Hello! I'd like to welcome you to Defiance, my brand new WIP.
Firstly, this is a dark fic, filled with drugs, murder, violence and sex. Lots and lots of sex.
Secondly, if the aforementioned themes are triggering to you please for the sake of your mental wellbeing do not read this.
And lastly, I'd like to give a gigantic thanks to my super duper beta, astrangefan on Ao3! Go check her out please, I guarantee she's amazing!
With that being said... onto the story!
Knock off time caught Hermione in the frigid office located adjacent to her boss' office. Fatigued from the tedious work that a personal assistant was tasked with, Hermione wearily slipped on her coat, and picked up her purse, before exiting the closet-sized office and locking it with a flick of her wand. Her finger hovered over the button for the lift, but before she could press it, Pansy Parkinson shoved her out of the way, startling her.
"Pansy! What was that for!" Hermione had befriended Pansy the year she had returned to Hogwarts to redo her seventh year that unfortunately had to be put on hold due to the war. After the war, majority of the pupils had scrapped the stupid house rivalries and the Slytherins had rid themselves of their elitist and blood purist attitude. Hermione had pursued the girl, her intent to kill any and every ounce of animosity that existed between them and to start with a clean slate. The last thing she had expected was to be besties with the raven-haired girl. If her past self could take a Time Turner to bear witness to that moment she would have had an aneurysm. Even to a lot of her former school mates, it seemed unbelievable that the two witches were best friends, let alone civil.
"Sorry darling! There's an emergency board meeting we have to attend—" Hermione groaned. "I know, hopefully they'll be quick about it, I have a nail appointment at five."
The two women took the elevator to the ground floor where the staff often congregated during meetings. Their heels clicked on the tiled floor in sync as they joined the other gathered employees of the company. The CEO, and Hermione's boss, a middle aged man with jet black hair and a receding hairline by the name of Mr Oliver Flimby stood at the forefront to address his employees. On either side of him stood two other men, both dressed as dapper as the CEO. He used a sonorus charm and tapped his throat before he proceeded with his speech.
"I'd like to start off by thanking each and every one of you for attending this sudden and unprecedented meeting. I know you all have places to rush to after work, and I appreciate the sacrifice you have all made with your time." His loud voice reverberated across the packed room. There was a mixture of solemn mumbles and annoyed murmurs from the crowd that his voice quickly overpowered as he continued to speak.
"I am sure many of you are aware of the state of this company at this moment, especially those operating in the financial sector of this company. Many of you have borne witness to the amount of people who have had to be retrenched due to our dismal financial state.
"That's why my associates and I have reached the decision to sell the company. By tomorrow, the company will be under new management. Once again, thank you for your time. You are dismissed."
The crowd burst with loud chatter as Mr Flimby left, looking quite dejected. Hermione wasn't as surprised by the news, she was one of the selected few who knew how critical the company's situation was, since she was the CEO's personal assistant.
It was last year when the retrenchments had begun. People were being dismissed left, right and centre due to lack of funds and profitability. Hermione feared that she, too, would lose her job.
If she was being quite honest, she didn't really need her job. She was married to Cormac McLaggen, who was quite an influential figure in the Wizarding World. He was from a wealthy, affluent wizarding background, and he was the Head Auror, a job that boosted his name to the top, outranking even Harry Potter, who was also quite influential, what with him being the chosen one.
It made her feel terrible, knowing that there was somebody out there who would find her job a lot more essential than Hermione would. The only reason she took the job, even though she had qualifications that surpassed her position by leaps and bounds, was to stay out of her marital home as much as possible and not to be dependent on Cormac's money. She didn't want to live the life of a traditional witch,who stayed at home, cooking and cleaning and pregnant. Many people had the expectation that Hermione would stay at home,and live a life of comfort and luxury at the expense of her wealthy husband.
That wasn't the life for her.
The idea of spending most of her day in that house repulsed her, especially when it was the embodiment of her terrible decisions and lapse of judgement.
Hermione breathed a fatigued huff as she patted a spot off her coat, the green flames of the floo just dying behind her as she picked her bag off the floor. Just as she was about to make her way to the living room, the unwelcome sound of chatter and low baritone laughter met her ear, causing her to stop in her tracks. The tempting thought of leaving and never returning wafted into her ear like a devilish vixen. As much as the offer seemed appealing, her aching muscles wouldn't permit her to walk so much as one hundred yards without collapsing. There was nothing left to do but put on that brave front she was so used to wearing.
She walked stiffly into the room where her husband's misogynistic, traditionalist friends were being entertained. The first thing she saw as she moved through the room filled with the scents of tobacco and fine whiskey and mirthful chatter, was her husband of a little over five years, Cormac McLaggen, sitting at the edge of their cream sofa with his friends as he conversed with them animatedly.
He stopped talking upon seeing her, and wore that ridiculous, feigned lovey dovey look that he only wore in the presence of his acquaintances.
"My love." He stood up. Hermione wore her own façade of happiness, as Cormac walked up to Hermione, and embraced her, his lips on her jawline. To anyone on the outside they easily passed for two people in a loving relationship, the cracks in their relationship almost perfectly concealed.
"How was work?" He pushed an errant curl from her face.
"Okay, I guess," she said, her discomfort increasing. One of the men sitting on the sofa, a thin, surly-faced blonde man who had a drink clutched in his bony hand smiled at Hermione, the gesture sending a cold chill down her spine.
"When is this one giving you an heir?" Hermione resisted the incredibly strong urge to spit in his face. Cormac merely chuckled, as he pulled Hermione closer to him.
"We don't want to rush things. I believe that an heir will come when the time is right." His smile was as cold and hollow as the look in his eyes. Hermione gulped.
For every year that their marriage survived, the tension of childlessness and infertility increased in levels that made it impossible to draw a breath. Every year, she felt his patience wear thin, the absence of a child in their marriage irking him to no avail.
They had taken all the routes to getting pregnant. He had tracked her ovulation period in order to find the right moment for conception. When that didn't work they had resorted to IVF, which failed not only once, but several times. By then their shared dream of having a child had just become… his. They had tried fertility potions and as an act of desperation, resorted to sperm donors, willing to have an heir that wasn't quite his. When she had suggested adoption, he swiftly shot it down, adding darkly that he wouldn't take in somebody else's abandoned brat. If it wasn't for his stormy mood, Hermione would have pointed out to him that adoption was technically almost similar to sperm donation.
If there really was an almighty deity, then even they knew that Cormac didn't deserve to have a child.
But of course she wouldn't tell him that, lest she trigger his temper.
"You know, I'm a pretty patient man, but I'm getting really tired of giving you constant reminders, Mundungus."
The only light that permeated the dark study came from the moonlight seeping through the closed blinds. The lack of light didn't pose a problem for him; his eyes were well adapted to darkness. His silvery hair glimmered as the moonlight hit it, making each ethereal strand stand out. He leant against his desk, his backside pushing paperwork back until it fell to the floor in messy piles.
Mundungus Fletcher shook uncontrollable, his cries muffled by the dirty cloth stuffed into his mouth. He had been tied to a chair so he couldn't move.
Draco walked forward, inspecting his prim nails. "You know why you're here, right? Let's not waste my time, and more importantly, let's not waste Satan's time. I'm sure he's anticipating your arrival."
All he got as a reply was a muffled cry. Draco gave an aggravated sigh.
He yanked the cloth out of his mouth, the man's pitiful cries immediately pouring out. "... Please, I-I swear i-i'll p-p-pay you back!"
"Oh please, you've been singing the same song forsolong. I have to say, I'm a bit disappointed. I'd never guess that you'd steal from me, not especially after I paid off your gambling debtsandgave you a job. I guess it serves me right for trusting a thief."
"P-please! H-Have Mercy!" The man's desperate pleas fuelled Draco's sadistic euphoria.
Ignoring his incessant begging, Draco fished a switchblade out of the pocket of his blazer, his eyes fixated on the gadget in his hand. "You know, maybe I should show you how bad it hurts when you get stabbed in the back."
At this point the man began to sob desperately, tears and mucus running down his face. Draco sneered in disgust at the man; his pitiful display of sorrow made him itch to whip out his wand and snuff out the man with a simple flick. But he couldn't do that because he wanted the death of the man prolonged so the miserable rat suffered before he died.
Draco walked forward, and grabbed the man by the chin, looking him straight in his murky brown eyes. "I wish you could see how pitiful you look right now." Draco sneered. "It's going to be such a pleasure ending you."
The shiny silver blade of the knife sprung out, glinting menacingly in the moonlight. Almost immediately, the acrid smell of urine hit his nostrils. He gagged at the odour, and glared at the man, his eyes moving to the puddle that had formed on the floor as well as the wet patch on his crotch. Draco chuckled. "Pathetic."
Screams of agony pierced the still night air as Draco subjected the man to a brutal torture. With an impassive expression, he carved deep crevices into the man's flesh, marring his face, chest and stomach. An hour into the torture the man voided his bowels, the smell of faeces mingling with the metallic scent of blood. By the time Draco was done, his victim was a mess of blood, the pieces of flesh that had been removed from his body littering the floor in bloody chunks. Mundungus' corps slumped forward, blood dripping from his mutilated face. Draco wore an eerily serene look on his face as he wiped his bloodied hands on his thighs, staining his slacks.
He gave a tired huff.
"Merlin, what a mess."