The Ivory Tower

Summary: Voldemort was running across the fetid bedroom, his long white hands clutching at the windowsill as he hurled himself over it and flew after the bald man and the little woman, and then they were a tangle of bodies and limbs, and they all twisted and vanished.

Notes:

This doesn't follow the typical "Hermione gets captured and Voldemort grows fond of her" plotline that I see most people using. It won't be long at all, and it will have a couple of nice twists I think you all will like. Though this will technically fall under the VoldemortHermione category, I hope I have presented it in a way that even those of you who do not ship the pairing will still find this story immensely enjoyable.

I tried very hard to imagine Ralph Fienne's Voldemort when writing Voldy's speech, so try to imagine his voice if you can; that slow, deliberate, breathy thing that he does ::shiver::.

Warning: Violence, torture, and all-around scary situations.

Original Scene:

… Harry raised his wand, but as he did so, his scar seared more painfully, more powerfully than it had in years.

"He's coming! Hermione, he's coming!"

As he yelled the snake fell, hissing wildly. Everything was chaos: It smashed shelves from the wall, and splintered china flew everywhere as Harry jumped over the bed and seized the dark shape he knew to be Hermione—

She shrieked with pain as he pulled her back across the bed: The snake reared again, but Harry knew that worse than the snake was coming, was perhaps already at the gate, his head was going to split open with the pain from his scar—

The snake lunged as he took a running leap, dragging Hermione with him; as it struck, Hermione screamed, "Confringo!" and her spell flew around the room, exploding the wardrobe mirror and ricocheting back at them, bouncing from floor to ceiling; Harry felt the heat of it sear the back of his hand. Glass cut his cheek as, pulling Hermione with him, he leapt from the bed to broken dressing table and the straight out the smashed window into nothingness, her scream reverberating through the night as they twisted in midair…

And then his scar burst open and he was Voldemort and he was running across the fetid bedroom, his long white hands clutching at the windowsill as he glimpsed the bald man and the little woman twist and vanish, and he screamed in rage, a scream that mingled with the girl's, that echoed across the dark gardens over the church bells ringing in Christmas Day…

~ Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Chapter 17: Bathilda's Secret.

1. The Devil Himself

Here is a small fact: You are going to die. I am in all truthfulness attempting to be cheerful about this whole topic, though most people find themselves hindered in believing me, no matter my protestations. Please trust me. I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.

~First lines from The Book Thief by Markus Zusak

They had been wrong to come here. Hermione had known that it was dangerous the moment Godric's Hollow had come to her mind, and she had stalled visiting for as long as her good conscience would allow her. She didn't think Harry fully appreciated the risk she knew they would be taking, he was so eager to see his parents' resting place, so eager to find some way to move forward in their search for Horcruxes.

She should never have let Harry follow the body of Bathilda Bagshot; never left him alone with her. Her instincts had screamed at her, and she had ignored them. And now… now they were fighting, scrambling for their lives.

Hermione cast a stunner at Nagini. Her body was twice as long as a grown man and her girth even thicker than Hermione's waist—but the spell veered off course and shattered a window as she was forced to dodge the lunging snake. Cold rushed in and the air clotted with the stench of rotting meat. She hit the floor hard, shoulders knocking, but there was no time to process the pain.

Hermione had her back to the wall in an instant, her brown eyes straining through the dark. Nagini was hissing, coils writhing, and it lunged for her again, mouth opened wide, baring fleshy fangs as long as daggers and thrice as deadly.

She cast again, and red light shot out of the wand tip with a bang, sending the snake flying toward the ceiling. There was a muffled cry and she saw Harry's dark form stagger and fall back.

"He's coming! Hermione, he's coming!" Harry's voice was half yell, half moan. He was coming. Voldemort was coming.

The steadfast laws of physics upheld their rules: the snake began to fall, hissing and thrashing like a creature possessed, crushing wooden shelves whilst splintered china flew everywhere; several pieces scraping across Hermione's cheeks and clothes, leaving fine, shallow cuts. Every nerve in her body was alive and alert, adrenaline pumping through her blood, but her stomach was roiling with fear—not for herself, but for Harry—and she bent in half, covering her head with her hands as debris flew, trying to remember which way was up…

Then there were strong arms around her waist, dragging her across the shabby, moth-eaten bed, and she couldn't swallow the shriek of pain and terror that escaped her mouth. It was Harry, thank goodness, wonderful Harry—but there was a shard of china now stuck in her armpit that she had failed to notice before.

She quickly forgot about the niggling and painful shard; it could be worried over later. The snake was coming around again for another strike, and Harry rushed for the gaping maw of the broken window, shards of glass sticking out like monstrous teeth, pulling her with him. The snake hurled itself at them, and Hermione screamed "Confringo!" The spell rocketed around the room, bouncing off every surface, destroying everything it hit, splinters and fire and something unmentionably horrible chasing them—

Then they were freefalling. Out the shattered window they soared, Hermione's stomach flying up to her throat as a sense of weightlessness came upon them. She was screaming whilst Harry was yelling; his face a mask of agony and mixing consciousnesses. He was in Voldemort's head again or perhaps Voldemort was in Harry's head. The stars twinkled in the clear night sky above, wretchedly innocent and uncaring of the two young persons' predicament.

A dark shadow blotted out the stars, its cloak as dark and shapeless as the night sky, its flesh as white as the snow on the ground, two red eyes, burning like hot coals. The devil himself flew out the window and fell upon them, spidery-fingered hands latching onto their polyjuiced bodies, a tangle of flailing limbs and voices and cloth. Harry's yell became an ear-splitting scream.

Hermione focused very hard… Destination, determination, deliberation!

The world was swallowed by blackness; pressure was crushing in from all sides, suffocating—

They were spat out of the void and all landed painfully on the ground. Hermione's world spun; the tall trees surrounding them warped into spiraling toward an obscure point over-head. The wind had been stolen from her lungs with their rough landing, and she gasped and coughed, diaphragm fluttering as she sucked in mouthfuls of icy, clean air.

There was a warm body next to her, though she could barely concentrate on it at the moment. But she could hear him spluttering and gasping as well, and he recovered much quickly than she did, hissing with displeasure. He stood, his face rising into her line of sight.

'Voldemort!'

The blood in her veins turned to ice at the sight of his white, inhuman face, and the fury displayed there. His color was impossibly pale: he seemed to blur at the edges, melting into the snowy and shadowed landscape. He growled and hissed, wand held gently in his eerie hands as he began to walk away. Hermione's vision snapped into acute sharpness.

'Harry!'

Still in the body of the bald man, Harry lay a mere few meters away, groaning and writhing, clutching at his forehead as if his skull were about to crack open. Voldemort's blood red eyes glowed in the dark, filled with luminescent triumph—here lay his long-hunted prey, within reaching distance! Two words and the war would be won!

'No,' Hermione's mind said, 'No, not Harry! Not Harry!'

What could she do? She could hardly be a match for He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named; she was a mere schoolgirl, no matter how clever. He hadn't even spared her a fleeting glance; she had been so easily dismissed as inconsequential.

But perhaps that could be her advantage over him. She rolled over onto her belly, knees and hands curling under her. Dead leaves, black with winter's rot, clung wetly to her clothes. Harry was barely coherent, blindly crawling backward to get away from the bringer of death that was stalking toward him, scraping his hands on small stones and dead branches.

Hermione's wand was hot in her hand, and she forced herself up; her heart rolling up her constricted throat, and threw herself at the Dark Lord's legs. She caught him around the knees, her arms locking around the bony appendages and holding on tight. Lord Voldemort shrieked as the force of her petite body sent him sprawling to the ground. Hermione threw her beaded handbag toward Harry as Voldemort thrashed in her arms.

"Run, Harry! RUN!" She screamed. Voldemort pointed his wand at her, a snarl on his lipless mouth, and she closed her eyes and Apparated, pulling Voldemort and herself far, far, far away from the forest and Harry Potter.

She could feel sand under her cheek and the roaring breaths of the ocean. The air was wet and sticky, and she could feel her hair curl at the sudden humidity.

"NO!" Voldemort howled, finally kicking her off and standing. "NO! You filthy Mudblood!" His boot came down on her hand and she cried out as two of her fingers broke along with her wand. He kicked her again in the ribs, forcing her to roll onto her back. He glared at her for only a fraction of a second before vanishing hurriedly with a twisting pop… no doubt back to the forest where they'd left Harry.

Quiet fell upon her, interrupted only by the sound of crashing waves. Hermione gasped for breath, sobbing. She prayed, pleaded, that Harry had gotten away in time, that Voldemort didn't have her friend dying under his wand right now. She cradled her snapped wand in her broken fingers as she forced herself to her feet, feeling as if she'd just lost a very important part of herself, like a limb or an organ. The dragon heartstring was still intact, but the well-loved vine wood was crushed, splintered and frayed, split into three awful pieces.

Voldemort would be back soon, back to kill her, and she staggered down the beach, refusing to just lie down and die. No, if she was going to die, she was going to make it difficult for him. She was going to go down fighting. Hot tears dripped down her frozen cheeks. The porcelain shard in her armpit throbbed, and she fingered it delicately before grinding her teeth and pulling it out. It was long, easily a finger's length, and the blue paint shone purple through her blood. She pressed her hand to the wound, hoping to stifle the blood flow as it soaked through her clothes. Her skin itched as she felt the Polyjuice begin to fade away.

Hermione tried not to cry too hard, her ribs and her shoulder throbbed with every breath, and with each gut-wrenching sob her vision blurred and her skinny legs wobbled. She didn't want to die. She wasn't ready to die! She was only eighteen; all the things she would never get to do… Her parents, safe in Australia, would never remember that they had a daughter. Neville—sweet, clumsy Neville—she would never help him with his homework again. She would never hear Lavender's annoying, high-pitched voice as she gossiped about boys—odd, she thought, that she should think of Lavender—of all people—at a time like this. And Ron—jealous, selfish, wonderful Ron Weasley—she would never be able to tell him how much she loved him. She would never graduate, never go to university or get a job to support herself, never get married or have children or grow old and never run her fingers over the dog-eared cover of another book…

Voldemort's wispy, high-pitched voice cut through her musings. "Crucio!"

The curse slammed into Hermione's back, and she crumpled. She could hear herself screaming, wailing at the top of her lungs, but barely registered the sound as her voice; it sounded so far away and so foreign.

Screwdrivers were digging into her fingers and toes; pulling up her nails by the roots. Razors were slicing into every nerve on her skin, flash fire had gotten into her lungs and was burning them up like tissue paper; her eyes were rolling, melting out her sockets. Her intestines had been transfigured into a mass of writhing, furious snakes intent on eating their way out of her body. Her teeth were being pulled away without anesthetic…

The hellish agony came to an abrupt stop, leaving her shaking uncontrollably, a bone-deep ache resounding through her.

She could slightly feel the hem of Voldemort's cloak like mist as he stepped beside her, but found she lacked the courage to open her eyes and look at him.

"You filthy Mudblood," he hissed, and she shivered at the pure malice in his voice, "You disgusting, horrible, filthy MUDBLOOD! WHERE IS HE?"

Despite her terror, Hermione felt relief soar through her. He hadn't gotten Harry. Harry had gotten away; he was safe! And Harry had everything he needed, he had her handbag, he had the Locket—thank goodness, it hadn't been her who was wearing it when they went to Godric's Hollow! She didn't want to imagine how badly things would have turned out if Voldemort discovered that on her…

The Dark Lord fisted his hands in her jumper and pulled her up as effortlessly as if she were a ragdoll, making her shriek in pain. "Where is he?" Voldemort thundered, and some spittle flew from his mouth and splattered across her face. His breath was scentless; odd, she half-expected him to smell of blood…

"Where is Potter? TELL ME, MUDBLOOD!"

"Don't know," she coughed, "I wouldn't know. I don't know…"

She felt his wand tip press against her temple gently. She watched his wand hand out of the corner of her eye—he held it so strangely, his grip loose as if it was infinitely delicate, like his wand was something to be worshipped, something to be loved and cared for as a newborn child or a lover—not a tool.

"Legilmens," he hissed.

The spell caught her off guard, and there was no time for Hermione to prepare her mind for the onslaught, no time to hide precious, potentially dangerous information. But hidden information was what Voldemort was looking for, and he ignored everything else as he forced his way through her brain. Harry's mission—the Horcruxes—completely overlooked! He was unbelievably careless in his fury, and in his desperate search he left every thought and memory that he brushed against in devastated tatters.

'Where is he? WHERE IS HE? WHEREISHE?'

Voldemort pulled out of her mind with a snarl on his mouth, and she cried out at the violent exit of his mind from hers. Her entire body shook; she felt as if she had just been violated in the worst possible way, as if she had been psychically raped. There was a gaping, bleeding wound in her mind from his forced entry and rough removal.

He dropped her, and she fell boneless to the sand; water coming up to rush over her legs. Her mind was reeling. Her body burned.

Large, cold hands wrapped around her neck and held her tight, pushing her down until she lied flat on her back. Furious red eyes bored into terrified brown ones. Oh, Merlin, was this it? Voldemort was so angry that he was going to strangle her with his bare hands, thumbs pressed harshly against her fluttering pulse?

"You horrible girl! You filthy Mudblood; how dare you!"

Whatever else he was saying was drowned out by the crest of water that rushed up the beach and engulfed her head. It was practically impossible to hold her breath with her head upside-down. She could keep her mouth closed, but not her nostrils, and water flooded her sinuses. Her chest heaved and convulsed as seawater rushed into her bronchiolar tubes, and burned the back of her throat. Though her brain told her it was better to lay still, her body refused to obey, and she clutched and scratched desperately at his lily-white arms, drawing blood.

Then the water was gone, the sea had pulled it back, and she choked and gagged, gasping for air that he wouldn't let her get. He was still speaking, still cursing and spitting at her like a cat that had been kicked—but she couldn't hear a word he said over the blood rushing in her ears. The wave came back and she was drowning again, grasping and scratching at every bit of robe and flesh she could get her fingers on. She could faintly see her blood tainting the water. The wound in her shoulder burned as if it were on fire.

'Pull me up! Pull me up!' Her mind wailed, throbbing. Black spots danced across her vision, blotting out those stupid, irritating, twinkling stars.

'Help.'

Then, suddenly, Voldemort flinched away, shrieking at the shard of blue willow china skewered into his forearm. He hadn't noticed it in her hand, cutting her palm to bloody ribbons; she had forgotten it entirely. The life-giving fluid stood out starkly against his skin, impossibly crimson. However, she was in no condition to run away. Her greedy lungs sucked in wonderful, wonderful air and when she staggered to her feet her knees gave out and she collapsed again, trembling all over. A single step was impossible.

He was back a moment later, fisting a hand in her sopping wild hair, and dragging her up the beach. Hermione clutched at her scalp, her fingernails digging into the fragile skin of the back of his hand.

"Crucio!"

That blinding, all-consuming pain was back, peeling the flesh from her bones, setting a hot coal against her tongue and burning her lips shut, stabbing needles into her eyes, curling around her frantically beating heart like a fist about to tear it from her ribcage, pain so intense that it couldn't be resisted, that she couldn't think, couldn't do anything but scream and thrash, begging for mercy, for death… 'stop, stop, stopstopstopstopSTOP!'

Then, miraculously, it stopped. Hermione dared to open her eyes and saw Voldemort with wand in hand, shaking half as badly as she was. His face was so hideous, so angry, so inhuman that hurt to look at him, so she didn't.

"You," he began then paused, his voice hoarse from abuse, "I should kill you."

She didn't care if he killed her as long as Harry was safe. Harry was the most important thing. If Harry was safe then she could die feeling okay.

"But," Voldemort continued, and Hermione felt her heart and stomach drop right out of her body, "You are much too valuable. You," he panted. She could hear his voice gaining momentum, gaining confidence, "You're Potter's little Mudblood friend. Hermione Granger. If he knows that you're alive, he'll come for you. He'll walk right into my hands. He'll come to me willingly!"

Hermione curled into the smallest ball possible, sickening dread pooling inside her. She felt like she might vomit. It was true. Harry would walk through fire, straight into Voldemort's lair if he thought it could save her.

'No, no, just kill me. I'd rather die than become bait for Harry.' She thought, but couldn't manage to voice the words aloud. Tiny sobs shook her broken, battered frame, every bit of her ached.

A hand landed on her shoulder, deceivingly gentle, and she flinched violently, a noise of distress escaping her throat.

"Look at me, girl."

She didn't.

"Look at me!"

She hadn't thought it possible to be more afraid than she already was, but the darkness in his voice made the prospect of not obeying even more terrifying than doing so. She forced her eyes open, trembling with pain, fear and hyperventilation. Lord Voldemort grinned wickedly down at her.

"Undesirable number two, Golden Girl Hermione Granger," he said matter-of-factly, trailing a long finger down the line of her jaw. "You're my key to victory."

She shook, and wondered if she was going into shock. "N-n-no!"

"Y-y-yes," he mocked, the animalistic smile never wavering. His hand slid from her shoulder to wrap around her neck, but he didn't strangle her again. "You're coming with me now, little Mudblood."

He Apparated, dragging her along with him, and she couldn't even wonder at how effortless the Disapparation had been—she'd never experienced one so smooth, so non-suffocating before—as trepidation consumed her entirely. One moment they were on the coast, the next he held her before the black gates of a deeply shadowed manor on a country lane. Hermione's stomach heaved, but there were no contents within to expel.

Voldemort pushed her forward, but her legs buckled and she fell to her hands and knees. Her palm stung as mineral-rich dirt was ground into her bleeding skin.

"Get up!" he scowled. "Get up, girl!" But she couldn't, a weak croak her only reply.

"Imperio."

With that one terrible word, every worry Hermione had was smoothed away like a wrinkle brushed out of a shirt. Her pain numbed to a consistent, but dull throb, her mind empty sans a vague, untraceable happiness. She felt relaxed, though her hands still trembled visibly. She couldn't control that even if he told her to.

'Get up.'

She stood. Voldemort placed his hands possessively at her shoulder and elbow, but she couldn't bring herself to mind.

'Now, walk with me.'

That wasn't so bad, was it? No, it wasn't bad at all, though nothing could stop the shaking of her knees. Her muscles ached, and she was tired, so very tired; she felt as if an entire week of sleep would not be enough to get her back to normal.

They strode through the gate, which passed through them like black mist and left goosebumps on her skin. The path was lined with tall hedges that were perfectly cut, leafy and green despite it being Christmas Eve, and she could see a couple of albino peacocks strutting around, their tails fanned out behind them like enormous snowflakes. The grand, black doors of the home flew open as Voldemort came within arm's reach, and he eagerly pulled her inside.

Hermione had rarely seen such fine interior design; it was all very old, and in the back of her mind she distantly acknowledged the Gothic and Victorian furniture and architecture. Voldemort quickly continued to yank her along the dark halls into a ballroom. He halted at the railing, looking down at the people surrounding the fireplace below who were already in the process of turning to look up at the Dark Lord. Hermione continued to stare blankly ahead.

"My Lord!" gasped Bellatrix Lestrange, her hands grasping at handfuls of her heavy robes. Her eyes wide, glimmering with madness and adulation. "Who've you got there? You've caught someone! She must be important! Who is she, my Lord? She looks like a drowned cat!"

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy stared up with much more dignity—or was it more ashamedly? They were quiet, but their fine eyebrows arched high. Draco was with them, looking quite stricken and faintly green.

"Patience, Bella," Voldemort said softly, "Draco." He extended one hand to beckon the young man to him.

Lestrange practically shoved Malfoy up the stairs in her eagerness, and he stumbled up the first few steps, completely lacking grace. His pale hand grasped the railing for support. Voldemort held Hermione firmly by the back of her neck as Malfoy came level with them.

"Don't be so shy, Draco, come say hello. I do believe you recognize Miss Hermione Granger from school, don't you?" he said silkily. He drew his thumb up from the base of her neck to the top, and the Imperius Curse slipped away. Horror filled Hermione's being, the pain swelling back, and tears leaked from her wide eyes and fell steadily from her cheeks, her entire form shivering.

Below, Lestrange gave an ecstatic squeal and clapped her hands together.

Malfoy's Adam's apple bobbed. "I—yeah, that-that's Granger. But how…?"

"In a moment. I shouldn't like to have to repeat myself." Voldemort said, releasing Hermione to take a hold of Malfoy's arm. The boy barely managed to refrain from visibly flinching as the sleeve of his robe was pulled away, revealing the Dark Mark blemishing his skin.

Without Voldemort holding her up, Hermione collapsed into a trembling, wet heap; her salty hair fell around her face in stringy seaweed-like clumps. She was at Malfoy Manor. She was at Malfoy Manor and Lord Voldemort had had her under the Imperius Curse. Merlin, she hadn't even put up any decent sort of fight! She hadn't fought it at all. Why? Harry could shake off the Imperius Curse—even Voldemort's—and yet she had succumbed and crumbled to his will so easily and so comfortably! That sick, nauseous feeling in her stomach increased to near-crippling amounts. She could taste bile on her tongue. She forced herself to concentrate on her breathing, to take slow, deep breaths lest she black out. She kept her eyes focused on a knot in the wood of the floor.

'Slowly now. In. out. In. out.'

She heard Malfoy grunt in pain as Voldemort pressed his spidery fingers to the mark, summoning his Death Eaters to the Manor. They came quickly.

'How are you going to get out of this one, Hermione?' she thought to herself. 'Never been the damsel in distress before, expect maybe during the Triwizard Tournament, if you can really count that one.'

Except there would be no "getting out" of a building full of Death Eaters. And, within a few minutes, it was indeed full; the ballroom becoming rustling sea of black cloaks and white masks. A few, like the Malfoy's, were in more casual dress, not having had time to change at the abrupt summons, and one man's hair even dripped shampoo suds.

"My faithful… Death Eaters," Voldemort began, his cat-like eyes scanning the crowd from above, "As some of you may know, I have had a trap waiting for Harry Potter at Godric's Hollow for some time. I had rightfully assumed that Harry should, at some point, visit the graves of his parents, and tonight I found that trap sprung. Unfortunately," he added quickly, bitterly, noting that an excited murmur began to rise from the crowd. They silenced at once. "Harry Potter slithered out of my grasp once again. However, I have not walked away empty handed."

He knelt, and forced Hermione to her feet, once again holding her at the neck and shoving her face over the railing toward his audience, like a trophy on display. Briny water dripped to the tiles below, though whether it was from her hair or her eyes she did not know.

"I have here Hermione Granger, a prize second only to Potter himself. You see, as with Sirius Black, I believe that Harry will do everything he can to rescue his beloved friend. We have had little success in hunting down and capturing Harry Potter, but with Miss Granger here Harry will come to us.

"She is our… guest of honor, as it were," he said with amusement, and several Death Eaters chuckled, "As a young lady, it is only appropriate that Miss Granger look her best for Harry's welcoming party. Thus," Voldemort's soft voice lowered and sharpened, "I want her wholly unspoiled. If I find Miss Granger with so much as a hair out of place, the one responsible will be answering to me personally." He stroked her hair out of her face, tucking the strands behind her ear almost affectionately. His voice was a dark rustle. "Does everyone understand?"

A shiver of confusion and fear rippled through the throng, and there was a murmur of agreement—although it was clear that quite a few were unhappy about Voldemort's order. Hermione could see Professor Snape staring up at her, his dark eyes wide with cold horror.

"My Lord!" Lestrange cried. "You're bleeding!"

"Hmm? Oh, yes," Voldemort said, removing his hand from Hermione and trailing his wand across his wounds, sealing them over with new, unblemished skin. "A mere scratch. She was not an easy one to capture; when I broke her wand she fought with her bare hands. Though isn't that the way of all animals?" The Death Eaters laughed. Lestrange screeched and spat, furious on her master's behalf, glaring at Hermione with raw hate.

"The only animals here are you," Hermione mumbled, barely aware that she was speaking aloud. Her wounds will still open and bleeding, and every second that ticked by had her feeling more and more exhausted.

Voldemort's hand wove into her hair again, and he pulled her head back roughly, exposing the vulnerable column of her throat. "What was that?"

She whimpered, trembling. Malfoy was eyeing her with fear and pity.

"What did you just say, Mudblood?" Voldemort repeated, drawing his wand down her neck.

"Nothing," she whispered.

"Are you sure?"

"N-nothing. I said nothing,"

"Is that so?" he replied, just as quietly. He scrutinized her for a seemingly endless moment. His next word slithered out of his mouth like the caress of a lover, "Crucio."

The pain was back, every inch of her on fire, worms digging their way up through her muscles to her skin. Her head hit the floor hard, and she felt like the wound at her shoulder was growing, tearing like old cloth, threatening to relieve her of her left arm entirely. A thousand rusty nails were being hammered through her feet and hands, a thunderbolt was ripping down her spinal cord… her insides were being turned to outsides—

It ended, and she curled in on herself, sobbing hysterically. Malfoy looked down at her in horror, his lips slightly parted. She'd never seen him with such an expression. He looked like he'd never seen her before, like he wanted to help her, but all he could manage was to stand stock still and hope that the predator in the room didn't turn its fangs on him.

"Draco,"

Malfoy's eyes shot up.

Voldemort's entire being seemed to ooze satisfaction. "I'm leaving Miss Granger in your care. Make sure she is comfortable, won't you? If you're going to be home for the holidays you might as well make yourself useful."

There were several snickers, and Malfoy dropped to his knees, bowing like a Buddhist. "Yes, my Lord, of course."

Voldemort swept out of the room. Class dismissed. The Death Eaters began to disperse. Hermione tried to shut the world out. She couldn't deal with it right now, the laughter, the jeers, and the torture. Malfoy pushed her onto her back, and she flinched violently, but made no noise. He was saying something, but she wouldn't focus on his words, nor would she look at him. All she could do was stare blankly up at the ornate ceiling. When Harry had had Occlumency lessons with Professor Snape, he had talked about how difficult it was for him to clear his mind, to empty it of everything, but Hermione didn't find it hard at all. Don't think of anything. Thinking hurt. Thinking brought attention to the wound of her mind, brought attention to how Voldemort had stolen her innocence without even touching her…

When Malfoy cast a levitation spell on her, she didn't respond. When he moved her down the stairs and further down to a dank, foul-smelling cellar, she didn't respond. The barred door shrieked open, and she was dumped unceremoniously into the arms of the old wandmaker, Ollivander, and Luna Lovegood.

Tears filled Luna's dreamy blue eyes as she cradled her schoolmate in her lap. She gently patted Hermione's pale cheek.

"Hermione. Oh, Hermione, please look at me." The blonde girl whimpered.

"Luna, look, there!" Came Ollivander's whispered exclamation. His gnarled fingers brushed across the deep red stain ever-expanding on Hermione's jumper, the torn, frayed knit. He and Luna shared a quiet look full of dread.

Luna took one of the older girl's hands in hers, and cradled Hermione's neck with her other hand.

"She's cold. And her pulse isn't up to speed. Oh, Mister Ollivander—"

The old man got to his feet, knees and back cracking loudly. "Put as much pressure on the wound as you can, Luna, it's th-the Axillary artery, I think—or perhaps the Axillary vein. We don't know how long she has been bleeding." He hurried to the door, and the goblin Griphook took place where the wandmaker had previously knelt, eyeing Hermione with pursed lips. Luna pressed her palm against Hermione's armpit, and the bushy-haired witch hiccupped in pain, her rapidly dulling eyes rolling upward.

Two men stood guard at the top of the staircase, grumbling discontentedly.

"Please, sir," Ollivander begged hoarsely through the bars.

The man on the right scowled and waved his wand threateningly. "Quiet you!"

"Miss Granger is gravely wounded; she needs medical assistance…"

"I said quiet, old man!"

"Please, she'll die…"

"It's a Mudblood! They're like cockroaches! Stamp on them as much as you like, but they keep coming back!"

The Death Eater on the left sent a stinging hex at his partner. "Quit yer bellyachin'. The Dark Lord wants the lass alive; if sumthin's wrong wit' 'er it's gotta be taken care of. Go get Malfoy, the lass is his trouble!"

The man on the right huffed, but did as he was told. Ollivander swayed with relief and pulled away from the door to sit beside Luna, Griphook and the new young lady. Vine and dragon heartstring, 10 ¾ inches; he remembered. He placed his hand over Luna's, adding more pressure to the wound, and swept his fingers across Hermione's brow, brushing away the hair and clammy sweat. Her eyelids were lowered, though not closed completely.

"Miss Granger. Miss Granger, you must stay awake. Can you hear me? You must not fall asleep! Do you understand?"

Hermione moaned, her head bobbing slightly. She closed her eyes tightly for a moment then opened them wide. The circles under her eyes were deep, dark purple.

"Lu… na…" she breathed.

"I'm here, Hermione," Luna said, tightening her hold on the older girl, rocking gently. "I'm right here. Yo-you'll be okay."

The barred door burst open, and Malfoy hurried in with his mother. At their entry, Griphook slunk away from his fellow prisoners. Ollivander and Luna huddled closer to Hermione's limp form, as if to protect her.

"What's this about Granger dying?" Malfoy demanded.

"Miss Granger is bleeding from a potentially fatal wound." Ollivander said. "Did you not notice when bringing her down here? It is quite obvious."

Narcissa's mouth was tightly pinched, and she cast a charm. Hermione's jumper and shirt vanished from her body, reappearing in the Malfoy matron's hands, leaving the young woman in her bra and pants. There would be no male blushing at the sight of her body, however, with her flesh wound horridly displayed for all to see. Luna's hand, covered in her friend's blood, rushed to her mouth, and there was a collective gasp. Narcissa's expression grew grim and she knelt, tracing the tip of her wand over Hermione's body.

"I-I didn't think it was that bad…" Malfoy admitted reluctantly.

"Not that bad?" Ollivander hissed. "No one ever walks away from He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named with injuries that are 'not that bad'! You know that well enough, young Malfoy!"

The young man flinched.

"Go to my medicine cabinet, Draco!" Narcissa demanded. "We need Essence of Dittany and a Blood Replenishing Potion immediately or we'll lose her!"

What little color there was in Malfoy's cheeks vanished completely. Voldemort had charged him with Hermione's care; if she died it would be his head. He fled the makeshift dungeon, running for his life.

"Don't fall asleep, child," Narcissa said firmly, casting spells on the Muggle-born witch. "You mustn't let yourself sleep!"

But dreams were calling Hermione Granger, and the pull of darkness could not be resisted for much longer. Her eyelids felt as if they had weights attached to them, and she could only distantly feel her body as a light prickle.

Luna pressed her cheek to Hermione's forehead and began to sing. Her voice was light and whimsical, though tears fell from her eyes.

"Merry Christmas, merry Christmas,

"Ring the Hogwarts bell.

"Merry Christmas, merry Christmas,

"Cast a Christmas spell.

"How wondrous the ways of Christmas;

"Have a merry Christmas Day.

"Move around the sparkling fire;

"Have a merry Christmas Day.

"Find a broomstick in your stocking

"Singing you the magic of this place.

"Join the owls' joyous flocking

"On this merry Christmas Day.

"Ding dong, ding dong,

"Ring the Hogwarts bell.

"Ding dong, ding dong,

"Cast a Christmas spell.

"Ding dong, ding dong,

"Make the Christmas morning bright,

"Fly high across the sky,

"Light the Christmas night.

"Merry Christmas, merry Christmas,

"Ring the Hogwarts bell.

"Merry Christmas, merry Christmas."

Author's Afterthoughts:

Wow, that was longer than I expected it to get! ::wipes forehead:: Phew! If you think Hermione's going to die then you're obviously just a reader, not a writer. XD Come on; would I really do that? ::Whistles and rocks on heels, ignoring the voices shouting "yes!"::

The song Luna sings is from the Harry Potter and the Sorcerer/Philosopher's Stone Soundtrack. Boy, what an awful Christmas, huh?

By the way: Thanks to Shan84 for beta-ing, and thanks to What-Ansketil-Did-Next for the story title!