Author's Note: Nothing to say here, really. Enjoy!
The Dragon's Keep
Hermione's eyes opened wide and, before she could scramble to the library, the carved door was yanked open and a pair of incredulous hazel eyes looked down at her.
It took Brannon a moment to register what he saw. It took another moment for him to wipe his face of any concern, and yet another to replace it with a mask of raw fury. "You," he hissed, taking a handful of her hair. He dragged her into the study and shoved her to the ground. Six chairs simultaneously scraped the floor as the men of Resilience stood to look at her.
Hermione kept her head down, brown curls veiling her face, in an effort to save her dignity. She was sure she made quite a sight, face flushed with embarrassment and eyes filled with reflexive tears. She did not want these men to see the fear she felt.
For a minute which seemed to last a year, they were utterly silent. Then, one of the men sighed. Another shuffled nervously.
"Well," Draco said, "here she is, gentlemen." The heels of his impeccably shined dress shoes clicked upon the wood floor as he walked toward her. "What do you think?"
Hermione looked up through her hair at the members of Resilience. They were silent once more, looking from her, to Draco, to each other, and back to her again. After a spell, Trundle, a rather stout man with a bushy brown moustache, spoke.
"I think we're royally fucked."
"Oh come now," Draco scoffed good-naturedly. "Have you such little faith?"
"Malfoy, look at her! She's pathetic!"
"Trundle has a point," said a man in a business suit whose lip curled in disgust. "She's positively ragged." Indignation flared through her body. The insults continued.
"She's scrawny…filthy..."
"She looks a little dull…are you sure she's mentally competent?"
Hermione had just about had enough when Brannon stepped in front of her. "Looks are deceiving, gentlemen. She was top of her class in Ravenclaw House. Her every waking moment was spent in the library and she has managed to survive this long being what she is."
"Someone sounds a bit smitten," jibed Draunet with a smirk. Hermione looked to her left and saw that the man looked just as mental as he sounded. He was thin with wild, stringy hair and darting blue eyes. How he could be included in such a group was a mystery to her.
The Master growled something about a hex before Draco stepped in to calm the two men. While he pacified Draunet, Brannon looked at her and for the first time, she actually saw him. Brannon's large build was echoed in his face, which was square-shaped and robust. His short brown hair barely touched his high forehead. He had a slightly squashed nose, and a small cleft in his chin. He was not entirely unpleasant and perhaps under different circumstances, in a different life...Hermione chanced a small smile. It did not make him smile, but it did soften his eyes.
"Brannon, what do you think?" asked Malfoy.
He did not look away from her. "I cannot allow it."
The man standing next to Draunet groaned loudly. Brannon rounded on him. "Something to add, Costinov?"
Hermione snuck a look and saw a man with a dark goatee step forward. "Yes," he said in a voice lightly accented with Russian. "We need this girl. You know we do."
"Can't you just get another?" drawled an American man with brown hair and impatient eyes. "Or two? Who cares? This one is expendable. If she fails, we can always get another." He looked at his watch and tapped his foot impatiently.
"I don't want another, Smithe. This one cost me enough as it is!" Hermione remembered her final selling price at that hideous Azkaban auction. She was one hundred Galleons…and he thought that was too much? How much did men usually pay for such indulgences? She shuddered at the memory and felt a weird sense of déjà vu: what was happening now was far too similar to that auction for Hermione's comfort.
"What if we could get you another at no cost?" offered the dark-skinned man next to Smithe. Brannon was about to refuse when he spoke again. "Two?" he asked with a quirked eyebrow.
"At no cost, Aberjeen?" asked Costinov, one dark eyebrow raised. "How?"
"None of your concern, I'm sure," Aberjeen admonished. "You must admit Brannon…surely this one is getting a little…worn?" Hermione bristled. "Maybe you want something new…two…something new? Smithe is right: she is easily replaceable."
Hermione was quickly becoming disgusted with this man…with all of these men. They spoke as if she was not even present, offhandedly deciding her future, except for Draco. Hermione absently wondered why he stayed silent, but the thought never lingered: she was too focused on keeping her head down and her mouth shut.
Within a few minutes, the deliberation over the value of her life had escalated. Smithe's infuriating nonchalance had gotten the better of Brannon, who threatened to take out his wand. Smithe was more than happy to fight and was trying to shake off Trundle's restraining hand. Draunet was talking to himself about conspiracy and the Russian simply looked weary of it all. Aberjeen, whose offer was being ignored, turned to Draco with a look that said, "Handle this…now."
She heard Draco sigh and step forward. "Gentlemen!" His voice somehow drowned out the cacophony. "Gentlemen, please. We can argue over this all evening, but the hour grows late and a decision must be reached. Aberjeen, does your offer of two women at no cost still hold?" Aberjeen nodded vigorously. "Brannon, do you think this is a fair trade?"
Her Master, the man who had protected her for so long, looked at Hermione again. She could see the indecision in his eyes.
"Think of what you've had to give, Brannon." Draco's voice was soft and empathetic. "Of what we've all had to give. Is she worth it?"
Brannon's upright posture seemed to wilt; horror and sadness coursed through Hermione's body. Their eyes remained locked. "I want one woman," he said to Aberjeen quietly, "but she must be of my choosing. I also want the one-hundred galleons I paid for Jean to be returned to me."
"By whom?" scoffed Smithe. "You can't expect the group to pay for your whore!"
Brannon had Smithe pinned against the wall by his collar before Draco could even draw his wand. "It is not you who is being asked to sacrifice, Smithe," Brannon seethed.
"Fifty," Draco countered.
"Seventy-five."
"Sixty. We will split the cost."
Finally, Brannon lowered Smithe to the floor, who straightened his robe and glared at the hulking man. "Agreed."
"It is settled then," Draco said with a smile. "Aberjeen, when can you have some women ready?"
"I will contact my associate as soon as I arrive home. You will hear from me soon, Brannon."
The Master nodded stiffly and now looked anywhere but at Hermione.
"Good. Gentlemen, we are dismissed."
"No!" said Hermione said from the floor. She looked from face to face, hoping to see a glimmer of support but knowing she would find nothing but agitation. She continued anyway. "Not a chance! I'm not leaving. This is my ho…my…" she struggled to find words. What was Brannon Mansion to her? A home? A brothel? A prison? It was all and none at once. "This is my…place…" she finished lamely. A small smirk played on Draco's lips.
Draco chuckled condescendingly. "Jean, dear," he said, stooping to the floor. He put his hands on her shoulders and spoke to her as if she was a child. "When are you going to learn that you have no place?" He smiled sarcastically, earning laughs from five of the six remaining men. The double entendre was not lost upon Hermione. She sneered, resisting the urge to slap him, and instead violently shrugged off his hands, coaxing a chuckle out of him and even more laughter from the others.
He stood up and addressed the members, a smile evident on his voice. "Goodbye, gentlemen. I will contact you about the next meeting."
The men filed out of the drawing room to the lobby; Hermione heard several distinct pops as they Apparated away. Hermione remaining unmoving on the floor, paralyzed into a light state of shock. How easily she was passed from one man to the next, and for a cause she knew nothing about. The temptation to break down and cry was strong, but it quickly faded as Draco touched her wrist – the one with the bracelet. He looked down at it momentarily, long fingers gently playing with the charms. Hermione looked at him in his preoccupation: he looked confused, nostalgic…sad.
"Come on, Hermione," he said in a whisper. "We have to get going."
A sad grimace crossed her face. "Am I just a piece of property to you people?"
He could not look at her as he answered. "I'm afraid so." He extended a hand and helped her up off the floor. They stood eye to eye for a moment, then Draco spoke. "We have a lot to do."
He walked out of the study ahead of her and disappeared down the corridor to the foyer. Hermione followed slowly and silently, paying close attention to the surroundings she had called her own for six months, the surroundings she would never see again.
When she reached the foyer, she saw Brannon. He sat on the stairs, head in his hands. He must have sensed her presence because he looked up unexpectedly. Unsure of what to do, Hermione stayed where she was, trying not to look at him but failing miserably.
Brannon had the same problem. After a minute, the tension was unbearable. He rose and walked toward her. His approach made her nervous, and she was shaking by the time he put one hand on her arm.
"Jean…" he whispered, cupping her cheek. "Jean, look at me."
Reluctantly, Hermione did. His eyes were beautiful. Slowly, Brannon lowered his lips to hers, kissing her slowly, sweetly. His fingers entwined in her hair and Hermione felt comfortable. She felt secure and sheltered, and warmth spread through her as she rested her hands upon his broad shoulders. In that moment, Hermione felt like she could have stayed with him. She could have said goodbye to Draco and lived with Brannon, with her Master, with her savior and guardian.
Brannon broke their embrace and rested his forehead against hers, breathing deeply. Hermione's hand alighted on his cheek, and he pressed himself into it. "You remind me so much of my wife, Jean…"
Hermione's breath caught. "What happened to her?"
He smiled sadly, eyes closed against the tears Hermione knew were forming. "I will miss you," he whispered. He kissed her on the forehead one last time and, sooner than Hermione hoped, his touch vanished, leaving her cold and hollow. She watched him as he mounted the stairs and disappeared through a hidden door. He did not look back.
Her temptation to cry was once again halted by Draco's hand on her shoulder. "Come on, Hermione," he said softly. "Let's get out of here."
She looked back wistfully at the staircase and felt a sharp pang of loss. Turning back toward Draco, Hermione met his resolved steel eyes. "Are you ready?"
Hermione nodded. Together, they walked out of Brannon Mansion.
Hermione gasped as the cool air penetrated her thin clothes. She had been bought in March and saw the passage of summer to fall. It had to be mid-September now. As if to prove her right, an eastern wind blew, tangling Hermione's hair and caressing her face, cold but light as a lover's touch.
Draco's hand alighted on her lower back. Hermione shivered. She felt him smile as he steered her toward the end of the drive.
Hermione watched the sky as she walked, guided only by Draco's firm hand. As brilliant as the stars were, they provided almost no illumination in the moonless night. How Draco could see where he was going was a mystery to her, but he seemed confident. By the time they reached the private road, Hermione was truly cold. Her arms crossed in front of her chest and she tried to keep her teeth from chattering as she spoke.
"Where are we going from here?"
"To my house," Draco answered without looking at her. He seemed concentrated on the sky, as if he was expecting something to appear out of the inky blue depth.
"Malfoy Manor?"
"My house," he corrected sharply. "The Manor is my father's; it is part of my inheritance upon his death."
"So where do you live now?"
"Why does it matter?"
"I'm just curious."
"You'll see soon enough."
He resumed searching the skies and focused on one spot for a moment, then shook his head and muttered something to himself. Hermione ignored his odd behavior.
"What happened to Brannon's wife?"
"None of your business."
Hermione huffed. It surely felt like her business.
"Why is this happening?"
"Why is what happening?"
Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Don't be difficult. Why am I being taken from my Master's home? Why am I coming with you? Those men were talking about me surviving somewhere…someone taking me."
"All in due time, Hermione," Draco said wearily. "And he's not your master. Not anymore."
"Oh, that's right," she said sarcastically. "Now you are, is that it? Shall I start calling you master, Malfoy?"
He whipped around to face her, eyes blazing, and gripped her arm tightly. "I am not your master, nor is anyone else in this world, but you shall afford me the respect that befits our stations. Are we clear?"
She said nothing, instead raising her chin in defiance and looking out towards the road with an unreadable expression. Draco released her arm, staring back up at the sky. Hermione suddenly remembered that she was quite cold. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, she sighed.
"Malfoy, we've been waiting for ages."
"It shouldn't be more than a minute now," he snapped.
"What the devil are we waiting for?"
"You'll see," Draco said shortly. "Now be silent."
Hermione pursed her lips angrily. "Oh yes, let me afford you the proper amount of respect then, shall I?" she muttered.
"Excuse me?" Draco said, his voice carrying a stern warning.
She feigned ignorance. "Nothing."
Draco shook his head and looked at the sky again. "Aha," he said quietly. "It's coming."
Hermione regarded him quizzically. "What's coming?"
She could hear the mean-spirited smile on his voice. "Our ride."
Now she looked at the sky in earnest, able to just barely pick out a subtle shade of black against the dark blue. It was moving towards them, and moving fast. As it neared their post, Hermione progressively stopped breathing. Their transportation stopped in front of them.
Hermione's eyes were wide as she looked from the broom to Draco. "You've got to be joking," she said quietly. "This is a joke." Louder now, a subtle hint of hysteria tainting her veneer of calm. "A broom? You can't be serious."
He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. "Quite serious," he assured her. "Now hop on."
"Why can't you take me by Side-Along Apparation?"
"What would we do with the broom then?" Hermione gave him a deadpan look; Draco smirked. "Your magic leaves a trace, as unique as a fingerprint, and the Dark Lord monitors all instances of Apparation. So unless you want to be a blip on his screen, a rather noticeable blip, I might add, you will stop complaining and get on the broom."
"Draco…" Hermione said with a quavering voice. "You know I can't."
"You can and you will. You don't have a choice."
"I won't!" Hermione shouted, hysteria taking over. Her eyes blazed as she stared Draco down.
He sighed in annoyance and ran a hand through his hair. "Hermione, we could do this the easy way or the hard way. Now, you can get on that broom with minimal complaints or I could Imperius you on. And believe me, right now, that is definitely an option."
Hermione believed him, but was reluctant to succumb so easily. "I'm not getting on that broom," she held.
"Get on."
"No."
"Hermione, get on the broom."
"No!"
"Now!"
"NO!" Hermione shouted.
"FINE!" Draco shouted right back. "Imperio!"
The curse caught her by surprise. Before she could think about fighting it, a sense of happiness replaced her anger and indignation. She seemed to float above the ground and, as if through cotton, heard Draco tell her to get on the broom. Hermione could not think of a reason to refuse. He got on behind her, kicked off the ground and released the spell, but kept his wand pointed at her temple. He spoke before she could regain her composure.
"Hermione, please don't fight," he asked in a tense voice. "It's remarkably difficult to transport a Stupefied woman by broomstick."
By now, Hermione was past anger and even hysteria. She was borderline sobbing. "Draco," she said, voice quivering. "I can't…you know this, I can't…Please, bring the broom down…"
He was obviously sick of her whining. "For Circe's sake, Granger! Don't give me this 'can't' nonsense – you already are! Now just shut up and hold on!"
With no more preempting, he picked up speed and soared into the air, forcing her torso soundly against Draco's. A flashback hit her hard. The Slytherin/Hufflepuff game, the last one of the year. Draco stood in the middle of the field, resplendent in robes of green and silver, broomstick and Snitch in either hand. He kissed her hard, passionately, and she flew with him that night. She remembered the iridescent happiness, the utter exhilaration of the proximity of his body to hers and the rush of the wind in her hair.
It was so unlike the present situation, when she was forcefully placed onto a broom and ruthlessly sped through the air, the cold nipping at her thinly-clothed, not-quite-numb limbs.
Draco accelerated and Hermione's hips slid this time, stopping when they were flush against his. Another flashback, this time bringing color to her cheeks not due to the wind. He was so warm…She unconsciously arched her back into his chest and settled as best she could between his arms. She could not decide whether the instinct was to get warm or simply to be close to him once more, but decided she did not care too much. She shut her eyes against the height and turned so that her hair was not whipping into her eyes. The sooner they landed, the better off she would be.
The rest of the flight was just as brutal as the kick-off. Draco took hard turns, accelerated and stopped suddenly, and dove at stomach-dropping angles. Each time he pulled an antic, Hermione emitted a tiny squeak of fear and discomfort, which she was sure Draco heard. She could feel him smiling; she wanted nothing more than to hit him for being so cruel.
After an interminable flight, he landed the broom with a not-so-gentle thump and swung off the broom with ease. Hermione, stiff and cold from the flight, first eased open her eyes, then her legs, which had been gripping the wooden handle so tightly they had cramped. Draco helped her off and steadied her as she attempted to stand. Once she had successfully achieved said function, she looked around properly for the first time.
Draco lit his wand. "Welcome to the Dragon's Keep," he said with a hint of pride.
Draco's house was not so much a house as a mansion. It was similar to Brannon Mansion in style – looming, dark, and intrinsically unfriendly – and about four stories high with three stone spires jutting into the sky. The stone walls were covered in ivy, the thick wooden door was reinforced with iron, and the windows were small and barred.
It was set high upon a cliff that looked out directly onto the ocean; she could hear the surf crash violently upon the shore. Familiar as Hermione was with the sea, she did not notice the change of air while on the broomstick. But now that she was safe on the ground, it struck her fiercely. For a moment, it reminded her of Azkaban. She fought a strong instinct to flee, forcing herself to observe more carefully. A swift ocean breeze blew inland and she inhaled the saline smell again.
Her lips curved into a small smile: it didn't smell like Azkaban. No matter what season it was, the smell of death always lingered at the remote prison. But here, the air smelled clean and fresh and open. It exhilarated her. Hermione instantly decided that, no matter what happened to her here, she would enjoy it, if only for the freedom its location implied.
"Are you quite finished?" Draco asked. She turned back towards him, noticing the slight upturn of his lips and the humor flashing in his eyes, shining despite the darkness.
Hermione pursed her lips in annoyance. One corner of Draco's mouth twitched, threatening to pull his face into a grin. "Come on," he said, "it's freezing out here."
She gave him a sardonic look. "I hadn't noticed." Draco's cheeks turned a nice shade of pink – she wondered if he had finally mustered up the grace to be embarrassed of his lack of consideration: Hermione had been zooming through the air for at least thirty minutes without so much as a cloak. He cleared his throat and walked towards the house, beckoning her to follow.
The idea of running promptly popped into her head but no sooner had it begun to take root did Draco shout back at her, "Don't even think about it." He glanced over his shoulder and arched a brow. "Do I need to conjure ropes, Granger?"
Hermione lifted her chin and walked toward the mansion with a sort of submissive defiance. She knew she had to listen to him, so at least she would do it on her own terms, and with as much dignity as she could gather.
As she passed through the double-wide, reinforced doors, Hermione's eyes opened wide in wonder: the Dragon's Keep could not be more dissimilar from Brannon Mansion. Where Brannon had elegant tapestries and hand-sculpted busts, Draco had bare walls and a few measly potted plants. Brannon Mansion was elegantly lit, with fine candelabras and huge chandeliers that were constantly lit. Draco's wand was their only light now. The sole similarities that existed, as far as Hermione could tell, were the marble floors (which were black and white) and the bust of Voldemort, situated directly in her line of sight.
Instead of leading her to the dungeons like she expected, Draco walked her up a giant central staircase and up another one, smaller but no less impressive, to her left. With a flick of his wand, a door opened on her right.
"Your room," he said, gesturing her to enter.
It reminded her very much of Hogwarts. A giant bed stood in the middle of the room, across from which there was a vanity complete with a mirror she could not ignore. The walls were a nice cream color and the bedspread was a light green with subtle hints of gold. A dresser, a huge bathroom, and a balcony completed the unit.
Where once she would have felt immediately at home, Hermione felt starkly out of place in the opulence that surrounded her. She had spent two years in a cell, half of one in a dungeon. This room, with huge windows and a balcony that looked over the sea…it was bizarre.
"I hope it's to your liking," Draco said quietly, coming up behind her.
"It's wonderful," she said sincerely. "Thank you."
He made no response, but walked over to the far corner of the room. "Come here."
"Why?" she asked.
"Must you question everything?" he sighed dramatically.
"Yes."
Draco rolled his eyes. "Your room is directly connected to mine through a secret passage in this corner. All you have to do is press your hand on this area here," he gestured to a worn looking patch of paint, "and think of me. You'll be able to slip right through."
Hermione touched the spot lightly with her fingers. "Why did they put this here?"
Draco smirked and his eyes grew mischievous. "For the mistress, of course."
Hermione flushed and her fists balled. Draco must have correctly interpreted this as a warning, for he quickly excused himself and bade her goodnight.
"Wait!" she cried, following him to the door. "You haven't told me what I'm doing here yet!"
"Tomorrow," he said wearily. "I promise, tomorrow. Just get some sleep for now."
"But you said…"
"Tomorrow," he emphasized, rubbing his temples. "No more questions. Goodnight."
He closed the door before she could ask again and she glared at the wooden barrier in annoyance, willing it to open back up.
To her great surprise, it did. Draco swung the door inward and popped his head around the corner. "By the way, happy birthday, Hermione." He lingered for a moment, as if on the verge of saying more, but instead shut the door softly. His care was unnecessary: he could have slammed it and Hermione would not have heard.
It was her birthday. It was her birthday and she had completely forgotten. Hermione did the math in her head – she was twenty! Seventeen, when all of this had started, seemed so long ago, like ancient history. With some difficulty, she shrugged off the odd feeling.
After a shower and the pleasant surprise of proper clothes in the bureau, Hermione crawled into bed. She did not realize how thoroughly exhausted she was until her head hit the pillow and her reality disappeared into glorious, dreamless sleep.
