A/N: So, I had typed up a LONG author's note – a whole page – of explanations and background information for this story. But you really don't need to know all that – that was mostly me babbling, because I babble when I'm nervous and I'm nervous about posting this. This is the longest fanfiction I've ever written (it's not finished yet, but I'm about halfway there and the rest is outlined) and I've put more work into this than any of my other fics. So, you guessed it, that means I really want reviews! There are just a few more things you need to know before you start, but I'll try to keep things short:

This story is AU; however, it is HBP-compliant and parallels much of DH.

There will be swearing, torture, character deaths, and mature subject matter. Nothing explicit, but if the content bothers you, turn back now.

I'm not British. I'll attempt to use British English vocabulary (ex: queue vs. line) but I'm sticking to American English spelling (ex: color vs. colour). However, I'd appreciate it if readers would point out any accidental Americanisms that sneak in.

I don't own Harry Potter and am making no money from this whatsoever.

Okay, that was still a little long, but you should have seen what I had written before! Time to stop stalling. Here we go:

Prisoners and Captives

Part One: Malfoy Manor

Chapter One: Destination, Determination, Deliberation

Hermione Granger had never quite gotten used to wearing somebody else's body. Under Polyjuice, she became clumsy and awkward; she misjudged distances and her own reaction time; she displayed her emotions dangerously in the unfamiliar curves of a borrowed face. The world was different when seen through somebody else's eyes; strange, alien. She never quite trusted herself when she was under Polyjuice.

When the queue shuffled forward, Hermione stumbled over her too-large feet and nearly fell into the middle-aged man in front of her. "Sorry," she muttered in an unfamiliar smoker's rasp, and felt blood rush to her too-fair cheeks.

The man eyed her distastefully, and Hermione turned away to look out the humongous windows at the airplanes waiting below. She put a too-large hand in her jacket pocket, touching the stolen wallet and reminding herself of the plan: get in, buy three airline tickets to Albania, get out. It should take no time at all.

She hadn't figured the abnormal length of the queue into her plans. Hermione glanced at the digital clock suspended off a nearby wall: 4:37. She had less than half an hour before the Polyjuice Potion wore off. She had another dose in a water bottle in her purse, but she knew that in the process of rummaging around for it she would inevitably drop something and draw unwanted attention to herself. She would wait another twenty minutes.

The line shuffled forward again, and Hermione's too-long legs took her farther than she'd intended. The man in front of her inched forward, glancing over his shoulder with a look that bordered on loathing.

Nervously, Hermione let her gaze wander away from her irritated neighbor to scan over the numerous security guards. The recent attacks on Muggles had been interpreted as terrorism, and the government had responded by increasing the security everywhere they could. Hermione sighed inwardly. As if policemen and firefighters could do anything against Dementors and Inferi.

As the queue shuffled forward, another security officer approached. He stood near the front of the queue for a moment, one hand in his pocket, his eyes scanning the room. His gaze stopped to rest on Hermione. She looked away quickly, but she could still feel his eyes on her. She reached inside her pocket, touched the wallet, let her arm brush against her side so she could feel the reassurance of her wand stowed in her sleeve.

He was still looking.

Hermione forced herself not to fidget, to appear normal. But it didn't work. Out of her periphery she could see him walking toward her – was it toward her? – he was drawing near the queue, near her section – he was right in front of her – he stopped, looked straight at her.

"Excuse me, ma'am." His voice was rough and almost angry, despite the politeness of his words. "You've been randomly selected. If you'll come with me, it's a simple security routine."

The moment seemed to freeze as Hermione considered her options: Run. Disapparate. Curse him.

Or go along with it and hope that it really was a routine security measure.

She tensed her arm. Her wand was still there.

"Oh, bother," she said, doing her best to sound merely annoyed and not completely terrified. She stepped out of the line. "Do I at least get to jump the queue once you're finished?"

"Of course," the man said disinterestedly. "Follow me."

Again, Hermione weighed her options. If this was a trap, if he had somehow recognized her, she could always Disapparate. But much as she wanted to, she couldn't leave yet. If she Disapparated, she would draw unwanted attention to Muggle means of transportation, and within the week, airports and train stations would be swarming with Death Eaters looking for Muggle-borns and half-bloods fleeing the country. If she left before she had to, blood was on her hands. And, maybe more importantly, any Horcrux in Albania would remain there.

Hermione stepped out of line ("Thank God," the man in front of her mumbled) and followed the security guard, trying to keep herself calm by concentrating on not tripping over her own feet. It didn't particularly help, especially when the man stopped before a door marked STAFF ONLY. DO NOT ENTER. and knocked twice.

The door opened. As quickly as she could, Hermione turned on her heel, visualizing the forest and pushing away the harsh, bright reality of the airport. She felt the familiar pressing darkness, and then – it stopped. She felt herself being pulled back to the bright lights and white walls.

Wards.

Panicked, she pressed harder, concentrating, trying to break through, to escape – she pictured the tent, she pictured Ron's face, Harry's – she pictured a hoop – destination, determination, deliberation -

The wards broke. Stumbling from the effort, she lost her balance and fell to her hands and knees on the cold linoleum floor.

Linoleum. Fighting the urge to cry, Hermione looked up. She hadn't broken the wards, she hadn't left the airport, and now they knew she was a witch.

Hands reached out and yanked her up and into the room. The door slammed shut behind her and clicked as it was charmed shut.

"Expelliarmus." Hermione's wand flew out of her sleeve before she thought to draw it. Some Gryffindor she was. "Accio." Her purse, with its damning bottle of Polyjuice Potion.

"That was stupid." Some Ravenclaw, too.

Mentally shaking her head, Hermione pushed it all – despair, fear, panic – away. She could do this. She could think on her feet, keep her cover, get out of here in half an hour. She had to. If she didn't – well, she wouldn't think about that.

Look around. Assess your situation. Don't drop your guard. Constant vigilance. Hermione shifted into battle mode, every sense on the alert, waiting and searching for an opportunity to get out of here.

They moved back a little, filling out the small grey room – probably used for storage, once – and Hermione studied them. They were four men, two of whom she recognized – Theodore Nott, a would-be Slytherin seventh year – he was here, so he had probably dropped out – and his father, a Death Eater during the first war. There were stories about what he had done to Muggles…

Separate. Objectivity. Nott Sr. was probably checking up on his son, he was too senior to be assigned here – apprehending Muggle-borns was far too mundane a task for him, especially as the Muggle-borns would likely be traveling in families and not expecting Death Eaters – Potterwatch had been recommending Muggle transportation for weeks now, and in such heavily loaded terms that even Ron could catch the hint. Too heavily loaded, apparently, if Death Eaters were here. She would have to find a way to contact the Order….

"A Probity Probe told us of your wand. We know you're a witch. State your name and blood purity," said one of the Death Eaters she didn't recognize, a short pale man with greasy brown hair.

"H-Helen Macmillan," she said, the raspy voice rising an octave. "Pureblood."

"Macmillan?" said Nott Sr. sharply. "Any relation to Ernie Macmillan?"

"A – a third cousin, or something. I met him once, maybe five years ago." She didn't know whether she should be worried or proud that Ernie had caused enough trouble at Hogwarts to stain his family name.

"Destination?" the first Death Eater asked.

"Al – Alsace," Hermione answered, catching herself. Why this stubborn inclination to tell the truth? "To visit a friend."

"Her name?"

"Gi – Jeanne Delacour."

"Any relation to Fleur Delacour?" asked Nott Sr. Did they know the entire Order, then, as well as the entire DA?

"No, Delacouer, not Delacour," she said, stressing the difference in pronunciation. Nott Sr. looked skeptical but made no comment.

Another Death Eater, a pudgy, balding man who looked to be around forty, looked to Nott Sr. before saying to Hermione, "Go to the next room, then, and after an hour you can go back to the queue." He waved his wand and an open door appeared in the far wall.

Not seeing any other option, Hermione walked through the door to await her doom.

The room was not empty. A short blond boy about her own age, and an even shorter, older blond woman were standing together in a corner, their heads close together, whispering. They both looked up as Hermione entered the room, and Hermione recognized the boy as a Hufflepuff a year below her; she was fairly sure his surname was Summerby. The woman looked so like him that she must be his mother.

Both Summerbys looked her over and turned back to each other, effectively cold-shouldering Hermione. They were making it plain which side they were on by showing disdain to her unproven blood status – but the fact that they were here showed that they were not allied with Death Eaters in any real way.

Hermione leaned against the cold cement wall, fighting back the rising panic and trying to focus, to think of a means, any means of escape. She had about twenty minutes if they didn't go through her purse and find the Polyjuice. At least she hadn't taken her Charmed purse, so apart from the Polyjuice it held nothing condemning. So there was that, at least, though it wasn't much.

To her horror, Hermione felt hot tears well up in her eyes. This body apparently had less self-control than hers did.

Objectively, Hermione. Objectively. She took a deep breath and steadied herself. She thought of weighing her options, but at present she had no options to be weighed. She would be discovered, and she would be tortured, and she would be interrogated, and she would be killed, and others would be killed because of what she would tell. She would not be able to keep her secrets to herself: even if she could withstand torture, there were Legilimancy and Veritaserum and the Imperius Curse to contend with.

They would find out everything – where Harry and Ron were, what they were doing – that they knew about the Horcruxes, about the Hallows (if there were Hallows) – their small advantage would be lost. Voldemort would win. There would be a reign of terror, mass killings of Muggle-borns, Hogwarts would be made a school for the Dark Arts –

Stop it! Don't panic. Think objectively.

They couldn't find out what she knew. So – objectively, Hermione, objectively! – she had four options: To escape before she was interrogated. To somehow get someone to Obliviate her. To die before she was interrogated. Or to get them to torture her into insanity.

Hermione took another deep, shuddering breath. The prison of Nurmengard, Dumbledore's letters in Rita Skeeter: for the greater good. She could do this, she had to – the consequences, should she fail, were too great. She would take whichever option came first.

She just hoped it wasn't the last.

Usually, when Hermione had a plan, she would ruminate over it, perfecting every last detail until she was completely sure it would work. She couldn't bear to do that now, so instead she began to mentally run through every Jinx and Curse she knew. Alphabetically.

She was at Defodio when the door opened and Nott Jr. stepped in.

"You two, you can go," he said authoritatively, nodding at the Summerbys. "Here - "

Hermione had never had particularly good hand-eye coordination, which was why she was rubbish at Quidditch, but in spite of that, and in spite of the Polyjuice-induced clumsiness, Hermione lunged forward and caught a wand as Nott tossed them both to their owners.

She hit the ground and cast a shield simultaneously, deflecting numerous curses - the other Death Eaters had noticed what was happening – but if she could just keep the shield, she had a chance.

"Stupefy!"

"Petrificus Totalis!"

"Sectumsemptra!"

"Crucio!"

Sheild Charms don't block Unforgivables, Hermione remembered a split second before the red jet of light touched her blue shield. And then the curse hit.

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