FIC: Glass Slippers [Hermione - R]
Title: Glass Slippers
Author/Artist: writcraft
Pairing(s): Hermione/Lucius, non-explicit Hermione/Fenrir, Hermione/Ron
Prompt: Own Prompt
Word Count: ~2,200
Rating: R for dark themes
Contains (Highlight to view): *Repeated rape heavily implied, Character Death, Dark, Torture implied*
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Thanks so much to M for reading this and helping me with my wibbles as always. You're awesome <3
Summary: Hermione gets ready for Christmas, but there's something lurking in the shadows and this year is going to be a Christmas like no other.
The branches of the trees shape into gnarled hands and cast their shadows on the window pane. Hermione watches them stretch and claw closer, one wooden fingertip tapping a staccato note against the glass. She shifts in bed and looks at the shadows in the room, which move with the branches of their own accord. Down the dimly lit hallway something skitters away, chasing the darkness and avoiding the tendrils of light which creep from the flickering candle she keeps burning every night.
Perhaps it’s a rat or a spider.
Even as she thinks of innocuous possibilities, she knows they make no sense. The brief shadow cast by the candle’s flame is too tall to be anything so insignificant. The dull thud of movement, a creak and a soft hiss follows. Something bigger than any insect or rodent makes its way closer to the room. It presses against the walls of the corridor and slithers against the floorboards.
Hermione tries to reach for her wand but something keeps her in place, watching. She hardly dares to breathe as the shifting, suffocating darkness twists closer towards her. She thinks maybe she should scream or curse or do something which might break the moment, but all she can do it watch and wait.
She wonders if this is how somebody waiting to drown might feel. She suspects not. With drowning, comes death. The dark shape shifting nearer will show her no such mercy.
She knows.
She has been here before.
OooooOOooooO
The presents are wrapped neatly and finished with expensive ribbons tied in decorative bows. The silver paper is elegant and unfussy. The tree stretches up to the ceiling and its boughs twinkle with bright white lights, powered only by a little magic. Like the presents, the decorations are simple and coordinated. Small wax ballet slippers with diamante detail point their toes to the ground. Silver balls glisten and shine in the light cast from the tree and snowflakes fall through the pine needles without ever touching the ground.
The fire hisses and spits and two stockings hang side by side from the mantle. From the fluffy white band at the top of each stocking, a number of parcels spill out and give the room some welcome colour. A clock on the fireplace ticks, a door clicks and footfall sounds heavy just outside the room.
Hermione stands back from the presents she had admired only moments before. She tilts her head, looks away from the tree and speaks to the shadow in the corner.
“Somebody’s at the door.”
OooooOOoooooO
The dog-eared photograph stays with Hermione wherever she goes.
In it, Ron looks up at the camera with his hand outstretched as if he’s reaching for it, or trying to bat the intrusive lens out of the way. His cheeks are flushed pink and his nose has reddened with the cold air. He’s stretched out on the floor which is covered with thick, white snow. Hermione remembers the damp chill seeping through her clothes and the hasty warming charms cast only when their teeth began to chatter.
Hermione smiles and closes her eyes until she hears Ron laugh. She lifts her hand to her cheek which is warm to the touch. Ron’s lips linger on her cold nose and brush against her open palm and he looks at her - just so - as if she’s the most beautiful girl in the whole world. She flushes and her skin warms and tingles as the stubble from Ron’s chin brushes against her cheek and his arms fold around her while they move together to some silent tune, both hearing the same song.
They had been shopping for Christmas on the day the photograph was taken. They had strolled through picture-perfect Hogsmeade and decided to get Harry something sweet and sickly from Honeydukes because he always appreciated that sort of thing. They’d walked through the narrow cobbled streets and warmed up with coffee from Madam Puddifoots. Later, they had wandered by The Shrieking Shack and had gathered fistfuls of snow, throwing them at one another after taking a steady aim until they fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs. They kissed away the cold while Hermione clicked the camera and Ron told her she was getting to be like Colin bloody Creevey.
“Colin Creevey’s dead.” Hermione speaks slowly and enunciates her words carefully, as she puts the photograph away. The shadows slither closer and she pushes them back with firm words. “Colin Creevey died in the war. He used to take photographs. He took photographs of Harry all the time.”
Hermione is pleased with herself and the shadows recede. She can breathe again. Her thoughts skitter up and down and she looks at the calendar on the wall.
It’s Christmas Eve.
She looks back at the presents under the tree and sits on the floor to rearrange the bows so the gifts look presentable. She counts them, and wonders if one might be missing. She hopes it’s nothing important, and counts them again just to be sure.
She stands and brushes her fingers over the beautiful gown which hangs on her wardrobe. It’s cream and silver and covered with detail which glints and sparkles when it catches the light. It seems like something far too expensive to be worn. It should be placed on a mannequin, behind a glass box where no messy fingers can touch the rich silk and where no sharp nails can snag the delicate material. She pulls on the dress. It fits as perfectly as anything ever has, and she’s reminded of fairy tales and glass slippers from a long time ago.
A gurgle of laughter bubbles within her and she shakes herself, running a hand through her hair in an attempt to smooth it.
Christmas means parties, and she needs to look her best.
Besides, Prince Charming will be here soon.
OooooOOooooO
“Look at the little Mudblood. All dressed for dinner.” He stands behind Hermione and slides his hands along her sides, forcing her to watch herself in the mirror. “I have important guests visiting tonight. I trust you will behave?”
Hermione doesn’t respond and bile rises in her throat as hands wander to caress her stomach and stroke her arms. They move lower and she closes her eyes. She thinks of Ron’s rough cheek against her own and the scent of chocolate. She hums to herself, the song the carollers had been singing that day in Hogsmeade.
Ding dong merrily on high.
“I asked you a question.” His voice is dangerous, low and melodious. He’s not like the thing which lurks in the shadows. She knows where she is in the darkness. He is different and much, much worse.
“I’ll behave.” Her every will struggles against it, but again she thinks of Ron and Harry too - his eyes wide-green and filled with laughter. She stays strong for them, and for herself. This is strength. Not dying, is strength. Death would be better than this.
“Good girl.” He laughs and brushes his lips to her ear. He tips her head to the side and flicks his tongue over her neck. “For disgusting Mudblood filth you scrub up rather nicely. You can thank me for taking you out of the dungeons tonight. You won’t just be my whore this evening. Although I can’t promise that my friends will be as generous as I can be.” His voice dips into a murmur and he nibbles the lobe of her ear. “There might be nothing left of you. Only dirty blood and a slutty little cunt. What do you think of that?”
The mention of dungeons resonates and the room shifts and changes. It’s no longer a warm room filled with a bright tree and Christmas gifts. There’s blood on the wall and notches scratched into stone. A body casts shadows along the stone, eyes glassy and feet brushing the floor.
Beneath the body is a pile of rocks, stacked neatly together. The rocks are covered with red lines and the floor is filthy with blood and dirt. Hermione closes her eyes and thinks of the Christmas tree covered with lights and snow.
This isn’t real.
“Have you been counting down the days?” He slips away from her and she exhales. He traces slim fingers over the walls and lingers on the notches. His eyes glint and he smiles without affection. “Nobody’s coming. Only that creature who comes down here at night. You are familiar with Fenrir?”
“Fenrir is a werewolf.” Hermione intones. “We learned about werewolves with Professor Snape when Professor Lupin was sick. His Boggart is the full moon. Professor Lupin is a werewolf too.” She breathes out in a rush and steadies herself. She remembers the classroom and the page of the books turned to the wrong chapter. She clutches onto the memory in case it leaves her in a rush, as they so often do these days.
“Such a clever little witch.” He slides his wand between her fingers and points it at her. “I like taking those thoughts from you bit by bit. You don’t know who I am, do you?”
“No.” She studies him carefully, his hair long blonde and tied at the nape of his neck. Everything he wears looks expensive and his face is hard, his expression derisory. She tries to remember, but she can’t. He’s taken it from her and she hates him for that. “I know what you do to me.”
“Oh yes.” He nods and looks pleased with himself. “I want you to remember that. I would just prefer you don’t know my name. Precautions, you understand. I need to be able to defend myself, should it ever come to that.”
“Ron and Harry will come. They’ll come soon.” Hermione tips her chin in defiance, and the man laughs.
“Of course.” He laughs again and Hermione wonders why he looks so pleased with himself. He points his wand at her, and Hermione thinks of the photograph of Ron. She looks frantically around, to see only a sheet of grubby paper on the floor next to the rocks.
Memories. They’re all she has left.
She tries to remember how to defend herself but nothing comes. The wand lifts and the Crucio hits her, making her head snap back and her screams fill the room.
The spell ends and she drops to her knee, scratching her hands against the dirty floor of the place which has been her home since she etched the first notch onto the wall. She waits for more spells to follow, but instead there’s a commotion at the door to the dungeons and the shadows flit away from her, scurrying up the walls and away from her outstretched hands as the room fills with light.
Hermione turns.
“Lucius Malfoy.” Harry grits his teeth, his voice hard. His eyes glint as he drops his gaze to Hermione just for a moment. She feels a rush of shame, and his eyes soften before he looks away once more.
Harry steps to the side and there’s Ron, his face filling with love and concern. He gathers Hermione in his arms and she’s warm and safe and his stubble rubs against her cheek. She clutches onto him and hears Harry cast all manner of spells as the tug of Apparition takes her away from that place filled with demons and darkness.
“Lucius Malfoy,” Hermione whispers. “Lucius Malfoy.”
“Oh dear.” The voice purrs behind her as the hands feeling under her dress pull away. “That won’t do at all.”
A wand presses against Hermione’s temple.
The light disappears, and the darkness creeps up to cover the body against the wall with shadows.
~Fin~
Author/Artist: writcraft
Pairing(s): Hermione/Lucius, non-explicit Hermione/Fenrir, Hermione/Ron
Prompt: Own Prompt
Word Count: ~2,200
Rating: R for dark themes
Contains (Highlight to view): *Repeated rape heavily implied, Character Death, Dark, Torture implied*
Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Notes: Thanks so much to M for reading this and helping me with my wibbles as always. You're awesome <3
Summary: Hermione gets ready for Christmas, but there's something lurking in the shadows and this year is going to be a Christmas like no other.
The branches of the trees shape into gnarled hands and cast their shadows on the window pane. Hermione watches them stretch and claw closer, one wooden fingertip tapping a staccato note against the glass. She shifts in bed and looks at the shadows in the room, which move with the branches of their own accord. Down the dimly lit hallway something skitters away, chasing the darkness and avoiding the tendrils of light which creep from the flickering candle she keeps burning every night.
Perhaps it’s a rat or a spider.
Even as she thinks of innocuous possibilities, she knows they make no sense. The brief shadow cast by the candle’s flame is too tall to be anything so insignificant. The dull thud of movement, a creak and a soft hiss follows. Something bigger than any insect or rodent makes its way closer to the room. It presses against the walls of the corridor and slithers against the floorboards.
Hermione tries to reach for her wand but something keeps her in place, watching. She hardly dares to breathe as the shifting, suffocating darkness twists closer towards her. She thinks maybe she should scream or curse or do something which might break the moment, but all she can do it watch and wait.
She wonders if this is how somebody waiting to drown might feel. She suspects not. With drowning, comes death. The dark shape shifting nearer will show her no such mercy.
She knows.
She has been here before.
OooooOOooooO
The presents are wrapped neatly and finished with expensive ribbons tied in decorative bows. The silver paper is elegant and unfussy. The tree stretches up to the ceiling and its boughs twinkle with bright white lights, powered only by a little magic. Like the presents, the decorations are simple and coordinated. Small wax ballet slippers with diamante detail point their toes to the ground. Silver balls glisten and shine in the light cast from the tree and snowflakes fall through the pine needles without ever touching the ground.
The fire hisses and spits and two stockings hang side by side from the mantle. From the fluffy white band at the top of each stocking, a number of parcels spill out and give the room some welcome colour. A clock on the fireplace ticks, a door clicks and footfall sounds heavy just outside the room.
Hermione stands back from the presents she had admired only moments before. She tilts her head, looks away from the tree and speaks to the shadow in the corner.
“Somebody’s at the door.”
OooooOOoooooO
The dog-eared photograph stays with Hermione wherever she goes.
In it, Ron looks up at the camera with his hand outstretched as if he’s reaching for it, or trying to bat the intrusive lens out of the way. His cheeks are flushed pink and his nose has reddened with the cold air. He’s stretched out on the floor which is covered with thick, white snow. Hermione remembers the damp chill seeping through her clothes and the hasty warming charms cast only when their teeth began to chatter.
Hermione smiles and closes her eyes until she hears Ron laugh. She lifts her hand to her cheek which is warm to the touch. Ron’s lips linger on her cold nose and brush against her open palm and he looks at her - just so - as if she’s the most beautiful girl in the whole world. She flushes and her skin warms and tingles as the stubble from Ron’s chin brushes against her cheek and his arms fold around her while they move together to some silent tune, both hearing the same song.
They had been shopping for Christmas on the day the photograph was taken. They had strolled through picture-perfect Hogsmeade and decided to get Harry something sweet and sickly from Honeydukes because he always appreciated that sort of thing. They’d walked through the narrow cobbled streets and warmed up with coffee from Madam Puddifoots. Later, they had wandered by The Shrieking Shack and had gathered fistfuls of snow, throwing them at one another after taking a steady aim until they fell to the ground in a tangle of limbs. They kissed away the cold while Hermione clicked the camera and Ron told her she was getting to be like Colin bloody Creevey.
“Colin Creevey’s dead.” Hermione speaks slowly and enunciates her words carefully, as she puts the photograph away. The shadows slither closer and she pushes them back with firm words. “Colin Creevey died in the war. He used to take photographs. He took photographs of Harry all the time.”
Hermione is pleased with herself and the shadows recede. She can breathe again. Her thoughts skitter up and down and she looks at the calendar on the wall.
It’s Christmas Eve.
She looks back at the presents under the tree and sits on the floor to rearrange the bows so the gifts look presentable. She counts them, and wonders if one might be missing. She hopes it’s nothing important, and counts them again just to be sure.
She stands and brushes her fingers over the beautiful gown which hangs on her wardrobe. It’s cream and silver and covered with detail which glints and sparkles when it catches the light. It seems like something far too expensive to be worn. It should be placed on a mannequin, behind a glass box where no messy fingers can touch the rich silk and where no sharp nails can snag the delicate material. She pulls on the dress. It fits as perfectly as anything ever has, and she’s reminded of fairy tales and glass slippers from a long time ago.
A gurgle of laughter bubbles within her and she shakes herself, running a hand through her hair in an attempt to smooth it.
Christmas means parties, and she needs to look her best.
Besides, Prince Charming will be here soon.
OooooOOooooO
“Look at the little Mudblood. All dressed for dinner.” He stands behind Hermione and slides his hands along her sides, forcing her to watch herself in the mirror. “I have important guests visiting tonight. I trust you will behave?”
Hermione doesn’t respond and bile rises in her throat as hands wander to caress her stomach and stroke her arms. They move lower and she closes her eyes. She thinks of Ron’s rough cheek against her own and the scent of chocolate. She hums to herself, the song the carollers had been singing that day in Hogsmeade.
Ding dong merrily on high.
“I asked you a question.” His voice is dangerous, low and melodious. He’s not like the thing which lurks in the shadows. She knows where she is in the darkness. He is different and much, much worse.
“I’ll behave.” Her every will struggles against it, but again she thinks of Ron and Harry too - his eyes wide-green and filled with laughter. She stays strong for them, and for herself. This is strength. Not dying, is strength. Death would be better than this.
“Good girl.” He laughs and brushes his lips to her ear. He tips her head to the side and flicks his tongue over her neck. “For disgusting Mudblood filth you scrub up rather nicely. You can thank me for taking you out of the dungeons tonight. You won’t just be my whore this evening. Although I can’t promise that my friends will be as generous as I can be.” His voice dips into a murmur and he nibbles the lobe of her ear. “There might be nothing left of you. Only dirty blood and a slutty little cunt. What do you think of that?”
The mention of dungeons resonates and the room shifts and changes. It’s no longer a warm room filled with a bright tree and Christmas gifts. There’s blood on the wall and notches scratched into stone. A body casts shadows along the stone, eyes glassy and feet brushing the floor.
Beneath the body is a pile of rocks, stacked neatly together. The rocks are covered with red lines and the floor is filthy with blood and dirt. Hermione closes her eyes and thinks of the Christmas tree covered with lights and snow.
This isn’t real.
“Have you been counting down the days?” He slips away from her and she exhales. He traces slim fingers over the walls and lingers on the notches. His eyes glint and he smiles without affection. “Nobody’s coming. Only that creature who comes down here at night. You are familiar with Fenrir?”
“Fenrir is a werewolf.” Hermione intones. “We learned about werewolves with Professor Snape when Professor Lupin was sick. His Boggart is the full moon. Professor Lupin is a werewolf too.” She breathes out in a rush and steadies herself. She remembers the classroom and the page of the books turned to the wrong chapter. She clutches onto the memory in case it leaves her in a rush, as they so often do these days.
“Such a clever little witch.” He slides his wand between her fingers and points it at her. “I like taking those thoughts from you bit by bit. You don’t know who I am, do you?”
“No.” She studies him carefully, his hair long blonde and tied at the nape of his neck. Everything he wears looks expensive and his face is hard, his expression derisory. She tries to remember, but she can’t. He’s taken it from her and she hates him for that. “I know what you do to me.”
“Oh yes.” He nods and looks pleased with himself. “I want you to remember that. I would just prefer you don’t know my name. Precautions, you understand. I need to be able to defend myself, should it ever come to that.”
“Ron and Harry will come. They’ll come soon.” Hermione tips her chin in defiance, and the man laughs.
“Of course.” He laughs again and Hermione wonders why he looks so pleased with himself. He points his wand at her, and Hermione thinks of the photograph of Ron. She looks frantically around, to see only a sheet of grubby paper on the floor next to the rocks.
Memories. They’re all she has left.
She tries to remember how to defend herself but nothing comes. The wand lifts and the Crucio hits her, making her head snap back and her screams fill the room.
The spell ends and she drops to her knee, scratching her hands against the dirty floor of the place which has been her home since she etched the first notch onto the wall. She waits for more spells to follow, but instead there’s a commotion at the door to the dungeons and the shadows flit away from her, scurrying up the walls and away from her outstretched hands as the room fills with light.
Hermione turns.
“Lucius Malfoy.” Harry grits his teeth, his voice hard. His eyes glint as he drops his gaze to Hermione just for a moment. She feels a rush of shame, and his eyes soften before he looks away once more.
Harry steps to the side and there’s Ron, his face filling with love and concern. He gathers Hermione in his arms and she’s warm and safe and his stubble rubs against her cheek. She clutches onto him and hears Harry cast all manner of spells as the tug of Apparition takes her away from that place filled with demons and darkness.
“Lucius Malfoy,” Hermione whispers. “Lucius Malfoy.”
“Oh dear.” The voice purrs behind her as the hands feeling under her dress pull away. “That won’t do at all.”
A wand presses against Hermione’s temple.
The light disappears, and the darkness creeps up to cover the body against the wall with shadows.
~Fin~