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Hooded Man	By : LadyofClunn Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 5722 -:- Recommendations : 1 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with Harry Potter or Robin Hood. I do not earn money by writing this story.

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Title: Hooded Man

Author/Artist:lady_of_clunn

Original Couple/Prompt: Robin Hood/Lady Marion

Disclaimer: I do not own anything associated with Harry Potter or Robin Hood. I do not earn money by writing this story.

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: A/U, M/F, Angst, sexual assault, mention of an entirely imaginary religion, maybe infidelity, depending on your definition of it. Ron and most of the Weasleys are not exactly sympathetic characters in this story, but this has mostly to do with which role they have taken on in this Robin-Hooded Potterverse.

Summary: Voldemort is dead and the Wizarding world is a safe and just place for all magical folk to live.

Notes: I would like to thank missingkeys for all the hard work, the hand-holding, cheerleading and the excellent, excellent beta and for the twig! All remaining mistakes are mine and mine alone.

Hooded Man

Delicate petals of pink and light yellow glittered in the first rays of the morning sun. Dew was soaking through Hermione’s shoes and socks. She was not dressed for a day out in the forest; the small colony of dusk flowers near the edge of the Forbidden Forest had vanished and she had had to search the clearings much further in.

The sun was rising and she had to hurry; the flowers would lose much of their magical potency. Kneeling down on the damp grass, she began harvesting the most delicate of the tiny flowers. After a few seconds she grew frustrated by not having full access to both her hands and quickly stabbed her wand through the bun at the nape of her head.

She was reaching for a particularly brightly coloured blossom when her wand was yanked away from her and a hand dug painfully into her hair.

Flailing helplessly, panic bubbled inside her. Constant vigilance! Would it have been so bad to have to come back here tomorrow? Did she have to be so impatient? Now she wondered whether there even would be a tomorrow. A wand was touched to her temple and she stilled.

A wizard? What kind of wizard would be in the Forbidden Forest at this time of day? Or at any time of day?

“The Forbidden Forest is a dangerous place, little witch,” the man behind her whispered close to her.

Her eyes darted around trying to assess the situation without turning her head.

Slowly, at an almost lazy pace, figures cloaked in tones of brown and green emerged from in between the thick growth of trees.

One dropped from a majestic tree, his descent slowed by magic, making his cloak fan out like wings.

She counted four in addition to the one holding her on her knees. Too many to distract and run.

The hooded men drew closer, forming a semi-circle in front of her. The wizard, who had been observing her from the tree, stepped up to her. Cupping her chin with his hand, he held her still, eyes somewhere in the shadows of his hood.

“Well hunted, Blaise.”

He threw his hood back and revealed white blond hair that shone blindingly in the sun.

Draco Malfoy smiled a cruel smile.

***

The man behind her pulled on her hair and she could not help but follow, rising to her feet unsteadily.

The man, Blaise – Zabini? – released her hair from his grip and caught both of her wrists in his hands, bringing them high over her head.

Malfoy stepped closer and slid his hands along the length of her arms to her arm pits and from there to underneath her breasts. Her heartbeat sped up and she was sure he could feel it through her robes, but he didn’t miss a beat, sliding his palms over her belly and her hips. He came even closer and now their bodies were nearly touching. For a short, mad instant she thought he was embracing her but then realised that he was searching for concealed weapons at her back. Malfoy must have sensed her discomfort for he smirked and stayed near, his shoulder nearly touching her nose. Squatting down, he let his hands roam the outside of her legs and lingered at her ankles, hands on her favourite green and black striped socks. Suddenly, Hermione was profoundly glad that he was still holding her gaze, if rather mockingly at that. Her mother had given her the socks one Halloween and Hermione cherished them dearly, although she had been teased by Ron about catering to Muggle prejudice.

One corner of Malfoy’s mouth twitched to form a short half smirk and then his hand ran along the inside of her legs.

Hermione squeaked and tried to stop his path, pressing her knees together. Malfoy jerked his head in the direction of the wizard holding her arms above her head and her feet were kicked apart. Malfoy quickly felt for weapons, stopping at the apex of her thighs.

Then he was gone, his back already retreating toward the edge of the clearing. Hermione stood stock still, eyes wide, until a nudge from her captor told her that it was time to follow.

***

Her shoes were not made for walking in the underbrush.

“There’s still time to turn around.”

Her robes tangled and ripped in the wild bramble bushes.

“I won’t tell anybody, I swear!”

She stumbled and cried out as her arm was painfully twisted and pulled back. Zabini kept his hold on her arm strong and steady but made no move to help her up.

“You could Obliviate me or I could take an unbreakable vow!” Now she sounded whiny even to her own ears.

“Shall I make her shut her gob, Draco?” Theodore Nott had been following her with hatred in his eyes from the very beginning. “I could show her how much we appreciate Muggle methods and cut her tongue out.”

A silver knife blinked in his hand, reflecting the few rays of sun that could penetrate the thick roof of branches and leaves.

“Silencio,” Malfoy barely stopped to aim his wand at her. “More walking, less talking, Granger. We still have a ways to go.”

It was already around mid morning when they reached their destination. Hermione could not see the position of the sun in the sky but they had walked for several hours in the rising temperature. She felt thirsty and sticky in the robes she had worn to fend off the early morning chill.

Zabini kept pulling her along with him, which became a more and more complicated task. The farther they walked into the forest, the more she felt compelled to walk into another direction and avert her eyes from the path. Soon, the compulsion became so great that she could hardly set one foot in front of the other. Being pulled forward in this specific direction was akin to torture and her silenced mouth begged the wizards around her to just let her go left or right or let her stop going for only a little while.

When Hermione thought she would fall to her knees in a helpless heap to be dragged along through dirt and leaves any second now, the tingling of strong wards washed over her and the torment stopped.

For a moment, the light in the clearing blinded her. The quiet deafened her ears. A panicked heartbeat long she was afraid that they had now robbed her of all senses but then she heard a bird singing and her eyes adjusted to the midday sunlight.

It was an odd assortment. Underneath a giant old oak tree, a small, strangely cheerful congregation of wizarding tents were stood in the clearing. Some were akin to small Muggle camping tents, not unlike the one she had spent so many months in, hunting Horcruxes with Harry and Ron. Others were likened after medieval tents one might have found at the site of jousting, broad red and blue striped fabric falling in ample folds, a small streamer fluttering on top of the highest point. There was a very feminine pink tent with little turrets that rather looked like a kitschy wedding cake and a majestic dark green tent with elaborate embroidery.

“Don’t even bother to memorise the details of our location, Granger. We never stay long enough in one place to get attached or make it home.”

Yes, she could see the parallels.

“There’s water in that covered cauldron over there. Do us all a favour and don’t wash yourself in it, as tempting as getting rid of your stench might be. It’s our cooking water and if you want any, you better be careful with it.”

The other wizards had taken off their cloaks upon arrival at the camp site. Hermione recognised Adrian Pucey and Gregory Goyle; the latter only confirming his identity, as his burly stature had been quite telling. He was now leaning on his wizard staff, looking at her with resentment.

“The wards won’t let you pass without one of us escorting you. You don’t have a wand and Theo here will be watching you very closely, so don’t try anything if you know what’s good for you. Now behave, I have an owl to send to the Head of the Aurors. Potter still lives in Nottingham, right?”

Hermione nodded mutely.

They still hadn’t taken the silencing spell off her.

***

Dejectedly, Hermione sat on a small rock or rather a bigger than average stone. Her knees came up to her chest but perching like this was still better than sitting on the ground. She had tried, out of pure defiance but had only garnered amused looks and a muddy backside.

She could not stop rubbing her tingling fingertips over the rough fabric of her cloak that she had draped over her knees. Feeling very stealthy, she had edged toward the boundary beyond the half circle of tents standing around a large fire site. Thinking that nobody paid her any mind she had tried to wandlessly break through the wards. With a loud bang the wards had thrown her onto her already muddy behind. Now, although it had been hours since her attempt at flight, she could not decide whether her fingertips were more numb, or feeling as if burnt, or tingling as if she was touching a badly grounded Muggle electronic device.

“You.”

I? Hermione looked up into the unfriendly face of Gregory Goyle. He was different from what she remembered. No longer simply big, but burly with hard, angular edges. The type to stand guard in front of Muggle clubs or come knocking at your door when invoices had been left unpaid for too long.

Goyle jerked his head toward the campfire. “We have tea early here. Come or go hungry.” He turned around and walked off not bothering to see whether she followed or not.

Her joints and muscles ached in protests when she struggled to her feet. The members of the... what were they? A band of... somebodies? They had discarded their cloaks and hoods and were now sitting around the fire on a colourful and diverse assortment of chairs. Transfigured from branches or fallen tree trunks, everybody seemed to cater to their own comfort and taste. An Art Deco leather armchair stood next to a chintzy chaise longue alongside chesterfield sofas and something that looked like a rather gothic recliner.

Draco Malfoy sat on a broad, carved armchair, upholstered with tanned leather. Seeing her approach, he patted an untransfigured length of tree trunk to his right.

“Hurry up, Granger; if you are good, I’ll change this into something more comfortable.”

Adrian Pucey and Blaise Zabini were busy handing out steaming bowls of stew. Reaching her, Pucey stood awkwardly, obviously at a loss of what to do.

“Oh for the love of Herne! Give her something to eat, Adrian.” Malfoy pointed his wand at the log, which instantly changed into a pouf or large footstool matching his armchair. “And you sit down, Granger!”

She sat on the leather pouf, well aware that it made her appear to sit at his feet. Hermione decided that she didn’t care. It was better than her rock. Stone. Glorified pebble.

“You are welcome, Granger. It wouldn’t hurt you to say thank you. Are you mute or what?”

With a sudden surge of anger she looked up into his face. “As a matter of fact, yes, I am!” she mouthed silently.

“Oh, bloody hell! Forgot about that.” He might have blushed very, very faintly. Or the sun might have given his fair English skin a healthy glow. “ Finite Incantatem.”

“Thank you.”

Malfoy nodded in acknowledgement and turned his attention to his stew. Several of the men had already started to eat. She counted seven of them besides Malfoy. It was a bit of a shock to see that she recognised several of them from school. Goyle, who had leant his wizard staff against the high back of his wooden armchair, Blaise Zabini, Adrian Pucey, Theodore Nott, looking young and vulnerable and hateful at the same time. Three more she had never seen before. They were quietly talking among themselves. A bit older than the rest, they must have been already out of Hogwarts when she had started her first year.

The conversation around the fire was subdued and careful. Hermione suspected that her presence had something to do with that. She concentrated on her stew, eating slowly. It was her first meal today, as she had planned to have breakfast with Headmistress McGonagall after harvesting the dusk flowers. Sitting at the edge of the clearing, hunger had soon started to gnaw on her insides.

She knew it well. Hunger was an old enemy from her days of the Horcrux hunt, or as it was now called in the history books, The Quest. Food was one of the few things that magic could not provide and there was a real possibility that there would not always be stew available in the next days.

“Well done, Doncaster.”

One of the men she had not seen before, the one with dirty-blond, long hair, lifted his gaze from his meal and grinned.

“Without Theo’s talent for hunting, it would have been berries and roots again.”

Nott had finished his portion and now reclined on the opulent chaise longue.

“Since I have already been outlawed for poaching, I think it only fair to take advantage of the circumstances.”

Poaching? Poaching of what?

The others chuckled and Zabini slapped Nott on the back.

“I am delighted to find you all in such merriment. My goodness! Is this Miss Granger I am seeing? I heard you are pursuing a career in potions, dear?”

Horace Slughorn stood beside an elaborate Victorian sofa. His flowing, dark green velvet robes had winding golden vines embroidered at the edges and was girt with a garland of hop, mistletoe and rowan. Hair turned white, he had started to grow a full beard to accompany his still impressive moustache. He was an antique die-cut of Father Christmas come to life.

“Professor! What a surprise! It’s actually healing with an emphasis on potions research.” She stood, holding the stew bowl in her hands. “You have... you have joined priesthood?”

“Ah, my girl, I did try my luck at Kirklees, a safe haven for my final years. Alas, the brotherhood had strict rules and were quite contrary to my greatest vice, crystallised pineapple. I am afraid I had to either leave the pineapple or Kirklees.” Slughorn opened his arms wide. “And here I am.” The velvet of his robes, made for a much portlier man, did not stretch over his chest and belly but lay in ample folds.

“Kirklees?” Hermione sounded breathless to her own ears.

“Horace, it won’t do to get chummy with our pledge. We cash in the ransom, Obliviate her and send her back.” The warning was clear in Malfoy’s voice.

“Pledge! Oh, dear. But fear not, these boys are a good sort, deep down.” Slughorn sat and inhaled the aroma of his stew. “Aah! A good day it is!”

Hermione remembered how miserable they had been on The Quest and how their spirits were lifted, how hope had blossomed from a simple dish of spaghetti Bolognese. Here, too, the men around her had relaxed and conversations started around the fire. She made it a point to eat as slowly as possible, feeling the silent presence of Draco Malfoy to her left.

The shadows grew longer and she was suddenly very grateful for the big fire. Although it was summer, the tall trees shielded them from the setting sun and the little clearing was already bathed in twilight.

To ward off a sudden chill, Hermione set her bowl on the ground beside her and struggled into her robes, now glad that she had them.

“What is that?”

Malfoy’s venomous voice made her flinch and turn to him in surprise. Seeing where his gaze was directed, Hermione self-consciously tried to hide her stripy socks.

“It’s a joke. A gift from my mother.”

“A joke.” His face shuttered. “Do you also have little gingerbread houses as decoration in your Muggle house? Do you paint your face green on Halloween and walk the streets with one of those brooms that don’t even fly in hand?”

Her blush told him the truth. Yes, yes and yes. It was the only way her mother knew to try and be close to her daughter’s life.

He looked at her in disgust. “Humorous, is it? Making fun of us? You know nothing of our culture! This is exactly why we didn’t want...” Malfoy closed his eyes and breathed deeply. “Whatever. Get ready for bed, Granger.”
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Hooded Man