melusin (melusin) wrote in melusin_la_fey, @ 2008-05-21 22:02:00 |
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Entry tags: | needs must, ss/hg |
Needs Must:: Chapters 9 & 10
Disclaimer: See Chapters 1 & 2
Thanks as ever to my two angels, Septentrion and Darkheartwalsh for all their help and support.
Warnings for references to rape and torture, BDSM, humiliation and anal play.
9. Preparation: Hermione.
It’s five in the morning; the house is locked down tighter than Gringotts, and as much light as it’s possible to muster with a wand floods the bathroom. A Calming Draught has stopped the shaking, but I can’t risk going back to sleep, much as I’d like to. Sucking the blood off my finger, I stare angrily at the remains of the little potion phial, lying in shards where I dropped it because I don’t trust my ability to cast ‘Reparo’. It’s years since I had that particular nightmare, but I know I’d only have to shut my eyes, and I’ll be right back in there.
‘God, I look like crap.' Huffing angrily, I wring out the flannel and impatiently dab the cold cloth against my face. This helps to soothe me a little, but doesn’t do a lot for my puffy eyes. Feeling a lot less agitated though, I take a few deep breaths and roughly pull in the belt of my dressing-gown, fighting the drowsiness that is tempting me back to bed. No, I won’t give in to it; perhaps a cup of tea...? Yes, that's a much better idea.
Crookshanks follows me to the kitchen, mewing anxiously, sensing my distress. I’m in no mood to wait for the kettle to boil, nor for the tea leaves to brew in the pot. I grab the first mug that comes to hand, fill it with water, blast it with my wand and stick a tea bag in it. I’m out of milk, so black will have to do. The heat from the mug warms my hands as I stare out of the window and watch the first rays of the sun come up—the same dawn that’s breaking over Azkaban.
As I sip the hot tea, I can’t stop my thoughts from drifting... Lucius Malfoy. Is he awake, I wonder? Does he have anything like a conscience that keeps him up all night? I snort at the very notion. Although... he could well suffer from night terrors... but, no doubt, it would take something like the fear of losing all his wealth to make him wake up sweating. I’d be very surprised if he gave me any more thought than a house-elf. Grabbing a J-cloth, I wipe down the work-surface for something to do, trying to shake the images re-playing in my head.
The ability to dream lucidly is a useful, and often entertaining trick, and one that I’ve had since I was a child. But I can’t control that dream, which is why it is all the more frightening. It is always the same: I’m running down a long corridor—a picture gallery, in fact, desperately searching for a way out. The portraits scream obscenities at me (Filthy, Mudblood bitch. Fucking whore...) as I blindly sprint towards a door marked ‘exit’...
Malfoy steps into my path. I try to pass him, but he grabs me, and although I struggle for all I’m worth, I am no match for him... A dreadful, wailing noise: someone or something crying in the distance... He drags me through the wall. On the other side, Bellatrix Lestrange waits, holding a bloody mass in her outstretched hands, cackling wildly. She squeezes it, the blood making a puddle on the carpet, and the crying stops.
Not a woman, not even an animal. Only a thing, Mudblood, only a thing...
I turn and flee; her mad laughter rings in my ears as I run down the corridor. Snape is there... immovable, impassive. If only I can reach him... but Malfoy grabs me by the throat. You have escaped me twice before, Mudblood. Never again...
The first time I had that dream, I woke up screaming in a hospital bed. My mother was sitting by my side, her tear-stained face full of concern and her eyes all red and swollen. That scared me more than the dream, let me tell you; I had only ever seen my mother cry once—when my Gran died. I tried to speak, but my voice came out in a croak. Mum picked up a glass with a straw in it and held my head while I tried to sip some water.
‘It will be all right, darling. It will be all right.’
‘Where’s Dad?’ I want my Daddy.
‘He’s with Harry, love, and that nice black Auror with the bald head. They’re going to make sure the house is secure for you to come home. You’re safe now. Everything’s going to be fine.’
My mother has never been a convincing liar.
The Healer, when he eventually turned up, made no such attempt to spare my feelings. When he started to speak, I felt this odd sense of detachment, which, I realise now, was my mind’s way of coping with the trauma. It was like we were discussing some interesting medical case history that had nothing to do with me. ‘...we’ve managed to save your sight...’ Oh, that’s good. ‘...restored right kidney function...’Excellent, excellent. ‘...grown back the left, and the bladder...’ Marvellous. Isn’t magic wonderful? ‘... but not even magic can replicate you ovaries...’ True. Even magic has its limits. ‘... and as you will never be able to conceive a child, we have not replaced you uterus...’ Agreed. Not much point in doing that, was there?
He continued his monologue in a voice devoid of all emotion—like he had made this speech countless times, and I remember thinking in my removed state how professional he was... ‘the external scars will fade, but I’m sorry to have to tell you that they will not disappear completely, due to the Dark curses Malfoy inflicted on you...’ I nodded, and then he took a step forwards suddenly, intent on examining me, and I screeched like a banshee.
It is a dreadful irony that the time when you least want to be touched, the time when you want to crawl into a hole and shut the entire world out, is the time when you have to endure a stranger’s hand probing your most intimate places. And endure it I did because without the evidence on my body, Malfoy would never have even been brought to trial, never mind sent to Azkaban.
An involuntary shudder runs through me, and I wrap my arms across my stomach. He’s already eligible for parole. Harry tells me he’s an exemplary prisoner, and it’s likely he’ll regain his freedom in the not too distant future. I don’t know what I’ll do when that day comes—whether I will still be able to function with some degree of normality. I suppose I’ll have to cross that bridge when I come to it.
My eye catches my reflection in the window pane, and I trace my finger down the scar like I have innumerable times before. It was only with the greatest reluctance that my mother handed me a mirror when I demanded to see the damage. All I really remember thinking with any certainty when I saw the extent of the wound for the first time was that I had made a conscious choice to survive. It was a tiny nugget of strength somewhere deep inside, but I clung to it nonetheless. If a ravaged face was the price I had to pay for not letting Malfoy kill me, so be it. And yes, I healed just like they said I would, physically at any rate. No one in that hospital offered me any rape counselling, though—or any other sort of counselling for that matter, and I was discharged with a few healing potions for the residual pain and some salve for my skin—
Crookshanks puts his front paws on my legs, asking to be picked up, and so I do, burying my face in his fur. We sit down in the comfy chair next to the Aga, and Crooks puts his paws on my shoulder, purring madly.
‘It’s okay, Crooks. I’m okay.’ He butts my hand, encouraging me to stroke him, and I sigh. ‘I suppose seeing Snape again must have something to do with the dreams, eh Crookshanks? What do you think, boy?’ He purrs in agreement.
I'm not sure at what point during my ordeal—could have been hours, could have been days after I was taken, for all I knew—that Snape appeared or how long he stood there, watching. I thought he was a mirage as he swam into focus, or some-some wild hallucination. There was so much pain; floating in and out of consciousness, I couldn’t trust my eyes anymore. And anyway, he was supposed to be dead—like... the Lestrange woman. But there he was—gazing down at me between the ‘V’ of my spread legs, expressionless, unreadable: not a flicker of pity, or contempt or lust on his face. I didn’t particularly care what he thought of me; I was way past any feelings of shame or embarrassment at that point, but I knew he was my last and only hope. A little voice told me it was now or never: if I wanted to live, I had to act now...
‘Join us, Severus...’
Lestrange. Laughing... always laughing. ‘... your breath... Severus... receiving end..., pet?’
Snape said nothing. He was like a statue, totally impassive, but I knew he had been loyal to Dumbledore—a fact which had yet to be made public. Perhaps my tormentors were unaware of it, too? And so I locked eyes with him, raised my head and bit Malfoy as hard as I could. Malfoy’s scream was music to my ears, but the slicing hex that blinded in me in one eye forced me to let go, and I passed out from the pain.
Between then and the arrival of the Aurors, they really went to town, tearing me apart from the inside out—or so it felt like—but I hung on, a little bit longer... just a bit longer, refusing to give up hope. There was a fight; Bellatrix Lestrange was killed—for real that time. I vaguely remember a green flash and strong arms picking me up, although I could just as easily have been flying. I was so close to death...
The pain eased a little. ‘Look after her, Potter.’ Snape. He’d sent his Patronus to Harry, (who’d rushed to his summons with reinforcements), fought alongside him and then surrendered his wand—much to the surprise and delight of the Aurors, who no doubt expected to gain an early promotion out of it...
As soon as I was sufficiently recovered, I asked to see Snape—not just to thank him for saving my life or even to thank him for all he'd done for us over the years, but to give him a show of support in front of the vulture otherwise known as Rita Skeeter. By that time, he was being held at the Ministry, pending trial. There was no way I could leave the house on my own, though, so Harry escorted me. It was the first of three public appearances I made before I began hiding my disfigurement—the other two being Snape’s, and later Malfoy’s, trial.
And Gods were they three horrible experiences I would love to stick in a Pensieve and forget all about. Have you any idea how much people stare when you have something wrong with your face? They can’t help it; it’s how we recognise one another, after all. If something is amiss or out of place, our eyes are drawn to the imperfection immediately. My injuries really brought it home to me just how much we are all unconsciously judged by our looks: you see horror, curiosity, and worst of all, pity reflected back at you. At a time when I had not even began to heal mentally or emotionally, at a time when I only ventured out of doors to see justice served, it was very nearly too much for me. When I look back, I’m amazed I ever left the house again.
Anyway, that aside, in all fairness to Kingsley, he made sure Snape was well treated. Although, as he had to be seen to be acting impartially, Kingsley couldn't just place him under house arrest as he would have liked, but he did ignore the calls to send him to Azkaban. In addition, he checked daily that Snape was being fed properly, had fresh water, allowed access to a shower and so on—and he didn't look in bad shape when I eventually plucked up the courage to visit. But Snape's reaction to my injuries shocked me to the core—he tried to hide it, but he wasn’t quick enough. God help me, even Severus sodding Snape found me repulsive! I felt a surge of panic rising in me and the taste of bile in my throat as the walls started to close in. I had to get out of there before I fainted: I only just about managed to thank him for saving my life as I turned to leave—
‘Ouch. Watch your claws, Crooks. Settle down, or you can sleep on the floor.’ Not in the least bit contrite, the furry pest butts his head against my chin before curling up on my lap. Sighing, I give his ears a scratch. He adores that.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Snape's trial... What a circus that was... Everything came out then, of course—the spying, the manipulation... God knows how he'd managed to survive so long, but by the end, the wizarding world was not left in any doubt as to the debt it owed Severus Snape. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Harry look so relieved as he did the day Snape left the court a free man. I saw him briefly one more time at Malfoy’s trial, but we did not speak. He went quietly back to teaching, and that was the last I heard of him. As for me... I went to live with my parents and began to... ah... pick up... the pieces...