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The Robber Bridegroom
folder
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Lucius/Hermione
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
8,302
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Lucius/Hermione
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
8,302
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
The Robber Bridegroom
The Great Fairy Story Drabble Series is an experiment on my part to apply out some of my favourite fairy stories into HP Fanfiction. Some of the fairy stories you may know, some you may not, in any case, the drabbles will be modern (and smutty) interpretations. Borrowing from the Brothers Grimm, Hans Christian Andersen, and Joseph Jacobs, I have selected ten tales. The pairings have one thing in common, Hermione Granger, thus some pairings will appeal to some and not all.
The drabble sets will be in increments of tens (e.g. drabbles 1-10 = Remus/Hermione, etc.), and will be placed under a titled ‘set.’ Therefore, ten drabbles will compose a whole ‘ficlet.’ With a nod to Andrew Lang’s ‘Fairy Books,’ the sets will correspond to colours as well. I hope I have not made this too convoluted.
Title: Road
Set: Grey
Author: ianthe_waiting
Rating: T
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
Genre: Drabble
Warnings: AU/AR, Humiliation
Summary: #11 – Road. ‘I want to feel you hesitate. I want to feel you pull away. I want to feel you realize that I am not love come to play.’ ‘Pure’ by Gary Numan.
Word Count: words.
Author's Notes: This set of drabbles is based off of ‘The Robber Bridegroom,’ and the original tale can be read here: http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/grimm040.html
#11 – Road
The road was long, and Hermione’s feet ached as her worn out shoes slipped in the muddy tracks of the old lane. She wanted to stop and rest, but her chaperon would never allow it.
The fact she had to walk to the Manor when it would have been easier to Apparate did not go unnoticed. She wondered if the Anti-Apparition wards went so far out and around the Manor. Even if she had a wand, she would not be able to escape.
Her chaperon was black clad, faceless under the mask upon its face, signifying he, or she, was part of the Dark Lord’s Guard. The member of the Guard had said nothing since they arrived by Portkey to a Wiltshire village from London. However, Hermione knew that if she were to step any further away than three feet, she would be hexed, immobilized, and forcefully taken to her ultimate destination, her new home of sorts.
On the country lane, she felt exposed under the grey cloudy sky while the sun began to set in the west. She was cold, shivering in her thin grey shift, the only clothing she was allowed to have. Hermione knew she was only just a step up from a house elf in the eyes of those who had captured her, tortured her, and was now placing her in the house of the Dark Lord’s servant.
Hermione slipped in the mud and sloshed through a puddle, splashing brackish water up her shins and to the hem of her shift. Her chaperon did not seem to notice. Keeping pace with the black clad figure was difficult, its stride longer than her own.
Winds blew over the plains, lifting her shift and aerating her body devoid of any under clothing. Hermione wondered how much farther she had to walk.
When she would reach the Manor, she did not know what to anticipate. She was not sure as to what purpose she was being sent to the Manor in the first place. Either her new master had greatly pleased or displeased the Dark Lord, and Hermione was the reward or punishment. Either she would be used as a slave, like the rest of the Muggles and Muggle-borns, or she would be used for sport of a sexual nature. On both accounts, Hermione expected pain.
She knew pain very well in the years after Harry Potter failed to destroy the Dark Lord. While many of her friends had escaped and gone into hiding, Hermione had been captured, and kept in the bowels of the Dark Lord’s Ministry in London. She had been tortured for information she did not have, starved for her petulance, but never violated as many of the other captured had been. Sitting in her small cell, thankfully warm, dry, and devoid of pests, she had time to consider her situation.
Hermione was being kept for a purpose, and after four years of imprisonment, she was out in the open again, her purpose found. The Manor rose up on the horizon, surrounded by wispy cypress trees, obviously Charmed to grow as large as they did on the windy plains. It looked much as she remembered it…
Her chaperon grasped her arm, pulling her along faster, and she could barely feel the gloved hand bruising her skin for the cold. Hermione wondered if she should count her blessings—she was outdoors, in the fresh air, and not in her six by six cell in the dark. Surely, the Manor would be warm and lit. Surely, she would be fed and allowed the use of proper facilities. Surely, she would get a larger cell in the basement.
She did not want to get her hopes up too much, of course. She had learned never to hope much in a world that thought her to be lower than scum.
Her shoes slipped on the gravel drive and the eerie sound of peacocks roosting on the cold lawn made her stiffen. The sound brought back memories of a time when she still had hope. When she came to stop at the front doors, she felt relieved. Despite her manic pacing of her cell for four years, she had not walked so much in a long time.
A gloved hand jerked on the bell pull and almost immediately the doors opened, blinding Hermione with the light inside. An elf answered the door, and soft, indistinct words were spoken. Hermione paid little mind as the chaperon released her arm and a wizened elf dressed in a fancy blue velvet remnant took a hold of her hand.
The alee of the foyer warmed Hermione’s skin, and she walked slower as the elf pulled on her hand. Travertine and dark wood, candles, and the scent of dust made her brain nearly overload. There was no odour of excrement, blood, sex, and death in this house, and Hermione tried to recall her memories of the last time she was in the house years ago. No memory came.
The elf did not speak to her, but pulled her into what looked like a servant’s corridor and down a stair and into a large kitchen where many other elves were working. The scent of food made her mouth literally water, but she was led away, further down into the Manor.
“You will wash, you will wear what has been laid out, and you will not leave the room until I fetch you.”
The elf, unlike the others she had known in her life, had a very smooth and low voice. It identified itself as Aniel.
Hermione was left in a small room, Spartan-esque, with an adjacent water closet. There were no windows, no decorations, only a narrow bed with a pile of clothing atop, a chair with a new pair of slippers under the cane legs, and a candlestick with a lit candle. Left alone, behind another locked door, Hermione grinned. ‘Aniel,’ she remembered was the name of the angel of the West Wind.
The drabble sets will be in increments of tens (e.g. drabbles 1-10 = Remus/Hermione, etc.), and will be placed under a titled ‘set.’ Therefore, ten drabbles will compose a whole ‘ficlet.’ With a nod to Andrew Lang’s ‘Fairy Books,’ the sets will correspond to colours as well. I hope I have not made this too convoluted.
Title: Road
Set: Grey
Author: ianthe_waiting
Rating: T
Disclaimer: The Harry Potter books and their characters are the property of JK Rowling. This is a work of fan-fiction. No infringement is intended, and no money is being made from this story. I am just borrowing the puppets, but this is my stage.
Genre: Drabble
Warnings: AU/AR, Humiliation
Summary: #11 – Road. ‘I want to feel you hesitate. I want to feel you pull away. I want to feel you realize that I am not love come to play.’ ‘Pure’ by Gary Numan.
Word Count: words.
Author's Notes: This set of drabbles is based off of ‘The Robber Bridegroom,’ and the original tale can be read here: http://www.pitt.edu/~dash/grimm040.html
#11 – Road
The road was long, and Hermione’s feet ached as her worn out shoes slipped in the muddy tracks of the old lane. She wanted to stop and rest, but her chaperon would never allow it.
The fact she had to walk to the Manor when it would have been easier to Apparate did not go unnoticed. She wondered if the Anti-Apparition wards went so far out and around the Manor. Even if she had a wand, she would not be able to escape.
Her chaperon was black clad, faceless under the mask upon its face, signifying he, or she, was part of the Dark Lord’s Guard. The member of the Guard had said nothing since they arrived by Portkey to a Wiltshire village from London. However, Hermione knew that if she were to step any further away than three feet, she would be hexed, immobilized, and forcefully taken to her ultimate destination, her new home of sorts.
On the country lane, she felt exposed under the grey cloudy sky while the sun began to set in the west. She was cold, shivering in her thin grey shift, the only clothing she was allowed to have. Hermione knew she was only just a step up from a house elf in the eyes of those who had captured her, tortured her, and was now placing her in the house of the Dark Lord’s servant.
Hermione slipped in the mud and sloshed through a puddle, splashing brackish water up her shins and to the hem of her shift. Her chaperon did not seem to notice. Keeping pace with the black clad figure was difficult, its stride longer than her own.
Winds blew over the plains, lifting her shift and aerating her body devoid of any under clothing. Hermione wondered how much farther she had to walk.
When she would reach the Manor, she did not know what to anticipate. She was not sure as to what purpose she was being sent to the Manor in the first place. Either her new master had greatly pleased or displeased the Dark Lord, and Hermione was the reward or punishment. Either she would be used as a slave, like the rest of the Muggles and Muggle-borns, or she would be used for sport of a sexual nature. On both accounts, Hermione expected pain.
She knew pain very well in the years after Harry Potter failed to destroy the Dark Lord. While many of her friends had escaped and gone into hiding, Hermione had been captured, and kept in the bowels of the Dark Lord’s Ministry in London. She had been tortured for information she did not have, starved for her petulance, but never violated as many of the other captured had been. Sitting in her small cell, thankfully warm, dry, and devoid of pests, she had time to consider her situation.
Hermione was being kept for a purpose, and after four years of imprisonment, she was out in the open again, her purpose found. The Manor rose up on the horizon, surrounded by wispy cypress trees, obviously Charmed to grow as large as they did on the windy plains. It looked much as she remembered it…
Her chaperon grasped her arm, pulling her along faster, and she could barely feel the gloved hand bruising her skin for the cold. Hermione wondered if she should count her blessings—she was outdoors, in the fresh air, and not in her six by six cell in the dark. Surely, the Manor would be warm and lit. Surely, she would be fed and allowed the use of proper facilities. Surely, she would get a larger cell in the basement.
She did not want to get her hopes up too much, of course. She had learned never to hope much in a world that thought her to be lower than scum.
Her shoes slipped on the gravel drive and the eerie sound of peacocks roosting on the cold lawn made her stiffen. The sound brought back memories of a time when she still had hope. When she came to stop at the front doors, she felt relieved. Despite her manic pacing of her cell for four years, she had not walked so much in a long time.
A gloved hand jerked on the bell pull and almost immediately the doors opened, blinding Hermione with the light inside. An elf answered the door, and soft, indistinct words were spoken. Hermione paid little mind as the chaperon released her arm and a wizened elf dressed in a fancy blue velvet remnant took a hold of her hand.
The alee of the foyer warmed Hermione’s skin, and she walked slower as the elf pulled on her hand. Travertine and dark wood, candles, and the scent of dust made her brain nearly overload. There was no odour of excrement, blood, sex, and death in this house, and Hermione tried to recall her memories of the last time she was in the house years ago. No memory came.
The elf did not speak to her, but pulled her into what looked like a servant’s corridor and down a stair and into a large kitchen where many other elves were working. The scent of food made her mouth literally water, but she was led away, further down into the Manor.
“You will wash, you will wear what has been laid out, and you will not leave the room until I fetch you.”
The elf, unlike the others she had known in her life, had a very smooth and low voice. It identified itself as Aniel.
Hermione was left in a small room, Spartan-esque, with an adjacent water closet. There were no windows, no decorations, only a narrow bed with a pile of clothing atop, a chair with a new pair of slippers under the cane legs, and a candlestick with a lit candle. Left alone, behind another locked door, Hermione grinned. ‘Aniel,’ she remembered was the name of the angel of the West Wind.