This chapter, as well as the next two are HEAVY on the dark. There will be individual trigger warnings on each chapter, but do be aware that there is torture, horrific things being said, Death Eater behavior, a scene where Draco and Hermione have to "pretend" while everyone's watching. It's very dark, so I just want to prepare you!
Trigger warnings: allusions to high possibility of rape, allusions to future torture
Chapter Eighteen
Hermione feels strange.
When she looks at Malfoy, she sees a monster that her heart does not. Her heart sees the Malfoy she knows–the one she's grown attached to. She has to remind herself that he didn't do those things to her. That he never would. The weight of all these memories keeps her heart pinned to the floor. It's so horrible of a feeling that when she bathes before getting ready, she washes her body four times before she has to stop scrubbing. It had started to hurt.
She goes into her wardrobe and pulls out the glittering black dress robes that have been there since the night she came here. Upon doing so, she realizes it's not a set of dress robes–it's an evening gown. She glances it over. It looks very expensive. The black fabric glitters like the night, each sparkle looking like an individual star. It's A-line with chiffon cap sleeves and a neckline that plunges to just above her belly button. She's never seen anything like it in the wizarding world. It might not be the type of dress that Pureblood would want to see.
That's why she's going to wear it.
The dress glides on over her russet brown skin with ease, molding to her curves in a way she's never seen before. There's a slit in the skirt that goes to her upper thigh, and her leg looks kilometers long. She stares at herself for a good amount of time before she starts her make-up, wondering if this dress will be the one she dies in.
Once she finishes her make-up, she stands up, bends at the waist, and uses the help of gravity to drag all of her braids up to the top of her head. She clamps them together with one hand and uses it to twist them all into an elegant bun at the top of her head. She works some nonmagic-magic and uses a couple of the braids to secure the bun. The last touch is a pair of simple diamond earrings that she thinks probably cost a fortune. She stares at herself again, finding that she's catching her own eye.
This is the first time she's found herself beautiful. And not just the generic beauty your mother says you have. The kind-of beauty that everyone can see. It makes her sad, knowing that beneath that beauty lies the nightmarish memories that she's being forced to carry in her head all night.
Hermione selects a pair of black heeled shoes and heads out of the room. She's assuming they're taking the upstairs Floo, so she heads toward the stairs, which she'll have to pass on the way. As she does, she stares at the ground, lost in the terrible reverie. She hopes Voldemort doesn't kill her. She wants to experience at least a second more on this Earth after Malfoy takes the memories and locks them away so she can have her real ones back.
"Fuck."
Hermione stops. Malfoy's just stepped onto the carpet from ascending the stairs.
He looks...Handsome. He's wearing his Death Eater robes, open over a pair of black slack trousers, a black button-up with the top two buttons undone, and a black belt. His shoes are ones she's never seen, black and made of dragonskin leather. His hair is pushed back, with a few strands that seem to ignore his wishes and fall into his eyes. She catches sight of his hands and notices a large black ring on one of them–she thinks it might be a family heirloom due to its appearance. She's so busy ogling him that she doesn't notice that his eyes have been glued to her body the whole time.
She feels a flush of heat rise high on her cheekbones as she stands before him. His gaze travels over every part of her that it can, from her braids to her face, to her shoulders, to her chest, to her waist, to her hips, and finally, to the leg that's peeking out from the slit.
His eyes snap to meet hers.
"Ready to go?"
She doesn't miss the way his voice hitches halfway through the sentence.
"No. But we've got no choice."
She follows him to the Floo room in her platform heels, surprised that she still remembers how to walk in heels in the first place. She only wore them three or four times through her school years. That time feels so far away now.
When they get into the room, she doesn't realize Malfoy's stopped a few paces away. He's still taller than her, her head only coming to his shoulders. She feels his touch, gentle on her arm.
She still flinches.
She spins to face him, her memories telling her to run away. She works to remind herself who she's looking at. Which Malfoy it is.
"We can't...Act the way we do. Do you understand? No bickering. No arguing. If it looks like you've got an ounce of insolence or defiance in your body, then the witch in your memories won't match."
But she doesn't match, she wants to say. I'm not her.
"Okay," she says instead.
"As far as they know, you're someone I've severely brutalized in the name of rivalry."
"But I don't have any bruises. Won't that be suspicious?"
Malfoy frowns down at her, looking pensive. "There's a spell."
"Okay, let's do it."
"It's Dark Magic."
Hermione's eyebrows rise. "All right. I don't like the sound of that. But I don't want to risk anything. What is it?"
"It will form wounds on your body. Bruises and cuts. But you'll feel everything."
She purses her lips. She wishes she could think about it and have the option to say no, but she doesn't. Neither of them have much choice in anything right now. Short of him beating the senses out of her right now, this is all they have to work with.
"Do it," she says.
He Apparates away and then returns with a small leather-bound black book. The front cover is adorned with a large snake decal that looks to be made of sterling silver. The snake's eyes are emerald. Hermione watches him flipping through the pages. He settles on one, scans it, then snaps the book shut.
"Ready?"
Hermione's never liked Dark Magic. Dark Magic is what turns otherwise decent wizards into villains. It's dangerous and it's wrong–a perversion of natural magic.
But this is a new world, and they need to do this spell.
Malfoy lifts his wand, arm outstretched as he points it at her. He whispers the incantation, his wand whipping through the air with the proper motions. Hermione feels something cold spreading over her body, creeping into all of the crevices and depths. It covers her skin and intensifies until it hurts, and keeps going past that. Hermione gasps, blindly reaching behind her for the back of the nearest armchair as the pain swells to an almost unbearable amount.
She wants to scream.
Cuts are appearing in several places, even places hidden by her dress. Bruises form everywhere, smattering her brown skin with splotches of various shades of dark, angry red. She closes her eyes, lowering her head to bear the feeling. Against her wishes, she sees one of the false memories as clear as day behind her closed eyes, where the false Malfoy is beating her.
She can almost imagine that's how she got the bruises.
"We had to do that," Malfoy says when the spell is over and she's left with the aching and stinging cuts dripping with blood. He vanished the book. Hermione then watches him strengthen his Occlusion against his hunger in real-time, his eyes trained upon one of the cuts that appeared above her breast. "The bruises will be more believable."
Hermione swallows past her nausea. She knows he's right but she can't stop the feeling of terror that she has when she looks upon him. She can feel his hands, beating her and pinning her down. Whipping her and—
"Hey," he says, tone sharp. "It's okay to get lost in it for the sake of tonight, but the second we get home, I'm stuffing those memories so far back into your head that you won't be able to pull them out again without my help. Do you understand me?"
She nods, surprised at the level of vitriol in his voice. She tries to change the subject, to distract from how much pain she's in.
"How are you hiding your fangs?"
"I used a glamour," he says.
"Okay. That makes sense." She winces, holding a hand to her stomach. It hurts. "Tell me what else I need to know."
"Remember your role and who you're pretending to be. Eyes on the ground. Never speak without being directly asked to. Do everything I tell you to do, because if you don't, they'll expect me to punish you." His jaw tightens. "I don't want to do that."
"Okay." Her voice has gotten smaller.
She'll have no choice but to get lost in the false memories. If she doesn't, it won't be believable. She has to let herself be scared of him. To let herself be the false Hermione, beaten, broken, and violated.
"Flinching, whimpering, crying, pleading...It all solidifies the believability. Do not drop pretense, not even for a second. Everyone is watching me, therefore they'll be watching you. This is a room full of men who find enjoyment in the pain and violation of others–nearly all of them have a prisoner they treat like a slave. They need to believe that's how I treat you, too."
"Okay."
"When I speak to you and of you, I can't be kind. I have to say the absolute worst, most revolting things I can think of. Some of it might frighten you. Just remember I don't mean any of it."
"Okay," she says again, looking at his neck because she doesn't want to look up into the eyes of the person the false memories are telling her destroyed her.
"And Granger..." She sees his throat move. "If something happens and I'm forced to hurt you in front of them...There's nothing I can do to stop that from happening. All I can do is try to figure out ways to make it less horrible."
It's not possible for her to feel more nauseous. "You mean...A demonstration?"
"Unfortunately."
"Like what's in the false memories."
"Yes. I may have to...What I mean to say is that if they make me crucio you, or beat you, or break a bone...I'll have to do it. There won't be a way out."
"And if you have to do worse?"
She glances down and sees that his fist has clenched at his side.
"I'll do everything I can to keep you safe."
She doesn't know what that means. He doesn't have the power to do that, and he knows it. If the Dark Lord tells him to curse her, he has to do it. If the Dark Lord tells him to beat her, cut her, burn her, he has to do it.
If he tells him to rape her...
"I won't do it." Fury swirls in his voice.
"You might have to."
"No."
"Malfoy." She finally looks up at him, unable to keep the misery out of her eyes. "You might not have a choice."
He takes a step toward her, a glint in his eyes that makes her heart race.
"I won't."
"You'll do what you have to do to keep us safe. Because whether you like it or not, whether you care about me or not, we are in this together. I don't want to feel like I'm there alone."
"Granger, you underestimate me."
Her brows twitch in curiosity. The look on his face is menacing.
"I'm a Slytherin. I just created an entirely different life in your mind that's affecting your perception of the real me. I've fooled the most powerful Legilimens in the world into thinking that version of this life is real." He raises his eyebrows. "You think I can't figure out a way?"
"Can you? Because if you can, it's going to be the only thing I have to hold onto." It's her turn for her voice to be flat. "As it is right now, I've resigned myself to–"
His hand finds her chin and forces her to look up at him.
"Do not resign yourself, Granger. If you do anything that I tell you to do, do this. It doesn't matter what happens, or what they make me do. Under no circumstances are you to forget who and what you are."
The word Gryffindor hangs heavy in the air between them.
"I'll have to t-trust you." She stumbles over the word, because placing trust in Draco Malfoy of all wizards is the scariest thing she's ever done.
"Yes, you will. Now, let's go before we're late."
They take a few steps toward the Floo before once again, he stops her. His hand is gentle on her elbow as he turns her around. He's looking somewhere in the distance off to the right, like it pains him to do otherwise. Slowly, he drops his gaze down to her face, where it pins her lungs in place with its intensity.
"You look beautiful."
Every single hair on her body stands upright. She can already feel the heat rushing up to her face, where it seems to like to be these days.
Malfoy thinks she looks beautiful. Malfoy just told her she was.
She's never been called beautiful before.
"Thank you," she whispers.
He swallows and she can see the nervousness in places Occlusion can't reach. In the tightness of his jaw. The faint shaking of his hands. His stiff movements, like he's afraid to touch her. The way he keeps reaching up to rub the back of his neck.
"Hey," she tells him right as he tosses down the Floo powder. He looks down at her. "Get it together, Slytherin."
His lips curl up into a smirk so nostalgic it's painful to look at it.
"Charon Castle," he says, and the green flames of the Floo consume them.
And they're gone.
-
Charon Castle is surprisingly less dreary than she thought it would be. The Dark Lord seems to have a taste for dark Ancient Roman artwork and decor that looks sinister. Aside from that, it looks like any old castle. She can't tell its size because they'd entered through the Floo, but if the height of the ceilings are of any indication, it's larger than the Dark Lord deserves.
When they step out of the Floo and onto hard black marble, Hermione works as hard as she can to don the role of the false Hermione that Malfoy created. She makes sure to stay a couple of steps behind him and lowers her gaze, trusting his feet to lead her in the correct direction. She holds onto her own fingers, her hands hovering over her stomach. She allows herself to soak in the pain of her bruises and cuts, letting it drag her spirits down further instead of trying to withstand it. Her heels click against the floor, echoing with every step. Malfoy doesn't say anything to her, and she doesn't say anything to him.
They round a corner and she sneaks a glance upward. This corridor is longer, and it leads to a massive set of double doors. The wood is dark, a reminder of what she's walking into. There's no one in this hallway, either, which worries her.
They're late.
The closer they get to the double doors that lead to the throne room, the faster Hermione's heart beats and the deeper fear digs its claws in. She wishes they could stop, to take one last deep breath before they go in, but they can't. This is it. They're here, and there's no going back.
As they reach the doors, they open with loud, screeching tweaks, swinging outward toward them as though Malfoy's presence was all that was needed. The doors open to the hugest room Hermione's ever seen. It's bigger than the Great Hall in Hogwarts. There's a long black carpet that stretches down the center of the room, leading right to a small set of stairs. At the top of those stairs sits a large throne. There are things carved into the stone on every part of it, and the back of the chair tapers up into a razor-sharp point.
In the throne sits the Dark Lord.
He looks no different than the last time she saw him, wearing the same billowing black robes. But this time, she doesn't have an army backing her up. She only has herself, and Draco Malfoy. Like this, vulnerable and at his mercy, the Dark Lord looks like a red-eyed demon. There's a nonchalant air about him, his chin resting in his hand as he watches the assembly with a boredom Hermione doesn't like. A boredom she worries might only be satisfied by violence.
There are people gathered to either side of the long black carpet, Death Eaters and other witches and wizards. Some have masks, some don't. Anyone not in Death Eater regalia is dressed formally, as though they're going to a ball. She catches sight of Carrow and Lucius, standing beside each other to the right of the throne. To the left of it, Bellatrix Lestrange and Antonin Dolohov. Everyone's eyes are on them–Hermione can feel the heat of their gazes burning into her. She drops her own gaze quickly, not wanting to mess up before they've even begun.
When they reach the throne, Malfoy sinks down to one knee on the carpet a few meters from the stairs. Hermione's quick to drop to one knee, too, lowering her head and focusing on the sound of her own breathing.
"My Lord," Malfoy says, and it's a different voice. A voice edged in ruthlessness and dipped in cruelty, belonging to yet another version of Malfoy. One that she doesn't recognize. "Forgive our lateness."
"No doubt the fault of the Mudblood," comes a familiar hissing voice. Bellatrix. "Dressed up like a beast in lipstick. Filthy."
"It's quite all right, Draco," Voldemort says, sounding faintly amused. "Even a Malfoy slave must dress to impress."
Malfoy doesn't say anything. Hermione stares at the carpet beneath her, trying to keep herself upright on her knee. Her bruises ache.
"So, this is the elusive Hermione Granger."
There's a small breeze that washes over her, and then she sees bare feet with grey skin walking around to her side. Voldemort's inspecting her, his robes flowing out around him with his movements. It's horrifically silent for the longest time. No one makes a noise. Not a cough, a sniffle, a cleared throat. Just silence.
"She looks every bit as pitiful as she appeared in your memories, Draco. I'm almost concerned." Voldemort walks back to Hermione's front and stops in front of her. "The pursuit of vengeance need not end in death."
"Forgive me," Malfoy says. "The only thing stronger than my hatred of Mudbloods is my hatred of Potter. I get carried away."
A flash of the memories he created pushes to the front of her mind. She has to watch herself be thrown onto the dining hall table...The couch in the Floo room...The cell beneath the drawing room. She squeezes her eyes shut as though she can wish it away but she knows she can't.
The more vivid the memory, the better.
"Yes, you certainly do," Voldemort says, and it comes out in a catlike purr. "If only the others here had seen what you showed me...They might be surprised. That's why I made the correct choice, promoting you to executioner. You have an understanding of pain that many others don't have. How to use it to get the answers I want."
Hermione doesn't want to think about what Malfoy looks like when he's torturing people.
"It's a shame you didn't come to me sooner," Voldemort goes on. "Had you brought Potter's Mudblood to me sooner, I would not have had to punish you last night. I know you've felt the pain of the Cruciatus one too many times...But, provided you're telling the truth, I can forgive you this transgression."
Suddenly, the tip of the Elder wand is at the underside of Hermione's chin, dragging her head up. She keeps her eyes down, maintaining as even of breath as she can. She can feel Voldemort inspecting her face.
"I'm quite impressed. Her face has been left intact. And her hair...So intricate. You allowed her to spend time on it?"
Hermione holds her breath.
Malfoy is quick.
"She's my property," he says simply. "I'll have her look how I wish."
"Yes. I had forgotten about your spoiled nature. Your father made it clear that you also like to keep your toys to yourself."
"I do not like to share, my Lord."
"And you shan't have to." Hermione feels a small modicum of relief. "Provided you've told me the truth."
Suddenly, her head is on fire. Dark, jagged tendrils of magic stab into her mind, tearing it apart and consuming the memories Malfoy created greedily. Making her watch them over and over. Making her watch herself cry and plead and bleed. Watch Malfoy breaking her.
She only realizes she's been screaming when he rips his magic out of her mind and her throat is hoarse. She collapses onto the floor, holding her upper body upright with her hands. Gasping for air, she tries to think past the pain that pounds through her skull. Spots of black and white sparkle across her vision.
"I find myself surprised at your capabilities, Draco." Voldemort turns and sweeps back to his throne. He sits down in another flutter of robes, resting his hands on the arms of the chair. "I've seen you kill. I've seen you torture. I haven't seen you tear apart someone's soul. I'm very impressed, and quite intrigued."
"Thank you, my Lord."
"I'm highly inclined to let you keep her long-term."
Hermione closes her eyes against the headache, wishing he would stop talking, that the torches would go out. She needs darkness. The light hurts.
"My Lord, if I may." Hermione knows that voice well–Dolohov. "You've been searching for her for so long. And you said it yourself–her public execution would extinguish any lingering hopes of a rebellion in the people. Even if you forgive Malfoy for what he's hidden from you, would letting her live not inspire rebellion to continue to brew?"
"An excellent point, Antonin," Voldemort says. "I have wanted to see this particular Mudblood dead. However, as of right now, whispers of Hermione Granger's whereabouts have completely ceased. Should she stay hidden, no spark of rebellion will ignite. But I find that after having seen what Draco's done to her, this punishment is more appropriate."
"Perhaps if you allowed us to see the memories, my Lord." This voice belongs to someone she can't see, but that she can tell is in the assembly to the right of her. "Then we would understand your line of thinking."
Bellatrix giggles and it's awful. "If there's anything I'd like to see, it's ickle muddy being ripped apart from the inside out."
"I don't think the Mudblood would be able to withstand so many people inside of her head. It might kill her, and that would ruin Draco's fun, wouldn't it?"
"I prefer her lucid, my Lord," Malfoy says. "I enjoy the screaming, and the knowledge that she knows who's doing this to her."
Nausea roils within Hermione's already cavernous stomach.
Malfoy would never. He would never find enjoyment in doing that to her.
She has to remember that.
"I shall give my final verdict, and then me and my closest circle will adjourn to a meal. Draco can bring his slave, and that is where we can discuss further."
Hermione closes her eyes. She doesn't want to know what he means by that, nor what's going to happen to her in that room.
"A wise decision, my Lord." Lucius says this, sounding smug. "I would love to have a taste of the pain she's endured...Even if it's been caused by my son."
She's gonna be sick.
"Your depravity never ceases to amuse me, Lucius," Voldemort says. "Very well. I think those who have taken the time to come out today deserve a small reward. Don't you agree, Draco?"
Hermione counts her breaths, knowing what's about to happen is going to be exactly what they discussed. What they knew would have to happen. And she's scared. She's terrified, but she knows it's necessary.
Or they'll take her away from him.
"Absolutely, my Lord. What would you have me do?"