Author's Note: I wrote this piece for the HP Horror Fest 2018. My prompt was submitted by pommedeplume. Thanks for the inspiration!

Prompt #45: Out of the frying pan and into the fire: Character escapes a traumatic event, only to stumble upon a cabin whose sole resident seems kindly but is even more dangerous than what they escaped.
Suggested Character(s)/Pairing(s): Any.
Any Optional Extras: The cabin's resident is not a villain in canon.

Thanks to the mods for hosting this fest. There's not enough HP horror, in my opinion, and I'm happy to have the chance to contribute to the genre!

Thanks as well to my beta, AkaShika, for the quick turnaround, thorough Brit-pick, and character help! All remaining errors are mine.

WARNINGS, PLEASE HEED: Main character death, child abuse, abuse, violence, gore, horror

Part One

Hermione Granger tried to keep her broom steady as another gust of wind blew her sideways. It was simple enough to pinpoint where her decisions had transitioned from stubborn to foolish. She should have accepted Luna and Ernie's invitation to wait out the storm in their cosy spare bedroom, even if it meant spending the night away from Ron and the comfort of her home. Instead, she had dismissed the dark grey clouds, which loomed over the distant tree line like a massive wall, as a fast-moving autumn squall and something she could miss entirely.

She had been wrong, Luna had been right, and she would never admit either aloud.

Heavy raindrops began pelting her cloak, a pretty brown suede anniversary gift that was now ruined. Not that Ron would be angry about the cloak, but it would inevitably provide the spark to rekindle the argument they had had before she left. She knew no one would have blamed her for declining Luna's baby shower. At eight months pregnant herself, she no longer fit into most Floos, and since her pregnancy was classified as high-risk, Apparition was not an option. The real sticking point, which she had discovered after some increasingly pointed questions, had been her mode of transportation. She had wanted to fly, Ron had wanted her to drive. He didn't care that the journey would've taken twice as long or that she was now somewhat competent on a broomstick. She didn't like that he didn't trust her judgment.

She had been wrong, Ron had been right, and maybe she would admit it aloud.

The broom shimmied as a rolling growl of thunder shook the sky, making Hermione's next judgment call clear: she had to land, find shelter, and wait out the storm.

Bare branches scraped against her arms and cheeks as she made her unsteady descent into the forest, and her grip only relaxed when both feet were firmly planted. An indistinct flash of lightning lit the clouds and she paused to count. Fifteen seconds elapsed before she heard thunder; the storm was about three miles away. She didn't have much time.

Hermione laid her wand flat on her palm. "Homenum Revelio." The vine wood twitched toward the northwest, and though it was hardly an encouraging sign, it was better than aimless wandering. She hefted the broom over her shoulder, lit her wand, and began to walk.

The forest grew darker as the storm grew nearer, her wandlight useless in the sheeting rain. The thick layer of decomposing autumn leaves turned slick. She leaned on the broom to keep from falling, but it made a poor crutch. She winced whenever a tail twig snapped, imagining Ron's reaction when she eventually made it home. But her wand had become more confident in its directions, pointing steadily northwest whenever she checked it. After walking for forty minutes, she felt resistance, a subtle push against her chest. Property wards.

She shoved through them, then paused. A wooden cabin had appeared in what had been an impassable thicket two steps ago. Though its windows were dark, a thin trail of smoke slithered from its chimney, barely visible through the rain. She lurched toward it on tired legs and pounded on the door.

"Hello?" She had to shout to be heard over the rain. "Hello? Please, I need -"

A flash of lightning and a near immediate crack of thunder shook the world around her. For an insane second, she thought it had opened the door for her.

But it hadn't. Framed in the doorway, half-shadowed by the cabin's interior gloom, was someone she knew. He was tall, thin, and pale, with squared-off features, dark hair, and intriguing hazel eyes. Still, it took her a minute to find his name.

"Theodore Nott."

His chin rose in subtle acknowledgement.

"Hermione Granger."

His voice was deeper than she remembered. Or maybe it had always been that way. He'd never been talkative, and outside of their Arithmancy class, he'd had no reason to speak to her.

"I got caught in the storm."

Nott's brow furrowed, and Hermione put a hand atop her belly as his eyes flicked down.

"I can't Apparate."

He didn't move, and Hermione felt her heart sink. What would she do if he turned her away? Her casual trousers and top did nothing to keep out the cold, her shoes were soaked, and her ruined cloak felt like a lead blanket laid across her shoulders. Her legs and back ached, and she had no idea where she was or how she was going to get home.

"Please, Theodo -"

He stepped aside and gestured her inside.

"Call me Theo."

"Thank you," she said on an exhale.

An involuntary shiver ran through her as Nott closed the door. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the cabin's dim lighting. She had stepped into the main living area. To her left was a small kitchen, before her was a narrow staircase leading to a closed door, and in the cabin's back right corner, through a partially opened door, she spied a double bed.

She felt the weight of Nott's gaze on the back of her neck and turned to face him. She smiled to offset the sudden awkwardness. It didn't work.

"I'm usually more careful," she said. "I thought the weather was clear for the night."

"Storms come up quickly on the coast."

"Right."

She shifted her weight, trying to suppress another shiver, but Nott noticed. His lips twitched into a smile that didn't quite fit his face.

"Do you want to shower?"

"Please."

She followed him into the bedroom, where she tried and failed to ignore the intimacy of his unmade bed and the musky, not-Ron smell. He gestured to the water closet.

"There are clean towels in the cabinet."

He left without further explanation, hopefully to stoke the small fire she'd seen sputtering in the living room hearth.

Hermione left her dripping, muddy clothes in a pile on the loo floor and set her wand on the vanity. She would Scourgify and dry them after her shower, though she grimaced at the thought of having to put on grimy, stiff clothes. Until then, however… She stepped beneath the spray, biting back a moan at the sting of hot water against her cold skin. For several minutes, she let herself soak. The child inside of her shifted.

"It's nice to be warm again, isn't it?" she whispered. "We're lucky we found this place."

She washed herself using a bar of white soap and finger-combed her curls as best she could. Far sooner than she wanted but later than was strictly polite, she closed the tap and wrung her hair. She wrapped herself in a worn, off-white towel, stepped out of the shower, and froze.

Her clothes were missing.

Her heart skipped a beat as her mind began to race. Had she dropped them in the bedroom? Two steps and an open door confirmed what she had already known: no, she hadn't.

She closed the door and leaned against it, staring at herself in the foggy mirror. The towel pulled across her breasts, but was too small to cover her fully. It parted over her belly, leaving her lower half bare.

A thought niggled: maybe she had been better off outside.

No. Hermione pushed the thought away and patted herself dry with quick efficiency. Outside had been terrible. She had been cold, wet, tired, and altogether too miserable to cast a Patronus. There was a simpler solution for her missing clothes than the one her paranoid mind had conjured. Nott might have charmed his loo to be self-cleaning or maybe he had a house-elf. Neither was unlikely, considering his heritage. There was no reason to panic. There was simply a problem to solve.

She grabbed her wand and stepped quietly into Nott's bedroom. She toed the door as closed as it could get without latching and took an inventory. The towel was thin but might have enough material to transfigure into a makeshift robe. A sheet would be better - thicker, warmer, longer - but she abandoned the idea after rifling through his bureau. The only bedding she could find was on his bed. She briefly considered wearing his clothes, but nixed the idea. Wearing a transfigured towel was intimate enough. Wearing Nott's clothes was certainly a step too far.

With a furtive glance at the door, she laid the towel across the bed and set to work stretching the pilled fabric and fashioning crude straps and a tie. She sacrificed length for width, and when she tried it on, the robe covered her belly but only dropped to mid-thigh. She cinched the strap and readjusted her grip on her wand. It would have to do. With a steadying breath and a forced smile, she opened the door.

Nott sat facing her, his elbows on his knees. His long fingers were steepled and pressed to his lips, and before his eyes snapped to hers, they held a faraway look, contemplative in a way that made a weight drop in the pit of her stomach.

"Sorry about the towel," she said, reaching for humor to break the tension, "but your bathroom chose to launder my clothes."

His eyes made a slow inventory of her body, feet to thighs, belly to breasts. He did not look at her face.

"When are you due?"

The question was so commonplace that the answer slipped out before she could stop it. "One month."

Nott shifted, and Hermione's heart began to race.

"Listen, I've inconvenienced you enough for one night. If you could just retrieve my clothes and point me in the direction of the nearest town, I'll be on my way."

Nott slowly rose to his feet. "It's dark and cold. The storm hasn't passed. You'll stay here for the night."

"No, really, I don't -"

"Sit, Granger."

An early lesson from Hagrid rang through her head: never show a predator your back. She shuffled sideways to the threadbare sofa, lowering herself into it without breaking eye contact. The set of Nott's shoulders relaxed once she was settled.

"Tea?"

"Okay."

He turned away from her and, once he was at the stove, she moved. In two silent, leaping strides she was at the door. She ripped it open and launched herself into the darkness, grabbing at the space where she had put the broom. Her fingers brushed the handle, and it tipped away from her. She tipped forward as well, caught it, ran two more stumbling steps, mounted, and kicked hard off the muddy ground. She lit with searing hope as the broom took her weight and her feet left the ground.

And then there was a searing of something else, a hex that burned across her left arm. The broom juddered beneath her, then stopped. She looked back and saw Nott, face set in a deadly calm, with a handful of tail twigs. He yanked once, and the broom bucked backwards. There was a brief period of weightlessness before Hermione landed hard on her back, the air forced from her lungs. Nott wrapped a hand around her injured left arm and squeezed. Her vision fuzzed at the edges, and he began to drag her back to the cabin.

"No!"

She kicked at him, scratched, tore her fingers into the soft ground, clawing for anything to stop Nott's inexorable march toward the cabin. She whipped her wand at him, her jinx missing by inches, then stars burst across her vision as his hand connected with her cheek.

The wooden beam ceiling of Nott's bedroom came into focus. Hermione shifted and felt the cold weight of metal against her wrists and ankles. Nott loomed next to the bed. Her robe was splayed open, every muddy inch of her revealed for his perusal, but he stared only at her belly.

"Please." Her voice was hoarse with terror and tears streamed down her face. "Please, Theo, let me go. I won't tell anyone, I won't -"

"Quiet."

"Theo, please, my child, I can't -"

"Quiet."

"Why are you doing this?"

He looked away from her belly to scowl at her and grab a mug from the nightstand. He shoved it against her lips, the porcelain scraping across her top teeth.

"Drink."

The bittersweet taste of Dreamless Sleep rolled across her tongue. She spat it out.

"No, it will hurt -"

She thrashed as the mug tipped again. An overlarge dose spilled into her mouth, running from the corners and trailing sticky lines down her neck while Nott pinched her nostrils shut. He tipped her head back with a firm hand beneath her chin.

"Swallow or suffocate."

Her stomach roiled, but it was too late. The potion - a stronger brew than normal - had already started to take effect, drawing her eyelids down and adding weight to her limbs. She felt a vague panic about passing out on her back and reached for Nott. The chains barely rattled.

"My baby -" she said, but got no further before her world faded to black.

Nott had pulled the living room chair to Hermione's bedside. He sat slouched with his arms crossed over his chest. When he noticed her eyes flutter open, he reached for the mug.

"No, please." Hermione's tongue felt heavy. She spoke slowly, hoping he would understand. "It's bad for the baby."

He paused, the potion suspended between them. "How bad?"

Her mind pounced on the first logical, somewhat defensible excuse it could find. "Magical development. It might be a Squib."

He waited a moment longer before setting the mug down.

"What is it?" He nodded at her belly, still bare and crusted with dried mud. "Boy or girl?"

Hermione's eyes filled with tears. Ron had wanted to know. She had wanted it to be a surprise.

"I don't know."

Nott's expression tightened. It wasn't the answer he'd wanted. Good. She needed some measure of power, no matter how frail.

"You have to let me go, Theo."

"You know I won't."

"One arm," she begged, "so that I can roll onto my side. It's dangerous for me to be on my back. It's hard for me to breathe." Nott looked unmoved, so she added the real reason, the piece of information which would confirm his motivations and direct her behavior until she could manage an escape. "The baby's heart rate may drop."

He shifted, and Hermione had her answer.

"Are you lying to me?"

She shook her head.

He stood and withdrew his wand. With a pass, the chains securing her left arm and leg disappeared. She rolled onto her right side and inhaled deeply. The child inside her shifted, sending warm relief through her.

A relief that turned cold as Nott's hand came to rest upon her stomach.

It took two days for Hermione to convince Nott that she could not remain bedridden. Even then, he let her into the cabin's living space reluctantly. She circuited the small area to stretch her legs, taking in every detail. The threadbare sofa from which she had attempted her first escape led to a small bookshelf filled mostly with academic texts on potions, anatomy, and astronomy. Next was a small hearth, but if it was connected to the Floo Network, he kept the accompanying powder out of sight. A radio with an aerial so bent that Hermione doubted it got reception sat on a low side table. A dusty patch of floor indicated the usual home of the chair Nott had dragged into the bedroom.

"What are you thinking?"

That he had as much right to her thoughts as he had to her child.

That the room's two small windows provided the most likely point of egress, and that she would try to escape through them first.

That, despite the rage and fear quarrelling for control inside of her, she needed to maintain control and play his game.

Her eyes drifted to his. "Do you have anything to eat?"

Nott pulled out the far seat of his two-person kitchen table. He waited until she sat down before turning his back on her.

She froze: Nott's wand was in his back pocket.

The calculations were unconscious and instant: distance, speed, momentum, force of impact, centre of gravity. If she was quick, if she was quiet, she might have a chance.

She braced her palms against the worn butcher block tabletop, her fingers pressing into its grooves and scars as she prepared to bolt. The muscles in her legs flexed. She leaned forward out of the chair.

Then she saw the knife.

Withdrawn from a block on the counter, the steel blade was over six inches long. Afternoon light glinted off its perfectly honed, razor-thin edge. He brought it to the cutting board in a quick rhythm, slicing through potatoes, carrots, celery, and an onion with practised efficiency.

He glanced over his shoulder at her and smirked, reading her thoughtlessly frank expression.

"Cooking is a natural extension of Potioneering," he explained, as if it weren't commonly known that some of London's best chefs were also its most talented brewers. "I was top of our Potions class every year but our Sixth. Did you know that?"

"No."

The knife flashed, turning end-over-end through the air and landing with its point hovering over the skin above her right eye. Nott flicked his finger. The tip pierced her skin with just enough pressure to draw a bead of blood.

"Don't lie. You knew. That's all you ever cared about."

Hermione's stomach heaved. The feel of the wood grain against her fingers was all that kept her tethered, from sprinting away and earning a knife in the back for her trouble.

"I was second," she admitted, her voice trembling, "except for Sixth Year."

"When you were third."

It wasn't a question. Hermione nodded anyway.

The knife drifted backwards. Nott walked up to meet it, scooping it from the air and spinning it around his fingers like she might do with her wand. The rotation ended at her neck, the blade resting against her skin as gently as a kiss. He leaned down so that their eyes were level.

"I want this to work."

Another implied question.

"Yes," she said, nodding again. "I'm sorry. I won't, I won't -"

"Good," he finished for her.

With a flick of his wrist, the knife was gone, the steel blade tucked back against his forearm. Hermione winced as he leaned close and rested his lips against her forehead. He pressed his tongue against knife's puncture and cleaned the blood from her skin.

He turned back toward the countertop, throwing a casual, "How do you like beef stew?" over his shoulder as he resumed cutting.

The knife knocked a steady cadence as Hermione sagged forward, silent and terrified.

There was nothing simple about their arrangement. Nott was unpredictable, mild-mannered one day and fierce the next, suspicious and unguarded in spurts. The smallest details, like the rate at which she ate or a surreptitious glance out the window, could be enough to turn him. And once his eyes hardened, there was little she could do but remain still and silent and hope that his mania passed without harm.

She wondered if it were intentional - a strategy purposefully designed to keep her wary and weary. Yet there were times when he looked at her, or, more accurately, her pregnant belly, and seemed conflicted. He would grow quiet and contemplative. Sometimes he would ask her a personal question. What colour were her bedroom walls? What was her favourite season? How did Ron propose to her?

She told him everything, anything, that would illustrate her humanity. She needed to show him that she was more than a just vessel for the child inside of her. Because that was what he cared about. When he curled up around her at night, his legs tucking in close to hers and rattling the chains he still forced her to wear, he never became aroused. Even when she pressed up against him, consciously or not, a sharp rebuke let her know that he could not be manipulated in that way, though it may have worked on any other captor.

It was only when he draped his arm over her middle, when his hand splayed wide over her belly and his palm followed the movements of her baby, did something shift in him. The cadence of his breath steadied, the beat of his heart slowed.

Hermione had known since her capture that Nott wanted her child. What she hadn't known, but what had occurred to her with growing certainty over the weeks she stayed with him, was that her child was all Nott wanted.

Once he had it, he would kill her.

In mid-December, Hermione woke with the feeling that something was amiss. Nott had already vanished her chains, and she rose from the bed feeling off-kilter. She planted her feet on the cool wood floor and waited, wondered. Would this be the day she gave birth? The day she died?

Hours later, the first contraction hit.

She remembered trying to hide it, keeping her face impassive through the deep, clenching pain, but the tension in her eyes must have given it away. And when Nott asked, what could she do but tell the truth?

He forced a potion down her throat, something warm that burned like cheap whiskey, and the rest was a blur.

Hours later (it must have been), an infant's squall broke through Hermione's daze. She pried her eyes open and lifted her leaden arms.

"Theo." Her throat hurt. Had she been screaming? "Theo, please."

His back was to her, his head bent over the bundle he cradled in his arms. She didn't bother quelling her tears or silencing the shake that rode her voice as she reached for him and begged.

"Please, Theo, let me hold her. Let me hold my baby."

Nott glanced over his shoulder, his look calculating. Deciding she posed little risk, he sat on the edge of the bed.

"Him," Nott corrected, pressing the bundle into her arms. "Cassius."

"Cassius," she repeated as she looked upon the face of perfection. He had a tuft of dark hair and a nose she thought would grow to be long and pointed. Just like his father's.

Ron.

She had tried not to think of him during her month of captivity, but there was no avoiding his memory now, with the physical proof of his existence resting peacefully in her arms. He should've been there to witness the birth of his son. To hold him and hug her and feel the joy and terror and weight of a new life. She clutched Cassius close, each heaving inhale filling her with his sweet scent, the memory of his father, and the injustice of a world that would separate them.

"That's enough."

Nott reached toward them, but sparks trembled across his skin the moment he made contact with Cassius, the magic she cast instinctual and effective. He flinched away and left her with a look of loathing, letting her mourn in peace.

Over six months, Hermione watched her son change. He grew longer and heavier. The features of his face became more defined, and the dark blue eyes with which he had been born lightened into a transfixing blue-hazel. His hair remained dark, like hers, and though it was still wispy, it showed more waves than curls. He smiled at her when she spoke and laughed when she played with his feet.

And when Nott took Cassius from her arms, he gurgled with that same, simple pleasure of a child besotted with his parents.

In those moments, Hermione's hate for Nott simmered close to the surface. She couldn't hide it, and if Nott had had any interest in her, he would've seen it in her narrowed eyes and clenched jaw. As it was, Nott's interest in her extended only as far as her capacity to feed Cassius. Even that was dwindling, as Cassius began to try soft solids.

Nott would kill her soon.

She had to escape sooner.

Nott's ignorance was his weakness. He knew nothing about raising a child, and Hermione's knowledge and habit of good behaviour were her only sources of power. When she told him that Cassius would become vitamin D deficient, Nott let them outside for a few hours every day. The baby foods she suggested were invariably purchased on his weekly excursions into whatever town neighboured his miserable shack.

He trusted her, somewhat, and that was enough.

She timed her escape for late July, when the days were long, the weather consistent, and Cassius had outgrown his limited wardrobe. The shopping list she provided Nott was long, but he didn't blink. Just read it, folded it twice, and slipped it into his back pocket. He passed a gentle hand across Cassius' downy head and shut the door.

She waited fifteen minutes, circuiting the cabin with Cassius in her arms. Without missing a step, she set him down on the floor.

She tried the windows first, her pace measured and her movements unhurried. She tried the doors next, then the floorboards. Luck. The slightest wiggle in the bedroom, in a board partly beneath the bed. Back in the living area, she hefted Cassius in one arm and glanced toward the kitchen. Nott had never bothered to hide the knives from her - what good was a knife against a wand? But the blades were thin enough to slip between the slats of the floorboard and strong enough to provide leverage.

She used the paring knife to shave away the old, flaking wood, delighting as the shiny steel blade dulled and bent. She shoved the edge of the meat cleaver into the widened gap, angling it down and applying pressure. The wooden slat gave way with a groan.

After two more planks, she could wedge her hips through the joists, but the relief of it was tempered by sadness: she was underfed, which meant Cassius was, too. Her toes dug into the cold, compressed dirt as she reached for her baby. He smiled and waved his arms, his toothless smile wide and trusting.

"We're going to be okay," she whispered, shielding his head as she lowered him to the ground. His face screwed up in discomfort as the cold seeped through his thin romper. She snatched a long, thin-bladed boning knife and ducked below before Cassius started crying. She pulled him near and kept a warm arm around him as she surveyed the cabin's underside. The back of the crawl space was closed off by a concrete stem wall, but the front was open. She had a clear path out through two rows of wooden piers.

She turned her head to Cassius, who looked uncertain when she began to inch forward.

"It's okay," she whispered again, trying to keep him distracted from the dead spiders, animal faeces, and rodent bedding. "We'll get through this."

She maintained the patter as she crawled, and Cassius' whines never escalated. His implicit trust made her eyes tear. He was so like Ron.

The midday sun was a balm after the crawl space, but there was no time to waste. She scooped Cassius up and propped him against her hip. With the knife in her other hand, she started to run.

The way before was clear. The air was warm and heavy, the forest fragrant and green. She almost laughed. They were going to make it.

And then the world flew out from beneath her. The knife spiralled from her fingers as her body fell through the air. Cassius wailed as she struck the ground. He bounced off her chest and rolled, screaming as he landed on his back an arm's length away. She scrambled toward him, just inches shy. Then a hand twisted into her hair and yanked. Her neck cracked as Nott pulled her head up and back. A hammer of pain slammed into the small of her back and her legs went numb.

"It was only ever a matter of time," he growled.

She clawed at his hands and face, bloody skin collecting beneath her broken fingernails. He bashed her head against the ground, and when the world reappeared, she faced forward again. He pulled so hard that her torso arched off the ground, the pressure of it tearing hair from her scalp. It hurt to breathe.

"Women." The word dripped scorn and derision. "They lie. They deceive."

"Cassius." She could barely speak, a wheezing rattle as her throat constricted.

"He'll be a true partner. Reliable. Malleable. Just like his father."

"You are not… his father."

Blood pounded in her ears as Nott drew a line of fire across her throat. And then the fire was spilling out of her, gushing down her neck and splattering onto the lush soil, making her cold. The world darkened around the edges, taking everything but her son.

Cassius was red faced and wailing, but she could not hear his cries. His blue-hazel eyes were squinted, almost closed, and his little fingers were clenched into tight fists. Pollen swirled around his flailing arms, creating golden fractals in the afternoon sunlight.

She had never seen anything so beautiful.