Chapter 3 : Malfoy Doesn't Care
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“What do you want?” she snapped, though a thought was nagging at her…something Marcus had said.
“I’m bored and need some fun,” said the man, his eyes roaming her body. “You look like you could provide it quite well. I’m Fynn,” he informed her. His gaze was predatory and made her very uneasy.
“Get out of here,” snarled Hermione, finally recalling what Marcus had said: no one was to be in her room but Malfoy, so why was this lunatic here?
As Fynn approached the bed, Hermione ran back to the door and hit the call button as hard as she could, holding it down for seconds at a time before running through the still-open door. She made it halfway down one flight of the deserted staircase, yelling loudly.
Fynn, unfortunately, was faster than her and caught her, stunning her and bringing her back to the room. He locked the door behind him this time and advanced on her.
Hermione backed up as far as she could against the wall and prayed that someone could help her. Common sense, though, told her that she was on her own this time. It was time to fight back.
“Don’t fight it, bitch,” snarled the man. “You’re all alone here. No one cares about what happens in this room.” Fynn pinned her against the wall and shoved his lips down upon hers, bruising her lips with the force of his unwanted kiss.
Ignoring the pain, Hermione brought her right knee up sharply to connect with his groin. The result of her blow was a high pitched shriek that hurt her ears to listen to. The revolting kiss ended as Fynn grabbed himself with both hands.
She thrust her hands into his front pocket, searching for his wand. Just as her fingers closed upon it, however, Fynn recovered enough to shove her backwards into one of the posts on the bed.
Hermione was unable to contain her gasp of pain as her head connected hard with the elaborately carved wooden bedpost. She got in a good blow to his left eye, though she paid for it when he hit her hard in the throat. Unable to draw breath, she collapsed to the floor, writhing in pain.
Fynn forcefully ripped off Hermione’s pants and was pulling his own pants down when the door suddenly burst open and Draco Malfoy stood in the doorway, looking furious.
“What is it this time?!” he yelled, apparently thinking that Hermione was messing around by pressing the button.
Hermione took advantage of Fynn’s sudden pause to stumble over to Draco, falling to the floor at his feet. She grasped her throat tightly, trying desperately to breathe.
Draco correctly interpreted the scene in front of him and instantly became wrathful.
“Merlin!” roared Draco. “What did I tell all of you?!”
Had Hermione been in any mood to notice, she would have laughed at the expression on Fynn’s face; he was plainly terrified of Draco.
“Get out of here, and if I ever catch you anywhere near this prisoner again, YOU’LL PAY IN MORE THAN ONE WAY!”
Fynn paled and ran from the room, pulling his pants up along the way as he cast one last menacing look at Hermione.
“Get up,” snapped Draco, nudging the fallen girl with his foot. When Hermione didn’t respond, Draco raised his voice. “Granger!”
Hermione was out cold on the floor in front of him. He picked her up easily in his arms and carried her over to the bed, frowning when he didn’t feel her moving or breathing.
After laying her on the bed, Draco watched her chest and noticed that there was no rise and fall of her breaths.
“Shit!” For all his vehement denials, Draco really was afraid of Harry Potter’s reaction should he find out that his precious mudblood was dead by his hand.
He pointed his wand at her and spoke the spell to make her breathe again, but it wouldn’t work for some reason. Then he noticed the massive bruise on her neck and realized where the blockage was. He quickly healed her throat and then performed the breathing spell.
Hermione inhaled sharply and began to cough; Draco quickly stepped back.
“More clothes will be brought up for you,” he said tonelessly, not letting an ounce of emotion show as she looked at him almost tearfully.
“What—” Hermione tried to keep her voice steady. “What if he comes back?”
“You’ll just have to deal with it, then, won’t you?” said Draco cruelly.
Hermione became aware of the fact that she was not wearing pants, thanks to Flynn’s assault, and she slid under the covers embarrassedly.
“But—I don’t have a wand,” she whispered, beginning to become frightened that Malfoy really wasn’t going to protect her from Fynn.
“Then you shouldn’t have been so foolish and come here!” yelled Draco. “You screwed everything up! Don’t you realize that you can never leave?!”
“Just give me my wand so that I can protect myself! Malfoy, you saw Fynn—he’ll kill me if he can get his hands on me again,” she said pleadingly.
“Then you should have given him what he wanted,” Draco said coldly. He didn’t let himself feel any pity even as he saw the blue and purple bruises left from Fynn’s blows and earlier, Marcus’s fist.
“Never,” spat Hermione.
“Then whatever happens to you is your own fault,” he said heartlessly.
Draco strode out the door and locked it behind him.
Hermione curled up under the covers, keeping her eyes closed tight as she desperately tried to think of a way out of this. The windows were made of unbreakable glass and the door was sealed tightly. There would be no escape from either of those ways unless she somehow got ahold of a wand. Tears threatened to fall from her brown eyes as she considered the utter hopelessness of her situation.
At hearing the small, squeaky voice, Hermione looked over the comforter on the bed and saw a small, female house elf standing on the bedpost.
“Twinkle has brought miss some clothes,” said the elf, pointing at a small bundle on the floor.
“Thank you, Twinkle,” Hermione said, sniffling a bit.
“Is no problem, Miss. Master Malfoy has ordered Twinkle to bring miss whatever Miss wishes to eat or drink,” squeaked the elf, eager to help.
“Twinkle, can you bring me alcohol?” Hermione asked, on a whim.
There were conventional methods of training taught to all the Aurors, and then there was specialized training given to the female trainees to help them make full use of their bodies, if the need arose.
The alcohol was obviously not part of the training, but Hermione didn’t feel that she would be able to go through with what she had to do if she were sober for it.
“Drinking alcohol, or disinfecting alcohol, Miss?” asked Twinkle.
“Drinking,” Hermione clarified.
“Yes, Miss!” exclaimed the elf, looking elated to be able to do something for her. “What kind, Miss?”
“Firewhiskey,” Hermione decided.
“Twinkle will get some for Miss,” said Twinkle, disappearing with a crack.
Hermione scrambled into the clothes—a green t-shirt that had a large glittering serpent on it and tight black pants with sparkles down the side. She idly wondered where they were from as she swiftly put them on.
Twinkle came back moments later with four bottles of Cadogan’s Finest Firewhiskey on a tray.
“Is there anything else Miss requires?” Twinkle asked as she set the tray down on the heavy wooden dresser.
“No, Twinkle, thank you.”
“Twinkle will be back later to get Miss’s dinner,” Twinkle informed her before bowing and disappearing.
Hermione sat down with her back to the dresser and opened one of the bottles of firewhiskey. The first sip made her gag, but after that, she decided that she quite liked the taste of the drink and consumed two of the four bottles. She had little tolerance for alcohol, and after just two bottles, she was almost plastered.
Hermione stumbled over to the door and pressed the call button; she desired to speak with Draco.
When he got to the room—it was almost eight o’clock by this time—Draco was not in a particularly good mood.
“Yes?” he asked impatiently, not noticing the firewhiskey bottles on the dresser.
“Hey,” said Hermione seductively, pulling him into the room and shutting the door behind her.
“What now, Granger?”
Before he could say more, Hermione slid her hands down the front of his pants and Draco jackknifed into the air, dislodging her. “What are you doing?!”
Hermione slowly took off her shirt, revealing no bra beneath, and Draco sucked in a breath.
She approached him and ran her hands over the bulge in Draco’s pants that he wasn’t quick enough to hide.
Draco was now almost butter in Hermione’s hands as she pushed him onto the bed and slid her hands under his shirt, feeling the well-toned muscles beneath.
“If I sleep with you, will you let me go?” she asked him, her warm breath on his ear doing strange things to his brain. A woman with confidence was one of Draco’s biggest turn-ons, second only to the feeling of a woman’s voice whispering in his ear, both of which were happening now and driving him crazy.
“Uh…” was all Draco could get out as Hermione straddled him and kissed his neck.
She rocked gently and heard him groan; Draco was lost. He sought out her lips with his and kissed her deeply, his tongue exploring her mouth with hard, velvety strokes. His hands reached up almost of their own accord and stroked her breasts, much gentler than she had expected him to be.
When Hermione reached for the buckle on Draco’s pants, he became suspicious; here was a girl who had almost been raped today, and now she was trying to seduce him, the person who was holding her captive?
Draco nearly took her right then but for that urgent thought that had run through his mind; why was she doing this?
She returned her lips to his again and Draco realized that she tasted of firewhiskey—a LOT of firewhiskey.
Damn it! he cursed inwardly, furious with himself for some reason.
“Granger, stop,” he said, feeling like if she rocked against him again he would lose control. Hermione showed no signs of listening to him.
Draco rolled over so he was on top of her and pinned her wrists down on either side of her head, breathing hard. “I’m not doing this,” he muttered to her. “It’s not right.”
Draco left the room stiffly, silently cursing Potter for causing this whole mess.
Hermione passed out soon after, exhausted from the stress and the alcohol.
She woke up the next morning with a horrific headache and her mouth felt fuzzy. When she remembered flashes of the night before, she felt mortified at what she had done, but wondering if her plan had worked.
She felt something digging into her back and shifted away on the bed uncomfortably. Reaching behind her, trying not to move her head too much, Hermione felt a wooden stick that felt remarkably like…a wand! She brought it to her eyes, barely able to believe it was true—she had succeeded in stealing Malfoy’s wand from him.
Hermione got to her feet laboriously and crawled out of the bed, pulling her shirt over her head on the way.
“Alohomora!” she said, pointing Draco’s wand at the locked door of her room, which unlocked with a click. Hermione then pointed the wand at her head and muttered a handy spell for getting rid of her hangover.
With one last glance around the room, Hermione walked out the door.
She fumbled her way through the mansion for nearly an hour before she located what she thought was the entrance hall.
Taking care to tread softly, Hermione crept across the hall toward the large front door. She opened it quietly and slipped out, breaking into a run once she had cleared the door.
“Hermione!” Harry pulled her into his arms. “What happened?!”
Hermione had stumbled into the Auror office, wearing clothes other than her own and sporting a black and blue face.
“Hi Harry,” said Hermione, before falling unconscious into his arms.
Hermione opened her eyes slowly at the sound of Harry’s concerned voice. She was lying on her back on the floor of Harry’s Head Auror office, her head propped up by a wadded-up cloak.
“What happened to you?” he asked her, healing the bruises on her face with a wave of his wand.
“I—” Deciding on the spot, Hermione wasn’t going to give up Draco Malfoy to Harry—she wanted to have the satisfaction of bringing him down herself and besides, he had her wand, which she would get back even if she had to pry it from his cold, dead fingers.
“I had a little trouble with one of my contacts,” said Hermione.
Harry didn’t say anything for a few moments, waiting for her to elaborate. “Well, who was it? We need to bring him in—arrest him!” Harry was in full-on Auror mode at this point.
“No, Harry, I hurt him more than he hurt me and learned what I needed to from him. I’m fine,” she tried to say convincingly.
“He hurt you!” roared Harry.
“Doing this,” finished Hermione.
Harry sighed, running his fingers through his raven-colored hair. “Fine, Hermione, whatever you want,” he conceded. “Oh—Ginny told me to ask you if you want to come over for dinner at our place on Saturday night.”
“Sure,” said Hermione warmly, glad that she had won the argument. “I’ll be there.” She told Harry that she was going to go back to her flat and just relax.
Okay, so she wasn’t really going to relax, she was going to plot.
Same difference, really.
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