A/N: contains a sex scene and descriptions some readers may find disturbing.

Reminder (probably not needed): almost nothing in this story relates to the original books/movies.

Dorchester

Home

This evening, Hermione stripped nude and for the first time, faced reality.

Her bedroom wardrobe hosted a fly-spotted, yellowed mirror – a full-bodied job that she'd mostly ignored. Until now.

She'd never viewed her body in its entirety before – that she could remember, of course. If she wanted to check her hair in the mirror, she looked at her hair. If she clipped her toenails, she looked at her toenails.

So – here goes...

Her feet looked okay, as far as feet went. The full complement of toes remained on each foot. The ICU nurse said her toes had been broken, and the surgeons reset them. But they – she frowned. Was her attacker one person or a group? – left her metatarsals and ankles alone.

Next up: legs. Both shins were broken, so she'd been encased in casts from toes to knees after the surgeons re-aligned and reset them. Burn marks scorched her thighs – possibly by a laser, the ICU nurse said, but no-one had seen burn scars quite like hers before. The detectives studied the photos the surgeons took on the operating table, hoping they might reveal a clue about her attacker/s.

Her concave stomach and jutting hips displayed a real head-scratcher for the detectives. Some sick bastard had carved two large letters there: M and U. The 'M' was branded into her flesh by her right hip, and it looked like another letter was starting off after the U, but for some reason, it wasn't completed. Clearly someone was going to write a word long enough to span Hermione's albeit tiny waist, so why wasn't it completed? What was the intended word? Vexing. Very vexing.

The nurse said the surgeons examined her internal organs, looking for damaged or even missing ones, but everything seemed to be where they should be. So there was that, she supposed.

Her breasts were a mess, and to be frank, she hated them. Scars cross-crossed her flesh, leaving ugly puckered seams and shiny red welts. Someone had tried to excise one of her nipples – but again, failed to complete the job. Looked like a relatively recent attempt, too. Surgeons stitched the flap of skin back on to her breast, after a thorough flush-out of the open wound.

She was on a waiting list for plastic surgery, but it was some months off. The surgeon said he wanted her to put on more weight. Operating on her at the dangerously low weight she arrived at the hospital with was done out of necessity, but the surgical team were on tenterhooks that she would code again when they were up to their armpits in her flesh and bone and blood.

Tears pricked at Hermione's eyes. But she took a deep breath, blinked the tears away and forced herself to continue.

There were multiple scars on her arms. Surgeons inserted pins and rods to hold the shattered bones in place. Her fingernails had grown back, and she still had her thumbs and fingers. Another positive thing, she guessed.

Hermione's face was gaunt and sallow – let's face it, she was dangerously malnourished and underweight when brought in to the hospital, and she was working her way up to a healthy weight with the help of a local dietitian. Gerry also had a habit of popping in around teatime with a pack of biscuits, claiming she was 'just on my way home, dear,' but she was probably checking that Hermione was eating. She hated her skeletal form, and she tried to convince Gerry she wasn't anorexic, but Gerry still kept stopping by with biscuits, and to be honest, Hermione was glad of the company.

The outline of her jaw was sharp, creating a dramatic profile. Surgeons wired her jaw together to help the fractures set. Even now, she distrusted food that she had to crunch down hard on. Sometimes she had nightmares where she'd be shopping in a supermarket, for example, and her mandible would just fall off and skitter away, leaving her in the middle of the Produce Department with half a face and screaming children running away in horror.

She supposed she should tell her therapist.

Her hazel eyes looked huge and dull, sunk deep into her orbital sockets. They survived unscathed.

Her hair was growing back after the surgeons shaved it off. They found a couple of hairline skull fractures. She looked more like a pixie and less like an escaped convict.

Hermione sighed. What an absolute shit-show.

She took a step closer to the mirror so she and her reflection were almost nose to nose. For the first time, she voiced out loud the questions that rattled around her poor, wounded head:

"Who did these things to me? And why?"

She raised a shaky hand and touched the one in the mirror.

"Can someone please tell me who I am?"

Her damaged doppelgänger stared sadly back.

Hermione rubbed the goosebumps the rose on her arms and trudged to the bathroom.

The Afterlife, cruise ship version

Scrying chamber (located through a door at the casino)

Draco stared at Hermione's empty room, willing his unwanted erection to subside. Her naked body was a canvas of Carravagian horror, but underneath and the scars and marks of brutality was a young woman, after all.

A mudblood, he corrected himself.

Except the word tasted like ashes in his mouth. And had for some time.

Flashback - Malfoy Manor

Dungeons

Draco had stopped one of Voldemort's specially-appointed torturers from carving that word into her body. Held against her dungeon cell wall by a sticking charm, he could hear her screams when he opened the massive doors to Malfoy Manor's dungeons.

Arriving at Hermione's cell, he took in the torturer's feverish excitement and the half-naked body spread-eagle against the slimy, mouldy stone wall. Her jeans were pulled down below her hips and her hoodie, t shirt and bra were shoved up to her chin. Her smooth, creamy flesh – Draco felt himself involuntarily tighten – was ruined by two large letters that wept angry, bloody tears. The torturer was just making a start on 'D'. Her face was swollen red and wreathed in tears – but her eyes still glared at him in defiance.

"Like what you see, Malfoy?" she spat between heaving breaths.

"I do not, as it happens," Draco coldly replied.

She huffed out a snide laugh. "Too pathetic to get it up at the sight of Muggle tits, then?"

On the contrary... his treacherous head whispered in glee.

Draco's lips twisted into a smirk. "I'm not so desperate that I'd come all the way down here to peer at yours," he lied. He didn't want to think about the undeniable fact that his cock, which he was planning to declare legally dead, lurched into feeble life at the sight of her... body?

Her pain?

He hoped it was her body he was reacting to. No way in this literal hell would he reduce himself to the likes of Nott senior and the others who openly masturbated at the sight of the blood traitors' and mudbloods' broken bodies.

"You." He flicked an imperious hand at the torturer and his degenerate sidekick. "Stop playing with the mudblood and leave. The Dark Lord wants me to question her personally."

The cell was silent, except for Hermione's laboured breathing. The two wizards in blood and shit-stained robes stared at Draco uncertainly.

Draco slung his thumb at the cell door. "Get the fuck out," he snapped.

The grisly pair slunk out in silence, but Draco didn't miss the malevolent looks they sent his way. Father would be informed.

When the heavy cell door slammed shut, Draco silenced the cell and blacked out the barred window set in the door. Draco wasn't a performing seal. He got results without an audience. That's because he'd evolved beyond these oafs enough to know the best results were obtained from breaking minds, not bodies.

He ambled up to Hermione, still pinned to the wall like a centrepiece addition to an insect collection. He peered at the letters on her stomach. "They look painful," he observed. Do not look at her breasts. Don't give her the satisfaction.

"Of course they're fucking painful," Hermione sighed. "Maybe as much as that mark on your arm."

Draco smiled. A genuine smile. "Touché," he replied, recognising her opening gambit. Find common ground. Hmm. Breaking her was going to be an actual challenge, for a change. "Hurt like a bitch."

She narrowed her eyes. "Are you going to do something to my breasts?" she demanded.

Too late, he looked. Damn it. Score one for Granger. "No," he replied neutrally.

"Then can you cover them up, at least?"

His mother raised Draco to be a gentleman. "As you wish," he replied. Stepping up close to her body, he looked her in the eye and mentally dared her to spit in his face. Holding her gaze, his fingers brushed along the sides of her breasts as they located her bra, t-shirt and hoodie. She jumped.

After Draco set her clothes to rights, Hermione let out a cry she'd tried to contain behind her teeth. He pulled up her hoodie and watched the letters "M" and "U" slowly form in blood on her t-shirt.

Draco put his head close to hers. "I can heal those," he whispered, getting out his wand. "Just say the word."

"In exchange for what?" she hissed.

"Oh, something small," he replied. "You know how it goes."

"What?" Hermione gritted. "Just tell me what you want and quit mucking around."

Draco leaned against the cell door. "You tell me how shit Weaselbee is in the sack, and I'll heal those little cuts for you."

Stupefied, Hermione's mouth fell open. "You want me to tell you what Ron is like in bed?"

"As I said, something small." Draco grinned and held up his thumb and forefinger, pressed together.

Disgusted, she turned her head away. "No."

Draco chuckled. "Stubborn little bitch, aren't you? You'd rather put up with agonising pain and the almost certain risk of infection instead of dishing out on your boyfriend's junk?"

Hermione threw a death glare at him. "I can't tell you because I don't know," she growled.

Draco frowned. "So, you two haven't fucked?" Missed opportunity there, Weasel.

Hermione sighed. "No."

"What about Pothead?" Surely you and he" –

"I said no!" Hermione was getting steamed up, and Draco was loving it. She was more likely to talk if she lost her temper.

He'd heard all mudbloods were loose with their morals, so he was mildly surprised to hear that Granger hadn't spread her legs for the gruesome twosome, no matter how swotty she was. He wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Don't tell me you fucked Longbottom" –

"For fuck's sake, Malfoy, I haven't slept with anyone!" Hermione shrieked from the wall. "I'm a virgin, okay? V-I-R-fucking-G-I-N! Can you get that through your perverted head?"

Draco tapped his lip with his wand, thinking. So, maybe some mudbloods were whores and others weren't? Purebloods, on the other hand, were supposed to remain virgins until they got married. Because they were better than everyone else.

Except he wasn't. He could attest that Pansy wasn't, either. And he could hardly imagine his hypocrite father living the puritan life before he married Mother, despite his pompous airs and graces.

Life is full of contradictions.

"Well," he began, sauntering back to the wall, "that wasn't the answer I expected, but it's an answer, all the same. Time to make good on my end of the deal."

Draco pointed his wand at Hermione's stomach. She immediately felt relief as a pain removal spell swirled around her.

He stepped back, sheathing his wand. "The scars won't disappear, I'm afraid, but I cleaned and closed the wounds." he looked at her expectantly.

Hermione closed her eyes. "Thank you, Malfoy," she mumbled.

"Well, I guess I'll see you later." Draco removed the charms on the door.

"What – are you just going to leave me on the wall?" she gasped.

Draco looked over his shoulder. "You look good there, Granger. Try to get comfortable." He pulled the door open and slipped through.

Throwing up his hood, he headed to the dungeon's exit, smirking as Hermione's creative curses and swearwords chased after him.

The Afterlife

By the time Draco had finished re-living that unsettling scene, Hermione re-entered her bedroom. Her short hair was wet, and he watched drops of water trail down her neck and neck across her damaged breasts.

That must have been done after Lucius pulled him off her interrogation. His old man probably did most of that himself.

His mouth felt dry.

Still nude, she flopped onto her bed and reached for a small electronic device of Muggle origin on her bedside table. Propped up on her pillows, she held the mystery device in her hands. Moving pictures flashed on the screen, but Draco wasn't close enough to see them.

Flaccid again, Draco was about to give Hermione her privacy when a distinctive moan came from the device.

Draco pulled his earphones tighter. Sort of sounded like Pansy when she –

What on earth was Granger watching?

Part horrified, part entranced, he watched Hermione part her legs and snake a slim hand between the curls of her pubic hair. The other hand still held the device.

Look away, you revolting pervert! Draco chastised himself, but his eyeballs were stapled to the screen. His cock hardened and extended inside his cargo pants again.

In her bedroom, Hermione's hips undulated as she remained glued to her own screen. One finger, then two, swirled around her clitoris and her legs spread further apart. Her breathing was languorous and heavy.

Draco, feeling every inch the depraved voyeur, resisted with all his might to touch his erection, which was pulsing with the movement of Hermione's hips. He shifted in his seat.

Shit. That made things worse.

In despair, he reluctantly focussed on the screen one more. Dear Merlin, now she was plunging those fingers into the heated core of body. The sound of wet flesh slicking through wet flesh was unmistakable. She'd dropped the device, but it still spewed out harsh pants and superficial squeals from people who must be fucking the living daylights out of each other. Hermione's free hand rubbed furiously at her clit and her body was clenched tight. Moans spilled from her lips, rising in pitch.

Draco gripped his chair's armrests so hard they creaked in protest. Sweat trickled down his temple.

She was going to –

A jagged scream tore from Hermione's throat and her body torqued off the bed. Her orgasm ripped through her body in waves, and Draco bit down on his tongue so hard he tasted blood.

It was over. Right?

Shaking, Hermione pulled her fingers from her body and raised them to her lips. She slid each finger, one by one, into her mouth and licked them clean.

Draco bolted from the Scrying Chamber.

A couple of punters looked up, but when they saw it was Malfoy, they went back to scrying.

Draco broke the world record for short-distance running on the way to his cabin, and threw himself through the door. Throwing up all the usual wards and silencing charms, he sank to his knees – knowing he wouldn't even make it to the tiny, claustrophobic bathroom – undid his pants and pulled out the angriest erection he'd ever seen on himself.

Spitting on his shaking palm, he wrapped it around his flesh and stroked himself almost violently, until blessed, beautiful relief came in the form of a sticky white fluid that burst over his fingers and a howl from his throat that could rival a werewolf's.

A hole opened in his body, cleaving through his mind and soul. Collapsing to the carpet, he waited for his breathing to return to normal.

Then he threw up.