Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. Instead, I get the pleasure of aggravating you…:grins evilly:
Author: Pensive Puddles
Couple: Draco and Hermione
A Deadly Obsession
The dungeons were cold and merciless. The stone walls appeared glacial and menacing, never offering any symbol of hope to those trapped between them. No windows let the captives see the light of the world outside, or let themselves see themselves, remember what their hands looked like, admire the holes and scraps that their tortures had inflicted upon their now frail bodies. They were trapped in their dark prison.
A tall man walked steadily down the hall, his wand in one hand and a candle in the other. It was quite ironic that he would carry such an old fashion lighter when he could have easily used his wand. But a candle was somehow more chilling and morbid than that of a wand's glow. His footsteps were loud in the dreary hall and he listened as the water slowly dripped from a loose pipe somewhere. It was a natural, slow Chinese Water torture. No wonder why their captives never stayed sane for long.
Voldemort had brought a new wave of terror to the world. All was dark and foreboding. Dumbledore and Harry, the world's only two hopes, had gone into hiding, some saying they had perished earlier in the war. After their disappearance, hope had faded into the night. Rarely anyone smiled, and in those rare times, those smiles would glitter for a small second before resting back into its usual frown. Newspapers brought more and more grievous news of massacres of Muggles; they weren't oblivious to the magic realm any longer. Secrets could never be kept long. His spies were everywhere; people were afraid of saying anything to each other unless it was praise of his Lordship.
Stupid oaf, the man thought. He was one of the few people who could see that the Dark Lord was barely anything. With Harry's disappearance, he had somehow grown weaker. It seemed that the farther away he was from Harry, the weaker he had become. Pettigrew, his only loyal follower who knew of the Dark Lords condition, had to do everything for him, from eating to helping him use the toilet. Draco frowned in disgust. To let oneself be so low as to clean another man's bottom was humiliating. How could the rat live with that mortification plaguing him? A Dark Lord had to be strong and bold, a figure that everyone would bow down in fear and quiver in terror just at his name. If people knew of Voldemort's appearance, they wouldn't flinch at his name; they would laugh.
The weak should not rule…
He continued his decent, his dragon-hide boots tapping lightly against the cobble steps as he entered even deeper into the darkness below. The halls reeked of blood and death. There was a time where he craved the scent. But after the years of war, the smell became dull and unsavory until it became just a regular stench in the air.
Blood had not lost its beauty however. He would forever enjoy how blood would trickle from open holes in a person's body, or drip from the mouth or eyes. It was like water, the movement so rich and majestic. However, unlike water, blood left its trail obvious so others could follow.
His dark skills had enabled him to experiment with curses, combining them together and making curses so horrible they were considered worse than the Unforgivable Curses'. His curses were known as the Unutterable Curses. People were incapable of explaining the gruesome things that happened to a person, for it hurt to even talk about it. Except one man; he could tell anyone each step as the body bled and finally died; Draco smirked at what he had created, what he had caused. Sleep with one eye open, Voldemort…
He stopped at a decayed door. Despite how rotten it appeared, it was as strong as dragon scales and could not be broken by any ordinary means, not even by spells. It was where he kept the most important captives. Inside held his most precious victim.
He grabbed the handle and stepped inside. The room was dark, slowly lightened by the small flame the candle offered. He stepped inside, breathing in the disgusting mixed scent of unclean bodies and a musty cave. He slowly let his eyes adjust to the dim darkness and he spotted his victim.
In the middle of the room hung a girl. Her arms were tied harshly to the ceiling by a crude rope. Raising the candle, he could see blood coating the rope and the scrapes it had clawed into her wrists. His eyes trailed down her body clothed only in her under garments. Scars and barely healed cuts and bruises covered her once delicate frame. She hung like a cloth doll. Her brown hair, blood tipped, hung covering her face. Her body could not touch the ground, her toes hardly scrapping the floor. He had watched her when he had first hung her, how she tried to get some sort of grip with her toes and could find nothing. So close, yet always so far. Eventually she gave up and simply hung in pain. Even now, he could recall how she would take short gasps, controlling her tears.
I hate you…I love to see you in pain…I'm glad you suffer…I love to see you bleed…scream…cry. I hate how you chose the path I wanted to take, but was too weak to…I hate how you're stronger than I am. I hate how I'm still so in love with you even after all this pain…Do you still love me?
She had not complained as much as the other prisoners had complained. She had not cried as hard as the others had cried. She was strong, unlike the prisoners. She would not say anything and would take the punishment without making a sound. She always wore a dark look on her face, one that appeared especially sinister when she grinned wickedly, blood trailing over her bottom lip. She would have made an excellent servant for the Dark Lord. An excellent servant for me…
He walked over to her and titled the candle so the wax slid down the side, taking its time to drop. It fell onto her skin, and she shuddered at the shocking burn that soon died. She looked up at her captor and gave a smirk, a smirk that irritated him just as his smirk used to irritate her. He scowled at her.
A harsh slap killed the silence. He titled her head back to look at him. He was so tempted to do it. All he needed to do was lean down and catch her off guard. She was tired. She wouldn't resist. Yet he couldn't do it. Some invisible force impeded him from touching her lips.
He circled her, admiring her deformed, yet perfect body. He admired how the shadows cast by the candle made her skin glow softly. How could she, after so many months of torture, still be so radiant?
He titled the candle and let the wax drip down the middle of her back. She arched backwards in a natural reaction to escape the burning liquid, and he watched as the scars rippled and fresh cuts start to bleed again. The blood intrigued his attention, and he watched as it slowly slid down. His curious fingers reached out to touched it, letting the hot, thick liquid cover his fingers. Blood…her blood…
He frowned at how she captivated him so. Punishment…
Taking his wand, he whipped her once. She shuddered but did not let out a sound. He watched the perfect skin welt where he had stroked her. His fingers touched his creation lovingly.
He rounded her and came to stop in front of her, looking and admiring her. She was so brilliant of a creature. Her heart shaped face kissed big, luscious lips, and pinched a small nose that had constantly aggravated him in school because it always was turned up in a snobbish manner. Yet her warm amber eyes took away any arrogance that had been observed upon first inspection, leaving a person wondering why they had ever thought she was arrogant in the first place. But that was when they were filled with life; now only a wicked glaze covered her once bright eyes. Behind the glaze, there was nothing: no warmth, no kindness. The girl people recalled was no more.
All thanks to me…
"I made you," he spoke, echoing in the mute room. It had been awhile since words were spoken. She didn't respond, didn't react in any way. She just let him approach her, clutching her brown strands of hair and pulling backwards roughly, watching the reaction of her head bending to his grip. He let it slip through his fingers. "I made you what you are."
She smirked darkly and he frowned. The back of his hand flew across her face but she didn't cry. Her head only turned sharply to the side. She didn't move until he brought her face to look at his. She was his doll. He could do whatever he wanted to her. A small, trickle of blood fell from the corner of her mouth. He watched it intently. She knew she had him now. Over the months of torture, she knew what his one weakness was: her and her blood.
He didn't notice how her eyes started to shine in their gleam, for he was too bewitched by her dripping blood. So red…sweet and yet salty…so precious…
He looked at her eyes, watched as they shined. And he found himself drowning in the whirlpools of mud, dragging him closer. His breath was warm against her cold skin and he could tell she was tense under his closeness. He smirked and leaned in closer, letting his tongue slid out of his mouth. He caught the crimson drop before it fell off her chin, and he slowly slid his tongue from her chin to her lip. He felt her shudder under his touch. Was it disgust? Was it pleasure? He hoped it was both.
I would have made you happy, you know. You should have chosen me…you still can…
He pulled back, and watched as the longing fire in her eyes died. Deep inside, he told himself to touch her again, light the fire that he had extinguished. He looked at her stretched body exposing her ribs, showing the indents between each one. He longed to run his fingers across them. Her stomach flexed with every breath she took.
He gazed at her. He longed to kiss her, kiss her blood stained lips. He felt so cold and she so warm. He knew if he could just capture her bloody lips with his, he'd feel alive again. But was that what he wanted? Was that what he needed? He was merciless without her warmth. He was powerful without her warmth. He was invincible without her warmth. And he was a broken man without her love. He touched her face.
Why don't you ever respond?
He took his hand off her smooth face, instantly regretting it at feeling the sudden loss.
How can you hang there like that? Without crying? Without showing some type of pain? How can you be so indifferent, like me?
A sudden desire consumed him and he slapped her across the face, again and again. He wanted to see tears fall down her face. He wanted to make her unlike him. He wanted to make her speak to him. It had been months since she had spoken a word. He had spent hours, standing in the room, tormenting her by eating rich food in front of her, gibing her to snap at him, telling her news of the war, how her friends were all dead, tortured, mutilated corpses. Most were lies, but some were truthful.
Just one word…that's all I want…
He wanted a little word, a little sign that told him that her beautiful, dove like voice still could sing in this dark world. He had caught her singing once, near the lake at Hogwarts. She had a habit of humming to herself…her friends didn't know what gift she possessed. It was so sweet of a sound; it had almost lulled him to sleep. He hadn't said anything. He couldn't have said anything. Watching her as he did was like an exercise he had to master from being part of the Dark Lord's group. But who said he wanted to be just a servant of the Dark Lord? No, servant was too low. He wanted to be the Dark Lord.
You'd love me then, wouldn't you? If I had power…absolute power…You'd have to love me then…
He stopped and looked at his new creation. Her face was flushed from his hand marks. He leaned down to kiss the pain away, whisper that it was her own fault, that he had no control, whisper sweet nothings that might anger her, that might make her melt. He was so close to breaking and overcome her with his love until he noticed her eyes. They were glossy, covered in tears. All she needed to do was to blink and they would fall and he would be happy. She wouldn't be like him. As if sensing that desire in him, she blinked, and the tears disappeared into the back of her sockets, down her throat, he didn't know where. He scowled.
What must I do to make you cry? To make you love me?
Twisted love, he wouldn't deny it. It had started in the later years of Hogwarts. He had suddenly started noticing how she was more attractive, more appealing to the eye than any girl in Hogwarts. He started to notice the obvious things, things that a Slytherin shouldn't have noticed about his archrival. And then he began to notice the small things. How she'd twist her hair whenever she was extremely bored or nervous. How her bottom lip would quiver for a second whenever she was extremely stressed in class. How she would blink twice whenever she was aggravated. How she would cross and uncross her legs whenever a guy she liked was near her…would she do that if he sat down next to her? He wished she would. But wishing was all he could do. It was the only thing he had to keep himself sane during his last years of Hogwarts. His mind was the only place where he could imagine her and him together. It was the only place where it was accepted.
They had kissed, more than once. He could remember every single one, every single emotion that she put into them. They weren't love. It was anger, jealousy, pity, guilt, nothing that a lover would put into a kiss. There was one time, only one time when she had kissed him tenderly, almost lovingly. And he had kissed her with that same passion. She had said they had all be accidents, spur of the moment kisses. He knew better. He knew she knew better. He knew she was scared of admitting the truth, that she had feelings for him.
I've missed your lips against mine…Do you ever think back to those days, those nights? Do you miss the way I taste? The way our bodies pressed together? I remember what you taste like, what you fell like, as if it were only a couple minuets ago.
His pale hands touched her face that burned under his cold palms. She flinched at the coldness, and stared at him. He smirked down at her. So beautiful of a creature…
His hand ran down her arm, a fingernail making a white pattern against her skin. She didn't make any sound to show if it hurt her. Maybe she knew pain so well that she was numb to it. He wondered. He admired his work. It was an ancient symbol of Dark Magic: possessiveness. Even she didn't know what it was because he saw her brown eyes look down at it in curiosity. Draco knew everything when it came to Dark Magic. It was powerful magic that had been around years before Light Magic came into being. He knew all the symbols and origins of the curses that wizards said today.
Why don't you speak? Ask me a question…ask me what it means…
She looked back at him, her cherry, chapped lips never moving. He wanted to hit her again. He wanted to make her cry, make her cry out his name. As he stood there, gazing into her dark eyes and she into his grey eyes, a spell came into his mind. He had only practiced it once, and it had been successful. Of course, he didn't tell his Master (or anyone else for that matter) of the new curse, nor any of the other twenty curses he had invented.
"Crucio Oicurc" he whispered, pointing his wand at her. Her eyes widened in fear. It had been months since he had used a spell on her. He usually enjoyed hurting her physically than with magic. She gasped and her eyes rolled into the back of her head. She closed her eyes. Her body twitched while she hung in the air.
The opposite of pain is pleasure. Just say it backwards. Not all spells must have new words…"Painful Pleasure"…
He stepped away from her, taking each step slowly away. She moaned, the first sound from her in weeks. She gasped, whimpering in pain. He smirked.
The beauty of this spell is that the father away I am from you, the pain becomes more unbearable, until it comes to the point of killing you. The closer I am to you, the more intense the pleasure and less pain…say my name, Granger, and I will make it pleasurable. Say it…one word…
Her breaths came in short pants, perspiration covering her body and trickling down her back. The salty sweat stung her unhealed cuts, adding more to the pain. Draco took another step back and the girl opened her mouth and let out a strangled cry. She opened her eyes in pain, then closed them again, groaning. She opened her eyes, eyes glazed in lust and pain and looked at the blond haired man who took another step away from her. She shook her head, begging him to go the opposite direction, to her.
The handsome man smirked, jumped forward and then jumped back. The girl kicked out, the pleasure and pain colliding together that she didn't know what to do. She opened her eyes and looked at him, begging him to stop.
"You can read my thoughts…" he told her across the room, taking yet another step away. Say my name…call for me like you'd call for your lover…
She looked away at him and he took another step backwards, his back against the door. The girl's body started to shake, throbbing in pain. Whatever pleasure had been there before had been tainted with his diminishing presence. He knew what was happening to her. He knew how the female mind worked under his spell. Her body would beg for her to give in, her mind telling her to hold on, he'd get sick of this game.
She opened her eyes and looked straight through the dim light and finally said the words he had longed to hear. "I need you…Draco…"
He smirked. Everyone had a limit, even her. He took a step forward and she gasped, continuing to pant. He watched her sweat glisten in the dim light. She was beautiful, hanging there. He wanted to trap himself in this moment forever.
"I…I need you!" she panted again, looking at him with such lustful eyes. Draco took another step. She moaned. He swallowed. He knew what the spell would do to her, but it had never affected him so. It could have been that the person who had captured his heart was the one under the spell. And she was finally saying the words he had longed to hear fall from her lips, begging for him. He had to be strong though. He couldn't let him bend under a woman's will, especially her will.
"I've always needed you. Not Harry…Not Ron…only you…Malfoy," she whispered. Her tempting voice finally broke the barrier, and practically leaping towards her, he watched as she arched in pleasure, crying out and groaning. Her breaths were ragged now, and she opened her eyes, completely glazed in lust. No pain was transparent. She glared into his eyes, knowing all that went through his mind. She urged in a low, dark voice, " I choose you, Draco Malfoy…"
You need me. You've always needed me. You stuck by Potter and Weasley because you thought you had to. But I was your real Savior. I saved you those nights, those nights where you felt so dead. I made you come alive. I was there for you, like you were there for me. It wasn't lust. You loved me. You. Loved. Me…I love you…
Draco leaned down and kissed her. She moaned, the spell become stronger, making her heart pound, her pride shatter. All she knew was that she needed him. Her fingers itched to run themselves through his hair. She let him kiss her neck, bite her until he drew blood. She whispered in his ear, "I want you…and only you…"
Say it again…say my name. It always sounded so good when you say it…
"Draco…" she whined. He stopped and pulled away and she hissed painfully. She looked up at him with her questioning, dark eyes, a storm of lust and pain. He wanted to hold her, unbind her hands and take her away with him. But despite his desire for her, his heart was ice, hard as stone. That was one of the reasons why he was so powerful. He titled her head back and made her look into his cold, grey eyes. He let the mask fall, revealing his anger. He watched in delight as true fear finally exposed itself in her muddy orbs. Crushing his lips viciously against hers, making them turn a deep swollen red, he hissed angrily, "This is just a taste of what you put me through…"
"Draco…I didn't know," she whispered and bit her lip as the spell continued to affect her.
"Liar!" he accused. "You knew! You knew!"
His deep, hard breaths blew small strands of hair away from her face. His eyes softened as he looked down at her petite body. Just one look at her calmed him, and yet sent his emotions into a storming sea of confusion. It was as if he was being saved, but drowning in the process. He kissed her lips again, gently and tenderly, and he smiled inwardly as he felt her respond in the same manner. He let himself pull away, lingering a little longer than he had anticipated. He waved his wand and Hermione let herself hang limply against the ropes harsh bond. Her body glistening in sweat, he touched her face, taking in her sweaty complexion. The lust and bliss slowly died in her eyes. Touching where her heart throbbed, he savored the trapped thundering in her chest. "You feel it, I know you feel it," he said. It wasn't the rate of her heartbeat; it was the pain of longing, of regretted decisions, of love.
Still touching her heart, he finally whispered the words he had continuously thought in his head, "We could have been so happy if you had chosen me that day, if you had saved me. But you didn't chose, you didn't save me, and this…is all your fault."
He turned on his heal, his black cloak whirling around his feet elegantly. He tucked his wand into his pocket and paused, contemplating if he should say anything. He slowly turned around, his handsome face dark and mysterious in the candlelight. His usual bright blond hair was a sandy brown. But his pale grey eyes still held the same intensity they always held. He pointed his wand at her, giving her a spell that would ease the pain. She gave him a smile, a genuine smile of gratitude. He smirked, "Don't get used to it."
He closed the deceiving looking door. He could still picture her battered body, glistening in sweat; her moan still echoed in his ears. Sighing, he started to walk back up the long flight of cobble stone steps.
One day…it'll be you and me. I shall be the Dark Lord, and you will be my wife, my lover, my Queen…And you will choose me over everyone else…and you will love me and only me…we'll be happy, Hermione. You'll see…you'll see…
A/N: Twisted, right? I kinda like it…how about you?
:Opens book 'How to Please an Author' and points at paragraph inconspicuously:
An author enjoys to read or hear what a person thinks or feels about what the author has written, even if it is a flame An author enjoys opening their email and seeing emails labeled Review Alert! An author will not flame their reviewer because it is the person's opinion In simple words to sum up the other three points: AUTHORS LOVE REVIEWS! It tells them that people have actually read what they have written.
Any thoughts, ideas, or observations are warmly welcomed!