Chapter Five

Severus Snape raged. He seethed. He bristled. This was too much. Death Eaters were running about, slaughtering everyone, everything. When, he wondered, had he given them permission to do this? They didn't take him seriously as a leader. They thought he was a big joke. But he would have to change that. Severus would just have to put his foot down, grip a little tighter. Squash the rebellion, no matter what. If this was going to work, he would be the one to make it work. He walked into the main hall where his beautiful throne sat, and swooped in, killing a Death Eater as he went. If they wanted a real leader, he would be one. He had tried the kinder, gentler Severus Snape. It hadn't worked, so a new method was in order. No more free will amongst the Death Eaters. The only attacks that would be allowed were the ones he approved of.

No more Mr. Nice Guy.

- - - -

Draco woke with a start. Some bad dream leapt from his mind before he thought to remember it, and he crawled out of the bed. His back was sore, and he finally remembered where he was. The room was shaped like a semi-circle, with a curtain as one wall and wood as the other. With no other clothes, he figured that he would have to wear the rumpled and torn robe that he had been wearing for more than a week now. That was agitating, since he was very keen on being clean, and this robe was an utter disaster, once a beautiful, green and black robe, so becoming on him, cut perfectly for his figure. Now it was just faithful shreds and wrinkled patches.

With a sigh, Draco got up stiffly and climbed the stairs. One flight up, the careful curtain hung, like a shield, obstructing Draco's view of the platform behind it. It irritated him that he didn't know what was in that room, so he decided to oh-so-carefully pull back the curtain.

The room was a semicircle, like his own, with the rope cot, only it had a quilt stiched of scraps of fabric over it, and a trunk, open to reveal the scant belongings therein. But this was not what caught his eye. It was Hermione Granger, standing by the window. She was naked from the waist up, but he saw nothing but the bronze, muscular back and the slightest curve of her breast beneath her raised arm. She was washing from a bowl that stood on the window ledge, which was apparently meant to be a seat and table, as well as a ledge. He had never noticed how delicate her nose was, how huge her eyes, brown and soft, like velvet, how full and curved her lips were. Her body was framed in light, making her look like a sensual, curvy angel.

So incredibly beautiful, Draco thought before jerking himself out of his reverie. How utterly ridiculous! She was a Mudblood, for Merlin's sake, a worthless piece of scum. He pulled his head out of the curtain and began trudging up the stairs again. It was a ludicrous thought, for him to like some lucky piece of scum from the bottom of the muggle gene pool. But, he admitted to himself, she is sexy. No one ever said a Mudblood couldn't be sexy. Perhaps some pleasure could be derived from this unpleasant situation. Perhaps he could woo the girl, make her think he loved her, then take wonderful, lusty, passionate advantage of her. Thoughts filled his mind until he felt a stir of interest.

Now, now, this will never do, Draco thought. He couldn't be getting aroused by thought alone, this early, before he had the girl melting under his well-trained fingertips. He grinned as he entered the kitchen and sat down.

- - - -

As soon as Slave finished washing, she pulled one of her two outfits over her bare body and went to the kitchen. There he was, his blonde hair greasy from a week of not having been washed, his clothes in horrid shape from walking in a forest for an extended amount of time, yet she still felt that pull from the core of her being, the flush and heat. She tried to overcome the feelings as she kindled the fire and set about putting on a pot of water for tea on the burner.

"Do you do all of the cooking?" he asked. She wanted to slap him. The emotion shocked her. She had never wanted to strike out at a person. But she really didn't want to talk to him in the flustered state she was in.

Curtly, she said, "Yes," then bustled about, trying to cut the conversation. But he seemed determined.

"Why? Can't Master cook?" The sarcasm he used in saying Master's name disturbed her. Why did he say it like that? What was so offending about it?

"I don't want him to have to work too much. He already does so much for me, that it's the least I can do is cook and clean for him. He's so kind to me," Slave said, tenderness leaking through her anger at Draco. Familiarity was somehow present in the heated banter, though Slave couldn't place why.

"How is he kind to you? Letting you live with him in a house someone else made? Making you cook meals for him, clean up all his junk? Is that kindness?" Slave felt confused and unsure. What was he trying to do? She didn't answer, turning back to her cooking. Draco decided this wasn't the proper approach. "So...What do you do around here other than cook and clean? Surely that can't take all day."

"It doesn't," Slave answered curtly, not bothering with politeness. "I do what ever Master wishes me do, or I take care of the books."

"Do you do everything the master tells you to do?" She didn't like his smirking emphasis on the word everything. Again, she refused to answer and payed a bit more attention to the quail eggs frying on the stove. Draco sighed in frustration. This was not how he had planned to seduce her. Get back on track, Draco, he urged himself. Standing, he walked right up behind Slave, letting his chest brushe her back just so. "What are you cooking?" he whispered huskily in her ear. He felt her stiffen and start to quiver. She didn't answer.

Slave didn't know what to do. Her entire being seemed focused on the place where his chest touched her back. She felt like her insides were melting and that soon her outsides would follow if he didn't move. The urge to get away fought with the urge to push closer. Her mind flashed and bounced, unable to do anything but explode with his closeness. Finally she swayed a bit on her feet and her back fell closer to his chest just slightly.

Draco felt attraction stirring his loins. But he couldn't move too quickly. She obviously was attracted to him, but then, how could she help it? He needed to make her become hopelessly enamored bafore he took her, take her mind before he took her body. He would seduce the ice queen Hermione Granger, conquer over her in the most unexpected way, but it was the fact that he would conquer her that made him back away. She wouldn't know about the grudge he held against her, at least not at the moment. Remembering, he thought back to the time she had slugged him. It strengthened his resolve as he took another step back, leaving Slave wanting more than a brush against the back.

- - - -

"Is there any place to take a bath around here?" Draco asked, wiping a piece of egg off of the fine, blonde stubble that had grown since he last shaved. Embarrasingly enough, the only reason he kept so cleanly shaved all the time was because his facial hair grew in unflattering patches. A wimpy mustache and spotty beard was the last thing he needed.

"Yes, we usually bathe in the pond. Slave will show you the way. I don't have the time to. Don't forget the manacles, though, or you won't go far. Never mind. I'll put them on you in a moment," Master said, getting up from the table and going to the place where they stored the manacles. When he came back, he found Slave scrubbing things furiously and Draco chuckling over a cup of tea. Slave looked livid, Draco pervertedly delighted. Master didn't ask. He put the manacles on Slave's neck, ankles, wrists, linking them with a chain.

When the old man hobbled over to Draco, he felt memories flowing through him. Memories of his initiation into the Dark Side. Pain, chains, whips, knives. He decided not to dwell on those particular memories at the moment, choosing something a bit more cheerful, like getting into Hermione's pants...or dress made of fur and torn robes. It made no difference. The manacles came together with a decisive click, and Draco was bound by chains and cuffs, like a common slave. He didn't say a word, but his mouth was set in a thin line, and Slave took in his look of agrivation and even...fear? Surely not. Draco seemed to proud and vain to be afraid...Yet, something told her she had seen him afraid before. She shook the thought. That was ridiculous. She had known him for less than two days. Slave turned back to her dishes, hoping to get them done before she had to show Draco to the pond.

As Hermione led him down to the pond, Draco almost laughed at the fun he could have with the girl at this pond. Ollivander had given him a little bag with a towel, bar of soap, and old-fashioned razor that he was likely to cut himself on at least ten times, probably the only bits of civilization in the whole house. The cuffs were irratating him, rubbing the skin around them uncomfortably. He would probably have places rubbed raw before the end. Hermione seemed to barely notice them, but she had grown used to them a while ago. The pond was about a hundred meters from the house, more of a dammed creek than a pond, clear from the constant flow of fresh water from the small tributary. And then a problem arose.

"Er...Slave?" She turned to him. "How am I supposed to get my robes off with manacles on?" Hermione blushed, but walked a bit closer, puzzling over the problem.

"Well, we could go back to Master and you could get him to take off the cuffs and let you undress, then put them back on," she said logically, the same little know-it-all, but without the same memory.

"That seems like quite a bit of trouble," he said, leveling his face to be inches from hers, "when you could just take them off for me." At the suggestion, Slave turned a little red. "After all," he reasoned, pulling away from her. She felt as if she had lost something. "They are practically worthless now anyway. I'll just have to find something else to wear, which I would have to do anyway. So go ahead." He unfastened the robe and lowered it off his shoulders, revealing a pale, muscular back. Slave shuddered. "Rip it off." She took the shredded robe in her hands and pulled as he leaned forward, struggling to stay on his feet. With a loud riiiiip, the sleeves split, the robe fell away, and Slave landed, hard, on her bottom. Suddenly, a tall, half-naked Draco stood in front of her, black underpants the only thing sheilding her from his naked body. He offered a large, strong hand, and suddenly she was standing.

"I-I-I...I'll be going to the garden now. We need fresh vegetables for lunch..." He grabbed her by the arm, preventing her from fleeing his half-naked form.

"Stay," he said with such a vulnerable, innocent tone that Slave almost melted. "I mean, I want to see the garden, too, and you'll have to take me there, so...stay." Draco could see the innocent tone working on her. She fell hook, line, and sinker.

"Alright, but only if you promise to help me with the vegetables," she said, caving to his cleverly disguised trap.

"Of course," he conceded, then turned, put the back of toilletries by the edge of the pond, and promptly turned. Slave emmitted a gasp and Draco remembered too late...his back. He turned, trying to read her expression.

"What happened to you?" she asked, concern and curiosity etched across her face. Draco was surprised. The few people who had seen his back, mainly a girl or two and a few Death Eaters, had only ever been disgusted. He guessed it might look better, now that it had healed for a few years. It was the whip lines, the scars of a past torture, that covered his back in dark lines. It had been a magical whip, his wounds not healing for more than a year, causing him constant pain all of his sixth year...That was the worst year of his life, guilt, worry, and shame ate at his mind while whips and knives ate at his body. The base of his skull tingled sharply. These scars, he knew, weren't the pink lines that such scars normally were. They were great, red ridges covering all of the skin on his back. He doubted if there was a square centimeter that didn't have an angry red line across it. Suddenly he could barely see clearly.

The night was dark, green lanterns illuminating the graveyard spookily, letting off a pathetic amount of light, just enough to see the dark forms of the grave markers. Draco was strung between two mausoleums, Voldemort and the few Death Eaters who had shown up, including his father, standing in a half circle around him. His aunt Bellatrix held the glittering green whip, made especially by her for occaisons such as these. After all, it wasn't everyday you got to whip your own nephew senseless to rabidly test his loyalty.

"You may start,"the creaky voice of Voldemort said, a near whisper, just loud enough to allow Draco to braco himself before Bellatrix wound up and struck with the most strength her small frame would allow, which was a surprising amount. But maybe not that surprising. Draco didn't let so much as a gasp to pass his clenched teeth. Again, and again, until he was on the edge of conciousness with the pain. "Stop!" came the cry. It could have been mistaken for mercy if not for the fact that he called for an awakening spell be cast on Draco.

A tap on the head with a wand, and Draco felt as if ice water were running through his veins, but the feeling was soon overcome with the slow, painful pull of a knife on his back. His own father was dragging a knife over his son's back, breaking skin and vein, drawing blood and pain. Draco refused to cry out.

"Who are you loyal to, Draco?"

"My lord, I am loyal to you only," Draco managed to gasp out between painful breaths. The knife kept going down to the base of his back, then stopped and started another painful journey at the top of his back. Seven times. The perfect number.

"Who are you loyal to, Draco?"

"Draco?"

"Draco? Are you alright? You sort of... zoned out, I guess. Are you alright?" Slave repeated. Draco knocked himself free of the flashback.

"I'm fine," he insisted, trying to get his mind back to the beautiful Mudblood instead of the wretched half blood. He didn't know what had just happened, and he didn't care to. He forced his mind to the task at hand.

"What happened to you, Draco? Why do you have all of these?" She turned him around and ran a hand gently over the ridges. It amazed her how new they looked. "These aren't very old, are they?"

"Too many questions. I need to take a bath." The boy slogged into the water, running the soap over his body, thinking. The bath had been a disaster. Now she would feel all maternal to him, and that wasn't what he wanted. He wanted a lover, not a mother. His mind ws set not to tell her anything about it, not to make her pity him. He dragged the razor over his ceeks without a mirror, feeling his face to make sure he didn't miss a spot. Nicks dotted his cheeks here and there from the old razor that he wasn't used to. When he came out of the water, Slave sat by a bush, pulling at leaves.

"Ready?" he asked, half naked, clean, and divine. Slave prevented herself from gasping. He was beautiful. The pale, smooth flesh of his chest, the clean, slick hair, the strong legs, rippling muscles and flawless skin. Calm down, calm down! Just breathe. Goodness, what has gotten into me?

"Yes," she said, clearing her throat. She led him to the garden, on the other side of the house, behind a small shed.

"What's in there?" Draco asked, nodding to the ramshackle shack.

"That used to be Master's home, before I came. The Ultimate Master built the tree house for us. Now we just keep garden tools in there. Would you like to look?" she offered.

"Sure." He had all the time in the world, and he might as well know where everything was. Maybe this place would be a good place for rendezvous. The thought made the chill of the strange flashback go away and filled him with a renewed sense of mission. He would get into Hermione Granger's pants.

- - - -

A/N: There it is. I hope you liked it. I'm getting kind of sick of having, like, three reviews. I mean, I love this story, and I'm working really hard on it, and I feel a little under-appreciated.(I don't think there is supposed to be a hyphen there, but it looked overdone without it.) Surely some good writers out there can sypathize. I feel like crying. :-(