Notes: Thank you for continuing to give this a chance. Shit gets painfully real here.
WARNINGS: Explicit description of sexual assault. Please skip the first section if that is not for you. The second section includes references to it, but nothing explicit.
7. All Men Are Bad and in Their Badness Reign
Hermione gasps as frigid liquid trails down her face. Another barrage of water crashes over her, soaking her to the bone. The rags of her clothes slip against her grimy skin.
"Get up, Mudblood bitch."
Her breath leaves her. She claws at her throat, vision narrowing. Her lungs rally past the rising panic and she manages one shuddering breath.
She does not look up. She knows who stands above her. He is nameless, faceless, but she would know him anywhere. He is what she cannot remember. He is her personal guide to hell and insanity.
Her entire body tenses, the blood in her veins frozen in place. She doesn't feel when he rips her from the ground. When he flings her into the opposite corner of the cell, her skull cracking on the stone wall. She does not feel his hand on her calves, her thighs and then higher. She doesn't know when he shifts her upward, aligning their hips until he rips into her. She cannot feel the searing pain of a searing poker surging upwards between her legs, drawing blood with every stroke. She is nothing and so she is not here.
"Hermione!"
She is not here. She cannot hear. She cannot feel.
"Bloody hell, Hermione," the words are a broken croak she doesn't understand. But they continue. "You're not alone. I promise you, you're not alone."
There is more blood underneath her now. She does not feel how slick her thighs are with it.
"And if you listen to me, if you do as I say, we can kill this fucking bastard."
Now she's listening.
"The flint is by your left hand, maybe an inch or two away." She moves her hand blindly, searching. The cool stone gives way to the smooth edges of the familiar tool.
The grunts filling the room nearly drown out the next words. "Good. Now the hard part. You need to get the diary. It's hidden inside the false stone, which is directly behind your head. You'll have to dislodge the brick first, but the diary is on top."
Her body jerks as the silver mask bobs above her. Hermione shatters. There's no way she can get the stone out and the diary free without alerting him.
The voice is louder now, as if the speaker is holding her in his arms. "I promise you, Hermione, I will destroy him." His voice trembles, breaks as he speaks, as if he too is beneath this monster. "You can do this. You can fight."
But she can't. She can't fight. This monster above her, tearing her apart, is stronger, faster and crueler.
"You can do this," he whimpers and it is as if he is begging, begging her to end this for both of them.
So she pretends, for this other who needs her. She pretends she is strong and brave and clever. She writhes, struggling, forcing the silver mask to pay attention to her kicking feet as she slides the stone free behind her head. The sharp pain his hands leave as he digs holes in her thighs is impossible to ignore, but she manages not to gasp, not to bring attention to her hand buried in the depths of the stone wall.
Her fingers close on the diary and her companion gasps in relief. "Good. Excellent, Hermione. Now I want you to slash his throat with the flint—it's okay if you only draw a little blood. I only need a drop. Then place that blood on a page of the diary and I will do the rest."
She can't imagine having the strength to surge upward now, to feel the broken vestiges of her loins as her core contracts. But they are so very close to an end and she will do anything to finish it sooner.
With a ragged shriek, she surges upward. The apex of her legs becomes an impossible inferno of lightning hot agony. She clenches her teeth, drawing blood from her lip as she swings the hand with the flint. It catches her attacker just beneath his mask, tender flesh giving way. She wastes no time, tearing herself away from him as he bellows in surprise, her body ripping in new and ungodly ways. She cares nothing for the damage, only the diary. She flips it open even as the beast lunges for her, smearing the blood across the pages with the dripping flint.
He catches her, grabs her by her matted hair and wrestles her back beneath him. She can't stop the scream that tears from her lips as he buries himself within her once more.
"You Mudblood cunt," the mask hisses. "I will break you in half for that."
"Just a little while longer," soothes the other voice. "I promise."
She fades back to nothing. Her body is not her body. It is not breaking in this horrible, degrading way. She is not here.
But then the pounding slows and a heavy weight presses her downward, crushing her to the bloody stone below. She can't breathe, but it's different than before. A real, physical weight holds her down. Her eyes blink open and she sees the silver mask laying on her chest. She tries to scramble back, but the weight is too much and her limbs are nothing but twigs.
Black begins to eat away at the edges of her vision.
So this is now it ends, her final breathes literally stolen by this monster who has already taken everything she has to give. It would be darkly poetic if it weren't her life on the line.
Hermione lets her eyes flutter closed.
The weight is gone.
She is finally free. She wonders if this is how death is supposed to feel.
"Hermione. Oh Merlin, Hermione."
The voice of her companion, her protector. Has he followed her beyond the veil?
Hands are on her, smoothing back her sweat-slicked hair, gentle fingers tracing every curve of her face. Full lips brush across her temple again and again.
Hermione blinks and stares into eyes of the deepest cobalt. As she watches, the darkness fades away, leaving luminous sapphire irises gazing down at her. His features dance in candlelight. She reaches a trembling hand to trace the line of his too-perfect jaw. His skin is rough where his stubble breaks through and so very warm. Her fingers trace the contours of him, lines she's memorized but never felt. She wipes tears away from his brilliant eyes, savoring the dampness against her skin.
He is real. Flesh and blood and breath.
"Tom," she murmurs through bloodied lips.
His answering smile chases a fraction of the pain away. "Hermione." But the smile is wiped from his lips an instant later as he pulls back, taking inventory of her ravaged body. "Salazar and Merlin and all that is holy," he mutters, but he never takes his hand away from where it cups her jaw. Not even as he reaches across her and riffles through something that rustles loudly. His hand returns with a wand.
Hermione feels her eyes widen. He cradles her face with his palms, the wand clattering to the stone beneath them.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he murmurs softly, his voice different than she remembers. What was once smooth and alluring is now raw and broken. "I will never hurt you."
His warm lips press to her temple again and she uses the last of her strength to wrap her battered arms around his shoulders. He lets her draw him in until they are laying together on the sodden ground. He wraps his arms tentatively around her shoulders and when she does not protest, gradually tightens his grip until she is flush against him, the frantic tattoo of his heart pounding in her ear.
They stay like that for an eternity, the candle burning low, but it is not nearly long enough.
She does not sleep. Nor does he.
Eventually, Tom shifts, leaning back to peer down at her face. She is arrested by the sight of him. He was always painfully handsome, but now he is more, greater in a way she cannot describe. Her chest aches when she looks into his molten eyes.
He sighs and his chest rattles beside her own. "I need to heal you before anyone finds us. I won't risk you…"
Tom trails off, but she knows what he means. The severity of her injuries will, if left untreated, leave her permanently maimed, if not worse.
She flinches when she sees the wand in his hand, but she nods. "Do what you have to."
"I will do nothing to harm you," he murmurs as he rolls her gently onto her back, "But I am going to have to touch you. I need the wand for some of it, but when I get to…" he swallows thickly, but maintains eye contact. "When I get to your groin, I think it might be easier for you if it's my hand and not the wand."
"Can you do that? Heal with just your hand?"
He bites his lip and darkness reshapes his features, making his lines harsher and his eyes cold. "I have never tried, but I think so. I have been able to bring… torment with only my hand. It stands to reason I should be able to heal as well."
She is abruptly reminded he is an awful creature, born of the lust for power and bloodshed. She can't find it within herself to care. He is here and he is helping her the best he can. It is more than anyone has done for her since she came to this hell.
"Okay," she says. "Use your hands where you must."
He nods, his dark brows drawing in concentration as he begins to trail the wand along her limbs. He starts at on her face, the tips of the wand dipping hollows of her cheeks before descending along her neck. He spends several minutes working on the bruising there. She feels the pressure on her throat ease as he works. Then he sets to work on her chest. She's surprised by the lack of shame she feels as he traces the gashes marring her breasts. He has seen her at her most degraded, at the point where she could not fight anymore. Her exposed flesh is nothing compared to that.
When her chest feels only itchy, not ravaged, he has her roll over. He starts at her scalp, whispering a simple cleaning charm that cleanses her scalp and then her hair. When it settles back around her, it is no longer a matted bird's nest, but silken waves. The strands feel like a satiny waterfall against her cheek. She murmurs in awe, and he places a soft kiss at the nape of her neck.
"This is only the beginning," he says as he moves down her back, wand tracing the divots of her spine.
Tom heals her legs next, starting at her grimy feet and moving upward until he reaches her mangled thighs. When he's done with her legs, he pauses, setting the wand down beside Hermione.
He's kneeling between her legs, his lips pressed in a thin line. "I might have to touch you in places that will hurt. In places that are intimate. If you want me to stop, tell me. I won't put my hands anywhere you don't want them."
Her heart is thundering in her chest, the terror of her memories only just held at bay. But she stares into his fractured sapphire eyes and tells him, "yes. I give you permission to touch me."
He holds her gaze has his hands travel up her thighs. She flinches and he pauses. "I can stop."
"No. Keep going. I'll tell you when it's too much."
He whispers a more intricate healing incantation. She feels the blood drain from the bruises on her inner thighs. Soon the throbbing recedes. She takes a deep breath and nods. Tom moves his hands higher. The blood is thick where he touches and she feels it flake off her battered skin as he speaks another incantation. He repeats the process on her other leg.
She watches his Adam's apple bob as he comes to the apex of her thighs. He shudders, the tremor rattling his fingers against her. "I need you to spread your legs a bit wider."
Her hips scream in protest, but she does as he asks. "I'm going to touch you now, I'll start on the outside, but… but there's a lot of trauma on the inside. I think I can get to it from here, but…"
Hermione doesn't need him to clarify. "We'll see."
He nods and sets to work. His touch is warm, but clinical as he trails his fingers over her most sensitive areas. She finds his touch doesn't add the edge of panic hovering at the back of her mind. She trusts him to do as she asks and nothing more.
Soon the agonized scream of her groin has abated to a fiery ache. He lifts his brilliant sapphire eyes to hers. "I'm going to try to repair the damage from here. I think I've got the hang of it now."
She reaches out a hand and he grasps it, tangling her fingers with his. He turns back to her groin. She tightens her grip and he gives her hand a reassuring squeeze even as he begins to murmur. The burning recedes, the muscles repairing, the inflammation damping as he speaks. He is barely touching her, his palm hovering over her skin rather than touching.
After a few minutes she can barely feel anything out of the ordinary. She feels better than she can remember. It is a heady feeling that has her surging upright and wrapping her arms forcefully around Tom's torso.
His breathing is irregular and a sheen of sweat coats his skin. She realizes how much energy he has just expended healing her. Hermione presses a kiss to his damp brow.
"Thank you."
He picks up the wand and settles against the stone wall. His entire body folds inward, his shoulders rolling forward as his head drops to hang between his raised knees. He lets the wand fall by his side. "It will never be enough."
She frowns at him, confused. "It is more than enough. I feel whole for the first time in… well, memory."
"And whose fault is that?"
The truth is a cold slap, a counterpoint that turns her relief to ash.
"You are not him."
Tom's entire frame shudders. "No, I'm bloody well not. But it is not so simple. I am still the reason behind your capture, your abuse." He raises his head, his features twisted beyond recognition. His eyes gleam in the flickering light, moisture limning them. His voice is hoarse as he whispers, "your rape."
She goes still, realization flooding her. "You felt it."
The specters of horror haunting his sapphire irises give her the answer before he does. His lips tremble as he rasps, "yes. Every moment of it until he died and my connection to you snapped."
"Oh, god."
His cheeks are damp as he looks up at her from beneath tangled ebony, "I am so sorry, Hermione Granger. I am so bloody sorry."