The Program

Prologue

The Dark Lord is dead. But before his end, he delivered on a final promise to his followers; a spell that rendered Muggleborns unable to reproduce with one another, or with those of mixed magical lineage.

It was meant to purify wizarding bloodlines and erase Muggleborn legacy.

Instead, it led to the Ministry-sanctioned enslavement and forced reproductive breeding of Pureblood Death Eaters under the guise of a corrective justice initiative: The Program.

“He’s known for being uncooperative,” the Ministry staffer said, his voice thick with condescension. “You’ll need a firm hand, but with the right incentive, he performs adequately.”

Hermione kept her expression neutral, though disgust swirled in her gut as she looked at the staffer, whose name she hadn’t bothered to learn.

“I fought the Dark Lord himself,” she said coolly. “I think I can manage.”

The man opened his mouth again, likely to dispense more unsolicited advice. She cut him off. “Time is limited. If you could process the transfer efficiently, I’d appreciate it.”

She gave him the kind of smile she reserved for tedious reporters and wartime donors—the polished war-heroine mask. It usually moved things along.

Inside the transparent holding cell, the blond man hadn’t looked away from her once. His gaze was ice, his stillness marble. Every inch of him—his perfect posture, his composure, his immaculate hair—radiated old money and pureblooded arrogance.

Even without the white robes that marked his blood status, she would have known.

“Certainly, Ms. Granger,” the staffer said with a dark chuckle. “We’ll send a handler with you, compliments of the Ministry. Just to help you get him settled. He’s a pretty one. Easy on the eyes, but hard-headed, if you don’t mind me saying. Difficult to break.”

Hermione’s jaw tensed at the continued insinuation that she would need extra help. She was an exceptionally capable witch, and she doubted any ministry handler could match the years of experience the war had given her.

“The standard Ministry check-in will be adequate. Thank you.”

The man raised his wand toward the glass cell. He muttered a string of incantations, and the golden manacles on Malfoy’s wrists shimmered. If the spell hurt, he didn’t show it.

“From this point, his bindings are keyed to your magic, ma’am.” The staffer proffered up a clipboard holding ivory parchment stamped with the official Ministry seal at the top. “Sign here, and he’s yours.”

Her quill flew through the documents before he’d finished the sentence. She didn’t bother reading it. She’d spent weeks pouring over every detail and could likely recite it verbatim without issue.

As the ink sank into the parchment, the glass wall vanished. Magic rippled across the manacles, and the words, Property of Hermione Granger, etched themselves into the surface. She kept her face neutral as she watched her name bloom into existence on the bands. The prisoner hadn’t bothered to look down at them at all, his iron glare still narrowed to her.

“Enjoy your Pureblood, ma’am,” the staffer said, turning to Draco with a sneer. He rapped at the cage frame with the metal clipboard as if baiting an animal. “Behave this time, boy, or there’ll be no mercy next go.”

He reached out and stroked Draco’s arm without warning, the gesture overly familiar and laced with condescension.

“Don’t touch him,” Hermione snapped, her voice sharp enough to slice air.

The man recoiled, startled.

She softened her tone just enough. “His training starts now. I’m particular about how he’s handled. As you said, expectations need to be set.”

The fake smile returned. So did the staffer’s simpering compliance.

“Of course, ma’am.”

“You can step out, we’ll be leaving now” she said, staring at the inscription etched into the golden cuffs that bound his magic and marked him as her property. She lifted her eyes and met his for the first time since she’d stepped into the room. He hadn’t looked away from her, not once, but his expression gave no hint of his thoughts behind the cold mask of neutrality.

He’d obediently stepped from the glass cell toward her, but otherwise remained perfectly silent.

When she spoke again, the words came out clipped and hard. “Follow me.”

The Pureblood Licensing Program violated every imaginable standard of human decency.

Hermione had said as much—to the Wizengamot, to the Minister, to every journalist who’d quote her. Harry had stood beside her, ferocious in his agreement. But the world was still grieving and hungry for vengeance.

Grief, she’d discovered, when twisted by rage, demands payment in flesh and in blood—however unwillingly given.

The Program was cast as a forward-thinking alternative to Azkaban. In reality, it was a state-sanctioned avenue for witches and wizards to own their enemies.

Enslavement, by any other word.

It legitimized their degradation. Not just the Death Eaters, but their family members as well. Spouses, siblings, even children were conscripted. Proximity to Voldemort meant their guilt, of crimes unspecified, was assumed by association. Purebloods, once worshipped for their power, wealth, and influence, were mere commodities to be used, displayed, bred in the new regime.

And to make it civilized, the Ministry added structure.

Because if there are laws attached to atrocities, no one would question their legitimacy.

Owners were now designated as “Prefectors.” A clean word for a dirty role. Their Ministry contracts included minimum engagement clauses—stipulated acts of obedience, physical submission, and copulation as the wizarding world needed to be repopulated. Compliance was confirmed by a verification process that required both spellwork and memory review.

Hermione hadn’t yet figured out how to bypass that part.

But when she saw his file, there had been no question.

Draco Malfoy had cycled through four households already.

The official notes called him “noncompliant.”

But Hermione could read between the lines.

He hadn’t simply refused to participate, he had resisted to the edge of madness. He’d been restrained, drugged, punished. His body made a battleground between those who wanted to break him and the man who refused to shatter.

The enchanted manacles enforced obedience to the whims of the Prefectors. His magical core, though suppressed, still pushed back. Their control over him was never fully complete, and the more he resisted, the more they retaliated.

She’d read the medical records. Potion overdoses; lust, virility, stamina. Rope burns so deep they’d bled into muscle. Bite marks. Bruising. Spells gone wrong. Spells gone too right in ways that pushed him into physical and magical exhaustion. His refusal only intensified the consequences.

He’d been displayed like a prize stud, passed between hands. Touched without permission. Used without consent.

The file was thick with documentation. Clinical. Detailed. Filthy.

One mistress, half-trained in binding charms and wholly drunk on power, had bewitched a ring around his cock to keep him hard for hours, just to prove she could. She’d brought in guests to watch. Some touched. Some took photographs.

Another had drugged him with a cocktail of lust and fertility potions so potent it sent him into a magical seizure. When he came to, they were already on top of him. There were memory recordings. Some preserved as trophies, others sold on the black market.

And yet—

He had sired no children.

Not for lack of trying. His fertility tests showed him perfectly capable. Healthy sperm count. Ideal magical resonance. The tests had been repeated many times over, each time confirming the same results.

Dozens of witches had tried, not just his formal Prefectors. The Program allowed, and encouraged, ‘sharing’ as a means of rebuilding the magical community. The Ministry had even begun to develop potions to assist with fertility, some specializing in noncompliant wizards specifically.

But still, nothing.

The vaults contributed to Malfoy’s popularity. Old magic protected his family fortune —magic that would not relinquish their contents under duress, even to the Ministry itself. The vaults were warded to divide the family wealth equally among direct Malfoy descendants, and to otherwise only be released upon the willing directive of a Malfoy.

And Draco was many things, but willing wasn’t one of them.

He was beautiful, rich, and hated.

The trifecta made him the most coveted Pureblood in The Program. Any witch who bore his child would, indirectly, have access to a portion of the Malfoy fortune.

Hermione grimaced at the memory of it—the file’s clinical language, the cold descriptions of hot acts. A bisexual couple had been his first owners. The husband had documented their use of a mirror charm to watch while his wife rode Draco until she sobbed from pleasure and he groaned from pain; the potion they forced down his throat re-primed him to ejaculate over and over again, beyond what the body was intended to handle. The report praised the wife’s creativity and noted the method as having ‘clear potential for magical conception.’

They paraded him through parties as a trophy. Nude, leashed, enchanted to stay erect and silent while strangers placed hands wherever they pleased. He’d been mounted, tasted, stroked, cursed. Forced to kneel. Forced to beg. Forced to come on command, to perform under spell, to grind against hands that called it justice.

Obtaining him and breaking him became an indicator of social status. A dark, malicious competition. The press called it “delicious resistance” after he was returned the second time. It somehow only increased his desirability to the wizarding world. Then after his third return, they’d published pithy suggestions from readers detailing how the notorious Death Eater might be brought to heel by his next Prefector.

She’d burned the paper.

When news broke of his fourth return rumors began to spread of experimental ministry potions, ones that promised the potential to permanently subdue him where all others had failed. And they paired with the planned Ministry-approved guidelines for ‘non-cooperative Conscripts.’ She’d reviewed the instructions with horror. They used words like stimulus and compliance thresholds, but avoided ‘rape’ and ‘dehumanization’, ritualizing it in legalese and wrapping in gold foil like chocolate.

She’d read every inch of his file with shaking hands and a knot in her stomach—and by the end, she’d made her choice.

Hermione Granger joined The Program.

She’d wanted to Floo out discretely from a private office, but Kingsley insisted she leave with him through the front doors of the Ministry

He’d couched it as a matter of “visibility,” of “owning the narrative.” Hermione knew the truth, he wanted the image.

The War Heroine and Her Prize Pureblood.

The Golden Girl claiming her new possession with steely grace. The perfect headline, and a clear message that the fiercest opponent of The Program had caved.

As soon as the Ministry doors opened, the flashing began, camera bulbs like miniature explosions burning white light across her vision. The reporters swarmed instantly, faster even than she expected.

“Ms. Granger, how does it feel to finally join The Program?”

“Will you be attempting conception in the first month?”

“Are you planning corrective discipline, or a rewards-based model?”

“Will you enlist trainers to manage him?”

Hermione kept walking, jaw tight. Draco followed half a pace behind, silent, restrained, his magic throttled by the shackles that glittered like jewelry against his pale skin. His white robes dragged along the ground, marring the pristine linens with the filth of the London streets.

The crowd pressed closer. Too close.

She turned her head briefly, just a moment, to deflect a camera spell with her wand.

And when she looked back—he wasn’t beside her anymore.

He was surrounded.

The crowd had collapsed around him like wolves around a wounded stag. His path was blocked. They were groping him. Groping.

Hands on his chest. Hands on his arms. Hands on the waistband of the thin white robes the Ministry issued to all Purebloods conscripted to The Program. His bindings pulsed, keeping him from retaliating. His face was blank, a cold mask, but his situation was clear. He was trapped and subject to the whims of the crowd.

The flash of enchanted quills danced around him, scrawling headlines midair like blood on silk.

Malfoy’s Body: Too Perfect to Waste—Can Granger Handle Him?

War Prize or Breeding Project? Sources Close to the Minister Say “A Bit of Both.”

Golden Girl’s Pet: Pureblood Prince Conscripted to Muggleborn Nemesis.

He wasn’t fighting. He wasn’t struggling. He was simply standing there, frozen, while strangers touched his body like it was theirs–like it was owed to them.

He wore his indifference like armor; it was all he had left. And they were trying to strip it with smiles on their faces.

Something inside her snapped.

“Protego Maxima!”

The blast of magic erupted outward in a concussive dome, flinging back a dozen reporters and breaking two floating Quick-Quote Quills mid-stroke. The crowd went silent—utterly, violently still.

One camera clicked.

That was all it took. The moment shattered. Shouts returned. More questions, more spells, more flashes.

She didn’t hesitate again.

Breaking protocol—highly public Ministry protocol—Hermione grabbed Draco’s wrist andApparatedthem directly from the steps, without clearance, without warning, without even making eye contact with the officials who mingled in with the crowd.

The last thing she heard before they vanished was someone shouting“Golden Girl!”, the moniker having replaced her name like a brand. It was a reminder of her public image, a name given to her by strangers who thought she would fix the world for them and ignored her when they wanted it to stay broken.

They landed with a crack in the center of her penthouse.

She’d been granted an incredible sum with her Order of Merlin award, and had been highly sought out for brand deals, book publications, and speaking events since the war. Money was never her objective, but she was pragmatic enough to realize having it opened doors that wouldn’t otherwise exist.

As a result, she had purchased and restored the historic Central Library, opening it back to the public with a new, curated collection of books, art exhibits, and educational events. As the central figure behind multiple social causes and charitable endeavors, it was convenient for her to live close-by, and her architect had suggested adding a magically modern top floor penthouse above the otherwise gothic stone structure. It granted her space and privacy while retaining her access to the community.

When they landed, Hermione released his arm as if burned. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look around. Just stood there in the hush of her immaculate sanctuary. Gleaming stone floors, curated magical art, and floor-to-ceiling glass doors overlooking a terrace garden and the London skyline.

She’d dressed the part of the professional war heroine today, in a pencil skirt and high-necked button down top. The executive style created an intimidating façade, and she had capitalized on every ounce of it as she’d bullied her way through red tape to secure Malfoy.

For a long moment, the only sound was their breathing.

Turning, she kicked off her heels as the magic of the apartment vanished them into thin air, to be returned shortly, cleaned and ready to wear, to their spot in her closet. She’d spent months working with a team of specialists to create a line of art pieces imbued with household spells, replacing a substantial portion of work commonly handled by house-elves. Her long-term goal was to abolish their enslavement altogether through alterations to protective laws, but she was flexible enough to approach the issue from multiple fronts.

She twisted her curls into a knot and pinned it with her wand. Each move slowly returning her to the grounded, comfortable version of herself that she could be within her own home.

Malfoy’s silence wasn’t passive, she was certain. It was watchful. Alert and assessing. The kind of silence that waited not to obey, but to confirm what he already believed:

That she was just like the rest.

They were instructed not to speak first, not to ask questions. His ability to fight back when it counted hinged on preserving what magical energy and freewill he could still access. She imagined he was careful in picking his battles.

Right now he was watching for her to decide how she’d use him, because use him she would. That was what The Program demanded. What every Prefector before her had proven.

He was property. A plaything.

She hated it.

With a sharp exhale, Hermione crossed the room to the kitchen and pulled two crystal wine glasses from the rack. Her penthouse, for all its elegance, was still a fortress. She’d built it with layered intent: living space above, public gallery and rare books archive below. A living mask of purpose and prestige.

She poured herself a heavy glass of red. Then another.

She slid the second glass across the polished granite island toward him.

“Drink,” she said.

He didn’t move.

“You look like you could use one,” she added, trying for warmth but landing somewhere between brittle and strained.

Only then did he step forward—elegant, fluid. He picked up the glass and held it to his nose, inhaling without tasting. Her eyes followed the movement of his throat, the curve of his wrist. The white robes hung too loose on his frame. He was thinner than she remembered. Still muscled, sculpted, but the edges were sharper and the hollows of his cheeks belied his willpower.

“1982 Château Lafite Rothschild,” he murmured at last, face still impassive save for the faintest narrowing of his blue-grey eyes. “Impressive. I didn’t know you’d developed a taste for the finer things, Granger.”

She took a sip, buying herself a second. “I nearly died more times than I can count before I turned eighteen, Malfoy. These days I enjoy the little things.”

His eyebrow tracked upward slowly, finally revealing a hint of expression. “Even the expensive ones.”

“Helps with courting donors,” she said, lifting her glass in mock salute. “Good wine, good books, a touch of history. People open their purses when they feel cultured.”

“Especially when they think they’re being given something rare.” He looked around the space with razor-edged disinterest.

He didn’t say ’like me’—he didn’t have to.

“If adding me to your private collection was part of the appeal,” he continued, “you might as well send me back now. I won’t be making your constituents feel anything special.”

His tone was cool, but the venom in his eyes was unmistakable.

She set her glass down harder than she meant to.

“I didn’t acquire you for that.”

He smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“I see. So I’m for the private collection. Not the public one.”

“No,” she said quickly, too quickly. “You’re not—”

A soft chime interrupted her.

The afternoon press.

A dozen scrolls unfurled into the room, their enchantments reading aloud headlines in a breathless, eager chorus.

“War Heroine Claims Malfoy Heir—Energy Described as ‘Electric!’”

“Granger Breaks Protocol, Apparates New Pureblood Toy to Private Residence!”

“Slytherin Prince Catches Golden Girl’s Eye—Sources Say She Plans a ‘Firm Leash.’”

Hermione turned toward them, rage snapping through her like lightning.

Incendio.

Flames swallowed the scrolls mid-sentence. The voices died in crackles and ash. The silence that followed was worse.

She turned back to Draco. His face was unreadable, but the tilt of his head said everything.

And here we are.

“I read your file,” she said quietly. “I couldn’t let it keep happening. So I took you.”

He stared at her for a long time, his face betraying nothing.

Then, finally: “I might believe that. But there’s the matter of the verifications.”

Her stomach twisted.

“I know,” she muttered. “I’m working on that.”

“You won’t find a loophole,” he said, stepping closer now, slow and smooth. “The contract was written to trap you, just as much as me. To justify the actions as ‘‘mandated’. And you signed it anyway.”

“I had to do something.”

“And now you’ll either be raping me—or returning me. Those are the only options you’ve left yourself. Unless, of course, you want a mandatory sentence in Azkaban.”

She stiffened. “You think I wouldn’t take that risk to fight something this evil?”

“I think I’m not Potter. Or Weasley.” His voice was soft. Flat. “And we’re not friends like that.”

“I know how the bloody contract works,” she snapped. “I said I’m looking for a solution.”

He studied her. Unblinking.

Then he set his wine glass down and placed both hands onto the table, giving her, deliberately, a view of the words etched into the hands on his wrists.

Property of Hermione Granger.