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Tender Vengeance Part IV
Tender Vengeance Part IV -

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.

Tender Vengeance
Part IV - Revelation

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Hermione slept long and deeply, at first too exhausted and emotionally fragile to dream.

At first.

The dream, when it came, was not filled with images, so much as sensations. Delicate touches, tender kisses, sweet caresses. She moaned, stirring in her sleep. The touches and kisses localized, and she parted her thighs restlessly, trying to get closer to them, rather than draw away. And then a remembered sweetness, making Hermione moan again, lifting her hips to that delicious intimacy. Pleasure approaching, mounting, intensifying...arriving.

Hermione’s eyes snapped open as she awakened in the throes of a shattering orgasm, already screaming her pleasure, shockingly aware of Draco’s head buried between her thighs, his tongue merciless on her vulnerable flesh, licking and sucking her into climax, leaving her helpless to do anything but let the ecstasy take her, give in to it, to him.

Merlin, she hated this man.

She hated him for manipulating her into their godforsaken bargain, hated him for his aloof arrogance, hated him for leaving her no choice but to do as he demanded. But most of all she hated him for his skill, for knowing how to touch her, taste her, take her in ways that left her helpless to do anything but respond to him. She hated him because she knew, now, that he had already won. If he freed her of their bargain, tore up the contract, it wouldn’t matter. If he decided to have her, she wouldn’t fight him, because she couldn’t fight him. Not any more.

It was this realization that had her sobbing, even as he forced her to climb one more delicious peak, where pleasure and despair most terribly entwined. Draco didn’t immediately notice her distress. It was only when he had ended his feast, and stretched his lean form above her once more that he saw her face wet with tears. He seemed to understand, without need of explanation.

“I’m sorry,” he sighed, even as he bent to kiss her.

“Not sorry enough to stop,” she accused tearfully, his lips a breath away from her own.

“No,” he said simply, closing the infinitesimal distance between them. His mouth captured hers even as he thrust inside, and he drank down her cry of grief commingled with desire. Hermione began to hate him all over again, hating the perfect fit of him within her, hated the tenderness with which he ravished her, hated the way he began to kiss away her tears. No more than she hated herself, her own lush wetness, easing his way, her stiff nipples, aching for his touch, her arms, holding him close, her legs wrapping about his waist, urging him deeper. And her mouth, so eager to return every sense-stealing kiss with which he favored her.

Hermione was bathed in dragon fire, and she reveled in each burning flame. Draco’s thrusts within her were slow, deep, angled to hit that wellspring of delight reposing within her womanly core. She met each thrust, opening herself, needing him to fill the emptiness she had only just discerned, to soothe the ache he himself had caused. As her brought her to the blistering apex of fulfillment, she had a moment of clarity. Draco Malfoy wasn’t content to own her body: he was after her soul. And she was terrifyingly uncertain that she could keep it from him.

His own climax followed hers within moments. It was as before, the same look of vulnerability, of anguish, the same unreasoning tenderness for him overcoming her. And, in the aftermath, the same unspoken rapport. She did not turn from his kisses, did not attempt to move away. And for long moments, he did not speak.

But it was morning, not night, and they were not to drift into slumber. Eventually, Draco rolled away from her, swung his feet over the bed, stood up. Hermione reached for the sheet he’d pulled away from her body to cover herself.

“Breakfast first, or would you like a bath?” he asked casually, stretching, unashamed of his nakedness.

“Bath,” she said quietly, averting her eyes from his unclothed form.

“Brilliant,” Draco said pleasantly. And Hermione found the sheet pulled from her grasp a scant instant before Draco scooped her naked form up in his arms and began to carry her toward the bathroom.

“What are you doing?” she demanded. She could feel her entire body flush red with embarrassment.

“Getting ready for our bath, of course,” he drawled.

“Our bath?” she spluttered. “Ours?”

“I’ve no duties this morning. I’m not required to dance attendance on my father, or Snape, or the Dark Lord, so, yes, our bath, Hermione. We’ll be spending the morning together.”

They were in the bathroom, and he was busily transfiguring the tub into something large enough to hold them both.

“For Merlin’s sake, Draco, can’t you leave me any privacy?” she demanded bitterly. “If nothing else, I need to use the loo.”

“Not to worry,” he said cheekily, setting her down. A wave of his hand and a privacy screen appeared between the bath and the toilet. “I’ve no wish to offend your delicate sensibilities, after all,” he smirked.

“Liar,” she snapped as she marched off behind the screen.

She wasn’t in any hurry to leave that fragile privacy. Her thoughts were entirely disordered. But, there was only so long she could delay. She finished up, and walked out to wash her hands and brush her teeth, ignoring Draco, who had already seated himself in the filled tub. She grimaced at her reflection in the mirror, which showed her hair a tangled mess of wild ringlets.

“Quite fetching, really,” Draco said, seeing the direction of her gaze.

“You’re joking,” Hermione returned, reaching for the hairbrush.

“I’m not. Leave the brush and come here.”

Hermione turned to him, exasperated.

“You can’t be serious. Do you have any idea how difficult it will be to untangle my hair if I let it get wet like this?”

“There will be no difficulty at all,” he assured her. “One doesn’t live with Narcissa Malfoy for seventeen years without learning a thing or two about beauty spells. Now stop wasting time and come here.”

Reluctantly, she set down the brush and approached the tub. She could see that he’d added the potion to it again, because the color was that lovely oceanic blue, once more. Sighing, she stepped into the tub, not at all surprised when he reached for her hand and gave a gentle tug, indicating she was to seat herself in his lap. There was nothing for it but to comply, and in a moment she was sunk in the lovely warm water, her back braced against Draco’s chest, her head resting on his shoulder.

“I suppose I ought to thank you for the potion,” she said quietly.

“It didn’t escape me that this is new to you,” he said as quietly. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry that I had to take your virginity in such a damned public fashion.”

“About it being public,” she said stiffly. “But that’s all?”

“I’ve told you before, Hermione. Don’t ask questions you don’t want answered,” he warned, as he Accioed a flannel, poured some bath gel onto it and began to draw it over her shoulders. “At all odds, the potion will keep you from becoming sore while your body adjusts to what we’re doing. In a week or so, you won’t need it.”

Because her body would have adjusted to his, become used to accommodating him. She shivered. But, the truth was, her body was already somewhat adjusted to his. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be sprawled so intimately across him in the warm bath, her head resting on his shoulder, her bum snug against his impressive erection as he idly ran a flannel over her body.

“I don’t understand you,” she said wearily. “You hate me for a Muggle-born, for your enemy. Why do you want to spare me any pain?”

“Would you rather I didn’t?” he said, amused.

“Don’t be a prat,” she said crossly. “Of course I wouldn’t. I’m just trying to understand.”

“Ever the little swot,” he chuckled. “Not happy until you’ve dissected everything and analyzed it to death. Let’s leave it as it suits my convenience to keep you free of pain.”

“I thought that’s what Voldemort wanted, though, my pain. He won’t be very happy with you if you don’t make me suffer.”

“He doesn’t really care about your pain, Hermione. He cares about Harry’s. Humiliating you as he’s done with his little spectacle before the court was sufficient to hurt Harry very badly, indeed. He’ll leave matters to me from now on. . .so long as I keep you out of his way as much as possible.”

“So then, you’re hurting me for your own benefit?”

The flannel that had gently been stroking down her arm stopped moving.

“Hermione,” he said tightly, “Leave off. I’ve told you not to ask questions you don’t want answered.”

She subsided, and he continued to bathe her. It was not unexpected that he would attempt to arouse her with his touch--gentle caresses to her breasts, soft strokes to her belly and thighs, intimate touches to her nether lips. She was distressed, but not surprised, that her body responded. Soon enough, he’d maneuvered them so that she was astride him, and he was able to pull her down on his erection. She whimpered slightly as he stretched her, filled her once more, but she was helpless to do anything but move with him, return his kisses, tangle her hands in his hair and hold him close as he encouraged her to take the control her position allowed her, and begin to set her own pace, enhance her own pleasure, work to bring both of them that shattering, exquisite moment of release.

In which she might find, for a few blessed, unthinking moments, the only islands of peace in her captivity.

Between drugging kisses, he whispered into her ear, sweet, seductive encouragement, heated praise for the way she felt, the way she moved, the way she pleased him. It made her hate him all over again, made her cry, even as she moaned and arched against him, holding his head to her breasts while he suckled a taut nipple. A moment later, his fingers delved between her thighs, found the seat of her pleasure, forced her to climax.

She came screaming his name, hating him more than ever, moments before he found his own release.

Afterward, she was draped bonelessly across his body, her head resting on his shoulder once more, her tears dripping down his back to mingle with the bath water. He let her rest thus for a moment, then threaded his hands in her hair to pull her head back and kiss her soundly before lifting her off his body to continue their bath. Hermione idly wondered if the water were deep enough to drown in. Not that Draco would let her.

Eventually he pulled her to her feet, vanished the bath water, and transfigured the tub into a shower so that they could rinse off the remainder of the soaps and shampoos they’d used to clean themselves. True to his word, he knew a spell to untangle her hair, quickly and painlessly, before he dried it. When she finally stepped out of the shower, her hair curled in soft ringlets down her back.

“You see,” he told her, turning her until she faced the full length mirror on the bathroom door. “I told you there would be no difficulty.”

The woman staring back at Hermione from the mirror’s depths was rosily flushed from her exertions, and her hair did, indeed, curl becomingly around her face. She looked lovely, but that wasn’t all Hermione saw in the mirror. She saw the way Draco’s eyes were heating once more to silver, saw his hands, and felt them, stroking gently over her shoulders and down her sides. She understood he meant to take her, yet again.

And she simply couldn’t bear it.

“Please,” she whispered. “I can’t, Draco. Not again.”

His hands slid to her breasts, gently teasing the sensitive nipples.

“You can, sweet girl. Trust me in this.”

Her tears, which had not entirely subsided, returned in force.

“No, please no!”

“You aren’t to fight me,” he reminded her, his voice cooling.

“Damn you, Draco, why? Why must you do this?” she sobbed, nearing hysteria. “You’ve satisfied the terms of that hateful spell, and you always claimed that touching me would sully you. What are you playing at? Why can’t you leave--”

Suddenly, with a popping sound, the scroll of their contract appeared in front of her, startling her into silence.

“Sod it,” Draco swore as the scroll burst into flame before their eyes. “Repudio!” he shouted. The flames instantly went out, the scorched parchment becoming whole once more. It shimmered before them for an instant, then vanished with another popping sound.

“Bloody little fool,” he said angrily. Hermione made to turn around, to ask what had happened, but he forced her to face the mirror once more.

“Please. What happened?’ she asked him.

“You broke the contract,” he told her coldly. “If I’d let it burn, I’d have been free of my vow to you.”

“But you didn’t let it burn,” she whispered. “Why? I don’t understand any of this, Draco. Why are you doing this to me?”

“Merlin, woman, are you really that blind?” he snarled. A moment later two silver pillars were before her, a small marble platform floating between them, a few inches above the floor. Draco forced her onto the platform, then roughly grabbed her hands, lifted them above her head. This was no part of their agreement and she struggled wildly against him, to dispiritingly little effect. In seconds, using another of his nonverbal, wandless spells, he’d bound her wrists to the pillars with ropes of velvet as white as the marble platform on which she stood. She was pulled to her full height, though not onto her toes, and forced to face the mirror. She couldn’t fail to be aware that the platform raised her to the perfect height for him to take her standing.

“You can’t!” she said hysterically. “I never agreed to let you tie me up during--”

He stepped closer, right up to the platform, hauled her back against his chest, hands moving deliberately over her body, until she shuddered in response.

“Do you think I can’t make you agree?” he said quietly, his voice cold. “I will. I promise I will. Later. But now, we’ve more important business. Look into the mirror, Hermione. Look at the woman you’ve become. Tell me again you don’t understand why I’m doing this, why I demanded you as my prize from the Dark Lord, why I want you willing in my bed.”

Panting, his words making no sense to her, she stared at her reflection in the mirror.

Look at the woman you’ve become. And she did. But found no answers. Because the woman she’d become was just an ordinary girl. Her hair and eyes were an unexceptional brown rather than the coveted blond, or an exciting red. Even jet-black hair would be more striking, more interesting than her own common coloring. And her figure was well rounded, too much so for the current fashion in some regards, not quite enough in others. Her breasts were high and firm, and nicely shaped, large enough but not spectacularly so. She supposed them adequate, rather than ample. Her waist was narrow, her hips flared, her legs long. But, again, nothing out of the ordinary. In fact, if anything, her hips were a bit more full than was fashionable. Her legs, from her fondness for walking, and for cycling during her summers at home, were similarly just a shade more developed and muscular than the lean legs of most of her classmates. She had regularly been thankful that Wizarding robes hid those particular flaws far more easily than Muggle clothing ever could. No, the mirror held no answers, after all, and so she told him.

“You’re mocking me,” she said. “The woman I’ve become is ordinary enough. I don’t understand why you’re doing this, or why you made Voldemort give me to you, or why you care whether I’m willing or not, since the result will be the same.”

“Ordinary?” he said, incredulous. His reflection in the mirror looked gob-smacked. “That’s what you think? That’s all you see?”

“What else is there?” she said impatiently.

He was silent for a long time. She didn’t think he was going to answer. She looked at his face in the mirror. His expression had become unreadable once more. Finally, he spoke.

“You’re not a classic beauty,” he admitted. “Not like my mother, or like my Aunt Bellatrix in her youth. But then, you don’t need to be, do you? You’re not some overbred aristocratic debutante, after all. No, you’re common as mud.”

She gave a choked cry at the deliberate insult, but he wasn’t done.

“Just like mud. I was told that all my life, you know. But I didn’t quite understand. Because mud is so much more than dirt, isn’t it, the stuff of which the world is made? It’s everything. Earthy. Vital. Fecund. And, compared to what purebloods are, so damnably exotic. You’re not fashionably thin, not some starved, bony stick of a girl. You’re rounded and soft and--bloody hell, do you know what your skin feels like in my hands, how silken it is, and the flesh beneath, how lush? You’re everything I’ve been told is wrong with the Wizarding world. And you make nonsense of what I’ve been told. Because you’re as smart as any pureblood witch I’ve ever known, as accomplished as any witch of your age...or older. I think you could have sat for your NEWTS the year you sat for your OWLS and passed the lot of them.

“But that’s not all of you’ve become. Merlin, Hermione, look at yourself! Can’t you see it? The way your hair glints with lights, the way there are so many colors in it--red and gold and bronze--I could stare at it for hours trying to guess what the light will bring out in it next. No less your eyes. Usually, their like caramel, soft and brown. But then, sometimes, when you’re angry, they spark with amber lights. But they’ve another color, too, and that’s my favorite. It’s when I have you in my arms and I’m kissing you to distraction and you want to fight me but can’t, that they go dark, like ink, or maybe like obsidian that’s been polished to reflect the sun, because dark as they are, they still glint and sparkle. And at that moment when you finally give in to me, when you come apart in my arms, they’re so dark, they’re fathomless, deep pools, and I just want to drown myself in them.”

Hermione couldn’t help it. Her eyes widened at his words, and she stared into the mirror, seeing the truth of what he said. Her eyes had become huge, dark, fathomless. Her mouth opened in a little gasp of shock.

“Yes, you see it now, don’t you? Or you’re beginning to see. How perfect you are. How exquisite your body, with your lovely breasts that fit so perfectly in a man’s hands, in my hands, and that tiny waist I could span if I wanted, and your hips that are pure enticement, your plump arse that lifts you to the most exquisite angle, those long legs that make you just the right height. Your perfect, like the goddesses carved of marble by the ancients, or on all those Muggle paintings in those damned museums. Only you’re not cold or pale as paint and marble, are you? No. You’re warm, like the earth in summer. And you’re skin is golden, like honey. And I’ve hated you since our first year and I’ve wanted nothing in this life so much as I’ve wanted to bury myself in your soft golden flesh since our third and I by God would have killed every Death Eater in that hall before I let one of them touch you.”

Hermione’s breaths were coming in short, sharp pants, overwhelmed by confusion. Because she saw it now, as she had not before. She would never be a classically beautiful woman, but she did possess a kind of beauty, a less obvious beauty, apparent only to those who chose to look for it. Staring at her reflection, seeing herself the way Draco saw her, knowing that somehow her most bitter enemy had chosen to find that beauty in her was confusing and frightening and, heaven help her, it was arousing. She found her head falling back to lie against his shoulder.

“That’s...that’s how you see me?” she said, stumbling over her words. Draco buried his face in her hair.

“How the hell could I see you any other way?” he asked gruffly. He dropped a kiss to her shoulder, then straightened up behind her, his expression controlled, unreadable once more.

“You can use the ropes on your wrists to brace yourself,” he said silkily. She didn’t even try to misunderstand or argue. He had promised he could make her willing, and he had kept that promise. Hermione wrapped her hands in the white velvet, and held on as he nudged her thighs apart. “I want you to watch me become part of you,” he breathed into her ear, making her shiver, his hands steadying her hips. “And then I want you to watch what it does to you when I become part of you.”

She gasped, her eyes helplessly drawn to the spot he’d wanted her to see, watching as his marble-pale, hard flesh parted her folds, disappearing into her thatch of dark brown curls. She whimpered slightly, unable to take her eyes off of the wanton image. He began a series of slow, deep thrusts, and she found herself helpless to do anything but push back to meet each one, watching in fascination as his shaft emerged from her core, slick with their mingled secretions, only to be swallowed up once more. Finding he didn’t need to hold her hips to match his rhythm, Draco allowed his hands to travel upwards, caressing her belly, her waist, her ribs, settling on her breasts. He nuzzled into her neck, suckling on the soft flesh there, making her moan. She was writhing in building pleasure, so primed from everything else he had done to her she knew she couldn’t last long. He seemed to know this as well. He gave up nibbling on her neck, and returned to whispering in her ear.

“Now look at your face, Hermione,” he said, before running his warm tongue around the sensitive shell of her ear. “Watch as you become the most beautiful woman in the world.” One hand drifted from her breast to the tender spot between her thighs. Only to find it too tender. Hermione whimpered in pain as he touched the tiny bud, and attempted to flinch away from the probing fingers, while still meeting the thrust of his hips. He hushed her, drew his fingers to either side of the little nub, stimulating it less directly, but every bit as effectively. “Now, sweet girl, sweet Hermione...”

Hermione understood the command, raised her gaze to look at her face in the mirror.

The woman she had become had dark eyes that glittered like polished obsidian, cheeks that were flush and rosy, lips that were kiss-swollen, parted in ecstasy. Her hair was a tumble of silken brown curls, falling down her back, caressing against her lover’s --she could not deny him that title--face.

“There,” Draco said triumphantly. “Watch.” And because he was who and what he was, and seemed to have known her body’s secrets even before she knew them herself, he moved within her just so, pressed his fingers just right, sent her over the edge to intoxicating, consuming, extraordinary rapture.

Hermione’s gaze helplessly locked onto that of her mirrored reflection as she watched herself succumb to ecstasy, watched as her lover joined her, watched as the same look of vulnerability, tenderness, completion, suffused both their faces. She wasn’t sure what Draco saw, but in her eyes, his own masculine beauty was never so acute, so apparent, as in that moment of intimate joy.

She wished--forlornly, desperately-- that she had never realized quite how beautiful Draco Malfoy could be, or how beautiful he could make her become. Hermione watched as, in the aftermath of pleasure, crystal tears began to fall from her caramel-colored eyes.

Draco sighed, withdrawing from her, murmuring the spell that would release her from her bonds, catching her exhausted body as her knees gave way, vanishing the silver pillars and the marble platform, carrying her back to his bed--their bed--once more. He lay her down on the silken sheets, stretched out beside her, drew the bedclothes over them, gathered her close in his arms.

“You asked me what I want from you,” he said quietly. “It won’t surprise you that my most desperate desires are utterly selfish ones. I want your beauty for myself, alone. I want never to have to share with anyone else the knowledge of just how beautiful you can become.”

She took his meaning. He would do everything in his power to keep her from being restored to Ron. She devoutly hoped he’d fail.

The morning’s exertions had exhausted them. They napped until nearly noon, when Priddy roused them with a large brunch. Hermione blushed to be found naked in Draco’s arms, but the house elf seemed utterly indifferent to human nudity, merely placing her tray on the sideboard without comment, and Apparating back to the kitchens. Draco smiled indulgently, lifting up a crystal bowl from which he fed Hermione strawberries and cream.

He kissed the cream from her lips, but didn’t try to go further. After their leisurely meal, he vanished away the remains, and they got dressed. His armoire now held not only his own robes, but a number of robes for her own use. And he’d set aside a drawer to hold undergarments, including knickers. Hermione raised a brow when she picked up a particularly fragile scrap of black silk that seemed to fancy itself a decent undergarment.

“I said proper knickers,” she reminded him.

“Yes, but you did not say that thongs didn’t count as proper knickers, did you?” he returned with a wolfish grin. She rolled her eyes, dropped the scrap of silk back into the drawer and searched for something a bit more substantive. She found a pair of bikini cut pants in a lovely shade of blue that would match one of the sets of robes she’d found in the armoire. After everything he’d done to her, there seemed no point to false modesty, and she dressed in front of him almost as casually as he was dressing in front of her, only venturing into the bathroom to splash cold water on her face, clean her teeth and brush her hair.

“I’ve arranged for you to have an hour with Lady Ginevra, this afternoon,” he mentioned, when she returned.

“That’s wonderful,” she said, pleased with this bit of news. “How soon can we go?”

“I’ll take you there as soon as we’ve finished dressing,” he promised.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling.

Within a very few minutes, Draco held her in his arms, Apparating them directly from their own rooms into a beautiful little garden. Hermione blinked at the sunlight, having not seen it for two days.

Ginny was seated beneath a rose arbor, a book in her hands, calmly reading. For a moment, Hermione’s heart plummeted. Was the girl still under the Imperius? And if so, would she even want to see Hermione, or would Voldemort’s control over her cause her to say or do something spiteful to her Muggle-born friend? Then Ginny looked up at the popping sound of people Apparating into her presence, her eyes widening at the sight of Hermione. She dropped her book, leapt from the bench, and ran forward, reassuring Hermione that Ginny’s will was her own. Hermione ran forward as well, meeting her halfway.

“Oh, Merlin, Hermione, I was so worried,” Ginny said, hugging her tight.

“Me, too,” Hermione said, hugging her back every bit as fiercely, then finally drawing away to look at the younger girl anxiously.

Like Hermione, Ginny had been given robes that were suitable for an adult witch. That Ginny was not yet legally an adult carried no weight with Voldemort. The robes were not low cut, or tight, but they still managed to make one aware of just how full Ginny’s bosom had become, how curvaceous she was, overall. They were made of a deep emerald green silk that shimmered with light. Against it, Ginny’s skin looked like cream, and her hair like fire. Around Ginny’s neck was a golden pendant holding a square cut emerald. It was not overly large, and lay just in the hollow of the girl’s throat. But, the overall effect was to make Ginny look just a bit older, a bit more sophisticated and mature than a sixteen-year-old girl had any business looking.

“Are you all right, Ginny?” Hermione asked.

Ginny gave the same kind of mirthless laugh Malfoy seemed to have perfected.

“Are you?” she countered. Hermione flushed.

“I...as well as can be expected.”

“There you are, then,” Ginny replied.

Draco had stood back during their initial exchange, to give them some privacy. He now came forward, and bowed formally to Ginny.

“My lady,” he said.

“Don’t,” Ginny returned coldly. “I’m not your lady. I’m not anyone’s lady, least of all his.”

“And I’m not interested in facing Avada Kedavra for not adhering to the Dark Lord’s orders,” he replied. “If you want Hermione to continue to call you Ginny in private, I’ve no objection. But if we have occasion to meet in public, both of us will be using the form of address we’ve been ordered to employ.”

“That’s nonsense,” Ginny began stubbornly.

“Ginny,” Hermione began, but Draco interrupted.

“It’s nonsense that could get Hermione killed,” Draco pointed out bluntly. “I imagine you’d like to avoid that?”

Ginny shuddered. “Berk.”

Draco gave her a bitter smile, and bowed once more.

“At your service, Lady Ginevra,” he drawled mockingly. “I’m forbidden to leave the two of you alone. But if you would like to take a turn about the garden while I wait by the bench, that would be permitted.”

“What? Not going to spy on our every word?” Ginny snapped.

“For pity’s sake, Ginny,” Hermione began, and was once more interrupted.

“It is highly doubtful that the greatest Legilimens who ever lived has any need for me to spy upon the conversations of his lady wife,” Draco said with poisonous sweetness. Ginny gasped, going white.

“Draco, please,” Hermione said softly. He turned his steely gray gaze back to her, his expression becoming gentler.

“As you wish. Enjoy your walk.” He retreated to the bench. Ginny eyed him warily, then turned to Hermione.

“This way,” the redhead said, linking her arm with Hermione’s and leading her down a garden path away from Draco, making sure they were out of earshot before she spoke again. “What a right bastard he is,” she grimaced.

“Which one?” Hermione returned dryly. Ginny gave another bark of mirthless laughter.

“Fair enough. I meant Malfoy. He was such a beast to you at school. This must be excruciating for you. Is he being horrid?”

Hermione blushed furiously.

“Not like that,” she said quietly. “Not the way he was in school. He’s actually being...kind.”

“Kind,” Ginny repeated blankly. “Does he even know how?”

“He’s managing well enough,” Hermione said. She quickly explained their agreement, and described the book she was translating.

“So, you have something to keep you occupied,” Ginny said approvingly.

“Yes, but at a cost,” Hermione said bitterly.

“I know,” Ginny said with a tight smile.

“Oh, Ginny,” Hermione said, feeling wretched. “Is it very awful?”

“It’s bloody appalling,” Ginny said brittlely, tears springing to her eyes. “Do you know what that bastard has the nerve to do?” She turned to face Hermione. “He becomes Tom for me. Becomes that utterly handsome, viciously evil bastard who fascinated me in second year. Then he shags me within an inch of my life while I tell him all the ways he’ll never be as good in bed as Harry. And then he laughs, and shags me again.” She shivered, turned away, resumed walking down the path. “I’d be happier if he just kept his real appearance. Which is, of course, why he won’t. But, I hate the fact that he turns himself into someone I once trusted. I’d much rather he just kept himself the ugly snake he really is.”

“Because at least that would be honest,” Hermione said knowingly.

“Well, it could be worse, I suppose. At least it’s just straight up shagging without all the kinks I’d always imagined Death Eaters like to throw in. And I know he won’t hurt me. Can’t risk harming any brat he might have already put into my belly.”

“Has he...is he using a fertility charm?” Hermione asked.

“No, thank heaven. Said there’s no need. He wants to enjoy the process.” Ginny shuddered. “I can only hope that the last dose of monthly contraceptive potion I took will be enough to keep anything from happening until we’re rescued.”

“When did you take it?” Hermione asked. Ginny gave a rueful smile.

“The morning we left. I knew Harry would be joining us the next day, and I wanted...well.”

Hermione squeezed Ginny’s arm reassuringly, and they talked of other things. But, the topic reminder her that she’d wanted to ask Draco about the contraceptive charm Voldemort had cast on her. There were a variety of spells and charms used in the Wizarding world to prevent pregnancy, some suitable only for a single encounter, some meant to prevent conception for months, even years, until a counter-charm was cast. She was fairly certain that Voldemort had cast one of the latter. His hatred of Muggle-borns was too pronounced to believe otherwise. Too, her contract with Draco made no mention of offspring. Clearly, not only did she believe that children could not result from this union, Draco and Snape, who had reviewed the contract, must believe it as well. Hermione dismissed the concern from her mind, turning her attention to making the most of her visit with Ginny.

Their allotted hour flew by all too quickly. When Draco came to reclaim Hermione, the two girls clung together for a desperate farewell, not at all sure how often they would be able to see each other, how long it would be before they could meet again.

“That must wait upon the Dark Lord’s whim,” Draco told Ginny. “But, I will try to get word to you from Hermione when I can’t bring her to see you.”

Ginny nodded, a bit more gracious than she had been when she’d first seen him.

“Thank you. That means a lot to me,”

“My lady,” he replied, with a final bow. She bit her lip, accepting his manner of address and the need for him to use it. A moment later, he Apparated Hermione away.

“I have to attend court soon,” he said, once again transfiguring the divan into a work station for her. “If you need anything, call for Priddy.”

“I should be fine,” Hermione said, with a bit less than the truth. Glad as she had been to see Ginny, relieved as she was that the girl was, relatively speaking, unharmed, she was still depressed by how short the visit had been, and disturbed by what Ginny had said about Voldemort’s treatment of her. Which reminded Hermione of the question she had for Draco. “I do want to ask something before you leave, though. Which contraceptive spell did Voldemort use on me?” She thought her inquiry perfectly straightforward, but Draco seemed to hesitate a moment, then picked his words carefully.

“A particularly long-lasting one,” he said, confirming her suspicions, “but nothing that can’t be reversed, should the Dark Lord decide it is wise to do so.”

“But there’s something else about it, isn’t there?” she said uneasily. “You’re being awfully cagey.” Draco sighed, ran a hand through his hair.

“There’s nothing that will cause you harm, Hermione. By the terms of our contract I’d have had to get him to lift it if there had been, or hadn’t you thought of that?”

“But there’s something,” she pressed. He gave up trying to evade her.

“Several somethings, if you insist upon knowing. First, it’s a Dark Art spell, so it can be used as a curse, though that is not how it was used upon you.” She blanched.

“But, it could have made me barren?” Draco gave a curt nod of agreement.

“Could have, but did not. You’re too innately powerful for the Dark Lord to have taken that step. He may hope that, eventually, after he has won, you’ll be sufficiently resigned to your lot that you will give me a half-blood child that will prove a powerful servant.”

“Never,” she assured him.

“I did say that to be his hope, not mine,” Draco said dryly.

“All right. It’s a Dark Art spell, but it’s not been used to do anything more than keep me from conceiving for the immediate future. That’s not enough to explain your hesitance, so what else is it doing?”

“Making it easier for Ginny to conceive, and making you more receptive to my advances,” Draco informed her coolly. Hermione gasped.

“I don’t...Ginny? How?”

“The Dark Arts are many, and they are varied, and they are subtle,” he reminded her. “Didn’t Snape tell us something like that at the start of the year? The spell brings you to a point in your cycle when you are your most fertile, and therefore, at your most receptive to male attention. It’s not an aphrodisiac, not something that instills a false desire. It merely makes you quicker to respond to your natural desires. But, rather than allowing this to result in conception, the spell channels your fecundity to another person. Thus, Ginny has twice the chance of conceiving than she would have without it, while you have no chance, at all. The spell enjoyed quite a vogue among younger sons during the middle ages, I understand.”

“That’s perfectly foul,” Hermione informed him.

“Perhaps,” he acknowledged tranquilly. “But if Ginny, like half the other girls in sixth year, was taking a contraceptive potion, she won’t be affected, immediately, while you needn’t fear an unintended consequence of our time together, Hermione. ”

“I hadn’t feared that, not really,” she said slowly. “I can’t imagine you’d allow the precious blood of the Malfoys to suffer a Muggle taint.”

“I think it fair to say that no one else in the Wizarding world could imagine it, either,” he replied dryly. “If you’ve no further questions, the Dark Lord requires me.”

“I’m sure he does. Well. You’ve given me all the information I needed, and more than I think I wanted.”

“That is the danger of asking certain questions, Hermione,” Draco chuckled. “You may not always like the answers you get.” He offered her a slight bow before Disapparating back to Voldemort’s side.

Once again, the ancient runic text proved a most welcome distraction. Hermione worked late into the evening, though she did not forget to eat, this time.

She was a bit surprised when Priddy brought supper with no sign of Draco. She went back to working on her translation after dinner. It was quite a few hours before Draco returned.

He was not happy.

He didn’t even greet her, but made straight for the sideboard and started to pour himself a glass of firewhisky. Then he seemed to think better of it, and just brought the bottle to his lips.

“What’s wrong?” Hermione said uneasily.

“Everything. Nothing. Nothing that need concern you, at least. Go to bed, Hermione.”

She decided not to argue, but quickly changed into a soft pink sleeping robe, and got under the covers.

He was still drinking when she fell asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Far from where the girls were imprisoned, Harry lay unsleeping on his bed at Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Ron, equally sleepless, was in a second bed in the same room. They were both startled by the scratching of a large, unknown owl against the bedroom window. Casting each other uneasy glances, they got out of their beds and approached the window.

“Reckon the Ministry searched it first?” Ron asked as Harry cautiously opened the window for the large bird to enter.

Harry said something unpardonably rude about the ineffectiveness of the Ministry. Ron was not disposed to argue. “That’s a public post owl,” Ron further observed.

“Of course it is,” Harry said, untying the small package from the large bird’s leg, and grabbing some treats from one of the bags near Hedwig’s cage. The public post owl happily scarfed them down, and flew off.

Harry opened the small box, then looked at the contents in trepidation.

“What is it?” Ron said, coming forward.

Harry carefully lifted a pair of small glass vials from the box. Each was labeled. One with Harry’s name, one with Ron’s. Inside, silvery strands of memory swirled. No note accompanied the bottles. None was needed. The message was in the memories, the sender Voldemort, and with both Ginny and Hermione in his possession, it was not a message either boy was about to ignore.

“Do you remember what we did with old Phineas Black’s Pensieve?” he asked Ron. Neither boy wasted time arguing the safety of what they proposed to do. It was entirely possible that the bottles contained not memories, but lethal curses. It was exceedingly unlikely that the Ministry had already intercepted the owl and deemed it’s burden perfectly safe. It would be sensible to contact the Ministry, or at least the Order, and have a more experienced Wizard check the bottles to make sure they were safe.

Harry and Ron, whose faith in the adults around them had all but vanished over the past few months, didn’t bother. Harry cast a revealing spell he was fairly certain would alert them to any traps, while Ron fetched the Pensieve from its place on a shelf in the study.

By unspoken agreement, Harry went first.

He tumbled into a large room lit by candles, his stomach roiling when he saw his beautiful Ginny lying naked on a large bed. And recognized the handsome, dark haired, youthful looking wizard lying next to her, equally naked.

“You should have kept me under the Imperius,” Ginny said boldly to Tom Riddle, “Because I’m not going to cooperate.”

“Dearest Ginevra,” Tom drawled, running a hand lightly over her shoulder, down her side, to rest against her hip, “I don’t give a damn about your cooperation. I want a son out of you, and you don’t need to cooperate in order for me to plant him in your belly.”

“You should have tried planting Lestrange’s belly. I’m sure she’d have been overjoyed to let you plow it to your heart’s content,” Ginny said crudely, hissing as Tom bent his head to take a nipple into his mouth. “Don’t you think she’d make a wonderful mother?” she continued sarcastically. Despite her brave words, Harry could see tears gathering at the corners of her eyes.

“Oh, there are a thousand bellies I could plow, if I wished,” Tom raised his head to smirk, sliding his hand between Ginny’s legs, smiling at her brief whimper of pain as he forced them inside. “A thousand pureblood wives or sisters or daughters of my followers, or, my female followers themselves, who would sell their souls to be where you are, right now. Tens of thousands, even. But that wouldn’t be nearly as amusing, would it?”

“Burn in hell, Tom,” Ginny wished him sweetly.

“Not before I’ve made you burn,” he promised, shifting until he lay between her thighs.

Harry wanted to look away, wanted the memory to end, but he knew he wasn’t going to be that lucky. So, he was forced to watch as Ginny lay there, as unresponsive as possible, while Tom began to violate her. He was fiercely proud of her spirit, proud of the way she taunted Tom, telling him how much better Harry himself was, than Tom could ever hope to be. But he had to watch all the way through, and as he knew he would, he saw it when Ginny was overmatched, when she couldn’t hold onto her indifference any longer, when the hot tears spilled down her cheeks even as she arched up into Tom Riddle’s touch, wrapped her arms around his neck, lifted her hips to meet his slow, deep thrusts. He had to watch Ginny shatter for Tom the way she had only ever shattered for Harry, before. And then he watched as Tom spilled himself inside her, as he kissed Ginny and as Ginny kissed him back, watched as the two figures entwined on the bed, slowly drew apart. Ginny rallied, told Voldemort again how Harry excelled him in every possible way.

Tom merely laughed, and began to show Ginny, once more, how very little he cared. And that time, when Ginny cried out in pleasure, she cried a name, a name that wasn’t Harry’s.

They knew it would be bad. Ron was not surprised when Harry returned, shaking and dashing away tears. But, the other boy did manage to grind out. “Ginny’s alive, Ron. I think...I think they both are.”

“Torture?” Ron said tightly. There would have to be torture, if there weren’t death, wouldn’t there?

“I don’t...not that kind.” Ron swallowed hard at Harry’s softly spoken words. He’d already had to come to grips with exactly what kind of tortures his sister and his beloved would face in Death Eater captivity.

“Who’s memories were they?” he said. “Ginny’s or some Death Eater’s?”

“Ginny’s” Harry said, wondering if there were any point in keeping the worst part of what he’d seen secret. Decided there wasn’t. “Ron,” he said, turning to look at his friend. “He’s keeping her for himself, Ron. He...wants a pureblood mother for his heir.” Ron gave a strangled groan, looked around for something to smash, settled on a chair that was barely usable as it was. For ten glorious minutes, Ron had nothing more on his mind than the complete and absolute destruction of the hapless piece of rickety furniture. Then he turned back to Harry.

“Right, then. My turn.”

Harry looked at his friend soberly.

“Are you sure you want to put yourself through that?” he said.

“Tell me something,” Ron replied. “Was it better not knowing?” Harry hesitated, but finally shook his head.

“No. Not knowing if she was alive was hell. But, knowing how she’s being kept alive is a different kind of hell.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Ron said, scooping the contents of the Pensieve back into the first bottle, reaching to break the seal on the one bearing his own name. “I have to see.”

As he tumbled into a castle full of Death Eaters milling about Voldemort’s throne, Ron knew he was not in Hermione’s memories. He watched his sister and the woman he loved being brought forward. Like Harry, he was fiercely proud of them, of the way they held onto their courage, refused to show fear, though his gut clenched in disgusted horror when he saw Ginny succumb to the Imperius, watched her crawl into Voldemort’s lap. When Hermione coldly acknowledged that she expected Voldemort to kill her, his heart almost broke. She looked so brave, so beautiful, and yet so utterly dignified, even regal, in her defiance.

And then came Voldemort’s declaration of exactly how he expected Hermione to be of use to him. Her humiliation pleases me. Harry Potter’s pain pleases me. See to it that you contribute to both. Ron had to watch as his beautiful, brave Hermione was overcome with horror, became maddened with terror and fear, struggling frenziedly against the Death Eaters who forced her to submission, held her down. Had to watch as her robes were raised and she was publicly exposed. Ron screamed in rage, frantic to do something to stop what was happening, even knowing it was futile, that it had already happened, that he was powerless to change a thing. Then, as he continued to watch, he saw Hermione relax under the Imperius while the filthy swine she’d been given to, the filthy swine he was going to find and torture and eviscerate with his bare hands, violated her. Ron, helpless to do anything else, continued to watch.

When the memory ended, as Hermione was released from the Imperius, and curled onto her side, weeping, Ron expected to be released from the Pensieve.

He wasn’t. A second memory was tangled with the first, and with sick horror, Ron discovered just whose memories he had. He didn’t know what was worse: watching his beautiful girl be put under Imperius and violated in public, or watching her coerced into making that unholy bargain with Malfoy.

And then he watched a third memory begin with Malfoy telling Hermione to hold onto a pair of velvet ropes as she stood between two silver pillars, and he knew that neither of those things was nearly as bad as what he was watching now. I want never to have to share with anyone else the knowledge of just how beautiful you can become.

Ron howled in pain and fury, understanding exactly why Draco Malfoy had chosen to share that particular memory with him. As the string of memories finally concluded, he was thrown back from the Pensieve and collapsed, panting, next to Harry.

“’Mione?” Harry questioned, face white, voice hoarse.

“Alive,” Ron choked out. “Draco Malfoy has her.”

Harry shuddered. “Merlin, that bleeding bastard will make her life hell. He hates her.”

Ron surprised him by laughing, the kind of laughter that has more madness than humor to it.

“No, Harry,” Ron said. “The filthy rotter doesn’t hate her.”

“What?” Harry said uneasily, sitting up, looking at his friend warily. Ron was a mess, dark circles under his eyes, gaunt, pale, his hair lank, his mouth pursed and grim. He didn’t answer at first. “Ron?” Harry prodded, gently.

Ron’s eyes met Harry’s, and they were holding a depth of pain Harry had never seen in them before. His face was drawn, and his voice, when he spoke, was laden with despair.

“The sodding bastard loves her.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

A.N. So, I suspect that wasn’t much of a revelation to the readers. Hermione, poor dear, is doomed to remain unenlightened, for the moment.

For the record, you can expect this fic to run about twelve chapters plus an epilogue.