Title: Umwälzung

Summary: "The Ministry has a tight leash on you, Granger and if you're not careful, it's going to turn into a noose...and you won't even know it." / When Harry Potter is captured, a Final Plan is put into motion by a failing Resistance, involving a betrayed Malfoy, a treacherous Nott and one imprisoned Muggle witch.

Pairing (s): DracoXHermione, DracoXTheo (implied, as of now), HermioneXRon (referenced, past), HermioneXTheo (suggested)

Rating and Warnings: M for sexual content, violent themes, substance abuse and possibly disturbing content.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter and don't claim to know everything about the HP canon. I'm learning as I go. This story is set in the late second year of the Second Wizarding War (1997), does not really follow Canon and takes a lot of freedom in terms of plot, timeline and characters. The War has been on for nearly two years now (it began in 1995) with most of the Ministry of Magic (England) on the brink of collapse and the Order of the Phoenix in near-tatters as a defensive force. Voldermort's Loyalists are on the rise, targeting Muggle London and areas of Wizarding Europe, gaining absolute power in various parts of these regions and also establishing strongholds overseas in the U.S.A, Egypt, China and New Zealand. Hogwarts has been destroyed (the Siege of Hogwarts, an important event in this story, took place at the end of 1996) and the Resistance (Order of the Phoenix, Dumbledore's Army and various other allies) operates out of covert safehouses across Europe, often in conjunction with Muggle allies and their help.

Title: Umwälzung

[ um•wäl•zung / German / :noun: / meanings: upheaval, a complete over-turn, a radical change ]

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Part One: separation is like salt, without the sun

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"All moral rules must be tested by examining whether they tend to realize ends that we desire. I say ends that we desire, not ends that we ought to desire...Since all behaviour springs from desire, it is clear that ethical notions can have no importance except as they influence desire. They do this through the desire for approval and the fear of disapproval. These are powerful social forces and we shall naturally endeavour to win them to our side if we wish to realize any social purpose."

- Bertrand Russell, Ethics: Selected Writings

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"In the wilderness of heartbreak and a desert of despair
Evil's clarion of justice shrieks a cry of naked terror
Taking babies from their mamas, leaving grief beyond compare

So if you see the vulture coming, flying circles in your mind
Remember there is no escaping for he will follow close behind
Only promise me a battle, battle for your soul and mine."

- Gil Scott-Heron, verse III and IV, Your Soul and Mine

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Song: Me and the Devil by Gil Scott-Heron

When Harry is Taken - Taken with a capital T because it's Voldermort's disgusting band of Loyalists and such emphasis distinguishes one grief from another - when Harry is Taken, she's on the other side of the country in one of the last safehouses.

Read: too fucking far to do anything.

She's standing on the porch by herself - she's almost always left to herself these days and They can afford to do so because their boundary charms are impenetrable and Theodore fucking Nott is her watchdog. For all the Order's holier-than-thou morality, she's no less than a Prisoner here and as each day passes, it seems as if this game they're playing with Voldermort and his dark pathetic, prejudiced forces just gets dirtier and more dangerous, more despairing.

The sky is the kind of soft pink that makes her catch her breath, afternoon slowly having slipped up into evening and it's the rustling of leaves right at the edge of the perimeter that makes her stomach knot anxiously. It's unlikely that the Death-Eaters have any idea where she is, or where Theodore is, for that matter - but she can't put away the possibility that it's them and not the Order, no matter how many times messengers arrive in the most standardized and uniform ways. The rustling of leaves. A whizzing of the invisible-to-the-eye barrier. Jarring explosion of blue light. The characteristic swell of smoke. And then the abominable robes all Order members and allies are now wearing appearing in a flash. Relief and recoil both.

While the leaves are rustling again - she notices that there is no flash of light, nor any of the static sound she's grown used to every time the fence is broken by a Recognized Wizard/Witch. She's about to open her mouth, to yell for Theodore to get his fucking arse out here and protect her like he's meant to do because that's how helpless They've made her, that's what They've done to her and she hates it, she really does but she knows how it is far more important for her to stay alive. To get to -

There's a bright flash, soundless and stunning- pink fritters of light spiralling away into the trees and she's ducking, raising an arm to cover her eyes. Her knees feel like they might buckle and the loud clapping noise is honest-to-God terrifying. Her legs are unsteady and she's got the name on her tongue, she's just about to-

"Hermione!"

It's Kingsley fucking Shacklebolt. In those hideous fucking robes, stained...with what looks like blood? There's Ginny too, appearing through the smoke, then Neville and behind them all, Remus Lupin. Haggard and tired-looking, as if they've just made it out of their one of their Raids. Ginny looks like she might be bleeding - her face is far more gaunt and pale than before, Neville's hand is wrapped tight in hers and Lupin is the picture of a wreck - clothes torn, splattered with blood and dust, eyes so blank she can't meet them for more than a second.

A sudden movement to her right makes her flinch but it's only her fucking safekeeper- Theodore in his grey fucking sweater, wand raised, blurring into hair and limbs because he's moving that fast. And just as fast as his entry is, he comes to a jerking halt, taking in the sight that she can't still seem to understand.

As Ginny limps forward, grimacing - her pretty features caught between fury and fear - with Neville's arm for support, Shacklebolt trudges forward faster and Lupin brings up the rear, looking both left and right, furtively, as if they were being watched. Panic sets in dimly and she feels like she might fall backwards, right into the doorstep and through the ground into a empty vacuum and she is forgetting to be angry, she is forgetting because she's more afraid than anything else.

As if he senses that she's losing grip, Shacklebolt is speaking again - projecting his loud voice across the space. "Hermione, something's happened," He looks back at Lupin and some understanding seems to pass between them before he continues, "..Something really bad."

Theodore, like a good little servant - she thinks - is propelled into decorous action and runs down the steps, towards Neville and Ginny, muttering reassurances in the same diligent, obscenely sincere way with which he's always managed to placate her in the past three weeks. She stands there though, refusing to move, letting them all come to her.

Fleetingly, the sky beyond them all gives her a choppy view of the sun - dipping between the trees, almost in hiding, pale and sick-looking, without any of its usual alacrity, neither orange nor yellow but a mere clouded hint of light. Then they're all shuffling past her into the house and she has to step back to make sure she doesn't fall. Ginny's hair is matted with mud, she notices and there's a long scar down Neville's forearm that she thinks is new. Shacklebolt's robes seem to be drowning the man and he has a noticeable black eye. She catches sight of it in a blur as he walks past her, muttering to himself. It's only Lupin who stops to look at her - as if to acknowledge something and his eyes are dangerously sad. It makes her uncomfortable - she hasn't seen them in weeks and weeks and now...this.

Her throat is dry and she can feel the anxiety rolling off of him in waves - his shoulders are slumped, his cheek badly scarred and he looks like he might say something.

"I'm sorry, Hermione,"

His voice is choked-up, tangled in itself, burdensome. It's not what she expects. She reels back as if slapped - an admission like this...there are so many implications and then he's walking in and she's struggle to breathe because her mind flits between Harry and Ron, one grief to another, one grief to another, picture after picture which is really just memory after memory. The smell of clean shirts. Grimmauld Place. Fresh grass cut in the summer. The Burrow. Six feet in and six feet above. Body after body. One safehouse after the next. Chocolate frogs. The train journey. The siege of Hogwarts. Fire after fire. Reflected in Harry's glasses. Blood at Ron's mouth.

A loud sound from within the house shakes her out of it - probably just the fireplace or something - and she swallows thickly, tucking a hair behind her ear the way she used to, as a schoolgirl, in a simpler life. As much as it feels like the world is about to split around her, she takes one last look outside as if to reassure herself that she's still here and then, she's stepping inside, pulling the big white door shut behind her.

"The pureblood is the most magnificent and refined form of a witch - or for that matter, a wizard. Most clearly receptive to the complications of Magic and its inheritance, the pureblood surpasses the half-blood, the muggle and the squib in magical ability and control." She nods at him as he takes his usual seat right at the back. "...Following our previous lesson where we examined ancestry in depth, analysing various aspects of the purest British wizarding bloodlines - today, I thought it best to talk to you all a little more about purebloods and breeding. I will also touch upon on the Muggle problem briefly before wrapping up for the day."

The chair is stiff and he struggles to sit up straight - maybe he shouldn't have had so much to drink last night. He can't remember much of it either; did he go out with Blaise and Pansy again? Where had they gone? All the Wizarding establishments were usually shut down before midnight - an abrupt movement to the right derails his attempt to put together what happened the night before.

It's Pansy.

She's dressed in an impeccable set of dark, rich robes, her face far too impassive for him to read. She makes a beeline towards him, stopping only once to greet some of the newer recruits with a small, trained smile that he's seen many times before. She seems to be wearing gloves too - the formality of her attire suggests that she might have a meeting with the Inner Circle today. Does he have to be in attendance too? He can't remember - vaguely, he wonders if he looks as put-out as he's currently feeling. Exactly how much did he have to drink last night?

The lecture seems to continue in the background, a lilting hum that he can't bring himself to pay attention to - choosing instead to watch Pansy as she finally steps into the row in which he's sat. His robes feel stifling when she finally meets his gaze - her eyes are dark, indecipherable and he notices that her hair are shorter than he remembers. What the fuck happened last night?

Some of the audience turns to look at her, despite how quiet her entrance is - and he presumes that it's because of her position within the larger Circuit. She's a lethal Death-Eater, well-respected and just as well-established, perhaps even more so than him. That's why she's been asked to attend these classes with him- to keep an eye on the fresher recruits and spot the talent they require for the Next Phase. At some point, it might have bothered him - this clear preference for Pansy over him, especially since it was his Father's decision, but too much has happened for it to make a real difference to him. She's won this respect by sheer hard work and skill and maybe the Hogwarts' version of him might have singled her out as the competition but this is a war, this is a War and he's just a soldier and there's no room for juvenile irresponsibility.

She sits down beside him in a swarm of expensive robes and familiar perfume.

"Draco," She mutters in way of greeting, looking straight ahead in a detached, business-like manner.

It reminds him distantly of the Potions classroom - how they'd talk through their teeth to make sure nobody could hear them and the hazy memory makes his stomach flip nervously - all of it so long ago, in a different life. A simpler life.

Her thigh brushes against his just barely, years and years of understanding lodged there between them. He knows immediately that something is wrong - the tension rolls off her in shaking waves and when her hand jerks out to grab his, his suspicion is confirmed. Something happened last night - something….something….could it be Mother? Could it … his vision blurs momentarily and he wonders if he might throw up right there, in the middle of the fucking lecture like some insipid teenager who has no control over himself. As if she senses his physical discomfort - or just because she has known him too well for too long, she gives his hand a reassuring squeeze and he takes a long, shuddering breath to try to calm himself. Focus. Centre. Right here. Focus.

He looks at the side of her face finally, noting that fine dust of power on her pale skin - the darkened edges of her lashes, the faint pink of her mouth. There's definitely some kind of meeting.

"What happened last night?" Despite himself, he sounds scared - like his ten year old self, pathetic and cowardly, stuck in his bedroom because he was too much of a wimp to step outside and run into Father.

The feeling is thick and heavy on his tongue - a peculiar brand of self-hatred that tastes odd and familiar to him.

She sighs, letting her eyes follow the figure right at the front of the audience. "Harry Potter has been captured."

For a moment, he's absolutely sure that he hasn't heard her right.

"What?" It's a disbelieving hiss and causes her to look at him proper, full in the face - the terror is in her eyes, a shadow there, heavy and forlorn.

Then she's turning away and getting to her feet, tugging her hand from his as she makes her way out of the row, offering that trained smile at the expectant young faces. His head is spinning, the ground seems to be rising towards him - the blonde boy to his left is muttering something, new recruit, new face, new new, the War has been old, old old, all of it, there are flashes of red and then a long, brown leg curving over his hip, fuck fuck fuck fuck - he's on his feet, watching himself move from outside his body because he's certainly not in there. He almost trips over someone's feet - are those muggle sneakers? - and then he's walking quickly to the door, mechanical and polished in manner.

To anybody watching, there's nothing out of the ordinary here. He's often gotten up in the middle of the session to go out and catch a moment with one of the Informants. That's why Goyle nods at him and pulls open the door for him - the two of them thrown back to Hogwarts only for a brief second and then he's outside that blasted room, catching sight of Pansy leaning against the brick wall at some distance.

It takes all his strength and more to convince his body not to break into some obscene kind of running - seconds trickle by as he walks over to her in a measured, controlled manner. Malfoys are never to be found running around in corridors unless it's the Dark fucking Lord who has asked them to do so. Nothing beyond that one tall order can move them - Draco remembers all of his lessons, even in this hazy, paranoid state. Branded into him. Just as permanent as his Dark Mark. His mind isn't focusing on anything - the corridor tilts and the ground feels shaky beneath him and he curls his fingers into his palms, pressing his nails hard enough into the flesh to make it sting.

Pansy doesn't turn to look at him- her eyes are cast upwards and her jaw is clenched. He can tell just by how she's holding herself that she's really, really fucking stressed. He stops close to her and pinches the bridge of his nose - an old habit that has yet to leave.

"Pansy...we have only t-"

"Three minutes before the next round of patrol," She cuts in shakily, squeezing her eyes shut in such an open display of vulnerability that he feels like reaching out to her. "...I know, Draco, I know,"

He resists the urge to touch her and tries to focus on standing still, on being in control. "Is it true?"

Her eyes flash and her lips curl into a scornful frown. "Of course it is," She hisses furiously, as if affronted by the implication that she could be misinformed. "He was brought in an hour ago,"

His legs are jelly and his head is pounding - Harry fucking Potter captured? Taken in? How could this have happened? Something strange and wild rises in his chest, something he can't identify and he leans his shoulder against the wall to steady himself. Fuck. Fuck.

"Can't...fucking believe...Potter..captured? What a fucking dunce. Asswipe," Disbelief colours his fragmented speech and he's no longer sure if he can feel the ground beneath him. "...basically...won...we're...the Dark Lord.." His eyes widen as if the implications are only just revealing themselves to him-

"Draco," She snaps impatiently, tapping his cheek to get his attention. The turn of her mouth is dismal and he wants to laugh hysterically. "Draco, Draco, listen to me." Her eyes find his and there it is - that focus, those years and years between them, all of that love, all of it. "There's something else."

He can feel the hysteria climbing his veins and he fights it, he really does fight it - he needs to know what else...he does. Her fingers cup his chin, an old intimate gesture that still makes his stomach clench in apprehension and he looks and looks, trying to keep himself here with her. Just a little more. The two of them, always caught up in Something.

"We were sent out on a Raid last night, Draco," She begins finally and her voice is shaky, trembling. Are those tears? "...Blaise, you and I. To Muggle London. To a Muggle bar. We were meeting a contact there. The raid's brief was that we destroy the bar before returning home," She swallows thickly and she looks away. "..Draco...we were tricked. All three of us ended up really, really wasted and fucked up. Draco…" She looks at him and she's crying - her face swims before him and he's spinning. "..Draco, I found you with two Muggles this morning." He's sure the breath has been knocked out of him and her expression is so full of pain he think he might puke all over her. "..I think you had sex with them,"

When they do break the News to her - if you can call it that - it's Shacklebolt she launches herself at, in uncontrolled rage, hair flying.

It's almost comical because she doesn't even make it to him - Theodore's Stupefy hits her the moment she's off the couch and it's Ginny who flinches at the action, just as Neville finishes healing the cut at her abdomen. The spell has Hermione immobile, suspended in the air momentarily before it is broken and she falls to the ground like a rag doll with no motor control of its own. It's not painful - at least not physically so but she feels the bruise to her ego so sharply that she has to keep her eyes to the ground, trained on the carpet so that she can compose herself.

Ordinarily - she, the Brightest Witch of her Age, would have met that spell with a wandless one but They've kept her so far from Magic that she feels it slip away from her day by day, rendering her worthless in situations like this. She can feel the fury coming on - a hot white flash and that pounding in her head, as if some inside part of her is finally going to explode but she curls her fingers into her palms and takes a long, shuddering breath to calm herself. Maybe attacking Shacklebolt isn't the best course of action - maybe outing herself so obviously as the Madwoman They've deemed her to be is not the most intelligent option. She has to breathe, she has to think - the two things can only happen together so she sucks in another calming breath, forcing her mind to focus on the small, intricate patterns on the soft carpet instead of flitting between HarryHarryHarryHarryHarryHarryHarryHarryHarry and Ron.

"Come on up, Granger," Theodore's stuck his hand out to her and she realizes that he's standing right beside her, his shoes planted firmly on the mauve carpet.

Neville seems to clear his throat as she gets to her feet, pointedly refusing Theodore's fucking help - a snub to which he pays little attention, so blatantly indifferent that it might just piss her off. She catches Lupin's eye, the same dangerously sad look in them, as he leans back against the wall by the fireplace and she sits back down on the couch, at the furthest end. Theodore's on the other side, mute and impassive, wand at the ever-fucking-ready.

"How was Harry captured?" She's grateful for how level-headed she sounds, as if simply asking about an unforeseen change in the weather. She also knows that this side of her is what scares them all - she can tell this much just by how Ginny's gaze burns into her cheek.

But Hermione doesn't waver - something in her has curled up and shut down swiftly, impossibly and she's not going to give in to them or what they think of her. She has something to prove and she'll be damned if she lets her feelings get in the fucking way. Keeping her eyes on Shacklebolt, she leans back.

Languid. Reassured. Hardened. Like she was. Like she is.

"Well...Miss...Granger, you have to know-"

"Please don't apologize, Minister," She cuts in quietly, in the same tone. She spots Ginny's mouth curling into a sneer, as if the other witch would prefer an all-out hand-to-hand fight than a civil conversation. "We all know that there really isn't time for that,"

Perhaps in another time, before these long fucking weeks of imprisonment, before Ron and before Harry, before They put her in here and asked little Theodore Watchdog to guard her, Ginny and her had been friends. Real friends, who knew each other's hearts, who had each other's love. A warm comfort it had been, she remembers that clearly - how they'd both gone out on various raids together, having each other's back, looking out for the men they loved fiercely, knowing that each attack would only bring them closer together because that was love and that was goodness.

Now, they have nothing.

Before Shacklebolt can open his mouth to speak, Ginny stands up, swaying a little on her feet. Neville makes as if to reach for her but a curt nod from her stops that action mid-way. There are bright and furious tears in his eyes, Hermione notes and Ginny turns on her heel, walking over to the windows of the room.

"It was a sneak attack," Her voice trembles and her shoulders are stiff as she squares them, keeping her back to them all. "We were heavily outnumbered...Lupin, Neville, Shacklebolt, Harry and I. We'd conducted a raid a few streets down from that location - something about a Dark Forces safehouses where Voldermort had been sighted-" She sucks in a sharp breath here, and Hermione watches as she might have watched the news on the telly dispassionately. "- and Harry bullied his way into coming with us,"

She turns slightly, her auburn hair falling like a curtain to obscure most of her face. "You know how he is, Hermione," She says quietly, in defeat, her shoulders slumping.

Hermione can imagine Ginny's face right this very moment - the anguish she'd seen at Ron's funeral, it is one of the clearest pictures in her mind till date. Eyes bloodshot, mouth curled downwards, nose red and yes- the very same slump of her shoulders, the refusal to meet anybody's eyes. They may be too far from each other to ever find their way back again but Hermione has not forgotten and it seems as if Ginny has not either - even if she let Them strip her of Magic and took her wand, even if she let Them turn her into a worthless prisoner, even if she let Theodore fucking Nott be her watchdog. They both remember. One grief to another.

As if sensing that Ginny may not be able to continue talking, it's Lupin who speaks. "There were twenty Death-Eaters lying in wait when we reached the location. Some of the older ones - Lestrange, the Malfoys…" He casts a careful, measured glance at Theodore. "...Nott senior..and then newer recruits, far more powerful than we'd anticipated. It was Bellatrix's curse that hit Harry and we couldn't get to him because-"

"Because the new recruits were diverting you with duels," Theodore finishes simply, confidently as he might have drawn up the strategy himself.

She looks at him sharply but his garb of impassivity has yet to stray. Shacklebolt's wringing his hands and Ginny is a ghost at the window, healed of the lesser wound she's had inflicted upon her today. Hermione meets Neville's gaze for the briefest moment- clouded blue and sorrowful - before looking up at Lupin.

Professor Lupin at some point. Hogwarts, the relic of a past consumed too easily. The siege. Theodore Nott at the door of the Great Hall. Lupin roaring instructions. Ronald tripping over his own foot, that stupid git. All of it comes back to her when she looks at Lupin. And now, Harry too. One grief to another. She feels very little - only quiet, only thoughtful. Given that the most important and significant piece of their Endgame is now missing, she wonders what They might do.

She wonders - not too irrationally - if they might give her a Chance. If she'll be returned her Wand. If They've saved her for this part of the game, for when they're losing.

"I presume, Minister, that you have a plan?" Theodore's leaning forward, resting his elbows atop his knees. It might look intimidating if it weren't for the neutral tone of his voice. The sharp cut of his jaw is tense, his expression resolute - almost...bitter. "Because I most certainly betray the most powerful Dark Wizard only to have everything go to fucking shit."

There's an edge to his voice she hasn't heard before. Shacklebolt, it seems, has not either because he seems to sit up. Collecting himself perhaps. Returning to the present. From the corner of her eye, Hermione notes that Ginny's turned to face the room, her grimy face streaked with tears.

"We do have a plan," Shacklebolt says finally. "..And it involves you both."

There's a second of silence, as if even the safehouse is holding its breath. Then Lupin speaks.

"..And Malfoy,"

She can feel the blood rushing to her head and notices how Theodore flinches, as if he might have been punched. Ginny's shaking her head, saying something but it's too soft and Neville is disappearing down a tunnel.

"...Yes, Malfoy." Shacklebolt is nodding, his voice swimming through space to her. Finding its way to her. "..Draco Malfoy."

# 0 7

As composed by the Loyal Cabinet in the month of September, 1996

Ratified by the Dark Lord in the month of October, in the year 1996, in a public meeting with the Collective

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By Order of the Dark Lord and His Loyal Cabinet, the following is a mandate detailing the directives that all Death-Eaters and allies must submit to. Any violation of this Code of Conduct will result in extensive torture and an immediate death sentence, at the discretion of the Dark Lord.

1. The Lord's servants must put the Lord and his Cabinet's orders before everything else, including their own families.

2. The Lord's servants must attend the weekly Lecture and partake in daily, compulsory Dark-Arts training in their respective Centres.

3. The Lord's Paired-servants must regularly copulate and meet their Supervisors every fortnight to confirm their regular and strict adherence to the Breeding Decree.

4. The Lord's servants must not shelter or aid traitors to their Cause or allies of the Resistance.

5. The Lord's servants must not maintain any form of contact with those persons/groups who set themselves against the Lord's political vision of a Muggle-free Wizarding community.

6. The Lord's servants must never interact with the Muggle-born, whether verbally, mentally, physically or sexually - all of which are crimes punishable by death.

7. The Lord's servants must never refuse a Raid directive nor allow their previous ties with the enemy's groups to cloud their judgement.

8. The Lord's servants must never ignore the Mark's call.

9. The Lord's servants must never miss their monthly appointments with their Superior and their Healer, so as to confirm their loyalty and continued subservience to the Lord.

10. The Lord's servants must never lie to the Lord, the Cabinet, their Superiors or their Squadron Members.

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Any person accused of the listed crimes will be permitted to defend themselves before the Collective Public, in the presence of the Cabinet. However, should the evidence against the accused be deemed too strong, especially in the case of Crimes 4, 5 or 6, the Death Sentence will be implemented without trial.

Upon taking the Mark, each Death-Eater agrees and submits to the listed laws and other official decrees released subsequently by the Cabinet. No decree can be challenged once passed by the Dark Lord and any objection to the passed decree will be viewed as an act of treason against the Lord and all of his people. Such an act is punishable by imprisonment, if not immediate death.

A/N: Lend me your thoughts, friends? Review, review, review! This is going to be a slow walk, I've a lot to learn. And a lot to share.