DISCLAIMER: All characters and recognizable plot belong to the very lovely J.K. Rowling, without who this fic might not have been plausible. And without who, my time would have been wasted away doing nothing productive like study for school. And without who, the world of Harry Potter would not have been created and we Potterheads would not know where we would be in right now. (Although I still am upset that Hermione ended up with Ron. Ew.)

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SUMMARY: Draco is broken – he's become apathetic and destroyed his feelings. Vulnerability is an emotion he swears will never get under his skin again. He will rise from his exile and will once more be deserving of his name. When Hermione comes along, indifference crumbles. Disconnection to the world shatters. DEMOLITION LOVERS.

Hermione is strong – Harry's untimely demise will not be the end of her war against evil. But trapped in the Malfoy manor with no one else but the heir for company, her ideals slowly dismantle. Faith is ruined. Goodness withers – especially when Draco himself subjects her to the most shameful degradation. DEMOLITION LOVERS.

When fate declares that Voldemort win the war, Mudbloods are sent to Pureblood families to work as slaves… or else get sent to Azkaban. Strong-willed Hermione Granger refuses to be pushed around, especially not by her new masters. However, Fate decides to mock her once more as she gets sent to the Malfoys' lair – and more specifically, into the arms of one named Draco.

DEMOLITION LOVERS

These violent delights have violent ends…
Romeo and Juliet, William Shakespeare

CHAPTER 1: Owned

Fighting the pain is futile. Especially when you know you have nothing to fight for, when pain is everything you'll eventually have to know.

"Get off me!" Hermione Granger's raspy breaths left her mouth along with the loud profanities that flowed freely from it. She was literally burying both her feet into the soft soil of the grassy ground, hoping to plant them solidly into it so as not to let her captor drag her any further.

Hermione was quite the nocturnal being once, preferring to do most of her work during the night. She loved that it gave off a vibe of serenity and tranquility, but tonight, the night promised only doom and gloom with every shadow the clouds cast over the moon. The cold night air did nothing to alleviate her sense of misfortune, and so the last thing she could do to save herself was to show resistance, although she knew her efforts would be futile.

"You've got quite the sharp tongue, girly," said her toothless captor who reeked of filth and tobacco, as he released her manacles and turned to look at her. His sandy hair was matted to his forehead with perspiration because of the struggle and his face was almost indecipherable because of the soot that coated it, but despite his despicable appearance, a wild glint was present upon his dark eyes, making her shiver. His blackened hand shot out and hit her squarely across the cheek. "Shut up."

It was in her personality to hex the man for what he did, but she had no wand and could not do anything. With acute anger, she gritted her teeth at the onslaught.

Her curly hair whipped across her face, but she no longer felt the smarting sensation of having been slapped for she'd been quite acquainted with the pain, having experienced it all within the past few weeks since Voldemort won the war and she'd lost everything that was important to her. Physical pain was nothing compared to the emotional anguish she felt as she'd witnessed everyone die, from Muggles to Half-bloods, and even her friends from the Order. What was worse, she had not been fortunate enough to save her parents, or even to see them for one last time, because the next thing she knew the entire world's population was wiped out with a single curse and the world now revolved in only two races: the Purebloods and Mudbloods. Save for Voldemort, whom she knew to be a Half-blood.

It was then that she found herself wishing for one thing with all her heart: for her to have died along with the rest of them.

Her toothless captor grabbed onto her rusty manacles and was dragging her along again, to her designated house of doom.

She thought it pointless to let the Mudbloods continue on living, for she knew that Voldemort detested the race. But she'd later learned of the exact reason as to why Voldemort had chosen to utilize the Mudbloods listed at the Muggle-Born Registration Commission: for the likes of her to serve as slaves to the Purebloods. To serve as their indication that they were indeed higher than others, for how could they act all mighty around one another when they all were on the same step on the ladder of prominence? It was sickeningly ironic, Hermione thought, that Purebloods needed them to make them feel better about themselves. That they would need to trample on someone else's ego to boost their own.

She'd been assigned to slave for this particular Pureblood family who lived in England whom she didn't bother knowing the name of. After all, they were all the same anyway. She didn't expect that this family would treat her indifferently (she'd given up all thoughts on fairness and kindness a long time ago) and even made a list of what she expected to come from this slavery: if she was lucky, she'd be the family's personal punching bag; if she was fairly lucky, then she'd get verbal beating and wounding of her ego every single day of living with the Purebloods; and if she was very, very lucky, then they'd have her do all the cooking and cleaning for the entire duration of her stay.

The thought of that improbability caused a great wave of despair and anguish build up at her core, right at her heart – because she somehow knew, on instinct, that she'd get the worst end of the stick.

And then, very suddenly, although it wasn't in her attitude to do so, Hermione gaped and unintentionally forgot about resistance.

The house she was being sent to – if you could even call it that, it was more of a mansion – was huge, with wide windows that glowed faintly with light that came from its interior. It had a long, wide rolling front lawn that was thickly swathed with neatly-trimmed grass and on which there was a white marble fountain of a beautiful mermaid in the center. The entire house was made of polished stone and very tall – probably three or four stories high, at the very least. Undoubtedly, the family that lived here was very well-off. The mansion's beauty did not completely obscure the fact that there was a formidable edge to it, though, and Hermione, as soon as feeling that edge, started resisting again.

Her captor cackled evilly. "Resisting now, eh? I'm sure you wouldn't, not after you see your new employer's son," he said, leering. "He's quite the handsome devil, that one. You'd beg not to be taken back after the year, I reckon. Once you've had a taste of him."

"Maybe you'd like to taste him yourself," Hermione bit back harshly before she could stop herself.

She'd expected this sort of reaction for her sharp response, but not the pain it entailed. Despite having been hit with the same spell for quite a number of times, her captor's Crucio singed her veins and, just like all the other times, made her fall to her knees, every fiber and bone in her being grinding with the pain. Her lungs throbbed and threatened to burst open, and her limbs felt as though they might be ripped from her joint sockets. Still, throughout the pain, Hermione did not dare scream, choosing instead to bite her tongue so hard that she could taste the rusty blood on her palette. Silence was the best way she dealt with the curse, knowing that screaming would not do her any good.

The sharp pain of hair tugging at her scalp made her realize that the Crucio was over and that she was on her hands and knees now. "Mudblood bitch," said the man darkly, emphasizing each word, as he sharply lifted her head up to look at her, straining the muscles on her neck.

Hermione's labored breaths left her mouth in large tumbles of gasps. "Fuck you."

Godric save her, but she didn't know where her bravado (or stupidity) came from, living in this bleak and desolate world and knowing that there was no one out there who gave a damn about her.

Another round of Crucio tore at her head, where the pain seemed to center on. Her brain pounded with the acute intensity of the spell and her eyes seemed to want to gouge out of their sockets of their own accord. Her resolve not to respond to the pain faltered slightly though, for a tiny squeak of pain issued from her strained lips.

"Kreuk, is that you?" someone sounded from the darkness.

The pain quickly vanished, leaving Hermione lying on her side upon the grassy front lawn, her teeth chattering and body drenched in perspiration. Her death was to come later, she decided, for another man's intervention had saved her from her ruthless captor. She was being dragged again (by her hair this time, her scalp burned with the pain) and was reluctantly on both feet, and she could hear him speak some to the other.

"Yes, it's me, my Lord. I've got your Mudblood here, my Lord."

"Bring her here," said the other, whose voice, Hermione noted, had a cool, icy undertone to it, as though this man was not one to shout, but fully capable of threatening and coercing.

Smooth, cool marble instantly replaced the trimmed grass of the lawn as they made to step in the mansion, and eventually down a set of wooden steps that undoubtedly led to the cellar. Hermione refused to look up despite her curiosity at who was to be her employer. Soon they arrived at a dimly lit room (the cellar), the only source of light coming from a single bulb that flickered right in the center of the room, casting a yellowish glow and ominous shadows around the room.

"I thought I requested for a pretty Mudblood, Kreuk, not this dirty one." The man's tone was disdainful and condescending. Hermione's cheeks burned with humiliation and her blood boiled with anger. Her dirty fingernails dug into the palms of her hands.

"But she is pretty, my Lord, prettiest of the bunch, even." Kreuk's tone was sycophantic and it made her sick. "She was a bit of a struggle, though, my Lord. I had to literally drag her here. See that she gets cleaned up, my Lord, and you'll see – she's very pretty."

Hermione's spine prickled with the feeling of having her new superior appraise her. "Well, I suppose she'll have to do," said the man after a lengthy pause. "After all, you did say she's the prettiest."

She could almost envision Kreuk's chest swell with the knowledge that this man trusted him. "Oh, yes she is, my Lord."

Polished black shoes, the heels clacking upon the cobbled floor, circled Hermione's shaking frame. He took his time looking at her, as though she were a mere horse he was intending to buy. She bit back a growl that threatened to escape her curled lips and made to bite sharply at her lower lip instead, relishing in the pain it caused her.

The man's hand weaved through her brunette hair and jerked her head up, forcing her to look at him, and Hermione could not help but gasp at the familiarity of the man who "owned" her now, making her eyes as big and round as Galleons. There was no mistaking that ice blond hair, those wintry gray eyes, that pale skin, that pointed face –

Draco Malfoy owned her now.

She prayed and prayed to all the deities she could think of that may he please not recognize her.

"She does have beautiful amber eyes," mused Draco after assessment of her features, his gray eyes seeming confused with the stunned look Hermione had on hers. His eyes continued to roam her face before blinking slowly, somehow quite registering but still uncertain. Hermione's heart lurched to her throat and her stomach knotted with discomfort. "Wait a minute…"

He did not act immediately upon his suspicions, however, and instead made Kreuk leave first, throwing him a tiny satchel which seemed to be full of Galleons. Kreuk, with his sickening groveling, thanked the blond bastard over and over as soon as he caught it before completely leaving the room. With horror, Hermione realized that she was being exchanged for this sum of money, that she was worth even less than those measly Galleons.

As soon as Hermione was alone with the blond wizard, he weaved his hand swiftly through her hair again before she had a chance to protest and jerked her head up abruptly to make it catch the light a lot better. A gleeful, vindictive smile lit up the contours of his handsome face at the confirmation of his suspicion.

"Would you believe my luck!" he announced gaily, his voice dripping with malice. "My, my, my, who'd have thought you'd be degraded to this… Granger?"

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As much as I'd like to take credit for the freaking AWESOME fic title, I can't. Credit goes to one of my favorite bands, My Chemical Romance. (Inspiration goes to the song as well.)

[A/N: I know this type of plot might be a little clichéd but my twisted little mind is on overdrive and will put its own twist to this one! So… let me know what you thought of this first chapter and please review. (Hope it was interesting enough to grab your attention! *fingers and toes crossed*) Thanks for reading! :) –Nina]