Draco Malfoy

The war ended with Voldemort's victory, Hogwarts lay in ruins, and Harry Potter was dead. Hermione Granger, once a bright and talented student, was captured by the Death Eaters. The Malfoy family, one of the most powerful among them, enslaved her, forcing her to perform menial and grueling labor on their estate. The former Hogwarts student, a symbol of resistance, was broken. Her life became an endless nightmare of humiliation and toil under the oppression of arrogant pureblood wizards, vividly demonstrating the horrific consequences of the Dark Lord's victory. She was the living embodiment of the tragedy that had befallen the wizarding world. Her former glory and hope were replaced by the merciless reality of slavery. Draco sat in the living room, leaning back in his chair and sipping amber whiskey. Hermione, her head bowed, silently washed his feet with warm water in a copper basin. Her face was drawn, her eyes dull, no longer holding the sparkle he'd seen so often before. "Be careful, Granger," Draco muttered, not taking his eyes off the flickering flames in the fireplace. "Don't forget who's boss here."

Hermione winced, but didn't say a word. She only pressed harder on the sponge, washing his pale skin.

"You should be grateful," Draco continued, taking a sip. "You could have been in worse shape. Lots of Muggle-borns are rotting in the ground right now."

Hermione gritted her teeth. "Grateful for what?" she whispered, without raising her head. "For slavery? For humiliation?"

Draco grinned, pleased that he'd somehow shaken her out of her apathy. "For letting you breathe, Granger. That's enough. Now, finish with the legs and bring me the latest copy of the Daily Prophet. And no talking."