Azael's Chains

Wake

She was adrift in her own pounding skull, buffeted by a thrumming pulse at either temple. Had Ron snuck another bottle of whiskey to the tent last night? Ugh, she certainly felt like poison had flooded her veins and wrung her muscles dry. She allowed the barest sliver of the world through one shuttered eye and slapped her forearm over her face in agony.

"Ronald Weasley, I --" Dry cracks popped in her throat as she groaned, and she winced, rubbing at the battered length of neck. Her body stiffened and triggered magnitudes of pain to sweep through her. The jumping muscle at her jaw stabbed into her head, burning skin against the sheets radiated through her, and there was an ache in her core as though she'd been cleansed with sand.

This was not the tent. This was not Grimmauld. It was not the Burrow or Shell Cottage nor anywhere Hope might still be in the box.

The stone of sorrow rose through her chest and sent a pained sob through her shaking breaths. She could not face this day. Would not.

Hermione curled onto her side, an arm hugging her knees, and tried to will away reality to no avail. She could not even fall asleep again. There was nothing for it but to open her eyes and see if the world had changed with her.

There was a pale blue gown hanging at one poster of the bed a mere foot from her face. Its message was clear: come to breakfast or face the consequences. While the Gryffindor in the corner of her mind sought to scream over the wall she'd built that she should stay in bed, consequences be damned, the fire in her belly had been doused and smothered.

It was with winces and careful breaths that she pushed herself up and tugged the blessedly soft, light, cool blue silk over her head to tumble just above her feet. It was a little loose as well, and she wondered if it had been chosen with her condition in mind. Hermione hadn't the energy to search for undergarments or house slippers, nor to wash despite the lingering putridity she imagined tainted her, so she fumbled out to the dining room a mess of purple and red and brown beneath the unruffled dress.

Ever the gentleman, Dolohov stood at her entrance and had her chair back for her, sitting only once she'd managed to perch upon the edge of her own seat, hissing as the sting notified her that the area was not free of marks. Was any part of her? Would she ever be again? She lived here at the sufferance of a self-professed sadist. So long as she stayed alive and sane, from what she gathered he was free to do with her as he wished.

A soft cough sent shockwaves of ache as she looked up. Her captor nodded toward her water goblet, raising one admonishing brow. When she followed his gaze, her own dark brows furrowed together. There was a crystal potion bottle that sparkled a familiar bloody red in the morning light. How she'd not noticed the cheery pink refractions even as they danced against her skin Hermione had no idea. Her gaze skittered to the man and back to the potion. He'd said he would not heal her when punished, hadn't he?

"I am not needlessly cruel, Miss Granger." He set his teacup aside and returned her curious amber gaze with cool silver. "And while last night may have been a rough introduction, as I told you when I laid you down for sleep, today is a new day. I am willing to move forward as before if you behave."

Her eyes narrowed and curiosity prickled at her chest. "Why?" The word was croaked before she could help it, cheeks coloring and sudden fear rearing in her stomach.

She needn't have worried. Dolohov chuckled softly and leaned back in his seat. "You are young. Eighteen?" She nodded hesitantly. "Nearly a child. And growing in wartime is an odd thing. One is often both more mature and less than one's peers. Your inexperienced, for instance." She was uncomfortably hot at this line. "No doubt you had more pressing matters to attend while your classmates were overblown with hormones and dramas. You are supposed to be a clever girl, Miss Granger. I expect you to accept my generosity when you receive it."