A/N: Happy Tuesday! I'm sorry this update is a bit late; I signed for a rental house today! Out of the shoebox of an apartment and into a new-to-us house. With that, though, I wanted to note that updates might be a bit slow over the next couple of weeks. I'm going to try to post each week, but I'm not sure if I can make that happen. If you want updates, head over to my Tumblr account (xravenslight) where I'll update on Monday evening if I can't post. Thanks for reading!

Chapter 10 – Eight of Wands

Hermione felt no pull on her magic at Voldemort's command. Instead of pain, she felt the warmth of Malfoy's magic, his steely grey eyes boring into the back of her head, and she dropped to her knees with her head bent. With one final caress, his magic prodded the dam she'd unwittingly built against the darkness within her - her final, desperate attempt to ward it away. At Draco's insistence, the dam burst, causing the darkness to wash over her.

Sinking into his spell was what she imagined a high would feel like. She was aware of her actions, but they existed only beyond a haze of glassy detachment. It was like jumping into a pool with a weight tied around her ankles; she welcomed the blissful oblivion that the darkness offered, and she sank into it with a lover's embrace.

It bore a curious warmth that she couldn't place, far too familiar for its endless depths, and her magic roiled against the command, battering within her chest once more before giving in to its siren's song.

Slowly—so slowly she thought she might have imagined it—the tingle of her magic returned to her. It broke from the staunched core within her and flowed serenely throughout her body, filling the aching gaps she'd become desensitized to in her months of captivity and torture. When it curled around her fingertips and sparked, she fought back a triumphant smile.

The curse wasn't done with her, though. It leached up her spine, a terrible crawling that began in her core and snaked around her bones, permeating into the very sinews of her body, and it rooted itself deep within her subconscious. Its tendrils whispered to her, promises of power and salvation, an ancient voice that rang in her ears, split her mind wide open with a rending gash, and delved deep into her inner self with unapologetic grace.

Distantly, she was aware that she writhed on the floor, that Voldemort's sycophants laughed gaily at her pain and forced submission. All she could focus on was that force within her, the curse that sought to strip her of her very being. As it bore into her memories, that night flashed before her.

"You could be powerful." The words echoed in her head, bouncing off the flimsy walls she'd constructed to keep Lucius out.

Her eyes darted back and forth to the other witches and wizards in the room. No one had made a sound after Ron had announced that he was a turncoat; they'd all shrunk into themselves in defeat.

The Vehme watched her, hunger in their eyes. She had no doubt that they wanted to watch the Muggleborn break. No, she had no real option here. She was to either endure whatever torture Lucius thought best for her, a slow painful death at his hand, or she would agree to join them.

The noise around her became a dull roar in her ears when the lone werewolf in the room licked his chops and stalked forward. She stared resolutely forward, refusing to show an ounce of fear despite the raging of her heart. When his hand tangled in her hair and roughly yanked her head backwards, she refused to let her grunt of pain escape.

She didn't question what would happen—she knew. He would take his time to destroy her, and he would do it in front of everyone. When he used a long claw to rip open the front of her filthy shirt, she began her retreat within her mind. She refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing her plead.

Almost as quickly as he had grabbed her, a blasting spell crashed the far wall of the cellar inward, and Hermione was blown backwards, smacking her head against a chunk of marble.

The room was chaos. Spells flew about, ricocheting off the walls. She dove to the floor as marble busts shattered above her, the jingle of the pieces a minor—

And suddenly the curse wrenched out of the memory, burrowing further, deeper, until it found its destination: her love for her friends, her family, for magic itself shining starkly in its inky blackness. The tendrils shot out and wrapped around it, leaching it slowly away until a matching tendril, greyer than the others, reached out and formed a shield between it and the light it sought to take from her. She felt its dissatisfaction in her bones, the way it wrenched away - disapproving of its interruption - all that remained in its place beyond a single, flickering shadow of that love was stark ambition and drive.

Slowly, she regained her faculties. Air gusted out of her lungs, a searing stitch in her side growing with each harsh exhale. Silence reigned in the room, though she felt every eye on her keenly. Distantly, she was aware that she should feel dread. For herself. For those she loved. For the whole of the wizarding world.

And yet all she could feel was the flicker of magic within her once more.

The sheer depths of the power that now lay coiled beneath her racing heart.

Hermione didn't waste time in searching for an answer, didn't waste time in asking questions. Instead, she gathered her legs beneath her, no longer trembling in the horrid crimson gown, and stood to her full height. When she met Voldemort's gaze, surprise ignited in his expression before he smoothed it clean.

With a flick of his wrist, he gestured for her to turn around and distantly, so distantly she might have imagined it, that grey tendril of magic curled around her once more, guiding her feet, keeping her chin held high.

Within her, it whispered You will do what he says lest you're told otherwise.

When she was turned to face them, her chin high, Voldemort spoke to the crowd. "It is done. The Order has lost its princess."

The oak doors opened simultaneously, and the Vehme strode in, each adorned in their crimson cloaks, daggers and wands stashed within their billowing depths.

Where she might have once felt fear or anger at their confident stride, their utter destruction of both her and those she had loved, grim curiosity allowed her to trail her gaze over each one. Sizing them up. Judging the openings they left for a curse here, a hex there.

Within her, the magic tugged again. Not yet.

Silent booted feet halted in front of her and their ranks opened, revealing Ron near the back of the group. His leering smile met her gaze as he allowed the folded fabric on his arm to unfurl, to pool on the floor beneath his outstretched hand. "Welcome to the Vehme, 'Mione."

The Death Eaters celebrated as Ron draped the cloak around her shoulders, tying it neatly beneath her neck. She fought the urge to hiss at him, his too familiar fingers trailing along her collarbone as the cloak settled over her shoulder. If not for the audience, she would have cut him down on the spot.

As he resumed ranks among his men, she'd whispered a promise deep in the recesses of her mind: I will kill you.

A thought rubbed uncomfortably against her consciousness, akin to a cat begging for attention. She knew she should question the sudden change in her inclinations, the loss of her ever-present moral compass and the way that it guided her every decision... but the thought lacked conviction. She knew she should care—she just didn't. The void it left behind now bloomed with the rage she'd kept trapped inside. The horror she'd seen at all the death inflicted by those who stood grouped around her was suddenly locked away behind an iron door she could not pierce. The freedom it offered her, the escape from the terror that roiled within her, was a welcome escape.

As covertly as she could, she darted her gaze around the room, noting the exits and sizing up each man that stood in her way. Dolohov. LeStrange. Lucius. Yaxley. All of them stood grouped in the ranks, and she fought the curve of a sadistic smile that threatened when she thought of gutting each one.

When Voldemort raised his hand to silence them, Hermione allowed her gaze to trail the edges of the room. There, once more to Voldemort's left, stood the younger Malfoy, stone faced and contemplative. Staring at her before surveying the room with a blank expression.

Voldemort spoke. "Step forward."

Hermione's feet acted of their own accord. Before the dais, she stood in her crimson gown, the matching cloak one of the few swatches of colour amongst the formalwear of the others.

"Hermione Granger, you have been called to join the Vehme through the power of the Teneantur." Voldemort studied his bony hands, the slender wand held between his fingertips.

Hermione waited, counting the beats of her heart in her ears, for his next words even as her mind raced to place the unfamiliar spell. "You are to work alongside these men and report to them. As it stands, Ronald Weasley will—"

"Wait."

Anger swelled in Voldemort's eyes as Draco stepped forward, one hand raised. "If it's all the same to you, my Lord, then I would like to volunteer to oversee her training."

Hermione heard Ron's snarl behind her, but she stared at Malfoy. His grey eyes refused to meet her own, instead peering up at Voldemort. If she wasn't mistaken, he was—

Voldemort erupted into a chuckle. "I don't take bargains, Malfoy. What is it you wish with the girl? Surely your mother and father would disprove of you sullying your line with a Mudblood."

Malfoy snarled. "If she's to be trained as an assassin, I should think that she would be trained by one of the most skilled members of the Vehme and not a new recruit."

Voldemort carefully considered Malfoy's words, his gnarled fingers steepled under his chin. Hermione once more felt her magic flare within her, its tendrils racing along her fingertips. It wanted to do something, to escape, too long trapped within her to fare much longer. When Voldemort inclined his head, he spoke. "The Mudblood is to be assigned to young Mister Malfoy, then." He silenced Ron's protesting behind her. "And should he displease me—" a sharp glance toward the man in question, who bore it without flinching "—then the Mudblood will be put to death."

Tittering laughter escaped Bellatrix, clapping her hands together, and Hermione simply inclined her head. With a gentle nudge of the magic, she dropped into a low curtsey, where she stayed until Voldemort spoke again. "Rise."

As though on autopilot, she rose again, bones protesting the deep squat after so long of disuse.

With a wave of his wand, Voldemort conjured another cage, a gilded gold, and the gate swung open. "A cage to remind you of your place should you fail to understand your role."

She stood within that cage for the rest of the evening. Neither large enough to sit or squat, her ankles had begun to protest, her thighs shaking at the effort it required to remain upright. And still they came to stare at her. To watch one of Dumbledore's chosen ones jump to the demands of the Dark Lord.

Their attacks bored her: uninspired and tired. After listening to a few of their heckles, she withdrew, exploring the depths of the magic within her.

It was a sentient thing, so unlike her that she marveled at the sheer strength it lent her. She felt the magic in every movement, sparking along her skin and entwining even in the tips of her hair. At the slightest motion, sparks leapt from her fingertips, and she smiled at the sheer power roiling within her.

With a wiggle of her fingers, she felt the familiar thrum of magic under her skin. It was everywhere, kissing her skin and lifting the ends of her curls. Roiling in the pit of her stomach in the space that had become so barren she hadn't allowed herself to acknowledge it.

Power.

Gods, how she'd missed it.

Hermione had nearly forgotten what it was like to wield magic, rather than fear it.

The Death Eaters danced late into the night, and it wasn't until hours after the great clock within the hall tower struck midnight that someone spoke to her.

"Granger." The command beckoned within her weary bones, but she took her time to face him, smiling up into the impatience written clearly across his face.

Malfoy stared down his long nose at her, and with a muttered spell, the gilded cage door swung outward. Her protesting muscles screamed at the sudden movement as she stalked forward, but Hermione held her head high. When she stopped before him, Malfoy surveyed her.

"You're to come with me to the Manor, where you will be assigned a room." Malfoy's jaw twitched, and Hermione fought back a laugh at the irritation in his expression. "You are to stay within your chamber at all times unless called upon, and you're not to leave the premises without accompaniment. Is that clear?"

Her voice was foreign to her ears when she spoke. All traces of her lingering girlhood were gone, the fear that had laced every word since she'd gone on the run vanished. "Crystal." She rolled her shoulders to relieve the ache that had set in, and at the incline of his head, she followed Malfoy to the Floo she'd seen in the back of the ballroom. When Malfoy threw the powder into the grate and called out the Malfoy Manor, she stepped into the emerald flames and was whisked away.

Hermione vomited upon reaching the Manor.

Unaccustomed as she was to being upright, the sudden travel through all the grates was too hard on her body, and she glared at the puddle of sick before her. When Malfoy appeared, he only responded with a severe roll of his eyes and a bark of Tipsy's name.

Before Hermione could comment on it, he turned on his heel and marched across the room, throwing the doors open and continuing down the hall. Hermione followed without command.

The sound of her footfalls was lost in the cavernous space, just as she remembered it. She expected to feel a tinge of pain upon seeing the door to the drawing room, some kind of acknowledgement of the death she had witnessed there, but not even a flicker of it raced through her. Instead, she continued ahead with detachment, simply aiming to follow Malfoy to whatever destination he sought to take her.

When he disappeared through another door, she followed. Within the room was a study, deep mahogany furniture scattered about and the walls were covered in ancient tomes. Ripples of magic danced about the room, gliding over her skin and cracking against the magic she still allowed to linger on her fingertips. A brief memory of her father rubbing his socks against the carpet and chasing her through the house flitted to the surface of her mind before she dismissed it.

Seated behind the desk in a plush chair was a man nearly identical in appearance to the young Malfoy before her.

Lucius.

Behind him, Narcissa Malfoy stood with her hand clasped gently on her husband's shoulder. Both were still clad in their revelry wear, and Hermione admired the picture of warped domesticity they made.

Draco motioned her forward, and she stopped just before the desk, watching Lucius' eyes tighten as he surveyed her.

His gaze was sharper than his son's—crueler, somehow—and where once she might have cringed from the expression, now she allowed the magic to dance around her like a shield, static charging the air between them until Lucius' mouth tilted up at the corners.

"You're a powerful witch, Ms. Granger. It's a shame that it took so long to break you." Lucius steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, choosing his words carefully. "You're to be part of the Vehme, but that doesn't mean that you have a free ride here. One toe out of line, and you will be punished."

Hermione inclined her head, but not before she noticed the gleam of dissatisfaction in his eyes, the subtle tightening of Narcissa's impeccably manicured fingertips tightening on his spotless suit jacket. "Since my son has taken you on as his… pet, you're to be living in the west wing. I expect not to see you unless summoned."

Her lip curled, insolent words that she would have never dreamed of uttering before lingering on the tip of her tongue. At Draco's pointed knod, though, she swept into a forced curtsey, so deep her nose nearly brushed the carpet. When her hair swung to cover her face, she forced a sneer through the draped fringe, safely hidden where the elder Malfoy would not see her.

With a snap of Malfoy's fingers, she was righted and Tipsy appeared before her. The elf took her hand and led her from the room, leaving the masters of the house behind the heavy oak door that slammed shut.

Rooms passed in a blur as the little elf hurtled through the hallway, muttering incoherently under her voice the entire way. When they reached the west wing, Tipsy finally addressed her. "Miss' room is on the left, Master's Draco's adjacent. Tipsy brings you food to your chambers. Yous not to leave. If yous need anything, Tipsy comes."

Hermione swallowed a sigh, waiting for the elf to open the door. Upon stepping over the threshold, Hermione rolled her eyes.

The room was opulent, obviously meant for the betrothed of the Malfoy's heir. She turned her nose up at the furnishings, smirking arrogantly at the scowling portraits on the walls and the cushioned carpet beneath her toes. Instead, she crossed the room to the curtained four-poster bed piled high with pillows. The little elf still spoke behind her, but Hermione waved her hand lazily, dismissing the elf with a lofty "I'll see you tomorrow, Tipsy."

She stared up at the canopy, her mind seeking some kind of answer for the day's events to no avail. And then, just as suddenly as the magic had awoken her, it settled. The sparks in her hair faded, the twitch in her fingertips begging to be released calmed.

And though she tried to ignore the impossible silkiness of the sheets, the way her body seemed to sink into their embrace so differently than the cold cement had cradled her, Hermione still found herself burrowing into the creature comfort as exhaustion won and sleep claimed her.

End of Part I

And so we've reached the end of Part I. Alpha love to LadyKenz347 and msmerlin13. Beta love to tofadeawayagain. I'm eager to hear what you think!