Azael's Chains

Ruby

Hermione had expected him to do something that night, put Antonin merely tucked the covers over her and stroked his lips across her forehead before bidding her goodnight. She imagined she could feel the whiplash scars on her back tingling in remembrance of pain. She had been such an idiot, to think this would be the extent of his sadism. He compared himself only to Voldemort in cruelty, of course the worst was still on the horizon.

There had to be ways to forestall it.

He wants me to get pregnant. The word was less vulgar now that she knew it wasn't possible. Snape had been clever in his delivery and Dolohov would hardly suspect she'd taken the potion under his own supervision. He wouldn't know it was impossible. I can use that. Tell him the trauma might induce miscarriage or keep my body from capitulating. Stress could do that.

The argument lingered in the background at his every touch, ready to spring forth should she need it; but Antonin kept to his usual antics the following days.

"We are attending a gala tonight." The sudden words snapped her from her ruminations on the calculations that had started eating parchment.

"Oh. Why?"

He quirked a brow at her. "A celebration of sorts."

Hermione frowned. "No, I meant why am I going? I'm not a Death Eater or one of the social elite or anything."

Dolohov palmed her hand in one of his own so it disappeared beneath the calloused heat. "You are mine, and I wish for you to accompany me."

He is delusional. "Of course," she agreed smoothly. "I assume Tippy will be assisting me?"

"Yes, love. Whatever you need." The pad of his thumb stroked her wrist. "I imagine you will want to start when we finish here. We will leave promptly at nine."

She swallowed the remnants of the water in her goblet and nodded. "I suppose I should get started then. I would hate to leave you waiting on me." Before she could slip away, he raised her hand palm-up to kiss her pulse point.

"Until then."

It was a quarter to seven; she had time before Tippy would arrive. Hermione shut the door softly as she stepped into her room, lightly padding to her bed. The coin was now kept in a little space of the wooden bedframe. She dropped to her knees and slid it out from where it rested between box spring and wood.

"0000-31-7-98"

Midnight tonight it would be Harry's birthday. Her heart wrenched, flushing icy anguish through her veins. Voldemort was throwing a victory party for Harry Potter's birthday. It should be a time for celebration, to wash away the tragedy of the previous year. Instead she would be a spot of Gryffindor red in a sea of snakes who were gorging on the dead.

She sank to the rug, curling in the shadow of the bed as the waves crashed over her. This time last year she'd been at the Burrow preparing for Bill Weasley's wedding to Fleur. Now she didn't know if either of them were alive. Ron wasn't. Neither was Fred. But there was still Charlie and Ginny and Molly and Arthur and poor George and even Percy, who had finally shown his true colors at the last battle.

And now she was trapped in a twisted game of house with Antonin bloody Dolohov, praying Severus Snape was really working for the Order all along, and the only survivors she knew of were Michael Corner and Neville, who was possibly worse off than she was. If that was possible.

Despair was a deep well and she fell like Alice, deeper and deeper, more lost by the second, until the chime of her little clock rang the hour.

"I have to get ready," she reminded herself.

She wanted to stay there, to remember her friends and console herself by immersing in memories of when life was better. When she had to repair Harry's glasses for him because he never remembered the spell. When Ron called her mental for her fear of expulsion.

He hadn't understood. At the time it had hurt, but now she smiled in sorrowful fondness. Hogwarts was the only place she hadn't been the freak of nature who made things happen when she was upset; that was unfortunately often, as she hadn't many friends growing up before her first accidental magic. Children could be cruel in their own way, and Hermione's parents had encouraged her in ways that severely backfired with others. They'd all been intellectuals and would share any tidbit of knowledge that came their way or correct one another with ease. And once the other children started calling her a know-it=all, well, why not lean into it?

So she'd become a mouthy little swot in retaliation. In retrospect, she'd only been hurting herself.

But Harry and (eventually) Ron accepted her even at her worst (mostly; Ronald could be ridiculous). They became more than her friends. Harry's fight was her fight, and Ron was there, had come back despite thinking she could never love him the way he loved her. Now she'd never get to try.

"Bloody Hell."

She tucked away the coin and went to take a bath before Tippy came.

In a rare showing, Dolohov was not clothing her in silk. Instead the carmine gown had a skirt composed of billowing, voluminous organza. It had a train of waving folds that would require her to hold the dress like she was in some Harlequin romance novel, but it was pretty all the same. Tippy assisted her into it and she sighed as she realized the neckline was another plunging vee that displayed more chest than she preferred. Hermione's breasts weren't particularly large. So she did not understand Antonin's delight in revealing such a scandalous amount of cleavage. But, ah! The scar. He delighted in seeing that terrible permanent blight he'd set upon her skin.

The thick straps threatened to fall from her shoulders, but the little elf spelled them into place with a deft hand, then started on the rest of her. Her curls were arranged in artful wildness on top of her head, loose locks trailing her shoulders and framing her throat and face. Her lips were screaming vermillion, her eyes framed by lashes she worried were too heavy for her eyes, eyeshadow and some shimmery powder glimmering golden on her skin.

She nearly cried when golden earrings dangling ruby teardrops were attached to each lobe. The ostentation of it all was ridiculous. The necklace was a curved circlet of gold that laid perfectly against her body, another ruby drop hanging from double loops to rest in the notch of her throat.

"Beautiful." Antonin stood in the doorway staring at her with reverence in his eyes. "Like a wild rose in a manicured garden." He strode toward her, laying a hand on her cinched waist. "I have a gift for you."

Hermione lifted a sculpted brow. "A gift?"

From his pocket he produced a little black box that fit perfectly in his palm. "You see, my great grandmother was quite fond of the color red, and her husband, my great grandfather, commissioned a ring fashioned for her with the most beautiful ruby he could find. It is not gold, but I still thought it might suit you."

She had not imagined his ostentation could increase. She was wrong. The center stone had to be nearly a carat and surrounded by pear cut diamonds so it emulated a cold, stone flower. It was set in platinum, if she had to guess.

"She was a small woman as well." Dolohov slid it onto the fourth finger of her left hand where it fit as though made for her. His lips twitched and pleasure exuded from him. "As though it was meant for you."

The action wiped the slate of her mind clean. She stared up at him all wide eyes and agape lips. His pupils were blown as he laid a thumb against her bottom lip.

"Well?"

She blinked up at him in a haze of confusion as tumultuous warnings rang through her skull. "Thank you, Antonin. It's-- it's lovely."

"Yet you are more lovely still," he purred, looming down to kiss her lips, the softest brush to not smear her lipstick. "Come, pet. We must go before I decide to ravish you instead of sharing your beauty."

He's demented, she wondered as she trailed along toward the hearth. She didn't hear their destination as the fire roared green.