He is clinical. Methodical. Severe. Precise in the way he wants things, plans to get those and then consume them when they are in his grasp. Like a fly trapped in a spiderweb. Or a gold trinket in the claws of a dragon. Utterly his without even the tiniest hope of escape.
It was Black madness. It was Malfoy obsession. The infamous traits of two of the purest houses of magick. And he was a spawn of both the manias combined. It was only natural, they said, for him to have these inherent qualities. Eventual. The madness gave him a deprave understanding of the dark magick only few were lucky enough to understand in eons and the obsession made him go after his goals with the intensity of a thousand suns. It was only natural, they said, eventual.
So it was natural too, that he became a trained assassin, a militant who climbed ranks after ranks in Voldemort's army and became the chief commander of all the troops of Great Britain in no time. People whispered in fear when it got known that a certain establishment was attacked under his command. Because he was precise, methodical, clinical. Nothing would ever be disturbed. Not even a glass would be out of place when reinforcements arrived from the Order.
The first time it happened and the Order got intel of an ambush, Angelina Johnson breathed a sigh of relief as they checked the quaint little house until Tonks stumbled upon the bedroom. They were asleep, the couple who had provided safe passages to the Order members when they required to access potion ingredients from the apothecaries in Diagon Alley. They were asleep, with their hands folded gently on their stomachs. They were asleep and you could almost believe that except for the one smooth line across their necks. Except for the almost maroon paint that coated the otherwise plain beige sheets. Except for the unnatural whiteness of their skins. They had came across horrifying torture scenes and many gross execution scenarios during the war, but as she stared numbly at the sight in front of her, Angelina thought this was perhaps the most chilling moment she had ever experienced in her entire life.
And thus the fear descended upon magical britain like a dark fog and the Order started losing more and more of its members and allies, their supplies dwindled, their bodies and souls defeated. And in the midst, he came across a strange sight. She was kneeling among the injured and the dead, people of her side of course. He had come to see if he could pick somebody up to interrogate regarding the few safe houses he had yet to find and had seen her head bent, curly strands of hair obscuring her face as she administered a potion to one of the injured. She looked so small, so fragile and when he had decided that she'd be the one he'd interrogate, he had whisked her away within seconds.
They had apparated to Malfoy Manor, in one of the guest rooms and she had trembled like a leaf in the wind, yet held a wand pointing at him with false bravado. That Gryffindor bravery, he had smiled softly. It had taken two days for him to establish that she was extremely malnourished, exhausted and that the constant pressure of providing mental and medical help to the Order over the five years of the ongoing war had taken its toll on her magical core. She hadn't realised it yet, she was a muggleborn after all and they rarely knew what strengthening the magical core really meant. It had taken a week for her to realise that she was helpless after numerous attempts of escape; a week to realise that her magic was depleting day by day. A week to realise why people called him Voidium, the death bringer.
It took a month for her magic to heal, a month to start relying upon him, a month till she finally let him claim her lips in exchange of releasing the Creevey brothers who were tortured to an inch pf their lives by Mulciber. She had come upon them in one of her late evening wanderings and had rushed to find him and offered to do anything he wanted. He had looked at her with tenderness. How could he say no, of course. He had taken her to the Malfoy Manor to interrogate, had looked at her exhausted, tired body and had decided to protect her. Had looked at her big whiskey-colored eyes and decided he would possess her. He was the best so of course he needed a warprize and what was better than the Golden Girl herself of course. She was his possession, his prize, his gold trophy that he loved to flaunt in front of the dark army. Voldemort had looked at him contemplatively the first time he had summoned him after the news, then a slow smile had passed across his bloodless lips. And a few weeks later, Harry Potter had come demanding the release of Hermione Granger in exchange for himself and had found his own demise. The Voidium had become the Dark Heir then. The one who had lured the beacon of light to his unassuming destination. Voldemort had decided to go to Russia, his greed to be feared more than Grindlewald in that region a constant push and the Magical Britain had fallen under the rule of the Voidium.
Draco Malfoy didn't take up office in the ministry, it was laughable how easily they could be controlled by the external pressures. He had a whole magical population to rule as well as keep in line the pureblood houses and wizengamot. And he played them. Oh how he played them like puppets on strings. He was very precise in his approach, methodical, clinical. And his warprize had remained clueless of course. He had told her he did not kill anybody and as far as the truth went, he had stopped after the initial few years. His soldiers were the ones who carried out his orders these days. And one thing about Hermione Granger, she could easily be swayed by logic and swift execution of intellectually sound 'facts' and he was a master manipulator. In the end her wits and her magic, though now fully healed, had succumbed to his carefully crafted logical debates about how, since he was the main man in power now, a systematic effort could be made to bring about a world that had class system but in a way that it would not pose any threat to the life of halfbloods and muggleborns.
He had known what she feared after his side had won the war, that there would be mass execution of anyone who was not pure of blood. She had imagined horrifying scenarios and had shook from the intensity of her panic. So it was easy, laughably easy, for him to make her believe that he would never let this happen to anyone. That he would get them a place in this new world order. She didn't need to know that this whole debacle was about power. About Voldemort's need to show he can defeat death and for the pure bloods to dismantle the supposed 'equality' among the classes. It had all worked out in their favour at the end and they had no need to execute the other classes. Who would abide by their whims if they did after all. It was only logical.
And when the world came to again, rebuilt and regulated, he took take his warprize with him to every high society party, to every important soirée. His people smirked knowingly and the rest, the supposed light side, looked on with angry eyes and polite smiles. She had given herself to him freely after he had come from a practically tiring day negotiating with the French Minister of Magic. He had taken off his robe and was taking out the cuff links when she had approached him shyly. Nervous steps and bated breath. He had been confused at first hut then smiled serenely when he realised what she wanted. She was his after all. His possession, his prize, his golden trophy. But he was a Malfoy first and foremost. He would marry a pureblood to keep his family magic as clean as possible and he would enjoy her as freely as she gave herself to him.
But he was fond of her, there was no doubt. He had never talked to her harshly let alone laid a hand on her. And she knew. Hermione Granger knew because he had taken care of her. Bandaged her wounds after all her initial escape attempts, held her during her panic attacks, swiped away her tears gently when she had cried at her best friend's death and smiled at her softly whenever she interacted with him. For the world he was a hard, cold, war machine. A death bringer. The most powerful man in Britain. But for her, he softened his edges. Though sometimes, during the in-between moments, a stray thought would pass through the confines of her mind. A hunter always looks at his caught prey with genteel ownership. And she was not only caught, but cleaned and eaten every time the hunter became hungry. But the thought would leave as quickly as it would come and she would shake her head and busy herself in whatever she would be doing at that moment.
The public knew that the warprize would remain with the Voidium even when he would take up a wife and carry his bloodline forward, but they whispered and gossiped with cheshire grins that the wife of the Malfoy Heir would remain only second to the warprize. An afterthought. After all who could ever beat the Golden Girl.
And then one day she arrived.