Hey, all! I wanted to give yall something horrific for Halloween. I will probably expand this bit of drabble later, when I have the time. But, here we are!
Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, and I do not plan to make a profit from this story.
Rated: M for non-con themes, as well as implied horror.
Written for Halloween, 2016.
Summary: Horror drabble written for Halloween, 2016. Will expand. Dramione. Rated M for non-con themes, as well as implied horror. Draco Malfoy has Hermione Granger bound to a table. Fear to follow.
TRIGGER WARNING: non-con theme. If that is a trigger for you, please click the back button. :) I do not want to upset anyone. But, if you're in the mood for a short horror, have fun!
I've never been one inclined to speak to my victims -at least, not on a personal level. But tonight, her oversized earth-toned eyes, filled with tears, glisten back at me with such tenacity, I'm moved to words as she struggles against her wrist bindings. They're simple silk straps, tethered tight around her wrists, but the way she wriggles against them stirs a primal need in me to establish dominance. Hermione Granger has never been -will never be - submissive.
"Struggle all you like. I dare say I rather enjoy watching you squirm, mudblood."
She inhales through her nose, poised to answer, but she soon realizes it's all for naught; not only is there a silencing spell placed inside that gloriously slender throat, but a simple, silk strip of cloth also graces between those lush lips. It's aesthetically pleasing, somehow, to know what sort of position she's in. Soon, she figures it out, too. Her eyes skitter down the metal operating table she's bound to, captured by a leather strap across her shoulders and the dip in her stomach. Her legs thrash, free to the world and to me. Big mistake, however, because it only exposes what lies beneath that tantalizing skirt. No panties. Those were removed long ago, before we ever made it to this room.
Granger flails frantically, more tears spilling down her dirty, dirty cheeks. I smirk, taking my time, allowing her to watch my slender fingers trail over the array of various medical equipments I possess. Ones with blades, ones with needles, ones that look seemingly safe but are anything of the sort. It dawns on her what I plan to do when I pick up my personal favorite -a serrated knife with a crescent-shaped, white-bone handle just as sharp as the blade.
"Shh." I flash her a wink, taunting her even though I know damn well she hasn't made a sound. "Easy there, love. We're just getting started."
Leave a thought?