When the Dark Lord conquered Great Britain, the resulting pandemonium was all consuming. Those first two years were nightmarish in scale, foregoing the delicate nature of slow or peaceful transition. Through a combination of ruthlessness and slaughter London, and those directly surrounding wizarding communities, found themselves brutally scrubbed of law and morality. The Hunt commanded all available bodies, those who wanted to survive, who wanted to live, begged and pleaded for a horse of their own the ride alongside those in dark cloaks and masks. Terror drove neutral and idle hands to action screaming to prove their worth, and greed made Light dissenters desperate. Sure, there had been tell of a few clusters of resistance here and there, just idle pockets of naysayers and those unwilling to bow, but The Hunt held the power of unrelenting corruption, unyielding toward individual declarations of self-interest, and merciless. It struck those who so much as breathed hope down into the muck and took their heads in village squares with transfigured blades black with blood.

Pure or not.

Hermione had spent the bulk of that time-or so she assumed, as time had become irrelevant within her prison, as the wails of the desperate and the stench of decay consumed her thoughts-waiting for sentence. Her trial was set, murmured by anxious guards, to be held on the anniversary of the Dark Lord's victory. During her time of reflection, those first few uncertain months, she had nothing but fractured memories and shame to keep her company while she dreamed of moments in time where more could have been done while mysteries from scenes she hadn't witnessed left gaping holes in her overall account of a battle they'd clearly lost. The year began its crawl, and she found it difficult to separate the truth of her remembrance from the fantasy of her nightmares. A budding madness wriggled and bit at her consciousness until she hadn't been sure what she'd heard and seen or really hadn't.

Once, during her prison tenure, she thought she'd seen a sweet familiar face, slick with sweat and desperation, refined and with a lack of the baby-fat she'd grown used to seeing. The boy from the greenhouse, her mind had whispered, the boy who was roughly grabbed and dragged away from her cell-where he clung as they tried to march him past-while he screamed her name and pleaded for them to wait just one more bloody minute-

For a time, she'd desperately held onto the idea that she'd seen them, different faces from her past that once inspired sensations of camaraderie and hope dragged or carted by her cell in a constant reminder of her situation and the terror that accompanied it. Yet, with such visions came nightmarish realizations. The screams and wallowing laughter-sobs that often turned to maniacal screeched guffawing- haunted her waking moments just as surely as the whispered proclamations that came from her half-attentive guards.

'They broke 'is wand,' a voice whispered, 'poor thing sobbed somethin' awful, but they broke it and sent him off.'

'They?'

'Umbridge, an 'er lot,' the wheezing tone answered.

'They still doin' that?'

'He wants 'em round up, for now. 'E's got plans, they say, 'n He wants them all together.'

And Hermione knew, just from that statement, that things would get a lot worse before they got better. But still, for a time, there had been… hope. Never mind the yowling, the wailing, the intense undeniable agony every time they came by with raspy breath, chilling aura, and unnatural hunger. She thought, no… she knew that if she just held on there would be freedom. Release in death or by the machinations of The Order.

Or The Boy with the curse-green gaze.

But the world continued to turn, and the guards were inadvertently cruel. Feeding her from beyond the bars their juicy tidbits of political advancement. Whispering doubts and eagerness. Muttering about systems and caste priority in the same breath they described incomprehensible tortures. She knew, just from those first few months, in between the waking dream-like consciousness the Dementors barely left her with, that The Dark Lord had ravaged more than just Muggle-borns and blood traitors.

He would break everything he owned, it seemed, before he allowed any of them to worship and though her trembling guards did not speak it, they were worried.

Good.

Eventually, The Hunt began to taper and a proper order settled. By then, such morsels of information weren't consolable. Her mind wandered too much, her tongue felt too thick, and her ribs too pronounced. The Sacred took their proper place besides their mighty Lord while those lesser settled into a content sense of gentry-hood that kept them docile and pleased. Whether this was an official assessment was unknown, she didn't have enough control for cunning and complexity. Not while her fingertips lightly scratched at the dust and moisture that lined her four walls and her throat croaked out a hum to some song she no longer remembered correctly. The world beyond her home seemed irrelevant. There was only numbness and the soft whispers of those that had fallen flapping their lips at her mentality as if she understood the importance of survivor's guilt.

Those concepts had been the first to go, when it came to desperately maintaining her intellect. Intellect she couldn't properly utilize but she knew it was there-

Because He couldn't take that from her. Not yet. No matter what else He snatched and twisted.

But then a year had come and gone and with it a sudden decommissioning of the Muggle-born Registration Department and other such nonsense laws that caused a ripple of anxiety to flex among the populace as strict but still… functional… regulations took their place.

And a judgement of worth.

She hadn't understood it really, but her understanding of anything beyond her immediate surrounding was piss-poor at best. Yet, she knew something was amiss when the ominous rumble of her cell shook her space and it reeled back with a rattle and loud clack.

'Alright, Mudblood-'

Because, that was her name… for a time.

'Today is the day.'

She could have given them trouble, she deserved the right to screech and struggle, but she went with empty stare and wide open mouth-and a smile that was, perhaps, a little disconcerting to the guard that sourly escorted her toward the exit of her mysterious Dementor riddled prison-for, she never had determined if Azkaban was where they'd whisked her too after the battle or if she had occupied some other inescapable residence. She'd sworn a guard had ranted about the sudden destruction of most major wizarding prisons in return for simple execution.

Was that where the bulk of her comrades had gone? To the chopping block? To rest and peace?

She tittered maddeningly, excited to meet them, excited for something other than the darkness and the weight of her failure.

If her escorts had cared, they certainly didn't say so.

The journey to her fate had been uneventful, just a parading of her dirtied malnourished person among a village square that she couldn't recognize nor tried to. He'd stood at the center, in the full regalia expected of elevated royalty but the black hooded persons on either side of Him (a total of six, making Him their centerpiece seven, a good magical number) were unrecognizable in their uniformity. Not that it mattered, the moonlight seemed a tad too bright and her squinting gaze could only produce just a blurry watery smudge. The only thing she could really determine was the blood-stained circle of sand squished beneath her dirty unmanaged feet and that the crowd that encompassed their center was unnaturally… large.

Off to the side, with wand set to throat and a floating parchment stood a squat short-statured squiggle dressed in muted colors. Its lips were twisted up, giving it a sort of grotesque appearance to Hermione's half-focused vision but she supposed it should be, she must look positively frightful herself. She couldn't blame the squiggle for its disgust-

'Undesirable Number One, Mudblood Granger, my Lord and Minister.' The voice crowed, amplified, decidedly feminine, and snide in nature.

Apparently, she had leveled up over the last year or so.

'Speak her crimes for our most gracious Lord,' A voice answered, masculine, superior, and devoid of emotion.

'Of course, Minister,' The other answered, before clearing her throat with a delicate… hem hem, 'Crimes against wizardkind include, but are not limited to: Unregistered Mudblood, magical terrorist, treason against our Most Gracious Lord, treason against our Most Noble Ministry, offense toward The Sacred, dangerous and unauthorized use of a wand, disrespect of customs and culture, endangerment to the International Statute of Secrecy, and destruction and theft of Gringotts' property and fellow Sacred blood vaults.'

And perhaps, a great many more crimes, though Hermione didn't remember them.

'Mudblood Granger's crimes against wizardkind are large and vast. We have summarized them for your pleasure, my Lord.' The masculine voice cooed, his tone now infused with lively delight, 'We await your guidance.'

For a moment, there was a rumble among the crowd but Hermione felt disconnected and oblivious. Her breath was a raspy wheeze, her gaze glassy and unfocused and her mind a twisted spiral, focused only on the fact that she was… somewhere important, exposed to something horrific, but the babbling swaying shapes only tickled the edge of her frazzled consciousness.

She could only hiss as the grip of her guards tightened on her slightly sagging form.

'What is her name,' He spoke, a sibilant mass of danger and curiosity.

That was apparently enough to catch the other two shapes off guard, for one sputtered and the other croaked out a quick- 'Mudblood Granger, sir.'

For a moment silence reigned and slowly He turned His gaze to the squat feminine blob that had addressed Him, 'The supposed Greatest Witch of Her Time, Current Undesirable Number One, The Brains of the Golden Trio, and the pet of my defeated enemy… her birth title, given to her by Muggles-'

For a moment He seemed amused, His voice appeared to reflect as much, but expression wise she saw nothing but smudged darkness created by a raised hood, 'Is Mudblood Granger?'

The masculine figure was quick to give answer, 'Hermione Granger, sir. Hermione Jean Granger.'

He paused for a moment, His hands casually linked together before Him, 'So this is the famous Hermione Jean Granger? Painfully Muggle name and average for a powerful Undesirable, except for the first title. Very witch-like, to be sure.'

With some inspiration from Muggle literature.

'And what is Ms. Granger, exactly? A Ravenclaw? A Hufflepuff?'

No one responded, it wasn't a statement meant to be answered. He knew what she was, who she'd been.

'Certainly, not a Slytherin… so she must be a lioness.' His voice was sharp and whip-like, His statement ended crisply.

The other two figures said nothing in response, though a cloaked blur or two seemed to look His way.

'What say you?' He spoke, and though He did not address any of His immediate company by name one replied all the same-

'She could be trouble, my Lord,' a voice drawled, painfully familiar and yet her mind found it difficult to grasp the intangible memory of cauldrons and flickering lantern light, 'but useful. Her worth is not in blood, but in power and symbolism.'

'Symbolism? And this is something you believe or propose?'

'I propose it, based on the assumption that He-Who-Is-Not would have failed without her.' He took a moment, as if in thought, before he finished, 'and we are merciful to those who suffered from Albus machinations, are we not?'

That inspired slurred speech from the crowd and a clumsy bark of laughter that faded into a haunted wail from Hermione.

As the sound faded, leaving tense silence, He addressed the speaker, 'The Hunt has left us with an unfortunate deficiency in able magical bodies.'

The speaker let silence stretch between them before he answered, 'She would fill a hole of competency and purpose, should you assign it. When she bows, the others will crumble.'

'This one is worth the many? We have more than enough Mudbloods to worship the gentry.'

'But none that have truly earned the right to exist.'

Their cryptic statements, heavy with implications she refused to waste precious energy contemplating, ended then, silence by a wave of His hand as He turned back to the Minister and the crowd.

'Then let us do this properly.'

There wasn't much talking after that, only a sound of cruel amusement as Voldemort raised a pale hand before His person flat and fingers extended while the flesh of His arm up to elbow revealed itself due to the sliding weight of His expensive robes. He called for a vote to His surrounding counsel, the emperor set to perform for benefit of the people. While Hermione waited for death as individual 'nays' and few 'ayes' floated around her, she kept a steady gaze upon His hovering hand. Only when the last voice spoke, the one He'd addressed initially, with a curt 'aye' did He curl His hand into a fist and extend His thumb.

It stayed up.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

Her prison for the year after that had been a clinically sterile room at St. Mungo's, where she'd been assigned a proper, though a tad bit reluctant, Mind Healer, a statement of probation-one that forbid her to do many things, including gallivanting about Hogwarts-and an order to obtain a new wand and purpose, for the Dark Lord would not tolerate the stagnant if they were not Sacred. What she learned as she regained her sanity-or a semblance of what represented stability-was that those who shared her blood status had not been carted off for the slaughter and that the initial insanity of the first few months so long ago had eased into the careful cultivation, assignment, and hoarding of wizards, Muggle-born or otherwise.

The Order as she knew it, however, was gone along with her innocence and naivety.

Voldemort's need for blood lessened, bringing tentative calm and whatever passed for dark-natured peace. As the second year of her existence beyond prison walls rolled to a close The Dark began preaching a new tale of magical retention. Those that fled or cast aside their heritage for Muggles and less popular views (Light or otherwise) were the new generation of 'blood traitors'; those who meant to destroy wizardkind made progression. While those that remained were promised reward and lavish lifestyle among their peers and betters, coddled into a sense of false equality where some were given more than others based on the heads they rolled for their Lord. Either way, Hermione kept to the regulations that governed her continued existence, never asking who among her comrades had been executed or assimilated, while the new government did whatever research and changes they were wont to do. She would not be drug off into the night for treason or sass against The Sacred.

But, she would have never assumed that years later she would be among them, hunched over and tightly clutching her hands together as heated whispers that often elevated into abnormal screeching bounced off the walls from the hall right beyond her vision.

At least the yelling wasn't at her.

Yet, how cowardly of her to merely sit there, like a chastised child, outside the Malfoy dining quarters due to a bit of impassioned speech. Not very Gryffindorish at all, if she were honest. Which meant it was time to stop wallowing through her fragmented memories and soothe the disgruntled aristocracy just outside the door.

With a sigh, Hermione slowly peeked around the corner, holding to the edge of the wall with only head and chest exposed, just encase she had to twist back around to dodge a hex or two from the women standing in the center of the decorated hall. Best to give them less surface space to hit so the temptation wasn't there, "What is the point of having a private conversation, when you two cannot do so privately?"

Silence, blessed and treasured, greeted her along with the sight of a trembling Narcissa and a hard-frowning Bellatrix.

"Cissy," Bellatrix sneered, an emotion unrestrained as Bellatrix peered at her younger sister with upturned lips and flared nostrils, "It's unbecoming of a lady to yell."

Narcissa narrowed red-rimmed eyes-and for a moment, Hermione was surprised to realize the cold woman's cheeks seemed moist-before she cleared a dry and scratchy throat, "I suppose, but what would Mother have said if she'd heard all that… screeching?"

Bellatrix swallowed harshly, "I was whispering."

"I'm sure you were," Narcissa hissed, but the impact was lessened by a seeping exhaustion.

With a movement, jerky and whip-like enough to make Hermione flinch, Bellatrix shoved forward, using just the mere presence of her authority-imposing, despite her stature-to back Narcissa up until her back bounced against the opposite wall. Briefly, Hermione thought of ducking back around the corner. The pair hadn't seemed to register her presence beyond her initial interruption, but the sound of Bellatrix palms against the wall as she used her outstretched arms to cage her sister between them was enough of a deterrent. Narcissa seemed unbothered. Her face had smoothed out into the perfect mask of elite disinterest, but her arms were limp at her side. Despite her expression, she seemed unnaturally fragile trapped as she was, even if, give or take, she was a mere inch or so taller than her wicked sibling.

"I should kill her for her treason," Bellatrix words were contemplative but strained, her declaration heavy with the weight of an emotion that twisted her voice into something foreign.

Narcissa's tone, despite her expression, carried enough pain for the both of them, even if Bellatrix seemed incapable of expressing it properly. "Don't."

There's a harsh and rapid series of breath from the other before she shook her head, subdued-or tamed, Hermione thought-by the power Narcissa carried in the depths of her moisture struck gaze. "It's not up to me."

"Do not lie to me, Bellatrix Cassiopeia Black."

"Cissy-"

"-Your drivel doesn't work on the astute."

"You dare-!"

"And furthermore," Narcissa snarled, "It is your duty as reinstated Lord-"

"Lord-!?"

"-Lady," Narcissa lifted a hand to shove just slightly at Bellatrix chest, "and bring home those who were lost to corruption."

Bellatrix opened and closed her mouth for a moment, her flushed cheeks and narrowed gaze mirroring an emotion just shy of fury, "Cissy-"

"The Order can't have her!" Narcissa suddenly bellowed, stomping her foot in an act of petulance that made Hermione nearly jerk back around her corner. Suddenly, she felt like an invader, some insolent force viewing a private moment between adults who weren't quite healed from parental inflicted wounds.

For a time, only Bellatrix heavy breathing filled the quiet between them, but when she spoke it was with slight hesitance, "I… did look for her, Cissy. She didn't want to be found."

"You were much too aggressive and savage then," Narcissa countered. "And her husband-"

Here Bellatrix grew tense and for a moment Hermione could see Bellatrix struggle, some flickering immense disgust and heated rage that ravaged her expression at even considering Edward "Ted" Tonks anything connected to her sibling. It made Hermione's stomach churn for just a moment, before she realized it had to be something more. Prejudice, at least against blood, wasn't enough of a motivator for hatred-now that He had made such concepts irrelevant.

No, Bellatrix did not hate Ted because he'd been Muggle-born-though, in the past that would have been reason enough for her-she hated him because she was incredibly selfish.

And so was Narcissa, "She belongs to us now."

Then, of the pair, Narcissa spared her a quick glance. She held her breath for a moment, due to the indescribable and completely Black nature of Narcissa's chill. Yet, as quickly as she had made eye contact the Malfoy matron broke it.

And in place of her sorrows, the smile she gave her sister was more wicked than encouraging, "Go. Get. Her-"

Bellatrix snorted, shoulders tense and gaze downcast… up until Narcissa's gentle coo of-

"-Big Sister."

Bellatrix hissed then, immensely pleased. Hermione could see it in her sudden release of tension and the way her body trembled with the beginnings of wild laughter. Nothing more needed to be said, other than a softly purred, "Okay."

Then, as if a switch had been flicked she released Narcissa from her arm-crafted cage and swaggered away, retreating to the darker recess of the corridor and effectively leaving Hermione and her sister alone.

Without so much as a word tossed in her direction.

"Rude," Hermione uttered under her breath, not entirely sure why she felt the rolling discontent shift through her stomach at the lack of acknowledgement.

"Quite," Narcissa agreed, but she seemed more occupied with lightly dabbing at her cheeks with a Malfoy emblemed handkerchief and around her eyes in a motion that seemed casual but purposeful, "She could never leave a conversation properly."

Though her voice was steady and the tremble of her hands calmed there was still some resemblance of exhaustion clinging to the other witch, some overall look of diffused energy and expended emotion.

"Are you okay?" Hermione said, cautious, curious, and-she found herself surprised to admit-concerned.

"It's fine," Narcissa replied, with clipped tone and a erratic movement as she put her initialed cloth away, back into the confines of form fitting robes "Bella will handle it."

Hermione felt doubtful, disenchanted by visions of a battle-mad Bellatrix, impassioned and ill-controlled. Would she remember, when the clock struck time and their attack commenced, to spare certain individuals? To give Hermione control over their bloodlines, their very existence?

Furthermore, would she herself remember the meaning of mercy when the time came, all to keep her soul from shattering? Oddly enough, the overall idea of slaughter did not bring the churning sensations of nausea and disgust she'd expected. This was not the first time she'd killed, or attempted-in the name of justice-to destroy. Only an adaptive and comforting numb came to greet her, swaddling her mind in a cloud of inconsequence and reluctant acceptance. Acknowledgement of the nature of her task didn't take long and that in itself should have been worrisome. But long nights spent wide awake and malcontent, with the whispering seduction of a Lord's horcrux about her neck had left her with some… twitchy quirks that her stint among Dementors hadn't eased.

The only other emotion, among the adoption of her task, was an odd excitement-the very same that had struck her when she'd sat among the Dark Lord's court. Even now her heart pattered away, stimulated by half formulated scenes and ideas that ran amuck along her malignant tainted imagination.

Concerning, that too was definitely concerning.

"I'll be counting on you, Hermione."

She resisted the urge to twist her face into an expression of discomfort, "Bellatrix has the experience, I'm sure. I expected her to lead."

Narcissa allowed silence to linger between them, thick and uncomfortable, before she shook her head and motioned for Hermione to follow-which she did, in an action more thoughtless and reactionary than conscious. "He expects you to prove yourself. Bella is merely your supervisor."

To this Hermione wrinkled her nose, "Am I so young, in the eyes of the elite, that I need a chaperone?"

Twinkling laughter greeted her, ominous yet calming, "One is never too young to be watched over, should they have a moment of fright and find it fitting to flee."

"You believe that I would run?"

"You're a Gryffindor, I don't suspect you to run…"

"Then why imply it?" Hermione snorted.

"...When the time for judgement comes and you find yourself standing on the edge, teetering on the pinnacle of your personal sense of law or someone else's there may come a time when fear of the unknown warps the best decision, the right decision, which has no distinction between humanities predesignated concept of what is wrong."

Narcissa had stopped her movement, held just beyond the threshold of one of the manor's many lavish receiving rooms. She stood, with hand raised and fingers lightly caressing the purposely knotted wood-wards, she'd learned, carved and cultivated by Malfoy magic-that decorated the entrance to the open space. Yet, she blocked Hermione's path and stared with a solemn gaze, a gaze that reflected a lifetime of 'what ifs' and 'should I dos'. There were so many moments in the space of a lifetime, so many actions one could take to determine the flow of time, but a witch couldn't always predict the impact their individual choices could make and a prophecy can only guide so much outside of natural ability. Here, in the hallway, as Hermione steadily contemplated upon a hunched back and a closed off poise, she understood one undeniable truth about existence.

Fear of spoiling oneself, of destroying another, of feeling, only came right before the action meant to do so. At the highest point, whether her body remained or not, her mind could run-wild, amok, and out of control. One moment of hesitation, one incantation said without the intensity of meaning and purpose, could cause a spell to go awry. One cannot cast a spell to inflict pain if most of their being doesn't want to do so. Likewise, one cannot kill to save stability if one is afraid to do so.

Was Hermione afraid to kill?

When she'd worked for the cause, when The Order had been the bright and shining beacon of prosperity and justice, she had mostly fought to maim. During the final battle, when the squish and slickness of blood lined the bottom of her sneakers and the cries of the manic rung in her ears, she had thought, for just one moment…

That she really could slay them all.

And she had tried, certainly, with spells beyond the Killing Curse, but who was to say she'd really killed or not? In some portion of her, buried and sick, she knew that she had. But, logically? Well, it's not like she'd visited a thestral lately to check and her memories of that time were sticky at best.

"When Andromeda left," Narcissa murmured, her voice so low that Hermione had to step closer to her back to hear her words, "I was terrified."

Hermione swallowed a few choice words knowing what it felt like to abruptly destroy one's family.

"The House of Slytherin isn't known for an abundance of courage or the ability to standout. We are the cunning and ambitious, carefully controlled and assumed for greatness. Over the years, that meaning, the intensity of our dedication and our ability to manage long lasting relationships while achieving the impossible diminished. New ideals, lacking the refinement of our ancestors, took their place due to pressure from those who claimed they'd keep us safe."

She lightly tapped upon the wood in thought and in doing so managed to make a few glimmering lights trail along the grooves it hosted, "Bravery is not an inherent aspect of our being, though it can mean many things once learned. Having the courage to provide correction, to do what one wishes, while maintaining the intellect and duplicity to accomplish that, no matter the opposition, is a rare trait… even among other houses. Even among the collected gentry."

Not inherently evil. Not inherently good. Hermione knew that now, knew that a certain amount of artful distinction was necessary when it came to the execution of any good plan. No matter the justification or supposed righteousness of the goal.

"So, it is understandable that, in my youth, I found it difficult to correct my enraged family. Not because I lacked the courage to do so-though that is a part of it-but because it was easier not to and terror helped finalize that perception. A Slytherin can easily be seduced into silence by those that hold power, and my aunt, with her fantastical ideals, was certainly an example of that."

"But…" Hermione started, knowing there was more.

"But," Narcissa sighed, "If I had been a tad more brave-and no, dear, not a Gryffindor, for it takes a Slytherin's touch to pacify a Slytherin-I might have been able to explain the difference between what is easy and what is right."

"And what is that? What was right, in that situation?"

"Blasting Andromeda off the family tree is easy, rejecting her from the family is an acceptable reaction among haughtier pure-blood circles when one marries unfavorably. The right thing to do, would have been much harder and I don't suspect Father would have held the patience or maturity to accomplish it."

Hermione wrinkled her nose, her original suspicion of Narcissa's answer derailed due to her choice of words.

"You see, Hermione dear, it is the responsibility of a Lord of their house to keep said house together. Father was not a man of infallible power at the time and maybe the lack of respect from Grandfather fueled his original decision but it would have been proper for him, any of them really, to seek his wayward child and bring her back. It would have been right to flush her of her idealistic fantasies—her petty rebellion-while binding Edward Tonks in a contract of fealty to the House of Black, upon proving magical proficiency of course, for line theft."

Then Narcissa smiled, so very genuine and yet no less fiendish than any other time she felt pleased, despite the soft affection reflected in her gaze as she tossed a sly look over her shoulder to a stiffly standing Hermione, "It's been done before and we had the resources for the binding. Having a Muggle-Born vassal at the time could have been game changing, in a manner most political. A neophyte of wizarding culture, raised proper and right. It would have certainly kept the Light from its constant instigations of vulgarity, lawlessness, blood prejudice, and line madness they found fit to fling toward our name. Whether or not such allegations were true."

Narcissa's light laugh thereafter was almost childlike in it's supposed innocence, "I think it would have been imperative in elevating our worthiness before those who blindly followed Albus like tamed sheep. A good Slytherin would have seen the move for what it was, a grand advantage and a play at 'mercy' and 'understanding' is just what the simple-minded need from their gracious nobility. A great Slytherin would have fattened his ranks with obedient well-mannered worshipping Muggle-borns, using them as a shield in the fight for prosperity of the elite. It's just that… it wouldn't have been easy."

Hermione sucked in a breath through clenched teeth but found Narcissa's solution no more perverse than the notion of raising a child to die.

"Now then," Narcissa continued, giving a slight roll of her shoulders before she moved to enter the receiving room. "It's almost evening and a lady should always take tea after court."

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

While Hermione pondered how likely it was that Narcissa attended the court of the Wizengamot when able she'd nearly missed the fact that something had crunched underfoot. That something turned out to be crumbled and balled up pieces of parchment and when she crouched in place for further investigation she felt the slight weight of something bounce off the top of her head.

Another ball of ruined misused parchment.

What was once a quiet and cozy area had turned into a warzone of half formulated ideas and ink smudged pages, most of them scandalously displayed on the open books littering the floor and strategically placed couches. It was a storm of quills and half-empty ink pots, some of which were scribbling away, enchanted and autonomous, in journals while others lay dead and forgotten, lacking the magic to power them across the torn parchment they had massacred. It was all incredibly... messy.

"Who let you in here?" Narcissa whispered, and while her tone seemed steady her overall demeanor screamed aghast. It was in the twitch of her wand hand and the way her other hand moved to cover her mouth, as if she could swallow back her gasp of horror at the sight of the conquered room.

Hermione, for other reasons, held a mirror reflection of the older witch's expression. Not because she cared for the former order that held all of Narcissa's rooms in harmony-not that she lacked respect for clean floors and well-managed shelves-but because of the person that occupied the space. A figure that-though she knew existed-she hadn't expected to ever see again, formally or otherwise. It was startling, almost enough to throw her off balance as weak knees shook and she rose from her crouch on the floor. At the very least this kept her from further bombardment by torn parchment, if the sudden vicious sound of tearing paper was any indication.

Narcissa's uncharacteristic and though completely understood sound of outrage was only interrupted by the posh and proper tone that addressed her, swaddled in distracted irritation-

"Honestly, Narcissa. It's just a book, easily replaceable." The voice drawled, and the owner hardly bothered to expend the energy to lift her head-with its dainty small hat of violet pinned to the side, helping to restrain what could barely be described as a professional bun of curly blonde hair that continued to escape the quill that was twirled among the locks and twitching every so often.

"You overstep your bounds, Ms. Skeeter," Narcissa's voice was chilling, a soft drilling whisper that drew icy licks of building displeasure across Hermione's spine.

That got her attention, if the rapidly blinking eyes were anything to go by and the tensing of once slouched shoulders as the reporter drew back away from her writings to level her gaze upon the aristocrat that addressed her.

Magic crawled along her skin, so cold, so very cold, and swept past her hair with the scent of things decidedly winter-pine, mint... But there was something wild in it, something so familiar and thick, something that reminded her of… Bellatrix, and yet subtle differences were still painfully apparent. It was all Narcissa, trembling yet controlled, and it was more than enough to grasp Skeeter's attention.

Her pale cheeks went a tad rosy and she cleared her throat before averting her gaze, decidedly submissive. As she should have been, "Ah, I apologize Lady Malfoy. I assure you I meant no offense. I appreciate your property."

Skeeter's tone, though even, seemed somewhat coy and sly in mannerism, as if there lacked a threat of biting cruelty from the mistress of the manor. It was enough to nearly make Hermione forget the coil of anxiety that licked at her belly, quickly followed by indignation on Narcissa behalf. How dare anyone or anything disrespect the scarcity of books and the safe spaces that held them.

"Are you? Really?" Hermione said, care to hide her want for snark. It would do her no good to act beyond the regality of her new station, at least, not under Narcissa's watchful gaze.

Still, her interruption was enough to lift Skeeter's gaze from the floor so that the full extent of her focus was upon Hermione. For a moment, she felt… vulnerable. She was a child again struggling against the looming pressure of a war against her rights to exist. It brought a queasy sensation to her stomach, a shaking breath that struggled to filter past her parted lips. This woman, though not the first, was just another adult that had taken her name and slung it through the muck for the betterment of their own being… and it was that thought that grounded her, and… perhaps the thought of the woman trapped-a subject of her mercies, held within a jar, weak and exposed and oh so terrified.

Skeeter suddenly swallowed hard and leaned back on the couch, uneasy, if the wary pinch of her brow were any indication.

Delightful, she let her thoughts remain in the rolling brown of her gaze.

"Lady Granger," Skeeter started, her hands clasped upon her lap with ink-stained fingertips, "I apologize, I must admit that I did originally lack sincerity."

Hermione did her best interpretation of Narcissa's own steely stare as the woman at her side gave off an unlady-like snort. There's an excited thud to her heart, one brought on by the absolute reverence and startling honesty in Skeeter's tone. This wicked woman, with her uncanny talent in manipulation and word-weaving, was no longer the one with the power. She wrung her hands in anxious patience, and kept her gaze somewhere just off the side of her shoulder. It was clear that Hermione held the influence in the space, not the reporter.

She licked her lips swallowed the command for Skeeter to bow.

She was not an inherently cruel person after all, but the blanket of authority smothered most of her reason-she'd have to blame that one on the fact that she yearned for a freedom only granted to the pure, for one taste of unfettered power without the bindings of morality, for selfishness and pleasure...

She took a deep breath and rubbed her chest, nervous… restless.

"Do it correctly then, would you dear?"

That was enough to grasp Skeeter's attention, Narcissa's cold ask more of a demand. Perhaps the statement caught her off balance, for the other witch held no reservations about twisting her lips up into a frightful expression of crossness, but Hermione was well aware of Skeeter's house and it took no time at all for the Slytherin alumni to correct her facial features into a perfectly mimicked mask of indifference.

"As you wish."

She stood from the couch, back stiff and shoulders drawn, but did not dally when it came to walking around the coffee table and sweeping back the outer robe she wore over spider-silk blouse and practical skirt. She moved into a sweeping curtsey, one that might have been more impactful if she held a fistful of the billowing skirts Bellatrix often wore instead of the crisp and clean robe she currently lifted.

Yet, it was at least a genuine act-or a good enough copy.

"I do apologize, Lady Malfoy, for my inappropriate usage of your receiving room, with its majestic libraries and well-held secrets." Though the words were delivered with a bit of prose Hermione could not detect any suspected sarcasm. She supposed that was proper, considering the might and magic of the woman she currently apologized to, "In my quest for knowledge I've disrespected Malfoy property and the trust your ancient house invested in me. Do not hesitate to take what you must from the Skeeter vaults."

As Skeeter's tone tapered off Narcissa lifted a brow but Hermione could tell the Malfoy matron had been properly soothed. The icy grip of her magic lessened into a calming hum and even Hermione found her breath came easier. Still, she kept her lips pressed thin in obvious distrust not bothering to hide her dislike. Skeeter had done her no favors during her tenure at Hogwarts.

At least she wasn't Umbridge.

With a nervous lick of lips Skeeter righted herself and came closer with the sort of caution one might give to a feral animal. Surprisingly, it wasn't Narcissa she gave that expression to, but Hermione.

"Lady Granger," The report said, with just the smallest bit of unease, "… was that sufficient?"

Narcissa tried to repress a twitch of lips while Hermione blinked in mild disbelief, "You're asking me? And not…?"

"Well," Skeeter relaxed, but only slightly, "I'm no fool. There's a tension so thick in here I could write on it. I can very well guess the reason for it but things have changed. The Dark Lord made certain of that. You're the one with the leash and I'm the dog at the end, you know."

"What a vulgar explanation," Narcissa said, but her voice was nearly playful in its admission, "Don't be so blunt about the power she has over you."

Skeeter gave her a scathing look, "Says the one who made me practically prostrate myself before her?"

"And you are hardly finished," Narcissa continued, her lips now twisted in a leer befitting her Black heritage. "Address her."

"Of course," Skeeter sighed, but there was only resignation in her gaze, not the expected loathing or irritation at being bossed around or forced to acknowledge her. A curious reaction, more so than the familiarity in which Narcissa now addressed her with.

Skeeter extended a hand, one adorned with two rings-one which looked like shiny obsidian, thick banded with a simple delicate S carved into the violet gem that adorned the center while the other looked silver, sparsely decorated with shiny stones. "May I?"

Hermione looked to Narcissa for guidance, knowing that in this one moment she had been swept into an impromptu lesson on ritual and propriety. The oddly fond glimmer in the depths of her gaze was all Hermione needed to allow her flesh in contact with the ringed hand of someone who she quite considered to be an enemy.

Then again, so much was already changing.

"Congratulations, Lady Granger, on your prestigious elevation. The first of our brethren, once lost among traitors and muck, found and brought home, to build a glorious future for those who are worthy."

Her gaze grew wide at the fervent throaty purr of the older witch who held her hand. She was pinned, held firmly clasped in grip and gaze, by the power of Skeeter's eyes, green, calculating, sly, and just a bit mischievous. It wasn't a look she'd ever expected directed toward her, especially not by this woman, but the disgust she anticipated to feel, from her company or herself, never came. Instead there was only the heavy weight of curiosity.

"As His trusted Herald I will be sure to sing of your praises, from mountain to shore. The people-the pure and courageous-are waiting to worship, my Lady."

Then, with a flourish, Skeeter bowed. Soft pink lips were pressed against Hermione's bare knuckles while the reporter's free hand swept back her robes in a manner more dashing than feminine. For one brief moment Hermione's nostrils flared, and the warmth of Skeeter's lips against her skin was enough to make her shiver, though not with displeasure. She parted her lips, words set on the tip of her tongue, but found them all inadequate when set to the moment. Skeeter was gentle with her press and grip but there was still a buzzing sort of intensity about her, one that took away any doubt that her words were just some frivolous ploy coated in sugary praise. From one heartbeat to the next Hermione felt hyper-focused, pulled in by the connotations behind the lips on her skin and the allure of power that swept through her at Skeeter's political submission. She surrendered to her in just a simple motion, without a single lick of irritation at the structure of their past. Perhaps, had she been less aware of Narcissa's careful lessons in mannerisms of the elite and the hidden meaning between words and body language, she might have thought Skeeter's words sputtered nonsense. But something in her, something hungry and ready to consume, recognized otherwise.

She'd forgive her, but only if she could control her.

Then the moment was over and Skeeter relinquished her hand so that she could stretch with arms high above her head and keen with delight, "How was that? Cissa?"

Narcissa smiled, a clear and rare display of warmth even if there was lingering tension in her brow. Things moved forward and whatever Hermione had felt from the moment was gone and she welcomed the comfortable numb that settled over her shoulders and the slight moisture Skeeter left on her kissed knuckles.

She could examine her reaction later.

"How charming, Rita. I'd dare say you were almost flirting with His Chosen."

Rita sneered somewhat, but there was a lack of viciousness in the motion, "And risk dismemberment by her betrothed?"

"She's courting me, not betrothed to me," Hermione replied, but she didn't sound very sure of her statement.

Either way, the older witches continued their conversation, "Your act of respect and praise seemed to linger, Rita."

Skeeter gasped, "Don't go spreading that around. He is extremely proper. One doesn't threaten a sanctioned courting. I won't be accused of improper line theft."

"All line theft is improper," Narcissa corrected, "but at least you're learning. Why, six years ago you could barely call yourself ready to embrace our traditions and dedicate to the cause."

Skeeter gave a wave of dismissal, "I've always been ready," But her voice was low, troubled.

There was obvious history between the women in the room and Hermione pondered on their affiliation. Perhaps they had both traversed the halls of Hogwarts together? It was enough to make her wonder at their true ages. It was difficult to tell. They were both gorgeous with nary a wrinkle between them. Narcissa with her unearthly beauty and shapely body and Skeeter with a certain down to earthness that accentuated her perfect skin and slender form-which Hermione had to begrudgingly admit was attractive. They were 'young' in wizarding terms, kept beautiful and energetic by the magic saturation of their cores, considered rambunctious but wise in their current term compared to the Muggle equivalent. To them and most of the wizarding elite, Hermione was still a child, entering the most precarious points of her life and desperately in need of appropriate guidance. If she had been born with such pure aspirations and swaddled in the traditions of her company she would have been sent to tutelage with the Lord of her house, to gain a deeper understanding of her place and her responsibilities within the family that owned her through blood.

Narcissa was doing a good enough job of that, Hermione supposed.

Still, it was the lack of playful banter that drew Hermione from her thoughts and soon enough she realized that the conversation had stopped. Skeeter had become somewhat withdrawn and anxious, idly rubbing the smudged ink on her fingertips around-and thank Merlin none of it had rubbed off on her own skin. Narcissa, on the other hand, had taken to placing a hand upon Skeeter's bicep. It was enough to make the other witch clear her throat.

"Lady Granger, please, do call me Rita." She said, and Hermione was then aware of why she was so anxious.

She was waiting for acceptance.

Hermione slowly exhaled but nodded, "I suppose I could."

Rita gave her an answering nod, cautious but her next words weren't as strained, "I appreciate that."

She wondered if acceptance from Hermione was what Rita really wanted. In the past she might have chopped up Rita's 'kindnesses' and charming words to a need to get closer to use her. She was a snake at heart, a beast that would strike when a being was most vulnerable and tear them to shreds on a wider scale. She had no desire to be the headline of Rita's usual rags but to guess at her true intentions was just as difficult.

"Hermione," Narcissa said, "Ms. Skeeter-Rita-and I were in Hogwarts together. Though we were not in the same year group she kept a keen eye upon me and I would say we are fairly close."

"Have you always been?"

"The war was stressful," Narcissa said, her tone distracted, lost in memories, "We didn't keep much contact then."

"She was probably busy," Hermione licked her lips, "Defaming The Boy."

Rita sucked in a breath, but said nothing.

"And I heard you were busy as well," Narcissa whispered, "Blackmailing a bug."

Rita groaned, her gaze narrowed, cheeks flushed with a healthy dose of embarrassment.

Hermione smiled, "It was a wild time."

There wasn't much time for teasing after that, and as much as some part of her enjoyed watching Rita squirm there was work to be done and a raid to plan-her hours were limited but Narcissa still found time berating Rita over the state of her receiving quarters which Rita had turned into some sort of research room.

"But Cissa, darling," Rita whined, "I had to. The Dark Lord, he's tasked me with finding evidence in hopes of reviving the Most Ancient-"

"And you've smudged some of my families well-kept records, Rita-"

"-between you and me, I think the woman is lying. The House of Selywn was dangerously selective with their breeding-"

"-as Herald you really should hold yourself to higher standards of respect and well-accordance."

"As His Herald," Rita interrupted, "the most I need to do is weave magic over whatever He tells me to say!"

And on and on it went for some time like that, but she had a better understanding of Rita's current place in the new world structure by the end of it at least. Still, she didn't have time to answer in-depth questions about Rita's position as His Herald, a term that… for the most part… Hermione thought might have been revived from times of old just to appease the Dark Lord himself.

But it was clear throughout the bickering that Rita and Narcissa had some sort of connection, something that went beyond Rita's occupation and schooling and the unspoken rules of Narcissa's royalty. Though Narcissa claimed that it had waned during the war, she doubted their familiarity had suffered much. It was enough to make Hermione smile, their casual bitter interactions.

"Is that what you call it? Weaving magic? The destruction of honor and reputation?" Hermione mumbled into a hoarded tea-cup, her gaze carefully leveled at her slippered toes.

Rita paused in speech, caught off guard no doubt by Hermione's careful insertion among the flow of conversation. She filled the silence with a slight shrug and a floppy wave of her wrist, an action that had Narcissa quirking a brow.

"Use your words, Rita."

The former report turned Herald shot the smirking blonde a narrow eyed look, but spoke nonetheless, "An inflation of the truth, an obvious inflation, in a gossip column is just that. Gossip, lyrical fiction drawn up by a singular fan."

Hermione gave the woman a brief glance, noticed the fact that Rita seemed more interested casting her dazed gaze beyond the open doorway toward the hallway window there-as if the great sprawling gardens held the answers to a question she had no doubt been asked before.

"You sound rehearsed," Hermione snorted.

"It is rehearsed," Rita drawled, "You aren't the first one to ask such a thing. The war brought out plenty of snark and strife and questions of a similar nature."

"Yet, even during that time of slaughter you continued to push Ministry garbage?"

"Don't misinterpret my past intentions," Rita said, her voice devoid of the emotional whip Hermione had expected, instead filled with a solemn patience-heavy with knowledge that no one else could really understand, "I did not write for the joy of writing, in that term. Twisting mundane interviews into purple prose, holding the power over secrets and mercilessly cutting the clout of a witch or wizard? That's an addictive heady potion, and if you had the need to pull and tug yourself from the filth built on the back of delusional wizards-"

"Is that what you thought of The Boy? That he was delusional? That he didn't speak the truth-"

"The Boy," Rita hissed, "was not the first to be oppressed by my column. He wasn't even the last. My victims are wide and sprawling-"

"And do you feel anything for that? Any guilt?"

"No," Rita said, hands upon her hips and brow quirked, "because they would have done the very same to me, if they had the power I hold."

Hermione narrowed her eyes, her grip upon her tea-cup tight but steady. She parted her lips, her mind settled on an appropriately punishing remark-

"I don't expect you to really understand," Rita blurted. "But you can't possibly be this naive."

Hermione paused.

"Excuse me?" She sputtered.

Rita glanced at Narcissa, but the youthful matron was far too busy carefully spelling books back into their proper order and original condition.

"Are you trying," Hermione found her voice, "to justify the emotional and psychological damage you wrought? On the tug and pull of views you controlled? On the support, you twisted and stole?"

Rita gave an odd sound, like an explosive huff, "Of course not."

Suddenly, she flopped backwards, disrupting the precariously placed parchment work that had once occupied the table she'd been standing in front of. If Narcissa was bothered by the fact Rita had taken her expensive coffee table for a throne she didn't say so. Only the slight twitch of her back muscles as she moved to the next shelf was any indication-

"I am a survivalist first and foremost and an opportunist second. I am not some self-proclaimed manifestation of editorial justice. I make the galleons I need to live beyond the squalor most of my kind-Slytherin or otherwise-would have been subjected to."

Hermione opened her mouth for a moment, before she closed it. What did she mean? Most of her kind?

"I am not a Death Eater, though I am cruel in other ways. Power is addictive, after all, in any form and I had it even though others had far more. Still, at some point, even I was collared. If the Ministry tells you to apparate, you ask 'where to?'"

That wasn't something Hermione could outright deny.

"But if the common and thoughtless ask you… what should I do? How should I think?" Rita started, her voice softer, less firm and unyielding, "While the whip of your master licks across your back?"

The thick shadow that twisted through that one assured green was bothersome. It reminded Hermione that her juvenile bitterness and connotations of righteousness no longer applied to a world of grey. In the land of adulthood it had always been life and death, dog and owner, what's supposedly good verse what was right.

She hated the constant reminders that her childhood villains were human, with fears and aspirations.

"Fools are led by the foolish," Rita said, "Those that matter see the underlying meaning of any of my words while those that don't end up manipulated."

With a tired chuckle Rita shrugged again, "I am a manipulated fool seducing the foolish, but I'm alive and well-off."

Then with a soft whisper she finished, "A half-blood couldn't have asked for more."