Minion

Title: Minion
Author: scifichick774
Rating: NC-17
Category: Drama
Spoilers: through HBP.
Summary: In death there is life…and obsession.
Disclaimer: Characters belong to JKR, I’m just borrowing them.
Author’s Note: for the_ladys_opal, and the fic exchange over at the lj comm. sexy_brilliance. This kind of turned out kind of odd, so I’m sorry if it wasn’t what you were expecting. It fits most of your request, but a couple things were left out because I couldn’t fit them in.

~*~*~

Pain.

Emotionally searing, blood curdling, pain.

Every second of every day.

Not that he was able to keep track of time anymore. He caught glimpses of the world through his captor’s eyes once and a while, but there was never anything concrete enough for him to make an educated guess as to what the date might be; and he found himself not caring, regardless.

Did it matter what day it was—what year—when his existence (such as it was) would never change? He thought not. Hell was hell, be it Monday or Tuesday; and once condemned, there was no escape.

Or so he believed. He’d never experienced anything to indicate otherwise, at any rate.

But, on one abysmal day in what felt like winter, that belief was challenged. He could not hope anymore, for that feeling had been driven from him long ago, but when he saw a flash of a familiar looking witch, he’d…known.

He received little more than a scant glance of her, but it was enough to know that Hermione Granger had something up her sleeve, and it wasn’t a Patronus. The wand movement was completely wrong for that.

He frowned pensively, then winced, then screamed in agony as his soul hunched over and coughed up blood he knew, logically, wasn’t his, but felt and tasted too real to think anything but.

It was a slap on the hand, really; all things considered. Once the Dementor and his brethren were no longer distracted, he’d go back to receiving much worse. He acknowledged this as fact, accepted it. Dreaded it.

And then, the strangest thing happened. The ache within him grew exponentially worse, but instead of plateauing at the highest level of torture he’d ever been forced to endure, it exploded in a brilliant golden light.

Then there was nothing.

~*~*~

Waking up to true physical soreness hadn’t been something he’d encountered in a great while. Emotional and mental travesty, along with the simulation of physical pain, was nothing new, but this…this was different. This was real.

He’d never been so happy in his entire life.

His throat was dry and scratch, and hurt due to lack of use, but a gurgle of disbelieving laughter rasped upward anyway; growing more maniacal once he heard the sound with his own ears.

He was free. The Dementor his soul had been caged in was no more, he was sure of it, and he was free.

Well, in a matter of speaking.

His atrophied body remained ensconced in a cage of thick stone walls and charm-enhanced metal bars, but he was whole again, and that was a triumph in and of itself.

“Wh-what happened? Where am I?”

Another prisoner. From the panic in his voice, Barty guessed that he wasn’t handling the transition to his new surroundings quite as well as he was.

Fool.

He may be bound, but Azkaban was nothing without the threat of its former inhuman guards. He could handle dying there if it meant he never had to be near one of those damnable things again.

Rustling, the weak, futile rattle of chains, and confused cries tipped him off to the fact that the rest of the people in his ward were like him: once vessels emptied by monsters, now refilled by a miracle.

The shackle around his ankle seemed a bit much, since his body was likely limp and unmoving in the time when he didn’t possess it, not to mention in a considerably diminutive state now, but he supposed, under the circumstances, that the Ministry’s paranoia wasn’t so unfounded after all.

“I saw a witch,” one raspy voice croaked out after the commotion died down. “Young…pretty…” He paused and Barty could practically hear the man shiver. “I could feel her power...”

That was an accurate enough description, Barty thought, though he would have replaced ‘young’ with ‘intelligent’. Miss Granger may not have been old in terms of years, but he’d spotted the steely resolve in her eyes, if only for a moment. Life had already robbed her of her youth.

Hermione Granger, he mused, mouthing her name to feel it on his tongue and lips, though he made no sound with the action. No doubt the other prisoners through the damp darkness and the bars that held them were aching to hear it, but knowledge was power, regardless of location, and he was smart enough to keep the information of her identity to himself for the time being.

Clever little mudblood. He wondered why she did it.

He hadn’t really given it much thought before, but now he was curious as to what made the witch kill the Dementors that surrounded her rather than chase them away with happy thoughts.

Perhaps she had no happy thoughts left.

And, of course, she had no way of knowing that it sometimes took the monsters up to a century to fully digest the souls they consumed; no way of knowing that she’d be returning all kinds of evil to physical form.

Not that he was evil. He was merely a servant who’d gotten caught in the crossfire.

Again.

The corners of his lips turned down in a pout. The Dark Lord had promised to reward the subjects who proved their loyalty and faithfulness. He had done so, time and again, only to be left behind, discarded like some pawn when he was captured by the other side.

He understood that it was war, but he’d always fancied himself sitting at a higher position in his master’s regime than that of a pawn; a peasant.

A knight, maybe. Perhaps even a prince— if not by blood, then by service.

But, as his mind sifted through the events that brought him to the wizarding prison for the second time in his life, he came to a most unsettling revelation.

His liege thought him expendable.

Barty would have swallowed the lump that rose to his throat if he’d had the saliva to do so, but instead the action made him gag and dry-heave before he sputtered for breath and shook against his chains.

No. He was wrong. He had to be.

The Dark Lord may not have favored him, but neither did he utterly loathe him like he did the inept slaves who salivated at the thought of crawling in his wake. It was a small spark of hope, something that shouldn’t have existed after everything his master had let him be put through, but it was there nonetheless.

For now, it was enough.

~*~*~

They always made it sound like one had to be intelligent to become an Auror, but from his experiences, the opposite was true. In fact, the only common qualification he could distinguish from all the Aurors he’d met was that they knew how to take orders without question.

He could have made a good one if that was truly the case, he mused bitterly. He’d wanted to prove his worth, prove his power, and had only ended up proving himself an easily duped sheep in a flock of many. You couldn’t lead if you followed; and those with power didn’t share it.

At least no one he’d encountered had.

“One more time, Crouch: how’d you get back into your body?”

He didn’t bother to repress his snort. He couldn’t tell them what he didn’t know, and probably wouldn’t even if he did have the information. They could torture him all they wanted; it would always be less than what he’d already been put through.

“Do you enjoy being difficult?”

Barty gave no answer, but he suspected the question was rhetorical anyway.

“Buggering prick,” one of the Aurors, a tall, willowy man with beady eyes, muttered under his breath.

“Your master’s not coming for you, boy.”

A gravelly voice, rough from age and liquor-burns. Moody.

Fantastic.

The fact that he said the word ‘master’ like it was an insult to him for being Voldemort’s whipping boy for so long only made his displeasure with the man’s presence that much more intense.

Because he agreed with him.

Had he looked past the fact that a pretty Muggle-born girl had spurned him for another back in his sixth year at Hogwarts…had he decided to seek out power and fame for himself instead of trying to ride on the fringe of another’s robes…

Things could have been very different.

And it was his own fault that they weren’t.

He’d been there for nearly a month, the best he could calculate, and there’d been no talk of rescue from the side he’d served for so long, nor the murmurings of the need to remain loyal to the Dark Lord though they were all away from him that he’d participated in the last time he’d been imprisoned within Azkaban’s merciless walls.

The reality of his situation had struck him cruelly the week before. Slumber had been threatening to overtake him, and though he welcomed the respite it would have brought, his mind had refused to shut off, and his bitterness had risen to the surface.

There was no talk of rescue, because there would be no rescue.

There were no murmurings of steadfast loyalty, because his fellow inmates had already accepted what he’d dismissed as selfish brooding.

He’d wept without tears for the loss of something he never really had to begin with that night, but not beyond that. For a man who’d lived in denial for the better part of his life, he was finally ready to try and step out of it.

All he needed was a plan.

To escape, to enact his revenge…to accomplish the impossible.

Barty lifted his chin in a defiant gesture. It would be a simple enough thing to do to give them Hermione Granger’s name; beneficial even. But he didn’t.

When they’d come to fetch him from his cell that morning, he’d noticed something that was nothing short of miraculous. His Dark Mark was gone.

The tattoo had been a source of great pride for so long, but somehow, his resurrection had magically erased it, and he hadn’t even noticed until they’d opened the bars, hauled him off the floor, and the cuff of his uniform had slipped down his skeletally thin arm. He wasn’t sure of the magic behind it, but it only served to reinforce the realization that he’d come up with.

If it was his destiny to be a follower, a pawn, then he would only be led by someone who had enough intelligence and compassion to temper their power; someone worthy of his fealty.

A thoughtful, dangerous, light glittered in his eyes. He’d been surprised to hear whispers among the others about the very same thing, and at first, had dismissed it as he cloaked himself further in denial.

But now, he couldn’t fault them for the chatter he’d considered treason at the time; not when his own thoughts were finally running parallel to theirs. Not all of them had their souls sucked away for being followers of the Dark Lord or his principles, but their actions, their crimes, had all been committed for the same reason his had. They’d all needed something to make their lives complete.

Now that he’d had a significant amount of time on his hands to ponder such matters, and to reevaluate his own stance on the topic, Barty came to a simple epiphany as to what that something was.

Some people needed to lead, others needed to be led. Such was life.

A tiny smirk curled up one side of his mouth.

If he managed to escape the wizarding prison for a second time, Hermione Granger would have quite a surprise coming to her.

~*~*~

The one good thing about Fudge’s term in office was that the man was easy to read.

And easy to placate.

A smile here, the promise of a few galleons there, and everything was right as rain. At least, that how Hermione had imagined things being.

Probably why he’d been tossed out, actually.

Still, the fact that they’d gone from one extreme to another didn’t exactly inspire her confidence in the voting public. The current Minister for Magic was as skeletal as Fudge had been plump, and about as pleasant as serving detention with Filch.

He was also supremely upset with her and had yet to tell her why.

Unfortunately, she had a feeling it would be construed as impertinent to simply come out and say, “I’ve got to help Harry save the world from a madman, so if you’d be so kind as to move things along, I’d certainly appreciate it.”

Not that Harry was doing much, she thought somewhat bitterly. He’d been gung-ho about finding the Horcruxes for the first few months, but more losses on their side had diminished his proactive streak and made him seek shelter and comfort rather than pieces of Voldemort’s soul.

All in all, she couldn’t say she blamed him entirely. But the fact remained that they were never going to win the war unless all the Horcruxes were found, so she’d been doing her part on the side. Researching primarily, but occasionally slipping off alone into the night to follow leads that were altogether too infrequent.

Infrequent, but sometimes invaluable.

She’d found two on her own so far; which left only two unaccounted for that would need to be destroyed before Harry could face off against the former Tom Riddle.

So instead of making an unfriendly, impatient quip, she reminded herself of the mission at hand, bit her tongue, and returned his look of rage with one of relatively polite disinterest.

From the clenching of his jaw, she couldn’t help but wonder if she was making things worse.

“Stallings.”

Good God! He speaks! Amazing! Even if his grunted salutation wasn’t directed toward her, it was still a start.

“Minister…Miss Granger.”

Hermione inclined her head at the Auror in acknowledgement. From Scrimgeour’s gruff spout of his name, she supposed she could have greeted him properly, but they hadn’t been introduced, and from the expectant scowl on the Minister’s face, it didn’t look like they were going to be.

To her surprise, Stallings remained standing, and after darting several nervous glances over in her direction, he coughed into his hand. “You’re…um…probably wondering why…” He trailed off with a quick shake of his head and a muttered expletive under his breath, and as if the actions had helped him gain confidence, he lifted his eyes to meet hers directly. “Bugger it all. We want to know how you killed the Dementors and if you’d known what would happen after.”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose. She’d been forced to defend herself against the two monsters guarding Hufflepuff’s cup when they’d sensed her presence there. She was sure at the time that there weren’t any witnesses, but she supposed she could have been wrong.

There was always the tiny possibility that she hadn’t spotted some cowardly low-ranking Death Eater that had been hiding in the forest, and it certainly wasn’t unheard of for the Ministry to resort to unscrupulous means of obtaining information.

Bother.

There seemed little point in denying it now – particularly when she knew for a fact that her actions weren’t punishable by law.

“I researched it.” You know, in books? “The curse hit the female, I think, though I didn’t exactly stop to check, and naturally, since they only survive well into adulthood if they’ve formed a bonded pair, her mate died as well. Is that what you were asking?”

Stallings and Scrimgeour exchanged a look, and it was only then that she felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“What’s happened?”

The Auror cleared his throat again and then averted his eyes as he began to speak. “The people those Dementors kissed…their souls have returned to their bodies.”

Hermione blinked. “That’s not possible,” she murmured to herself. “Everything I’ve read implies immediate consumption. Granted, none of the authors have had first-hand experience, but…”

“Miss Granger.”

“What? Oh. Right. Sorry,” she said, bringing her attention back to the Minister.

“The reason we’re telling you this is because we may very well be forced to release them soon.”

Release?

“The state of things being as it is, Azkaban simply doesn’t haven’t the personnel required to care for some twenty-odd additional prisoners.”

“But—”

“And,” Scrimgeour continued, pinning her with a dirty look that somehow managed to come off as being self-satisfied as well, “several of their families’ solicitors have caught wind of it and demanded their freedom forthwith. Technically, they have served their sentences by being kissed by the Dementors in the first place and, in terms of keeping them contained, it seems we have very little legal ground to stand on.”

He didn’t need to say that they were blaming her for it; the implication hung heavily enough in the air that she could barely breathe because of it.

Brilliant. Just bloody brilliant.

She’d known Scrimgeour had been wanting to get even with Harry for his refusal to play the part of Ministry stooge, and it seemed as though he just got his wish. Put her on trial, and Harry would come to her rescue by giving into the Minister’s ‘request’ for good publicity.

Ugh!

“Which brings us to the reason we summoned you here today.”

She squared her jaw. Bastard. She wouldn’t go down without a fight, and she sure as hell wasn’t about to let them drag Harry away from his mission if she could help it.

“—some—most—of the revived prisoners saw you.”

…What?

She supposed she deserved to be momentarily flummoxed since she’d been focusing on a battle plan rather than what the Minister was saying, but…

She opened her mouth to speak and he held up a hand to forestall the many questions he was sure were to come.

“There are matters more pressing than figuring out how, Miss Granger.”

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly and her lips pursed, but much to Scrimgeour’s surprise, she waited for him to continue instead of arguing with him like he would have thought given the information he’d been briefed on about her before the meeting.

“Thank you. Now, as I was saying, the problem is that many of them are…less than sane.”

That couldn’t be entirely unexpected after spending God only knew how long inside a Dementor, Hermione thought, resisting the urge roll of her eyes. Not that a great number of them had been in full possession of the mental faculties to begin with.

And that didn’t exactly make her feel any better about their impending release, did it?

Bugger.

“And they’ve seemed to have taken an interest in you,” the Minister concluded.

Hermione blanched. “I – I beg your pardon?”

“Well, you’re their savior in a matter of speaking, aren’t you?” he quipped sardonically. “Only normal that they’d form some sort of…attachment to you.”

The way he stumbled over his phrasing made her wonder if that hadn’t been what he was originally going to say, but she ignored it. Although she suspected his initial wording would have been more appropriate for the situation, she didn’t want to consider the news being worse than what was actually being delivered.

“You might want to take precautions; keep an eye open in case one of them decides to hunt you down,” Scrimgeour continued with a malicious grin. “Just thought you should know. That will be all. You’re free to leave.”

If she’d had any doubts that the Minister was an idiot, they were gone the second he’d tried to dismiss her. Or, more truthfully, the moment he’d spoken.

Take precautions, her arse.

If they really did see her as some sort of heroine, then she shouldn’t need to take precautions.

And if they didn’t…How could she stay away from them if she didn’t know who they were or what they looked like? Lock herself in her house and not come out until the war was over?

Oh.

Ugh!

How could she have been so stupid? That was probably exactly what Scrimgeour wanted.

It might have worked too, had she been any witch off the street who was paralyzed with fear by the propaganda machine the Ministry had going via the Daily Prophet.

Hermione sucked in a breath and forced herself to calm down. With everything that had happened, she was quicker to blame these days, and whether it was because of that or simply a ride-along effect, her temper had a tendency to push logic and common sense aside in favor of lashing out and making herself heard.

What she needed to recognize was that there was the possibility, however remote, that the Minister had a reason other than his political ambition and enmity toward Harry’s uncooperative behavior to warn her about the prisoners’ impending release. If that was the case, then she needed to be prepared.

“Sir, while I appreciate your taking time out of your busy schedule to tell me that I might be in danger…” He scowled at her and she lifted her chin. “It would be enormously helpful if you were to give me a list of the prisoners’ names.”

His scowl turned into a narrow-eyed look that wasn’t encouraging, but served to reinforce her suspicion that he was only telling her to scare her away from fighting on the frontlines beside her best friend.

“If they really might track me down as you claim—”

And my! Didn’t that just sound like she was calling him a liar to his face?

“—then shouldn’t I be told who they are? You wouldn’t want me to live in a constant state of paranoia now, would you? Merlin knows I might end up hexing some poor, innocent bystander who just happens to be there when I finally let my fears get the best of me.”

Scrimgeour looked ready to spit nails and Hermione barely restrained her smirk to being entirely inside her mind.

She’d been right.

Prat.

Well. War was not a game and she was no one’s game piece to play with. The sooner the esteemed Minister for Magic learned that, the better.

~*~*~

Bugger, but it was a long list.

Twenty-six witches and wizards.

Twenty-six.

Out of those, she recognized a grand total of four of the names; three from History of Magic, frighteningly enough, and the fourth from her own life. He’d been taking Polyjuice Potion at the time, so she didn’t know it was him until later, but there was no way she could possibly forget the name Barty Crouch, Jr. now.

Her hands smoothed the edges of the parchment nervously. She didn’t put much stock in Scrimgeour’s preposterous story that they’d be after her for some indiscernible reason, but unleashing that many people who’d proven themselves to be unscrupulous individuals out among the general public, in the midst of a war when emotions were already high, seemed like an incredibly bad idea.

But maybe that was just her. Scrimgeour certainly didn’t seem to have any misgivings about it – or not many anyway.

“Idiot,” she hissed harshly under her breath.

There would be more pandemonium in the streets than there was already when this got out.

Bother.

She hoped they left her name out of the papers when they made the announcement.

The doorbell ran and despite the complexities of what she’d just been contemplating, she rose from her seat to answer it with nary a consideration that she might be in any sort of danger.

Her parents lived in a nice, upper middle class Muggle neighborhood, and since Dumbledore had warded it himself against anyone bearing the Dark Mark, the chances of it being anyone unsafe were fairly slim.

But not none.

She stared at the unkempt man on the doorstep, not completely comprehending what she was seeing.

A beggar? That was surprising.

With a wand.

Right. Not a beggar then.

Damn. She’d assumed instead of asking Scrimgeour whether all the prisoners being released had been in Voldemort’s service or not.

Too late now.

“Can I help you?” Her voice didn’t even shake. Huzzah.

The wizard smiled broadly in response.

She didn’t smile back. She did, however, wait politely (far more so than would have been called for when facing down a potential enemy) for him to answer her question.

For over a minute, he said nothing.

And bugger if the exercise in discomfiture and impatience didn’t work to distract her.

The last thing she remembered was preparing to tell him that she didn’t have time for whatever nonsense he were on about, and in the next moment, her world went black.

~*~*~

God, she was lovely. A heart shaped face and Cupid’s bow lips…even asleep with her hair sprawled out over the crimson pillowcase and in the half-curled up position she slept in, she managed to look stunning. Regal.

~ ~Time was once again irrelevant in Azkaban, as it had been when the Dementors had the run of it, but somehow it seemed more substantial. Barty attributed it to being back in a body that could feel.

Fatigue, starvation, listlessness…more and more, he retreated into the world of his mental preoccupations to escape the decaying flesh that had become his body.

Not that he was unfit; just…thin. Tired. Frustrated.

But when the word came down that he was begrudgingly being granted his conditional freedom under strict watch, he suddenly felt energized.

He didn’t smirk or gloat as a couple of his fellow inmates had the audacity to do as they were being released from their cells; he couldn’t risk anything standing in the way of his plans, especially not over-zealous Aurors with nothing better to do now than find reasons to lock him back up again.

And since common sense dictated that they’d be keeping a closer eye on the criminals who dared to scoff in their faces, he made a point of not doing so.

“Calpurnia Dingle.”

He glanced to his right, the direction the whisper had come from, but said nothing; relying on his expression to be inquisitive enough to keep the wizard talking.

“She’s a seer. Best with Taro and tea leaves. You want to go with?”

A seer, Barty thought disdainfully. Why so many people put their faith in such a shoddy subject as Divination was beyond him. The Dark Lord had done so and look what happened to him. Only fools followed the pre-ordained; the wise took charge of their own fates.

“Why?” He was somehow able to keep the sneer from coming across in his voice, and was glad for it when he heard the other man’s response.

“We need a lead on the princess, don’t we?” he replied, surprised by Barty’s question.

The princess.

He couldn’t recall who’d come up with the nickname for the woman who’d saved them all, but as he was unwilling to part with his exclusive knowledge of Hermione’s name, it had stuck rather quickly.

He thought the other prisoners would do better to spend their money on new wands than to seek out a new master—mistress—through disreputable means, but he didn’t give voice to the advice. The longer they mucked around with the fraudulent hag they were going to see, the better his chances of being the first to prove his worth and swear fealty to the bushy-haired witch.

The others would probably find her eventually – they weren’t an unintelligent lot – but being the first with anything was a coveted position. The one who was close enough to whisper in the ear of the ruler had immeasurable power and, in this case, if the prisoners’ dreams came to fruition, a guaranteed spot in the royal court when Hermione finally got fed up with how things were being run.

They’d talked about it, when still encaged and the Aurors were nowhere nearby. In muffled tones and excited whispers, they plotted anarchy and the rise of a new government with the princess in reign.

Though he’d gone along with it, he’d thought they were joking. Now he saw that they were just delusional – and possibly just as obsessed about their own mental preoccupations as he was.~~

Perhaps they hadn’t been so delusional after all.

Still. She was far too trusting to overturn the Ministry just yet, regardless of what the others thought.

She’d opened her door to him without so much as drawing her wand. He couldn’t deny that it had given him an advantage and an opportunity that he probably wouldn’t have had otherwise, but that sort of behavior would have to be weaned out of her before she claimed her rightful position of power.

His hand hovered above her hip, but he didn’t close the inch of space between them to touch her. Yet.

When he finally succumbed to the more basal urges that had arisen when he’d seen the young woman she’d turned into, he wanted it to be consensual – even if he had to feed her love potions to make it so.

~*~*~

It was too dark to make out much, but she knew the room she woke in wasn’t hers. The bed was too soft, too luxurious. And about five times the size of the one in her bedroom at home.

The smell was decidedly different as well. Although she couldn’t quite place the aroma that lingered in the air where she was now, it was certainly not the mixture of disinfectant and potpourri that she equated with her parents’ suburban home.

Then she remembered. Sort of. The stranger showing up at her house and the oblivion that followed, at any rate.

Fantastic.

So she was either being held prisoner by Death Eaters or the former convicts Scrimgeour had warned her about.

Considering the fact that she was in a bed, as opposed to being chained to a dungeon wall, she strongly suspected the latter.

She just wasn’t sure whether that boded better or worse for her.

“Miss Hermione!”

She blinked. She knew that voice. She’d argued with its owner for almost two years, trying to convince her that every form of slavery was wrong.

“Winky?”

The room lit to a warm glow and the house-elf beamed at her, clearly pleased that she’d been remembered.

“I is home, Miss Hermione. You see? Young Master got better and came home and called for Winky.”

Ah. That must have been the wizard she’d briefly thought was a beggar, then.

She briefly recalled that the Crouches had lived in London, but simply knowing where she was being held didn’t exactly help her get out of there, did it?

She faked a meager grin. “I’m happy for you, Winky.” If only because you’ll no longer be drowning your sorrows in alcohol. “Erm…not to seem impolite, but…what am I doing here?”

And what a stupid question that was, she thought after the words had already come out of her mouth.

This was Crouch they were talking about. He was probably going to hold her captive like he’d done to Alastor Moody back in fourth year; pretend to be her so he could tag along with Harry and Ron to get inside information for his Dark Lord.

She resisted a snort.

The joke was on him then, wasn’t it? If he wanted to sit around at the Burrow being all but ignored while her best friends played pick up games of Quidditch in an attempt to forget about real life, then by all means, he could have at it.

And while he was, she could find a way to escape.

Winky wrung her hands and darted her gaze around the room, as if she were afraid of someone eavesdropping. “I is sorry, Miss. Winky is telling Young Master that it is not being proper before a wedding, but he is saying Miss Hermione isn’t safe at her home anymore, and that we is needing to protect you.”

Hermione opened her mouth to speak, to question, to deny, but found herself cut off by a flood of light into the room as the door opened, and the man she assumed was the ‘Young Master’ in question making an appearance.

He looked…different from the last time she’d seen him; but she supposed a shower, change of clothes, and a haircut did that to a person.

Still, if he thought cleaning up was going to change her position on him kidnapping her, he had another thing coming.

“Barty Crouch, Jr., I presume?”

He clasped his hands behind his back and bowed his head graciously.

He was mocking her. Brilliant.

When he lifted his head, his hands came up front as well; his arms folding across his chest as he grinned roguishly, showing off dimples she hadn’t noticed the first time he’d smiled at her on her parents’ doorstep.

“That will be all, Winky.”

Hermione frowned at the dismissal of the only potential witness she had to Crouch’s forthcoming treatment of her, but couldn’t help but take note of the fact that it hadn’t been done cruelly or with callous disregard.

Barty Crouch, Sr. hadn’t been as bad in his conduct toward house-elves as she’d heard Lucius Malfoy was, but neither had he given his servant the respect she’d deserved. That his son was doing so was curious, and she couldn’t help but wonder if it was only for her benefit.

The man had been a Death Eater, after all.

“How are you feeling?”

Like he cared? “Fine, for having been hexed and then abducted,” she answered acerbically.

His grin only grew wider.

Bastard.

“I apologize for having to resort to such measures—”

Yeah, right.

“—but I hope in time, you come to realize it was for the best.”

He didn’t bother to elaborate and, having thought she’d figured out his plan already, she didn’t ask him to. Instead, she glared at him and he grinned back at her.

She might never admit it, but the twinkle in his eyes made her decidedly nervous. Her instincts weren’t as finely honed as Harry’s, but they weren’t often wrong; and the look he was giving her made her suspect that he was plotting something other than taking over the life he thought she had.

For some reason, she got the feeling that it was going to be even worse.

~*~*~

“I don’t get it. Why would Hermione do something like this? She could’ve gotten herself killed.”

Harry glanced over at Ron with a scowl, and his friend had the grace to blanch when he remembered the situation.

“I didn’t mean…I’m sure she’s okay, Harry. She’s got to be.”

“She was doing my job, Ron,” the raven-haired boy said, turning his attention back to the now un-cursed items sitting on the kitchen table by the open parcel they’d been delivered in. “I should have been the one out there looking for Horcruxes; I should have listened to her…”

He trailed off uncomfortably. He should still be doing those things. If only she’d come back, he could tell her.

“Yeah, well,” Ron consoled in his own way, “Kind of hard to do sometimes, innit? Half the stuff she talks about goes straight over my head.”

“More than half.”

“Oi! Like you’re any better?”

“I was talking about me.”

“Oh.”

Harry heaved out a frustrated sigh and ran his hands through his already messy hair. It didn’t help. “We’ve got to find her, Ron. She’s in trouble, I just know it.”

Silently, Ron agreed. It wasn’t like Hermione to take off without a word to her parents or her friends – even if they’d just discovered that many of those words had been half-truths to cover up what she’d really been doing in the time she wasn’t with them.

She was probably trying to save them the worry.

Too bad it hadn’t worked.

~*~*~

She would have killed for a cup of tea, but she refused to drink it so long as she was a ‘guest’ in the Crouch ancestral home. Beverages were one of the easiest things to slip certain potions into without the recipient noticing a change in the taste, and because of the antioxidants some teas contained, little change in the texture as well.

And Barty was definitely trying to dose her with something.

She’d seen his too intense gaze flicker to her food and drink time and again, and then back to her as if he was expecting a reaction of some kind. She finally got a clue as to what that reaction might be when he had walked her back to her room the previous night; standing too close for comfort, let alone propriety’s sake, and allowing his eyes to linker on her lips for too long.

She even thought she saw his head start to dip down toward hers, but Winky’s timely arrival to ask if they needed anything else before retiring for the evening interrupted anything that he might have been planning to do.

Unfortunately, even if her suspicions were correct, that didn’t make plotting an escape any easier. She’d never been terribly popular with boys in that way, and her insecurity over her minimal experience interacting on that level would be a significant hindrance to whatever plan she’d started concocting in her mind.

There was also the issue of why.

It wasn’t a matter of curiosity for her; she needed to understand why he’d kidnapped her and was apparently trying to seduce her through magical means. Certainly it couldn’t be because he was really attracted to her or, Morgana forbid, harboring any feelings for her.

Surprisingly enough, she’d found him excellent company.

Extremely intelligent – if a bit misguided in some of his views, a good conversationalist, and…erm…easy on the eyes. She wondered if she hadn’t already ingested a small portion of the love potion he was using since she’d thought that, but rationalized that if she had, then she wouldn’t have questioned the thought to begin with.

She shook her head. She was getting off track. The point she’d been trying to work out was that he couldn’t actually like her, because he was a blood purist. Those sorts of people—especially ones who had gone so far as to join Voldemort—didn’t fall for anyone whose genetics weren’t as convoluted and inbred as their own.

Or at least they tried very hard not to. Barty didn’t seem like he was trying at all.

A pensive frown marred her features. Perhaps she should just come out and ask him.

…Or Winky.

Yes. Winky definitely seemed like the safer choice.

~*~*~

The news Mr. Weasley had been able to obtain wasn’t just discouraging, it was frightening. Two Dementors had been killed—a feat they hadn’t thought possible—and the souls that remained complete enough to return to their bodies did so.

Twenty-six of them were in Azkaban.

Were. Past tense.

They didn’t see what the information possibly had to do with Hermione until they were told that she’d been the one to kill the Dementors.

Then Harry felt sick.

He knew Hermione’s intellectual pursuits ran rampant in every direction, but he hadn’t realized…No. He hadn’t been paying attention.

Bugger.

“Stallings said the Minister met with her last month to tell her about it and warn her that she might be in danger,” Arthur said quietly. “So there is a chance that she simply went into hiding.”

Harry and Ron exchanged a look.

“She wouldn’t do that.”

“The people on that list are some of the most dangerous witches and wizards to have ever been caught. No one can blame her for being afraid.”

“You don’t understand. She wouldn’t do that,” Ron repeated. “Maybe a year ago, when she still had the common sense to take care of herself, but—”

“Not since Dumbledore died,” Harry finished. “That changed everything.”

There was solemn silence for a long moment, until Molly dared to breach it. “She’s been taken, then.”

Or killed went unsaid.

Harry’s eyes fixed on the parchment in front of them. He doubted Mr. and Mrs. Weasley would approve, but he owed it to his friend to find out either way; and questioning the people on that list was the only lead he had.

~*~*~

She knew. She had to.

She ate like a bird and drank only enough to not become severely dehydrated.

Clever witch.

He should have known it wouldn’t be so simple. He wished it was though. The more time he spent with her, the more he began to feel. He’d be the first to admit that in the beginning, his plan had just been a way to insinuate himself into his new mistress’s good graces…and perhaps a bit for physical companionship (though that certainly wasn’t his primary intent); but now…

Now he found he liked her. Liked how she treated him as her equal even if she didn’t especially care for him, how she’d humor him by engaging in discussions on a wide range of topics without once giving him the impression that his presence was trying or tedious.

His own father had never been so generous with his consideration, nor had the surrogate he’d chosen when he’d grown old enough to make the worst mistake of his life.

But Hermione was different. She was better than either of them—smarter, more conscientious of those around her…prettier went without saying—and, as things stood now, Barty couldn’t imagine there would be a time when he’d regret following her.

“You’re looking pensive. I don’t suppose you’re actually considering letting me go?”

He grinned and stood as she entered the dining room. He assumed the question was rhetorical, but if she pressed him for an answer, it would be ‘no’.

No, she wasn’t ready to be released. As intelligent as she was, she still had more to learn before she could be an effective ruler. He had to prepare her for the future and secure his spot in her regime.

He conveniently ignored that his unwillingness to let her go might have anything to do with being selfish.

“Good evening to you as well, Miss Granger. Hungry?”

“Not especially.”

Starving, but not hungry.

Barty frowned. “You need to start eating more, Hermione. Winky’s concerned for your well being and frankly, so am I.”

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Why do you care how much I eat? I’m your prisoner, after all. I should think you’d be pleased that—”

“You’re not my prisoner, you’re my guest.”

“Under lock and key, not to mention a dozen different wards.”

“You don’t understand. It’s not safe for you out there.”

“It’s wartime. It’s not safe for anyone.”

He looked away. True enough.

“And if you were really so worried about my survival, you’d return my wand.”

Despite the topic of conversation, Barty grinned. “So you can hex me and remove the wards that prevent you from leaving?”

Anti-Apparition, anti-Portkey, no floo connection, a magical wall constructed with the use of three drops of her blood stolen while she was sleeping…

“Well…”

“Have I been so very cruel to you, Hermione?”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then why do you wish to go?”

“Because I don’t belong here! My friends are out there, trying to defeat Voldemort, and I’m stuck here doing nothing!”

He sighed. The outburst had been a long time in coming, so he couldn’t say he hadn’t expected it, but it was still disappointing and frustrating to hear it.

He couldn’t tell her that her destiny didn’t lie with Potter without upsetting her, but he clearly couldn’t keep her cooped up and safe from the frontlines for much longer either.

The epiphany that came next made it hard for him to breathe.

She stood as a warrior ready to claim her kingdom but she didn’t sit on the throne yet; and his place in her court, at her side, would never come to pass if he didn’t let her make her mark by laying waste to the rulers who currently stood in her way.

“Eat. Regain your strength to prove yourself fit for battle, and I’ll consider it.” It was softly spoken, but clear and uncompromising just the same.

“Stop poisoning my food and drink and I’ll start eating it.”

He stared at her, incredulous. She thought he was trying to poison her? He moved toward her with a swiftness born out of his recovery. “I would never—!”

“Taking away a person’s choice of mind or heart is a poison all its own.”

Another step. And another, until he was looming over her with his eyes ablaze.

Hrm. Maybe confronting him after Winky had vehemently refused to speak with her about her master’s intentions hadn’t been such a great idea after all.

But: she was tired, she was hungry, and she was thirsty. Her will was the only thing sustaining her, and already it had shown signs of giving in. If she ate his food and drank his tainted tea, then she would fall completely in love with him.

His history aside, she’d seen people in love, and could hardly stand the thought of relinquishing that much of her carefully wound control to another person.

She watched as Barty’s gaze softened in understanding.

Fantastic.

Either he was an incredibly skilled Legilimens or she was just that easy to read. She wasn’t sure which one boded worse for her.

“I agree,” he said quietly, causing her to furrow her brow.

Then he kissed her.

It wasn’t like she thought it would be.

Not that she’d given it much thought…well, perhaps a little. It was only natural to wonder since he’d been her only source for human interaction for a while now though.

But her flitting daydreams hadn’t done him justice. He was inexperienced without being sloppy, firm without being chaste.

She’d thought it was just an old wives’ tale, but Great Merlin! He literally made her knees go weak.

And he caught her when they did.

She wasn’t doing this, she wasn’t doing this, she wasn’t doing this.

Except she was.

The dart of this tongue against her lips was accepted without hesitation, and she moaned at the back of her throat when she felt the first sensation of it sliding against her own.

Her hands clamored for purchase along his shoulders, his arms, his back, and bugger if she didn’t just want to drag his robes down along with them for the ride.

He moved his mouth to her ear and traced the shell with his tongue before moving to her neck, kissing and nipping, and…

That was going to leave a mark.

So wrong, so very wrong.

She didn’t love this man, certainly shouldn’t like him after everything he’d done, but in the end it wasn’t a potion that betrayed her will, it was her body that stole her control away.

He breathed hot against her skin, and it was only dimly that she noticed him unhooking the buttons on her blouse through her now open robes.

His fingers were shaking.

It seemed fair since her entire body was quivering.

It could have been fear or conscience that caused the tremble, but it didn’t feel that way. It felt…needful.

His keening whimper of pleasure didn’t help.

Nor did the way he laid her back onto the table and then dipped over her to suckle an already peaked nipple into his mouth through the lace of her bra.

Fuck!

He murmured her name and then something that sounded suspiciously like, “Mistress…Princess…” as he pushed her skirt up her legs and divested her of the very pretty, but not very comfortable, panties he’d included in her new wardrobe; but she didn’t have time to question him about his choice of words before he splayed her legs apart and touched his wicked tongue to the most sensitive part of her.

Oh, dear Circe!

He licked and sucked, and then tugged with his teeth, sliding a finger into her, and then another, and caressed her inside to meet his mouth’s ministrations.

Her back arched when she came and she may have screamed, but truthfully could not remember anything but the intense pleasure she felt, or the golden lights that danced in her field of vision.

And then he thrust into her.

She’d never paid much mind to Lavender and Parvati’s inane discussions on how the size of a man’s hands or feet related to the size of his penis, but perhaps she should have; because she never would have guessed that Barty was so well endowed just by looking at the tall, skinny wizard while he was fully clothed.

Speaking of which, she assumed that he’d been impatient and simply let his trousers and underwear drop to his ankles rather than take the time to remove them completely, because his angle was slightly awkward for a moment.

Then he shuffled his feet to straighten things out, pulled back to push in again, and Hermione totally forgot what tangent her brain had gone off on.

Her hips rose to meet his thrusts after a minute, her breathing too fast and shallow for her to think straight. It was only basic instinct that made her open her eyes in time to see his head lean back and hear the groan of release as he spilled his climax inside her.

There was no cuddling afterward, no post-coital bonding—though the table wasn’t terribly conducive to that anyway—just an a surreal moment of awe.

And the realization that her life would never be the same again.

~*~*~

She had been sleeping when they arrived, so naturally she thought she must be dreaming. Her delusion was only assisted by the fact that she was looking into Harry’s bottle green eyes when she knew, had convinced herself beyond a doubt, that her friends would not be coming to her rescue.

They had bigger battles to fight and not nearly enough time in which to win; it only stood to reason that finding her and freeing her was low on their list of things to do.

After almost a month and a half, she’d sincerely believed it wasn’t on the list at all.

“You’re okay,” Harry breathed, hugging her hard enough that she thought she felt her spine crack. “We’re here now; everything’s going to be okay.”

She blinked at him, but said nothing, and was still tired enough to allow him to pick her up and carry her out of the bedroom without objecting.

Down the hall, down the stairs, and…

Oh, she thought sickly when she finally realized she wasn’t dreaming. “What are you doing?”

Harry followed her gaze to where Tonks and Kingsley were magically restraining the owner of the house. “Don’t worry, Hermione. They’ll keep him in Azkaban this time. I swear it.”

She squirmed and pushed away from him until he set her feet on the ground. “He didn’t do anything wrong.” She silently wondered at her choice of words. He had done something wrong, after all. Several things. “You can’t arrest him. He,” she paused as she made eye contact with him, “he was only trying to protect me; keep me safe from You Know Who.”

Harry sneered—Harry!—at the other wizard.

“He—”

“—was doing penance,” Hermione interrupted softly. “In his mind, at least. He treated me surprisingly well while I was here, actually.”

“But…”

“Let him go, Harry.” Her tone wasn’t soft anymore, but frustrated and unyielding.

Her friend frowned, but nodded at the Aurors to do what she said. “You,” he stepped closer to her and then continued his question in a whisper. “You don’t want to stay, do you?”

She couldn’t tell whether he was hoping for a positive or negative response, and was angered because of it. Certainly she knew he wanted her safe, he and Ron had said as much after Dumbledore’s death, but…

She rolled her eyes at him. “Have you found the other Horcruxes?”

Embarrassed and somewhat guilty, Harry ducked his head before shaking it.

“Right. And, not to sound conceited, but I dare say you won’t unless I’m there to help you.”

He glanced at her and grinned; a tiny expression, but it was there just the same.

She let him drape his cloak over her shoulders and escort her to the door, but made sure he was slightly ahead of her in step, so he wouldn’t notice when she looked back one last time.

Barty relaxed the second he met her eyes with his own.

It was there. That indefinable spark he’d been wanting, craving, his entire life.

He was loved.

She might have to leave for the time being—such were the obligations of a true ruler—but she’d come back eventually.

And he’d be waiting.


The End