Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

A/N: I surprised myself by writing story this dark, but the idea stuck with me, and I just had to get it down. Just be aware that it is decidedly darker and edgier than my usual fare.

The war was a long and bloody one.

The Dark Lord fought us in secret for a year and then openly for a year. Then, Dumbledore died, and he took over the Ministry. Then we fought him something close to openly for a year and then in secret for a year. Attrition was terrible on both sides, but in the end, after one desperate last stand, we lost.

It probably would have been a Pyrrhic victory even if we'd won, we were so outnumbered, but the thing is, Harry came so close to killing the Dark Lord that day. But he failed. The prophecy said "either must die by the hand of the other," and it was Harry who died. After that, we were left with no leader, no resources, no prophecy, and no escape. It was over.

They took us alive—Ron, Ginny, Neville, Luna, and I—despite our best efforts. The five of us would've rathered going down fighting a hopeless battle than living under the Dark Lord, but suicide by Death Eater wasn't in the cards for us that day. Instead, we were bound in magical chains and dragged before the Dark Lord so he could gloat.

We were held at the Ministry pending execution. The Death Eaters gleefully told us that as soon as the Dark Lord stabilised his regime, we would be publicly executed in the most brutal and painful way possible. However, after a few days, Macnair came around and told us it would be a simple public Killing Curse. A few days after that, it was going to be a private execution. After a few weeks, we were told the regime was trying to decide whether it would be crueler to kill us outright or send us to rot in Azkaban.

After a few months, there was talk of all five of us being paroled. We had no idea why. It didn't make sense. Why would the Dark Lord or any of his minions want to let us off? Was something going on outside our cells? No. More likely, they were just messing with our heads, and that's what I chose to believe. Of course, it didn't matter to me, really. Even if the others got off, I would just be handed over to Dolores Umbridge and her Muggle-Born Registration Commission, and I'd be back where I started.

A year after the battle, there was talk of pardons among the guards. At that point, I got fed up and yelled at them, "If you're gonna make crap up, at least be convincing about it! Why don't you just kill us already?"

Surprisingly, one of the guards answered, "The Dark Lord says all purebloods must be saved. You I assume he wants as a pet."

That wasn't exactly the case, but it wasn't particularly far off. I sure as hell wasn't considered much better than pet, and that was how, four years after Potter's Last Stand, I found myself standing in a lavish foyer waiting to meet my new owner.

But things had changed this time. This time, I smiled.

Okay, I should back up and explain. It turned out that the war had been even worse than we realised. The pureblood population was devastated. Muggle-Borns had had it worst because of the MBRC, but purebloods had suffered high casualties, too—ironically, higher than half-bloods on either side. For the new regime, for whom blood purity was everything, so many purebloods had died that it was a demographic disaster, and now, in their estimation, they needed as many pureblood witches and wizards as possible alive and making babies to get their population back up. Neville, Luna, Ron, and Ginny were all purebloods, so they had little choice but to set them loose. As for me, it was a little more complicated.

Around the same time, the Dark Lord and his Inner Circle of Death Eaters decided they were going to try their hand at playing matchmaker to get things moving along faster. There were no fancy, warm-and-fuzzy-sounding "marriage laws", mind you. Once the Resistance was gone, the Dark Lord was a publicly-declared dictator, and the Death Eaters just did whatever they wanted.

Basically, wizarding Britain is run as a sort of caste system these days. At the top are the Death Eaters—The Party, you might call them. They pretty much run the show. They have all the power and more or less have the run of the place. Beneath them are all the other purebloods, who are given full rights as citizens, then the half-bloods and the mudbloods—yes, mudbloods. That's the official term nowadays. So's "the Dark Lord", for that matter. Then the bottom of the ladder, the Untouchables of this perverted system, are the non-wizards—not just muggles, but goblins, elves, and various other magical races. There's a bigger gap than you might think between mudbloods and muggles. Mudbloods actually do still have some rights. We did even under Umbridge. Muggles and other non-wizards have no rights at all. It's pretty much open season on them.

It was funny how many rights we mudbloods got, I reflected as I waited. Even under the MBRC, you'd get a trial, and if you cooperated, you only lost your wand (unless Umbridge didn't like you, which included a lot of people). You got about the same benefits to living in a magical society as a squib did before the war, and you didn't get shot in the street like a dog, as some Death Eaters still had a pastime of doing.

Luckily, I'd dodged the bullet on the worst sorts of owners. Even my new owner was a bit more refined than that. He was much more interested in maintaining his power and influence than in killing. Oh, he was a massive git, sure, but I had my reasons for optimism. When I heard the door latch click, I smiled even more, putting on a devious grin.

So what does all this have to do with marriage? Pretty much what you'd expect. The new regime wants as many new purebloods as they can get, so they really want all the purebloods to be married to purebloods. Including the gays and lesbians. Wizards don't usually go for that kind of discrimination, but they want babies, so the purebloods had better all get busy. Taking a lover on the side is usually tolerated if you toe the line otherwise.

Death Eaters, being the new elites, are allowed to demand pretty much any wife (and it usually is a wife) they want. They can't actually break up a marriage, but they can usually have the husband discreetly killed, so even being married already isn't protection. The rest of the purebloods are left to their own devices, although if they don't get married by about twenty-one, the Death Eaters start trying to play matchmaker. They're never really forced into it, but they're under a lot of pressure.

The half-bloods are also left to their own devices for the most part, but they don't have it quite as good. On one hand, they can marry almost anyone they want. They aren't given too much grief for marrying a mudblood, and a pureblood is allowed to condescend to marry them, since the child of a pureblood and a half-blood is technically a pureblood. However, the purebloods generally get less grief if they have a child with another pureblood first, so not many choose that route. The bad part is that any Death Eater and any well-connected pureblood can take any half-blood he (and it usually is a he) wants for a night or three and get away with it.

For mudbloods, it's a little more complicated. Most mudbloods are treated little better than animals. Officially, you're not supposed to abuse or kill us, but a pureblood would rarely get in trouble for it. It's fairly easy to acquire a mudblood as chattel for labour, and of course, we still aren't allowed wands for any purpose. We're also only allowed to marry half-bloods—that's only half-bloods. The Dark Lord doesn't want us perpetuating our dirty blood with each other. And more than that, there are a number of offences for which the penalty for mudbloods includes sterilisation. In practice, they include violent crimes, conspiracy, insurrection, displeasing any well-connected pureblood, and having below-average intelligence. The Dark Lord doesn't want such undesirables perpetuating their dirty blood at all.

However, for some of us, it's different. Some mudbloods are considered desirable. When I was released from custody, I, being highly intelligent and very pretty if I work at it, was labelled "good breeding stock". My blood was actually worth something. That surprised me. It meant that the Death Eaters, or at least the Dark Lord, could look at the concept of blood on a fairly high level—high enough not to be blinded by prejudice entirely, anyway. Of course, the Dark Lord has some personal experience that blood isn't everything. I'm talking about Snape, of course. I'm sure the Dark Lord's pedigree is as pure as anyone's.

"Good breeding stock" is too good to leave to mere half-bloods, but by the Dark Lord's rules, I don't have the right to marry a pureblood. The solution was obvious: I was to be a concubine. I and others like me (and men and even half-bloods could get the "good breeding stock" label, too) were to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. Any pureblood who wanted me and could pay could have me and could do pretty much anything he wanted with me, including loan me out to his pureblood friends, as long as it didn't hurt my breeding potential. (Thankfully, the Death Eaters were smart enough to know that most forms of torture would hurt my breeding potential.) It was a better deal than most other mudbloods got, even if I was still chattel, but it was a great deal for the lucky pureblood who bought me. He would have pureblood heirs through his wife, and in the meantime, he could have his way with me whenever he wanted, plus a few extra kids from me. In return, I'd be treated better than my peers, and my bloodline would be bred up to snuff in two generations, which was about the best I could hope for under the new regime.

The door opened and my new owner walked into the room. He was dressed all in black, in very expensive-looking robes. His bleach-blond hair was slicked back, the way it had been in school for an air of something like elegance. It was mostly pretencion. He was trying to look the part of being in the Dark Lord's good graces while his family was still barely holding on to its spot in the Inner Circle. He saw my smile and shot me a very suspicious gaze.

"Hello, Draco," I said.

Oh, and the muggles? The less said about them, the better. In the Death Eaters' eyes, they're only good for murder, rape, or torture. Or all three. In no particular order.

"Or should I say 'Master', now?" I added.

Draco Malfoy walked towards me warily. My behaviour obviously looked suspicious to him. But he kept his head. "Master sounds pretty good coming from you, Granger," he said. "I must say you've certainly improved in the looks department since school. You're actually fairly attractive, now."

Wow, I thought. Coming from someone who hated me as much as Draco, that meant I was smoking. I'd spent much of the last three years trying to improve my appearance at the behest of my old owner—styling my hair, wearing more makeup, exercising more, and getting a couple of expensive magical enhancements, but it was still encouraging to get such a positive response from the start. "I don't believe concubines are allowed the privilege of family names, Master," I replied. "It's just Hermione, now."

A hint of a scowl flitted across his face. Ha! Point for Hermione, I thought. He probably hadn't considered that buying me would actually put me on more "friendly" terms with him. I kept smiling.

"What're you smiling for?" he said. "Last I checked, you hate me."

"Now what makes you say that, Master? Just because I slapped you that one time? That was nine years ago. We were young and foolish."

"Have you gone mental, Gra…grrr—Hermione?"

"No, Master, I think I'm the sanest I've ever been in my life."

"Then what're you so happy about, mudblood?" Draco demanded. "I killed Dumbledore. I turned you over to the Dark Lord. I made all your little blood-traitor friends' lives miserable."

Oh, yes, he had definitely done that. Harry had been shocked when he saw it. He hadn't pegged Draco as a killer, but he was indeed the one who'd blasted the old man off the Astronomy Tower. Three years later, Ron, Ginny, Neville, and Luna were released from custody at the same time as I was, but they certainly weren't off the hook. They would be punished for the rest of their lives. And just as my punishment was to be trapped as a concubine, theirs, as purebloods, was to have the Dark Lord play matchmaker for them personally, and for that, he had relied heavily on Draco's advice.

Now, it would've been easy to match the four of them up with Crabbe, Goyle, Millicent Bulstrode, and Alecto Carrow, but the Dark Lord was cleverer than that. Dumbledore had once said the Dark Lord was familiar with more refined forms of cruelty, and in this he was entirely right. He had far subtler and more devious ways of punishing them than forcing them to marry the ugliest and most thuggish purebloods around.

Neville was the lucky one. He was actually allowed to marry the love of his life, Hannah Abbott. The catch was that the Dark Lord let Bellatrix Lestrange torture him first. She didn't drive him to insanity, like his parents, but she left him with extensive nervous system damage. Neville can't walk and has trouble speaking and concentrating on things. He isn't able to work or even really take care of himself. That would be bad enough, but it was even worse than it sounded because Hannah Abbott was notoriously high-strung in school. She'd had panic attacks whilst studying for her O.W.L.s, and even I hadn't had that problem. She needed the calm, mature presence that Neville had developed in his last three years of school to keep her sane, and he'd lost that. They love each other dearly, but they're both very unhappy. They can barely get by on their own, and worst of all, since neither of them is really in a condition to raise kids, they were forced to give both of their children up for adoption to loyal pureblood families at birth—children who will probably never be told their true parentage.

"Yes. Yes, you did, Master," I told the bemused Draco. "After years of trying, you finally succeeded in ruining all of our lives. But the thing is, under the current regime, you're something of a prize to me, aren't you."

Draco's jaw dropped. "You have gone mental," he said. "Did your old master addle your brains when you were with him? How could you think I'm better?"

"Oh, honestly, don't you remember what he was like?" I asked.

Draco froze, and that suspicious look returned, stronger than ever. "Yes. Yes, I do," he said. "But that bad?"

The bidding process wasn't entirely fair. Draco probably could've taken me from the first if he'd wanted, and I thought he might have done, just to spite me, but then, the Dark Lord decided to give an advantage to one of the other bidders. At first, I was glad, since I didn't think anyone could be worse than Draco Malfoy, but then I found out I was being bought by Cormac McLaggen.

I'm sure the Dark Lord appreciated the irony. On Draco's advice, he had already forced Ron to marry Lavender Brown. Everyone knew by the end of sixth year that the only thing Ron liked about Lavender was her looks, and she was horribly disfigured after being mauled by Greyback during the confrontation at Hogwarts—worse than Bill. She had always been shallow herself, and her personality grated on him to no end, and the combination had made her that much worse. And then by letting Cormac take me, the Dark Lord forced both of us to see the person we loved trapped with the ex we couldn't stand.

And worst of all, Cormac thought he was doing me a favour. He still liked me and was under the delusion that I liked him—or that I had ever liked him—and he thought I should be eternally grateful for him saving me from the likes of Draco Malfoy or whichever other Death Eater would have bought me. At the time, I was a little grateful, but that was short-lived. It disappeared completely around the time he asked me to get those expensive magical enhancements.

"No. No, you don't," I said firmly. "You don't know what Cormac was like, Master, because that's only what he was like in public."

"Draco," he muttered.

"What?"

"Just call me Draco. The 'Master' thing just sounds weird. You're way too cheerful about it."

Ha! I thought. Two points to Hermione.

"So was McLaggen really that bad…Hermione?" he grumbled again. "I thought he treated you like his wife."

"Oh, yes. He treated me exactly like his wife," I replied icily. "Twice a day and more on weekends, and he expected me to do all the work when he did."

Draco's eyes shot wide open in shock. "You mean he wanted—and you—Ah ha ha ha ha ha!" He burst out laughing. I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes. "And how do you I won't be just as bad, huh?" he said with a leer.

"Well, I'd say that would be a bit harder for you than it was for him. Pansy's always struck me as the really demanding sort."

That wiped the smile clean off his face, and I knew I'd guessed it right. Draco had married Pansy Parkinson, a promising young Death Eater herself. And the pug-faced girl was just as much of a bitch now as she was at thirteen. I actually wasn't sure why Draco was always so attached to her, unless it was the stereotypical explanation that she was willing to put out for him. "Watch what you say about your new Mistress, Gra—grrr, Hermione," he snapped.

I knew Cormac would have liked to have me as a wife. In fact, he didn't particularly want anyone else. But the Death Eaters said he needed a pureblood wife. So he looked around really quick and married Lisa Turpin, from my year in Ravenclaw, whom everybody knew was sleeping with Katie Bell, who couldn't have children anyway because of that curse that had nearly killed that same year, so her situation didn't really matter. I made the mistake of telling Lisa about artificial insemination. I thought I was doing her a favour, but when Lisa found out she didn't actually have to sleep with Cormac, she decided not to even live in the same house and moved out, which was bad for me because then there was no one around to distract Cormac from me. At least Draco would have Pansy preoccupying his time.

"My apologies, sir," I said with exaggerated demureness, looking down at my feet. "I meant no offence. I was merely suggesting that your wife may take more of your time and energy than my late master's did his."

Oh, yes, Cormac was dead. Did I mention that?

"Bloody hell, when did you become such an actress?" Draco demanded.

"Fifth year when Umbridge kept snooping on us," I said. "Had to keep the whole rebellion hidden."

"Ah. I should've known. Well, you just keep acting like that, Hermione," he replied smarmily. "You wouldn't wanna end up like your pal Lovegood, would you?"

Damn, that one hurt. I couldn't help myself. I went completely stiff in an effort not to react—not to give away how much pain it caused.

Luna—poor Luna—ironically, she's the one person among the five of us who got a happy ending, but it came far too late to spare her the pain. The sweet, carefree girl we knew in school is gone. Now, she's jaded, hardened, and struggling with a terrible case of posttraumatic stress disorder. She didn't have the luxury of being paired with someone who at least cared about her. She was sold as spoils of war to Walden Macnair, which was about the cruelest thing the Dark Lord could have done to her. Even notwithstanding the fact that the man was old enough to be her father, she loved creatures, and he loved killing them. She cared about everyone, and he didn't care about anyone. Worse, grade-A sociopath that he was, he found ways to torment her without hurting her "breeding potential". By the time he died, he'd slowly scarred her from head to toe with a knife, the occasional whip, and a few burns, and there's a patch of hair above her left ear that won't ever grow back.

Luna only got out of that hell because a year after they were married, they were visiting a dragon reservation, and Macnair was eaten by a Hungarian Horntail that had inexplicably escaped its enclosure. Lucky for her, a few months before that, they had met Rolf Scamander, the grandson of the famous author Newt Scamander, on one of Macnair's hunting trips, and he had grown fond of her. Rolf happened to be at the same reservation at the time, and as soon as she was (literally) back on the market, he sank most of his family's substantial fortune into buying her up and married her within a week. They immediately went on a honeymoon to South America and never came back. For some reason, the Death Eaters are under the impression that they were both killed by a lethifold, but then again, they also think Macnair's death was a complete accident.

"I would…appreciate it if you refrained from making such comments about my friends, Draco," I said stiffly. I phrased it as a request because I had to do that when addressing a pureblood and a Death Eater, but I managed to convey in my tone that it really wasn't.

Draco just grinned back at me.

Dammit, he knows he got to me. Point to Draco.

"So…McLaggen was a total sex addict, then?" he continued mockingly. "I guess I'm not surprised. He always seemed like that type now I think about it. And an uptight girl like you stuck with him for the past three years? That is just too perfect. Except I think we may have a bit of a problem, now."

"And what's that?" I asked.

"You were having all that sex and no babies yet? That's a bad sign for someone whose only valuable asset is their breeding potential. I think I'm starting to regret my investment."

To his obvious surprise, I chuckled at that and said, "Oh, that? You know, Draco, the Contraceptive Charm is pretty easy to cast. I mean, they taught it to all the third-year girls, just in case. All you need to do is put a barrier at the right point in the system, and nothing's gonna happen."

"I'm not an idiot, Gr—ugh, mudblood. I know that spell, too. But you don't have a wand."

"Oh, please, Draco, tell me you're not that thick. And here I had high hopes for you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means I'm me, Draco. Take my intellect, take away my wand and my freedom and lock me in a Ministry holding cell for a year only to make me into a de facto stay-at-home housewife after that, and you wind up with one smart girl with a lot of time on her hands." I waved my hand, and a vase of flowers on the table rose into the air. Draco's eyes widened in surprise, and I just kept smiling at him. "Wandless magical is surprisingly easy to learn if you're a smart girl with a lot of time on her hands."

"You can do wandless magic?" he demanded, eyeing me warily as I lowered the probably-priceless vase back to the table. "You know you could get in a lot of trouble for being a mudblood doing magic?"

"Not that much trouble. Any other mudblood would, I'm sure, but I'm still good breeding stock. In fact, that probably makes me even better breeding stock. You need me too much."

Draco paused, considering that. There were a number of ways they could punish me and still take advantage of my "only valuable asset" like locking me up again, albeit more likely in St. Mungo's, or even to resorting to the Dementor's Kiss. (That was the one thought that scared me—the one big risk I felt I was taking, and it had been keeping me up at night, I admit, but I was pretty sure I could manoeuvre out of it.) But all in all, the safest thing for a pregnancy would be to leave me be as long as I didn't cause trouble, and Draco knew it.

Finally, he observed, "That only works if you actually let yourself get knocked up."

"Oh, I never said I was against that," I said nonchalantly. It was times like these when I really channelled Luna. "It's just I was not going to conceive a child with a pig like Cormac McLaggen. I was doing the world a service by not perpetuating his blood."

"But you will with a snake like me? Tsk tsk. What happened to your standards?"

"Oh, don't worry. I haven't lost those, Draco. But you know the politics around here. You know how Cormac was. He had no prospects. He was squandering his family fortune. He thought he could get by on his pureblood status and his family name and no effort whatsoever."

"He was still playing Quidditch," Draco countered.

"You know that doesn't pay well enough to make a living unless you're good enough to make a national team, which he wasn't. He sure as hell wasn't that good at much of anything else, either, besides being a Gryffindor—and not the good kind: the self-righteous, arrogant, and boorish kind."

Malfoy snorted in amusement at my description of Gryffindors. With a sneer, he circled the room and dropped into a chair, lounging in a clear gesture of superiority: "Well, I knew you wouldn't like it when he bought you, but I never knew there was this much trouble in paradise. This is really entertaining. Go on, Hermione, what else do you have to say about him?"

I rolled my eyes at the ponce. "I think 'pig' sums it up pretty well, Draco," I replied. "Cormac had no skills that were useful in the Dark Lord's world, and he didn't give a rat's arse for any of my achievements either, what little they were worth anymore."

"Well, that's dumb. They're the whole reason you're worth keeping around."

"Oh, he knew that, sure, but all he wanted was a trophy wife. He never thought of me actually doing anything with those skills. He actually believed a woman's place should be barefoot, pregnant, and in the kitchen."

Draco grinned at that. "Sounds like a good deal to me," he quipped.

I just grinned back: "Really? Say that to Pansy's face, and I'll take back everything I ever said about you being a coward."

He scowled, not bothering to voice the obvious statement that he only meant that for me in particular. "Whatever," he said dismissively. "So I guess that's why you weren't so broken up when he suddenly died of…How did he die again? People don't normally drop dead in the middle of Quidditch practice."

"Oh, Cormac's death was a tragic accident," I recited. "He died of a rare heart defect called hypertrophic cardiomyopathy. It's well-known among muggles for making athletes drop dead after strenuous activity. Any muggle doctor could tell you about it. It's not clear why a wizard would have it, though. It's so rare as to be practically unknown to the Healers at St. Mungo's, which is probably why the Dark Lord ordered them to make a very thorough autopsy. Smart of him, really, when Cormac had a concubine around who loathed him and was known to be absolutely brilliant. But they concluded that's exactly what happened: natural causes…" I trailed off, watching Draco's face carefully for any sign of emotion. He was hard to read—not outright worried, but as if something unpleasant were nagging at him. I let him stew for a few moments, then finished my thought: "Now, whether poor Cormac was actually born with that problem, well, that's not something they could possibly tell from the autopsy."

Draco's eyes widened in horror as he made the connection. I may not have been Snape, but I was always better at potions than he gave me credit for. "Y-you didn't!" he gasped. He rose to his feet. "Y-you wouldn't! You're not a murderer! You're little Miss We-Could-Be-Killed-Or-Worse-Expelled!"

"Am I? That was a long time ago, Draco. Captivity can do funny things to a person, you know."

"It—it doesn't have to be me, you know," he said worriedly. "Someone else could still take you. I could always send you to Mulciber. He'd set you straight."

"Only if you want him to die," I snapped. I forced myself not to choke up as I said it. "It wouldn't be like with Ginny. I know wandless magic. It would only take a split second's lapse from him."

"I'd tell the Dark Lord," he threatened.

"Go ahead," I replied defiantly. "It'd be worth it to free Ginny."

Oh, Ginny. Ginny got the worst deal of all. In addition to losing Harry, with whom she had started running as soon as the Trace was off her, she was the biggest prize to the Death Eaters. Not only was she a pureblood, but she was a member of the extra-pure Sacred Twenty-Eight—and very attractive. She was also sold to the highest bidder, but no one, not even the other Death Eaters, anticipated who the highest bidder was: Romulus Mulciber, the master of the Imperius Curse (and once again, old enough to be her father). Ginny's strong-willed, but she's not that strong. From what I've heard, he still keeps her under it pretty much all the time. I couldn't stand to think about all the degrading things he supposedly does to her.

But I forced the thought from my mind. I had Draco right where I wanted him, and I couldn't lose this moment. "But really," I said, taking on a sweet, sultry voice. "You're not going to send me to Mulciber or to anyone else, for that matter." I slowly advanced towards him.

He drew his wand and quickly stepped backwards, turning paler than usual. "Stay back!" He said. "I still have a wand, and you don't. I'll kill you before you can try anything."

"Relax, Draco," I said with a little laugh, still striding towards him. "I'm not going to kill you. In fact, I intend to help you in any way that I can."

He stared at me in shock so long that I thought I'd broken him.

"You…you what? You think I'm gonna believe that?" he finally said.

"I mean it. I'll give you an Unbreakable Vow not to willingly kill you if you like," I told him.

His reaction to that was exactly what I expected: a flicker of surprise followed by suspicion. That offer was narrow, but also rigid. An ill-meaning person could probably manipulate it to force me to break it, but obviously, that wouldn't be in Draco's interests. In any case, he was rightly cautious about Unbreakable Vows after that mess with Snape in sixth year.

"And just why would you do that?" he demanded.

"Well, for one, it wouldn't do me any good to kill you. One owner dying unexpectedly is a tragic accident. Two is suspicious. For another, I told you, I want to help you."

"Help me with what?"

"You know how smart I am. I could manage your finances, help you with your Slytherin-ish plotting, give you advice to advance in the Dark Lord's organisation—I know you're still trying to get back up to being his trusted lieutenant—and maybe I can even teach you a spell or two."

"Ha! Sabotage me, more like."

"I'm not lying, Draco," I said softly, leaning closer to him. I want to help you. "I can make a lot of aspects of your life better."

He leaned away a bit: "And just what's that supposed to mean, mudblood?"

I stepped even closer and lightly ran two fingers down his arm. "Tell me, Draco, are you happy with Pansy?" I said.

"You watch your mouth, mudblood!" he snapped, backing off another step.

He nearly threw me at that, but I held my ground: "Or what? The Dark Lord won't let you do too much to me." He scowled again. He knew I was right about that, and he was no Macnair. "And it's an honest question," I continued. "I should know about the home life situation I'm getting into shouldn't I?"

Touché. "And why would you think there'd be a problem?"

"It's just that she never struck me as the type who would appeal to a wizard like you after the age of seventeen—plenty of sex, but too, uh, high-maintenance, the muggles call it. And be honest, is she much for intellectual stimulation?"

"Does anyone but you care about that?"

The words were hollow, and we both knew it, but I let it go and redirected: "So how is she in bed, anyway?"

"None of your business! And don't you bring it up again!"

"Uh huh. Not so good, then," I replied without missing a beat.

"As—as—as if you'd be any good at it," he said.

That was the opening I'd been waiting for. I giggled slightly and stepped close up to him again. Then, placing one hand lightly on his chest and the other on his shoulder, I tilted my head up and whispered in his ear, "Actually, I've been practising."

Oh, that got to Draco alright. He started sweating almost immediately. I kept it up, leaning into him a little more. "Cormac strongly suggested I study up on the subject," I continued softly. "Well, that was just him being a pig again. It's not like he ever bothered to improve at sex. But you know how I love to study. Did you know the muggles have written whole books about it."

"Y-y-you're kidding," he said in barely more than a whisper.

"Nope. With the sheer number of muggles, it should be obvious that they have a lot to say about it." I smirked at the double entendre. "Of course, they're only muggles. There's loads of ways to improve on their work with wandless magic. Have you heard the phrase 'magic hands'?" I laid my hand on his cheek a focused on magically projecting extra warmth through it.

Draco shuddered and then, in flash, pulled away from me in anger. "Alright, that's it. What's your game here? What's in this for you?"

"Well, I'd wager you'll be a damn sight better in bed than Cormac was, for one. You'd at least have to try to be good if Pansy's as demanding as I think she is."

"Not that!" he roared, completely overlooking the joke. "All of this! Why are you so happy about being my slave? You're supposed to be scared of me. This is supposed to be your punishment."

At that, I started to laugh—a long and genuine laugh—my first in a long time. It felt good to laugh again. He'd fallen into my trap absolutely perfectly. "Oh, Draco," I said sweetly. "Poor, foolish, deluded Draco. Do you really think it's an accident that I ended up with you this time? I got you just like Br'er Rabbit."

"Who?"

"Muggle fairy tale. See, all I had to do was wait for the Death Eaters to come around to mock me." I imitated the smarmy voice of Yaxely: "'Looks like you're back on the market, eh? You're looking pretty good, now, doll-face. I think you'll make a nice prize for the right bidder.' And then I would just mutter to myself, 'As long as it's not Malfoy,' and I'd pretend to be worried that they'd hear me, and what do you know? Nobody outbid you."

Draco's eyebrows short up into his bleach-blond hair as the truth finally dawned on him. "You—y-you're not kidding, are you?" he said worriedly. "You really did want me to buy you?"

I smiled: "Yes, I did."

"And you really do want to help me?"

I smiled even wider: "Check me with Veritaserum if you don't believe me. My greatest ambition is to get you back into the Dark Lord's highest confidence."

"WHY?! Why would you want to help someone who hates you, hates mudbloods, and would've loved nothing more than to see you dead for years?"

I chuckled and started towards him again, finally backing him against the wall and leaning against him again, making sure he could feel my figure. "Oh, Draco, haven't you figured it out yet?" I told him in the most seductive voice I could manage. "This is my revenge."

He froze, tensing up, holding his wand tight, waiting for the attack to come, but I had other plans. "You know all about revenge, I'm sure. Now, the Dark Lord has taken away all traditional methods I could use to exact it—at least without dying a painful death, but I can be far subtler than the…traditional methods. You see, if I help you with your career, then you get to suffer the indignity of getting all of your advice from a mudblood, and you'll let me do it, too, because you know I'm smarter than anyone else you could get advice from. And meanwhile, Pansy finds herself upstaged by a lowly mudblood concubine, who is smarter, prettier, better in bed, and more useful to you than she is, and whom the Dark Lord himself has ordered her not to maim, torture, or kill."

Draco's eyes somehow managed to grow even bigger, until he looked like a very tall house elf. I could see the pieces falling into place in his mind.

"And as for me," I concluded, "well, I'm a mudblood. Our children will be half-bloods. The only real prospect they'll have in this world is if I attach myself to a powerful pureblood, and that means the higher your position is, the better off my children will be. Oh, I'm not too worried about them turning into bigots like you. Mothers influence, and in a respectable household like yours, there'll be no reason to take them away because there'll be nowhere better to send them. So you see, I'm getting a pretty good deal for myself with this plan."

Draco was stunned. Oh, sure, he could find ways to foil my plan, but I was pretty confident I could prove myself useful to him by the time our first child was born, and that was all I really needed. Still, he collected himself and said in what was probably supposed to be a leering sort of voice, "There's just one flaw in your brilliant plan, Hermione: you still have to be my slave. You still have to suffer the horrible fate of being forced to sleep with me."

I just grinned and whispered in his ear again. "Oh, Draco," I repeated, "that's the beauty of it: after Cormac McLaggen…Draco Malfoy a step up." Then I kissed him—a kiss infused with a little bit of magic to make sure it left him wanting more.

"Merlin…" he whispered. "When did you become such a Slytherin?"

"Probably in second year when the Chamber of Secrets was opened, and I brewed Polyjuice Potion in a bathroom so we could sneak into your dorm and hear you tell what you knew about the Heir of Slytherin."

"What?!"

"Oh, yes, I've been outwitting you for a full decade. Isn't it good I'm on your side, now?"

Draco considered this for a minute, forcing himself to keep a neutral expression, but his obvious disgust at being backed into this corner (figuratively and literally) couldn't hold up to the cold logic that the situation really was to his advantage. Finally, he just said, "Dammit, Hermione, you win."

A/N: I just realised I just wrote a Dramione story. That's a little disturbing; I didn't think I'd ever put them together. But I don't think you can exactly call it romance, so I guess I can make an exception.