Disclaimer: As usual, I'm just playing around with Ms. Rowling's work.

Author's Note: This is where our story legitimately starts. There is some coarse language. You've been warned. And thank you again to kci47 for her wonderful work as a beta!

Chapter 1

Wizarding Britain was now a dystopia as terrifying and cruel as one could imagine. The Dark Lord ruled as he had always hoped to, completely unquestioned and in total control. He faced no resistance, save from the Order, and even that was laughable in his mind.

The Muggle-borns who hadn't left the country were either well or enslaved in some manner. Their society had reached a tipping point; within the next six months, most believed the future would be decided.

Hogwarts accepted only Purebloods and half-bloods now, each class merely a platform for expressing the Dark Lord's views. Death Eaters were the teachers, spouting propaganda and false promises of greatness to the children.

Most rarely left their homes any more. Even walking to the neighbours' to share a cup of tea was dangerous for a half-blood. Rape, theft, murder, and other horrifying atrocities were commonplace now, and something of a sport for those who partook of them.

The Order had slowly fallen apart after Harry's capture; several of them had been killed in skirmishes with Death Eaters, and all that was left now were the remnants of a secret society that had once been the greatest known in modern times.

Minerva McGonagall was seated at the bedside of Aberforth Dumbledore, who'd been grazed with an unidentified Dark curse. His condition was steadily worsening, and she feared he would be the next member to leave them, permanently. They'd lost so many.

But the greatest yet was, in her mind, one of the strongest females to enter the war: Hermione Granger. The girl had proved herself indispensable after Harry's capture. She was- had been – one of their fiercest fighters, both in and out of battle. It still came as a shock when she realised two hundred and thirty eight days had passed since the Death Eaters had finally breached the security at Number 12 Grimmauld Place. Hermione had been captured just after tossing Teddy Lupin into the arms of Kingsley Shacklebolt.

As yet another shaky breath passed through Aberforth's lips, Minerva McGonagall allowed a few tears to run down her prematurely aged and lined face. She was watching more and more die every day, but she'd never imagined losing Hermione. With a spluttered cough, Aberforth brought her back to the present. She set about finding him some hot tea and another bedcover, thoughts of Hermione Granger pushed into the dark recesses of her mind.

She remembered, somewhat bitterly, that she'd screamed for Kingsley to go on. Gryffindor foolishness at its very finest.

The moment Rookwood's hand closed around her ankle, the world as she knew it ended. She found herself being sucked through the familiar tube of Apparation, and directly into a small, musty hovel in the bowels of some ancient home or castle. They hadn't killed her immediately, as she had expected. Rape had not occurred either, though most nights she shook with suppressed tears and anger at memories of a drunken captor running his hands along her sides, trying to coax a response from her. She was one of the lucky ones.

The ropes binding her rubbed and tore at the sensitive flesh of her inner arms with each movement made. Her feet felt leaden and pulsed with a dull pain every time she took a step. She knew that it was finally her turn to be brought in front of the Dark Lord for death. Since her capture, it was all she had been waiting for. Fear no longer pushed its way into her mind. These past months had effectively stamped it out.

By now, her hair reached down the small of her back, a filthy, knotted mess. Dirt and other questionable substances were caked all over her body, almost like a second skin now. She felt as though her ribs would pierce through her skin at any given moment, her malnourishment having deprived her of any hopes of fighting back. Muscles no longer ran taut and wiry over her body, for she was now a feeble portrait of her former physical glory. Even if the Order had managed to find where she was being held, she doubted they would have recognised her in this state.

A harsh cough beside her jolted her into reality once more. She shivered slightly, for the wards around the prison chamber pulsed with menacing life; as she passed through them, it felt as though a thousand needles dug into her skin at once. She gasped sharply despite herself, and cringed as Dolohov, the man leading her, kicked her to the ground.

'It's the dirty blood in your body that's causing the pain,' he hissed into her ear. 'Don't fret, Mudblood. If you're lucky, the Dark Lord will end you soon enough. Now, crawl forwards.'

There really was no originality in them, she thought, as she began dragging herself along the ground.

She looked down at her hands. There was some kind of blackened residue crusted underneath her nails; lacerations traced up her arms in random patterns. The frigidity of the stones was to be expected, but was no less shocking to the raw skin of her palms. Low laughs and jeers were echoing throughout the room, and the hair on the back of her neck rose when she heard Bellatrix's low cackle.

Never having dwelled upon thoughts of how she would die, it was now all she could think of. Would it be the Avada Kedavra? An Entrail Expelling Curse? Would they simply beat her until she breathed no more? Here, on this floor, she was the lowest of the low. And she was accepting it. Yielding to it. For the first time in weeks, a little bit of fight sprang to life within her.

Gryffindor courage had gotten her embroiled in this mess, hadn't it? Perhaps it was how she should end it. She swallowed thickly, and stopped in her movements. Others had died for the cause. They had died fighting, died bravely. So would she.

'Dolohov.'

She screwed her eyes shut. It was not the first time she'd heard his voice, but it never ceased to disturb her, to twist her insides.

'My Lord.' She heard the man behind her reply fearfully. She almost smirked. At least she wasn't the only uncomfortable person in the room.

'Why is the Mudblood no longer moving?'

'My Lord...'

'Miss Granger, the Mudblood, still thinks she is Queen of the castle?' he hissed, low and dangerously. 'Filthy girl, I am not Albus Dumbledore. I have no love for the dirty blood coursing through you.'

'You should,' she replied, raising her head. Shocked at her own daring, she muttered, 'You've got half of it in you as well.'

His eyes flashed red, brighter and more terrible than she had ever witnessed.

'Bella.'

'My Lord.' The tall woman fell to her knees in front of her Master.

'Teach the Mudblood whore some manners.'

'With pleasure, my Lord,' she purred.

Keeping her chin held high as the madwoman approached, she tried to close off her mind from the pain. But as the curse left Lestrange's lips, it still coursed through her. Her arms and legs felt like someone had just set them ablaze. She could feel her spine twisting and bending upon itself. Screams echoed through her head, and she vaguely registered that they were her own. Had she not experienced the curse before, she would have thought it to be physically tearing her limbs from her body. Every nerve was affected, every thought in her mind focused on nothing but the pain.

She didn't know how long it lasted; it could have been days, months, years even. Sounds were no more than a low drone in her ears. Yet just as she began to think she would go mad, it stopped. A sharp inhale, and her lungs filled with air once more. The ceiling swam back into focus slowly. Each drop of sweat on her body felt like a leaden weight.

'Mudbloods, Mudbloods.' Bellatrix growled. 'Filthy little whore. Aren't fit to lick the dirt off of our boots...'

'Bella, Bella,' Voldemort called quietly. 'You mustn't tire out our guest too quickly. I have some inquiries. Bring her here.'

There wasn't enough strength in her body to fight off whoever grabbed her under the arms and dragged her to the snake-like man, but she prayed fervently that she'd have regained some before the next inevitable round of pain. She almost gagged when she inhaled. He smelled like decaying bodies, and the very stench of it clogged her nostrils.

'Harry Potter's faithful little lapdog,' he said in that cold, clear voice. 'On the very front lines with our Mr. Potter, weren't you, Mudblood?'

'Pr..oudly,' she responded feebly. The smell was still wreaking havoc on her insides.

'Such foolishness,' he sneered. 'Look where it has gotten you.'

She spat at his feet, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand roughly.

'The disrespect you show to Lord Voldemort,' he snarled. 'Perhaps we ought to have Rodolphus break you of that little habit, I'm sure he would appreciate a little revenge for his brother...but later, if you remain uncooperative. Lord Voldemort hasn't the time to coddle the answers out of murderous little Mudbloods like yourself.'

'Soak your head,' she muttered.

'Crucio!' He hissed. 'You will learn your place!'

Once more, the fire and knives invaded her body, pushing her over the edge. A ball of fire felt as though it was pulsing within her chest, on the brink of explosion. But the pain was so great it was inching its way into her mind, causing her to foam at the mouth, whimpering for help. Something was going to break, and it would be her-

A loud crack echoed within her ears, and rather suddenly she was prostrate on the ground once again, but someone was now gripping her by a hank of hair, dragging her away from the throne. Shouted spells resonated throughout the chamber, and then she found herself being sucked into the familiar sensations brought about by Apparation.

She didn't have time to contemplate the fact that someone had just rescued her. For the moment she was set on her feet, she fell onto the ground. Her last thought before her head cracked against the floor was that whoever happened to be her rescuer -if she was truly being rescued -was in desperate need of a bath.

Inside a small two-up two-down, a man dressed in black lounged on a small threadbare sofa. The stuffing was poking out the bottoms of the sagging cushions, but the man lying on them was so thin he barely made a dent in the decrepit material.

The flooring was dented and scuffed, patched holes in the wood from times his temper had been lost. The smell of stale cigarette smoke hung in the air, mingling with that of ancient, musty books and men's cologne, though the last was barely noticeable.

It was another night, in an endless stretch of them, that he spent with a bottle of gin between his legs, and a knife in his hand, picking away at the Dark Mark. In two years, he'd whittled most of it out, but there were a few traces of the cursed skin still embedded, posing a threat to him. Sometimes, he still felt a Summons course through the wound.

This thought led to a particularly vicious jab, resulting in a fine stream of blood. He swore heavily, less than amused with his own carelessness. He reached for a bandage, and took another swig of his gin.

Useless. Useless, useless, useless. He was supposed to have died in a battle, not gone on for two years, with nothing to do but drink his liver into more of a sorry state than it had been previously.

They'd caught him blocking spells and protecting Potter. They'd caught him. The consummate spy. He, who covered his tracks more quickly and efficiently than one could dream. He'd fled, of course. Potter could have turned their opinions on him around, but with the boy gone, he was as good as dead.

The world had dissolved into madness around him. Children were beaten and murdered without mercy. Reports of Order resistance dwindled into nothing. There was no hope for any of them.

No, all he had now were his books, and the wireless. He'd set his owl into the wild, pitched all his Floo powder into the rubbish bin, erected impenetrable blood wards. No one would be getting in or out. No one would be contacting him, save for his one outside contact.

Some days, he seriously considered sticking the pistol that rested in one of the drawers upstairs into his mouth and pulling the trigger.

He barked out a laugh. Imagine, one of them finding his dead body years form now, with a hole in the back of his head and his brains scattered around the room. He'd pay to see the confused look on their faces. But that wasn't an option. The other three times he'd tried to do it, to end it all, had resulted in a bruised throat, unsightly scars on his forearms, and a week in the local Muggle hospital.

Of course, even if he truly wanted to off himself, he couldn't have. Not until he knew how it would end, officially. Not until Potter was dead, or freed.

He snorted, pressed the mouth of the bottle to his lips, tipped it back...and threw it into the wall with an expletive. Empty, of course. He was in a perpetual state of drunkenness this time of year. It was almost Christmas, which meant January was upon him.

The worst fucking month in the entire damned year. He'd be forty. Forty, with nothing to speak of but a home that was crumbling around him, and numerous scars from battles he'd fought in. All for nothing.

Muttering to himself, he pushed off the couch with a wince. There had been a small twinge of pain in his chest for the past hour or so. But he rarely had problems with his heart; it was usually stomach ulcers, or renal failure, which was normally put to rights by Poppy, but he hadn't seen her in months.

His muscles were sinewy and toned, yes; but he had severe cramping in them, and dealt with spasms daily. He was well adjusted to pain; he lived in a chronic state of it, for Merlin's sake. This was different. It wasn't the aching throb that refused to subside, nor was it the sharp and sudden waves of unadulterated agony he had grown so accustomed to.

He had just reached into his pocket for his wand, to Summon another bottle, when it hit again. Cursing, he pressed his hand just to the left of his sternum. Something was terribly familiar about it...almost as though he'd experienced it once before.

Perhaps he was having a heart attack, or maybe the years of smoking and drinking had finally caught up to him and were eating away at his insides. Morbidly amused with his own thoughts, he decided it had been inevitable that his own body would turn on him. Everything, and everyone else had. Everyone but Potter, in the end. And Granger, the interfering little-

It hit him, with sudden and terrifying clarity. Granger had pushed him out of the way of that Killing Curse. He must have owed her a life debt for the stunt she'd pulled. Granger had been captured seven or eight months ago. The debt was being called, not willingly, but out of necessity. Granger was in -he winced at the sound of it in his head -danger.

'Fuck,' he muttered, gripping his wand. Every time his life got easier than the gods thought it should be...

Another wave of the peculiar sensation hit, but this time he recognised it as that of the Collector calling the Debtor. Merlin knew he was familiar with it; how had he not picked up on it right off?

He must have been going soft in his isolation.

This was madness. But it was pay the debt or die. He'd dealt with Life Debts before. It'd eat at him until he gave into it. And if she died before he yielded, he'd soon follow. He held his wand to his heart and closed his eyes, as the powers that controlled the Debt Apparated him to his destination.

The moment his feet touched the ground, he looked around and swore harshly. He hadn't been expecting the entire fucking inner circle, and then some. Voldemort raised his head and hissed in shock. Apparently, the rest of them were too dumbfounded to even react.

Taking advantage of this, he threw up a Shield Charm and ran towards what had to be Granger, who was sprawled upon the ground. Grabbing her hair roughly- which in and of itself confirmed it was the Insufferable Know-It-All - he began dragging her back towards the door. He focused on Spinner's End and dodged a Stunner, just barely; he sent a vicious Entrail Expelling curse towards a masked figure in retaliation. Adrenaline pumped through him, as he watched spells flying by him slowly, as if they were underwater. Not checking to see if he met his mark, he spun into nothingness.

Upon reaching the kitchen at Spinner's End, he released his grip on her, watching dispassionately as her body simply dropped onto the floor heavily. He'd just saved her life. He didn't much feel like making her comfortable. Looking down at her, he chuckled darkly. She looked like shit. She'd feel like it too, when she woke up.

He walked over to the liquor cabinet, and popped the cork off a bottle of Ogden's 1967, taking a swig that burned deliciously. He hadn't seen action in months, let alone faced one of his former 'colleagues' since his duplicity had been revealed. It could have been much worse. Much, much, much worse. He swallowed another mouthful and looked back down at Granger, sobered.

His life wasn't easy. It wasn't simple. It never had been. And this was an added complication, one he most certainly did not need. Thousands of things could go wrong. He wasn't even sure how to get her out of his home safely and into one of the Order's, seeing as he had no form of communication with them. He was at a loss for ideas.

This had the potential to become the biggest cock-up of his life. So he did what any other rational man does when faced with a daunting task. He drank. At least in a haze of firewhiskey he could pretend anything he thought of would work.