His Mistress

- CHAPTER TWO -

In the Alley of the Night

The street was dark and forbidding. There were no streetlamps here and Hermione had to keep herself from stumbling on the bumpy stones of the pavement. The tug on her arm was her only indicator of direction, and she followed it blindly.

Her mind working at high speed, she glanced over at the man whose cold hand was holding her arm in a grip that was almost gentle, though frighteningly strong. She had no idea where they were going, but he walked ahead with a confidence that suggested he knew the way so well that he had no difficulty finding it in the dark.

She still hadn't given up hope, in spite of the rational evidence that her situation was as hopeless as he claimed. Now was the time to come up with some miraculous plan of escape like the times when she had had to extricate her friends from trouble ... but no miraculous scheme came. There was no ingenious inspiration, nothing but the blankness of mind that accompanied the terror of nightmares turned reality.

Her breathing grew shallower with each step she took and her legs shook with mounting panic. What am I doing? Why did I follow him? she wondered as she walked by the side of the enemy. An enemy who was going to kill her ... but who was now her guide into an unfamiliar place that had always frightened her, even if she had learnt to consciously dismiss her fear by replacing it with a determination to tackle whatever she encountered, to bravely do her duty as an Auror. But none of that mattered now, because there were some fears that she had failed to overcome ...

She was in this situation because not for the first time, her quick thinking had failed her when faced with this Death Eater, although she couldn't understand why. Had she been too afraid to disobey him? Was she really so little of a Gryffindor that she had let an emotion as irrational as fear paralyse her?

I was stupid; I should have been more careful, but it's too late to change that, she reasoned. She knew that had he been anyone else, she would not have followed him into Knockturn Alley - she would have fought with her bare hands if she had to, and nothing short of the Imperius curse would have made her cooperate. But she had trusted him inherently for some reason ... And he probably would have killed me already if I hadn't ...

After what felt like hours but in reality had been only minutes, her abductor stopped in front of the door of a small house with skewed walls. He pushed her face-first into the door, forcing her to stay ahead of him so that he could keep an eye on her while he fumbled with the lock.

Hermione watched him out of the corner of her eye. She wanted to memorise the mechanism so that she could give the information to the Auror Office, in the unlikely event that she would live long enough to return to work. She gave up when felt a wand poke her warningly in the back.

She leaned her cheek against the rough wood of the door and closed her eyes behind the strands of bushy hair that obscured her face. He hadn't been quick enough to prevent her from glimpsing the plaque above the door, a metal plate inscribed with the number 25, an image that would remain engraved in her memory.

She heard a metallic click as the lock on the door gave way and he sheathed his wand. Opening the door, he wrapped an arm firmly around her waist and led her inside.

It was as dark in the house as it had been on the street. Cautiously, she followed him over a set of stairs and ended up in a high-ceilinged room lit by several torches and a cobwebby chandelier in the form of a coiled serpent. The furniture consisted of a black couch and several chairs padded with black fabric that looked like velvet. The curtains, also black, were tightly closed.

The moment her captor stepped into the room, pulling her in after him, amber flames roared in the fireplace, casting eerie shadows on the walls. On the outside, the dirty walls had looked as though only magic was stopping them from collapsing, but inside, Hermione saw no sign of ruin. The hardwood floor was relatively clean, although the walls were covered with a layer of dust and cobwebs hung from the ceiling, mostly in the corners.

The air itself was rather warm yet it sent a chill through Hermione. In the centre of the room was a wooden table littered with potion vials, bloodstained books, broken mirrors and other sinister things the Auror recognised as Dark Arts objects. She had been expecting something like this, given that the house appeared to be a Death Eater hideout. She could sense the reek of Dark magic in the air.

Yet, inexplicably, ironically, she felt almost comfortable with her surroundings. She was an Auror surrounded by all the things she has been trained to detect and destroy, but now that there was nothing she could do to fulfil her duty, she did not even feel bothered by them. Instead, she was fascinated with the things she had been taught to hate and banish. The essence of evil that had chilled when she had entered this room now felt almost welcoming, triggering her naturally curious and daring nature.

Comprehension hit her brusquely and she shuddered in horror when she realised the implications. She felt like she belonged here. She had never felt so at home in such a hostile place. Quickly, she dismissed the idea that would be the logical conclusion. The terrifying conclusion that she was attracted by the Dark Arts and the power they represented. No way ...

This is ridiculous, she told herself. This place is full of Dark magic and I'm an Auror. I can't feel at ease here.

But you do, a tiny voice whispered in her head. You do. Don't deny it. You know it's true. And that was what scared her the most. She almost felt at peace, despite the fact that she was at the mercy of a brutal Death Eater. But he wasn't acting brutal towards her, was he?

He removed his hood and hung his cloak on a hall stand near the door. Then he proceeded to unfasten Hermione's scarlet cloak. He removed it from her shoulders and hung it next to his. He pushed her gently onto the couch, forcing her to sit.

"How amiable of you to have joined me in this lonely place, Miss Granger," he said lazily. "I never knew an Auror could be so obedient ... even less so a former Gryffindor."

She scowled, folding her hands in her lap to stop them from shaking. What was he talking about? He had not given her a choice! Was he trying to insult her by insinuating that she would have followed him if she had had a choice?

Oddly enough, he was treating her almost civilly, as though she were a guest, except for the fact that she had been robbed of her wand and her ability to speak. But he wasn't torturing her yet, and she had to wonder why he had brought her here.

The voice in her head mocked her, reminding her that she felt like she belonged here. No I don't, she thought firmly.

"It was clever of you to have realised the hopelessness of your situation so quickly," he drawled. "It was almost Slytherin behaviour, in fact. Then again, you have always been a clever witch ..."

A reluctant smile tugged at Hermione's lips for a second. Her hard work at Hogwarts must have paid off, if it had impressed even someone as prejudiced as he ...

Then he pointed his wand at her and she flinched, expecting to be hit with an Unforgivable Curse. But he merely spoke the counter-spell to the Silencing Charm. "What is it that you want from me?" she asked once the spell was lifted, trying to keep apprehension out of her voice.

He approached silently and sat next to her. She fought the urge to scoot as far away from him as possible when he grasped her by the shoulder and turned her to face him. The intensity of his eyes made her feel slightly dizzy.

"My dear girl, you know what I want. I believe I made my intentions clear enough on that night in Hogsmeade several years ago ..."

Hermione's eyes widened, but she sat rigidly, unwilling to show her fear. Abruptly, she understood and was horrified by her own naiveness. Of course! How hadn't she guessed?

But why? Aren't I just a Mudblood? she thought bitterly.

"What I've wanted to do with you from the moment your eyes met mine, in the Top Box at the World Cup of 1994," he said heatedly.

Hermione blushed.

His eyes gleamed. "I remember ... on that day, your face went as red as it is now. It makes you appear even prettier, though I did wonder why you had blushed ..."

Oh, she remembered all too well.

When she had met his gaze back at the Quidditch World Cup, she had found herself unable to look away. His eyes were the same dark, cold shade of grey as Draco's, yet the expression in them had been very different from his son's.

His eyes had been so intense; there had been such power in them, as well as a sophisticated intelligence that his son blatantly lacked. Draco was arrogant and bad-mannered, while his father was haughty yet polite, the picture of strength and superiority.

Yet there had been something else in his eyes as they had lingered on Hermione, something she had not fully understood. It was something that should not have been there, she knew that much. She had seen men look at her like that and it had never failed to make her feel ill at ease.

But Hermione had found herself unable to look away. He had initiated the eye contact and he would be the one to end it; she could only look meekly back into the sharp gaze that manifested such power and control. Control over her. Not to mention that he was, without a doubt, the most handsome man she had ever met ...

Hermione could not stop the heat that had rushed into her cheeks. She had been sure he had noticed it too and that had made her blush even harder. Angry with herself, she had looked back at him with narrowed eyes, a desperate attempt at feigning defiance, but she still could not avert her gaze.

At that moment, she had remembered how she had indirectly fought against him, when she had helped Hagrid prepare Buckbeak the Hippogriff's defence - but she had known the uselessness of it all along, despite her assurances to Hagrid and Harry. She had known that they had stood no chance against that man. Hermione could never match his skills at persuading and manipulating people - and deep down, she admired him.

When she had found herself looking into his eyes for the first time, Hermione had been captivated by the wizard who had stared at her in a way that should have offended her. And after that ... the next time she had seen him, at the Department of Mysteries nearly two years later, she had been careful not to look into his eyes; she had been afraid that just like the last time, she wouldn't be able to look away. Or she would do something foolish, something that involved tricking Harry into giving her the prophecy so that she could hide it, while in reality intending to do just the opposite ... No! she had thought, horrified by her own ideas. She had been shaking with terror as she had whispered Harry's instructions to the other children.

That day, she had been too busy protecting Harry. Too scared as well, and not without reason. Madam Pomfrey had said afterwards that it was a miracle that she had survived Dolohov's curse. A deadly curse which, whether spoken aloud or not, never failed to kill the victim. The mediwitch had compared Hermione's case to Harry's survival of the Killing Curse ("No less miraculous - and just as unprecedented. A first in history, Miss Granger.").

Then, the encounter in her seventh year ...

The night after their last NEWT, the trio had decided to make a late-night escapade into Hogsmeade to celebrate the end of the exams on Ron's reckless suggestion. Hermione had been firmly opposed to the idea; as Head Girl, it had been her responsibility to maintain discipline and ensure the security of the students, including her own friends. When Harry and Ron had proved to be extremely thickheaded and had refused to listen to her, Hermione had ended up running to Dumbledore to inform him of her friends' foolish plan. But instead of just forbidding them to leave the castle like Hermione would have liked, the old wizard had contacted the Order and to arrange for someone to accompany them to keep an eye on them in case something happened.

It had been very unfortunate that the guard consisted of one single person, and it had been even less fortunate that said person had been one very clumsy Auror: Tonks.

It wasn't like the High Street had been deserted. No, there had been loads of seventh-year students who, like them, had gone out to celebrate the end of school with their friends and many of whom, drunk, had been staggering around the streets of the only exclusively magical town in Britain. Luckily, Hermione and Tonks had managed to keep Harry and Ron from drinking too much and hadn't touched anything stronger than Butterbeer themselves.

Somehow, when Harry, Ron, Hermione and Tonks (who had taken the appearance of a strict witch old enough to be their grandmother) had taken a walk into one of the smaller, parallel streets, Tonks had tripped on something - or perhaps it had been a Trip Jinx - and collapsed on the ground so abruptly that she had rolled on the pavement all the way into a deserted adjacent alley where she had lain unmoving. Hermione would later find out that the Auror had regained consciousness shortly into the fight that had ensued and, unnoticed by the attackers, had contacted the Order.

The three seventh-years, under Harry's lead, had not hesitated to rush to their guard's aid. Within seconds, they had been surrounded by a group of black-cloaked wizards. Harry, Ron and Hermione had taken out their wands instantly and Hermione had hidden behind a bush. The Death Eaters had not noticed her, as she had been some ten feet away from Harry and Ron when the attack had occurred.

She had watched as Ron had ended up in a full wizard's duel with one Death Eater while Harry had been fighting three at once, dodging curses from all directions and at the same time looking for a way to distract their attackers. Hermione had been preparing to cast a Stunner at one of the cloaked figures from her hiding place when Harry had done something very stupid. When he had glanced around and failed to see Hermione anywhere, he had done the worst thing possible in the circumstances. Harry had shouted, "HERMIONE? WHERE ARE YOU?" thus alerting the Death Eaters to her presence.

Hermione had been intending to rush out from behind the shrubbery to fight the Death Eaters, because it would have been useless to stay there once her position had been discovered, but had never had the time. She had not noticed one of the Death Eaters creep up behind her.

A Disarming Charm had hit her in the back. Her wand had flown out of her hand to land some ten feet away.

What had followed had been a sequence of events that Hermione would never forget, because it had been something that would change her forever, although to this day she still did not realise how much. Nevertheless, no matter how many times she had been questioned about it, Hermione had not told a soul about what had truly happened.

Hermione had prepared to pounce at her wand, but before could take a single step, a hand had grabbed her shoulder and dragged her into a shadowed corner.

She had found herself with her back against the brick wall of an abandoned wizard house. Her eyes had darted around frantically, searching for a way to escape ... but there was none, she had realised as she felt a wand pressing between her ribs.

Hermione had closed her eyes; she had given up hope, surrendering herself to her captor's will. I'm going to die, she had thought in resignation, tears forming in her eyes.

Then the Death Eater had kissed her on the lips.

Hermione had jerked back in shock, her eyes wide open - but there had been nowhere to flee, nowhere to run. The back of her head had hit the hard wall. She had winced in pain, momentarily disorientated.

That moment of distraction had been enough for the hooded wizard, whose face she had not been able to see in the darkness, to force her arms up above her head in one swift movement, and she had found herself trapped and helplessly pressed against his body. Holding her wrists together in one hand, he had slipped the other under the collar of her robes ...

Hermione had struggled weakly, but to no avail. The Death Eater's grip had tightened painfully around her wrists, the smooth fabric of his hood brushing against her forehead as he held her lips in a crushing kiss, and with a soft "Oh!", she had stopped resisting. Then a fleeting touch on her breasts had sent a jolt through her body and Hermione had closed her eyes, overwhelmed.

The man's hands hadn't been warm like most people's, nor icily cold - no, they had been something in between, cool enough to cause Hermione to shiver as she felt them on her bare skin, yet not cold enough to make the contact painful.

Hermione had not known who he was, but she had known this had to be a terribly controlling man. From the way the way he kissed, she had felt as though she belonged to him, body and soul ...

She knew that she should have felt disgusted; he surely had not asked if she wanted him doing that to her ... but she had always dreamt of being kissed like that, by a powerful, forceful older wizard ...

There had been popping sounds on all sides, signalling the arrival of the Order. "Well, well, well ... it would appear that your friends have arrived to rescue you. We'll continue this another day, my dear girl," the stranger had said in a drawling voice. He had caressed her throat briefly before Apparating away.

Hermione had nearly collapsed out of shock. Sheer courage had prevented her from fainting.

Not wanting to repeat their experience at the Department of Mysteries, the Death Eaters had Disapparated as soon as they had seen the Order members. Hermione had looked around to where her friends had been standing huddled together.

Ron had been looking like he barely managed to stand - there had been a bleeding gash on the side of his face and several wounds on his arms. Tonks had had bruises on her face from where she had hit the pavement when she had fallen. Hermione herself, although physically unharmed, had looked like she had been hit by some unknown Dark curse, judging by the absent expression in her eyes. Harry alone had appeared unharmed and fully alert, his green eyes flashing, his wand aloft as though expecting the Death Eaters to reappear. At that moment already, one could have seen in him the formidable Auror that he would become.

Hermione had heard Harry's anxious voice calling to her, but she had been too dazed to respond. When one thought about it, her behaviour had very much resembled the way Harry had acted when he had come back to the Gryffindor common room after kissing Cho Chang in fifth year.

Her best friends had exchanged worried glances. "What did they do to her?" Harry had wondered aloud.

"Hermione, are you all right?" Ron had asked.

"Yes, fine, I'm fine," she had replied distantly. Harry and Ron had looked at each other dubiously, and with good reason. But they would never know what had truly happened.

They would later assume that the experience had been so terrible, so traumatising that Hermione couldn't speak of it even to her best friends ... But that wasn't the case. In fact, once she had got over the shock, she had kept the secret zealously, but not for the reason her friends and Dumbledore had believed.

Hermione had actually felt flattered. All the times she had been called a Mudblood and looked upon as though she were filth, both by Slytherins at Hogwarts and by even some fellow Ministry officials later on ... and yet the most unlikely person, a wizard who one of the most adamant promoters of pure-blood superiority in all of Britain, had kissed her. She could never fathom why he had done it, though. Why had he deigned to touch an inferior, a Muggle-born witch?

Years had passed; Hermione had gone into Auror training and qualified as a novice Auror after the three-year term, then had gradually risen in rank to become one of the most respected Dark-wizard-catchers in Great Britain. But she could never forget no matter how desperately she tried to. Late at night the memory would come back to her and his touch would haunt her in her dreams ...

She often thought of the wizard who had kissed her so passionately in the dark, and she dreamed of him continuing what he had started, what would have happened if the Order had not arrived ... it was the darkest of her dreams, her shame ...

She considered herself a strong-willed witch and she had been horrified by how easily this man could subdue and make her feel like she was nothing but his possession. She had almost reconsidered her decision to become an Auror, if only so that she would not have to see him ever again ... she had considered becoming an Unspeakable instead, to spend her days locked away in the Department of Mysteries which evoked such distressing memories in her, but in the end she had realised that she wanted to fight.

She craved the thrill of battle, the challenge, the risk ... so she had become an Auror. At night, the darkness called to her and she followed, her insides filled with a mysterious thrill, a nervous anticipation as she thought that maybe, just maybe she would meet him across the battlefield, they would duel, he would overpower her like he always had, and then ...

In the present day, Hermione looked up at him in puzzlement. Why had he touched her that day?

And why was he doing so now? Her, a witch of impure blood ... Why hadn't he ever called her by the foul word his son always used? Hermione was frankly bewildered, but she did not flinch at his mocking words, nor did she jump back in revolt at the touch of his hand. She did not move, because she didn't know how she was supposed to react.

His white hands wrapped deftly around her neck. "Submit to me like a good girl -"

He caressed her throat. Hermione shivered at the cool, velvety touch.

"- or they might find your cold, dead body in some dark corner, showing the distinct symptoms of strangulation ..."

Hermione's face went very pale. For the past couple of years, smothered corpses of prominent people in the anti-Voldemort movement had been turning up on the streets of wizarding London. The Aurors had been trying to find the culprit, but with no success. Hermione now knew who was responsible for these deaths ... and she would be the next victim unless she surrendered to this man. No...

Her breathing quickened. She did not want to die ... oh, why had she had the foolish idea to go outside today, when any other time would have avoided this disaster?

She looked fearfully at the blond Death Eater whose smug expression told her that he was fully aware of what she had just realised.

"Submit to me and you need not get hurt ... I may even be gentle with you," he said softly, moving his hands down her neck and under her robes to caress her in highly inappropriate places. Hermione glared at him indignantly as she repressed a frisson.

He chuckled, not fazed in the least. "Dear, dear, aren't you a fiery one ..."

The light, chilling touch sent shivers through her entire body. She knew that she ought to push him away, to recoil as if burnt. This was an enemy. This man commanded the Death Eaters and directed the attacks that the Ministry had to clean up after. This was a man she was supposed to loathe. But right now she couldn't find the willpower to fight this ... this murderer. Right now, she didn't care that he had killed several of her colleagues. She just couldn't find the resolve to oppose him ...

He reached out a hand to stroke her cheek and she stared into his cold grey eyes. She could discern a burning desire in them, yet there was something else, something deeper ... something that made her feel special.

Why fight? Hermione wondered abruptly. Why resist? When was the last time a man looked at me this way? But the voice of reason that she nearly always heeded was mercilessly shouting reprimands in her head: You can't, you're an Auror and a member of the Order! Sleeping with the enemy - willingly - is treason! What would Harry and Ron think? You are supposed to be their best friend!

But all these excuses suddenly seemed trivial to Hermione. What would Harry and Ron think of her if they knew into which house she had almost been sorted at Hogwarts? Cleverness and ambition, indeed. She could just as well wonder what would they think if they knew all the other things she had never bothered telling them, like her interest in the Dark Arts, her exasperation with Arthur Weasley's Muggle mania, and what she really thought of Harry's reckless saving-people thing ... No, there was no point in making assumptions about what her best friends would think. They wouldn't think anything if she was dead by tomorrow morning ... Besides, as Dolores Umbridge had once said - and Hermione had to concede that the words made sense - what they don't know won't hurt them.

"What I want from you?" he growled in her ear, "Your body ... and your soul. Give me what I desire and I may not take your life as well."

And Hermione wanted to give it to him.

She looked at the handsome wizard holding her, pale hair shining in the dim light, eyes gleaming with a dark desire ... she noticed, now, that his hair was a shade darker than his son's, and it was also sleeker, more shiny. Draco's hair was a white-blond colour, she remembered, while his was a pale yellow, a strangely cold shade of gold. It was the colour of moonlight, a warm yet oddly chilling colour ...

I have no control over the situation, she convinced herself. No, she was not doing this because she wanted to, but only because she didn't want to die. And it wasn't like she could stop him. He was her superior physically and magically; what he wanted, he would get - by force or not. If he was planning to have his way with her, there was nothing she could do. So why not make the best of it? He was very good-looking, after all, and he was treating her quite nicely ...

Hermione's ability to form words coherently seemed to have left her. Her legs felt heavy and she was shivering from a desire repressed for years, reignited like a thousand sparks under his touch. No one had ever made her feel something like this, not Viktor, Ernie or any other boy she had dated. It was a need so intense that it was almost painful ...

She leaned back against the couch and closed her eyes, trusting him for now. There was nothing else she could do. Through closed eyelids, she imagined his approving look and felt a strange warmth fill her.

When his lips met hers, every thought of struggle left her mind. It was just like the last time: the kiss drained her of all willpower, and when he lifted her up and carried her into a smaller, darker room that must have been a bedroom, she made no move to protest.

"Do not tell me you haven't dreamt of this day just as I have," he whispered. "Let me claim you."

And she did.

Hermione did not rebel against the command of someone to whom she knew she was but a lowly Mudblood. The red of her battle robes clashed with his black ones as she lay beneath him. The violent contrast of the two colours was symbolic of the Light side's defeat, proof of the Dark's supremacy.

Red and black. Light and Darkness. Good and evil. Gryffindor and Slytherin. Muggle-born and the purest of bloods. Auror and Death Eater. They were all that, each a leading representative of opposing sides of the world. She was an advocate of justice, a defender of the weak, an activist for noble causes ... and he sought just the opposite: to turn time back to the ages when equality had been a nonexistent concept, when blood, class and traditions had ruled indisputably.

Ministry witch and Order member Hermione, by surrendering to this man, had acknowledged the doctrine established by Salazar Slytherin and perpetuated by the Dark side for a thousand years, the same one currently promulgated under Voldemort's leadership. The creed which dictated that Muggle-borns were inferior to pure-bloods, that the Light should bow to the Dark, and that good was weaker than evil.

That night, as she lay submissively in a Death Eater's arms, Hermione Granger wondered for the first time in her life whether she truly belonged on the Light side, or not ...

She had never considered it before; it was as if she had never been given a choice. Upon her induction into the wizarding world, she had been sorted into Gryffindor and made friends with the children of those on the side of the Light, never truly realising that there was another option ... had she chosen to be on the Light side? No, it was the only side she knew, the only one she could be on, or so she had always believed.