Prologue 4
Draco stares at the cages before him. One houses a slimy toad, anouther-a young Kneazle, a third: the most adorable little rat with a spot on its itsy-bitsy nose. Oh and an eagle owl in the corner, which sits and stares with its huge yellow orbs.
"Can't I just keep them?" Draco asks, sticking his finger through the rat's bars and scratching its bitty ears. The little critter nibbles at his nail and scurries around the hay.
"Only one Familiar." It's his father, both hands perched on top of a snake cane as he's glaring down at him in that disapproving way of his.
"I can't choose. I want them all." Draco reaches in to pet the rat, but it scurries under its log house.
His father simpers, and with a wave of the wand the cage doors open. At first the animals hesitate, but then, the baby Kneazle pokes its head out and stretches and walks out. That's when the owl takes flight snatching it up. The Kneazle yelps and makes a run for it. The rat scurries out next, but the owl makes way for the toad pecking at it until it falls out in a slimy, motionless heap. When the rat makes its move to a corner, the owl flies over: wings flapping and its beak poking at the hole in the wall.
In the end, the owl flies back to its perch: the sole survivor of the games. It sits and fluffs its feathers, preening.
Draco stares at his owl. He stares at his father, the man's gaze unfreezing and a smile appearing. He rests a hand on Draco's shoulder. "Enjoy your new pet."
Minutes later, Draco is sitting in his bedroom. He opens up his jacket and the rat's nose peaks out from his pocket. He slips it a piece of cheese from his afternoon snack. "I will, Father."
-x-x-x-
Present Day
"Sausage or bacon?"
A muffled groan exits the pile of pillows, blankets and half-opened textbooks in the guest bedroom.
"Granger, I'm getting breakfast." His sing-song voice doesn't work its usual magic.
"I don't care."
Draco puts on his jacket, exits the high-rise and pops around the corner to the bagel shop. Bagels are the American version of pasties and about the only thing available this early in the morning. Plus, the shop is cleaned regularly and the workers use gloves. It's an upgrade from British House Elves and the dough tastes way better. He orders two egg and bacon bagels and two coffees, returning back to the penthouse with the tray.
By then, Hermione is up and dressed with her nose stuck in a book and her hand jotting down notes at lightening speed.
"I thought the whole point of having a special talent was in not working so hard," he whispers, putting the coffee and bagel on the nightstand.
Hermione glares at him.
"Okay, okay, backing out. Your first class starts in an hour. If you still want to Floo in-"
"I KNOW."
She's ready in five minutes and smelling of coffee and looking a fair bit more satiated than before. She looks at him, dark circles under the eyes and smirks. "Thanks for the food."
Its as close to a smile as he's going to get from her at seven in the morning.
They each take a handful of Floo powder, throw it in the pit with a "Ilvermorny" and off they go.
Hermione leaves Draco in the courtyard with a book and an unassuming expression along with the request to not draw attention to himself.
He nods, propping open his textbook and spreading out in one of the lancets. "Count on me."
-x-x-x-
A fail. Hermione has failed her first Defense assignment.
She stares at the fat red grade on her parchment, toes shriveling up in her tight, leather shoes. Delicately, she folds the essay in half and tucks it in her bookbag, sweeping back one strand of hair before the lesson continues.
Hermione's put her hand up at every opportunity. She's finished her notes ahead of time and asks all the supplementary questions from her readings. At one point, she earns her house one and a half points. When the class begins to file out, she approaches Professor Snape's desk and unfolds the essay for show.
"Sir, I'd like to discuss my grade," she says.
Professor Snape is finalizing the very last of tomorrow's plans, laid out on crisp parchment papers over his giant desk. He looks up at her through his reading glasses, then slides them off his face, folds them and places them at the center of his desk.
"Have a seat, Miss Grabber." And when she does, schools his expression into one of displeasure. "Indeed, your work failed to meet class standards."
"I-I had a long day and I was not as prepared as I should have been."
"The Headmaster of Hogwarts himself shared the opinion that you were one of Hogwarts' top students. Clearly, the confidence of European magical schools has fallen."
A cold shiver ran down Hermione's limbs. "Sir, Headmaster Dumbledore was not wrong. Please, if I can prove myself-"
"-I fail to see how." Here Professor Snape begins to circle around the desk slowly, like a lioness in hunt. The soles of his boots click against the hardwood and echo off the walls. "Ilvermorny is an esteemed institution which rarely takes on international students of any kind without strong recommendation." He stops, just a whisper away from her ear. "Or personal favor."
The heat of the Professor's body is palatable even through the blazer and dress shirt. She swallows, keeping her eyes on the blackboard in front of her.
"Tell me, Miss Grabber. What is your true intention?"
"To study under the best," she whispers back.
He takes a moment to scan her body up and down and then, looks deep within her eyes. Her mind tickles, like after sipping on a cold glass of Butterbeer. Then, he backs off.
"How disappointing," he murmurs and returns to his seat, beginning to fold his plans into his plan-book and places his pens into the cupholder on his desk.
"Please sir, I'll do anything."
He stops. "Careful. Words are binding."
There's a certain glimmer in his eye as he speaks; a certain undertone to his voice. Hermione perks up, taking the bait. "I don't take words lightly," she says.
His lips part, his eyelids shake, but after a fleeting moment, his face sinks into the usual cold indifference. "Very well. I will award you one last chance." He opens his desk drawer, taking out a stack of crisp parchments, an ink pen and a well-loved quill. He arranges the items on her desk.
"One hour to write a formal essay on today's topic. Succeed, Miss Granger, and you will be allowed to write for me once more. Fail...and I will sign your resignation from Ilvermorny and you will take the first Portkey out of New York tonight."
Hermione nods. "May I begin?" Hearing no definite answer, she returns to her desk, slumps her bookbag on the ground. She picks up the quill, teases its peak between her fingers and writes 'The Case for Choosing Airborne Familiars over Land-Dwellers in the Scope of Duels.'
The Professor's chair also creaks. She could swear she hears a low groan the moment she underlines her title. Looking up, she notices that the Professor had closed the lancets to block out the afternoon sun.
-x-x-x-
Hermione's well into her conclusion when the hot sensation in her body returns once more. The Professor is looming over her desk, clearly attempting to intimidate her into quitting her task. He's done that twice already, each time hovering softly into her space and sending her quill starkly to one side.
This time feels different. Maybe it's the fact her writing hand has gone numb. Maybe it's the fact that she's only got three minutes left, but the oversight is grating on her nerves.
She's only got to dot her 'i's and wrap up her final statement on owls being the superior choice for wizards dueling in open places. But it doesn't mean she can't have a little fun.
As quoted in Nimbus et. al (1578), the evidence for the inclusion of the Strigiformes during duels becomes increasingly...large and supported...
Professor Snape's boots stop their pacing, his shadow looming over her parchment. Check and mate.
...but dangerously close to spilling over into the uncharted territory of the forbidden.
Hermione waits a second to make certain the Professor has frozen before continuing.
Indeed, one might say that they fit well inside the...tight scope of possibilities of the permissible if one does not dare exploit the carnal desires of the common owl for flesh...
His face now slides beside hers, his breath hot on her shoulder. He smells of oak wood and charcoal and faintly of his musk which floats about the two of them. His heartbeat quickens, her ears pulse and she continues her conclusion.
But this writer also warns of how perilously close even the most common owl can come to treating the opponent as its personal dinner item: fighting the urge to consume the delicate open parts as though they were mere morsels of food...not unlike the usual mice or birds they devour.
His hand is on the table now, his fingers tighten into a fist. "Go on," he whispers, his voice raspy and aching. Her own thighs stick together, the space between them hot and wet. She bites her lip and writes.
And in rare cases, the hunger and need to satisfy oneself might cause the bird to prey on its own owner. The hand which feeds it becomes the very hand that it aims to have for itself. The very hand that runs itself through the beautiful, majestic bird's giant feathers...preening and petting and teasing it into submission becomes a tool for...
"For what?" Professor Snape grabs holds of the side of the desk: hand twitching and knuckles white, body contracting and releasing, breath barely there. His chest is against her back and his manhood just shy of breaking the wooden backing of the chair.
"Shall I finish?" she whispers.
"Write. It. Down."
...self-indulgence.
The moan that escapes the wizard's lips shakes the entire table. All the hairs on Hermione's back stand alert, every inch of exposed skin tingles.
He snatches up the essay, brings it to his nose and takes a whiff of it. A guttural groan rumbles out the moment the pages are in his taking.
Suddenly, he's looking at her with large pupils, his body still twitching from the release. "You've done it now, Grrrannger," he purrs.
Before she can utter anything in her defense or victory, he grabs her wrist and drags her to the bookshelves along the walls of the classroom. Tapping his wand against certain tomes, the shelf rolls away.
Hermione's heels dig into the floor, desperately wishing to steady themselves against a crack in the wood or the edge of the shelf.
He's dragging her now into the passage between the shelves- down, down a circular set of stairs into the bowels of the school. Sconces with flames flash by as they fly down the hundreds of steps.
There, at the bottom, a plush green carpet lines the corridor. They run along, fibers whispering as they do. A chill beats Hermione's cheeks. All she can see if the black head of hair in front of her and the knobs of nameless doors as they pass.
"Professor, sir!" she calls to no avail.
They reach a door, which the Professor opens with a flick of his wand. Inside is a dimly lit chamber with a plush two-poster bed, a wardrobe, and a vanity table. In the center of the room stands a large wooden desk illuminated by a dozen floating candles.
Hermione's stomach drops. She screams and kicks and huffs but is promptly sat on the chair with a gust of Dark Magic. When the deed is done, Professor Snape walks back, sallow face colored by a healthy red flush.
She feels around for her wand, but remembers sorrowfully she's left it on her desk in her mad panic to impress with her essay. But she's still got hands with nails.
"You!" Hermione charges out of the chair, only to have her knee jerked back and to fall flat on her face. She sighs, flipping over to notice a thin, silver chain attaching her to the desk.
"It wasn't what you promised!" she yells in indignation. "I write a good essay, and you let me write..." She pauses, wheels in her head spinning fast.
Professor Snape simpers. "Come now, my clever Gryffindor."
Hermione's eyes flit back and forth and suddenly... "Miss Granger. If Miss Granger wrote you a good essay, she'd be allowed to keep writing for you. But the conditions in which she did so..." How could she have been so stupid? "And Miss Grabber..."
"As far as the Ministry is concerned, she was expelled from Ilvermorny for poor achievement. As for Miss Granger, the Order will always remember her sacrifices for a good cause." He taps his fingers against his head.
All Hermione can do is let out a sob as she rubs the fast-forming bruise where her knee hit the stone floor. "T-That is b-brilliant," she musters out. "B-but sir, questions w-will be asked. They'll come looking for me."
The Professor has an answer for that too. "You write exceptionally well, Miss Granger. I had been craving your work during my long hours teaching here in Ilvermorny. No other substitute could satisfy my craving." He sniffs her fresh essay once more and tucks it into his robes. "But I am not so cruel to not grant you a boon. If you are able to produce 1000 pages of writing before midnight of tomorrow, I will grant your steady release."
"One thousand!" Hermione squeaks, "but that is nearly 500,000 words! Nobody...nobody can..."
"You are Hogwarts' greatest graduate," Snape says. "Had all those efforts been spent for nothing?"
The sound she makes proves otherwise.
"And don't try using Generative Magic to double your pages," Snape warns. "The writing must be authentic for the curse to break."
And then, he is gone and the door is shut behind him. Hermione sits for a moment and then crawls over to the desk. She picks up the quill and begins to write. She's halfway through page one when the nib snaps under the pressure of her grasp. That's when the tears spill down her face, and she sobs over the parchment.
-x-x-x-
The sun sets in the Courtyard of Ilvermorny and scents of bakes bread and boiled meat stew wafts out into the breezy, evening air. Draco snaps his book shut, rises and walks out with the hungry students.
Instead of following them to the dining hall, she turns sharply towards the sitting rooms. He passes the staircase leading to the west wing, stares longingly up them, sighs and proceeds to the nearest chimney.
He finds himself a handful of Floo powder, throws it into the pit and finds himself at the doors of the New York Magic Ministry.
"G'd evening Mr Malcolm," says the man at the front desk. "Your father is expecting you."
With a swift nod, Draco rides the elevator to the Head Office of International Affairs.
There, behind a pristine desk, sits Lucius Malfoy, chortling and laughing at a letter in his hands. Seeing Draco, he gestures to the chair opposite the desk, finishes reading and places the letter into the 'to reply' box.
"The deed is done?"
"Yes," Draco hisses through his teeth.
His father grins. "Well done, Draco. I had never doubted you could go through with it."
Draco's heart shrivels up in his chest. He curls his toes in his shoes. "Godfather won't actually harm her, would be?" he whispers.
Father harrumphs, taking a fresh letter out of the box, opening it with the fang of a silver snake on his desk. "That is none of your concern, is it?"
"But-"
"The Mudblood deserves what she has. After all, life is not all about getting everything you want." He raises a brow at Draco. "But you would know that very well."
Draco says nothing in response.
A/N: dun dun dun! WHO could have guessed?! Anyone who knows a thing or two about Slytherins and their slimy tactics. How will Hermione escape her captor?! Find out in the next chapter. Or perhaps she's doomed to write essays here forever...which doesn't sound too bad of a punishment for a bookworm?