(A/N: Disturbing content ahead………)

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She came back to awareness slowly, reluctantly, her body screaming in protest against the treatment it was receiving. Between the Cruciatus Curse and the brutal whipping, and the fact that she was still shackled to the canopy bar of the bed, her entire weight dangling from her wrists high above her head, searing agony seemed to have invaded every inch of her being.

Forcing her eyes open, the first thing she saw was that she had been turned so that her back was to the bed and she now faced the rest of the room. The second thing she saw was Lucius Malfoy, seated in a straight backed chair beside a desk- (Draco's desk, she thought detachedly; though Lucius had not said so in as many words, she had a strong suspicion that this room which had become, to her, a combination prison cell and torture chamber, had in fact been her lover's bedroom)- watching her intently.

He had removed his robes, and his shirt as well; clad only in black breeches tucked into black dragonhide boots, he was now bare from the waist up, just as she was. And he was splattered from head to foot with blood. Her blood, she realized, with a queasy flip of her stomach.

"Well, hello, sleeping beauty," he drawled.

Uncoiling himself from the chair with a lithe grace that was so reminiscent of the way Draco moved it caused her breath to catch painfully in her throat, he made his way toward her with slow deliberation. Despite a concerted effort to black out again, Hermione found to her dismay that she was still conscious when he reached her.

"So poppet," he breathed, stopping directly in front of her, "are you ready for the REALLY fun part?"

For a fraction of a second, Hermione's face contorted with disgust, but in the next instant she had mastered herself and closed her face to all expressions save purest loathing. When she spoke, her voice was dull; emotionless. "Do what you want- you can't hurt me, not really. Maybe physically, but not in any way that matters. So just get it over with. I don't care."

She had thought that this would take some of the wind out of his sails, but strangely, her words seemed to have the opposite effect; he appeared absurdly pleased by them. A slow, sadistic smile twisted his lips. "You have no idea how I had hoped you would say something like that, mudblood."

She felt her stomach clench around a sudden, cold knot of fear. This was not right, not right at all. Something bad must be coming, worse than she had ever imagined, something so so so so bad…………..

Lucius took a half-step backward, reaching into a pocket of his trousers as he did so. Never breaking eye contact, still with that cruel smile playing about his lips, he pulled out a small, ornately embossed silver flask, yanked the stopper out with his teeth, and downed the contents in a single swallow, blanching for just a second as he did so.

For a moment, nothing happened, except that he threw the now empty flask aside. Hermione was utterly bewildered. The only thought that came to her mind was, I hope he chokes on it, whatever it is.

Then, to her further puzzlement, he winked at her- and turned away. That was when the change began. Hermione's eyes widened as she realized what was happening, and her lips formed the word NO, seemingly of their own volition, though no sound actually came out. There was no sound she could make that could begin to express the horror she felt as she watched the man before her transform.

Because she knew who he was turning into.

She could see it, even with his back to her. The long, thin hair like spidersilk shortening, thickening, only the silver blond color- that color that was no color- remaining the same; The back and shoulders broadening, the hips narrowing further, the body, which had been merely slender before, taking on the toned musculature of youth and Quidditch training.

She knew every inch of this new body by sight, by touch, by scent, by taste. "No," she whispered, unable to help herself, horrified beyond belief. "Oh, no. No."

And Draco turned to face her, smirking, his pale eyes glittering with malicious glee. "What's the matter, mudblood?" he drawled (in the same voice that had once whispered in her ear that she was perfect; a goddess- the same voice that had so often comforted her as she cried in the night). "Aren't you happy to see me?"

"No," she choked out, completely panicked, forgetting her resolve to show no emotion. She hadn't been counting on this- Lucius she could deal with but Draco- (it's NOT Draco!)- Draco was something else entirely. She lost her head completely and began to struggle desperately against her bonds as he crossed the distance between them with one purposeful stride, unable to regain her self-control even though she saw in his eyes that he was basking in her panic- absolutely reveling in it.

"NO!" she cried again, her voice cracking, as his hands went to her waist, then began stroking up and down her sides, caressing her almost lovingly. "Not Draco, not like this- oh God, PLEASE not like this!"

He smiled down at her- Draco's smile. "You see, poppet, I told you you'd beg," murmured Draco's voice. And, removing both hands from where they had been resting on the swell of her hips, he quite suddenly raked his nails- Draco's neatly trimmed nails- down her already torn and bloody back.

A shriek of pure anguish was ripped from her, and he was ready; the second she opened her mouth, he captured it in a brutal, crushing kiss; a kiss of ownership, greedily drinking in her scream as her body, in a frantic attempt to escape the pain of his hands on her back, thrust itself forward, pressing into his.

"Well, aren't you the forward one?" he taunted a moment later, breaking the kiss.

Tears were streaming down her face; there was no controlling them, not anymore. The floodgates had been opened and she couldn't close them again, not in the face of this. She was overwhelmed; she couldn't take this, not that it should be Draco doing these things to her- (it's not Draco it's not Draco it's not it's NOT!)- she must surely go mad.

He dipped his head then, his mouth finding the hollow at the base of her throat, licking, biting, sucking, bruising, marking her, as she gave a great, shuddery gasp of pain. At the same time, he raised his wand and, with a flick of his wrist, caused the shackles about her wrists to disappear. Suddenly unsupported, she fell backward onto the bed.

The pain in her back when it hit the mattress was so great that her vision darkened around the edges and for a moment, the world seemed to tilt- fleetingly, she prayed that she would pass out, but it didn't happen. (Oh God, can't you grant me even that small mercy?) When her vision cleared, she was met with the sight of Draco (Lucius! Not Draco!) leering down at her as she sprawled on the bed.

"Is that an invitation, mudblood?" he drawled. And without waiting for an answer, lowered himself onto her.

She tried to struggle, but it was no use; her body was leaden from all the time she had spent hanging from her wrists, and refused to obey her. She could do nothing but stare up into that familiar face, the soft, fair hair that spilled forward over his brow, those eyes that she knew and loved- still loved, even now, even now.

Eyes that held only hatred, and triumph, and lust.

She shook her head mutely, tears continuing to flow unchecked down her face.

"Why, whatever is the matter, poppet?" Lucius asked, in an almost gentle voice, only his eyes- Draco's pale eyes- gleaming with wicked delight. "You know," he added, in a confidential tone, "I do believe I'm beginning to see what all the fuss is about. You are a very pretty girl- even when you cry. Especially when you cry." Using his knees, he drove her legs far apart, and his hands found the pleated fabric of her uniform skirt, started to tear at it, then stopped. "I think I'll leave the skirt," he murmured thoughtfully, more to himself than to her; "I rather like its effect." Instead of ripping it off, he merely shoved it out of the way.

She squeezed her eyes shut, and tensed for the assault she knew was coming. This isn't happening, she though numbly, even as her body braced itself for the inevitable- it can't be, it's just too unfair, I've gone through this once, once was enough, I can't again, oh God, what did I ever do to deserve this, not once but twice- what, what did I DO?

"Someone help me," she whispered in a tiny, lost voice, completely unaware that she was speaking aloud, that her words were sweet music to her tormentor's ears. "I can't…take this…again. Not…as Draco- not like this. Please, not like- AAAUUGGH!"

The ragged scream was torn from her throat as he invaded her body, and her eyes flew open again, in shock, just as he bent his head and claimed her in another bruising, torturous kiss.

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For Lucius, it was like heaven on earth. For what must have been the hundredth time, he was grateful for his wife's insistence that he keep a vat of polyjuice potion bubbling constantly at the ready in a corner of his potions lab- it was, she had pointed out, an extremely valuable asset for any aspiring Dark Lord to have on hand. Taking on Draco's appearance- seeing the mudblood's reaction to his change- it made the rape even more enjoyable than it would otherwise have been. And greater still than the pleasure the mudblood's tortured body was giving him was the satisfaction that came from the knowledge of how his traitorous son would react if he knew what was occurring. If Draco had been able to witness this scene, Lucius knew, his reaction would be nothing short of raging, howling, bestial madness. It was at that moment that Lucius decided that Draco must, indeed, witness this; he would create a pensieve of this day that he could force Draco to look into when he arrived. He had no doubt that seeing his son's reaction to the rape would bring him more pleasure even than the act itself.

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He left her lying sprawled across the foot of the bed, semiconscious, the blood from the lashes on her back soaking into the silken bedclothes beneath her, her eyes open yet glazed, staring blankly at the ceiling.

She continued to lie that way for a long, long time after he had closed and locked the door, smirking, heading off to his own palatial chamber to wash her "muddy blood" off himself.

Finally, after a good twenty minutes or so, she blinked, seeming to come back to herself, and gave a low, despairing groan. Slowly, she drew her arms in against her body and began to lever herself up onto her elbows, sucking in a harsh breath through gritted teeth as her back peeled painfully off of the comforter, to which it had become glued by her drying blood.

Her wounds now bleeding freely again and staining her brown hair crimson where it lay, damp and sweaty, against her back, she looked around the room with wide, dazed eyes, as if this were the last place she had expected to find herself, as though she had somehow thought that with that single blink, she should have awakened back in her room at Hogwarts, all of this no more than a particularly vivid nightmare, and Draco bursting through the door to comfort her.

Now, as she stared about herself, realizing that this place- and the things that had happened to her in it- were undeniably real, a single sob was wrenched from her throat, the sound of it echoing through the large room. Before more sobs could follow, however, she pressed a hand to her stomach- (she was still wearing her pleated uniform skirt, she realized detachedly- her pleated skirt, and nothing else)- as a powerful wave of nausea engulfed her. She just barely managed to throw herself halfway over the side of the bed, and was violently sick onto the floor.

She retched herself dry, then pushed herself a few inches back from the edge of the bed with shaking arms, and curled tightly into a fetal position. She felt completely drained; so exhausted and empty that she could no longer even find tears to shed. "It wasn't Draco," she whispered, letting her eyes fall closed.

She had already known, of course, that it hadn't been Draco- had known it from the start. Lucius hadn't made any secret of his identity; he hadn't gone out of his way to pretend to be Draco; he hadn't needed to. He had correctly surmised that taking on his son's appearance, forcing her to look up into Draco's eyes as he tortured and raped her, forcing her to listen to Draco's voice call her a filthy mudblood, forcing her to see that look of twisted lust and triumph on the face she loved- STILL loved, despite everything- would be torment enough for one day.

Yes, she knew it had been Lucius- he had drunk the potion in front of her, for Christ's sake- but still- she shuddered violently- it had been Draco's eyes, his voice, his hands- oh God, his HANDS!

So it bore repeating. "It wasn't Draco," she whispered again, frantically. "It wasn't- he wouldn't- he'd never- he may not love me anymore, but he'd never do that! It wasn't…it…wasn't…"

Her voice trailed away as finally, mercifully, darkness claimed her.

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"Disgusting girl," said a cold voice, dripping with contempt.

Hermione reluctantly forced her eyes open, meeting the pale blue gaze of Narcissa Malfoy. She knew immediately who she was looking at; she had seen Narcissa once before, in the top box at the Quidditch World Cup, years ago. Though she recognized her, she didn't speak. What on Earth was she supposed to say? Oh hello, Mrs. Malfoy, what a lovely home you have. It's so nice to meet you- no no, really, the pleasure is mine! We've never been formally introduced, but my name is Hermione Granger and I'm in love with your son- may I call you mum? What's that? Your husband? Oh, I've already had the pleasure of meeting Mr. Malfoy- yes, he was in here just a little while ago- charming man, such a witty conversationalist, I'd have to say the highlight of our little chat was when he TRANSFORMED INTO DRACO AND RAPED ME!

Hmm…no, that wouldn't do. But on the plus side, she seemed to be thinking somewhat clearly again. She glanced past Narcissa, at the nearest window, and saw that it was now dark outside; day one in hell was over. Just two more to go. Then she would either be rescued, or killed. She was fully anticipating death- if Lucius expected Draco to come after her, then the joke would be on him. Draco didn't care. (Doesn't he? A corner of her mind whispered rebelliously; he sure looked like he cared last night.) No, she thought firmly, Draco didn't care- there was no point in deluding herself- but maybe Harry and Ron would find a way to come- it somehow didn't seem so criminal anymore to allow herself to indulge in fantasies of rescue- it was a good escape from reality…in any case, she found that at this point she barely cared whether her captivity ended in rescue or in death, just so long as it ended. Either one meant release- one way or the other.

Her attention was drawn back to Narcissa, who was speaking again. "Vile little creature," she spat, staring daggers at Hermione, "lying here in your own filth, defiling my son's bed, making a mess of my floors."

Hermione stared up at her for a long moment, processing the utter, blatant injustice of this statement. As if she had made a mess on purpose. The bed hadn't been defiled- SHE had been defiled ON the bed- there was a world of difference. Finally, she whispered just one word;

"How?"

Narcissa's eyes narrowed. "How, what?" she snapped.

"How can you say that, knowing what he did to me? And incidentally, how could you have let him do it?"

A slow smirk spread over Narcissa's face. Hermione thought distantly, in that realm of her mind that was clear and removed from the pain of her body, that this had to be THE smirkingest family on earth.

"You think I should have put a stop to it," the ice-blonde woman hissed, "just because I'm his wife?"

"No," Hermione said, "not because you're his wife; simply because you're a woman."

Narcissa appeared momentarily taken aback by this. Her eyes widened marginally and for just a fraction of a second something seemed to flicker behind them- some unidentifiable emotion quickly masked. In the next instant, however, her eyes flashed, and her lips tightened, with rage.

"Are you suggesting that you and I share some sort of kinship merely because we are both female? Well let me tell you, mudblood, I am nothing like you, and if you think I feel any sympathy for you whatsoever, you are sorely mistaken. You stole my only child away, and there is no punishment too severe for that crime. You deserve everything my husband gives you, and ten times more as well." She whipped her wand out of her robes and leveled it at Hermione. "Crucio!"

Narcissa's Cruciatus Curse was every bit as potent as her husband's. Hermione convulsed, screaming, and fell off the edge of the bed (thankfully missing the nearby puddle of vomit, though she wouldn't have noticed at that point if she had fallen straight into it.) She was being burned, stabbed, sliced, ripped apart, all at once as she writhed on the floor. Narcissa kept the wand on her until she had screamed herself hoarse (fortunately, this took very little time, strained as her voice already was from her earlier Cruciatus session with Lucius), then pocketed it again and swept from the room without another word or a backward glance, leaving Hermione gasping in her wake.

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An indeterminate time later- it was still dark out- two house elves came sidling into the room. Hermione was slumped against the side of the bed, in a half-sitting, half-lying position. After Narcissa had left, she had attempted to pull herself back up onto the bed, using the corner post as a support, but had lacked the strength to successfully do so, collapsing instead against it, crying weakly.

By the time the elves arrived, she had long since run out of tears, and had lapsed into a fevered semiconscious state. She was shaking violently when the little servants found her, her teeth chattering, her breath shallow, rapid, hitching. She was both freezing cold and burning up; her body wracked by chills, her temperature perilously high.

At first, both elves ignored her as they scurried about the room cleaning it, scouring away the blood and the sick and all evidence of the atrocities that had taken place there the previous day- all evidence except for Hermione herself, of course. They gave her a wide berth, neither touching nor looking directly at her, managing, through the use of their household magic, even to strip and remake the bed she was leaning against without disturbing her.

As they went about their business, though, the smaller of the two elves found herself stealing furtive glances at the clearly sick and injured, half-naked girl on the floor. Unlike the rest of Malfoy Manor's elves, who were the products of generations of service to the family, this particular elf had been acquired only recently, as a replacement for Dobby. As a result, she was not yet entirely cowed by her masters, as the other elves were. Where her companion was completely indifferent to Hermione, seeming to look right through her without even registering her existence, the newest elf, known as Hanni, felt a rising surge of pity for the girl, who was now tossing her head and repeatedly whispering the name "Draco", apparently delirious.

As the other elf busied herself about the room, therefore, Hanni crept into the adjacent bathroom and returned with a glass of water and a cool, dampened hand towel. Bending over Hermione, she pressed the towel to the suffering girl's forehead and held the glass against her dry, slightly parted lips, tipping some of the liquid down her throat. At first, Hermione spluttered and choked, but then her dark eyes fixed on Hanni and she drank the rest of the water down thirstily.

"Th-thank you," she croaked.

"You is most welcome, miss," Hanni murmured, setting the glass down beside Hermione. "Is there anything else Hanni can do to help you, miss?"

"Draco," Hermione whispered, but her eyes were losing their focus and the elf couldn't tell whether this was a request, or merely the return of the delirium. Before she could question Hermione further, her companion, alerted by the sound of voices, had rushed to her side, positively quivering with fear and anger.

'Hanni, you is a bad elf!" she hissed vehemently; "you is going to get us beaten if master finds out! You is going to get us clothes!" And she seized Hanni and pulled her out of the room, causing the damp towel and empty glass to vanish with a backward glance and a snap of her fingers. SHE was a good elf; she knew her duty. She would see to it that Hanni was not allowed to clean this room again. Master had made it very clear that though she occupied a bedroom, rather than a dungeon cell, the girl was a prisoner- not a guest.

She was to receive no aid from anyone.

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"Rise and shine, mudblood. It's time to play."

Hermione slowly forced her eyes open. She had slid over sideways in the night, after the house-elves' visit, until she was lying flat on the floor near the foot of the bed. She realized distantly that she was fevered, shaking with cold, hurt everywhere, and she was staring up now at Lucius Malfoy, who was standing over her with a grin on his face and his wand leveled at her heart.

"Oh, no," she whispered.

"Lucius' grin widened. "Crucio."

Day two in hell had begun.

After only a couple of hours, Lucius vanished the collar and chain from about her neck, as it was patently obvious that she was no longer in any condition to attempt an escape.

Throughout that day, and the following night, and the next morning, the torture continued. As time progressed, she spent less and less of it in a conscious state, but from what she could tell during her increasingly brief periods of awareness, she spent roughly equal amounts of time on the floor, writhing under the Curicatus Curse, dangling from her wrists while being whipped raw, and on the bed being brutally raped.

During much of the time, Lucius retained his own appearance- but always, he raped her as Draco.