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Tender Vengeance Part II
Part two of Tender Vengeance below the cut.


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, violence, language
This chapter does not contain explicit sex, but there are references to various sexual acts, and a great deal of UST
Genres: Angst, Romance, Drama, Smut
A.N.: I know that movie canon has everyone in Hogwarts wearing Muggle clothing under their robes, which robes are often left open, when they are not dispensed with altogether. A great deal of fanon has adopted this view, and holds, additionally, that Hogwarts students go around in traditional British boarding school uniforms, including school ties and, for Hermione, (usually short) pleated skirts. However, book canon makes it plain that the inhabitants of the Wizarding world (at least those not Muggleborn, themselves) are utterly clueless when it comes to Muggle attire, and while for reasons I won’t belabor here I find that fairly hard to believe, myself, it is canon, and I’m using that in this fic. It has always struck me that the wizarding clothing described in the books is somewhat medieval in style (leaving aside the vast range of styles encompassed in the term, “medieval”) and therefore it stands to reason that the undergarments worn would be similarly medieval. I don’t see witches and wizards wearing knickers/panties and underpants, which garments didn’t exist in anything like their modern forms before about 1920. There’s evidence for this in GoF, where the male wizard in the muggle nightgown states baldly that he likes air circulating around his privates. We do see Snape’s dingy gray underpants in OotP, but Snape is a half-blood. I won’t go so far as to put the wizards in braies and chausses, taking my cue from the GoF reference cited above.

Tender Vengeance
Part 2 - Bargain

No wonder she had not recognized his voice. It had been totally devoid of the smug malice with which he usually addressed her, just as his pale, pointed face was now devoid of the sneering contempt she was so used to seeing him display. His expression was closed, shuttered, as uninflected as his voice. There were other changes. He had grown several inches taller in the weeks since he’d left Hogwarts. Then she remembered that his birthday, like Harry’s was at the end of the summer, rather than the beginning of term, as was hers. Malfoy was seventeen now, and male wizards, she remembered reading, usually grew to their final height by that birthday. He’d filled out to match his height, as well. In another life, in vastly different circumstances, she would have called him handsome, exceptionally so. In this lifetime, under these circumstances, she called him enemy. Exceptionally so.

“You,” she said quietly. She didn’t have the energy for the outrage and loathing she probably ought to feel, so her words were a simple statement of fact, rather than an accusation. Malfoy’s mouth twisted into a grimace.

“Me,” he agreed. “You had to know I’d joined *him*, hadn’t you? My presence can’t be a complete shock.

“Compete enough,” she said coldly. He merely looked at her, his face as impassive as ever, no emotion to be read in his steel-gray eyes.

“I suppose that’s only to be expected,” he conceded at last. “Well. Don’t let the water get cold,” he advised her, turning as if to leave. “The potion will lose its virtue if that happens.”

Hermione glanced at the tub.

“What sort of virtue does it have?” she asked before he stepped through the doorway.

“Healing,” he said, coming to a stop, but not turning back to face her. “Soothing. Something to prevent you from coming all over bruises from where you were...,” he hesitated over the next word, “...restrained,” he finished. “Something to ease the soreness you’re undoubtedly feeling from our activities, as well.”

She shuddered. Her mind had refused to even consider that specific soreness. She hurt all over, and didn’t want to think about the particulars.

And, the hysteria she’d begun to feel a moment before returned as she contemplated the situation. What was the proper etiquette for thanking your rapist for his delicacy in referring to what had just happened as *activities,* as if they’d just had a friendly match of Wizard chess, rather than using cruder language to describe the your public violation? Or for his thoughtfulness in easing your discomfort in the aftermath of what he’d done to you? The rapist who turned out to be the boy who had been tormenting you all through your childhood. Who was not a little boy anymore, or a common schoolyard bully, but something infinitely more dangerous. And who, though he offered no apologies for his actions, was somehow considerate enough to draw you a bath, supply you with a healing potion, and leave you some privacy in which to bathe.

What could she possibly say to any of it? In the end, Hermione settled for simple acknowledgement of the fact he’d given her about the need to get into the bath while it was still hot.

“All right,” she said. He nodded once, and left the room, closing the door behind him. Hermione saw that another, larger mirror had been hung from the door, making it possible to see oneself from head to toe when the door was closed. She turned away at once from the reflection of the disheveled girl with the haunted eyes to be found within the mirror.

Hermione stripped off her robe and what remained of her underthings, flinching at the crusted ribbons of dried blood and other matter staining her thighs. She let her discarded garments lie on the floor. If she had her wand, and the power to use it, she would incinerate them on the spot. Certainly, she had no desire to ever wear them again. Not even bothering to test the temperature of the bath water to see that it wasn’t too hot, she got in.

Once she entered, she realized that whether because Malfoy had somehow figured out how she liked her bath water, or more likely, due to some inherent quality in the potion itself, the bath he’d drawn for her was perfect, like sinking into a warm, liquid cloud. Hermione sighed in relief, closed her eyes and leaned back against the rim of the tub as the water seemed to leach the pain right out of her aching muscles. She stayed that way, unmoving, trying not to think, for quite a while.

But it was impossible not to think. Her mind had two sets of memories of the events just past. The memories conflicted, yet both were true. She remembered gentle touches, consideration, tenderness, being held, cherished. *Sweet, sweet Hermione...* It was real, but it wasn’t, an effect of the spell. Imperius allowed the wizard casting it to send his own thoughts into the mind of his victim, controlling him or her. The victim would perceive those thoughts in a positive fashion, and obey them. Given their history, given that she was a friend of Harry’s and Malfoy a Death Eater supporting Voldemort, Hermione knew Malfoy couldn’t have been thinking the tender things she remembered, so those memories did nothing to soften what else had been going on while she was under the Imperius curse: the avid stares and lewd comments called out by the crowd while a faceless Death Eater used her in front of them all. Voldemort’s vicious laughter and ribald encouragement of the Death Eater’s deeds. The realization, only after the fact, that the unknown man was not unknown, at all. She ought to be crying again, but her tears, at least for the moment, were done, giving way to a dull, despairing ache of loss and grief and pain. Not physical, though. Her physical hurts were relieved by the healing balm of the water. There could be no such balm for her heart.

She had waited years for Ron Weasley to realize that she loved him, to realize his own feelings. For a few months, they had been happy, their relationship progressing to the point where they were on the verge of taking the final step into full intimacy.

If Harry prevailed in the war--and he must prevail; the alternative was unthinkable--it was just possible that she and Ginny would be rescued. Hermione didn’t know how Voldemort’s possession of Ginny--here, her mind shuddered away in horror from contemplating exactly what was happening to her friend--would affect the younger girl’s relationship with Harry, but she knew that, even if they were rescued within the hour, something had been taken from herself and Ron that could not be replaced or repaired or restored.

No, it was impossible not to think. Her mind went round and round in the same useless track. If only she had realized why Tonks was acting strangely. If only she’d kept a firmer grip on her wand, or managed the counterspell. If only she’d been able to fight the Imperius. If only...

Eventually the water cooled, and Hermione opened her eyes once more. The blue-green color had faded from the bath, leaving it filled with just ordinary water once more. There was no point in lingering any longer. She sat up, availed herself of the soft wash cloth and the bath gel to wash herself clean.

As clean as she could be when she felt so dirty, so used. Grimly, she pushed the thought aside, and reached for the shampoo.

She had emerged from the tub, which emptied itself and scrubbed itself clean as soon as she left it, then wrapped herself in the fluffy towels before Malfoy returned, carrying something draped across his arms. Hermione found she could still blush, and wished that he had knocked. Little point in trying to preserve her modesty before him, but she would have appreciated the courtesy.

“I brought you something to change into. Put it on and join me in the other room.” She nodded, taking the proffered robe, grateful that he was at least letting her redress in some privacy, grateful that he was letting her dress at all. She would not have put it past the Draco Malfoy she’d known at school to keep her naked, simply so that he could gloat over her humiliation.

This didn’t seem to be the Draco Malfoy she had known. Before he left, he’d wordlessly pointed his wand at the pile of her discarded clothing and vanished it. She didn’t know what to make of him, but felt rather as if she’d fallen into a wizarding jigsaw puzzle, the pieces of which could be rearranged to make two or more entirely different pictures, depending on how they were fit together. One picture in her mind, firmly established over the course of six years of school, was of the spoiled, arrogant rich boy whose face seemed to be fixed in a constant sneer, and whose eyes glittered with malice. She’d disliked that boy, but not hated him, and she’d certainly never feared him. She might even have pitied him, a little, recognizing, as he did not, how he’d been so thoroughly indoctrinated into the cause of Lord Voldemort and the belief in pureblood superiority, that he didn’t even know how to think for himself. That boy called her *mudblood*, acted as if the merest accidental brush of his hand against hers was something that would sully him, and was therefore to be avoided at all cost. Now she had another picture to compare that to, a picture of a cold, aloof and utterly controlled Draco Malfoy, who did not look at her with contempt or arrogance, or any discernible emotion at all. A Draco Malfoy who had proved himself very willing to do far more than touch her, who had taken something precious from her, and yet shown her, if not kindness, at least a certain consideration. A Draco Malfoy whom she would probably hate once the numbness she felt wore off, but whom she already knew she feared.

Hermione dressed quickly, realizing that he’d given her a sleeping robe in some soft blue fabric. The garment was comfortable, warm, and modestly cut. She pulled the towel off her hair, grimacing when she realized that she couldn’t dry it with a spell as she usually did, and there were, of course, no Muggle hairdryers to help her out. She had to satisfy herself with finger combing the long disorderly mass of it, and at least got it to settle somewhat tidily, long wet strands curling down her back. The most that could be said for them was that they weren’t dripping. Out of habit more than anything else, Hermione sought to tidy up after herself, looking around for her discarded towels. She realized that the bathroom had already taken care of them, and she thought bitterly that of course the Wizards here, with their contempt of all things non-magical, wouldn’t deign to do something as simple as toss a towel into a hamper if they could perform a spell or incantation to do such menial chores for them.

With the bathroom as neat as before she’d entered it, she was left with nothing to do but rejoin Malfoy in the other room. She wasn’t overly eager to do so, and stood hesitantly in the doorway, watching him quietly. The room was an interior one, with no windows. Just more of the cold gray stone lit by an abundance of candles. The other furnishings were about as medieval as the keep, itself: a bed with an elaborately carved wooden headboard along one wall, a divan against the wall opposite, a wooden sideboard and a large iron stand holding a dozen flickering candles, supplying light. There was a fireplace, as well, but it was unlit at the moment. Malfoy’s back was to her as he stood at the sideboard pouring himself what appeared to be a glass of firewhisky. Candle light glinted in his white-blond hair as he tossed his head back, drinking deep. Whatever his sins at Hogwarts, drunkenness had not been one of them. She’d never heard of him taking more than the occasional butterbeer, like everyone else, and probably less often than most. But there was no hesitance in his actions now, as if he were well used to the burn of strong liquor, taken neat. Nor did alcohol impair his reflexes. She hadn’t been as quiet as she’d thought, for he turned suddenly, to catch her staring at him. He said nothing, but stepped forward. Hermione flinched, but he he didn’t touch her, merely let his hand hover about an inch above her damp curls. Wandless magic, and a nonverbal spell, Hermione realized as she felt the dampness leave her hair, so that it dried and tightened into its usual dense ringlets. Wielding magic without a wand took a great deal of effort and concentration. Was it something he could do before, or had she underestimated just how useful Voldemort’s ugly little ritual could be?

“I’d forgotten you wouldn’t be able to take care of this yourself,” Malfoy said, then moved onto another topic. “I have a draught of Dreamless Sleep for you,” he told her, returning to the sideboard where he retrieved a small vial of green glass. Hermione thought of the Wizarding jigsaw, once more. The Malfoy of Hogwarts would have been laughing at her pain and grief, doing everything in his power to exacerbate it. This Malfoy, who had taken the Dark Mark and was favored by Voldemort above many of his Death Eaters, offered her an escape from it, however temporary. Two different pictures. Which was real? She decided she didn’t much care, at the moment, was merely thankful that there was a second, slightly less cruel, picture to be had.

“Yes, please,” she said softly. Dreamless Sleep was something to be longed for, right now. She wanted nothing so much as to shut off her mind, escape the memories of what had happened to her in the crowded hall before Voldemort’s throne.

He gestured her toward the bed, a few steps away. She blanched as the implications hit her anew, everything Voldemort had said made real by the simple fact of the wide bed before her.

Malfoy’s bed. Where she would henceforth be sleeping. She shuddered, but at least for the night, sleeping was the only thing she would be doing, there. Hermione squared her shoulders and got into the bed. Malfoy handed her the vial.

“Well speak in the morning,” he said, handing her the potion. Hermione brought it to her lips and greedily drank it down. She had just enough time to return the vial to his hand before the potion took effect, and she gratefully surrendered to oblivion.

Oblivion provided only a temporary respite, but enough to restore her energy and strength. She woke blinking, momentarily disoriented to find herself in a strange bed in a strange room. But the figure staring down at her from the foot of the bed brought the memories rushing back.

Uneasily, Hermione sat up, pressing her back to the headboard. Malfoy was staring at her intently, his face as devoid of expression as ever. Hermione recalled Voldemort’s words from the day before, that Malfoy would need to bed her daily in order to keep his hold on her power. Did he mean to do so at once? And, would he use the Imperius once more, or a simple binding spell to keep her helpless while he did as he pleased with her?

But the attack, when it came, was not on her body.

Malfoy raised his wand and said, “Legilimens.”

*....an owl delivering a letter to ten-year-old Hermione’s family, forever changing her life...screaming as she clung to Harry and they flew off on Buckbeak’s back to rescue Sirius....pain turning to anger, the sting in her hand as she brought it down sharply on a pale pointed face, the flash of rage in a pair of silver eyes...warm lips on her own as Ron finally, finally, finally understood what she had suspected all along...Ginny Weasley saying she was safe as houses...liquid warmth, building pleasure...sweet, sweet Hermione....*

She felt herself abruptly released from the spell, realized where she was. Malfoy stared down at her thoughtfully, wand held loosely at his side. Hermione dragged the bedcovers up about her form protectively.

“Was that truly necessary?” she choked out.

“Yes,” he said simply, without further elaboration. “I’m surprised you couldn’t stop me, though, even without magic. I would have imagined you, at least, would have seen the value of learning Occlumency.”

“Pity you got hold of the wrong memories, then,” she said tartly. “You’d have realized that I *did* see the value. What I didn’t see was how to go about learning it. With Dumbledore dead and Snape a traitor, there was no one to teach me. Occlumency is one area where books can only take you so far.”

“Ah. An admission I have longed to hear from you for nearly seven years,” Malfoy said dryly as he stepped away from her and took a seat on the divan. “That there is, indeed, something that cannot be learned from books.”

She opened her mouth to retort, closed it again.

“What is it that you want?” she said tiredly, was surprised when he gave a bark of wholly mirthless laughter.

“What is it that I want? So very many things. None of which I shall ever have,” Hermione was tempted to ask what Draco Malfoy, Death Eater, and scion of one of the oldest, wealthiest Wizarding families in the world could possibly lack, but he forestalled her. “Let’s leave it,” he said in a tone of voice that told her the subject was closed. “You’ve slept for nearly twenty hours. You must be famished.” A wave of his wand, and a tray hovered just in front of Hermione. More to keep it from spilling on her than any other reason, Hermione reached for it.

“I...I’m not...terribly hungry,” she said quietly. In truth the smell of the food was making her vaguely nauseous. She supposed that, despite how long she’d slept and whatever the virtue of the potion in her bath, her body hadn’t completely recovered from yesterday’s abuse. “Please, could you send this away?”

“Whatever you think, you’ll feel better if you eat something,” he told her firmly. “The toast and tea to start, if that’s all you can manage.”

Hermione's startled gaze flew to his. Steely gray eyes returned her regard cooly.

Draco Malfoy had just given her an order. One he expected her to obey. Nor were his expectations unfounded. Hermione would have turned up her nose at the Hogwarts bully, sniffed disdainfully and done as she pleased. She’d slapped him, once. This man wasn’t the Hogwarts bully. She knew better than to oppose him.

Not yet. Not now.

Settling the tray on her lap, she picked up the cup of tea and drank. It was strong and sweet, warming her as it flowed down into her belly, and after the first sip, she reluctantly admitted to herself that whatever his faults, Malfoy had been right. She reached for the toast. As she ate, she asked him the one question of any importance.

“Do you know how Ginny is? Is she...all right?” She felt a fool as soon as the words were out of her mouth. How could Ginny possibly be anything resembling *all right*?

“I haven’t seen her,” Malfoy told her. “The Dark Lord is keeping her in his own chambers. I can only tell you that he’s very pleased...and that we are now to refer to her as *Lady Ginevra.*” Hermione shivered, almost losing her appetite, once more. Poor Ginny, with such a horror forcing himself upon her. At least Malfoy wasn’t as decrepit, as steeped in evil, as inhuman in appearance. She almost pushed her breakfast tray away, but seeing Malfoy’s frown of disapproval, forced herself to continue eating.

In the end, she managed to choke down enough of her breakfast to satisfy Malfoy, who vanished away the remains, and told her she’d find a clean robe in the bathroom. Relieved that he didn’t intend to do anything about keeping his hold on her power immediately, Hermione nodded, and slipped out of the bed.

She found rather more than the simple robe she was expecting. And all of it was the very best quality. The robe and undergarments all seemed to be silk, from the sheer stockings to the rosebud-decorated garters to hold them up, and the thin cream-colored chemise trimmed with beautiful antique lace to wear beneath the robe. Knickers were notably missing from the ensemble, making Hermione blush. She knew that quite a number of older witches and wizards did without, viewing knickers and underpants as a pointless muggle affectation. Her own generation was more comfortable with that particular article of clothing, and she doubted that Malfoy’s omission had been an oversight. Still, though going without knickers made her feel terribly vulnerable, she knew she wouldn’t be able to bring herself to discuss the matter with him. It was simply a more intimate conversation than she was willing to have.

Sighing, Hermione turned her attention to the other items awaiting her, including another set of clean black towels, wash cloth, bottles of lotions, creams and cleansers. She made use of them before getting dressed and brushing the mass of her hair into a semblance of order, tying it back with a bit of rose silk ribbon that was amongst the things provided for her use. There was also a pair of rose silk slippers, which seemed to have been charmed to fit the feet of whoever wore them. The slippers and hair ribbon matched the robe Draco had given her, which, while not a formal dress robe, was yet a far cry from one of the ubiquitous shapeless, sexless school robes she was used too.


She turned to the full length mirror to fix the ribbon in her hair. She was well aware that had never been beautiful, and never would be. But, she wasn’t plain. She was pretty enough for the most part, and when she took a bit of trouble with her appearance, as she had the night of the Yule Ball three years before, she was downright lovely. Taking trouble with her appearance was the last thing on her mind, today. And yet, the reflection facing her showed her at the loveliest she’d ever been, far prettier than the long-ago night of the ball. The rose color of the robe warmed her complexion, and was very flattering with her brown hair. It was also cut in a way that hinted at the curves of her body without clinging to them, the effect extremely feminine, alluring without being seductive. It was the robe an adult witch might wear to go about her daily business.

Hermione wondered what sort of daily business she was going to have while captive in Voldemort’s stronghold. Other than the daily business of being shagged by Draco Malfoy, so he could keep her powers and she could be kept helpless.... There was no point in dwelling on the issue. Logically, she knew her situation could be far worse. Malfoy could have availed himself of the dungeons, as Voldemort had offered, instead of taking her into his own quarters. She could be shackled to a damp wall, sleeping on straw, fighting rats away from meals of bread and water. She could have been tortured. She could have been killed. She was lucky.

She didn’t feel lucky.

And there was still nothing she could do about it. Hermione opened the door and returned to the other room.

Malfoy was sitting on the divan, another glass of amber firewhisky in his hand, seemingly unconcerned that it couldn’t be much past ten in the morning, far too early an hour for civilized drinking. Hermione didn’t think the rules of civilized behavior counted for much with Draco Malfoy, these days.

He looked up when she entered, nodded approvingly.

“I’d hoped it would suit you,” he said.

“It’s a lovely robe,” she admitted, not quite able to bring herself to thank him for it.

“Lovely, indeed,” he said cooly, as his gaze flicked over her, and she felt her cheeks grow warm. There had been nothing either contemptuous in his gaze, as there might once have been, or lascivious, as might have arisen from the circumstances in which they found themselves. Yet, there had been some indefinable quality to the way Malfoy had looked at her that left her feeling unsettled. “Sit down, then,” he continued, ignoring her discomfiture. “I said we’d talk about things in the morning, and as I am reliably informed that it is now morning, I suppose we must talk.”

“You needn't bother,” Hermione managed, keeping her feet. “I’m in your power, alive at your sufferance, and Voldemort made his expectations as to how you are to maintain your hold on my magic perfectly clear. Brutally so, in fact. What can there possibly be to talk about?”

“The Dark Lord’s intentions may have been made clear to you,” Malfoy allowed. “Mine have not. Sit down, Hermione.” She shivered. He’d never used her given name before, and his voice had given the name an intimacy she wished she could deny existed between them. He raised a brow as she continued to stand still, and she knew he was growing impatient with her failure to do as he had commanded, knew she disobeyed at her peril. But, she wasn’t sure she could bring herself to obey.

The room, though comfortable, was not overlarge. Hermione had exactly two choices of seating: next to Malfoy on the divan, or on the bed where he was going to be shagging her very much against her will. Her gaze darted between the two choices, and she bit her lip in consternation.

Fortunately, he caught on. His mouth twisted in a wry smile and he gave another bark of mirthless laughter.

“Forgive me for being an insensitive sod,” he drawled. He waved his wand and a comfortable armchair appeared at the foot of the divan. Hermione slowly walked forward and seated herself primly on the edge of it. “Bloody hell, woman,” Malfoy sighed. “Perhaps I should offer you some of Old Ogden’s, help you relax.” She stared at him incredulously.

“Even if I were the sort of person to drink firewhisky first thing after breakfast, do you honestly think there is anything short of placing me under the Imperius again that could possibly get me to relax right now?” His eyes narrowed.

“Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered,” he said cryptically.

“Then why don’t you tell me whatever it is you’ve dragged me over here to say and have done with it?” she retorted.

“Probably the best course,” he said mildly. “Right, then. As you’ve said, the Dark Lord has made his intentions clear, and I needn’t belabor what those are.”

“Too right.” she murmured, suppressing a shudder.

“Nor need we belabor the fact that my legendary charm and boyish good looks are not sufficient inducement to reconcile you to the situation, that is, to make you a willing partner,” he continued dryly. Hermione favored him with a hateful glare, not even bothering to answer.

“So, the question becomes,” he went on, “what is? What inducement is sufficient to keep Hermione Granger willing in my bed?” His voice had dropped, become low, intimate, silky in it’s insinuation at the end. But his face was as unreadable as ever, and she knew this was all an intellectual puzzle for him, not something he particularly cared about. It couldn’t be. He had hated her all through school. She was certain that she was nothing more than a convenience for him now. Hermione’s glare intensified.

“I think it’s safe to say that there’s nothing that would be sufficient inducement.”

“Would you?” he mused. “You suggest I just carry on with the Imperius then?”

“Go to hell, Malfoy,” she said, springing up from the chair.

“*Immobilus*” he said lazily, and Hermione found herself unable to take another step. That he had not used his wand for the spell was unsettling. “You’d rather I use one of the binding charms to tie you to my bed? Would you prefer chains, cords or, well, I understand velvet ropes are popular. Or do you like the idea of fur-lined manacles?”

“You are absolutely foul,” she gritted out, trying desperately to get her feet to move, to break free of the charm.

“Admittedly. But that doesn’t answer my question. Will you force me to put you under the mental restraint of Imperius or the physical restraint of a binding curse, or are you going to come to my bed willingly?”

“I will never be willing,” she said flatly, sweat beading on her forehead as she tried to force her body to resist the spell.

“Hmm. Poor choice of words on my part,” he said thoughtfully. “Perhaps I meant unresistingly. Yes. Unresisting. Not fighting. Not struggling or complaining. Pleasantly accommodating, in fact. Oh. *Finite Incantatum.*” Hermione found she could move, once more. Move, where? Realizing there was no place to go, Hermione collapsed back into the chair she’d just vacated.

“You damnable wretch,” she said, fighting back tears. “Isn’t what you’ve done enough? Do you have to make me complicit in my own...?” She couldn’t finish the sentence.

“Rape.” he completed it for her, his voice its coldest yet, his face as still and secretive as a mask carved from stone. “No sense trying to wrap it up in clean linen, is there?”

“No,” she snapped. “So why are you trying? You’ll do Voldemort’s bidding in this, no matter my feelings. Why make it look as if I have any kind of choice in this?”

“Oh, Hermione,” he said. “You believe *someone* has a choice in this, other than the Dark Lord? How very Gryffindor of you.”

“Right, then,” she said with gritted teeth. “Well, now that we’ve established that you don’t want me in your bed any more than I want to be there...”

“That’s what we’ve established, is it?” he said, arching a brow. She ignored him.

“...any more than I want to be there,” she repeated forcefully, “why don’t you stop whatever it is you’re playing at and just tell me what you bloody well *want * from me?”

“Merlin! How the hell did anyone as obtuse as you are make Head Girl?” he said in exasperation. “Oh, don’t look so surprised that I know about your appointment. Even if it weren’t something *everyone* at school expected, you can’t believe that Snape was the Dark Lord’s only source of information at Hogwarts. At all odds, I’ve told you what I want, but since you seem not to have understood plain English, I’ll spell it out more explicitly. I do not want to shag a brainless doll. I do not want to expend the energy on Imperius I would have to expend in order to keep you a brainless doll. Masturbation would be just as satisfying with considerably less effort, thanks. Similarly, I don’t fancy bedding a woman who is too trussed up to resist, and therefore, too trussed up to respond to the situation with anything remotely resembling enthusiasm. My preference is that we come to an accommodation. You agree not to fight me, in any way. I agree to treat you civilly, and so far as it is in my power, to arrange some amenities to keep your life here...less unpleasant than it need be.

“Meaning you’ll keep me in pretty robes and feed me more than bread and water?” she jeered.

“I was thinking more along the lines of keeping you in books, quills and parchment,” he said cooly. “And, if possible, the occasional visit with Gin--Lady Ginevra.”

Hermione stared at him. He was offering her the things she longed for most, short of her freedom. But the price he demanded for them was unthinkable.

“I see,” she said coldly. “You speak of *enthusiasm* and *accommodation* as if you are offering *carte blanche* to a prospective mistress.”

“*Carte Blanche?*” he said speculatively. “I had no idea you were so familiar with the private practices of upper-class wizards.”

“There’s sod all to choose between the private practices of upper-class wizards and the way eighteenth century muggle aristocrats used to go about things,” she informed him. “Given your choice of breakfast beverage the phrase *drunk as a lord* does not seem amiss. You think that because you’re a wealthy pureblood you’re entitled to whatever you want. You think that because you’re a Death Eater, and one of Voldemort’s pets, no one will deny you anything. I’m to whore myself for a few treats. Books and visits with Ginny. I think I prefer the chains, thanks. At least that would be honest. No pretense that I’m in your bed because I want to be, or because you bought me at the price I offered. Just the simple fact of you imposing your will and me enduring it because I’ve got no choice.”

“And yet again you demonstrate why you were sorted into Gryffindor,” Malfoy said with something approaching his old sneer. “Do you know what the trouble with your House is? You’ve no understanding of power, how to wield it, the games in which it is won and lost.” He frowned at his empty glass, which immediately began to refill itself with more firewhisky. Hermione watched him warily, not simply because he was using wandless magic again. Was he indeed drunk? it didn’t seem so, yet how could he imbibe as much as he was apparently doing and not be inebriated? But his voice, when he resumed speaking, was as clear as ever. “Now, the Dark Lord has kindly arranged for me to absorb all your magic, and I must say, I’ve already found it incredibly useful. I’ve been struggling with wandless magic for weeks, and now it’s as effortless as a first year transfiguration.”

“Oh, that’s just brilliant, that is,” Hermione said bitterly.

“it is, rather, but the effect of that little ritual on me isn’t the point. It’s the effects on you we’re discussing. I’ve got your magic, and now you’re convinced that without it, there’s no other power you possess. A Slytherin would never make that mistake. In your place, a Slytherin witch would be spelling out exactly what she’d want from me, and placing limits on what I could get in return. By the time we were done, I’d probably have been committed to buying the chit her own domicile, supplying her with a retinue of house elves, a quarterly allowance, an outrageous number of robes and an even more outrageous number of jewels and fripperies. But not a Gryffindor. You’ll martyr yourself unnecessarily for the sake of some sodding, utterly unattainable ideal. Bloody pathetic.”

“So sorry to disappoint you,” Hermione said waspishly.

“Oh, I’m hardly disappointed,” he said. “Why, that Gryffindor nobility is what I love best about you.” His voice fairly dripped with acid, and his sneer was far more pronounced as he said the words, making it clear they were nothing more than irony, and that love was the last emotion he felt for her.

“Piss off, Malfoy,” she said, unimpressed. “I’m not one of your opportunistic little Slytherin cows. I won’t do what you want. Short of the Imperius, you can’t make me.”

“Do you know what else a Slytherin witch would understand, without having to be told?” Draco went on, ignoring her. “The danger of not wielding her power, of not striking a bargain.”

“Well, bully for Slytherin, but if you expect--”

“It would occur to a Slytherin witch that a man who becomes a dark sorcerer probably has other dark inclinations. She would know that for many who practice the Dark Arts, those inclinations extend to the most intimate aspects of their lives. She would expect that such a man, particularly an admitted Death Eater, would leaven his pleasure with pain. She would be very, very careful to avoid how much exposure she had to that pain. Assuming she wasn’t inclined to enjoy it herself, of course.”

Hermione went pale at his words, as she took his meaning.

“You wretched *cur,*” she breathed. He smiled mockingly, and raised his glass as if to toast her. His cold gray eyes glittered with some emotion she could not name. Malice? Anger? Contempt? She couldn’t know.

“A Slytherin witch would have the common sense to understand that pain might not be the only darkness within a Death Eater,” he continued after taking another sip of his drink. “That there are other aspects to intimacy which might amuse him and which she might wish to avoid. I would not need to tell a Slytherin witch that sometime during her fourth year, after she appeared at the Yule Ball on the arm of Viktor Krum, Vincent Crabbe stopped talking about shutting her up by stuffing his old socks in her mouth, and began to dwell, lovingly and frequently, on the fantasy of shutting her up by ramming his cock down her throat, instead. A Slytherin witch would know, without being told, that unless she wielded whatever power she had to the best of her ability, and if she were ever idiot enough to anger the Death Eater holding her prisoner, being placed under the Imperius and commanded to service all of the Death Eater’s friends in whatever manner they fancied was a very real possibility.”

“You foul, loathsome...” Hermione choked, appalled at the images his coldly spoken words evoked. “Would your precious Slytherin witch also realize that a man who could stoop to such things wasn’t trustworthy, and that no bargain she made would prevent him from doing whatever he pleased in any case?”

“Of course she would,” Draco surprised her by saying. “Which is why a Slytherin witch would demand that any bargain between them be committed to parchment and sealed with an Unbreakable Vow.” Hermione stared at him in disbelief.

“You’re saying that you are willing to make an Unbreakable Vow guaranteeing that you won’t...do such extreme things to me, if I don’t fight you?” she said carefully.

“Yes,” he said simply, tossing back the last of his firewhisky and refilling his glance once more.

“You’re drunk,” she accused. “Or you’ve run mad.” He gave a snort of laughter.

“Both, belike. A Slytherin witch would not hesitate to exploit those facts. Gryffindor that you are, you probably feel it beneath you to take advantage of an enemy who isn’t at his best.”

“Bother your Slytherin witch,” Hermione said tartly. “I can’t see that you’re in the least disadvantaged by being drunk. I begin to suspect you’ve always been mad.” He surprised her by chuckling in what seemed to be real amusement.

“Barking, in fact,” he told her. “But...are you willing to strike a bargain?”

Hermione considered his offer in silence.

“I don’t understand what you’re playing at,” she said finally. “Why you’re offering me a bargain when I’m not in a position to fight you, and you could do whatever you jolly well pleased. Isn’t that bad form for a true Slytherin wizard? Giving up the tiniest shred of power when it’s all in his hands?”

“And still your Gryffindor sensibilities blind you to the subtleties of power,” he shook his head as if disappointed. “Let me endeavor to explain, yet again. We both know that I could keep you under Imperius for the rest of our lives, have you perform whatever base, perverse things I desire, whenever I wished. Perform them with enthusiasm and skill, to boot. What you fail to grasp is that I find that kind of power too cheap. It’s a matter of brute force, really, lacking in elegance. I want a different kind of power.”

He drained his glass once more, but this time sent it floating back to the sideboard while he rose from the divan and took the two steps that brought him to where she sat in her chair. She shrank back, but there was nowhere to go and she was left pressed right up against the chair back. Malfoy was bending over her, his hands on the arms of the chair, his face, still unreadable, inches from her own, his eyes boring into hers and, Merlin, if his face was unreadable, his eyes were not. They were full of heat, molten silver, and she would burn alive beneath his gaze. He spoke, then, his voice every bit as molten, as silver, as dangerous as his eyes.

“I want you to be awake and aware next time I take you, Hermione Granger. I want your cooperation, no, your participation. And I want you to be sensible of every moment, not floating along in some spell-induced illusion. I want you to know what is going on, I want you to yield to it, embrace it, so that you will never be able to deny that whatever happens between us happened with your consent.”

She was every bit the Gryffindor he claimed. Hermione fought back the panic his words induced, refusing to show fear. She raised her chin, returned that molten silver gaze with a glare of her own.

“A consent that’s been forced,” she said coldly. “In other words, no consent at all.” His dangerous mood seemed to pass. He favored her with another mirthless smile, and stood up, no longer towering over her.

“I prefer to think of it as manipulated, but no matter,” he said calmly, returning to his seat on the divan. “I suppose it is honest to say that *he* forced us both. I’m really not much for an audience when I indulge myself with a woman. But, Slytherin that I am, I will of course seek to turn this situation to my best advantage.”

Hermione lapsed into another silence, weighing everything he’d said, trying to make sense of it. He despised her. She knew that. For six years, one of the central truths of her life had been the enmity between Slytherin and Gryffindor in general, and between Harry, Ron and Hermione on the one hand, and Draco Malfoy on the other. In all that time, she had never doubted that the pureblood darling of Slytherin utterly loathed her for being what he called a *mudblood.* And while her supposedly dirty blood was the initial cause of his antipathy, it was not the only, or even the most important, cause. He hated her because of her friendship with Harry, because she had helped thwart his wretched Dark Lord, because she’d done her part to land his precious father in Azkaban, and, finally, because she always outshone him in every academic endeavor, getting the best grades in their year, garnering praise from their professors, stealing house points from him by being quicker to get her hand in the air with the correct answer than he was. Hermione could only suppose that he had stepped forward to claim her from Voldemort because seeing her humiliated by someone else wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to be the one to humiliate and hurt her, in vengeance for six years of slights and insults at school. Even his speech of a moment past seemed to bear that out. He wanted her to yield to him expressly for the purpose of taunting her with her own complicity. She supposed it did, after all, make a hideous kind of sense.

But what also made sense was that she take the bargain he offered. Because as bad as her situation was, it could be infinitely worse, and allowing him his vengeance in such a manner would at least limit the horrors she would have to endure while captive here. Reaching her decision, she spoke.

“Right, then, Malfoy,” she began.

“Draco,” he corrected. “I won’t let you keep me at arm’s-length even verbally. You will use my personal name rather than my family name.”

“You’re an unbelievable prat, *Draco,*” she said. She imagined that she now had the answer to why he had decided to use her own given name, and rather resented that he wouldn’t even let her keep the tiny intellectual distance the use of surnames would have provided, but given what else they were discussing, it was too small a point to argue, after all. “Still, I may be a Gryffindor, but I’m also pragmatic. I can see the advantages to your proposal. So, what terms are you offering?”

For once, his smile was genuine, nearly boyish.

“Glad you’ve seen reason,” he said. “The terms are simple enough. I will give you access to such books as will interest you, but which cannot be used against the Dark Lord or his followers. Within that limitation, you may request specific items. I will do my best to obtain them for you. I will also supply you with parchment, quills and ink. If at all possible, I will arrange for you to see Lady Ginevra, and on those occasions when I cannot, I will report faithfully whatever I know of her condition.” His smile faded, and he grew more serious.

“In exchange, you agree to come to my bed without resistance. And here, I must be clear about my expectations. You will not fight me. In any way. And that means you will not only call me by my given name and refrain from trying to physically resist our union, but you will not fight me passively, either. You will not fight what I do to you, what I make you feel.”

Hermione shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

“Ah. I see we have arrived at a difficulty,” he observed. “What did you think, Hermione? That I would be content with some sort of Victorian arrangement, whereby you would lie on the bed, eyes closed and thinking of the Empire, while I availed myself of your limp body?” She glared at him. She’d thought exactly that. How else could she possibly endure what she had to endure? “Why would you think that would content me?” he pressed.

“Why would you think you can make me feel anything but loathing?” she countered.

“Because you have already demonstrated, to my very great satisfaction, exactly what I can make you feel,” he said, his voice once more that dangerous, molten silver. Hermione flushed and looked away, unable to bear the sight of him, trying not to think about the moment of shattering bliss which had come to her before she’d been freed of the Imperius. He sighed and she heard the shifting of cushions as he leaned forward on the divan. “Don’t make me force this from you,” he said quietly. “Don’t make me use Imperius again to have that from you, to have that for yourself.”

She couldn’t help the tears that gathered in her eyes, began to trail down her cheeks.

“I don’t want it,” she whispered. “I never wanted it. Not with you.”

He drew a deep, shuddering breath, reached forward, cupped her chin and gently turned her head to face him once more. His expression was as unreadable as ever, his eyes cooled to their usual steel gray.

“I am not what you want. I am what you have.” He let go of her chin, and ran the back of his hand softly over her cheek brushing away the tears. “Learn to be just a little Slytherin, Hermione. It will make all of this...easier.”

Her laughter was as joyless as his own had been.

“And you, Draco,” she said, forcing herself to meet his eyes once more. “Are you going to learn to be just a little Gryffindor?” He gave her an enigmatic smile.

“Make the bargain, Hermione. Undertake to teach me. Perhaps we will both be surprised by what we can learn.”

She continued to gaze into his gray eyes, which were now as shuttered and unreadable as his face had been since he’d unmasked himself, the day before. No matter. She had read enough.

“What else can I possibly do?” she said quietly. He nodded, drew away and sat back on the divan once more.

“So,” he began, waving his hand and causing a quill and a scroll of parchment to appear in mid air between them “You will not fight me.” The quill began to move over the parchment.

“I...” she hesitated as something occurred to her. The quill stopped writing. “Within limits,” she said. “You told me I could protect myself from...certain extremes.”

“So I did,” he nodded. “All right. You will not fight me over the issue of intercourse.” The quill began writing once more. “You will not seek to cover your nakedness from me when I wish to expose it. You will also permit me to place my lips, my teeth, my tongue, my hands and my fingers on or within whatever part of you I choose,” he said, smiling wickedly.

“Bloody hell,” she gasped, cheeks flaming once more. Her palm itched to slap him.

“In return,” he went on, ignoring her interruption, “I will not force you to do any other thing, perform any other act that you find distasteful. Which will not prevent me from trying to coax you to do or accept something at which you might initially balk.”

“What the devil is that supposed to mean?” she snapped.

“It means that if, for example, I take it into my head that your nipples would look gorgeous confined in a pair of clamps with some lovely chains connecting them, or perhaps adorned with some jewelry, a pair of golden serpents, let’s say...I won’t force you to wear them if you dislike the idea. I may, however, by judicious application of the aforementioned lips, teeth, tongue, hands and fingers attempt to convince you that wearing those items is exactly what you would like to do.”

Hermione stared at him in disbelief. How could he sit there so calmly, as if they were merely having polite conversation over tea, and say such things to her? Such graphic, lewd, intimate things? So matter-of-factly discussing practices she’d never even heard of, let alone planned to indulge in? But then, Voldemort had wanted her humiliation. Hermione was beginning to realize that even being forced to perform vile acts under Imperius might not be quite as humiliating as agreeing, in cold blood, to perform the sorts of things Malfoy was suggesting. And still, knowing that to refuse the agreement was to allow herself to be used for even more vulgar purposes, what choice did she have?

“What a wretched beast you are,” she told him. “All right. Agreed.”

“Brilliant,” he said, pleased. “Well, that’s everything, I think.”

“No, it isn’t.” Hermione said, having realized that the conversation had taken such an appallingly intimate turn, that discussing her underwear seemed almost innocuous by comparison. “For one thing, if you’re keeping me clothed, do it properly. I’d like knickers, thanks.”

He grinned. “Are you absolutely sure about that? Perhaps give it a day or two to see the advantages of doing without?”

“Advantages for whom?” she snapped. “I think we can forgo the experiment. You *will* provide me with proper knickers.” He gave an exaggerated sigh.

“If you insist.”

“I do,” she said.

“I should be able to have them for you by tomorrow. Is that sufficient?”

“It will have to be, I suppose,” she grumbled, then moved on to a more important point. “I also want it clear that what happens between us henceforth happens in private. That this agreement is just between us. Whatever you wish to try to coax me into doing, it will not involve a third party.”

“Happily conceded,” he said dryly. “I don’t share what’s mine, and I’ve already said I’m not one for an audience, if I can avoid it.”

“You also said some rather filthy things involving Vincent Crabbe. I’m not taking chances, thanks.”

“Fine, then, Anything else?”

“Really Draco,” she said with heavy sarcasm. “We haven’t even begun to discuss the issue of my domicile, my allowance, my house elves, my robes, my jewels and my fripperies. Ought I ask for a thestral drawn carriage, like they have at Hogwarts?”

“Only if you like thestrals,” he said, his mouth quirking in humor. “Otherwise, I’d suggest unicorns.”

“I am happy to take your suggestion.”

“All right then,” he said, nodding briskly, for all the world as if taking her seriously. “Unicorns it shall be. If that’s all, let’s do this properly, covering all eventualities. First, for the duration of the war, while we remain with the Dark Lord’s court, I will undertake to protect you from any who might wish you harm.”

“Any?” she asked, with raised brow. He flashed her a wry smile.

“Any. Not excepting the Dark Lord himself.”

“Oh,” she said weakly. She certainly had not been expecting that!

“You will be supplied with a wardrobe adequate to your needs, and any personal items you require. I will provide a house elf to serve you, to fetch food, drink or other necessities when I am not free to do so.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, wondering if it was too late to bargain for knitting needles and yarn for little socks and hats. After all, he hadn’t made her promise not to free whatever house elves he sent to serve her...

“When the Dark Lord triumphs over your pathetic band of heroes, and no longer has a use for you against Harry,” Malfoy--Draco-- went on, “I will ensure that he recognizes my claim to you, and allows you to continue to live under my protection.”

Hermione shifted in her chair again. She certainly hadn’t been thinking that far ahead, wasn’t sure she wanted to. Draco was relentless, however.

“At that point, we will negotiate the specifics of your domicile, allowance, house elves and etcetera.”

“So certain Voldemort will win, are we?” she said sharply.

“Patience. I did say I’d cover all eventualities. Very well. In the vanishingly unlikely event that your lot manages not to hex themselves in the foot, and actually triumphs...”

“You’ll let me go,” she said quietly.

“I won’t have to,” he said cooly. “You’ll have been rescued by your friends, and I’ll be dead, or in Azkaban, awaiting the kiss of a Dementor.” He said it with the nonchalance of someone discussing the weather, and Hermione could only conclude that he was, in fact, so certain of Voldemort’s eventual triumph that he couldn’t really conceive of any other outcome.

“The Dementors are on your side, now,” she reminded him. “Had you forgotten?”

“The Dementors are on the side of whoever can offer them what they want,” he countered. “If the Dark Lord falls, they will happily return to service with the Ministry. And unless there’s a revolution and Arthur Weasley replaces Rufus Scrimgeour, the Ministry will happily let them.”

Hermione wanted to disagree with him, then remembered that Dolores Umbridge had been restored to her Ministry post even after admitting to Harry that she was the one who had set Dementors on him, a misuse of her authority that should have seen her in Azkaban for life. Hermione gave the argument up as a bad job, then turned her attention to the agreement they were working out, making sure there were no misunderstandings, no loopholes for Draco to exploit.

“If Voldemort fails, and you manage to escape, you will not require me to go with you into exile.”

He was silent for a moment, considering her.

“No. I won’t *require* you,” he said slowly. “*Entice* if possible.”

“It won’t be,” she said, with a fair imitation of his own coolness.

“Then there’s no harm in letting me try, is there?” he said reasonably. She contemplated the matter for a moment.

“Provided the aurors are not hot on your heels and I’m in no danger of being hit by curses meant for you, I suppose not,” she finally allowed.

“Then we are agreed.”

“One final point, I think,” she said. He raised a brow.

“And that would be...?”

“You will never again use Legilimens on me. You will never again attempt to invade my mind.”

He frowned, not answering immediately, and Hermione began to worry that he did, in fact, intend to violate her even further than he had yet done.

“Within limits,” he said finally. “I will not attempt to read your mind unless I have reason to believe that something you know is a danger to you.”

“I cannot imagine such a circumstance arising,” she told him. “So. Yes. I agree.”

“Then we have a bargain.” The quill finished writing with a flourish, and popped out of existence. The parchment rolled itself into a neat scroll and floated into his hand.

“We will once you’ve made the Unbreakable Vow to abide by the written agreement,” Hermione amended.

“Soon enough then,” Draco said with a smile, retrieving his glass and Accioing the firewhisky once more. “Soon enough.”