Chapter Two

Hermione was in shock. She knew she must be, because as Thorfinn's words bounced about in her head, her voice left her. Time stood still for several heartbeats and she was suddenly very aware of her own breath escaping her lips as she stared back at him.

He arched a brow at her silence, clearly anticipating that she would fight and rage against the mad injustice of it and blah, blah, blah. This wasn't at all what he expected; something was wrong.

Tipping his head, he looked her over. Certainly, she felt impossibly light, but now he noticed how her heavy coat and Muggle garments hung off her. Her face looked narrower, her cheekbones more pronounced, and her chestnut eyes appeared larger than he recalled.

This shell of a witch staring back at him as she visibly tried to process her situation—and didn't fight back—was not the Hermione Granger who'd made a veritable career of embarrassing him. There was a chance she wasn't struggling because she simply didn't have the strength for it.

Fuck.

Whatever. Getting her back to her old self only meant delaying what he had planned for her a few months. He could be patient.

Aware, suddenly, that Runcorn was witnessing the interaction—and he'd be damned if his fellow Death Eater was going to read too much into this, and share whatever highly imaginative observation he might believe he'd gleaned with their cohorts—Thorfinn tilted his head to one side and smirked.

"Oh, don't look like that, Princess," he said in an amused tone. "There's plenty worse fates out there than being stuck with me."

Hermione couldn't fight as he tucked her back into his arms and started walking, once more. She was drained and confused and immediately very concerned about these worse fates he mentioned.

Strangely, she actually felt she was on the verge of drifting off again as he moved. That was hardly her fault, she would tell herself later—she hated him, but this was the warmest she'd been the entire winter. And the rocking motion of his body as he walked probably helped.

He could very well be planning to string her up and slowly torture her to death whenever they got to their destination, but she couldn't bring herself to care about that as she floated in that sweet, half-awake limbo.

"There they are."

Hermione thought it must be her imagination that she heard a faint rumbling sound from Thorfinn's chest beneath her ear—as though her captor was growling quietly. Forcing herself to stir, she opened her eyes to see who Runcorn was talking about.

Two figures clad in dark leather robes waited on the outskirts of Inverness. As they started walking to meet the Death Eaters, she closed her eyes, again.

"Sorry, Princess, protocol and all that," Thorfinn said, shifting her meager weight in his arms. "Got to turn you over to the Aurors for a bit."

An Auror from a Voldemort-influenced Ministry was possibly the most terrifying thing Hermione could think of in that moment. She couldn't believe what she was doing as she curled her fingers into Thorfinn's robes and uttered an unhappy groan, pretending she was still half-dozing.

"How sweet," Runcorn said with a chuckle. "Seems your new little pet has taken a liking to you already."

God, what she wouldn't give for the other wizard to be close enough that she could kick him! Albert Runcorn could certainly use a good heel to the throat as it was.

"We are here to—"

"To take custody of the Undesirable, we know." Thorfinn's voice was harsh as he nodded, irritated that these idiots thought they needed to explain their presence to the men who'd invited them there.

He used to believe one had to be intelligent to become an Auror—perhaps this one was simply an anomaly.

She felt a horrible chill in the pit of her stomach. An Undesirable? But of course she was! They'd probably not only not lifted her warrant, but had added all manner of shiny and new false accusations to it during her absence, making her seem some truly feared criminal.

And she was going to stop thinking of anything as the worst possible scenario, because clearly this one kept spiraling further downward each time she considered just how bad off she was.

"Careful," Thorfinn said as he again tried to pull her away from him. "I think she's having trouble keeping her feet under her."

The Aurors exchanged an irritated glance—evidently the last thing they wanted was to have to handle an Undesirable delicately—and one stepped forward to hold his arms out for her.

Like he's accepting a ruddy parcel, she thought, infuriated but powerless . . . . Which only infuriated her further.

"Oh, for Merlin's fucking sake," Runcorn said, a chuckle lighting his words despite his exasperated tone. He clearly found her feisty nature—subdued though it currently was—amusing, but was irked by how complicated she was making this simple procedure.

Thorfinn pushed her into the newcomer's waiting arms as Runcorn pried her fingers from the blond wizard's robes. The combined effort finally landed the unhappy witch in the Auror's embrace.

The Auror turned away without a word to the pair of Death Eaters. Hermione shifted and strained, lifting herself enough to stare daggers at Thorfinn over the wizard's shoulder.

"Just a few hours, Princess. Try not to get yourself killed."

Just a few hours? For what? Where the hell were they taking her?

Hermione swallowed hard, being forced through Apparation with the Auror holding her before she could brace for it. It was definitely the worst scenario now if she was considering that she'd felt safer in the arms of Thorfinn Rowle.


The place she found herself taken to was bright, blindingly so, and fresh-scrubbed. However, it looked like a place that should be dank and dark and miserable, and the contrast was sharp, even jarring. The bars, the blank floors and walls . . . .

There was no question, she was in a prison. Though it was a step up from Azkaban, she could only imagine these were holding cells within the walls of the Ministry, itself. Which meant she might not be in this step up for long before finding herself in the real thing.

She wanted to ask what was happening, but she already knew the Auror carrying her along the blank, barred corridor was not pleased with their present situation. If she pushed him, he might just throw her to the floor.

Hermione didn't think she currently had the fortitude not to wind up with broken bones, if he did.

Finally, he turned, walking her into an open cell. He didn't throw her, but the slack in his arms gave her time to brace for impact as he let her drop.

Wincing, she pulled herself to sit up as the Auror exited, closing and locking the cell door behind him with a flick of his wand. She moved gingerly; the tumble still hurt like hell, but nothing seemed permanently damaged.

"Look what we have here."

Hermione felt an unpleasant chill up her spine at that voice. Forcing herself to her feet, she backed away from the bars. The last thing she needed at this moment was to come face-to-face with the one person who probably hated her more than Voldemort did.

"No hellos, Miss Granger?" Dolores Umbridge said, strolling casually before the cell. "Hmm, don't suppose I should expect manners from a deplorable little creature, such as yourself."

Hermione had considered many possible fates were she to ever come face-to-face with the toad in pink again. Being annoyed to death was not one of them.

"I'm deplorable?" The younger witch scoffed, though—for a fleeting moment—she considered that this terrible vision in pastels had a rather valid reason for wanting her dead, or maimed, or hurt in some terrible, permanently damaging way.

But only for that fleeting second. It was just as easy to call to mind why she could never feel sympathy toward a woman like Dolores Umbridge. "I may have had a hand in something quite awful happening to you," Hermione said, her words slipping out from between clenched teeth, "but at least I'm not the one gets my jollies from torturing children."

Umbridge's chubby face lost some of its forced, sickeningly bright expression. "You horrible little children never did appreciate my methods of discipline."

Hermione suddenly found the other witch's wand aimed at her. Backpedaling, she threw up her own empty hands in a sign of surrender.

For a breathless moment, Umbridge only stared at Hermione, that mask falling away to reveal how livid she truly was. The woman's entire aura crackled with magical energy as she glared through the bars.

Yet, the fear she saw in the younger witch's eyes had a rather more satisfying affect than she'd been expecting. Oh, there were ways to make this girl pay that did not require dirtying her hands.

Plastering on a serene grin, Dolores Umbridge dropped her wandhand to her side. "I will see you again shortly, Miss Granger."

The portly woman turned on her heel and scurried away. The movement reminded Hermione oddly of Peter Pettigrew for a bizarre second.

After a door slammed at the far end of the corridor, Hermione gave into an unexpected fit of laughter. She was unable to help herself from picturing Pettigrew in one of Umbridge's horrible pink ensembles. Or Dolores as a rat . . . .

Either image was so endlessly amusing that before she could stop it, she'd fallen right down on her bum, laughing hysterically.

"That one's gone 'round the bend, hasn't she?"

Hermione just barely heard the Aurors stationed there, conversing over her hiccuped giggles. There was just some strange, cathartic release in her outburst, and she didn't care to stop if they didn't care to make her stop.

"If you knew you were headed to Azkaban, wouldn't you go just a little mad, too?"

There was some faint shuffling noise, she thought perhaps turning the page of a newspaper?

"Maybe they'll send her off to Umbridge Home with all her little Dumbledore's Army whore friends."

"You git, they don't send Mudbloods there. If she's not executed, it'll be Azkaban."

She calmed instantly, catching her breath in loud gulps of air. Blinking tiredly, she turned over the conversation in her head. Umbridge Home? What was that? And why were the other DA members sent there instead of Azkaban? Weren't they considered criminals, too?

She could barely pay mind to their flippant use of the word execution, just now. Not when she'd just heard that her friends were someplace with Dolores Umbridge's name stamped on it.

Perhaps she'd drifted to sleep as she sat there on the floor, waiting for who knew what and more tired than she could ever recall feeling in her entire existence. Maybe she'd simply been staring at the wall in a dazed stupor as she tried not to think about whatever fate it might be from which she'd been unable to save her friends.

Whatever had happened, she was snapped to attention by the sound of the cell door unlocking.

The Aurors entered, each grabbing one of her arms and pulling her to her feet. They dragged her out and down the corridor, not bothering to check if she actually could walk on her own.

She tried to keep up, to get her feet under her, but at their pace her efforts only caused her to stumble about between them. Couldn't leave her a bloody shred of dignity, could they?

Through several corridors, into a lift, and then down another series of corridors they went. Didn't matter how maze-like the path felt, she knew where they were taking her. She closed her eyes, focusing on her breathing as they dragged her along.

Then she heard doors close behind them and a lot of hushed murmurs go up around her. Hermione forced herself to look.

Opening her eyes, she saw the grand sprawl of the Wizengamot before her. The Aurors were pulling her through the chamber so fast she didn't even have a moment to look about.

As she was released to stand before the assembly she was surprised her legs didn't give out from under her.

With very little preamble, the Minister—that bloody idiot, Pius Thicknesse—began. "Hermione Jean Granger, you stand accused of grievous crimes against the Dark Lord. Aiding and abetting Harry Potter, at that time designated Undesirable Number One, failure to register with the Muggle-born Commission, and theft of the wand and powers of a witch or wizard unknown. How do you plead?"

She swallowed hard, shaking her head. This was madness! But then what was she really expecting from a Wizarding Britain ruled by Voldemort?

As she opened her mouth to speak, an irritating tutting sound cut through the vast room. Hermione recalled that noise too well and felt her stomach churning anxiously in response.

Pius turned toward the nightmare of a witch who had pushed her way from her own seat to place herself at his shoulder. "Madam Undersecretary?"

Umbridge, with a nauseating smile twisting her lips, leaned to speak quietly in the Minister's ear. Hermione couldn't not notice the wax-sealed scroll the vile woman handed him while she talked.

"Ladies and Gentlemen of the Wizengamot, esteemed guests, I have been informed that Miss Granger has submitted a signed confession. She has plead guilty to all charges."

"What?" the word was out of Hermione's mouth before she could think, gaining more response from the esteemed guests than that rubbish confession in the Minister's hand had.

"Miss Granger, for your crimes, I hereby sentence you to—"

"One moment, please, Minister."

Hermione didn't know if she was relieved or horror-stricken to hear Thorfinn Rowle's voice echo through the chamber. She turned to look. Sure enough, the blond wizard was making his way across the floor toward her.

As she turned back, her gaze swept over a dark-haired wizard. Mixed in with the seated crowd watching the proceedings, he simply stared at her.

Dolohov? Forcing a gulp down her throat, she immediately spun back toward the assembly. She still had nightmares about that man chasing her through the Hall of Prophecy.

Of nearly losing her life at just sixteen years old to that painful, mysterious spell he'd hurled at her.

Again, she concentrated on her breathing, ignoring that her imagination had kicked into gear. It had to be her imagination, what with how she could swear she felt the weight of his gaze on her like a physical thing.

Thorfinn strolled right past her and up to stand before the Minister. "May I see the confession?"

Umbridge sputtered, clearly angered by the request. "Why, sir, I do not believe you have the—"

"As a representative of our Dark Lord, I absolutely have the right to verify such a document."

Hermione wasn't certain she believed what was happening as she watched Pius hand the scroll to Thorfinn. The Death Eater broke the seal, unfurling the parchment and giving its contents a long look.

After what seemed like forever he uttered a short laugh, his head shaking. "I attended Hogwarts with the accused. I remember her handwriting quite well. I don't know who wrote this document, but it was not Hermione Granger."

The entire room erupted in gasps and shocked murmurs.

"Mr. Rowle, are suggesting I would—"

"Of course, I am not suggesting anything untoward of you, Madam Undersecretary," he said, cutting off the red-faced witch quite effectively. He tore the confession in half and handed it back to the Minister. "I am, however, stating you should look to your staff; it seems one of them knowingly handed you a forged confession."

It was a few stammering heartbeats before Hermione understood. He'd both just caught Umbridge in a lie, quite publicly, and given her a way to save face. If she continued arguing, she would only make herself appear guilty of an attempt to deceive the Minister and manipulate the Wizengamot.

Her expression tight, Umbridge tried to hide the daggers she was glaring at him.

He either didn't notice, or didn't care, as he withdrew a new scroll from his robes. "This however, Minister, is a statement from our Dark Lord. The accused is to be remanded into my custody."

There was another outburst through the chamber, but Thicknesse ignored it, hurrying with trembling fingers to open the scroll. As he read the statement, Umbridge made a nuisance of herself by peering over his shoulder.

Hermione felt a little glimmer of joy at the way the toad's face drained of color.

Nodding, the Minister handed the scroll back to Thorfinn. "Hermione Granger, by order of the Dark Lord you are considered guilty of all charges and are hereby remanded to the custody of Death Eater Thorfinn Rowle to live out the remainder of your days as he deems fit."

Her heart fell into her stomach as she stared back at the Minister, unblinking. Live out her days as Thorfinn Rowle deemed fit? He'd said he owned her, but she hadn't been able to truly believe such a notion until this moment.

Oh, dear God. Kill me now.

She didn't hear the roar of the gathered witches and wizards reacting to the verdict. She couldn't register Dolores Umbridge's livid gaze darting from her to the Death Eater, and back.

"All right, Princess," Thorfinn said, startling Hermione—she hadn't even noticed him walk over to her. "Time to go."

Next thing she knew, he'd closed one large hand around her wrist and started toward the exit. Oddly, she didn't wait for his lead to tug her into step, following more or less of her own, albeit surprised, volition.

As the sensation she hadn't realized was missing began flooding back into her extremities, there was again that weight pressing on her. Unable to help herself, she looked to the source of the feeling.

Antonin Dolohov sat, still. Everyone else was on their feet, arguing and making some fuss or another. Yet he simply sat, watching her.

There was an odd flicker of pain in her chest—a sense-memory of those horrible purple flames with which he'd struck her. She winced, bringing up her free arm to cover herself as she unintentionally held his gaze.

At her reaction, something flashed through his expression that Hermione couldn't read, but she could take no more of his gaping. She tore her gaze from his as she continued along, a step behind Thorfinn.

When they neared the doors, she noticed a head of familiar silver-blond hair dart out ahead of them. What on earth had Lucius Malfoy been doing there?

Oh, well. She'd nearly helped destroy his precious Dark Lord, he'd probably come to see if they would execute her.

Thorfinn continued tugging her along in silence until they reached the Ministry's extensive network of Floo channels. Hermione imagined he was taking her to Voldemort, to happily torture her in front of the twisted Dark wizard. For all she knew, they meant her days to live out to be a week of excruciating pain.

So, she couldn't help herself as she asked in a miserable voice, "Where are you taking me?"

He pivoted to look down at her, one brow arched. "Home, Princess."

Pulling her flush against his side, he uttered something she didn't quite catch as he walked them into the green flames.

Hermione closed her eyes tight. She forced down a sudden upwelling of tears and tried not to imagine what type of place, exactly, the Death Eater called home.