Author's Note I: This original one-shot was penned for the lovely beforeyouspeak, in honor of her birthday. She requested Bellamione in an apothecary shop. I took that to mean: write plotty dystopia. Cheers, my friend - this is the extended version. May your days be bright and your nights victorious.
War does not determine who is right – only who is left.
~ Bertrand Russell
The stench of London was ineffable.
The new empire was efficient in many things, sanitation not one of them. Early on in the soft years, Master Weasley conceded that Fudge at least had handled that. Arthur didn't speak so frankly anymore. Not since Ginny passed. Not since the caste system took over.
Ron sent Hermione on an ingredient run in the wee morn, their stores meager after winter. She wasn't one to turn away from an unsupervised errand, not in this life. The witch scowled at the list, offended by his idiocy before sunrise. She thumbed several of the items.
"Polyjuice? So much for laying low," Hermione said. "This'll raise flags higher than those in Execution Square."
Her face was clean and haggard, her hair tamed into a plait. The aesthetic didn't match and Ron was unbalanced, seeing Hermione of fourth-year and not a woman of thirty. An indentured one at that.
Hierarchy now lawed the land.
The Royals ruled, their Nobles as peachy keen as the elite class. Gentry citizens comprised the comfortable middle class. Undesirables came next, a caste of skilled and indentured servants. The lower castes were stuck in steerage — it was better to be a Serf than a Slave, but measuring misery wasn't very relative.
"Everything you do flags the system," Ron had said. "At least let it work for us." He wasn't wrong. Hermione was Undesirable number one, the primer of her caste. Top-ranked, Molly Weasley had bought a thirty-year contract on Granger at first light, after the trials.
Hermione sighed hatefully, too wizened to be angry at Ronald's gaming. The Order was long gone. What lingered was a half-hearted group of anarchists, Ron their unlikely leader. She wasn't supportive of his unorganized vision (or methods). It wasn't loyalty that made her serve; she wasn't Noble like Weasley or privileged like his Gentry followers.
"Resistance is futile." Hermione muttered, apathetic, but she bowed to Ron and his orders. So went the life of this indentured servant, the swot who lived.
They all had their orders.
Surprisingly, the Weasleys managed respectable positions in the new world order (albeit due to circumstance, not favour). The Royals couldn't disavow the Weasley clan; they were pure-blood and distant cousins through Arthur's mother, Cedrella. It would have been political upheaval and poor taste to trash more relatives without cause. Especially since Draco and Ginny had courted for a (very) short spell, before her…termination.
The awkward truce created another kind of crisis for Hermione; if the Weasley clan allied with the monarchy, then who was enemy? Nothing was delineated anymore and she missed the steadfast versions of her carrot-topped kin, all fire and vim and verve. These days saw the Weasleys far more malleable. Nobility will do that and the sweet slide of corruption was insidious. That willingness to stay silent and eat the shove, when one ought push.
A servile fever if you would.
Master Weasley was abroad this quarter, taking point on some minor trade deal in Ireland. Madame Weasley served at the palace with George, she a steward and he an apprenticed clerk. Bill and Fleur were a regular fixture in court (much to their disgust) and Percy brownnosed as a foreign diplomat to France (much to his content). Charlie—Hermione didn't know what the hell he did—seemed bent on charring his limbs much as his mother's heart. Ginny and Fred were worm fed, bedded in the ground.
That left her with Ron's unfortunate and unemployable authority. Hermione remained bowed and he touched the crown of her head. She rose to his countenance, scowling.
"Stay on watch," Ron instructed, his face leaner than expected. "You're not exempt."
She ignored Ronald and slung a messenger bag over her shoulder, the air crisping the grass beneath her feet.
"Hermione," he hissed, displeased at her heedlessness. "The empress is on the move. Bill says she broke schedule. And it's Thorsday."
"Thorsday," Hermione repeated disdainfully. "Because Freyday or Saturnsday would be safer?" The sarcasm cut and Ronald didn't appreciate.
"Statistically…"
"You couldn't calculate even if a TI-89 bit you on the ass." Hermione sassed his blank stare, enjoying her muggle roots. "The empress has no schedule and there's likely a double or two on staff. Maybe she's at temple, pretending like everyone else. Or maybe she's murdering down in the gallows. Send me or don't send me, but don't make like you care."
"Granger," he spat. "We paid for your safety. You forget yourself." He'd forgotten himself years ago.
"Prime Granger," she hissed, correcting. "Fear not. I won't damage myself." Hermione flourished her wrists lavishly, displaying her form and disgust. "Keep your concern, Master Weasley," she said snidely, mocking a curtsy with uncouth knees.
And onward Hermione went, disliking the wizard immensely.
Ronald watched until she passed the acre outskirts and reset the wards. Not for the first time he was phenomenally grateful that his fate wasn't hers. Their current situation wasn't conducive to friendship, but they managed life just the same. Harry would have…Ron tasted ash in his mouth. The boy-wonder was four years gone and still guilting him from the grave. Ron made to his father's study and posted a letter to McGonagall. His quill scratched out hardship and updates. She was the only one Hermione trusted anymore. Minerva never answered him, but he took solace knowing that his former professor would protect Hermione where he wouldn't.
Friendship didn't survive ownership and Mudblood Granger belonged to the Weasleys, primer or not.
The sky opened up, deluge killing the morning frost. Hermione looked back on the grounds. The Burrow no longer toppled, fortified by the Weasley's newfound status and funds. Bottom of the Noble caste, the Weasleys made out better than most through sheer genetics and blood status. Hermione was part of that machine, pretty by association. There weren't many mudbloods who had escaped the slave class.
She trudged on muddy ground, the March rains sparing them snow. The witch fingered the old tree on apparition hill. She retained that travel permission, thankfully. Her appearance rimshot through the empty streets of morning London. The world was grey and quiet, either at worship or underbelly gatherings. The new order had brought back the gods. Hermione wasn't a believer, but the thunderclap overhead twitched her mouth. Her slicker kept most of the chill away, but her hair dripped, soaked dark by the rain and lit by occasional lightning.
She was glad for the braid and for the storming compathy.
Mornings hadn't been rosy for several years now. Climate change perhaps, but she didn't pin it on pollution. The collective nature of magic was affective. Much like Peeves, the heavy pall of darkness was pulled from the masses. The sun still rose with dawn, but was tinted by the overcast of depression. This purple morning was much the same, though some red patches poked through. A sliver of yellow could even be seen. She wondered who could find happiness in their hell, but respected that it provided her with a near sunrise, even in the wandering storm.
She wandered her way to the pub, casual eye out for muggles.
Not that many ventured down Charing Cross Road anymore, not for a half-decade at least. Bohemia had moved a few streets over. Murder and repellant charms of course helped, but antics weren't even warranted any longer; muggles had a sixth-sense and did a decent job of avoiding such unpleasantries. Even if they couldn't voice exactly why "Heaven's no, Mary, we're taking the long way home." The Dark Lord and his empress were content to rule in their small and dirty corner of the earth. Their influence stretched wide and far, far more valuable than land conquest could ever have been.
The world was not brave and the Leaky Caldron hadn't faired well.
Hermione pushed into the pub. She walked past the late night (or early morning) regulars and made toward the shady backdoor. The barkeep wasn't concerned with much, let alone this slip of a witch. Hermione stole into the back courtyard and tapped the bricks, her wand pattern mundane and foregone of wonder. Diagon opened up, smelling marginally better than last week. The death carts had been cleared, their cargo moved en masse to a grave location. She'd hardened over the past decade, but the sight of greying hands never failed to churn her stomach and wistful nature. Wishing was not a luxury Hermione afforded, but her mind remained clever all these years later and she was unable to purge her lionheart.
The cobblestones were tinged with iron and she tried not to think whose spoiled blood she padded on. The stones remained rusty. The rain washed some filth away to the sewers, but it didn't wash out the shame.
Her nose crinkled, the air smelt of stale char and sick flesh, between the slowing raindrops. Street urchins easily parsed out the difference between rotting food and decaying human. The Serf hoarders were particularly keen at this skill and the wizarding alleys were a mecca for poaching — core magic could be siphoned postmortem, right up until rigor set in. The trick was stabbing the left ventricle, without perforating the other heart wall. Even after exsanguination, core magic leaked into the body and pumped along the same residual map.
Hermione made down the alley, her schoolgirl soul harrowed inside. The wizarding world was spayed of goodness; the war left them with demons to buy and sell.
She passed a hoarder on the street and kept her eyes low and hard. The witch blanched, vaguely recognizing the wretch from her Hogwarts years. Gaffy, Grady, or something like. He'd been three or four years ahead. Crouched over a form, the man stilled at her footsteps, stark in the decrepit morning. He looked to Hermione's worn and well-off shoes, her tired robes, her stony face. They left it at that. Hermione left him to the mangled corpse and he to her assorted and sordid business. She didn't dwell on the small stature of the deceased. Or the hair ribbons, limp in the shallow puddle.
Hermione moved on, errand on errant mind. Habitually she thumbed the tattoo on her neck, unwilling to feel guilty for her marginally better fate. The scar on her arm twinged and she ignored that too. She was grateful as Apothica came into view, at the infamous intersection of Diagon and Knockturn.
She glanced down a moment too long, grabbling for the parchment in her bag.
A pureguard in the main square cast doubtful eyes and a casing spell in her direction. Her pocket buzzed like her neck burned. Hermione hissed under breath and palmed the empire coin in her cloak, waiting for clearance. His wand smoked a 1U in the air and his nod was curt, if not a bit wide-eyed. He'd never seen loral Granger before and yet the highest-ranked undesirable, the Prime Undesirable, wandered casually into the dead heart of downtown.
Into his sector.
A Gentry himself, the pureguard was shifty. Prime Granger epitomized the precarious balance of the new world order. Her trial had been maddened by press and corporate interest. In the end, the interim Wizengamot awarded her a mid-class status, Undesirable, yes, but the highest ranked mudblood in the newfangled empire. Hermione laid her thankless gratitude on the Weasleys but knew other strings pulled.
Her stars were lucky, though, having escaped worser fates.
The Slave class was unfortunate—lowest of them all—property owned by the Gentry and Noble elite. Unskilled mudbloods, enemy combatants, and would-be-prisoners landed here. A notch up, Serfs were the street people, urchins that ran the underbelly and black market circles. Mostly magifolk of unfortunate blood status, they didn't have a sponsor or the funds to buy themselves a class up, nor were they skilled enough to warrant that on merit alone. So they hoarded or hazarded other trades. They had few rights and many restrictions.
Undesirables were full citizens but indentured ones, saddled to their sponsors' interests. In some ways they straddled society, able to move between the street and upper-castes. Their indentured servitude came with humiliation, along with significant comfort and protection. Once their contract was fulfilled, all records reflected them henceforth as (Un)desirable. At the year mark, Desirables could ostensibly petition a status change to Gentry, should a sufficient case be brought to the courts. Mind you, the regime was still young and such a thing was paper theory, with no real cases yet in sight.
The freemen Gentry lived in white-bread safety, able to vote, run for sector office, and own property, people and businesses alike. Influential half-bloods (like McGonagall) and your average-Joe pure-bloods were comfortable in this class. The Sacred Twenty-Eight pure-blood families comprised the Noble class, along with select individuals granted favour by the Royals. But favour, like flavour, is subjective. The Royals had raised an empire out of the bone crust of war. And by October 1999 (so many years before) the world traded sunny for scrambled and the scent of sulfur and Samhain stuck to Diagon evermore.
The pureguard shivered, glad for his gloves. He didn't like how his old morals bubbled up. He watched the primer go, his grizzled face relieved when the witch passed from sight, through the apothecary's door.
The bell string chimed and the door clunked behind Hermione, wafting the pleasant smell of creation to her face. Hermione-of-ago and Hermione-of-now continued to be fond of this shoppe. She appreciated the steadiness of its shelves, bottle-prone and color-coded. Apothica wasn't necessarily cramped, just efficient with narrow rows and center displays. The shoppe was disguisedly larger inside than out, magic and architecture lending to its library features. Of course, one could find normal spices and seeds, even crafting glitters, but Apothica's true heart was, and had always been, potions. The inaugural apothecary would have pleasedly approved; his great—times eight—grandson Swansea Bevan held up tradition finely.
Hermione grabbed a wicker basket from the stacked pile and made to spend Weasley dime.
At the counter, Swansea twinkled his eye at the primer, fond of her regular if sporadic patronage. He went back to pleading an ancient witch up at the till, trying to impart that inverting the ingredients of a Shrinking Solution would certainly not produce opposite results.
"Bevan, I'm older than your late Gran, so stop your grousing," the crone said. "Now what about the effect on human appendages?"
"Humans," Bevan said slowly. "You can't mean—"
"If you had my husband you certainly wouldn't be kind."
Bevan blanched, not needing the imagery, and Hermione chuckled her way back to the grasses section. Some humor had survived the death of light and perhaps that's where the sun came from.
She was safe, lost in haven and aisles. She fingered Ron's list, not needing it for purpose, just texture. Polyjuice was her wheelhouse and she absentmindedly tipped its requirements into the basket, one by one. The leeches she'd have to get elsewhere, but Boomslang skin and Bicorn horn were stocked here for a hefty fee. For good measure, Hermione added a copper cauldron to her order. Ronald would chastise her so-called frivolity, but the best supplies yielded the best results. She left the complete order up front, under Bevan's trusted eye.
Mission accomplished in under ten, she spent far more minutes pouring over Occamy eggshell powder, argentine and exorbitantly priced. Hermione sighed, thumbing the label and eyeing the silver contents. Her first wand cost less.
"And what a wand it was, Muddy."
The words sluiced her ear and Hermione stilled, bottle in hand, heart in throat. The years hadn't dulled that drawl, fine like sandpaper on wine. Thorsday indeed, but the empress was neither temple- nor murder-bound. Lions in heart, Hermione faced the dark witch and bent an obligatory curtsy, her eyes wary and turgid. She palmed the silver jar, her touchstone for honest living. Her mouth worked on daring.
"Good decade, Empress," Hermione murmured, soft and hostile. "You would know. You broke it yourself." No, Bellatrix Lestrange hadn't dulled, not by any bit.
"Aye." The dark empress cocked her head with a slow cheshire. "You as well."
"Jamais," Hermione spat. "You broke wood."
"Hardly in the past decade," Bellatrix said, "Now hand it over." Her hand was expectant.
Hermione blinked, but handed the empress her current wand. The former lieutenant turned it over, practiced hands seeking out deformity or fraud. Those dark eyes squinted studiously and Hermione recalled that Lestrange had apprenticed in the Americas in her early twenties, with bodacious Violetta Beauvais herself. She didn't doubt the intelligence of Lestrange's hands. The empress breathed in the specs (much like Luna communed with trees) and Hermione thought it a beautiful introspection, despite the murderous bitch.
"Redwood. 11 ¼ inches. Dragon heartstring," Bellatrix stated and paused on a curiosity. "Unyielding," she whispered and met Hermione's eyes, marking that down.
"Great. Give it you harpy."
"Be nice or we play with blood, Muddy," Bellatrix cackled, overjoyed at the witch's clangor. "You've a unwise mouth."
"At least mine hasn't sucked the emperor's cock." Jesus fucking Christ, it popped out before Hermione's brain caught up. The rulers were far from romanced, but Bellatrix was his legal consort.
Light left Bella's face but her thick chuckle was bitter and chocolate; Hermione remembered that this was a flippant creature she prodded. She went back to quiet, recalling that Bellatrix liked the sound of her own voice. She wasn't wrong. It was a nice voice.
"You've grown brazen, Granger, in the mornings." Bellatrix cupped Hermione's chin, a faint interest in the eye. The empress was too close, eyeing her like newfound desert. "I'd hate to see your torture by any hand but my own, but interrupt my sleep again and I'll be sure to oblige." Her words trundled dangerously, underlain with intrigue. Bella's hand slid up the primer's cheek.
"Wards?" Hermione hazarded weakly, caught off guard. She'd ream Ron a new one — all those recon missions and zip on this. She wondered how many of their movements had been tracked during these long and chemical years.
Bellatrix scoffed at Muddy's mind open like book.
"Aye, Muddy, wards. And all the years." The empress confirmed this with annoyance. "Why your Weasel is a fan of red-light hookeries and you the bookeries."
Hermione swallowed—the Occamy jar still in hand—unsure what to make of the conversational Legilimens. This was a less desperate Bellatrix than she remembered, one resigned to character and apocalypse. One with new dangers, frankly more pleasant and precarious. But Granger was pleasantly surprised that her nightmare from youth no longer forced her trembles.
"Last time you were dreadfully prone," Bellatrix said mildly, her eyes dark and baleful.
"I was a child," Hermione reminded carefully, discomforted by Bella in her head. Facts seemed to work well with the witch.
"So you were. So was the corpse in the alley today and you didn't stop to help her spirit now…did you?" Bellatrix was sly, offering truth and tomb. "Not so golden now are we." The words dragged out, vowels rounded with aristocracy and gain.
Hermione was done with this train, nauseated by the assessment and unbalanced at the decade of trash between them.
"My wand, Bellatrix," she snapped. "Unless you have plans for symmetry." Her scar tingled, but not unpleasantly. Not for the first time Hermione wondered if the magical malady had other properties. "The years treat you well, but you haven't extended others the same courtesy. I hear you hung a child last week."
"Twenty is hardly a child," the empress snorted, her face growing a thought. "What would you have done, Golden Girl?" She tapped the witch's face with tease, curious and cruel.
"His crime?" Hermione gritted out, unhappily playing whatever game Lestrange decided.
"Rape. Assault and battery of a Gentry minor."
They stared at each other with the tacit understanding that lived between women.
"Now tell me what rainbow of justice would you have painted," Bellatrix jeered, keeping that pretty jaw under her thumb.
Hermione turned over that wild brain of hers, not noticing as her fingers crept over the empress' in idle thought. She had to hand one major victory to the Royals — Azkaban and all minor prisons had been demilitarized, shutdown almost immediately after the war. Yes there had been executions, but only the top ranking players who wouldn't concede to the new authority. While the caste system certainly wasn't equitable, there was a zero incarceration rate. Duels were an accepted form of mediation and the threat of good-Samaritan murder kept most of the populace in line. Those that managed to escape peer justice were conscripted into the Slave class, handled at the gallows, or commandeered as personal entertainment for the Royals.
"Without a prison system there are limited choices," Hermione conceded angrily, her ire mostly at the logic. "But you could have considered a caste demotion, forced labor, or an eye—"
"For an eye?" Bellatrix touted satisfaction and pleasure. Hermione still gripped her hand and the empress twirled the witch's chestnut plait with the other. "Tell me then, Granger, given the choice of raping a rapist or killing him with a modicum of mercy, which is the moral high ground?"
"Neither!" Hermione insisted, her face ruddy and passionate. "There was no trial, no investigation of a sponsor willing to take on the burden for compensation. You have an obligation to due diligence."
"I have an obligation to run an empire, Muddy, not moderate a bloody placement system. The crime wasn't in dispute: three separate Pensieve accounts were collected from reputable citizens, along with one of those idiotic widdio things from one of your…kind."
"You mean a vide—"
"No qualified sponsor would take on an indentured rapist voluntarily." Bellatrix hissed with bile. "Married ilk or those with children on campus would never agree. That brings the eligible possibles to less than seven percent, when you take location into account. Three if you consider old age, staffing, and finances."
"So you commission them into service and rotate the burden," Hermione said with cold exasperation. "You demilitarized the prisons, not the entire draft system."
Bellatrix was gleeful.
"To be clear, Prime, you're advocating for the compulsory service of free citizens in order to babysit a rapist? And this is but one monster. What about all the others?" Bellatrix enjoyed the distraction, watching this keen mind work. "You've questionable ethics, Muddy, and I'm the one learned in evisceration."
"You're more than questionable, Lestrange," Hermione ventured hatefully, disliking how her morals coughed brimstone.
But the exercise hadn't been altogether atrocious, even if with a villain. Hermione missed stretching her mind. She rouged suddenly, realizing that their hands were still on each other's skin. She backed away from the touch, not far, considering the wall. Bellatrix raised an eyebrow and twirled Hermione's wand, amused at the corruption and discomfit she'd wrought.
"And you're nothing more than a glorified house slave," the dark witch drawled. "Pussy bought and paid for."
The fury on the mudblood's face was enticing and Bellatrix was done with small chat. A short Crucio struck Hermione's foot and purred challenge. The smarting wasn't much, but Hermione scowled at the insult from her own wand…Bellatrix had no shame. She appraised the ruler, donned in black and boots and curls. She had to appreciate the woman's commitment to personality. Just not said personality.
Bellatrix chuckled three notes or four. The Mudblood always had a fine and wandering mind. Granger had been arrogant as a child and the woman wasn't any less. Her mouth twitched, enjoying Muddy's haughty chin. Much more fun than Lucy's peacocks.
"Testy are we, Prime? And here I thought you enjoyed our discourse." Bella's eyes glinted and she extended her hand, the royal sigil crowing her finger. "Either way, Muddy, you fail at etiquette."
Despite herself, Hermione flushed as she bent at the order. She hated how those dark eyes glinted with more than simple evil. Her lips brushed obsidian and pale skin, and queer warmth pushed through her body. Bellatrix pressed closer to supplicating-Hermione and resheathed the witch's wand in holster. Perhaps the ruler had meant it as amicable, but the motion startled the primer and without thinking Hermione slapped the empress' face.
Overkill.
Snarling, Bellatrix assailed and slapped her right back. The sound lent well to acoustics and Hermione gasped out something between odium and combat. Too chummy with the shelves, Hermione hadn't the room to negotiate personal space or escape. The empress yanked her braid and bared Hermione's neck painfully. Hermione definitely kicked her in the shin, but Bellatrix hissed approvingly and thumbed the primer tattoo with interest. The clever artist had made a ligature of the 1 and the U, the 1 serving as the leftmost U stroke.
"He had more talent than me," The royal drawled unkindly, her fingers brushing the jagged handiwork of a decade earlier.
Hermione shivered. Spindles in her brain, like the tracing on her scar. Bellatrix had branded nightmare upon her skin and the land. She fascinated Hermione all the same, like glinting beetles and funeral dirge.
"What can I do you for, Empress, chitchat isn't your strength." Hermione snarled and pulled her arm away. The empress kept hold of her hair and the primer gritted teeth at the uncomfortable angle and scrutiny.
"Such a bore, Granger," Bellatrix whispered precariously. "I had hoped for something less predictable."
"So sorry to disappoint, Trixie. If harassing a mudblood before breakfast isn't regaling, then your frivolities are fucked."
The punishment was swift and Hermione swallowed a scream as her scar seared raw and hot. Thrilled, Bellatrix shoved Hermione hard against the wall and whispered breathy Crucios in ear. Trembling, Hermione dropped the Occamy jar and silver dust filled the air, coating their corner and the empress' hair.
"You waited," Hermione gasped between waves, "eleven years for round two and pick a frigging potions shoppe?"
The empress stopped for that, sinister at her prey. Hermione didn't mind tempting mortality; there were worse things than death. But the silver dust was lovely against those black curls and her mind was wide at the horror of that.
"I wait for nothing, Muddy." Bellatrix considered several impossible things before breakfast. Her face was impassive and statues were proud. "See yourself to the palace by Moonsday. You've been commissioned into the lower court."
Hermione lost any sense of prudence and gaped at the witch, fairly certain that this entire exchange had been far too friendly.
"You're batshit out of mind if you think I'm serving you or the snake. I'm Prime, not suicidal."
Bellatrix kneed her in the side, smirking hate. Hermione sagged against her, mocking embrace. Bellatrix's arm about her waist was steady and Hermione's head tucked into the witch's neck. Her legs wouldn't work and the empress cooed in her ear, whispering unhelpfully.
"Pity. The dead serve for eternity. Moonsday, Muddy, or Minerva in your place." The threat was unnecessary, but Lestrange had always enjoyed going above and beyond.
"Caste, can't," Hermione rasped, her words working hard for lungs. No one below Gentry served in court or cabinet and Granger was phenomenally glad for her status at the present.
The hand thumbing her lip was unexpected and Hermione hitched breath. Bellatrix cradled her face and tilted Hermione's head sideways, exposing her mark. The empress kissed the brand and sucked softly. Hermione didn't mean to sound, didn't mean to clutch fire at the witch's hips. But she did, desperately keening past and present. Without thought, her hands rose and tangled in those black curls. There wasn't a conscious effort to action, only the iron branding in her veins. Bella's stroked Hermione's cheek, alarmed or pleased by the fervor. Hermione's magic flared a harmless glow, sealing the spell, and glinting on spilt silver. The primer was struck by surrealism and wrenched Bella's head away. Legs still unruly she tripped and nearly fell into Bella's mouth. The empress caught her, eyes unreadable and hard. They stared uncomfortably at each other. Bella's curious smirk combed Hermione's face and neither had much to say about that.
"The hell, Bellatrix," Hermione raged unwisely, eyes wild and unwilling to settle. The whole of this felt off. "I would have preferred your knife." The spell hadn't exactly been painful, but her organs weren't happy with the sudden blight.
Bellatrix propped the witch back upright, using the wall for brace. She stepped back, any sense of benevolence wrung out.
"Moonsday or doomsday, little Mud." The empress turned on her heel and stalked out the row. She turned back to Hermione, smirking explanation and a debased grace. "Citizen Gentry and primer, my congratulations. You've leveled up."
Sure enough, Hermione fingered the raised welts on her neck. She didn't need a mirror to realize the marking - a new capital G now commandeered the 1, stealing it for its tail. G1U. Fuck. She outranked Minerva.
Hermione kept her spot on the wall for a good ten minutes after, needing her heart race to win or calm. When neither appeared timely, she brushed herself off and tugged her robes back to shape. She almost made it out the doorjamb but startled as Bevans caught her arm, her Polyjuice parcel in hand. Back at the Burrow she found an Occamy jar, this one perfectly formed and unshattered.
Silver, glinting like black curls in a shoppe.
Author's Note II: R & R. This one took on a life its own.