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No Good Deed

Minister Paynes sat in his office, with only the sound of crackling wood coming from the fireplace and a tumbler of cognac to keep him company. He sipped languidly, pondering the accomplishments of the day.

It hadn't been difficult, he thought, closing his eyes to the burning sensation of the liquid down his throat. His mind sifted through all the overwhelming evidence against them he had rather easily and quickly come across. No one had even bothered to hide it! It was all there for review to everyone and all Percival Public. Dahlgren shook his head and took another drink. The previous administration had placed them on a pedestal, lauding their every move. That Granger Muggleborn was often on the front page for her charitable acts.

Dahlgren sneered at the image of her.

Skulling the remainder of the cognac, he set it down and looked to the enormous amount of hate mail and Howlers waiting for him. Public opinion of the Minister's Office had dropped significantly when the trials began, but they would pick up again. He clenched his teeth a bit then blew out a calming breath. The audacity of some, he thought, scornful of the pile. He would never treat his betters with such disdain.

Grabbing his favorite goose feather quill and dipping it in the crystal inkwell, he set to capture each name of the dissenters then set their missives and Howlers aflame. He would make sure that he addressed each and every one… personally.

A timid rap at his door broke his train of thought. "Yes," he called. He was a bit short-tempered of late, but attempted to sound welcoming.

He failed.

A small witch stepped inside his office, his secretary. She did not look directly at him, as he had told her that he preferred his subordinates to remain just that. That meant no direct eye contact and only speaking when spoken to. She moved to stand in front of his desk and waited for him to acknowledge her.

It was late and he knew she wanted to get home to her children and husband. He made a mental note to send her husband a gift for allowing her to serve the Minister's office. He was, after all, responsible for their match. He'd known her husband before they married – had, in fact, introduced the two and urged them to get to know each other.

"Yes, Rose?"

"Sir, each file from today's sentencing has been duplicated and sent to archives. All of their personnel actions, stripping their titles and offices have been modified to reflect their current status and they have all been delivered to intake at Azkaban."

Dahlgren nodded. "When did you receive confirmation of delivery?"

She swallowed. "At 6:00, Sir."

He looked at his watch. "That was an hour ago, Ms. Fargo." The shift in familiarity to a more formal address was alarming to her. She made every attempt to remain calm, but the wringing of her hands would give her away, she thought.

"Yes sir. I was filing and ensuring that your directions were carried out in quickest manner. I know you like me to be as efficient as possible, sir." Her breathing picked up and her skin colored. Her heart was pounding so hard that he could see her pulse from his desk.

He took in her attire and his eyes darkened. She was a curvy witch, with a small waist and torpedo tits in a tight little sweater. Her skirt was an appropriate length, and though he found her attractive, he didn't agree with the snug fit of her clothes. It was too provocative. A public servant had no business being provocative.

He suddenly got angry with her. "Ms. Fargo, do you want to keep this job?"

She closed her eyes, praying to any gods or goddesses watching that he just let her go home to her children.

"Yes, sir, I do."

"Must I remind you where you were just one short year ago?"

"No, sir, I remember." Her voice was shaky.

He stood and walked slowly around his desk to stand behind her. So close she could smell the liquor on his breath, and feel the warmth from his body.

"Remind me," he whispered, his hands gently moving to her hips to bend her over his desk.

"I- I was-" She swallowed, mentally focusing on her inner strength. Telling herself this was better than her children going hungry.

"Yes?" he urged, tapping the insides of her heels with his toe, so she moved her legs apart.

Squeezing her eyes shut to prevent the tears from falling, she reminded him of her previous circumstances. "I was waiting tables in a pub…"

She took in a quick breath as the Minister lifted her skirt. "And?" he asked, unbuttoning his fly.

Her chest seized and she gritted her teeth. "And I was an escort," she hissed.

Her wording made him chuckle. "An escort? No, Rosie. You were a paid slag. And I saved you and your children from that fate, didn't I?" It was rhetorical, because at this point, his cock was stiff and he was eager to teach her her place in this world; in his world.

He'd saved her and gave her a respectable job and all he asked from her was her loyalty.

Dahlgren was angry at her and was getting angrier by the second. He seemed to snap when she'd said escort. Suddenly, he roughly shoved her chest onto the desk, knee'd open her legs a bit more and spat on his hand. He would remind her that he was in charge and in control, and she was here only at his preference.

Rose was shaking her head and trying not to cry, but she knew what was coming.

Pulling open her bum cheeks, he sneered, "deep breath, Rosie, this may hurt a little." Just as she took a breath, he shoved his cock inside her bum, ripping a cry of pain from her slight frame. He pushed inside and out, pumping and pounding. There was no rhythm, no reason to his movement.

When the pain eased, she chanced a look up. Lifting her head, she saw their reflection in the mirror behind his desk. His hair was askew, his face was pinched in distaste, and his neck was thick red with veins popping as he came to climax with a growl. She was mesmerized by the disheveled appearance, so she was too slow in returning her head to its more subordinate position.

Their eyes met. She saw white hot rage in his eyes and braced herself for the blow. It was a flat handed, full bodied effort to knock her to the ground. She rolled over and scrambled to a fetal position. Her skirt was still raised and her knickers still wrapped around one ankle. She watched him with fear in her soul as he pointed at her from above. "Don't you ever look at me like that again!"

He was so angry he was shaking and spittle flew from his mouth as he spoke. He dropped to her level and none too gently plied open her knees. Lying splayed for his angry gaze, he drew up his hand, looked her in the eyes, and gave her a smile that told her he was far from done. Bringing his palm down on her bared cunt, he slapped her pussy with enough force for her to attempt to scramble backward and shriek in both surprise and pain.

Dahlgren held her tight, and slapped her pussy again then crudely inserted three fingers. "You're wet, Rosie. Is this what your husband does to make you come?" He slapped her again. Her nether lips were now swollen and red. Rosie closed her eyes and once more shifted her thoughts elsewhere, praying that she may endure to return home to her children.

In a flash, he stood and inhaled loudly through his nose. Closing his eyes, his shaking hands went up to smooth his hair, and pull himself together. When he was done, he resembled the Minister of Magic. Eyeing her wide-eyed form on the ground, he made a face that told her he found her disgusting and not worth the effort to help her up. "Get up. Go home. And remember your place, Ms. Fargo."

She found some courage to ask if she could use magic to right her clothes.

He nodded and was already back on documenting the names of those from whom he had received negative messages.

OoO

The first time Hermione had been shoved, head long into the cell, she had been surprised to find that she was not alone. She felt a sense of both foreboding and relief at the prospect as well as relief in the assumption that Harry was not alone either.

Looking around, her relief had quickly turned to anxiety upon noticing that there was one toilet and one bucket, no running water and one small cot to share with the other witches. The other witches, Hermione listed them to herself, were huddled in a corner, with the exception of one, waiting for the guard to leave and the door to shut.

Ginny Weasley. Narcissa Malfoy.

In the corner, to Hermione's surprise, was the presence of Dolores Umbridge. What in the world…?

The door banged shut.

"Well, you look a sight, 'Mione." It was Ginny and she was in the process of standing. Hermione moved to help her, but couldn't seem to make her muscles move the way she wanted them to.

The frustration must have shown on her face, because Dolores Umbridge spoke to her.

"It's a dampener. Hm. Hm."

Hermione wondered if her hmming at the end of speech was an impediment or some kind of coping mechanism.

Ginny nodded. "It'll take a day or so, but you'll get used to it. How are you?"

The two witches hugged and Hermione swallowed down the desire to cry uncontrollably. "I'm okay. You?"

Ginny shrugged and turned to Narcissa Malfoy, who had stood by this point. "You remember Mrs. Malfoy? And…" she motioned to where Dolores stood.

Hermione nodded at both witches; at Mrs. Malfoy with sympathy and at Dolores with confusion.

Ginny answered her question. "It seemed no one liked her."

Narcissa closed her eyes in humor and Hermione fought the urge to snort.

The second time Hermione was shoved in the cell was after being cleaned and deloused via a large hose of high pressure cold water and then poison powder dumped on her head while she was still wet. The walk back was both humiliating and difficult to keep from slipping.

The third time, was in her third week in and she had been beaten for not signing a full disclosure form admitting to every crime under the sun during the war and before, and taking financial responsibility for those crimes. She had refused and hoped with every ounce of will that Harry did not succumb to the pressure and sign it. The additional crimes would change the sentencing, and they would end up sitting out the rest of their lives in Azkaban for 'crimes' they didn't commit.

Narcissa took care of her by cleaning her wounds and letting her rest on the cot.

Hermione opened her eyes at the feeling of a wet compress on her forehead. "We have to get out of here." Narcissa didn't react, at first, then slowly, she offered a small nod in agreement.

A second later, someone was at the door. "Granger?" it was a loud stage whisper through the top look-through hole in the door.

Hermione bolted upright and looked at the other witches.

"Granger, It's Macmillan."

Hermione slowly stood and walked to the door. On her tip toes, she lifted her chin. "Ernie?"

She didn't reach the hole, so she flopped back on the flats of her feet.

"Yes, me. I don't have much time, but- are you alright?"

Hermione didn't want to talk about her situation. She wanted to know how Harry and Ron were doing. "How's Harry? Ron?"

Narcissa startled her, laying a hand on her shoulder, and hissing "Draco? Lucius?"

All four witches were crowded by the door, listening.

"Harry's good. He keeps to himself. Ron's got into a few fights during dinner time. Draco has come to his rescue and I haven't seen Mr. Malfoy."

Hermione was nodding, but it was Ginny who asked. "Who are they fighting with? How many to a cell?"

Ernie paused. "There are only two to a cell. Dinner time is an open cafeteria, and Azkaban holds prisoners from all over the wizarding world." He paused again, letting that information sink in, then answered their question. "You four are the only witches left." He seemed to disappear then quickly came back.

"I have to go!" And just like that, he was gone.

Hermione felt her heart sink, and turned around to see the same expressions on her fellow cell mates. "I guess you all caught that then? Whoever the other witches were; they are either gone or dead."

Ginny gave voice to Hermione's earlier sentiments. "We need to get out of here."

Hermione nodded, but then felt the burden of defeat. "How? We have no magic and can barely move due to the dampeners."

Narcissa and Dolores shared a look.

"What?" Hermione prompted.

Dolores took a breath. "We have our magic-hm hm. It's just dormant. We might have a way…"

She didn't finish and Hermione narrowed her eyes at her. "Out with it, you pink tyrant!"

The older witches shared another look. It was Narcissa who shared the secret. "A coven."