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Chapter Text

Prologue 

The Dark Lord is dead. But before his end, he delivered on a final promise to his followers; a spell that rendered Muggleborns unable to reproduce with one another, or with those of mixed magical lineage.

It was meant to purify wizarding bloodlines and erase Muggleborn legacy.

Instead, it led to the Ministry-sanctioned enslavement and forced reproductive breeding of Pureblood Death Eaters under the guise of a corrective justice initiative: The Program.

“He’s known for being uncooperative,” the Ministry staffer said, his voice thick with condescension. “You’ll need a firm hand, but with the right incentive, he performs adequately.”

Hermione kept her expression neutral, though disgust swirled in her gut as she looked at the staffer, whose name she hadn’t bothered to learn. 

“I fought the Dark Lord himself,” she said coolly. “I think I can manage.”

The man opened his mouth again, likely to dispense more unsolicited advice. She cut him off. “Time is limited. If you could process the transfer efficiently, I’d appreciate it.”

She gave him the kind of smile she reserved for tedious reporters and wartime donors—the polished war-heroine mask. It usually moved things along.

Inside the transparent holding cell, the blond man hadn’t looked away from her once. His gaze was ice, his stillness marble. Every inch of him—his perfect posture, his composure, his immaculate hair—radiated old money and pureblooded arrogance.

Even without the white robes that marked his blood status, she would have known.

“Certainly, Ms. Granger,” the staffer said with a dark chuckle. “We’ll send a handler with you, compliments of the Ministry. Just to help you get him settled. He’s a pretty one. Easy on the eyes, but hard-headed, if you don’t mind me saying. Difficult to break.”

Hermione’s jaw tensed at the continued insinuation that she would need extra help. She was an exceptionally capable witch, and she doubted any ministry handler could match the years of experience the war had given her. 

“The standard Ministry check-in will be adequate. Thank you.”

The man raised his wand toward the glass cell. He muttered a string of incantations, and the golden manacles on Malfoy’s wrists shimmered. If the spell hurt, he didn’t show it.

“From this point, his bindings are keyed to your magic, ma’am.” The staffer proferred up a clipboard holding ivory parchment stamped with the official Ministry seal at the top. “Sign here, and he’s yours.”

Her quill flew through the documents before he’d finished the sentence. She didn’t bother reading it. She’d spent weeks pouring over every detail and could likely recite it verbatim without issue. 

As the ink sank into the parchment, the glass wall vanished. Magic rippled across the manacles, and the words, Property of Hermione Granger, etched themselves into the surface. She kept her face neutral as she watched her name bloom into existence on the bands. The prisoner hadn’t bothered to look down at them at all, his iron glare still narrowed to her.

“Enjoy your Pureblood, ma’am,” the staffer said, turning to Draco with a sneer. He rapped at the cage frame with the metal clipboard as if baiting an animal. “Behave this time, boy, or there’ll be no mercy next go.”

He reached out and stroked Draco’s arm without warning, the gesture overly familiar and laced with condescension. 

“Don’t touch him,” Hermione snapped, her voice sharp enough to slice air.

The man recoiled, startled.

She softened her tone just enough. “His training starts now. I’m particular about how he’s handled. As you said, expectations need to be set.”

The fake smile returned. So did the staffer’s simpering compliance.

“Of course, ma’am.”

“You can step out, we’ll be leaving now” she said, staring at the inscription etched into the golden cuffs that bound his magic and marked him as her property. She lifted her eyes and met his for the first time since she’d stepped into the room. He hadn’t looked away from her, not once, but his expression gave no hint of his thoughts behind the cold mask of neutrality. 

He’d obediently stepped from the glass cell toward her, but otherwise remained perfectly silent. 

When she spoke again, the words came out clipped and hard. “Follow me.”

The Pureblood Licensing Program violated every imaginable standard of human decency.

Hermione had said as much—to the Wizengamot, to the Minister, to every journalist who’d quote her. Harry had stood beside her, ferocious in his agreement. But the world was still grieving and hungry for vengeance. 

Grief, she’d discovered, when twisted by rage, demands payment in flesh and in blood—however unwillingly given.

The Program was cast as a forward-thinking alternative to Azkaban. In reality, it was a state-sanctioned avenue for witches and wizards to own their enemies. 

Enslavement, by any other word.

It legitimized their degradation. Not just the Death Eaters, but their family members as well. Spouses, siblings, even children were conscripted. Proximity to Voldemort meant their guilt, of crimes unspecified, was assumed by association. Purebloods, once worshipped for their power, wealth, and influence, were mere commodities to be used, displayed, bred in the new regime.

And to make it civilized, the Ministry added structure.

Because if there are laws attached to atrocities, no one would question their legitimacy.

Owners were now designated as “Prefectors.” A clean word for a dirty role. Their Ministry contracts included minimum engagement clauses—stipulated acts of obedience, physical submission, and copulation as the wizarding world needed to be repopulated. Compliance was confirmed by a verification process that required both spellwork and memory review. 

Hermione hadn’t yet figured out how to bypass that part.

But when she saw his file, there had been no question.

Draco Malfoy had cycled through four households already.

The official notes called him “noncompliant.”

But Hermione could read between the lines.

He hadn’t simply refused to participate, he had resisted to the edge of madness. He’d been restrained, drugged, punished. His body made a battleground between those who wanted to break him and the man who refused to shatter.

The enchanted manacles enforced obedience to the whims of the Prefectors. His magical core, though suppressed, still pushed back. Their control over him was never fully complete, and the more he resisted, the more they retaliated. 

She’d read the medical records. Potion overdoses; lust, virility, stamina. Rope burns so deep they’d bled into muscle. Bite marks. Bruising. Spells gone wrong. Spells gone too right in ways that pushed him into physical and magical exhaustion. His refusal only intensified the consequences.

He’d been displayed like a prize stud, passed between hands. Touched without permission. Used without consent.

The file was thick with documentation. Clinical. Detailed. Filthy.

One mistress, half-trained in binding charms and wholly drunk on power, had bewitched a ring around his cock to keep him hard for hours, just to prove she could. She’d brought in guests to watch. Some touched. Some took photographs.

Another had drugged him with a cocktail of lust and fertility potions so potent it sent him into a magical seizure. When he came to, they were already on top of him. There were memory recordings. Some preserved as trophies, others sold on the black market.

And yet—

He had sired no children.

Not for lack of trying. His fertility tests showed him perfectly capable. Healthy sperm count. Ideal magical resonance. The tests had been repeated many times over, each time confirming the same results. 

Dozens of witches had tried, not just his formal Prefectors. The Program allowed, and encouraged, ‘sharing’ as a means of rebuilding the magical community. The Ministry had even begun to develop potions to assist with fertility, some specializing in noncompliant wizards specifically. 

But still, nothing.

The vaults contributed to Malfoy’s popularity. Old magic protected his family fortune —magic that would not relinquish their contents under duress, even to the Ministry itself. The vaults were warded to divide the family wealth equally among direct Malfoy descendants, and to otherwise only be released upon the willing directive of a Malfoy.

And Draco was many things, but willing wasn’t one of them.

He was beautiful, rich, and hated.

The trifecta made him the most coveted Pureblood in The Program. Any witch who bore his child would, indirectly, have access to a portion of the Malfoy fortune.

Hermione grimaced at the memory of it—the file’s clinical language, the cold descriptions of hot acts. A bisexual couple had been his first owners. The husband had documented their use of a mirror charm to watch while his wife rode Draco until she sobbed from pleasure and he groaned from pain; the potion they forced down his throat re-primed him to ejaculate over and over again, beyond what the body was intended to handle. The report praised the wife’s creativity and noted the method as having ‘clear potential for magical conception.’

They paraded him through parties as a trophy. Nude, leashed, enchanted to stay erect and silent while strangers placed hands wherever they pleased. He’d been mounted, tasted, stroked, cursed. Forced to kneel. Forced to beg. Forced to come on command, to perform under spell, to grind against hands that called it justice.

Obtaining him and breaking him became an indicator of social status. A dark, malicious competition. The press called it “delicious resistance” after he was returned the second time. It somehow only increased his desirability to the wizarding world. Then after his third return, they’d published pithy suggestions from readers detailing how the notorious Death Eater might be brought to heel by his next Prefector.

She’d burned the paper.

When news broke of his fourth return rumors began to spread of experimental ministry potions, ones that promised the potential to permanently subdue him where all others had failed. And they paired with the planned Ministry-approved guidelines for ‘non-cooperative Conscripts.’ She’d reviewed the instructions with horror. They used words like stimulus and compliance thresholds, but avoided ‘rape’ and ‘dehumanization’, ritualizing it in legalese and wrapping in gold foil like chocolate.

She'd read every inch of his file with shaking hands and a knot in her stomach—and by the end, she’d made her choice.

Hermione Granger joined The Program.

She’d wanted to Floo out discretely from a private office, but Kingsley insisted she leave with him through the front doors of the Ministry

He’d couched it as a matter of “visibility,” of “owning the narrative.” Hermione knew the truth, he wanted the image.

The War Heroine and Her Prize Pureblood.

The Golden Girl claiming her new possession with steely grace. The perfect headline, and a clear message that the fiercest opponent of The Program had caved.

As soon as the Ministry doors opened, the flashing began, camera bulbs like miniature explosions burning white light across her vision. The reporters swarmed instantly, faster even than she expected.

“Ms. Granger, how does it feel to finally join The Program?”

“Will you be attempting conception in the first month?”

“Are you planning corrective discipline, or a rewards-based model?”

“Will you enlist trainers to manage him?”

Hermione kept walking, jaw tight. Draco followed half a pace behind, silent, restrained, his magic throttled by the shackles that glittered like jewelry against his pale skin. His white robes dragged along the ground, marring the pristine linens with the filth of the London streets.

The crowd pressed closer. Too close.

She turned her head briefly, just a moment, to deflect a camera spell with her wand.

And when she looked back—he wasn’t beside her anymore.

He was surrounded.

The crowd had collapsed around him like wolves around a wounded stag. His path was blocked. They were groping him. Groping.

Hands on his chest. Hands on his arms. Hands on the waistband of the thin white robes the Ministry issued to all Purebloods conscripted to The Program. His bindings pulsed, keeping him from retaliating. His face was blank, a cold mask, but his situation was clear. He was trapped and subject to the whims of the crowd.

The flash of enchanted quills danced around him, scrawling headlines midair like blood on silk.

Malfoy’s Body: Too Perfect to Waste—Can Granger Handle Him?

War Prize or Breeding Project? Sources Close to the Minister Say “A Bit of Both.”

Golden Girl’s Pet: Pureblood Prince Conscripted to Muggleborn Nemesis. 

He wasn’t fighting. He wasn’t struggling. He was simply standing there, frozen, while strangers touched his body like it was theirs–like it was owed to them.

He wore his indifference like armor; it was all he had left. And they were trying to strip it with smiles on their faces.

Something inside her snapped.

“Protego Maxima!”

The blast of magic erupted outward in a concussive dome, flinging back a dozen reporters and breaking two floating Quick-Quote Quills mid-stroke. The crowd went silent—utterly, violently still.

One camera clicked.

That was all it took. The moment shattered. Shouts returned. More questions, more spells, more flashes.

She didn’t hesitate again.

Breaking protocol—highly public Ministry protocol—Hermione grabbed Draco’s wrist and Apparated them directly from the steps, without clearance, without warning, without even making eye contact with the officials who mingled in with the crowd.

The last thing she heard before they vanished was someone shouting “Golden Girl!”, the moniker having replaced her name like a brand. It was a reminder of her public image, a name given to her by strangers who thought she would fix the world for them and ignored her when they wanted it to stay broken. 

They landed with a crack in the center of her penthouse.

She’d been granted an incredible sum with her Order of Merlin award, and had been highly sought out for brand deals, book publications, and speaking events since the war. Money was never her objective, but she was pragmatic enough to realize having it opened doors that wouldn’t otherwise exist. 

As a result, she had purchased and restored the historic Central Library, opening it back to the public with a new, curated collection of books, art exhibits, and educational events. As the central figure behind multiple social causes and charitable endeavors, it was convenient for her to live close-by, and her architect had suggested adding a magically modern top floor penthouse above the otherwise gothic stone structure. It granted her space and privacy while retaining her access to the community.

When they landed, Hermione released his arm as if burned. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look around. Just stood there in the hush of her immaculate sanctuary. Gleaming stone floors, curated magical art, and floor-to-ceiling glass doors overlooking a terrace garden and the London skyline.

She’d dressed the part of the professional war heroine today, in a pencil skirt and high-necked button down top. The executive style created an intimidating façade, and she had capitalized on every ounce of it as she’d bullied her way through red tape to secure Malfoy. 

For a long moment, the only sound was their breathing.

Turning, she kicked off her heels as the magic of the apartment vanished them into thin air, to be returned shortly, cleaned and ready to wear, to their spot in her closet. She’d spent months working with a team of specialists to create a line of art pieces imbued with household spells, replacing a substantial portion of work commonly handled by house-elves. Her long-term goal was to abolish their enslavement altogether through alterations to protective laws, but she was flexible enough to approach the issue from multiple fronts. 

She twisted her curls into a knot and pinned it with her wand. Each move slowly returning her to the grounded, comfortable version of herself that she could be within her own home.

Malfoy’s silence wasn’t passive, she was certain. It was watchful. Alert and assessing. The kind of silence that waited not to obey, but to confirm what he already believed:

That she was just like the rest.

They were instructed not to speak first, not to ask questions. His ability to fight back when it counted hinged on preserving what magical energy and freewill he could still access. She imagined he was careful in picking his battles.

Right now he was watching for her to decide how she’d use him, because use him she would. That was what The Program demanded. What every Prefector before her had proven.

He was property. A plaything.

She hated it.

With a sharp exhale, Hermione crossed the room to the kitchen and pulled two crystal wine glasses from the rack. Her penthouse, for all its elegance, was still a fortress. She’d built it with layered intent: living space above, public gallery and rare books archive below. A living mask of purpose and prestige.

She poured herself a heavy glass of red. Then another.

She slid the second glass across the polished granite island toward him.

“Drink,” she said.

He didn’t move.

“You look like you could use one,” she added, trying for warmth but landing somewhere between brittle and strained.

Only then did he step forward—elegant, fluid. He picked up the glass and held it to his nose, inhaling without tasting. Her eyes followed the movement of his throat, the curve of his wrist. The white robes hung too loose on his frame. He was thinner than she remembered. Still muscled, sculpted, but the edges were sharper and the hollows of his cheeks belied his willpower.

“1982 Château Lafite Rothschild,” he murmured at last, face still impassive save for the faintest narrowing of his blue-grey eyes. “Impressive. I didn’t know you’d developed a taste for the finer things, Granger.”

She took a sip, buying herself a second. “I nearly died more times than I can count before I turned eighteen, Malfoy. These days I enjoy the little things.”

His eyebrow tracked upward slowly, finally revealing a hint of expression. “Even the expensive ones.”

“Helps with courting donors,” she said, lifting her glass in mock salute. “Good wine, good books, a touch of history. People open their purses when they feel cultured.”

“Especially when they think they’re being given something rare.” He looked around the space with razor-edged disinterest. 

He didn’t say ’like me’—he didn’t have to.

“If adding me to your private collection was part of the appeal,” he continued, “you might as well send me back now. I won’t be making your constituents feel anything special.”

His tone was cool, but the venom in his eyes was unmistakable.

She set her glass down harder than she meant to.

“I didn’t acquire you for that.”

He smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I see. So I’m for the private collection. Not the public one.”

“No,” she said quickly, too quickly. “You’re not—”

A soft chime interrupted her.

The afternoon press.

A dozen scrolls unfurled into the room, their enchantments reading aloud headlines in a breathless, eager chorus.

“War Heroine Claims Malfoy Heir—Energy Described as ‘Electric!’”

“Granger Breaks Protocol, Apparates New Pureblood Toy to Private Residence!”

“Slytherin Prince Catches Golden Girl’s Eye—Sources Say She Plans a ‘Firm Leash.’”

Hermione turned toward them, rage snapping through her like lightning.

Incendio.

Flames swallowed the scrolls mid-sentence. The voices died in crackles and ash. The silence that followed was worse.

She turned back to Draco. His face was unreadable, but the tilt of his head said everything.

And here we are.

“I read your file,” she said quietly. “I couldn’t let it keep happening. So I took you.”

He stared at her for a long time, his face betraying nothing.

Then, finally: “I might believe that. But there’s the matter of the verifications.”

Her stomach twisted.

“I know,” she muttered. “I’m working on that.”

“You won’t find a loophole,” he said, stepping closer now, slow and smooth. “The contract was written to trap you, just as much as me. To justify the actions as ‘‘mandated’. And you signed it anyway.”

“I had to do something.”

“And now you’ll either be raping me—or returning me. Those are the only options you’ve left yourself. Unless, of course, you want a mandatory sentence in Azkaban.”

She stiffened. “You think I wouldn’t take that risk to fight something this evil?”

“I think I’m not Potter. Or Weasley.” His voice was soft. Flat. “And we’re not friends like that.”

“I know how the bloody contract works,” she snapped. “I said I’m looking for a solution.”

He studied her. Unblinking.

Then he set his wine glass down and placed both hands onto the table, giving her, deliberately, a view of the words etched into the hands on his wrists.

Property of Hermione Granger.

Chapter Text

Hermione cleared her throat and tore her eyes away from the name, her name, that was branded onto the bindings encircling his wrists. She straightened across from him at the counter, fingers tracing the stem of her glass, a tactile distraction. “We should get you settled.”

A beat. Then another.

“Of course,” he said finally, voice devoid of emotion. “I imagine my cage is polished and waiting.”

She flinched and he saw the twitch of guilt on her face.

“This way.”

The corridor leading from her main living space to the private wing was elegant, with soft amber sconces lining the walls, and utterly silent. Her wards responded to her presence with small, polite shifts in the air, adjusting their temperature to her preprogrammed preferences. Unfortunately, nothing could quell the chill dropping down her spine as Draco followed along behind her, saying nothing. Even his bare feet made no sound against the floor.

When she stopped in front of the guest suite—his room—she waved a hand forward and stepped back into the hallway. Nonthreateningly. He glanced inside, then back at her.

No door.

No hinges. No handle. Just an open frame in a polished wall. Exactly as the regulations required.

“You’re not allowed a door,” she said, quietly, mouth in a hard line. “Part of the Ministry’s oversight clauses. They say closed rooms foster rebellion, so I had to remove them.”

“I’m intimately familiar with their rules.” His tone offered no forgiveness as his eyes flicked over the space; large, comfortable, sterile. The bed was king-sized, the sheets dark green, matching the deep color of the walls. There were books on the shelves, soft linens, a wardrobe fitted with new robes, all regulation white. Everything curated. Everything intentional.

“I thought you might find your house colors…” she trailed off, before finishing the sentence. ‘Welcoming’, was what she had hoped. A small acknowledgement of his identity from a time before the war. The sight of him in pure white robes made the words catch in her throat, realizing the Ministry used color to reflect the identity they’d assigned to him, just as color signified their assigned houses back at Hogwarts. Malfoy was expected to be Slytherin, so he was. She hadn’t asked his preference, or if he even liked green. 

He stepped over the threshold.

Hermione watched as he crossed the room with a deliberate, unhurried grace, dusting fingers along the dresser’s edge. He paused beside the bed, staring down at it like it was an altar to a god he didn’t worship.

When he turned, his expression was unreadable.

“You designed the aesthetic to match your prisoner.” His tone was blank.

Hermione’s jaw clenched. “It’s not a prison.”

"No? Then why am I shackled?" 

She didn’t know how to answer that.

“You could’ve lied, you know.” He tilted his head. “Given me a door anyway. Pretended the rules didn’t matter, but I guess you’re still the same girl you were at school.”

“I’m not pretending anything.”

“You are,” he said. “You’re trying to pretend this isn't vile, but you know better.”

His voice wasn’t angry. It was worse. Calm. Chilling. 

Pinpricks skittered over the surface of her skin as she stuffed down the accusation.

He took a step toward the empty doorframe where she stood. Despite the atrocities he’d been put through, he still stood tall. “You want to be the Prefector who doesn’t take advantage. Who doesn’t touch without permission. Who gives books and wine and wide windows and soft sheets. But at the end of the day, Granger, I still have your name burned into the same bindings that subjugate my magic to your will, and no door to close against you.”

Hermione swallowed, hardening herself against his words. She was different, she told herself.

“I’m trying to keep you safe.” She matched his empty tone with a depthless one of own.

He took another step toward her, slow and unyielding. His arms hung heavy at his sides, as if bearing the weight of boulders instead of binds.

“You’re trying to play the hero. Again.”

The air between them stretched taut. 

It wasn’t far from the truth.

“Let’s be honest, shall we?” His voice dropped, low and lethal. Here was the Draco who hadn’t been broken. 

“You’ve read my file. You know exactly what’s been done to me. You know what they tried, and failed to achieve. You know how many times I was made to fuck against my will, coming for witches in hopes I’d put a baby in their belly, a little flesh-and-blood key to the vast Malfoy vaults. You aren’t the first to play savior and pretend we have some secret alliance, just the two of us. Eventually, you’ll start to think I must deserve it. And you’ll start to ask yourself, ‘Why not? He’s mine after all, by law it's my right. Why shouldn’t I enjoy him?’”

Her face went pale.

“You know I’ve been used, broken open, drugged senseless and still refused to give them what they wanted. You know all of that—and you still brought me here.”

Hermione’s breath caught. “To stop it—”

“Then you should’ve burned the contract.” His voice was raw. Violent. Fragile. “Not signed it.”

He took another step—so close she could feel the heat of his breath. The edge of his voice was a blade pressed against skin.

“I’m not naïve, Granger. But, let’s say, as a thought experiment, that you are doing this out of the goodness of your heart. Let’s watch it play out, shall we?” His eyes searched hers, his breath fanned across her face. Unconsciously, her tongue darted out across her bottom lip. “For perhaps a week, maybe two, you’ll keep up the charade of protecting me. But then the Ministry will catch on, the verifications will show you haven’t fucked me, and you won’t be able to hide that truth from them. Then you’ll return home with a written summons that states not only do I need to perform, but so do you as one of the Prefector obligations you accepted in your magical contract. Yes, even you, Britain’s Golden Girl, has to play by their rules. And there will come a day when you won’t be able to put them off anymore.” 

He lifted a hand up as if he were going to touch her, then caught himself, letting it fall back against his side. “You’ll come through this doorway, the one I cannot close, and tell me you have no choice. That you have to. That it doesn’t have to be unpleasant, if I just cooperate. Give you what you want. Play nice. You’ll beg me, tell me how you’ll be sent to Azkaban if you don’t. You’ll tell me all about what they do to witches in that prison. You’ll cry, you’ll beg. Then you’ll ask me to give up my choice. And because it’s already been taken from me countless times before, it will be a preferable loss than losing yours.”

“I won’t do that to you,” she whispered.

“Won’t you?” His voice was quiet. If he moved any closer, she’d be forced to step back to avoid touching. Yet the look in his eyes was still frozen with indifference. “You may tell yourself that Granger, and maybe others would believe it, but I was in that war, too. I saw you fight. When your life was on the line, you had it in you to kill, and you did. The only witch in the Golden Trio—the one who should have been the softest, most nurturing—ended up being the most ruthless of them all. Taking a life is a bigger step, Granger, than taking a choice. Maybe you won’t do it until you feel justified,” he said, and curled his lips. The rough fabric of his outer robe barely brushed against her chest as he inhaled, so soft he wouldn’t feel it, yet it sent a jolt through her as he finished. “But you will do it.”

She was struck with the terrible realization that he was much, much bigger than her. Magic evened the playing field, reduced the threat of his presence, but her primal instincts still screamed ‘danger’ at the undercurrent of palpable rage radiating from his otherwise perfect mask of indifference. She stood frozen, caught in the truth of his words.

“When that moment comes Granger.” He shook his head knowingly as if it were a foregone conclusion. “I’m not going to make it easy for you. You’ll know exactly what you are doing.”

He turned and walked to the bed.

With perfect, practiced ease, he sat at the edge, lifted his wrist, and inspected the golden band that bound him to her.

Then, very softly, he said:

“Lights out, Prefector.”

Hermione stood at his threshold, avoiding his stony glare as his words rang in her ears.

Lights out, Prefector.

Her hands were trembling.

She hadn’t realized until just then. Until the way he said the word—Prefector—like it was filth in his mouth. Like she was filth.

She’d expected resistance. Rage, even. She hadn’t expected the calm. The brutal, deliberate chill with which he cut her down to nothing. No shouting. No accusations. Just the truth, layered in venom and coming through perfectly clear: he didn’t trust her.

Not one bit.

And why should he?

He was right. About all of it.

She’d signed the contract. Taken possession of him. Led him through the front doors of the Ministry like every other Prefector before her. Walked him through flashing cameras, allowed him to be pawed and groped by strangers in the crowd. Led to a home without doors. To a bed that wasn’t his. Into her territory. Her control. All according to the Ministry’s specifications.

In his mind, she’d played by every rule so far, so why bother breaking any of the ones that followed? Her attempts at making him comfortable seemed entirely insincere in the face of everything else. He’d called it a performance, and he wasn’t applauding.

She’d left without saying anything. What could she possibly say? ‘I’ll follow every rule except the one where I force you to fuck’?

What evidence had she given him to believe her?

The lights in the corridor dimmed as she’d passed through. Her bedroom was at the opposite end of the penthouse, separated by a long stretch of silence and guilt.

When she closed the door behind her—her door—she leaned against it, eyes squeezed shut. It would have been easier if he had screamed. If he’d spat insults or threats or blood purity ideology. She could have told herself she wasn’t the enemy. That she was different.

But Draco Malfoy didn’t beg. He didn’t yell. He didn’t give her anything she could use to pity herself or excuse herself.

He just laid himself down on that bed, with nowhere to hide, after telling her exactly what she’d become.

Who she’d become.

A Prefector.

Just like the rest.

She couldn’t sleep.

The image of him wouldn’t leave her—sitting there, regal and bitter, shackled by magic and memory with her name carved into his manacles.

She imagined the way he must’ve been touched before. Hands that didn’t ask. Mouths that didn’t wait. The forced potions, the glimmering lust-spells, the way his body must have betrayed him in front of audiences who enjoyed it, the show of it all.

She felt sick.

And then angry.

Angry at the Ministry. Angry at the witches who treated him like a challenge. Angry at herself for not having prevented it.  

Even angry for now participating in the whole circus.

She rose.

By the time she returned to his room, it was nearly midnight. She stopped in the doorway again. He wasn’t asleep.

He was lying on his back, arms folded behind his head, golden cuffs glinting against the pillow. His chest rose and fell steadily. The sheets were untouched. He hadn't bothered to get under them.

He didn’t move when she appeared, didn’t acknowledge her.

“I’m giving you a door.”

No answer.

“I don’t care what the contract says. I’ll use concealment charms. Set up magic to remove them at the first ward alert of a home visit from the Ministry. They won’t know, and it won’t show up in the audit.”

He turned his head slightly. Not to look at her, just enough to show he’d heard.

“You can have the room key,” she added. “And a wand.”

That got his attention.

He sat up slowly, moonlight from the open window bathed his body in cold blue tones, but when he turned to her, his face was hidden in shadow. His loose white clothes rippled as he moved, bits of moonlight danced briefly across his features, matching the platinum silver of his hair. “Are you trying to earn something, Granger?”

“No,” she said. “I’m trying to undo something.”

She felt the weight of his stare. And then, coolly: “You think I want your scraps of dignity handed back to me like favors?”

“No.”

“Then why bother?” He blew out a breath and she flinched.

“Because I can’t stand the thought of you not having a choice.”

“I haven’t had a choice since the day I was chained with these.” He lifted his fists, displaying the bands. “And you—darling Prefector—you hold my leash.”

A cruel smile played at the corner of his mouth as he leaned back and stared up at the ceiling.

“You can bring me a wand, a key, an illusion. I still know what you are, what you’re going to do in the end. You won’t unbind me. And you won’t choose Azkaban.”

He didn’t speak again.

Hermione stood there for a long moment, weighing her next steps. Every choice she made felt wrong, tainted. She raised her wand to transform a door into being, her mouth opened with the spell, her breath had almost formed the words… when, instead, she dropped her wand back to her side and left without a word.

Her mind was too muddled to perform the magic. 

He didn’t sleep.

Hadn’t, not properly, since the first time.

He laid on top of the sheets, staring at the ceiling of the newest room in his newest cage, letting the silence press down on him. But silence had never meant peace. Not since that night.

It had been weeks into The Program. Maybe a month. He’d stopped counting time the day his magic had been muzzled and his free will bound. 

The first house was pristine. Marble floors. Grand staircase. The kind of place his mother would’ve sneered at—too nouveau, too desperate to prove itself.

They were Muggleborns. She was chatty, pretty in the way actresses often are—thin, smooth, eyes always performing. He was quiet. Watching Draco with the clinical curiosity of a collector examining a rare art piece.

The woman did most of the talking. Called Draco darling and pet and pure. Said she’d admired him in the Prophet when she was a student, had pinned his photograph on her dormitory wall like a celebrity crush.

Said it was poetic. That she’d grown up fantasizing about the Malfoy heir, and now here he was, in her home, hers to do with as she pleased.

Said she wanted their children to have his hair.

He’d barely spoken, and even then, it was only one word: No.

She’d laughed. The man hadn’t.

He’d muttered something under his breath—some spell Draco didn’t recognize, but felt instantly. His limbs locked. His spine froze. He couldn’t even close his eyes.

‘No’ stopped working after that.

She’d kept calling him beautiful, even when he couldn’t respond. Even when his breaths came fast, a reflection of the panic he felt at being kept unnaturally frozen. 

They'd undressed him together, cooing over each inch like he was a sculpture being revealed in stages. A living trophy. A breeding stud. Fingers stroking each new stretch of exposed skin as they unwrapped their new plaything.

Her fingernails had been long. She’d run them over him, providing the sensation of touch before adding the warmth of skin. Then he’d joined. Asking if he liked being touched here, or here, knowing Draco couldn’t answer. Couldn’t say no. He’d asked if he’d ever been licked, as his fingers ran lazily over his cock, the giggling woman stroking his hair, her eyes dancing as his body responded in rebellion against his mind. “Ooooh, I think he likes that, do it again,” she’d encouraged. “Taste him, see if he likes the feel of man’s tongue on him.”

And he’d eagerly followed her instructions. Wetting his cock with long laps of his tongue, licking down to his balls, blowing softly against the slick, sensitive skin. Laughing at each involuntary twitch and jerk the ministrations elicited.

He’d strained to get out, but the magic locked him thoroughly in place, leaving him trapped as she’d slithered down his body, then teased her cunt over his cock, grinding against it, playing, until she slid him inside of her and road him until she screamed in ecstasy and his release was torn from him.

He remembered the recording orb hovering in the corner, catching every angle, every touch, every humiliation. For “conception verification,” they’d said.

She had called him perfect when she came.

The man had come after—watched Draco’s face while he did it, then came directly onto his cock. He’d traced his fingers through it when he was done, smiling has he rubbed his semen into the tip of Draco’s dick, pushing the fluid in, then spreading it over his balls and crooning with false soothing notes when the spell began to slowly fade and Draco had finally been able to form the words ‘no’ and ‘stop’. A plea to let him go, to end it.

It had earned him a playful slap of a hand against his cock, and an unwelcome kiss to his mouth. All while the camera orb continued to hover.  

He'd vomited in the shower later.

They’d enchanted the water to feel warm but never scald. No bruising. No evidence.

He’d stood there until his skin went raw, chest heaving, hands trembling around the soap that would never help him feel clean.

His body had taken pleasure. The Ministry would call it cooperation, but Draco knew better.

That night, he made a decision. He’d studied occlumency before the Dark Lord fell. With his magic suppressed now and his wand taken, it was hard. But not impossible.

The Malfoy line had an additional piece of protective magic, not often discussed, but known to the family. No child could be conceived unless both parties were willing.

And he resisted every time. Growing stronger, fighting the magical suppressions.

Every spell.

Every order.

And when the pain came—the punishments, he took them in silence. Each one a sign of a small victory.

Back in the bed at the top of the library, Draco turned his head toward the open doorway.

But there was no door to close. No bolt to lock.

Only her name, still etched into the gold at his wrists.

He laid very still.

And waited.

Chapter Text

The morning found them both exhausted, neither having slept well.

Hermione was grateful for the lull in her schedule. A light few days would allow them space, to breathe, to adjust, to prepare. She followed her usual routine, settling at the kitchen table with a steaming cup of tea for breakfast only to find an avalanche of correspondence waiting for her.

Most of it concerning him. Letters of praise that she “finally understood the need for social justice,” and requests for interviews, some with prefilled lists of questions, each more invasive, salacious, and disgusting than the last.  

She skimmed each letter with numb efficiency, tossing them aside into an increasingly hostile pile on the floor. She’d burn the whole heap once she finished sorting.

A flicker in her periphery startled her, and her wand was in her hand before her mind caught up.

“Merlin, Malfoy!”

It took effort to lower her wand. Even now, years later, her instincts were still wartime-sharp. She looked away, heart pounding.

He didn’t flinch. He never flinched.

Silent as a ghost, he walked past her, through the galley kitchen, and began searching the cupboards. He moved with preternatural grace—each motion calculated, careful. It made sense, she supposed. When your life was a performance, every step mattered.

He found a mug and poured himself tea from the kettle she’d already boiled. No words. No questions.

Only when he turned did his gaze flicker to the lavender letter in her hand. She saw it hit him—the twitch, the shift behind his eyes—before the mask slid effortlessly back into place.

The letter in her hand had been the vilest out of everything she’d skimmed so far. It was from his first Prefector, a note of ‘advice’ to the new guard. The woman outlined, shamelessly, the corrective tactics she had found to be ‘effective’ and then proceeded to provide tips as to how she could best subdue him when she wanted to take her pleasure. It ended with an offer to personally ‘show her the ropes,’ at her convenience, of course. 

Hermione met his eyes. 

“For the first time in my life,” she said quietly, “I think I could actually cast the Cruciatus.”

He remained still, thoughtful. Steam from the tea disappeared into the white robes of his Ministry approved garb. It seemed he planned to ignore her, until he shifted and walked to sit a few feet away in the living area. She watched him settle onto the soft charcoal ottoman—the scalding teacup must have been blistering his hand, but he showed no sign of discomfort—when he finally spoke. 

“It’s good it took you so long to get there.” 

Something hardened inside her and the reminder that he’d been forced to learn it at fifteen. What a luxury for her to have never needed it.

She went back to skimming the letters, discarding anything relating to The Program and Malfoy, which was the bulk of the mail she’d received that day. What remained was a modest stack of business correspondence and philanthropic appeals. 

Looking at him now, she remembered he’d been a seeker at Hogwarts. She wasn’t normally impulsive, but the tension in the room, and over the last day, had gotten under her skin. She deftly picked up her wand and chucked it directly at him. 

His hand shot out with imperceptible speed, plucking the wand from the air, before he turned his eyes to it, then to her. A question hung between them, unspoken. 

“Take care of this filth.” She gestured at the pile of papers, “I’m going to wash off.” 

With that, she walked deliberately out of the room, leaving him with her wand. 

Hot water would have felt good, she knew that, but after reading those letters she didn’t want to feel good. She didn’t want to feel at all. 

So she stood under the icy cold spray of the shower and let it numb her. 

She didn’t want to imagine what she had to do next, but she had no choice. The first check-in from the Ministry would be in a matter of hours. Protocol required them to verify they were settling in well, and the rating given in the first few initial visits would determine the frequency of future “verifications,” which, given Malfoy’s history, she assumed would be demanding

When she finally stepped from the water and wrapped herself in a towel, she took a moment to stare at the witch in the mirror. 

That witch had fought for a better world—was still fighting, she reminded herself. She could keep her head down and let the suffering continue while she tried to overturn The Program slowly through all the proper channels, or she could get her hands dirty and keep at least one human safe for now. 

She’d already made her choice, and she knew that. 

When she stepped out of the bathroom, hair soaked and towel clutched tightly around her, Draco was sitting on the edge of her bed. She froze.

His back was straight. Posture perfect. Her wand rested loosely in his hand.

His eyes immediately met hers, before he looked away. Then, as if he couldn’t stop himself, back at her face.  

“The first verification is today,” he said. 

He knew the drill, likely in more detail than she did. Her wand was still in his hand while he waited for her to reply. He wasn’t pointing it at her, no part of his demeanor seemed aggressive. He held it like it gave him comfort, security even. Despite his magical repression. 

“I know.”  In another life she would be mortified to be in a towel in front of him like this. Affronted that he had invaded her private space. Hermione Granger, the good witch, wouldn’t have stood for it. 

Hermione Granger, the Prefector, didn’t have it in her to care. Not in the face of what she had to do next. 

“Malfoy.” She saw him bristle at the apology that already dripped from her tone. His tension was palpable. 

“The first meeting will be relatively easy, I have a plan for it. You don’t have to be directly involved.” 

He glared at her now. “They will verify from your memories.” 

She let out a long breath. “Yes, they will. I have a degree of experience with cognition magic, enough to plant false memories in my own mind. They aren’t going to look too deeply, not for this visit. It will be enough.” 

She strode forward and held out her hand for her wand. 

“I do need to get started though.” Her voice was gentle, but firm. They both knew the bindings wouldn’t allow him to cast magic against her, especially not with her own wand. Whatever sense of security it was giving him was a placebo. 

He moved slowly, but complied, leaning forward from his seat on the bed toward where she stood over him and placing the wand into her outstretched hand. He didn’t let his grip on it loosen immediately though, and instead met her eyes. 

“The reason the first ones are the easiest is because they don’t expect much right away.” His jaw feathered. “That won’t last forever.” 

“I know,” she said, “but that’s tomorrow’s problem.”

She expected him to leave the room when he rose, but he turned at the threshold to look back at her, taking up the breadth of the doorway as he crossed his arms, leaned against the frame, and waited. 

It would be more comfortable for her if he left her to implant the memories alone, but in reality it wouldn’t matter. She crawled onto her bed, straightening under her sheets before tossing her towel aside and laying back. Clearing her mind took a few minutes as she walked through a series of calming rituals. The magic worked best when the mind and body were at peace. When she felt ready, she shifted her wand slightly in her hand and cast a series of spells over her head. 

Reality fell away as the structured daydream bloomed around her, and the weight of Draco’s stare faded into a distant haze as she let herself fall deeper into the hallucination, until it enveloped her entirely. 

She walked Malfoy to his room, letting the silence grow between them as she led him down the hallway. In this version she didn’t stop at the threshold when they arrived, didn’t give him space or attempt to clarify why the doors had been stripped away. She entered first, expecting him to follow. 

He was tense as he stood inside the space, absorbing it, then turned to face her from where he stood at the foot of his bed. 

Her eyes skimmed over him, assessing. “Unbutton your robes.” She spoke it as a command, intrigued to witness the magic force his submission.

His jaw tensed and his eyes sparked, clearly wanting to fight it. Yet his body responded to the compulsion of the bindings. His hands reached up to his collar and grasped the top button, sliding it through the loop, before proceeding on. One by one he undid each, until his outer robe spilled open. 

“Take it off.” 

The robe slid off his shoulders, revealing his Ministry issued shirt and pants. All regulation white. 

Her voice in the daydream chuckled. 

“You’re so tense, Draco. I’d assume you’ve never done this before. That is, if I didn’t know better.” Her finger reached out and stroked his jaw, overly familiar. The muscle flexed over the bone in response. Anger. Disgust. Sentiments he knew he’d be punished for saying out loud, just as he knew his revulsion wouldn’t stop the inevitable. 

“Or perhaps you just don’t like witches, is that it?” Her voice sounded overly sweet, no genuine care or curiosity existed behind the question. 

Dream Malfoy glared at her but didn’t speak. Didn’t fight her touch, though it looked like he would have thrown her off if he could. 

“I’ve heard you are quite the appetizing ride. I’ll have you examined by my own healer before I interact with you, though. It’s nothing personal, I just don’t want to catch anything from a secondhand breeding stud. I doubt the Ministry lends their best healers to The Program. For tonight I’ll just have a look at you.” 

She stepped back and let her finger drop away from his skin, back to her side. 

“Shoes. Socks. Shirt.” 

The bindings forced him to action. Each article vanished in a whisper of household magic as he removed it.  

She didn’t immediately continue her commands as he stood before her. Instead she circled him, appraising each ripple of muscle and each stretch of skin. Appreciating him like she would a piece of fine art, acquired for her collection. 

“Tell me, Draco.” Her voice was a gloating purr and moved. “What do you think your pureblooded ancestors would think if they could see you now? Nothing more than a Mudblood’s pet.” 

He remained silent. 

“Would they be proud? Answer me.” It was a command. 

“No.” He pressed the single word through clenched teeth. 

She laughed, low and without humor. “No, I imagine they wouldn’t be. In fact, I suspect they would disown you for the shame it brings to their legacy. There’s something poetic about the fact that it's me who gets to ruin you in the end.” 

She finished another circle around him and stopped, facing him directly. 

“Take off your belt.” 

His hands moved reactively to the buckle, undoing it with practiced precision. His eyes never left the wall beyond her head as he slid the leather out from the bands in a smooth motion. 

Stepping toward him, she ignored how his gaze deliberately avoided her own as she skimmed her finger lightly across the V that cut into his abdomen and disappeared under the fabric of his trousers. 

Her other hand joined the first, until ten fingers were flitting over him in featherlight caresses. Then she trailed the top of one finger indecently lower, just under the cotton that clung to his skin, reveling in the fact that she could take the liberty, even if he hated it.  

“I wonder what kind of curses you would be hurling at me for doing this, if you weren’t bound?” She fiddled with the button on his pants, teasing it. “Something dark and angry, I imagine.” Her fingers moved lower again, tracing the ridge of his cock from over the fabric. “Something righteously indignant for how I’m daring to defile you with my Mudblood fingers, hmm?” 

She slipped the button of his trousers open, then pulled the zipper down. 

“Do you want to know a secret, Draco?” She knew he wouldn’t answer, and she didn’t need him to. Not for this. 

A snap of her finger with a wordless spell disappeared the trousers, leaving him bare except for the cotton boxers that clung to his sculpted form. Her fingers resumed their languid strokes over his cock, rubbing against the cotton and petting him as if he were an exotic animal, bound and caged for her. 

His jaw was tight, fists clenched at his sides, yet he couldn’t fight the magic holding him in place. 

She slid her hand fully into his boxers, forcing a small hiss from him as she wrapped her bare hand tightly around his shaft.

Her lips pulled back away from her teeth in a feral grin. “I’m going to enjoy being the witch who finally brings you to heel.” 

Her mind-spell faded at the final phrase, which she had set as the trigger to end the magical scene. 

Draco stared at her as if he’d seen everything she had just done to him in her mind. 

As if he knew it had made her wet. 

Chapter Text

The ministry official fingered the glass coasters stacked neatly on the side table of Hermione’s living room. His ministry inspector badge gleamed in the light, standing out in stark contrast against his starched uniform. She idly wondered how long he’d spent polishing it as she watched him meticulously examine her belongings. He’d nearly completed the living arrangement inspection, quickly ticking off items on a form as he walked with clipped steps through her flat. Hermione supposed speed of review was one benefit of invasive observation.

“Just here, Miss Granger,” he nodded to a spot in the middle of the rug on the living room floor. “This will all be over quickly.” 

He brought the wand up to her temple and squinted. The spell flooded into her like a breached dam, and her eyes shuttered closed. 

She tensed only slightly before directing her full focus to the fabricated series of events and forced herself to relax into the role of detached Prefector. Any sign of anxiety on her part could raise suspicion, and she couldn’t risk them looking too close. The official gave a leering smirk watching Malfoy comply with her command to strip, as if it confirmed his theory that even the best of wizarding kind was content to lower herself to indulge her basest interests, if the reward was sweet enough. She caught him casting a lurid glance to where Malfoy stood silently watching the process from the corner of the room, before his attention shifted back to the memory he was supposed to be reviewing. 

His quick notes quill scratched away at the standard verification form in mid-air, while he reviewed each detail of the memories she’d provided, running over the moment when she’d first stroked her fingers over the ridge of his cock three times, until he shifted something in his trousers and broke the spell. With that portion of the assessment behind her, the rest of the interview went as planned. 

“Has he disobeyed any direct orders?”

“No.”

“Has he shown any defiance to your authority?”

“He doesn’t like having to obey, but he hasn’t defied me.”

The worker clicked his tongue, then proceeded to offer her unsolicited advice. That seemed to be coming from all fronts these days.

“It’s best to push them out of their comfort zone early to set the expectations for obedience out of the gate. I’m afraid his previous Prefectors were too soft.”

She doubted the Ministry worker had any idea what he was talking about. Putting on her sweetest smile, she asked, “So you are also a Prefector, I take it?”

The quick notes quill  scratched to a stop as the inspector considered the question, then resumed. 

“No, no. I don’t have the time to take on one of them. Supervising the existing Prefectors is more than enough job for me.” He met Hermione’s eyes uneasily, then continued, “I’m surprised they placed him with a single witch. A home with a wizard to keep him in line would provide more structure.”

She kept the smile plastered to her face, but something darker clawed beneath the surface. “Unfortunately, most wizards find my war record intimidating, I’m afraid. Something about how I faced down the Dark Lord before turning eighteen makes them feel, oh I don’t know…emasculated.”

Malfoy coughed suddenly, and turned his head from them.

“Hmm.” The worker peered over his spectacles, a darting glance landing on Draco then back to her. “Well, I will be back in one week to gauge your progress. I do hope you’ll consider my advice.” 

“Of course, yes. Thank you for your time.” She walked him to the Floo and tossed the powder over him.

As soon as the green sparks vanished him from the flat, Hermione warded the fireplace against more visitors for the day. 

“First one done.” Malfoy had come to stare in the threshold between the living room and kitchen. 

She felt a tension she hadn’t known she’d been holding begin to melt from her arms and back, and gave him a wry smile as she pulled out her wand and flicked out an incantation. 

Malfoy’s room had a door once more.

She’d sent a note to Victor Krum earlier that morning, asking for assistance in purchasing a wand internationally. She knew he’d heard of The Program and would be sympathetic, without her needing to spell out the details.

Looking back toward Malfoy, she said. “I have research to do and will be in my study for the rest of the afternoon. Let me know if you need anything. Otherwise make yourself at home.” With that, she proceeded to walk out of the room to bury herself in research.

The back of her neck prickled, as if someone had walked over her grave. She’d lost track of time during her research and turned to discover Malfoy watching her. He stood silently in her study doorway. 

A quick glance at the clock told her it was already late into the evening.

When he didn’t speak, she merely raised her eyebrow at him. The Malfoy she remembered was perfectly capable of expressing himself, often to the detriment of those around him. And she didn’t plan to coddle him now.  

“You haven’t eaten since this morning,” he observed. A finger twitched at his side, then went still. “There are sandwiches in the kitchen, if you’re hungry.”

“I’m not sure I should be accepting food from a Death Eater.” She gave him a tired smile. “Mad-Eye would roll in his grave.”

“Your potions cabinet is notably lacking in poisons, and my magic is bound,” he replied. “Though all of the raw ingredients necessary to make several lethal concoctions are available on your shelves.”

For the first time since he arrived, she thought she detected the faintest hint of a smirk.

“Yes, well, the Ministry didn’t say anything about a ban on raw ingredients in their home preparation checklist.” The magic binding him would stop him from  hurting her, and they both knew it.

She was hungry though.

Hermione stretched as she rose, the grey blouse tucked into her waistband of her pencil skirt pulled free and she didn’t bother to fix it. 

“Lead the way,” she motioned Malfoy forward and followed him to the kitchen.

Once there, she stared at the plate of simple sandwiches and realized she was indeed incredibly hungry; her mouth watered unexpectedly as she took in the food, and her gaze found Draco’s. He was leaning against her counter, arms crossed in front of his chest, watching whether she’d dare try it.

Hermione stuffed a bite into her mouth without a second thought.

“You don’t have to make me food, you know,” she said between bites. “I’m perfectly capable of feeding myself, and the art wing of the Library has a gourmet café. There’s an ordering system built into the kitchen panel.” She pointed toward the wall where a blank ivory scroll hung. “You just tap it to activate the menu and the food will be delivered.”

He looked at her for a moment, eyes thoughtful.

“You added a door back to my room. Consider the sandwich my way of saying thank you.”

Merlin. This was not the Draco Malfoy she remembered at all.

She summoned a bottle of chilled Prosecco and poured them each a glass.

“Victor is working on a wand,” she replied at last. “Obtaining one here in England would raise too many questions, given the recent publicity surrounding our mutual status in the Program.” 

He simply nodded and sipped his wine.

Research consumed her.

For days, she poured through obscure magical texts, legal loopholes, and the fine print of the Prefector contract. Living above a private library had its advantages. And as the sole benefactor, she could have asked the archivists to help her research a curse powerful enough to stop time, or assassinate a world leader, and no one would have blinked.

On the third day she took a reprieve from her research to indulge in a small side project, something she’d been theorizing for a few days. Hermione’s magic hummed with satisfaction as she left the confines of her study. 

“Malfoy, give me your hand,” she said briskly, striding into the living room without preamble.

He looked up from the armchair, one brow lifting in mild surprise. Still, he complied immediately, his hand extending toward her under magical compulsion before he could stop it.

“Right. I forgot.” She grimaced. “Is there a way I can phrase things so that it won’t activate the obedience compulsion?” 

“If you phrase it as a question, the magic isn’t quite as intense,” he replied. “It will still nudge me to comply if it seems like you want a certain outcome but doesn’t demand it.” 

“Noted.”

She pulled a delicate gold chain from her pocket and clasped it around his wrist, just beneath the heavy manacle of the Ministry's binding magic. It looked fragile by comparison, almost decorative.

“This will shock anyone who tries to touch you without your consent,” she said, keeping her voice measured. “I tied the charm to the warding runes embedded in the foundation of this building, so it only works within these confines. It doesn’t pull from your magical core to sustain the enchantment, since it's tied to the Library. But it will give you the freedom to move safely throughout the collections downstairs if you want to venture out.”

He tilted his wrist, watching the gold catch the firelight, then looked back at her with unreadable eyes.

“Am I the only one who can give consent?” he asked carefully. “Or are there exceptions?”

There was a lingering wariness in his voice. He didn’t trust her.

She hesitated long enough that the silence became its own answer. When she finally spoke, her voice was clipped and honest.

“The bracelet recognizes me as an override authority, so as not to disrupt the magic in the Ministry’s bands. In theory it could be possible to tamper with the bindings, but the risk of detection would be high.”

“So you can give others permission to touch me.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yes.” The word was barely a whisper, and it tasted like shame on her tongue. 

His jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Just looked away.

“I built it so you can move freely through the lower levels, I thought you might want that.” She tried for a softer tone, but it came out strained.

He exhaled slowly. Then, after a long pause: “I know I should thank you. And I am grateful.”

His tone held no warmth—but no venom either. Just weariness. 

She nodded, suddenly feeling as if she’d laid something bare, too. “I know the bracelet is flawed,” she said. “So is The Program. So am I. It doesn’t fix any of this, but…it’s something I could do.”

He looked at her then, really looked. Something passed between them. A truce. A recognition.

Maybe even something close to understanding.

By the sixth day, Hermione had grown frustrated. Every avenue of research led to a dead end, and exhaustion seeped into her bones. There were still pathways left to explore, of course, but she had hoped to be further along by now.

She pressed her thumbs into her eyes and held them there.

“The second verification is tomorrow.”

His voice startled her out of her reverie, and she jumped.

“Malfoy! Try to make some noise so you don’t give me a heart attack!”

The magic apparently believed this to be a command. He raised his hand and snapped his fingers, obediently making a sound.  

“Merlin,” she muttered, but didn’t apologize. They had been enemies in a war, nerves were allowed.

He walked into the room, stopping just in front of her desk. She stood, instinctively, but it didn’t help; he still loomed over her. She had to crane her neck to meet his eyes.

“The second verification is tomorrow,” he repeated.

She swallowed.

“I’ll create another memory.”

“They’ll need more than one. And they’ll scan my mind this time.” His tone was neutral, clinical. “They won’t like that you’ve essentially left me to my own devices for a week.”

Untouched.

They both understood the unspoken word.

“I can make a few memories, and I can…” She gulped now. “I can put them in your mind, too.” She wasn’t sure she had the stomach for that, and felt herself flushing under his steady gaze.

“They will have viewed the verifications of my previous Prefectors. They will expect certain…reactions from me. It will look odd if I’m inconsistent.” There was no inflection to his words, no hint of emotion. Only logic.

In truth, she hadn’t considered this. She could fabricate scenarios easily enough, but she wouldn’t know how he would normally react, what they would expect to see.

She needed his help, but the words stuck in her throat.

“Bloody hell,” she muttered, looking away. Then back. “How are you always so calm?”

He tilted his head, studying her. “I internalize things,” he said. “A skill you’ve never mastered.”

She shot him an annoyed look.

“Right. If we’re going to have this conversation, I need a drink.” She moved toward the adjacent sitting room, knocking open a small half-door to usher him through. “Come on, it’s rude to let a witch drink alone.”

He followed.

She poured a shot of firewhiskey, downed it, then handed him one as well. “We’ll do the classy version next.”

He brought it to his mouth, fingers wrapping around the etched crystal like they’d made a home there, then tilted his head back to swallow it exactly as she had.

With glasses of whiskey over ice, they huddled near the hearth, each sinking into the plush cream chairs that faced each other before the fireplace. Silence stretched between them. She didn’t push. In fact, it was glaringly obvious he was the one with something to teach her.

His eyes flicked from the fire to his glass, studying the firelight reflected in the drowsy amber glow of the liquid.

“The first week is about establishing control.”

She waited.

“Most Prefectors require intercourse by now. You haven’t, which will stand out. It’s explainable, in the right context, but…”

“But?”

“Denying physical release is a method of control. Especially if you create a situation where the need for it is… heightened.”

She understood now what he was implying, but didn’t follow how it would work. The verification would involve a highly invasive set of spells. The examiner would know, in a general sense, if he had experienced a ‘release’ in recent days.

She swallowed. “But I haven’t forbidden you from—well—anything.”

He looked at her quickly, before looking back at the whiskey. “No, you didn’t, but you were so engrossed in your research you forgot to make a contingency plan.”

He paused, giving a ghost of a shrug

“I haven’t, though. So it’s a viable approach.”

“Oh.” Her voice sounded small. “So we pretend I told you not to…”

“You’ll need to give me a potion. Tonight. It’ll need time to build.”

She stared. “Where would I get that?”

“I’ve already made it. I used the base ingredients from your cabinet. No magic needed to finish the process.” He nodded toward the kitchen. “It’ll be more believable if you command me to take it. And,” he hesitated, just slightly, “it’s not a comfortable experience. But the compulsion will help me get it down.”

Her eyes went to the table he’d indicated, and she noticed the small vial there–sitting innocuously. Something cold dripped down her spine. 

She stood and strode for it, clutching it like it held something vile before returning to her seat by the fire. She stared at it for a long minute before speaking, the innocuous plain clear glass and nondescript, grey murky liquid inside appeared innocent to the casual eye, belying the insidious intent of the mixture.

“When should I have you take it?”

A muscle in his jaw tightened, but his expression remained reserved. Guarded. 

“Now.” 

Hermione hesitated, but she couldn’t pinpoint a specific reason. 

“We can still talk after?”

“For a while.” He didn’t meet her eyes, and she saw his throat dip in a swallow before he continued. “It will get uncomfortable rather quickly, but it takes time to build. I’ll be able to focus though.”

He reached for it. Hermione should have gripped it harder, stopped this charade in its tracks, forced a memory around it instead, but her fingers loosened as he plucked it from her hand. He paused, staring down at it. “It really is horrific. Not just the taste, but the effects. Knowing that makes it hard to swallow.”

She looked away, and when she spoke her voice was thick with guilt. “Drink the potion, Malfoy.”

The compulsion surged. He uncorked the stopper, raised it to his mouth, and tipped it back. His face flashed in a brief grimace before he swallowed it down, and placed the now empty glass on the table between them. He’d just found his seat once more when his knuckles went white. His fingers clawed into the arms of the chair, creating half-mooned gouges and his breathing sped.

Neither spoke as seconds ticked into minutes. But eventually, Hermione broke their silence. “How long before it starts?”

“It has.” His voice was clipped. His jaw flexed. Still, he didn’t show discomfort. 

“Order me not to come,” he stared at the floor, chest rising and falling.

Hermione flushed. “But… what if you need to?”

“That’s the point. I will. And I won’t be able to stop myself.” A pause. “It’s a demonstration of control, a flex of the magical compulsion you wield as my Prefector.”

She hesitated. “Do I leave it open-ended…?”

“No.” He took another drink from his whiskey, this time draining the glass, before continuing. “Tell me if I want to come, I need your permission. Then tell me I’ll have to beg for it.”

His voice was edged with something sharp and familiar: anger. He’d been through this before.

She opened her mouth, but he cut her off.

“The less we have to fabricate, the better. So you should look at me when you say it. And…smile.”

Her spine straightened. She turned, hardening her expression.

“Look at me, Malfoy.”

His eyes lifted, obedient yet backlit by defiance.

“Don’t touch yourself. If you want release, you’ll ask me. I want to hear you say, ‘Please, Mudblood,’ with all the polish of your pureblooded birth. Beg me nicely, and I might grant it. Say, ‘Yes, ma’am,’ so I know you understand.”

“Yes, ma’am.” His voice was rough. Resistant.

She smiled, slow and cold. “You’ll have to fix that tone if you want to come. Make it sweet. Needy. I’m a patient witch, and we have all the time in the world.”

Turning back to the fire, she let her smile fall. The words, the command she had over him, the way he’d immediately had to reply to her, felt good. Did that make her like the rest of the Prefectors, who took pleasure in stripping control from their Conscripts? She hated herself just a little bit for the thought.

“Anything else?” she asked casually, hoping her reaction wasn’t noticeable.

“You need to give me more commands. Things I wouldn’t want to do. Enough that it looks like you spread them across the week.”

“Does it have to be… intimate?”

“Not all. But some.” His breath caught slightly. “Establishing dominance involves stripping away autonomy. It needs to be uncomfortable, for me at least.”

She stood and transfigured her blouse from grey to pale pink. A different outfit for a different day. Then she strode across the room to her couch, settled herself into it, and looked at him. “Malfoy. Come here.”

He rose and crossed the room with practiced grace, each step restricted by the bonds of magic, his own will clenched beneath them like a trapped animal.

When he reached her, she looked up and studied his face.

“Get on your knees.”

His hesitation wasn’t visible in his body’s response, but his narrow eyes flickered with something ancient, proud. Unyielding. Still, he complied. One knee, then the other, posture ramrod straight, fists resting on his thighs. She wanted to hate the thrill that ran down her spine at the sight of the man on his knees at her feet. 

Hermione stood and slowly circled him.

“I want to test something,” she murmured. “Call it…an obedience exercise.” Her voice was hard, staged for an audience that wasn’t yet present.

“Tell me a secret, something shameful that you’ve never said aloud.”

The question was open-ended enough that he would retain some control, while forcing him to give away part of his private self. His jaw flexed, but the magic was strong.

“I dreamt of you,” he ground out. “During the war.”

She stepped closer, unfiltered delight caught her breath.

“When?”

“Sixth year,” he said, low and bitter. “When everything was falling apart. I would see you in the library and I—” He exhaled harshly through his nose. “It was easier to imagine fucking you than to face what I was becoming.”

Hermione said nothing. She simply moved in front of him again, watching him from above.

“Say it again,” she instructed, voice silk-smooth. “But this time, say it like you mean it. No hiding behind excuses.”

The muscles in his throat jumped.

“I dreamt of you,” he repeated. “Of bending you over the study table and fucking the righteousness out of you.”

“Better.” Her eyes glittered. “Tell me another one.”

He glared up at her then—pure hatred and something darker behind it. Desire, maybe. Or fear. Perhaps both.

“I wanted you to hurt me for it,” he whispered, the words pulled from somewhere deep, where his pride had buried them.

Hermione tilted her head. “Why?”

“I’ve said why.”

The magic didn’t accept his answer. She could see the strain of his resistance against it again.

“Because you were the only thing that made me feel like I could still be clean,” he rasped. “Because your judgment burned brighter than the Dark Lord’s approval.”

Hermione’s breath hitched.

“And now?” she asked, stepping closer, until the edge of her robe brushed his knee.

“Not even fiendfyre could purge the filth of my sins from my soul.”

“Good.” Her voice was low. “That was good.”

She stepped away. “Get up. I'll change before the next one.”

She slipped out of her clothes, letting the household magic catch them midair and fold them away with silent efficiency. She walked, barefoot and deliberate, toward her wardrobe. He needed a moment to collect himself after the forced confessions. And if she was honest with herself, she did too. Her skin still felt electric from the sound of his voice, the way it had broken on fucking you. The confession had been raw, but the scenes wouldn’t be enough for the Ministry. 

She was supposed to be consistent in her efforts to force his compliance. 

The sharp sound of fingers snapping startled her, and she whirled toward the source.

He was standing in the doorway to her bedroom, statuesque and pallid.

“Turn around!” she gasped, clutching an arm across her chest. She was only in her bra and knickers.

Of course. Her earlier command, ’Make a sound when you enter a room,’ still held.

“The next one needs to be more intimate, Granger,” he said, his back now to her. His voice was controlled, but she could hear the fray at the edges.

“You don’t have permission to enter my bedroom without invitation,” she snapped, robe already yanked from its hook and wrapped tightly around her. “Turn back around.”  

He did. Slowly. 

“This isn’t exactly the look I had in mind for the next memory,” she said dryly, tugging the fabric tighter into place. 

“You should be naked for the next one.”

Her blood stilled. “I beg your pardon?”

“I’ve admitted I wanted to fuck you, and that came after the arousal potion, which in theory has been building for several days. Having me watch you, in this condition, fits the arc. It will make sense to them, as a natural progression, and a way to taunt me.”

She simply glared at him.

“Have me wash your hair, scrub your feet, something like that. Grooming is a normal part of establishing dominance and… forcing submission. A way to remind me of my place.”

It did check the boxes. She still hated it.

“I don’t want you to see me naked.” Her voice was soft and she didn’t raise her eyes fully to him this time. “That’s not, well it isn’t… it shouldn’t be necessary.”

His reply came sharp and immediate. “It’s a breeding program, Granger. Nudity is the least of what they’ll expect between a Prefector and their Conscript.” He paused. “It’s supposed to be me resisting, not you.”

She didn’t have an answer to that.

He sighed. “The other women had done it by now,” his voice was slightly softer, but retained its edge. “You had the right idea with the scene you fabricated before.”

“We could fabricate this one, too,” she replied, her voice defiant, even though she didn’t truly believe her own words. 

“No, we can’t. They will search my mind this time, and will certainly look for something like this, to evaluate how I’m reacting to you. If I was fully myself, not under the influence of the potion, I could possibly concentrate enough for you to insert a plausible scene into my mind. But we haven’t practiced doing that, and I don’t have the level of mental focus that would be needed now.”

His voice lowered, tinged with a hint of an apology. “The potion is hitting more intensely than it usually does. I’m sorry.”

It was Hermione’s turn to speak through gritted teeth.

“Fine.”

She turned, spine straightening and fists clenching. “Malfoy, draw me a bath.”

She refreshed her whiskey before returning to the master bathroom where he now waited. If it wouldn’t have seemed gauche, she would have brought the whole bottle back with her.

When she stepped into the steamy bathroom, he was standing beside the filled tub, silent, watching. She placed her glass beside the bath and spread her arms slightly as she turned to him. 

“Take my robe.” Her voice was steadier than she felt. 

Silver eyes met hers as he approached, graceful as ever. He didn’t look down as he untied the belt and slid it loose with a single pull. His eyes stayed locked on her face when he slipped the fabric from her shoulders. She’d removed her underthings before returning, there would be no fumbling awkwardness now when he pulled the robe away, because she was naked.

He paced back to the side of the tub, her silk robe thrown over his forearm, and stared.

Tension flared in his throat as he swallowed.

It took every ounce of willpower she had not to cover herself, not to look away from him. But despite her best effort, her hand still twitched toward her chest on instinct, but he caught it before it reached its destination. His touch was firm, and the warmth of his skin soothing against her chilled hands. With elegant precision, he guided her toward the tub, fingers pressed to hers as if to support her while she stepped into the lightly steaming water. The gesture masterfully transformed her moment of weakness into a show of easy dominance. It was as if the entire movement had been intended as her demand for assistance. 

She eased into the hot water, biting back a sigh. Looking down at the clear liquid, she wished for bubbles, anything to hide behind. But there were none. She closed her eyes for a moment, and tried to forget how exposed she felt. 

When she opened them again, she saw her muggle razor and shaving cream in view. There were spells she could use, of course, but she found they were more effective at prolonging the effects of shaving than replacing the need to do it. He’d placed them there as a message. 

“Malfoy,” she said, lifting one leg from the water and resting it against the porcelain. “Shave me.”

He knelt beside the tub. She stopped him with a click of her tongue. “Take off your robes. You’ll drench them.” 

He removed his outer layer, then rolled up his sleeves with practiced ease. She glimpsed the Dark Mark, before he angled it away. His arms were pale and veined. 

“Better.” She gestured for him to kneel.

What came next was unbearable. His hands were steady as he worked the cream over her calf and thigh, each motion achingly precise. He handled her like she was glass: fragile, dangerous, expensive. The razor barely grazed her, a feather’s whisper across skin as he drew long strokes up her leg, over her knee, then higher. He worked slowly, repeating the motions over and over. She wanted to squirm and shrink away when he shifted her further open and caressed the blade up the inside of her thigh. But she couldn’t. This was supposed to be his torture, not hers.  

When the final stroke cleared the last of the foam, he placed a languid hand on her knee, subtly keeping the leg out of the water. He reached for a vial she hadn’t noticed and tilted it over the freshly smoothed skin, spilling drops of oil onto her ankle, her shin… he kept going until the trail reached the point where her leg met her hip. She realized she wasn’t breathing as beads of it trickled down both sides of her legs, some inward, sliding toward her center…

She finally remembered to inhale, and the sharp, clean scent of lemon grounded her back to reality. 

Then his fingers skimmed through the droplets of oil that danced on her legs,  and she couldn’t stop the tiny gasp of breath that escaped her as his touch deepened, fingers fanning out across the naked skin. 

He massaged up the trail he’d poured, slow and methodical, until his lean hands were tracing over her thigh like he was mapping her. She could feel her pulse flutter between her legs. He kept his head tilted down, focused on his work and nowhere else. She was grateful not to have to meet his eyes like this. 

She wanted to sigh in relief when he finally moved her leg back into the water, but it was short lived as his hand found her other calf and raised it out to repeat the process. She wished again, more than ever, that she had bubbles. Something other than nearly clear water between his gaze and her body.

By the time he was done, she could barely breathe. It was impossible not to react to him, to this. Just a few minutes more and the scene would be over. 

“Bring me a towel,” she kept her tone commanding when he’d finished. He nodded, and before she could intervene his hand dipped gracefully into the water, where he pulled the drain of the tub while he moved to stand. She inwardly cursed, having planned to send him out while she stayed where she was. 

His eyes looked directly into hers as he held the towel open, expecting her to step into it. Backing down now would appear weak. 

She rose, dripping and naked, in front of him. His eyes bored into her’s as she stepped out of the tub onto the small mat he’d knelt on moments before, letting the water stream down her body onto it. 

Only then did he lower his eyes. 

But this time, he wasn’t looking away. His focus pointedly shifted to her lips first. Then down to her breasts. Her hips. Her cunt. 

Heat flushed through her, everywhere his eyes perused felt like it was burning. 

His face was unreadable, but his body screamed of want, of lust, and hunger. A rawness he wasn’t bothering to hide and instead forced her to witness. When he finally drew his eyes to lock with hers, there was no hint of apology. They were defiant. 

The towel remained open for her in his hands, and she realized it was a silent challenge. If she wanted to cover herself, she would have to step toward him, allow him to wrap it around her. 

Which meant he would touch her through it. 

But she couldn’t break now, wouldn’t ruin the scene when they were this close to the finish line. 

She felt like their roles  reverse.

With a start she understood he’d done this on purpose. It was meant to humiliate her, retribution for how she’d already stripped away his privacy. How she would continue to violate him despite her best intentions.

Her eyes burned and her throat constricted as she forced herself to step forward, into the towel. His hands closed around her, lingering longer than necessary. 

Drawing it out. 

“You may go,” she said hoarsely, yanking the fabric from his grip as she barked the command. 

“Yes ma’am,” he murmured with all the grace and smoothness of his pureblood upbringing. 

Chapter Text

Hermione regretted casting a silencio on her room the moment she opened her door the next morning, hours after having last seen Draco. 

She’d done it to give herself a greater feeling of privacy after what he’d put her through, but she’d forgotten to consider the potion, and how the intensity of the effects would continue to increase. 

He lay curled on the hallway floor, skin ash-pale, sweat slicking his hair to his temples. When his gaze dragged up to hers, agony flickered across his face, coupled with exhaustion.

“Malfoy!” She dropped to her knees and raised her wand for a diagnostic charm. “What’s wrong?”

“The potion,” he rasped. “It’s worse than it’s ever been.”

He’d come to her room, which meant he’d broken. 

“You left me no way to reach you,” he croaked, anger sharpening the words.

Guilt punched through her chest. 

“I’m sorry. If you need to—” 

“Don’t finish that sentence.” His voice was a ragged growl.

Confusion furrowed across her brow.  

“They will look to see how this ended,” he groaned out. “We have to end it correctly.” 

Understanding flashed through her eyes. He was right. 

Hermione rose, standing imperiously over his form, sick hitting the back of her throat as she slipped on her Prefector mask. “Beg me, Malfoy.”

He pushed to his knees, fists braced on the marble. Every muscle shivered with restraint.

“Please, Granger.” 

“That isn’t what I instructed.” 

His chest strained as he struggled to maintain control over his body. 

His teeth ground together. “Please, Mudblood. I need release.” His eyes remained fixed at a point on the floor inches from her pointed-toe shoes. 

She circled him, heels clicking on the marble, with predatory calm. “Look at me when you beg.” She palmed the side of his face with a quick rap—not enough to hurt, but audible in a memory. “I want to see that you mean it.”

He lifted his gaze as she came to stand before him. Fury, shame, and need warred in his storm-gray eyes. He hated this, as much as the potion forced him to crave it. Something dark inside her thrilled at his helpless defiance. 

“Please, Mudblood,” he started again, holding her stare. “I need to come.” 

She hesitated; they hadn’t planned this far, and he was in no state to talk through it now. Think, she ordered herself, but the night before still burned in her mind, and anger simmered at how easily he’d stripped her naked, manipulated her into it under the guise of compliance.

“Tell me how you want to come,” she said.

A tortured sound slipped from him, a mixture of lust and pain as the compulsion forced him to answer.  “I want to bury my cock in your tight cunt,” he panted, “pound every ounce of control out of your swotty brain.”

His eyes held hers like a vice while the magic forced each word from his lips. 

“I want to ball your hair into my fist and yank it while I spank your ass, bite your neck, and teach your pussy how to behave. To find out if you squeal when you squirt and moan when you come. Rut into you until you turn back into the good little Gryffindor you used to be.” 

Truth bled from him, dragged up by the compulsion. Heat stole her breath. Merlin, she realized, he means every word.

The only thought more erotic than dominating Draco Malfoy was the thought of being forced into submission by him. He would take out his rage, anger, and hunger on her if she removed his leash. 

Before she could reply, green flame roared in the Floo.

“Ms. Granger?” came the voice of the officious Ministry interviewer from the entry hall.

Perfect timing, you odious little man. She banished Draco’s door with a flick, resetting the “no-privacy” façade.

Turning toward the intrusion, Draco muttered a vicious, “Fuck,” then seized her behind the knees, yanking her flush to him. She staggered, and almost toppled over before straightening. Her core was level with his mouth as her hands came to rest on his rigid shoulders; she struggled to pull away—a breathless, useless gesture—immobilized by his brawn.

He didn’t let go. 

Instead he leaned in and inhaled deeply, his forehead rested on her lower belly, like a starving creature catching the scent of food. 

“Ms. Granger?” came the voice again, “Ms. Granger are you here?” 

“I’ll be with you in a moment!” Her voice was shockingly steady. 

“Malfoy let go!” she hissed, “Get a grip on yourself.” 

She saw the compulsion hit him, forcing him to release her before he rose gracefully to a standing position. His face became impassive, a mixture of practice and compulsion masking his mental state. 

“Follow me,” she commanded. 

The Ministry inspector—his name still irrelevant—fussed with his clipboard in the entry hall where Hermione greeted him coolly. 

“My apologies. We were mid-instruction.” She turned to her Conscript. “Say hello, Malfoy.”

A muscle jumped in his jaw. “Hello.”

“No, no.” She slid a finger down his chest, still damp from the strain of the potion. “You have better manners than that. Do it properly.”

Turning to the odious little man, he pasted on a polished smile. “Good morning.” 

“Better.” Hermione smirked. “Now,” she continued, addressing their visitor, “where would you like to start? I’m afraid you’ll find my charge is a bit out of sorts this morning. He’s had, shall we say, a long week.” 

Hermione ushered them all into the living room once again, where they sat in smooth grey leather chairs. The Ministry inspector’s eyebrows rose as he assessed first her, then Malfoy, noting Draco’s constricted breathing and the rippling muscles in his forearms. He seemed unable to relax. “Standard diagnostics first.” He raised his wand toward Malfoy and cast a series of spells. “Oh my, I imagine he is tense, hmm?” He let out a conspiratorial chuckle as he assessed the results. “I applaud you, Ms. Granger, I rather thought you would be too soft on him, but I see you have taken my advice to heart.” 

Hermione’s answering smile was all teeth. “He’ll break for me. It’s just a matter of finding the right pressure points.”

“I rather regret to remind you that the contract does require that he ejaculate at least once a week. It supports the health of the reproductive system, and of course, is necessary for insemination.” He droned on as if he was talking about something as mundane as the weather. “We could get you a special dispensation though, in light of how obstinate he has proven up until now. There is good cause to justify a less restrictive approach when it comes to your methods of choice.” 

“Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary, will it, Malfoy?” she purred, “He is coming along beautifully.” It was rhetorical, and he was able to lock his jaw instead of answering. 

Despite her confident tone, she still felt a ping of worry when the inspector raised his wand to Draco’s temple and began the memory review. It was clear the potion was driving him, harder than she’d expected when he’d described its effects, but that only brought a new set of worries. Would he accidentally reveal something they didn’t want seen? His bedroom door, her moving to cover herself when he’d startled her, a wand tossed in his direction with a careless instruction to burn the letters…

Another chuckle from the inspector interrupted her whirling thoughts. His smile was lurid, and she noted with a sharp spike of displeasure that he’d pinched Draco’s chin between his fingers, keeping his face tilted upward, though Draco had made no move to flinch away from the intrusion. 

Her turn came next, but the look of delighted bemusement on the inspector’s face set her at ease, while simultaneously making her stomach churn. His intrusion into her mind was quick, just long enough to confirm their memories aligned with the ones he’d examined far more carefully in Draco’s. 

In the end, he seemed pleased with what he’d seen, or at least satisfied with her progress. 

“I’ll see you in a week,” he called as she escorted him back to the entry hall Floo and he tossed the powder over himself. 

The green sparks had barely cleared before Hermione was yanked by a hand around her throat. Draco slammed her against the wall, his other hand trapping her wand. 

“Release me,” he snarled.

Fear and arousal knotted inside her. The bands should have stopped him—yet he loomed, eyes black with need. Hermione trembled with the realization that she didn’t know how far out of the bounds of magic he could push. 

What would he do if she released him? She didn’t think it was wise to find out. 

“Let me,“ she started, but he tightened his hand around her throat, trapping the words. 

“No,” he demanded, understanding her intent to issue an order. “Release. Me. Now.” 

He was a solid wall of angry muscle, unbroken and unshakable. 

“Malfoy.” It was a plea, but he didn’t care. “I will,” she broke, barely able to push the words out. “If you let me go.”

He held her for a moment more, assessing. Then he lightened his grip slightly, still clutching her throat. Able to cut off her air again if she defied his needs. 

“Do it now.” Panic and anger warred in his voice. He was coming undone.

“I give you permission to come.” 

Instead of retreating, he pressed closer, grinding his arousal against her thigh. “Tell me I can fuck you.”

Tears filled her eyes, not from pain. 

“It’s the potion talking,” she protested, voice trembling. “You don’t truly want this.”

His eyes hardened. “Tell me.”

Giving him permission, when he was drugged to lust after her, was exactly what his other Prefectors had done. This false willingness was pretense. Forced. It wasn’t real. 

She could consent, could end it at any time with a single command, but he couldn’t. His biology was magically and chemically manipulated, driving him until he lost control. 

He inhaled against her throat, fingertips flicking over her pulse points there. “I can smell how wet you are.” His other hand threaded through her raised fingers, pressing the warmth of her hand between both of their palms. “And your heart’s racing.” 

She locked her jaw tight, refusing to speak. 

He gave a low chuckle, smooth and dangerous.  

“Oh, Prefector dearest,” he whispered into that spot just below her ear, as if telling her a secret, “the magic isn’t even trying to stop me anymore.” He ran his tongue, wet and decadent, from her clavicle up to her ear. “Even if you tried to command me to stop right now, you wouldn’t mean it, and the magic would know.” 

He was wrong. He had to be wrong. Her magic understood that her logic—her conscience—outranked her biology; it always would.

“Stop,” she rasped.

The order hung in the air between them, as if he were tasting it. Then a smile cut across his face, filled with victory and sin as he replied with a single word: “No.”

Her breath caught as he leaned down again. This time he licked his tongue directly across her lips. Not kissing—claiming. 

Marking. 

His fingers twisted and deftly plucked her wand from her clenched fist, tossing it across the white and black marbled floor. 

A moan escaped her. 

This is wrong, a small voice whispered, but hunger drowned it.

He snaked his hand from her neck up into her hair, pulling so her throat was exposed to his open mouth. Her eyes rolled back in pleasure at the heat he trailed over her sensitive skin. 

“I fantasized about this,” he murmured, “having you. Taking you. Stripping you naked and suckling your pert little nipples while you rode my fingers and prayed it wasn’t real.”  

She hadn’t felt his hands shift to her pencil skirt, but suddenly, brutally, he ripped it open from waist to hem and let it flutter to the floor. He never gave her a single inch, his body hot and hard as he pinned her. 

“You dreamt of me too, I think.” 

She was trembling now, her core throbbing. The scent of him, apples and parchment, made her heady. 

It was everything her amortentia had ever smelled like and she moaned into him, wanton and helpless against it. 

“I did.” The admission stuck thickly in her throat.

His thumbs skimmed directly over her nipples, only thin fabric between his skin and her own. 

“After I was marked.” He spoke her deepest secret out loud, not as a question but as a certainty. “You dreamt of being fucked by a Death Eater. Turned into my needy little pet.” 

His index finger rimmed the edge of her neckline, until he held the edge of the fabric in his fist, tugging open the top button of her blouse. Hot breath panted against her skin as he slowly, deliberately, began to rip her shirt down the middle. 

“Now, you don’t know what turns you on more.” It fell halfway open, revealing the black v of her bralette. “The thought of me taking you, or the thought of you taking me while I struggle against the violation of your muddy cunt milking my pureblood cock.”  

He reached the end of the rip exactly as he finished speaking, exposing her to the open air in just her bra and knickers while her darkest desires danced as words over his tongue. 

She was the Prefector, she was in charge, but he knew exactly how to wreck her. 

His fingers slid between her legs, over the fabricked seam of her cunt, as he deftly unclasped her bra. 

This was wrong, she knew it, knew it was the potion not him, and yet… she couldn’t stop. Didn’t stop. When she opened her eyes again they were lust-drunk, just like his. 

“I imagined you taking me, keeping me to fuck and use, when everything was going to shit around us in the war.” Her confession poured out, and it sounded like devotion. “It let me feel like I was escaping, without the guilt of abandoning it all.” 

She was falling into the fantasy. The effects of the potion seemed to bleed into her.

“I know,” he said it like he felt sorry for her. 

Fingers pinched and pulled at a nipple. Her breathing hitched.

“I would have.” 

A hot mouth encased her breast, sucking and licking until his mouth pulled free. 

“And I’d have taken you then just like you have me now.” 

Fingers dipped under her panties, one slid into her cunt parsing through her wet lips, finding exactly what she most feared. 

“Except,” he whispered in her ear, sending pinpricks along her exposed flesh, “I wouldn’t have felt an ounce of guilt.” 

Another finger slid into her, pressed up, pulled out and repeated until he was fucking her with his hand. Wet sounds echoed obscenely off the marble walls.

With a tug, his robes slid off. 

“And I wouldn’t have ever let you go.” 

His belt snapped as he yanked it free.

“You’d have been mine.” 

Fingers slid out, replaced with forearms sliding between her legs until hot hands cupped her ass cheeks, raising her up against the wall while spreading her open. 

“Mine to fuck.” 

Her whimper was caught in his mouth as he claimed hers—ruthless and unrelenting, as if daring her to pull away. Teeth grazing her lower lip like a threat and a promise all at once. She couldn’t breathe around it, didn’t want to. He kissed her like he was starving, like she belonged to him, and he was collecting on a debt.

His cock pushed against her entrance, forcing out another moan as he drew it back, only to slide it against her folds again, until he was slick with her. Every stroke was deliberate, designed to leave her trembling and empty, wanting more. Somewhere deep in her mind, she again thought she needed to stop this, stop him, but it was lost in a wave of pleasure from another sharp press of his body and the dizzying, aching need that bloomed with each molten touch. 

“Mine to use.” 

He rammed into her, stretching her almost to the brink of pain, before pulling back and doing it again. 

“Malfoy.” His name came from her mouth like a plea, a prayer that he’d know what she needed and would give it to her. He caught the words in his mouth and pushed them back into hers, forcing her moan back into her throat with it.

Cold air swirled against her back as he ripped her away from the wall and sank to his knees, keeping her pinned to him throughout every movement, until the cold of the floor replaced the hardness of the wall at her back. Hands slid to her thighs and he spread her wider until she burned. Her back arched into him and her body shuddered as his hips pounded against her in a punishing rhythm. His body was tense, strained, nearly to the breaking point as his cock drew wet sounds from her dripping cunt. 

She was on fire, every nerve alight. Her groans of pleasure came in a low, continuous stream. 

“My needy little pet,” he said as his hips sped with each noise she made, “desperate for my approval like the good girl you are.” 

He slid his thumb into her mouth, and she clamped down, ripping a grunt from him when her cheeks tightened into a deep suck around it. 

Her climax crashed over her; stars burst behind her eyelids. 

“Tell me to come,” he growled. 

“Come,” she gasped, still reeling from the waves of pleasure. 

He made a guttural noise as he pulled out and fisted himself, pulsing hot liquid over her belly and splattering it up across her breasts. 

They remained frozen in place, panting and drained as reality seeped back in.  

Draco looked down at her and she watched his eyes clear, turning gray and glacial once more. 

His expression lost all of the hunger that had consumed him mere moments before, and it was replaced with something hard and accusatory. 

“You altered the base ingredients,” he said coldly.

Hermione swallowed hard, and something sunk in her stomach like a rock. The heat of the moment turned to ice, while she lay there pinned underneath him. Half-naked, sticky with his cum, her heart hammering as it shattered with guilt and want.

Chapter Text

Something broke inside her looking at his hard, unforgiving grey eyes. The intensity of her orgasm, of what they had just done, left her feeling open and vulnerable. She sat in that deep discomfort, studying his jaw feathering over her. 

Vulnerability during wartime cost lives, as Hermione so often learned. She’d lived in the consequences of it for too long, and even now shirked away from the penalties of emotion.

His accusation stung—worse now that he said it with full clarity—but she deserved it. 

She’d let him sort out the potion on his own, forgotten to mention her stockpile included unrefined, highly potent core ingredients. Hadn’t made him walk her through its properties. 

And then, she hadn’t stopped him when he was so far out of control.

She hadn’t stopped herself.

Hermione had let him take her while under its influence, failing to protect her Conscript when he’d made himself vulnerable, after promising she would. 

Exploited him even, though she wanted to believe it hadn’t been her intent.

What hurt worst though, was the clear change in his demeanor when the potion released him. Sudden and sharp like grabbing the knife’s edge instead of the handle. A cutting reminder, while she was emotionally raw and physically vulnerable, that she wasn’t worth desiring.

It hit her like a brick to the gut. 

And she hated herself for it. For letting him get to her like this when he’d just admitted he’d have done the same if the roles were reversed.

Those childhood taunts of Mudblood had hurt more than she let on. It wasn’t that she believed in the merit of blood status, but she had just arrived from the muggle world where, for as long as she could remember, she’d felt out of place. Different. Odd even. 

It had left her insecure at the tender age of eleven, walking into Hogwarts with a pile of books and no idea how to fit in.

But soon enough the term ‘witch’  opened her to an entirely different world. One filled with her own kind—the odd ones, strange misfits—people, in other words, who understood what being different felt like, because they were different. 

Draco hadn’t been the only one to make her feel less-than in her new school, he’d simply been the first.

During the war, she’d been threatened with rape more than once. Objectified and demeaned by Dolohov, Greyback, Yaxley, and the others. She  hadn’t decided to mentally associate sex with self-worth, but it had happened. What they had described doing to her and would have done to her if she hadn’t escaped was to reduce her to an object for their entertainment. 

There had been several close calls.

She wondered if anyone understood the cumulative effect it all had on her; how each blow had come, one after the other, at critical stages of development in her life. Times when the important aspects of her identity and sense of self-worth were still forming.

Then Ron happened.  

While her other travails into the dating life of a young witch had been painful, public tabloid fodder, Ron was a private hurt. There was no reason for the world to know, and she was grateful that this one intimate hurt hadn’t been discussed as a topic of gossip, analysis, or historical fact like the rest of her life.

Harry and Ginny were the only ones close enough to suspect, and they were understanding. Protective. Caring even.

She’d loved Ron deeply as a friend, and she still did all these years later. But, as a teenage witch, when her feelings had deepened, she’d felt hope glow inside of her—the kind of vibrance that comes from feeling safe as well as loved. Seen and wanted.

The first time he’d gone down on her, he’d stopped after only a few minutes. Deciding it wasn’t really for him. Later she’d heard him telling Harry that he didn’t understand how any bloke could like doing that.

She’d told herself it wasn’t personal.

That nothing was wrong with her.

After the war, as they worked to rebuild themselves alongside the wizarding world, she’d found out he was cheating in the worst way possible.

In public.

She was in a meeting with a Magical Creatures Welfare & Protection advocate to secure a partnership between their respective organizations, when the voice of an old classmate drifted over from the next booth in the restaurant. At first, she had laughed it off as a humorously awkward moment, trying to have a business meeting over the loud and sordid details of the witch’s recent sexual escapade. The particulars of which were being described in excruciating detail right next to them. How the wizard ‘loved to eat her out,’ ‘couldn’t get enough of her.’ The name Weasley was mentioned, and Hermione wondered if it was perhaps a fling of Charlie’s.

Then, Lavender Brown had stood up to leave and gone ghostly pale when her eyes locked on Hermione’s.

She knew then.

Lavender worked in a division close to Ron, he’d mentioned her frequently up until a few short months ago. Then suddenly he didn’t talk about her at all. 

The betrayal had hit her hard. But the unspoken, yet clear implication that Ron didn’t enjoy her body, when he clearly couldn't get enough of Lavender’s, had hurt in a different way. One she hadn’t quite gotten over.

The sudden change in Malfoy’s demeanor as soon as he was free from the potion’s effects told her more than a hundred words ever could. He, like Ron, didn’t want her. Not when he was sober, free of the potent potion that had clouded his senses. 

“Move,” she hissed, barricading her heart behind a steel vault. 

She leveled a glare at Malfoy, who still loomed above her, his arms caging her frame as she lay naked on the cool marble floor. It matched the cold chill now threading through her heart. A precursor to an aching pain she never wanted anyone to see.

She had to get away before it showed.  

“Now!” Her command was biting, delivered with the full weight of the Prefector title behind it.

He visibly twitched as the compulsion forced him away from her.

She scurried backwards on the floor, as if his touch burned her, before rising quickly and striding toward the hall.

“Granger!” he growled, accusation and anger lacing her name as he said it.

A stoney façade of mild indignation slipped over her features like a mask. It could break at any moment, but she only needed a few more seconds to get away.

“Not now, Conscript.”  

The slam of her bedroom door was louder than she intended, but it covered the tiny cry that burst from her chest.  

She’d learned her lesson that morning, she couldn’t cast a silencing charm. It would be wrong to leave him helpless, with no way to alert her if something happened, especially when she didn’t know the full lifecycle of the potion. Not that she could have done it anyway, she realized bitterly. She’d been too desperate to get out of the room to even stop to retrieve her wand.

Sinking to the floor next to her bed, she yanked a pillow against her face to absorb the next sob that shook loose from her lungs. Her body shook, and the pain she’d been holding at bay broke inside of her.

Malfoy was the one person she believed could never make her feel like the most evil person in the room. And not just evil, but repulsive, too. Draco Malfoy looked at her like he was repulsed not only by her as a Mudblood, but as a witch, and a woman. Disgusted by her even as a sexual object; the only value Voldemort’s Death Eater’s had said she had.  

Her secret childhood crush had fucked her, then looked at her like Ron had been right all along.

Draco stared after the witch as she stormed out. Rage pulsed under his skin, at her, at the Ministry, at the Program, and at every Prefector who had used him against his will.

She was no different.

Damn the witch for pretending to be good, pretending to care about right and wrong, about justice, only to be exactly as bad as everyone else.

He raged at himself for starting to trust her, for even having considered it. He should know better by now. The Dark Lord himself had lived in his own fucking house for Salazar’s sake! In the end, everyone looked out for themselves. Even swotty little war hero Gryffindors who preached equal rights and protected fucking house-elves! She could promise to help him all she wanted, but he’d been right all along. 

She wanted to play the good hero, nothing more.

The arrival of an owl sweeping in through the open terrace door jolted him from the dark recesses of his mind as it dropped a wand-sized parcel at his feet. Not on the table, but directly to him.

For him.

Because it was.

He stood looking at the address on the package.

Conscript Draco Malfoy
The Farthest Room in the East Wing
Hermione Granger’s Flat
Above the Old Central Library
London

Unmoving, unsure even how to think or feel, Draco remained frozen until the owl’s irritated hoot spurred him into the familiar action of getting it a treat.

There was no anger left in him by the time it flew away, and he stared down at the box in his hands. 

Minutes ticked by before he finally, carefully, opened it.

The wand inside resembled his old one. It was slightly longer, slightly darker, but beautiful. Solid. His.

Even with his magic suppressed, he could feel it tingle in response to him when he touched it. The connection ignited his magical core, and with a shaking breath, he summoned the dregs remaining deep in his reserves before whispering the softest, lightest Lumos he had ever cast.

The light that shone from its tip reached out and touched the darkness inside of him.

She’d done exactly as she had promised. 

It had been years since someone, anyone, had actually tried to help him. Even then, the offer had come from a dying old man who was in no position to deliver on his aid. Still, the small gesture meant everything to him at that time, when no other warmth existed in his life. It meant enough that he’d lowered his wand, in direct defiance of the Dark Lord, knowing Voldemort would kill him for it. 

He couldn’t recall any other genuine act of selflessness in his life—until now.

Her wand, still on the floor, caught his attention. Hermione was as scarred from the war as he; neither wanted to be without a wand, no matter if they were safely ensconced behind wards or not. Because it meant they were defenseless against anything that got through. She’d left him with her wand once before, in a gesture he’d assumed was a manipulation to gain his trust.

Three quick strides brought him to it, and a frown creased his forehead as he picked it up. It didn’t make sense that she would leave it, either from forgetfulness or by choice.

A knot of guilt gnawed at his gut as he thought back to the look on her face when he’d accused her. For the briefest moment, she’d looked in pain. But he’d barely left the grip of the potion and had been too angry to stop his words.  

He walked to her room now and faced the closed door. The sound of her muffled cries were barely audible, but he’d know them anywhere. They had been seared into his brain as he watched her tortured on his floor during the war. She was hurting again, and he’d caused it.  

If he knocked, she was certain to prohibit him from entering. The magic still tried to keep him out, but it was substantially less forceful than it had been the night before. Perhaps because his own magic had been ignited, or perhaps it fought him less because her willpower was cracking under the weight of her pain. 

Whatever the reason, Draco moved. It still took a great deal of concentration to force his arm to raise, but he stayed determined as he placed his hand on the knob and pressed the door open.

She was still naked, covered in his cum, and curled up on the floor next to her bed with her face pressed tightly into a pillow. She didn’t see him walk toward her, each step a fight against the compulsion to remain outside.

But finally, Draco reached her, and sank beside her before she realized she wasn’t alone. By then it was too late. He pulled the crumpled witch into his lap and held her tight to his chest. 

She didn’t protest.

The war, and the world, had tried to break them both, but Draco was done waiting for the hurt to stop when he could be the one to end it. 

Chapter Text

Draco didn’t let go when she tried to pull away. She needed to be held, to be soothed, not left alone. When she realized his grip tightened, she felt the dam burst again. This time she didn’t try to fight it or hold herself together, but instead surrendered and let her body melt into his warmth. 

She couldn’t remember the last time she’d let anyone see her break like this. He held her head to his chest, and she listened to the steady sound of his heartbeat. His other hand rubbed between her shoulder blades in comforting, lulling patterns. 

He knew somehow when she’d cried herself out, and he knew it didn’t mean the void had been filled. 

“Gods, I’m a mess,” she said, followed by an inadvertent hiccup. 

“Thats partially my fault,” his voice was steady and quiet as they sat together on the floor; her, draped between his legs, head still on his chest—him, encircling her with strong, guiding hands. “I’ll help you get cleaned up.” 

Before she could protest, he rose, lifting her effortlessly. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and let him hold her behind the knee and around her chest. Her eyes fluttered shut, and when next they opened, they were back inside her en-suite bathroom. The fight had long since drained from her, replaced by exhaustion.

She didn’t even try to stop him when he tugged the pillow from where she’d held it clenched to her chest, like a security blanket.  

The bathroom was dimly lit but heated. He lifted the shower handle, adjusting it until hot water steamed out, filling the space with cloud-like vapor. It felt like a cocoon. Without hesitating, Draco stepped into the spray, not caring that he was fully clothed or that she… wasn’t. She gasped as the jets kissed her skin, soothing her. He slid her gently to her feet, but held her waist fast against his own body. 

She turned in his arms, placing her back to his chest and tilting her face up to the stream, letting the hot water wash away her tears and the shame she felt.

Her next inhale brought with it the bright scent of eucalyptus, sharp and grounding. She said nothing as he began to wash her, his touch unhurried, almost reverent. He wiped his spend from her stomach, his fingers tender but sure. The quiet intimacy of it made her chest ache.

The only sounds they made were his steady breath and her own rasping exhales, which slowly began to even out in the soft patter of water against tile.

Finally, she spoke, her back still to him and her voice quiet. 

“Why?” 

His reply was just as soft. “Because you need it more than me.”  

She tried to laugh, but it cracked apart in her throat. Her guilt surged again, heavy and choking. 

“I r-raped you,” she could barely articulate the words, and another half-sob lodged in the top of her throat. 

He didn’t flinch. But he didn’t absolve her either.

“I wasn’t able to give consent,” he said, voice low, matter-of-fact. “The potion hit harder than expected. Legally… no, you didn’t do anything wrong. But morally?” He hesitated. “Yes. You did.”

She’d expected anger. She deserved anger. 

The air grew heavy between them, the truth laid bare.

“I’m sorry, Malfoy,” she whispered. The words tasted like ash. She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. Not yet. Her focus turned to the water swirling down the drain. The bubbles from her soap washed away with the tenderness he’d given her moments ago, leaving behind… confusion.

He reached past her to shut off the water. The silence between them was not forgiveness, but it wasn’t condemnation either.

The soft weight of a towel wrapped around her shoulders. She didn’t turn at the wet drop of his clothes hitting the floor. Or the sweep of his arms in her periphery, cinching another towel low around his waist. She didn’t feel like she should look at him at all after what she’d done.

“Come on,” he murmured, walking in front of her and holding the door open to her bedroom. “Let’s rest. We’ll talk after.”

She gazed up, unavoidable now, and took in his alabaster skin, damp and stretched tight over his hard body. Hermione swallowed thickly and followed him, almost numb. It surprised her when he pulled back the covers of her bed and slid in first, then reached for her. 

An unspoken offer. Or an olive branch.

She hesitated. Then accepted.

His arm came around her shoulders, warm and firm as he pulled the duvet over them both.

“Sleep,” he said.

But she couldn’t. Not yet. There was a question she had to ask.

“The potion,” she asked quietly. “Is it still affecting you?”

She had to know, had to be sure that what lingered between them now was really him, not the work of the potion still pulsing in his veins. 

“No.” His answer came easily. “That blend only compels release once. That's why I chose it.” A pause. “I’m here because you need me to be. Now go to sleep, Granger.”

They sat on the terrace, a late lunch from the restaurant downstairs spread before them. The sun hung low, but it was still warm enough to bask in. They’d slept for hours. 

She watched him over the rim of her glass, uncertain where they stood.

“Did you get any rest last night, before…?” The question dropped. Before I found you lying at my door and then we… The thought dropped, too.

“Some,” he said, lifting his fork. “An hour or two. Before it got bad.”

She bit her lip. This was as good a place as any to begin; this conversation was pressing.

“I sponsor an apothecary that specializes in the development and production of remedies for magical creatures. It’s nearly self-sufficient now, but it took significant financial and political capital to keep it afloat for the first few years. Helping werewolves, vampires, and…other half-breeds---” She cringed at the word, saddened it hadn’t fallen out of the common vernacular yet. “---isn’t exactly viewed as a societal good.” 

She didn’t mention the apothecary also worked on treatments for the long-term effects of dark magic use. Some of the children within Voldemort’s inner circle had been immersed in it—through proximity and sometimes experimentation—and now experienced a range of post-sequelic symptoms. Not everyone who’d used it had done so of their own free will. And Hermione believed they shouldn’t have to suffer because of it.

“My potion supplies come from them, and because they are an apothecary, their base ingredients are undiluted. Unlike what’s commonly sold to the public.”

She finally looked up and met his eyes. Understanding burned through them.

“I should’ve remembered to tell you before you mixed it. That should’ve been the first thing I said.”

A frown creased across his face, before his expression smoothed. It looked forced, but his tone remained neutral. 

“Why didn’t you?” 

It was a fair question. 

“I have an… academic knowledge of similar potions,” she admitted. “I fought against the Ministry’s original plan to make fertility, lust, and coercive potions available to licensed Prefectors. I reviewed the compounds they proposed. But none of the base ingredients matched the undiluted ingredients in my supply stocks.” She paused. “So I assumed...”

She assumed he wouldn’t have used her ingredients to mix a rare lust potion not pre-approved by the Ministry. Hermione forgot to take into account his potion prowess under the Dark Lord’s tutelage.

He stared out across the skyline for a few moments, considering. 

“The Ministry was inspired to produce those potions after hearing about some Prefectors’ success with them. They would have focused on the easiest and most cost-effective ones to mass produce.” 

He was right. Each of the mixtures in the Ministry proposal required low cost, highly procurable ingredients. 

“My second Prefector,” his voice roughened, “had a potions mastery and fully functional in-home lab. When she found I wasn’t willing to cooperate, she saw an opportunity to experiment.” 

Guilt gnawed at her gut. The potion was designed to exploit him, and she’d participated in that. 

Worse, she’d strengthened its effects.

His hands tightened around his water glass. Knuckles white as the ice tinkled inside. 

“She didn’t use that one often. It creates arousal, not attraction towards someone,” he swallowed. “She still had to command me not to come unless it was with her. Even then, I’d fight the compulsion and look for ways around it.” 

Hermione swallowed. She wasn’t sure if he was implying what she thought. And she didn’t want to breathe hope into his words. Not after what she’d done. 

“Granger.”

Her breath caught at the sound of her name in his voice, and her eyes shot up from where she was wringing her hands in her lap

“I’m trying to tell you that I asked to fuck you, because I’ve wanted to since third year.”

“Oh.”

She felt a small wave of relief, but it didn’t change the fact that he wasn’t in his right mind earlier. 

But it did mean his wanting her had been real. 

Oh.

Hermione forgot how to breathe.

“I know you wouldn’t have done it if you’d been sober,” her tone was sincere, though butterflies still danced across her stomach at his words for a moment longer, until regret found her once more. Their first time had been sullied, dirty, nearly unspeakable. There was no coming back from it, she realized with a pang in her chest. She caught herself imagining a thousand different firsts they could have had, ways she could have at least attempted to show respect for Draco, to give him a semblance of choice, despite the circumstances. Instead she’d capitalized on the effects of a potion designed to abuse him. “But thank you for telling me anyway.”

The uncomfortable truth hung in the air between them. He might feel attraction toward her, but he wouldn’t have willingly acted on it. 

She let out a long breath, pushing her utensils away. She’d eaten less than half her meal, but it tasted like ash on her tongue and felt like rocks in her gut.  

“I’m sorry,” she added, her voice thick. “For not protecting you when I should have. You were – are – right to be angry.” 

His face remained a wall of practiced impassivity, but his chest rose and fell more quickly than usual. 

“I’m not going to say that I forgive you. I don’t actually know that I do. But you’ve done everything you said you would.” His countenance grew thoughtful. Then, he grimaced. “More, even. And you haven’t asked anything in return.”

A pause before he continued. He stared at her, and she forced herself not to look away from him despite the urge to cower. Draco drummed his fingers on the table and it felt so aristocratic, it almost felt like the Malfoy’s she’d known at Hogwarts, before the war had added weight to their shoulders that would never lighten. 

“I believe you actually do want to end The Program.” He clicked his tongue and tilted his head. “I don’t think that you would go to Azkaban for it, but your authentic intent to try is something I can still respect.” 

She lowered her head into her hands, pressing her palms to her eyes as she catalogued every distressing invasion of privacy the Ministry could, and would, enforce under the terms of the Prefector-Conscript contract. 

“I’ve started to think it will be easier to take down the Ministry itself than to end the bloody Program.” 

She’d hit dead end after dead end in her research. Before she’d conscripted Malfoy, she’d lobbied hard against The Program as a whole. After she signed his contract, she’d shifted her research toward ways of liberating individuals, rather than overhauling the general infrastructure. Neither approach had yielded any potential solutions. 

“I agree.” 

She looked up. “What?” 

“I said, I agree. It would be easier to take down the Ministry. Besides, even if you got The Program abolished, they would create something else in its place.” 

“Kingsley rose as a wartime leader, but he shifted to reparations once it concluded. Peace didn’t suit him, so he pivoted to anger and subjugation. That’s what he sells now. Loyalty bought with the permission to dominate.”

He'd just articulated the suspicion Hermione had felt for years, but had never put so succinctly into words. 

Kingsley had changed, and The Program wasn’t the first, or only, symptom of it. The man she’d known during the war was a champion for good, a leader fighting against the tyranny and bigotry permeating through Voldemort’s ranks. Then he’d built a society on the same tainted ideals—flipped them to look like civic duty and civilized justice, blinding those who didn’t want to see the horrible similarities between their reality and Voldemort’s vision. It was just packaged in a different way, for a different audience; a different time. Sanitized oppression for a new era, in a pureblooded, fuckable package.

Draco chuckled darkly, watching her process it.

“Takes one to know one,” he murmured, answering her thoughts without her voicing them. “I lived in the shadow of Voldemort’s lies long enough to spot them masquerading  as righteous retribution.” 

“Malfoy…” she started, “I can’t take down the Ministry.” 

He quirked his head. 

“Can’t? Or won’t? I daresay there’s nothing you can’t do. Warhero and Miss One-Hundred-And-Twelve-Percent-On-Her-O.W.L.s.” He scoffed at her.

She met his gaze and thought carefully before answering.

“… Even if I wanted to… I don’t know how.”

His lips curled in not quite a smile as the wind off the veranda whipped a stray lock of white-blonde hair over his forehead. “That is fixable.”

“We need to talk about what happened this morning.”

It was late now. They’d moved inside, firelight dancing along the stone hearth, painting them in flickering  amber shadows.

“What about it?” she asked through a wince.

“They’re going to review how the potion ended during the next verification. And we can’t show that memory to the Ministry.” 

They’d been talking for hours, planning, strategizing. Her mind struggled to shift back to their more pressing problem, and she didn’t immediately follow his train of thought. 

She blinked. “I thought that was the point of the potion.”

He laughed—quiet, short—but not cruel. However, it might’ve been directed at her. A little. 

“Tell me, Granger, which parts do you think they’ll find the most convincing? When you gave me permission to come but didn’t specify it had to be inside you? When I ripped your wand from your fingers, rendering you incapable of using magic against me? Or when you ran from the room after, refusing to look at me?”

She stared into her drink, her fingers tensed around the cold glass. “I messed up,” she admitted softly.

The point had been to demonstrate that she was breaking him. Forcing him to submit to her control and ultimately make a Malfoy heir with her. Running away from him at the end, covered in his cum and sobbing, was a fitting end to their reality.

But it wasn’t exactly the look of a powerful Prefector.

Which left them facing the same problem looming over them all along. 

She glanced up and found him already watching her. His blue-grey eyes looked haunted.

“It’s not entirely your fault,” he said flatly. “I’m not good at submission. And I wasn’t clear-headed enough to act the part. We both have to be better.”

The fire crackled, sharp and bright, between them.

Then, casually, he said, “You should tie me down next time.”

Heat surged low in her belly, but she forced herself to remain still.

“Because it’ll look like I’m in control?” she asked.

He nodded once. “That, and I hate being restrained. It’ll read as resistance, which will make it believable. And if I struggle, it won’t be entirely an act.”

She gave a small nod, but didn’t meet his eyes.

“What is it?” he asked.

She huffed a brittle laugh. “Everything is wrong, Malfoy.” 

“I meant about this. About the scene.”

She knew what he meant. 

“It’s not the idea that bothers me,” she said after a pause. “It’s that the imbalance of power isn’t just something we simulate. We live in it. Every moment. Then when we do these things, it drives home our reality. It makes me feel like one of them, Malfoy. It makes me one of them.” 

There was silence. Then, “We could even the playing field?” His voice was quieter now, low in his throat. Curiosity, mixed with a hint of something she couldn’t name.  

She hesitated. “Maybe.”

He stood without another word and walked into the hallway, then returned shortly with a vial she immediately recognized.

Veritaserum. 

She sucked in a breath. He didn’t explain, didn’t need to. The intention was clear and it certainly would even the playing field. A Prefector wouldn’t put themselves in this position, not with him. 

His eyes held the challenge. 

Could she step into the role he’d been subjected to for years? Would she? She’d experienced a small part of his life the day before, by taking away his choice. Maybe by doing this, giving him control, helped him, too. Still, it was terrifying. He could ask her anything—would—if she  drank the potion. 

“You can always tell me to stop asking. I’ll have to obey.” He gave a half-shrug and leaned back in his seat. However, his eyes never left hers.

She could, but they both knew she may be compelled to answer him before she could command him to stop. She would still be vulnerable to his questions, however intimate he made them. Unlike him, she wouldn’t lose total control, but the emotional exposure would be real and present. 

Not like a Prefector. 

He seemed to sense her acceptance just as she arrived at the conclusion herself. He popped the cork, dipped the vial against his finger, and stood. When he pulled it away several drops of the potent liquid remained. He rounded the table on sure feet, and when he reached her, he threaded his fingers into her curls, cupping the back of her head with control.

“Open,” he said, smooth as velvet. His finger rested in front of his waistline, and he guided her head forward with the strength of his fist knotted in her hair.

She looked up and obeyed.

His finger pressed to her tongue, warm and steady as the potion melted into her mouth. Their eyes locked, grey fire to amber smoke. She watched his stare darken as his finger dusted along her tongue. It stirred the fire in her core, and she wanted him to feel it, too. Slowly, deliberately, she closed her lips around him.

A soft, unguarded inhale escaped him. She sucked, just once, and he pulled his finger free with a faint pop.

“Good,” he murmured, voice husky. A tingle ran through her spine as she waited for his first question. 

“When I bathed you last night,” he asked, “did it turn you on?”

She gasped. The intimacy of it was immediate, scorching. She’d given him control and he wasn’t planning to make it easy for her. 

“Yes.”

He tilted his head, studying her like prey he’d already caught. This was the Draco Malfoy she remembered. In control, powerful. Certain of himself. 

“What did you have me do in the first memory you crafted for the Ministry?”

Her face burned under the intensity of his focus.  “I made you strip. Not all the way, but close. I had you stand while I looked at you. Then I stroked your cock.”

“Did I come?”

“No. I ended the scene before that.”

He stepped a little closer, voice low, eyes dark. His fist was still wrapped in her hair and he tugged downward so she looked directly up at him. “What’s the worst thing you’ve ever done?”

She faltered. But the words came unbidden. “I trapped Rita Skeeter in her beetle form and kept her in a jar for a week. It was an unbreakable jar. If she transformed, it would have killed her. And I wouldn’t have been sorry. Then, I blackmailed her into silence.”

He blinked, surprised. Then slowly, unmistakably, a smirk tugged at his mouth. “Granger,” he said, “I’m impressed. No wonder Potter and Weasley survived as long as they did. Endless good luck never did make sense.” 

His fingers eased against her scalp and he stepped backward, finding his seat across from her. The firelight sharpened the cut of his cheekbones. Although the amusement in his expression hadn’t faded, it morphed into something more calculating and focused. Like he was deciding how far to go with this.

“You liked having that power over her,” he said quietly. “Didn’t you?”

The truth slid out before she could even try to suppress it, and she winced as she answered. “Yes.”

His mouth twitched, something prowled behind his eyes. “Do you like having power over me?”

Hermione's breath caught, but she nodded. “Yes.”

He leaned forward, elbows to the table, hands steepled. “More than you should?”

She gripped the hem of her skirt. Her answer was a whisper. “Yes.”

The silence between them stretched tight.

“Tell me,” he said, tilting his head. “What do you fantasize about when you touch yourself?”

Her whole body flushed. She swallowed. “That’s a broad question.”  The magic was still pushing her to respond with what she thought was most relevant, but it bought her time. 

He considered her. 

“Since you decided to take me. You had to plan out that false memory for the Ministry, to make it smooth enough to be believable as a real event. What else are we doing in these fantasies?” 

Her lips parted, but no sound came.

“Answer,” he said, more gently now, but still a command.

“Sometimes I order you to comply. To do things, or let me do them to you,” she admitted, eyes locked on his, unable to break contact, “but sometimes… I imagine the compulsion breaking and you take over to punish me. I don’t stop you..”  

His tone slid down to something dark and intimate. “And you like that.”

She nodded.

“Say it.”

“I like it,” she rasped. 

Draco’s jaw tightened. For a moment, she thought he might break his immaculate control. But instead, he sat back, slow and deliberate, one hand smoothing over the line of his thigh. His mask of indifference was practiced but strained.

She didn’t think she could do this much longer. It was too much, too real. It made her too seen. 

“I know how it feels,” his voice soothed, “You’re doing so well. Just one more question and we can stop.” He leaned forward, eyes darker than she had ever seen them turn. “Are you wet right now?”

“Yes.” 

He’d been right. It did feel like the playing field was even now. 

Chapter Text

Hermione’s anklet tingled. She’d placed a semi-permanent notice-me-not charm on it, before tying it to the gold chain Malfoy wore on his wrist. The tingling meant someone had activated the electric shock reaction by touching him uninvited. 

She’d intentionally kept the shock non-lethal. In reality, it wasn’t powerful enough to truly harm someone, but it was a strong warning all the same. And since it traced back to her magic, the Ministry couldn’t reframe it as violence on his part.

Downstairs, the Central Library, like Hogwarts, was warded against apparition to protect the rare art wing and the restricted stacks, but Hermione, as owner and chief benefactor, held special permissions. She apparated to Malfoy’s side with a discreet crack right as Mandy Brocklehurst raised her wand.

“Mandy, darling!” Hermione exclaimed, sliding straight into effusive familiarity. “What a delightful surprise—it’s been ages, hasn’t it?” 

They had attended Hogwarts together, although Mandy was a Ravenclaw. Hermione had always assumed she was a half-blood, but she’d never cared enough about blood status to really pay attention. The sight of a dark-haired man in Program-approved white robes standing just behind the witch challenged her assumption; to be paired with a pureblooded wizard in the Program, the witch would have to be Muggleborn. 

Hermione surged forward, pressing Draco a half-pace behind her. Her arm slipped through the other witch’s as if they were old friends reunited, and began chatting cordially. She deliberately ignored the other wizard, though she recognized him from their school days. He carried himself with the effortless elegance born of generations of breeding and merciless discipline. The composure of his posture contrasted with the restless fall of dark hair he’d always worn too long, the strands tumbling to just above his lashes. Shadowed hollows beneath his eyes lent him a sleepless, haunted air, while the pale green of his irises seemed to gleam all the brighter against the darkness framing them.

He’d been a Slytherin in Malfoy’s circle, she thought; quieter than most. But his name escaped her. 

Malfoy had suggested she cultivate relationships with other Prefectors. Not for friendship, but for access; many of their pureblood prisoners still controlled invisible streams of old family money locked in Goblin-made vaults beyond the Ministry’s reach. They simply lacked the means to use it to secure their freedom. Of greater importance, at least a few would know the identities of the people who actually ran the wizarding world. Not the public, simpering faces of the Ministry, but the private politicos who pulled strings from the shadows. 

Mandy flushed with pleasure at such a display from the Golden Girl herself; and her face melted into an amiable expression, exactly as Hermione wanted. In her post-war years as an activist,  she had learned that people were far more likely to join her cause if she made them feel good. 

It seemed to matter more than the cause itself. 

“Tell me you have time to stay and catch up,” Hermione rambled, “we have an incredible team of gourmet chefs at the café here, I’ll have lunch brought up to the penthouse where we can share a meal away from the crowds.” 

As they crossed the main gallery toward the lifts, a staff photographer shot in front of them, aiming to catch the Golden Girl arm-in-arm with a guest. 

Mandy preened under the camera’s flash while Hermione offered practiced apologies for their quick, yet necessary escape and steered them all into the lift. Hermione punched the top floor button, gold light illuminating under her fingertip, as an elegant female voice rang out.

“Level: Penthouse. Welcome home, Prefector Granger and guests.”

She kept a pleasant smile fixed on her face as she ushered them to the penthouse terrace, where Mandy settled into a chair.

Draco uncorked a bottle of rare champagne and poured it for the Prefectors, coming back to Hermione’s side. She shot him a curt nod of thanks.

 “Please fetch our lunch from downstairs.” Her tone a polished command. 

Turning to the Prefector she continued, “Perhaps your pureblood can lend a hand? I’d hate for our food to get cold with multiple trips.” 

It would give them time to speak, unobserved, while Hermione entertained Mandy. 

Eager to please, her guest issued the order to her Conscript in a clipped voice that set Hermione’s teeth on edge. “Assist him, Nott.” 

Nott… Nott.

Theodore, Hermione pulled from the recesses of her brain while the Conscripts fell in line and withdrew from the veranda.

For the next hour, Hermione entertained, flattering the woman and filing away every crude anecdote she confided once the champagne flowed. The Ravenclaw delighted in her Prefector status and seemed especially proud to have secured the contract for the dark-haired wizard, whose attributes she outlined in detail, while casting overt and increasingly lurid looks toward Malfoy. 

“I thought Nott’s son never took the mark?” Hermione asked conversationally, taking a sip of her tea and staring at Mandy over the rim. “Studied healing or something like that?” 

“He is unmarked,” the witch replied with a light shrug. She clinked a finger against her empty champagne glass and Nott refilled it with quiet eyes. “But it was only a matter of time, really. The whole family was rotten. Nott Sr. is rumored to have murdered his own wife, though it was never proven. Can you imagine?”

Hermione could, and did as the information pushed more memories of the boy to the surface. She’d seen him on the Hogwarts train platform coming back from Christmas once. His hood had slipped, just briefly, revealing a nasty set of unhealed bruises and cuts along his face, before he’d tugged it back into place. They’d been healed by the next time she saw him. 

Madam Pomfrey was excellent at her job. 

“But I’m beginning to wonder if he’s defective,” Mandy went on, “I’ve had him for two years now and still no children. I’ve taken him in for multiple tests and they assure me he is fertile.  Still, I wouldn’t put it past these old, inbred families to have deficiencies or blood curses modern healers wouldn’t know how to find.” 

Hermione wondered if the witch had bothered to have her own fertility checked. It seemed unlikely. 

“I hear yours is a handful.” Mandy giggled. “Did you know that Prefectors sometimes swap?” 

Hermione nearly choked on the bite she’d taken. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

The woman laughed, mistaking Hermione’s indignation for a blush. 

“Oh yes.” She leaned in as she spoke. “It can get boring, having the same wizard all of the time, and we’re allowed to use contraceptive magic with other Prefector’s purebloods, so you don’t have to worry about carrying the wrong child. In fact, Malfoy’s last Prefector and I had arranged a swap, just before she got fed up with him and sent him back. I’d still be open to the arrangement. After all, ours are the most attractive in the Program.” 

Hermione nearly slapped the witch but caught herself in time and summoned a brittle smile. 

“Once he’s properly leash-broken, perhaps,” she lied smoothly, the words felt like grit between her teeth. “He’s quite stubborn, I see why less experienced witches found him hard to handle.” 

The other witch brightened at that prospect, oblivious to the tightness of Hermione’s smile, or Malfoy’s flinty silence behind her.

At last, Hermione guided Mandy and her vacuous fantasies back to the Floo. The moment the green flames swallowed their guest, Hermione dashed for the veranda and hurled her crystal flute against the terrace balustrade, shards tinkling over flagstones. Draco watched, arms folded, until she exhausted her vocabulary of expletives.

“The things she said.” Her shoulders shook with contained fury, pacing the terrace. “Forced exhibitionism. Swaps. Lending humans like library books.”

Hermione had heard rumors of these things before, but the explicit details were hard to stomach. Especially when she’d had to smile through the witch’s retellings. 

“I won’t do that again.” She looked toward him as she spoke. 

“Neither do the Conscripts, but they don’t have a choice.” His answer grounded her. 

She clenched her fists, then waved a repair spell at the shattered glass to refill it. 

“If she raises her wand at you again, I’m going to hex her.” Hermione’s earlier diplomacy grated on her Gryffindor spirit. “How bad was it before I got there?” 

He adjusted his cuff. “Irritating, but I’ve had worse. She didn’t like your little enchantment spell at all.” He ended with a grin. 

The thought of having zapped her, even if only by proxy, raised her spirits. Then her mind turned to the man stuck in the witch’s custody. “How’s your friend doing?” 

“He’s… surviving,” Malfoy’s jaw ticked. “He wasn’t sympathetic to the Dark Lord. Just born into the wrong family, with no way to get out.” 

Anger was plain on his face.

“You protected him back at Hogwarts?” Hermione recalled a few other fleeting memories of the green-eyed boy from their school days. More bruises after school breaks, quickly gone once they arrived. In fact now that she thought about it, some of Draco’s more theatrical outbursts had coincided with the other young wizard’s subtle movements toward the healer’s wing, hood up and eyes downcast. 

“As best I could.” 

She sighed. “We will figure out how to stop this. I’m not going to quit until we get every last Conscript out.” 

His chest heaved, briefly, before his calm exterior fell back into place. 

“Theo said the Ministry never raided all the Nott vaults, only the ones they knew about. His father specialized in blackmail and bribery, even more openly than mine. He knows a good deal about the vices, weaknesses, and intrigues of the people in power. We need to keep meeting with him.”  

That was good news. They were going to need resources, information, and names if they wanted to succeed. 

“Brocklehurst is a social climber. Between that and her penchant for sharing,” he spat the word through clenched teeth, “Theo has more information than I do about the inner workings of the Ministry and who the influential players are. It will be useful to cultivate.” 

He steeled himself, the muscle in his jaw tightening as his grey eyes turned to ice.

“Which means you’ll need to become an active participant in their games.”

Her own gaze sharpened as she met his flint for flint. “I won’t be party to that.”

He sighed and reached for the bottle, refilling her glass with practiced ease. She bristled at the insinuation that she’d need the wine for whatever came next. 

“You shouldn’t personally participate, Granger,” he said, voice level. “Not if we want the victims to be able to pursue real justice for their rape when this is over. But what we agree I will do... that’s different.”

“No.” Her voice was high now. “We agreed on a viable plan before, and it didn’t involve this.”

“This will help us move faster. You don’t have to like it,” he snapped back.

Their tempers flared. Hermione knew she could be fiery, but he was usually more controlled. 

“What’s wrong?” she asked, softening. He didn’t usually let his emotions slip through that hard exterior.

His teeth ground, then he reached over her and took a large gulp of her champagne. 

“Theo is gay,” he said finally. “It shouldn’t make a difference, The Program is wrong no matter who they make us fuck, and I know that. I just… his father nearly beat him to death several times for lesser offenses; he’d have killed him for that if he ever found out. I want to see Theo in a world where he can be whole. If there is a way to end this sooner, I’ll take that option.” 

He looked at her, asking for her understanding. “If it were Harry or Ron, you’d do the same.” 

He’d never asked her for help, not really. She doubted he’d done it many times in his life, certainly not recently. And he was right, if it were Harry or Ron, she wouldn’t question for a moment what had to be done. 

“Alright,” she conceded, “let’s talk more about it. I don’t yet know your hard limits And if it’s in a group setting, I won’t have time to check with you before making those decisions.”  

Curled in the armchairs in front of the fire, they arranged a series of signals. Natural looking gestures for ‘yes’ and ‘no’. Hermione insisted on having more than one option for each. It would be easier to integrate across different situations, especially if they needed to use them in quick succession.

The next part was harder. The content more direct. And Hermione had to confront the very explicit danger of Draco’s situation.

The conversation demanded a level of vulnerability Hermione hadn’t anticipated, requiring Malfoy to lay bare preferences that revealed far more than just likes and dislikes—they hinted at history. Pain. Repetition. He didn’t flinch from it, but his eyes steeled the longer they spoke.

No sharing him with his former Prefectors. 

No recording. 

No cutting, punching, or biting to break skin. 

No anal. 

No blindfolds. 

No directive to rape other prisoners. 

No Impedimenta, Petrificus Totalus, or Unforgivable curses. 

Those were the hard stops. But grey areas mattered too; elements he disliked but would, in certain situations and with the right incentive, endure if it meant getting what they needed. In the absence of a clear affirmative signal from him, Hermione would shut these scenarios down.

Potions. 

Public nudity.  

Public performance of sex acts. 

Blanket orders to comply with instructions given by others. 

Restraints, magical or muggle. 

Whips. 

As they worked through the list, Hermione felt increasingly out of her depth, especially when they reached the group activities. She found the idea of that uncomfortable in her own right, and the added role of decision-maker for her Conscript made it worse. 

"You don’t have to hide it when you’re uncomfortable," he said gently, reading her without effort. "Let them adjust their approach to your preferences."

“What if they don’t come to me?” she worried. “The games are one thing, but building connections with other Prefectors is another. If I offend them outright by not agreeing to swaps or group involvement, what reason would they have to open up in other contexts?” 

He gave a short, sharp laugh, humorless and bitter. “They’ll trip over themselves to make you feel like you belong. You don’t need to pander to them. You have something they want. Make them work for it.”

His confidence solidified a truth she hadn’t allowed herself to articulate. They’d been allowed to violate him however they pleased; unchecked and unchallenged. Access to him had become a twisted status symbol. And if Mandy’s reaction was any indication, they were eager to pick up where Draco’s last Prefector left off.

Preferences came next. Things he could handle, but that she would direct in ways to make it more tolerable.

Touching others over letting them touch him. Witches over wizards. One person at a time. 

Stay together. 

The last one cut deep. She couldn’t imagine leaving him helpless in a room full of wolves; but he could. And he was trusting her not to let it happen. 

By the time they reached the end, both were drained. Hermione stared into the fire, chewing her lip as the weight of it all pressed down on her. Something brushed against the back of her mind, feeling unfinished. Something important.

“A penny for your thoughts, Granger.” 

She blinked, pulled from her reverie. “What?”

A glint of amusement sparked in his grey eyes. “Isn’t that how the Muggle expression goes? 

A surprised laugh escaped her. “It is, but I didn’t expect you to be familiar with it.”

“I’m not completely clueless,” he said, smirking. “I got an E in Muggle Studies.”

The class had been a farce, and they both knew it. Perhaps the original idea had been well intentioned, but the faculty teachers were so out of touch with the Muggle world that the information was frequently inaccurate. Hermione vividly recalled  explaining to the class that the moon landing was not a highly popular piece of muggle fiction, but the event had, in fact, taken place. 

She'd only received an A—acceptable. From the look on Malfoy’s face, he remembered exactly where they'd ranked in that class.

“In fact,” he added, stretching in his chair like a cat in a sunbeam, “if you’d like any tips on Muggle culture, I’d be happy to help you out.”

 “You absolute prat!” she said, grabbing a throw pillow from the nearby sofa to fling at his smug face.

He caught it with ease and fisted it at his side. “Careful, Granger. Don’t start something you’re not prepared to finish.”

The flicker of mischief in his eyes was almost comforting, but she didn’t give him the satisfaction of continuing. However, the moment—the easy back-and-forth—felt like a missing piece sinking into place.  

“Malfoy,” she began, hesitating. “We’ve talked about what you don’t want. But… are there any things you do want? Anything that might make this—” she faltered. “—more pleasant?”

Even as the words came out, she regretted them. What a cruel question, to ask what might make his exploitation enjoyable. 

“That was thoughtless. You don’t have to answer.”

He looked into his drink for a long moment, then said quietly, “I can’t think of anything in this context that I would find pleasant. If that changes, I’ll let you know. It was sweet of you to ask.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward, but it wasn’t comfortable either. Eventually, he broke it with a shift in tone, softer now and warmer.

“But perhaps I can answer that for our next scene. Rather than the Prefector gatherings.”

An invitation, more than a question. 

“Unless that would make you uncomfortable?” He raised an eyebrow as he asked.   

The heat of the room pressed in around her. Her body snapped to alertness as her mind tried to catch up. Still, she swallowed and nodded. “It makes sense to try to make it more pleasant than unpleasant.”

It would—it did—make her uncomfortable. Discussing sex; likes and dislikes were logical topics, but had always been awkward to broach with Ron. He had a blunt way of expressing his dislikes, not seeming to remember there was a very human witch on the other end of the conversation, one with feelings that could be hurt. It wasn’t always easy to separate activities he disliked from things he disliked about her. 

Having learned quickly how that felt, she tried to provide her feedback with a heavy emphasis on things he did that she appreciated, and to phrase her dislikes carefully in the context of activity preferences, unrelated to his performance. 

He’d still frequently take offense, telling her she was insensitive to his feelings, ungrateful for his effort, while reminding her that he was very good at pleasing her; a conclusion he seemed to have arrived at because of her careful consistency in shielding his feelings. When he did describe something he liked, it often felt unrelated to her. Blowjobs, hand jobs, coming on tits. She was there for the event, but felt like an object more than a partner. 

Here, now, with Malfoy… the situation they faced was already hard enough. Especially for him, given his history of trauma, and what he would continue to experience as they worked to dismantle the Ministry and The Program.  

If she could make the parts they did together easier on him, he deserved to have that. He was already uncomfortable with the binds, and the lack of privacy involved in the Ministry verification. And, she reasoned, he’d already outlined his dislikes. So perhaps there wouldn’t be all that many left that were specific to her.  

She exhaled slowly, one muscle at a time, and tried to shake off the tension curling in her spine. When she glanced back up, he was watching her again—head tilted, gaze sharp. Watching. Assessing. Seeing something she hadn’t meant to share.

With some effort, she leaned back into her chair and curled her feet beneath her. An imitation of another witch, one who was comfortable. At ease. 

“Where would you like to start?” Her tone was deliberately brighter than her feelings.

He considered the question for several moments before answering. 

“Pleasure, mine and the other party’s, is important. More so for me now than it was before The Program. And I enjoy pushing limits,” his tone was frank but his eyes darkened slightly. “Not to break them, but I find it intensifies the intimacy of the experience, and the release.”

She envied the ease with which he was able to speak. Of course, the last part of the conversation had been harder for him, so perhaps he had simply paid his dues already. 

“So you have a good grasp of what I don’t like,” he continued, “But I don’t know your preferences or boundaries. I want to know what unsettles you as much as what you crave. That’s how I find the sweet spot, the edge between discomfort and pleasure, without breaking your trust while doing it. There’s nothing better than taking a witch to the edge of ecstasy, holding her on the brink, and deciding when she falls.”

A wave of anxiety hit her as she tried to articulate the words in her mind, anticipating his negative reaction to each iteration of phrasing she considered. She sipped her drink, grasping it with two hands in a way she hoped looked more cozy than strained. She tended to tremble when nervous, and she could feel her fingers shaking slightly. 

Finally, she spoke. 

“I prefer not to be on the receiving end of oral. No penetration while I’m on my period. Talking is fine, but degradation isn’t my thing.” 

She didn’t elaborate, but the memories were there. Ron calling her a ‘little know-it-all swot’ during sex once. It had come out without any ring of warmth and had felt horrible. He’d explained later, defensively, that ‘it was called a degradation kink and how were they to find out what they liked if she was this constantly uptight and critical?’

Malfoy nodded, sipping his drink. “All easy to accommodate. I’ve never understood the appeal of degradation during sex myself. But kinks take many forms, not all of them are for everyone.”

He didn’t seem angry. 

If anything, he seemed curious.

“You didn’t push me for details on my dislikes, and I appreciate that. But would you mind if I asked something about your first two?”

She gave a tight smile. “No, that’s fine.”

“Is it the blood that bothers you?” he asked.

It wasn’t the blood. Not really. It was the fact that it was ‘disgusting and unnatural and everyone knows that.’ 

Instead, she replied, “I’m not particularly squeamish about blood. I imagine most women aren’t, given how regularly we deal with it.” 

“Neither am I,” he replied with a wry smile. “But mine is more the result of proximity to Death Eaters for years. Is it the mess, then?”

That excuse was easy. She took it. “Sure. It’s messy.”

“Shower sex is fun,” he offered casually. “If you ever want to try something new.” There was no hint of pressure or irritation in his voice. Just an open suggestion, pure and simple. 

It didn’t sound like he thought she was uptight.

“Perhaps,” her own reply was noncommittal as she shifted the topic. “Now, on to your likes. What do you enjoy?” 

He frowned slightly, regretfully.

“I enjoy eating out a witch until she comes against my face.” He gave an apologetic smile. “The taste, the smell of arousal, and the raw intimacy of it make it exciting for me.” Her lips parted, but he kept going. “That said, if you’re not enjoying it, I wouldn’t either.”

She hadn’t expected that. Had been ready to apologize for disappointing him, and would have, if he hadn’t continued speaking. 

“Is there a particular reason you dislike it?” he asked, voice still warm. Another honest question. 

She decided to return it in kind. “I’m not actually sure. I’ve only experienced it once, and it wasn’t for very long.” Saying it out loud made her feel raw, yet free at the same time. 

“I don’t want to impose an unsolicited opinion if it's unwelcome, but we’ve talked about enough things together that a certain level of openness feels alright.” He paused, gauging her reaction. Whatever he saw made him decide to keep going. 

“Weasley was never very good at Quidditch, but I always thought he could have been. He didn’t pay enough attention to the rest of the players or care about their success; and he tended to blame them when he didn’t succeed. A selfish player can sour the game for themselves just as much as everyone else on the pitch. It’s not how team sports work, and you miss most of the fun with that mindset. And sex is, most definitely, a team sport.”  

Her knuckles were white as they gripped her glass. Nothing he’d said was what she expected to hear, and her body was still waiting for the other shoe to drop. For him to say she was a prude. To be irritated at her lack of openness. At her boundaries. 

He did none of those things. 

Instead he smiled, and continued talking. “I like other things, too. Being in control, for instance. When someone gives that up, willingly, it means they believe their partner is trustworthy. I like feeling that way, being seen in that light.”  

“I wish that was something we could incorporate.” Her regret was palpable. She couldn’t be seen giving up control, not in the way she understood him to mean. The Ministry needed to know she had him in hand.  

“No, I suppose not.” A pause. Then, softly, “The Veritaserum...I know it can’t be part of a scene but…I haven’t stopped thinking about it.” 

A different kind of spark flitted through her. Not nerves, but sharp. Attentive. Alert. 

“It did work,” she blushed now, remembering how she’d felt. How she’d reacted. 

He leaned in. “I want to do that again.”

A beat passed. 

“Alright.” 

His eyes turned hungry. “Not just Veritaserum. I want to even the playing field every time. For every scene, every Prefector game, we play our own version. Here. One we don’t show the Ministry.” He kept her locked in his sight as he spoke, gauging every reaction.  

“Alright,” she said again, voice quiet, breathless. Then, “When would you like that to start?” 

He stood, steady but unmoving. 

“Now.”

Chapter Text

“Come with me.” He gestured with a subtle tilt of his head, then turned and walked toward his room.

She followed.

At the threshold, she paused, watching as he removed his outer robes and hung them in the closet. When he turned back to her, barefoot in just his white-collared shirt and trousers, he didn’t speak. He simply folded his sleeves, one deliberate turn after the next, each movement precise. 

Slowly, Draco walked to his writing desk, pulled the chair free. His forefinger trailed the top of the arched back before he wrapped it in his grip and brought it to the center of the room—between his bed and the full-length mirror. 

He angled it, studying the position carefully before extending his hand, inviting her in.

She hadn’t been here since the first night. It felt distinctly his now, worn in, masculine, yet still familiar.

Hermione held her breath at the threshold and exhaled as she stepped inside—past his door into his room. ‘Prefector’ and ‘Conscript’ felt like uncomfortable shoes she’d had to kick off before advancing towards him.  

She stopped several paces away and met his eyes.

“You can tell me to stop at any time,” he said with an unreadable expression that sent her heart trilling in her chest. She compelled herself to breathe. “And as long as you mean it, I’m bound to comply. You aren’t truly giving up control.”

“What do you plan to do?” Her voice was quiet, steady. She struggled to keep her hands at her side instead of wringing them at her waist.

“I’m going to ask you to trust me,” he replied, stepping closer. She tensed. “Which means taking you out of your comfort zone.” His expression didn’t change, but his voice dropped lower, more intimate. “I’ll make it pleasant for you. Even when it’s not.”

Her heart stumbled. This felt heavy. Like he was offering her a chance to dip into his world without the fear of trauma attached to it.

“Give me your wand, Hermione.” His expression appraised her, but his tone was cool. 

She hesitated. He didn’t need to take her wand. She’d handed it to him once, but this was something quite different. The way he’d said the words… it was as much a challenge as it was a request.

A single act to demonstrate both trust, and surrender. 

Slowly, she withdrew it and placed it in his open palm, her fingers clinging a moment longer than necessary. Yet he didn’t rush her. When she let go, his mouth tightened imperceptibly and he placed it on the desk—visible, reachable, but out of the way.

“Thank you,” he murmured. Then his voice sharpened. “Unbutton your robes.”

Her fingers snapped to the buttons, working them open at his command. This part was easy. Just robes. She’d taken them off a thousand times, in front of all manner of people. But when she reached the last one, he stepped behind her. Heat radiated off his body and bathed her in its steady warmth. She felt her chest flush at his nearness. His breath touched her neck as he leaned in. He was entirely out of view, but that only heightened the sensation when he spoke.

He placed his mouth at the top of her ear, leaving a trail of goosebumps everywhere his breath touched.  

“May I?” His hands hovered over the fabric at her shoulders, waiting.

She nodded, but he didn’t move.

“Use your words.”

His message was clear; actively consent, or he would stop. 

“Yes.”

“Good.”

The fabric slid from her shoulders, cool air licking her skin where warmth had lingered under the weight of woolen robes. He folded them neatly and tucked them into his closet beside his own before returning.

“Sit.”

She obeyed, easing into the chair he’d placed in the middle of the room. From this angle, she was seated directly facing the full-length mirror. He moved behind her, his hand landing lightly on her shoulder, a silent grounding force.

“Eyes on you,” he instructed, and she met her own gaze in the mirror as his loomed behind her. She felt herself tremble slightly, equal parts trepidation and anticipation. He hadn’t used Veritaserum, but she remembered the kind of questions he asked when he had—the way he peeled her open with words. Whatever he planned now would take them farther than that exchange, of that she was certain.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked, releasing her from her racing thoughts. His tone brooked no room for dissent—no room for thought. He wanted an answer. 

“To even the playing field?” Her eyes looked too watery in the mirror, her expression too eager. Some part of her hated herself for how easily he’d talked her into this. 

His fingers caressed her neck lightly as he pulled her curls back over her shoulders, exposing more of her body in the mirror’s reflection.

“We are creating balance, yes, but I don’t think that’s the full reason why you agreed,” he murmured as if he’d just plucked her thoughts from her mind. She watched herself blush. “You want something else from this, something selfish, just for you.”

His touch settled on her shoulders, grounding and firm.

“I think you came for permission. To experience something illicit, something you think you shouldn’t.” His grip tightened just slightly. “I may give it to you. It depends on how obedient you prove to be.”  

He slid his hands away, leaving her cold.

She stole a glance at his reflection, before flitting her eyes quickly back to her own, where he’d told her to focus. He noticed, then spoke. His voice was a command.  

“Take off your blouse.”

Her breath stuttered, and her eyes flew back to his. 

“You’re asking me to strip for you?” He’d seen her before, but it felt different from the raw, heated moment when he’d demanded permission to take her. This felt more like the bath. He’d known she was uncomfortable then; now, he raised the stakes again. There was no water to hide within, no task to distract him from the most intimate parts of her body. He’d known she was uncomfortable then, even if she was also aroused. But this? This balanced the cruel exposure with raw intimacy. 

“I’m asking you to follow instructions,” his head cocked lightly to the side, eyes never leaving her. “It's for you as much as it is for me.” 

Her face reddened. The thought of undressing, of his eyes on her as she looked at her own body, made her feel more than naked. Her heart hammered in her chest and her arms remained frozen. The witch in the mirror’s reflection was barely breathing.

“I can’t,” she mouthed, barely audible

“You can.” 

Silence pulsed between them, dense and charged.

Then, softer. “I’m scared.”

It was a confession.

“I want you to be.”

Despite his words, the warmth of his hand, just one, returned. He pressed it against her shoulder, letting his thumb kneed against the back of her neck. She sunk into it reflexively.

“We’ll start smaller.” Still a command, but soothing. “Top four buttons.”

She found it easier with his hand there, unfastening each one slowly, stealing glances at him for reassurance. When she finished, her shirt was open just enough to reveal the top of her bra. She kept her hands folded in her lap and her eyes fixed on her body in the mirror now.

“That was good,” he praised. His finger trailed down her throat, between her breasts, flicking open the fifth button, then the sixth. The hand behind her neck slipped forward until his index finger was under her chin, pulling her face up to look at him as he leaned down over her.

“Last one, princess. Can you undo it for me?”

Her lips parted, the room too warm now, her body too alert. She nodded.

He didn’t move, only let his finger glide over her open lips. “Words.”

She’d forgotten he wanted her to speak. “Yes.”

Her mouth was as dry as parchment, and she swallowed hard while gazing up at him.

“Go on then.”

But he made no move to let her go, trailing his finger instead over her wet mouth. It was encouragement, tender. He didn’t make her watch herself as she shifted and slipped the final one free.

Only then did he look back toward the mirror, guiding her face forward, first meeting her eyes in the reflection, then deliberately shifting his gaze to her body before sliding his hands away from her face to slowly part the blouse, revealing her fully.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

Then, more firmly: “Slip it off.”

She did.

His fingers traced the outline of her bra as she watched them dance over her curves. Her own gripped the sides of the chair, unconsciously arching her back under his touch. A strap plucked off one shoulder, then the other. The cups remained covering her, with a gap now between them and her skin as she leaned back into the chair.

“Now eyes on me.” Her breath caught as their gazes locked. She watched him tilt his head down, and felt the heat of his eyes as they began to roam over her. His fingers slipped beneath the fabric, exploring the space, fingertips cool against her now flushed and heated flesh. She gasped when one skimmed over the top of a nipple, pebbled and hypersensitive.

Both hands withdrew immediately, leaving her wanting.

“Take it off,” he said, voice like velvet and steel.

She hesitated less this time. When her bra fell away, he gave a soft stroke to her arm with the back of his finger. A wordless reward. 

“Touch them,” he said. “Show me how you like to be played with.”

She obeyed. And this time, the mirror didn’t feel as terrifying. It felt… electric. Erotic. His reflection remained fixed behind her, expressionless, but she felt his eyes. Knew she had his full, undivided attention. Her thighs clenched of their own accord, hips shifting, seeking friction, until a small moan escaped her throat.

“Stop.”

She paused, breathless, aroused.

“Look at me.”

She obeyed again. He held her gaze in the glass. The sound of leather against cloth was the only noise in the room as he undid his belt, looped it, then brought it to his mouth where he bit it down between his teeth and drew it tight around both his hands, binding his wrists.

When he spoke his voice was a growl; deep, laced with desire and a dangerous edge.

“Begin the scene for the Ministry.” 

Her chair tipped as she stood. He’d expertly wound her until she was drawn tight like a wire, needy and lust drunk. Then he’d given permission.

Trust given, trust returned.

“Get on the floor. Arms above your head.” Her voice was stronger than she expected.

He complied, muscles taut, breath uneven as he sank to his knees before her, then tilted back against the side of the bed and raised his arms above his head at her command. She shed her panties but kept the skirt, stepping over him, then lowering down and straddling his thighs.

His own eyes were filled with hunger, as if the potion were still in full effect. His muscles clenched as he kept his arms stuck in place, bound by the compulsion of the bands at his wrists, but fighting it.

She rubbed her hands over the outline of his hard shaft until his hips bucked against her. He was wound as tight as she was. His jaw clenched as she opened his fly, and he gasped between gritted teeth when her hand met the skin of his cock beneath the cotton.

“Do you have something to ask me, Malfoy?” she asked, voice a silken croon.

He bucked again into her hand, involuntary, as he strained against the magic. He rasped out a defiant breath, but it ended in a hiss as she pulled him free and began to stroke him lazily. 

“I’m in no rush, we have all evening,” she purred. “If you want something though, you’ll have to use your words.” She mirrored his own instruction, a reminder of trust.  

A low groan escaped him, then finally, “Please, Mudblood, let me come.”

She smiled, all teeth. “Now was that so hard?”

She shifted forward, skirt dragging up to the tops of her thighs, to rub her slick core along his hard length, watching his control fracture.

“Answer me.” The command left her mouth like a bark.

“Yes,” he rasped, and she hummed in response.

“Yes? Yes, what? Speak in full sentences and address me directly when you do.”

His expression was biting and defiant; but his body betrayed him with another twitch, thrusting him up toward the wet friction where they were only teasingly joined. Not enough to satiate him.

“Yes, Mudblood, it’s hard to beg you for permission to come,” he gritted out. “But I need to.”

She gave a low chuckle and traced a finger over his chest where a sheen of perspiration appeared. Equal parts arousal and strain from fighting the bond.

His wrists were red and starting to chafe against the leather belt. He truly didn’t like being bound.

“Good boy,” she purred, and in one smooth motion, mounted him, taking him deep.

She moaned at the stretch, the fullness, and he tilted his head back, eyes closed and bottom lip clamped between his teeth. His expression was almost pained as she started to ride him.

Her clit brushed against the rough hair of his pelvis with each rotation of her hips, building her towards a precipice that was now in sight. Her fingers threaded behind his neck, twisting into the straight white-blonde locks of his hair.

“Is this what you need?” she asked, breath ragged. Their foreheads almost met. They were gasping each other's air. Her tone almost sounded pleading, and she could have slapped herself for it. She shook her head, rocking down on him harder, forcing herself to recall her Prefector role. “Answer me!”

“Yes, Mudblood,” His teeth clenched as he stared down at where she lowered onto his cock. Her arousal glistened over it, the indecently wet sound of their bodies joining filled the room. “Just like that.”

She rode him faster, chasing her own pleasure, the friction building and cresting. Her hands lifted to her breasts, and his eyes locked on them, ravenous.

“Are you ready to be obedient to me?”

His eyes flashed, fury mixed with hunger. “Yes, Mudblood.”

“Good.”

She rewarded him by ripping the belt away from his wrists, freeing him. He surged down, taking a nipple into his mouth, sucking it deep and thrusting hard into her as his hands closed around the small of her waist. He began to move her like a doll, pumping her up and down his length, fucking her deeper onto his cock with each pass. 

“You may come.” The words of permission slipped from her mouth like a gift.

The friction of him inside of her, coupled with the increased pressure against her clit and the things his tongue was doing to her breast shattered her.

“Draco!” His name was a cry and a moan and a demand all in one. Her fingers sank tightly into his hair, her hold becoming desperate. His mouth met hers in response, claiming every one of her sounds and even her breath itself as she came undone around him.

He answered her with a groan before his whole body tensed and his grip on her became a vice while he pulsed with her, spurts of hot cum increasing the filthy sound of wet squelches where they were joined.

The sound of sex was replaced by their deep, panting breaths when it was over. She thought he would let her go, but his grip tightened for a fraction of a moment. She searched his face, but it revealed nothing of his thoughts. 

Nothing that could ruin the scene, not this time.

He watched her mouth as she swallowed, and his fingers finally unclenched around her. She rose, her legs slightly unsteady as her skirt fell down around her once more and she searched for her top. 

She heard Draco move as she slipped her arms through the sleeves, her back still to him. Her fingers began to skim over the buttons, the act of forcing them through the holes feeling harder than it should. A shadow crossed her vision, then he was directly in front of her, hands replacing hers as he slipped each button nimbly back into its rightful place. 

Red welts cut into his wrists from where he’d strained against the belt. 

“Well done, Prefector.” The words sounded hard, but when she turned to him his eyes were soft. 

This was a scene they could show the Ministry.      

Chapter Text

“An international Floo permit for a Conscript this early in your Prefectorship is highly irregular, Ms. Granger.” The Ministry clerk peered over horn-rimmed spectacles, her expression plainly unappreciative of irregularities of any kind.

Hermione tapped her fingers against the chair arm, her face a practiced blend of boredom and mild disinterest.

“Actually, Ms. Scythe, international Floo travel is a regular part of my schedule. The Minister was well aware of that when he personally approved my Prefectorship. What I find irregular is the idea that my Conscript should remain unsupervised during my absence, given his history in the Program.”

Hermione crossed her legs and looked pointedly at the official. The Daily Prophet, Witch Weekly, and a number of other publications frequently covered her international appearances. 

“Now,” she continued, “I’m sure you are aware, Kingsley is keen for Conscript Malfoy’s placement with me to appear visibly successful. If there are problems with approving what I assume to be very routine paperwork, please elaborate.” She gazed at her nails for a brief moment. “My time is valuable.”

The clerk didn’t answer right away. Instead, she cleared her throat in a manner that suggested she was put out, but found no response to Hermione’s logic. Instead, she shuffled papers on her desk at random, until she sighed and dipped her quill in ink, signing off on the authorization.

Hermione left with an undeniable smirk written across her face.

Officially, their visit to France was to initiate discussions for an art exhibit. And while that was true, it wasn’t the only reason they were going.

The French government maintained longstanding ties with many of the once-powerful families now conscripted to The Program. Since those families' fell from influence, both politically and commercially, France’s interests had likely been less ‘tended to’, as Draco put it.  

It was possible the French had forged connections within Kingsley’s regime, but Draco doubted their sincerity. New relationships demanded effort: cultivation, compromise, flexibility. Old ones, built over generations, ran smooth as clockwork. Interests and expectations were aligned. The familiar was efficient and, most importantly, comfortable.

Draco doubted Kingsley’s wartime strategies translated well in diplomatic halls and curtained backrooms. Shacklebolt was undeniably tactical, but he favored tangible wins over the subtleties of soft power. He lacked the political lineage to intuit foreign dignitaries' unspoken ambitions, and he expected straightforward negotiations; wish lists on the table, terms written plainly. But real diplomacy operated in covert handshakes and whispers, not declarations.

Meanwhile, international human rights organizations had begun to voice concern over The Program’s unchecked authority. Kingsley's PR team placated them with polished rhetoric and assurances that The Program’s purpose was reintegration. Words like “progressive,” “novel approach,” and “first-of-its-kind” were deployed liberally to assuage concerns that it was human slavery dressed up like justice.

Hermione’s efforts to speak out against The Program had, until now, focused exclusively on a domestic audience. But late-night discussions with Draco helped broaden her scope, introducing her to the murky waters of international politics. No external rights group had ever spoken to a Conscript before, let alone heard their testimony. Their voices remained silenced behind the walls of their contracts.

And without them, the rest of the world remained unaware of the atrocities behind the curtain.

With Draco’s travel permit secured, Hermione took the elevator to the Auror Department. Her heeled shoes clicked across the cool marble floors as she moved through the familiar corridors, barely glancing at the flying memos darting overhead. 

“Hello, Mark!” she called cheerfully to the Auror at the front desk, sidling up to it and folding her hands on top conspiratorially.

Mark Beeker looked up from his parchment. His large frame and naturally intimidating build were offset by the warmth of his growing smile as he realized it was her.

“Hermione! What’s Harry gotten himself into this time? Need backup?” he teased.

She laughed and gave a playful wink. “I’ve got him in hand for the moment, but I’ll yell for reinforcements if he gives me too much trouble.”

Beeker nodded behind him. “He’s in his office, go on in, lass.”

She knocked twice against the doorframe before stepping inside, knowing he was expecting her.

To her surprise, Ron and Neville were there as well—sat opposite Harry’s cluttered desk. The unexpected reunion drew a wide smile from her.

“Mione!” Harry leapt from the desk and pulled her into a tight hug. His unruly black hair and bright green eyes still held the boyish charm she remembered, despite the maturity etched in little lines across his face. Years of war, followed by Auror work, had aged him, but he remained the same brave and fiercely protective Harry she had always known.

She turned to Ron, then to Neville, drawing each into a tight embrace. The war had left its mark on all of them in different ways.

Fred’s death struck Ron like a wrecking ball, leaving behind visible signs of grief. He had a smattering of gray hair now, silver threads shot through the red, subtle yet undeniable for his young age. He wore them well. Paired with lines under his eyes and an assuredness in his posture, it grounded him in a way he’d never possessed at Hogwarts. His boyish recklessness was replaced by something quieter, only earned through experience.

Neville had changed, too. He carried himself with an ease that would have been unthinkable in their school days. One night over drinks, he and Hermione had shared war stories, both grim and simultaneously cathartic. He’d grown so much, stating that staring death in the eye offered clarity about what was important, and what wasn’t. The petty anxieties that once unraveled him no longer held power over him. There was a calmness about him that Hermione envied.

She took a seat on the worn sofa as Ron clicked the door shut, sealing the space with unspoken intent. She didn’t speak right away. Instead making herself comfortable while awaiting Harry’s explanation for why they were all gathered. 

He met her eyes, offered a quick smile, and simply said, “We wondered when you’d reach out. Didn’t want to rush you.”

She raised an inquisitive eyebrow in reply.

Ron chuckled. But it was Neville who spoke first.

“Malfoy’s going to help you take down The Program,” he said, as if they’d all agreed on it already. “He’s been tethered to your side for weeks, and let’s be honest, he has even more reason than you to see it dismantled.”

“The two of you working together is honestly a bit terrifying,” Ron added, drumming fingers across his knee where he still sat opposite Harry’s desk. “But we’re dying to hear what you’ve come up with.”

Of course, her friends had predicted this.

Hermione blinked, struck by the quiet realization that her friends not only knew she would need them, but they’d been prepared for her to come to them. No questions, no pressure. They simply trusted she would discover a way forward, and knew to be ready to offer help when the time was right.

And here she was—here they were.

She drew in a steady breath, gaze flicking from one familiar face to the next, feeling the solid weight of their trust settle around her like armor.

She opened her mouth to speak—only for the door to crash open with a bang.

Ginny Weasley stormed in, cheeks flushed, hair wild, and slammed the door behind her. 

“Sorry I’m late! The bloody Floo was full of halfwits. I swear, all of wizardkind has apparently forgotten how to fling powder and move forward. Sixty more seconds and I’d have hexed the next idiot into next week.”

Without missing a beat, Ginny strode straight for Hermione, wrapping her in a fierce hug and planting a loud, smacking kiss on the top of her head. Then she dropped onto the sofa beside her, legs tucked under, seemingly already up-to-speed on the topic at hand.

“So,” she said breezily, shooting Harry a cheeky wink before turning back to Hermione, “what’s the plan?”

“My love,” Harry cut in, aiming a bemused look her way, “if you start hexing people in public—unprovoked—I’ll be legally obligated to arrest you.”

Ginny’s eyes sparkled. “First of all, I was entirely provoked. Secondly, I’m counting on it.” She punctuated the line with a wink so shameless it made Ron groan and Hermione stifle a laugh.

Then, without missing a beat, she turned back to Hermione, gaze expectant. “Go on.”

Hermione inhaled, grounding herself. “I’ve been trying to dismantle The Program since the day it was enacted, which  you all know,” she said, voice steady. “And you also know I joined it a few weeks ago—to get Malfoy.”

“Thus proving your sainthood,” Ginny intoned solemnly, nodding as though delivering a eulogy.

Hermione let out a breathy laugh, but her smile quickly softened into something more serious. “He guessed what I’d been working on. And knew I hadn’t made progress. Since we’ve built what trust one can between Conscript and Prefector, he’s helped me reframe our problem by stripping it to its component parts.”

She glanced around the room, then let her gaze settle on Neville, who had subtly leaned forward, posture alert.

“The Program itself isn’t the core problem,” she continued. “It’s a symptom. A visible signal into the moral compass of our Ministry officials. Until we address the root cause, we’re merely pruning branches on a poisoned tree.

“To say Kingsley allowed this to happen is too generous,” Hermione went on, her voice quiet yet unwavering. “It gives him an out. It frames him as simply responding to circumstance, and reacting to pressures from his base. But the Minister of Magic is supposed to lead, not react.”

She let the words settle for a moment before continuing.

“I’ll be the first to admit, and loudly, that we wouldn’t have won the war without him. He was brilliant as a General. But the qualities that made him successful in wartime are the very ones that make him dangerous now. We don’t need a battlefield commander; we need a leader with the vision to establish a peaceful society.”

She looked around the room, meeting each of their eyes. No one flinched. No one disagreed.

“Kingsley won’t dismantle The Program,” she went on. “Because he’s still reacting, to fear, to vengeance, to the loudest voices around him. And those voices don’t care about human rights. They don’t want justice. These are the people who are still grieving, hurting, and so angry they only seek punishment and revenge. They want to see people suffer, because they have suffered. And Kingsley—” her voice softened, “—he doesn’t mind casualties. Because he’s used to them.”

She paused, again letting the silence stretch, letting the weight of it press into the corners of the room. Each of her friends held a focused, thoughtful expression. 

“If we managed to dismantle The Program tomorrow, something else would take its place. Because Kingsley isn’t equipped to convince all of magical England to work through their pain in healthily. He directs laws and caters to the most vicious of us; he doesn’t know how to connect or heal.”

Ron broke his silence, brow furrowed, “So we unseat Kingsley? That’s your goal?”

Hermione shook her head. “Bigger, Ron. Kingsley has already filled the Ministry with sycophants willing to sacrifice the very principles we fought for if it maintains their power. It's not one man anymore. It’s systemic.”

She waited while they processed.

Then, from Harry, softly: “Blimey.” Everyone shifted uneasily, the full weight of her words settling like dust in the quiet.“You want to take down the entire Ministry of Magic.” Harry’s voice was nearly breathless. 

“Yes,” she replied, tone serious. “The Wizengamot, The Department of Magical Welfare,  bloody hell, even the Auror department at its most senior levels, have actively supported the enslavement of an entire people. Many of whom didn’t have an individual trial, representation, or a mechanism for appeal within The Program. Some Conscripts were innocent bystanders caught on the wrong side of the line, not active participants or even supporters of Voldemort.”

Ginny and Ron exchanged a glance. They hadn’t spoken yet, but Hermione could feel grief radiating from them. The ache of a Fred-shaped void they carried every day. And she knew they weren’t alone in that. The whole wizarding world still walked beside war-haunted ghosts.

She didn’t rush to fill the silence. She let it hang in the air, like an invitation.

Ron’s voice was soft, as if he spoke around the pain lodged in his throat. “Some of them are guilty, ‘Mione. Guilty of terrible things.”

She knew those words were hard to speak, but he was voicing the pain of the wizarding world, not just his own loss. She choked back emotion at the thought of Fred. And for the pain in the hearts of the people she loved.

Shifting forward, she reached out and put a gentle hand on Ron’s knee, her touch steady. 

“Some of them did things worthy of the Dementor’s Kiss.” She forced the lump in her throat down, but it wouldn’t budge. “Every single one of them should be tried and sentenced. Individually.” 

When Ron raised his eyes to hers, and did what she couldn’t. He let it show, without any attempt to hide: tears filled his eyes, and his face became red. Heartache showed in every crease and curve of his expression. And she broke with him, letting a sob shake through her. Ron’s hand gripped hers from its place on his knee, clasping it tight. 

Harry moved first. Quiet and sure, he left his chair and dropped to his knees between them, placing his hand atop hers, grounding her where she held Ron.

Neville came next. Without any unease or regard for a mask of stoic masculinity, he slid his arm around Ron’s shoulders and let his feelings show on his face, too. Pain, grief, and loss. Just like theirs.

The war had ended, but the wounds were raw. And in that moment, they didn’t need to talk about justice, or reform, or revenge. They just needed to remember who they were, who they’d lost, and who they’d be together.

Ginny’s arms wrapped around Hermione’s waist as her other hand grasped Harry’s shoulder. No one tried to rush through the touch; they simply chose to sit in their unvarnished grief.

It passed as such moments do. The pang sharp and overwhelming in the instant, then fading into a quiet stillness. Grief had a rhythm. It hit like a wave that demanded to be felt, then left behind a strange kind of peace in its wake.

Neville pulled back first and spoke. “We want real justice. I fought for it once, I’ll do it again.” He looked to Ginny, then to Ron, his gaze steady. “Hermione’s right. What we have now is just retribution. It’s a slow, seeping poison. We risked our lives for a world that believed in justice, and protection from corruption. The Ministry is supposed to counterbalance itself; if one ruling branch fumbles their ideals, the others check it. But instead of holding each other accountable, the departments have coordinated to bypass public scrutiny altogether. And Kingsley’s coordinating it.”

Ron nodded, wiping his face and drawing in a deep breath.

Harry looked toward Ginny, a silent invitation to speak if she wanted to. It seemed to encourage her.

“We all see the corruption, Hermione. It’s hard to be the victor, but also admit we’ve lost. Harder still to imagine how we fix it.” 

Harry shifted his gaze to Hermione. She stared into his brilliant green eyes. Hermione wondered, as she often did, if the years of being ignored during his childhood had helped him learn how to really see the people around him. Understand what they needed, and how to give it to them.

“Malfoy,” she started, then corrected herself, “Draco, thinks we need to tell our stories.”

Neville’s brow lifted, but he remained quiet, waiting.

“He said people are stuck in their pain, and it’s creating isolation. Which is leading to unhealthy outlets. We’ve discussed other facets of the strategy, how to influence the powerful, build support from key players, all of the things you can imagine a Slytherin would understand. But he said we need to pair it with public conversation. Let people as a whole begin to process what they’ve been through, but help them do it together as a community. Begin to see how much more alike we are in this experience than separate.”

A beat of silence.

“He’s willing to tell his story too?” Neville asked, curiosity coloring his tone.

“Yes,” she replied softly. “He can’t extract memories on his own, not with his magic bound, but I’ll help. It won’t be easy for him—or anyone—to see what he’s gone through. But… he said it needs to be done. He’s the only Conscript in a position to do it.”

The silence that followed was reverent. They’d all heard whispers of what Draco endured in The Program. He’d been easy to hate, even in school, though the reasons were petty. Then he’d been turned into both an open target, and a de facto figurehead for Death Eater punishment. Rumors of the things done to him were the kind that stuck with you long after you heard them.

“What does he want from us?” Harry asked.

Hermione was grateful for the segue. “That we let people see us. Our hurt, and our grief. Publicly. Then we start talking about the ideals we believe in. Not about The Program, or what we want destroyed. There will be other voices for that, Draco and I will make sure of it. Our stories will be the ones reminding people what we fought for. What we believed in, and what we still believe in. We use our voices to inspire.”

She paused again.

“They need to see a way forward not built on vengeance. We can give them that.”

She knew what she was asking. All of them did. They had learned to survive in the public eye by guarding the most private parts of themselves. Now, she was asking them to step out, exposed, vulnerable, and raw.

“You don’t have to decide now,” she said gently. “Whatever you choose, I will love each of you just as I always have. That won’t change.”

It was early evening before Hermione arrived home.

Draco stood in front of the Pensieve, rigid and tense. His hands gripped the sides of the stone bowl so tightly his knuckles were white. His face was an unreadable mask, but Hermione knew him better now. It was an expression he wore when facing an enemy.

Hermione stepped toward him. 

“Draco,” she said softly, “I brought you a calming draught. If you want it.”

She knew he didn’t like potions that manipulated his mental or physical state. It wasn’t an aversion she remembered from their school days, and suspected he’d developed the dislike at the hands of his Prefectors. Still, she granted him the choice.

He didn’t look up from the basin. When he finally did, his gunmetal gray eyes held a hint of something she’d never seen before.

Vulnerability.

Neither of them spoke, but as the seconds ticked forward, she became more aware of his state. The vein in his neck pulsed faster than it should. His ears were slightly flushed. His breathing almost ragged. At a glance, he looked poised, if slightly angry. But looking at the man before her now, she saw his existence for what it was.

A man trying to survive in a world that reveled in making him hurt.  

She set down the potion and walked the rest of the way to him before placing her hand over one of his. He didn’t flinch at the touch, but his eyes lowered from her face to where her palm rested over his knuckles. She was careful not to bring her body too close to his, nothing that could impugn his personal space, aside from the platonic touch of her hand that said he wasn’t alone.

A breath escaped him in a long hiss that sounded like release. He placed his other hand over hers, shifting away from the Pensieve, toward the table where she had set the Draught of Peace. He didn’t release his grip on her hand as he slid his other out from under hers and reached for the potion. He examined it closely before speaking.

“Does this contain any undiluted base ingredients?” he asked, his eyes fixed on the bottle in his hand.

It was a fair question, and she didn’t bristle. “No, it’s actually half strength. I could get you something stronger if you wanted.”

His only answer was to uncork the bottle with the back of his thumb and tilt it to his lips. His throat dipped as he swallowed it down, and replaced the vial to its place on the table. 

“Malfoy,” she said earnestly, “I will tell you if anything I bring you is stronger than the standard version. You have my word.”

The bitter taste of regret filled her mouth. She still hadn’t forgiven herself for the lust potion and vowed not to fail him again.

He answered with a small squeeze of her hand, but nothing else. It was enough, though. She knew he believed her. Still, he had every right to be cautious, and she wouldn’t blame him if he asked every time. 

“Is there anything I can do,” she ventured softly, “to make this easier?”

His Adam’s apple dipped, and his jaw tensed briefly. 

“I’m not sure I would know what to ask for.” Then, “It’s not easy to re-live, much less to prepare others to see it.”

When his eyes met hers again, they held more pain than panic. The calming draught was working.

“Out of all the witches and wizards out there, I suppose it’s only fair that it’s you who’s here.” He grimaced. “I witnessed your torture, I suppose it’s time you see mine.”

She didn’t balk at the memory, not anymore. It had taken her years to not flinch when Bellatrix was mentioned, or Malfoy Manor. Knives, too, set her on edge. Subtle gestures and looks, mannerisms that reminded her of the woman who carved a slur into her arm, still triggered, but she’d gained more control over her responses than she had initially.

“I don’t think you enjoyed it.” The words came softly—almost a whisper—but she knew he’d heard. Maybe it wasn’t the right time to ask, and maybe there never would be a right time. She’d phrased it like a statement; but it was a truth she needed, one way or another.

His fingers grazed her chin, lightly turning her face to his. He met her eyes.

“I occluded more deeply than I ever had in that room. It took me weeks to fully stop, even with my mother, who was a powerful Legilimens, trying to dig me out. Then, I had nightmares. For years. If I could go back in time, I would be braver. Bold enough to try to stop it.”

The words, coupled with his sincerity, felt like cool water over a wound. This was a trauma they had both experienced—differently, yes—but still together.

“There was a moment,” she swallowed, then continued, “I saw you flinch. While I was on the floor and Bellatrix was—” She stopped to shake her head. “I thought, for just a moment, that you didn’t want it to be happening.”

“I didn’t.” A line cut between his eyes, before his face became unreadable once more as he turned back to the Pensieve. 

“Draco, when we watch this, I won’t be gloating over your pain. It will be like it was for you in the Manor that day. Except now we can stop it from continuing. Together.”

He held her gaze, then nodded. “Together,” he agreed.

They extracted the memory slowly, due to the magical suppression of his bonds. The process demanded that Hermione watch the memory while Draco recalled it, then it would be extracted from her mind rather than his. She was a fair hand at Legilimency, but it would require cooperation to sustain the full extraction.

He gave her hand, where she held her wand, a gentle squeeze. Then she raised it to his temple and whispered, “Legilimens.”    

The room was dimly lit and smelled of cigarettes, gin, and cheap perfume. A cloying laugh came from the woman next to him. It was clearly a wizarding home, with a gathering in progress. Hermione couldn’t place the wizards and witches in the room, but one thing was clear. 

This was his Prefector.

“I think it would be quite fun, darling,” her husband urged, while the witches around them giggled and pretended to blush. Draco knew none of them were truly embarrassed. They had no shame—neither did Lisette, his Prefector. She simply enjoyed playing coy. “Everyone else is participating. It’s possible his name won’t even be drawn.” Draco hadn’t caught the name of the witch who spoke—not that it mattered. None of them did.

Lisette looked at him and bit her lip, as if she were thinking hard about her decision before inevitably agreeing. She would draw out the moment as long as she could, basking in the spotlight.

“He’s quite high-profile, not like the other Conscripts.” She pretended to waffle. “It could cause problems for the Ministry if he were to inseminate a witch—other than me, of course. You know how salacious that kind of story would be; the gossip columns would never let it go!”

Another witch chimed in. “We take precautions on that front. Unless, of course, it’s your name that’s drawn.” She ended with a not-so-subtle smirk.

The insipid chatter continued for several more minutes before Draco saw his Prefector sign his name onto a slip of paper, fold it, and levitate it into a bowl filled with the others. She then added her own name to a separate chalice before squealing dramatically at her husband, who laughed and waved her on.

Draco kept his expression blank, a look of bored disdain he’d perfected over the years marred his haughty face. The air in the room was thick with anticipation, but beneath it, the tension rose.

Lisette, with her too-perfect smile, glanced at him again, and this time, her gaze was sharper, more calculating. She knew, somewhere in that vain, shallow heart of hers, that Draco didn’t want to be part of this charade. But she wouldn’t let him walk away. Wouldn’t let him say no.

Around him, the murmurs grew louder as more names dropped into the bowl. The entire room pulsed with energy, but Draco was numb to it all. His mind wasn’t on the ridiculous game at hand or the idiotic chatter around him. It was on the quiet, distant feeling that things could get much worse.

Prefectors circled the room, eyeing and assessing the Conscripts, sometimes touching, sometimes groping. Each one hoped their name would be drawn. Lustful smiles indicated who they wanted to be paired with. Many were directed at Draco.

A witch felt his biceps. Another rubbed her palms over his chest and stomach. The boldest ran her hand all the way down his trousers to his cock. Lisette seemed to take the desirability of her Conscript as a personal compliment. So did her husband. They both engaged in their own acts of public petting—obvious touches to tell the room he belonged to them, as if anyone didn’t know.

An unfamiliar set of eyes flicked to him as a Prefector walked toward the bowls, her words loud and ringing with enthusiasm. 

“Shall we begin the drawing?” she asked the room.

The witches around her paused, their attention now flitting between the bowl and the Conscripts, eager and excited. Draco felt the weight of every gaze directed at him, and for the first time that evening, he wasn’t sure if he could hide behind his usual mask of indifference.

The silence thickened as the Prefector’s hand dipped into the bowl, her fingers brushing over the slips of parchment. He could see her slow, deliberate movements as she drew one. The tension in the air was palpable, every breath held in anticipation. Draco could feel his pulse quicken, but he refused to let it show.

“Here we go,” she said, holding up the slip. She smiled as she unfurled it, her eyes scanning the name before taking on a gleam of delight.

“Well, well,” she announced, her voice dripping with mock sympathy as she looked directly at him. “It seems the Prince of Slytherin will be starring in our little game tonight.”

Shrieks and smirks rippled across the Prefectors. Most of the Conscripts, like Draco, kept their expressions blank. A few looked relieved.

“Please, Merlin, pull my name next!” a Prefector witch shouted out, eliciting another peal of giggles from the room while the woman openly ran her eyes up and down Draco’s body. Others followed suit. Now that his name had been called, he became the exclusive focus of the room.

The witch moved toward the bowl containing the names of the Prefectors. Instead of drawing, she picked it up and walked toward him, letting her hips sway slightly before coming to stand before him.

He gave no reaction. Nor acknowledged her presence.

She turned to Lisette and addressed her instead. “Should Conscript Malfoy draw his playmate’s name?” Her voice was a simpering purr that made him slightly sick.

Lisette once again basked in the spotlight. “Draco darling”—he hated the sound of her voice—“play nice tonight and draw a name.”

The magic surged at her command, and he felt the familiar compulsion to obey. He could fight it, but wouldn’t. Not yet. Without looking at anyone or anything in particular, he lifted his hand and plucked a folded piece of paper from the bowl. He held it between his fingers, unwilling to play along. If they wanted him to do anything further, they’d need to command it.

Lisette frowned. “Read it aloud so the room can hear.”

He opened the paper and glanced down at it. “Mariette Scott.” He dropped the paper as if it meant nothing and continued his bored gaze at the wall as the tingling energy in the room quickly subsided. The faces of the witches, previously gleeful, changed to something more anxious than entertained.

A woman stepped forward, her face cold and her eyes cruel. Draco glanced at the Conscript behind her, noticing the man was covered in scars, missing an eye, and several fingers.

Draco realized with sudden certainty those injuries occurred after the war, not before.

Lisette seemed to sense something was wrong. She glanced nervously between Draco and her husband. Finally, her eyes settled on Mariette’s Conscript, and she seemed to understand. Hesitantly, she asked the witch holding the bowl, “The game only lets her play with him sexually, right?”

The witch grimaced. “Technically yes, and she can’t do any permanent damage.” She gave Mariette a hard look as she spoke the last words, as if reminding her.

Mariette returned a smile that was all teeth. “Yes, of course. No lasting damage. Not like the damage the Death Eaters did to my husband, when they cut him up and fed his organs to that snake.” Her eyes flashed to Draco. “Your lot found that tremendously fun.”

She had reached him now and ran a long, sharp-nailed finger along the side of his face.

“Worm!”

The command hissed from her mouth like spit. It took him a moment to realize she was addressing her Conscript. The scarred man stepped forward obediently, eyes on the ground.

“Strip.”

Draco’s eyes flickered briefly toward the Conscript, then back at nothing as the man struggled with the buttons on his robes. The task was difficult due to his missing fingers. His Prefector’s smile broadened as she watched him struggle.

The robes finally fell away, and the Conscript stood before the room, fully naked. She had only dressed him in outer robes, not bothering with anything else, even shoes.

Worse still, the man’s body was a litany of scars and cigarette burns. Draco felt his jaw tense. He didn’t recognize him, which meant he couldn’t have been anywhere near Voldemort’s inner circle. It was unlikely he had even been an active Death Eater.

Turning now to Lisette, the witch crooned, “You’ll need to command yours to do as I instruct.”

Lisette stared, and Draco wondered if she would retract his participation. She might have no real regard for him, but she liked him pretty. Mariette seemed to guess her thoughts and chuckled. “Don’t worry, my dear. He’ll be just as shiny and nice for you when I’m done as he was when the night began. I don’t personally like to play with Death Eater filth, but it’s fun to have them entertain us by playing with each other. My Worm hates playing with men, but he knows to obey me.”

A pause followed, but Draco held little hope. Once the violent witch assured his Prefector that he’d be left physically intact, it was over.

When she cleared her throat and issued the command, he wasn’t surprised.

“Strip,” came Mariette’s first order. The compulsion followed, but Draco held still. Mariette seemed delighted, knowing the longer he resisted, the more pain the magic would inflict.

Finally, the strain broke and his hands lifted to his robes, slowly undoing each button. It took him far longer to shed his clothes than the other Conscript, he was fully dressed to start. The witches in the room murmured and giggled when he shed his shirt, and more so when his trousers followed.

A whistle sounded when he shed the last garment, leaving him naked. Lisette smirked at the room, as if his body were her personal achievement.

Mariette’s next command came like ice, slicing and cruel. “Fuck the Worm’s ass.”

Draco looked at the broken man across from him and didn’t move. He wouldn’t rape another Conscript.

The discomfort of disobeying the command grew. But he held on, even as the compulsion turned to agony. His muscles began to twitch, and a sheen of sweat broke out across his brow.

Mariette’s smile broadened. Lisette frowned. 

“He can be stubborn,” she offered. “Draco, obey the command.”

Another wave of compulsion hit. Still he refused. The muscle twitches turned to spasms. His body began to convulse.

“Draco, stop being difficult!” Lisette’s voice now carried a note of panic. To the room, she said, “He sometimes fights, but he’ll comply eventually.”

When the compulsion hit again, Draco stumbled forward, crashing to his knees. The sound of glass breaking rippled through the room. Bits of folded paper spread across the floor like confetti. He barely registered knocking into the table.

Darkness clouded his vision. His breaths came in rapid pants. Movement caught his eye. The other Conscript sank to his knees so he was at eye level with Draco. His one remaining eye held a gleam of desperation, and something that looked like gratitude.

Draco’s palms smacked the floor as another wave of compulsion wracked him. Bits of glass cut into his hands and knees, creating pools of blood around his knees.

When he saw the mutilated, scarred hand of the Conscript reach for a large shard of glass, he could do nothing. The blood collecting between them was hardly noticeable at first, nor was the deep vertical cut along the man’s inner wrist. Until the shard of glass moved to his inner thigh, where another bloom of blood appeared.

The last thing Draco saw before the room went fully black was the look of jubilant relief on the man’s face as they both collapsed.

Hermione’s body trembled as they came out of the memory together. It had felt visceral and real, as if she was there and experiencing it with him. Tears ran down her face, unchecked, as the images of the man’s expression danced like a haunted specter behind her eyes.

She felt Draco’s palm pressed into her hand. His face held the remnants of exhaustion, but also concern that deepened the longer he looked at her.

“That was Trevor Malkin,” she rasped. “He was a bigoted blood supremacist fool, but no Death Eater. He ran a potions supply shop outside of Diagon Alley, one that Death Eaters frequented. His sympathies were atrocious, and he had a habit of getting drunk and mouthing off. Even his Death Eater customers didn’t talk to him. It’s unlikely he even knew they were marked or who he was selling to.”

The file had been one of many Hermione had seen in the early days of The Program. A trial would have shown the world the man’s character, and he would have been subject to social consternation, but not prison. Being a bigot wasn’t criminal.

Draco’s expression darkened, but his touch remained gentle and his presence steady.

Hermione fought down the wave of bile that rose in her stomach.

“He had a wife,” she stopped again as a thrum of nauseating heat stretched over her taxed nervous system. “She was also a Conscript. She died a month in, allegedly from heart failure, but there was never a real investigation. Her body was cremated immediately.”

“Hermione,” his voice was soft and hinted at his own emotional strain. “You’re overheated.” He raised his other hand and tugged open her collar, exposing her throat to a welcome kiss of cool air just as another bout of heat washed over her.

This time she succumbed and vomited all over the floor.

He pulled her hair away from her face and rubbed a soothing finger between her shoulder blades as she dry heaved for some time, having nothing more to eject.

It took several minutes before her body fully purged, and finally let her return to normal. She vanished the sick with a wave of her wand and cast a cleansing charm over her mouth and face.

Looking into Draco’s tired eyes, she felt the urge to apologize. She’d only watched his experience, if either of them had a right to react this badly, surely it was him.

He spoke before she could. “After everything we saw, during the war,” his voice was tight, “It’s hard to see things like this. Even with the calming draught.”

She gave a faint smile that didn’t make it to her eyes, but was grateful he understood. “It’s triggering,” she said.

“It is,” he agreed. “And the world needs to see it.”

Chapter Text

Hermione stared at the row of Pensieve vials. Their contents glowed faintly as silver strands swirled in the liquid trapped inside. They’d decided on five to start. 

Each one a blade angled toward the throat of the Ministry.

They’d chosen them carefully, selecting memories that would corroborate with public record or Ministry files. Each showing a different facet of the evil that was The Program. When all parts were viewed as a whole, the story vividly coalesced into the Ministry’s deliberate orchestration of abuse against its citizens.  

Trevor Malkin’s death created a unique set of problems for the Ministry, who had, up until that point, touted the placement of Conscripts with ‘carefully vetted Prefectors’ whose households ‘demonstrated a commitment to the traditional, conservative values necessary to facilitate the required correctional outcomes.’ Children born from the unions would be raised ‘by good people of strong moral character.’

When news broke that the Prefectors engaged in semi-regular sharing parties, which were little more than formalized sex trafficking events, the Ministry moved quickly to shift the narrative.

They issued new guidance under the guise of supporting the repopulation effort, where the Ministry ‘recognized that not every Muggleborn household could afford the substantial burden of a Conscript, yet should not be forced to forgo the joys of children.’ 

Prefectors who were willing to aid other Muggleborn households by lending their Conscripts as the human equivalent of studs and broodmares were touted as selfless heroes of the magical community. There was no mention that most of these swaps took place amongst Muggleborn families who already had Conscripts of their own.

It sounded official, but there were, in fact:

• No verification processes to limit swaps to Muggleborns intending to conceive.
• No Prefector penalties for ordering their Conscripts to perform sex acts on each other for the entertainment of the room. 
• And, no scrutiny of the widespread use of contraceptive charms, which subverted the repopulation efforts.

The Ministry’s judgement on Trevor Malkin and his wife’s paper-thin case was public record. One of many files rushed through a system that relied on bulk trials where one sentence applied to large groups of defendants.

Draco’s next four memories had been just as hard to watch as the first.  

A few words of encouragement, offered to a Conscript witch in a rare, stolen moment of privacy after her new Prefector complained of her ‘deliberate melancholy’ after she was transferred. She’d birthed a baby for her first Prefector, who now raised the child with his wife. No longer deemed needed, they’d returned her to the Ministry so that she could offer similar services to another family suffering from Voldemort’s curse.  

She’d been given no warning before they’d separated her from the baby.  

Hermione tracked down newspaper records of the birth, which contained a photo of the Prefector, his wife, and their infant child under a headline that celebrated the emerging success of the repopulation effort in the face of the Dark Lord’s curse against Muggleborns.

The article closed with a comment that the family ‘was open to the possibility of a male Conscript in their future,’ and that both ‘would consider their offspring as fully their own, despite not being able to share joint biological lineage.’

When Draco next saw the female Conscript, she was again pregnant. A haunted look clouded her eyes. He estimated her baby would likely be born sometime in the next couple of months. Despite the calming draught Hermione had taken before starting, she’d had to stop three times before they finished the full memory extraction.

It hadn’t gotten easier, but after several days, they finally finished collecting the memories.

She’d made copies and then hidden the original pensieve vials—in addition to the documentation matching each recollection—in her old beaded bag. The (admittedly illegal) undetectable extension charm she’d placed on it during the war had served her well. The same spell now allowed her to carry state secrets across international borders without raising a single magical alarm.

However, the duplicated vials stacked in front of her had not been part of the plan.

And she hadn’t told Malfoy she’d made the copies.

It wasn’t that she feared he would object—though perhaps he might have, in one of his colder moods. She’d simply been too emotionally depleted to raise the issue. The timeline had been aggressive; they barely finished with the pensieve before their departure to France arrived. 

But they had done it, and delivered the memories to the International Council for Wizarding Rights and Justice, without the Ministry catching wind of their contact with the agency. Multiple magical governments were members of ICWRJ, including their own. The Ministry historically had championed the importance of the global initiative, making their own violations all the more shocking. 

Still—retaining duplicate copies came with its own risks.

While unlikely, the Ministry could potentially stumble upon a dangerous thought while performing their regular check-ins. Which would risk Hermione’s status as Prefector, and Draco’s… life.

But now that they’d delivered the memories to the French wizarding government, the Ministry couldn’t stop what followed. Neither Hermione nor Draco wanted them to have time to prepare a propaganda response or tamper with evidence. Or worse still, eliminate the Conscripts who could verify the memories. They needed to work carefully, and quickly, from here. 

The French ICWRJ representative used their meeting time well, arriving with a clipboard and a tightly organized list of questions. Draco had answered each with measured precision, even when the subject matter turned raw. The memories themselves would take too long to review, so they sealed them away in tamper-proof magical bags—to be examined after Hermione and Draco departed.

When they arrived back in her Penthouse, she’d opened her mail to find an unsigned letter addressed directly to Draco. Inside, was a single line of script:

“To remain silent in the face of such atrocities is to be complicit.”

The parchment ignited into flames the moment they finished reading it.

Hermione turned to Draco. Hope flickered in her eyes. “We have an ally.”

Two days had passed since their return to Hermione’s flat. Both she and Draco were drained from the experience and had slept most of the day following their return. Draco had barely spoken in the few brief encounters they’d had since—offering a grim grunt over breakfast or the touch of eyes as they passed in the house. Which is why Hermione finally sought him out.

He stood on the terrace, expression stoic as he stared across the horizon. Hermione noted he seemed more like himself when in open space.

Her arm brushed against his where he leaned over the railing, she asked softly, “I could widen the windows in your room?” 

It would be a relatively simple bit of magic, all things considered.

"The room is fine, Granger." 

He didn’t turn, or otherwise acknowledge her beyond the terse words. She wondered if that would be the end of it, but then he did finally glance over, a half-smirk curving with bitter irony across his mouth. "It would be hard to hide in the memories we make for the verifications."

She exhaled slowly. He was right. Giving him doors was one thing, but she couldn’t change the size of the windows every time they needed to complete a scene. 

He turned fully to face her. “And you don’t have to do that.”  

There was a weight to his words that Hermione couldn’t quite unravel, and she raised an eyebrow at him.

“You don’t have to try to make that room feel like less of a cage.” His voice held a bitter edge, and though it didn’t feel directed at her, it still felt somewhat personal. “I’ll be comfortable when this hell is over and I can go home. Not before.”

With that, he stepped past her and disappeared inside.

He’d been volatile for days, and Hermione suspected the extractions—re-living it all so vividly—had pushed him somewhere dark. Not that she could blame him.

Which only made her next conversation with him more difficult, because she needed to talk to him about Mandy.

So she gritted her teeth and followed him inside.

He wasn’t in any of the common spaces, so she wandered the hallway and paused outside his door long enough to hear the distant sound of running water from the shower.

She thumped her forehead softly against the door and returned to the living room to work through their publicity plan, mapping out details and timelines for the coordinated public appearances Harry, Ron, and Ginny would begin to make. The hours stretched by as she worked, until the clock chimed midnight and Malfoy still hadn’t emerged from his room. With a long look down his hallway, she eventually gave up and went to bed.

The next day was a blur of meetings—the cost of catching up on long-avoided work since Draco’s arrival. At the Library Boardroom, she made it through the gauntlet of politicking and double-speak, only to return to her flat the following evening with a splitting headache and the beginnings of a knot forming between her shoulders.

Malfoy, once again, was nowhere to be found.

“Fine,” she mumbled, shucking off her heels and tossing them for the house wards to catch. “Let him sulk.” The moody blonde did not have to be her priority all of the time.

She walked to her room, then worked to shed her day like a second skin. With a long shower, her favorite oversized Muggle t-shirt, and a glass of wine, she finally began to relax.  

Hermione’s jaw clenched thinking about the veiled comments from her meetings that day.

We’ve missed you, Miss Granger. I do hope you’ve been able to indulge with your Conscript, you so deserve it...

We heard you joined The Program. I can understand why you changed your stance after seeing him; has it been worth it so far?

Oh my goodness, Miss Granger, you are positively glowing! I take it that your recent acquisition from the Ministry is suiting you well? You aren’t… she’d pointed to Hermione’s stomach with raised brows …are you?

She’d shut them all down with curt professionalism, but their assumption that they had a right to her private life, let alone the intimate parts of it, left her seething.

So tonight, she was going to relax and prioritize herself. Slipping into her favorite fluffy socks, she nabbed a trashy romance novel from her shelf and walked out toward the kitchen, where she opened one of her more extravagant bottles of wine, then proceeded to the living room and curled up in an oversized chair.

That’s when Malfoy finally emerged.

She kept reading.  

He settled into the chair opposite hers, and pulled something from his robes, placing it on the side table between them. She guessed it was Mandy’s letter, which she’d left face up and unfolded on the counter before leaving earlier that day. But if he wanted to talk about it, he’d have to make the first move. 

Hermione turned the page of her book and sipped her wine.

"Granger."

The sharpness in his tone broke the silence, and she lifted her eyes, brows raised, in his direction.

A muscle in his jaw ticked, and she realized whatever it was he intended to say wasn’t easy. She reminded herself that his problems were not, by default, her problems, but her heart still skipped a beat at his expression.

“I told you before that I wasn’t going to say I forgive you. That I wasn’t sure if I actually did forgive you.” He looked away, fixating on some invisible mark on the wall. "I know I’ve been... reclusive these last few days." His voice lowered. “The truth is, I don’t think I can forgive you—or ever fully trust you.”

Hermione felt a stab of pain sear through her chest. She didn’t want to care or need his approval. The words still managed to hurt though.

“Not while you have me here, in this dynamic.” His cool mask of indifference was back in place, but she could still see tension radiating from him.

"The memories dredged up everything. Every reason I had not to trust anyone tied to The Program. And I don’t regret it; we needed it to carry out our plan. But the fact remains, this…” His gaze bore into hers. “All of it, could just be a game for you. If anyone was…” He swallowed and a frown creased his forehead. “…clever enough to break me now, it would be you.”

A burning sensation formed in her throat, but she swallowed it down. “I’m trying to free you.”

His eyes locked with hers. But they were flat.

"That’s just it. By the first week here, I’d suggested using a lust potion. I was the one bringing you solutions. You nearly got what every Prefector before you tried to take. With our history, you have every reason to hate me. And there’s no way I can be sure this isn’t just some beautifully orchestrated manipulation. To make me willing.”

She didn’t respond immediately. Because the awful truth was... she could do it. And by all rights, she was justified in hating him. If she’d wanted revenge, she could have broken him. Easily. And all the magic in the world wasn’t enough to see the intentions of her heart. 

So instead of answering, she asked, “What does this doubt in me change for you?”

His fingers thrummed on the arm of his chair, the gesture methodical as he thought.

“Functionally? Nothing. I’ll still work with you to dismantle the Ministry and end The Program. I have little more that I could lose, and the possibility of freedom, or at least physical safety, makes that aspect worth it.”

She nodded. “A Muggle philosopher once argued it’s best to believe in God, even without proof. If He exists, belief brings eternal happiness; if not, the cost is only a few religious rituals. But if He does exist and you didn’t believe, you're damned for eternity. It’s called Pascal’s Wager.”

He looked down at his hands, brow still furrowed, as he answered, “That muggle sounds like a Slytherin.”

She gave a wry laugh. He wasn’t wrong, but it was funny how their houses still seemed to be relevant to their view of the world. The desire to put people in boxes still stuck with them both. Only now there were new boxes: Prefector. Conscript.

Draco didn’t move, and she leaned forward in her seat, taking in his rigid posture.  

“Why does it matter if you trust me or not, Malfoy?” She pushed again. “What does it change either way?”

He shifted, and his frown deepened as he looked down at Mandy’s letter, then finally back to her.

“I think…” he began, then stopped. He shifted where he sat and Hermione studied him. His tongue swept his bottom lip as if his mouth had gone dry, and started again. “I think part of me wishes I had someone on my side. But the last time I did, I ended up with a brand on my arm that bound my life to a sadist. So, I’m angry. Angry that I can’t trust you, or anyone,” His eyes flicked up to hers. “Beyond Pascal’s Wager.”

Hermione understood. As much as she wanted to believe she was a good person, she wasn’t sure she trusted herself either. And the longer this went on, the dirtier she felt. She had a feeling it would only get worse, once they were forced to socialize.

Her eyes fell to the invitation on the table, and he caught the movement.

“If you need time before we start attending things like that, I can provide an excuse for our absence.”

“No.” His voice was firm. “We need to keep working, I don’t want to wait.”  He rose suddenly and walked to the small bar in the corner to pour himself a drink. She suspected the familiarity helped him refocus, but didn’t mention it as he returned to his chair, scotch in hand.

She cast a quick Accio on the invitation and tucked it between the pages of her book. “I’ll owl her in the morning.” She sipped her wine, giving him the space to add more to the discussion, but when he remained silent, Hermione nodded before launching into updates she had for him. 

“Gringotts confirmed your transfer; the funds hit Neville’s account this morning.” A brief meeting with a rude Goblin had been part of her long day. “They remain aware of your preference for discretion on Malfoy financial activity. Based on the Goblin’s reaction, I suspect the Ministry issued a request to be updated on movement within your vaults.” Draco’s neck strained at her words, but he didn’t interject as Hermione continued, “I received an unprompted lecture about how they do not condone ‘attempted interference in the sovereignty of Goblin banking policy,’ which tells me they won’t comply with the Ministry’s request.” His mouth softened imperceptibly. “Separately, Harry and I have begun to shift funds into Neville’s vaults. So, once we get the list of names, we can start our persuasion efforts.”

Draco nodded, his expression thoughtful. 

“Theo should know a few influential players who can be bought or incentivized.”

They had agreed Neville was the right person to play the part of liaison. He’d long since shed the anxiousness that had plagued him during his youth, and his greenhouses were now highly sought-after plant nurseries, which supplied hospitals, research facilities, apothecaries, and most notably, private parties with botanicals. He was perfectly positioned to make connections and move large sums of money without raised eyebrows.

“Ginny…” Hermione began, hesitant, “made some subtle inquiries about Mandy’s…predilections. She thought it might help give us an idea of what to expect at the parties. At least from her.”

Draco tipped back his glass, before settling it between his hands and leaning back in his chair. His eyes shuttered. 

“Go on,” was all he said.

Hermione swallowed hard.

“Some of the Harpies have friends who know her, or who know about her. We know she’s interested in a private swap, but Ginny said she also has a penchant for having Theo perform at these parties. She’s made it a rare occurrence, because—from what Ginny’s heard— the novelty of seeing him-” Hermione stopped and collected herself, unable to finish the sentence. “His rarity drives his… value.”

Draco nodded solemnly, like that all made perfect sense and wasn’t a reason to burn the whole world to the ground.

“She only pairs him with Conscripts she deems aesthetically pleasing,” she finished.

“She’ll want a show between him and I, then.” There was no hint of arrogance in Draco’s voice, only tired resignation and cool certainty.

Hermione watched him carefully. “Yes, that seems likely.”

“In that case, she will ask you to either restrain me or drug me with some kind of potion first. After the incident with Malkin, they became more wary of me, and what might happen if I resisted again.” She saw the tension he tried to hide as he spoke. His face remained impassive, but his fingers twitched almost imperceptibly, and the muscles in his forearms tensed.  

For some, Draco’s resistance heightened the thrill of his performance, especially when paired with a Prefector. The exhilaration of imminent danger added an edge to the experience—one they couldn’t get from their own Conscripts.

Still, the cautiousness around Draco was well-earned, and Hermione agreed that Mandy wouldn’t risk damaging Theo in the event that Draco chose to resist—not when she took such pride in his looks. None of them seemed to understand why he’d resisted  defiling another Conscript. They only remembered the salacious details of his gory death, drawing their own conclusions.

Hermione’s mind quickly ticked through potential options that could satisfy Mandy without crossing Draco’s boundary list. 

“I could–“ she began, but her words were cut off by the deep hum of her ward alarms activating at the Floo.

Within seconds, flashes of green sparks and billowing smoke began to shoot out from the hearth, followed by a resonating boom that briefly rattled the walls. Hermione barely blinked as her security system formed a protective bubble around the Floo, perfectly capturing what appeared to be a magical grenade that had detonated a gas cloud immediately upon arrival.

The ward alarms sounded with a set of quick, decisive deep notes, similar to muggle fog horns. Attention grabbing, but not heart stopping. And she had absolute confidence in their efficacy.

With a practiced flick of her wand, she pulled the ward bubble out of the Floo, shrank it down to the size of a snitch, and levitated it out to the terrace, where it would remain, perfectly stable under a stasis charm until it could be further examined.

“Expecto Patronus!” She summoned her otter, and spoke quickly. “Harry, someone’s at it again. They tried the Floo this time. It was a poisonous gas bomb. I’ll send it to your office in the morning.” Then as an afterthought, she added, “And please don’t mention it to Ron this time. He’ll inevitably tell Molly and you know how she gets.” 

The last time this happened, she’d waited instead of alerting Harry right away; he’d given her a earful. They’d subsequently come to an agreement that she would immediately notify him of  attempted attacks, and he would respect her assessment of the situation before storming over to review it himself.

Molly Weasley, on the other hand, held no such restraint. Ginny, thankfully, had learned the art of telling her mother when the time was right and only what she needed to know.

With her message dispatched, Hermione turned back to Draco, ready to continue their conversation as if the interruption had been no more than a minor nuisance. 

“Sorry about that. I was going to say, I could make up some potion or additional magical binding and say I’ve already given it to you. As long as I’m convincing, it could work to allay Mandy’s fears.”

Malfoy looked at her for a long moment, then raised his pointer finger into the air in a clear signal to pause the topic. “Granger, exactly how often does that—” He looked at the Floo, then back at her. “---happen?”

It was then that she realized she hadn’t thought to warn him, which was a terrible oversight given that he should absolutely expect to experience these kinds of things while living with her.

“I’m sorry, that was unforgivable of me,” she stammered out the words, more flustered by her rudeness in not preparing him than she had been by the rather weak attempt on her life. “That happens every few months or so. The house magic redirects death threats and hate mail from my post to the building security team for credible threat identification, but someone inevitably gets creative. You have nothing to worry about though, the wards were designed by a team of specialists, and I’ve continued to improve on them over time. They’re tied to the magic of the building and very strong, which is how I got the idea for your bracelet. The core runes behind them are quite cutting edge, so they adapt creatively when needed, while following specific protocols for more standard situations.”

She’d practically gushed the words, realizing with his magic bound, he would have every reason to be deeply concerned about threats like this.

He simply stared at her, unblinking, as a full minute passed.

“Malfoy, say something, please.” The silence left her alone in her head with her guilt, and she’d rather just hear his consternation than suffer the versions she mentally created for herself.

“You still receive death threats,” he said flatly.

“Well, yes.” She blinked, not quite sure what to make of his statement.

“And regular attempts are made against your life.”

“Blood supremacy isn’t dead, Draco, and Voldemort sympathizers still exist outside the arms of the Ministry. They just view him as a martyr now, and they either hate me because I’m the Muggleborn who helped kill him, or because I’m a Muggleborn activist—or perhaps both,” she said with a shrug, as if this were all a foregone conclusion. “On the other side of the pendulum, there are separate groups who hate me because of my previous position against The Program and the Ministry. They view me as soft on Death Eaters and a traitor to the cause. Though that has recently abated.”

His stare, though still  expressionless, was most definitely edged with ice. “Have threats increased since you brought me here?”

Of course they had, and Malfoy clearly understood enough to surmise as much.

“Since I started ‘defiling one of the oldest pureblood lines in all of Wizarding Britain’?” Hermione’s retort was cutting, but she didn’t enjoy being asked to state the obvious. “Yes, they’ve increased. But my security team expected they would, and we prepared for it.”

In truth, prepared may have been a slight stretch, as ‘worked quickly and stalwartly endeavored’ was more accurate. When Hermione stormed to Kingsley’s office to demand Draco as her Conscript, her security team had a head start, but not a long one, before the news broke and the influx of angry letters, along with a few more sinister threats, started to arrive.

“I see,” came his maddingly curt reply. Draco’s keen expression conveyed a certainty that he knew she hadn’t been fully transparent about the risks she faced.

Her eyes flashed in indignation. The last days had been hellish, and today had been exceptionally draining. They still had to plan for the next set of grotesque things they’d have to do at the Prefector party, and, quite frankly, she was tired of being Magical Britain’s favored punching bag.

Snapping her book closed from the side table, she stalked out of her chair toward the door. 

“I’m going to bed,” she hissed.

She’d barely made it a few steps when her wrist caught in a vice grip, and she was yanked back toward the center of the room where a hard set of steel eyes looked down at her. The cold anger in Draco’s face was darker than anything she’d seen from him.

“Malfoy, let me g-“ she started, but he cut her off.

“You need to tell me of any and every threat, Granger.” His grip only tightened on her when she tried to pull away, and he stepped so close she could feel the heat of his body. “Tomorrow, you will send a member of your security team to Malfoy Manor. Tell them to bring back a canister of soil from each of the four corners of the house. As close to the foundation as they can get.”

She opened her mouth to retort to the command, but he wasn’t finished.

“Next, they will go to Gringotts and access my vault. Instruct the Goblins to take them to the estate jewelry, where they will find an antique silver box inlaid with red sapphire, spelled shut with wards. Tell them to retrieve the box and deliver it here. Have I made myself clear, Granger?”

Her hand had started to tingle from lack of circulation under his grip, and she was confused, because he shouldn’t be able to act out in aggression toward her. The magic binding him would prevent him, forcefully if need be, from attacking her.

Her eyes opened wide in sudden realization. The magic wasn’t stopping him because his intentions were protective, not hostile, despite the anger etched across his face and the tightness of his hold. 

The thought sent a lightning bolt straight through her core, which she tried hard to ignore.   

Malfoy held her glare, and demanded: "Answer. Me.” He punctuated each word, as if daring her to protest.

“Draco, you’re hurting me,” she replied, her voice barely a whisper. She watched the shock reverberate across his face when he looked down at his grip on her arm, and how her other hand had been trying to pry his hold open. He let go as if burned, and his chest heaved, just once, before the mask slipped back into place.

“Tell me you’ll do it.” His voice didn’t break, but she could hear the strain in it, and she nodded. 

“Good,” he replied. 

She moved to turn away again, but his voice called her back, one last time.

“And Granger?”

“What?”

“We have a verification tomorrow.”

Fuck.

She’d known it was tomorrow, she definitely had. She’d just forgotten that, well, tomorrow, was in fact, tomorrow.

Panic welled in her chest, because for the second time, she hadn’t planned anything. But it stilled the minute she saw the smirk on his face.

“You know, for such a clever swot, you seem to make a habit of forgetting important things. You’re quite lucky that I don’t.”

Walking past her toward her wing in the flat, he called back, “Order me to sleep at the foot of your bed. And conjure a collar.”

Well, she thought, that will at least explain the dark circles under his eyes. Her own, she could glamour.

She turned down the corner to the hallway to find him waiting next to her door. “You have permission to go into my room,” she said automatically.

She took a long breath, watching him walk inside. 

Begin scene, she thought.

Her next words dripped with authority, “Since the pathetic miscreants who still breathe free air on your side have made such a fuss, it seems only fitting that you take the role of guard dog tonight.” She flicked her wand, and a slim leather band appeared around his neck, the edges rounded smooth and polished to a shine. “You’ll sleep at my feet until I’m satisfied you’ve learned a lesson on behalf of all of them..” 

He nodded his understanding and made for the floor before she stopped him. There was no reason for him to be that uncomfortable.

“The foot of the bed.” She tossed a pillow to one end, and a spare blanket to the other. The bed was wide enough to accommodate his full height, and she was fairly certain she was short enough to still stretch out fully herself. If she ended up kicking his feet a few times from her spot under the blankets, he would survive.

He simply nodded, and laid as instructed, positioning his face toward the doorway.

She had said ‘guard dog,’ after all.

Sliding into the bed, she remembered their usual deal. Truth be told, she was exhausted, but she wouldn’t renege. “Since this is a scene… do you want to…?”

“You’re tired Granger, and so am I.”

Fair enough.

Looking down toward him one last time, she noted he hadn’t changed from his robes, which struck her as odd. It wouldn’t have taken him long to go to his room, change, and return here. Grabbing her wand, she pointed it at him and transfigured the stiff white robes into a soft t-shirt and lounge pants. Then, because she was feeling particularly peevish, she sent one more spell out.

He looked down at his black sleepwear and gave her an impish smirk, before settling back into position facing the door. She extinguished the lights.

Chapter Text

The room was freezing. Or perhaps that was simply how she felt, once the blood receded from her limbs, pooling back in her core. The air reeked of dark magic, sweat, and piss.

Bellatrix’s laughter split the silence like glass under pressure.

“Crucio.”

Pain hit her, sending fire through her flayed nerve endings. Every part of her screamed—flesh, bone, blood. Her spine arched without her consent, mouth open in a soundless scream as her lungs refused to expand. Time dissolved. There was only the searing agony of the curse, hitting her over and over.

Bellatrix crouched beside her, all teeth and glee.

“Aw, the poor little Mudblood can’t even sing for me. Already too broken.”

Hermione’s blood-marbled spit frothed through gritted teeth, eyes locked on the edge of the ornate rug beneath her cheek—she tried to focus on the design, the colors, the fringe, anything to anchor herself to reality, but she couldn’t. Not when the pain hit her again, and Bellatrix screeched something, her tone a rich braid of rage, hate, and accusation as Hermione’s world narrowed to the white-hot agony blooming behind her eyes—

Hands joined the fray, gripping her body hard and shaking her. A male voice crowded out Bellatrix’s high pitched shrieks.

Antonin Dolohov’s face swam into view, followed by Fenrir Greyback’s. Both leered as they bent lower—the heat of their breath on her neck. She tried to raise her arms to fight them off, but they were lead weights at her sides. She couldn’t move, couldn't get away—Oh, Merlin help, she couldn’t even fight back.  

The shaking increased, as if her body was being battered against the plush carpet, over and over again. She was a balloon untethered in the hands of children. A butterfly whose wings were being plucked. A hand on her shoulder tightened, another held her face as Bellatrix came back into view with something in her hand. A knife, she registered. A flash of silver. This was—they must be—they carved—

“GRANGER, WAKE UP!”

Her eyes snapped open, the darkness of the room disorienting her from the bright chandelier she’d been lying beneath seconds ago. She was still pinned by someone—Dolohov? But her arms shot out this time, shoving against his chest with all her might.

“Bellatrix,” she hissed, thrashing against the weight holding her down.

He didn’t move an inch, but the touch against her face turned gentler. “Shh, it’s alright. You’re alright. It’s over, you’re safe now.”

The room came into focus, along with her pounding heart. Her raw throat and jagged breaths leveled with the rich masculine scent covering her. Clean and bright, not thick with the scent of blood  

“Breathe through your nose, if you can. Then out through your mouth.” Her eyes snapped to the man holding her down, ready to cut into him, this time with her nails, but her mind processed his words, and the concern on his face. “You’re safe, I promise, it's all over. She’s dead. She’s never coming back.”

Finally oriented back inside her flat’s bedroom, her eyes stung.

These fucking dreams.

It took her a few more seconds to steady her breathing, and she realized the cutting chill she’d felt in the dream was, at least in part, caused by the cool of the room against her sweat soaked skin and clothing.

Finally, she nodded at him, signaling her mental awareness had returned. He pulled his hands away and sat up straighter in bed, but otherwise didn’t shift from her side.

“I’m alright,” her voice sounded smaller than she’d have liked. “Thanks. For waking me up.” She pulled herself into a sitting position with shaky arms around her knees.

For a moment it looked like he wanted to reach back toward her. His hand lifted, before he calmly placed it back on the bed. Instead, he asked, “Do the dreams usually happen after attack attempts like today?”

Of course, he’d sussed out the correlation. She wondered if he had similar triggers of his own. Out loud, she said, “I usually take a dreamless sleep after an attack. Otherwise, yes, the nightmares last a night or two. I—well, I was tired this time and forgot.” She shrugged her small shoulders and rested her forehead on her knees, wincing at her own stupidity.

His jaw ticked when she glanced back up. “You really are terrible at taking care of yourself, aren’t you?”

Normally, she would take that as bait, but at that moment she didn’t want to fight—she didn’t have the willpower left in her. So she rubbed her eyes hard enough to see stars and nodded. “Sometimes I get tangled up in all the moving parts of my life, and I drop a ball.”

He must think she was an idiot. Forgetting the verification, for the second time, then missing something as basic as a dreamless sleep potion. She kept a vial of the bloody stuff in her nightstand, for goodness’ sake.

She expected him to dig in further. The bully she’d known in school would have used this moment to taunt her. Merlin, even Harry or Ron would have given her a hard time, though she knew it was more from a place of genuine concern on their part.

But his voice was soft when he spoke, surprising her.

“Not being able to move freely triggers them for me. I have a hard time with the idea of taking dreamless sleep for the same reason—being unconscious and unable to… stop anything.” He swallowed before finishing the sentence.

Fully awake and not terribly interested in returning to sleep, Hermione folded her legs beneath her. One knee rested lightly on Draco’s thigh, but neither moved to pull away.

“Fear of helplessness is part of it for me, too,” Hermione confessed. “The pain of being tortured is terrible, but I’m not afraid of pain anymore.”

Draco hummed in agreement. “I have nightmares about your visit to the Manor. That, and watching our teacher being swallowed whole by Nagini. Everything else just became a twisted sort of normal after a while. I didn’t enjoy it, but I could still sleep.”

His tone was laced with guilt, but Hermione wasn’t sure if it was real or something she’d imagined.

“There were studies after the war,” she said softly. “On the effects of exposure to dark magic. With so many people using it, openly, it meant there was a plethora of observable phenomena. The Ministry ultimately sealed the report, but I read an unredacted copy before it disappeared from the public. Frequent exposure, even without casting dark magic, creates an emptiness, similar to depression, that can last for months if not years. All ability to feel sympathy and empathy are greatly diminished.”

Draco gave a mirthless laugh. “No wonder the Ministry didn’t want it released.”

“What do you mean?”

He raised an eyebrow. His thigh twitched beneath hers. “They release information of ‘questionable validity’ all the time. But they classify it as low integrity data. A report implying the families of Death Eaters may have been acting, in part, under the effects of Dark Magic wouldn’t have played well with their efforts to launch The Program. It wouldn’t sit well for your side to believe we weren’t fully willing participants in the Dark Lord’s plans. Not with the wide net they cast on sentencing.”

She blinked. Of course. Why hadn’t she seen that before? That explained exactly why the report had been buried. Kingsley had been thinking ahead, toward his new goals, even then.

She shuddered and pulled her blanket up to her chin.

“Do you want to try and go back to sleep?” His voice cut through her thoughts, once again.

She shook her head, and he seemed to understand.

“It’s almost sunrise,” he said. “Take a shower, and I’ll make coffee. We can watch it from the terrace and finish our conversation from last night.”

The command sent shivers down her spine, but she blinked them away and nodded.

He stood and frowned at his black lounge wear.

Guessing his thoughts, Hermione spoke. “The verification is scheduled for late morning. I’ll change them back to white before they arrive.” Glancing at the leather collar she’d conjured around his neck, she reached for her wand, intending to banish it.

Draco gripped her wrist and held it.

“It needs to stay,” he said quickly, catching her intent. “It will draw the right sort of attention  and needs some time to chafe against my skin.”

He released her hand and that sick feeling returned to Hermione’s stomach. But she swung her feet out of the bed to walk toward the shower, pausing just long enough to send off a note to her security team with Draco’s instructions from the night before.  

The warmth of the coffee mug between her palms contrasted perfectly with the early morning chill that hung in the air. The sun’s first rays of morning light peaked over the horizon,  bursting in a glorious display.

Turning her head toward the opposite horizon, a ribbon of night still clung to its place in the sky, and a few stars twinkled against it, hanging on until dawn banished them.

Draco breathed evenly beside her, staring steadily out at the horizon from the loveseat on the veranda. 

“What if we fail?”

She surprised herself with the question but didn’t withdraw it.

He cocked his head, considering. His own mug rested on the knee, clutched loosely in his hand. “Did you ask yourself that during the war, too?”

Looking into the chocolate depths of her cup, she shrugged. “I asked myself a lot of things during the war. That was a question, one of many.”

“And what answers did you come up with?”

“That if we failed, I’d probably be dead. If I survived and remained free, I supposed I’d go to Australia to live out my days in the muggle world. Reconnect with my parents, even though they wouldn’t know who I was.”

He considered her in that careful way he had. His blue-grey eyes caught the golden glow of dawn’s light and turned them a color she couldn’t name. “Do you truly think you would have stopped fighting? To live hidden in the muggle world? Even if every person you knew died in the struggle?”

Neither one of them believed for a moment that the Dark Lord would have been content to subjugate England alone. If they’d lost here, Voldemort’s reign would have spread until eventually there was nowhere left to hide.

“No,” she admitted quietly. “I would have kept fighting.” 

Draco gave a half-shrug. “If you were free.”

Something about the way he said it made her pause. There was some missing piece he thought was relevant, but wasn’t saying aloud.

“If I wasn’t free, I imagine I’d be killed.” Her voice was even. The dawn broke into yellows, golds, and corals above them.

He didn’t meet her eyes, and it seemed deliberate this time. His next words were clipped and direct. “Potter would have been killed. Likely Weasley too, as an example of what happens to blood traitors.”

“But not me?”

His voice dipped low, and he finally turned to meet her eyes as he said, “No Granger, not you.” Something undefinable flickered across his features.

And she knew with cold certainty there was something he kept from her.

The leers  and threats from Death Eaters when she’d fought against them flooded back into her mind. 

“Even if he’d passed me around to let his followers rape me, I’d have ended up dead eventually.” She didn’t bother to hide the resignation in her voice. “We heard stories about women who’d been captured. I’m not under any illusion that I’d have died quickly or in one piece.”

Draco's mouth formed a hard line at her words, and he held her eyes as he slowly shook his head. “You would never have been passed around, Granger. You would have been raped by a wizard, yes. Kept by him. Bred by him. But not shared.”

Her lips parted, startled by his certainty. “How do you–“

“Voldemort’s last curse was years in the making.” Draco’s voice was hard and unforgiving, as he cut her off. “As much as he fanned the flames of muggleborn hatred, he also saw the signs of inbreeding starting to show in the old families. He recognized the Slytherin line’s historical power, and believed fresh blood would reinvigorate his magical lineage. He didn’t want Muggleborns to out populate purebloods, no, but he couldn’t employ a full sterilization curse to wipe them out either.”

Hermione sucked in a sharp inhale, the meaning of his words finally hitting. “You mean, The Program… was designed by the Dark Lord?”

Draco huffed a humorless laugh. “In essence? Yes. It was meticulously detailed, starting with the Sacred 28 pairing off with Muggleborns possessing unique talents. He had propaganda responses to objections scripted, ‘An heir and a spare!’ for every family. A traditional pureblood marriage, with a recognized heir, even if the child happened to be birthed from their Muggleborn. So yes, Granger, the playbook for The Program was written and planned by the Dark Lord. He just didn’t envision the power dynamics flipped.”

A chill crept down her spine while Draco spoke. Kingsley’s quick backing of The Program and the Ministry’s coordinated effort to enact it, despite the clear ethical issues and deviation from wizarding laws.

“Kingsley knew,” she whispered through clenched teeth, searching his eyes with the hope that she was wrong. Draco met her with a slow nod.

“Kingsley had every reason to keep magical lines in his country strong, so he took the playbook of the most ambitious wizard who ever lived and made it reality.”

Hermione remembered how hard Kingsley had pushed her to join, not taking no for an answer for weeks, despite her horror at the proposal.

“My name was on the list, wasn’t it?”

He didn’t break eye contact, not even blinking. “Your name was at the top of the list.”

She heard her dark confession echo through her head, followed by the things he’d said under the influence of the potion.

“I imagined you taking me, keeping me to fuck and use, when everything was going to shit around us in the war.”

“I know. I would have. I’d have taken you then just like you have me now. Except I wouldn’t have felt an ounce of guilt.” 

His eyes watched her face, searching for something. She witnessed him recognize the moment she put it all together.

“Malfoy.” It felt like her heart was frozen in her throat as she forced the words out. “Who was I supposed to be assigned to?”

“You already know the answer to that, Granger.” He stood and walked inside.

She flew upright, abandoning her warm drink, and stormed after him.

She wanted to be wrong. She prayed she was wrong. Even when a small part of her didn’t want to be.

“And you would have done it, then?” She hurled the words at his back where he retreated towards his room. “Bred me, without any remorse?”

He whirled around, ice-grey eyes going glacial at the accusation. Draco crossed back across the living room, his features a mask of disbelief. He stabbed a finger into her chest—so hard, she stepped backward. He loomed over her, steering her through the room as she retreated with each of his steps forward. “The thought of owning you…” His gaze clawed over her body as if he remembered every time he’d seen her naked. “Of the depraved things I’d do to you once I had you, brought me the only semblance of happiness I felt for months at a time.”

His voice dropped lower as her back collided with the veranda door, halting their progress. He sized her up, and the hair on her nape rose. Draco’s head shook imperceptibly. “So when you ask what happens if we fail, the answer for you should be simple.” His fingertips trailed the line of her neck down to the hollow of her throat. “You get to punish the man who planned to steal your life, who spent hours fantasizing about it, got off on it dozens–fuck, probably hundreds of times.” His lips were so tight as he spoke, he hissed. His palm slammed against the door beside her ear and she flinched. “I imagined you crawling to me, trying to pretend you weren’t wet for me. Imaged fucking you until your belly swelled with my heir and your heavy tits leaked for my child. I’d have you coming on my tongue while it sucked at your breasts, and would never have even considered letting you go.”

Her mouth was dry. She wasn’t breathing. Wasn’t blinking. Couldn’t hardly move under the intensity of his stare, and the darkness of his words. Their mouths were so close. She could smell the hazelnut coffee on his breath. If she leaned forward—she blinked. No, this wasn’t a fantasy. This was what he would have done given half the chance.

And relished it.

“Why are you telling me this?” Her words were less than a whisper. He hadn’t moved back an inch.

“Because,” His head tilted, and he looked at her with the lethal precision of the Dark Lord’s favorite killer. “I see guilt flash behind your eyes, every time you like something we have to do. You tried not to flush last night at the sight of this collar on my neck.” His fingers trailed down the swell of her breast, skating over her tight nipple, before dipping to her belly, her waist, her hip–until he snared her hand that gripped the fabric of her robes over her core. She hadn’t even realized she’d fisted it as he spoke. Draco tugged her hold free, and pulled her hand up to the collar, forcing her fingers between it and his skin. He wrapped her knuckles tight around it, in a sharp show of ownership. 

Then, he leaned over her, bodies flush, and whispered in her ear. “It’s not just that you feel tainted by the role of Prefector, you feel dirty because it turns you on. A part of you will always remember I was your enemy, and will want me on my knees for you, because winning feels good.”

He sank back a step, and she felt the temperature cool slightly without his body so near.

“So if we fail, you’ll either cast aside your guilt and learn to enjoy it, or you’ll continue fighting to dismantle The Program.” He gave an indifferent shrug of his shoulders. “Because that’s what you do in the face of evil. I may not trust you, but I’ve placed my wager.”

Her face flushed. He knew. Knew she had liked it. Did like it.

The barest flick of his tongue ran over his bottom lip. Hermione’s mouth parted. “Keep my collar on for the party, Prefector. Add a leash to it. My neck should be calloused by then, enough to add truth to your claims.” His jaw locked again, briefly, before he gritted out. “They sometimes spike the drinks with a light dose of Veritaserum. Not enough to be obvious, but it will be harder to sell a lie. They want to be in your good graces, but they don’t trust you yet. We should expect that to happen.” 

Her mind felt heavy with the weight of his confession and what he knew about her, so she simply nodded, numbly, before thinking to ask if a leash would trigger his nightmares.

“It’s possible,” he replied to her thoughts. “Just…” For the first time that day, an ounce of vulnerability crossed his features. “Don’t let go of your end, and don’t pull it tight. If you avoid those things, I think it will be alright.”

When the ministry official arrived for the verification, he found Draco on his knees next to Hermione’s chair, where she sat comfortably reading while she stroked a languid finger through his hair. The dark leather of the collar stood out starkly against the white of his robes.

Hermione looked up and offered a polite greeting, apologizing for the extra time it took to pass through her wards in the Floo.

“We had a security incident last night,” she said apologetically, gesturing to the terrace where a halo of light buzzed and pulsed around a shrunken ball that levitated about a foot above the ground. The signature ward marks of the house shimmered within the magic holding the grenade that had arrived through the Floo the night before. “Harry always insists I increase security after things like this, at least until he’s been able to thoroughly investigate.”

“I quite understand, Ms. Granger.” A quill scratched notes on his clipboard as he spoke, before his attention turned to Draco. “I take it he has been less than obedient this last week?”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” she replied, a smile in her voice as she adjusted her fingers to rim the edge of the collar. “I’ve just found myself more fed up than usual with Death Eaters, and since Draco was one, he gets to pay for it.”

The quill whirled, likely recording her exact words. With the inspector’s wandtip, she called forth the memory of the Floo alarm sounding, then her order to Draco to wear the collar around his neck. She managed to present the entire sequence with cutting efficiency, even with an air of boredom. Apparently satisfied, the official moved to Draco and cast a similar spell.

He took several moments longer in Draco’s mind, seeming to revisit a part of it more than once. Hermione was on the cusp of anxiety when the spell dropped and the official withdrew from Draco’s mind, a small smile tugging at his face.

“Well Ms. Granger, it seems you are making good progress. I’ll see you in a week’s time.”

Hermione cut Draco a hard look after she saw him out. “What was he so focused on?”

Draco met her fiery stare with a cool one. “He noticed you didn’t order me to stay with you after the attack, and that I chose not to leave your side, even to change. I suspect he concluded I was either worried about my own safety, or it was a sign of concern for yours. Either option is a win, from the Ministry’s standpoint.”

She leaned a shoulder against the chair and cocked an eyebrow at him, arms crossed. “And which one was it?”

He met her eyes for a brief moment, before his expression steeled. “My best hope of escaping this hell is with you, Granger. I have a vested interest in your safety, because it overlaps with my self-interest.”  

The arrival of an owl cut off further conversation, dropping a large package from its talons. Draco greeted it with a treat, while Hermione untied the parcel and cast a security assessment on it. While it bore the seal of her own team, she took extra precautions after an incident, as they sometimes weren’t isolated events.

The owl left with a satisfied hoot, and Draco inspected the parcel between them. Hermione snapped it open with a flick of her wand, revealing four brown canisters tucked safely inside. Further inspection revealed they contained dirt and were marked with directional symbols indicating which corner of the Manor estate they’d originated. Draco seemed pleased as he lined them up and examined the contents, while Hermione read the short note tucked between the jars. It indicated her team would proceed, as instructed, to Gringotts next and deliver the box to her door once it was retrieved.

“Are we making mud pies?” She quipped, staring at the jars.

His look of genuine horror brought a smile to her face, before she clarified. “It’s something muggle children play at, not real food.”

“I suspected you couldn’t cook, Granger, but it’s a relief to know your culinary pallet isn’t quite that low.” He tossed the words back at her as he strode toward the kitchen, then called out. “We’re making a bit of blood magic.”

She paled. “Malfoy!”

“What?” He strode back into the room with an unconcerned look, casually holding four stoppered glass vials and a very large knife.

“That’s a form of black magic,” she hissed. “You’d be thrown into Azkaban if the Ministry found out.”

He raised a quizzical brow at her, as if waiting for her to finish that thought. Which she didn’t.

“Granger, we just discussed the fact that Kingsley has a vested interested in me fucking a baby into you. He’s not going to put me in Azkaban over a little bit of familial blood magic. He’ll never know.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits, appraising the containers before her. If she wanted the full weight of Malfoy Manor’s protection, she needed to do this. “Fine.”

Draco seemed to take her retort as agreement, and he cheerfully flipped the kitchen knife into the air, only to catch it deftly by the blade. He extended the hilt toward her.

“What exactly do you think I’m going to do with that?”

“The binding magic prevents me from harming myself, so you’ll have to do the honors, dearest Prefector. Done with a blade, not a wand, for the magical signature in my blood to remain undiluted.”

Her mouth went dry, and a tremor ripped through her before she could stop it.

She heard the knife thump to the table, and warm hands cradled her face a second later.

“Salazar, I’m sorry, I should have broached that differently, Granger. I wasn’t thinking.” Then, “Take a breath, please.”

She hadn’t realized she’d been holding one, and sucked in an inhale, battling away memories of Bellatrix carving her open with a knife while she writhed on the floor.

His hands left her face, only to run up and down her arms. The motion was methodical and soothing. He didn’t stop.

Someone cleared their throat. “Am I interrupting something?”

She jumped at the sound of Harry’s voice. She hadn’t heard him arrive, but she’d known it was possible he would come to collect the warded grenade himself.

“I asked her to do something without thinking about how it tied back to her war trauma.” Malfoy’s voice was matter-of-fact. “She just needs a minute.” Draco’s eyes never left her face as he spoke.

“I see.” Harry’s voice was closer, and she felt the flat of his hand press between her shoulder blades.

“I’m alright.” Her unsteady voice belied her words, and she winced. “Hello, Harry.” A smile cracked across her face at the sight of her friend standing over her. His brow was knitted with concern. “You’re regressing.”

Harry had personally checked every threat against his friends for a long time, until he finally accepted that his team of Aurors were, in fact, up for the job. Hermione had gently pressed him to lean on them more, after discovering him slumped over, asleep at his desk with three empty pepper-up potions scattered before him. He’d cast himself to monitor every Order members’ safety post-war and had stayed up for six days on end when they’d received back to back threats. After that, she and Ron had a reckoning with him, and he reluctantly released his hold on some of the Order’s personal detail.

Harry’s boyish grin hinted at an insincere apology. “I’ll have you know I forwent the last two security alerts, thank you very much.” He glanced at Malfoy, before looking back at her. He offered her a palm and pulled her to standing. Malfoy’s arm remained on her lower back until she was steady on her feet. She didn’t miss the way Harry’s eyes tracked the casual touch between them. “Circumstances have, erm, recently changed, and all recent threats must undergo reassessment.”

Subtlety was never Harry’s strong suit, but she appreciated the attempt nonetheless.

“You mean now that she’s fucked off the remaining blood supremacists by sullying a high-profile pureblood?” Malfoy didn’t mince words, and Hermione blushed at the implication. Harry, however, seemed to appreciate the candor.

“Exactly, yes,” he replied. “We’ve been tracking heightened activity in lingering supremacist groups, and other auror teams have seen an uptick in black market exports of dangerous objects.” Harry nodded toward the explosive contained in the ward bubble outside. “Neville wants a look at the grenade, too. He’s our consultant on the growing concern of poisonous magical plant imports.”

“They’re getting creative, then.” Malfoy seemed to be thinking, but Hermione noticed his fingers hadn’t left the small of her back, despite Harry having stepped away from them. Looking between Hermione and the knife, he asked gently, “Perhaps you could step out of the room, while Potter assists me?”

Harry turned to the jars of dirt, the empty vials, and the large, discarded knife. He’d been a staunch opponent  of the use of dark magic during the war, so Hermione was surprised when he immediately understood Malfoy’s intent, giving a quick nod of approval. Staring at the Chosen One in shock, she blurted, “Who are you and what have you done with Harry Potter?”

He answered with a sigh and pulled his glasses off to clean them with his robes. “Ward enhancement with estate magic, especially in old lines where the protection has been reinforced for hundreds of years, spanning multiple generations, is very strong. The Ministry’s most powerful ward-breakers haven't been able to break through the Malfoy Manor’s defenses, and they’ve been trying for over a year.”

That information intrigued Hermione. “With no living Malfoy residing at the Manor, shouldn’t they have weakened by now?”

“Yes, and they have. Some.” Malfoy’s tone carried a smirk. “But we could be gone for a century, and they wouldn’t weaken enough to let the Ministry in.”

Harry nodded, replacing his glasses and frowning slightly, as if pondering a question. He glanced at Malfoy, then Hermione, but remained silent. Draco caught the look, and rolled his eyes. “Yes, Potter, but I highly doubt she’ll want to vacation there or even occasionally visit.”

Hermione looked between the two men, bewildered and a bit annoyed at being left in the dark. Feeling her growing ire, Draco turned back to her. “I’ll need a drop of your blood, just a pinprick, to add to the mix. Is that alright? We can use a needle, just a small poke on your fingertip.” His hands had started to rub her arms again, his expression hard.

“I’m fine, Malfoy, blood doesn’t scare me. It was the idea of, well, you know.” He nodded in understanding, and they both ignored the knife. “But why do you need my blood if the magic links to your estate?”

Harry answered for him. “His blood will activate the earth magic inside the jars of soil. It will then syphon off a portion of energy from the Manor’s wards, redirecting it here. Like a muggle backup generator, ready to increase ward protections if needed. It will remain in place for as long as Malfoy remains here, alive. And if we introduce your blood to the soil, along with his, its protection will extend to you, too.”

“We’ll be adding your blood to a locket from Gringotts as well,” Draco added. “It’s a family heirloom that the Manor’s wards bind to. When you leave this space it will cast a protective layer around you, so long as you’re wearing it. Not impenetrable to all forms of attack, but it recognizes most cursed artifacts and dark spells quite easily. At least the kind that Voldemort’s remaining followers could get their hands on.”

Her mind ticked through the information.  “Would adding my blood give me access to the actual Manor?”

Draco hummed, and gave her a mock warning smile. “If I find my Library pilfered, I shall know it was you.”

Despite the horrors she associated with the Manor, her curiosity peaked, and both Harry and Malfoy laughed at her expression.

“Let’s get started before Malfoy changes his mind.” Harry circled them, moving closer to the table. “Hermione…?”

“I’ll stay,” she said quickly. Then at Draco’s frown, she amended, “I’ll just turn around for that part.”

Draco’s hands finally slid off her arms, and he began to roll up his sleeves as he moved to take a seat at the table. She slid into the chair next to him, but angled it so she faced the terrace. The clink of the vials opening and being arranged filled the silence, until Harry spoke.

“Would anyone like to explain to me why Malfoy is wearing a dog collar?”

Hermione choked on a cough, and Malfoy’s hand patted her back as she heard him reply to Harry, his tone serious. “Granger thinks it's kinky.”

“I do not!” She shrieked, momentarily forgetting herself and turning around. Malfoy’s hand shifted instantly from her back into a sharp hold on her neck, keeping her face pointed away.

“They do say it’s the witches who read the most you have to worry about.” Harry said, his voice equally grave.

“I’ll worry about the bookworm, you’d best worry about bat-bogey hexes. How is the Weaslette these days, still terrifying?”

“Yes, an absolute menace,” Harry replied, voice filled with pride. “I nearly had to arrest her last week for threatening to hex a Quidditch reporter into a flobberworm.”

“Let her off with a warning, did you Potter?” Draco’s tone was sly. 

Hermione interjected, “He can’t arrest her, he’s terrified she’ll enjoy being handcuffed and will escalate her antics to keep him doing it.”

Draco spit a laugh which Hermione almost broke his hold to see. She imagined the crinkled lines at the corners of his eyes and Harry’s cheeks flushing a brilliant red. Served him right for the collar question. 

“All done.” The hand at her neck fell away, and she turned back to face the men. Harry must have cast a wordless healing charm on Draco, as there was only a small series of pink scars on his palm. Otherwise, the four neat vials of blood stacked neatly in a row.

“Right,” Harry said, transfiguring the knife into a needle. He began to move toward Hermione, but Draco reached out a quick hand and slipped the needle from Harry before he could react.

Seeker reflexes.

Holding his hand out for hers, he searched her face again for any sign of fear. She placed her upturned palm in his and huffed. “I already told you Malfoy, I’m not scared of a little blood, and I’m certainly not worried about a pinprick. Just do it already and quit mollycoddling me.”

“He already did it,” came Harry’s voice. She looked down to find he was right, and the first fat drop of blood rolled from her finger toward the open vial of Draco’s blood that Harry held, ready to catch it. He shuffled the others in quick succession, capturing a single drop in each, before sealing her tiny prick with a healing spell. Draco didn’t look at her as he capped the vials, shaking each one gently to mix her blood in with his.

“What next?” she asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

“Now we wait until nightfall. There is a full moon tonight, which is lucky. It will make the magical seal stronger.” Draco answered, nearly done tucking the vials of blood safely into the box with the canisters.  

“You won’t need magic to cast it?”

“No, the magic is already seeded into the earth. It will recognize the magical signature in my blood, and will start the reaction all on its own.” 

Harry nodded in agreement and pushed back from the table.

“And I’ll be taking that grenade with me,” he said. “The aurors want to get started as soon as possible. We spent the morning reshuffling cases to prioritize this one.” 

Hermione rose and guided him to the stasis charm where the ward bubble contained the explosive.

Harry withdrew a bag from his robes and shifted the orb into it with a practiced flick of his wand. Hermione recognized the shimmering magic on the bag as a complex series of containment charms, which would add an extra layer of safety as he transported it back to the Ministry for examination.

Draco trailed behind as they walked together to the Floo. Turning to Hermione, Harry’s expression was serious. “I know I always say this, but ‘Mione, be careful. There is an extra layer of dissent around your actions right now. They don’t see what we’re working toward. And some of the tracked threats…well, we’re taking them very seriously.”

“I know Harry.” She swallowed the thick knot in her throat. “I expected it. I’m being careful, I really am. I promise.”

Harry turned to Draco, his expression turning slightly awkward. “Malfoy,” he began, eyes trained on the collar around his neck instead of his face. “I want you to know that I-we-well, none of us agree with what’s happening.”

Draco merely tipped his head in acknowledgement, his face expressionless.

Turning back to Hermione, Harry placed a quick kiss to the top of her head, before stepping through the Floo and disappearing in a flash in green sparks.

Chapter Text

Hermione spent the afternoon in meetings and the evening dining with an art collector she courted to lend pieces for the library’s next exhibit. When she finally returned to the flat, the lights were low and Malfoy sat in the living room reading.

She paused at the threshold, watching his pale fingers trace a line of text as though he were memorizing it. She’d felt him leave earlier, sensed the brief pulse of his magic as he descended in the elevator, then wandered the Library for hours. She hated to admit it but she was quietly relieved when he’d ventured out again, the small act of independence felt like victory, albeit only a single battle rather than the larger war. 

He looked up just as she kicked off her shoes and pressed from the doorframe. 

“Muggles,” he said dryly, eyes flicking to hers under dark lashes and closing the book with a soft thud. “Are remarkably creative when it comes to killing.”

She raised her eyebrows and glanced down at the text in his hands, not quite able to view the title. “Yes, they’ve been practicing for centuries.” 

He placed it carefully on the table, and sat forward, elbows to knees and threaded fingers just beneath his chin. He gave her a long, appraising look as she slumped down on the couch opposite him. “I researched Muggle war history today,” he replied by way of explanation. The way he sat there was far too casual, with one arm hanging loosely off the side of the couch, hidden from view. “I’m starting to suspect Muggle technology inspired many wizarding spells, unless it was the other way around. There is a surprising amount of… overlap.” 

She hummed as she tucked her feet under her, but otherwise wasn’t terribly interested in talking about war. She’d had enough of it for a lifetime. “Did your box arrive?” 

He gestured lazily toward the dining room, then gave a resigned sigh when she jolted at the sight of the arm he’d been trying to hide.

He had a bandage wrapped, rather clumsily, around his palm. 

"Draco! Are you hurt?” she asked as she launched forward from the couch. In two quick strides she stood above him.

“It’s nothing, Granger. Sit down.” He tucked it quickly into his robes. “The box’s wards require blood to release it.” He shifted backward, away from where she stood, but as he was seated, there was only so far he could go. “But it was a strong enchantment. Capable of detecting the difference between a vial of blood and blood from the vein.” 

She frowned, forcing herself to take a step back. It was just blood. Not another attempt on their lives. “The bindings should have stopped you from hurting yourself.” 

He gave her a wry smile. “I only needed a few drops, and you may not have heard, but I can be quite stubborn when the occasion calls. I was able to endure a small prick.” 

She knew instinctively he was hiding something. 

“Give me your hand.” It was an order, and she felt no guilt as the compulsion clawed through his willpower. His teeth gnashed behind pressed lips while Draco’s palm rolled open and extended. She untied the makeshift bandage, and as the cloth fell away, she gasped.

There was a deep, jagged cut slicing through the meat of his palm. 

“Malfoy!” Her eyes flashed accusatorily.

He blew a long breath toward the ceiling; his ire at the command fading. “Resisting the compulsion doesn’t exactly make for a precise aim. Things…slipped a bit in the end.” He winced as she spread his hand all the way open, which caused a pool of fresh blood to bubble out from the wound. 

“You should have waited for me,” she admonished, reaching into her robes for her wand.

“The point was to do it before you got back,” he replied matter-of-factly. 

She whispered the healing charm over the cut, and watched as the skin stitched itself until it was a faint, pink scar. Satisfied, she raised her eyes back to his, understanding now why he’d done it alone. 

“I told you,” she hissed, disliking his use of kid gloves on her. “I was just surprised this morning. If you didn’t need much, I could have used the needle instead of the knife. I would have been fine.” 

“It was fine my way.” 

She narrowed her eyes and considered giving him an order not to try something like that again, before deciding against it. 

“The moon’s risen.” He nodded toward the windows. “I’ll get started.” He rose from his seat, and their fingers brushed. She almost reached out again—wanting to force a promise from him, through strength of will rather than compulsion. Had the knife slipped a few inches farther up it would have hit a vein, possibly spilling more blood than he could stop without training or magic. He didn’t seem to understand what he’d done was reckless and unnecessary. But, instead, she took a measured step backward and freed space for him to pass. 

Draco walked toward the terrace, and Hermione followed, too curious not to watch the process unfold. He added a large wooden bowl to the supplies on the table, and carefully placed a strange assortment of items beside it.

She watched, fascinated, as he uncorked the first vial of their combined blood, and poured it into a container of soil. He repeated the process with the other three jars, before combining them into the wooden bowl. His hands worked the mixture, methodically kneading it. If she weren't so aware that it was dirt and blood, the process would have reminded her of making bread dough.

Malfoy broke the silence. “Would you open the locket? I’d rather keep this mess somewhat contained.” 

She stepped forward, but hesitated before reaching for the piece of jewelry. It was delicate, on a fine golden chain. Long, so it would hang well below the neckline of most clothing, invisible even if it wasn’t glamoured and out of sight. The locket itself was a small oval. Delicate leaf-shaped etchings ran along its perimeter, circling a rose cut into its center. At the heart of the flower was a small but brightly shimmering diamond. It was clearly quite old, but beautiful nonetheless. 

“It won’t curse you.” A smile played on his lips as he watched her hand hovering over it. “That would negate the point of all this bleeding.”

“It wouldn’t surprise me to learn your ancestors routinely cursed their belongings to spite Muggleborns if they touched them,” Hermione replied, the humor in her voice undercut with something more serious. 

“They absolutely did, but not to this one.” He looked at her, eyes sincere. “We have other pieces that could sustain this enchantment, but this is the only one I knew for certain didn’t have dark magic attached to it. Without being able to check for it myself, that is.” 

She lifted the delicate piece of jewelry and clicked open the latch. The initials ‘H.M.’ were engraved inside, the font cut into elegant lines. 

“Hamala Malfoy,” he said as he balled a small mixture of the blood and earth in his palm. “Named for–”

“Hamal, the brightest star in the Aries constellation,” Hermione finished. “A beacon of war, some might say.” 

His eyes flared and he slipped the tiny, compact disc of earth directly over the initials, then pressed it flat with his finger. Hermione snapped it closed, then placed it back on the table, casting Scourgify on his outstretched hands. Once clean, Malfoy gently lifted the locket and studied it. The gemstone in the center caught the light of the moon, filling with its shimmering, silver glow. 

“Why is there a rose etched into a locket made to represent war?” 

“Hamala was the first lady of Malfoy Manor to establish the rose garden, which still exists today. She liked to work with her hands and often returned with scrapes and smears of blood across her clothing. Her husband, Nikodemos, healed her wounds himself, never allowing the house-elves to do it. He seemed to think the flower pendant paired well with her namesake.” 

Malfoy stepped behind her, and the heat of his breath lightly danced across her neck as he slipped the long chain over her head and settled the locket in place. Hermione’s magic spiked and hummed, electric and vibrant, when the pendant settled. The brief touch of his fingers on the chain around her throat sliced through all other thoughts and her attention snapped to them, just as he finished with the clasp and pulled away. She breathed in sharply, her eyes wide as she turned her head profile to him. 

“It’s all right,” he said quickly, inhaling at the same time she did. Maybe he felt it, too—the electric feeling of the locket. “It’s acclimating itself to you and pulling from the magical well of the estate. It will settle in a few minutes; it just needs to redefine its purpose now that it’s aligned with you. But you might feel different for a while as the enchantment takes hold.” He gave her an encouraging smile, and turned back to the bowl, his movements slower than before. 

“Different how?” Hermione asked, remembering to breathe once more.

Draco ignored the question and walked to the far edges of the terrace and placed small amounts of the mixture at each corner. Her wards shimmered as the soil absorbed within the glimmering boundary. Hermione startled as the wards flickered, then went still as if all power extinguished from it.

“What happ–OH!”

In a brilliant display of color, they hummed back to life, more tightly woven and stronger than ever before. 

“Wards recognize intent,” Malfoy explained, his expression careful, as if he was still inspecting the strength of the wards and deciding if it met with his approval. “They will absorb anything they deem useful in making them stronger.” 

She could feel the energy of the wards begin to grow, just as she felt her own well of magic near the pendant spiking. 

Malfoy repeated the steps in the corners of each and every room, closet, entryway, and even the Floo. She followed him as he worked, watching in fascination as the magic reactivated. 

Once complete, the wards buzzed with energy. She felt more connected to them than the day they were first created.

She lifted her finger to the last ward, feeling it warp around her, recognizing her magic as an intrinsic part of its enchantment, when something decadent and delightful tingled across the skin of her other hand. She drew in a sharp breath that was almost a moan and leaned into it. Her eyes fluttered down to see it was only Malfoy’s finger, ever so lightly touching the inside of her forearm. 

“Oh,” she gasped. 

“Do you feel it?” He was standing close behind her, deliberately near. The wards locked into place, and the spell humming through her limbs felt like every one of her senses were on overdrive. “A bit overwhelming, isn’t it?”

“Yes, overwhelming.” She turned in place, inhaling his scent through her nose. It was perfect, like the most delicious thing she could ever imagine. Her mouth watered and without thinking, she leaned in further to him and inhaled again. 

“The magic is tied to my line,” he said softly, taking a measured step backward. “I imagine yours is reacting to it.” 

“Mmm.” She took another deep breath and an inadvertent step closer. “Do that again.” 

His fingers ran from the tip of her longest finger, to the sensitive pad of her palm, and ended at the soft flesh along her wrist. Soft and light. 

Hermione didn’t recognize the sound that came out of her, but she imagined this was what it must feel like to purr. 

“More, again, please.” 

Each word was slow, and she had to tear her mind away from him to concentrate enough to form them. 

“Granger.” It felt good to hear him say her name, but it held a note of warning and an apology that she instinctively disliked. The thrumming magic in her wanted to be closer to him. “I said you’d feel differently for awhile, I didn’t expect—”

The sudden urge to lick him sprang to her mind and it took every ounce of willpower she could summon to stop herself. However, she let one arm lift. His words died on his tongue staring at her barely concealed restraint.

He moved to step back and she gave a distraught mewl as her magic cried out in distress. He stopped, and blessedly stepped back into the space he’d just vacated. She vaguely registered his concerned frown but couldn’t fathom why. Not when he’d just fixed the bad thing he’d done, and the magic exalted at his proximity. 

“Malfoy, I want to lick you. Is that normal?” She was trying her hardest to focus, but her hands were now wrapped in his robes and her eyes were glued to the pale skin of his throat. There was the barest hint of stubble there. What would that feel like against the flat of her tongue?

“Perhaps a little out of the ordinary,” he conceded. “But not anything to worry about.” 

She cooed at the sound of his voice and the feeling of his breath again. It felt like heaven; the entirety of her magical core focused on it, wanting to wrap itself around him and nestle in. Her magic reached out towards his, intending to meld her core with his own.

In the next breath, she hissed in outrage. Her magic was right there, but his felt locked away. 

Electricity sparked under her skin as a bright, white light surged from her fingertips, rippling over him, as if hunting for the source of their separation. It came to rest as thin streams of light around the bands at his wrists, and her magic grew hot with the urge to rip them off. The circles of light grew brighter around the bands. Her magic despised them, and a certainty filled her that if she destroyed them everything would be much, much better. The bands of light twisted like snakes, coiling around the gold at his wrists, then reared back, poised to strike. 

“GRANGER, STOP!” 

The sharp command startled her and the magic paused, waiting. Her eyes were large and round as she looked up at his face. Hurt from his rebuke whipped through her, and she almost flinched.

“That would violate multiple sections of the Prefector agreement and will get you thrown directly into Azkaban, without ultimately being helpful.” His face softened and his voice gentled as he saw her crestfallen expression. “Pull your magic back into yourself, Granger.” 

She wilted a little further. Her magic wasn’t pleased at the idea of leaving his bands in place, and she hesitated, torn between listening to him and listening to it. 

“Listen to me, Granger.” His voice turned soft and coaxing. “You’re clever enough to break these, we both know you could. It's just not time yet.” 

Something in the back of her mind begrudgingly acknowledged he was right, and her magic slowly shifted away. 

“Good, that’s perfect, just like that.” 

She perked up a little at the praise, and he smiled while observing her reaction. He didn’t seem upset anymore, and her magic returned its focus to him, but moved away from the bands. 

Her hands crept up his robes and encircled his neck, the pads of her fingers rubbing his skin. He sighed as he pulled her arms away, encircling her wrists loosely. Hurt once again trembled through her at the rejection, when all she wanted was to be near him, like her entire core demanded it.  

“You aren’t in your right mind.” His voice was low and deep, and she wanted him to keep talking forever. “If there’s anything you really want to do, we’ll both be here when this wears off, yeah?” 

How could she adequately describe wanting to pop open an invisible doorway to his rib cage and nestle herself inside next to his heart? Simply put, she couldn’t. But she nodded anyway and moved to tuck a stray curl behind her ear when she caught the scent of him on her fingertips. Without breaking her focus on his mouth as they formed words like ‘anything you really want to do’ and ‘we’ll both be here when this wears off,’ she raised a shy finger to her lips and gently licked it. 

Her eyelids flickered with pleasure at the barest hint of him that she tasted there. 

He groaned, and she liked that sound, too. 

She’d just pulled the second finger into her mouth when he reached out and tugged it away. And she let him because his touch felt wonderful against her wrist, and her other hand would have that same taste. She raised it straight to her mouth and sucked. 

Seeming to give up, he pulled her flush to his side and walked toward the sofa. Delight welled up in her when he sat, and she moved immediately to sink onto his lap. 

“No!” His tone was firm but he kept his voice gentle this time. “Merlin, Granger, I’ve only got so much willpower.” He took several deep breaths in quick succession, holding her away with straight arms. “You will sit beside me. Beside. Me.”

She gave a loose grin at the invitation and scooted into the seat next to him. The magic purred again as she curled up and buried her head into his chest near his shoulder, breathing him in deeply and basking in the heat that radiated from him. 

This felt right. 

The world narrowed to warmth, breath, and the lulling thrum of his heartbeat. Sensation blurred into comfort, and she let herself go, following the happy tug of her magic into sleep as it cocooned against him. Exhaustion washed over her, like a candle that flared too brightly and burned too quickly. 

From far away, she thought she heard the words “You’ll be the death of me, witch” as sleep closed around her consciousness. 

Hermione woke some time later, feeling warm and happy. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so rested. Her arms stretched out like a cat, and she flexed into the feeling as she took in the room around her. 

But—a hand rested on her thigh.

Another one loose in her curls.

She looked up, to find Malfoy looking down.

At her. 

Her head cocked and her brow furrowed in a frown. 

“Welcome back,” he said, his voice warm and faintly amused.  

“Malfoy,” she questioned, realizing her head was currently in his lap, “did I fall asleep?” 

“You did,” he answered. 

Her frown deepened as she took in her position, relative to his, and immediately bolted upright. “I was sleeping on you.” 

“I believe not even the entirety of the Wizengamut would disagree with that statement,” he replied evenly. 

She pulled back, pinning back her wild hair with her fingers. “But—why?” 

He cocked his head, a mirror of her own gesture moments before. “Why what?” 

“Why was I sleeping on you?” 

A lazy grin spread across his face. “Your wards took to the magic from the Manor quite enthusiastically. Your own connection to them is, perhaps, a bit stronger than I initially suspected.” He cleared his throat and had the decency to look chagrined “You nearly yanked the Ministry’s bands off my wrists, and I’m fairly certain you would have started breaking things if I’d tried to move away from you.” 

Horror washed over her as the recollections flooded back in, along with a wave of humiliation. She’d never known her magic could take over her senses like that. The feeling had been heady and utterly intoxicating. Only now, sober, her face turned pink under the raw heat of a blush. 

“I wanted to lick you.” Her magic had yearned to touch his, to tangle itself up in it. She wasn’t sure if it had been sexual…but then again, it certainly wasn’t purely platonic either. Oh Merlin. 

Amusement flickered across his eyes as he watched her. “To be fair, you aren’t the first witch to want to lick me, or wizard for that matter.” 

She recoiled to the far corner of the small sofa, which wasn’t nearly far enough to hide her deepening blush, so she satisfied herself with burying her face in her hands and groaning. 

He finally took pity on her, and chuckled as he tugged her hands away from her face. His touch still felt lush and heavy and grounding but it didn’t hold the same power as it had before her nap. “Relax, Granger. It was more intense than I expected, but that’s a good sign. The ritual to interweave the Manor’s and your flat’s wards worked exceptionally well.”

“I’ve never felt anything like that,” she croaked out, shame filling the words. “It was like…like some kind of drug.”  

He cocked an eyebrow. “I somehow doubt you have much experience with drugs. But yes, your magic shoved the rest of your consciousness aside there for a bit.” 

“Why didn’t it affect you?” she asked with a hint of accusation. “The enchantment demanded more of your blood  than mine. Shouldn’t it have been stronger for you?” 

“Who said it wasn’t?” He flashed her a predatory grin. “Maybe I just have three Prefectors worth of denying my basest urges under my belt. And you have—”

“None,” she groaned. No experience there. Which was quite obvious in hindsight.

He cast a quick smirk at her irritated expression. “But, my best guess is…” He held up his shackled wrists, letting the firelight dance off the bands.”The bonds heavily repressed my magic.”  His shrug was light and inconsequential. “I felt it surge when yours did, but then it hit an iron wall. I could still feel it after that, warmer than it usually is, but it calmed around the same time yours did.” 

Oh. He hadn’t felt the all-encompassing need she did. A part of her liked knowing that he would have been affected if not for the sodding cuffs.

“How do you know when mine calmed if I was asleep?” She realized her frown had deepened when his thumb pressed against the lines in her forehead, forcing her to relax the muscles there. 

“I know, Granger,” he said, “because your magic slithered out like devil’s snare roots and wrapped itself around me. I couldn’t have left, even if I wanted to. Once you fell asleep, it kept pulsing every few minutes to confirm I hadn’t moved. I tried to reach for my book at one point, and it became highly agitated. It doubled in size around my chest and arms, then huffed like a toddler having a tantrum. When it finally eased, I took it as a sign that your magic had returned to its normal equilibrium and realized mine had, too.” 

She was fairly certain the guttural sound she made conveyed the full weight of her desire for immediate death. 

He responded by laughing at her openly, though it wasn’t mean-spirited. “At least we’ve learned one thing.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Judging by the gleam in your eye, I’m not sure I want to hear the thing you’re about to say, Malfoy.” 

“Your magic is absolutely as hard-headed, distrustful, and hell-bent on getting what it wants as you are.” 

“Yes, well,” she replied while collecting her dignity from the floor, “at least it had the good sense to stop before it pulled the bands off entirely. I’d hate to have to go to Azkaban before I finish dismantling The Program.” 

Malfoy’s smirk widened. 

“It’s a good thing you enjoy following instructions, and a bit of praise.” 

She dove behind the cover of her hands again, wishing Hagrid’s three-headed dog had finished her off back in Hogwarts’ first year, all so this moment could never have happened. 

Malfoy stood and indulged in a long stretch of his own. Merlin, he must have been cramped, stuck on this couch without being able to move for hours while she—Merlin save her, please let her not have snored. He walked to the bar cart and poured a finger of whiskey into a glass, then repeated the process, returning with a drink for both of them. 

“This will take the edge off,” he said, extending the crystal.

She accepted it, taking a large swig while he settled back onto the sofa. 

Looking into the depths of her glass, she swallowed thickly. 

“Thank you, for not taking advantage of…that.” 

He stilled, and his voice was deadly serious when he replied. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Granger.” 

She looked up, and the words were out before she could think to stop them. “But you have though. If the war had ended differently. If I’d been…assigned to you. You said—”  

The question had raged in her mind all day. What he’d confessed, the things he planned to do with her— it went against every ideology she believed he held. His family was part of the Sacred 28, but he’d been willing, eager, even to sully his bloodline with a Muggleborn? 

Then, in his memories, he’d resisted the command to rape a fellow Conscript, fought it to the point of pain, and still held it as a hard line even now. 

He sighed deeply and rubbed two fingers against his temple, his brow creasing. “It’s a fair question. I’m not sure I have a good answer.” 

Quiet hung in the air between them, until he spoke again. 

“I was a teenager, when I had those fantasies. That doesn’t excuse anything, but the mind of a teenage boy will always turn toward sex if given half an opportunity. I was under no illusion that you would want me back then, but at the same time, I’d been given explicit permission as a directive from the Dark Lord himself to do exactly what my hormones had been screaming at me to do for six bloody years. And I was…” He stopped to consider his words. “In a twisted way, I imagined your being given to me was the best possible outcome for you if Voldemort won. I’d protect you from everything else, make you safe from everything, except me.” 

Hearing him explain how he’d justified it, how he’d wanted to protect her even while hurting her, made a sick sort of sense in Hermione’s mind. 

After all, it was the same sentiment that she had in the darkest hours of the night, when she lay awake with the unabashed ache of her own desires.

It was an eerie contrast to what she’d command him to do the very next night, in the name of protecting him from people who would do worse to him—to save him— to save others—to dismantle The Program. 

All were reasons she gave herself for allowing this thing between them. 

Morning came earlier than Hermione would have liked. She rose stiffly from bed, and from the faint smell of coffee in the air, she guessed Malfoy had started the day without her.

She moved through her routine mechanically, doing her best not to think about the evening ahead or what would be demanded of him during the Prefector party. Instead, she reached for her favorite distraction—work.

Less than an hour later, she stepped from her room in a crisp pencil skirt, high-collared blouse, and smart pumps. All business. A thermos of coffee awaited her on the counter when she entered the kitchen, and she eyed it gratefully. Malfoy was nowhere in sight, and Hermione realized he likely wanted distance to mentally prepare himself for what was to come in a few short hours. 

She swept the thermos from the counter without a word and walked straight past his wing before Floo’ing to the office; she had no stomach for small talk today either.

Time, naturally, was impatient when she most wished it would slow.

The business wing of the library contained a series of modern offices, artfully designed to compliment the exposed stone walls of the old building. Hermione’s featured an open layout, with a large oak conference table positioned to the left side for board meetings, and on the right was a set of comfortable light leather couches arranged in front of floor to ceiling windows for more relaxed discussions with her business associates. 

This was where Harry sat as he briefed her on the grenade. Neville’s report confirmed it contained a substance derived from a poisonous plant which triggered vivid hallucinations while gradually shutting down the body’s essential functions, eventually causing death by asphyxiation. Not exactly how she’d pictured snuffing out. But the attackers apparently didn’t care if their weapon killed Malfoy, too, so long as it got her.

She moved to the conference table as Harry greeted her Chief Security Officer on his way out. Elias Grant was a retired Auror, and remained in regular contact with Harry’s team. She internally braced as he entered her office, knowing his report would contain vivid reminders of the fact that she remained a target in the eyes of blood purists. 

“Good morning Elias,” her greeting was warm, despite the tightness in her jaw. “Would you like a cup of tea, before we get started?” 

She always made the offer, and he always declined. A stiff formality had been drilled into him during his years as an Auror, and he wore it like a second skin even now. It was his way of showing her that he took her protection seriously, a fact that she had come to appreciate over the years. 

He remained standing, his back perfectly straight and his hands clasped behind his back as he detailed changes in the frequency and tone of intercepted mail. Several breach attempts had been made on the building itself; all involving angry young wizards—barely in their twenties, out for blood. None of them posed a credible threat in terms of strategic planning or skill. One had evaded capture, slipping away by the skin of his teeth. The other two were less fortunate, and now awaited trial in the Ministry’s holding cells.

“Our team remains vigilant, Ms. Granger. Your safety is our highest priority,” he concluded, tone formal and face set in a hard line. 

She gave him a grateful smile, and didn’t remind him to call her Hermione. “I appreciate that, please tell the team I am grateful for their dedication.” 

The rest of the day blurred into more meetings. The Apothecary’s financial statements were strong. St. Mungo’s independent research team reported slow but steady progress in their magical remedies stocks, much of it fueled by Neville’s greenhouses. Then came the Library curation board eager to debate new acquisitions. Normally, she’d relish this particular meeting, but today, her mind wandered.

Finally, the time came to return to the penthouse and Hermione could delay it no longer. The elevator doors shut softly behind her as she took a deep, steadying breath before walking into the living room.

Malfoy was there, lounging in a chair with his Muggle war history book open on his lap once again. Two glasses of whiskey sat on the table before him, fresh ice clinked as if he’d just added them a second before she’d entered the room.

He must have heard the lift.

She strode for her glass and swiped it from the table, barely taking a breath before the sharp burn slid down her throat. When she looked down at Malfoy, she did a double take—his hair was freshly cut, the style crisp and refined, yet effortlessly suited to him.

"Welcome home, Granger," he said without glancing up. He turned a page casually. She squinted. Too casually. "I had some gowns sent over for you to choose from. They're in your room." He flipped another page.

She nearly choked on the sip she’d just taken. "I beg your—you what?"

His expression remained bored, as peered up under black lashes. "For tonight? You do remember we have a sex party to attend, yes?"

She froze, unsure whether to answer or flee.

He sighed. "You must strike the right balance between intimidating Prefector and sensual participant. From what I’ve seen of your closet, you don’t have anything that would fit the bill.” He ignored her outraged squawk. “So I visited the gift shop downstairs and asked to borrow their owl. The secretary was all too happy to oblige. I sent a message to a French designer who runs a dress shop here in England, gave her your measurements, and asked her to send over a few options."

Hermione wasn’t sure which part stunned her the most.

That he’d decided nothing she owned would ‘fit the bill.’

That he somehow knew her exact measurements.

Or that he had spent actual time describing the kind of attire he thought she should wear—to a complete stranger.

“All of them,” she said aloud, offering no explanation as he raised an eyebrow.

She offered no further explanation as she stood, and he returned to studying his book. 

“I’d personally pick the red one, but it’s up to you,” he called as she left the room.

Hermione ignored the garment bags hanging in her open closet, and the fact that he could apparently enter her room without permission if she wasn’t in it, instead she twisted the shower handles to full blast and slunk inside the steam where she once again tried—and failed—not to think about the evening ahead.

When she stepped back into her room, wrapped tightly in her robe, she found Draco leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed. 

She wanted to ignore him. To stride past and face the dresses he’d hand selected to capture the role of Prefector.

But instead, she stopped halfway between the bathroom and the closet. Her whole body tensed again, fists clenched into tight balls.

She could feel his eyes on her before he spoke. 

“Invite me in, Granger.”

“Come in.” The words came through gritted teeth, every syllable taut with tension. She wondered if her prior command requiring him to obtain permission before entering still truly blocked his access. She suspected it didn’t. 

He crossed the threshold with his usual grace, moving to stand in front of her without hesitation.

“You don’t owe anyone in that room tonight a damned thing,” he said. “You don’t have to please anyone. You don’t have to pretend you want to. You’ll barely need to be polite—in fact, a bit of rudeness will only make them work harder to earn your favor.”

“I know,” she replied, but her voice betrayed her. She didn’t know that; she only knew of Slytherin’s acting in that manner. The only time she’d tried to act that way was when she impersonated Bellatrix at Gringotts, and that was… well, safe to say it was a very near miss. She looked up at him, at the unshakable calm sculpted across his face like it had been carved there—practiced and perfected until even his fear looked elegant. She envied that. Envied the years of Slytherin conditioning he endured, the ability to wade through a pit of vipers with a smile.

“So what is it, then?” he asked.

She bit her cheek, asking herself that same question. “It’s the first time I’ll act out this role for something other than Ministry verifications, or when you and I…” She blinked rapidly and shook her head. “Something about being her in public makes it more…real.” 

“It is real, Granger.” His voice was firm as his fingers moved to the chain at her neck, tugging the locket free from beneath her collar. He thumbed the stone embedded in its surface, his touch reverent.

“Hamal’s star wasn’t only called the Soldier’s Beacon. Its other name was the Eye of Aries. Wherever it shone, war was never far behind.”

She said nothing, but his gaze flicked to her throat as she swallowed.

“You’ll be Hamala tonight,” he said, voice lower now. “The Prefectors will look at you and see a beautiful, prickly rose. They’ll admire you, when they should be afraid. But the Conscripts? Word will spread that it's time to fight back…” 

A beat passed.

“…and they’ll know Aries is coming for them.”

Hermione sucked in a breath as he stepped away. 

Her heart pounded, but she wasn’t afraid anymore. Her Gryffindor spirit rose to roar against the Prefectors, The Program, the Ministry, and even Kingsley himself. 

She wouldn’t back down, wouldn’t step back. Not until she’d ended this. 

Malfoy looked at her and a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth before he turned to leave. He stepped back into the door a moment later, voice casual: 

“Oh, and Granger? Wear the red one.” 

Chapter Text

The attempted attack was the excuse Hermione needed. 

She’d tied her message to an owl’s leg earlier that morning, requesting a change of venue for the evening, citing an increased need for security. Of course, she’d apologized politely and offered to host the gathering in the art section of the Archive wing of the library instead—knowing full well the space would significantly elevate the glamour and prestige of the event. 

And the witch had accepted immediately.

The first guests arrived at twilight.

A string of lanterns—soft and golden—hovered beneath the elegant stone archways of the gallery, flickering gently in the warm night air. The main library was closed to the public, and a series of immaculately dressed footmen waited in the cavernous foyer to greet guests as they arrived by Floo, escorting them personally to the event hall. The low hum of music curled out into the dark like an invitation.

Hermione stood just inside the threshold; calm, composed, posture straight, expression poised. Not cold, but not overly familiar either. She greeted each guest personally: an outstretched hand, a faint smile, a carefully measured warmth that could be interpreted however the recipient wished. Gracious to those who were polite. Aloof to those who tested boundaries too early.

Draco stood obediently behind her, an inscrutable presence in tailored white—with the leather collar in stark contrast. Owned, claimed, and utterly visible as her Conscript. He didn’t speak to anyone at first. Just watched with a mask of cool detachment as Prefectors and their dates ogled him. Some more obvious than others, but still everyone looked.

Hermione marked each interaction, catalogued the ones who looked at her too long, or not at all. And the ones who openly leered at Draco, eyes predatory. 

The Conscripts were different, arriving behind their Prefectors with short, efficient steps. They generally kept their eyes down in a show of submission. Even then, Hermione caught a few stolen looks toward her…and toward Draco. 

By the half-hour mark, most of the guests had arrived, and Hermione made her way toward the Archive to join them.

The first thing she noticed was the scent.

A mix of aged parchment, dried roses, and something darker—musk or perhaps myrrh. It was just unsettling enough to enthrall the senses and allude to the secrets ensconced in those ancient tomes.

Hermione had chosen a collection of artwork meant to thrill even the most modest of Prefectors. Soft lighting illuminated walls filled with scrolls, sketches, watercolors, and etched prints. All depicting bodies bound, some with cords, others in shackles, caught in the midst of erotic acts. Beneath each piece was an etched metal plaque listing its name, history, and most recently, its owner: Hermione J. Granger.

This particular collection was a subset of the Eros Archive. Every piece ancient. Every piece Muggle.

Hermione had worked for over a year to secure the collection. At the time, she’d believed the wizarding world would find the similarities between Muggle history and their current reality to be an uncomfortable parallel.

But that was when she was still openly protesting The Program, before she’d become a Prefector. Now, the collection’s presence signaled something altogether different: An alignment between The Program and the ancient history of the Muggle world she had been raised in.

Chairs and chaise lounges were nestled amongst the works, upholstered in velvet and facing no particular direction. The arrangement invited guests not only to admire the art, but to also indulge in activities the scenes inspired. One of the last minute touches Mandy must have added. The witch had been insistent Hermione not be left with the ‘entire burden of hosting’ when she’d arrived early to oversee final preparations. 

Hermione rounded the perimeter to survey the room, a flute of champagne in hand. Her deep crimson gown pooled behind her in an elegant train, while the top struck a bold balance between structure and seductive femininity. The neckline dipped just below her breasts—clean lines meeting daring cuts—and clung tight enough to suggest curves without baring them. 

The color felt like blood, and Hermione felt like war.

Draco stood beside her, steady and observant. 

“They’re already whispering about you,” he murmured, his lips close to her temple but never touching. “And me. They’re wondering what we’re like together.”

Hermione smiled faintly. “They wouldn’t like it if they knew.”

“No,” he agreed, the ghost of a finger trailed her spine, voice low. “They wouldn’t.”

“Hermione!” Mandy called from across the room, and Draco’s touch juddered, then disappeared as if she’d only dreamt it. The witch made her way over. While Hermione had greeted guests at the entrance, Mandy continued in her role as hostess inside, basking in Hermione’s reflected glory.

“I can’t believe I haven’t asked yet, but how are you doing after the attack?” Mandy asked, concern painted theatrically across her face. Hermione had no trouble at all believing it, the witch had clearly prioritized the arrangement of furniture and her own attire, which Hermione noted somehow matched the aesthetic of the room. “Must have been dreadful. I can hardly imagine,” Mandy prattled on. Theo followed behind, his pale Conscript robes arranged perfectly against his tanned skin. The expression he wore was a mask of practiced neutrality as he gave a small nod of greeting. His eyes lowered in deference, but caught for a moment at the exact spot where the disillusioned locket rested on her skin. The barest hint of surprise sparked through his eyes, before she blinked and it was gone.     

Hermione stepped toward Mandy and allowed their arms to link as they circled the gallery, offering Draco cover to speak more freely with Theo without drawing attention.

“These things happen, unfortunately,” Hermione replied, her tone edged with polite boredom. “But I do appreciate your flexibility with the last-minute venue change. My security team absolutely refused to let me leave without an escort, and I daresay that would have put a damper on the…free-spiritedness of the evening.”

Mandy smirked knowingly and nodded. “Yes, we are a close-knit community. I’m so glad you understand.”

Hermione was about to reply when Mandy caught the eye of another Prefector and waved them over.

“I’ve been dying to introduce you to absolutely everyone,” she gushed. “They’re all simply drooling to meet you, of course. And to see what you’ve done with Draco.” Hermione didn’t miss the way Mandy’s eyes clawed up and down Draco’s body. “I think you’ll make many new friends tonight.”

The introduction was the first of many.

Hermione was glad she’d reviewed the guest list in advance. Even so, it was a challenge to keep track of them all. Not that it mattered really, because she didn’t particularly care if she forgot one of their names. Draco had been right: the colder she seemed, the more they simpered for her attention.

Still, she made an effort to engage each guest in conversation long enough for Draco to speak quietly with their Conscript. And before long, she found she no longer needed to move at all; wherever she stood, people simply gathered.

She’d begun tallying how many times the word obedience slipped into their questions, almost always in reference to Draco. So many ‘How did you do it’s’ and ‘What’s your secret’s’ and ‘You must give us advice’s’ that she nearly lost count. She had just ticked off number seventeen when she caught the tense line of his jaw out of the corner of her eye.

Turning quickly, she realized the reason for it: Mandy was summoning over a new couple.

“Hermione, this is Lisette and Michael Ashford,” Mandy said, as if unveiling a prized exhibit. Hermione half expected her to follow it with a dramatic ‘ta-da!’ as if the couple deserved some form of applause.

Hermione gave no reaction whatsoever.

Mandy hurried to fill the silence. “You have a great deal in common with the Ashfords,” she said with a wink at the couple. “Lisette was your Conscript’s first Prefector.”

A chill crept up Hermione’s spine. Still, her face remained neutral—smooth as stone—as she extended her hand toward the approaching woman.

“Ms. Granger, we’ve heard so much about you,” Lisette gushed, her tone saturated with practiced enthusiasm. “It’s titillating to meet you in the flesh.”

Hermione took her hand, noting the affected softness in the witch’s voice, the slight bend at the wrist, the implication of shared intimacy. Then came the damp, overly familiar grip of Michael Ashford. She suppressed a grimace.

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. Granger,” he said, voice too warm, eyes lingering too long.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Hermione replied flatly. Her tone made no attempt to match the words as she glanced behind the couple at the clearly pregnant female Conscript who trailed behind them. Lisette caught the direction of Hermione’s stare and smiled demurely. 

“After Draco, we mutually decided a female Conscript might be more manageable,” Lisette said with a lilting, saccharine tone. “We worked hard to bring him to heel, but he’s quite the handful, as I’m sure you’ve discovered for yourself.”

Her eyes flicked toward Draco, the glance laced with equal parts resentment and lingering lust.

Hermione didn’t bother mincing words. “He can be quite cooperative,” she said coolly, “when he wants to be.”

“Yes, of course,” Michael cut in. “But I’m sure you’ll agree, the purpose of The Program is to ensure Death Eaters learn to be cooperative even when the situation doesn’t suit them. It’s a necessary part of their corrective conditioning.”

He made the mistake of reaching for Draco as he spoke, intent on trailing an unsolicited finger across the side of his face. 

Hermione’s magic surged to the surface like a drawn blade. The moment Michael’s hand made contact, a violent burst of force repelled him, sending him stumbling back several steps. The crack of the impact was sharp, far stronger than the bracelet should have been. 

The ripple of energy across the room was immediate.

The disillusioned locket between her breasts hummed with what felt like satisfaction, and Hermione wondered at it. 

Faces around them turned, startled.

She pulled a mask of composure across her features.

“I understand Draco’s... reluctance, under the supervision of former Prefectors, led to certain incidents we would rather not see repeated,” she said, voice calm and clipped. “So I’ve placed magical constraints on him to ensure he cannot physically interact with guests unless I’ve granted him explicit permission,” she continued, lying with the effortless grace of someone who had learned well from her enemies. “Unfortunately, Mr. Ashford, the magic does not discriminate. It corrects anyone who initiates unauthorized contact, former Prefector or not.” Her smile was tight. “I’m sure you understand, it’s for your safety after all.”

A beat of uncomfortable silence passed, and Hermione sipped her champagne.

Mandy finally spoke, her voice chipper in that familiar, overly-soothing sort of way. “That’s quite ingenious of you, Hermione. I’m sure we all appreciate the extra effort to keep him... under control.” Her gaze flicked toward Draco, then caught on the collar he wore for the first time. Her eyes lingered, then slowly shifted back to Hermione with a renewed interest. “Do I dare to hope that the additional constraint means you plan to demonstrate his newfound obedience?”

The moment Hermione had been dreading—the first of many the evening was sure to bring, had arrived. She met it with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I could be convinced,” she said smoothly. “After all, you were so terribly accommodating in allowing me to shift the venue. I suppose I am in your debt.”

Of course, the change in venue had been no small matter of security. It meant the catering, and the drinks, were under her control. Which reassured her that no Veritaserum would find its way into her glass.

Before Mandy could respond, Hermione turned to the Ashfords. “I do hope you enjoy the art exhibit. Have a pleasant evening.”

Then, without waiting for a reply, she turned on her heel and walked away. She felt Draco’s purposeful steps behind her. Mandy, caught off guard, had to pivot quickly to keep pace.

The witch fell back in step beside her, voice pitched in quiet concern. “I thought you’d get on with the Ashfords,” she said. “Don’t you like them?”

“Like them?” Hermione repeated, as though the question were foreign. “It’s not personal. I just don’t have much respect for weak people.”

Mandy’s expression tightened slightly, but Hermione continued, her tone cool and unhurried.

“I’m sure you understand the burden that comes with being a Prefector. Some of us are suited for it. Some aren’t. Pretending otherwise only creates messes the rest of us must clean up, which I am now doing.” 

Mandy seemed uncertain of herself for a moment, but Hermione watched her expression shift as the snub toward the glamorous actress and her husband registered for what it was: a social recalibration. By distancing herself from Lisette and Michael, Hermione had effectively elevated Mandy in their stead, signaling that she was the Prefector the war heroine deemed worthy of her company.

“You’re quite right,” Mandy said, her tone at once turning conspiratorial. She didn’t seem to notice Draco and Theo speaking in low tones behind her. Hermione, however, caught their reflection in the mirrored glass of an etched sculpture ahead—just as the two wizards appeared to reach some unspoken agreement.

“It’s sad, really,” Mandy went on. “That the Ministry isn’t more selective in its vetting process. You’d think they’d be more cautious with Conscripts of a certain notoriety, at least. They probably only selected her because she photographs well, anyone who wears that much makeup certainly should.”

Hermione gave a polite hum of agreement. She followed Mandy’s gaze as it drifted to their Conscripts now standing together, composed, faces inscrutable, and clearly aware they were being watched.

“Ours do make a lovely set,” Mandy sighed. “I know you aren’t ready to let him loose unsupervised, and of course I respect your process. But perhaps he could be constrained to participate in something smaller with my Conscript?” The witch gave her a conspiratorial smirk. “Believe me when I say, there’s something deliciously thrilling about watching two wizards together.”

Acid churned in Hermione’s stomach, but she kept her expression smooth. Her gaze returned to their two Conscripts, neither of whom had moved. They understood exactly what was being discussed.

“They are pretty together,” she murmured, the words tasting like ash. She swallowed against the bile rising in her throat, then turned her eyes toward the far side of the gallery, using the moment to disguise her disgust.

“There’s a room just off the side gallery,” she said lightly. “The setting is rather more…” She feigned the effort of selecting the most proper word. “Exclusive.”

She turned to Mandy, catching disappointment flickering across her face. “Or did you intend to invite even the less notable guests to join us?” Hermione let disdain lace her tone, sharp and haughty. She knew Mandy wanted a spectacle—but she’d do what she could to limit the number of witnesses for what was coming.

Mandy hesitated, clearly weighing her options. In the end, the promise of a performance outweighed the lure of a crowd. She nodded once, then agreed to subtly invite a few ‘close friends.’ 

Hermione didn’t have to turn to feel Draco behind her as the witch disappeared to gather her hand-picked entourage. He stepped close, his presence radiating tension, a warning she could feel without needing words.

“Theo understands what will happen. He expected it when Brocklehurst told him I’d be here tonight.” His voice was a soft whisper, meant only for her. She felt mildly comforted that at least the other wizard wouldn’t be caught off guard.

“Your little performance earlier might mean we can skip the leash,” he added. “It was a strong demonstration of control. Well done.” 

“It should be me giving you a pep talk, Malfoy—not the other way around.” Weariness crept into her voice. 

He was quiet for a moment, then murmured, tone still low, “I’m better at internalizing my feelings than you are, Granger. We’ve established this.”

She gave a single nod in acknowledgment. “Do you want a drink before it starts?”

He chuckled darkly. “Do you see any other Prefectors offering drinks to their Conscripts?”

A few choice curses flared in her mind as she glanced across the room. He was right. A few small groups had begun to form around the chaise lounges, and the behavior shifted. Prefectors grew bolder with their touches, their stares, their desires. None seemed to care if their Conscripts were uncomfortable. 

She clenched her jaw and finally asked the question that mattered.

“Are you okay, Draco?”

Her words hung in the air for several seconds, before he finally answered. 

“I’m prepared.”

Hermione forced herself to look indifferent as Mandy returned to her side. Her selected guests had already begun slipping discreetly toward the side room, and Hermione followed, stomach twisting tighter with each step.

When she entered, she had to stop herself from grimacing. A dozen people filled the space. So much for a select few. Mandy’s definition of ‘close friends’ was clearly more ambitious than initially advertised. 

Her stomach churned at the sight of a single chair, positioned near the far wall, facing the room. The Prefectors formed a half-circle around it, leaving an open space for their Conscripts, like a stage. The seat was empty, spotlighted by soft, flickering sconces that cast shadows across the stone floor. Everything about the setup felt filthy. Hermione hated it.

Someone slid the door shut behind them, and it latched with a sharp click.

The cloying laugh of Lisette Ashford sent a wave of fury through Hermione’s chest as she saw the couple standing just inside the door. Her head turned sharply to Mandy, irritation written across her face. The witch immediately looked away, a semblance of guilt written in her features, although it was short-lived. 

Mandy cleared her throat as the guests found their places. “I know we’re all grateful for Prefector Granger’s dedicated work with her Conscript; who, as we all know, has an obstinate streak.” She cast a lascivious glance toward Draco, and the crowd mirrored it, no longer bothering to conceal the way they ogled him.

“Tonight is a special treat, as we will finally get to see a demonstration of The Program’s most difficult Conscript brought to heel.” 

An appreciative murmur went through the room. Hermione wanted to hurl a Bombarda Maxima at all of them, but smiled ingratiatingly instead. 

“He’s still too dangerous to be shared privately,” Mandy went on, “but Prefector Granger is confident he’ll remain in line while under her supervision here. And I’ve offered the services of my own Conscript for this demonstration.”

Then came the pause, the weight of expectation landing squarely on Hermione.

She met it with clipped efficiency. “Malfoy,” she said. “Step into the center of the room and face me.”

Her heart dropped as he left her side and walked forward. Each step away from her felt like a strip of skin peeled back, exposing too much. 

She met his eyes as he faced her, and spoke the next command. “Remove your robes.” 

He held her gaze as his hands rose to the fastenings. One by one, he undid them, slow but precise. When the fabric slipped from his shoulders, a hand reached out from the crowd to take them.

They wanted the view to remain unobscured. 

Draco stood tall, shoulders squared, hands at his sides. Waiting, obedient. Ready for her next order. Hermione’s mouth was dry as she held his iron stare. Her lips felt chapped. 

Turning to Theo, Mandy spoke again, tone thick with excitement. “Help Malfoy off with his shirt.”

The dark-haired wizard stepped forward, obedient to the command’s compulsion, pausing only to secure Hermione’s consent. She gave a curt nod.

Draco broke eye contact with her just long enough to glance at Theo. His expression remained unreadable, but Hermione suspected it was some unspoken message between him and the other wizard. Permission. 

Then his gaze returned to her own.

Theo stepped close. His fingers moved to the top button of Draco’s shirt, fingers unhurried and steady. He conveyed neither a desire to rush through the performance nor a wish to prolong it. Like a man fulfilling a task he neither questioned nor savored.

Theo, like Draco, moved with all the poise and grace of a pureblood Slytherin. 

When the last button gave way, he slid his fingers beneath the hem and pulled the shirt free from its neat tuck within Draco’s trousers and belt. Wordlessly, he circled behind Draco and eased the fabric down his arms, before passing it to the crowd. 

A ripple of hushed voices made its way through the room like a wave cresting. All eyes on Draco now.

He stood half-naked in the center of the room, his face expressionless. The ridged lines of his abdomen led sharply downward, the cut of his hips barely concealed by the waistband of his trousers. The leather collar at his throat, coupled with the golden restraints on his wrists gleaming under the soft spotlight, served as reminders of what he was. Of what he was meant to symbolize… to them.

Hermione broke eye contact as a moan came from somewhere farther in the room. A wizard stood behind his female companion, his wife, Hermione presumed, and was stroking her breasts over her robes as they both remained laser-focused on Draco. 

Hermione’s cheeks heated. She hadn’t thought they would do that. Her eyes returned to him, and she saw the truth laid bare. The room wouldn’t hesitate to take their pleasure at his expense. 

“Remove your robes, too, Theo,” came Mandy’s command, voice high in anticipation.

The wizard stepped out from behind Draco and began undoing his own fastenings. His green eyes remained fixed on the far wall, and his face revealed nothing of his thoughts. 

He handed his robes to the crowd without a second glance, revealing the fitted Conscript attire beneath, identical to Draco’s. A chorus of low, feminine sighs met the sight of his toned body.  The sleeves of Theo’s shirt were already rolled to his forearms, and the top button undone. Hermione wondered if Mandy had instructed that in advance. The effect was calculated, casual enough to seem unbothered, but perfectly positioned to show the lines of his neck, the flex of muscle in his arms, the way his throat worked as he swallowed.

Even Hermione, despite herself, couldn’t deny his appeal. He was beautiful. A small flush burned at her cheeks at the realization that she was reacting to Theo, and to the scene that was about to happen. Something hard waited in Draco’s eyes when she returned her gaze to him, and she forced down a guilty swallow. 

Mandy turned toward Hermione. “Would you please have your Conscript take a seat, and order him to keep his hands on the armrests and feet on the ground?” She smiled lightly, as if asking a perfectly reasonable favor. “It will ensure he doesn’t attempt to harm mine, even if he doesn’t like what happens.”

Hermione nodded once and met Draco’s gaze.

“Take a seat, Malfoy.”

He obeyed, settling into the chair that had been positioned beneath the lights, alone in the center of the circling crowd.

Hermione understood Mandy’s reasoning and ground her teeth around her next command. 

“Spread your legs.”

Draco shifted, knees angling wide, enough for someone to kneel between them. His posture appeared almost relaxed, with his back pressed against the stiff fabric of the chair and his body angled open. The hardness in his eyes and the pulse of the vein in his neck told her he wasn’t.

She kept her back straight and her voice clear when she gave the next order. “Put your hands on the armrests of the chair.”

He moved his hands as instructed, and placed them, palms down, against the fabric.  The room buzzed in excitement as they watched him obey the commands, powerless against the compulsion. Several more moans followed, now from a variety of voices. Hermione didn’t bother to look. 

She hated the next command, but it was better than physically binding him. Her eyes still held his, and she knew he expected the next words. “Keep your hands and feet in place until I give you permission to move them.” She swallowed, then continued. “Acknowledge the order.”

A beat went by, then he dipped his head slightly, the bare minimum to comply. Another ripple of excitement shivered through the room.

"TheeThee, shall we open the floor for suggestions?" Mandy addressed Theo, voice conspiratorial. The dark-haired wizard turned his face toward his Prefector, expressionless and unmoving as Mandy turned to the crowd. A wicked grin spread across her face. 

Hermione’s heart thrummed to a staggering halt. Draco’s soft stop list played vividly behind her eyes. Public nudity. Public performance of sex acts. Restraints. Things they’d known, he’d known, tonight would entail, but agreed would be worth it. 

This hadn’t been part of the plan though. 

Blanket orders to comply with instructions given by others. 

At no point had she expected the entire room to command her Death Eater, even if it was through another Conscript. It was one thing for Hermione to direct his actions, it was another thing entirely for someone else to. She looked toward him, watching for any of their signals. If he asked, she’d shut the whole thing down. But he simply returned her stare, and remained still. 

“I heard they are old friends,” rang out a voice. 

“Let’s see a nice, friendly kiss between the Death Eaters!” someone roared, then guffawed.

Mandy nodded toward Theo, a clear directive that she approved. Hermione’s heart kickstarted again. “Warm his mouth up a bit first.” Her smile widened with the instruction. 

Theo gave a silent nod, then stepped around the chair, stopping only once he was standing behind it. Leaving nothing between Draco and the room. Theo’s hands sunk into Draco’s shoulders, his thumbs kneading, as if he wanted to release some of the tension he found there.

Hermione saw him tense more under the touch.

Theo’s fingers rose, threading into the hair at the back of Draco’s head and tilting his face up, forcing him to break eye contact with Hermione. Theo bent down and licked across Draco’s upturned mouth, once, twice, then a third time before placing a wet, open mouthed kiss against him. 

Draco’s mouth parted—but barely. 

“Pretend he’s a pretty witch and play a bit!” A peal of laughter filled the room, and at the suggestion, Theo’s delighted Prefector ordered him to obey. 

Hermione's toes curled into her shoes. She forgot how to breathe. The crowd was taking control, as if she were a boat lost at sea. She opened her mouth to do something—call it off? Make a demand of her own?

But then, Theo released his head and Draco’s eyes found Hermione’s once again. A lucidity flickered in them and her breath evened. They were still a team. Still operating together. And he hadn’t given her the signal yet. Hermione willed herself to relax. Tanned hands slipped down Draco’s chest, caressing his pecs as if they were breasts. His fingers ran across skin in slow circles, growing smaller with each pass, and they pressed lightly over the nipple at the center. 

Someone cast a mirror charm, and Hermione’s fists clenched at her sides as the structures materialized around the two wizards, giving onlookers unrestricted access to watch the proceedings. 

Theo’s fingers trailed lower, down Draco’s stomach, across his abdomen. His movements remained languid, his touches light. Images of the caress, across her own skin, burned at the back of Hermione’s mind.

And even as she tried to force the thoughts away, Hermione’s thighs squeezed together. 

Draco’s expression was hard as he fixed her eyes in his stare. He couldn’t know, could he? But something in his face told her that he did. 

“Maybe they were more than friends!” someone chortled, and the room reverberated with snickers.  

Her eyes flicked down, and her blush deepened at the outline of his hard length, straining against the fabric of his pants. Draco tilted his chin up, somehow managing to look down on her even though she stood above him. The gesture was subtle, but seared straight to her core. 

Oh gods.

“Stroke him!” 

Draco’s jaw ticked in irritation, and Hermione’s head whipped toward the voice of Michael Ashford. 

Theo’s hand trailed obediently lower, until his firm palm began to pump Draco’s length through the fabric, unhurried and skilled. Hermione’s breath caught as Draco’s face morphed. His lips flattened with unspent rage, and he swallowed hard at the onslaught of pleasure. The room saw it too, and a ripple passed through the crowd, a swell of satisfaction at the first visible reaction from the once feared Death Eater.

Hermione’s breasts tightened across her blouse, nipples peaking under the lightest brush of her bra. It wasn’t right, what she was feeling. But Draco’s eyes on hers as Theo pumped… It was— 

She whimpered aloud.

Thankfully, a cloyingly feminine voice swallowed the noise. Then, she realized who it was. Lisette gave a shrill order. “Pull out his pureblooded cock! Show us what’s so bloody special about it.” 

No, she thought. No, she shouldn’t allow him to go through with this. They could figure out another way to get the information they needed, Draco didn’t have to submit to this public display— 

When Theo’s hand slid to the clasp of Draco’s belt and flicked it open, Hermione’s protest stuck in her throat. All words were lost in her head.

It gave way with a soft metallic click, then slipped free under Theo’s sharp tug, forcing Draco’s hips to rise briefly with the hard movement. The sound of rustling cotton coupled with Theo’s hand as it continued on its path toward Draco’s trapped, straining length. 

A vein in Draco’s neck stood out against his alabaster skin when Theo’s hand disappeared under the fabric of his waistline. He pulled his cock free, and the entire room went completely still.

Hermione’s mouth went dry.

Draco’s muscles strained against the compulsion to remain immobile as Theo knelt at Draco’s side, far enough away that the group could see every glorious inch of him. His olive-toned fingers wrapped around the marble-white of Draco’s shaft. And simply… stayed there.   

Everyone’s breath caught high in their chests, tension rose like balloons filling too fast with helium.

Hermione thought Draco was going to break. His face contorted. A flush traveled off the hard planes of his chest. She waited for the signal. One twitch of his muscle to indicate he was done, and she’d disapparate them on the spot. But with great effort, Hermione watched his gaze lower, from her eyes, to her mouth… then down to her breasts.

The entire room gave a great exhalation when Theo stroked up and down for the first time—pumping the soft flesh covering his rigid shaft in a familiar way. 

Draco twitched at the sensitivity. But he didn’t break the command. 

“You have excellent control over him, Hermione.” Mandy spoke loud enough for the room to hear, and Hermione jumped, remembering herself. “Under any of his other Prefectors, he’d have broken the compulsion by now.” Turning toward Draco, her eyes gleamed on his collar and she added, “He’s such a good boy for you.” 

Hermione understood now why Mandy invited the Ashford’s to watch. 

Lisette clearly caught the jibe and jumped in. “Draco responds best to a wet handjob. But I suppose your Conscript wouldn’t know that.” The witch stepped forward, moving toward the two wizards. 

Hermione saw Draco’s eyes darken as he clocked the movement; raw magic crackled in the air. Alarm ran down her spine as power rolled inside of her, its intent on one thought. 

Unbind me. 

Her hand moved of its own accord toward her wand and the room suddenly grew darker, colder. Hermione cast a frantic look around, ready to find some cover for what she was certain was his surge of magic. Then her eyes landed on Lisette’s sultry movements as she crossed in front of the circle, and Hermione realized why he was so angry. 

Before the witch could take another step, Hermione swept forward and cut her off. Hermione took up her place between his planted feet as Theo’s hand worked beneath her. Her eyes burned into Draco’s, forcing his attention back to her. 

As if in slow motion, Hermione’s hands found his thighs. Her knees bent, and she lowered herself between his spread legs. Her hair fell forward as she bowed over him, face posed inches above Draco’s cock. When a loose curl brushed the skin of his stomach, he let out an audible breath. Watching Theo’s hand pump, just a hairsbreath below her mouth, felt electric. She glanced up, under half-hooded eyes and met Draco’s blown pupils. His lips parted an imperceptible amount, and the surge of magic she’d felt rolling through the room suddenly… stopped. 

Hermione spit then—directly onto Draco’s cock. 

She didn’t hear the murmurs behind her, nor did she pay attention to the wolf whistle as she slowly rose again, straightening the folds of her crimson gown back into place.

Without even a passing glance at Lisette, she strode for the edge of the ring, and resumed her commanding position with a slight smirk on her face. 

Lisette can rot, she thought. And the glint in Draco’s eye made her think that maybe, just maybe he’d heard it.

The head of Draco’s cock glistened as her spit dripped slowly onto Theo’s pumping hand. Half the room radiated with tension, Lisette’s posturing had been a clear challenge to Hermione’s authority. She felt eyes crawling over her, already realigning alliances in their heads. The others couldn’t tear themselves away from the performance. 

Theo dipped his head to mouth against Draco’s neck while his fist reached a fever pitch along Draco’s shaft. His hand captured the moisture of her spit, spreading it across Draco’s cock with each deliberate stroke. When he reached the tip his fingers tightened, sinking over the head, confident and sure, before sliding down in ever rougher yanks. The wet, rhythmic sounds that followed were obscene—slick, pumping—eliciting another wave of moans and keens from the gathered audience.

Draco’s forearms quivered at the tension building in his body. A trickle of sweat found the line of his jaw, trailed his Adam’s apple, and then settled in the hollow of his throat.

She ached to go and taste it.

Hermione’s throat bobbed, unable to tear her eyes away from him, unable to stop the slick forming between her thighs. Draco sucked in a sharp breath as his eyes roved her body, and his hips canted forward in the slightest of movements while his hands and feet remained pinned. 

The small sign of desire coursed through the audience. Somewhere close, a woman climaxed. A filthy, gasping sound.

Draco’s pale form was a blazing light against the dark backdrop of the room, and he looked at her as if she was a rabbit and he was a wolf. Hungry and trapped, both in the chair and in his own body. A slave to their pleasure; the end, inevitable.

She watched for his signal.

Someone else, this time from her left, cried out.

With another pulse of Theo’s hand, Draco flinched, and Hermione’s breath stopped high in her chest. She knew, by now, his tells. She knew when he was close to—

His eyes squeezed shut when he finally broke, and his head fell back. 

She watched for his signal.

His fingers twitched against the armrests, straining against the invisible chains that held them in place. 

She watched for his signal.

His entire body went taut, every muscle locked in resistance. The room reacted instantly, humming with electricity as though they fed off his denial.

She watched for his—

Black pupils swallowed his blue ones as his eyes flared open to find hers.

And when he groaned, she just… watched.

The sound was raw, broken, ripped from him as his climax tremored through him, violent and involuntary. White spurts of cum coated Theo’s fist, more dripped onto the floor. Every contorted expression from Draco sparked a new wave of delight from the audience.

Several more members fell apart nearby.

Hermione thought it was over—hoped it was—when Draco finally went boneless in his seat, but the expectant air in the room still held the audience captive. Anxiety rose in her chest as a new wave of anticipation rippled through the crowd.

And, now, Draco’s eyes avoided her own. 

She saw his thumb twitch, almost signaling to her—a request to intervene—but he didn’t complete the gesture. 

“Give him a taste of his own mess,” came a request from the back of the room. Hermione turned to find a woman leaning against a man’s shoulder, one breast out of her dress.

Theo shot a look toward Mandy, who nodded, and rose from Draco’s side. In a moment, he’d swiped a bead of pearly liquid from Draco’s stomach, but another voice cut in. 

“Pets eat from the floor!” 

Theo paused. His brow furrowed. 

But his Prefector’s order rang clear.

“Do it, Conscript.” It was so cold and sharp, Hermione’s head shot to Mandy. For once, her mask had dropped in her heightened state of arousal. And in it, she saw something far darker than she thought the witch was capable of.

Theo knelt forward, swiping Draco’s cum from the floor. His fingers glistened in the spotlight, before rising and walking back to Draco’s side. 

Draco’s eyes tracked his friend as the Conscript wrenched Draco’s head back and hovered his hand over his mouth. 

He tapped. Once. Twice. Three times against Draco’s firmly shut bottom lip.

Hermione saw Draco’s thumb flick half-way up, almost there. She took a step forward.

Then he halted, and his finger fell.

Draco’s mouth opened mechanically and Theo’s finger dipped inside. The muscles flanking Draco’s neck moved in tandem as he finally swallowed, and the room jeered. The dark-haired wizard slipped his hand away from Draco. From her vantage, Hermione caught the quick flick of his tan thumb brushing over Draco’s lips, a gesture that looked almost absent-minded, until she noticed the tiny pearl of white he swept away. As the crowd watched Draco’s throat move with the hard swallow, Theo raised the finger to his own mouth in a movement that appeared entirely casual, a careless flick of his tongue disappearing the milky drop he’d collected there.  

Raucous taunts came from the room as Hermione made to move toward Draco.

“Do you like that, Death Eater?”

“I think he needs some more, let's see him suck a cock!” 

“The other one deserves some fun after doing all that work.” 

Mandy’s eyes jumped at that request, and her voice sliced through the haze. 

“Order Draco not to bite,” she squealed, giddy and breathless with anticipation. High on the power she wielded over the Conscripts. 

Hermione turned toward her, prickling at the directive, but schooling her expression into something cool and aloof. 

“Best not to push him just yet,” she replied smoothly. “I don’t fancy him tasting like another wizard.” Her tone carried the cadence of polite refusal, wrapped around a steely edge.

A ripple of disappointment rumbled through the room, but Hermione didn’t waver as she strode toward Draco, until she was directly in front of him, her body creating a shield between him and the rest of the room. 

Finally, he looked up at her. His eyes were hard and black with vengeance. 

“You can move your hands and feet now. Stand when you’re ready.” To anyone else, she sounded like an imperious Prefector. To Draco, she knew he’d understand her anger was directed toward everyone but him. 

Hermione cast a wandless scourgify over him as he moved slowly, first flexing his fingers as if they’d strained holding the position. Once he stood and shifted back into his clothing, he moved with normal precision once again. 

The room slipped into a chorus of sighs and wet-mouthed moans, voices thick with arousal, hands wandering freely over partners, some consenting, others unable to. Some moved to further corners, some draped nearby with their Conscripts at the ready. But, the fact remained, no one was unaffected by Draco’s performance.

Hermione's gaze landed on Theo.

He stood alone, flushed, back straight, expression blank. Already someone was approaching him, a witch with a hungry look, and Hermione realized with a sharp pang that she could offer him no hint of protection.

Their eyes met for a single breath, and in it, Hermione felt the weight of her guilt. Theo’s eyes flicked toward the gunmetal grey orbs of his friend, looking for something Hermione wasn’t sure he would ever find, before they returned to her. The wizard’s expression held understanding as he gazed back with something resembling acceptance, and—for a fleeting moment—sorrow. Then he was turning obediently to the witch who’d approached him. And away from Hermione and Draco.   

Hermione reached for Draco’s hand, gripping it tightly. She intended to apparate them away when he turned and locked eyes with his prior Prefector. 

“Lisette.” Draco pulled hard to a stop.

Then spat hard at her feet. 

The spittle splashed back onto the witch’s shoes and ankles. “Best clean that up before your husband sees it,” a cruel glint filled Draco’s eye. “You know how much he enjoys the taste of me.” He cocked his head, as if reconsidering. “Or leave it, and maybe he’ll finally find something about you attractive.” 

The witch looked murderous as Hermione’s fingers clawed into his wrist and the crack of apparition rang through the room.

In the next heartbeat, they were both staring at each other from within the safety of the penthouse. Hermione moved to step away, but a tight fist formed around her wrist and Draco stepped into her with a single, growled word. 

“No.” 

Chapter Text

“Draco—” Hermione started, but he cut her off. 

“Promise me.” His eyes were hard as they bore into hers. “When this is done, when I’m free, you won’t try to stop me.” 

Something about his tone sent a shiver down Hermione’s spine. It felt lethal—dangerous, like whatever he wanted her to agree to wouldn’t be good.

“Tell me what you’ll do.” 

She kept her voice even as she searched his face, questions whirring through her mind while she waited for him to answer. 

“Some people don’t deserve Azkaban.” 

Then she understood. 

It wasn’t right, in fact what he had in mind was the exact same justice that drove The Program, yet her heart barely protested. Because a part of her agreed, Azkaban was too good for some of them. 

“Draco,” she spoke softly, sincerity filling her eyes. “Don’t do something that will cost you the freedom we’re trying so hard to win back. They aren’t worth your life. Don’t let wizards like the Ashfords’ take any more from you.”

His eyes darkened, but his hold on her never loosened. “The Ashfords’ can rot in a cell for all I care. Not Brocklehurst.” 

Surprise flickered across Hermione’s face. 

She’d been certain he meant the Prefectors who’d hurt him, and Mandy was at best a low-level accomplice to his trauma. Finally she said, “You won’t need my permission, when this is over. You’ll be your own man, and answerable to your own conscience.” 

He closed the small gap between them. “My conscience, Granger? What do you imagine is left of that, after years as the Dark Lord’s killer?” 

She’d heard him refer to that before, but she’d always assumed the moniker was  generic phrasing; taking lives was a commonality amongst Death Eaters, and Draco, by virtue of his family, was part of the Dark Lord’s inner circle. As far as she knew, he’d refrained from killing the only time he’d been ordered to, though Snape’s intervention meant his act of disobedience remained secret. The rushed nature of the Ministry’s bulk trials meant crimes were summarized as a whole for the group of accused, which left the picture of Draco’s past murky at best. 

Looking at him, she replied, “You have a conscience; I’ve seen it. You don’t hurt other Conscripts.” 

His fingers on her wrist shifted so his thumb traced her palm’s edge. “I don’t bother with insignificant people who aren’t in my way. You’re confusing having standards with having a conscience. You shouldn’t.”  

“You were a child when he marked you.” Earnestness filled her tone, and he turned away. Hermione followed him across the room. “Walking away from me doesn’t change anything. Years of exposure to dark magic has an effect, not even you are exempt from that, Draco. I know you’ve done things, at the Dark Lord’s command, but you’ve paid the price since.” She squared up to him, making herself appear as strong as she could. She stepped closer. This time he stayed. “When the rest of your life is yours again, don’t walk back to a cell.” 

The light dimmed, similar to when the magic flashed during his demonstration earlier that evening. Only this time she didn’t worry, because no one was there to witness how he fought the bindings. No one was there to taste the chill in the air, or fear what it meant. 

When he spoke, his words were barely a whisper. His hand closed around her wrist. “I was his favorite killer for a reason, Granger. I’ll never walk toward a cell.” 

She jerked against his grip on her arm, frustrated with the way he left her reaching for understanding. “Why ask me, then? What do you want from me, Draco? I can’t give you blanket permission to slaughter them all! And I wouldn’t even if I could.” 

His hold didn’t lighten, even as his breath fanned across her cheek. “I just need to know you're on my side.” 

“You know I am,” she answered. But he wasn’t satisfied. 

“Even if I act out on every violent fantasy I have once I’m free. Say it, Hermione.” Glacial eyes searched hers. 

If it had been anyone else, if they hadn’t just gone through that spectacle downstairs—she would have said no. But she believed in him, even if he couldn’t see a different future for himself yet. 

“I’m on your side, Draco.” 

She swallowed hard and realized the darkness in the room had become thick, almost suffocating. As if the shadows suddenly had weight. Yet when they brushed against her ankles, they felt more like an embrace than a threat. 

“Good girl.” 

Something in his tone, or perhaps it was the air, shifted. She could still sense his anger, but now it was laced with something else. Something more powerful. A chill coiled low in her stomach as magic crackled in the air. His eyes were wilder than she’d ever seen, usually a stoic mask of restraint. 

“You misbehaved tonight, pet.” He released her wrist, prowling around her like a snake inspecting its next meal, until he stood close against her back. A long, cold finger ran from the base of her head down the length of her spine before it moved away. She released a breath she didn’t know she was holding. 

Then metal clicked, and a moment later she felt the draw of leather across her throat. 

She gasped, and her fingers fluttered up to it.

The collar he’d worn for days, now softened with edges smooth from its time against his skin. It tightened where he latched it, snug against her throat, but not enough to hurt. 

“How shall I correct you?” He spoke the thought aloud while his fingers lingered against her body. Stepping back in front of her, he traced the line of her jaw as he examined the leather.

“Pretty,” he murmured as he brushed the edge of the band. “But something’s missing.” 

He circled her again, his steps slow and his eyes cutting. She stayed stock-still, unable to move even if she tried. Her entire body felt electric everywhere his eyes touched. 

“Tell me, Mudblood, what is it Muggles do when a dog strays?” His breath was a whisper against her hair, his tone lethal. 

“They…” she stammered, unsure what he meant or where this was going. 

“Don’t fret, I’ll tell you.” He tugged the lobe of her ear and her head dipped toward his hand as he released. “They chain it to a stake until it’s learned its lesson.” His words dripped venom, and his fingers pulled her wand from her thigh sheath. The familiar wood pressed into her hand before he enclosed his own around it, raising the tip to point to her leather band. 

“Catenate,” he whispered.

Magic rippled through her, responding to his command as if she’d said the spell herself. A gasp escaped her lips when the clasp of the collar morphed into a long, golden leash. Metal clinked against her throat, her chest, her soft belly until the end found Draco’s palm. He tugged her wand away and wrapped the end of it in his fist. 

“Look at me, pet.” 

Brown eyes met grey as she obeyed. He stood in front of her, chest to chest, towering over her as he peered down imperiously into her open face. 

“Do you know what you did?” His hand gripped her chin, forcing her to gaze up at him while he fisted the leash in the other.  

“I…,” she stammered. Truthfully she didn’t know. She’d done many terrible things to him over the course of the evening, but everything aligned with what he’d previously agreed to. 

Yet he didn’t give an inch, just waited for her reply. 

“I don’t know,” she finally said. It was, at least, an honest answer. 

“Hm.” Something cold that gleamed like cruelty tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Looks like I’ll have to jog your memory, then.” 

He wrapped the chain around his wrist once. Twice. Three times. And the shiver returned to her spine. 

The edges of his contempt were dominant and sharp in the air. And every nerve ending in her body craved the raw intimacy of his anger. The real Draco behind the mask. 

She raised her chin, a hint of impudence in her posture. “It seems so.” 

An unspoken understanding flashed between them. He’d set the tone, and she’d accepted his rules. 

They both walked into the scene. 

He stepped closer, his mouth hovering a fraction of an inch from hers. Never breaking eye contact, he cocked his head slightly, just enough to finish closing the distance between them. 

Then trailed a slow, deliberate lick across her mouth. 

He pulled back, leaving her lips wet from his tongue. 

He didn’t so much as blink as he stared. 

“Did you understand that, pet?” 

She did—it was irrefutable; ownership. 

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Very good.” He dipped his head forward, letting his nose brush the tip of hers, light as a feather. She could smell the spice of him as he breathed, yet there was no hint of softness in the gesture. 

He stepped back and unravelled the leash from his wrist. Going far enough that it pulled taut in the air. When he jerked it, she stumbled forward, following after him like a lost puppy until she was back at his side. He raised the end of the leash to her face, and she saw a leather wrist cuff fastened to the end. Draco held it to her mouth until she opened her lips. The leather cuff pushed inside, and her teeth clamped down on it. 

“Stay,” he said as she held the leash to her own collar in her mouth. Then he turned and walked away.

His absence ached against her skin, but she refused to move. 

Minutes ticked by, and she stayed exactly where he had instructed. 

When his shadow reappeared in the doorframe, he leaned against it, languidly observing her, drinking her in from head to toe. His eyes only stopped when they found the leash in her mouth. 

His jaw ticked, and the sound of his return snapped her from the trance.

“Let’s play a game.”

He raised his hand, and her eyes caught on the glass held loosely between his fingers. Amber liquid, about a finger deep, was visible through the crystal. 

“Know what this is?” 

She suspected she might, but with the leash between her teeth she couldn’t form words to answer, and he hadn’t told her she could move yet, so she simply stared. 

“Of course you don’t,” he answered on her behalf. “But I imagine you have some ideas.” He stalked forward, and she fought the urge to back away. Instead, she willed calmness into her limbs and met his eyes. 

“Muggles play something similar—truth or dare, they call it.” His blue-grey eyes wrecked her, as if he looked directly into her soul. “My version has a Slytherin twist. Truth is compulsory, obedience rewarded.” He held the glass to her face, twirling the liquid so the trace aroma of it rose to her nostrils. “Understand?”

The scent of Veritaserum, mixed with the lust potion from their first scene, sent a shiver of real fear coursing through her body. It was designed to overwhelm the senses. To drop her inhibitions. To tell him every depraved thing she’s ever thought of doing to him. 

“Where do pets drink from?”

Hermione blinked and her core tightened traitorously as she slowly sunk to her knees on the floor before him. She placed her hands on the tops of her thighs and waited obediently.

Holding her gaze, Draco smirked, raised the glass to his own lips—and tilted it back. 

Confusion racked through her, until he stepped forward and tugged the leash from her mouth. He grasped her chin roughly, and shoved a thumb between her molars to keep her mouth open as he tilted her head back. 

Then he bent low and let the potion drip from his mouth into hers. It poured out until there was nothing left, until she held all of it. 

He kept her face captured between his hands with her head pinned back, tilted upward to hold the liquid inside like a cup.

“Swallow,” he commanded. His gaze pinned to her mouth, her throat. She ignored the bitterness of the mixture as she forced it down, watching his irises drown in his blown pupils.

The potion hit like a gut-punch; searing heat bloomed in her chest and tore the breath from her lungs. She wanted…craved…needed…

She squirmed on her knees, tensing her thighs, leaning into his grip on her face. More contact, more of his touch, more of everything. But she was unwilling to ask for it. He saw stubbornness harden in her eyes, and she felt certain he knew exactly what the potion was doing to her. 

“We’ll start with truth, I think.” His voice was laced in velvet as his thumb traced her lips. “Tell me what you thought tonight, when Theo took off his robes.” 

The Veritaserum worked instantly, and Hermione complied. “I thought Mandy likely arranged his shirt like that, with the sleeves rolled up and the collar open to show him off to the room.” 

Draco removed his hands from her skin, and she ached with the loss. 

“Clever.” His voice was hard. “Not a lie, but not the real answer. Try harder.” 

She swallowed, but answered more thoughtfully this time. “I thought he was beautiful.” 

“Hm.” He scoured her features where she knelt before him. “And were we as pretty together as you’d imagined?” 

He repeated the words she’d said to Mandy earlier that night. 

“I had to say that, Malfoy—it was my role to play.” She hadn’t imagined them together before, not in the way that Draco meant. Not until she’d actually seen them.

He wrapped the gold chain of the leash tighter in his hand, enough so that the collar tugged at her throat, pulling her face inches closer to his trousers. She licked her bottom lip. “What did you think of us, Granger? While you watched with that pretty flush spreading over your neck?” 

As if in response, her face bloomed red then, heat from her embarrassment overrode that of the potion. Yet she still felt the urge to touch him, to permit her any source of contact. 

“I didn’t know it would be like that,” she whispered. He rewarded her with a caress to her jaw. 

“Like what, pet? Use your words.” 

She bit back a moan as his fingers skimmed the sensitive skin around her ear. Her eyelids fluttered closed, before she shook her head and forced her mind to clear. The drug demanded she answer him, while the rest of it edged her toward fulfilling her desire. “It was erotic. Watching him touch you, knowing you couldn’t move because I’d ordered you not to, was… intoxicating.” 

He rewarded her with a longer touch, this time against her cheek, and she all but curled into it. Her body ached, and a light sheen of sweat dotted her forehead. “Draco, is this potion at full strength?” 

He pulled his hand away, and she leaned forward to follow it, catching herself on his thighs. “No, pet, it's less than a quarter of its normal potency.” 

Less than a quarter, and she was already on fire. 

Merlin, how had he lasted so long with the undiluted mixture? 

“It feels like I’m burning.” The words left her with a hint of urgency, but she couldn’t stop it. The aching need in her body rose from heady desire to near intolerable thirst. 

“I know, love.” While his voice was soft, it wasn’t gentle. “And it's going to get worse.” 

A pause filled the air.

Then she asked, “Until I come, Draco?” 

“Until I let you come, yes.” 

He stepped back, dropping loops from the leash with each step, until he sat in the armchair across from her. His feet planted wide, legs spread. His arms draped across the elbow rests. The leather handle he held between his fingers flicked with deceptive indifference. 

Exactly the posture she’d made him hold in front of the Prefectors, except now he was in control of her. 

He studied her then with a blistering heat, making no effort to hide his opinion on her form. 

“Take off your dress.” 

Another mirror to her command from earlier that night. 

She lifted her chin, and rose slowly. Just like before, when their roles were reversed, she held his gaze. 

Held it as her hands rose to the clasp at the top of her spine. 

Held it as the fabric fell loose around her shoulders. 

Held it when the final restraint gave way, and it pooled like blood at her feet. 

When his tongue flicked over his lower lip and his eyes refused to move from her face, she held his gaze. Even as he realized she’d been fully naked under the gown.  Even when his breath stuttered then stopped, her body ignited under his eye and she grew bold. 

Slowly, deliberately, she sank back to her knees where he’d put her before. But this time, she spread them wide apart, daring him to break eye contact. Knowing he wouldn’t. 

“Careful, pet,” his voice was laced with warning. 

But this was a competition, and Hermione was going to win. She also understood now why he was smoldering.

One hand lowered between her thighs, lightly stroking herself, before she brought it up to her mouth and sucked her fingers. 

He swallowed as his fist tightened around her lead. It occurred to her then that even without swallowing the potion, he’d likely absorbed some of it while holding it in his mouth. 

It was affecting him, and so was she. 

She tilted her head as she released her fingers, then arched forward onto hands and knees, the position utterly feline. 

“Granger.” 

She ignored him, choosing instead to crawl forward. Hermione felt her spine undulate, serpentine with each movement. Her breasts hung heavy and peaked, and her ass swayed with each motion of her knees. Until, finally, she filled the open space between his thighs. 

“Malfoy,” she answered, tilting her head so that it rested against his inner thigh, her lips parted inches from the strained outline of his cock. Still she watched him, and still, he refused to look anywhere else but her face. 

She understood his game now; with that one question about Theo, he’d shown his hand. Draco wanted her, he’d been jealous that she’d looked at another wizard. 

“I thought Theo was beautiful,” she said softly, tilting her head to rub it against him, savoring the heat radiating from his thigh, even as her core throbbed and her body burned. “And he is.” 

“Pet.” Draco’s voice was a river of warning, but his hand finally left the arm of the chair, coming to rest around her throat in a possessive grip that felt like victory to Hermione. 

“But he’s not the one I fantasize about. When I lie awake at night, when I touch myself. When I throb with need, Draco, when I want to be taken, filled, fucked, it’s not his face I see. Not his scent I imagine, or his body I want to taste.” 

“You—” His hand rose to cup her face, his grip hard with want but filled with well-practiced restraint. “Are a brat, little minx.” 

She shifted her head just enough to rub her lips over his thumb, wishing she could suck it, but knowing it wasn’t yet time. Still, she savoured the hint of salt on his skin, and waited. 

Batting her eyelashes slowly, wide and innocent, she replied, “A Slytherin taught me.” 

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t let it free. 

“Is that so? And what other terrible habits have you learned?” 

She didn’t try to hide her smile, letting it spread across her face in full swotty smugness. “He told me it's okay to want things. Even things I think I shouldn’t.” 

He gasped when she wrapped her lips around his thumb, closed her mouth hard over it, and sucked. But he didn’t pull away, because it was clear he didn’t want to. His breaths came quicker now, even his carefully curated pureblood manners didn’t fully hide his reaction. 

She held his thumb tight as she rose off her ankles and onto her knees, rubbing what she could of her torso decadently against the erection trapped under the fabric of his pants as she went. 

His eyes stayed fixed on hers, unwavering and intense. 

She continued to glide up his body, rising until she could slide a leg around one of his, straddling it. His knee pressed hard against her wet center and she rubbed herself against it in slow, pulsing movements. 

Her fingers found his other hand, the one that held the leash, still pinned on the armrest. She tugged against it, wanting to pull it to her breast. But he dropped the leash and fisted his hand deep into the curls instead. He tightened his grip at the base of her neck so fast that she couldn’t react. Then he tugged her deeper down, harder against his leg, where she ground against him. 

“Prefector.” His voice was harsh but barely disguised the need he fought so hard to control. 

“Draco.” She made no attempt to stop the naked lust driving her as she used his body for her own pleasure. 

“What do you want?” His teeth skated the line of her jaw as he spoke. 

“Look at me,” she pleaded. “Touch me. Help me, Draco, it hurts so much.” 

The air ripped from her lungs when her back hit the floor. He’d pinned her body under his, with his mouth hot against her lips and his fingers running over her everywhere, exploring, giving, taking. 

And she wanted all of it. 

He trapped a whimper inside her mouth with a deep lick of his tongue when his fingers slipped between her wet folds and she began to fuck herself on them. 

Her mouth fought him as her body pulsed with everything he gave her. She shoved her tongue between his lips, his teeth, sucked his lips into her mouth, bit down against the flesh, uncaring if she was rough or if it hurt him. She was consumed by a need that burned like fiendfyre, and he’d done it to her, knowing exactly what the consequences looked like. 

For the first time in her life, Hermione didn’t feel like she needed permission.  

And even though she was pinned and drugged and so aroused she couldn’t think clearly, she took. She took his mouth, took his fingers, explored his body with her hands and panted against his face as she keened and moaned, as her thighs tightened around his hand, and as her cunt throbbed, demanding more. 

And she knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he would give her everything she wanted.

“That’s right, pet.” His words were a growl in her ear and his fingers curled inside her. “You’ve learned your lesson so well.”

Hermione gripped his arms and bit hard into his shoulder as she shattered around him.

Dawn broke to find Draco and Hermione already hard at work. Stacks of parchment covered the table in Hermione’s study, forgotten mugs of tea long gone cold between them.

Theo had come through—brilliantly, in fact.

Hermione was astonished by how much detail he’d managed to convey in so short a time with Draco, and she was even more surprised by Draco’s ability to recall it perfectly. She gazed at the mountains of information; there it was, written in black ink across a series of neatly organized lists.

Venture capitalists.

Heads of essential private services.

International business leaders.

Decision-makers behind every major media outlet in wizarding England—and several abroad.

Theo had documented their names, associates, spheres of influence, political leanings, and even a few personal proclivities.

Hermione didn’t know where to begin, but Draco did. He methodically began walking her through how each piece fit together, and she’d never been so grateful for his being brought up in a wizarding household where he’ spent decades learning exactly this sort of thing.

“If Romania cuts off its import agreement with England over the human-rights violations that the International Council for Wizarding Rights and Justice intends to highlight, then the Draconis Mercantile Consortium—the DMC—loses its supply source for ninety-two percent of its production portfolio. And trust me when I say, they won’t stand for that.

“Plus, the head of Spellcast Broadcasting Network has a substantial portion of his private wealth invested in the DMC. He won’t care for Kingsley’s policies jeopardizing his investment—especially not while he’s still recovering from the wartime losses.”

“So he will be on our side,” Hermione asked, “without need for additional persuasion?” 

“That’s the idea,” Draco agreed. “The international pressure will be enough, we just need Neville to tell him our recommendations for action.” 

Draco shifted to the next stack of papers, a pile he’d organized separate from the rest. 

“The Cauldron Exchange investment group on the other hand, is profiting because Aureline Capital, their main competitor, was heavily funded by pureblood families who are now primarily Conscripts or Azkaban residents. While the funds remain invested with A.C., those historic families had ties to each other and to international business and political arenas. The A.C.’s intelligence strategy heavily relied on those connections, which are now defunct, nonpaying, and altogether silenced. Very bad for business across the board. 

“So while A.C. flounders in the background, the Cauldron Exchange has done a backdoor handshake and provided investment funding for Thestral Lines Ltd, Aegis & Ash Trading Co, and Ashbourne Alchemical Acquisitions. Each of those businesses claim their work is essential to Wizarding England, and will happily create an outcry if their main financial backer is threatened before they become independently solvent.” 

Hermione huffed in frustration. “So we can’t sway them, or any of the subsidiary companies—is that it?”

Draco’s sharp eyes met hers, full of Slytherin calculation. “We don’t want to sway them, Granger. We want them to pressure Kingsley and the Wizengamot to double down on The Program and its policies. If we push them to appease the public, they’ll pull back just enough to survive—and we’ll never get them out of office.”

Oh.

“Oh,” she echoed her own thoughts softly. “So we…” She trailed off, following the point that he’d long ago reached.

Draco nodded. “Exactly. We leak that Kingsley is going to crack under the coming global pressure mounting against The Program. And those with money and power will remind him—and the Wizengamot—how vital their own interests are. Why The Program must remain in place. Perhaps even expand it.”

And so the conversation went—hour after hour—correlations drawn, interests mapped, levers identified, then readied to be pulled.

When Neville arrived late that afternoon, he carried several special-edition papers under an arm. Taking in the mountains of parchment, he raised a brow. “I’m guessing neither of you have seen today’s news?”

They hadn’t.

Neville tossed the papers face-up onto the table.

A startled squeal escaped Hermione when she saw the headline.

“Ron’s started it!”

“Fireside Exclusive with War Hero Ronald Weasley” read the first headline. The next followed suit: “War Hero Reveals Personal Experiences, Hopes for the Future.”

A pile of similar articles spilled across the table in a cascade of ink and paper.

A wary look in Neville’s eye caught her attention—then she noticed the absence of the Daily Prophet.

“Hermione,” he said evenly, “Ron revealed some very personal information. Not all of it was his to tell, and from what I hear, he didn’t check with you first.”

She gulped, and hated how obvious the gesture was to both wizards. Out loud, she said, “I imagine the lack of headlines from Rita Skeeter relates to that particular problem?” She tried for nonchalance and fell short.

“Yes,” Neville replied. He didn’t sugar-coat it, and she appreciated that. “Skeeter’s still a guttersnipe, sniffing out anything salacious about you.”

A muscle twitched in Draco’s neck. His fingers flexed once before he stilled them.

“I…” Hermione cleared her throat. “I imagine it was about his relationship with Lavender, then.”

Neville nodded. “It was.”

“I see.” The words came quietly. It felt like her sails had emptied of wind. Only Harry and Ginny had known about Ron’s cheating—and how deeply it had cut her.

Now, it seemed, everyone did.

Neville placed a warm, steady hand on her back. “I’m sorry, Hermione. After everything, you didn’t deserve to have that thrown into the public eye. I’m sorry your private life is on display again.”

“Thanks, Nev.” She couldn’t meet his eyes—or Draco’s.

Draco mercifully changed the subject, pulling Neville into the network of influence they’d mapped. He needed the auror’s perspective on each target, and how best to adapt to individual temperaments once contact began.

Hermione listened as they talked, but their conversation no longer held appeal. Yet as she focused on snippets here and there, she began to realize why so much of her efforts had failed in recent years. She’d never stopped to understand what people really wanted, the real currency upon which the world operated. 

Not like Draco did. 

He saw every invisible string that bound people together and knew exactly which ones to pull. He wasn’t merely persuasive; he was strategic. A puppeteer, guiding the motion of things as naturally as breathing.

“When will the international pressure campaign begin?” Neville’s question pulled her back.

“Next week,” Draco answered smoothly. She didn’t know how he could be so certain—but she didn’t doubt him for a second.

“I’ll start arranging meetings,” Neville said, rising and with a nod, they accompanied him to the Floo. Once in the fireplace, he gazed at Draco with a sharp look and murmured, “For Aries.”

“For Aries,” Draco returned.

And with a bright green flash, Neville disappeared.