A/N: Sorry for the long wait. I was planning on having this out on tuesday, but...real life got in the way. Not to mention another story idea dancing around in my head for the past month that finally demanded to be put down on paper.

Anyway, here's the longest chapter yet. Hope you like it. Oh, there is a bit of bad language in here. It is also getting far, far worse for Hermione and Christabelle.

And here we go...

Chapter 4: Snakes in the Stone

She sat there in complete silence, watching every move that the two Death Eaters made. Which meant that she didn't have much to watch, as they were both simply standing there, watching her. Well, Zabini had draped himself over a chair, but that was beside the point.

Malfoy and Zabini. Death Eaters. Hermione remembered how in their sixth year Harry had tried to convince her that Malfoy had joined Voldemort's ranks. How she and Ron had refused to believe it. And now…

She still couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. Even after the attack at the school last year, even after Dumbledore's death, even after being tied up and carried to this place by Malfoy, it was hard to believe that these two boys who she had spent the last six years with were Death Eaters. Even though she had known that they were Slytherins. She just…hadn't wanted to accept that someone she knew would be…evil, for lack of a better word.

When she looked at it carefully, of course, she knew that she had missed so many obvious signs that all pointed to Malfoy being a Death Eater. Harry had seen them, but then, Harry had always been suspicious of the pale boy that stood across the room from her, watching her with veiled eyes. Overly obsessed had been one of the words that she had called him. Paranoid, even. But there was Malfoy, the black robes lying in a pile on the floor, the mask sitting beside it. She could just see the edge of the brand on his arm peeking out from under his sleeve. He was a Death Eater. It had taken her so long to finally accept that.

And Blaise Zabini. Hermione wondered why Voldemort had two wizards who were just barely accepted as adults working for him. She guessed that it was because many people might not suspect them. That and the fact that Malfoy had been in the perfect position to kill Dumbledore.

Which led her to the next question: why was Malfoy still alive? He had not done what Voldemort had asked of him. He had not killed the only person that Voldemort feared. From what Hermione knew about the man, that would be grounds for Voldemort to kill him. But Malfoy was still there, still watching her.

She shivered, partially because of the fact that both boys—men—were watching her intently, but also because she was still drenched. Still in the rain soaked clothing that was sticking to her and making her colder. She wondered how Christabelle was, as the child was as wet as she was, but she could neither ask the girl or move over to her and help her. Her voice was still silenced and her legs still bound with jinx.

Despite that, she opened her mouth, trying to say something. Anything, really. No sound at all came out.

"What is it, Granger? Want to talk?"

She glared at Malfoy, clamping her mouth shut again. He gave a short, cold laugh, flicking his wand and muttering the counterjinx.

"Come on, Mudblood. What did you want to say?"

Hermione coughed, feeling as though in that action she was ridding her throat of the curse that had closed it. "I want to know what you want with me. And with her." She pointed to Christabelle's limp form.

"Mudblood," said Zabini, idly twirling his wand between his fingers, "I thought that you were the brightest witch in our year. Can't you figure out why we want you?"

"Fine," she growled out between grit teeth. "But what do you want with the girl?"

Malfoy locked eyes with her, giving her a very twisted smile. "What do you think? You seem to care about her. What better way to get you to do what we want?"

"You wouldn't! Malfoy, torturing a child? I didn't think that—"

"Shut up, Granger. As you have just proved, you do care about that child. Tell me, what would you do to keep her safe?"

Hermione kept her mouth closed. What could she say, without giving them an advantage over her? Anything could be used against her. But if she didn't say anything then she would seem cold and heartless and they might kill Christabelle anyway.

"Tell me, Malfoy," she began, speaking through clenched teeth, "when did you become a murderer?"

He stared at her for a moment with emotionless eyes, then began to laugh.

"Granger," he said, still laughing, "there is a lot you don't know about me. Now, answer my question. What would you do to keep her safe?" She remained silent. "Tell me, Mudblood. Imperio."

It was one of the oddest sensations, one that she had felt before, one that she had never wanted to feel again. Like she was floating, detached from her body. Like she had lost control over her actions.

Tell me. The words echoed through her mind and she felt her mouth open. She could tell him, would tell him. Had to tell him.

Harry could fight this, the one corner of her mind that was still her own thought. But I'm not Harry. I should tell him what he wants to know. It couldn't hurt.

Tell me, Granger, what would you do to keep this child safe?

And interesting question. What would she do? She felt her mouth moving and heard, as though from a great distance, herself say, "I would…" And then she stopped, considering what to say. The corner of her mind was still detached, still not part of her, but it was there. It was the most control she had over herself, the ability to stop her words so that she could think.

Maybe that's what Harry did, she thought, still trying to think of what to say. Maybe Harry still had a bit of control over himself. I couldn't throw this off before, when Professor Moody used the Imperious curse on me. But then, I didn't have this little voice then, did I? Maybe I just need to have something that I really don't want to do. Maybe—

Tell me. Damn you, Granger, I told you to tell me!

"I would try to save her from you," said Hermione, her mouth moving of its own accord. "I would try to save her, but I would not if there were too much at stake." It was cruel, she knew that, but it was what she really thought. However much she would like to save Christabelle, if it meant betraying those that she loved then she couldn't do it. She wouldn't save her.

It seemed as though answering the question made something click back together in her mind. The little bit that was still conscious of what was happening reconnected with her body and the foggy, floating feeling was gone. Now she felt sick, sick and wet and cold, with her head pounding.

Zabini and Malfoy didn't seem to notice that there was anything different about her. They couldn't tell that she was no longer under the Imperious curse.

That gives me an advantage, doesn't it? It means that I know something that none of them know.

"So, Granger, the child is practically worthless, isn't it?" said Zabini, crouching next to Christabelle's limp form and turning her over. "We could kill her now if we wanted."

"We could, Blaise," said Malfoy, still watching Hermione carefully, "but who knows what the Dark Lord has in store for her? We don't want to do anything to anger him. So leave the girl be."

Zabini stood. "You're probably right, Draco. But still, I wonder if the Mudblood was being entirely truthful. Well? Was that the truth, Mudblood?"

The question was directed towards her and Hermione figured that she still needed to act as though she were under the curse.

"Yes, it was," she said in a blank tone similar to how she had spoken before. They seemed satisfied with that, for Malfoy lifted the curse (or thought he did, at least). Her head continued to throb and she doubled over, clutching it.

Cold, wet, her head pounding, and now she realized that she was starving. Wonderful. How much longer, she wondered, was she going to be here?

Harry won't come and get you, Hermione. He doesn't know where you are and he has to realize that this is a trap. If he comes to get you then he is dead. You can't let him do that. He's too important. And you aren't.

Which was the truth. She was absolutely no one compared to Harry. He had to have figured out what would happen if he came to get her. If he didn't and came for her anyway, then everyone would most likely die.

She still had the bracelet around her wrist. It was a good thing that it couldn't be used to track where she was. Now that she thought about it, it was an excellent thing. She remembered how Ron had asked about that, when she had made the three objects.

"So it just tells if one of the others is in danger or not? That's a little useless, Hermione."

"No, it isn't," she had said, crossing her arms and glaring at him. "Besides, you couldn't make anything like this, could you? And if it were able to track where one of the other people were, well, couldn't that backfire, Ron? What if someone else gets hold of one of these things? Huh? Did you think of that?"

"Hermione, I just meant that it could do a lot more stuff than this…"

It was a good thing she hadn't listened to Ron and made the objects so that they could function in other ways. They were simple, unobtrusive, and easily worn. And for her, the bracelet had served its purpose. They knew that she was in danger, that she had been caught. But they wouldn't be able to find her.

She was terrified, though, about being caught. Shaken to her very core. They had her wand and could kill her in an instant. Even through she was fairly certain that they wouldn't kill her she knew that she would most likely be tortured.

And Voldemort could enter her mind. Why had Harry told them both so much of what was going on? She knew far too much, and all of it was there for Voldemort's taking.

It was a very good thing that she had a headache. Otherwise she would be thinking too much and would come up with a thousand more reasons why she was—for lack of a better word—screwed.

The door to the room opened, grating against the cracked stone of the floor. Hermione looked up at the pale, dark haired woman who stood there in the doorframe, looking at her with distaste.

"Draco. Blaise," snapped Bella Lestrange. "Get the Mudblood up. The Dark Lord wants to see her. Oh, and bring the little muggle girl with you. He wants to see both of them." She turned on her heels, walking back out of the room.

"Get up, Granger," growled Malfoy, grabbing her by her arm, almost pulling it loose from its socket. She ground her teeth together, biting back a cry of pain. "Blaise, get the muggle."

"You don't need to tell me that, Draco." Zabini picked Christabelle up, tossing her unceremoniously over his shoulder.

"And you are going to walk, or I'll drag you the entire way."

Hermione nodded, her stomach churning just from being pulled upright. She felt incredibly sick. She took one step, unsteady on her feet. And then gave a small cry as she tumbled back to the ground.

"I said to get up!"

She pulled herself back to her feet, his hand like an iron clasp around her arm, hauling her after him. She stumbled often only to have him yank her along down the dark passageway.

It was a long walk. Far too longer for her. With every step she felt the nervousness and fright build in her stomach, her head pound, her shoulder throb.

Lie down and sleep, yes, that was what she wanted to do. Then wake up to find that this was all a nightmare. To find that the last three years had been a nightmare and that she was back at Hogwarts with a living, breathing Dumbledore, a nonexistent Snape, and a large collection of books. To find that no one was really dead, that they had all decided to play a prank on her. To—

Her train of thought cut off abruptly as they reached a tall set of black doors, with the shapes of two snakes crudely cut into the dark wood. Her stomach roiled, knowing what was through those doors.

Bella Lestrange was waiting there, leaning impatiently against the wall. "Took you long enough," she said in her low voice, her heavily lidded eyes watching Hermione's every move. "He's waiting."

Then she pushed the doors open and Malfoy threw Hermione inside. She heard his footsteps, along with the heavier ones of Zabini, and then the door clicked shut and everything was doused in darkness.

The force of being thrown by Malfoy had sent her skidding along the floor, scraping her knees and elbows, tearing her robes further. As quickly as she could she turned the fall into a roll, bringing herself into a crouch. The room was still dark and she could not see anything. Something cold and scaly touched her arm and she recoiled, hitting out at it with one of her arms.

There was a soft hissing sound, causing her too freeze. It was like that time, in second year, when Harry had…when he had spoken in parseltongue.

He was here. Voldemort was somewhere very close to her.

There was another word spoken in a harsh voice and the lights flickered on, torches bursting into life around the perimeter of the room. As her eyes adjusted she saw that it was a fairly empty room with no furniture other than a small table in the corner. The floor was covered in a dark, green speckled tile, the walls cleaner than those in the other room yet still quite dirty. They looked as though they had once been a creamy color; now they were covered in dirt and dust.

The doors were to her back and she glanced towards them; they were the only exit to the room. Zabini and Malfoy stood to either side of them, arms crossed, heads inclined. Then she looked to the far side of the room.

A man, dressed in long, dark robes was standing there, the great serpent twining around his legs. That was what had touched her arm only a moment ago. Nagini…one of the—

She cut off her thoughts, not knowing if he could hear her thoughts or not.

He was tall, far taller than she was, taller than Harry or Ron, and though the robes hid it well she could tell that he was painfully thin. He was facing her, watching through red, slitted eyes that reminded her of a snake's, though they were the wrong color for one. It was merely their shape, how they slanted, set deeply in his face. He had an almost nonexistent nose, flattened so that it was almost only two slits in the skin where there should have been bone and cartilage. His mouth was thin-lipped, colorless, as was his skin, a white color, paler than any other face she had ever seen, so white that she wondered for a moment if he were really real. Long dark hair fell around his face, the only thing that looked even remotely human about him. He looked like…like…

A snake, she thought. He looks like a snake.

"So you have brought me the Mudblood," he said, his voice cold and harsh with an almost serpentine quality to it. "That is good, Draco Malfoy. You know the price for another failure."

There was the sound of movement behind her and Malfoy spoke. "I do, my lord. And, as I promised, I have brought her."

Voldemort gave a small smile, devoid of any emotion. "Very good, Draco. And I see that you have brought a—what is this—a muggle girl as well?"

"She was in the company of the Mudblood, my lord."

"Was she? Well, it is a good thing that you have brought her, Draco. She will be very useful, I think. Wouldn't you agree, Draco?"

Hermione turned her head slightly, so that she could see the two men standing by the door. Malfoy's face was expressionless as he answered. "She may prove to be useful, my lord."

"Indeed. But she is of no importance today. Today is about Potter's whore, is it not?" He turned back to Hermione, eyes trailing over her form where she crouched on the floor.

"Yes," he said, taking a step closer to her. "The muggle-born girl who is supposed to be so talented. Come, tell me your name, Mudblood."

No, she thought, her eyes narrowing as she kept them trained on Voldemort. I won't. I won't.

What is your name, Mudblood?

The words seemed to expand in her ears. It wasn't like the Imperious curse, this felt as though he was trying to force the answer out of her, entering her mind and trying to drive it out.

I won't. I won't. I won't, I won't, I won't, I won't, I--
"Hermione Granger!" The words exploded from her lips and a fresh wave of pain passed through her head. "My name is Hermione Granger!"

She heard him laughing. Laughing. As though what had just happened was incredibly funny.

Voldemort leaned down, grasping her chin firmly in his hands, drawing her up, holding her so that she had to stand on tiptoes to keep breathing.

"Very strong willed," he muttered as she struggled in his grip. "But it all proves useless. You are worth nothing, Hermione Granger. Any magic that you can command is nothing compared to mine. Do you honestly think that you can keep anything from me?"

Before he could try to take an answer by force, she spoke. "I can try."

He laughed again, throwing his head back. "You can try. Everyone tries, darling. Every single person tries. But you won't be able to, Hermione Granger."

He released his grip on her chin, letting her drop to the ground. "Everyone tries. Even your parents, who have no magic in their blood at all."

All the blood drained out of her face. "My…my parents?"

Voldemort gave her one of his cruel, cold smiles. "Yes, Hermione Granger. Your parents."

She felt herself begin to shake uncontrollably. He had her parents. He had her parents. He had—

He knelt before her, bring his face very close to hers.

"I think," he began in his harsh voice, "that it will be very fun breaking you."

A/N2: The only thing that I really knew I was going to put in this chapter was that last line. I wanted it to be really dark and make Hermione's plight get even worse.

Review and tell me what you think of this, if Harry and Ron should try to get Hermione back, and if you think this should be changed to a 'M' rated story.

Raven