Chapter Two

Unnamed

Draco smoothed the paper over his desk. He was glad for his parents teaching him French when he was younger as everything he read lately was in that language, for he no longer lived in England, but a remote location in France. Alone.

That was indeed Voldemort's punishment. For their incompetence for letting the Golden Trio go Draco was repaid by the death of his parents.

However he was tough. Dragon's hide had nothing compared to him. Most people would be severely scarred by their parents passing. He was prepared. He grieved, he went through his six stages. He grew up knowing that certain possibility. At one point when he was four his father faked his death. Draco remembered crying for hours until his eyes were sore and raw. When the "lesson" was over, his father said, "now son you know what it feels like. Next time, it'll be easier."

Draco was smart and perhaps a bit conceited about it. He knew that his turn was next. The next mistake, the next time Voldemort lost his temper he would die like his parents. There was only one way out. He ran. He was good at getting out of trouble, he made it a past-time when he was a boy. But now he was an adult, and was under the reign of the most evil of Wizards. Running was his only option.

He read each line of the Wizarding newspaper again and again. He could hardly believed what he read. The tiny flame of hope that he kept alive for so long was extinguished only to leave a burning ember in its place, the only ray in his life.

There was a massacre at the Prewett home where Muriel Prewett had apparently died of old age. It was in her house that the Weasley's and the Lupin's were gathered. Officials which were no longer known as Auror's but Death Eaters say that it was a close win. Seventeen out of twenty Death Eaters died. Only one of the blood traitors lived. They first thought it was Ginny Weasley, but the Weasley girl was naturally beside Potter. No, this girl was an unknown but she had to be a Weasley with the vivid red hair.

Somehow, somewhere inside of him he knew the truth. It wasn't a Weasley, it was a Granger. She was the only one of the trio that was not mentioned, and she wouldn't dare leave their sides. The truth had to be that someone attempted to hide her identity, keeping her safe after their death. It had to be the Weasley boy. Ron. Because only someone with his lack of brains would do something like that.

Death was preferable to those who lived. When blood-traitors, or Mudblood's (all the same) lived they were sold like animals. Rarely did they live, but it was a more horrible death than the one they would have had in the beginning.

If Ron had any brains, he would've killed Granger himself.

On the other hand... Could Draco have done it? He couldn't even manage to kill the Headmaster, or give up the trio's name in his lounge two years ago. He didn't have the guts. But if he tried to kill Granger... It had nothing to do with guts. He didn't have the heart as odd as that sounded for him. It was out of place in his character, but it was true.

That's what made his decision. He would clean up the mess that Weasley left. He would save Granger.

Anyhow, he was alone.

***

The screams were background noise. The cold was numbing. The hard concrete floor of the cell she was in could have been a comfy bed for as well as she was concerned. She was dead inside. She was no one. She was unnamed.

Her curly red hair was a curtain over her face. Red... The exact color of Ron's. It even smelled like his, light and airy. Her jacket - Harry's jacket was wrapped tightly around her pressed under her nose to smell the wood polish of it, the scent of him.

She didn't dare close her eyes. She stared at the iron bars guarded by magic and marching Death Eaters in bone white masks. If she closed her eyes she would see the green light, their deaths, all the bodies. Ron's tortured face. She would scream with the others, she would bawl. And she would have the Cruciatus curse used on her like the others.

She was there for two days refusing to eat the stale bread and muddy water they gave. Her stomach pains were diminished by the next day. She didn't feel anything but the aching where her heart would've been. She was shaking, upset, and angry. She was everything that she never been before. Not truly. Not so furiously.

Unnamed... That's what Ron told her. She was Unnamed. No one. Nothing.

The girls on either cell of hers were bought. Bought like animals, but they weren't slaves... No, slaves did work. They were tortured and slaughtered, used for the Death Eater initiation. Sometimes wolf-whistling men would buy the women, and for that she didn't even want to think about. She wished for once in her life that she couldn't think.

"You! Stand!"

Hermione obeyed robotically and went to the entryway. She couldn't see the guard speaking to her, it was too dark to make anything out, the cells dimmed by magic. It was like putting a bag over an alligators head. They couldn't see so they calmed. Like animals they were...

"This one," said a familiar deep voice that she didn't have the energy or purpose to place.

"Sir, you don't want this one. A mute, she is."

"Tell me her history."

"Excuse me?"

"Are you deaf?"

The guard coughed gruffly. "No, sir, no. Her history, yes. She's the one found at the Weasley's, you heard about that, did you? Harry Potter was there. They all died, except for her. We suspect that one of them cursed her because her wand showed no signs of attacking back."

"Her name?"

"Doesn't have one, sir. We think she's a Weasley. That red hair... But she's a Mudblood for sure. Doesn't make sense..."

"I want her."

"Sir -"

"Do you have a problem understanding orders?"

"I'm here to help you, sir, pick out the best one."

"I've made my choice."

"Well - uh - okay then. I suppose that's fine, sir."

"How much is she?"

"Twenty galleons."

"That's all?"

"A mute, like I said."

There was the sound of metal coins clicking together, and the sound of the door opening with a loud screech.

A cold hand grasped her forearm pulling her roughly out. She stumbled behind him.

They walked through the dark hallways, shadows of hands reaching through the bars wishing to be taken – to die. They went up multiple staircases until they reached a door that brought them outside to the sunny atmosphere. It was funny how she thought that the sky would be black. Didn't the sun die the day hers did?

"Shhh, we'll be inside soon."

She didn't realize that she had been crying, tears streaming their usual tracks down her cheeks. The sun was painful to her eyes. Even with light, she couldn't see.

How appropriate, she thought.

***

Hermione was too thin for Draco's tastes. He had to get a little food in her as soon as possible. She also needed a bath, he could practically smell the salt, dirt, blood, and sweat from her.

He led her halfway down the street when her fumbling footsteps made him scoop her in his arms. He carried her down the street to the nearest fireplace in a dark arts store. No one glanced his way, no one asked questions. It was normal to see death. Nearly everyone in the Wizarding world could see thestrals.

Draco wasn't stupid though, he kept his black cloak around him, his hood over his head, moving with quickness and stealth. He knew that he was a wanted man for betraying the late Voldemort. It wasn't as if Potter's heroic act kept their world safe. On the contrary it was worse, all of Voldemorts followers - Death Eaters - stood to rally against them. They were a lot more angry than anyone anticipated, and many went into hiding including Draco.

He held the girl tightly. He could have been bruising her, but she made no sound to make it known that she was uncomfortable. If it weren't for her shallow breaths he would've thought her dead. That thought scared him more than he could've imagined. Hermione Granger could never die. Much less than the fact that he wouldn't allow it, she was too strong to go like the others.

That was the strange thing about Draco Malfoy. He was in love with her. He relied more on Potter than anyone would have shockingly knew. He wanted Potter to win. Draco played his Death Eater part well, and thought that when the time came, it would all be over, a bad dream. It was worse than a bad dream for him when the Death Eaters rose against him. It would never end, it was a black hole leading them into pitch darkness that would eventually eat them alive.

The swirling emerald fire lead them to his own in France entering the small dark lounge. He sat Hermione on the sofa and turned to mutter a couple of spells at the fireplace. He couldn't have his Floo traced, he set himself in enough danger by just leaving the country, one of the few countries still free of Voldemort's old followers.

He faced the small Witch, still shaking miserably in a jacket twice her size. Her red hair disturbed him. He felt a renew anger at Weasley for doing such a despicable thing. He loved her hair the way it was.

"Hermione Granger," he said, but it came out more of a question as though he wasn't sure it was her.

She didn't stir.

"Granger?" He didn't feel it was right to use her given name yet. Hermione was blissfully unaware of his feelings towards her.

This time she looked up, her face gaunted and haunted, her voice raspy and different. "Unnamed."

Had she hit her head? "Excuse me?"

"I don't have a name."

Something hit him in his gut. He knelt in front of her, but didn't touch her. "You're name is Hermione Jean Granger."

"Unnamed," she croaked.

"Don't you remember?"

"No."

He knew that was a lie at once. He was efficient in lying and he could taste one a mile off. "Granger..." He slipped off his hood, pleased by her gasp as she took in his white-blond hair, and pointed features that screamed he was a Pureblood Malfoy. "So you do remember."

Her face went expressionless again. "No."

He nearly growled, but he didn't want to scare her. She had enough torment. He knew that she would be scarred. He knew that he would have to take care of her.

Draco took her hand, and she tried to jerk away, but his hold was constricting, if he held her any tighter he would break her bones. Carefully he lifted her from the sofa.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm showing you the bath. You need to get out of those clothes."

"No!"

He staggered back by the force behind her voice. She had to have used half her energy in yelling that word. "You need to be cleaned, Granger."

She shook her head, and squeaked as he threw her over his shoulder. She pounded his back with her fists, but it was a massage if anything and that frightened him further. He remembered the day she slapped him in their third year. He had to cover up that bruise with charms for two weeks. Her fury then was a mark at how fragile she was. She had to be treated with care. She was glass he decided.

He went to the bathroom and without necessity he closed the door setting her gently on her feet. She still fought, but it was useless.

"Either you undress yourself or I'll do it for you!"

She hit his chest, kicked his shin, she stumbled and nearly fell before he caught her. "No! No!"

He felt like a pounce. He didn't want to force her, but she needed to be taken care of, and if it needed to be by force he would do it. He grabbed her jacket, but she screamed high and piercing. He let it go like a hot iron and moved back.

Hermione clutched the jacket like her life depended on it, her bony hands turning as white as his skin.

It occurred to him then and he hated that he was too late in realizing it. That jacket wasn't hers, it was one of her friends. One of her male friends. "Which one," he asked, more harshly than he intended.

Her sobs choked her as she descended to her knees.

"Who?"

"Harry." She wailed, "Harry!"

Draco felt dizzy. She wasn't fragile glass that he needed to be careful with. No, she was already broken. The girl he loved for so long was dead inside, and it was in no thanks to him.

***

She felt arms lift her off the cold tile floor. Water was running, or was it the roaring in her ears? It didn't matter, she held the jacket more firmly. She whimpered, and coughed. She couldn't let anyone take the jacket. It was the only thing she had left. It was her reality, her home, her brother.

"Let me take it. I'll lay it right here, I'll have it cleaned -"

"No," a voice screamed again. It was her own as nails ripped their way through her throat. She was terrified. If it was taken, it would no longer keep her warm. If it was clean it would lose his smell. She would be lost without it. Harry told her to keep warm...

"Okay, okay, but let me lay it here, you can it right back, I promise."

The promise of a Malfoy. It was sardonic. She shook her head, but the jacket was ripped from her shoulders. She tried to scratch him, but her nails were cut too short. She vaguely remember someone cutting her nails. A Death Eater, because she scratched him too. He cut them so short they bled. Still, she attempted but it did no damage. Nothing could stop him, he was a monster taking away her last shred of humanity. She screamed more until she tasted copper on her tongue. Her throat was bleeding.

Malfoy stripped her of her clothes. She felt a thrill of fear at her nakedness but he didn't seem to see her, his eyes were averted to the floor as if she was a disgusting sight to look at. She should've been offended, but for one thing it was true, she was disgusting, bones of an empty shell. For another she was grateful. She didn't want anyone to see her, especially him.

Scalding hot water burned her, but she didn't make a sound. There was the scent of lavender soap as he scrubbed her with a sponge. The dirt, sweat, and blood that she'd been covered in polluted the bath water. It felt good, like wiping a fogged window to view the outside instead in this case she was being cleaned to view the inside, and she was instantly more humiliated. She wondered what he saw, but then decided it didn't matter. Nothing did.

Only... Why was she being washed? Why didn't he kill her? Beat her? Why was he helping her?

"Why," she asked.

"Why what?" He slid the sponge over her back, lifting her hair to reach her neck.

She shook her head feeling disoriented, the burgundy water swirling around her. "Kill me."

"Never."

It didn't make sense. Was she dreaming? Or was she already dead?

She didn't have time to wonder more for she fell asleep there, her weight supported by the odd Malfoy who continued to gently wash her.