The passage of time had become a fluid, meaningless thing, measured only by the deepening ache in her belly and the slow creep of grime under her fingernails. Days bled into nights in the featureless gloom of her cell, the cold stone floor leaching the warmth from her bones until she felt as hollowed out as the room itself. Hunger was a constant companion, a dull, throbbing torment that sharpened into a blade’s edge whenever she dared to move. Her magic was gone, suppressed by the dampening wards carved into the very mortar of the walls, leaving her feeling naked and horribly, pathetically mundane. She was just a body, a thing of flesh and bone, and it was starving.

The grating scrape of the heavy iron door was a sound that had come to signify only despair. It never brought freedom. It never brought comfort. It only ever brought him.

Draco Malfoy stood silhouetted against the sudden, blinding light of the hallway. He was immaculate, as always. His black, tailored robes were pristine, his silver-blond hair was perfectly coiffed, and the bored, aristocratic sneer on his face was firmly in place. But it wasn't him that seized her full, desperate attention. It was the silver tray he held in his hands.

The aroma hit her first, so rich and overwhelming it made her stomach clench with a painful, violent cramp. It was the scent of roasted chicken, its skin a crackling, golden-brown, glistening with juices. There was a mound of fluffy, buttered potatoes, a loaf of fresh, crusty bread still giving off a faint wisp of steam, and a cluster of deep purple grapes that looked heavy with sweetness. A crystal goblet filled with ruby-red wine completed the tableau. It was a feast. A fantasy. It was salvation, and he was holding it.

Hope, fragile and treacherous, fluttered in her chest. Had he finally tired of this game? Was this a truce? An offering?

He strode into the cell, his polished dragon-hide boots clicking on the stone. He didn't look at her, not at first. His gaze was fixed on the tray as he walked past her, his expression one of mild disinterest. He stopped in the center of the room, and with a deliberate, almost languid movement, he bent and set the entire silver tray on the filthy floor.

The clink of silver on stone was a death knell to her fragile hope. She stared, uncomprehending, as he straightened up, finally deigning to look down at her. His grey eyes were chips of ice, devoid of any warmth or pity.

"Hungry, Mudblood?" His voice was a low, silken drawl that slid over her skin like something cold and reptilian.

She couldn't speak, her throat tight with a mixture of rage and desperate, clawing need. Her eyes were locked on the food, her mouth watering so intensely it was painful.

"It's all for you," he continued, a cruel smile touching the corners of his lips. "But you're not a person anymore, are you? You're my pet. And pets don't eat at a table." He gestured to the tray with a flick of his wrist. "Get on your hands and knees. Eat from the plate. Like the animal you are."

The words struck her with the force of a physical blow. The humiliation was so profound, so absolute, it momentarily eclipsed the gnawing hunger. Every ounce of her Gryffindor pride, every fiber of her being, recoiled in revulsion. Her gaze snapped from the food to his face, and a fire she thought long-extinguished blazed in her eyes.

"Go to hell, Malfoy," she rasped, her voice raw from disuse but laced with venom. "I'd rather starve."

His smile didn't falter. It widened. "Wrong answer."

He didn't even say the incantation. He simply twitched his wand—a swift, economical motion—and a bolt of shimmering, sickly yellow light shot from its tip. It struck her high on the outside of her right thigh.

The pain was instantaneous and absolute. It was not a burn or a cut, but something far worse. It was as if a thousand red-hot needles had plunged into her flesh, each one carrying a jolt of pure, agonizing electricity. The muscles in her leg seized and contorted in a violent, unstoppable spasm. A raw scream was torn from her throat as her leg gave out from under her, sending her collapsing onto the unforgiving stone floor.

She landed hard on her hip and shoulder, the impact jarring her teeth. The hex wasn't a fleeting thing; it lingered, a searing, throbbing agony that pulsed in time with her frantic heartbeat. She curled in on herself, clutching her thigh, her breath coming in ragged, sobbing gasps. Tears of pain and fury streamed from her eyes, tracing clean paths through the grime on her cheeks. Through the shimmering haze of her tears, she could see the tray of exquisite food, its aroma now a sickening taunt. And above it, she saw his polished boots, standing firm and unmoving. The lesson was brutal, and it was clear. Her will meant nothing. Her defiance would only be met with pain.

The throbbing agony in her thigh was a relentless tide, pulling her under. Each pulse was a fresh reminder of his power and her own agonizing powerlessness. Through the watery blur of her vision, his boots were two pillars of polished black leather, immovable and absolute. He was a statue of contempt, carved from marble and malice, and she was just a broken thing at his feet.

"I said," his voice was a low, dangerous purr that vibrated through the stone floor, "wrong answer." He took a single, deliberate step closer, the toe of his boot nudging her ribs with calculated insolence. "Now, you're going to learn the right one. Get up. On your knees."

Her body screamed its protest. The muscles in her injured leg were still twitching erratically, sending jolts of white-hot pain up to her hip. The thought of putting any weight on it, of moving at all, was nauseating. But the cold certainty in his voice promised that refusal would only bring a fresh, and likely worse, agony. The memory of the sickly yellow curse was still seared into her mind.

With a choked sob that was equal parts pain and fury, she began to move. It was a clumsy, pathetic scramble. She pushed herself up with trembling arms, the grime on the floor grinding into her palms. The thin, ragged shift she wore did nothing to protect her skin from the biting cold of the stone as she dragged her useless leg behind her, forcing herself into a kneeling position. The movement sent a fresh wave of fire through her thigh, and she had to bite down on her lip so hard she tasted blood to keep from screaming again.

He watched her struggle with a detached, clinical interest, as if observing a fascinating but distasteful insect. Once she was kneeling, hunched over and trembling, he wasn't satisfied.

"To me," he commanded, his voice devoid of any emotion save for a chilling thread of authority.

Her head stayed down, her tangled, matted hair hiding her face. She couldn't look at him. She couldn't bear the triumph she knew she would see in his eyes. Slowly, agonizingly, she began to crawl. Each movement was a fresh torment, the rough stone scraping her knees raw, the pull on her injured thigh a constant, grinding misery. The few feet to where he stood felt like miles. It was a pilgrimage of shame, and with every inch, a piece of her withered and died.

Finally, her hands brushed against the impeccable leather of his boots. She stopped, her breath coming in ragged, hitching gasps, her body shaking uncontrollably. She was there. At his feet. An animal in its pen, brought to heel.

The silence that followed was heavy, thick with her humiliation and his silent victory. Then, a sharp, metallic sound cut through it: the rasp of a zipper.

Her head snapped up against her will, her eyes wide with a new kind of dread. He was unzipping his fine, tailored trousers. He made no move to hide the action, his grey eyes locked on hers, a cruel, knowing smirk playing on his lips. The dark fabric parted, and with a soft rustle, he sprang free.

Her breath caught in her throat. In the dim, ambient light filtering in from the corridor, his cock seemed to glow with a pale, menacing light. It was not yet fully erect, but it was already thick and heavy, a formidable length of flesh that hung with an arrogant weight between his thighs. A web of thick, dark veins snaked across the surface, pulsing faintly with his blood. The head was a darker, purplish hue, slick with a bead of clear fluid that caught the light like a malevolent jewel. It was a weapon. A symbol of everything he was and everything she was not: powerful, dominant, free.

He shifted his hips slightly, a casual, proprietary movement that made the heavy shaft sway before her face. He was so close she could smell the clean, masculine scent of his skin, a stark, almost violent contrast to the stench of her own unwashed body and the filth of the cell.

"Look at it," he commanded, his voice a silken whisper that was somehow more terrifying than a shout. He nudged her chin up with the toe of his boot, forcing her gaze to remain fixed on him. "I want you to see what owns you now. This is your master. This is what you will obey. Not your pathetic Gryffindor courage. Not your filthy Mudblood pride. This."

She stared, trapped by his command, by the immovable boot under her chin, by the horrifying spectacle before her. Tears of pure, undiluted shame streamed down her face, but she couldn't look away. She was forced to kneel before his raw, masculine power, stripped of her magic, her dignity, her very self, acknowledging the flesh that was to be the instrument of her final, complete degradation.

His cold, impassive gaze raked over her tear-streaked face, taking in her trembling lips and the wild, hateful fire in her eyes. For a moment, he seemed to savor her defiance, even in this broken state. It was the last vestige of the girl he’d loathed for years, and he was about to extinguish it completely. His free hand shot out, faster than a striking snake, and buried itself in the tangled, filthy mass of her hair.

The grip was brutal. He didn't just hold her; he twisted his fingers deep, gathering a thick handful of her bushy mane right at the scalp and yanking. A strangled cry of pain was torn from her, her neck snapping back at an unnatural angle, exposing the long, pale column of her throat. The sharp, tearing sensation at her roots was blinding, forcing her jaw to fall slack, her mouth opening in a silent scream. It was the opening he had been waiting for.

He didn't hesitate. With a low, predatory grunt, he lunged forward, driving his semi-hard cock into her open mouth. The invasion was shocking and absolute. The thick, slick head of his shaft slid past her teeth, shoving her tongue back into her throat with a wet, gagging sound. The taste of him filled her senses—a salty, musky, intensely masculine flavor that was utterly alien and violating. It was the taste of her own subjugation. He was already hardening rapidly, the flesh swelling and thickening against the walls of her mouth, a brutal testament to the pleasure he took in her degradation.

Her body reacted with immediate, uncontrollable violence. A powerful gag reflex seized her, her throat convulsing in a desperate attempt to expel the foreign object suffocating her. Her stomach heaved, and for a horrifying second, she thought she would vomit around him. But he was prepared. His grip on her hair tightened to an agonizing degree, anchoring her head as if it were clamped in a vice. His other hand came up, the thumb pressing hard into the soft flesh of her cheek, digging into the muscle and forcing her jaw to remain open around his burgeoning erection. He was an immovable force, negating her body's every instinct to resist.

"That's it," he murmured, his voice a low, guttural rumble that vibrated from his chest, through his cock, and into the very root of her tongue. "Take it."

Then he began to move. It wasn't a frantic, desperate fucking. It was something far more cruel. His thrusts were slow, steady, and punishingly deep. He established a relentless rhythm, withdrawing just enough for the thick, coronal ridge of the head to scrape against the back of her teeth before plunging back into the depths of her throat. Each deliberate piston stroke was a calculated act of dominance, a methodical, rhythmic violation that ground her spirit into dust.

Tears, hot and thick, began to stream from her eyes. They were not tears of pain, though her scalp burned and her jaw ached under the pressure of his thumb. They were tears of pure, undiluted rage and a humiliation so profound it felt like it was dissolving her from the inside out. They coursed down her temples, carving clean tracks through the layers of grime, dripping from her jaw onto the cold, unforgiving stone below. Through the watery blur, she could see his face looming above her. His eyes were half-lidded, his lips parted slightly, the cruel sneer replaced by a mask of intense, focused pleasure. He was watching her weep, feeding on her despair as he used her mouth, his hips rocking in that steady, damning rhythm. He held her head firm, his cock a brutal gag in her throat, a relentless invasion that promised no end.

The methodical, punishing rhythm was a torment, but it was a predictable one. She could almost brace for each slow, deep plunge. But then, something shifted. A low sound rumbled in his chest, a groan that was not of pain but of a pleasure so profound it was terrifying. His hips hitched, and he drove forward with a new, savage force, pushing himself deeper, harder, until the thick root of his cock was buried in her throat and the coarse, crisp hair at his groin was scraping abrasively against her lips and chin. The pressure was immense, a solid, unyielding column of flesh stretching her past her limits, stealing the very air from her lungs. A panicked, sputtering sound escaped around the thick shaft filling her mouth, a mixture of a gag and a sob.

He felt her struggle, heard her strangled plea for air, and it only seemed to inflame him. The detached, aristocratic control he'd maintained shattered, replaced by a raw, guttural carnality. His thrusts lost their measured cadence and became a frenzied, desperate pounding. He was fucking her face now, not her mouth. His hips slammed against her, a brutal, relentless percussion that made her head snap back and forth with each violent stroke, his grip in her hair the only thing keeping her from being thrown to the floor. The wet, slapping sound of his pelvis hitting her chin echoed in the small, stone cell, a sickening metronome marking her utter debasement.

"That's it, Granger," he growled, the words a harsh, breathy rasp against her ear. "Take it all. Take every fucking inch."

His voice was thick with arousal, the sound vibrating through his body and down the length of his shaft, a direct transmission of his dominance into the core of her being. He groaned again, a long, low sound of pure, animal pleasure. It was the sound of a predator feasting, a sound that acknowledged her pain, her tears, her humiliation, and reveled in it. This was his true victory, not just in breaking her defiance, but in taking his pleasure from the very instrument of her intellect and pride—her voice, her mouth, now reduced to a wet, gagging sheath for his cock.

Her jaw was a nexus of searing agony. The muscles screamed in protest, stretched far beyond their endurance. She could feel the joints grinding near her ears, a sharp, clicking pain that shot through her skull with every powerful thrust. Slobber and tears mingled, dripping from her chin onto the front of her ragged shift, a disgusting testament to his assault. The slick head of his cock, now glistening with her saliva, rammed against the back of her throat again and again, triggering wave after wave of useless, convulsive gags that only seemed to tighten her throat around him, wringing more groans of pleasure from his lips.

He was bucking now, his hips moving in a frantic, uncontrolled rhythm. He was lost to it, lost to the feeling of her hot, wet mouth clamped around his hardened cock, lost to the sight of her broken and weeping at his feet. The last vestiges of his composure were gone, burned away in the fires of his lust and his long-simmering hatred. He was pure, rutting instinct, using her with a brutal, single-minded focus. He drove himself into her one last time, burying his entire length so deep she thought her throat would tear, his pelvic bone grinding hard against her jaw. His whole body went rigid, a shudder wracking his frame as a guttural roar built in his chest.

His entire body went rigid above her, a taut bowstring of muscle and impending release. The thick ridge of his corona ground against the back of her throat, a final, punishing pressure that made black spots dance in her vision. A low, guttural groan tore from his chest, a sound of pure, predatory pleasure that vibrated down the length of his shaft and into the very core of her skull. His hips gave one last, brutal buck, slamming the base of his cock against her bruised lips, and she felt the first convulsive pulse of his climax deep within her, a hot, thrumming promise of the final violation.

But it never came.

With a sharp, ragged gasp, he ripped himself from her mouth. The sudden void was as violent as the invasion, and she choked, gagging on nothing as air and saliva flooded her ravaged throat. Her head snapped forward from the force of his withdrawal, a string of spit and his slick pre-cum flying from her lips. He stood over her, his back arched, his jaw clenched, his eyes squeezed shut in the throes of his orgasm. His thick, wet cock, still deep purple and painfully hard, spasmed in his hand.

Then, he erupted.

A thick, pearlescent torrent of his seed shot forth, hot as a brand against her skin. The first heavy rope of it splattered across her chin and mouth, a sickeningly warm, viscous splash. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the onslaught continued. More of his hot, thick fluid rained down, plastering her cheek, sliding in a sticky trail down her neck and over her collarbone. She felt the heavy, wet impacts against her breasts, saw through her tear-blurred vision the stark white ropes of his semen clinging to her nipples, dripping slowly down the pale, trembling mounds. Another shudder wracked his frame and a final, thick jet of it landed on her stomach, pooling in the delicate hollow of her navel like a conqueror’s flag planted on newly claimed territory.

He stood there for a long moment, his chest heaving, his harsh breaths echoing in the stone-walled silence. He looked down at her, his gaze sweeping over the tableau of her degradation. He saw her on her hands and knees, trembling uncontrollably, her face streaked with tears and his own come, her breasts and stomach painted with the evidence of his climax. There was no pity in his eyes, no remorse. Only a cold, satisfied finality. Without a single word, he calmly tucked his still-dripping cock back into his tailored trousers, the sharp rasp of his zipper a brutal, final sound in the charged air. He turned his back on her as if she were nothing more than a piece of furniture, his polished shoes clicking softly on the stone floor as he walked away.

She remained frozen, a statue of humiliation. Sobs tore from her, but they were silent, broken things, her entire body shaking with each one. The cooling stickiness of his seed on her skin felt like a layer of filth she could never wash away. It was a physical manifestation of her shame, a tangible mark of his ownership. The acrid, salty taste of him coated her tongue, mixed with the metallic tang of her own tears. It was the taste of subjugation, of utter and complete defeat. She tried to spit, but her mouth was too dry, her throat too raw. The flavour of him, of what he had done to her, was now a part of her.

Then came the final, soul-crushing sound. The heavy groan of the iron cell door swinging shut, followed by the deafening, echoing SLAM of the bolt being thrown. The noise jolted through her, a physical blow that shattered the last vestiges of her defiance. Plunged back into the dim, oppressive silence, she collapsed fully onto the floor, her cheek pressing into the cold, grimy stone amidst the leftover food he’d brought her an eternity ago. She was alone, left to drown in the dark with nothing but the feeling of his sticky seed growing cold on her body and the bitter, indelible taste of her own brokenness.