Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any previously copyrighted material. No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: So I know that I haven't finished The Portrait yet and I do promise to get to it as soon as I'm able. However, this little thing has been plaguing me for months and I had to get it written. As in, it's already done. Huge thanks to Hufflepuffmommy for all your help even when I was pulling my hair out trying to make it right. You're the best huffletwin ever. This story is using an AU and Timeline and will not follow the direct timeline of the books/movies.

WARNING: this story is going to be vastly different from my others as in, very dark and probably trigger-y (that's a new word. I made it up.) It will deal with mentions of, rape/non-con, torture, and other tough subjects. This isn't for the faint of heart. Please use your best judgement when reading. EDITED TO ADD: For those who have misread or not read this warning at all please note that this story will contain actions and mentions of rape. Please do not continue reading if this is detrimental to your mental health. Please read through the warning again before reading this and sending me a review stating my ignorance of something that has affected not only me but people I love. Thank you.

Hermione couldn't breathe. The air was stuck in her lungs like glue, the pain radiating through her neck and her arm causing white spots in her vision and as Bellatrix held the knife to her neck the fight left her, her stores of adrenaline depleted as she let herself let go. It was over. Go she had told the boys. Run, she had screamed. And that's what they had done. While they ran through the thick mass of trees however, she had turned, running full hilt at the snatchers. She held them off, sending a shower of spells into their midst until she was sure they weren't going to get them, that they were safe; before she lowered her wand arm and let them grab her.

"Wus yer name?" the man had asked as he held her by the hair.

She had thought, her mind reeling until she said the only thing she could, "Hermione Granger."

The pain intensified as Bellatrix pushed the knife even further still, "I said where is he?" she shrieked, her voice shrill and unyielding but this time it wasn't the press of the knife that gave Hermione pause.

Because suddenly, every time someone had said their life had flashed before their eyes made sense as everything she had ever done wrong, every accomplishment she had, seemed to bloom forth in her mind like a fleeting rose and then it was gone.

She laughed, only once, before she coughed out the air from her lungs, spittle of red blood flying across the witches face as she answered through gritted teeth, "Go to Hell."

The witch on top of her screamed, rearing her arm back as her fist connected with Hermione's face and everything went black.

When next she woke she wasn't even sure if she was awake. Her eyes were so swollen shut she could hardly make out her surroundings.

"Do you think she'll tell you anything?" a voice asked and it sounded familiar. Hermione tried to turn her head but the pain overwhelmed her and the rush of vomit up her throat gave her pause.

"I don't know," the voice drawled, "But the Dark Lord commands and the Dark Lord receives."

This voice was familiar and Hermione wanted to vomit without even moving as the shadow moved into her line of sight.

Lucius Malfoy tutted, reaching out with probing fingers to brush her lips, "What a shame. Now you're outsides match your insides."

She tried to move, to swear at him, but realized- too late- that someone had restrained her and she watched as the man before her leaned over, pulling down her pants too roughly. She could feel, although she couldn't see it all as he moved atop her. He leaned down, his pointy face near hers, "Let's give them a good show yes Granger? You tell me where Potter is, what he's doing, and I'll end this."

She swallowed, tasting the tang of bile in her throat and blood on her tongue.

He waited, voices murmuring in the background, before he finally leaned down once again, "Pity."

And with that he shoved into her.

She bit back a scream as he entered her roughly, unwilling to give him the satisfaction. His hands were on her then, his fingernails digging tightly into her breast, his fingers around her throat and he smiled down at her as she laid there, watching him silently through swollen eyelids until he cried out, emptying inside of her.

He came back again later, though Hermione guessed it was the next day and this time his spectators were louder as someone again pinned her to the bed. He asked her again, this time twice, and when she refused he pried open her mouth and shoved himself inside until she gagged. He pulled out only to shove it back in until he forcefully came down her throat and she vomited on herself and, unable to move to clean herself up the sick dried in her hair.

She spent the times that he wasn't there trying to remember the sound of Harry's laugh or the feel of Ron's breath on her cheek. She hoped, Godric she hoped, that they had made it; that they had figured out how to find the rest. That this would be over soon.

Lucius grew impatient, his visits increasing in frequency. He often would come up with new ways to force himself upon her and would grow irate when she, in turn, refused to speak. That's when he began hitting her harder and sometimes she wasn't sure which was worse.

She held steadfast, ignoring his touch and the crack of bones as he pummeled her in one way or another, until the fateful day.

Lucius had been particularly unkind in his advances and she could feel the hot trail of blood and semen between her legs. The footsteps of their audience had retreated as Lucius demanded privacy to clean himself up, a luxury he didn't afford to her, but this time he did something different.

He turned, grabbing the rag that he had used on himself and leaning down to place it between her legs and gently wipe the mess between them.

"The Dark Lord is growing impatient I'm afraid," he said quietly, his hands working where Hermione couldn't see and her body tensed at the contact. "You're stronger than he gives you credit for a lesser witch would have broken long ago. But that's the rub isn't it? Because you're not a witch, not really. You're a mudblood and this is as much a punishment for me as it is for you. You'll have days, if my estimation is correct, before he decides you aren't worth the trouble anymore."

Hermione clenched her jaw, biting hard on the end of her tongue and ignoring the blood that filled her mouth as she stared up at the man.

"And really, you aren't. You've given us nothing and no matter what we'll have to dispose of you. A shame really," he tutted as he stood up and turned around to leave, tossing the rag on the floor somewhere before he looked over his shoulder, "but you're ruined now. Just as much as any of us. Even your precious Weasley won't want you now so I guess it's a favor really."

And with that he was gone.

And she cried.

Because he was right.

"Draco-" the voice was harsh in the darkness and he groaned as he threw his arm over his head. "Draco."

"What mother?" he sighed, exasperatedly.

"Draco you must come with me," she said and Draco sat up, looking at her then, at the expression that marred her features.

"Mother, what-"

"No, there's no time. Get up," she commanded and Draco did as she said, sliding easily from his bed. She tossed a shirt and pants at him and he easily slid them on before he grabbed his wand from the night table and put it in his pocket, following his mother into the hallway.

They walked in the dark, their footsteps muffled on the stone floors and Draco had to work hard to keep up with his mother. She stopped him only once, pushing him back and against the wall as a patrol crossed by. He frowned down at where she held his wrist, her fingers trembling against his skin until the death eaters passed by.

"Quickly," she said, tugging him along with shaking hands until they reached the dungeon doors.

Draco watched in confusion as she pulled her wand and murmured under her breath as Draco heard a thump from behind the door. She let go of him to open the heavy wooden door and he saw the man lying lifeless at the bottom of the steps. She nodded once and held the door open for her son, allowing him to pass.

Together they walked down the steps until they came to the bottom and Draco glanced around. The cells were empty, the smell however was ever present and his stomach rolled in protest, his nose wrinkling in disgust.

"Come," his mother commanded, stepping over the man on the floor without so much as a second glance.

They walked down the hall until they came to the last cell and Draco felt his mouth gape as he looked at the body lying on the cot.

She looked so different than how she had mere days before. Her hair was matted, her eyes swollen shut and blood was trickling from the corner of her mouth.

"Here, now," his mother said as she opened the door to the cell and gestured inside.

Draco stepped carefully towards the cot, noting the rise and fall of the woman's chest.

"We have to go Drake," his mother said suddenly, her whisper harsh in the dark and Draco turned to look at her in surprise, "Help me get her up."

"Mother- what-"

"Hush, help me," she snapped as she leaned down to pull one of Granger's arms into her hands and gave a tug.

Draco waited only half a beat before he reached for Granger's other arm, mimicking his mother's actions until the witch was pulled into their grasp.

"Mother- what are you doing?" Draco asked.

Narcissa steadied the witch in her arms for a moment before she sighed, "The Dark Lord cannot win Draco, she needs to survive so that Potter can end this-"

"I don't-"

"They're going to kill her. In a few hours, at sunrise. More importantly they're going to make you kill her Drake. Here, hold her."

Draco grudgingly let his mother slip out from under the witch's arm and he bore the brunt of her unconscious weight, wobbling slightly on his feet. His mother dug reached into her pocket, pulling out an inconspicuous hair comb.

He watched as the thing began to glow in her hand and quickly she thrust it into his hand, "I'm so sorry my love," she said quietly. "Hold on tight."

And before he could say another word he felt the tug of the port key just as his mother grabbed his wand from his pocket.

As he was tugged away, Hermione Granger dead weight in his arm, he saw his mother nod once and then, they were gone.

It was cold and dark when they landed, hard, on a wooden floor.

Draco swore loudly, punching the floor beneath him as he stood to see the inoffensive hair comb on the floor and without a second thought he smashed it beneath his boot.

He couldn't see anything else, the room around him black and he fumbled for his wand only to remember it wasn't there. Swearing again he tried to remember what he knew of muggle lighting and fumbled his way around the walls until he felt the edges of the hearth.

His hands continued on until he found the stack of wood and he could have groaned in relief until he remembered he had no wand with which to start a fire and the dread came rushing back. He braced himself against the wall, sliding down it as he swore everything he could while his breath fogged the air around him.

Time ticked by, a clock somewhere begging him to remember until the faintest of lights began to shine through a crack in the tapestry on the window. He moved to push them back, finally revealing the room around them with the first morning light.

His eyes scanned the room, taking in the dusty surroundings as something tugged on the recesses of his memories. Something he should have remembered but couldn't quite grasp. There was firewood beside the large hearth and a rickety sofa in front of it. The large picture window he now stood in front of was framed by two wingback chairs and a table was on the other side of the room with two spindly chairs. It was unkempt and dirty and- and familiar.

Draco shook his head and moved away from the window, noting Granger lying prone on the floor. He sighed as he moved closer and realized she was still breathing. Leaving her for a moment he ventured down the hallway to see a small bedroom with a large bed and another- smaller- fire place and a lavatory.

He returned to Granger after a moment and kneeled beside her, reaching out to touch her shoulder. "Granger-" he said, poking her once. She didn't move or respond and he tried once more, a little louder and a little harder only to be met with the same results.

He thought of leaving her there. Of walking out through the front door and finding a way back to the manor. The thought was fleeting however as he remembered his mother's face. He glanced back at the witch lying on the floor beneath him.

"What happened to you Granger?" he asked quietly and without thinking about it his hand reached out to brush a piece of hair from her face only to find it matted to her forehead.

He cringed and pulled his hand away. Of course he had known of the horrors of the dungeon. Of those who dared to defy the Dark Lord. Of course he had known what future awaited him if he had failed another mission but to see it now, to see the change of the bloody swot before him. He swallowed roughly and leaned back on his haunches wondering just what it was that made his mother want to risk both of their lives to save her.

Finally he swore as he reached out to slip one arm under her knees and another under her shoulders and pulled her from the floor. He made his way down the hallway on unsteady feet until he reached the bedroom and he placed her upon the top of the bed, cringing at the dust that seemed to erupt as her weight hit the creaky mattress.

He tried the lavatory then, sighing in relief as the water streamed from the tap and after a while the brown tint even began to dissipate. He found a cloth in the little closet behind the door and put it under running water, wringing it out and moving back to the bed.

He wasn't sure why he was doing it as he gently washed the blood away from the woman's mouth and nose. He thought, as he started in on the rest of her face and the hair that was stuck to it in various places, of leaving once again.

The scenarios ran through his mind, of the snatchers that so often came to the manor looking for a quick galleon, of the cries from the dungeons of those the Dark Lord considered traitors, and of his mother's face and the quick urgency with which she spoke and he dispelled those thoughts.

Once Granger looked less bloody he sat back and stared at her face- relaxed in her state of unconsciousness and then… he waited.

The cabinets had been stocked, he realized later and he wondered how much of this had been a plan from the beginning.

He ached to talk to his mother but without his wand he was helpless to do so.

The minutes turned to hours and the hours into days and Draco did little more than read and tend to Granger.

The swelling in her face went down, though the bruises left behind were just as frightening. Even more frightening, however, were the violent nightmares that seemed to overtake her on occasion. He often woke from where he slept on the couch as she began screaming in pain and though he could do little to help he realized that if he sat beside her and talked to her she calmed. He told himself it was the noise of her screaming that bothered him but as he pulled a book off to read to her- yet again, he realized that he enjoyed the solace that he found in the words of the printed muggle literature.

There was no magic so he ate what he could open himself and eat without heating. He tried to work the stove in the kitchen on one of the first days with near disastrous results and as such he hadn't touched it again. The box in the corner of the room that hummed during the day and night kept things cold and some things icy and he used the juice from inside the bottom portion to dribble into Granger's mouth hoping that it- along with the water he got from the sink in the bathroom- would be enough to keep her alive.

It was on the tenth day that things began to change. Granger woke thrashing in the night but even Draco's reading could not soothe her and it wasn't until he reached out to grasp her wrist that he realized she was burning with fever. He cursed- a lot- and rummaged through the stacks of books that he had found in the shelves that lined one wall of the small cabin until he found one that told him little about illness. He wet a washcloth with cold water from the tap and placed it on her head and used the ice from inside the box in the kitchen to melt upon her overheated lips and tongue.

The eleventh day was much the same and Draco thought once again of simply leaving before he continued on with the routine of cool rags and ice.

During the night he fell asleep, his head resting upon his hand and his neck aching in protest and that morning he heard it; the small, soft gasp of air and the sharp squeak that followed it.

He opened his eyes then, his body sore and angry to find Granger sitting up in bed, her mouth open slightly as her deep chocolate brown eyes stared at him in absolute horror.

She was ready to die.

Her body hurt everywhere and she knew that one more torture and she just might break, might slip up; might say something she shouldn't. So the thought that her time was near brought a sort of relief to her and when she fell into a fitful sleep that night she dreamt of hands around her, of soft hands on her forehead and whispered words into the dark of the night.

She thought of Harry and his emerald green eyes, of his laugh and the way he would often push his glasses up his nose when he was concentrating on something. She thought of freckles and red hair and soft woolen sweaters. She was content.

Until she wasn't.

Bellatrix was there, her hands rough and probing the ache in her head becoming more prominent and then Lucius and his hands and his fists and his fingers and she wished once more for the sleep to overtake her.

And then she dreamt of her mother. Of the times she was sick and her mother would always smooth her hair back from her face. And of her father, and his voice as he would tuck her safely into her bed and read from her favorite books.

She missed them.

She missed them all.

But then, then she was coming back to the surface and she wasn't dead.

She wasn't dead at all.

And she wasn't alone.

Draco breathed a sigh of relief as he moved in the chair and stood to lean over and brush his hand against her forehead.

She moved then, so fast that even Draco's head spun as she backed away from him, pulling her legs to her chest as she stared at him with those wide brown eyes.

"You were ill," he explained, "I need to see if your fever has broken."

"I'm fine." She bit out, her words biting and harsh on her thick voice and he nodded.

"I'll get you a glass of water."

He moved then, feeling her eyes on his back as he left the room and headed to the kitchen. He pulled a glass from one of the cupboards and turned back to the tap, filling it near to the brim with the liquid only to turn and slosh it down his front when he saw her standing behind him, her eyes still wide.

"Where are we? Why am I here?" she demanded.

Draco paused, shaking the water off of one hand before he set the glass down before her, "Drink first." She hesitated. "I know you watched me fill it up and besides I don't have my wand if you want to kill me go ahead there are some knives in the top drawer."

With that he set the water down and took a step back. Still watching him she stepped forward and picked up the less full glass and put it to her lips drinking in long, greedy pulls until it was gone.

"More?" he asked as she set the empty glass down.

She nodded once and he grabbed it off the counter before he turned back to the tap, filling the glass once more.

"I don't know and my mother sent us," he said as he set the glass down on the counter once again.

Granger picked it up, emptying it slower this time as she eyed him speculatively. "You don't know?"

"No."

"Your mother sent us?"

"Yes."

She was silent, watching him carefully and he tried not to flinch under the accusation of her gaze until she finally stepped away from him.

He watched as she took in their haven, her back never turning on him, before she finally met his gaze once more.

"Can we leave?"

Draco shrugged, "I don't know."

"Have you tried?"

"Where would I go?"

She looked at him again and he raised a brow. "Home?"

"The Dark Lord would kill me upon sight, I'm sure of it."

"Why?"

"Because I was supposed to kill you." He explained and he saw her flinch slightly at his words, "The morning we came here I was to kill you. My mother sent me here instead."

"So your mother could be-"

"Don't." he said warningly, his heart clenching in his chest as he thought of his mother.

Hermione nodded. "My parents could be dead," she added flatly.

Draco stared at her for a moment before he shook his head and took a step. She flinched then, backing up until she ran into the small table behind her and Draco looked at her. "I'm going into the living room."

She nodded and he passed by, feeling her eyes on him the entire way until he sat on the couch and pulled the book from the coffee table picking up where he left off.

They existed together for the most part. Two ships passing in the night.

She watched his every movement while she was awake and Draco wondered why she felt he was a threat. It was he, after all, who brought her back from the brink of death.

He was angry that she treated him like such but he continued on. It wasn't until the last package of jaffa cakes had been emptied that he attempted to open anything in the cupboards. His hands shook as he held a tin can with one and a knife with the other and when the blade slipped, slicing through the skin of his finger he let out a sharp curse, tossing the can onto the floor.

"What are you doing?" she asked and he turned to look at her, his jaw clenched.

"What does it look like?" he snapped as he bent down to pick the can up once more and grabbed the knife again.

"Stop, stop," she said quickly as he started on his task once more. "You're doing it wrong."

Draco sneered, "Well unless you have a better idea on how to keep us fed-"

Granger eyed him for a moment before she stepped forward. He half expected her to take the can from him. Instead she reached out and pulled one of the drawers. She rummaged around for a moment before she shook her head and closed it, moving to the next one. It was on the third one that she pulled out the strange looking tool with a metal head and two round wheels. "It's a can opener."

She did take the can then and easily put the wheels on the can and turned a handle on the back, spinning the can around. She set it down and pulled the top off, setting it down on the counter.

Draco leered, "Any other helpful tools you want to share?"

"Why are you doing this?" she asked instead.

Draco paused, "What?"

"Feeding me. Keeping me alive. Why are you doing this?" she asked again.

"I don't know," he answered honestly. Because he didn't. Not really. His mother was probably dead by now, having betrayed the Dark Lord. His father was in far too deep and his aunt, well there was no hope for that witch. He should have been running. Instead he was feeding the best friend of his sworn enemy and making sure she drank enough. He repeated as he turned to look at her, "I don't know."

She eyed him for a moment before she nodded, "I'll leave as soon as I'm well enough."

Before he could answer she had left.

He knew she wasn't well. He'd known it for a while. Her hands still shook as she ate or drank and she moved too slowly as though she was walking through mud. Sometimes he walked into a room to find her gripping her head tightly as though wracked by some invisible force. He didn't know how long it would take her to heal but he knew it wouldn't be soon enough. The less time he spent with Hermione Granger, he decided, the better.

Her head ached. Her hands shook. Her knees quaked. And sometimes, when all was quiet it was as though Bellatrix was still there, towering over her as she writhed in pain and pissed herself.

Oddly enough, it wasn't Bellatrix that she dreamt of.

In her dreams it was of hands that squeezed and choked and fingers in places they shouldn't have been. Of pain between her legs and a sneer looming above her.

She always woke then, out of breath with a scream stuck in her throat. At first it was hard, separating the man in her nightmares from his son in the cabin. They moved the same, spoke with the same haughty tone, but he was different too.

She saw it when he spoke of his mother, or when he thought she wasn't watching. When the facade falls away and he relaxed she knew that they were not the same person. Not even close.

She still wouldn't let him close to her. She knew they weren't the same but the idea of him touching her;Of anyone touching her- sends a panic through her that causes her chest to tighten uncomfortably.

And sometimes when she woke from a nightmare, he was there. His voice soft and quiet and she pretended to sleep on; she listened to his voice. It's those nights she slept the best.

They'd been together for three weeks when she came into the living room and sat down opposite him. He looked up from his book to see her staring at him.

"What?" he asked.

"Let's play-" she said and it was then he realized she was holding a box.

He studied her for a moment before he shook his head, "I don't know how-"

"Well, I'll teach you."

Part of him wanted to tell her to go away.

The other part reached over to clear the small table in front of him and watched as she set up the board.

It was the most she'd spoken to him since they arrived. He picked up the game fast, it was just like wizard's chess after all, but he kept his lips closed as she continued to explain.

He wasn't sure why.

They kept track of their wins on a spare bit of parchment that she found in a drawer with something she assured him was just like a self-inking quill. He'd won twice as many games as she had when she brought out another game and explained it to him. It was not at all like wizard's chess and though she bested him nearly every time, taking his little round pieces, he didn't ask to stop playing.

He still wasn't sure why.

She still wasn't comfortable with him. He saw it when she stiffened as he walked into a room and then slowly moved away. As though she was scared that one small move may set him off.

She didn't touch him, nor did he try to touch her, and in the quiet of the house when he spoke she startled as though she had forgotten he was ever there.

They found an old piano in the living room, it was badly in need of a tune and the sheet that covered it was stacked in books that were covered in a thick layer of dust. It was here that he found her one morning, her fingers plucking at the keys gently and listening to the sounds that escaped as they did. He watched her for a moment, her eyes closed tightly as she strained to listen, before he spoke.

"Do you play?"

She jumped, startled and he expected her to run as she did so often. He waited, counting the seconds, before she finally relaxed slightly, her head nodding. "I did."

He watched her for a few minutes longer before he moved, slowly, to the other side of the bench, sitting down beside her as his own fingers reached out to pluck at the keys. Slowly they played together, the sound horribly off key and grinding on their ears, but they played.

"My mother made me learn," she finally admitted after they had finished a terrible rendition of a Chopin duet.

Draco laughed, "Maybe we aren't so different then after all."

A/N: I'm looking at maybe only 4 chapters. I have been so, so hesitant to post this so please be kind.