A Twisted Kind Of Love
- Loss. That's all she knows anymore. Regret's bitter sting and despair's cruel bite are uncomfortably familiar. From the loss of the war to the loss of those she loves, she adapts. Dark fic. Mentions of rape, self harm and alcoholism
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fan fiction. I do not own Harry Potter or the magical world created by J. K. Rowling
"Damaged goods. That's what they call me. That's the ONLY thing they call me. I didn't have a name anymore. I wasn't good enough. I didn't deserve a name. Didn't deserve to eat or sleep. Didn't deserve to speak. Didn't deserve to think. I was a mere object. A broken toy in a sea of broken toys and in a world of inequality. There was no point in fighting if there was nothing to be changed - and I had learnt all too quickly that nothing could change. No hope in a world frozen in the dark ages. No hope for someone like me. A second-class citizen. A mudblood.
It had been two…? No three years since he had died. The boy who lived: dead. From that moment; there was only one way forward. A path of cruelty and darkness. You-know-who's path. Harry went into the forbidden forest alive and never returned. His body; never buried. He was just left there; left like an animal out in the wild. As the army of death eaters marched up to the castle courtyard, a cold chill settled upon the castle. As if the very air around us knew that we had suddenly become a lost cause. Of course, people didn't surrender straight away. Countless more lives lost, destroyed.
Neville bravely stood and spoke first – only silenced when the venomous spell was whispered from a masked face. Only believable when his body fell to the floor, sorting hat gripped tightly in hand, rubble surrounding him in a sort of grave like formation. Only real when Luna's strangled cry of loss echoed around the broken walls. Despair didn't even begin to describe the pain we all felt. Neville's body was burned in the fire that claimed the grounds of Hogwarts along with the other bodies of the fallen. A pile of ash was all that remained of the great school and those who fought to protect it. Luna could no longer function in a society where creativity was seen as defiance and there was no true love awaiting her at the end of the day. Too many beatings stole her from us too early. Too young.
The more defiant we were, the more punishment we got. Those who became ore trouble than they were worth were swiftly eliminated. Removed from the order and only spoken about in hastened whispers. Anyone capable of fleeing the country did – a wasted effort. With the English ministry of magic broken and incapable of repair, other governments soon began to topple. American and Australian forces managed to hold their resolve for longer than most other countries but with the world a darker, lonelier wasteland; dark forces devoured the cities within months.
I was traded in slave circles. Voldemort's highest ranked followers bided upon people like me. Mudbloods traded like playing cards in a playground. Each death eater could bid for a slave for a maximum of two weeks before the bidding would begin again. The Weasleys were given the chance to beg for forgiveness in an attempt to salvage what little credit they maintained from being born with good blood. They, of course, all refused to surrender and were now some of the slave trade's most valuable rewards. Ginny only lasted through six masters before the brutality of a new world ended up breaking her. The loss of her true love. Her freedom. Her dignity. Her innocence. When Rabastan Lestrange was done playing with her, she was out of sight long enough to slit her wrists on the sharp corner of a chest of drawers. The next night when Rabastan desired a quick release once more; her lifeless body was discovered surrounded by a pool of dried blood and a faint smile etched on her pale face. Ginny may be dead but at least she was free.
Many others followed Ginny. Dean and Seamus surrendered to the sweet mercy of an avada while the remaining Weasley clan just faded away upon learning that their youngest had gone. All of the Weasleys just fell out of the system or became buried too deep – all but Ron. His once kind demeanour and welcoming face had been smothered by the pain and suffering around him. Only two days after learning about his sister's fate he begged the dark lord for forgiveness and now spent the rest of his days drinking himself to death. The golden trio- damaged beyond repair.
Three years and countless exchanges later; I was bruised, beaten and truly broken. My skin now remains marred from years of scars and my eyes have surely lost their spark. I have lost my spark. There is no light at the end of the tunnel. Despite living in a world of magic: fairy tales now seem like a cruel trick rather than a possibility as the once were. No happy ever after.
The only time I have to think is now. Locked in the back of a carriage as I await my auction. The last member of the golden trio often brings in a crowd. Numerous bids from desperate people all wanting me. Wanting to hurt me. To damage me. What remains unknown to them is that I can no longer be broken for I am already shattered. Screams become as pointless as 'please' and 'thank you' so those of us in the trade adapt. We don't scream. Don't flinch. Don't blink. Try not to breathe. Try to pretend we're dead.
Before long the door opens to the carriage and two hands reach to grab me. The tatters they call clothes loosely hang off my skeletal frame and the sudden rush of movement steals my breath. Darkness consumes me.
However long later; I wake up in a plush bed. Bed? Already the list of my possible owners shortens. Very few take care of their possessions: human or not. In a society of privilege you grow up with a simple philosophy – everything is replaceable. But this owner has taken the time to lay be on top of a silk sheet covered bed and… Changed my clothes? The list shortens once more. It shortens to just one name.
I relax into to bedding beneath me and prepare for what I know is next. With minimal lubrication; he enters me but it no longer hurts. When you enter the slave ring the first thing to go is your magic, followed by your spirit and innocence; all taken by one rough thrust. After my new master is finished I slowly collect myself and sit up. He is sitting across the room at his desk – hair in disarray from brushing his hand through it too many times.
I am lucky – well as lucky as I can be. I know his doesn't like to appear unkempt in front of many people – he hides his emotions from everyone as part of his steel façade. But for me, he knows he doesn't have to maintain appearances. He has accepted me and moved on. He tries to buy me as often as he can but if he were to bid every week: it would raise suspicion. The death eaters would reject our adoration for each other. Those who know about us in the slave ring think I'm insane. That the once brilliant Hermione Granger has officially lost her marbles. But I know. I know what Draco and I have is real. Some say it's Stockholm Syndrome. I say it's a twisted kind of love.
A/N: I've had a huge break from writing due to other commitments but I'm finally back with this one shot to break my writers block.
Thanks for reading! Please review and let me know what you think. This is my first one shot and depending on reactions: I am open to adding a follow up chapter or adding more to this.
-QwertyWords