Chapter Text
After two years of successful operations, attacks and espionage, it had finally come to an end for Hermione. Not through, like she’d expected, a grand duel with the likes of Bellatrix, or perhaps even Lord Voldemort himself, fending them off valiantly whilst her comrades escaped. No, all it had taken was a simple mistake.
She’d been exhausted, fresh out of a 3 hour long firefight at Rosier Place, she’d been the sole survivor in her cell to make it to the agreed up emergency apparition point. Protocol, that she herself had written, dictated that if no one else arrived within 15 minutes, the first survivor was to pick an apparition point at random and escape there. That way if any companions were imperio-d into giving away the evacuation point, by the time the Death Eaters got there, any Order members would already be gone.
That’s how it was supposed to work at least. But Neville had been with her at the Rosier’s mansion, and when he didn’t arrive in 5 minutes, and then 10 minutes, and then 15 minutes, Hermione chose to give him just a little bit more time. She’d lost too many friends already, surely a few more minutes couldn’t hurt?
It had. Almost like clockwork, snatchers, death eaters, and the Dark Lord himself had apparated around the small forest clearing she’d escaped to. Anti-apparation and portkey wards slamming into her magical senses before she could even think to escape.
Had she been any less exhausted from the non-stop fighting, she wouldn’t have waited so long. Had she been any less exhausted from the fighting, she might have thought to use the felix felicis all senior order members carried in case of emergencies. Had she been any less exhausted, rather than fight, she could perhaps have hid, using her emergency ring, cloak, or potion.
But she had been so very tired. Her brain, still replaying the utter carnage of watching her friends and allies be torn apart by Rosier’s wards and guards, had instantly chosen fight, instead of flight.
An amateurish mistake. One could no more fight the Dark Lord than fight gravity. He was a force of nature, inevitable and ineffable.
And so Hermione had raised her wand, not quite panicked or scared, but utterly drained of all energy, and utterly furious and vengeful over her fallen comrades.
And so the Dark Lord had raised his, and without so much as a single word spoken, and fewer than three spells cast, Hermione had fallen to the cold snow, unconscious, but alive. Perhaps had she known what was to come, she wouldn’t have dodged the Dark Lord’s initial killing curse, rather than suffer the stunning curse that followed it.
Hermione awoke to a cell, cold, damp, and as utterly miserable as one would likely imagine a cell to be. A novice at wandless Magic, Hermione couldn’t so much as muster a flame at her fingertips within the cold stone room, it must have been warded with some kind of anti-magic spell.
With neither window nor artificial light, Hermioone couldn’t truly tell how long she stayed in that cell. Sleep came and went without regularity, as did the meals that appeared on the floor. Meals was perhaps a generous term for the strange ambiguously liquid soup that mysteriously appeared in seemingly unbreakable bowls. It didn’t have a distinct taste, so much as it’s existed merely evoked feelings of disgust and hatred towards the existence of one’s own tastebuds.
She counted 23 meals in total before the door to her room finally opened. Ideally that would have meant 23, or perhaps 8, days had passed, but Hermione was sure that she’d waited at least a few days between meals at certain points, so calculating the time accurately based off of them was nigh impossible.
She’d been brought to a great chamber that looked every inch the courtroom that it was. It was there she met her lawyer, which to her incredible surprise, turned out to be Percy Weasley. Naturally the Death Eater’s government didn’t offer prisoner’s public lawyer’s like a muggle government might, but the traitor Weasley apparently had grown something vaguely resembling a conscious, and so had chosen to represent her of his own volition. That meant she wasn’t to be immediately executed for the several counts of treason, espionage, murder, arson, terrorism and jaywalking she’d been charged with, but rather, she was to enjoy a comedically unfair trial, which would then have her executed for the aforementioned crimes.
Certainly, the paid off Judge, Jury and eagerly waiting executioner seemed to be expecting that result as well. But who knew, Percy made for one hell of a lawyer apparently. His main argument simply was, and Hermione was given no say in this, that because of her blood status, Hermione legally wasn’t human.
The death eaters had of course very quickly ensured this was the case in the British Ministry’s constitution. The problem with this was that the rest of the laws hadn’t been updated along with it. So while Hermione legally wasn’t a person, technically she wasn’t anything else instead. She wasn’t considered a half-creature like a Veela would be, nor was she considered a sub-human like an elf or goblin. Mudbloods were only understood, according to the Ministry’s current lawbooks, as not being people.
Which raised the interesting exception, in that Treason, Espionage, Murder, Arson, Terrorism, but not, oddly enough, Jaywalking, were all crimes that only ‘persons’ could be charged with. Of course, the court was hardly going to let a known terrorist go free, but legally speaking, they couldn’t technically execute her as they’d planned.
That was when Percy had stepped forward, and Hermione had realised this whole charade had not merely been Percy suddenly growing a heart. No, apparently, he’d made a bargain with Draco Malfoy, that in exchange for delivering her to Draco, Percy would be appointed the Undersecretary to the Minister. It was a rather appealing alternative to death, but being handed over to her schoolyard bully wasn’t exactly an attractive proposition in and of itself.
Oh well, no one seemed inclined to give her a choice in the matter.
Malfoy Manner was a very impressive building. At least, Hermione remembered it to be, way back when she, Harry and Ron had been captured and trapped in its dungeon. She couldn’t see it this time, an incredibly skin tight hood had been pulled over her face as they had driven her over. This naturally begged certain questions, such as, why had they driven her rather than apparate or floo her? Why did they feel the need to cover her eyes when she’d already seen the mansion before? And of course, although Hermione tried to avoid thinking about this one, why use latex for a hood? Surely a burlap sack would have done the job?
The rubbery material hugged every corner of her face, and indeed, made it ever so slightly difficult to breathe. She presumed it to be black as that’s all she could see, but given the sheer darkness, it could have been any colour at all.
Noone in the carriage she’d ridden with had spoken a word to her the entire trip. The first thing she’d heard from them, was the greeting they gave Draco upon arriving at the manner. It wasn’t long after that she heard the first words addressed to her. Well, she assumed they were for her, with the hood hugging her face so very tightly, she couldn’t really tell for certain.
“Oh? Is that her? My how the mighty have fallen.” Draco spoke, his voice quite a lot deeper than Hermione remembered from her school years. It still had that aristocratic lilt, but less of the childish whine she’d long associated with his every spoken word.
Hermione tried to respond, yelling out several insults against Draco, his politics, his hair, and indeed, his Mother’s alleged sexual escapades with the long deceased Severus Snape, but apparently the hood that smothered her had a silencing charm, as the sounds seemed to vanish the moment they left her mouth.
She heard, rather than saw, Draco step forward, closer towards her. “Do you know what they have you wearing?”
Hermione did unfortunately. Perhaps from a distance one might mistake it for the Slytherin School Uniform. A little bit closer, one might think it a summer variation of that uniform, or perhaps merely that the tailor had been rather short on material that week and cut several corners accordingly. Closer still however, and one would realise that, aside from the Slytherin branded Hogwarts coat, and the green and silver tie, all she had on was the black sports bra she’d shoplifted a few months ago, and an incredibly short, and very torn, Hogwarts skirt.
Naturally however, her rage and insult filled response didn’t leave the confines of the latex mask.
Draco seemingly stepped closer. “Is she- is she asleep in there? Is she- is she ignoring me?”
Hermione had to bite back a laugh as Draco sounded almost sad at the thought of being ignored here.
Here Hermione was, half naked, utterly humiliated, blind and struggling to breathe, and saved from execution only to be sold like cattle to a prejudiced wizard fascist, and he had the audacity to feel sad over being ignored? She wasn’t even ignoring him, the blasted mask deafened her every vitriolic insult.
“Uh no Sir, it’s the hood you ordered, the one with the gagging spell.” One of her guards, or perhaps her driver, spoke up.
There was a pause, and she imagined Draco looking rather confused. “A gagging spell? I didn’t- OH! I didn’t mean for a gagging spell, I meant for a gag!”
There was another pause, this time presumably from the driver – guard – person. “I uhh- I don’t follow Sir, this is just what was sent to us Sir.”
A hand touched her shoulder. It was cold, the skin so incredibly soft, and yet, so very icy.
“You know Mudblood, I spent 25 Galleons on the mask. Latex is not a cheap material to work with, especially with the various enchantments I requested for it. I hadn’t wanted a gagging spell, but a dildo gag in the hood. I had this whole plan you see, I would insult you, you would gag on the dildo shoved down your throat, I would make a hilarious joke, you would gag even harder, I’d then compliment your lovely attire, also my doing by the way, and you would gag some more. It was going to be hilarious. But now look what I’ve got, I paid 25 galleons to give myself the Merlin damned silent treatment.”
Hermione gagged at the thought. Not in the dildo way to be clear, more in the vomit threatening to spew forth manner.
That Draco had wanted her for himself had been evident since her trial. But the reason why? Millions of ideas had gone through her head, some more likely than others. This though? She’d never so much as considered it.
“Oooooh, you’ve just realised haven’t you Mudblood? I can see It on your face, shiny black covering notwithstanding. You escaped death because you’re not a person, but now that means you can’t live as a person either. Not that you ever were to be clear, do try and forget Dumbledore’s lies regarding that.”
His hand slowly slid down from her shoulder to her breast, easily sliding under her bra as he gently groped her. His hands were so very cold, and yet somehow gentle. She felt violated, humiliated, and worst of all, somewhat aroused.
Suddenly he squeezed, and she gasped along with it. “That’s right Mudblood, you’re not a person anymore, just a good little toy for me to use.” He laughed a cruel thing as he spoke. “You’re welcome by the way, had I any other intention with you, I doubt the Dark Lord would have let me get away with that legal stunt.”
Draco’s firm hands squeezed even tighter, what little pleasure was there being utterly drowned by the pain of it now. “In other words, you owe me your life Mudblood. Morally as well as legally now.”
Suddenly, the man’s hand unclenched, the welcome relief as the tension relaxed only countered by the dull lingering pain her breasts still felt. In the next moment, the hood was torn off her face, and she came face to face with the young Malfoy heir.
Objectively speaking, he was handsome. Hermione could recognise that even despite her disgust. The perfect blond hair, the chiseled jaw, the piercing blue eyes, the slight but intentional stubble, he was, as far as men went, handsome. Beautiful was perhaps the better word for it, but Hermione was hardly in the mood for going beyond objective scientific descriptors. Even when a part of her strongly suggested he deserved them.
“Welcome to Malfoy Manor Mudblood.” He paused, locked eyes with her, and as she went to retort, he moved in oncemore, violently grabbing at her breast again with one hand as the other went to her throat. Once again, a gasp was forced out of her lips as the cold hands seized her, but this time, Malfoy used the opportunity, throwing his lips against her own, drowning out the tirade of insults she’d wanted to spew. His lips tasted good, amazing even, she wanted to kiss back, desperately so, she needed to-
With a strength of will she’d long since trained into herself, Hermione yanked herself away. What the hell had that been? A spell? No, she couldn’t feel the magical residue. But that couldn’t have been a natural reaction? Could it? No, his lips, her eyes darted to the boy’s soft pink lips. There was a vague gloss to them! Ahah! A potion perhaps? Of what though-
Hermione’s thoughts were interrupted as Draco let out an excited chuckle. “Oh good, I was hoping it wouldn’t be too easy. Consider that a…” He paused briefly, before smiling even wider. “A taste, of what is to come. Best of luck Mrs. Granger, I do hope you don’t give in too quickly. I’ve been looking forward to this.”