#t:spoilsofwar

@therearemoreimportanthings

Hermione had been quickly caught after the battle and brought before Voldemort. She was one of the few that had been spared though she was forced to watch as the others that they captured were tortured and killed before her. She didn’t want to watch that, she wanted to close her eyes and run away. She couldn’t run away, and she felt as though someone needed to remember these atrocities even if it were only her and only in her mind.

It was weeks before someone decided what to do with her. She had been refusing to eat, so they had to force feed her, but the lack of sustenance still showed in her sunken cheeks. She hadn’t slept well either.

Now she stood in front of Malfoy, having been just delivered by two other death eaters, courtesy of Voldemort. A note was handed to him in Voldemort’s own script.

Draco,

I know that things have been difficult between you and I. Perhaps you had thought that there were no more benefits to winning the war and that is why you helped Potter. No matter, your Lord can be forgiving, as you see you have kept your life; it would be a waste to get rid of the Malfoys after all.

Now I wish to give you a gift, I know you hated her during school but perhaps you could find some use for her now? She’s a brilliant witch even if she is a mudblood, she should see through some of my reign and learn her place as a witch in our new society.

Hermione stood quietly in front of him, her lips pursed as the death eaters took their leave.

Draco had been standing at the far end of the room when the death eaters, his father’s counterparts, had made their way into his townhouse through the floo. Though he’d thought his home, one he’d purchased without his parents’ aid or knowledge, had been unplottable. But since the war had an obvious victor, such wards were now virtually useless.

He stared warily at Granger, watching her mouth pull into a tight hypen. She looked worse for wear and he wondered how long she’d been in death eater custody.

Gahtoo, his personal house elf looked expectantly at his master but Draco said nothing, waiting until the death eaters had cleared the floo.

“Prepare her food. She looks like she’s about to keel over and die. Wouldn’t want Lord Voldemort’s gift to find its way to the grave before we’ve had our fun. Check the owls I recently received. Father sent instructions on how to treat house slaves like her. Something about a uniform, white gown, I think.” Draco said all of this rather loudly, not sure who might be listening. He couldn’t appear too kind or sympathetic. Cruelty was the current way of the world and it turned his stomach.

The truth of the matter was, he didn’t want her, but he knew to protest would cause more questions. And if he was going to do anything good in his life, he was going to save her from a worse hell at the hands of a truly masochistic death eater, bent on abusing mudbloods.

Draco figured, he could accept the gift of her and pretend she didn’t exist when it came right down to it. 

There were things, however, he knew slaves had to do and that he’d have to do to her to make it seem as though he was in full support of Lord Voldemort’s reign. Nonconsensual intercourse in front of a raucous group of death eaters bent on abuse was not something Draco was particularly into and hoped that situation wouldn’t come to pass. He knew about this because he’d been present when Zabini and Nott had to break-in their mudblood slaves.

Merlin.