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Tender Vengeance Part I
This is a temporary measure while Coloured Grey is down. Or, that's the intent. We'll see how it goes. But, increasingly, people have been asking if my DM/HG fics are archived anywhere else, so I decided to post them here, where they will be accessible. First up, what appears to be my most popular fic, Tender Vengeance The first chapter appears below. I was hoping to post several at once, but I went over the posting limits.

Please be aware that these posts are rough copies from working drafts of the fics, in some cases, drafts that were recovered after a crash. There may well be typos and misspellings, as well as some slight textual differences between what's here and what was at CG. Don’t bother to point them out. If I get the time (and, time is something that is in vanishingly short supply for me right now) I will go through and try to polish things up. No promises how soon that will be. I'm thinking weeks. By which time, I can only hope CG will have returned.

Also, be aware that all the A.N.s appearing below were written for the original posts at CG and are notcurrent when they speak of future updates.

At all odds, enjoy.

MleF

Tender Vengeance Part I


Disclaimer: Harry Potter (the boy-wizard, as opposed to the Harry Potter, Sr. and Jr. of Troll infamy fame) and the other denizens/artifacts/spells/etc. of the Wizarding and Muggle worlds are the creations of J.K. Rowling. No profit is made from this work, which is intended as a commentary on the original, not as a derivative work. No infringement on the rights of J.K. Rowling, Scholastic Publishing, et al is intended. To the extent permissible by law, I retain the rights to my language/text/story.

Pairing: HG/DM References to GW/V, GW/HP and HG/RW
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Non-con/dubious consent, violence, language
Genres: Angst, Romance, Drama, Smut
Spoilers: Through HBP.
A.N. Aside from one explicit sex act in the first chapter, the story is largely plot driven until about the middle of the third chapter, when the smut comes into its own.
Further A.N. For me, Draco as he appears in this story is a logical extrapolation from where he was at the end of HBP (the most recent published at the time this was written) given the situations in which, in this fic, he has found himself since. You may not agree. If you are expecting the spoiled, gloating prat of the first five books, looking down his aristocratic nose at mudbloods because of his pureblood heritage...this isn’t the fic for you.

Tender Vengeance
Part I - Deception

Summer was waning when Hermione Granger kissed her worried parents good-bye and left for the Burrow. Ron and Harry weren’t with her, wouldn’t be rejoining her until the next day. She had taken her leave of them the night before. A quick kiss to Harry’s cheek, and a somewhat longer, sweeter, hotter kiss later with Ron. As had happened more and more frequently over the summer, the kiss had been terminated abruptly when they both realized they were on the verge of taking it significantly further. Further than they were quite ready to go.

“I want it to be perfect,” Ron had told her, forehead pressed to hers, hands running soothingly up and down her arms as they stood in the entry way to the house in Grimmauld Place. Harry had discretely withdrawn to another room, leaving his two best friends to share a private farewell. “I want our first time together to be a memory to cherish,” Ron had said. “You deserve so much more than a quick rut up against the wall because we got carried away.”

“Well, I’m sure there’s something to be said for a quick rut up against the wall,” Hermione giggled. “But not for our first time. Yes, thanks. I’d like it to be a bit special, too.” There was more to it than the right place, which they could have arranged at some time during their summer adventures. It was a matter of readiness, a state they were rapidly approaching, but at which they hadn’t quite arrived. In a perfect world, Hermione would have been taking her time, not even contemplating this step until she’d graduated from Hogwarts, and perhaps even completed the three year training course as an Auror that she intended to enroll in, afterward. But she knew that before the final confrontation with Voldemort, she and Ron would arrive at the point where taking the step into full physical intimacy would be the right thing for them to do. Neither of them suffered from delusions of invincibility or immortality, after all. Living through a war tended to hurry the issue of readiness along.

Today, the boys were moving the last of Harry’s things from Number 4 Privet Drive to the residence he had inherited from Sirius Black. Harry’s seventeenth birthday had passed several weeks before, the protection of his mother’s blood passing with it. There was no reason to continue the torment of living with the Dursleys. Not that he was anxious to take possession of Sirius’ old family home. This was a temporary measure, while he finished his education at Hogwarts, and made plans for his future.

Always assuming he had one. That any of them did.

Hermione resolutely pushed that thought to the back of her mind. They had survived their summer of trying to discover everything they could about Voldemort’s remaining Horcruxes, and this parting was the briefest of inconveniences. She’d be reunited with the boys tomorrow, in Diagon Alley, getting an early start on purchasing supplies for their final year of school.

It was Hermione who had realized, from the scraps of information they’d been able to gather, that Voldemort’s last two Horcruxes--well, the last two to be destroyed before the snake, Nagini, and Voldemort himself-- had to be at Hogwarts. Once she’d solved that bit of the puzzle, she’d convinced Harry and Ron that, unlikely as it seemed, the quickest way to finish off the Dark Lord would be to return to school and set themselves to revealing its remaining mysteries.

It was also Hermione who realized the danger Harry’s failed Occlumency lessons posed, and that there were certain things he’d shared with his two best friends that were equally dangerous: the complete prophecy Sybil Trelawney had made to Dumbledore; the knowledge of the Horcruxes, and that three--book, ring and locket--had already been destroyed. Not that any of them would willing divulge those particular secrets. If they were going to defeat Voldemort, it was crucial that he have no idea that his Horcruxes had been destroyed, rendering him mortal once more, until Harry faced him down in a final battle. Otherwise, he would either act to protect the remaining Horcruxes, or make himself more. Or both. But their willingness to divulge the secrets wasn’t the problem. it was the possibility that the secrets could be wrest from them, unwittingly. Voldemort was an extremely powerful Legilimens, and many of his followers were not far behind him in ability. Harry had been face-to-face with Voldemort before the war had truly gotten started. It was well under way now, and there was no point in denying that another encounter was possible. And, if not with Voldemort himself, then with one of his Death Eaters. Whether or not Hermione, Ron and Harry survived such encounters again, if the secrets in their minds were revealed to the Dark Lord, they could well lose the war. As there was no one to teach them Occlumency, and Harry had been utter rubbish at it, anyway, Hermione had researched memory charms until she’d come up with a spell that would, she hoped, hide those crucial bits of knowledge from anyone who might try to invade their minds.

The charms were neither powerful enough to protect the entire mind, the way Occlumency could, nor strong enough to remain in effect permanently. They merely obscured a select few memories--and everything connected with them--for a few weeks after the spell had been cast. Renewing the charm was a process which involved drinking a particularly foul tasting potion. As they’d drained their cups this morning, the boys had indicated that they weren’t convinced that Hermione wasn’t being overly paranoid about the whole thing.

Hermione had insisted they drink up, but she’d unbent enough to promise to research the charm she was using more thoroughly when she had access to the extensive library at Hogwarts, once they returned to school.

She doubted that many students would be returning with them. The papers were full of frightened rumors, uneasy speculation, gloomy assessments of the future. The Hogwarts Board of Governors had not made the announcement that Hogwarts would indeed reopen, with Minerva McGonagall taking up the post of Headmistress, until the end of July. It had taken them that long to satisfy themselves that every possible protection had been put in place, and that they could assure their students’ safety. But it was clear that with Dumbledore murdered by one of his own professors right on the grounds, quite a few Wizarding families weren’t confident in those assurances.

Molly Weasley among them. There was nothing she could do about Ron: he was seventeen, and a legal adult. Where Harry went, Ron went, and that was the end of the matter. But she had tried to convince Ginny that it might be best to transfer to Beauxbatons. Ginny had snorted derisively.

“If I have to pick between Madam Olympe and Minerva McGonagall to keep me safe, I’ll have McGonagall, thanks. No offense, Fleur.” Her sister-in-law, newly returned from her honeymoon in Italy, allowed that none had been taken. There had been a bit of a row between Molly and Ginny, until Arthur Weasley had tiredly pointed out that Hogwarts was safer than most Wizarding homes, and that with Hermione, Harry and Ron to look out for her, Ginny was about as secure as anyone could be in these uncertain times.

“You see, mum?” Ginny had said anxiously. Molly bit her lip.

“I still don’t like it. If anything were to happen to you--”

“Nothing will,” Ginny said firmly. “We’ve got a division of aurors hanging about this year, don’t we? I’ll be safe as houses, you’ll see.”

Molly pasted on a brave smile, but Hermione could tell she wasn’t convinced. Hermione couldn’t blame her. She wasn’t convinced, herself.

This final year at school was going to be the most dangerous yet. Hermione had no illusions on that score. But there was only one way to safety. They had to face the danger head on, and battle through to victory. Once they found and destroyed the Horcruxes, Hermione knew that Harry would bring the battle to Voldemort. She and Ron were determined to go with him. Harry was just as determined that this final battle was one he would face alone. The three of them argued the point back and forth, but it wouldn’t be settled, couldn’t be, until the time came.

That time was not yet. Today, Hermione had nothing more dangerous before her than a shopping trip to Diagon Alley, where she and Ginny were being fitted for new school robes before going off to Flourish and Blott’s to pick up textbooks for themselves, Ron and Harry. Tomorrow, when the boys rejoined them, there would be another trip, but today was just for the girls.

Not that they would be going alone. Security for the trip away from the Burrow was even tighter this year than last. Molly, Ginny and Hermione would be picked up by a Ministry car, accompanied by several aurors, and taken to Diagon Alley in as much security as the Ministry could provide.

“Although I would be much happier if your father were coming along,” Molly fretted as they walked down the steps of the Burrow to the waiting car.

“Honestly, Mum,” Ginny said with a roll of her eyes. “What could Dad do that Tonks and Shacklebolt can’t? Hallo, Tonks.”

The pink haired auror smiled thinly in return, and said. “Hello, Ginny, Hermione.” Hermione wondered if Tonks were feeling quite the thing. Tonks never gave them a formal hello, as she did the adults. It was always wotcher. She didn’t seem as filled with frenetic energy as usual, either. Hermione was about to ask if everything were all right when Ginny distracted her by suggesting a side trip to Weasley Wizarding Wheezes to restock their Wonder Witch products.”

“I can’t say I use them much,” Hermione laughed as she got into the back seat of the car next to Ginny. “But it would be lovely to see Fred and George again, so--”

“Accio, Wand!” was shouted from the front seat, and Hermione gasped as her wand flew from her own hand into that of a coldly sneering Kingsley Shacklebolt. At exactly the same moment, Molly’s high pitched scream sounded just before Tonks hit her with Petrificus Totallus, and dashed into the car, shoving Hermione back into the seat when the girl tried to scramble out, her wand thrust menacingly close to Hermione’s face. Alastor Moody had done the same when Ginny tried to claw her way out of the other door.

“What are you doing!” Ginny screamed. Moody slapped her once, brutally, across the face.

“Settle down,” he said coldly.

“Careful, Avery,” Tonks--only it wasn’t Tonks, was it?--said with a mocking laugh. “He doesn’t want her damaged.”

Hermione went cold with horror. Beside her, Ginny whimpered, apparently coming to the same realization as Hermione: they’d been captured by disguised Death Eaters, sent to bring Ginny Weasley to Lord Voldemort, himself.

The girls clung together in terror during their brief ride through the city to a nondescript house in a quiet neighborhood where they were forced from the car at wandpoint. The house was not their final destination. Once inside, each girl was held firmly by one of the Death Eaters, and the whole group Apparated elsewhere.

Thankfully, their captors unhanded them once they arrived. The girls stood together, hands clasped, trying to marshal every bit of Gryffindor courage they possessed. They would *not* cower before their enemies.

The room in which they stood appeared to be the main hall of some ancient keep or castle. It was all gray stone, damp and gloomy, lit by huge wheels of candles, some in large iron stands, some hanging from the high ceilings. And, the room was filled with people. There had to be at least a hundred masked and cloaked figures in the hall.

At least a hundred Death Eaters surrounding them. There was no escaping this Hermione thought dully, even as she shushed Ginny and stroked the other girl’s fiery red hair in an attempt to reassure her. Her wand had been taken. Ginny, still underage at sixteen, hadn’t been carrying one. They were defenseless in the midst of a veritable army of dark sorcerers, and she was sure, though she couldn’t see him yet, that the darkest, most powerful one of all, was among them.

She was proved correct almost immediately.

“Bellatrix, my dear, what have you brought me?” a sibilant voice hissed from the front of the hall. The false Tonks--Bellatrix Lestrange, it would seem-- gave an evil smile and dragged Ginny away from Hermione. Hermione tried to snatch Ginny back but was restrained by the false Moody and Shacklebolt. Lestrange pulled the struggling Ginny forward, to where the hissing voice had spoken. Hermione, not struggling as there was simply no point, was prodded along in their wake.

“The prize you sought, my lord,” Bellatrix said triumphantly, shoving Ginny to fall at the foot of a large wooden chair in which Voldemort lounged at his ease, rather like a medieval monarch before his fawning court. The Death Eaters had drawn into a semicircle, standing six deep, before this throne-like chair. They had parted to let Bellatrix and her companions through. Hermione found herself pushed forward as well, but not to stand near Ginny. Hermione’s captors handed her off to two other cloaked figures before they joined Bellatrix, and the older girl found herself drawn some yards away, to the left edge of the semicircle. Voldemort didn’t so much as glance her way, his attention focused solely on the red-headed teen at his feet.

“Ah. Ginevra Weasley. And grown up so prettily from the annoying, whining mess you were at eleven. I am so delighted to have my suspicions about you confirmed.”

“She’s not grown up,” Hermione said cooly. “She’s still sixteen, just a child.” An angry murmur susurrated through the hall.

*“How dare it speak!”

“Mudblood filth.”

“Arrogant bitch, defying our lord.”*

The masked and cloaked figures crowded menacingly closer, all of them hissing and muttering to each other, their disapproval of her plain.

All but one. A tall Death Eater, standing to the far right of the semicircle, almost opposite from where Hermione had been taken, held himself perfectly still, as if aloof from the proceedings. She couldn’t tell, because of the mask, but Hermione had the unsettling feeling that he was staring not at Voldemort or Ginny, but at Hermione, herself.

Hermione shivered and looked away, ignoring him as she ignored them all, focusing on Voldemort, who had turned his attention to her, his cold red gaze flickering over her with disdain. She didn’t care about that, more concerned with his reaction to her friend. Hermione didn’t like that Voldemort had set out to capture Ginny, that he had called the younger girl pretty, that he had indicated he expected her to have become pretty. While it was possible that he had simply captured Ginny because of her importance to Harry, Hermione had the uneasy suspicion that there was something even less savory afoot. She didn’t have much hope that her reminder of Ginny’s youth would stop Voldemort from doing whatever it was he’d captured the girl to do, but she also didn’t think she had much to lose by trying. She was both a despised Muggle-born and one of Harry Potter’s best friends. The odds were wildly against her surviving this interview with the Dark Lord. Thankfully, shock seemed to have set in, as the thought brought only a dull kind of acceptance rather than the terrified panic she ought to be feeling as she stood beneath Voldemort’s chilling crimson gaze.

“Of course, Potter’s annoying little mudblood swot wouldn’t have the sense to hold her tongue before her betters,” he sneered, addressing his court, rather than Hermione. “But I am in a magnanimous mood, and will do her the honor of answering her, undeserving though she is of such attention.” He turned his attention to her once more. “Miss Granger, dear Ginevra may be a child technically, but she has gotten up to some very unchildlike things, haven’t you naughty puss?” The Death Eaters surrounding them began to laugh unpleasantly, though the tall one Hermione had remarked before was as unmoving and aloof as ever. Ginny grew pale.

“You despicable cur,” Ginny choked.

“Temper, my dear. Temper. I see one of the lessons I must teach you will be that of self-restraint. But time enough for that later. Come closer, Ginevra. I am anxious to renew our acquaintance.” He pointed his wand at Ginny almost lazily, and Hermione sickened as she watched Ginny’s eyes glaze over, watched her expression taking on a dreamy cast, watched her young friend walk forward slowly, climb onto Voldemort’s lap and sit, docile as a sleepy kitten, leaning against his chest “Yes, my dear. We shall become much better acquainted, shall we not?” Hermione closed her eyes in disgust, a few tears seeping from beneath her closed lids. She loathed being helpless, unable to protect herself or her friend.

“I see, Miss Granger, that you have understood the situation,” that hateful voice spoke again. Hermione’s eyes opened once more. She glared at Voldemort with every bit of contempt she possessed, wishing that she had the Basilisk’s power to kill with a look. The gash of Voldemort’s mouth twisted into something that might serve him as a smile, and she knew her thoughts were as clear to him as if she had spoken them aloud. Something flickered across her mind at that idea, but she couldn’t concentrate to pursue it. “What a bloodthirsty little thing you are, to be sure, Miss Granger,” Voldemort chuckled, her anger and hatred serving merely to amuse him. “But a perceptive one, none the less. You’ve managed to divine my intentions. Perhaps you can explain them for those in my court who are not as quick to understand.” She doubted anyone could possibly have missed the clear indications of what was going on, but there was little point in defiance.

“Ginny is a pureblood witch. I suppose you’ve decided to found a dynasty,” she said, not even trying to keep the anger and loathing from her voice. “You know that taking Ginny will devastate Ron and Harry, that it will just about destroy Molly and Arthur Weasley. Everyone who cares about her, really, which would be everyone who stands against you. By forcing her to bear your child, you not only get the heir you desire, with acceptable bloodlines, you get to land a crippling emotional blow to your enemies. I suppose you think the situation is about perfect, don’t you?” Voldemort nodded genially.

“I do, indeed, Miss Granger. I see you have neglected to mention the finer points. Ginevra’s decided beauty, the fact that she has been Harry’s lover. These things will make what I do both much more pleasant for me, and much more excruciating for Harry.” He ran a caressing hand over Ginny’s back, making the girl moan.

Hermione shivered. She hadn’t realized that Harry and Ginny had gone as far as Voldemort hinted, but she hoped, for the younger girl’s sake, that it was true. Whatever Voldemort did to her, Ginny would at least have the memory of her love with Harry to cling to. Hermione had a moment to regret that there was no similar memory for her to hold close at her approaching death, or to sustain Ron afterward. Sweet kisses would have to be enough for them.

“And do you see, Miss Granger, where you fit into these plans of mine?” Voldemort continued silkily, drawing her out of her thoughts.

Hermione lifted her chin. She had nothing left but her courage. Gryffindor to the core, she was determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing that courage broken.

“I don’t fit in, at all,” she said exerting every ounce of willpower she possessed to keep her voice from trembling, taking a tiny bit of solace from her success. “You’ve no use for Muggleborns. I was taken because I happened to be with Ginny. My death will be what we Muggles refer to as collateral damage.”

Voldemort actually chuckled.

“Collateral damage? How...droll.” He continued to stroke a hand languidly down Ginny’s hair and her back, rather like the way Hermione herself sometimes stroked Crookshanks. The comparison was not comforting, nor was the way Ginny seemed to arch into the touch, exactly like Crookshanks when Hermione’s fingers ran over a particularly sensitive spot. “Still, I wouldn’t say I have *no* use for the Muggleborn, my dear. Oh, not in my ranks, not unless they prove themselves in some extraordinary fashion. Never the less, I always have use for power and despite your unfortunate origin you, I have found to my cost on more than one occasion, are absolutely filled with it.” Hermione stared at him in disbelief for a moment, trying to work out his meaning. But the only interpretation she could put on his words simply couldn’t be right.

“You can’t possibly think I’ll join you,” she said.

“Hardly,” he chuckled again. “But joining me isn’t required. You only have to yield your power to one of my faithful Death Eaters, and I will be quite content.”

“Yield my power?” she said aghast. “How is that even possible? I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“No, you would not,” Voldemort allowed. “The rituals are quite ancient, and fell out of disfavor more than a millennium ago, long before that wretched school was built. There’s nothing about it in your precious *Hogwarts, a History.* As to why such a useful ritual is no longer practiced, I am at a loss to understand it, myself. Something about women being more than chattel, I believe, and entitled to wield power in their own right, rather than only under the aegis of their husbands.”

“Husbands?” Hermione said blankly.

“*Femme coverte,*” Voldemort said. “Even in the Muggle world, *Femme Coverte* persisted down to the very early twentieth century. The principle that a married woman’s rights to her property were yielded to her husband. That his rights, as it were, covered hers.” Hermione paled.

“I don’t understand,” she said, but that wasn’t completely true. Voldemort’s talk of husbands was unnerving her, and by substituting *magical powers* for the word *property* she developed a horrible suspicion of where he was going with this.

“Too modest by half, Miss Granger,” Voldemort said in his silky hiss of a voice. “You can no more hide your thoughts from me than the Potter brat ever could.” Hermione, inexplicably, felt a great deal of satisfaction at that remark, but the Dark Lord seemed not to notice. “I know that you do, in fact, understand what I mean, or, at least you’ve got the meat of the concept,” Voldemort said pleasantly continuing to pet Ginny, who was now actually nuzzling against him. Hermione struggled not to whimper, revolted by what was being done to poor Ginny, horribly aware that something similar might soon be done to her. The idea of being forced into some sort of travesty marriage with one of Lord Voldemort’s vicious Death Eaters was, in fact, far less appealing than the clean, quick and painless death by *Avada Kedavra* that she had been trying to prepare herself to face. Hermione licked dry lips.

“You can’t be serious,” she choked out.

“Oh, you needn’t fear, my dear,” he said with another falsely genial smile. “We are far more sophisticated than our ancestors in this day and age. I will not insist that one of my faithful clasp you to his bosom as his wife. I merely require that he, ah, enjoy you while I perform the ritual that will transfer your power to him.”

Hermione felt all the blood drain from her face. He had succeeded, she realized. It hadn’t taken torture to break her, or the threat of imminent death, after all. No. Voldemort had reduced her vaunted Gryffindor spirit to rubbish with a single sentence. Tears sprang to her eyes. She was shaking so badly she could hardly stand, and keeping up a brave front just didn’t seem as important as it had two minutes before. Voldemort hadn’t merely told her that she was about to be raped, but that she would be raped in public, in his presence, that he might use the act to perform some foul ritual that would deprive her of her ability to work magic as well as her virtue.

There was no real need for this, of course. His followers were hardly weak. They had their own magic, and to spare. This was torment, pure and simple, and it wasn’t even about Hermione herself, she knew. On her own, she wasn’t important enough to rate any of Voldemort’s attention, and would ordinarily have been killed out of hand. But she was important to Harry, and that was why Voldemort was interested in her, that was why he had decided on this hideous course of action, an action that would be of only the most trivial consequence to his followers, but of devastating import to Hermione.

“Please. You don’t need to do this,” she whispered, begging, ashamed, knowing he would have no mercy yet unable to keep herself from pleading for mercy, anyway. “Your followers are already powerful. You gain nothing by this.

“How very wrong you are,” Voldemort said. “You would rather die than submit to what I will force you to endure. That alone is reason enough for me to proceed. Your death gains me nothing, you have naught else I want, and my little ritual has so much promise. Deepening the torment Potter will already be feeling over dear Ginevra, for one thing. Making one of my faithful even more powerful than he already is, for another. It will also serve as an example of what any Muggleborn foolish enough to remain in our world can expect. *A fate worse than death,* isn’t that the phrase? I really don’t think there’s any point arguing the matter. The only question is, upon whom are you and your powers best bestowed?”

Another susurration ran around the room, the Death Eaters hanging avidly on Voldemort’s every word, eager for the outcome. Hermione’s legs gave way and, as her guards made no move to prevent it, she collapsed to the floor, breath coming in sharp, short, pants as she began to hyperventilate.

*This isn’t happening,* she told herself. *This is a nightmare. I’m dreaming. Wake up! Wake up!* But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t wake up.

Several of the Death Eaters began to argue amongst themselves. Hermione had the sickening realization that they were fighting over her, like jackals over a fresh kill, plunging her further into nightmare. Voldemort’s amusement only heightened.

“My, I had no idea so many of my followers would be this eager to add your powers to their own. Perhaps I should hold an auction?” Hermione, throat closed in terror, couldn’t answer. The Polyjuice Potion was wearing off the disguised Death Eaters, and some of them had returned to their true forms. Still in their stolen robes, they were not masked like the other Death Eaters, and Hermione could see the one who had been Kingsley Shacklebolt staring at her with a revolting hot-eyed look that made her skin crawl and her stomach churn. Hermione wondered desperately if throwing herself bodily at Voldemort would be sufficient to get the Death Eaters to launch a killing curse at her before he could carry out his hideous plan. She tried to stop shaking, to gather her feet under her, force herself to stand, to attack, but before she could take action, the tall Death Eater she had remarked earlier moved, saying nothing, but taking a few steps forward, bowing before Voldemort’s throne. At this, the arguments between the others died away, though, oddly, the Dark Lord seemed disappointed.

“I had thought Avery, or Nott, but I did promise you a reward, didn’t I, and you have been most patient in claiming it. So, you wish to have the little Mudblood and her powers?”

“If it please you, my lord,” the Death Eater said in a cold, emotionless voice. Something in that voice tugged at Hermione’s memory, but she was too distracted to think much about it, still trying to wake herself up from the nightmare in which she’d become entangled.

“Her humiliation pleases me,” Voldemort hissed. “Harry Potter’s pain pleases me. See to it that you contribute to both.” The Death Eater merely bowed once more, saying nothing further. Voldemort turned from him to where Hermione remained collapsed, rocking back and forth, shivering. He addressed the two Death Eaters who had been standing over her. “Well?” he snapped. “What are you waiting for? Bring her here.”

Rough hands seized her shoulders, dragging her upright. Something inside Hermione snapped. She screamed and struggled, blindly trying to get away, her brain incapable of recognizing that there was no place to go, no refuge, no safety. The only thought she was capable of holding in her distraught mind was that she had to fight, had to get herself free of the cruelly gripping hands.

She struggled every inch of the way. Screaming, clawing, kicking, biting. At one point, she had the savage satisfaction of tasting blood, but then she was cuffed viciously in the temple, and flung to the floor in front of Voldemort.

“Hold her,” he ordered.

Hands grasped Hermione’s wrists and ankles, pinning her spread eagled on the floor. She howled in anguish and outrage, still desperate to get free. A stream of sickly orange light oozed from Voldemort’s wand, settled over her belly, sank inside her, momentarily chilling her before fading away. Her mind was swamped with fresh horror as she realized she’d been subjected to a contraceptive charm. Voldemort had no desire for a half-blood child to result from his foul ritual. Dimly, she was aware of Voldemort’s cruel laughter at her hopeless struggles, of the tall Death Eater getting gracefully to his knees, looming over her. The mask obscured his features, the flickering candlelight shadowed what little the mask did not conceal of his face. The slits in the mask didn’t really allow her to see his eyes, but as he came inexorably closer, she got the impression that they were light.

And by some effect of the shadows, the look within them seemed almost one of regret.

Hermione didn’t want to see him, didn’t want any of this, she flung her head from side to side, continuing to scream, sob, struggle.

Hands on the hem of her robe, pushing it upward to her waist.

“NO!” she screamed. “NO! NO! NO!” It became a litany, even as she felt her robes settle at her waist, felt the intruding hands rip her knickers away, felt an even more intrusive touch, made painful by her body’s lack of arousal, as a finger probed at her entrance. “Nonononononononono. . .”

“Bone dry,” the Death Eater said with as little emotion as before. Hermione, still chanting her litany of *no* saw that he was raising his wand...

The jeering crowd faded to nothing, the cold of the stone floor vanished, the pain from the brutal grip on her limbs was gone, and Hermione found herself wrapped in comforting warmth.

*You don’t want to fight me. It’s foolish. You’ll only hurt yourself. You want to relax. Yes. That’s right. Don’t struggle, just lie back and relax...*

The voice in her head was so gentle, so soothing, so reassuring. Hermione, just barely aware that the alternative was to face some indefinable horror, wanted nothing more than to listen to it. Her mind shied away from the horror, stifling her natural inclination toward resistance, and she clung to the voice’s every word. Yes. Of course. She must relax. Relax into the gentle warmth surrounding her, let herself float along in it.

“You can let her go now,” someone was saying, a very great distance away. Hermione wondered who the someone was talking about. No matter. The voice was back in her head, and she was eager to obey it.

*You want to move your legs just a bit farther apart.* Hermione knew she would be more comfortable if she did so, and she instantly complied.

*Good girl, sweet girl...* the voice in her mind praised her. Hermione smiled, blissfully pleased to have earned such approval.

Something heavy settled upon her, but the voice was telling her that it was all right, so she didn’t mind. A moment later she felt something else, there between her thighs, something pressing within her, stretching her, and it was starting to hurt. The voice kept telling her that she had nothing to fear, though, so she didn’t struggle, but let the brief pain float through her and away, as she listened to the calm encouragement of the voice assuring her that she wasn’t hurt at all.

*Follow me, sweet girl. Raise your hips and follow my lead.* And Hermione obediently lifted her hips, gasping in pleasure as whatever had pressed within her drove deeper into the very core of her, filling her to bursting, tantalizing unfamiliar nerves within her, yielding unknown, but utterly enthralling, sensations. The voice told her what to do, and Hermione continued to thrust upwards, reveling in the marvelous fullness, the deep pleasure her actions brought to her body.

*Lift your arms Bring them around my neck. Let me hold you.* Yes, this was even better. She was held, she was cherished, she was exactly where she wanted to be. Hermione moaned in delight. Something feathered across her temple and her cheek, a touch light and tender. Hermione turned her head to nuzzle into it.

She continued to float along in the warm cloud of bliss, moving at the voice’s direction. And as she did, she felt something grow within her, an awareness of something approaching, something unknown, not previously experienced. Each thrust of her hips seemed to bring her closer to whatever it was, and she didn’t really need the voice’s encouragement to speed her pace, though she listened, of course she listened, and did as she was told.

It built and built and built until suddenly she had reached the apex, so that her whole body tensed and coiled in a paroxysm of pleasure so great she couldn’t contain it without breaking apart, and so with a cry of rapture she broke, and shattered and splintered into a thousand pieces.

As she did so, she felt something emerge from the shards of herself, something that had been held within, but was now released, free, drifting away. The tiniest pang of regret came over her, but she quickly forgot all about it as the voice praised her once more. She could hear someone chanting triumphantly someplace far, far away, but that was unimportant, as well.

*Sweet girl,* the voice was saying, making her forget all about the chanting and the drifting thing she had lost. *Sweet, sweet Hermione...* Something warm and wet gushing within her as the voice grew strangely silent. Hermione sighed contentedly, floating along in the delicious pleasure.

Which was suddenly withdrawn.

Hermione found herself lying on the cold floor of the stone hall, dozens of Death Eaters jeering down at her, Voldemort’s hideous laughter ringing in her ears. Worse. A man’s flesh was intimately joined to her own. A man she did not know, did not want. He moved slightly, withdrawing from her, and she felt a warm rush of fluid seep from her core and drip viscously down her thighs. Hermione gave a choked cry of shame and distress.

“I must congratulate you on an outstanding demonstration of the Imperious,” Voldemort said in his loathsome, hissing voice.

A weight rested on Hermione. The Death Eater. She was covered by him, and by his cloak, the folds of which draped to either side of them. In the midst of her horror, shock, despair, Hermione could yet be grateful for this tiny mercy, that by accident or design, her body had been hidden from the avid gaze of Voldemort and his followers during her public despoiling. She couldn’t bear to look at any of them, least of all the man who had just ravished her. She held her eyes shut tight. Which did nothing to stop the flow of her tears.

The heavy weight pressing her down was lifted as the Death Eater raised up from her, careful to draw her robes modestly down even as the shelter of his own robes was removed.

Hermione was well and truly past caring how broken and weak she appeared before this gathering of evil. As soon as she was released, she turned on her side, curling in on herself and weeping disconsolately.

“You may remove her from my presence,” Voldemort spoke again, presumably to the Death Eater he’d given her to. “She’s harmless now, couldn’t light her own wand without a match. You can keep her in the dungeons if you wish, or your quarters, as there’s no damage she can get up to, there. The spell is self-renewing, provided you bed her daily, between one midnight and the next. Not so burdensome a duty, is it?”

“No, my lord,” the Death Eater said in his cool, dispassionate voice, and, “Thank you, my lord.” A moment later, Hermione felt her body drifting upward, and knew the Death Eater was using a spell to transport her to wherever it was she would be kept prisoner

She finally opened her eyes, realized that they were leaving the crowded hall. In the distance, she saw Ginny loop her arms about Voldemort’s neck and raise her face to his kiss. Hermione shuddered, but she hadn’t been able to save herself, and she couldn’t save Ginny.

Hermione said nothing as she was floated down a series of twisting hallways, and ultimately through a narrow doorway into another room, presumably the Death Eater’s living quarters. She was floated to the bed it contained, and set down upon it. Hermione realized she was now free of magical constraint, her body once more under her own control. She availed herself of her newfound liberty by turning over on the bed, burying her face in the pillow, and giving herself over to tears, not in the least interested in taking stock of her surroundings. Behind her, she heard movement, footsteps. The Death Eater had opened another door, and after a moment, Hermione heard the sound of water running. She supposed there was a bathroom, or at least a water closet attached to the rooms, but she didn’t much care just now.

Hermione continued to cry hopelessly while the Death Eater went about whatever business he had in the other room. Eventually the sounds of water running stopped and the footsteps returned. She didn’t really give a damn that he seemed to be standing at the foot of the bed looking at her. She just kept crying.

Then she heard what sounded like a sigh, and flinched as she was suddenly scooped up into his arms, hauled off the bed, and carried toward an open doorway.

“Put...put me down,” she choked out, with no real expectation that he would listen.

“In a moment,” he said calmly, stepping through the doorway into what was indeed a bathroom. It was neither terribly large, nor terribly modern, but comfortable enough, containing a large, old fashioned tub of white porcelain on clawed feet, what appeared to be a pull-chain toilet and a single pedestal sink, over which hung a mirror. The tub was against one wall, and a porcelain shelf, which held a small selection of personal care items, had been set above it. The tub had been filled with water, hot water to judge by the pleasant-smelling steam that was rising from it. Hermione knew that some sort of potion had been added to it, both from the alluring scent, and the fact that it had turned a faint blueish green, like the ocean. The Death Eater set her down on her feet at the side of the tub. Hermione saw that a few towels of thick black terry-cloth and a soft black wash cloth had been set out beside it. Hysteria bubbled up inside her at the incongruity of such consideration being shown her by a man who’d had no qualm about raping her in public.

He had stepped away from her, and she turned to watch him anxiously, but he did nothing more threatening than remove his hood. Hermione, who thought herself beyond caring, found her eyes widening in shock as she saw, at last, exactly who it was she had been given to.

“You’ll want a bath,” Draco Malfoy told her in his unrecognizably dispassionate, distant voice.