She reached for her wand.
"Don't touch me," she warned.
He grabbed her wrist.
No. No! NO!! Where's my wand?!
Lucius leaned in towards his prey, a spider with his victim trapped at the center of his web. Hermione turned her cheek away from him fell back against the doorframe, but he grabbed the front of her robes and dragged her forwards towards the bed as she struggled, silence clenched around her throat. The covers felt cool and balmy against her bare less, once it was bare. The light streaming in through the windows pitied her, but could do nothing. She focused her vision on a hard, ornate chair by the fireplace. It too, refused to help. The ceiling spun away like water down a drain, her eyes unfocused and refocused – but the view was the same.
His shoulder-length hair brushed her cheek as his broad palms kneaded her flesh. Robes were not armor, not protection nor safeguard. They fell back in tatters from groping hands, peeling apologetically away from her screaming skin. Hermione's hands fell about his shoulders in a half-embrace, or so it seemed. Weakly, she pushed at him, but he pushed back, ever harder, knees pinning her to the mattress, his lipless mouth tearing at her flesh. Did she feel any pain, or self-pity? Was the horror real or fantasy? Was she tempted to succumb and surrender, or were all her efforts signs of the fiercest struggle she would ever fight?
It was soft, this cloud around her head. Tangled covers and matted hair. But the sweat tickled her shoulders and neck and though she felt warm, her hands were clammy above her head.
What day was it?
The sun was low in the sky, and the dust motes sank ever lower in their orbits as her eyes flickered open, and then closed. Lucius had his foot pinned underneath her back, and it was starting to hurt. His robes and hers lay entwined on the floor, like yin and yang, black and white. She could barely hear him anymore or at least tried not to. It was too sexual, to listen. Too much of a reminder of hot, wet sounds and moans breaking hoarsely from raw throats. Here, in this quiet place, this silent place, she could feel pressures and temperature, but as if her body were made of clay, it accommodated.
Had it really taken so short a time to get to this place? Once, once out of the dozens of instances over the past few days she had screamed, flailed, fought, kicked, bitten, sobbed, cried out – but it only egged him on. It was immensely arousing, he thought. It made him de-robe all the quicker, suck at her flesh all the harder, like a vampire, a dementor intent on her soul. It made him enter her all the sooner, eliciting a dry cough of nausea from her throat which turned into a gag, which turned into another outlet for his, his abuse. If her disgust ever had a chance to surface from the shock, the numbness, then perhaps she would have registered more the slippery sensation between her thighs or the stickiness at the edge of her mouth. Would it have made it worse, or better, to come backs to reality and feel like she was still alive?
The first time, the first day, she had felt shock and surprise. The second day provoked anger. The third, submission. The fourth day, the revolt of her own body's betrayal into pleasure was the worst. This, the fifth day, was without feeling.
---
When Lucius finally removed himself from her, Hermione still hadn't moved. He dressed, watching her all the while. Her listlessness made him suspicious. The silence emanating from Hogwarts and the Ministry made him suspicious. Why had no one come looking for her, yet? But then, that was a naïve idea. Of course they were looking for her; they were just being quiet about it. No matter, he had already decided what he was going to do with the young witch. But first a meal – and then perhaps more playtime.
---
Hermione felt herself being pulled upright, but the sudden movement gave her vertigo and she vomited with fatigue. The impulse was rewarded with a slap across the face, but she felt little hands brusquely wiping her clean. She opened her eyes with fatigue and saw a house elf perched beside her, putting on her socks and shoes.
Funny, she thought. I didn't even realize they'd been taken off.
The house-elf dressed her and held back her hair when she vomited again, though it gave her a dirty look as it cleaned the soiled carpet with magic. There wasn't much to it, anyways. Though simple meals had been placed in her room twice a day, she had been too out of it to do much except take sips of the water. At least, that's all she remembered. Perhaps she had eaten earlier that day, though – it wasn't just sour bile that now stained the front of her robes. The house elf gave an impatient click of its little tongue, cleaned her again, and left. Hermione sat on the edge of the bed weakly, leaning against the bed post.
A few minutes later her jailor swept into the room, his face disdainful. Without a word he gasped her arm with a strong hand and Hermione felt herself apparate and pass out.
When she came to, she was on the floor in an alley. Lucius Malfoy stood crouched over her – an image she felt uncomfortably familiar. Water spouted from his wand into her face, bringing her back to consciousness. She spluttered and coughed, then gagged against the white hand clenched around her mouth.
"Miss Granger, no one can hear you scream but I don't think I'll give you the luxury." His perverse smirk penetrated deep into her body even before he did physically. This day, the sixth day, was a day of fear.
"No, no, no . . ." she started gasping, trying to crawl away. Her nails scraped against the asphalt, her fingers raw and bleeding. A lascivious tongue slipped out from her tormentor's lips and between hers. She moaned in desperation but his hands held her jaw and she was helpless to bite down. Fumbling between her legs, he drew her robe up and stroked her with his free hand – first deceptively gently, and then harder until it hurt so much that she screamed.
His laugh was low and cruel. "You know just how to turn me on, don't you, Hermione?" he whispered in her ear. Her eyes welled up, dark with her emotion but he was unrelenting. "Don't you wish Harry Potter could see you now? What would he do? Would he save you? Could he?" He grinned. "Maybe he would just watch." Lucius pushed himself between her lips.This time hurt her more than any of the previous times on any of the previous days because she was unable to escape into that liminal world of silence. Here, now, he was speaking to her, provoking her, his lips forming the names of those she loved most, voicing her shame.
"And what about Draco? he growled in her ear. "Do I remind you of him? Do I fuck you like he did?" he pulled out of her, but grabbed her thighs again and forced himself inside her roughly. "Or do I do a better job?" he purred. "I think you prefer this, don't you, Hermione?" He was rocking faster and faster until she could feel her body give under him force, ripping and screaming, every inch.
---
Ministry officials flocked around the scene, all hesitant to enter the darkness.
"Well someone has to go in! Scrimgeour bellowed, pushing through the crowd, wand held aloft and glowing. The Dark Mark shimmered menacingly green above the Muggle buildings. The slouching man held his arm out to illuminate the narrow length of the alley. His circle of light fell upon Hermione's bloody form, robes still pulled obscenely up to her neck.
Scrimgeour made a strangled sound in his throat and lowered his wand. "Alert Dumbledore!" he barked out. "It's his missing student." He averted his eyes from the group of officials. "And find me a Mediwitch," he hissed to his assistant, Percy Weasley. "No, no not you," he said gruffly, pushing aside an old wizard with a medical bag. He looked insulted, but Scrimgeour just narrowed his eyes. "A Mediwitch, I said!" he shouted. "The girl is hurt."