Lucifer\'s Sweetheart

TITLE: Lucifer’s Sweetheart
AUTHOR: Mexx
EMAIL: angelic_mexx@hotmail.com
DISCLAIMER: All HP characters are the property of JKR, no copyright infringement intended.
RATING: NC-17.
WARNING: Dark fic. Contains rape and an element of sadism.
SUMMARY: In dark world where evil rules over the side of the light, Hermione is nothing more than a possession to Draco Malfoy.
AUTHOR’S NOTES: In Egyptian mythology Osiris and Isis were siblings and were married. Huge thanks to Alexa for the beta, and to WickedWitch for the endless prompting.

Draco sits—every night—and tells her stories. Tales he’s sure that she’ll already be aware of, but he enjoys patronising her. He enjoys doing a lot to her now that she is his.

“Did you know Osiris and Isis were brother and sister… *Sweetheart*?”

She turns away from him on the bed, refusing to look at his too-beautiful face as he tells her a story as if she were a child. As if she were someone he loved.

“Do you think that’s sickening, that Osiris married his sister?”

His fingers caress her bare arm; his touch is gentle, belying the truth of what she is to him. “Of course,” he continues softly, “nothing is quite as sickening as you.”

She closes her eyes, trying to block out his words, their surroundings, but to no avail. She knows where she is, and nothing will ever be the same again.

**

The tension that had been brewing between the sides of good and evil finally erupted into a full-blown war during Hermione’s final year of Hogwarts. It had been over sooner than anyone could have expected, and the side of evil had vanquished the light. Harry had been killed early on, and the hope was soon lost. What hope did they have without the boy who had saved the world the first time?

They’d been horribly defeated, and when Hermione was stripped of her wand, her dignity and her virginity by some masked Death Eater, she’d felt her hope beginning to seep away, like the blood that her wounds had wept.

She only vaguely recalls the time immediately after the war, because how can one correctly remember *those* sorts of events when they spend most of their time trying to forget them? She remembers how she was locked in a dirty cage, naked, except for the tattered robe that hung around her starved body-- her only tangible thing left from her days of a witch. She was dirty—inside and out—and the only place unsoiled on her body was her cheeks: cleansed by her tears.

Draco had found her locked in a cage in the cobwebbed attic of the same aged and vile Death Eater that had raped and beat her. He’d been visiting the man with his Father when he found her, and she’d stared at him—awed —like her was an angel coming to her mercy. She’d known, of course, that he was still the evil and corrupt boy from her childhood, but couldn’t bring herself to care when Draco released her from the dirty cage and wrapped his robe around her near-naked body.

He’d held her almost tenderly, and for a moment Hermione almost hoped that it meant the start of something good. The smidgen of hope, however, was dashed when he lifted her to her feet, held her weakened body in his arms, and whispered softly in her ear, “You think I just saved you from hell, *Sweetheart*? We’re not even there. Yet. You’re mine now, and I’m never going to let you forget it.”

**

The next night, Hermione lays chained to his bed. Although he rarely sleeps there, he tells her it his. She could never own anything, of course, because she is nothing more than a filthy Mudblood and is one of his possessions.

Hermione’s breath hitches as Draco slips into the room silently; his weight only causes the bed to dip a fraction. Hermione is used to this, of course. It’s been going on for seventy-nine days, and Hermione remembers—with painfully exact detail—every single one of them.

His long digits slip over her skin to caress her naked hips. His manicured fingers bite into her flesh, and she knows that only moments ago these very same fingers were playing a haunting melody on the grand piano in the drawing room. The music floats and echoes in this empty house, insubstantial and cold, like everything else. She flinches under his cool touch, and her skin shivers. He watches her for a second, his interest piqued.

She stares back at him, and Draco is shocked to find her meeting his eyes for the first time in many months. “Well, well…” He chuckles softly, “You *are* still in there. I was beginning to think we’d lost you.”

She blinks slowly, but does not turn away from his unflinching gaze.

“There’s my girl,” he smirks.

And her eyes become ablaze. “I’m not *your* anything, you whoring bastard!”

Draco immediately angers. He throws himself on top of her shaking body and pins her wrists above her head. His voice, when he speaks to her, is cold and calculating. “You will never raise your voice at me, you undeserving bint.” He pauses, and then adds snidely; “And besides, if I’m the ‘whoring bastard’, that makes you my whore.”

Hermione trembles beneath him, trying to shake up his steadfast grip. She’s been under him like this before, felt him grow hard against her and then force himself upon her, but never has she been able to contemplate getting used to him.

“I’m not your anything!” She screams in protest.

“You,” he informs her softly, “are whatever I say you are. You’re mine Sweetheart, you better start getting used to that.”

“No…” she whispers in protest, but she stops struggling against him.

“If I say so, then you’re my minion. You could be my mistress, or my acolyte.”

“Acolyte?” She asks incredulously, “Since when did you care for religion?” Her voice is hoarse as she begins to question him, she has not spoken in a long time, and it feels as though she’s forgotten how—her voice is foreign to her own ears.

One hand releases her, while the other holds both of her wrists In a strong grip. His fingers trace over her lips, regarding her silently for a moment before speaking; “No, not religion. Ancient history. I would have thought you’d have known this one, Hermione. Newly made witches served as acolytes too… back when there were more wizards than Muggles. They used to take candles to the devil. So if I say, Sweetheart, you have to serve the Satan. And if I say so, then you are my whore.”

She can’t even speak against him in protest; tears are burning in her throat. She hiccups back a sob, and recoils under his touch as his fingers trace the tears streaking down her face.

“Shhhhh,” he admonishes, “We can’t have my own precious whore crying now, can we?”

She quietens, because she knows better than to anger him. She knows his anger never results in a violent rage, but more often than not blood is spilt from carefully sliced cuts on her legs and breasts.

“There’s a good girl,” he congratulates her menacingly, “So good…” His fingers leave her face; make their way down her neck and chest, and slow at her breasts. She trembles as he pinches her nipples-- not from pleasure, but from something else. He relishes it.

Her eyes are closed, and something inside her is burning as she feels his fingers make their way further down her thin body. Perhaps it is her soul, but she sometimes doubts if she even has one. She allows her mind to rest for one moment—to hide from reality in the depths of her mind when she feels him momentarily withdraw from the bed.

Her world is plundered once again when he launches back onto the bed, his naked body pressing intimately against hers. She tries to turn her head—if she must endure this torment then at least she should try to show her rebellion by not facing him, but he does not allow this. His lips swiftly plunder hers, biting down and breaking the soft, delicate skin. He draws blood, and delights in the metallic taste on his tongue.

It’s more than blood, of course. More than the copper-sweet taste and the bitter twang. It means power. Power that he holds over her.

Hermione moans under his touch, and the whimper barely escapes her smothered mouth. His teeth are grating on her lower lip, drawing more dribbles of blood from her mouth. Her moan becomes louder, and one might have mistaken it for one of ecstasy if not for the pained look on her once beautiful face. And, as if given acquiescence by her moan- even though Draco knows he will never have that of her- his hands slip over her body, roughly cupping and grating her bruised flesh.

Hermione bites down on her own lip as Draco’s hands reach down to propel her legs apart. Silent tears stream down her face, and the taste of salt mingles with that of blood in her mouth. It only makes her cry harder. His hands release her breasts and torso to pry apart her resisting knees, and her arms fly to her chest to salvage the last of her modesty.

Finally he slides back up her body, lying between her open legs, but not yet inside her. She cries harder. “What’s the matter, Sweetheart?” he purrs, and tucks a strand of knotted hair behind her ear. “You used to be so good at being a whore, you’re not going to give up me now, are you?”

Hermione opens her mouth to spit an insult out at him, but her retort turns into a scream as he thrusts into her. His lips smash down on hers again, and she’s incapable of speech as his tongue probes her mouth. The burning inside of her reaches an extreme, her entire self being torn apart by his vicious fucking. His hands roughly run over her body, biting into her breasts but still it doesn’t distract from his strenuous pounding into her frail body.

He slows for a moment, and Hermione fears he’s going to do worse, but then reconsiders; what could be worse than this pounding and painful torture he was exerting on her. His kiss slows, as well, and her glassy eyes stare up at him in confusion. He smiles cruelly. His fingers leave her breasts, and one hand reaches down between their bodies and Draco fingers her clitoris. She moans in protest, but when she bucks her hips against him even she doesn’t know if it’s to escape his fingers or drive closer to them.

“Relax Sweetheart, this doesn’t have to be horrible,” He whispers, and the feel of his breath against her ear is almost comforting in contrast to the burning inside of her. Her eyes freeze over and she stares at him coldly, how can it not be horrible?

She does not respond to his almost tender touch, but remains lying impassively beneath him. His hand pinches her inner thigh in temper, but still she does not move. Draco’s thrusts into her become painfully deep again, and he bites down on her mouth, muffling her scream of pain and his of pleasure.

He comes inside her violently, getting off on her pain as his fingers dig into her hips and tears resume streaming down her face. Draco rolls off her, spent. He finally notices the extent of her tears—even his own face is salty-wet—and smirks, she’s still broken. Still his.

He watches her lie perfectly still on the soiled sheets, his own seed leaking from between her legs, mingling with the dried blood of aged scars. She is naked, and does nothing to cover herself—Draco has taken her spirit, her modesty… what else is left?

**

“Shall I tell you a story?” He asks her, although does not expect an answer.

He continues regardless; “There was once a little girl who lived in a world in which she didn’t belong. Still, two little boys made friends with the little girl, and promised to protect her forever. They couldn’t, because what power did two little boys have over the power of inevitability? The little girl isn’t ever going to smile again, and the two little boys are dead. Need I go on?”

She shakes her head, silently. She knows this story’s ending.

“The little girl is a whore, now. And will never have a happy ending.”

‘No’ she thinks, ‘there are no happy endings.’

--finis