Chapter 4
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. I only play. I am not making any money off the writing of this fanfic.
WARNING: MATURE READERS ONLY.
Hermione couldn't move her eyes from her nightmare. She sure was sleeping as the pain never came. The woman's dark countenance, graceful sharp movements and the mad intensity in her bottomless black eyes put Hermione in extremis from fear. She felt stunned, blood rushed down her body turning her limbs into a heavy buckling mass. And while she stood motionless in the middle of the room reliving every torturous second during her captivity at the Malfoy Manor, the bogart sauntered closer.
"Hello, little mudblood," Bellatrix's crispy voice echoed in the total silence. Her familiar insane laughter rolled off the walls and brought confusion on the faces of the other students.
"Shall we talk? A girl to girl?" and she laughed again.
Hermione tensed. It wasn't real. It was just a bogart. Just a…
Hermione stepped back, her palm unconsciously covering the prickling "Mudblood" on her forearm.
"What's wrong, filth? Not so brave anymore?" she protended her tongue, her face gleeful. "Aren't we courageous and ready to die for the greater good? Ah? What did you say?" Her face screwed up in rage. "You took it! You and your filthy blood traitors took it from my vault!" Her dark eyes bulged out, voice leveling down into sickening incredulity. "What else did you take?"and she raised her wand.
"I'll make you talk! No one defies the Dark Lord! You'll tell me everything! And then I'll let Grayback have a bite. Long has he waited to taste your dirty blood." Hermione staggered on her feet. "Tell me what else you took from my vault! Tell me! Tell me! Crucio!"
The red beam hit Hermione straight in the chest. She hit the floor and heard herself screaming. She couldn't tell if it was her memory playing tricks, or she really shifted again, and she was captured by Death Eaters, struggling for sanity. Her mind was filled with scourging draining fire, her twitching body drowning in excruciating pain. Her limbs twisted, spine arched and she screamed and wailed and screeched, until the torturous wave withdrew and she half-sank half-hang between consciousness and consuming darkness. She welcomed the latter almost pleadingly, as she knew what was coming next - the cursed knife and never ending pain.
Hermione shuddered when warm fingers brushed her cheek and wiped the droplets of blood from her bitten lip. She opened her eyes and stared into two silver orbs, fogged by undeniable confusion and almost palpable frustration.
She heard the whisperings in the distance:
"Is she alright?"
"Who was that witch?"
"She had a wand," someone sounded surprised.
"What was she talking about?"
"Who is the Dark Lord?"
"She said "blood traitors", what could it be?"
And amidst all the incomprehensible murmur, one clear and steady voice called to her to hang on.
"It's alright. Let me have you."
Hermione felt herself being lifted from the floor and then carefully cradled in strong arms.
"You are dismissed," Slytherin sounded irritated. No one argued. One by one his students left the classroom, their curious and baffled gazes hanging on her limp form. Slytherin tucked her more securely into his chest and made it into another dimly lit chamber, void of any windows; Hermione looking aghast, and wincing at his clutching strength on her protesting body.
"Hold on a little more, little girl," Slytherin said harshly, looking into her shocked face with a taunting smile.
Hermione blinked and wiggled in his arms. Frowning, Slytherin grudgingly complied and lowered her on the chair. He moved out of sight, partly concealed by the darkness and she heard a clinging sound. A shiver ran down her spine when he talked again. "A mudblood, eh?"
Hermione blanched and shrank deeper into the sturdy chair, so high her feet didn't reach the floor. She shivered again, sinking into self-concern and wincing at the humming painful muscle tremor.
The memories - horrendous memories! - were after her again. She clasped her sweaty palm over her forearm, grateful for the narrow sleeves of her school gown, hiding the treacherous scar and for a moment of recess. To her chagrin, he was striding back almost immediately, confident and menacing looking. She refused to look at him.
"Drink," he ordered, pushing a frail vial in her weak hand. Hermione eyed the content with concern. It was a clear liquid, thick in its essence and could be anything. Her mind scrolled over a dozen potions with the equal innocent appearance that would make her quite miserable, were she to take it. On the other hand, it could have been a basic pain-killer potion she craved so much at the moment, or even a harmless muscle relaxant she desperately needed. Could she risk it? Would she have taken a chance to try it, if Voldemort himself had been expecting her compliance?
The doubt on her face didn't escape Slytherin.
"Drink it, or I shall shove it down your throat!" he threatened, and Hermione brought the vial to her pale lips. Surprisingly it tasted sweet and nice. She licked her lips, feeling her body unwind from the tight clasp of pain. Her nerve endings felt soothed, the tension seeping out of her body, leaving her pleasurably relaxed. Ron would appreciate this mixture before and after exams, she guessed and at once felt sad.
Ron…
"Thank you," she whispered, lowering her eyes, and praying. Praying that he didn't ask… that he…
"Normally, bogarts do not wield such tremendous power as to bring someone down by bodily pain. They aim for the heart. Your fear of that witch was too humongous, little girl. You fed it. Your own fear attacked you today. "
He took the vial from her fingers and replaced it with the mug of warm herb tea.
"I wasn't afraid of her," Hermione protested quietly, although it was only half-truth. "I was afraid of pain."
She dared to peek at Slytherin over the rim of the mug, judging his expressions and considering ways to avoid the interrogation. He was looming over her. His handsome face scowling, while she was slowly sipping her tea.
Wait…
Handsome?
The notion struck and she choked, sputtering the drink over her school gown.
"How interesting…" she heard and pressed her palm to her mouth.
Could he read thoughts?
He probably could. Hermione colored, feeling embarrassed.
"Don't fret, witch," he said, amused by her reaction. "Normally it's not so easy to access your mind. It's a guarded fortress, believe me, I've seen enough simple-minded creatures to make this statement. In your present relaxed state however, you let your guard down, and gave me a glimpse." His lips twitched sardonically. "You are hiding something and scared that I will force it out of you."
He paused and then whispered almost gently.
"Should I enter your mind, little girl?"
"You said it won't be easy," Hermione replied weakly.
To her surprise Slytherin agreed.
"No, it won't. But I shall still gain my entrance." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Start talking."
"You saw everything. What else to add? She tortured me for hours, trying to find out what had I taken from her secret place…"Hermione shook her head. "She never did. And neither will you."
His gray eyes peered into her, softened from the calming herbs drink. Hermione's confused mind tried to resist, impressing Salazar further, but only mildly. The witchling was delightedly inexperienced with her magic abilities. Were she a half-blood, he would take great pleasures tutoring her personally both in spell work and her bedroom performances. He wondered if she was as innocent in body, as her magical spirit seemed to be.
Slytherin resisted the urge to push further into the guarded layers of her thoughts. Her sweet crafted mind was luring him, though, and he pressed just a little only to hear her gasp. He caught the glimpses of the same dark-haired witch, shooting hexes and slashing with her crooked knife over the delicate pale skin of the girl's arm. Anger filled his chest and he had to pull rains on his temper to smoothly slither further, when the dark twists of her mind contained much alluring secrets.
She pushed at him harder this time, and he withdrew albeit reluctantly. He looked at her anew. She stood up to the mad woman, and she didn't break. He knew first hand now, to what lengths she would go to protect her precious memories. He smiled. Slytherin enjoyed this challenge and he was curious. Playing with her might entertain him for some time. Now that he was confident that she was familiar with magic, he doubted her dirty heritage. But still he had to assure himself.
"You are not a mudblood, are you?" he asked, and saw her stiffen. He caught a stray curl of her wild hair and tucked it behind her ear.
"I am not," was her quiet guarded reply and he frowned.
She lied and his magic heightened. Pushing forward to strike, to punish… to maul.
There was truth in her words though, and that gave him a pause. Something rang warnings in his mind. He knew he shouldn't trust his senses with her. The fastest way would be to break through her barricades, find out the truth and… possibly leave her permanently violated, her bright mind torn apart and incurable.
"Don't deceive me!" he lashed out, hating to admit that he stopped wishing her harm. "For I recognize lies, when those are spoken."
Hermione shuddered and pulled away almost tumbling on the stone floor in her haste to get away from his wrath.
Slytherin grabbed her, his fingers curled into her shoulders.
"A half-blood,"he made a guess.
Hermione didn't reply, her silence annoying him more than he anticipated. Everything about her was irritably deceiving. Salazar tried to enter her mind again, but the girl was expecting him and this time she fought back, her mental shield shutting down on him, impressing the wizard beyond everything.
No… - he mused. – She couldn't be a mudblood.
Slytherin encountered enough of those dirty creatures to know that Hermione wasn't one of those stupid dunderheads.
He felt another mental shove and scowled down at her, annoyed.
She wasn't strong enough to hold him back, but she'd put up a fight, her decisive stubborn face assured him of that.
"Don't try it," she sounded fearful, while warning him off of her tempting secrets. "She couldn't do it and so won't you. I'll go mad first! I swear!"
Salazar raised an eyebrow.
"There are many other ways to access your thoughts, little witch," he told her quietly, his word slithering its way through her defenses, the relaxing tone promising peace to her guarded subconscious. He could woo her.
"Stop it!"Hermione pushed herself from the chair. Her body felt strangely lax, the woven legs obeyed her albeit grudgingly.
"I will unravel you secrets,little half-blood," Hermione swallowed her panic, but forced herself to stand up to him. "I want to leave!" she whispered. "These," she pointed around. "Look like your personal chambers. I don't understand why you would bring me here."
He bloody well didn't know it himself. He just scooped the girl and stalked away, never bothering to reply on any surprised glances. Now that he thought about it, he recalled Gryffindor and Ravenclaw conversing by the clock they were about to hoist above the entrance. Curse Godric for his amusement at lady Rowena's shock when she spotted him in his barbaric spirits.
Salazar looked at Hermione. She was inching toward the exit, her expression as frightened and eager to leave as moments sighed.
A half-blood… Better than nothing, as it was, she still was merely sufficient for copulation. To his utter bewilderment he found himself being entertained by the mere idea of Granger girl on her hands and knees.
A quick relaxing fuck would improve his mood, he decided and shut the door. The girl jumped, startled. He could see her pretty eyes rounding as the heavy wooden bolt slowly drew into place, sealing her inside.
"Magic has its benefits," he shrugged, lifting her off the ground with a lazy flick of his hand, and levitating her stunned form toward another set of doors leading to his bed chambers.
"I have decided that it's time for me to collect your gratification," he murmured, amused by her struggles. "And it's done better on the bed."
"What?!" Hermione's blood went cold.
Surely, he hadn't just said "bed".
Had he?
She kicked and squirmed under the levitating enchantment until her body got suspended over the horrendously huge bed, covered in multiple furs that poor animals might have donated to his comfort. That's when she realized, she didn't want to be put down anymore.
But her thoughts mattered nothing. Hermione hit the bed with thud and a grunt, immediately rolling on her stomach and scurrying away.
Her body froze mid-step and then, obeying magical compulsion, moved to position itself in the middle of the bed. Hermione shuddered when her stiff calves spread themselves wider and her elbows bent, deeping into the soft silky fur. She felt partly petrified and imperioused at the same time.
A tiny vial filled with crimson liquid flew to her face, and Hermione's jaw slackened and started opening up.
NO!
She squeezed her lips shut, resisting the compulsion and went rigid when her tormentor chuckled softly behind her back.
"It's not a poison. I assure you." Hermione heard his clothes drop on the floor and whimpered. "The mixture will assist you in relaxing and you shall enjoy it as much as I do."
The vial nudged her chin insistently, while Hermione desperately struggled to obtain control over her body.
The hideous truth of the reality slammed in when Slytherin's palms lowered on her hips. Her mouth opened and she screamed, her shrill loud and hysteric.
"Get you hands off me! You barbarian! You have no right to touch me! I am not a whore! I have a betrothed! Unhandle me this instant!"
Salazar laughed.
"What a delightful fiery thing you are! I'll enjoy mounting you."
Mounting her?
Was he in earnest? Hermione's breathing became so elaborate, she could hardly hear him through her heart's frantic pounding in her ears.
"I sense the truth in your words. Although it's hard to believe that any wizard would abandon a witch to the fire. You are also mature enough to be with kids. How old are you, minx?"
"Nineteen!" she gritted out, clenching her teeth.
"That's more than I initially presumed," he mused, petting her thigh. "Why aren't you married? Didn't your family want to secure your future? It's not safe for a witch to wonder the world on her own. Especially as ignorant as yourself."
Hermione sensed his warm palms smoothing the material of her gown and palming her bottom. She tried to wiggle away, fighting the curse with all her might, her attempts doing nothing but entertain him more. Tears prickled in her eyes.
"Don't you dare touching me!" She whispered angry and frustrated.
"I feel your magic battling mine," he replied thoughtfully. "It knows what it's doing, but has no clue as to how. I find it very interesting."
He patted her shaking rear soothingly and then his hand sneaked under her gown.
Hermione's breath hitched.
"Don't you dare, you monster!" she screamed in terror.
"Settle yourself, lady Hermione," he laughed. "Although, if it's a "lady" is still disputable." His fingers gathered both the thick gown and chemise and hiked them over her back, exposing her to her waist.
Hermione was mortified. She wore no panties or any kind of underwear, as she discovered that there were none in use at that time. Her dainty fingers clenched the bedding and she hid her burning face in its layers.
Salazar however was stricken and speechless. Her perfect heart-shaped bottom looked ripe and utterly alluring. He couldn't resist the temptation to cup the soft full cheeks and gently rub them.
"Oh, pleeease don't!" the girl beseeched, but he was too entranced by the view to mind her.
He spread her pliable cheeks and stilled. His finger traced an absolutely bare–from-any-pubic-hair slit. He palmed her center and discovered no trace of hair there either. Bewildered, he charm-lifted her bottom from the bed for his inspection. Her bent legs dangled in the air helplessly.
"You are bare!" He stated, staring and admiring the view.
"I know it, you pureblood asshole!" Hermione shrieked.
"Why don't you have hair? Are you diseased?"
Hermione tensed. She had it temporarily removed by an altered balding jinx. Only the term "temporarily" varied from two to five months of comfortable existence.
"Magic?" Slytherin questioned.
As if something else could have ever resulted in something so perfectly done, Hermione would have replied, but was too aware of his exploring hand and scrutinizing eyes.
"Stop pawing me, you brute!"
He parted her inner folds and actually bent to have better look.
"I want you witch," he declared resolutely. "I promise you a settled situation whether you are untouched or not. Submit to me!"
Was he serious?
Seething, Hermione finally got enough control over her arm to shove away the vial poking her shattered hitting the bedpost.
She heard Slytherin sigh in exasperation.
"Have you got something to lose, little witch?" His finger prodded her entrance carefully. "Surely, you've had a man before. You are nineteen after all. What's one more?"
If there was any chance to stop him using honesty, she'd do it.
"I haven't!" Hermione cried out and shuddered at the intrusion of his thick digit, sliding back and forth and abasing her tender skin.
He stopped, removed his finger and then confessed:
"I want you even more now."
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut. Confessing that she was of dirty blood could have been an option, if not for the fact that it didn't stop him from ill-using the previous muggleborn girl and then send her on her way presumably, due to a successful marriage. She had a gut wrenching premonition about the whole muggleborn thing in this century.
"I am promised to another!" she declared, proud of her threatening voice. "Remove your hands at once and let me go!" she was so terrified that the decisions were taking place instantaneously. "If these are the conditions of my staying ay Hogwarts, I am leaving at the first opportunity."
Melinda's proposition to shelter her didn't seem as appalling as before. At least she would be safe from Slytherin and his dirty advances. Numb with fear, she forgot all about her "back to future" plan.
"Leave?" Slytherin sounded displeased even to himself. "Live where?"
Hermione knew he'd know if she lied.
"With Melinda," she replied.
"McWeasel?!" he asked angrily, his hand gripping her thigh.
Salazar scowled. McWeasel was the biggest clan in Highland, consisting of its ruthless leader Author McWeasel and his nine sons. All of them where unmarried, and definitely in search for a witch to claim. Lady Granger's arrival there would cause uproar of a good kind, followed by multiple duels for her hand.
An unclaimed witch, even a half-blood was a prize, for those of common thinking. In Slytherin's opinion though, mudbloods were for fucking, half-bloods for liaisons and pureblood witches for breeding. It was that simple. He only wished others were persuaded to share his opinion more willingly. He despised mudbloods and their craving for knowledge. Their place was beneath kneeling servitude; they lived to please and attend to their betters. Salazar went as far as to graciously take care of their needs from time to time. He even invented a potion, which would numb their senses, cloud their conscience and make them wet and ready for partaking in sexual activities.
Hermione Granger wasn't a mudblood though. He could feel her magic struggling to rebuke his. She tried to summon the jug on his head, but failed. She pushed as far as to actually stun him, trip him, make him sick and disarm him. The latter was strange though, because he held no weapon. He felt her exasperation and fear when those attempts failed.
Poor thing. She had no knowledge of how to simply direct her magic. But she was strong and powerful, and he was interested.
"There would be no leaving me， witch," he informed her decisively. "I shall have you in my bed."
His hand was a heavy burning press on her hip; the feeling was not entirely unpleasant, although when she felt his finger prodding her body again andcurling a little, she shuddered from pain.
"You are tight, witch," he observed, his voice husky. "You can hardly accommodate my digit. I will enjoy molding your body to mine."He sighed regretfully. "Not today though."
Slowly, his finger withdrew and Hermione was able to move again. She jumped out of the bed, lowering her skirts and awarding him with a hateful glare. The tender flesh between her thighs tingled a little. Her face burned red from humiliation, fear and anger.
She stared at him defiantly and Salazar smirked. So much spirit. He liked her. He wouldn't admit it, but the fact that Godric's hat put her in his charge was probably the wisest thing the rag ever did so far. Maybe "a sorting hat" wasn't such a bad idea after all.
"Now-now… There is no need to be agitated." He shifted, sat on the edge of the bed and beckoned her with his hand. "Come. Show me your left arm."
The little color left on her face, drained, highlighting the paleness of her fair skin and moonlike features. Slytherin found himself being entranced by her wild beauty. Everything about her exceeded his expectations.
"What?" he heard her whisper.
"Your left arm, girl. I want to see it," he demandedimpatiently. He might not bed her today, but he would savor her closenessnonetheless. And maybe have another peek at her perfect nether region.
"You can't," he heard and frowned.
"Don't make me force you, because I will."
Hermione swallowed to loosen the tight contraction in her throat.
"Please," she whispered. "Haven't you seen enough?"
An amused smile danced on his lips.
"Not in the slightest," he informed her, enjoying the humiliation he was causing, and the fear she was emitting. Hermione fisted the sides of her gown and lowered her head, in what he thought smugly was a defeat.
"Approach me," Slytherin persevered despite apparent horror marring her dainty features.
Salazar straightened his back and placed his hands on his strong thighs. Hermione made a tiny step forward. Then another.
Slytherin's arm shot out, snaked around her waist and pulled her between his legs. She noticed with trepidation that even seated, he easily dwarfed her.
His fingers pulled on the tight sleeve of her gown, tearing it at the seam and exposing her forearm. He stilled, glaring at the crooked scar lines.
Mudblood.
He looked at the girl. She looked shaken.
Could she be a mudblood?
He almost wished for it to be true. It would have been much easier to bend her to his will, if she was indeed a mudblood.
"Are you a mudblood?" he asked again, his hatred toward her dirty kind carefully suppressed. He didn't want to spook her. He wanted to bed her.
"I've already given you my reply," she averted her face, pulling at her hand.
Salazar covered the ugly writing with his palm, squeezing it.
"She tortured you," he stated, and still she was silent.
"What did she want to know?"
What should she tell him? Hermione couldn't lie. He would know. She managed to confuse him, denying her mudblood heritage, but only because she had never considered her blood being dirty. Hermione had her own theory for muggleborns, but it was too early to share it with anyone. She was saving it for the new world, cleared from blood-purity shackles.
"It doesn't matter now," she replied so quietly it almost tugged at his heart. It could have, if he had one. "That witch is dead and won't be able to cause harm anymore."
Slytherin didn't like her reply.
"It's cursed," he said instead.
Hermione frowned, her concern of his proximity dissipating. She eyed the scar warily. She figured it had been cursed, since it never totally healed and was prickling from time to time, but what more was to it, she simply hadn't had an opportunity to address it, with the war and deaths, raging and looming at her heels.
Salazar dropped her hand and battled his instincts. Somehow, he found the foreignmagician imprint on her body unsettling. The girl was affecting his sanity and he didn't like it one bit. He did not care for the trollops he bedded. And he refused to go against his principles now, no matter how insistent his instinct called for action, and how vividly his imagination played against him.
"Now that you've seen everything, can I go?" Hermione asked, fidgeting on her spot. The rebellious glint in her eyes, clouded by a thin layer of fear, made him desire her more. She was quite a mystery. His half-blood. A mystery he would take particular pleasure to unravel.
His palms traced the sides of her tiny wait leisurely.
"I don't like this bulky gown," he murmured huskily, the image of her bare mould burnt forever into his memory.
So soft and silky.
Salazar growled pushing her away.
Hermione staggered catching her balance.
"Go now," he said, clenching his fists. "Flee, before I fuck you, like a half-blood deserves to be fucked."
Hermione's eyes became glassy from the dread of his threat. She sprinted toward the door. He glimpsed apprehension and terror in their warm depths before she wrenched the door open. The sound of her retreating steps a torturous relief to his burning need.