Devil Doesn't Bargain

The Deal

"Granger."

Hermione groaned at the noise, but couldn't move. Everything hurt. Her head was spinning...around and around and around...it took all of her concentration not to heave.

"Granger," the low drawl said again, "Get up."

She turned her hand to the side, enough to show one raised finger to the figure standing by the door. Her vision was too blurry to make out the details, but the voice sounded familiar. A humorless chuckle rolled toward her from the doorway.

"Charming as always."

"Go to hell," she rasped. He didn't reply but sniffed disdainfully at the stench of the cell. The floor was spattered with stinking splotches, accumulated over time. She wanted to curl into an even smaller ball, but her legs wouldn't cooperate. Shame washed over her in a thick blanket, threatening to suffocate her.

Soft steps drew nearer until hands wrapped around her shoulders, dragging her roughly to the wall. Hermione gasped in pain but was too weak to protest. Fingers slid down her arms until they met her pulsating wound, and she heard the man's sharp intake of breath.

"How perfectly grisly."

Hermione swore at him colorfully, but he ignored her. Instead, he draped her against the stone and withdrew a pace or two, eyeing her.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen," he muttered. It was so soft she almost missed it.

Hermione tried and failed to swallow, but her throat felt sticky. Impatiently, the tall figure summoned a cup of water and levitated it over to her; she drank wildly, paying no mind to the liquid dripping down her face. Her ability to wipe off the mess was debatable anyway. Finally, she finished the cup and dropped it. It hit the ground with a clatter, rolling out of sight.

"Are you real?" She couldn't be certain, and no longer trusted her eyes...they had conjured numerous apparitions over a period of days.

"Yes." He said simply.

She nodded. "Just checking." She spat at him, causing him to recoil further. He exhaled sharply but didn't reply, so she asked the only question that mattered. "Are you here to kill me?"

The Death Eater's eyes narrowed slightly. "You don't need me to do that." He shot a pointed look at her arm, which had turned from green to purple and finally to black. Hermione sighed, leaning her head against the wall. Even that small motion was unbearable, and her breaths began coming in short gasps.

"Then why are you here?" She managed.

"To make a deal."

"No."

"Without me, you will be dead within forty-eight hours."

She shrugged noncommittally and winced. "Tell me something I don't know."

He shifted and lunged forward, only inches from her face. The movement had been silent, full of feline grace, and the mask glinted in the low lighting. A long, pale finger drifted down her cheek, and she didn't have enough energy to slap his vile hand away.

"This isn't the time to be stubborn, lioness. Don't you want me to heal you?"

"What is the cost?" Hermione shot back. "Because a murderer like you wouldn't heal a mudblood out of the goodness of your heart."

"Ah, that," he said casually.

"Yes, that!" Hermione couldn't help but growl. It was becoming more difficult to focus on his words. Consciousness was her least favorite time of day as of late.