A/N: Is anyone reading this? Lol.
All the sounds and smells and lights of the scene were shut off as suddenly as if a switch had been pressed, and as suddenly, a new world reappeared silently around them.
Glittering crystals, and the baroque gold moulding dressing a high ceiling made themselves visible for an instant before everything disappeared behind the smooth underbelly of Nagini as it began to cover her face like an ungodly shroud.
She could barely breathe. Her mind, unable to keep up the near constant state of panic, was starting to shut down.
"…you'll be good, won't you, and stay here?"
He was talking to her, she thought. Her darkening consciousness only just made out the last words, and a new surge of panic brought her back to the moment. He was leaving. He was leaving her paralysed and alone with the snake.
It was already wrapping one end of itself around her right thigh. The soft dry scales gripped at her face as it continued to press onwards.
She wanted to sob. She was going to go mad. If she didn't die, if it didn't eat her alive, she would go mad.
"Come, Nagini…"
The suffocating weight of the immense snake lifted as it flowed swiftly back up its master's arm.
Relief flooded her body. Hera didn't think she would ever feel as grateful to him as she did now.
She watched him point his wand at her almost negligently, heft his pet further up one shoulder, and then, before her shaking, descending body had even touched the carpeted floor, he had disapparated, moving forward and vanishing mid-step as quietly as he had come.
Hera was alone.
She lay still for a second, continuing to shake and whimper uncontrollably before beginning to scratch frenziedly at her face and body. She balled herself up and scratched with great gasping laboured breaths, scratching until the pain erased the memory of snake on skin. And then she began to cry.
Finally, when the panic and disgust had drained out of her body together with her tears, she wiped her face with her hands and exhaled one more sigh.
No longer in a state of heightened arousal, exhaustion began to settle in her muscles. All the injuries she had sustained, both in the battle at Hogwarts and at that disaster of a suicide mission, were throbbing intensely.
There was nothing more that Hera wanted to do than to lie down and slip into a coma; to escape the burning agony. But she had to go back to Hogwarts. She had to return to her friends, who would have wondered where she had gone. They might believe her dead.
She was as good as dead, wasn't she? Wasn't she?
She rose unsteadily and surveyed her surroundings.
It was obvious where he had taken her; the stately room with its shades of cream and gold and pale greens, and its crystal chandeliers very like the one that had come crashing down on Hermione in the drawing room of this same mansion- there could only be one place she was once again trapped in.
A large floral rug covered almost the entire surface of the shiny parquet floor. Velvet divans and oval-backed chairs and small round tables stood on it. Mirrors alternated with decorative panels on the walls. Glazed vases overflowed with fresh flowers on their narrow console tables. There was a set of doors on either end.
Picking one at random, she moved quickly, striding past a grand mirror and then, unable to help herself, stopping-
She was a mess. Her dark hair was matted with blood. Bruises blossomed under the surface of her skin; under the bloody lines of her own self-inflicted scratches and bigger, deeper wounds.
At her right calf, a section of her flesh had ripped almost cleanly open and something white- bone or fat, was visible deep within the crude gash. Dirt and fragments of debris were embedded in the raw flesh.
Her head swum to look at it, and as if the looking triggered the pain, a fresh wave of it thrummed insistently along her nerves.
She forced her attention away and hobbled determinedly to the doors. The lacquered wood swung silently outwards with barely a touch of her palm.
Well that was surprising.
Hera entered another room, equally grand, with recesses in the walls filled with books almost to the ceiling. A large carved table surrounded by high backed chairs sat on a small rug. She passed without stopping through that room into another. And another. Door after door opened to admit her. All enormous and opulent, all silent and devoid of people. Only the quiet ticking of clocks followed her. Hera walked on. There was a dining room, another sitting room, a study…
Her pace quickened as she explored. Subconsciously, at first, and then finally with purpose and a nervous, buzzing energy.
The urge to get out overrode even the biting unceasing call of her leg screaming for her attention.
Stopping in yet another dining room, Hera moved towards the tall arched windows and parted the sheer fabric. At her touch, all the curtains along the wall parted swiftly and mechanically.
The room overlooked the grounds of the manor. It was dark. Enchanted lights sparkled among the shrubberies like little fireflies. Hera pressed her face against the cool glass and peered down. She guessed herself to be on the third floor. It would be an unpleasant jump, but she could probably survive relatively intact.
The thought of adding to her already bloated repertoire of pain was making her muscles tremble and turn to jelly. Her injuries burned and stung and she flicked her limbs in subconscious attempt to throw off the feeling. Her skull ached with exhaustion.
Hera gritted her teeth. What were more injuries? She had to get out, had to, had to, had to.
She opened a window.
It too, obeyed her touch, and swung outwards obligingly. The cool breeze floated in, bringing with it the smell of freedom. The chirping of insects and rustling of wind on leaves were welcome sounds.
At a forty-five-degree angle, as though arrested by an invisible hinge, it stopped moving. Thin as Hera was, there was still no way she could fit in that narrow gap. She pushed at the window, but it wouldn't give.
She stuck her head out and looked straight down. The smooth pale stone of a terrace greeted her.
It would be a very unpleasant jump.
Cursing, Hera cast about the room, seized a hefty emerald vase with gold scaled handles, dumped out its bouquet of flowers, and rammed it forcefully through the glass.
It was like ramming the thing into a steel wall. A shockwave travelled through her body. Her bones felt as if they were separating from their joints, and the sudden rush of pain caused her to drop the vase. It fell onto the marble floor with a solid, resounding thunk.
The windowpane remained whole.
"Fucking magic," Hera howled, rubbing her wrists, and running her hands frustratedly through her hair.
Someone tutted softly behind her.
Hera whipped around, hand going automatically to her sleeve, where no wand lay in hiding.
Lord Voldemort stood in the doorway.
The sight of him, so out of place in his ashy silk, there in the prettiness of the Malfoy dining room should have been ridiculous, but never more dangerous did his perverse inhumanity look than juxtaposed against the backdrop of normality.
Relative normality.
He was the Grim Reaper.
"Language, Hera…" he admonished lightly, drawing out the syllables of her name as though tasting it in some new way. "I thought I told you to stay. How did you get here, hm?"
Hera shuddered.
As if she would ever do anything he said.
But the cloudy gleam of silver cloth in his hands caught her eye, and-
"That's mine," she said loudly.
"Which? This?" he held up her cloak with one hand, and it unfolded in a drape of fabric that hung to the floor, rendering himself partially invisible. His eyes glittered with malevolent amusement. "You won't be needing it."
"Won't be…," echoed Hera incredulously. "It's mine. Give it to me."
He carefully folded up the cloak. "You may have it back someday. When I feel you have earned it."
Hera's lips moved with soundless fury. She wanted to rush at him and tear it from his hands, and to tear him, to tear at his smug face, tear out his red eyes.
Suddenly he had the Elder wand in his grip.
Hera's body tightened instinctively. Anger morphed into fear.
She took a step back, wincing at the pain, and very aware of how defenceless she was. Her eyes darted around the room. The only thing between them was the dining table and chairs. The useless vase with its useless flowers lay at her feet. She supposed she could always duck down behind the table for cover and then throw the vase at him if he came close enough.
"Don't make a fool of yourself," he said in a bored tone. "There will be no more running. Not from me. Now come here. I want to see what I have bought with thirteen years of my life."
The tension in her body increased. What did he mean? What did he mean?
The solemn ticking of the clock filled the room.
Hera continued to stare, dumbfounded into silence.
Voldemort smiled a slow, chilling smile, in complete contrast with the mildness of his voice. "I'd like you to do as you're told, Hera. And I'd like your co-operation." He paused, and then continued, voice growing cold and metallic. "But it's not something I need. Now are you going to come here or am I going to have to make you?"
More than a decade of living under the Dursley roof had taught Hera that it wasn't wise to delay the inevitable. Making bullies wait only gave them time to think up even more atrocious ways to hurt you.
She went to him, with sluggish limbs and a heart fluttering in its cage like a caught butterfly.
If he was surprised by her sudden compliance, he didn't show it. He took her arm in an iron grip and began dragging her out of the room. The open window shut with a soft click behind them. The sound of it was like a hard slap to Hera.
When they were back in the stately salon he had first apparated them to, he indicated one of the velvet chaise longues in the middle of the room, and Hera sat with arms crossed protectively around herself, watching him with apprehension.
He regarded her for one long moment, tapping his thumb on his wand.
It was like being trapped in an enclosure with a predator. Even the warmth and feminine beauty of the room did nothing to temper the danger he radiated.
Hera's eyes were trained on the wand. Each slight twitching movement was making her jaw tic.
He was doing it on purpose, she thought. He enjoyed her discomfort. He enjoyed the power he had over her. But if he thought she was going to just sit there and let him hurt her, he was delusional. She opened her mouth to tell him so. "Don't thi-"
He moved so quickly.
One moment he was tapping his wand with careless ease, and the next, it was pointed at her face, and she was being dazzled by the blinding light of a spell.
Hera squinted automatically down and away and then jerked out of her seat with an inarticulate cry. A complex map of glossy fleshy tubes and lines were visible where her skin used to be.
She was being flayed alive.
Bellowing senselessly, and still blinking away the black patches in her vision, Hera staggered forwards, reaching out to pummel at him in pure panic. The working red muscles of her arms and white tendons in her fingers flexed, and she drew back in horror.
He caught her and pushed her back. "Calm yourself."
She rose up again, near hyperventilating, and again he pushed her, so that she fell backwards onto the chaise longue.
"Calm yourself," he repeated. "Or I will immobilise you."
Hera squeezed her eyes shut and forced herself to take deep, even breaths. She was not being flayed alive. She could still feel her skin. He had done something- she was transparent; and he was going to do something else awful, she was sure, but for now, it was important to remain calm.
Hera breathed as deliberately as she could. She was still shaking, but that couldn't be stopped.
"Very good," he said. "Very good, Hera." He was bent over her. She could almost feel the glance of his voice on her forehead. He traced the line of her scar with his sharp fingernail. She shivered violently.
Somehow, she had not expected this; that he was going to try and cut his soul out of her in such a barbaric fashion. Somehow even this particular horror was beyond her imagining.
The edge of a wand replaced his finger on her forehead.
She burst up at him, making a grab for the wand with both hands. Red eyes flared momentarily with surprise, even as Hera's heart was leaping with triumph. She had it!
She pulled, and he yanked back with force, but even that was not enough to dislodge her. She clung on, her hands ghastly and cadaverous things, even next to his. And it occurred to her at that moment not to pull, but to snap, not to own, but to destroy.
But before she could act on that, a burst of power was discharged from the wand, immediately repelling her. She crashed, hands empty, into one of the low gilt tables, knocking her head soundly against the marble before slumping down between its curving gold feet. She thought she heard him sigh amidst the ringing in her ears and he appeared in front of her, face livid.
She looked up at him dazedly.
"I must confess," he said, voice cracking at the edges with the weight of his anger. "I am unused to such vulgar displays of insubordination and ingratitude."
Hera could have laughed, wanted to laugh. She could only manage weak coughs.
"I warned you I would immobilise you if you did not remain calm, did I not?" he said, and Hera felt her body being pushed into the ground as if a weight had been placed on her. He had not even raised his wand.
He crouched down beside her and put his head next to hers as if he were about to make a confession. "I wouldn't want it said that Lord Voldemort does not keep his promises."
Then he made a quick tugging movement with his wand. The large bulky form of something was forced into existence in front of them. Hera could hardly see from her vantage point. It was something coarse and brown, like a large sack. Her eyes strained to look at it.
What was it?
She looked back up at him.
The Dark Lord remained where he was, like a vampire hovering over her fallen body, eyes blazing with hatred. "I should kill you for attacking me; for trying to steal my wand. But I don't suppose I can yet, can I?" he spat, as though disgusted by his predicament.
He turned a spiteful white face towards the thing he had made appear. "Your friend, however… I don't think I'll regret his loss…"
Realisation dawned on Hera. A strangled, despairing sound escaped her. "No, no, not H-Hagrid," she whispered, voice cracking; a dead weight settling on her chest that had nothing at all to do with his forces pinning her down.
He stood up slowly, and Hera started sobbing dryly, "No, wait, wait, no. You can kill me. Just do it. Just kill me!" She plead with increasing panic, trying to recall him with her voice alone.
The hem of his black robes slithered along the carpet as he stepped deliberately out of her field of vision.
"Don't! Stop! Please! Hurt me instead! Do whatever you want to- don't kill him, please!"
He turned back.
"Hurt you? Why would I do that? You wouldn't learn." The simple way he said it reminded Hera of just how well he knew her. She wasn't the only one who had studied the enemy.
"If you kill him, you'll have no one left to threaten me with."
"Don't I?" he said, smiling cruelly. The hot anger had disappeared entirely from his voice and his face, leaving behind rows of sharp teeth. "I have a castle full of your friends."
The breath froze in her lungs. He didn't. He can't have. It had been mere hours since the armistice.
But what if- Ron and Hermione-
No. He was lying, he had to be.
But what if-?
Hera could not think past the exhaustion and debilitating pain that now tormented her like another ghost in her body. Searing pain would shoot through the muscle deep in her calf, settle into a dull burn, and then send another shot of pain straight into her brain. Her head was pounding steadily.
But it was all nothing; nothing next to the fear that sat in her belly like a worm and manifested itself in a hundred voices in her head calling the names of her friends. She would rather suffer a hundred crucios than feel this helpless anxiety.
"Crucio," she whispered.
"I thought we determined that there's no point in torturing you, Hera."
"No," she said, half disbelieving the words that were coming out of her mouth. "Not me. Him."
The Dark Lord's smile widened, a cheshire grin that made her think of skulls. For someone as far removed from death as was possible, how ironic it was that there was no one who embodied that word more than him.
"It will be worse for me," continued Hera. "I'll have to see him suffer. Killing him won't be as effective. I'll only want revenge." She was babbling. She couldn't stop it. "If you torture him, it will, I will- you can draw it out, I won't attack you again, I won't-"
"Alright, Hera," he acquiesced with narrowed eyes. "But remember you asked for this. You will not cry, you will not beg, you will not turn away. You will sit quietly and calmly and take responsibility for the consequences of your actions."
She was released from the binding pressure of his spell.
A divan was again indicated to her. She went to it and sat, trying to still her shaking, gruesomely transparent hands, before lifting her eyes to look at her friend.
The half-giant was unconscious. He had clearly been beaten up before he had been conjured forth from wherever hellish place the death eaters had kept him. His face was purple and misshapen. Dried blood encrusted his beard.
He looked far worse than he did when Hera had seen him immediately after his return from his mission as Dumbledore's envoy to the giants' colony. And he was going to have to suffer more. Hera's heart went out to him.
Next to her, Lord Voldemort raised his wand.
"Enervate."
A/N: Thanks for reading. Leave a comment if you like the story.