Azael's Chains

Darkness

"Please, sit. We are all friends here after all." He'd arrived silently and alone, sweeping into his sweat as his wand cut through the air and dragged the occupied chairs nearer, the empty backing against the far wall. "Miss Granger, how lovely to see you again."

She grimaced a smile. "Thanks." It was decidedly not lovely to see him.

Bloody red eyes trailed over her form like ants crawling down her skin. "Green suits you. But then, I have heard you're a cunning little thing. Orchestrating rebellion via coins with Protean Charm? And that little stunt to rid yourself of the ministry plant. You're lucky you were still a child at the time or no doubt the centaurs would have preferred your company to hers."

The insinuation roiled her stomach unpleasantly. "I did what I had to do," Hermione said more to herself to assuage the hint of regret that tinged her mind. Umbridge had been a nightmare: abusive and cowardly and willfully ignorant, all the worst sins to her Gryffindor palate.

"Self-preservation is quite a Slytherin trait as well."

Her eyes hardened to amber resin. "It wasn't all for me." Though Sirius had died that night, and the battle had been utter chaos.

"Ah, yes." His low, soft voice was insidious in its surface benignity. "You were coming to the rescue of Harry Potter's godfather. Ironic given how events unfolded that night." The words seethed beneath her skin. "That was the night you first sparked Antonin's interest, was it not?"

"It was the night Dolohov cursed me, yes," she ground out, chasing the words with a swallow of whiskey.

A hissed reproach followed. "That is not how you should refer to your master, Miss Granger. Has Antonin not seen fit to teach you manners?"

"My mother saw to that just fine, thank you." Her jaw clicked shut at the last, eyes widening as it hit her what she'd said. The alcohol. Blast it. She needed to slow down her drinking.

"I doubt muggle parents imparted the proper attitude property should have to her master," the Dark Lord countered.

"Freedom is the alone unoriginated birthright of man, and belongs to him by force of his-- or her -- humanity. I have no master." She glanced aside to take his reaction and, far from seeming angered, a sly smile had flit across his lipless mouth.

"Kant? Ah, but you are a well-read thing. However, Kant was mistaken. Only those with the strength to assert their freedom deserve it. You, Miss Granger, failed in that respect." He considered her with that serpent gaze of his, too still and too predatory for humanity himself. "Perhaps we shall teach you to accept your place in this new world. As you are such a clever little mudblood, you should prove a good example."

Fear was a knife through the placid fuzz of alcohol. "I--" There was no way to reel the words back inside her mouth.

"Draco." The boy's attention snapped to his master as all attempt to feign distance waned from him. "You have an interest in Miss Granger, do you not?"

"My Lord?" His voice was reedy with uncertainty.

"I'm not judging you, dear boy," the wizard crooned. "No, I quite agree that she is a sumptuous little mouthful for a mudblood. I can see how one like her might tempt those of even the purest blood. Oh, calm yourself, Lucius. I'm not suggesting he breed with her." The glint in his eye set off warning bells in the primal part of her mind that was still wary of the night. "However, I've found such desires can be fuel for the Dark Arts."

Claws of nothing ripped Hermione from her seat and crashed her to her knees on the hard marble before Voldemort, the tumbler flying from her hand and shattering to shower her in small slivers of glass and liquor.

"We shall endeavor to teach you, mudblood, that magic is might and gives us the right to rule over those like you." She saw his wand flick this time, flinching into herself to prepare, but pain did not come. Instead, air prickled at her bare flesh and Hermione threw her arms over her breasts. "Ah-ah, mudblood." Her wrists wrenched behind her back and joined there, bound. "Now, how should you address Antonin Dolohov?"

Galleon wide eyes flicked between the men of the room, from Lucius' cool indifference to Draco's incredulity to Lord Voldemort's cruel delight. Spots of rose marred the porcelain of her classmate's cheeks and she could feel heat reflected in her own. She knew what he wanted, but her voice was frozen in her throat, tongue heavy with mortification.

"Disappointing. Draco?"

"My lord?"

"The Cruciatus, if you would."

Silver eyes locked with hers, a line appearing between his brows. He doesn't want to curse me. It was no balm to know he was nearly as much a victim as the Dark Lord's whims as her own; there was no choice.

The red curse hit her, flooding her with a pain she could never quite forget, nor never quite believe. Even Draco Malfoy's less potent Unforgivable lit fire to her nerves so all she saw was the red of her own blood in her mind, the red of the hot spell, and the red of Voldemort's eyes as he drank in the sight. Every muscle tensed, every joint contorted, and screams poured from her mouth like bitter red wine.

She was somehow still on her knees when she came back to herself, slumped forward and panting shards of air through her lungs.

"How would you rate Draco's performance, Miss Granger?" A slick black boot toed at her forehead and Hermione blinked the world into focus and rolled her torso back over her hips.

"It fucking hurt," she wheezed.

"Is that the proper way to address your master's lord? Try again."

Her eyes rolled up to meet the hated creature's. "It fucking hurt, my lord. "

His chuckle was low and played across the room in an eerie tumble. "The right words at least, overlooking the vulgarity. But such attitude. Again, Draco."

When Hermione came to the next time she was on her side, curls matted to her sweat-soaked skin. She coughed through attempts to breathe and something wet splattered the floor beside her cheek.

"Isn't she a sight like this?" Soft leather stroked against her spine and Hermione dizzily swept her eyes about until she came to the realization that her body laid with her head to the Dark Lord and her feet toward the fire; and that was his leather boot petting her sticky flesh. It was a syrupy, heavy thought, and it was wrong, wrong, wrong.

"Dolohov," she panted, "doesn't want anyone touching me."

Her scalp seared as her head was jerked up to knee-height by Voldemort's wretched hand. "I am not anyone, mudblood. I am Lord Voldemort, and you live only because I have allowed it. I could kill you now and Dolohov would have no choice but to accept your pitiful death. I could fuck you in front of him and order him to watch. I could maim you, brand you, do anything I wish and no one could gainsay it. You receive such tender care at your master's benevolence, and he is allowed the opportunity only at my own."

The words teemed in her ears, each hiss a nail against her eardrums, and waves of electrical pain flushed through her head and neck from his cruel fist.

"This is not your world, little mudblood. The sooner you accept your new position, the less pain you will endure in the learning." He shoved her away from him, her limbs splaying brokenly across the reflective marble. Hermione laid there staring into the fire and steeped in pain as the Dark Lord returned to his drink.