Deceptions

WARNING: Graphic torture lies ahead. You have been warned.

She heard the faintest of whisperings in her ear, a stray curl of hair brushing against the side of her face, tickling. The whisperings, along with her hair, was irritating, and she swatted at them in her half state of awareness. Immediately she regretted the decision, as she was jarred awake by an intense pain shooting through her entire body and ending in the tips of her fingers. Even her hair hurt.

Letting out a strangled cry, she sat bolt upright, embracing her ruined wrists and squeezing both legs tightly together. Breathing heavily, she concentrated on counting backwards from one hundred as the pain slowly, though moderately, eased and she unclenched her thighs gradually.

She was cold...so very cold...and her body shivered, commanding itself to get warm. She huddled in upon herself, squeezing into the tiniest of balls, although her body protested quite vigorously. She ignored it.

She tried to picture the warm fireplace in the Gryffindor common room and slowly sank into that part of her psyche that still held her most vivid of imaginings. She let herself relax into the comfortable lounge that adorned the room and felt the hearth's warmth flicker upon her skin.

She sighed, contented in the fact that no matter what that fiend could do to her, he could...under no circumstances...take away her imagination.

She must have drifted back to sleep, for within the next seconds she was startled awake by the echoing of footsteps approaching the door. Heart hammering in her chest, breathing laboured, she scrambled to sit up on the pitiful cot. She was shaking like a leaf, and although she would have liked to have thought it was from the cold, her mind told her it was for another reason...that of the man coming for her.

The wooden cell door burst open, banging against the wall, and the image of her nightmare came into view as he flicked his wand to the sconces on the wall, bringing his fiendish features into light.

There, held on his face, was the look of disgust that she so vividly remembered from the previous occasion he had been within her prison. Hermione held in a lungful of air and briefly wondered if she would pass out from the lack of oxygen before he reached her.

Lucius held his wand in his right hand. The now hollow, round black cane that usually housed his wand and added to his aristocratic image was swinging freely in his left hand. Pointing his wand at the Mudblood, he cast a quick cleansing charm and mended her broken wrists; he would not have her screaming out in pain before he had even begun with her lessons today. He left the ache that he knew she would be feeling between her legs alone; it wouldn't do to seem too caring of the wench's needs.

Hermione took in a large breath as she felt the pain in her wrists disappear. Rubbing at them, she noticed with astonishment that the swelling that had marred them formerly had vanished before her eyes. She blinked twice, not quite understanding what it was that he expected of her.

Lucius flung the bottom of his cane in the direction of the wooden door in which he had just entered. With a clunk it bounced off the stones of the floor to land neatly in the corner. Still he held his wand pointed directly at her...it never wavered from her person.

"Hello, Mudblood." He drawled in an almost conversational tone. "I trust you slept well." When she did not respond, only maintaining eye contact with the corner of the room where he had thrown the base of his wand, he released a frustrated grunt, but continued nonetheless.

"Yes, I believe you did. Good, good." He started to edge closer to her, his wand arm still raised. Hermione's eyes snapped to his face, "because you will need all of your strength for today."

He swung his arm in a graceful arc towards the centre of the room, his eyes never leaving her face. Her head snapped to watch what he was doing, and she was startled to see that chains appeared to be growing out of the ceiling, slithering down, link by link, taking on a life of their own.

She watched on in bewilderment as the chains grew longer. They looked like writhing snakes ready to attack their prey, attack her. Finally, the intricate links stopped, and at each end there appeared a shackle. Her eyes widened as she was struck with the thought of being tied helplessly to such a contraption.

Coldness settled into her very being, into her bones and her muscles, and she felt wilted with the implications of what would ensue. She didn't even have the ability to shiver as she stared, unblinking, at the chains.

Snapping out of her morbid fascination with the chains, she crossed her arms over her chest glaring at the madman before her defiantly.

The blond-haired wizard chuckled briefly to himself, and Hermione's eyes narrowed and she lifted her chin ever so slightly. The gleam in his eye was as frightening as the grin he held on his face; after all, he did enjoy it when his captives provided a challenge.

"I see that the Mudblood slut knows what is to come." Lucius laughed quietly once more as he leant forward and snatched at one of her newly healed wrists, pulling her up to her feet.

She cried out then, struggling against her gaoler's stronger grip, but she knew that it was a fruitless attempt; she was effectively imprisoned after all, as she had no place to go. Moreover, even if she could get out of this contemptible cell, where would she run to? She had no idea as to the layout of the mansion or how many traps were set up to detain her if she did indeed manage to break free.

Lucius gripped the Mudblood's wrists in one hand and pulled her flush to his own body. Her legs would not support her, and she shook uncontrollably as he pulled her towards him. He whirled her around, her wrists still caught in the hand that was not holding his wand, her back up against his chest.

Her hands were pinned against her body, and he stroked her bare sex with the back of the hand that held them there. She tried to kick him away, struggling against him. She stomped down on him with all her might, but her bare feet were no match for his booted ones, and he paid her no mind.

Lucius stopped inching towards the chains and pointed his wand to the direction of the back wall. Hermione froze, all at once fascinated to see the stone wall recede, much like the bricks that separated the Leaky Cauldron from Diagon Alley, and a large room appearing behind the stones.

Sconces flared to life in the room, and Hermione went stiff and froze at the sight before her. The room held every imaginable and unimaginable torture device known to man, and her struggles renewed as her eyes fell upon a rather excruciating looking set of knives glittering in the light on the adjacent wall. A gasp flew from her lips.

"Beautiful, aren't they?" The impossibly strong wizard holding her breathed as he once again stroked her mound with his hand. "And they shall make you sing, Mudblood, and such a glorious sound it will be," he finished as his grip on her tightened still further.

The fear inside her mounted as she stared at the knives shimmering on the wall. The panic was so great that she thought at any moment she might pass out with the mounting anxiety.

The rigidity in her fled as she sagged against her captor, and he snorted behind her. "That's right, slave. There is no use in fighting against the inevitable."

He turned her around in his arms then, and placed both of her wrists into the awaiting metal shackles that extended from the ceiling.

Hermione was complacent, knowing what her fate held for her. At least he can't take it too far, she thought numbly to herself. He said he couldn't kill me. No, that honour lies with Voldemort. She laughed bitterly inside her own mind. Some Gryffindor I turned out to be.

The metal bit into her newly healed wrists as he secured her into their jaws. The chains magically shortened until she was hanging from the ceiling like a rag doll, her toes barely touching the floor. Her wrists ached in protest as though they were remembering their previous inflamed and broken state. She could not imagine that this position would be comfortable for long.

She turned her head slightly to the right to see Malfoy laying his wand on the thin mattress of the bed. He then took off his outer robes, rolling up his shirtsleeves. She saw the Dark Mark, mocking her, seeming to smile out at her in anticipation.

Hermione closed her eyes and prayed to Merlin...or anyone that would listen...that she would get out of this situation, but it seemed that the deities were not listening today. Perhaps she was too far down in the bowels of hell for them to hear her pleas.

Opening her eyes when she heard a rustling behind her, she tried to turn her head to catch a glimpse at what was to come. It was no good; she couldn't get her head around far enough to make out what he was doing. In some respects, she believed that it was better that way.

A crack...of what she assumed was a whip...made her jump seconds later, bringing her back to her own living hell. She knew that he was obviously delaying, trying to scare her with his diversionary tactics. Well, damn it, it worked. A trickle of something warm ran down her inner thighs.

To her horror, she realised a second later that she had wet herself. The drip, drip of her urine was hitting the floor, forming a puddle beneath her toes. The stones were wet and slimy as she lost her footing and scrambled to try and stand up straight once more. Her wrists jarred as the metal of the crude handcuffs cut into the fleshy part of her hands, and she cried out.

"What, so eager to start?" his mocking voice called out from the hidden room. "Oh, very well, then," he maintained, his voice impressing that she was imposing upon him, asking him for a favour that he really didn't want to acquiesce to.

She finally found her toe-hold again as he entered the room. The sickening smell of ammonia was in the air, and her inner thighs and calves were sticky from her own bodily fluids.

He placed some items next to his robes and wand on the cot and made his way over to her. He carried with him a razor-sharp, jagged, silver knife that he wielded with the precarious look of a man who knew his way around blades. Either that or he was really that good at extracting every last piece of information out of a human being before their ultimate death.

However, he wanted no such information from her...he had said so himself. So why was he doing this? Was it from some sick and perverted sense of superiority? Did he honestly believe himself, a pureblood, to be better than she? Did he not know that she bled the same colour red as he?

She was shaken from her musing by his cold voice once more invading her ears.

"My, my, my, and what do we have here?" he drawled out. "You couldn't even wait for me, could you? You had to go and make a mess of yourself." He sighed, even as a flick of his wrist cleaned up the clammy mess between her legs and dried up the floor.

"Better." It was not a question to her, more a comment he made to himself out loud.

Her cheeks blossomed red as her shame heightened. It felt as though there was a weight on her chest, constricting her breathing even though she was upright.

Lucius lifted the blade up in front of his face. As he mumbled a phrase that Hermione's ears couldn't make out, she watched in horror as the tip of the knife glowed red and then turned to white. Her eyes widened and she shook her head faintly from side to side. Surely he wasn't going to touch her with that?

Lucius took a step forward, switching the blade from hand to hand as if the handle was scorching his delicate skin.

"Where to begin," he murmured to himself. His eyes lit from within at the sight of Hermione's perfect, unblemished skin...a canvas, just begging for him to make that first splash of colour upon it.

Upon closer inspection, he detected a thin white scar running down the left hand side of her body. Standing closer to her, even as she tried to back away, he bent over to examine it. The imperfection ran under her left breast and down past her ribcage to end abruptly at her hipbone. It was hardly anything that one would notice if they did not know what to look for, and he was surprised that he had not detected it during her previous ministrations.

Straightening back up, he chuckled in silent appreciation for Dolohov's handiwork at the Department of Mysteries almost two years previously.

She'd thought that after his previous assault on her body that she would be prepared for whatever he was to do now. She had never been more wrong in her life.

As he pressed the glowing, white-hot edge of the knife in between her breasts, her body's natural reaction was to flinch away from the perceived threat, and she did just that. However, the metal chains that cut into her wrists gave her no room to move as she was left to dangle there, at his mercy. She wailed out in agony as he made his way down to the soft part of her abdomen.

Lucius' eyes were gleaming with sadistic pleasure as he made the thin white lines appear in calculated positions on her body. The smell of burning flesh invaded his nostrils, heightening his frenzied attack. He no longer heard her pleas and sobs as he shut out all outside stimuli. The only sound that invaded his ears was that of his own blood rushing through his veins like a continuous tidal wave.

Stepping back to admire his work and ending the spell on the knife, he took in the glorious sight before him. The path that his knife had taken had started to blister, leaving ugly, red oozing lines in their wake. The Mudblood was hanging limply from her chains, obviously having passed out from the assault on her body. If she couldn't even stand that, then they were in for a long night indeed...with plenty of Enervates.

Walking the short distance to the cot, he picked up his wand whilst laying down the knife with such care and tenderness that Hermione would have laughed had she been awake to witness it.

Picking up a vial that he had previously deposited on the cot, he walked back over to his slave. Her head was lolling from side to side as though she were at half consciousness, her hair obscuring her features.

As he uncorked the vial, he took particular care to not spill a drop on his precious pureblood hands. Raising it up, he brought it first to the Mudblood's shoulder, tipping up the vial and allowing two drops to fall on her already tarnished skin. The reaction was immediate, as her skin started to bubble and smoke. The acid eating away at her shoulder at an alarming rate as Lucius watched on, a look of pure fascination holding him immobile as he observed in eagerness.

She let out a muffled yell as she came back to herself. Her hair flying wildly about her face, she swung her head from side to side desperately. The tear tracks and snot that she was unable to wipe away clung to her face. Turning her head to see what was going on, her eyes landed on her smouldering shoulder. She tried desperately to move away from her attacker, but it was no use; the chains only gave her a little leeway.

She watched as he brought the object in his hand up to her other shoulder and she kicked out, almost instinctively, knocking the vial from his grasp. It went flying across the room and smashed on the stone floor. The sizzling, smoking fumes erupted in mere seconds, as two sets of eyes followed the vial's progress.

"Evanesco," Lucius snarled, pointing his wand at the now useless mess on the floor. Hermione cringed as he whirled around to face her, his countenance and posture expressing his fury as he advanced toward her.

Reaching her, he stuck the wand tip into the pressure point on her neck as he yanked her head back brutally by the roots of her hair.

"That was a mistake," he said dangerously, his lips curled up in an ugly look of hatred. "You shall pay for your error with your own flesh, Mudblood whore."

He was breathing heavily, right next to her left eye that was held wide in terror. She knew in that moment he had lost what little control he usually held onto so tightly. She had somehow managed to unravel it, like a loose thread that begged to be pulled at. She had finally managed to shake his tenacity, and now that she had...she feverishly wished to take it back.

Abruptly, he pushed her head forward, letting go of his hold on her as he stepped away. She could still hear his shallow breathing, her heart pounding in her chest. Her whole body ached; there was not one place on her entire form that did not scream out, from her calves...which were begging her to relax...to her shoulder, from which the scent of her own burning flesh still reached her nostrils. It sickened her as she gagged, bile making its way to her throat, the sour, acidic taste wanting to make her spit it out; however, she swallowed reflexively. Her torso throbbed, and she felt the beads of sweat trickling down her forehead and into her already stinging eyes.

She shook her head, trying to remove some of the sweat from her brow. It was futile, she realised, as more drops appeared to take their place. The demon was taking his time, probably trying to decide on the best course of action, or weapon, at his disposal.

Without warning, he was standing behind her once more, though he had made no noise. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, the little hairs on her arms and legs standing to attention as goosebumps welled up on her flesh. She tensed herself, although her muscles howled out in objection, for the next form of anguish that his devious mind was certainly formulating.

Lucius saw her stiffen but was too incensed to care as he took a step backwards, away from her body, and angled himself just right. He brought the whip back and let it fly through the air with all of his might. She lurched forward as it struck, the blunt material peeling back the delicate skin on her back, as one would an orange. The crimson blood welled to the surface and she screamed out in anguish; however, he did not relent, bringing the whip across her back twenty...no, thirty...times until it was unrecognisable, her blood dripping all over the floor and coating him.

Her back was a criss-cross of jagged openings, each one oozing blood in thin rivers as she hung limply from the chains, clearly passed out from his dealings. He took another step back, breathing deeply.

What have I done? Lucius' fevered mind caught up with his actions.

He froze and looked down at the hand that held the cat-o-nine. It was covered in blood. Mudblood. His gaze fell to his usually pristine white shirt. It too showed flecks of blood spattering, going down as far as the tips of his boots. He realised, as the whip dropped to the floor from his suddenly uncooperative hand, that the defectively bred witch had shattered his usual unruffled façade, causing him to lash out at her in the only way he saw fit...through his own unique sense of brutal punishment.

He strode quickly over to the bed, breathing in through his nose and letting it gush out of his mouth. He had to gain back his customary unflappable control. Picking up his wand, he made his way around to her back. Forehead creased in concentration, he made quick work closing up her back. Fortunately, he was a master of the healing charm as one did not keep their toys alive without mastering the tools of the trade, so to speak. Banishing the chains, he caught her before she fell to the ground, picking her up in his arms and carrying her over to the cot. Sweeping everything off it with one arm as he balanced her in the other, he laid her down and checked for a pulse. It was there, thankfully, though it was barely a faint presence.

He had forgotten how fragile the human body was at these beginning stages. He would have to build up her immunity to the torture a little bit at a time. He decided then and there on a more psychological approach, as opposed to the physical.

He thanked Merlin for minuscule favours, as he did not want to be the one to have to explain why the Mudblood had perished under his tender care. He laughed aloud then, as some of the adrenaline left his body, and his heart rate slowed down. He shook a little under the implications of what a message such as that would bring...most certainly his death, and not the swift and painless death by Avada, either.

He was meant to break her...nothing more. What was it about this simple, stupid Mudblood chit that had him all wound up? Was it the fact that she had outdone his own son at Hogwarts? A dispensable Mudblood was better than his own flesh and blood. The thought sickened him as he turned her over, exposing the blistering redness and ugly scarring that his favoured knife had left. A quick flick of his wand fixed up that problem until they were just thin red marks defacing her upper body.

Next was her shoulder, which he saw still contained the gaping wound that his acid mixture had left. There was, however, no blood escaping the opening. He waved his wand once more, causing the wound to knit itself together. Satisfied that all of her apparent grievances were treated, he ran a diagnostic spell that incorporated her entire body.

Lucius was pleased by the light colours of the spell; the only discomforting tones were those between her legs and in her abdomen. He knew that the dark shades hovering above her stomach were not due to an unwanted half-breed child, as he had regrettably gone sterile from his years as a Death Eater and the hazards that came with the station of being his Lord's right hand man. No, it indicated quite clearly, her near starvation. That would not do. He made a mental note to let the house-elf responsible for her know to give her at least two decent meals per day...not enough to get her strength back, but an adequate amount for her to survive on.

Casting a warming spell upon her, he levitated the objects of torment back into the hidden room, making sure to seal the door once everything was in place. Swiping a blood stained hand though his normally spotless hair, he breathed in deeply. He would have to be more subtle in his approach to the Mudblood, lest anything should happen to her.

Moving his eyes around the dingy cell, and contented that everything was in its place, he picked up his robes and cane casing from the corner. Waving the wand through the air, he placed some enchantments on the cell. With one last surreptitious look around, he exited. He would take a long hot shower first and then send a house-elf down with some blood-replenishing potion. After that was taken care of, he would head to his library for a drink of something incredibly strong.

***

Harry and Ron sat in identical plush chairs before the Headmaster's bulky desk. They both knew there was more to the story than the aged wizard was letting on...they just hoped that he wouldn't be as obscure as he had been at breakfast.

The white-haired Headmaster took in a deep breath. He knew that this was going to be hard on both Harry and Ronald, but hopefully they would come away from this meeting with a renewed sense of purpose. One, he could only hope, that would be in the best interest of defeating Tom Riddle once and for all.

As he looked into the two young men's faces, he saw worry etched in each and every line. Harry's leg was bouncing up and down in a show of unfocused energy, its master eager to hear what the Professor had to say. Ronald was gnawing fervently on the thumbnail of his right hand.

Albus cleared his throat...an unconscious habit...his lined face taking on a look of sympathy as he began.

"Miss Hermione Granger was taken by Death Eaters some time last week..."

There was an outraged cry from Ron as he stood up and almost fell over in the process. Harry just sat unnaturally still in disbelief, his mouth open and his eyes as wide as dinner plates.

The Headmaster held up both hands in an effort to quell the wizards' barrage of questions before continuing onwards in his unpleasant task.

"And I have reason to believe that she will not be coming back." He finished as tactfully as possible, given the circumstances.

"What do you mean 'she's not coming back'?"

Ron hesitated, his face suddenly pale, his freckles standing out in stark contrast, as his brain struggled to catch up with his mouth. He staggered backward and sat heavily on the chair beneath him.

"We have to find her."

It was Harry that spoke this time, quietly, a fierce determination in his emerald green eyes.

"We mustn't, my boy."

Dumbledore realised a moment too late that he had chosen the wrong words.

Harry stood then and crossed the office with a determined air about him. His shoulders were straight, his head held high.

"Then I shall just proceed without you," he said as he reached for the doorknob.

Albus stood and slammed his hands on the polished desk before him, scattering papers in his wake. "Miss Granger is already dead!"

Harry froze on the spot, his hand still around the doorknob. Dumbledore's eyes remained fixed on the back of the young wizard's unruly head, even as a horrified sob broke free from the inhabitant of the chair opposite his desk.

"As much as it pains me to tell you this, Harry," he said in a much softer, sadder voice, "I have confirmation of Miss Granger's death from a highly reliable source."

The young, would-be saviour turned around to face the old wizard as though he were in a trance. Every muscle in his body clenched and unclenched as he tried to maintain his closely guarded temper.

"Then they are wrong," he murmured stubbornly, almost as if he didn't quite believe his own words. Turning around once more, he left the office, shutting the door soundly behind him.

Albus sank into his chair, his face cradled in his hands. He did not expect either child to take the news calmly, but such disbelief was disconcerting, to say the least. Remembering Mr Weasley, he looked up to see that the boy had fainted dead away. With a sigh, he pushed his weary body up and away from the desk. He may as well wake the boy and send him after his friend, for Harry Potter would need every ally available to him if they had any wish of coming out of this war victorious.

***

Please don't become one of those unidentified individuals that just read and don't review as your opinion could amend the outcome of this story. So in short, review and I will take whatever you have to say seriously. And of course, I will love you forever.

Thanking my betas, deathofme and AmyLouise.