So, this scenario popped into my brain at around 11 last night, but I was already on the brink of sleep so I jotted it down for today. It's a bit darker than what I usually write but I really like it.

Voldemort is in charge now and Hermione is a slave (I realize this isn't very original). But, this is merely a small peek at an isolated event that haunts Hermione every Sunday night.

ONE-SHOT

Firewhiskey and Mint

At 11:05 p.m., Hermione crawled into bed, exhausted from reading.

If this were any other night, she would have snuggled deep into the blankets, looked out the tall, arching window at the distant lane and waited until 11:11 for the tiny pinprick of wand light signaling Draco's arrival home.

Draco arrived every night at the same odd time. When she had inquired as to why he chose to come home at such a time, he arrogantly stated "So that your wish comes true every night" and left it at that, smirking haughtily.

If this were another night, Hermione would have curled into Draco's side and fallen into an uninterrupted sleep.

But, sadly, this was a Sunday night.

Sundays started out as any other day. Hermione woke to find that Draco had left her side in order to get an early start on his work in the study. She'd shower and go down into the kitchens to prepare breakfast for him; place the food on the kitchen table and watch it vanish, assuming it reappeared at a table positioned above it in his study.

Once he had his food, she'd tuck into a decent meal herself, thinking about what she'd do that day.

More often than not the day would find Hermione whiling away her time in the library or knitting in the den. Sometimes she'd write in the blank notebook Draco had supplied her with, emptying her soul into the pages. Once or twice she even tried her hand a drawing.

She never saw Draco throughout the day since he spent most of his time behind the closed door of the study or apparating in and out of the Manor.

When dinner time came around, she could often hear him entertaining other Death Eaters in the lounge. She avoided the general area during these hours, loath to encounter a stranger alone in the hallway. Draco was the only kind Death Eater she'd met so far, and probably the only one she'd ever meet.

Not that she was grateful being a person one could technically label a slave. Lord Voldemort's reign had brought the demise of Muggle-kind and Hermione had been captured like the rest of the Mudbloods and blood traitors. For whatever reason, Draco had seen to it that she would spend the rest of her days serving him and no one else.

The first few days had been a convoluted torrent of tears and misery as Hermione sat in her newly appointed room. She feared what Malfoy would have her do or if he had really just planned on torturing and killing her.

Imagine her surprise when he allowed her to virtually do as she pleased.

She had been suspicious, of course. Years of going to school with the Slytherin had given her enough experience to know how nasty he could be. But it seemed that the war had taught Draco Malfoy a thing or two, for he seemed to have come to the realization that he was not the invincible, untouchable Pureblood he had always thought himself to be. So, instead of risking Lord Voldemort's wrath by causing Hermione to rebel, he generally left her alone.

But, no, Hermione wasn't grateful for being a captive. She was, however, more or less appreciative of her captivator. Especially since one run-in with another Death Eaters several weeks ago told her as much as she wanted to know about how Voldemort's other supporters ran their households.

It had been sometime in the middle of the week. She had just ambled into the kitchen, her nose in a book, with the intention of starting dinner for Draco and his company, when she realized that Draco was already there.

"Granger," he nodded.

Hermione looked up, her ready smile vanishing when she saw that he wasn't alone.

A man called Dolohov stood with him. Clearly they had been in the process of getting drinks when she had entered.

The strange man's eyes slid down her form approvingly, causing her cheeks to burn. She placed her book on the counter and hurried behind the stove-topped island so he couldn't see her as well.

"Some girl you've got here," Dolohov grinned at Draco.

Draco's smile didn't meet his eyes. "Indeed."

"I wish my two Mudbloods were as nice to look at. They're as thin as unicorn horns and horribly dirty."

"Do you let them eat?" Hermione couldn't help her outburst. Draco gave a sharp shake of his head, but she continued anyway. "Do you let them bathe?"

Dolohov gently placed his glass on the table beside him and crossed his arms. "Nice to look at and a sharp tongue to boot. Though, you'll do well to mind your manners around me, girl."

Hermione's heart leapt and she turned back to her domestic activities.

"Why is it you let her wander freely, Malfoy?"

"A happy Mudblood is more apt to behave as I want her to," Draco replied indifferently. The implication, though, however carelessly stated, hung in the air between the two men. Dolohov snatched at it eagerly.

"I see. I guess that's one reason to keep them fed up."

Hermione shuddered. She didn't like being referred to as though an animal.

"But why all the books and possessions?"

"I don't believe that's your concern. The Dark Lord told us we could treat our Mudbloods however we wished."

Hermione glanced up, pretending to be chopping carrots, in order to see Dolohov's reaction.

He only shrugged. "I 'spose." He contemplated her for another moment. "She hung out with Potter and the blood traitor all the time, right?"

Draco made a noise in agreement. He didn't seem to like where the conversation was heading. Neither did Hermione.

"Bet they had their uses for her too. Bet all the Gryffindors did."

This statement, so obviously a baited remark, had just the effect Dolohov desired.

Hermione slammed the knife on the counter and glared at the pair behind the bar. "I was not the Gryffindor whore."

Draco closed his eyes in frustration.

"What did you say to me, girl?" Dolohov pulled his wand out and pointed it across the kitchen.

Luckily, the doorbell chimed, heralding the arrival of more Death Eaters. Draco stepped between Dolohov's wand and Hermione, who had backed against the refrigerator.

"I'll deal with her later," he gestured toward Hermione. "Right now, we have things to go over, Dolohov. I trust you can find your way to the lounge?"

Dolohov nodded and slowly pocketed his wand and went to greet the newcomers. Draco rounded on Hermione.

"Keep your tongue checked, Granger, or this could end badly for the both of us. I allow you freedoms no other person in your position could dream of, but shooting your mouth off to a dangerous man is not one of them."

Hermione lowered her eyes, hating that he was right.

"I'm going to keep them in the lounge tonight, because quite frankly, I don't like the way they behave around you. Send dinner up whenever it's ready and for the love of Merlin, don't come poking around for more trouble."

When he had gone, Hermione continued preparing the meal, certainly appreciating Draco Malfoy more than she had ever thought possible.

And, now, while she lay in bed, anxious of his return, she wished she could feel that same sense of appreciation. Sundays didn't end with snuggling next to him under the covers, listening to his breathing slow or feeling his heart beat beneath her cheek.

It had taken many months of this ritual, to get Hermione used to his presence next to her at night. He never did anything other than sleep. Occasionally, he'd talk to her about her day and answer her less risky questions regarding the new regime. Hermione even began to enjoy the nights spent with Draco close to her. She began to feel as though a tender understanding had been forged, and pretended that she wasn't a slave…that Draco was merely harboring her from the evils outside…

He never treated her the way Dolohov seemed to think he did. Except on Sunday nights.

Because although Sundays began the same way as the rest of the days, they ended quite differently.

Sunday nights were when the Death Eaters gathered at the Malfoy Manor with the expressed intention of becoming obscenely inebriated.

And while they seemed to find life worth celebrating, Hermione cringed every time she heard a crash and outbreak of laughter overhead.

After dinner, they'd apparate their antics to local pubs, leaving the house ringing in the silence they left behind.

And at 11:11 p.m. every Sunday night, Draco would stumble home, reeking of alcohol, with the notion that Dolohov's wayward ideas of Hermione were actually quite logical.

Every Sunday night was like the first Sunday night she'd spent in the manor: terrifying and painful.

Yes, Hermione hated Sunday nights. On Sunday nights, Draco became Malfoy and whatever love she could have imagined between them was smothered under his rough hands and Firewhiskey-laced breath.

11:11 p.m. came and went, and with Malfoy's absence, the anxiety already brewing in Hermione's chest magnified. She wasn't worried about his well-being; she was worried for her own. Because if Malfoy was as horrible as he was at 11:11, she had no wish to see him drunker at a later hour.

As the thought continued to taunt her, Hermione abruptly remembered that last Sunday night had been different.

Draco had returned quite balanced. He had slid into bed next to her just as if it was Thursday night. Curious as ever, Hermione asked him why he wasn't drowning in the smell of alcohol.

"Because I hate Monday mornings," he answered simply.

So, Hermione thought, you hate Monday mornings and I abhor Sunday nights.

"Why?" She demanded.

Draco sighed. "Because, if you must know, I hate waking up to see you nervously regarding me from the other side of the bed. I hate remembering the night before."

Hermione had been floored by this revelation. She hadn't realized that he lived with the knowledge of what he had done to her the night before. She didn't realize that the ignorance he displayed every Monday morning was only attempted denial.

Now, she could only hope that this Sunday night would be the same.

12:00 a.m. glowed on her watch when the speck of wand light appeared down by the lane.

Hermione whimpered despite the fact that it was Monday morning.

The stench of alcohol burned in her nose when Malfoy apparated into the room. She closed her eyes and tried to pretend that she was already asleep, knowing it was a futile effort to save her dignity.

She listened as he stumbled to the bathroom and showered. Her breathing hitched when he returned and flopped into bed, his arm reaching around her, pulling her close.

Her eyes widened in shock when his lips met hers in a deep demanding yet gentle kiss, causing their breath to mingle in a fusion of Firewhiskey and mint toothpaste.

When he pulled away, he laid back and pulled her into an embrace, his body completely relaxed against hers.

"Draco?" She murmured feebly.

"Just sleep, Granger," she heard him slur.

"But—"

His eyes opened and in the moonlight Hermione saw how red and blurry they were.

"I told you," he stated matter-of-factly, "I hate waking up on Monday mornings pretending that nothing happened and that we should spend our days as such." He closed his eyes again.

Hermione felt herself begin to relax as his words sunk in.

"You're drunk, though."

"Indubitably."

"So, you could have restrained yourself all those other nights." It was hardly a question.

Draco reopened his eyes and gazed at her. "I doubt it."

"Why?"

"Because," he said, now extremely interested in the ceiling, "you didn't matter all those other nights."

"But what about the week nights? I seemed to matter then."

"Hell, I don't know, Granger." He sounded uncomfortable. "You didn't matter…I never had to see you in the mornings."

Hermione frowned, not understanding.

"And the one time I decided to stick around, the first thing I saw was you, looking at me in such an ugly way." Draco's voice was strained now, like it pained him to remember. "You were disgusted with me and I with myself."

He stopped concentrating on the ceiling and turned his attention to her.

"You started to matter when I saw the Sunday night aftermath shadowed on your face."

He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "Now, please, sleep." He closed his eyes again and rolled over so his back faced her.

Hermione turned over his words in her head. Somehow, in the course of the year she had spent in Malfoy Manor, she had begun to matter to a Death Eater. She couldn't help the smile that tugged at her mouth. And somehow, a Death Eater had begun to matter to her.

She didn't know if she could begin to truly trust Draco's judgment when Sunday night came again.

But this Sunday night had been different, so she found herself hoping…

Meanwhile, she cuddled up behind the man sleeping beside her, believing that tonight was enough for now.