Domus Pro Venatus

The wind that blew down the High Street of the death camp Mors Mortis Carcus was bitter and icy. It moaned eerily in quick sharp breaths like a lonely spirit. The sky was dark with thick grey clouds that hung low, casting a dismal light over the once mirthful town of Hogsmeade. Mors Mortis Carcus had a lingering stench of death. Lucius Malfoy could smell it as he walked through the street of devastation, accompanied by a guard. His boots clicked softly on the cobblestone road and the litter that was scattered along the filthy street swirled around his feet, pushing aside debris in his path with his cane. Sickly thin people - filthy, disgusting Mudbloods - huddled together against the harsh wind. The windows on the dilapidated shops were smashed in, and doors hung off hinges and creaked in the wind. The shops had become mere hovels and alcoves for the freezing, starving prisoners. Through each of the shattered windows, Lucius caught sight of terrified, gaunt faces peering out at him. All of them were such pathetic souls, such wretched filth. It brought a smile to his lips; a sinister, cold smile. This was victory. This was what Harry Potter failed to save the Wizarding world from.

Amongst all the rubbish, remnants of what were once sold in the shops could be seen; sweet wrappers from Honeydukes, fragments of tricks from Zonko’s and tattered quills from Scrivenshaft’s. All around the camp, tall barbed wire fencing surrounded the perimeters of what was once Hogsmeade; from the lake that led across to the once prestigious Hogwarts, which was now a palace for the reigning Death Eaters, to the farthest edges of the village.

This camp was the culmination of success for the Purebloods.

The people on the streets lingered like lost souls. Lucius had no pity for them. They deserved the hell they were trapped in. This was conquest; ridding the Wizarding world of filth, for filth they were and filth they so belonged to. While Lucius was clothed in the finest, the men, women and children around him were swathed in grotty clothing and tattered, drab cloaks which did little to protect their famished bodies from the biting cold. The sound of pained cries from starving babies and terrified children carried throughout the death camp. Passing exhausted mothers as they tried in vain with what little strength they had left to soothe their ailing children, Lucius offered a gloating smirk, a look of triumph. ’Look what your precious Harry Potter has failed to save you from’, he thought.

Lucius turned his head and peered over his shoulder, smirking at the guard that was accompanying him. “Find me some game,” he ordered in a smooth, low drawl.

The guard smiled knowingly. “Yes, sir,” he promptly replied.

“I will be at the Domus pro Venatus.” He casually raised his cane and pointed in the direction of a run down building, once a little tea shop known as Madame Puddifoot’s. It was now used for Lucius’ pleasure; a place where, upon his command, he was brought one of the prisoners by his guard to play and do what he wished with.

“Very well, sir.”

Lucius shooed the guard on his way and continued walking towards the building. The wind blew in sharper gusts, curling around his heavily cloaked body. Around him, people shivered and huddled closer, to which he chuckled. How unfortunate they were, how poor. Lucius, as he neared the building, cruelly kicked a young crying child out of his path and pushed another away from him with his cane, uttering in a bitter voice, “Out of my way.” Upon reaching the door, he outstretched a gloved hand and wrapped it around the door handle, turning it and pushing the door open.

It groaned loudly in its hinges and an instant scent of mustiness met his nose. Stepping over the threshold, Lucius closed the door behind him, shutting out the cold, and made his way to the sagging staircase. Tucking his cane under his arm, he kneaded his gloves from his hands as he ascended the stairs and, upon alighting the landing, made his way to the room at the end of the hallway.

He entered and set his cane down against the wall. It was a dingy, dark room with threadbare carpet and shredded, stained curtains that hung over the grimy windows. The walls were covered in tacky, discoloured wallpaper and a few old faded paintings were mounted upon them. Balling his gloves into his pocket, Lucius then curled his fingers on the partings of his cloak and drew it back from his shoulders. Sliding it from his arms, he folded it neatly and strolled over to the dusty sofa in the centre of the room. Lifting a slender hand to his long silky hair, he smoothed it back as he rounded the aged couch and sauntered over to one of the gritty windows.

Hooking two fingers around the edge of the curtain, he pushed it to the side. The window was smeared in thick crud, choking what little amount of light there was as it strained to filter in. He could make out people on the grounds, clustered together around a weak fire, attempting to warm themselves up. Lucius sneered. ’Look at them’, he thought to himself. ’Disgusting wretches’.

He heard the sound of a female voice shrieking downstairs, followed by the front door slamming shut. Grinning, Lucius let the ripped curtain fall back over the window and he turned around, making his way across the room to his cane. Taking it up, Lucius listened to the sound of whoever his guard had chosen struggling and heard what sounded like a young woman curse sharply. He smiled. She sounded frisky.

He turned slowly on his heel and strolled to the centre of the room, his back to the door, and ran his fingers over the silver snake bust on his cane as his guard wrestled up the stairs with the female. Footsteps, loud and heavy, thumped towards the room and the door was thrown open. “I’ve got you a-“

“Just leave her with me and shut the door behind you,” Lucius cut in calmly. He continued to trace his fingers over the bust of his cane, smirking as he listened to the guard dump the female in the room and briskly walk back out the door.

Lucius waited until he heard door shut with a loud creak before he spoke. “Well, well. Aren’t you lucky?” he drawled, running his finger over one of the sharp snake fangs on his cane.

There was no answer. All he could hear was rapid breathing.

Lucius slowly turned his head and peered over his shoulder. A woman, deathly thin with long brown tangled hair, stood shivering with her arms drawn up over her chest. She was clutching her skeletal arms with her hands and her shoulders, bony and scrawny, were hunched. Her head was down turned and her wild hair obscured her face.

He turned around and faced the woman to study her closer. Her clothes were torn and on the brink of falling apart. Through the ripped fabric on her chest, he could see her ribs, scraggy and painfully skinny. Lucius\' eyes travelled down the length of her body to her feet and saw she had no shoes on. Her ankles jutted out sharply and her feet were tinged blue from the cold. Crusty sores covered them, along with bruises and cuts. Lucius turned his eyes back up to her head and cleared his throat to get her attention.

She continued to keep her head bowed and refused to look up at him. Impatiently, he rapped his cane hard on the floor. The loud noise made her jump and he heard her whimper quietly. He smiled. Perfect.

“Look at me,” he ordered in a low voice.

She kept her head bowed.

“Look. At. Me,” he said again crisply. Seeing her still refusing to look up, Lucius lifted his cane from the floor and strode across to her. He dashed his hand out and snatched a tuft of her knotted thick hair, and yanked her head back harshly. “I said, look at m-“

Lucius halted. The woman’s face was emaciated; cheekbones jutted out sharply and her cheeks were deeply hollowed. Her skin was a sickly pallid colour, grey like the remnants of ashes found in a hearth. The female’s dark, terrified eyes stared at him. They were sunken deeply into their sockets and filled with tears. They were the same eyes he had seen glare at him all those years ago in Flourish and Blotts in Diagon Alley, the first time he had met her.

He arched his brow. “Miss Granger,” he said quietly. A sinister smirk curled on to his lips. “Fancy seeing you again.”

Hermione’s lower lip trembled. “M-Mis-Mister M-Malfoy.”

His smirk broadened as he lifted his cane to her face. “Well, well,” Lucius began, cocking his head to the side and leering down at her as he lightly scratched the fangs down her cheek. Hermione winced and recoiled from him. He gripped her hair tighter and held her fast, chuckling menacingly. “So,” he continued, leaning in close to the woman, “how has life been for you since you last saw Patronus Potter, hm?”

Anger flashed in her tear-filled eyes. She struggled in his arms once more, though it was in vain; Lucius twisted her hair in his grip and jerked her head sharply, tutting. “Dear me,” he uttered dryly. “I would have thought that serving what precious little time you have left in this luxurious resort would have taught you to stop trying to be so brave.” He chuckled again, and added in a smug drawl, “Besides, what point is there in trying to survive? Hm? Your precious Harry Potter isn’t going to save you.”

Hermione let out an anguished cry and writhed in his grip, trying to break free from him.

Lucius quickly seized her around the waist with his arm, pressing the shaft of the cane firmly against her side. “Uh-uh,” he calmly ordered, as though he was scolding a disobedient child. Lowering his face to hers, pressing his lips to her ear, he whispered menacingly, “You don’t leave until I say so, Miss Granger.”

She sobbed quietly, tears rolling down her grimy, hollowed cheeks. “P-please…let m-me go!” She wrestled within his clutch, crying out when he roughly tugged her hair again. “P-please! Please let me go!”

Her pleading, her sobbing was most amusing to Lucius. He smiled lecherously as he nudged her forth, indicating for her to move towards the grotty sofa. “What would your precious Potter make of this, hm?” he taunted. “He would be most upset to see you, of all people, begging . Wouldn’t he?”

“P-please, M-Mister M-Malfoy. Please, let me g-go!”

“A noble Gryffindor, are you not?” he continued, ignoring her pleas. “Brave and valiant, hm?”

“P-please! Pl-“

“Look where brave and valiant got your dear Potter,” he cut in scornfully. “Look where you have ended up.” Lucius jerked her head hard again and leaned close, his breath billowing over her cheek, and uttered, “Look what you’ve become, you filth.”

Loosening his grip on the woman’s waist, he moved his arm behind her and shoved her forward. Since there was little weight on her from how deathly thin she was, she stumbled and lost her footing, collapsing at his feet. She hunched over and let out another sob, screaming in pain when Lucius brutally yanked her hair and began to drag her across the floor to the dusty couch. Hermione kicked her legs, dashing her hands to his and scratching frantically at them. Her brittle nails, which were cracked from malnutrition and the cold, dug into his skin and split to her cuticles, the nails tearing from the raw flesh underneath them.

Lucius hissed at the sharp clawing to his hands and, lowering his cane to the floor, he snatched one of her bony wrists and hauled her. “On your feet, now, Mudblood,” he snarled.

Hermione wailed in terror. She was quaking; sweat had broken out on her ashen brow and she was breathing erratically. Placing his hand on her shoulder, he forced her to turn around and, keeping a hold of her hair, he reached for the front of her tattered, ripped shirt and balled it in his hand. It was then, as he tore at the only clothing that she owned from her frail, starved body, that she stole a glance to his eyes. They peered at her, fierce and lecherous, hungry and animalistic. Lucius stared at Hermione as though he could see through her eyes into her soul. It chilled her to the bone; his gaze was intense and incredibly cold.

Tears rolled down her cheeks as she continued to plead, “Let me go!” She wrestled with his hands as he ripped through her shirt, tearing it from her. Being that her clothes were holding together by a mere final thread, it shredded from her body easily. Lucius roughly shoved the material back, exposing her emaciated chest. He trailed his eyes down, his face pulled into an expression of disgust.

She had sores on her skin, dotted all over her front in a collage of vicious red and deep purple. They were blisters from the cold that had formed into ugly scabs, never healing due to being constantly bared to the icy wind and the fact that her starving body could no longer fight against infection. Her skin, stretched tautly over her ribs, was so pale it was almost transparent. It was like a weak, paper-thin membrane. Her ribs looked sharp, like knives trying to cut through meat, as they expanded and contracted rapidly. Her stomach caved in deeply and her breasts hung limp, shriveled. She was a frightful sight; a breathing skeleton.

Lucius tutted again in repulsion. “Good grief,” he uttered. “What a sight for sore eyes.” He curled his lips up into a smirk and pulled the trembling woman to him. Leaning in close, he muttered, “If only your Potter could see you now. How ashamed do you think he would be of himself?”

In spite of her terror, Hermione breathed in sharply and then spat in his face. Lucius flinched, closing his eyes as the saliva splattered against his cheek and oozed down. Calmly, he reached up to his face, touched the blob tentatively and then smeared it away with his fingertips. Opening his eyes again, he peered down at the spit, slick and glistening in the dim light of the room, and then looked back up at the woman.

Anger surged in his gut. His eyes clouded over in rage and he spun her around forcefully so her back was to him, letting go of her hair and brutally snatching her throat. “You fool!” he hissed, squeezing her gaunt neck until she wheezed. Under his fingers, he could feel her pulse throbbing furiously as her veins fought to push blood through them. “Do you really think that fighting back is going to get you anywhere, Mudblood?” Lucius dug his fingers into the back of her tattered pants and yanked them down over her scrawny behind.

Hermione tried to scream, wrestling in his grip and scratching at the hand that was closing her throat off. It was no use; he was much stronger than she was. She was too weak to fend him off.

Pressing his cheek to her ear, he whispered, “You are not here to fight, Miss Granger. Potter lost. He let you down. You have nothing left to fight for, not even for your own fetid life.” As her pants rumpled down to her ankles, exposing her raw-boned legs, which were covered in sores like the rest of her, Lucius moved his hand to his waistband and threaded his belt from its buckle. “You’re here because filth like you deserve to rot!” he spat, plucking the button from its hole and then sliding the zipper down.

Hermione gasped for breath as she sobbed, tears streaming down her cheeks. “P-p-please…” she rasped.

“You’re here because your precious Potter failed you!” Lucius barked triumphantly, pushing his pants from his hips. They fell to his feet and he grasped his semi-hard prick, stroking it quickly, stimulating it to full erection. “He failed every single one of you!”

Letting go of her throat, Lucius moved his hand to the back of her neck and forced her forward, gritting his teeth as she bent over in front of him. Hermione dashed her hands out and pressed them on the padded seat of the sofa to catch her balance. Dust erupted from it and swirled around her face in a silvery cloud as she wept loudly.

He gave her little time to catch her breath, nor to attempt another weak struggle. As swiftly as he had forced the woman over, Lucius angled his prick to her entrance and, with a loud, bestial grunt, thrust into her. She let out a strangled, pain-filled cry, her whole body lurching forward. Remaining buried in her for a moment, Lucius slid his hand up her neck and speared his fingers into her hair. Gripping a knotted tuft, he wrenched her head back until every muscle in her throat strained under the power of his hold, and he began to violently plunge in and out of her.

Hermione’s legs shook as pain seared through her sex, sending sharp stabbing cramps up to her stomach. His prick rubbed raw within her, each thrust worse that the last. Her scalp burned from where he was pulling her hair. Defenseless, she cried out in terror, scratching at the frayed fabric on the couch, splitting her brittle nails further until blood began to ooze from the delicate flesh underneath them.

Lucius gritted his teeth and stared down at her in pure hate and disgust, relishing in the power he had over her. Stands of silvery pale hair matted across his cheeks as sweat formed on his face, which glistened in the dim light of the room. His breath grew laboured and his plunges became faster and more fierce. Her screams were beautiful; she deserved every ounce of fear that filled her, every cruel thrust into her, every morsel of pain. Seeing her suffer at his hands was victory.

Keeping his hand whorled in her hair, he moved his other hand to Hermione’s hip. Curling his fingers over the shape of her gaunt, jutted pelvis, he gripped her tight, forcing her back against him in sharp, jarred tugs. He grunted as he thickened inside her, and as she whimpered and cried out in pain again, his eyes rolled up and he came in violent, triumphant waves.

He continued to thrust into her until he was spent, until he had pumped every drop of his pureblood seed into her festering mudblood body. Lucius pulled out of her, panting and shimmering in a thin sheen of perspiration, and he yanked at her hair, forcing her to stand up. Hermione winced and staggered back against him.

Jerking her head back so her ear was by his lips, he muttered spitefully, “That was nice, wasn’t it, Mudblood? How I do enjoy having fun with revolting filth such as yourself. Especially you, Miss Granger. You make wonderful game.”

He pushed her forward hard, letting go of her hair and watched her sprawl to the floor, sobbing and burying her face against the tacky carpet. He smiled sadistically as he tucked himself away, straightened his clothes and then reached out for his cloak. Swooping the cloak around his shoulders, he tutted and remarked, “Dear me, do stop crying, Mudblood. Where’s your Gryffindor bravery, hm?”

Lucius watched Hermione huddle on the floor, weeping. Her skeletal body trembled with the force of her sobs, cowering from him in terror and shame. Pushing his hair from his face and smoothing his long tresses down gently he reached into his pocket, plucked out his gloves and slipped his broad hands into them. Crouching down, he curled his fingers around his cane and gripped it, and then stood tall once more.

He strolled towards Hermione, stooped down and snatched her hair one last time, twisting her head to the side so he could see her face. Her cheeks were wet with tears and her eyes wide with distress. Lucius smirked. “Perhaps we’ll meet again one day,” he said. “Until then, enjoy the world that Potter failed to save wretches like you from.”

Letting go of her, he stood up again and stepped back, turned on his heel and strode to the door. He could have killed her; the thought passed his mind. How jubilant that would have been. That was not justice, however. Letting Hermione live, to remember what he did and said to her, left to rot in the camp like she so rightfully deserved was true retribution.

Clutching the door handle, Lucius turned it and pulled the door open with a loud creak. The guard was waiting for him out on the landing. Snapping his fingers, Lucius pointed over his shoulder as he marched forth, ordering, “Return the Mudblood to where you found it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Lucius smiled as he trekked down the stairs, the sound of Hermione’s sobs echoing through the derelict building. Opening the front door, Lucius stepped out of Domus Pro Venatus and into the bitter cold. He drew his cloak tightly over his chest as he triumphantly walked away.