The Auction

Source: Ao3 Author: LovesBitca8

Chapter 13

His hips rolled against her, pressing her into the wall. Her breath hitched, waking her brain. She
pushed back again, struggling against his chest, twisting her body away from the wall.

He held her still, breathing hard into her hair. One hand held her arm against the wall, the other
quickly slithered down her stomach, and as his hips canted into her again, he pinched the skin on
her hip so sharply she yelped.

A dreamy sigh against her neck, like something divine had happened. She blinked quickly,
wondering what the pinch was for. He rolled his hips again, his erection pressing harder into her.
He pinched her again.

She squeaked.

"Malfoy," she begged, "what are you—"

"Take my cock so good, don't you."

Her body froze. He pushed against her again, groaning, like he…

Like they…

Both his hands came to cover hers on the wall.

"You like this, Granger?" His voice lilted. "You like it when I fuck you?"

She swallowed, brain spinning.

His fingers laced between hers, pressing her down.

"You're so wet for me."

That couldn't possibly be. He wasn't… he didn't have access to…

She braced herself against the wall, trying to gather her wits as his hips rolled into her. Her gaze
landed on the ring on his thumb, pressing over her own.
The ring that had sliced her lip open when he'd hit her. Not because he'd wanted to, but...

Why had he pinched her?

He grunted into her ear.

This simulation served a purpose. She just had to figure out what it was.

One hand on her hip, tugging her backward, pulling her feet back a step with him while his other
hand held her upper body to the wall. He kicked her ankle out, widening her stance. The angle
brought his hard length closer to her center, and she gasped.

His hand pinched her again, harder. She jerked, rubbing herself on him accidentally.

"You like that?" he hummed behind her. He slammed his hips to hers, shaking her.

She looked down, trying to figure out what was happening between them. What it was she was
supposed to like—

His hand in her hair, twisting her head before she could look. Her neck twinged, and she winced
at the pain. His fingers tugged her locks, and the dam inside her burst.

Adrenaline skyrocketed through her veins. Her hands reached back, scratching at the hand in her
hair, slapping at any inch of him she could reach. She heard a few hits connect. Her legs twisted
to kick at him.

He chuckled and grabbed her around the waist, lifting her off the ground and carrying her back as
she thrashed.

Her world widened. The whole room visible, instead of just the wall. She saw every weapon she
could use if only she could reach them.

Her legs kicked at him, grunting and panting. She connected with the corner of the wingback chair,
and it tumbled to the ground. And then she faced the bed, and he dropped her down into her
comfortable mattress and pillows, where she'd found sanctuary for the past few months.

She tried to turn around to use her arms and legs on him, but he was quickly behind her with a
swift slap to her backside that had her yelping.

He shoved her shoulders into the mattress, pulled her hips up, and pushed against her again. And
from here it was like she could feel every inch of him. Her dress yanked up, her knickers and his
trousers the only thing between them. If he even still had his trousers closed. She couldn't be sure.
She panted into the comforter, fingers scrambling for something. Anything. She tossed a pillow
over her shoulder at him, knowing it didn't hit its mark.

She struggled against the hand on her spine as he rutted against her, pressing the most intimate
parts of themselves together.

"You know how I like it when you fight."

Tears pushed against her eyelids. Her body sagged into the mattress, exhausted.

Was he going to penetrate her?

Her nails cut through the sheets. He groaned, one hand squeezing her hip, pressing deep bruises.

And then the pressure let up. Before she could scramble away, he flipped her onto her back. She
reached to claw at his face, his throat, her heartbeat in her stomach.

They struggled with each other's arms until he grabbed both of her hands, pinning them to the
mattress and whispering a Sticking Charm. He climbed over her hips, holding her legs down with
his weight.

She jerked her torso and caught sight of his eyes.

Dead.

Irises black with arousal.

But there was no glint of enjoyment.

When he caught her staring, he smirked down at her, grabbed her jaw, and said, "You want me to
fuck your mouth again, Granger?"

Her eyes went wide. She sucked in air. "Draco—"

He pushed his palm against her mouth, silencing her. "Not interested in your opinion."

With his hand covering her lips, he reached with his other to below his waist. Her eyes followed,
and she found him stroking himself.

She choked, blinking away quickly.

"I thought I got rid of this," he growled, and then his hands were on her satin slip, ripping the
fabric down the middle, and tearing her bra apart. "Much better."
She was exposed. Her breasts heaving under his gaze, a sob choking in her throat. Naked for the
first time. She watched one hand return to stroking himself, the other against her stomach, pressing
down.

His eyes were hungry, drinking in her naked chest. Something flickered behind the grey, and he
wet his lips.

The hand on her stomach slipped against the rumpled satin, and then his fingers were under the
swell of her breast, hot on her skin.

He grunted, his hips thrusting into his hand. She watched his features glaze over briefly before
turning icy again, his gaze back to her face.

"Gonna paint my name on your tits, Granger."

She could do nothing but exist underneath him as he jerked his hand. When a slow tear trailed out
of her left eye, he reached forward and turned her face to the side.

She stared at the wall, concentrating on the colors there.

Her bedside table with a hair tie.

An empty jewelry box.

She heard his breath catch. She assumed he was close to being done.

The hand pressing her face away slipped, his fingers tumbling into her hair, grabbing the curls.

A strangled moan. And then something wet hitting her chest.

He stayed like that, his hand clutching her hair, catching his breath.

He sat up. A Vanishing Charm to her bra, and a Repairing Charm to her satin slip.

He dismounted, unstuck her hands, and stood by the bed. "Get up. The Dark Lord is here."

She stared at the ceiling, how the bedposts stretched towards it.

She heard him button his trousers.

"Get moving, or I'll drag you." His voice broke on the word 'drag.' She heard a click from his
throat, an infinitesimal swallow, pushing something back down.
Her chest was shaking and still tacky with his spend.

You know how I feel about these tits, Granger.

She blinked, like a twitch.

The Dark Lord was here.

She dragged herself off the bed, creeping towards the wall.

Her legs gave out after just a few steps. She pushed herself to her knees, eyes screwed shut to
block everything out. Heat crackling beneath her skin. The smell of something burning. Maybe it
was her.

Her chest seized as she was hauled roughly to her feet.

"Get it together, Granger," hissed in her ear. And then he was dragging her out the door.

The Dark Lord was here. And she was appearing before him.

She felt tender fingerprints on her skin, left by bruising hands. Marked in more ways than one, like
a whore. Voldemort would be thrilled.

With a gasp, her mind sharpened, whirring.

She was being brought to Voldemort.

The back of Draco's head bobbed down the stairs as she followed dutifully.

Voldemort would be reading her mind.

She had no shoes on. The Manor's marble stairs were cold on her arches and toes.

Think of a lake with still waters. A bookshelf with leather tomes.

Draco's hand slid down the banister, long fingers that had grabbed at her hair, held her down,
pinched at her skin. Her vision blurred with unshed tears.

He pinched her instead of penetrating her. Her mind was flooded with images of an attack, of a
rape, but that's not what had happened.

His feet were heavy on the stairs as they turned the final staircase. His boots. His Death Eater
boots.
That's not what had been happening at Malfoy Manor. Even though it should have been.

She paused on the final steps, feeling her entire body tremble.

Think of a lake with still waters. A bookshelf with leather tomes.

She opened a book. Tea with Narcissa Malfoy—her soft hands on her shoulder, her wrist. She
snapped it closed and tucked it at the far edge of the shelf.

Another book: Lucius Malfoy's Secrets. Standing at the edge of a study, "Gregory Goyle.
Senior," the playful lift of his brow as he baited her. A key turned, locking the pages of the book
like an old diary, and the text pushed back into a forgotten shelf in the corner.

Draco walked to a door and waited for her. Fitting that it was the drawing room again.

Seven beautiful red spines, the collector's editions: A Hand on My Jaw—Healing the Cut; You
Don't Drink Coffee Anymore?; The Gazebo; Strong Lips on My Arm; Happy Birthday, Draco; A
Cobalt Jumper, Standing Watch at My Window; We're Quite a Pair, Aren't We?

She separated the copies, sending each of them to bottom shelves, tucking them into other books,
tearing the covers off of them and sending their pages over the top of the bookshelf.

Standing by the door to the drawing room, his eyes were off in the distance like one of the Malfoy
statues lining the corridors. When she reached him, he grabbed her arm and pressed her against
the wall. She didn't flinch when he took her chin in his firm grip. Any memories of softer touches
had been buried.

In place of the glossy red spines, there were inky, leathery copies filled with hair tugging, pale
fingers on her ribs, electrocution, a week's isolation, the sharp pang of his ring as he backhanded
her, and take my cock so good, don't you.

He shook her jaw, jarring her back to him. "You won't embarrass me, will you Mudblood?"

She startled at the word on his tongue. It had been years.

His eyes were like ice as his fingers dug into her jaw. "You know how to behave, don't you?"

She let the tension melt from her muscles and sagged against his grip. Like a ragdoll.

"Yes." Her voice cracked, and she felt the word float between the two of them.

"Yes, what?"
Pull forward only your chosen memory. Let the rest drift back.

Indentations on her jaw as his fingers curled. She let all memories of his warm eyes drift back.

"Yes, Master."

A flicker in his grey eyes. A curl of his lips that felt familiar and cruel. He moved to the drawing
room.

She dragged her feet through the entryway and felt the Dark Lord before she saw him.

The darkness hung off of him like a cloak, dripping onto the floors and sinking into the stones.
He stood in the center of the room, fingers trailing over the back of an antique armchair, turning
to bare his teeth to her in a grin.

"Mudblood Granger. Thank you for entertaining."

Lucius stood with him, holding a glass. He spared her one glance before swirling his wine and
taking a deep swig.

A hand between her shoulders – just like earlier – shoved her sharply until she fell to her knees.
Draco's shoes in her eye line.

Hadn't taken his shoes off. Wasn't that a phrase? She tried to remember.

"How are you enjoying your accommodations?" Voldemort's voice slid over her skin, his meaning
not lost on her. "Everything you'd hoped it would be and more?"

He cackled. She kept her eyes cast down. The slip hung forward off her body. Her chest still sticky.

She re-lived the entire experience from moments ago. She pulled the shelf towards her, letting
those images flutter in front of her mind. Her cream-colored walls. The sound of his grunting.

"Let's have her out and about more, Draco. It would be good for morale to see her like this, maybe
teach a few others about their place." The words bubbled beneath her skin. She blinked, drawing
a shallow breath. Think of a lake with still waters.

"I assume you've broken her in?"

"She's a work in progress, my Lord. But I am enjoying the challenge."

The voice echoed, slipping into her mind.

"Yes, my Lord. Several times now." A low chuckle. "In fact, I must apologize for our tardiness."

She felt her body being lifted, like a hook in her back, pulling her up to face Voldemort.

A lake that stretches into the sunset. Waters still. Depths below them.

She breathed deep into her tight chest, but it was like a shark fin cutting through the waters—

Voldemort was in her mind again.

The cream walls in her bedroom.

Her gasp of pain.

"Take my cock so good, don't you."

Her fingers scratching at his face blindly—

Draco above her, eyes vacant as he stroked himself.

The sound of her clothes ripping.

The grunt from his throat as his hand twisted in her hair, the sound of his come hitting her chest—

She was alone. On the floor of the drawing room. Staring at Draco's shoes. Listening to Voldemort
cackle.

There were still knives in her mind, slowly sliding their serrated edges through her. The spines of
her books were sawed in half. She felt the slow seeping of her energy leaving her.

Her eyes refocused. She'd missed something along the lines of "Was it good for you, Mudblood
Granger?" And a hissing laugh. Then silence; long enough for her ears to stop ringing.

"Your aunt intimated that your treatment of the Mudblood was somewhat… 'unique,' Draco. I
would have come sooner to see for myself, had I not been preoccupied. But I can see now that
she was mistaken."

Footsteps, pausing in front of her bowed head. "Yes," he purred, voice low and soft. "You're no
more than a common, filthy whore, are you, Mudblood? You should consider yourself lucky to be
covered in a Pureblood's seed."
Her fingers pressed into the marble. Her nails breaking, pulling backwards. She held the pain close
to her.

"... some information from you, Mudblood. Thank you for obliging."

And then the hook pulled at her ribs again, drawing her limp body upwards. He was about to look
into her again. There were cool waters somewhere, hidden behind a mountain range. If only she
could see them.

There were books. Somewhere there were books she had to close—

Her head tilted back. Eyes opening, focusing. Lucius stood ten paces behind Voldemort, his gaze
intense on her. Voldemort's long fingers pressed under her chin until she met his eyes.

Red fire dissolved to emerald green. She blinked, and Harry was before her listening to her babble
excitedly.

"It must have been Fiendfyre!" she said, chest heaving with exertion, staring down at the broken
pieces of Ravenclaw's Diadem.

"Sorry?" Harry's face was stained with dirt, his glasses foggy with heat.

"Fiendfyre – cursed fire – it's one of the substances that destroy Horcruxes, but I would never,
ever have dared use it, it's so dangerous—"

And then they were younger. Ron stood next to her in Grimmauld Place, whispering to her behind
a Christmas wreath.

"He said he was the snake. He said he attacked my dad."

"But Ron, that's impossible—"

"I know, I know." Running his fingers through his messy hair, Ron looked for eavesdroppers over
her head—right where Voldemort's consciousness hung, like a cape on her shoulders.
"Dumbledore seemed like he knew it. Like he guessed it. That Harry saw it from the snake. And
then he started lying. Said he saw it from above. Why would he lie, Hermione—"

A squeezing twist, and she was in Charms class turning vinegar into wine, straining to hear
Flitwick's instructions from across the room. Harry cast a Muffliato Charm and whispered to her
and Ron about his meeting with Dumbledore the night before.
"The diary's gone, the ring's gone. The cup, the locket, and the snake are still intact. And there's a
sixth that was either Ravenclaw's or Gryffindor's," Harry said.

"Are you sure there's only six?" she asked.

"Dumbledore was sure. Said he made six, with his own soul as the seventh piece."

Her mind whipped around, and she found herself standing next to Ron in a sea of students,
watching Harry and Draco duel in their second year. She flinched when Draco produced a snake
from his wand, her stomach roiling as Harry hissed at it. She felt her world slow, and then almost
rewind.

Voldemort stood over her as she helplessly watched Harry spit Parseltongue at the snake again.
There was a pause as Voldemort examined the memory for a third time.

Hermione felt her mind screaming. She needed to get him out, to slam these books shut. But she
hadn't been prepared.

There was a slippery sensation inside of her consciousness. Something far gentler in her mind.
Instead of sharp blades, it was like a table knife slipping through butter.

A jerk in her mind, and the knives cut through other spines, looking, searching.

She stood over Harry's sleeping form. In the tent. Just months ago.

Hermione watched with shallow breaths as he thrashed in his sleep, snarling words from dreams
that clearly weren't his.

"Stand aside, you silly girl. . . stand aside now. This is my last warning—"

Hermione reached down to wake him, fingers shaking. "Avada Kedavra!" he hissed. She stumbled
back, mouth open in silent horror. But the green light never came.

She stared down at his shaggy hair, sticking to his forehead with cold sweat. She held the chain of
the locket in one hand, having severed it from his chest earlier. She felt Voldemort hovering over
Harry, and she tried to move—tried to shield Harry from his vicious eyes.

But the other presence in her mind, calmer and less violent, stood behind her. Almost as if he was
a passenger, just flitting through wherever Voldemort took him.

The pounding in her head was rocking her, the vision of Harry starting to blur with black spots.
Still, Voldemort slithered over him on the bunk, watching as he thrashed and hissed in
Parseltongue. She felt the panic in her lungs, seizing her ribs. She couldn't breathe any longer.

And then she was alone. Her body collapsed to the stones on the drawing room floor, her head
lolling to the side as she panted. A blur of images, focusing and refocusing.

Draco's shoes still next to her. Unmoving.

Her vision refocused, and she saw Voldemort looming above her, red eyes narrowed down at her
in thought. Behind him, Lucius took a sip from his glass. Smooth movements. Like a knife through
butter.

There was no cackle of victory. No savage revenge for her knowledge about his most precious
secret.

Just a sizzling silence.

Darkness.

She blinked, re-waking, drifting in and out of consciousness.

When she focused, Draco's shoes were still there. Lucius hadn't moved. But Voldemort was
walking to the windows, looking out over the gardens.

"My Lord?" Lucius offered. "Are you finished with the Mudblood? She's drooling on my marble."

Hermione tried to close her mouth, but her body was boneless.

Voldemort didn't respond. Hermione drifted into the darkness again, and when she reappeared,
no one had moved.

And then, "Take her out," hissed from the windows. "I don't need anything else from her."

A cold hand on her elbow, yanking her. Sweaty palms on her shoulders, and pale arms around her
waist.

As Draco dragged her out, she heard a murmur across the room—"My Lord. I would like to be
of assistance."

The drawing room door shut.

More hands, cool and soft. Holding her face, tipping potions into her mouth. Long blonde hair
brushing her temple as she sagged into willowy shoulders.
She gagged, turning to spew on the stones. A whispered cleaning spell. Another potion poured
into her mouth, drowning her.

Temporary relief from the daggers and butter knives in her mind.

Her mind…

She focused.

Her books… Her shelves of memories and spines of purple and gold and periwinkle. They were
ruined. Shredded open and destroyed.

She swayed. A lighter grip on her shoulders, supporting her. A vice around her right wrist.

"Collect yourself," a woman hissed near her ear. But it wasn't directed at her. "You might be
needed back inside."

The blonde woman turned her around, and she caught a glimpse of a pale, thin boy just inches
away, panting with his forehead against the wall, choking sounds coming from his throat.

She felt a pressure ease on her wrist as the woman steered her toward the stairs, a sweaty hand
releasing its grip on her.

The woman helped her up the steps, one at a time, brushing a hand through her curls like her
mother used to.

At the top of the staircase came a pop!

"Missus is needed!"

The sound grated against Hermione's fragile mind.

"I will be right there—"

"Master says now! Master is going with Dark Lord!"

A pause. A curse against her shoulder.

"Hermione, dear. It's just a few more steps to your room. I will send the elves in with more
potions."

She barely registered the words. Her mind felt raw, flayed open. Something whispered soothingly
against her temple, and then she was standing alone at the top of a staircase.
The portraits were silent. The hallway felt thick as she moved towards her door, but her head
began clearing.

There was a moment—years ago, it felt like—when she had trudged this hallway, feeling her
imminent rape and torture pressing down on her, before she'd seen the suite, before she'd met
Narcissa, before she'd had warm lips suck poison from her.

Hermione stood at her bedroom door now. She hadn't been raped in this room.

She'd been violated, but not raped.

Draco had violated her today, because he should have been doing much worse for the past month.

He'd been clever and cunning. He'd found a way to keep her untouched, to keep from taking the
one thing she had left to give. He'd played his role well—as had she.

But at what cost?

She pushed open her bedroom door and found a catastrophe.

Coughing, she waded through the heavy smoke. Her chairs knocked over and cushions exploded.
The curtains on her windows were burning, still sizzling in some places, the fire contained by the
room's wards. Harsh sunlight pierced through the haze. To her right, the bookcase smoked, pages
fluttering to the ground still. Copies destroyed, spines burst apart, covers burning.

Feathers covered her mattress. Her bedposts had cracked, and canopy tilted to the side.

She tried to rationalize. She tried to find the cause.

And a chilling dread sunk into her as she realized she did this.

Her magic.

She'd been attacked, and her magic had responded.

As they'd left, he'd dragged her from the room, putting out flames as she focused on his come on
her chest.

She turned to her bookcase, staring at her companions over the past weeks. Burnt. Flayed. Gone.

The bookcase in her mind shivered. She'd been so careful to save the Malfoys today that she'd
forgotten to save Harry.
A sob shook her, and she found wet tears already on her cheeks. She leaned forward on the broken
shelves.

Her priorities had shifted somewhere. She'd thought Harry was safe, dead in the ground. But she'd
betrayed him.

Her knees ached. She'd fallen onto them.

Harry was dead. Ron was lost. And she was playing house with the Malfoys.

She'd failed.

Her vision spotted as she sucked in air, head pounding, heart breaking.

Harry was dead. He wasn't coming back.

And she'd just told Voldemort that he was a Horcrux.

She couldn't fathom why Voldemort wanted that information. But she'd betrayed the entire last
year of her life by offering it to him.

If only she'd thought to protect what was most important, instead of what was convenient.

A wailing sob shook her, breaking her eardrums as her fingers clawed at the bookshelf. She sat like
that for what felt like hours.

A waxy hand on her shoulder. A whispered, "Miss?"

She shook her head, heaving for air. She didn't want to be treated this way. Like she was something
precious.

"Mippy will fix?"

She choked, panting and sobbing. She shook her head. "I can't stay here. I can't—I can't sleep
here."

Little fingers wrapped around her arm, and with a squeeze, she was in a different guest room,
smaller and darker.

Mippy guided her to bed, pressing potions to her lips.

She took them without question, begging the world to release her.