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Chapter Text

There were now 298 tick marks. They indicate it has almost a year since Harry died and Hermione, along with the other survivors, were taken by Death Eaters down to the reworked cells in Azkaban until Voldemort could decide what to do with them.

At first, imprisonment was torture. Just because he could, Voldemort put Hermione in an adjacent cell to Ron. Although they could see each other, they were unable to touch or comfort each other with anything more than words. The cells were barred and a magical ward stopped Hermione from reaching through the bars to grab Ron one last time.

Instead, Hermione spent every day that first week telling Ron how much she loved him. She would repeat the three words over and over again, letting the salt from her tears mix with the sound coming off of her tongue.

Hermione couldn’t afford to lose Ron. She had already lost her parents, the rest of the Weasleys and Harry. Ron was all that she had left, and she needed him to know that.

After Hermione had run out tears for the day, she would crawl to the back floorboard and use her necklace to scratch a line into the floorboard under her scraggly initials. She felt compelled to count the days. A sense of time was essential to her sanity while she remained in the cells.

Hermione wasn’t the first one to do it either. Her lines resided under three other sets of initials and tick marks. There was T.K, S.B, and B.W.

Sometimes at night Hermione would spend the time imagining who these other initials were and why they found themselves in Azkaban; however, she had to stop imagining pretty quickly because she was asking questions that she would never get answers to. The thought of never getting out is what hurt her the most. Hermione couldn’t bring herself to think of watching Ron die of exhaustion or starvation while she was forced to watch.

After those first seven days, Rookwood came down to see them. He held shackles in his hands and Hermione knew that he had been sent to take one of them.

She hoped that Rookwood would force her to stand and take her to be executed by Voldemort himself. She would think of a plan, and if not, Hermione was willing to die.

But she was not willing to let Ron die. She couldn’t be without him down in these cells. And if they ever did escape, or someone came to save them, Hermione wanted Ron to be the one who made it out.

Rookwood stood directly in front of Hermione’s cell and gazed at her with a disgusted look. “I see you’ve given in to who you truly are.”

His eyes scanned her body and it took Hermione several seconds to realize what he was talking about.

Neither Hermione nor Ron had been given showers or more than a stale biscuit once a day since they had arrived in Azkaban. Hermione noted that she was caked in blood, although she didn’t know whether it was her own, and her clothes were littered in mud.

“No more glimmer in your eyes, mudblood.” Rookwood seethed out that last word as though there was no greater evil in the world.

“Don’t talk to her!”

Hermione’s eyes flew over to Ron who had jumped up from where he was sitting. His hands were sizzling as they firmly grasped the bars of his cell, trying to get closer to her. Trying to save her.

Rookwood’s attention drifted down to Ron’s hands as well. Slowly a sickening smile began to take over his face as he backed away from where he stood outside of Hermione’s cell. Hermione’s gut began to sink.

“No worries blood-traitor. I’m not here for the girl.”

Hermione started shaking as sobs released themselves from where they had been building in her throat. “No! Please,” Hermione started. “Don’t take him. Don’t do this.”

“This isn’t a negotiation mudblood. The ginger comes with me.” Rookwood’s smile became increasingly satisfactory as he entered Ron’s cell and yanked Ron’s burning hands away from the wards.

Hermione tried to focus on Ron’s face. He looked calm. He was calm.

Ron shook his head at her and mouthed the words “I’ll be okay.” Only Hermione knew that he couldn’t promise her that. Ron didn’t know what lay outside of these cells and Hermione was not going to risk Ron being the one to find out.
She mouthed back, “I’m sorry.”

“Rookwood! Take me. Take me instead of Ron. I will do anything that the Dark Lord wants.” Ron’s face shifted into a state of horror while Rookwood’s became agitated.

Tugging Ron out of his cell, Rookwood came to stand in front of Hermione’s. He met her pleading eyes and laughed. A moment later he sent a Petrificus Totalus towards her and Hermione fell back onto the wooden floors.

Hermione wasn’t quite sure how long she had been immobilized. She tried counting in her head, but she quickly drifted into sleep. When she awoke, the spell no longer bound her. She crawled back into the corner and added another tick mark under her initial.

Ron returned three tick marks later. He didn’t look physically injured, but he would sob at night yelling “stop.” Hermione figured that he had been under the Cruciatus curse for long periods of time. Voldemort was trying to break them.

Ron and Hermione tried talking, but he would always turn away after a bit. Ron even tried to tell Hermione what happened once. All that he could spit out was that their conversation made him feel as though he was betraying his mind. Hermione tried to make sense of what that meant but she knew little about Voldemort’s methods of torture.

The next week Ron was taken again. He returned but was taken by Rookwood a few days after.

Every time Ron became more and more detached from her. On Hermione’s thirty-sixth tick stroke, Ron had stopped acknowledging her all together.

Hermione knew that Ron had undergone something terrible, but she couldn’t take him ignoring her. It was like he dead. Although wrong to be thinking it, Hermione couldn’t help but wonder if death would have been better for Ron.

On day fourty-five, it seemed as though Hermione had gotten her wish. Ron was taken again, and that was the last time she saw him.

After she realized that he wasn’t going to return, Hermione added Ron to her list of lost loved ones that she spoke to in her mind each night. She had nothing left.

About three months into her imprisonment, Rookwood came with some medi-witches and she got her first shower, if you could even call it that. When they arrived, Hermione had been in the back corner using her necklace to add another tick mark to her list. Rookwood saw what she was up to and immediately summoned the necklace into his hands.

The necklace was from her mother. It had a simple chain, but at the end dangled a blue sapphire, for her birth month, and underneath it was a charm of a feather.

When Hermione closed her eyes and clutched the necklace in her hands, she could almost imagine that she was back home with her mother. Hermione would lay in her mom’s arms as her mom gently traced a line from her forehead to nose.

She could remember how safe she felt in her mom’s arms. Nothing could hurt her there. And just as Hermione would fall asleep, her mom would whisper in her ear.

“Goodnight my little feather.”

After Rookwood left with the necklace, Hermione felt frozen. Never had she been more alone in her life than she was in the room. Not only had Voldemort and his followers taken all the people that mattered away, but even her possessions and sanity were gone.

Hermione had no way to count the days. It was only a matter of time before she wasted away.

She desperately tried to think of how she could keep her sanity until she escaped or was saved. Hermione’s anger began to rise and her fists balled at her side. She reminded herself that she wasn’t alone. She needed to hold on for the other people locked somewhere in Azkaban’s cells.

She wouldn’t die before she could save Ginny, or the other Weasley’s who were still alive. She owed that to them and to Ron.

Hermione’s eyes flitted down to her hands and she realized her overgrown nails had drawn blood. Suddenly, Hermione felt a flicker of hope.

She quickly made away to her bed and small blanket. Her hands reached for the button of her recently scourgified jeans and slid them down just below her underwear. Bringing her hands to her hip bone at her side, Hermione settled on a place slightly lower.

She took a deep breath and dug her fingernail into the upper part of the side of her thigh.

Hermione channelled all of her anger. She thought of Harry’s broken body in Hagrid’s arms and Ron’s detached look in his cell. She thought of Molly’s body being tossed aside by Bellatrix. She thought of Fleur’s screams when Bill was killed by Yaxley and George’s face when he realized Fred was gone. She thought of when she was tortured in Malfoy manner. She thought of revenge.

When Hermione was done, she licked her fingers to wipe away the new blood and found herself with a small but deep cut in her thigh.

The tick marks grew on her side as the days progressed. One by one. Hermione had found a new way to stay sane.

And every night after she added the newest tick mark to her body, she went over each and every previous one. Hermione wanted to make sure that these tick marks would scar. She wanted them to stay on her side forever. Not only would they remind her of what she went through, but also how she could persevere.

As Hermione’s monotonous days continued, so did her nightly routine. By day 298, the scars had progressed their way towards her knee.

Hermione began to speak to Harry in her mind when footsteps sound down the hallway from her cell. She quickly pulls herself together. This could be Voldemort coming to get her.

Whatever he had tried on Ron clearly hadn’t worked. She suspects that once Voldemort figures out what went wrong and led to Ron’s death, he would come her. Hermione was not looking forward to the torture, but she knows she can’t save anyone from her position in this cell.

The footsteps grow nearer and Hermione wanders to the front of her cell to greet Rookwood. Only the gentlemen in the hallway does not resemble Rookwood at all. His hair is long and almost white in colour.

Hermione did not even have time to collect herself or mask her surprise before she found herself locking eyes with the man.

It was Lucius Malfoy.

Chapter Text

Never had Hermione ever thought she would be standing behind the bars of an Azkaban cell while Lucius Malfoy stood free on the outside. The situation seemed almost laughable.

There had only been a few times where Hermione had been in the same room as Lucius, but those moments were enough for her to know better than to actively participate in a conversation with him. And yet here they stood.

Back at Hogwarts, Hermione had what she would consider to be a minor crush on Draco Malfoy.

It started in fourth year.

It was only a few weeks into term and Malfoy was already superseding Hermione in Potions class. She had long suspected that Snape was purposefully giving Malfoy better marks, but after four years of being second in their year when it came to Potions, Hermione found that she no longer could deal with the bias treatment.

So, Hermione began on a mission to prove that Malfoy was no better than her in the class. To start, Hermione suspected she could find physical proof of Snape’s bias.

Originally, she pestered Ron and Harry to help her. She thought that having a common enemy would unite the boys. The two were currently not speaking because Harry’s name was pulled from the Goblet of Fire. But both boys shot her down fairly quickly.

Ron laughed at the idea of working with Harry. Hermione knew she should have gotten Ron on board before she told him that she had also asked, but her excitement got the best of her. Meanwhile, Harry politely declined her mission as well. He was preoccupied with strategizing for the first task. Although it was months away.

Harry must have sensed Hermione’s irritation because he apologetically offered his invisibility cloak up as his replacement. This wasn’t what Hermione wanted but she knew she was better off on her own anyway. After all, it wasn’t as though her life was in danger. Just her reputation as best in their year. And for Hermione, that was almost worse.

Off on her own, Hermione would spend her free time following Snape. He never went anywhere quite interesting, and he mainly kept to himself around students and other professors; however, on her third day, she caught a glimpse of Snape’s grade book.

The book was massive and bound in scarlet-coloured dragon leather. From afar it looked as though Snape had pages of notes for every student at Hogwarts detailing their performance throughout their years. Hermione’s fingers twitched as she entered a state of disquietude.

She needed that book.

Unfortunately, Snape kept the copy locked away in his private office under what looked like blood protection. Hermione couldn’t be quite sure of the protection on the drawer with the book, but it would be foolish to attempt the drawer without more information or a plan. She wasn’t Harry.

So, Hermione spent at least another week hatching a plan to take a look at the book. She needed just five minutes.

Eventually, Hermione had timed it perfectly. She stood chatting in the hallway outside Snape’s office with Neville and Harry and slipped away under the guise of Harry’s cloak when Snape sauntered past them. She watched as Snape pulled out the book and started to write in it.

Making sure not to waste any time, Hermione scrambled back to Neville and Harry. She looked at her watch waiting for the sound of Filch’s angry shouts and Peeve’s high pitch cackle.

“Come on.” She muttered to herself. This had to work.

It wasn’t too much longer before both Peeves and Filch streamlined down the corridor. Filch was covered in colourful spots from one of Fred and George’s new powder bombs that Hermione had rigged to go off. The blame had been promptly placed on Peeves who had been nearby in his Thursday afternoon spot pestering the first-year Hufflepuffs who had come out of a double Potions with Snape.

Just as Peeves streaked by, Hermione turned to Harry and loudly announced that she had overheard Snape telling Professor McGonagall how he had approached Dumbledore with a plan to rid the school of Peeves foolishness for good.

Upon hearing this, Peeves seemed to forget he was being chased and halted in his path. Right outside of Snape’s door. His trajectory changed and before Hermione knew it, Peeves had flown into the office and stolen Snape’s outer robes, which had been draped across of the back of his chair, and his wand too. It was better than Hermione could have hoped for.

Snape quickly joined Filch in the chase and Hermione found both his office and the large scarlet book open.

Only for all her effort, Hermione found nothing.

The notes under Malfoy’s name applauded his skills. She found no record of Malfoy making any mistakes. But before she could draw a conclusion that Snape knew better than to be caught for his bias, she found her own name.

Under Hermione Granger, the notes were nothing if not impressed by her potioneering. She found that Snape didn’t hate her at all. In fact, there were only marginal comments in regard to her missteps in a potion or two, and these were mistakes Hermione could confirm she made.

So, she was back to step one.

This time, Hermione deduced that she must observe Malfoy in action. She had to see if his skills really were that good.

Next potions class, Hermione found her eyes drawn to his table across the room. She watched as Malfoy gingerly picked up his knife to juice the Beetle Eyes. His fingers were long, and his skin was almost pale enough to be translucent.

Hermione became transfixed by his movements. His craftsmanship was almost beautiful.

Malfoy knew how to handle every ingredient. He stirred his cauldron slowly but with purpose. His watch was checked periodically, and he would promptly add each ingredient at the exact time it was needed.

She did not want to admit it, but he was skilled.

Hermione quickly decided that she could no longer be bothered by being second in Potions. Instead, she was fuelled to be better. She would fix her technique and rise to the challenge of beating Malfoy.

And although Hermione had let go of her mission, she found herself continually watching Malfoy as he worked.

His fingers were long, but they were delicate. When he squeezed an ingredient between his forefingers, his muscles would tense throughout his hand. And when the potion was difficult, Malfoy’s hair would fall in front of his eyes and his eyebrows would furrow as sweat would bead along them.

Only when Hermione would find herself wondering what face he would make if his fingers were on her body would she look away. It was in those moments that she would actively not look back at him for the remainder of the day.

Throughout the years she would have similar thoughts if her eyes looked at his hands or neck for too long.

Although, when she found herself alone in her four-poster Hermione would allow herself to wonder.

What would happen if she touched him? Would he touch her back?

She would fantasize about elaborate dates and meeting Malfoy’s parents. She would change their mind about her blood status. Lucius Malfoy didn’t scare her.

Hermione could daydream all she wanted about how she would fight the prejudices of the Malfoy’s, but after the battle in the Department of Mysteries, her opinion of Lucius quickly changed.

Hermione never wanted to be near him again. Even looking at Lucius filled her with disgust and rage.

And yet, as Hermione stands before him trapped in her cell, she knows that she will talk to him. Hermione will indulge Lucius in whatever nasty things he has to say about her blood, parentage or allegiance. As much as she loathes him, Lucius is a visitor.

And visitors bring news. They bring information.

Hermione lifts her gaze from Lucius’ telltale cane. It had been further embellished. Near the bottom, there were intricate silver vines leading up to what looked like a drawing next to small silver letters. She struggles to make out the drawing and spends several seconds trying to make sense of it while Lucius gets closer to her cell.

Now that he was here, Hermione’s eyes met his grey ones. They were a diminutive and vindictive grey. Lucius’ gaze made her feel as though she was back on the drawing room floor being tortured by Bellatrix as Lucius’ eyes bore into her crippling body.

Hermione forced herself to swallow her anger.

After taking in the current state of Harry’s loyal friend, Lucius made a small clicking sound with his mouth.

“Look at what the Golden Girl has turned into.” Hermione’s chin lifts a little higher as Lucius continues, “I always suspected that when this was all over, you’d decompose into nothingness just like all the other Mudbloods. Hmmm… I bet you regret your decisions now.”

“I regret nothing,” Hermione states defiantly.

How dare Lucius Malfoy presume to know anything about her and her strength. Hermione could feel her voice itching to say more, but she remains in control.

“Well, that’s your mistake then.” Lucius makes a broad gesture with his arms, referring to Hermione’s small cell.

“You see Mudblood, your morals are what doomed you from the start. Morals have no place in politics. They are rarely transpicuous and blur at the slightest gray area. No, you see morals lead to defeat. The Dark Lord knew he would win because he isn’t weighed down by morals. Rather he abandons them and is uplifted by his strength.”

Lucius says this all matter-of-factly. As though he had spent his whole life considering how weak he may become if he had proper morals.

Hermione felt terrified for Malfoy in this moment. It is one thing to abandon morals due to cowardice or survival, but it is entirely another thing to be raised into a lifestyle that erases all indicators of right and wrong.

“I would disagree.” Hermione wagered. “You see, without morals you can never have loyalty.”

A sinister laugh began to creep out of Lucius. “Do tell Mudblood, how so?”

“Well, if you have morals, then the people who align themselves with you will share similar morals. Individuals will fight till death on the basis of these morals. They will be loved by those in their cause because of these shared morals.”

“I am loyal to my Lord.”

That was laughable to Hermione. Her control was suddenly gone.

“No, you aren’t.” Her eyes bore into his. She took a step closer to the bars. “You are afraid.”

“How dare you make that accusation. Do you know who you are talking to? You should be bowing in my presence.”

Bowing? To Lucius Malfoy? Hermione wondered if he had been promoted in Voldemort’s ranks. Maybe he was second-in-command. She supposed this was likely. Lucius always was a kiss ass.

“I know who I’m talking to. A coward.” Hermione couldn’t stop herself now. “You are afraid of Voldemort and so you obey him because of the potential for consequences if you don’t. You are loyal to whoever will let you keep your societal status and money. How else would you explain your flip to the light when Voldemort was defeated the first time?”

She had him cornered now.

Although Hermione had abandoned her goal of searching for information, she finally felt like herself again. Voldemort could keep her in his cage for as long as he wants, but Hermione would not abandon her morals.

“Think what you want Mudblood. You are nothing now.”

“I am a lot more than you, Lucius.” He took in a sharp breath as Hermione’s eyebrow quirked from the slightest rush of confidence.

“Now that the Dark Lord no longer needs you, maybe I should suggest that you need to be put in your place.” Lucius was challenging her. “Hmmm, would you like that?”

Hermione said nothing. Her eyes began to steel over as she locked her defiance into place.

She had questions. Plenty. Firstly, why doesn’t Voldemort need her anymore? What changed? And was his need for her what led to her and Ron being placed in their own corridor in Azkaban?

It had been too long since Hermione had been out of this cell. She knew nothing of the current political situation in Europe, nor had she any indication of who held what role in Voldemort’s ranks.

Asking these specific questions would cause Hermione to lose her façade of nonchalant confidence. Instead, Hermione settled on an acceptable question.

“Why did you come to visit me?”

Lucius’ head tilted to the side but his mouth remained shut. Hermione was not going to get anything valuable out of this visit.

She was about to turn around and retreat back to where she slept when Lucius decided to respond.

“I was surveying the others locked in here. You see, I get first-pick and I only choose the best.” A million thoughts began bouncing around in Hermione’s mind.

With that Lucius straightened his robes and muttered, “Goodbye Mudblood. I reckon that we will be seeing each other real soon.”

As he walked away, Hermione’s façade began to crack.

She reasoned that it was likely her friends would be divided among Deatheaters. Voldemort wanted Half-bloods and Blood Traitors gone from society, but she could not imagine him wasting time doing that himself. No, her friends would go to Voldemort’s loyal followers and then would be tortured to death.

Even with this likelihood, Hermione was unable to help them. She was trapped in her cell.

Hermione began to wonder if there was any way to escape. She knew she couldn’t get past the wards by herself, but once she was outside the cell, maybe she had a fighting chance.

She sat in the back corner above her first set of tick marks and began to focus. Cold air drifted in through her nostrils and began to build at the back of her throat. Sending the air downward, Hermione’s lungs filled with air as she searched her body for traces of her magic.

Dumbledore’s Army had helped Hermione master some wandless offensive spells. If she could access her magic without her wand then she stood a fighting chance.

She couldn’t feel the rush of magic in her veins or the pulse in her fingertips. Hermione’s magic had been suppressed.

It was doubtful that the wards surrounding Hermione’s cell were advanced wards. She was a wandless witch and posed a limited threat inside of them. Therefore, she assumed the wards were suppressing her magic. If she could get outside of them, her magic would likely return.

Although this was a strong assumption to depend upon.

Hermione recalled a book titled Inner Magic and Duress which detailed a wizard’s magic in stressful situations, prisons, chains, etc. She knew there was a subsection on wards and she had read the book several times.

Inside of her mind, Hermione turned the pages to the large volume as she searched for a memory of the subsection.

What Hermione assumed was several minutes later, she had figured it out. Wards can suppress a wizard’s magic, but the wizard would be able to feel a hum of it underneath the suppression because wards don’t act on a biological level. If there is no hum, then Hermione realized her magic would be internally suppressed and leaving the wards would not make a difference.

Returning to her introspective state of meditation, Hermione allowed her breath to fill her lungs once again. On the second breath, her focus shifted. She sent her air throughout her body, flooding her veins.

Although the usual tingle of magic was absent, Hermione allowed her focus to stretch beneath the initial silence. Only, all she found was silence there too.

Her magic was fully suppressed.

Hermione wondered how they were suppressing her magic internally. She was lucid when she was taken and hadn’t been injected with anything. She and Ron hadn’t been struck by any spells. They hadn’t even been looked at by medi-witches until she had that one shower.

There was no reasonable explanation as to why Hermione couldn’t locate her magic. Unless…

It was baked in the scone.

Hermione knew that had to be the solution. The scone was the only thing going into her aside from water on a daily basis. They must be adding a suppressant to the baked good.

If she stopped eating, Hermione realized that her powers would return.

Only going without food was a risky game. Hermione was already without nutrients and had been for almost a year. The only thing keeping her in shape was her workout routine. She would ration her water throughout the day so that she could keep her body in good physical shape.

Hermione also wasn’t sure if she would be taken outside of the cell anytime soon. Still, it was her only plan and Lucius did say he would be back soon.

Eventually, Hermione decided she should stop eating. She made a plan to hide her scones underneath her blanket for four days in a row. If no one had come for her by the fifth day, she would gorge on the stale scones and begin again the next day.

Hermione also countered that she should be brushing up on her wand work and hand motions if she was to do magic soon. She continued in the routine for fifteen days.

On the eve of the fifteenth day, Rookwood arrived.

“Special day for you Mudblood. Best be getting up now.” Rookwood announced bored.

He grabbed her forcefully by her arms and dragged her alongside of him down one of Azkaban’s long hallways. They did not pass any of Hermione’s friends. She figured this was for the best.

Hermione had to save herself first, only then could she save her friends.

As they walked, Hermione could feel her magic surging back into her body. A wave of nausea hit her suddenly and Hermione had to keep herself from making a face or stopping.

Figuring it would be better to lose Rookwood first, she smugly hit him with Petrificus Totalus.

Rookwood fell to the floor, his face frozen in mid-shock.

“Karma’s a bitch Rookwood.”

Hermione couldn’t see a clear path out, but she wandered forward down the hallway. A little ways further, she came to an unlocked door. She opened it a crack to listen for any noise.

The light that poured through the crack was almost debilitating. It had been too long since Hermione had been exposed to sunlight. Her skin was concerningly pale.

After collecting herself, she realized the other side was silent and slid into the open room.

The room was pure white. It looked sterile and there was one bed in the middle of the room. An observation table of sorts.

Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw a newspaper on the table. Perfect. Finally, news of the outside world. She knew the Daily Prophet would be manipulated with false and tampered news, but it was better than nothing.

As Hermione approached the paper, she heard voices coming closer to the room. The newspaper was within reach and Hermione quickly folded it and slid it down the waistband of her pants so that it nested nicely against her thigh.

Someone blew open one door and five Deatheaters charged in.

Hermione cast several spells at them, but her magic was new to her and limited without a wand. She was stunned by a spell pretty quickly.

Later, when Hermione was conscious and alone in her cell, she pulled out the paper that she stole.

On the cover, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy stared back at her with crowns on their head. The title of the article read: Establishing Control: Voldemort Names Numerous Sacred Pureblood Families as Monarchs Across Europe.

Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were the King and Queen of England.

Chapter Text

Following the attempted escape from Azkaban, Hermione felt defeated. Not by the Deatheaters or Voldemort, but by her own mind.

She had been so consumed in finding a way to bring out her magic and make it out of her cell that she hadn’t considered the layout of Azkaban, or the likely guards. Her excitement had overtaken her logic. Hermione could not afford to let that happen again.

Luckily, the copy of the Daily Prophet that Hermione had grabbed provided her with an immense amount of intel. If she did ever get out of this cell, she might be able to get away. Hermione had learned the current political hierarchy, her fate and the new zoning laws.

The article about the Malfoy’s revealed that Voldemort was struggling to remain authority amongst the European countries that he had taken hold of. After sensing rebel forces in both Poland and Spain, Voldemort made the executive decision to give power to individuals within his forces.

Hermione imagined that this must have been difficult for Voldemort to do given his thirst for power. However, she also reasoned that Voldemort ended up choosing the families closest to him and easiest to manipulate.

So, although these families appear to have monarchical power over the general wizarding population, Voldemort still remains in control behind the scenes.

Hermione had to admit that it was a smart move.

The families chosen by Voldemort were the remaining families of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. A significant portion of the Sacred families was considered to be Blood Traitors due to their alliance with the Order. Therefore, Voldemort was only left with thirteen families to choose from: Avery, Bulstrode, Carrow, Flint, Lestrange, Greengrass, Malfoy, Nott, Parkinson, Rosier, Rowle, Travers and Yaxley.

Since Voldemort has only conquered the U.K., Germany, France, Spain, Italy, Poland, Amsterdam, Austria, and Denmark, only nine families were chosen. Hermione had found an article stating that the Carrows would be taking over leadership at Hogwarts, which would open this fall. Meanwhile, Rowle’s, Travers’, and Yaxley’s families were not named monarchs in any of the countries. They were mentioned little throughout the papers which Hermione figured meant that they lacked the importance that Voldemort needed these monarchs to have.

On April 5th, eight days from when Hermione stole the paper, these monarchs would officially begin their rule.

Luckily, Hermione had found an article that updated the muggle situation and it appeared to her as though Voldemort had left the muggles untouched for the most part. No muggle leaders were dead yet; however, any location that Voldemort had wanted had been aggressively taken, killing many muggles in the process.

After learning of the new monarchical system, Lucius’s comments became painfully clear. She had insulted a king numerous times and responded with more cheek when Lucius told her she should be bowing.

Hermione suddenly realized that Lucius very well could make good on his promise to ask Voldemort if he could have Hermione. If Voldemort really did no longer need her, Lucius could easily get his wish.

Knowing that Lucius could take her at any moment left Hermione worried, but it gave hope for her friends.

Originally, Hermione had assumed Lucius was taking his pick of her friends to torture to death. But, as King, his household would need servants. Who better to serve the wealthy Purebloods than the people that these Purebloods view as beneath them.

That meant Hermione’s friends would be of no use if they were tortured to the point of death. No, not torture. Hermione knew that Lucius was picking slaves. And Hermione was prepared to be taken too.

She wondered who Lucius had picked. There were a number of Harry’s close friends who were grabbed by Deatheaters after Harry died and Voldemort overtook the Order.

Lucius claimed that he only picked the best which meant Lucius could have picked Ginny. Hermione knew that Lucius would get sickening pleasure from watching Ginny clean up after him. And as much as Hermione wished that Ginny wouldn’t have to go through that, she easily could be working alongside Ginny.

Reunited.

It would be much easier for Hermione to escape and form a rebellion if she had someone on her side. Even if it wasn’t Ginny, it would be a relief for Hermione to see anyone.

On the last page in the paper was a list of undesirables who had yet to be captured. Neville was undesirable number one.

Hermione distinctly remembered Neville fighting alongside the Order in the Battle of Hogwarts. Could he have escaped?

It seemed likely that Neville had escaped. If he had been dead then he wouldn’t be on Voldemort’s radar. Additionally, the picture of Neville was taken when he was running.

She focused in on the streets surrounding Neville. At last, she found a street sign that would emerge at the end of the loop once Neville’s body had passed the middle of the frame. Hermione could only make out part of the sign which read “Bóthar.”

As a little girl, Hermione was curious about languages. There were so many different dialects that came back to a few origins. She was particularly interested in languages that had the same root but were vastly different. So, she would spend her summers learning languages.

Along the way she picked up German, Irish, Dutch, French and Spanish before she found a new pastime for her summers.

Upon first glance, Hermione noted that “Bóthar” contained the Celtic/Welsh root word “bó” which was used by cowherds. As soon as Hermione remembered that detail, she quickly remembered that “Bóthar” is the word for a cow path in Irish. Now, the word is applied to streets as well and is a general term for the road.

No Neville wasn’t dead. Hermione firmly deduced that Neville was alive in Ireland and causing trouble for Voldemort’s forces.

If she could figure out where in Ireland, then she could join him once she managed to free herself.

Hermione also assumed that Ireland was in open rebellion against Voldemort if Neville had yet to be caught. She noted that Ireland wasn’t included in the list of monarch countries either.

Over the next few days, Hermione reread the paper every chance she got.

It was exhilarating to have even the smallest amount of news. Additionally, Hermione was confident that she would be taken to serve one of the families in power until Voldemort had figured out what went wrong with Ron.

Hermione did not have to wait for too long before her suspicions were confirmed when Rookwood and two other lackeys came to her cell.

She couldn’t help but laugh at the sight of three grown men coming to take her petite and malnourished self. They were obviously scared of what she might do. Although, it was unnecessary because Hermione had been eating her daily scones since the incident.

Rookwood firmly hauled Hermione to her feet and the four of them walked to the white observation room where Hermione met two medi-witches.

Based on Hermione’s calculations from the tick marks that had been added she grabbed the March 28th Daily Prophet, it was April 3rd. That meant there were two days until the monarchs were official in power. She was probably being prepared to assume her role in two days.

Although Lucius had threatened to take her for himself, she wondered if he was allowed both her and Ginny. Surely, he would value Ginny more than herself given their history. If she was placed with Bellatrix, Hermione did not know how long she might last.

As Hermione was directed to take off her dirty clothes, the Deatheaters went outside of all the doors that connected to the observation room.

The medi-witches refused to talk or make eye contact with Hermione and quickly skirted around her as they wrote down her measurements and vitals. Hermione was directed to a shower in the corner of the room where she could wash herself.

Hermione pointedly took her time with this and stayed under the water long after she was done with her vigorous washing. Finally, one of the medi-witches was forced to speak to Hermione and timidly requested she get out of the shower so that the doctor could see her.

Taking her small victory, Hermione obliged. On the observation bed lay a beige outfit. First, Hermione put on a modest dress. It was high-necked and flared the slightest at her waist.

Of course, it was a dress. They couldn’t have given her something practical to work in. No, instead a gross man somewhere decided that the girls who were to be servants should constantly be at risk of flashing their household or company as they worked.

There was a small white apron that went from Hermione’s waist downwards with sensible beige shoes to match. Beige stockings were also provided, but Hermione found them to be a little too light to match her olive-toned skin.

The medi-witches gave Hermione a hair elastic and asked for her to contain her hair in a low pony. Hermione complied with the request, but the medi-witches did not seem too pleased when they caught sight of her curls bouncing out the ponytail.

Hermione was then directed towards a mirror. She hadn’t looked at herself since long before the Battle of Hogwarts.

She was more fit than she realized. It must have been her recent workout regimen in the cell. Still, her cheeks were hollow, and her eyes were sunken. Her clothes hung awkwardly on her body since they were slightly too big for her.

She looked tired and weak.

But Hermione also took note of the glimmer in her eyes. She looked tenacious and collected. Hermione would not break easily.

The dress and apron combo reminded her of Alice from Lewis Carol’s Through the Looking Glass. Albeit she did look like a saturated version of Alice, but the small comparison to one of her favourite muggle stories gave her hope. Even though her necklace was gone, the comparison reminded Hermione that she was still connected to her family and the life that she had before the war.

Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted when the door opened again to reveal a lanky man. His forehead took up almost half his face and his eyes rested in slits as he peered at her from across the room.

“Sit Ms. Granger.” Hermione did as she told. “My name is Dr. Padago and I will be handling your recovery to prime physical state before you move to your final destination.”

Hermione managed a curt nod but dared not to speak.

“Now, your test results are remarkably good. You will need some nourishment potions and an increased appetite going forward. Luckily, your body has not been seriously maimed like some of the others, so we won’t have to worry about regrowing any bones or stitching up wounds today,” Dr. Padago firmly stated.

Unlike the medi-witches, Dr. Pedago bore his small eyes into Hermione’s. She made sure to maintain eye contact the whole time.

“Frankly, you can go directly to training. Which is a relief given your delay into the program.” Hermione’s eyebrow quirked at this. She questioned him with her eyes and in response, his grew smaller.

“Your little stunt has caused you to fall behind your fellow retainers. Hopefully, you can catch up time.” Dr. Pedago smiled. “I would hate to see you be punished for your lack of domestic abilities.

Hermione bit back a laugh. He did not know who he was speaking to.

Annoyed at Hermione’s lack of a response, Dr. Pedago went to press a buzzer near the door.

Hermione considered what the doctor had said about her friends. They hadn’t avoided torture like she thought. Her friends had been tortured from within Azkaban. Apparently enough that some were losing bones and body parts.

As a woman entered the room Hermione swallowed her disgust.

The woman looked completely opposite to Dr. Pedago. She was short and curvy. The woman’s hair was in a tight bun and her outfit was modest but wealthy. Hermione recognized the look of expensive silk that made up most of the witch’s robes.

“Hello, Ms. Granger.” The woman reached out her hand to shake Hermione’s. But before Hermione’s hand could connect with the witch’s, she felt a sharp sting lash across her face. She had been slapped.

“First lesson, you do not shake the hands of anyone whose importance supersedes your own. And to be clear, everybody is more important than you.”

Hermione could feel her eyes welling with tears from the impact of the slap. As much as she willed herself, the tears came anyway.

“My name is Mrs. Pedago. You will be training underneath myself to become a proper retainer for your household.”

“Yes ma’am,” Hermione managed to cough out.

“Good,” Mrs. Pedago seemed please by Hermione’s submittance. “Now, I am assuming from your role in that ghastly battle that you’ve never worked within the domestic sphere?”

As if this woman could do what Hermione did for the war.

“No ma’am.”

“Well then it looks like we have our work cut out for us,” Mrs. Pedago grinned and looked up at her husband who gave her a sharp nod of approval.

The next few hours were spent in the two white chairs in the corner of the observation room where Mrs. Pedago explained what Hermione mostly knew from the paper.

Over the next two days, Hermione would train with Mrs. Pedago in her master’s home to become accustomed to her duties and the layout of the home.

Hermione would be working alongside three other individuals. Mrs. Pedago purposefully did not give Hermione their names but specified that two were women and one was a man.

Society was referring to the servants of the monarchs as retainers and it was made clear to Hermione that she would respond to any individual who referred to her as such.

After a quick run-down of tea-time and supper table settings where Hermione endured the task of memorizing what fork went where, a preposterous waste of time, Mrs. Pedago announced the car was waiting to take Hermione to her new prison.

“Ma’am?” Hermione questioned. “May I ask where I have been assigned?”

Mrs. Pedago’s eyes swivelled to meet Hermione’s and Hermione knew that she should not have asked the question.

“I only ask because I think I might need an additional nutrients potion if I’m to apparate to another country,” Hermione quickly backpedalled.

It seemed as though Hermione made an intelligent call because Mrs. Pedago’s eyes softened as she adjusted the button on her silk robes.

“I do think it is appropriate to share the information with you. It is for health reasons after all,” Mrs. Pedago began. “For better or for worse, you were a hot commodity for Europe’s monarchs. Originally you were supposed to go to King Parkinson in Italy. However, there was an incident in Spain and the Dark Lord thought it might be best to put you with the Lestrange’s to teach the citizens respect.”

Hermione gulped at the thought of going to Spain and smoothed down her skirt while Mrs. Pedago continued.

“Lucius Malfoy had been given the first pick and although he had the best retainer out of all the traitors imprisoned, he approached Voldemort with an offer to swap Lestrange for you.” Mrs. Pedago paused momentarily. “I reckon that it is a better solution to Spain’s problems anyway. A Blood Traitor is far more significant than a Mudblood like you.”

A conflict of emotions worked its way into Hermione. She was relieved to be saved from Bellatrix, but she was only saved at the expense of one of her friends.

She had a bad feeling in her stomach that Bellatrix now had Ginny or one of the Weasley’s and it was entirely her fault. Hermione made a mental note to figure out who was in Spain with the Lestranges as soon as possible.

“Thus, we will only be apparating off the island and then we will drive the rest of the way. Training will continue in the car.” Hermione had forgotten Mrs. Pedago was speaking.

“Yes ma’am,” Hermione stated and stood to follow the older witch out of the room.

Seven painful hours later, Hermione found herself in Wiltshire. She was right outside of Malfoy Manor.

Chapter Text

Malfoy Manor was larger than Hermione had imagined.

In their younger years at Hogwarts, Malfoy boasted about anything and everything even if it was only marginally better than something that someone else had. The manor was frequently an aspect of his life that he boasted about.

She remembered overhearing Malfoy in their third year telling Crabbe that Malfoy Manor was bigger than a palace. If only he knew that it literally was a palace now.

It had to have been six or seven floors high, and Hermione had yet to calculate the approximate square footage based on the manor’s expansive width and depth, but she knew it was bigger than any building she had been to before.

Dark and light gray marble bricks were stacked on top of each other and the turret roofs had dark black shingles that pointed up to the sky. The windows were grand, and Hermione could tell that some had traces of green stained glass in them. The light that passes through those windows must be beautiful and bounce across the decadent furniture that Hermione knew composes the interior rooms.

Hermione never felt smaller than she did now as Mrs. Pedago guided her closer to the mammoth of a house. Tall hedges border the walkway from the gate to the manor doors enclosing Hermione with walls once again.

She was still imprisoned.

At the doors of the manor, Lucius stood in emerald robes lined with white fur. Hermione noted that he wasn’t wearing a crown yet.

When they had reached Lucius, Mrs. Pedago began to dip into a low bow. Hermione scrambled to follow her lead, but as her right leg extended back behind her left her shoes were caught in the movement. Hermione desperately tried to regain her balance but she found gravity overtaking her body.

Her left hip connected with the marble steps drawing a sharp breath from Hermione’s gut. Lucius began to make a clicking noise with his mouth and before Hermione could pick herself up off the floor Mrs. Pedago’s hand soared towards her face once again, connecting with loud a smack.

“You’ll have to excuse Ms. Granger,” Mrs. Pedago drawled venomously. “Her lessons have just begun, and she is a slow learner.”

Hermione pushed herself off the ground before she was forced to endure further recourse for her mistake. The bruise on her cheek was already growing. It would last for several days Hermione figured.

“Well, she better pull herself together,” Lucius’s head lifted higher. “This retainer is lucky that Draco has impressed the Dark Lord. If he had not, I am sure his request would have been denied.”

Malfoy had requested her? Hermione was sickened that she could ever have felt any interest for Malfoy in the past. He was cruel and Hermione should have figured that he would take pleasure in her slavery. She could only imagine the atrocities that Malfoy had in store for her.

“Oh, how Bella would have loved playing with you.”

“Apologies your Highness.” Hermione corrected her mistake and carefully dipped into a deep bow.

Out of the corner of her eye, Mrs. Pedago gave a sharp nod. Hermione had impressed upon her for the time being. Lucius, however, promptly pivoted into the manor away from Hermione.

Good riddance.

At the base of the grand staircase just past the front door, Hermione’s eyes caught on three beige figures. It was the other retainers.

As their faces came into focus Hermione's gut began to twist with discomfort. Oliver Wood seemed to be favouring one foot, but Hermione didn’t see an obvious injury in his external appearance. In the middle stood a small blonde girl who Hermione recognized but couldn’t name. She supposed that the girl went to Hogwarts but was likely a year or two younger than Hermione.

Lastly, Hermione recognized Sophie Ropin standing on the left with a large bruise covering the left side of her face. She had been a Slytherin student in Hermione’s year at Hogwarts. Sophie’s parents fought alongside the Order. It couldn’t have been easy for Sophie to be in Slytherin when everything started to happen. She had shared a bedroom with loyal Voldemort supporters such as Daphne and Pansy who were now royals.

Sophie’s lips turned the slightest bit upwards to give Hermione a welcoming smile without getting in trouble. The smile was enough to remind Hermione that she was not alone in this palace. Hermione had friends.

“Ms. Granger, these are your fellow retainers.” Mrs. Pedago gestured at the three beige figures near the stairs who all gave an identical nod of acknowledgement. “Now that you have been placed you will be referred to as retainer Granger. The fellow servants are retainer Wood, retainer Spooner, and retainer Ropin. They will get you settled and explain the working order.”

Hermione returned the curt nod as she waited for Mrs. Pedago to continue.

“You will all meet me in the kitchen at nineteen hundred to continue training.”

With that Mrs. Pedago made her way down the hallway to the left of the stairs leaving Hermione alone with the other retainers. As soon as the elder woman’s footsteps could no longer be heard, Hermione launched herself into Oliver’s arms.

Her tears were pouring out in endless streaks as she grasped his collar in her fingers. Oliver clutched Hermione back in a desperate embrace. She could feel his shoulders shaking as sobs released themselves from where they had been hidden.

“We– we thought you were dead,” Oliver choked out. “You disappeared.”

Hermione released Oliver to squeeze his hand. Sophie had wrapped her arms around the small blonde girl who was crying as well.

“Voldemort purposefully kept Ro–“

“Shh,” Sophie hissed. “It isn’t safe to talk this close to the hallways. Let’s go back to our room.”

Oliver and Hermione nodded, and Sophie began to lead them down the same hallway that Mrs. Pedago had disappeared down.

Portraits of Malfoy’s lined the hallway. They all had the same long nose and white hair. The portraits also seemed to be watching the group as they made their way down the hall. Hermione supposed that Sophie was right to cut her off before she revealed anything. Portraits were notorious gossips, and she didn’t want to give Lucius the satisfaction of hearing her imprisonment story.

Malfoy’s portrait was at the end after a painting of the current Malfoy family. He looked bored, but he was also gorgeous, and Hermione hated to admit it. Malfoy’s eyes were softer than his father's and his face was chiselled in a handsome way. Hermione’s eyes drifted down to Malfoy’s hands in the portrait.

One was rested under his chin while the other was lazily in his lap. Hermione noted that the artist had managed to capture the tensing in Malfoy’s veins. It was eerily life-like.

Eventually, Sophie led them to a small room. It looked like an advanced prison cell.

A small wooden bed frame held a thin mattress on one side of the room. The other side had a small wardrobe and bookshelf with three books. Otherwise, the room was entirely bare.

“This is your room,” Sophie gestured. “Ours is just around the corner.”

“Wait, ours?” Hermione questioned.

Oliver smiled sympathetically at Hermione. “We all share a room. Since you were specifically requested by Draco, you are considered to be the lead retainer.”

Of course. Not only had Malfoy picked her to torment but in doing so, he further isolated her from the only people she had.

“What is the difference between retainer types?”

“Well,” Sophie began. “You get to tag along to all official events with the Malfoys to wait on them hand and foot. Voldemort does have specific retainers for himself that mostly serve the Kings and Queens, but all Princes and Princesses rely on the household retainers.”

Hermione did not want to be alone again. Oliver presumably picked up on this feeling because he quickly ushered them to the other bedroom which looked like Hermione’s but with more beds.

Once there, Hermione began to tell them her story. She detailed her capture and how she and Ron had been put in adjacent cells in a separate wing. Tears came when she discussed Ron’s deterioration and eventual death, along with her mother’s necklace.

Sophie held her hand in all the right moments and Oliver’s questions provoked details that Hermione was forgetting to tell.

Hermione listened to their story as well. She learned that the small blonde girl was Anna Spooner, a Hufflepuff two years younger than Hermione. Although the girl was seventeen, she looked much younger. Hermione noted the fear in Anna’s eyes and her bloody cuticles.

The war had not spared anyone.

Oliver described to Hermione how all the prisoners were put in Azkaban fairly close to each other.

“I was next to Penelope and Daphne for the longest while before they came for Daphne,” he explained. “Her screams were deafening.”

“Daphne Greengrass? That makes no sense,” Hermione started.

Oliver merely shrugged in response. “She never shared why she was in there. Just cried for weeks in a row.”

“But Daphne was listed in the paper that I stole. Her name was right underneath her parents and beside her sisters.” Something wasn’t adding up for Hermione. “She is the Princess of France.”

Oliver assumed that it was a mistake. Daphne must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time. But something about the expression on Sophie’s face made Hermione doubt that was the case.

She mentally added figure out why Daphne was imprisoned to her list underneath figure out who the Malfoys traded for Hermione.

As Sophie took over the storytelling, she explained that the three of them were brought to Malfoy Palace days before Hermione was.

Hermione learned that Oliver lost his foot in the Battle of Hogwarts and the medi-witches were forced to give him a prosthetic one. Hermione tried to comfort Oliver, but he laughed it off with a joke about how he doesn’t need his foot for quidditch anyways.

Anna had tearfully explained that she had been tortured by Marcus Flint who had captured her. He suspended her in the air and pulled at her limbs and hair until her bones would pop and her hair would break.

Now, Anna’s hair was in two small pigtails right behind her ears and she had a bandana over the top of her head. Anna had timidly explained that the bandana was to cover the breakage that hadn’t grown back yet.

Sophie’s story was similarly horrifying but Sophie brushed off the pain. They were retainers now and Sophie explained that she would rather focus on a resistance than subject herself to past pain.

All three of them were particularly interested in the news of Neville in Ireland. It was a unanimous decision that Neville was their best shot. Hermione prayed that by attending these extra official events with Malfoy, she would get further intel about the locations of her other friends.

After several hours of catching up, the four of them made their way to the kitchen for this evening’s lessons with Mrs. Pedago.

The lessons did not go well. It was not easy to work alongside house-elves who either wanted to chat with the retainers or who wanted no association with anyone who was not a Malfoy. Hermione and Oliver were disciplined several times by Mrs. Pedago who condemned their impulsive Gryffindor behaviour.

She kept yelling that they needed to do take their time and be careful, but Hermione was beginning to realize that Mrs. Pedago just wanted an excuse to hit her. So, with every belt to her face, Hermione rose with her head just as high as she started it with.

By one in the morning, Mrs. Pedago decided that the retainers were deserving of a good night’s rest before moving on with their lessons in the morning. So, the four retainers stumbled down the hallway towards their respective beds.

Hermione wasn’t tired. She was sad and angry.

She opted to go into her own room so that the others wouldn’t have to share their beds, but once she was perched on her own bed, Hermione wished that she had asked to sleep with Sophie.

After almost a year imprisoned, Hermione had found herself back in a cell. Granted she had more space at the palace, but she was still trapped.

Hermione traced the tick marks on her right legs as she thought of her circumstances. She desperately wished that her magic wasn’t suppressed so that she could practice spells or spend the time occluding. But she had nothing that wasn’t in this room.

As her fingers brushed the last tick mark, she realized that she couldn’t add another mark to the canvas of her skin. It didn’t feel right to lump this experience in with her last one.

Working for the Malfoy’s wasn’t the middle of her story, it was the start of a new one. But it was still a prison for Hermione, and she decided that she needed to note it as such.

Her gaze flitted down to the pale skin of her untouched left thigh before her eyes clamped shut. Hermione felt her jaw tighten as she recalled her experiences from the day. She replayed her encounters with Mr. Pedago and Lucius, the developing bruise on her cheek from Mrs. Pedago’s relentless abuse, and Oliver, Sophie and Anna’s stories. Hermione’s nails punctured her porcelain skin tainting her other thigh.

A new thigh for a new prison. The tick marks kept her sane.

After an hour of allowing her emotions to tumble out, Hermione made her way across the hall to the communal bathroom for the retainers. She washed the blood from her fingers and returned to her room.

She wasn’t ready for sleep quite yet. Instead, Hermione began to explore her compact room.

The wardrobe was built into the wall and contained identical dresses to the one Hermione was wearing and a white cloak for outdoor excursions. There were boots for the winter months along with mittens. She found plenty of hair ties and doll-like socks.

The bookshelf held three books, which Hermione yearned to dive into. She examined each book thoroughly. The first one was a housewife manual from the 1950s. Hermione figured that the Malfoys wanted her only to read about what was applicable to her job.

Still, Hermione blew the dust off the cover and opened the book to see what could be inside. Only, the book was entirely empty.

Confused, Hermione moved to the second book which was thick in size. No title was on the spine of the book, but the front cover read Magical Properties of Household Plants. Although still uninteresting, Hermione supposed that reading about plants could be useful. Hermione opened the thick cover to find that the book was empty just like its predecessor.

Were the books just for show?

Hermione decided to test the last one as well and found that it was a muggle book. Specifically, it was one of Hermione’s favourite books: Great Expectations.

Although Hermione was not too fond of the plot in the novel, her dad had read her the book every year without fail.

They would spend long summer nights by a campfire in their backyard or splayed on a picnic blanket at the park reading the tale. And Hermione never got bored of hearing it because she got to listen to her father’s warm voice juxtaposed against the sharp sounds of summer.

The book filled her with so many happy memories. It almost made Hermione afraid to pick the book up because she assumed it would be empty just like the others.

After a few seconds, Hermione’s desire for a piece of normalcy overtook her fear and Hermione reached out for the book. The book fell forward when Hermione pulled at it but remained stuck to the shelf.

At the same moment that Hermione pulled, a small click sounded to her right. She wondered if the book had triggered a secret door of some sort. Old buildings like these usual contained many passage-ways leading from room to room.
Hermione began to comb the walls for a gap or door. Her fingers slid against the green walls, but she found nothing out of place. The wood flooring under her bed remained in place as well.

She checked the wardrobe last and when she opened the door, she found that the back panel had slid open to reveal a dark passageway right behind her own room.

The wood of the wardrobe creaked beneath her feet as she ventured into the darkness that had opened itself up to her. Once Hermione had entered the dark space, candles burst to light around her.

Before Hermione was a proper bedroom full of ivory whites and light periwinkles.

On one side there was a beautiful vanity next to the portrait of a smiling young woman in Slytherin robes. The woman unsettled Hermione. She assumed that she would get in trouble the following morning for being caught in this room.

The portrait remained still as Hermione peered at the familiar-looking woman.

Alas, Hermione had already been in the room. If the portrait was to get her in trouble either way, she might as well explore.

The next hour was spent examining the room. Two large windows were on the far wall with the curtains sharply drawn. Hermione did not dare to open the curtains and risk being seen by Lucius, wherever he was.

Opposite the vanity was a large and thick bed. The duvet was luscious, and the pillows were silk. Hermione had to physically force herself away from the bed so that she would not accidentally lie down.

Around the hole that Hermione had crawled through was a wall entirely of books. There were magical and muggle authors, school books and journals. She couldn’t believe her eyes.

One of the chairs by the window held another copy of Great Expectations. This one had words.

Hermione clutched the book to her chest as she found her way into an attached bathroom. The bathroom contained both a large bathtub and shower that were itching to be used by Hermione. Still, she refrained from using them.

However, as Hermione made her way back to her room, she decided that it couldn’t hurt to stay and read on the bed. She would make sure that she left before training commenced in a few hours. Additionally, Hermione had already assumed that she would be punished regardless of what else she did.

So, Hermione crawled up to the silk pillows and opened her book to chapter one.