Trust

Synopsis: For the past six years, Hermione Granger has endured unimaginable horrors. When she is finally rescued, she has to learn to re-trust the world and those in it. She finds herself trusting someone she never thought would earn that privilege, a certain silver eyed wizard with a penchant for being a bit of a rebel.

This story contains several potential triggers as well as graphic depictions some people may find disturbing. Contains references and descriptions to: abuse, rape, torture, murder, self-harm. Please proceed with caution.

As of June 2018, chapter 1 has been revised, 500+ words have been added, and some things cleaned up.

Standard disclaimers apply. I own nothing.

….

The air hissed as his palm made contact with her cheek, throwing her head back against the wall. She could feel the painful red welt rising, willing herself not to cry from the stinging sensation. If she had learned anything during her captivity, it was that crying only escalated his rage. No, crying was not an option. She leaned against the cold stone wall, her once luscious curls matted against her head as she felt a slick trickle of blood run down her neck.

She had given up tugging against the restraints, knowing that it was futile. Her wrists and ankles were crusted with dried blood and one particularly bad spot had begun to fester. She was bound with a particularly strong Incarcerous and the magical ropes tore at her naked flesh with each infinitesimal movement.

He grabbed her by the hair and threw her against the wall. She heard the sickening crack of her head hitting the bricks before she felt the blinding pain shoot up her spine, an instant pounding in her ears at the rush of blood. She let out brief frenzied cry and cut it off by biting down on the inside of her cheek. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of her wailing in pain. It only made things worse.

She could feel his smirk, his dark eyes watching her every move. She heard the raspy, deep timbre of his voice as he goaded. "Scream for me, mudblood."

No. Her inner voice cried even as he aimed his wand at her torso and she felt the all too familiar blinding pain course through her veins, electrocuting her limbs into spasms and nearly boiling her blood, as he called out another "Crucio." Her screams rang throughout the room and she heard him nearly moan with pleasure as she fluttered on the edge of unconsciousness.

Her lips twisted into a smile as she thought of the sweet release of death while she lay on the cold, stone floor as she felt his rough hands closing in around her throat. Perhaps today would be the day he would finally kill her, giving her that blessed release from her years of torture.

Flashes of brilliant light filled the room as several figures suddenly apparated into the room. The sudden brightness caused Hermione to momentarily return to a conscious state, gasping for breath as his hands released her throat.

Hermione heard the thud of a body hitting a wall not long after a calm, deep, and vaguely familiar voice shouted an urgent "Stupefy!" A shuffle of feet and another shout brought someone close to her. She inhaled a scent that stirred her memories from before as she drifted in and out of consciousness.

"She's lost a lot of blood, but she's breathing." Someone said. "We need to get her to the healers as soon as possible."

Hermione's eyes fluttered open meeting a pair of kind eyes the color of storm clouds and a cold November rain before her world was once again plunged into darkness.

Sweet release.

….

She awoke from a nightmare with a blood-curdling scream, desperately clutching the thin cotton sheet that the healers had draped over her still naked body. In an unanticipated feat of strength as pure adrenaline coursed through her veins, she threw herself off of the small bed and back herself into a corner of the room. The room was too white, too sterile, and the smell of antiseptic invaded her nose causing bile to rise high in her throat. She swallowed it down and gasped for air through several erratic breaths, feeling as though she were drowning in a sea of conflicting sensations.

Her head was throbbing as her stomach ebbed and flowed with wave after wave of nausea. She swayed on unsteady feet in the corner of the room as the team of healers rushed over to her from where they had been quietly conversing. A particularly plump medi-witch was the first to speak in calm soothing tones. "Ms. Granger, you've been brought to St. Mungo's. I assure you, you are safe here."

Hermione attempted to press herself further into the corner of the room, willing for death to take her as the healer moved closer to her, holding her neatly manicured hands out in a gesture of goodwill. "Please, Ms. Granger. Let me help you back to bed." She said with an easy prosody. The sickly sweet calming tone with which the healer spoke made her spine sing with trepidation.

Her voice was weak, hoarse, and nearly feral as she barked the word "No" at the healers who were too close, too clean, and too calm. She pressed her bloodied hands and forearms against the walls, pushing off with a strength she didn't know she had as she darted past the group of healers. She sprinted down the hallway with a wild abandon as the hysteria continued to coat her throat with painful shockwaves.

The first spell flew past her ear, but the second made contact with her torso. She toppled over herself, landing on yet another cold floor as she felt herself slip once more into oblivion, wishing for death to greet her as an old friend.

….

Clutching a tumble of scotch, Draco Malfoy massaged his forehead with his fingertips, his eyes scanning the evening's Daily Prophet Headline: Missing for 6 Years: War Heroine Found. The picture used showed a carefree Hermione smiling and laughing and smiling with Potter and Weasley. It was a far cry from the Hermione Granger who had been rescued mere hours ago. The thought of the woman he had rescued sent a chill up his spine, one that warranted another long pull of the amber liquid.

She looked nearly feral and dangerously thin. Her once-svelte curves had been reduced to protruding ribs, sallow skin, and jagged angles. She was covered in dirt, grime, and all too much blood – both dried and fresh. Her once lovely curls were matted and tangled and wet with yet more blood. Draco thought he had been prepared for her appearance, but he broke the moment he noticed the scars and bruises beneath the layers of blood and dirt. Her neck was purple from repeated asphyxiations, fingerprint bruising was evident on her thighs and arms, and a gash showing signs of infection trailed from her collarbone to just below the curve of her breasts.

Draco suspected she had fought her captor relentlessly and six years was a very long time to fight. For the brief moment he had met her gaze, her eyes were haunted and frenzied and that was what broke him. He pulled his eyes from the picture of her and scanned the article recounting her disappearance.

Hermione had been walking down Diagon Alley after meeting Ginny Weasley for lunch when she had been disarmed, pulled into an alley, and whisked away via side-along apparition. There were conflicting reports from the witnesses but all confirmed the look of sheer terror on the woman's face just before she was forcefully disapparated.

It had taken six excruciating years for them to track her down and no expense was spared for her recovery. Draco had taken a team six highly skilled Aurors the night they broke through the wards – something they had been working on meticulously for weeks. Potter had been with him mere hours ago and had vomited at the sight of her bloodied and broken on the floor.

Draco poured himself another glass of scotch trying to drown out the image of her that was permanently scratched on the back of his eyelids. It was Draco's Stupefy that had knocked the bastard off of her and clear across the room and he wasn't sorry to say that he found pleasure in the thud of his body hitting the wall. The Ministry had wanted him alive, but if it had been up to Draco his life would've ended at that moment. Azkaban would not be kind to him and for that Draco was grateful. He would let his inheritance take care of that little problem without one shred of guilt.

Even with all of his training, he had still not been prepared to see her as he had, though it was discussed and expected amongst members of his team. It still surprised him some days that he had even been admitted into the Auror training program given his involvement, albeit forced, with Lord Voldemort and the task he (mercifully) failed to do during his sixth year.

Draco Malfoy, Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, and Pansy Parkinson had all entered training at the academy at the same time and it was soon proven that Draco's skills easily rivaled those of the Boy Who Lived. Weasley was mediocre at best and had eventually been shuffled into an office in the nondescript Department of Licensing follow a few mishaps in the field. He was, however, a brilliant strategist and had been brought in for Granger's case as a consultant. Parkinson liberally employed her charms and cunning during training and was sent to the Intelligence side of the D.M.L.E. It was Parkinson who had discovered the captor's identity while on an unrelated mission in Ireland.

Draco and Potter had been paired up as very reluctant partners but soon developed a tense tolerance which eventually led to friendship, breaking down all barriers that had existed between them during their school days.

Tossing his copy of the Prophet aside, Draco cracked his neck and refilled his tumbler of scotch for a third time, knowing it was going to be a long night of documentation after the Unspeakables came to retrieve his memory of Hermione's rescue. He buried the desperation to apparate to St. Mungo's under yet another long pull of scotch. The pull to ensure her safety had been there since he had first been assigned her case six years ago and now that he had found her, the pull was even stronger.

The healers might not even have her stabilized at this point and he knew the waiting room would be crowded with people who had a much stronger connection to her than he did and even then he knew she wouldn't trust anyone after what she had been through, least of all him.

….

"Good morning, dearie." The plump medi-witch said in lilting tones as she sauntered with a cheerful sway into Hermione's suite at St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries. Hermione was sat on the bed, arms wrapped around her knees, knees pulled her chest, staring at the yellowing bruises on her wrists. It had been exactly two days since she had been rescued and it had taken a team of four healers to sedate her and heal the worst of her injuries. A Scourgify could only do so much and she still felt dirty, chafed, and vile. They had offered her a bath, sponge or otherwise, several times and she had refused.

"Would you care for a bath, today?" the healer asked, levitating several potions to a table near Hermione's bed. She waited expectantly as she always did with a smile plastered across her rounded face. Eventually, Hermione looked towards her with narrowed, untrusting eyes and gave a slight nod.

"Wonderful, my dear. I'll prepare the bath and we'll have you tidied up in a jiffy." The medi-witch's nauseatingly cheerful demeanor elicited a scowl from Hermione, but the scowl faded somewhat as she heard the flow of water filling the tub. With a flick of her wand blue bubbles settled on top of the warm water and the scent of jasmine filled Hermione's senses.

Laying out a set of clean, white clothing (a shirt and pair of trousers in hospital cotton) on the back of the chair near the steaming tub, the healer backed out of the room with a smile. "Whenever you're ready, dear."

Hermione eyed the steaming tub with uneasy eyes for several moments before slowly easing her sore body off of the bed. The white tile felt foreign on her feet as she slowly made her way to the steaming tub. Hermione trailed the tips of her fingers through the warm water. She eased herself into the tub and felt the water instantly soothe her tired muscles. She held her breath as she slipped her head beneath the water. She had no intention of coming back up.

….

Hermione's eyes fluttered open and immediately closed again once she realized she was back in the bed, clothed in the soft cotton shirt and trousers the medi-witch had left out for her earlier. She pushed the blanket down and moaned in pain as she sat up, willing her eyes to reopen. Pushing her fingers through her still damp hair that had been cropped to her ears, she examined her arms. The indentions his bruising fingers had made still dotted her arms in the form of yellowing bruises and she knew her thighs would be much the same where he had pried them apart time after time. Her wrists were still purple, but the slices from the ropes had been healed.

She pounded her fists against the soft mattress in frustration and felt the tears began to fall for the first time in years. Salty tears snaked down her cheeks like a betrayal and she screamed another frenzied cry which echoed throughout the room before collapsing back onto the bed.

Why won't let just let me die?

….

Offering her a spoonful of something that appeared to be soup and smelled of hicken, the medi-witch smiled, "C'mon, honey. You need to eat something."

Hermione shook her head and croaked out a "no" as she hugged her knees to her chest, staring at the vase of slowly wilting white roses that had appeared in her room sometime over the past few days.

With a rare sigh, the medi-witch left the bowl of warm broth on the table and made to exit the room, ensuring Hermione she would be back in a few moments with another potion. Hermione pulled one of the flowers from the vase, inhaling the subtle scent before relentlessly tearing into her veins with one of the thorns. The sight of blood on her arm was strangely comforting as it has been her normal for the past several years. Hermione sighed as she watched the blood trickle down her arm.

Sweet release…