A/N: Okay, this is it, the final chapter. I'm stunned at your encouraging and kind reviews, they're just WOW!

Much, much beta love to LondonsLegend. She proofread this with so much power and creativity that it took my breath away! Thank you so much! Also she helped me a LOT deal to decide for an ending and pushed me to do what I wanted. Also a huge shout out to Iris, because she was so understanding of my plot panic!

Hope you like it, A.!

Definite song recommendations for this chapter: 'Novocaine' by Fall Out Boy

Each week blended into the next, and Hermione's lucid phases became longer and longer, barely allowing her to be enveloped by the comforting numbness she had floated in for the last years.

Being awake hurt. Memories hurt. Surviving brought guilt.

What she didn't feel guilty for anymore, however, were the weekly meetings with Draco. She could deny the attraction she felt towards the handsome man no longer, but it fitted perfectly into The History of the Decline and Fall of Hermione Granger.

Stockholm syndrome? No. She wasn't a captive, not in the classical sense, at least. On the other hand, she wasn't exactly free. But it made all the difference that she looked forward to the Friday evenings, where she would come home from work and find him on her sofa, waiting for her; she lived and ached for his touch, his hands roaming all over her body, causing her to moan and cry in pleasure.

*()*()*()*

"Gods, Draco, I need more!" The half-dressed blond gave her a devilish smirk as he, once again, lowered his head between her legs and licked her slit from bottom to top with the flat of his tongue. For what felt like the hundredth time, Hermione felt the heat coil inside her; it was pure, sweet torture. Her thighs quivered in lust, but he kept her writhing and moaning, so close to the edge, until she begged for him to enter her.

She tried to move her hips against his face to gain a bit more friction, but he used his arms to refrain her from moving, "Such an impatient kitten. You know what you have to do to-" his verbal seduction was interrupted by a vibrating sound.

"What the Hell?" Draco got into a kneeling position and fished for something in his trouser pocket. Finally, he held a vibrating coin between two fingers that were still wet from being shoved into Hermione's quim.

"Fuck, an emergency at work. I have to go." The woman's brain vaguely registered the Protean Charm on the money, but protested as Draco got up in a haste, throwing on his shirt and robes. He didn't mutter words of excuse or give her a parting kiss on the cheek. They were no lovers, after all.

Moments later, Hermione was, once again, alone in her small flat, though the expectant heat between her legs hadn't vanished and demanded that someone finish what Draco so expertly started. Conjuring the image of Draco, his too familiar expressions, hovering over her with his cock buried in her to the hilt, her hands made quick work of her unresolved tension. With two fingers thrusting in and out of her pussy and her thumb circling the swollen bundle of nerves above, she quickly came undone, screaming his name to the surrounding emptiness when she reached her delicious peak.

An hour later, Hermione exited her bedroom after a nap and wanted to prepare some pasta for her dinner, when she discovered the familiar cloak still hanging over her single kitchen chair. Draco, the careless male he was, never hung it up properly on the rack. Hermione lifted the cloth, intending to store it away properly for whenever his owner would retrieve it.

Then, with a heavy clunck, an object fell from the depths of the coat and onto her floor. Like in a dream, Hermione bent down to put it away again, but stopped when she realized it was a platinum ring that had fallen down.

A wedding ring.

A symbol of holy matrimony. Not that Hermione believed in anything holy anymore.

She had no idea what drove her to search the piece of expensive fabric further, but she did, until she held an intricate dragon hide purse in her hands and found a wizarding photograph stored away in it.

A photo that showed a beautiful brunette woman with a newborn in her arms, smiling gleefully at the camera. Frantically, Hermione turned the picture around and read the script on the back of it.

Our precious son and heir, Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, on the day of his birth, *5/2/2006. Yours, Astoria

Her raging intellect kicked into gear and she did the math; Draco's son must have been born the day he didn't show up in her flat. Fucking family business, indeed.

Just getting used to what it meant to feel again, Hermione drowned in the flood of emotions clashing over her like waves.

She had felt something for Draco, for the man she had despised since their youth. Not love, but a certain attachment, a venomous connection, that was now replaced by another feeling: betrayal. And rage.

It came over her like the sudden force of the Cruciatus: she had become a Death Eater whore with a liking for her position.

She had betrayed her friends, her family, and her magic, even when they were all long gone. Angry, hot tears rolled over her cheeks and fell to the floor next to the damn witness of Draco's real life.

She couldn't rationalize what she felt. After all, she had never asked about his personal life. He had never lied to her in that aspect, instead withholding the truth about his wife and baby son. He had a real family with birthdays, Halloweens, and Christmases. And nothing of it all was in the cards for her; Draco knew that. Nevertheless, he came to her, every fucking Friday, to fulfil his - and her - carnal needs.

Before she became a victim of her emotions again, her mind went blank. Blissfully, gratefully blank, as her survival instinct surfaced and, eventually, shut her off from reality. She could operate again, move herself from the kitchen floor she had somehow sunken to, and walk into her living room.

With demurely folded hands and a straight back, she waited. He'd come back. After all, he would have to take his cloak back home to avoid raising suspicions. Two hours later, when a plan had started to form in her mind, Hermione heard a loud pop, and finally lifted her head.

"Draco! You came back!" she smiled at him, hoping to deliver a convincing smile that had no equivalent in her insides.

"Yes, I realized I left my cloak here. Sadly, I have another important meeting to attend, so I won't be able to finish what we started. Such a shame," he smirked at her, and, despite feeling hollow, her tears threatened to spill again.

"I agree. But I'm going to see you next Friday, right?" her own voice sounded foreign to her, so… dependent.

With a nod that was followed by the unnerving noise of disapparition, Draco disappeared into his world again: a world where magic was might.

*()*()*()*()*

In the early hours of next Friday's morning, Hermione didn't walk to work. Instead, she boarded the train that would bring her to Wiltshire. On her feet, like a meaningless piece of an amor, was her new pair of sneakers. With the rent Draco had paid for her flat, she could afford little things like those comfortable new shoes. On the map she had copied in the local library, it appeared it was some distance to walk from the train station to Malfoy Manor. Her memories of the manor were a bit foggy, but intricate details didn't matter anymore. In her former life, she had known the building like the back of her hand; it had been so important during the War. One had to know their enemy. Intimately. She would have been the perfect martyr now, wouldn't she?

When Hermione left the train station around lunch time, she ignored the delicious scents coming from the restaurants of the little town, instead following the country lane that led her away from there. The street meandered around fields and small groves, all colourfully reflecting in the warm sunshine, all so alive.

The peaceful nature around her made the woman contemplate how dispensable she was. Not only she, of course: the whole humanity was just a congregation of meaningless individuals, one species, if an arrogant one, among many others. And one day, evolution would tear it down. A strange serenity flooded her, because no matter what came of the day, the world would turn around her, the trees would photosynthesize, the birds would sing. This was only her endgame, her personal cataclysm.

When she had almost reached the driveway that she knew would lead her to the Malfoys' home, the sun had passed its zenith and it was nearing tea time in decent British households. Suddenly, with a screeching of this brakes, a pink truck came from behind and to a halt next to her.

She scanned the label on the side and identified the vehicle as a delivery truck from a patisserie. The very same patisserie her birthday cake had been from.

"Can I help you, hun?" the middle-aged driver, sticking his head through the open window, a smile on his tanned face.

"That would be great! By any chance, are you heading to the Malfoys?" Hermione shaped her voice in a friendly tone. There was no reason to do otherwise.

"Yes, hop on!"

Without hesitation, she climbed into the truck. Her Trojan Horse. Once inside, the driver made an effort to hold some small talk. "What do you want in this gloomy house? You look so different from those weird people that live there! Not that it concerns me, but the Malfoys are… different."

"You have no idea."

With that, the conversation was finished, and she spent the short ride towards their destination in silence, not giving the driver a concrete answer to his question. She jumped out of the truck as soon as it slowed down on the gravelled pathway to the delivery entrance and ducked immediately. Without her wand to use a Glamour, she had to rely on muggle tactics: with her head low and eyes alert, she ran towards one of the outer walls and pressed her back against it.

Slowly, she inched towards the nearest window, which she knew were magically warded against magical attacks. When she had learned during the War that Malfoy Manor's windows weren't protected against sheer, physical force, she had laughed at the unbelievable arrogance that was a characteristic trait of Draco's family. She took the heavy stone she had pocketed on her march through the countryside and tested its weight again. With a huge swing, she threw it against the floor-deep window, and cracked the perfect facade of the manor.

It was so easy to reach through the hole in the glass and use the handle to open it. Hermione carefully stepped over the shards and just then realised which room she had chosen to enter: the drawing room.

One glance at the expensive, peruvian carpet and she saw stars dancing in front of her eyes. She had spilled so much blood there, writhing and screaming under Bellatrix until her throat was raw. A sob escaped her now, the vision blurring, be it because of the tears that ran down her cheeks or her eyes that refused to see the room around her.

Suddenly drained of all energy, she sank to her knees, every muscle in her body shaking, every nerve reliving the pain of that day, making her forget to breath. Her memory presented her with images of Bellatrix carving the cursed words into her soft skin, blood, as red as any human's, trickling onto the soft fabric of the carpet and over her palm. Grey eyes, staring into hers, either uncaring or helpless. Draco's eyes.

Her survival instinct, finally triggered by the lack of oxygen in her blood and brain, screamed at her, 'Breath, Hermione!' and she took one deep, liberating breath. And breathed out again. And in.

Slowly, she came back to her senses and tried to reason with her war ridden memory. They escaped that day. Ron, Harry, and herself. They made it out alive, even when it all went to Hell later on, even if she couldn't recall the details of their flight.

They had been so determined in their plan to take Voldemort down back then, so sure of themselves.

But today she also had a mission, she remembered; one that called for her utmost dedication. This time, she didn't fight for the 'greater good' power hungry fool like Dumbledore had sold them out to; she fought for herself, her life, her future.

Shrugging off the remnants of her panic attack, she got up again, stretching her tense limbs. She then strode to the door at the other side of the room, resisting the urge to look for blood stains on the carpet. Hermione wandered through the halls of the ancient house, trying to remember the location of one particular room, when she heard a soft voice singing. Carefully, as not to draw attention to her person, she followed the tune of what she recognized as a wizarding lullaby. The young woman was met with the perfect picture when she entered the room where the music came from, the nursery, to be precise: a beautiful woman with long brown hair sat in a rocking chair next to the double-winged window, which granted a magnificent view over the Malfoy estates. In her arms, wrapped in a soft looking green blanket, was a sleeping baby, his bright blond hair peeking over the edge of it.

Scorpius and Astoria; Draco's innocent son and his wife. The young witch was either naively ignorant or a willing bystander of the violence around her. Months ago, Hermione would have envied Astoria because of the perfect life she lived, and, for a moment, she allowed her mind to spin an alternate universe in which she was the woman on Draco's side and birthed his child, and where Harry won. But destiny had taken from her the opportunity to have a small bundle like this in her arms, to create life from her own - at least for now.

A glance to the counter next to the door told her that Astoria was unarmed as her wand lay there, out of reach, proving again how far away the other woman was from the war and the society that was Hermione's reality. For a second, she asked herself if the other woman knew of Draco's extramarital sex, but then again, it wouldn't change anything.

The young Mrs. Malfoy must have heard someone's steps on the mahogany floor, because she started, without looking up from her precious baby, "Draco, you're back early! You just missed me feeding our son, the little hungry monster."

"How could such an innocent child be a monster?" Hermione intoned, icily.

Astoria, finally noticing the intruder wasn't her husband, looked up surprised, and immediately secured the child against her. One couldn't overcome their instincts; in Astoria's case it was the instinct to protect her offspring, in Hermione's case it was survival at any costs.

"What do you want? Food? Money? I- I can give you that! As long as you don't do anything to Scorpius! My husband..." she pleaded. Somewhere in the back of her mind, Hermione was aware of how she should feel pity for the young mother, but she didn't.

"Oh, I know your husband alright, or I thought I did." Before she finished her words, however, she felt, rather than saw, the magic of the bracelet on her wrist igniting. The silver chain emitted a blue shimmer, like a trap for insects.

She knew the moth would be there any moment.

Hermione soon heard someone approaching with hastened steps, and she knew that was her clue to act. With a determined grip, she dove her hand into the back pocket of her worn jeans and produced a knife she had stolen from the cafe the day before.

It was a simple, yet very sharp, kitchen knife, but it would work. With a strong tug on Astoria's fine robes, Hermione pulled the witch towards herself. The younger woman struggled against her grip, but her arms were occupied holding her newborn, and as soon as she felt the sharp blade at her throat, she stilled.

When Draco entered the room, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his tie loosened, he did so with his wand stretched out in front of him. His grey irises quickly scanned the situation and narrowed in on Hermione.

"Drop the knife!" There was an edge of panic in Draco's voice.

"No."

"Please, Hermione…don't hurt them, they're innocent. You're not really capable of seriously harming an innocent human soul." Draco Malfoy pleaded for the life of his wife and son. How remarkable.

She let the knife scrape over the whimpering witch's throat in her grip, drawing a trail of blood. "Times change. Maybe I am now." And she didn't even feel…anything.

Except control.

Control over the blond man who always seemed to have control over her. He had never appeared so unhinged. Draco's pupils were blown, and his soft hair was ruffled. Still, he didn't appear overly surprised at her violent behaviour. Had she given him any indication that this would happen? That she had chosen a Friday for her nefarious plans because she wanted to be found? She knew he'd activate the magical tracker in her bracelet, this selfish gift from him, when she wouldn't come home from work for the waiting Draco.

How the mighty have fallen, she thought in a reminder of a church visit long ago. Though, this time, she knew she'd be the one to rejoice and triumph.

Draco's demeanor changed, and his lips curled into a sneer. A last uproar against his demise, the final convulsion of a beheaded snake. "Hermione, you haven't made yourself false hopes, have you? Because we both knew from the beginning that there wouldn't be a happy ending, even if our encounters were positively satisfying in every way."

She snarled, her voice cold and her choice of words deliberate, "Not such smart words when I have your wife and heir at my mercy."

Pulling at his hair, the wand forgotten in his hand, the Malfoy scion whispered. "No, not so smart." The tall wizard visibly broke at the seams after scrutinizing her, his whole body slacking when he admitted his defeat by a broken witch.

"You win - this time, at least. What do you want, Hermione?"

"Obliviate me! I want to forget, Draco: the war, the blood, the magic. I want to forget how you made me scream in bed, how much I enjoyed being fucked into a wakeful state by you." From the corner of her eye, she saw Astoria, still in her grip, flinch. Perhaps the woman didn't know, after all.

"But mostly I want to forget us. You. Myself." She didn't plead with him, didn't beg; Hermione Granger, muggleborn witch, proud Gryffindor, war heroine, demanded.

And Draco Malfoy could only nod. He raised his hand and muttered some words, too familiar with Hermione, but still not the ones she had expected.

"Finite."

*()*()*()*()*

Hermione awoke with a gasp, her eyes blinded by the darkness around her. The air was humid and reeked of centuries of torture, but she slowly came to her senses.

She realized her wrists and ankles were bound by iron chains that clung heavily to her limbs, binding her to a small cot. Then, she grew aware of another presence in her…cell? The heavy breathing indicated the person was as shaken as she was.

With what little strength she had, Hermione lifted her head and willed the spinning vision to stop.

There, on the floor with his back against the dark stone wall and his wand resting powerless in his hand on the floor, sat Draco Malfoy.

For some seconds, nothing happened, except the sound of her heart beating maniacally.

Then, Hermione remembered.

She had never left Malfoy Manor after the torture under Bellatrix' wand. Harry and Ron had been forced to leave her behind and she had been held captive in the dungeons ever since. She had no idea how much time had passed, but, judging by the smells of flowers and grass in the warm sunshine that sometimes drifted into her prison, she assumed it was almost May.

It was mostly Draco who 'visited' her, but, sometimes, Lucius climbed down to her. He seemed disgusted by her dirty skin and blood, so he never touched her; instead, he prodded her mind for information about the Order, about the horcruxes, about her friends. And that is how she knew the war was still going; that Harry still fought.

The witch firmly believed in the victory of the light. She had to. She just hoped she could hold the grip on her unrelenting sanity until the war was over, and she would eventually be freed. Until then, Hermione had to survive the horror of the fantasies Draco shoved at her.

After countless fantasies like the one she just woke up from she knew they had a pattern: they always started with a numbness that had to be the result of his personal variation of Legilimency, then they turned sexual with various shades of kinkiness. She had been gagged and dominated by him, her orgasms had been denied again and again until she begged for mercy. The most cruel fantasies, though, were those where she felt loved. By him.

Sooner or later, she would shrug the numbness off and find ways to turn his plot against him. How that was even possible, she had no idea. Hermione Granger was glad that things worked in her favour, for once. Sometimes she broke into Malfoy Manor or the Slytherin dorms, sometimes she killed him in cold blood - with a knife, a wand, or a poisonous plant she had stolen from an unknown garden. Given the opportunity, she would kill him in reality, too, without a doubt. Although, through the hate, she possessed something akin to pity for Draco. His conflicted emotions seemed so genuine in the dreams, like she was more to him than just the mudblood whose mind he fucked with.

In the previous days (weeks?) she noticed he spent more and more time in her company, even allowing her to eat and bath under his aroused gaze. As a result, he neglected his Death Eater duties. She knew this because she had overheard a shouting match between Draco and Lucius.

She didn't know how much longer she could rebuild her mental defences, for the last fantasy was the longest one so far. Maybe she was just getting weaker and it took her longer to turn the tides - or was her remaining sanity only an illusion, too?

What wasn't an illusion, however, were the sounds of walls crumbling down and curses shouting from above, resonating into her cell; a magical battle, undoubtedly. The cavalry was there.

Triumph and a sick pleasure filled Hermione, and, finally, she found the will to look into her torturer's eyes: Draco's stormy grey irises were wide with panic, and over the exhaustion of his failed Legilimency crawled horror.

"Did I distract you so much that you forgot a patrol or something? Such a pity," her vocal chords protested against their use and her throat was paper dry, but her tone was firm, strong against his weakness.

Someone yelled her name, frantically asking where she was. The woman was certain it was Harry, a desperate sound in his voice hiding the loving tint it had so recently gained before she had been captured.

Her eyes locked with Draco's, and she spat blood from her mouth, which could have come from her tongue or her lungs, onto the floor next to his feet.

"We win. Always."

A/N: *ducks* that's the first time I don't have a real happy ending. I struggled a very long time to write it like this, because your reviews were all so hopeful concerning Draco. I almost wanted it to end like: Hermione wakes up in a hospital. She's there because she got injured in an Auror mission, and all of this mess was only in her head as a result of a curse. Draco is her partner and they're desperately in love with each other. That would have been the safe way to end this.

But, as I mentioned, MrBenzedrine always encourages me to write me out of my comfort zone. And, after all the struggles I had in the beginning, I enjoyed the darkness a bit too much. Have to cuddle some kittens now or something.