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Chapter Text

Dumbledore was dead. Struck down by Voldemort’s hand during the chaos at the Ministry as he shielded Harry - shielded hope itself - from the same merciless fate.
Afterward, the world around them seemed to slip into darkness without any hope for atonement.

Whereas Hogwarts once symbolized a sanctuary, it was now only a residence carved from stone and spells, a hollow shell of the place it was known for. It had been more than a school: it had been home for all. Whether born of pure blood, half blood, muggle blood, or even those cursed to walk in fur and howl at the moon. Every child who crossed its ancient threshold was greeted not with suspicion, but with open arms, and a bed that stayed warm through the toughest winter nights.

Hogwarts wasn‘t magical because they used wands over pens for their homework, because phantoms drifted between shadowed corridors, because you could hear the thunder of broomsticks chasing after the golden snitch through the big blue sky.

No. The meaning of Hogwarts went deeper.

For the way it taught every heart that dared to listen to see beyond the veil of prejudices, to think for oneself, to love wildly and fiercely and without shame.

But now, that golden age seemed like a fever-induced dream, blown away like cigarette smoke after the first inhalation.

When they proclaimed Dumbledore’s death - publicly, cruelly, a clear warning for every witch and wizard on British ground - everything shifted. Snape rose up to the position of the Headmaster and the Carrow twins stalked the halls, causing fear and demolition wherever they went. Their cruelty seeped into every stone finely set into the masonry of the castle, every place-averting staircase, every breath of every soul wandering the grounds.

Hermione still remembered the vivacity of the hallways. Chaotic, boisterous laughter echoing from the rivers of students, making its way from class to class. 

Now there were only hollow faces dragging themselves through the halls. A robot army, haunting the grounds of the once-beloved castle, their spirits bound by fear, their magic dimmed into silence.

Hogwarts had not fallen in battle. It had withered from within.

But the Order of the Phoenix remained, ready to save what yet had not been destroyed by the Death Eaters. They collected the Golden Trio with their remaining members and brought them to secret locations in hope Voldermort would not find them there.

Primarily Harry was put under scrutiny as he was thought to be the last key to Voldemort‘s demise. ‘The stone that causes the tower‘s collapse‘ was a phrase once used by Kingsley Shacklebolt during an Order meeting.

Harry was meant to fight; but if he did fight, Hermione didn’t know. All three of them were forced to go no-contact. It was too dangerous. The Floo Network was under stark surveillance, owls were intercepted too easily and you couldn’t trust another person to convey a message.

The only solution thus being: living in hopes her best friends were still alive while taking one day at a time. In all fairness, many days were in fact beautiful. In that small muggle-island she was sent to, in the south of Italy, where you felt the serenity of nature, enjoyed the rich beauty of the place and tasted the fresh seafood and simple Mediterranean dishes at the local restaurant, while reading a book you lent at the adjacent library.

But despite the pleasant distractions the area had to offer, it was not nearly enough to put her mind to rest. Her anxiety and worries ran wild. It followed her on every step she took, every page she turned, every scent she inhaled and every drop of water that met her lips.

Sometimes she would wake up in the middle of the night in cold sweat, after reliving the same nightmare as all the other horrific nights: Harry or Ron, murdered. Their bodies disregarded and neglected and with them every ounce of hope that Hermione could still hold onto.

Logically, she knew that fear would neither help her, nor anyone else. But in times such as these it was difficult for a person, even one such as like Hermione Granger herself, to think with their head, rather than their fragile heart.

Her days in the province were pretty much the same everyday. 

Sleep (poorly), drink her morning coffee (while fighting demons in her head), take a walk to the beach in an attempt to clear her mind (unsuccessfully), come back home and greet her neighbor Mrs. Moretti (lovely lady), pace around the house and browse through books while waiting impatiently for any news of the others (this for the rest of the day).

Currently, the last update she received dated back three weeks. She was going insane. What if since then all of them had died and she waited and waited for an answer she would never conceive? Those were the devilish sentiments come to torment her. She knew she had to bide and trust in the Order, regardless of how overflowed she was with energy and tension in her veins. 

Truthfully, she tried to enjoy the perfect view she had just outside her bedroom window. She could spend hours on end watching the sun stretching its golden fingers across the horizon, feeling her skin being kissed by the early sunlight while concurrently being enveloped by the mists of Italy‘s fresh air. There were vivid landscapes arching to be explored, to be felt in its final moments of the day and first seconds of a new one, when moon and sun met; when day became night and night became day. A brief moment when time was neither the one, nor the other fully. A time of stillness, of uncertainty and peace.

Not for the first time she entertained the thought that this place could be the perfect one to raise a family. She could almost envision herself sitting on the terrace of a beautiful Italian house, painted in yellow with sun-faded paint on its roof. Next to her, her husband, the love of her life, whoever it might be, putting an arm over her shoulders and holding her in a tight embrace while watching their children play on the green lawn.

In these moments, she experienced a short period of tranquility. Her treasured times of just being, instead of thinking what if over and over again.

~~~

The first rays of morning sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, casting soft golden streaks across Hermione‘s features. It brought in the warmth of the island while a breath of fresh air gently infused the room through the half-open window on her bedside, bringing in a faint fragrance of citrus and sea salt, a silent reminder, every morning before opening her eyes, that she had left England behind and had crossed into the life of exile.

There were no familiar voices calling her name and no Crookshanks stirring in bed next to her. In moments such as this one, she even missed the snoring of her roommates, the irritating sound of Lavender‘s agitation through her belongings in search of her clothes or the loud footsteps of Parvati when finding her way to the washroom.

Now, her days started with aggravating silence. Her days also unfolded within that silence. And they finally ended amidst silence. All while her mind was running wild. In the absence of any sounds of her surroundings, her thoughts swelled until they rang in her ears as though uttered by another. That was the worst part of the exile. Not the unknowing of her friends whereabouts, as she would have thought before, or the limited knowledge of the world around her. It was the absolute stillness of the place.

Her only companions were the endless hums of the distant waves and the chirping of the birds outside. The peacefulness of the island ignited a burning fury within her. How dare they live as though nothing was amiss when the world was falling apart around them?

When she finally found the strength to open her eyes, she took in the scene presented in her small bedroom. In its quiet simplicity, the room was the picture of order: it was neatly arranged with a few spare furnitures placed in the different corners of it. Though not many different colors, it wasn‘t vain, just minimalistic. The walls lacked the individuality of its occupant, but that was Order‘s command: no personal possessions, no evidence that she had ever stepped one foot into the room. Hermione hardly felt at home, but she had learned to come to terms with it after the first few months.

The routine of her days was necessary to contain her sanity. With mechanical precision she went about her day: Stepping into the sunlight bathed kitchen, she grabbed for the bread, the eggs, the butter; heard the sizzle of the pan as she cracked the eggs and flipped them after exactly two minutes, stirring them on both sides until golden brown. At Hogwarts, she never ate eggs and bread for breakfast. It was a habit acquired shortly after moving in, there was something nostalgic about the taste; a taste of home and shelter, like a tight hug from your parents during your infancy when the biggest problem in the world was the sudden detachment of your favorite doll‘s head after playing with it too carelessly.

There was also another facet to the modesty of the breakfast: she did it by hand. Once more an order from above, the use of wands, brooms or magic of any kind was strictly prohibited. Too perilous to get caught as they were among muggles. Remaining undetected was their greatest asset, any opportunity to draw attention to oneself had to be avoided at all cost, and the risk that Voldemort had already gathered followers abroad was too great. As a result, Hermione had no other choice but to live as a muggle. In all honesty, it wasn‘t difficult for her, after all, she had spent the first ten years of her life doing nothing else. But in these little moments she sometimes thought about Ron. Sometimes she even had to stifle her laugh, imagining him in front of a muggle stove and how he tried to figure out how to turn it on. Maybe he ate his bread untoasted. She would imagine Harry beside him, teasing him for the obvious and then showing mercy on him by pressing the button to switch it on.

She ate in silence, only listening to the chewing of her own mouth.

The bread wasn‘t quite perfect, the coffee didn’t come close to matching the pumpkin juice in the Great Hall, but she choked down every bite and every sip, regardless of the size of the lump in her throat.

Afterward, she was in desperate need of her daily movement. In less than five minutes she had her attire changed to something presentable and was out the door and on her way to the coast. The cool air wrapped itself around her like a welcome embrace. The path outside her home wound around the edge of the small village, where cobblestone streets and rows of quaint buildings seemed untouched by the war.

She spent her few minutes sitting at the beach before the happiness of nature was too much for her to bear.

On her way to the front door she almost always met Mrs. Moretti and stopped for a small chat with the lovely elderly.

“Buongiorno, Miss Granger,“ she would always say.

And Hermione answered, “Good morning, Mrs. Moretti.“

And then they would begin a conversation about the weather, about how quiet the village had become in the past months. She would always compliment Hermione‘s appearance, no matter how she looked. She would go on about the fruits and vegetables that came in just this morning in the market and asked Hermione if she wanted something of the homemade bread she had baked for her husband. And Hermione would then politely decline and after another few minutes leave Mrs. Moretti behind and spent the rest of the day inside the house in complete loneliness. 

She sat on the couch, letting her vision gloom over the coffee table and all the books stacked on it. She should read, she thought. A lovely distraction to push away the feelings gnawing at her. She reached for the nearest book, but her fingers would hover above it, unsure. 

Her pacing began. From one side of the house to the other, peeking glances outside the window for any sign of an Order member. But there never was one.

It was only by accident that she got notice of something beyond the island. One time, when she was on her morning walk again and sat down at the beach, a fisherman named Julian asked her if she wanted to see the mainland.

“This lonely place is not one for a young woman that wants to experience,“ he told her.

The mainland was a bit more crowded, there were more restaurants and shops and on her most desperate days she would accompany him to deliver his catch to the fish market. She would take a few steps into town, watching the people and their life there.

Hours on end she explored the streets and corners of even the shadiest alleys as curiosity led her beyond the bustling heart of the city, past polished facades and crowded boulevards, until the streets grew narrower and the buildings more worn. There, in the forgotten region of the town, time seemed to have slowed down, the hum of traffic and laughter faded into a distant murmur. Drawn by a strange pull, she wandered deeper, until she stumbled upon a kiosk hidden behind an obsolete food truck. 

At first, she didn’t spot anything unusual. Inside, it smelt like tobacco, beer too cheap to be considered alcohol and the sweetness of hard candy. Nevertheless, while lingering at the front counter, browsing through some gossip magazines, her gazed involuntarily drifted to the man at the counter, who was absently rolling a cigarette. And then she saw it, almost felt it screaming her name. A particular newspaper, nestled on top of the counter. She had seen it a thousand times, read it hundreds of times, and spent the past weeks infinitely dreaming about it. But now, as her eyes caught the familiar flicker of moving pictures on the cover of The Daily Prophet, hope ignited within her. Not gently, but with the force and color of fireworks sparkling wild.

A smile tugged at her lips, unbidden. For a short moment, a fragment of the world she truly belonged to was right there, barely two feet away. The cashier took notice of her relentless staring after he finished up his cigarette.

When he traced her line of sight and realized she wasn’t afraid, but joyful, he quickly checked the shop for any curious ears. Then he leaned in, and in a hushed voice, asked, “Tell me the truth, have ever mistaken a Sneakocope for a pepper grinder?“, he quirked a brow, waiting for her to either answer or call him a maniac.

But Hermione couldn’t help but smile at the small, but meaningful connection to her magical roots.

“What if I told you that I haven’t just mistaken it, but used it? Ruined an entire Christmas dinner this way.“

At first, he was stunned into silence, his expression unreadable. But then, slowly, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and blossomed into a wide, knowing grin. The man rubbed his hands together with sudden, eager energy, clearly thrilled to have discovered a fellow, magical traveler here, of all places, in the heart of a southern Italian city.

Moments later, he stepped out of the storeroom, a fresh copy of the latest Daily Prophet in one hand. With the other, he reached forward to receive his payment. A vast sum, but Hermione would have parted with a golden chalice for it, if she had to.

Only once in a while, she dared to come this close to the Wizarding World. She tried to soothe her pangs of conscience by reassuring herself that it took only for a few minutes, a mere moment of possible vulnerability to obtain a sheet full of news. Well, full of censored news, of course. But Hermione was able to read between the lines, to sieve out the real information from the fake ones.

The short sentences, where she would read about the ordinary things of her world and could imagine it to be still as peaceful and full of beauty as it had been once, those were her anchor in the bay.

For a split second she could imagine herself again, sitting at the Gryffindor table, in front of her, Harry and Ron, shoving their breakfast into their mouths while half of it fell back on Ron‘s plate. She saw Hogwarts how it used to be, how it was supposed to be. Full of love and light.

She knew it was irrational, a dumb, silly decision to take. She scolded herself every time she thought about coming back and buying a new one. But in her desperation, it was all she had. A meager, puny illusion of control and normality.

~~~

A few days after gathering her last newspaper, Mad-Eye came. She was in the middle of retrieving her freshly baked cookies from the oven, when she heard a loud knock at her door. Her first instinct was to hide behind the cushions of the coach. Too much time had passed without her hearing from anyone that she immediately assumed Voldemort had found her. Only when she realized that the Dark Lord wouldn’t knock at her door, a sentiment of joy expanded in the pit of her abdominal area, spreading through her body until it settled in the tips of her limbs.

Finally. Updates. Closure.

“Thank God, you finally came. I was beginning to worry if anyone would show up again,“ she held the door open and with a sweeping motion of her hand, she gestured him to enter.

“Nah, nah, little Granger, not so fast,“ Mad-Eye lifted the eyebrow above his healthy eye, his voice carrying a tone of admonition, “How do you want to know it‘s really me, huh?“

“Well, I guess Voldemort wouldn’t knock on my door and then just stand there, asking me a question such as this one.“

“Now, you’re in a funny mood today,“ he gently shoved her to the side to make his way through the door, “But keep in mind that precaution is the key element for your safety. The order would be nothing without its thorough planning and well-organization. So tell me, Miss Granger, what’s the full name of your great grand aunt? Don’t take too much time thinking about it, yes?“

In the course of the last year, she had answered that question a dozent times. It was as if she knew the name of her great grand aunt better than her own.

“Rosalind Margaret Alice Roberts.“

He looked at her as though considering whether the name was evidence enough to eliminate the possibility of a fraud.

“Shall I list my entire family tree for you?“

“This is no time for irony, Miss Granger. We are in a precarious situation.“

“Of course, we always are,“ she mumbled under her breath, quiet enough so that he wouldn’t understand. The sarcasm was sometimes the only thing keeping her sane.

“Huh?“

“I said yes, sir.“

He squinted his healthy eye, not quite believing her.

“Very well, now you ask me a question only the real Moody knows.“

Again, she didn’t have to ponder over the question. It was the same she had asked him the last time he came for her, “What fruit did George throw at Ron at the last Christmas dinner?“

“An apple,“ he smirked at the thought.

“Quite right. Now, do you want to come in? I made cookies.“

He narrowed one eye, weighting his options, “What kind?“

“Chocolate chip,“ she said with a plain smile, “After my great grand aunt‘s recipe. Now that you know her full name, you also have to try her baked goods. It’s obligatory.“

“Very well, we wouldn’t want to anger her while resting,“ but she could tell he was dying for something sweet.

After another ten minutes, they sat down at the big couch in the living room, one hand occupied with a plate of warm cookies, the other with a cup of freshly made Earl Grey tea.

“So…“, Hermione started, breaking the silence between them, “Are there any news about the others? How are Harry and Ron doing?“

Mad-Eye met her gaze for a moment, then quickly looked away, evading it.

“Oh no, what happened? Who of them died?“

“No, no, both are in impeccable health and safe,“ he gestured emphatically with one hand to make his point, scattering a few cookie crumbs onto the pale yellow carpet, “But the circumstances are not the best. You-Know-Who has fought his way across all of England and has now crossed the borders. A city in southern France has been completely burned to the ground, and the Snatchers have already infiltrated into different continents. He is gaining more and more power within the country, and even supporters abroad are aiding him. Greater caution than ever before is now required.“

“Do we know for sure that this was Voldemort‘s handiwork?“

At the mention of his name, he regarded her with a skeptical glance, looked her over briefly, then carried on with his question, “The France-incident?“

She gave him a curt nod.

“We do, our investigations confirmed that typical curses were used. Shacklebolt uncovered that much. Not to mention the enormous Dark Mark hanging in the sky,“ he lifted his teacup in one hand and took a measured sip.

A heavy swallow caught in her throat, so stark was the scene before her inner eye: the raw terror in the people‘s eyes as they witnessed their homes, their workplaces and corners of comfort and nostalgia being destroyed. The ruin left in the Death Eater‘s wake, and the merciless rage with which they had torn through the city, leaving the population to suffocate on the darkness they possess within.

It took her a few seconds before she was able to block out the reel playing over and over again in her mind and press on with the conversation.

“Was it a muggle city?“

“Yes, and many were killed. However, it was officially classified as a fire incident resulting from a technical failure, as handled by the town hall.“

She could barely suppress the cold shiver running down her spine, nor the surge of anger welling up inside her. How unjust it was, that so many will never uncover the truth behind the deaths of their loved ones, nor the identity of those responsible.

“What does that mean for us, now?“

“You‘re staying in exile for now. Our visits will probably become less frequent as we have to deal with the events and also have to focus our attention towards new information regarding You-Know-Who.“

“Which information?“

With a short, dismissive wave of his hand, he said, “That is not relevant right now, Miss Granger. That’s a matter for the Order.“

‘Am I not part of the Order?‘, she was tired of being treated like a porcelain doll, as if she knew nothing of the horrors of war, as if she wasn’t capable of understanding the dangers that await out there. Yes, she was young, and yes, she hadn’t lived through as much as the older members of the Order, but still, they could trust her. But they didn’t. She trusted them with her life and they wouldn’t let her be a part of the grand scheme of things.

“Meaning that nothing will change for me? I‘ll just stay here?“

“More or less, yes.“

A brusque silence, then, “When can I see them again?“

He looked at her, his good eye filled with sympathy, “We don’t know yet,“ he meant gently, “We‘re still working on it, trying to piece together what we already know about You-Know-Who. As I said, we’ve received new information… and it might change everything.“

“Received information how, exactly?“, she quirked an eyebrow.

“Too many questions, Miss Granger. Now, I have one of my own for you. Has everything here gone smoothly… no complications?“

“Sure, I mean, there is not much happening around here. I wake up, and I read, and I meet Mrs. Moretti and go church on Sundays, but other than that… there is not much around here to do.“

“I see… well, at least you’re safe and healthy. This is more than the majority of the English wizards and witches can say about themselves.“

His final words made her feel a flicker of shame for the weight of her own despair. Of course the others back in England had it worse, far worse. And yet, instead of seeing the exile for what it truly was - safety - she had let it become something else in her mind. A punishment.

It was, in fact, a golden cage. She was safe, yes… but at what cost?

And what price were others paying out there, in the shadowed corner of the Wizarding War, while she, Harry and Ron sat scattered, alone in their hideouts, waiting in silence rather than acting for the greater good. How could they bear to remain still, while the darkness marched on?

~~~

Sundays were church days. Most Italians, when asked, would probably say they were Catholic. But that didn’t necessarily mean they attended Mass every Sunday. At least not in the bustling cities, where faith had long blended with convenience. Here, though, in the quieter corners of the country where Hermione now lived, it was different. The rhythm of life was slower, the people older, more traditional. This was a place where Mass was not optional. It was a ritual, a point of pride, a part of the collective identity. And so, Hermione went too.

She had never been particularly religious, even before finding out she was a witch. For her, religion had always been more about tradition than belief, Baptisms, weddings, Christmas Eve services, and the Eastern. It was about family, routine, the comfort of shared customs rather than divine conviction. Still, the presence of the Church had been impossible to ignore in her childhood. 

The echo of tolling bells had marked each passing hour, floating over rooftops and through the alleys. Every town she’d ever visited seemed to boast at least one church, always a little too grand for the number of people who lived there. And there were the old women, forever dressed in black, murmuring prayers and crossing themselves at roadside shrines as if their lives depended on it.

So, stepping into the church on Sunday mornings was not unfamiliar to her. She knew how to act, where to stand, when to sit, how to blend in. The space was as expected: still and heavy with incense, shafts of light breaking through stained glass windows, illuminating dust that hung in the air like something sacred. The only interruptions to the hush were the occasional cries of toddlers who had grown tired of the priest’s solemn voice.

Hermione never spoke to anyone there. She didn’t need to. Her presence was quiet, respectful, and consistent. In time, people began to nod to her in greeting, a subtle gesture that acknowledged her as one of their own, though not quite local, she was no longer entirely foreign either.

In those quiet moments, seated on the rearmost bench of the church, Hermione always thought of her parents. She missed them as much as she missed Harry and Ron. 

Before being forced into exile, she had cast a memory charm on them, erasing herself entirely from their lives. They no longer remembered having a daughter. She had planted the idea in their minds that they were to move to America, a place untouched, at least for now, by Voldemort’s spreading influence and his bloodlusting devotees.

In the first few weeks after arriving on the island, the weight of what she had done nearly crushed her. The guilt gnawed at her relentlessly, waking her in the middle of the night and following her through the days. It hadn’t been fair, not to them, nor to her. She didn’t even know if reversing the spell was possible. But it had been the only way to ensure their safety.

And for their safety, Hermione knew she would have done anything.

But that day was different.

Instead of peace, a strange unease settled over her. 

She couldn’t stand the rich fragrance of the incense, it clung to her lungs, nearly suffocating her in the process. The gentle murmurs of prayer, the cries of a restless child, the soft scolding of its mother, it all seemed louder, harsher, impossible to ignore.

Never in her life had she felt further away from anything holy than in this moment.

All she could think about was the precariousness of her situation, the gnawing truth that refused to be silenced. She could only focus her consciousness on the following verities:

One: She was in exile.

Two: Harry and Ron were too, without any guarantee that they would live through the following weeks

Three: She felt useless, restless. No amount of pacing through the house, no walk to the beach, no matter how long it was, and no issue of the Daily Prophet could calm the storm that prevailed in her mind. 

She wanted to fight. She wanted to act instead of staying back while others lost their lives every single day.

She was a Gryffindor, a fighter at heart and a rightful member of the Order of the Phoenix. If only Mad-Eye and the others would acknowledge her as such.

She, Harry and Ron could do so much more from the inside than from foreign territory. Harry was the chosen one. He was only ever born to fight and win this war, finally establish peace in the Wizarding World. But instead he had been shipped away to some unknown place to hide out like a rat. That wasn’t what all three had wanted.

But as long as the Order members were in charge, there wasn’t much Hermione, nor anyone else could do. She was captured in an unfair world, in between unfair circumstances and with no bloody opportunity to do something about it.

What was she supposed to do? Running away was no option, but so was staying. She felt the perfervid need to rip out her hair, strand by strand, until the last lock lay on the floor to her feet. The frustration agitated inside her, pressing against her organs, her bones, her heart, hot and sharp like a burning knife. She could swear she was seconds away from exploding.

~~~

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.“

Hermione had never religiously confessed before. It had always struck her as something archaic, something reserved for the older generations, maybe more tradition than truth, more ritual than redemption. Yet here she was, seated in the cramped wooden booth, cloaked almost entirely in darkness, save for a single sliver of light slipping through the narrow gap in the door.

It was almost poetic, she thought. The lonely ray of illumination cutting through the dimness just as she was meant to bare her soul to a stranger, a representative of the divine no less. She had never been particularly religious, even before she’d discovered she was a witch. Her faith had always lived in logic, not theology. 

She couldn’t help but wonder about the difference of the confessional from what she'd read about in books or heard described by her parents. It felt more severe, more hidden. The booth was tucked away in a forgotten corridor far from the heart of the church. It felt isolated, unlit, sealed off from the world like a secret best left unspoken.

The seat beneath her was unforgiving, made of rough, worn wood. But even its discomfort wasn’t enough to make her remember her own body and wake her up from the trance she found herself in. Her mind floated somewhere between the confession and the memories binding her to a sensation that was located directly between guilt and longing.

She didn't know whether the act of voicing her regrets aloud would help her reclaim a sense of normalcy. Perhaps nothing could. But even in the strangeness of the moment, in this unfamiliar place, she yearned to make something - anything really - feel normal again.

Even if it was just a small act of rebellion; even if it was just this.

“May God, who has enlightened every heart, help you to know your sins and trust His mercy.“

The priest’s voice echoed gently through the narrow grate that separated them. It was soft, kind, just as Hermione had always imagined how such a voice should be. Warm, steady, without judgment.

But her own words caught in her throat. What was she supposed to say? What sin could possibly sum up everything she was carrying? She didn’t even know what had driven her to approach the priest after Mass. All she knew was that the scents and sounds inside the church had become too much. And before she had realized it, she had already sat down in this stool and had whispered the first sentence.

It was as though something inside her had ruptured.

Like a cauldron brought to a furious boil, its contents bubbling over from too much heat, too much pressure. Only, what overflowed wasn’t potion or water.

It were her own tears running down her face, lining out every freckle on her nose, her cheeks. She hadn’t even realized they had come until she felt the warmth sliding down her skin. There was no sobbing, no trembling limbs or broken gasps, solely the  tears finding their own way in the world, spilling from eyes that had long grown tired of holding everything in.

Her sorrow had no sound. It simply poured from her, steady and unstoppable, soaking her skin and staining the wood beneath her feet that she couldn’t even see, lost in the shadows where no light could reach.

And still, she said nothing.

“I…”

Her voice was remarkably steady, almost detached. As though her emotions no longer belonged to her, but to someone else entirely. Someone with whom she merely shared a body.

“I-”

“Yes, my child?”, the priest prompted gently, his tone encouraging but not intrusive.

“I ran away from home.”

It was the first thing that came to her lips. And in a way, it was the truth.

She had fled England. Not by choice, but necessity. She had left everything and everyone behind. Now, she lived the life of an exile, a fugitive in hiding. There were days she felt more like a runaway than a refugee, like one of those troubled teenagers she used to hear about on the news, when she spent the summers with her parents.

And some days… some days, she truly felt like she had run away for her parents or from them.

Her childhood memories no longer held the softness of a childhood well-loved. Instead, they were coated in a thick veil of guilt. Every recollection was tinged with shame of what she’d done, of what she’d taken from them, of what she might never be able to give back.

"It sounds like you're carrying a great deal of pain. Just remember that God's mercy is always greater than our mistakes."

"I am," she whispered. Because she was. That pain was the only thing she had truly brought with her from home, that she was even allowed to take with her, so she did. It followed her more faithfully than any shadow, louder than any accusation.

"Tell me, my child," the priest continued gently, "how did this come about?"

"I ran away because there were many problems… at home."

"What kind of problems?"

She hesitated, then answered with quiet finality, "Violence."

The silence that followed hung heavily in the confessional.

"Did someone use violence against you? Is that why you ran?"

She shook her head slowly, though he couldn’t see her through the screen, "No… but they would have."

A single tear carved its path down her cheek. Somewhere, right now, in some hidden corner of English ground, someone was being harmed. Someone was being hunted, tortured, or worse, by Voldemort and his loyalists. The injustice of it all burned in her chest like fire.

"How do you know this?", he asked softly, "Did they threaten you?"

"Among other things."

"Were you afraid for your life?"

Was she? Hermione had always imagined that standing in front of Voldemort, or any of his Death Eaters, would strike fear into her heart. But after everything she’d been through, everything she had lost, there was no fear. Only an unsettling restlessness. She no longer feared death. Instead, she longed to face it. She was ready to meet it, stare it in the eye, and still keep moving forward, one step at a time. With no one else but her two best friends at her side.

"No," she said firmly.

The priest’s voice was soft, gentle, "Then why did you do it?"

"Someone else wanted me to," she replied, her voice quieter now, "Someone told me to go."

"Your parents?", The question came with an unspoken assumption, a sense of trying to piece it all together, "So, you didn’t run away. You were thrown out."

"NO!", her voice rang out, sharp. For the first time since setting foot on the island, she raised her voice. Even back at school, she had rarely allowed herself such rawness. The words hit right into the mark, her parents being accused of throwing her out. It wasn’t like that. Not at all. She had been the one who had thrown herself out of their lives, cutting herself off from every piece of her past until Hermione Granger had ceased to exist as she once knew herself.

"I’m sorry," the priest’s voice was measured now. 

Hermione pressed her lips together, trying to calm herself again, "No, I’m sorry," she said, her voice a little quieter than before, regaining a bit of her serenity back.

"I see," the priest murmured, "This is a very emotional matter for you, my child."

“It is,“ her voice sounded definite.

“Then why did you run away?”

Hermione hesitated. The questions kept coming, each one more piercing than the last. She wasn’t sure how much more she could confess, how much more of herself she could reveal without saying something that made her sound like a maniac.

“Like I said,” she began, her voice cracking slightly, “someone else told me to.”

“If you didn’t want to leave, why did you listen to them? Was there any... pressure? Blackmail? Anything like that?”, the priest’s voice remained gentle but probing.

No. No. No.

"Yes," she whispered, almost too quiet to be understood.

The priest’s voice softened further, “Tell me.”

“They told me it was the only way to ensure everyone’s safety," Hermione explained, her words now slipping out almost without her control, "They said I was too young to handle any other solution,“ she paused, her hands trembling as she twisted the fabric of her robe, "And I believed them."

For a long moment, there was silence between them, broken only by the faint creaking of the old wood around them.

“Then, my child, your sin is above all, your naivety.”

Was it? Was that really her sin? Had she been too naive to understand? Too weak to stand against the Order, to question them? The words echoed in her mind, but something deep within her rebelled. No, it wasn’t just her naivety. It wasn’t that simple. The Order had only ever wanted the best for her, at least, that’s what they had claimed. They had wanted to protect her and Ron and Harry. They feared losing them just as much as she feared losing them. But… was this really the best way? Was it really the right choice to lock them away from the battle, from Voldemort’s increasing power, and let him continue spreading terror across the world?

Could she have been wrong to trust them? Could she have been too naive to see the alternative? Perhaps it was the Order itself that was naive, standing by while Harry - the Chosen One - was kept hidden, far away from the frontlines of the fight.

She had always wholeheartedly believed that there was an alternative. A right way to do this, a better way. A way that was both reasonable and yet bold. 

Before the death of Dumbledore everything had seemed so much lighter. Dumbledore - the one person who didn’t fear Voldemort, who defied him with everything he embodied. Now just a lifeless corpse rotting under the ground they walked on. With him gone was every altercation about the situation.

The Order hadn’t been prepared to part from him so soon, to be on their own, think on their own. Dumbledore had been their leader, their adviser, their strategist. No other member was on par with him in terms of leadership. They were like orphaned puppies walking helplessly around a neighborhood in search of food without him.

There remained too many questions unanswered. It was never properly thought through how to triumph against the Dark Lord. The Order fought without a straight purpose, lacking preciseness. Surely Dumbledore knew the secret behind Voldemort’s vigor. But why did he never tell anyone then?

Her mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, and for the life of her, she couldn’t make sense of any of it. Where guilt had consumed her mere seconds ago, now a cloud of confusion settled over her mind.

There was a relentless desire to leave this place, to step out of the small wooden booth and face the real world again. The feeling that something was slipping away from her, a chance maybe, was unbearable.

“I have to go,” her voice was firm, though her hands were shaking, betraying her sense of urgency.

“Now?”, the priest’s voice trembled slightly, confusion lacing his words.

“Yes, now,“ Hermione stood up abruptly, her robes rustling with the swift motion.

“But the confession isn’t done yet. I-”, the priest’s words trailed off, but she didn’t give him a chance to finish.

“Yes, yes, I’ll pray the Hail Mary three times and spend some time in silent prayer later,” she interrupted, her tone clipped, almost desperate, “But I really need to go now. It’s important.”

Her feet moved before her mind had fully processed the decision, her legs carrying her out of the darkened confessional without a second glance. The small light from the narrow window outside beckoned her forward, but her thoughts were miles away. She needed to see Moody again. She needed to speak to him. She needed to explain herself, to tell them that she wanted to be part of the fight. She couldn’t remain a bystander anymore, not one day more in this godforsaken place. They needed to rethink their plan, their strategy. Fast, before anyone else came to harm. 

She wasn’t a helpless child. She wasn’t someone to be hidden away for her safety. No, she had seen the destruction Voldemort was capable of, and she had seen what Harry was up against. She wasn’t going to sit idly by while others fought in her place. She had to make them see that.

She needed something from them.

She knew, she would get home now, and there would be no Mad-Eye waiting for her by the coach, not in the kitchen either. For several weeks in fact. But she couldn’t just sit there and stare holes into the wall forever.

If she couldn’t get to Moody, she might as well get her piece of normality again.

~~~

That evening, Hermione once again found herself wandering through the city streets, making her way toward the small kiosk that had become, in a strange way, like a secret Portkey to her world. She knew, as she had known countless times before, that this was a foolish decision. She knew she was risking not just her own safety, but that of the Order, and perhaps even Harry and Ron, by sneaking out, behaving this carelessly. But she had finally reached her breaking point.

It could be weeks, perhaps even months, before she’d find Moody lurking at her doorstep again to exchange news and gather information. She was well aware of this, and of the bitter truth that she had no other means of contacting the Order without doing something even more reckless. So she’d wait, because that was all she could do. But waiting in silence had never suited her. Whereas before she had been compelled to sit out lully, she was now too restless, her mind too burdened.

Her conversation with the priest earlier that day, rather than offering the emotional relief she had hoped for, had only served to strip away the last illusions of purpose she clung to. The realization struck her like a cold wave. This exile, this forced solitude, was nothing but a hollow farce. She wasn’t doing anything meaningful here, wasn’t fighting, wasn’t resisting. She was merely existing, a ghost of the girl she had once been, locked away in a foreign corner of the world while the war raged on without her.

Of course, the Order couldn’t risk losing Harry to a sudden ambush. She understood that well enough. She knew why the Burrow, Hogwarts, and even her parents’ small suburban home were off-limits, too dangerous to even consider. But she couldn’t help but wonder why the Order refused to work with them rather than merely protect them. After all, Harry had inherited Grimmauld Place after Sirius’ death as Moody had told her some time ago. A hidden, heavily warded sanctuary, the very heart of the Order’s operations.

Why couldn’t they stay there? It had more than enough space for the three of them. Enough room to live, to sleep, to strategize, and, most importantly, to assist the Order in their planning and fighting. Even Moody, the most paranoid of them all, had to see the logic in this. Surely he understood that they would have a far better chance of confronting Voldemort if they worked together, rather than hiding the so-called Golden Trio away like fragile relics.

Instead of merely reacting to the chaos through protecting civilians, evacuating those in danger, and engaging in the occasional skirmish with Death Eaters, they should be working together to uncover the secrets behind Voldemort’s strength. Why hadn’t he been truly defeated all those years ago, when Lily’s sacrifice shielded Harry and shattered the Dark Lord’s power? Why had he returned at all, seemingly more powerful than ever? What was the nature of his immortality, and how could they break it?

These were the questions that truly mattered, the mysteries that demanded answers. Simply hiding Harry, Ron, and herself away, keeping them isolated from the very fight they were destined to lead, felt like the worst kind of cowardice. It was a waste of their potential, an insult to the very reason they had fought so hard in the first place for years.

In this lonely, frustrating hour, she needed a place where she could stretch her legs, let her mind wander, and feel, if only for a fleeting moment, like she was doing something worthwhile. She needed a reminder of her world. A tether to the life she had been forced to abandon. She needed a newspaper.

Hopefully, the kiosk owner had managed to get his hands on a relatively recent edition. She knew from previous visits that he was a curious character - half English, half Italian, who had settled in this sleepy corner of Italy mere years before Voldemort came back. He kept up with the happenings in his former homeland through newspapers and other reports, a habit that had become increasingly challenging since the war broke out. The export of English papers had become erratic at best, with fresh news often delayed by days, sometimes even weeks.

The walk to the kiosk was always a quiet one. Her only true companion was the sharp, solitary echo of her footsteps on the cobbled streets. Occasionally, she would catch the faint murmur of voices drifting through open windows. Snippets of conversation too muffled to understand, too distant to make her feel less alone.

The neighborhood itself felt like a ghost town, the narrow alleys and weathered stone facades catching the waning sunlight in a way that only made the emptiness more pronounced. It was as though the entire world had retreated indoors, leaving the streets to her alone, save for the occasional feral cat darting between shadows or the rustle of drying laundry caught in a sudden breeze.

It was a stark contrast to the crowded heart of the Italian mainland, where midday often felt like a grand procession. People pouring into the squares, tourists snapping photos, the chaos of street vendors hawking their wares. Here, it was just her, the whisper of wind through the cracks in the walls, and the weight of her thoughts pressing down on her like the thick, salt-laden air.

Sometimes, as she approached the small kiosk, she felt as if she were crossing an invisible threshold, stepping into a world caught between the muggle world and the magical one. A liminal space where time seemed to stretch thin, where the threads of two realities intertwined. She wondered, in unspoken thoughts, if the kiosk was the only magical corner among these crumbling buildings, the last flicker of enchantment in a place otherwise forgotten by the world.

There was something about this particular part of the city that always made her pause, a feeling not unlike the one that crept over her during her first visit to Hogsmeade. If Hogsmeade had been a ghost town. The peeling plaster, the narrow alleys, the way the shadows seemed to stretch longer here, as though time itself clung to the stone, it all felt eerily familiar. She could almost sense the magic in the air, like a whisper of witchery against her skin, brushing past her with each step and pulling at some deep, dormant part of her soul.

The kiosk itself, with its weathered facade and creaking sign, always seemed too quiet, almost improbably so. She had wondered, even on her very first visit, how it managed to stay open at all, how it kept its doors unlocked in a place where customers were as rare as phoenix feathers.

Her father would have probably made a half-serious remark about the possibility of it being a facade for money laundering.

Stepping in, she could feel there was something different about the shop today. A shift, a subtle, almost imperceptible crackle in the air, like the sudden sharpness of the world after a lightning strike. It was as though someone had flipped an unseen switch, flooding the cramped, dust-filled space with an energy she hadn’t noticed before. The air felt charged, the shadows deeper, each stack of newspapers and cluttered magazine rack suddenly more vivid, more alive.

A few determined strides and she had made her way to the counter, hearing the clicking of her boots accompanying her. As always, the shopkeeper sat there hunched over his countertop, seemingly focused his eyes down to where he watched his adept fingers evenly rolling the tobacco into the cigarette paper, a precision he must have acquired through years of habit.

The faint rustle of the leaves against the dry surface of the paper being the only sound in the otherwise silent shop.

He looked up briefly to acknowledge his customer, a particular spark crossing his eyes when recognizing her as the witch from the island, before he shortly flickered his gaze outside the window and returned to finish his task at hand, the corner of his mouth slightly twitching in what could almost be mistaken as a knowing smile.

She waited, because she assumed he would get his task done and afterward attend to her wishes for a new paper, but he didn’t get as far as reaching for the filter, owing to the loud crack that went through the narrow room as the entry was used yet again. 

Great, now Hermione would have to wait for the muggle to carry out his shopping list before she could get hold of a new Prophet. Turning around to see the intruder, she was met with a surprising discovery. She didn’t know what exactly she had expected, but definitely not two broad-shouldered men filling the doorway, their frames almost too large for the narrow doorway, casting long shadows across the parquet.

They were dressed in dark, sharply cut suits. A strange choice for the stifling heat of the southern Italian coast. Their sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, revealing tanned forearms, thick with muscle and crisscrossed with faint scars that spoke of a life spent outdoors, or perhaps in the kind of business where suits served less as formal wear and more as uniforms.

Odd, she thought, that two men such as these two would wander into this particular, forgotten corner of the city. And yet, here they were, stepping into the shop as if they owned the place.

Hermione shifted a few paces to the side, making room for the newcomers, in an attempt to blend into a distinct nearby shelf of magazines, her heart beat slightly increasing with each step. She only hoped they wouldn’t take much notice of her, that they would simply gather whatever business had brought them here and leave quickly, without giving so much as a second thought to the strange occurrence that Hermione had stopped talking to the seller as soon as they had stepped in.

She knew the importance of remaining inconspicuous. But, as much as she hated to admit it, Hermione had never been particularly skilled at staying out of trouble.

Though the cigarette remained only half-rolled, the shopkeeper immediately abandoned his task as the bell above the door chimed. He straightened, wiping his hands on his apron in a quick, practiced motion, and stepped forward to greet the newcomers. One of the men spoke to him in rapid, fluid Italian, his tone casual but carrying the unmistakable undercurrent of authority. The other, however, had his eyes fixed on Hermione, his gaze sharp and unblinking, like a predator catching the scent of unfamiliar prey.

His stare was so intense, so uncomfortably focused, that Hermione felt a prickle of unease travel down her spine. She could feel the weight of his investigation, the way his dark eyes flickered with a hint of something she couldn’t quite define. She quickly dropped her gaze, feigning a sudden, all-consuming interest in a rack of outdated magazines, and took a few measured steps away, putting a display shelf between herself and the two men.

But not before her left sleeve, with a deliberate, almost practiced motion, brushed over the cluttered counter, sweeping the precious Daily Prophet out of sight and beneath the folds of her jacket. 

Once she had reached the end of a dimly lit corner, Hermione let out a slow, controlled breath, feeling her heart race in her chest. Deliberately, as to not make any loud noises, she unfolded the crumpled paper beneath her jacket, letting the familiar, grainy texture of the enchanted parchment ground her for a brief moment. With a practiced flick, she opened to the first page.

"Attack on Muggle City: Moscow"

Last weekend, a devastating explosion rocked the western part of Moscow, sending shockwaves through both the Muggle communities. Initial investigations indicate the blast had a magical origin, though it remains unclear whether this was the result of a magical failure or a deliberate act of vandalism.

The Ministry of Magic has already conducted over 300 memory modifications on Muggle witnesses to contain the situation, with many more cases still pending. According to the International Magical Cooperation Office, the incident has claimed at least 732 lives and left over 10,000 buildings in ruins. Remarkably, no magical casualties have been reported so far, though the scale of the damage has prompted international outrage and an urgent call for tighter regulation of potentially hazardous spells and artifacts.

Quidditch World Season Update:

The International Quidditch League has released new details regarding the upcoming season. According to…

Hermione inaudibly gasped as her eyes scanned the letters on the paper. ‘Magical malfunction or vandalism‘. Of course it was Voldemort, she thought bitterly. Who else would leave a city like Moscow in smoking ruins, with hundreds dead and thousands more left homeless? It fit his twisted pattern perfectly - chaos, fear, destruction. The Ministry, now little more than a puppet under his control, had likely scrubbed any incriminating evidence from the article, explaining the unusual lack of a moving photograph on the front page. No flickering scenes of chaos and no Dark Mark hanging in the sky. Just sanitized, hollow words.

She gripped the edge of the paper a little tighter, a thin line of sweat forming at her hairline. It was only a matter of time before-

“Do you know that this could be considered stealing?”

The sharp voice let Hermione’s head jerk up rapidly, only to meet eyes with one the men, the one who had been studying her from across the shop with far too much interest for her taste. His companion, still lounging by the counter, had now turned fully toward her. A few spare coins clinked into the outstretched palm of the shopkeeper, but with nothing on the counter to suggest a recent purchase.

Her heart dropped as she dried her gaze toward the seller. His eyes confessed a mixture of apology and… satisfaction, maybe? Like a snake relaxing in the warmth of the sunlight after his most recent ambush.

The realization hit her then, rumbling through her whole body and seeping  into her bones, that these two men weren’t here for a casual purchase. They were there for her. They had been waiting, lying in wait like predators, and the shopkeeper had handed her over as casually as if she were the morning’s paper.

Snatchers.

Moody’s gruff voice echoed in her mind, warning her about them during those hurried, whispered conversations back in England. Wizards too impure to earn a Dark Mark, but too blood-proud to be ignored. They prowled the shadows, hunting down Muggle-borns, blood traitors, and anyone else on Voldemort’s ever-expanding list of undesirables. Sell them back to the Dark Lord’s forces and walk away with a heavy purse for their trouble.

It made sense now why the shopkeeper had always seemed so eager to take her money, why he never asked too many questions. He had seen an opportunity to earn a few more Galleons, and she had walked right into his trap.

She didn’t need to think twice. Instinct took over as she whipped her wand from her jacket and fired a Stupefy in their direction, the red jet of light slicing through the smoky air of the cramped shop. Without waiting to see if it hit its mark, she spun on her heel and burst through the door, the little bell above it jangling wildly in her wake.

Heavy footsteps pounded after her, echoing off the narrow stone walls. She had no idea how many of them were behind her as Snatchers rarely hunted alone, but the harsh, rapid cadence of their boots told her it was more than one. She careened around a corner, nearly slipping on the damp cobblestones as she pushed herself to run faster.

“Stop running, you little bitch! We’re gonna get you anyway!”, one of them snarled, his voice tinged with the unmistakable edge of a British accent. Hermione’s stomach twisted.

Those weren’t local Italians, they were Englishmen. So it was true. Voldemort had already expanded his reach of devoted followers into other countries. That was not good, not at all.

She forced her legs to move, sprinting down another darkened alley. She wove through the labyrinth of cobbled lanes, cutting left, then right, stumbling over loose stones as she fled, barely registering any sounds at all while listening to the rapid beating of her heart in her heaving chest.

She rushed across a small market square in any attempt to escape the fate that inevitably awaited her, should she be caught.

Internally she cursed herself for her stupidity. Moody had warned her. He had warned her to keep a low profile, to avoid momentary decisions and think long-term. But like a stubborn child reaching for the forbidden candy jar, she had ignored the rules, and now the cost might be far more than just a two week long grounding.

So she kept running. She ran and ran until her breath caught and her heart almost exploded from the sheer exhaustion.

She had lost all sense of direction, didn’t know where she was and where she was supposed to go to find her way back to her little cottage on the island. But at the moment, that was her least important problem. If the Snatchers knew, she dwelled somewhere around the shop, they’d soon find her hideout and from there drag her to their destination. 

To Voldemort, to proudly announce that it was them who snatched the Golden Girl from the Order’s grip and collect their well-earned sum. She wondered how much money the Dark Lord had placed upon her head.

She also wondered what kind of torture shed have to endure from him, in his effort to discover Harry’s whereabouts. But they didn’t know that she carried no information of value for them. Not the location of Harry, nor any plans of the Order. Nothing, but the knowledge of her own little house that is daily bathed in sunlight and smelled of the freshness of the nearby sea.

Never had she been as alleviated as in this very moment that she hadn’t been told anything by Mad-Eye.

As soon as the pounding footsteps behind her grew fainter, she took another few sharp turns and twists until she was sure the only noises of feet stepping on cobblestone she could hear were her own. Still, she forced herself to keep running until her heart hammered violently in her chest as though it was about to explode and her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps, each inhale slicing her lungs like shards of glass.

She could feel her pulse in every inch of her body, her head was pounding and her feet threatened to buckle beneath her, but she dissembled each and every pang, forcing her mind to focus on the more important issues - where exactly was she?

The worse part about this particular area of the city was the resemblance of all the houses, all the corners and walls. They all looked shallow, bathed in the dim light of the midday sun. Every part was covered with the same cracked cobblestones.

She had no idea where she had ended up though her alignment.

For a moment, she considered whether it was wise to even try and return to her little house. She had no possessions there, nothing tied her to the place except the Order. Everything of value she always kept with her - her wand, her mind.

Maybe it was smarter to vanish entirely, to slip away from the sight of Voldemort and his followers until she figured out a way to come into contact with the Order.

She would have to think about a possible way, of course. It would be difficult, dangerous, but nothing she hadn’t risked before.

But then, where would she go? She was alone, in a foreign country with no knowledge of the language or etiquettes. Like a black sheep in a pool of white ones would she stand out for everyone - muggle or wizard - to see.

And even if she managed to stay hidden, how would she contact the Order? She could try to leave some kind of encoded message back in the house for Mad-eye to stumble across. Something to let him know she had escaped and he need not worry about her wellbeing. But that, too, felt like a dangerous gamble should anyone find it and trace it back to them.

Maybe she could try and make her way back to England. It was risky, probably suicide, but at least there she had a chance of finding allies.

Shaking herself from her spiraling thoughts, she straightened her back and forced her feet to move one step at a time, walking through a small gate.

“Hello, beautiful.“

She jerked her entire body around only to, yet again, find herself in the company of one of the Snatchers.

She spun around, in hopes she could double back the way she came from, but her escape route was already cut off. The second man, the one from the counter, blocked the entry with his broad, intimidating shoulders.

Cold sweat broke out on her forehead, also reaching her hands, making her wand slip slightly in her trembling grasp. her mind went blank, but her senses sharpened in the presence of the threat. Every movement, every sound and every smell was plainly discernible.

She was cornered, and her only weapon was the wand she hadn’t used properly in months. Still, she tightened her grip on the wood, her knuckles withering under the force. Hermione would not go down without a fight, she never had.

The shorter of the two Snatchers noticed the subtle shift in her stance, the way her muscles coiled like a predator preparing to strike. His eyes sparked with dark amusement, and before she could fully raise her wand, he had already snapped his own up, a quick, practiced flick of his wrist sending a Stunning Spell hurtling toward her.

The force of it hit her square in the chest, slamming her backwards into the rough stone wall behind her. Yet the impact of it was not forceful enough to make her lose consciousness.

Still, every bit of air was squeezed out of her lungs. She could hear a present crack and later realized that it was her own head. It was followed by a hot bolt of pain shooting through her skull, making her vision blur in front of her.

Her wand slipped from her grasp, rolling a few inches away on the hard ground. She instinctively brought a shaky hand to the side of her head to feel the watery substance slipping down her temple. When she pulled away she found her fingertips smeared with her own blood.

With the last bit of strength she didn’t even know she possessed, she pushed herself toward the wand, fingers outstretched, just a few inches away from the piece of wood that might save her life that day, when a polished black boot stepped firmly on it.

“Now, don’t make this harder than it has to be, sweeting,” came the second Snatcher’s mocking voice, dripping with smug satisfaction.

His cold, patronizing tone was the last thing she heard before another Stunning Spell crashed into her, the impact slamming into her chest with full mightiness.

All the pain, the fear, the desperate, clinging will to survive - it all vanished in an instant, dissolving into an enveloping fog as the world around her went black. The last thing she felt was the rough stone beneath her cheek, the smug faces blurring before her eyes, and then - nothing.

Chapter Text

Hermione awoke to a throbbing pain in her head. The very first thing she became aware of as consciousness slowly returned was the ache radiating through every inch of her body. Far more intense than the one she had succumbed to before losing awareness.

She had no sense of how much time had passed since she first felt the cold, damp wooden floor beneath her. Her eyes remained tightly shut, even the slightest movement sent waves of nausea rolling through her, forcing her to rest her head back down against the ground.

There were no voices perceptible; no sounds whatsoever except a distant, almost seamless swoosh somewhere far off.

“Wake up, Hermione. It’s time. They’re not here yet.“

There was a soft, feminine voice, and it drifted to her like balm to her aching mind. As though the sound itself could reach inside her and sweep away the pain like dandelion seeds carried away by the breeze.

But she didn’t want to rise. She didn’t want to be faced with the dizziness again, no matter how gentle the voice by her side was.

Fingers moved across her scalp in slow, comforting motions, brushing the wet hair from her forehead, now letting a cool draft of air caress her face.

How lovely it felt to be cared for like this. For a fleeting moment, she believed they were her mother‘s hands, the ones that used to calm her after nightmares with the simplest touch.

But that couldn’t be. Her mother ceased being her mother a long time ago, and 

Hermione was well aware that her surroundings carried nothing of the plain comfort her childhood bedroom once provided her with. She wasn’t snuggled up in bed tightly, away from all the world‘s dangers, she was… 

Now, where was she?

Her head ached, but her thoughts remained clear. She remembered the exile, the fateful day at the church, the kiosk owner, and the moment she lost consciousness at the hands of one of the Snatchers.

Her wand. Did she still have her wand?

Unlikely. If the Snatchers had even a shred of sense, they would have confiscated it for good. They’d probably even bound her with magical restraints to prevent any resistance.

Wherever they had taken her,  she would find out soon enough. Right now, all she wanted was to sleep. To drift off and stay in the pitch darkness that were her dreams for as long as possible.

“Hermione, please. You have to wake up now. I don’t know how much time we have left before they return.“

Once again, these gentle hands shook her. This time with a bit more urgency. Hermione groaned in protest as the rapid movement jolted her body and sent a wave of nausea though her entire body once more.

“Hermione, it's important.“

Who was speaking to her? And how did they know her name? 

Was she dead? Had the impact against the wall, the head injury, been so severe that it had actually killed her?

Maybe this was heaven and the hand had been her mother‘s. Maybe - when she opened her eyes - she‘d find her parents sitting at her side.

But that would mean they were dead too. Yet Hermione had done everything in her power to prevent that.

Hesitantly, she forced her eyelids to part.

A blinding light pierced straight through her retinas, blinding her for a moment. Her vision was completely blurred, and to the nausea came the growing awareness of all of her injuries. Her arms, her legs, her entire body throbbed with the same all-consuming, overwhelming pain.

The voice spoke to her again, but Hermione could only make out her own name. The rest of what the woman said passed by her unnoticed, as if she was surrounded by a soundproof fog.

After a few moments staring into the brightness, silhouettes began to form in her line of sight.

She could make out a small room with wooden walls, and a wooden floor. The ground beneath her was damp, though not soaked with blood. Next to her, a shadow leaned over. She saw the slender frame, strands of brown hair falling into a pale face, and a small, delicate hand that continued to brush gently over Hermione’s bruised skin.

“Easy there. Don’t push yourself too hard. It’s always like this when you first wake up.“

The soft voice now belonged to a face taking shape before Hermione‘s eyes. A girl about her age, with kind features marred by small cuts and deep shadows beneath her eyes.

She wore a torn and dirty white dress, the fabric fraying at the edges. Her hair, which at first glance had seemed soft and well-kept, now appeared unwashed and tangled in the clearer light.

Despite the haunted appearance, the young woman offered Hermione a gentle, encouraging smile as she continued to soothe her with light touches.

Hermione‘s suspicions were confirmed when she flinched at a cold touch against her leg. The woman before her wore two thin metal bands around her wrists. At first glance, they looked like delicate bracelets. But anyone who had spent a modest amount of time in the Hogwarts library would know better: these weren’t ornaments, but magical restraints designed to sever a witch or wizard from their magical core.

Perfect for keeping prisoners under control.

“Who are you?“, Hermione could hear the rawness of her own voice, as though it hadn’t been used in days. Every word felt like abrasive paper against her throat.

“You don’t know me, but you can trust me“, the woman replied gently, “I’m Elizabeth, your cellmate.“

“Cellmate?“, Hermione echoed, dread creeping into her voice. Oh dear God, had she been brought to Azkaban? That would at least explain why she felt as though her body had been sliced apart by a hundred knives.

Yet, despite Elizabeth’s disheveled appearance, Hermione had always imagined Azkaban prisoners to look much worse - haunted, hollowed-out shadows of themselves, similar to how Sirius looked after twelve years in this dark place.

“My mistake,“ the brunette said with a soft chuckle, catching Hermione‘s confusion, “You must be terribly disoriented, dearest.“

Her smile faded as quickly as it had come. In its place, her eyes darkened, flooded with a hollowness that Hermione felt mirrored deep within her own chest.

“You’re on the Sanguis Purus,“ Elizabeth said, her tone laced with contempt, “At least that’s what it said on the bow of the ship. It’s a transport vessel. They use it to ship escapees back to their home countries. To hand them over to the local authorities. You know the Snatchers, I assume? They’re the ones running this. Scour all of Europe, rounding up people like us and hauling them off for bounty.“

Sanguis Purus. ‘Pure blood‘. It didn’t surprise her that the Snatchers would choose a name such as this one.

Her voice was thick with bitterness, “They lock us in these cages, only letting us out to scrub the deck or work in the kitchen like slaves.“

Hermione‘s heart skipped a beat. Captured? Being taken back to England? And then what? Delivered straight into Voldemort‘s hands?

“How long…“, her voice faltered. She was afraid of the answer, “How long have I been here?“

Elizabeth‘s expression softened with sympathy, “A few days, I think. They threw me in this cell when we set off. You were already here, unconscious. Haven’t moved since, until now.”

She offered Hermione a tentative smile.

“What did you mean,” Hermione asked, her brow furrowing, “when you said, ‘they’re not here yet’?”

Elizabeth looked at her, puzzled.

“Before I woke up… you whispered that to me,” Hermione clarified. At that, the other woman’s eyes lit with sudden recognition.

“Oh, right,” she said, “I meant the overseers. They come to collect us for our shifts. Cleaning mostly. They usually arrive at the same time every day. You started stirring a few hours ago, mumbling in your sleep, and I had a feeling you were close to waking. Better to regain consciousness now, in the safety of the cell, than with a wand pointed at your back.”

The mention of a wand made Hermione flinch involuntarily.

Her wand.

Panic swelled in her chest.

She was completely defenseless, imprisoned on a ship surrounded by endless miles of water, and the only company she had were the people who had captured her.

“My wand - where is it?“

“Calm down,” Elizabeth urged firmly, “We can’t speak too loudly.” She inhaled deeply before continuing in a low, restrained voice.

“They took our wands the moment we were captured, right there at the harbor. We were thrown into provisionally cells even before the ship set sail. They piled all the wands together, like some sort of twisted display. As if to say: Here, take one last look - you’ll never use them again.” 

She let out a bitter huff, “What happened to them after that, no one knows. Dumped somewhere, sold off, who can say? Probably sold, those idiots only care about money.”

Her face contorted with pure disdain at the thought of their captors.

Hermione‘s thoughts spun. Just one question now filled her mind, heavy and dangerous. If the Snatchers knew who she was - really knew - why hadn’t they handed her over immediately? Why bother with a slow journey across the sea, when Floo powder and Portkeys existed? It made sense, she supposed, not to use magical transport for hundreds of prisoners… but she wasn’t just any prisoner. She was Hermione Granger. The Golden Girl. Surely too valuable a prize for Voldemort to delay claiming.

“Do they know who we are?”, she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

Elizabeth noticed her tension and placed a soothing hand on her shoulder.

“No, don’t worry,” she said gently, “They don’t know. All they were able to learn about us came from our wands. They use that to trace where they were made and assign us to different countries based on that. But names? No. They don’t get those. Not even blood status. All they care about is whether someone is a wizard and whether they ran. If you run, you’re a fugitive, and fugitives are worth money.”

Hermione exhaled deeply, only now realizing she’d been holding her breath.

No names. They didn’t know she was Hermione Granger. To them, she was just another transaction. Another few Galleons in their pockets. The sudden relief flooded over her, but it raised another question in her mind.

“Then how do you know my name?“

Elizabeth smiled again - something that shouldn’t happen often in a place like this.
“Just because those worthless bastards don’t know who Hermione Granger is doesn’t mean I don’t.”

Hermione‘s eyes widened involuntarily, but Elizabeth kept speaking.

“Don’t worry, though. I won’t say a word. Trust me, I wouldn’t trade even your little finger for a thousand Galleons.”

Hermione exhaled in relief, her body easing slightly, “Then… what happens now?”

“For now? Nothing much. We’re probably still a week away from England. Until then, keep your head down and follow orders. Even if every fiber in your body wants to spit at their feet.”

“And after that? Where will they take us?”

Elizabeth gave her a long, assessing look, “That depends. While we were docked near the coast, I overheard the Snatchers talking about different places they send the prisoners. My guess? They’ll sell you wherever they can make the most money.”

And where would that be? Hermione wondered. What use did England still have for muggleborns and blood traitors besides execution?

“And the others? The ones on the ship?”

“Oh, I don’t really know. Just that they’ve been thrown in cells too, working their shifts. It’s all very routine here. As long as you don’t cause trouble, you’re practically invisible on deck. That should be your goal.”

“And what happens if I do cause trouble?”, she asked without hesitation.

Elizabeth‘s eyes darkened in an instant.

“You don’t want to find out,” she said gravely, lowering herself so that her eyes were level with Hermione’s, “I mean it, Hermione. Don’t be stupid. Don’t try to be the brave little Gryffindor. Leave your pride back in Italy and focus on staying alive. If you’re lucky, you’ll only get a few lashings. But if the overseers lose patience with someone…”

Her voice trailed off, but her expression said more than words ever could. She knew things. She’d seen things. And Hermione suddenly realized how thin the line was between surviving and vanishing without a trace.

“Have you ever seen it happen?”, Hermione asked, her voice low but urgent.

“Not directly,” Elizabeth replied, her tone somber, “But before the ship set sail, I saw a few prisoners taken away. Some because they caused trouble… others, seemingly for no reason at all. At least none I could see. And they never came back. No one knows what happened to them. I think most people would rather not find out.”

But Hermione did want to know. She needed to know everything. Every possible outcome, every danger, every detail that could help her assess her chances of survival. She needed to find a way out of this, to find the Order again. Because even if the Snatchers didn’t realize who she was yet, once they docked in England, someone would. Sooner or later, a Death Eater, an employee from the Ministry or a fellow Slytherin student would recognize her, and then there would be no mercy.

“I haven’t been beaten yet,” Elizabeth said, continuing with a glance downward, her voice softer now, “Maybe it’s because of the baby.”

Only then did Hermione let her vision wander downwards, noticing the gentle curve of her belly and the shimmer in Elizabeth’s eyes. That quiet, unmistakable gleam seen only in expectant mothers.

“A baby?”, Hermione asked gently.

“Yes,” Elizabeth replied, her smile tinged with quiet joy, “A small piece of hope in a world that’s falling apart. I only wish he - or she - could be born into a world that’s whole again. That’s why I ran. I couldn’t bear to raise a child in this mess. Not even two months, and they caught me.”

Me too, Hermione thought bitterly. Her hideout had been perfect. Her quaint little cottage in the most beautiful corner of Italy. But she hadn’t been able to sit still, and now there she was. If her body hadn’t been so broken, she might’ve punched a hole through the wooden wall out of sheer frustration.

She studied the woman before her. The soft brown hair, the gentle eyes, the youth. She could have been Hermione’s reflection in another life. And yet, despite everything, Elizabeth radiated something Hermione hadn’t felt in a long time - hope. Real, unfiltered hope. She believed in something good.

After a moment’s hesitation, Hermione reached out and placed her hand gently over Elizabeth‘s, still resting protectively on her stomach.

“That’s… beautiful,” Hermione said softly, “That you can think of something so positive. That you’re not consumed with fear when you think about what the future holds for your child.”

Elizabeth‘s smile deepened, unwavering. “I just… I can’t let myself think of anything dark when I think about this baby. They were created in love, and I believe they’ll bring love into the world.”

Her gaze drifted toward a distant, invisible point, and her expression grew hazy and wistful. Hermione recognized the look. It was the expression of someone lost in memory, wrapped in the soft ache of nostalgia.

But the momentary feeling of warmth, of shared comfort, shattered abruptly. Somewhere down the corridor, a door slammed open. Heavy footsteps pounded the floor, growing louder with every second.

Elizabeth‘s eyes flicked toward the sound, and in them, Hermione saw her worst fear confirmed. The wardens were coming.

~~~

The shift work was exactly as Hermione had always imagined life in early factories of the lower class: grueling, dehumanizing, and endless.

The overseers patrolled relentlessly, their wands drawn, while the prisoners scrubbed, hauled, served. Always while being obedient and exhausted. Hour after hour, without rest, without variation, and without a word exchanged among them.

Like little puppets, they dipped the filthy sponges into the even filthier water, that was already so dark with grime that the bottom of the bucket had long vanished from view, and dragged them across the dirt-caked wooden planks of the deck.

Hermione‘s knees throbbed from the constant pressure they had borne since dawn.

Two days had passed since she had awoken in her cell, with Elizabeth‘s quiet, motherly presence beside her. Two days of relentless labor. Scrubbing, kneeling and enduring. Two days of meager food and even poorer sleep.

Most of the time, she drifted through the hours like a ghost, running on instinct alone.

But even through the veil of absent mindedness, she had begun to observe the overseers, to learn the rhythm of their cruelty and how they kept control.

It was through violence - unsurprisingly - that was used unflinchingly and calculated.

Strikes, jinxes and magical whips that lashed from the tip of their wands like serpents, was their way of keeping everyone in order. A handful of armed guards ruling over dozens of exhausting, starving prisoners.

They stalked them decks with predatory precision, eyes ever tactful, as if waiting, even longing, for an excuse to unleash their power. One misstep was all it took. A delay in dipping the sponge, a glance held too long…

And the next curse would come down like a hammer.

She‘d seen unknown faces staring directly into her eyes, hoping for a savior of any kind, a miracle sent by a God to intervene, right before the Cruciatos curse flew down on them. Hermione still heard the echo of their screaming running in her ears.

“Hey.“

A voice from her right pulled her out of her thoughts. She turned her head and saw a young boy kneeling on the wooden floor just like her, a sponge in one hand, dirt smeared across his cheeks.

He couldn’t have been older than the first-years at Hogwarts.

Hermione‘s stomach turned at the sight, at the thought that witches and wizards of such a young age were already being made to endure the horrors of war.

“Don’t look so obviously,“ the boy whispered, keeping his head low.

Hermione quickly turned her gaze, following the direction of his eyes. It landed on one of the overseers, who now stood just beyond earshot.

“They’re always watching,“ the boy continued, “Looking for an excuse to rut someone. Sometimes a glance is all it takes.“, his voice held a quiet kind of empathy, the tone of someone who had learned that truth the hard way.

Hermione considered his words. He was right. She hadn’t needed more than a few hours on deck to understand that the slick grin on the overseers‘ faces was testimonial for the giddy thrill of control they had over each and everyone on the ship. That slimy gleam in their eyes was nothing but disgusting satisfaction.

After a short moment, she gave the boy a slight nod, “Thank you.“

He returned the gesture in silence before turning back to his work.

Hermione knew what an overcoming it was for him to speak to her at all. Communication among the prisoners wasn’t just discouraged, it was clearly forbidden. Likely to prevent any form of rebellion. That he had risked a beating over speaking to her so she wouldn’t have to endure something similar showed Hermione that despite everything going on in the deranged world around, there was still kindness and humanity in some people. Those kinds of people the Order had always fought for.

Now, instead of watching the overseer, Hermione turned her attention to the boy. He had shaggy, dark blond hair that clung to his sweaty forehead, and freckles similar to the ones Ron carried scattered across his sunken cheeks. His frame was thin -  dangerously so - and the sleeves of his too big shirt were rolled up past his elbows, revealing bruises and old scrapes not properly healed that could have been cured within seconds with an easy flick of the arm and a mumbled ‘Episkey‘.

But despite his appearance he scrubbed the floor with a grim determination, completely occupied with the task in front of him.

“Do you know where they’ll take us?“, Hermione asked cautiously. It was unlikely that anyone on the ship knew where they were headed, but she had to try. She needed to know before they arrived, before it was too late.

She watched the boy carefully, hoping he might risk it and glance her way again. She wouldn’t blame him if he instead ignored her completely to protect himself. But he didn’t.

“Mhmmm…“, the boy hummed thoughtfully, glancing around as if scanning for any danger, to see whether or not he could speak. Hermione inevitably followed his view to see one of the overseers had begun beating a middle-aged man for splashing water on his boots while scrubbing. Hermione couldn’t help but snort softly - as of that couldn’t be fixed with a simple flick of the wand.

“You know…“, the boy began again, his voice barely more than a whisper, “they’ll probably take us to The Warehouse.“

“The Warehouse?“, she asked skeptically, “What is that?“

“Rather where is that,“ he said, shrugging his shoulders lightly before dipping his ponge back into the grimy water, “At least that’s what my cellmate told me. It’s a place where they take all the runaways. His cousin supposedly ended up there too.“

“And how does he know that?“

“I didn’t ask,“ he muttered, “All I cared about was what happens to people once they’re sent there.“

Hermione‘s curiosity peaked, her thoughts running wild with every imaginative thing she would encounter on the threshold of that place. 

Nothing good, of course. Voldemort would not be there, not all the time, at least. He would be too busy hunting down Harry across England every day. But there would probably be other Death Eaters as warrens, using the Dark Arts on the prisoners, mercilessly.

Slightly, she leaned in, “And what is that?“

“Torture. Murder. No one really knows for sure. No one‘s ever came back to say.“, he looked off into the distance, his expression momentarily hollow, “I think there are different people watching over us there. Not like the ones on the ship. These guys just want to get rid of us fast. Sell us off. And be done with it.“

He paused, then added quietly, “That’s why I think we‘re better off here. As long as you follow orders, they don’t hurt you.“

Hermione wasn’t so sure she agreed that this counted as being ‘better off‘. Not when every breath you took felt like it could be your last.

“Yes, the money most decently comes first,“ she mumbled. The greed of these people was almost impossible to miss. They looked at every person on this ship and saw nothing but walking bags of Galeons.

“Yes, they get payed per head. they don’t care who you are. They just want to collect as many witches and wizards as they can and cash in.“

At least Hermione could be sure she wasn’t being targeted specifically. It was strange. This was the first time in her life she wasn’t being judged for being Hermione Granger, the insufferable know-it-all teacher‘s pet. They hadn’t taken her because of who she was, but because the kiosk owner had sold her out.

“So the Snatchers are bringing us to ‘The Warehouse‘?“

“Snatchers? Is that what they’re called? I didn’t know they had a name. You mean they exist in other places too?“

“Everywhere Voldemort‘s influence reaches,“ Hermione replied.

The boy flinched instinctively at the name, “Don’t say that,“ he hissed, “You’re not supposed to say his name.“

He looked at her, wide-eyed, fear etched into his expression, “I mean it. You don’t know what these people are like. They’re not just some bad witches and wizards. They’re evil. Some of them aren’t even human, I heard there’s a werewolf among them.”

“Fenrir Greyback,” Hermione muttered.

Lupin had warned the three of them countless times about th beast that was Greyback - the one who had turned him into what he was. Greyback was unpredictable, ravenous, and merciless. Especially Hermione had been warned more than once as he was known for his ‘preference‘ for young girls.

“How do you know him?“, the boy asked with wide eyes.

“I’ve heard of him,“ she answered vaguely.

“Well, then you know what they’re capable of. Using his name, they take that as a challenge. Trust me, you seriously don’t want to challenge any of them.“, he said with a low voice, “Honestly, don’t let the name The Warehouse fool you. It sounds very vague, like a simple drop off for people, but there’s nothing good waiting for us there. If we‘re lucky, we’ll keep doing what we’ve already lamented here.“

Learned? Hermione frowned. Is that what this is supposed to be? Training? Conditioning?

Was that why they used ships? To prepare them for what was coming once they reached British soil? Would witches and wizards, like house-elves, be forced to serve purebloods? Cleaning, scrubbing, and obeying without question? 

“There‘s an overseer - heads down!“, the boy whispered quickly, before turning away from her.

Hermione obeyed, lowering her gaze. In the corner of her eye, all she could see now were the long black robes of their captors swaying as they moved silently past her, in search for a new victim to use their magic on.

~~~

It felt like months had passed, though in truth it had only been half a week. Counting time was the only form of distraction she could allow herself - the only way to kill it, to be precise - and the only thing truly worth keeping track of. She needed to know the time so she could calculate exactly how long she had left until then. The moment when she would be forced to act. The moment that would determine whether she lived or died.

By the time the ship docked, her escape plan needed to be fully formed. No matter how reckless, no matter that she would be without a wand. She had to get as far away as possible before anyone recognized her as a member of the Order.

In one of the darker hours in their cell, Hermione had confided in Elizabeth, asking for any help, any information she had acquired in those days Hermione had spent unconscious on the floor. Maybe she had seen things Hermione would no longer be able to witness in the remaining time they had.

But Elizabeth had tried to talk her out of the ‘suicide mission‘ as she had called it. She had told Hermione it was pointless. With the shackles around their wrists, there was no way to disappear from the overseers‘ sight. She would be caught, inevitably so. And that would draw even more attention to her person. The best option, Elizabeth had said, was to keep her head down and hope to vanish among the large number of prisoners.

But Hermione knew better. Staying was the real suicide. Voldemort was hunting Harry. Then, how likely was it that he wouldn’t have his Death Eaters search the prisoners for any trace of him?

So she had no choice.

Her only option was to use her sleepless nights to plan. While Elizabeth‘s breath rose and fell in steady rhythm beside her, Hermione would lie awake on the rough floor, staring at the distinct moonlit filtering through the cracks in the wooden wall. And once again, she would find herself completely alone with her thoughts.

But no matter how long she thought about it, she simply couldn’t find a way to escape. No matter how careless or foolish the overseers seemed at times, they would always remain one step ahead of her as long as the magical shackles remained on her wrists. And removing them without magic was impossible. With no wand, the only way out would be to chop off one of her own hands.

It was almost ironic. All those years, she had solved every problem Harry and Ron had ever thrown at her, no matter how big or small, but now, when her brainpower was needed more than ever, her mind was nothing but fog and emptiness. In all this, she couldn’t see a single way out.

And every night she was left alone like this, those thoughts and feelings would return, the ones she had hoped to leave behind in Italy. The fears for her friends, for the Order, for her parents. That feeling of hollowness that spun like a storm inside her chest.

She had spent so much time hibernating in her emotions that she had instinctively begun to seek comfort in them. She tended to avoid the ‘what ifs‘ as best as she could, but in those moments, when she lost control of her thoughts, her mind would drift away, into old memories, into the corner of her life she had tried to bury deep within herself. But suppression only led to eruption.

And so she was forced to relive every laugh, every smile she had shared with her loved ones, every tear originating from joy, every sense of freedom she had once felt in better days. 

It felt like mockery. As if those memories were handed to her just to remind her that she might never experience anything like them again.

She was being shown what she had lost.

She kept telling herself to get a grip. To stop wallowing in self pity. To stop losing herself in misery and use the hours to plan her escape. But she had come to understand rather painfully that she was no longer the same Hermione who had spent hours in the Hogwarts library, who had read entire textbooks over the summer holidays, who had always been prepared for everything.

Something inside her had broken the moment she was forced into exile. The moment she had learned of Dumbledore‘s death. The moment she realized that everything and everyone could be wiped out in an instant.

Dumbledore had always been a symbol of everything that stood against Voldemort. She had never imagined he would die. Not like that. Not in a way that left the Order adrift, without hope, without a plan.

That was when Hermione understood: this wasn’t a children’s tale. The villains didn’t always lose. The heroes didn’t always win.
She had been forced to see that books and cleverness weren’t always enough, and neither were friendship and bravery.

This was war, and they wouldn’t walk out of this as winners.

Hermione Granger was broken. Not in a single moment, but piece by piece, since the beginning of the end. She couldn’t go on like she used to.

Once, she had been able to focus completely on the task at hand and thus blocking out any unwanted feelings - homesickness, grief, sadness. That was one of the reasons that had made her so good at studying. This, and her natural curiosity, her insatiable thirst for knowledge. It had always been her escape from emotions she didn’t want to feel.

But now, her deepest fears and sorrows had taken over her mind. They blocked logic at every turn, leaving her only with her instincts and emotions to survive on.

Was she losing her mind? Was she destined to be killed at Voldemort‘s hand, simply because she had lost her ability to think?

~~~

Hermione couldn’t tell how much time had passed when the first beams of sunlight crept into the narrow room. She hadn’t been able to close her eyes for even a second and get a rest. The pain in her chest was too sharp, too restless like a knife that drove deeper and twisted each time she dared to drift off to sleep. Instead, she was left to listen to the even breathing of her cellmate and the endless rhythm of the waves around them.

It was strange. Where only a week prior the silence had driven her to madness, it was now the lack of it that made her feel insane.

The fresh air of Italy had never stung in her nose the way the sea air did. The soft lapping of waves she used to pass by on her morning walks along the coast now seemed like delicate strokes of a violin in stark contrast to the aggressive and harsh movement of the Mediterranean Sea… or had they already entered the English Channel?

Now, she wished that boredom was her greatest problem again. That her old fears were still haunting her instead of Harry and Ron, who must have already heard of her missing. They must have been completely consumed with worry for her when Moody had told them, if he had told them. If not, then they were still lingering in their little cottage in the mountains, or a suburban terraced house, or wherever they had been brought, not knowing what Hermione went through at the same moment. They’d feel so guilty realizing this.

She could have smacked herself for her stupidity, pulled her hair out one by one, thrown herself off a cliff.  She had destroyed everything. This was the exact reason why they had been brought into exile in the first place. She had grown careless, that was the simple and uncomfortable truth. She had let a few months of false peace and security lull her into forgetting just how dangerous the world was under Voldemort‘s reign. And how easily one could crumble in it.

And now she would pay for it.

Or worse, the entire Order would have to pay for it. 

Perhaps she would be killed outright. Perhaps tortured for information. Or perhaps… the realization chilled her despite the oppressive heat in the room, they’d use her as bait.

As bait. Just like Sirius had been when they lured Harry to the Ministry.

How much worse could it get? She could already see the Daily Prophet headlines. The very paper that once comforted her in her deepest moments of loneliness now turning against her, her image on the front page for all of England to see, standing beside Voldemort, a wand pointed directly at her in warning.

And she knew, she knew, that Harry and Ron would come rushing for her the moment they got notice of it.

Tears welled in Hermione‘s eyes at the thought of her loyal friends. Without a moment‘s hesitation, they would risk their lives for her, disregarding every danger on the way. And she couldn’t even manage to lie low for a few short months. She would have given anything to undo the mistake she had made.

It wasn’t even her own death that she feared, but the jeopardy she had brought upon the people she loved most.

Because in the end, it would be Harry who paid the price if Voldemort demanded something in exchange for her release.

The tears flowed freely down her cheeks, leaving a stinging trail across her skin and leaving behind that familiar, hollow ache in the pit of her stomach. The sole thought that she might be responsible for the death or harm of a member of the Order was nearly unbearable.

She had to escape before Voldemort got to her. She simply had to. It was the only way to atone, the least she could do for those who had risked everything for her, especially Harry and Ron.

She sensed something moving next to her. Elizabeth had begun to stir. A subtle shift Hermione had me to recognize over the past days. Her companion always woke up shortly before the labor for the day began.

Hermione pressed her face closer to the slits in the wooden wall, squinting in a futile attempt to catch a glimpse of the sea beyond, in the naive hope that by observing the waves, she might recognize the sea they were currently crossing, thus estimating the time she had left before they reached British soil. But the waves looked like every wave did, the water was as blue as any water she had ever seen. No matter how long she stared into the bottomless sea, trying to see further into it, nothing useful was revealed to her.

Unfortunately, Horgwards had never provided its students with muggle geography books, if it had, Hermione would have surely evolved each one of them. Because her father also wasn’t like the fishing-obsessed fathers of her former primary school classmates, she had never learned anything about the world of the wide water.

“See anything useful?“, Elizabeth‘s voice came from behind her, tinged with a quiet hope.

Hermione exhaled audibly and turned away from the wall, “No, nothing. Same as always.“

A silence followed, the only other sound was the distant stirring of the other inmates beginning to awake.

“How many days have we been at sea?“, Hermione asked after what felt like an eternity. She - of course - already knew the exact number of days, she had been counting each day and night, but she needed to hear it confirmed.

“Six days,“ Elizabeth replied, “Though the progress was a bit slow at first, thanks to the rain.“

The rain which Hermione hadn’t even been able to observe while she laid unconscious on the cold cell floor. She had now idea how long a trip from Italy to England by ship would normally take, but surely not more than a week, even with delays. She thought briefly of what she had learned about the Titanic. It would have taken them about six days to America, although that was over a century ago. Ships had only gotten faster since.

So she didn’t have much time. If she wanted to escape, she had to act today.

“Do you think the guards are really as observant as they want us to believe?”, she asked after a few more minutes of silence.

Elizabeth paused mid-motion, her fingers tangled in her unruly hair, and looked at Hermione with a frown.

“You’re thinking about running again, aren’t you?”

Hermione gave a vague hum, “I was just... thinking. They don’t exactly strike me as the brightest or most qualified guards I’ve ever seen.”

“Then stop thinking,” Elizabeth said sharply. She turned back to her hair, attempting to smooth out a stubborn strand, “I shouldn’t have to tell you again, Hermione. This reckless and brave behavior of yours won’t get you anywhere here. We’ll be in England soon anyway. What exactly do you think you can accomplish in the little time we have left?”

Hermione shrugged dismissively. In truth, she hadn’t come up with any plan, that was her problem. It wasn’t hesitation that held her back, just the sheer lack of any options. She was willing to risk everything, but no idea seemed remotely possible.

“Do yourself a favor and just stay low,“ Elizabeth added quietly, “Blend in. Don’t give them a reason to notice you.“

Hermione turned her head to watch the woman slowly comb through her tangled hair. She made no attempt to tame her own, it would’ve taken more than ten hands to make a difference. When she had woken up, she had simply twisted it back and tied it in place to keep it from falling into her eyes. She already knew that whenever she next caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror, it would nearly end with her unconscious on the floor again from sheer shock… if she ever had the chance to see one again.

Since she had no way of seeing herself, Hermione couldn’t even tell whether she was capable of not drawing attention. At least her face wasn’t as widely known as Harry‘s, which had been plastered across every magical newspaper known to the public, but being his best friend had made her far from anonymous.

“What do you think England is like right now?“, she asked quietly.

Elizabeth didn’t look up from her task, “Dunno,“ she muttered, “Not good. Dangerous. Probably every street filled with Death Eaters.“

“Mhm.“

Hermione hadn’t expected otherwise. Now that Hogwarts was under his control and his followers reached as far as the rest of Europe, his grip on the country must have grown firm and unashamed. She wondered how the Order was holding up under that pressure.

Maybe Elizabeth was right, maybe lying down really was the wisest thing to do for now. But Hermione had never been good at being nondescript. She‘d always drawn attention. Whether it was with her bushy hair or oversized front teeth, her outspoken ways towards the teachers, or the chaos she, Ron and Harry had constantly caused. Lying low wasn’t in her nature.

Suddenly, the heavy iron hatch above them opened with a groan. A group of men in dark robes entered the lower deck and the murmurs around them ceased instantly.

An undeniable, icy drift swept through the lower deck. No wind touched her skin, yet she felt a cold shimmer settling firmly across her bare skin.

Footsteps thudded toward her. It was the same guard who had led her to the deck on previous days. Simultaneously, other cell doors clanged open, their occupants emerging with lowered heads and shuffling feet. Hermione swallowed hard as she watched them. Their faces were hollow, their eyes dim, shoulders slumped in defeat. Whatever fight they’d once had was gone, erased in only a matter of days. Their lively spirits sucked out by the Snatchers, who seemed to live off the suffocating depravity of their victims.

It was heartbreaking to see how lifeless people could become in such a short time. How much longer and she would start looking like them?

The guard barked at her and ordered her with a swift movement of his arms to step out. She obeyed without a word.

One last time she glanced at Elizabeth, still crunching on the cell floor, and gave her a small encouraging smile before turning back and stepping into the corridor.

Instinctively, she headed towards the stairs leading to the upper deck, already preparing herself to scan the upper floor for any possible weaknesses, any possible help for an escape. Her foot had barely touched the first step when a deep voice behind her stopped her cold.

“Not today. You’re on kitchen duty.“

It took her a second to register the words, to let them sink in. She turned slowly and followed the man, hesitant and uncertain. Whatever she could have hoped to find on the deck, all of it had been crushed in an instant. Just like that, a single command had undone her entire fragile plan. The power these men hold over each one of them was total, and the worst part was knowing they didn’t even need force to exert it. All it took was a word.

And she obeyed nonetheless.

When Hermione arrived in the kitchen, an older woman was already there. A few other individuals were scattered across the narrow room, all preoccupied with different tasks. The woman was clearly the one in charge, someone who had been working since the beginning of the voyage. With meticulous care, she explained to Hermione exactly what she had to do, where everything was kept and how she was to behave in view of the fact that they had to do everything by hand, without magic. What was permitted and what was absolutely not.

For a split moment, there was something about the woman that reminded her of Professor Sprout, the kindly Herbology teacher with dirt under her fingernails and warmth in her voice.

There was no clock in the room, no windows at eye level either, and so Hermione worked in silence, side by side with the woman and under the watchful eye of the guard who stood in the doorway, arms crossed, never once looking away from them.

She peeled the potatoes with mechanical precision, diced onions into even cubes, and tried to lose herself in the flow of work, as though, by some miracle, the repetition would summon a sudden flash of inspiration, a divine spark that would gift her the perfect escape plan.

But no such revelation came her way.

Not while icing the carrots, not while rinsing and chopping the tomatoes. Her mind remained blank.

After the last vegetable in sight had been reduced to tiny pieces, the older woman handed her a bowl. Looking inside, Hermione could make out the beginning of a dough. She was instructed to knead it thoroughly until it reached the perfect consistency and was readied to be baked for a perfect loaf of bread.

She smiled faintly. At least now all the hours spent in her own kitchen, watching her mother carefully bake their home-made bread, paid off. The steady, repetitive kneading soothed her nerves, but it did little to unclog the dam in her thoughts.

A flicker of motion in the corner of her eye made her look up. The guard at the door was speaking to a second man. A shift change. She had observed this before. The guards rotated every few hours, relieving each other without delay.

She couldn’t stop herself from letting out a snort. The guards were granted proper rotations, a few hours free from duty, while they as prisoners were expected to endure their tasks without even a moment’s respite. She wasn’t even allowed to go to the bathroom for a few minutes.

The man stepped in, his greasy hair tucked beneath a dark hat and a disgusting smirk that made her skin crawl the moment she saw him.

The older woman beside her visibly tensed. Her shoulders stiffened, the knife in her hand froze mid-air above a half-slice onion before cutting through it completely. She didn’t look up, but Hermione saw the subtle way her body shrank inward, as though trying to disappear.

On Moody‘s second visit on the island, he had told her all about their current situation with Dumbledore‘s absence. He spoke of the plans for the near future. Their base remained at Grimmauld Place, but they changed the safehouses more frequently than they changed their underwear. Constantly on the move, never standing still, Moody had advised her that much. Like ghosts, they vanished into the crowds around them and only emerged from their cover to engage in skirmishes with Death Eaters. Mad-Eye told her about everything from small street fights to large-scale operations where they rescued captured Muggleborns or political dissidents from the clutches of Voldemort‘s followers.

He described the fatal injuries they had to deal with after they apparated back to a safehouse. From broken limbs and split lips to injuries caused by dark magic that were almost impossible to cure.

One of the Order members, Dedalus Diggle, was struck by an unknown dark curse that cut his body open, causing severe lacerations and bleeding across his entire flesh. Everytime they tried to heal him with magic, his wounds ended up opening again and he’d shed more and more blood with each attempt to cure him. It was as though a powerful knife cut him from a distance. He died shortly after his third treatment from the blood loss, while everyone stood around him, helpless, not knowing how to save their dear friend and companion.

It was always fighting, always being on the defensive. there was never an attempt to push the frontline towards Voldemort, they always simply defended their border. At the time, Hermione didn’t understand why they operated that way. But in recent weeks, it had become clear to her: they did it because they truly had no idea what else to do. Without Dumbledore, they had no strategy. They fought to keep themselves from losing their minds. Because fighting maintained the illusion that they were doing something useful, contributing to the greater good. To a greater purpose.

They were buying time to come up with a real plan. Hermione couldn’t imagine how they were able to manage that on their own. But she understood. She somehow found herself in a similar situation. No plan, no strategy, solely sheer willpower.

A few minutes they continued to work in silence, until the man started to move towards them. Hermione inevitably stepped back, trying to shrink herself from the view of him, but it turned out he wasn’t after her anyway.

Instead, Hermione saw from the corner of her eye how the guards stepped closer and closer toward the older woman, while Hermione pretended to focus on the dough.

None of them said anything, but she heard the distinct rustling of clothes, a heavy inhale and could make out the silhouettes of the two way too close together.

Hermione‘s breathing stilled.

After a few more seconds, Hermione heard the woman finally speak, quietly, “Not here.”

A short pause.

Then the sound of retreating footsteps, and the soft, forced shuffle of the woman following. The door creaked shut behind them.

Hermione froze. She looked side to side at the other people in the room, but neither of them seemed to give attention to what had just occurred. Unbothered, they continued with what they were doing.

She could feel the nausea coming up again, this time more severe than before. Her head started spinning and she had to put her hands on the counter to steady herself. Why was no one reacting? Not even a blink, not a look, not a shaky exhale. Just nothing. As if this hadn’t just happened. 

Where was the civil courage? To step up for another when endangered. Shouldn’t they as the people who shared the same fate, the same heritage and the same discrimination be there for each other? Work together in hopes of defeating those who defied them? 

But then, Hermione hadn’t stepped up for her either.  

She looked down at her hands, grasping the counter edges for support, her knuckles had already turned white from the force of her grip. Her fingers curled in an unnatural way. The knife of the woman disregarded to the side next to her. She could still make out the fingerprints of the woman on the handle, the tiny indentations sitting so close together, Hermione believed she could have connected them with a marker, like little dots of stars forming a constellation. For a fleeting moment, she wondered if her memory of astronomy was still sharp enough to match them to one of the constellations they’d studied back in Hogwarts. It had been months since she‘d last touched a schoolbook, since she last turned a page for the sake of her old, uncurbed curiosity, not survival.

Hermione didn’t think. Her hands moved on their own, wiping them quickly on her shirt before snatching the knife from the counter and slipping it under the hem of her clothes, pressing the cool metal against her ribs. She could feel her heart thudding against it. It was stupid, risky, but it was something. Anything.

She would do anything if those filthy bastards decided to put their hands on her. She wouldn’t stay quiet, even if she‘d be the only one making a sound.

She returned to kneading, mechanically, eyes unfocused, trying to silence the image of the guard’s face, the woman’s empty eyes. When the door creaked again and the woman reentered, she didn’t look at Hermione. Her posture was slouched, her hands shaking ever so slightly as she picked up where she’d left off, grabbing an untouched knife from the knife block on the bar.

They didn’t speak for the rest of the day.

~~~

When Hermione stole a glance behind her over the starboard side of the ship, she could already make out the faint outline of the English coastline in the distance. It could only be a matter of hours before those shapes would resolve into buildings, and the shifting lines would become people. And only a matter of time before everything would be decided for her.

Impatiently, she pushed the sponge once more across the floor, her gaze drifting across the gathered people, her eyes lingering a few seconds longer on the familiar faces than on the others.

The guards slithered among the prisoners like serpents circling their next prey, watching, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Hermione felt every glance, every abrupt turn of a head in her direction. The cold press of the blade hidden against her skin grounded her. It was an echo of hope wrapped in her fantasies of escape, a quiet reassurance that she had something, should she need it.

She had tried to prepare herself mentally. Tried to arrange her thoughts, her emotions, packing away anything she labeled as ‘irrational‘.

She had never been particularly gifted in Occlumency. Likely because Hogwarts hadn’t yet taught the subject to them, and in the years prior, Hermione had rather focused on other branches of magic. She had never expected to find herself in a situation where Occlumency might be the very thing to save her life. She had anyways assumed there would be more time to devour the right books, to seek guidance from a professor or a gifted witch or wizard.

But she knew the basics. Fundamentally, Occlumency taught that the mind must become a fortress without cracks, an unbreakable framework that protected the most valuable thoughts from unauthorized intrusion. It wasn’t about forgetting emotions, but about controlling the access to them. Closing the secret doors of your mind for everyone else. Locking hidden information behind walls of calm, deliberate thought.

Discipline was the essence of the practice. Beginning with silence whiting oneself. Strength didn’t matter, stillness did.

She had tried, night after night. Once everything around her had fallen quiet and only the sounds of waves remained as her sole companion, and the faint shimmer of the moonlight cast the illusion of a world beyond the confines of her narrow cell, she had tried to empty her mind.

She tried to sort fragments of thoughts into the proper order, to lock away knowledge that must never fail into the wrong hands. Success came to her only with great difficulty. She knew her mind was fragile. She was well aware she lacked practice in this ancient art needed to truly shield her thoughts and emotions. And unfortunately, a situation like hers wasn’t exactly the ideal place to experiment with such a complex discipline.

Still, she felt confident enough to believe that weaker legilimens wouldn’t easily penetrate her defenses. And so far, during her time on the ship, it seemed most of Voldemort‘s unimportant workers fell into this category.

The truly skilled and powerful wizards were the ones who stood by his side. They were the Death Eaters, they bore the Dark Mark and wielded talent in the Dark Arts.

But the petty gars, the handlers Hermione was surrounded by, were little more than paws. Mediocre spellcasters on their best days.

Hermione glanced up again when she was sure no one was watching. The shapes that were still blurry mere minutes ago, had begun to take form. She could already make out the docking place for the ships.

She wondered, for a moment, if the muggles who worked at the harbor had any idea what was happening around them. If muggles even still worked there. Perhaps Voldemort had already taken control of so many ports that very person she saw was one of his devoted followers.

That would, of course, make her escape far more difficult than expected. As long as nothing and no one caused a disturbance, her chances of slipping away unnoticed were close to zero. What she needed was a moment of inattentiveness from the guards. A single precious moment to slip away.

Magic would be no use. She had long given up on that hope. The chains were designed specifically against any magical forces against it. But there was one fatal flaw most purebloods and many halfbloods shared: they already underestimated muggles and their tools.

If the harbor had once been a muggle facility, maybe some of their equipment had remained. Perhaps she’d find something useful. An axe, a blade, a wedge. Something the chains weren’t designed to resist. 

And once her shackles were off, she‘d have a real chance. She didn’t let herself think of what came afterward. freedom from the chains was the only thing that mattered at the moment.

“Get up.“

Hermione was in the middle of scrubbing the deck again when two strong hands grabbed her from behind and yanked her up.

“Didn’t you listen? I said, get up!“

The sponge slipped from her hand and with the floor with a wet sound. Standing in front of her was one of the guards, glaring down at her with unrestrained fury.

“You think you’re real brave, huh?”, he sneered, baring his yellowed teeth in a grin. Even from several feet away, Hermione could smell his breath stinking of rotten fish.

“Answer me.”

The slap came fast and unexpectedly. Pain bloomed across the left side of her face, but it was nothing compared to the wave of humiliation that surged through her.
She remembered Elizabeth’s words from her first day on the ship

“Even when you want nothing more than to spit at their feet.”

And truth be told, that’s exactly what Hermione might have done if the second slap hadn’t come immediately after, landing on the exact same spot. The pain deepened, radiating outwards like fire under her skin. She felt her blood flowing into the side of her cheek, and along with it, a fiercing wave of rage.

She knew this wasn’t the right time to rebel, to retaliate. This wasn’t the place to be bold. Too much was at stake for her. But she couldn’t just stand there, either.

Summoning every last ounce of dignity she had left, the Gryffyndor in her rose to the surface. She straightened her back as tall and proud as she could, lifted her chin, closed her eyes, and braced herself for the next slap that would inevitably follow.

But it never came.

Where she had anticipated the sting of yet another hand, she instead felt the cool sea breeze brushing against her inflamed cheek. Like ice water on a burn.

Cautiously, she opened her eyes. Expecting to find his cruel stare still fixed on her. But the man was no longer standing there. Instead, she now had an unobstructed view of the deck. the guard had already turned away and moved on to insult the next prisoner.

Hermione stood frozen, rooted to the spot in pure bewilderment.he guard didn’t even glance at her again, as if he’d already forgotten he’d just struck her. As if she were so insignificant that she wasn’t even with a third slap, let alone another second of his attention.

She didn’t know what was more humiliating: being beaten in front of everyone or being so utterly meaningless that she wasn’t even worth beating.

Never in her life had she felt invisible or irrelevant. She had always been someone. Whether admired or despised, she had been seen. She had stood in the center of attention, praised for her intellect, her devotion, or hated for her defiance and her blood. But she had never blended into the crowd. Until now.

She was no longer Hermione Granger, brightest witch her age, best friend of the Chosen One. She was just one of many. Nameless. Forgettable. Like a singular grain of sand on the beach.

“Well? What are you waiting for?“, the guard turned slightly back with a smirk, “Go get fresh water“, and then, without another word, he turned away from her for good.

As if guided by something outside herself, Hermione‘s legs began to move. One step after another, circling around the ship. The water was near the kitchen, she had learned so much from the day of her kitchen duty. Her trembling hands gripped the metal handle of the bucket as she moved on autopilot. When the door, leading to the lowered deck, shut behind her, she let out a breath she hadn’t even realized she was holding.

Suddenly, she felt so helpless. So adrift in a sea of faces. She would be forgotten. She would die because of one of her reckless plans and become nothing more than a nameless victim. No one would bury her. No one would identify her. No one would mourn her because no one would know she was gone.

Harry and Ron would still cling to the hope of her suddenly appearing right in front of them. The Order would find a way to go on without her. And her parents didn’t even remember having a daughter.

She wanted to be Hermione again. She yearned for someone to call her by her real name. Not Miss Granger, or Little Granger, or some nameless prisoner. Just Hermione. Longed for it like fire yearns for oxygen. To have it shouted through the Hogwarts corridor again, to have it spoken directly to her face, to have whispered into her hair.

She wiped away a single tear with the back of her dirty hand, smudging a trail of grime across her cheek.

What had she expected? Did she really believe she could defy an entire army? Out there were hundreds, thousands of Death eaters waiting. She would never leave that harbor free and alive. other in chains or in a body bag.

Her unsteady legs carried her forward, in search of the water source. Clean water. Just enough to wash her face before they reached land. At least she would have that - cleanliness. Could finally feel like a human again, even if just for a moment.

Hermione had always loved taking baths. Even as a small child, she‘d always preferred them over showers, whenever there was time, that is.

In her fifth year in Hogwarts, when she‘d been made a prefect, she would spend her rare free evenings, on nights when she had nothing planned for D.A. Or S.P.E.W, alone in the prefects‘ bathroom. She would sample every soap, very bath bomb, lose herself in the clouds of bubbles and fragrant foams.

She longed for those days back. When she was still at Hogwarts, safe and together with her friends, when Dumbledore still walked the halls, and her parents still wrote to her every day.

With one swift movement, she upended the bucket, letting the murky water cascade through a hole in the wall and splash into the sea below. The sharp sound it made as it hit the ocean‘s surface stirred her memories even deeper. She thought of the perfumed bath oils back at Hogwarts, how they used to spill into the water with that same splattering sound.

Once the bucket was fully emptied, she set it beneath the tap next to the wall’s opening and let the relatively clean water pour in.

It smelled of sea and salt, nothing like her beloved rose-scented bath salts, which had always been in abundance in the prefects' bathroom. Still, she used it to wash her face, letting the coldness embrace her like an old friend offering comfort.

She felt a gentle shiver run down the side of her face where the guard had slapped her. A red, angry mark would remain there for hours. But in this moment, the seawater felt more than soothing. It felt like care.

She filled the bucket higher than before, which made it noticeably heavier. Her arms burned under the added weight, and she was once again reminded of how little physical strength she had. During her time in exile, she’d barely moved. She hadn’t worked her body, hadn’t trained. Why would she? She had expected to stay there for various months without being needed in a fight. Most days, even her morning walks had been an act of sheer willpower.

Now, she regretted not having built up even the smallest bit of muscle. Something to help her get through the long days of hard labor.

Her path led her back up the stairs to the deck, where salty wind met the wet skin of face, tossing her damp hair into her eyes. She was just about to head back to her station when something in her sight caught her attention. A quick, frantic movement.

At first glance, the commotion on the marker side of the deck looked like a tangled ball of yarn. Several people blurred into one, merging until it was impossible to tel where one body Ende and another began. But when Hermione brushed her hair out of her eyes and focused, she saw him.

The little boy who had told her about The Warehouse just a few days earlier. Three overseers loomed over him. One of them had muddy water stains on his trousers and boots, and Hermione quickly saw the cause.

Not even one feet away lay a tipped-over bucket. The boy was crouched over it, trembling, as another guard shouted something taunting at him. Words Hermione couldn’t quite make out.

Her blood roared in her ears. Her heartbeat quickened. Before she could take another breath, one of the guards raised his wand with a cruel flourish and aimed it directly at the boy.

“Crucio.”

The child collapsed to the ground, writhing violently.
A scream tore through his throat, so raw, so piercing it seemed to reverberate through the entire deck. The sound echoed in Hermione’s ears, cut through her bones, and shattered the spell of paralysis that had held her in place.

They were torturing a little boy… for spilling water.

Hermione felt sick at the injustice unfolding before her eyes. And the worst part was: the guards would get away with it.
In their twisted ideology, they weren’t breaking any laws.
They believed it was their right to humiliate, degrade, and harm the people they had captured, like they were no more than livestock to control.

Hermione no longer thought. She only felt.

She let the heavy bucket fall from her hands with a dull thud and rushed toward the scene, fumbling beneath her clothes for the sliver of metal she had hidden there.

She forced away every voice in her head. The ones that pleaded with her not to act, to think first, to be rational. She was so tired of staying silent. She had to do something. Before she knew how she‘d crossed the distance, she was already there.

The guards hadn’t noticed her approach, too engrossed in their cruelty. Only when she drove the blade deep into the shoulder of the one who had cast the curse did he let out a guttural cry and stumbled backward, away from the boy, turning toward his attacker in fury and disbelief.

The other two followed his gaze. For a heartbeat, Hermione and the man stared at each other in stunned silence.
Neither of them moved. Both were too shocked by what had just occurred to react.

Then suddenly, Hermione was consumed by a pain so indescribable it felt as though the world itself was tearing her apart. It yanked at her limbs, crushed the air from her lungs, and brought her crashing to the ground. She felt as if she was being burned alive from the inside of, stabbed over and over again with a blade too sharp to be real, and being drowned in a hundred litres of water. All at once.

“How dare you, you filthy blood traitor! Crucio!”

The curse ripped through her again, this time twice as strong.
With the last bit of strength she had, Hermione forced her eyes open for the briefest moment, just long enough to see two of the guards standing before her, both with their wands raised, both casting the Unforgivable Curse on her simultaneously.
If she’d thought enduring it from one person was unbearable, she didn’t have words for what it felt like to suffer it from two.

She felt like she was dying. She felt like being unmade while still alive. Her body rotted while her soul was being forced to watch. Her spirit was torn from her flesh, left behind to witness her own destruction. Experiencing all of it, fully conscious.

She hadn’t realized she was screaming her lungs out. Hermione had never been hit with the Cruciatus Curse before. She had seen others under its grip, had known its reputation, had even read about its long-term effects.

But nothing could have prepared her for this. No wonder Neville‘s parents had gone mad being tortured like this hours on end.

And then suddenly, the pain stopped multiplying. The pressure lifted. The curse ended. The previously induced pain remained though - a dull, flaming echo ripping through her veins and muscles, every nerve still afire.

She gasped, twitching involuntarily on the ground, her body refusing to remember how to function without agony. One of the guards loomed above her, clutching his wounded shoulder, sneering down at her.

“Did you really think you'd get away with that? That you could stab one of us and walk out of here like some kind of hero?”, his voice dripped with mockery and disgust, “You’re going to pay for that.”

He raised his wand again, the others following suit.
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, bracing herself.
She tried to prepare for what she knew was coming, though no preparation could ever be enough.

All three curses hit her at once.

It was like being struck by lightning, set aflame, and drowned in acid simultaneously.  Worse than anything she had ever imagined. Her screams tore free from her throat, beyond her control.
It was as if her body had become a separate entity, howling for release.
She was no longer inside herself. Her consciousness floated somewhere above it all, trying to escape the prison of her own body.

Hermione’s mind slipped. It drifted toward safer ground.
She saw Harry and Ron, sitting in the Gryffindor common room late into the night, pretending to do homework while quietly nudging her for the answers.
She remembered how Harry would scribble the bare minimum, and how Ron would grin like a little schoolboy when she sighed and just handed them her notes.

She missed them so much.

She had missed them for so long now, she wasn’t sure anymore if her memories were real, or if her mind had started distorting them just to survive. She wondered if she missed them more than she actually remembered them.

But even those treasured images began to blur. They flickered and warped as the pain yanked her back into her body, only to push her into her memories again. Over and over. Each time, the pain returned stronger than before.

Eventually, her vision began to swim. Everything in front of her dimmed, her limbs grew numb, and the cold returned. At long last, she was drawn back into the infinite darkness that had become quite familiar to her.

Chapter Text

When Hermione regained consciousness for the second time, there was no calming presence at her side. No gentle hands holding her, no fingers brushing wet hair from her face, no soothing voice whispering reassurances.

Even though her head was still spinning, she knew immediately that she was alone. The only perceptible sound was that of her own shallow and uneven breathing, coming and going in irregular intervals. The cold air pierced through her bones with a cruel sharpness that had become as familiar as her endless spiral of thoughts to her. But the ground beneath her was dry. No water.

She had no idea for how many days she’d been unconscious, but the absence of the ship’s rocking and the steady, unmoving floor beneath her gave away that they were on solid ground now. Back in England.

Where once her mind was located, there now existed only fog, thick and numbing, which had a dampening effect on every emotion, muffling every sense. Sounds, sensations, even thoughts drifted in slowly, as if wrapped in cotton. She perceived them, yes, but faintly, and always a second too late.

Far in the distance, she caught the low murmur of voices. At first they were just whispers, as indistinguishable as wind rustling through trees, but gradually they grew louder, heavier, closer. 

“She goes to The Warehouse like the rest of the lot.“

The voice was deep, could have been a whisper or a shout. To Hermione, it all sounded the same, as if her head was underwater.

The murmuring continued. Voices layered over one another, growing louder, then fading, then overlapping again. Several speaking at once. None of them speaking at all. Then, only one voice remained. But Hermione wasn’t able to make out the full meaning of the words. Just fragments stuck in her mind, like fog-drenched echoes of the conversation.

Some unintelligible mumbling. Then, a word.

“Malfoy Manor.“

Something inside her sparked at the name, a flare of recognition that tried to warn her of something, but her thoughts were too heavy for her to grasp it clearly.

The conversation carried on, unintelligible again, except for one phrase that cut through like a blade.

“No, Master Malfoy specifically asked for her.“

Her head throbbed. Her ruminations spun wildly, but she couldn’t hold onto any of them.

“Just think about it,“ the voice insisted, calm but urgent. There was a quiet intensity in it, conviction present. The other man responded somehow coldly and dismissively.

“No. We bring her to The Warehouse like the rest. She’s a real troublemaker. Let’s just get our reward and be done with this whore.“

“But-“

“If Richard finds out we’re deviating from the plan, he’ll have you locked up in one of those chambers himself.“

Hermione’s head pounded, her limbs felt leaden. She was certain she was about to pass out again.

“But Malfoy offers more than triple what she’s worth at The Warehouse. We could take the money ourselves. No one’s going to miss another blood traitor. The journey to The Warehouse takes three days. If we turn off halfway to the Manor, we lose what? One day at most? No one will notice.“

The two voices kept talking, their discussion carrying on in low, tense tones. But Hermione’s head hurt too much to make out any more of what they were saying. The pain even drowned out her will to understand.

There was something, something about that Manor. About the name Malfoy.

But her mind refused to cooperate. It simply wouldn’t process what she had just heard. It was as if her brain knew exactly what it meant, but was choosing to shut it out.

Malfoy, Malfoy, Malfoy.

There was someone named Malfoy. Someone she knew. Or was it more than one person?

Faces flashed before her eyes. Her classmates. Harry and Ron. Just the thought of them made her chest tighten painfully.

Others came next: Seamus. Dean. Neville.

Parvati and Lavender, her roommates.

Then came the rest of the school, the other houses.

Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw… Slytherin.

A flicker of green and silver crossed her mind. The uniform bearing the badge of a serpent.

Blond hair.

An the face to match-

Draco Malfoy.

She jolted upright. Instantly, she regretted it. Sharp, electric pain shot from her foot up through her body, burying itself behind her eyes before pulsing back through her limbs in rhythmic waves. It was more blazing than the pain she had woken up with beside Elizabeth. As if the agony from her first collapse had never truly left her body. It still lodged in her skull.

Slowly, she lowered her head back down onto the stone floor, letting her breathing deepen, drawing oxygen into her aching body. She remained there for several minutes before daring to move again, to open her eyes.

Draco Malfoy. 

The sole heir to one of the most powerful Death Eater families.

Nephew of Bellatrix Lestrange.

The Malfoys wanted her.

Meaning, Lucius asked for her as the head of the family, as the ‘Master Malfoy‘ they’d mentioned. Who wanted her for reasons she had already feared during the long, cold nights aboard the ship.

She let her gaze wander into the dark, hoping to discover anything that might give her a clue about the situation she brought herself in.

Unlike the cell on the ship, his place was utterly consumed by darkness. No crack of light seeped through the walls. No window. No gap beneath a door. Just this unbroken blackness that cloaked everything like the inside of a black hole.

Her fingers explored the floor. She felt cold stone brushing her fingertips. Her nose picked up the unmistakable smell of mold and decay, eerily similar to the dungeons at Hogwarts.

She tried to measure the size of her prison. Stretching her arms in every direction, she found nothing but empty air. Carefully, she turned onto her hands and knees, crawling a few tentative steps forward.

At last, her hands met a wall. It felt the same as the floor, rough and desiccated under her touch. She tried to estimate the space, how much room she had, but her eyes had yet to adjust to the dark, and the pulsation in her skull made further movements unbearable.

It felt as though she was trapped inside a massive stone block. Every angle identical, every surface cold and unyielding. But despite the oppressive darkness, Hermione was certain of one thing: she had been moved. Somewhere in England, where she was still surrounded by her captors. the same ones who had held her on the ship. They had stashed her away, waiting, no doubt, for the right time to pass her on to the next buyer. She was still cargo. A thing to be traded.

The minor efforts of sitting up had taken its toll. Her body, starved of strength, ached from within. Yet again, her head grew heavier. Her limbs seemed to weigh more than her stubborn mind could carry. Though her mind fought to stay alert, to keep thinking, planning, her body refused.

She let herself sink back down onto the stone floor, surrendering to the pull of exhaustion and the fragile hope that sleep might bring her the briefest escape.

~~~

The cell was roughly 81 square feet in size - nine by nine. Just enough space to stand upright and pace a few unsteady circles. And though her legs trembled beneath her, Hermione was determined to inspect  every inch of her prison cell, searching for cracks, for weaknesses, anything to keep herself from slipping into madness.

The voices of the guards still echoed in her mind, over and over again. The name Malfoy clung to her thoughts with a bitter aftertaste.

She truly didn’t know much about the family, but what she did know was enough to make her stomach turn.

Lucius - the patriarch. Known for his political manipulations within the Ministry, his role as a Death Eater, his obscene wealth, and his open disdain for muggleborns and the so-called blood traitors. She remembered his face, how he stood before them during the fight in the Ministry, raising his wand against her and her friends.

Narcissa - the matriarch. She didn’t work, at least not publicly. Was more of a housewife and mother, yet an important member of the old-blood elite. A Black by birth. A Malfoy by marriage.

And finally, Draco. Arrogant. Sneering. Entitled. He used to walk through the corridors of Hogwarts as if his father had already bought the place.

Hermione had never seen the Malfoy Manor before, but she was certain now it would be the last place she’d ever see. She could already picture it: her being sold off for a handful of gold coins, led like livestock into a grand dining hall, forced to face a table lined with Voldemort’s most loyal followers.

Voldemort himself would sit at the far end, his pale, lipless mouth twisted into something resembling a grin, his snake coiled beside him, staring at her as though she was the evening feast.

She saw herself humiliated, mocked, paraded before them like a trophy, then used for whatever purpose they saw fit. The Malfoys would be rewarded. They would climb higher in the ranks of the Death Eaters, basking in power bought with her suffering.

The images drove her demented.

In the past, she had already made the mistake of thinking she could fight back, that she might be the exception, the one who could escape, who could resist.

But the anguished truth pressed down on her: she was not the exception. She was just one among many. And she would likely end as the others had.

Her body was now doubly weakened, her mind fractured and bruised. With each passing second, her chances of survival slipped further away. She forced herself to examine the cell again, desperate for anything that might offer hope. But the stone was flawless. The walls were solid, tightly layered with no gaps, no cracks, no weaknesses.

Now that the Snatchers had realized she was someone of value, she could only imagine how closely she was being watched, how thoroughly she would be guarded on the way to the Manor.

And slowly, against every stubborn instinct in her, Hermione Granger had to accept a truth she had fought to ignore:

She wasn’t getting out of there.

The chains around her wrists were still there. Her wand was still gone. And so, whether she liked it or not, Hermione would have to surrender to her fate, because in the end, no matter how fiercely one resists it, fate always wins.

Still, she intended to pass the time by resurrecting her body. Short stretches or standing, a few wobbly laps around the cell, just simple movements that didn’t strain her pounding head too much. Anything to feel something. Anything was better than sitting there, counting down the minutes like a prisoner awaiting her execution.

She had no idea whether hours or days were slipping by. The absence of sunlight and moonlight disoriented her more than she cared to admit. But eventually, she thought she heard heavy footsteps outside the stone block, followed by a high-pitched squeal: the unmistakable sound of iron hinges turning.

Her suspicion was confirmed seconds later when, for the first time, light pierced the edge of the cell. A door opened.

The brightness stabbed at her eyes, and yet she welcomed it. She hadn’t realized until that moment how desperately she missed the light.

Through the glare, she made out two figures silhouetted in the doorway, standing still, waiting. Waiting for her to move, to speak, to give any sign of life.

She responded by lifting one trembling hand, shielding her face from the sun’s harsh sting. After that, everything happened too quickly for her to process. The two figures stepped forward, grabbed her by the arms, yanked her upright, and dragged her out into the light.

They didn’t speak a word. None of them barked any orders at her. No threats, no warnings to keep quiet and behave. They were convinced that whatever fire had once burned inside her had been long extinguished by her time at sea and in darkness, that they had beaten out the rebellious nature in her.

But it hadn’t. Not truly. And it never would. That was what it meant to be a Gryffindor.

She simply had enough sense to know that any act of defiance would only make things worse. Her body couldn’t handle another blackout, not this time. She wasn’t sure she’d survive it.

She yielded to their grasp, let herself be dragged and pulled along, even as every hair on the back of her neck bristled, and every cell in her body screamed for freedom.

Hermione quickly realized that the cells were all crammed together in some kind of basement, likely hidden beneath the harbor. There were no windows there, just that moldy stench one might expect in an old cellar. One by one, the prisoners were dragged up a narrow staircase and herded outside.

It was night. The moon hung high up in the sky, casting a silver glow over the scenery. For the first time in what felt like days, Hermione breathed in fresh air, but she knew it wouldn’t be for long.

Even from a distance, and despite the fog in her mind, she could make out a row of carriages lined up along the roadside. They loomed in the dark like vultures.

The carriages were grand, old-fashioned, with thick black wood polished to an unnatural gleam. Their large spoked wheels looked like they hadn’t touched honest earth in years. And harnessed in front of them, there they were. The creatures.

Thestrals.

So Luna had been right all along. The mysterious carriages at Hogwarts had always been pulled by thestrals. Visible only to those who had witnessed death. Hermione hadn’t been able to see them before. Not until now. Not until she had watched Dumbledore die.

The memory cut through her like a blade, thinking about the old, wise man that had once been their headmaster. Who had guided them for five long years. Who had sacrificed himself for Harry. Who had faced Voldemort without flinching. The only man who could have truly led this war. He was gone now. His body torn from his soul in an instant by the Killing Curse, leaving nothing behind but a hollow space where greatness once stood.

Just one more soul lost to Voldemort.

Just as she would be soon.

As the Snatchers shoved her roughly into the cramped rear of a carriage - barely larger than her prison cell - Hermione found herself wondering not what death would feel like, but what came after. Not for her soul, but for those left behind. Would she be allowed to watch over them? To linger quietly beside the people she loved as they continued the war they were supposed to lead together?

She would try everything. Send them signs, visit them in their dreams. She would visit Harry when his nightmares returned. Be there for him in the silence, the way no one ever had during his years with the Dursleys. She would stay near Ron, too, her brother by heart, her companion in courage. She knew he also needed someone. He just never knew how to ask.

She would visit her parents in America and see the new house they lived in. She would walk through their garden and hoped they subconsciously planted the flowers she loved so dearly. She’d check if they opened another dental clinic, and imagine them giving people new smiles, as if healing the word one tooth at a time.

If she died, she would make it all right again. All the things she had left undone in life. No matter how painful dying would be, the life after death... she would use it to make something better.

~~~

What was that one saying again? A prison doesn’t need bars, only enough fear to keep the doors closed.

Well, in her case, the prison didn’t even need fear. Just stone. And darkness thick enough to cling to her like a second skin.

Darkness again. Isolation. And that revoltingly cold stone beneath her that drained the warmth from her body, no matter if the world outside would have been set on fire. It was the kind of cold that crept under her skin and settled in her bones. She had started to believe that stone was her ultimate enemy, her most hated material, no matter how or where it was used. She never wanted to feel its touch again. Not on her skin, not under her hands, not against her back. Never again.

Now, she was cramped so tightly that she couldn’t even stretch her legs. Unlike before, there was no room to stand or walk in circles to ease the aching tension in her limbs. All she could do was sit. Sit and think.

Even sleep, once her last companion in these endless stretches of solitude, had abandoned her. It was just her and her constantly-working mind. Again.

But she refused to let herself spiral. Instead of dwelling on her fears, Hermione turned to her Hogwarts studies. The only lifeline she had left. She recited spells, especially the old ones, the obscure ones, and ran through complex Arithmancy problems that had once taken her hours to crack. She worked through spatial logic puzzles, project planning strategies, and mental exercises in creativity. Anything to keep her mind busy. Anything to stay herself.

She recalled textbook passages as if the pages were floating right in front of her. She imagined the Herbology chapter on knotgrass, a plant used to accelerate the healing of wounds. She remembered the magical creatures Hagrid had introduced them to, could almost feel the soft, silken tail of the unicorn she’d once stroked in the Forbidden Forest.

The only time she was allowed out of the cell was when the Snatchers pulled over by the roadside and let the prisoners relieve themselves. Always under watch, of course, which was humiliating enough. Still, those moments were rare. Often, by the time they finally stopped, Hermione needed it so badly that her mind blocked out the shame entirely.

It seemed they were traveling exclusively through forested land. No other humans were in sight. The roads were barely roads at all. Just worn paths through trees, probably chosen to avoid any unwanted attention. The Snatchers, at the very least, had the sense to cast Disillusionment Charms on the carriages.

Food appeared magically in the corner of her cell, but otherwise, no one spoke to her. Not a single word. Not even to each other. It was impossible to know if the other prisoners were being transported the same way, one per carriage, or if she was isolated for a specific reason. Perhaps because she was destined for a different route. There weren’t enough carriages to hold everyone, not if they were kept separate. Perhaps the others hadn’t made it. Perhaps they were already dead. Or used in some other way.

Who was to know?

She hadn’t been conscious during the docking of the ship.

It felt like years had passed, though it could have been only hours. At the next stop, she noticed it for the first time. There were no other carriages ahead or behind hers.

She was now in the custody of only two Snatchers, and the road had grown increasingly rough beneath the wheels. The rhythmic clatter of hooves had lessened. They had to be nearing their destination.

Malfoy Manor.

She could feel it in the way the air shifted. The silence grew heavier. The road dipped and twisted unnaturally, pulling them further and further away from the main path. The forest thickened around them, and Hermione sat in the tiny, cramped space, every sense alert, every muscle tense.

Soon, she would come face to face with the person who had haunted her and her friends since the beginning of their time at Hogwarts. The one responsible for thousands of deaths. The name no one dared to speak.

Voldemort.

The last question remaining was, why he hadn’t come for her himself?

Surely the risk of her getting lost, or dying, or fleeing on the way to the manor was too great. If he truly knew she had been on that ship, why hadn’t he just come to the harbor, apparated into that wretched cell, and struck her down where she lay?

Why wait?

~~~

Hermione was working through an Arithmancy formula from her fourth year at Hogwarts when the carriage came to an abrupt halt.

At first, she thought it was another break, but no, something was different. The timing was wrong. It was too soon.

Then the realisation struck her like a curse: They had arrived.

Malfoy Manor.

The unease, she had successfully pushed to the back of her mind, now threatened to rise again.

The carriage door flung open with a harsh metallic thud. Pale light sliced into the dark, and she found herself blinking up at the sneering face of one of her captors.

“Time to get out,” he said, grinning as if he could already feel the Galleons weighing down his pocket.

Only reluctantly, Hermione began to move. Crawling on hands and knees towards the exit, she finally managed to plant one foot on the steady ground. The door slammed shut behind her, but she barely noticed it. Her entire being was consumed by what rose before her:

The Manor towered above her like an ancient castle you would read about in fairytales.

The house was massive. As grand as a palace built of pale grey stone that shimmered silver when touched by light. Towers stretched into the sky like cold fingers. High windows lined the walls like silent, watchful eyes, that saw everything and revealed nothing in return. Every carved door frame, every iron detail, even the gravel beneath her shoes spoke of ancient legacy, power, and control.

It was the perfect home for Death Eaters.

The perfect meeting place for Voldemort.

Despite its luxury, she did not perceive the house as beautiful, but rather awe-inspiring. The silence felt too deliberate. The way the shadows fell from the trees seemed arranged. It was as if the house itself was alive, holding its breath, listening, waiting. And Hermione felt impossibly small under its gaze.

As she let her eyes wander up and down, a thought gnawed at her, looped around her neck like a cold hand.

This wasn’t a home. This was a prison.

Not just for her, but for anyone who stepped past the gates and became subject to the will of this place. To live under its mercy, live according to its authority. 

“Keep moving,“ a rough hand seized her upper arm, yanking her forward as the gate creaked open on its own. They had been expecting her.

Hermione stumbled, half-dragged across the gravel path as the Snatcher pushed her mercilessly toward the looming house. The rough stone tore at her legs whenever she failed to keep pace. 

There was a strong urge pulsating through her, which came and went as naturally as the magic buried in her blood, that wanted to compel her to yank herself out of his grip, turn around and run for as long as her legs would carry her. To never look back. Not once.

She didn’t dare. The house was watching her. She felt it. It scanned her like a predator studying its prey, seeking out the soft spots.

To either side, the Manor’s gardens stretched out like enchanted forests: dark, tangled, overgrown. They whispered to her like sirens, beckoning her into their shadows, tempting her to vanish within their depths.

The grand front door opened without a sound, and she was pulled inside to see the grand entry for herself.

A cold gust swept over her skin while examining the room. The floor beneath her feet was obsidian marble, laced with veins of silver-white that reflected in the chandelier’s light in uneven ripples. Above her, the ceiling arched impossibly high, aloft by ornate pillars carved with serpents. The walls were decorated with dozens of portraits, showcasing generations of Malfoy ancestors. Their painted eyes judged her from a distance. Seemed to measure how worthy she was to stand where she stood right now.

There was magic hanging in the air. Old, grand magic that twisted through every stone and lingered in every corner. But she didn’t feel welcomed. It was more like a warning.

This was no mere mansion. It was a fortress built on prejudice and power. A house where her kind had never been - and never would be - truly safe.

And yet…

No member of the family Malfoy awaited her. There was no Lucius standing there, leaning on his cane that was decorated with serpents. No Narcissa with that icy-cold expression she had always put on in public. And no Draco, looking down at her like something less than human.

No Death Eaters. No Dark Lord.

The room was empty, except for the three small figures standing silently beneath the glowing chandelier. 

House-elves.

When she looked straight ahead, she spotted an elf standing at the center of the group of three. She looked exactly as Hermione remembered the house-elves in the Hogwarts kitchen: a small, grey figure with bat-like ears and large, bulbous eyes, from which a blue iris gazed up at her.

To the left of her, the other elf crouched low, physically withdrawn into herself, her posture hunched and her gaze mostly fixed on the floor, making it impossible for Hermione to properly see her face.

The elf on the right, by contrast, was holding a large sack in both hands, nearly buckling beneath its weight. A fine scar ran directly over his right eye.

“What’s that? Where is Mr. Malfoy?“, demanded the Snatcher who still had Hermione gripped by the arm, his fingers threatening to cut off her circulation.

“Master Malfoy gave strict orders that we are to take the young lady into our care,” piped the elf in the center.

The second Snatcher furrowed his brow and exchanged a glance with his companion. Their expressions alone seemed to communicate the question of whether this explanation would suffice.

“Where is Malfoy? We want to speak to him.”

“That will not be necessary, sir,” the elf replied firmly, “The payment is with Dibsy.” 

She gestured to the elf on the right, who was still struggling beneath the weight of a large sack. It seemed heavy enough to crush him. How much had Lucius been willing to pay for her?

“And Master Malfoy has no further messages for you outside this transaction.”

“But-”, her captor began, tone rising in protest, but thought better of it. He gave a curt nod, clearly displeased, “And this stays between us, right? Not a word to our boss?”

“Not a single one, sir,” the house-elf responded obediently.

With a flick of her hand, she motioned for her companion to step forward, “Go on, Dibsy. Your work here is done.”

The elf, who’s name apparently was Dibsy, shuffled forward, hunched and silent, never lifting his gaze as he handed over the sack brimming with Galleons to the man beside Hermione.

The Snatcher immediately released her to seize his hard-earned reward. It was only then that Hermione realized just how much pressure he’d been putting on her arm all along.

Subtly, she rubbed the spot, letting the blood flow back down to her fingertips.

“Good,” said the second Snatcher after both men had taken a glance inside the sack, confirming that the promised sum of gold was indeed there, “Well then, send our regards to the master of the house and tell him we’re pleased to have done good business with him.”

The elf, clearly the spokesperson of the small trio, nodded briefly, “Master Malfoy will be informed.”

The two men exchanged a final glance, silently assuring one another that their task was truly complete and they were free to go. Then they turned on their heels and marched out the front doors. The heavy sound of the door locking behind them echoed through the hall like a final punctuation mark, which flowed through her and settled right in her bone marrow.

Hermione let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. It was over. At least, she hoped she’d never have to see those men - or anyone like them - again. Still, a new wave of unease settled over her. Who else might she encounter during her stay in this place?

After a few deep breaths, she finally mustered the courage to turn back to the elves. All three were watching her with a careful, appraising gaze, the kind house-elves always seemed to cast on witches and wizards. She may have been a prisoner, but they still looked at her as though she were the mistress of the manor. Her heart twisted at the familiar sight of their submissive posture. It reminded her painfully of all the times she had tried to help the house-elves at Hogwarts, how she’d fought for their rights, and how no one had ever taken her seriously.

“Miss?”, the elf on the left stepped forward, eyes lowered in deference, “Master Malfoy instructed Poppy and the others to tend to you upon your arrival.”

She looked up at Hermione with those large, round eyes, waiting, but Hermione gave no reply. She only stared at them silently, her mind still racing.

The leader of the group cleared her throat gently, “Miss, you must come with us now. We are to bathe you and provide you with something to eat before taking you to your sleeping quarters.”

Hermione stood there, frozen in disbelief. Bathe her? Feed her? Sleeping quarters?

Was this some kind of house-elf euphemism for a torture chamber?

Where were the Death Eaters, eager to bask in her pain? Where were the curses she should have already been dodging? The hatred, the malicious joy, the punishment?

This couldn’t be real. It had to be a dream. A hallucination brought on by exhaustion and fear. Surely, she had to be still in her cell, unconscious and fevered, dreaming of a better life, a better situation for her miserable self.

Why on earth would Lucius Malfoy instruct his house-elves to take care of her?

There was no behind those actions. No rational explanation. Only a thick, swirling fog of unanswered questions hanging over her head.

“Master Malfoy said that if you refuse to come with us willingly, we’re allowed to force you,” the elf stated firmly, and Hermione saw in her large, unwavering eyes that she meant it. Whatever the Malfoys had planned, she would have no choice but to cooperate.

The elf named Poppy took her hand without hesitation, her small fingers surprisingly warm, and pulled her forward with a gentleness that still carried an unspoken urgency. Hermione followed, without any resistance.

One last time, she let her gaze sweep through the entrance hall.

One last time, her eyes lingered on the marble columns, on the portraits of the ancient Malfoy bloodline, hanging silently with their judging eyes. Her vision rose, slowly, to the staircase above: dark ebony, carved with designs whose meanings were likely long-lost or steeped in pureblood tradition. Her gaze stopped at the ornate silver-trimmed bannister, then froze abruptly.

Someone was standing at the top of the stairs, leaning slightly over the railing.

Hermione stopped in her tracks, startled. Her breath hitched.

A flash of pale blond hair, the unmistakable sheen of expensive wizarding robes… but most telling of all were the storm-grey eyes set in that pale, aristocratic face, eyes that locked onto hers without flinching. Eyes she had seen a hundred times in the corridors of Hogwarts. Across a classroom desk. Sneering from the Slytherin table.

Draco Malfoy.

He stared down at her, expression unreadable, but something about the stillness, about the way his gaze pierced through her, made Hermione’s spine tighten. And for the briefest of moments, just as their eyes met, she imagined - no, she was almost certain - she saw a flicker of something cross his face. Not mockery. Not triumph.

Surprise.

Was he surprised to see her? Or surprised by how she looked now, tired, bruised, diminished?

She felt the tug of Poppy’s hand again, urging her forward, but she remained rooted to the spot. Was Lucius Malfoy having her watched? Had he sent his own son to oversee the transaction, to ensure everything went according to plan?

It took her several seconds to be able to move forward again. Draco's gaze felt like a needle threading through her skin, and it threaded deep. She felt exposed. Not just vulnerable, but humiliated. Being a prisoner to someone who once used to be a classmate.

The elves carried her away, out of the hall, down the corridor, and into another wing of the manor.

Only once Draco vanished from her line of sight did she dare to breathe again.

It was also during that walk she finally learned the elves’ names properly. The one who had spoken with the Snatchers was Minny. The male elf, who had struggled under the sack of Galleons, was Dibsy. And the timid little creature who had taken Hermione’s hand was Poppy.

All three were now fully dedicated to tending to her. They led her to a bathroom unlike anything she had ever seen.

It was painted in silver and green, softly glowing. A chandelier above sparkled like starlight, bathing the space in prancing candlelight. Marble pillars framed the room. The obsidian floor beneath her feet shimmered like oil, and the silver-green walls glowed faintly, the patterns within shifting gently, almost like wax melting under heat, forming streams and ripples that resembled the movement of a slow river.

It was breathtaking.

Even the furniture gleamed with luxury. If Hermione had ever thought the prefects' bathroom at Hogwarts was indulgent, she now realized she hadn’t even known what true luxury was.

The bath was carved from polished onyx, its clawed feet shaped like open-mouthed vipers in glinting silver. The water inside glinted with soft steam, perfectly warm. Exactly the way she liked it. Magically maintained at that temperature. The scent rising from the bath was subtle but spellbinding: mint, lavender, and something more mysterious, something unfamiliar, yet welcomed.

She undressed and stepped in, letting herself sink into the comforting warmth.

Hermione wasn’t used to bathing in the presence of others. Yet she barely flinched at the soft touch of the elves’ hands. They worked with quiet determination, washing her hair, scrubbing her skin, gently massaging her feet. They combed through her curls. Something no one had done in weeks. She watched the silvery clock on the wall tick forward; it took nearly an hour to detangle her hair.

No one spoke. The elves remained respectfully silent, and Hermione tried to do the same, tried to forget their presence and let herself melt into the water’s embrace.

For the first time in what felt like ages, she felt something close to comfort.

The warmth of the bath didn't bring with it the fear of open waters or crashing waves. It didn’t feel like drifting toward the unknown. It felt safe. Like a memory of something simpler.

After a while, a small tray appeared before her, resting elegantly across the width of the tub.

It was no ordinary meal. If anything, it resembled the kind of meal a prisoner would receive right before his execution.

A crystal goblet filled with elf-made wine, glinting like liquid jewels. A bowl of perfectly ripe fruit. Grapes, strawberries, things she hadn’t tasted in months. Thinly sliced smoked salmon arranged on a porcelain plate, garnished with herbs she didn’t recognize. Lavender-colored macarons floated on a hovering dish. More delicacies followed, far more than she could stomach.

After the bath, the elves even helped her dry off. The towels were deep green velvet, softer than anything Hermione had touched in a long time. She was enveloped in them, wrapped in a haze of quiet care.

But Hermione couldn’t let herself be fooled.

She knew something wasn’t right.

This was a performance. A setup. She was being lulled into a sense of safety, only so the fall would hurt more.

And the worst part was, she had no idea what was coming.

Here in the Manor, anything was possible. The Dark Lord. His Death Eaters. Even creatures that would devour her whole before sunrise.

Eventually, the three elves led her down a narrow flight of stairs, into the cellar. To her “sleeping quarters.”

Of course. A cell. Again.

With a few hesitant steps, Hermione crossed the threshold. 

The door shut behind her.

Locked.

And just like that, Hermione was alone. Again.

Chapter Text

The cell she found herself in wasn’t that much of a shithole she would have expected it to be. In fact, it reminded her more of the youth hostel she’d stayed in during a school trip back in third grade. Though pretty small, it was far from bleak. She had wallpapered walls instead of that awful bare stone, a real bed with real pillows, and even a blanket that was thicker than her thumb.

A small writing desk and a single wooden chair sat beneath the only window, and in the corner of the room stood a narrow bookshelf with - she had to admit - an impressive collection of book titles she either already loved or would likely enjoy reading.

The wooden floor creaked slightly beneath her feet, each sound oddly familiar. The bed, nestled against the wall, was dressed in warm, natural colors, green and faded cream. Colors that resembled a quiet walk through a forest on a warm autumn morning. Someone had chosen them with care.

The small window offered a view into the Manor’s garden. Leaves of nearby trees rustled gently against the glass, blurring the edges of her vision. She had tried to open the window the moment she entered the room, of course, but it was magically sealed. Only a narrow gap could be unclasped, just enough to allow a sliver of fresh air to enter. It wasn’t freedom, but the smell of the outside world was a nasty deceiver.

Her writing desk was simple but big enough to hold a candle, a glass, and a good book. There was no grandeur here, none of the pompous luxury she had seen in the upper floors. And that, she found, was a strange comfort. It felt like a real room. Lived-in, kind of. As if someone had designed it not to impress, but to soothe.

Well, compared to where she had spent the last few weeks, this place was nothing short of heaven. A small, personal sanctuary, if it wasn’t for the knowledge of where she was and who surrounded her.

Every creak overhead, every distant footstep echoing from the upper floors, sent a jolt through her chest. Her heart stuttered at each sound, convinced that any second now, Lucius, or worse, Voldemort, would appear in the doorway and shatter the illusion like glass.

She drifted toward the bookshelf, letting her fingertips brush over the spines. The books smelled new. Crips pages, uncreased covers. As if they had been purchased specifically for her. She couldn’t help but wonder, had the Malfoys selected them for her? Or had the house-elves simply arranged what they had lying around?

And through it all, a single thought gnawed at her: Why?

If she was a prisoner - and she was - why would they house her here, in a warm, golden room with a soft bed and enough books to drown in? Why not throw her in a real cell? Why offer her comfort when chains would have sufficed?

‘Because they still need you for their cunning little plans‘, whispered the voice in her mind. She didn’t want to listen to it. But it made too much sense.

Did they think she knew where Harry was? Then why hadn’t they already tried to tear the truth from her by force? Why hadn’t they hurt her, or paraded her corpse as a warning?

She didn't have answers. Only questions, and the steady hum of dread that something was coming.

~~~

Nevertheless, the room gave her a chance to sit back, just a little, and let her guard down. She tried to convince herself that it was okay to enjoy reading these books, even while her friends or the Order might be out there risking their lives. It’s not like she could do anything else in this room, anyway.

But it still felt wrong.

It felt wrong to enjoy something in this golden cage, even if there was nothing else to do. She was a prisoner of Death Eaters. She wasn’t supposed to be lying around in cozy beds, flipping through novels and breathing in the scent of the wooden furniture and fresh parchment. She was supposed to suffer. At least that’s what a part of her insisted.

Still, after a while, even the garden view lost its charm. The same scene, the same rustling leaves. She began to wonder if the window didn’t just keep her from opening it, but if what she saw through it was a trick, an enchanted window, maybe, to always show the same peaceful view. A safety illusion. She remembered how the windows in the Room of Requirement sometimes showcasted whatever image one desired to see, regardless of the trueness of those pictures. What if it had been spelled to keep her from seeing the arrival of her enemies?

With no one to ask and nothing else to distract her, she turned to the bookshelf.

She scanned the spines, noting a few familiar titles, popular romance novels, historical dramas, a handful of classic magical fiction. No muggle books, but she hadn’t expected to find those in a house of pureblood fanatics. A few sounded genuinely interesting. Eventually, curiosity won. She pulled one down, thumbed through its pages, and after only a moment’s hesitation, let herself sink onto the bed. Leaning back against the soft pillows, she started to read.

It felt good. Natural. Her hands had something to do, her fingers tracing the delicate edges of each page, and her mind began to quiet as it slipped into the story. God, how long had it been since she last touched a book?

All her life, books had always been her sanctuary. She loved the weight of parchment in her hands, the faint scent of dust and ink, the artistry of a beautiful cover that promised something meaningful inside. But above all, she loved the act of reading itself. Whether it was a fictional world that pulled her away from reality or a dense textbook that fed her insatiable hunger for knowledge, it didn’t matter. She needed it. Like air.

Nobody had ever truly understood that part of her.

She remembered how her parents had looked at her, stunned, when she announced, right before boarding on the Hogwarts Express for the first time, that she’d already read all the schoolbooks they needed for their first year. Eager, they had called her. Don’t overdo it, they’d said the following year.

Everyone else assumed she buried herself in books to prove something, to compensate for her muggleborn status. And yes, to some extent that was true. But there was also another part of her.

What no one ever seemed to grasp was that she wanted to know everything. That her brain demanded knowledge on a daily basis. That her eyes scanned every paper, not just to memorize, but to make sure she hadn’t missed a single detail. That she could disappear into the pages, become a part of them, and come out changed.

She had always been alone in that. Her classmates only read when absolutely necessary. Ron’s idea of reading had been that Quidditch book from the library, ‘Quidditch through the Ages’, and even then, it took him nearly two weeks to finish all 150 pages.

Hermine had read it in two hours. She’d returned it before Ron even got a chance to. When she told him, he just shook his head at her in disbelief.

Back then, it had always frustrated her how little her friends tried to understand that side of her. But now? Now she couldn’t stop thinking about all the little comments they might have made about the book she held.

Ron probably would’ve made fun of the main character’s name. Harry would’ve grinned and agreed. She would’ve rolled her eyes, tried to argue, and then, inevitably, laughed along with them. That’s how it always went.

The three of them. Inseparable. She slowly got tired of missing them so much.

The next time she lifted her head, it was dark outside. The moon hung brightly in the sky, casting its pale light through the window, smiling down at her.

Her gaze wandered slowly through the room. In the moonlight, it looked familiar. Almost as if some other version of Hermione had already left her personal touch here. The bed, perfectly made when she’d arrived, was now creased from where she had laid, just like her bed at home used to look after a long day of reading. A single candle on the desk still flickered faintly, the soft light dancing like little fireflies in the dark.

Then, she heard a faint sound outside the room. Footsteps. Soft and slow, fading away with each passing second.

Hermione froze. She closed her book in her lap as quietly as possible and strained her ears.

There it was again. Just barely audible now. A few scattered steps, heading away from her room and moving up the stairs.

Someone had been standing outside her room. The entire time. 

And she hadn’t even noticed them arriving. 

Her stomach turned. Had they been watching her? Listening? Had Lucius sent them?

He must have.

Of course he had. He would want to know everything. Every word she spoke aloud, every plan she might dare to whisper to herself. Every thought that might accidentally escape her lips. Was she being watched right now? Were there magical equivalents to Muggle surveillance cameras? Recording her every move? Listening to her breathe?

How much safety did she really have in this manor? How cautious did she need to be?

"There’s no such thing as paranoia. You can never be too careful." Moody’s coarse voice echoed in her memory, as if he were standing just behind her.

But was this really caution now, or was she already slipping into paranoia, after everything she had been through?

She didn’t know. Not for sure.

But she knew one thing with absolute clarity: she had to find out what the Malfoys wanted from her. What they were waiting for. What they were trying to get from her.

Until she had answers, she couldn’t trust anyone. Not even the house-elves. No matter how kind or quiet they seemed. No matter how polite. For all she knew, they’d been instructed to gain her trust, to become confidants, just to gain information.

Just because she wasn’t currently writhing under the Cruciatus Curse didn’t mean she wasn’t in danger.

Not all threats wore masks or shouted curses. Some crept in like whispers. Some watched in silence.

And Hermione Granger had learned long ago, that’s when it was most dangerous.

~~~

Setting the book aside, she slowly rose from the bed. A yawn escaped her lips before she could suppress it, and only then did she realize just how tired she truly was, how much her body ached for a proper bed.

She had noticed earlier that the bathroom held a small dresser filled with items: a hairbrush, various creams, even a facial cleanser. But she still felt clean from the bath she’d taken just hours before, and frankly, she was far too tired to bother standing again, let alone tie up her hair. She knew she'd regret it in the morning, when her curls would resemble a bird’s nest, but at that moment, she couldn't care less.

She pulled the covers aside and let herself fall back into the warmth of the bed. The mattress welcomed her instantly, the soft pillows cradling her cheeks, kissing her skin with their comforting touch. It took mere seconds for her to fall asleep.

It was only when a loud gong echoed through her room that she was woken up in the morning. The sound seemed to serve as a kind of magical alarm. With a groan, Hermione cracked one eye open reluctantly. Her gaze drifted toward her desk, and there it was. A tray had appeared with the gong, set up neatly with what looked like breakfast.

She groaned again and rolled onto her side, tempted to ignore it, to sink back into the pleasant warmth of the bed. But some part of her, perhaps that same wary voice that had never quieted since she was captured, warned her not to be caught off guard. If someone expected her to be awake by now, she didn’t want them barging in to make sure.

After a few more moments of silent protest, she finally pushed the covers away and forced herself into the wooden desk chair.

The breakfast surprised her. It was just as lavish as the dinner from the day before.

In the center sat a large wooden plate, filled with fresh bread still warm to the touch: crusty country loaves, a few slices of sourdough, a small piece of baguette. Beside them, a trail of fresh butter, jam in little porcelain dishes, and a small glass jar of golden honey.

To the side: a bowl of perfectly ripe strawberries, blueberries, and raspberries that looked like they’d just been plucked from a sunlit garden. A small platter offered delicate prosciutto, creamy goat cheese, a wedge of brie, and a few pieces of aged mountain cheese. Grapes and walnuts nestled between them.

And there, just beside the plate, stood a tall glass of cold water and a steaming cup of peppermint tea. Exactly the kind she had always drunk in the mornings.

Again, her mouth watered.

And again, she found herself hesitating.

It was too much. She could never eat all of it. She’d barely managed the meal from the night before. But more than that, it was the question that gnawed at her, harder now than ever.

Why?

Why this treatment?

Why comfort, softness, and familiarity when she should be locked in darkness, starved and alone?

She hated not having the answer. She hated it with a kind of restless fury.

Hermione Granger despised questions without answers.

But she also knew something else now, something more practical. She had lost weight. A lot of it. First because the grief and fear had made eating impossible. Then because, during her time in hiding and captivity, food had simply not been an option.

If she ever had to fight again, if she ever made it out of here alive, she would need her strength back.

So, she ate. Slowly at first, sampling bites of bread and butter, then the fruits, then just a little of the soft cheese. And when she felt her hunger awakening, she ate more. She stopped only when her stomach stretched uncomfortably full, her fork slipping from her hand and clinking against the plate.

Closing her eyes, Hermione took a few deep breaths. Inhale. Exhale. The gentle brush of air against her face, softly sweeping away strands of hair from her eyes. She needed a strategy, a plan. Whatever Lucius had in store for her, she would have to play along. For now.

It all still felt like a poorly acted play, a surreal performance in which she’d been cast without a script. But there was more to it, there had to be. If they believed they could get information out of her, they were clearly so blinded by their own power that they failed to consider how easily they themselves might let something slip. Something she could use.

She just had to stay quiet. Compliant. Feed their delusions until she could fill the gaps in her understanding. And then she’d escape, for good.

But she couldn’t do anything yet. Not until she got her wand back. Not until the restraints around her wrists were gone.

Those were the first steps before she could even think about running.

For now, she needed to regain her strength and understand the full scope of the situation beyond these four walls. That meant resting, eating, watching. Talking, when necessary.

Reluctantly, she crossed the room in slow steps, entered the bathroom, and lit a few candles. The flickering light bathed the room in a soft, golden hue as she looked at herself in the mirror.

She had expected worse. Her hair was wild and tangled, but with a sturdy brush, it could be salvaged. Her skin was pale, her cheeks a little too hollow, dark circles haunted her eyes, and a few healing cuts still marked her face. But when she looked into her eyes, she still saw the fire burning in them.

That spark hadn’t gone out. She still saw herself. That hadn’t the Snatchers taken away from her. And the Death eaters never would either.

She washed her face with the lavender soap, then rubbed in some cream before turning to her hair. She’d long since learned to tame it with her wand, but now she had only her fingers and persistence. It took ages to work through the knots and bring some definition back into the curls, but she managed at last.

There wasn’t much to do all day. Read or write. But she was almost entirely sure that her writing would be monitored, her notes canned for information. So books it would be.

Then she remembered again. The footsteps from the night before. She had wanted to check whether that person she’d heard was still out there. She walked to the door, crouched down, and peered through the small list at the bottom.

And there, directly on the other side of the wall, someone was sitting, leaned casually against the stone.

She couldn’t see their face, only the upper body. A fine paint of black trousers, a plain white shirt, black boots.

So she had been right. Lucius had placed someone outside her room. But why? If they wanted someone to watch her, why not have her being accompanied by said someone? It’s not like they could look through the walls. She would have yet to learn about such a spell.

Maybe that was the point. Maybe he wanted her to know someone was there. A silent pressure. A presence she could never quite ignore.

It was all part of the game. If only she knew the rules.

~~~

Just as she was about to settle back on the bed, a loud plop cracked through the quiet, and the three house-elves appeared in front of her.

Hermione startled, her body jerking upright before her mind could catch up. Her fingers tightened instinctively around the book in her lap, but only for a moment. She exhaled and forced her posture to ease. Of course. House-elves.

“We’re very sorry to disturb you, Miss,” said Minny, bowing her head slightly, “We did not mean to startle you. Master Malfoy simply instructed us to check on you.”

Hermione frowned. Check on her?

“In what way exactly?”, she asked, suspicious. What kind of game was Lucius playing now?

Minny didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she reached under her white robe and drew out a neatly rolled scroll of parchment. She held it out with both hands, like something ceremonial.

“This is the protocol we were given. We must follow it precisely. It says we’re to visit you every day at exactly eleven o’clock to receive your daily report.”

Hermione blinked, genuinely stunned, “What?”

Poppy stepped forward, her voice gentler than Minny’s, “Poppy and the others just want to know if Miss is well. We are to inquire about your wellbeing. Isn’t that right, Dibsy?”

Dibsy nodded solemnly but said nothing, his large eyes peeking out from behind his ears.

Minny cleared her throat primly and lifted the paper again, “Let’s begin. First question: How did you find breakfast? Was it to your satisfaction?”

Hermione could only stare at them in disbelief, mouth slightly ajar.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Minny said briskly, glancing at the untouched corner of the breakfast tray still sitting on the table, “I see you didn’t finish your meal. Shall we inform the kitchen that-”

“No! No, that’s not-”, Hermione rubbed her temples, already feeling the edge of a headache forming, “I just mean that-”

The elves looked back and forth between her and one another, expectantly.

“What I mean is-”

“Would you like something changed?”

“No, it’s just… it’s a lot of food.”

“If Miss didn’t enjoy it-”

“For Merlin’s sake, it was perfect,” she blurted, exasperated, “Really. It's fine.”

“Good,” Minny said, making a neat mark on the scroll with a little flourish, “Next question-”

“Hold on - wait!”, Hermione held up a hand. She hadn’t even processed what was happening yet.

“Why would Lucius, ehem, I mean Mr. Malfoy, send you here in the first place?”, her voice dropped slightly, “Surely not just to ask about breakfast.”

The elves exchanged glances again, then Minny responded carefully, as though repeating someone else’s instructions word for word.

“Master Malfoy told us to improve your living conditions according to your wishes. We are to go through the list, one question at a time. If there’s anything you want changed, your meals, your wardrobe, your room, we’re to see to it.”

Hermione blinked.

“What?”

Minny let out a small, slightly exasperated sigh, “Well, as I said, the protocol-”

“No, I got that part. I just don’t understand why.”

“You are a guest of Master Malfoy,” Poppy replied in a hesitant, quiet voice.

That word hit Hermione like a slap. Guest? A rush of anger ignited in her chest.

“I’m a prisoner.”

“Or… something like that,” Poppy murmured awkwardly, “But Master said we’re to treat you with the utmost kindness.”

Ah. Of course. That was his move. Weaponized hospitality. Unexpected gentleness to disarm her. Hermione understood now: he wanted to confuse her. Fine. She could play the part.

“And what else does this protocol of his say?”

Minny cleared her throat, continuing, “We are to inquire about the bed, the decor, the food, the clothing, and any other objects in the room. If you find anything lacking or inconvenient, we are to see to it immediately.”

Hermione hesitated. There was guilt, of course, taking anything from the people responsible for her captivity, but if she was going to be stuck here, she might as well make use of what was offered.

“I could use a change of clothes,” she said cautiously. She’d been wearing the same outfit for nearly twenty-four hours now. It was certainly cleaner than anything she’d worn during her time on the run, but still, cleanliness was a small form of dignity.

“But what’s wrong with the clothes you have?”

“They need washing. I’ve worn them since yesterday.”

“But not those,” Poppy said suddenly, “What about your other clothes?”

“My what?”, Hermione asked, confused.

“Your other outfits! Poppy and Dibsy picked them out the last few days. Washed them all nice and clean,” she said cheerfully, then scampered over to one of the drawers hidden beneath the bedframe. She tugged it open, revealing a small wardrobe tucked away inside.

“See, Miss? Lovely things. All fresh.”

Hermione stepped closer and peaked inside.

It smelled like dried lavender, a hint of cedarwood. It carried memories of old tea leaves, fireplace smoke, and parchment. Strangely familiar.

There were soft wool sweaters. Moos green, grey, natural colors, Hermione preferred the most. 

A long, dark-blue knitted cloak. Simple yet elegant dresses in linen and cotton, deep wine red, forest green, midnight blue. A finely tailored wizard’s robe lay folded at the back, the fabric rich and clearly expensive. There were warm leggings and patterned tights. Flat shoes, and next to it, knitted wool socks in welcoming colors, which reminded her a bit of the clothes Mrs. Weasley had always knitted for her on Christmas. 

At the very bottom, neatly folded, was a modest collection of undergarments.

“Is it to your satisfaction, Miss?”, Poppy asked with a hopeful smile.

Hermione was speechless. Every single piece seemed carefully, almost intimately selected, down to the texture, the smell, even the cut. It was as if Lucius Malfoy had somehow known her preferences before she had.

He’s good, she thought bitterly. But I’ll be better. 

“Yes,” she said finally, “It’s… more than enough.”

“That makes Poppy and the others very happy,” the elf beamed, “We took great care choosing and washing everything just right.”

“Is there anything else you’d like us to change about the room, Miss Granger?”

Hermione looked at the house-elves for a moment, “Well, first off, you can stop calling me Miss Granger. Hermione is just fine.”

“As you wish, Miss Granger,” Poppy said immediately.

Hermione sighed inwardly. Of course. Even at Hogwarts, it had been nearly impossible to persuade the house-elves to stop the formalities. And these ones were Malfoy house-elves, centuries of deference stitched into their bones. Changing that would take more than a few polite corrections.

“Anything else, Miss?”

“Yes,” Hermione said, glancing down at her wrists, “Could these restraints be removed? They’re… uncomfortable.”

Uncomfortable was putting it mildly. She had grown used to it, in a way, the constant pressure of the magic restriction. But she still felt how the cuffs separated her from the core of her magic, from the part that made her a witch. They dulled something essential in her, the raw and untamable. Without that connection, she felt not only vulnerable, but less. Like a car missing its wheels.

The elves all flinched at once, eyes darting among themselves before Dibsy finally spoke up.

“I’m afraid we can’t do that, Miss. That’s… not within our authority.”

“Yes,” Poppy added quickly, “it’s one of the rules. ‘No one is to remove the restraints.’”

“We’re truly sorry, Miss,” Minny said quietly, her ears drooping.

Of course, Hermione thought. Why would it be that easy?

She swallowed her frustration and leaned back a little, thinking. The cuffs weren’t just symbolic, they were a calculated move. As long as she wore them, she wasn’t a threat. No spells. No wandwork. No magic.

She’d have to either convince Lucius to remove them himself, which felt about as likely as snow in July, or find a way to do it without anyone noticing.

As a child, Hermione Hermione used to watch those child movies on television. The ones where someone would pick a lock with nothing more than a hairpin and a bit of luck. Her mother had then explained to her that it didn’t work quite so easily in real life, not without skill and patience. Stil, there was always a bit of truth in those dramatizations. And perhaps a hairpin might come in handy. 

“I’d like a few hairpins,” she said casually, brushing her fingers through her curls in a way that suggested practicality, not strategy.

The house-elves blinked in unison, wide-eyed. Then Minny quickly scribbled something onto her parchment, her eagerness almost comical, “Yes, yes, of course! That’s perfectly fine. We’ll bring them right away, Miss.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, and meant it.

The elves exchanged another set of surprised glances. She was used to that. House-elves often didn’t know what to do with kindness from witches and wizards. It always unsettled them, like a rule had been broken somewhere in the background of the world.

“Very well,” Minny stammered, “If you need anything else, just call for us. Or let us know tomorrow during our usual check-in.”

“How will I know the time?”, Hermione asked, genuinely curious.

“Oh, right!”, Minny exclaimed, “You don’t have a clock yet, do you? But that’s easily fixed.”

With a quick snap of her fingers, a small wall clock appeared just above the door, its golden hands ticking gently toward 11:20.

“So,” Minny continued with a touch of pride, “we’ll come each day at 11:00 sharp for the protocol. Breakfast will arrive shortly before then. Lunch is at 1:00 p.m., and dinner is served at 7:00 in the evening.”

The three elves lined up, almost ceremoniously, and with perfect unison said, “Have a pleasant day, Miss.”

Then, just like that, they vanished.

~~~

Hermione spent the rest of the day lost in thoughts, pacing from one end of the room to the other, at least, as much pacing as the small place allowed. Every so often, she knelt to peer through the narrow slit beneath the door, checking on her silent watchman across the hallway.

What struck her as odd was the inconsistency of their presence. The figure, whom she was fairly certain was always the same person, seemed to come and go in irregular shifts. Sometimes they were there for just an hour, other times two or three, and then absent again without pattern. There was no rhythm to it.

Poppy returned a short while later to deliver the hairpins. Hermione thanked her, then placed them carefully on her desk. She knew, of course, that both the magical bindings on her wrists and the door to her room were enchanted. The Malfoys were not fools like the Snatchers had been. They were fully aware of her muggleborn background, and they would have taken measures against simple tricks. Whatever defenses protected her confinement, they likely ran deeper than mechanical locks

The day passed otherwise without incident. Lunch arrived promptly at the agreed hour, and Hermione ate it. Dinner followed the same pattern.

Just before she went to bed, she heard them again: footsteps, soft but distinct, retreating from her door down the hallway.