Abyss

Chapter 8

Voldemort sat, as usual, at the head of the table. No one sat on the other end, but Lucius sat on one side and Avery on the left. Voldemort hated Feasts--he felt it put him too much on an equal level with his Death Eaters as well as showing his followers just how little he ate. He seemed almost prissy when he picked at the food, less so when he only ate meat. He enjoyed fruit when it was particular, but the quality of food from the earth was so poor, and the meat was easy to make rare.

Voldemort had to admit that this particular Feast intrigued him for the sole reason of seeing Hermione once more. After the initial freedom of controlling his own mind, he had set Hermione aside almost completely. It was Lucius' reminder that had brought her back to the foreground. Now he was anxious to be reunited with the self-righteous little slut that had called herself his mistress. In just a short time, he would have her all to himself.

"Have you heard anything from the office, Baddock?" MacNair asked, nodding at Nott, Voldemort's primary espionage agent, in silent greeting,

"They still have no idea where we are," Baddock answered, ripping the meat off the bone.

"And what of Severus?" Lucius interrupted, knowing his master's true concern. Voldemort had severed all connections with his original spy and interrogator. After the rescue mission and their easy escape, Voldemort cut the cords as slowly as possible to keep undetected. He was sure his letter had been quite a shock to Snape, not least because it was simply a letter. No, the Dark Lord had better ideas for Snape's demise. His purposelessness would torture him enough for a while. A Slytherin never accepts lack of purpose.

"He has no idea, according to my son," Baddock answered. "But why couldn't you ask yours?"

"He is occupied with other matters," Lucius said curtly.

"Ah, bothering the Potter boy," Baddock mused.

"Whatever works."

In another conversation, MacNair and Bellatrix were discussing a young boy they had caught several weeks ago.

"Threw an Elephant Hex at him," Bellatrix recounted to Rodolphus. "He looked unspeakable. Then I covered the room with mirrors while I ripped out his toenails. I think he was crying for his mother, but the trunk made it difficult to distinguish his words."

"How'd you find him, Walden?" Fredrick asked. "I thought you favored women."

"I do," MacNair replied, grinning. "But I eat little boys' legs for lunch. A little better."

Wormtail rearranged the food on his plate. Unusual. Wormtail loved to eat. Voldemort cast Legilimens and saw his mouth on a writhing abdomen on Lucius' rugs. Recent. Hermione. Voldemort did not even fight a smile. The little rat with smitten with Harry Potter's best friend, even after all this time of abstinence. He could use that as a manipulation device for both Hermione and Wormtail.

Frieda, the young woman who Voldemort had used against Dumbledore when describing Hermione's 'betrayal,' now sat in the lap of Lysander. Her brown curls cascaded over his shoulders and masked his face as she devoured his lips. As he began removing her robes, she unbuttoned his trousers and raised herself up for easier access. They began to cry out--a feat, because Lysander was usually quiet during sex--but no one even looked over. Romancing at the feasting table was common. After all, a feast is not just in the food, and enough of them had sampled Frieda to know she was a meal of her own.

The one man that was not interested in the Feast at all was Franco Carmen, an old Spanish wolf that had been born long before Voldemort had even been conceived. Carmen sat in a corner on his legal flying carpet, playing an ordinary Muggle chess game with himself. Carmen was not technically a Death Eater, but he had no love for Dumbledore, and he preferred Voldemort's company. In the war against Grindelwald, Carmen had fought on Dumbledore's side. Along the way, he had irreplaceable losses--an eye, both legs, a few, fingers, his wife and six children. This was not what pitted him against Dumbledore--Dumbledore's crime was much subtler than that. Carmen had received only verbal recognition from Dumbledore--that did not bother him. Dumbledore, who had discovered three new used for dragon blood, could not cure his psychologically-based impotence. This was Dumbledore's ultimate crime. The pettiness was revolting to Voldemort, but the man's loyalty was unwavering--Voldemort had given him the cure during his early years as his Dark powers were just beginning to develop. Carmen was now one hundred fourteen years old and had sampled Frieda twice but had repaid Voldemort a thousand times over.

"You had forgotten her, hadn't you?" Carmen said dryly as Voldemort approached him.

"If I were as transparent as you make me seem, I would have never risen to this point. Don't look so smug." Voldemort summoned a chair and settled back, watching Carmen lose to himself. It would only take three moves if he really looked carefully, but Voldemort thought maybe Carmen wanted to lose with grace and win with dignity. It would be a long game.

"Did you?" Carmen asked, moving a pawn.

"Yes," Voldemort replied.

"And now you're wondering what it will be like to see the broken spirit of the one that owned you, correct?"

"Incorrect," Voldemort sneered. "Because she will now belong to me, her former possession of me no longer means anything. Her possession was at my convenience, not hers."

"Mm-hm," Carmen hummed. He turned the board around to play on the opposite side.

"You don't believe me," Voldemort murmured, raising his eyebrow.

"I think you believe yourself."

Voldemort smirked. "You have been known to be wrong on occasion."

"Less so lately. I must be getting old." He made his move then turned the board again. "Don't look now, I think she's coming."

Lucius Malfoy had left the table and had disappeared through the door.

"I've heard she's intelligent. Very intelligent. Knowledgeable in the Dark Arts," Carmen mused.

"What are you thinking, you silly old fool?" Voldemort asked, amused.

"Nothing, nothing." He moved a bishop and turned the board. "What did you think I was thinking?"

"Don't play that game with me, Carmen," Voldemort said, still very much entertained. "Just tell me what mad prophecy is developing in your devious little mind."

Carmen's bright eye dulled slightly. "You don't really want to know my thoughts, my lord. You would not be pleased."

Voldemort's pupils dilated in irritation. "Romantic notions."

"It's in my blood, mate," Carmen replied. "In my blood."

"Cool your blood then," Voldemort said testily. "You know how I feel."

"None of us know that, my lord," Carmen murmured. "We only presume to."

The door opened and Lucius pushed the girl in. She tripped on the edge of a rug and sprawled on the ground. Lucius had found her a thin blue satin dressing gown, doubtlessly from Narcissa's wardrobe. Hermione readjusted it and glared at Lucius. He grinned.

The Death Eaters had all turned around to stare at the Mudblood. Then they turned around to look at the Dark Lord.

"She's not broken," Voldemort announced coldly.

"She is, physically," Lucius said. "I had her make love to Wormtail with me watching. She is obedient at worst."

"Her spirit, Lucius, I wanted it broken!" Voldemort closed his eyes in frustration. He cast a silent Legilimens, searching her immediate past. He could see Lucius' bed and Wormtail's pale skin, and he could sense Hermione's utter humiliation and shame and disgust and revulsion and a deep welling of hatred and violence.

"It is difficult to restrain thinking about some of the more harmful curses when you know them, isn't it, Hermione?" Voldemort stated. "Especially when someone you absolutely despise gets too close for comfort." He glanced at Wormtail, who was fidgeting with the folds of his robes. His eyes were slightly glazed.

Voldemort sat back on the chair opposite Carmen's carpet. Carmen drifted back into the shadows. Then, Voldemort held out his left boot with the sole facing Hermione.

"We'll see how broken she is out of bed, and I hope for your sake, Lucius, that she is. Hermione, come here."

Hermione began to stand.

"Crawl, Hermione. Don't look at me, look at the floor."

Hermione dropped back to the floor, mouth almost touching the rug.

Voldemort nodded in pleasure as she crawled across the room before all of the Death Eaters, proving how degraded she allowed herself to be. Voldemort tasted the air, tasted her disgrace and found it exquisite. He could not resist a smile as Hermione finally reached him.

"Lick my boot, Hermione. And take your time." Voldemort sat back and waited. He reveled in her prideful indecision. The angles of her shoulder blades trembled with tension. Her hands clenched the rug. But she settled back on her heels and reached for his boot. Her face was white and drawn, cold and formed as marble. She closed her eyes and ran her tongue from the heel to the toe. Then she looked up, her brown eyes alight with fury as she waited for his approval.

"Again."

Hermione obeyed, taking longer this time.

"Perfect," Voldemort murmured, "take her to my chambers and bind her." Two house elves sprang into action.

"My lord," Lucius said, stepping forward. "You intend to make use of her?"

Voldemort turned his red eyes, slitted in languor, to his faithful Death Eater. "Not in the way you mean."

"She's an interesting choice," Carmen muttered, prodding his bishop absentmindedly.

"You can't do that, Carmen. The king will be in check. Interesting is appropriate. But she chose me."

"Could have left her, forgotten her."

"I did."

"You wanted her back." Carmen set the game aside. "Why?"

"Lucius couldn't break her."

"You think you will? The intelligent ones are the most difficult. They always have their mind, their intellect, to spark the imagination. You take away the mind, and they don't care anymore."

Voldemort shook his head. "I plan to do this slowly, not with a wave of my wand. Lucius has made her obedient. I will rot her wit like a disease, rot her with that ever potent method of persuasion--her indecision."

~888~

Hermione sat with her back against the foot of the bed. The edges of the dressing gown were pulled emphatically over her body. Voldemort would not be interested in sex, but the habit of anxious modesty still lingered.

In the last twenty four hours she had never felt so utterly crushed with degradation, not even with her first rape.

She could not half believe how much Lucius' training had quelled her. She had given herself to Wormtail, catering to his every perverted request; she might as well have been his whore with the way his eyes glittered as she kissed him, stripped him, and screwed him while Lucius watched, index finger tapping his lower lip and eyelids lowered. And when he had taken her as Wormtail's seed trickled between her legs still....

Then to crawl like a rodent to lick the underside of Voldemort's boots as though she enjoyed it, a simpering bitch. She had so thoroughly lowered herself beneath even the house elves she had sought to save. She felt despicable.

Harry would have fought back, Hermione thought, self-loathing oozing through her brain, a malicious, devouring organism. Harry probably wouldn't have four Death Eaters molest him, but whatever they would do, Harry would have fought back. He would have never licked Voldemort's boots. He would have never crawled like an animal. He would have never, never obeyed.

The door opened, and Voldemort, unescorted and unarmed, walked in, closing the door behind him.

"There are house elves guarding the door. Even if you escape from your chains, you have nowhere to go."

He unfastened his outer robes and hung them in the wardrobe.

"Do you know why I had Lucius take you?" Voldemort said, standing by the fire. The hearth blazed and Voldemort was cast into an impressive silhouette.

Hermione was silent.

"And Wormtail?" Voldemort continued.

"Wormtail," Hermione interrupted, "was only because I showed such loathing for him at the beginning. Wormtail was a bonus. Lucius... you gave me to him because you knew I feared what he would do to me, you knew I feared rape and that we had a past."

Voldemort raised his head, pleased. "And did you fear it?"

"You know very well I hated it," Hermione replied softly.

"I'll never require your services, though I'll understand if that comes as small consolation." He left the dramatics of the hearth and slid into the lamplight. He sat lotus-style several feet from Hermione, his long limbs even more evident folded in. Hermione took this opportunity to study him more closely.

Hermione could see how Harry might have seen Voldemort as purely skeletal, but upon more intimate, quiet perusal, Hermione could see the toned lines of thin muscle along the forearms. She was not sure if his muscles could expand much more. His pure white skin was dry and completely smooth, like powdered stone, and his face was not attractive at all but hypnotically interesting: eyes glittering like blood-dripped garnets against sharply cut lines, cheekbones that seemed almost Asian, but a nearly lipless mouth and simply two slits for nostrils rather than a nose out of place with the very human features of his jaw, brow, and the smooth contours of his skull. The baldness made his head look surprisingly vulnerable with the proud arch of his neck. She hardly expected this man. For that was what he was when he sat down, alone with her. Just a man. It was disillusioning.

"I haven't needed a woman for thirty years," Voldemort added, at ease with his confession.

"Why are you keeping me then?" Hermione asked. Her voice was monotonous with despair.

Voldemort did not answer her question. "Potter tried to save you. At the Malfoy Manor."

"We aren't--?" Hermione began.

"No, don't be stupid. We are no longer at Malfoy Manor," Voldemort answered. "Too conspicuous."

Hermione nodded. She did not expect him to tell her their location.

"He, Dumbledore, Snape, and that werewolf attempted a brilliant rescue based on subterfuge. Yes, I know Severus is their spy. But he was useful. He is no longer a Death Eater. That should make you happy; but that means there is no one sympathetic to your situation who can help you now. I let them escape, you know. I wanted to be there. When Dumbledore and I meet again, it will be on a battlefield, solely for the sheer numbers of the dead littering the earth. In the middle of the Malfoy dungeons, however tempting it was, was not the right place for the Order's destruction. It's not practical that I should wait for a less-assured moment, I know, but a part of me... You are beautiful leverage, Hermione. There have been two other rescue attempts, but they were only half-hearted. And do you want to know why?"

Her eyes were wide and empty.

"Because in their eyes--they have doubts, of course--you voluntarily joined me. Think of all the 'clues' you left."

Tears pricked the corners of her eyes and she felt a tugging at her heart that extended strangely to her hands.

"I think they believed me. I could see it in Dumbledore's eyes." Voldemort smiled. "Apparently you've slept your way to the top ranks of the Death Eaters and think about overthrowing me to take my place."

Her vision swam, but she refused to blink. It was becoming difficult to breathe with her pain trapped in her nose and throat.

"And I made you that whore they think you are now. Lucius was the instrument for me, but I did it. Hermione," he whispered, "you are mine to do with as I like, just as I was yours for that little while. Though I doubt you will find me as forgiving."

Hermione could not restrain herself any longer; she blinked. Two pregnant tears slid down her cheeks. The rest she managed to dissolve, but the offending trails of salt water betrayed her.

"And the best part is Dumbledore doesn't know what to do. If you came to me, he has to let you go and prepare himself for your added intelligence and understanding of it. However, if I was lying, and Severus' information of your abduction was correct, then I could be authorizing any number of horrendous abuses on you. That is why I keep you. I let him imagine what I am doing, I am permitted to actually do some of it, and you have to suffer all of it. And you can keep Wormtail entertained--a dual enticement, Dumbledore and Wormtail. I hope you don't mind that I allow him to take you every once in a while. I rather like the effect you have on him."

Hermione turned her head away.

"Look at me, Hermione," Voldemort commanded.

When Hermione would not obey, Voldemort grasped her chin and wrenched her face back forward so that he could see the new well of tears.

"Perfect." Now that he had breached her emotional barriers, Hermione would be easy. "Remove that robe at once. Lucius should never have given you clothes."

"But I thought--" Hermione said thickly.

"I don't want your body. Your body is nothing to me. But you are lower than a house-elf now, Hermione, and they are never given clothes. If I ever get tired of your skin, I'll request you cover yourself. I am the master here, not Lucius. You shall never call me by my name. You will address me as 'my lord.' And though the house-elves use pallets, you'll have nothing but the floor." He snatched the robe from her shoulders, leaving her naked before him. For some reason, her nudity now was more pronounced before the man who did not care than it had been with Lucius or even Wormtail.

"No blankets, no heat of a lover, nothing. Freeze. We'll see what to do with you in the morning." He magicked off all the lamps and dimmed the fire. He made his unhurried rituals before bed as though she was not even there. She hardly noticed when a snake slithered into the room, so preoccupied with the idea that the Dark Lord went through a toilette and slept at night. The scales brushed her foot, and she jumped.

"Nagini," Voldemort said. "She's here for her milking. It only happens at her leisure." Voldemort slid to the foot of the bed, and Hermione's focus shifted back to him. She never had dreamed that in some very small, but very subtle, ways, he was very human. Then again, since she had never imagined him in a bed, she supposed she should not be surprised at anything that he did on a bed.

Hermione observed, fascinated, as Voldemort guided Nagini's head to his mouth. Nagini lunged forward and sank her fangs into Voldemort's quite normal tongue. Several spasms shook the snake, then she released and slid off again, this time, through a different opening. If possible, Voldemort's skin had gone whiter.

"Forgive me if I fail to be a gracious host," he said with shallow breath. "The venom is not fatal for me, but it does stun me if nothing else."

"What's to stop me from killing you in here while you are weakened?" Hermione murmured, sitting on her knees. She was still a sickly pale, but some spirit had come back into her eyes.

"Who said I would be weakened? Just because I'll have trouble with moving doesn't have anything to do with the power I possess. You've met your match, one you cannot escape or overcome, Hermione. I want to see your eyes when you finally realize that."

He laid back under the comforter of the bed, completely at ease with her vengeful presence. Hermione's eyes narrowed. How could he so easily dismiss her? With a huff, she put her back against the foot of the bed. All that debauchery, all that humiliation, only to have him completely indifferent to her.

I should prefer this, Hermione thought, wrapping her limps around herself. Weeks of men touching, tasting, and invading me... I should want to be ignored. But after affording most of her mind to him, she was offended that he had not done the same.

The fire provided a modicum of warmth that was enough for the spartan comfort she had grown used to. But truth to tell, while she did not miss Lucius, his warmth during the nights had been wonderful. And Voldemort had his comforter. Cold-blooded creatures needed heat...

Hermione grabbed the end of the comforter and pulled, standing.

Voldemort did not even flinch.

"Put it back, Hermione," he muttered. "It's not worth losing your stomach."

Hermione froze, the comforter still in her hands. Slowly, Voldemort sat up in the bed and blinked as though it was difficult.

"Put it back."

When Hermione did not move, Voldemort stood and retrieved his wand from the night table. With almost disconnecting deliberation, he pointed the wand at her.

"If you are so eager to be warm, I'll summon Wormtail, who I assume will enjoy the task very well. If you are so eager to aggravate me, I suggest you restrain yourself because I have any number of curses that I have wanted to use on you since you cast Pareo." Voldemort's movements were becoming less muddled and more precise, which meant he was no longer reacting to Nagini's venom. Hermione was very aware of how steady his wand arm was. Yet she still held the comforter in her fists.

"Imperio," Voldemort said clearly. The utter apathy that came upon her was not as slow as the pseudo-Moody's had been, but smothered all resistance like a feather pillow. And the slight alteration in the way he pronounced the vowels made Hermione completely aware of everything she was doing.

"Maybe," Voldemort said, "I should employ Wormtail as your punishment. He seems to quell you better than anything Lucius and I seem to, Hermione." He ran the wand against the curve under her jaw. "I saw your eyes whenever Wormtail was mentioned or when he looked at you. I've heard that he is generally a tender and generous lover by those few in the Harem who he's tasted. Startling that someone like him would be described in such a way. Don't you agree?" He let the tip of the wand drift to Hermione's heart. "Perhaps when you are disobedient and belligerent, I'll take you to his quarters for a full night, not just a passing moment. You'd really make his night, you know. He'd make you his mistress if I let him. He is smitten. Yes, I think that is an adequate chastisement: one night with Wormtail. If you understand me perfectly, nod."

Hermione nodded.

"You are not Hermione Granger, you are just Hermione--a doll, or a marionette, if you will. Cover me with the sheets and comforter."

Voldemort settled back into the bed. It was much too big for him, twice the size of a car, and he merely lay near the edge. Hermione would have found this endearing in a more objective situation. But she did as Imperius bade her to do.

When he was covered, he released her from the Unforgivable.

"Go to sleep, Hermione," Voldemort said, closing his eyes.

"You sleep at night," Hermione muttered, the idea still amusing, preferable to the idea of Wormtail as her punishment for failing to obey him.

"I breathe," Voldemort answered. "Anything that breathes sleeps. Sometimes I sleep at night, other times in the morning, the afternoon, or the evening, whenever it is convenient. Good night." Then he closed his mouth and did not respond to her again; a weight of absolute helplessness draped over her. She squealed as the shackles around her feet retracted violently, tripping her to the floor and dragging her to the end of the bed. A low chuckle came from under the covers. Hermione pulled half-heartedly at the fetters, but she knew that without magic, nothing would open them.

"Harry," she whispered, "please come rescue me." And gods help her, she wanted to be warm.

~888~

The Gryffindor Tower had become quieter as of late. Even Parvati and Lavender had been shocked to silence when Professor McGonagall announced that Hermione had been kidnapped by the Dark Lord, in the guise of her familiar. That Voldemort had infiltrated the school frightened any number of parents, who requested that either Dumbledore upped security or they would withdraw their children. Dumbledore employed Hagrid's remaining Blast-Ended Skrewt at the front gate, and thestrals roamed the grounds freely. Chimeras waited at the Hogwarts borders, and every night, a wind dragon patrolled the air.

Animosity toward Slytherins had only increased, and McGonagall as well as Snape was taking points off Gryffindor almost compulsively.

Harry and Ron completely stopped bothering the Slytherins. They threw themselves into Quidditch and Defense. Ginny was the only girl who was not indignant at their persistence in ignoring Hermione's absence. Sometimes they and Ginny used the Room of Requirement to escape the ones who did not understand. Ginny was particularly withdrawn--as the one person who had actually spent the most intimate time with Lord Voldemort, she was the most pessimistic of the three.

"Harry," she said once, looking out a rain-split window. "Lord Voldemort could persuade a tabby he was a lion and an eagle he was a sparrow. If Hermione wasn't on his side before, I would not be surprised if she is now. I don't think it's likely, but I wouldn't be surprised."

Ron shot her a glare but said nothing.

Harry was battling self-pity, and he seemed to be losing. "You know," he said heavily, "if she wasn't my friend, this would never have happened."

"She got mixed up, Harry. And if this is connected with you, it's still not your fault. It started when you were one year old. You didn't have a whole lot of choice, mate," Ron reassured him. "And Hermione's smart, we all know that."

"In some situations," Harry said, "being smart isn't enough."

"She'll make it, Harry. She'll make it."

"They don't even know where to look!" Harry snapped. "If I hadn't insisted on rescuing Hermione then, threatening to do it on my own, Voldemort wouldn't know how much Snape was betraying him. Then Snape could look for clues to where she is. But since I screwed up, we went, and now Snape can't even be a spy anymore."

"Well," Ron said weakly, "at least Snape can't do anything now."

"I'm not mad at him anymore, Ron."

"Oh." Ron paused for a moment. "I'm not as mad as I used to be, but I'm still mad."

There was a long silence as their attention shifted back to Hermione.

"I miss her," Harry murmured into his knee.

"So do I, mate," Ron said.

Another long silence.

"Have you ever read the Restricted reports? About Death Eater attacks? And what they leave behind?" Harry said suddenly. "Hermione had checked them out about twelve times. Have you read them?"

"No," Ron answered.

"It's awful. And that's what's happening to her now. And Dumbledore hasn't even told her parents yet. It's almost Christmas Break." Harry pounded the wall behind him with his fist.

"If Hermione were here," Ginny said, "she'd know where to find herself."

Ron snorted. "When was the last time anyone in this school thought like Hermione."

Ginny retorted waspishly. "Fifty four years ago."

And that shut them all up.