DISCLAIMER: I am making no money off this, and this site isn't either. This is purely fan-fiction written by a weird person who has absolutely nothing better to do than write this stuff. I don't own Harry Potter, Hogwarts, Snape, etc. J.K.R. does.

This is the second edition of this chapter, thanks very much to my two glorious betas! white-hound and Aindel S. Druida, both of whom have proved invaluable. I appreciate your help!

Vie des Poulets

Chapter 1

"Harry Potter is dead."

"The Boy Who Lived has died!"

The cries rang through Diagon Alley with the agony of a thousand goodhearted souls behind them. The pain of a long hope lost, the permeating sense of defeat, the terror of unknown dangers were all evident in the faces of every man and woman.

Harry Potter, the hero of all the world of magic, had not been able to bring down whatever You-Know-Who had become. There was no point in caring for justice anymore. The last stronghold that society had upon the rim of tradition had been cut, sending it into the dark abyss of entropy. The common people were at a loss, more lost than they ever had been.

There was, of course, a certain number of people who cared nonetheless, cared more than the common people ever could care. These were, in consequence, the first ones to die; they impeded the terrified laymen as they flocked en masse towards the dark. They were killed in cold blood for the mere matter that they believed in an at least semi-democracy, that they wanted a genuine role in the structure of their government, that they desired even the slightest hint of difference from their comrades. These people knew they would rather die than forfeit their liberty, and so they did. Every person who had organized against Voldemort found themselves at a loss, especially those who did not trot in a docile manner into his fold upon the asking. When the tide turned after Harry's death, every person who remained in opposition to the great and terrible Dark Lord found as dismal a kismet awaiting them in the realms of despair that followed.

Hermione Jean Granger, however, found herself to be a blatant exception to the rule. After being sent to a prison camp in a location she thought might be Essex, she watched her friends go to be executed. One by one, they disappeared from the stifling single-room cell that held the fifty or so female supporters of the light that survived the initial raid on the Order of the Phoenix's safety bunker. With every day, as she expected to be escorted out, she instead remained, entrapped with her companions in the war, holding the knowledge that her life's true love Ronald Weasley was either dead or pledged to the role of lifelessness, and grieving for all that was lost.

Time passed in the prison, though slothlike, and after a month Hermione was called to order by a sour-faced matron. The girl, long expecting this summons, was ready for her departure. The matron said nothing to her, manacling the girl to her own wrist and dragging the her out into a strange bright morning sun. A bus sat, attentive, before them, and Hermione felt dread at the sight. She had been expecting one of the more idiotic, bumbling death eaters—perhaps someone she had known or been fond of that had changed sides almost too late in the game—to be at the ready to administer the Avada Kedavra. For this, she had been prepared, and when she saw this was not to be her fate, she grew fearful.

Perhaps they are to execute me in public, and this is merely the transportation to my doom, she concluded to appease herself. So certain was she that her death was imminent, she did not even bother to consider that there might have been some slight chance of her recovering any degree of liberty. The matron offered no explanation to alleviate the multitude of questions broiling in Hermione's mind, and instead put her nose into her copy of Witch's Weekly. It struck Hermione that this particular woman was not the usual one who drew the prisoners away to the scaffold, but this notion did not alarm her remarkably.

Doubtless it is because I was such a friend to Harry Potter, I am to be tortured to death in front of that beast Voldemort himself, and so instead of disposing of me quietly at the prison they sent this woman from across the country to fetch me for disposal.

This, however, she was soon to discover was not the case.

The journey ended at a very sterile-looking facility in the middle of nowhere, as bland as a cement block in the remotest spot on the moors. Not a tree or green leaf anywhere to be seen: Hermione felt that, indeed, that desolate location was sure to be the last of her life. A sudden thought made her wonder if the area was haunted, it was so barren and arid, and this led her to wonder also if she could return as a ghost to haunt Voldemort and his nasty brood.

The matron, however, remained as silent and unapproachable as ever, leading Hermione off the bus after tying a very dark blindfold over the girl's eyes. Though Hermione could not explain this at first, she was obliged to let herself be guided by the woman. They stopped and started several times, and some of the low, muttered incantations used by her captor led her to deduce that the blind was to prevent herself from knowing how to disarm the wards. Quite the security buffs they are. It's not as though my dead body will run off after they're good and done with me, but I suppose I must admire their caution.

Hermione was no wiser about her surroundings until she felt the body-heated warmth of the manacle release her wrists, and the dark cloth was removed from her eyes. To her great astonishment, she was propelled towards a plain white hospital bed, one bed in a line of ten in the room. About half of these were occupied, and some of the patients were staring at her entrance.

"Hermione! Hermione Granger! My dear!"

One of the patients she recognized to be a school mate from the days before she knew of the magical reality of Hogwarts, a Muggle by the name of Edwina Hale. Her parents had been archaeologists, and so left their young daughter in the care of a strict aunt. Edwina's sense of mischievousness and clever ingenuity had attracted Hermione's friendship, even though Hermione never participated in Edwina's far-fetched schemes. The purpose of most of these was to spring herself into so much trouble that she would have to be sent to boarding school, and when Hermione was given the chance by providence, Edwina was so jealous that she broke off their friendship. Hermione had heard nothing of her old friend since. However, there, in the least auspicious of places, they met again, and were thrilled at it.

"Edwina! My God! I can't believe it's you!"

"I would certainly say the same! Is that blinking woman going to let you off your leash or do you have to go someplace for examinations?"

"Examinations?" The frightful word brought back memories, many memories, of Hogwarts, frantic studying up until the last minute, devious mnemonics, and how hard she worked to help Ron succeed in them. (Which, for the record, at least in her opinion, he did not.)

"Still the paranoid bookworm, I see?" joked Edwina, remembering well Hermione's ambition for good grades. "Well, calm down, it's not those kinds of examinations, though I rather wish they were."

"What do you mean?" queried Hermione, wondering what in the world would make her wish she were taking a test, but she had no time to ask for more specifics from her long-lost friend. The matron sighed, dismal as she laid the bedclothes and placed a crisp hospital gown on the pillow. Afterwards, she tugged her quarry out the door,.

"They took away your wand at the prison, if I'm not mistaken?" the woman asked once they were beyond the dormitory room, the first words she had spoken since their encounter hours ago.

"Even supposing they hadn't, would you believe me if I said I still had it?" Hermione quipped, rather annoyed that she had so little time to talk to her friend, and annoyed that she had yet to face having the book thrown at her by Voldemort. She wanted to look at him well, to know what it was she had been cursing in her mind for years, and know exactly how she was to die. She only hoped that it would be slightly better than being drawn and quartered.

The matron grunted in reply.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Hermione soon discovered what sort of 'examinations' Edwina had implied. Blood was drawn, vial after vial, and urine samples were taken by stolid unsmiling nurses, day after day. Bowel movement times were recorded with precision after varying, irregular meals, sometimes very bountiful and rich with fats, sometimes sparse and only of spinach. Sleep schedules were disrupted often, for the purpose of feeding and watering in the middle of the presumed night. The greatest positive bit of the experience was the fact that Hermione did find some time to chat with Edwina and the other inmates. Their main occupation was to propound theories about what they were doing there, since it was evident that they were not to die with guillotine swiftness.

"I imagine they think this is torture, though really you're the only one who would be technically worth the expense since none of us besides you are witches," one girl suggested. "I'm completely bewildered otherwise."

"This might just be an illusion in our minds to drive us crazy," an older woman put forward, "It may have something to do with the communists." That particular lady had a particular obsession with communists, and blamed their entire situation upon them.

"Maybe it has something to do with a charm or spell of some sort," Hermione offered, though she felt that her guesses had little more validity than those proposed by the others.

About two horrendous, unpleasant weeks were spent in the hospital building, Hermione feeling more and more that somewhere, some bureaucrat had made some terrible mistake. Somehow, she had been embroiled in some sort of experiment; her high-profile figure had, by accident, been sorted into those expendable numbers of young Muggle women who were being tested for who knows what.

However, one day, after all the poking and prodding, the ten guinea-pigs of the unknown experiments were offered six unexpected, satisfying and delicious meals in a row and two nights' worth of uninterrupted sleep. The second day of such fine treatment was made even more luxurious by being invited to investigate a full Turkish bath, sauna, and spa. None of the women, upon being asked to participate, gave any resistance, and they took full advantage of the offerings. Once they were assured to be clean, their nurses gave full massages, pedicures, manicures, and cleaned their teeth. Every woman was provided a dress matched to fit their body, as well. The most notable aspect of these dresses, however, was that some of them were very plain, some of them were rather pretty but not elaborate, and Hermione's in particular held top rank as the finest. Edwina in particular commentated on it.

"Well, Hermione, that's definitely the most stylish dress of the lot! You're certainly lucky!"

The young witch shrugged, diplomatic, answering, "I wouldn't be so quick to say I'm lucky, you know."

"It's an excellent color!"

"This sea green? I've never thought so."

"Don't be silly; that's forest green not sea green. There's a huge difference between them. Sea green has more blue in it, it's more like aquamarine."

"Well, that's not exactly my area of expertise," countered Hermione in a good-natured way. "I actually thought this color was more like the ocean, so I've thought of it as sea green."

"Well, it isn't. Not by international standards. But it's a very excellent satin, too—exceptionally fine fabric."

"You know, I think I'll trade with you though, if you want."

"Really?" Edwina's rising envy was assuaged by the offer. "What for?"

"You think I want to look like an overdressed peacock? Certainly not! I wasn't born into high society, and I don't feel like myself in this dress. I rather like your dark rose cotton, actually. The color is one that suits me better, I think, and I've always had a predilection for it."

"The dress assigned to you is the one you shall wear. It is ordered," declared one of the stiff matrons who was working on Hermione's hair at the present moment.

"Hm. So it seems we are being fattened up for the kill—we're the prisoners being treated well for the last time before our execution," proposed Edwina, half joking, half serious.

None of the matrons within earshot made any move to contradict her or confirm her statement, and so an uneasy laugh erupted between the two friends, like the noise of flatulence after its perpetrator apologized for it in advance.

. . . x . . . X . . . x . . .

Hermione and Edwina realized, at this point, that likely they were being prepared for some sort of important interview, perhaps with Voldemort, though Edwina noted the process's similarity to preparing slaves for market. They kept this idea between themselves, not wanting to unduly scare the other women with their speculations, and so they suffered alone. The nervous constriction of Hermione's stomach at the prediction prevented her from eating much at the remainder of their meals, though Edwina boisterously took up her friend's slack.

"If we are going to be slaves," Edwina proposed over the remnants of a rich chocolate mousse, "it won't do but help to eat your fill, as long as this good fortune lasts."

"That's the practical thing to do," Hermione replied, "But I'm afraid the idea of being selected for some bloke's harem--when I so miss Ron!--rather disturbing. I've lost all semblance of my appetite."

Edwina was concerned. "You're sure I can't persuade you to eat?"

"I had some of the asparagus, but I couldn't face anything more."

"Fine, well, if you don't want to finish yours, you might as well pass it over to me—I can bear it."

Sooner than they would have liked, the women were separated into small groups of two or three, along with one matron attending each, and these groups were conducted through the Floo Network to separate destinations. Hermione happened to be paired with Edwina, which she was grateful for, and they were both ushered into the fireplace looking their very best.

"What strange ways of travelling you magic folk have," Edwina declared with a laugh. "I expected we'd be flying by broomstick everywhere, or at least by a flying carpet, but no! First by train, then by bus, and now by fireplace!"

After this comment, however, the girls were separated—to their great laments—and Hermione was put into a windowless room as blank as a recording studio or music practice room. She remained there for about half an hour, pacing with anticipation, knowing it was her dernier jour de vie, and fearing the prospect of pain somewhere near at hand.

A young woman entered after thirty minutes or so, very blonde and very pale, perhaps of Scandinavian descent. She asked Hermione in as kind a tone as she seemed capable, despite her rigid attitude, if she would be so kind as to accompany her out of the room. Knowing the crux of the matter was that she had very little choice, Hermione acquiesced and followed, bracing herself for her oncoming death.

Their journey was short—the pair crossed the hallway. Hermione watched the door of the room open under the guidance of her blonde escort, and she was surprised to see revealed to her a room just the same size as she had left. However, unlike the other, this office was ornate, in such a way that its designer was like a chef who strove to make decaying broccoli and cattle droppings into a sumptuous chocolate cake. Or, mused Hermione, like trying to turn cucumbers into sunshine.

Thick green velvet curtains and golden fleur-de-lis tapestries decorated the walls, and in the middle of the room was a vast desk. Behind this sat the larger-than-life figure of Lucius Malfoy, poised with a cigar, feet propped on a pile of mismatched books chosen for mere decoration. He raised his eyebrows with interest as the women entered, but said nothing until the Norwegian girl left, blowing a kiss at him as she exited.

"Hermione Granger," he said at last, in the manner she supposed he reserved for scolding house-elves. It was unexpected, at best, because he appeared complacent and almost genial. I suppose the affairs of such a scum-sucking Mudblood as I, though they cause him to scold, cannot dare to influence his mood.

"The time has come for you to make a choice. You have two options offered to you: to live and be banned from magic, or to die."

"I will die!" replied Hermione, stiff and resolute. She had not realized that she could have come this far and have a choice in her fate; very likely whichever one I choose I will end up dead, so may as well irk him by choosing the courageous route. Likely he'll tell me something to the tune of, 'You're such a Gryffindor!'

Indeed, at this statement Malfoy did lean back into his chair, blowing smoke into the air. Hermione coughed in response.

"Well, that was not so much a choice as a courtesy; I had heard you had Slytherin tendencies, but it seems that my source was mistaken in that surmise. A pity," Malfoy said after a minute of pondering, "For I myself would prefer you dead. The Dark Lord certainly would prefer you dead, being one of Harry Potter's closest friends. But, you selfish, ungrateful child—you will not die. You have a protector."