A/N: In an attempt to clear away the cobwebs in my brain (and hopefully the writer's block with it) I decided to jump back over here and post a new chapter. Please regard the previous chapter's warnings before proceeding. I have no current update schedule for this story, but hopefully the muse will allow me to write equally in all my fics soon.

Chapter Two

May 1st, 2005

The Fidelius Charm, what had once been the Orders great secret, had been Hermione's downfall.

With Voldemort as the Secret Keeper for every one of his Death Eaters, each safe house had been virtually impregnable by whatever factions of the Order still might have existed out in the world. The fight still went on, she knew. Moved from one Death Eater's home to another, she had gotten very good at eavesdropping. After years of torment and abuse, she was less than a house-elf to most of them—invisible to those who had grown bored with cursing her existence—so she heard when they complained about the resistance.

She had been with Dolohov for less than a month before he had somehow disappointed Voldemort when a revel was ransacked by a ragtag group made up of Dumbledore's Army and Order members. She did not know who had been there, but Dolohov had cursed the Weasley family through his teeth as Hermione was pulled from his grip by Archibald Selwyn, who had apparently been given her as a reward for killing someone important. The Death Eater had not felt much like he had been rewarded when she dug her fingernails into his face and clawed at him, channelling her beloved Crookshanks as she hissed and scratched and spit. Selwyn slapped and then stunned her in retaliation. When she woke up again, her body was bruised and her arm was broken, but Selwyn had vicious-looking scabs down his face. Amused by her attack, Voldemort had forbidden the Death Eater from healing himself.

Hermione was thrown in a cellar and ignored until Selwyn became a disappointment.

And the war went on.

The Wizarding world fell into chaos. From what she could tell, the Wizengamot had been utterly demolished along with any source of proper government. Voldemort reigned as a vicious tyrant, hidden in the shadows and letting his Death Eaters control what little there was to actually control in the world. Many half-bloods were killed or switched sides against their will, Imperiused to the point of mindless servitude, and Muggle-borns were captured and enslaved—like her.

She had been alone amongst house-elves and Death Eaters for close to a year when she saw another Muggle-born for the first time. Justin Finch-Fletchley had been brought into Jugson's home, where she had been for three weeks after Selwyn had died in battle, killed by an unknown curse cast by Luna Lovegood of all people. The man had bled internally for seven days, screaming in agony, and no amount of magic was able to detect the spell or counter it.

Hermione laughed herself sick, and then she had been Crucio'd for her amusement.

She kept quiet when Justin was brought in, knowing that speaking would certainly have them separated. She pretended to not know him, kept her eyes downcast, moved around the house in the rag that she had been given to wear, and went about her chores like a house-elf, watching and waiting.

"You're alive," Justin said in astonishment. "Do you know who else is out there? I ran into a group led by some Aurors that escaped the Ministry before it was destroyed. We were on our way to some supposed meet up with the rest of the Order of the Phoenix. We were attacked in the woods," he said, choking on a sob. "They killed Cho and her father, and . . . and Professor Sprout."

Hermione closed her eyes, trying to bury the grief in the same place that she kept the pain she still felt at the memory of Harry's dead body lying at Voldemort's feet. "Is the resistance strong? I heard that—"

"Making friends?" Bellatrix asked, appearing in the hallway and staring down at the Muggle-borns. "Well, well, that won't do. You still think you're people."

"Someone should fix that," a deep voice said from around the corner, and Hermione looked up to see a large man standing behind Bellatrix, glaring at her. "That Potter's Mudblood?"

Bellatrix smirked. "Not anymore. Potter's long dead. His body would be rotting in the ground somewhere had we kept it. Of course, the Dark Lord wanted to string the boy up like a flag. Fly his corpse high so that everyone could see," she said, her eyes glistening with delight. "No, she's just another Mudblood now. Not special in the slightest."

The man snarled. "She was with Potter and Weasley . . . when my . . . my poor boy . . ."

Bellatrix sneered. "Don't weep all over me, you blubbering fool! If you want the wretched thing, you'll have to earn her like everyone else. Do something worthwhile, and I'll see to it that the Dark Lord passes her along as a gift. Then you can do whatever you'd like to the little bitch."

The man grinned. "I'm going to set her on fire."

Hermione shivered with genuine fear as she realised who he was: Crabbe's father.

"Fuck you!" Justin snapped, spitting at the Death Eaters.

Hermione dove to protect him, knowing what was coming, but already weak and starved and without a wand, she was thrown to the side easily. Bellatrix laughed and held her down with a Body-Bind as Crabbe's father choked the life out of Justin right in front of her eyes.

Thankfully, Crabbe's father never did anything worthwhile to earn her as a reward. In fact, he had gone and gotten himself killed in battle alongside Goyle's father and Jugson when the Death Eaters tried to overtake the Burrow. Supposedly, the old, crooked house had been abandoned since the Battle of Hogwarts, but vicious wards—likely thanks to Bill Weasley—had been in place and had torn the Death Eaters to pieces, quite literally.

Hermione had been transferred to the Lestranges after that.

Passed around, bartered, gifted, and sold, Hermione saw other Muggle-borns from time to time—some half-bloods as well—used like house-elves, whores, and money. Traded for goods and services or used as goods and services. There was rarely any organisation to it all. Some tried to implement it, but Voldemort's insanity—from what she could gather from the quiet complaints of his followers—seemed to counteract any effort the intelligent Death Eaters put forth in an attempt to rebuild a society.

"It's like he's broken," she had heard Mulciber whisper once. Hermione hid her smile, finding the irony amusing in that the Death Eaters were terrified of Voldemort's instability, still feared him, still thought him immortal. All the while they had a witch under their noses who knew the truth, and they were using her to wash their floors. She didn't even know if she would tell them if they asked nicely.

When the worst of the lot began making threats to her person, staring at her with longing and hunger that made her skin chill in horror, she knew she needed a plan. Escape was impossible. She had tried too many times to no avail and always ended up severely injured; once she had almost died only to be revived via mouth-to-mouth by Thorfinn Rowle—likely because he thought it was funny—and she resolved to never let one of them touch her again.

So during a party where she was placed on display like a piece of art (a piece of art to be mocked and spat on and idly threatened), she passed through the crowd with her eyes on the ground, making her way across the ballroom of Rookwood Keep. Spotting Fenrir Greyback in the corner, she watched as the Death Eaters sneered at him and then at her, and that was when she acted. Approaching the werewolf less than one week from the full moon—at least she assumed by the jittery way he fidgeted—Hermione pressed her palm against his trousers, bared her neck to him, and whispered, "I dare you."

When she woke two weeks later after the Blood Replenishing Potions had finished reviving her and the wounds had been mostly healed, Hermione smiled as Rabastan Lestrange told her that she was lower than Mudblood filth now that she had been infected by a half-breed beast. She would not be a werewolf herself, but the scars on her neck, shoulders, and arms would forever remind the Death Eaters that Greyback had tainted their prize.

None of them wanted to fuck her after that.

She treasured her scars in private, prayed for the survival of her friends, kept her nose clean and her eyes down to avoid conflict, and mostly she tried to stay invisible.

Then they killed Ron.

And she stabbed Alecto Carrow in the cheek with a salad fork when they told her about it.

Alecto tried to kill her right there at the dinner table where Hermione was supposed to have been serving their drinks, but the Dark witch had been stopped by Thoros Nott, who said that Hermione had amused him. He had been strangely kind to her over the years, at least, as kind as a Death Eater could be. Instead of violence and rage, he gave her indifference and chores. A part of her wondered if Thoros Nott would have let her go on her way, finish her chores and grieve in peace, but Rabastan Lestrange had witnessed the attack.

She had been thrown in a dungeon and left there, alone, for six months.

When she turned to greet the elf that normally brought her dinner, the colour and feeling drained from her face at the sight of Theo Nott, standing in the doorway of her cell. She had seen him from time to time over the years. The younger generation of Death Eaters seemed to be always working, often replacing the quickly dying first guard in Voldemort's inner circle. The boy had grown into a man over the years, aged by time and darkness and war. But unlike most, he made eye contact with her when he said, "Get up, Granger. I'm taking you . . . to my home."

She stood slowly, cautiously, looking at his hands and waiting to see if he would strike her, hex her, curse her as she moved. When he did nothing but step aside, she took a chance and spoke. "Am I yours now?"

Nott sighed, broke eye contact as though he were suddenly ashamed. "Tonight, yes," he admitted quietly. "And then tomorrow you'll go to Zabini. Then to Goyle, and Flint, and Pucey, and . . . down through the ranks for the rest of the week."

Her eyes widened. She thrived on routine; it had kept her alive and sane the past . . . How many years had it been? This was different. She had never been with one for just one night. She would stay for weeks, months, sometimes a year or so until they did something to earn Voldemort or Bellatrix's wrath, or lost her in a bet, or needed something and had only Mudbloods to trade. But a plan like this? And so many of the younger generation? Something wasn't right.

"Why?"

Theo Nott looked down. "You're being given away. As a gift or reward, I'm not entirely sure. Someone messed up. You're being given to him in marriage as punishment for his failures. Or maybe you're his second chance. Who can tell what the fuck Bellatrix is . . . No one knows what they're doing anymore."

Hermione ignored most of his ramblings, focusing instead on one thing. "Marriage?"

Theo nodded, clearing his throat. "Married to one of us. But . . . you're to be defiled by his comrades first as a point of shame."

Defiled.

She stared at Theo Nott and tried to remember how if felt to be Hermione Granger, the witch he had known in passing at Hogwarts instead of the Mudblood slave in front of him. Had she stood tall and proud, staring her peers in the eye before she had been forced to do the same to her enemies? Or had she been carefree—as carefree as Hermione could have ever been—and walked with relaxed shoulders and a sparkle in her eyes. Regardless, she tried to find herself and could not help but take a step away from the man, grimacing as she caught the way her body reacted in fear to the word. Defiled.

She knew what it meant. She had seen it happen to a few other slaves, but more often to Muggles that were brought in for entertaining purposes. Despite the need for Death Eaters to prove their superiority to Muggle-borns, very few liked to do so sexually. Those that did were looked down on by others, like men who still enjoyed smoking cigarettes when their peers had quit the filthy habit and were now disgusted by the smell of smoke. Before she provoked Greyback, three had developed such an addiction to Hermione, but they were either dead or wishing they were, and each had only been near enough just the once.

Still . . . the word "defiled" and its implication reminded her of fear and sweat and blood, and she tensed when Theo reached out for her.

"We have to go. I have orders."

When she moved away from his outstretched hand, his eyes flickered to the heavy metal collar around her neck, and she understood what he was thinking. She had no true way to fight him should he use magic on her.

Long after her wand had been removed, magic still moved at the tips of her fingers, swirled in the back of her brain, and tingled on her skin. The first man to try and touch her against her will, Amycus Carrow, needed to have all of his skin grown back overnight when her wandless magic had melted it off of his body. She'd been locked away, drowned in Dreamless Sleep to keep her and her magic under control until they came up with a new plan. Weeks later, she had been fitted with the experimental collar that stifled her magic deep inside, preventing her from lashing out. The next time she had seen another Muggle-born, they'd been wearing something similar. Thankfully, her encounter with Greyback was just weeks later, so none of the Death Eaters were tempted to test out her newly repressed magic by trying to fuck her werewolf-tainted body.

"I'll go," she said quickly when she saw Theo reach a hand into his pockets.

He frowned and continued moving, slowly, pulling out a handkerchief and handing it out to her. "You're crying," he said, handing over the bit of cloth.

She hadn't realised.

He led her to his home, stopping only to greet his father on the way.

Thoros Nott looked at his only son over a stack of parchments and books and said, "You know your duty," before giving one last glance to Hermione. She had been directed toward the fireplace and had to hold onto Theo so she would not collapse onto the brick hearth in the lavish flat when they arrived.

She followed in silence, looking for a way out—always looking for a way out—but saw none. The fireplace sat in a large room with a bed in the far corner, and her skin ran cold at the sight of it. Defiled. She reached up to tug at her hair, a nervous habit, only to remember how short it was still. Complaining about her filthiness and attempting to subdue her for his own amusement, Rowle had shaved her head. Her once luscious, wild locks had eventually grown back in, though her curls were traded for limp, unhealthy hair. A part of her wondered if it was because she now lacked the magic to put the spring in each strand.

"You look different." Theo made his way across the room, pulling back the duvet on the bed. "I won't join you," he said firmly, "but I imagine you could use a few years proper sleep." When she eyed him suspiciously, he sighed, obviously tired himself. "There's a guest room connected to this one. I'll be in there. Don't touch the doors. All Death Eaters are required to have blood wards that prevent Muggle-borns from going where they're not allowed. Even if I were to change them, someone would notice and then I'd have to explain that. I don't like explaining my actions."

And then he left.

It had taken her an hour to move from the spot where she stood near the fireplace, waiting for the bottom to fall out of the basket. When she did eventually reach the bed, her dirty fingers, skin cracking around her nails, touched the soft blankets and she flinched away from them. Not trusting a Death Eater, Hermione pulled the cases from the large pillows on the bed and used them as makeshift sheets as she crawled onto the ledge near a window to rest, keeping her eyes on the door until exhaustion forced her to sleep.

May 2nd, 2005

She'd woken and refused to eat when Theo brought her a plate.

At the sight of the unused bed, he briefly looked stricken, but she brushed the thought away. When it crept back in at his concerned expression when she didn't eat, she remembered that his father had never harmed her like the others, nor even really spoke of doing such a thing. A political Death Eater, she assumed, like Lucius Malfoy, who she had seen only once in the years since the war. He had stared at her at the end of a chain that Rodolphus Lestrange kept her on and swallowed nervously before looking away. She heard he had died since then, but never knew what had happened.

Theo took her through the Floo to Blaise Zabini's home, and she was overwhelmed by how warm it smelled. Cinnamon and apples and fire—a strange scent for spring, but it fit the man who actually smiled at her until Theo Nott cleared his throat and gave her a soft shove toward the other Death Eater.

Zabini smiled, and she narrowed her eyes. "Well, Granger. We're going to be good friends, now aren't we?"

"Blaise!" Theo hissed in reproach.

Zabini rolled his eyes. "Relax. I'm not going to touch her."

"You know your duty," Theo said, repeating the words of his father. "Make sure she gets to Goyle's safely. He and I have to deal with Pucey so that there's not a problem later on. You stay with her until he shows up, understand?"

"Yes, Dad," Zabini said, laughing when Theo glared at him before vanishing into the green flames of the fireplace.

Hermione stared, shocked by their demeanour, mostly Zabini, who seemed relaxed in her presence and almost unaware of the fact that he was supposed to be defiling her.

"Want something to eat? You look starved." When she didn't reply, his casual smile faded. "A bath maybe then?"

At the word, she actually bared her teeth, recalling a night two years ago when Travers's wife tried to drown her in a tub. No sound came out, but Zabini took the warning and put both hands up in supplication.

"Granger," he said, voice soft. "I can't go into details, but you're safe here. I'm not going to touch you."

"Wasn't that the point?" she snapped. "I'm to be defiled by the peers of my future husband," she spat the word. "Don't think I don't know what's going to happen to me. I know what happens to Muggle-borns who are forced to marry Death Eaters."

She remembered the night that Dennis Creevey had been pulled from a cell next to her when Alecto had thrown a fit about not being able to kill Hermione. She and Nott had fought over the matter, and eventually, Dennis had been called up. Alecto, the last female of her family since her nieces Flora and Hestia had been killed at the Battle of Hogwarts, was forced to marry the Muggle-born boy. He had turned up dead the next day, or so the house-elf had informed Hermione.

Likewise, she had been brought in to help clean Nott Manor once and ran into Alicia Spinnet. When she tried to speak to her fellow former Gryffindor, the girl had pleaded with her silently until Rookwood, her husband, came to fetch her. He had displeased Bellatrix a month earlier, and his pureblood line was supposed to end with him thanks to his new Mudblood bride. Unfortunately, Alicia died of mysterious circumstances, and Rookwood came home from a revel shouting excitedly that he had murdered Filius Flitwick and used that to beg his way back into Voldemort's good graces.

"Who is it?" she asked Zabini. "Who am I supposed to marry?"

He frowned and averted her gaze. "Who would you want to marry?"

"Not a Death Eater!"

He nodded. "I mean . . . if you had a choice, Granger, honestly. I . . . We need to know this. Would you willingly bond yourself to anyone in the world?"

A flash of green eyes flew through her mind against her will, and she flinched at the memory of the colour, so very different from the hunter green drapes that covered Zabini's windows and accented pillows on his sofa. She shook her head, forcing away the tears that she thought had dried up years ago.

"Anyone," she whispered. "I would bond myself to anyone if it got me away from that."

Zabini followed her stare to the Dark Mark on his forearm, and he nodded thoughtfully. "That's good to know, Granger, it really, really is."