Chapter Text
It hurt like a thousand hells.
That was the thought Hermione had the moment she woke on a rough, icy surface, her back throbbing with pain. Something was probably broken in her spine. And something was burning in the palm of her hand, twisting her flesh. To her surprise, when she turned her neck to look at her left hand, she noticed the copper manacles were gone; her wrists were free.
She quickly raised her hand and recognised a cut in the flesh of her thumb, shaped like a capital “L”, an incision far too specific to have been accidental. The blood had already dried, but the wound was surrounded by purplish abrasions and it hurt. A great deal.
She tried to recall the recent events after her — involuntary — escape attempt, but beyond the injury to the back of her body and the wound on her hand, she couldn’t relive how she had left the arena or why she was here.
“Here” was a place even more foul-smelling than the cell where she had, for a few minutes, been neighbour to the Ravenclaw boy. It reeked of rotting flesh. Everything was far too dark for any ordinary human to see, but perhaps thanks to her distinctive magic, the faint moonlight reflecting off part of the floor to her left seemed to her like sunlight streaming through glass, allowing her to see the place with perfect clarity. It was probably a small window behind her, since every detail appeared sharp.
And empty.
It was larger than the previous one — the echo of her moans proved it — and it could not be an ordinary cell because she was lying on a smooth, cold stone slab, and her clothes, though she couldn’t quite remember the exact long nightgown Naiad had made her wear back in Ireland, she knew what she had on now was not the same closed woollen blouse she had pulled over her head.
A fabric that felt like linen to her fingertips covered her legs down to her heels, though in some places on the backs of her thighs she could feel skin directly against stone. Her upper arms, however, were fully in contact with the table; suddenly she raised them protectively to chest height in fear that she was topless, but her fingers met a thin, tattered cloth that covered part of her bra.
“I see you’re awake.”
Lucius Malfoy’s deep voice startled the girl, who hadn’t expected another presence in the place. He prodded her cheek with his wand. Hermione turned her face away and let out an audible groan; her head was spinning and even lying down she felt she might fall at any moment. She wanted to know where she was and what they would do to her after her latest stratagem. Death Eaters were not known for showing mercy to those who made fools of them.
“The Master is most curious about the secret abilities of our newest prisoner, and I even more so. And I want to hear it from you — what did you do?”
Hermione didn’t want to hear what he had to say; couldn’t he see how agonised her expression was? Because she was certain he could see the grimace on her face through the gloom that now cut across part of the room, moving steadily towards her.
“Where am I?” she murmured, barely recognising the voice that came from her throat. She must have screamed too much, because her throat burned as fiercely as the rest of her body. Her question was ignored.
He circled her, looking, searching for something she, at that moment, had no head to guess at. All she could do was watch him in return.
“Do you know how much it cost me to create that beast? Of course you don’t,” he spat, clenching his fists. “For the first few days no one could go near the thing, no matter how many charms we threw at it, even all of us together, including the Lord, though he doesn’t like to be reminded of it. Anything living that went near that horse turned instantly to dust — Muggle, Mudblood, pure-blood alike. It took days before I could enter that dungeon without the creature charging at me with smoking nostrils, and I only succeeded because I…” He narrowed his eyes at her and stopped. “That’s none of your business.”
“Where… Where’s Draco? I didn’t see—”
“How dare you ask about my son?” He pressed the wand into her cheek until she whimpered. “I’ll be keeping an eye on you from now on, and know that I don’t approve of this thing with Draco. I still don’t know what you did to him, but I know my son wouldn’t behave this way in his right mind.” He looked her up and down then turned his gaze to the night beyond, visible through the tiny opening that now clearly silhouetted him.
“You’d better stay alone for now. In a little while a Nync will see to you. The Lord has plans for you tonight and I hope you won’t pull any more clever tricks. That is a warning.”
Her mind tangled at the name he had just spoken. Nyn… what? But she didn’t dare ask. She waited until he left her alone, then released the breath she had been holding along with the tears she had held back for hours — or days — since the frantic journey. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed since she arrived. From one cell facing imminent death to another cell heading for an unknown fate; it was rather difficult to keep track of days.
____________
Hermione was confused by the treatment she had received in the last few hours. Was she a prisoner or a guest?
Two young women entered the foul room where she still lay, barely able to move on her own, and stopped one on each side of her legs. Both pressed their lips together in a strange attempt at a smile.
“Who are you?”
The one on the right opened a wider smile and answered in an infantilised voice.
“My name is Ann, miss. This is Malorie—” she pointed to the girl on the right, who by her expression wanted to be anywhere but there “—I’ll be your attendant while you’re here; I’ll help you dress while Malorie sees to you.”
“You can call me Hermione,” she grumbled, blinking to adjust to the light coming from outside since they had left the door open.
“Oh, certainly not, miss! We must show respect to our guests.” Ann bent her knees and made an unnecessary curtsy.
What nonsense! She felt sorry for the girl when she took a proper look at her; if she was afraid to be even mildly friendly towards someone like her, then she was very likely a punching bag for those black-robed brutes. At least one thing was certain: she really was a guest. A strange way to welcome guests in Arda Seidhe, but what had she expected? She was a guest in a prison.
“What exactly am I being invited to?” With great effort she propped herself up on her elbows for a better view of the girls, who promptly moved to help her sit with her legs dangling.
It really was moonlight illuminating that side, she confirmed when she looked at the so-called window — nothing more than a rectangular opening in the wall.
“To the Ceremony of Exhibition, miss. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named considers this one of his finest private events; that means only his most loyal supporters will be here — no press, no gawkers.” Ann explained as though it were truly something grand, but Hermione caught the hidden revulsion behind the words.
“What exactly are they going to exhibit that they think me worthy of watching?” That was what she couldn’t understand; nothing good would come of an invitation to a Voldemort event.
“Well…” The girl timidly exchanged a glance with the other, who, if possible, lowered her head even further. “The event is for you, miss.”
“For me?”
“Perhaps I should say about you. Forgive me, we aren’t permitted to say much; it’s all we know, isn’t that right, Malorie?” She stumbled over the words in her nervousness, twisting the grey apron tied to her identically grey dress. Hermione shifted her gaze to the smaller one, hoping to hear her voice for the first time, but she merely nodded. Strange. She didn’t try to please nearly as much as the other.
“And if I don’t want to go?” She already knew the answer when she asked, but it was true — she really didn’t want to go.
“That isn’t an option, miss. I’m sorry. If you’ll allow me, we’re now going to move you to another room and dress you properly.” The slight rise in her tone made it clear this was an order and that, even as a guest, she was not in a position to refuse.
What else could she do but nod? So she raised her arms so the young women could support her, one on each side, to lift her. Lying down, she had thought the pain was almost unbearable; standing proved it was twice as bad.
“I think I’ve fractured my spine and I’m not sure, but there’s something wrong with my legs and possibly my head,” she warned, letting them know how she felt.
“It’s all right, miss. Malorie will use a diagnostic spell when we reach the room and then we’ll treat you.”
“Malorie is a Healer? I was an apprentice myself, though still only that.” Hermione looked with fresh interest at the silent girl holding her on the left, but if she heard, she pretended otherwise. Intrigued, she turned back to the more talkative one. “Why doesn’t she answer me?”
Ann swallowed hard and looked away before explaining.
“Because she can’t. Malorie is a Nync. Nyncs are slaves sold or captured to serve the Death Eaters however they wish. But don’t be mistaken — I’m as much a slave as she is. The difference is that Nyncs in particular cannot speak because they no longer have the organ that would allow it. Their tongue.” Hermione turned to the girl and noticed she pressed her lips even tighter; she would not show it. “They cut out the tongues of all the maids who were ever too bold in defying them. They wouldn’t do it to a friend of yours, for example. With prisoners of war they have different plans. We usually come from poor wizarding families; our relatives often have crippling debts to them, so we aren’t worth as much. We have no voice. And to make it clear, they rip out the tongue as silent torture and also as a warning.” When she finished speaking, Hermione realised they had already reached a new room. “Please don’t tell anyone you know this. I shouldn’t have said anything.” Her expression changed and her eyes darted in panic as she understood she had said too much. She too was afraid of ending up like her colleague.
“Don’t worry. It’s none of my business.” Of course, deep down Hermione was already thinking of a thousand ways to free them from those conditions. But inside here, she was no longer the cleverest witch of her age or even the unknown that had so haunted a certain druidess’s thoughts. Here, as a guest at an event where she would be used as a circus attraction, Hermione was just one more — and neither her intelligence nor the luck she’d had last time could help her again.
___________
Euphemism would be calling it a discreet private event. In truth, it said a great deal about the scant fabric covering her newly regenerated skin for the occasion.
After being moved to another room, she was offered a strengthening tonic, which she only accepted because of the immediate affinity she felt with her new attendant, even though she hated the role and the circumstances. Malorie, the Nync, did indeed perform a diagnostic spell on her and, from the other’s interpretation, Hermione learnt she had abrasions all along her lower limbs — probably from the fall — plus the fractured spine that had been temporarily treated with a magical corset-like brace that formed part of the dress chosen for her that night.
Ann explained that Malorie — about whom she still didn’t know whether she actually had healing abilities or not, since there had been no reply when she asked — didn’t have time to heal her completely, so they would use glamour to hide her injuries and give her potions to endure the pain until the end of the night.
Although she insisted she didn’t need help dressing, she let the young women do what they had come to do, solely out of fear of what might happen to them if Hermione were a noisy, rebellious guest. She didn’t need any more names on her guilt list.
The long dress that adorned the shape of her body was black, like almost everything in the castle. Some golden adornments on the shoulder pieces and along the line beneath her breasts were the only splash of colour. And the emphasis was quite deliberate — to draw eyes to her face, made up and with her straightened hair making the brown shine divinely. Beyond that, of course, there was the cherry on top at the back.
Her back, enchanted with glamour, was practically bare save for the thin gold thread that joined the fabric at her neck to the top of her buttocks. She refused to look in the mirror because she knew she would see a product of the very reason she was being prepared: Voldemort’s pet prey on display for his inner circle. Open, available merchandise. That was the message Hermione understood from the little she had heard from her attendant.
And when everything had been said and done, they escorted her to her nightly destination. For a castle of obsidian, she had expected the main chamber to match the blackness of its exterior, but she was mistaken. The place she set foot in — barefoot, at Ann’s insistent orders — had black in its palette, but it was more a reflected contrast. Mirrors. That was what she noticed when she recognised herself looking at the floor, even though she had avoided it moments before; even that she had no choice about.
And she was beautiful, she admitted, surprised at herself, but the beauty they had adorned her with could not stop the bile souring her throat as she raised her gaze, through the reflection on the floor, and met hundreds of pairs of eyes gleaming at her entrance.
“Well, look who’s done us the honour of her presence.” The overly cheerful sound came from unison voices somewhere at the back of the crowd silently judging her, but she recognised the synchrony of the Carrow twins. “You made our Master wait far too long; he was almost losing patience, weren’t you, Master?”
“Spare me the flattery,” Voldemort threw the pair a look that promised later attention, and Hermione followed his gaze to where the twins stood out in the crowd, dressed in complementary lilac and purple. Aleco and Amico shrank under the brief rebuke. “But… it is true.” He made a show of filing his nails with his wand, in clear mockery. “I was almost going to deprive my followers of their entertainment while I waited for you. Did you have trouble finding the way?” he mocked, expecting to sound amusing, but the silence in the hall nearly made Hermione laugh. “I asked if it was difficult for her to find the way!” he raised his voice so the intent would be clear, and the entire audience laughed loudly. Slow on the uptake.
Of course Hermione didn’t dare reply. Instead she scanned the rest of the hall. It was enormous. A great crystal-carved seat stood out from the rest of the room, and she knew it was his throne even though he wasn’t sitting in it. Since she had entered without announcement, she dispersed a cluster that had formed to hear what Voldemort had to say; with her arrival, attention shifted.
Yet the far side of the hall was still crowded with people oblivious to the new guest — wizards she didn’t immediately recognise were downing Firewhisky and a greenish drink she didn’t know — while women, also unknown, with little or no clothing, rubbed themselves against them without the slightest shame, as though they felt none. And perhaps they didn’t, given the likely effect of that last drink.
“There’s just one thing I notice is missing,” the Dark Lord continued, looking at her harshly before Hermione felt something smooth brush against one of her legs. She shouldn’t look, but reflex was faster. Nagini hissed at her until she rose to eye level. The snake was immense, almost the size of the disgust she swallowed to keep hidden. She hated snakes.
“Anyone care to volunteer? I wouldn’t touch her with my hands.” He asked no one in particular, but dozens of hands shot up almost instantly.
“Greyback. I know you want your face in her nightmares, so go ahead.”
He wouldn’t.
The half-breed approached without ceremony and pulled her arms forward.
“Don’t be so tense. I’m not going to do anything to you…” The calm between the words didn’t match their owner “…yet.”
His gaze returned to her hands and that was when Hermione noticed the new manacles. The Nync had removed the earlier ones so she could glamour her abraded wrists, and it wasn’t as though Hermione thought they wouldn’t put another pair on; she just hadn’t wanted it to be so soon, since her sore skin lay beneath the charm. But once again, she had no choices here.
Someone cleared their throat somewhere at the back when he finished fastening them properly.
“If I may, my Lord, earlier today you told me you couldn’t imagine a good enough reward for me after my recent deeds.” Corban Yaxley rocked back and forth, very sure of himself and feigning modesty. “I have a suggestion.” His smile widened as he recognised Voldemort’s permission to continue. “Actually, it’s a simple curiosity.”
“I hope you’re not testing my patience today, Corban. I’m sure you don’t want to join the Carrows later.” The Dark wizard interrupted, impatient. “Say what you want or be silent.”
“I’ve never owned a Mudblood.”
Squeals and shouts of agreement echoed through the hall and the bare skin of the brunette prickled from head to toe.
“Is that what you want?” Voldemort asked, clearly disapproving of the reward, but at the Death Eater’s eager nod he continued. “So be it. But make sure you don’t join the others.” He pointed towards the men and women kissing and grinding at the back. “This Mudblood is special, as you know, so since the gift is already yours, let it at least be for everyone’s eyes. Do you mind?”
It wasn’t a question, but Yaxley still nodded vigorously.
“Very well. My dear friends and faithful servants, I believe I’ve already spoken briefly about tonight’s star, only leaving the details of what you would witness as a surprise.” He glanced quickly at her while addressing the crowd. “Yaxley’s fantasy is a bonus you all deserve to share—” more excited cheers rang out “—but that isn’t the only reason she’s here.”
Voldemort snapped his fingers and Hermione felt her body lose control. Upside down, she closed her eyes to avoid nausea as she floated head-first through the air to the banqueting table, magically cleared before she was laid upon it.
“Tonight, my friends, we shall control and abuse danger. Because we are the holders of danger; no one should fear anyone above us. Above me. Especially when that someone is a Mudblood. I still don’t know what feat she performed to deceive that Beast, but I don’t need to find out. Do you know why?” He waited for the crowd’s response but silence was absolute. “Because an enemy ceases to be a threat when she becomes an ally. And you may be wondering: why on earth would this girl agree to be our ally? And I tell you…” He shrugged, pausing. “She doesn’t need a reason. She will.”
With that, the scream that followed across the huge hall would certainly have been heard in other wings had it not been for the sound-dampening charm. Hermione felt the black, Dark-magic-infested nail pierce the same arm Bellatrix had scarred some time ago. And the pain of that stab was even greater than after the horse’s fall. She couldn’t understand how anyone chose this; she almost begged to die just to make him stop. But he didn’t stop, nor did the pain.
“Hermione Granger, Harry Potter’s little girlfriend, insufferable know-it-all, Mudblood brat. Yes, my friends, our star here has many names. And the most recent one I’ve been hearing is ‘She Who Resists the Demon’—” Voldemort laughed without releasing her still-screaming arm “—but the funny thing is that you who spread those rumours forgot whom you should truly fear.” His face hardened and he stopped laughing. “I am the demon, and I assure you she does not resist me. If you’re so afraid of her, consider this a gift.” He stretched her arm out for the others to see, displaying the freshly enchanted black mark. “Let her be a dangerous witch then — but under my command.”
Voldemort released her arm and withdrew towards the throne, accompanied by the witch who had given Hermione her penultimate scar, to the applause and whistles of the crowd.
Yaxley approached from the other side after the master left. As Hermione had predicted, the gold accents drew the expected attention to what they concealed above her waist. The man spread his hand over her breast and squeezed, to Hermione’s revulsion and the audience’s excitement. He laughed as he watched her torment. They were all a pack of disgusting sadists. He was toying with her first, the way a predator toys with prey before devouring it. Amid the masculine groans around her, the wizard grew bolder. He climbed on top of her and received loud approval from the guests, and Hermione had the impression people were drawing closer to the table; very soon other hands would be on her. When she felt a lick on her neck she instinctively jerked her knee up, striking the wizard squarely between the legs — which earned her an almost simultaneous slap across the face. She whimpered at the sting and felt blood trickle from her nose.
“Please.”
“What did you say?” A cruel gleam crossed the Death Eater’s eyes as he demanded she repeat it, and his mocking laugh turned to a guffaw when she did. “She’s saying please.” He jeered to his companions and turned back to her, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Please let me go, or please fuck me?” Sibilant agreement hissed around them.
“Let me go,” she coughed, withdrawn but with the faintest hope.
“Wrong answer. Come on!” As Hermione feared, others approached the table, pinning her body to the surface with bold hands that roamed her skin while pushing her back. She realised the Death Eater on top of her was removing his clothes and her mind screamed what she already knew. There was no escape.
But deep down a consciousness she couldn’t quite identify as her own kept pleading relentlessly for permission.
Release me
Release me
Release me
Release me
She lost count of how many times she heard the plea until it became louder than the laughter around her and the only thing she could hear.
Look at the mark.
It was her own mind trying to distract her from that hell, yet at the same time it wasn’t. Hermione opened her eyes and looked at the arm that burned with the Dark Mark — and in place of the tattoo she found blood, her blood, boiling beneath the skin. Burning like fire. Erasing the Dark magic just as it erased the tracing.
The noise stopped — and not only inside her head. Yaxley had followed her gaze to what held her attention and his expression was pure shock. He leapt off her to the astonishment of the others, who likewise backed away even without understanding. The Death Eater let out a loud grunt that drew the attention of the Lord, who had been conversing, oblivious, with other wizards while seated on his throne.
“My Lord… She…” The pale-skinned pure-blood took several more steps back while staring in horror from Hermione to her arm.
“What is it, Yaxley?” Voldemort asked without turning.
“The Mark. It’s fading.”
The remark made him change his mind, because he spun round so fast it startled even the witch beside him.
“What did you say?”
“See for yourself, Master.” Yaxley wouldn’t meet his eyes and retreated from his path.
Voldemort approached — but not too close — followed by his horde of wizards. He stopped and addressed another wizard who had also been enjoying the girl moments earlier.
“What nonsense is he talking about?”
“My Lord, I believe Corban only said what he saw. Indeed, the Mark you placed on her arm… I don’t know how it’s possible, but… it’s no longer there.”
Hermione held her breath as she felt the heavy aura near her once more, and the silence that had fallen after the Mark’s dissolution was broken again — but not by him.
She is not worthy of this symbol. Let me show her.
That was definitely not her own consciousness. Caught between Voldemort’s evaluation on one side and the insistent demand for freedom from within on the other, she could hear the blood rushing through her arm to the L-shaped cut on her hand; she felt it heat inside the copper manacle that clasped her wrist, and she could have sworn she was able to count the tiny intervals between her heartbeats.
It was not Voldemort’s voice she heard, stunned, all around her, but numerous gasps and footsteps that seemed to retreat.
Release me
“Get out!”
She screamed inside her head, to whatever it was — do what you must do, but leave me alone. Hermione was unable to see or comprehend what happened next, but the Dark Lord would certainly not soon forget.
Sounds of thunder and lightning came one after another, though there was no storm outside, without pause, causing commotion among everyone present. Until, at the exact moment a deafening thunderclap shook the hall, the entire room was illuminated as though a star had fallen inside the castle; the glare hung in the air far longer than it should have, and at its core was Hermione, sitting unnaturally upright, head thrown back, mouth open in a silent scream of horror, while light poured from her eyes like stardust and from her mouth came the voice that had fought from the depths of her mind to reach the surface.
“She who descends from ancient blood,
Holds the power to defeat the Lord of Darkness.
Born of an impure line,
Yet bears the blessing of the worst of creatures.
Thou art the Source beyond the world,
Of magic the enemy does not know,
The strongest and wisest Lady of deepest Erebus.”
The girl collapsed unconscious the instant the light and thunder ceased, but not the screams.
“My Lord…” Bellatrix trembled as she addressed the wizard. “The prophecy…”
“Silence!” Voldemort hadn’t even moved from his spot. “Get her out of here.” No one stirred. “I want her and that horse out of my castle now!!” he roared, enraged, and Lucius Malfoy, for the first time at that ceremony, made his presence felt.
“Do not worry, my Lord; I see what must be done.”
“Wait. I know what I want. Take her to Withall and I myself will enchant the place so she can never leave without my permission!”
Lucius considered warning that it was unlikely their magic would work on either of them at that moment, but chose silence to avoid a Cruciatus.
“Very well, my Lord.” Lucius left the hall with a debilitated Hermione floating beside him.
The Lord, in turn, turned to the petrified — shocked — gazes in the room and addressed them all.
“The party is over. Get out.”