May 4, 1998
In the ordinary course of things, Draco had no objection to waking up to a warm armful of girl in his bed. But in the topsy-turvy world created by Voldemort's victory, it was an acute form of torture to wake up with Granger nestled up against him, his morning glory flush against her pert arse. If it were any other witch, he already would have slipped a couple of fingers between her legs in preparation for a mutually satisfying wake-up call, but this was Granger.
Instead, Draco swore under his breath and pushed away from her, rolling back to his side of the bed to stare at the ceiling, his cock tenting the sheets. He sensed a pattern developing, one that was going to drive him 'round the twist with sexual frustration.
He and Granger had shared a bed for all of two nights. Both nights so far, she had started the evening curled into a tight ball on her side of the bed, while Draco sprawled on his back on his side, pretending he could not hear her crying herself to sleep. But as they slept, they met in the middle, like two children clinging together for comfort on a soft mattress in the dark. Then, when morning came, Draco found himself wrapped around Granger's body, feeling her warmth and soft curves, and desperately wanting a more carnal form of comfort.
During his hellish sixth year, he had discovered that shagging was a brilliant form of stress relief. When he was buried in Pansy, or Daphne, or really any willing witch, he was quite incapable of thinking about his mission, the Dark Lord, or the danger his family was in. All of that was subsumed, for a little while at least, in the sheer physical pleasure of thrusting into a tight, wet hole, taking pleasure and giving it back to the girl providing it.
However, Draco knew that sort of stress relief was entirely off the table where Granger was concerned. It wasn't that she was physically unattractive - far from it - but they shared an ugly history that had only gotten worse over the last few days. He owned her now, at least according to the Dark Lord and the runes tattooed on her back, and that ownership weighed heavily on Draco's tattered conscience. The only thing he could do was to maintain certain boundaries, and to make sure he did not step a toe over those self-imposed lines.
Yesterday, he and Granger had sat down on opposite ends of the sofa and negotiated those lines over a torturous and awkward three hours. Separately, Draco also had met with Carrow and the Dark Lord. During the course of a bollocks-shriveling hour, the Dark Lord had outlined his expectations for student behavior and performance at Hogwarts, while Draco kept up his Occlumency shields the entire while. It was a toss-up, in Draco's mind, as to which of the two meetings had been more grueling.
At least he now had Granger's explicit consent as to precisely what he could do to her, playing their public roles of master and slave. Some of the things he was permitted to do had come at Granger's suggestion, while others were his own ideas, which she had agreed to allow with varying degrees of reluctance. She had outright vetoed only a few acts, and he had to admit her safe phrase, for situations where they had to improvise, was utterly brilliant in its subtlety. Hopefully, they would manage to fool all of Hogwarts without strengthening Draco's hold over her, since everything he did to her in public would be consensual, no matter how it appeared. But in the privacy of their quarters, he was not going to touch her.
Given that implicit prohibition, Draco rolled out of the warm, comfortable bed, suppressing a groan at the chill of the room, and made his way to the loo. There, he grumpily debated between a hot or a cold shower to help take care of his not-so-little problem before deciding upon the latter. Yesterday's wank under the warm water had been disconcerting, because he found himself imagining clutching his fantasy-Pansy's suddenly curly hair as she sucked him off under the Quidditch stands, while the blonde and buxom Daphne Greengrass of his fond memories had transformed into a petite brunette as she rode his cock.
The cold water worked, though it left him shivering and miserable. Even though it was barely dawn and he had three hours to kill before his first class, Draco dressed quickly and quietly left his new rooms for the Slytherin dormitories. With an evil smirk, he recalled the old adage that misery loved company.
"Wake up, you wankers!" he shouted at the sleeping forms of Blaise, Greg, Longbottom and Smith. With a pang, Draco saw that Longbottom had taken Crabbe's old bed, while Smith was sleeping in Theo's. Wisely, neither had dared to attempt to claim Draco's bed as their own.
"Lumos Maxima!" he yelled, as the other boys grumbled and stirred too slowly for his liking.
"What the fuck, Malfoy?" Blaise yelped, sitting bolt upright in his bed.
"C'mon, Blaise," Draco urged. "You've had enough beauty sleep, and the rest of you tossers could snooze for a week and it wouldn't make any difference."
He grinned evilly at Smith and Longbottom as they blinked and rubbed their eyes. "You two about to discover why Slytherin wizards are so fit."
"Yeah, I'm sure," Smith grumbled. "Just look at Goyle."
"Oi, go bugger yourself," Greg shot back, flexing his arm to show off his biceps. "This is why we wipe the floor with you 'Puffs every single Quidditch match."
Longbottom gave Draco a dark look and began dressing in silence.
Within minutes, Draco had the four newly-minted Death Eaters upstairs and outside the castle through a postern door, running laps around the Quidditch pitch. Blaise had a sneer on his haughty dark face, finding any form of exercise beneath his dignity, but his long legs and slender build compensated for his lack of enthusiasm. Goyle ran slowly, but with a stolid determination. He would still be running, if Draco asked it of him, long after the others collapsed from exhaustion. Longbottom was surprisingly keeping up with the pace, but Draco supposed that evading the Carrows all year had required the formerly pudgy Gryffindor to get into shape. Zacharias Smith, however, was a disgrace, huffing like the Hogwarts Express after only the second lap.
"You've got eight more to go, Smith," Draco warned, loping next to him with an easy stride. "Better pace yourself."
"Fuck you, Malfoy. You can't make me do anything," Smith retorted, slowing to a walk.
Draco hit him with a Stinging Hex, right on his bony arse, smirking as Smith cried out in pain. "You'll find that I can, Zacharias. I outrank you as a Death Eater, after all. Merlin help me, if you don't start running, I'll Imperio you and make you sprint around the pitch until you puke."
With a gulp, the Hufflepuff began jogging, muttering all the while.
"Don't waste your breath," Draco advised. "I could give a toss what you think about me."
After their brisk morning run, Draco led his fellow junior Death Eaters through a set of push-ups, crunches, and other calisthenics. Greg was used to them, since they were a routine part of Quidditch training for the Slytherin team, but Blaise and Smith were gasping before they finished, clutching at their stomaches. Longbottom, surprisingly, had no trouble, even though he remained eerily silent throughout the exercises.
"That's enough!" Draco barked, when his abdominal muscles were burning. Greg and Longbottom stopped and sat up, but Smith rolled over onto all fours, retching, while Blaise collapsed flat his back.
"I hate you, Malfoy," his friend gasped.
Draco grinned at him. "You'll hate me even more later, when you realize just how sore your muscles are. Greg, would you help our prima donna to stand up?"
Giving him a two-fingered salute, Blaise staggered to his feet on his own. "If it weren't for the uncanny resemblance to Lucius, I'd call you a bastard, Drake."
"I've heard worse," Draco shrugged.
"Why're you torturing us like this?" Smith whined.
"This isn't torture," Longbottom answered unexpectedly, with an equally unexpected sneer. "This is the kind of basic training that can help you stay alive in a duel."
Draco nodded in agreement. "Longbottom's right. Get up, Smith," he ordered, not offering him a hand. Instead, Draco glanced at his watch. "No time for a dip in the Black Lake, but I promise I'll take you pussies swimming there tomorrow. Now, back to the castle!"
He took off at a jog, knowing the incentive of hot showers and breakfast would be enough to get them to follow, though he did have to loop around to chivvy Smith. He really was a pathetic wanker, even for a Hufflepuff.
Draco stopped when they came across a work crew of prisoners, clearing rubble with Muggle tools under the bored supervision of a couple of Snatchers.
"Macmillan," he acknowledged one of them. "You're a pureblood. You know you don't have to do this."
Ernie Macmillian straightened to his full height, glaring over Draco's shoulder at Smith and Longbottom. "I prefer honest manual labor, myself," he said with a certain pompous dignity, despite his torn clothes and dirty face.
Draco thought to himself that he would much rather have a loyal Hufflepuff like Macmillian as a fellow Death Eater than a cowardly sneak like Smith, but the Badgers almost never turned dark.
"Have it your way," he said aloud. Draco raised his voice so all of the wizards on the work crew could hear him. "My witch lost a purple beaded bag during the battle. If you find it, you'll bring it to me if you know what's good for you."
"Hermione's not your witch," Longbottom snarled, suddenly looming over Draco.
Greg and Blaise moved forward to pull him back, but Draco already had his wand out, digging into the side of the Gryffindor's neck. Smith, of course, had hung back.
"Listen carefully, Longbottom, because you need to get this through your thick skull," Draco said with quiet menace, aware of the small audience intently watching their confrontation. "Granger is my witch. Because of that brand I put on her back, I own her. More importantly, I can control her - her body and her mind. If I asked her to, she would betray you to me in a heartbeat." He hoped that Longbottom would get the implicit message that he could no longer trust Hannah Abbott, not while Carrow had possession of her.
"You're delusional, Malfoy," Longbottom said, his voice shaking in anger. "You can't own Hermione like that, or make her go against everything she believes in. It's . . . it's wrong," he finished, weakly.
"You'll find that I can," Draco replied coolly. "And that goes for every witch who was marked at that revel. They answer to their new masters, not their old friends or ex-boyfriends." He made it sound like a taunt, since the Gryffindor apparently required an explicit warning about Abbott.
"I don't believe you," Longbottom blustered.
"You can ask Granger yourself," Draco offered with utter confidence. "My witch will tell you what you need to know."
A/N: I really enjoyed all of the guesses last chapter as who and what Trixie may be, and what help she might offer. She was telling Ginny the truth (mostly) as to her limitations. For the guest who wanted more Dramione - in the spirit of full disclosure, this story is only about one-third of a Dramione, since there are four other characters whose POVs get equal time. And that structure isn't going to change - sorry!