Harry Potter 1. Chapter 1

- A/N - I am a huge fan of Vanillusion, a writer on this site, and when I read the disturbing tale 'Better Than This' I was floored for a week in admiration and horror. When I was finally capable of coherent thought again, I took up my keyboard and started this little tale. I wanted, you see, to join Vanillusion in the darkness and the stink of the dungeons. It seemed clinical and horrible and brilliant, so brilliant it made my chest constrict. So if you see some shadows of the other author's genius in here, it is only my way of saying "Well done, Van. Well done indeed." Without further ado...let the pain be brought.  
N.R.

Giving Up

There is a certain emancipation in giving up. In laying there on the stone floor after yet another brutalization and making no move to stand up or cover yourself or wipe at the little trickle of blood that is running down your cheek.  
Hermione didn't even glance up to watch her tomentor leave. It was enough that he was gone, and the door locked and barred behind him. Her body hurt, that was undeniable, but the greater pain came from her soul.

A young girl expects certain things from life. Not particularily difficult things for the world to provide, really. It was simplicity itself; safety, hope for the future, mental stimulation, freedom from pain and misuse. Maybe to meet someone wonderful and get married. Have children. Sit outside in the fading sunset with her happy family and know that all was right with the world. These were things that should have been hers by right. But now, here on the flagstones watching her blood drip into a mirrored dark pool centimeters from her left eye, Hermione had no expectations whatsoever, not even the raw hope that she would be released.

It seemed like years, though she knew by the marks on the wall it had been only two months. Marks she'd dug in the grimy stone with a shard of rock that had come loose from the sleeping platform. Two long months since Voldemort had won and given over the traitors to his loyal followers at Durmstrang. Two months since Harry and Ron and Hermione and Ginny and everyone else who used to call Hogwarts home had been tossed casually into the dungeons beneath the drafty castle far to the north.

There had been death, of course, and torture.

Sometimes she could hear screams off in the distance somewhere, down the long corridors behind locked wooden doors. She could never tell from the screams just who they belonged to - the sounds were too inhuman. Noises that no human being should ever have to make, that she didn't remember ever hearing before even in her most desperate nightmares. Their collective tormentors used a variety of crude and outmoded tools on the prisoners, whips and cats' paws, Spanish Boots and iron braces, the pear, the wheel, the smoky branding irons with their crispings of flesh around the edges. Thank god, thank any gods at all that might be left and listening, Hermione hadn't been brutalized too horribly. A few light beatings, some verbal abuse, some threats...that was all. Her captors didn't bother to wear masks or even hoods. They were cruel to her in a bored way, almost as an afterthought. The true sadism was saved for other prisoners. Prisoners like Harry, she was sure. Whatever awfulness he was going through, she couldn't imagine. It was terrible, awful, beyond enduring to not know.

And yet she somehow did just that. Endured. Day in, day out...even though she no longer had any idea what was day and what was night. Always the dim light, always the flickering torches on the walls and the occasional glow from a spell in the hallway. Roughly crafted black iron bars covered the front of her cell, making it feel more like cage than anything else. A pale blue light, a mage-barrier, hissed up and down the length of each bar. Until the spell was released with the proper pass key, touching the bars would bend her very soul with an excruciating pain that would last until someone thought to release her. And she was certain that no one would wish to do that right away. All of her cleverness left her in the bleakness of her situation. No hope, no hope at all.  
Only the freedom of giving up, as she knew they wished.

Durmstrang was haunted. Not in the pleasant way that Hogwarts had been, but on a deeper and more disturbing level. Everything felt tainted and slimy, as though hundreds and maybe even thousands of innocent lives had been roughly ended by brutal means somewhere down the corridors. Hermione closed her eyes, blotting out the light.  
Someone, somewhere in the bowels of the castle, was sobbing softly. Further down the hall, she could hear a key turn in a lock, then begging, then the unmistakeable sounds... Crude laughter, grunting, weeping, the ruthless rhythmn of violation sending spasms of nausea through Hermione's body.

Sooner or later, she knew, they would get around to doing the same thing to her.

It was well after midnight, she could tell by the silence all around, when her light slumber was disturbed by the arrival of a hooded figure at the entrance to her cell.  
"Oh God..." Hermione moaned, anticipating another beating. She drew her skinny, dirty bare legs up against her chest and huddled against the side of the wall, trying to make herself as small a target as possible.  
"Tut tut, Miss Granger. I had thought you were made of sterner stuff than this." The low, cultured voice was unmistakeable. It was Lucius Malfoy.  
The hood was drawn back, revealing his sleek golden hair and proud aristocratic features. A snake about to strike, a knife glittering in the firelight, a shiny Death's Head beetle clicking in the gloom. He was all of these things, his very presence shouting a warning to any and all who did not love pain to run, run, run away.  
Hermione whimpered, unable to look away from him.  
Slowly, the tall man surveyed her cell with an air of extreme distaste. He began to pull off his black gloves, a finger at a time.  
"You must forgive me, young lady, for not visiting you sooner. I have been diverted elsewhere these past few weeks. Your little friend Harry has provided most...amusing...company."  
"What have you done to him?" she found herself asking, and was gratified to note that her voice trembled very little. Lucius gracefully lowered himself to sit on the very edge of her sleeping platform, smiling at her in a most unpleasant fashion.  
"I shall tell you, my dear. First I had him tied down very firmly, arms and legs spread out like a star. He was simply charming, pleading for me not to hurt him in the most heartwrenching manner. 'Oh please oh please oh god no no no!' It was quite dramatic."  
Hermione moaned and hid her face in her hands. She hated this man, HATED him!  
Harry.  
_Oh no, Harry. What did they do to you?  
_"Then I took a rod of nice, rigid steel and flogged him until the blood ran down over his body like a river. You really ought to have seen it, little Hermione. I was most impressed with the boy's resilience. He didn't lose consciousness for quite some time. Of course, he was shrieking like a baby and choking on his own vomit, but all in all -"  
"You BASTARD!" Hermione cried hoarsely, leaping to her feet and rushing towards him. Lucius languidly waved his hand with a word, and she collapsed against the far wall as though flung.  
"Really, Miss Granger, this outburst is most unbecoming. Most unbecoming. One might question your manners, interrupting a superior like that. I shall have to give you over to Draco for a few hours if you can't behave. He seems to be developing a taste for, shall we say, brutalizations these days."  
"Damn you, damn you, damn you..." Hermione sobbed, her head pressed to the floor by the potency of his spell.

"Not very nice at all, really. And I had thought to recommend that the guards feed you this evening. I understand it's been rather a few days now. You must be famished."  
He moved to kneel in front of her, haughty and clean and well-fed and triumphant. With mocking gentleness, he tilted her chin up and forced her to look him in the eyes.  
"If you please me, I might arrange for a change of cell for you, my dear. Come now, can you use that pert little mouth for anything besides screaming obscenities? Hmm?"  
Hermione was too sickened by the very thought to even respond verbally. She mustered all of her strength to draw in a breath, and then spit a small wad of bloody foam right into his face. He slapped her, hard, across the cheek.  
"Little bitch! You'll soon learn not to trifle with your betters." He hissed angrily, wiping away the offensive material. He rose to his feet, then kicked her hard in the side with one immaculate black boot. She wailed in pain, pulling away.  
"Sadly, I have several other things to attend to this evening. Enjoy your repreive, precious short though it be. I shall return, little Hermione. I hope to find you in a more compliant mood. Or not. It makes no difference to me. The end result will be the same however hard you struggle." He actually harshed a laugh at that, and turned on his heel to leave. Hermione heard the lock click behind him, but she did not have the energy to roll over again. She stayed where she was, facing the wall, seeing in her mind the awful vision of poor Harry being beaten to within an inch of his life for no other crime than his birth. It was an image that caused every single nerve in her body to scream with sympathetic pain. Her rib ached where Lucius had kicked it, and her lip was bleeding again.  
_'I want to die.'_ she thought, but she knew they would never allow that.  
It would be too easy.


	2. Chapter 2

Unexpected Solace

It was true, what Lucius had said.  
No one had thought to feed her in at least three days. She was starving. As soon as she had the power of movement again, she sat up and crawled to the little steel bowl under the food slot in the corner, picking through the desiccated maggots and grotesque powdering of mold to see if any stray vegetable or piece of bread remained.  
Nothing.  
Her side was on fire, and she knew for certain that a rib was bruised, if not broken. It seemed a lifetime since her body had been free of pain. Since she'd eaten a decent meal. Since she'd laughed or felt a gentle touch or listened to the sound of thunder coming in over the hills. At least her family was safe, and Crookshanks. They were far away, hidden with scores of other refugees in the Americas, along with a few members of Ron's family and nearly all of the Ministry of Magic cowards. Hedwig had been taken with them...it was the last Portkey to safety and Hermione had still lingered behind in the hope that Dumbledore would return and save the day again. And she had stayed to fight for him, even if he never returned.  
Whether he had or not, the good guys lost. The good guys always seemed to lose these days.

Oh god...poor Harry.

Hermione wondered if he was still alive. She missed him with an ache like fire. Damn Malfoy, damn them all. If there was any justice at all in the world, somehow this would all turn out to have been just a very bad, very real nightmare.

She picked up a maggot, wondering if it would taste as awful as she had always heard. She wished she had her wand. Turning a maggot into a meatloaf would have been preferable to crunching up the bug au naturale, but it seemed she had little choice. Tentatively, she did the unthinkable, and ate the maggot. How far? How far must one sink before they will do such things?  
Her pathetic meal too soon over, Hermione moved to the very back of her cell and curled into a ball under the bunk, trying to disappear into the cold stone. Everything hurt. She cried, softly to herself, the misery in her soul too great a wound to express.

A commotion in the hallway some hours later stirred her from her torper, and she chanced a peek out through the bars.  
Someone was being dragged, kicking and screaming, down the hall and past her cell. A wordless shriek of pure terror, a face so contorted with fear and pain that it seemed hardly human, and Hermione watched in horror as Cho Chang was led away to the darker rooms a floor below.  
The rooms where they flayed people alive. The rooms where the braziers were kept hot and full of coals, ready to bring the branding irons and the tongue-pincers and the breast-rippers and the dozens of other pain-bringing iron and steel contraptions to a glowing, red-hot level of cleansing agony. A month ago Hermione would have been screaming too, screaming with Cho and for her and railing at the guards with all of her strength.  
But fear sealed her lips, sliding down her throat in a cool draught of cowardice. Fear lest she be drawn out as well and taken down the dark stone staircase with the leering gargoyles and strapped to a table next to Cho, face-down, waiting to be skinned or flogged or raped over and over again with a variety of tools. A variety of people. Faceless wizards, the captors, the victors, the Masters of her and everyone else's fate.

She sobbed quietly, and when night fell she did not get up from her cramped position. Though her bladder burned with the need to urinate and her stomach rumbled in desperation, she did not rise. The warm liquid trickled out of her, wetting her ragged clothing and stinging the cuts on her thigh, but she did not even bother to turn.

_'Let me stink'_, she thought, _'Let me smell so bad that they won't want to touch me.'_  
But she knew it would be no deterrant to them, that she was filthy and starved and ugly and soaking in her own piss. They would splash her with water before tying her down and taking her. She has, alas, seen it before. Gentle Neville Longbottom, sobbing so hard he could not stand, being raped brutally amidst much laughter in the cell across from her. The image never really left her mind, and sometimes at night she would awaken from a nightmare to find the sound of flesh slapping against unwilling flesh tugging at her heartstrings until she feared she would go mad.  
Even her nightmares were different now.  
Before she would have bad dreams of monsters and bats with red eyes, maybe dreams about failure or being rejected. But now her nightmares were a cruel joke. She dreamed of being home and safe, warm and well-fed, loved and happy...only to open her eyes upon Hell itself and find that her dreams had been mocking her again.

They finally came for her in the night as she knew they would, so late it was early, and there were five of them. Lucius Malfoy was there, and several others she did not recognize. The biggest one held her down, her arms above her head, while the other four took turns raping her. Her crude dress was pushed up, they mocked the state of her body, her stink and her scrawniness and the cold smell of fear that oozed forth from her pores. They ripped her legs apart and slapped her face even though she begged them not to, told them she wouldn't fight, just please don't hurt me don't! The first one spilled his seed inside her, the second drew out at the last moment and aimed for her eyes. Lucius demanded that she be bent over for the cruelest intrusion yet, a pain like fire and a rending of her tender skin, blood lubricating the way for his vile member. The fourth man penetrated her mouth, cutting her lip, even before Lucius finished with her backside. And the big one, the one who had held her down, merely stood over her and urinated. The crude laughter hurt her almost as much as the yellow acid spraying her wounds.

That was it. She was nothing then. Nothing but garbage, a toilet, a heap of bleeding meat to be used any way one wished. ' It' had no feelings. 'It' had no soul.  
That is how Hermione was broken, that night when she accepted her status as a thing.

In the bruised aftermath, she crawled up onto her bunk and wrapped herself in the ragged thin towel that served as a blanket. She did not cry. Blood trickled down her bottom and from between her legs and from the cut on her mouth. The dim sound of Cho - or was it someone else? - screaming from somewhere down below her filtered up through the stone. Hermione thought of Crookshanks. She missed his warm fur against her face. The last time she had seen him, he was in her mother's arms, her mother was weeping and begging Hermione to come too.  
But there was a last fight to be fought.  
The old members of Dumbledore's Army wanted to help, to fight beside the last remnants of the old ways, those witches and wizards who could not bear to allow something as evil as Voldemort to prosper. She fought and was defeated and thrown into a cage crowded with all her dear friends, watched the grown-ups being tortured and killed, waited her turn while Harry held her in his arms and Ron rubbed her back. and she knew what would happen, what would happen soon. They were all thrown into one cell for a time, until the Death Eaters could spare the time to terrorize the children properly. Hermione made a last act of defiance that night, the night that the last of the adults loyal to Dumbledore were burned at the stake in the courtyard, a revolting parody of the way witches and wizards were treated in the Dark Ages. But there was no escaping the mage-fire, and no escaping the faint screams as the mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles of the three dozen or so teenagers in the dungeon were slowly roasted alive.  
Hermione took Harry's face in her hands and kissed him, kissed him until their tears mingled and she couldn't feel anything anymore.  
"Don't let them take my virginity." she whispered, and Harry understood. He always understood. While Ron sat unseeing and unhearing, rocking back and forth in the corner and muttering to himself, Harry took Hermione to a shadowy place behind the stacks of moldering cots and rude blankets and lay her down. He fumbled a bit, trying to learn what to do with their bodies, but finally slid inside her and broke her hymen and made love to her for the first and last time in their lives. She tasted a sense of freedom then, a tiny triumph before the long defeat of the rest of her life. And while the five men had raped her, a small secret part of her smiled.  
Her virginity had not been taken by these scum. It had been taken by a dear friend who loved her. The memory of that one simple act of compassion would warm her through the endless cold.

Hermione started like a scared rabbit.  
Someone was clumsily prodding the bars, opening a minute window in the crackling shield. A hand slipped through, clutching a small bundle. Only one torch was lit outside, and she could just make out the rough shape of some crouching figure. She shrank back in terror, her mind spinning. Was this some sort of new torment? The hand laid the bundle on the floor and gave it a little push. A fold of cloth fell away, revealing the unmistakeable sight of a crusty loaf of bread. Without thinking, Hermione pounced on the food like a cat on a mouse, tearing large chunks off with her teeth and devouring it before it could be taken away. An apple was also in the bundle of cloth, and a small flagon of clean water. She ate everything, even the seeds and the stem, and drank all of the water, eyeing the silent figure beyond the bars. After a few moments, it rose.  
"Wait." Hermione whispered desperately, "Who are you?"  
"Sleep, Her-my-oh-ninny. Sleep and I vill bring you more food ven I can." He, for it was most surely a he, had a deep and gentle voice. One that she recognized.

And then he was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

_Author's Note - All descriptions of torture and execution methods are taken from historical accounts. Being broken on the Wheel was also referred to as 'braiding', and was in use in Europe during the ninth century for thieves, heretics and traitors.

* * *

_

**Reprieve**

He had gone too quickly, that man she recalled with the gentle voice.

Viktor Krum, proud son of Durmstrang.

The first kind words, the first show of mercy since her capture and subsequent violation. Would he return? She desperately hoped so. The warmth of her recent meal had worn off, and now the darkness seemed colder than ever. She'd pulled off the blankets of her narrow bunk and thrown them into a little pile in the corner to escape the niggling biting of the fleas, and now she crouched on the bunk watching the little hopping dots make their way back to her.

"Come on then, little ones. Come to mother." she whispered, feeling a momentary pang in her chest as she beheld their miniscule scrambling bodies. So pitiful, so horrible the way they lusted after her blood to the exclusion of all else. Pity moved her hands, and Hermione retrieved the blankets and re-made her bed.  
Let someone other than her captors receive what they desired in this cell, damn it.

Hermione looked down at her hands inthe weak torchlight, at her arms and legs, her stomach under the ragged cloth. Open sores, so recently washed in the clean water Viktor had brought her, were already crusting over again. Quite suddenly she was angry at Viktor. Angry that he'd brought a light into her dank, hopeless world and made her happy for a few minutes. Because now the darkness was worse, the void he'd left behind was gnawing at her hope again and she couldn't breathe. Misery hissed its noxious gas through the cracks in her soul, and she hid her face in her hands and wept.

The door to the cell was opened some time later, and two strong giantish-looking men entered with a copper of water. Hermione gave a shriek and shrank against the wall, terrified of them. The one on the left, now, he was even larger than Hagrid. And the other one had a stupid, puffed face that reminded her of a pumpkin left out in the rain too long. They paid her noises no mind, and she was roughly grabbed and dunked into the cold water, scrubbed with a bristled brush and what smelled like lye soap, her clothing torn off and her bedding with its homey nest of flea-friends thrown into a bag to be taken to the burn-pile. It was all over swiftly, the bastards knew their work and did not try to touch her in anything resembling an intimate fashion. Naked, freezing, pink and raw and stinging from the soap, Hermione was tossed back onto the floor of her cell to sit in the dim dampness and watch her breath rise from her gasping mouth. The cold was horrendous, and there was nothing to wrap herself in to keep it at bay. She searched in desperation for something, anything to cover herself with, but nothing remained. They'd even taken her mattress.

Crying, folded double with the pain of the cold, she finally sat down against the wall as close to the front of her cell - and the meager wisps of warmth it offered - as she dared. He mind didn't bother to question why she'd been cleaned and her bedding taken. She could hear from the sounds that others were being similarly treated all up and down the hallway.

And then something happened that made even the blood in her veins freeze.

A light tread, steps slow and methodical, the rustle of robes and the even rhythm of breathing outside in the hallway. A man, flanked by four others, was making his slow way down the row of cells, commenting on the inhabitants.  
The Executioner. Hermione could just hear him, and his every word brought waves of agony to her heart.  
"This one, burn him alive. It will amuse the men. This one, let's boil him. This one, she should be impaled. Won't that be fun? Oh I do hope we don't run out, this is delightful. Leave these ones, I haven't thought up anything terrible enough for a girl who spits on her superiors or a boy who refuses to do what he's told - and you really ought to have simply done it, young man. Over here, gentlemen, what shall we do with her?"  
"Skin her." One voice said, cold and laughing.  
"Rack her."

"Bake her in a kiln until she's as hard and glazed as a cooking-pot."  
"Wrap her in a cotton sack, soak her in pitch and make a candle!"  
They dissolved into hysterical sninckering as the unfortunate inhabitant of the cell sobbed in pure terror. Hermione strained to see, but they were still several feet down the corridor and she could make out only shadows.

Hide. She had to hide. But where? Where could she curl up beyond the reach of their vision, their glimmering wand-lights and their evil searching eyes. Her name and a list of her 'crimes' was hanging just outside the cell. Even one black tick in the 'condemn' box would spell her doom, and she'd fought hard against her captors time and again. Fighting was what earned the marks. Fighting for your life only meant you lost it in a more gruesome way. Hermione put her head down on her knees and watied, the tears catching in her throat on a huge bubble of mortal terror.

"Him? I like his face, actually. Dress him properly and take him to my chambers. After I've finished, pass him about to all the others and then to the soldiers. Then to the cooks. Then - oh DO stop making me laugh so! - then we'll give him to the trolls to play with. If anything is left, we'll hand it over to the dogs. Ha ha! Isn't this FUN?!"

They'd arrived at her cell. Hermione didn't look up. She didn't move a muscle. Instead, she silently prayed.  
_'Please, just let me die. Just let me be invisible. Turn me into a flea and let me hop away. But I will bite his ankles first.'_

"The great Hermione Granger, Pride of the Mudbloods. I've been waiting for you to receive your condemnation mark. Looks like I shan't have to wait any longer."

_'Let me become a Phoenix. I'll burn his face away before escaping. Or just make me explode. But kill him. Kill him and free me. Oh God, Oh Whoever is listening, if ever you loved me, please help me now. Please.'_

"What shall it be, do you think? I like you. You have spirit. I'll let you choose. Is it to be fire? Water? Buried alive with a hundred hornets, maybe? I have lists you know. I am dearly fond of making lists. I have over a hundred ways to die. Would you like to see them? Beg me and I might let you pick."

She risked a glance. He was tall, handsome, blond. Those blue eyes were enough to make any girl's heart melt. He smiled a lot, and he had a dimple in his cheek. But if you looked long enough, the cruelty depravity and self-centered laziness became apparent. She wanted desperately to beg for her life, but she simply did not have the energy.

"Let's roll dice then, shall we? I have one here with twenty sides! One - we burn you. Simple, but an old favorite. Two - we shave off your skin in most places and drop you in a vat of acid. Three - I put you inside a cooking vessel and we turn up the fire a little more every hour. Four - "

She wasn't listening. A hollow ringing was filling her ears, her body was shutting itself off from the sound of his voice. Somewhere deep inside herself, she was back in bed in the Gryffindor dormatory, watching the snow falling outside and wondering if her friends were awake yet.

"Seven - I cut bits off of you until you bleed to death. Eight - I submerge you in boiling oil toes first, then a little more, then a little more. Ha ha! Oh, I ADORE surprises. We should roll dice for all of them, don't you think? Nine - we open your stomach and pull out your entrails, then feed them to you. It will be like a little circle! How poetic! Ten - I break every bone in your scrawny little body with a cudgel until you're a living, screaming jellyfish. Just screaming and screaming, until the screams come out bloody..."

Velvet descended over her ears, her mind, her soul. She felt calm for the first time in months. Unafraid. The pain had been bad, but now it would be over soon. A week, maybe less, and then the final fight.

"Twelve - I strip you completely, hair, teeth, nails...everything. Then I toss you into the refuse pit with the rest of the slugs and we bury you all under a nice clean layer of salt. Thirteen - I wrap you in razor wire and send a low voltage through it. Every time your muscles jump, you lay yourself wide open! Genius, don't you think? I love these things, I really do. We all have our talents. And Lord Voldemort, bless him, has a place for any talent in his new order! Fourteen - We really ought to work more wasps into this. Let's see...I like the idea of putting you into a sack with a hive or four..."

Hermione felt the warmth of her father's hands on her shoulders, the soft brush of Crookshanks against her cheek. He mother's voice. Home. She wondered for a moment who these people were, and what manner of dream she was having.

The Executioner rolled his twenty-sided die.  
"Ten! Oh, how lovely! That one seemed so much richer than the others. Unlock her cage, guard."

And then the miracle happened.

A hooded page arrived, out of breath, waving a piece of cream-colored paper sealed with red wax.  
"Sir? Sir, I haff been sent to bring zis note from Baron Krum. He is requesting the young woman to be sent to him for zee week."  
"What?!"  
"Yes, sir. Immediately. He is, how do you say, ready to join in zee fun."  
The Executioner rubbed his hands together, chuckling.  
"And I thought he would never loosen up! This is wonderful indeed. Very well then. Someone bring her another dress. One week, little Hermione Granger. One week and then you'll be broken under my cudgel. But until then, you have the dubious honor of being the first plaything of our dear Baron Krum, who has remained aloof these long months. I do hope he leaves enough of you left to maim, my dear. Perhaps I shall allow him to weild the club himself. Ha ha!"

And Hermione was, just like that, spared for a time. But what Viktor's father wanted with her she could not guess. She could only hope. The giantish fellows returned and threw in a sack gown and a laughably thin cloak, chuckling to one another about her fate. Everyone had heard. She was to be broken on the Wheel in the courtyard for all to see, her smashed limbs threaded through the spokes and then the whole given a spin to splatter her lifeblood across the delightedly screaming crowds. Hell awaited in a week. But for now, a possible heaven. Unless this was all a joke. Unless Baron Krum merely wished to teach his errant son a lesson in viciousness.

They led her out through the dungeons, of course. Just to make sure she saw it all. Just to ensure the nightmares would persist no matter what delusions she allowed herself during her reprieve.  
Right away she saw Cho Chang. Stretched out naked on the rack, her joints swollen to grotesque bubbles of blood and gristle. She was unconcious, thank God. Hermione looked away. A young girl sat in a cage of iron, livid burns running all up her feet and legs from the places where they heated the metal on occasion. She stared at Hermione with deepest pity. Two boys sat chained together in a tub of filth, excrement and blood and urine...the loose evidence of the prisoners' collective fear. Hermione was led on a macabre tour of the place. No words were spoken.  
They brought her up the stairs and into the weak sunlight.  
She wished she'd been born blind.

The ride to Baron Krum's home was bumpy and uneventful. She was drawn swiftly through maudlin crowds of witches and wizards, and not one of them dared to look up at her white face staring from the window of the coach. To look might bring pity, which might in turn deepen the feeling of hatred that they all had for Voldemort. Which would, naturally, lead them to thoughts of revolution.  
Which would be suicide.

The Baron's castle was gloomy and dark save for one tower window, which glowed brightly with a cozy yellow light. They left her in the front hall chained to a radiator. "Hope he comes home soon, little ducky, because this chain might heat up too quickly and melt that pretty neck." And with a last guffaw, the jailer and his assistant collected the payment left out for them on the side table and withdrew.  
The radiator was cold, and so Hermione sat down against it and tried no to think about what she'd seen or about how hungry she was or the tickling ooze of blood down her side from a scab broken open during her bath earlier. Her matted hair had been drawn back into a severe knot, and it hurt. She tested the strength of her bound hands, but gave up after a few minutes out of sheer apathy. She just wanted to sleep.  
A clock ticked nearby.  
Somewhere down the hall she heard soft footfalls, and a moment later a splendid white cat sauntered into view. It stopped dead when it saw her.  
Hermione looked him over.  
The cat looked back.  
"Hullo, cat." she whispered. She missed Crookshanks very much, but she was afraid to make friends with any other animal for fear it would be harmed just to torment her further. That was the main reason she'd sent Crookshanks to safety. Everyone else who'd elected to stay had done the same with their beloved pets. Even the owls were dispatched to foreign lands. Voldemort knew no pity.

The cat made his way over to her, tail up in greeting, and settled his comforting bulk against her leg. His fur was warm and soft, and tears sprang into Hermione's eyes.  
There in the main hall of Baron Krum's castle, Hermione sobbed alone in the dark because a strange cat was showing her tenderness. The cat purred happily, bumping his head against her side, and Hermione would have gladly given everything she had ever owned just to have one hand free with which to pet him.

"Hermy-own-ninny." She looked up through her tears. It was Viktor. Beside him, removing his page's hood, was the messenger she'd seen earlier. She dimly remembered meeting him at the Yule Ball long ago. A handsome lad with a smooth goatee and eyes as black and darting as a hawk's. Viktor was dressed all in burgundy velvet, clean and healthy and looking better than she remembered. She hated him for a second, standing there well-fed and unharmed while she crouched on the dusty floor in rags and chains. But the feeling passed, and she met his gaze full of gratitude at what he'd done for her. No matter what happened when the Baron got home. She was here now with a man who meant her no harm.  
"Viktor." She rasped. Her throat hurt. The cat trotted happily over to the unmasked page and pawed at his leg.  
Viktor came to her side and knelt down. He pulled out his wand and clumsily removed the shackles, releasing her. Of course the magic had no effect on the iron mage-collar she wore to keep her powers at bay, but it was good to have the use of her hands back, and to be freed from the radiator. She struggled to rise, and Viktor helped her.  
He spoke swiftly to his friend in their growling Germanic language, and the second man came to hold her other arm. Together, the three of them moved into the warmth of the sitting-room, where they lay Hermione on the sofa. Viktor's friend withdrew with his cat, giving them some privacy.  
"I vill keep watch, Viktor." he said softly, and was gone. Viktor knelt beside her.

"Hermy-own-ninny, I am so sorry for vhat has been done to you. Please, please forgive me for not coming to you sooner. I vas afraid. I am a coward, Hermy-own-ninny. Please do not hate me"  
He pulled a soft blanket down from the back of the sofa and folded it over her shivering body to block out the chill in the room.  
Hermione touched his face, surprised to find it wet with tears. Her whole body ached and she was having trouble keeping her eyes open. Now that she was laying down, warming up, at rest for the first time months, maybe even a year. Her body was in dire need of rest. "Viktor, I forgive you. Thank you. Thank you so much. Please, what does your father want with me"  
He paused, dark eyes puzzled.  
"My father?"  
"Yes, the Baron. He sent for me, for a week. I was to be executed but he asked that I be brought here instead for a while. To break me, I think. I don't know."  
"My father has been dead for three years, Hermy-own-ninny."  
"But then - "  
"I am Baron Krum. The title passed to me vhen father died. I sent for you. I tried to buy you outright, but a week is all I could negotiate. I will see if there is something else I can do. Oh beautiful Hermy-own-ninny, I love you. I haff always loved you. I will do all that is necessary."  
He was incredibly beautiful to her watering, swollen eyes. Her body seemed to be all nerves, the pain finally rising up in great waves to set fire to her senses.  
"Viktor. I - I hurt. Please..."  
He understood. Gently, so as not to harm her further, he lifted her frail body into his arms and carried her to the sweeping stone staircase. In some tragic parody of a couple's first night together, he held her to his chest as he mounted the stairs, bringing her to a lavish hallway on the second floor which contained many doors. Pausing at one, he turned the handle and pushed the door wide with his hip.

It was a bedroom fit for a princess. French doors opened out on a stone terrace at the far wall. A huge bed hung with rich green damask curtains sat on a little raised dias on one end, a marble bath the size of a small pool set into the floor on the other side. At a soft word from Viktor, fire sprang up in the hearth and lit the candles by the bedside, the tapers in the chandelier, the small votives in little cups of colored glass in rows along every windowsill. He gently closed the door behind them and laid Hermione down on a comfortable velvet setee near the bath, then turned to begin drawing the water.  
"Are you hungry?"  
Hermione did not have the strength to nod.  
"Yes. Very. The last time I really ate was when you fed me."  
"But that vas three days ago!"  
"They threw me half a dried biscuit and some filthy water, but I threw it up."  
"I shall bathe you, Hermy-own-ninny, and then bring you some broth. Please do not worry about your sentence. It vill never come about."  
"Viktor. Viktor, will you promise me something?" She touched his arm in supplication.  
"Anything."  
"If the week ends and there is no hope of saving me from my fate, I want you to kill me."  
"What?!" He recoiled, shaking his head violently. Despite her physical condition, Hermione nevertheless found the strength to clutch at him again. She was desperate, her eyes wide and haunted.  
"Please! Promise me! Don't let me die like that, screaming and flopping about on the Wheel. Let me die safe and warm in your arms, with no nightmares or pain. Give me that. Please, if you truly love me, promise me!"

He saw how resolute she was, and it moved him. In this new age of Voldemort he has seen countless public executions, and the one that had tormented his dreams the most was similar to the one she'd described. The Executioner must have told her how she would be killed. The inhumanity of that single thought brought him a rush of pity, and he tenderly brushed her hair back from her bruised forehead.  
"Brave she-wolf with the bottomless eyes. I swear. If the week grows old and there is no way to save you, your death will come to you in the circle of my arms."

He unwrapped the blanket that was still folded around her as carefully as though he were opening a tissue cocoon around a valuable orchid. The flimsy dress she wore beneath ripped easily in his hands with almost no effort, and it set a grim muscle twitching in his jaw to think that such a design may have been purposeful. He untied the thin cloak and lifted her battered body away from the prison clothing, cuddling her to him for a moment before lowering her into the softly lit bath. She gave a little moan when the warm water touched her wounds, but whether from pain or pleasure he could not tell. He rested her against a little foam pillow and began to wash her as tenderly as an infant. For in this moment, with the scars both mental and physical pulling her body and soul into deformity, she was more helpless than she'd been since outgrowing her crib.

Viktor did not wince as he cleaned her scabs, rinsing the blood and the pus away with a deft touch. His expression didn't change as he washed the bruises on her inner thighs where the men had forced her legs apart. He bathed her carefully, erasing the touch of the jailors and the cold bite of the stone floor with every sweep of the soapy sponge. He tilted her head back and washed her hair, fingers gently working the lather through her matted, filthy curls with a kindness that no one who'd ever seen the Bulgarian Quidditch Team play would have believed.

When she was clean and shining, he lifted her from the bath and folded a dark emerald man's dressing gown about her, its collar smelling faintly of his cologne. He turned back the cuffs to find her hands and arranged her gently on the bed, propped against the pillows in more or less a sitting position.  
"Hermy-own-ninny - "  
"Oh Viktor. Please if you like, you can call me Hermy." He seemed to struggle a bit with her name, and it embarassed her. He grinned in a truly disarming fashion and produced a pearl-backed hairbrush.  
He began to brush the snarls from her hair with long, smooth strokes. They were silent for a long time, Viktor in concentration and Hermione in utter exhaustion.  
Every pass of the brush combed away the tangles, the matts that had formed despite her best efforts. Whether it was some magical balm in the shampoo he'd used or simply the effect of his patient grooming, the knots seemed to fall away with an almost eager quality. Hermione closed her eyes and let him work, more grateful than she had ever been before to be where she was now and not the place she'd come from so recently. An image of Cho, stretched and mangled, floated before her eyes and she stiffened, covering her face with both hands.  
"Hermy?"  
"We have to get them out, Viktor. We have to free them from...from what's being done to them. We can't let it continue. Voldemort is torturing children! The people have to know!"  
Viktor laid the brush aside, stroking her now-silken hair back from her eyes. He made soft, soothing sounds as he gathered her into his arms and held her for a few moments.  
"Hermy, people _do_ know. They are just too frightened to do anything about it. But if it will make you feel better, I shall see if there is something we can do. I haff few friends these days, but they are loyal. Some of us remember vhat it was like to live free from terror. Some of us still wish for those days."

He laid her back against the pillows and drew up a thick coverlet to warm her. Hermione desperately wanted to tell him what she'd seen, but she was nauseated and tired and battered beyond belief. Now, in a warm bed with the tangles combed from her hair and the filth washed from her wounds, she felt the caress of simple sleep tugging at her body.  
While Viktor watched her anxiously, she closed her eyes and gave her full weight to the pillows. And then, as she slept unafraid for the first time on almost a year, he slipped out to make her broth.

* * *

_- Ok, readers, I need you. What is the name of Viktor's friend? I'm sure you remember - slim young man with the neatly trimmed beard? He asked Ron's Yule Ball date to dance during the film version of the Goblet of Fire, and she told him he could have an arm, a leg, anything. I need a name, people. If he was never given one, I need a suggestion. Thanks so much for your help. - The Noble Rot_


	4. Chapter 4

A.N. - Thanks a bunch for all the terrific suggestions regarding the name of Viktor's friend. Upon learning that his name in real life is Tolga, I felt it would be only fair to extend the name to this fiction. Oh, and before anyone takes me to task...I am fully aware that Durmstrang has a hearty mixture of Russians and Germans, and so does Bulgaria. So Krum could be anything, really. Being partial to Germans, I picked a language for him. - N.R. 

Healing

Hermione awoke feeling, if anything, weaker than before. What time it was she could not guess, but judging by the stillness of the room and the utter absence of birdsong or other sounds from beyond the slightly opened windows it had to be very late indeed. Had she been asleep long? She tried to roll over, but the burning pain in her side and down her legs and through her head made her gasp aloud, and she lay still against the pillows, listening to the wind outside. It was warm here, and the room smelled faintly of some drowsy incense. The cat she had seen earlier lay curled at the foot of the bed, his paws stretched neatly before him like a little Sphinx. Despite her pain, Hermione felt compelled to lean forward and pat the bed beside her, enticing the animal to come and be petted, which he obliged to very readily.  
"What a sweet cat you are." Hermione cooed, scratching him behind one ear. She was rewarded with a quiet rumble that started somewhere deep in the cat's chest. He closed his eyes, stretching out.

"Dane." came a soft voice from the doorway. Hermione started horribly at the sound, her nerves still raw from all that had passed. But it was only Viktor's friend from before, standing in the hallway with a tray of food in his hands.  
"I beg your pardon?" Hermione said softly. He advanced into the room and set the tray on a little table next to her bed.  
"I said his name is Dane. My cat. And he seems to like you. I haff brought food for you, if you vant to eat now"  
"I - well, I almost feel as though I could manage it. A little, anyway. Where is Viktor"  
"He has gone to speak vith his friend, a powerful man who might be able to help. I am to care for you until he returns"  
Something in his voice made Hermione smile slightly, a wincing smile that almost hurt to form.  
"You would rather be doing other things than playing nurse-maid to me"  
The young man looked uncomfortable for a moment and drew up a chair beside her bed.  
"I vould rather haff met you again under different circumstances. I am not happy with...with all of this"  
"I remember you from the dance, the Yule Ball we went to the year of the Tri Wizard Tournament. You stole Ron's date"  
"Padma. Yes, she vas very lovely. Those were happier times. The Dark Lord gave she and her sister and all others who haff even a drop of Djinni Blood to the Arabs, not wanting to make open war with them. And so no war has come. Now I do not know what vill happen. But if there is anything I can do for you, please tell me. Call for me if you have a need. My name," he leaned forward, and Hermione saw the lights from the candles reflected in the black pools of his eyes, "is Tolga. And I am Viktor's friend. And your servant"  
"Thank you"  
"Is there anything you would like"  
Hermione thought that those words were the sweetest she had heard in a long time. She lay back exhausted against the pillows.  
"You are so kind, so incredibly kind. Please, what I want most is information. What can you tell me about the resistance"  
"What resistance"  
Hermione was saddened to hear the bitter resignation in his answer.  
"There isn't one, is there"  
Tolga huffed an angry laugh and looked down at the plate of food in his lap. He carefully spooned up a bit of broth and held it to her lips, wiping her face with a pristine white cloth when she coughed and choked on the mouthful. It was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted, rich and fragrant and stronger than wine. Her unusual caretaker fed her slowly, dabbing at her wet lips every few bites, until the broth was gone. Feeling infinitely better, Hermione allowed herself a brief moment of happiness, daring to hope that this was real and all the pain that came before was the result of a bitter nightmare.  
"Can you handle a bit of fruit?"

"Yes, please." Hermione had not tasted fruit since her capture, and she was suddenly ravenous. Tolga held a sliver of melon to her lips and she accepted it gratefully, feeling the chill flesh wither into sublime sweetness on her tongue. Carried to the brink of rapture by the tenuous summer of its taste, she felt tears spring to her eyes. He fed her another piece, and another. Then a few chunks of strong yellow cheese, a dozen bread cubes drenched in honey and baked to chewy bliss, spiced sausage with butter-ladened potatoes, a lucious creme brulee, all washed down with sips of the most glorious honey mead that bees' labors ever inspired. Completely sated, joyously full and content for the first time in she knew not how long, Hermione finally motioned him to stop. Tolga smiled down at her, tenderly wiping away the last traces of creme from her upper lip.  
He leaned forward and gently kissed her forehead.  
"It has been said that ven a man feeds a baby wolf, the wolf vill protect him ven he is in need. Perhaps you shall come to my aide one day, Hermione Granger."  
Hermione reached over and took his hand in her own, smiling weakly.  
"If ever there is anything I can do for you, for either of you, for any of you...I will."

After Tolga left, Hermione slept again, and in her dreams she was dying. Every time her body gave up and succumbed to the wounds inflicted upon it by an uncaring and almost bored Executioner, she was remade and forced to endure the whole over and over again. Beaten, switched, peeled, burned, branded, boiled, torn, ripped, raped, murdered. Bloody murder, and all the sanctimonious posturings of her killers spelled out in horrid detail. The falsehoods that were told to the people about the 'dangerous' prisoners being kept, the 'justice' meted out by the 'righteous' new cleansing fire that was Lord Voldemort's reich. The way the terrified common witches and wizards closed their eyes and their ears and their hearts to the disappearances, the glaring lack of former Hogwarts children in the ranks of the free, the prison carts rattling through the deserted midnight streets and the heartbreaking weeping of those left behind to mourn. Hermione was crying in her sleep, her closed eyes streaming and her pale gaunt face full of anguish. In the moonlight, his eyes darkened with pain, Viktor sat by her bedside and watched her wrestle with invisible demons. Every time she cried out, his hands tightened on the armrests of his chair. Hate compelled those hands to move, but wisdom kept them in check. His daily war with himself drove him to solitude and vile tempers, a fact that only lent credence to his reputation as a foul-spirited villian. But that reputation had enabled him to save Hermione for the time being, and so he was glad of it.

She stirred again, agony raw and shivering on her face, and suddenly he could bear it no longer. He moved to lie down beside her, his hand against the hollow place at the base of her throat beneath the mage-collar. Her soft translucent flesh seemed as fragile as a moth's wing. "Hermy." he whispered close against her ear, and her eyes snapped open in the dim room to stare wildly at the man next to her. With a cry of pain and relief, she rolled her head to one side and buried her face in his chest. And he held her, held her tightly and with great love, until her sobs quieted.  
"The Executioner..." she whispered brokenly. Viktor leaned back and brushed her tears away with his lips, kissing the soft bruised places beneath her eyes.  
"Hermy, my Liebling, my goddess, my muse. He vill never touch you."  
"I am dying!"  
"Shhh-shhhh. Not by his brutality. Not by his hand. Hush, beautiful one. Look at me."  
Hermione raised her eyes to look at him, lying there beside her with arms holding her close against him. So warm, so real, so alive. She could feel his heart pounding in his chest, smell the soft scent of the soap he used. She remembered their first kiss, behind the stone column in the back of the main hall, the sound of the band playing loud in her ears and the feel of his touch. He had gently cupped her face in his huge hands and lowered his lips to hers, bringing her body to life as sweetly as summer rain opens the bud of the last stubborn flower. And she had melted, and from that day forth had belonged to him in some quiet, unacknowledged way.

"Viktor." she breathed his name, too exhausted in mind and body to do anything but look at him, lose herself in those fathomless brown eyes that held all the light and knowledge and tenderness in the universe. He pulled away slightly, his gaze still locked with hers, and began to remove his cloak and boots.

"I am so sorry, Hermy-own-ninny." he said softly, shaking his head. He unlaced the front of his embroidered tunic and drew the fine material up and over his head, revealing a simple shirt of soft brown linen and a pair of loose black pants beneath. Gently, so as not to shake the mattress and cause her healing body to feel any pain, he folded back the blankets and slipped into bed beside her, pulling her gently into his arms again.  
"Why?" Hermione asked. It was an open-ended question. Why did Voldemort win. Why did he delight in causing such pain. Why did the children have to suffer when it was a war that they'd been born into and not started. Why, why, why.

Viktor held her, kissing the tears away as they fell, warming her chilled soul with his breath and his body and the strength of his spirit. She returned his kisses, lifting her face so that their lips met, losing her fear in the feel of his hands on her shoulder and stomach, his tongue brushing hers in the warm darkness of their kiss. Had she any strength left she would have begged him to make love to her, to wipe away the stain of Malfoy and his nameless companions, to make of her a woman again and not a soiled thing to be pitied and reviled.  
But her body would not obey her, and the pain of any movement kept her lying on her back like an infant.

Viktor felt her need.

Tenderly, he slid his left hand down the hollow of her emaciated stomach, down the quivering length of her battered thigh to lift the hem of the clean white gown he'd dressed her in. She wept as he touched her, fighting the feelings of terror and pain that threatened to rob her of the healing beauty of his caress. His fingers were as gentle as sunlight, lovingly tracing the sore place beneath its tangle of downy new hair with patient repitition until he felt her grow moist, her breath coming faster and a warmth growing in her cheeks.

"Look at me." he repeated softly, and she stared helplessly into his eyes while he stroked her, tears coursing down her cheeks and catching the glimmer of the moonlight. Viktor lowered his lips to hers, rubbing with his fingertips the aching emptiness between her trembling thighs until she was panting and weeping with need.

"Ja, Liebling. That is it...give in to me. I love you. Ich leibe dich. I haff always loved you." He whispered against her lips. Hermione moaned, the quaking in her soul and her body reaching a frenzied pitch as his hand worked against her. She was on fire, burning with sweet passion and glorious light, a blaze that healed instead of hurt, that banished the demons to corners and expelled the poison of rape and torture from her soul. She wanted this with all of her being, nothing mattered anymore but this moment.  
And she climaxed, crying out in a broken whimper that was lost in the intensity of Viktor's kiss. He drew her pain into himself, drank her agony and freed her with his love. Hermione wept when the last tingling fire faded away. She cried with a great release of tension and fear and anger and loss. She cried until her eyes were swollen closed and her breath came in hitched sighs. She cried until there were no more tears left, and Viktor cradled her and murmured to her in German and stroked her hair.

The moon set, leaving behind a blacker and darker world than ever before, and still he held her. Deep in his heart, in that place where he kept his dreams and his hopes and his fears and his sweetest memories, Viktor locked away this moment forever.


	5. Chapter 5

**Protection**

Viktor stayed the night beside Hermione, alternating between listening to the hesitant rhythmn of her breathing and the soft pitiful helplessness of her whimpers. Nothing in his entire sphere of knowledge had prepared him for this pain. His hatred of Voldemort grew with every passing second, but what could he do? What, save lay here in the dark with one prisoner among thousands in his arms, wracked with impotent fury and cold fear?  
He knew instinctually that any action he might make would be to the detriment of not only himself and Tolga, but also ultimately Hermione as well. She was in a far worse situation than any of them.

When he'd sent Tolga to fetch her, he had received along with a writ of temporary ownership a message from the jailer himself. Now, with Hermione sleeping fitfully and taking at least a little rest, he slipped out of bed and withdrew that letter from the pocket of his robes and unfolded it again in the firelight.

_My Dearest Baron Krum;  
First of all, let me congratulate you on finally joining in the fun! You simply can't know just how delighted we are! And to select a young woman who spurned your advances in the past in favor of a blood traitor, no less! I can only imagine the fun you'll be having this week!  
Now a warning.  
Little Miss Naughty, as we like to refer to her, is a tough one to understand. She fights as though there were hope, weeps as though we cared, begs as though it would work, and absolutely refuses to behave herself. Mr. Lucius Malfoy (who I am certain you know!) tried his best to show the girl some kindness and perhaps allow her to better her situation, and she spat right in his face! Imagine the scandal! And he was only trying to help her! She has bitten and scratched and otherwise made a spectacle of herself even during routine interrogations and such when there was simply no need to be so difficult, making everything much more difficult as you can imagine. Naughty, spoiled, ungrateful little girl! Do take care when dealing with her, won't you? She is incredibly difficult as I have implied. You simply cannot understand how rotten the little bitch is. When she is returned to us, I will give you a very good seat for the show. As you are probably aware, we haven't broken anyone on the wheel in quite a few months. This will be something of a treat!  
Hoping you'll have a 'whipping' good time til then! Ta!_

_Damien Kildeer, Chief Executioner_

Viktor carefully refolded the missive and sat down heavily on the soft velvet sofa, staring into the dying fire. He felt a deep disquiet in his heart, the pain of sitting silent and impotent and yeilding in some passive way to the tyranny that was unfolding all around. Hermione stirred, and he glanced up to watch her frail body turn slightly beneath the covers. Their first brush with true intimacy had moved him deeply, and he regretted that it had to happen under such circumstances. He wondered if Tolga had heard her cry out, and if he thought badly of Viktor now, maybe believing him to be as manipulative as those in power who took their pleasure now at will from the young and the defenseless. Viktor rose to his feet, sighing, cursing the troubling thoughts that filled his head and disturbed his dreams and robbed him of his slumber. Were he as bad as the rest of them, he would have already invited his friend to take what he wished from Hermione and done the same himself. But no, he had instructed fierce-eyed, quick-tempered Tolga to excercise the utmost care and tenderness with his injured guest. And he himself had only pleasured Hermione to show her that not all men existed to hurt, that not all men were Lucius Malfoy and the Executioner. The present discomfort of his own unsated desire gave mute testement to his self-denial.

He pulled on his tunic in the dark, groping for his boots and robe and other effects clumsily rather than put on a lamp and risk waking Hermione, who desperately needed her rest. Viktor gathered his things and slipped out into the hallway, leaving the heavy oak door open a crack to better hear if his love called out for him in the night. He made his way down the staircase and into the large sitting room, where he knew Tolga would be reading in front of the fire with the ever-present familiar Dane beside him.  
He was not disappointed.

Tolga looked up as he entered, closing his book with a soft thud.  
"She is sleeping, yes?"  
"Ja. I held her for some time, and vhen she slept I vent away." Viktor said hesitantly, then switched to German to explain all he was feeling to his friend. "Her injuries are awful. When I was bathing her I lost count of all the bruises."  
"She ate well, at least," Tolga replied, his German slightly spiced with a heavy Russian accent, "I fed her as you asked. All this healing will be for nothing unless you figure out how to buy her from those bastards at the prison. The Dark Lord has a special hatred for her, you know. It won't be easy."  
"There is one who might help..."  
"Do you still believe that Severus Snape is secretly a good man? If he is, he's hiding it damn well. When I played the part of errand-boy for you two days ago I saw him at the prison. He didn't seem so terribly soft-hearted when he was tormenting that insane Lovegood child."

Viktor waved his hand dismissively, "A ruse. He didn't kill her, did he?"  
Tolga pursed his lips. Actually, to his eyes, it had looked as though the black souled Headmaster was quite enjoying the whimpers of his victim. He'd meted out a punishment of sound whipping with almost palpable delight.

"He's a monster. If you go to him and confess that you want to help the Granger girl, you might end up in that prison yourself. Malfoy doesn't need another reason to want you dead. Your refusal to join in the torture has raised too many eyebrows. Trust Snape? Are you mad? He'd have you trussed and pinned in a heartbeat, and you would end up just as violated as Harry - "  
"I would DIE before I allowed myself to be turned into someone's bitch, Tolga! They play with the English all they wish, don't they! But how many of us do you see in that God forsaken place?" Viktor cut him off with a snarl.

"None, I admit."  
"Because a son of Durmstrang does not go to his knees like a dog!"  
"If they tied you there - "  
"They would have to rape a corpse!"

Tolga held his tongue. He wanted to say that the English boys had probably thought and maybe even said the same thing, that it was a matter of brute force and not willpower, that it could easily happen to either of them if they misstepped. But he clenched his jaw and nodded in agreement instead, not wanting to tip his friend into a rage again when he was already tense. He ran an elegant hand through Dane's thick white fur, thinking.  
"She was not the only one there."  
"I know, damn it!"  
"You haven't got enough money to buy them all, and no one would allow you to do it even if you did have enough. The Death Eaters and their supporters and hangers-on all love the spectacle of imprisoning and murdering children. It keeps the masses under control. They'll never stop"  
Viktor leaned forward, his head in his hands.

"I am powerless, my friend." He whispered, switching back to English in his grief, "I haff nothing that they could vant in return for Hermy-own-ninny and her friends."  
Tolga thought hard, his own heart pulsing with agony at the thought of Padma Patil and her sister being subjected to the same treatment as Hermione. They had only escaped such a fate because of their race. Pleanty of others he had known and loved never had a chance. Everyone these days had someone they desperately wished to save.  
Only the dead were free anymore.  
And that was it.  
He stood up and walked to his friend's side, laying a hand on his shoulder.  
"Viktor."

"Ja, Tolga."  
"Only the dead are free!"  
"Vhat the Hell is that supposed to mean?"  
"If Miss Granger is executed, they haff no interest in her anymore, da?"  
"I am trying to SAVE her, not do their vork for them!" Viktor said hotly, shaking of Tolga's hand.  
"You misunderstand. Someone else, someone else can die and make it to look as though it vas she. They vill stop looking for her because they vill believe her dead!"

"Polyjuice fades in death! The trick would be known! And how can you suggest that we give some other person into death? Who vould you suggest? Are we as bad as the Death Eaters, to choose who lives and dies because we VANT to? For the greater good?"  
His reference to Grindlewald's famous creedo was not lost on Tolga, whose grandparents had suffered greatly under the tyranny of that dark and powerful wizard so may years ago. He bit his lip.  
"No," he sighed, "Of course we can not do zis thing. But there must be a vay..."  
It was Viktor's turn to comfort his friend.  
"I am sorry. It vas not meant to hurt you. I know you are only trying to help."  
Tolga sat down across from Viktor, his black eyes glittering with tears. Hermione, screaming. Hermione, being raped by a dozen masked men. Hermione, weeping in the cold hard darkness. Viktor must have sensed that it was time to end the discussion. They were both exhausted and desperately needed to sleep. He stood up.  
"I vill sleep in the room across from Hermy-own-ninny. Vill you be alright?"  
"Da. Das vidanya, my friend. I vill see you in the morning."  
"Guten nacht. And thank you for helping me. And for helping Hermy."  
Tolga met his eyes. His undying loyalty to Viktor had been forged when they were just children, and had grown steadily stronger during all the years of adversity that had passed since those carefree and innocent days. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that, should Viktor ask it, he would be willing to die for him.  
He rose to his feet as well, clasping his best friend and brother in suffering in a tight bearhug for a moment.

"I vould help you to do anything, Viktor Krum. We can find a vay to save her. I haff a feeling that it is not impossible. We just need to think of the solution."

Viktor looked into Hermione's room before retiring for the night. She'd been thrashing in her sleep, the blankets askew, her nightdress hitched up as he had left it and the bruises on her thighs standing out starkly in the moonlight. His chest constricted in rage at the sight of those marks, and he quickly moved to smooth out the covers and soothe her pain.  
Hermione opened her eyes at his touch, looking calmly up at him as he tucked her in again.  
"Viktor." she murmured, and he sat down immediately beside her on the bed, catching her pale hand in both of his and holding it to his chest.  
"Hermy, my Liebling. You haff had a nightmare." His voice was thick with emotion. Hermione reached up and touched his cheek, wreathed in shadow. Her fingertips came away wet.  
"Viktor, thank you so much. You have been so terribly brave. And after the way I treated you..."  
"I love you , Hermy. I do not care. If you had married the one with red hair and forgotten me, I vould still haff loved you forever."  
"When you...t-touched me," she did not trust her voice not to break, and she looked away, "Did you do that because you wanted to distract me from my pain or because you wanted to satisfy your own desires?"

"I did not, Hermy. I brought you release with love in my heart, not lust. I thought it vas what you vanted. I vould do anything for you."  
"Do you, are you still in love with me?"  
"I am."  
"Can you protect Ron and Harry? And Cho? And the others?"  
"I vill do all that I can, Hermy. This I promise."  
Hermione fell silent, exhausted. When Vikotr moved to get up and leave her to her sleep, she took his hand again and implored him with her eyes not to go.  
"Please."

"Are you not tired?"  
"I would sleep better with you beside me. Please, Viktor. Don't leave me alone."  
He found that he could not deny her, and he undressed again, this time down to only his pants, and slipped benath the covers once more. She could hardly move, and so he pulled her into his arms and held her there until she began to nod off. All the while his mind played aith the idea that Tolga had suggested. Was there a way? Was there a way to save all those in prison by somehow faking their deaths? He would be willing to take Hermione's place, of course. And he knew without asking that Tolga would be willing to do the same. But what of the others? Hermione was indescribably sweet and tempting against him. He looked down at her, curled against his bare chest with one hand resting over his heart. What he would not give to have her here for the rest of their lives, just like this, only healthy and free from pain. He wanted to hear the sound of her laughter in the halls all day and the soft music of her sighs beneath him at night. He needed her for survival as surely as a fire needed oxygen to burn.

And he lowered his lips to hers and kissed her, kissed her with a warmth and a possessiveness that he did not realize he held within him. Hermione stirred in his arms but did not wake, and Viktor spilled his tears against her softly perfumed hair, glad that the night hid his weakness from the woman he fully intended to save.  
Somehow.


End file.

Harry Potter, Angst, Drama