Chapter Text
He made her promise.
“Do you trust me?...it’s the only way you’re going to survive.”
Malfoy’s prior words replayed in her head along with the slur about her blood impurity. Though it stung to hear him use it so flippantly, she assumed the insult was meant to be a preview of what was to come, maybe even an admonishment for getting too close, for thinking he would set aside time to reassure her of her safety. He was hopefully just reminding her to stay in her role as his captive.
As they arrived inside the gates of a manor house in ruins, Hermione tried to ignore the nagging feeling that something was actually terribly wrong. The location itself was foreboding; the estate looked like some decrepit storybook fortress, a haunted nineteenth revival castle. Twisted vines like snakes grew around every inch of mouldy stone. She couldn’t help but think that someone was watching them from one of the high turrets.
Why would Blaise Zabini have suggested that Malfoy ‘give’ her to Dolohov? She knew Malfoy despised the Death Eater, but what did she have to do with him?
The questions swirled in her mind as Malfoy carried her up the gravel path to the entrance.
“Malfoy, tell me,” she begged again, her voice only audible enough so he could hear. “Please.”
But he made no effort to respond. Instead, he lifted his mask to cover his face and seemed agitated, stomping his boots through the door and into the foyer.
Almost immediately, Hermione could feel the drastic temperature change inside the place. There was a prevalent coldness in the air that went straight to her lungs. It was a chill so heavy that it made her bones ache, the type of atmosphere created only by an overabundance of Dark Magic.
Hermione’s chest constricted with nervousness for the first time. If she actually had been captured, she knew she would have been screaming and clawing at him right now. Malfoy would have needed to keep the magical chains on her.
As they headed down a winding corridor, she felt like a lamb to the slaughter in his arms. She was his sacrifice. Though she would need to be a convincing prisoner, she thought about how vital it might be to conserve some of her energy for later as well.
Malfoy turned the corner into what appeared to be a large hall. Before them, there were rows and rows of wizards and witches dressed in black wearing the skeletal masks.
Hermione wanted to gasp at the sheer number of Death Eaters; she knew it wasn’t possible, but there seemed like hundreds of them. Her fist clenched with worry behind Malfoy’s neck. She was again debating on how much to act like herself. Somehow, knowing her capture was planned was driving her to become considerably retrained as far as displaying any emotions at all. At the same time, though she expected this to be an awful ordeal, she really hadn’t prepared herself for the very real internal fear she was experiencing.
Is this where Malfoy would have to rape her? In front of this audience?
Her body shivered with a horrifying realisation—what had started out as possibly one of the best days of her life was quickly devolving into an inescapable nightmare.
But she had no one to blame but herself.
You asked for this. You’re doing it for the both of you.
Trust him.
You should trust him…right?
Her own voice became a source of both comfort and doubt as she ignored several snickers directed at her from the crowd of deranged followers.
A high pitched cackle broke her reverie.
“Potter’s little Mudblood has finally come to play,” the witch laughed.
Bellatrix Lestrange, standing next to Voldemort himself, looked down upon her with derision. The two were front and center of the grand altar of this hall; everyone else turned to face Malfoy and Hermione as they approached.
“Indeed,” Malfoy responded coolly. With his mask concealing his expression, she really couldn’t get a true sense of his demeanour.
“Draco,” Lord Voldemort greeted him, a manic grin spreading over his serpentine features. When he opened his mouth, Hermione was disgusted to see the many jagged teeth which gave him an inhuman appearance along with his slit for a nose. “You have proven yourself most valuable in acquiring the Mudblood. As you know, this Prophecy shall mark the Order’s demise.”
Hermione could feel Malfoy nod his head in acknowledgement. She was beginning to feel sick…it wasn’t in her being to be so helpless. Her cheeks flared with embarrassment when she realised how pathetic she must look in his arms.
Voldemort smiled again; he was drifting over to them now, his robes swishing and gathering up a foul, icy blast of air as he snaked to their side.
Hermione was drawn to his long, decayed fingernails hovering over top of her. She thought perhaps he was going to touch her when his leathery palm gripped Malfoy’s shoulder instead.
She could feel Malfoy flinch; somehow his reaction was a bit grounding, as she could sense he did not want that type of contact.
“Whether you have succeeded in this mission because you are like me or because you have a weakness for your dear mother’s soul, I’m not certain,” the Dark Lord whispered, his scaly digits drawing circles around the top of Malfoy’s chest . “Either way, you are unlike your father who was nothing but a disappointment. Be proud. It is better without him here to influence you, don’t you agree?”
Malfoy shook his head ever so slightly and was still again. He stood rigid and reserved, waiting for further instructions.
“We are all gathered here,” Voldemort addressed the large assembly of Death Eaters, “to witness this historic turning point in the War for our Pure-blood supremacy. Potter's time has come to an end! Together, we shall leave the Dark Ages and enter a new Golden era in Wizarding Britain and beyond. Only those worthy of magic, such as yourselves here, will thrive. Any wizard clinging to the old ways shall suffer greatly and die a most deserved death. No doubt, with this dirty, so-called ‘witch’ in our possession, a creature who defiles the very nature of magic might I add, the Death Eaters will reign supreme.”
Hermione thought her heart was about to beat right out of her chest. As a loud cheer erupted from the masked group, she swallowed anxiously. Her throat felt narrow and dry. She felt threatened.
“Does the one with the dirty blood have anything to say?”
Voldemort was eying her now, a look of pure contempt in his eyes.
Though Hermione drew in a quick gulp of air, she was unsuccessful in settling her nerves. She was shaking uncontrollably. She didn’t mean to, but she tightened her hold on Malfoy.
“No,” she said shortly.
Bellatrix howled with amusement again. “Make her speak, Draco,” she snarled.
Voldemort nodded with encouragement. “Show the Mudblood in her place.”
Without warning, Malfoy forcibly released his grip on her. Her body dropped to the marble floor; she winced from the fall, holding her knee which throbbed from the impact.
Raucous shouts arose from the Death Eaters and although her back was turned, she could suddenly feel all eyes on her. She tried to stand up, but was caught off guard.
“Crucio.”
She was first aware of the red light in her peripheral just as the Unforgivable fell from Malfoy’s lips. Taking a deep breath, Hermione braced herself for inexplicable torture, immense pain she had issued herself but never was on the receiving end of until now.
Think of something else…think of him.
But her heart tore in half with the knowledge that Malfoy was really hurting her. Her mind was no weapon against the first razor sharp sting of the spell that cut deep into her bones. With a piercing cry, Hermione was spasming, her limbs tossed to and fro against the ground. She no longer had control of her muscles or nerves. The feeling of being sliced open persisted until it was replaced with an invisible fire, a scorching heat that made her feel like her flesh was being burned from the inside out. She wasn’t even sure if she was screaming. Vaguely, she knew her body was thrashing about, but had no passing awareness other than a single wish for death.
Hermione was barely cognisant when the torture ended. She didn’t even know how long Malfoy had used the Cruciatus Curse on her; it likely was only about a minute, but the way her body ached, it felt like hours. There was a point when she realised the scarlet flashes of the curse had faded, yet remnants of the searing pain still pulsed under her skin, particularly under her forearm.
Her Dark Mark.
As she was lying on the floor recovering, her fingers grazed over the spot where the Mark was hidden. For some reason, her skin felt particularly irritated there. Hermione turned her head so her eyes could catch a brief side view of Malfoy.
He was hunched over. He still clutched his wand even though his hands were resting upon his thighs, as if he needed to steady himself. Despite him wearing the thick cloak, Hermione could see he was breathing quite heavily. Again, she could not gauge his reaction.
Her attention was suddenly drawn to the many crude voices around her. Sinister laughter echoed overtop the vaulted ceilings of the hall.
“Very well,” Voldemort clapped, his hands lifting to the air with merriment. “I would say this is the ideal moment for Draco to ensure the Prophecy is enacted.” Again, there were several encouraging murmurs from the ranks of Death Eaters.
Malfoy adjusted himself instantly, standing tall once more. Hermione wasn’t sure, but she thought his body was trembling. Meanwhile, the heat she was feeling from the Crucio was beginning to dissipate.
“There is, however, one caveat,” Voldemort continued.
Upon this statement, there were a few jeers and disappointed huffs, followed by outright vocalisations of questions and gasps confusion.
“Quiet!” The snake man commanded in an effort to control the response of his followers.
Hermione repositioned herself so that she was sitting up on her knees, supporting most of her body weight with one arm. She looked around cautiously, afraid to seem stare too long at any one Death Eater.
“Antonin,” the Dark Lord called. “Come forward.”
Hermione could only hear the plodding footsteps of a wizard making his way to the front of the hall.
The air was thick with suspenseful silence; she imagined everyone was just as curious as she was. But Hermione's stomach was churning with more than curiosity. Waves of panic were undulating throughout her system.
Her gut told her it was something bad.
“You,” Voldemort addressed him. “You, unlike Draco, have continually disappointed me.”
“My apologies, my Lord…I even interrogated Grindelwald as you asked, killed the wizard—”
“Quiet! How dare you speak when not asked.”
The atmosphere of the hall was still heavy with tension. Voldemort waited several uncomfortable minutes before continuing.
“Draco’s persistence has put you in a precarious position,” he announced. “We are all eager for the breeding of the Mudblood to commence. However, I am still without my one treasured possession…the Elder Wand.”
No one spoke a word; Hermione was motionless herself, watching the dark shadows of Voldemort’s robe billowing about in front of her.
“Antonin—you have made no secret of the fact that you desire Potter’s uncleanly sidekick to be your personal whore,” he said with a sigh, the comment eliciting several muffled chuckles from the Death Eaters. “But, pray tell, what have you done to deserve such a prize? Please, answer us now.”
“If I may,” Dolohov started, his voice cracking in response, “I have nearly as many kills as Draco. My birthdate, 25th May, also applies to wording of the Prophecy. For you, I have single-handedly ended several Resistance armies that sprouted up in Austria. Not to mention, I have worked to form alliances in Bulgaria. Finding your Wand is—”
“Something you have continually failed and failed to do,” Voldemort answered for him, his voice an equal mixture of wrath and boredom. “You may think the Prophecy references you, but why would I take out Draco? He has never once disappointed me to the extent you have.”
“My Lord,” Dolohov practically whimpered, “I have not given up. I have visited the old headmaster’s tomb twice in search of it.”
“Crucio!”
All of the sudden, Dolohov’s voice withered away as his body was slammed with repeated force to the ground. Voldemort aimed his wand the recklessly; several Death Eaters shielded themselves as sparks of the Dark Magic darted out into the far regions of the hall.
He lowered his wand and strode over to Dolohov.
“Need I remind you there are two Prophecies?” he snarled. “The Prophecy involving the rape of the Mudblood is only part of the plan to defeat Potter. I need the Elder to ensure he dies.”
“I understand, my Lord. I will retrieve the Elder Wand—I shall not fail you any longer,” Dolohov offered in desperation.
“It is I who makes the demands,” Voldemort corrected him. He let out a cruel chuckle and began to make his way over to Malfoy again.
Hermione froze; she shifted slightly to watch the interaction behind her.
“Though I doubt you are as eager to sully yourself with the Mudblood as Antonin is, Draco,” he began, “I am starting to believe you are my one and only loyal servant.”
Malfoy let out a low laugh. “You are correct. I do not intend to fuck the Mudblood for sport. However, I will see this task through to completion as I have every other mission you’ve assigned to me. I live to serve you.”
Voldemort gave him a wicked smile. “I have no other choice but to request your services once again. Pick her up,” he ordered.
Hermione’s heartbeat quickened as Malfoy pulled her to her feet roughly. His hands locked over her arms and her back fell against his chest.
“Let this be a competition then,” Voldemort stated. “I realise the true reward of impregnating the Mudblood is only of value to one of you. Draco…Antonin…it is both of your assignments to bring me the Elder Wand. Whoever brings me the Elder Wand gets the Mudblood. Perhaps you, Draco, may have better luck. The Wand might just have some allegiance to you.”
Just as a hushed mumbling resounded throughout the hall, Hermione felt Malfoy’s fingers clench down on her skin so firmly, she nearly cried out at the pinch. A sinking feeling took hold of her as she realised that he must have always been privy to Dolohov’s desire for her.
This isn’t right…this will never work.
Her mind was already running wild with scenarios; she was unsure if Malfoy anticipated a challenge like this or if he even had an inkling of a plan worked out. Was he aware this would be his new mission? She didn't think so.
It made her nauseous to think that even if Draco was able to find the Elder Wand, Voldemort would likely kill him anyway to gain possession of it. He would be killed regardless.
She recalled Malfoy’s words about Voldemort from the morning: “The Dark Lord never rewards, never keeps his promises.”
What would happen to her? Would she be sent to Dolohov anyway? The idea made her want to throw up.
This was all a mistake and in her naivety, she had underestimated the Death Eaters and Voldemort’s depravity. It hurt to think she had casually brushed aside Malfoy’s idea to run away. Maybe they would have been better off taking their chances.
“Take Potter’s Mudblood to the dungeons,” Voldemort instructed Malfoy. “We’ll see to it that she is nice and ready for the victor,” he hissed.
His scathing voice interrupted Hermione's apprehension, bringing her back to reality. It didn’t matter that her feet didn’t feel capable of moving as Malfoy was dragging her unceremoniously through the lines of Death Eaters. There were quite a few of them acting as spectators, leering at her and letting out lewd remarks.
“I’d fuck that…maybe Dolohov is onto something.”
“Bet he’ll share. Malfoy already said he won’t.”
“I’d fuck the Mudblood…choke her out. Serves her right.”
Just as they reached the arched doors at the end of the hall, Hermione glanced at the Death Eater who seemed to be keeping watch outside. He stared her, seemingly shaking his head in disappointment. She didn’t know at first who was behind the mask, but she recognised the voice instantly when he spoke:
“Foolish girl.”
Snape.
Malfoy didn’t stop to address him or any other Death Eaters that called his name. He was possibly Occluding she thought, unfazed as he pulled her along forcefully through the candle-lit corridors of the manor.
They were suddenly descending a twisted, rickety spiral staircase. Again, the air felt even more frigid the further they descended into the depths of the home.
Hermione held in her breath as they passed by several cells in the dungeons. There were prisoners lying on the ground, others propped up against the metal bars.
The surroundings were damp and musty; the sickly and putrid smell of decay was permeating the air. With horror, Hermione looked into one of the holdings and it dawned on her—most of these bodies were long dead and rotting.
No wonder the prison was eerily silent.
“I’ve already got her accommodations right here,” came a gravelly voice in the distance.
There were two Death Eaters acting as prison guards; a third without a mask was pointing to a large cell.
“Rodolphus,” Malfoy greeted him. He paused, waiting with Hermione just outside of the cell.
For a brief moment, Malfoy let go of her only to lower his mask. As he reached for both her wrists again, she assumed that he wouldn’t be looking at her, but she was wrong.
He was was observing her, his eyes wide and seemingly analytical. His hair was mussed, scattered every which direction. The angles of his face appeared harsh and unforgiving in the dim light of the prison, but she saw those grey eyes were swirling with a plethora of conflicted emotions. Her initial read into his gaze was one of distress, perhaps pity. But he looked away from her suddenly, his brows furrowing with anger.
“See to it no one removes or touches the Mudblood,” he ordered. Then, with more force than necessary, he directed Hermione into the cell. “Especially Dolohov. He has no claim on her unless he secures the Elder Wand.”
As Malfoy pushed Hermione closer to the wall, she expected him to release his grip, but he was still squeezing her wrists, his hands shaking with apparent rage.
Rodolphus laughed. “I don’t know if I can guarantee that.”
Malfoy finally let go of her as he stepped forward to lunge at Rodolphus.
He gripped him by the collar. “I have done everything for her. Everything,” he snarled, "in the hope that she lives.”
“Look at you,” Rodolphus quipped. “Still paying for the sins of your father.”
“Don’t you dare,” Malfoy threatened. “Say another word and I’ll kill you. Auntie Bella doesn’t even want you. Don’t pretend you don’t know she’s been sleeping with the Dark Lord.”
Rodolphus drew his wand. He was seething, his chest puffing out with indignation. “You’re wrong!” he spat. He shook his head in disbelief and then a dark look passed over his features. “Fine. I’ll see to it that your precious Mudblood stays here.” He whipped his head in the direction of Hermione, giving her an evil glare.
“Make sure she eats.”
Hermione was surprised when Malfoy entered the cell again. He stepped into her personal space, backing her into the stone corner. He observed her carefully, as if appraising her. She knew the move was meant to be intimidating, but she had to close her fists in order to stop herself from reaching out to him.
Rodolphus scoffed. “I’ll ensure she eats,” he said, his voice filled with sarcasm. “She’ll be kept alive,” he laughed scornfully.
Suddenly, Malfoy grabbed hold of Hermione’s forearm. His fingers ran along the spot of where her Dark Mark was supposed to be.
“Good,” he replied, turning to face the other Death Eater. “Anything less would be an interference. The Dark Lord would grant me full authority to dispose of you instantly.”
His eyes shifted back to Hermione. Again, her pulse quickened as she studied Malfoy’s face, trying to see if he was attempting to communicate with her. She looked at him searchingly, and a flash of something like hatred mixed with disgust washed over his expression.
“Dolohov must really be fucked in the head to want you,” he sneered. He leaned in closer, his voice now a menacing whisper. “And even more fucked if he thinks he can have you.”
There was a sharp crack of magic and Malfoy was gone.