Chapter Five – Selling Hermione
"Shall we start the bidding at 50 Galleons?" Borgin said, the number hanging in the air. Hermione dropped her gaze to her bare feet, freedom slowly slipping further and further away.
"50 right here!" yelled a man to the left of the stalls. There was a crinkle of parchment as the figure waved a hand in the air excitedly. Hermione supposed that a wizarding auction was very similar to a Muggle auction in that respect at least.
"60," a curt voice responded. The voice came from the other end of the room. It was odd, slightly accented. Hermione could have sworn that she had heard it somewhere before.
"70," the first voice said. Clearly someone else wanting to place a bid on her had ramped up the excitement.
"80," the second countered.
"90!"
"100 Galleons." The second voice was pushing the price further up – 100 Galleons was a lot of money to spend on anything, never mind a human life.
"A two horse race, this is splendid indeed! What of you, Miss Granger? Are you enjoying having men squabble over you? It wouldn't be the first time, with the other members of your Golden Trio!" Borgin clapped his hands and starting tapping his foot, finding a rhythm. "And we seem to have forgotten the esteemed international Quidditch Seeker, Viktor Krum!"
Hermione let her gaze travel to Borgin. He was a disgusting creature, and was making no effort to conceal the lust he felt as he stared at her body. There was a reason she, Lucy and Amie had been forced into these dresses. Not only could the audience see what they were buying, but it gave Borgin a good ogle too. Instead of answering, she shook her hair back behind her shoulders, straightening her posture. If this was the way her life was going, she was going into it as she did exams – with confidence.
"Oh gentlemen, isn't she a treat for the eyes? Mr Wickes, are you willing to go higher for this Mudblood?"
"110!" Mr Wickes called out. The light spun from Hermione for a second and highlighted the gentleman stood up, shielding his eyes. He was strange looking – tall and bald, with a carefully trimmed beard. He had heavily muscled arms that strained against his robe sleeves. His robes also strained across his protruding stomach. There was ink creating a strange pattern on his fingers that were similar to Muggle gang tattoos. His eyes were wide as Hermione stared directly at him. He licked his bottom lip suggestively, and Hermione felt as if she was going to be sick.
"And what of you, Mr Dolohov? Higher?"
"Dolohov," Hermione whispered. There was a sharp jerk on the leash, pulling her backwards into the hard figure of her captor. She cried out as pain ran down her neck and spine.
"No talking on the stage, dog," her captor spat, and shoved her upright once more, his fingers digging into the bones of her hips so painfully that she knew he would have marked her skin.
"120." The voice that named its price was softer than she had expected as the light turned on him. He was just as she remembered. It wasn't everyday after all that she had faced a high ranking Death Eater, a man of Voldemort's Inner Circle, and lived to tell the tale. Dressed in smart Muggle clothing, he cut an impressive figure, fists clenched at his sides. He was on his feet, his eyes trained directly on her. On her face, not roaming over her figure as she had seen Wickes do.
"130!" yelled out Wickes, the light flickering back in his direction.
"150," Dolohov responded. He didn't look towards Wickes, or Borgin as he offered his price. He only had eyes for her. And yet, she didn't feel like squirming. She should though – this was the man who had burnt her in the Department of Mysteries. She had taken ten potions a day for a week to treat the curse, a curse that could have killed her if the incantation had been spoken, and even then required small follow ups with Madam Pomfrey. She had experienced nightmares about the ordeal for weeks after the attack, often waking drenched in sweat, the scar on her stomach twinging. The scar he had left behind. A constant reminder of him and what he was capable of.
Wickes voice was uncertain as he called out, "160!"
Hermione stared at Dolohov, as he rasied the price further to 200 Galleons. The crowd drew in a collective breath and even Borgin spluttered at the podium.
"200 – and I repeat 200 Galleons for Mudblood Granger! The highest price for any of our females on offer tonight, lady and gentlemen! This evening is going splendidly for all involved!" He leaned forward on the podium, nearly knocking it over in his excitement. "Mr Wickes, any advances on 200 Galleons?"
Wickes turned, eyeing up his competition. His eyes lingered on Dolohov's arms, knowing as well as everyone in the room that he still bore the faded, scarred remains of the Dark Mark. Wickes finally dropped his gaze to the ground, shook his head, and lowered his behind to his seat.
Dolohov was still stood as Borgin beamed at the crowd.
"Selling for 200 Galleons, to Mr Antonin Dolohov!" He banged the gavel once, and it echoed through the theatre.
Just like that, Hermione had been sold to the highest bidder. One tear drop fell down her cheek, landing between her feet on the stage. She caught sight of Dolohov edging out of the row of seats, and striding along the aisle, a fierce looking blonde wizard following him as fast as he could. She lost sight of him as she was led back into the darkened wings. The cage was still there, empty of its inhabitants now. She hoped no other witches would suffer the same fate that she, Lucy and Amie had. She shivered.
From her position, she watched as Dolohov and his companion climbed onto the stage with ease. Dolohov shook hands with Borgin, pulling him closer to whisper in his ear. Parchment was signed, wax was dripped and stamped, and the deal was done.
Borgin turned back to the podium to speak. Dolohov strode towards Hermione, his tall, slim figure becoming even more imposing than it had been when she was a teenager. His companion was at his heels, and she could see him more clearly – Thorfinn Rowle, the man who had tried to curse her, Harry and Ron in London during the hunt for Horcruxes. She had forgotten that the men had appeared to be friends, or partners at least.
Her captor passed over control of the leash, before hurrying off to continue with his work. The slap of leather into Dolohov's palm reverberated through the wings, making Hermione flinch. Even then, the Death Eater's eyes did not roam, staying on her face.
"Moya mechta," he said under his breath.
Moya mechta - my dream
