Fluid
She woke all at once, jumping back into her body with a hiss as her frame stiffened, slumping back on the cold surface in a heap of aching bones and bruised flesh. Her head rang, vision tilting, doubling, fuzzing in time with the high noise that took residence between her ears. Something nudged at her forearm and she started trying to parse out the individual sensations.
There was marble floor under her, the warbled murmurs of conversation susurrating at the edges, and the coppery tang of blood wafting to her nose, accompanied by the tang of fire.
She could see the marble now, dark floors slowly settling until its horizon was straight in her view. And there were boots, dragon skin by the look of it. There was a figure wearing the boots, looming over her; their face was shadowed by long, pale hair.
“Finally awake, mudblood?” Ah, Lucius Malfoy. Hermione blinked until her eyes adjusted to the dim, warm light, and she could make out those sneering features.
She wanted to say something, but her throat burned from a thousand bloody screams, and only a faint rasp passed her lips.
“Hmph.” His cruel lips twisted into a smirk. “No smart comments? And here I thought you were the brains of Potter’s little group.”
Heat surged from her chest and Hermione pushed herself to sit. She licked her dry lips and groaned through the tattered folds of her vocal chords, “Go to Hell.” It was more a coarse breath than a spoken taunt, but he saw her mouth move, and no doubt gleaned the gist.
His eyes gleamed. “Ever the Gryffindor.” Spidery fingers tangled in her hair and jerked her to her knees. “I am sure we’ll put out that fire soon enough.” She skittered across the smooth floor, failing her attempt to keep up with his long paces as his fist twisted her alongside him. Bruises joined the pattern of her misery along her skin as she struggles against his sharp grip. She was then tossed to the floor in a lump of startled pain.
The voices she’d heard before all fell away, and she could feel the syrupy poison of their gazes.
“Lucius,” hissed across the short distance between her and the gathered crowd. “I see the mudblood has finally joined us. As you are the one who prevented her escape, tell me, what should we do with this filthy creature?”
The sleek toe of one boot tapped beside her cheek as he considered. “I believe there is little knowledge the girl has that we do not already possess, but we can always bleed it from her throughout her… stay. However, we have a unique opportunity here. The girl’s worth as a bargaining chip, should we need such a thing, is maintained so long as she lives. Her condition matters little.”
Ice sparked through her veins at the next voice. “So we can play?”
“You played enough earlier, Bella. Let the rest of us have a turn.” She didn’t know that voice, but it chilled her all the same.
“Perhaps,” murmured the snake-like man she refused to look at, “you should all take a taste, let the mudblood learn her place in her new reality.”
She swallowed against the whimper that wanted to leave her throat, and huddled in on herself. Her arm had been torn open during the struggle, and Hermione absently wondered how much blood she had lost already. And now they wanted more.
More.
Darkness swirled at the edge of that thought, and she pulled her mind away. Better to exist in the present than to think of future pain.
They’re keeping me alive. That’s what matters. I just need to endure.
Her chest groaned as the sole of a boot met it, her back colliding with the floor as Hermione was pulled from her thoughts. She caught herself just barely on her forearms, and glared up at the man who’d forced her back to the floor.
Closely trimmed beard, dark hair, shoulders that had filled out considerably since his escape from Azkaban. She recognized those sharp features as Rodolphus Lestrange, and the glint in his eyes stirred nausea in her empty stomach. He looked her up and down and sneered, displeased with her disheveled appearance.
“Evanesco.”
A rush of air swirled over her skin as her grimy clothes disappeared, and Hermione instinctively curled in on herself.
“Ah-ah, mudblood.” A boot slammed down on one wrist, the little bones grinding between it and the unyielding floor. “None of that. I’m trying to get a look at the goods.”
She tugged against the force pinning her, then slapped her free palm against his calf. He chuckled and rolled his heavy boot over her fragile wrist.
“Perhaps I should stick you to the floor.”
From the side his wife jeered, “You shouldn’t waste magic on that filth. Muggle means for the little mudblood bitch.”
He sighed, and shame spiraled in her at his ease. She was useless. Powerless.
The toe of another boot settled on her opposite shoulder. His brother was reedy and lank, but he was more than strong enough to pin her beneath him.
“Pretty little thing. A bit thin,” the older brother appraised. “But she’ll do well enough. You want the backside, I assume?”
Rabastan Lestrange grinned. Hermione reminded herself to breathe, tried to keep the string of her thoughts away from presumptions on what they meant.
Any hopes she had they were not speaking of what she thought they were were dashed when Rodolphus crocus he'd over her, strangely gentle hand gliding along her cheek. “Ever been buggered, mudblood?”
The whimper choked in her throat was enough of an answer to unfurl a grin across the Death Eater’s face. The soft touch was removed and a crack of heat bloomed across her cheek instead, head whipped to the side.
She was pulled and tugged around until she was held against the younger brother, his legs hooked over hers to spread them wide, her arms against her chest, one large hand wrapped around her slender wrists, his other exploring her with squeezes and pinching. The other man crept toward her and smoothed his hands over her thighs.
“Are you a virgin, pretty girl?”
Hermione jerked in Rabastan’s grip, her eyes turned toward the empty wall.
Cool fingertips prodded at her center. “I suppose it doesn’t matter; you’ll bleed either way.”
The finger slid inside her dry walls, prodding around before a glob of spit rained on it and another twisted in beside it.
“Tight, so tight.” The fingers disappeared and she heard the rustling of clothing before something larger, hotter, slicked prodded at her entrance. She spluttered as it drove into her. “Fuck.” Another mouthful of spit dripped from his mouth, and he used the additional lubrication to shove himself to the hilt. He drew back and groaned at the red on his prick. “Your dirty blood is staining my cock, girl. Think I can fuck more of it out of you? Replace it with Pureblood seed? You should be grateful.”
Tears were spilling over her cheeks, somehow wringing from her dried up eyes. Behind her, Rabastan Lestrange had released himself from his trousers. He licked the salt from her cheek and laughed. “Help me lift her.”
Her arse lifted from the floor and two spit-slicked fingers drilled into her; what would have been a piercing cry rasped from her throat. If that intrusion was a knife, what came next was a hot bar of iron.
She convulsed between the two, breath lumping in the back of her throat and eyes bulging from her head. She was full of fire and sharp, rancid pain. She was torn open, balanced precariously between these demons of flame and blade. And when they began to move, she could not help but violently struggle with tooth and nail.
A hand unfurled across her throat and the world spiraled down to a pinpoint. It was so sudden that she was launched into this floating space, far above her spasming body. The world further narrowed, and there came a faint buzzing over the noises from the ground.
Oh. This is… this isn’t the worst way to die.
It was a soft thought, distant, though she still recognized the faint steel of resilience yelling out against it.
Her mouth was open, face garishly purpling from the lack of oxygen, her tongue curling out… her eyes rocked closed.
Oxygen flooded like cool bubbles popping from her temples to her toes. Hermione gasped for air, her torso limp and falling against a pale chest. Her breasts bounced, her chin bobbing with each thrust of one of the two fucking her.
“That’s it, mudblood. Just enjoy your natural place in the order of things.” The meaning skittered across the surface of her mind, but she blinked and pushed it away.
It wasn’t… it wasn’t so bad now. It still hurt, and Hermione was still torn inside and bleeding. However, her muscles had relaxed once Rabastan had released his choke, and that eased their passages inside her.
The man in front in particular had a particular way of hitting something inside that had always been out of reach, an itch when she touched herself. It was a pulsing warmth, tempting her to lean in and let it wash over her.
As she was contemplating doing just that, her scalp stung. Her head was forced up by a fist in her curls, and she was presented with the inimical cock of yet another Death Eater. It was shoved between her lips, someone holding her jaw to keep her gaping.
There was nothing else to call it; the man was fucking her throat, the head shoving against her soft palate until it was blocking her airway, curving downward, stirring her breath before it could leave her lips. Her nose dripped and tears flooded down her cheeks, the fluids mixing on the dark blond pubic hair she was shoved against.
“Good fucking girl, right there.”
Her stomach twisted between the words and the thrusting against that spot inside her. Drool spilled from her mouth as the man eased her head off his length, and he dragged his dick to trail it over her cheeks.
Hot breath tickled on her ear. “Like that, mudblood? All plugged up like a good little whore. Covered in spit, and soon covered in more. Just a receptacle for your better to use as they wish.”
“Hm, she could use something more,” the snide voice above her considered. He punctuated his derision by spitting across her face.
Rodolphus laughed, then tugged her face toward him. It was his hand holding her jaw open, and he twisted his hand until his thumb slipped inside, pinning her tongue. He spat and slapped the hand over her mouth until she swallowed, then she was tugged back to Lucius Malfoy’s waiting prick.
Each time she choked on him her stomach clenched, and the two men in her other holes moaned in tandem as she tightened. Lucius was fucking her mouth in earnest again when the Lestrange behind her let loose a string of curses.
“So fucking tight, little whore, fuck you, going to fill this filthy body with come.” One last thrust twisted the knife of pain in her again as he pulsed, fingers bruising into her flesh. “Fuck!”
Lucius was next, the cries of her suppressed throat vibrating against him, squeezing him, he let out one soft cry, seed spurting down her esophagus.
“Lay her back, Roddy.”
Even in her wrecked state, Hermione shuddered at that sharp voice. She was shoved to the floor, a forearm across her chest, and then her sight was blocked by suffocating black fabric in too many shadowed layers for her to see. Until she felt the knees on either side of her head, and the warm musk emanating just above her face.
Through the fog of too much sensation she heard, “Get to work, or you’ll die like this.” And then the pussy of Bellatrix Lestrange rolled across her face.
The mad woman was flooded, her muscles clenching just from the prospect of hurting the captive. She rolled her hips so each of the girl’s features became covered in her slick, grinding down on the chin, the mouth, the nose in particular. When Hermione failed to act, shock rendering her frozen, one of the knees nudged at her, and the weight of her situation settled once again.
She was… salty. Hermione could taste notes of sweat underlying the almost tart taste. Slime slicked over her tongue as she ran it over the different parts, testing the dripping hole, the drooping labia, before swirling around the hardened clitoris. A roll of the hips centered it over her mouth, and she focused her efforts there, desperately lapping between sips of air.
The woman above her was screeching with delight, shrieking dirty insults as she rode the girl’s face. “Knew you’d be a natural little cuntsucker, disgusting little mudblood whore. Should piss all over this dirty face, bet it would purify those putrid insides. Yes, Roddy, fuck the little mudblood whore.”
Slick ran down her chin as she wrapped her lips around the clit and began striking at it in firm strokes. Moaning sounded above her as Bellatrix rocked forward to capture her husband in a brutal kiss.
“Yes, mudblood, yes,” the woman cried, before her teeth went back to her husband’s bloody lip. He was pounding her furiously, sending dizzying waves over Hermione that were only heightened by the little breath she could garner under Bellatrix’ skirts. It was winding her tight, pushing her to pant and suck desperately as that was the only finger hold on control that she had.
And then a long fingernail brushed over her own clit.
She trembled, pulsing around the cock inside her.
“She likes that, love.”
There came that hated laugh, and then Bellatrix was rubbing at her clit in maddening circles.
“That’s it, mudblood, come for us. Come for us like the good little rape doll you are.”
The two Deatheaters over her worked in practiced ease as they brought her to the precipice. A hand snaked to her throat, and that was all she needed to tip over.
Not once did she give up her latch on the clit in her mouth, and soon Bellatrix was crying out her climax as well. “Come with me, Roddy, come in her dirty cunt.”
He groaned and lifted her lips to get a deeper angle, and then he was letting go inside her, the head of his cock kissing her cervix.
The two slumped over the girl, Bellatrix circling her hips with her aftershocks, and Rodolphus spent as his cock drained and fell limp. She herself floated, choking past the slick in her mouth until the two rose from her body and she lay like a ragdoll tossed aside.
She started to roll to her side, but hands shoved at her shoulders and she blinked blearily into the stormy eyes of the man who’d once cursed her.
He hissed as he slipped inside her, too thick despite the lubrication and loosening Rodolphus had provided. Her back arched, brows furrowing as he made new rips along her passage.
Dolohov leaned down over, staring into her with fascinated hatred limning his features. When she tried to turn her head, he jerked it back. “Stay with me, mudblood.” His voice was soft as it was sharp in contrast to the lewd, wet noises of him pressing into her over and over again. And then his mouth engulfed hers, tongue sweeping throat, washing away the taste of the other woman and replacing it with sweet, smoky velvet.
When he pulled away, a string of spit connected them until he licked it away.
His eyes continued to bore into her until motion caught his attention.
“Fuck off.”
A whining voice pleaded, “The Lestranges all had a turn.”
“You want a turn, Pettigrew? Then wait ‘til the real Deatheaters are all finished,” the dark man snarled, his grip on her tightening. A whine sprung from the chubby man and Dolohov’s upper lip rose again before a thoughtful expression spread across his face. “I’ll let you use her as a cumrag. Go on, wank yourself over her and paint these little tits.”
Pettigrew fell to his knees, fisting himself as his gaze darted from where Dolohov’s cock pumped into her slick, bloodied pussy, to her gasping face before he began the cycle again. In no time, spurts of white were shooting across her chest.
“Pathetic.” Dolohov shoved him away and tugged her legs up over his shoulders, bearing down over her until she was folded in half, the man ramming his girth inside of her until her ears filled with his panting, the slapping of flesh, and the squelch of bodily fluids.
“I’ve dreamt of doing this since that night at the ministry, koshka, dreamt of filling this little pussy again and again. And I will. I’m going to fuck you until you are flooded with my seed. Think you’re worthy of carrying a halfblood? Or perhaps we shall stop that and just hold the fact that this womb is ours to fill or keep barren as we please. So tight, koshka. I’ll remold your pussy for my cock.”
He kissed her again, his tongue lapping at her own before exploring, teeth clicking against hers as he shoved it to the back of her throat and fucked her there in time with his cock. He pulled away, cursing in harsh, unknown words as he came. When he pulled away, he swiped two fingers through her apex before sliding it across her forehead and mouth a sordid benediction.
“Will you take a turn, Nott?” the sibilant hiss reminded Hermione where exactly she was and her eyes lazed over until they met those of a vaguely familiar looking man.
“I’d rather not, my lord,” he drawled.
The serpentine leader tutted. “Surely you can think of some way for the little mudblood to be of use? Or perhaps an amusing way to degrade her?”
Something passed between the two men and the Deatheater stepped forward, unbuttoning his trousers. He wasn’t hard, though his member twitched as it was released, and then a stream splashed down on her before her mind could catch up with what was happening.
She tried to cry out, her heavy hands flying to protect her soiled face, but the scent and the taste invaded her senses, surrounding her in that harsh ammonia. Laughter susurrated around her.
“Very good. She is much improved,” Voldemort decided. “Wormtail, take her to the dungeons.”
“Yes, master.”
She could not even fight as the disgusting man lifted her from the wet marble floor.
One Deatheater called out as she was taken through the door. “I’ll be seeing you soon, mudblood.”