“Granger!”

Draco sounds impatient again, Hermione sighed heavily, rolling her eyes as she took her time to stride to the study he was in. When she arrived, she was annoyed to find his back to the door. He was standing at the tall window, gazing out onto the courtyard, as though incredibly engrossed in something. Hermione felt her eyes roll in aggravation again. He was hardly doing that out of interest. For as long as she’d known him, nothing interested the dragon. Everything bored him, including her, not that she’d ever thought he would bother to look at her twice anyway.

“Yes, Draco, dearest?” Hermione’s words dripped with frost and disdain as she glared daggers at him from the door. “And how many times have I told you? We’re married now, so I take your surname. There’s no point in calling me by ‘Granger’ these days. You’re lucky I still answer you.”

“Shut up, Granger,” Draco advanced on her menacingly. He pulled her into the study roughly and practically threw her onto the sofa in a corner before turning back to the window. “If you don’t stop being such a bitch about everything, I’ll have you locked up in the cellar.”

World’s most perfect husband, Hermione thought bitterly as she crossed her arms, unrelentingly glowering. What did anybody ever see in him? Even Pansy should have hated his guts. But she knew that she had to put up with Draco and his attitude. If not, Ron was dead, and so was everyone else she ever held dear. Just like Sirius, and Dumbledore, and Lupin, and Tonks, and even Harry – they would die the same way their comrades had if she ever defied Draco’s word.

For most part, Hermione’s role in the Malfoy Manor was to be the house-elf who could be presented clothes. As long as it was something to do with laundry, it was her job. If Draco was feeling particularly nasty, he would make her run the stupidest of errands for him, or make her do something as repulsive as rub his feet (a chore which seemed easy, but was really a nightmare for Hermione as Draco almost never washed his feet). The other house-elves pitied her greatly but could do nothing to help. As she was in a matrimonial bond with the Malfoy son, she was considered part of the family and if she gave the house-elves clothes, she would be setting them free from their servitude.

“All right, Draco, what the hell do you want?” Hermione asked irritably, dropping her phony sugary sweet demeanor at once.

“I want to know if everything is set for my father’s arrival tonight.”

Hermione was silent for a few moments.

“Nobody told me he was coming,” she said plainly, clearly annoyed.

“Well, that’s too damn bad, Granger, because he is!” Draco turned to scowl at her. “And you know very well what he wants.”

Of course, Hermione scoffed in her head. So Lucius Malfoy wants Order information? He’s not getting anything out of me.

“I’m not saying a word about it,” she said defiantly.

“Now you listen here,” Draco swept over to her, pinning her to the sofa. They were so close that their noses almost touched and she could feel his practically-sub-zero-temperature breath on her skin. It made her shiver, but with repulsion rather than fear. “You’re going to tell him what he wants to know, is that clear? You screw things up further and you’ll have to deal with me.”

“As if I care. It’s not as though I haven’t taken any crap from you, Malfoy,” Hermione spat, roughly yanking herself out of his grasp and standing up. “You’ve been a sorry excuse of a husband since day one.”

Draco’s movements were swift and agile, and soon he had her against the wall, his lips to her ear. However, he didn’t get the reaction he desired – which was along the lines of her squirming and begging him to get off her. She just looked stonily ahead of her. His grip around her wrists tightened considerably; it was sure to leave bruises later.

“Don’t forget what I can do to Weasley should you step out of line again, poppet,” he whispered silkily into her ear and had the satisfaction of watching goosebumps form on the back of her neck. He kissed it lightly, but she didn’t move. “I own you now and there’s nothing you can do about it, is there?”

“It seems Muggle of me to say this, but didn’t you ever hear that diamonds come coupled with debt, Draco? Being the smart individual you are, I’m sure you know what I mean, even if you’re inept in Muggle ways,” her falsely and nauseatingly saccharine deportment was back. She flashed him a spurious smile, which melted into a deep scowl. “My vows weren’t true; not a single word.”

“Is that right now? Did you have a good cry about it after you said ‘I do’ then?” Draco sneered. “Shouldn’t cry so much, Mudblood. You’ll only grow weaker.”

“Oh, don’t you worry about that,” Hermione laughed coldly. “All I’ve done is prayed. For you; and for me. And as I mentioned ‘debt’ earlier, would you like me to pray for our monetary problems as well? Oh Merlin, what would your father say when he finds out?”

Hermione smirked – she had hit the sensitive spot. Draco felt fury bubble up in him at the reminder that the Malfoys were facing issues with Gringotts. The Malfoys were on the verge of bankruptcy. The shock coupled with the demands from the goblins had driven Narcissa Malfoy to commit suicide off a cliff while at the family’s holiday home in Majorca. Lucius had absolutely no idea what had occurred. He had been locked away in Azkaban and wasn’t allowed visitors – none of the former Death Eaters were. He was literally kept in the dark.

Draco pushed himself from Hermione, disgusted, and pulled her by the wrists out to the antechamber. He nearly dragged her down the staircase and finally when he stomped off the last step, he flung Hermione towards the four house-elves cleaning the portraits on the ground floor.

“Put her in the cellar and don’t you dare serve her any meals until she learns to be contrite,” he barked at them.

She sat with her knees drawn to her chest in the cold, dark basement next to old artefacts and dusty paintings with the only light streaming in from filthy windows. Hermione glared at her reflection in the spotted mirror opposite her. She’d grown to hate that reflection; it only provided the evidence that everything she had gotten herself into was indeed true. She was living in a nightmare that she knew would never end.

Hermione remembered her wedding day clearly. It was one she’d least expected – so unlike the happy one Bill and Fleur had experienced at the Burrow. Hers was solemn and monochrome. Sure, the organs played the familiar wedding chorus, but where were the violins to beautifully line the floating, hollow music? What on earth had the pope said? Those were things she could not recall at all.

So when it came to ‘making love’, there was nothing loving about it at all. They’d done it only once, when they consummated their marriage. Hermione put on a good show – holding hands, graciously accepting compliments she knew he never meant, even pecking him a kiss or two on the cheek – when others were around of course. Anything for the Malfoy image, she thought bitterly.

She’d only married and stuck with Draco to save Ron, as well as the remaining Weasleys, and all her other friends. After Voldemort was vanquished – taking Harry with him, much to everyone’s despair – everyone who’d declared allegiance to Dumbledore and fought against the Dark Lord had thought they’d won. However, they were all wrong for virtually unknown Death Eater Augustus Rookwood rose to power soon enough. He disappeared with a small group of Death Eaters, but after the shocking ambush, kidnap and subsequent murder of Minister for Magic Kingsley Shacklebolt, he resurfaced under an alias. He only revealed himself after he’d finally gained authority within the Ministry. Nobody dared go against him at that point.

One might ask why he left fellow Death Eaters Lucius and even Bellatrix in the slammer even after attaining supremacy. Well, nobody really got an answer. Suppose Rookwood was really sick in the head by the time he got all the command he ever wanted. Being almost nameless to Voldemort, he must’ve felt resentful towards people higher up in his inner circle, such as Bellatrix and Draco’s father. So maybe this was part punishment for their ignorance towards his cunning. After all, Rookwood was a former Unspeakable – why wasn’t he one of Voldemort’s most trusted? One could picture him jumping with glee when he heard of Severus Snape’s death by Nagini.

However, Lucius was to be released from prison that very day. What he’d find out about the Malfoys’ current financial status would no doubt leave him enraged. Hermione thought with brief amusement his reaction when he was informed of her marriage to his precious son. No doubt he would be like everybody else – he’d think it wouldn’t last. Of course, Hermione secretly agreed. Maybe, she’d hoped, he wouldn’t want them to remain husband and wife, and would make Draco leave her alone.

Draco had only spoken of his true motives of asking to wed her once, and it was when she’d finally plucked up the courage to ask about it. He was probably feeling particularly charitable or something that day, because he didn’t even snap at her. But he was his usual loathsome self. He wanted connections – connections to the Order, secrets nobody on the outside knew, anything about Dumbledore’s old plans; he wanted everything. And he obviously thought he would get it too, although he never went out of his way to be nice about it. Clearly, throwing your wife of two years into your cellar is not a polite method of persuasion.

Hermione was honestly surprised they’d been together for that long, though. It was hardly love or even a simple form of attachment such as friendship that held them together.

Contemplating all that, she suddenly felt extremely aggravated. Standing up from her position on the floor, she walked up to the basement door and banged on it as hard as she could. After a few moments, a little house-elf appeared next to her on the step with a crack.

“Mistress Hermione mustn’t do that! Master Draco is very upset with the noise!”

Marche the house-elf was probably the only elf Hermione knew of that could speak English properly. He’d always been her favourite, although it wasn’t for that attribute at all. He was the one elf who agreed with her about elf rights. But of course, right then wasn’t the opportune moment to discuss it.

“Marche, tell Master Draco that Mistress Hermione wishes to speak to him and he has to open this damned door immediately,” Hermione said with as much of her head screwed on as she could help it.

“In those exact words, Miss?” the little elf looked mortified to even use the word ‘damned’.

“Well, you can change it up if you want to, but just make sure he gets the message.”

With a nod and another pop, Marche was gone and Hermione settled herself on the step and waited.

“What is it you wished to speak to me of that you had to make Marche practically drag me to this smelly cellar?” Draco’s harsh voice startled her as he flung the door open.

Hermione climbed out with an angered look on her face. Her eyes softened only a little as she thanked Marche. She pulled Draco into one of the sitting rooms, shutting and locking the door behind her. To his surprise, a slight smirk was painted across her features when she turned to face him again. Pulling out her wand, she waved it lightly at the curtains, which swished shut, and another flick lit all the candles in the room. It filled the chamber with a warm glow, although the couple standing in it was cold as ice. Hermione muttered, “Muffliato,” to ensure the room was secure.

“So you’re finally willing to listen to what I have to say? To view it at my level? How sweet indeed,” she mocked.

“Cut the crap, Mudblood, or I’ll have you stuck in that cellar for the rest of your Merlin-forsaken life!”

“DON’T call me that!” Hermione shouted; not screamed, nor shrieked, but she shouted. She advanced on her husband with fire in her eyes; it was anything but passion. It was hatred.

“It’s not perfect, is it?” Hermione whispered. She had her wand drawn, and it was pointed right at Draco’s throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. Cowardly Draco always seems to surface in moments like these, Hermione thought. It was her turn to have him up against the wall.

“What isn’t perfect?” he had the audacity to act stupid at this point! Hermione felt her blood boil.

“Life with me, you prat!” she almost screamed, the wand tip now pressed hard against the underside of his jaw. “Did your mum tell you that it would all be a breeze? Did she tell you that once you got a wife, you could push her around and bruise her up and it wouldn’t matter? It’s not a bed of roses like that, Draco, and you know it! Mummy isn’t around to spoon feed you every little thing-”

“Don’t you DARE talk about my mother that way!” Draco seemed to have found his courage again for he seized both her hands and forcefully pushed her against a desk that sat at one end of the room. The edge of the table jabbed right into Hermione’s back, and it hurt badly, but she showed no sign that she was about to concede with his medieval treatment towards her. Living with Draco Malfoy had taught her one thing – if you weren’t strong enough, he was going to take advantage of you in more ways than one.

“I’ll talk about her however I bloody want!” Hermione yelled back. “It's the truth!”

Draco’s ice-blue eyes had turned silver in rage as his hands found their way to her throat, slowly tightening his fingers around the column. He was always physically stronger than she would be, and he only left enough room in her windpipe for the slightest bit of oxygen to enter her body.

“I could snap your neck in two at this moment if I wanted to,” he growled threateningly.

“And what’s stopping you?” Hermione rasped, hot tears of anger and hatred flowing down her red-blotched cheeks, her hands clasped round his wrists, trying to pull him off her.

Draco’s hands began to shake from his rage and he tugged them away, as though he’d been electrocuted. He turned from her in repulsion. Hermione rubbed her red raw neck and inhaled big gulps of breath, all the while glaring at Draco’s back.

“You’ll live long enough for a child to be born.”

His answer had surprised her so much that she let out an unladylike snort. “You want children?”

Funny how much she sounded like his mother; Draco felt his hands ball into fists.

“I said one child, Mudblood, what’s wrong with your ears?” he snapped.

“Nothing’s wrong with them. I’m still taken aback by your statement. Even if you only mean one child.”

He could hear the amusement in her voice and rolled his eyes. “What’s so funny about wanting one?”

“What’s funny,” Hermione began circling Draco, “is the notion that you’re willing to have a child…with me. Won’t that just be proof that you bed a Mudblood, as you like to call me? Won't that just destroy the 'pureblood' Malfoy race? And what would you tell the little tot when he grows up? ‘Oh, Mummy was the biggest mistake of my life, yet I wed her and slept with her and had you anyway.’? Is that what you’ll say to them then? Assuming that I’ll be dead by then, of course.”

She took it all way too lightly for his liking. The way she was revolving around him was also starting to greatly annoy him.

Hermione stopped after awhile, when she realised Draco wasn’t going to retort. “Just tell me the real damn reason you want me alive, Draco,” her tone was cold. “You want me as an informer, so I’ll become a scapegoat. Just say it! Don’t you bloody dare bring children in as an excuse, you insolent, lying sack of-”

“So what if all I’ve ever wanted from you was information?” Draco was deathly soft. It was as though he wasn’t even there.

“Then you should know that no matter what you do or did to me in the past, I won’t say a word. I, unlike you, value trust in friendship,” Hermione said phlegmatically. “We’re like looking at mirrors when it comes to our marriage; it's like we married ourselves. What’s the point of staying together?”

“I have my ways to make you talk, darling.”

“Then you’re very late on that, sweetheart. It’s been two years and still I’ve seen nothing but rehashed ideas.”

“What about you? Two years, and still nobody’s come for you,” Draco sneered. He knew exactly where to hit her soft spot. “Two years and still Genius Granger hasn’t thought of a plan of escape that’s foolproof.”

Hermione didn’t say anything for a moment, but her livid gaze never left Draco’s. She seemed to study him. His metallic eyes showed no signs of emotion. However, she knew that if she kept this up, sooner or later, she’d drive him so mad he was forced to let her go. She knew she was weak for two years, always crying over Ron, always crying over Harry, always worrying about the Weasleys. It took her so long to strengthen herself; nevertheless, she’d learnt her lesson.

“We weren’t married by the pope after all,” she whispered. “We weren’t married on the basis of love. It was more of the gravedigger’s cathedral in my eyes.”

With that, she relieved the room of all protective enchantments and stalked upstairs to her own chambers, slamming the door thunderously.

A/N: I started writing this a couple of days ago, and I think it’s one of my favourite stories so far. A little bit of the darker side of Draco/Hermione fanfic; I’m a bit sick of reading stories where Draco always turns to the side of good after getting together with Hermione. I’d like to keep him the evil character once in awhile. Anyway, reviews are very much appreciated, should you leave any :) Thanks for reading!

This story is based on a song called Black Wedding by Meg & Dia, copyrighted to the band and also towards Warner Bros. It's not even released yet, and I'm still unsure of some lyrics - all I've got to go by is a relatively clear live performance at the Roseland Ballroom (you can YouTube it if you're interested). However, the basic plotline is there and that's good enough I suppose :) Where lyrics are still blurry, I've left those bits out. And I obviously don't own Harry Potter - that goes to the lovely J. K. Rowling.