Warning: Mature language and themes are included in this. Physical violence, and possible sexual descriptions may trigger those who are squeamish.
Hermione is out of her mind, she's lost her sanity. And therefore, is not entirely herself for most of this. Draco is selfish, and more despicable than you probably want him to be.
If you don't like it, don't read it.
If you can't handle a downtrodden heroine, or a cold-blooded fiend, this is not the fic for you.
Sometimes the villains win. And with that triumph creates ugly possibilities that desecrate and change the very nature of the ones we once loved, turning them helpless.
xox
What if Harry had died when he was ready to let himself?
What if Dumbledore had been wrong; the seventh Horcrux theory a hoax? The greatest sacrifice our hero would and could make surely failing everyone and damning them forever.
Lord Voldemort would have won the war, and so much more from the single mistake.
Complete control of everything in arms reach in the UK, only a matter of time it would be before it spreads.
More importantly, what would have happened in response to his death? Where would Hermione or Ron go? What would happen to the Ministry, the Muggles, or Hogwarts? How would the Death Eaters choose to rule and would the rest give in once they decided? Could anyone fight anymore knowing it was fruitless, death imminent under a serpent's gaze?
You must comply to reap the rewards.
To the victor goes the spoils.
{}
"Bring her in."
The focus was drawn to thudding footsteps as a solitary man dragged the pale body into the centre of the ring. Heavy breaths, nervous ticks, and shaking legs were all noticeable features of the group included in this morbid celebration. Three years they had scoured the country and further to find her, and now in their grasp she lay. As her bones smacked the floor, the shove she was given quite hard, the sound reverberated into the silence.
The infamous mudblood, noted for her strong-tempered will and wit, didn't appear to live up to her namesake. Stroking the patches of stubble on his chin, her capturer wondered if she'd long given up any hope of escaping here alive. Wand snapped and in a home full of enemies, that prospect was laughable.
Hermione Granger, having been granted choice for the first time in days, dared to look up at her new assailants. Only to view pleased, nay jubilant, grey eyes.
If ever there was a man who looked most infuriating when smug, it was Lucius Malfoy. Something grated on her ears, startling her senses then as she was able to regain them; bouts of insane cackling that had disturbed the peace. It was Bellatrix Lestrange, laughing at her misfortune. To her left, her equally depraved husband bared his rotted teeth in pleasure.
"It would seem you've found yourself in our humble abode again….Miss Granger, was it? This time, I'm afraid to say you likely won't leave in one piece."
The condescending drawl she was all too familiar with cut across the traces of her skin like acid. She found the overwhelming urge to vomit desperately. Weak hands and a weary mind to the naked eye, she'd never let him know she was even more downtrodden than she appeared.
If only she could gather her nerves to speak. Hilarious it was, the way he carried himself. Last time she saw him, he was almost crying; skin sallowed, cheeks hollow, a mere mortal. But she hadn't uttered a word in days, and she knew better than to lose her temper now.
Lucius had made nice with his master. The cowardice that was ubiquitous in the past was shed when the only way to keep your life was to destroy others. And boy did a Malfoy enjoy having his honour and prestige.
Right after it was known that Harry died, that the wise Albus Dumbledore had been wrong, any morale to triumph over evil had all but dissolved. The carnage that ended the Battle of Hogwarts plagued Hermione still, fidgeting always in her dreams.
Everyone had scrambled to get away once they saw his limp form, as if the boy who no longer lived was infected. Anyone lucky enough to be in hiding or at home had dispersed immediately once word got out, flight infinitely the more practical than fight. The Ministry was already taken over, a joke nowadays, hardly an organization anymore. Voldemort called all the shots. He was infiltrating the Muggle world, slowly but surely. Recruiting and forcing so many more chumps into his web, he had moles and spies in every corner of the world he could get his slippery hands on.
The Malfoy elder was granted charge of co-ordinating crusades nowadays. 'Muggle-Born Registration Commission' was the code; the result an extermination of wand-stealers. Telling ruthless men where to go and what to find, quite the master schemer he'd become. Secretly, his staff reamed him behind his back, noting his twisted, contented face with each kill achieved. An expression of one who appeared like he had just gotten off.
Responsible for the deaths most recently of the Finnigans, the Prophet praised him for the success. The editor was, in no certain phrase, an unforgiving woman. The journalists always dreaded the screech of her calling them in to discuss each piece they wrote. New Ministry employees had suddenly become the epitome of a shining example once a reporter from the muggle news beat came from the head office with burns on his fingers. After the initial acclaim, Order of Merlin's were being awarded left and right to the men and women who eradicated people 'poisoning' the minds of the pure.
Lucius was fingering now the silver pin that came with that prize, twisting it around absentmindedly as he questioned his guests.
"Where is it you found her, exactly? I know our Lord will love to know. Prepare for the reward of a lifetime, Gerard."
Forever in her heart would that name bring her the anger of a thousand raging dragons. She kept her composure presently, his delightful sneer, his victorious gait not worth her minimal energy. The bastard had rung her in. He had given her the first scrap assurance in what felt like an eternity and stomped her spine into dust.
In any case, being caught by these assholes was paradise compared to what she'd been through.
This is nothing, she caught herself musing.
It was hard enough travelling when there was a ban on apparition, when any spell cast a great risk, when you had to hitchhike everywhere because your every move was tracked; she had made a rookie mistake when she was anything but.
"I found the little lamb wandering alone across the pond. She almost made it," he chuckled, face swimming with dark mirth.
Gerard Devereux, the wizard born in Quebec, a year older than she, vividly recalled jumping with recognition in his cramped office. Canadian criminal watch was his assignment; check out anyone who matched a remote description of the duo, she was last seen with the Weasley boy and they wanted his head too. He had access to all new police reports and security screens. Had the special, rare permission to Apparate.
On the west coast, running through the vast forests of Vancouver Island, she was arrested. Accidentally she had stepped five feet too far. The Kwakwaka'wakw were none too happy that a disheveled stranger wandered onto their reserve. Happy they were that she was an illegal immigrant and could call the patrol, entrance was prohibited to anyone not a member of the clan. Her distraught appearance was enough to get the authorities to question her before sending her to jail or on a plane, if only for a minute.
Struck with no ideas on how to explain what she was escaping, they wouldn't have bought any story, it didn't matter anyways. Miles away there sat a man licking his lips with a plan, heart pumping with adrenaline.
Using his fabricated influence, the British Columbian watch had released Hermione into Gerard's custody, posing for a senior officer regarding immigration law was a piece of cake. Taking her aside with fervent eyes, driving her to a hotel to talk, he was a muggleborn escaping Voldemort. Looked elated that she was still breathing. Fed her a story with false knowledge on how his master's progress was going. She was more than ecstatic to be safe for now. "They've spotted a doppelganger of you in Germany," he said in his stupidly endearing accent.
Relief and deluded belief that she wasn't alone anymore was all she felt. He'd driven a car well, he'd understood foreign currency, and as she soon would find out...he must have been an actor in another life.
One night of sleep, she woke up next to him when she fell asleep alone. Truth was he needed to rest, and arrogantly took the risk of slumber, noticing her smiling with unused muscles when they spoke. She had gotten in the middle of a much needed shower, her most vulnerable state, and then he was covering her mouth with a rag until she passed out. Stuffing her into dress and forcing her into a fireplace once she was conscious, her mind was controlled with Imperius for almost three entire days as they waited outside town for the approval of others that Gerard had the right girl.
The curse had lifted, her mind in limbo on the journey to Malfoy Manor was soothing even.
Right now her head flooded with thoughts of any one of the Death Eaters in here shooting sparks into her brain or heart, maybe torturing her before the fact.
In fact, if it were up to her, she could probably be content with it all, her limbs were exceptionally numb.
Feeling something might be a nice change.
Ron had been separated from her weeks earlier when their enemies managed to trail them in New York City. The crowds of Muggle tourists and civilians were never a worry to the relentless horde following the pair, so close they were to their target. They'd split up running in opposite directions once they heard somebody screech the killing curse, and she never found him again, he never made it back to their meeting spot. Risking herself by waiting longer than was justifiable, just like that he was out of her life. He was gone.
The only anchor in this constant nightmare lost, insanity overcame her. Already they'd been forced on the streets, soup kitchens used for sustenance, and many drunken nights spent at strangers hiding places. They couldn't be seen in public for very long, and the darkness had overcome them. It had become just a routine.
Ron was able to keep it together longer than she was because he'd already made the mistake before of cracking under pressure. He was determined not to lose the person who made him feel safest when he wasn't sure anyone else he treasured were dead or not. Leaving his family again was harder than he imagined, but Hermione had nothing and no one left.
But the breaking point for them both was a slow tortuous movement that made a spiral into madness with potency. Loss is a lethal injection that acts like terminal illness.
No word of Ginny or Fred, their mums or dads, any of their mates for months. For a year. Then for two. And now three.
Hermione was still a genius, that couldn't possibly go away. Yet no money, no magic, no shelter did a lot to people who'd always been blessed with it; camping the months previous was a breeze compared to this. She chose to forget about the future that would never be fulfilled so she could survive with Ron. Succumbing to react on how they felt, not what was right. Wit was only used now to get a hold of newspapers. She knew where all the magical places were and he could use his might when possible.
Ignorance really was bliss, they found out very early. If they managed to find a stray copy of the Prophet, they only were confronted with more obituaries, more graves.
Hermione's broken look said it all when Kingsley Shacklebolt was pronounced dead. Voldemort had finally touched Africa. In Nairobi, where he was raised, Kingsley defended an elementary school of wizard children who were filled mostly of half-bloods. It was bait, and it worked. Printed in bold was a planned attack by the Minister of International Affairs on said institution the week before, and city somehow had no idea what was coming. How could you refuse to fight when you were called out personally by the government? By the Dark Lord? Showing audacity, great sacrifice, to try and protect innocents when you were a powerful target was something an Auror couldn't ignore. Too great for Kingsley to refuse.
Nobody survived.
After that day, they never sought out newspapers again. Constant dread and worry about their safety, their health, and their loved ones drained them day by day, slowly reducing them to their baser instincts. All day Ron and Hermione would walk, accepting housing if it was offered, not taking heed to who their hosts were.
Forming a deep attachment to each other, a glance could convey a mountain of words and feelings. The only real pleasure they could get was of the body.
Delirious from reality, they often found themselves with nothing to do but kiss, lick, or fuck. So they did often, and they did so without care. Many nights were spent under trees, in the rain, in a public bathroom, melting their souls together in the only way they could have any semblance of love.
Their ethics flew out the window after sometimes having weeks without a proper meal. Sketchy teenagers or worse shared their drugs with them, or rum, bringing them home to do with them what they pleased.
Sometimes they'd be discovered in the middle of amorous activities, in parks or in cornfields. They'd be taken to studio apartments, to unfinished basements, where a strange man with a camera would film them sucking and banging. Would bathe them in exchange for more masturbation material. Would join in for a threesome and then let them crash on their couches. A pillow and warmth was worth casual, unprotected sex. Was worth being exploited.
There came a point in time right before she was captured where Hermione was propositioned for fun in exchange for food. Ron and she had been lying severely-dehydrated for hours on the outskirts of some random state in America. She couldn't recall how they'd got there, she couldn't recall what day it was.
One glance at her only friend, dying, and "Fuck it," bled from her lips. The farmer dropped his trousers and she begged for water before going down on him.
He brought her home, reluctantly dragging Ron, and stuck his cock in her, rougher than she could handle. With a gallon of h2o for them both and clean, second-hand clothes, he kicked them out in the morning. They found they were a few hours away from Manhattan when a commuter, in a rare act of kindness, drove them in to her work at a Brooklyn bank.
It was the following afternoon where it all went down. The Separation, she capitalized it in her head, as if it were a historic event everybody knew about.
Losing Ron, she had to leave. He'd always talked about settling near the ocean, maybe she'd find him there. Logically it would be better for her to go cross country than stay in the region she was, hoping that the Death Eaters put stock in her looking for him longer than necessary. She'd slummed it with sleazy drug smugglers and truckers for the ride there, mostly lonely men desperate for female companionship. Masked their faces with her lovers when they brought her to the truck beds, pretending it was just another night with a Weasley. Imagining the red hair instead of the black or the brown she was running her fingers through.
Her only drumming thoughts then were that she couldn't let herself get caught, this was the only victory she had left. Escaping them. Reuniting with him. What she had been trying to do could not be all for nothing. She couldn't let Ron down, let Harry down. And herself.
Now she lay in front of the people who loathed her for what she couldn't help being, with the mad desire to fall into hysterics.
How it was all for nothing.
All that suffering and she was surely meant to be executed tonight. They'd been unyielding in their endeavour to find her.
Brittle conversation wore on for a while, and she observed it with glassy eyes. Waiting for orders, for an appearance perhaps. They were restless, darting casual looks at their prisoner, muttering to each other that she was definitely scared silent. It couldn't possibly be that she didn't care anymore.
Finally, a silky voice was heard throughout the mansion. Combined with low whimpering.
"So sorry to be late like this. How terribly impolite of me, my friends." At the Dark Lord's entrance, every single person in the vicinity dropped to their knees. He wandered into the forefront, where Lucius stood back up, letting the mudblood watch his every move while she sat cross-legged. Smiling gaily at her vacant reaction. By the collar he was dragging a young lad, barely 17, holding a camera.
It became painfully clear what he was about to do.
Either flaunt her capture, or flaunt her demise.
"I merely had to gather somebody from the press to celebrate the wonderful news. Too exciting to keep it to ourselves. Come now, why are you upset? Oh, I know it's such an ugly sight, to see such filth dirty a pureblood home like this. But it's good news; good news. Won't you show your appreciation for this opportunity? Barnaby, was it?"
The terror in the boys eyes was unnerving, and as he locked onto her own gaze it only became more pronounced.
"Y-yes, m-my lord. B-b-b-barnaby. I'm – that's my - Thank you, my lord, T-thank you."
He clanked to the floor, kissing his master's robe hems, pleading with his whole being.
"As you very well know, Barnaby, this is the mudblood Hermione Granger, who has somehow, for the looks of it quite poorly, evaded capture for too long. Now Lucius, before I congratulate your continual success, who was the delegate who found her?"
"I am, Master," Gerard replied with confidence, swishing his cape as he bowed again. "It was all in knowing where to look. Quite easy to fool her once I got close enough, hmm?"
The circle laughed heartily, even Voldemort offered a paltry guffaw.
"And what happened, exactly? A tale for the Prophet, take notes, won't you?"
And Gerard regaled the tale, with prompts from his superior, making her sound as if she were some helpless harlot, though now, she thought, that assumption might not be a too much of a stretch.
"It was terrible, really. Lying next to her, and having her gross limbs muddle up against mine. Surely she wanted more than closeness of my flesh," he grimaced, causing cusses and insults to be thrown at her. "But, I endured it all for you, master. She trusted me enough to turn her back after one day. Stupid, filthy ,little mudblood," he hurled, spit landing onto her breast.
She didn't wipe it away.
"Oh, how horrible, Gerard. Such suffering. You must be duly rewarded, perhaps some prudent punishment for her will offer some vengeance to settle you for now? What shall it be, mudblood? The cruciatus curse? Maybe one of you would like to go at her without magic, with your bare hands?"
Plenty of volunteers chanted their approval.
"Perhaps a mix of both, don't want to touch tainted skin for prolong periods. I believe you are familiar with the cellar here, aren't you mudblood? Would you like to lie down there in the dark while somebody marks into your skin what you really are? Answer me."
With a flourish she felt her chin being lifted, Voldemort's sneer revealing he was lightly annoyed she had no recoil to his threats.
"Too stunned to reply? How insolent. Perhaps we should end her right now, perhaps that will send a message to all the people still fighting against me. And us."
Bellatrix screeched her heartfelt agreement, clapping with glee. Gerard's face glistened with contentment, and Barnaby went ghostly white.
It was the end.
She felt it.
Her last few breaths, famous last words were all she had left.
So she did the unthinkable:
She laughed.
It only took a few seconds to grant her the desired effect. Bellatrix lunged forward, screaming at her nerve, and slapped her with brute force. But the sting didn't feel bad.
Rousing them, a daring, mad act, made her fingertips and toes tingle. It relighted some of her willpower, made her remember why she stood against them in the first place. She'd been too far removed from what she was running from to remember all the traits of these terrible human beings. For once she had the control to toy with their feelings. She wasn't crying in fear or begging for life. If this was her fate, she was going to make sure they were vexed.
She'd never give in to their ideals. She'd never be swayed.
"Do it," she uttered, crystal clear. "Kill me."
Lucius widened in surprise, the rest disturbed or angered by the fearless command. Voldemort did the opposite and narrowed his red, glowing slits.
"You aren't afraid?" he asked with genuine curiosity, orbiting her emaciated figure inquisitively. "Surely you must be, otherwise you would've tried to fight me by now."
Hermione didn't respond.
And when Rodolphus punched her in the face at her impudence, she granted them a small mouthy grin, blood dripping down her cheeks from her nose.
More attempts were made to alarm her to the severity of the situation, by having Nagini trail her way around the girl in circles, slithering onto her skin, up her waist, and tightening coils around her neck. Loosening them when she didn't stir.
Voldemort stalked up to her then, examining all the physical damage; black bruises on arms, her legs. Cuts and scars littering every spare inch they could steal, her hair was wildly long, her eyes darkened with grey. She was certainly malnourished, probably snappable like a twig if so desired. Yet her aura was oddly calm, too calm for his liking.
"Strange," the Dark Lord noted, traceless of any emotion as he backed away. "She's obviously been abused, but having her here is not as satisfying as I'd hoped, how irritating. She's cracked...But I think, perhaps...with the right hand...we can get something from her eventually. Evoke some memories from the past. She's ready to die, she's willing. So she must wait."
"My lord?" Gerard questioned, earning him a hard stare. He swallowed, recovering quickly. "What then would you, ahem, suggest we do with her, master? I thought you'd want her disposed of -well - I. I apologize that this isn't how you wanted it to be."
"Now, now, the fault is not yours. Clearly she's out of her mind, so obviously, we must bring her back to normal."
"N-normal, my lord?" Lucius spluttered. "Why- ?"
Voldemort spun round to face the window, grinning to himself.
He had so many prospects and things to spend his time on, fixating on a silly mudblood was almost useless.
It was clear that she'd struggled all this time. But all the same…she was Potter's best friend, and she symbolized everything he hated. Everything he lived to eradicate. Embodied the notion that muggles had rights and could be a witch or wizard, and could be more intelligent or worthy than someone like him who was born to be magical. Her nerve was nearly admirable, though idiotic, and she needed a swift kick off her horse.
Hermione suddenly went limp. As he strode back into the middle, hands behind his back clutching his wand, the Dark Lord kicked her with gusto in the ribs.
"Obviously bringing her physical pain does barely any harm. Death would be futile. We can show the world what happens to them if they disobey by using her as an example. I doubt this one will ever be open to working for us, though that would be a delicious slap in the face to them all. No, we need to make her remember what she misses, need to let her know how much of a foolish, naughty miscreant she's been. She needs to have feelings to be humiliated. To understand she doesn't deserve to think she's even worthy of ever being called a witch. Needs to know how wrong she was to side with Potter, and how much of an abomination it is that she exists. Psychological warfare, if you will. Then we can break her apart when she remembers her, what is it? Love."
Nobody said a thing as he so smoothly explained this, his anger undermining the calm tone he was portraying.
"I'm unsure of who I want to take control of this task. I need somebody inventive. Perhaps unexpected. No doubt it will be difficult, but it might be fun. For now, Lucius, I think the mudblood needs to rest."
She was lifted off the ground, floating into the arms of a gruff Death Eater who coud have held two of her. Wanting her to know nothing of where she was when she awoke, the Dark Lord did want her to be comfortable and alert. If she was empty, she couldn't respond.
"I'll be back momentarily, take her to a spare bedroom in an unused part of the house."
Instructing Barnaby to take a snapshot of Hermione barely alive, the photographer took forever, finally getting a clear shot after fumbling with shaking hands. They smoked away in the fireplace to bring the boy back to the Prophet and report the findings. Word would be out in the morning.
Perhaps this would cause an uprising of angry blood traitors to try and discover her whereabouts, Voldemort pondered after he returned the spare to his job. Stressing to him before he returned that he and his writer work efficiently on the story and run it by the Carrows before printing it front page.
Perhaps this would be the wakeup call the plebeians needed to realize what side they should be on, what side was right. Kingsley Shacklebolt's death caused a ripple of uncertainty the year before, it could probably be bigger with this one. Knowing Granger, another of the three, was down. Perhaps he could scare the other leaders of rebellion into alliance, and then, compliance. Perhaps this capture was filled with bigger prospect than he expected it to be.
Toiling for another hour, pacing the drawing room with antsy followers, he narrowed down his candidates for the assignment. It had to be somebody personal, somebody she had experience with. A member of the opposite sex, perhaps, to provoke her more strongly. He didn't understand the human mind, or the female mind for that matter. But he understood that the mudblood had, or did have, quite the attitude. And only certain people could trigger it again. Knew enough about her to make her react.
With these thoughts swirling around, a fitting, unlikely name popped into his head.
"Lucius?" he called, every face whipping to the master of the house.
"Yes, my lord?" he answered, chest tightening in anticipation.
"Where is Draco?"