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His Relinquishment	By : lexiatel Category: Harry Potter > Het - Male/Female > Draco/Hermione Views: 70406 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 5
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to Jk Rowling, I do not make any profit in writing this story what so ever. I am just having some fun.

Chapter List
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- 2
FULL SUMMARY:
The Dark Side won. Many were left dead. Their numbers had decreased as the Dark Lord had warned would happen. But when the remaining Pureblood women are found to be infertile, all plans of blood purity must be ceased immediately. Else they would all parish.
PAIRINGS:
Hermione/Draco
MAIN CHARACTERS:
Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger
WARNINGS:
Graphic Scenes Of Violence, Forced Marriage, Rape, AU, Canon Up To Year 5, Triggers, Slavery, Slow Updates, WIP, Torture
!...DARK STORY...!
:NOTE:
This is just a musing I had. Wanted to post it here so it would be saved online somewhere. Don't expect much of it. I'm still working on my more fluffy Dramione. Read warnings if you are sensitive, or have triggers.
Open to ideas.
Enjoy.

"My Lord...?" His servant shook beneath him. Those two little words were practically begging Lord Voldemort to spare his life, knowing the news that he had just given the Dark Lord had upset Him greatly.
Though, the announcement was not surprising to Him. Not surprising at all. In fact, Lord Voldemort had actually expected this. Had hoped against it, but nonetheless, He could not do anything about the predicament now. What's done was done. Many of their kind were no longer breathing. Both sides of the war had lost valuable people. People that He had made plans for when the new World Order would be enforced.
Foolish infidels, He thought bitterly. They had not thought enough of the future. It made Him rage inside. Enough to kill.
And His servant sensed this— expected this.
He had to hold back the twitch to kill though. The servant had magical blood, and He would need him— He would need them all to aide in bringing their numbers back up.
Lord Voldemort hastily turned from the quivering man at His feet, breathing in the scent of His servant's sweat. Oh, how He loved the smell of fear. It made His eyes roll back into His head. It was worse than an addiction, He learned, but not damaging to himself, considering His immortal status.
"Check the Mudbloods," He ordered in a hiss, after His thoughts had returned to the ordeal at hand. This had not been what He wanted, but a backup plan was never bad to have, which was why they had been kept alive.
Still, this was a step that He had not wanted to make. They (His loyal followers) would see it as a punishment. Getting them to reason was impossible... He'd just have to force them into it. They all feared Him now. They were weaker. They had no choice but to do as He said. And they knew it.
"The M-Mudbloods, s-sir?" His ignorant servant stuttered, curiosity out-besting his fear.
"Have you suddenly misunderstood what I command of you, servant?!" Though soft, His voice was demanding and frightening, lacking the purr He often used to charm those beneath Him into submission.
"N-Not at a-all, My L-Lord," the servant squeaked, instantly reminded of his inferior position.
"You're dismissed," Lord Voldemort raised His hand up, waving it. He almost tortured the imbecile with a curse, but quickly stopped Himself from doing it. He would have to take heed from harming His servants now. Officially, they were all very delicate at the moment.
His possessions would need to be handled with care. It was unfortunate for Him.
He'd just have to take his anger out on the Muggles instead. He found no harm in that. There were plenty of them to abuse. All their numbers were increasing, as they had been oblivious of the cold Dark war that had surrounded them.
Another reason they were lower than dirt.
*/*
"All of them?" He asked to confirm.
"Yes, My Lord," the servant didn't shake this time, not having any reason to— Lord Voldemort hadn't responded viciously to him this time.
In truth, He was mildly relieved, having had been a bit on the edge since He heard the crisis that was plaguing His people.
Mudbloods were His only choice. He dismissed His servant immediately, refrained from sighing until there was a solid stone door between them.
There wasn't much else He could do about it. The Mudbloods would have to be admitted into the program.
Best get on with it then, He thought as ideas swirled into His head of how He was going to go about this.
"The same way as before," He decided in a hissing whisper. He saw no reason not to. Why let this problem change everything He had planned?
He pressed His wand to the Dark Mark on His arm, calling out to one of His followers.
The tall man appeared before Him, and instantly fell to his knees with respected grace. "My Lord," he acknowledged slowly, waiting to hear the reasoning of his summoning.
"Ah, Severus," Lord Voldemort purred delightfully. "I have a message for you to relay to the Fighters."
*/*
Draco didn't know why he was still being forced to be in this program. He had killed Dumbledore, gaining his name back in the good gracious of the Dark Lord. He deserved better than this. He had not come to any conclusion that he had pissed off the Dark Lord. The Dark Lord had not issued any specific punishments as of late— besides this constant session of trying to beat him down in a wizard duel.
Maybe this wasn't the Dark Lord's doing... Maybe the Fighters couldn't accept that Draco was better. That he was the best. That was probably it. They were angry. They were jealous.
His lips curled up smugly. Yes, he was the best.
Sweat dripped from his glands like a leaky faucet as he dodged the attacks with body dives, zigs, and zags. He was better at blocking than striking, that much he learned. Likely from his Quidditch playing back as a Seeker. Fast reflexes and quick acting.
His attackers hadn't clued in on this yet (not even after three weeks of this), giving him the upper hand. They were out for the kill. Well, metaphorically speaking, they were out for the kill. The Avada Kadavra curse had been made illegal to cast on magical blood the day He had won. The other two were still perfectly okay, so long as it didn't lead up to a death.
Muggles were different though. If the Death Eaters so desired to kill, they were given an actual permit to eliminate a certain number of them. Just as if they were animals.
But they are.
Draco spun in a circle, barely dodging Amycus's stinging hex. Wordlessly, and almost wandlessly, Draco blasted a magical beam of fire toward him. Amycus disappeared, his scream of pain ringing throughout the Battle Room.
Draco had no time to celebrate though, because Amycus''s sister cried out in a rage and sent a dozen spells to him. They came at him, one after another. He began to pant as he defended himself from the attacks. Growing weak, he blinked rapidly as an effort to keep from collapsing with a faint. Another Fighter appeared to help his opponent. And then another. He was fighting three experienced Fighters now, getting more and more tired by the second, his energy depleting after each spell he was casting.
Blocking their attacks wasn't enough. He knew that. The problem was offensive spells took much more energy to cast. But blocking was getting him nowhere.
He. Had. To. Win. The best always won.
He drew up a force that his godfather had taught him how to do. The spells aimed at him were blocked by the invisible wall of the spell, allowing him enough time to think on how to rid these pathetic Fighters.
His eyes glared at them as he coolly stared them down. Who did they think he was? It was because of him that the Dark Lord won the war, and if he had been older, he wouldn't even be here. But the program was mandatory. Every person of magical blood under the age of thirty-five (all Death Eaters and servants included) had been ordered into this exclusive battle, to prove their magical strengths and to decide which of them were the best, and which of them were the weakest.
And he had proven his success, winning every battle he had been forced into, up against several fighters at once.
So why the fuck was he even still here?!
*/*
"He's to not fight anymore," Severus said harshly, pouring a potion down Draco's throat to replenish his energy.
"He must lose a battle in order to be placed," Amycus argued.
"He will die in the Battle Room if this continues. He refuses to lose. He wants to be the best. He is the best."
Alecto snorted in doubt. "My daughter is just as good!"
"Last I knew, she was ranked number seven," Severus poked at her dryly. "Even Luna Lovegood outdid her—"
"Nonsense!" the woman screeched.
Severus shifted his eyes meaningfully. "The scoreboard does not lie, Alecto. Unless you wish to tell the Dark Lord that his creation is flawed?"
Alecto's mouth immediately buttoned to a close. She shook her head with a negative.
"Draco Malfoy places first," Severus announced with finality.
*/*
"Is it over?" Draco winced as the sunlight pierced his eyes, bringing a sharp pain to his head. He felt the familiarity of his bed at the Manor, sighing in comfort at the thought of finally being home.
"It is," his godfather answered, pressing a compress to his head.
"I'm at the top, right?" he asked to clarify. It was important that he be at the top. The Dark Lord had said so. He told them all to do their very best, as it would be detrimental to their future.
And Draco had done his best. He wanted to be the best. He was the best.
"You are."
Draco relaxed, smiling happily. It had been three years since he had felt so happy.
If only his parents were here to express this with him. He pursed his lips at the thought of their absence. He was making them proud. That's all that mattered up to this point. He was fulfilling his promise to them. It was the least he could do.
*/*
Blaise stood at the spot he had apparated to, looking out across a deserted field. Tall grass and other wild shrubbery stood up to his waist, some even past his head. His eyes scanned the pasture in slight confusion. An alert had went off, identified as underage magic of a Mudblood, but there was no structure here.
He walked on, grunting at the plantation that was determined to hinder his tasks of fetching the young child and taking it back to headquarters, where the Dark Lord stored them at. He lifted his wand, clearing a path for him to walk through easier.
There had been orders to not harm the Mudbloods these past two years too, which also brought up questions, but Blaise had long ago stopped questioning why the Dark Lord just didn't have them killed off, coming to the conclusion that He was incredibly insane.
As long as he did what he was told though, Blaise found that he didn't mind the world under the Dark Lord's control. His life hadn't been affected much, so he had no reason to complain.
He inhaled through his nose. Something was off. He was smelling jasmine. It was the wrong time of year for jasmine to release its heavenly fragrance.
With a swish of his wand, he cut the long grass around him and sent it fluttering into the air, watching it closely. Some of the blades halted their fall in the middle of the air, confirming his thoughts.
This will be fun, he thought as he made to discover how large the parameter of the concealing charm was.
*/*
"Can't I have more?" the child asked, eyeing his empty bowl.
Hermione frowned. "I'm sorry, but you know we're on rations until Thursday. That's when the shipment will come in."
The small boy with red tinted curls sniffed, but said nothing otherwise. Her heart sank, understanding the feeling of a near empty belly. She ate just enough to keep her alive, giving the growing boy most of the food she was able to bargain for or grow herself.
"Come on, Samual, I'll read you a book," she said after cleaning up the bowls from their soup.
"I can read it!" he said, slipping out of his seat and skipping to the small living room where they kept the books.
Samual picked out a book, handing it to Hermione. She swiped her fingers longingly over the cover. A tear slipped from her eye, as the memories of her youth (both good and bad) swarmed in her mind.
Merlin, she missed her friends. She missed them so terribly bad.
"Is this a sad book, Hermione?" the boy asked.
He was only six, but had more compassion than most of the people she had met in her life time. If this were three years ago, and he were a wizard of eleven, she would make a great guess that he would be sorted into Hufflepuff.
"No, Samual," she said, sniffing and holding a tissue up to her nose. She then began reading Hogwarts: A History to the boy who believed it all to be a fairy tale.
Which is all it felt like to Hermione anymore.
*/*
She smelled smoke. She lifted her head up, slightly dazed from her sleep. Terror suddenly clicked in as she felt the heat of a fire out-breaking from the kitchen. There was a loud crack and the roof in the other room caved in. She hurled Samual into her arms and made way to the door off the living room.
From a safe distance away outside, Hermione turned around to assess the damage, sobbing as she came to a realization that the home would not be repairable.
What was she going to do?
*/*
Concealed behind a hay bale, he watched the home smoke into a fiery fit. When he saw no one emerge from the burning structure, he began to panic. He cursed himself, darting out from his hiding place and sprinting across the lawn.
The homestead had been concealed with a ward that took him hours to break, but finally it was visible, showing a barn with small animals, a garden, a tire swing, the tiny home, and a laundry line full of hanging laundry to dry. There was a child and a woman who lived there, Blaise could tell from what the laundry consisted of.
What he had to decide was if there was a witch in hiding, or had the homestead been warded off to protect them by a passing witch or wizard on the run?
Either way, he had to force them out. Either the child was a Mudblood, or his mother was breaking the law by being here. All magical people had to be registered, so that their whereabouts were always known. All Mudbloods were imprisoned.
So he started the fire. A controlled one, to give them enough time to get out of the building. This would leave them vulnerable for his attack, as he was sure they were sleeping, meaning they would be bare all except for a thin layer of clothing.
Just as he went to approach the porch, the door crashed open, and a body appeared, breathing hard, choking from the smoke. Blaise quickly dashed out of sight, watching the body closely.
The young woman— his age, he guessed— stared in horror at the flaming home. She held the child— a small boy in her arms. It took her several minutes to fully comprehend what had just happened. She turned to the barn, no doubt running the idea of living there as a home.
He took this moment to reveal himself, stepping out into the open, his wand raised.
"Give me the boy, woman," he ordered stoically.
The woman jumped at the sound of him, and turned back his way to look at him. She backed up, hugging the boy close to her. "What's going on?!"
"Give me the boy, Muggle!"
"Mugg—" She looked confused for a moment, but then her eyes narrowed. "What did you just call me?!" she demanded.
"Muggle. You are an inferior to my kind." He twisted his wand, showing off his weapon.
He heard her bark in laughter. "Is that a tiny, little stick?! What do you plan on doing with that?!"
Blaise stepped forward, growing impatient with this Muggle woman. Why did every bloody Muggle say the same thing? When were they actually going to be made to know what a wand was and how dangerous it really was, capable of ending their life in just two words?
"I'm going to kill you with it," he sneered darkly, making her eyes widen. She licked her lips nervously. Blaise found this odd. His threat was venomous, but this wasn't the first Muggle he had threatened in his life. Most never believed what he was capable of doing with a 'tiny, little stick' until he actually inflicted damage with it. By then it was too late.
With another step toward her, she, having earned his curiosity, stepped away from him.
"Stay back! I-I have a gun!" she warned him in desperation, but Blaise knew this to be a lie, else she would have already shown it to him.
When he did not stop his pursuit of her, she took off running toward the barn, shrieking all the way. He shot a spell at her, stunning her movement. Blaise watched as she toppled to the ground, the boy still hugged to her, shielding the child from him.
There was a small cry. It came from the child. The fall must have woken him up and scared him.
"Hermione!" he cried. "Why are we outside?!"
And it struck Blaise like he had been harshly back slapped. Blaise snatched the shoulder of the woman, rolling her over onto her back, casting a lumos into her face. He didn't believe it. He had found her. The one that had gotten away.
The one they were still looking for.
Her glassy brown eyes stared unfocused at him; effects of the spell. The boy was crying out for answers, begging for Granger to release him so he could move, having no idea what was taking place. Blaise put the Mudblood child into a deep sleep, shutting him up.
Blaise smiled. He was going to get rewarded for this. Oh, yes, an immense reward indeed.
*/*
"You've been bumped down," Severus informed Draco.
"I'm no longer number one?" Draco asked, caught off guard by the announcement.
Severus pressed his lips together. "No," he drawled bitterly.
"Who's on top?" Draco rose up from the chair he had been reading in, snapping his book closed, not caring that he had forgotten to bookmark it.
"Take a wild guess."
*/*
Hermione tugged at the magical device that had been locked around her neck. It was a collar. As if she were a dog! They had told her it would be used to track her, should she try to escape.
The skin around her neck that it touched was becoming irritated and inflamed. The itchy, prickling feeling was enough to make her cry out.
Why didn't they just kill her? Why had they made her fight with those Death Eaters? Since she had won, successfully disarming them both and fought against them with their own wands, she would have thought she would have been tortured to death right on the spot.
But Voldemort had said nothing when she declared that she had won. He had watched the entire fight. He could not deny the victory. Both the Carrow siblings were bound and gagged.
He then announced that there was going to be another fight, and again stated, that if she lost, Samual would be brutally dismembered— as she was forced to watch it happen.
It was enough to make her want to cry, and why she bothered with it, she didn't know, because deep down, she didn't believe that Voldemort would not kill the little boy she loved anyway.
But she did fight. That little bit of hope that he would actually go by his word kept her going. If she lost, Samual had no chance. If she won, there was a tiny chance.
"Again," he had announced after she won the second fight.
Real tears streaked down her face. "Why are you doing this?!" she had demanded, but he did not answer her, commanding his Death Eaters to swarm in.
She fought. And fought. And fought. She fought, unable to keep tears of frustration and suffering at bay. And then, she saw white. A bright, shining light blinded her, but it was warm. And she felt comfort, something she had not felt in a long while.
*/*
"You have heard?"
"My Lord," Draco addressed pleadingly. "You know I have tried my best. You know it, My Lord."
"I do," the Dark Lord whispered. "And I expect you to continue it."
"Of course, my Lord. I devote my life to you."
"Draco, my boy, would you stand?"
Draco gracefully brought himself up to his feet.
"Remove your mask." Draco complied. "You are going to start a family now, my son."
Draco's face scrunched up in confusion, but he quickly wiped his face from emotion. "My Lord, I do not have a woman in mind. I have had no time to process—" He stopped when the Dark Lord lifted His hand to silence him, and his Master nodded at him.
"It is time, Draco. Time for my plans to go forward. To do that, our people need to bring our population back up. You need to not look for a wife, my dear boy. All those who are not already married will be assigned a mate based on their score on the scoreboard. You Draco, and your family name, will hold the blood of those with the most intellect that the future will bring."
Draco smiled, proud of his accomplishment. He tilted his head. "Thank you, My Lord."
"Your future wife has been chosen. I do expect you to treat her with care and understanding. She will carry your children. She will be fragile, even if you think differently."
"She is to be my partner, My Lord, I shall do no other," he said, thinking about how his parents had handled things. Father, the leader of the family, and Mother, the home, directing the house-elves, and caring for Draco. The memory made his heart clench in pain.
"You'll get the best, Draco. You certainly deserve it."
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His Relinquishment