"Ronald Weasley!" The hat shrieked. Nausea twisted Hermione's gut violently. No. No. No. No.
Do not panic. Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Now. Malfoy's voice was demanding and urgent in her head. Do it now. His voice wavered, just barely, and in an act of self preservation, Hermione's brain latched onto that for analysis.
He was with Bellatrix.
"Come forward, Weasley, Mudblood."
It was becoming clear to her that there was some sort of abuse going on there.
Astute observation. He sounded faintly amused and Hermione clung to the distraction as her legs carried her forward into the ring. What kind of abuse? You already know the answer.
Ron was in front of her now, hair greasy, face pale, eye bruised.
"I'm sorry, Mione." Ron whispered. Hermione's body jerked, trying to force her into the reality of the moment, but the instant she thought about the guilty resignation on her supposed best friend's face, the panic and hurt threatened to suck her inside itself.
And she's okay with that? Hermione wondered how thinking to him worked. She just visualised pushing the thoughts towards him.
Quite. Was his reply.
I'm sorry. She could almost hear him scoffing at her.
"I need to be around to meet my nephew, you know? You understand, right?" Ron was pleading with her.
Focus now. Malfoy instructed. Fight, no bleeding heart, Gryffindor moments. Do you understand?
She nodded, then realised he may not have been able to see her. Yes. But he's-
-Willing to kill you to save himself. So you fucking fight and you win. You may have to live with the guilt but at least you'll fucking live.
And then the horn blew and Ron was lunging forward, fist smashing into her face with the force of a bludger.
"I'm sorry," he said again, spit flying into her face. He looked manic and Hermione realised she didn't even recognise him. There was no love, no big heart and brave face. He looked absolutely insane and bloodthirsty, more than prepared to kill her.
"You don't need to do this, Ronald." Hermione whispered, slurring and tripping over the blood filling her mouth.
"I do. I do, don't you see." he was holding her arms tight in his meaty hands, shaking her back and forth. "I-I have a family, Mione. You-" he sighed, shuddering. "You don't." Ron sighed and Hermione recoiled as though she'd been slapped. "Forgive me." and then she was smashing into the ground, head cracking against packed dirt. Her vision blacked out and her back spasmed on impact. Then, Ron's fists were flying towards her over and over again, pain exploding in her face until her eyes shut against the imagery. "Forgive me." he said again.
But she couldn't. All traces of positive emotion vanished as her consciousness wavered under the beating.
Get the fuck up. Malfoy's voice was too loud and her head already hurt.
"Shh," she said.
"What?" Ron paused and Hermione clawed at his face during the gap. She heard him hiss as she made contact and then his hands were around her throat and she knew she had lost. He was so much bigger than her, after all. Her lungs started to burn almost immediately. Her efforts to scratch him, pull at him, dislodge his hands weakened as she did. Her eyes were closed but the bright white light behind her lids was warm even as her limbs felt cold.
Stay awake, dammit.
It was okay, now that she had a moment to think about it. Nobody needed her. Harry had the Weasleys. Ron had Harry and his family. Ginny had a baby to live for and a family to fight for. There were plenty of people who could save the world from… this. She was tired of being the one to do it. She was tired of being seen as the one with all of the answers. She was tired of carrying the weight of the fate of the world on her shoulders.
She was tired.
And sleep was calling.
Seventeen: Loving You is a Blood Sport Draco POV This chapter may be skipped if you so wish. Contains: forced incest, rape, sexual assault, abuse and gore.The Weasel was effectively beating his alleged best friend within an inch of her life. Blood was pouring from her mouth, staining her chest and dripping down her fighting leathers.
He didn't know why he kept speaking to her, mind to mind. He did, however, know that the distraction, however brief, was…. appreciated.
His mother was humming that sodding lullaby off in a corner of the box while Bellatrix was pacing it, staring at her nephew as though he were her next meal. Which, he supposed, he was.
Her appearance was nauseating. He thought she may have been pretty once, maybe. The portraits didn't show as much, but many of the ones from before she became a Death Eater had been burned to a crisp as they also contained Andromeda.
Now though, she was quite deranged looking. She was thin, built like a skeleton. Her teeth were cracked and rotting and caused her breath to smell of death, darkness and decay. Her hair was matted. Insects had crawled from it on occasion. She made him physically ill.
Fac quod faciendum est.
That had become his mantra: do what must be done.
His mother's humming reminded him of that.
"Cissy, aren't you going to watch? Draco and I are going to put on a show." she whined, giggling, the sound dripping with utter psychosis.
Draco's chest tightened. His heart twisted. His lungs felt like they were taking on a life of their own and encasing other organs.
Then-
Nothing. He felt nothing. He saw… something but it did not register as though it were happening to him. It was like watching something else - something happening to another person.
Cold descended over him internally. It numbed everything; his brain, his nerve endings, his thoughts, his ability to physically feel much at all.
He watched Bellatrix approach him; limbs and movements fluid like the dancer she once was. She was grinning manically, long fingers and rotting nails reaching towards his face until she was holding him still and he was gagging on her tongue.
"My nephew," she purred, nails caked with dried blood trailing down the side of his face. He was gripping his occlumency tightly, with both hands, for dear life. "You've always been such a pretty boy." she cooed, hand to his chest shoving him backwards hard. He fell into the chair behind him, staring up at his aunt with that awful fucking lullaby of his mother's ringing in his ears.
He wondered, as Bellatrix hiked her black dress up to her hips, if his mother felt anything watching her sister straddle her son.
"That's no fun, Draco." she pouted, glaring into dead eyes.
"I've learned from the best, Aunt." he replied evenly.
"Drop it." she ordered, voice pitching higher. His occlumency wavered under the weight of mounting panic and disgust.
"I'd rather not, thank you." Anger lit up the witch's face and then she was gripping his forearm and digging her nails into the mark that remained embedded in his skin. It burned.
"Now!"
"No," his voice was firm and taunting. "I dare say you'd much prefer the challenge. Wouldn't you?" Anything to allow him to keep his occlumency in place.
She arched her brow.
"Very well," and then her evil smirk broke her ugly face in two while her hand dove down between them and her reeking teeth sank into the curve of skin where his shoulder met her neck.
He bit his tongue so hard the taste of copper flooded his mouth and he couldn't help it when he rolled his head to the side, watching his mother for any shred of emotion, pleading for it really, as Bellatrix sank down onto him. It took everything within him not to retch directly in her lap, exactly as it did every other time before.
"Don't look at her, look at me." Bellatrix snapped, pulling sharply on his hair. "Or…" she sang, smirking. "I'd be happy to involve her if that would make this more…" she looked pointedly downwards. "Enjoyable for you." The threat was thinly veiled.
Performing was impossible without some sort of artificial intervention - obviously. And he had not been granted the opportunity to partake in anything that would have helped. Theo usually kept those sorts of things on hand but he was nowhere to be found. So instead, Draco stared over the woman's shoulder at the fight going on below them, Granger sprawled out in the dirt while Weasley pummelled her half to death.
It felt vaguely familiar. His mother frozen nearby, Granger laid out on her back in pain, Bellatrix torturing, Weasley being an absolute worthless arse, and himself… watching.
He absently felt the point of Bellatrix's knife digging into his bicep and tracing around aimlessly. This he could handle. He could focus on pain instead of - the other things she was doing that made him want to disappear into the pit of self disgust.
The cheering crowd of loathsome wizarding folk broke his self-inflicted haze and drew his focus back to Granger and Weasley.
His oafish hands were wrapped around the woman's neck, crushing her windpipe and he could, in his own mind, feel her rapidly losing consciousness.
"If you'll excuse me, Aunt Bella." Draco drawled, pushing the woman away from him. She pouted for just a moment before she remembered herself and snarled angrily.
"Need I remind you of your…position?" she gestured vaguely at his mother. Draco's face darkened instantly as he reached for his mask.
"Of course not. Need I remind you what will happen if the Mudblood dies before our Lord has an opportunity to make use of her? You know how he values his… theatrics." She pouted again but huffed and gestured violently towards the door. "How benevolent of you," he deadpanned, shoving the mask against his face and stalking towards the door. He paused, one hand on the frame, turning his head sideways in the direction of his mother.
Narcissa, or the shell of her, was still against the wall, staring into nothing and humming to herself. His mother was gone.