled still troubling her. It didn't matter; Draco understood what she was asking.
"Couple of hours," he said.
"And the battle...?"
"Ongoing. In fact, I need to get back." He frowned down at the Dark Mark on his own arm. "I've stayed away too long. I'm not going to get myself in trouble for you, Granger - understand that. I'm not going to stick my neck out. And I can't protect you from them - understand that too. We have to share you - those are the orders. I fought it straight to the top; those are still the orders. I think they're blind, short-sighted idiots if they can't see what an un-fucking-believably valuable asset you are, but be that as it may, I'm not gonna risk my arse for you. Got it?"
"Yeah," she said listlessly, turning her head toward the wall. "I got it, Malfoy."
"Good." She heard him set the glass down. "Then we understand each other. See ya round, Granger."
She didn't answer - just continued to stare at the dark, damp stone of the cell wall as he let himself out.
And he did see her around. But he was not the next person to come back.
They came back before he did.
OoOoO
The pain was excruciating; the humiliation overwhelming. But the worst thing they did to her this time, the very worst, was to notice the engagement ring Ron had placed on her finger - and to take it away from her. Speculating, as they left her sobbing in a heap on the floor, about how many galleons it might fetch them down in Knocturn Alley... and whether it would be better to take it to a shop, or just to sell it themselves on a street corner.
It was a long time before the cell door opened again; most of a day, though Hermione had no way of knowing this. In her underground prison there was no such thing as daylight or nighttime... no differentiating between dusk, or midnight, or dawn. There was just darkness and suffering, and the atrocities inflicted upon her by two out of three of her captors. Her owners, now.
"Granger?"
The voice seemed to be coming from a long, long ways off. In a way, it hardly sounded real at all; it sounded like something from a dream... there was an echoey quality about it that was almost surreal.
"Granger?"
It would be a struggle to get herself back into the same consciousness - the same plane of existence - as that voice. And she wasn't at all sure that it would prove to be worth the struggle in the end.
That plane of existence held only pain for her, pain and despair. She was sure of this without remembering exactly how she was sure.
"Grange - aw, fuck. Fuck me." Footsteps. A sensation of being lifted. Then, at close range, the voice again. "Ennervate!"
And she no longer had a choice. She was jolted back to full consciousness, whether she willed it or not.
OoOoO
The spell had an effect like a mild electrical shock. Her whole body jerked and she gasped, eyes flying open. She was back atop the bed that Draco had magicked into the cell on his previous visit, and he was scowling down at her as he stashed his wand away; sugar-white fringe falling half across his eyes.
Bringing her own eyes into something that passed for focus, she saw that he had bandages across his chest, shoulder, and down one arm clear to the elbow. Behind him, the silent pair of house elves was making for the door. It had seemed as if no more than a couple of seconds had passed between the time she'd heard him enter and call her name, and the time he'd Ennervated her... but apparently she'd lost some time again. If the elves had finished their work already, she must have lost some time.
Draco followed her gaze for a second, then his near colorless eyes snapped back to her face. "Yeah," he said flatly as the elves let themselves out, "I had them do me right after they finished doing you. Just a little something I picked up in the fighting, not serious." As if she had asked. He reached up with the un-bandaged arm; shoved his hair back, out of his face. "You were far worse. You have to stop fighting them, you know. You're not a stupid girl. Surely you realize that the harder you fight, the more they'll hurt you. You fucking like it, Granger? That's the only explanation I can think of. You must get off on pain. Because otherwise, you'd stop making it worse on your-"
WHAP.
The whip-crack sound of the slap reverberated around the tiny cell; the close, damp walls seeming to magnify it somehow. It was difficult in that instant to say who was more shocked; Draco, with the crimson handprint blooming across his pale cheek, or Hermione, her stinging hand falling back to the coverlet beside her.
She, however, recovered first.
"Don't you ever, ever say that to me again." Her voice was low-pitched and shaking. "If I stop fighting, I give up. If I give up, I despair. If I despair, I die. Don't you ever imply that I fight because I like... like what they..."
She had to break off; her breaths were piling up to the point where coherent speech was deserting her. It didn't matter; she'd made her point. Draco stared at her for a moment in utter, stunned stupefaction... then his eyes narrowed to furious, glittering slits. "Fine, Granger," he snarled, "you want to make it worse on yourself, go right ahead. You're barking, you know that, you mudblood twat? People go on about how clever you are - you're not clever, you're fucking insane. I was trying to help you - trying to keep you in one piece - and do you see anyone else around here queuing up to do that? Hm? But now, you know what? You get what you get. And when Nott and Zabini hand your tits to fucking Weasley in a box, I'll be laughing just as hard as anyone else. So FUCK. YOU."
He spun on his heel and made for the door - almost reached it, too, before it opened yet again.
And this time it wasn't Zabini and Nott. Or at least, it wasn't just Zabini and Nott.
No, this time it was a whole lot worse.
OoOoO
Hermione propelled herself into a sitting position; a few last, tattered remnants of defiance blazing behind her eyes. A whole entourage of people was clustered in the doorway of the cell now - the two creatures who had repeatedly raped her were there, but they weren't in front. When all was said and done, they were young, relatively unimportant, new recruits... and thus were relegated to back-row status.
The important Death Eaters, the ones with real rank, were in front - and dead center was none other than the Dark Lord himself, come for a look at his most valuable prisoner.
Regarding her out of cold, flat reptilian eyes, he did not look impressed.
"Hey Malfoy," Blaise shouted from behind Bellatrix LeStrange's shoulder, breaking the heavy silence that had descended over the room, "finding her a bit too much to handle?" The dark-skinned boy clapped a hand to his cheek in a comically exaggerated fashion, clearly referencing the palm-shaped slap mark that was still plainly visible on Draco's face. "Theo and I can hold her down for you, you know - all you have to do is swallow your pride and ask nice!"
A few guffaws greeted this witticism; even Bellatrix uttered a high-pitched and obviously insane little giggle. But then Voldemort raised a hand in a staying motion, and the room grew preternaturally still and quiet once more.
When the snake-man spoke, it was also to address Draco, who had frozen in place when the door had burst open and was standing directly between his lord and the girl on the bed.
"Step aside, boy. I have come for a look at the girl, not at you."
Bellatrix tittered her high, mad laugh again. Draco hesitated for just a fraction of a second - was it simply lingering paralysis, or was it something else? - and then did as he was told. Hermione found herself completely engulfed by that horrible, inhuman stare.
"Well well," Voldemort said with deceptive softness, "so this is the little mudblood brat whose absence is causing such a stir on the other side. Interesting... interesting indeed."
Hermione swallowed hard, attempting to stave off the panic that threatened to overwhelm her. She'd gone absolutely cold - freezing cold from head to foot, and right through to the center of her; right down to her bones. Clammy sweat beaded her forehead, and it felt as though her heart were pounding at her temples. Pure evil - she was being pinned in the glare of pure evil. It was terror like she'd never known.
But even so, that tiny rational corner of her mind piped up. And what it said was, What would Harry do?
Well, that answer was simple. And she acted on it with no further conscious thought.
"Go fall off a broomstick, Tom," she spat. "Rumor has it you're a mudblood too."
There was a gasp of horror from the assembled Death Eaters that was so perfectly choreographed, under different circumstances it might have been humorous. Then Bellatrix, purple-faced and apoplectic with rage, whipped out her wand and screeched, "Crucio!"
Hermione barely had time to brace for the pain... and it wouldn't have made a difference in any case. There is no preparation that can lessen the blinding, howling agony of that particular curse.
She lost time again.
OoOoO
When she came back to herself, at least a little, she was curled in a ball on the stone floor, apparently having fallen off the bed while under the influence of the curse. She was shaking so hard from the curse's aftereffects, she was practically convulsing; deep, sustained shudders ripping through her body one after another after another.
Voldemort was speaking from far above her... his voice sounded as faint and distant as if he were on another plane of existence altogether.
" - do appreciate your... fervor, Bella, but that will be quite enough. I am more than capable of handling this situation myself, thank you very much."
She heard Bellatrix's voice respond in a thin, wheedling tone, but couldn't make out what the demon-woman was saying. Her attention was focused on something a good deal closer at hand; Voldemort was using one booted foot to nudge her onto her back. He then planted that same foot squarely in the middle of her ribcage and bore down, making her gasp.
"Look at me, girl," he demanded, and increased the pressure on her chest until she did so, hating herself for capitulating.
His terrible, crimson, inhuman eyes were speculative, and coolly, distantly amused. "You've got some nerve, I'll give you that," he said calmly. "I understand you're quite close to the Potter boy. Let's see if you know anything of value... shall we?"
She had just time to think, Oh my God, he's going to -
And then he hit her with the full, brutal force of his own particular brand of Legilimency.
Those scarlet eyes, as remarkable for their cruelty as for their color, were boring into her, eating into her, taking up her whole line of vision - the whole room - the whole world.
And his consciousness... so horrible, so malicious, so cold, was worming its way into her thoughts, prying them open for his examination, attempting to do to her mind what Nott and Zabini had done to her body.
No. NO! Must - get - defenses - UP!
It was quite possibly the most difficult thing she'd done in her entire life to date, because Voldemort was renowned throughout the wizarding world for his Legilimency skills, and rightly so. But she managed - barely - to slam her defenses into place just as she'd been taught.
It was bright. A bright, cool, early spring morning in her last year at Hogwarts. The snow had only just finished melting and the students, who had been bursting to get out of the castle, were in the midst of a mass exodus down the hill to Hogsmeade Village.
Hermione had slept in - a rare and delicious indulgence during her Hogwarts days. Indeed, for Hermione, a rare and delicious indulgence period. She was not often a late riser. She simply had too much to do - always.
But she'd slept in this morning, and she felt wonderful. Felt as if she were practically treading air as she hurried along the path to town between her boys. Harry and Ron, each of whom was just as ebullient on this crisp, clear morning as she was. And that was a rarity these days... for Harry especially. He'd become more and more somber, more and more grim, as he grew. As the destiny he'd never sought, yet knew he could not escape, loomed ever larger, ever more ominous, over him.
But that was for another day and somehow - she didn't know how and honestly, it didn't really matter - he'd put his grimness aside for the moment. Today they were simply three teenagers, three schoolchildren, three among many, headed to town for a much anticipated outing.
Impulsively, Hermione had grabbed both Ron and Harry by the hands, and had run the rest of the distance to arrive at the edge of the village flushed, out of breath and laughing. Ron, caught on the tide of high spirits, had quite unexpectedly lifted her clear off the ground, and swung her in a full circle before depositing her back on the street.
"Come on," she'd exclaimed, "let's start with a butterbeer at The Three Broomsticks, shall we?"
Her companions had agreed but really she should have known better, because in order to reach the tavern they'd had to pass directly in front of Zonko's Joke Shop... and she supposed it had been inevitable, really, that Harry and Ron should first have slowed, then have stopped, staring into the large plate-glass windows, utterly transfixed by the colorful displays of merchandise.
She'd waited patiently for a moment, but when they'd still been rooted to the spot, heads bent together as they'd discussed one particular item that had caught their fancy in low, urgent tones, she'd stomped a foot and huffed her displeasure.
It was all an act, of course; she hadn't felt capable of anything even approaching true displeasure on that perfect morning. It was an act, but it had recaptured their attention, both of them looking suitably sheepish as they'd turned back toward her.
"Er... sorry, Hermione. We'll just, uh..." Harry had glanced back toward the window, an expression of longing plain on his face. "Do you think we could come back here, first thing, just as soon as we finish our drink?"
"Oh for Heaven's sake, Harry Potter -" that was all she'd gotten out before dissolving completely into laughter. He'd just looked, in that moment, so much like a child begging his mother for some toy or sweet. "Just go into that silly store now, or it's all you'll be thinking about the whole time we're in the pub!"
"Really?" his face had lit up - so boyish. So rare. So precious. Acting on yet another impulse, she'd raised a gloved hand and pressed it to his cheek. "Yes, really. Both of you. I'll go on ahead and get us a table." She'd turned to look at Ron. "All right?"
And Ron had amazed her.
"No, I'll stay with you, Hermione."
Harry's eyebrows had shot up, apparently as surprised as Hermione herself. The redheaded boy had dug into his pocket, pulled out a handful of coins, and pressed them into Harry's hand. "You know the one I want," he'd said, "come on and catch us up in a minute." Harry had vanished into the shop. And Ron had amazed her again.
He'd taken her by the hand, lacing his fingers through her own as they'd turned their steps toward The Three Broomsticks. And this was something different, something new. Something far outside the ordinary realm of their friendship. She'd felt it, her heart thudding, pulse racing, breaths coming quicker in the chill morning air. She'd been waiting for so long... hoping for so long... never quite allowing herself to believe that maybe, just maybe... could it be true that he shared her feelings? Was this what she'd been praying for...?
It was. Because when they reached the little pub, he'd amazed her a third time. He'd stopped, but hadn't released her hand. Instead, he'd pulled her gently around to face him. Lifted both his hands to frame her face, using one of them to sweep her wind-tousled hair back, out of her eyes. Had dipped his own head - (so tall; he'd recently hit another growth spurt and had gotten so tall) - until their noses had nearly been touching, and she could smell peppermint humbugs on his breath.
He'd just stared into her eyes for a long, spiraling, perfectly gorgeous moment, absently caressing her cheek with one thumb - he hadn't been wearing gloves, she'd noticed distractedly; being Ronald Weasley, he'd forgotten them.
"Hermione, I -" his voice had been a touch ragged around the edges; he'd been breathing just as hard as she was. He'd pressed his eyes closed for just the briefest heartbeat's worth of time, screwing up his courage, it looked like, and then - "I think I love you. And not just as mates either, I mean... I think I really LOVE you. Have for a while, actually. I -"
But there had been no more talking then, because she'd surged up onto her tiptoes, throwing her arms around him and meeting his lips with her own. One of his hands had plunged into her hair, fingers tangling in its dark, heavy masses as he'd held her face to his; the other one had dropped to her waist, his arm wrapping hard around her body and pulling her deeper, almost desperately into the kiss. And it had been the most giddy, amazing, wonderful moment of her life; she could have lived in that moment forever; she -
And then it was over; the invasive, probing tendrils of Voldemort's mind withdrawing, and the memory she'd wrapped around herself like a protective cocoon evaporated like smoke in a breeze. Drifting away, leaving her gasping on the cold dungeon floor."
Disgusting," Voldemort said, his voice a hateful hiss. "Absolutely vile." But he didn't sound disgusted. To Hermione he sounded frustrated. Supremely frustrated. He knew he'd been blocked. Damned if he was going to let on to his followers, though. He left her where she was, and crossed back to the door. "Pathetic girl knows nothing. What a waste of time. Still... she clearly does have some value to our enemies, not least of all to the Potter boy himself. So we'll keep her alive a little longer; Draco may yet prove correct about her potential use as a bargaining chip." He looked directly at Zabini and Nott then, pinning them with his hideous, snake-like eyes. "Is that clear? You are not to break her. At least, not... irreparably."
Appreciative snickers greeted this, and most of the crowd of Death Eaters began to disperse. Zabini and Nott remained behind, though, and made as if to approach her. But then Draco was back in her line of sight, barring their way once again. "Bugger off, both of you," he said flatly. "I'm not done with my turn."
"What, fancy getting slapped around some more?" Nott asked, his eyes glittering maliciously.
"Or maybe," Zabini put in, "you'd like to magick her up a few more luxury furnishings? A marble bath, perhaps? A velvet settee? Her own staff of house elves to cook her meals and keep her entertained? I'm not sure I like how soft you are on the mudblood, Malfoy. I'm not sure the Dark Lord would like it either."
The Dark Lord in question had stopped, just as Zabini had doubtless intended, right outside the cell. And though he did not actually deign to look back, he was clearly listening to this exchange. Listening carefully.
But if Nott and Zabini had thought they could show up Draco Malfoy, they had been sorely mistaken. The white-haired boy made a sound in the back of his throat that was nothing less than pure, concentrated contempt; contempt bordering on loathing. "Are you actually suggesting that I conjured this bed for her sake?" he demanded. "The bed is for my comfort, idiot. Unlike some present," and though he was looking straight at Zabini and Nott, it was clear that he was speaking to somebody else entirely - he was speaking directly to Voldemort - "I prefer the amenities of civilized life, instead of rutting on the ground like beasts."
Voldemort uttered a short, but nonetheless clearly appreciative, bark of laughter - and swept off down the hall.
"Now. Get. Out." Draco's voice was low - almost silken - and incredibly dangerous. Nott and Zabini left. They glared daggers at him the whole way - but they left.
The door clanged shut behind them.