The Walpurgis Wailer

Outright battle was different from anything they had faced. This wasn't the close-quarter fight the Department of Mysteries had brought. Far from the duels, Harry had faced with the Dark Lord. Two realities collided. The Dark Lord’s desire to be the one to end the Boy-Who-Lived and Potter’s allies who were willing to die before letting it happen.

Children wielded spells against adults, and hope seemed to be the only fuel they needed—an assurance that they knew better than their elders and that they would not take their families' biases to their graves.

Neville slashed Nagini on the stairs. Luna helped set up the kill. Hermione had been smiling as she allowed herself the smallest glimmer of conviction that they could win. Everything happened quickly. A flash of green from behind sent a body to the ground, and the one meant for her met the wall.

The battle raged on, and then Harry had met Voldemort in the courtyard.

A flash of red against a flash of green, followed by an explosion. Detritus and bodies flew for a large radius before everything stilled.

Wands lowered, and enemies like allies sought through the haze to glean the outcome. Hope was a fickle thing, as though the death of either figurehead would prevent further bloodshed. As though both sides would accept fate as it fell.

There was a ringing in her ears that stretched into static behind her eyes.

“No.”

After almost a year on the run, destroying Horcruxes, wearing one to alleviate the pressure, and even riding a dragon out of the most secure vaults in the Kingdom. She should have known better than to believe in justice. To believe that things could change and that people could be better.

“NOOOOOOOOOOO!”

Tears fell in earnest, rushing to his side. It couldn’t be. He couldn’t be. Even her mind refused to think it. To acknowledge it. There was no way after everything, after every minute of every day being dedicated to this…

Her fists never made it to his lifeless chest. She never got to cling to his body and unleash the sadness of her body.

After everything she had lived.
After everything they had achieved.
After every impossibility.

Even without the stunning spell keeping her still, she wouldn’t have fought. Every bit of fight was left on the ground with her wand.

Day turned to night.
Spells turned to shackles.
Silence turned to weeping.

Hermione was nothing more than a shell when she’d been brought to what had once been the Great Hall. She didn’t not the lack of house banners or the changes to the room. Only that she was brought to the dais that had once been reserved for faculty. Instead of a table, a single chair sat regally front and center.

Lord Voldemort sat, his most trusted flanking either side of him.

“Are you certain, Luciussss?”

“This is my wish, my Lord.”

“Very well. You have been a good sssservant. You may have your prize.”

Hermione looked up to where she had been pushed to her knees. It took a moment for her to realize she was this prize they spoke of.

“I’m not—“

A whish of air followed by a SMACK.

The strike of his cane on her back had her sprawling on the floor. “Now, now, darling,” Lucius said in cool detachment. “We have so much to prepare.” He didn’t look at her. Instead, his gaze had gone to Severus and Draco.

“Bring her.”

“I brought you tea,” his silken voice brings her back to the present.

Back to every little speck of land she’s now bound to through her husband. Back to the gardens and the carriage house covered in ivy off to the side.

Often, she envies ivy. Its unassuming power. How once it settled roots it was near impossible to annihilate. She’d once thought her wand was telling of her personality for it.

After the wedding, she’d worked the courage to go to the carriage house. There, she’d taken a single cutting of ivy and planted it in the manor’s front gardens between the house and the flowers.

Just thinking of Lucius Malfoy as her husband was laughable.

“Thank you, Draco,” she says gently, reaching for the delicate teacup.

Every day, he looks more like his father, except for his lips. Those belong to his mother. There isn’t a part of him that doesn’t make her stomach fill with disgust, and yet, she doesn’t turn him away. She welcomes the company.

“He’ll be back in an hour,” Draco warns, letting his fingers linger on hers. “Severus is with him tonight.”

Though she never looks forward to Lucius’ return, she appreciates the warnings. Her chest tightens. As gentle as Lucius can be, there’s a merciless quality to Severus Snape. How many times had Harry told her not to trust the Potions master? Of all the Death Eaters, she’s come to despise him most. A traitor to his own blood and, beyond that, a snake in his own right. Now that there's a clear winner, he’s tucked tail and joined the masses of his brethren.

Where Lucius is a pompous hedonist who can satisfy her, Severus is a sadist who enjoys making her hurt. If she thought he had hated her in school, he certainly doesn’t hide his distaste for her while revelling at how good she can take it…for a mudblood.

“They sent a potion for you to take beforehand.”

Hermione nods, taking the small silver receptacle he extends, an orange liquid visible from its glass window. Severus has always had potions. At first, his brews had made her wanton. Writhing and begging for pleasure, for pain, for anything they would give her. It hadn’t taken them long to realize she was a virgin.

“I’ll take a bath then…If you don’t mind.”

Draco nods in understanding as though this hurts him as much as it does her.

She hates to ask, but since they snapped her wand during the payment of the third sin, most of the house’s resources depend on her ability to ask. It’s meant to make her beg, to leave her at their mercy, but Draco doesn’t require it unless he’s being watched.

They’ve been left alone for two days. At least, she thinks it’s been that long. She’s barely seen him, which works fine by her.

Hermione stands with the potion in hand, and watches as he goes to prepare her bath.

Weeks past in a single chamber of the manor. Hermione had tried to open the window. To set fire to her bedding. To flood her bathroom. At every turn, an angry house elf had come to right her wrongs and chide her with a squeaky voice. Every effort disappeared with a crack, leaving her to wonder if she’d even tried.

Hermione screamed herself raw.
Punched the doors until her knuckles bled.

Still, food appeared at her bedside. Clothes in her closet. It was as though the house wanted her civil.

She refused.

It took three days of striking before Lucius stormed into her quarters and tied her down to shove food and water down her throat. To force her to stay alive.

“Make me do this again, and I promise you, you’ll regret it.”

When the door opened the next day, she’d rushed Draco with a drawer, thinking he was his father. He’d been quicker than she’d anticipated, and she found herself face-first into the carpet.

“You'll only make it worse,” he had told her. “Eat. Drink. Survive.”

After a week, Lucius and Severus walked into her room with a plan. They had been efficient, leveling her with a few flicks of the wand. While Lucius held back her head, Severus shoved a purple liquid down her throat, pinching her nose and palming her mouth to force it down.

Within minutes, Hermione had felt the heat rise and pool between her thighs. “What have you done?”

Neither answered.

“What,” she clutched her chest, the way her heart sped up and her cheeks grew warm. Light felt harsher against her gaze. Her breasts felt heavy, and her cunt felt…it ached. “No,” she shook her head. “I…”

“Something wrong, Mudblood?” Severus asked, amusement painted on his lips.

“Just tell us what you need, pet.”

“I…” her breath was laboured, her hands roaming her body as if trying to figure out how to make it stop.

“Go on…”

“W-what have you d-done to me?”

Desire had coursed through her. Unhinged, unfiltered. There was nothing about either man she could find attractive, and yet, it seared through her veins and pumped greedily through her heart.

Hermione’s lips parted. It’d been years since she’d allowed herself to feel anything like this, perhaps fourth year. A few times in fifth, she’d explored. But neither Krum nor Ron had ever made her feel…this. Even that one crush she refused to acknowledge. Looks only went so far. She’d craved knowledge and wisdom. Something both men held in spades.

Come morning, she thought she might have been back to her quarters, but Severus had her tied to a chair near his cauldron.

“Oh good, you’re aware. You’re going to help me prepare this brew for you.”

“What is it?” Her voice is low, cautious, scared. A wave of pain shoots through her, and she cries out. There’s no escaping it, no writhing, only the struggle against invisible binds. “I’m s-s—oh-orry.”

“Contain yourself.” His voice is dripping with discontent. She’s learned his cues from class, but never has she felt his ire that way. “You will chop those roots for me. Finely, as per the instruction at your station.”

“Y-yes,” she nodded.

There’s a cold, calculated shrewdness of his dark gaze. A pinch to his lips that had her mind reeling for her mistake.

“Sir.”

His tongue clicked, and she didn’t dare breathe in relief until she stood with a knife in her hand. She should have felt powerful, in control, but that was the point. To prove just how powerless she was.

“I-is this the brew you give me?”

He wouldn’t answer, so she resigned herself to the task.

Night after night, they put her through that hellfire of lust, and during the day, various tasks. Nothing more than a slave and a toy.

After a week, she was on her knees, pupils blown out as she begged Lucius for something she had no words for. Lucius allowed her to rub herself on his cane, watching her rut like an animal until she felt something. Not quite a release. It had alleviated the sensation for a moment, only to make her ache for more.

“Tell me, pet, have you ever been fucked?”

She swallowed and shook her head.

When he reached to pet her curls, she wanted to pull back. Instead, she leaned in.

“I’ll make sure you know who you belong to on our wedding night.”

Hermione’s gaze latched on him.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that,” he smeared his thumb across her lower lip. “Though we’ll have many years together, this is merely a formality. Law is finally settling in, and though life must resume as it has, you and I, my darling pet, have quite the roles to play.”

After her bath, Hermione walks down the grand staircase of the manor and into the heart of the house. Some days, she finds beauty in the home. She holds her chin up, as much for herself as a byproduct of the diamonds she wears around her neck. The Walpurgis Wailer.

Hermione recalls the night he set in place the Walpurgis Wailer on her neck with a life-changing click. The feel forever etched in her mind along with his words: “You’ll never be rid of it as you’ll never be rid of me, Ms. Granger.”

To all present for their engagement, it had been presented as a gift from a doting husband. Society wanted to believe in mending the past, and new narratives. No one would believe her that her sham of a marriage was just a front for cruelty.

She belongs to him.

Voices sound in the study down the hall. When she enters, her husband sits, drinking firewhiskey, chatting easily with Severus and Draco.
Without a word, she makes it to his side, leaning forward to press a kiss to his smooth cheek like a doting wife might. His arm snakes around her waist, and settles her into his lap. Some days, he touches her so gently, so easily, she can almost forget the horrors he’s put her through. The sins she’s had to pay for their cruellest of tasks to date.

“Care for a drink, pet?”

Hermione lets her fingers trail a line of his robes. “Will it interfere with the potion you gave me?” she asks gently.

“It can be taken with alcohol,” Severus said simply. “It won’t change anything beyond your ability to do one thing without explicit permission.”

“You’ll only come when I tell you you can.” There’s something smooth to his tone as it brushes the shell of her ear, like silk or velour. A texture that has her suppress a shiver.

“And if I do?”

His exhale might as well be laughter. “You won’t.” This close to him, she can smell the promise of leather on him and that hint of amber. “Go stand on the pedestal.”

At the nudge, she stands and takes a few steps toward the marble pedestal that now figures in the middle of the room. How had she missed it before? It’s not very high, but enough to make her feel like a centrepiece.

“Draco, if you wouldn’t mind,” he turns to his son.

There’s a coldness in the younger Malfoy’s gaze before he turns his sights on her. With a flick of his wand, her wrists rise over her head, and she feels herself rise until her toes barely touch the ground.

“What time did you say they’re arriving?”

“Any moment.”

“The others?” Draco asks.

“The Knights. It’s time for Hermione to pay for another sin.”

“Fenrir is quite excited at finally getting his pound of flesh,” Severus looks sternly at his godson.

Despite his occlumency, Draco pales. His only reassurance was that it wasn’t the full moon. As cruel as his father was, even he had limits.

“Don’t look so sour. She’s here for all of our entertainment.”

Draco sips his drink, leaning back into his seat. “Why would I want to fuck a mudblood?”

Lucius looked at his son with a mix of surprise and disappointment. “One day, you might truly become part of the Knights of Walpurgis. And then you might know the burden of what we do.”

It’s all he can say before a few guests shuffle into the large room. The same seven that had been present to take her blood when they’d gathered to establish Hermione as their Wailer.

Her body sways as Dolohov touches her over her white dress, sliding a hand through the slit to touch her. There’s something incredibly cruel about the potion she’s given. Where she could have been writhing wantonly for any of them to touch her, she’s left with no outlet when they do. It’s not that she likes the way Anton touches her, his fingers finding her clit and circling it. She doesn’t want it to affect her, but it does. When she goes to look down her chin catches on her choker. The cold, sharp exterior of stone and goblin-made metalwork.

Lucius Malfoy’s long, nimble fingers had plucked it from a black velvet cushion before a table of onlooking Knights of Walpurgis. It feels like a lifetime ago now rather than the eighteen months she’s spent in captivity.

“Do you know what this is, Ms Granger?” he’d asked her, the Dark Lord at the other end of the dark wood table, watching with vested interest.

“No, but I suppose you’ll tell me.” She hadn’t felt confident, but she’d still snapped the words. Even in the short dress they’d put her in that barely covered her assets, she refused to be belittled.

“Indeed,” his smile had been vicious, cruel.

“Let me guess, your dead wife’s?”

A murmur spread across the table, and invisible hands had settled on her shoulders, holding her firmly in place while the wizard beckoned his son forward.

Draco watched his father for a moment before turning to face her, the back of his hand colliding with her cheek in an audible collision. Heat followed the reverberation in her cheekbone. Hermione had glared at him, hating him more in that moment than she ever had.

“Lucky for you, my son is still working his backhand,” Lucius exclaimed, studying her cheek with a tutting sound. She felt him eye the blossoming bruise as though she’d walked into the hand rather than struck at his will. “Now, as I was explaining before you so rudely spoke, this is a very special piece we had commissioned just for you…the Walpurgis Wailer.”

Hermione shivered, avoiding his aristocratic features and the shrewd silver eyes that assessed her like stock. They weren’t like the mercurial set his son had inherited. When she looked into Lucius’ gaze, she saw no humanity within them—only the chill of cruelty.

Dropping her gaze, she studied the flames of metal and glistening stones on the choker he held. It looked uncomfortable. More crown than necklace. It would prevent any kind of slouching, that much she was certain. If anything, she was convinced it was a torture device. Knowing the Death Eaters had started off as a group calling themselves the Knights of Walpurgis did nothing to assuage the climbing worry. At least her enemies would be limited to this lot.

“Walpurgis Night begins with a feast, and just as the muggles feasted while we served them, starved and destitute for having something special they couldn’t comprehend, we shall feast tonight.”

“I’m not going to serve you.” Her arms crossed, digging her heels into her convictions.

Laughter rang around the table.

“You will serve, and you will pay for the sins of your kin, but tonight…” Lucius smirked. “Tonight, we get a taste of you, Ms Granger.”

The invisible hands gripped her, throwing her. Back hitting wood, the magic seized her limbs and spread her on the table, leaving little to the imagination. Her mind went to dark places. Visions of the worst of violations bracing her. Snapping her eyes closed, she felt the scrape of chairs against floor as they rose. Too many men towered over her. Though she couldn’t feel them, she’d seen them and had committed every face to memory.

Seven Death Eaters around her. She noted the lack of Bellatrix, the smaller inner circle that was separating from the mass that had led the attack on her school. The seventh year she had been denied. She was starting to hate the number. It was far from perfection—just a source of disappointment and pain.

There was a shifting of robes, and she remembered the taste of the air. Stale and filled with the slick of dark magic. Or dark intentions and worse motives.

“It will be my pleasure,” Dolohov had spoken in his thick accent, slicing her inner thigh with his wand.

Hermione risked a glance and regretted it, watching as blood became a delicate vial of crimson and silver he pocketed before she could study it.

“Such a noble sacrifice,” Rodolphus jeered, slicing at her forearm, highlighting the word his wife carved into her arm.

This time she noted the way her blood was contained. A small receptacle that could be placed on a chain. A trophy. She felt her eyes prickle with tears, felt them threaten to fall despite closing her eyes.

“Much obliged,” Nott sneered, aiming for her cheek only for Lucius to tut him. With a vicious look, he sliced at her breast.

One by one, they all thanked her and stole a piece of her blood and stored it on their person. Avery, Severus, Lucius. Her stomach heaved with every last cut, the meal she’d had the night before threatening to resurface. They hadn’t untied her when they were done. No, they’d feasted around her struggling body. Laughed, and spoke, and drank, and ate as though she were nothing more than a centrepiece.

Two faces she’s recognized mingled in the small gathering of the Knights of Walpurgis. Draco, stands off to the side with Dolohov, seemingly in a deep conversation. Though she’s relieved for the hand teasing her being gone, she’s now left open to the other guest of honor: Fenrir.

“I’m going to enjoy this,” he growls behind her, placing a hand on her hip to push her into a spin

Hermione spirals as she remembers how he’d been denied access to her, just as he’d been denied a place among the Knights despite the fresh dark mark on his arm. She feels sick, her stomach clenching as she looks for purchase on the pedestal, but her toes just can’t grip.

Fenrir seizes her, his cruel stare meeting her big brown eyes. “I’m going to knot in that tight little cunt of yours,” he said only for her to hear. “And when you think I’m ripping you in half, I’m going to tear through your flesh, and your husband will thank me for it.”

Though he leaves, she feels that nausea again. Tears haven’t streamed down her cheeks since the first sin. The one that had her cat murdered to represent St Walpurga’s ridding of the pests. Her tears only draw them in. Avery and Nott Sr flank her, enjoying the sight she tries to wipe with her arms.

The pair begin to chatter. They speak as though she isn’t present, and she can hardly hear them. Not until it’s too late, and Nott is producing a silver plug with a wolf tail on it.

“Figure it’s a little more his style,” he tells his mate and she feels her dress rise above her hips. Their actions draw a crowd behind her. She can feel them all watching as Avery and Nott drive fingers into her, only to resort to lubrication charms to go faster.

Whimpering, she feels the weight inside her. She feels the stretch, along with the sensation that it might fall out with the fur.

“Gentlemen,” Lucius calls the attention back to him. “Tonight marks the third sin. St Walpurga was known for driving away rabies.” He scoffs. “A euphemism for the rabid dogs she released on our most vulnerable. As such, our sweet sacrifice will feel what it’s like to be hunted and viciously attacked. Fenrir, are you ready?”

The werewolf is all teeth in his grin.

“Now,” Lucius cuts the charms, holding his wife in place, causing her to topple to the ground. “Run.”

Hermione looks up from the floor, and notes the seriousness in his gaze. Blood is rushing in her ears. This is a game, but she doesn’t know any of the rules. She doesn’t pause to learn them. Instead, she runs, and their laughter follows her down the hall.

November makes going outside the worst and best choice. Being sick is the least of her concerns, and though the snow will surely give her away, she rushes through the front doors and into the chill. Overhead, the moon hangs close to full. A small grace to her situation. Even if he bites and claws, she won’t stop being as she is. Won’t need to worry about transforming every full moon.

Ahead, the forest promises coverage. Her feet are numb by the time she makes it to the line of trees. The cold makes every motion harder. It burns her lungs and causes her teeth to clatter.

A howl fills the forest, and she pushes harder and trips over a branch. Her knees and hands are red, but she pushes up to run in another direction. Trying to keep her motions unpredictable. Hermione pauses by a tree to catch her breath. Clouds of white mist before her.

The snap of a twig has her stiffen. She goes still as prey, listening for more. A bit of relief washes over her as she notes a doe.

Before she can get back to her run, another sound has her stop dead in her tracks.

“Waiting for me?” Fenrir drawls.

Hermione swallows, considering her options. A year ago, she still had fight, but now? She’s resigning herself to her fate.

“It’s almost too bad he’s snuffed the fight out of you…”

There’s no chance to respond. Not with how quickly he grips her hair and slams her against the rough trunk of the tree.

“I’m still going to enjoy this,” he licks her cheek.

The smell of carrion lingers on his breath. She fights to gag and shivers when he rips her dress off and lets it fall.

“I’m going to tear you apart,” he bit her shoulder, and though she knows he could have gone deeper, she’s sure he was aiming as close to her neck as he could. Not that he can. No one can. No one will ever kiss her neck again, not so long as it’s attached to her head. It’s hers, all hers, and she’s almost grateful for it as his touch roams her body.

Everything he does hurts. The bite of the tree where he crushes her, the strain he puts on her legs to keep them parted. There’s a hiss of a zip, and then he’s inside of her, pushing through without teasing. He’s big, but doesn’t fill her the way Severus does, and doesn’t stab her cervix with the reach Lucius does. It’s still enough for him to fill her, to stretch her as flesh grinds against flesh.

Fenrir ruts into her, his breath hot and heavy on her. There’s nothing pleasant about it. His cock chafes, and she tries to disassociate. Prays for that moment where her mind and body will protect her, but then she remembers that potion. It’s not like she’d come from how he thrusts into her at that harsh, machinal pace. She’s not sure there’s even a safe space for her to visit in her mind, so she lets the tears force her eyes close, and whimpers through the ordeal.

Just when she thinks he’s done, there’s a change.

“That’s it,” he gives a chuckle. “Like that?” he demands, pushing into her.

Hermione’s eyes widened and she struggles against the tree. As if she can push him off, but it’s too late. “No,” she whines, but his hips follow hers. He’s so thick inside her, she’s stretched to the point of pain.

“Mmmm wriggle on it,” he approves and she elbows and kicks, but he’s an immovable force. With a growl he brings her to the ground and bends her over a small boulder. “Fuck you feel so tight like this.”

Though he isn’t moving, his cock feels alive inside of her. The heat pools and fills, and that throb of his swollen base locked inside of her. Breeding habits of animals had never interested her, and nothing in their textbooks had even suggested they knotted.

It hurt so much she thrashes for release, but it only makes it worse. It’s like being spread by one of those torture devices she’d seen on holiday with her parents. She’s all but given up hope when she feels claws drag down her back.

When he’s done, she lays still on the snow. Chatter comes from around as he notes they’ve come to watch. None make a move to help her. They’re far too busy celebrating. It doesn’t take long for Dolohov to find her side. He props her against the same rock and gets his fill.

One by one, they fuck her. Some coming in her, others on. Every time, she thanks them until she just lays there, hoping to find the end. Perhaps Lucius wasn’t wrong when he claimed she would build the kindling to her own pyre.

Her body is numb.
It’s so cold it feels like she’s burning.

Draco says nothing as he lifts her with magic. He offers her no modesty as he brings her back to and through the house to her quarters. His father and the Knights have gone down to the cellars, caving to libations as he sets her in the bath he’d had the elves prepare.

She doesn’t speak as he cleanses her. Taking the time to wash every last drop of blood and bodily fluids.

When she looks at him, she expects the cold slate stare. Instead, she’s faced with molten mercury.

“Save your energy,” he murmurs, looking away to summon her a towel. He doesn’t want to risk giving himself away, and yet, he feels entirely responsible. If he’d succeeded in his missions, maybe she would have been his instead of his father’s.

For the rest of the night, she doesn’t fight him putting her to bed. He’s pulling away when her hand grips his wrist.

“Stay.”

The word is so soft he’s not sure he hears it.

“Goodnight,” he sighs, refusing the urge to lay down beside her.