DISCLAIMER: Anything that you recognize and have read before belongs to our beloved JKR, and I do not intend to use it for my profit except for scores in QLFC.

Written for the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition Round 8 (Dystopian Future), as Beater 2 of Falmouth Falcons.

PROMPT: What would life be like two years after Voldemort rises to power?

Optional Prompts:

# (dialogue) "Who cares? We could be dead in a couple of hours."

# (word) cruel

WORD COUNT: 1724

A big thanks to Captain Arty and my co-beater Tigger for looking through it!

A Fate Better Than Death

It was with shaky steps that Hermione left the castle for good. The past two years at Hogwarts had taught them nothing about magic, for the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had now become the Hogwarts School of Wench Training. In other words, a torture chamber for females who were trained to produce the next generation of Death Eaters.

Two years of living in that prison had conditioned the girls to a state that had become their normal: shingled hair, hands tied at their backs, mouths gagged, and deprived of clothes. Now that they were fully trained, they were being taken to Hogsmeade.

She blinked her tears back. She wasn't going to give them the pleasure of knowing she was weak and was falling to their cruelty.

Her insides churned as she remembered what the Carrow bitch had said: 'Today, twelve of your number will be leaving the securities of the castle to step into the bigger world. Ten revered wizards will select ten of the twelve beautiful girls, and the other two will leave...' The words strengthened her resolve. She couldn't even think of herself in the position the cruel bastards were pushing the girls into. She would never give up her virginity to a man she never knew; she was never going to give birth to another puppet of Voldemort. She would rather die... death would definitely be far better than what life had become.

Knowing her end was near, she let her mind drift to dark memories she had locked away. Ron, Harry, Neville... they had all fallen one by one. How she wished she had met with the same fate as theirs! Death to her was like a candy inside a closed jar—so near, yet out of her reach.

She thought of when the maniac had laughed as Hagrid placed a dead Harry at his feet. How Bellatrix had cackled when Nagini took Neville's life away. She did not know how many people had died that night, but she was sure they had gotten the better deal. Wizards of the light were murdered, and witches were all brought under the cruel yoke of Voldemort—demanded to provide wombs for future generations of Death Eaters.

The fear in her heart multiplied with each step, escalating beyond limits as the village came into view. All she could wish was that no one from the Death Eaters picked her up—that she got a quick way out through death. But deep inside, Hermione knew there was no chance of that. Who would let go of a chance to impregnate the mudblood sidekick of Harry Potter?

She and the other girls were taken to the village square. She could see the Three Broomsticks in the distance, and her heart clenched as the good old memories came flooding back to her—playing with Ron and Harry in the snow, sipping butterbeer in the pub, eating candy at Honeydukes, looking at the post owls. What once used to be a colourful village with people gallivanting about was now reduced to a black-and-white Death Eater camp. She came out of her reverie when the masked figures exited the pub. She wondered who was running it now, for Rosmerta had been one of the first to have graduated from the Hogwarts School of Torture.

She was brought out of her trance when she was forced onto the makeshift stage along with the others. She felt disgusted with herself as her modesty was publicised at the village square, with no means to protect herself.

As Headmistress Carrow began with the formalities, she tuned her out, once again falling into the pit of old memories, which were now just faded scenes at the back of her mind, her brain questioning if they were even real.

"Granger," someone called out, and Hermione felt her body go numb. She pretended not to have heard it, but as someone shoved her towards the blond Death Eater, the dam of tears she had kept locked in for two years broke.

"C'mon," he said, tugging at her hand. Twenty staggering steps later, he Apparated her away.

Hermione found herself in a living room. Last she had been here, Bellatrix had tortured her with her wand and that knife. She looked around, unable to hide her fear. They hadn't physically hurt them at Hogwarts, but she knew Bellatrix Lestrange wouldn't hesitate to do that.

Hermione turned and froze. The Death Eater had removed his mask, and grey eyes were staring at her. As if sensing her fear, he caught her by the arm. She flinched, knowing what was probably coming next.

"Relax, Hermione. I won't do anything." He shook his cloak off and covered her with it. With a wave of his wand, she felt the rope around her wrists loosen. With another flick, the gag on her mouth was gone. Now clothed and free, she took a step back, not believing a word of what the Death Eater said.

Malfoy took hold of her arm again, his grip soft, yet firm. He led her into a bedroom, and a shiver ran down her spine. She was not ready to be used by a man—especially not this one.

"Why don't you go take a bath?" He pointed to a door on the left. Hermione frantically shook her head. She had finally got clothing on her body after two years; there was no way she was stripping again. "I'm going out, a House-elf will leave some clean clothes for you."

Hermione stood there, confused. Was Malfoy actually being nice to her? Or was he just treating her kindly before he was going to use her—like one would fatten up a goat before killing it? Another memory from the Hogwarts Massacre came to her mind then, and she found herself feeling more uncertain than before.

"Harry!" she cried. Harry flew down to her and soon she was in the air. "Where's Ron?"

"I don't know," he replied, and turned the broom in the opposite direction. There was no sign of the redhead but someone was waving for help. Harry pushed the old broom in that direction and helped Malfoy onto it.

"Thanks," the blond said, but neither of the two heard. They were busy searching for their third friend, who was nowhere to be found.

The visibility was getting lower, and it was becoming difficult to breathe. The flames were dancing near their ankles, and they had no choice but to escape them now, lest they themselves be lost to the fire. Finally giving up, they made their way to the door, collapsing on the floor as soon as they were out of the room.

"Ron..." Hermione croaked, breaking into sobs. Turning to Malfoy, she asked, "Crabbe and Goyle?"

The blond just shook his head.

Hermione turned back to where Harry was sitting a few moments ago, only to find that he was gone. She wasn't sure how it happened, but the next thing she knew, she was in Draco Malfoy's arms, sobbing into his shoulder.

"S-Shouldn't y-you be s-s-somewhere else? Why are you s-sitting here w-with m-m-me? We're not f-friends."

"Who cares? We could be dead in a couple of hours," he replied and tightened his grip around her shoulders.

Hermione shuddered at the memory. Neither of them had died. She hadn't seen Malfoy after that, but that incident had certainly made them something better than enemies, if not friends.

In the end, she decided to take a bath after all. Not because he had suggested it, but because she couldn't remember the last time she had taken one alone. The Carrows used to push them under a shower six at a time, and she didn't know when she would get another chance. She cleaned herself quickly, as she was accustomed to, but did use the shampoo and the soap bar—things that had become a luxury to her in those two years—and dressed up in the silk robes a House-elf had laid out for her.

The door was ajar, and she wanted to escape, but fear kept her rooted to the spot. Looking around the room, she took in the various objects at her disposal that could be used as weapons if need be. Her feet moved of their own accord, leading her closer to a dresser with a candelabra on it. She went rigid as Malfoy entered the room, all her senses ready to fight or flee at a moment's notice.

She didn't know how he had known that she was dressed and ready. Perhaps he had put an army of house-elves to keep an eye on her and give reports. She shuddered at the thought that an elf had seen her bathe, but then, what was new in that? She had roamed naked for the past two years!

"We're leaving," he said, looking her in the eye. "Leaving the country, I mean."

Hermione scowled. "Why? Is this room not enough if you want to r-rape me?" She didn't know where the confidence came from, but she found herself glaring straight at him.

"I would never take advantage of a girl, Hermione," he replied, his words sincere. "Today was the first time I witnessed the cruelty they've bestowed upon women, and instead of being forced to partake in it, I was able to rescue a friend." Hermione's heart fluttered at 'friend'—the word that had vanished from her vocabulary two years ago was now back, from a totally unexpected source, too. "I never wanted to live this life, and I'm sure neither do you."

She stared at the man she had once punched in the face. Hermione couldn't believe this was the same Malfoy who used to look for any opportunity to get her and her friends into trouble. Then she came to a realisation. Just as people had never tried to get to know Harry past the Boy-Who-Lived, no one—even Draco himself—had tried to look at Draco past the conniving Malfoy that they thought he was. The war seemed to have burnt down the curtains people had held in front of their eyes.

"Thanks, Draco," she replied, and she knew she was right to have addressed him so the moment his face lit up in a smile. Perhaps this was her chance to finally escape from her once terrible fate...

—oOoOo—