A/N: Hurrah! I'm back after a 6-month hiatus. Now that summer break has come around, I'll have free time to update all my stories. Maybe I'll even have some done by the end of break. Yay!
Disclaimer: I. Own. None…Zip…Zilch…Nada. Clear? Good.
"Unhand me, you ruffian! I demand that you let me go this instant!" Hermione cried, futilely attempting to kick him in the chest with her feet as he launched her over his shoulder like a sack of grain.
"Merlin, you're loud and annoying, Love. I told you to shut your trap and come quietly. We'll let you go when we're good and ready, got it?" the said ruffian snapped, his patience quickly wearing thin with this little brat.
"How dare you address me so informally! I'm not your sweetheart, nor am I your love, so stop calling me as such! And again I ask that you put me down and let me return home. I shudder to say this, but will you please release me?"
Conversation had followed in this manner for the last two hours or so, judging by the sliver of the sun left above the faraway horizon. The pair had long ago left the rows of vendor booths, both 'magical' and normal; indeed, they had even passed out of the gate edging the land her father reigned. Sand stretched out in all directions around them, most of it still smoking hot from being under the beating sun all day. They passed through areas of shade created from sand dunes easily four and five times her height. It was much colder there, and for brief periods of time Hermione shivered and clung to her cape like it could provide any warmth. And now that the day was passing into night, that chill would be encroaching permanently very soon.
Were they actually going anywhere? Was he just taking her out into the desert to leave her there? Or did he know whom she was, and was taking her away to his lair to rape and torture her until he wanted her father's ransom? She couldn't read his features, his emotions closed off completely and his aura empty and cold. This man was impossible to reason with…why, oh why hadn't she listened to her father's warnings about bandits and ruffians? Every physical attempt she made at escaping had been successfully thwarted and every word she said had been ignored. She was getting tired of even trying. What harm could there be in letting him take her to a place where it would no doubt be warm and safe from everything that lurked in the desert?
'Famous final words,' she thought resignedly an hour later. She sat, tied hand and foot, in the corner of a stone chamber carved deep into a cave underground. Men dressed in the same black garb as her captor, more than she could count, milled about quietly, as if waiting for something. She had been set here, a few meters away from a huge, elaborate throne similar to her father's, while the man who grabbed her mingled with his friends.
'This must be what a coven is like,' she thought. Hermione had only heard stories of magic and wizards and their spells and covens. Never before had she dreamt of meeting a wizard let alone being caught and held hostage by one. Where the fantastic tales had always made out their spell-casters to be good, honest and helpful people, she was beginning to understand that that was not true. These people could not be good, dressed in black from head to toe as they were with scowls that seemed to be their favorite expression. Maybe magic was as evil as her mother always told her it was.
Suddenly everything stopped, everyone became still as a man moved to sit on the throne. Dressed just like the others, she wondered how they could tell him apart, since he seemed to be the leader of this band of outlaws. The man flipped back his hood, and she suppressed a gasp as she recognized the man from the market, the one with the red eyes and serpentine features. He clasped his hands together behind his back, standing very straight and holding himself with all the regal bearing of a noble.
"Good evening, my fellow Dark wizards. I'm glad to see everyone in attendance. After someone alerted those pesky Aurors, I almost feared that some of the slower of our group," here he looked pointedly at a small, shivering figure towards the left in the rear of the room, "would not make it tonight. But then I realized, you are all my students, and if one of you should have been caught, it would have reflected worse on me. And you all know how I feel about being placed in a bad light." His glare touched all the figures in the room, scrutinizing every one slowly and particularly before moving on to the next. Once he finished his perusal, he began to speak again.
"On a more pleasurable note, one of you remembered to catch a little entertainment for us tonight. Severus swiped us a pretty little street mouse. So not only to we have riches to spend and sell, we have a tiny young muggle girl to enjoy. First we shall feast, however. We'll need energy for this one, I can tell!" The man's comments were received with a chorus of hearty laughs, which scared her a bit. Surely…surely they would do what he insinuated that they would? Hermione was shocked at being referred to a "street mouse." She was of much better blood than that! She had just steeled her backbone, ready to interrupt and demand once more to be let free, when the red-eyed man turned to look directly at her. His eyes locked to hers, and she found she could not free them from his electric gaze. The words died in her throat and she shrunk until she once again felt the strong comfort of the rock at her back.
And then, right before Hermione's eyes, his appearance began to change. His lanky, greasy black hair became a beautifully cared-for mess of wavy dark brown locks. Warmth and color came back to his face, and his skin turned the rosy shade of living flesh. The scaly, dry skin smoothed over to a faultless mask. His nose rose and rounded, ending up as aristocratic as her own. But his eyes…they went from the crimson color of freshly spilled blood to a golden honey brown. A glint shone in his eyes for a mere second before he squashed it down, and all she saw was the cold, dead, amber eyes looking straight into her very soul. He was a handsome young man who appeared to be no older than Hermione, but that could not be right.
"Welcome to the den of the Death Eaters, Love. Hope you said your goodbyes to your loved ones this morning, I'm afraid you won't be seeing them ever again. But come, drink of the wine and eat of the food we have. Try to enjoy your last few hours. Well, you heard me, my fellows, go, go! She'll still be here when you finish!" Hermione saw the flash of ire in the one called Severus' eyes, her captor's eyes, before he too turned away to the large table set up along the far wall.
Hermione didn't know that the anger ran much deeper than anything else Severus had felt for most of his life. The thought of sharing his little street mouse with these pathetic, worthless worms turned his stomach. He didn't understand why it was happening, so he tried his hardest to squelch the urge to keep her for himself. What was it about this little wench? She was lower than shit, a smart-mouthed little muggle born to dirt-poor muggle parents. But something about her irritated the back of his mind, something he felt he should recognize.
His eyes were glaring blindly as he bit savagely into a rich leg of pheasant and drank deeply of his cognac. He devoured his meal quickly at sat staring at a spot over his leader's shoulder. The man he owed his life to, the man he looked up to as a child…the man who beat him, the man he could no longer find it in his heart to support, the man who treated him only slightly better than a slave, the man he was supposed to follow blindly, like all these other fools around him. He tried in vain to convince himself of why he must stay, other than the immediate, inescapable physical ties. Lately it was like he had come into a sudden perception of where his life had taken a sharp turn into the depths of hell.
Quickly, Voldemort's eyes snapped to his own. Damnation! He had slipped up. He knew his master could read minds, all the Death Eaters suspected it, but he knew. He knew! And yet, he had let his thoughts wander down a lane that he would surely pay for later. His mask was supposed to be solid and unbreakable. But he had allowed a crack to form by which Voldemort could creep in and observe his every thought.
Fuck this all to hell! Luckily he had been the only one to remember entertainment, otherwise he might very well be a very dead bandit in the morning. What the hell was wrong with him…what would Voldemort try and torture him with? How deep of a mess had his stupid instincts gotten him into?
A/N END NOTE: This is all for now. Expect more later. Hope you all like it. Let me know, k? That means: not only do you read the story, but you also leave a review with it. Flames and constructive criticism are welcome, so you can leave more than a few words in that big, huge, empty box. Please?