Chapter 1: Across the Sky, the Shades of Night

18 April 2005

The mist was ever present, unrelenting as it filled Hermione's lungs and caused her to drown slowly from within. Cinder clung to the condensation, smearing as she ran the back of her hand over her brow to wipe away the building moisture. The air was bitter, causing her teeth to chatter and knock, the wind slicing right through her tattered coat.

A smoky haze filled the spaces between the mist, causing her throat and eyes to burn. A basket hung from her wrist as she made her way to the grocer. Striding through the village, she passed rows of shoddily erected brick houses where smoke bloomed from the chimneys.

It hadn't taken Voldemort long after Harry Potter's death to steal Muggleborns' right to magic. Skirmishes in the streets had taken place as they'd risen up to fight against such tyranny, to no avail. Those Muggleborns who weren't killed in the first few months had been beaten into submission. One by one, they'd been caught and branded with an M at the pulsepoint of their wrists. The brands worked to stemie all magic; wands were useless sticks in their hands.

Muggleborns had been stripped of their jobs shortly after the brandings. Incapable of holding positions within the wizarding world without having the magic to support it, most had turned to petty theft, prostitution, and bartering away their possessions to make ends meet, however short those ends may have been.

Hermione despised the additions to her flesh. When she'd been caught, Rodolphus Lestrange had laughed at his wife's handiwork, marvelling at the perfection of the Mudblood scar that ran the length of her forearm. He'd threatened to turn each letter of the scar into a separate, tortuous hex that would affect her daily. She endured what felt like endless rounds of torture, passed around between a cluster of Death Eaters to be dealt with as they saw fit. Rabastan had been the final one, his mouth pulling into a grin so feral his yellowing teeth were bared. He branded her with a crudely drawn crown on either wrist. You're free to go, little Queen of the Mudbloods. You're of no use to the Dark Lord now that Potter's dead. The door had been held open by a quaking house elf, and she had run on wobbling legs while the Dark Lord's minions shot curses at her. She'd passed out and woken up in the cellar of Flourish and Blotts, no recollection of how she'd arrived or by whose hand.

It had been years since Hermione had felt the tingle of magic vibrating through her veins. The thought of it was so queer, so distant that she often wondered if Hogwarts had all been a dream. After long nights of trying to conjure even the slightest of quivers in her fingertips, all the while listening to shouts of Avada Kedavra outside of her window, she was faced with reality. The wizarding world was no dream. It was a nightmare, a hellscape that trapped and ensnared her. Once a wonderous world, full of new potential and ancient abilities, it now felt like a prison.

Hermione turned down Darvish Street, turning her eyes to the ground. Katarina would be up ahead, just on the left. Formerly an Auror, the witch had been reduced to little more than a full-time beggar and part-time whore. A baby boy was latched to her breast, feeding on the little sustenance his mother could provide. Katarina had refused to name the child, afraid that a name would create an unbreakable bond. She couldn't bear to lose something she loved so dearly. And a loss it would surely be; Katarina and her child lived on borrowed time.

"Hermione," Katarina called from across the street, her voice strained with malnourishment. "Hermione, can't you spare just a bit of bread or a hunk of meat?"

Hermione kept her eyes trained on the cracks in the leather beneath her shoe laces, refusing to look up at the woman. She watched as a tiny field mouse scuttled beside her, pausing to drink from a stream of water leaking from between two bricks. She couldn't face the witch knowing that her baby boy would surely be snatched by a passing Death Eater at any time. One Katarina wouldn't be able to bed in exchange for one more day with her babe.

Flourish and Blotts was just on the other side of the gate, the makeshift village butting up against a wall of limestone and sealed with dark curses. Her eyes scanned the skies and, through the harrowing grey, she could see the sun beginning to set. She needed to move quickly.

Hermione slipped beyond the gate, looking both ways for patrolling Death Eaters, before she darted behind the bookshop. Amid run-down bookshelves, lined haphazardly against the building as more books gradually became banned, there was a black trunk. Aberdeen Blotts, a half-blood, had left it there, knowing it would be put to good use by those without magic.

Lifting the sleeve of her coat, she placed her crown cicatrix over a rusty spot along the back left corner of the trunk's lid. "Traîtresse," she whispered and the trunk sprang to life. Though no magic currently ran in her veins, the spell placed into the portal by Blotts recognized her as a magical being. She took a step back and watched as the lid folded itself outward and the books within shifted and moved to either side, creating a tunnel in the middle. Hermione glanced around once more, feeling the prickle of eyes on the back of her neck. Upon seeing no one, she lifted one leg and then the other and climbed down into the trunk, pulling two strings to close the lid behind her.

The books moved and shifted above her, covering the entryway of the makeshift speakeasy, and Hermione turned to take the stairs two at a time. A soft glowing light gave her just enough to see by and she made it to the cellar with practised ease. A few rickety tables and the occasional chair dotted the cellar. Only one chair was occupied, by Blotts himself.

"Hermione, we're running out of food," he told her, rolling back his sleeves to reach within the larder and reveal what was left of their rations. He pulled two whole chickens, a small tub of butter, two loaves of bread, and a handful of carrots from within. With a flick of his wand to move the ingredients, his H insignia showed on his wrist in the dim light. A reminder that he wasn't quite worthy of magic but was still enough of a wizard to obtain a limited amount. The food staples went to the nearest table top, and he began cutting the carrots. "At this rate, we can feed maybe ten more, and then we will have to close up."

Hermione watched as his knife gleamed by light of a candle flame. That was far less than she had thought would be left. She still had a few ration cards in her pocket, good for one loaf of bread, some plum jam, and a handful of green beans. Enough for five more mouths, in addition to the ten. She went without far too often, saving her cards and stretching them for as long as she could in order to feed the homeless, the beggars, the starving. The others ate their portions quickly, too many living like kings the first three days and paupers the other twenty-seven. But her bleeding heart ached for them; she knew the satisfaction of a full belly was enough temptation.

"I'll get what I can," she told him, lifting her hood over her head as she began to ascend the stairs toward the entryway.

"It's nearly curfew. Don't tarry," he warned. The sound of his knife chopping against the wood top grated on her nerves as she left him behind.

Hermione stepped out of the trunk and took long strides toward the front of the building, hugging her hood close around her chin. A couple walked past her, bickering not-so-quietly about their remaining galleon and its best use. She fell into step behind them, stalking toward the grocer at the far end of Diagon Alley.

The grocer was sanctioned off. Purebloods were welcomed inside, business as usual. The smell of roasted pig coming from the deli in the back made her mouth water as it wafted through the doorway. She made her way to the outdoor set up—little more than tented canopies over wood slabs. The food here was the leftovers from within the store. Bruised. Rotted. Crawling with fruit flies in the summer and rock hard and tough in the winter.

Hermione went to the site's overseer, a gaunt man whom she was certain was suffering from kidney failure and jaundice. "I have ration cards. Here," she told him, handing him her life line.

He took them and nodded toward the display adjacent to him. "One jar of jam and twenty-five green beans."

Furrowing her brow, she crossed her arms. "And a loaf of bread."

He looked back at her tickets and raised a brow. "I don't see one for bread."

The man pocketed the third card, averting his eyes in shame as he did so. Hermione tried to snatch it from him but he blocked her advancement with his shoulder. "Do you want me to call the guards?" he asked gruffly, nodding to where a rotund Death Eater was whistling.

"You bastard," she whispered back, her tone laced with venom. "You'll rot in hell for that."

"Aye," he concurred, "I already am."

Unable to argue for fear of attracting attention, she straightened her coat and huffed. Tears of fury threatened to fall, but she turned to the green beans and tried to count out twenty-five of the least wilted ones. From inside the grocer, she could hear Purebloods laughing and joking. They were the only ones who ever laughed.

Anger began to hasten within her, the thought of having to turn away the likes of Katarina and the others filling her so completely with rage. It was inhumane to make people live with such meagre necessities. They barely survived on what was given. All because they were born with abilities, just the same as everyone else, minus the lineage to back it up. She thought repeatedly of trying to escape, to figure out a way beyond Voldemort's fortress. He had encased Diagon Alley and the village of shanties, anticipating fugitives all along. The last wizard who had attempted to make it beyond the magic-imbued walls had nearly died, first from the cursed current running between the stones, and then from the flogging he took in the centre of town.

There would be no escaping. Not today. And so she decided right then to rebel, to do what she could to help her fellow victims. With a glance toward the teller, who was tearing a loaf of bread to crumbs in an attempt to eat faster, she moved toward the half-blood area of the grocer. She dared not go inside, to try and blend in with Purebloods. Even the likes of the poorest families were far too rich looking for her to assimilate. But there were plenty of shabby half-bloods, turned away from work for their Muggle parentage.

The half-blood area was a corridor between the alley where the rotted meat stunk and the grocer where Purebloods or their elves shopped for the finest pâté de foie gras. The fruit wasn't of the finest qualities, but the meat wasn't turning green from exposure, either. The teller here was a half-blood witch, who kept herself busy by relentlessly cleaning the area.

Her back was turned while she swept, and Hermione slipped within and began shovelling pears and plums into her basket. Her heart was thrumming wildly in her chest, the risk of being caught deadly. Across the row, a table of bread was stationed—and not just lumpy white bread, but rosemary loaves and rye loaves and pumpernickel that made her mouth water.

She placed two loaves into her basket and covered it with the cloth, hiding the evidence of her thievery. As she turned to go, she was stopped by a tall figure in the doorway. Her eyes were level with his collar, and she knew raising them would mean looking into the face of evil. He wore robes of navy blue with a burgundy liner, a Dark Mark stitched along the lapel. But only one Mark, along the right side. Not a very high ranking Death Eater then. "Hermione, what in the bloody hell are you doing?"

Her eyes shot up at the sound of that voice—his voice. The voice that had once whispered declarations of love in her ear and into her heart. "Ron?" she rasped. "Please. I can put them back. I just...we're all hungry."

Ron looked at her with a dull, dead quality she had never seen in his blue eyes. There would be no playing on his pity—she could tell that he had learned to compartmentalise his feelings in order to better reign in his master's name. It had been years since Hermione had come face-to-face with her old flame, since the day the Weasleys had turned her out to fend for herself.

"Do you realise what this means, what I have to do?" Ron hissed, grabbing her upper arm and shaking her. "You foolish witch."

"Witch? That's a bit of a stretch, wouldn't you say?"

The second voice sent a chill like ice down Hermione's spine. She clenched her hands until her nails bit into her palms, drawing blood. The thought occurred to her to run, but she was outnumbered. Even with a wand, she wouldn't have stood a chance against them.

Draco Malfoy stepped into the space between them, leering down at her with a malevolent gleam. Hermione clasped the basket to her chest, regretting every pear, plum, and loaf of bread she'd stolen. Each would be a lashing in the public square, a round of the Cruciatus Curse that brought her closer to fainting with the intensity of it.

"What have we here, hmm?" Malfoy taunted, lifting a corner of the cloth that hid her spoils. "Stealing food? That's a serious offence, Granger. One with dire consequences, as you well know." Hermione said nothing and continued to look straight ahead, her eyes struggling to focus on the polished silver buttons running along the front of his robes. He drew even nearer to her, drawing his wand from his hip holster lazily. "And where are your manners?"

Turning his wand on her, he sent a curse into her that bent her back at a foul angle. A vertebra at the base of her spine cracked with the force of it, sending searing pain through her body. Hermione focused on holding her breath as he detained her in the bow for far longer than necessary. When he finally released her, her breath came back to her with a whoosh and a fit of coughs overtook her.

"Look at me!" His command fell on deaf ears as she struggled to lift herself into a standing position. Through the ringing in her ears, she could hear the leather of his gloves crinkle as he gripped his wand tighter. "I said look at me!"

With that, her feet left the ground and she was lifted into the air, her body stiff as concrete. He trained her face to look directly at him, the first time she'd laid eyes upon him in nearly five years. She'd heard tales of the Dark wizard he'd become in that short time, sitting at Voldemort's right hand. The Harvester. He harboured a penchant for hunting and reaping human beings, tearing them down until he pilfered what was useful from them before slaughtering them as human cattle. Looking him in the eye made her stomach roil dangerously, and she was worried she would be sick.

The crescent shaped scar that curved around his eye remained a violent shade of red. For the first time, she noticed his eyes—one was grey as the ocean in a tempest, the one hugged by the scar, a haunting shade of azure. Sea met sky and terror seized her as his lips pulled back in a wolfish grin. "Hermione Granger, the Queen of the Mudbloods. Still alive. Though, barely so."

He jabbed his wand between her ribs, and she winced, dropping the basket. Fruit spilled out, rolling on the ground between them. As though to mock her, her stomach gave a loud rumble. Malfoy smirked at hearing it, lifting one of the plums from the ground and running it over his robes to polish the dirt away. He lifted it to his lips, taking a bite just to taunt her. He chewed slowly, a drop of juice running over his lip. "Would you like a bite?"

Hermione clenched her teeth and lips together as he lifted the fruit to her lips. She shook her head as he narrowed his eyes. He tossed the plum at Ron, who caught it haphazardly and stood, unwavering behind him. Malfoy reached his hand up and fisted a handful of her coat lapels in his hand. Pulling her down until her face was mere inches from his, he worked his jaw. Hermione sensed the acrimony pulsing through him, racing alongside the Dark magic in his veins. "You think you can steal from the Dark Lord and get away with it?"

The smell of plum on his breath, laced with something oddly floral, washed over her face, sending her stomach into a riotous fit once more. She didn't respond, simply maintaining eye contact the best she could. As they glowered at one another, the Lamenting Lullaby began to play, sounding the onset of curfew.

"Ah, and now you're out late, always the rebellious one. I should take you into the Square and flog you into submission," he threatened, dragging his eyes over the wan flesh of her face and neck. "I'd find great pleasure in beating etiquette into you."

Hermione's hands shook by her side as he stared into her soul, calculating her punishment. Images filled her mind: her on her knees, her arms bound outward by ropes. A braided wire snapping across her back and drawing blood as Malfoy swung on her repeatedly, publicly degrading her. She would rather die than be reduced to little more than his whipping post.

Shuddering with equal parts fear and incense, she gathered saliva in her mouth. Rearing her head back as far as she could in his grasp, she spit right in his scarred eye. He dropped her, ending his tirade of fantasies, and wiped the back of his glove over the offending mess. "You fucking bitch!" he growled, his voice like footsteps over gravel.

Hermione fought to scramble to her feet, and Ron ambushed her, wrapping his arms around her and pointing the end of his wand to her neck. "Do you have a death wish?"

Malfoy straightened his posture, his hand darting out to clasp around her jaw. He crushed her cheeks between his fingers until her teeth bit into the soft flesh. "Underling Weasley, take this brave little Mudblood to the Pen. I'm going to see to it that her punishment is administered in the most fitting of ways."

Ron tightened his hold on her as she thrashed and hopped, trying to escape. The Penitentiary had been opened the year prior and housed the lowest of the Muggleborn criminals. The retribution collected by the Death Eaters there was infamous. There wasn't a soul who entered the Pen that had emerged outside of a wooden box. "No! No!"

Her screams rang through the grocer. Purebloods gathered at the entrance to watch as she was pulled, kicking, from the corridor and out into the streets. "Hermione, stop fighting! Stop or he'll kill you!"

Hermione ignored Ron's warning, fighting against him as Malfoy strode from the grocer, pulling off his soiled gloves. His back was pin straight, though his gait belied the seething he felt. Finally, sick of her flailing, Ron jabbed his wand forcefully into her back, knocking the wind out of her.

No one came forward to defend her honour, to try and save her. Not with the Harvester stalking the streets menacingly. The prison loomed ahead of them, resting ominously atop a hill of stone as they strode through the village. No light spilled from the slats that served as windows; only the moonlight provided a silhouette of the castle. The stench of death and unwashed bodies clung to the condensation in the air, causing Hermione to gag between coughs.

One thing was for certain: Malfoy was going to torture her slowly before he executed her. The flash in his eyes promised her this.

xXx

A/N: Beta love for this chapter goes to ravenslight. She is a hero right here on earth.