A/N: This chapter gets a little dark and has mature content (although I did try to keep it as light as possible). You are warned.

I won't be able to update for a couple weeks or so, so I'm really sorry this chapter ends on a cliffhanger. If I was a little more organized with my updates I wouldn't have been so mean. Sorry for any mistakes, I didn't have time to beta it or anything, but I think most of it is okay.

Chapter 11: The Plan

The days passed for Hermione in a blur of pain. The spells that had felled her had been healed by a mediwitch who entered her cell on the first day. Hermione had asked, naively, "Was I rescued?"

The witch had kicked her in the face and laughed harshly. "You'll never be rescued, Mudblood."

"Why—why are you healing me?"

The witch yanked on Hermione's hair so that their eyes met in the dim light. "The Dark Lord likes to break his toys himself."

Some time later that day the Death Eaters came in and beat Hermione again. The witch followed them, and they came again and again, a continuous flow of pain, injury, and very soon, despair.

By the fifth day, Hermione was beginning to hallucinate. She had been days with neither food nor water, and the constant beatings were taking a toll on her. It was all she could do to flee her body, imagine that she was somewhere else with the people she loved. Sometimes it was Harry in the darkness with her, and Ron. But for some reason, more often than even him was Draco, the sweet person that Malfoy became when the lights turned off.

She imagined conversations between the Death Eaters outside her door. "Have they drugged her food yet?" There was a snicker. "What food?"

"How long until the Dark Lord sees her?"

"I say, the longer the better. It's nice to be able to beat her—the fun always goes out of it when he decides there's something he wants from them."

Then, later, "I think it's time for a different sort of fun."

Hermione didn't move; it took too much effort, but whether imagined or not, the voice that intoned those words filled her with dread for what was to come.

The mediwitch did not come that night. Her healing jobs had been getting sloppier and sloppier as the beatings became more frequent. Hermione had an ache in her chest that would not go away, and she dimly remembered slamming into a wall and hearing the crunch of her bones.

On the sixth day of her imprisonment, Hermione was given a cup of water. Dimly, she was aware that she should drink it slowly, save it if she could, but by the time she thought that, the water was already gone. She licked the cup, trying to capture every little bit of the precious substance. Her hand spasmed in pain and the ceramic cup clattered to the floor. It hurt too much to pick it back up.

After drinking the water, Hermione was even thirstier. "Harry, would you please get me some water?" she asked. The figure outside the door didn't move. "Please, Harry, I need water." The form moved away and she smiled a little. "Thanks."

"Crucio," Voldemort said almost lazily. Wormtail writhed on the floor, and panted when the curse ended. "I'm sorry," he whimpered.

"Crucio," the Dark Lord repeated. He walked over to Pettigrew and kicked him hard in the ribs. "Sorry isn't going to make it better. Everything should have gone smoothly. All you needed to do was kill the inferi. Not the other obstacles, just the inferi, and make sure that my Death Eaters were there at the right time. But what did you do? Everyone went out drinking—" He kicked Wormtail again, then waited for him to finish coughing before he continued "—your guard fell asleep of all things and you let everyone get out of hand and kill the other defenses. I am seriously disappointed in you, Wormtail."

"I'm sorry! Forgive me. It won't happen again," Wormtail whimpered, "I promise you, my Lord, never another mistake."

"You have made this promise before," Voldemort reminded him.

Pettigrew began to cry. Voldemort turned his back on him and left the sniveling wretch alone. He needed to think, to see if he could salvage the situation. "I want to see the girl. Tonight."

There was a rap on the door just as Voldemort was about to leave. He narrowed his eyes at the interruption and opened the door. "Bellatrix! Is something wrong?" Voldemort asked in surprise.

His right hand bowed deeply. "My Lord, there is a matter—I thought not to bother you with it, but it's a unique situation…" she trailed off hesitantly.

"What is it, Bella?"

"It's my nephew. He's back."

"Draco is back?"

"That is correct, my Lord."

"Indeed…" Voldemort murmured. "It was good of you to come to me with this, Bella. Where is the boy?"

"I had him sent to the dungeons for now, but I can have him sent to my room. Would you like to see him?"

"I will see him in the drawing room in an hour," Voldemort said with effort. He had sent Malfoy on a very important mission and hoped that the boy had been successful, but he didn't want to give Bella the impression that he was actually interested in her nephew.

"Look at you, Granger, you're disgusting. Haven't had a bath in days, have you?" Malfoy asked, stepping close and peering down at her. She could tell it wasn't Draco because of his sneer. Malfoy sneered; Draco usually just looked lost.

"Shut it, Malfoy," Hermione growled at him. "What happened? You used to be nicer."

"You want to know why all the Death Eaters knew we would be there?"

"Why?" she asked, perking up slightly. For some very strange reason, Malfoy was standing on the ceiling.

And then, as if his mouth was right next to her ear, he breathed, "Because I told them we would be."

Hermione thought over this for a many hours and decided that it had to be true. She wasn't sure what had become of Malfoy (he was no longer in her cell), but that wasn't important. Draco had betrayed them. No, Malfoy had. Draco wouldn't do that to her. Some time later another person came into her cell. "Where did he go?" she asked.

"Who?" It was the mediwitch. She chained one of Hermione's legs to the wall with magic and squatted in front of her.

"He left, where did he go?" Hermione insisted.

"No one was here," the mediwitch said. And then, in a lower tone, "They really have done a number on you." The witch stood and gave Hermione's ribs a sharp kick, muttering, "It's almost a pity" before she left.

Hermione's chest ached more than it ever had. She propped herself against the wall, just to watch for Malfoy when he came again. Before now, she had mostly seen Draco, so Malfoy's reappearance set her on edge.

More time passed, and then the cell door creaked open and someone stumbled in. Hermione tried to quiet her breathing, but it was still loud to her ears, with an odd hitch every few breaths. "Granger?"

She actually held her breath for a second, hoping she hadn't imagined the voice—Draco's voice. Then she remembered her conversation with him earlier. "You…" she breathed. "You bastard. How could you have done this to us?" Her speech trailed off in a sob and chains rattled as she shifted in the dark. Something in her chest tweaked; she gasped with pain and then the only sound was her labored breathing.

"Granger, are you okay?" Malfoy sounded concerned.

"What do you care?" Hermione growled.

"Where are you hurt?"

"I hate you," she said vehemently.

He edged his way in the dark towards her, and she moved again so that her chest didn't hurt so much. His foot hit hers and she whimpered in pain. Draco ran his hands tentatively up her body, trying to figure out her position in the darkness. "Where are you injured, Granger?" His tone was brisk, and hurt. It made her want to lash out more.

"You told them where we would be," she muttered in anguish.

"No, never."

"You did," she insisted.

"If you honestly think I could just hand you over to them this emotionlessly then I don't want to know what else you must think of me. You know I'd never do anything that could hurt you," he whispered, reaching for her again. "Now, tell me where it hurts."

Hermione exhaled slowly. This was Draco. Draco would never hurt her. It was Malfoy who was mean, who was harsh, who had turned her in. Not Draco. She began to laugh, but it hurt so she stopped. "How do you manage it?"

"Manage what?" he said distractedly, then pressed his fingers lightly onto the lower part of her ribs. "Does this hurt?"

Hermione inhaled sharply at the pain and couldn't remember what she'd been trying to say for a long minute before she finally replied, "Manage to be two different people."

He didn't reply; she didn't press the question. Draco continued to examine her body, and each time he discovered another place that hurt on her body his worry grew. After some time he stopped his examination of her body and simply pulled her head into his lap. Hermione, beginning to relax for the first time in days, fell asleep.

Draco stroked Hermione's hair. Though his speech to her had been a little on the dramatic side earlier, he wondered how much of it was a lie. None of it had felt fake, and now he began to question himself. How much did he really care about Granger? Certainly more than he'd thought before, and that worried him.

The sound of footsteps in the hall alerted Draco of his aunt's presence—the unique sound of her walk was ingrained into his memory—and so he carefully moved out from beneath Granger's head and went to the bars of the cell to wait for Bellatrix.

His aunt squinted at him in the darkness (her eyes weren't as adjusted as his) and asked, "Well?"

"Well what?"

"Are you being completely honest when you say that you're on our side?"

Draco smirked at her. "I thought you liked liars, Aunt Bella."

Bella's hand was through the bars and smacking Draco's face before he had time to react. "Not when it comes to this allegiance. Don't get smart, boy, or I will be forced to knock you down a few pegs. Did you see the girl? I hear she was in your class."

"Some. She was a bitch and a Mudblood. I doubt anyone but Weasley and Potter will miss her," Draco replied nonchalantly, but his heart was racing. They (or at least Bella) didn't know that he had been with Potter and Weasley. Mentally, he switched the odds on his plan; before the chances of it working had been low, but if no one knew of his involvement with the Golden Trio he had a fair chance to pull it off.

"She won't live long enough to see them miss her," Bella said gleefully.

"How long has she been here?"

"Not even a week and she's already broken."

Draco smirked at his aunt. "Think I can get in some fun before she's turned over to the Dark Lord?"

Bellatrix seemed comforted by his ruthlessness and let him out of the cell, though she never answered his question.

Hermione woke later alone and cold in the dark. She shivered and drew her knees up closer to her body. "Draco?" she asked the dark, but there was no answer. Hermione sighed and touched the cold metal chain attached to her leg. Had it been a dream? The logical part of her mind told her that there was very little reason to believe Draco had really been with her. And even if he had been, he'd been so un-Draco-like that something must have been wrong with him. Besides, she had seen her other friends these past few days and they could not possibly have been there either.

The dark in the cell lifted slowly as a few Death Eaters came down the hall. The logical bit of Hermione left her and cowered in a corner of her mind. It was hard to be logical when they beat her to a bloody pulp; much easier to just pretend they weren't there, to work arithmetic in the part of her mind that they couldn't reach, couldn't break. She would let them play their games for now—she couldn't stop them—but eventually they would see that she was not so broken as they thought.

Hermione just hoped that she would have the strength when she needed it. Her body was miserably wasted right now, malnourished and battered. Only her mind remained, and sometimes not even that.

The cell door opened and footsteps entered. She sat patiently as they bound her hand and foot, then tied a blindfold over her eyes and took the chain off her foot. She had a feeling that the time was coming for her to be strong, and she refused to fail now. If she was going to die, then it was going to be with some shred of dignity. Hermione whimpered as warm, sweaty hands wrapped around her upper arms, hefted her to her feet and began to pull her along. Her eyes were still blindfolded but she did not struggle, already knowing how futile it was.

The texture of the floor changed under her dragging toes. It wasn't stony and rough anymore, but smooth and slick. She was dropped to the floor unceremoniously and slowly picked herself up onto her knees. Pain shot through her limbs even as she did that, the bindings on her wrists and ankles chafing against the raw, tender flesh.

"Hello, miss," someone squeaked carefully behind her. Hermione tried to ignore the sharp pain in her ribs as she tried to turn to find the source of the voice. "Who's there?" she croaked.

"It is only Moron," said a small voice as the blindfold was carefully untied. "They asked me to get you cleaned up."

Hermione's mind tried to work around this. "They call you 'moron'?" she asked.

The house elf, who Hermione could now see dimly (the room wasn't terribly well-lit), nodded and began untying her wrists. "My name is Moron, miss." Hermione felt a flicker of resentment at this but decided not to argue at the moment. The elf finished untying her and then led Hermione unsteadily towards a bath. The water was only lukewarm, but it felt like the best bath of her life. Moron carefully worked out the snarls in her hair with a comb and helped Hermione to wash herself.

Moron picked up Hermione's ragged clothing and washed it hastily, then got rid of the bloodstains and used a drying charm. Hermione looked at the items, which reminded her of her school uniform, and sighed. They were clean now, but still the hem of her skirt was fraying, the bottom button of the shirt was popped off and there was a tear up the side. Moron helped Hermione out of the bath and dried her off. She left Hermione to dress.

A few minutes after Moron had left, the Death Eaters came back. They looked over her clean body and then tied her up once again and dragged her elsewhere. The Death Eaters once again shoved her onto the floor and walked away. Hermione picked herself up to her knees and tried to listen to see if she was alone.

Someone yanked her legs out from under her and she yelped. The rope tightened around her ankles and then gave way, and her legs were blessedly free. Hermione blinked behind the blindfold, trying to see something, anything, and then she was propped up onto her feet and it was abruptly ripped off, catching on her hair and eliciting another pained cry. "We meet again, Mudblood," Voldemort's soft voice hissed by her ear.

Hermione's eyes were still adjusting to the light, making her blink rapidly before she could make out the dark shapes of Death Eaters surrounding her. Voldemort's presence moved from one side of her to the other and she tried not to shiver. He held her face with one hand and roughly ran his other fingers along her jaw. She whined as he pushed into her bruised flesh.

"Did you say something?" he asked her, yanking her hair back and exposing her throat. She trembled but remained silent. "Answer me when I speak to you, Mudblood!" he growled, pulling her hair even tighter.

At this, Hermione let out a whine in the back of her throat. "No," she replied. She gathered her strength and then jerked her arms back, jamming her elbow into Voldemort's stomach. He hissed and doubled over in pain. As sudden as her movement was, there was a minute gesture from someone in front of her and just before she experienced the most intense hurt she'd ever felt she heard the soft, "Crucio!"

When Voldemort regained his feet he lifted her up by her collar and punched her. Hermione's jaw ached more with the blow but it was minor in comparison to the throbbing of the rest of her body. Her ribs, in particular, were sending jolts of pain through her body. "Do you see? The kitten is still trying to use her claws." Voldemort let go of her collar and she dropped to the floor. "The Mudblood is nothing without her wand, though," he said, leaving her to go join his followers. "Mudblood, have you met my loyal Death Eaters yet?" he asked, languishing among them.

Hermione gritted her teeth but said nothing; of course she had met his Death Eaters—they had visited her every day. It was too much effort to fight back now: she would have to wait for another chance—and for her head to stop pounding. "I'd like you to meet someone," Voldemort said, bowing intricately to her (his Death Eaters chuckled at the mocking respect) and pulled a person out of the ranks.

Hands reached out of the folds of the cloak and pulled back the hood. "This is Goyle, as I'm sure you know." Hermione did—he looked much like his son, heavyset and muscular. "Goyle, if you could prepare her?"

"Of course, my lord." Goyle reached forward, far more conscientious of her body than Voldemort had been, and took her hands in his. He pulled them above her head and when she looked up she saw the hook hanging from the ceiling.

"Please," she whimpered, "Don't."

Goyle ignored her and lifted her by her wrists, hooking the rope tying them together on the metal curl above her. Hermione's toes barely touched the ground, relieving some of the weight on her wrists but not much of it. The stretched-out position made her ribs ache fiercely; Malfoy's diagnosis from the night before of them being broken or at least cracked was probably correct.

Without Death Eaters obscuring all of her vision, Hermione looked around the room. The walls before her were lined with comfortable sofas and footrests. To her right was a banquet lining the wall, and on the left side was a large door, almost certainly not the one she came in from.

Hermione craned her neck to look behind her, only to see a blank wall. Merlin, she thought, I'm the entertainment. She began to debate on if it would be better to hide away in her head or if she should just get her fighting done and over with before they really broke her. If she waited too long before she put up her real fight, soon she'd have no strength left for it.

Just as she thought that, Crabbe sauntered over to her. He ran a finger down her body, between the valley of her breasts and stopping just at the waist of her skirt. She stood stock still, fear shooting through her body.

"I have a son as old as you," he informed her, leaning over and biting her neck. She stifled a noise at the pain and didn't move. "And that's the only reason I'm not going to touch you." Even so, he ran a hand down the rest of her body wistfully before he stepped back. She sagged with relief as he walked away, leaving her relatively unharmed.

People ate and drank, and Hermione watched, hunger growing in her stomach. It had been a long time since she'd eaten anything. She forced herself not to look at the table laden with food, but it was hard to resist. If she looked anywhere else, she only saw Death Eaters leering at her.

Peter Pettigrew was the next person to approach her. He came from behind, drawing one hand up the back of her thigh while another grabbed her breast. Hermione shivered with revulsion as he touched the spot between her legs and then moved to stand in front of her. "What would the precious Potter say now to see his Mudblood? Standing here for all of us like a whore," he crooned at her before unbuttoning her shirt.

With her hands above her head, Hermione couldn't stop Pettigrew's physical action, but she had other weapons. "He would probably remind you that he saved your life and you owe him."

Peter's face twisted in rage and he smacked her with his heavy silver hand, purposefully hitting the large bruise on her jaw. "I'm going to make you pay for that, Mudblood. You are going to beg me to fuck you by the time I'm done with you," he said as he finished unbuttoning her blouse and pushed it open as he stepped closer, pressing himself into her thigh. "You'll love it when I finally—"

Hermione used her tiptoes to create a minute amount of space between herself and Pettigrew and then brought her knee up between his legs as fast and hard as she could. It was worth the agony in her ribs to see him down on his knees before her.

"Bloody Mudblood. I'll teach you—"

"Back off Pettigrew," someone said from across the room.

In spite of herself, Hermione's heart leapt at the sound of Draco Malfoy's voice. She forced herself not to look in his direction, but that didn't stop her from trembling as his footsteps approached.

"How did you get in here?" Pettigrew snarled.

"My aunt spoke up for my innocence," Malfoy said offhandedly. Hermione shivered, disgusted by the boy who seemed to have no morals, and no loyalty to either side. "I only came to claim her." He indicated Hermione, who was still struggling to not look at him.

"She's the Dark Lord's property," Pettigrew said proudly, as if that made her his as well.

"Yes, but she's here to entertain us, and I am arguing your claim to her."

"You can't—"

"If you'd rather duel, I'd be happy to duel you for the girl, to see who gets first chance at her," Malfoy said pleasantly.

Pettigrew sneered at him but took a few steps back, knowing he was no match for the boy.

"Nice to see you again, Mudblood," Malfoy said cruelly, a smirk contorting his features. He reached out and ran a hand over her bare belly, then skimmed his fingers along the edge of her bra lightly. Hermione turned her head away from him in shame and anger. "For a witch such as you, you are amazingly lacking in some areas," he told her.

She refused to look at him, staring at the door instead. Hermione imagined herself escaping out it, running until her body couldn't handle the abuse and collapsed. Something shiny caught her eye and she turned her head toward Malfoy despite herself.

"You have made a mess of my life, bitch." His hand was on her stomach again, pressing hard with his thumb into her flesh. She whimpered as he continued, "So now I'm going to make a mess of yours," he said, a smirk playing at his lips. The gleaming knife in his hands was long and looked deathly sharp.

"Malfoy," Hermione begged.

His eyes turned even colder than they had been before and she saw his impassive mask calm his features. She turned her gaze away from his frigid grey eyes and looked down at the knife in his hands. The fingernails were black, she noticed oddly. At least she knew her contract worked.

Hermione watched as the knife sank into her stomach, just above her navel. She heard the Death Eaters all catch their breaths. Malfoy wrenched the blade upward and she choked out a gasp, forgetting the audience. Blood gushed down, soaking her belly, going through her skirt, and trailing down her legs. Malfoy was staring at her, his eyes calm and grey, such a beautiful grey.

She looked down at her belly, at the knife hilt sticking out of it, still held in Malfoy's pale hand. It seemed as if she was looking from a great distance. With a bubble of hilarity, she realized that she felt no pain anymore. Not even her ribs or her jaw ached, nor her arms which were holding up her weight.

Hermione looked back up into Malfoy's eyes. That grey color, like clouds just before a rain… "I'm sorry," she imagined him saying, but she was already floating away from her body and didn't know if he had truly said it or if she just wished he had.

Well she's not bleeding on the ballroom floor
Just for the attention
'Cause that's just ridiculous

--Panic! At the Disco, "Time To Dance"