A.N: Just a small note to apologise for the lack of update! I don't have much time to write with the university and as I have lessons mostly in German — which is not my mother tongue — it's a bit hard to go back to English while writing (so if you find weird things in this chapter, you can blame the swiss education system, not me ^^). Also, it was supposed to be beta-ed but because I couldn't wait to know what you guys thought of it, I decided to submit the chapter now (you've waited long enough I guess ;))
"I'm hungry."
Hermione sighed, rolling her eyes and mentally praying to be given some extra patience to deal with that. She sometimes wondered how she could have spent all those years in Hogwarts without strangling Ron. Well, she had thought about it more than one time, to be honest, but spending twenty-four hours a day with him was a challenge she was unprepared for. She had tried to get Harry to talk to him, but the raven haired boy always found some pitiful excuses for his best friend's childish demeanour. Of course she could have confronted him herself, but she feared she wouldn't be able to stop herself and that the boy's ego would be more than bruised.
"Yeah well," she began, her hands desperately searching for a packet of rice in her bottomless bag.
"Well what?"
The brunette didn't answer, straightening herself in a slow, tensed motion. She had her back turned on the ginger, so he couldn't see how pale her skin suddenly was, nor the look of horror and exasperation that grew on her features. That was it, she thought, her shoulders sagging pitifully. They were out of food. No more pasta, potatoes, bread, rice. No fruits or vegetables, they had shared their last two apples yesterday. Meat? She didn't even remembered what it tasted like.
Her eyes met Harry's, who was drying their tea bags, to reuse them as to save as much as possible their 'resources'. He frowned slightly, and looked at the empty hands of his friend, then back at her pleading gaze. Hermione watched as understanding washed upon his face. She saw how the same horror that was getting her nauseous right now, was slowly making its way in his heart. She saw the guilt, too. The guilt and the sudden hunger they had been unaware of, merely seconds ago, smothering them, taunting their minds.
"We —" She took a deep breath, her dry throat resisting the words. "We are out of rice."
She felt Ron moving on the sofa, certainly sitting up, squinting like blinded by a sudden ray of sunlight, with his mouth open. He didn't say anything at first, and she thought that maybe he hadn't heard her, but…
"Well, do something else then," he said, in the tone of a child talking back to his parents.
She looked at Harry with an arched eyebrow, her lips drawing a thin line of anger on her face. See? See why I asked you to talk to him? The Chosen One nodded, putting the old tea bags aside for a moment.
"Ron, what she's saying is that we're out of food. The rice was the only thing we had left, remember?"
The statement took its time to sink into the redhead's mind, who was looking at his two friends like they had suddenly grown horns. Hermione stood up, already feeling drained by the argument she knew would soon follow. She would have laughed at the flabbergasted look of the youngest Weasley boy if she hadn't known this would lead to one of his juvenile outbursts. 3… 2… 1…
"Are you fucking kidding me? Out of food? What do you mean, out of food?"
Hermione let escape a contemptuous snort that surprised both boys; until now, she had taken the abuse without saying a word, stifling the acrimony she felt growing inside and the pride that burned her throat with indignation. But the line was crossed. She'd had enough.
"Well, Ronald, unless the Oxford's dictionary has reviewed the definition of the expression 'out of', it means we're currently deprived from food."
His mouth was closing and opening wordlessly, making him look like a fish. She winced slightly, wondering how on Earth people could have pictured her with him. He had not her wit, her smile, her grace. He had nothing.
"Oh, do you stumble across 'deprived'? Let me rephrase with something easier: we no food. Clearer?"
Deep down, the brunette hated herself for being so scornful. She knew she had tugged at the heartstrings, and the flash of hatred in Ron's eyes only confirmed it. In the Trio, he had always been the third. Harry was the Chosen One, rich; hated or loved, he never let people indifferent about him. She was the brain. At the top of every classes — ok, except divination, but honestly this was a waste of time — she was prayed by almost every teachers, and was their Head of House's favourite student. Ron? He was the last son of a numerous family. He didn't care that much about it, but they were, indeed, a bit short on money. He wasn't brighter than his siblings, more handsome, more successful: he was common, he never surprised. Ron was the good friend: Harry's sidekick, and Hermione's long time admirer.
"Yeah, clearer, miss 'I'm so much better than everyone else I couldn't even think to pack more provisions'!" he spat with venom, rising from the couch.
She let out a strangled laugh, taken aback by the statement. So it was her fault they were starving? This was a joke, right? What had he done? His only contribution for now had been to steal the tent from his parents. She had been the one who had to take care of them both after their escape from the Ministry. She had prepared healing potions in advance and learned basic healing spells, as well as how to put on magical wards. She was sure Ron didn't even know what a magical ward was. Having no idea how to cook — and honestly hating it — she had tried her best to prepare them decent dishes. And now what? She was to be held responsible for their situation?
"You heard me," he practically screamed, seeing with an unhealthy pleasure the confused look on her face. "You could have packed more in that bloody bag of yours," he said, pointing the said bag in a disgusted manner. "But what did the so smart Hermione Granger do instead? She packed Hogwarts: a History! Tell me, do you miss it so much, being that nerdy girl with no friends you were before Harry and I accepted you with us, or are you just too much of a stupid cunt to believe we could actually cook that bloody book?"
The words slapped her harshly across the face. The two boys knew they were practically her only friends. Now, she had Ginny, Luna and Neville too, but for a long time, it was just Ron and Harry. She had always been a bit awkward, even in the muggle schools. She had always been that annoying know-it-all, but she couldn't help it: she loved to learn. Hogwarts had been beyond all her expectations for that. If in the muggle schools, she had often been under the impression she actually bored not only her fellow classmates, but her teachers as well, in the magical castle, it was different. The professors seemed to appreciate that eagerness to learn, and the detailed homework she gave them. The students… no. During an entire year, she had been that lonely first year Gryffindor, spending most of her time at the library with books. There at least, she couldn't hear the girls sniggering at her or call her names.
"The what?"
Her voice was unusually high pitched, not auguring anything good, on the contrary. He looked at her, his strong arms crossed across his chest, rising his chin in defiance.
"What? Wasn't it how they used to call you in first year?"
She looked at him with utter disgust, like she was really seeing him for the first time; what she saw was ugly.
"According to the latest news," she began in a low, controlled voice, "the stupid cunt saved your arse when the snatchers caught us."
"We didn't ask you to!"
The silence that followed was awful. Hermione stumbled backwards, the resentment and the pain in Ron's voice smacking her with force, leaving her sinking weak-kneed in the nearest armchair.
"You didn't — you didn't mean that," she stuttered.
But he didn't seem to have heard her, as he carried on, venom and jealousy lacing every single one of his words.
"Oh, how they prayed your bravery in the Order," he spat out. "Of course Harry is immune against criticisms, because he's the Chosen One. But me? McG was not so lenient with me. Not that everyone else was, for that matter."
Ron was breathing loudly through his nose, like a bull ready to charge. His jaws and fists were clenched with obviously so much contempt she thought for a second he would cross the living-room and hit her.
"You must be kidding me," she breathed in a hollow voice. "This is about you being reprimanded by McGonagall on the moment because she was scared and angry? Really? Do you have any idea what it was like, there?"
"Oh, we had a lecture after they found you too. That we had to give you time for your post-traumatic-crap. Seems to me you're not making much progress, for a so smart girl."
He knew, deep inside, that he had crossed a line. He had gone too far, but couldn't stop himself; it was too late, anyway.
The brunette swallowed back her tears. She stood up, pushed by a strength she wasn't aware of possessing. Slowly, meticulously, she began to roll up the left sleeve of her shirt, revealing the scars left by Bellatrix. The word seemed to gleam with the faint light of their oil lamp, reflecting in the horrified gaze of Ron. His lips started to tremble, already pleading for forgiveness, but Hermione cut him.
"Leave."
"Hermione, I —"
"Get out and —" she breathed, her voice breaking in a constricted sob. "— Just leave."
Her lips slightly parted and trembling, she turned towards Harry, who hadn't said a word during the entire exchange. The boy who lived looked like he could have hexed both of them right now; anger and deception were flashing in his green eyes. It was scary enough, but what made Hermione's heart sink in her chest, was the tears, beading in the corners of his eyes.
They remained silent when Ron stormed off the tent, passing by the locket that was gleaming ominously on the floor, between them three. They heard the typical 'crack' noise of a disapparition, and knew he was gone. Hermione had gone straight to her camp bed, where Harry found her later when going to sleep as well, hunched tightly against a wet pillow. She hadn't even bothered changing her clothes, and the boy couldn't look away from the rolled sleeve, bitterness washing upon him as his eyes fall on the spot where Bellatrix's punishment had been etched.
The shame hid it perfectly, the lie barely noticeable on the pristine skin.
The next morning, Hermione awoke to the familiar and comforting smell of black tea. She stirred in the rigid camp bed, stretching her sore muscles with a groan. She yawned loudly, forcing her eyes to remain open; Merlin, she was exhausted. Slowly — painfully — she rose from the bed, a shiver running along her spine as her feet touched the cold floor; the morning were always freezing. She quickly put on the socks that lay discarded at the foot of her bed. Vaguely smoothing her pleated shirt out, she didn't even bother looking at her reflection in a mirror; she was a mess, and although well aware of it, she didn't care.
"Hey," she whispered with a faint smile, the word scratching her throat as it passed her lips.
Harry, who was brewing some tea — or at least what smelt like it — turned around. By the look of it, the night had been rough for him too, thought the brunette. She noticed that he seemed hesitant, like torn between greeting her like every other mornings, or berating her for what had happened last night. She got into a fluster at the idea that maybe, she hadn't just lost Ron, but Harry as well.
Seeing her inner torments, the boy gave her a light smile, handing her a steamy mug.
"You look like hell," he said, as she took the cup.
"Why, thank you," she retorted with a chuckle, taking into his appearance with an appreciative nod. "I take that I wasn't the only one to avoid the mirror this morning?"
He arched his brow in a perfect McGonagall's impression, peering at her over his round glasses.
"I should take points from Gryffindor for that attire, Miss Granger," he said with a bad Scottish accent, "Such disrespect for the uniform! I am extremely disappointed in you." Shaking his head with his lips pinched in disapproval, he looked at his friend from head to toe, before adding in a quick whisper: "Detention with me after class, my dear; make sure to leave that shirt unbuttoned."
Hermione looked at him with a mixture of bewilderment and mirth, happy to see that after all, everything was fine, and that her relationship with Minerva was fully accepted by her friend. Of course, she knew he was fully ok with it, he had even asked her about their Transfiguration teacher and her at the wedding. Unable to repress a warm smile, she had told him about her kind words, and how she seemed to have outgrown her fears.
"You know this would never happen," she said rolling her eyes and slapping him on the arm. "She wouldn't wait until after class to punish me," she added, amused.
The brunette smirked at the effect her words had had on the boy, whose tea had gone down the wrong way, leaving him to cough up his lungs.
"Don't want — to know — or imagine it," he painfully breathed, glaring at his friend who burst into a roar of laughter.
Hermione was still laughing, absent-mindedly sipping on her tea, wincing when the strong beverage came in contact with her tongue: it tasted like the kind of tea a child would make, with the weed found in an untamed garden.
"This," she said, almost gagging, "is positively disgusting." Harry, who had regain composure, took a large gulp of his own tea, obviously unaffected. "Alright, what am I drinking?" she asked, looking suspiciously at her mug.
"Tea," he answered simply. "At least, what I managed to do with the reused bags. But I added some berries I found not so far from the tent. You know, for the taste."
"The taste? You're kidding me, right?" She shook her head, watching him carelessly finish his cup. "You can't really think this taste good," she stated, like it was an irrefutable fact. "How can you drink this?"
"Well, sorry for not being in the same league as your beloved mentor when it comes to brewing tea," he said with a wink. Oh, he had noticed for some time now how his friend always seemed to like her teas more than any other. He passed by her, stopping just to add: "I had to put three tablespoons of sugar to make mine bearable."
More than a week had passed since Ron's departure. Harry and Hermione had agreed they couldn't stay in the woods they had last been with the redhead, the risk to be found by Snatchers being too high. Besides, they had found nothing to eat around their camp, and so they had left, not really knowing where they were or where they were going; not really caring anymore. They took turns with the locket, both of them experiencing in different ways, the malefic power it had on them when they wore it for a too long period of time.
"I'm sorry," said Hermione one day, as they were making their way through particularly dense bushes.
Harry stopped an instant, and she saw his stature getting tenser, somehow.
"What for?" he eventually asked, carefully avoiding her gaze though.
"You know well what for," she whispered softly, biting her lips as she glanced at the locket, standing proudly on his chest, gleaming scornfully at her.
"There's no need to talk about it." His tone was sharper than intended, making him rub his eyes, obviously trying to focus on not letting the locket get to him and say things he'd later regret. "Sorry." He gave her a shy smile. "What I meant is that it doesn't really matter now: he's gone and we can't contact him and vice-versa. I should have talked to him in the first place." Why hadn't he? He was not afraid of Ron, nor of having arguing with him. The behaviour of spoiled brat their friend had adopted those last weeks had bothered him as well, but he hadn't had to take some misogynist abuse from him, "And what he said about —" He marked a pause, uneasy. "Well I — I think you're very brave, Hermione." He faced her, letting his words sink in her mind. "Then, and now."
The brunette smiled faintly, nodding at his words. To be true, she wasn't sure she was as brave as everyone had depicted her. Of course, she had always followed and helped Harry in his adventures without a second thought, but… in the Malfoy Manor, things had been different. She had been alone and scared — Merlin! scared like never before.
She was still scared, although she wasn't sure of what or whom anymore.
"About your arm," carefully began the boy, seeing his friend get stiffer almost instantly. "If you don't want to talk about it, I understand," he quickly added, nervously passing a hand in his untamed hair. "Is there really nothing we could do?" She looked at him, indecipherable. "That is, if you do want to get rid of it." He didn't want her to think that mark had ravished her of her beauty or who she really was, and that she absolutely had to remove it. "I mean, if you want to — err — heal it, or leave it this way, both are fine, I was just wondering."
"Well, I tried to heal it," she eventually said after a long contemplative silence, "but it's cursed; there's no way to ever remove it."
"Did you tell McGonagall? Maybe she —"
"She can't do anything about it." The answer was sharp and dismissive. There was a strange sense of resignation in her voice that made Harry's heart sink in his chest. "It's —" Complicated was the first word that crossed her mind. Things were complicated between the Hogwarts' Headmistress and her, complicated and fragile. "It's not something we really talked about."
It was true. The older witch had tried to get her protégée to open herself to her about it, about what had happened, but she had just been able to scratch the surface of the horror that was still lingering in the young spirit. Hermione knew talking about one's problem often helped to overcome it, but in her case, she wasn't sure. She wasn't sure she would ever really recover from it, still experiencing dreadful nightmares and flashbacks she never dared to speak about. She was afraid talking about it would keep it even more in her mind, well aware that, in the other hand, she could never trick her mind into believing it never happened. She couldn't forget; no matter how hard she tried, Bellatrix's mad cackle always caught up with her.
"You know you have nothing to be ashamed of, right?"
"Yeah, she told me the same," she whispered with a bitter smile, Harry's comforting hand on her shoulder. She has no idea how wrong she is. How wrong I am…
"You want to talk about it?"
"Sorry?" she said, having drifted out for a moment, lost in her thoughts.
"About… you know, what happened."
She stopped walking, her bag sliding off her shoulder. Two emotionless eyes remained fixed on Harry for several minutes, without a word spoken, as if gauging if the boy was sincere with his proposition. Of course he his, she thought. There was no trace of that unhealthy curiosity some people had when it came to tragic events in the green eyes. There was concern, sadness, maybe a bit of fear too, having experienced some of Hermione's rare but harsh outburst, but above all, empathy. That pure empathy real friends shared.
"Maybe it is time I speak about it," she finally said, her lips curling into a smile as she sat on a stump.
The boy nodded, obviously relieved by that calm reaction he wasn't really daring to expect.
"When the snatchers caught me," she began, looking carefully at her friend, well aware he was still feeling responsible for her misadventures, "I lost consciousness. I don't really know why, but I think I got hit on the head with something. Every thing that followed is a bit blurred in my memory, I only have flashes of remembering, images that don't match with each other. I remember that when we were at the gates of the Malfoy Manor, and they called, it —"
She marked a brief pause, the ghastly picture of the iron gates still dancing in her mind. She remembered how the cold of the night had pierced her to the bones, how she was shaking against the strong arms that held her captive. She had thought she was dreaming, seeing her scarf — that cherished scarf she had received from her mother for Christmas, along with a copious amount of books — floating around the neck of Scabior. The picture was so unreal she had almost laugh. Almost.
"It was her, who came."
Harry didn't need to ask who; watching the brunette fidgeting with unease was enough for him to guess.
"Bellatrix," he whispered, feeling his stomach twitch at the name.
"I don't remember what she said then, because I fall unconscious again. Thankfully."
She let out a nervous chuckle, trying to ease the tension building. Harry played along well, giving her an encouraging smile.
"I don't know how many hours or days passed before I woke up again; when I did, the snatchers had left and I was in the cellar." Hearing this, Harry clenched his fists with anger. "Oh the cellar wasn't so bad, once you got used to it," she immediately said, which worried the boy even more. "Anyway, I preferred by far being left alone there than when I had to go upstairs."
"Upstairs?"
"Sometimes it was… asked of me to join them upstairs," she said, choosing her words cautiously. She knew it was for the best to get this out of her, to share it and not be left alone with this burden, but at the same time, she didn't know how much she was ready to share, nor how much his friend would be able to take. "The dining hall was by far Bellatrix's favourite playground," she added dreamily, lost in her thoughts.
The long, heavy silence that followed somehow managed to pop up her bubble, because she carried on, with the same calm, controlled voice.
"Anyway, when I woke up, I was still feeling very weak. So weak in fact I could barely stand up without leaning against one of the pillars. I tried to find a way out, but there was no window, nothing. Besides, they had taken my wand away, so I was just sitting there, helpless and waiting for something to happen."
"And it did, didn't it?" Harry asked with apprehension.
"Narcissa Malfoy happened."
The door of the cellar opened with a slow, gloomy creak. Hermione moved backwards, her back soon colliding with the cold stones of the wall. She pressed herself against it, praying a nameless God to let it engulf her, to let her vanish into the stones. She saw a faint light descending the stairs that led to the cellar and knew her prayers would remain unanswered.
In the door frame stood the slender figure of Narcissa Malfoy. She pointed her wand before her, the light spreading in the room, revealing a frightened girl, trying her best to disappear in the wall, like a prey trapped and waiting for the breath of Death against its neck. The woman seemed merely annoyed by the display, a heavy sigh crossing her lips as she rolled her eyes.
"I see you've finally decided to wake up," she stated, the ghost of a smile haunting her lips. "Come."
The brunette wasn't able to form the slightest protest, anxiety strangling her throat. The older witch took her silence as a sign of agreement, because she was already heading for the stairs, when she realised the girl wasn't following. She turned around, an eyebrow arched, obviously wondering if her captive had smacked her head with such strength she had lost all her mental abilities.
"I will not repeat myself," she said as a warning, but with a voice still too soft to really mean it, to really believe what she was saying.
Hermione swallowed the lump in her throat, her body shaking uncontrollably. She didn't know if it was the cold or the fear. Certainly both.
It soon came to Narcissa that the girl was too weak to walk. She sighed at the pathetic display before her and pranced forward, grabbing the Gryffindor a bit harshly, but supporting her nonetheless. Just before they were to enter the large dining hall, the blonde stopped, earning a inquisitive look from Hermione.
"Give her what she wants," she whispered hastily, looking over her shoulder to check they were not heard. "My sister likes to play… games. Horrible games. Don't try to protect your friends, or she'll —"
She didn't have the time to finish, the door of the dining hall swinging open, revealing a beaming Bellatrix Lestrange, obviously unable to contain her excitement.
"Now Cissy, I was wondering what took you so long," she said, eyeing the Gryffindor like a predator about to eat its prey. "Not trying to steal my… entertainment, I hope?"
"Merely advising the girl to behave and obey," retorted the youngest Black sister with obvious disgust for what Bellatrix considered a fun game to play. "Try not to stain the parquet this time, I don't want to have muggle-born's blood tainting my house."
And with that she left, leaving Hermione to the care of her sister. The brunette slowly lifted her eyes to meet Bellatrix's, caught by their maleficent gleam. She saw with a growing anguish the ruby lips curled in a smirk, before the toxic whisper reached her ears.
"Now my pet, we're going to have a little talk. Just the two of us."
"Harry, calm down!"
The boy had risen up, now pacing like a caged animal, fulminating. Hermione didn't remember having ever seen him so angry, except maybe during their fifth year when he had been, truth to be told, insufferable. A torrent of insults against the Malfoy matriarch was falling from his mouth, twisted in a horrible rictus.
"Calm down? Hermione, the woman threw you to… she threw you to—" He couldn't even finish the sentence, awful images already floating before his eyes. "Of course that bitch is not better than her damn husband and son, what was I thinking? What kind of woman could have breed a jerk like Draco?"
"It's precisely because she has a son our age that I'm still alive, Harry."
Hermione was in the middle of the dining hall, looking at her feet with watery eyes. During all her adventures alongside Harry and Ron, she had never been truly scared. Of course, there had been moments when she had thought that this time, it was their last adventure, that they wouldn't be lucky, but it hadn't mattered, then. Then, she was with her two best friends; even if it was scary and things looked hopeless, she wasn't alone.
In the Malfoy Manor, she was. Alone. Abandoned. Hopeless and terrified.
Bellatrix was circling her with obvious amusement, her sharp heels clacking on the parquet at a regular pace. Of the corner of her eye, the brunette could see the twirling fabric of the scandalous dress the Death Eater was wearing. She couldn't deny, the woman was impressive; only by her presence, she owned the place, Hermione thought, shivering at the idea of being at the mercy of that particular witch, well aware of the reputation that preceded her.
The sound of the predatory footsteps stopped and Hermione hold her breath. She closed her eyes, preparing herself to feel the first blast of whatever hex her gaoler would choose. She jumped when two strong hands landed on her shoulders, squeezing them as if trying to make the clavicles snap. She tightened even more when she felt the older witch's breath taunting her neck, the ruby lips soon grazing the pristine skin, smirking at the sight of the goose bumps she was inducing.
"Are you afraid?" The voice was surprisingly composed, considering its owner. "Do you fear me?"
The hands descended along Hermione's arms, the claws-like nails dancing ominously on her forearms. The girl didn't answer, a shuddering breath leaving her trembling lips. Her eyelids firmly closed, she could feel the tears building behind them, soon tracing a salty path on her cheeks.
"Oh, I see you do," said the silky voice in a whisper. "You do fear me." There was a small pause, Hermione's chaotic heartbeat speaking more than a thousand words. One of the hand moved, the finger caressing the carotid, sensing with pleasure its erratic pulse. "Afraid of what the monster I am is going to do to you, aren't you? Just think of it," she said, her eyes shining in anticipation. "Imagine all the things I could do to you. Can you imagine how far I could go? How much it will destroy you?" The poisonous lips were curling in a satisfied smile, as the toxic whisper left the girl at the edge of bursting in tears. "You do well to fear me, darling," she susurrated, playing with a lock of the brunette's hair. "Because I am a monster."
"And she left you in the dining hall?"
"Well, she disapparated and I guess I eventually fall asleep on the parquet while crying my eyes out," she said, shrugging her shoulders with a defeatist's air. "When I woke up, I was back in the cellar. I suppose she told their house elves to escort me back to my chambers," she added with a disdainful snort. "I was granted several days of peace and loneliness after that," she said softly, "to recover from my tiredness."
Harry looked at her with his brows arched, a bit taken aback by that statement. Hermione could easily understand why: when thinking of Voldemort's first lieutenant, no one would ever picture her as, somehow, caring and thoughtful.
"Don't get this wrong Harry, she didn't want me to feel well rested, comfortable or anything, she wanted me to be fully awake and conscious of what was happening. That's the only reason I was given decent meals, because she didn't want to play with a girl half conscious and so weak she couldn't even answer." She stopped and saw in Harry's eyes that he already understood far more he ever wished for. "Bellatrix likes to… play with her food before she eats it."
"Up."
The order was sharp and left no place for arguing. Hermione quickly stood up, looking with a growing anguish at the stern eyes of Narcissa. The woman, who usually wore a mask of contempt, empty from any other emotion, now seemed… angry?
"She's waiting," she snapped. "Follow me."
The girl knew better than to disobey, but the mere thought of being send to Bellatrix left her rooted to the spot. She was already stammering a plea, when the blonde pounced on her, grabbing her by the wrist with obvious exasperation.
"You'd better do as you're told, foolish girl! My sister doesn't take well to latecomers."
"P-please! Please don't send me to her!"
Hermione yelped when Narcissa jerked her towards the door in an angry gesture.
"Stop acting like a child!" She pushed the Gryffindor on the stairs and stopped for a short time, wincing. "Merlin, and we'll have to stop by the bathroom: you stink, it's awful."
After several flights of stairs and corridors that left Hermione completely disoriented, the blonde witch pushed her in a large room, filled with the ostentatious luxury that was the Malfoys' trademark.
"You have fifteen minutes," she said, flicking her wand to fill the bathtub with water and provide it with various shampoos and soap. "You'll be wise enough to be ready when I come back." She eyed the girl one last time, clearly irked by what was asked of her. "And I'll bring your clean clothes. You can't decently wear those… things."
With that, the door slammed shut. Hermione didn't waste time to undress, realising she may not have the luxury of a bath any time soon, should she survive her meeting with Bellatrix. She let her clothes — rags, to be fair — fall on the floor, next to the remnants of her sneakers. The hot water against her skin felt like heaven. She began to carefully rub some soap against her sore skin, and applied some shampoo on her hair, trying to unravel the knots which had formed. Once done, she left the bathtub with regrets and dry herself with a large, soft towel, almost forgetting where she was.
Then came the knock on the door. That sharp, impatient knock that burst her peaceful bubble. Fifteen minutes, she had said; it had felt like fifteen seconds only.
"Yes?" said Hermione, awkwardly tightening the towel around her body.
The door opened and Narcissa entered, carrying a clean outfit.
"This should fit," she said, handing it to her. "It's Draco's former Hogwarts' uniform," she added, acknowledging the silent question forming in the hazel eyes.
Hermione nodded wordlessly, taking the grey pants and the white shirt with one hand. She looked at the Malfoy matriarch with unease, not daring to ask —
"Well, what are you waiting for? Dress up! I told you delay with my sister wouldn't do any good, didn't I?"
"I — err — Are you staying?"
The brunette could feel her cheeks burning with embarrassment, and knew she was going as red as a beet. The woman arched a brow, surprised by that request. She crossed her arms on her chest, strumming her fingers impatiently.
"Trust me, you'll better start to leave that prudery of yours right now. And hurry."
Not daring to ask why, Hermione turned around, quickly grabbing underpants and the trousers. She marked a pause when she found no bra, but knew better than to dawdle and put the white shirt on, without a word, noticing that the buttons of the top were missing, giving a appreciable view of her cleavage. Of course, as it was to plan, Draco's clothes were a bit too big for her. She rolled up the sleeves in a small attempt to look more presentable — why, she didn't know — and quickly hemmed the bottom of her pants.
Narcissa seemed pleased with the result, at least, she didn't make any scornful comment. With a flick of her wand, she dried her captive's hair, and led her to the dining hall.
Slumped on a large Chesterfield, Bellatrix was playing nonchalantly with a lock of her thick hair, winding it up on her wand. She was wearing her usual black dress with a leather corset, accentuating the curve of her round breast, jammed together with a tasteful sense of scandal. In front of the couch was a small table, on which stood a bottle of wine with two empty glasses.
"You can leave the girl here, Cissy," she said absent-mindedly, not even looking at her sister. "I'll take care of her."
Hermione heard the blonde close the door behind her. A shiver ran along her spine; not only was she scared, she was also cold. The warmth of the bath had left her as soon as she had entered the room, and her naked feet on the non-heated parquet didn't help.
"Approach."
The brunette obeyed reluctantly, walking with a growing apprehension towards the raven-haired witch, who was still not paying attention to her, too busy contemplating the lock of her hair not entwined on her wand. Not really knowing what to do, and dreading to make an impair and make her jailer angry, Hermione stood clumsily at the other hand of the sofa, waiting for the next order.
Finally, the Death Eater lifted her eyes up to meet Hermione's pleading one. She calmly took on her new attire, with an appreciative, slightly rapacious, smile.
"I see my dear sister granted you with a makeover," she said, wetting her lips shamelessly. "Who would have thought you'd look so… appetising in my nephew's old clothes. I specially like the shirt," she added, smirking when Hermione blushed furiously, shyly covering her cleavage with trembling hands.
She jumped when Bellatrix's shifting weight made the sofa creak, and look at her warily when the witch served two glasses of what seemed to be red wine.
"Porto," she said, taking a sip of her own glass. "A particularly good one." She looked at the girl, amused. "Well, take your glass and sit, young lady."
The Gryffindor obeyed, sitting as far as possible from the Bellatrix, which didn't go unnoticed by the latter. She carefully took a mouthful of the beverage, the subtle mix between alcohol and the syrupy taste stealing a brief smile from her. The two witches took several sips in silence, the oldest staring at the youngest, a carnal gleam in her eyes.
"What do you think?"
It had almost slip from the brunette's memory that she wasn't alone, enjoying a good Porto, but well and truly three meters away from the most feared Death Eater of all time.
"S-sorry?" she managed to stutter, forcing herself to support the charcoal greedy look.
"The Porto, what do you think of it," repeated Bellatrix, nodding towards the glass.
"Oh it's — it's really good." Come on Hermione, you're the top of every class you attend at Hogwarts, surely you can do better than this. "It seems really sweet at first, a bit like a muscat, but has a strong character lying behind that — err — first impression."
"Precisely," said the Death Eater cryptically.
It was strangely nice, for now, thought Hermione. Dangerously ni—
"Merlin, an educated mudblood: you're a rare commodity, I'll give you that."
The brunette swallowed slowing, resting her glass on the table. Narcissa's first warning was coming back in her mind, like a painful reminder of her own foolishness. "My sister likes to play… games. Horrible games." Of course, it was Bellatrix Lestrange, the woman who had driven Neville's parents to madness, the woman who had survived thirteen years locked in Askaban, and managed to escape from it. She was Voldemort's most devoted servant, and was feared even in her camp.
"Oh, I see we finally remember Cissy's kind warning," she said in a low, ominous voice that send chills down Hermione's spine. "Finish your glass," she added, madness and excitement dancing in her eyes.
The girl took her glass with a shaky hand she couldn't seem to steady. The liquid that had felt so soft and warm only seconds ago, now tasted like pure poison, burning her throat as she finished it in long gulps. She was so focused on not gagging that she didn't hear Bellatrix rise up from the couch.
"Good girl."
The hot breath against the side of her neck made her shiver. Made dizzy by the wine, Hermione couldn't find the strength to move, or say anything for that matter. She could only close her eyes, forcing her mind to picture a safe place, a place where she was with her friends, laughing, far away from this never-ending nightmare.
With one hand, she was squeezing the leather of the couch, with the other, her shirt and the view it offered on her chest. To her horror, she felt the devilish lips brushing her skin, as a firm hand was pushing the collar aside, as well as her protective gesture.
"Now sweety, where are Potter and the blood traitor?"
"I — I don't know, I —"
"Oh, but I think you do," susurrated the raven-haired woman in Hermione's ear. "You know and you will tell me."
"I swear I don't! Please, don't —"
The words died in her throat when she felt Bellatrix's hand grazing lower under the shirt, revealing the tempting cleavage. Her heat skipped a beat as she watched her walk around the rigid arm of the couch, kneeling before her and slowly coming closer, like a wolf ready to eat its prey.
"I don't know!" she nearly screamed, tears building in her eyes. She was livid now, frozen by the fear and soon trapped under the witch's vaporous attire and suffocated by her toxic sent. "Please…" Her voice was hollow, realising already that whatever she said would have absolutely no effect whatsoever.
"Begging, eh?" The wandering hand started to unbuttoned the shirt with an aching slowness. "My, my muddy, save that for later, we haven't even begun the… festivities."
The warm palm of Bellatrix's hand on her never touched breast made Hermione jolt in surprise, her back arched with sinful pleasure. She couldn't repress a moan to cross her trembling lips, which made the raven-haired witch's eyes grow darker. She eyed the helpless girl intently, wetting her lips in anticipation…
This was when the brunette found the strength to react. She pranced on the Death Eater, rolling them both of the couch in a harsh thud, knocking the bottle of Porto while doing so, the alcohol spilling everywhere. She took advantage of Bellatrix's confusion and lost no more time, running towards the door, at the far end of the dining hall.
"Hmm fierce this one," said the older witch for herself, with a growing smile. She slowly got up, noticing with a childish pout the Porto still dripping on the floor, before yelling in a mad cackle, "You can run but you can't hide, muddy! Run, run, before the monster catch you!"
And run, Hermione did. Not daring to look over her shoulder to see if her captor was following her, she opened the door, slamming it on the wall in a loud 'bang'. Out of breath, she finally reached the cellar and went hiding at its far end, her frail figure shaken by hysteric sobs as she was protectively putting her knees against her, circling them with trembling arms and burying her head in them.
In her mind, Bellatrix's devilish laugh was echoing, and the memory of her touch was still burning her skin.
There was a very long, awkward pause between the two friends. Harry was beet red, and Hermione was suddenly fascinated by a bird, squealing on a branch next to them.
"And…" The boy wasn't really sure how to phrase it, "And she didn't follow you?"
It had surprised the brunette too at the time, but she had come to the conclusion if was part of the show Bellatrix was determined to put on.
"No, not this time. She didn't even come to close the door, knowing I would never try to leave the cellar after that."
This time, it was not Narcissa Malfoy who had calmly led her to hell, but a house elf, whose name Hermione never knew. The small creäture had not uttered a single word. It wasn't necessary, the girl knew deep down she would be granted no rest after what her captor had started. Clenching her fists and swallowing the ghosts of the sobs which had kept her company since that night, she followed obediently, showing the compliance of a wild animal now tamed.
They passed by the dining hall, but did not stop. For an instant, she felt a warm sense of relief, but it soon died, as she realise the elf was leading her upstairs. Upstairs, where the rooms were, where Bellatrix's room was. The colour left her face as she looked aghast at the large, imposing door, the understanding of what might — would certainly — happen there, washing upon her like a cold shower. The servant glanced at her with a glacial indifference, leaving her alone in front of the most feared Death Eater's private quarters.
The brunette understood she had to knock, to ask for entrance. The dark woman had planned everything, and the girl felt trapped in the web of the puppet mistress. She didn't know how much time passed before she finally resigned herself to knock. She had been tempted not to, just to resist the mad witch as far as she could, just because she still had a bit of self-esteem, but she had no desire to taste Bellatrix's anger. At least, until now, the woman had been relatively… controlled, in her way. Hermione had the feeling her outbursts must be terrifying. Violent. Unstoppable.
She knocked, and waited. Three, five seconds top, but it seemed like much longer. Like an awful, anxious waiting. There was no return possible, should there ever had been one.
"Come in."
Bellatix had her back turned to her, standing in front of a large window. She didn't move when she heard the Gryffindor enter, barely flicking her wand to close the door behind the girl. "We wouldn't want you to leave our little game before it's finished now, would we?" She turned around, gauging her toy from head to toes, her red lips stretching in that carnal smile of hers. "Come closer," she added in a low, husky whisper.
Hermione took a deep breath, slowly walking in the middle of the room. She stopped at a safe distance from the raven-haired witch, staring at her feet with the urge to cry and be comforted by strong, loving arms.
But there was no loving arms. No comforting. No one. She was alone.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the woman moving, and the shiver running along her spine told her she was standing right behind her.
"Undress."
The word had been spoken with a torturing slowness, stretching in Hermione's mind like a snake preparing to bite. She could feel Bellatrix's hot, steady breathing caressing her neck, she could smell her perfume, imagine the smirk she was now sporting. Her hands unzipped the grey pants, letting them fall effortlessly of her legs. The trembling fingers, however, couldn't get rid of the buttons of the shirt, and Hermione started to panic, both in anticipation of what would come next, but also because she feared her jailer would lose patience.
"Let me."
Two expert and steady hands push her arms aside, and quickly moved to the shirt, unbuttoning it with ease. The white fabric soon lay discarded on floor, the half-naked girl protecting herself from the intrusive gaze with shuddering arms.
"On your knees."
The order was a bit firmer now, laced with a mix of bestial need and a sort of fascination, to see the girl submit so easily. Hermione, her arms still crossed upon her chest, dared to look up to Bellatrix, as the witch come standing in front of her. The woman arched an eyebrow and her smile grew wider as she appointed her heeled boots of a sign of head. The girl shuddered when she understood, and swallowed her pride — or what was left of it — and slowly bowed towards the presented foot. Her pink, innocent lips kissed the shoe, under the aroused gaze of the Death Eater. The latter then motion for the girl to stand up, raising her face by slightly lifting her chin with the point of her boot.
"Good girl," she breathed in a husky voice. "Let's see how well you'll behave there," she designated the bed theatrically, "shall we?"
Hermione was forced to move backwards, her knees soon buckling against the edge of the bed. Bellatrix didn't wait any longer to push her on it, trapping the girl under her. She made a move to capture the trembling lips, but the Gryffindor turned her head away in defiance. The raven-haired witch chuckled darkly, instead nuzzling on the offered neck.
"You can try to resist me all you want," she said, kissing the pristine skin with an unexpected softness, "— you'll be mine all the same in the end."
The brunette whimpered in pain when Bellatrix bit her, hard enough to leave a bruise. She held her arms tighter around her chest, which just served to amuse her gaoler even more. She closed her eyes when two strong hands grab her by the wrists and pushed her arms above her head, pinning her down on the mattress. The dark witch paused briefly, admiring the spectacle offered to her eyes. Her lips curled into an appreciative smile and she bowed reverently, flicking her tongue on the light pink nipple.
Hermione arched her back in surprise, the contrast between Bellatrix's cold saliva and her burning flesh sending waves of guilty thrills down her spine. She felt the smirk on her breast, and the hands, moving. Bellatrix's ones, on her waist, but hers as well.
Her hands.
Her very own hands, entwined in the thick black curly hair.
Her stained hands.
The older witch seemed taken off guard by the gesture, but it only comforted her in her position of strength. Long fingers started to play with the hem of the underpants Hermione was still wearing, while her dark lover was coming back higher, her charcoal eyes burning with lust. "Am I your fist?" she asked, gazing intently at the brunette who had closed her eyes, biting her lower lips strongly enough to draw blood. "Look at me," the dark witch prompted. Hermione did, immediately snatched by the sinful irises. She didn't answer. Even if she had wanted to, she couldn't have: soon, her parted lips were captured in a dominant move, Bellatrix's tongue tasting her blood in a lascivious dance. "Of course I am," came the muffled, hot breath.
One hand cupped her intimacy without any warning, stealing a culpable moan from her quivering mouth. The digits began to draw sensuous patterns on the virgin canvas, brushing against Hermione's pulsing desire, taunting her, before finally invading her disgraced mind, becoming its only thought, its only wish.
The young witch thought she was dying for an instant, loosing consciousness in the arms of her lover. She beat her eyelids, incredulous. The raven-haired woman was still pressed in all her length against her, gazing at her small captive pensive, like confronted to a riddle she wasn't expecting needing solving. She licked the outrageous fingers with an arrogant smile. "Mine."
Hermione was slowly realising what had just happened. A storm of emotions, all in contradiction with one another, took her in a cursed spiral. She was falling. Screaming. Crying for help in a world of her own, where there was no one to hear her laments; in front of her virtue's thief, she remained silent. Perfectly quiet. Bellatrix had stolen her right to speak up, to protest, because to melt in one, they'd had to be two.
"No, I —" The whispered dissent seemed to came out from nowhere, surprising both of the witches.
"You what?" replied the Death Eater in an ominous growl.
"I can't be yours," finally said the brunette, daring to meet the charcoal eyes. "I — I don't want to."
Bellatrix looked at her in disbelief, bursting in a mad, angry cackle. She took hold of Hermione's neck brutally, moving her devilish mouth closer to the prude ears.
"It has nothing to do with your want, dearest, rather mine." She grabbed her wand, hammering it painfully between two ribs. "Resisting or not, you'll be mine all the same in the end," she hissed between her teeth. "I thought I told you that, didn't I?"
The childish and mocking tone didn't bode at all well, Hermione knew it. Little did she think her mistake would be etched forever in her skin.
Bone-chilling screams echoed in the entire Manor, as the girl's forearm was immolated by Bellatrix's burning ire, the baffled pride and the anger carving themselves in bloody letters. How long did it last? The Gryffindor had no idea. Sobbing pitifully, her sanguine arm held against her bare chest, she didn't even shivered when her torturer softly caress her cheek. "Mine," she susurrated, "mine and mine only." She stood up with a last contemptuous glance to the crying figure who was wetting her pillows. "Get out."
Not reacting fast enough for Bellatrix's liking, Hermione was thrown away unceremoniously, her clothes falling at her feet. Still sobbing, she grab them and started to dress up. She winced when the sleeve scraped her wound, the white fabric immediately soaked with a crimson tint. She was about to… to what? Get back to her private chambers? When she saw her.
Narcissa Malfoy was standing before her, her ice blue eyes going of her opened shirt to her bleeding arm. "What did my sister do to you?" Hermione tried to hide her arm, ashamed, but the blonde took hold of her wrist, forcing her to reveal the mad sister's infamy. The woman straightened herself, letting go of the arm like she'd get the plague from it. Her intense gaze remained fixed on the brunette for several seconds, gauging the situation.
"Wait for me at the end of the corridor," she simply said, before turning to Bellatrix's room.
Hermione complied, not really wanting to be in the middle of the two Black sisters' quarrel. She only heard snatches of their heated conversation, but understood with surprise, that Narcissa was actually defending her.
"Cissy? What are you —"
"A CHILD, Bellatrix! A child! How dared you —"
There was a loud crash.
"This is a joke?" Bellatrix sounded as though she was going to suffocate. "Are you protecting the mudblood now? And be careful, I liked that vase!"
"Oh, fuck off, Bella! What did you do to her? She's Draco's age, for Merlin's sake!"
"Trust me, the age was not an issue here."
The pleasantry was obviously not the taste of the blonde, because Hermione saw her storm out of the room, slamming the door open. "Cissy, wait!" She was almost running towards her, her furious steps clacking on the floor. Farther, she watched with a building nausea Bellatrix, tilting her head out of the door frame, waving her goodbye with an outrageous gesture. She mouthed a distinct 'mine' that send a shiver down her spine.
Before she could realise what was happening, Hermione was stripped from her stained clothes and sinking herself into a warm, soapy bath. She was curled up, surrounding her knees with trembling arms. She felt Narcissa soft hand on her soiled forearm and withdrew it in a jolt.
"Let me see it, I wish you no harm," she said in a voice the brunette didn't know she possessed.
It was caring, somehow. The voice of a mother. A heavy sigh escaped the perfect lips of the Malfoy matriarch, when she saw what her twisted sister had done, what couldn't be undone. Even if Narcissa was a proud woman, raised with the pure-blood values and living by them, she was not cruel. The muggles were inferior, as well as muggleborns and halfbloods. They all had something missing; they were incomplete. But they didn't deserve death as a punishment for a birth they didn't choose. Nor torture. Nor Bellatrix Lestrange. No one deserved Bellatrix Lestrange.
"Are there any… other scars I can't see?" Hermione said nothing, keeping her hollow eyes in front of her, starring in the void. She never saw the sorry look of Narcissa Malfoy. Nor a single tear, rolling down her perfect cheek.