A/N: This is going to be a lengthy author's note, as there is a lot to say. This story has been years in the making and I am more than thrilled to be finally putting this out there. I posted a few chapters before but have revamped most of them and written more. It is dedicated to Bailey4047, who listened to my insane ramblings for months, and months, and months.
This story is Dark. Draco is not a very good man at first. He is a Death Eater, through and through. His actions toward Hermione in the beginning are questionable at best. But, given time, they become a powerful couple.
This is also a Dark Marriage Law. So it has common elements to other Voldemort Wins AUs and Marriage Laws: Hermione going to live with him, her magic taken to begin with; her being viewed as a possession rather than a wife at first; the marriage law is put into effect to create a super race; etc.
And now, for the laundry list of TRIGGER WARNINGS: Dark!Draco and Grey!Hermione (eventually); non-con at worst/dub-con at best; bad BDSM etiquette; performing of an abortion (not on Hermione); a separate miscarriage, induced by torture (not at Draco's hand); graphic depictions of violence; graphic scenes of murder (of minor characters); graphic scenes of torture (sometimes at Draco's hand, I must admit); mental abuse of a child (definitely not Draco doing it); speaking of a child in a manner that is brash and grotesque (the individuals that partake will get their just desserts); thoughts of suicide; martyrdom; can be perceived as being a little Stockholm Syndrome-y if you aren't ready to forgive Draco yet; everyone "dies" (but everything isn't always as it seems). If you have any other triggers, pretty much just stay away from this one or PM me to find out if it'll be breached. I'll try to put triggers at the end of each chapter. YOU ARE NOW TAKING YOUR OWN MENTAL HEALTH INTO YOUR HANDS.
*************THIS STORY ENDS HEA, YOU JUST HAVE TO TRUST ME*****************
Prologue: The Grave Itself, A Garden Is
Plucking a tie from his wardrobe, Draco's eyes fluttered closed as he relished the feel of expensive silk between his fingertips. Four centimetres longer to achieve the perfect length. Getting dressed and prepared for the day was a small gesture that grounded him more than any other aspect of his daily routine, no matter the activities that faced him.
He worked at a languid pace, tucking the tie underneath a spread, starched collar. He pulled it back and forth, moving it perfectly into place and eliminating any buckling of the collar itself. His fingers were nimble and moved out of muscle memory as he stepped closer to the looking glass to peer at himself.
Morose. Exhausted. Guarded. His reflection stared back at him, almost taunting as it presented the perfect image of a grieving man. His lip lifted in a half-hearted sneer as he clicked his jaw and smoothed his hands over his perfectly symmetrical tie. Of course he should appear grief-stricken—his son was dead after all. And my wife, he mused, though no one would believe he was grieving the loss of the Mudblood bitch.
Over his crisp white shirt, he pulled robes of onyx cashmere, snapping the clasp below his chin and raising his face in his typical show of Malfoy poise and elegance. He dragged a dollop of pomade through his hair before raking it into a slick coif with his comb, all the while his eyes searching the hollow depths for his soul within. It was not to be found—he'd sold his soul to Hades years before.
Perhaps he should put a dropper of Instant Tears in his pocket for use during the graveside service. Sighing heavily, he turned away and lifted a small amulet to inspect. A mourning trinket, made of emerald and silver thread, woven delicately with a tuft of Scorpius' silken hair. All curved into an elegant 'M' and displayed under a handsomely framed glass dome. He breathed against the glass surface and rubbed it over his robes before pinning it to his breast.
With a final glance at himself, he morphed his indifference into a mask of solemn introspection and walked swiftly from the room. His mother was waiting outside of her quarters just as he descended the staircase. Dressed in the appropriate black attire and looking the picture of graceful suffering, she held her hand out to fit into the curve of his arm. "Are you ready, son?"
"Don't be sentimental, Mother. This is little more than an inconvenience, given our current situation," Draco replied, guiding her to the entryway.
Narcissa tutted and clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "You may not want to say that too loudly, dear. You sound callous."
His jaw tightened as they walked briskly through the gatehouse path and approached the Apparation point beyond. He opted to have Scorpius' casket interred in the Malfoy family plot in a cemetery near Marlborough Mound. Narcissa looked up at him and withdrew a vial of her own Instant Tears. She placed two drops in each eye and withdrew a black lace kerchief from within her sleeve, dabbing daintily at her eyes. "Let's get this over with. Mourning is terribly taxing."
Draco nearly scoffed, tucking his mother's hand into his elbow to apparate. With a tug behind his navel, he landed on his feet in the middle of the cemetery, his hip crushing painfully on the side of a granite headstone. Ignoring the smart beginning to blossom into his thigh and lower abdomen, he stepped around the headstone and took a deep breath through his nose.
The air smelled far too clean, too pure for such an occasion. Rain had recently washed away the stench of the Malfoy aristocracy that normally hung over the place. A body was a body, no matter the size, station in life, or amount of wealth amassed while animated above ground. A contradictory concept considering his wife would be buried unceremoniously away from the family plot.
Glancing around, Draco saw droves of attendees making their way to the tiny hole in the furthest corner. Looky-loos and imbeciles fulfilling their morbid curiosity about the death of a four-year-old. His teeth gnashed as he once again slid into his role as the anguished father. He lifted his chin and gave it a false quiver for good effect as a passing elderly woman tossed him a smile rife with pity.
Guests stopped them at intervals, pulling Draco into fraudulent, self-indulgent embraces. They finally made it to the family plot, overlooked by the mausoleum of his great-grandparents. Stone serpents hissed and reared upright as people took their places, skirting around them. His eyes darted over Astoria's stone, resting next to the hole at his feet.
The crowd parted to allow them to pass, clearing a wide breadth as they stared. Draco could hear them whispering behind their hands. I heard they didn't find the child's body at all. And the Mudblood's was so mutilated she was unrecognizable… How did the creatures even find them? What was the Mudblood doing with his child in such a dangerous place? Draco closed his eyes to the sound of their hushed assumptions, quieted finally by the sound of the officiant's voice.
As the gravelly timber of the goblin rang between the guests, he averted his eyes and honed in on a place beyond the stone fence. Another casket was being lowered, devoid of anyone's sympathy or attention. Hermione Granger. Brightest Witch of Her Age. Unwanted and Discarded Wife of a Death Eater. Forgotten.
Narcissa sniffled next to Draco, swiping at her eyes with the corner of the handkerchief. He draped an arm around his mother's back, pulling her close to him in a show of solidarity as his eyes continued to scan the crowd gathered around them.
A woman—tall, slender, and sleek with strikingly dark skin—stood on the outskirts, a child clinging to her hand as he knelt and picked at dandelions. Her eyes locked with his for a brief moment, and her lips curved into a sly smile. Draco's stomach rolled in a mix of pleasure to see the woman and fear that others would take notice of the exotic beauty.
His hand slipped into his pocket, curling around a glass vial as he turned his attention back to the officiant. The item contained within the vial—an incredibly rare and extraordinary ingredient that was essential in the defeat of the Dark Lord—made a light tinkling noise as it moved within its glass home. Soon. Just a short time more and this would all be over. Order would be reinstated, and he could begin to reclaim his soul and move on with his life.
When the eulogy ended, the crowd of funeral attendees began to break apart. Men clapped a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, women leaned up to give his cheek a kiss. The monotony and false niceties turned his stomach; the highbrow members of the Dark Lord's society lacked any true compassion. He would know—he was the worst of them all: cold, callous, unfeeling.
The pops of Disapparation filled the distant air, and with each one, Draco could breathe a little easier. He allowed his gaze to return to the woman and child, and his mother followed his gaze. Her eyes narrowed, and she turned to him, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially, though there were very few lingerers left. "Foolish of her to show her face here, don't you think? She could be putting us all in danger."
"She's nothing if not careful. No one recognized her."
Just as he said this, the woman lifted the child to rest on her hip and raised one hand in salutation. Nodding his acknowledgment of the gesture, the woman gave him a slight upturn of the lips before pulling a metallic item from her pocket and disappearing with the force of the Portkey.
"Don't let this encounter detract you from your purpose, son," Narcissa whispered, placing her hand on his shoulder as she turned to go. "You have a task to complete."
"Nothing can deter me now, Mother. He has taken everything from me," Draco replied, giving his mother a hardened glare as the decorative ridges in the vial dug into his palm with the force of his grip. "Now I'm going to take his sorry life."
xXx
A/N: A special thank you to MrsRen, who read over my notes and left WAY too many kind comments. And all of the beta love on this chapter7 to ravenslight, who was far better to me than I deserved!
Please review. I want to know if you are with me during this dark and twisted tale. Updates are sporadic.
