Chains and Mousetails

I still don’t remember how I got here. No matter how desperately I rake my mind, all I can remember is fighting and then waking up… here. I don’t know where here is either. I just know my hair is crusted with dried mud, my skin is covered in cuts and bruises, the chair I’m chained to is cold metal, and I’m losing control of my mind.

By my best guess I’ve been here for almost four months. It’s hard to say though. There are no windows in my cell so I can’t tell the difference in night and day. They bring three meals to me. I never know who the person is. They all wear black robes with hoods and masks. Death Eaters. I’ve become one of the masses; I’ve become one of their prisoners.

The dirty hair I can deal with. The pain serves as a reminder that I’m alive. If I can feel the aches and stinging scratches then I know I’m still here, I’m still fighting. I can ignore the chair; at least I’m not on the floor. The chains holding me here are unpleasant but I’ve come to accept them. The first two weeks or so I fought them. My only reward was to rip all the flesh from around both wrists. My hands remained caked with rivers of blood or the dried up remains of what once flowed freely. So now I don’t move too much. What difference is that really? All of these things are inconsequential. What bothers me is the losing my mind part. And really, there’s no other conclusion to come to other than just that.

Maybe three weeks into my stay he came for the first time. As soon as he stepped into the room, the air changed. I knew who he was despite the mask and robes. Fear echoed within me and anger spilled out. I chose the most brazen words I knew to greet him.

“Fuck you, Malfoy.”

He didn’t slow his pace; he didn’t change his step or his stance. I suppose, looking back, he knew I would recognize him. He was counting on it. I would bet on that.

He stopped mere inches in front of me. I tilted my head back and gave him my best attempt at a look that was meant to show him what I really thought of his vile arse. I glared. He bent forward and stared me in the eyes. He knew his intimidation tactics. I was scared. But I was determined to not allow him the satisfaction of knowing it.

Straightening, he made a motion to the two lackeys waiting by the cell door. Another bet I’ll wager is that the two oafs were Crabbe and Goyle. Damn twits never could think to take so much as a step all on their own. They left and pulled the door shut behind them. For a long moment I thought Malfoy was going to hit me. What he did was much worse.

From beneath his robes he pulled out a second set of shackles. My voice shook as I asked him what he was going to do. He didn’t answer. Just laughed. The sound of it made my blood run cold and my heart falter in its beats. He chained each of my ankles to a chair post, forcing my legs apart. The shackles were too small and shaved off chunks of skin as he forced them shut. I bit down on my lip so hard to keep from crying out that I drew blood there as well. Satisfied, he rocked back on his heels and looked up at me. His gray eyes were as cold as the chair I sat on, peering out through the slits in his ridiculous mask. What kind of coward has to hide themselves in order to wreck havoc on others? To use one of Ron’s coined phrases, bloody fecking gits – that’s who.

Ron… oh, poor, sweet, lovely Ron. With his red hair and all those freckles, that lopsided smile that always made my stomach flip in pleasure. Yes, that day my thoughts went to Ron. He became my escape. My eyes went blank and my body went limp. It infuriated Malfoy to no end. His words slowly meandered through my head and I was faintly aware of him grasping hold of my face in one of his hands.

“I’m going to show you what a real wizard is like, Mudblood. It’ll be unlike anything you’ve ever known before, bitch. You’ll learn what a Pureblood – a real Pureblood, not some fucking blood traitor – feels like. You’ll never want anything else ever again. I promise that, you filthy cunt. You’ll learn to love the way I fuck and if I want you to – you’ll learn to love me.”

After that I remember what he did but I can recall none of the sensations of it. I had shut down my brain to its basics. Breath in and out. Don’t cry out. Don’t allow him the satisfaction. Just think of Ron… Ron… Ron…

When he left there was more blood. So much blood… blood flowing from my ankles, blood dripping from my mouth, blood crawling down my legs from how brutal he was, and blood dripping from the side of my neck. A ring on his hand had cut me while his hand was clasped around my throat, anchoring himself as he pumped in and out. Honestly, I don’t know how I didn’t die that night. There is no explanation as to why I’m still alive. Still here. Still a prisoner and still losing my mind… now more so than ever.

After Malfoy’s first visit the only people who entered my cell were Malfoy, Crabbe, and Goyle. Crabbe and Goyle would bring my food, unchain one of my hands so I could eat, re-chain me and leave. Malfoy would come once a week. By his third visit he didn’t need the shackles for my ankles. I had stopped fighting him. That was when I realized I was losing it. I had stopped fighting and had begun participating.

I rationalized that it must be something in the food. I never saw anyone’s wand. There was never the presence of magic when anyone was in the cell with me… everyone’s magic, even the most skilled magician, causes an effect felt by other witches and wizards. No, they didn’t cast anything. Instead they were poisoning me. Poisoning my mind. Malfoy’s hazy words floated back to me. “and if I want you to – you’ll learn to love me.”

They didn’t take kindly to the idea of me refusing to eat. Malfoy put in an appearance and the second he entered the room my suspicions were confirmed.

My resolve faded a bit, memories of Ron and Harry were harder to recall, warmth spread through my chest and the tiniest part of me wanted Malfoy to touch me.

He did touch me.

He told me to eat. I ignored him. He gave me a second chance. I ignored him. It was a struggle to defy him, but I put all of my strength into doing so.

He said he’d hate to have to ‘ugly me up’ more so than how I was. I turned my head and stared at the wall. He grabbed my hair in his fist and used it to jerk my head back. He tied the filthy locks around the bottom rung that supported the back of my chair. He used my own hair to hold my face upright, now staring at the ceiling. I preferred the wall.

He pinched my nose shut and when I parted my lips just the tiniest bit to breath he shoved his fingers into my mouth, prying my jaw apart and filling my mouth with food. He clamped my jaw shut and held his palm under my chin. I had to swallow or die from lack of oxygen. The process repeated itself time and again until I choked. He was shoving food down as food was trying to come back up, he refused to release my head, refused to let go of my jaw, and the complete irony of it made me want to laugh. I refrained. It sure wouldn’t have helped the situation.

But put yourself in my place. I mean, imagine the headlines of that story in the paper. ‘Third Member of Golden Trio Chokes on Upchuck and Dies’ Well there you go, Voldemort. You’ve scored your irony points for the war.

Anyway, the great prat finally figured out what was going on and released his hold on my chin. However, my head was still pinned to be staring directly up and him simply allowing me to open my mouth didn’t much help the situation. He pulled a long silver blade from who-knows-where and ripped it through my hair. As I puked all over the floor he made a signal to the goons at the door. One left just to reappear once again, brandishing a whip for Malfoy’s approval.

He told me I was more trouble than I was worth. That I had to pay for wasting his time and making him spectator to such a foul scene. And as I sat there on my metal chair, chained with my arms behind me, leaning as far away from myself as I could to spill the contents of my stomach, Malfoy whipped me. Slapped leather into my back and pulled it away, taking lines of flesh with him.

I had never given up hope that Ron and Harry would come and find me. I knew without a doubt that they would show up. I still feel hope that someone is coming to find me every time the door opens. But what scares me so badly now is how hard it is to remember their names. How I can’t always remember the color of Ron’s hair or how it felt to look into his eyes. How I sometimes forget Harry has a scar on his forehead and wears glasses. How they’re my best friends and won’t stop until I’m safe with them again. How when I feel that hope… I’m starting to hope it’s Draco coming to see me.

My memories are skewed. I don’t always remember the times he unchains me to have sex (as I now go willingly in his presence) and chains me back up without allowing me to get redressed. I don’t harp on the times his cronies come in and gawk at my nude form, wanking off as they stare. I forget the feel of their juices as they aim at me, laughing and grunting. I forget how I haven’t had a bath in months – just a series of carefully placed cleansing charms from Draco’s wand… I forget I call him Malfoy. He’s become Draco to me.

I had to tell you. I had to tell someone. In case Ron and Harry are too late. Tell them I did my best to fight him. He’s increased the potion or made it more potent. Time is slipping by faster now than it did in the beginning. I’m weaker. All I do is stare… stare at these walls and wait. Four red dirt walls, red dirt ceiling, red dirt floor. Steel chair in the center, chains strung from the rungs, clump of hair clinging off the back. Door in the corner, shaft of light occasionally filtering through. And you. Now I can see you. Talk to you. I don’t know how much longer I have. But tell them for me. Tell them my story and tell them I love them. No matter what spells or potions Draco uses on me, the real me will always love them.

Red hair… I always adored his red hair…

Go quick! They’re coming! Go!

***

Hermione sat on her chair and watched the little pink tail disappear into a crack in the wall. Her story was safe. Ron and Harry would know the truth. Whatever else happened didn’t matter. Whoever walked through the door, whatever they wanted, it would all be okay.

Red hair clouded her vision… too afraid she was dreaming, Hermione closed her eyes tightly and went limp. Gentle hands released the chains imprisoning her. Strong arms cradled the shell of her body to a broad chest. And a voice that tugged at memories whispered words of reassurance in her ear. It would all be okay.