Chapter Text
La tendresse des damnés
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The tenderness of the damned
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Résumé:
After the Battle of Hogwarts, they all thought the days of horror were over. Little did they know that they were only just beginning...
prologue
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The thunderstorm raged outside since the early evening. By now it was night, a saturnine, restive night. Once in a while, distal flashes of lightning illuminated the sky. Thick raindrops pattered against the fragile appearing, but magically strengthened panes of the stately country residence, steady and unrelenting. The property was surrounded by high-ranking trees, their huge branches currently groaning with the pressure of lasting the harsh gusts of wind. Being built of rough, unpolished stone and covered by poison ivy, the two-storey mansion was located on a small hill, with a rolling path leading from the heavy iron gate to the impressive entrance. Most of the windows were currently in darkness, except for the slight glow of a single candle in one of the many upstairs bedrooms.
The young woman leaned slightly against the window frame and looked outside, a silent longing in her hazelnut coloured eyes. She was about seventeen, eighteen years old, pale and beautiful. Her facial features had lost their childlike innocence, nevertheless soft, with thick lashes, a slender nose and a full, sensual mouth.
Her name was Hermione Jean Weasley.
Once an admired, radiant member of the so-called "Golden Trio", her current realty was entirely different. During the Battle of Hogwarts, Lord Voldemort died. Killed by Harry, her endlessly gracious best friend - "The Chosen One".
For a few delicate hours, it seemed as if the war had been won. As if all was well.
But the Dark Lord was weakened, distracted by the ongoing loss of his Horcruxes. And so his regime was undermined by a man who not only knew to strike fear into people's hearts, but also to seduce them, envelop them in his charms and abuse them for his own ends, a skill, which also Tom Riddle once possessed.
A man who could never benefit from Lord Voldemort's return.
A man who had too much to lose.
Lucius Malfoy.
Thus the Ministry of Magic was still under the control of the Death Eaters, the remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix were hunted, tortured and executed, leaving the resistance completely broken after a short time. The boy who lived died insignificantly, senselessly, murdered in cold blood by Antonin Dolohov. He meant nothing to Lucius Malfoy - but the resistance needed him.
Many had been killed. A few hours after Harry died, Hermione and Ron got married. Two days later he died too.
But some of the younger generation were left alive. They were taken to one of the countless estates of the Malfoy Family. Before long, they envied the dead. Anyone who could call themselves a Death Eater and display the Dark Mark, which Lucius Malfoy had retained as a symbol, could do anything to the girls and boys - except for killing them. Some died anyway, some fell silent.
The men who came to her forced her to take part in almost unspeakable perversions, but none of them were as cruel as the new master himself. Although she had sworn not to give in, to deny him the satisfaction of her fear and suffering, she was soon begging him to kill her before her ravaged body finally gave out from exhaustion. She never saw Lucius Malfoy again after that, none of them did. At least not in person, as he was often seen in the Daily Prophet, mostly in the shadow of his brother-in-law Rodolphus Lestrange, who had been appointed Minister for Magic shortly after Malfoy came to power. But no matter how many men came to Hermione day after day, week after week, month after month, raping and humiliating her, it was Malfoy's cold, piercing eyes, his mocking laughter, his hands on her body, the torture and agony he had inflicted on her, which haunted her every night in her dreams.
Currently she was still standing by the window when a soft but firm knock on her bedroom door disrupted her thoughts.