Azael's Chains

Order

"Good morning, kitten." Red light beat through her closed lids and Hermione tossed a forearm across her face to block out the sun. "Wake up, lovely girl. We are having company today. Isn't that exciting?"

Adrenaline spiked from her teeth to her toes and Hermione shot upright.

"There she is." Dolohov stroked a loose lock behind her ear, his finger too loud as it ran down the curve of cartilage. "Just a few people, love. Severus and a few others you might know, new Death Eaters who require mentorship."

"I don't want to see them."

"Now, kitten, that is no way for a proper hostess to act," he chided. "You are the mistress of this manor and you will behave appropriately toward our guests.

"I am not your wife," she snapped.

A vice tightened on her forearm. "You are mine , and that is the essence of a wife, is it not? Ah, you believe a marriage is a partnership. There is only one way to be anything near that now, pet, and I don't think you have the wherewithal to do that." He looked between her eyes. "Not yet. Now go make yourself presentable."

He wrenched her from the bed and she stumbled against the cold floor, catching herself on the little side table.

Hermione wanted to take her time. She was covered in bites and bruises from Dolohov's regular "affection" and part of her hoped she could scrub them from herself, or perhaps obscure them if only she could get deep enough. However, Dolohov's insistent waking bespoke imperative. He would lack patience if she pushed.

Once towelled off, she shrugged into the bathrobe hung on the door and peeked into the room. He was gone, though he'd left a dress spread across her bed. It was a red sundress covered in little white flowers; no sleeves, sweetheart neckline, hanging just above her knees when she tugged it overhead. Angry red circles and plum purple smears marred her throat, chest, and shoulders. Additional purple, blue, and banana-bruise brown speckled her arms and legs.

There was nothing for it. He had chosen the dress to show her battered body, she was sure. Whenever he spotted his work on her, he exuded pleasure. So Hermione slipped on the low red heels he'd set at the foot of the bed and clicked her way to the dining room.

"Ah, here she is. As I said, Severus, my pet was just getting up for the day." He stalked to her, grey eyes darting over every blemish he'd placed, nearly purring as he kissed her cheek. "You look lovely."

She was staring behind him where Snape's black eyes were watching with unvoiced disdain. Beside him was Blaise Zabini, and in yet the next seat...

Michael Corner was a member of Dumbledore's Army. He'd spoken out in favor of helping Harry at the battle. Why is he here as a supposed Death Eater?

The Ravenclaw grimaced at her examination, reading the direction of her thoughts.

"Miss Granger." That was the whole of Snape's greeting, though he was mapping the markings on her skin, lifting a brow before peering at her face.

"Professor." Dolohov guided her to her seat, acting the gentleman by pulling it out for her.

Zabini had curiosity written across his face, which was much too open considering his new station. "Granger. You look... better than the last time I saw you, I guess." That had been in the Great Hall before McGonegal sent the Slytherins to their dormitory.

She snorted at the unexpected comment. "That really isn't saying much. I was on the brink of starvation after nearly a year on the run."

White teeth flashed in his dark face. "If you didn't look like you'd been mauled by a werewolf I'd have said you look good."