A/N: This story is a birthday gift for my friend and beta MrBenzedrine.
Maybe I should explain some things about this (probably) three chapter story. Usually, I'm a person that writes light-hearted, awefully cliché romantic comedy with a bit of science stuff and smut thrown in, because that's the kind of person I mostly am. MrBenzedrine, however, is a sucker for darker stories (try the award-winning story Squirm if you don't know what I mean), although she can also write stories that have you wet your pants in laughter. This dark story is a gift for her, because she always encourages me to go to my own limits and overstep them. I am guilty to unload most of my personal rubbish on her that threatens to break me sometimes, and she patiently listens and believes in me. I feel blessed to know her.
By the way, I'm aware some might not like this stuff, but as long as MrBenzedrine does, I'm okay with that. If she doesn't like it, well... then she needs to adopt my WIP because I'm going to stop writing then, no pressure, A.! ;)
Special, giant shout-outs to LondonsLegend, who beta'ed this brilliantly and kindly, to WayMay for her faithful support, and Sam Wallflower, who read this story first (and didn't send me to the Janus Thickey ward for it).
Trigger warning: scenes of sexual nature with dubious consent and graphic violence are in this story.
Disclaimer: Nothing of this is mine, I'm just playing with the characters and don't even make money with this.
*()*()*()*()*()*
"And the most terrifying question of all may be just how much horror the human mind can stand and still maintain a wakeful, staring, unrelenting sanity." (Stephen King)
*()*()*()*()*()*
"Drop the knife!" There was an edge of panic in Draco's voice.
"No."
"Please, Hermione…don't hurt them, they're innocent. You're not really capable of seriously harming an innocent human soul." Draco Malfoy pleaded for the life of his wife and son. How remarkable.
She let the knife scrape over the whimpering witch's throat in her grip, drawing a trail of blood. "Times change. Maybe I am now." And she didn't even feel…anything.
*()*()*()*()*()*
They say history is told by winners, but there were no winners in the Second Wizarding War. What began as a rather small - in the grand scheme of things - Battle of Hogwarts, spread into a fully blown civil war, swallowing more blood and demanding more death among wizardkind than the Spanish Inquisition or the fall of the Roman Empire.
On that fateful day in May 1998, Harry Potter had, indeed, killed Lord Voldemort after an epic duel that left the air around them fizzled with magic. But upon the sight of her beloved Master dissolving into nothingness, Bellatrix Lestrange immediately rammed a poisoned dagger directly into the Chosen One's body, leaving him to drown in his own blood within moments.
Hermione stood on the sideline, horror befalling her entire being. The shock quickly replaced by ire, and as the battle wore on, she executed the deadly ways of magic for the first time, instead of being at the receiving side of the wand.
The parties left the battlefield, morning the dead and healing the wounded, but in the end…the war continued.
Hermione didn't know how the history books would portray their era later on, but maybe they would be able to rationalize why the bloodshed in the one-to-one fights transformed into the stellar rise of a pureblood reign. Fighting on the front line of what remained from the Order of the Phoenix, she was confronted with the fast building prison walls of an elite oligarchy of magic, money, and might, organising and manipulating society. Wizards such as Draco Malfoy thrived in the new era, coming into their power. The young Malfoy scion, no longer hiding behind his father's robes, rarely left his desk to bother with dirty work these days, having his minions, dressed in purple Auror robes, at his every will. While he sat in his flashy office in the Ministry of Magic, only occasionally going on missions to take on 'threats of peace', Hermione Granger was fighting for her sanity and life.
When the war was still in full swing, she took down opponents without mercy. The light in her eyes, first shining with tears for her friends and with determination to end the fight, quickly faded as she embraced the sick thrill of power that came with taking down an adversary down with force. Soon resignation and defeat overcame her, and that small flame inside of her was snuffed out, once and for all, when she was caught.
The witch had nothing to lose when they dragged her, bloodied and in chains, to a parody of a court. Declared guilty, they broke her magical core. That was the day the darkness broke Hermione Granger. They didn't even bother with finishing her off with a merciful Avada; instead, she was dropped in the dirty streets of London. Her clothes were ripped. She was nearly starved and was closer to death than life. Later, she couldn't remember how she survived - she simply did.
Someone took her into a hospital where she was healed, physically at least. With no identification or record on her in the past years, she quickly disappeared under the radar of the muggle authorities. But that was good; she didn't want to draw anyone's attention on her person.
The former witch was too tired to fight, too broken to start over, too 'unqualified' to earn more than the absolute minimum for a job. She never stayed anywhere for long, renting small, impersonal one-room flats, barely getting by with working as a waitress or help.
Hermione only existed from day to day, her thrive for knowledge long forgotten, her love for her family and friends buried along with them. Somehow, the numbness inside of her was a consolation, and she was a master of distancing herself from the world around her.
Until one day.
*()*()*()*()*()*
She closed the door behind her, turning the keys in the lock. A feeble attempt at keeping the danger outside, she knew that. And it was especially useless when the danger was already inside, sitting on her sofa. There Draco sat, surrounded by two Aurors, one leg crossed over the other while he casually twirled his wand in one of his slender hands. His whole persona was a display of superiority over her. In contrary to Hermione, the years had been kind to Draco, and he exuded power with every breath.
His grey eyes locked on hers, and she immediately felt dirty.
"Look who decided to finally make an appearance. It's not polite to make one's guests wait, you know? Not that you-" he pointed his wand at her and she flinched automatically, expecting a curse without preamble, "would recognise proper manners, Granger."
"What do you want? Finally come to finish me off?" she spread her arms in an inviting gesture. "By all means! Took you long enough!" Something in her voice triggered a response in Draco for he stood and bridged the short distance to her in three steps.
He stopped mere inches from her, and she practically felt his voice when he snarled, "Are you insulting my capabilities, mudblood?"
"Would you kill me if I said yes?" In an act of defiance, she raised her chin and met his icy glare. He was much too close. Not that distance would bring safety. Nothing for her was safe, except death.
In a split second, Draco had turned her and pinned her face-first to the nearest wall, her arms twisted behind her in his painful, unrelenting grip. She didn't want to grant him any gratification, so she suppressed her reactions to his manhandling by biting on her lip. The blood she drew felt strangely soothing in her mouth.
"Selwyn, Fawley, you're dismissed. I'm going to take care of this one personally," he commanded with an authoritative voice, and Hermione heard two sounds of apparition in short succession. She was alone with a demon.
His hold on her remained, and she felt the expensive wool of his robes scrape uncomfortably over the exposed skin over her hip and lower back where her cheap t-shirt had ridden up.
"My instinct didn't betray me when I found someone high up should pay you a visit in order to make sure you're still posing no threat to our peaceful, worthy, magical community. The one you're no longer a part of." Despite her insides being numb for so long, the woman felt a visceral shiver at his breath ghosting over her skin next to her ear. Her captor continued his monologue, "It gives me so much pleasure to see you writhing in the lowest levels of the muggle society, not even able to master a simple levitation spell. Alone. Helpless."
"You always got off on other's pain," she almost didn't recognise her own voice, husky and raw.
A cold, humourless chuckle was his reply while he pressed more of his weight against her body. "Power, not pain, mudblood." Draco shifted his body slightly, keeping her wrists fastened by one of his hands, the other tracing in a mock caress over her back, only to have his fingers grab around a bunch of her dull curls. He yanked her head back painfully slow, forcing her body to arch her back against him and her stance to widen. She was trapped between him and the wall. Long, absent dread coursed through her veins, her heartbeat quickening.
He stepped in the newly opened space amidst her legs, securing her position with his knees.
"You're at my mercy now, Granger, don't you agree?" It came to her that he wasn't speaking of killing her, judging by the way his intimate parts were now pushed up against her arse, a hard mass in her cleft signalling his definite arousal. Sick fucking bastard. He must have thought he would elicit a reaction from her with that; have her cowering in fear and sobbing at his feet, pleading with him to spare her. Dread and maybe anticipation? Yes. Fear? No.
"That would mean you have some mercy in you, but I don't think you ever did."
A dark and potent part of her wanted him to violate her, to make her moan in pain - to prove to her that she could still feel.
A/N: I'd be very happy if someone feels inspired to make a cover art for this story, because... I simply can't do that.