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Entry tags:
1 one-shot: Draco/Hermione
Title: In the Small Room
Words: 4142
Rating: NC-17
Characers/Pairings: Draco/Hermione
Warnings: non-con/rape.
Author's Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
yuri_slash for the ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
sexy_brilliance exchange. Beta'd be the very helped lady_laurelin.
Summary: She refused to allow herself to think that she was being held captive, but then again, there was no denying she wasn’t free to come and go.
Hermione was sitting in a very small, dirty room and she was alone. The room had no windows and no furniture at all. She refused to allow herself to think that she was being held captive, but then again, there was no denying she wasn’t free to come and go. She thought this is just what happened in war, however. She was a prisoner of war. She was so dirty she felt has if the dirt was caked on, and she’d never be clean again. She hadn’t seen a human in weeks, maybe months, honestly; the only human interaction she had was when the food slid in a little slit in the door, and she never saw even a part of the human who fed her.
Her wand was confiscated the moment she was brought here, so she was utterly powerless. She knew what was going on, though. She was aware that part of the reason she wasn’t going insane or losing hope was she knew what was going on. She knew she had to do this. She had sacrificed herself to help the Order of the Phoenix. She knew their next move. She just wished they would hurry up. She knew time must be passing slower for her, but she still felt too much time had passed.
“No, Hermione,” she chastised herself out loud, “Don’t think that way.” She hated when she talked to herself, especially out loud, because it was a sign to her that she was slowly reaching her brink. But she couldn’t help it. It was almost as if it was involuntary.
She leaned back against the wall facing the door and pulled her knees to her chest. She wrapped her arms around her legs and tried to pull them as close as possible to her chest. She watched the door as if it would open any minute for her rescue.
Nothing happened.
She sighed and laid her head on her knees. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to relax. Remembering old tricks her mother taught her about relaxation, she took deep breaths and tried to think of somewhere peaceful and safe. But the moment she remembered her mother her anxiety rose even higher. She wondered if they knew yet. She wondered if they had given up hope and thought she was dead.
“I’m not dead, Mum. Dad, I’m alive…” Her whispered words were soft and almost pleading, and she almost hated how weak she sounded. “I chose this,” she reminded herself stubbornly.
The door opened suddenly. No warning, no food tray; it just opened. The creak and groan of the heavy door was so unnatural in the silence that had become all she had begun to expect in the little room. The only sound, other than her own voice and movements, was of the food being slid in and out. The sound of the door opening was so loud it was almost deafening to her.
A figure walked in the door. Even with the Death Eater mask and long dark robes obscuring the features, it was clearly a man. His stride was confident and slightly familiar to Hermione. The man turned to close the door behind him with a loud thud. When he turned back toward the room, he had to search for her for a second before he saw her huddled near the back wall.
“Afraid?” was his first word to her.
Hermione knew his voice, but for some reason she was having difficulty placing it. She knew that she knew his man. She felt a small shiver slide down her spine. The familiarity scared her. This man, in his Death Eater attire, scared her. She hated herself for being so afraid.
She hoped she had held eye contact with the man from the moment he entered the room. He didn’t flinched or shy away from her outward confidence either. She wasn’t begging, pleading, or crying; she stayed where she was and watched him. She hoped, for her sake, she didn’t look as frightened as she felt.
“Are you afraid?” he asked her again.
Hermione concentrated on trying to figure out who this man was. His voice, mannerisms, and dialect were so particular.
“Hermione, dear Hermione,” he continued when she didn’t respond. “Are you cold?” No response. “Too hot?” Still no response. “Don’t you want to talk to me?”
She just stared at him. She had to stop herself from shaking her head. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of her denial.
“Have it your way.” Without another word, he opened the heavy door again, and the unusual sound filled the empty room. Without a fleeting glance backward, he left her alone in the room again.
“No,” she whispered once the loud thud had stopped echoing, “I don’t want to talk to you, Draco Malfoy.”
--
Hermione spent at least a week alone locked in the room again. The longer she was left alone, the more she could feel herself breaking. She felt as if her mind was slowly retreating into itself to make up for being so left alone. She wasn’t used to being by herself, especially this much, and she knew it. Her mind, her heart, her very soul knew this wasn’t easy on her, but those were the very things that she prayed would hang on long enough to see the outside.
She bided her time playing mental exercises. She challenged her trivia, her knowledge and tried to best herself with each fact she thought up again. Sometimes she wondered if she was making up some of the facts she was remembering, but she always pushed that aside. The need to exercise her mind as well as her body was dire. She knew keeping her mind active was only of the only ways to stay sane.
She was determined to stay sane.
She was challenging herself to name all the wizards in the Wizengamot, when suddenly the room was filled with the abnormal sound of the door opening again. Instantly, Hermione looked up to see who was entering the room with her.
It was the same wizard again. He still wore his Death Eater attire, but his way of holding himself was unmistakably him. Especially since she was able to put a name to it now.
“Hello, Hermione,” he greeted her. He seemed almost happy. She didn’t say anything, but kept eye contact. She felt fear grown within her. This was no ordinary wizard; this man was a murderer. She was alone with a murderer. She had seen him kill; she had witnessed the brutality of his magic. He had killed Luna Lovegood with two uttered words.
“Come on, why aren’t you talking?” He smirked. “Have you lost your voice?”
He wasn’t going to be detoured again by her lack of a response. When he stopped in front of her, she felt her fear pick up instantly at the closeness. It was a cold fear, a pure fear. He knelt down in front of her and stared at her thoughtfully for a moment. It was as if he was judging her, deciding on what to do.
He reached out to her, and she flinched. It was involuntary. Her reaction was instinct. He smirked again. He looked so satisfied that she had finally responded in some way to him.
Even though she had flinched away from him the first time, he reached back out to her. She willed herself, forced herself with whatever strength was left with in her, to not flinch this time. She didn’t want him to know she was so afraid. She knew he knew, but she didn’t want to give him any more satisfaction than she already had.
He stroked her cheek. Inwardly, she was flinching. His hand felt cold and awkward against her skin. “So smooth,” he whispered without much purpose. “Why are you so afraid of me?” His voice was soft, and it was almost more frightening than if he had been yelling at her. She just stared at him, staying as still as possible under his fingers.
“Hermione,” he whispered but then stopped. He leaned closer and whispered in her ear, “Don’t be afraid. This won’t hurt.”
Her pulse jumped even higher, if that was possible, as theories of what he could be referring to swam through her head.
He tilted his head slightly and surveyed her. “You need a bath.” He stood up suddenly and walked back across the room. The sound of the door opening was the only sound that filled the room, and it left the loud thud of the door closing behind him.
Hermione just sat staring at the door for a long time. Her pulse was slowing down as her fear receded a bit. Once she was calm enough, she continued her mental trivia challenge. She knew this wasn’t over, and he’d back, but she knew dwelling on it wouldn’t help anything either. She had to focus on not losing her mind.
Not losing her mind was her first priority.
--
Draco returned the next day, but this time he wasn’t alone. A fellow Death Eater followed him into the room. The second Death Eater was not familiar, at least from what she could tell from the attire they both wore.
The other Death Eater looked Hermione up and down. She was sitting on the floor again, but she wasn’t huddled up as if she was a scared child. The Death Eater gave Draco a vicious smile and nodded. Hermione watched as the Death Eater left the room.
Once the door shut again, Hermione turned her attention to Draco. She noticed that he was still staring at her, probably never stopped. “Hello,” he greeted her, almost pleasantly. It was as if he was trying to be polite to her; it made her stomach roll. She just stared silently at him. He looked at her and said in an almost sad voice, “I don’t understand why you won’t talk to me.”
Hermione fought the urge to tell him to sod off. She didn’t want to make him angry. He was a murderer, and he wasn’t to be trusted. Every time he walked in the room her constant fear rose, and when he got close it sky-rocketed.
Once again he knelt down in front of her. “Hermione, talk to me,” He commanded. She merely looked at him. She knew her face was oddly blank from the terror, frustration, and insanity she was feeling.
The door opened again, and both of them looked instantly to see who was coming on. The Death Eater who had walked in with Draco before walked in again, but the door didn’t close behind him. Hermione watched in confusion as two other Death Eaters brought in a large tub. It was obviously used for bathing and quite old.
She eyed the tub for a moment before Draco said, “It’s not ideal, but no magic is allowed to be used in here until…” he trailed off. “Until it is,” he finished cryptically.
The two Death Eaters who brought in the tub left without acknowledging Hermione at all. They merely nodded to Draco and the second Death Eater and left with the sound of the door closing again.
Hermione looked at Draco again. He was looking at her. “I know it’s not ideal,” he repeated as he stood up. “But it’s the best I could come up with.” He shrugged.
“And more fun,” the other man chimed in. The man gave her a sadistic, sick smile that made Hermione’s feel sicker than when Draco touched her. This man was clearly twisted and capable of anything.
“Leave,” Draco suddenly told the other Death Eater.
The Death Eater seemed taken back. “What?” he started to protest.
“I said leave,” Draco repeated and gestured angrily to the door. Suddenly it dawned on Hermione that Draco had never been seemed angry at her; he had remained calm the entire time. The realization, for some reason, scared her.
With one last look at Hermione, the Death Eater left Draco and Hermione alone with the tub.
Once the door closed, Draco turned to her. “Now that we are alone,” he started, “We should get started.” He knelt back in front of her. “Say something.”
“What’s that for?” Hermione heard herself whisper softly. The words were out her mouth in a fearful utterance before she even realized she was thinking them.
“A bath. You need a bath.” Hermione remembered vaguely that he had stated that on his prior visit. “I’m going to get you cleaned up. I don’t know how you could have gotten as dirty as you have while staying only in this room.” He shook his head and stood up. Without any pressuring, he put out his hand for her to take.
She didn’t want to take it, to give in, but she knew if she didn’t he would only get angry. Making him angry would not work to her benefit, so she placed her hand awkwardly in his, and he helped her to her feet. The feel of his skin on hers was nauseating, but she tried to stop herself from showing it.
He gently led her closer to the bath. It was steaming, and she could see a bag sitting on the floor beside it that she hadn’t seen from her angle on the floor. Draco must have seen her staring at it and said, “Soap and clothes.” She nodded. “Silent again?”
She didn’t respond, but he didn’t ask again. Instead he began to undress her. She stiffened much as she could and felt her skin crawl with his hands even touching her, even through her clothes. “No!” she said, pushing him back and taking a few steps back herself. “Can’t I bathe myself?” she asked.
“No,” Draco said with a stern and cold demeanor.
“Then I don’t want a bath,” she heard herself denying.
“You spoiled child!” He suddenly grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him roughly. “You have no say!” The disgusting, useless feeling inside her grew again because she knew he was right. He was completely right, she had no say, and he had all the power. She allowed herself to slip into a state of fear and powerlessness and didn’t resist him as he continued to undress her.
The sick feeling of his hands on her and removing her clothes didn’t even recede a bit. He was doing the task so slowly, she felt as if he was torturing her. His every movement was precise, and she could tell he relished seeing her body revealed to him.
When he was done undressing her, he had not touched her other than to remove her clothes. She stood naked in front of him, and he looked her up and down. “You know, you are quite attractive. Not gorgeous, of course, but certainly not ugly.” He seemed to think it was a compliment, but she didn’t respond. “Aren’t you going to say thank you?” he asked arrogantly. She remained silent. He shook his head. “Get in the tub.”
With as much dignity as she could, she stepped into the tub and sunk down in the hot water. She never realized how good a bath could feel until then. For a moment she forgot Draco was watching her every move and closed her eyes to relish the feeling. Only when she heard Draco begin to move again did she open her eyes. He was pulling the soap and shampoo out of the bag.
When she went to reach for it, he shook his head. “No. I’m going to wash you.” She shook her head again. “Remember, you have no say.” This time his words were calmer, almost practiced. She didn’t respond, and he took that has her reluctant agreement.
He washed her body first. He used the rag on every inch of her. She felt sick and dirty has he washed her. It was as if he was replacing the dirt that she had on her with his own dirt. His vile, disgusting dirt that repulsed her more than the other. He worked slowly and thoroughly, too, she noticed. He lingered over her breasts and between her legs.
When he helped her out of the tub, she merely stood there. She was dripping water on the floor of the room, but she didn’t make a move for the towel. “Do you have a towel?” she reluctantly asked him after several minutes. He smiled arrogantly and reached in the bag to pull out a towel. She didn’t reach for it; she was beginning to understand the routine.
She was surprised when he held it out to her. “Go ahead; take it,” he urged her. She grabbed the towel quickly and turned away from him and toweled herself off. When she was done she wrapped the towel around herself, and turned back to him. “No,” he said, and gently pulled the towel loose so it fell. She had her arms folded across her chest to try to keep it up, but he said, “Let it fall.”
She dropped her arms. “You are prettier when you’re clean,” he announced.
He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. Before she realized his intentions, he slammed his mouth onto hers. He prodded her mouth to open with is tongue, but she refused. He pulled back and glared her. “Open your mouth, damn it. If you do what I say, what I want, you won’t be hurt.”
Hermione realized, in that instant, what he wanted.
She tried to shove him away, but he gripped her arm tighter. He wrenched her arm and pulled her closer. “No, Draco,” she pleaded, realizing the horror that had overcome her.
His grip on her loosened slightly as he looked at her with shock. “You… You know?”
Hermione maneuvered her arm from his grip. Her arm was red from where he had wrenched and held her so tightly. “Of course I do.”
“How long?” he questioned. He was just staring at her. His anger had melted, and his casual demeanor had been reinstated.
“The first visit,” she answered, looking down for the first time. She knew his face was hidden behind his Death Eater mask, but she was surprised by his surprised reaction to her admission of knowing who he was.
“And you didn’t say anything?” He seemed to be more confused with her knowing then unhappy that she knew. He sighed, as if just realizing something. “You weren’t talking until today.”
She shook her head.
He lunged at her suddenly and grabbed her arm again. “Damn it, Hermione, don’t fight me.” He twisted her arm when she tried to pull away.
Draco pulled her with him down on the ground. Hermione felt tears from both the fear and the physical hurt burning in her eyes. He pressed her with his heavy body so that she was trapped between him and the floor. She tried to push him off her, but he wouldn’t budge. She could feel his erection against her through his pants and pushed harder. He leaned down and pressed his lips against hers. His tongue tried to prod her mouth open, but she stubbornly held it closed.
“Open your mouth,” he commanded her when he pulled away briefly. She followed his command only to bite down on his tongue the second it entered her mouth.
He pulled back angrily. She didn’t see him pull his hand back to slap her until his hand connected with her cheek with a sting. “Don’t try something that stupid again,” he warned her. He leaned back down again, but she kept her mouth tightly closed. “Fine,” he said angrily. “No foreplay.”
He straddled her fully, and started to pull off his robes. He was naked by removing only his robe. “I was ready for this,” he said with a sadistic smirk when she stared at him in fear and continued to try to push him off her. He moved so that he could hold her down, and his erection was at her opening.
“Don’t fight; it won’t hurt.” His words were useless, and she could barely hear them through fear pulsing through her veins. She pushed at him harder, and he grabbed her wrists. He forced her wrists behind her head and looked down at her. Her legs were unmovable because of his weight, and now her hands and arms were because of the strength he was using to keep them stationary behind her head.
She gave into the urge to cry. Tears slid out of her eyes before Hermione could stop them. Draco reached up and wiped away a tear from her eye. He brought the finger with the tear to his mouth. She felt as if he was enjoying her pain, and that made her stomach roll with even more disgust and fear.
He thrust forward without a warning and slid into her dry sheath. “I’m disappointed; you’re not ready for me.” He looked down at her with a sick sense of seriousness. He stood still for a moment, but then pressed deeper. She could feel his erection pressed inside her, and it hurt. She wasn’t a virgin, but this time it still hurt, because she didn’t want him.
She closed her eyes tightly. The tears slid out between her eyelids, and she bit her lip. The pain wasn’t receding. The pain only grew when she felt him pull out, then push back in. Again and again.
She felt him grow still, and his ragged breathing stilled for a moment. She knew what was coming, and she closed her eyes tighter to try to concentrate on something else.
She felt him spill his hot seed inside her. Instantly, he let go of her wrists, and collapsed on top of her breathing hard. She pushed him off her with her freed hands and scrambled to move away from him. He didn’t pull her back to him. She crawled to the corner, and she felt her stomach lurch as she vomited. She didn’t have much in her stomach to start with, just some water, and she ended up dry heaving mostly. Her stomach just kept trying to vomit uncontrollably. When she was finally done, and her stomach had calmed down, she huddled against the wall and watched Draco.
He was merely lying on the ground. His breathing had evened out and his eyes were closed.
“You’re sick,” she heard herself say.
He turned to look at her and gave her a small perverse smile. He stood up and grabbed his robe, pulling it on. He walked over to her, and she felt herself try to retreat, but only felt the wall pressing against her back. He knelt down in front of her, like he did before, and reached out. She flinched back from his touch once again, and he didn’t even slow down as he reached to gently touch her face. She felt sick again instantly when his skin touched hers. “My dear,” he whispered, “you’ll enjoy it next time.”
She shook her head and said, “No. I won’t.”
He padded her cheek as if she was just a cute little kid and sighed. “You will.”
He stood up and walked over to the tub. He reached down and picked up the bag and tossed it to her. “Get dressed.” She remained silent and still, not responding to his command. “Get dressed,” he repeated. “Now!”
She grabbed the bag quickly. She reached in the bag and felt only a robe. She pulled it out. No undergarments. She glanced up at him, then back at the robe.
“Isn’t it your size?” he asked arrogantly.
She pulled it over her head purposely without answering him.
He smirked at her obedience. “Good girl,” he praised her like she was a child. He walked to the door and walked out silently. The door closed loudly, and Hermione gave a small sigh of relief. Her relief only lasted a moment before the door opened again, and Draco came back in followed by two other Death Eaters. Without looking at her, the two followers picked up the tub and carried it out of the room.
Draco walked over to her in silence. When he reached her he picked up the bag, and walked back over to the where Hermione’s old, dirty clothes were piled. He shoved her old clothes into the bag with the soap and shampoo. He turned back to her and said, “Goodbye, Hermione. I’ll see you again soon.”
The loud sound of the door opening once again filled the room. Hermione didn’t like the fact that the door’s sounds were getting more familiar to her and becoming less of an unnatural sound. He exited the room, leaving Hermione to feel more scared and alone than ever before.
Hermione huddled by the wall and started to cry.
Words: 4142
Rating: NC-17
Characers/Pairings: Draco/Hermione
Warnings: non-con/rape.
Author's Notes: Written for
yuri_slash for the sexy_brilliance exchange. Beta'd be the very helped lady_laurelin.Summary: She refused to allow herself to think that she was being held captive, but then again, there was no denying she wasn’t free to come and go.
Hermione was sitting in a very small, dirty room and she was alone. The room had no windows and no furniture at all. She refused to allow herself to think that she was being held captive, but then again, there was no denying she wasn’t free to come and go. She thought this is just what happened in war, however. She was a prisoner of war. She was so dirty she felt has if the dirt was caked on, and she’d never be clean again. She hadn’t seen a human in weeks, maybe months, honestly; the only human interaction she had was when the food slid in a little slit in the door, and she never saw even a part of the human who fed her.
Her wand was confiscated the moment she was brought here, so she was utterly powerless. She knew what was going on, though. She was aware that part of the reason she wasn’t going insane or losing hope was she knew what was going on. She knew she had to do this. She had sacrificed herself to help the Order of the Phoenix. She knew their next move. She just wished they would hurry up. She knew time must be passing slower for her, but she still felt too much time had passed.
“No, Hermione,” she chastised herself out loud, “Don’t think that way.” She hated when she talked to herself, especially out loud, because it was a sign to her that she was slowly reaching her brink. But she couldn’t help it. It was almost as if it was involuntary.
She leaned back against the wall facing the door and pulled her knees to her chest. She wrapped her arms around her legs and tried to pull them as close as possible to her chest. She watched the door as if it would open any minute for her rescue.
Nothing happened.
She sighed and laid her head on her knees. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to relax. Remembering old tricks her mother taught her about relaxation, she took deep breaths and tried to think of somewhere peaceful and safe. But the moment she remembered her mother her anxiety rose even higher. She wondered if they knew yet. She wondered if they had given up hope and thought she was dead.
“I’m not dead, Mum. Dad, I’m alive…” Her whispered words were soft and almost pleading, and she almost hated how weak she sounded. “I chose this,” she reminded herself stubbornly.
The door opened suddenly. No warning, no food tray; it just opened. The creak and groan of the heavy door was so unnatural in the silence that had become all she had begun to expect in the little room. The only sound, other than her own voice and movements, was of the food being slid in and out. The sound of the door opening was so loud it was almost deafening to her.
A figure walked in the door. Even with the Death Eater mask and long dark robes obscuring the features, it was clearly a man. His stride was confident and slightly familiar to Hermione. The man turned to close the door behind him with a loud thud. When he turned back toward the room, he had to search for her for a second before he saw her huddled near the back wall.
“Afraid?” was his first word to her.
Hermione knew his voice, but for some reason she was having difficulty placing it. She knew that she knew his man. She felt a small shiver slide down her spine. The familiarity scared her. This man, in his Death Eater attire, scared her. She hated herself for being so afraid.
She hoped she had held eye contact with the man from the moment he entered the room. He didn’t flinched or shy away from her outward confidence either. She wasn’t begging, pleading, or crying; she stayed where she was and watched him. She hoped, for her sake, she didn’t look as frightened as she felt.
“Are you afraid?” he asked her again.
Hermione concentrated on trying to figure out who this man was. His voice, mannerisms, and dialect were so particular.
“Hermione, dear Hermione,” he continued when she didn’t respond. “Are you cold?” No response. “Too hot?” Still no response. “Don’t you want to talk to me?”
She just stared at him. She had to stop herself from shaking her head. She wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of her denial.
“Have it your way.” Without another word, he opened the heavy door again, and the unusual sound filled the empty room. Without a fleeting glance backward, he left her alone in the room again.
“No,” she whispered once the loud thud had stopped echoing, “I don’t want to talk to you, Draco Malfoy.”
--
Hermione spent at least a week alone locked in the room again. The longer she was left alone, the more she could feel herself breaking. She felt as if her mind was slowly retreating into itself to make up for being so left alone. She wasn’t used to being by herself, especially this much, and she knew it. Her mind, her heart, her very soul knew this wasn’t easy on her, but those were the very things that she prayed would hang on long enough to see the outside.
She bided her time playing mental exercises. She challenged her trivia, her knowledge and tried to best herself with each fact she thought up again. Sometimes she wondered if she was making up some of the facts she was remembering, but she always pushed that aside. The need to exercise her mind as well as her body was dire. She knew keeping her mind active was only of the only ways to stay sane.
She was determined to stay sane.
She was challenging herself to name all the wizards in the Wizengamot, when suddenly the room was filled with the abnormal sound of the door opening again. Instantly, Hermione looked up to see who was entering the room with her.
It was the same wizard again. He still wore his Death Eater attire, but his way of holding himself was unmistakably him. Especially since she was able to put a name to it now.
“Hello, Hermione,” he greeted her. He seemed almost happy. She didn’t say anything, but kept eye contact. She felt fear grown within her. This was no ordinary wizard; this man was a murderer. She was alone with a murderer. She had seen him kill; she had witnessed the brutality of his magic. He had killed Luna Lovegood with two uttered words.
“Come on, why aren’t you talking?” He smirked. “Have you lost your voice?”
He wasn’t going to be detoured again by her lack of a response. When he stopped in front of her, she felt her fear pick up instantly at the closeness. It was a cold fear, a pure fear. He knelt down in front of her and stared at her thoughtfully for a moment. It was as if he was judging her, deciding on what to do.
He reached out to her, and she flinched. It was involuntary. Her reaction was instinct. He smirked again. He looked so satisfied that she had finally responded in some way to him.
Even though she had flinched away from him the first time, he reached back out to her. She willed herself, forced herself with whatever strength was left with in her, to not flinch this time. She didn’t want him to know she was so afraid. She knew he knew, but she didn’t want to give him any more satisfaction than she already had.
He stroked her cheek. Inwardly, she was flinching. His hand felt cold and awkward against her skin. “So smooth,” he whispered without much purpose. “Why are you so afraid of me?” His voice was soft, and it was almost more frightening than if he had been yelling at her. She just stared at him, staying as still as possible under his fingers.
“Hermione,” he whispered but then stopped. He leaned closer and whispered in her ear, “Don’t be afraid. This won’t hurt.”
Her pulse jumped even higher, if that was possible, as theories of what he could be referring to swam through her head.
He tilted his head slightly and surveyed her. “You need a bath.” He stood up suddenly and walked back across the room. The sound of the door opening was the only sound that filled the room, and it left the loud thud of the door closing behind him.
Hermione just sat staring at the door for a long time. Her pulse was slowing down as her fear receded a bit. Once she was calm enough, she continued her mental trivia challenge. She knew this wasn’t over, and he’d back, but she knew dwelling on it wouldn’t help anything either. She had to focus on not losing her mind.
Not losing her mind was her first priority.
--
Draco returned the next day, but this time he wasn’t alone. A fellow Death Eater followed him into the room. The second Death Eater was not familiar, at least from what she could tell from the attire they both wore.
The other Death Eater looked Hermione up and down. She was sitting on the floor again, but she wasn’t huddled up as if she was a scared child. The Death Eater gave Draco a vicious smile and nodded. Hermione watched as the Death Eater left the room.
Once the door shut again, Hermione turned her attention to Draco. She noticed that he was still staring at her, probably never stopped. “Hello,” he greeted her, almost pleasantly. It was as if he was trying to be polite to her; it made her stomach roll. She just stared silently at him. He looked at her and said in an almost sad voice, “I don’t understand why you won’t talk to me.”
Hermione fought the urge to tell him to sod off. She didn’t want to make him angry. He was a murderer, and he wasn’t to be trusted. Every time he walked in the room her constant fear rose, and when he got close it sky-rocketed.
Once again he knelt down in front of her. “Hermione, talk to me,” He commanded. She merely looked at him. She knew her face was oddly blank from the terror, frustration, and insanity she was feeling.
The door opened again, and both of them looked instantly to see who was coming on. The Death Eater who had walked in with Draco before walked in again, but the door didn’t close behind him. Hermione watched in confusion as two other Death Eaters brought in a large tub. It was obviously used for bathing and quite old.
She eyed the tub for a moment before Draco said, “It’s not ideal, but no magic is allowed to be used in here until…” he trailed off. “Until it is,” he finished cryptically.
The two Death Eaters who brought in the tub left without acknowledging Hermione at all. They merely nodded to Draco and the second Death Eater and left with the sound of the door closing again.
Hermione looked at Draco again. He was looking at her. “I know it’s not ideal,” he repeated as he stood up. “But it’s the best I could come up with.” He shrugged.
“And more fun,” the other man chimed in. The man gave her a sadistic, sick smile that made Hermione’s feel sicker than when Draco touched her. This man was clearly twisted and capable of anything.
“Leave,” Draco suddenly told the other Death Eater.
The Death Eater seemed taken back. “What?” he started to protest.
“I said leave,” Draco repeated and gestured angrily to the door. Suddenly it dawned on Hermione that Draco had never been seemed angry at her; he had remained calm the entire time. The realization, for some reason, scared her.
With one last look at Hermione, the Death Eater left Draco and Hermione alone with the tub.
Once the door closed, Draco turned to her. “Now that we are alone,” he started, “We should get started.” He knelt back in front of her. “Say something.”
“What’s that for?” Hermione heard herself whisper softly. The words were out her mouth in a fearful utterance before she even realized she was thinking them.
“A bath. You need a bath.” Hermione remembered vaguely that he had stated that on his prior visit. “I’m going to get you cleaned up. I don’t know how you could have gotten as dirty as you have while staying only in this room.” He shook his head and stood up. Without any pressuring, he put out his hand for her to take.
She didn’t want to take it, to give in, but she knew if she didn’t he would only get angry. Making him angry would not work to her benefit, so she placed her hand awkwardly in his, and he helped her to her feet. The feel of his skin on hers was nauseating, but she tried to stop herself from showing it.
He gently led her closer to the bath. It was steaming, and she could see a bag sitting on the floor beside it that she hadn’t seen from her angle on the floor. Draco must have seen her staring at it and said, “Soap and clothes.” She nodded. “Silent again?”
She didn’t respond, but he didn’t ask again. Instead he began to undress her. She stiffened much as she could and felt her skin crawl with his hands even touching her, even through her clothes. “No!” she said, pushing him back and taking a few steps back herself. “Can’t I bathe myself?” she asked.
“No,” Draco said with a stern and cold demeanor.
“Then I don’t want a bath,” she heard herself denying.
“You spoiled child!” He suddenly grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him roughly. “You have no say!” The disgusting, useless feeling inside her grew again because she knew he was right. He was completely right, she had no say, and he had all the power. She allowed herself to slip into a state of fear and powerlessness and didn’t resist him as he continued to undress her.
The sick feeling of his hands on her and removing her clothes didn’t even recede a bit. He was doing the task so slowly, she felt as if he was torturing her. His every movement was precise, and she could tell he relished seeing her body revealed to him.
When he was done undressing her, he had not touched her other than to remove her clothes. She stood naked in front of him, and he looked her up and down. “You know, you are quite attractive. Not gorgeous, of course, but certainly not ugly.” He seemed to think it was a compliment, but she didn’t respond. “Aren’t you going to say thank you?” he asked arrogantly. She remained silent. He shook his head. “Get in the tub.”
With as much dignity as she could, she stepped into the tub and sunk down in the hot water. She never realized how good a bath could feel until then. For a moment she forgot Draco was watching her every move and closed her eyes to relish the feeling. Only when she heard Draco begin to move again did she open her eyes. He was pulling the soap and shampoo out of the bag.
When she went to reach for it, he shook his head. “No. I’m going to wash you.” She shook her head again. “Remember, you have no say.” This time his words were calmer, almost practiced. She didn’t respond, and he took that has her reluctant agreement.
He washed her body first. He used the rag on every inch of her. She felt sick and dirty has he washed her. It was as if he was replacing the dirt that she had on her with his own dirt. His vile, disgusting dirt that repulsed her more than the other. He worked slowly and thoroughly, too, she noticed. He lingered over her breasts and between her legs.
When he helped her out of the tub, she merely stood there. She was dripping water on the floor of the room, but she didn’t make a move for the towel. “Do you have a towel?” she reluctantly asked him after several minutes. He smiled arrogantly and reached in the bag to pull out a towel. She didn’t reach for it; she was beginning to understand the routine.
She was surprised when he held it out to her. “Go ahead; take it,” he urged her. She grabbed the towel quickly and turned away from him and toweled herself off. When she was done she wrapped the towel around herself, and turned back to him. “No,” he said, and gently pulled the towel loose so it fell. She had her arms folded across her chest to try to keep it up, but he said, “Let it fall.”
She dropped her arms. “You are prettier when you’re clean,” he announced.
He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward him. Before she realized his intentions, he slammed his mouth onto hers. He prodded her mouth to open with is tongue, but she refused. He pulled back and glared her. “Open your mouth, damn it. If you do what I say, what I want, you won’t be hurt.”
Hermione realized, in that instant, what he wanted.
She tried to shove him away, but he gripped her arm tighter. He wrenched her arm and pulled her closer. “No, Draco,” she pleaded, realizing the horror that had overcome her.
His grip on her loosened slightly as he looked at her with shock. “You… You know?”
Hermione maneuvered her arm from his grip. Her arm was red from where he had wrenched and held her so tightly. “Of course I do.”
“How long?” he questioned. He was just staring at her. His anger had melted, and his casual demeanor had been reinstated.
“The first visit,” she answered, looking down for the first time. She knew his face was hidden behind his Death Eater mask, but she was surprised by his surprised reaction to her admission of knowing who he was.
“And you didn’t say anything?” He seemed to be more confused with her knowing then unhappy that she knew. He sighed, as if just realizing something. “You weren’t talking until today.”
She shook her head.
He lunged at her suddenly and grabbed her arm again. “Damn it, Hermione, don’t fight me.” He twisted her arm when she tried to pull away.
Draco pulled her with him down on the ground. Hermione felt tears from both the fear and the physical hurt burning in her eyes. He pressed her with his heavy body so that she was trapped between him and the floor. She tried to push him off her, but he wouldn’t budge. She could feel his erection against her through his pants and pushed harder. He leaned down and pressed his lips against hers. His tongue tried to prod her mouth open, but she stubbornly held it closed.
“Open your mouth,” he commanded her when he pulled away briefly. She followed his command only to bite down on his tongue the second it entered her mouth.
He pulled back angrily. She didn’t see him pull his hand back to slap her until his hand connected with her cheek with a sting. “Don’t try something that stupid again,” he warned her. He leaned back down again, but she kept her mouth tightly closed. “Fine,” he said angrily. “No foreplay.”
He straddled her fully, and started to pull off his robes. He was naked by removing only his robe. “I was ready for this,” he said with a sadistic smirk when she stared at him in fear and continued to try to push him off her. He moved so that he could hold her down, and his erection was at her opening.
“Don’t fight; it won’t hurt.” His words were useless, and she could barely hear them through fear pulsing through her veins. She pushed at him harder, and he grabbed her wrists. He forced her wrists behind her head and looked down at her. Her legs were unmovable because of his weight, and now her hands and arms were because of the strength he was using to keep them stationary behind her head.
She gave into the urge to cry. Tears slid out of her eyes before Hermione could stop them. Draco reached up and wiped away a tear from her eye. He brought the finger with the tear to his mouth. She felt as if he was enjoying her pain, and that made her stomach roll with even more disgust and fear.
He thrust forward without a warning and slid into her dry sheath. “I’m disappointed; you’re not ready for me.” He looked down at her with a sick sense of seriousness. He stood still for a moment, but then pressed deeper. She could feel his erection pressed inside her, and it hurt. She wasn’t a virgin, but this time it still hurt, because she didn’t want him.
She closed her eyes tightly. The tears slid out between her eyelids, and she bit her lip. The pain wasn’t receding. The pain only grew when she felt him pull out, then push back in. Again and again.
She felt him grow still, and his ragged breathing stilled for a moment. She knew what was coming, and she closed her eyes tighter to try to concentrate on something else.
She felt him spill his hot seed inside her. Instantly, he let go of her wrists, and collapsed on top of her breathing hard. She pushed him off her with her freed hands and scrambled to move away from him. He didn’t pull her back to him. She crawled to the corner, and she felt her stomach lurch as she vomited. She didn’t have much in her stomach to start with, just some water, and she ended up dry heaving mostly. Her stomach just kept trying to vomit uncontrollably. When she was finally done, and her stomach had calmed down, she huddled against the wall and watched Draco.
He was merely lying on the ground. His breathing had evened out and his eyes were closed.
“You’re sick,” she heard herself say.
He turned to look at her and gave her a small perverse smile. He stood up and grabbed his robe, pulling it on. He walked over to her, and she felt herself try to retreat, but only felt the wall pressing against her back. He knelt down in front of her, like he did before, and reached out. She flinched back from his touch once again, and he didn’t even slow down as he reached to gently touch her face. She felt sick again instantly when his skin touched hers. “My dear,” he whispered, “you’ll enjoy it next time.”
She shook her head and said, “No. I won’t.”
He padded her cheek as if she was just a cute little kid and sighed. “You will.”
He stood up and walked over to the tub. He reached down and picked up the bag and tossed it to her. “Get dressed.” She remained silent and still, not responding to his command. “Get dressed,” he repeated. “Now!”
She grabbed the bag quickly. She reached in the bag and felt only a robe. She pulled it out. No undergarments. She glanced up at him, then back at the robe.
“Isn’t it your size?” he asked arrogantly.
She pulled it over her head purposely without answering him.
He smirked at her obedience. “Good girl,” he praised her like she was a child. He walked to the door and walked out silently. The door closed loudly, and Hermione gave a small sigh of relief. Her relief only lasted a moment before the door opened again, and Draco came back in followed by two other Death Eaters. Without looking at her, the two followers picked up the tub and carried it out of the room.
Draco walked over to her in silence. When he reached her he picked up the bag, and walked back over to the where Hermione’s old, dirty clothes were piled. He shoved her old clothes into the bag with the soap and shampoo. He turned back to her and said, “Goodbye, Hermione. I’ll see you again soon.”
The loud sound of the door opening once again filled the room. Hermione didn’t like the fact that the door’s sounds were getting more familiar to her and becoming less of an unnatural sound. He exited the room, leaving Hermione to feel more scared and alone than ever before.
Hermione huddled by the wall and started to cry.
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mmm nice....going to my mems...
kisses!
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Nice to read a more realistic story of rape. A lot of noncon is too erotic.