Unrepentant

Ron raced down the darkened halls, wand gripped firmly in his hands.

Hold on, Hermione, oh please, hold on, I'm almost there, hold on, I'm coming, please please pleasepleaseplease

There. At the end of the hall. A room. The room. His best friend was being held captive. Almost there...

He skidded to a halt as he reached the dimly-lit cell, huffing and panting.

And there she was. Hermione Jane Granger. Wrapped in sheets of plain white fabric, eyes closed, a cold steel collar encircling her neck.

"Hermione!" he shouted. "Hermione! Oh, Oh God, Hermione, wake up, please!"

One large brown eye opened, almost lazily. It considered him for a moment before sliding shut.

"Go away, Ron," she said quietly, almost lazily. "You shouldn't be here, you know. It's not safe."

Ron's mind, which had been churning frantically, stopped dead. Shouldn't be here? "But," he stuttered, "bu-but I've come to rescue you!"

"There's no point," she said softly, leaning her head against the wall. "You should go."

Ron's mind tumbled. Hermione ruined, defeated, broken, shone like an unforgiving light in his eyes. His brain processed the strangest details; she was clean, well-fed, though slender as ever. Her skin was unmarred, her hair wild but healthy.

The whole thing smacked of wrong.

"Hermione," he croaked. "Come on, I have to get you out of here." He crossed the room and easily unhooked the collar, watching it droop onto her shoulder.

"No!" she shouted, and leapt away from him. Cringing against the wall, she hastily closed the collar. "Don't do that. Leave me alone."

"What's wrong with you?" he yelled, confused. "I came to rescue you!"

"I hardly think so," a smooth voice intoned. A bright flare lit up the dark cell, and Ron fell over backwards trying to get away from the light.

Voldemort stepped into the room silently, crossing the space between himself and Hermione. He crouched down in one elegant motion and checked the simple lock on Hermione's collar, rolling it between his fingers.

"I see our valiant Ronald Weasley came to save you," he purred, grinning coldly. Hermione nodded and sat down on the floor. Ron noticed that the chain, which was short, seemed to stretch enough to accommodate this motion. Voldemort stood up.

"Ah, Mr Weasley," he said, staring down at him. "It seems that you were under the, ah, misunderstanding that your friend needed to be saved. I assure you that she is quite well, as you can see."

"You MONSTER!" screamed Ron, getting to his feet. "You have her chained! She is NOT okay!"

"Mmm," mused Voldemort. "It appears that you're making a mistake that you've made many times in the past. However, to show you..." Voldemort turned back to Hermione and knelt. In one quick motion, he un-clasped the collar, tossing it aside so that it swung against the wall.

"She's free to go," he said, still kneeling. Hermione didn't say a word or move; she merely sat there, legs crossed and hands folded together.

"Run," mumbled Ron. "Run Hermione, I'll hold him off."

Hermione took the collar and re-attached it to her neck.

Voldemort rose to his feet and brushed off his knees. "You seem to be operating under the notion that we're holding Hermione here against her will. However, she's here on her own."

"You have her under Imperio!" cried Ron savagely.

"Look," said Voldemort. He put one thin hand under Hermione's chin and lifted it. "Does she look like she's under Imperio?"

Her eyes sparkled and danced impishly, as though she knew something that no one else did.

"Hermione," said Voldemort, in a voice that would have been indulgent, if Voldemort could speak with affection, "go to my room and fetch two of my books, if you would."

Hermione nodded, removed her collar, and trotted out the room calmly. Ron looked on in amazement.

Voldemort sat on a stool, one hand propped up on his chin. "We did take Hermione by force," he acknowledged calmly, as if he were a Professor lecturing a student. "But she stays here by choice."

"What did you do to her?" moaned Ron, retching.

"I tried torture," Voldemort admitted, "but it doesn't work on her. I suspect it's a Gryffindor trait. Even mental torture doesn't work on that one. No, I inflicted on her something far stronger than any magic spell or physical pain could accomplish. "

"What?" snapped Ron.

"I gave her pleasure," said Voldemort neutrally. "I gave her what she wanted, what she needed, what she desired, body and soul.

"I gave her respect for her undoubtedly keen and brilliant researching skills," he continued, shifting like a snake. "I showed her that while I had absolutely no need for her extreme intelligence and logic skills, I did admire them greatly. Oh, don't get me wrong- I do appreciate them, and I've put them to great use- but nevertheless, I showed her that I saw all the work that went behind that brain of hers, and that as one intellectual to another, I commended it. I didn't just see her brain- I saw, acknowledged, and appreciated all the work that goes behind it. That's all she wanted. Pity no one gave it to her. Who knows?" he mused rhetorically. "You might have won, if someone else had."

Ron gaped.

"If you keep that up, flies will nest in your tonsils," came Hermione's voice, buzzing waspishly behind him. She handed the book to Voldemort, who nodded to her, and sat down next to him with a book of her own.

"You can't do this," Ron whispered. "Hermione, this is wrong."

She sniffed and began to read.

Voldemort laughed deeply, coldly, and patted Hermione on her warm head.

"Perhaps it is," he grinned, "but I doubt your dear Hermione will be leaving anytime soon. She enjoys her, ah, pleasures too much."

Ron watched in numb shock as Hermione's cheeks turned bright red, and she looked down, obviously embarrassed.

"Lord Voldemort," she said, with respect but also familiarity, "we shouldn't speak of such things."

"Embarrassed, Hermione?" her Lord asked with a raised eyebrow.

She coughed weakly. "It's not...right... to speak of such things in public," she said in such a stiff and prude voice that there was only one thing she could be speaking of.

"You didn't."

She looked at him, blushing furiously.

"And if I did? I did it of my own free will, you know."

No.....

"Hermione," murmured Voldemort. He motioned for her to rise, and she stood there, a slight figure dressed in white silk and stockings. "I think, child, that you should go. You will not enjoy this." He put his hand on the small of her back, in a gesture that shouted of both protection and ownership.

"Alright," she said. She stood on tiptoe and kissed Voldemort on his pale, clammy cheek and strode out of the room, nose buried in book.

Voldemort uncoiled from his sitting position, laying the book Hermione had brought him on the stool. "She was right, you know," he said, and all the seeming gentleness that Voldemort had shown when Hermione was in the room burned away in his flame-red eyes. "You shouldn't have come. She's mine, you see. I earned her. I worked for in a way that would make those trash magazine editors see stars of happiness. And you will pay dearly."

As the first wave of Crucio shot towards him, Ron saw Hermione's back a few feet from the doorway as she sat and read her book. She didn't move as he began to scream. She didn't stir or shrink as his body beat itself into the ground.

And as the merciful darkness began to cloud his eyes, she turned around and looked at him. He saw. He knew.

Hermione Granger was unrepentant.

Fin