A/N: Because this story
was removed from fanfiction.net because of 'obscene content', I'm posting it here, online. It is not remastered in any way
except that the lyrics have been removed, and the a/ns deleted. Enjoy. Oh, and guess what? There's 'obscene content'. I figured
I should warn you.
CHAPTER ONE: Elastic
Hermione Granger, also known
as number , kept a tight line to her lips while carrying a silver platter hot enough to fry an egg on. As she
had come to do so very often, Hermione glanced about the hall she strolled down, trying with all in her to remember a time
when it hadn’t been like this. To remember when these tall stone walls belonged to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and
Wizardry, a school prized for its desegregation. Recalling the days when her only cares were school and mischief... where
books brought her joy, and she took pleasure in chaste kisses.
Those days were long
gone. She was now twenty-three, and the property of another individual. Hogwarts was a term one used if and only if they wished
to be slain. Any mention of the past was granted forty lashings with a dragon-leather whip, soaked in salt, or a caning with
a bamboo rod, imported just for this purpose, depending on the extent of crime.
Unfortunately for Hermione,
she talked in her sleep.
It seemed her subconscious
could not keep her thoughts to itself... it was like a gossiper, spreading evil and sometimes untrue accusations to unworthy
ears. The guards told to watch over her unit as they slept had more than once reported her... and she had a good few whip
marks on her lower back to prove it.
It had been a good six years
ago that her last happy memory was dated. Then, there had been a war. It wasn’t surprising... no one expected Voldemort
to simply give up. The outcome of this conflict, however, was completely unanticipated.
The attack was spontaneous...
one random day, one random ambush. Hermione remembered it as if it were yesterday... she had been sitting in Transfiguration,
rolling her eyes at Harry as he groaned over their test the following Tuesday, when a scream was heard. This was soon followed
by another... and another... coupled with the all too familiar buzz of a hundred simultaneous curses.
With a cold sneer at her
own mind, Hermione recalled liking the situation to Professor Mauriz’s favorite end-of-term wind down activities. At
the end of second term, just a day before leaving for Christmas, Professor Mauriz, this year’s DADA teacher, had let
all hell break loose and given the children permission to hex each other, provided it was all in good fun. Turning into a
chicken... a purple nose... a finger growing from your chin... and anything that would make those around you laugh. It was
all completely harmless, and Hermione admitted to taking part. She happened to think Ron and Harry looked good with fused
foreheads. Her peers seemed to think the same.
Although her heart wanted
to jerk at the thought of her friends, Hermione restrained herself. She wasn’t allowed to feel emotion. That was the
sort of thing that would get you a caning... and those welts proved unattractive. A mistake like that could loose you your
life. Truth be told, however, it was debatable whether or not this was a bad conclusion.
Returning her train of thought
back to the station, Hermione again recalled the screams and buzzing. It was completely likable to Professor Mauriz’s
sessions, which gained him moral... and covered his back.
When the reality of events
was realized among the students, chaos ensued. Teachers gave up quickly on getting everyone to remain calm and asking students
to return to their common rooms... no one seemed to want to listen to reason. The Professors did not abandon the students,
however... they simply forged into battle. It was unexpected that the students would follow.
Evidently, the adolescents
needed leadership, but at the same time refused to be led. Therefore, they resorted to screaming until the teacher left the
room, and chasing after quickly.
It was no more than ten minutes
after the first scream was heard that the entire student body was crammed into the lobby and great hall, terrified and trying
without luck to fight off the multitude of death eaters.
However unexpected, all played
out relatively as if it were planned. A few students were lost in transition, but Harry defeated Voldemort... the deatheaters
dissolved into thin air... Dumbledore gave a great laugh and announced that everything was bloody wonderful...
And, of course, Mauriz spun
on his heel and sent a blinding green light right into Dumbledore’s chest.
Hermione, to this day, was
not sure if he had meant to hit the professor... or if he were aiming for Harry, who was tucked beneath a withered arm. Both
student and teacher were thrown backward, and Hermione had specifically remembered herself chanting “Oh god, Harry!”
without any such regard to her professor. And, she recalled a warm wash of relief as Harry stood from the accident, prying
a lifeless white hand from his shoulder. It was not until she ran into his arms that she realized the reality behind the events
of second’s prior. Harry held her to him as if she were his one last breath, but his eyes were trained on his traitor
of a professor. The entire hall was bathed in silence, every eye staring at Mauriz, who simply smirked and twirled his wand.
He milked the situation for all it was worth, then threw his head backward and uttered a horrendous cackle, which caused the
hunched Hermione to flinch.
Without warning, Mauriz stopped
his laughter and sent a long, eloquent chant across the room. Gasps were heard as wands burst into flame, melted, or simply
flickered into nothing. An entire room, defenseless at the hand of a madman. A few first years ran for the door, hoping against
all hope that they might escape alive... but Mauriz was too clever for that. He snapped his fingers and the doors slammed
“Do you think me a
fool, comrades?” he called into the silence, secretly proud of the mass of flinches he received for his efforts. He
laughed coldly. “I assure you, you are very much mistaken.”
“Why are you doing
this, Mauriz?” Harry called out, clutching Hermione closer as she squeezed him, and acting as negotiator. “What
do you want from us?”
“Well, well... Mr.
Potter. One of my best students... and yet... you couldn’t stop me. Didn’t even see through my guise, did you?
Some asset you are to the light side... but, then again, I suppose you were, weren’t you? You’ve defeated my rival,
Mr. Riddle, and for that, I must thank you... for I could never have even gotten this far with that bastard in the way. Honestly...”
“What do you want,
Mauriz?” Harry repeated, more sternly. Hermione whispered his name, as if coaching him on his tone, but Harry paid her
no mind. This was how he’d always handled these things, and he wasn’t about to change plans simply because it
was a mass-murdering madman in front of him and not say... Malfoy. Mauriz had simply shaken his head.
he chanted, then looked up. “All I want from you, dear boy... is your woman,” Mauriz said simply, as if it were
not much to ask. Harry turned slightly, so that he was somewhat more in front of Hermione, and had to look over his shoulder
to face his addresser.
“Over my dead body,”
Harry voiced, sure as the sun no one would ever touch his Hermione. They may not have had an official relationship, but there
was a mutual bond between them... they had feelings for each other... they both knew it. Ron knew it... everyone knew it.
Mauriz chuckled once more, making Harry’s eye twitch. Oh, how he hated that laugh.
Potter... I planned to kill you anyway. You are much too big a threat to keep around. As for the rest of you...” the
professor started, spinning as to view all his captives. “Some of you shall live... and others... won’t be so
“Tell me what you want,
Mauriz!” Harry exclaimed, voice sharp as a thousand tacks. Mauriz smiled as he turned back to their new leader. With
Dumbledore stiff on the floor, Harry had taken it upon himself. For this, Mauriz was quite thrilled.
“If you had any brain
within you at all, boy, you would have guessed by now what I want. I want the same thing you did... the same thing Riddle
did. I want the world, and I want to do with it what I wish.”
Harry gave a cold nod, as
if in agreement, and Hermione began to tremble.
“And what,” he
said, gulping, “Do you wish?”
“So glad you asked,
Mr. Potter...” Mauriz boomed, grinning wickedly. “Imagine, if you will...” he began, “A world filled
with only the beautiful... where each man can choose from a thousand wives... and each woman holds no purpose but to please
he who chose her. Where the source of your blood means nothing, but the quality means life or death... take example... your
mudblood.” Again, Harry stepped into a more protective stance. Mauriz simply seemed amused. He reached out an arm and,
even through Harry’s struggles, Hermione had no choice but to float toward him, feet an inch from the ground. She tried
to call out, but it was of no use; her free will had been seized. “She may have a tarnished ancestry... but she is a
looker, isn’t she?” Harry’s blood boiled as he was forced to watch in horror as Mauriz forced himself on
Hermione... and she was forced to accept him with open arms... and lips.
Harry exclaimed, and charged at his former professor. Mauriz broke himself from Hermione and emitted that sinister chuckle
once more. Harry was stopped by a force field of some kind, unable to push within ten feet of his captor.
"Patience, Mr. Potter...
your time will come. But first, I want you to imagine a few more snippets of the future. First off, we shall start with a
bit of cleaning...” Mauriz stated, then swept his wand around the room. One by one, every man and a good few women fell
lifelessly to the floor, then disappeared into a whisper of smoke. Had anyone been paying attention, they would have noticed
a trend... those standing were the picture perfect females... and those who showed promise of being such in the future. Harry
was the only man left, aside from Mauriz. “You see, Harry, how much better this is? Now that we’ve weeded out
the filth... wouldn’t you love to have your pick of these women and know for sure they could not reject you, or anything
you ask of them? They could all be yours Harry. I have decided to spare you one last day, with which you can do as you please
with... MY girls. All you have to do for me is one little thing...” Harry glared.
The professor shook his shoulders
“Perhaps... but I’m
just living out every man’s fantasy. You could join me, Harry... and ensure the safety of your precious love.”
Harry’s eyes flickered
to Hermione, and he tried to ignore the fact that she was fawning over the evil wizard who bound her, practically begging
for another kiss. Mauriz seemed to quite enjoy this.
“Because you never
know, Potter... something... TERRIBLE could happen...” he stated, and Harry watched in horror as Hermione dropped to
the ground, clutching her abdomen in pain.
“Stop... stop, you’re
hurting her...” he pleaded, pressing against the force field. Mauriz cackled again and lifted the spell from Hermione,
who grinned and stood up again, immediately resuming her fawning.
“Will you join me?”
Mauriz prodded, and Harry wasted not a moment before responding.
“Will you promise not
to harm Hermione?” he asked, and Mauriz gave a nod.
“All you have to do
to prove your loyalty, boy...” he said, “Is set fire to your headmaster.”
Harry gasped and spun to
view Dumbledore, who was still in his serene spot on the ground, a good ten feet from where he was standing when hit. It didn’t
take Harry long to turn back, a look of pure hatred embossed on his face.
“You bloody bastard...
I would never join you.”
“Very well, then. Good
day, Mr. Potter,” Mauriz said and, before Harry could rebut, he himself burst into a thousand tiny purple sparks. At
that precise moment, Hermione was lifted of her curse. She jumped away from Mauriz and let out a shriek of pure panic, running
to where Harry... or Harry’s body... should have been. She sobbed as the little purple flakes rained down on her. The
professor simply smiled. “Come, ladies...”
That was a very long time
ago. As calculated, almost six years. A lot had changed since that faithful day... Hogwarts had been built up and filled with
supporters of Mauriz, hand picked, of course. The Hogwarts women had been dished out, picked like teams for soccer, and were
now boarded up in different sections of the castle, according to their master.
Outside this building, the
world was just as superficial. All men, muggle and wizard alike, had been given the choice of either A) Following Mauriz or
B) Death. Many refused him on the grounds that they would never cheat on their wives... others accepted out of fear, but,
for the most part, the remaining men in the world were pig headed and chauvinistic. Unsurprising, really.
As for the women left, all
were beautiful and most bimbos. A few unsightly intellectuals were kept alive, but for the sole benefit of Mauriz. They became
the cooks, craft makers, shop-dwellers, and clan mothers. All men lived in the lap of luxury, and all sweet women lived in
the lap of their men. They could not be bothered with children...
Motherhood became a punishment.
If you stepped out of line, your contraceptives were taken away. Of course, you were still required to please your master...
and, if you didn’t play your cards right, you could end up with a baby on the way. All pregnant women were taken from
their clans as soon as they began to show and brought to the M.C. Literally, this stood for Maternity Campanile... but in
secret it was referred to as Murder Central. Mauriz had created a spell, which would age a child in both body and mind at
a rapid speed. It had taken him years, but he had done it. The growth process inside the womb was not altered, however...
and Hermione believed it was more for the torture of the mother than the well being of the baby.
Once the baby was born, the
woman was given a week of domestic chores to recuperate (cleaning, cooking... blowjobs), and then forced back into routine.
The baby, while its mother returned to a life of hell, was given a month or so in the care of the clan mother, one of the
lucky ones too ‘unattractive’ to be of physical aid. When the child could successfully raise their heads while
on the stomach and respond in some way to the dinner bell, they were brought into ‘The Chamber’. If the child
was a first-born, the mother was permitted to enter the chamber with her baby and watch as Mauriz’s infamous spell was
administered. Over the course of about an hour, the child would grow from that of an infant, to that of a teenager, approximately
thirteen. This new being was given five minutes to ‘get to know’ their mother (and father on rare occasions) and
then was sorted.
Hermione, as she recalled
this term, gave a cold chuckle. As terrifying her own experience with ‘sorting’ was, she couldn’t imagine
the horror these children must endure. True, they held the brain capacity of an average child of their age group (due to the
spell) but it was hardly enough to save them from piecing things together.
If the child was a boy, he
was asked that fatal question. Will you or will you not follow the rules of the Leader Mauriz? A no would grant immediate
death, and a yes would gain them an inspection of their own... if the boy were diseased, he was cured or killed. There was
no sense spreading diseases when they could easily be stopped. After this, the boy was given a week with Mauriz himself to
learn the ropes of the new society, and then given living quarters.
If the child were a girl,
she would immediately be examined. If she were overweight, unattractive, or diseased, the child was put to death. If otherwise,
she was given a number and sent straight to the holding chambers.
The fate of a NewChild, as
the month old baby girls were called after growth, was almost always the same. She would wait in the holding chambers like
a doll on display until some man, whose wife had probably just been killed or rejected, happened upon her and decided to wed.
If wed the girl was given a steel ring of anything but elegance and engraved with her master’s symbol. She could not
remove this extremity unless told to do so. Then, she would be kept as a wife either until she was no longer attractive (in
which case she would be killed) or until she stepped out of line and was ‘rejected’. To be rejected by your master
is something few girls had ever been brave enough to do. For this to occur, a woman must do something to either upset their
husband or simple cause them to loose interest. Then, the rejected was sent back to the holding chambers to await a new victim.
And so ran the circle.
Hermione, luckily, had yet
to watch her own offspring endure such testing. True, she had wondered exactly what it was like to see thirteen years of your
child’s life pass by within an hour, but not to the point where she would willingly get herself pregnant. That would
be plain horrible, for anyone... true, Hermione was of the more insolent women and yes, her c.c.s had been confiscated at
least a half dozen times, but she had only gotten pregnant once. And, due to the fact that this man found the idea of fucking
two women at once (as he liked to call it) she was pummeled with summons. This, combined with her purposeful lack of food
consumption, lost Hermione her very first daughter. Contrary to belief, she sighed in relief... cried for ten minutes or so,
and resumed her life. She had killed her own child, but at the same time saved her from a no-doubt worse fate.
Hermione was currently married
to a tall, pot-bellied, handsome black man named Charon. She had been summoned this morning and, after the usual bit of consoling
from her chamber mates, Hermione donned her ‘work’ clothing and started off to his bedroom.
Charon had fourteen wives,
all between the ages of thirteen and thirty. As per, one should expect to be summoned approximately every two weeks... provided
they did not tread on holy ground while in his presence, then it could be more or less, depending on how terrible a crime
they had committed. When summoned, a wife was expected to don tight clothing and report to their Master’s chambers for
work. A little bell each woman dreaded.
The summoning bells lined
the wall above the door. There were fourteen, one for each wife, and a number below each. Number had rung this morning. Hermione.
She was simply one among
the wives. They all slept in one bedroom, under the watchful eye of twelve guards. Hermione had never met any of these women
before Charon decided to wed her. None of them had attended Hogwarts, and a few didn’t even speak English. It was just
as well... she would do herself wrong to become attached to these women. Chances are she’d be rejected within the next
Hermione had been rejected
nearly six times in just the past year. She was a legend... every of her husbands told his neighbor, who told his brother,
who told someone... the entire castle knew about her. And so, she was wed to only those men who were attracted to this gossip...
who found her a challenge... and eventually, they would all give up. Charon was scheduled to do so very shortly.
Hermione balanced the hot
tray in her hands, trying to alternate the weight shifting as to save her hands from scalding. Of course, they would be red
and raw by the time she reached his room, but it was expected. Charon liked his tray hot. In truth, she supposed it was because
it hurt her to carry, and therefore she would attend to him quickly.
And so, wearing only a black
leather bra and matching shorts so short she could actually feel herself hanging out of them, Hermione marched to her Master’s
It wasn’t a long walk;
he lived just on the other end of the corridor. When she did arrive, Hermione placed the try flat on one hand and lifted the
other to knock. A groan of a reply came from inside and Hermione entered, immediately dropping to her knees before him.
“Rise,” he commanded
amusedly. It always seemed to be comical to Charon that the women were at his beck and call. Hermione did as requested and
placed the hot tray on the desk by the door. She clenched her fists at her sides and tried to concentrate more on the persistent
itch in the back of her neck than the scald of her hands. Hermione, like every other wife in the world, had her number tattooed
on the back of her neck, just in case a check was needed. She found herself constantly scratching it, although it was initiated
almost six years ago.
When his breakfast was placed
safely on the table, Hermione turned toward the bed where Charon sat, watching her bemusedly. She sighed.
said in reluctant greeting, and Charon lifted a finger, wagging it at her.
“You didn’t curtsy
for me, love.”
He always called her that...
love. As if he loved anything but sex and his big plush bed...
“I apologize, sir,”
Hermione said, but did not correct her ‘mistake’. Charon glared slightly, and Hermione smiled inside. He was angered
“Well, do it now, love,”
he commanded, but Hermione lifted her nose to the air.
“I’d rather not,
and Hermione shook her head. She had no idea what gave him the idea that he could take a challenge. This was nothing... she’d
had to drop hot coffee on her last husband, Bernard, and ‘accidentally’ call him ‘Bastard’ six times
during sex before he released her... she was just refusing to bend her knees for this man, and he was already ready to throw
“And why is that?”
“I fear I may be with
child, sir, and in doing as you ask, my knees may buckle, putting our child to harm,” Hermione lied.
~*~I’m just an actor
~*~Just like Robert fucking
~*~When I say those stupid
words that they
~*~Expect me to say
She knew she wasn’t
pregnant... In fact, she’d had a test just that Sunday. She hadn’t slept with her husband since, and, therefore,
had nothing to fear. This said, Hermione heard through the grapevine that Charon found such ‘insolence’ very unattractive,
and would, therefore, either not call on her, or more wonderfully, reject her. Charon looked disgusted the moment she mentioned
herself tainted, and he let out a breath.
“Are you sure?”
“I believe so, sir.”
Charon choked, leaning back against his headboard. “In that case, you are released. Go to collect your things and send
in one twelve.” Hermione tried to look heartbroken. She bowed her head.
“I’m sorry, sir,”
she said, bowed softly, and turned around just in time to hide the smile which plastered itself on her face. ‘You are
released’. Oh how she loved those three words... the closest thing to ‘I love you’ she would ever hear.
For the nicer of the Masters, Release was synonymous with Rejection. If they wished to be harsh, they would use the original
phrasing, but, in such a case, it was not Hermione’s fault that she’d misbehaved, and, therefore Charon spared
her face to face refusal. And so, she did as told; returned to her chamber maids and sent another to their doom, then collected
what few things she did own and high tailed it to the holding chambers.
AN: I do not own Hermione Granger, Harry, Ron,
Hogwarts, or Dumbledore.