Hi to anyone who reads this story,
This is my fic Desperate Measures which I've been writing over the past year. It is now finished, but I'm just making a few tweaks to spellings, grammar and a few plot and characterisation details. I've really enjoyed writing this and I hope anyone reading this enjoys it too.
So, ummmm, yeah - let's carry on with the story. Please review and let me know what you think about it.
Hermione Granger or Emma Mercer as she was going to be known from now on, leaned against the outside wall of the Hog's Head smoking a cigarette. She hated these dirty little white sticks that emitted poisonous smoke, and if her parents had known she was smoking - they would have seriously disapproved. They were dentists and smoking caused yellow teeth and bad breath in their opinion. But that wasn't the issue at the moment. She was twenty and could do anything she wanted. The cigarette was for the extra allure and it made her cough if she inhaled too deeply.
Why was she here, outside this distasteful pub, dressed like a whore, unrecognisable even to herself? She reminded herself, for Ron.
She smiled to herself as she remembered relaying her plan to Dumbledore. He wasn't surprised as more amused by the transformations she could go through without magic. Already she had dyed her hair a striking blonde, but needed potion to straighten her hair instead of the electrical Muggle straighteners she used at home. It was important she was unrecognisable. Adding in coloured contacts that were a light baby blue and losing a few pounds and shaping her body up from a comfortable slim to skinny with muscles in the right places in the stomach and shapely legs. She looked every inch the pampered and gorgeous star.
But she hated the way she looked like this. The black robe she was wearing was too short - if she bent over, she would be showing off more than she wanted to ever show - even to a lover with the lights on. The robe was too low cut; it showed more of her breasts than she wanted to. But, hopefully it would attract at least one of the right men. It had to. There wasn't any time to lose.
Hermione knew they were in there and it was just a case of waiting for them to leave. She could see one of their cars waiting outside, and she would too. Wait all bloody night if she had too.
Half an hour passed. She was starting to get tired. Her four-inch spike stilettos were hurting her back and her feet ached and she swore if her boobs stayed in this position round her neck any longer, she would get a headache. But she carried on. For Ron's sake, attracting one or more Death Eaters to take her home with them and become a regular visitor, as a maid, whore, anything would get her closer to finding her friend.
The door opened, Hermione looked up in hope that it would be one of them. She was disappointed; it was just a leering old drunk. She looked at him disdainfully and the poor old sod staggered off wailing about how attractive he used to be.
More long minutes followed. Was it really worth the embarrassment? Nobody knew her real identity and she was glad for that. More old wizards ogled her nearly naked body and witches gave her filthy looks. She cared only for a moment until she remembered that she was Emma Mercer like this, not Hermione Granger and Hermione Granger would never be associated with such a character. Her reputation was safe – not that she really cared in the first place, she tried to lie to herself.
Was she really going to submit her body to Death Eaters? For all she knew, they might rape her, kill her and leave her in a ditch - then where would she be? She hoped they were all impotent, with no leanings towards sadomasochism and would just want a pretty face or intelligent young woman around the place. She wasn't sure if it would even work. It seemed like such a good idea at the time to engage herself to the service of Death Eaters and use herself as a honey trap to find Ron - surely even they would have base desires? And who says they would tell her or let her hear anything about where Ron was? But that was where she had her advantage - Fred and George's ultra extendable ears. Even in the dead of night when they would be whispering three rooms away in their dingy hideout, the ears would be out.
It was a bad idea. She knew it now. They were never going to come out and sooner or later she would be bundled in a car and never seen again. It was becoming harder to be positive, this brilliant plan now seemed like she had plotted to send herself in front of Voldemort and try and fight him as an eleven year old. How could she be so stupid?
In spite of herself, she still stayed. After reproaching herself, it wasn't long before the door swung open and the faces of Nott, Avery, MacNair and other known Death Eaters were in front of her face. It was time to put plans to action.
She flicked her hair and eyed them up suggestively. Several of them gulped nervously - oh come on. Hermione thought, say something.
One she didn't know approached her, trying to keep straight after so many drinks, he whispered a proposition in her ear. She didn't need asking twice and followed them to the car and got in, slamming the door.