(A/N: Okay- let the true angst begin! I'm not sure there's really a need for this warning; after all, this is an R-rated angst fic and I've been telling you all along that things would get bad, but for the sake of being conscientious, I will now state that this is the first of two consecutive chapters in which some Very Bad Things will happen to Hermione. I know, I know- didn't the poor girl go through enough in YGB? Well, what can I say…I'm twisted. Actually, from this chapter on, some really horrible things will be happening to all four main characters; not a single one of them will come through unscathed and, as long as I'm on the topic, this is as good a time as any to say that one of them won't come through at all. I'm hereby issuing an official Character Death warning.)

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Feeling a comforting hand clasp his shoulder from behind, Draco snarled and jerked away, whirling about and regaining his feet in one startlingly fast motion. He leapt backward and then stood breathing hard, fists clenched, pale hair spilling forward as he surveyed the three adults before him with slitted, feral eyes.

He looked from Snape, whose hand it had been, to McGonagall, who appeared paralyzed by horror, only her eyes moving as she stared about the room, and finally to Dumbledore, who was looking very grave indeed.

Draco's narrowed eyes kindled with rage.

"He didn't want her," he spat out; "he came for me, he wanted ME! And I'd have gone with him in a heartbeat to protect her- but no, he couldn't have me, could he? He couldn't have me even though I OFFERED to go with him so he took her and it's all YOUR BLOODY FUCKING FAULT!"

"Draco-" Dumbledore began, but Draco was in no mood to be placated.

"No!" he cried, his voice cracking with despair; "No! I won't listen- I don't want to hear- I hate you- I HATE YOU!" and he ran for the door, shoving Snape violently aside when he attempted to restrain him.

He ran without any conscious thought whatsoever as to where he was going, but his feet led him surely down his and Hermione's short private hallway, through the common room where the fire had burnt down to embers, up the spiral staircase that led to all the boys' dormitories, and through the door of the seventh-year dorm, slamming it open so hard that it crashed back against the wall with an almighty bang.

Without consciously realizing what he was doing, he sought aid from the one source he trusted in light of what he saw as Dumbledore's treachery- the two people he knew would be as determined to recover Hermione as he was; Harry and Ron.

"Potter! Weasley!" he shouted hoarsely, "Up! Get the fuck up NOW!"

Harry and Ron didn't need telling twice. Both were out of bed in a matter of seconds, and flung themselves on Draco, fists flying. Awakened from a sound sleep to find Draco yelling in their room, they were disoriented, alarmed, and completely lacking in the inhibitions that governed their behavior during the day. As a result they immediately fell to doing what they had both longed to do for weeks; beating the crap out of Draco.

For his part, Draco made no attempt to defend himself or to resist in any way. He actually welcomed the pain; he felt he deserved it, for one thing- he had failed to protect the girl he loved and if his father had his way, she would end up paying for that failure with her life. For another thing, he was simply so deeply distraught that he half hoped they would beat him senseless- it would be a good way to stop the images that were now running incessantly through his mind; horrendous images of the things his father might be doing to Hermione at that very moment.

Yes, Draco would surely have welcomed oblivion.

However, it was not to be.

McGonagall and Snape burst through the door at that moment, firing off impedimenta charms to halt the fight, and pulling the boys apart.

"Potter! Weasley!" Professor McGonagall snapped, tight-lipped, as Snape glared at them, "this is appalling. Matters are serious enough already; I will not have you compounding them by- by- brawling!"

Harry immediately went very, very still. Years of being the central figure in the fight against Voldemort had taught him to recognize instantly when a situation was bad- and judging from the actions and expressions of all those who had come bursting into his room, he was facing a very bad situation indeed. He looked from Draco to McGonagall to Snape to Dumbledore, who had just appeared in the doorway, and realized who was missing. His heart plummeted.

"Hermione," he said.

Ron, who had also been taking in Dumbledore's arrival, a puzzled expression on his face, now turned on Draco once again, his dark blue eyes narrowing dangerously.

"You miserable, slimy bastard," he hissed, "What have you done?" And he attempted to launch himself at Draco again, only to be brought up short by Snape, who placed himself swiftly between the two boys. "ENOUGH!" he roared, glaring daggers at Ron. As always, he would protect the boy he loved as a son.

"And you," he added, as his baleful glare swept the room, fixing Dean, Seamus, and Neville in turn- they were, of course, all awake and watching the proceedings with acute interest- "go back to sleep."

(As if that would be possible.)

Dumbledore cleared his throat. "Mister Potter, Mister Weasley, Mister Malfoy, you will follow me to my office, please. A very grave situation has arisen, the details of which, Harry and Ron, you will be apprised of once there. We have much to discuss.

A despairing glance passed between Harry and Ron. Please don't let her be dead, they each were praying silently; anything- anything but that. Just please God, don't let her be dead.

Without further discussion, they, along with Draco, Snape and McGonagall, followed the headmaster from the room.

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Lucius arrived, with Hermione still clasped to his chest, just outside the front gate of Malfoy Manor. In the distance he could see the ancient gray stone manor house, sitting impressively upon a small rise, set well back from the gate before which he stood. No portkey could carry him closer to the house than he was right now, nor could he apparate to any point inside these grounds. The manor was protected in much the same way Hogwarts castle was- better protected in fact, since portkeys could be used within the Hogwarts grounds, but not within the grounds of his home.

He began to walk up the long drive to the manor, floating Hermione's limp form before him at wandpoint. Reaching the house, he commanded the trembling, prostrating house elf that met him at the front door to find his wife and request that she join him in Draco's bedroom. As the elf scurried off in frantic haste to do his bidding, he levitated Hermione up the stairs to the second floor, down a long hallway, around a corner and into Draco's wing.

He passed Draco's recreation room, Draco's library, two lavish guest suites that had always been reserved exclusively for the use of Draco's friends- usually Crabbe and Goyle, though he remembered that the Parkinson girl had occupied one of them for the entire summer following Draco's fourth year at Hogwarts, sending Narcissa into transports of delight (no one could tell this, of course, but he himself, who knew his wife so well- to all others, including Draco, she had merely seemed slightly less aloof than usual); Pansy Parkinson was neither the prettiest nor the brightest girl their son had displayed an interest in, but her pedigree was impeccable; it had been a very desirable match. The following year, when Draco had broken up with Pansy, neither he nor Narcissa had been unduly worried- boys will be boys, they had thought; he was just sowing his wild oats, they had thought. Draco had always been, overall, a sensible boy and a dutiful son. He would get it out of his system, realize the sense of the match with Parkinson, and reclaim her before leaving Hogwarts; they had been sure of it. Narcissa had even been in the early stages of planning the wedding, to take place out in the rose garden, the summer after Draco's seventh year. Then this- this mudblood filth had come along and ripped their family apart; had taken that dutiful boy and turned him into a traitor. There would be no wedding now; now his son had to die.

He finally reached the largest and grandest room in the wing; Draco's bedroom, easily spanning a thousand square feet. Situated as it was at the end of the wing, three of its gray stone walls boasted magnificent floor-to-ceiling leaded glass windows, hung with heavy green velvet drapes. Placed at intervals between the windows were a massive wardrobe of ancient, dark wood, two bookcases crammed with books- Draco's absolute favorites, the ones he couldn't be bothered to walk down the hall to his library for- a writing desk, and a glass door leading out to a wide stone balcony overlooking the swimming pool. (Draco had used to dive off that balcony directly into the pool- he'd been six years old the first time he'd tried it; frightened his mother nearly to death. The house elf that had been charged with looking after him that day had been given clothes. After being beaten to within an inch of her miserable little life, of course.) On the last wall, the only one that didn't have windows, the same wall in which the door was situated, were two splendid green marble fireplaces flanking a massive wrought iron canopy bed, which was hung with dark green silk curtains.

It was at the foot of this bed that Lucius dropped Hermione, and with a flick of his wand caused a heavy leather collar to appear around her neck, attached to a chain which he anchored to the nearest bedpost. The chain was several feet long- long enough to allow her plenty of movement, but just short enough to prevent her from reaching either the bedroom door or that balcony door. Couldn't have her taking a page out of Draco's book, diving into the swimming pool and then running off into the night. Couldn't have that at all.

At just that moment, Narcissa swept regally into the room and stared down her long, aristocratic nose at the girl lying in an ungainly heap on the floor.

"So this is the little Gryffindor tramp, is it?" she asked coldly, nudging Hermione's inert form with her foot. "This is the girl who stole our son?"

"The very same."

Narcissa looked hard at him, distaste written plainly on her face. "Lucius, dear- are you SURE you got the right one?"

"Judging by Draco's reaction, quite sure, my love," Lucius drawled.

"Ugh." Narcissa's eyes returned to Hermione. "I never would have thought that a child of ours would display such appallingly poor taste. I might have understood if she was a beauty, but to betray us for this- this-" she seemed incapable of finding a word strong enough to adequately convey her disgust. "I mean, good Lord, will you look at her HAIR!"

She glanced back at her husband, but if she had been expecting him to agree with her, she was disappointed. He too was looking down at Hermione, but there was no disgust evident in his face, just a cool sort of appraisal. She almost felt a moment's pity for the girl- almost- because she knew that Lucius was speculating on the best ways in which to torment the child…and pleasure himself in the process.

She sighed. Lucius was going to put the mudblood through her paces, all right- she was quite sure of that. So why bother fighting the inevitable? And after all, it wasn't as though she didn't have quite a few little playthings of her own.

"Break her, darling," she murmured, laying a hand on her husband's arm. "For what she did to our family, to our son- break her. You have my full permission to use whatever means necessary." And she stalked out of the room without a backward glance.

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Lucius stared after his departing wife with something akin to reverence. That was one hell of a woman he had married- his perfect match, his life mate. What man could ask for more? She had just as much as ordered him to have his way with the pretty little schoolgirl (for he did consider her pretty- not beautiful, like his wife, but pretty enough for a mudblood) who lay sprawled on his son's bedroom floor- and he intended to obey her. Oh, yes. A smile twisted his thin lips. God, how he loved his wife.

He really should go and tell her so, before getting down the business of torturing the mudblood into insanity.

But first-

Narcissa's comment about Hermione's hair had given him an idea. He walked into the bathroom that adjoined Draco's bedroom, returning a moment later with a hairbrush in his hand. Caught between the bristles of the brush were dozens of silky, baby-fine strands of silver hair; Draco's hair. He stared for a moment between the brush and Hermione, his eyes glittering. Oh, this was going to be such fun.

Then he turned on his heel and strode out of the room, locking the door securely behind him. He had a date with his wife, followed by a visit to his potions lab…and then he had a date with Hermione- a date that would last for three days.

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"Ennervate."

Hermione blinked, then squeezed her eyes tightly shut against the light. She was lying in a band of sunlight, bright, yet not warm, on what felt like a cold, hard floor. She was completely disoriented.

"On your feet, mudblood," drawled a cold voice, and, in a state of shock, she felt herself being hauled upward by something- some sort of collar- around her neck. Suddenly, everything came flooding back as she was deposited roughly on her feet- but her mind, recoiling in horror from her current situation, refused to do anything but repeat, over and over again, this isn't happening- it can't be. It's a nightmare and I'm going to wake up. This isn't happening- it can't be. It's a nightmare and I HAVE to WAKE UP!

No such luck, however. She swayed on her feet and stumbled backward into something tall, cold and hard. The post of a massive canopy bed. She stared around the room as her vision, and mind, slowly cleared. As she raised her hand to the heavy leather band about her neck (there was a chain attached to it, she realized, anchoring her to the same bedpost she had fallen against), her wide eyes settled on the man standing before her, sneering down at her with a hungry gleam in his eyes.

This was bad. Oh, this was so bad.

There was no way out of this. Her ever practical nature would not allow her to sustain false hope. She was going to be tortured, and she was going to be killed. And all because- here was the really ironic part- this monster standing in front of her thought that doing so would hurt Draco. She knew better. And she found that she was glad, for the first time, that Draco no longer loved her- that he would be unaffected by her death. Not only because it meant that Lucius would be denied the satisfaction of bringing his son low, but also because she found that she disliked the thought of Draco grieving for her- she disliked the thought of him in pain.

Because, goddamn it, she loved him still.

But she couldn't dwell on Draco right now. She had to focus on the present. She found, much as Harry had once upon a time when facing Voldemort in a cemetery with Cedric's dead body at his feet, that accepting death as inevitable was oddly freeing; it freed her from her fear. She sucked in a deep breath and stood a little straighter. No, she was not afraid anymore, come what may. She would not cower before this sorry excuse for a human being. She would not give him that satisfaction.

Lucius stepped very close to her. "Well, mudblood," he drawled, "I trust you know who I am? I've certainly heard a lot about YOU- and I have to admit, I'm somewhat puzzled as to what the attraction is. You managed to turn my son against everything he was raised to believe in, by all accounts you are stringing along the great Harry Potter and his pathetic sidekick Weasley as well (unfair! her mind cried indignantly), and even the Dark Lord-the previous Dark Lord- saw fit to sully himself with you. I intend to discover-" his eyes raked her body lewdly- (don't flinch, she thought desperately; it's what he wants- do not give him that pleasure!) "whether all the fuss is justified."

Seizing the chain that issued from her collar, he gave her a sharp yank, causing her to stumble forward. She just barely managed to stop herself short of falling against him. They were nearly nose-to-nose as he murmured, "I received a very detailed account of my predecessor's- encounter, shall we say?- with you…and of your little act of defiance at the end. I want to make it known right now that I will brook no such insolence. Do I make myself clear?"

Her jaw tightened. Lucius' eyes flashed. "I said, do I make myself clear?"

"Perfectly," she ground out, then, just as the very beginnings of a triumphant sneer touched his lips, she spat full in his face.

It was different from when she had done it to Voldemort. She had barely been conscious then, and certainly not thinking rationally. This, she did deliberately and with the knowledge that there would be hell to pay- but she was going to suffer anyway, so it would be worth it to suffer perhaps a little more, in order to see the expression on his face.

Which was everything she had hoped it would be, in the split second his guard was down. Anger, revulsion, and above all, utter disbelieving shock that she- that ANYONE- would dare do this to him.

He raised a hand slowly to his face and touched his wet cheek, as if unable to comprehend that her saliva, on his skin, was actually real, was actually there. Then he backhanded her with his other hand, so fast and hard that she was caught totally off-guard; she had never seen it coming, bent as she had been on studying his face.

Her head snapped to the side with such force that she nearly fell- but she caught herself. (I won't fall, I WON'T!) She turned slowly back toward her captor, an angry red blotch already marring the side of her face. There were tears of pain standing in her eyes from the slap, yet she radiated not fear or defeat, but rage and defiance. "Go to hell," she whispered.

"Oh, I rather think not," Lucius replied- he seemed to have recovered his composure, though there was a hard, angry glint in his eyes which had not been there before. "That would entail dying, you see, which is something I have no intention of doing. Ever. You, on the other hand, well-" he reached out and traced the line of her jaw with a long, aristocratic finger, watching the disgust flare in her eyes- "You die in three days, whether Draco comes for you or not. I think a good little girl like you is probably destined for heaven-" he said the word with patent distaste- "your unfortunate spitting habit notwithstanding- but fear not; I'll give you a taste of hell before you go."

"I'm not afraid of you," she said, and judging by her expression, it was true. Certainly she had been afraid back in her bedroom, but she seemed beyond that now. Her expression was one of hatred, and perhaps an underlying despair- but there was no fear in it.

Lucius surveyed her thoughtfully. "You know, I do believe you speak the truth," he said slowly. "You're NOT afraid of me." He shrugged. "Fortunately, I do not require that you fear me. Merely that you bleed, scream, and beg for mercy. And make no mistake, by the time I am through with you, you will have done all three in abundance."

She tilted her head defiantly. "I didn't scream for Voldemort," she said, with a feeling of immense satisfaction as Lucius flinched, however slightly, at the name of his former master, "and I won't scream for you."

Lucius' eyes glinted. "I do so like a challenge," he said, and pointed his wand at her. "Crucio!"

It was pain such as she would never have believed existed.

He only lifted the curse once she had screamed her throat raw.

She couldn't help it; there was no way to hold back her cries- not in the face of agony such as this.

"You see, poppet," Lucius murmured, almost tenderly, hunkering down next to where she lay, gasping, on the floor (how did I get down here? she thought disjointedly; wasn't I just standing up? Hadn't I resolved to keep my feet, no matter what?) "My predecessor never used the Cruciatus on you. Everyone screams under Cruciatus; everyone."

"Draco didn't," she whispered hoarsely, still defiant.

"Oh, didn't he?" Lucius asked, in a tone of mild curiosity. "That's good to know. I suppose it means that all the time and effort I put into disciplining him when he was younger paid off- to some extent, anyway. At least it wasn't a complete waste. It will be most interesting to see if I can break through that discipline when he arrives. Yes, I shall look forward to that immensely."

Hermione, in the process of pushing herself slowly and painfully into a sitting position, snorted derisively. "Then you will be immensely disappointed," she said flatly. "Draco's not going to come after me."

"You really don't think so, do you?" Lucius asked, surveying her keenly. Then he shrugged. "Ah well, time will tell. But for now- our fun has only just begun. So let's get on with it, shall we?"

He dragged her to her feet by her collar again, then, with a flick of his wand and a word, she found herself shackled at the foot of the bed; her arms stretched straight up, chains running from her wrists to the canopy bar high above her.

Oh, God. Not good not good not good at all.

She was facing toward the bed, her knees bumping against the edge of the mattress, so that Lucius was free to come up right behind her. He did so, reaching around from behind and beginning to undo the buttons on her rumpled white uniform blouse as she struggled to hold back the tears that wanted to flood from her eyes. She squeezed them tightly shut and clenched her jaw- I won't cry, I won't cry, I WON'T- but her breath was already beginning to hitch in her throat. She swallowed hard, choking back a sob and Lucius finished with the buttons and moved to unclasp her bra.

Think of something else, she told herself desperately, as, with a touch of his wand, Lucius vanished both shirt and bra entirely, and his hands began to roam freely, roughly, possessively over her body. I'm not here, not here at all, I'm with Draco, he still loves me, we're- we're in Hogsmeade drinking butterbeer- oh God oh God, I can't take this, I can't go through this again, I'd rather die!

"Quite the stoic little mudblood, aren't we?" Lucius murmured in her ear, for despite her frantic thoughts, she had managed to retain some outward semblance of calm; she had not burst into tears- not yet. Not EVER, she thought fiercely; I don't CARE what he does to me- I won't cry!

Her tormentor took a step back, his hands finally leaving her body. "So," he remarked conversationally, "you seemed quite impressed that Draco can endure Cruciatus without screaming. It IS rather a remarkable feat, and I take the credit for it. Here's something else for you to ponder over the next few minutes; Draco never screamed during this, either. In fact, he counted."

Counted? her mind cried, on the verge of hysterics- counted what? What did Draco count! She tried to twist her head around to see Lucius behind her, but could not.

No matter- her question was answered a bare second later when a whip lashed across her back with terrific force. A ragged cry was wrenched from her lips; she couldn't hold it back. She felt Lucius' fingers trace the stinging welt on her back and sucked in a sharp breath through her clenched teeth; a second later, he had reached around in front her again and was holding his hand up before her face. She saw that his fingertips were crimson with her blood.

"You see," he whispered, "as satisfying as the Cruciatus is for inflicting pain, it fails to produce any blood. So I find myself resorting to other methods because, poppet-" his tongue flicked out and licked at her ear, causing her to shudder with revulsion- "I love blood. Even mudblood, like yours. So-" he pulled back again, and his voice took on a brisk tone- "Draco counted past a hundred and fifty one time, if memory serves- let's see what you can do."

Not one to back down from a challenge, she counted.

And the whip came down again. And again. And again. She lost count, and consciousness, somewhere in the thirties.