Mr Malfoy's eyes had returned to Hermione, who went slightly pink, but stared determinedly back at him. - Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Chapter Eight: The Quidditch World Cup
"I would have thought you'd be ashamed that a girl of no wizard family beat you in every exam" - Lucius to Draco (Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Chapter Four: At Flourish and Blotts)
— CHAPTER TWO —
Surrender to the Dark
Knockturn Alley was dark and eerie. There were no streetlamps and Hermione had to keep herself from stumbling on the bumpy pavement. The tug on her arm was her only indicator of direction; she had to follow it blindly or fall.
Her mind working frantically, she glanced over at the man whose cold hand was holding her arm in a grip that was almost gentle, though frighteningly strong. She had no idea where they were going, but he walked ahead with a confidence that suggested he knew the way so well he had no difficulty finding it in the dark.
She hadn't entirely given up hope, in spite of the evidence that her situation was as hopeless as he claimed. Now was the time to come up with some miraculous plan of escape like the times she had extricated her friends from trouble. But no miraculous scheme came. There were no sudden brilliant ideas, nothing but the blankness of mind that accompanied the terror of a nightmare turned reality.
Her breathing grew shallower with each step she took and her legs shook with mounting panic. What am I doing? Why did I follow him? she wondered as she walked at the side of the enemy. An enemy who was probably going to kill her. Right now he was her guide into an unfamiliar place that had always frightened her, even if she had learned to consciously dismiss her fear by replacing it with a determination to tackle whatever she encountered, to bravely do her duty as an Auror. But none of that mattered now, because there were some fears she had failed to overcome.
She was in this situation because not for the first time, her quick thinking had failed her when faced with this Death Eater, though she couldn't understand why. Had she been too afraid to disobey him? Was she really so little of a Gryffindor that she had let an emotion as irrational as fear paralyse her?
It was stupid. I should have been more careful, but it's too late to change that now. Had he been anyone else, she would not have followed him to Knockturn Alley. She would have fought with her bare hands and teeth if she had to, and nothing short of the Imperius curse would have made her cooperate. But she had instinctively trusted him for some reason. And he probably would have killed me if I hadn't done what he wanted!
After what felt like hours but in reality had been only minutes, he stopped in front of the door of a small house with skewed walls. He pushed her face-first into the door, forcing her to stay in front of him so he could keep an eye on her while he fumbled with the lock.
Hermione watched him out of the corner of her eye. She wanted to memorise how to unlock the door and give the information to the Auror Office, in the unlikely event that she would live long enough to return to work. But when she felt a wand poke her warningly in the back, she gave up that plan.
She leaned her cheek against the rough wood of the door and closed her eyes behind the strands of bushy hair that obscured her face. He hadn't been quick enough to prevent her from glimpsing the plaque on the door, a metal plate inscribed with the number 25, an image that would remain engraved in her memory.
She heard a metallic click as the lock on the door gave way and he sheathed his wand. Opening the door, he wrapped an arm firmly around her waist and led her inside.
It was as dark in the house as it had been on the street. Cautiously, she followed him up a set of stairs and ended up in a high-ceilinged room lit by torches and a chandelier in the form of a coiled serpent. The furniture consisted of a black couch and chairs. The curtains, also black, were tightly closed.
The moment he stepped into the room, pulling her in after him, amber flames roared in the fireplace, casting eerie shadows on the walls. On the outside, the dirty walls had looked as though only magic was stopping them from collapsing, but inside, Hermione saw no sign of ruin.
The air itself was warm yet it sent a chill through Hermione. In the centre of the room was a wooden table littered with potion vials, bloodstained books, broken mirrors and other sinister things the Auror recognised as Dark Arts objects. She had been expecting something like this since the house appeared to be a Death Eater hideout. She could sense the reek of Dark magic in the air.
Yet, inexplicably, ironically, she felt almost comfortable in this environment. She was an Auror surrounded by the things she had been trained to detect and destroy, but now that there was nothing she could do to fulfil her duty, she did not really feel bothered by them. Instead, she felt a strange fascination with the things she had been taught to hate and banish. The essence of evil that had chilled when she had entered this room now felt almost welcoming, triggering her naturally curious and daring nature.
Comprehension hit her brusquely and she shuddered in horror when she realised the implications. She felt like she belonged here. She had never felt so at home in such a hostile place. Quickly, she dismissed what would be the logical, terrible conclusion: that she was attracted to the Dark Arts. No. It wasn't possible. She couldn't be.
This is ridiculous, she told herself. This place is full of Dark magic and I'm an Auror. I can't feel comfortable here. I don't feel comfortable here.
But you do, a tiny voice whispered in her head. You do. Don't deny it. You know it's true. And that was what scared her the most. She almost felt at peace, despite the fact that she was at the mercy of a brutal Death Eater.
But he wasn't acting brutal towards her, was he?
He removed his hood and hung his cloak by the door. Then he proceeded to unfasten Hermione's scarlet cloak. He removed it from her shoulders and hung it next to his. He pushed her gently onto the couch, forcing her to sit.
"How kind of you to have joined me in this lonely place, Miss Granger," he said lazily. "I never knew an Auror could be so obedient... especially a former Gryffindor."
She scowled, folding her hands in her lap to stop them from shaking. What was he talking about? He had not given her a real choice! Was he trying to insult her by insinuating she would have followed him if she had really had a choice?
Strangely, he was treating her as though she were a respected guest if one ignored the fact that she had been robbed of her wand and her ability to speak. But he wasn't torturing her yet, and she had to wonder why he had brought her here.
The voice in her head mocked her, reminding her that she felt like she belonged here. No, I don't, she thought firmly.
"It was clever of you to have realised the hopelessness of your situation so quickly," he drawled. "It was almost Slytherin behaviour, in fact. Then again, you have always been a clever witch."
A reluctant smile tugged at Hermione's lips for a second. Her hard work at Hogwarts had truly paid off, if it had impressed even someone as prejudiced as him.
Then he pointed his wand at her and she flinched, expecting to be hit with an Unforgivable Curse. But he merely cast the counter-spell to the Silencing Charm.
"What is it that you want from me?" she asked once the spell had been lifted, trying to keep apprehension out of her voice.
He approached silently and sat next to her. She fought the urge to scoot as far away from him as possible when he grasped her by the shoulder and turned her to face him. The intensity of his eyes made her breath catch.
"My dear girl, you know what I want. I believe I made my intentions very clear during our encounter in Hogsmeade."
Hermione's eyes widened, but she sat rigidly, unwilling to show her emotions. Abruptly, she understood and was horrified by her own naiveness. Of course! How hadn't she guessed?
But why? Aren't I just a Mudblood? she thought bitterly.
"What I've wanted to do with you from the moment your eyes met mine, in the Top Box at the World Cup of 1994," he said heatedly.
Hermione blushed.
His eyes gleamed. "I remember... That day, your face turned as red as it is now. I've always wondered why. Perhaps you would care to enlighten me."
Oh, she remembered all too well.
When she had met his gaze at the Quidditch World Cup, she had found herself unable to look away. His eyes were the same cold shade of grey as Draco's, yet the expression in them had been very different.
His eyes had been so intense; there had been such power in them, such confident command, and a sophisticated intelligence that his son blatantly lacked. Draco was arrogant and bad-mannered, while his father was haughty yet polite, the picture of strength and superiority.
There had been something else in his eyes as they had lingered on Hermione, something she hadn't understood. It was something that should not have been there, she knew that much. She had seen other men look at her like that and it had never failed to make her feel like prey under the gaze of a predator.
Despite her discomfort, Hermione hadn't managed to look away. He had initiated the eye contact and he would be the one to end it; she could only look meekly back into the sharp gaze that communicated such power and control. Control over her.
Not to mention that he was, in her opinion, the most handsome wizard she had ever met.
Hermione could not stop the heat that had rushed into her cheeks. She had been sure he had noticed it too and that had made her blush even more. Angry with herself, she had looked back at him with narrowed eyes, a desperate attempt at defiance, but she still could not avert her gaze.
At that moment, she had remembered how she had indirectly fought against him, when she had helped Hagrid prepare Buckbeak the Hippogriff's defence, which she had known to be useless all along, despite her assurances to Hagrid and Harry. She had known that they stood no chance against that man. Hermione could never match his talent at persuading and manipulating people – and deep down, she envied and admired that about him.
Two years earlier, when she had found herself looking into his eyes for the first time, in the Flourish and Blotts bookstore, Hermione had been captivated by the handsome, aristocratic wizard who had stared at her in a way that should have offended her.
And after their meeting at the World Cup... the next time she had seen him, at the Department of Mysteries in fifth year, she had been careful not to look into his eyes, fearing that just like last time, she wouldn't be able to look away. Or she would do something foolish such as tricking Harry into giving her the prophecy so that she could give it to him... No! she had thought, horrified by her own imagination. She had been shaking with terror as she had whispered Harry's instructions to the others.
That day, she had been too busy protecting Harry. Too scared as well, and not without reason. Madam Pomfrey had said afterwards that it was a miracle that she had survived Dolohov's curse. A deadly curse which, whether spoken aloud or not, never failed to kill the victim. The mediwitch had compared Hermione's case to Harry's survival of the Killing Curse ("No less miraculous – and just as unprecedented. A first in history, Miss Granger.").
Then, in her seventh year...
The night after their last NEWT, the trio had decided to make a late-night trip Hogsmeade to celebrate the end of the exams, at Ron's reckless suggestion. Hermione had been opposed to the idea; as Head Girl, it had been her responsibility to maintain discipline and ensure the safety of the students, including her friends. When Harry and Ron had thick-headedly refused to listen to her, Hermione had ended up going to Dumbledore to inform him of her friends' foolish plan. But instead of forbidding them to leave the castle as Hermione had hoped, the Headmaster had called someone from the Order to accompany them to Hogsmeade as a guard.
It was unfortunate that the guard consisted of a single person, and it was even more unfortunate that said person was a very clumsy Auror: Tonks.
It wasn't as if the High Street had been deserted. No, there had been loads of seventh-year students who, like them, had gone out to celebrate the end of school with their friends, and many of whom, drunk, were staggering around the streets of the only exclusively magical town in Britain. Through a combined effort, Hermione and Tonks had managed to keep Harry and Ron from drinking too much. They themselves hadn't touched anything stronger than Butterbeer. Someone had to compensate for the boys' irresponsibility.
When Harry, Ron, Hermione and Tonks (who had taken the appearance of a strict witch old enough to be their grandmother) were walking on one of the smaller streets connected to the High Street, Tonks tripped on something - or perhaps it was a Trip Jinx - and collapsed on the ground so abruptly that she rolled on the pavement all the way into a deserted adjacent alley where she then lay unmoving. Hermione would later find out that the Auror would regained consciousness shortly into the fight that ensued and, unnoticed by the attackers, contact the Order.
The three seventh-years, under Harry's lead, didn't hesitate to rush to their guard's aid. Within seconds, they were surrounded by a group of black-cloaked wizards. Harry, Ron and Hermione took out their wands instantly and Hermione hid behind a bush. The Death Eaters hadn't noticed her, as she had been some ten feet away from Harry and Ron when the attack had occurred.
She watched as Ron ended up in a full wizard's duel with one Death Eater while Harry fought three at once, dodging curses from multiple directions and at the same time looking for a way to distract their attackers. Hermione was preparing to cast a Stunner at one of the cloaked figures from her hiding place when Harry did something foolish. When he looked around and failed to see her anywhere, he did the worst thing possible in the circumstances. Harry shouted, "HERMIONE, WHERE ARE YOU?" thus alerting the Death Eaters to her presence.
Hermione was intending to rush out from behind the shrubbery to fight the Death Eaters, because it would have been useless to stay there once her position had been discovered, but she never had the time. She hadn't noticed one of the Death Eaters creep up behind her.
A Disarming Charm hit her in the back. Her wand flew out of her hand to land about ten feet away.
What followed was a sequence of events that Hermione would never forget, because it was something that would change her forever, though to this day she still did not realise how much. Nevertheless, no matter how many times she was questioned about it, Hermione hadn't told a soul about what truly happened.
Hermione prepared to go for her wand, but before could move, a hand grabbed her shoulder and dragged her into a shadowed corner.
She found herself with her back against a hard wall. Her eyes darted around frantically, searching for a way to escape, but there was none, she realised as she felt a wand pressing between her ribs.
Hermione closed her eyes. She lost hope, surrendering herself to her captor's will. I'm going to die, she thought in resignation, tears forming in her eyes.
Then the Death Eater kissed her on the lips.
Hermione jerked back in shock, her eyes opening wide. But there was nowhere to run. The back of her head hit the wall. She winced in pain, disorientated.
That moment of distraction was enough for the hooded wizard, whose face she was unable to see in the darkness, to force her arms up above her head in one swift movement. Hermione found herself trapped and helplessly pressed against his body. Holding her wrists together in one hand, he slipped his other hand under the collar of her robes.
Hermione struggled, but to no avail. The Death Eater's grip tightened painfully around her wrists. The smooth fabric of his hood brushed against her forehead as he held her lips in a crushing kiss, and with a soft, involuntary "Oh!", she stopped resisting.
A fleeting touch to her breasts sent a jolt through her body and she closed her eyes, feeling weak and overwhelmed.
The man's hands weren't warm like most people's, nor icily cold – no, they were in between, cool enough to cause Hermione to shiver as she felt them against skin, yet not cold enough to make the contact painful.
Hermione had not known who he was, but she had known this had to be a terribly controlling man. From the way the way he kissed, she felt as though she belonged to him, body and soul.
She knew that she should feel disgusted; he surely hadn't asked if she wanted him doing that to her. But she had dreamed of being kissed like this, by a powerful, confident older wizard...
Then popping sounds signaled the arrival of Order of the Phoenix reinforcements, and the dark wizard pulled away from her, leaving her dazed and gasping for breath.
"Well, well, well... It would appear your friends have arrived to rescue you. We'll continue this another day, my dear girl," the stranger had said in a drawling voice that she had recognised instantly. He had caressed her throat briefly before Apparating away.
Hermione had nearly collapsed out of shock. Sheer courage had prevented her from fainting.
Not wanting to repeat their experience at the Department of Mysteries, the Death Eaters had Disapparated as soon as they had seen the Order members. Hermione had looked around to where her friends had been standing huddled together.
Ron had looked like he could barely stand; there had been a bleeding gash on the side of his face and several wounds on his arms. Tonks had had bruises on her face from where she had hit the pavement when she had fallen. Hermione herself, though physically unharmed, had looked like she had been hit by some unknown Dark curse, from the absent expression in her eyes. Harry alone had appeared unharmed and fully alert, his green eyes flashing, his wand aloft as though expecting the Death Eaters to reappear. At that moment already, one could see in him the formidable Auror he would become.
Hermione had heard Harry's anxious voice calling to her, but she had been too dazed to respond. When one thought about it, her behaviour had resembled the way Harry had acted when he had come back to the Gryffindor common room after kissing Cho Chang in fifth year.
Her friends had exchanged worried glances. "What did they do to her?" Harry had wondered aloud.
"Hermione, are you all right?" Ron had asked.
"Yes, fine, I'm fine," she had replied distantly. Harry and Ron had looked at each other dubiously, and with good reason. But they would never know what had truly happened.
They would later assume that the experience had been so terrible, so traumatising that Hermione couldn't speak of it even to her best friends. Once she had got over the shock, she had kept the secret zealously, but not for the reason everyone had assumed.
Hermione had actually felt flattered. All the times she had been called a Mudblood and looked down on as though she were filth, both by Slytherins at Hogwarts and by some fellow Ministry officials later on... yet the most unlikely person, a wizard who was one of the most adamant promoters of pure-blood superiority in Britain, had kissed her. She couldn't fathom why he had done it. Why had he deigned to touch an inferior, a Muggle-born witch?
Years had passed; Hermione had gone into Auror training and qualified as a novice Auror after three years, then quickly risen in rank to become one of the most respected Dark-wizard-catchers. But she could never forget, no matter how desperately she tried to. Late at night the memory would come back to her and his touch would haunt her in her dreams.
She often thought of the wizard who had kissed her so passionately in the dark, and she dreamed of him continuing what he had started, what would have occurred if the Order had not arrived. It was the darkest of her dreams, the most shameful.
Hermione considered herself a strong-willed woman. She had been horrified by how easily this man could subdue her and make her feel like she was nothing but his possession. She had almost reconsidered her decision to become an Auror, if only so that she would never have to see him again. She had considered becoming an Unspeakable instead, spending her days locked away in the Department of Mysteries that held such distressing memories for her. The place where she had almost died.
But in the end, she had realised that she wanted to fight. She craved the thrill of battle, the challenge, the risk. So she had become an Auror. At night, the darkness called to her, and she followed, filled with a mysterious thrill, a nervous anticipation that maybe, just maybe she would meet him across the battlefield, they would duel, he would overpower her like he always had, and then...
In the present day, Hermione looked up at him in puzzlement. Why had he touched her that day?
And why was he doing so now? Her, a witch of Muggle blood... Why hadn't he ever called her by the foul word his son liked to use? Hermione was bewildered, but she did not flinch at his mocking words, nor did she jump back at the touch of his hand. Torn between conflicting feelings, she didn't move.
"You do not wish to sate my curiosity at this time? Very well. Let us move on to the main purpose of your presence here, which is to finish what we began in that alley before we were so rudely interrupted."
She swallowed. Her cheeks were burning. "And if I refuse?"
He looked at her with such cold contempt it made her feel like the lowest dirt. "Then all those who praise your intelligence are mistaken."
"Why?"
"Think of what you are, Muggle-born witch. You have no right to deny me, and you would be a fool to do so when you would also be denying yourself. Oh, did you believe I wouldn't notice how much you enjoyed my touch that night? Do you think me blind to the craving, the need in your eyes at this very moment?"
She bristled. "Are you sure you aren't imagining it? You didn't give me a choice that night."
"Is that the reason you enjoyed it so?" His colourless gaze pierced her, amused and calculating. "Well, then. I am not giving you a choice." His white hands wrapped deftly around her neck. "Submit to me like a good girl –"
He caressed her throat. Hermione shivered at the cool, smooth touch.
"– or they shall find your cold, strangled body among other filth in some dark corner."
Hermione's face turned sickly pale. For the past couple of years, strangled corpses of importqnt people in the anti-Voldemort movement had been turning up on the streets of wizarding London. The Aurors had tried to find the culprit with no success. Hermione now knew who was responsible for these deaths. And she would be the next victim unless she did what this man wanted.
Her breathing quickened. She didn't want to die. Oh, why had she had the foolish idea to go outside tonight? If she had been more cautious, she could have avoided this disaster...
She looked fearfully at the blond Death Eater whose smug expression told her he was aware of what she had just realised.
"Surrender to me and you need not get hurt. I may even be gentle with you," he said softly, moving his hands down her neck and under her robes to caress her breasts. Hermione glared at him indignantly, suppressing a shiver.
He chuckled, not fazed in the least. "Dear, dear, aren't you a fiery one..."
The light, chilling touch sent shivers through her body. She knew she ought to push him away, to recoil as if burned. This was an enemy. This man commanded the Death Eaters and directed the attacks the Ministry had to clean up after. This was a man she was supposed to loathe. But right now she couldn't find the will to fight this... this murderer. Right now, she didn't care as much as she should that he had killed many people, Muggle and magical.
He reached out to stroke her cheek and she stared into his cold grey eyes. Maybe it was just wishful thinking, but she thought there was something deeper behind the smouldering desire. Something that made her feel special.
Why fight? Hermione wondered. Why resist? When was the last time a man looked at me this way? But the voice of reason that almost always heeded was mercilessly shouting reprimands in her head: You can't! You are an Auror and a member of the Order! Sleeping with the enemy is treason! What would Harry and Ron think? You are supposed to be their best friend!
But all these reasons suddenly seemed trivial to Hermione. What would Harry and Ron think of her if they knew which house she had almost been sorted into at Hogwarts? Cleverness and ambition, indeed. She could just as well wonder what they would think if they knew the other things she had never told them, like her fascinated curiosity about the Dark Arts, her exasperation with Arthur Weasley's obsession with everything Muggle, and what she really thought of Harry's reckless saving-people thing.
There truly was no point in making assumptions about what her friends would think. They wouldn't think anything if she was dead by tomorrow morning. And as Dolores Umbridge had once said – and Hermione had to concede that the words made sense, despite coming from such a despicable woman, no, cow – what they don't know won't hurt them.
"What I want from you?" The Death Eater growled in her ear, "Your body, and your soul. Give me what I desire and I may not take your life as well."
And Hermione wanted to give him what he wanted.
She looked at the handsome wizard holding her, at his eyes gleaming with a dark passion, at his luminous hair shining in the dim light. It was a pale yellow, the colour of moonlight, a strangely cold shade of gold.
I really don't have a choice, she convinced herself. No, she wasn't doing this because she wanted to, but only because she didn't want to die. And it wasn't as if she could stop him. He was stronger than her physically and magically, as their short duel had proven; what he wanted, he would get – by force or not. If he was planning to have his way with her, there was nothing she could do. So why not make the best of it? He was very good looking; she couldn't deny she had been attracted to him for a long time. And despite being a Dark wizard and Death Eater capable of terrible crimes, he wasn't hurting her or being violent.
When his lips met hers, every thought of struggle left her mind. It was just like last time: his kiss drained her of strength and coherent thought. Mindlessly, she parted her lips to deepen the kiss.
Her legs felt heavy and she was shivering from a desire repressed for years, reignited like a thousand sparks under his touch. No one had ever made her feel something so intense, not Viktor, Ernie or any other boy she had dated.
She leaned back against the couch and closed her eyes, trusting him for now. There was nothing else she could do. She imagined him looking at her in approval and felt a strange warmth.
When at last he lifted her in his arms and carried her into another room where he dropped her on a bed, she made no move of resistance.
Hermione finally gave herself permission to do what she had dreamed about for years. She raised her arms and wrapped them around his neck, pulling him down on top of her and pressing her lips against his in another sizzling kiss.
This was so terribly wrong. She would never have sought it out. But since it was happening anyway, through no fault of her own... She wasn't really betraying her beliefs or her friends or the Minstry. Was she?
He broke the kiss, and she couldn't stop the shameful sound of protest that issued involuntarily from her mouth.
He gazed down at her with glittering eyes. "I knew you would see it my way." His pale face was filled with haughty, vicious satisfaction. His body was heavy on top of her, holding her down, trapping her. She found it hard to breathe.
"So long I have desired to show you your place," he said, his voice soft and smooth in icy cruelty. His lips were almost touching hers. "This is your place, daughter of Muggles. This is where you belong: beneath me."
Her jaw clenched, her eyes filling with angry tears. She opened her mouth to tell him that she hated him, even though she knew it would be a lie; she knew and hated herself for it.
He silenced her with another kiss, and then his hands were under her clothing, touching her exactly where she needed, exactly how she needed. She sighed, and the tears fell from her eyes like words of protest even as the rest of her accepted defeat.
"Do not tell me you haven't dreamed of this day as I have," he whispered. "Let me claim you."
And she did.
Hermione did not rebel against the command of someone who considered her a lowly Mudblood. The red of her battle robes clashed with his black ones as she lay beneath him. The violent contrast of the two colours was symbolic of the Light side's defeat and the Dark's supremacy.
Red and black. Light and Darkness. Gryffindor and Slytherin. Muggle-born and the purest of blood. Auror and Death Eater... The were all that, each representing opposing sides. She was a defender of the weak and vulnerable, an activist for equal rights, while he sought just the opposite: to turn time back to when equality had been a nonexistent concept, when blood purity, social class and traditions had ruled indisputably.
Muggle-born Hermione, by surrendering to him, had acknowledged the doctrine established by Salazar Slytherin and perpetuated by the Dark side for a thousand years, and currently promulgated under Voldemort's leadership. The one that dictated that Muggle-borns were inferior to pure-bloods, that the Light should bow to the Dark, and that good was weaker than evil.