1/7: The Night Of Screams

A/N: These characters are the property of JK Rowling and Warner Bros. I make no money from this story and claim no rights. Nothing you recognise belongs to me.

Great thanks to Voxangelus, who graciously stepped in as a fresh pair of eyes, and took a lot of pressure off, just because she liked the story.

"I want... that one," he drawled, a sneering grin twisting his already cruel features. The circle of black-clad Death Eaters followed the path leading from the pale, pointing finger to its target.

Lucius was the only one who didn't laugh. He thought it was the least plausible choice. With a decadent look of pure disdain, he challenged, "What on earth do you want with that, Brother?"

Snape shrugged. "It'll make a good house-elf."

Amidst the jeering laughter of the Death Eaters, their Lord and Master contemplated his most valued, most trusted spy. Severus Snape had pointed at the Mudblood, the Granger girl, thus claiming her as his granted prize for the victory Lord Voldemort and his followers had achieved. The Dark Lord smiled knowingly at his secret favourite, and nodded his acquiescence.

By rights, she really should be dead now. Most of them were. The defeat of the Order was bloody and all-encompassing, and the sheer fact that the girl was unceremoniously dumped on the Malfoys' doorstep moments before the final slaughter meant that the victorious Death Eaters could all but smell the fresh meat presented to them.

MacNair, the hero of the hour, who had triumphantly cast the still struggling Potter boy at the Dark Lord's feet, was given the happy task of being the first to take her; the first of many. Harry and Ron were forced to watch. At first threatening, then pleading, then sobbing, they witnessed their innocent, unbroken friend passed from man to man, broken time and time again, before their lives were ceremoniously ended at sunset. Then the true slaughter began. From that moment onward, it was to be known as the Night of Screams; the night the Light vanished, and the Dark emerged the victor.

She sat in a little cluster of women, mostly students around her age. Those who had initially tried to fight had been killed; those who hesitated had been killed; those who had pleaded, protested, postured and defied had been killed. The stench of death was a miasma in the air; to Snape's sensitive nose, it smelt like a slaughterhouse in summer – which was precisely what it was.

Why was she still alive? Perversity, most likely; a whim of the gods. After the Death Eaters tired of her, she was thrown in with the other spoils to await her fate. Her fellow survivors had taken pity on her, and she was now kitted out in their castoffs: spare clothes those around her had given up to cover her dignity. The striped shirt was yards too large for her; the skirt much too short. Her bare feet were dirty, and her thighs bore smudges of reddish brown blood mixed with the leavings of her rapists.

At his words, "I want that one," the collective sound of the harem rose, mournful and pitying. Unconsciously, they all took a step back. No one wanted to be delivered up to the Judas, the Headmaster – The Snape. After the slaughter of the night, the death of their dearly-held hopes and dreams, he was seen as being worse than the Dark Lord. He was the Henchman, the Pale Rider on the Pale Horse, and of all the Death Eaters, the most mistrusted and feared.

For he had approached them early in the night, comforting them with his honeyed tongue, quieting them with the mere familiarity of his pale, stern presence; touching them gently, offering them soothing potions and ointments to ease their suffering. He had held them, rocked them as they pleaded for their lives and their mothers; he had dried tears, all the while delivering up their secrets to his Dark Master. He had stroked them and had granted them succor. In the end, he had betrayed them all.

.

He was now looking down at Hermione with undisguised repugnance. "Get up," he snapped, grabbing her thin arm and marching her away from the others. He could hear the catcalls and laughter as his fellow Death Eaters closed the circle again, casting lots for the next slave.

Hermione looked back to the cluster of females where she had taken refuge for a few moments. Her space was gone; it was as if she had never been there.

She closed her eyes, feeling his strong fingers biting into her skin. Some of the girls had whispered that Snape might be the best choice of a new Master – that is, those that weren't so traumatized that they were no longer capable of speech. Most were nearly catatonic with fear; Hermione was one of them.

Her former Potions professor dragged her along, and Hermione knew she'd better keep up. Within, her body sizzled and throbbed. She felt something loathsome trickling from between her thighs, and tears threatened. A sob escaped her lips, and Snape stopped and turned on her.

A fierce slap nearly knocked her off her feet and made her ears ring. "Shut up. And don't bother trying to gain my pity. I don't have any for you." He pulled her forward again, out the door, his chilling calm and cold voice washing over her like a sluice of ice water.

Gasping, holding her burning cheek, Hermione willed her feet to move with his.

They arrived at his home and he warded the house with such logic-defying complexity it made Hermione's already befuddled head spin. She ventured a look around, shivering in the cool, musty air.

"Get upstairs, take off those rags and wash yourself. The loo's on the left at the stop of the landing." He didn't look at her, but removed his robes and sat down on an aging sofa. When she hesitated, he jumped to his feet and rushed at her so quickly she took several stumbling steps back, and fell on her sore backside with a cry. Such was her fear that she jumped up again quickly, afraid of more abuse.

She looked up into his eyes, which were black and unreadable, then looked down again. For a moment, there was only the sound of her harsh breathing, the ticking clock on the wall.

Finally, in a voice so deadly quiet she had to strain to hear, Snape said, "I can see I need to make you aware of a few home truths, Miss Granger. The Order is dead. Potter is dead. Your parents are dead. Everyone you loved or cared about is dead. The Dark has triumphed, and you are a spoil of war. The Dark Lord granted his chosen their pick of tokens, and I have chosen you. Don't make me regret it; there are many willing girls who will happily take your place."

His eyes were simply blazing. "I have literally waded in blood tonight, girl, and I could add yours to it so very easily. The victors are celebrating in the streets, parading around the dead bodies of your friends, and I could happily throw yours onto the pile. What happens next is entirely up to you."

Hermione stood as still as a stone. Then, silently mustering the last remnants of dignity, she turned and walked up the stairs, holding onto the railing with both hands, dragging her body upward and into the upstairs loo. She could feel his eyes following her journey upward.

She locked the door and removed her borrowed clothing, shivering even more. Don't think about anything, she told herself, as she ran the battered tub full of the hottest water she could stand. Don't think, don't act, don't feel, don't wish, don't THINK. She wouldn't think about the Death Eaters, or the rape, or the pain, or the boys -

The door flew open, and Hermione tried to snatch a towel to cover herself. Snape stood in the doorway, looking at her thin, almost childish body with contempt. "There will be no locked doors within this house, Miss Granger," he intoned, and she nodded. It earned her another swift slap. She had forgotten how quickly he could move. Tears threatened, and she looked down at the water, fascinated, as a drop of red liquid landed on the surface with a light plop and dissipated into lighter red ribbons in the water. She rubbed the blood trickling from her nose.

"When I address you, you will answer me. 'Yes, sir' will suffice for now."

Hermione swallowed. "Yes, sir," she said, her voice rusty, her throat raw from screaming.

She looked up into his severe face again. He had never liked her, she knew that for sure; but she had never seen the naked, raging hatred that now burned in his eyes. She had always hoped that her instincts about him had been real, that he was on the side of the light. She was starting to believe that everything Harry had ever suspected about Snape was probably true.

As he read her thoughts, he smiled grimly. "I see we are starting to get the full picture now, Miss Granger. You are now my slave. As such, your job will be to obey me. Show me obedience, and you will be allowed to wear clothes. If not, you will serve me, and any guests I may have, as you are now."

He snatched the towel from her hands and looked down at her body. She was battered, all right. He could still see blood trickling down her thighs in thin, watery strips. She was so pitiful, so fragile. She had been so humiliated and battered. He had salves, potions to give her comfort... Then the anger returned so visciously he wanted to slap her senseless again. "Clean yourself, girl. You're a disgusting mess."

"Yes, sir," she said, and with a wave of his hand, he cooled the water.

"No point in having you bleed to death before I get some use out of you. Show some common sense, Granger!" He looked down at her with such avid abhorrence she cringed. For some reason, that irritated him even more. "Broken already, are we? It didn't take much for you to turn into a whining child. You are a pathetic, useless, weakling!"

His hands curled into fists and for a moment Hermione thought he was going to strike her again. Instead, he whirled around and headed for the door. "Clean yourself up and then lie down on the bed across the hall. If you are still bleeding, lie on a towel, unless you fancy cleaning a mattress by hand."

The door closed behind him with a bang, making Hermione jump. With shaking, trembling limbs, she climbed into the high-walled tub, and bit back a cry of burning pain as her damaged nether regions made contact with the lukewarm water.

For several moments she lay in the tub, too exhausted to do anything but soak. A few more ribbons of blood unfurled from her thighs, then stopped. Hermione tried to wash herself, but stopped when she realised she was scrubbing herself raw. This kind of dirt, she knew, would never disappear. This was one kind of clean she would never feel again.

Suddenly afraid he would punish her for soaking too long, Hermione half-pulled, half-dragged herself from the water. She gasped at the weakness in her protesting legs, and held onto the tub until she was able to stand and dry herself. There were no clothes here, and, thinking about his parting words, Hermione crept out into the hall, across the landing, and into the bedroom, holding onto the towel.

The room was sparse, the faded wallpaper outdated and dull. The bed was narrow and rather short, and Hermione wondered if this had been his boyhood bed. Now, he would have to either sleep on his side with his legs drawn up, or dangle his long feet off the end. The image of this made her giggle for some reason, and she put her hands over her mouth in case the laughter turned to screams.

She lay on the bed, and pulled the threadbare covers up to her shoulders. The room was dark except for a dim, little bedside lamp, and she grew warm and sleepy. Even during their time on the run, she had never felt so tired. Her mind drifted, and she had almost dozed when the door opened, and his tall silhouette loomed in the doorway. Hermione forced herself to lie still. She knew that whatever she did, it would somehow be the wrong thing.

Sure enough, he crossed to the bed. "Too tired to wait up, eh? Slattern." Hermione turned away, only to feel his fingers dig into her cheeks and force her head back to face his. He looked at her with fury. Through crooked, clenched teeth, he hissed, "Never turn your head away from me, girl!"

"Yes, sir," she said, and felt her tears threatening again. She forced herself to look at him.

Satisfied she was watching him, he looked down at her imperiously, then yanked the covers from the bed, leaving her naked and exposed to his withering scrutiny. His eyes roved downward, following the contours of her body. He regarded her dispassionately, as if he were studying a rather unsavoury specimen.

He opened a jar of salve and applied it to the worst bruises, starting with the slap mark he'd made earlier. His hands were cool and surprisingly gentle; Hermione lay very still while he rubbed the ointment into her skin with almost tender care.

Once he'd finished with the other cuts and welts, he placed his large hands on her thighs. "Open," he said, in a voice that was soft and colourless. When she made a soft, pleading sound, he absently said, "Shush."

"Please, sir," She swallowed thickly. Her whispers sounded childish and whining to her ears. "Please don't. Not now. Please let me have time to heal – "

"Silence," he said, as casually as before. "Open your legs, Miss Granger, or I'll Imperuse you. Is that what you want?" He looked at her impassively, waiting for her to decide.

Feeling as if her heart were dying in her chest, Hermione allowed him to part her shaking thighs, and he looked down at her sex with a strange, almost puzzled look on his face. She whimpered as he parted her labia, peeling it back with two fingers, examining her with chilling indifference.

"Shush," he said again, his voice almost bored. He dipped two fingers into the healing salve, and rubbed over her labia in a way that was almost sensual. Hermione took great, shuddering breaths, fighting tears of humiliation.

His hands were knowing and experienced, and Hermione was too traumatised at the time. Later, when she replayed the moment in her mind, it didn't make sense. When his fingers glided between her netherlips and circled her clitoris, she whimpered, thinking he was trying to prepare her for sex, and he smirked knowingly.

Without hesitation, he dipped a single finger into the healing salve, then inserted it, deep inside her passage, causing her to hiss. He withdrew it, looked at the smear of blood staining it, then pushed two long, slim fingers inside, pushing down on her pelvis with his other hand. Hermione heard her own harsh, panting breath, and forced herself to look up at his solemn face as he studied her damaged vulva. His fingers probed deeply, pressing inside her. His inspection was surprisingly gentle, and as his eyes slid off to the side, allowing his sensitive fingers to explore and examine her, Hermione sensed something; a shift of some kind.

It was not exactly gentle; he seemed... uncertain. It was almost impossible to define. Hermione made a soft sound, and he turned his head, startled from his musings. The loathing she saw earlier returned, darkening his features.

"Hmm." He withdrew his fingers and cleaned them carefully. "You're tight, I'll give you that. You may turn out to be of some use after all, Miss Granger." He produced a small vial and, holding her nose, unceremoniously tipped its contents down her throat. "Swallow..."

Hermione barely had time to force her parched throat to obey him when her world slipped sideways and set her adrift...

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