A/N: I am so sorry for not updating. Life happened. Marriage, grad school, baby, work. :P But then, I remembered this story, and I saw my promise on Ch. 1 that I would finish this story and I saw those wonderful reviews and was inspired to continue. I hope you guys are still interested!

Marcus swirled the ice in his Firewhiskey and took a deep breath. He sniffed the drink and in disgust, stood up, and spilled it neatly into the drain. Turning towards his efficiently organized collection, Marcus reached for the neck of a gilded bottle and poured the golden liquid of the single malt whiskey into a clean glass. Firewhiskey was child's play. It was not enough for tonight. He needed something stronger. He needed something that would match up to the ire that was steeping inside him.

As he felt his throat searing in agony, Marcus felt a brief moment of peace. Of relaxation. Of serenity. He wanted to drown in this abyss of momentary clarity, where he could keep every frustrating thought at bay. His thoughts flitted briefly over the idea that agony gave him peace. He smiled inwardly thinking of how his day tomorrow would consist of making this world a better place. It may be agonizing for others, but for him, for his race, for his master, it would provide peace.

Marcus had two Mudblood brothers waiting in a cell for him tomorrow. He had planned to Avada them immediately on sight but now he wondered if he should resort to something else. Perhaps he would elicit a spell changing the cell's wall colors to red and have it cursed so blood curdling screams would expel from the room every few minutes. The dirty Mudbloods would go insane. He would make them beg for death. Implore him to kill them.

Marcus nodded silently to himself as if affirming the plan. His nodding became more vigorous as he thought of the older brother, who had begged Marcus to leave his younger sibling. He was only fifteen. He should be spared. He would willingly die in place of his brother. Marcus had curiously watched the older brother as he pleaded for his younger brother's life and was amused at how staunch he was in his entreaty. It had stopped Marcus from shooting out the Avada at that moment as he watched big brown muddy eyes weep pitifully in front of him. It took Marcus aback…this…this odd display of affection and he had turned away at the sight. The peculiar indescribable feeling was temporary and Marcus quickly turned back to the sight of the brothers groveling at his feet. He swiftly decided the feeling was of gratification. Gratification as he was keen on having the brothers supplicate before him. He enjoyed seeing them beneath him. He enjoyed their place at his feet.

But as he swigged the remainder of his glass, the older brother's big brown fearful eyes flashed in front of him. And then they turned into another set of fearful brown eyes, but this time, beautiful chocolate eyes, framed by thick dark lashes. The same eyes Marcus had been trying to avoid ever since he left his room. The same eyes that Marcus wanted to see gazing at him delicately. The same eyes Marcus loathed, but longed for.

Serena's eyes.

Marcus stared distantly at his collection of drinks. How much alcohol would he need to rid his mind of those eyes?

Hermione had been staring at the door for the past thirty minutes after Marcus' angry figure had retreated hastily from them. She wondered if he was going to come back. She wondered how she should escape now. She wondered if there actually was any way to escape as his threat still ringed in her ears. And she wondered….wondered why he had not taken advantage of her. Why he had not ravaged her as he had been proclaiming he would have done since yesterday. Why her dormant state had repelled his advances. What difference did it make to him?

She shook her head, coming to no conclusion regarding any of these queries, and passed her hand over her hair in despair. As her hands reached the ends of her hair, Hermione was alarmed to see her carefully constructed straight raven locks turning into their natural chocolate caramel waves. Her glamour charm was wearing off and she realized her altered nose was probably also back to its biological small sharp shape.

With a constricted breath and her eyes rapidly darting around the room, Hermione thanked Merlin she was unaccompanied at the moment, and mumbled Colovaria Coracinus, and watched her hair change back to black. Doing another charm for her nose, Hermione gathered her strength and stood up, looking for a mirror to confirm her appearance was what she wanted. After several furtive glances in every direction, Hermione found that curiously, there was no mirror in the bedroom. In defeat, she moved towards her reflection in the window instead.

The same window she had tried to escape from an hour earlier.

She touched her nose and was relieved to see its changed form into a more slender mold. Her hand falling at her side, Hermione looked at the window and swallowed whatever saliva her dry mouth could muster.

Marcus had left her in the room with a threat that still resonated in the atmosphere of the room. He would not let her leave until he had his way with her. Had he assumed she would not try to escape again under his fear? Or had he cursed the room somehow?

Timidly, Hermione reached to touch her reflection in the window. Her fingers were a millimeter away from the glass surface and Hermione felt no magical energy reverberating. She was usually capable of feeling magic around her since she was a little girl. Before she had received her welcome letter from Hogwarts. Before she knew officially that she was a witch.

A surge of courage ran through Hermione and she extended a finger to a small section of the cold glass.

It abruptly ignited into fire and Hermione moved back, nursing her singed finger. This was not going to be easy.

She was trapped.

A small shudder on the mantle shook Marcus out of his reverie. He saw the miniature steel box he had charmed with a Securus moving. She had tried to escape.

Marcus' anger began to brew at the realization but it quickly diminished to an amazed scoff at Serena Yaxley's plucky but futile naiveté.

She really had no idea who she was dealing with, did she?