Chapter Text
At first, there was the void, an all consuming, grey, and slumberous mass.
Then there was light. But its brightness, its wrathful energy, was too harsh upon the primordial matter, and the void retreated into the comfort of darkness. The gentle embrace of Night was a refuge from the haughtiness of day, who bid time march on, and with time came sorrow.
Hermione recoiled from the light and sought the darkness as well, for when a sliver of that brightness penetrated her eyelids, she felt herself becoming restless with the desire to escape. The light was a pair of pale hands around her ankles, dragging her away from the safety of a black, endless dream. No, she did not want to wake.
“Has it worked?” A distant and muffled voice asked.
A powerful hand gripped her shoulder and shook her back and forth. She wanted to protest the pain that shot through her joints and the bruises that must have formed beneath brutal fingers, each digging into her skin like metal clamps. Why does it have to hurt? It seemed as though she'd been sleeping so long that pain had become a foreign sensation.
“Hmm…” A pungent breath emanating tobacco and charcoal puffed into her face. “ Pungo! ”
With a loud bang and angry hissing of displaced air, Hermione felt an awful sting at the back of her skull as though a burning needle was wriggling beneath her skin. As a pebble stirs a once undisturbed pond, the pain rippled from her neck to her extremities. Her drowsiness faded to confusion and a rising panic; she wanted to scream, but a groan was all she could muster from her lead-loaded lips.
The distant voice was much clearer now and unmistakably feminine: “No need to be harsh… Let the draught take its course.”
She could recognize the owner of that proud and clear voice even with her eyes screwed shut: Narcissa Malfoy. Recollection flooded her mind: she was captured alongside Harry and Ron and brought to Malfoy Manor. They found Gryffindor’s sword, and an enraged Bellatrix Lestrange proceeded to…
Her eyes shot open in horror. The laughter of that deranged woman who tortured and mutilated her echoed through Hermione’s mind. A primal force awakened within her like the alarm a gazelle feels gazing at a crouching lion. Except now, she could not escape. Her limbs struggled in vain against the invisible bonds that kept her immobilised in midair, and she swayed feebly like some ridiculous Christmas decoration hanging on a ruined branch.
“There.” A curt voice beside her spoke, and Hermione turned to gaze at the lean and angular visage of Antonin Dolohov leering at her attempt to get free. Their last encounter was still fresh in Hermione’s mind. But instead of wearing a grimy workman’s overalls and an oversized yellow hard cap, Dolohov now wore plain yet expensive looking black robes with embroidered collars. A silver emblem, a snake twice coiled around a capital ‘I’, gleamed at his chest.
“Let us begin then.” Dolohov unrolled a voluminous scroll of parchment, and with a stiff voice he began officiating: “By decree of His Majesty, the Dark Lord, the custody of Undesirable Granger has been indefinitely transferred from the authority of the Magical Inquisition to Narcissa, the Duchess Malfoy. Will her excellency consent to this transaction?”
The… Duchess , Malfoy? Hermione strained her neck to see her captor, but the magical bonds prevented her sight straying too far from uniform flooring tiles of pristine marble. She heard Malfoy’s steps and her light, almost whispering voice beside her:
“I will.”
“Then place your hand upon your acquisition” Dolohov continued, adding mechanically in the end, “ If it pleases your excellency… ”
Peacock feathers swept across Hermione’s peripheral vision, trailing a velvet dress of emerald green. The rich and sweet odour of musk roses followed, so thick it seemed to drip from the air like ripe honey. As her cheeks glowed with heat and her ears twitched from the caress of another perfumed breath, Hermione kept her gaze stubbornly fixed on the marble patterns beneath. But when a warm hand sunk into her unruly mass of tangled curls as its manicured nails scratched against her scalp, she gasped and glanced up into the deep azure of Narcissa Malfoy’s eyes.
Dolohov continued the ceremony in a monotone voice. Hermione averted her eyes at once, startled by the proximity, yet Malfoy’s white and undeniably beautiful face still burned in her vision. Of course, she felt hatred for the other woman, wife of a death eater and sister to a sadist, wearing that smug pureblood smirk of superiority, but she was also unsettled. Malfoy looked younger, her shadowed eyes and sickly palette had faded, and glowing through her pale cheeks was a vernal, rosy hue. She looked happy, and became a Duchess, apparently. If Malfoy’s side had won, then…
“With both consenting parties and a witness present, I declare the transfer concluded.” Dolohov folded the parchment and uttered an obscure incantation. Malfoy’s palm seemed to burst aflame into the back of Hermione’s skull. She cried out as the pressure mounted to an overwhelming point, at which it suddenly ceased as the hand lifted, leaving a hazy warmness behind.
The peacock skirt left her tear-blurred vision and the rosy aura dissolved into air. Dolohov stayed rooted to where he stood, seemingly unsure of what to do next.
“Would you be so kind as to join me for tea, Antonin?”
“Whatever pleases the Duchess.”
Narcissa clapped, and with a little ‘pop’ her house elf attendant appeared. Its mistress bid it to fetch the tea set and Kangra black, reminding it to be light on the sugar. With another ‘pop’ the elf disappeared.
“The Duchess is gracious with her hospitality.” Dolohov repeated in his monotone voice, not sounding gracious at all. The house elf reappeared with a massive tray and set it carefully on the table, and at once it filled Hermione with the warm aroma of fresh earth and plums. Many clanging and metal spoons scratching against porcelain later, Malfoy took a satisfied sip and sunk back into the cushions. Dolohov still sat with the rigidity of a board.
“And thank you, High Inquisitor, for the… gift. But I do wonder, out of all the Dark Lord’s servants, why do I deserve this… generosity?”
“I dare say that the Malfoy family is not just any of the Dark Lord’s servants.” Dolohov stated matter-of-factly. “He honours you above the rest for your capture of Undesirable Number One. Unless, you dispute--”
Malfoy did not allow him to finish that thought: “Of course. I am honoured to receive Ms.Granger, despite her… unfortunate birth. She was also Draco’s classmate, although I suspect their relationship was less than cordial. So should I consider this your gift for his engagement?”
“I beg the Duchess’s pardon.” Dolohov turned and cast a disdainful glance at Hermione’s general direction, “I wouldn’t dare consider this filth a worthy gift to the heir of Dukedom. And my congratulations are in order for your son, of course.”
Laughing sharply with the effect of yanking a chain of bells, Malfoy’s gaze wandered over Dolohov’s shoulders and settled on Hermione briefly, then drifted past the panes to greet the sunlight beyond: “Forgive me, High Inquisitor… I jest. If the Dark Lord wills it, it shall be done, and to think you had travelled from London just for this errand, it must be of great importance.”
“Faroe Islands, your Excellency. Dreadful journey.” Dolohov’s reply was as gloomy as the North Sea storm clouds he perchance encountered. “I leave for London from here.”
Rising from the couch with the dignified mien befitting a noble lady, with hands clasped and her swan-like neck held aloft, Malfoy nodded: “Safe journeys then, High Inquisitor. I will not delay your work any further.”
Dolohov followed his hostess in rising and made a slight bow. Sensing the reception concluded, he headed to the door tersely, his cloak flowing past Hermione with a breeze. But his footsteps abruptly halted as though he remembered some neglected detail. He turned and spoke with a suppressed tone:
“I believe your Excellency ought to know, although this was not required of me to disclose… The Dark Lord has… plans for Undesirable Granger, and she may be recalled at short notice.” At that, his voice turned wry, “I say this to ensure that your Excellency does not run into unpleasant surprises.”
With her chin raised and eyes slightly narrowed, Malfoy contemplated Dolohov for a moment until a grin broke the stillness of her features: “Is that so? Very well, Antonin, safe travels. And if you do see Lucius at work, tell him that his wife thinks highly of you.”
“I am honoured, Duchess Malfoy.” He bowed with more sincerity and depth. The fading of his footsteps concluded by the shutting of heavy oak doors behind Hermione meant that she now had Malfoy’s full attention.
Her mind was stampeding wild during their conversation, and from what she could gather the Malfoys must have gained the Dark Lord’s favour from capturing Harry. Her heart sunk at that thought: is the Boy-who-lived still alive? And if Dolohov was the High Inquisitor, it meant that Voldemort had full control over the ministry, which means--
The crisp clicking of heels and the thickening rosy fragrance interrupted her thoughts. The peacock feathers glided past her peripheral vision once more, and the soft yet haughty voice began:
“That leaves me with… you .”
Despite her disadvantageous position, Hermione summoned up as much contempt as she could and spat out: “ Duchess Malfoy? Never knew you fancied muggle titles?”
“Tsk, tsk… That is no way to greet a lady, nor a superior.” Malfoy leaned over, her words biting at Hermoine’s ears, “Nor your owner. ”
“Right… the same way Voldemort owns you and your self-important family?”
The impact of that statement warranted a lengthy and tense pause.
“I’m afraid I must punish you for that… transgression.” Malfoy declared coldly, her hand reaching within a laced sleeve to reveal a wand as slender as the fingers that grasped it. She stalked out of Hermione’s vision, the peacock feathers fluttering with each step in injured pride. Hermione flinched when she felt the pointed end of the wand poke rather rudely at the middle of her spine, and she heard Malfoy whisper:
“ Crucio. ”
She writhed and swayed, hissing and biting down on her own tongue to prevent a scream. The pain was there, but compared to what she endured under her deranged sister, Narcissa’s cruciatus was much more mild and restrained, and she held it for but a few fleeting seconds. When the spell lifted, Hermione’s intense struggle left her joints aching more than the aftermath of the tormentous spell.
“There.” Malfoy watched intently as a few tears mingled with perspiration crawled down Hermione’s cheeks as she fought to refill her burning lungs with air, her scorched throat still relieving the coppery trickle of her bleeding tongue. “Much better… Despite all the rogue magic Dumbledore taught to your lot, he never taught you manners. No wonder your kind and those blood traitors always became… delinquent. It will be fixed, eventually, but learning how to address your betters would be a good start.”
“Indeed, you were never taught the responsibilities that accompanied magical powers. "‘We are no different than ordinary muggles,’ he would rave on his pulpit, ‘just because we can make things float with a wand, it doesn’t make us better than them!’ That old fool… When he made our kind common, he made our gift common. And instead of utilising that gift for greatness, he wanted us to hide it from the world like some shameful deformity. What a waste… ”
Despite the lingering pain, Hermione’s anger at Malfoy’s pompousness began outweighing her fear for another cruciatus . She heard herself say before she could control her lips: “I guess you consider murder, torture, and slavery a good use of this gift you hold so dear?”
“And is it not?” Malfoy replied, unfazed. “To prune a tree overburdened by excessive growth, one might need a rather large pair of shears--”
Hermione’s ribs were becoming tighter by the second as something hot and quaking attempted to claw its way out: “You are talking about people’s lives, not leaves! How could you--”
And then despite her flushed face contorting and her lips and tongue squirming to express her exasperation, not a single syllable emerged. Malfoy strolled leisurely toward the couch, her wand held aloft. Hermione drifted over as well and plopped face down onto the nearest couch, her hair a dishevelled mess as she struggled against the suffocating softness of the cushions. Across from her, Malfoy refilled her tea, even setting a cup before Hermione.
“It’s a good brew, from India, in fact.” Raising the cup and saucer daintily, Malfoy took a miniscule sip and gestured to Hermione. “Perhaps you will be kinder than Antonin, who didn’t even bother touching his.”
Hermione just glared at her.
“Ah! But you are gagged!” Malfoy chuckled to herself, “I almost forgot, Ms.Granger, that I own you. So let us lay down some rules, shall we? What do you say to that?”
She waved her wand and unsilenced Hermione, expecting an answer, which Hermione obliged all too happily:
“Go to hell, Malfoy.”
She steeled her nerves for another crucio, but it never came. Malfoy leaned back, looking amused: “Come now, Ms.Granger. They called you the Brightest-witch-of-her-age, but I suppose you are not so bright after all. I could hurt you, of course, and I could teach you this lesson myself, the truth is, I don’t enjoy hurting people.” She paused, almost pondering, and her eyes flashed mischievously. “But I just happen to know someone who does.”
Malfoy was standing over Hermione now, and despite being calm and dignified in appearance like any aristocrat, her voice was edged with a potent hint of pleasure, eager like a child pestering her parents relentlessly to make them do her bidding. Seizing Hermione’s hair with one hand and pulling her head back, Malfoy’s lips were almost grazing her captive’s cheeks when she spoke with barely hidden glee:
“I believe you were acquainted with my older sister, hmm? Not that blood traitor, of course, but oh-so-good-humoured Bellatrix. You are shaking, Ms.Granger, my sister does have that effect on people. I see she has left you something to remember her by as well…”
Malfoy’s sharp nails dug into Hermione’s vulnerable flesh. It traced red lines down her shoulder toward her forearm, and pressed into the pulsing scar spelling out the slur which Hermione could never escape from. Although the cuts have healed, the enchanted dagger ensured that every line was as red and raw as when they were carved. When Malfoy’s sharp nails pressed into the mark, it felt as though the flesh was being sliced open again, and every nerve wriggled and screamed. She cried in earnest agony, but compared to the mental distress invoked by Bellatrix’s laughter as she meticulously carved and defiled Hermione’s body, the pain was just a travesty at best.
“Yes, Ms.Granger, you ought to tread carefully.” Malfoy pursued softly, the suave undertone of her voice displaying a more refined brand of cruelty than the outright savagery of her sibling. “Otherwise, I might just tell my darling sister that I got her a new plaything. The Dark Lord might have further uses for you, and he would want you… unmolested, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind his best lieutenant having some fun first, hmm?”
At that, Malfoy released Hermione and allowed her to fall into the cushions already moistened by the generous splatters of her tears. She heard Malfoy clap and order the house elf to bring over a serving of sleeping draught, and she felt her head being raised again, this time much more gently, and a soft handkerchief wiped away the glistering drops on her cheeks.
“Well, Ms.Granger, it seems like you are in no state to continue this conversation. We will resume tomorrow, but first, I believe you would profit from some sleep.”
A cold flask forced open her lips while a lukewarm, pearly substance seeped through her teeth. Giving one final shudder, like the closing whimpers after the subsiding of a violent storm, Hermoine plunged once more into the dreamless depth of repose.