Disclaimer: HP belongs to that crazy rich woman who lives in a castle in Scotland.
Summary: Hermione, a prisoner in a post-war world ruled by Voldemort, discovers that she is the property of someone she used to know.
A/N: Greetings from my current location, a lovely internet cafe in Ecuador. I dreamt up this story on the plane ride down here, and I hope you guys enjoy it. For readers of my other story, I'll get back to that soon, I promise. So here we are. Please read and review!
The sound of footsteps echoing down the hall stirred Hermione from her sleep. Awake, she returned to a world of constant, dulling pain. All her joints ached, she was plagued with persistent headaches and her wrist had never fully healed from her last battle. But she was starving. And the footsteps could only mean one thing: breakfast. And disgusting as it always was, breakfast was the only meal of the day for prisoners.
Wincing as she stood up from the floor, Hermione gingerly walked over to the door, her eyes on the slot where the guards passed her food. The rumble in her stomach became louder and more forceful as the footsteps drew nearer. Months ago, when she had first arrived, she had attempted to portion out her breakfast so that it would last an entire day. Recently though, as the breakfasts became smaller, she had become so famished that she would wolf down her entire meal in seconds.
At last the footsteps stopped in front of her door. In Pavlovian fashion, her mouth began to water. But instead of hearing the familiar click-clacking of the food slot being unfastened, the far more terrifying sound of keys being jostled and maneuvered into locks reached her ears. Oh no. Not this again. Instinctively, Hermione quickly shuffled back into the corner and rolled up into a ball, her heart pounding a million times a minute. Not this again.
But when the doors opened, instead of the gruff visitors she had been expecting, a lone guard stood in the doorway, holding some cloth in his hands.
"Prisoner 113, you are instructed to follow me to the lavatory facilities. Stand up immediately."
Hermione looked up, the light from the hallway temporarily blinding her. Lavatory facilities? She hadn't been aware such a place existed.
"Wh—wh—why?" She squeaked, still suspicious.
The guard sighed out of annoyance. "Don't make me use my wand, 113. Just get up and follow me."
Hermione stood up and walked to the doorway. When she got there, she realized that she had never seen the outside of her cell before. The guard turned away and headed down the hallway, motioning her to follow him. Her bare feet lightly pattered against the cold tile of the prison hallway as she struggled to keep up with the briskly walking guard.
At the end of the hallway and two right turns later, the guard opened a large door and Hermione followed him in. The tiles of this room were wet, and she could hear the sound of running water ahead of her. The guard turned around and handed her the cloth he had been holding, which she now recognized as a towel.
"You are instructed to take a shower and clean yourself to the best of your abilities. There are multiple shower stalls and each has soap and shampoo dispensers. You are allotted twenty minutes to shower. Understood?"
Hermione eyes watered. A shower! Warm water and soap! It was kindness beyond her imagination. "Thank you," she whispered fervently to the guard.
The guard's face turned to one of disgust. "Don't thank me, mudblood. If I had my way you'd be on your knees sucking me off right now."
Shocked by his sudden change in attitude, Hermione stumbled forward towards the showers, her mind trying to comprehend exactly why she was being allowed such a luxury, especially when it was obvious that she was still regarded as lower than dirt.
Under the soothing water, as she untangled and massaged shampoo into her hair, she ran over the possibilities. Was she going to be part of a prisoner exchange? No, that wouldn't make much sense, the war was long over. Was she being released due to amnesty? No, they would never release her. Was she being transferred? Maybe. Her stomach clenched up. Were they preparing to execute her? It was as likely as any other possibility.
Her twenty minutes under the shower faucet proved to be mercilessly short. She had managed to wash her entire body right as the water ceased. Drying herself off, she slipped back into the dirty rags that had once been her uniform and shuffled back to the guard, her heart lodged in her throat.
The guard was leaning against the wall, checking his watch. As Hermione approached, he grabbed her arm and pulled her back into the hallway and down the hall. Right in front of another big door, he turned around and looked her in the eye.
"Your owner is here to see you. If you value your life, it would be wise to keep silent and stay respectful. Always remember that you can be killed on a whim." He reached towards the doorknob.
"Wait….wait." Hermione pleaded. She didn't understand his words. "My owner? What do you mean?"
The guard looked annoyed again. "Yes, your owner," he hissed. "You are property of Mrs. Malfoy, and she has come to claim you."
Hermione's heart convulsed. Property. Of Narcissa Malfoy no less. It might as well have been her execution. Knowing the rumors of prisoner treatment at the hands of Narcissa, she was pretty sure she'd spend the last few hours of her life in agony that would make her prison term seem like a vacation.
The guard opened the door and led her in. It was a well-furnished room, with a fireplace, big leather chairs and bookshelves on the opposite wall.
"Mrs. Malfoy, your slave is ready for inspection." The guard was speaking into a headset. He listened for a reply and nodded. Putting down the headset, he looked at Hermione.
"On your knees, slave."
Hermione complied.
"Eyes on the floor, always."
Hermione heard the door open and someone come in. She braced herself to be struck and beaten. The last time she had seen Narcissa, they had exchanged missed Avada Kedavra curses.
She heard the footsteps get closer, until the figure was standing over her. Hermione, with her eyes staring at the floor, could see her boots. She was expecting a Cruciato curse at any moment.
Instead, the person standing over her sighed.
"Does she find the carpet more interesting than her owner?"
Hermione's eyes widened. She recognized that voice. It wasn't Narcissa. It was—
The guard suddenly viciously smashed her in the back of the head.
"You heard her, slave! Look at your owner when she requests it."
Hermione, dazed with pain, lifted her head. In front of her, clad in a black trenchcoat adorned with the lacing worn by the highest ranking Deatheaters, stood Pansy Parkinson. Apparently Pansy Malfoy now. Pansy looked furious, but wasn't even looking at Hermione.
"You! What is your name, guard?" She snarled.
The guard stammered. "Uh…Nigel Caldwell, Mrs. Malfoy."
"What gives you the right to abuse and damage my property? Do you know what I can do to you?"
"My apologies, Mrs. Malfoy, I only thought that—"
"My lord," Pansy continued, reaching down and pulling Hermione to her feet. "Look at this!" Blood was dripping from Hermione's nose. Pansy wiped it away and returned her glare to the guard.
"How dare you treat my property in such a manner!" She returned her gaze to Hermione. "Have you even been feeding her? I doubt she weighs even 40 kilos!"
"I am terribly sorry Mrs. Malfoy. We fed the prisoner the same food as everyone else, in accordance with the standards set la---"
"Do you fools even think? What good is a slave who is one missed meal away from dying of starvation? Good lord, I shall have to have a word with the commandant." Pansy then spoke to Hermione.
"Slave, off with your clothes." Not a request. Pansy's eyes were cold and brutal.
Hermione gulped. She meant to say something, but thought twice. She began to shed her clothing. When she was done, Pansy stepped back and ran her eyes up and down.
"She looks like a skeleton!" She harrumphed to herself, "I am afraid to sneeze, lest I accidentally blow her over."
"Tell me slave, do the guards mistreat you?"
Hermione looked at Pansy. She didn't know what to say. Almost everything she had encountered since being captured constituted as mistreatment. She opened her mouth to speak, but didn't know what to say.
"Not as talkative as you once were, slave? Pansy grinned. "Have the guards beaten you?" She motioned towards Hermione's arms. "Are these bruises from the guards?"
Hermione nodded. Tears began to form in her eyes.
Behind her, the guard began to defend the actions of his comrades.
"Mrs. Malfoy, we had no idea the prisoner was your property! It was only this morning that we received the message from the High Court. If we had known, surely we would have acted differently!"
Pansy seemed even angrier at these words. "Take me to your commandant. The Pureblood Commission will hear of this."
"Yes, madam. This way, please." Fear was evident in the guard's voice.
Pansy strolled past Hermione but stopped a few feet behind her. She walked back and grabbed a package from her bag. Handing it to Hermione, she spoke, again with a cold tone.
"Put these clothes on, and be ready to leave in five minutes. Okay slave?"
Hermione closed her eyes and nodded. When she opened them Pansy was still standing there, staring at her. Her hand suddenly struck Hermione across the face.
"I asked you a question. Okay, slave?"
Hermione, with tears rolling down her eyes, nodded again, vigorously. She then realized what Pansy wanted.
"Yes…yes…master."
Pansy smiled. "Mistress, slave. Mistress."