Chapter 5
“Drop the blanket.”
Her fingers tightened painfully around the fabric. “I can wash myself.”
Dolohov stared at her from across the small room. Hot water hissed and steamed as it rained into the large bath from above. It reminded her of one of those walk-in baths she had seen advertised for the elderly, but it was far larger and she could see no shower head.
“Do not test me. You will drop that rag and come here.”
“Please.” She was frozen, the idea of being washed like a child by this man striking a curious, vulnerable terror over her.
He stalked to her, his hand a vice around her forearm as he tugged her toward the bath. “Perhaps you do not grasp your situation properly.” Her fingers ached as he ripped the blanket from her grip. “I am the master of this house, mudblood. I am the master of everything in it. Therefore I am the master of you. You have proven yourself an insolent child, and I will treat you as such. I do not trust you to clean yourself, so I will do it myself. Unless you would rather stew in your filth.”
The ember of her fire flared. “That would just be exchanging one kind of filth for another. Let me bathe myself.” Her voice was a low growl at the end and she yanked in an attempt to free her arm from his iron grasp.
A nasty grin unfurled across his face and, before she could register it, he had picked her up and tossed her into the large bath. Hermione shrieked and slapped her forearms down to catch herself, rolling into a crouch as the dark man sauntered closer. When she began to rise, a flick of his wrist stuck her hands and feet to the slick marble. "You think my touch is dirty, koshka?" His curls brushed his shoulder as he considered her, head tipped. The shower stopped. "Perhaps I should show you what I could do to keep you wallowing in filth."
Her eyes grew impossibly wide as she watched, frozen in horror, as Dolohov unbundled his belt. "N-no," she began.
"Silencio."With his free hand he drew out his length, that angry red thing that dredged up bile in her empty stomach. His grin had widened to a cruel baring of teeth. The thing in his hand twitched and she flinched as though it had wrapped around her like a tentacle out of an Eldritch horror tale. He huffed out a rough laugh. "What's wrong, mudblood? I thought you would be well enough acquainted by now not to be afraid. It's only a cock, little cat."
Her eyes darkened and she snarled out what would have been a litany of crass words to make Ron proud if only she hadn't been silenced. But her captors laughter echoed like tolling bells through the small room and over her shaky limbs.
He was directly in front of her now, tapped her cheek in a light slap. "You could always suck me off instead, koshka. Would you be a good girl and take that for me instead?" The offending member was hovering in front of her face and Hernione had the desire to try and bite it off, but that would hardly better her situation. "No? We had better get on with your shower then."
His cock twitched, but he took a steadying breath and it lay placid. Amusement curled through his chest at her clear confusion until he began to relieve himself, the golden liquid arcing to splash against her cheek as she turned her head in horror.
"Bad kitties who refuse their baths get punished." His voice was unaffected, distant as he pissed on the teenager. "If I wish to bathe you, you let me bathe you. If I wish to feed you my cock, you open your mouth. If I wish you to crawl across the floor and lick my boots clean, then that is precisely what you will do. And you should be glad, because what follows your refusal will be much worse." His stream faltered and he shook off the last few drops so they flicked against the curve of her jaw.
She stared at her hands curled against the floor, trying to choke back tears. His wand flashed at the edge of her vision and the water beat down on her, too hot and steaming. She could hear the schlick of his hand along his length and her cheeks burned even in the heat reddening her flesh.
"Ah, mudblood, you are truly a vision of degradation. Crying? But I thought you wanted filth. Filthy, dirty, debauched whore. That's what you are now, a pathetic little Death Eater whore. Isn't that right?" Tears were blurring her sight, flooding them faster than they could pool and spill over. "Look at me." When she did not, Dolohov struck viper-quick to wrap a fist in her hair and turn her face toward him. She stared at him with bloodshot eyes round as Galleons and he hissed, shooting cum across her face. The corner of his mouth ticked up and he shoved her away, the spell holding her in place lifting as he tucked himself away. "You have five minutes, mudblood."
The door shut her in the muting fog and Hermione let the sobs free of the cage of her throat, hands wiping at the already washed away scum.
After a few breaths she recalled the time limit, her hands shooting around to gather washcloth and soap, scrubbing furiously at her skin. It was manic, her bathing. She lathered until froth rose like ocean foam, and ran the cloth over and over each inch until she glowed red and raw. The shampoo in her hair was wildly lathered, no time to appreciate the hint of rosemary tingling at her neglected scalp. Her breathing was heavy, eyes darting toward the door in a continuous rhythm.
“Time, mudblood. I expect to see you within the minute.” His voice boomed through the door, scarring her tender skin. She dropped the soap and cloth and scurried to dry herself.
The towel was what broke her.
It was deep midnight blue, soft and fluffy and scented like sunshine. It seemed she had never felt such luxury, such perfection, her mind clouded by pressing darkness and bare survival. To run this supple cloth over her skin, to wrap it around herself, it was too much.
Hermione’s mother had been the sort of woman to sneak in towels fresh from the dryer whenever her daughter was washing up, so that the girl always emerged from her bath or shower to the warm embrace of a towel washed with love and fabric softener.
That would never happen again.
She slipped to the slick floor, a crumbled, crying heap as she pressed the heels of her hands to her eyes. Her heart ached, its tender strings winding around her ribs to tighten her chest in choking grief. She wanted her mother. She wanted those arms to wrap around her, a kiss pressed to the crown of her head as she was enveloped in the scent of home.
“This is what breaks you. A shower?” Leather boots entered her hazy vision, derision sliding against the brittle shield of her misery. Leather and cloth shushed against one another as Dolohov bent to tilt her chin toward his face. Her eyes were swollen, the deep umber bright against the red of her sclera, and snot and tears and spittle covered her cheeks. “Potter’s brilliant mudblood is only a little girl after all.”
Her eyes hardened between salt-laden lashes. “Go to Hell.”
Dolohov’s soft lips spread in parody of a grin. “Oh, koshka, we will be in Hell together soon enough.”