Madwoman, a Loathed and Loved Christmas Gift
This was one of my two submissions for the hp_scroogemas fest 2013. Fest is over and reveals are out.
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Title: Madwoman, a Loathed and Loved Christmas Gift
Summary: Azkaban is a cold, horrible place on Christmas - especially with the brutal, vindictive guards that replaced the Dementors. However, it's not the guards that have Draco cringing in fear and with anxiousness on this night... it's the fact that he's expecting his annual visit from Hermione Granger.
Author: DramioneInLove
Prompter: RZZMG, prompt #58
Beta: hpbeta
Word count: 5.750
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Non-con sex, psychological trauma, psychological torture, forced orgasm, oral sex, dom/sub, violence, strong profanity, torture, forced miscarriage, murder, infanticide
List of characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Zacharias Smith, OC, mentions of Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson
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Author's Notes: Hello! Here goes my submission. I hope it's dark enough for the fest, and that you'll like it. I also hope that I've well done with the prompt. Only, as you'll discover, two minor changes from the summary/prompt: Hermione doesn't come to Azkaban once but twice a year, simply because I decided that if this would be her second visit, Draco wouldn't be terrified enough. And, it's not on an evening but in the morning: only because I thought that, well, after the news is broken that Hermione's visiting him, it would be more worrying for Draco to have to think about it all night instead of all day. This story is essentially about psychological trauma and torture, as you'll see. Whatever else happens is only there to encourage that. Psychological torture is, I think, one of the worst kind.
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December 24, 2001
Azkaban Wizardry Jail
Draco Malfoy sat back on the bare mattress in his cell, listening to the cries and the shrieks of prisoners further up the level 3 of Azkaban. The level known by the intimates of the place as ''Death Eater's Hell'', since the only inhabitants here were war criminals and the few still alive Death Eaters.
Draco's cell was tiny, no more than three square metres, and since his arrival two and a half years ago, he had only been out of it three times. Three awful, pain-inducing times that he wished never to think of again. Other than that, he was forced to piss and shit in a metal bucket that the guards were supposed to throw out at least once a week-which already wasn't much-, if they didn't forget to do so, or more likely, actually decided they would do so. Let's not speak of showers-they were nothing more than a vague luxury in a life that had once been his.
The cell was, of course, cold, damp, and dark. The stone walls and floor, on which Draco was forced to go barefoot, including in winter, were covered in deep, salty grime. Once upon a time, he had had a thin blanket to snuggle into, but the guards had decided that he would go without it.
The only times Draco actually interacted with people was when the guards decided to beat his brains out, which was quite often. His mother had been spared by Saint Potter upon the fact that she had saved his pathetic life, but the honor had not been extended to Draco, and a few weeks after the young man had been shut in Azkaban, she had been murdered by a few vindicative witches and wizards who decided that Narcissa Malfoy had had it too nice. Lucius had died in Azkaban as well, several months after his wife, of illness, which could have been a lie, since the guards hated his guts, or could have been true as well, seeing of the utterly disgusting way prisoners were treated. Draco was surprised himself that he was not dead now.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps thumping through the corridor, and the wailing of prisoners as guards sent curses upon them in thick, laughing voices.
“Crucio! Take that, Selwyn, you bloody bastard!”
“Ho ho ho! Good shot, man! Here, let me try!”
Draco whimpered and crushed himself as far into the wall as was possible, hoping against hope that the guards wouldn't notice him. They were coming closer, closer...and stopped right in front of his cell door, smirking into the darkness.
“Well, well, well, gentlemen. If it isn't the one and only Draco fucking Malfoy,” drawled one of them, a young, blond fool that Draco recognised as Zacharias Smith.
Smith leveled his wand on Draco as the two others laughed smugly behind him. Draco gritted his teeth. If the Dark Lord was still alive, they'd be pissing their poor pants in front of him. Without speaking of the Dark Lord, however, if only he had his precious hawthorn wand between his fingers, he'd have them running back to Mummy's skirts screaming blue murder.
As the Crucio's hit him, Draco was quite surprised to notice that he still had enough breath inside him to scream out as the stabbing pain hit every inch of his body. He writhed on the grubby floor, screeching like a turned Veela and tears flowing freely out of his beautiful, grey eyes.
Draco Malfoy was nothing more than a dead shell. Only she could get a rise out of him now.
Smith pretended to gag at his obvious suffering, act that his mates seemed to find extremely funny, and then whipped his wand so that the cell door would open before stepping in, wrinkling his nose at the scent coming from the bucket.
“Well,” he snarled, “seems to be a lot of shit coming from this worthless piece of poo here. Then again, what do the French say already, Charles?”
“Les chiens ne font pas des chats,” replied one of the burly men behind him.
Smith turned to Draco, a big smile splitting his face:
“Litteraly, dogs do not produce cats. Your dearest father, good riddance, produced shit instead of a son, and so on and so forth. I wonder what fucking your old mother was like, though. Not that I would have done the job...but it must have been some deal of fun, to sodomise her until she screamed.”
Draco shut his eyes, hard. They knew, the bastards. They simply knew that Narcissa, his beautiful, caring mother was his soft spot. They were only searching for a reaction so that they could bully him further.
“...do you think your Mum's pussy was hot, hm?” wondered Smith to the delight of his mates. “I think not. I believe that she was as slack as an old shopping bag and that she was wrinkled all over.”
Seeing that Draco was still not responding, he sighed playfully and announced something that was certain to make the former Death Eater reply:
“Guess who's having a visit, tomorrow? Let me give you a few clues, you arsehole. A female Gryffindor war hero, old DA friend of mine, who's got a few memories of hers to show you?”
Draco's eyes snapped open in fear and he managed to back into the wall, making Smith sneer in happiness:
“Well guessed! Sweet Circe, but he's not reduced to a catatonic state yet! We'll have to see to that, won't we? I'm sorry she doesn't come more often. Then again, she, at least, has a life. Isn't it nice to see that somebody out of this cursed place remembers you, Malfoy?”
Smith rubbed his hands and stepped out of the cell, after kicking the bucket over to let its contents flood the floor. Draco winced and pulled himself onto the quickly soaking mattress.
“Oops,” mocked Smith. “So sorry.”
He closed the door lazily, and concluded,
“It is Christmas day tomorrow. Consider yourself lucky, Hermione will be giving you a nice present, will she not?”
He took a few pretend steps away, then turned back and added, as an afterthought:
“Oh, I forgot. For knocking your own need bucket over, you shall not have any supper tonight. Then maybe you'll think about what is waiting for you tomorrow.”
He smirked nastily at the huddled figure, and left, head high in his own ridiculous power.
The thought of Hermione Granger coming to see him made Draco sweat with dread, and hopeless tears dripped out of his eyes as he remembered with fear the last three times over two years.
The first one had been a couple of months after Narcissa's death. He had gone half mad with rage and sorrow.
The second time had been on his first birthday in Azkaban.
The last time had been for her own birthday this year.
Now she was coming for Christmas.
What made Draco cry in terror and self-hatred was that he awaited anxiously for what she did to him. It was awful, really, and Granger was a nasty bitch, but she would bring him a form of relief. And for that, while he hated her with his soul, he also wanted to beg for her to come. She was clever, though, and only came once in a while, to assure that he would feel the guilt of awaiting her as well as loathing her.
She was a thousand times worse than having Smith as Chief Guard in Level 3.
Draco wept himself to sleep for the first time in months.
…
December 25, 2001
Azkaban Wizardry Jail
…
Draco was nervously pacing in his cell. How he hated her! He only wished for a chance, one chance, to slice her pretty, white throat and squeeze the last drop of her filthy blood out of her small body. But he knew that that chance would never come.
He seriously doubted that Hermione Granger actually was allowed to come to Azkaban for him. But being a war hero had its perks, he supposed, so she slithered her way in, to the delight of the guards who despised the very ground he walked on. They knew what she did to him...at least, they knew a part of it, since they were always alone, and he didn't think that Granger would tell them everything, since they were thick enough to not understand the psychological trauma he endured from the last part of their meetings. Potter and her other friends, Weasley family included, must not even know how much she hated him, let alone went to see him.
Draco Malfoy was Hermione Granger's dirty little secret.
He heard footsteps thudding down towards his cell, and stood slowly, knowing that otherwise, the guards would clobber him to his feet. Smith's pale, cold face stared at him and he turned around, crossing his hands behind his back, fingers twitching as he imagined closing them around the bastard's neck to throttle the life out of him. The Chief Guard approached swiftly, snapping handcuffs around his too thin wrists, without forgetting to twist his arms and fingers painfully. Then, Smith thrust him forward, out of the cell, and Draco stumbled as a warm breeze hit him. Obviously, the guards would not tolerate coldness on their precious little selves while pacing the corridors like scarved vultures.
Smith walked behind him, wand rudely prodding into his back, and four more guards surrounded him, as if he was a bloody half-giant or something. They walked quickly, not paying attention when he tripped on the uneven floor, injuring his bruised and bloodied feet.
Then, Smith pushed him into a small, bare room, and he blanched upon seeing the Pensieve standing boldly on a tall, stone base. He didn't even pay any mind as the Chief Guard roughly attached him to a solid stone chair carved in the floor, only wondering if he was strong enough to rush forward and push the Pensieve to the floor, to see it shatter in a million dusty pieces...
“Hello, Hermione,” suddenly said Smith in a sweet, inviting voice, while snarling greedily into Draco's face.
“Hi, dear. How are you?”
Smith proudly checked the magical binds around Draco's wrists, ankles, and torso, keeping him firmly to the chair, and stood up to talk back, relishing in Draco's visible fearful trembling.
“Why, very fine, very fine indeed,” replied Smith smoothly. “Need any help?”
“No, thank you very much. You well know that what happens between Malfoy and I stays between Malfoy and I.”
“All right, then. You know what the security signal is, if ever you have a problem?”
“I do. Charles was nice enough to explain to me on my way down. Such a gentleman.”
Draco wanted to snort at that, but managed to keep himself in check. He didn't want her to see that he still had a mind of his own. If so, she would make his punishment all the more difficult, and he only wanted to be rid of the Mudblood whore. So, he dully observed the wall opposite himself instead.
“Fine. Have a good time, then.”
“I will,” she replied and the smirk in her voice was obvious.
Smith chuckled:
“Come have a cup of tea in my office after, right?”
“No problem. See you.”
The door closed in a curt way, and then the silence was only cut by Hermione's heels clacking against the stone floor. She stopped right in front of him and said simply, in a polite voice:
“Good morning, Draco, and Happy Christmas.”
He gazed at her. She was wearing short black boots with a high heel, and a thick winter cloak made in dyed black fox fur with a silver collar, as well as black leather gloves. Her sleek, tender brown curls floated on her shoulders, highlighting her pretty, heart-shaped, pale face, her warm brown eyes lightly coated with black make-up, and her pouty, ruby-red colored lips. She was beautiful, and he hated her with all his tainted soul and heart. He didn't answer.
A gloved hand slapped him around the face, and his eyes opened in shock as he glared back. Hermione, however, still seemed neutral. She repeated:
“I said hello and Happy Christmas, Draco. I expect an answer.”
“Mudblood,” he snarled back, unable to help himself.
She slapped him on each cheek, hard enough to make his eyes water, and her eyes had darkened in a clear menace.
“No you don't,” she murmured dangerously.
He cleared his throat. Better not to tempt her too much for now.
“Hello...Her...Hermione. Happy Christmas.”
She broke out a contented smile and caressed lightly his swollen cheek, purring.
“Good boy.”
He just couldn't help himself. He pressed himself into her hand. Two years without touching anyone, except to be on the business end of a punch or a kick, tend to do that to a person. He loathed it, but he needed it. Oh, no, not two years. She'd already been here before, hadn't she?
She tsked and turned away, taking a small vial out of her cloak, and deposited the silvery content of her memories into the Pensieve. He broke out into a sweating fit, eyes bulging, knowing what was coming next.
The memory lifted up like a hologram. His eyes blurred with tears, but he could still see the form of Lucius Malfoy, dirty and alone, in his cell, a few cells from his son at the time. Hermione's face showed delight at the upcoming scene. In the memory, an eighteen-year-old Hermione calmly walked up to the cell, producing a dark vial from her robes.
“Hello, Lucius Malfoy.”
“Mudblood,” he snarked back, before turning to the wall and starting to say in a strong voice: “I've already told you, Dobby, to never turn on the heater in my office when I am to be in the place! Go and trap your ugly ears in the oven, for once! No, Narcissa. I do like the color, but that cut just doesn't fit me. Send it back to Madam Malkin's, dear. Yes Draco, you and the whole Slytherin team shall be given new brooms, I promise. Now run along. Of course not, Bellatrix! The Dark Lord will want us to...”
Hermione cut his crazed monologue.
“Here, Malfoy. Drink this up.”
She pushed the tiny vial into the cell, and Lucius perked up, staring at it.
“What is this exactly, Minister? Yes, Fudge, I have given enough to the board...”
“The Dark Lord commands you to drink this vial,” cut again Hermione.
Lucius' face lit up in a demonstration of endeavor.
“Truly? You are sent by Him?”
“Of course,” cooed Hermione.
Lucius jumped upon the vial, uncorked it, and jerked it up to his thin, pale lips. Instantly, after swallowing, he stopped moving, and looked in horror at the vial. He managed to utter,
“Snape...should have...detected this...”
Before falling to the floor, convulsing and screaming in the most horrid fashion. Hermione simply smirked mockingly as he clawed at his chest, tearing through his shirt and drawing blood, his feet drumming on the stone floor. Several guards rushed up, Smith first, observing the scene with a mixture of horror and fascination. Finally, Lucius' eyes glazed over and he slowly stopped jerking. Followed a long silence, then Hermione admitted matter-of-factly:
“Damn. The vial of Paralyzing Poison of Instant Death dropped out of my pocket, and the greedy bugger simply threw himself on it.”
The guards guffawed and laughed as the memory faded.
Draco sobbed and screamed as his father's murder played again and again on his retina, and Draco knew that this was only the start-the easiest memory to watch. And now the bitch was going to play with him, and he would beg her to continue. Because he was simply a man, and a prisoner, and he craved a gentle touch, even as his mind cursed both of them a thousand times over.
Hermione approached, gently bringing a handkerchief to his snivelling nose, while her now ungloved hands softly wiped his tears away. And again, he pressed into her feminine and nice touch, while despising the murderous, cruel bint.
Slowly, her hands moved down and he caught his breath, as she grasped the hem of his shirt and tugged it over his head, leaving his bare torso to shiver in the cold draught. Her soft fingers traced light patterns on his skin, over his protruding bones, and pinched his nipples, making him groan in pain and pleasure all the same as he felt his cock stir in his trousers.
“You know that you deserve this, don't you?” she whispered into his ear as her hair trailed over his shoulder, making him want to seize her by it and pound into her until the bitch passed out.
He pursed his lips, however. He would not give in that easily. She hummed and grabbed the arms of the chair, bending towards him so that her lips skimmed over his. To his great shame, he whined in need for her to come near.
“You want to fuck me,” she whispered and the sound went straight to his half-hard dick. “You want to thrust into my hot, wanton pussy and find your release, coating my inner walls with your beautiful, hot, white seed. You want me to wrap my lips around your weeping cock...”
“Stop it,” he managed to grind out as his eyes rolled back in his head. The nasty whore had performed enough Legilimancy on him to know even the first time he had used the potty. She thus knew what turned him on, and dirty talk was one of those things.
“Stop what, Draco dear? Do you really think you can give orders, here? Answer my question and I might just be nice to you.”
Her fingers ghosted across his chest and pinched a nipple, hard, making him arch into her touch, a pleading although guilty look in his eyes.
“Yes,” he muttered, head dropping.
She was having none of it though, and lifted his head back up with two fingers under his chin:
“Yes what, Draco?”
“I deserve this. All of this...Hermione.”
She cooed in pleasure.
“Good boy!”
She leaned forward to give him a soft, rewarding kiss, and he hungrily drank in her lips, unable to even hurt her by biting now: he needed the release she could give him. Too soon, however, she stepped back, smirking in victory, and he wanted to smash her head into the wall, to see her brains litter the floor. She winked, knowing exactly how he felt, and turned on her heel to empty a second vial of memories into the Pensieve.
“Don't forget, dear, that if you close your eyes once, I'll make the Cruciatus feel like child play compared to what I shall do to you,” she noted in a singsong voice that slightly reminded him of his Aunt Bellatrix.
He believed her. She had already given proof of that fact. He shuddered, remembering how her teeth had gnarled through his...
The memory this time was of one Pansy Parkinson, his girlfriend. It was while in her bed that the Hit Wizards had stormed in to arrest him. Pansy had sworn that she would help him, but after his arrest, not once had he heard of her.
Of course, after Granger's first visit, he had understood why.
Hermione was in front of Pansy, the latter chained to a wall in a dungeon he recognised as one of the Parkinson's Manor. Pansy was crying, her blond curls tumbling in her face, and Hermione snarled:
“Fret not, Pansy dear. Your parents are on a vacation to France, they shall not hear you screeching like some stubborn child.”
“Please,” begged Pansy in a heartbreaking voice that would make a Dementor wail. “Please, Granger...I'll give you anything...everything...”
“Like I am interested,” muttered the brunette. “Speaking of stubborn children, I have heard some most interesting news. So, you are pregnant with Draco Malfoy's child, are you not?”
Pansy didn't answer, and Hermione lazily flicked her wand, making Pansy scream and writhe in her bonds as her stomach opened in a neat line in the middle, blood rushing down her legs to the floor.
“Well, Pansy. Didn't your mother tell you that maidens are not to go fucking around like common whores when unmarried, hm?”
Pansy cried and begged, shrieked and pleaded, but in the end, Hermione just sighed:
“You are giving me quite a headache, Pansy. Now now, your child is dead, and Draco is in jail, so you really aren't useful any more. Plus, the memories stored away in my head will give your dearest boyfriend something to cry upon while I fuck him senseless. Let's finish this right now. Avada Kedavra!”
Pansy's form went limp in her bonds, her wide, dead eyes staring before her, blood still pooling around her feet.
“What a mess,” tutted Hermione before she vanished.
The memory faded to Draco trembling in his chair, tears puddling in his lap and barely managing to rein in his need to scream and his urge to vomit. Hermione appeared in front of him and said softly,
“Do not fret, Draco. You've seen this all before.”
She had taken her cloak off, revealing a small black dress, letting him drool over her long, bare legs. She slithered into his lap, facing him, legs apart, showing off her tiny black knickers, and started to grind slowly against his cock, which, to his horror, sprung to life again. She placed a hand on his shoulder and the other on his cheek, and murmured,
“Now Draco, you know that Pansy and your unborn child are dead because of you, don't you?”
He shuddered, but her hand slapped his face, splitting his lip. She meant business now.
“Draco...”she growled.
“Yes Hermione,” he cried in a tamed way. “I'm...I'm sorry.”
“Good.”
She stopped frotting herself upon his core, and took down the straps of her dress, revealing instantly her bare breasts. They were the perfect size, and pebbled by rosy nipples. He keened, wanting to touch her so badly.
Hermione Granger certainly knew how to torture a man. She collected information on him, then killed his family, in awful ways, before showing him the memories. As that wasn't bad enough, she decided that making him want her in a sexual manner was further punishment. As a prisoner, he was denied any form of social life. Touching any skin but his own was forbidden. The fact that she induced desire in him, she, the person who destroyed everything around him, and in him, was ugly, violent, evil...and subtle. She would have made a bloody good Death Eater. He would have preferred being beaten and raped by the slut than this. Making him participate in his own downfall, making his cock grow in lust for her while her cursed memories still lingered in the room, was the height of cruelty.
But since Granger was the best at everything, she could get even better.
She slipped off his lap to empty yet another memory in the Pensieve, and Draco felt tears wet his eyes again as he saw a small group of about six witches and wizards, Smith and Hermione en tête, surrounding Narcissa Malfoy, who was convulsing and screaming under the effect of at least three Cruciatus' at a time being thrown at her.
Real-life Hermione repeated her menace of punishing him should he close his eyes, and then slithered between his legs, on her knees, and harshly pulled his trousers down to his ankles, before carefully taking his soft cock between her fingers.
Thus Draco Malfoy was reduced to watch the scene of his mother's torture and death while Hermione's hand was firmly moving up and down his cock, an evil glint in her doe eyes as she observed him closely.
To his terror and sorrow, even his beloved mother's wails and screams and writhing, broken body didn't stop the fact that his manhood was becoming hard under the slut's expert fingers. She stroked him, gentle and harsh at the time, one hand cupping his balls. Her thumb passed over his crown, caressing his tip, and smearing precome over it. He keened softly, pushing himself forward into her hands.
Then, the memory showed the wizards taking short, iron poles, and hitting Narcissa's limbs, while the witches stood back and laughed heartily. The victim screeched as her bones began cracking and braking under the onslaught. Feeling Draco waver, Hermione started murmuring, not loudly but enough so that he could hear her soft voice over his mother's cries:
“You've got such a magnificent cock, you know. What a shame that it is wasted in here. Then again, for all I know, you could be the other prisoners' hole. Perhaps you don't need me riding you. Perhaps you don't need me to suck you off. Maybe that you already have that. Maybe...”
Against his heart's desires, he whimpered at that, and arched up into her touch in an unmistakable message. She chuckled.
“Then behave, and you shall have what you desire. Understood?”
He nodded eagerly, wanting to scream in pure bloodlust.
“Yes, who?”
“Yes, Hermione,” he seethed.
She patted his cock's weeping head with her thumb and he groaned in desire. Sharply, she reminded:
“Do not stop watching the memory.”
His head snapped obediently back up to watch again his mother's last minutes, as if he was a slave to her. And he was. He started crying as memory-Hermione strutted up to kneel next to Narcissa, poking hard her fingers into the blonde's injuries.
Then actual-Hermione lowered her head and playfully took his crown into her hot, steamy, cursed mouth, suckling gently and licking at his slit. He groaned and thrusted up, wishing to bury his hands in her hair but unable to move them. She took him in and pulled back, smacking his balls, making him shudder in delight, and then he was done: the memory of his own mother seemed like a distant thing, the only one really counting here was Hermione. He stared at his mother being murdered by the witch sucking him off like there was no tomorrow, lathering his penis as if it was her favorite sweet, kissing his long, thick manhood, fondling his balls and groaning in delight. He squirmed, shouted, hummed, babbled, and she managed to say to him between two ministrations:
“What do you have...mmmh, yes...to say for yourself?”
“I'm sorry,” he cried out. “I'm so sorry. I deserve all this. It is my fault my family died. My fault you had to get blood on those wonderful hands. I should be down on my hands and knees to make up what I did to you. Seek revenge on me. I want you to punish me, please...I did an awful thing and it is only justice that you torture me...”
He went on and on, not realising what he was really saying, though he knew deep down that in the aftermath, he would remember and regret. Only mattered Hermione, her hands and her mouth.
She poised her head over him, jaw slack, and he yelled insanities while thrusting his dirty cock into her mouth, balls deep, pounding into her throat, thankful, full of love of her for now. Then suddenly, nothing. She stood, regarding him coldly, and took her dress and her knickers off, standing naked under his wanton gaze, before straddling him, her breasts rubbing against his chest and her hotness on his manhood. She sat up, and helped him enter her, before starting to bounce slowly. She was as wet as the Black Lake, and he wondered how she managed to get off on this. She, after all, had a human life. Plus, he was filthy, not having bathed for months now.
She threw her head back, grabbing his shoulders, and he was entranced by her bouncing, beautiful tits. He managed to push forward to lick one of her nipples and she grunted in pleasure, before kissing him on the mouth, fastly, then resumed fucking him. Her nails grazed his shoulders with a vengeance, while she keened and cried for him to go on, harder, slam into her, yes, show her what a slut he was, her nasty little whore. And he obeyed to her every command.
She came first, surprisingly, and milked him for all she was worth, her tight walls pulling him in. He exploded then, seeing white lights as he did so, still pounding into her gorgeous pussy. They stilled, and she pulled off, humming softly as she put her knickers, dress, cloak and gloves back on. He sat, shocked into silence.
She had made him come this time to the vision still playing of his mother's dead body. It was worse than everything she had ever done to him. Hermione knowingly smirked at him, and took her memories back before adding,
“I have a special gift for you, Draco. After all, it is Christmas.”
Wondering what the mad creature had imagined, he watched on as she emptied the last vial into the Pensieve, humming softly.
As it showed out, is was a mixture of memories. One of her fainting while in her kitchen. One of her looking, appalled, as the Healer of Saint-Mungo's explained that she was eight weeks pregnant. One as she took out a locket in which were a few blond hairs that she cast a spell upon, watching in dread as a pink light surrounded the said locket.
He was more and more uneasy. She wouldn't have...
She had. He gazed in horror as she gave birth to a tiny girl with blond hair and grey eyes, swept away from her happy friends and family, forced poison into the infant's throat, watched the baby die and then cried at the funeral whilst Potter was hugging her, soothing and saying that, well, these things happen, sometimes babies die and you can't quite know what went on in those frail little bodies.
Broken, devastated, but not totally unhappy that his child, the one he must have conceived during one of Granger's visits, was in a better world, he looked at her, not even strong enough to summon hatred or disgust or sadness. Neutral. Here was a madwoman, simply. Against that he could not fight. She was his loathed (permanently) and loved (only while she was shagging him) Christmas gift.
“It was a bit heartbreaking to kill an innocent child out of my womb,” admitted Hermione sadly, “but I couldn't have kept your baby. My friends and family thought that the father was a Muggle who ran away upon learning my pregnancy. I didn't want to abort, that would have made quite a mess. I loathe you too much to even support the fact that something related to your flesh and blood exists in this world. I admit, I was surprised, but this time, I have been taking a Preventive Potion.”
She slipped the vial in her pocket and marched to the door, turning back to blow him a kiss:
“See you soon, Draco dear.”
The door closed upon a man, still tied to his chair, wondering when death, sweet and wanted, would take him.
…
“Went well this time?”
Hermione sipped her cup of tea, and smiled up at Smith.
“Indeed. Had him wailing like a kid in less than five minutes.”
The Chief Guard smirked nastily and replied,
“Such a shame that we have no one to kill of his family now. Is that all you do? Show him memories? If it's only that, I should show him some of my own when we killed a few of his friends. I'm happy, though, that we managed to decimate all the free You-Know-Who's supporters. And no-one would ever guess that it's us. Cheers, dear.”
They grinned at one other, then Hermione said,
“Yes. All I do...showing him the memories and slapping him a bit. Goes down like a feeble bitch.”
“These Malfoys. All talk, never one to act.”
They sat in silence for a moment, then Smith added softly,
“I'm content. My sister is avenged now. And all the others. Bet Draco Malfoy regrets having ever shot the Killing Curse to your fiancé in the Last Battle now, hey?”
Hermione put her cup down daintily, a dark gleam coming over her eyes, and caressed her wand, murmuring in a gentle voice,
“Oh, but until the day we die, I swear that Draco Malfoy shall continue to pay the death of Ron Weasley.”
FIN
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Title: Madwoman, a Loathed and Loved Christmas Gift
Summary: Azkaban is a cold, horrible place on Christmas - especially with the brutal, vindictive guards that replaced the Dementors. However, it's not the guards that have Draco cringing in fear and with anxiousness on this night... it's the fact that he's expecting his annual visit from Hermione Granger.
Author: DramioneInLove
Prompter: RZZMG, prompt #58
Beta: hpbeta
Word count: 5.750
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Non-con sex, psychological trauma, psychological torture, forced orgasm, oral sex, dom/sub, violence, strong profanity, torture, forced miscarriage, murder, infanticide
List of characters: Hermione Granger, Draco Malfoy, Zacharias Smith, OC, mentions of Lucius Malfoy, Narcissa Malfoy, Pansy Parkinson
…
Author's Notes: Hello! Here goes my submission. I hope it's dark enough for the fest, and that you'll like it. I also hope that I've well done with the prompt. Only, as you'll discover, two minor changes from the summary/prompt: Hermione doesn't come to Azkaban once but twice a year, simply because I decided that if this would be her second visit, Draco wouldn't be terrified enough. And, it's not on an evening but in the morning: only because I thought that, well, after the news is broken that Hermione's visiting him, it would be more worrying for Draco to have to think about it all night instead of all day. This story is essentially about psychological trauma and torture, as you'll see. Whatever else happens is only there to encourage that. Psychological torture is, I think, one of the worst kind.
…
December 24, 2001
Azkaban Wizardry Jail
Draco Malfoy sat back on the bare mattress in his cell, listening to the cries and the shrieks of prisoners further up the level 3 of Azkaban. The level known by the intimates of the place as ''Death Eater's Hell'', since the only inhabitants here were war criminals and the few still alive Death Eaters.
Draco's cell was tiny, no more than three square metres, and since his arrival two and a half years ago, he had only been out of it three times. Three awful, pain-inducing times that he wished never to think of again. Other than that, he was forced to piss and shit in a metal bucket that the guards were supposed to throw out at least once a week-which already wasn't much-, if they didn't forget to do so, or more likely, actually decided they would do so. Let's not speak of showers-they were nothing more than a vague luxury in a life that had once been his.
The cell was, of course, cold, damp, and dark. The stone walls and floor, on which Draco was forced to go barefoot, including in winter, were covered in deep, salty grime. Once upon a time, he had had a thin blanket to snuggle into, but the guards had decided that he would go without it.
The only times Draco actually interacted with people was when the guards decided to beat his brains out, which was quite often. His mother had been spared by Saint Potter upon the fact that she had saved his pathetic life, but the honor had not been extended to Draco, and a few weeks after the young man had been shut in Azkaban, she had been murdered by a few vindicative witches and wizards who decided that Narcissa Malfoy had had it too nice. Lucius had died in Azkaban as well, several months after his wife, of illness, which could have been a lie, since the guards hated his guts, or could have been true as well, seeing of the utterly disgusting way prisoners were treated. Draco was surprised himself that he was not dead now.
Suddenly, he heard footsteps thumping through the corridor, and the wailing of prisoners as guards sent curses upon them in thick, laughing voices.
“Crucio! Take that, Selwyn, you bloody bastard!”
“Ho ho ho! Good shot, man! Here, let me try!”
Draco whimpered and crushed himself as far into the wall as was possible, hoping against hope that the guards wouldn't notice him. They were coming closer, closer...and stopped right in front of his cell door, smirking into the darkness.
“Well, well, well, gentlemen. If it isn't the one and only Draco fucking Malfoy,” drawled one of them, a young, blond fool that Draco recognised as Zacharias Smith.
Smith leveled his wand on Draco as the two others laughed smugly behind him. Draco gritted his teeth. If the Dark Lord was still alive, they'd be pissing their poor pants in front of him. Without speaking of the Dark Lord, however, if only he had his precious hawthorn wand between his fingers, he'd have them running back to Mummy's skirts screaming blue murder.
As the Crucio's hit him, Draco was quite surprised to notice that he still had enough breath inside him to scream out as the stabbing pain hit every inch of his body. He writhed on the grubby floor, screeching like a turned Veela and tears flowing freely out of his beautiful, grey eyes.
Draco Malfoy was nothing more than a dead shell. Only she could get a rise out of him now.
Smith pretended to gag at his obvious suffering, act that his mates seemed to find extremely funny, and then whipped his wand so that the cell door would open before stepping in, wrinkling his nose at the scent coming from the bucket.
“Well,” he snarled, “seems to be a lot of shit coming from this worthless piece of poo here. Then again, what do the French say already, Charles?”
“Les chiens ne font pas des chats,” replied one of the burly men behind him.
Smith turned to Draco, a big smile splitting his face:
“Litteraly, dogs do not produce cats. Your dearest father, good riddance, produced shit instead of a son, and so on and so forth. I wonder what fucking your old mother was like, though. Not that I would have done the job...but it must have been some deal of fun, to sodomise her until she screamed.”
Draco shut his eyes, hard. They knew, the bastards. They simply knew that Narcissa, his beautiful, caring mother was his soft spot. They were only searching for a reaction so that they could bully him further.
“...do you think your Mum's pussy was hot, hm?” wondered Smith to the delight of his mates. “I think not. I believe that she was as slack as an old shopping bag and that she was wrinkled all over.”
Seeing that Draco was still not responding, he sighed playfully and announced something that was certain to make the former Death Eater reply:
“Guess who's having a visit, tomorrow? Let me give you a few clues, you arsehole. A female Gryffindor war hero, old DA friend of mine, who's got a few memories of hers to show you?”
Draco's eyes snapped open in fear and he managed to back into the wall, making Smith sneer in happiness:
“Well guessed! Sweet Circe, but he's not reduced to a catatonic state yet! We'll have to see to that, won't we? I'm sorry she doesn't come more often. Then again, she, at least, has a life. Isn't it nice to see that somebody out of this cursed place remembers you, Malfoy?”
Smith rubbed his hands and stepped out of the cell, after kicking the bucket over to let its contents flood the floor. Draco winced and pulled himself onto the quickly soaking mattress.
“Oops,” mocked Smith. “So sorry.”
He closed the door lazily, and concluded,
“It is Christmas day tomorrow. Consider yourself lucky, Hermione will be giving you a nice present, will she not?”
He took a few pretend steps away, then turned back and added, as an afterthought:
“Oh, I forgot. For knocking your own need bucket over, you shall not have any supper tonight. Then maybe you'll think about what is waiting for you tomorrow.”
He smirked nastily at the huddled figure, and left, head high in his own ridiculous power.
The thought of Hermione Granger coming to see him made Draco sweat with dread, and hopeless tears dripped out of his eyes as he remembered with fear the last three times over two years.
The first one had been a couple of months after Narcissa's death. He had gone half mad with rage and sorrow.
The second time had been on his first birthday in Azkaban.
The last time had been for her own birthday this year.
Now she was coming for Christmas.
What made Draco cry in terror and self-hatred was that he awaited anxiously for what she did to him. It was awful, really, and Granger was a nasty bitch, but she would bring him a form of relief. And for that, while he hated her with his soul, he also wanted to beg for her to come. She was clever, though, and only came once in a while, to assure that he would feel the guilt of awaiting her as well as loathing her.
She was a thousand times worse than having Smith as Chief Guard in Level 3.
Draco wept himself to sleep for the first time in months.
…
December 25, 2001
Azkaban Wizardry Jail
…
Draco was nervously pacing in his cell. How he hated her! He only wished for a chance, one chance, to slice her pretty, white throat and squeeze the last drop of her filthy blood out of her small body. But he knew that that chance would never come.
He seriously doubted that Hermione Granger actually was allowed to come to Azkaban for him. But being a war hero had its perks, he supposed, so she slithered her way in, to the delight of the guards who despised the very ground he walked on. They knew what she did to him...at least, they knew a part of it, since they were always alone, and he didn't think that Granger would tell them everything, since they were thick enough to not understand the psychological trauma he endured from the last part of their meetings. Potter and her other friends, Weasley family included, must not even know how much she hated him, let alone went to see him.
Draco Malfoy was Hermione Granger's dirty little secret.
He heard footsteps thudding down towards his cell, and stood slowly, knowing that otherwise, the guards would clobber him to his feet. Smith's pale, cold face stared at him and he turned around, crossing his hands behind his back, fingers twitching as he imagined closing them around the bastard's neck to throttle the life out of him. The Chief Guard approached swiftly, snapping handcuffs around his too thin wrists, without forgetting to twist his arms and fingers painfully. Then, Smith thrust him forward, out of the cell, and Draco stumbled as a warm breeze hit him. Obviously, the guards would not tolerate coldness on their precious little selves while pacing the corridors like scarved vultures.
Smith walked behind him, wand rudely prodding into his back, and four more guards surrounded him, as if he was a bloody half-giant or something. They walked quickly, not paying attention when he tripped on the uneven floor, injuring his bruised and bloodied feet.
Then, Smith pushed him into a small, bare room, and he blanched upon seeing the Pensieve standing boldly on a tall, stone base. He didn't even pay any mind as the Chief Guard roughly attached him to a solid stone chair carved in the floor, only wondering if he was strong enough to rush forward and push the Pensieve to the floor, to see it shatter in a million dusty pieces...
“Hello, Hermione,” suddenly said Smith in a sweet, inviting voice, while snarling greedily into Draco's face.
“Hi, dear. How are you?”
Smith proudly checked the magical binds around Draco's wrists, ankles, and torso, keeping him firmly to the chair, and stood up to talk back, relishing in Draco's visible fearful trembling.
“Why, very fine, very fine indeed,” replied Smith smoothly. “Need any help?”
“No, thank you very much. You well know that what happens between Malfoy and I stays between Malfoy and I.”
“All right, then. You know what the security signal is, if ever you have a problem?”
“I do. Charles was nice enough to explain to me on my way down. Such a gentleman.”
Draco wanted to snort at that, but managed to keep himself in check. He didn't want her to see that he still had a mind of his own. If so, she would make his punishment all the more difficult, and he only wanted to be rid of the Mudblood whore. So, he dully observed the wall opposite himself instead.
“Fine. Have a good time, then.”
“I will,” she replied and the smirk in her voice was obvious.
Smith chuckled:
“Come have a cup of tea in my office after, right?”
“No problem. See you.”
The door closed in a curt way, and then the silence was only cut by Hermione's heels clacking against the stone floor. She stopped right in front of him and said simply, in a polite voice:
“Good morning, Draco, and Happy Christmas.”
He gazed at her. She was wearing short black boots with a high heel, and a thick winter cloak made in dyed black fox fur with a silver collar, as well as black leather gloves. Her sleek, tender brown curls floated on her shoulders, highlighting her pretty, heart-shaped, pale face, her warm brown eyes lightly coated with black make-up, and her pouty, ruby-red colored lips. She was beautiful, and he hated her with all his tainted soul and heart. He didn't answer.
A gloved hand slapped him around the face, and his eyes opened in shock as he glared back. Hermione, however, still seemed neutral. She repeated:
“I said hello and Happy Christmas, Draco. I expect an answer.”
“Mudblood,” he snarled back, unable to help himself.
She slapped him on each cheek, hard enough to make his eyes water, and her eyes had darkened in a clear menace.
“No you don't,” she murmured dangerously.
He cleared his throat. Better not to tempt her too much for now.
“Hello...Her...Hermione. Happy Christmas.”
She broke out a contented smile and caressed lightly his swollen cheek, purring.
“Good boy.”
He just couldn't help himself. He pressed himself into her hand. Two years without touching anyone, except to be on the business end of a punch or a kick, tend to do that to a person. He loathed it, but he needed it. Oh, no, not two years. She'd already been here before, hadn't she?
She tsked and turned away, taking a small vial out of her cloak, and deposited the silvery content of her memories into the Pensieve. He broke out into a sweating fit, eyes bulging, knowing what was coming next.
The memory lifted up like a hologram. His eyes blurred with tears, but he could still see the form of Lucius Malfoy, dirty and alone, in his cell, a few cells from his son at the time. Hermione's face showed delight at the upcoming scene. In the memory, an eighteen-year-old Hermione calmly walked up to the cell, producing a dark vial from her robes.
“Hello, Lucius Malfoy.”
“Mudblood,” he snarked back, before turning to the wall and starting to say in a strong voice: “I've already told you, Dobby, to never turn on the heater in my office when I am to be in the place! Go and trap your ugly ears in the oven, for once! No, Narcissa. I do like the color, but that cut just doesn't fit me. Send it back to Madam Malkin's, dear. Yes Draco, you and the whole Slytherin team shall be given new brooms, I promise. Now run along. Of course not, Bellatrix! The Dark Lord will want us to...”
Hermione cut his crazed monologue.
“Here, Malfoy. Drink this up.”
She pushed the tiny vial into the cell, and Lucius perked up, staring at it.
“What is this exactly, Minister? Yes, Fudge, I have given enough to the board...”
“The Dark Lord commands you to drink this vial,” cut again Hermione.
Lucius' face lit up in a demonstration of endeavor.
“Truly? You are sent by Him?”
“Of course,” cooed Hermione.
Lucius jumped upon the vial, uncorked it, and jerked it up to his thin, pale lips. Instantly, after swallowing, he stopped moving, and looked in horror at the vial. He managed to utter,
“Snape...should have...detected this...”
Before falling to the floor, convulsing and screaming in the most horrid fashion. Hermione simply smirked mockingly as he clawed at his chest, tearing through his shirt and drawing blood, his feet drumming on the stone floor. Several guards rushed up, Smith first, observing the scene with a mixture of horror and fascination. Finally, Lucius' eyes glazed over and he slowly stopped jerking. Followed a long silence, then Hermione admitted matter-of-factly:
“Damn. The vial of Paralyzing Poison of Instant Death dropped out of my pocket, and the greedy bugger simply threw himself on it.”
The guards guffawed and laughed as the memory faded.
Draco sobbed and screamed as his father's murder played again and again on his retina, and Draco knew that this was only the start-the easiest memory to watch. And now the bitch was going to play with him, and he would beg her to continue. Because he was simply a man, and a prisoner, and he craved a gentle touch, even as his mind cursed both of them a thousand times over.
Hermione approached, gently bringing a handkerchief to his snivelling nose, while her now ungloved hands softly wiped his tears away. And again, he pressed into her feminine and nice touch, while despising the murderous, cruel bint.
Slowly, her hands moved down and he caught his breath, as she grasped the hem of his shirt and tugged it over his head, leaving his bare torso to shiver in the cold draught. Her soft fingers traced light patterns on his skin, over his protruding bones, and pinched his nipples, making him groan in pain and pleasure all the same as he felt his cock stir in his trousers.
“You know that you deserve this, don't you?” she whispered into his ear as her hair trailed over his shoulder, making him want to seize her by it and pound into her until the bitch passed out.
He pursed his lips, however. He would not give in that easily. She hummed and grabbed the arms of the chair, bending towards him so that her lips skimmed over his. To his great shame, he whined in need for her to come near.
“You want to fuck me,” she whispered and the sound went straight to his half-hard dick. “You want to thrust into my hot, wanton pussy and find your release, coating my inner walls with your beautiful, hot, white seed. You want me to wrap my lips around your weeping cock...”
“Stop it,” he managed to grind out as his eyes rolled back in his head. The nasty whore had performed enough Legilimancy on him to know even the first time he had used the potty. She thus knew what turned him on, and dirty talk was one of those things.
“Stop what, Draco dear? Do you really think you can give orders, here? Answer my question and I might just be nice to you.”
Her fingers ghosted across his chest and pinched a nipple, hard, making him arch into her touch, a pleading although guilty look in his eyes.
“Yes,” he muttered, head dropping.
She was having none of it though, and lifted his head back up with two fingers under his chin:
“Yes what, Draco?”
“I deserve this. All of this...Hermione.”
She cooed in pleasure.
“Good boy!”
She leaned forward to give him a soft, rewarding kiss, and he hungrily drank in her lips, unable to even hurt her by biting now: he needed the release she could give him. Too soon, however, she stepped back, smirking in victory, and he wanted to smash her head into the wall, to see her brains litter the floor. She winked, knowing exactly how he felt, and turned on her heel to empty a second vial of memories into the Pensieve.
“Don't forget, dear, that if you close your eyes once, I'll make the Cruciatus feel like child play compared to what I shall do to you,” she noted in a singsong voice that slightly reminded him of his Aunt Bellatrix.
He believed her. She had already given proof of that fact. He shuddered, remembering how her teeth had gnarled through his...
The memory this time was of one Pansy Parkinson, his girlfriend. It was while in her bed that the Hit Wizards had stormed in to arrest him. Pansy had sworn that she would help him, but after his arrest, not once had he heard of her.
Of course, after Granger's first visit, he had understood why.
Hermione was in front of Pansy, the latter chained to a wall in a dungeon he recognised as one of the Parkinson's Manor. Pansy was crying, her blond curls tumbling in her face, and Hermione snarled:
“Fret not, Pansy dear. Your parents are on a vacation to France, they shall not hear you screeching like some stubborn child.”
“Please,” begged Pansy in a heartbreaking voice that would make a Dementor wail. “Please, Granger...I'll give you anything...everything...”
“Like I am interested,” muttered the brunette. “Speaking of stubborn children, I have heard some most interesting news. So, you are pregnant with Draco Malfoy's child, are you not?”
Pansy didn't answer, and Hermione lazily flicked her wand, making Pansy scream and writhe in her bonds as her stomach opened in a neat line in the middle, blood rushing down her legs to the floor.
“Well, Pansy. Didn't your mother tell you that maidens are not to go fucking around like common whores when unmarried, hm?”
Pansy cried and begged, shrieked and pleaded, but in the end, Hermione just sighed:
“You are giving me quite a headache, Pansy. Now now, your child is dead, and Draco is in jail, so you really aren't useful any more. Plus, the memories stored away in my head will give your dearest boyfriend something to cry upon while I fuck him senseless. Let's finish this right now. Avada Kedavra!”
Pansy's form went limp in her bonds, her wide, dead eyes staring before her, blood still pooling around her feet.
“What a mess,” tutted Hermione before she vanished.
The memory faded to Draco trembling in his chair, tears puddling in his lap and barely managing to rein in his need to scream and his urge to vomit. Hermione appeared in front of him and said softly,
“Do not fret, Draco. You've seen this all before.”
She had taken her cloak off, revealing a small black dress, letting him drool over her long, bare legs. She slithered into his lap, facing him, legs apart, showing off her tiny black knickers, and started to grind slowly against his cock, which, to his horror, sprung to life again. She placed a hand on his shoulder and the other on his cheek, and murmured,
“Now Draco, you know that Pansy and your unborn child are dead because of you, don't you?”
He shuddered, but her hand slapped his face, splitting his lip. She meant business now.
“Draco...”she growled.
“Yes Hermione,” he cried in a tamed way. “I'm...I'm sorry.”
“Good.”
She stopped frotting herself upon his core, and took down the straps of her dress, revealing instantly her bare breasts. They were the perfect size, and pebbled by rosy nipples. He keened, wanting to touch her so badly.
Hermione Granger certainly knew how to torture a man. She collected information on him, then killed his family, in awful ways, before showing him the memories. As that wasn't bad enough, she decided that making him want her in a sexual manner was further punishment. As a prisoner, he was denied any form of social life. Touching any skin but his own was forbidden. The fact that she induced desire in him, she, the person who destroyed everything around him, and in him, was ugly, violent, evil...and subtle. She would have made a bloody good Death Eater. He would have preferred being beaten and raped by the slut than this. Making him participate in his own downfall, making his cock grow in lust for her while her cursed memories still lingered in the room, was the height of cruelty.
But since Granger was the best at everything, she could get even better.
She slipped off his lap to empty yet another memory in the Pensieve, and Draco felt tears wet his eyes again as he saw a small group of about six witches and wizards, Smith and Hermione en tête, surrounding Narcissa Malfoy, who was convulsing and screaming under the effect of at least three Cruciatus' at a time being thrown at her.
Real-life Hermione repeated her menace of punishing him should he close his eyes, and then slithered between his legs, on her knees, and harshly pulled his trousers down to his ankles, before carefully taking his soft cock between her fingers.
Thus Draco Malfoy was reduced to watch the scene of his mother's torture and death while Hermione's hand was firmly moving up and down his cock, an evil glint in her doe eyes as she observed him closely.
To his terror and sorrow, even his beloved mother's wails and screams and writhing, broken body didn't stop the fact that his manhood was becoming hard under the slut's expert fingers. She stroked him, gentle and harsh at the time, one hand cupping his balls. Her thumb passed over his crown, caressing his tip, and smearing precome over it. He keened softly, pushing himself forward into her hands.
Then, the memory showed the wizards taking short, iron poles, and hitting Narcissa's limbs, while the witches stood back and laughed heartily. The victim screeched as her bones began cracking and braking under the onslaught. Feeling Draco waver, Hermione started murmuring, not loudly but enough so that he could hear her soft voice over his mother's cries:
“You've got such a magnificent cock, you know. What a shame that it is wasted in here. Then again, for all I know, you could be the other prisoners' hole. Perhaps you don't need me riding you. Perhaps you don't need me to suck you off. Maybe that you already have that. Maybe...”
Against his heart's desires, he whimpered at that, and arched up into her touch in an unmistakable message. She chuckled.
“Then behave, and you shall have what you desire. Understood?”
He nodded eagerly, wanting to scream in pure bloodlust.
“Yes, who?”
“Yes, Hermione,” he seethed.
She patted his cock's weeping head with her thumb and he groaned in desire. Sharply, she reminded:
“Do not stop watching the memory.”
His head snapped obediently back up to watch again his mother's last minutes, as if he was a slave to her. And he was. He started crying as memory-Hermione strutted up to kneel next to Narcissa, poking hard her fingers into the blonde's injuries.
Then actual-Hermione lowered her head and playfully took his crown into her hot, steamy, cursed mouth, suckling gently and licking at his slit. He groaned and thrusted up, wishing to bury his hands in her hair but unable to move them. She took him in and pulled back, smacking his balls, making him shudder in delight, and then he was done: the memory of his own mother seemed like a distant thing, the only one really counting here was Hermione. He stared at his mother being murdered by the witch sucking him off like there was no tomorrow, lathering his penis as if it was her favorite sweet, kissing his long, thick manhood, fondling his balls and groaning in delight. He squirmed, shouted, hummed, babbled, and she managed to say to him between two ministrations:
“What do you have...mmmh, yes...to say for yourself?”
“I'm sorry,” he cried out. “I'm so sorry. I deserve all this. It is my fault my family died. My fault you had to get blood on those wonderful hands. I should be down on my hands and knees to make up what I did to you. Seek revenge on me. I want you to punish me, please...I did an awful thing and it is only justice that you torture me...”
He went on and on, not realising what he was really saying, though he knew deep down that in the aftermath, he would remember and regret. Only mattered Hermione, her hands and her mouth.
She poised her head over him, jaw slack, and he yelled insanities while thrusting his dirty cock into her mouth, balls deep, pounding into her throat, thankful, full of love of her for now. Then suddenly, nothing. She stood, regarding him coldly, and took her dress and her knickers off, standing naked under his wanton gaze, before straddling him, her breasts rubbing against his chest and her hotness on his manhood. She sat up, and helped him enter her, before starting to bounce slowly. She was as wet as the Black Lake, and he wondered how she managed to get off on this. She, after all, had a human life. Plus, he was filthy, not having bathed for months now.
She threw her head back, grabbing his shoulders, and he was entranced by her bouncing, beautiful tits. He managed to push forward to lick one of her nipples and she grunted in pleasure, before kissing him on the mouth, fastly, then resumed fucking him. Her nails grazed his shoulders with a vengeance, while she keened and cried for him to go on, harder, slam into her, yes, show her what a slut he was, her nasty little whore. And he obeyed to her every command.
She came first, surprisingly, and milked him for all she was worth, her tight walls pulling him in. He exploded then, seeing white lights as he did so, still pounding into her gorgeous pussy. They stilled, and she pulled off, humming softly as she put her knickers, dress, cloak and gloves back on. He sat, shocked into silence.
She had made him come this time to the vision still playing of his mother's dead body. It was worse than everything she had ever done to him. Hermione knowingly smirked at him, and took her memories back before adding,
“I have a special gift for you, Draco. After all, it is Christmas.”
Wondering what the mad creature had imagined, he watched on as she emptied the last vial into the Pensieve, humming softly.
As it showed out, is was a mixture of memories. One of her fainting while in her kitchen. One of her looking, appalled, as the Healer of Saint-Mungo's explained that she was eight weeks pregnant. One as she took out a locket in which were a few blond hairs that she cast a spell upon, watching in dread as a pink light surrounded the said locket.
He was more and more uneasy. She wouldn't have...
She had. He gazed in horror as she gave birth to a tiny girl with blond hair and grey eyes, swept away from her happy friends and family, forced poison into the infant's throat, watched the baby die and then cried at the funeral whilst Potter was hugging her, soothing and saying that, well, these things happen, sometimes babies die and you can't quite know what went on in those frail little bodies.
Broken, devastated, but not totally unhappy that his child, the one he must have conceived during one of Granger's visits, was in a better world, he looked at her, not even strong enough to summon hatred or disgust or sadness. Neutral. Here was a madwoman, simply. Against that he could not fight. She was his loathed (permanently) and loved (only while she was shagging him) Christmas gift.
“It was a bit heartbreaking to kill an innocent child out of my womb,” admitted Hermione sadly, “but I couldn't have kept your baby. My friends and family thought that the father was a Muggle who ran away upon learning my pregnancy. I didn't want to abort, that would have made quite a mess. I loathe you too much to even support the fact that something related to your flesh and blood exists in this world. I admit, I was surprised, but this time, I have been taking a Preventive Potion.”
She slipped the vial in her pocket and marched to the door, turning back to blow him a kiss:
“See you soon, Draco dear.”
The door closed upon a man, still tied to his chair, wondering when death, sweet and wanted, would take him.
…
“Went well this time?”
Hermione sipped her cup of tea, and smiled up at Smith.
“Indeed. Had him wailing like a kid in less than five minutes.”
The Chief Guard smirked nastily and replied,
“Such a shame that we have no one to kill of his family now. Is that all you do? Show him memories? If it's only that, I should show him some of my own when we killed a few of his friends. I'm happy, though, that we managed to decimate all the free You-Know-Who's supporters. And no-one would ever guess that it's us. Cheers, dear.”
They grinned at one other, then Hermione said,
“Yes. All I do...showing him the memories and slapping him a bit. Goes down like a feeble bitch.”
“These Malfoys. All talk, never one to act.”
They sat in silence for a moment, then Smith added softly,
“I'm content. My sister is avenged now. And all the others. Bet Draco Malfoy regrets having ever shot the Killing Curse to your fiancé in the Last Battle now, hey?”
Hermione put her cup down daintily, a dark gleam coming over her eyes, and caressed her wand, murmuring in a gentle voice,
“Oh, but until the day we die, I swear that Draco Malfoy shall continue to pay the death of Ron Weasley.”
FIN