Chapter One, Part II

A/N: See Chapter One for standard disclaimer, a huge and heartfelt thanks to my wonderful beta SeverusLovesUs, and to everyone who has reviewed my little story, thank you so much. Just a friendly heads up to my readers: this chapter is dark, and some might find it disturbing.

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I’ve heard it said that even though unconscious, the subconscious is alert and cognizant of one’s surroundings and goings on. Is that the reason I’m standing here, no breath escaping my lips, watching you watching me, in a perverse charade of voyeurism? Perhaps I’m an apparition or for the moment, existing on some astral plane; this is Hogwarts after all. The sardonic thought crosses my mind as a smirk graces my lips.

You’re looking down your nose at me, and I’m frozen to the spot, watching in rapt fascination as you stoop down to rest on your haunches. You loom over me like death before gently turning me so that I might rest on my back. Your spidery fingers attached to calloused, rough, bruising hands start for my body again. I gasp, crying, “No!” For the briefest of moments, you hesitate.

“Merlin above, please don’t let him.” My mouth moves, but no words spill forth, hoping the gods above hear my plea. Apparently, my prayer has fallen upon deaf ears; your hands continue their macabre journey to uncover the mysteries of my flesh. Slowly, and with delicate precision that could only come from years of preparing potions ingredients, you strip away my layers. My robe, sullied, is discarded, tossed away along with my sense of well-being. I feel the blood thrumming in my ears, my heart stuck in my throat.

I’m amused that you ignore my hands, injured and bloody, the reason you gave me a detention in the first place. Instead, your hawkish gaze cuts to my chest. One by one the little, pearl-like buttons are undone. Your breath quickens with each peak of flesh your greedy eyes steal. I step closer, unable to turn away from the scene in front of me. I screw my eyes closed as you heft me into a sitting position, your hands fiddling and unclasping the hook of my bra on the second try. I exhale, my eyes creeping open as you slide each strap down my unresisting arms. It too is tossed aside like some twisted version of “She loves me… She loves me not…” Am I a daisy to be plucked?

You lay me back down upon the cold dungeon floor, fingers caressing a pattern, beginning under my right breast, dipping down to my navel, and leaving a trail of gooseflesh as your journey continues from my navel to the vee between my breasts. Fingers walk down my abdomen; you stop in your ministrations, your head bending down, lips touching mine.

“I’m sorry,” you breathe against my parted mouth as your fingers glide upward, stopping at my left breast.

I laugh, mirthless though it may be. You’re sorry? You don’t have the right. Anger wells up within me, my cheeks growing warm.

“Miss Granger.” You hang your head, hand resting on my thigh, the other stroking my hair.

“Hermione.” The moan is so soft, your voice so deep and rich—I strain to hear.

I turn away. I can’t bear the sight any longer. I cover my ears as the noises descend upon me. The grunts, slurs—they won’t go away. Shaking my head back and forth, I pull on my hair, trying to quell the unease of my mind.

Muggle-born.

Whore.

Mudblood.

Gryffindor.

Epitaphs rising in a cacophony of sound, whirling, swirling, getting jumbled—Muggle, whore, Mudblood. Bile steadily rising, coating the back of my throat, voices drowning out, dying in a hush, but one remains… hers… nasally, high-pitched, and as saccharine-sweet as butterbeer.

“STOP!” My voice hoarse as memories flood unbidden and unrelenting in their quest to destroy my psyche. The pain etches deeper, carving itself into my skin like the ‘W’ left behind by that fucking quill charmed especially for me.

W, twenty-third letter in the alphabet. Whore, five letters, me.

'My cross to bear' she called it—my scarlet letter.

My vision blurs, I’m falling, darkness.

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She blinks; a feeling of warmth floods her system; familiar, gentle fingers do not cease their caressing, his hand inching upward with every stroke, even as she stirs.

“Now you know,” she states matter-of-factly, eyes closed, unwilling to move, her bearings regained. Hermione lifts a hand, flesh burnt, blistered, oozing sickly yellow puss. “Don’t,” she gasps, “hurts.” She stills his hand with her own. He nods, unable to speak as he dumbly stares down at their entwined hands.

TBC

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A/N: Ten points to anyone who can figure out who the "she" is Hermione refers to.