Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter. But, hehe neither do you!

Author’s Note: this fic ignores HBP.

* * *


The house was old. No, thought Draco, it looked old. The wood was cracked and decaying and the roof slumped but the faded shingles somehow betrayed a flimsiness he associated with temporary magically-created dwellings, a favorite choice of those fleeing Voldemort’s displeasure. Night, shrouding the sky in a cloak of black velvet, kept him from being seen from one of the dirty windows. Whoever was in it had done a good job on the illusion: pity it wasn’t good enough.

Draco was careful not to tread on the leaves scattered like stars from a single huge tree looming over the house. That at least was real. He pushed away the cobwebs clinging to the entryway and faced the door. Breaking it down, or even just knocking would alert whoever was inside. Pulling out his wand he murmured a quick charm. The door shuddered and then slowly faded out of existence. Without a sound, Draco walked into the house.

There were no lights, but Draco had excellent night vision. The front room was empty, so Draco made his way to a door he spied on the far side of the room. All of a sudden the rickety door burst open and a witch flew out. “Stupefy! ” she shouted, aiming her wand at him.

She was quick, but Draco was ready. Parrying the curse with his wand, he reached out with his free hand and wrenched her wand from her grasp.

“You know what I came for.”

“No, I swear, it’s not here.”

“I’m afraid Lord Voldemort doesn’t believe that,” said Draco simply, “nor do I.”

The witch winced at the name but nevertheless drew herself up, shaking but brave. “I… I’ll never give it to you!”

Draco laughed. “You don’t need to. I’ll just get it myself.”

Draco raised his wand. “No!” cried the witch. She dove for a small chest in the far corner of the room, clutching it fiercely.

She was a fool for falling for that. “Crucio” whispered Draco.

The witch screamed. The chest slid from her trembling fingers. “Accio” True to his call the chest sailed to him, he caught it lightly. Glancing back at the witch, he motioned with his wand for the curse to cease and left the house.

Other wizards would have opened the small coffer, or at least tried to determine its contents through some spell. Draco didn’t care. It was a stupid assignment anyway, and he wondered why Voldemort hadn’t given it to some lesser minion. Waiting under the huge tree, he felt the familiar burning sensation creep up his arm. It was always a strange feeling, a blazing but bitter cold. He wondered for the hundredth time if it felt the same to the other Death Eaters. Draco slipped his wand into a pocket of his robes and slowly rolled up his sleeve.

“Lumos!” Four pairs of ghostly obsidian eyes were reflected on his forearm. That of the serpent and the skull it slithered through. He was being summoned. His own eyes strayed to the band of silver burned into his skin surrounding the dark mark. It graced the arm of no other Death Eater, a witness to that night that haunted his every waking hour.

---

It had been only been six months ago, but it felt so much longer. There had been whispers of it before. Hints from his parents that he should have picked up on. But when his father had asked to meet him in Hogsmeade, he suspected nothing.

He was taken to a small island. Pretty in its own right, but Draco wasn’t paying attention to the scenery.

He stared at the cloaked and hooded figures Apparating all around him. His father spoke a few words to a short man whose cloak failed to hide a crazed gleam in his eyes that terrified Draco. A lot of things terrified him then.

The man led them to the heart of the rapidly forming circle of Death Eaters. One man sat in the center, his hood thrown back. Draco gasped in horror at his first sight of the Dark Lord.

Apparently Lord Voldemort had heard him, for he turned his gaze on Draco, who shrank back in spite of himself. The Dark Lord laughed softly and brought his snakelike visage even with Draco's face. In spite of himself, Draco found himself backing away, stumbling on the rough terrain.

“Afraid boy?” Lord Voldemort asked quietly. “Well is he ready Lucius?”

“Quite ready, I assure you, my Lord.”

Draco stepped forward at his father’s command. Ready for what?

He was suddenly aware that the other Death Eaters, so silent before, had started a low chanting; he couldn’t quite catch the words. Voldemort suddenly joined the chant, but intoned the words differently somehow, his voice rising above the others. Draco felt the power gathering as he listened to the strange language of the spell. “Luminate alavi pyro.” And the ground on which Voldemort stood burst into flames.

The Dark Lord watched the fire with only a casual interest. He must be more than used to this, thought Draco uneasily. But while Lord Voldemort seemed indifferent, the Death Eaters were chanting to a fever pitch. He heard his Aunt Bellatrix shrieking over the others and shuddered.

“Well, boy, what are you waiting for?” said Lord Voldemort, and motioned for Draco to step into the smoldering inferno The blaze was reaching higher and higher, but Draco forced a calm expression on his face, and steeling himself, walked into the fire. His robes were not even singed, but his arm began instantly to smolder, as black marks traced themselves into the skull and serpent as if drawn by an invisible quill.

The Dark Lord raised both arms, silencing the assembly. A smile twisted his features. "We have a new member of our order," he said softly.

* * *

Draco arrived back at the castle in a daze, and slowly made his way down the maze of underground passages to the Slytherin common room. Pansy Parkinson was waiting for him at the entrance.

“Draco, why didn’t you meet me at Zonko’s?” she pouted. “You said you would. And, oh, I waited for like two whole hours, and you know how boring that was? It was a complete waste of a Hogsmeade trip and I can’t believe you didn’t come. Draco, are you even listening to me?”

“Sorry, what?”

He didn’t have time to listen to her prattle on. He needed to think. Facing the stone wall, Draco muttered the password: “Pureblood.” He smiled in spite of himself: he couldn’t remember a time when it had been anything else. Legend said that Salazar Slytherin himself set it, if you believed that sort of thing. It was remarkable that the other students hadn’t figured it out yet, likely because Slytherin was so closed off to the rest of the school. Or maybe they’re just thick.

Draco made his way down to his dorm room and sank back on his bed. Pulling up his sleeve, hoping that by some miracle the Mark had disappeared.





“Mr. Malfoy, sir?”

“Huh? What?” A stupid house elf. Weren’t they supposed to remain unseen? He’d thought Hogwarts elves would be better trained than that. Probably Dumbledore’s fault. Giving Mudbloods ideas: why not house elves?

“Tibby had a message for Mr. Malfoy, sir.”

House elves didn’t deliver letters either. Draco peered more closely at the diminutive creature. “You’re not a school elf are you?”

“Sir is very clever. Tibby must leave now. Sir must take the message, very urgent, sir.” The elf stretched out his hands, pushing a small scroll towards Draco.
Mystified, he took it. “Say, just who is this from?” Draco found himself talking to empty air. With a crack the elf had vanished.

Draco glanced at the window. The sky was inky black. How long had he slept? In the faint glow of a single green Slytherin candle Draco could see the outlines of the slumbering forms of Crabbe, Goyle and Blaise. He was not surprised they had slept through his conversation with the house elf. He’d learned from experience that nothing short of cold water to the face got them up before 8:00 a.m. Settling himself in a chair, he began to read the letter.

* * *

The corridors were completely empty as Draco tore through them. Draco cursed as a staircase detached itself from the wall to slide toward him. It was far too slow. Draco backed up a few feet and then took it at a run, leaping from the ledge to the top step and barely keeping his balance. Racing down the stairs he turned a corner and ran smack into Hermione Granger.

“Watch where you’re going, Malfoy. And that’s thirty points from Slytherin for being out after hours.”

Shoving Hermione out of the way, he raced on. Curse Dumbledore for making her Head Girl. And thirty house points weren’t going to matter in a few minutes anyway.

“And another twenty for shoving the Head Girl. Malfoy are you even listening to me?” She shouted after him.

They always ask that. And no he wasn’t.


Hermione picked herself up. What was the stupid prat doing up anyway? And running so fast. He had looked very pale. Hermione smiled to herself. Well, paler than the twitchy little ferret usually was.

* * *

Draco was completely out of breath by the time he reached Dumbledore’s office. He stopped in front of the large gargoyle which every student above second year knew was the entrance. He didn’t know the password, but there was no time to wait.

“Searencio” he bellowed. The gargoyle burst into flames. I can light stone on fire with a spell I made up, but I can’t make the mark disappear, Draco thought angrily. Well a flaming piece of stone ought to bring someone, and quickly. If the Headmaster himself didn’t show up soon, then someone who would want to take him to the Headmaster for his crime would.

Abruptly, the burning gargoyle swung away, and Dumbledore himself came out.

“Professor-“

Dumbledore motioned for silence. “Just a moment, Mr. Malfoy, my gargoyle has caught fire.” His eyes were twinkling. Jets of water shot from his wand, enveloping the statue. The flames died, but it still smoked slightly. Strangely, no scorch marks or charring marred it. This aggravated Draco, he’d spent a lot of time developing the spell.

“We will talk in my office, Mr. Malfoy, if you will follow me.” Motioning for him to follow, he walked back through the entryway, ascending the long spiral staircase that carried them upward.


Draco entered cautiously. He had never been in the Headmaster’s office before. The pleasant circular room with Headmaster portraits dotting the walls certainly wasn’t what he had been expecting.

“Mr. Malfoy, I understand you have something very important to say.”

Draco was nonplussed. How did he know?

“Trying to barge into my office in the middle of the night denoted the barger has something important he wants to say.” He sat behind his desk and peered at Draco over his half-moon spectacles. “Unless, of course, it was a random stunt, which I doubt. There was a method to your madness, one might say, to setting fire to my gargoyle.”

It was a statement, not a question, but Draco answered it anyway. “Yes sir.”

“So what then, Mr. Malfoy, was so important that it could not wait until morning?”

“It can’t wait five minutes sir.”

Dumbledore raised his eyebrows but gestured for him to continue.

“Sir, I received a letter today from my father, a letter of great importance.” Draco hesitated. After this there was no turning back. “Sir, you know who my father is, and who he works for. Tonight. . . tonight he told me to prepare. . .” Draco trailed off.

The habitual twinkling in Dumbledore’s eyes had disappeared, replaced by a look as hard as iron. “Prepare for what?”

It came out in a rush. “They are going to attack the school, sir. By now they’ve already reached the Ministry. The Dark Lord is putting everything into this attack. He has dementors, trolls, you name it. He knows that most of the Aurors are out searching for him in the mountains. That’s why he attacked now.”

“Then we shall have to defend it ourselves.”

“Not you, sir. See, they know you’re the real strength here. So they won’t attack you. Their plan is to torture and kill students, or if they can’t get those, then people captured at the ministry, until you surrender.” Draco shuddered. “Their methods will be quite gruesome.” Draco hesitated again; he hated Harry Potter but he hated the Dark Lord more. “There is something else you should know sir. The Dark Lord himself is heading to St. Mungo’s. And he knows Harry Potter is there, sir. The Dark Lord is not taking chances with this. He’ll kill Potter unless he is moved immediately.”

Draco understood the terrible choice facing the Headmaster. Harry Potter had been injured only a few days before in a Quidditch accident. He was still at St. Mungo’s recovering. Dumbledore would have to abandon Hogwarts to save Harry, abandon the school where he was Headmaster and charged with defending it. But if he abandoned Potter, still injured and unable to defend himself, than Lord Voldemort would kill him. And the wizarding world would lose their only hope of defeating the Dark Lord.

Dumbledore sighed and to Draco he suddenly seemed much older. Yet when he spoke his voice was calm.

“There are two questions I have for you, Mr. Malfoy. First, why were you privileged to know this information?"

Draco stared at Dumbledore wordlessly for a moment and then angrily tugged at his sleeve. The Dark Mark, still fresh, blackened his arm. It was all the explanation Dumbledore needed.

“And secondly, why did you come to me about this?”

Draco didn’t answer for a long moment. “Sir,” he said finally “after I’m done here, I’m going back to my father and helping him with his work.”

Dumbledore simply looked at him, and Draco squirmed uncomfortably for he couldn’t meet the Headmaster’s ancient eyes.

“I know that, Draco; I thank you anyway. And I have a token for you. Something to remind you of what you did tonight.” Drawing his wand, he murmured a spell; Draco couldn’t quite catch the words spoken. “Look at your arm, Draco.”

Draco looked down at his arm, to his Death Eater’s Mark. A ring of silver was seeping up through his skin, surrounding the skull and snake. Draco stared at it in horror.

“Professor!”

He looked wildly around, but Dumbledore was gone.

* * *

Hermione paused outside one of the wide windows in the South Gallery. It was a beautiful piece of architecture. Stained glass mosaics of dragons lined each side, one green, one red, their claws reaching out towards the center pane. Its brilliance contrasted harshly with the miserable night outside. The stars were completely obscured by a deep murky black fog. Rain pelted the ground with a vicious “splash-slash.” Cannons of thunder shook the sky with deafening crashes. It was as if nature itself was awakened to the horrors about to take place.

Hermione peered into the darkness. Her sharp eyes detected a movement near the Forbidden Forest. Who could possibly be out on the grounds on a night like this? A teacher? Unlikely. A student? Suddenly Hermione remembered Malfoy rushing past her a little while before. She hadn’t bothered following him. He was making so much noise he’d surely alert Filch, and Hermione knew that he would get a far worse punishment from the Hogwarts caretaker than she, as Head Girl, was allowed to give.

A sudden flash of lightning bathed the area below the window with a hot white light. It illuminated several hooded and cloaked figures stealing silently towards the castle. More were creeping up from the direction of the Forbidden Forest. Seized with a sudden fear, Hermione slowly backed away from the window. Something was definitely very wrong. She wanted to find Ron and Harry but it was her duty to inform Professor Dumbledore first. She hesitated, his office was on the other side of the castle, but then, Gryffindor Tower wasn’t so close either.

Suddenly a voice magically echoed throughout the gallery. Hermione gasped as she recognized it as Professor McGonagall’s.

“All students assemble in your Common Rooms with all haste. Prefects, on the mantle of every common room fireplace is a small carving of Merlin. While touching the carving say the password “Doomstone.” The wall should swing out. Hanging on the wall is a portkey in the form of a rod. Make sure all students are holding onto it. It should take you to a safe location. The castle in under attack; leave immediately!”

McGonagall’s last words still echoed in the gallery long after she finished speaking and even longer in Hermione’s head. She had to get to Gryffindor Common Room immediately.

She glanced out the window, but the hooded figures were gone. Which meant they were in the castle, somewhere. . .

Hermione stopped mid-thought. She could hear footsteps shuffling up the stairs toward the gallery. Toward her! Abandoning all pretense at stealth, Hermione raced down the gallery. She heard shouts behind her but they grew more distant with each step. She was going to outrun them.

What she hadn’t realized was that they were coming both ways.

Two more of what Hermione guessed were Death Eaters appeared in front of her. Desperate, she turned back the way she came, as a curse ricocheted off the wall next to her. She was back at the window now, with four Death Eaters closing in on her, two coming from each direction.
Hermione pulled out her wand, “Stupify!”

The closest Death Eater went down, collapsing in a heap. One of the others shouted something at her and a jet of green light flew from his wand. Hermione threw herself to the floor and the spell crashed into the window, shattering it. The two stained-glass dragons burst into a million pieces and bits of jeweled glass rained down like hellfire. Without the glass to support it, the window’s heavy crosspiece began to fall, slamming into the far wall and breaking into pieces. Bits of wood were sheared off and flew like shrapnel, mingling with the falling glass. By some trick of fate the largest piece caught Hermione in the back of the head as it hurtled down.

As the world faded to black, Hermione saw the Death Eaters pick themselves up and walk slowly toward her.

Hermione slowly opened her eyes. For a moment she thought they were still closed for she was surrounded by darkness. Well, if I can’t see I can certainly still hear. She strained her ears for some clue to where she was.

There was a faint rumbling beneath her feet that sounded familiar but she couldn’t place, likely because of the lancing pain coming from her head. She reached up to feel a large gash on the back of it, sticky with blood and dirt. Simple enough to heal. She summoned from her memory a list of healing spells and fumbled in the gloom for her wand.

Her pocket was empty. This is ridiculous, thought Hermione, I never go anywhere without my wand anymore. Slowly, she remembered patrolling the halls, the Death Eaters and the shattering window. Was she still in Hogwarts? If not, then where? As her eyes adjusted to the darkness, Hermione searched the room for answers.

It was a small, dark room. The air was thick with a musty, old smell. A few boxes and crates were stacked haphazardly and old burlap sacks were scattered on the uneven floor. Hermione groped her way towards one of the larger crates and used it to push herself to her feet, staring past it.

Two dark slanted eyes peered back at her. And a goblin stepped out of the darkness.

Hermione jumped backward, banging her already injured head on the wall behind her.

As Hermione looked more closely she saw the goblin’s hands were chained. No need to get in a fret, it appears we’re in much the same predicament.

Goblins had always struck her as cool and collected, their clever faces betraying nothing. But this one had a harried expression and there was an edge to his movements that she had only seen in textbook pictures of Goblin rebellions.

“Groetzen, ghoek uw hras en zakrann ris?” asked Hermione politely.

The goblin's reaction was mixed. He looked pleased and cynically disbelieving at the same time. “Few wizards today bother to learn our language.”

“I only know a smattering,” confessed Hermione. “I have been reading some goblin literature lately and thought it would be fascinating to study it in its original language, so I’m teaching myself Gobbledegook. For some reason, they don’t teach languages at Hogwarts.”

“At the moment, I doubt they are teaching anything at Hogwarts.”

A small fear wound its icy fingers around Hermione’s neck. She had only been thinking of her own apparent capture. She had not considered what could have happened at Hogwarts. Suddenly she remembered Mcgonagall’s evacuation message. What had happened to the school!

“I was captured three days ago when meeting with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures at the Ministry. He Who Must Not Be Named infested the place with Death Eaters in a matter of moments. Most of the Aurors were in Transylvania searching for him, the Ministry was hopelessly outmatched.” The goblin was watching Hermione carefully for her reaction.

“Some of your Ministry wizards fled. Those who remained were completely incapable of withstanding the Dark Lord’s power. Desk-bound wizards aren’t suited for fighting armies. The Death Eaters rounded up everyone still alive after the fighting. I resisted.” There was a nasty gleam in the goblin’s eyes. “I think that was why I was taken here.”

“And what about Hogwarts?” Despite being told the wizarding government had just been essentially taken over, Hermione had ears only for her school. Hogwarts was older than the Ministry itself. Its guardian was Dumbledore, the best wizard in the world in Hermione’s opinion. And her friends were there. If the school had been taken, it represented the true fall of the wizarding world as she knew it.

"I overheard two of the Dark Lord’s henchmen speaking of it. The castle fell two days ago. It is likely he will use it as his base of power. I heard he has a certain obsession for the place. This is about the only useful thing I have gleaned from their conversations. They spend most of the time in dispute about what He Who Must Not Be Named wishes to do with the non-muggle prisoners. They have not returned since you were thrown in here.”

Hermione had so many questions she wanted answered. How many students had escaped? Had Ron? What were they going to do with the muggle prisoners? But she shied away from them. They were just too painful to think about. So she asked only the most basic.

“And where is here exactly?”

“At the moment? Look to the window.” He extended a long gnarled finger toward it.

Hermione reached over and tugged at the dusty curtains.

Light flooded the room. Hermione squinted to see the landscape roll past her. Connecting the moving scenery to the rumbling below her, Hermione realized where she was.

“It’s a train,” she gasped. The goblin smiled at her astonishment.

“Yes. Careful not to touch the window, it’s magically protected and would give you a nasty shock.” The goblin’s smile widened.

“Did you try it?”

“No, I recognize the workmanship: it is goblin made. One of mine in fact.”

Hermione ran her hand down the side of the window. Etched into the pane was a goblin symbol and the name of the artist: Zasent.

Wonderful, goblins are experts at designing compartments that are impossible to get in or out of. And now I’m the cargo.

At that moment, the door of the compartment opened and two people strode in, a man and a woman. Both were dressed in the dark, hooded robes of Death Eaters.

“Watch the goblin, he’s a tricky one,” ordered the woman. She was tall, with hair pulled back so tightly it looked like it was painted on her. She had a very long aquiline nose that she used effectively to glare down at people. But all of this was lost on Hermione. She stared in horror at the woman’s one defining feature. In place of her eye was only an empty socket, as if it had been cut away and the area around it badly healed. It looked fresh.

“What goblin? Agathan, I don’t see one.” Sure enough, Zasent had melted back into the shadows.

“You see, I told you he was tricky.”

“Just as long as he’s still here. Now you both just stay quiet.” There were nervous lines around the man's mouth. Why? She highly doubted she inspired such fear. Were they scared of Zasent? It was unlikely. Wizards who cared much of blood purity generally didn’t think very highly of goblins. Then what caused the man the uneasy tremble in the man’s voice? Hermione saw his eyes flicker towards the window. The train was going much faster now and she could hear muffled shouting.

“Are we under attack?” she asked.

The woman called Agathan’s eyes narrowed. “You’re a sharp one.”

She strode to the window, and pulled the curtains firmly shut. “Keep these closed,” she warned, and both left the compartment.

There was a few minutes of muted darkness and running feet echoing overhead.

Light streamed in as the overhead hatch was lifted and a man jumped down. He had a reckless, carefree grin etched into his craggy features and held his wand out in front of him as if he expected to have to use it. On seeing Hermione and Zasent his wand came up, but then he seemed to relax.

“Well you two don’t look like Death Eaters. Have you seen any delfini?”

“Any what?” Not here to rescue us then.

The man hadn’t waited for a reply. He jumped up onto a stack of crates, and swung himself up and out of the compartment.

There was no reason she couldn’t use this as an escape attempt. Leaping onto the nearest crate Hermione jumped, managing to grip the sides of the hatch. She hesitated for a moment. What about Zasent?

When she looked back into the compartment she saw only empty chains dangling from the wall. They looked as if they had been gnawed through. But that would take hours. Zasent must have bitten through them long before and left them clasped around his ankles so the guards wouldn’t know. He was just waiting for an opportunity like this. And he had clearly taken it. She had no idea goblins could move that fast.

Hermione heaved herself up out of the compartment. On top of the train, the wind tore and snatched at her robes, nearly unbalancing her. Over the howl of the wind she heard shouts as the Death Eaters fired hexes at their assailants, a motley crew of retired Aurors. What could be so important that with the wizarding government overthrown, they’d risk what few forces they had to attack this train?

“Hey, what are you doing out here?”

Hermione looked over and saw the two Death Eaters scrambling over the cars after her and considered her options. She was unarmed, with nowhere to run. The sounds of fighting were dying all around her as the Aurors Disapparated from the area. She had no idea whether they had gotten what they’d come for or not, but it was clear they were going to be of no help to her. Her only chance was to jump. Hermione closed her eyes and leaped.

She felt herself jerked backwards by her robes.

“Not so fast, you little mudblood.” Struggling and kicking, Hermione felt a wand pressed to her throat. Agathan brought her face in line with Hermione’s, hatred written all over it.

“You’ll pay for that little stunt” she hissed, and shoved Hermione to the ground.

Hermione spent the rest of the train ride under guard with her hands magically fastened together and her spirits sinking.

***

“The Malfoy family then. Lucius, highly regarded by the Dark Lord, is rewarded with four mudblood slaves."

The familiar name roused Hermione from her stupor. After being marched off the train she had been taken to a cavernous room, more of a cave than anything else. The uneven stone walls echoed when the smallest noise was made by the people shuffling around in it. It was a strange mix. Some were dressed in muggle clothing, others wore robes that were torn and bloodied. The most common thing worn was a terrified expression, although she caught traces of rebellion in the sullen eyes of some of the other prisoners.

A thin man with a hard expression painted on his narrow pointed face drifted above the crowd reading off names in a loud, nasally voice. He appeared to be walking on air. She saw other Death Eaters floating in a similar fashion. They were all at least ten feet higher than the grounded cowering muggles, who scrambled to get out of the way if one came near them. They’re trying to distance themselves from us. It’s not enough for them to believe they’re better than us. They want us to believe it too. It saddened Hermione that the muggles, many of whom Hermione was sure must be qualified witches and wizards, should be so intimidated by a simple levitation spell.

It was like an auction. No, it was an auction, except that it was people up on the auction block.
Not to them, though, thought Hermione, to them we are nothing. The condescension and disgust written all over the floating Death Eaters faces struck a nerve in Hermione that had been tucked away in the deepest chambers of her heart for almost six years.

She had been a very bright student before she went to Hogwarts, but the moment the first year textbooks touched her hands she started studying like crazy. She had been desperately worried that the other students, ones who were born into wizarding families, would be miles ahead of her. It was a relief to find that most of them knew a lot less. So Hermione kept studying. She really did love trips to the library and learning of all sorts. But a small part of her, buried under stacks of advanced arithmancy books and complicated spells knew there was another reason as well. That little voice whispered that she had to stay on top or Malfoy and the others were right to say that she was useless to the wizarding world. Knowing that little voice was wrong didn’t make it go away.

It gave her sympathy for other oppressed groups. When she discovered Lupin was a werewolf, she hadn’t breathed a word, even to Harry or Ron. She knew he was a good person, and a good teacher, and didn’t deserve the frayed clothing and gray sprinkled in his hair; testaments to the hard life he would always face. S.P.E.W. was another offshoot of her feelings, and she kept it up despite the laughter. Because even more than she feared receiving contempt for what she was, she feared, in a careless moment, she might accidentally give it. She had discovered that even her closest friends had small prejudices, and she desperately hoped she would never participate in such cruelty, she knew how much it hurt.

And now, muggleborns like herself were being auctioned off as slaves. As each huddled figure was led away, Hermione felt a piece of herself being ripped away. Her eyes hardened as she looked around at the Death Eaters. She wanted those pieces back.

When he called the Malfoy family name, the auctioneer beckoned to one of the other Death Eaters and whispered something in his ear. Hermione was close enough to hear the request. He was very concerned about pleasing the Malfoys and asked for mudbloods that were particularly docile and hardworking.

The Death Eater disappeared for a moment. When he returned he was leading a frightened young couple. Agathan, shooting Hermione a warning glance, vanished into the crowd. She also arrived after a moment leading a prisoner, this time a small, bald man, who was walking with a limp. Hermione stared, trying to remember where she had seen him before. And then she gaped. It was the man from the train, whom she had seen only a few hours before recklessly breaking into a compartment.


The cavalier attitude and confident expression had been shattered. Now, cold fear washed over the lines of his face. When he was thrust in front of the auctioneer, he cringed and threw up his hands to cover his face, as if to ward off blows. He was muttering something only he could hear.

Hermione shuddered. What could they have done to have wrought so great a change in so short a time?

At that moment another Death Eater entered and spoke to the auctioneer.

“Malfoy has denied your request. He thinks you lack the necessary spirit to take part in the next raid.” The auctioneer’s lip tightened, revealing his teeth, which he was grinding together irately.

“Lacking am I?”

“Oh no sir, I think you are very capable,” added the Death Eater quickly.

The auctioneer waved him away angrily. He turned to Agathan.

“Have you found a fourth mudblood for the Malfoys?”

“No sir.”

“Well who do you have that’s feisty, argumentative, likely to cause problems.”

Hermione felt herself being thrust forward.


***

Authors Note: Gobbledegook quote is loosely based on Dutch and means “greetings and how is your home and business?” If you’re waiting for interaction between H and D, don’t worry, they meet up again in the next chapter. What do you think about my explanation for aspects of Hermione's character?

The auctioneer scrutinized Hermione for a moment. Her robes were torn and disheveled, and her hair, normally bushy, now could have passed for a haystack, and coated with more than a generous splash of dirt. Her face was pale and drawn, and dried blood caked the back of her neck. A thin layer of grime was smudged over everything. There was a sharp pain in her back where Agathan had jabbed her, causing her to stumble forward. Nevertheless, her head was held high. She returned the auctioneer’s stare boldly.

The auctioneer seemed pleased. “Yes, she will do most excellently.”

Agathan paused for a moment and then spoke up. I’m glad you agree. It would be a good thing for her, after she has paid for her crimes.”

“Crimes?” The auctioneer smiled at this new revelation of Hermione’s unruliness.

“The little mudblood tried to escape on the train. And she injured Ivan.” Ivan must have been the other Death Eater guard on the train, Hermione surmised. But she had done nothing to him. What was Agathan playing at? The hatred she seemed to harbor for Hermione was almost unnatural. Had she known Agathan before? But that was impossible. She knew she would remember that chilling one-eyed stare.

“Surely she must be punished for these deeds,” Agathan continued. “A few weeks in Azkaban perhaps.”

Her lip curled in satisfaction when Hermione blanched in horror.

“Fine, get her out of my sight.”

Agathan gave a short bow. “Of course, sir.”

***

When Lord Voldemort took control of the wizarding government, the first order of business was the reopening of Azkaban. Under Voldemort’s generous sway, the fortress swelled with prisoners. They were the only inhabitants, save for the silent sentinels who guarded them from every joyful thought. Even the Death Eaters hated coming to the place, especially those who had had to spent time as prisoners there themselves. It was said that Bellatrix Lestrange refused to set foot on the Island unless the Dark Lord himself commanded it.

As Hermione entered her cell she tripped on the hem of her Dreg robe. The Dreg robe was mandatory dress for all mudbloods. It covered them from head to foot in thick rust colored material. Like dirt, thought Hermione when she saw it. A long strip of roughly woven cloth covered the head, and wound around the face, completely obscuring the features, only the eyes were visible. Even the sight of a mudblood offended the eyes of a true pureblood.

The prison warden had greeted them, or at least he greeted Agathan, when they had landed at Azkaban. He was a short man with a squint who did not live on the island, and only visited it to receive prisoners. He asked Agathan how long Hermione’s sentence was.

“Six months,” she had answered calmly.

Those six months were the longest of Hermione’s life. She spent the first few days trying desperately to hold on to her happiest memories, clutching them to her soul, as the only possessions she still owned. But she felt like she was trying to hold water in her two cupped hands. They drained away slowly, leaving her alone in the darkness.

“Kai.” She tried out her new name, whispering it to herself. All dreg slaves were required to have short simple names, and “Hermione Granger” just didn’t fit the bill. She was expected to answer to Kai. For all intents and purposes it was her new identity. But she couldn’t be Kai. Kai had no memories, only nightmares of darkness, and that which lurked within it.

There was a new tradition in Voldemort’s Azkaban. Every full moon the Dementors would gather together and select “the Chosen One” as it was called by the prisoners. Hermione had no idea how they determined their next victim, but they never lingered for more than a moment on the choice. There was only the faint rush of wind as they glided silently towards the chosen cell. No matter how deeply into madness they had sunk, every prisoner recognized the horror of the Dementors swooping down and the rattling intake of breath.

Then the screams would echo throughout the drafty corridors of the fortress. But far more deafening was the silence when the screams were stilled.

***

“You summoned me, Lord?”

Draco held out the small chest to the Dark Lord.

“Do you know what is in this Draco,” Voldemort looked past the tiny box, turning unblinking scarlet eyes on him. Draco returned his stare unflinchingly.

“No, Lord Voldemort. It is for your eyes alone. No other has seen it since it was. . . taken.” He wondered if Voldemort believed him. Likely not: Voldemort trusted no one.

Voldemort’s grasped the chest, and slid its simple lock open. It was filled with shriveled crimson leaves, so thin Voldemort’s hand could be seen through them, tinted blood red by their coloring as he sifted through the chest.

“These are Delfini leaves. And they only grow one place in the world. The purifying elixir brewed from these leaves is said to break jinxes, banish ghosts and heal the mind and body. There are even rumors it can even lift the curse of drinking unicorn blood.” He paused meaningfully. “However, the potion is extremely deadly unless prepared exactly. Again we enter the realm of rumor and speculation; the potion is a recent discovery and there is a strong chance its alleged powers are a fabrication.”

Voldemort crushed several leaves in his hand, and then opened it, palm down, allowing the broken leaves to fall silently back into their container. “Obviously, you see what a benefit it would be for our cause if the rumors were proven true.”

He closed the little chest. “I hope for your sake your prowess in potions is not a rumor either."

The Dark Lord handed the chest to Draco. “I want you to make the elixir. And then I want you to test it.”

Draco’s face was carefully expressionless. “Consider it done.”

Two old Death Eaters, resting by a dying fire watched Draco leave the small hideout. If Draco had looked closer, he might have recognized one of them as the ancient wizard who had so terrified him at his Initiation. Now he was just an old man, tired of the disquieting raids and risky fights. So he sat by a fire with another veteran like himself.

“Bloody scary, if you ask me.”

“You reckon that’s his Lordship’s way of killing young Malfoy?”

“Could be. Malfoy obeys his every order. He’s constantly off on some assignment of the Dark Lord’s. And crazy dangerous assignments they are too. Course Malfoy’s reckless as hell, so it’s a nice fit. Never takes a moment for himself. I heard he doesn’t even sleep. I reckon that’s how he rose so fast through the ranks. But maybe that’s what he’s after all along. You never see him proclaiming ‘His Greatness’ like Lestrange and her lot. At summonings and initiations he’s always standing in the back, just watching. All that work but no respect for the master. Stands to wonder whether his lordship might wonder if Malfoy’s getting a little ahead of himself.”

“Might not be a bad idea for Malfoy to go under. I saw him put a wizard under the Imperio curse once. You know how it is with the Curses. You have to work up to them. Shoutin’ helps. But Malfoy, he just whispers it, soft as you please, and you’re dead right there. Gives me the shivers. Only the Dark Lord can do that.”


***

Draco had never been to Azkaban. He had been told a slave belonging to his family was being housed there. The mudblood had been sentenced to Azkaban for six months. A long time, in Draco’s opinion. In the last six months of his own life, ever since he made that cursed trip to Dumbledore’s office, everything had changed.

Ashamed at betraying his father and his master, Draco endeavored to prove himself. He volunteered for missions: the more dangerous the better. He risked everything to complete them successfully. He was desperately afraid someone would find out what he had done that fateful night. So he always kept his arms covered.

He tried countless spells to get rid of that cursed band of silver. Once, on a raid, his arm was injured and one of the others rolled up his sleeve to heal the wound. Draco, blinking from the pain, waited for the astonished exclamation he was sure would accompany this discovery, the one he had heard so often in nightmares. But a simple healing spell was muttered and no one said anything about it. That was when Draco finally realized the duplicity of Dumbledore’s curse. Only he could see the silvery mark.

Every night, in that strange state between sleep and wakefulness he stared at the two symbols on his arm, never sure which he hated more.


***

Hermione tried to stem her increasing worry. She had not received any food that day. That could mean only one thing. They didn’t bother to feed prisoners who would not be among the living much longer. All day she waited, until finally, that terribly cold familiar feeling strengthened, swelling until it was all around her. She could almost feel the tattered black cloth brushing against her skin.

They were coming.

***

The warden met Draco at the entrance.

“I presume you’re Mr. Malfoy?” The warden was soaked and dripping.

Draco nodded. He hated Apparating into the rain.

“Shouldn’t we be getting inside?” asked Draco, wondering why the warden had waited outside for him. It was freezing.

“Yes, yes, of course,” said the warden, reluctantly edging towards the entrance. He held out his hand. “No wands allowed in Azkaban. It’s a safety procedure. We have a lot of important witches and wizards in there. Can’t have any accidental escapes now can we.”

Draco thought the warden seemed very anxious that the wand rule would be followed. Likely because he knows he’ll be on the other side of the bars if it happens. And he knows best of anyone what that would be like. Draco slid his wand from his pocket and handed it to the warden.

“What’s that ringing?”

“The Azkaban bells. They always ring when a prisoner is Chosen. It’s not the best time to come here as a matter of fact.”

As they wandered through the empty halls of the old fortress two Dementors glided past them and carried on, silently leading the way.

“We can just take another route then, shall we?” The warden started to veer towards the left, down another passage, away from the Dementors. “There are dozens.” The warden gave a nervous laugh. It was too loud and too short.

He’s terrified of them, Draco realized. And half mad himself.

“We’ll take this route.”

“Oh, okay then. That’s fine. We’ll just go this way. Nothing wrong with that. No, nothing at all.”

The warden continued to ramble, but Draco had stopped listening. More Dementors joined those gliding ahead of them, coming from all directions.

The warden shook his head. “Oh dear.”

“What?”

“It appears your slave has been Chosen.”

“Which means?”

“The Dark Lord does like to keep the Dementors happy. Have to let them have a bit of fun every so often.”

Draco quickened his pace.

“That’s her cell, just ahead there.”

The door had been thrust open. Dementors streamed in, crowding around a small prone figure who knelt on the floor. Her trembling hands were clasped in front of her. Not a sound escaped her lips.

Draco walked calmly forward, forcefully pushing through the Dementors.

Fearful of losing their prey, the wispy specters drew ever closer. The tiny room was filled with fluttering black and howling cold.

Hermione gave a small gasp and fainted.

Draco stood in front of her, facing the Dementors.

“I have nothing for you but nightmares,” he said bitterly. “Leave us.”

He took a small step forward.

“You dare defy the Dark Lord’s orders? He’ll cast you out. And you’ll be forced to flee back to the dark corners of the world, where you had only your had only your own misery to lap up, before the wizards came and found you.”

“He’s right you know, he’d be terribly angry, awful really,” put in the warden, standing back a safe distance.

The Dementors and Draco ignored him, not moving, hanging in a single suspended moment. And then they withdrew, silent as they had come, leaving only Draco and the warden.

Both of them stared at the bundle of brown robes, collapsed on the ground.

“What’s the name?”

“Oh, my name is Prewt, Alexander Prewt.”

“Not you’re name,” sneered Draco, “the mudblood.”

“Oh.” Flustered by his mistake, Prewt nervously shuffled his papers. “She is registered as ‘Kai.’”

Draco knelt on the cold stone floor. A wand would be very helpful right now. He gently lifted Hermione off the floor. He was surprised at how light and frail she was.

“You do feed the prisoners, don’t you?”

“Food is prepared, but most eat very little after the first few weeks.”

“Yes, of course,” said Draco distantly. “Let’s go.”

It was still raining when they got back to the entrance, but it had slowed to a lazy drizzle. Draco took his wand, and still holding Hermione, Disapparated.

Over the island fortress the bells clanged.


A/N: The Dementors always take a Chosen. So yes, when the bells rang for the second time it did mean that another prisoner was given the Dementors kiss. Sad, I know, especially when you find out who that was.

Malfoy Manor was a dark silhouette against the sun, climbing slowly through the cloud-streaked sky. Draco stood in front of the entrance to the seaside castle, watching the first winter snow fall silently around him. Flakes spun in crazy, dancing circles before coming to rest on his robes and in his hair. The frosty pieces settled on the girl in his arms as well, seeming to pay particular attention to her closed eyes, which was the only part of her not covered in brown cloth, obscuring her identity. They collected on her lashes, precariously balanced in a lacy pattern. For some reason this annoyed Draco and he brushed them away hastily. As his hand brushed over her eyes Hermione stirred but did not wake. Draco wondered what she had done to land a sentence in Azkaban, who she even was. It was time to find out.

“Can you stand?” asked Draco, shaking her.

Through the thick layers of unconsciousness, Hermione heard a voice demanding rather urgently.

“Wha-what?” Hermione looked up, amazed that this was something she could still do. She had never expected to wake when from her faint as the dementors gathered around her. She had expected to be worse than dead. Instead, she seemed to have survived somehow.

She stared up curiously at the blonde young man carrying her.

“Can you stand? You know, like on your feet,” Draco was demanding. “I would think even a mudblood would learn to walk at some point in her life.”

He hadn’t changed much, was her first thought. But looking up at him she knew this was untrue. His features were the same but his eyes betrayed him. She would never have described Malfoy as carefree, but looking at him now made the old Malfoy seem like a cheerful, almost happy-go-lucky boy. This man was different. There was a story in an old astronomy book she’d read once back at Hogwarts. It told the tale of a wizard who’d committed a terrible crime and was so unhappy about it that he shut himself away from the world. It was the description of his face at the end of the story that struck Hermione, “haunted by shadows,” it read. Haunted by shadows, that was Malfoy now.

Her feet and her knees had been talking to each other and both were voting firmly in the negative on the standing issue, but her head and heart were adamantly refusing to be carried by Malfoy any longer. She slipped out of his arms and concentrated hard on not falling over.

Only a few hours before she had been sitting on a grimy floor in Azkaban prison, waiting for the dementors to claim her soul. She shivered, and it wasn’t because of the snow falling on the ground around her.

She remembered her sentence quite vividly. After she had served her time in Azkaban she had a lifetime appointment as a slave to the prestigious pureblood family: the Malfoys.
Hermione had given this a great deal of thought. Thinking was about the only thing one could do in Azkaban anyway. At first she was furious with the idea of being forced into slavery. But every moment spent with the dementors chilled her hatred, until she found herself looking forward to the day when she would be taken out of that place, no matter where else she was taken to. If she went to Malfoy Manor she might even have a chance to escape, she told herself, to find her friends and the Order of the Phoenix. But looking at Draco’s face, twisted into a cynical, sneering expression as he watched her attempts to keep herself on her feet, she felt anger well up inside of her again. Until her eyes slid down to his arm. He’d rolled up his sleeves when they were getting in the way of carrying her and the silvery circle surrounding the Dark Mark glittered on his arm in the morning sunlight. Hermione reached up almost involuntarily and traced the silver band branded on Draco’s arm.

“That’s Dumbledore’s mark,” she said softly.

Draco’s whole demeanor changed as he stared at her wordlessly. He put his hand over her mouth, and brought his face close to hers so she could hear his voice, which was barely a whisper.

“Don’t say another word until I tell you. Got it?”

She nodded, too surprised to do anything else, then gasped as Draco grabbed her hand and rushed into Malfoy Manor, pulling her along behind him. They flew through corridors and dashed down passageways until Hermione thought her arm was going to be pulled off. She found herself gasping for breath after the first few minutes; six months in Azkaban had a way of depleting one’s stamina. She wanted desperately to ask him to slow down, but refused to expose this weakness to Malfoy. It occurred to her that the last time she had seen him he had also been going unusually fast, racing down the corridors of another huge building: Hogwarts castle. Her entire world had been shattered after that experience. The parallel struck her as a bad omen. She was the last person to believe in omens, but she had to admit it didn’t sit well.

Draco finally stopped in front of what looked like a blank wall. He whipped out his wand and waved it in front of him. Obviously he was using wordless magic for his lips didn’t move. He slid his wand back into his pocket, satisfied, even though the wall looked exactly the same to Hermione.

“Come on.”

“Through the wall?”

“Yes, I copied the idea from platform nine and three quarters. This way, even if my enemies discover how to open it correctly they will think they got it wrong because nothing appears to change.”

Clever, Hermione conceded, as they descended down creaking wooden stairs behind the wall. At the bottom was a small room entirely hewn from stone and lit only by fiery orange torches lining the walls, their flames sputtering from lack of air so deep down. Draco closed the door.

“Here alone, we can speak freely. I would not trust anywhere else even in my own Manor.”

Could you have been a little gentler or was it your intention to pull my arm off?” Hermione instantly regretted the words. She was a slave now and saying such things would likely bring swift punishment.

“You could just grow another one if it does come off,” said Draco dismissively. He chose to ignore the impudence for the moment, struck by something.

It was odd, thought Draco. She sounds vaguely familiar when she’s angry. But her name certainly doesn’t ring any bells.

He leaned on one of the walls, his face only a few inches below one of the heavy torches.

“You’re name is Kai, isn’t it?”

“What? Oh, I mean yes, yes it is.” That was her dreg name but Draco knew her, or at least knew the Granger girl he used to clash with at Hogwarts. So why the charade? Hermione reached up and felt the mud-colored cloth that covered her face. Of course, she realized, he doesn’t recognize me. This surprised her but she instantly saw the advantage. In his eyes, she was still a mudblood slave, but she was not Granger, his mudblood-enemy-turned-slave, which was a small comfort.

“Now, you said you could see this?” Draco was questioning her urgently, pointing to the silver band.

“Yes.”

Draco looked at her carefully. “Are you absolutely certain?”

No, I lied, thought Hermione sarcastically. What, did he think she was blind?

“Yes, absolutely certain,” she said firmly.

Draco slumped against the hard stone, his expression was unreadable. “You’re the first person besides me who can,” he said in a low voice.

Something about the way he said it resonated with Hermione. There was a hopelessness coating his words that she knew so well. It was the same feeling she had felt every day in Azkaban. And she couldn’t help being curious about the mark. Without realizing what she was doing, she began to help, in the way only Hermione could.

She promptly asked the first question she always asked when encountering something strange and magical. “Do you know what it does? What its magical properties are and such.”

Draco frowned. In truth, it had consumed his every thought, he had never considered it ever doing anything except, well, existing. In retrospect this seemed incredibly foolish. It had been Dumbledore, after all, who had cursed him with the mark: who knew what the old wizard put into it?

“I have yet to discover its purpose,” he said softly.

“Dumbledore normally puts it on things he created. It is his signature, you might say,” lectured Hermione. “Like when a silversmith fashions a piece, he stamps it with his sign. That’s Dumbledore’s.”

Her words were mystifying, and what she said was hardly common knowledge anyway, or he would have known it. “You seem to know an awful lot about Dumbledore. Were you a student at Hogwarts?” Judging by her voice she was too young to have been anything else.

Hermione hesitated, struck by a sudden idea. If he knew she was a student at Hogwarts his thought might carry him even further, to her true identity. In addition to the humiliation such a revelation would bring, she would be watched more carefully. The more she was seen as a threat the narrower the possibility of escape. But if Draco thought she was, say, a squib she would be perceived as less dangerous. It was always better to let your enemies think you are weaker than you really are. And squibs were slightly higher than muggleborns in the wizarding world’s social caste system. She might receive better treatment.

“I can’t do magic.”

Draco looked unconvinced. “A squib who knows Dumbledore?”

“My parents were friends of his. They were very important in the wizarding world. Terribly disappointed when I turned out to be a squib,” supplied Hermione, hoping desperately he wouldn’t ask who her parents were.

She was lucky. Draco didn’t care. Who was important in the old wizarding world had no meaning now. Only Voldemort’s favor mattered, or his displeasure.

Hermione was mulling over the all the information she had just garnered. It was puzzling that Draco Malfoy, a Death Eater, would have Dumbledore’s mark branded on his arm. And even more strange, was that Draco seemed mystified at it as well.

“When did this happen, when did it…appear?” She asked.

Draco said nothing, and Hermione got the feeling this was something he would never reveal.

She realized what a precarious situation he was in. Draco might not know Dumbledore’s mark when he saw it, but she’d wager Voldemort would, and she could easily imagine how he would act if he found out one of his own Death Eaters bore such a mark. But Voldemort couldn’t see it. Nobody could…except her. She felt her stomach twist unpleasantly. There was something very sinister about all of this.

“Have you tried removing it?”

Draco stared at her incredulously. “Only every day,” he growled. “Not that anything ever works. But I think I may have something now, unwittingly provided by my master, that might do the trick.”

He looked as if he was weighing something in his mind and then appeared to have made a decision. He glanced up at her again. “I usually don’t pay much attention to slaves but you’re very clever for a squib, if a bit disrespectful. I also can’t afford to keep you too far away: you could run off and tell someone everything. So, I’ve decided to make you my personal servant. Your job is to assist me in trying to get rid of this,” he said pointing to his arm, “and to keep anything I tell you a secret, even this arrangement. When there are other Death Eaters or any other of Voldemort’s faithfuls present, you are to be my eyes and ears. No one pays attention to dregs anyway so you should be quite useful. Anything you overhear is to be reported to me and me alone.” He paused. “This will be in addition to anything else you are required to do here at the Manor, which isn’t much. My mother is far too kind to the slaves.” He unrolled his sleeves and the marks vanished from view.

“I’ll arrange for your quarters to be next to mine.”

“Oh, and Kai,” his voice dropped back to a whisper, “tell anyone about this and you can head straight back to Azkaban. I’m sure the dementors would give you a warm welcome. They don’t like losing their prey.” Draco turned and left her standing alone in the firelight.

He wound his way back up the stairs, taking every step with trepidation. He was uneasy knowing someone else knew his deepest secret, or at least part of it. But oddly, he felt a sense of. . . relief. There was no other word for it. The terrible secret had been weighing down on him for what seemed like an eternity, and he felt lighter with the knowledge that someone shared it, even if it was just a mudblood slave.