Chapter Summary:
I will repeat the specific trigger warnings at the start of the chapter proper, but please be aware that this material is fairly dark.
I never wish to exacerbate mental health issues, so I urge you to NOT READ this if the following topics may trigger you:
Allusions to rape, past sexual abuse, non-con, rape culture; actual sexual assault, violence, bondage, misogyny, sexism, hostage situations, explicit language, and angst.
Chapter 60
**Trigger warnings: allusions to rape, past sexual abuse, non-con, rape culture; actual sexual assault, violence, bondage, misogyny, sexism, hostage situations, explicit language, and angst**
Friday 21 March 2003: PM
Pansy hikes up her skirt again, putting on a burst of speed as she hears her name being called from the corridor she's recently skedaddled down. Her tear-blurred vision and burning need to isolate herself in order to lick her wounds in private had resulted in her spending the better part of ten minutes cantering confusedly about the rabbit warren of back hallways and storage rooms between the ballroom and the main Atrium. Fortunately, her path had not crossed Harry's; Pansy had recognized his worried voice yelling her name, along with Hermione and Draco.
I just need to get to the Departure Floos and go home… I'm not going to cry here… I won't let them steal the final shreds of my tattered dignity… The compulsive, looping thoughts quicken her hurtling steps. What a fucking disaster – I should have known better than to think I could enjoy a fancy night out with my… friends. And as for Ron Weasley – I'll look up the best dick-diseasing curses as a matter of highest priority. Utter. Immature. Arse.
Pausing briefly, Pansy attempts to take stock of exactly where she is in this shadowy labyrinth. Which crazy fool designed this floor, anyway – it's got more twists and turns than a Muggle detective story. Her breath burns in her lungs as she darts down a wider, vaguely familiar corridor.
The image of Harry's censorious face swims before her stinging eyes. How dare he judge me… I've every right to indulge in casual sex if I choose to. Morgana's kirtle – what a wretched prig Mr High and Mighty Potter turned out to be. And to think I believed – No.
Pansy wills her thoughts away from her sad little hopes. This is what happens when you forget your resolve to steer clear of emotional entanglements, she lectures her silly, crushed heart. Sprinting through the bowels of the Ministry of Magic like a bloody lunatic… in Italian stilettos. They'll be wrecked by the time I make it home.
Her frantic pace slows as she rounds the last corner and spies the Floos. Thank Merlin. Pansy wraps her arms around herself, suddenly conscious of how eerily isolated the vast space feels. I don't think I've ever been here without another creature in sight… talk about a creepy vibe.
She is before the first Floo and reaching for the obligatory pinch of green powder when a hand bands around her torso, another covering her mouth; a hard body presses along her back and legs as a low male voice warns, "Don't fight me, witch – or I'll slit your throat from ear to ear. Arms up, there's a good girl."
Cold steel at her windpipe, Pansy freezes. Her right hand twitches toward the cunningly disguised wand pocket tucked beneath the gathered cuff at her right hip, stilling as the tip of the knife pricks her skin.
"Did I not just say I'd cut your throat, you daft bitch?" the man behind her hisses, as her cry of pain is silenced by his palm. The knife twists cruelly, a thin rivulet of blood running down Pansy's neck.
"I'm taking my hand away to retrieve your wand – if you make the slightest noise, I'll kill you. Your choice, slut." A gloved hand jerks free her wand; the loss of her trusty weapon hits home how dire her situation just became.
Pansy closes her eyes, as her terror and panic threaten to devolve into full hysteria. Think, Parkinson, think – maybe an elbow to his guts? The knife point digs in harder, as though her mystery assailant can hear her agitated thoughts. His harsh tone is a repulsively intimate sibilation in her ear. Beneath her fear, Pansy strains as something in his disguised voice sparks recognition. I know this bastard… concentrate… I must concentrate…
"Ah-ah-ah, Little Flower… you're not the blossom I intended to pluck, but you'll do quite well as a tethered goat to stake, hmmm? Bear in mind you're thoroughly dispensable, and don't try anything idiotically courageous – you're a Snake, sweetie, not a Lion. You'll do exactly as I say, if you want to stay alive."
Her involuntary sob at the man's use of the abhorrent endearment – a cooing nickname that has haunted her nightmares for years – seems to please him; he chuckles in delight as Pansy's muscles lock in horrified reaction.
"Now, now, we'll address that delicious reaction a little later, pet: what I need you to focus on at this moment is screaming for me – as loud as you can… as though your life depended on it, one might say?" he directs, his free hand rising from her waist to fondle at her right breast through the bodice of her purple silk gown, squeezing cruelly as she gasps in pain.
"No– no, please," Pansy whimpers, lost to foul memories she'd fought so hard to overcome. "Don't…"
Her pleas are ignored as he viciously twists her nipple, laughing softly as a scream rips from her throat, reverberating throughout the vast, empty chamber.
"That's the spirit, sweetness," he grunts approvingly. "Once more now, with feeling." His large hand clamps over her breast, constricting the tender flesh with merciless force.
Pansy isn't aware of how long her second scream lasts: misery and pain flood her senses, as the tears she'd fought so hard to stifle stream down her cheeks and neck, mingling with the steady trickle of blood from the shallow knife wound. She is disgustingly aware that her suffering excites her sadistic assailant, and not merely from the undisguised glee in his soft laughter; she is pulled tight enough against him to feel him poking at her back.
The revolting awareness of his excitation helps to ground her, as the vile pressure of his gripping hand finally eases, and her scream abates. Rage replaces her immobilizing fear. Never again. Pansy holds tight to her resolution, taking care that her bolstered mental state doesn't translate to her limp body. Let him think me incapacitated with fear – all the better for when I do strike. You're going down, fucker.
"Listen – here comes the cavalry," he confidently pronounces, clutching her even tighter. The sound of approaching multiple rapid footsteps ricochets about the Atrium. Pansy's heart sinks as she considers the ramifications of the group's arrival.
Before she can think about how best to free herself from her attacker's loathsome hold, he hits her with a 'Petrificus Totalus'. Pansy's hope that she will live to see the dawn withers as every part of her body (save her eyes and lungs) paralyzes. Even her tears dry up as Harry, Draco, Hermione, and Aurors Faulkner and Gilmont careen into view.
I'm so pathetically, selfishly dumb… and now, I've endangered my friends. Pansy's misery deepens as the man who's snatched her purrs in fiendish triumph.
Please, don't sacrifice yourselves for me, she tries to convey with her eyes alone. I'm not worth it… please. I'm so sorry.
Harry doesn't react when Draco accidentally collides with his back as they take in the ghastly scenario before them; his attention is entirely centred on the horrendous tableau beside the far Departure Floo – roughly twenty feet away, his Auror brain automatically calculates, while the rest of his mind screams in unadulterated fear and fury. His already-fierce grip on his wand tightens.
Oh, hell no – he's got Pansy – he's holding a knife to her throat, and he's Petrified her –
"Harry– breathe. We'll figure this out." Hermione's urgent whisper helps to ground him.
"Get a hold of yourself, Potter," Malfoy's far less sympathetic growl oddly has the same effect, as they all skid to a stop. "Who the fuck is this arsehole?".
Eyes roaming feverishly over the tall form ominously disguised in Death Eater robes and mask, Harry searches desperately for anything that may indicate the perpetrator's true identity. That silver mask looks familiar… is it…?
"That's Walden MacNair's old mask – but that's not Walden MacNair," Draco grimly pronounces, keeping his voice hushed as the quintet begin to slowly advance. Gilmont and Faulkner take flanking positions, while Harry pushes forward between Hermione and Draco.
"Are you certain, Malfoy?" Harry demands. Everyone halts as the hooded figure repositions the wickedly sharp dagger at Pansy's bleeding, vulnerable throat.
Harry's wrath boils higher at the realization that she's already been injured. Pansy's eyes are green pools of anguished sorrow. She looks like a broken doll– I can't– I won't let him hurt her.
His terror fades as his professional training takes over, clearing his blazing panic and honing his senses.
"Positive. MacNair was roughly as tall, but never that bulky," Draco mutters out the side of his mouth. "Whomever this prick is, he's young and strong – look at how easily he's holding her upright."
It's true: the mystery aggressor is controlling Pansy's frozen form with ease, one hand resting just below her breast; and the knife digging into her delicate skin is being skillfully held in place.
"Harry, we can't risk hitting him with any spells– that knife is too close to her jugular," Hermione breathes.
"Ms Granger's correct, sir: the risk is too great," Gilmont offers; Faulkner tips his square chin in agreement, his eyes fixedly trained ahead.
Effective responses to a hostage situation race through Harry's brain, though he doesn't get the opportunity to decide which one to employ as the assailant begins speaking.
"Come any closer, and I'll slice her neck like a plump little piggy's," the man announces, his voice muffled by the mask… and some sort of distortion spell, Harry judges.
"Wands down, unless you want this Little Flower to be dead-headed," the mystery criminal demands.
Harry jerks his head for the others to comply, pointing his own wand to the floor with great reluctance. I refuse to release it – I'd rather take my chances with one of us hitting the scumbag before he can cut Pansy.
"Now for the negotiation! I'll keep it simple: send over the darling Miss Granger, and I'll let you keep pretty little Pansy, with her neck still intact," the taunting voice proclaims.
Draco's roar of savage anger has Harry pivoting; he is relieved to see the blond wizard's wand is still lowered, though he is wrapped around Hermione like a Venomous Tentacular vine. Hermione appears composedly determined, which immediately fills Harry with dread.
"Let's make a different deal: I'll come over instead, no weapons, no traces – and you can let Pansy go," Harry coolly replies, slipping his wand into his pocket and holding up his hands in surrender. "Think of the coup of keeping me hostage to do with me what you will: surely you've envisioned this moment many times?" he baits.
A raucous snigger emits from their enemy. "Sorry, Potter – I don't swing that way, and no amount of special spellwork is going to result in you getting pregnant. You must be dumber than I gave you credit for," he sneers. There is a trace of not-quite-controlled derangement underlining the cloaked voice that chills Harry's blood.
"We have limitless Galleons at our disposal– and it's easily accessed, all you need to do is accompany me to Gringotts– " Harry tries again.
"Eh– you can't buy a Golden Girl, can you? Quit wasting my time, you arrogant shit. I'll take Hermione, or I'll drag a dead bitch into the Floo with me. Your call."
Gilmont paces forward. "How about me? I'm fertile – and a virgin. Bet that's something you are interested in exploring, right?". Faulkner grabs her about the middle before she can walk any closer, his deep blue eyes flashing fire as he angrily shakes his head.
The masked man cocks his head. "Tempting… but no dice, babe. You don't look like much of a crier – and I like 'em sobbing beneath me when I come."
The three wizards share a look of mutual furor at the inciting boast; Gus curls her lip in a repulsed hiss.
"Don't react – he wants to get beneath our skin," Harry cautions. "I'll keep him talking, buy us some time– if we're gone long enough, Wessex and Dunkeld are bound to show, and if they can get behind him– "
"Let me go, Draco. I have to make the trade – it's the only way Pansy survives." Hermione's calm voice cuts through Harry's strategizing.
"Absolutely not. ABSOLUTELY NOT!" Draco bites off the words with frigid temper. "We'll keep stalling, like Potter said. There must be something else we can offer– "
"He came for me, and he won't stop until he has me," Hermione implacably states. "I've been training for this: he won't get the better of me, I promise you." She flicks her chocolate eyes to Harry, giving him a tiny smile of assurance. "I won't let him hurt me."
"No. NO. I know you want to save Pansy, but this IS NOT the way to do it, Hermione. You can't– you cannot take the risk," Draco switches his grip to her shoulders, shaking gently as he peers deeply into her eyes.
"I won't allow it, do you understand?! I won't lose you – Hermione, darling, my precious girl, my heart– I can't risk losing you, I can't– " his rough whisper breaks as he crushes her to his chest, his grey eyes agonized.
Hermione hugs him tightly; Harry swallows and looks away, still furiously cogitating as to how he can salvage this impossible situation. Draco is murmuring brokenly in French, his hands compulsively roaming over Hermione as his tall body trembles.
"You have one minute – I'm tired of your ruddy dithering!" the Neo-Death Eater aggrievedly hollers. "Do you want me to cut this cow? I'll do it, make no mistake!". He drives the knife into the small hole already carved into Pansy's supple neck; fresh blood dribbles out, following the same path down her neck and into her cleavage.
"Stop! I'm coming over. Just let me put down my wand, OK?" Hermione unceremoniously drops it to the parquet floor, before gently gathering Draco's pale hands in her own. "Draco, do you trust me?" she stares intently at him.
"Of course I trust you, Hermione! But you don't know what he's capable of, ma petite! He's already drugged you once, and will do so again– please, please don't do this, I beg you– "
The raw emotion in Malfoy's hoarse tone makes Harry's gut clench in sympathy. Damn… he loves her so hard… and Hermione's right there with him…
"Look at me, Draco. Listen to me, mon cœur." Harry holds his breath, surprised when no words come from Hermione's mouth; instead, the couple simply gaze intensely at each other as the seconds elapse.
Releasing hands, they engage in a quick, passionate kiss, Draco cupping Hermione's cheeks as her arms wind around his neck.
Breaking away, Hermione only has eyes for her lover as she vows, "I'll come back to you, Draco Lucius Malfoy – whole and hearty. I promise. I love you with everything I am."
"I love you with everything I am, Hermione Jean Granger. You always keep your promises – I'm holding you to that. Je t'aime, ma chérie."
"Je t'aime, mon chéri." Somehow, Hermione is smiling despite her brimming eyes; she is amazingly self-possessed, despite the grave danger she is willingly walking into.
Harry can only watch in horror as his best friend of over twelve years straightens her shoulders and steps confidently towards what could very well be her doom.
"About fucking time," the villain grumbles. "Get into the Floo and shut your pretty mouth, unless you want me to shut it for you."
Hermione nods. Before she obeys the harsh order, she turns her head and drops the minutest of winks over her shoulder.
Bracing himself to rush forward and grab Pansy, Harry bellows as the masked man seizes Hermione by the neck… and drags Pansy into the Floo with them. The trio vanish in a puff of green smoke and a quiet rumble.
Gone – they're gone – and we've no idea where, or with whom… Harry tears viciously at his shaggy hair, maddened by his impotence in preventing this disaster. He turns to Draco, desperate to know if what he suspects is true.
"Malfoy– tell me you and Hermione can communicate telepathically – tell me you know where they are, come on!" he wildly exhorts. "Fucking hurry, man– Godric knows what that sick fuck has planned!"
Draco briefly looks as though he's going to puke; were he not nearly insane with the need for rapid answers, Harry might admire the way the Slytherin visibly manages to pull himself together in their shared moment of direful crisis.
"She doesn't yet know where they are – but she'll tell me, as soon as she can," Draco reveals, stooping to pick up Hermione's discarded vine wood wand and slip it reverently inside his robes. "Hermione will keep them both alive until we can pinpoint their location– she's smart, and she said– she said she'll come back to me," he gulps.
Harry bites back his incensed retort as Draco covers his ashen face with both hands; the wizard is clearly at breaking point. He rounds on Gilmont and Faulkner.
"Quick – what's the last intelligence we have on MacNair? Any known hidey-holes or property that would suit as a bolthole or– or a prison cell?" his own voice falters as monstrous images of both women being shackled, strung up, and ruthlessly abused seep relentlessly into his consciousness.
"MacNair's family estate in Northern Scotland burnt down in a retaliatory attack after the War, sir – as far as the Ministry's been able to investigate, he didn't have any other known property or safe houses; and his Dark associates are dead or imprisoned, to the best of our knowledge," Kolton solemnly replies.
"Well, clearly he did have other filthy friends, since some evil fucker wearing his fucking Death Eater mask just kidnapped our witches!" Harry rants, aware that he is being unfair. "I'm sorry – I realize this isn't your fault. But bloody hell, Gilmont – what the devil were you thinking, risking yourself in such a fashion? It's a ruddy miracle he didn't snatch you, too!".
"Sir, I was just trying to–"
"Alright, alright, I know. How you were Sorted into Ravenclaw, I'll never understand – talk about the courage of a lion," Harry sighs. He gives his hair a last vicious yank before his fists drop to his side and he addresses the shellshocked group.
"We need to move: you two, head straight back to the Gala. Get all the other Aurors together and stand guard at every exit – no one leaves, not until we figure out who's behind all this. If anyone needs the toilet, escort them separately. Tell them we're running a security drill – hell, I don't give a rat's arse what excuse you use, just ensure you keep them corralled, OK? I'm about to send a Patronus to Pritchard-Hawes to apprise him of the sitrep, and ask for all hands on deck.'
"Oh– and once you've stabilized the new security parameters, round up Zabini and Nott: escort them, Viktor, Ginny and Luna back here as soon as you can, got it? Malfoy and I will stay by the Floos – the moment we have a location, we leave," Harry adds, as the partners nod and prepare to depart.
"What about Ronald Weasley, sir?" asks Gilmont; her face is impassive, though her eyes hold clear contempt.
"He stays in the ballroom – for his own protection," Harry growls. "I'll deal with him later."
The Aurors run from the Atrium, Gus in the lead. Ignoring their slapping footsteps, Harry concentrates fiercely, until his regal Stag Patronus materializes before him. He speaks the necessary words for his message, keeping his sentences clear and concise. The silvery corporeal buck gallops gracefully from the room, leaving a fine misty trail in its wake.
"Rather a neat party trick, Potter," Draco observes. Harry shoots him an assessing glance: though Malfoy's voice is a shade raspy and uneven, the terror and dread previously displayed across his pallid features has mostly dispelled.
"It has its uses," Harry allows. "Are you right to tell me now how it's possible for you and Hermione to communicate without words… and at considerable distance, I assume?".
"We're soul-bonded, Potter: our magical cores have mated, and I think– I hope– our connection will protect her. It has to protect her– it has to," Draco mutters staunchly, his eyes blind with a heart-rending amalgam of hope and despair.
"We'll get them back, Malfoy, you heard Hermione– she's the smartest person I've ever known, and she's a fighter– she'll be OK, mate," Harry says the words as much for his benefit as for the stricken man beside him.
"Potter, I can't– if anything happens to her– if he– h-hurts her– or Pansy– " Draco's torment is horribly apparent in his disintegrating vocalization.
"You can't think like that– you told her you trust her, mate. Tap into some of that legendary elitist Malfoy cool and stay focused on Hermione, you hear me? And when you're ready, you can explain exactly what 'soul-bonded' truly means," Harry prompts.
Grasping Draco's elbow, Harry steers him to the side of the fireplaces as he prepares to listen… and learn.
We're going to get back our wonderful witches – whole, and unharmed.
Whatever it takes.
Hermione fights off the disorientation of the forced Side-Apparation as soon as her feet hit solid ground again; the nauseating effects of the dizzying mode of transport are worse than usual, as their captor took them on a highly convoluted route of swift jumps before they wound up here…. Wherever 'here' is.
Carefully opening her eyes, Hermione is instantly blasted with an 'Incarcerous' spell; magical ropes twist and bind her limbs tightly, pinning her in place against a rough stone wall. Refusing to allow her incipient fear to gain traction, she concentrates on taking a rapid, comprehensive survey of her surrounds, peripherally noting her abductor roughly throwing Pansy's Petrified form face-up onto a large brass bed to her right.
The space screams 'evil dungeon': windowless, swathed in black cloth, with a variety of modern and medieval torture devices proudly displayed on the far wall. Hermione catalogues a metal breast-ripper, a wooden knee-splitter, a cat o' nine tails, actual thumbscrews, bamboo wedges, and a few scold's bridles.
Talk about overkill: most Dark wizards are content with a lengthy session of repeated 'Crucios' to get their jollies. Hermione dryly wonders if the sadistic décor came as part of a discounted kinky furnishings package, such is the stereotypical villainous effect of the dreary space.
She is rudely jostled from her musings as the masked man prises apart her lips, jamming an uncorked vial between them. The dagger that he used to subdue Pansy is now aimed directly at her right eye.
"Drink up, sweet thing – the whole dose, or I'll carve out your eye and force you to swallow that, too," the creep coos. "I'm excited to find out how you react to this clever little number – it should knock out your magic for over a day at a time, so I'm told."
The tip of the knife moves closer; there is a tenth of an inch between it, and permanent blindness. Hermione glugs down the repugnant concoction, struggling not to bring it straight back up. The rank smell alone is enough to induce vomiting.
"That's my good girl," the kidnapper crows. "I haven't told you the best part: this new potion keeps you sentient, but delightfully docile. Isn't that ingenious? The perfect little fuck toy… I mean, I could simply Petrify you, like my back-up bunny over there– " he nods at Pansy– "but you're a tricky little number, and who knows what wandless feats you're capable of? No, better to be safe than sorry, babe."
Hermione glares as the odious philter begins to have a detrimental effect on her system, muzzling her magic and lending a heavy lassitude to her bound limbs. I have to fight this – and I have to keep this arsehole talking, until I know who he is. I can do this.
"W-Won't you tell me who you are? You don't intend to wear that mask when you– when you… t-take me… do you…?" Hermione injects a helplessly terrified quality to her tone, summoning tears to her eyes to add to the 'damsel in distress' façade.
"Patience, babe – and once I'm sure the Servus Puella has worked, I'll undo the Incarcerous and away we go." Hermione can hear the elated grin in his voice, though the mask still hides his face. "Marcus named it that – 'Servus Puella' – it's Latin for 'slave girl'; don't have to tell you that, I reckon."
"You always did think you were a– what's that Muggle phrase? – a smart cookie, huh? Gave us a merry old chase… but here you are, trussed up and drugged to the gills, ready to be banged and bred," he rubs together his hands as he laughs exultantly.
Wait – I know that laugh… it's just as cocky and obnoxious as I remember. Come on, come on, take off that awful mask: I have to be certain. Hermione remains mute as the thug begins to peel off his gloves, tossing them carelessly on the floor. He makes a production of untying his black hooded cape, leaving it in place as he leans closer, the nastily sharp blade remaining in his right hand.
"You know, 'Mione – you don't mind if I call you 'Mione, do you? Nah, of course you don't – I really had a thing for you, back at Hoggies," he toys with the end of her thick, tawny braid, brushing it against his lips as she represses her instinctive recoil.
"But you– you led me on, only to drop me like a hot potato– like the little bitch cocktease you still are, yeah? I have to say, I'm terribly disappointed in you, slut… I can't believe you're fucking Draco Malfoy, of all people."
He tsks disapprovingly. "Draco Malfoy! He's not even a proper bad boy, if that's the attraction – he's nothing but a fake Death Eater who failed at every task the Dark Lord entrusted to him. Fucking pathetic – and a drunk."
Hermione chews the inside of her mouth, rounding her eyes and upping the tear factor, striving to tamp down her rage to a manageable level. You'll pay for every debasing insult, every sexist slur, every despicable threat – and every stolen touch. She chances a look at Pansy, gladdened immeasurably by the simmering choler that has replaced the terror in her brunette friend's wide eyes.
The telepathic conversation she'd shared with Draco a few short minutes ago flows through her mind, buttressing her courage. Hermione briefly closes her eyes, recalling every impassioned word.
Draco. I have to do this – I have to fight for Pansy… and for myself. Trust me, darling – trust me to save myself, this time. Even if he drugs me again – I'm going to call on our soul bond, and you're going to help me, do you understand? We're going to do this together, Draco. And we're going to win.
Hermione… are you certain you can do this? Absolutely, unquestionably sure? We've not really explored the full potential of our bond – nor tapped it, not purposefully, and not for something this bloody risky –
I'm one hundred percent positive I can do this, Draco. I'm the Brightest Witch of My Age, remember?
You're the Brightest Witch in the World, Hermione. If you say you can do this – I believe you. You tell me who he is, and where you are, as soon as you know, yes? And when the time comes – you'll know the moment – you remember what we are to each other, and you take everything I give you. All of it.
I will, Draco. I swear to you – we'll beat him. Together.
One last thing, Hermione – I enspelled your golden headband. If any man other than me attempts to touch or remove it – the laurel leaves will sharpen and cut him to ribbons. Use it, ma petite. Do not hesitate.
A cruelly hard slap to her left cheek snaps back her head; Hermione doesn't need to fake her tears, as her face immediately begins to throb and swell.
"Hey! I'm talking to you, bitch! Don't pretend you're passing out, we paid a small fucking fortune to perfect this potion," her tormentor peevishly purports. "Shame Marcus couldn't be here – but he'll join us, eventually. No interfering bastard elves to save you tonight, Golden Girl, I've made sure of that," he boasts.
"We're just about to get to the fun part of the evening; I've decided to breed you first – hell, I'm feeling generous, so I'll fuck you on the bed for Round One. Right next to Pansy: she's an infamous slag, she'll probably get off on watching us," he gloats.
"But first – I'll get rid of those pesky ropes, shall I?" He points his wand and chants, "Emancipare"; the magical cords unwind and slowly vanish, leaving Hermione swaying as the drug forced down her throat attacks her balance.
Her kidnapper solves the problem of her dodgy equilibrium by tossing her on the bed, next to Pansy; Hermione surreptitiously pats her friend's frozen hand, hoping to transmit some small assurance that all hope is not lost.
"Look at you two… my perfect little pets, mine to do with as I please," he brags. "Marcus is going to be livid he missed this– serves the stupid arse right for deviating from the original plan… I told him not to try for you in the Ministry! Too many variables: we'll keep watching and bide our time, that's what I said all along. Ah well, he doesn't mind my sloppy seconds overmuch, as it happens. Sharing is caring, and all that."
"P-Please – please don't hurt us… we'll do… do wha… wha'ever you say…" Hermione slurs her mewling entreaty, carefully testing the drugged dampening of her magic as their captor throws back his head in a malicious cackle.
"Well, of course you will – that's the entire sodding point, you know-it-all twat!" his hand snakes out to grip her chin, forceful enough to leave a bruise. "Look how the mighty have fallen… 'Mione and the Little Flower… I'll definitely enjoy cutting off your gowns, pretty as they are," he decides, releasing her chin to finger the handle of his dagger.
"But first – time for a proper introduction, yeah? Re-introduction, I should say."
He dramatically folds back the hood of his cape (the incongruous memory of attending a hilariously dreadful community theatre performance of 'The Phantom of the Opera' jumps into Hermione's brain – though the primary actor in that show had deliberately played it for laughs, unlike this bombastic prick, she caustically reflects). From her downward angle, she catches a scant glimpse of short, golden blonde curls.
Hermione's potion-affected, sluggish heart beats faster as the man finally strips away the hateful silver Death Eater mask. He grins down at her with a familiar, overweeningly smug expression on his traditionally handsome face.
I knew it! I bloody well knew it. You dirty, depraved, traitorous bastard.
Moistening her dry lips, Hermione fashions her greeting to be as shakily submissive and timorous as she can.
Let him think me cowed, and weak. He's in for a hell of a rude shock in the not-too-distant future.
"Hello… Cormac."
