Chapter Three

May 3rd, 2005

Zabini took her to Goyle's the following day, and she finally broke down and ate a sandwich that a house-elf brought her. Zabini grinned smugly as though he had accomplished some great miracle and then pretended to play Exploding Snap with her from across a dusty table. Whenever it was her turn, he would say so and then wait for her to move. When she refused, he smiled and stood, making a move on her behalf and then praising her openly if it somehow beat his previous one. Likewise, he would laugh and say, "Good try," if his move during her turn did not quite overpower his own.

She stared at the man like he was mental and cursed Merlin that someone so obviously daft and dark was also beautiful. Beautiful, except of course, for the brand on his forearm.

"Why's it cold and dusty in here?" she asked quietly, looking at the man from across the table. "Despite being monsters, you Death Eaters are all pretty obsessed with keeping filth out of your homes," she said with a sneer. "With a few exceptions." She thought of Greyback and shivered. "I saw a house-elf and yet this place feels like it's been—"

"None of your fucking business, Granger."

She flinched at the new voice as though she were about to be struck. The tone gave her flashbacks to Hogwarts, oddly not as unpleasant as more recent memories, but when she looked up into the familiar face of Gregory Goyle, she was shocked to see him. Brows furrowed, she adjusted her posture to one that was more defensive, clenching her fists into tight little balls.

Zabini looked up and sighed at the other Death Eater. "Can't you be even a little nice?"

Goyle turned and looked at Zabini like he was stupid, which considering what she recalled of the Slytherin, Hermione found terribly ironic all things considered. Zabini had at least made it into Advanced Potions, unlike Goyle who had—along with Crabbe—been duped into eating Sleeping Draught laced cakes so that Harry and Ron could Polyjuice as them in second year.

Goyle began removing his black robes, tossing them to the side. "Has she eaten?" he demanded, ignoring Hermione to the point that he wouldn't even look in her direction despite asking after her welfare. She took immediate notice of the multitude of scars running up and down his arms; battle wounds. "I don't have long and I need to—"

"Had a sandwich," Zabini said. "Then we played cards. She's a very good conversationalist."

Goyle raised a brow. "Conversationalist? Well, she never could shut up at school. And what, pray tell, have the two of you been talking about?"

Zabini grinned. "She says she'd marry anyone to get away from us rotten, awful Death Eaters."

Goyle pivoted, finally looking at Hermione; the disgust on his face when he'd said her name was gone, replaced by something that looked like . . . sympathy. "Do you know who you've been given to then?"

She shook her head, confused by the sudden—and drastic—change in the man.

Goyle swallowed hard. "Good. That's best. Blaise, show her where she can sleep. I'm going to bed," he said and then stormed away, his heavy boots thudding against the dirty tile floor.

Zabini turned and called over his shoulder, "How's Theo?"

"The same as the rest of us!" Goyle shouted back. "Dead if we don't remember our fucking duty!"

May 4th, 2005

She did not see Goyle again, and Zabini escorted her to Marcus Flint's home. The man was not there when they arrived, and Zabini put his fingers to his mouth, a suddenly serious and stern look in his eyes as he commanded her to remain silent while he moved from room to room.

She stayed where she was, looking at the doors and remembering what Theo had mentioned to her about the anti-Muggle-born wards placed in Death Eater rooms. A part of her wanted to test them, but considering she had been living in a dungeon for the better part of a year, she imagined that new security protocols could have been placed since the last time she was allowed to move throughout Death Eater homes to clean, cook, or generally just look miserable enough that it kept her captors amused and placated. The only thing more entertaining than a defeated Mudblood was a crying or bleeding one.

She could no longer hear Zabini, his footsteps having long faded the further from the entry room he got. Compared to Goyle and Nott's flats, Marcus Flint's home reminded her more of Zabini's Manor: large and imposing and likely similar in size to Malfoy Manor. She listened closely for any sound, only to gasp when the Floo roared to life and the massive figure of Marcus Flint stepped out of the flames.

"Look at my present," he said with a crooked grin that caused her to step back, remembering the way Nott had said defiled days earlier. Unlike Nott, Zabini, and Goyle, Marcus Flint looked at her the way most of the old guard did. A mixture of amusement and disgust.

He had a deep scar on the side of his jaw and half of his right ear was missing, the end of the flesh cursed dark purple. Catching her looking at it, he smirked and took a step closer. "You like it?" he asked. "One of your Weasleys gave it to me a year ago. Didn't bleed much. Not like he did."

Anger flared inside of her the likes of which she had not felt in months, and she immediately began to look for something nearby to fight off the oaf when he inevitably struck. The candelabra on the mantle was close enough, but she did not know if she would be faster than whatever curse was likely on the tip of his tongue.

"Maybe I'll give you something pretty to remember me by," Flint said and then reached for his wand. Her eyes were drawn to it, preparing herself for a curse like she had been conditioned to do over the years. She darted for the candelabra but was caught off guard when his hand struck across her face with strength enough to knock her into the wall and to the ground. Most purebloods liked to use magic to inflict pain. She had forgotten that some did not think it dirty to touch a Mudblood as long as they were injuring them.

"Pretty little Mudblood. I know you got scratched up by Greyback, but I can't be fussed. It's been too long. I can't wait to—"

"Stupefy!"

Flint collapsed at her feet, crushing the toes of one foot under his left shoulder. She didn't even cry out when she felt one break, her adrenaline running too high.

"Put me back," she whimpered, wiping away angry tears as they fell. "Gods, just put me back in my cell." She missed the dungeon, where no one but house-elves spoke to her, and the Death Eaters upstairs were predictable. They would attack, and call her names, and curse her but rarely touch her. Not like these younger ones who gave her soft sheets, begged her to eat, offered her a warm bath, and asked after her health only to slap her and threaten to rape her like they all did before she took advantage of Greyback.

She didn't realise that she was shaking when she looked up and saw Nott standing over Marcus's body.

"Fuck," he muttered and knelt down in front of her. "You're bleeding."

She flinched when he brought his wand up to heal her face, and he looked distraught at the fear in her eyes. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I was supposed to cut him off at the pass, but he left a meeting early. I couldn't get out without looking suspicious. Where's Blaise?"

The pain on her face from where Flint had struck her faded to a dull throb, replaced by the sharp, hot sting in her toes. She didn't say anything about them; only lifted a hand and pointed to a nearby door, answering his question.

"Blaise!" Nott shouted angrily.

Zabini came rushing back in half a minute later, eyes wide and guilty at the sight of them on the floor next to Flint's unconscious form. "Shit, I'm sorry. I thought . . . Shit."

Nott nodded. "Yeah, you're sorry. You will be. Flint struck her."

Zabini flinched. "I'm so sorry," he said, looking at Hermione. "I swear, I wouldn't have let him—"

"Just Obliviate the arsehole!" Nott snapped impatiently and stormed into the next room where Hermione could hear glass breaking.

May 8th, 2005

Down the ranks of young Death Eaters they went. Flat to flat, home to home, and Zabini and Nott were by her side the whole way. She never saw Goyle again, but had a run-in with Cassius Warrington who had smiled kindly at her while informing Nott and Zabini that Adrian Pucey had been dealt with—whatever that meant—and that no one was suspicious of their actions so far.

She had made the mistake of getting her hopes up and asked, "Are you trying to get me away from here?"

They went silent and turned, giving one another harsh looks before Nott sighed and shook his head. "Granger, just . . . no. That collar around your neck is magically keyed with Tracking Charms and a plethora of other unpleasantries I'd rather not discuss. It's bonded to your magic to keep it repressed. Which means that the only way to get it off of you is to bond that magic to something—someone—else. You have to get married. You're going to get married tomorrow, and . . . you're going to be really fucking upset when you see who its to."

And she was.

She'd had a feeling, of course, considering who she had seen and who she knew was already dead, but when Warrington bid her farewell, and Zabini had given her a look of pity as Nott led her down a long stretch of hallway toward her future husband, Hermione closed her eyes and dug her heels into the soft carpet.

"Please . . . just let me go."

Nott sighed. "It's not that easy."

When the door opened, Hermione's stomach churned at the sight of the man standing in the bedroom. Black robes hung open over an expensive suit. His hair was longer than she had last seen it, years and years ago—so many years. His face had aged naturally, and the dark circles under his eyes gave away any sign that he had escaped the stresses of war due to wealth or family name.

When he made eye contact with her, she felt memories burn their way through her entire body, and she instinctively reached out, clutching at the scars on her forearm where Bellatrix had branded her so very long ago. Looking away from his face, she missed the way he visibly pained at the sight of her, missed the way that Nott shot him a look when he instinctively tried to reach out to help her as she fought against the grip on her elbow.

Reality set in very quickly. She was going to be married. Her plan had failed. She let herself be mauled by a werewolf for nothing. She had let herself serve and bow for years, let herself sit in a dungeon for six months alone. All of it for nothing.

"No! No! No! Anyone . . . Anyone but him . . . not him," she begged and screamed and almost started to cry when her voice took on a vicious tone.

She had been kidnapped by Dolohov, tortured by Bellatrix, beaten by Selwyn and Travers and a number of other Death Eaters; she had been humiliated by Rowle, ignored by Nott, and assaulted by Carrow, Greyback, and Lestrange. She had begged for death countless times, but knowing it was so close now . . . she could not bear it.

And not by him.

He would not be the one to kill her.

"Hello, Hermione," he said.

She glared up into silver eyes, her jaw clenching. "Malfoy."

"Where's Goyle?" Malfoy asked Nott when they stepped outside of the room once she had been manoeuvred inside. It was Malfoy's bedroom, from the looks of it. She glanced at the bed and wondered if her spit would reach it if she tried. She thought of Dennis and Alicia and every other Muggle-born she'd heard of that had been forced into marital bondage with a Death Eater: punishment for the pureblood, an end to their line. Alecto and Rookwood had disposed of their spouses easily enough, but the way that Nott had spoken made Hermione think that Malfoy was special. He had been watched and followed to make sure that he complied with the wedding.

The Malfoys loved their pureblood heritage above all else, and she remembered the way that Lucius and Narcissa had pleaded with Draco to identify Harry when they had been captured and taken to Malfoy Manor all those years ago. They were looking for redemption because they had sunk so low in Voldemort's eyes.

Somehow, Draco had ruined himself further and ended up with her in his bedroom: his future bride. Either that or he had done something well and had requested her as a prize.

She wondered if he would try to kill her right away or if he would play along with the idea of ending his pure line and siring a bunch of half-blood children. She wondered if he would kill them too. Or maybe, if she was very lucky, she could kill him instead.

He had called her by her first name.

She wanted to hit him for it.

She remembered she enjoyed punching Draco Malfoy.

"Goyle's in place," Nott said. "Don't worry about a thing. We've got it all taken care of."

"I have to worry," Malfoy said. "She . . . she looks . . ."

"I know."

"No one touched her? You're certain?"

Nott paused. "Not like that. Not since I took her from the dungeon, and my father confirmed about Greyback. None of the older guard would think about . . . They wouldn't risk infection. Flint hit her in the face once, but I took care of it. I tried to get her to sleep in a bed, but she wouldn't; understandable I suppose. Blaise got her to eat something a few days back, but since her run-in with Flint, she's been pretty quiet. She won't bathe either."

"Maybe that's best. Would it look suspicious if she was clean and well dressed for the ceremony?"

She couldn't hear a response, but it was likely that Nott had just nodded. No, clean wouldn't do for whatever grand spectacle the Death Eaters had planned for her. Better to show off Malfoy's filthy Mudblood bride looking like the rubbish they thought she was.

"Stop looking like that," Nott hissed angrily. "Just suck it up for now. It'll all be over soon."

Hermione's breath hitched at the words, and she closed her eyes, clenching her fists tighter than ever. If Malfoy came at her, she would go down fighting. Harry would want her to go down fighting. She would not be a willing participant in Malfoy's bed. She would not let him kill her, not after she had survived for so long. Not while the resistance still existed out there somewhere, even if Harry and Ron were long dead.

"I'll see you in the morning then."

The door closed and Hermione stood, turning around and glaring at Malfoy.

"I won't hurt you," he said softly, his expression indecipherable. "I . . . I can't say much, but I need to ask you a few questions. Theo mentioned that you'd be willing to marry anyone but me?"

Hermione snarled at him. "I would rather die than marry a Death Eater! Though I'm not opposed to killing instead!"

Her viciousness seemed to surprise him, and his eyebrows raised slightly. "That's . . . not what I asked," he said, frowning.

"What are you playing at, Malfoy? Why are you all . . . Why are your friends being nice to me? Why are you . . . I hate you," she said, tears coming to her eyes as she remembered the last time she had seen the man, when he had still been a boy. When they had all still been something close to children. Harry was dead and his body was at Voldemort's feet and Malfoy was there—right there!—looking like he was confused over what side he should be on. It wasn't fair.

"Harry saved your life and you did nothing. You . . . you coward."

Malfoy stared at her in silence. "You might feel differently in the morning. There umm . . . I have to go," he said, looking down at a pocket watch that he pulled from his robes, standing up rather quickly as though he were uncomfortable. "But umm . . . There's food in a cooling cabinet, just there," he gestured. "And it would . . . Please get some rest, Hermione. Just . . . please."

May 9th, 2005

"I loved a girl once," Malfoy said as he led her from the room where he had left her the night before.

She had spent her time trying to escape, eventually attempting to fashion a weapon out of a broken table leg that she sharpened on the brick fireplace. She'd fallen asleep in the early hours of the morning and when she woke up, the table had been repaired, and a sad-looking house-elf was pushing a tea tray in front of her.

"Sipsy couldn't let Miss have her stick," she said, voice full of regret. "Sipsy is sorry."

Hermione felt numb as she walked beside the blond Death Eater, the collar around her neck feeling heavier than ever. She reached up to scratch at it, tugging her arm away from his gentle touch in the process, almost wishing he were holding her forcefully. Malfoy had no right to touch her gently.

"That'll come off soon," he said quietly. "The umm . . . the bonding ritual; it's meant to have me in control of you, but I won't . . . I mean to say . . ." He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, clearly anxious. "I loved a girl once."

"So you said," she muttered bitterly.

"Loved her with everything that I was. This war tore us apart, and I've spent . . . I'm different without her. I'm nothing without her. I would marry her, if given the chance."

His tone made her feel sick inside, and she was desperately hoping that this wasn't some awkward confession of love for her. She was eager to point out the plot of Romeo and Juliet if the pureblood was confused over what happens when star-crossed lovers get unpredictable. She was most certainly not his lover and never willingly would be.

"Death Eaters don't know what love is." She knew, of course, that it was a lie. She knew it in the way that she had seen the Malfoys embrace one another in battle, and the way that she had heard Thoros Nott talk about his long departed wife.

Malfoy waited a long moment in silence as they walked until he finally whispered, "Do you?"

She closed her eyes. "Not like you care."

"If I do?"

She said nothing.

He whispered an apology under his breath very quietly as they came to a large staircase. Goyle stood there, upright and intense opposite Warrington; Nott and Zabini were at the bottom of the staircase. Below was a massive ballroom filled with various Death Eaters, though very few were of decent ranking, she noticed. The younger guard were all there save for Flint. In the corner of the room stood Travers and Rowle whispering and sipping firewhisky from their glasses as though they were terribly bored. A few people she recognised as non-Death Eaters—but still sympathisers, forced or otherwise—mingled uncomfortably with people in black robes that Hermione didn't know by name. The only Death Eater of any high rank was Dolohov, who was glaring at her possessively. Bellatrix, Rabastan, and Voldemort were noticeably missing.

Her wedding, she thought idly, was attended by low ranked Death Eaters, people who hated her, and strangers who seemed to have been blackmailed into attending. She wondered if any of them were Imperiused. They looked coherent enough to be uncomfortable.

"A toast to the happy couple?" Zabini suggested with a grin when they reached the bottom of the stairs, followed by Goyle and Warrington. Zabini held up a flask with a Slytherin crest carved on the side.

Malfoy glared at him and snatched the flask from his hand. "You think I'm going to do this sober?" he snapped before drinking down the contents. Hermione frowned, shocked by the sudden change in attitude that reminded her immediately of the man she had expected to meet the night before.

"I loved a boy once," she quietly admitted, not really knowing why she wanted to say the words out loud. Maybe because it was her wedding, and she was likely to die sooner rather than later. Maybe it was because she felt like she didn't have a friend in the world, and she needed to invoke the thought of one to put warmth back into her body as she was forcibly led to her doom.

Malfoy chanced a glance in her direction. "That so? Who was he?"

"Doesn't matter," she said, her heart heavy. "Your fucking Dark Lord killed him."

She tried to escape once before the ceremony began, and the entire room reacted, wands drawn on her. Most everyone had laughed at her expense, but she had grabbed a glass out of a man's hand and launched it into Dolohov's face with righteous anger. When the man had stepped forward, she found herself protectively encircled by young Death Eaters.

"Let's get this thing over with, shall we?" Nott suggested. "I'm sure you're supposed to report back to Bellatrix and the Dark Lord."

Dolohov glared at Nott, wiping blood from his face. "I think I'll stick around," he said. "Make sure the little shit consummates his new marriage with his pretty little Mudblood bride. You're not getting out of this like the others, Malfoy. You'll fuck that little bitch, and I'll watch."

Hermione felt Malfoy put a hand on her lower back and watched as he lifted his chin in defiantly.

"I'll remember my duty," Malfoy said sternly. His words somehow pushed into Hermione like a phoenix's song, giving her a strange bit of courage and hope, though she was not certain why. Maybe because Nott and Zabini had said the same thing—Goyle as well—and they had not harmed her when given ample opportunity.

A Death Eater she did not know by name offered to put her in a Body-Bind for the ceremony. Dolohov suggested to Crucio her until she got the idea of escaping out of her mind. Malfoy ignored them all and told the man bonding them to get on with the damned thing already, as he was not feeling very patient.

The ceremony took almost an hour according to the large antique clock that sat in the corner of the room. Hermione kept her focus on it to distract from the disgusting pureblood propaganda that was the welcoming speech to the wedding. By the time vows were spoken, she noticed that no one asked her to say a single thing.

"I vow to take this woman as my wife," Malfoy said firmly. "And on my magic, I shall have no other witch in my bed or heart. None else shall give birth to my heirs. Her pain will be my pain, her burdens my burdens, her joy my joy, and she will forever be my equal."

At that, Travers and Rowle burst into laughter.

Spells were cast and she felt a burning sensation in the hand that Malfoy held as they were officially bonded. When Travers stepped forward to unlock the collar from her neck, she felt her magic flow through her body wildly like a rushing river. She looked around, wondering if she would have a chance to escape now; wondering if the vows Malfoy had just made would stop her from using wandless magic to attack; wondering if she still had the ability to use wandless magic at all. As though he could read her mind, Malfoy tightened his grip on her hand. She turned and looked at him and then followed his gaze which rested on the same clock she had spent the majority of the ceremony staring at.

"Is it done?" he asked bitterly.

"Eager to get on with the rest of your life?" Travers asked, chuckling under his breath.

"You've no idea," Malfoy said, but his voice was suddenly different.

Hermione stared at the man—her husband as of moment earlier—and watched with wide eyes as he turned and smiled at her like a man who loved a woman instead of a Death Eater forced to marry a Mudblood.

"Stay close to me," he whispered as his features began to shift, and his eyes turned bright green.