It had been a week. A long week of endless nights that yawned into late mornings wherein Hermione stared longingly at the shadows stretched by dawn's fog-wreathed fingers and wished she could be as still and silent as they were. She envied the hushed floors and the settling dust because she was frothing within.
It had been a week. A long week of endless nights that yawned into late mornings wherein Hermione stared longingly at the shadows stretched by dawn's fog-wreathed fingers and wished she could be as still and silent as they were. She envied the hushed floors and the settling dust because she was frothing within.
During that week she had steadfastly avoided Lucius Malfoy, though endeavored not to make it appear as such. She passed him once or twice daily and they would exchange the errant pleasantly, but that was the extent of their interactions and he did not press for more, even if his eyes trailed to inspect her sunless, sallow flesh at every meeting.
She had abstained mostly since their pre-dawn conversation over tea. The first two nights had only been her trying to prove to herself she didn't really need it, she wasn't desperate enough to seek out the Death Eater. The third night broke her until she was seeking out any means to drown the craving. She had seared her flesh, cut it, punched, slapped, but none of it was enough. She was not enough. She didn't know how to hurt herself without harm, couldn't push herself to that quiet space she knew was somewhere beneath the layers of her flesh.
Thus, on the eighth night after the sleepless one that had coaxed her to tiptoe down the stairs, Hermione was sweeping a path of misery down the hall from the lord of manor's rooms.
She should not be doing this. Any reasonable young woman would give such a violent man wide berth, especially considering their twisted history. But the promise in his eyes, in his voice, when he had told her he would give her what she needed was…
Tantalizing.
"Didn't I promise you pleasure? Hm? See how the pain feeds it? It is addictive, no? Soon you will crave this, need it for your release."
The words, rather than dousing out the inferno of need, fanned it even as she shivered in repulsion. It was a cruel reality Antonin had forced onto her, and she was paying for it with her sanity.
The soft creak of a door opening drew Hermione's eyes down the hall.
"Are you planning to wear through the runner or were you going to knock?" The Malfoy patriarch features were impassive or she might have turned back. "Come in, then." Instead she followed into his den, dim firelight gilding the study. She hadn't realized he was still up for the evening. There was a tumbler of whiskey and a bottle of Ogden's. "Will you join me for a glass?" He swept into the seat with all the grace of great cat and Summoned forward another that had been pushed aside.
All too suddenly his quicksilver eyes were back on her and her heart squirmed in the cage of her ribs, skin itchy and sensitive and ill-fitting. Her feet were leaden anchors, the chair swimming out of focus in the wavering rise of her terrible purpose. Heat prickled at her cheeks and eyes and her gaze fell to the floor. "I- I need…" Hermione tangled her fingers and struggled for the words, mortification and want battling in her core. "Please."
"What exactly is it you want, Miss Granger?" His voice was even, laced with the barest hint of command, and Hermione had always responded to authority.
"You said you could help."
A short silence was punctuated by the clink of cut crystal as he set the tumbler back on the table. "I did. I can. However, is this really the time to make such an agreement? You shouldn't agree on a whim."
"It's not." The force behind her words startled her and she said more quietly, "I've been thinking about it all day. All week, really. I want to do this, Mr. Malfoy."
He tapped the arm of his chair and considered her. "Really? And you've thought through all the possibilities? You are willing to put yourself at my mercy?"
Hermione rolled her lower lip through her teeth as he raised one austere brow. "Yes."
"And if I cut you? Bleed you?"
She swallowed thickly, blood singing in her veins, humming through her ears even as she nodded.
"Degrade you. Slap you. Fuck you?" His cheek twitched at the last, expecting hesitation on her part, but she nodded once again and murmured another soft, "Yes."
"Hm. We shall see. Come here. Kneel. Palms to your thighs." Lucius Malfoy directed her to her knees and stared down at her with the mien of a king, leaned forward slowly, and wrapped his hand around her throat. The buttery softness of his gloves groaned warmly against her fluttering pulse. "I will endeavor to wring you dry should you choose this. I will delight in spitting in your face, using your pretty little mouth, pushing you to tears. I do not want you crying to me if you fail to signal you are at your limits. It is a Death Eater you crave and it is a Death Eater you will get when you come to me like this. Do you truly understand?"
Heat and terror swirled in electrifying eddies across her nerves, lips parted to breathe through the heady rivers of his words. "I understand."
Lucius tilted his head expectantly at the girl and she read in it her mistake.
"I understand, Mr. Malfoy."
The narrowing of his eyes told her she'd still missed the mark, but he spoke before she could make another attempt. "And the word you will use to end our engagement?"
It was out of her mouth before Hermione could second guess her brashness. "Hippogriff."
He barked out a laugh and even that was elegant, then his fingertips tightened into the cords of muscle on her throat. "Ever the Gryffindor. Though you are no longer the awkward little schoolgirl, are you?" His voice was low, contemplative as his gaze roved over her in her too thin nightgown. Malfoy's hand slowly retreated back to his drink and he waved dismissively toward her. "Strip."
"Wh-what?" Her heart somersaulted, eyes widening to reflect the heat of the fire through his whiskey. Another arrogant lift of one dark brow was his only response and Hermione scurried to tug the pale material over her head, pushing it aside so she was left only in knickers.
His gaze roved her heavy as lightning across her skin and her own dropped to the floor in a rush of nerves. He still wore polished leather boots and Hermione could have sliced her finger pads on the sharp creases of his trousers. There was something terrifyingly fascinating about the crisp, elegant lines of the well-dressed Pureblood as she was folded nearly naked at his feet.
The toe of his boot prodded against her thigh. "I did not say to stop." Hermione's vision snapped up at the cool slither of his words, and she met stern amusement in his gaze. "Stand, finish undressing, and bend over the desk." After a breath of her hesitation, he added, "You do not want to try my patience."
Heart in her throat, she scurried to her feet and did as commanded, the pale scrap of cloth dropping to the floor. Her legs were foal-weak as she trailed her way across to his heavily carved desk and flattened her torso against it. The slick wood eased the burning of her face and chest, and she felt too aware of the way her breasts squashed against it, bringing her arms against her body to hide the curve of the tissue. If only she could similarly reduce the vulnerability of her backside…
The fire crackled and hissed, cloth shifted, clunks and tinkles sounded from behind her in an unhurried rhythm. Long moments eased her spine and she flattened her palms beside her shoulders and resisted the urge to fidget. He was making her wait there at his leisure, sipping his drink, whiling away his evening as she fought the humiliation burbling in her gut.
This was stupid. This was foolish. He was going to make her lie here, draped for his amusement, until he finally started laughing and told her to get out, had she really expected Lucius Malfoy to deign to touch her?
Thoughts of her own impending humiliation threaded around her, twisting up her mind so she jumped at the skirting of warm fingertips trailing the curve of her hip and down her arse.
"Keep still." Soft command laced his words, grounding her into herself. The fingers left her skin, then her wrists were wrapped by his grip and tugged her arms straight so her hands could hold the far edge of the wood. His grip loosened to draw down her arms, her back, resting one palm on the small of it as he considered her. She could feel the heat of him as he bent toward her ear, a searing line above her. "Tell me, Miss Granger. Are you scared?"
That word did not begin to describe the condition of her mind. Frothing, roiling, electrifying terror. But her voice came out in a shaking whisper: "Yes."
The suddenness of the slap across her backside was nearly as startling as the sharp crack of palm against skin. "What was that?"
"Yes, sir," she replied without thought.
The air sung between them. "Better." He straightened, hand smoothing over her red, stinging flesh. "Now, Miss Granger. Have you ever been caned?"
Notes:
It's been a while, I know. I want to write, but I've developed a cyst on one wrist and a few other issues so... It's been hard. Whatever. I still want to write and I will always find a way.
A reiteration that I do not plan to abandon any fic ever. I'm just disabled and fighting chronic illness.
I decided to just jump into this story. For any fans of Antonin, he will be in this fic. He will definitely be in this fic. And with Hermione at some point. I'm also gonna deal a little with the issues with Ron, etc. This thing now has a whole dang plot, though I am still waffling on the ending. Depending, I might even have an idea for another fic after this one based on this timeline.
If you read Deal with the Devil (I'm skimming through it and... Why am I rereading this? I like it, but I also now cringe) I am considering doing a Time Travel Tomione where I put Hermione back in that story starting before the first chapter and see what changes. The Dolohov from this story is from that one, as is the Voldy, etc... So... Yeah. But do I really need another WIP?
I have also worked through some of OF that I'm working on, and planning to rewrite a novel I did a first draft of last year.
I'm making a lot of work for myself.
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