Disclaimer: Don't Own, never will.
AN: This has an interesting story to it. This was somewhat meant to be an actual multi-chapter deal, but that didn't quite work out since that probably won't happen but I like this idea too much to fully let it go. So here is the basic idea: Voldemort won, Harry, Ron and his family are dead. Muggleborns and halfbloods have become servants to death eaters and purebloods. Voldemort is taking his time with world domination at the moment, and Hermione is the only left alive. Orignally, Luna was meant to be alive, in a Harriet Tubmann esque role, having an underground railroad movement to help oppressed witches and wiazrds escape to America. Hermione's daughter is disguised as a boy and meets Draco's son Scorpius and the two fall in love. Hermione and Draco manage to help inspire their children to stop Voldemort. Draco was supposed to get maor character development that had him over coming his fear and guilt in order to do the right thing with the help of his wife Astoria. Seamus and Dean start a risistance movment and wonder where in the hell Neville happens to be(I sure don't know) and re-unite with Lavender, who has survived and become a werewolf and forced into Fenrir Greyback's pack. There was the possibility of Seamus/Lavender, mainly for fun. That's pretty much it.
Hermione felt their absence keenly. It was more than just sight; she had enough of the dead bodies. Her memories of Harry's body being carried in Hagrid's arms before he himself fell and of seeing the Weasleys' die one by one after another to defend each other. Hermione could recall perfectly how they had fallen, with the Death Eaters laughter still echoing in her ears. It was only thanks to Seamus and Dean that she survived; they pulled her back and made her look after Trelawney, which didn't do much good for either of them. Hermione was lucky to be alive, so yes she wished to no longer have memories.
The mudblood lines are really long on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Getting there early was the key to getting anything good, or anything at all really. Hermione would hold some else's place in line in exchange for something, but for the most part it was the other way around since she had to do shopping for her "employers" before she was allowed to do her own. Hermione almost liked the lengthy wait in the lines; she could brush up on her haggling when she waited. Hermione kept a firm hold on her basket in order to receive her hard bread.
Hermione knew it was suicide to insult her "employers" and there was a time when she was happy to do so, but she knew that it wasn't what Harry or Ron would have wanted for her. Every day, she'd open her box and pick up Harry's glasses, gingerly holding them and making sure she was careful with them. It was the only way she stopped herself from rushing to the nearest Death Eater and screaming, "Get it over with already!" So she kept quiet and waited.
Sometimes Hermione felt as if she was secondary to her own life despite being alone. When she was with Harry and Ron, it was easy to say she was the 'smart one', the one who studied the most, who could think ahead to the next course of action but that could very well be a lie now. She could barely plan to the end of next week now despite her best efforts. She hoarded food constantly, mended her clothes when she had the time, but her body felt too heavy after her work. Maybe she felt this way after she was sold, her story no longer being written by her or maybe she had been feeling that way since Harry, her protagonist-her friend- was murdered.
Her hands were callused, her fingers often reddened and raw from her work. When she had been sold to her first master, she didn't know what to expect. Death was probable but not aches and pains that came with never getting a full night's sleep or allowing bruises to heal. Hermione looked in the mirror. She had gotten skinnier lately, her fingers scraped against the flesh that covered her ribcage. So brittle, so breakable and familiar; the time when her body had been much warmer and recognizable. Hermione briefly regained this with another kind of work when she discovered that she pregnant. When she first learned this, she was terrified; that she could place her future child in danger because it would be like her, a mudblood. She didn't tell the father-he could be killed for it, nor would she ever tell her child who its father was.
Her masters, the Greengrass family was kind enough to allow the other maids to stay with her as her body began to change. She never felt more terrified as new life inside of her began to take hold for the next stage in her life. Hermione hid herself as much as possible while he body swelled and when she went into labor she did her best not to make a sound. When the midwife handed her her daughter and looked her in the eye, she knew it was worth every effort.
Fame was not a fickle thing, not really. It stayed with you no matter what has happened to cause said fame. Now she knew how Harry felt and she just wished he was there so she could apologize for every time she became exasperated with him when he lashed out against it. If she had known, then she wouldn't have told him to just ignore it. That was what she did every day, but there was no scar on her forehead to protect her from the hate leveled at her by the purebloods.
It kept her firmly on the ground and sensible. She focused on the tasks at hand as she tried not to disappoint her masters as if her life depended on it because it did. Her daughter was counting on her to stay alive.
Was home really where the heart was? Hermione could have sworn she left hers behind when Harry and Ron were murdered. She had no idea what became of her parents after she wiped their memories and at best hoped they never knew what a Death Eater was. The Greengrass manor had a room for her in the attic with the houselves, and she saw her daughter's room was only slightly smaller than hers and shared by three other boys. She always watched through windows, the rooms that people lived, wondering how they did it.
The only thing that roused her from apathy of her situation was her daughter, who managed to incite both tenderness and wrath. Wrath on her daughter's behalf; she would never know what it felt like to be called by her real name, to have to wear the bile colored bars swan onto her clothes, or have to serve pureblood girls at their coming out parties. That because of the Death Eaters and the rest of the purebloods, her daughter would have to dress as a boy and go by the name of Hugo, who could never learn about Harry and just what they all did to try and stop Lord Voldemort. She'd never be able to get to read and write, which was such a great battle that Hermione had eventually won. Hermione was quite proud to say that she was able to school her daughter herself. As much as she enjoyed teaching her, Hermione wanted her daughter to have the options she deserved, because if this didn't ignite her anger, nothing would.
The one night that changed everything was also the one night that Hermione had found herself overcome with jealousy and made her realize that she would do anything to be in Daphne Greengrass's place when she revealed her pregnancy to Hermione. Not that Ms. Greengrass confided in Hermione because they were friends, but rather because it was already well known among the household and Hermione knew to keep her mouth shut, so when Ms. Greengrass when down diagon ally at late hour, dragging a reluctant Hermione behind her, she knew what was happening. The fact that they began to walk down these streets, a pureblood woman with her personal servant speaking to a back alley man in the middle of the night made it obvious: an unmarried pureblood woman couldn't suddenly finally herself pregnant, regardless of the man's blood status. Hermione didn't envy her for that, but rather that that she herself would never get the choice of keeping the children that were hers.
Hermione knew her dreams and they soared. She dreamed constantly now, whenever she scrubbed the floors and saw her reflection and didn't see a dirty face looking back at her. Whenever she saw children playing, she'd picture Hugo with them, and when she'd look up at the sky, instead of the dark mark in the sky, she saw a bright red kite.
Everyday Hermione woke up at dawn, put on her uniform and went down to the kitchens. She helped the main staff prepare the dining room before waking up the household and dressing Daphne (Although she had to call her Ms. Greengrass, as well as the younger sister Astoria). She'd escort Daphne down to the dining hall and accompanying her while she went about her business if she didn't have errands herself to run. The Greengrass's were a fair people, so a beating was a rare occurrence. Hermione knew she was lucky, but she was still seething. This was her life now. It was only when she saw Hugo that her mask cracked and a smile broke through.
The wedding was expensive, the dresses marvelous, and the food simply scrumptious. At least it looked to Hermione's eyes; she watched the caterers' set up as she fitted Daphne's younger sister Astoria. The date was all set and the players were all in place, each was running like clockwork, the women saw to that as the men kept themselves out of the way for fear of the emotions that were running high. She only caught a glimpse of the groom once; Hermione was secretly glad of that fact; muggle superstitions were still strong in her. The grueling affair ultimately succeeded and Hermione managed to see the two married off with tears in her eyes. Not because of the couples' happiness, but because in this world, Draco Malfoy was getting married and she would never.
In the dead of night, was when Hermione reflected. Often it was on what she would have to buy, what linens needed to be cleaned, and how best to avoid the head cook's moods. She would stare at the dark mark that always hung in the sky when the moon rose and set. She stared at it until her eyes blurred and she had to close her lids into a weary, heavy sleep. Hermione's dreams were odd domestic horrors. Her most memorable one in which her mistress beat her soundly for allowing the octopus being placed in the wash. Her real life would bleed into her sleeping one, until it didn't matter which one she preferred.
Hermione's proudest was giving birth to her daughter. Her daughter that should never have existed according to the new laws, mudbloods were not supposed to breed. Hermione was one of the lucky ones; upon being sold she was not castrated. Although, if her pregnancy were discovered, she would be forced to abort her child; Hermione had hid within the gardener's cottage, and paid the gardener in bread to keep her from reporting her. Due to Daphne's own pregnancy previous, her mistress had been understanding and allowed her to stay in the house during Hermione's term(explaining her absence as illness to the few who inquired) as long as she kept her child away from the manor. Hermione agreed and also instilled one another form of protection. She named her daughter Hugo and raised her as a boy-as the gardener's son to be specific. At first, Hermione visited her daughter as often as she could; her breast often ached with the need to feed her child. Whenever Hugo had gotten hurt, Hermione had to resist the urge to rush to her daughter and sweep her in her arms. Pain would be a better teacher to Hugo than she could be.
Hermione often wondered less about who Hugo took after (she seemed to be a more headstrong creature than she) and more about who she would resemble if she had a different father. Ron came strongly into mind, heating her thoughts that strayed whenever she imagined carrying his children. When it was Harry, she felt a peculiar desire to laugh and cry at once, recalling how easily that could have happened; all in all, Harry would have made a good father. Others strayed into her mind (oddly Draco and Dean Tomas the most) Whenever she saw a flash of red hair her heart thundered in her chest or if she ever glanced at green eyes she resisted the urge to cry.
Hermione knew her daughter Hugo was quick. That her daughter used her deft and slim fingers to slip apples in her pockets, or tug at girls' skirt, and Hugo could vault herself over a wall before even the fit sons of the farmers could catch her, and she could wrangle heavy bags over her shoulders as she took the stairs two at a time. Hugo could even weave through the crowds to evade officers for whatever petty offence she had committed. Fear and anger warred in Hermione's heart, yet she felt a spark of pride at this, for she sensed this as proof of her daughter's budding strength.
Hermione knew the unforgivable curses. She knew them from the books she had read; they had created a shiver a fear in her even before she knew who Moody was, and she began to loathe them after the night of the war's beginning. The memory of that family of muggles suspended in the air was imprinted in her mind. Even now, recalling Harry's face as he tried to kill Bellatrix, her screams of delight as she shouted, 'You have to mean it!' and now looking back, this put Hermione into more fear. As she knew those curses and she knew that she would have meant them.
Hermione lived with this feeling, her face often red in public, and she clenched her fists, mind screaming at her to keep her eyes averted. Last week a mudblood mishandled a package and when reprimanded, refused to admit their mistake. They were made to strip and were hexed beyond recognition, forced to continue accompanying their master the rest of the day in such a state. Hermione refused such a thing to happen to her. Every time a maid or serving girl got slapped, she flinched. Worst of all was accompanying Daphne to see her sister to the Malfoy manor to enjoy the house elf hunts. Hearing the baying hounds and the cracks of flung curse made her long for the days of S.P.E.W, yet they were long gone and Hermione drank it all in.
No matter how old Hermione would become, she knew she'd still love books. Her hands would have more callouses than before, making her stare at them in wonder as she opened a book. It wasn't an issue that her hair would become lighter as Hugo grew taller. She didn't even mind how her body began to ache sooner than was natural. All she wanted was her freedom.
That is what Hermione always tried to think of herself as. The reason she did well in school, pushing herself to stay up later than her classmates was because she wanted to push herself. She had more of a desire to be with books than people, who were much harder to understand. She repeated this to herself up until a troll cornered her in a girl's bathroom. From then on, she saw herself as part of a unit, growing larger, yet so tightly locked together that it was easy. Despite that, Hermione knew, deep down that she, Ron and Harry were forever, enmeshed in their bonds so brightly forged that only death could break them apart. It did, but still, somehow, Hermione could still feel that bond whispering to her, telling her to be herself as hard as she could.
Hermione was yanked out of her room, the brutal, factual, yet comforting in its routine life when she was sold to the Malfoy's by the Greengrass's. This should have been so shocking to her. After all, her mistress was the younger sister, who happened to be wife to the heir of the Malfoys'. That Astoria got a made that had been cast off by her sister was indeed a probable scenario. Perhaps Hermione would have seen this coming had she not been watching her daughter grow up from afar. It only occurred to her that she was beginning to view Greengrass manor as her home as she used her remaining day to bid Hugo goodbye. Tears streamed down her face as she realized Voldemort and his purebloods had taken another thing from her.
She had no strength left for herself, it was all being channeled into seeing Hugo again; Hermione had not embraced her in months. She'd give anything to hear of another adventure of what Hugo had done down by the docks. Hermione spent her waking hours planning for a visit, because she could no longer live on favors from Daphne Greengrass and Hermione tried to get her body stronger. Stealing leftovers from pureblood plates and giving strength to her legs by walking the stairs to the attic every night. She hoarded fabric to sew together her blankets, keeping it away from the spiders that shared the cupboard she lived in. Her hair grew even wilder, but she no longer cared. All that mattered was Hugo.
Hermione was aware of the new laws, of the propaganda. To her it was redundant; it was seen in the streets and in the playgrounds, when mothers yanked their children away from the gardener's son Hugo, who 'made' the other children run wild with him in the streets, stealing wands from shops and trading in diagon ally. To Hermione, she could see no one to scold or shield Hugo from these things, as Hugo only took her advice as a friend might, rather than a daughter. No, to Hermione, even her own prejudices began to grow. Getting even larger the day Lord Voldemort visited Malfoy Manor, watching how the death eater's voices grew louder in excitement when Hermione was revealed to them. Death would have been preferable to what they had done. She was their entertainment and by the end of the evening, Bellatrix had pinned her to the floor, carving mudblood into her flesh.
Hugo grew taller every day. Hermione saw the thick, shorn hair and felt her heart swell. If Hugo ever grew out her hair, it would be even wilder than hers. It was a shade darker than hers too, but the eyes were her fathers, a hazel that had the skill to flash in the sunlight and seem to refract her moods. A pale green when sad, gold when mischievous, or a dark brown when angered, even grey when in a particularly sunny mood. Hugo would never have a plain posture from carrying stacks of books, but Hermione was grateful for the slim build that meant subtle curves that could be easily hidden. Hugo had a bit of her father's aquiline features, Hermione's cheekbones and the wideness of her eyes, even the fullness of her lips. Hugo was often called and intense pretty-boy, but she showed just how masculine she could be. Either way, Hermione was just glad that a part of herself would be preserved in a healthy vibrant girl like Hugo.
Hermione did not know to reach any place that made her particularly calm or happy, but whenever she looked at Hugo, she thought she could get there.