Title: The Misfortunes of Virtue
Author: Winter Ashby (rosweldrmr)
Disclaimer: Harry Potter © J.K. Rowling & Misfortunes of Virtue (title only) were written by the Marquis de Sade in 1787 (more notes about the literary allusions in the footnote of the last chapter)
Rating: M (for language and adult themes)
Summary: Draco steals away in the dead of night on orders from the Dark Lord to either kidnap or kill Hermione. But who is he really loyal to?
Timeline: Post 'The Half-Blood Prince' Some incorporated plot of 'Deathly Hallows'
Warning: Major Character Deaths! Inferi!Character, Necromancism: controlling the dead (NOT necrophilia), strong language, violence, blood, gore, & DH spoilers
Authors Note: This is a really messed up fic. I'm not kidding, I don't think I've ever written anything this fucked up, ever. I don't know where it came from.

Prologue
Ruler of Man

Its eyes were blank and hazy. Not brown or black, but a kind of snowy amber, veiled and unresponsive. It wasn't a she anymore, he reminded himself. Not for the first time. Draco knew it was an 'it'. He understood, though somewhat fragmented, the strange abstractions that defined its existence. He was at least familiar with words like 'soul' and 'afterlife', although wizarding religion hadn't really taken off as it did for the muggles. He supposed it was because they had things like ghosts, and magic.

Superstitious, Draco sneered. That's all religion really was, superstition and tradition piled on fear and doubt.

He watched it fumble through the darkness. He noted, however, that it didn't stumble because it was dark; it stumbled because its limbs were jutted out at odd angels and jerked like a marionette being yanked around by an unskilled puppeteer.

That was closer to the truth than he cared to dwell on.

He thought again about a soul, and the absence of it, and tried to imagine what it would be like to be soulless, to be an 'it'. The batch of diluted Drought of Living Death he brewed each month made him feel hollow inside, like he was empty and barely ever there at all. But he still had a soul, whatever that was.

He didn't know how to define it, or if he believed, like the muggles did, in an omnipresent, omnipotent and omniscient entity. Draco considered that if such a being did exist, then the last thing it would be concerned with would be the daily lives of humans. But whatever it was; this unnamed, intangible concept that made him different from it, no matter how much potion he drank or dead he felt. The fact remained that it was dead and he wasn't.

He sighed and closed the window on the small door, behind which he could still hear it fumbling and he shut his eyes.

It was clumsy. Maybe that was because she was clumsy.

Her, she, it. The difference was a fine line, a thin distinction, largely based the pesky abstraction of a 'soul'. Maybe he could teach her to have a soul. She could learn to focus her static eyes and respond.

She always did love to learn.

A maniacal grin graced his face as he bolted the door with an alohamora anti-charm. Just in case, he told himself, hopefully, foolishly.

Demented.

Even without understanding, he knew, admitted, that it wasn't her. It wasn't the filthy little mudblood who'd punched him so long ago. She wasn't a Gryffindor, a girl with seemingly no fear. She had been the one no one ever worried about, the one everyone thought would survive. But this thing, this 'it,' wasn't that girl anymore. It wasn't the headstrong, brilliant witch that even Voldemort wanted.

Sorry about all the creepiness, I like crazy!Draco. This will be split up into 10 relatively short chapters, a prologue and an epilogue. I will be posting them all in succession, so no need for reviews asking to update. I should probably wait a day between each chapter, but I'm too excited about this fic to wait. Again, just to reiterate, this fic is complete, I just need to load each chapter (tediously) and then I will be posting them.