Azael's Chains

Dinner

The Death Eater sat beside a too-familiar face and Hermione had to catch herself from crying out. The fear of seconds before had fled, replaced with the cold seethe of betrayal. Severus Snape, traitor, spy, murderer of Albus Dumbledore. As Dolohov swept into the high-backed dining chair she stood to the side and a little behind, fire lighting behind her bronze eyes. Had he deigned to look her way the knife of her hate would hopefully have slashed his throat so he could bleed out like the treacherous snake he was.

Alas, when Dolohov blocked her sight of the horrid man, he was still breathing. Her dark captor considered her and patted his thigh in what she belatedly realized was invitation.

"What?"

"There is no seat available for you, kitten."

Mechanical glances proved him right, as Thorfinn Rowle took up the space at his other side. "I could sit against--" Her words failed as the bar of his arm wrapped around her waist and swept her into the place he'd deemed most appropriate.

"A mudblood at the table, Dolly?"

The heated response whirled against her ear. "She is my pet and this is where I prefer her at the moment."

Bellatrix touched a long white finger to lips plush as ripe fruit. "I wasn't aware we let animals eat with us. Lucius, you'd better call your dogs. It is time for supper."

"Bella." The world stilled at the soft intonation. "Miss Granger is an invited guest. Let us make an exception for her this once."

A harumph was the pouty witch's response, but she allowed the matter to sink back into unspokeness for the moment.

It was a maddening dilemma. Hermione could allow the humiliation to nettle her into fury, but she would face the consequences. If Voldemort himself did not have her dance under his Cruciatus, Dolohov's wrath would pale her previous experience, of that she had no doubt. But it truly was galling, to perch upon the lap of this man in a room of her peers, peers who would all approve of anything that brought her low. As courses appeared on the table, she did not have access to food of her own. Instead Dolohov brought steaming mouthfuls of his soup to her lips or tore fingerfuls of cotton-soft rolls for her teeth to pluck. Each bite sent spiny resentment curling through her. The one time she attempted autonomy her hand was gripped so tight her pinky smashed against her thumb. Dolohov then cupped the goblet of wine to her lips. She had reached for water, but he began to tip the drink and a droplet escaped the rim as she opened for the bitter red. He drained the whole cup into her throat and her eyes burned along with her cheeks.

That happened twice more and the heady wine seeped through what little food she'd eaten from the Death Eater's hand until the world took on that soft, off-center sheen of subtle drunkenness. It became easier to lift her eyes from the table and study the others at the table. Narcissa Malfoy was distinctly uncomfortable, Lucius Malfoy only slightly less so, and Draco seemed torn. Between what extremes she could not say.

Rowle met her flicker with a grin as his eyes trailed from her dangling feet up her body. Ants crawled over her skin at the sensation and she rubbed at the gooseflesh on one arm, causing the man behind her to hold her more tightly.

Bellatrix Lestrange ran her tongue down the knife she'd used to cut her meat and winked while her husband and his brother (she guessed from the fair resemblance) both skimmed her without veiling their beastly thoughts.

The only direction Hermione did not turn was toward the head of the table (which also kept her from lingering on her former professor. It became more difficult as dessert finished and the long table vanished with it. Her dizzy hands crushed Dolohov's sleeve where he'd draped his arm on her lap; the world had started shifting in truth. The Death Eater's amusement rumbled through her, handling her as he transfigured his chair into something akin to his preferred seat at home. "Easy, kitten." Large hands maneuvered as easily as if she were indeed a teacup sized cat. Her back was tucked in the space between his chest and left arm so she faced inward and toward the center of the little circle that had formed around the Dark Lord. His legs framed her own, and he slipped his fingers into a slit she hadn't noticed. Was it more transfiguration or was Hermione too distant from her reality to note every detail? Either prospect further unsettled her.