The Death Eater sat beside a too-familiar face and Hermione had to catch herself from crying out. The fear of seconds before had fled, replaced with the cold seethe of betrayal. Severus Snape, traitor, spy, murderer of Albus Dumbledore. As Dolohov swept into the high-backed dining chair she stood to the side and a little behind, fire lighting behind her bronze eyes. Had he deigned to look her way the knife of her hate would hopefully have slashed his throat so he could bleed out like the treacherous snake he was.
Alas, when Dolohov blocked her sight of the horrid man, he was still breathing. Her dark captor considered her and patted his thigh in what she belatedly realized was invitation.
"What?"
"There is no seat available for you, kitten."
Mechanical glances proved him right, as Thorfinn Rowle took up the space at his other side. "I could sit against-" Her words failed as the bar of his arm wrapped around her waist and swept her into the place he'd deemed most appropriate.
"A mudblood at the table, Dolly?"
The heated response whirled against her ear. "She is my pet and this is where I prefer her at the moment."
Bellatrix touched a long white finger to lips plush as ripe fruit. "I wasn't aware we let animals eat with us. Lucius, you'd better call your dogs. It is time for supper."
"Bella." The world stilled at the soft intonation. "Miss Granger is an invited guest. Let us make an exception for her this once."
A harumph was the pouty witch's response, but she allowed the matter to sink back into unspokeness for the moment.
It was a maddening dilemma. Hermione could allow the humiliation to nettle her into fury, but she would face the consequences. If Voldemort himself did not have her dance under his Cruciatus, Dolohov's wrath would pale her previous experience, of that she had no doubt. But it truly was galling, to perch upon the lap of this man in a room of her peers, peers who would all approve of anything that brought her low. As courses appeared on the table, she did not have access to food of her own. Instead Dolohov brought steaming mouthfuls of his soup to her lips or tore fingerfuls of cotton-soft rolls for her teeth to pluck. Each bite sent spiny resentment curling through her. The one time she attempted autonomy her hand was gripped so tight her pinky smashed against her thumb. Dolohov then cupped the goblet of wine to her lips. She had reached for water, but he began to tip the drink and a droplet escaped the rim as she opened for the bitter red. He drained the whole cup into her throat and her eyes burned along with her cheeks.
That happened twice more and the heady wine seeped through what little food she'd eaten from the Death Eater's hand until the world took on that soft, off-center sheen of subtle drunkenness. It became easier to lift her eyes from the table and study the others at the table. Narcissa Malfoy was distinctly uncomfortable, Lucius Malfoy only slightly less so, and Draco seemed torn. Between what extremes she could not say.
Rowle met her flicker with a grin as his eyes trailed from her dangling feet up her body. Ants crawled over her skin at the sensation and she rubbed at the gooseflesh on one arm, causing the man behind her to hold her more tightly.
Bellatrix Lestrange ran her tongue down the knife she'd used to cut her meat and winked while her husband and his brother (she guessed from the fair resemblance) both skimmed her without veiling their beastly thoughts.
The only direction Hermione did not turn was toward the head of the table (which also kept her from lingering on her former professor. It became more difficult as dessert finished and the long table vanished with it. Her dizzy hands crushed Dolohov's sleeve where he'd draped his arm on her lap; the world had started shifting in truth. The Death Eater's amusement rumbled through her, handling her as he transfigured his chair into something akin to his preferred seat at home. "Easy, kitten." Large hands maneuvered as easily as if she were indeed a teacup sized cat. Her back was tucked in the space between his chest and left arm so she faced inward and toward the center of the little circle that had formed around the Dark Lord. His legs framed her own, and he slipped his fingers into a slit she hadn't noticed. Was it more transfiguration or was Hermione too distant from her reality to note every detail? Either prospect further unsettled her.
"Narcissa, dear, you are excused. I know your distaste for Death Eater games." When the woman's lips parted, the sinuous voice picked up again. "No need to make excuses. You are delicate, a veritable flower of a pureblooded woman. Indeed, perhaps the other ladies should join you." Hope sparked before Hermione reminded herself she would not be among their number.
"My lord." Bellatrix's whine was a high trill. "You know I love to play."
Laughter slithered drily over her skin. "Now, Bella, you had your chance to play with the mudblood- yes, your lord can see why you want to stay. I won't deny that I would delight to see you carve more pretty scars into her, but I know how Antonin is loath to share what's his. I won't have you pouting all night when you're denied."
Fingers danced in circles over her skin, an attempt at comfort in light of the less than thrilling news that Bellatrix Lestrange was still gagging to torture her.
Large, liquid black eyes batted across the room at Hermione as the woman pouted. That such a terrifying woman could look like a porcelain doll from afar was proof enough that the outside was no indication of what stirred beneath the surface. "Fine." The word arched as Bellatrix stood. "Roddy will tell me all about it later."
The double doors swung shut and clicked as the lock engaged. Hermione tugged at the netting of her consciousness, trying to slip it back to safety. The pike fish surrounding her would scent blood soon enough, and she was well aware she was the only spot of red in their sea.
"Lucius. Brandy?"
"Of course, my lord." The pop of a house elf startled her and Dolohov's fingertips pressed against the meat of her thigh. She was better prepared when it disapparated and returned with a tray of tumblers and a bottle of Ogden's finest. Cut crystal with fingers of whiskey levitated to each man and the familiar waft swirled from the hand at her side.
As the men around her devolved into separate conversations Hermione had a flight of courage enough to murmur to her captor, "I don't suppose you'd Summon me a chair for myself?"
His lips quirked, gleaming wetly in her view. "And lose the delightful press of your body against mine? No." At her frown, he raised his glass to her lips. "Relax, kitten. All is going well."
All did not feel well. She pushed away the tumbler as gently as her heady state could allow. "I think three glasses of wine are more than enough." She'd rarely indulged and was currently on that golden edge between just enough that the world felt sharper and softer all at once and true drunkenness.
Dolohov scratched his cheek against her hair, the prickles of his five o'clock shadow loosening little hairs from her braid. "How do you feel?"
Warm. Not steaming hot, but just the comfortable warmth that leant itself to languidity. There was also a keen awareness of her body, the brush of fingers on her thigh raising little hairs, the silken material of her gown sliding at every movement. "Well enough," she settled on, but the glint in his iron eyes told her he read more than she'd like.
"A sip then. We will keep you like this." The weight of his sleeve hushed against her side as he lifted the glass once more, allowing the hard edge to brush over her chest.
"I admit I did not expect you to have tamed the little mudblood so soon, Antonin." Voldemort's voice scissored through the glowing tension she'd hardly noticed surrounding her. "After all, she is supposedly a lion."
Dolohov tightened his hold as she became a statue. "Miss Granger is a clever girl; she knows obedience will best serve her. Isn't that right, kitten?" Her rough nod sufficed and kissed her temple.
"Ah, yes. What is it that wolf called her? The one Dumbledore collared and allowed to teach."
The depth of her old professor's voice seeped to her marrow. "The brightest witch of her age." Clipped, disinterested words.
Cobwebs of attention seemed to cling to her, each sticky strand shot from another set of eyes until she was cocooned in smothering consideration. She hardly dared breathe.
"And what is your assessment? You taught the girl for six years. I trust you have some idea of her capabilities."
Dolohov swigged the whiskey before tipping it to her lips again. "I believe I heard you say she was 'an insufferable know-it-all', though I've yet to find anything about her suffering. To myself."
There was muffled laughter that burned her ears in tandem with the alcohol burning down her throat.
"Miss Granger is a veritable fount of information. She came to every class ready to quote her textbooks backward and forward at the start of the term. She was..." Snape eased into a dramatic pause, "passable in Potions."
A scowl hissed across her face at that. Passable? She could have taught every class by the end of her sixth year. She's received an Outstanding every year despite Snape's clear disdain for Gryffindors as a whole and her especially, best friend of Harry Potter and muggleborn. And achieved an easy Outstanding on her OWL as well.
"It seems the mudblood disagrees with your assessment, Severus." Heat flushed to her chest and she jerked her head closer to Dolohov to slough the Dark Lord's notice.
"No doubt."
The room was silent enough she could hear the drumming of fingers against the arm of a chair. When she peered through her lashes she saw it was from Voldemort herself. "Draco. Surely you have something to say on the matter. Didn't Miss Granger consistently best you?"
Her neck nearly snapped as she turned to the pale boy. Blood had drained his face, leaving him the color of the column behind him. "She did, my lord."
"And?"
Stony fear bobbed in his throat. "Granger's smart. She- er- always managed to get Potter and Weasley out of trouble, and probably was the only reason they passed most of their classes." His brows were furrowed as he caught her eye, lips twisting in an unrecognizable expression before he dropped his gaze. "Most of the teachers seemed to think she was brilliant."
"Brilliant." The word took on sibilance as it flitted from the boy's mouth to the monster's. "Why then were you not in Ravenclaw, Miss Granger?"
Still anxious over Draco Malfoy's unexpected behavior, Hermione did not think before she answered, "Because I'm not a coward."
Indrawn hisses seethed through the room. "Implying that most Ravenclaws are?" There was a knife edge hidden in the vile wizard's question.
"No. Just that I-" Think, Hermione, you utter moron. "I pride myself on not being one. Books and cleverness are well and good, but there are more important things." Harry's lopsided smile flashed through her mind and she looked down at her hands curled helplessly in her lap.
"And yet." The pause drew every eye to Voldemort, even her unwilling pair. "You are pragmatic enough, according to Antonin, not to try his hand. I would have expected you to be covered in pretty little marks by now." Not spiderwebs, she decided. Not his gaze. It was something far more sinister. She could feel his red eyes ghosting along her body, lingering on the line of her scar and what lay beneath.
"He had to punish her at least once, my lord." Hermione had nearly forgotten Rodolphus Lestrange was present, the man so much less frightening when in the vicinity of his master. "The little mudblood slapped me when I was merely trying to touch the scar Bella graced her with." Worms fair crawled across that scar at his smirk.
"Is that right?"
"It is, my lord." Dolohov's hand stroked higher on her thigh. "She has lovely whip lashes that will never leave her flesh as a reminder of the lesson."
"How does she look writhing under the Cruciatus? Does she compare to a certain frail little doll?" The thickness in his voice was cloyingly sweet.
The man holding her shifted, the strange safety he'd provided transforming as he thought back to the night of her punishment. "She was beautiful. And her tears taste like lust."
When his hand roved up her hip, skirting along the laced hem of her undergarment, Hermione pushed at it, the world around her shimmering hotly. "Don't." It was the barest whisper. "Please."
The rim of the tumbler tilted her chin upward and the tears slipped from her eyes as Hermione was forced to meet his gaze. His pupils had swallowed up all but a sliver of grey. "Your pleas will not save you forever, sweet pet." He traced one tear, entranced as it wet his finger. He removed his hand to the outside of the warm silk and Hermione turned her cheek away from the world as she righted herself.
While he let the subject go, throughout the hour or so afterward Hermione could feel the ruby orbs roving her. Voldemort had seen her fear and the little box into which she'd folded up and packed away her inner Gryffindor was trembling like the Monster Book of Monsters for her to unleash it. Cooler logic presided, despite what little balm it was to her humiliation.
It would not surprise her to find out the sadist caging her enjoyed that element as well. What was humiliation other than wounded dignity?
Voldemort surely enjoyed it; the narcissist she'd deduced throughout battles and tales would relish bringing his enemies low. It was something prominent in the wizarding world's elite, she thought. The Pureblood families believed themselves superior to her kind, and any evidence to the contrary was a direct threat; humiliation rebalanced the world by placing them at its crest with muggleborns at their heels.
As the gathering dwindled down to a handful (Lucius made his excuses, though Voldemort insisted Draco should stay; the Carrows slipped out with woven fingers), Thorfinn Rowle leaned to murmur not far from Hermione's ear, "Enjoying being a pampered little pet, mudblood?"
Her shoulders stiffened at the rumbling voice.
"I know you wouldn't look so pretty if it was me what got you. After that little stunt in the muggle world, I owe you. Don't you think?"
"Leave me alone," she grit over her shoulder.
A hungry cat-grin splayed across his face. "A few of us talked about asking the Dark Lord for a chance at you if you survived. We were gonna take turns using our favorite curses on you. You know what I thought about?" The last was low, intimate asd firelight. "I thought about using that sweet little body and then Obliviating the memory away so you had no idea why there was blood between your thighs."
Her arms curled over her chest to shield herself and the big man chuckled, and it pricked at her pride. "What a favor, to erase the memory of your pathetic performance for me."
"You little bitch-"
"Is there a problem, Thorfinn?" The two had kept their voices low during the exchange, but the man's anger had overcome his sense and Dolohov finally took notice.
"Your mudblood bitch was just speaking out of turn," Rowle spat.
"Did you provoke him?" the man holding her asked.
"No more than he provoked me." Voldemort had implied the man was possessive, and Dolohov himself said as much the night Rodolphus Lestrange called. If he knew what Rowle had said, perhaps he'd be lenient.
"What's this?" The words dropped like a snake through the trees and the three froze as they considered their approach.
"It seems Thorfinn and Miss Granger had a disagreement, my lord." Dolohov's palm flattened against her throat to tilt her face toward him. "I was just inquiring about it myself."
Fingers played over her skin as he waited and Hermione searched for the most careful words. "Rowle told me what he'd like to do to me and I implied it would be a less than stellar event."
"She said it would be a pathetic performance," the Viking of a man interjected.
"Well, the girl has been under the Cruciatus of both Bellatrix and Dolohov. Surely your curses, though strong, could not compare to theirs. Hardly an insult. " The glimmer in his eyes bespoke Voldemort's suspicion there was more. "Unless it was not your wandwork she questioned?"
"Not that wand." She could have slapped herself, flinched in readiness for Dolohov to do just that. When there was no blow, no choking hold, nothing of the sort, she cracked her lids to find the Death Eater staring down in thinly veiled amusement.
When the Dark Lord released an eerie, lilting laugh the other men joined in. "Thorfinn, you cannot threaten rape against a mudblood and not expect it to keep silent, especially not a mouthy little Gryffindor like our Miss Granger."
"Indeed." Dolohov cast a sneer of dissatisfaction at his peer. "You should not be speaking to my mudblood about what you would like to do to her." His words dripped venom even Hermione longed to flinch from. His hand slipped from her throat to tangle in her hair, drawing her cheek against the solid heat of his chest.
"It was a hypothetical, Dolohov." His voice painted the picture of eyes rolling heavenward. "Discussed before you took the bitch for yourself. You aren't the only one that owes her."
"But I am the one who owns her." The words were taut between them until Dolohov turned to his master. "May I take my leave, my lord? I would like to take my pet to bed."
"By all mean, Antonin. Go enjoy the remainder of your evening."
Dolohov swept her up with him as he stood, nodding to Voldemort and murmuring his goodbyes to all.
"I'll be seeing you soon, Miss Granger." Voldemort's voice twined around her as she was carried through the door.