Within and Without

One

Warning! Suggestive themes: violence, smut and language.

I do not own Harry Potter.
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"Your breakfast sir," Hermione said softly, setting the tray down on the nightstand. Her master sat up in bed, somehow still powerful and foreboding even in his silk pajamas. That pale strip of a chiseled chest seemed to glisten in the morning light. She was careful not to stare, and after months of seeing this she shouldn't be so enticed by this sight but she was. "Today's meal is steak, egg whites, roasted veg and toast. And of course, a nice, hot cup of Earl grey." This, she learned, was his favorite and she thought it was a good idea to serve on his birthday.

Her master seemed pleased. He was silent which generally meant he could find no fault in her cooking and presentation. Calmly she stood, her head full of chestnut curls slightly bowed as she peeked at him through the curtain of her hair. His own hair was long, slightly mussed from sleep. The blue black tint reminding Hermione of a raven's wing. It framed his jaw and obstructed the view of his large aquiline nose. He looked so stern all the time that one could easily write off how handsome he was. But it was something she had grown to see while she was here in captivity. Six months and two days of being his own personal slave. Hardly any contact with the outside world. She had been reduced to the station of a house elf.

No, less than that. At least an elf could use magic.

"Do you require anything else sir?" She asked, arms folded behind her back. Normally she just went on with her chores for the day, but she always asked.

His smooth, baritone voice filled the room as he spoke, "Draw a bath for me." It was simple, but it struck a chord within her regardless. "And have the shampoo ready, I want you to wash my hair."

"Y-Yes sir," Hermione stammered, wincing with regret at showing her nervousness and anxiety. Not that his request wasn't a simple one. She had just never done that before. Wash his hair for him. Quiet feet padded across the plush rugs and hardwood floors of the master bedroom. As she reached the bathroom and more importantly the clawfoot tub and turned the knob to start the bath, the sound of the rushing water brought her back in time to six months before. On the night when she had been dumped on his doorstep.

A prize for one of the Dark Lord's most loyal followers.

She'd been tortured, used and abused, starved. Left to wallow in her own blood, sweat, tears and waste. Only the unforgiving torrent of rain kept her from remaining covered in her filth. And then he opened the door and looked down at her frail form with cold, unfeeling orbs. She hated him then. The sour taste of betrayal rose up her throat as she gazed upon her new master. Hermione couldn't bear that she had been so wrong. So many times she had defended him to Harry and Ron. Had tried to rationalize his dubious actions.

And it was all in vain.

He was a spy. Just not for the side of light. And now she had to serve him. Hermione knew she should be grateful that he had not hurt her since she landed on his doorstep. Of the slaves, she was a lucky one. She was healthy and aside from the skimpy attire she was required to wear, she wasn't nearly suffering as much as girls like Luna and Ginny. She'd only seen them once though. At a poker game her master held, although the details of that night were blurred. Shaking her head, she noticed the tub had filled to an acceptable level while she was musing. Hermione sighed, breathing in the sandalwood that was signature to her master's scent.

Hermione was not aware when or how it happened. But her hatred of this man had transformed into a twisted admiration. One she kept hidden, of course. She knew he would view it as comically pathetic. And it was. Muggles called it Stockholm syndrome. Except, Hermione liked to believe it was simply her past feelings colliding with the tumultuous emotions her current situation gave her. She was left with a messy cocktail of confusion, infatuation, frustration and resignation.

"Is the bath ready?" His words cut through her thoughts like a knife and Hermione nearly jumped out of her skin in shock.

She averted her gaze, "Yes sir."

There was the slightest bit of rustling as he presumably disrobed. "Look at me," he demanded and when she did, Hermione couldn't hold back a gasp. He was stark naked. And Merlin, he looked delicious. Standing at six foot three, he was two hundred and something pounds of lean muscle. Scars dotting all over his flesh, which to Hermione made him look rugged. And his cock....If it was this big flaccid.....sweet Merlin....

She knew her face had to be maroon by now. Hermione had never witnessed a man in all his glory like that. Well, scratch that, she'd seen Harry. Hunched over in the tent and moaning Ginny's name, but that was nothing like what she was experiencing right now. He smirked at her response, stalking towards her as she turned her body to keep from looking. Her breath hitched when his strong hands slithered along her frame, skimming her breast and resting on her shoulders. What was he doing? Surely he wouldn't—? In all this time he had never exercised his 'right' to violate her. He had never required her to service him sexually either. Even the majority of the lingerie he made her wander around in was modest. For a while Hermione considered that he might be a monk of sorts. But hopefully she was wrong. As wrong as she was for hoping that.

"I think I want you naked today," He purred, causing Hermione to shiver as he pulled both straps over her shoulders and let gravity do the rest. She was nude now, her whole body covered in a faint blush. She waited for him to do or say something else to her. But oddly enough he didn't. He just got in the tub, groaning quietly as he did which reminded Hermione of how tired he seemed lately. As if he still carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. And that was confusing as well. He wasn't a spy anymore and life was very good for Voldemort's top Death Eater. A voice broke through her thoughts:

"Get in."