Two
The oatmeal was cold by the time she came to, world tipping as she struggled to lift her head. She groaned as she attempted to lift the too-heavy cranium weighing her to the floor.
Hermione nudged the wooden bowl toward her to spy the cold, grey sludge. It was the first food she’d seen in days. How many? At this point she couldn’t say. Four? Seven? How long could someone live without food? That no answer came to her proved that she had passed the threshold at which mental faculties began to deteriorate.
She licked parched lips and steadied the bowl on her lap, crossed legs cradling it in place. One shaking hand scooped into the goop and brought it to her mouth. It tasted like nothing much, but Hermione moaned around it. It was clumpy and mushy and she would never have eaten it unless she was starving.
She sucked the remnants from her fingers, licked the bowl clean.
“This is a pretty sight.”
Her ears rang as the bowl clattered and bounced off the floor. How had she not noticed that the dark man was there? It was his magical fire lighting the small room.
But she had been distracted by the food and the way it eased the gnawing of her stomach in her ribs.
“Good?” Her spine scraped painfully against the stone wall as she pushed against it. Away from his hungry stare. “It’s polite to thank someone who feeds you, mudblood.”
Hermione huffed and turned her cheek away from him.
The dull scuff of his boots echoed through the small cell. He knelt, viper-quick grip snatching her jaw, turning her face forward. “You were so eager to accept my hospitality just a moment ago. Is my company not good enough for you now you’ve filled your belly?”
Her eyes narrowed as they met his and she scoffed.
“I had thought these days of solitude would help you come to terms with your position.” His fingertips were digging through her skin, bruising her jaw. “Perhaps you enjoy the darkness.” His breath danced over her lips as he hovered over her; it smelled of meat and whiskey. “Do you need new nightmares to fill your dreams?” Dolohov’s cruel fingers stroked down to press her pulse points, teeth gleaming as her heartbeat sped.
He could taste her terror, she was sure of it.The black of his pupils was threatening to swallow her up like the death he’d held over her in the castle. His smile was needle-sharp, his fingers kneading into her jugular. She needed to do something lest her fear pin her beneath him.
Dolohov loomed closer, breath stirring over one ear, the stubble of his face grazing her cheek. “If that’s what you want I am happy to oblige.” He backed away to stare into her eyes and disgust curdled her stomach.
Hermione spat what little moisture she could gather and it landed with a splatter on the corner of his mouth.
Instead of fury something hotter and more terrifying flashed across his face. He scrubbed off her spittle with the back of his hand. Dolohov nuzzled his nose against hers, grip tightening so stars of darkness studded her vision. His hot, wet tongue stroked from jaw to temple.
She wanted to cringe back, tried, but he had her against the wall, under his fist. There was nowhere to go.
“Oh, mudblood, what fun we are going to have.”
Before she could breathe Hermione was being straddled by the much larger man. His knees dug into her thighs, calves caging her own, forearm bearing down on her throat so she could hardly think, let alone struggle. Her tongue felt heavy, lolling from her mouth. The sharp edge of his teeth, the cruel suction of his mouth sealed her tongue so he could stroke it with his own. He moaned, grinding his pelvis against her.
He bit into her until blood trailed between him, backing away to smirk down at her with heavy lidded eyes. “Your dirty blood is like a fine wine. Who knew mudbloods were so delicious.” Dolohov’s mouth fell onto hers and his tongue roved her mouth, swallowing her gasp.
Her small fists beat desperately at his chest as the world swam around her. She was lightheaded from his choking grip and his feasting mouth. Her attempts just made him harder, drew forth pleased groans that reverberated through them both. When her limbs grew weak and fell to the floor he finally let up.
Oxygen flooded her head in cooling waves and Hermione took grateful gulps in the reprieve. Until she heard the pop of buttons on his trousers and her head whipped up.
“No--”
“Koshka, we have been over this. Pretty little victims get no say.” He thrust into her with no preparation and she shrieked, struggling to pull away from him. His chest smothered her face, fingers tangling with her own. His muffled voice vibrated against her chest and she distantly wondered if it was English or Russian.
It burned when he started to move against her, his length dragging against her dry walls. There was no attempt at humiliating pleasure this time, just brutal stabbing eased with blood and her body’s reluctant attempt at protecting moisture. Her tears were damp against the black of his shirt, her sobs drowned out by the heavy weight of him and the obscene slapping of his body into hers.
Bare minutes passed before he spilled into her, but it was a lifetime of pain to Hermione’s stinging flesh. Even his seed burned as it dripped out of her abused body.
The Death Eater knelt over her and scooped the bloody semen in his fingers, touching it to her flesh in a heinous benediction. “Now what do you say to my generosity, mudblood?”
Laughter sharp as the pain in her core shook her chest. “Go to Hell.”
“Tsk tsk, koshka. Bad girls go to bed without supper.” He was drawing patterns over her skin and she wanted to jerk away from nhis touch, but didn’t have the energy. Besides, he’d just put her in a bodybind if he really wanted to do this.
“Starve me, then.”
He paused and Hermione could feel the weight of his eyes roving her face. “You won’t die. Not yet. You will only suffer and wish you could. You will not die til the Dark Lord is finished with you and I have had my fill. Until that day, you will stay here as my little mudblood whore.”
“I’m not a whore.”
Dolohov wiped the remnants of their fluids over her skin, then rose. “We shall see.”
The light left with him. Hermione curled up in the darkness and willed herself to sleep.
Drowning. She was drowning. She was in the cave from Harry’s recollections, the one with its lake of inferi, and she was drowning. Cold water splashed over her and she huddled in on herself, providing them with a smaller target. It was all shadows and darkness; maybe they wouldn’t see her if she curled up tightly enough. Maybe she’d disappear into the shadow, maybe--
Hermione gasped, immediately coughing up the water she’d inhaled. While the cave had been a dream, the water was too real. Sleep-heavy limbs clambered toward a corner and she tried to bury herself against it and away from the torrent.
“Stop it. Stop it!”
His accent was heavy with amusement. “I am helping you bathe. Or would you rather wallow in filth?”
Hermione glared at him through her drenched curls, blinking her eyes against the frigid water dripping into them.
“You have to open up for me, koshka. How will I clean between your thighs?”
“Fuck you.”
He chuckled and ended the aguamenti. “Perhaps once you’re clean again. Your blood makes you dirty enough.” A flick of his wand and she was hanging by her wrists. “Aguamenti.”
“If you gave me water and a cloth I could clean myself,” she growled.
“But this is much more fun, koshka.” He aimed at her crotch, the freezing water burning her thighs. “Calm down, I’m just trying to get the dried semen out of your cunt.”
Hermione kicked out at him, one foot grazing off of his side.
“Bad girl."
"Fuck you."
"You're beginning to sound like a mispronounced repetition spell, koshka." He circled to her mouth, spraying up her nose until water was blaring through her nasal cavity.
Hermione coughed up the water before it could reach her lungs, glaring at the surly man until he finally cut the spell. She wiped her dripping nose against her arm, eyes narrowing as he chuckled.
“Better, mudblood? Perhaps you’d like down? Yes?” He waited for her to nod and Hermione crumbled to the puddled stone floor. “Oh, you’re shivering. Are you cold?”
Hermione intended to channel Professor Snape, but the chattering of her teeth ruined the effect. “Obviously.”
“I will dry the cell and you if you ask prettily.”
She peered at him suspiciously.
“I am not asking for you to suck my cock, koshka. Just get on your knees and use your words.”
There was more, she was sure of it, but Hermione shuffled her legs beneath her and raised her shoulders and chin. “Would you please dry me?”
He tsked, shaking his head so dark curls fell over his forehead. “No, no. You must do it properly, koshka. Say, ‘Would you please dry this dirty little mudblood, sir?’”
“Absolutely not!” Outrage burned through her and she stood to her full height, glaring up at the Death Eater. “I’d rather catch pneumonia and die.”
Dolohov twisted a wet strand of hair around his finger, hot breath stirring over her. “So be it. Enjoy lying in your puddle, mudblood.”