READER WARNINGS:
This is very dark, and not in anyway meant too offend anyone. If it's not your cup of tea, please move on. This will be 18+, violent, horrific, and if written correctly psychologically disturbing.
The Holocaust imagery throughout the Harry Potter series, both in the book and the films, and it seemed completely plausible to me that even with He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named, dying, that there was enough infrastructure in place to continue with the scourge of Muggle-Borns, Squibs, and all of those who are an enemy to the future of a "pure-blooded magic society."
The danger does not end with those in the Wizarding world. All Non-Wizarding people are viewed as second class, and territory to conquer for those behind this very dark, alternate universe.
Neville, will rise from the ashes, no fear. Harry may be dead, but Neville will be our hero. And he will have a lot of help, along the way.
I intend this story to change view points often, but if i had to wager up front, Hermione will have the majority of chapters for us to follow her point of view, and what she's experiencing.
There will be major character deaths. There all ready has been, and I haven't written a word yet. ;) So, be prepared. This is rated M and for very good reason. It will be dark, explicit, and disturbing. PLEASE know that going in, so there's no surprises. And do not read this if you are under eighteen. Seriously.
Also, as a writer, I am very open to feedback. I love to hear what my readers think, and am willing to listen to ideas, and even directions in which they think things should go. I won't always change my vision to follow suit, but I will always engage in a dialogue with anyone who is willing to message me with their thoughts, and ideas.
Alternate Universe, so there may be some surprises in who is alive, and who is dead, and who will join them. Again, fair warning.
So, without further adieu, here we go.
Hermione woke with a start, gasping for breath. The nightmares of the Final Battle at Hogwarts followed her everywhere she went. The horror of seeing the corpse of Harry Potter, the boy who lived, and the joy as he opened his eyes, and Voldemort's fury, and shock at being thwarted. The brilliant colors of the streams of their wands meeting, hadn't dulled in her memory, though months had passed. Terrible months of suffering, but she could remember every moment of that duel, as if it were happening before her, repeating like a muggle film. The energy had been contagious, the joy in the air on the side of the light, and the trepidation among the Death Eaters. In any other war, they would have met in hand to hand combat, destroying each other, but as had been done in battles of Yore, the leaders of either side fought, while their armies waited with bated breath.
It was always in the same moment, that Hermione awoke. Something had gone wrong. Too much magic, too much power, and a dark strike of fate. And with a shock of magic that hit through him, freezing his maniacal features, the Dark Lord fell into the oblivion of death. The satisfaction of watching him fall, and the sounds of his followers mourning was not long-lived. It was Ron's voice that alerted her that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
"HARRY! NO!" His anguished cry caught Hermione's attention and she turned her attention from the fallen Voldemort, to see Harry had also fallen to the ground. She ran to him, mere steps behind Ron. Her hands moving to shake his shoulders, watching in horror as there was no recognition on his face, his glasses slipping down his nose. His arm flopping, dead as he was to the stones of the Hogwarts courtyard. It was always her own scream that woke her in this nightmare, drowning out all other sounds. And the pain of the memory was not in any way softened, as she realized with horror, as she did every time her eyes opened, and she realized she was not in the safety of her Hogwarts Bedroom, or of the Burrow, or even of the house she had lived in with her parents.
After a week in solitary confinement for bad behavior, chained in a hole, she had been returned to one of dozens of barracks, all identical in their structure. Each building held 60 prisoners, separated by gender and crimes. They were referred to as "Enemies Of The Magical State", by the Ministry. What that meant, according to Provision 12, of the Amendment For Improving Magical Bloodlines, was clearly defined as " Those of inferior birth, that through dark means have stolen magic that was intended for only those of Magic Blood." Muggles. "Those of correct birth, who were born without magical ability. " Squibs. "The worst crime, being, those of correct birth who have gone against their own kind to support the infiltration of inferior bloodlines, and all enemies of the Ministry and their attempts to secure a better future for all." The Order. Her friends. Good people. Decent folk, were now the enemy, according to the Ministry.
The changes had been in place, before the attack on Hogwarts. Everything had been done by paperwork, and with the helpful aid of the Imperius curse, Shacklebolt had signed everything into place. Many wondered at the quick rise Percy Weasley had made in the Ministry of Magic, but there was opportunity, and the death of his brother had left Percy… unsettled. Few were aware of his contributions to the Amendment, and too, the creation of the Enemies Of Magic Interment Center. His involvement would not be thoroughly revealed for many years to come.
Hermione had been placed among other Muggleborn women, and shared her cot with an older Witch named Daphne, who had attended Beauxbatons as a girl, and preferred to speak in French, and more often then not, spoke only nonsense. As enemies of the state, the punishments they faced were varied, and terrible. Wizards and Witches in good standing were able to obtain permits that allowed them to cherry pick from these enemies, if they had skills that could be put to good use. Daphne had been chosen by a Doctor, who was working on a paper for the Ministry, about the use of the Unforgivable Curses. Every time Daphne returned, a little more of her sanity was gone, and the light in her eyes diminished.
Despite her abuses, Daphne could sleep through anything, and Hermione's nightmares never troubled her. It was early, Hermione noted, glancing to the small windows that were found through each corner of the structure. Barely large enough to squeeze an arrow through, but the light that came through was enough for her to determine the time. And it was a good half an hour before they would be called into the courtyard for role call. She made her way down the ladder that connected the four bunk high beds. Careful not to make much noise, there were House-Elves that had been assigned, two per barracks, their one duty was to spy on those they were assigned too, and share all pertinent information with their Masters. She made her way to the small bathroom that the 60 girls shared. Two toilets, no doors, privacy was something that had been denied them since they had arrived. There was a hose, with cold water for the shower, and she ignored it, moving to the toilet instead to relieve herself.
It was the first Monday back, from when Hermione had been sent to solitary. She knew what that meant. Her name had been once again entered into the list of those prisoners, that were able to be taken by pass, for scientific, industrial or educational purposes. The pass system was what had sent her to solitary in the first place. Peter Pettigrew had taken an interest in the bushy haired brunette. She had been under a limited pass system, due to her celebrity. Everyone had an interest in learning what they could from one of the Golden Trio, and often, those who had checked her out, like a library book, had far more interest in her body then her brain. He had underestimated her, and while he attempted to reveal what lay beneath her Internment issue grey and black striped uniform, that could be described best as a hospital gown, with snaps, instead of ties. With one tear he had revealed her back, and with his distraction, she had grabbed his wand.
Needless to say, Peter Pettigrew was still recovering from the attack, at St. Mungo's. He had been howling for her death, ever since, certain that his nether regions would never recover from her vicious attack. The Director of the Internment camp, had come to visit her, after a combination of Aurors and dementors, all working for the new, dark Ministry, had disarmed her. Chained in the bottom of the hole, deeper then many of the vaults at Gringrotts, she had squinted up to the man standing over her, holding a lantern, to display her. He smirked a little, when the light of recognition crossed her eyes, and she attempted to dissolve into the darkness of the hole. She'd never forget his face. The torture in his manor was one memory that was as clear as losing Harry had been. He had smiled that same way then. His silken voice echoed off the space above her.
"Miss Granger. How many times will I see you in chains, I wonder? You were scheduled to be executed tomorrow morning, at sunrise. "
She didn't respond, just tried to draw her knees closer to her body, the way the chains held her guaranteed it was no easy task. She didn't want him looking at her nude. The clothing was taken away while in solitary, and she didn't enjoy the look in his eyes, as he watched her. His smirk widened as he watched her attempt to conceal herself.
" I have put a stay on your execution. I hold your fate in my hands. You're lucky I can't stand Pettigrew. i visited him in the hospital ward, and I must say… My Master would have been very pleased with your creativity. I think you have a dark heart, Miss Granger. I look forward to watching you discover it, and to see in what ways you will show your gratitude… for your continued existence. "
He sneered and left her shaken in the hole, wondering if she had made a mistake by not using the wand as a way out, to end herself, and this nightmare. The disapproving faces of Ron and Harry haunted her dreams that night, and she did her best not to think of such alternate routes. She had survived this long, surely there was a purpose for it?
She sighed, wishing they had been given toilet paper, or a wand at least to clean herself. All she had to wash herself was the hose, and she removed her uniformed striped clothing, setting them on the counter, and turned on the cold hose of the water. How she wished for soap. For hot water. Her shampoo and conditioner, that smelled like coconut, and the ocean.
She shivered as she rebuttoned her Uniform, there were no towels, and she hoped that the clean water at least would do what it could to wash some of the filth from the striped monstrosity she had grown to hate. She stood, her hair dripping dry, as she watched the door. The sound of a drum beginning to echo from outside. Her silent prayers for safety, and freedom crossed her lips, as the sound of the other women, and girls of her Barracks began to rise around her, they hurried, and got into their assigned lines, and she followed suit, squeezing her eyes hut as the door opened and the light they had been denied filled the room.
It seemed unfair that the Earth could have such a beautiful day, when her inhabitants were suffering so terribly.