A/N: This little story is dedicated to MrBenzedrine. Why? Because I wanted to give something back. She's not only a brilliant writer, but also an amazing friend. Thank you for encouraging me, not only in writing, but also in not giving up hope. Hope that, maybe, there's still a chance to have my ONE wish fulfilled against all odds. You see, this is a bit more emotionally challenging for me than what I usually write.

I asked MrBenzedrine for a prompt, and this is what I got:

"If I don't wield the sword,
I can't protect you.

If I keep wielding the sword,
I can't embrace you.

-Ichigo Kurosaki"
― Tite Kubo, Bleach, Volume 05

This going to be a shorter story, maybe three chapters, and (because MrBenzedrine is a sucker for dark stories, but patiently proofreads my hilarious stuff) a lot darker than anything I've written so far.
The fantastic waymay beta'ed this, and I'm utterly thankful for that, THANK YOU SO MUCH!

When she, finally, finally, drove the car from the ferry in Calais, her companion awoke and, immediately, started fussing.

"Shush, little Lyra, everything's going to be okay now." She caressed the baby's belly through the soft green, expensive looking blanket which covered the newborn.

"Your Daddy made sure we're going to be safe."

That was all Hermione dared to hope for.

OoOoOoOoOoOo

Eighteen months earlier…

She had been caught.

Caught and held captive.

And brought to Malfoy Manor. The seventh circle of hell. Not that she expected anyone around her to understand the reference to Dante's Divine Comedy, judging by their conversations which only circled around money and sex. But what else would she expect from a bunch of Snatchers? At least, her Glamour was still intact, and, as it was a strong one, it should remain that way for another two or three hours. And maybe, just when the Forces above would grant her luck once, she wouldn't be identified as Hermione Granger, but simply as an unregistered Muggleborn prostitute.

She had been working undercover at Diagon Alley, disguised as a woman who sold her body for money. Though Hermione made sure she didn't appear cheap and was only available for purebloods in the right circles. All that to get some information, because those girls, how they talked about their customers, and how the Order promised itself useful bits of news via that channel. Of course, it was Hermione who raised her hand in the much too small group to apply. But one of the girls must have tipped her off. Perhaps for a handful of Galleons or a warm meal? She must have become careless, not dull enough. Or maybe someone noticed she never left with any 'customers', though she had many offerings.

Why was she still there? She couldn't very well give up the fight, could she? Not even with Harry dead, killed by Voldemort at that unfortunate day in May five years ago. Not even with Ron gone, fled to another country with his whole family, presumably to Italy's landscape, where distant relatives of his mother lived. She hadn't heard of him in two and a half years. Ron had wanted her to leave with him -begged even, but she couldn't. Not when there was hope left, not when there were still people fighting against the Death Eater regime which had poisoned wizarding Great Britain, ruling everywhere. How they managed to stay without interference from the Muggles, she didn't know. She supposed an Imperio could do wonders. And there were opportunities when the news reported strange incidents, like a family killed without useful forensic evidences. It had been put off as an unfortunate carbon monoxide incident due to a damaged heating, and not as the cowardly murder at wand-point it was.

Hermione's heavy thoughts were forcefully pushed aside when one of the Snatchers brutally gripped her hair. Now that was something they excelled at, wasn't it? Keeping a wandless, handcuffed woman down on her knees.

"Master Malfoy, we brought you someone who should be fitting for your needs! The little whore should be your type!" One of them boasted, clearly in expectation of a reward.

'NO! Not him!' Hermione pleaded inwardly as she heard confident steps approaching her.

"Let me look at her! Hopefully you dunderheads weren't as rough with her as with the last one. I don't like damaged goods."

Hermione would recognise his aristocratic drawl anywhere: Draco Malfoy, one of the Dark Lord's inner circle.

And, indeed, he stepped into her vision. Still platinum blond, still pale, still handsome. Not that it mattered, she was dead, either way.

As he stood there, towering above her, his gaze wandered over her scantily clad form, and Hermione was well aware now how revealing her few clothes were. She observed of how Draco's grey eyes darkened while taking her body in.

"She is very promising, indeed. How did you find her?" He asked the Snatchers, his eyes never leaving her chest.

"On Diagon Alley. She's one of the more expensive ones. Another gave her out as Muggleborn. And she isn't registered. There's no Ophelia Croft on the list."

"Interesting." Draco touched her now, tipping her chin upwards with his long, and surprisingly warm fingers, his greys piercing into her (disguised) greens.

"Pretty enough with a secret. She will do; you are to receive your reward when you leave. Take her to my bedroom." He barked the last words out, obviously used to giving orders. Without further notice, he turned and left the room she identified as travelling room.

Two sets of hands grabbed her, forcing her to stand and walk. Hermione's body was wracked with shudders, however, she remained quiet. She was brave. But not so brave as not to be filled with unspeakable fear of what she would expect in Draco Malfoy's bedroom.

OoOoOoOoOoOo

As she was thrown into the room, the door slammed shut behind her; the lock falling into place. Not giving into the temptation to stay sprawled out on the expensive and soft rug, Hermione stood, scanning her surroundings. 'Well,' she thought, a hysterical laughter bubbling below the surface, 'this is exactly how I imagine his room.' Dark wood, polished and smooth, dominated the room. A king size four-poster bed in the middle of one wall, a warm fireplace on the other. Emerald green fabrics covered the bed and the sofas, including the cosy looking armchair next to the hearth. A door led to the en-suite bath, marble covering the floor around the tub that could easily fit four adults.

Floor-deep French windows (firmly locked) and a balcony gave a beautiful view over the Malfoy estates. Under different circumstances, Hermione would have appreciated Draco's room, but now? What could she do else than to continue on with her mission and collect information from the Death Eaters? But how far was she willing to go? Sleeping with Malfoy while praying that he didn't recognise her? Gods, that was all so surreal.

Startled by a door creaking open, she turned, in fear it was him. To her surprise, it wasn't Draco, but his mother. Dressed as elegantly as ever, Narcissa held her head high, the epitome of a pureblood beauty. Not daring to do or say anything that would give her away, Hermione lowered her head, gaze set strictly on the floor, and her shoulders hunched. When the older woman approached her, she could smell something decisively alcoholic. Was Narcissa drunk?

"You're my son's new plaything, I suppose. Let me have a look at you." In a move similar to her son's she grabbed Hermione's chin, forcing her to look into the woman's cold blue eyes. And confirming, yes, she had a tumbler with fire whiskey in her hand. If the slight slurring of her words was any indication, it wasn't her first.

"What is your name, girl?" Narcissa demanded to know.

"O-Ophelia, Madame Malfoy." She stuttered, and not all of it was fake.

"Mh. Let's give you an once-over to make you a bit more representable." With a snap of her fingers the large wardrobe opened, revealing a rich stock of women's lingerie.

OoOoOoOoOoOo

An hour later, Hermione felt even more like a prostitute. Her (even under the Glamour) unruly, strawberry red curls were tamed, too much make-up was plastered on her face, and she wore a flimsy green baby-doll which barely covered her arse. Afterwards, she was commanded to sit on the bed until Draco came.

But Hermione was running out of time.

One quick peek into the mirror revealed her green eyes were already starting to change back to brown.

And the door opened. Hoping against hope it was a house-elf, or even Narcissa, she tried to stay calm. Only to be robbed of said hope. It was him, Draco Malfoy, strutting into the room, loosening his tie and discarding his outer robes in one precise move.

And he didn't say a word to her.

He slipped out of his shoes, leaving them lying on the floor where he discarded them, and walked over to a locked cupboard. Waving his wand, he unlocked it, determined to retrieve two glasses and a bottle with amber liquid from it.

And he didn't say a word to her.

Was it his preferred torture tactic? To daunt her with his silent front?

His gaze fixed on his task, Draco poured two glasses of what she supposed was Armagnac. He always had a weakness for the drink. And the tendency to overindulge in it.

Then, deliberately, his grey orbs focused on her, as he approached her like how a black panther would towards his prey. What would she do for a wand? Of course, she'd been schooled in different martial arts, but they had already failed her once today. And Draco was known as a brilliant fighter, with or without a wand. She calculated her chances against him in this room -30%. And that was only if he had the same alcohol consumption as his mother.

Her muscles tensed in anticipation, though she avoided looking into his eyes directly. Hermione nearly jumped when she felt the mattress dip under his weight as he sat down on his bed, extending a tumbler to her.

Then, like he'd planned every second of their encounter, with an undertone of confusing humour, he broke the silence.

"This outfit suits you perfectly, Granger."

Fuck.