She was being swallowed up by cruel, demanding lips eating at her own, tongue coaxing out each little whimper, one large hand netting her in place. The thumb at the joinder of her jaw drew sweet circles, fingertips pressed bruises into the meat of her neck. Her thoughts were a muddle, oxygen-deprived spool taut between the hungry mouth and possessive grip. As chokingly trapped as her caged heart beat it was a thready rope in the torrent of her grief.
Hips rolled against her, burning through the layers sheltering her from flesh-on-flesh. The solid hardness had wormed between her thighs, one foot arched to the floor and the other helpless over the cushioned back of the seat. Her front chilled as air swirled around her bared breasts, the wet tear of cloth registering after to her mind, and then her lips were freed and mouth and tongue and teeth trailed down her throat and further. He engulfed half of one breast, teeth gnashing until she arched into him with a cry. It was too much and she was wheeling in sensation. The tongue soothed over roughened skin, then he was sucking at her nipple, her hands fluttering like dragonflies against his shoulders, but he was immovable as stone.
She wrapped her fingers in black spider-silk curls and tugged, but the Death Eater groaned appreciatively and molded himself to her.
"Please."
Black eyes rolled up to her tear-stained face and she could read the drugged pleasure in his gaze. The hand not pinning her pulse traversed to her free breast, plucking and kneading in turns that plunged her head beneath dizzying waves.
She could feel her pulse rebelling against the pad of his thumb and wondered how this beast had been drawn by her sorrow. Her palms began swatting at him, her breath spluttering, whines wheezing airily around them until Dolohov wrenched his mouth from her with a sickening pop. One manacled hand swept over her wrists and pinned them beside her head. His thumb stroked her pulse and he stared at her with that eagle sharp gaze.
"Hermione." She'd scrunched her face, lashes tangled and nose wrinkled, but he dug into the thread of her vein and she snapped to him. "You know better than that."
A fine tremble washed through her. "I've tried- please. I…" Choking sobs wracked her again and the man knelt up over her.
"Shush, sweet girl, shush." The steel at her throat turned to living silk and stroked gently over her skin. "I pushed too hard. Your grief was intoxicating." When her shaking did not subside, he slipped off her and instead tugged and smoothed until she was against his chest, knees pressed together across his lap. "Sh. I know. I've stopped now, kitten." He tangled through her hair, fingers working through knots. Sobs subsided into coughs and heavy warm circles soothed over her lap. Gentle rocking and soft, unfamiliar words laced the air.
When her tears were only salt crusting her lashes, Hermione slowly floated back to herself. "Why are you comforting me?"
The solid man beneath her hummed and pressed a kiss to her temple. "I told you I would be kind as long as you were good. I took advantage before you were ready and that is why you acted out. A man cannot expect an untrained crup to accept affection whilst under duress."
He was back to pet training metaphors, though the prickle of irritation was greatly lessened by numbness of grief settling in her.
"You must be tired, sweet girl. Shall I take you to bed?" When her chin jolted up he chuckled. "To your bed, kitten. Alone. Though I would never turn down the invitation to join you if you wish it." She rocked as he rose and carried her up to her room, tucking her in bed like she was still a child. His weight dipped the bed beside her, calluses brushing against red cheeks and smoothing away stray curls.
She was too exhausted to push him away, to rebel against the affection, and a worm in her gut told her perhaps he would keep his word and leave her be. For the moment, eyes drifting shut and the world spiraling to the dissociation of sleep, it was comforting. She felt almost safe.
Hermione almost forgot about that night; she was becoming more skilled at locking away distress. Sometimes in the mornings (or the night; it was hard to tell in the darkness of the dusty room) she would wake doused and sweat and swallowing screams. She would claw her way to the ensuite and shatter on the cool tile floor before sloughing the memories from the surface and shelving them along the back of her mind until it was safe to page through and process them.
When Dolohov halted her before she left the lunch table one afternoon it took every thimble of self control not to collapse to the floor.
"You will need change before we leave this evening," the man said as his tea cup clinked against its matching saucer. "Topsy will provide you with appropriate dress."
She turned toward him on sluggish legs. "Where are we going?"
Dolohov peered archly at her. "Malfoy Manor. It is where the Dark Lord is headquartered until his own fortress is prepared."
The strings of composure snapped, hands flying out to balance the suddenly unsteady world.
"Well?" If the Death Eater noted her sudden upheaval, he did not react. "Go before I take it on myself to prepare you."
That darted through her shaking thoughts and she nodded, walking on until she could fall onto her bed. Voldemort wanted to meet her, the Dark Lord himself. She had destroyed one of his precious Horcruxes with her own hands and featured greatly in the murder of the others. Murder, yes, because what else could the obliteration of a soul be named? While it may have been only a soul fraction , one could not commit a fraction of a murder. Could they?
What did he want? Dolohov had said he wished to meet her because she had helped Harry stay alive and fight, but so hard Ron, the rest of the Weasleys, every member of the Order of the Phoenix and Dumbledore's Army. And if he thought her so instrumental to his enemies, surely he'd want her dead?
The idea should have lanced her through fear, but she had crossed the threshold into logic mode at some point and was instead staring into the facts as though it were a puzzle. Again, she mourned the lack of note taking gear. If she could assign the knowledge she knew numerical values and settle on what calculations to run, perhaps she could deduct an Arithmantic answer to her questions. Alas, such an equation would be elephantine in nature; the sheer number of variables would take a sheaf of parchment alone, and that was only with the knowledge filed in her own head. There must be hundreds more she could not know.
She stripped, bathed, lotioned, detangled, all while assigning value to what she knew and comparing them against the other assumptions to logic her way through. It was a distraction, but necessary. So lost in the tumble of letters and numbers in her head was she that Hermione didn't notice Topsdy's entrance until her curls spun into dryness around her shoulders.
"Oh. Er, thank you."
The elf nodded and gestured toward the vanity. "Missy will sit so Topsy can fix her hair and makeup." A slash of scarlet bisected the duvet, but Hermione had no chance to study it as the little stool butted against the back of her legs and swept her before the mirror. Topsy stood now on the dark varnished surface, eyes narrowed to the size of a slice of orange, then clicked her fingers. Hermione's hair snaked and smoothed around her. Another snap had her face layered and dabbed until she wore a faint mask. Behind the elf she traced the fishtail brain holding her curls back from her face, flicked to the blushed cheeks and crimson painted mouth.
"Why am I being dolled up exactly?" she inquired with the lift of one darkened, shaped brow.
The elf shook her head, long ears swaying in the self-contained breeze. "Missy is attending a Malfoy Manor dinner with the Master. Master lets Missy wear day robes at home, but the Malfoys is sticklers for tradition. Missy must not embarrass the Master."
"O-kay," she allowed, swatting back the vague annoyance of doing anything because of the Malfoys. "I won't be wearing heels, will I? I can't walk in those things."
"No, Missy will have slippers." Topsy flicked her fingers to gesture the girl to stand. "Now Missy will get dressed. Topsy knows Missy dresses herself, but Topsy is here if needed."
The gown was silk, like nearly every other dress she'd warn since coming to this place, and Hermione wondered if Dolohov had a penchant for it. A strange thought, considering he typically wore cotton or wool. The knickers matched, though were additionally trimmed with ivory lace that set her eyes to bulge. Regardless, she slipped into them before pulling the gown overhead. While Hermione had not been provided a bra in some time, the deep scoop of the neckline would have prevented it in this case. Her breasts pressed against the lightly ruched material, their silhouette fortunately obscured enough she felt they were not on display. The ruching culminated at her waist before the gown hugged her hips and swept down to the floor. Long sleeves wrapped around her forearms, but they were otherwise loose and slit down the back. It would disguise her vulgar scar, but frame her flesh within it.
And mindful of scars, Hermione gazed down to follow the paler line that began on her chest. Dolohov's mark on her. She doubted it was accidental that the scar gifted her by Bellatrix Lestrange was out of sight while his own would be displayed in such bold fashion. He was enamored of the keloid tissue, his eyes dropping to it when any part of it was in view, and there was a vaguely dirty churn to her stomach at the idea that he wished to display it to others.
The slippers Topsy Summoned were soft woven gold, thin enough she could feel the coolness of the floor as she stepped into the hall. A door down from hers squealed shut and she snapped around, one arm flung across the wall and the other searching for her wand. Hermione hadn't known Dolohov's room was so near hers, though there were only so many options.
He stilled mid-stride and, despite the deeply cast shadows in the dim corridor, she could feel his eyes drinking her in before lighting on the scar to linger. "Lovely." He was in unrelieved black, a default unless he, for whatever reason, was trying to seem disarming.
Then he usually defaulted to blue, decidedly unusual for a probable Slytherin.
"Yes, well." She shuffled demurely, cheeks blazing beneath the powder. "I am worried it may get dirty brushing against the floor like this."
His hand flashed pale in the darkness and the gleam of silk at her feet fluttered. "There." Leather whispered over polished wood and his shadow blocked the lamp behind him, casting her in the shadowed blanket of his presence. Hot fingertips skimmed down the line of one arm. "I will apparate us there if you're ready."
She would never be ready, evidenced by the sharp jolt of her heart behind this man's scar. She nodded regardless, staring down at their feet.
Dolohov enveloped her and she took in the forest of his scent, turned earth and fallen leaves and a hint of something spiced that hearkened to the firewhiskey he enjoyed. She couldn't differentiate between the tight embrace of his arms and the squeeze of apparition, but both fell away as hard marble spun to being beneath them.
Before she could step away, his grip flashed to hold her jaw and he bored into her eyes. "If you misbehave tonight I may not be able to keep you alive. Do not bait the Dark Lord; any other I may claim the right to punish you, but I cannot shield you from him. Do not provoke him."
Hermione felt as though she were watching the telly suddenly, the surreality of a Death Eater warning her not to anger Voldemort tipping the world off its axis. She frowned and murmured, "Of course."
Grey eyes darted over her face before he seemed satisfied enough to nod and release her from his iron grip. He wrapped her arm through his own to escort her through the halls and Hermione reluctantly took in her surroundings.
White marble, austere architecture. Wall lamps with steady magical fire eliminated the velvet shadows she'd expected, bathing the room instead in pale gold reminiscent of fluorescent, but perhaps more flattering. The walls shone enough to reflect a hint of red from her gown, and paintings along the wall from the entrance hall to wherever they were going gossiped quietly amongst themselves. It only just relieved her when they passed by the doors that haunted her and continued to pass into a vast dining hall. The collonaded walls were parted by a fireplace wider than she was tall and taller than she- well, was tall. Chandeliers dripped crystalline flickers across the black table, the fine Oriental rug, the dark floor.
She wondered if the rug was wizard made, as she was unfamiliar with wizarding decor but guessed the Malfoy family might prefer it to anything sullied by muggle hands. This was her preferred line of thought as Dolohov laid a hand on her lower back to guide her forward.
The room had either fallen silent at their approach or had been that way to start, and she did not know which prospect was worse. Hermione heard a whisper, a chuckle, the bated giggle of Bellatrix Lestrange's delight. They passed a row of seats along one side of the long black table and Hermione struggled with each lift of her feet. These were the cream of the Death Eaters, those a part of Voldemort's inner circle, murderers and rapists, genocidal sycophants. She trained her gaze ahead a few steps and toward the floor, only her peripherals catching the turning of heads and the relative shades of hair; when she passed three light heads she knew that must be the Malfoys, relegated toward the center of the table at their own home.
She would not look. She could not look. Her breath might fail her if she did. Her heart nearly tore as a little voice whispered, "Muddy," at her. She knew that word in that voice, would know it hissed through the crowd at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Her scar thrummed against its silken container in the woman's presence.
And then she froze.
Since her Sorting Hermione had worn the title 'Gryffindor' with all the pride intended by its founder. She was, whatever those who deemed her too clever might say, a lion to her marrow. Knowledge was wonderful, but anyone could read a book or learn a spell. Putting that spell into action when it mattered was far more important. Had she hesitated to silence Dolohov at the Ministry, she would not have survived his curse. She could have been swallowed by the dragon under Gringotts, murdered by Professor Lupin in third year.
Perhaps she could have saved Harry if only…
But here, in this moment, blood icy as it coursed through her heart, Hermione may well have been a mouse. That was the effect of standing before Lord Voldemort.
Her body sunk under the guidance of the Death Eater at her side. He pulled her to her knees as he made his own obeisance, and Hermione was staring at the thick abyss of the Dark Lords robes.
"Rise, Antonin, please." His voice was that strange soft, commanding slither she remembered from the battle. "And what have we here?"
She could not have stood even had Dolohov not pressed her shoulder in warning. If it were possible to will oneself away, she'd have melted into the black marble. Only her knees against the hard floor, thin silk the barest shield, and the rushing march of blood in her ears let Hermione know that she indeed had not become stone.
She did not hear Dolohov respond, but that voice as silken as her gown snaked through her petrification. "Stand, Miss Granger. Let us get a look of Harry Potter's beloved mudblood." She rose through a haze of flat terror, her hand mindlessly bracing on Dolohov's proffered forearm as her feet shakily took root beneath her. "Look at me, girl. It is impolite not to make eye contact during a conversation."
Cotton dryness clove her tongue to the roof of her mouth. As her eyes dragged upward until the black ceded to skin whiter than the marble walls. It was stretched drum-tight over his skull, cheekbones sharp as they tilted between ears toward the space where mere slits served in place of nostrils. But the gleam of scale-patterned flesh and the skeletal thinness of him were not what horrified her; it was the scarlet shine of reptile eyes in a nearly human face. They cut through her mind like tissue paper, her every thought surely written in their oaken depths clearly as print across a book.
Tom Riddle was an excellent pupil, came a foolish, unbidden thought. She'd seen a picture of him once and this was not Tom Riddle. He had made himself anew and resembled the handsome boy as nearly as Hermione resembled a true lion.
The line of his mouth bared milky teeth as he studied her from his seat with the mien of a king. "I was," he intoned. "I have. And I do not."
The stitches of thought unravelled as she worked through the meaning of his words. She fairly swam, blood draining to her toes, and the shark smile widened. Dolohov wound an arm around her waist, anchoring her in place.
"You clean-up well, little mudblood. " The weight of his eyes shifted. "Sit, Antonin. We have dinner to partake of before the festivities."
A/N I have another chapter written after this one; I'd like to write more today as well, but I had a root canal soooooo. Who know.