Author's Note:

Buckle up, this is going to be a long one ^.^

I hope you enjoy, and please review if you feel inclined. I always appreciate the feedback.

HAPPY OCTOBER!

Scars on Fire

...

She wasn't going to wear it.

Following Rosier words, Hermione had gingerly opened the package resting on the foot of her bed—after attempting to open the door, which of course still wouldn't budge. Inside the paper wrapping lay a short-sleeved dress with a high neckline. The silky crimson fabric of the dress reached the floor when the witch had pressed it to her body.

Now, Hermione stared at the dress flung on the bed as she chewed on her fingernails.

It seems facetious: that a house of Death Eaters, probable Slytherins, would gift her, a muggleborn, a dress in the color of her house. Green or black would have made more sense—but red?

Putting on the dress, accepting the gift, felt dangerous to Hermione and her mind screamed at her to destroy it somehow. If she had her wand, she would have burned the bloody thing already. The temptation to tear it apart with her bare hands was overwhelming, but the witch didn't even want to touch it.

And she definitely wasn't going to wear it.

Tired of looking at the dress, Hermione turned away and found her attention drawn once again to the large window. The room she was imprisoned in must have been on a second or third floor. Below, Hermione could make out fields of fresh snow layering the ground below and a line of trees to her left. Despite the freshly fallen snow, the sky was a crisp and clear curtain of blue with no clouds protecting the landscape from the blaringly cold sun.

Settling her forehead against the chilled glass, the witch breathed on the window—fogging the horizon into a warm blur.

She had to figure a way out of here alive. Without a wand and without a clue on what Riddle was planning to do with her, the witch couldn't anticipate how or when she would have the opportunity to escape. It all seemed too much, the anxiety at even the thought of such a feat crept through her body and made her mind hurt.

It seemed that the effects of war had made it so that conceptualizing a plan in its entirety was near impossible for her anymore. She had to disassemble it, had to look at one part at a time.

The witch's head scrambled as she breathed in deeply and then out to heat the window once again.

The first thing that she had to figure out was where she was at. If she could learn where this house was located, then she could work out whether there was a way to civilization on foot. If it was too far from anything, then she would have to steal a wand or escape through a floo.

Stealing a wand would have to be handled carefully. If she tried and was unsuccessful, who knows what the consequences would be. Hermione knew that she had to establish which Death Eater would be the easiest target, and then somehow get them alone.

The witch already had a few ideas on who she would focus on.

Completely lost in thought, Hermione didn't notice a change in the room until a deep voice interrupted her.

"Why haven't you changed?"

The accent was all too familiar now. Turning slowly, the witch hardened her body and swallowed all the emotions that rose in her. Her hands curled into fists as she forced herself not to cower away from the intimidating form of Antonin Dolohov.

Calm down. They don't want me dead. Yet.

Raising her chin at the thought the witch met the wizard's hollow eyes, "I prefer my uniform."

Silence followed her statement—deathly silence that slowly chipped away at her fake bravado. As the minutes passed, Hermione struggled to inhale and exhale steadily as she wondered whether he had heard her.

Or had she simply thought those defiant words? A lump in the witch's throat began to form as she continued to stare into Dolohov's dark eyes.

After what felt like hours, the Russian wizard took one slow measured step forward, "put it on."

"No."

This time, in response to her words, Dolohov's eyebrows furrowed as a scowl took over his face and he took another step forward.

"Put the dress on or I will put it on you."

His harsh words at first didn't make sense to the witch. They reverberated in her head and, as the syllables untangled into terrifying clarity, their meaning made Hermione's body freeze. He couldn't be serious. He wouldn't.

He wouldn't touch her. Hermione felt her mouth go dry as she stared in shock at the wizard, her fingers finding and clutching the hem of her skirt in fists. She wouldn't do it.

Dolohov was just as terrifying and cruel looking as he was last night when he had gripped her hair in his fist in order for Riddle to dig through her mind.

Standing in front of him now, alone and without anyone to stop him from acting out his cruel desires, made shivers run up the witch's spine. He was as tall as she remembered in her nightmares, tall and menacing. The sunlight, that only moments earlier had been too much-too harsh—seemed to be swallowed by his mere presence. Dressed in a black dress shirt and slacks, the Russian wizard was the accumulation of all the shadow monsters that Hermione had created in her mind throughout and after the war.

There was no doubt that he was dangerous. But would he really stay true to his recently spoken promise? There were many things that she imagined the Death Eater she had encountered in her time would love to do to her.

Torture her until she was left bleeding on the floor: yes.

Kill her slowly: undoubtedly.

Lower himself to strip the clothing from her and dress her, a mudblood, like a doll: no?

But perhaps she had miscalculated the depravity of this incarnation of the wizard in front of her.

Before she could unravel her thoughts and determine whether he was bluffing or not, the Death Eater began striding across the room towards her. His boots snapped against the floor in an all-too-familiar manner.

Panicked as the focus of too many of her nightmares walked towards her, Hermione stretched her arms in front of her and took a set of steps back, attempting to put the bed between them, as a screech flew from her lips:

"No! Okay, I'll put it on."

At her plea, the Russian halted his journey at the foot of the bed, eyeing her carefully as she moved the rest of the way from the window to pick up the dress that was now in front of her on the mattress, the only thing separating him from grabbing her.

A sense of self-loathing slithered through her body at the fact that she wasn't putting up more of a fight. She should refuse, and if he did in fact stay true to his words she should scream and fight him; make this moment of hell for her a living hell for him too.

Fumbling with the silk nervously, Hermione swallowed the abrupt need to vomit.

She needed to gain some form of control, or she would completely lose it. The witch's vision was already dimming at the edges and the tell-tale signs of a panic attack was inching its way along her skin. But the mere idea of Dolohov touching her scared Hermione more than she could have ever imagined, she couldn't put up a fight.

Touching the collar of her uniform, the witch waited for him to leave. Her stomach turned as the moment crawled by until finally, she couldn't take it anymore, "Are you going to leave so I can cha-"

"You've had an opportunity to change in private," the wizard interrupted her.

Once again, his words stunned the witch. Hermione allowed her hands to drop to her sides, the dress falling along with them.

He isn't going to leave?

Closer now, the witch could make out the faint scruff of facial hair along the wizard's jaw as it ticked. His dark eyes gnawed away at her as her body refused to move or respond to her screaming mind.

Not bloody likely.

They don't want me dead.

Screw him.

At that final thought, it seemed that her body understood what her mind demanded and, as a scowl settled across her face, the witch balled up the dress and threw it at the Death Eater.

The wizard caught it easily from the air, their eyes meeting in mirrored glares.

Dolohov moved first, Hermione second.

Walking around the bed that divided them, the Russian wizard continued until Hermione felt the cold stone of the wall settling behind her back. Although she willed herself to seep into the crevices of the house, the witch did not allow her glare to waver from his.

With the dress tucked over an arm, the Death Eater lifted his hand towards her tie.

"Don't fucking touch me," Hermione batted at his hand with hers.

Dolohov didn't respond as he pinned her shoulder into the wall, undoing the tie swiftly. Despite each hit and scratch that Hermione implemented, he didn't reciprocate back. His focus was entirely on her clothing.

The feel of her tie slipping from her shoulders made the witch's heart race into her throat, the darkness that had been previously tinging her sight abruptly replaced by the clarity of this reality as she settled her gaze to the dark fabric of his shirt.

"You bloody bastard, worthless, piece of—" her hiss was interrupted by the feel of her shirt being ripped at the buttons and then... nothing.

Moving her head from its place against the wall, the witch nervously looked up at his face.

The wizard towering over her had lost the glare that seemed a permanent feature on his face. Instead, he looked fascinated. His eyes were centered below her face. Following his gaze, Hermione found her conservative bra and skin bared from where he had ripped her shirt open. In the light of the room, the witch's thick mottled scar was crisp in its marring of her skin. Beginning with branches curved between her breasts, the scar fell and forked down her stomach to disappear under the rest of her clothes.

It felt hot and sharp under the critical examination being made by the dark wizard in front of her.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, the witch shuddered under his gaze. The Death Eater had dropped the dress to the floor, his hands now encircling both of her arms, making it so that, even if Hermione could react in that moment, she would not have been able to throw him off her.

"Have we met in your time, Kukla." That snarled sentence was not a question; it hit the air and clung to the following silence that hung between the two of them.

The wizard's cold fingers moved from her arm to her chest and traced the scar down between her breasts. At his touch, Hermione gasped, curving her back at a sudden pain that cracked through her. Brown eyes shot up to stare into Hermione's as she grimaced against the pain, "Does it still burn?"

"I-" squeezing shut her eyes, the witch tried to collect her thoughts.

"Do you know what this curse is meant to do?" Dolohov asked the witch who sagged in relief as he pulled his touch away from her. "It's meant to burn you from the inside. Spread from where it hit to incinerate you without leaving a mark on the skin. Starting here—" the wizard pressed his finger to her chest again, "—szhech' tvoye serdtse*."

Shaking her head against the pain thrumming through her once more, Hermione attempted to pull herself from his grasp. At her resistance, the wizard pulled her closer—taking his fingertip from her skin, his eyes never moving from the scar—until she was nearly tucked into the crook of his arm.

A faint scent of cologne and firewood engulfed the witch as she felt his warm breath against her neck. The hot sensation of his touch disappeared steadily in favor of the barely-there heat that seemed to always thrum through the cursed skin.

She needed room; she had to breath.

"Why, kukla, is it that in the future I cannot successfully cast a curse which I have created and perfected myself?" Dolohov hissed into her ear.

"You were silenced." Hermione gasped through the dull ache that remained in her head, her fingers gripping onto his arms to keep from falling.

"And, I assume, you are the one that silenced me?"

Shaking her head at the question, the witch rested her head on his shoulder. Hermione knew that the Death Eater could feel her trembling against him—knew that she was being weak to allow herself to lean against his body, but the after-tremors of the pain continued to fog her brain.

She was so tired, too tired to fight against him anymore. Swallowing the sense of self-loathing that took her over at the thought, the witch knew she had to end this—she had to let him win this one.

"Please don't touch it again," Hermione pleaded into the cloth of his shirt.

"Does it—"

"Tony."

At the abrupt sound of a new voice in the room, Hermione felt the wizard tense against her. Untangling his arms from hers, she slid to the ground as the dark wizard let go of her body.

Dolohov turned away from her, allowing the witch an uninhibited view of a scowling Evan Rosier.

With a clear view of Evan's green eyes, Hermione noted how his gaze moved from her open shirt to the scarring, then up to her face. His scowl deepened as he turned towards Dolohov, who was walking towards him.

Scurrying out of the corner of the room, Hermione took that moment to grab the dress from the ground and turn herself towards the wall. Behind her, the wizards spoke softly—too softly for the witch to understand even if her head didn't buzz from what had just happened.

Throwing off her button-up shirt, the witch pulled the silky dress over her head. Once the fabric fell to the floor, she unbuttoned her skirt and took it off, her tights following quickly after, all under the protection of the dress.

In a matter of seconds, Hermione had finished dressing and turned around to find the two Death Eaters still talking, but now looking at her.

Pausing their conversation, Evan took a step back towards the door, "ready?"

Ready? Ready for what?

The witch sensed that whatever was going to happen was going to be horrible, but it couldn't be worse than staying in this room with Dolohov.

Glancing at the dark wizard, Hermione felt a thrum run through her scar.

It's not like I would have a choice anyway.

With a nod Hermione walked to the door as Evan held it open for her. She held her breath as she squeezed between the two wizards, who stood on either side of the doorframe, and the uncomfortable feeling of being watched following her on her way out.

"Just downstairs," Evan called after her as she stepped out into the corridor.

I should run, Hermione thought half-heartedly.

The witch peeked around the shadows of the large corridor, noting a few doors speckling the walls around her. Further down the hallway, she could make out a large stairway. There had to be a door to the outdoors somewhere near the end of the stairs.

Hermione took a few steps towards the stairway before stopping, her eyes catching a glance of herself in a large mirror on the corridor wall.

Turning towards the mirror, the witch stared at herself blankly.

She looked as pale and thin as she always did; dark circles were slightly more pronounced under her eyes, but that is not what stopped her. The fact that she was clean of the blood and dirt that must have covered her after what had happened the day before. Her skin was clean as if someone scourgified her body after she has passed out.

Unease tensed through her body at the thought.

Lifting a trembling hand to trace the skin of her cheek, Hermione took a step closer to the mirror. Her hair seemed to engulf most of her upper body. Frizzy curls fell around her face and down her shoulders to rest across the crimson red silk of the dress. Merlin, was she tired.

The sound of the two Death Eaters' voices growing louder drew Hermione away from her reflection.

"—aw it Evan, that scar."

"Watch it."

"Or what?" Dolohov's voice hissed from the room.

They are talking about me.

Looking up to meet her eyes in the reflection of the mirror, curiosity overtook the witch as she focused on the words being spoken.

"I'm serious, Tony. I don't know what I walked in to, but I can assume—"

"One night with her, and she already has you under her thumb. You are too soft, mladshiy brat*"

What was that supposed to mean?

"Perhaps you're the one who's soft, Antonin. You've got to control yourself."

"Evan, you do not know what you are talking about."

The sound of hands hitting flesh echoed the words, making Hermione clench her fingers at her sides.

"And you know what Tom said, stop fucking around." Rosier's reminder was growled as a warning.

What? What did he say? She knew that Riddle had told them what he had found in her mind. Had he told them about her past? About what she had done against them?

The sound of footsteps replacing voices made the witch jump out of her worries. They were coming out; they were going to catch her eavesdropping. Taking once last look at herself in the mirror, Hermione scurried down the corridor—the confusion at what the Death Eaters had said quickly being outweighed by the anxiety about what she would find at the bottom of the stairs.

*szhech' tvoye serdtse- to burn your heart

*mladshiy brat- little brother