crumple - dramione

eight

"If you are so eager to keep the mudblood to yourself, then it occurs to me that you must surely be willing to pay a price for the privilege of exclusivity. For the privilege of being the only one to hurt her, and use her, and make her grovel and beg," the Dark Lord croons, lipless smile creasing his ashen skin. Hermione ducks her head to avoid those vicious, cruel eyes, feeling flayed raw under Voldemort's gaze, and the stares of the handful of Death Eaters who sit and lounge around the hall, watching with a lazy kind of interest. It is only the beginning of the revel, and Hermione thinks that Malfoy dragging her in here, half-naked and leashed, is the most exciting thing that has happened this evening. Yet. "For the right to be the only one she names Master. Are you, Draco, my boy? Are you willing to pay a price?"

"Yes," Malfoy says without a moment of hesitation, nearly too eager, and Hermione can feel his eyes burning down into her with a raw need that she hopes Voldemort will read into what he expects – hate instead of the desire to protect. She stiffens though, afraid. Voldemort's prices are always too high, and she doesn't want him to be hurt again. Malfoy's feet shift beside her – black shoes shining in her peripheral vision – and the chain leash jangles faintly as he adjusts his grip. "Yes, my Lord. I want to be the only one she weeps for. The only one she begs to stop. I want to own her," he grates, his hand tugging at the leash and Hermione gasps fruitlessly for air, choking and gagging as the collar digs in. She rears up off her elbows, like a dog dragged onto its hind legs, retching and flailing, fingers curling over the collar and mindlessly trying to wrench it away, to stop it from choking her.

Please, she tries to gasp. Please. But she can't breathe. Can't...can't speak. She tries to get up, but something strikes the backs of her knees and she goes down again, bare knees slamming into the hardwood floor. She would cry out at the pain, only she can't get the breath to. Her head feels hot and swollen, ears too full, and pulse sluggish but consuming – thump...thump...thump...thump. Tears streak her cheeks and inside her head she begs as she sputters wordless. Then the leash goes slack, and she slumps to a pile at Malfoy's feet, choking and gasping and sobbing, fingertips clutching and scrabbling at the ground as her nose runs and her tears drip and she drools and sputters. "And I want to control the bitch, body and soul," Malfoy finishes, satisfaction dark in his voice, and Hermione reminds herself that he's just trying to be convincing, because it is their lives at stake, always their lives are in his hands and he has to be convincing. She knows that he is only acting – she trusts him, damnit, but always, always in her dazed panic it gets so hard to separate fact from fiction.

Her eyes flick upwards in the ensuing silence, and she sees Voldemort's inhuman grin widen further as he stares down from his throne of bodies into Malfoy's face. "I can...understand that desire, my boy. That desire to be the only one. But attachment – even the attachment of hatred – can lead to weakness. If she is yours and yours alone, perhaps you will become...fond of her, like one might become fond of a House Elf. One might be persuaded to pity such a creature, especially when the creature tries to curry one's favour, to be obedient and good in order to avoid your wrath. One could become...confused." Malfoy is still and silent beside Hermione. Silence is safest, sometimes. The Dark Lord smiles.

"So, Draco, I will help you remember your respective places – slave and master – by first reversing the roles and letting the Mudblood play at owning you." Hermione freezes, blood running cold because does that mean what she thinks it does? "And you will see that a slave can only ever hate, and a master can only ever hurt, because the Mudblood will illustrate its hate by hurting you in vengeance for what you have done to it up until now, and you will feel the hurt and hate it for that, and remember." No. She can't do that. She can't hurt him. She can't... Hermione trembles on the ground, the lace French knickers she wears itching at her, and the bones of the corset digging into her flesh, the collar around her neck heavy and painful on the developing bruises Malfoy caused before, the feel of it making her want to panic when combined with the suffocating constriction of the corset. She can't.