When Hermione first awoke she was blearily aware of a pulsating throb behind her eyes. Forcing them open, she realized that she was not in her tent with Harry and Ron. Panicked, she made the mistake of sitting abruptly upright, provoking a nauseating vertigo that made the room spin alarmingly. Clutching the bed cover beneath her, Hermione waited impatiently for her vision to clear as she assessed her surroundings.
Definitely not her tent.
The room she was in was maybe twelve square meters in total and five meters tall, made entirely of stone. It was nearly twice as long as it was wide, with a toilet and two spigots at the far end. A heavy oaken trapdoor in the ceiling marked the sole entrance and exit to the room. It also served as the room's only light source, with a manhole sized grate in the center allowing scant light to filter in.
Her mind whirring with fright, Hermione steadied her trembling hands against the cot beneath her and stood. She was secondarily alerted to a foreign chiming sound that accompanied her movements. The glint of a steel manacle about her left ankle made her heart thud painfully and she jerked her foot back in reflex, eliciting another soft chink of the metal. Her eyes followed the length of the chain to a heavy bolt in the base of the stone wall. It afforded about three meters in length, the approximate length of the room.
Hermione was trying hard not to cry, and her chest heaved with the effort. Compelling herself to move, she walked to the middle of the room, directly beneath the door, the chains screeching their protest as she dragged them along the floor. Hermione winced at the noise, and peered up at the beam of light coming from the grate. She blinked rapidly as apparent sunlight met her eyes. A shadow flickered over the open grille as a wispy cloud floated breezily past. She was outside, or almost anyway. A cool breeze wafted down to gently greet her face, and she shivered. It was almost too cool to be underground in only her thin purple sweatshirt and jeans.
She reached upwards with her hands, but she knew it was a futile gesture – the door hung far above her fingertips, unreachable. Abandoning the tack, Hermione trudged back to the pallet and dragged it to the center of the room, the deafening clangor of her shackles making her cringe with every step. Like a damn calliope, she thought angrily. She was shaking with anxiety and fury, this alien and oppressive cell setting her on the precipice of hysteria. Standing on her tiptoes up on the bed, she found she was still more than an arm's span away from the ceiling. Cursing, she kicked the bedpost in frustration, and her chain erupted in its dissonant chorus in reply. She sat down on the mattress and made herself take deep breaths.
"Okay Hermione," she said aloud to herself, "Use that brain of yours. Come on."
Hermione frowned in concentration at the manacle. She had been practicing wandless magic with Harry and Ron just last night. She had been showing some aptitude for it for the past week that they'd been practicing, and had managed with moderate success to levitate a leaf. With this meager confidence, she crossed her legs and concentrated hard on the manacle around her ankle, focusing on the tiny keyhole in the band's center.
"Alohamora," she ordered forcefully, twisting her hand widdershins as she would her wand.
She was immediately rewarded with a lightning bolt shock, the hot burning sensation searing up her leg in an angry rejection of her magic. The chain trembled and shook as though furious with her. Hermione was left gasping in pain and surprise, reeling. She rubbed her leg frantically, trying to distract from the residual burn. Her fingers brushed over the manacle, which was solidly still intact. Trembling, she lay herself down and closed her eyes against the scant sunlight that pierced through to her cell.
Why was she here? How did she get here? Who was holding her like this? What would they do to her to get what they wanted? The questions spiraled through her mind, a tornado of imagination wreaking havoc and leaving a throbbing headache in its wake.
Even as she sat recuperating from her failed attempt at a brash escape, she could feel the manacle sapping greedily at her energy, her magic. It was draining, and Hermione found her eyelids heavy as though she hadn't slept in a week. And so Hermione sat curled up in her corner of the bed, ensconced in her stone oubliette, and slept.
Lucius drummed his fingers against his knee impatiently as he listened to the conclusion of the Death Eater's Gathering. Avery and Jugson were giving satisfactory report on the destruction and takeover of a British muggle town that had of late been producing an odd number of Mudblood infants. Lucius allowed his gaze to drift over to his son, who was staring resolutely at the center of the table, face so pristinely impassive that it made Lucius' blood boil. He knew that look - he had coached, demanded, and sculpted that look for his son. He knew Draco was angry with the Death Eaters, a traitor to the cause, and a coerced participant. Draco hid it well. He should be grateful to have Lucius for a father, or Voldemort would have discovered his feelings and killed him off ages ago. He should be a proud Pureblood, Lucius snarled to himself, ready to pay to price of aristocracy and dominance over the wizarding world. Instead, Draco was just a very good liar. His own son, a Mudblood sympathizer. Lucius' fingers halted their beat and curled into an angry fist. That one stupid Mudblood girl. His nostrils flared at the thought of her.
He glanced up. Jugson and Avery had finished report and were taking their seats.
"Very good. Other updates for me?" Voldemort's harsh voice asked. There was general silence, the sound of people shifting in their seats. But then Snape stood.
"My Lord," he intoned demurely, "I have heard that the Granger girl has disappeared from the trio, should anyone like to take credit. Having taught the three of them, I assure you that Potter will now be at an enormous disadvantage. Dumbledore's Army is quite distraught over the loss."
Snape took his seat again with a bow. Lucius watched Draco's eyes widen just a fraction, the shallow intake of breath.
"Well?" Voldemort's face held an ugly representation of pleasure. "To whom do I owe these thanks?"
Again, silence. Draco's eyes darted about. The Dark Lord raised an eyebrow.
"None shall claim victory?"
When no one spoke up, Voldemort shrugged. "Perhaps we have an ally. Severus, check in with Scabior's crew to see if he can find out more." Snape bowed his head in receipt of this missive. "Dismissed." Voldemort rose, signaling his followers to do the same.
Lucius moved with the sea of black cloaks to the entrance of the meeting hall, keeping Draco's blond head in view. His son was all but running from the room, determinedly taking long strides past the other Death Eaters. Lucius snorted softly. Any more conspicuous and he'd be singled out for sure. Young idiot. Lucius deftly sidestepped Avery and exited the building. He was met with the cool relief of the crisp fall air – Merlin, but that building was warm. A few long strides and he was beside Draco. He seized his son's upper arm, spinning him to face his father. Anger and alarm flashed from Draco's grey eyes. Lucius gripped the boy in a familiar embrace, such that passersby would think it a friendly conversation.
"I have the girl," Lucius hissed into Draco's ear. He felt his son stiffen jerk, and Lucius spoke quickly, tightening his grip. "Should you say anything to anyone, should you even think to disobey the Dark Lord or myself, I will end her life in the most tortuous way imaginable."
He leaned away, taking in Draco's look of horror and anger.
"You thought I wouldn't find out?" Lucius smiled dangerously. "You forget who raised you, boy. Your precious Mudblood will be your downfall."
"Where is she?" Draco croaked hoarsely.
"Not a word," Lucius deflected. "Not a toe out of line. Obey your father and your Lord." He gave Draco a penetrating look. "You know what I am capable of."
Without waiting for a reply, Lucius turned his heel and vanished in a crack of apparition.
The things he did to protect his family.