Fic: Dirty Blood (NC-17) Fenrir Greyback/Hermione Granger

[x_queenc_x]

Title: Dirty Blood
Author: QueenC
Rating: NC-17 (to be safe)
Pairing: Fenrir/Hermione
Disclaimer: Poor American girl does not equal rich British woman.
Distribution: Want. Take. Have. Just tell me where it's going.
Spoilers: Heavy spoilers for Half-Blood Prince.
Summary: She never believed her blood was truly dirty. Until now.
Warnings: Non-con, dubious consent, mental and physical torture, mentions of character death. Basically not a Nice Fic. You've been warned.
Author's Note: I've had this idea for a while now and have put off writing it. I kept claiming I wanted to see if the bunny would survive or die, but to be quite honest, even once it was clear the bunny was never going to die (even with multiple attempts at stabbing it), I still wasn't sure I wanted to write this. It really isn't my cup of tea (major slash fan, here) but eventually my muse threatened to go completely on strike unless I gave in. So here we go.



Dirty Blood
by: QueenC

He's never bitten her. In the six months she's been here, never once have his teeth broken through her skin to feast on the tender flesh beneath. Never has he given the impression of wanting to bite her, either. Even the nips at the back of her neck and abdomen -- and anywhere else he wishes -- seem almost playful. In some ways that almost makes it worse. Makes all those time she was told by others that she was filthy, had dirty blood, seem true.

It affects her, watching as others are brought in and bitten within days. Some are even eaten. Devoured piece by piece until there's nothing left but bits of broken bones and the echoes of their screams ringing in her ears. Yet even then she's jealous. She questions her worth, wondering why she isn't the one being feasted upon.

And she hates herself for it.

Once upon a time, Hermione Granger was a talented witch. A smart young woman who made excellent grades, had two friends she loved dearly, and was destined for Something Great. That's all in the past, now. Now she's no longer Hermione. She's 'bitch'. Or, if she's lucky, 'girl'. She has no friends and certainly has no more Something Great to look forward to. All she has is a small, dank room with a heap of nasty, blood stained rags to sleep on.

Oh yes. She also has Him. The reason she's still alive. The reason she wishes she was dead.

Fenrir Greyback is, by very definition, a frightening creature. So frightening, in fact, that she can still remember the first time she ever laid eyes on him. It was back when she was a student at Hogwarts. Back when she was still Hermione. She was fighting for her life and watched him practically chew Bill Weasley's face completely off.

She had nightmares about it for months afterward. Even after everything she'd seen in those first seventeen years of her life, after all the death and destruction and heartache, he was what she dreamt about. He was what terrified her the most.

And when Voldemort won the war and she was taken before him to receive her punishment, he realized that fact and acted on it.

She thought for certain she'd be killed, ripped to shreds within days of being given to Greyback. If not, she was positive she would be eaten during the first full moon. Yet she wasn't, and now, five full moons later, she's still alive.

She isn't the same person anymore, though. Her mind has already begun to splinter, pieces of it breaking off and spinning away from her love of academics and further into the darkness that surrounds her. Surviving, even when she doesn't want to.

Her spirit was broken, mostly, within two weeks of her arrival. It still shows itself once in a while, usually when Greyback is thrusting into her and the pain becomes too much to bear. Of course, that's almost always the case, unless she's been quite good and he's pleased with her.

Her body has changed, too. Far too many hours spent on her hands and knees have caused her legs to become weak. Her muscles to slowly recede. Far too much time spent lost in agony beneath his careful ministrations have ruined her voice, and what part was left has all but disintegrated due to his refusal to let her speak like the human being she once was.

Skin is drawn taut around her jutting bones, starvation having taken its toll and permanently shrunken her stomach. Dark circles stay under her eyes from the lack of sleep and depression.

All in all, she's a far cry from the vibrant young woman she was in her youth. A shell of a being, broken and twisted until she scarcely recognizes herself anymore. And with each passing moment, each time she lays beneath him and misses a meal for refusal to perform some terrible debauched act, she feels herself slipping further away.

Yet through it all one thought remains. One question that she's never dared to ask for fear of the answer, yet knows she'll need to figure out if she's to maintain any of her already slippery hold on reality.

Why hasn't he bitten her?

She's waited for the right moment to ask him. Waited for a time when his pack isn't around and he seems to be in a good enough mood to humor her. And tonight it seems as though her waiting has paid off.

The first sign comes when he enters her cell. The way he walks, the laziness in his steps and relaxed posture, immediately puts her at ease. There have only been a handful of times she's seen him like this and each time, when he left afterward, she was able to walk straight and only sported a few minor bruises.

Definitely a far cry from how it is following one of his bad moods.

The second sign is the fact that he's brought her food. A container of fresh fruits and vegetables, most likely taken from some victim (though she refuses to dwell on that fact), fill a basket he clutches within one large hand. Her eyes widen, darting from the nutrients to his face, body trembling and stomach growling loudly in anticipation.

She remains hesitant, though, remembering what happened the last time he brought food. "Nothing without a price," he'd stated and she spent the next six hours 'earning' something which had, at one point, been a given in her life.

Not that she wouldn't do it again, of course. She'll do anything, anything, for some nourishment at this point. But her cheek is still bruised from her mad dash toward the basket and the resounding slap he gave her for her presumption.

So she's hesitant, now. She stays where she is and whimpers a bit as the aroma of the strawberries reach her nose. If she weren't so dangerously dehydrated her mouth would likely be watering.

He stops just inside the door and studies her. There is a glint in his eyes and a smile on his lips that could almost be described as pleasant if it were anyone else. The silence stretches between them and she wonders if there's something she's forgotten to do, something he's waiting for that will determine if she's allowed the treat he's brought her.

Quickly she begins wracking her brain but can't seem to get past the fruit that's so close to her. Her stomach growls again and she sways slightly. She doesn't dare grasp the wall for support, knowing firsthand that any sudden movement can put him on edge far more quickly than anything else. And an on-edge Fenrir Greyback is a dangerous Fenrir Greyback.

As if in slow motion he holds out one finger, the nail long and curled and yellow, and beckons her forward. She responds without hesitation, bare feet slapping against the dirty floor as she crosses the distance between them. Her dizziness is almost overwhelming. Her nausea is just as bad.

The stench that comes from him is likely the cause, she knows, but there's nothing to be done about it. He bathes infrequently, at best, and his own odor, even after being washed away in the river, is overpowering.

She stops inches from him, her head tilting back to peer up into his dark eyes. The intensity in them is enough to steal her breath away and she finds herself unable to focus on anything else. Her mouth drops open a bit and a slight whimper passes her lips, unbidden.

She flinches when his hand moves toward her face, yet to her surprise he merely runs the edge of one claw-like nail along her cheek. Arching into the touch seems almost natural and she does so, the food nearly forgotten in lieu of a small bit of tenderness.

"Open," he says, rasping voice holding just a hint of command. She obeys without thought, lips falling completely apart, her gaze still transfixed on him.

There is movement she can't see and then something is being placed on her tongue. Strawberry! her mind screams in delight and it must show on her face because he nods his head ever so slightly.

"Eat," is the next command and she chews quickly, throat already attempting to swallow the fruit whole. She swallows, licking her lips to soak up the juice that has dribbled out, and whines a bit in her throat in a plea for more.

It's one of the lessons that took her some time to learn, yet has helped her more than almost any other. Words he doesn't reply to. Words anger him; remind him that she was, at one point, a civilized member of society.

Sounds, however, appeal to him. A whimper of submission. A whine of want or need. A keening sound when her threshold has reached its limit. Even a growl when another pack member draws too close for her comfort. All these things seem to work and he responds. Perhaps not the way she wants, but the acknowledgement is always there.

He grins at her, pointed teeth gleaming in the faint bit of light that trickles in past the cracks in the walls. There are no windows in this place she now calls home, but she's learned to see well enough in the twilight that the sun is scarcely missed. She never was one for tanning, anyway.

"Come," he says and turns, exiting the room. She follows obediently, legs shaking after a few steps. Normally she's to crawl after him and the change is enough to confuse her. She doesn't object, however. She still has wounds that have yet to fully heal from the last time she dared to that.

Greyback leads her through the mazes of corridors and crumbling walls, past a few opened doors where images of the younger wolves rutting and fighting are forever forged in her mind. They pass one room that reeks of death and she catches a quick glimpse of a half-eaten torso before the door slams closed with a warning growl from within.

She jumps at the sound and rushes to keep up, Greyback's low chuckles of amusement reverberating through her.

Their trip ends a few moments later, the corridor ending in a large room she recognizes as his. She's only been here once before, shortly after she was given to him, and the memories are enough to cause a whine of terror to come from somewhere deep within.

No, her mind pleads and she finds her feet, of their own accords, scurrying backward and attempting to flee. Not here. Please not here.

His hand grasps her upper arm quickly to stop her and roughly pulls her forward until her face is buried in the thick matt of silver-tinted hair that covers his chest. She struggled feebly until she feels his other hand wrap around her lower back and press tightly against her spine.

"Be still," he orders and she freezes, terror filling her veins like ice water. A few moments pass, his heartbeat steady beneath her ear while her own beats painfully against her ribcage. She knows she's made a mistake and a dry sob bursts from her chest as the knowledge that she'll not be allowed any more food cuts through the terror that's paralyzed her mind.

Finally he releases her and she takes a few small steps back. She stares at the floor, praying to whatever deity might be listening that he forgive her the faux pas. She'll do anything, she vows, if he'll just let her have some more fruit.

A strong hand on her chin makes her raise her head to stare at him. Fear fills her brown eyes as she notices the frown that furrows his brow. Please, she wants to beg, but knows the plea will fall on deaf ears. So instead she stands, shaking violently, and awaits her punishment.

It doesn't come, though. Instead he merely states, "Never run from me," and steps away. She nods once, just to show she understands, and the frown is replaced with the same almost pleasing look as before.

"Go," he states, pointing toward the large bed that takes up the far side of the room. "Sit."

She obeys, dread once again pooling in her stomach as she draws nearer to the place that continues to haunt her to this day. She doesn't hesitate though, knowing she won't be fortunate should she mess up again. Her hands tremble as she heaves herself onto the dirty mattress, her muscles protesting as she twists herself so she's sitting on the edge, bare feet dangling a good six inches off the floor.

Her head turns to watch him as he approaches her, the basket of fruit once again in his possession. He stops before her and stares at her for a moment before placing the basket on the small crate beside the bed that serves as a makeshift table.

He kept his 'toys' there, the last time she was here. Rusted knives and stinging whips, things that made her bleed and scream and sore for days afterward. She thought she'd never recover and, in some ways, she still hasn't.

Yet here she is again, in the same room, on the same mattress, with the same monster. And instead of fighting him as she should be, instead of trying to flee or screaming and kicking and clawing, she's sitting here. Sitting and waiting for food that may never even come.

The question she wants to ask him still burns brightly in her mind and as the silence stretches between them she considers just blurting it out. She doesn't, though. She simply sits and waits.

The wait is shattered when he sits beside her. One meaty hand grasps her thigh and she shivers at the touch. The other presses another strawberry against her lips and she eats it obediently. She shivers a bit as he watches her, his own eyes gleaming. Her tongue swirls across his finger, the taste of dirt and blood and something purely him mixing with the sweetness of the fruit.

He smiles a bit and growls low in his chest, another strawberry pressing against her lips. His hand remains firm on her thigh, a deterrent to keep her from pulling away, even though she wouldn't dare. She eats the fruit and licks his fingers clean once more, repeating the process again and again until he stops feeding her.

Her stomach is full now, churning dangerously as her body tries to digest the food she's been too long without. The headache that seems permanently within her temple fades into nothingness and her limbs become lethargic. Thankful for the brief respite from starvation, she snuggles a bit closer to his side and rests her head upon his shoulder. Sitting like this she could almost forget the reality of the situation.

And it's at that moment that she asks her question.

"Why?" she whispers, voice hoarse and foreign to her own ears, "why haven't you bitten me?"

He tenses at the question and she prepares to pull away, fear once again filling her. Stupid, her mind hisses angrily. Stupid, stupid, stupid. When he answers her, she almost doesn't hear him over the screaming in her head.

"You aren't mine to bite."

The response is not what she was expecting but, before she can think to ask more, he's titled her head upward and his lips are upon her. The kiss is enough to waken her fully from her food-induced relaxation. His tongue is demanding, pulling a response from her even if she doesn't want to give it. The bed presses against her back and his fingers pull her arms above her head, trapping them as he continues his assault on her mouth.

She can feel his erection against her hip and she shivers a bit, her body demanding she enjoy this while she can. It isn't often he offers this, after all. Isn't often she's on a mattress and being kissed. Normally she's on the floor, cold stones pressing into her palms and knees as she's split in two with brutal thrusts and animalistic grunts in her ear.

There's still no tenderness, but she isn't certain she could handle it even if there were. Tenderness is as foreign to her now as the concept of freedom. All that exists is the creature above her and whatever he deems she worthy of.

His answer, her not being his, bothers her more than she wants to admit. She is his, she wants to insist. She's been his for months, now. Perhaps not willingly, but the concept is still the same. He controls whether she lives or dies, whether she eats or starves, whether she finds pleasure in their mating or pain that transcends any other form of torture. It is him who is her center of her world and if not, then who?

She says nothing, though, not daring to break the kiss long enough to utter the words nor even considering doing so when he pulls away and attaches his lips to her neck. Instead she cries out, body arching even as tears fill her eyes from her own betrayal.

He suckles at the skin just above her pressure point, the hand about her wrists squeezing tightly as the other one runs down her side. His nails scratch at the skin where he grasps her thigh and raises it, opening her up to him even more. His hardness is against her center, now, the only barrier between them a threadbare pair of slacks he's wearing.

Her cries turn to gasps as he bites down a bit on her compliant flesh. For a brief moment she wonders if he's going to do it, going to bite her. Then he's moving downward, nipping at her breasts, suckling at the hardened nipples until she's practically writhing beneath him. Her mind continues to scream at her that it's wrong, continues to insist she struggle and object, but she refuses to listen.

Survival, she reminds herself. I must survive at all costs.

The only unknown, of course, is how high the price will be.

Her arms are released (though she doesn't dare move them) and rough, calloused hands part her fully as his mouth covers her. She feels his tongue delving within, drawing out her juices and feasting upon her with obscene slurps and licks. She loses herself in the feelings for a moment. Her ever-elusive climax hangs on the horizon and she reaches for it, wondering if perhaps this time he'll allow it without repercussions. If this time she'll be granted the release and not punished afterward.

Yet it's a moot point. He pulls away mere moments too soon and she stifles a sob of frustration. The wisp of fabric makes it past the roaring in her ears and she knows he's divested himself of his trousers. Her eyes widen as he covers her once more and tears leak out of her eyes, dripping down her face and landing in her ears. The look on his face is intense and foreign. She's afraid. Truly terrified of what could have caused such a look from him.

Greyback grabs her legs, tossing them over his shoulders and his nails dig painfully into her jutting hipbones as he presses his prick against her exposed opening. He bares his teeth at her. Then trusts forward, his hips slamming against her as he sheathes himself to the hilt.

She's screaming, an ear splitting sound, as he gives her no time to adjust to the intrusion. Pulling out almost fully and trusting back again, he finds a furious rhythm. Her body jerks and jostles, the mattress shaking beneath them as she grabs his shoulders for support. She's still screaming, the pain and pleasure combined enough to shut her mind off in self-defense.

Her own broken, uneven nails dig into his shoulders as she tries to find some sort of purchase. Her legs ache, the muscles cramping, and her hips feel as though they're separating from the brutal assault. Time slows to a crawl, seconds bleeding into seconds as she wonders if he's going to kill her, this time. If the force of his thrusting is going to be enough to actually snap her in two.

He stops as suddenly as he starts and she's dimly aware that he's yet to come. She bites down on a sob of terror. He looks furious now, nothing like the almost gentle behavior when he'd been feeding her. She knows she's to blame, knows her question is the reason he's like this, the reason his mood is gone. Her self-hatred grows.

His hand tangles in her thick hair and yanks her into a sitting position. He grasps her shoulders and pushes roughly, flipping her body so she's facedown on the mattress. Her fingers begin scrambling to find a hold on the stained material but come up lacking.

"Up," he growls. His voice is filled with fury.

She shakes her head, horrified at her own reaction.

There is a slight crack of bone as he grabs her hips and pulls her lower half toward him. Her legs bend and her knees are rubbing the mattress as he snarls, "UP," in her ear. She trembles violently as he runs a hand roughly across her expanse of her back, across the globes of her ass, and dips beneath to her soaking entrance.

His fingers play in her, teasing her clit for a moment and eliciting a moan past the terror. He smirks at her back, his other hand stroking his erection slowly as he continues to gather her juices on his hand.

The tension in her shoulders eases a bit at the attention she's receiving. Her heartbeat slows to a more normal pace and she closes her eyes to escape the humiliation of her own release. Yet, again, it is denied. His fingers disappear and she sobs silently.

Nails that can scratch her to shreds if he chooses are suddenly against the puckered entrance of her ass and she stiffens, eyes flying open. "No," she whispers almost inaudibly. He's yet to do this, yet to do much more than a passing lick in that area and a few slaps. She can't take it, he's much too large, and she knows he'll kill her for certain.

"What did you say?" he growls in reply, one hand twisting in her hair and forcing her head back. She cries out, struggling beneath him. Her earlier compliance disappears under the threat of that.

"No!" she almost screams, defiant and determined. She'd rather die than have to experience such a thing.

A brief moment passes when nothing happens. Then there is a pressure upon her neck and she can't move. His fingers press against her skull and the pain that shoots through her is nothing short of complete agony. He's crushing her skull and she's powerless to stop him.

"Never," he hisses, his voice cutting through the misery, "refuse me, girl."

She stops thrashing instantly at his words, knowing he'll kill her if she continues. And while part of her may yearn for death, another part of her is terrified of giving up that fully.

The finger returns to her ass and she winces as it pushes past the ring of muscles. She can feel him inside her, how one finger feels enormous and burns. Stings. There's pain, so much pain, and he's twisting and thrusting. A second finger joins the first and she's crying out, trying to pull away yet unable to go anywhere.

It continues, his breathing quickening as he steadfastly works on loosening her. Her insides grow slipperier from her own juices he's adding as well as the blood from the stretched and torn muscles. It still isn't enough, she's certain, but she is grateful for at least the small relief it might bring.

The fingers finally disappear after what feels like an eternity, but before she can find any relief there is something else, something blunt and hard and hot replacing them. It presses against her, he presses against her, and she bites her lip to keep from crying out.

She's shaking, trembling in terror, as the head of his cock pushes past the resistance. A sharp pain lances through her and she begins trying to struggle once more. His hands on her hips put an end to that, though, and with a grunt he thrusts forward. She gasps, unable to draw enough breath to scream. Her body freezes.

Then he does it again.

And again.

And finally he's fully inside of her. She's impaled on him and all she can think about is getting him out. She begins to plead, sobs breaking up her babble as she tries to inch away from him.

Greyback ignores her, the noise little more than a faint buzzing when compared to the liquid heat that seems to be engulfing him whole. He growls once when she tries to pull forcefully away, slapping her ass as a warning. She still and he pulls out slowly until only the head remains. He waits for her sigh of relief before thrusting forward once more.

It doesn't take more than a few thrusts before he's found another rhythm, this one only a fraction less brutal than the one he'd used on her earlier. However the pleasure she felt before has evaporated now and in its place is a pain that is indescribable.

She screams, she sobs, she pleads, yet none of it matters as he pounds into her. The head of his cock keeps hitting something inside of her and she feels dizzy from the sharp pain that shoots through her. Her knees tremble and buckle, yet he merely holds her hips in a vice-like grip, never missing a beat.

Sweat coats her back and her throat is raw from voicing her agony. Then his hand slips around and his fingers dance upon her clit. She stiffens at the spike of pleasure the next thrust brings. And the next.

Within moments she's struggling with renewed strength, determined to get away before he forces her to find pleasure in such a horrid act. Yet there's nowhere to go. Forward presses her more on his fingers and backward -- well backward isn't even something she can consider.

So she remains, suspended beneath him, as he draws from her an orgasm that makes her entire body freeze and her breath to catch. He trusts a few more times as she's lost in the sea of release before following, his seed spilling deep within her abused body.

Moments pass before she returns to reality. He pulls from her with a sickening pop and she shivers slightly. She feels him press a kiss between her shoulder blades. A mockery of a lover's tryst, to be certain.

Then the bed shifts and she hears him padding across the floor. The door opens and, though she knows she should look, she can't bring herself to move. To be honest, she can't even seem to care.

His words, though, change all of that.

"She's yours."

Her head comes up so quickly she winces. Twisting around, she watches with wide eyes as Greyback steps aside to allow the other person entrance. And for a split second, she feels the world tilt on its axis.

"Remus?" she whispers.

The sandy haired wizard steps forward, amber eyes cold and emotionless as they sweep over her bruised and bloodied body. "She's injured," he says simply, his gaze returning to Greyback.

The werewolf snorts. "Nothing permanent," he replies. He looks past Remus to the girl on the bed. Something flashes in his eyes for a moment before disappearing.

"Take her," he continues, looking back at Remus. "The others know to grant you leave."

Remus narrows his eyes a bit. "They'd better," he warns. "I have the Dark Lord's word on this arrangement, as well as the support of Severus should I require it."

The young woman watching all of it gasps, her body seeming to shrink back at the words. "No," she whispers, frizzy hair bouncing against her cheeks as she shakes her head furiously. "No."

Remus ignores her, though Greyback spares her a glance. His look is enough, a silent 'be quiet' stopping any more words from passing her lips. He returns his attention to the other werewolf.

"There will be no resistance from us," he assures him. "The Dark Lord has rewarded you her and you will have her. Now take her and leave."

"A reward well earned," Remus replies, hungrily turning his attention to his former student. "She'll be delicious... even if her blood is dirty."

"I wouldn't know," Greyback replies in a tone that is almost forced. He gives her one more look. "She was never mine to bite."

Then he steps out, shutting the door behind him to the screams coming from the girl who once was Hermione Granger.

Fin.