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In the Blood	By : xtp10279 Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Lucius/Hermione Views: 13549 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter series/fandom, nor do I own the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-In the Blood
- 1
Thursday, 21^st January, 1999
A Sex Dungeon in London
Hermione hated the moment when they unbuttoned the leather manacle, clicking the metal prong out of the hole it pierced so comfortably. It was pathetic and it brought the lie to everything that was happening, but of course it was the inevitable, inescapable conclusion to any session. The client must be freed. First her left wrist, then the right, and then down to her ankles.
Hermione’s arms fell limply at her sides. She took a breath, attempting to savour the burn in her thighs, arse and back for one last moment… and then turned, stepping away from the St Andrew’s Cross.
“Thank you,” she said, walking over to the jeans neatly folded on a nearby chair. “That was very satisfactory.”
The dominant nodded, but his lip curled. She didn’t really know or care what the facial tic meant; all she was glad of was that he knew not to make small talk.
She bent over to reach the pocket of her jeans and fished out her wallet. “Two hundred, you said?”
He nodded again. She wondered vaguely if this hurt his pride: the naked woman handing him money with total self-possession, utterly unfazed by all he had done.
“Yes,” he said. “I hope to see you again. I’ve had fun.”
For the sake of politeness, Hermione forced a perfunctory smile. This wasn’t fun for her. It was a purge.
He left. Hermione took a moment to check her injuries in the nearby mirror. The man was good, there was no doubt about that. Cane strokes lay in orderly lines down her arse cheeks, while a sequence of welts ran across the muscles of her back. Curiously, she put two fingers to one of the cane strokes. It hurt. She pushed harder, using her nails.
Again, it hurt, but still she stared back at herself in the mirror, her reflection offering no reaction to the pain, mocking her for even trying.
Realising that there was no point to this, she started dressing. She should be thankful for small mercies. There was no doubt that in the moment of bondage and falling lash that she found a release. Found some sort of escape. And she knew she was lucky to have found this place in muggle London, where no one knew who she was. But still, she wished she didn’t feel so empty once it was over.
It was almost time to leave the dungeon. She only had the room for another couple of minutes. Hurriedly, she began to put her clothes back on. If she got home before eleven, she might have a chance to look over the latest batch of intelligence reports.
A minute later, she pushed the door open and walked out into the corridor. The sound of other sessions in other rooms drifted to her ears: men’s and women’s screams, loud and free and honest. She caught sight of the jealousy in her eyes as she passed another mirror. Glaring deliberately ahead, she walked towards the exit. For some unaccountable reason, this establishment seemed to adore mirrors, lining their corridors with them, as if they added somehow to the eroticism.
Without warning, a flash of blonde drew her attention back to the mirrors. Behind her, turning a corner onto another corridor…
It was him.
Day 1 of Hermione Granger’s Imprisonment
Wednesday, 3^rd June 1998
“Throw her in Malfoy’s cell,” shouted MacNair, his distinctive drawled sadism distinguishable to Lucius even through the metal cell door.
Travers laughed. “Good idea. Old friends should get some reward, even in their disgrace.”
The cell door opened with a spell and a creak. Lucius looked up from his sat position, leant against the stone wall, with his face blank as he regarded his friends.
“Something to keep you entertained, Malfoy,” Travers said, holding up a sack of blood-marred skin and bones by a fistful of bushy hair. “A little mudblood company. We’ve all had her already, of course.”
He hurled the pathetic creature through the door.
“You’ll be out of the doghouse soon,” McNair added. “But in the meantime…”
Lucius allowed the left corner of his mouth to tweak upwards. “How gracious.”
“We’ll be back in the morning.”
Lucius nodded and waited till they were gone before allowing his exasperation to show. Did they really think he was going to rape a mudblood? He’d never had the taste for that. And even if he did, didn’t they realise that he hadn’t had even a scrap of bread for the past three days? As if he had the energy. Still it wouldn’t have done to refuse. Men in his position couldn’t be seen to reject the goodwill of their friends.
But as he watched the hapless blood-covered thing edge slowly away from where she’d been thrown, he couldn’t help the irritated gripe that leapt to mind.
He really didn’t want to have to share his bucket.
Friday, 22^nd January 1999
A Café in Diagon Alley
“Things aren’t right, Hermione. You really seem to be struggling.”
She stared across the table at her friend, wishing she could tell him all that she wanted to. But she had to tell him something. She had to get some of it out or she’d explode.
“I saw him last night. Just walking through London and there he was.”
“Who?”
“Lucius Malfoy.”
Harry scowled immediately. “He shouldn’t be walking free.”
It was an instinctive response and Hermione forgave him for the selfishness of it. “Let’s not have that argument again,” she said, keeping her tone measured.
He closed his eyes and nodded. “You’re right. Sorry. That must have been unimaginably horrible for you.”
“I think about ‘it’ a lot.”
Harry’s face crumpled, causing Hermione to remember all the reasons she never talked about this with him. “It should have been me,” he said, not for the first time. “It was supposed to be my job.”
“Don’t worry, Harry,” she replied, working to keep any note of irony out of her voice, “you still saved the whole wizarding world, quite a few times over.”
“But you bled for it. And worse… and…” he stopped. He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry. You wanted to talk. What do you think of when you think of that week?”
“Purpose.”
“What?”
“There was only one purpose. And a simple one at that: survive.”
Without taking his eyes off her, Harry took a sip of his tea; Hermione suspected he was doing it to delay answering. “Yes,” he said, finally.
“It was the same for Malfoy.”
“You’re comparing yourself with him? He wasn’t being raped or tortured.”
She sighed. “He was being starved and contained in barbaric conditions.”
Once more, he took a deep breath, before finally replying: “Okay.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, until Harry looked down at the table. She understood how hard this was for him and she knew what was buried right at the bottom of it. He was angry at her. He was furious that she had done so much damage to herself. It tore at him, flooding him with feelings of guilt.
But what was she supposed to do about it?
“So,” Harry said after an awkward silence, “purpose…”
“I miss it,” said Hermione, as she started to tap her left hand with the fingers of her right. “Or the simplicity, anyway. I feel like we’ve still got to save the world, but now there’s no one objective. If I could sacrifice myself again to find every one of the rogue Death Eaters that we missed, I would. But it’s not like that, is it?” The pace of her tapping picked up. “It’s all intelligence reports and the attempt to set up the criminal tracking spell and to reinforce the wards on Azkabhan, and everyone’s looking to me for the answers and I just… can’t.”
The muscles in Harry’s face slowly got tighter and tighter. It took him a while to reply. “You need a rest. If you think that that week is something to look back on with nostalgia than you need serious fucking help.”
Hermione crossed her arms. “I’m trying to talk to a friend. And what good will a rest do? It won’t stop the fact that there are Death Eaters still running amok. It won’t stop the need to do something about it.”
“I’ll speak to Kingsley,” said Harry, staring at his tea cup. “I’m sorry, Hermione, but can’t you see? This is killing you.”
Slowly, Hermione slung her handbag over her shoulder and got to her feet.
“This was a mistake,” she said, and walked away.
She had barely turned the corner when a snow-white owl swooped down out of the grey sky in her direction, alighting on the wrist that she automatically offered it. Urgent missives were a frequent affair, but the seal on this letter looked different.
The owl took flight immediately, leaving her free to open the letter.
It was of course from him:
Miss Granger,
I saw you last night. I would like to speak with you and would ask for the pleasure of your company. Tonight, Harpur’s Arms, next to the establishment that we both seem to frequent.
LM
Day 3 of Hermione Granger’s Imprisonment
Friday, 5^th June, 1998
Hunger pangs kept him awake in the later hours of that night and he found himself staring at the sleeping girl. He recognised her, of course: Potter’s loyal sidekick. He’d developed a vague dislike for her during the fight at the Department of Mysteries, but that seemed to be of little matter now. She was just yet another prisoner of the Dark Lord now, as pitiful and pathetic as Lucius himself was.
They hadn’t spoken and frankly Lucius preferred it that way. After all, they were enemies thrown together through freak circumstance. What was there to discuss?
Without discussion, she drank half the bowl of water that was left in the evenings and left the rest for him. When one of them used the bucket, the other stared rigidly in the other direction.
She’d been taken the day before, but returned only a few hours later with only a few additional bruises. Presumably, someone had been busy or called away. Breaking her was apparently not urgent. They must have garnered everything they wanted from her and now it was just about “fun”.
The rest of that day had been spent in silence, Lucius alone in his hunger delirium and the girl left with the pain of what he assumed were cracked ribs and other assorted internal injuries.
To her credit, there hadn’t been any of the pleading or mewling that he’d expected. Just a blunt, focussed silence that Lucius rather respected.
Without much in the way of warning, just a slight shuffling of her muscles as she awoke, the girl opened her eyes. Lucius didn’t look away.
“I have to ask…” she said finally, “why are you here?”
The weirdness of hearing her voice – hoarse and cracked as it was – after so many hours of silence jolted Lucius into instant wariness.
“For the obvious reason.”
She pulled herself up to lean against the stone wall, her legs now crossed on the thin mat they’d provided. “Which is?”
“I displeased the Dark Lord.”
“How?”
He looked her over, taking in the blood-stained rags that hung from her blood-stained skin. “Does it matter? I’m here, but undoubtedly for less time than you will be.”
To Lucius’ shock, she raised a scornful eyebrow. “Potentially.”
“Potentially?” Lucius sneered. “I’m one of them. I’m being punished, but my fate is nothing like yours.”
The girl shrugged. “They might simply kill me.”
“I’m afraid not.” Lucius’ appetite for debate died, as he thought about the months of agony that doubtlessly awaited her.
The girl nodded, watching him intently as if his opinion on this mattered to her. “They’ll keep torturing me then. For at least a few more days?”
“Yes,” he said, “although if I were you, I wouldn’t hold out hope for rescue.”
“No?”
“The wards on this place were personally designed by the Dark Lord. They’re quite impenetrable. I don’t know what it was that your Order found at Hogwarts and elsewhere, but since that day, he’s devoted himself ceaselessly to some very advanced defensive spells.”
The girl looked back at him with her face impressively neutral. “I see.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Are you?” she asked, surprise evident in the question.
“Sometimes torture is necessary to get information. So is murder. But that doesn’t mean I enjoy seeing it visited on someone the same age as my son.”
He expected an argument in response to that, but he got none. She seemed to consider what he’d said. Then she took the shoddy blanket she’d been given and, with a wince, curled herself back up on the mat, apparently intending to get some more sleep.
Friday, 22^nd January, 1999
Harpur’s Arms
There was no cane. It was the first thing Hermione noticed, even though there were lots of subtle differences to him. His clothing still bore the mark of privilege in every seam, but the overcoat and necktie seemed more muted than they did a few years before.
It was part of a reason that he was able to sit in this muggle pub in the middle of London, nursing a glass of red wine, and merely look mildly out of place, rather than ludicrously so.
He stood as soon as he spotted her. “Miss Granger,” he greeted.
“Mr Malfoy.”
Hermione sat down opposite him.
“Would you like a drink?” asked Lucius, his tone smooth and congenial.
Ignoring the offer, Hermione kept her guard up. “Are you here to blackmail me?”
“To blackmail?” His eyebrows rose. “Heavens no, Miss Granger, I’m here to thank you. As for our shared predilection, please be assured that a gentleman protects a woman’s reputation in such matters.”
Hermione blinked, and decided not to raise the issue of him being a ‘gentleman’.
“You want to thank me?” she asked instead.
He nodded, and spent a moment apparently thinking of how to phrase his next words, yet throughout he kept his crystal grey eyes focussed on Hermione. “You defeated the Dark Lord. And I have reason to think you assisted in keeping me out of Azkaban.”
Hermione sighed, seeing no point in denying it. “Your intelligence proved useful.”
A characteristic smirk appeared on his face. “It often does.”
“Is that all you wanted? To thank me?”
Was that a note of disappointment that Hermione heard in her own voice? It couldn’t be, surely. Why would she want this conversation to last longer?
“If I’m honest, Miss Granger, I wanted to talk. We have things in common, you and I. Not just the time we spent together last summer, but also, it would appear, certain esoteric pursuits.”
She worked to avoid tensing up too noticeably. “You think I want to talk about either of those things?”
“It might be to you advantage,” he said, pausing only to take a small sip from his wine class. “We were in there together. I saw what you went through; I saw you with everything stripped back. Which means that on some level, I know you better than anyone.”
“And I you,” she shot back, reluctant to give him any advantage.
Lucius smiled. “Yes, you were rather pithy with your insights, if I recall.” He laced his fingers together and gazed at her thoughtfully. “Do you think about it often? Or do you repress it? I’m curious.”
“That week will always be a part of who I am.”
“Despite the horrendous trauma of it?”
“I had Occlumency barriers up for the most part, which allow a certain amount of distance. Witnessing, feeding them a version of my thoughts that they needed to see, while keeping ‘me’ separate.”
Lucius chuckled in a humourless way. “I know what Occlumency is, my dear. And it is obvious that you employed it with exceptional competence. But we both know that it wasn’t enough to shield you entirely.”
“No,” she answered. What he’d said was true. They’d seen each other at their lowest and there was no point in hiding it from him.
“And what about your interest in BDSM? Are the two linked?”
It felt as if a damn broke inside her. “In many ways they’re the complete opposite,” Hermione replied, thoughts spilling out of her that she’d been aching to verbalise for what felt like forever. “During that week, it was a battle not to feel. To keep the barriers up. When I visit the, ah, establishment it’s a battle to feel. To feel nothing but the pain. It’s a release.”
Lucius nodded thoughtfully. “You’re being overworked, I assume?”
Hermione snorted. “You’re interested in my workload? What is this? Are you my Dad all of a sudden?”
He ignored her. “Of course you are. You’re one of the most skilled and competent witches of your generation. You’ll have a horde of lesser wizards looking to you to solve every quandary that bothers their feeble intellects. It must be absurd: Hermione, find the escaped Death Eaters; Hermione, establish an equal rights charter for the unicorns; Hermione, kiss the auror’s knee better after he fell over.”
She meant to object to the term ‘lesser wizards’, but his imitation of her superiors was just close enough to the truth to make her want to laugh. Instead, she bit her lower lip hard.
“You’ve changed your tune,” she replied. “It wasn’t long ago that you would have dismissed me as mudblood fake.”
“True,” said Lucius, his face growing serious. “But watching what you did made me reconsider a few assumptions.”
“Good.”
An awkward silence followed and as she studied his face, she wondered if he felt any guilt for what he’d been a part of. There must surely be demons lurking behind the lines of his handsome face.
When he finally spoke, however, there was no sign of it. Quite the opposite. “Top or bottom?” he asked.
“I’m sorry?”
“I’m asking which way you lean, Miss Granger. Were you at the dungeon to beat or be beaten?”
She attempted to pin him with a contemptuous glare. “That’s a rather personal question.”
He took a sip of his wine, while meeting her gaze, and then placed the glass carefully back on the table.
“Everything we’re discussing is.”
Hermione sighed. “I take it, but you already know that.”
“Yes,” said Lucius, looking at her with some distant cousin of affection in his eyes. “You do. Which is why I have an offer for you, which I’d like you to consider.”
“Oh?”
“Let me give you the release.” He smiled sardonically. “I’m available much cheaper than whatever man-whore you’ve been using.”
The laugh burst out of her lips before she could stop it. “What?” The absurdity was far too much.
“I want you to submit to me.”
The humour disappeared as quickly as it had come. “You’re joking. You… Lucius Malfoy… want me?”
He took another sip of his wine. “Yes,” he replied, evenly.
She noticed her mouth was hanging open and deliberately shut it. “Why?”
“Because I believe I would enjoy it.”
Narrowing her eyes, she tried to process the answer, but it wouldn’t quite fit right in her brain. “Is this some kind of a trick?” she asked.
A steely look appeared in his eyes. “Understand one thing, Miss Granger, and understand it quickly. You have more to offer than merely your intellect and your blood. You are capable of being desired for what you are on a personal level and not merely for how many people’s lives you can save.”
She stared at him for a long moment, gathering her thoughts. “You desire me.”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’ll accept that,” she continued, though a part of her still rebelled at the bizarreness, “but that’s still not a reason why I should put myself under your power.”
Lucius nodded. “Certainly not by itself. But there are additional factors to consider. Chief amongst them is that I can give you what you are craving. A real surrender that isn’t bought with coin, but is earned. I can disconnect you from the clawing hands of the masses, from the thousand and one concerns dragging you downward… I can narrow the focus, as it were. Make every nerve in your mind and body ring with pure sensation.”
“And some people accuse you of arrogance,” Hermione replied, dripping her words with as much sarcasm as she could.
“They do,” said Lucius, smiling once more, “and they’re right, but do you know what’s far more interesting?”
“Do go on.”
He paused a second, playing to his natural flair for the dramatic. “You value arrogance,” he said, finally. “It’s part of who you are. It’s what drove you to do what you did, thinking that you alone were capable of bringing a Dark Lord down. The whole world has benefited from your arrogance. You’ve heard the expression ‘turnabout is fair play’? You benefitting from some of mine seems only just, does it not?”
“You think I’m going to put myself in the clutches of an ex-Death Eater?”
“Come now, Miss Granger,” he replied scoldingly, “a witch of your aptitude should be able to establish fail-safes. I can think of a half-dozen just off the top of my head. I’m sure you’ve thought of more, but I’ll help if I must: telling a friend, a letter to be delivered if you don’t meet requirements, a voice-activated protean charm. If you disappeared and it was linked to me, I’d be lynched within eight hours.”
Hermione snorted. “You’ve thought of everything.”
He shrugged modestly. “There’s another interesting factor here.”
“What’s that?”
“At no point have you even hinted that you’re averse to the idea of me dominating you.”
Despising his arrogance, she found a swift reply jumping promptly to her lips. “Perhaps it’s so obvious that it doesn’t need to be said.”
Chuckling slightly, he nodded. “Perhaps.” He took the last sip from his glass of wine and rose from his chair. “In any case, you’ve heard my offer. I would very much like your company at Malfoy Manor tomorrow evening. If you are kind enough to attend, however, please be absolutely clear what the invite entails. This isn’t just about pain. I understand what you are feeling, Hermione, and true release will only come when you are brought to your knees. When the great saviour of our wizarding world is degraded into total abjection. That is what I intend and that is what you need.”
The words cut deep, striking all the vulnerable chords within her. She didn’t get up, but stared up at him. “You really haven’t changed, have you? Still a Death Eater, still trying to get the Mudbloods under the power of your wand.”
His composure cracked, and for a crazy moment she entertained the thought that she’d hurt him, before sanity returned.
“Hermione, that’s –”
“No, don’t use my first name. I know what I am to you. I was a fool to think any different.”
“Miss Granger, listen to me, please. If you think about this without emotion, you will know that both of us changed in that cell. You will realise how much you need what I am offering. And you will understand that what I am offering, I am offering out of respect.”
“Respect?” She could barely force the word out of her mouth, given the obviousness of his mockery.
“Yes,” he answered, all arrogance seemingly vanished from his face. “You didn’t only save the world. You saved me.”
“I – what?”
“Enough,” he replied. “Enough of this. You’ve heard my offer. Now it’s time for you to decide. Goodnight to you, Miss Granger.”
Then, with a flick of his wand, and without the slightest consideration for the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy, Lucius disapparated with barely a sound.
Day 5 of Hermione Granger’s Imprisonment
Saturday, 7^th June, 1998
He found himself waiting, anxiously, for her return. It was a strange feeling and one he found he didn’t want to rationalise or try to explain, but it was nevertheless inescapable: the thought of her torture chilled him far worse than the reality of his own predicament, creating a nagging horror that intensified day by day.
Gryffindor bravado had always been a fixed point for mockery and amusement, so far as Lucius was concerned. He had never seen it as anything more than showmanship augmented by a particularly crass variety of doltishness.
This was different.
They were taking her to pieces, pulling her apart at the seams, using every method at their disposal: psychological, physical, sexual. Lucius had, of course, seen it all before, but never had he seen a person resist it so effectively.
There was a focus to her. A sense of mission.
Not that it wasn’t taking its toll. No human being could completely resist what they were doing to her, but the girl was managing to lose only by inches.
When they finally returned her, she was a blood-ridden mess. Rockwood and McNair threw her in the cell like she was a sack of refuse, so that her body skidded across the floor and collided with the wall.
She was naked with no shred of dignity, and as he looked closer at her body, he realise that some of the blood wasn’t random, but had been shaped into words: Mudblood whore … sucker of Death Eater cock … worthless cum rag … Bellatrix’s doggy.
More blood dripped from open wounds and he realised that a substantial amount was leaking from between her arse cheeks.
She didn’t move for several minutes and so, limbs weak from his own hunger, he took the water bowl and inched towards her. When he reached her, he found her eyes open, but vacant. He placed the bowl at her lips.
“I recommend drinking, Miss Granger.”
She blinked several times and then began drinking. After a minute of that, she turned her head and looked up at him. “Why?” she whispered.
“Why did I come over here to offer you a drink?”
“Yes.”
He forced himself to sniff derisively. “If you die overnight, it might worsen the delightful aroma of our cohabitative arrangement.”
The hint of a smile ghosted over her lips. “Ha.”
“I’m afraid you’re bleeding from you’re, ah, behind. Do you want me to attempt wandless magic?”
“No,” she whispered, her eyelids flickering shut. “I need to bleed.”
It was a strange answer, but as she lost consciousness swiftly after, he had no chance to query it. He stayed next to her for the rest of the night. It would, after all, have been a pointless expenditure of energy to move away.
Saturday, 23^rd January 1999
Hermione Granger’s Flat
She opened the drawer, rustled for a second or two and found what she was looking for: an elaborate golden medal hung on a green ribbon.
The Order of Merlin, First Class.
She hadn’t even looked at it since the ceremony, bundling it quickly away with some other keepsakes. After all, there was far too much work to be done to dwell on plaudits and tacky pieces of jewellery.
As she stared at it, she found herself wondering about the choices she’d made in the days after getting that medal. Why hadn’t she gone back to Hogwarts like she’d always planned to? Why hadn’t she locked herself up in that beautiful, safe school and got the NEWTS that she’d so looked forward to completing? Why was she stuck in the Ministry giving pieces of herself up to everyone who needed her?
It came down to that medal. To being a hero. To having things expected of her. Or maybe to the things she expected of herself.
Well, enough… enough of that. She had to look after herself.
The question, of course, was whether that meant submitting to Lucius. She’d be lying if she said the idea of submission had never occurred to her. Long before attending the sex dungeon, she had done her research on BDSM. She was well aware what each letter of the acronym stood for.
And there was a lure, there was no doubt about that. To release control completely sounded like bliss and deeper than that, in the parts of herself that she rarely had time to look at, it sounded bloody arousing. To have a man like Lucius sexually use her.
To have him degrade her.
That word ‘degrade’ lingered ominously in her mind for several seconds, causing a confusing whirlwind of emotions.
Why was that word sexual to her? Especially with all the negative connotations and with all the values she had fought so hard far in the war. She had nearly died defending her right to be an equal and now she wanted to be the lesser…?
She’d reacted when Lucius had used the word, and a lot of that was her own confusion and guilt, but hadn’t she decided when she started going to the dungeon that she needed what she needed? That there was no point in repressing any part of herself?
What she’d fought for was freedom, and that meant getting to explore things freely.
There were all sorts of fancy theories about why she might desire what she desired, whole branches of psychological literature that she’d devoted several hours to one Sunday evening regarding the eroticising of inner points of vulnerability. But at the end of the day, to her, Hermione Granger, it was hot. It got her pulse racing and her imagination soaring.
Wasn’t that enough?
But she hadn’t answered her own question. Submitting was just the half of it. The other half was submitting to him.
And the issue there could be summed up in one word.
Trust.
Did she trust Lucius Malfoy?
Day 6 of Hermione Granger’s Imprisonment
Sunday, 8^th June, 1998
He made sure he was not next to her when she awoke. That would have been awkward and difficult to explain.
She rolled over slowly and there was an expression of vulnerability on her face that he hadn’t seen before. Still sleep dazed, she looked down at her own body and saw the words written there. A shudder ran down her.
When she saw him looking at her, the vulnerability flickered out, replaced by rage.
“You’re a monster.”
Lucius said nothing, choosing instead to raise a quizzical eyebrow.
“You’re a part of this. You’re one of them. You’re just like the one’s doing this to me.”
“That’s a valid viewpoint.”
She paused for a second, gaping at him, as if there was something she didn’t understand and then her face calmed and she took several deep breaths. “This is a pointless conversation,” she said, finally.
Lucius continued to look at her, interested, but not really seeing much point in reply.
“Tell me,” she said, as if the silence was bothering her. “Why are you here? Really, I want to know.”
“You should be worrying about yourself.”
Her eyes narrowed. “About the torture waiting for me in a few minutes time? That’s what you think I should be thinking about?”
There were little cracks in her mask, through which the terror was leaking.
“Concentrate on your anger,” he advised. “Don’t let them see your vulnerability. Don’t give them that satisfaction.”
Once more, a flurry of emotions ran across her face. Once more, she took a long, deep breath. “What about your vulnerability, Mr Malfoy? What is it that you have against sharing? We’re in this cell together and I’m a dead woman walking.”
“That’s no reason for me to talk to you.”
“You like your defences, don’t you? Like pretending that all your cleverness and your guile keeps you safe.” Shudders were running up and down her arms. “Well, do you feel safe now? Do you?”
He looked at her evenly. “No.”
“So talk. Take a risk. Share something.”
They stared at each other, while Lucius kept his jaw clamped shut.
“Don’t you understand? We’re in here together. Each of us is all the other has.”
There was truth to that, but he suspected that it was the girl who needed contact more than he did. Was that so surprising though? The agony that awaited her was clearly eating at her. But there was nothing he could do to change that. The logical course of action was to disconnect and leave her to her certain demise. To keep his mouth shut and allow the Mudblood to reap the fate that her defiance had earned.
“Draco.” His lips moved without prompting, before he had any idea that he was going to speak.
The girl nodded. “Voldemort threatened your son.”
Lucius winced at the sound of the Dark Lord’s name being spoken aloud, but he shook it off quickly. “After my wife’s death, it became increasingly clear that the Dark Lord was punishing me for my failure against you at the Department of Mysteries. Draco was being sent on more and more dangerous missions. So I had him smuggled out of the country. He’s gone. Safe.”
“And You-Know-Who threw you in here as a result?” Apparently she’d noticed the wince.
“Yes.”
Her eyes turned thoughtful. “Why didn’t you run before he could? Join the Order.”
A laugh forced its way out of his lips. “Join the Order? How ridiculous.”
“Is it? You’ve seen what that monster is. You started to act against him. Maybe it’s possible for you to change. To be more than what you were.”
Her nobleness in the face of everything made him smile. “You Gryffindors really are eternal optimists.”
“I guess we are,” she answered, returning his smile.
He snorted, thinking it unkind to remind her of their predicament and how unlikely it was that either of them would escape.
Then, without warning her smile collapsed. “I can hear them coming.”
“Listen to me, Miss Granger, use your anger. Give them rage instead of fear.”
She nodded, her eyes full of a blazing look, just as Travers opened the door and beckoned towards her.
Saturday, 23^rd January 1999
Malfoy Mansion
“I’m not really a fan of written contracts,” Lucius said, gently swirling a glass of port in his right hand. All the finery that had been missing on his trip to the pub was in full evidence now. Even the cane was present, elaborate and imposing, resting against the arm chair in which he sat.
“Oh?” said Hermione, desperately trying to sound composed as she negotiated the surrender of her body.
“They’re a little impersonal. I’d prefer to simply tell you what I’m going to do to you, and you can consent or refuse verbally.”
Her heartbeat would not stop hammering. “That sounds very, uh, sensible.”
“Good,” he replied, smirking, and somehow he conveyed with just that smile that he knew that her heart was racing, and that she was struggling to stay composed. God, he was an arrogant bastard. She just hoped that he couldn’t smell the moisture between her legs.
“I’m going to remove all your clothing, as and when I please.”
Hermione bit her lip and nodded.
“I’m going to call you names.”
She managed to find her voice, although she wished it didn’t sound so weak. “Nothing Muggle-related, please.”
“As you wish.”
“There will be suspension used.”
She nodded. Fuck, but that sounded hot.
“There will be corporal punishment to all parts of your body. Cries for mercy will be ignored. The only word that will be acknowledged is your safeword.”
“Of course,” said Hermione. That was the bit she longed for, after all.
“I will take all your holes and use them for my sexual pleasure.”
Another wave of heat rushed to her face and she found she couldn’t reply.
“Do you consent to that, Miss Granger?”
“Ye-es.”
Another smirk. “Good.”
“I will expect obedience to orders that may be humiliating or demeaning. Is that understood?”
She nodded.
“And I get to call you ‘Hermione’ should I choose.”
She remembered how she had refused him that, the night before. She couldn’t decide if it was authoritarian of him to demand a freedom that she had once sought to deny him, or whether it was sweet that he felt he still needed permission.
“Of course,” she said. “That’s fine.”
“Do you have any questions?”
Oh god, it was going to start. She needed to think of a question. She needed to delay.
“What do I call you?”
He smiled. “You call me ‘sir’.”
Closing her eyes, she took a long, deep breath. She wanted to use Occlumency, to block out what she was about to do, but that, of course, would defeat the whole point. She needed to face this. To own it.
It came back to that question. The same one as before. Did she trust Lucius Malfoy? There was one moment to think back on. One moment in that cell they’d shared. And it was enough. The answer was simple.
“Yes, sir.”
Day 7 of Hermione Granger’s Imprisonment
Monday, 9^th June, 1998
He awoke to the sound of wand-fire and explosions. It was an impossible sound. The Dark Lord had raised this structure himself, had laced every stone with protections of the most impenetrable dark magic. How could anyone have fought their way through?
As his eyes blinked open, he saw her, wide awake, sitting with her back against the stone wall and listening with a small smile on her face.
Somehow, despite the impossibility of it, he knew straight away.
“What did you do?”
Her smile widened slightly, her face a picture of exhausted fulfilment. “How could I have done anything?”
“Don’t play coy, Miss Granger. It doesn’t suit you.”
She laughed quietly. “It’s magic.”
“I surmised as much.”
“You know what I love about magic? Do you?” She sounded slightly hysterical, as if drunk on relief. “I love the fact that it’s fucking beautiful. Ha. I swore. Ron would be so proud.”
“What did you do?” Lucius repeated.
“The Sanguineus charm.”
“Never heard of it.”
The sound of wand-fire was getting louder.
“No reason why you should,” said the girl, an academic tone tinging her voice as she sat slumped happily naked against the wall. “It’s really ancient. I researched it myself.”
“It’s Latin,” said Lucius, thinking it over. “It means ‘of blood’.”
“And I bled, didn’t I?” the girl said cheerfully. “Quite a lot. That’s the wonderful thing about Death Eaters. They’re so very predictable.”
“I don’t understand… some kind of blood magic?”
“Sort of,” she replied. “It’s sacrifice magic. It’s love magic. The kind that Voldemort understands nothing about. Of course, we had to key it to specifically eliminate his defences. Snape helped with that.”
Lucius’ eyebrows shot up. “Snape?”
“Harry will be duelling Voldemort as we speak. And he’ll win. It’s all ending.” Her eyes shone. “We won.”
He stared at her, the true weight of what she had said crashing down on him. Even the sound of the Dark Lord’s name didn’t cause him to wince. “You did this… all of this… you got captured on purpose?”
“Yes, against Harry’s order. He’s going to kill me.”
“But… the torture… you chose this…”
She shrugged. “Relied on it, really. Every drop of blood I spilt worked its way into the stone, undoing his incantations, ward by ward. ” Her face clouded. “Though there were moments when I wasn’t sure I could take it. When I couldn’t…” She blinked. “But that’s over now. We won. I did it.”
He continued to gape at her for several long moment, at the naked, blood-covered girl that had defeated the Dark Lord. There didn’t seem to be anything to say.
“Con… congratulations.”
She laughed at the same moment that the cell door slammed open.
McNair stood in the doorway, shouting at someone behind him. “Just hold them off a second longer. If we kill the Mudblood bitch, it might undo the whole thing.”
He turned, pointing his wand at the girl, but Lucius was already moving, hurling himself towards his friend, towards McNair, even as he shouted out a spell and Lucuis felt something burn into his shoulder before a huge impact shook his body and he was falling with McNair to the ground.
In the final few seconds before his hunger-starved body lost consciousness, he heard more wand-fire, more screams and someone shouting “Hermione!” at the top of their lungs.
And then there was nothing but the darkness.
Saturday, 23^rd January 1999
Malfoy Mansion
She crawled on all fours like an animal. The bastard had even given her a tail, forcing her to lube up a Gryffindor tie and force it into her own arsehole, so that it hung limply between her legs, dragging along the floor with each shuffle of her knees. He was mocking the things she believed in most – her humanity, her courage, the Hogwarts house she’d been a part of since she was eleven – and a ball of cold shame in her stomach attested to how much she hated it.
But she loved it, too.
Finally, she reached him where he stood next to the fireplace in another sumptuous sitting room, this one slightly bigger than the last; his gaze seemed aloof and dispassionate, but she thought she saw some of the lust and hunger that lay beneath.
“Look at you,” he whispered, and there was a certain cruel tenderness to his words. “All that you’ve achieved. Everything they thought you were…”
The ball gag in her mouth made it impossible for her to do anything other than drool in response.
“Does it feel good to be reduced to nothing?”
She couldn’t answer that. She couldn’t bring herself to.
He placed a hand in her bushy hair, twisted so that shards of pain ran to her scalp and then, with seemingly no effort at all, dragged her to her feet, as she squealed like an animal picked for slaughter.
“How does it feel?” he asked again, politely, as if making an inquiry about her disposition to some fine wine they were sampling.
She stared into the crafted perfection of his face, while feeling the drool drip down from her spread lips, pooling briefly on her chin. He kept his hold on his hair, keeping them inches apart.
“My dear drooling simpleton, shall I simplify the question?”
Oh gods. Why was being called a simpleton so fucking hot? Why was it good to hear insults to her intelligence from him, when being exposed as stupid had been her greatest fear since she was five?
“Does it or does it not feel good? Or do I have to explain what the word ‘good’ means to you?”
Despite the sensation of her heart trying to force its way up her throat, she managed to nod, once, twice and a third time. Yes, it felt good. It felt fucking amazing. She belonged there, in that moment, with Lucius Malfoy’s fist in her hair.
Why him?
It was a bloody good question, but she knew the answer. He was the one, the only one on that first day, who had looked at her with genuine respect instead of horror. He was the one who had thrown himself at McNair in the moment when she thought she was about to die. And more than that, he was the one who had stayed by her side all that terrible night and thought she didn’t know it.
“It feels good.” Lucius repeated back to her. He dropped his hold and she collapsed, once more at his feet. “Do you know why that is?”
She stared up at him and shook her head.
“Because you’re a stupid little slut who needs to stop thinking.” He pointed his wand at her. “And that is exactly what is going to happen. Do you really think your overpaid hire-a-doms knew anything about pain? Do you?”
A silent spell hit her and in a flash of magic, Lucius had her suspended by her feet, hanging from the ceiling. She screamed, or tried to, causing more drool to force free of the gag, but this time, with her body inverted, it began to stream slowly over her cheeks and nose. The Gryffindor tie had flipped as she was spun so that it now ran over her mound and down between her breasts, which hung unflatteringly close to her chin.
She was a mess.
“If only they could see you now,” said Lucius, with the air of one surveying an exhibit. “Wouldn’t it be perfect?”
As another wave of hot mortification reached her face, Hermione could swear that his smile widened.
“Their hero. Their saviour. Strung up. Degraded, shamed… useless.” He turned and went to an ornate chest of drawers and removed something long, made of black leather.
Fuck, thought Hermione, as Lucius swung the cat-of-nine-tails through the air experimentally.
Another rush of blood ran to that spot between her legs. He was going to beat her and there was no way she was going to safeword, not least because the safeword with a gag in was the tune to twinkle, twinkle, little star. Instead, she would have to take it. No escape. No difficult calls to make. No choices.
Such a beautiful thing.
“But you’re not a hero. Not here, with me.” He readied the whip, setting his feet in optimal position. “Here, you’re mine. My object. My toy.”
He swung.
“My Hermione.”
*
*
A/N: Written as a birthday present for a friend who loves Lucius/Hermione. There's a small possibility that it may be continued, but for now, it stands as a one-shot.
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In the Blood