A/N: We are going to pretend Diagon Alley is on the coast, rather than London.
Chapter 3: Little Lamb, Who Made Thee
A chittering directly next to her ear awoke Hermione. She fought to open her eyes, feeling as though she had been dragged through the pits of hell and back. Fire burned through her, and the searing pain was too much to bear. Unable to lift herself, she turned to her side and vomited as sobs broke through the heaves. The splattering of sick made the critter scamper off in the opposite direction, its nails scraping over the floor.
Hermione fought to recollect her last bit of consciousness. Pushing herself up, she leaned her shoulder against the wall and buried her face into her hands. She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth in an attempt to steady the aching vibrations of her body. She winced, memories flooding her all at once.
She was drugged with some kind of poison—a cocktail strong enough to paralyze her and create hallucinations. No doubt a drop more would have killed her. With her brain hammering against her skull in time with every beat of her heart, she groaned and touched along her heated flesh, feeling for wounds. She found none, though every swipe of her fingertips felt like boiling water being dripped in paths over her body.
Her saliva felt like sand in her throat as she attempted swallowing. There was a sickly sweet aftertaste lingering in her mouth, and she thought the taste of it might send her into a second round of vomiting.
Malfoy's eyes—sea and storm—haunted her, and unease swam through her murky mind as she wondered if the afflicted eye held magical capabilities all its own. Without magic coursing through her veins, her Occlumency was nonexistent. His right eye was the same electrifying shade of blue as Mad-Eye Moody's, but it didn't bounce around in his head. Instead it stared straight through her. Hermione shivered even recalling the feel of his gaze on her, the weight of his body over her.
A rattling sounded down the corridor, and a dim blue light shined, brightening the cell enough that she had to shield her face. Heavy footsteps reverberated off the stone corridor—quick, but graceful, a footstep pattern unfamiliar to her.
Blaise Zabini appeared and crossed to her in two wide steps, looking over his shoulder to assure they were alone as he looped an arm under hers and attempted to bring her to a standing position. Hermione was far too weak to stand on her own, instead leaning into him, certain every part of her that brushed against him was alight with flame. His oaky scent swirled in her head, and she began to see spots in front of her eyes.
He bounced her twice on her tiptoes, trying to coax her legs into working. "Why didn't you leave? Why didn't you go back to the Muggle world before it was too late?" he hissed.
Hermione lifted her head and attempted to glare at him. "I'm going to fight."
A chortle vibrated in his chest. "Fight? You're going to be slaughtered!"
She scoffed, using the back of her hand to wipe a stray line of vomit from her chin. "I'd rather die a hero's death than to cower at his knees and do his bidding."
Zabini shook his head, muttering about the diminished caliber of her intellect. "You're a fucking fool. And you're lucky that I'm feeling generous—if the Dark Lord had his way, you'd rot in here."
What is he talking about? Was she leaving the prison? Her head swam as she tried to make sense of it. "Where are you taking me?"
"Nott."
Terror seized Hermione, and her knees buckled. Zabini nearly tripped as she completely sank to the ground. "No!"
"Get up, Granger. Stop making a scene. Nott is simply going to look you over and make certain that you're suitable," he urged, grappling with her limp frame.
"Nott will kill me anyway!"
Zabini only rolled his eyes as he put his hands under her arms and brutishly snatched her upright. "Alrigh', Zabini?" came a growl from behind them.
He stopped and pinched the bridge of his nose, a mask of haughty annoyance sliding over his face in the dim light. "Did you need something, mongrel?"
Fenrir Greyback walked around them and reached a hand out and scraped his dirty fingernails along Hermione's cheek. "Pretty little poppet."
"Back off," he instructed, bumping Greyback's shoulder forcefully as he stumbled along with Hermione.
"How much?" the werewolf questioned, and his green eyes flashed with a lewd sort of glee—wolfish even in the grotesque face of a man.
Zabini stopped their ambling and glared up at Greyback. "More than you've got."
"I'll bring you three Mudbloods replacements." He grinned, a spot of spit collecting in the corner of his mouth. His fingers ran over the flesh of her neck, and she felt the sharp slice of a nail drawing blood. Greyback leaned in and inhaled the scent of her blood, relishing in her misery. "She's a special little Mudblood. I'll enjoy making her my plaything."
Greyback smirked viciously down at her, inhaling her scent once more as he eyed her with lascivious desire. "I'll fuck that dirty little cunt of yours so hard, you won't be able to walk for a week."
Her stomach roiled disgustingly, and his voice was nearly drowned out by the rushing of blood in her ears. His grip on her arm felt powerful enough to snap the bone.
"Fuck off, mutt. You can have the scraps here in the Pen."
Her head swam and she fought to keep the two Death Eaters in focus. The possibilities of what she was drugged with still replayed in her head on loop. Something with larkspur and angel trumpets. Two ingredients that were typically used to poison someone.
And yet, he hadn't killed her. She was being kept alive to become someone's plaything. Abject horror gripped her entire body, and her breaths were rapid, never enough to draw in sufficient air. I must be going into shock. She clenched her eyes shut and swallowed down saliva.
Theodore Nott was waiting at the end of a corridor with his wand drawn on Greyback as they approached. "Did Blaise need your assistance to fetch the Mudblood, or can you just not help yourself?" he questioned as he leaned away from Hermione, looking down on her with revulsion.
"Zabini drives a hard bargain. But don't you worry that pretty little head of yours, girl," he eyed her once more, running the tip of his tongue over rotted teeth. "I'll have you in no time at all."
Nott rolled his eyes and stepped out of the doorway. "Hurry up and get her in here, Zabini. And keep your grubby little paws to yourself."
A low growl rumbled in the back of Greyback's throat before Zabini half-tossed Hermione into the room. It was stark white, lined with walls of potions and vials, and barbaric looking instruments hung from hooks along one wall. Hermione had never seen such horrific tools in any trade, and she felt her stomach react in kind. Anticipation and fear bubbled up in the back of her throat as searing bile splashed across her feet.
"Oh, for fuck's sake, Granger. Get ahold of yourself," Nott chided, waving away the sick as fast as it touched the floor.
Hermione looked up at him, realising she had never been this close to him ever before. Nott stood tall, a proud set to his shoulders, and his jaw clenched tightly as he worked to cover his hands with gloves of magic. His eyes were nearly amber, a shade that reminded her of a lion's, and watching her with all of the precision of a predator stalking its prey. "Scared?" he mocked, though no smile touched his steely features. "You should be. Take a look around you, Mudblood. Everything in this room could kill you in ways not seen in hundreds of years."
Afraid to take her eyes from him, she glanced briefly to her side. Yersinia pestis read the label of one vial. "You—You can't," she attempted. She stumbled sideways against a table as she tried to escape Theo's advancing steps. "I'm too valuable to your cause."
Nott threw his head back and let out a barking laugh. Greyback rattled a wheezing laugh behind her. The mirth on Nott's face made her heart race faster, and he nodded thoughtfully. "The little Mudblood Queen. You think so highly of yourself. After Potter died, the Dark Lord sees little use for you." And just as quickly as it came, the glee was replaced with a glacial stare. "Undress."
Hermione stood stark still, cringing each time Greyback's breath blew over her skin where he inhaled her scent from behind. Everything in her told her to obey, that she would never make it out of the room alive if she didn't. Unfortunately, her brain was short circuiting, and her hands refused to cooperate with such orders. Nott glowered from where he stood, raising his wand as he did. A few slashes of his wand through the air and her clothing fell to the ground around her, tattered.
"Poppet," Greyback nearly purred from beside her, wrapping an arm around her back as he slid his hand over her bare rear. "Name your price, Zabini. I'd like to be the first."
The wizard in question simply leaned against the countertop behind him, picking his nail with the tip of a dagger. "As I said before, mutt—"
Greyback skimmed his teeth along her neck and Hermione's heart began to race beneath his lips. "Don't touch her," Nott spat, sending ropes from the end of his wand to wrap around Greyback's neck. "Parkinson!"
From an adjoining room, Pansy Parkinson sauntered in. Dressed in her black robes, dark hair framing a pale face, she looked like a harbinger of death. Hermione supposed she was. She perked up upon seeing Hermione and grinned widely. "Ah, the guest of honour," she leered, reaching into her pocket. She removed a piece of candy, wrapped in silver, and plucked it unceremoniously from the foil.
She crumpled the foil in her hands, and it ignited into a burst of silvery flames. Hermione shrank back against the table, trying desperately to cover her intimate areas the best she could. Popping the black candy between her crimson lips, Parkinson's smile widened as she closed in. "Parkinson, your dog needs to be taken out before he begins rutting against the Mudbloods. Again."
Ignoring Nott, Parkinson leaned into Hermione, shorter by an inch but more intimidating by a mile. "A pity. I'd enjoy nothing more than to watch Fenrir have his way with you," she purred, and the smell of licorice made Hermione's traitorous stomach pang with hunger. It burned in her throat and ached in her belly. A hunger-inducing charm of some kind. Hermione held her breath as best as she could, only drawing in a quick rush of air when the fire in her lungs became unbearable. "Have you," Pansy began, dropping her hand between Hermione's thighs, "inspected her yet, Nott?"
"I could get back to my work if you would remove this beast from my sight," Nott replied, gesturing to where Greyback was trying unsuccessfully to free his neck.
The edge of one perfectly manicured nail grazed against Hermione's seam, and her breathing quickened. Parkinson let out a laugh. "She certainly is responsive."
Her hand moved to rest at the bend of Hermione's hip, pushing her back until her tailbone knocked painfully into the table. Her lips were so close to Hermione's ear, when she spoke it tickled her lobe. "You listen to me, you little cunt. You might be Blaise's now. But one thing I know about him—he tires of his toys quickly," she whispered, her nails biting into the flesh of Hermione's hip. "And when every Death Eater in the Dark Lord's ranks has had his fill of you and you've served your purpose, it's my turn, and I won't be so gentle or forgiving with you."
"Enough about your desire for sloppy seconds," Nott said, tossing the door open with a wave of his wand. He held up a vial of chartreuse liquid between his fingers. "Get out. Make sure your pet is properly shackled before taking the transformation potion this time. He nearly killed an Underling last week."
Parkinson leaned away, grazing her painted lips over Hermione's cheek. With a glance over her shoulder at Nott, she drawled, "Don't get too excited when you finger fuck her, Theo. It wouldn't do to ruin another pair of standard issue trousers on Mudblood pussy."
With that, Parkinson snatched the potion and grabbed at the end of the noose around Greyback's neck, giving it a tug toward the door. "Come on, you filthy mongrel."
Hermione let out the breath she'd been holding, trying desperately to draw in air and choking in the process. The acrid air burned through her lungs as she gulped down oxygen. Nott tapped the tips of his fingers on the stretcher along the other wall. "Well, are you going to come and sit, or shall I strap you down?"
Hermione, suspicious of being given choices, hesitated where she stood. The aftereffects of Malfoy's potion were still working winnowy streams through her veins, making her feel both light as air and heavy as stone. "Granger, get your arse on the stretcher. Now."
Her feet shuffled as she limped towards where he stood, waiting impatiently. As she sat primly on the edge of the stretcher, the chill of the metal sent a shiver running through her and her stomach growled. "Hungry?" Nott taunted, pushing her shoulders back until her bony shoulder blades hit the stretcher top painfully.
Her head swam, the smell of licorice still clinging to her nostrils and the feel of Malfoy's weight still pressing over her legs. The burn down her back and over her stomach was agonising as Nott spread her arms and pinned them with a sticking spell. When he did the same with her legs, she attempted to thrash against him. Malfoy enjoyed the cat-and-mouse, alight with joy when she put up a fight. Nott, however, was swift to put an end to her wrestling. He moved with purpose, every bit of him radiating cool efficiency.
"Have you ever been pregnant?" he questioned, lubricating his fingertips before he put them at the apex of her thighs. He didn't wait for her answer before she felt his fingers push their way into her. Her own fingers gripped the sides of the stretcher as he pressed down on her lower abdomen in the most brutal semblance of an exam she'd ever experienced. "Answer me when spoken to, Mudblood. I have very little tolerance for insolence."
Hermione shook her head from side to side once and it seemed sufficient enough. "Do you menstruate regularly?" he continued, frowning at the way her hip bones protruded. She nodded her head once.
Aloof, his stare penetrated her as his fingers withdrew, and he ran his wand over the length of her body several times. Nott worked entirely in wordless magic, and she couldn't decipher a single spell as he set fire to her veins. Flames licked under the surface of her skin, chased by an icy aftershock repeatedly until the sensation began to feel more like insects crawling under the surface of her skin. The unsettled feeling seemed to be concentrated in her head and genital region, and it became so pronounced that she felt as though she would go insane from the discomfort. "Please. Stop."
"As I understand it, you have been acting as a doula of sorts to the women in the Village?"
Her fists balled at her sides as she tried to ignore the feeling of fire and ice squirming in her head. "They have no access to Healers."
"So you thought you'd step in?"
A groaning scream tore through her throat as the icy chaser stopped and fire combusted through her entire being. What had Nott asked? Hermione fought to recall the conversation as her hands clasped in a vice around the edges of the stretcher. "Are you medically trained?" Nott demanded, poking into her ribs with the end of his wand until she let out a gurgling cry.
"No." Her voice was a rasping hiss. "No. But I know some Muggle methods and medicine."
"Given you are little more than a filthy Muggle at this point," Nott began, unsticking her bonded arms, "that knowledge still makes you the crème de la crème, Granger. Your brain is your saving grace again."
The two Death Eaters exchanged a secretive look before Nott tossed a slip of tattered black linen at her and yanked her arm up to force her into a sitting position. "Dress. Now."
Hermione thought she might faint from his intrusions into her body but dipped her head to make pulling the dress on easier. "I don't understand."
"You are in no position to ask questions. Just do as you're told, or be hanged in the Square for all to see."
"Always with the dramatics. I'll dole out the commands from here, Theodore. She's mine now." Zabini lifted up from where he leaned against the counter and jabbed a finger in his chest. Nott rolled his eyes at the sharp edge to his counterpart's voice.
The fight drained out of Hermione as she tucked the slip of a dress over her knees and held onto her legs with dirty hands. Every bit of her felt as though she had been beaten, tied to a stake, and set aflame, only to be extricated before the blaze could consume her entirely. "Get up," Nott commanded, pulling her arm until she turned and her feet hit the floor with a heavy thump.
Though his hands had a magical barrier of wispy silver coating to separate his flesh from her skin, Nott withdrew a stark white kerchief from his breast pocket. A single drop of her blood tainted the cloth for a mere moment and then it was gone. Hermione dragged her eyes around the room, pristine and completely devoid of any dirt or biohazardous waste. "A scouring charm threaded into the fabric," he explained, tucking the kerchief away and smiling at her wickedly. "Have you forgotten already what magic can do?"
"Of course she hasn't forgotten, Nott. Pity, really, the need to strip her of the one thing that made her valuable," Zabini said from where he had lifted a vial containing an ostrich foot to frown at its contents.
Have I? Hermione hadn't felt the pull of magic in her vessels in years. Her fingers no longer tingled with longing, and her soul no longer felt encompassed by the warm embrace of magic. She ran over basic spells each day, practiced the flicks of her wrists to keep them conditioned, but she might as well be a child with a stick playing make-believe for all she could conjure anymore.
"Well, I'm sure you'll find she's worth whatever gold she'll earn you. She's scrawny, but she should hold up another few months. Maybe a year, at most."
"Excellent. I'll make sure she makes good friends with your Garnet."
Nott's eyes flashed before he adjusted his shoulders and lifted his chin. He waved his hand in agitated dismissal. The last thing Hermione saw before the door swung shut was Nott leaning over the stretcher, his head bowed as he tried to steady his breathing. Ropes wrapped tightly around Hermione's wrists, biting into the skin. Zabini's hand slithered around her neck and held her upright as they made their way from the examination room toward the corridor beyond.
He led her through winding halls, some lined with prison cells and some made of damp stones. Emerald flames licked up the walls as they went. Cries of the prisoners echoed around her, rattled within her. She felt each of their moans vibrate in her teeth, sear through her veins. Dementors circled the skies outside, tethered by magic to the castle. Their very presence cast an ominous chill that whispered through the corridors.
A flashing light from outside backlit a door at the end of the corridor. Hermione tried to steady her breathing. She counted each slow intake of breath, tried to time it with each sweep of the light.
When the door opened, they stepped out onto sand. Hermione nearly tripped, losing her footing over the unexpected and uneven ground. The clean ocean air burned through her lungs. Sea spray clung to her skin like morning dew to grass, causing a shiver to run down her spine. She ignored the dementors swirling above her, stalking her as a vulture circles carrion. She closed her eyes once more, her eyes flickering back and forth between the lids with each illumination of the sky.
When she reopened them, she sought out the source of the light and found the rotating lantern atop a lighthouse that sat at the edge of a drop off. Of course, how had she forgotten?
Hermione had seen the light, shining in the distance as she trudged through the mire of her daily life.
A crude beacon, a sign of hope in times of darkness.
She loathed the sight of it. It taunted her now, the silhouette of it a ghastly reminder of the naive optimism she once held.
"I'm going to take you to where you'll be staying and in the morning, I'll introduce you to the others," Zabini told her, stumbling slightly over the sand.
"I'm not staying in the Pen?"
Zabini wouldn't look at her, instead opting to stare out at the moon reflecting off the ocean. "Looks like you should count your lucky stars. Or perhaps count each twinkling little light in the dragon constellation, because Malfoy saved you from that fate. For now, at least."
"What do you mean?"
"Enough questions, Mudblood."
Somehow, the slur carried no weight as it rolled off his tongue. He appeared more exhausted than anything, though there was still a lithe, dangerous edge to him that told her he was a lethal predator.
He led her over the dunes and down a rickety set of steps that led out to where waves lapped at the beach. She felt, rather than saw, the shimmer of magic as her feet hit the water. "It's warded against the others," he explained, the hand at the nape of her neck loosening slightly. "They all have to please the rusalka to get in. You will not be able to get in or out without me, so don't bother trying. You'll end up blind and bedridden the moment you touch the wall of magic, if it doesn't kill you instantly."
She expected nothing less than Dark magic woven into every fiber of the world around her. "Why don't you just kill me and get it over with, then?"
"As you said earlier, you're far too valuable."
He led her to the edge of a cliffside and she could see the mouth of a cave, a faint amber light glowing within. Zabini stopped to prick his finger and wipe it along another glimmering barricade.
He stepped into the damp, all encompassing darkness and used the end of his wand to light a cigarette before holding it out in front of them. "You'll stay here when you aren't in the Trove. You are not to wander and you are not to tell others where you are being kept when out of their sight. Should you utter a single syllable about this place to any of the officers you meet, your hands will be covered with the blood of nine innocent Mudbloods. And we wouldn't want that, now would we?"
Hermione didn't deign to reply. His grip tightened once more, his fingers knotting in the hair at the base of her head. "Answer me."
"I'm without magic, not hearing," she replied as he stopped before a makeshift door of misshapen wood that fit like a wrong puzzle piece.
He scoffed and opened the door to toss her into the depths of the room beyond. A small candle at the far side flickered to life and illuminated a small bedroom of sorts. A thin bed sat along one wall, a desk along the other. The blanket that covered the bed was tattered and worn, but it appeared clean.
"Rest up, Granger. You'll meet the others tomorrow. They'll get you trained in no time."
With that, he spun on his heel, blowing a plume of smoke from between his lips. "What am I going to be doing?" she asked, desperate for him to contradict the gnawing feeling in her gut. The verbiage both he and Nott had used in reference to her promised only more agony. She was to be used by the Death Eaters, but to what capacity? Raped mercilessly? Her brain ravaged by their near constant invasions? Would she be forced to kill others? To watch others being killed?
Zabini stopped and glanced over his shoulder at her. "You're going to be making me a very rich man," he told her before slamming the slab of wood closed in her face.
xXx
