Secrets and Masks

05. A talented little Mudblood

12th December

Hermione's throat was sore. Merlin, it was fucking sore. She didn't think she'd ever screamed this much in her life.

Her wrists were cut. Blood trickled down her arms as she thrashed against the metal restraints he'd bound her with again and again to no avail.

She'd tried to fight with every fibre of her being to get away from the Demon mask. She'd tried to head butt him, kick him, even bite him as he'd roughly yanked her to her feet and dragged her across the field. She'd gotten a few good shots in; a satisfied smirk on her face when he'd lifted her onto the dragons back, putting her in the perfect position to kick him in the chest with the flats of both her feet.

The smirk vanished, however, when he'd retaliated with a very ungentle Stupefy between her eyes.

She'd been mostly unconscious after that. She'd woken a few times, jolted awake by the thunderous clap of reptilian wings, but it was only temporary. Her eyelids always fluttered closed before she could get a grasp on her surroundings.

Hermiones senses - and her fight - started to return when the city of York came into view some hours later. She was still a little groggy when the dragon circled the cathedral, but by the time it landed on the cobbled streets, she was wide awake.

The Demon Mask curled his fingers around Hermiones restraints, pulling her right alongside him as he slid off Black Shadows back. He cast a charm on her chains, loosening them just enough to allow her to walk.

Not that she had any intention of doing so.

As soon as he started to drag her along, Hermione dug her heels into the ground and pulled back. They struggled for a moment or two, but eventually the Demon Mask huffed, and cast a wordless hex that knocked the air from Hermiones lungs. She collapsed from the intensity of it, but the Demon didnt seem to care; just grabbed the chains around her shoulders, and dragged her backward through the streets.

The exact location of Voldemort's base had never been known to The Order. They knew it was somewhere in the North Yorkshire area, somewhere easily accessible with plenty of Floo connections. They guessed it was somewhere elaborate and ostentatious, but he moved so often it was nearly impossible to pinpoint the exact whereabouts.

Thinking back now, Hermione was furious that she didn't realize it before. York Cathedral; what an obvious place for his centre of operation. It was the perfect stadium; large, regal, a demonstration of his strength and wealth. The perfect place to showcase his growing power. The high, jewelled windows and lustrous gold trimmings were sure to allure new recruits, seducing them with mirages of riches and power. It sang of all the promises his loyal followers could attain, if they served their mighty lord well, of course.

Maybe Voldemort considered himself a king amongst his loyal dogs. He never seemed the type for jewels and gold before, but greed and illusions of grandeur always did do interesting things to the mind.

The cathedral itself was breath-taking. Hermione didn't think she'd ever seen a place so grand, even before the war. It was undeniably bursting with magical energy; a fortress of solid beauty and endless possibilities. Even if it was warped by Voldemort's repugnant influence, it still was quite bewitching to behold. As she was dragged across the floor and the stone cut into her legs, she couldn't help but think how truly magnificent the building was. A triumph to Muggle architecture. It was no wonder Voldemort wanted to make it his own, manipulate it to show that Wizarding folk were vastly superior.  Even though the silk tapestries were replaced with dark curtains, and the images of Christ were transfigured into  serpents, it still took Hermione's breath away.