A Story of Pain

by Voice of Reason

Voldemorte took over the wizarding world, surprise surprise, and Hermione is forced to help rebuild his empire. Much drama and angst with Hermie, Draco, Ron, and Ginny.

3. Part III

Part III: Living in Hell

Begin at Part II, same time, different place, different people.

A young, nervous voice interrupted the deathly silence of the hallway. "I'm sorry, er, miss, but you can't go in there, it's a private meeting."
Hermione glared at the young guard standing at attention with his wand out at the door. She didn't recognize him. The normal guard was old and fat. He's probably transferred to the kitchens, she thought, irritated that this fool didn't know who she was and why he didn't treat her with proper respect. She asked sharply, "You're new here, aren't you?"
"Why, yes I am, just started-" the guard began to say, as if pleased someone would notice his promotion, but Hermione cut him off before he could finished.
"You're new, so I won't put the Cruciatus curse on you for your blatant incompetence until you're begging for mercy, which shouldn't take long, and then I won't put you in a full-body bind and make you wait for the cleaning hags to take you down to the dungeon where you'll rot for a few years. You're new, so I'll just tell you that if you don't let me into that room right now, the Dark Lord will have your head on a silver plate for Nagini to eat for dinner. So let me pass. Now." Her voice was low, but the threats she promised were carried to the guard ears on words said with force behind them.
The fool began to tremble, stuttering, "I, um, just-if you say so." He stood aside and opened the heavy door to a chamber opening to a balcony that overlooked the west side of the castle. Inside the room, Lucius Malfoy sat reclined in a leather chair while Voldemort stood playing with his snake, Nagini. They ignored both the guard and Hermione, continuing with their conversation.
Completely unnerved by this time, the guard said, "My Master, this woman presumes to-"
"Presumes is correct, but you are also wrong," snapped Lucius from his chair. "The Lady Hermione is allowed in when she is sent for. Stand aside."
"Of course. My apologies," bowed the guard. Hermione cursed the mental facilities of the Death Eaters again, walking inside the room to sink to her feet before Voldemort. He flicked red eyes to her kneeling form, and placed a finger on her shoulder, giving Hermione the signal to get up. She rose slowly and, keeping her body half-bowed, sat on the ottoman at Lucuis's feet. Then the Dark Lord's gaze moved to the guard, who was still standing in the doorway.
With a cold voice, Voldemort asked, "What is your name?"
"My, er, name?" stuttered the guard.
"Your name, fool! What is it? Or are you too stupid to understand such a simple request from your master! How on earth did you get this post anyway?" said Lucius viciously. Hermione grinned to herself. This fool has certainly earned it now, a cell in the dungeons, with the finest service offered by the torture slaves.
"Simon Rookwood, my master."
"Rookwood? Are you Augustus's son?" said Lucius, curiosity mingling with disgust in his cold voice.
Rookwood answered humbly, "No, my master, I'm one of his nephews."
"I see that corruption and rot are things that I shall never be rid of, no matter how hard I try or how many new eras I begin," spoke Voldemort, now giving Rookwood the full force of his gaze. The guard's trembling increased and Hermione noticed he had begun sweating. His discomfort amused her, for she had already learned her lesson whereas this idiot hadn't.
"Yes, Master, well, the rest of us still retain our human weaknesses." trailed off Lucius, idly spinning his wand in his pale hand. Rookwood caught the movement and his face paled.
Now Voldemort looked at his right hand. "Your son is no exception."
"Yes," agreed Lucius without hesitation.
"But what he does with his free time does not concern me, as long as there are no lasting effects." Hermione knew what they were talking about, but firmly held on the amusement she got from watching someone else squirm under the combined glare of Voldemort and Lucius. Really, it's incredible, I'd have thought the fool would have fainted by now. The Dark Lord continued to look at Lucius, then said, "Have him take care of Rookwood here, hmmm?"
"Certainly," replied Lucius smoothly, then shouted at the guard, "What? Are you still here? Get out!" Gulping, the man turned tail and ran out of the room, remembering the pull the doors shut behind him.
"Not only does Rookwood abuse my favor in him, he sends incompetence into my castle. Deal with him, Lucius," commanded Voldemort once the guard was gone. Hermione winced mentally for Rookwood. He was going to regret giving his nephew a job very shortly.
"Of course."
"And find someone for Nagini to eat."
"Yes," said the blond man, then glanced pointedly at Hermione, who was still sitting on the ottoman, asking, "Did you wish to speak to Hermione?"
"It would be my pleasure," purred the Dark Lord. He motioned for Hermione to rise with a gray finger. "Come closer, my pet. How are you tonight? Fall down the stairs again?" he asked, turning her head so he would peer at her neck.
Hermione felt his dry, scaly fingers brush the bruises Draco had put on her neck. They were quite plain; a series of finger imprints in dull purple showed up clearly on her skin. She said, "Yes, I grow clumsy out of working so hard."
"Well, I can't protest, you're just too useful," said Voldemort, removing his hand from Hermione's neck. "And you know the most amazing tricks. Why, at the dueling exhibition last week, you defeated nearly everyone, except myself of course."
"Of course, my master." She bowed her head, pleased with his praise of her accomplishments, remembering the match. Most of the competition was made of old men, once formidable warriors, now dulled by the rich life they lived now. The only ones who gave her any trouble were the younger types. Draco hadn't competed, a fact she was very glad about. If I had dueled him, I don't think I would have been able to let him win. And then I would have paid for humiliating him later, she thought, feeling very gratified that he had only watched. And as she'd found out that same night, he'd been pleased with her performance as well.
Voldemort continued discussing her, saying, "I daresay most everyone was shocked you made it that far. Weren't you, Lucius?"
"I was." Hermione didn't dare move her head to look at Lucius when he answered their Master, so she couldn't tell whether he was angry or indifferent to her success.
"Once you had beaten all my Death Eaters, I had to step in, in order to provide you with a challenge," said Voldemort indulgently. "I know they bore you, pet, but at least I make sure that it is clear to you that I am the master and you only my pet."
"Always." Hermione lowered her eyes in respect, yet her voice had remained tense with unreleased anger. At least he can't see the hate in my eyes.
"And have you mastered your new trick, pet?" The Dark Lord returned to the original purpose of her weekly visit. She was expected to show progress every week with the projects her master assigned to her. In the beginning of her captivity, she had been assigned to rework complex systems of wards for main Death Eater buildings. She also worked out any spells asked of her, often creating new spells specifically tailored for the task at hand, whether it was for keeping a person conscious long past the point of unconsciousness or creating a mini-weather system inside a room or a series of stronger building spells. Her recommendations they obtained through threats and torture included reworked defense plans, guard rotations, strategies for economic power, and suggestions for keeping the populace subdued. With her forced help, the Death Eaters rebuilt the wizarding world into what they wanted. Now, since Voldemort's empire was complete, she existed to do whatever he wanted her to do. Mainly to learn new tricks and perform them like a good pet to please her master, who held her life in his hands.
Confident that she would please him today, Hermione said, "I have, my master."
"Show me." A simple request yet issued without room for negotiating.
"If I could have a test subject, in order to fully demonstrate the uniqueness of the tracking charm?" asked Hermione, her voice holding the precise amounts of authority and docility that she knew Lucius hated but Voldemort tolerated.
"Of course. Lucius? Please invite someone to join us," Voldemort instructed Lucius idly.
Lucius pulled up his sleeve and spoke into the Dark Mark on his arm. "Pulciber-report to the balcony room immediately."
Coiling Nagini around his body, Voldemort lazily looked at Hermione. "Now, while we wait, explain to me how this works and what makes it so special."
Clearing her throat, she began, saying, "Unlike ordinary tracking charms, this one is quite versatile. It can be applied without notice, aside from a slight tingling sensation, which most people will ignore."
"What is the incantation?" interrupted Lucius, frowning.
"Actually, a skilled wizard does not need to speak a verbal incantation, my master. If the spell caster fully understands the theory and arithmancy holding the spell together, visualizing the layers of spells, then with intense concentration, the charm is cast without speaking. This is one of the useful features of this spell, enabling the spell caster to charm someone without any chance of the target being aware of what is happening," said Hermione. She was quietly proud of her accomplishment, actually. After laboring on this charm for months, she had been ready to show it to her master, sure that he would find her results satisfying.
"Really? That's quite useful, pet," the Dark Lord said. "I'd love to see it applied."
"If you could distract Mister Pulciber when he comes in here, quiz him about something, so he doesn't notice me, then I will cast the charm on him. Then we can watch where he goes later. As it is the end of the daylight shift, we will not doubt find out what Pulciber does on his off hours." Hermione glanced from Voldemort to Lucius while she spoke, uncertain if she over stepped her boundaries in making such a request. But Voldemort merely twisted his lips in a half smile.
Speaking up from behind Hermione, Lucius said, "I am interested in knowing if there are secret liaisons between our victim and a certain wizard in translations, actually."
"Is that why you picked Pulciber?" inquired Voldemort.
"Yes, is that choice acceptable to you, master?" The Dark Lord nodded, and Lucius grinned wickedly. Hermione knew what he was thinking and admired the impersonal way he chose to dispose of certain people who displeased him, as Pulciber had done recently when he accidentally spilled a Dissolving Solution on Lucius's dragon-leather boots.
A knock at the door attracted Hermione's attention as someone stuck his head into the room. "Uh, Master, you sent, sent for m-m-me?" stuttered Pulciber, already afraid.
"Yes, I need to ask you some questions," said Lucius impressively, standing up from his chair and motioning for Pulciber to enter. Then Lucius proceeded to interrogate Pulciber about his work for the day, asking questions about miniscule details and causing the man to become quite flustered. Lucius continued to verbally torture Pulciber until he sensed that Hermione had finished, or, thought Hermione until the Dark Lord's attention waned. Casting the spell was easy compared to all the effort she had put into creating it; it took less than a minute. Reluctant to bore his master, Lucius dismissed the man with, "You may go.
"That was impressive," said Voldemort. Hermione knew he had been watching her while she cast the tracking spell on Pulciber to see her concentration and how she did it. "Now, how does it work?"
"Through this bubble," Hermione began, swishing her wand so that a large bubble emerged in the air in front of Voldemort. It was hazy around the edges, but inside appeared a hallway, with people walking randomly around. "We can watch all of his actions. The visual linkage spell is actually applied to the area between the target's eyes, instead of to his eyes. This way we avoid the blackouts in visual information that comes every time the target closes his eyes. Still, we see everything he sees."
"And do we just see things?" said Lucius, who had now walked over beside her to peer into the bubble.
"No, no, we can get audio information as well." Hermione moved her wand again, eager to show off her work, and noises began to emanate from the bubble: voices talking, shoes clicking on the stone floor, breathing. "Now we hear everything around him, what he says, what other people say, background noises, everything. If the spell caster desires, he can reduce certain noises to concentrate on voices, for example."
Voldemort raised his red eyes to look into Hermione's brown ones, which she lowered respectfully to the floor. Then he looked at Lucius, as if appraising the interest level in the room. "Let's see where he goes, hmmm?"
They watched as if through Pulciber's eyes as he made his way through the castle, greeting the wizards he passed, seeing where his eyes moved. Pulciber eventually entered the translation department, a set of rooms delegated to deciphering any old texts or languages found. Their victim greeted another man by name with a casual air, asking him if the supply closets had been inventoried. Francis, as the other man was called, wasn't sure, so the pair made their way into a closet. The three watching followed Pulciber's eyes as he closed the closer door firmly, then trailed up Francis's body, lingering on his waistband and lips. Hermione frowned, guess what was next. And she was right, as the images they were receiving moved erratically, jumping from spots on the ceiling to various places on their bodies. The enthusiastic moans proved that the audio spell was working fine.
Hermione shifted position, feeling bored, as the images began to show Pulciber's arms grasping his partner's shoulders, then the ceiling as they heard Pulciber urge Francis on, telling him what to do in great detail. Sneaking a peak at Lucius, Hermione noticed the bored expression on his face. It figures that watching these two fuck off won't even interest him, she thought, then glanced at Voldemort. His face was impassive, but then it normally appeared that way to Hermione. She could only read two of his facial expressions: anger and amusement, for both caused his gray, scaly face to actually shift position. Right now, Voldemort's face was cooling studying the images before him, but without intensity or interest. Hermione mentally shrugged, thinking to herself that it would only make Voldemort scarier if he got off watching two homosexual guys do it in the supply closet.
After Pulciber's cried of pleasure passed their peak and the images shifted to show the side wall, indicating that Pulciber was bending over, Voldemort said, "It appears you were correct, Lucius, regarding our Mister Pulciber's off duty activities. Because they are still within my castle, I do not approve. Please go interrupt them."
Lucius nodded curtly then left the room. Hermione watched him go, thinking how amusing it would be for them to watch Lucius storm in on these two fools in the middle of their sexual excitement. Lucius certainly had an evil gleam in his eye, she thought, definitely glad that she could protect herself against this kind of tracking charm. It was a horrible sort of evil that allowed her to watch and listen to anything anyone did. She had no right to peer into another person's intimate life, to be privy to all their most secret things, yet the morals of this situation didn't really bother Hermione. She knew that she'd never be tracked like this, nor did she care about anyone who might be tracked in the future. As she'd found out during her first project as a slave in for the Death Eaters, there was no room for morals inside this castle.
Hermione was left alone with her thoughts while Voldemort continued to study the image bubble. Then he said abstractly to her, "I don't understand sex, pet. Of everything that exists in this world, life, death, war, emotions-I understand them, know how to use them as weapons, with subtleties or brutality. Sex as a weapon I can understand. But I fear I will never grasp the human desire or lust for sex. For example, why these two? Why does Pulciber desire another man? And why couldn't they wait until they were alone in their flat instead of here, were Lucius will come charging in and humiliate them? I don't understand." Voldemort sighed, then asked Hermione, "Do you?"
Swallowing any regrets she had about her own life, Hermione said, "I think so, my master."
"What do you think?" Voldemort's face was blank to her, but Hermione got the vague feeling that he knew what he was doing, that he knew he was tormenting her with these questions of an intimate nature.
"I understand how sex can be a weapon, a tool." And that's all I know, she thought bitterly, ignoring her dried-up teenage dreams of love that kept clamoring for attention in the back of her mind.
"Yes, I imagine you do," said Voldemort coolly. Certainly he knew, she thought, he knew everything that went on in his castle.
"But I do not know the love that must be a part of sex," continued Hermione. "I fail you in that regard, master." She bowed her head.
"That's fine with me, for I do not grasp love either. And I daresay that you won't, not with the young Malfoy around?" Hermione looked up at Voldemort's face sharply, seeing his mouth curl in amusement. Any sort of pain amused him, especially of those he prized.
Changing the subject, Voldemort asked, "When do you think Lucius should interrupt them?"
"While he comes, in a few moments, my master, if your desired effect is the complete shame of both," said Hermione.
"It is." Turning his head to speak into his Dark Mark Voldemort said, "Very well, Lucius? You may enter.now."
They watched the image leap from the wall to the now open door, with the terrifying figure of Lucius outlined in light. Lucius's angry voice faded in and out among the confused babbling of Pulciber and Francis. Stroking Nagini's head, the Dark Lord said, "I tire of watching this, pet. How does one end the spell?"
Raising her wand, Hermione said, "Finite Incantatum!" The bubble vanished, as all noises from the scene they had just been watching stopped as well.
"Is it possible to block the spell from being cast on you?" Voldemort asked her.
"Only if you know how to use it, or are heavily shielded, my master."
"And you will come tomorrow to instruct me, correct?" Hermione nodded, bowing her head again. Voldemort smiled indulgently as her, saying, "Good. Ah, Lucius, did you take care of that distasteful display of inappropriateness?"
Pulling off his gloves and returning to his original seat, Lucius said, "They're both being sent to the dungeon for later interrogation."
"Well, I can see this gave you no trouble, my pet. I'll just have to give you something harder. Lucius?" Voldemort walked to the chairs in front of the fireplace, indicating for Hermione to follow. She scurried over and sat down on the ottoman with her eyes averted to the floor.
Clearing his throat, Lucius said, "The Death Eaters grow weary of government and seek a challenge. You will provide it for them."
"How?" asked Hermione, still carefully studying a spot on the marble floor.
"Think, pet, think," chided Voldemort. "What are the Death Eaters like? It's all right, you can be frank with me, I know what you think."
Taking a deep breath, Hermione replied honestly, "They're stupid, greedy men who serve you because you reward fear with power."
"Correct. And what do they like most especially?" Now Voldemort's face showed amusement, thought Hermione as she raised her eyes to look at her master to answer him.
"Abusing power."
"Again, my pet proves how clever she is, don't you agree, Lucius?" The other man just grunted, but Voldemort looked at Hermione with something dangerous in his expression. "Prove your cleverness again, pet, by correctly telling me what sport my Death Eaters would most enjoy?"
She thought of their innate cruelty encouraged by Voldemort and of their laziness brought about by their luxurious lifestyle they'd had since the rise of this empire. Only one sport would suit these people. "Hunting."
"Hunting what?" Voldemort asked her, now looking pleased with how quick she caught on.
"Muggles." Muggles. Filthy muggles. I'm surprised I didn't say mudbloods, because we're even worse than silly muggles, who can't help but be captured by wizards and have no concept of magic. But we do, we're magic folk tainted with worthless muggle blood, an unnatural mixing of races, deserving of our fate. Hermione stopped her internal flow of thoughts, not wanting to lose herself in anger and bitterness in front of Voldemort and Lucius, not now when she had to pay attention or face the consequences of an attention lapse. The standard punishment for that was bouts of the Cruciatus curse interspersed with mental games that provided relief or more pain, depending on how observant the victim was.
"I think she's too clever for her own good, Master," said Lucius, his silky voice cutting into Hermione's thoughts.
"No, she's still my pet, still bound to servitude, still subject to my whims. And now she is merely pleasing me. Please me, pet," urged Voldemort. "Make something to please my Death Eaters. I expect to see progress within a week or I shall turn a blind eye to anything unfortunate that might befall you at the hands of Lucius's son."
Hermione inclined her head again, saying, "Of course, my master."
"And for your adeptness, pet, a gift, an addition to your suite. I must be sure to keep my pets happy and comfortable, right?"
Cursing the joy Voldemort took from treating her like a pet, she managed to say, "My gratitude, master," without growling it, but all the same, Hermione feared that too much anger had seeped into her voice.
Snapping at her, Voldemort said, "The day you feel true gratitude for me is the day I renounce the Dark Arts. Be gone from my sight before I grow weary of your insolent sarcasm. If I see you again before a week is up, you will be disciplined severely by me, Lucius, and anyone else who wishes it."
Hermione stood up quickly, bowed low to Voldemort and Lucius, then turned and walked carefully out of the room. She did not flee, as every nerve in her body screamed at her to do, for the Dark Lord had begun to get angry at her, and she did not want him angry with her for he held nothing like mercy within his inhuman mind. It was much better to have Lucius or even Draco mad at her than Voldemort. Outside in the hallway, Hermione blew out the breath she'd been holding and started toward the stairs.
As she walked toward her rooms, her black robes billowed behind her and a scowl fixed itself on her face. Despite the success of the tracking spell, Hermione felt no joy from her accomplishments. She only took pleasure from working on a spell, discovering an artistic and original way to do the same old thing. Showing off was nice, but since Voldemort and Lucius were never generous in their praise, they only making a day like this a torturous walk on hot coals.
A group of servants ahead were trying to negotiate a cart full of fine dishes and glasses down the hallway toward one of the meeting rooms, presumably for dinner, but as Hermione still grumbled silently about the lack of appreciation for her hard work, (two months of constant work, looking up ancient spells, testing them, rewriting basic equations, testing my spell again and again, finally positive it works, and all I get is another assignment! Ungrateful Death Eaters! If not for me they wouldn't have this nice, safe castle to live in, or their toys, or.), she walked right into the cart. Dished fell the floor as servants babbled at each other, trying to clean up the mess.
"What is this? You idiots! Get out of my way!" ordered Hermione, her path through the hallway now blocked by the cart, broken glass, and servants crawling around on the floor cleaning up.
"Pardon, lady, but we have to clean this mess up. If you could please wait a moment?"
She glared at the servant who had stopped picking up shards of glass to answer her orders with the normal disrespect. She snapped, "I don't have time to waste waiting for servants to clean up their messes!"
"If you don't mind, my lady, this mess is your fault. You walked into our cart."
Hermione was shocked at the nerve of this servant who dared to talk back to her. "If you hadn't been in my way, you clumsy fools, then this wouldn't have happened!" she sputtered, clenching her hand around her wand. She cried, "Then let me help!", flicking her wand through the air, conjuring up a broom that swept all the broken glass into a pile before attacking the servants. Smirking as the broom chased one of them onto a window ledge, Hermione continued walking toward her room.
The animation spell on the broom would not stop until someone managed to break the wooden handle, a feat that would be difficult, as Hermione put a violent streak into the broom. It would have been almost amusing to watch those fools try to evade the broom, but Hermione was loath to spend any extra time in the hallways were anyone could find her. Thinking about a particular someone she wanted to avoid most put Hermione right back into her horrid mood.
Other passing servants took one look at her face and cowered close to the walls to let her pass. Hermione smiled, enjoying the fact that the servants feared her, as they should. Even though she was a slave to Voldemort, she had certain powers and was definitely treated with respect from the entire staff of the castle. They knew better than to make her angry, for her years stuck in Voldemort's presence had allowed Hermione to learn a few nasty spells and relax her moral inhibitions.
She was almost at the relative safety of her rooms when Hermione felt a hand slip around her waist and heard a cold voice whisper into her ear, "Mmm, darling Hermione, back so soon from a meeting with the one who holds your collar and leash?"
She glared at Draco, disgusted with the feel of his breath at her ear, the warmth of his arm around her waist. "I thought that was you," she said, trying to walk faster than him to escape his presence. It didn't work, as his long legs easily compensated.
"No, no," he purred into her ear, pulling back her thick hair with his free hand, "I hold the stick to beat you with if you piddle on the carpet. Our Master holds your leash. And how did you do? Was the Dark Lord pleased?" Draco stopped in front of her, his hands grasping her forearms, his gray eyes seeking out her averted face.
"Yes." Willing herself not to tremble, to keep herself still, Hermione tried to think of something else to say, but words escaped her.
"Why so short with me? I haven't done anything wrong, I didn't forget to owl you, did I?" He pulled her body close to his, trapping her arms between them, and wrapping his arms around her body possessively. One hand tightened around her waist while the other lazily played with the hair hanging down the side of her face. If a passing wizard saw the two of them, pressed up close against each other, he might think they were lovers, stealing a private moment in the hallway. That was what Draco liked other people to think, to have them gossip among themselves that Draco Malfoy was shacking up with the Dark Lord's pet mudblood. Moving his mouth to her other ear, he bit her earlobe gently, then whispered, "I know, I'll bet I know what's wrong. It's because you caught a glimpse of that new guard down at the stables, the one with red hair. And it reminded you of him, didn't it?" His hands had moved around to her upper arms and squeezed tightly as he spoke. Hermione shut her eyes against tears. Only Draco could make her cry so quickly.
"Yes," she whimpered in pain.
"I thought so. I'll just have to see if I can't drive that thought out of your mind, later tonight though, as I think someone needs to work on a new trick, hmmm?" said Draco, pulling his hands up to her face and kissing her lips with the kind of gentle kiss that appealed to the more romantically-inclined women who gossiped about them. Then he let go of her, smiling wickedly while saying, "Get busy and I'll stop by later with a treat."
Hermione watched him turn and leave, presumably to deal with Simon Rookwood. She closed her eyes briefly, then fled to her rooms down the hall. Unlocking them with the key she wore around her wrist, she hurried inside and shut the heavy doors. Once inside, she collapsed into her favorite chair, a squashy leather chair that reminded her of the Gryffindor common room that no longer existed.
Dealing with Voldemort and Lucius always exhausts me, she thought, massaging her temples. But Draco too. Nasty, disgusting creep! I hate him! Him and his father and Voldemort! Cursing the Malfoys and the Dark Lord fluently, but without real energy, more out of habit, in her empty room, Hermione stayed seated until she calmed down. Then she began to think about muggle hunting. How to do it? This is quite a problem. The hunters will need lots of space.and obstacles to get around to make the chase more enjoyable.and modified wands too. She got up, distracted by spells and charms running around in her head, moving slowly through her rooms until she reached the large, ornate mirror Draco had put in her rooms. Through this mirror, he could communicate with her in a quicker manner than through a fireplace. The spells he had ordered Hermione to put on it ensured that no one could be listening.
Facing her image, Hermione brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. She studied her pale skin, pale like milk as she unable to get a tan from being indoors most every day. She wasn't able to leave the castle unless in the company of her master or one of the Malfoys. Fingering the bruises on her neck, she winced. They hurt worse now that she was actually thinking about them. Even though Draco had only done this to her two nights ago, the finger marks remained vivid enough to attract the Dark Lord's attention. Hermione wondered if Draco would hear about it, then decided he probably wouldn't, as the fact that Draco's beatings were one of the things Voldemort knew kept Hermione under control.
And she needed to be under Voldemort's control, as she was a very powerful dark witch. The years she had spent living in this castle were not boring. After helping the Death Eaters rebuild their castles and take control of the economy, Voldemort needed a new project. He decided to make Hermione his personal pet, training her extensively and mercilessly in the Dark Arts, until she knew as much as Lucius and was probably just as powerful. Initially, Hermione eagerly went along with her exhausting lessons out of a burning desire to maybe learn something useful that would help her escape or somehow damage Voldemort, but as time went on, she knew her early goals were foolish. Despite her skill as a witch, she was powerless to escape. Voldemort knew too much about exploiting a person's weaknesses. He knew that once Hermione had been brave and stubborn like all Gryffindors, willing to die for a stranger, ready to fight to the death against evil, not one to compromise her dignity. But as the Dark Lord planned, Hermione saw that there was truly no hope left, that it was illogical to resist with energy. Once her spirit gave up, Voldemort had nothing to fear from her. Even the threats of death didn't mean much anymore, as Voldemort told her once that he had put too much time and effort into training her to just kill her for disobedience. Torture was always an option, either by Lucius's hand, Voldemort's, or one of the torture masters down in the dungeon. But Voldemort didn't have to threaten that often now, either. If she displeased him, somehow Draco would hear about it and then he's rage at her, curse her mixed blood, her stupidity, and then he'd beat her. No one ever said anything about her bruises. Sometimes he didn't want to get dirty, so he'd just use the Cruciatus curse on her, forgetting to take it off while sipping at expensive Florin nectar, causing Hermione to lose her voice for days on end.
Draco also threatened to harm the Weasleys. He often taunted her with tidbits about them, telling her in detail how half their family had died, how their restaurant was struggling financially, how they ran a prostitution gig to help pay for things. But Draco knew that if he actually did something to the Weasleys, Hermione would refuse to work, as she'd told him before in a violent fight that if he ever hurt them, she'd figure out a way to kill herself and have him blamed. Lucky for me he believed me, thought Hermione, doubting that she could ever find it in herself for suicide.
She knew, though, that the real reason she behaved as the Dark Lord's meek pet even though she could defeat all of his Death Eaters in a wizard's duel was the collar she wore around her neck. The smooth silvery metal sat on her skin, resting on her collarbones and wrapping around her neck closer than Draco's fingers. The surface was covered with intricate designs and arcane spells written directly on the metal. Voldemort had himself constructed it, claiming he wanted to show off his skill with magic. Hermione knew that her collar had been heated under the flames fueled by burning bodies and cooled in a vat of chimaera blood, adding to the magical properties already cast into it. The collar sat on her skin, but it was unable to be removed, for thin tendrils of the metal had been encouraged to sink into her collarbones and thread through her skeleton. It was physically impossible to remove the collar, unless Hermione cut out her collarbones, where the collar was most directly connected. And she simply didn't care enough to bother. It was hard to care about much now, when she was so tired all the time, working all day on projects and enduring Draco's wrath most nights.
Draco really had no reason to abuse her, as she didn't do anything wrong very often these days. During her first year, she was endlessly exhibiting her stubborn streak, saying things she shouldn't, inciting Voldemort's anger. And then, after the Dark Lord was done with her and she'd limped back to her rooms, Draco would show up and beat her enough to put her back into bed for a week. Now, she only did as she was told and learned to be disrespectful while saying the right things. Draco simply raged at her because he didn't have much else to do.
Hermione stared into her dark eyes, smudged with shadows. Her eyes were the best part of her features, taking up most of her face now after she had become thin and pale. Dark, brooding eyes. Smoldering eyes. Perfectly fitting for the dark witch that I am, reflected Hermione. Hateful eyes, caused by four years in this castle. Four years of living with pure evil, trying to resist evil, and in the end I've just become amoral. What would Ron think if he saw me now? she thought to herself, touching her face in the mirror. He would recognize me as a dark witch, an evil person, and he would hate me. "As he should, for I am evil for not resisting harder," she told herself in a whisper. "He couldn't love me," voicing her secret desire, long given up but not forgotten.
Turning away from her crying reflection in anger, Hermione moved to a workbench. She decided to work on her secret project for an hour, then to switch to the problem of muggle hunting before Draco inevitably arrived. She muttered a few incantations then began to work on a time turner once the magically stored away device appeared before her. This was her last hope, a time turner. Voldemort ordered all time devices destroyed when he took power to prevent someone from going back in time to defeat him, but Hermione had been working on this one in secret for two years. She worked an hour or two a day, unable to work more in case someone would enter her rooms and discover her secret. She worked silently, afraid to even contemplate her fate if anyone found out what she was doing. Hermione was certain it would be far worse than just death. Everything she had experienced in this castle told her the same thing: death is a mercy, it's living that hurts.

Heavy black cloak trailing behind her in the mud, Hermione grit her teeth against the rain and damp chill that rose from the ground in waves. Since becoming virtually imprisoned in the castle, she went outside rarely and had very little contact with the elements, namely rain and dirt. Lucius knew she hated getting dirty, so she was sure he took a special delight in dragging her off through the prison camps on a rainy day. He was looking for some prisoners to use in the trial runs of several spells Hermione had developed for the sport of muggle hunting. And because Hermione's presence with Lucius today was completely unnecessary, she had been invited to come.

The camps consisted of large bunkers for the prisoners to sleep at night, a few mess halls, and mostly empty space so the poor souls could walk around and stare at their guards behind the humming magical barrier. Hermione knew the prisoners were fed horrible food, barely given enough clothes to survive, and were routinely tortured according to the whim of whatever guard was on duty. She also knew that if she had not been executed four year ago or saved by Voldemort, she would have lived in one of these camps.
Hermione thought about how differently her life could have turned out while gazing at the rows and rows of prisoners assembled before them. Lucius glared down at the dirty skeletons, marching in between the rows and occasionally marking one for later with his wand. Hermione had to follow him; if she just waited by the gate, what was the point of bringing her along? The whole point is for me to get muddy and wet and grumpy and see how pathetic these people are. The point is to remind me of what happens to those who cross Voldemort or any of the Death Eaters, she thought, trying not to stare at the gaunt, unshaven, filthy faces as she walked past.
A hoarse voice a row behind her interrupted her thoughts. "Hermione? That you?" She whirled around, trying to identify the source of the voice. Startled, she recognized the skeletal face of Dean Thomas. Dean? What's he doing here-oh, mudblood, like me, she thought. It's a wonder he's survived four years here. But he looks half-dead... His once cheerful face was so thin and unkempt that Hermione almost didn't recognize him. His voice was scratchy and his body looked like toothpicks under the rags he wore. She remained where she stood as Dean began to push his way toward her. At first she was curious to see him, but as he got closer and she saw the manic expression on his face, she found she couldn't move, was transfixed to the spot with shame and horror.
"So it is you, Hermione! Prefect Hermione! Perfect Hermione! Come to gloat? Come to laugh at your old friends? I can see you've found new ones," Dean yelled, pointing at Lucius, who had backtracked to watch their interaction. Hermione couldn't move her eyes from Dean's flushed face. "You're a traitor, Hermione, a fucking traitor! Is this how you survived? By selling out your friends? That greedy for knowledge that you sold out your two best friends? You killed Harry! You killed us all!"
"No." moaned Hermione, wringing her hands. She wanted to make Dean understand, tell him what happened, that she hadn't betrayed her friends, that these accusations against her, the same ones she hurled at herself nightly, the same ones Dead was now screaming for everyone to hear, weren't true. "That's now how it was, Dean, listen to me-"
"Listen to the traitor? Listen to you? I don't need to hear your excuses, bitch! You're just as black inside as he is!" Dean ignored her completely, screaming for the entire camp to hear. "Look, it's Hermione Granger, the witch that sold her friends to the Death Eaters! And now she's one of them!" Hermione sunk to her knees, feeling faint from Dean's accusations that echoed her accumulated guilt of four years. "Look at the traitor! Just look at her grovel for forgiveness! It's because she knows it's true! It's all true!" Dean kept raving about Hermione and the Death Eaters. Soon he started to foam at the mouth and his accusations become more and more frantic. "You did it-killed-my mom-everyone-I'm gonna- deserve to die-let me go-get out of my head-fucking-bastards-out-head." His screams died down to a whisper and he grabbed his head, shaking it back and forth.
Hermione looked at him, then asked aloud, "What's wrong with him?"
One of the prisoners beside her, an old man with a pinched face answered, "The boy's crazy, you see? Goes on and on every night like this, never stops. Doesn't make sense most times."
Staring wildly from the old man to Dean's tormented face, Hermione realized that four years in this prison camp had drove her old friend to insanity. He was becoming a mindless beast, she knew, watching Dean begin to tear at his skin with what was left of his fingernails, a creature that only wanted to die.
"Lucius!" she cried, turning to face his steely gaze. "Please, help me, I have to help Dean-I, I knew him in school, oh please, let me help him," she babbled, crying, holding her hands out, pleading with Lucius, who stared at her impassively. "I have to do something, please, please, something, don't you see? It's not for him, more for me, I have to help him." She needed to help Dean right now, as a way of atoning for her crime of living with the Death Eaters. Lucius understood that, she knew, he understood most things about a person's mind and psyche. He held her eyes for a long moment. Hermione knew within her that begging for mercy from his man was a waste of her time, that she was only destroying her reputation with him, that this was useless, but she couldn't stop her tears.
"Here," said Lucius suddenly, pulling out his dagger from his waist. "Here, take this," he said, thrusting it into her trembling hands. "You know what you have to do," he said in a voice like steel bands, turning her back around with icy hands to face the insane mudblood before her. Hermione looked down at the wicked edge of the dagger then stared at Dean, listened to his tortured mumbling for a minute, then moved forward.

Hermione stumbled through her rooms, heading toward the bathroom. Once there, her stomach surged again, but this time she obeyed and threw up in the sink. Again and again she retched into the smooth curves of the sink, heaving until there was nothing left to come out. Panting, she wiped her face with a towel and rinsed out her mouth. Then she raised her eyes to look at her reflection.
Her face was haggard, tired and lined. Fine wrinkles around her eyes and mouth made her look older than she was, yet her large eyes, sparkling with tears still, added youth. She scowled at herself through her tears, but refused to look away. Her crying, blotchy face accused her of crimes, past and most recent. Hermione opened her mouth and said to herself, "I killed Dean Thomas," in a voice soft yet cruel. Cruel to herself. Refusing to make up some excuse for her actions. Forcing herself to say it out loud. "Poor Dean, lunatic Dean, sweet friend, dead by my hands." Instead of her face, the face of a Death Eater stared back at her behind the tears. She continued to look until she couldn't bear it any longer. Gasping, she crouched down on the ground and hugged her knees, rocking back and forth, sobbing aloud like a child. She had lost another friend, one more link to those happy days at Hogwarts, only this time she had killed him. Hermione tried to tell herself that it was a mercy killing, that Dean deserved something better than the life he was living, that he was forced to live. He must have thought it was all my fault, she cried to herself, cursing her weak heart. Her sobs echoed in the bathroom, obscuring the noise Draco made when he entered her rooms.
"Hermione!" said Draco, loud enough to be heard over her frantic weeping. Her head snapped up, looking for him. He strode into the bathroom, bending his head down to hers so that his blond hair brushed against her face, sneering, "I heard what happened today. So how does it feel, clever girl? Now you're as dirty as me."
"No!" cried Hermione, backing away horrified from him into the cool porcelain of the toilet. "No-it's not like that, I'm not like you, never!"
"And now your hands are bloodstained like mine," continued Draco silkily, as if she hadn't said anything. "You're stained now that you've killed someone, but it's even worse because it was a friend." Draco paused, his eyes studying Hermione as she raised shaking hands to her face. Bloodstained? "Are you sure you weren't supposed to be in Slytherin? Your brave Gryffindor heart seems to have failed you now."
Hermione stopped looking frantically at her hands for blood and glared at Draco. "You-you-" she growled, awkwardly getting to her feet. "You're horrid! I hate you! I hate y-" But Draco grabbed her wrists and pulled up hard. She was jerked off her feet and he threw her across the bathroom floor so that she landed crumpled in the doorway to her rooms.
"You hate me?" Draco began to say in an intense, low voice. "You? I'm the one who should hate you! You conceited mudblood! You think you can run this place, don't you? Telling my father what to do, ordering servants around-you're nothing! Just a mudblood! Not even worth the price of your clothes," he yelled, grabbing at the front of her robes. Hermione flinched away, but she couldn't escape his cruel presence.
"These clothes are too fine for your filthy body, but you get them anyway! And these rooms," he added, grasping her firmly to show her around the room. "These chairs, that Egyptian rug, those arithmancy texts, those potions, these curtains, that bed, all of it! You don't deserve-you're not worth it! You're not worth the price of beetle wings, much less all of this. But," Draco said, lowering his voice to whisper menacingly in her ear, "But the Dark Lord likes you, so you get all this. Your work pleases him. It pleases my father." He rubbed his nose across her cheek and down her neck. Hermione trembled against his hard chest where he held her firmly, his touch sending shivers of fear down her back. Reaching the delicate skin of her neck, Draco pulled back up to her cheek, purring, "You please everyone here," sending out his tongue to make a wet, hot trail down her face and ended at her neck, where he bit the skin hard. "You please everyone," he repeated, alternating each word with another bite. Hermione fought not to scream with horror. He finished, saying, "Except me." With those words, Draco shoved her hard down on the floor and kicked at her outstretched legs.
Then he raised his arms and swept the closest tabletop clean, spilling everything onto the floor. He screamed, "You have taken everything from me! All these things should be mine! This-" he said, holding up a glass model of the castle, "-should have been mine, but instead it's yours!" And he threw it against the wall above Hermione's head. She covered her head with her arms as glass shards rained down on her. Draco flipped over a chair, swearing at her so loud that people in the hallway would have heard if Hermione's room had not been Silence- Charmed.
"You're taken away everything that should have been mind," he accused, raging around her room, pulling things off shelves, breaking vials, ripping parchments to shreds, "including my father!" Hermione hugged her knees, her tears soaking her robes, shaking with fear. She felt so numb with guilt and fear, she couldn't think, could only hope that Draco would go on destroying her rooms and leave her alone.
But he didn't. In the middle of ripping apart a pillow, Draco seemed to remember she existed and moved over to crouch in front of her. "And you, you're just like us now, just like me, just like the Death Eaters whom you've despised for so long. How does it feel?" he hissed, grabbing her hair and yanking her head up to look at his face. "How does it feel to be dirty and evil like us? You're worked for us, doing our precious tasks, silently condemning us for years behind those brown eyes of yours, and now you prove to be just as evil! So tell me, Hermione Granger," Draco yelled into her face, standing up and dragging her with him, "Tell me how it feels! Tell me how much it hurts!" He shook her body sharply, shaking her until Hermione saw stars. Then he threw her into the couch and began pulling down the curtains, yelling at her, cursing her. Hermione tried to sink into the cushions as Draco smashed the glass doors on her potions' cabinets, shutting her eyes against the sight of Draco rampaging around her rooms, but unable to stop his hateful voice.

Thin moonlight shone through the window, illuminating in stark black and white the destruction of Hermione's rooms. Bits of parchment, cloth, and shards of glass littered the floor. Hermione had repaired the stool that Draco threw against the wall and was sitting in front of a table; the candlelight shining on the small, shiny object she was bent over. Brushing hair impatiently out of her face, she pulled a parchment covered with tiny handwriting toward her. Locating a line of spells, Hermione waved her wand over the object sitting on the table and low-pitched hum filled the room. She continued uttering spell words, causing the hum to increase in frequency to a high squeal until it stopped with a pop. Hermione leaned back, resting her hands on the table, looking at the finished Time Turner. MORE HERE ABOUT THE PROCESS? WHAT?
It sat innocently on the table, golden metal framing the hourglass shape. Filled with white sand, it looked beautiful, like a symbol of freedom. Hermione reached out a gentle hand and picked it up, turning the golden shape to and fro in her hand, admiring the way the candlelight picked out details and twinkled in the darkness. The Time Turner, though smaller than her finger, weighed heavily in her hand. It was so special, she knew, filled with tired satisfaction at finally being done the secret hours of making it.
After Draco had stormed out of her rooms as abruptly as he had arrived, Hermione sat crying on the couch for a while. Then she dried her tears and began to work on the Time Turner instead of restoring order to her rooms. That had been hours ago. Her back and neck felt stiff and her mind fuzzy, but she didn't mind. It was finished; her secret weapon was complete. Now I only have to use it, she thought. But I can't right now, unable to think of when she'd go back to, or what she'd do once she got there. Uncertainty filled her now that her initial elation over the completed Time Turner had dissipated. What should I do next? Use it? But what if I made a mistake somewhere and it doesn't work? And someone finds out? The prospect of someone discovering her secret horrified Hermione. That must never happen, no matter what the cost. But she knew that the disguising spells and wards she had placed on the Time Turner while working on it would keep it from being found. All she had to do was put it back under those spells and her secret would be safe from everyone, including Draco.
He can't find out, thought Hermione, not him, he'd kill me, no matter what Lucius or Voldemort want, Draco would kill me, he'd be so mad. She knew that if Draco discovered her Time Turner, he would see it as a betrayal and his violent temper would not stop until he had strangled her with his hands. Shivering in the candlelight, Hermione hugged herself, still debating about what to do. If I hide it, then I'm still safe, no one knows, and I have a weapon to use. All I need is the right time. Yes, I'll just wait until the right time.
She picked up her wand and said the necessary incantations to hide the Time Turner, first transfiguring it to look like tweezers, then banishing it to side-reality in the stone wall. A series of wards made the wall appear normal to sight and magical probes. Finished with hiding the Time Turner, Hermione looked around her room at the damage. With a sinking heart, she realized this would take at least a day to clean up and sort through. A day that I don't have, she thought, bitterly cursing Draco's selfishness. But I'm too tired to start now. Weaving a path through the rubble on the floor, Hermione reached her bedroom, thankfully intact. Curling up amid pillows and blankets on her unmade bed, she closed her eyes and willed herself to sleep.
But one thought kept nudging at her. It was Draco and why she was more afraid of him than Voldemort. The Dark Lord was the more dangerous wizard, she knew, having first-hand experience of the dark magic that he knew. And he lacked human emotions like mercy and empathy, making him ruthless in every action. Hermione knew that if he found out her secret, Voldemort wouldn't kill her but would transform her life into a living hell, bringing a new perspective to the clichéd phrase. Yet she was more afraid of Draco. Why was that? Why did this blond, sneering, cruel wizard frighten her so much? How had he gotten such power to make her tremble alone in her bed just thinking about him? Yes, Hermione might curse him inside her head, but she would never be able to say such things to his face. All Draco had to do was say the word and she jumped, asking how high. His silky whisper, lusted after by some women of the Dark Lord's court, would be enough to send any of them into orgasmic bliss, but it only made her curl up and beg for mercy. Every action he took was calculated to cause her pain somehow. Even his words, for these years she had been listening to them, cut deep and festered insider her mind, dulling her down, making her less than what she was. Hermione was dimly aware of the cumulative effect Draco had on her, but she couldn't think about it clearly anymore. Draco had boiled down things in her mind to a question of whether or not this action would displease him. And it was too hard right now, warm and sleepy in her bed, to think of another way to evaluate her actions.

The next day Hermione spent cleaning her rooms. In the daylight, the destruction looked even worse than it had the night before. Yet Hermione grimly kept picking up things and repairing objects, knowing that if she didn't clean up then she couldn't work. If she didn't work, then she wouldn't have anything to show Voldemort when she was expected to meet him later this week. Somehow Hermione suspected that the excuse, "But Draco ruined my rooms!" just wouldn't work with Voldemort. So she worked her way steadily through the chaotic mess.
A servant arrived around noon with her food just as Hermione was muttering, "Reparo!" at a pile of glass on the floor. The shards reformed to become the glass castle that Draco had hurled at the wall above her head last night. The servant waited in her doorway while Hermione looked at the model with wonder at the intricate detail present. The windows and door were exact, and the miniature gargoyles were lifelike, just like the real ones outside. The castle had been given to her by Voldemort to aid in one of early projects in assisting the construction of the magical defenses of the castle. She used it constantly for months, then discarded it to an end table, where it had slowly been covered by papers and other objects. It was a wonder Draco had found it at all, Hermione marveled.
The servant at the door coughed discreetly and Hermione said in a distracted voice, "Just leave it anywhere." The girl looked around the room, already half-clean, and set the tray on the closest empty table. Hermione continued to work on the same corner of the room until she remembered she was hungry.
Much later, after the sun had set and Hermione had finished dinner, she tried to replace the curtains to their former places at the windows. Everything else had been taken care of. While her room did not have the normal look of an absent-minded professor's office with stacks of parchments piled haphazardly in corners, held up with spells, there was still an indispensable element of clutter.
It was taking her a while to hang the curtains up. The heavy material was coated with dust and she kept sneezing, causing her wand to go awry. The curtains, held up in the air with a Levitation spell, moved with her wand, sending another shower of dust to fall on Hermione. She sneezed violently and when she opened her eyes, saw someone's shadow falling across the floor in front of her. Turning, Hermione saw that it was Draco.
"Hello, darling Hermione," he said, crossing over to her and pulling her wand out of her hand gently. She stared blankly at him, wondering if he wanted to rip apart her rooms again now that she had just gotten them back into order. "I'm so glad to see you," he said, pulling her by her hands into the bedroom.
"Why is that?" she asked carefully, feeling very, very confused.
"Oh," he replied, "just because," pulling her close and dancing awkwardly around the bed. He kept nuzzling her neck, tickling her, until Hermione giggled. Joining in with her, Draco pushed her back on the bed and crawled on top of her. Tweaking her nose, he said in a voice she would have called happy if she thought Draco could be happy, "Darling Hermione, you won't believe it."
Trying to think, come up with something to say, Hermione gasped, "What? What won't I believe? Draco, are you-why are you in such a good mood?"
"I am in a good mood!" chuckled Draco. "Didn't think it was possible? That's ok, dearest Hermione, sweet Hermione, I forgive you," he said, adding, "maybe" with a low growl as he began kissing her neck with such intensity that Hermione almost forgot this was Draco on top of her. Well, he certainly seems happy, she thought, reaching up her hands to hold onto Draco's shoulders as he moved lower, pulling her robes off, easing the straps of her simple dress down her shoulders, biting and kissing her skin, her breasts, her nipples. Almost playful.how strange. He's not normally so pleasant with me.
"You won't believe it," he murmured against her belly while his hands pulled off the rest of her dress and panties, "what's going on, what I'm doing, it's incredible that he trusts me this much, he's finally treating me as an equal."
"What?" said Hermione, latching onto what Draco was saying instead of what he was doing to her right now that made her head swim and her body grow hot and wet under his hands. "What is it? Tell me."
"A party, an anniversary party," Draco said, "in a month, everyone's invited, going to be a huge celebration. And I'm in charge." Hermione fought to stay silent, refusing to give in to the desire to moan with pleasure at the nice things that Draco was doing to her right now with his hands and mouth between her legs. Shudders rippled through her body suddenly and a slight groan escaped her lips. She could feel Draco smile into her inner thigh before he sat back on his heels, saying, "So you can't resist me, huh, Hermione? Can't help but give in to me? Why don't you just give up, sweet Hermione, and enjoy my good mood while it lasts?"
And Hermione wanted to, she wanted to let Draco do things to her that she knew he did to other women but not to her. Normally he just used her roughly, to fill his needs, and left her with the sheets on her bed still cold. But today, she could barely think anymore, today was so different, so delightfully different and rare.
"If," she gasped in between shudders, "if you tell me?"
Draco murmured yes into the soft skin between her breasts and she gave in to his desires, reaching with her hands for his shoulders, for the fasteners to his robes, tugging at his black shirt, unbuckling his belt. He became even more eager in his light, playful actions, seeming to enjoy making Hermione whimper with unfulfilled pleasure, teasing her relentlessly until she gave in completely and begged shamelessly for him to continue. She knew from the look he gave her before he settled himself inside her that he had won, that he had asserted his dominance over her again, proved once more that he was in control over her every move, but she couldn't care, she only wanted to stop hovering on this edge. She was willing to be his slave forever to experience the sensations he promised her.

After they were finished having sex, for Hermione couldn't call it a fuck because it wasn't violent enough, and couldn't say love because she knew that wasn't part of it, they lay tangled together on her bed. The darkness played across their bodies, hiding details, making it all right to be lying naked peacefully beside the man she feared most.
Hesitantly breaking the silence, but needing to satisfy her curiosity while Draco was still in a mood to talk, Hermione asked in a whisper, "Draco? Tell me about your good news, please?"
He sighed and rolled over to face Hermione. "I went to Diagon Alley today," he said, envy welling up in Hermione's chest. She had not visited Diagon Alley since she helped piece it back together, nearly four years ago. "I saw Weasley."
She gasped, eyes widening. But she didn't say anything to disrupt this rare moment of peace between her and Draco when he actually seemed willing to give her information.
"My father made me in charge of getting this party together. I'm going to be quite busy, making security arrangements, hiring extra help," continued Draco, not noticing her sudden interest. "So I thought about who I should hire to help cater and serve at this party. And I couldn't help but think of 'The Last Chance'." Hermione knew from what Draco had told her before that that was the name of the restaurant the Weasleys owned. "So I made my way down there today and hired their meager staff. No doubt they need the business, even though their place is quite elegant. Maybe I'll take you there sometime, Hermione," he teased, pulling at her hair, his dark eyes filled with something she couldn't identify, "Maybe you'll get to see your dear Weasleys."
"How-" she began to say, then licked her lips, watching Draco's eyes follow the movement. "How are they? Do they look ok?"
"Yes, quite healthy I'd say. Pity," he muttered. "Fred has become a business man, very easy to work with. And the girl, what was her name, looks like a high-class waitress, but I'm sure that's just the clothes. Ron," he paused, his eyes narrowing. "Ron is tall and thin, with the trademark Weasley freckles and red hair. But he's changed, Hermione. I walked in there and saw him first. I expected him to say something, to challenge me somehow. I wanted to see something of that stupid Weasley courage that's so easy to provoke, but he didn't say anything. Just showed me to his brother. Why did he do that?" asked Draco, rolling onto his back. "Like he's finally learned to shut his mouth and avoid trouble, even though he was never like that before."
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, wishing she had been able to see Ron, wondering what happened to him to change him like Draco said. A quiet Ron? A Ron that didn't give in to an opportunity to fight with Draco? She felt tears trickle out, hearing a choked sob, thinking it came from her until she opened her eyes and saw Draco staring at the ceiling with a tear running down the hard planes of his face. She reached out a hand, murmuring, "Draco?"
"I envy him, Hermione, I hate him, but I still envy Ron Weasley, despite his poverty, despite his lowly station, despite everything," said Draco in a hoarse voice. "I looked around that restaurant and felt the love they all feel for each other. Even though they struggle, they have each other. And I envy that."
"Oh Draco," said Hermione, cradling him against her chest, forgetting that this was Draco, and feeling her heart grow heavy with similar longing. "I know, I want that too," she whispered.
He wrapped his arms around her and she felt his tears leak down between their bodies, then he stiffened up, saying, "Hermione, I-"
"Don't worry," she soothed, "I won't mention this in the morning." Then he relaxed against her and they clung to each other in their loneliness for the rest of the night.

Sipping her tea, Hermione thought that Draco seemed more comfortable in her rooms than she did. It was the morning after that very unusual night and she was reading over a notice sent to all important witches and wizards. It was funny, that she was marked a slave by the collar she wore, but she was ranked high enough to get these notices. This one was about the party Draco told her about, informing people of the ensuing excitement and instructing them on what to wear. She crumpled it up and tossed it into the fire.
"You should have put that up where you'd see it," said Draco from behind her. He was leaning on the couch, twirling chunks of her hair around his fingers. "That way you won't forget." Hermione shrugged, knowing he was right, but she didn't care about parties or dressing up. It was a waste of time to her.
"Don't you eat anything for breakfast?" asked Draco, irritably tugging at her hair.
"No," she said. She was trying to muster up the courage to ask Draco something, but if he kept interrupting her thought process she'd never do it.
"I'll order some then. Do you want anything?" he said, throwing some powder into the fire.
"Whatever."
He called out, "Kitchen!" and stuck his head in the flames. Hermione could hear his voice ordering food, being quite rude to the cooks, demanding that he see it at the door in less than two minutes or he'd come down there and show them how to cook. Then he flopped onto the couch beside her.
Watching Draco fiddle with some star charts she had placed on the end table, Hermione again marveled at how comfortable Draco looked in her room. Even she wasn't this relaxed, not even in her own rooms. There was always the chance that he might come in or someone else could interrupt whatever she was doing. But Draco, when he wasn't screaming at her, always behaved perfectly at ease here. She wondered why he spent so much time in her rooms when he had his own suite in another part of the castle.
His rooms, she knew from the very few times she had been inside, were very elegant, albeit with an overall Spartan air. They had a cold feeling, done in grays and blacks with touches of red for color. There was never anything out of place. She had never seen a sock on the floor or a book lying open on a table. He did use his rooms to entertain his Death Eater friends occasionally, or to enjoy one of the blond witches that he brought back from some silly party. Hermione knew about that because he usually told her about his encounters the next day in enough detail to make her queasy. She also knew that he had meetings with his father in his rooms. She supposed that was why Draco kept his rooms so clean and perfect, in case his father came in them.
Maybe that was why he liked her place instead, she mused, letting her eyes wander over the bookshelves overflowing with books and scrolls, the tabletops piled with models and parchments and various magical instruments, the potions cabinets with their glass vials labeled in Hermione's now scratchy handwriting. She used to be so anal about keeping things organized, but then it had fallen apart on her. It took too much mental effort to be organized, so she let things go where they wanted. If she needed something and couldn't find it, then she just summoned it. That worked just fine. The clutter lent a cozy, lived in feeling to her rooms that she liked. And she supposed that Draco liked it too. It was a safe place for her, mostly, and, Hermione decided looking at Draco, half-hidden behind the star charts, it was safe for him too.
Breakfast arrived while she sat thinking and Draco summoned it over to the couch. He placed the tray on the cushions between them and immediately began to eat. Hermione snagged a scone and poured herself another cup of tea. She watched Draco eat until most of the food was gone, silently building up her courage. When he had popped the last bite of toast into his mouth, she said very quietly, "Why can't it be like this all the time?"
He looked at her now, chewing very slowly. After he swallowed, he said, "What do you mean?"
Heartened by the fact that he hadn't started yelling at her yet, Hermione continued. "I mean, well, what I mean is-this is nice, isn't it? This is peaceful, right now, between us. Why can't it always be like this?" Draco didn't respond, only kept staring at her with dark eyes. Beginning to feel nervous, she said, "Whatever relationship we have, and we have one, even if it's fucked up, it could be like this all the time. You could-be nice to me, and then this feeling would go on every day and we'd both maybe be happy someday." The words left her quickly, coming out faster so he couldn't stop her. When she was done, Hermione peeked at his face, then looked into her teacup.
The silence grew between them, becoming oppressive and stagnant. Hermione longed to know what Draco was thinking, but she didn't dare look at him right now, wanting instead to stay meek and hoping he'd say something, anything, soon.
Draco stood up, brushing crumbs off his robes. Hermione raised her head slowly. He said, "You forget your place," all the earlier comfortable ease of the morning gone from his voice, in its place harsh anger. He glared at her for a minute, sending her the very clear message that she was wrong to suggest such a thing, then left her rooms with an authoritative air. Hermione sat by the fireplace, feeling as worthless as the shards of glass from her teacup that she had just thrown into the fire.

The weeks went by, filled with the monotony of spending her days working in her rooms and experimenting outside with Lucius. Hermione made tremendous progress with the muggle-hunting project, throwing herself into it, forgetting to eat or bath, and worked all-night, catching naps during the afternoon. Every time she glanced in a mirror, all she saw were her eyes, large and accusing, mocking her with every stupid thing she had said to Draco. She was a fool for thinking she had any influence over him, Hermione told herself while working into the early morning hours when her mind drifted. She had no right to talk to him like that, she was his inferior. She always was and always would be a slave.
At the moment it was late morning, although only people who had recently looked at clock could know that. Hermione sat digging through a heavy textbook on containment spells, searching for a spell that could turn on and off randomly to provide an element of surprise to the muggle hunt. When the door to her room opened, she looked up, startled. Draco lazily walked in, flinging his cloak on a chair.
"You look horrible," he said. Hermione could feel his eyes moving up her scrunched-up form in the chair. "Bags under your eyes, pale skin, too thin." he said, clucking his tongue at her. "My, my, what have you been doing to yourself? Don't you know that you have to be gorgeous for the party tonight?"
"P-p-party?" she stammered. "What party?"
"Did you forget, my little slave?" said Draco. He stopped addressing her as "Hermione" now in private and called her "slave," to remind her of her status. She knew it was her fault, though, and didn't cry too much when he had hurt her for the christening of his new pet name for her. "The anniversary party, of course. The one I've been planning. I told you to keep that notice," he said, wagging his hand at her mockingly.
"I should have listened to you," mumbled Hermione, flushing. "But Draco," she added, "I don't have time for a party, I have to finish these spell for the Dark Lord. I promised him that-"
"Now, now, don't worry about that. I'm sure you've exceeded his expectations, haven't you, slave? Didn't he tell you that two days ago?" he needled. Hermione nodded, feeling herself grow numb with apprehension. She really didn't want to go to the party. She didn't want to deal with his expectations. "So you stop resisting and be sure to be ready on time."
Draco picked up his cloak and opened the door. "Oh," he said over his shoulder, "I'll send a servant later with a dress to get you ready. And if you're not there, on time, looking beautiful, that bruise on your cheek will seem like a kiss when I'm done with you." He stayed long enough to watch Hermione nod her head once, then left.
She reached up a hand to touch the bruise on her cheek. Last night, Draco had come in to see her trying to work out some arithmancy equations. Upset that she didn't give him the welcome he thought he deserved, Draco reminded her once again who she was, hitting her and waiting for her to repeat his words. He slapped her across the face, her head jerking to one side with her body held still by the weight of Draco's body pressing her up against the wall. "What did I tell you?" he growled, raising his hand again. "I'm sorry," she gasped. "I'm at fault, I messed up-" "Wrong!" Another vicious slap on the same cheek. "I don't deserve your forgiveness," she said brokenly, "I'm just a mudblood, not worthy." "Not worthy for what? What?" he demanded, backing away from her, watching as she fell to the ground, clutching her ribs from where he had kneed her. "Please," she said, falling on her knees and bowing her head, "please just don't hurt me anymore, not tonight, please." "Crucio!" Draco had cried then, watching as Hermione writhed on the ground in pain, feeling knives slice into her skin, twisting sickly. When he took off the curse, he said, "Say you're mine, for always, and I'll leave you alone for tonight." She begged in a whisper, "I'm yours, Draco, always, I always have been, please, please, let me go, stop doing this, please." "Good," he said, grasping her chin and twisting the skin cruelly, "Just as long as you please me."
Hermione shut her mind from last night and pulled her hand away from her cheek as if it was on fire. The physical pain almost didn't hurt as much as what Draco did to her dignity and soul. She tried to keep working on those equations, but kept wandering off to wonder how much worse her life could get.

"Excuse me, miss," came the soft voice of a servant. Hermione waved her hand, indicating for the servant to enter, without looking up from her book. "Lord Malfoy sent me to your rooms with strict instructions to get you ready for this evenings festivities," the servant said in a firmer voice. Hermione glared at her, frowning, but closed the book. She did not want someone else getting beaten because of her. And she knew the servant spoke of Draco, not Lucius. Only Draco with his selfishness would send someone to make sure she got ready for tonight. Lucius wouldn't care what she looked like, even if she was wearing nothing except a pair of socks, as long as she was at the party.
"What do I have to do?" she said, looking the servant over. She was a woman older than Hermione, maybe in her thirties, but had a definite air of servitude about her, in addition to something matronly.
"Just let me work," the woman said smoothly, leading Hermione to the bathroom. "First you need a bath, I don't know how long you're been working, but a hot bath will make you feel much better," she was saying while turning on the taps and pulling off Hermione's clothes.
After the bath and a thorough scrubbing, Hermione was rubbed all over with a mild scented oil then instructed to stand nude in the bathroom while the servant would be "right back with your dress." Hermione sighed, hugging her scented skin and feeling out of place. It was odd to be waited on in her bathroom.
"Whose servant are you normally?" she asked of the older women when she returned with a dress and underwear.
"The Lady Malfoy, before she died," the woman answered. Hermione nodded, knowing then that this woman would be able to make her look acceptable for the evening. Narcissa Malfoy always looked perfect at every social function and indeed whenever Hermione saw her. Even while lying in her deathbed, Narcissa looked like a beauty queen. She had died a year ago. Hermione had been brought to see her in hopes that she could determine the cause of the blond woman's illness and cure her, but the best Hermione could do was determine that it was not natural. She suspected that Lucius's wife was being poisoned, but she wasn't sure by whom. Not that she cared to try any harder than was necessary. It was probably someone with a grudge. Narcissa had been a cruel woman, delighting in humiliating Hermione at every social event that Hermione was forced to attend. The only good thing about this party, thought Hermione, is that Narcissa won't be there to laugh at me.
Stumbling a little while stepping into the lacy underwear, Hermione gasped when she saw the servant pull out a black garter belt to go with her nylons. "I'm going to be wearing that?" she said, astonished.
"Just wait till you see the dress, dearie," chuckled the woman, helping Hermione into the garter belt.
"I've never worn one of these before," she whispered, feeling very young and foolish, standing in her bathroom wearing the fanciest, skimpiest set of underwear in her life.
"They'll make you feel beautiful under this dress, and maybe add to your assets," said the servant, fastening up the corset that somehow created cleavage. Gaping at her reflection in the mirror, Hermione mutely allowed the woman to help her step into the deep plum colored velvet dress. The dress fastened up in the back with a long row of tiny hooks, pulling tight against her body. Its long sleeves clung tight to her like another skin and skimmed her shoulders to fall low around her breasts. If Hermione bent over just a little, she could see her black corset and created- cleavage in the mirror. The low neckline accented the silver collar fastened to her neck, the swirls in the metal matching the earrings the servant put in her ears. The rest of her dress fell to the floor, catching at Hermione's slim curves, somehow making her rather dull figure look attractive. Slipping her feet into black spikes, she allowed herself to be guided to a low stool so the woman could do her hair and makeup.
"So do you like the dress?" the woman asked conversationally, apparently aware that her charge was feeling a little more timid tonight than normal. That was fine as Hermione welcomed the talk.
"It makes me look attractive," Hermione said bluntly, not really sure of what to say to this woman. What did women talk about amongst themselves? She had gotten out of practice lately.
"Well, you are!" laughed the woman, twisting her thick hair in tiny knots, then pinning them close to her scalp with decorative pins that went along with her earrings. The knots were really too tight and pulled uncomfortably, but Hermione didn't say anything. That pain she could deal with, just like the way her underwear was starting to pinch her skin. "Lord Draco picked out the dress, the shoes, and those lacy under-things that got you all flustered," added the woman. "There, all done with your hair."
"Now for my makeup?" asked Hermione, experimentally feeling her hair with her hands. It looked decent in the mirror with the dying sunlight catching on the metal pins, sparkling prettily.
"You've got this horrid bruise-do you want me to heal it for you?" the woman asked kindly.
"No! Don't do that! Just-just cover it up, please?" asked Hermione, trying to calm down. If Draco knew that she had healed her bruise, he would be furious. She had done that once, healed herself with magic, only to earn several more bruises. Apparently, once Draco did something, it stayed that way for everyone to see until it went away naturally. Hermione supposed he liked to admire his handiwork and let everyone in the castle see how, while Voldemort might hold the leash, Draco dispensed the rewards and punishments.
"If that's what you want," sighed the woman, pulling out a wand. Hermione knew that it had been designed to be inferior to the wands normally sold, to prevent servants from doing anything dangerous. But it was powerful enough to perform a few cosmetic charms. She watched her face transform in the mirror. First, her skin tone evened out and the ugly bruise was covered up. Then her lips became full and matched the color of her dress. The woman raised her wand and Hermione saw her eyelashes grow longer and darker. "Since your eyes are already so beautiful, we'll just make them the focus of your face," said the servant, drawing dark, smudged lines around Hermione's eyes. When she was done with makeup charms, she pulled Hermione's hands toward her. "Now I'll do your nails. Hmm, these need a lot of work. You bit your nails, don't you? Now, it's ok, but you really should try to take better care of them, for your nails can make your hands look pretty or dull."
But Hermione didn't pay attention to what the woman was saying about her fingernails. She was busy looking at herself. This woman is very good, she thought, to make me look so beautiful. Hermione's usually normal- looking face had been made to look attractive enough with the number of charms applied.
Then the woman was done and let Hermione look at herself in the full- length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. The combination of dress, makeup, and hair made Hermione look like an almost-classic beauty. My face is really too plain and body too thin, but it'll do for tonight, she thought critically examining her reflection, then stopped as her eyes were drawn to her collar. Draco was very clever, picking out this dress to draw attention to her collar, making her status impossible to ignore. Still, the collar was beautiful with its evil swirls and spells. Even though Voldemort was an evil genius, he surrounded himself with aesthetically pleasing things. It made sense that he would want even his pet's collar to be beautiful in the way it let everyone know she was just a mudblood slave.
I look like a dark witch, I really do. Like how Lestrange looks, dark and brooding, evil. Beautiful on the outside for tonight but always rotten clean to the center. Beauty is only skin deep, she reminded herself, but ugliness goes straight to the bone. Hermione sighed, If Ron saw me now, he would hate me, he'd know me for who I am, a traitor, a horrible evil person. I hate myself. I should just kill myself. But Hermione knew that was an empty threat, knowing that she lacked the courage needed to take her own life. She was too filled with fear to do something like that. What if she mucked it up and Draco found out? Too much fear.
"You did a good job," came a male voice from the other room. "Leave us." The servant woman bowed and scurried out the door as Draco sauntered over to Hermione, wearing clean-cut, expensive black dress robes, looking like the traditional Death Eater sans mask. "You look good enough to fuck right now," he said, licking his lips as his eyes trailed over her. She shivered, feeling so vulnerable in this strange dress. The mask of makeup she wore only made her more open to his attacks.
"Come here," Draco commanded, holding out his hand for her. She put hers in his hand meekly, noticing that her nails had been done to match her dress as well. Draco pulled her out into the room and placed her arm over his proffered one. "If I see you so much as bat your eyes at someone else, you'll pay," he purred into her ear as they left the comfort of Hermione's rooms and walked through the castle for the ballroom.

The excited hum of voices reached Hermione as they approached the doors to the ballroom. The huge double-doors were swung wide, held open with sitting serpent statues, letting them see everyone inside, dressed in their finest eveningwear. As Draco led them smoothly across the floor, Hermione looked around her in awe. The ballroom had somehow become a beautiful place. Its stark gothic architecture was made to look less forbidding with the jewel-like lights levitating near the ceiling. Clustered around the piano near the dancing floor and atop every side table were also these jewel lights. Curious, Hermione peered closer at one as they passed. Soft light emanated from something in the center of lightly colored glass gems, cut to look like amethysts or aquamarines. Inside, she was somewhat shocked to notice, were tiny fairies flitting about, clearly trying to get out of their sparkling prison. The light, apparently, was coming from the fairies. The spells used were somewhat complex, but the application was definitely unique. Nodding her head, Hermione was pleased that someone could use a wand with an artistic touch that equaled her. In fact, she was almost positive that those were some variation of the same spell she developed some time ago for containing fwoopers.
The glittering gems contrasted sharply with the unadorned stone walls, floor, and ceiling, giving the ballroom an elegant atmosphere. The differences went well together, as the cold architecture only made the gem- lights scattered everywhere more inviting. A group of servers stood near the door leading to another room that Hermione presumed had been converted into a kitchen for this evening. They all wore sparkling shirts with either black pants or skirt, thereby matching the décor. Overall, it was quite nice, a change from what Hermione was expecting for the party: grinning skulls and lots of black.
Belatedly, Hermione realized that Draco was leading her across the ballroom and into a set of side doors. Glancing around, she saw that everyone present was also moving in the same direction. With a sinking heart, she knew that they were going into the Throne Room for a toast and speech before the celebrations began.
When Voldemort created his new empire, he had decided to do away with the Ministry and rule like a king. No king was complete without a court of people to agree with him and Voldemort was no different. And no court was complete without a throne room to impress and discuss. The Dark Lord held court about once a week, listening to complaints (there were few) and dispensing advice to his subjects. Mostly though, it was an excuse for the Death Eaters to get together to drink and reminisce about the "good old days" when they were battling the Ministry.
They were nearing the doors, inlaid with a silver serpent design that twisted around so often it made Hermione dizzy if she stared at the snakes. She began to hyperventilate; she didn't want to go in there. Draco must have heard her breathing change, for she felt a sharp pressure on her arm, reminding her that they were in a public place and she must behave. With enormous effort, she slowed her breathing and fought to keep her mind still.
Inside the Throne Room, she could see Voldemort and Lucius already at the head of the room; the Dark Lord seated in his chair with Lucius standing below him. The throne Voldemort sat in was a part of the wall, twisting out of the stones like a giant basilisk. It symbolized the unmovable will of the Dark Lord.
Just being in this room made Hermione feel claustrophobic, despite the high ceiling and openness of the room. She supposed it was because even though the gleaming stone floor was clean now, she remembered when it had been covered with blood. Even though the air was filled with voices cheerfully talking, she remembered when it was filled with screaming. She had been present when Voldemort had several prisoners tortured to death in this very chamber. He had watched coldly as other men enjoyed themselves, participating dispassionately sometimes to display his truly inhuman delight in the art of pain. This was before she had been put to work and the Dark Lord felt the best way to break her stubborn resistance was to force her to watch her friends die. She had watched when McGonagall had been tortured in this room, lying bleeding on the head of the snake mosaic design on the floor. Her former professor's screams had been loud at first, but eventually she lost her voice. Yet the silently screaming mouth was even worse. Hermione felt like she was being cut apart with a spoon, she wanted to die. The worst thing was that she knew that Lucius was only torturing McGonagall so viciously in order to break Hermione. The knowledge that her presence made someone suffer so horribly caused Hermione to rock herself back and forth in her room at night for weeks instead of sleeping because she couldn't close her eyes without hearing McGonagall's screams. But that had been years ago. Those times of torture were over as all prisoners worth the attention of the mighty Dark Lord were dead now.
Beside the throne to the left was a metal cage with a bundle of rags hunched on the floor. Avoiding looking at the cage, Hermione began to pay attention when Voldemort started his speech.
"My subjects, it is my pleasure to throw for you all a celebratory party on this fine evening. And we shall celebrate my defeat of the fool Dumbledore and his silly rebels. No finer cause for a celebration than this exists." Applause interrupted Voldemort's speech, delivered with a slight tinge of emotion but otherwise very stark. His gift was for magic and violence, not for speaking. He could charm a single person or a small group, yet Lucius was far better at wooing a large crowd, perhaps the reason Voldemort kept the other man around. Waving the applause down, the Dark Lord continued, "But not just to celebrate my deserved victory, but also the four-year anniversary of this kingdom! I have transformed the inane, foolish, trusting Ministry of the past into this strong and mighty kingdom where those who deserve power by blood are given it. Look around at yourselves and feel proud in your accomplishments! Remember where you are and whom you have to thank. And I think we have someone over here to thank most, don't you all?" Voldemort grinned evilly, his ugly face showing mirth at the appreciative roar of the crowd. Motioning with his wand, the cage to his left moved to the front of the throne. Another flick, the door was opened. "Come out, little boy, come out. All these people here want to thank you, don't you?"
Hermione clenched her jaw, hating Voldemort for doing this, but kept the rest of her body relaxed, knowing she could do nothing, not wanting Draco to see she still cared. The bundle of rags inside the cage shifted, moved, got up and shuffled through the opening, towards evil, thin hands.
As soon as the ragged shaped reached Voldemort's reach, his hands turned the figure gently around to face to crowd. Cheers and applause echoed loudly throughout the room, hurting Hermione's ears. She allowed herself a scowl, hoping no one would notice. It's not very decent of them to cheer so loudly at a soulless person, she grumbled silently, watching as Voldemort paraded the empty shell of Harry Potter in front of his evil minions.
When Hermione had learnt that Harry had not died, as she and Ron thought in the prison camps, she was confused until she was shown cruelly what happened. Voldemort stood watching as Harry was led out of his cage before Hermione. He just stared blankly at her, not responding to her tearful cries and questions, not moving a muscle to defend himself when she threw her body on his, pounding her fists on his chest, demanding that he wake up and say something to her. Finally a guard pulled her off Harry and left her collapsed on the floor, sobbing hysterically. Slapping her hard to stop her crying, Voldemort explained in a voice like poison that Harry Potter was indeed standing before her, but this was not really the famous Boy Who Lived. Only his body. Voldemort had ordered Dementors to kiss Harry, sucking out his soul and savoring the brave, brightness that was Harry Potter, leaving behind this shell. It was Voldemort's big joke, that the Boy Who Lived and thus brought about his downfall remained alive, but without his soul. The ultimate revenge, for all those years the Dark Lord spent searching the world for a way to regain his own body.
Once the truth sunk in through Hermione's shock-numbed brain, she begged for the Dark Lord to just kill Harry, to stop this, to end this joke, to let Harry die completely. She screamed, she cried, she pleaded. In response, Voldemort played with his snakes, watching behind lidded eyes, while Lucius cast the Cruciatus Curse on her and later handed her still- twitching body to Draco. She still had a scar on her lower ribs from that day. Draco was most displeased with her, first forcing her to drink a nerve-enhancing potion that increased any tactile sensation many, many times, then telling her calmly, (for in the beginning he still hurt her systematically, with control, with a defined purpose and goal to achieve during his time with her; now, it was random, chaotic, and much harder to endure), telling her harshly while delicately slicing into her skin with a razor sharp knife that she was just a mudblood. He told her, "You're just dirt. You don't even deserve to live, and you certainly didn't deserve to be born. Yet here you are. The least you could do is learn, if you're clever. No one asks the Dark Lord for anything. You presume to ask him to do something for you, a mudblood? You accept his favor and give all you have in return. You are an embarrassment to me as my responsibility. You shame me. Your behavior reflects upon me. Therefore you will suffer. And you are suffering now, aren't you?" She had been unable to scream a reply because Draco cast a silence charm upon her. She was unable to move because of a full body bind as Draco's knife teased with her skin, pulling up small ribbons of epidermis, cutting away at muscle, exposing bone for Draco to carve his name in his precise hand onto her rib. All this while she watched with dry eyes, for her head and eyes were locked into position.

Now her eyes were locked onto Harry's body in front of the room. Poor soulless Harry. He still wore the clothes he had been wearing the day of the attack, but they were ragged with age now, the robes frayed and faded. And they hung loosely on his body, which probably resembled a skeleton under those robes, for it was too much work to get a soulless body to eat. Hermione begged Draco to let her ask the Dark Lord if she could feed and care for Harry's body, but he just laughed at her pitiful request. Harry's black hair fell past his shoulders and his beard hung rattily down his face. It hurt to look at him, but all the same Hermione felt she owed it to her friend to look upon his body with love instead of hate and amusement like everyone else in the room. It was too bad that only those present in this room knew about Harry's body. The rest of the wizarding population had not been informed about Harry in fear that the news might incite a full-fledged revolt that the Death Eaters were too lazy to deal with or at the very least give them hope. Even the serving staff waited outside the throne room, ignorant of the true fate of the Boy Who Lived. The Death Eaters and their evil friends who knew took great care to keep their little secret safe.
Obviously Voldemort had grown bored with the same old cheering, for he had guided Harry back into his cage and levitated it back to its place beside the throne. Lucius took his cue now, holding up a hand, saying, "Now my fellow witches and wizards, let us return to the ballroom for our anniversary celebration to begin!" At once, the crowd flowed toward the door leading to the ballroom, eager to begin drinking and dancing.
She stayed with Draco as they mingled with other people, got their drinks, participated in conversations that Hermione didn't have to pay attention to as long as she was with Draco. Then he noticed Malcolm Baddock and Marcus Flint on the other side of the room. Hermione saw them too and hoped that he would go talk to them without her.
"Mmm, darling, I'm going to talk to my friends over there. You stay here and chat a bit, all right? Please remember to play nicely because I will hear about it later," he warned before leaving her standing by herself holding a glass of wine. She looked around and sighed; the other people close by that she could talk with were a bunch of empty-headed women that were not truly evil, only spiteful. They were women who shacked up with various Death Eaters, effectively betraying their families who sided against Voldemort, in order to live richly. But Hermione had to do something besides stand in the middle of the ballroom by herself. That would look very bad, as if the pet mudblood had no manners.
"And so he bought me this!" cried one of the woman, throwing out her right hand to show the other ladies. A large ruby sparkled and glittered in the lights. Hermione frowned; the ring was very ugly and too big, but it was expensive and that was all that mattered. The other women cooed over it, exclaiming how much it must have cost and how well it matched her dress.
"Well, I'm just waiting for Malcolm to buy me something like that," Parvati Patil was saying, bringing the attention of the gaggle of ladies back to her. "I told him that I've always been partial to sapphires because they bring out my eyes and he agreed, so it should only be a matter of time before I have a ring like that on my hand."
"Oh, that's marvelous, Parvati! Sapphire you say? I like those yellow ones," said another woman looking wistfully at her own hand which was adorned with pearls.
"Yellow is quite unusual," said someone else. The other ladies nodded in agreement.
Hermione, standing on the fringes of their group to pretend she belonged, rolled her eyes and began to look for a waiter with something stronger than wine. Her eyes roamed the ballroom, absently noting who was here and who wasn't, thereby determining who was still in favor with the Dark Lord. Parvati's loud voice kept intruding on Hermione's thoughts. She once again thought that if she ever worked up the nerve to escape, she would be sure to kill Parvati one her way to India (the place Hermione decided to run away to in hopes of finding a friendly Indian shaman to hide her). Parvati was a traitor, worse than Hermione, for she turned her back on her family and her Gryffindor heritage for the privilege of being on Malcolm Braddock's arm and wearing his blood money.
Stupid, despicable woman. To think I shared a dorm room with her for all those years. Should have let loose a band of Cornish pixies on her while I had the chance. Oh, I need a drink if I'm going to have to deal with this all night. Maybe that waiter over there will have- Hermione stopped thinking, stopped breathing. She tightened her grip on her glass, vaguely thinking that if she dropped it Draco would be mad. The waitress politely handing out drinks to a trio of elderly wizards at a table had vibrant red hair spilling down her back in loose curls. Hermione stared at the waitress, wondering if, hoping it wasn't, wishing it was-and then the waitress turned to go back to the kitchen and Hermione found herself staring into Ginny Weasley's freckled face. Gaping unabashedly at Ginny's once-familiar face, Hermione was shocked to see that Ginny had become a woman, with flirty eyes and lips to match the glittering halter-top she wore with short tap pants and fishnets. She watched as the red-head waitress moved her way through the crowd, confident that she changed enough during the last four years, sure that she looked enough like a dark witch that Ginny would not recognize her. But Hermione couldn't decide if she wanted to be recognized or not.
Whatever her desire was, it became irrelevant when Ginny swung her gaze around the room, doubtlessly looking for empty glasses to fill, and met Hermione's eyes. Ginny's face showed startled recognition that was quickly smothered as a disinterested mask fell into place. Still numb from seeing Ginny, Hermione could only watch behind half-lidded eyes, sipping at her drink, as Ginny made her way through the ballroom and into the kitchen.

Glancing around, Hermione determined that Draco had his back to her, Lucius was busy flirting with a very voluptuous woman, and Voldemort sat playing with Nagini. No one was paying any attention to her, now that those women drifted over to a table to talk. Hermione placed her now-empty glass on a passing waiter's tray and carefully walked over to the kitchen door. She passed an overly amorous couple on one of the elegant couches strategically around the perimeter of the ballroom and wished such behavior wasn't permitted at these parties Then she was opening the door and after a look behind to be sure Draco wasn't looking for her, Hermione strode into the kitchen, already looking for the headwaiter. He was a small, timid man who had worked in the castle for years. Hermione knew he would be easy to bully to get what she wanted.
"Headwaiter! I must speak with you!" Hermione said as bossily as possible, putting a haughty look on her features. The man looked at her with fear and scurried over in front of her.
"What is it, my lady? Is the food not perfect? Perhaps you need a drink? Please tell me the problem so I can fix it," the man pleaded with her, not looking into her face, but wringing his hands and staring at the floor.
Hermione smiled, pleased that she could still terrify the servants, and said, "One of your waitresses looked out of uniform. Really, you should check them to make sure they look perfect. I don't want to be responsible for someone not matching with my Lord Malfoy's decorations for this evening."
"Of course not, my lady, I will see to her immediately," began the man, but Hermione held out an imperious hand.
"No, no, that won't do at all. I don't think you can be harsh enough with the girl. I wish to speak with her myself out in the hallway," she said, tossing her hair back and for once thoroughly appreciating her dark witch reputation.
"Ah, which one would you like to speak to then?"
"That one," said Hermione, indicating Ginny with her pointed finger, "with the ghastly red hair. I want to speak with her in the hallway, privately," she said in a low voice. "If I find out someone is listening, it will be your head Nagini will play with tomorrow for breakfast."
The headwaiter gulped and waded his way through the chaotic kitchen to grab hold of Ginny and push her out into the hallway. Hermione followed, glaring at everyone else in the kitchen. She didn't look to closely at any other waiters, but she had the vague feeling of familiarity with some of them. Shaking it off, Hermione walked through the door held open by the headwaiter. Whirling around to fix him with one last glare, she warned, "Remember my words or you'll pay later."
Standing nervously down the dark hallway, lined with wall sconces for torches, Ginny was waiting.
Hermione strode over to Ginny. "It's me, Ginny, Hermione! And it's you!" she gasped, stretching out her hands to touch Ginny, to make sure she was real, thinking that this was the first time she had seen Ginny since that day in the prison camp.
Keeping herself away from Hermione's hands, Ginny said, "Who are you?"
"I'm Hermione Granger, don't-don't you recognize me?" said Hermione, faltering, feeling her stomach sink to her feet.
"Hermione Granger died four years ago in one of your prison camps, my lady," Ginny said in a shaky voice. "I don't know who you are, but it's impossible for you to be Hermione Granger, despite the slight resemblance. So if you could tell me what is wrong with my uniform so I can continue with my duties?"
"You mean-you don't believe me? You don't believe that I'm Hermione? That I'm me?" Hermione whispered.
Ginny responded angrily now, "You can't be Hermione. She was my friend. She was brave and honorable, always knowing the right and moral thing to do. You-you're one of the Death Eaters or one of their women. I don't know you. But I wish you would stop disrespecting my friend's memory and quit pretending to be someone too noble for you to kiss her shoes!"
Ginny's disbelief stung. Hermione had imagined this scene before in her mind sometimes, not lately, but it had never gone this badly. In her fantasies, Ginny or Ron welcomed her with open arms and helped her escape. But those dreams were always too childish anyway. "No, no! Listen to me, Virginia Weasley," she snapped, "Hermione Granger didn't die at the prison camp! I'm right here. You said it yourself, I look like the person you remember. It's still me underneath all this dark finery. Still Hermione." Realizing that the only way she could get Ginny to trust her was to keep talking and hope that some of it would make sense, Hermione said, "Four years ago, you and Ron saw me dragged away to be executed. But you didn't actually see it happen. Just before Draco ended my life forever, Lucius stopped him. You see, my master wanted to keep me alive as his special pet, his clever mudblood slave. You never knew I've really been alive all this time because I'm not allowed to leave this castle by myself and most Death Eaters refer to me as the 'mudblood slave' because it's funny. See the collar?" Her hands lifted to caress the familiar metal collar. "My master," she continued, unable to refer to Voldemort as anything other than "my master" aloud after several sessions of painful conditioning, "can control me through this, using his magic to punish me if I do something to displease him. That way I'm not under the Imperius curse."
"How can I be sure you're you and not really under Imperio or a polyjuiced person trying to trick me?" said Ginny, looking a little more trusting but still several inches away from Hermione.
"You know that I can throw off the Imperius curse easily," said Hermione, "That's why I have this lovely collar. Beautiful, isn't it?" Ginny nodded her eyes following the swirls of power on the metal. "My master constructed it specifically for me. The metal is fused into my bones. It can never come off. I am Hermione Granger, Ginny, you have to believe me. No one else knows about that day at the Burrow when we drank the twins' secret stash of Firewhisky and went swimming naked in the river. No one else knows how many mornings I redid Ron and Harry's homework. Who else knows how much I despise Quidditch but went to all their games just to make sure they didn't get hurt? Who knows that I cried my eyes out the night I found out I was Head Girl? You knows why Harry gave you a puffskien that last Christmas? And how many shots did you put into the eggnog that night anyway?" Hermione brought up details of their past lives that she hoped would convince Ginny to trust her. Then, opening her mouth and hesitating, she said, "You must hate me for how this looks, for how this is."
Staring at her with that strange, grown-up face, Ginny said, "Tell me how it is."
"Four years ago," began Hermione, then chuckled, "How ironic, how perfect that tonight is the anniversary for everything. Four years ago, I was about to be executed by Draco and then I became a slave. I was forced to help the Death Eaters rebuild Diagon Alley, to fortify this castle, to construct special spells for my master.for all my efforts I am highly regarded. I am one of the most powerful people in this castle right now, yet I am still hindered by seen and unseen fetters to stop me from displeasing my master." Hermione sighed, feeling very weary suddenly. She noticed the uncomprehending look on Ginny's face. Hermione knew Ginny couldn't possibly understand why she willingly took orders from the most evil wizard alive without hearing the entire story with the gruesome details that there wasn't time for at this moment. That realization made Hermione feel so much older than the one year's difference between her and Ginny.
But Ginny must have seen some of the weariness and despair in Hermione's eyes, for the red-haired waitress held out a hand. Hermione stared at it uncomprehendingly, not sure what to do with a hand offered in friendship until Ginny just stepped forward and hugged Hermione firmly. "Oh, Hermione, we were so sure you were dead, and now you're alive, this is wonderful, no matter the situation, you're alive! Just wait till Ron finds out!"
"Ron?" asked Hermione, pulling away. "Ron's here?"
"Of course, everyone at 'The Last Chance' was hired to work tonight." Ginny gave Hermione an odd look, saying, "He's probably on the ballroom. I can go get him.if you want to meet him?"
"Yes." The chance to see Ron-it seemed like a dream, like perhaps this nightmare of a night could have something good in it-she felt like singing at the mere thought of seeing Ron again. "Bring him to this hallway, I'll wait out here."
Ginny nodded and moved away to the kitchen door. Hermione called after her, "Hurry! I don't have much time before anyone notices I'm gone."
Then she was gone and Hermione was left alone in the hallway with her thoughts. Ron, Ron, Ron, still alive and well, I'm going to see him, she thought, excited at the idea of seeing her best friend again (well, the one still with his soul, she corrected bitterly), then grew worried. He'll take one look at me and say that I'm not the same person that was his friend, that I'm a traitor. He'll accuse me just like Dean.. Just look at me, she thought, glancing down at her body, seeing her corset peaking out from her dress, noting the color and style were both things that she never would have touched in the days before for they were something that Ron would have declared fit for a "scarlet woman." And here she was, made up to look like a beautiful, powerful evil witch. The kind that belonged on Draco's arm, not consorting with disgraced wizards. I don't deserve this, she reminded herself, I am evil, I am traitorous, I am horrible, I am a-a- scarlet woman as Ron would have said. He'll hate me, I know he will. Hermione felt the urge to flee back into the ballroom, to find Draco and cling to his arm for the rest of the evening for at least there she knew what to expect. Before she could make up her mind though, the door slipped open and out walked Ginny and Ron.
"Hermione?" said Ron in a hoarse voice. His face looked white underneath his spiky red hair. She didn't remember it looking so spiked, nor did she remember the grim set of his chin, but he was still Ron, her Ron, the person she quarreled with so many times and corrected homework for, the person she loved in the deepest corner of her heart. And he was standing before her looking completely dumbstruck, like he had just seen a ghost. And perhaps he has, she thought wryly.
"It's me," Hermione said, spreading her hands wide, feeling her chin begin to wobble as she held back a sudden sob that threatened to consume her. "If you can see me underneath all this-this darkness that I hide beneath."
"You-you're alive, Ginny told me, but I didn't, I couldn't believe her until I saw you," Ron was saying as he closed the distance between them much too rapidly for Hermione. She held her breath as she was caught up in Ron's long arms, feeling too shocked to hug him back.
"You don't want any proof that I'm who I say I am?" whispered Hermione.
"I trust Ginny, who trusts you, and that's good enough for me," whispered Ron back. Hermione couldn't hold back her sobs anymore. She clung to Ron, feeling tears fall from her eyes as she tried to look at him. He was so much taller than Draco, with longer arms and a kinder feel to him. Bending her face back into Ron's chest, she felt her heart hurt with the sudden realization of missing someone she hadn't known she needed.
"What are you doing here? Just serving drinks?" asked Hermione, holding him out at arm's length.
Ron looked at Ginny, who nodded slowly, then he turned back to Hermione. "We're part of a small group of people who dislike the present government," he whispered. "And we thought that tonight could be a chance to let them know how much we hate them."
"You mean?" Ron nodded. She felt something stir within, thinking about what Ron hadn't said. And she knew from castle gossip that there was a small Resistance group that was completely worthless and unable to do anything against the Death Eaters, mostly due to precautions I recommended, she remembered, but I won't tell Ron that right now, not when he hasn't decided to hate me. "Let me help you, tell me your plan. I can take down wards for you, tell you were to go to do the most damage, how to avoid Death Eaters." Both Ron and Ginny looked apprehensive now at sharing their secret plans. Hermione felt the same thing inside her breast that had stirred when Ron hinted at their plan curl up and prepare to die now. Desperately, she said, "You have to believe me! I can help you! Let me help you, please. I've been inside this castle for four years, serving my master, hating myself, and-"
"Wait a minute. Your master?" said Ron. "You mean Voldemort, don't you. You've been serving Voldemort?"
When Hermione heard the hatred in Ron's voice, she cringed, feeling that all hope was lost, that she blew her chance to do something with her life. "Yes," she said, hugging her arms to her body, thinking that she would endure all the pain from the last four years again rather than have Ron think she betrayed them willingly. "But you don't understand what has happened. Do you see this collar?" said Hermione, pulling her hand up to fasten on the metal. "My master controls me with it, but not like the Imperius curse. It's far more brutal than that. If I do something to upset him, he can hurt me through it. If he wants to know where I am, he can tell through this. I can't do certain spells because of magical restrictions placed on this collar. And besides, I've learned my lesson well. It's easier to obey than to resist."
"You mean you gave up?" said Ron. Hermione felt his eyes look at her now without the shock of seeing his best friend. She knew he was thinking that she looked like she fit perfectly in with everyone in the ballroom.
"If you've seen what I've seen, been hurt like I have, then you would have given up too." Turning away from Ron and Ginny, Hermione thought of a way to convince them of what was inside her heart. She grew angry with them. How dare they not believe me? They don't know what's happened to me. They weren't there when McGonagall was killed to break me. They weren't there to see Harry. They haven't had to deal with Draco everyday. They don't understand. Hermione turned back to them, terrible anger flashing in her eyes now. She marched over to Ron, drawing up her dangerous aura that terrified castle servants so well, turning it fully on Ron. "If you won't trust me despite appearances, then you're not my best friend, Ronald Weasley. I've been living a dead life. I've been living within hell. And now you've offered me the slimmest chance to live again and to do something good, but you won't accept my help because I gave up fighting? How dare you refuse me! You don't know what I can do now. You two have no idea of the terrible things I'm capable of. If not for this," she hissed, tearing at her collar, "I would be able to duel with my master on equal ground. I am possibly the second most powerful magical person in this castle and you don't want my help? That's not very logical of you." Hermione stood glaring at them in fury, then anger turned to shock as Ron began to twitch with laughter. "What's so funny?"
"You are!" he gasped, grabbing her arm for a hug. Hermione stiffly let herself be held by Ron, still shaking with laughter. "You're Hermione all right. Only my Hermione would have a row with me moments after our first meeting in four years."
Hermione smiled in spite of herself. "You're right," she said.
"Of course I am. Isn't that what we decided at the end of all those fights anyway?" said Ron slyly.
"I don't remember it quite like that," she said, pulling away and wiping at her eyes with care, trying not to smudge her makeup.
His face growing still again, Ron said seriously, "I didn't know you had to change so much inside. Of course we'll trust you. I always have. Ginny," he said over his shoulder, "Arrange a small meeting later so we can talk with Hermione about tonight, ok?" Ginny retreated, presumably to obey Ron's request, but Hermione did not notice. All she was aware of was the meaning behind what Ron had said: he trusted her despite appearances and maybe even cared for her.
The possibility that Ron cared for her only brought the memory of Draco back to Hermione's mind. "I've got to get back to the party," she said, staring toward the door. "Someone will notice I'm gone."
".and that wouldn't be good," finished Ron. "You're right. We don't need to arouse suspicion now. Come back to the kitchen in half an hour, ok?"
"Ok."
They walked back into the kitchen just as a servant Hermione recognized from the castle entered from the ballroom. "Lady Hermione, Lord Malfoy requests your presence at once."
At once, Hermione felt Draco's iron hand on her soul. But she remained confidant, snapping at the servant, "What are you still waiting here for? Hurry back and tell him I'm almost through disciplining a daft server in the kitchens!" The servant winced and left the kitchen.
Ron croaked, "Lord Malfoy?"
In response to the horrible look on Ron's face, Hermione said, "I'm Draco's personal toy in addition to being my master's pet mudblood witch. He tends to keep a very tight hold on me." Bitterness surged through her veins, tasting like bile in her mouth. The last thing she wanted was Ron to know what Draco did to her.
Ron grabbed her arm as Hermione tried to leave, asking, "What do you mean?"
Hermione raised her other hand to touch her cheek, feeling the bruise hidden under her makeup charms. Ron's hand followed hers, pressing against her skin, causing Hermione to wince. His brown eyes crinkled at her, reminding her once again how much she had missed this man who used to be her best friend. It had been a long time since anyone was concerned for her well-being, she was touched by Ron's concern, by his unselfishness that was so different from the selfish desires around her. Hermione said bitterly, "I'm good for a beating and a fuck," then ran out to the ballroom as fast as she could, hoping Draco wasn't furious with her already.