The Robber Bridegroom
folder
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Lucius/Hermione
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
8,301
Reviews:
7
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
Harry Potter › Het - Male/Female › Lucius/Hermione
Rating:
Adult ++
Chapters:
10
Views:
8,301
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.
Folly
Title: Folly
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
Summary: #12 – Folly. ‘I want to feel your pink clean skin. I want to feel your purity.’ ‘Pure’ by Gary Numan.
Word Count: 827 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
#12 – Folly
The elf, Aniel, came to her two hours after Hermione had washed and dressed in a plain grey dress. Hermione still was not given the luxury of under clothes. However, the material of the dress was finer than her old shift, which had disappeared after she dropped it to the water closet floor. She felt warmer in the ankle length dress, and was thankful for it.
“You know beatings?” the elf asked, perched on the chair across where Hermione sat on the bed.
Hermione nodded.
“You have been kept in good health?”
Hermione hesitated, she wondered what constituted ‘good health.’ The beatings and torture had scarred her body from the soles of her feet to her neck, but never the face. She had mentally listed what had been done to her. The skin of her soles had been flayed, her legs and arms broken, her fingers crushed, her ribs cracked, her back flogged, the list went on. It was only physical pain, she knew, and mentally, she had to endure the sight of many of her friends tortured to death in much more gruesome ways than she. She had been taught never to speak, never to meet the eyes of those who hurt her, of course that did not mean that she would not disobey. They had not totally broken her; she still had her mind and her imagination.
She finally nodded, her hands folded on her lap, her back straight, her eyes on the bottoms of the elf’s hairy feet.
“You are too thin,” the elf announced, and Hermione had half a mind to laugh.
Being fed watery gruel and moldy bread for four years did little to keep on healthy weight.
“You have been branded?”
Hermione’s eyes flickered to the elf’s bulbous blue eyes. She shook her head, her long waist length hair falling in clean curls about her body. Of all the washing she had done, she was thankful to be able to clean her hair.
“Why? You may speak.”
“I…”
Her voice was like the opening of a rusty hinge. She could not remember the last time she had spoken. The last few times she had been taken from her cell and beaten, she had not screamed. The violence of lashes had made her skin a callouses.
“I do not know.”
The elf regarded her coolly, its eyes moving from her slippered feet to her face.
Hermione knew what ‘branding’ meant. It was just how cattle breeders would brand cattle either as property or in grading. Those people who were kept aside for other purposes than information were often branded, usually on their chests or the backs of their necks, signifying their intended purpose. Some Muggle-borns were kept as breeders, or as slaves. Others were marked as labourers of different degrees, but Hermione was never branded.
“Do you know why you have been sent here?”
Hermione had theories, all unpleasant. She shook her head again, letting her eyes fall to the floor.
“You will learn soon enough, it is not Aniel’s place to tell you.”
Hermione clasped her hands in her lap, and kept her face passive.
“So you know. It would be folly to try to escape. It would be folly to disobey the Master, or any of your betters. As it is, Aniel is your better in this house until the Master sees fit to raise your status.
You will be fed a proper meal, and given proper clothes. Master dislikes untidiness, that includes you.
You will never look Master in the eye, you will always keep yourself lower than Master, you will always do as Master wishes, and you will not speak until spoken to. Understand?”
Hermione nodded.
“It would be folly to use magic here. Aniel would know, and Aniel will be displeased.”
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. In her cell, she had been warded from using any type of wandless magic, and she was not sure if she could still tap into her innate ability.
“You may speak, witch, questions?”
Hermione blinked. “Will he take me?”
The elf blinked in return. “The Mistress is dead, the young Master is away. The Master has had many young witches, all unsuitable. If the Master tries for you, it would be folly to resist.”
Folly. Aniel used the word often, but Hermione knew the implications. The Master, Hermione knew, was not forgiving. Even in the cells, she heard the whispers.
“You will keep yourself presentable. You will keep to the sub-levels and the ground floor. You are allowed to move in these places as you please, but you are not to touch anything that is the Master’s. You will keep yourself hidden, and you will return to this room before midnight. Understand?”
Hermione nodded again. She had a new freedom, but it was still a cage. What was worse, she supposed, was not knowing why she had been given to the Master, a man she knew as Lucius Malfoy.
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
Summary: #12 – Folly. ‘I want to feel your pink clean skin. I want to feel your purity.’ ‘Pure’ by Gary Numan.
Word Count: 827 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
#12 – Folly
The elf, Aniel, came to her two hours after Hermione had washed and dressed in a plain grey dress. Hermione still was not given the luxury of under clothes. However, the material of the dress was finer than her old shift, which had disappeared after she dropped it to the water closet floor. She felt warmer in the ankle length dress, and was thankful for it.
“You know beatings?” the elf asked, perched on the chair across where Hermione sat on the bed.
Hermione nodded.
“You have been kept in good health?”
Hermione hesitated, she wondered what constituted ‘good health.’ The beatings and torture had scarred her body from the soles of her feet to her neck, but never the face. She had mentally listed what had been done to her. The skin of her soles had been flayed, her legs and arms broken, her fingers crushed, her ribs cracked, her back flogged, the list went on. It was only physical pain, she knew, and mentally, she had to endure the sight of many of her friends tortured to death in much more gruesome ways than she. She had been taught never to speak, never to meet the eyes of those who hurt her, of course that did not mean that she would not disobey. They had not totally broken her; she still had her mind and her imagination.
She finally nodded, her hands folded on her lap, her back straight, her eyes on the bottoms of the elf’s hairy feet.
“You are too thin,” the elf announced, and Hermione had half a mind to laugh.
Being fed watery gruel and moldy bread for four years did little to keep on healthy weight.
“You have been branded?”
Hermione’s eyes flickered to the elf’s bulbous blue eyes. She shook her head, her long waist length hair falling in clean curls about her body. Of all the washing she had done, she was thankful to be able to clean her hair.
“Why? You may speak.”
“I…”
Her voice was like the opening of a rusty hinge. She could not remember the last time she had spoken. The last few times she had been taken from her cell and beaten, she had not screamed. The violence of lashes had made her skin a callouses.
“I do not know.”
The elf regarded her coolly, its eyes moving from her slippered feet to her face.
Hermione knew what ‘branding’ meant. It was just how cattle breeders would brand cattle either as property or in grading. Those people who were kept aside for other purposes than information were often branded, usually on their chests or the backs of their necks, signifying their intended purpose. Some Muggle-borns were kept as breeders, or as slaves. Others were marked as labourers of different degrees, but Hermione was never branded.
“Do you know why you have been sent here?”
Hermione had theories, all unpleasant. She shook her head again, letting her eyes fall to the floor.
“You will learn soon enough, it is not Aniel’s place to tell you.”
Hermione clasped her hands in her lap, and kept her face passive.
“So you know. It would be folly to try to escape. It would be folly to disobey the Master, or any of your betters. As it is, Aniel is your better in this house until the Master sees fit to raise your status.
You will be fed a proper meal, and given proper clothes. Master dislikes untidiness, that includes you.
You will never look Master in the eye, you will always keep yourself lower than Master, you will always do as Master wishes, and you will not speak until spoken to. Understand?”
Hermione nodded.
“It would be folly to use magic here. Aniel would know, and Aniel will be displeased.”
Hermione bit the inside of her cheek. In her cell, she had been warded from using any type of wandless magic, and she was not sure if she could still tap into her innate ability.
“You may speak, witch, questions?”
Hermione blinked. “Will he take me?”
The elf blinked in return. “The Mistress is dead, the young Master is away. The Master has had many young witches, all unsuitable. If the Master tries for you, it would be folly to resist.”
Folly. Aniel used the word often, but Hermione knew the implications. The Master, Hermione knew, was not forgiving. Even in the cells, she heard the whispers.
“You will keep yourself presentable. You will keep to the sub-levels and the ground floor. You are allowed to move in these places as you please, but you are not to touch anything that is the Master’s. You will keep yourself hidden, and you will return to this room before midnight. Understand?”
Hermione nodded again. She had a new freedom, but it was still a cage. What was worse, she supposed, was not knowing why she had been given to the Master, a man she knew as Lucius Malfoy.