Adult-FanFiction.org : Harry Potter

Unintentional Inveiglement	By : onecelestialbeing Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Snape/Hermione Views: 130141 -:- Recommendations : 8 -:- Currently Reading : 30
Disclaimer: I own nothing of Harry Potter and it's characters and making no money from this story.

Chapter List
- 55
- 56
- 57
A/N: Thank you for the lovely reviews! Believe me, I'm trying to do faster updates but being an adult sucks. *sigh* Warnings for some torture and mentions of rape.

If Hermione were to add up every horrific thing she'd encountered thus far ever since their search for the Horcruxes began, the sum would still fall short from equalling the amount of fear she currently experienced. Escaping Death Eaters at Bill and Fleur's wedding; narrowly escaping the Ministry of Magic when she, Ron, and Harry had sneaked in under the guise of Polyjuice; a close encounter with more Death Eaters in London; nearly getting killed at Godric's Hollow. The idea that Ron was dead and then dealing with a pregnancy scare that had thankfully turned out to be a false alarm was also enough to leave Hermione sufficiently rattled, but this...
The roughest pair of hands Hermione had ever encountered were currently gripped around both wrists, painfully keeping her arms trapped behind her back. At the first words of "Delicious girl...what a treat...I do enjoy the softness of the skin..." bile rose to the back of her throat and caused her to gag.
Fenrir Greyback was notorious for attacking children, but the creepy way he rasped 'delicious girl' very close to her ear, made her wonder if she was about to be bitten bloody or fucked bloody. To his credit, Ron thought nothing of shouting at the intimating and much larger man to get off her, but it ended in him being hit and crumpling to the floor while Hermione screamed, all the while trying to ignore the way Greyback was sniffing her neck and blowing his foul breath into her face.
Hermione desperately tried to remember everything Severus had told her should she encounter Death Eaters or other insalubrious persons. Unfortunately, fear had a way of rendering her dumbstruck and she was unable to recall a single thing. She did not, however, remember Severus saying that the male Death Eaters had a penchant for forcing themselves on young women, as they were mostly concerned with killing or cursing them, no questions asked. But judging from the way Greyback maintained a firm grip on her, keeping her backside pressed tightly against the front of his massive frame, rape was inevitably on his mind.
For someone who was remarkably brilliant at times, Hermione wondered how Harry could be so completely daft when it came to other matters. Or perhaps it was sheer pride and being overly cocksure that made him feel he could do whatever without the risk of consequence. Not that it mattered at the moment; it was a moot point to harp on how they'd been captured.
Short of tattooing it on a readily visible area of Harry's body as a permanent reminder, Hermione had no idea how to make him understand that speaking Voldemort's name aloud foreboded nothing good. She and Ron panicked upon the first half of 'Voldemort' casually leaving Harry's lips, and by the time he got to the 't', mere seconds had passed before their tent was surrounded by Death Eaters and Snatchers.
You idiot! Hermione mentally raged at her best friend for his blunder. Ill thoughts toward Harry were short lived, because just as his Sneakoscope lit up and began spinning on a table, a horrible rasping voice could be heard outside the tent, demanding that they come outside.
According to Ron, when it came to thinking and common sense the Snatchers had been given the short end of the stick. Though daft they were, it made them no less frightening. For a second she thought the Snatcher called Scabior had figured out that a Stinging Charm had been used on Harry's face. While a few of the other Snatchers ransacked their tent, looking for what, she had no idea, Scabior and Greyback remained outside with the others, trying to figure out the trio's identity.
"Penelope Clearwater, you say you are?" Scabior was now breathing into Hermione's face while Greyback continued to keep her arms painfully bound at her lower back. While his body odour was slightly less offensive than Greyback's—only slightly, as the scent of sweat and sour, dirt-encrusted clothes clung to him— it was his breath that smelt as though he was in the dark when it came to using a toothbrush. "Somethin' tells me you're lying, girly, but Greyback is right: you do smell delicious."
Hermione wanted to turn her head, but Scabior slipped a hand beneath her face, cupping her chin hard between his grimy fingers and forcing her to stare at him. Her knees almost gave out as fear washed over her, wondering what the hell he had planned, and then her eyes were full of his long, matted unwashed hair, its stench enough to make the remaining bit of food she'd eaten last jump to the back of her throat and set it on fire.
"What say you and I head off for a bit?" Scabior whispered next to her ear, giving a half-cocked smile."Think Ginger'll mind?"
Hermione didn't know if Scabior was asking or telling her that he wanted a fuck; regardless, it sent a wave of dizzying panic to rush though her. The blood had completely drained from her face as she stared back at him, the increasing horror of the situation rendering her silent.
"No?" Scabior pressed, raising a suggestive eyebrow and sighing in mock defeat when Hermione didn't budge. "What a shame."
He was now fingering the pink scarf around her neck, another one of her handmade knitted creations. It was one of Hermione's more successful projects; she'd pored over each hank of yarn, waiting for something to catch her eye until she'd found the perfect colour. The yarn was a dusty rose and unbelievably soft, and the process of creating the scarf took her three weeks, as knitting by hand came more difficult than knitting with magic. It kept going all ruffly and her mum showed her how to keep it straight, applauding her daughter's efforts. Now Scabior's disgusting fingers that had an obscene amount of grime trapped beneath the nails was unwinding the beloved scarf from around her neck and looping it around his.
"Hmm, still warm," he purred, lifting one corner, pressing it to his nose and inhaling deeply. He then moved his face inches away from hers, lingering close enough that she could see the dirt lining the creases of his skin. "And it smells like you. Think I'll keep this as a little reminder. It always make things far more enjoyable when you've got something nice to focus on."
Greyback made some sort of growling noise behind her, and Hermione prayed that he wasn't planning to finish what she was absolutely sure Scabior was going to start. Only after she was shoved over to a tree, hands and legs bound with a rope before being forced to the ground, did she begin to breathe freely.
"Hey, you OK?" a familiar voice to her right asked.
It took some time to shuffle around but the tall figure of Dean Thomas could be seen through the dark, and Hermione found that he was also bound in a similar fashion. She didn't realise that she was shaking and on the verge of hyperventilating until Dean awkwardly scooted over. The sight of his narrow hips shimmying back and forth on the ground might had made her laugh if not for their gummy situation.
"They didn't hurt you, did they?"
The threat of Scabior, Greyback, or both, forcing themselves on her was still fresh on Hermione's mind, and she was unable to speak. After Dean questioned her a second time, Hermione shook her head.
"No..." she finally uttered in a small, cracked voice. "I thought... I thought they were going to..."
Either Dean knew what she was trying to say, or he thought Hermione meant something else.
"They're just looking for gold," said Dean, in what was likely supposed to be a comforting tone. "They might rough up the guys a bit, but to my knowledge no one's been killed."
"Yeah? So what do they do to the girls?"
"Hopefully nothing but no idea, to be honest. So far it's just been blokes and goblins. Goblin, rather." Dean nodded to his other side, and Hermione saw that there was indeed a goblin across from them.
There was a swift pause in conversation when a murderous yet silent Harry and a belligerent, loudly swearing Ron were dragged over to the tree by their hair, tied up, and kicked to the cold forest ground.
"Well well, look what we have here."
There was a cheerfulness in another unnamed Snatcher's voice that worried Hermione. He clomped over to the group tied up by a tree, and a glint of metal caught her eye.
"Hey! Look at this, Greyback!"
Hermione didn't need to look at Ron or Harry to know that they all shared similar looks of horror.
"Ve-e-ry nice," said Greyback appreciatively, taking the sword from his companion. "Oh, very nice indeed. Looks goblin-made, that. Where did you get something like this?"
"It's my father's. We borrowed it to cut firewood—"
Harry's lie was transparent as the ghosts at Hogwarts. It didn't matter, because Scabior was brandishing a wrinkled copy of the Prophet in Greyback's direction.
"'Ermione Granger, the Mudblood who is known to be travelling with 'Arry potter,'" read Scabior, glancing at Hermione over the paper."You know what, little girly? This picture looks a hell of a lot like you."
"It isn't!" Hermione protested squeakily, knowing that her fib was no better than Harry's."It isn't me!"
Hermione's trembling had never quite subsided, but now it was fierce enough to rattle Harry, who was leaning against her side. Scabior and Greyback traded knowing looks, and seconds later Greyback was crouched in front of Harry, pressing filthy clawed fingers to his forehead and yanking back his hair.
There was no doubt about it: they'd been caught. A brief moment of deliberation followed, most of which entailed how much the group of Snatchers would get for turning in their captives and the sword of Gryffindor. When all was said and done, it was decided that they would be taken to Malfoy Manor, and Hermione felt her heart leap to her throat.

If Snape had the ability to pay someone else to breathe for him, then he would have cheerfully done so.
It was obvious that the Dark Lord was more out of sorts than usual, but tonight he had been in rare form. It seemed that Wormtail was about to meet his end when he slinked out of his corner and opened his mouth to speak, but instead received a hex that made him squeal and scurry back against the wall. Even Bellatrix seemed to be on their master's bad side; her usual amount of arse-kissing did nothing except anger him, and Riddle hadn't been bothered enough to use magic to force Bellatrix away from him. One hard shove sent her sprawling to the floor, landing hard on her behind, and she let out a few whimpers before hiding her face behind her ratty hair.
A feeling of dread had come over the headmaster when his Dark Mark began burning. Even though it had been over a month since his last meeting with the Dark Lord, it was rather suspicious that his followers should all be summoned right then. Snape had been half-expecting something portentous to happen following the cup being destroyed, but a few weeks passed and there was still no hint or whisper about Voldemort knowing that something dear to him had been done away with. Some claimed that no news was good news, but Snape knew better—the Dark Lord would never admit to making a Horcrux, much less giving away that one had been destroyed, purely because it would display his weakness.
The headmaster was silently thankful all throughout the meeting when the Dark Lord's hiss-filled speech never once turned towards the cup, but his overt ire left everyone on tenterhooks. Snape maintained the same mask that he had worn ever since privately deciding to switch sides, but even his usual amount of deference to the Dark Lord hadn't been enough to save him from receiving his own share of hexes.
Snape didn't mind the Dark Lord taking out his frustration on him by means of casting multiple hexes, so long as it meant not having to answer for his and Lucius' dealing with the cup. Yet that small comfort was not enough to lessen the sting of being put on his arse.
Making his way back to the Apparition point outside Hogwarts and then finding his way back inside the school took longer than usual. The gash on his leg was bleeding and soaking the left side of his trousers, but that wasn't the worst of his injuries; it seemed as through every muscle in his back had seized up. If he planned on doing any sort of movement tomorrow, then tonight was definitely one of those nights where he would be spending at least two hours in a hot bath.
"Severus? What have you done?" was Dumbledore's greeting when Snape stumbled into the Headmaster's tower. He would have gone directly to his rooms in the dungeon, but this office was closer. Besides, Dumbledore knew where Snape had gone and was expecting a report.
"I assume you mean something else besides assisting in this death trap planned for Potter and his friends?" Snape asked wryly, grimacing as he gingerly lowered himself into one of the softer chairs.
Even from his position behind the frame, it was plain to Dumbledore's eyes that something was not right with his successor.
"I did what needed to be done," Snape offered in a tone that suggestion no further explanation. Another needle-pointed flash of pain shot through his limbs, and he winced while doggedly shifting his weight.
"I cannot help you if you are not completely forthcoming with me."
Did I ask for your help? Snape thought bitterly, wishing that he had pushed past his pain and made the trek to his own rooms.
"Severus..."
"Not here."
"Shall we reconvene on a higher point?"
The subtle mention of a 'higher point' was Dumbledore's way of suggesting the private room a little ways from the Astronomy Tower that he and Snape used for secret meetings. However, the only way to get there was by foot, and walking up multiple sets of moving staircases was not in the headmaster's cards.
"In case you haven't noticed, Albus, I'm not exactly up for a chinwag tonight."
"Tomorrow night?"
Snape gave a jerky nod before closing his eyes, trying his best to ignore the thrumming sensation in his leg and calculating how long he would sit there before slipping to the dungeons.

Hermione vaguely remembered overhearing Draco saying that he lived in Wiltshire. From the description of his home she expected something that was disgustingly ostentatious, and the walk from the Apparition point to the house itself was so long that Hermione questioned if they were actually at a residence. Finally they approached rows and rows of elevated, immaculate hedges that seemed to touch the night sky, and a long driveway on the other side of a huge wrought iron gate.
The trio had been divested of their wands, an occurrence that left Hermione unhinged on the inside. Then the group had been made to walk apart from each other, and even though Ron nor Harry were able to help her—they couldn't even help themselves, seeing as they all had their hands bound— Hermione was still grateful for their presence, even if they were a few paces behind her.
Along the walk, Scabior had twirled her wand between his fingers as if it were nothing more than a toy. The only time Hermione had been parted from her wand was when she lent it to Harry, and even then, at least it was with someone she trusted. But to have this unsavoury sort outright outstrip her of her wand, stating that a dirty-blooded thing like her had no use for wands, left her sizzling with anger. Anger quickly gave way to a deep sensation of being violated when Hermione thought about the spell Severus had cast with both their wands.
To have such invidious individuals putting their grubby paws on something so personal left Hermione's teeth on edge, but the need to survive made her keep her eyes straight and mouth shut. Not that she didn't have plenty to say; Scabior himself would have gotten an earful, as between the theft of her scarf and wand, Hermione was ready to tear into him, but she bit her tongue, telling herself that now was not the time to bump heads with someone who had the upper hand. Ron was the only one bold enough to continue struggling against the Snatchers, and his stubbornness caused him to get another blow to the stomach. Even though Hermione had yet to receive harsh physical abuse, she had a feeling that Scabior and the others would have no qualms about resorting to fisticuffs to keep her in line.
Soon enough it became clear to Hermione that being beaten by Scabior, Greyback, or the others was the least of her concern.
The group stood on the darkened grounds of Malfoy Manor, and Hermione's heart continued to thud its way out her chest as they waited by the tall gate. It opened once Greyback yelled that he had Potter, his huge fist roughly tugging Harry's collar for emphasis and almost sending him crashing to his knees. When the gate swung open to allow them passage, Hermione and her friends were prodded along like cattle.
On more than one occasion, Hermione had overhead Draco talking about the lush gardens surrounding his home and how much of everything there was. She was sure he'd been exaggerating about having a couple albino peacocks, but there they were, their ghostly white shape almost glowing in the moonlight.
Perhaps if she hadn't found the Malfoy family so loathsome, and perhaps if she hadn't been in fear for her life, Hermione might have been awed by the admittedly impressive manor. All that dissolved when Narcissa Malfoy, resplendent in silken robes and emitting a sweetly-scented perfume, met the group at the door and looked over them with antipathy.
"Bring them in," she ordered in a cool voice, after Scabior shoved a wand at her. Narcissa turned the wand over in her hand before disappearing behind the threshold, heading down the vast, scarcely lit hallway of the manor, leaving behind a cloud of her sickeningly saccharine perfume.
Harry, Hermione, Ron, Dean, and Griphook were all unceremoniously shoved up a set of broad stone steps, before stepping into a long hallway lined with portraits. Hermione assumed that these were paintings of deceased family members, as the majority of figures possessed the same pale blond hair and pointed face of the current Malfoys. Each portrait scowled at the group straggling in. One elderly witch with a pompadour and frilly, high-necked dress was so offended at the sight of them that she scoffed, picked up her skirts, and stalked out of her frame. Her companion remained, perhaps a spouse, but he surveyed them all with disgust, his eyes going so narrow that his monocle was nearly lost to the folds in his face.
Only for a second did Hermione muse that it must be highly uncomfortable to have such an unpleasant group of paintings scowling at you as you walked past. That thought was soon gone as they were pushed further down the hall and into another room.
Narcissa made mention of Draco being home for Easter, and that if Potter really was among the group, he would be able to point him out. Hermione lamented being forced to walk behind everyone else; not that it mattered much. Even if she had been next to Ron or Harry, nothing short of a miracle would save them from this predicament.
The drawing room they now stood inside was spectacular. Wide as it was tall, and filled with old, expensive-looking furniture, Hermione was unable to keep from peering around. A large crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, throwing beams of light onto more unfriendly portraits hung on the dark purple walls.
The sight of the largest, ornate marble fireplace Hermione had ever seen caught her eye, but it was the two people sitting before it in leather Wingback armchairs that made her want to flee.
"What is this?" said a cold, drawling voice.
Hermione didn't need to see the face of Lucius Malfoy to know that it was him who was speaking. After hearing him issuing death threats to kill Harry and his friends at the Department of Mysteries, there was no way she would forget that snide, patronising tone.
"They say they've got Potter," Narcissa informed her husband, looking at the other wands Scabior had just handed to her. She then slipped the trio's wands into a pocket of her silken robes before turning to her son. "Draco, come here."
While Scabior shoved Harry to stand in the middle of the room, Lucius came behind his son and urged him over. Both male members of the Malfoy family looked extremely ill, Hermione noticed. Draco looked worse than when she had last seen him at school, but in comparison to his father, he could have been the glowing picture of health. The handful of times Hermione had set eyes on Lucius Malfoy, the wizard had been nattily dressed in perfectly tailored custom robes. His thin, pale face was always clean-shaven, and his hair combed and gleaming, either tied back in a neat queue or hanging straight past his shoulders, the tresses so orderly that that it seemed each strand was afraid of sticking out of place.
The formerly dapper man's hair was now limp, bedraggled, hanging in his face and in sore need of a good washing and combing. Dark circles were beneath his eyes and he looked rather haggard. He was dressed in black trousers whose creases had nearly fallen out. His white shirt looked rumpled, as though he'd slept in it, and the velvet waistcoat appeared as if it had been carelessly tossed about before being left in a heap on the floor. Whereas Lucius was usually buttoned up, never exposing so much as a hint of neck, his collar was now completely open and his sleeves hanging freely due to an absence of cufflinks. It was akin to the wizard going about completely savage and a shock to most who were familiar with his painstakingly groomed appearance.
Draco's attire was marginally neater—just marginally—although his already slim frame looked as though it was being swallowed whole by his too big black jacket. He seemed to be scared of his own shadow, because he flinched whenever his name was called, and his over-sized garments did little to conceal the way he trembled. His greyish pallor matched his father's, and he truly seemed to resemble the twitchy ferret Hermione had once referred to him as. It was clear that the past few months had been unkind to the Malfoy family, although somehow Narcissa Malfoy managed to pull herself together, appearance-wise, at least.
Lucius, fingers gripped around Draco's wrist, was now standing directly in front of Harry, peering at what Hermione knew to be the jagged scar on his forehead. His grey eyes were alight with a macabre sense of excitement, the complete opposite of his son's. Was Draco scared? And if so, was he scared of his father, or of someone else?
"Look closely, Draco," Lucius hissed to his son, his free hand clutching the back of the young man's neck while his other hand held tightly onto a goblet. Whatever Lucius was drinking, he obviously hadn't had enough, because his distress had taken the form of a slight trembling in his limbs, and Hermione wondered how long it would be before his goblet went crashing to the floor.
"I-I don't know," Draco stammered, sounding as though he was afraid to admit this to his father. "I can't be sure. What's wrong with his face?"
Hermione held her breath as Lucius mentioned a Stinging Hex, still peering excitedly into Harry's face.
"We had better be certain, Lucius. Completely sure that it is Potter, before we summon the Dark Lord." Narcissa paused to raise the blackthorn wand that Greyback had taken off Harry. "They say this is his, but it does not resemble Ollivander's description... If we are mistaken, if we call the Dark Lord here for nothing,.. remember what he did to Rowle and Dolohov?"
At hearing those two familiar names, Hermione experienced a small flash of smug satisfaction, remembering the memory charm she'd used on them. Good for them, she thought, knowing that whatever punishment they had received was nothing good.
But then Greyback mentioned Hermione's name, rather, he referred to her as a 'Mudblood' while jostling her with one huge, dirty hand.
"Wait," Narcissa interrupted, spinning around to take in Hermione's appearance. "Yes—yes, she was in Madam Malkin's with Potter! I saw her picture in the Prophet! Look, Draco, isn't it the Granger girl?"
Draco's eyes flickered between his mother's and Hermione's.
Don't tell, Draco, please don't tell.
"I...maybe...yeah," Draco admitted reluctantly, now refusing to meet Hermione's eyes.
"But then...that's the Weasley boy!" Lucius shouted, striding away from Harry and over to Ron. "It's them—Potter's friends—Draco look at him, isn't it Arthur Weasley's son, what's his name—?"
"Yeah." answered Draco. "It could be."
It didn't matter that Draco seemed completely detached from his surroundings, or that he continued giving ambiguous answers: Hermione knew that his parents had no intentions of letting her and her friends go. While Narcissa's manner remained cold, it was her husband who grew more excited the further things unfolded. Now it was just a matter of how much time would pass before Hermione and Ron would be killed, and Harry passed over to Voldemort.
Besides death, Hermione began wondering just how this situation could get worse but came up short. Greyback's long, filthy curved fingernails were just shy of biting into her skin, and Scabior continued lingering next to them in a way that was too close for comfort.
The drawing room door opened, and the voice of the woman who stepped inside made Hermione's skin prickle all over.
"What is this? What's happened, Cissy?"
Bellatrix Lestrange walked slowly over to the bound prisoners. She paused by Harry, who struggled against his captor while throwing Bellatrix a mixed look of hatred and fear, but not once did her heavy-lidded eyes swing in his direction. Hermione saw that Bellatrix was staring directly at her, and her piercing gaze was enough to make her forget about Greyback's nails.
"But surely, this is the Mudblood girl? This is Granger?"
Lucius confirmed that it was, and Bellatrix shrieked something about informing the Dark Lord. That was to make the excited look on Lucius' face disappear, and he stopped Bellatrix from touching the Dark Mark on her arm by grabbing her wrist.
" I shall summon him, Bella. Potter has been brought to my house, and it is therefore upon my authority—"
"Your authority!" Bellatrix sneered, attempting to wrench her hand from Lucius' grasp. "You lost your authority when you lost your wand, Lucius! How dare you! Take your hands off me!"
Lucius looked completely affronted, and becoming puffed up, looked ready for a fight. "This is nothing to do with you, you did not capture the boy—"
"Begging your pardon, Mr. Malfoy," Greyback interjected from over Hermione's head, "but it's us that caught Potter, and it's us that'll be claiming the gold—"
Bellatrix cackled loudly upon hearing that, although it was plain that she was anything but amused. Perhaps Greyback thought that he would not be paid because Hermione was forgotten about, getting shoved to his side while still maintaining his grasp on her as he stepped to the witch. He stopped in his tracks when Bellatrix used her free hand to dig in a pocket and pull out her wand. For a moment it looked as though Bellatrix was about to hex Greyback, but the next she went completely still as her dark eyes focused on something across the room.
Lucius took her silence to mean that their tiff was finished, and he released Bellatrix's arm to tug up his own sleeve, but before he was able to press his finger to his Dark Mark, Bellatrix whirled back around, shrieking at him with terror in her eyes.
"STOP! Do not touch it, we shall all perish if the Dark Lord comes now!"
Scared; she's scared, Hermione told herself, watching how utterly jumpy the female Death Eater had become. It was unclear as to why Voldemort would kill those who were on his side if he were to be summoned, until Bellatrix began speaking to another Snatcher.
"What is that?" asked Bellatrix, her tone suggesting that she already knew the answer.
"Sword," grunted the Snatcher.
"Give it to me."
"It's not yorn, Missus, it's mine, I reckon. I found it."
That was the wrong answer because there was a loud bang followed by a flash of red light. Scabior, Greyback and the others didn't take lightly to their mate being Stunned and there was a flurry of activity as they all drew their wands. Greyback was the first to get his wand out and Hermione prayed that she wouldn't be in Bellatrix's line of fire as he was still gripping onto her bindings with one hand. In the midst of protecting himself, Greyback let go of Hermione, sending her crashing painfully to the floor, while drawing his wand on Bellatrix. It was pointless, however, as Bellatrix was faster and disarmed him before forcing him to the floor and into a kneeling position with both arms outstretched.
Her wand in one hand and Greyback's wand and the sword of Gryffindor in another, Bellatrix leaned down close to his face and said something that Hermione was unable to hear. Her next sentence came out in a hissed bellow.
"Where did you find this sword?" she screamed in Greyback's face, brandishing the sword's blade beneath his nose. "Snape sent it to my vault in Gringotts!"
Greyback answered in a raspy voice that suggested a near point of suffocation, but Hermione understood perfectly his answer. The news about Snape sending the sword to Bellatrix's vault didn't shock her, as she'd already know that a fake sword had been in his possession. Even if her face had given away that she knew something, it would have gone unnoticed as all eyes were focused on Bellatrix and Greyback.
"It was in their tent. Release me, I say!"
Bellatrix waved her wand and lifted the hex. Greyback immediately fell back on his haunches, cursing and coughing as rubbed his throat. The other Snatchers had been stunned and were unconscious, and to avoid their same fate, the werewolf scurried off to prowl behind an armchair.
"Draco, move this scum outside," ordered Bellatrix, sneering at the unconscious men. "If you haven't got the guts to finish them, then leave them in the courtyard for me."
"Don't you dare speak to Draco like—" Narcissa began furiously, sweeping over to stand between her sister and son, but she was cut off by her Bellatrix's scream.
"Be quiet! The situation is graver than you can possibly imagine, Cissy! We have a very serious problem!"
Bellatrix turned the sword over in her hands, muttering to herself. She looked quite demented, and Narcissa was the only one brave enough to face her. She guided Draco to stand off to the side beside his father, while Lucius grew livid at his sister-in-law attempting to run things in his own house. Draco flinched whenever his aunt shrieked, and shrank away bit by bit until he was pressed against the wall.
"The prisoners must be placed in the cellar, while I think what to do!"
"This is my house, Bella, you don't give orders in my—"
"Do it! You have no idea of the danger we are in!"
A thin stream of fire issued from Bellatrix's wand and burned a hole into the carpet as she went red in the face, screaming at Narcissa. Whatever this danger was, Narcissa seemed to understand, because fear overran her fury and she turned to Greyback, ordering him to take the prisoners to the cellar.
"Wait. All except… except for the Mudblood."
Hermione had been nervously listening to their entire exchange, but every drop of her blood ran cold when Greyback gave a grunt of pleasure at Bellatrix's orders.
"No! You can have me! Keep me!" Ron blurted out, struggling against his bonds to no avail. Bellatrix immediately strode over and struck him across the face, the blow so loud it echoed around the room and made Hermione want to cry out.
"If she dies under questioning, I'll take you next," she hissed. "Blood traitor is next to Mudblood in my book. Take them downstairs, Greyback, and make sure they are secure, but do nothing more to them—yet."
Bellatrix returned Greyback's wand before grabbing Hermione by the hair and dragging her to the middle of the room. Dean, Harry, Ron, and Griphook were made to leave the room but Hermione was unable to see where they were taken. The werewolf's voice carried across—"Reckon she'll let me have a bit of the girl when she's finished with her?"—which Hermione knew was nothing more than a ploy to anger Ron again, and she hoped that he would control his temper. A minute later a door loudly banged shut, and Hermione heard Ron screaming her name from somewhere below.
Bellatrix didn't look it, but she was remarkably strong and her grip on Hermione's hair was hard enough to make her eyes water. Blood pounding in her ears, Hermione desperately tried to think back about what Severus told her should she ever fall into the clutches of Death Eaters, but she was so petrified that her mind drew a continuous blank.
"Now tell the truth, Mudblood, and perhaps I won't hurt you so much," Bellatrix whispered, giving Hermione's hair another hard tug, forcing back her head and jabbing the narrow tip of her wand into Hermione's throat. "Where did you get that sword?"
"We found it!" Hermione replied, trying to keep the trembling out of her voice.
"I don't believe you," Bellatrix breathed, grinning nastily and displaying her crooked, blackened teeth. She gave one last tug that sent Hermione sprawling to the floor yet kept her wand aimed at her. "Killing you serves no purpose—yet—but I can make you tell me what I want to know. I'll ask you again—where did you get that sword?"
"I'm telling the truth! We found it! I don't know where it came from, we just found it!"
"Liar!" Bellatrix screeched, slashing her wand in the air and causing a white-hot pain to erupt from head to toe all over Hermione's body.
Harry had tried to explain what the Cruciatus Curse felt like, but his description barely came close to the reality of experiencing it firsthand. For some odd reason, Severus telling her to resist crying out if she were to ever be tortured came to mind, but there was no way she could keep quiet, not with pain like this.
"WHAT ELSE DID YOU TAKE FROM MY VAULT?!" Bellatrix screamed into Hermione's face, spraying her with spittle.
"W-we didn't—" Hermione tried to get out, but before she could complete her sentence, Bellatrix rose to her full height again and continued torturing her.
Thin, childish screams rend the air, the sound so blood-curdling Hermione didn't realise it came from her own throat. Crucio after Crucio was cast, making Hermione writhe and scream shrilly as though she had been set over an open fire and left to burn.
"You are lying, filthy Mudblood, and I know it! You have been inside my vault at Gringotts! Tell the truth! Tell the truth!"
There was another screech of Bellatrix yelling out "Crucio!" again, barely permitting Hermione to speak.
"Shut up! Shut up, dirty Mudblood, shut your filthy, thieving mouth!"
How she was expected to take her torture quietly, Hermione did not know, but there was a split second when Bellatrix lowered her wand and straddled Hermione's chest.
"Do you see this?" Bellatrix cooed, withdrawing a short silver dagger from her robes and lovingly caressing its razor-sharp tip. "Normally I'd be against soiling it with your worthless blood, but I will make an exception if needed. And I'll cut open your pretty little face if you don't tell me what I want to know."
Tears and snot covered Hermione's cheek, and it was that very cheek which Bellatrix drew the dagger over. Enough pressure was used to pose a threat, and while it didn't pierce the skin, Hermione knew if she were to move at all that the blade would cut into her like a warm knife into butter.
"You try my patience, Mudblood whore, but you will confess before the night is through."
"I don't have anything to confess!" Hermione pleaded, hoping that there was some shred of decency and sanity buried beneath the blackened layers of the witch's heart. "I'm telling the truth!"
Bellatrix narrowed her eyes, glaring down at Hermione as if considering what to do with her next. Her silence was not encouraging and there was no warning as Hermione found herself completely immobilised. The flat side of the dagger scraped over her cheek, still not injuring, and then it was drawn over her clothed skin, all the way down her sleeve until it stopped at her wrist.
"I ought to cut you here, dearie, tiny little cuts that would be deep enough to leave you bleeding out slowly."
"Please! Don't—"
"Didn't I say to shut up?!" Bellatrix hissed, slicing open Hermione's sleeve in one swift motion and exposing her forearm. "Please, please, please," she mocked, "I keep hearing everything except for what I want to know. Perhaps this will loosen your tongue."
At first sensation of the dagger piercing her skin, Hermione screamed long and hard. No matter how much she tried to kick and flail to get herself free, it was useless. The spell wouldn't let her move, and the dagger's point was repeatedly dragged through her skin, scratching out something that made no difference to Hermione; the only thing she wanted was for the dagger to be gone.
"Stop screaming and tell me what else did you take! What else have you got? Tell me the truth or, I swear, I shall run you through with this knife!"
Hermione sobs were too hard to speak. Bellatrix paused from her work with the dagger, her eyes alight with malice as she aimed her wand at the younger witch again.
"Crucio! Crucio! Crucio!"
The Cruciatus Curse was the only thing Hermione knew. No matter which way she twisted, the pain was not to be avoided. The arm that Bellatrix carved into throbbed and pulsed as if it had its own heart, and there was sickeningly feeling of dripping blood. Hermione tried to beg, pray, and beseech Bellatrix to stop, but resounding wails ripping from her throat was the only noise she could conjure.
"That's enough, Bella."
"No! And unless you'd like to be next, stay out of this!"
In the midst of howling out Hermione didn't realise that Bellatrix had moved from atop her. The spell keeping her immobile had also been lifted, but then there came the sensation of her chest being crushed, and Hermione forced open her tear-blinded eyes to find the demented witch literally kneeling on her.
"If you won't tell me, I'll find out on my own. Let's have a look, shall we?"
The end of Bellatrix's wand was pointed in Hermione's face, and it took all of a second before she realised what was about to happen. The torture, the blood-letting, Hermione told herself she would happily take that ten times over what Bellatrix had already doled out instead of being forced to endure the forthcoming.
"N-no—"
"Legilimens."
'Ron, no I will not finish your essay for you. You've had two weeks to finish it! I swear, we go through the same thing every term, when are you going to learn?'...
'Mum, of course I'll be fine. The house has all sort of enchantments—spells—and remember the Aurors I told you about? The wizarding version of our police? Well they're all taking turns watching the place so it'll be safe...'
'Harry I don't want to hear another thing about that stupid book!'...
'What do you mean you just found the sword of Gryffindor? How did you just find it? It can't exactly sprout legs and travel from place to place, can it? And how do you know it's the real sword?'...
'I love you, Severus. I don't expect you to say it back. In fact, I don't think you ever will. But it doesn't matter; if this is my last chance to tell you how I feel, I figure I might as well before it's too late...'
Having her mind forced into submission showed one thing—Hermione was telling the truth about the sword of Gryffindor. Unfortunately, it also displayed the biggest secret of her life, the very thing she'd sworn to take to her grave with her.
Bellatrix retreated immediately upon encountering the vision of Hermione and Snape, holding onto one another, covered in blankets and obviously naked beneath. There was a wicked, knowing gleam in her dark eyes as she surveyed the panicky, teary-eyed girl beneath her.
"Well well, I seek to find one thing and come across another."
Hermione was certain that she had been scared in the beginning; now she was positively terrified.
"Perhaps you were telling the truth about my sword," Bellatrix murmured in a voice low enough for only Hermione to hear. She paused to flick back a strand of her matted hair with the dagger, lowering her face until her nose was inches away from Hermione's, " and I definitely don't care about your stupid parents or those blood traitors you call friends, but I do wonder how you came to be the headmaster's slut."
Heavy irony was placed on the word 'headmaster'; it was obvious that Bellatrix had a low opinion of Severus Snape.
"Please don't kill me," Hermione begged, as she began choking on a fresh round of tears.
"Kill you. Kill you? No no no, there'll be no killing you, Mudblood. Death would be an easy way out, and I intend for that traitor to see you once I'm through." Bellatrix's sinister laugh was shrill enough to pierce Hermione's eardrum, the sound incongruous to her next hushed tone of voice. "No idea what he'd see in a dirty-blooded Gryffindor like yourself, but then again, I've always had my doubts about that one. The lot of you are disgustingly honourable, always pointing down your noses at the next person. Hmm, I wonder what your man would say if I were to send you back with this pretty face cut to shreds. Would he still have you?"
"N-n—"
"Or maybe the rest of you? He'd probably be sickened by the sight of your scarred flesh. I bet he would never touch you again."
"St-stop it—"
"Stop it? Stop it!" The enflamed witch's rancid breath was hot against Hermione's cheek. "You dare to give me orders, Mudblood!"
Blotches of ugly red crept into Bellatrix's pale skin and her lips thinned as she rushed to her feet.
"Crucio! Crucio!"
There was still no explanation as to how Hermione and her friends found the sword of Gryffindor, but it seemed Bellatrix had a new angle on which to focus. For some inexplicable reason the idea of Hermione and the Potions master, now headmaster, seemed to fill her with a blinding rage, and she was relentless in her continued torture of the young Gryffindor. In addition to the Cruciatus curse, Bellatrix used other spells, one of which that left gashes in nearly every part of Hermione's body that was covered by clothing, another breaking a few small bones. The louder Hermione screamed, the louder Bellatrix's mocking jeers became, until the drawing room was filled with plaintive, uncontainable cries and their mimicked counterparts.
Hermione's spine was arched to the point of snapping. An upsurge of pure, undiluted agony that left no part unaffected crashed over and left her drowning in the maelstrom. A distinct, metallic taste of copper occupied her nose and mouth. There was a wave of darkness that loomed overhead, yet seemed to halt and linger at fuzzy edges, as if too afraid to fully approach.
Was she dying? Was she already dead?
Even though Hermione had begged Bellatrix to not kill her, death was swiftly becoming a welcome friend. Parts of her body that she'd never given thought to were wrought and twisted in excruciating pain. In a fit of screaming she'd bitten down hard on her tongue, her teeth almost going deep enough to sever its tip. The back of her throat was filled with blood, causing her to gurgle and splutter between each screech. How she yearned for her mum, dad, Ron, Harry, Severus, anyone who would come and rescue her from this unyielding hell. Hermione had never been particularly religious but if such a thing as deities truly existed, she wondered why they had forsaken her, permitting her to live through this torment instead of expiring peacefully.
"That's enough, Bellatrix."
"What did I—!"
"She said that's enough, dammit!" a nearby voice roared, adamant. "This isn't going to save us and you know it! I refuse to have any more blood spilt in my house, and if you won't stop then we'll make you!"
"You'll make me? Hah! Weak, all of you, you're weak!" Bellatrix shrieked, frothing at the mouth. "I'm surprised my Lord hasn't slit your throats himself! You're no true followers of his, you've always been afraid, hiding beneath your wife's skirt and allowing everyone do to your dirty work for you. Worthless! You're worthless and useless, always have been and always will be!"
"I swear on everything that is dear to me, I will summon him now and we'll all die. I don't give a damn what you think, Bellatrix— I'm tired of this. Now you get rid of her!"
The entire heated exchange meant nothing to Hermione. She'd lost the battle of wills, trying to hand on to her last vestiges of lucidness. Sounds and voices around her were muffled, as though her head was completely submerged beneath water. The torment she'd undergone had finally rendered her completely senseless, the intense pain having reached heights so high that everything went numb after a while. Now she lie listlessly, unaware of her surroundings and her blood-soaked clothing sticking to her skin, glassy-eyed and staring blankly into some darkened corner of the drawing room.
"And just what, pray tell, you intend me to do with it?" asked Bellatrix, sounding rather haughty.
"Bella, just get one of the others to—"
"Be quiet, I have a better idea. Draco, get Leofric; he's slower than pond water and stupid but not so stupid that he can't follow directions."
Moments later, the stolid, spotty-faced Death Eater stood in the drawing room, mute as he awaited orders.
"Bellatrix, haven't you done enough for one night?" asked Lucius.
"Never you mind," Bellatrix hummed under her breath as she hunched over Hermione's lifeless form. "I'm not quite done with you yet, Mudblood. This is only a taste of what true wizarding blood is, but I'm sure you'll never come around to fully appreciate it."
Laughing to herself, Bellatrix took her time with allowing a few drops of her own blood fall onto the open wound on Hermione's arm. A few whispered words accompanied the waving of her bent wand, and she stood up once she was done.
"Madam? " Leofric greeted warily when Bellatrix beckoned him over.
"Take her to Hogwarts," Bellatrix whispered. "Make sure you're seen by no one except Severus Snape, or I'll slit your throat myself. Do you understand?"
Leofric's already grossly protruding eyes widened further, and his prominent Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed nervously.
"Y-yes, Madam Lestrange."
"There's a good lad. Here, put this on her head," Bellatrix paused to conjure a rough burlap sack out of thin air and thrust it at him. "I don't want to touch her."
Leofric remained on edge as he took the sack from the now bored looking witch, and rushed to shove the cloud of Hermione's damp hair into it first, then the rest of her head. Secretly he hated Bellatrix Lestrange, but sometimes the odd favour filled his palm with gold so he made do. This was, by far, one of the strangest tasks he'd been made to handle, but at least the girl slung over his shoulder was lighter than other things he'd toted around at the Death Eaters' behest.

Between his still aching body and nightmares involving Voldemort finding out about his destroyed Horcrux, in turn torturing Snape in the process, the headmaster managed to snatch a couple hours of sleep. By morning his condition was barely improved, and three cups of strongly brewed coffee between then and noon failed to rouse his senses.
A good part of Snape's morning entailed coming up with a plausible reason to cancel Dark Arts and Muggle studies classes for the day. Amycus and Alecto had been given a weeks' worth of reading material that was Ministry regulated and approved, all of which was to be taught immediately to each student. Alecto complained loudly at the thick folder handed to her (Snape resisted the urge to apologise for the books being abysmally absent of small words), while her brother stared at it as though it had teeth. As much as the two enjoyed tormenting their students, the paperwork aspect of their jobs always left them in a sour mood. Therefore when Snape excused them from their duties that day so they could peruse the many stacks of leaflets and books—The Dangers of Mudbloods and When Muggles Attack being some of the more ridiculous titles—the Carrows grudgingly accepted.
The box the Ministry sent over had been in Snape's office for well over a week. At first he'd planned on feigning ignorance to its delivery, but when the opportune moment presented itself, he took advantage. The Carrows had been present the night before at the Death Eaters meeting. They, too, had undergone the business end of Voldemort's wand, which almost always meant that Hogwarts' students would suffer the aftermath of their suppressed rage. Short on time and patience, Snape swiftly thought of a diversion that would keep both Carrows away from their pupils, in hopes that their resentment would calm over the course of the day.
Another convenient snag was that members of Potterwatch, the group the headmaster was supposed to be ignorant of, would be able to convene without having to tiptoe past the Deputy Headmistress and Deputy Headmaster.
Later on, as promised, Snape and Dumbledore met during the wee hours of the night. The former headmaster was filled in on the details of the cup, it being destroyed, and details of the last meeting with the Dark Lord. Shock first registered on the elderly wizard's face, followed by an intense relief. Both spoke on the possibility of Voldemort sensing one of his Horcruxes being destroyed, but it was agreed that the risk had been well worth it.
"Do you think he suspects your actions?" asked Dumbledore.
"Perhaps, but there is no way to be sure. What I can tell you, is that I believe he's worried. Even though he fails to outright say so, there was more than one reason besides the usual for our punishment. My back still aches."
"One of many unpleasant side effects of a job well done, Severus. Don't think I've forgotten the risk you endure on a regular basis."
Snape clenched his jaw; Dumbledore could remember all he wanted, but it was Severus himself who had the physical reminders and scars from Tom Riddle's wand.
"Will that be all, Headmaster?" asked Snape, met with the sudden need to be alone.
Dumbledore politely excused himself before biding Snape goodnight, suggesting that he get some rest.
Rest? Snape echoed derisively in his head. What's that?
Even if his plans had involved bed, they would have been dashed because the wards along the outer edges of Hogwarts grounds let him know that someone was lurking about.

The flight to Hogwarts was short, but finding a way to contact the headmaster took some time. The black robed, sour-faced professor finally appeared at the gates, and he was pointedly silent while waiting for an explanation.
"Madam Lestrange sent me." Leofric gestured to his cargo. "Fuckin' psycho bitch that she is.".
"Is that so?" Snape replied curtly, suppressing the urge to agree with the last bit muttered under the man's breath.
"Well yeah, I didn't bleedin' come all this way for fuckin' nothin'."
Snape's nostrils flared, and in one swift moment he withdrew his wand and rapped it against the iron gate. The bars slithered and uncurled as the gate opened, allowing just enough room for him to walk past.
"Fair warnin', I think the little bitch fuckin' pissed herself." Grumbling and cursing under his breath, Leofric dumped whoever he was holding at Snape's feet, unconcerned with the loud thump as her body struck the ground. He was more concerned with his robes, tugging on them and spanning one thin, dirty hand along the fabric, feeling for damp spots. "Yeah, definitely pissed herself; sodding robes are all wet."
Scowling at man standing across from him, Snape bent down and used the tip of his wand to lift the edge of the burlap sack. He peered inside for a second without saying a word before rising to look at Leofric again.
"Did anyone see you?"
"No, no one saw me. How the fuck could anyone see me? 'S the middle of the fuckin' night. Mind you, lucky it ain't the middle of fuckin' winter or else my bollocks would have fallen off. Took your sweet time comin' out here, you did."
"I believe your job is done, you may take your leave," Snape said warningly. "Good night."
Leofric swore again, grumbling about being inconvenienced at all hours of the night and being pissed on. Back turned as he walked away, heading to the Apparition point, he never noticed the wand trained on him or the strong memory charm that wiped his mind clean of his entire day.
From there on out it was imperative that Snape kept a straight face, no matter the contrast of his churning emotions. The burlap sack was removed from the unconscious girl's head, tossed onto the grass and set on fire. His teaching robes were snatched off and carefully manoeuvred around her cold body. With utmost care, Snape pulled her frail form into his arms, keeping her head cradled against his shoulder. A Disillusionment charm, one strong enough to shield two people, was cast, and swiftly but calmly he made his way out through the cold, darkened school grounds and back into the marginally warmer castle, hastening towards the dungeons.
The girl in his arms was dead weight, and it felt as though an eternity had passed between each step. Snape was wrought with impatience yet resisted the temptation to blast open his door when he finally reached his rooms. A swish of his wand and each bracket-held torch, as well as the hearth, erupted into life, throwing light and warmth into the dank sitting room. Only after the door was locked tight and a Silencing Charm cast upon the area did Snape allow himself to outright collapse to the floor, skinning his knees through his woollen trousers as he clutched his beloved to his chest, soaking the top of her head with an onrush of tears. Heart feeling as though it had been cleaved into bits, Snape screamed long and hard for several minutes, unaware of the coarse, animalistic cries being ripped from his very centre, becoming lost to a thicket of blood soaked, bushy curls.
"I'm sorry, Hermione. Oh my God, I am so, so sorry!"
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