She was adrift in her own pounding skull, buffeted by a thrumming pulse at either temple. Had Ron snuck another bottle of whiskey to the tent last night? Ugh, she certainly felt like poison had flooded her veins and wrung her muscles dry. She allowed the barest sliver of the world through one shuttered eye and slapped her forearm over her face in agony.
"Ronald Weasley, I -" Dry cracks popped in her throat as she groaned, and she winced, rubbing at the battered length of neck. Her body stiffened and triggered magnitudes of pain to sweep through her. The jumping muscle at her jaw stabbed into her head, burning skin against the sheets radiated through her, and there was an ache in her core as though she'd been cleansed with sand.
This was not the tent. This was not Grimmauld. It was not the Burrow or Shell Cottage nor anywhere Hope might still be in the box.
The stone of sorrow rose through her chest and sent a pained sob through her shaking breaths. She could not face this day. Would not.
Hermione curled onto her side, an arm hugging her knees, and tried to will away reality to no avail. She could not even fall asleep again. There was nothing for it but to open her eyes and see if the world had changed with her.
There was a pale blue gown hanging at one poster of the bed a mere foot from her face. Its message was clear: come to breakfast or face the consequences. While the Gryffindor in the corner of her mind sought to scream over the wall she'd built that she should stay in bed, consequences be damned, the fire in her belly had been doused and smothered.
It was with winces and careful breaths that she pushed herself up and tugged the blessedly soft, light, cool blue silk over her head to tumble just above her feet. It was a little loose as well, and she wondered if it had been chosen with her condition in mind. Hermione hadn't the energy to search for undergarments or house slippers, nor to wash despite the lingering putridity she imagined tainted her, so she fumbled out to the dining room a mess of purple and red and brown beneath the unruffled dress.
Ever the gentleman, Dolohov stood at her entrance and had her chair back for her, sitting only once she'd managed to perch upon the edge of her own seat, hissing as the sting notified her that the area was not free of marks. Was any part of her? Would she ever be again? She lived here at the sufferance of a self-professed sadist. So long as she stayed alive and sane, from what she gathered he was free to do with her as he wished.
A soft cough sent shockwaves of ache as she looked up. Her captor nodded toward her water goblet, raising one admonishing brow. When she followed his gaze, her own dark brows furrowed together. There was a crystal potion bottle that sparkled a familiar bloody red in the morning light. How she'd not noticed the cheery pink refractions even as they danced against her skin Hermione had no idea. Her gaze skittered to the man and back to the potion. He'd said he would not heal her when punished, hadn't he?
"I am not needlessly cruel, Miss Granger." He set his teacup aside and returned her curious amber gaze with cool silver. "And while last night may have been a rough introduction, as I told you when I laid you down for sleep, today is a new day. I am willing to move forward as before if you behave."
Her eyes narrowed and curiosity prickled at her chest. "Why?" The word was croaked before she could help it, cheeks coloring and sudden fear rearing in her stomach.
She needn't have worried. Dolohov chuckled softly and leaned back in his seat. "You are young. Eighteen?" She nodded hesitantly. "Nearly a child. And growing in wartime is an odd thing. One is often both more mature and less than one's peers. Your inexperienced, for instance." She was uncomfortably hot at this line. "No doubt you had more pressing matters to attend while your classmates were overblown with hormones and dramas. You are supposed to be a clever girl, Miss Granger. I expect you to accept my generosity when you receive it."
He was right. It was an unpleasant truth of her new situation, but she nodded and took up the potion, downing it in long gulps to be rid of the thick, metallic taste before her stomach could revolt. It lingered on the tongue even after she drank down half the cool water in her cup.
It did not heal everything despite the immense warmth followed by a wave of relief that suffused her, but it was enough. The cuts would be shut and shiny and pink, the ache in her core was closer to the better known cramps and thus easily ignored in favor of breakfast.
What it could not do was dismantle the flashes of memory at every glimpse of her battered flesh, every movement of the magnetic cruelty beside her. When Dolohov moved to pour her tea, an after mealtime ritual, she flinched back so the legs of her chair rocked, tears flooding beneath clenched lids.
The air was lightning thick and the muffled clunk of the teapot settled back in place felt hesitant. And then buttery warm leather enveloped the hand with a death grip on her napkin. When she tried to pull away, his hand held her fast, thumb stroking the line of her wrist. "Hermione." His words stirred too closely; he must have risen from his seat. "I meant what I said; you have seen the consequences of disobedience now, and you can work to avoid it. I will assist you as I'm able." Calloused fingertips turned her jaw to him and she reluctantly opened her eyes, releasing the now-cold tears from their confines. But she stared past him, to the glinting morning sun that mocked her with its promise.
Again his words pricked at the logical portion of her brain; he had warned her about angering him and she had allowed her repulsion of Lestrange to override avoiding it. There was another truth, though, that washed over her in cool terror. "But you'll still hurt me."
Dolohov further tipped her chin to study her shining wet eyes. "Yes. But it will not be as- as brutal as it was last night. And I will ensure you are healed and cared for as necessary before you sleep." His red tongue flicked in her peripheral. "And I can provide pleasure in turn. Willing lovers, whether they decided to repeat the experience or not, have never complained about a lack of release. Not at the end." His voice lilted with amusement.
"I don't want it." She jerked against the cupping of her jaw, but his thumb and forefinger were the jaws of a vice.
"We discussed this before; I will do what I must either way., but I will try to be delicate about breaking you in." His pupils had swallowed the grey of his eyes, the abyss staring hungrily into her. "It will be more difficult to reign in my lust now that I have tasted you, but I will try." The fond stroke of his fingers lingering on her cheek roiled her stomach. "You do not know how lovely you are, kitten, writhing in pain for me. But before you think to be all self-righteous again, I will offer you one last warning; last night was not my worst. Not close to it. Do you understand?"
Her "yes" was a dry, stony whisper.
The abyss roved her consideringly for a moment. "We shall see. You are dismissed."
It took all within her not to dive into her bedroom and instead walk and school herself to a semblance of composition. It lasted as she passed through the door, then next, and even as steam rose amid the waterfall from the tap. When she sloughed off the dress and caught a kaleidoscope of color, she could not help but take inventory of herself. And as horrifying as the line down the front of her was, her back… Doubtless she would wear the stripes resultant for the rest of her life. More scars for her growing collection. She allowed herself to crack along those ridges as she slipped into the searing water.
Although a Death Eater, Dolohov was seemingly a man of his word. He did not abuse her, did not fondle her, hardly spoke a harsh word to her as days passed. He did touch her though, mostly small motions like a hand on her back to guide her, a stroke of her cheek to show affection. She felt like a dog, and that line of thinking always hearkened back to the night Lestrange had called. She was a pet being trained, her supposed master attempting to accustom her to his hand.
The days were so uniform they flowed into one another, and it was only when Dolohov informed her he would leave the manor for the evening before dinner and she would have freedom to roam the common areas as she wished that Hermione had an inkling that more than a week had passed since the evening in his dungeon.
"Where-" she began, but seamed her lips and counselled herself before she could finish.
Dolohov arched a brow, but his voice was more amused than admonishing and she released the valve holding in her breath at the tone. "It is the weekly meeting. As it was last week and will be the following."
She'd been confined to her room then and wondered that she was now allowed out while he was not present. "Oh."
"I have locked and warded anywhere off limits. You will find no weapons, no wands, no magical items that would assist you in the death of either of us, nor any that would aid you in escape. Topsy is still here and will report to me should you misbehave."
"I understand," she murmured to her plate.
The press of skin ran a line from write to middle finger. "Good girl. You are dismissed once you've finished your tea."
When Topsy called her to dinner that evening she sat at her customary spot and picked at the brown fowl on her plate, nibbled a roll and plucked through her vegetables until she'd had enough of it that Topsy would be satisfied. It was eerie to sit alone at the table, but she did not miss the withering looks as she ate too little, or the inane repetition pleasantries. Hermione hesitated to "finish" her meal and leave the table, but as the gravy congealed she decided that had to do and crept from the dining room.
The door to the den would not turn for her though she had been with him in that room several times before and could not think why. Parallel to it were double doors with ornate brass handles. When she tried one the creak of the hinge grated like gravel against her nape. The door edged into the room and Hermione could make out the one place she had secretly wished to find nearly as much as an escape route. Shelves and shelves and shelves of books stretched across the walls, neatly organized on dark wood lines. As she'd opened the door a fire crackled on the opposite wall, hearth blazing to bathe the room in a golden wash. All thought of exploration spilled from her agape mouth as she closed the door behind her with a solemn click.
She had never been inside a home with so many books before, and Hermione's heart danced across her ribs at the cornucopia before her. She was stroking their spines and mouthing titles before she could think of the dangers of possible curses. It was too much of a feast when she had been cast into mere existence so long, and she could not help but want to swallow down the tantalizing fruit dangling just within reach.
Hermione wandered down the path of books in a temporal suspension, each breath swallowed greedily through her nose to appreciate the delicate waft of parchment and vellum and leather tumbled through with fire. In moments her feet stilled she might pluck a book from the shelves on a whim just to crack open the binding and drink in the delicious sweet scent of a book older than her life.
She would thumb a few pages and sometimes return to skim the table of contents, and several times she paused to take a sampling of the text. Invariably another caught the corner of her eye and she would amble on. And then she chase upon something of a Grail: Arithmantic Theory Revised: A study of ancient arthimancers' work as viewed through a modern lens.
"Modern" might be a misnomer now as the book had been written in the eighteen hundreds, but little had changed in the last hundred and a half years since its first-and-only publication. And now she had a copy she could read. The floor softened beneath her feet as she crossed to the little seating area of chairs around a small couch. It was onto this she sank, soaking in the erudite prose as even as her legs curled beneath her.
Time spent reading is like time spent in a dimension running parallel to reality. It can be a slog through theory thick as syrup or months condensed in the flash of a sentence. Hermione had spent hours with some books without realizing, others whistling and calling to no avail and her hunger scraping at her sides. She had sped through others and been astounded that not even a single hour had passed. Then, of course, she'd had to find another to similarly consume.
Arithmantic Theory Revised was a meaty book, each paragraph full of explanation, each chapter a book unto itself. She could lose herself in this book for multiple reads and planned to do just that. Her only regret was that she had no parchment to write upon nor ink and quill to write; she would love to follow along these ancient equations.
The first hundred pages were mostly background. And she knew quite a bit of the history of Arithmancy, so it was almost review, though with bites of new flavor slipped throughout.
She changed position as needed, no thought given as her body moved independently to find comfort while her mind spooned through the text. Hermione was on her back, gown pooled around the base of her thighs and head tilted by one ornate pillow while another propped the book up for her. Her head spun with calculations and theory, and she felt she'd tumbled through the mirror and was engaged in a game with a walking castle of knowledge. Her mind would be spinning away all night at this rate.
Then a slide of warmth trailed from knee to upper thigh and she was violently expelled from the world of clean, playful numbers and back to Dolohov's library where she was lying on his golden threaded couch and the dark man himself half sat on the edge by her feet while his hand glided over her skin.
The book collapsed to her chest and Hermione tugged her legs toward her core, but the weight of his palm leadened. "I knew I would find you here." The words traced goosebumps over her skin to mirror his hand.
Hermione shuffled the book closed and pulled her skirt over herself, though Dolohov did not move his hand, so one leg remained bare. "I- I should get to bed."
"Hmm." He trailed to her inner thigh and the little hairs there tickled. "You won't ask how my evening was?"
"Erm, well." She cast for any possible excuse. "I thought you might want me to be sleeping by now."
He leaned toward her, arm propped against the back cushion so she was trapped. "On the contrary, I am glad to spend more time with you this evening." The spice of his scent overwhelmed the comforting perfume of books, cloying on her tongue. "I was asked about you, you know. Rodolphus told Bellatrix all about your little outburst, and then it seemed everyone had something to say."
Though her eyes danced over the surrounding room she could find no escape. "Oh?"
"Yes." The hand bracing him was sliding to her now, treading up her side, skimming her collar. "You're a highly desirable commodity. Harry Potter's mudblood, brightest witch of her age, little survivor who slipped through both my fingers and those of Bellatrix Lestrange. We've heard stories about you, kitten." He brushed a wild curl behind her ear, leaning in. "Snape often dismissed you as a parroting little know-it-all, but you are so much more than that."
"I'm not," she insisted as she prayed to melt into the cushions.
He rose over her, rough hand placing her to create space for him to straddle her dwarfed form. "I disagree." His breath was hot and reminiscent of cinnamon. "Clever enough to keep two hot-headed teenagers from destroying themselves time and again. Strong enough to endure torture and maintain your secrets." His lips whispered against her forehead now and she couldn't move, could hardly breathe as he pinned her. "Solving riddles and maintaining the highest grades all the while you keep your little friends afloat. Slytherin's monster, fighting the Umbridge bitch and outwitting her at every turn, and you ensured your boy savior succeeded in his task of destroying the shards of the Dark Lord's soul." She was shaking her head, but he only sounded his amusement against her ear. "Oh yes, we know all about you, kitten. As the surviving member of your little trio-"
Hermione tripped into understanding and fell a long way into herself at those words, eyes widened painfully and petrified once more.
"-Yes, your little Weasley friend did not survive his injuries. He was gone before any thought to heal the prisoners. Ah, well. He has plenty of brothers to choose from." Dolohov shushed gently as he wiped her spilling tears. "I know, kitten, I know. You loved them both, and now they are gone and you are left with me. But I have not finished telling you of my evening." He tilted her chin to draw her gaze. "The Dark Lord wishes to meet you, the mudblood who kept the Boy Who Lived alive long enough to die as a lamb for slaughter." She fought the burbling sobs until she choked on them, tears and snot and spittle overflowing as the last of her hope was dashed against the rocks and disappeared in a wave of despair.
A/NI'm just on a roll with this story right now. If this keeps up, I don't know much I'll churn out before I finally sputter. But! I'm enjoying it. I still plan on working on my other stuff, just feel like this one for the moment.