Chapter 1: Immoral Influence

"The surest way to corrupt a youth is to instruct him to hold in higher esteem those who think alike than those who think differently." - Friedrich Nietzshe

-X-

Her once ridiculously bushy hair had condensed into a matted mess, her clothes were reduced to rags, and there were cuts and bruises all over her thin frame. She shivered furiously, only a fragrant of the girl she had used to be; somewhere inside her was still brilliance locked away, but what remained externally was a thin, luminescent shell that dulled in the light.

"You." What was once a friendly, gentle voice had changed in something horrible, a voice forced to be cruel and immoral. Hermione looked at Ginny and was forced to stare at what the war had done to them- all of them.

"This isn't right, Ginny," Hermione murmured hoarsely, trying to meet her former somewhat friend's eyes. For a brief moment, Hermione could see the flicker of sorrow before being replaced with a harsh, reptilian glare.

"Submit to Him," Ginny commanded. Weakly, Hermione shook her head. No, she said silently, because this was a future she had never to have imagined.

"I can't," Hermione whispered slowly. "You know I can't."

Ginny's eyes narrowed in disapproval, in the way that all His servants had been trained to do so in front of the enemies. But after a while her eyes softened. Ginny whispered softly. "I'm sorry about that." And than, as if suddenly possessed she snapped right back into that stern and strange figure. "Take the subject to its cell."

Hermione's eyes shut as a guard grabbed her arm and dragged her into her prison, only opening when she heard the barred doors slam close. Weakly crawling into the corner of the cell, she buried her head into her hands in an attempt to hide her tears. "Shit, shit, shit," she whispered in an anxious, angry hiss. What had become of the Harry Potter she thought she knew? How could he do this to them all?

"… Granger?"

Her head turned in surprise, to the oddly familiar voice. "Y-you…" she sputtered out in disbelief. This drew some stares from the other wary prisoners, forcing Hermione to calm down.

"How eloquent, Granger. And I had thought you were the smart one." It was, without a doubt, despite the bruises, scars, and ragged clothing, the one and only Draco Malfoy. The same boy who had caused her so much pain in her school years was sitting in the next sell, awaiting the same fate, captured by the same man.

"B-but, why? W-why are you here?" She said this in a hushed whisper, so that she might not cause a scene again, but she had no need to worry. The last thing other prisoners were worried about was the concern of another girl falling into insanity.

"I could ask the same for you," Draco said. Despite the circumstances, he spoke in a quiet, calm voice as if his emotions were completely controlled, and seemed nowhere as distressed as Hermione. She stared at him in wide-eyed curiosity and snaked her fingers between the bars and lightly laid one hand on the shoulder of Draco, as if testing to see if he was just a figment of her imagination. One brow rose slightly above the other, and he lightly brushed off her hand as if dusting off a pesky bug. "What was that for, Granger?"

"I… I just wanted to make sure you were real," she replied, still shocked to see him.

"You still haven't answered my question, you know. Why are you even here?"

Hermione cautiously studied Malfoy, as if suspecting him of some sort of high espionage.

"Hello? Granger, have you lost the ability to speak as well?" He waved one hand in front of her face to catch her attention, and Hermione snapped back into reality.

"No, Malfoy," she said, in a vigor she had not used for months, not since Harry had taken over. "And I suppose you haven't changed either- rude as ever." It felt good to revert back to some sort of the spirit she had before. He snickered.

"There we go. There's the Hermione Granger we all hated. Are you feeling well enough to answer the damn question know?"

"I… Look, Malfoy, why do you think I am here?"

"Perhaps Potter sent you to spy. You'd be a good one, Granger. In actuality, you're rather cunning. You'd have made a decent Slytherin. More proof that the sorting hat was fucking barmy that year. Potter should have been a Slytherin, no doubt about it."

"I'll overlook that random rant and let you know that no, I am not a spy and he didn't send me. I am, regrettably, in the same precise situation I assume you are in."

"Elaborate, Granger. What situation did you exactly assume I am?"

Hermione leaned against the concrete wall, taking a deep sigh before speaking. "From the looks of it, I can safely assume that we are in some sort of prison, behind bars, away from freedom… because of…"

"Potter," Malfoy finished for her, spitting out Harry's name like it was made of poison. Hermione groaned in frustration, turning to her companion.

"Why, Malfoy? Why is he like this?" Hermione asked, as if begging for an answer.

"He's your friend, Granger. You're supposed to know him better," Malfoy said snidely, not helping ease Hermione's frustrations.

"Was, Malfoy. Harry," she choked out his name. "… was my friend. But not anymore. Not after all he's done. I just don't understand… how this could have even happened."

Malfoy's thin lips grimly curled up. His eyes seemed bitter under the dim glow of the candled lights. "Because, Granger," he said. "Everyone can be corrupted."

"… To influence a person is to give him one's own soul. He does not think his natural thoughts, or burn with his natural passions. His virtues are not real to him. His sins, if there are such things as sins, are borrowed. He becomes an echo of someone else's music, an actor of a part that has been written for him…" –Oscar Wilde, A Picture of Dorian Gray

-X-

The days quickly fell into a routine. Hermione and the rest of the prisoners were roughly jostled awake by a guard and sentenced to hard labor, doing work that no one needed to be done. They were constructing a building made from their blood, a building that could easy constructed via magic. But this privilege was taken away for them. Magic was only for those how obeyed. Hermione's job was to cement the blocks, seemling the easiest one, but a job that still drove her mad. Her mental astuteness was trapped inside, begging to be used, begging to read or solve a problem or cast a difficult spell. Instead she did the job of a factory worker, and the repetitious job was monotonous and mentally frustrated.

They were given only a short fifteen minute break to eat some bread and cold soup before continuing their work, until the sky grew dark. Dinner was slightly larger- more bread, more soup, and a small piece of meat if they were lucky. Nighttime was their free time; some prisoners choose this time to attempt to stay sane by socializing, but most stayed drawn away and quiet. Hermione was one of these.

She generally stayed away from her neighboring prisoner, still holding on to her age-old house prejudices and unpleasant memories of the ever rude, ever-pretentious Draco Malfoy. Though it seemed like months since she was finally brought here, she knew that it was only a few days, and recalled the days prior to her capture, where she hide from His regime like she hide from Voldemort's. She remembered the exuberance she felt when Harry finally defeated that horrid man, and the equally emotional dismay when she learned of what Harry decided to become.

What had made the boy-who-lived decide to become such a terrible man? He had replaced Voldemort; he had become the new Dark Lord, only he had nothing against muggles and muggleborns. Unlike his predecessor, he didn't even pretend to have any interest in persecuting any one group of people- except for those who disobeyed. What had made him make such a drastic decision? Had killing Voldemort made him feel such invincible power that he decided he wanted more? Or perhaps it was Draco's reasoning that was the truth. Perhaps Harry had fallen prey to corruption, to the influence of Voldemort. Had his soul been changed? Had his mind bended? If so, was it really to the doing of Voldemort? How could one man have so much power over another? Or was this choice something Harry had done on his own accord? Perhaps this darker side had been hidden inside for all that time, just like Tom Riddle's, and no one, not even Dumbledore had picked up upon it?

No, Hermione decided firmly. There was simply no way Harry could do such a thing. She refused to believe that her beloved raven-headed, green-eyed friend could be so deceptive, so corruptive as to use her, use all of them. She remembered his words of kindness, his proclamations of his belief in love, his wonderful ideology that clashed directly with Voldemort's. Despite all his misdeeds against her, Hermione simply couldn't bring herself to blame him, couldn't bring herself to think ill of him. She hated what he did, but it was impossible for her to hate Harry. One day, in desperation to fill in her loneliness, she attempted to explain this to Malfoy.

"Malfoy," she murmured. Her lips quivered in the cold, and she slowly inched her body towards the place where they shared a conjoined wall of metal bars.

"Finally thought it would be nice to be social, Granger?"

Hermione frowned at this insult. "Actually, I waited until I was desperate enough to," she said. She meant for it be an insult towards Malfoy, but it was rather true.

"Don't think Harry-fucking-Potter is so great anymore, right Granger?"

"I-"

"Is that hesitation? Because if it is, you're an idiot, and you deserve to be here."

"It's not his fault, Malfoy. I can't blame him. It's impossible to hate Harry-"

"You really are an idiot, Granger. I can't believe you are saying this," Malfoy said, cutting her off harshly. "If you love him so much, you should have just kissed his filthy robes and joined him."

"I can't, Malfoy," Hermione said. "What he is doing is wrong… Which makes me wonder why you are here? You're a little ferret, so I'd assume you'd just kiss up to him and 'obey', just like you did with your 'Dark Lord'." Hermione regretted these words after she said them, but they had exited her mouth; it was too late to take them back.

Malfoy glared at Hermione, who only looked slightly better from when she first came in. "Don't presume you know me, Granger."

His lips were in a scowl, and for the first time Hermione looked at him. Prior to that moment, she had avoided looking at him, out of fear of what she'd see. There he was, paler than he was even before. His gray eyes still held that coolness to them, and there was the slight bits of green on him, the old remnants of his Slytherin robes. The scowl on his face reminded her of the Draco from previous years, and his white blond hair was messy and uncombed, a far cry from the perfectly groomed boy she had met years ago. Yet he had matured into a rather rugged (given the circumstances), but handsome young man. His voice had deepened, his shoulders broadened, and he had grown taller. Malfoy was Malfoy, an unchangeable, unmovable thing. Yet what Hermione remembered of him had.

"I'm sorry," Hermione finally said. It was hard for her to say that, to bit back on her pride, but she was afraid of losing the only companion who would speak to her. "I shouldn't have said that."

"Yeah," Malfoy agreed. "You shouldn't have."

They were quiet at them. Hermione felt oddly at peace, sitting there in the bleak prison cell. Then, she heard the movement of doors. The guards always "wished" them goodnight before blowing out the candles, but they had just finished dinner, and it was far too soon for the tucking in ceremony.

She heard the clacking footsteps roaring like thunder in her ears against the cool ground. Finally, before her stood the solemn, apologetic looking Ginny Weasley. "Granger. The Lord wishes to see you," she said. But Ginny's eyes said something else. Undeniably etched within her brown eyes, Hermione read the words:

I'm sorry.

a/n- the start of a the first Harry Potter FF I've ever posted online. Feedback appreciated.

review jar is below.

:)